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Chapter Text

105AC, Kings Landing

Daemon Targaryen had first learned of the existence of his daughter walking out of the council chamber at Kings Landing. He had left swiftly, itching to put as much space between him and the stuck up stuffy lords of the realm as possible, who clamoured and prodded him in matters of the coin, boring him half to sleep. To his irritation, he was immediately pushed to a stop with a cry of “Prince Daemon!” A red faced envoy had beamed up at him as he stumbled over, proudly delivering the slip of parchment, sealed tight with the sigil of House Royce, that glared up at him as he had ripped his way thoughtlessly through the wax, already moving to leave behind the steadily approaching figure of a sneering Otto Hightower . 

 . 

“A daughter”, Viserys had echoed, bemused, once Daemon had swiftly doubled back into the chamber, leaving the rapidly paling envoy and several sheets of shredded paper behind him, as he slammed the door on the council of men in the hallway. “And here I was, under the impression you had wished to annul the marriage. I must admit I’m offended you did not tell me the good news earlier, Brother. It would have saved us much grief had the council been informed your wife was with child before she entered the world”. 

You know I didn't know, thought Daemon, seething as he paced the room. One paltry, idiotic, drunken night was all it took to displace years of purposeful neglect. How was I to know one night would be all it took? 

“The seed is strong”, Viserys murmured, half smiling, as if reading his thoughts.

“Unless it's not mine ” Daemon snapped. One night cannot have been enough. He would not give Otto Hightower the satisfaction, the joy of being able to look at him and praise him for ‘doing his duty’. He’d rather throw himself off the walls of the Keep then see that smug cunt smile at him from over the council table. 

He felt the weight of his brothers stare from across the room. “And why would that be, Daemon?”

“One night, nearly a year ago, when i could barley see I was so drunk. I do not remember in full. I cannot be sure”. His older brother had always looked beyond than his years, and his exasperation as he dragged a hand over his face only served to deepen it. 

“Then by the Gods, Daemon, you had better go and check”.

“…check,” Daemon repeated, slowly.

“It’s a wonder that you are Lord Commander with a brain like that, Daemon. Yes, go and check. We Targaryen’s aren’t hard to spot”, Viserys gestures idly to his own white hair.

“Very well”. Daemon walked over to his chair, and slumped down, feeling more drained by the minute. Viserys quirked an eyebrow at him, expectantly. 

“What, now?”

“ Yes Daemon, now.”  

Daemon was pulled up and out of his chair, a swift push of his shoulder sending him stumbling towards the door.

“And Daemon!” 

“What now?” Daemon hissed, swivelled towards him, with his hand on the exit.

“Does she have a name?”

“ What?” The incredulity was clear in Daemons voice, and he winced slightly at his brother's scowl.

“I would like to know the name of my niece, Daemon. Unless that’s one more thing you are ignorant to?”

“…Valaeys.”

A smile crept onto Viserys’s face, as he looked upon his younger brother.

“Well then. Valaeys Targaeyen. A strong name.”

Viserys must have seen the contempt in his eyes, as his next words are gentler, soothing. “Do not fret, brother. A daughter can be a wonderful thing. You shall see.”

For you. A daughter from Aemma, the woman you love, who you chose to marry. And it’s still not enough for you, Daemon knew. Nothing would be enough until the Maester could prove the babe growing in the queen's stomach was indeed the boy Viserys longed for. At least the Royce girl hadn’t given him a son. 

“We have yet to know for certain”.

“Off you go, then.”

Daemons stalked from the hall. 

. 

Daemon had always hated the Vale. From the moment he was lashed to Rhea Royce under the Seven, he had hated it's never endingly empty hills, the crags and cracks of sheep ridden country for miles without end, smelling of shit and poorly washed wool. Lonely, and boring.  

He hated it more, now, as he wandered the cold, unforgiving halls of Runestone, tracking mud and grass in from his shoes, led by the startled Septa he had caught bustling down the halls. 

“In here, my lord.” She stopped behind a thick wooden door. “I shall inform my Lady Royce of your arrival, if you wish to be alone with the little one.”

Daemon did not, in fact, want to be alone with the little one, but the prospect of an audience with Rhea Royce was not one he was willing to risk. 

“Stay by the door. I don't plan on being here for long.”

.

Valaeys Targaryen was a queer little thing, swaddled in brown cloth and sheepskin, and stuffed into her cradle, as still under his eyes as if she had been a doll. Too skinny for a babe, and pale enough to see the blue veins through weak infant skin, matching the smattering of pure white curls that flicked even now around her forehead.

His, then, after all. Quite an ugly little thing, but all babies were, he supposed. 

Little lamb,  he had thought, snidely, looking down over her curled head.  Aren’t  babies supposed to be louder?  He had thought, reminded of how Rhaenyra had bawled as a child, a red little thing shrieking in her mothers arms, beating her little arms around herself. He shook the cradle a little with his foot to check, peering over the little wrinkled face, and was granted with wide, deep brown eyes blinking blearily up at him, as generic and underwhelming as her mothers, and filled with the same look of blank dissatisfaction, having had her sleep interrupted. 

Valaeys looked up at him, quietly curious, and he looked down on his daughter.

‘ A daughter can be a wonderful thing’ , Viserys had smiled at him. But she was not wonderful. She was a baby. 

.

Just a child , he had chuckled to himself, as he clambered his way down the hill to where Caraxes stood, waiting for him. A pity, yes, that she was his, but it would not affect his position in any way. 

He would think no more of it, and head to Kings Landing directly. Viserys could not blame him for such a thing, returning to his duties, as a loyal brother and servant to the king would. He had checked, and was done with it. Regardless of their shared blood, Daemon had no need for a daughter.

He must have fathered bastards, before, he was sure, in the Street of Silk, and she was no different, truly.  She would grow up here, away from him, until she was needed to secure some alliance or another, and he could hand her off and be absolved of the entire business. She was just a girl, after all. Runestone remained his, by the laws of the land. At least the bronze bitch had not given him a son. 

And besides, she was clearly a sickly child. With any luck, she'd be dead before her first name day, and he could put the mess of it behind him.

He had more important things to think about, anyhow, as he swung himself upon Caraxes. 

Kings Landing beckoned. 

Chapter Text

115 AC. Valaeys.

Valaeys Targaryen may have been hidden away in Runestone, miles from any true contact with outside towns or people, but from a young age, she knew three things for certain about the world surrounding her. 

Number one. Her father wanted nothing to do with her.

From ever since she could understand the whispers of the servants around her, she had always known that she was the unwanted child, the unplanned babe who the rogue prince had taken one glance at and flown back to king's landing with not a hint of guilt. She never saw much of her father - he inhabited her life in sharp flashes of white hair and dragon scale, when the king sent him traipsing back to the Vale after one injustice or another. In these moments, small bouts of disorder came over Runestone - when on a whim, he would drag her to accompany him on horseback, or out to let her gawk at his dragon, justifying his absence from his wife as him spending time with “the little lamb”, not asking anything of her life, her health or her ambitions, but complaining of the shit stinking hills, the relentless stretch of uninhabited countryside, and the bleating of the sheep. 

“Perhaps I shall feed them to Caraxes”, he’d murmur, and turn to her for her reaction, smirking at the tears that would shine in distress over the prospect. 

He would never stay for long - some envoy or another would find him after a month or so, reporting of the kings desire to reunite with his brother, to make amends, and Valaeys would return from a ride on the back of her mother’s horse to find his chambers emptied, Caraxes gone, without a word or a look back. 

From what she gleaned of her fathers lifestyle, the steep, long and lonely hills of the Vale, empty for miles with no towns in sight, were repulsive to him, the Prince, who revelled in chaos, in political action, war and had gone on to fight in the Battle of the Stepstones on foot, and won . For him to have a daughter - a symbol of the duty he had pledged to show to her mother, under the Seven, a physical representation of his responsibility as a father and a guide, would poison prospects of glory, a shadow over his head whispering of fealty, and obligation and the boring, unheroic life of a country lord. For that absence, Valaeys couldn't bring herself to blame him. If she had been a man, free to choose a life of revelry and power, freed from obligation simply because she didn't feel like it, or a life of an obedient and mindless lord, whose job was to sit, swollen and ornamented on a chair, sending his sons to be knights, daughters pawned off as pretty little wives and shelling out coin to the crown until he keeled over, fat and dead, she too would’ve taken off on that dragon before her feet could tap against Runestones empty, grey threshold. 

It didn’t stop the flash of hurt, however, being reminded time and time again of just how readily he would take any excuse to be rid of her home, and of her.

. 

Number two.  Her father had wanted nothing to do with her mother. This, Valaeys had never understood, could never bring herself around to. Daemon Targaryen avoided boredom and duty, yes, but Rhea Royce was never the pretty, mindless wife warming the castle for him to return to that Valaeys assumed her father would curl his lip up at.

No - her mother hadn’t been the perfect broodmare that lords would trip and fall over - she was fiery, she was strong headed, and determined. She paced the castle in her riding gear, worn leathers with her curly hair unbound from its tie and curling around her face, she went riding unchaperoned, she hunted with a bow and arrow, ruling over her birthright with all the skill and devotion of any other Lord. She was respected, and kind, and she loved deeply with all she had. She delighted in her little girl, refusing the Septa’s who offered to take her off her hands so she could rest awhile, instead sweeping up her daughter into her strong arms, and spinning her around her chambers as though she weighed no more than the clothes on her back.

“I must have caught myself a little dove!” She would exclaim, smiling over her daughter's giggling struggles, “such a flighty creature, you’re nearly pulled up by the wind! Shall I let you go, little bird?”

And Vala would shriek and cling to her mothers shoulders, and it would take several minutes before she could be encouraged to let go and be settled on the ground, face flushed red with the thrill of it.

“Bronze Bitch” is what he called her, Valaeys would hear, in the whispers behind servant doors. “ He told the council that our sheep are prettier” . And Valaeys would feel the rage of it all building tightly in her young body, at the indignation of the slight against her mother, against her family. Even at five, she understood his poison, his thoughtless smearing of her mothers name, and she would clutch her little hands to her mothers leather, and think to herself, I hope you forget all about us. I hope you never come back here. I hope you never think or speak about us ever, ever again.

. 

Number three. Daemon Targaryen had, in some way, been responsible for the death of her mother. 

Valaeys had not been a month into her sixth name day when Lord Royce had returned to Runestone from riding, carrying Rhea’s bludgeoned body in his arms, and screaming for a Maestar as she had been pushed, sobbing and reaching for her, out of the room. 

They said she had been thrown off of her horse, her head cracking on impact. Death would have been swift, Septa Anya had soothed her, and painless, but Valaeys had seen the body of her mother before the doors had been barred to her, had heard the stories that continued to follow her into adolescence.

Her mother, the best rider in the Vale, who knew her beast from birth, was thrown from her loyal horse on a flat, unassuming stretch of grass, hitting her head on a stone far too small for the crack in her skull. Unheard of. Unjust, are the gods , the Septa would coo, and tug her along to sit and sew, and read, for there was nothing else to do for miles and miles. But Valaeys had seen the fury beneath the grief in Gerold Royce’s eyes as he had lowered the body of his cousin into the crypt, had seen the sneer at the mention that the house of Targaryen sent their sincere condolences. 

His hands had shook as he lifted her body, and in doing so, a funeral stone from her eye had fallen onto the floor, unnoticed by anyone other than Valaeys, who had refused to look at the bloody shroud that had once been her mother. She kept her eyes on it, all throughout the service, on its cold blue pupil, nothing like the warmth of her mothers brown, as she was packed away, neat and tidy, under the damp soil. 

After, when the procession had left the moor, trudging silent and stricken back to their homes, Valaeys had felt his warm hand clasp on her shoulder, two lonely figures on a wind whipped mountain. 

“You have the look of him, you know”, Gerold Royce broke the fragile silence, wincing as Vala had whipped around, breaking their point of contact to glower up at him. 

“I only mean to say - I always thought you’d take after him. When you grew up. That your mother and I would come back from a hunt and find you gone away with him, back to King's Landing, or Dragonstone. Somewhere she couldn't get you back from him. She was always scared when he’d take you outside the castle without telling anyone.”

“You’d be a fool to think he’d ever have taken me away”, she croaked, “and an even bigger one to think I’d have left you and my mother for him. ”

“Aye. I know that, now,” he murmured, reaching out a hand to half heartedly tuck her wild hair away from her face. Looking into the soft brown eyes so much like that of his cousin, made sharper in the face of a young Targaryen girl. ‘And I'm glad of it. Your mother wasn't the only one who feared he’d snatch you away, little one.”

Something chipped within her, then, as if the sudden presence of a barrier had made itself known only now, once its very foundations had begun to shake and crack under the strain of it all. All the love she felt for her mother, all the anguish and fear and anxiety broke through, and she was sobbing in his arms, not quite able to breathe with it, not able to look back on the stretch of disturbed earth that held everything she had felt she had loved, had needed in the world, as she was lifted up into arms that promised safety, walking slowly back to her home.

.

In the cold chill of her room, Valaeys opened her palm to look at the little rock once more. They say that funeral stones remind us that we shall open our eyes again, in the afterlife. Can you see me now, Mother? She had wondered, as the cool blue eye stared up at her.

She hoped she could. She would make him pay for what his house had done to her. 

. 

115AC. Daemon. 

It was well known all throughout that the Eyrie was the most beautiful of Westeros’s castles, looming elegant and impervious over the Mountains of the Moon on the Giants Shoulder, thousands of feet above the rest of the world. In many ways, the house of Arryn was as close to achieving the view of a Dragonrider as any non-Targaryen could ever hope, Daemon thought to himself, flying above it all, looking down on its white walls, the stained glass windows scattering light across the white mountains.

I plan to fly to the Eyrie and petition Lady Jenye myself , he had stated to his late wife’s cousin… something or another, as the guests had milled around his seat at Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, and had felt a ripple of satisfaction at the cracking irritation in the old man's face. Dragons were always more convincing than envoys, after all, and Caraxes had always been such a good negotiator, as he chittered gently underneath him, landing with a thump on a stretch of marble rock, and rooting in his claws to the mountainside. 

“ Umbagon, Caraxes” , he murmured, stroking a hand across his red scales as he slide from his saddle. “ Nyke jāhor sagon adere.”

.

“I must confess, we don't get many surprise visitors in these parts”, Lady Jenye spoke, unmoving from her seat as she looked down on him. “By the time they reach the Bloody Gate, word travels fast. I suppose your form of travel is more … efficient in that regard. Sadly, because of it we have not had time to prepare a welcome for such an honourable guest. What exactly is it that you seek, Prince Daemon?”, her voice echoed from across the Crescent Chamber, empty save for her, Daemon and a flock of puffed up guards lining the wall.

“Lady Jenye”, he grinned, all boyish charm, “I seek arbitration for my inheritance of Runestone, upon the death of my most honourable and loving wife, Lady Rhea Royce.”

Her eyes were as cool as the room, her face giving nothing away.

“And what of your daughter, my Prince?”

His smile wavered, minute and brief, but her gaze honed onto it sharply. 

“What of my daughter, my lady? As my child, she would gain rights preceding my death, as is right, but she is a mere girl of ten - it would be best, I believe, for me to be a … guiding hand towards her, as my inheritor.” 

“It pains me deeply to say, Prince Daemon, that I must refuse your petition.” She shifted forward in her chair to better meet his eyes with her own. “You see - the late Lady Royce had made it very clear that she did not desire her inheritance to go to anyone outside of her immediate bloodline - regrettably including you”, her eyes shone now with an almost vicious pleasure as she looked down on him. 

“You are correct, indeed, that Valaeys Targaryen is far too young to rationally operate as Lady of Runestone. And you are also correct that, to become a venerable and respected Lady, she shall require a guiding hand. Luckily for you, Lord Gerold Royce has stepped up in that regard. We believe it best that he acts as ‘guide’, as you so aptly put it, in much the same way that I was guided by Lord Yorbert Royce during the years of my adolescence, despite the multiple attempts made by my lesser male relatives to claim the Eyrie for themselves”.

Ah, thought Daemon, and went to speak again.

But the honourable Lady Jenye was not finished quite yet. 

“I believe this decision to be wisest, My Prince, especially seeing as how, despite the length of your marriage, you yourself do not seem that devoted to the area, nor yet have visited your young child, as a loving father should, to share in her grief.” She presented the facts as casually as one might discuss the weather, leaning casual and calm in her chair, with no room for argument or objection. 

This, thought Daemon to himself reflectively, shifting from one foot to another with his hands clasped behind his back, may have been an error in the making. 

“I have been preoccupied, my Lady. I have just recently completed the Battle of the Stepstones, as I am sure you are aware, and as any loyal subject would, I place my duty to King Viserys, and to the realm above all else within my life.”

“I’m sure you do, Prince”, she remarked dryly, “However, my decision remains the same, despite your admirable devotion to our King. Now, as pleasant a surprise as your visit has been, I must ask you to leave the Vale of Arryn. I’m loath to say I am not particularly fond of the company you keep.” Her eyes slid pointedly to the smudge of red Caraxes made, far away on the cliff side, and back to Daemon. 

“Of course. A pleasure, as always, Lady Jenye.”

“Good day, Prince Daemon.”

Daemon knew a lost fight when he saw one, he thought to himself as he trudged back up the mountainside. This was not such a loss, in truth - in many ways, by the terms of law and of the gods, Runestone remained under Targaryen rule, a claim that would strengthen the family name, and his own, even if the inheritance was not his directly. 

Valaeys Targaryen, Lady of Runestone . 

Daemon chuckled to himself, as he swung himself back onto Caraxes. A fine title, indeed, for the little lamb . It was no matter. The alliance remained.

Perhaps it was even for the best. With Runestone secured under the Targaryen name, it would allow him for other pursuits demanding his attention. Laena Valeryon’s face flashes to the forefront of his mind, all fiery eyes and flirtatious charm, and an unyielding strength underlying it all. 

Yes, perhaps this wasn't a failure at all.

Chapter Text

119 AC Valaeys 

The rocks shifted underfoot as Valaeys dug her heels into the hillside, grappling for a handhold to pull herself up on.

Runestone was a harsh place for a child to grow, all steep hills, hidden gorges and long cold stone halls, but Valaeys had always loved her home, had loved clambering up and over the hills of the vale alongside her mother, a shock of white hair against the green landscape. 

Children her age were few and far in-between, and following her mothers death, Valaeys had become a Lady, far too intimidating for them to think to invite her to play with them, for fear that a single bruise, an unplanned jape would push the children out of house and home for disrespect. It didn't matter that Valaeys would have never allowed that to happen. The threat of her heritage hung heavy like a cloak over her shoulders, as threatening as a broadsword, and far more damaging were she to choose to wield it. 

So much of her adolescence, when she couldn’t find the time to sneak out and up to the moors that surrounded her home, was devoted to study, of history, maths, politics by Maester Johan, long boring hours sat in the cool air of the great hall, where it was just uncomfortable enough to keep her awake and alert, occasionally letting “hmm’s” and “uhuh’s” into the stream of conversation as she slumped back on the uncomfortable stone chairs. Or it was sewing, singing and dancing with Septa Anya, who smelt of candle wax and sheepskin, relentless in her lessons on etiquette.

And again and again, she would be taught by Lord Royce of her ancestry, of the history of her house, her mothers house, the honourable Royce family, proud descendants of the First Men, survivors of the Andals and as wild and unforgiving as their ancestors. 

“We wear bronze to honour them”, Gerold Royce had told her, as she had traced her fingers over the runes carved into her late mothers breastplate. “The First Men were shielded by their bronze armour and their weaponry, back when we first landed here. When the Andals came they wore iron plate, with iron swords and arrowheads. But bronze can last for thousands of years without tarnish, and it was lighter, too. We were made quicker on our feet because of it.” He lifted a finger, pointing to a scribble of squared lettering splayed on the rib cage of Rhea’s armour. “We call it Rune-stone because of the words our ancestors carved into the mountainside, in the tongue of the First Men. It’s on our Sigil too.” And he would pull her over to the library, and they would pour for hours over the history of the houses of Westeros, flick through their banners and their words.

A snarling grey direwolf on a white background, over green. Winter is coming . House Stark.

A white crescent moon and falcon, blue background. As high as honour . House Arryn. 

A three headed, fire breathing dragon, black background. Fire and Blood. House Targaryen. 

Twenty five pebbles, shield-shaped with an edging of runes, orange background. 

We Remember . House Royce.

And again, as she brushed down the proud stallions in the stables, working alongside the servants, with nothing but time on her hands, he would appear behind her shoulder. “Targaryens may fly dragons, yes, but we were the first to tame a species and ride into battle with them, to create codependency with a creature so different from us. They need us just as much as we need them.” 

“But they have tamed dragons”, Valaeys would answer, her head just barely peeking behind the horse as she addressed her guardian. “Queen Visenya and her dragon Vhagar were so close it was said they could share each other's thoughts, feel pain from the other’s body even when they weren’t close!”

And Lord Royce would shake his head, and reply, “Bond with them, yes. But you cannot control a dragon, Smár einn, not truly. It would be like catching fire in your hands and expecting not to feel the heat.”

And then again , he would find her sitting by the Oceanside, curled up in the sand, staring quietly as the water crashed unforgiving and white on the rocks out at sea, and he would tell her, “we fought the Andals here, too. We weren't seafaring people, like they were. We matched their longships with traders and fishing boats, but we stood firm against them nonetheless. Bronze may sink heavy, but it will never rust. Never break to the salt, like iron would. We stood firm, always, despite the waves that passed over us.”

He had a flair for the dramatics, Gerold Royce, she thought to herself, as she dug her hands into the cliff rock, pulling herself over and up onto the jutting lip of the hilltop, flushed with exertion. The landscape stretched out around her, vibrant and mercifully silent as she looked down at it all, Runestone jutting up like a spear through it all.

Stinking hills , her father had used to jape at her, back before everything had fallen apart, but Vala loved her home, loved the empty valleys she could scramble up and across, loved the stretch of green that promised silence and seclusion from all the natterings of the septas, and the maesters, and, though she loved him dearly, the endless lessons from her guardian. 

It’ll be yours, one day, Smár einn, Lord Royce murmured to her, on the rare days he would trail alongside her in the valley, watching her pull herself uphill from moss covered crags, nimble like a mountain goat, and just as streaked in dirt, with nothing more than an approving grin at her wild appearance. You will have to know it as you know your own face. 

And Septa Anya would shriek when she and him returned, grinning and tracking mud through the halls, and would pull her to the bath and make her scrub her skin red and clean with soap, and would tug too harshly on Vala’s white curly hair as she attempted to tame it away from her freckled face.

“Girls should always look presentable” she would chide, her withered hands twisting and tucking away. 

Why? Vala would think but not say, as her head was jerked about. There’s only you and Lord Royce to see me, and he never cares what I look like anyways, so long as I listen during lessons.

And Vala was barely a flowery lady like those of the books. She took the height of her father with none of its swaggering confidence, a skittish colt on unsteady legs, unattractively pale and freckled, with untidily curled white hair fumbled into an unsteady braid, and boots that were more grass stained then leather. 

“You are to be a Lady!” She would chide, as she pulled her away from him, only for Lord Royce to reply dryly, “No man of the Vale will listen to a perfumed little girl, no matter how well she speaks the old tongue. Aye, she is to be a Lady, but she shall be Lady of Runestone. She’ll need to be made of tougher stuff than this to rule as a Lord would.” And he would nod at her bedraggled appearance in approval, and say “She has the wild ways in her, that one. When she speaks, they’ll listen, in time.”

The moss was soft here, and fresh with last night's rain as Valaeys slumped her aching back into it, staring up into the sky, clouds made pink with afternoon light, the edges cooling into a violet glow, huffing hard and fast. The air blew soft over her, catching at the sweat on her skin as she closed her eyes to the sun.

For a while, the earth stood still, quiet save for the gentle birdsong dipping down from the valley, the rush of the wind through the long grass calm and comforting as she basked in it. 

It was safe to rest here, she knew. Men would never dare travel so close within Runestone's own castle grounds unauthorised from this angle, and so this valley remained wholly hers, free of lessons and watchful eyes, pressing and prodding her to turn this way and that, act like a lady, talk like a lord, curtsy and bow and smile and chide and act on a million other contradictions based on her gender and her position.

Here she could just breathe, just for a moment. 

Uninterrupted. Peaceful. 

“You know, Valaeys -” she was up like a shot, whipping her head around to glare at Lord Royce as he sat looking down on her from where his horse had ambled up the steep path.

“ Seven hells, Uncle”, she spat, heart in her throat. “You couldn't have given me a warning?!”

“I gave you plenty”, he grinned, lifting himself down onto the ground, “unluckily for you, you seemed far too comfortable to hear the horse riding up right beside you.”

He trudged over to where she perched, still clutching at her chest with the abrupt shock of it. “It’s dangerous to be so close to the edge, you know”, he remarked, jutting his chin to gesture to the sharp drop below, “you could trip and fall.”

As if you haven't seen me just scale the entire thing, she thought to herself, her hands still red and aching with the proof of it. “Have you come to remark on my climbing, or to say something of actual relevance?”

“Can I not ride over simply to see you, Smár einn? Perhaps I have missed your joyful demeanor. They say children can warm a house just with their smile you know? Or perhaps the halls feel empty without your fascinating conversation, your sparkling good humour. Your-” 

“So you don't have anything useful to say.” She scowled up at him, and then ducked her head sharply as he reached a finger to poke at the crease between her eyebrows. 

With a large puff of air, Gerold Royce sat himself down heavily next to her, looking out as she had done at the long stretch of green landscape. They sat there together, for a moment in the warm afternoon sunlight, in companionable silence.

“I have a letter for you”, he fumbled around his pocket, before handing her a slim roll of parchment. The Targaryen sigil, a red inked dragon on a black bed of wax staring up from it from her palm. She handed it back to him without a thought, returning to her position of laying back on the grass. 

“I don't particularly feel like hearing false niceties from my father today, Lord Royce.”

Daemon did this sometimes. Spent long stretches of months without a thought or a word from his seat at Essos, before getting drunk or reflective or just choosing to be a general thorn in her side, sending her short letters about his exploits, the sights he’d seen, the people he had met alongside his new family, his empty queries and questions about her day to day life that he didn’t truly want to hear. She assumed he was drunk, anyway, the writing was never legible, not that she had ever truly made much effort to decode them. She never responded to them, in the hope that one day they would dwindle and then halt all together. She had no need for his falsities. No want to be connected to him in anything other than blood. A flimsy scratch of paper was not going to change anything about that, whether it was one letter every half year, or twenty.

“Then it is good fortune that the envoy was not from Essos”, Gerold replied, eyeing her from her side. “It was from King's Landing.”

“.. what on earth could anyone from Kings Landing wish to say to me?” She grabbed back for the letter, pushing herself up into a sitting position as he squatted down over her shoulder.  

The parchment was heavy and thick as she broke through the seal, expensive by its weight alone. 

.

My dear niece,

I apologise for not writing to you sooner. In truth - I never knew quite what I would say to you. We have never met, after all, and your father was never the most talkative about his family life, in the time he remained in King's Landing. However, in my attempts to send him back to his family and his Lady wife at Runestone, upon his return his accounts of you were always most favourable in nature, no matter how elusive these moments of conversation became. 

I must admit even now, I am struggling on how best to frame this letter. 

You are a girl of ten and four, and a Lady in your own right, and so I shall attempt to make the point without unnecessary accompaniments, as I assume both you and I would appreciate. 

The ancestral seat at Runestone has always held much respect and appreciation within my royal court. Under your mother’s marriage to my brother, your father Prince Daemon, we welcomed an age of warm alliance between our houses, which continues itself through your birthright, and the bond of House Targaryen and House Royce was strengthened by the merge within your blood. 

I believe it would be best for you, as a future Lady and ally to House Targaryen, to gain experience on how to approach courtly life outside of your home at Runestone, to best ensure the strengthening of your birthright, and the title of our house name, which we share as niece and uncle.

I offer up a place in my court to you in the hopes that we may connect as we should have many years ago, as family, and that we may find common ground on the basis of duty and responsibility that our positions will both, in time, demand from us.

My daughter Helaena, is close to your age at eleven years, as is my son Aegon nearly your equal at the age of ten and three. I would hope that you could find a kindred spirit in them during your visit to the court at King's Landing. 

I shall provide you with all the necessary handmaidens and servants you require to make your stay comfortable. 

I do so look forward to your arrival. 

Your Uncle.

.

Underlying the message came a heavy stamp of inked sigils, and a scrawl of titles written in warm red ink, in a sweeping hand different to the one above.

Viserys I, of House Targaryen. King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men Lord of the Seven Kingdoms. Protector of the Realm. 

The air was colder now. At some point during the time between cracking open the letters seal, and reaching the end of the page, the last of the afternoon sunlight had stolen away behind the mountaintop, leaving the valley dusk blue in its aftermath. 

“Well,” remarked her guardian quietly from over her shoulder. “Good thing you didn't rip that one up like you’ve done to the last couple.”

Valaeys’s tongue was heavy in her mouth. In the darkening sky, the letter was becoming harder and harder to read, the ink blending seamlessly into the parchment. 

A warm leather glove clapped gently down onto her shoulder, as Gerold Royce shifted himself up off the ground, offering his hand down to her. 

“Up you go, lass. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you, in the morning. Time to get some sleep.”

.

“What the fuck” she hissed to herself, flinging open the wood door to her bedchambers with a force that make the handle crack harshly against the stone wall. “What the fuck” . She had been in here just this morning, sat at that table flicking through a history book on the laws of Westeros. It felt like days. It felt like minutes. 

King’s Landing, she thought to herself dazedly, standing close to the hearth to read the lettering once again by the glow of the fire. Fourteen years with no word whatsoever. She had almost forgotten in truth that she had a true uncle. An uncle who was King of Westeros . The King of Westeros that sook an audience with her at his court. 

Fuck.

Hundreds of thousands of miles away in Essos, and her father was still finding ways to unintentionally uproot her life, through the matter of blood alone. She would rather spend the rest of her days listening to Septa Anya’s nattering in the great hall then spend a moment trussed up and packed away into that nest of sycophants and vipers. 

What could she do? It was not as if she could refuse to go. A direct envoy from the King was no small thing, and it was clear from his wording that he expected her presence sooner rather than later. 

What do I even take? She thought to herself, fumbling through the draws of her dressing table, pushing aside bits of cloth and cotton lumped haphazardly into the space. How long does he expect me to be there for? Her hand closed around something smooth and cold, out of place with the rows of warm clothing, and she pulled it out thoughtlessly. 

In her palm, the cold blue eye of her mothers funeral stone regarded her blankly, calm and void of any emotion. What do I do, Mother? Valaeys thought, looking down at it, as the little pebble warmed in the heat of her palm, as if it would blink to life, brown bleeding through the blue, and her mother would be there to tuck her safely into the fold of her arms and murmur “ All is well, Minn smár birð ” , ruffle a hand through her hair and tell her to stop fussing. 

She tucked the stone into the lining of her dress. It hung there, pressing gently against the skin of her hip, a barely noticeable weight. “All is well”, she murmured, quiet in the space of her room.

.

Gaius Stone was an awkward looking man, as he stood shifting from foot to foot next to the pair of horses lined up outside the gates of Runestone in the morning sun. 

His hair was near shorn off his head, save for a small fuzz of red, his skin bronzed from hours of toil in the sun. He looked healthy, strong and the cut of his iron sword against his hip should have been intimidating in any other scenario, were he not taking the most utmost level of dedication not to make any eye contact whatsoever with her, instead staring down at his leather boots with such a level of care Valaeys almost felt tempted to look down with him. 

“He’s the son of Ser Endrew”, Gerold remarked, clapping him on the shoulder with a force that nearly led the poor boy's knees to give out under him. “The one who used to give you riding lessons. He may be a bastard, but he's a smart boy, a hard worker, and damn good with a sword.”

He smiled at her, gently. “You didn't think I'd let you go into that court all alone, did you?” 

I’d hoped you would come with me, Valaeys thought to herself, knowing it was impossible. Gerold Royce had to remain in Runestone, holding the chair as her adviser and replacement until she came of age.

Gaius looked up at her, catching her eye and immediately ducking his head back to his boots with a wince. “I swear to keep you safe, upon my life, Miss - uh - My Lady.”

Valaeys was pretty sure she had seen sheepskin rugs with more confidence. From over his shoulder, it was clear Gerold was having the same thought, as he moved around him to pull her into a hug, and murmur into her ear.

 “Give him a minute, I'm sure he’ll come right along.”

She slumped her head onto him, wrapping her arms more firmly aroung his torso. “I’ll keep the place warm for you” he said quietly, “but you’d better come back soon.” 

“I shall” she croaked, her voice muffled from its place buried in his shoulder.

”Farewell, Dóttir”

.

From her place up on the back of her horse, pacing alongside her sworn shield, Valaeys had to crane her neck to see as her home disappeared behind her, swallowed up in the glow of the morning sun. The dot that was Gerold Royce grew smaller and smaller, and then was gone, lost to her in the rolls of the mountainside. 

I’ll come back for you , she thought, feeling the promise as deeply as the marrow in her bones. I promise.

With any luck, she would be back before two months were up.

Chapter Text

119 AC Valaeys

She knew, the moment she and Gaius rode through the city gates, that she was not going to enjoy her stay at King’s Landing.

It stunk, for one thing. A result of population overflow, she was sure, and poor hygiene. The sheer number of citizens she could see from here alone reinforced the city’s position as a breeding ground for various diseases and illnesses.

She thought in awe back to her fathers complaints of the Vale, with its warm flowering hills, peaceful solitude and clean brooks. Did you truly prefer this ? She thought to herself, disbelievingly, looking around at the slums and the bustle of townsfolk milling around at a dizzying pace and multitude. It was clear from the pull of her companions' brow that he too was not enjoying the change of scenery, as their horses picked their way through the crowds. 

Reaching the Red Keep itself presented her with another burst of trepidation altogether. It was a menacing thing, looming over the city pale red and sharp into the sky, and as they approached the door, Valaeys felt an almost childish desire to turn her horse back around altogether and ride all the way back home, to Runestone’s peaceful hills and the safety of Gerold Royce. 

“State your purpose.” A guard barked, leering at them through the gap in his helm. 

She fumbled her hands from the reins, pulling the woollen cap from off her head, and allowing her pale hair to tumble chaotically down, curling out messily from around the braid. 

“Valaeys Targaryen, here by invite of the King.” It came out as more of a question, without the confidence she had meant to deliver it with, but the doors opened inwards to them all the same.  

Gaius bent his head towards her. “That was far easier than anticipated. Perhaps I should invest in a blonde wig, it seems to shorten travel time considerably.” 

“I’ll send you back to Runestone if you’re not careful.”

He grinned at her, chuckling under his breath. The last few days had seemed to have done him far better than her. At first, she hadn’t managed to get a word out of him edgewise that wasn't a stuttered apology or a direction to turn her horse, but the long stretches of travel had loosened his tongue, for which she was grateful. She had grown fond of him. 

“Lady Valaeys of Runestone?” A voice caused them to turn their heads inward to the courtyard, where a lean figure stood, hands folded behind his back. His face was pinched into a light frown, brown beard doing nothing to disguise the twist of his mouth. From his lapel, a golden pin caught at the light. 

So this was the Hand of the king. She had expected Lyonel Strong to appear more regal, but as Gaius helped her dismount her horse, and she came level to him on the ground, she felt almost disappointed in the unremarkable nature of his face. 

“If you will deign to follow me, My Lady. The king awaits.”

What, now? She shot a panicked look at Gaius from over her shoulder as they trailed behind the Hand. She had hoped she would have at least a day or two before this happened, to gather her bearings. She was still in her leather riding gear, splattered with dry mud and grass stains - Gaius reached a gloved hand around her head, plucking a leaf from her braid with a smile. The Hand seemed less amused with her appearance - as he turned back his head, she caught the flash of confusion creep onto his face.

.

Valaeys had always pictured Viserys Targaryen holding the same face as her father. 

The little she knew, or truly knew of the King of Westeros, was what had trickled down through to her mother’s reports to her. “ The King is disappointed in your father. He has sent him here to think on his actions. He says the Vale will do him good, though I cannot say I agree.” He never sounded happy, from the accounts given by her mother, always plunged into one discourse or another by her father that he and his council men would shun him for, only to call him back not weeks later to solve it, or to absolve him from blame altogether.

What else Valaeys knew of her uncle came from her father himself. He loved to talk, in the brief moments he pulled her to the side during his visits, about his brother's foolish desire to be a peacemaker in a den of bandits, always relenting to the whims and wishes of “ that cunt of a Hand Otto Hightower, ” but never listening to the truly pressing issues hanging over the realm. 

So: all that she could know from reports of Viserys Targaryen was that he was high strung from the divisions within his court, too kind to those he loved, weak enough to have his brother fight his wars for him but strong-willed enough to push him from court like a hound with its tail between his legs. A venerable well of contradictions. In her mind's eye, without a drawing to go by, Valaeys had created her own picture of him. 

He was Daemon’s brother, above all. 

Her father cut a sharp impression, it was true, but he was the younger of the two brothers, too rash and reckless to be made a true confidant to the king, if the consistent shunning was anything to go by. In her mind, Viserys Targaryen was taller than her father, sharing his high aristocratic brow and face with none of the malice, or contempt behind it. He would have a confident, handsome smile, a kind way about him to go with his peace seeking nature. He would be unbroken, unbowed, carrying the mantle of the Targaryen dynasty proudly on strong, healthy shoulders. 

Her uncle was not as she had pictured him, as the Hand led her into the council chamber. 

“Lady Valaeys!” He exclaimed with a smile that creased the wrinkled skin of his cheeks, pushing himself out of his chair with what seemed to be a considerable amount of effort. When he grasped her hand in greeting, only three out of five fingers on his right arm touched her skin. 

“My King.” 

“I do hope the journey was pleasant?” 

The journey had not been pleasant. She had sores ( sores!) on her thighs from riding in such continuous stretches without break, that even when they dismounted for the night to rest, she had felt the ground swaying rhythmically beneath her as she lay down in the tent. When it rained, in large open areas, she and Gaius had simply had to square their shoulders and bear the torrent as they moved forward, leaving them soaked to the bone and shivering by the time they reached an inn for shelter, inhaling their food and collapsing quickly into their separate rooms. 

“Most pleasant, Your Grace.” 

“I’m glad.”

Awkward silence filled the room. The king stared at her up and down for a moment, turning his head to look where Otto Hightower stood by the door. Valaeys noted the bald spot shining on his head as it tilted to the side. 

“You may go, Otto.” 

The door closed behind them. 

Fuck. What was she supposed to say now?

“I am sorry that we have not met before this, dear niece.” His voice was apologetic. “I had hoped to meet you sooner, but time seems to have escaped me. You are the very image of your father.” 

Anything else would have been a better compliment. Valaeys made the best effort to keep her face warm and smiling, but Viserys seemed to catch on to her discomfort all the same, as he gestured quickly for her to take a seat beside him at the table, leaning forward as he looked at her.

“I am sorry, my Lady, that your father is not here to receive you.” I’m not, she thought to herself. Let him rot away in Essos, for all I care. “... How is your father?”

What did he mean by that? Surely he was being sent far more letters from Daemon than she was. “I cannot say for certain, your Grace. We don't write much to each other.” You mean you don't write to him, and you’ve ripped up the last two of his letters .

“Oh.” A flicker of something like disappointment passed across his grey face. “We had a… falling out, you see.”

“I can't imagine falling out with my father to be all that difficult, Your Grace.”

A smile broke through the King's face as he chuckled. The tension in the room breaks under it, just a little, and Valaeys finds breathing comes a little easier.

“Yes, well. Your father is of an impassioned sort. I hope you dont take after him in that regard?” His words are teasing, friendly, but the words stick to her uncomfortably all the same. I’m nothing like him. I will never be anything like him.

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

“I have always held much respect for the Royce family. Your mother was a great woman, I have always heard. As dutiful as she was loving.”

Pain pangs sharp in her stomach with the reminder. Her voice is strained around the edges when she replies.

“She was the best woman I have ever known, Your Grace.”

Something softens in the King then, looking down on this wild wisp of a girl, staring impassively down towards the table. He remembers Rhaenyra at ten and four, remembers her wild chaotic nature, her wide mischievous smile, her voice loud and confident as she trailed after him down the halls of the Red Keep. He remembers the silence after… after. After Aemma, after Baelon, and the political mess that sprawled out into his lap with it. His daughter's blank stare at the wall, as he struggled to speak over the pit his wife had left behind, unable to comfort his daughter, still warm and breathing and pulling ever further away from him every day he failed to breach the gap Aemma left behind. 

His niece sat before him. His first niece, with a stiff tension holding fast to her shoulders, brown eyes deep with grief at the loss of her own mother. 

“May I ask you something, Your Grace?”

“Of course.”

Brown eyes look up at him, searching, always searching. He could see his brother all about her, in the jut of her cheekbones, the length of her tall young body, the caution set deep in her stare as she looked at him. He tried to ignore the twinge of guilt it created in him. His brother, his little brother, so rash and impulsive, so thoughtless. So uncaring of the consequences of his actions.

“Why have I been summoned to King’s Landing? Your letter proposed that I come to gain an understanding of court life, to strengthen the alliance between Runestone and House Targaryen, but we have always pledged fealty to the Crown.”

He leans back in his chair a little. So much like her father , he thinks to himself, half in exasperation and half in amusement. Always searching for the knife behind the curtain. 

“I must confess, I was growing rather impatient, dear girl. Fourteen years is a long time not to meet my first niece. After your father left my court for Essos, I had debated sending for you then, but you were only a child of seven, and recently mourning the loss of your late mother. I suppose I wanted to see you, not just send a letter filled with empty words. I do regret the choice somewhat, now. You’re all grown up!”

He reached his hand over the table, resting it over her own. 

“I do believe what I said in that letter. Runestone is a fine seat, but it is isolated. Attending this court may grant you a better understanding of how politics is managed, for which reason I offer you to stand in as cupbearer during my council meetings, to gain insight that may prove useful to you in the future.” 

“A very gracious offer, My King.”

“And … well. I have two sons around your age, Aegon and Aemond. If you’re open to the idea - ”

The large wooden doors behind their seats creaked open, a silver haired woman rushing in, before stopping abruptly, hands folded gracefully over her heavily pregnant stomach. Her eyes widened slightly as she took in the scene, the King's hand placed gently over Valaeys’ as they sat together. 

A soft smile broke out over the King's face.

“Lady Valaeys, allow me to introduce my daughter, Rhaenyra Targaryen.” 

“Princess Rhaenyra. It is a great honour.” 

The heir to the Iron Throne forced a small smile on her face, but her eyes continued to flick over Valaeys’s face with abject curiosity. “There is no need for honorifics, My Lady. As I understand it, we are cousins. It is a pleasure to finally meet you. I had hoped to have a word with my father, but I see you are preoccupied - I shall return later.”

Valaeys was by no means a master tactician, but she could read a room.

“Oh don't leave on my account! I believe our conversation was just drawing to an end, I shall take my leave.”

She pushed herself up and out of her chair, bowing quickly to them both. The princess was looking at her with an odd expression now, her weight leaning to one side as if she wasn't sure whether to step in front of the door or let her pass through it, and make her escape. 

“It is an honour to be hosted at your court, My King. Princess Rhaenyra.”

“Until next time, Lady Valaeys.”

She turned to leave the room, feeling the weight of a stare hot on her back as the doors closed behind her. 

.

“Well?”

“No idea.”

Gaius’s brows pulled together in incredulity pacing quickly to catch up with her quick steps, aiming to put as much distance between herself and the council chamber as possible.

“A five day journey to King’s Landing and he hasn’t elaborated on why he wants you here at all ?”

“He asked after the wellbeing of my father , as if I would have the smallest idea. And said he wanted to become closer with me as family.” 

“What was he like?”

“What do you mean?”

He levelled her with a look of disbelief. “You just had an audience with the King of Westeros. King Viserys and you, in a room together. You can’t blame me for my curiosity.”

“He’s balding.”

“My Lady. Be serious.”

“I am, Gaius. He had to hide it with his crown!”

“You know that's not what I meant!”

What was he like? He didn't look as she had pictured him to, that much was abundantly clear, but what else had she expected from him, truly? It had been fourteen years without a single letter from anyone other than her father from the Targaryen line. She had used to jump back and forth on how she felt about the silence. There had been relief at times in the exclusion, in the fact that if they all forgot about her perhaps she would live her life peacefully, uninterrupted. There had also been anger, deep and burning at their casual dismissal, as if she was worth nothing to them at all despite the blood that ran through her veins, and the birthright she held. I suppose I wanted to see you , he had said, and had held her hand in his, smiling at her. 

Her uncle.

“.. I like him. He’s kind.”

“Kind is good.” Gaius remarked, “but it doesn’t necessarily explain why you rode to Kings Landing for five days.”

“I know that.”

She couldn’t figure it out. There had to be something else. Gaius was right, kind words were all well and good, but the truth of the matter was that there was no need for her to remain in this court for long. She would learn nothing truly benefitting her position, she was sure, even as cupbearer to the small council, and any negotiations pertaining to Runestone could just have easily been made by raven, under the supervision of Gerold Royce.

“He wants me to stay for longer, and look in on small council meetings. He also said something about me making friends with his children?”

The fact that she was being encouraged to stay for longer than a week or two, as would have been practical must have some greater reasoning than Viserys wishing to connect with her. 

Why did they need her to stay? 

“Lady Valaeys!” A pretty, Dornish looking woman stumbled after them, her black hair twisted up and out of her face. “My name is Onera. I have been told to escort you to your room?”

“I see. Until later then, Gaius.”

“Until later, My Lady.” He tilted his head farewell to both of them, shooting her one final look of concern before he  turned on his heel, making his way back down the hall to return to the stables.

She watched him go, her hands clasped tightly to one another , alone once more save for the handmaiden by her back in the echoing halls of the Red Keep. Wishing more and more that she’d never come at all.

Chapter Text

Valaeys

Onera was five and twenty, a handsome young woman born of a Dornish mother and a Westerosi father with no titles or land to his name. She had served the Targaryen family in Kings Landing since her sixteenth name day, she had nattered excitedly, as she folded up laundry in the corner of Valaeys’ new startlingly large and cold bedroom, but she’d worked mostly as a kitchen maid before being informed of her new position as Valaeys’s temporary handmaiden. She talked exhaustively of the goings on of the royal family, who was seen where, with who, and when, what food they liked, what food they hated, and any manner of menial information that Valaeys listened to with the attitude of a starved man, eager to find out as much about her family before she would have to confront them herself as possible. She decided that she liked Onera. Her cheerful, talkative demeanour was different from the careful respect of the other servants she bumped into in the hallways, who took one look at her white hair and nearly tripped over themselves in their attempts to quickly clear her path, eyes trained firmly on the stone floor at their feet. It was different from Runestone, where she had known the little company of castle servants since infancy, and was used to their casual familiar greetings and smiles - the whole place felt colder somehow, and less homely because of it. 

She missed her true home, she thought to herself, and for a moment was tempted to relay the childish statement to Gaius as he walked beside her down the halls. 

“Stop frowning, My Lady”, he smiled over to her, “anyone would think you didn't want to be here!”

Valaeys decided she wasnt going to dignify that with a response.

His face softened a little, “You were going to have to leave your room at some point, My Lady. Best to at least familiarise yourself with the place you’ll most likely be spending the next few weeks.”

He was right, of course, but it didn't make the idea any easier to stomach. An entire castle, filled with relatives she had never interacted with, written to or heard of properly, around every potential corner, that she would be expected to make conversation with. It didn't exactly motivate her to explore her new surroundings.

“I for one would like to revisit the courtyards. I saw training grounds on the way in here that would be useful to practise in, if given the chance.”

“Then by all means lead the way, Gaius.”

.

The courtyard was made up of a wide stretch of open dry ground, with targets, wooden spears and swords lining the walls on one end, and a small section dedicated to horse keeping on the other, fenced on each side with sturdy stone walls. Valaeys could hear the faint sound of wood hitting wood, and shouting, though from where she stood, trailing behind Gaius’s broad back, she couldn't make out the source of the noise. 

“Where’d you put our horses?” She murmured, trying to seek them out amongst the stalls, but he wasn't listening to her - he had caught sight of a group of young men, squires and soldiers most likely, crowded around the edge of the training ground, and was staring at them curiously. She looked between him and the group, gently nudging him in his back with her hand.

“You can go and talk to them, if you wish.”

“Oh no, its fine-“

“Oh go on Gaius! I’ll be alright, this entire place is flooded with guards. I’ll see you later.”

“…Only if you’re sure, My Lady.”

“I’m sure.” She wasn't, actually, but it was worth the grin that came over his face as he walked quickly over to the group, exchanging greetings and pleasantries with the men.

Well. What did she do now?

She looked around curiously, making out the full space now that half of it wasnt obscured by Gaius’s back. 

She could now make out the source of the shouting: A group of three boys were jumping around the empty training yard, waving around wooden swords and poking them at one another as they grinned. As she watched, the tallest of the three slipped and fell, his long blond hair splaying out on the ground as the two young brunettes giggled with him, leaning to help him up. 

“My sons are around your age” , Viserys had told her, and written to her, she thought, looking at the long unruly blond hair, the adolescent awkwardness with which he held his thin body. That must be Aegon, then . The two merry brunettes were harder to identify, until suddenly a memory flashed in her mind, sat across from Gerold at the dinner table as he remarked quietly, with a pointed gaze, about the wonders of genetics, and how it wasn't all that unlikely that Lady Rhaenys’s Baratheon blood had simply trickled downstream towards her grandchildren. Blood can do strange things, Smár einn. It is always wiser to trust your principles over your eyes. 

So that must be Jacerys and Lucerys Valaeryon. The sons of Princess Rhaenyra, heirs to the Iron Throne.

She was beginning to regret leaving Gaius with the other soldiers. 

She couldn't well turn and go back the way she came: it would look too obvious to those looking, too clearly illustrative of her desire not to meet with her cousins. Onwards, then, quickly and around the horses stable so not to be noticed. They would most likely not even see her, being so caught up in their play fight. 

It was a tight squeeze around the wooden stalls, but she emerged from the other side relatively unruffled, and free from the open air of the courtyard. From where she stood, around the corner, she could see the swell of the tide from Blackwater Bay against the rocks. For a moment, she was reminded of her own view at Runestone, of the coastline of the narrow sea swelling against the rocks. The setting was all different - unlike the smooth walls of her home, this castle was built from a jagged dusty red, but she still felt the sharp pang of homesickness nonetheless. 

She missed home. She missed Gerold Royce. She missed walking through the flowering hills of the Vale and watching the sunset, she missed Septa Anya’s grumbling, she missed the library and her room and her bed, and the mountains she could clamber all over. 

From here, when she looked up, she could just make out the slip of stone awning that marked the position of her bedroom window. The rocks lining the wall were jutting and solid, not quite unlike the most vertical of the hills at Runestone. She shot a look quickly over her shoulder, but from this angle she was quite hidden from everyone else in the courtyard.

Perhaps… She turned back to the wall, running her hand across the stone. Handholds were easy to find, as she pushed herself up and onto the wall, and then up again. The wall would be almost ridiculously easy to scale, if you knew where to place your feet. Any section of the red keep was, really. Valaeys thought back to the unlocked latch on her window ledge, and reminded herself to keep it firmly bolted from now on.

“What are you doing?” She jolted out of her reverie, turning around to face the ground. The trio of young boys stood below, looking curiously up at her. 

“Nothing” she shot back, too quickly, judging by the sceptical look on the face of the boy she assumed was Aegon, as his eyes darted between her and the brickwork. “Just - wondering if I could find a way to climb it.” One day Valaeys. Less than that even, and you’ve already found a way to embarrass yourself in front of three princes. She was beginning to think she should have listened more to the etiquette lessons pushed onto her by Septa Anya. It was a horrifying thought, and one she pushed back against immediately. 

“That’s dangerous”, piped up a high voice, the eldest of Rhaenyra’s sons. “What if you slipped and fell? You could hurt yourself.” His young face was twisted up in concern. 

You all have dragons and you think me climbing up three feet up a wall is dangerous?

“Not two minutes ago, I saw you all rushing at each other armourless with pointy wooden swords in the training yard.” And then, after a moment's deliberation, “My Lords.”

“And yet you didn’t think so come and say hello,” shot back Aegon, a smirk creeping its way onto his face. “Rather rude, don’t you think?” 

“I must admit I was rather preoccupied. I didn’t wish to bother you.”

“Clearly.” He remarked, “You chose instead to pick around the wall like one of your mountain goats. A shame you couldn't bring one of them with you. Perhaps you could have ridden that .”

Valaeys was at peace with many of the unfair aspects of her life. She knew she would never be free to abandon her station or live freely outside of Runestone, as a consequence of being named its Lady. She was at peace with it, because living in Runestone was all she had ever known. She knew she would never have the loving father she had used to dream Daemon to be, one who would pull her up into his arms and love her fiercely and without reason, as her mother had. She was at peace with it because, on reflection, a life without her father seemed far more charming than one where she would have to suffer his japes and insults. 

She knew her father had never and would never care enough about her to provide her with a dragon egg, preoccupied with everything else in the world that wasn't her or her mother, and she knew that she had never really had the strength to care. She didn't need a dragon, nor would she know how to approach one, let alone fly one. She couldn't even speak High Valerian, with the absence of her father or any other mentor familiar with the language to teach her. The closest she came to it was the Old Tongue of her ancestors, taught to her by Gerold Royce, a harsh, clanging language, a far stretch from the smooth elegance of Valerian. 

It was fine. She didn't care. A dragon would simply be another reminder of the unwanted blood that ran through her veins, another signifier of her link to the family that had turned their head away from her and her mother without thought, the den of reptiles and poison that hurt everything pure and good it touched. In truth, her life was more practical without a dragon, more peaceful. It made it easier to forget the line she hailed from. 

But she did not like how that boy was laughing at her. 

“ Be calm, ” Gerold had told her before she had left for Kings Landing. “ Don’t get into any scrapes. Bear the tide over your shoulders, Smár einn .”

She loosened her grip, slipping quickly down and off the brickwork, as the boys below her scattered backwards with a startled yelp, giving her a perfect opening to brush off her clothes and walk through the gap they had made, moving quickly away. 

“Wait! We want to talk to you!” The tallest of them breaks away from the group, moving to follow her.

You’ve said enough, Valaeys thought to herself. Gerold had always told her to act with great respect to those above her, and she feared if she opened her mouth around this irritating twig of a boy, she would kiss that lesson goodbye.

“Hey!” Footsteps thudded behind her, quicker now, “I didn't mean it, it was just a joke! Don’t leave! ”

“I'm not leaving because of the joke. ” Not a full lie, she thought to herself - she wasn’t in the mood to have to step carefully around this group of proud little boys today. Or any day, really. 

“Then why are you going? We just wanted to talk to you.”

“Perhaps I'm not in the mood to talk to children today.” So much for respect, she thought, wincing gently to herself. 

His pale face scrunched up in indignation as he stumbled to her side. “I’m only a year younger than you! And you're a child too!”

It was just her and him now, Valaeys having paced quickly out of the training yard, walking into what seemed to be a garden area, and leaving the other two behind.

“I just want to talk to you!”

She stopped abruptly in the path, causing him to near crash into her as she spun on her heel to face him. “There you go. Talk.” Since you seem to like the sound of your own voice so much.

He opened and closed his mouth, seemingly stuck on what exactly to say, now she seemed to actually be listening.

“You know, we all thought that you’d have grey-scale or something. And that's why you never came to court. In case we all caught it off you.”

“Ok. Bye.” She turned to leave again. 

“I only meant to say - stop walking!” A hand shot out to grab at her sleeve as she turned, arms crossed to look at him again. 

He had the decency to look somewhat abashed this time, at least, as he quickly pulled his hand away from her arm. 

“What I meant to say was - you look perfectly normal. Apart from the weird clothes I mean”. This boy is a Prince, Valaeys thought to herself, wonderingly. Educated in decorum and manners, no doubt. How on earth is he so talented at sticking his foot into his royal mouth? 

“We always wondered why you didn't come to court, is all.” He murmured.

Because my father never wanted me. Because he stole a dragon egg for a bastard from a whore who wasn't even pregnant, because even the idea of a child from a woman he cared for was more worthy of an egg than I ever was. Because he refused to take me with him, refused to acknowledge the fact I was a part of this family, not just some bastard he had to deal with. Because I never wanted to come and have to suck up to you or your stupid nephews, or your stupid King father and his stupid court, and pretend I care about any of you when it is clear you’ve never cared about me. 

“I’m not a fan of lizards,” is what she landed on, instead. 

A delighted smile breaks out on the young prince's face, genuine this time, touching the edges of his eyes. It’s a nicer look on him than the giggling sneer he held as he had looked up at her with Rhaenyra’s children, she thinks to herself.

“You’re weird” he remarks, delightedly. 

Never mind. He looks utterly absurd. She’d seen handsomer sheep. 

He stuck out a silver ringed hand towards her. “I’m Aegon.”

“I know who you are, Prince Aegon.” She stared at his hand for a moment, looking back at him as he wiggled his fingers expectantly. 

“You know the joy of an introduction is that it goes both ways?”

“Valaeys. But you already knew that, too, I'm guessing.” She reluctantly reached out to shake his hand. 

“How could I not? You’re the talk of the Keep.”

“I am?”

“Our mysterious cousin, hidden away in some crag of the Vale finally come to court? Even my mother was talking about your arrival, earlier this morning!”

Queen Alicent was talking about me , Valaeys thought to herself, and felt her stomach drop a little at the prospect.

He raised a pale eyebrow at her, his mouth pulled up into a smirk as he trailed behind her. “So. How are you enjoying Kings Landing? Apart from the lizards, I mean.”

It’s shit and I can't wait to go home. “Everyone’s been very welcoming. I’m sure it will be a very pleasant stay,” she answered mechanically.

“That bad?”

It was probably best not to grace that with a response. It didn’t seem to matter anyway - Aegon continued on without much pause.

“Well I for one am very excited that you’re here. It’s boring here. There’s nothing to do. I imagine Runestone is much the same.”

“It can be quiet at times”, she admitted, “but i find it quite peaceful.”

“It is a shame your father couldn’t be here to see you - I’d have liked to see him myself. I can’t really remember what he looks like.” 

“I wouldn’t” she answered unthinkingly.

“Why would you not want Daemon to see you?”

“My father and I aren’t necessarily - oh!”

So immersed in the presence of her new walking companion, Valaeys hadn’t even realised that they had walked into a section of the garden where they were no longer alone. Under the red bursting leaves of the Royal weirwood tree, two smaller figures sat, white heads bowed together in low conversation, before jerking up to look at the new arrivals. 

Beside her, Aegon let out a sigh of exasperation, tugging on her hand to prompt her away from the pair. 

“Forget them . You were talking about Daemon?”

But Valaeys had made eye contact with the young girl of the pair, who was smiling with shy uncertainty at her up through her long white hair. She was very pretty - the sort of delicate, flowery prettiness that was assigned to fair maidens and faeries in the songs, with soft rosy cheeks and long white eyelashes framing her purple eyes. Valaeys felt, suddenly, acutely, her own ruffled appearance - dressed in riding leathers with her hair bound up in a long braid, she probably looked more like a squire than a Lady. It had never really bothered her before, but under the eyes of this girl, she felt the slight flush of embarrassment rise to the nape of her neck.

“Hello,” her voice was soft and quiet as she looked at Valaeys, “you must be Valaeys. I’m Helaena. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you too, Princess Helaena”, she stuttered out awkwardly, returning the gentle smile with a twitch of her own mouth. 

Helaena moved her arm, nudging almost imperceptibly at the ribs of the young boy who sat next to her. That must be Aemond, then , Valaeys thought to herself, moving her eyes to scan over him. He was a pale thing, almost as white as his long hair, and where his sister Helaena was warmed by the red of her cheeks and the girlish pink of her dress, he seemed colder, more ghostly, a figure cut in dark blue to match the ice of his eyes as he stared at her.

He didn't greet her with a smile or a nod of acknowledgement, but with a slight downturned mouth, scanning his eyes over her face, before resting them heavily on where Valaeys’s hand was still enfolded by Aegon’s. She quickly tugged her hand away, despite Aegon’s small noise of irritation at being ignored. Helaena nudged again, more insistently this time. 

“…hello.” His voice was monotonous as he continued to flit his eyes between her and his brother. She could see pieces of Aegon in him - the aristocratic arch of his nose, the same curved pink mouth, but where his brother stood taller, more confident in himself, with a wide smirk and bright eyes, his brother seemed darker, hunched over himself under her gaze. The skin underneath his eyes was very thin, she thought to herself, and left dark smudges in the space under his pale eyelashes, drawing out the blue of his eyes. She was reminded of the funeral stone placed into the lining of her dress, the cold iris sharp against a dark grey canvas. 

Silence fell over the garden then, with each of the young children looking up at her expectantly. The Targaryens had a staring problem, she was beginning to realise, as if they were waiting for her to sprout wings of her own, and breathe fire on the lot of them. That was a charming idea, actually, given how poorly this conversation was going. 

“It’s uh. A pleasure to meet you. Prince Aemond.” Have I ever sounded this boring in my entire life , Valaeys thought to herself wonderingly. He nodded his head a little, but did not do much else to acknowledge her greeting. He didn’t do much of anything, really, except continue to stare blankly up at her from his seat on the ground. From beside her, Aegon pulled a face of indignation. 

“You never gave me a fancy greeting. Where’s my fancy greeting?”

It was a relief to be able to turn her head away from the young, sullen looking boy, and break the prolonged gaze she could still feel heavily on her face to look towards his brother. 

“Perhaps you would have gotten one if you hadn’t been so rude, Prince Aegon.”

“I told you I didn’t mean it! And you weren’t being all proper then either, you were halfway up a wall-“

“Oh well if you didn’t mean it-”. 

Any semblance of politeness was quickly shoved to the side  as the two of them dissolved into gentle bickering, forgetting nearly altogether the gaze of the two children looking up at them from below the Weirwood. 

.

She wasn't sure what to think of her cousins. 

Cousins . She had never really acknowledged to herself that she had any, before her arrival. To her, they had just been dots on a family tree, names without faces or characteristics that had faded into the background. Her eye had always slipped over them, towards the fork in the tree that led to Laena Velaryon and her father, and Baela and Rhaena. Half sisters that she had never met, never seen the faces of, were far more mysterious and investing than the cousins she had firmly believed she would never interact with. The sons and daughters to King Viserys seemed untouchable, mythical beings in the eyes of a younger Valaeys. 

She liked Helaena. At least she thought she did. There hadn’t been any girls her age at Runestone - any children, for that matter, that were willing to talk to her, confident enough to breach the gap between their classes. Apart from the occasional ride to Gulltown, where she could watch as boys and girls her age played in the sand in the distance, she had lived a secluded life. She loved her home, obviously. But she had never had friends, in the most immediate sense of the word. She had teachers, servants who were fond of her, slipping her food in between meals, and books, and trinkets. No one her age. No one from her station. Here she was the lesser of the pair, she was the one who had to take initiative and begin the conversation. And she had smiled at her, readily and without fear, and introduced herself as though it was nothing remarkable at all. It was strange. It might almost have been a welcome sensation, if she hadn’t been so on edge. 

She thought she liked Aegon, as well, though it was different somehow - she liked him in the way a person likes a particularly loud yapping dog. He was a constant presence over her shoulder - trailing after her from the moment she stepped with Gaius into the courtyard in the morning, pressing her to watch him train with the others, asking her for details of her life in Runestone before quickly interjecting with details of his own exploits. He had pulled her over to the kitchen, soon after her encounter with his siblings in the royal gardens, and sat on the tabletop with her, going on and on about his dragon, Sunfyre, his weight, his colour, his size and how he was almost ready to ride, as he nursed a cup of Arbour red wine between his clasped hands.

“You’re a bit young to be having that, no?” She felt she had to ask, looking between him and the large glass. 

Aegon pulled a face. “I’m only a bit younger than you! And everyone drinks at court. There’s not much else to do, really. It’s boring, otherwise.”

He unfolded a leg from under himself, and reached out to tap his foot gently against her knee.

“That’s why I'm glad you’ve shown up. You'll make everything far more interesting.” And he had grinned at her, as if he knew something she didn't, and called for more wine over his shoulder.

And then there was Aemond. 

She didn't know what to think about him.

When she visited Aegon in the training yard the next day, as per his request, Aemond was there too, shooting her searching looks over his shoulder, as if she were about to pick up a wooden sword and whack him over the head with it. 

When she bumped into Helaena in the garden on an afternoon walk, there he was again , suddenly, sat to the side, quietly watching as his sister chattered to her animatedly about the grasshoppers chittering at their feet, and the birds in the sky, pressing her for information about her family in Runestone, what the castle was like, what the moors looked like, about the wildlife. He never interjected. Never tried to talk with them. 

And when she walked around the castle, talking in quiet murmurs to Gaius about home, about his new friends on the training ground, and the size and scale of their temporary accommodation, she would see him, just for a second in the corner of her eye, before he turned on his heel to retrace his steps back down the hallways. 

It was strange . It was as if he was purposefully seeking her out, and purposefully avoiding her all at the same time! She would have thought he was just shy, but the way he looked at her made her doubt that - he would hold his gaze when she caught him staring, tilting up his chin almost confrontationally. When she went to greet him, he would answer in short, bland sentences, civil but devoid of emotion. It creeped her out. 

“Have I done something to offend Prince Aemond?” She asked Aegon one afternoon, as she watched him flick lazily through the pages of a dusty grey book on Dragonology. 

“Hmm?”

“Aemond. Have I done something to offend him? I think he’s avoiding me.”

A snort broke through the peaceful atmosphere of the library, Aegon moving his head up to grin at her over the pages. 

“Oh you’re not kidding! It’s fine , Val, he’s probably just being a miserable git like usual. He does this to everyone, it's why Jace and Luke don't like him.”

She felt a little irritation rise gently in defence of her young cousin. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that about him. He’s your younger brother, Aegon!”

“That’s precisely the reason I can say stuff like that about him.” He retorted. “Don't worry, honestly. He’s always sulking over something.”

“…if you say so.”

“I do say so. Now look here, this is what I was telling you about-“ he resumed his position, hunched over the book as she bowed her head to half heartedly look over his shoulder.

It was unsettling, and a bit creepy, yes, but how much of that was Aemond and how much of it was just her own paranoia within the court? It was ok. Aegon said it was normal, so she would take her cousin's word for it. 

She was sure it was nothing important, anyway. 

Chapter Text

Aemond

He had been looking out the window, the first time he ever saw her. 

All three of them had, him, Aegon and Helaena, when Valaeys Targaryen had first rode into Kings Landing, through the iron gate into the grey cobbled courtyard, to greet the small dot that was their grandfather Otto Hightower.

It had been one of those rare days that they had found themselves unconsciously gravitating towards each other, three siblings sat together in a fragile, quivering silence, without Aegon leaving to drink himself limp under a table, or Helaena disappearing to some hidden corner, shielded away from the pressing eyes of her unenthusiastic handmaidens. 

It had reminded Aemond, unwillingly, of how things had been back when they were younger. Bound tightly together by the blood that ran through their veins, and their childish sense of love and duty for one another, he and Helaena had used to spend more time in their older brother’s room than their own, three white heads crowded together in childish camaraderie, united by their shared understanding of their place in the world, in the court, and in their desire to shield one another from it. They knew, as everyone did, that the King loved their older sister with a deep, unfailing devotion they would never be privy to, knew that they would never truly know the unconditional love of a father, never feel safe and sheltered in quite the same way as Rhaenyra did, despite their mothers never ending struggle for their recognition.

It hadn’t mattered to Aemond, not really. He didn’t need a father - his mother and his siblings had been enough, far more than enough. It hadn’t been blood, in those early years, that drove them together, but their mutual desire for shelter, unconsciously feeding off the love they would never gain from Viserys or their older sister from each other, before they themselves even knew it. Him, Aegon, Helaena and little Daeron, eating together, taking their lessons together, knocking on each other’s bedroom doors at irregular moments of the night to talk until the sun peeked over the castle battlements before tiptoeing quietly to their rooms before the handmaidens bustled in to wake them for the new day. 

And then Aegon had shuttered from them, faded slightly out of reach. No longer did his older brother clutch at his hand, no longer did he smile with the full force of his toothy child’s grin, no longer did he race through the halls, giggling at his brothers and sister all the way, picking them up in his skinny arms just to prove to them that he could. 

His smile was cruller, less sincere, now. Aegon pulled himself idly through life, as though being tugged along by a leash bound about his unwilling neck. He basked in the childish, flimsy admiration and attention of Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon, drinking it down like the wine that dulled his speech, slowed his movements. His jokes had become sharper, colder, uncaring, and only very rarely would he seek out his siblings, for short, heavy moments of silence such as this. 

His older brother had let out an inquisitive noise from where he sat slouched on a window side chair, swilling red liquid in his cup, before jolting quickly upwards to press his face out of the window.

“It’s her!”

And it had been her. 

Valaeys Targaryen had been a known topic of conversation between all the children, of course. The shuttered walls of Kings Landing meant interactions were limited for almost all of the Red Keeps inhabitants, to loyal servants, family members and the king's guard, and the prospect of a hidden, faceless, blank page of a cousin had intrigued most of the younger family members. Why had she never been brought to court, they wondered? Why was she not with her father, the Rogue Prince Daemon, over the narrow sea in Essos with his family? Why had no letters been sent to them, no information concerning her wellbeing, her passions, her actions? 

From where the three crowded at the window, not much could be made out about their cousin. She was a pale white dash against the grey cobblestones, too far away to uncover any discernible features. As they watched, she had swung herself off her horse, without stirrups or a helping servant's hand, walking slowly up to face their grandfather before being ushered quickly and quietly through the heavy wooden doors to the Keep. 

“Father wanted to speak to her directly,” Helaena had murmured quietly, raised up on her tiptoes to peek over the balcony, “mother told me.”

“When do we get to see her?” Aegon responded, staring out at the door as if she would double back through them at any minute. 

Silence filled the room again. Aegon let out a deep sigh of exasperation, turning quickly on his heel and making his way to exit the room, the door slamming behind him as he went.

.

“What do you think she’ll be like?”

He turned to look over at his sister, knees pulled up to her chest as she sat down underneath the Royal Weirwood tree. It was a cool, golden morning, a day or two into their cousin's visit, and in an attempt to avoid becoming the target of teasing from Aegon, Jacaerys and Lucerys in the courtyard, he had found his sister hiding away in the garden yet again, mud tracking up the bottom of her delicate lace dress from the still wet grass. He could already picture their mothers wince at the sight of it. 

“How should I know?”

Helaena gave a little shrug, lifting down a hand to pick idly at the moss covering the tree’s protruding roots. “She’s interesting. And mother wants us to get to know her. It would be a change to have a cousin we could talk to. Perhaps she’ll be nice.” 

“Is her being nice the most important part of all of this to you?”

She tilted her head a little towards him, eyebrows scrunching in confusion. “What else is there?”

“Oh!”

And then suddenly there she was, staring down at them.

She looked different up close. 

He had expected someone far more like his sister. As a princess, Helaena was expected to be presented as poised and perfect to onlookers at any possible moment, in soft girlish gowns, with long flowing, tidily arranged white-blonde hair. He knew she didn't like the gowns, not really, even though he had heard the sighs of admiration and envy from her young handmaidens - when he caught her in the garden, hidden away in some unwalked corner, her shoes would be kicked off, feet buried in the mud and grass as her hands cupped up wriggling insects, their brethren crawled their way slowly and twitchingly up her forearms, looking more like a wild pixie then a princess. But she was a princess, and decorum and daintiness were hammered onto her appearance as firmly as a coat of thick steel. Appearance seemed to matter far more than armour these days, in court. 

Valaeys Targaryen didn't seem to care about appearances. Valaeys Targaryen wore riding leathers, mannish, lumpy things that called to mind images of stable hands and servants. She was taller than she had looked from the window, taller than Aegon by just over an inch from where he stood beside her, with a freckled pale face, wild curling hair and a wilder look in her wide brown eyes, scanning over him with poorly hidden trepidation clear in her face. In the tail end of her untidy white braid, a red leaf was tangled, quivering gently in the wind. 

“Forget them . You were talking about Daemon?” Aegon groaned, flicking his eyes dismissively over the two of them before looking back to their cousin, tugging at her hand to drag her attention back to him. 

So she would be like Jacerys and Lucerys, then . Another one of Aegon's little followers, who he would thrive parasitically on for attention and praise, dismissing him and Helaena for the new face in the crowd once more. 

He felt his sister shift upwards beside him to greet her, but his eyes were focused on her nervous eyes, the shy discomfort clear in every part of her face, and her pale freckled hand, still gently folded over by Aegon’s. 

A pointy elbow jabbed at him, and he saw, as he lifted his eyes up to greet her, the quick flicker of embarrassment as she tugged her hand back to her side. 

.

“I like her,” Helaena announced quietly, watching as their cousin was nearly dragged out of the garden by Aegon, bickering with each other all the way, even as she shot an embarrassed parting grin over her shoulder to where the two of them still sat, “She seems kind.” 

As they watched, she quickly whipped her head around at something Aegon said, thwacking his ribs as he squawked in surprise, and then delighted laughter, before the two of them rounded a corner, and were cut from their sight. 

“You think everyone is kind.”

Helaena turned back to look at him, face scrunched in gentle confusion. “You do not think she seemed kind?”

“She seemed weird.”  

“You think everyone is weird,” Helaena rebutted, arching a pale eyebrow at him. 

“We don't know her intentions.”

“Her intentions? ”

It was obvious, of course, why she was here. Their mother had made that much very clear to them not two days before her arrival, pacing stiff-backed and stressed through her chambers, reminding them of the importance of their courtesy to their arriving cousin. 

“Listen to me. This is important” , she had told them, flicking her eyes across his and Aegon's faces. “ Nothing is set in stone, but your father has been contemplating it. Her guardian knows nothing of the matter, and Viserys refuses to contact Daemon to ask, but she is of Targaryen blood and a Lady in her own right. She could make a strong match for either of you, even if she doesn’t know it herself yet.”

“So you don't like her?”

“Hmm.”

“So you do?”

“Helaena.”

She smiled at him, gently bemused. “Bronze and sapphire make such a pretty pair. You’ll see.”

He had long since stopped asking for meanings behind those cryptic sentences - every time he pointed them out to her, his sister's face had dropped, and any attempts to press her forward were cut off, Helaena staring silently at the floor until the conversation moved on with a small confused frown on her face.

“Ok. Whatever.”

He lay back in the grass, staring up at the sunlight through the leaves of the tree, remembering idly the red weirwood leaf, trembling in white locks. 

‘Listen to me. This is important”. His mother had said, and he had noticed suddenly the lines of her face were deeper now then they had been when they were all younger, stress carving lines in the planes of her beautiful face that drew the eye away from her soft smile, her gentle eyes. 

Valaeys Targaryen, daughter of the elusive Prince Daemon. He didn’t know what to think about her. So he watched her. 

He watched the way she acted around Aegon, the way his brother would light up when he turned his head during sparring and saw her standing there awkwardly, waving happily over to her until Ser Criston tapped him between the shoulder blades to break him out of the spell, and turn him back to the matter at hand. He watched the way she looked at Aegon, not with the wide eyed, childish admiration Jace and Luke gave him, but with a quiet, analytical curiosity, her eyes lingering softly on the jittering way he held his cups, and then lighting up with bristling defensiveness when his brother slipped loose an thoughtless insult, refusing to talk to him until he tugged at her sleeves and apologised, haltingly, awkwardly, quiet, in a way he never did anymore with Aemond or Helaena. 

He watched the way she smiled, and shifted on her feet like a startled animal when she came across his sister, never quite able to meet her eyes even as she sat down beside her to stare at whatever crawling creature that had taken Helaena’s interest, reaching her hand out to carefully accept the proffered insect where Helaena’s handmaidens would squeal and shriek, and shield their face with their hands in horror. He watched the way she would smile, shyly at first, and then widely, as Helaena leaned in to whisper something into her ear, giggling quietly together under their breath as they stared down at their hands, linked together over the little creature.

She never sought him out, the way she sought out his brother and sister, but he could feel the weight of her stare when he turned his head away from her, could see the anxious fiddle of her hands, that reminded him of his mothers incessant picking in times of high stress, when he pretended not to feel her gaze. 

She did try, at times, to talk to him - hesitating greetings, awkward remarks about the weather and what he was doing that day, but he always managed to exit the conversation quickly enough. He wasn’t in need of false courtesies, not from her, not from the sycophantic lords at court, not from Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon, friendliness that would so quickly dissolve into open mockery as they giggled with Aegon over his failings, childish insults that cut deeper than they should have.

It was best to nip it in the bud now, preventing all the bother that would come otherwise. 

.

“Have I done something to offend you, Prince Aemond?”

Her eyes were wide and imploring as she looked down at him, hand reached out to hold gently at the edge of the library door he had been attempting to walk past her through.

“Nothing of the sort.” He made to duck under her arm, but she shifted, moving her body more firmly into the door’s opening to subtly block his path. 

“Because, if I have, I'd like to apologise.”

You’d try to apologise for something you aren't even aware of, he thought, looking pointedly at her shoulder so as not to have to meet her gaze. From this angle, he could see that her freckles smattered softly over her neck as well as her face, usually covered by the high collar of her tunics. 

“I don't know quite what you mean, my lady.”

“It’s - uh. You don't have to call me that, if you don't want to. I said to Aegon and Helaena that they can call me Valaeys, if they’d like, because friends-“

“We’re not friends.”

Something shuttered gently over his cousin's face. “Ah. Yes, I apologise, but I was hoping -”.

“It’s fine. Have a good day, Lady Valaeys.” He interrupted her, quickly darting through the small gap to make his way out of that damned room, away from her confused form still standing in the doorway. 

He felt those brown eyes follow him down the hall, even after he had walked out of her line of vision, burning hot on the back of his neck as he lay awake in bed that night staring at the ceiling. 

“ She could make a strong match for either of you, even if she herself doesn't know it yet.” His mother had whispered to them, and her fingers had been red around the edges as they rested on his and Aegon’s shoulders, picked raw from her pinching nails. But that wasn't true, was it? Even though he had felt the lingering way his mother had looked at him as she said it, he knew, from that first moment in the garden, her and Aegon’s hands linked together as she greeted them, he was being pushed to the side once again, even then, even without her knowing what she was doing. 

It was ridiculous to be thinking so hard about it. It wouldn’t matter, anyway, when she herself knew nothing of the business, and without her guardian’s knowledge or her fathers permission, nothing would come from it. 

In a month or two, she would leave, and make her way back to the Vale, and they would be done with this whole business. 

He didn't sleep easily, that night. 

Chapter Text

Valaeys

“Zaldrizes.”

“Better, but the pronunciation is off. You’re putting too much weight on it.” 

“…zaldrizes?”

“It was worse that time. Put more feeling into the second part of the word.”

“More feeling?” 

“ What about this is difficult for you to understand?”

“The fact that you said you’d be a good teacher, maybe?”

Aegon let out a slow, long-suffering groan, letting his elbows slump out underneath him as he banged his forehead gently onto the wooden table, his long pale hair splaying out over the numerous scrolls and opened books littered between the two of them, the result of several hours of picking through the castle's extensive library. Outside the window, the golden afternoon was streaming in, turning the dark stone wall a speckled orange in the light. 

“Val, this is boring. You’re boring me. How are you not getting this yet?”

You’ve spent your entire royal adolescence learning High Valyrian, and you expect me to pick it up in less than a day? 

“ You were the one who offered to teach me !” She reminded him, indignantly. 

“I didn't think you’d be so slow! Helaena got this faster than you!”

“Helaena was taught by a maester, I presume? And not a thirteen year old boy?”

“At this point, I don't think being taught by a maester would help you understand this.”

“Þinn hárr lítar smár mæar”, she shot back at him, the heavily accented Old Tongue falling comfortably from her mouth. 

“What does that mean?”

“Oh don’t worry. I don't think you’d understand it.” She leaned her head over the back of the stiff wooden chair, kicking her feet up to cross over the table as she stared up at the ornate stone carvings on the ceiling. ‘And I’m not the only one with problems here. You have got to be single-handedly the worst teacher I have ever had the misfortune of speaking too.” For the past several hours, as she poured over the books, Aegon had flitted chaotically about the bookshelves, dumping volume after volume in front of her with a proud grin on his face, nattering on about dragon riding, sword fighting, the latest book his grandsire had pressed him to read - anything really except helping her understand the jumble of looped Valyrian staring up at her. She was pretty sure she had seen him doodle a sword in the margin of an extremely old and precious looking manuscript, though he had shifted it away before she got a better look. 

She felt more than she saw her cousin scowl up at her indignantly from where his chin still rested on the table. A moment passed, both of them sat in the comfortable warmth of the room, the only sound the faint flicking of the old yellow pages as Valaeys turned them carefully.

“…you know…it's not too late. The sun hasn’t even set yet. If we’re both bored, I could always take you to see -”

“Absolutely not, Aegon.”

“Why not!? You’ll like him, I promise! And he’s loyal to me, so he’ll like you too! Sunfyre is-”

“A fire breathing, sabre toothed, man eating creature of mass chaos and destruction? A flying, clawed lizard that lives above the laws of animals and men? A killing machine?”

“A friend.” A small crinkle had formed in the space between his eyebrows, and she fought down the instinct to reach over and poke it smooth with her thumb, as Gerold had always used to do with her. “And you’re my friend. I want you to meet each other.”

It took a moment to struggle over the gentle swell of emotion that sentence rose within her, kicking her feet back down off the table to straighten up and lean her body towards him. 

“You know, I don't think I'll ever understand it.”

“Understand what?”

“The obsession you people have with them. You talk about Sunfyre like he can speak back to you. Like he's human.” It was getting a bit ridiculous, honestly. Excluding Caraxes, she had only ever seen dragons from a distance,  angular pinpricks soaring high above the turrets of Kings Landing, and heard their distant snarls and chittering from her bed, late at night, echoing up through the cavernous tunnels of the Dragonpit. She couldn’t fathom the desire to be in close proximity to a dragon, let alone close enough to fly one . She had never, not once in her stay, felt tempted to follow Aegon or Helaena down on their trips to visit Sunfyre or Dreamfyre, despite their wheedling, remembering all to well the long red line of her fathers dragon, scuttling hunched and muscled over the crags of Runestone, splashing sheep blood and debris over the vibrant green fields. 

Go say hello, Daemon had murmured once, when they had stumbled across Caraxes’ path on one of their rare walks. He had nudged her forward, fingers pushing gently between her shoulder blades to move her closer to the creature and her sight had narrowed down to wide yellow eyes, cruel curved teeth, and a glowing orange throat, before turning on her heel to race all back down the hill, to her mother, to her bedroom, the safety of home. Daemon had never taken her out onto the moors again, after that visit. 

Aegon, it seemed, had no such qualms. When walking through the Keep, seeking out an escape from the boring mundanity of her room, she would turn a corner to find him stumbling to greet her, windswept white hair streaked grey with ash and dust, red faced and smelling of sweat and thick, cloying sulfur. Once, he had gone in for a hug, high on the exhilaration of the flight, and she had had to quite literally duck under his arms to avoid the smell transferring.

“I can't explain it in a way that makes sense, really.” Nothing new there. “It’s just… when you bond with a dragon. It all just..” his hands reached up in the air, fingers splaying out and slotting together, closing into a double handed fist. “It all just clicks together. And you know them, in a way. You can't be afraid of someone you know. You know?”

“…no?”

“Ugh.” His head slumped back down onto the table in exasperation. “Well, if we're not going to the dragon pit today, there’s little use in all of this , so we might as well stop for now.”

“And what else could we do?”

“Literally anything else. How was your day? Before you found me, I mean.”

Boring. Awkward. Repetitive . She had been tasked with the honour of cup bearing at one of King Viserys’s small council meetings, the third this week alone, as a result of his offer to help ‘educate her in matters of the Realm’. As if listening to them natter on about irrelevant trade ports and wars fought oceans away would ever impact her governing of Runestone. She was pretty sure Gerold Royce had never gone further than King’s Landing for travel. She knew her mother would have refused to enter this court voluntarily, out of principle alone, and she had never had any trouble with the townsfolk of Gulltown or Old Anchor. The Royce’s knew their home, their people, as well as they knew themselves, governing with familiarity and capability. They had no need for worlds existing outside of what they deemed their responsibility.

“Your father asked me to attend another small council meeting. Something about rerouting the fishing boats off Blackwater Bay.”

“I imagine you loved that.”

“Mmhm.”

It wasn't even the long winded diplomatic talks, really, that made her dread those short hours spent in the council chamber. She thought back to the odd, strained smiles sent her way by Queen Alicent whenever she moved to offer her wine. She thought of the way she felt another stare, hot and heavy on her face, but how whenever she turned, Princess Rhaenyra was absorbed in the shimmering red surface of her drink, swilling it around a cup she never drank from. 

There had been once, following the departure of the members of the small council, when she had held back, leaning over the table to scoop up the abandoned golden goblets to hand over to a maid at a later time.

.

“Lady Valaeys?” She had whipped around, heart in her throat, to find the Princess still lingering beside the door, hands folded over the black silk covering her stomach.

“Princess Rhaenyra!”

“You don't need to clear away the cups, My Lady. We have servants for that.”

“Oh. I apologise.”

“Don't worry.” Her beautiful face softened as she looked around the room. “You know, when I was younger, I used to do the same for my father and his councilmen. Bear cups, I mean. I imagine you find it just about as … fascinating as I used to.”

She hadn’t known, actually. It seemed odd to imagine the heir to the iron throne doing something so menial as bearing cups, serving anyone below her position, even as a child. During the council meetings, Rhaenyra sat confident and calm in her chair, giving suggestions left as right as if she had been born to do so. In a way, she supposed she had.

“I imagine this all must be overwhelming for you. I can't imagine King’s Landing has been the easiest place to adjust to.”

“I‘ve found it very comfortable, Princess. It’s … um. Very charming. If a bit more crowded then I’m used to.” Where was this conversation going? Valaeys assumed she hadn’t stayed behind just out of politeness - something about the way she held herself made it clear she was angling towards a question. 

“I am glad to hear that. I..um. How - how is your father taking your stay?” Ah . There we go. One way or another, everything always seemed to circle back to Daemon, as though the utterance of his name would cause him to appear over her shoulder. You’ve probably seen him more recently than I have. Why am I the one you choose to interrogate?

“I can't say that I know that he knows I’m here, my Princess. I have not heard from him in some time. Letters can be tricky to get from Essos to Runestone.” Liar. You just haven't been reading them.

“But he is well? Contented? From what you know?”

“Quite well I think.” If he manages not to pickle his liver with all the wine he’s probably been drinking.

“Ah. That’s good.”

“Lady Valaeys - ah. Rhaenyra.” Valaeys watched as the comfortable slouch of Rhaenyra’s shoulders stiffened, straightened up and back, as she drew herself up to her full height to regard the Queen behind her. 

The air seemed to thicken, all of a sudden, as the two women stared at each other. Rhaenyra’s hand twitched, moved away from her stomach to toy gently with the lining of her sleek black dress, the only reaction given, before Alicent strode past her, chin held up in the air, placing a cold, smooth hand on Valaeys’s shoulder. 

“I was wondering how you were?” She murmured, not quite quiet enough for Rhaenyra not to hear, if the gentle clench of her jaw was anything to go by. 

“I’m well, my queen. But the princess-“

“It’s quite alright. I was just leaving. Farewell, Lady Valaeys. Alicent.” The door creaked as it swung closed on the two of them, Rhaenyra disappearing in a whirl of black skirts.

Alone in the room, Queen Alicent had reached out a hand to tuck a strand of loose white hair behind her ear. It sprung stubbornly back into place a moment later. 

“How are you faring, dear girl? I hope everything is to your liking?”

“Quite well, My Queen. Everyone has been very welcoming.” How many times , she wondered, was she going to have to have the same conversation with one of the members of the court? What else would they expect her to respond with? Gerold had reminded her, time and time again, of the importance of being polite, being respectful to those above her, but she could only repeat the same mouthful of phrases a couple of times before she began to sound like an idiot. 

“Yes, I have heard. My children have taken quite the shine to you, you know.”

If by children, she had meant Aegon, then the queen had been correct. There weren’t many days when the young prince didn't find her, dragging her off from the Septa’s lessons she and Helaena shared to talk to her, ask her to watch him train, teach him to climb, listen to music played by long suffering minstrels, make up wild stories over his wine cups - or the most recent endeavour - to learn High Valyrian, once he had learnt she had never been given lessons. At first, she had bore the attention with half hearted reluctance - she couldn't really object to a prince , she had thought to herself, even one so poorly mannered, but overtime, she had found herself looking for him as well, answering his grand tales with even more extreme ones of her own, giggling with him over pieces of gossip Valaeys overheard from the stiff dressed court ladies. She had never had a friend her age. And that was what he was, she supposed. Even if he was a bit rude at times. 

She hoped Helaena liked her. She smiled at her, yes, and was never endingly kind, but she did that to everyone, and Valaeys had never mustered up the courage to seek her out outside the Septa’s sewing lessons, apart from odd encounters in the gardens, and once when she and her had sat together in her room, Valaeys watching as Helaena painstakingly stitched a beetle onto a blanket for her young brother Daeron, a sweet young boy who she had never seen without a cheeky smile on his face.

Aemond… well. She knew he hadn’t taken a shine to her, for whatever reason he had apparently chosen. “We’re not friends,” he had snapped at her, his blue eyes narrowed defensively, as if she had uttered the worst insult he could think of, and darted away like she would burn him. Fine then. She didn't need him to like her. Why should she care whether or not he wanted to talk to her? It wasn’t her responsibility to fall on her knees in apology for whatever he had decided he didn't like about her. She wouldn't stoop to his level.

“I’m glad to hear that. I’ve grown fond of them, as well.”

Something darted across the queen's face then, quickly hidden behind another smile. “I'm glad to hear that.” The hand reached up again, attempting to tuck the rouge strand back again. “Don't worry about the change of scenery too much. You’ll soon grow accustomed. I think you’ll fit right in, dear girl.”

.

The sound of wood scraping against stone broke her out of her reverie, Aegon and her turning in their seats to watch a small white head of head dip its way into the room, before looking up and jerking to a stop. Aemond looked between the two of them, to where Aegon's feet were resting comfortably on Valaeys’ lap, and then to the heaping pile of paper near covering their table, his eyes narrowing as he turned away, walking towards a thick wooden bookshelf spanning the back wall. 

Beside her, Aegon let out a huff of irritation, eyes trained lazily on the back of his young brother's head. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure, dear brother?”

“No need for me to interrupt your fun. I just needed to get this,” Aemond answered, both hands quickly prying out a thick, red bound book and waving it in the air, eyes still trained on the bookshelf. He stood there for a moment, seemingly fascinated by the rows of wood panelling jutting out before him. 

“Well if that's all, you can head out now, can’t you?” Aegon retorted, dodging his head to the side to avoid the scroll Valaeys threw his way. “ Hey! What’d I do?”

“Don't be rude.” She hissed back, pushing his feet off her lap to allow herself the room to twist her torso, reaching out towards the roll of parchment from where it had fallen to the floor. Before she could graze the pages with her finger, a hand lent out to swipe it from under her. When she looked up, Aemond’s eyes flitted quickly away from her face, focusing instead on the heavy twist of yellow parchment and the curved lettering within.

“High Valyrian?” His voice was inquisitive as he went to unfurl the scroll further. 

“I’m teaching her,” Aegon shot back, arms crossed over his chest as he looked at the two of them, “or I was, before you interrupted.”

“Teaching is a generous word for what you were doing,” Valaeys shot back, “and he can do as he likes. It’s his home just as much as it’s yours.”

He let out a little hmmph, arms crossed as he slouched further against his chair. 

“Here.” Aemond’s voice was quiet, as he awkwardly gestured towards her with the scroll, face turned toward the door. 

She hadn’t talked with him, since that day two weeks ago. She hadn’t gone out of her way to avoid him, obviously, but she hadn’t really attempted to start a conversation again. If he wanted to be left alone, she had thought to herself, she would leave him alone.

She took back the proffered scroll hesitantly. “Thank you, Prince Aemond.”

“Hmm.”

He turned to leave, looking back over his shoulder for a fraction of a second. He has the most unsettling eyes , she thought to herself, meeting his gaze from where he stood, hand resting on the door to look back at her. Pale and icy, ringed with a deep circlet of blue. And then they flicked away from hers, and the moment was lost, as he ducked out of the door, the hinge clicking gently shut behind him.

“What was that all about?” Aegon piped up.

“What was what?”

“ That !” He folded his hands under his cheek, staring wide eyed towards her, and in a high voice: “‘Oh! Thank you, Prince Aemond ! How can I ever repay this generosity?’ That’s you. You know he's a twat, right?”

“He’s your brother. And a Prince, so he’s a far higher rank than me. Did you expect me to brush him off? I could get in trouble for that!…and I do not sound like that!”

“You never speak to me like that, though. All polite and cautious. And I’m older! I outrank him! Why don't you talk to me that way?”

“Because you're my friend before you're my prince.” She leaned down, nudging his legs to resume their position on her lap, whispering conspiratorially, “And because I trust you not to snitch on me.”

That seemed to do the trick - gone was the pout, replaced with a wide boyish grin as he leant forward to get more comfortable.

“Ah. Yes. Well obviously I don't want you to talk to me like that. That’d be weird. You’re much more fun when you're being mean.”

“I am not mean —!”

And back they went to their conversation, as the light trickling in from the window grew paler and paler, until only the warm glow of candlelight lit up the dark shadows of the room. 

On the table opposite the two cousins lay a thick, red bound book, unnoticed from where it had been placed down thoughtlessly to the side.

Chapter Text

Laena

The warm evening air of Penthos stuck heavy to her skin, smelling of cloying smoke, unflattering perfumes and heavy amber wine.

No sight of the sea for miles, no smell of saltwater or touch of the biting wind, from where she stood out on the balcony, watching the city crawling out beneath her. Just stretches of long, glowing firelights and the drunken shouts of smallfolk, strained and tinny over the battlements, thick accents she couldn't quite understand. It made her skin itch, her fingers pick anxiously at the parchment in her hands, smoothing her thumb out over the messy handwriting to scan the message her brother Laenor had left her within. 

Laenor. Her sweet brother. She missed him like she would miss a limb, that long gangly boy she had grown up with, always grinning and pulling affectionality at her carefully arranged plaits, sneaking her out of the castle during cloistering feasts to saddle their dragons, and ride whooping though the cold night air, racing each other through the clouds. When had she seen him last? The years had drifted by, as she and her new little family had jumped from port to port, castle to castle, until now, rotting quietly away in the ornate, gilded cage of Penthos. 

She wanted to see him. She wanted to see his children, her nephews , gods be damned what they looked like. She could feel the love pervading every letter her brother sent her as he talked of Jacerys and Lucerys, could feel his desire to see Baela and Rhaena once more, slotting little dolls and Westerosi sweets into the carefully arranged packages sent her way. It must almost be time for Rhaenyra’s new child to be born, she thought, and felt her stomach twist in displeasure at the thought of not being there to greet the little one, to support her friend, to present her own youngest to meet them, once delivered. 

“It’s late, Laena,” Daemon’s voice was low from where he sat, lounging like a cat on the thick blanket of their guest bedroom. “Come, you need to rest.” Pulling the vibrant silk curtains closed, she crossed the room in slow strides, tossing the letter on the table as her husband shifted to make room for her, lifting himself up on his elbows before nestling his head into her lap as she leant back against the pillows. 

“That was a letter from my brother,” she remarked, running her hands lightly through her husband's hair. She loved his hair, soft and silken, trickling like milk between her fingers. He chased her hand, cheek tilting up to press gently to her pregnant stomach.

“Mmh?” 

“He said something about your daughter.”  

“What, another gift for the girls?” He murmured, a tired voice muffled by the layers of heavy embroidered cloth.

“Not Baela and Rhaena. Your first. Apparently, the king was very taken with the idea of inviting her to court for a time. She is serving as his cupbearer, I believe.”

She felt him tense, almost imperceptibly, before he rolled his head off her lap, purple eyes narrowed in incredulity. “My brother invited the lamb to court? What possible use could he have for her ?”

“Not everyone is motivated by personal gain, my love. Perhaps he decided it was finally time to meet his first niece. I can understand that desire myself.”

Up he sat, dragging an exasperated hand over his face. “Please, not this again.”

“They deserve to know her. Whether you like it or not, Baela and Rhaena share her blood. I would not have them be a stranger to their sister, Daemon.”

It had always been a sensitive topic, she knew. Even before her marriage, before her elopement across the seas, mentions of Valaeys Targaryen within the courts of Driftmark and Kings Landing were few and far between. She herself had nearly forgotten the girl, for a time, until her stomach had begun to swell with child, and doubt had crept in, gently, about her husband's reputation as a father, about how he would act towards their own children, once the novelty of their marriage wore off.

What reason did he have for leaving her there, all alone? Would he do the same to Baela, she had used to fret, looking down at her wide eyed little girl, fragile in her arms, would he show the same disregard, the same lack of devotion? 

No , she knew now. For all his faults, Daemon had never failed her children. 

She only wished she could know for certain that he never would . Despite his smiles, his hours spent with their girls, his wild stories and his breathless dragon rides, endless gifts of dresses cut from valuable foreign silks, somewhere across the sea her stepdaughter was alone, all alone, with no mother to braid her hair, or comfort her, no father to tell her stories. She was ten and four, now, she thought, and felt her child shift within her stomach, pressed a hand over herself to feel her blood, her baby, living inside her. Ten and four, and a ward to some temporary Lord of Runestone, whilst her father lived and breathed and drank himself to sleep, seas away. 

“Baela asks about her more now. I think she likes the idea of having an older sister.”

“Baela will have a new sibling soon enough.” A ringed hand smoothed itself carefully, reverently, over her stomach, linking their hands together over their child. 

“She shall. But it will not erase the existence of her eldest.”

She felt the huff against her stomach more than she heard it. “What would you have me do, wife?”

“Write to her, perhaps. Ask about her life, how she is. You must be a little curious, Daemon.”

“A positively thrilling life, I'm sure. Stuck with the barn animals and the crop fields. And I do write to her!”

This was new information to Laena. “You do?”

“I do. I wrote to her just last week, by raven. She never writes back.”

“And what did you say to her, in this letter?”

“Only the truth. Though if she is not in Runestone, I doubt she’ll see it for some time. Probably for the best.” He snorted, looking amusedly up at the ceiling. “I must admit I was quite drunk for most of it.”

“I would have you try properly , Daemon. For our girls. For me. I want our children -“ she pressed his hand more firmly against her stomach, “to know your blood.”

Daemons eyes softened, trained on the overlap of their fingers.

“Fine. Some day, for you. But not yet.”

That would have to be enough, she supposed. Despite all his machinations, Daemon could be trusted to keep his word. He was an honest man, if not a perfect one, and a good father to their daughters.

She only wished he would make more effort with Rhaena.

.

“It’s because I don't have one,” her sweet girl whispered to her, late one night, staring mournfully as the fire crackled over her egg, cold and grey in the fireplace. It was the fifth time this month Laena had walked in on such a scene. “He doesn't struggle to talk with Baela , because of Moondancer. None of them want me here, not really.”

I do, Laena thought to herself, feeling it fiercely in her bones, as palpable as the child shifting within her body. I want you here, always.

“Listen to me, my love. Your father loves you very much. He simply isn't in the right space of mind, right now.”

“He’s never in the right space of mind ,” Rhaena whispered, “That shouldn’t stop him from trying. If he tried, I wouldn't care half as much about the rest of it.”

What could she say to that? He wasn't trying, it was true, but he wasn't trying to do much of anything at the moment. The man she had married, bright and flaming with life was hidden behind a sheen of wine and lethargy of his own making. He didn't rest, shifting out of their bed when he thought her asleep, prowling around the corridors like a mad man, pouring over the library books without reading them, never venturing of his own volition into the cities he claimed to enjoy visiting. He doesn't care about anything, right now , she thought, but didn’t say. 

Instead, what came out was this.

“When I bonded with Vhagar, I was ten and five. I had just finished sailing a small fleet of ships with your uncle Laenor around the stretch of sea between Driftmark and Spice Town. My father said it was important to know the route by ship, in accordance with our Valeryon blood.” Rhaena shifted to the side, looking up with poorly concealed interest. She remembers it acutely, even now, watching the looming stretch of rock face creep up around their ships' sails as they curved across the water, more like a titans gaping mouth than the opening of a cave. “Well. We had docked our ships on a stretch of the beach, to give ourselves the opportunity to stretch our legs, and I decided it would be a good idea to climb to the top of the hill, to see how we should position our ships on the way back home. Your uncle stayed below, to play cards with the men.”

The climb had been long, hard and steep, and far before Laena had reached the summit, her thighs had stung with the exertion, breath coming hard and fast as she walked.

“By the time I had made it to the top, she was waiting for me.”

“Waiting?”

“It’s the only way I can really describe it.”

She hadn’t known, of course, that Vhagar had chosen to nest there. She had heard, and hoped, of course - Vhagar had been an object of fascination to her for all of her adolescence, the fearsome she-dragon of Visenya Targaryen, warrior queen of Westeros. There were rumours, from the villagers in Spice Town, that her song was carried on the wind towards them, but no sightings, and for a creature of Vhagars size not to be seen after all that time, doubt had trickled in, claims that it was some other, smaller dragon, harder to spot against the rocks.

“Weren’t you scared?”

Had she been scared? She had been shocked, at first, lifting up her head to come face to face with Vhagar, as still and silent as if she had been carved into the rock face, simply another mountain crag, if not for those dark amber eyes, regarding the little human, calmly, knowingly. 

“Your uncle was far more scared than me, I think. I didn’t realise until I came back down that he must have seen Vhagar against the rock face. You should have seen the look on his face when I walked back unharmed!”

She watched her daughter smile, just a little, at the thought. 

“All doubt had just fallen away from me, when I saw her. I knew exactly how it would happen next, as did Vhagar. When our ships sailed off from that rock face, she followed behind us, the whole three hour route back to Driftmark.”

Her daughter's hand was cold in her own as she held onto her, warming her little fingers in the crook of her palms. 

“These things don't happen when we expect them to. Some of us go our entire lives without thinking it will happen to us. Moondancer was born to Baela, so it may seem like it's easier for her, but the gods have different plans for all of us. Dragon or no, you have the blood of old Valyria. As does your sister. As do I and Uncle Laenor. As does your father.”

“I miss Uncle Laenor,” she whispered, looking mournfully to the fireplace. 

“He misses you too. Very much, little one. But we shall see him soon. I'm sure of it.” She leant forward, kissing her forehead gently. “And your eldest sister too, perhaps. I hear she is with him, in King's Landing, after all.”

Rhaena smiled up at her, clearly fascinated by the thought. 

“Now get some sleep. You’ll be troubled in the morning if your mind isn’t rested.”

“Goodnight, Mama.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

That night, curled in the blankets of a bed that wasn’t hers, in a city far away from home, as her husband paced restlessly outside the door, Laena Velaryon dreamt of the sea.

.

Valaeys

“Up then under. You can fix it by moving the needle to the side.”

“I don't think much can fix this, Princess,” Valaeys responded, looking quizzically down on the mess of green thread pluming up from the embroidery hoop, more like a trampled square of moss than a leaf.

“I think it looks quite lovely,” Helaena remarked, shifting closer on the chair to regard her work. In her hands, an elegant butterfly lay neatly stitched, so clear Valaeys felt it would flutter up from the lace and nestle its purple wings into Helaena’s hair at any moment. “Very realistic. Most leaves aren’t perfect, anyway. Yours looks more believable.”

“…thanks. I think?”

Helaena gave her a shy grin, shifting her own handiwork from hand to hand. “…although if you do want some help --.” 

“—Gods yes, please, if you don't mind.”

They switched hoops, and Valaeys watched in fascination as pale fingers neatly smoothed out her work, tucking in the green threads to create some semblance of a picture from the chaos.

“Excuse me, my ladies.” A handmaiden wavered hesitantly by the door.

“What is it?” Helaena asked.

“Letters for the Lady Valaeys,” she answered, crossing the drawing room to curtsy hastily, and offer her two thick wedges of parchment, embellished with a dark orange wax seal, before turning and quickly exiting the room, in a great rush of skirts. 

Twenty five pebbles, lined up in a shield formation. Gerold. It had to be. 

Was something wrong? Had something happened at Runestone? Had something happened to him? She stood, uncaring of the threads falling from her lap, grabbing for the pages quickly.

She fumbled with the opening, quickly breaking through the shield sigil, nearly tearing the paper to scan at the words within.

Valaeys. 

All is well here, so calm yourself. Knowing you, you’ll be fretting the second you find this letter, but I am not writing for any reason other than to say you are sorely missed here at Runestone. Even Septa Anya seems slightly at a loss as to what to do in your absence, for all her complaints about your resistance to her etiquette lessons. 

I myself am enjoying the peace. It’s a pleasant change to go on one of my morning rides with the knowledge that when I turn a hill, there won't be a chance that I shall see my ward clambering half way up a cliff face. I am but an old man, child, and you do my heart in sometimes. 

More than anything, the aim of this letter is to open up a correspondence with you. I would love to learn about what you are learning from King's Landing, although I do hope you haven't been getting yourself into too much trouble. I don't know whether to be comforted or worried by the fact that I have heard no tales of you toppling a castle turret, or fighting with a lord yet. I hope to hear from you soon.

You are sorely missed, Smár einn.

Ser Gerold Royce, Protector of Runestone. 

Slotted in between the folds of the letter were a handful of dried wildflowers, brilliant purples and reds still preserved on the delicate petals. Lifting on to her nose, she felt her eyes burn gently with the familiar smell of the countryside she had left behind.

Under this message, came another line of writing, hastily written in a different shade  of ink. 

He sent again. It was delivered this morning. What you choose to do with it is your business.

The other letter, creamy white parchment, sat heavily in her lap, emblazoned with a thick red seal, the three headed dragon leering up at her. 

“Aren't you going to open it?” Helaena asked, looking curiously down at the letter.

“It’s from my father.” She replied, lamely, as if that would explain her apprehension in any way. The young girl titled her head to the side, looking at her curiously.

“I… uh. I haven't really been opening them for a while. Not recently, anyway.” Why would you tell her that? It was one thing to say she and Daemon hadn’t been talking. She could attribute that to the distance separating them, blaming misplaced addresses and the harsh weather for the lack of word. It was another altogether to imply that she was blatantly disregarding her fathers letters.

“ Oh?” Helaena looked far more intrigued now.

“We don’t - I don’t like being reminded. Of him. He was never… he didn't stay for long. I never really regretted not reading them. Sometimes I wonder if he said something important in them, and I’ve been an idiot by getting rid of them, but honestly? I don't think he has anything he wants to say to me. He’s drunk, when he writes. It’s.. not the most immersive reading experience.”

“Would you like me to do it?”

“What?”

“Would you like me to read it? If there’s anything important, I'll tell you. If not, you can get rid of it like the others, and not feel guilty about throwing away something important.”

“… ok. Yeah. If you don't mind. His handwriting is shit though.”

“Not at all.” She ran a dainty, manicured nail under the red wax, shifting slightly away from Valaeys as her eyes flickered over the open page. Valaeys looked at her, in order to shift her line of sight off the scratch of lettering she could about just peak at, if she had been trying. In the firelight, Helaena’s hair was turned molten gold, glowing gently around her delicate face, catching the curve of her long, pale eyelashes. She was very pretty, enviably so, even with the small frown slowly working its way onto her face, her lip twisting gently to one side as she silently rescanned the letter.

“….Anything important?”

Pale purple eyes flicked up to look at her, shining in the firelight, before flicking back down to the page, scanning once, twice. The princess carefully folded back up the letter, tidy and slow movements, before turning, tossing it quickly into the centre of the fireplace. 

They watched, for a moment, two girls curled together on the carpet, as the parchment sputtered and curled up, turning dusty grey and quivering under the heat before burning away altogether. 

“No.” Helaena replied, shifting to press her shoulder more firmly with Valaeys’, her hand moving across the chair to find her cousins, folding their hands together, running a thumb gently over the back of Valaeys’ freckled hand. “Nothing at all.”

.

Walking back through the hall from Helaena’s room was proving rather more difficult than normal. Whereupon normally, the great steps leading up past her route back to her rooms proved uncrowded save for a few bustling servants and lords walking from council meetings, today the space was thick with people, Lords and Ladies of the realm in their expensive clothes, unmoving and murmuring gently amongst themselves.

Seriously? She attempted to push a path through the throng to steer her way across the room, to no avail. They weren’t even looking at her, as she tapped at their shoulders, continuing to crane their heads towards a white figure on the stairs.

What were they looking at?

She stepped back from the throng, pushing up onto the lip of a marble column to get a view over the sea of heads. 

There stood Rhaenyra Targaryen, whiter than the pale dress covering her, drenched in sweat and carefully cradling a small bundle to her chest. Her baby! Had she really been in Helaena’s room long enough that she had missed any talk of the Princess even starting labour? 

…why the fuck was she walking? What was she doing up? Valaeys hadn’t ever even seen a pregnant woman before coming to Kings Landing, but even she was pretty sure this wasn't standard practice.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a black head of curls dip out of the crowd towards her.

“Onera!”

“Yes, my Lady?”

Valaeys lowered her voice, eyes still trained on the shaking figure of her cousin as she made her way falteringly up the long stretch of palace stairs. Laenor Velaryon stood beside her awkwardly, supporting her, face almost more drawn than hers as he twitched his palms nervously on her shoulder. 

“What in the seven hells is going on?”

“Queen Alicent asked to see the babe straight away. She was rather insistent, I believe.”

“Now?” As her cousin climbed, Valaeys could make out the sweat shining on her brow, the white knuckled way she grappled on her husband's arm, looking as if she were going to keel over at any moment. 

“Yes, it did seem rather… well. Not my place to say, really. The princess didn't seem too keen on letting go of him, so soon after the delivery.” 

It was a discomforting sight, to see Rhaenyra Targaryen look so weakened, to see any crack in her regal face whatsoever. From here, Valaeys could make out, suddenly, the trail of blood following the princess, as she grit her teeth and carried on determinedly, eyes narrowed in concentration.

She turned herself away, feeling hot shame crash over her at her open gawking. 

“Onera, I can't seem to get through the route to my bedroom.” 

“Hmm?” Her handmaiden replied, still looking thoughtfully at the back of Rhaenyra’s head, at the small bundle cooing gently in her arms. “Right. Yes. I can show you the servant staircase, if you would like. It will get you back quicker.”

“Yes, please.” 

Try as she might, the long walk back through the cool halls couldn't clear her mind of the scene she had stumbled across. It was only when she closed the heavy door to her room that she noticed the discoloured sole of her shoe, red with blood that wasn't her own, tracking soft smudges on the pale stone floor.

Chapter Text

Gerold. I resent the idea that you expected me to get into trouble so qu —-

Gerold. I’ve made a friend! Prince Aegon and I-

Gerold. I didn’t read my fathers -

I miss you

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong. 

For the past hour, Valaeys had been sitting cross-legged, crumpling page after page of parchment over her bedspread in her attempts to gather a message for Gerold Royce, to no avail.

What could she say to him? Where did she start? It all seemed too disjointed, too formal, to compartmentalise everything she had hoped to tell him face to face in a couple of white pages. Not much had even happened in her time at Kings Landing, in truth, and yet she still struggled for a foothold, a way to begin the letter, to tell him without having to tell him how much she missed him, missed home, how badly she wanted to see him again.

Nearly two months she had been away from Runestone. Two months since she had talked to him, had climbed the hills, watched the long sunsets and the crashing waves of the narrow sea against the castle edges. Her jagged home, hidden safe and silent in the rolling hills of the green Vale, a monument to her family, wrapped lovingly in the long smooth stretch of moorland where her mother lay buried, meshed with the earth, as much a part of her home as the flowers and stretching trees. 

She wasn't lonely here, of course. She found comfort in Aegon and Helaena, knew she had someone she could confide in in Gaius, a small piece of home, and the days never failed to bring new action, new memories, new ways to occupy herself. But at night, lying in the too-soft canopy of her too-large bed, in her overly grand guest room, as she stared up at the ornate ceiling, it was home she dreamed of, her true home, with its creaking doors and cold floors, and wailing winds, and the unfailing sense of care she felt in Gerold Royce that made it all worth it. 

She toyed gently with the cold, smooth surface of her mothers funeral eye as she poised her quill above the blank sheet, willing inspiration to strike her. Just say something. Start somewhere. You wont get anywhere if you don't start with something.

By the time the knock came against her bedroom door, her eyes had begun to dry out from her relentless staring down at the parchment, blackened with aborted messages hastily crossed out in black ink. 

“Val?”

Aegon. She looked between the door and her paper, weighing the options in her head. Perhaps if she was quiet enough, he would think she was absent, and leave her with the time to figure out what to write. She carefully grabbed for a new sheet of parchment, making an effort not to let the pages rustle and alert her cousin. 

“Helloooo?” Another round of knocks. “I know you’re there! Your guard told me he saw you head back this way!”

Gaius you absolute traitor.

He was tapping out rhythms on the door now, playing the beats of familiar minstrel songs with his knuckles. Forget the letter . She’d come back to it later. She hadn’t been getting anywhere with it anyway. She pushed herself up and off her bed, crossing the room in quick strides to swing open her door, sticking out her head.

Her cousin beamed at her, hands still raised, swaying back and forth on the balls of his feet with vaguely irritating energy.

“Your sister gave birth just now, you know. At most two hours ago. Shouldn’t you be… seeing the baby? Or whatever else uncles do?”

“Babies are boring. You are far more interesting. And it's not like she’d ever allow me near him. Even Luke and Jace have been sent away from her quarters for now. Apparently the high and mighty Heir to the Iron Throne needs to rest.”

Oh I wonder why? She felt indignation spike gently within her.

“ Have you ever seen a woman give birth, Aegon?”

Aegon wrinkled his nose in distaste. “What kind of weird fucking question is that ? Ew, Val! Obviously not!”

“But you’ve seen the aftermath? You must’ve been around to see Aemond after he was born.”

Aegon was staring at her as though she had gone manic. “Of course I was. He looked like a crushed plum. Bawling like anything. My mother tried to get me to hold him, and he puked up all over my shirt, the little twit.”

“So you remember how exhausted your mother was, too?”

“….yes?”

“Then there’s your answer. Princess Rhaenyra just pushed a child out of her body and was forced to walk right afterwards. Stop being fatuous. Be nice to your sister.”

“What are you even saying, half the time? Fatuous? What does that even mean?”

“It’s you. Why are you here again?”

“Ah, right.” He drew himself up to his full height, squaring back his shoulders to look her full in the eyes. Through the streaming midday light of the Palladian windows, his aristocratic Targaryen features were thrown into high relief, hair bright and curling against the carefully stitched black lining of his soft, sturdy tunic. It was times like this she was reminded of her cousin's position, reminded that underneath all his fizzing energy and wilful ignorance, he was a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, son to King Viserys himself, taught in manners of decorum and responsibility from a young age. He looked almost regal in the sunlight. 

“Come to the dragon pit with me?”

She closed her door in his face. 

“Val!” A series of sharp knocks rapped against the doorframe. “ C’mon!”

“No way.”

“Why not?”  He whined, “everyone’s going! Aemond’s coming, and he doesn't even have a dragon!”

“Is the fact that Aemond’s coming supposed to make me want to go more ?”

“Ugh. Fine. I wasn't going to do this. It was my name day last week -“ 

“I didn’t know , how many times must we have this conversation -“ 

“- and I’m invoking my name day card.”

“…..”

The door creaked back open, Valaeys leaning her shoulder on the frame to look at her cousin quizzically. 

“…..your name day card ?”

“My name day card. You said you’d get me something I wanted. This is what I want. I want you to meet him.”

“…You can be irritatingly manipulative when you try to be. You know that?”

“Save the compliments for later, dear cousin, or we shall be late.” He clasped both hands on her shoulder, steering her out of her room and down the hall.

“I never said I’d do it! Aegon —!”

.

The doors of the Dragonpit were magnificent things, hulking stretches of bronze and iron belted to thick stone, wide enough for thirty knights at least to ride through side by side on horseback. They loomed like titans over the small group of children crowded below it, making them seem even smaller as Aegon and Valaeys approached.

“Why stone?” She wondered aloud, looking up at the massive structure, heavy and impractical. Aegon looked up at the doors as well, and back to her before replying, “It wouldn't be smart to make a structure to hold dragons out of wood. The whole thing would go up like timber before days end.”

Ah. She tried, half heartedly, to push that image out of her mind as quickly as it entered, focusing instead on the three boys they were nearing. 

Jacerys and Lucerys Velaryon sat side by side on the green grass, chatting merrily away with each other, smiles wide and childish. As Valaeys watched, Jace lifted his hand to gently ruffle his brother's thick, curled brown hair, giggling as Luke squealed and batted his hand back. Both were turned pointedly away from where Aemond stood awkwardly to the side, worrying at a patch of moss on the ground with the point of his shoe. Aegon let out a sharp whistle, and their heads jolted upwards, flicking from him to Valaeys, Aemond snapping his head back down toward the moss when Valaeys attempted to shoot a friendly wave his way. No changes there, she thought to herself, lifting her hand to smooth down her braided hair in an attempt to play it off.

“What is she doing here?” The childish voice of Lucerys Velaryon piped up, craning back his head to get a better look at her. He was ridiculously short. She had to bend her head almost directly to the collar to meet his eye line. “Um. Not that you’re not welcome! But you don’t really have a…” he trailed off, eyes trailing to a significantly tenser Aemond, before promptly clamping his mouth shut. 

Through gritted teeth, she leaned back towards her cousin. “Yes, Aegon, what am I doing here?”

“She’s meeting a friend.” He remarked, smiling excitedly, slinging an arm over her shoulders. How badly, she wondered, looking at him, could she be punished for punching him in the ribs? There were no witnesses save for three young boys. Arguably, they were three young princes, and their word would hold infinitely more weight then her own. Then again, she was pretty confident Aemond would find it far more funny than insulting, given the way he was currently scowling at Aegon as though he had spilt ink over his boots. It was a tempting thought nonetheless, and one she amused herself with as the small group passed through the doorway.

.

The inside of the Dragonpit was far colder than she had assumed it would be, dark and vast, curved into an oval with a domed roof that reminded her oddly of the shell of a robin’s egg. Blue sky pricking through the stone to filter in faint trickles of daylight, just enough that she didn't have to squint to see the other end of the building. 

“ Nyke jaelagon naejot ūndegon Sunfyre !” Her cousin called in a thick Valyrian accent, his voice echoing around the room as the dragon keepers dipped quickly down into a chasm in the ground, faint pinpricks of light glowing orange on the stone walls to show just how deep the cave went. 

Oh, she didn't like this. She didn't like this at all. Her hand reached up to tug at the end of her braid, twisting the curls this way and that. As if sensing her apprehension, Aegon stepped closer to her side, bending to her ear, “Nothing’s even happened yet. How are you already scared?”

I’m not scared, she thought to herself, eyes trained firmly onto that orange gap, where something had begun to shift gently, catching at the glow of the firelight. She felt suddenly, very acutely, the weight of her clothes on her back, the feel of her feet on the ground, the scent of sulphur thickening in the air. I’m just not suicidal. 

Creeping up from the gaping maw of the pit crawled a dragon, long, muscled and bristling. It’s scales were a burnished gold, gleaming across its large torso like thick golden rings. The delicate webbing of its wings shone the colour of a burning hearth, with brilliant green eyes that seemed almost to glow in its head, flickering skittishly across the group. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. 

For a moment, the beast stood still, large head tilted to the side, watching the faces of the young children with an unsettlingly still curiosity, before lurching full-bodied, quickly forward towards Aegon.

“Kelītīs, Sunfyre!”

It jerked to a stop, tilting its head quizzically. Her cousin was calm as he walked towards him, no hesitation in his stride, reaching out to gently stroke the creature's muzzle and murmur something to him, a warm smile lighting up his pale face. She felt she could almost taste her heartbeat in the back of her throat.

“Val. Come here?”

Flicking pale green eyes had fixed on her face as his rider had turned towards her, a rippling beast carved from the firelight. 

“Uh-uh. No. No way.” She twisted to leave, but Aegon caught up her arm, pulling her close to his side. Behind them, Aemond let out a snort of derision behind the back of his hand.

“It’s ok. I promise . I swear to you.” His face was open, honest in his excitement, as he moved her forwards, one hand wrapped firmly in her own, lifting her hand up in front of her. “ Sunfyre, bisa iksos valaeys. Sagon sȳz naejot zȳhon. Ziry’s sȳz. ”

“Aegon, I really don’t think —“

“Trust me.”

Oh , foul play. She reluctantly loosened her arm, trying, distractedly, to focus on the heat of her friend's palm against the back of her hand, as Sunfyre moved his large snout further in curiosity. 

Her voice was almost embarrassingly high when she whispered, “You know humans have adrenaline responses exactly for situations like this? I read about it in the library. It’s called hyperarousal. It means we’re supposed to run in the opposite direction. ”

“Sounds dirty. And also impractical.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. 

Under her breath, “could you not be so crass for five fucking minutes?”

“I’d argue you started it. Calm down, Val. They say dragons can sense fear.” 

Ah, yes, because that would definitely lower her heart rate.

Warm scales pressed gently on the smooth palm of her hand, as she let out an unglamorous choking noise, free hand digging into her hip to ground herself. Sunfyre was a young dragon, but sprouting on the tail end of adolescence, double her size in the torso alone, without even accounting the long sweep of those orange wings. He stayed there, hunched over slightly, still and calm as he watched the two humans running a linked hand over his muzzle.

“Say hello,” Aegon said, though whether it was directed to her or Sunfyre she wouldn't quite say. 

“Oh,’ she whispered, “Hello. Aren't you….nice.”

The scales were delicate, hard to the touch but easy to glide fingers across, like trailing a finger hand up the soft underbelly of a snake.

‘He’s so warm,” she whispered, scared to break the scene. Air snorted gently from Sunfyre’s nose, washing over her in hot brushes. “I’ve never touched one before. He’s … smoother, than I thought he would be.”

‘Not even Caraxes?” Aegon murmured, resting his chin on her shoulder as he guided her hand further up his snout. She tried pointedly to avoid looking at the long white teeth peaking just over the edge of his lip. 

“ Gods no. I used to have nightmares that he would break into my bedroom and eat me in my bed when Islept. Used to spit fire when I got too close to him accidentally.” 

She felt more than she heard his laugh, air brushing against her shoulder. “Well I can't blame you for that, I suppose.”

And then her hand was moving off his snout, and Aegon shifted behind her, allowing her to move quickly back and away from the beast. 

The dragon turned, led carefully back into the crypt from which it came, and the world was oddly clear around the edges, her heart still thundering a mile a minute as she watched the last glints of the beast's scales flicker out into the darkness. 

“Told you he’d like you”, Aegon smiled, warm and open, hand still linked in hers. 

Behind the two of them, the three boys were watching the pair with abject curiosity as Sunfyre finally was placed back. Aemond looked as though he had swallowed something funny, though for what reason she couldn’t say. 

.

The next dragon was significantly smaller in stature than Sunfyre, and far less resplendent, its scales a soft litter of algae green and warm flushes of red rippling out of its young spine in spikes. A dragon keeper stepped forward, patting Jacaerys reassuringly on the back, pushing him closer. 

The beast scuttled forward towards the prince, its claws making an odd scratching clatter on the hard mud floor as it hissed at the group.

Unthinkingly, Valaeys stepped quickly back behind the first figure she could find, grabbing at their shoulder to stabilise herself.

“ Kelītīs, Vermax! ” Jacerys stuttered out, but Vermax didn't halt as Sunfyre had, creeping forward until the ropes wound carefully around his torso physically tugged him backwards, pulling him away from the group. 

Thick Valerian echoed across the room, a woman bending down beside Jacaerys to relay the message of the dragon keeper. 

“You must overmaster your dragon, my prince, as Prince Aegon has with Sunfyre. Once they are fully bound to you, they will refuse to take instruction from any other.”

In the foreground, Vermax let out a rattling screech, jaw opening to flash rows upon rows of angular teeth.

“ Gods that's creepy”, she murmured, heart in her throat. She was reminded sharply of Caraxes, the long lines of serrated yellow teeth that she had seen rip cruelly into the stomachs of still-bleating sheep on the mountainside, staining his red scales deeper as her father had watched on in barely concealed delight. 

Under her hand, the figure she had hidden behind shifted. Aemond had twisted sharply to look up at her, blue eyes wide in confusion, darting between her face and his shoulder with blatant discomfort. Her hand shot off him almost before her brain registered what she had done, stepping quickly back and away. “Sorry.” Kill me. Just kill me. What was the word for incineration in Valyrian again?

“Dracarys, Vermax!”

Ah. Yes. There we go. Flames rolled out from Vermax’s throat, and across the way, the gentle bleating of a ram tapered into a screeching wail, high and desperate as the flames licked up its dry wool, choking with the heat as Jacerys looked on in childish fascination, satisfied his dragon had heeded his command.

Valaeys looked down at the smoking pile of dead meat rapidly disappearing into the flexing gullet of the young dragon, and felt her stomach turn gently. 

“Aemond, we have a surprise for you.” Aegon stepped across her line of sight, patting a heavy hand on his younger brother's shoulder. Aemond’s gaze was critical, hard to read as he looked back at him.

“What is it?”

“Something very special!” Lucerys answered, turning to jog quickly across the room with a light smile on his face. 

“You’re the only one of us without a dragon.” This time, when she turned her head to look at Aemond, he was there to meet her gaze, the two looking at each other quizzically and back to Aegon.

“…indeed?”

They were pacing now, closing in on the open maw of the pit. Valaeys hung back slightly from the group in apprehension. “And we felt… badly, about it.” 

…you did? She thought but didn't say.

“So, we found one. For you!”

“You did?”  

“A dragon,” Aemonds voice was almost as incredulous as her own, “…how?”

How indeed? What in the seven hells was going on? It was odd for Aegon to be so.. nice to his brother, so openly, especially with such a grand gesture as this. How did he find a dragon?

“The Gods provide!”

From the darkness, a figure shifted once more. Valaeys braced herself, shifting back on the balls of her feet in preparation to step back and away from the beast sure to break free from the shadows. 

“Behold! The Pink Dread!”

Running up from the pit came Lucerys and a thick, stumbling sow, tugged along by a line of rope until it was pulled to a halt in front of Aemond. The pig snuffled, belching sticky saliva onto the ground in thick, translucent dribbles. Along its fat back, a pair of paper wings were lashed together, childish things sketched in a mimicry of webbed dragon wings.

Beside her, her younger cousin had gone very still, eyes fixed emotionlessly on the snorting creature as giggles erupted about him.

“Be sure to ride her carefully. First times always rough,” Aegon chortled, leaning forward to snort obnoxiously into his brother's ear. 

The laughs were louder now, as Jace and Luke joined in the snorting. She was aware, suddenly of just how cold the Dragonpit was, feeling the slight numbness of her fingers from where she had watched the scene play out, almost outside her body, frozen further back from the group. 

A weight dropped around her neck. Unnoticed by her, Aegon has sidled up, to place an arm back around her shoulders. 

“C’mon. Let’s go.” He murmured, and he wasn't smiling his true smile, he was smiling the smile she hated, a fake little smirk that curled ugly on the side of his thin mouth, as it always did right after he said something unthinkingly cruel. 

Her mind snapped back into place. She ducked away, twisting suddenly and almost violently against his hand.

“Get off me. Get off. ” He dropped his arm off her shoulders, looking at her quizzically. 

“Everything ok?”

“What the fuck was that, Aegon?”

He looked shocked. He looked shocked. What had he expected she would do. Had she thought she would laugh? 

“Calm down, Val. It’s funny .”

“ What about that was funny?” He must see something in the twist in her mouth, because his smirk dampened a little. His eyes flickered between her and the expectant figures of his nephews, and she watched as his grin turned faker still , stiff and straight at the edges.

“Take a joke, Valaeys. Gods.” He turned away, and his eyes had been searching, just for a second, before he turned to walk out of the door with Jacerys and Lucerys, giggles bouncing around the walls in their wake. She watched him go until the doors closed behind them, leaving her standing, quivering gently in the dark. 

That idiot.

  She felt the indignation fizzle up her arms, tensing her shoulders.  

She cared for Aegon. Obviously. He was her first ever friend, the first person she sought out in the morning, the person she felt most comfortable around of all her newly discovered family. She had been with him, almost every day these past two months . She knew he was a little crass at times, unintentionally cruel where he knew no better, his mouth moving before his brain had time to catch up. She knew he could be rude to his siblings, but she had seen the way he looked over at Aemond sometimes when his brother wasn't looking, eyes hesitant and searching. She had seen how he had shifted plates at the morning table, ensuring the warm pastries were within arms reach for Helaena, the sharp knives far away from Daeron’s soft, childish hands. In his own way, she could see he cared for them.

She had never seen him do something so intentionally, so deliberately cruel. This wasn't a thoughtless jab, she thought, thinking back to the paper wings painstakingly tied onto the sows back. This was orchestrated. They devoted time to this, him, Jace and Luke, to invalidate Aemond, make him feel lesser. 

Little lamb, her father used to sneer at her, mockingly, staring down at her teary face when she had run from Caraxes, feeling the fear crawling up her bones like ice at the sharp teeth, the callous slitted stare. He had known of the fear she felt towards his steed, and he had placed her in his path anyway, to what end she couldn't decide - to scare her? To see if she had the courage to approach a claimed dragon? To mock her in her weakened blood? Not good enough. Not pure enough to be his daughter. Never a true Targaryen, not to him. 

Because what was a Targaryen, without a dragon? She had always felt an odd satisfaction in her own lack of one - another thing to divide her away from that poisonous family, to prove that she would always be her mothers daughter, never dictated by her father’s blood. A Royce, not a Targaryen, no matter what her official title was, she had used to think to herself. 

But Aemond wasn’t proud. She knew, everyone knew, it was a sore spot to tap against, the cradle egg that had never hatched, never swelled up like Sunfyre. 

His face had been deliberately frozen, cold, emotionless, but she had seen the white knuckled clench of his hands against each other as he looked at the pig, the fixed way he refused to look anyone in the eye as they laughed at him, mocking him for his failure . She had looked at him, the stiff defeated hunch of his shoulders, reminded of a small girl on the mountainside, bearing the tide of her father’s deliberate belittlements over her shoulders, wishing for her mother all the while.

Aemond. She twisted her head from the door, seeking out her little cousin against the long dark shadows of the room. It didn't matter that he didn't like her. She wouldn't let him be alone after that , prince or no. She knew how empty it could feel.

“…Aemond?”

She stepped hesitantly into the centre of the room, squinting out at the long rows of seats. The sun had brightened, rolling from behind the clouds to shine firmer through the ceiling windows, speckling the room in odd flashes of blue stained light, revealing the true, empty, stretching size of the space she was standing in, alone. 

Because she was alone, she realised, save for the pig still snuffling around the ground. Aemond was no longer in the room with her. 

But he couldn't have left, a voice whispered in the back of her head, there’s only one exit. And she had been watching it, watching as Aegon and his nephews passed through it, laughing as the loud, creaking stone clamped heavily behind them. And if he hadn’t left through the door…

The deep, open dragon tunnel lay dark and empty before her, dipping into the ground mere metres from where she had seen his small form last. 

Shit. 

“Shit.” 

She passed the floor in quick steps, peaking cautiously over the rim of the pit. The tunnel shifted down, a flute of stone poorly lit by the lantern light. She couldn’t see him from here, but she knew, in her bones, there was no other possible option. She couldn’t see much of anything, really, but she could hear the rattling chitters of dragons, snarls and growls of various cadence trickling up to meet her from the black cavern. Rows and rows of the creatures were probably down there, hunched right by the lip of the cave, waiting, and fear clutched at her, pushing her feet back and away, slowly from the opening, away from the danger. 

But Aemond is down there too, her brain supplied haltingly, thinking of the bowed line of his shoulders, his young face, how small he was, really, her little cousin, and all at once the realisation of what could happen to him calcified like stone in her brain. 

“ Shit.” 

Don’t think about it . Don’t even think about it. 

She bolted into the dragonpit after him. 

Chapter Text

Aemond

The stone dragged cold and jagged over his hands as he felt his way across the walls of the dragonpit. With every step, the sound of the laughter faded further and further away, until they were simply faint echoes reverberating mockingly through the tunnel after him. 

All of them, laughing at him.

How dare they. How dare they. 

What right did they have, any of them, to laugh at him? Him, legitimate son to the King of Westeros, to Queen Alicent Hightower, when they were snivelling bastards, bred from deceit and broken oaths? What kind of a queen would his sister be, if she couldn’t keep the most important oath of them all? She didn't even try to hide it, walking through life without a speck of shame at what she had done, and was continuing to do, blatantly in front of the entire court. Did she understand the consequences of her actions? Did she even care ? She was forever sheltered under the wing of a father who would tear democracy and law apart to cater to her depravity, doting thoughtlessly on the only child he would ever care for, letting her bastards mill unworried and unpunished around the Keep. And now, they thought they had the right to laugh at him. To mock him, for his unworthiness, as if they weren’t imposters in their own names, one slip up from having their fragile little titles tugged away from them forever.

And then there was Aegon. His brother. His blood, the boy who should have been first to defend him against all ills, and yet there he was perpetrating it all, all for some brief spark of admiration from those bastard boys. He didn’t even care. If it had been a deliberate, harshly executed plan, at least he would have known his brother cared enough about him to hurt him properly, but like everything else Aegon did, it was always half hearted, always careless, just enough effort to show his dismissal of him. 

The Pink Dread. He tasted blood in his mouth as he continued on down the dark passageway.

Had she been laughing too? She probably had been. Perhaps she had been in on it, egging on Aegon all the while. He wouldn’t be surprised. It was almost laughably pathetic, how attached they were to one another, the lengths his idiot of a brother would go to to impress her. And he would be the battering ram, which Aegon would use at his leisure to gain his short lived admiration from the crowds. Always the fucking whipping dog. 

I’ll do it, he thought to himself, tracking thoughtlessly across the warm rock, deaf to the chitters and growls of dragons shifting restlessly in their caverns, I’ll claim one. Then none of you will be able to laugh at me. 

The air was warmer now, the rock heating under his palm the further he moved into the dark space, warmed by dragon breath and body heat, smelling of ash and sulphur. To his side, hidden within pockets of space within the stone, eyes glinted, just visible in the firelight from the odd torches. 

He paid no attention to them, moving thoughtlessly forward, before his feet brought him sharply to a halt. 

Curling in the shadows of the cavern in front of him, barely visible to the naked eye, blue eyes fixed directly on his face, stood Dreamfyre. As he watched, a scaled lip drew back over sharp white teeth, a loud hiss emitting from the dragon's strong jaw as light lit up the cave, her mouth gaping over the rolling flames trickling up from her throat. Move. Turn and go. But his feet were rooted to the floor as he stared at his sister's dragon, beautiful and dreadful, fire and dread and power shackled into one awful being as the cave turned brighter and brighter around him. 

Something clamped like steel onto his wrist, and he felt his stomach promptly drop below his knees. 

Out of the darkness, a freckled hand was grabbing at him. He whirled to meet the wide eyed, panicked gaze of Valaeys Targaryen, just as Dreamfyre let out a shuddering, scraping shriek, the long line of her scaled throat burning up bright blue with phosphorescent flame as she reered her open maw towards the pair, quicksilver speed only hindered by her sheer size, bumping against the rock wall and slowing her jaws. Scrambling backwards, his shoulder knocked hard and fast into his cousin's ribs, and down they tumbled, a flurry of pale adolescent limbs cursing and scrabbling in the dirt, before Valaeys shot stumbling to her feet, hand still holding white knuckled onto his wrist.

“ Shit, shit, shit”, he heard her chanting manically under her breath, and then she was tugging at him, up, up, up, his feet tripping over each other as she dragged him, full pelt, up and out of the cavern by the hand, racing back through the cold corridor of stone, past tunnels where other beasts growled and wailed, up the titled throat of the cave and further, not stopping as they sprinted across the wide stretch of the arena floor. One handed, she grappled for the heavy stone doors, and pried them open frantically, slipping through the gap as they spilled, flushed and panting, into the sunlight. 

He could taste blood in his mouth again, black spots dancing gently in the corner of his vision as he swayed on unsteady feet, blinking dazedly into the harsh light. His wrist ached, and only as he looked down did he realise it was still clutched in his cousin's grip. 

Valaeys was folded by the waist, her free hand propped up on her knee as she looked at him, panting. Her skin was pink with exertion, vital and flushed patchily over her face, her hair tumbling in unglamorous twists over her eyes as she scanned over him, eyes so wide he could see the white of her eye all the way around her soft brown pupil, looking more like a mad peasant woman then the Lady she was titled to be.

He waited, for a moment, as his breathing calmed, for her stuttered apology, for her to yank away her hand and leave him be like the rest of them.

Instead, she swung herself to her full height, closing the space between them in two quick strides and grabbing him, hard, by his shoulders. What the - 

“ What the fuck was that?!” She yelled, shrill enough he felt himself jump to attention. 

His mouth opened and closed, just for a moment, before his brain caught up to the situation at hand. 

“You can't talk to me like that. You know you can't!” 

“I’ll talk to you however I like, actually .” Two high pink spots flushed the tops of her cheeks, her eyes bright with fury as she looked at him, “ Why would you do that? Do you have any idea how inendily stupid that was? You could’ve been eaten ! What were you even doing ?!”

“I was trying to claim one!”

Shock ran across her face, replaced quickly with exasperation. “You were trying to do that then? With no one around to see you? To know where you were? Gods -“

She hadn’t known what he was doing, he realised, watching her hands shakily pull at the end of her braid. She just ran after him without thinking.

“ It was stupid of you to come after me.” 

“Stupid of me?” He winced slightly with the pitch of her indignation, before a swell of defensiveness kicked over his mind. 

“ Yes, stupid of you! Why are you even here?” Perhaps , a small part of his brain whispered, he should not be talking like this to a lady. Rude or no, he was a prince, and decorum was imparted onto him by his mother at every given moment. He remembered, fleetingly, his mother’s words to him before her arrival, reminding him of his duty to be kind to his unknown cousin, an assumedly shy and delicate Lady of the Vale, to make sure she felt welcomed and comfortable within the court, accommodated for what was to come.

He looked at his cousin, a ruffled, boyish, angular figure, streaked with dirt from the fall, bright with fury and adrenaline, scowling down at him, and allowed the words to flow freely from his mouth. 

“You’re just like the rest of them! Just leave me alone!”

“I was leaving you alone! Because you wanted me to! But I wasn’t going to let you- ” 

“I’m surprised you weren’t in on it, you and him are so fused together! Shouldn’t you be with Aegon? ” 

Always Aegon. He rarely saw her without him, these days, apart from the hours she spent with his sister in the privacy of her room. It used to be that Aegon would disappear for hours on end, returning drunk and dazed to be scolded by their mother, before disappearing yet again into his room, lazy and unmotivated by wine and boredom. Now you could barely turn your head to see them together, Valaeys and Aegon, Aegon and Valaeys, always dragging each other into some game or another, laughing over private jokes uncaring of the court's eyes on the backs of their heads, pathetically caught up in each other’s company. He didn't care. It didn’t matter. He just couldn't understand what she saw in him, why she would willingly spend time with him, his relentlessly bored, unmotivated, disrespectful brother. Did she think he cared about her? Aegon didn't care about anything. 

“Your brother’s being a twat.” Her bluntness threw him, just for a moment. She couldn't just say things like that, Lady or no. Regardless of his rude nature, Aegon was still a prince, first son to the king. People had been thrown from the court for commenting less, and yet here she was, telling his brother straight to his face. He had never heard anyone insult Aegon so matter of factly. “Well. More than usual, anyway. And you did run into the dragon pit. Not the wisest decision, especially when you're angry. Anything could have happened.”

“I could have done it!” He felt the need to argue, feeling the shame prick up his neck once again. He could have. He could claim one. He would.

“ Obviously! But not there! And I’d like to keep all my cousins alive, if that doesn't offend you, Prince Aemond.”

Unwillingly, he felt the blush of embarrassment spread onto his face.“You’re being over dramatic. It’s not even the first time I’ve done it!”

“Not the -“

He watched, slightly stunned, as his cousin ran her hands quickly across her face, fingertips worrying into her temples, breathing long and deep as she turned away from him, tilting her head back to stare incredulously at the sky. 

“ Not the first time?! How many times have you done that, Aemond?! ”

Prince Aemond , his mind supplied unhelpfully. “At least four times? Five?” 

She made an odd choking noise in the back of her throat, her eyes widening as she looked down at him. He felt his skin prickle uncomfortably under her stare. 

“Oh Gods,” her voice was calmer, quieter, “you’re all insane.” She giggled slightly, caught the noise with the back of her hand, and then all of a sudden she was laughing, bent down at the waist with the force of it, loud and gasping at the ground below her feet.

What the fuck is going on? “Are you…?”

“Oh I’m fine! I’m so fine, really, I just - Gods, I just-“ she reached her hands up, burying her face in them, and sat, slumped on the grass. 

And then smaller, so quiet he almost didn’t hear it, “I want to go home . You people are - you’re all so -” her hand made an odd waving motion towards their surroundings. “‘Early grave’. My guardian used to say I would send him into one because I used to climb hills I shouldn’t have. But you - you just ran into a  - and you’ve done it before - “

He stood there, wavering, looking down on the pale crumpled figure of his cousin. Was he supposed to say something? He wasn't sure how to reply to the confusing scramble of words. 

Not quite knowing what he was doing, he lowered himself onto the green next to her. A bolt of pain shot up his arm, and he stifled a hiss as he went to sit. It wasn't enough - he saw her head lift, focus on him once again. 

“You scraped your hand,” she murmured, face softening in concern, reaching out an arm to touch at his wrist. It was almost as though she had spoken it into reality: he felt suddenly, acutely, the warm sting of his palm where he must have caught himself on the ground during their fall, red and sprinkled with ash, ignored in the rush that had followed. She had black ink smeared softly across her hands that he hadn’t noticed previously, and he knew, for no discernible reason, that he couldn't let her touch him at that moment. That it would be too much. He sat himself three steps back from her for good measure, heart still racing in his chest as she looked at him quizzically. 

“I’m ok.” 

He knew and she knew he wasn't talking about his hand.

“Bullshit. And you know it. You have every right to be upset right now.”

He felt the traitorous first signs of irritated tears building up behind his eyes, so he turned himself away from her, stiff, blinking them away determinedly. “Well I’m fine . I’m used to it. So you can stop worrying.”

After a pause, he heard her move on the grass, crouching up to close the distance. She shifted slightly, scooting over the rock face to bump his shoulder with her own. 

“Dragons aren't everything, you know. They’re creepy. And they stink, most of the time. At least you and I don’t ever smell like Aegon when he gets off Sunfyre.” She gave a pretend shudder at the thought. 

Aemond felt his mouth twitch involuntarily.

“You won't get very far in this family without one.” He remarked.

“No,” she agreed, looking out at the bay. “I used to like that idea, honestly.”

“…But now?”

“I don't know,” she admits, and the confession seems to weigh down on her, drooping her shoulders as her eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. For a while, she simply sat in the confession, watching the clouds ripple, grey and flimsy ghosts across the sky. “I’ve never thought about it properly, to be honest. I always just thought it would never happen. I used to think I was so different from you people.”

You are different, he thought but didn't say. She was. He had known it since that very first moment, when she stepped across him and Helaena in the garden, ruffled and awkward amongst the flowers. She stuck out despite her efforts, a bright patch in the corner of the room that drew the eye involuntarily, always just a shade out of place, tensed like a panicked animal backed into a trap. Never quite at ease in her surroundings, cautious of the multitudes of people surrounding her. Not one of them, not really. Maybe that’s why Aegon likes her. Because she doesn’t belong here.

“But I think I may have more in common with some of you than I like to admit, sometimes.” She looked at him, pointedly. 

“…we’re not alike simply because our eggs both calcified.”

“Yours.”

“What?”

“Your egg calcified, My Prince. My father never gave me one.”

… what? “Forgive me. I assumed…”

“It’s ok. I think most people do.” She drew her knees to her chest, lent her chin down on them. 

“May I ask why?” It didn't seem right. As first daughter to Prince Daemon, she was entitled to an egg, just as he and all his siblings had been, as children to Viserys. To suggest otherwise would be to discredit Targaryen traditions spanning back years and years, traditions built on blood and duty, and obligation. 

“Can't say. I assume it must have been to do with my lineage.”

“Your lineage?”

Her shoulders swivelled back, head turning back on the landscape. For a brief moment, he was filled with an overwhelming urge to grab her face and turn it back, to stop her eyes shifting off him. Stop looking away from me. “I wasn't pure enough for him. ‘Mixed blood holds no fire’, and all that.”

“But you have as much Targaryen blood as we do.” In the same way his mother harboured no Targaryen blood, neither had his cousins, but in the grand scheme of things, it didn't truly matter in the end. Despite the rumours of Prince Daemons dismissals, Rhea Royce had been a fair choice for a wife, a direct descendant of the first men, politically astute and heiress of Runestone to boot. Even if she hadn’t been Targaryen, she was a strong match. Regardless, Valaeys undoubtedly held legitimate Valyrian blood from her looks alone. Nothing like Jacerys and Lucerys Velaryon, with their brown curled hair and milky skin, so different from Laenor’s. 

“Then perhaps it was simply just that he didn't like me. I was a monument to his failures in life. He had never meant for me to exist, and he never wanted me once I did.” And then after a pause, “I don't know for sure though, if that’s why. Never really cared enough to check.”

For a moment the face of Viserys Targaryen flashed into Aemonds mind, drawn and sickly, a disappointed grimace playing over his dry, unhappy mouth. Nothing like the soft smiles he gave Rhaenyra and her children. He had never looked at Aemond that way, with unconditional love clear across every feature. He never looked at him much in the first place. 

“I can tell you one thing I do know, though.”

“What?”

She turned herself fully to look at him, and Aemond knew he was holding her gaze for too long. He didn't look away. 

“You’ll get one. Some day.” Soft brown eyes evaluated him critically, “You’ve got the drive for it. I can see it in you.”

A freckled hand was offered, for the third time today, smudged in ink and freckles, warm and open fingers reaching towards him. A hand that had pulled him from the dark, and shook him by his shoulders, left warm marks on his still burning wrist.

His own pale fingers reached, hesitantly, to slide between hers. For a moment they stared at the space between them, where their hands interlocked, the first time she had ever intentionally touched him, without fear or adrenaline tingeing her motivations. And then she was tugging, gently this time, carefully, none of the frantic energy of the cave, and he let his feet roll him forward, allowing her to pull him up off the ground. 

She has warm hands , he let himself think, and then immediately felt his mind cringe away from the thought, releasing her quickly with a cough and a step backwards. 

Her face was awkward now, apologetic. “And I-. Ah. I’m… sorry for swearing at you. I got a bit carried away. I can understand if you're offended-“

“It’s ok.”

“It’s - what?”

“It’s ok. I… think I needed it, honestly.”

“Oh. Ok.”

“…Ok.” 

“…well then. I should probably get going. I was going to write a letter -“

“Of course. Good day, My Lady.” The thank you hung between them, a bloated thing, sticking uncomfortably to the top of his mouth without letting itself be pushed out.

She attempted half a stiff bow before seeming to think better of it, straightening up to nod at him. “Good day, Prince Aemond.”

She turned to leave, ambling carefully down the long stretch of green back towards the Keep. From the back, he could see the full chaos of her pulled out braid, streaked with dirt, the soft hair curling gently around her ears, and he felt the bubble in his throat dislodge, disappear, making way for something larger.

“You do too, you know, Lady Valaeys,” he blurted, too loud, impulsively, wincing as she turned confusedly to look back at him. His ears felt uncomfortably hot under his hair.

“I do what?”

“You have the drive. For one. A dragon, I mean.” He was getting steadily more mortified by the second by the tumbling way his words kept forming. “You’re as much of a Targaryen as any of us.”

A smile twitched up then, gently, on the corner of his cousin's mouth. It shifted the freckles on her cheek, softer than her usual white toothed grin. It didn't look awful on her, he thought, and the realisation pinched gently at the edges of his mind, shifting and slotting uncomfortably within the space of his understanding of the world. The sky was clouded, his scratched hand was stinging, and Valaeys Targaryen had a nice smile. What an odd world it was.

“What an awful thing to say, My Prince.”

She left him there with that smile, standing on the grass beside the looming dragonpit. The air was cold, but he didn't move to leave for a good long while, watching quietly as the clouds turned pink and flimsy through the evening sky. 

-

Valaeys

He was waiting for her, by her door, as she had known he would be. When she rounded the corner, he jolted upwards from his spot on the floor, scrabbling to his feet to meet her. 

“Go away .”

She moved past his form to reach her door, aiming to slam it closed in his face. She didn't have the energy in her to confront him now, heart still racing from what had happened not twenty minutes earlier, but as she went to close the door, he ducked quickly under her arm, slipping into the room with her. 

“Look I know you said -“

“It’s not polite to be alone with a lady in her quarters, you know.”

“You barely count as a lady,” he shot back, offering up a tentative half smile. 

She crossed her arms, face blank.

“Val. Come on.”

“I’m mad at you, Aegon.”

“I could never have guessed.”

“I’m serious, Aegon. I want you to leave. I don't want to talk to you right now.”

“Why are you so wound up about this? We were just having a laugh, Val!”

“He’s just a kid, Aegon! And your brother! He didn't deserve that, and you know it too, even if you won't admit it. Was it just to prove something to Jace and Luke? They like you anyway! They wouldn’t find it funny if you didn't! You don't need to be an ass to get people to like you! I like you when you're just you! ”

“I thought you said you were mad at me?”

“I can be mad at people I care about! Especially when they do childish, cruel and unfeeling things like that! You made it into some sick joke everyone was in on except him. Why, Aegon?”

He was looking at her incredulously now, that familiar wrinkle forming above his eyebrows. She wanted to flick her fingers between it. She wanted to hit it, full force in his unsuspecting face. “Are - are you seriously mad at me? Val, it was a joke. It’s funny! ”

“Am I a joke to you, too?”

“What?” His hand was reaching for hers, eyes wide. She shook him off. 

“You mocked him, because he didn't have a dragon. Are you going to mock me, too? Do you think i'm worth less than you because of it?”

“No! Of course not - you said you didn't want one! You always say that! Today was the first time you even went near the pit!”

“It’s not what this is about , Aegon! It wasn't about him not having a dragon, and you know it. Laena Velaryon didn’t claim Vhagar until she was fifteen! It was about you, and Jacerys, and Lucerys making sure he knew that you all think less of him, because he doesn’t have one. He is your brother! ”

“He’s a twat!” He replied indignantly. 

“You have that in common then! Except when you act out, you make it your mission to hurt everyone around you just to prove a point! I like you, Aegon, I do. But you can be a royal fucking cunt sometimes.” 

He gaped at her disbelievingly. “I could tell my father you said that, you know.”

“Do it. See if I care. See if he does, for that matter.” Bad idea. Really bad idea. Stop talking. Saying something as bold as that could have severe consequences, and she’d just done it to the Prince’s face. God knows what he could do to her, if he chose to take her up on her bluff.

He reevaluated her for a brief moment, shoulders slumping in defeat as he sighed, and stepped closer. “I wouldn't tell him. Of course I wouldn't. You know I wouldn't do that to you.” 

“I'm not sure I do know that, after what you’ve just done, Aegon.” She regretted it almost immediately, watching the hurt flicker over his face. 

“Well, I wouldn't. Look I’m - I’m sorry I hurt you. I never meant to. Let me make it up to you? Please? I was being stupid, I’m always stupid -”

“I dont think you’re stupid , Aegon. But you do stupid things, sometimes, and I don’t understand why . It would be so easy for you not to. I know you can be better than that.” Or she thought she did, anyway. 

Pale hands reached out to take hold of her shoulders. This time, she didn't shake him off. “Then you’ll let me make it up to you?”

“To Aemond.”

“…What?”

“Make up with Aemond. That’s what I want. My feelings don’t matter right now, Aegon, because you didn't mean to hurt me. You did mean to hurt him. I want you to apologise for it.”

Aegon looked like he would prefer jumping off Sunfyre’s back mid-air, face twisted in distaste. “…fine. I will.”

“I mean it, Aegon.”

“So do I!” He replied, slightly indignant, “I wouldn't lie to you!”

Wouldn't he? It had been only two months she had known him. Did she know him well enough to know he wouldn't lie to her? It was almost embarrassing to admit to herself he was the closest friend she had ever had, by a long way. 

He said he didn’t mean to hurt her. She trusted him with that. “…I believe you.”

They stood there looking at each other, two pale children wavering in the stiff cool air of her uncomfortable room. On her bed, the crumpled letters she had given up writing caught her eye. She’d been in here less than an hour ago. It felt like hours. 

“Val?”

“Hmm?”

“Are - are we still friends?”

Hesitancy was written all over his face. She was reminded somewhat of a scolded child she had seen in one of her visits to Gulltown, face scrunched up in upset as his mother yelled at him. She felt herself soften, just slightly.

“Of course we’re still friends, idiot. But not if you keep doing stuff like that.”

A breath of relief puffed out of Aegon, as he offered her yet another tentative grin. “You only asked me to make up with him. But will you allow me to make it up to you, too?”

“You’ll do that by apologising to him.”

“But I'm already going to do that. Let me make it up to you . We can go out somewhere together, tomorrow!” His face was lit up with excitement.

“What do you mean by ‘going out’? I'm not riding Sunfyre -“

“Something you’d enjoy . Probably, anyway. It’s a surprise. You'll come?”

Knowing Aegon, this was probably a very, very foolish idea. “ If you make up with Aemond. Properly . Then… I’ll consider it.” 

It was as good a yes as they both knew he would get from her. 

Chapter Text

Valaeys

It had been a very odd day. A very odd day. 

First thing that morning, Valaeys had woken up fresh faced and cheerful in the cold air of her bedroom. She had had a simple breakfast in the quiet of her room, watching the birds flutter past the window in the golden morning sun, and with Gaius accompanying her, the two had had a pleasant walk around the garden, recounting stories of Runestone to stave off their homesickness, before heading to the training yard to watch the young princes duel. 

The tone had been strange the moment she had stepped into the courtyard, failing to make eye contact with a tensed Aegon from the line in which he stood with his brother and nephews. Her gaze had slid, unbidden, to where Aemond stood close beside him, his arm almost touching his brothers. They’ve made up then, she thought hopefully, watching as her little cousin lifted a hand hesitantly to greet her which she had returned with (probably far too much) enthusiasm, matching his hesitant smile with a wide grin that had him ducking his head sharply away, as Ser Criston stepped onto the grounds and began the boys training. 

It was here where things had started to become odd.

Number one: Aegon was being more irritable that morning than usual. Far more. He had shoved Jacerys, sent him tumbling down onto the ground to scrap his young palms during the match, tossing training dummies in his path and swinging his sword with ferocious vigour and unfair strength. She caught Aemond’s eyes with her own as they watched the exchange, jutting her chin towards Aegon questioningly. The lift of his shoulders confirmed he knew as little the cause of his brother's mood as she did. 

Number two: Distracted by Aemond, seemingly out of nowhere, she had turned her head to find Ser Harwin and Ser Criston Cole brawling on the ground, Ser Harwin flushed near puce with rage and screaming before he was pulled away.

Number three: Upon quickly leaving behind that mess in the courtyard, she had been unable to find Aegon in any of his usual areas.

Number four: When serving cups during the small council meeting later that day, she had overheard a marriage pact proposed by Rhaenyra between Helaena and Jace , which had caused her to nearly drop the jug of wine she had been pouring, heart racing, before the proposal was neatly shot down by Queen Alicent. 

Number five: Upon walking back to the safe normality and quiet of her room in the wake of the oddest council meeting she had yet to witness, she had collapsed on her bed, attempting once again to write to Gerold, only for Onera, her handmaiden, to hustle in, informing her brightly that Ser Harwin had been expelled from the city watch. For the crime of punching a man. In a training yard!

And yet none of it seemed to compare to the sheer sight of herself in the mirror, dressed in a young maid’s clothes and cap to tuck away her stubborn hair. Staring at her reflection in the mirror, Valaeys twisted and turned, evaluating herself. Where did Aegon even get this?  

Tucked under the bundle of clothing that'd been laid surreptitiously on her bedspread had lain a small slip of white parchment, depicting a childish map of Aegon’s and his sibling’s bedroom wing, and the heavily underlined passageway hidden behind a portrait. Tonight, by the Quill Maesters portrait. Wear the disguise . And then below it, a small ink doodle of a dragon. He hadn’t talked to her since yesterday’s apology. She turned it over in her hands before glancing furtively back at her mirror.

She really did look awful. The kirtle was unforgivingly stiff and frumpy, nothing like the warm practical weight of her own clothes, and the coarse green fabric brought out the pallid undertones of her complexion, sickly looking and pale.

She shouldn’t do this. It was a stupid idea to begin with. She’d go tell Aegon now that she was under absolutely no circumstances going to join him in whatever he was planning. She turned to the passageway indicated on the slip of parchment to do just that.

.

“Oh wow,” Aegon said delightedly, “you look awful!”

“I cannot believe I'm going to let you do this.”

“I mean you don't have to come.”

“No, I'm coming. But I’m not happy about it.”

“It’ll be fun! Don’t fuss, cousin.” Red wine swilled around as he took a swig from the bottle by his side, reaching to tuck his own long hair into a sensible, far less ugly looking cap. 

“Where are we even going ?”

“ Out.” With a flourish, he slid the heavy oil painting to the side, revealing the red wooden door slotted neatly behind it. “The servants use it all the time. Goes all the way out of the Keep.”

“And why would we be leaving the Keep?”

“Aren't you even a little curious?” He stepped into the passageway, lifting a hand to help her down through the opening. 

“I rode in through Flea Bottom to get here. It wasn’t exactly a thrilling experience.”

“It’s better at night.” Their footsteps clacked down the stairs as they descended through the dark. 

“You’ve done this before?” Her voice was laced with incredulity, as they zigzagged down passageways barely lit under the torchlight.

“ Obviously! I wouldn't take you if I knew it wasn't safe.”

“How many times?”

“ Enough.” She couldn't be sure if he was answering her, or cutting her off, as he took another swig of wine, pushing open a battered wooden door at the end of the corridor. 

. 

After night, Flea Bottom was completely transformed. Gone were the long, open streets her and Gaius had rode in through, gone were the almost solid crowds. The glow of the torches lit up bustling streets filled with the smell of firewood, pot-shop stew and ale, and generally unpleasant sewage, small stalls set out in the open roads lined with wares ranging from pots to scraps off cloth, to one stall lined head to toe in ragged fur pelts with glass eyes glinting in the firelight. 

It was fascinating, in an odd, tense way, she thought to herself. It was certainly interesting to see the ramshackle shops and stalls cluttering the streets that would be cleared by tomorrow morning. Like this, with her hair tucked away and her clothes blending into the crowd, eyes slid clean off her, where before they had stuck fast to the white curls of her hair. She had never felt so unseen before. It would have almost been enjoyable, looking around the streets, hearing trickles of singing falling from the taverns, save for one minor detail.

Something was wrong with Aegon. 

It hadn’t been a recent revelation, really. She had caught on to his odd mood the moment she had set eyes on him that morning in the courtyard.

It hadn’t been the obvious signs that pricked her attention - it was strange, yes, for Aegon to lash out against his nephews, pushing them just a little too hard, raising his voice just that little bit too loud, but Aegon was Aegon, with a mood as changeable and unpredictable as the wind. He had an air of morose swagger surrounding him even now as he stumbled down the cobbled servants lane trailing out of the Keep, uncomfortably artificial and forced, like a smile stretched a millimetre too wide. 

No - it wasn’t his anger that unsettled her, nor his forced cheer - she knew what that looked like on him, was familiar with how it settled on his shoulders, how she could drag him out of it.

He was being quiet. 

Oh he was trying to hide it, smiling and nodding, pointing out streets and shops as he swayed unsteadily, but it was excessive, everything played up just an inch too high, a fraction out of proportion. As she looked down in fascination at the stalls, he lingered to the side, drinking wine and staring dazedly into the torch flames lining the streets. 

“D’you want one?”

His head jolted up. “Hmm?”

Valaeys gestured to the bracelets lining the ramshackle table, rows of delicate threads with little charms looped onto them. “I was thinking of getting one for Helaena. Would you like one?” His nose wrinkled slightly as he looked at the stall. “I'm ok.” Another swig from the wine bottle.

She turned back, picking up a lilac band with a butterfly charm carefully threaded through and passing coins to the vendor. “Just this, please.” He smiled back at her with haggard cheeks, mouth full of blackened teeth, nodding silently in thanks. She had begun to turn away from the stall when something caught her eye. Sat away from the other bracelets lay a hoop of leather, so deep blue it was almost black, a thinly carved dragon wing set into the material. On a whim, she picked it up, and, brushing a thumb over the stonework, offered more coin to the vendor before tucking the two bands carefully in her pocket, following her cousin. 

.

“All hail!” A voice shouted out, further down the street from where Valaeys and Aegon stood. The hours had passed, and with them, the level of wine in Aegon’s bottle had diminished significantly, leaving him swaying and listing his shoulder into hers as she pulled him down the street to investigate the commotion.

Set up in the middle of the square stood an unsteady looking wooden stage, on which a man, dressed in squire attire, stood, chest puffing out towards the jeering crowd. As they watched, his arms swooped up in a grand flourish, gesturing to other figures prancing about the wood in stiff costumes. A play, she realised with delight, and then, with a jolt, noticed the mimicry of royal garments, the paltry white wigs atop their heads. 

“Let's jus- go, this is boring, it's all boring” Aegon murmured, tugging at her sleeve impatiently, but she shook him off, watching the scene unravel with unabashed interest. 

“All hail the Realms Delight!”

A woman in a white cap strutted confidently to the stage, a deep red dress cutting so far down her chest it might as well have opened around her navel. She sat herself in a chair set in the centre of the stage, grin wide on her face as she waved to the crowds.

“The one true queeen!” The squire chortled, and the audience cackled with him, as the actress was tossed squealing indignantly off the throne, stamping her feet sulking, to make way for a sauntering teen with a white blanket tied haphazardly around his head. 

“All hail Aegon!” He spoke in a forced nasal voice, posing one leg on the throne as the crowd shrieked in laughter. 

Are they allowed to do this? She thought to herself wonderingly, watching as the actors of her family pranced around stage. Surely if this got back to the palace, these people would be punished. Even implying something like this within the walls of the castle would be grounds for expulsion from its gates. ‘Aegon’ was posing regally on the throne now as actors milled squeaking around the stage. 

“They got your hair right,” she murmured, eyes trained on the actors, lifting an elbow to jab teasingly at his side. Her arm passed through the air as she turned to look at her cousin. 

The spot next to her was empty.

.

Shit . 

Valaeys twisted her head sharply around as she walked quickly away from the stage. She had broken away from the crowd almost immediately, realising it would be fruitless to try to trawl through the groups in the hopes of finding him. Falling back into an uncrowded street, Valaeys turned to stare over the milling heads, hoping to catch a glimpse of her cousin, but the light was dim here, and all the faces blurred into one dark crowd. 

Of course he would run off in the most inconvenient setting possible. She shouldn’t have expected anything less from him. She sent up a silent prayer to the gods that he hadn’t strayed far. She had looked away for less than a minute! He had been right there!

She thought back to the slight sway in his step, the dazed look in his eyes as the wine slowed his reactions, his white hair tucked under a cap to hide himself from the crowds. And now he was hidden from her too . 

Shit . Oh she was going to kill him when she found him.

Wait . Thirty feet or so down the street, back facing towards her, a tall, lanky, familiar looking figure bent into the door of a beaten down building. Picking up her pace, she nearly crashed into a young girl walking in the opposite direction. “Sorry -,“ she moved away, stepping into the building after him, crossing the room to grab quickly at his arm. “Don't run off like that, you -“ The figure turned around, a white bearded man staring down at her confusedly. 

“I - sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

He let out a gurled murmur, turning his head to join in the jeering crowd. Unthinkingly, she followed his gaze, resting on a small narrow dirt pit carved into the floor of the den, circled by drunkards, eyes pinned on the inhabitants of the ring. A thin, haggard looking boy and a short, stout girl with a square jaw set in grim determination stared at each other across the pitch. 

“Two copper’s on Toad!”

“Five on Twig!”

The sound of clinking coins and the thuds of ale ups against tables filled the room in a thumping chant. 

What’s going on? A bell rang within the crowd, and the two children were on one another in a flash of movement, rolling and kicking with ferocious swipes of their fists as the crowd leaned in. 

Twig (for she assumed the tall one was Twig) curled a thin arm as quick as a viper around the girl's head, pressing down hard on her throat as her legs kicked out behind her in the mud, scrabbling for balance. Next to her, a man let out a whoop, stamping his boots on the ground.

The girl darted out a long thin arm out from under his headlock, fist hitting into the side of his neck, leaving him spitting out saliva as he choked on air, young eyes widening with shock. Valaeys let out a stuttered breath of horror as she watched the children brawl.

“Terrible things, they are,” muttered an old woman in her ear, “terrible, terrible. Poor little doves. It's not their fault they were born into it.”

Below them, the girl (Toad, if the cheering was anything to go by) scrabbled a hand over the boy’s skull, sharp nails scraping and gripping at his hair to lever him off her, and swung his small head with a sharp crack into the wall. He lay there, twitching and clutching at his head, as the crowd roared in applause, passing coins and smiles all around as the stench of liquor filled the air. 

“Why isn’t anyone stopping it?” She found herself whispering, staring unfocused into the pit. A withered hand jolted her out of her reverie, clasping gently at her shoulder as the old woman looked at her solemnly. “I think it's best you leave, dearie. No need for you to see this.”

Stumbling out of the tavern to lean against its side, Valaeys felt the bile swell in her throat, but choked it down, shakily exhaling as she pushed off from the wall to continue her search. Don't think about it. Keep a clear head. 

She couldn’t yell out his name, obviously, dipping down street after street, and so she pulled herself quickly up a side wall to look out over the streets in hopes of catching sight of her cousin, so she could grab him by his arm and drag him back to the palace without a second's waste. The stone bit into the calloused skin of her palms as she squinted her eyes, scanning the milling crowds beneath her. Come on, Aegon. 

“Are you looking for the tall blonde boy?” A high voice piped up below her. Looking downwards, she saw a small girl, tanned and raven haired, who had to be no more than six. Where are her parents, Valaeys wondered to herself, retightening her grip on the wall. Shouldn’t she be crying? The streets were no place for a child so young to walk alone, she was realising, remembering the stifled crack of the young boy's skull. This girl was not afraid, though. She was perfectly still and focused, hands crossed primly behind her back expectantly, eyes wide but calm as she looked up at her. 

Valaeys felt caution prick up her spine. “…I am, yes. Can you tell me where he is?”

“I can take you to him.”

Bad move. Valaeys was a lot of things, but she wasn’t an idiot. She wouldn't be following anyone, child or no, alone in Flea Bottom, regardless of what they told her. “I think I’d prefer if you just told me where he was .” 

The girl's eyes were analytical as they scanned her. “He’s with my lady.”

“And who exactly is your lady?”

“Does it matter? She knows where he is, and you want to find him. She’s waiting for you. Either follow me or don’t. I don't care.”

That said, she spun on her heel, black hair whipping behind her as she walked quickly, head held high, down the high street.

“Hey! Wait -“ she released her grip on the wall, sliding smoothly down to jog after the little figure. 

Perhaps she was an idiot after all. 

.

“Where are you going?” She asked, dodging past bustling vendors and carts in an attempt to follow the little girl's relentless pacing. 

“To see my lady.”

“And where is this lady, locationally speaking?”

“….”

“What does she even want? I - does she know who I am? Do you?” She reached a hand to tap self consciously against her cap, feeling for any white strands that may have fallen loose. Nothing. 

More silence. They twisted down an alleyway onto another open road and suddenly the buildings were cleaner, taller, the streets quieter. Are you seriously going to be this foolish?, her head screamed at her. 

“Talkative, aren't you?”

“….”

“Can I at least know your name?”

The girl continued on down the path, feet skipping daintily and expertly across the cobblestones. Valaeys’s foot slotted oddly against one and she caught herself quickly on a wooden grid jutting from the wall to stop her fall. “Finch, m’lady.”

“ Finch? What’s your real name? ”

The child’s lip pulled back in irritation. “Finch is no less a name than Valley, Miss .”

“It’s Valaeys. So you do know who I am. How?” So much for the fucking disguise, she thought to herself, yanking her skirt from under her shoes half-heartedly. 

“Like I said,” she paused to draw back a thick beaded curtain, dipping into an oddly clean, put together building, “She’s been waiting for you.”

The stairs as they climbed upwards were panelled a cool exotic blue, intercepted with bright bursts of yellow paint. At the end of the stairway, Finch swung open a heavy looking beaded curtain to reveal a wide, torchlit room within.

“Wait here.”

“ Absolutely not -“

“Wait. Here .” The girl's eyes were narrowed as she crossed her arms. Despite the age difference, Valaeys almost felt she was being chided by a parent, as Finch disappeared behind the curtain. 

The air within the room was uncomfortably thick with perfume, the walls dyed in vibrant swirls of colour. On the wall, the mounted head of a lizard stared back at her, glassy eyed and green scaled. She stepped further in, as if she would find her cousin lying under a table somewhere, hidden from sight. She bent to check. Nothing. 

Her eyes scanned the table, hand skimming across the dark wood. Parchment, ink pots, quills. A dyed silk scarf. Hairpins. Her hand closed around an ivory handle slotted inconspicuously within a pen pot, pulling free a sharp letter opener from its hold. As subtle as she could, she tucked it into the folded lining of her skirt. Just in case.

“It’s not very ladylike to touch what isn’t yours, you know.”

She whirled around, thin blade in hand, to see the form of a woman, slim and lovely in the doorway, deep black hair piled carefully on her head that jumped out against the pale white of her expensive looking dress.

“Where’s my friend?”

“No need to worry yourself, child. The boy is unharmed.”

“That boy is Prince Aegon, first son and second heir to Viserys Targaryen, King of Westeros . Do you have any idea what could happen to you, were a single hair on his head be thrown out of place? I can describe it to you, if you’d like? Draw you some pictures?”

A bemused smile wavered gently on the woman’s face as she stepped towards her. Valaeys felt her knuckles flex, gently, over the blade in her hand. 

“You are just as I pictured you to be. You have his way about you, little lamb.”

“ Whose way?”

“Why your fathers, of course. He frequented these parts quite a bit in his youth, you know.”

A subtle way to say he fucked and drank until his legs gave out. Valaeys flicked her eyes quickly over the woman, looking for any points of recognition. Black hair, white clothes, tall and elegant with a delicate bone structure. Silver rings on her thin hands, one with a brilliant ruby set into the framework. Sensible shoes. Lyseni features. Could it be? She kept her face from changing, maintaining the unsettled twist of her mouth as she retightened her grip on her blade.

“Who are you?”

“You may call me The White Worm.”

That, Valaeys thought to herself, had to be single-handedly the worst name she had ever heard. “Doesn’t necessarily inspire fear, does it?”

The lady’s eyebrow twitched in irritation, carefully smoothed out under a serene smile.

“You're quite right. I’ve wanted to meet you for quite some time, you know. You and I - I believe we were connected already, through your father. We both care for him, despite his … proclivities.”

Clearly, she knew less about Valaeys then she was letting on, if she thought she would ever harbour a tender daughterly thought towards Daemon.

“Skip the semantics. You know who I am, you know who my father is, you're holding information about my friend over my head, and trying to appeal to whatever sense of feminine empathy you apparently seem to think I have. You sent someone to find me, so it's clear you want something from me. What is it?”

A long hand reached towards a carafe of wine, pouring a long translucent stream into her ornate gold rimmed cup as she answered, delicately. “A simple exchange. Information where information is due. I believe you and I could help each other, so to speak. I hold much influence here.” A hand gestured vaguely to her surroundings. 

As if Valaeys had any valuable information she could give her. “What kind of information?”

Light glinted against the lady's dark eyes. “Whatever intrigues you the most. And in return, if there ever comes a time you feel a need for information, well,” she swirled around the wine in her glass, stepping closer to her, “I have many friends in King's Landing.”

A pause. Valaeys had caught sight of the branded wax sigil cut into a letter lying haphazardly on the table. Targaryen, on red wax. Not gold like they use in King's Landing. She had seen those seals enough over the years to know exactly who it was from. 

“It’s a compelling offer…”

She watched the slow satisfaction trickle onto the lady’s face. 

“…but I'm sorry to say I have no inclination to do that for you, Mysaria.”

The flicker of shock was brief, almost indiscernible, but Valaeys latched onto it. 

“Ah. Did that shock you? I imagine it's been a while since that’s happened. You see - I know all about you. My father went into explicit detail about his darling paramour, during his visits to my home. He described you right to my mothers face , you see, as I watched, talking about how he was going to run away from us with you, name you his first wife in place of my mother. About how you would carry his child. About how he would find an egg for his true child, and make him a dragonrider. Where is he now, I wonder?”

Mysaria took a moment to answer, daintily picking up a golden rimmed wine glass to bring it to her full lips. Valaeys got the impression, as she drank deep and slow, that she was using it simply as an excuse to formulate her next approach. 

“Your father and I had different paths in life. His … desires remained elsewhere, where I did not wish to follow. I have my own responsibilities here to attend to.” 

“Such as child fighting dens? An honourable occupation indeed.”

She showed her irritation clearly then, eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. “I am not responsible for those monstrosities .”

“ Then why are they still there? Unless you're not as powerful as you said you were. It’s ironic you seem so resistant to them when you use children to carry out your little messages. Was it just a way to win me over, comfort me with your supposed influence? I can assure you it wasn't working.”

Plink. 

Over Mysaria’s shoulder, a tiny snatch of sound caught her attention. She pretended not to register it, waiting carefully for the woman’s eyes to move away from her before darting her gaze briefly towards the door. 

Shifting almost imperceptibly in the corner of her eye, stood the edge of a man's shoulder, so minute it may have been confused for a trick of the light, save for the odd direction of the shadows thrown into the room. The tip of a sword, steel edged and cold, glinted gently in the candlelight before the shadow shifted, readjusted behind the door frame. 

Huh. 

Well, that changed things . “It’s just that - no...” she trailed off, watching as Mysaria moved forwards in interest, “well - there is something.”

“Yes, Lamb?”

She pretended to fumble with the clasp of her side-bag, pulling out a scroll of paper. Blank, intended for the blasted letter she still hadn’t written, but only she needed to know that. She gestured it towards Mysaria, waiting until the ringed hand reached out towards it to latch her hand, hard, on her wrist, dragging her forward towards the flipped letter opener, sharp blade pressed firmly against the skin of her stomach. 

“I forget, sometimes, how capricious children can be.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me leave.”

“No-one is stopping you from leaving.”

“The sellsword standing in the corridor says otherwise. One of those friends of yours, I presume?”

Mysaria’s eyes glinted in intrigue. “You’re perceptive. That’s good. Most people wouldn't have noticed Haggard.”

Haggard was about as subtle as a flaming fucking wine barrel. “Does threatening all your little spies tend to work for you?” The tip of the blade pressed firmer to the soft silk of Mysaria’s dress. Any closer and it would cut clean through the material.

“Only the valuable ones.” Her voice was bemused now, tapering dangerously to the edge of a laugh. Valaeys felt the irritation burn deep in her bones. Take this seriously. Take me seriously.  

“You’re holding it wrong, you know.” She was relaxed, completely, under the glint of the blade pressed to her stomach. “If you wish to hit an organ, you should press in and up against the ribs, not downwards. From this angle, I would be healed within the month.” And then, bending her head closer, “ He hasn’t come in . Do you know why? It’s because there is no threat to be held by an untrained girl, no matter how pointy her letter opener may be. Haggard knows it just as well as I.” 

Another imperceptive shift behind the door frame, as though the man was straightening up under the praise . The door that this woman clearly believed was her only means of exit. The soft gauzy curtains of the window shivered gently in the night breeze. Open, then. Good. 

“Trained or untrained, I think you’ll find a blade to the stomach will hurt all the same.”

The woman’s voice lowered, silk and honey. “You’re not going to harm me, child. You and I both know it, as does he, just as we both know I have no intention of harming you, or young prince Aegon. You’re far too important for that.”

“Why? Are you going to try and use me like one of your little birdies? I can’t tell you anything, because I know nothing. ”

“Nothing so gauche, Lamb. I simply believe we can be of use to one another.”

“And I believe you're attempting to extort me for information I don't have. Now are you going to tell me where my friend is? Or was that another of your lies to try to lull me into a false sense of security? ”

“He’s by Tusk Tavern down the street. The green building with the mural of a boar outside. I have people watching him, so you need not worry.” A hand reached up, carefully, to tuck a white strand back into her cap. Valaeys pressed firmer on the blade in warning, until her hand dropped slowly back down to her side. “I would not deceive you.”

“Oh, of course not. Clearly the woman with a sellsword hidden behind her guest’s only exit would never do something as callous as deceive me?”

A delighted peal of laughter “Oh, you are so much like your father.”

“Compare me to that drunken cunt again and I really will stab you.”

Mysaria looked like there was nothing more in the world she wanted than to open her mouth and compare her to that drunken cunt again, but Valaeys really was pushing now, letting the opener cut clean through the expensive silk to leave a thin, delicate red cut in the milky skin beneath. 

“I would not force you, Valaeys. Should you choose to leave, you have my word Haggard shall not intercept, nor attempt to follow you. I simply believe -“

“ Fantastic .” She stepped quickly back from her, blade tucked into the band of her skirt as she traced her way back to the window. Before she could second guess herself, she quickly swung her body out of the opening.

“Oh, marvellous,” Mysaria commented amusedly, not moving even an inch from her spot against the chair. Under Valaeys’s palms, the stone was slippery and polished, but the curl of her fingers secured her weight as she began the steady drop. 

“My offer still stands should you change your mind, lamb,” Mysaria piped down from the window, as Valaeys quickly scaled the near smooth wall, feet landing heavily back onto the sour smelling street. Where the fuck are you, Aegon? Looking up, the woman’s head had ducked out from behind the curtains, chin cupped in her hands as she smiled down bemusedly. “ Whatever information you could ever need. An honourable exchange. You are always welcome here, should you feel the need arise.”

There’s nothing honourable about what you're doing, she thought to herself as she retraced her steps, lifting her hand behind her head in a sign that Septa Anya would definitely have boxed her ears for, as she walked briskly down the uneven cobblestones.

. 

“ There you are. Get up. We’re leaving.”

Aegon blinked up at her sluggishly from his place on the ground, white hair turned an unpleasant grey colour from the puddle it was currently half splayed into.

“M’ok”, her cousin slurred from where he lay, cheek smeared with trickles of red wine, “just .. just hazy.” 

“ Does it look like I care, Aegon? Get the fuck up!” Her eyes darted cautiously around the empty street. Was he following her? She hadn’t seen the man on her way out, but that didn't mean he couldn't be there. 

He let out a low groan, tilting back his head to stare up at her. “Oh! Hello, Val.” Eyes looked over her critically, lingering on the stiff lines of her skirt. “You look awful. Green really isn't your colour. Where’d you go?”

“Doesn't matter. You're a prince of Westeros, drunk and vulnerable in Flea Bottom at midnight . We need to go , before I stab you myself, and save them the fucking time.” 

“I’don think I can stand!” He remarked cheerfully, “y-you see I fell. Marvellous things, legs,” he poked at a limp one with abject fascination. 

She didn't have time for this. She bent to scoop up his thin frame, slinging his arm over her shoulder to level his impractically long body into her arms. Aegon let out an unsteady squeal, wriggling in confusion, legs kicking in the air. Valaeys contemplated, just for a moment, about relaxing her arms, dropping him back onto the cold cobblestones. 

‘Y’know that's treason, right?” He queried, wonderingly in her ear, head tilted onto her shoulder, “saying you’d stab me - y-you could get in trouble for that. If someone heard.” And then, lowering his voice as if to whisper a very important secret, “ I don't care, though. You’re funny. I’m - m’ glad we’re friends.”

“ Whatever you say, cousin. Just stop squirming .”

“ Best friends,” he murmured, clearly delighted by the idea, slumping bonelessly on her so quickly her knees nearly gave out under her. How could someone so skinny be so heavy? Her arms were toned from years of pulling her body weight up over the hills of Runestone, but they were beginning to shake slightly from having to balance his weight as she picked her way across the jutting stone path. “Am - am I your best friend? You're mine, I think.”

“Not sure. I’m currently quite mad at you, you see.”

“But I just stopped you from being mad at me!” He whined, petulantly.

“You seem to have quite a talent for it,” she remarked dryly, avoiding the eye contact of street vendors as she passed them by, “you’ve turned it into quite the art form, these recent days.”

“M’ sorry. I don't want you to be mad at me, since I’m your only friend.” He answered, staring solemnly up at her. 

“I have friends other than you! Helaena is my friend!” She replied with indignation.

“But you don’t like talking to many people, other than me and her. I’m your best friend though, right?” She nearly tripped on a loose flagstone, letting out an undignified squawk that had Aegon giggling all over again.

“Right now, I think I’d consider Aemond a better friend than you, Aegon.”

“But you don't even like Aemond!”

“ What gave you that impression? I like Aemond!”

He stared up at her blankly.

“I do! He’s - I do like him! He’s a sweet kid!”

“He’s sweet?” Aegon replied, voice hushed in abject horror, eyes widening as though she had just started coughing up blood.

“I don't have to explain myself to you right now! You’re drunk, you just abandoned me in Flea Bottom, and now I’m having to carry you back up to your own fucking castle like the little princeling you are! Why would you drink so much, Aegon? ”

“Ah, yes. I am sorry for that. Had quite a bad afternoon after I saw you yesterday, you see. I’m quite out of it now.”

“Make it up to me by walking by yourself?”

“Will you be my friend again if I do?”

“ Not this again. I’m still your friend, you imbecile. Start walking.” Aegon jumped up cheerfully, before promptly hunching to hack up vomit against the wall next to them. Looking away from the spectacle, Valaeys’ eyes just caught sight of a small, dark haired figure darting behind a shop further down the street. Finch. So Mysaria had let someone follow her, despite her affirmations.

”Come on, Cousin. It’s late.” Tugging at his arm, she led Aegon down the street, sending one last look over her shoulder. The street remained still and innocuously empty. 

Yes. It had been an odd day indeed.

Chapter Text

Valaeys

In the hour and a half it took her to drag her cousin back through the streets to the servants gate, Aegon had sobered up somewhat, pausing only twice more to vomit up red wine against the walls of Flea Bottom. As she knelt to pull the long white strands of damp hair away from his face, she wondered to herself why he ever kept it so long, as knotted and unkempt as it always was. She pulled a slip of string from her own wrist, curling his hair up and away from his face in a half hearted attempt at a ponytail. 

The further they moved towards the looming red peaks of the castle, the quieter Aegon had gotten, his drunken nattering dwindling out slowly, until - towards the last stretch of their journey, he moved away from her support all together, walking stiff and quiet through the streets with only brief glances over his shoulder to check she was still following. 

“Perhaps next time we can stay within the palace,” she remarked dryly, pulling down the lip of her cap to hide any stray tendrils of white hair escaping. As if anyone would be able to see anyway. It was so dark that, save for the flickering of street torches and the glow of tavern windows, Valaeys could barely follow the thin form of her cousin as they walked toward the jutting wall the servants door slotted neatly into, inconspicuous against the brickwork. 

“Mhm.”

“I can’t believe I thought it’d be a good idea to come here at night time. We’re never doing this again, by the way.” Her eyes scanned the streets for any flash of brown that could indicate Finch was still tailing them, but in the darkness everything was blurred into long shadows across the slanted slum buildings. She reckoned an entire army could have stood waiting in the alleyways, armour, horses and all, and she would have been none the wiser. 

“Mhm.”

“….how are you feeling now? I have water with me if you -“

“M’ fine.” They had reached the red door now, and Aegon, thick iron key in hand, quickly dipped in through the entrance, Valaeys having to pick up her pace to walk behind him, watching his hair swing around his shoulders from behind as they climbed the steep stairs. Their steps shuffled against the cold stone, the only sounds coming from their hushed breathing and the shifting of her clumpy servants skirt. 

“Aegon. Are you sure you’re feeling ok?”

“I said I’m fine!” His voice raised, echoing across the stone as he snapped his head back to glare at her.

Absolutely not. Who was he to drag her into the Red Keep, drink himself limp while she was left defenceless and alone, let himself be dragged the entire route home and then give her the cold shoulder? 

“What’s wrong with you today? You hit Jacaerys even though you’re practically double his size, avoid me all day, send me a letter telling me to follow you out the keep as an apology for being cruel to your brother, abandon me in a crowd, alone and unknowing of where you had gone while you drink away whatever the fuck induced this mood of yours! I could’ve been hurt, Aegon! You could’ve been hurt! I understand you may be feeling ill, after you damn near tried to pickle your liver with all that wine, but that’s not a fucking excuse! What happened!?”

“ Nothing happened! Let’s just go. It’s late.”

She planted her feet firmly on the ground, waiting until he reluctantly turned back towards her, framed by the faint light of the corridor. “ Something’s happened, and you're going to tell me what it is. I’ll yell if you don't, and then we’ll both be in deep shit for being out so late. Do you think I won’t do it?”

He regarded her for a moment, tense and swaying, lilac eyes flickering off to stare, blank and tired, over the silent shadows of the castle. 

“ Aegon ?”

“Not here. Follow me.”

.

Under the clear starry night sky, the air in the courtyard was bitingly cold. As she exhaled, she watched as her breath spilled out in white swathes of vapour in front of her. 

On the ground, she could still make out the tipped over spears disrupted in Ser Harwin and Criston Cole’s brawl earlier that day, the disturbed sawdust from where the men had rolled showing clearly as the moon came out behind the clouds, filling the yard with an odd blue light. 

“What happened this morning? I’ve never seen you act like that to Jace and Luke before.”

“Sit.” 

He slumped down heavily onto the sawdust floor at the rear end of the yard, nearly hidden by the stable, uncaring of the dust splattering up his trousers. She squatted down next to him, hesitant to join him on the cold ground, her skirt hem snagging up sawdust.

Aegon let out a loud sigh, head tilted up to the ceiling against the stone as his eyes closed, long strands from his ponytail lifting up against the grain to catch, snagged, on the brickwork of the wall, like pale white ivy. There was a long pause, in which the whistling of the wind was the only noise that could be heard, rattling gently through the fragile wood weapon frames, pushing the thin spears up and down with gentle tapping noises onto the wood. 

“Cousin?”

…was he asleep? 

She leant a hand over to nudge his shoulder, opening her mouth to snap him awake, when, eyes still closed, he blurted out a question into the cool air.

‘If you needed to - I mean really needed to hurt someone… do you think you could do it?”

What kind of question was that? “I’m not in the mood for this, Aegon. You're a complete twat if you’re suggesting you needed to punch Jace-“

“Just answer?” She couldn't quite read the look on his face, blank eyes staring directly into hers as he waited for her answer. She paused for a moment, turning over the hypothetical in her head.

“Why would I need to?’

“What?”

“You said needed to hurt someone. But no one ever needs to hurt anyone, really. You may need to kill someone, if you're defending yourself. Hurting someone only ever causes more problems down the line, because then they’ll just want to hurt you back . You either have to prevent the problem in the first place, or get rid of them and be done with it.”

Aegon shifted forward from his seat on the floor. “But you could do it? You could hurt someone if it - if they would do the same to you?”

She opened and closed her mouth, hesitating over the answer she already knew. “Could you ?”

His whisper was ashamed, “I don’t think I could. Someone would have to do it for me. That’s how my life goes. People make decisions for me without my knowledge, and then tell me it’s what I wanted all along.”

“Then you’d be a coward. You have to do it yourself. Otherwise you’ll lose perspective of just what it is you’ve done. Aegon, what’s this all about? Is - are you ok?”

He shifted his legs, moving up on the wall to draw them to his chest, curling his arms around his knees and resting his chin on them. His eyes scanned the courtyard, once, twice, before resting back on where she crouched, watching him expectantly.

“Yesterday, after I came back from your room, my mother came to see me. She was angry about what Jace - what I did to Aemond. She wanted me to apologise to him, and I said I was on my way to do that but - it wasn't just that.”

“What do you mean?”

“She -“ he shifted for a moment, as if the words were uncomfortable to have to say out loud, “She said Jace and Luke wouldn't be my ‘playthings’ forever. That Rhaenyra would… that if she were queen, she could kill me and my brothers to further her ascension. And - and that I would be king someday. That everyone in the realm knew it but me.”

The silence that stood in the wake of his admission was a horrifying thing. It thickened the air around her ears like tar, slow and sluggish. Quietly, as though whispering to a child, she replied. “Aegon, that's treason. What she suggested -“

“I know what she suggested!” He snapped, “but I don't know what to do. It’s not - I can't - I can't do it! I’m not suited and our father would never allow it. It won't ever be me. It’s Rhaenyra. Everyone knows it's Rhaenyra, but she’s fucked it up already.”

“How do you mean?” Aegon levelled her with an incredulous look. 

“You’re not blind, Valaeys. And neither is the rest of the court. All you have to do is look at them . What happened in the courtyard today with Breakbones just proves it. My mother always tells us one is a mistake, three’s an insult.” 

“The queen said that?” 

“ Forget I told you that.”

He was right. Of course he was right. Valaeys knew, as everyone did, that if Rheanyra was to ascend the Iron Throne, her claim would need to be watertight, diplomatically sealed shut, without a single flaw or crack to break the pressure of being crowned first Queen of Westeros. Despite the cheerful nature of Jacerys and Lucerys, Valaeys knew they were Velaryon only in name, with their pink cheeks, warm brown eyes and healthy chestnut hair curling restlessly around their sweet young faces, so different from the warm brown tone of their fathers skin, the long white hair shared by him and his wife. Why should it matter? She had seen the way Laenor Velaryon looked on them, soft and infuriatingly loving, the way he ruffled their hair, slipped sweets and trinkets into their hands, pushed food onto their plate at the dinner table. He was their father, come what may. Can you truly be a bastard if both proclaimed parents love you regardless? Why should they feel shame in it where their parents do not?

It was selfish, yes, and irresponsible, of course, to saddle them with something so deeply out of their control- she saw the way Ser Harwin looked at them too, unfailingly proud and smiling, but she couldn't help thinking back to her own father. With his long absences, cruel letters and mocking japes, she knew, blood or no, she was as much his emotional bastard as Jace, Luke and Joffrey were true born sons of the sea. He must be back in Harrenhal by now, she realised. He was probably already asleep . Having resigned his post, there was nothing left for him here. But that was a lie, wasn't it? 

That morning, in the courtyard, she had watched as Ser Harwin reared back his fist, smashing it with clean, calculated precision into the jaw of Ser Criston Cole, again and again, rage fueling every move, as the men scrambled around them, pulling fruitlessly against his arms. Is that what love looked like? She had wondered, watching the righteous anger of a father protecting his children, the wide eyed stares of two young brown haired boys as they watched him carve the love he felt for them over and over onto Ser Criston’s face, painting the floor with devotion and blood. 

And her, Aemond and Aegon had been watching the whole thing, irrelevant figures stood still in a crowd of racing guards and clamouring squires as Jacerys and Lucerys’ world view had cracked around them. 

“Well, what are we going to do?”

“ I can't do anything.” He stared blankly at her, eyes dull. “I talk, I expose my mother and betray my family. I stay silent, I don’t know.” A hand reached out to jab at her shoulder. “And you can do less than nothing. Open your mouth, Targaryen or no, and they’ll have your head on a parapet spike before sundown. My father likes you, but he doesn't like you enough to excuse a claim like that. You know I'm right, so don't try to argue.” 

“You do though.”

“What?”

“You do know what would happen. If you didn't try to fix it.” She shifted, knees on the floor as she crouched to look at him. “You know exactly. Pushing her off the throne - to even consider that— You would have to kill your sister to push her off that throne. It’s the only way she would ever give it up. Could you kill somebody for something like that? Something you don't even want?”

“So you wouldn’t do it? Hurt someone if they were going to hurt you?”

She felt her answer heavy on her tongue, as she pushed it to the side to make way for another. “…..no. No! No, Aegon! Not when it’s something like this ! Especially when you have no way of knowing that she’d hurt you!”

He gestured to the bottle held in his grip, liquid sloshing “That's why I’m drinking. Because I have no way of knowing , Val.”

Well. 

Well. 

Well what? He was right. What could she even say? She wouldn't reveal the Velaryon boys, obviously, but was there no way to gain clarity on the matter? It simply couldn’t be as black and white as Aegon was making it out to be!

“But she's your sister . Would she truly kill you over a title you don't even want?” 

“Can you say, with absolute certainty, that she wouldn't even consider it?” She couldn't, and they both knew it. 

“I - but she was trying! This morning, she tried to arrange a marriage between Helaena and Jacaerys, Aegon! She wouldn’t do that if she didn’t want to try!”

A snort escaped Aegon's nose, white mist melting into the air like dragon breath. “Oh, I know all about that. It's not going to happen, by the way. Want to know why?”

“Because your mother thinks Helaena will be stolen away? It’s Jacaerys, Aegon, he's a nice boy -“

“Helaena’s not going to marry Jace because my mother wants her to marry me .”

…what?  “She what?!” 

Aegon bolted up to shush her, her cry echoing across the courtyard. They ducked down beneath the fence, waiting for any torches to light, or the sound of clanking guard footsteps that could indicate she had given away their position. The wind whistled quietly through the space, but other than that, silence swelled, the castle remaining dark and looming. Valaeys lowered her voice before whispering furiously, “Helaena and you? ” 

“I like the thought of it just as much as you do. I mean she’s an idiot-“

“Helaena is not an idiot, she’s wonderful. Which begs the question as to why she’s marrying you?”

“ We don’t have much choice in the matter, I’m afraid, if they decide to go through with it.” He remarked dryly.

“But she’s your sister!”  

“Exactly. A match of pure blood. The only obstacle is my father because he wanted me to marry -“ He broke off awkwardly, clearing the back of his throat, “doesn’t matter. My mother has her mind set on it, to prevent the union with Jacaerys. There’s no use pressing for renegotiations, because Rhaenyra is leaving for Dragonstone with Laenor and her children, probably as a result of the slight. So that’s that.” He leant his body towards her, resting his forehead on her shoulder, exhaling tiredly. 

“…Gods, Aegon.” She whispered, staring into the training yard over the mess of his white hair, puffing up over her face. 

Think of something, her mind screamed at her, as she watched the long stretch of the castle laid out before her, the night shifting the brickwork from red to a deep black. 

She thought of Princess Rhaenyra, the way she had looked at Valaeys that day in the council room, wide eyed and curious, the pinnacle of royalty, every hair tucked neatly into a regal sweeping braid. She thought of how she had never seen her interact with Aegon in all her time at Kings Landing, not really, not with words, only staring at him from across the room, shoulders tensed and posture pulled upright under the eyes of the court. But that didn't mean anything. She had also seen the tender smiles she shot towards Helaena, when she found them in the garden together, small but present as her sister curtsied for her, and Valaeys bowed awkwardly. Perhaps time would pass, and this would be resolved. Misunderstandings came and went as quickly as the tides. Just because people expected Aegon to be king didn't mean it had to be so. There was a first for everything, and Rhaenyra had her fathers support, vocal and reiterated nearly everyday. Besides, she loved her friend but she could tell his heart wasn’t in it. He shouldn’t be king. It wouldn’t be right! Perhaps the queen was simply being anxious, and overreacting. There was no way Rhaenyra would ever think to harm her siblings, beloved by the realm, when she already had an uncontested ascension. Valaeys couldn't speak up, anyway. Opening her mouth would serve no purpose but to secure her own disgrace from the court. 

She lifted his head off her shoulder, moving her arm to wrap gently around Aegon’s skinny frame, rubbing at his arm half heartedly in a side hug. “Listen to me. These rumours are all they will ever be, Aegon. Rumours. Just because you're a boy, doesn't mean you shall be king. And it certainly doesn't mean your older sister will harm you for it. Not when she’s been trying to solve this animosity, and not when it would make her a Kinslayer. Ok?”

His eyes were blank as he looked up at her, with a whisper so small she barely heard it: “ok.” He allowed her to help him up on unsteady feet. “Now, you need to sleep off this alcohol. I’ll help you to your room, ok?” 

“Ok.”

Walking through the palace, steps echoing gently through the halls, Valaeys tried not to focus on Aegon’s morose face, looking down every hall on the off chance they would need to duck out of sight from patrol. 

Cheer him up, a voice whispered to her. Isn't that what you're good at? Just say something. “If you ever feel the urge to escape from it all, just visit me in Runestone. I’ll hide you away until the storm blows over.” She tried for a smile to diffuse the bleak situation. “Sunfyre may be tricky to hide, but we have lots of caves. Caraxes dealt fairly enough with the setting. And bring your younger siblings. The Gods know I can’t put up with you all by myself.”

A slight flicker of confusion over the blank face. “Why would you be in Runestone?”

“Well I can’t pour the king's wine forever. My guardian is only overseeing it until I come of age to govern. Runestone is my birthright. I have responsibilities for the people who live there.” 

He levelled her with a long look, opening his mouth as if to say something, before clamping it shut again. A pause, as they shuffled up the stairs towards the royal children’s quarters, and then, “Ah. Yes. I forgot. Forgive me.”

.

Aemond

His night had been going predictably, quiet and solitary as he sat on his bed, leafing through Maestar Vacen’s anthology of ancient scriptures, when he heard the creak of hinges outside his door, and the hushed whispers that followed.

“Could you just - stop leaning, look at what you’ve done-“. Another gentle clash - someone had clearly leant on the armour statue in the corridor, shifting back the figure as its iron plated heels scraped unpleasantly on the hardwood floor.

A muffled curse, and the sound of feet shuffled by next to his bedroom door. Under the gap, light flickered as the sources of the noise crept past. Aemond closed his book, quietly laying it on the sheets of his bed as he stood, walking silently to the door and cracking it open.

Further down the corridor from his room, just visible in the dark hall, two tall, pale forms stumbled, one supporting the other with a hand placed firmly under their shoulders. 

“My head hurts,” the shorter figure whined, and Aemond realised it was Aegon being pushed gently towards his door, hands raised to press firmly on his scalp as he rubbed his temples. 

Another voice, hushed but undeniably feminine replied, “Serves you right for drinking so much. Goodnight. Sleep, you dolt. It’ll - you’ll be ok.” Valaeys. What was she doing here? It must have been at least two hours past midnight - simply walking the corridors alone would be viewed as unseemly for a lady of her calibre, let alone walking a drunk prince back to his door. 

His older brother wordlessly shut his bedroom door behind him. Aemond watched for a long moment, as his cousin stared contemplatively at the wood, reaching a hand to press gently against the door before turning to go, looking up towards where he stood, light from his room streaking into the corridor. He stood, frozen, looking back at her. 

“Oh. Hi.”

“…hello?”

They stared at each other, sizing each other up. In the corridor light, he realised just how much taller his cousin was than him - he had to crane his head just to meet her eye line. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Um -“ she shifted, reaching a hand up to rub awkwardly against the back of her neck. “Your brother is drunk. I wanted to make sure he got back safe?”

Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked open, the sound of footsteps clicking down the corridor towards them, steel bound boots against the stone. The guards. They shared a wordless look, before Aemond widened the gap to his door, stepping aside to let his cousin slip silently inside, closing the wood quietly and carefully behind them. 

They paused, heads bent down by the doorway, her hair brushing gently against his cheek. The footsteps drew nearer, clacking past his room and Aegons, almost through the passageway before pausing. Aemond found himself holding his breath, waiting in the silence of the corridor, before the sound of iron shifting cut through the hall as the figure readjusted the suit of armour his brother had fallen against. A door creaked open, footsteps falling out of earshot. 

The two let out a collective sigh, straightening up to look at each other. In the warm orange light of his bedroom, he could finally make out his cousin's form clearly, strands of white hair curling over her face in the candlelight from where they peeked out of a ratty brown cap. Her freckles were more pronounced in the gentle light, her eyes wide and curious as they darted critically around his room. Her attire …

“What are you wearing ?” Aemond struggled to quieten his own voice, louder with an indignant pitch as he looked, horrified, at his cousin. 

It seemed to take a moment for his words to register, Valaeys looking confusedly down at herself and the truly terrible amalgamation of cloth surrounding her body, in some weak effort of clothing. “I - a skirt?” 

“I can see that. A scullery maids, no doubt . Why are you wearing it?”

She tugged the cap off her head, long white hair tumbling soft and wild over her face as she rubbed at her scalp. It glowed a warm orange in the candlelight. He’d never seen her with her hair down before . It felt wrong, somehow, to see her without her braid, like the world had shifted just slightly out of place at her appearance. “It’s -  your brother was being stupid.”

No surprise there. “And his stupidity required you to look like a fool?”

“Actually, yes, it did this time. Though I'm sure I looked like a fool simply for following him in the first place.”

Valaeys had small smudges of dirt scattered around the hem of her skirt, black dust underneath her fingernails, and a generally crumpled demeanour surrounding her. Other members of the Keep would rather be caught dead than looking so disorganised, he thought to himself, his mother especially.

“You just look …weird,” he felt the need to reiterate, eyes caught again in the curling sprawl of her unbound hair against her shoulders. 

“It’s been a weird evening.” She replied, dryly, bending to tug a straggling leaf off the sole of her shoe. 

Her boots were coated in mud, tracking in grime that made him struggle back a wince. Tucking out of the waist of her tunic sat a thin letter opener, innocuous save for the sharp glint of the blade. What was that for? He wondered, eyeing it cautiously. In fact, what was any of this for? It would be untoward to be seen looking as she did within the walls of the Keep, which implied that her and Aegon had gone beyond it for whatever their outing had been.

“What were you doing?” He watched as his cousin's jaw clenched briefly, hand thumbing thoughtfully over the edge of the letter opener. 

“It doesn't matter. I shan’t be going there again.” A longer pause, more awkward this time. Her eyes flicked over to the crumpled sheets of his unmade bed, and the thick leather bound books perched haphazardly over them. A gentle nudge of embarrassment touched him over the state of his bedroom. Were his mother here, he could already envision the displeased wrinkle in her nose as she called for a servant to straighten the sheets, slot away the books into their shelves, and chide him gently about going to sleep. As if his sheets were the most untoward part of any of this. There was a girl in his bedroom, well past midnight. A Lady, for that matter. 

Valaeys was rubbing a hand over her arm now, free hand reaching up to pull gently on the end of her hair. She looked cold. To be honest even without the costume, his cousin was looking at odds. The glow of the fire brought out the scrunch of her eyebrows as she looked away from him, the dark circles under her soft eyes, as though someone had dipped their thumb in ash and pressed down gently on her under eyes.

“Are you alright, Lady Valaeys?”

“Oh perfectly!” She answered, just a little too fast, face still turned away from him as she took in the lines of bookshelves covering his walls, raising a hand to stroke against the spines. He was reminded, briefly, of his brother, of how he used to sneak into his bedroom after dark with piles of unwanted books gifted by their grandsire, placing them on the shelves and grinning all the while. “You’ll get more use of them then me,”  he used to whisper, ruffling Aemonds hair, and Aemond would spend whole nights trawling through histories of Westeros, stories of brave knights and fair ladies, books on politics, languages and philosophy, until he fell asleep, cheek pressed to the smoky smelling pages until the sun crawled over the parapets.

“…your brother is ok, by the way. I realise that might have looked - he just needs sleep, I think.”

He looks the same as he always does, Aemond thought to himself, drunk and stumbling uselessly around the palace. “I’m used to it.”

Valaeys raised a hand to rub against the nape of her neck. “Right. Obviously you would be - right.”

Most days of this week alone , his evening had been interrupted with the crash of a incompetent body slumping against the door, Aegon staggering blindly through the space to collapse into his bed. It wasn't a new experience - a sober Aegon tended to be even worse these days, the click of his heels against the wooden panelling of his bedroom floor echoing through the hall as he paced restlessly into the night, energy fizzing so palpably Aemond may has well have been able to hear that, too. At least the wine acted as a sedative. 

Most nights… apart from yesterday evening, following the events of the Dragonpit. He had been studying at his desk when his brother had knocked ( knocked! ) on his bedroom door, and awkwardly pushed out a stumbling apology before Aemond was able to slam the door in his face. “You are my brother,” he had said, stiltedly, as though he was reciting the words from a script, “I- I didn’t think about how my actions would affect you. I’m sorry.” And Aemond had stood there in silent incredulity, until Aegon had dipped his head and shuffled back towards his silent room. 

He focused once again on his cousin's attire. “Where did my brother take you tonight to make you have to dress like that?” 

“What are you reading?” 

…What? Valaeys picked up a book from his bedspread, seemingly with great interest, flicking it open to scan the pages. Why was she being so nonchalant about this? Shouldn’t she be embarrassed, to be caught out so late, in that ? His eyes darted to the gap under his floor once more, as if expecting to see a guard's shadow stood right by the entrance, ready to burst in and catch them doing… whatever this was. 

“A book on dead languages. You didn’t answer my question -“

“It looks cool,” she murmured, running a finger over the ink contemplatively. “It reminds me of Old Tongue.”

You’re deflecting, he thought, staring at the line of her shoulders, tensed despite her fake ease. “Lady Valaeys, I -”

“D’you happen to have a book on Old Tongue? I need to brush up on some phrases, but I haven't been able to find any scrolls in the library.”

“There aren't any non-verbal records of Old Tongue in the Keep.” You know this, he thought to himself, as she turned to pick up another book from the pile, I saw you complaining about it to Helaena a week ago. They had been sat in the garden, her and his sister, and for a while he had paused to watch the pair on his way to the training yard. They made an odd pair, Helaena digging her expensive silk shoes into the mud as Valaeys talked animatedly on the floor next to her, head rested on his sisters lap, whining about there being “literal decades worth of linguistic books, Helaena, and not one on Old Tongue! I saw a scroll on Dothraki!” He remembered the irritated furrow of her eyebrows, the way her hand lifted to her braid, tugging the way it always did when she felt anxious, before his sister had bent over to tug her hand away and curl their fingers together. “Don’t pull. You could write to your guardian, cousin. Perhaps he could send you some books?” Valaeys had twisted her mouth in a grimace, eyes trained on his sister's hand in hers, their fingers slotting together, and he had felt very suddenly that he was intruding on something he shouldn’t have. He had left them there, Valaeys mumbling something about letters he hadn’t had time to register as he hurried off for sword practice. 

“Ah yes. You lot are all more into High Valerian, aren't you?” Her voice was laced with quiet amusement as she side eyed him. He felt irritation prick up his body. Was she making fun of him?

“There’s nothing wrong with that. It’s our legacy. We carry a duty to maintain it.”

“Never said there was anything wrong with it. It’s… I admire you for being so studious. I’d have never done this much reading voluntarily at your age had my guardian not forced me to.”

“I’m not that much younger than you,” he blurted back instinctively. She gave a small smile at his indignation, and then they were staring at each other again, until her smile dropped away slowly . Unwilling to be the first to look away, he found his hand fidgeting slightly with the seam of his tunic sleeve, worrying the carefully stitched fabrics between his fingertips, pulling on a loose thread. She had very wide eyes, he half-thought to himself. In the candlelight, they were made brighter, the brown turning into a warm swell of amber. The thread from his sleeve pulled off from the fabric completely, weakened by his prodding. 

Valaeys let out a quiet cough, dipping her head back down to the bed. “What about this,” she gestured to a blue bound book, “what’s this one about?”

“Philosophy.”

“Seven hells,” she muttered, running a finger across the golden lettering, “you really understand all this stuff?”

“It’s just hypothetical arguments. Once you get past the wording it’s fine.”

“Arguments like what?” Her head tilted to the side as she watched him. He felt her gaze on him like a press of fingertips against his face.

“Um.. if you were to question the essence of reality or time? Things similar to that.” 

“Oh. I was hoping for something more definitive.”

“Like what?”

He watched as his cousin tilted her head to the side, lips pursed shut as she ran a thumb over the book in her hands. She turned it over, testing the weight in her hands, and flipped it back again, handling it as if it would fall apart in her hands under the slightest pressure.

“If someone hurt someone you love, do you think you would be able to hurt them back?”

“That’s not philosophical, Lady Valaeys.”

“Then just for the sake of it.”

“…I would. They’d be going against a royal, anyway. It’s treason. They’d be killed regardless.”

She nodded slowly, eyes trained on the hearth. He felt the question nag at him gently.

“What about you? Could you?”

The flames crackled gently over the dry wood in the grate. A log, bubbling with heat, flaked and cracked under the pressure of the surrounding wood, splattering thick and black dust on the side of the stone chimney flue. 

“I’d kill them.” She admitted, quietly. “If they had hurt someone I loved. I could do it, then.” Her eyes flicked up to meet him. “I would want to, anyway. Does that make me a bad person?”

“Perhaps. But anyone who wouldn't would be a fool. Better to be a bad person than a dead one.”

“Hm.” Her face was unreadable for a moment, before she quickly inhaled and perked up, lifting her chin to smile at him. “Well then I suppose you and I would be bad people surviving together. It doesn’t seem like such a horrible fate, when it’s put like that.”

The heat from the hearth was too harsh, he decided. It was bringing a red flush into his face that gave him the overwhelming urge to itch at his cheeks. He should open a window, he thought, though he didn’t move from his spot next to her. 

Another pause. 

 “Well. I think the hallways are clear now. I’ll get out of your hair.”

“I - yes. Of course.” As he stepped towards the door to reach for the handle, he felt this cousin's shoulder bump against his, arm reaching in tandem. They jolted back, hands jerking off the door as they shuffled awkwardly. Before she could try again, Aemond’s hand quickly fumbled for the doorknob, opening it and stepping aside to let her through. 

“Oh! Before I go.”

She fumbled with the lining of her uncomfortable looking tunic, hands tugging out a thin band from the lining pocket. She extended her palm towards him, proffering the circle of blue dyed cowhide, a stone carving of a dragon’s wing strung carefully along the band. He stared blankly, unsure what he was supposed to do, until she reached out her other hand towards his own, slowly, as one would move towards an easily startled animal, carefully lifting his hand to slide the band across his skinny wrist. 

“For you.” 

A gift? He stared confusedly up at her. “I - what?”

A pale white eyebrow quirked up on her face. “What?”

Her hand was still brushing the thin skin of his wrist, next to the bracelet, he realised. His mouth was dry, suddenly, and he found himself having to clear his throat gently before replying. “Why did you get it for me?”

Her voice was confused when she answered, “why does anyone get anything? I saw it and it reminded me of you. So I wanted you to have it.”

He ran a thumb across the band. The material lay soft, sturdy and almost unnoticeably light against his wrist. “…oh.”

She shifted, eyes darting towards his door once more. “I’m sorry if you don't like it. Or if it was impolite of me to get it for you? I wasn't really thinking, it just reminded -“

“It’s a fine gift,” he cut across her rambling, “I… I like it. Thank you.” He wasn't lying to be polite, he realised, as he stared up at her. He really did like it. 

She shot him a grin, ducking out her head to peak into the corridor. 

“That’s good, then. Sleep well, cousin. Until tomorrow,” she slipped through the gap, wood creaking closed behind her. Aemond listened as the tap of her footsteps on the stone tapered out, moving further and further away from his room, before moving back towards his bed, reaching out to the pile of books to begin slotting them back mindlessly into the shelves. 

A brown lump of cloth sat innocently by his desk - her cap - he realised. The fabric was coarse and itchy as he turned it over in his hands, poorly made and common with threads loosening under his thumb. On his wrist, the thin strip of blue leather jumped out at him against his pale skin, dark and unmissable. 

“Until tomorrow,” he murmured, unheard and alone in the quiet of his bedroom. It was only the next morning, as he rolled his head over on the pillow, blinking the sleep from his eyes to look at the band still slipped onto his wrist, that he realised she had never had answered him about where she had gone that night. 

Chapter Text

Valaeys

The smell of grass and bursting wildflowers curled thick and fragrant over the castle grounds, carried on the wind in sweet bursts of scent to where Valaeys sat, shoulders brushing with Helaena’s, underneath the veil of a sprawling willow tree. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine herself in the fields of home, the green hills transformed into a flood of rainbow flora, running her hands across the rich, red soil of the Vale.

Their knees bumped together, hidden from the world completely in their green dome, save for when the wind lifted up the leaves and exposed their shoes to passers by, caked with dirt from where they had strayed off the stone path. 

“Remind me again why we’re hiding?” Valaeys murmured, picking gently at the daisies littering the garden bed, as Helaena shushed her quickly with a grin.

“ The septa wanted to teach us ballroom dancing,” she whispered, giggling quietly at the look of horror that overcame Valaeys’ face. The image of Helaena’s septa, wizened and surly, trying to twirl either one of them around a room was one she did not wish to reimagine any time soon. “I gathered you’d try to escape when you found out, so I decided to save us both the trouble.”

“You thought correctly,” Valaeys answered, leaning back to lie gently over the soft moss, pink saxifrage poking gently against her neck as she shifted to find a comfortable spot. From this angle, the foliage of the willow tree seemed miles above her, turning the sunlight a deep emerald green as it illuminated their space.

“I like it out here. It reminds me of the valleys back home. In the summer, you can barely see the grass through all the flowers. When I was smaller, I could lie down and have my body completely covered by them, until no one could see me. It used to drive my mother mad, when she rode out to call me in for dinner.” She spluttered indignantly as Helaena tossed a handful of daisies onto her, scooping them off her collarbones to chuck back at her, both giggling as she shook them out of her hair. Her cousin shuffled back, lying to join her on the ground, white hair splaying on the grass as they both turned to stare up at the sun dappling through the leaves. “It sounds beautiful.”

“It was. It is. I'll show it to you, someday. You can come visit me, and we can run around as much as we like without worrying about getting scolded for the mud on your pretty dresses.” She ran a finger across her cousin's skirt hem, sky blue fabric silky and thick under her fingers.

Another hopeful smile. “With Dreamfyre, it would only be a day's journey.”

Valaeys’ skin prickled slightly at the mention of Helaena’s dragon, remembering the sleek dark shape rearing towards her in the cave as she pulled Aemond out of the line of phosphorescent blue fire. “I’d like that, I think. Though I won't lie, your dragon scares me just a little.”

“She’s really very sweet once you get to know her.”

“Oh, I’m sure. I fear I shall never understand your family's mindset when it comes to those creatures.”

“ Our family. And you will, soon.”

“Will I? When?” She pressed, teasingly, turning on her side to slot a pink tipped daisy into her cousin's soft hair, nose to nose in the grass. Helaena’s face was thoughtful, contemplative, freckles scrunching together as she looked back at her cousin.

“When a cloud falls from the sky, and the mountain moves to greet it. Then you’ll understand.”

Valaeys let out a snort that brushed her nose against her cousins. “So never, then?”

“Hmm.” Helaena’s face remained serious, setting off another round of giggles from Valaeys. 

“Well I’ll suffer Dreamfyre for you to visit. We have plenty of cave systems she can stay in under the castle. At least with her there, you could visit whenever you missed me.” Helaena’s smile turned stiff at the edges. 

“I think I'd get chided if I left the Keep every time I miss you. For more reasons than just riding Dreamfyre too much.”

“Like what?”

“Like neglecting my betrothal.”

“Oh.”

They hadn’t talked about it yet. It had been four days since Aegon had whispered the news to her in that cold midnight courtyard, but despite the weighty silences, and awkward pauses when she stumbled across Aegon or Helaena whilst with the other, Helaena had never acknowledged it before this quiet moment. Helaena must have known she knew about it by now. The whole King's Council had been turning over the match as she filled their glasses, and Aegon mentioned it enough, whining on the days she managed to drag him out of his room, slumped dramatically over her shoulder, to the library. She shifted up from the ground, aiming to settle into a sitting position, but Helaena’s arm darted out, keeping her body flat on the ground.

“It’s bothering you. Why?”

“It's not. You're a bit young, is all.”

“That’s not it, not all of it,” She couldn’t see her cousin's face from this angle, pinned as she was to the ground, though she had stopped trying to get up. For all the flowy dresses and perfumed hair, her cousin had a grip like steel under her embroidered lace sleeves. She didn't need to test it out to realise she couldn't get up if she tried, not with her arms in the angle they were in. 

Up in the trees, a woodpecker nattered, long beak pecking against the trunk. His red tail feather was illuminated from below by the sunlight. She focused her eyes on it, a bright flash of red in a sea of green light, burrowing its thin beak into the framework of the tree.

“…I don't want you to marry him.”

“But Aegon is your friend,” her voice was quizzical from the side, “and you're his. You’re all he talks about.”

“Doesn’t mean I want you to marry him.”

“Why not?”

There were so many answers to that question she found herself pausing for a moment to sift through them. 

Why not? 

Because marriage was a death knell. Because it ended in dissatisfaction and screaming, long, silent corridors and blood on your hands. Because marriage was forever, shackling you to someone you barely knew until your last breath on this world. Because wives were forced to bear children for someone they didn't love to avoid disgrace, tearing apart their body, their soul, their prospects for the satisfaction of others. Because her mother had been sold like cattle to a man who abandoned her until the day he smashed her skull in. Because his marriage to her was a frivolous hindrance, something he had been able to avoid as easily as breathing, and just as easily rid himself of. Because her life had been dictated completely by an unjust marriage that she couldn't avoid, not like he did, not like a man could.

Because as long as she lived, she knew she would never, ever, ever marry, would never let herself be sold off to the highest bidder, would never let her mother’s fate live on through her.

Lamely, she managed to land on, “It's -  It’s not that I don't want him to marry you. It’s that I don't want you to marry him.”

“…You’re not making much sense.”

“Aegon's my friend. And I love him, I do, but he’s not - he’s not the kind of man - the kind of boy - that should be getting married. You deserve someone who wants to marry you. Someone you want to marry, truly, with all your heart, when you are older, and capable of choosing him for yourself. Someone who can make you happy. You don’t - I dont want you to be sad, ever. I want to see you content in this life.” A pause, as she pointedly looked away from her cousin, “plus he’s your brother. That’s - I’m still having hang-ups on that part.”

The arm pinning her waist lifted, hand reaching out to push stray strands of her hair away from her face. “I won't be sad. I’ll still have you, won't I? You make me happy.” 

Her voice was hushed as she replied, “Right. Yes. I - you make me happy, too.”

Helaena smiled, hand still sifting through her hair as she leant over her to nuzzle their foreheads together fondly. Her breath whispered across her cheek as she murmured, “and I’ll see you more often than you think, you know. Even if I can't visit as much as I would like to, you’ll have a sapphire to keep you company. Once my father convinces yours to agree to - ”

“Excuse me?” The girls rolled away from one another as if burnt. From the gap where the willow brushed the earth, a pair of black leather boots shifted, before a hand reached through to shift the leaves to the side, revealing Laenor Velaryon, hand raised in an awkward wave as he looked down at the pair of them.

“Ser Laenor,” Valaeys scrambled to her feet, tripping slightly over Helaena’s skirt from where their legs had been tangled together.

“Oh no, please don't - I’m sorry for the interruption.”

“You weren’t interrupting anything,” she shot back, feeling the flush creep up her neck.

A smile, so tiny it might not have been noticed had she not been staring in his face for any sign of … of what? What do you think he'll think? “Ah yes. Quite.”

The wind shifted through the leaves, green tendrils rustling and twisting over each other, as he continued to look back and forth between the two girls, eyes filled with a question she wasn't sure she knew the answer to. “Can we help you, Ser Laenor?”

“Oh,” he jolted back into movement, gaze set on Helaena. “Forgive me, Princess, but I was hoping to seek an audience with your cousin.”

“Of course.” Helaena brushed the remaining daisies from her skirt as she stood, brushing a hand over Valaeys’ to squeeze gently as she passed her by, a brief flash of comfort, before she ducked under the foliage towards the castle.

.

The palace gardens were Valaeys favourite place in King's Landing. The space, the silence, the seclusion and the greenery was the closest she could feel to home, compared to the rich finery of the castle, too clean and elaborate to ever mimic the jagged rocks of Runestone. It was here she spent long days with Aegon, out in the open sun, talking and talking until her throat hurt. It was here she found Helaena, hunched hidden in the dark of the tree line from her handmaidens, smiling sheepishly up at her from the ground, smudged in soil.

She liked it distinctly less as she paced the length of it beside Laenor Velaryon, hands fidgeting with her hair as he asked her of her home, her wellbeing, how she was enjoying her stay, the friends she had made - awkward, stilted conversation that made her want to throw herself into the bushes, regardless of the thorns, in an effort to escape from him.

Talk about something else. Anything else. Anything of substance, please, Gods.

“You and Princess Helaena have grown close,” he observed, hands behind his back as he looked with apparent fascination at the rose garden. 

…literally anything but that.

“We are cousins, and girls of the same age. It’s only natural, my lord.”

“Of course. I’m glad to see you have found a kindred spirit.”

She pulled to a stop, waiting for him to do the same as she stared up at him from the path. “May I ask what it is you wished to talk to me about, My Lord? Surely my friendships cannot be so fascinating they warrant private conversation.”

He appraised her for a moment, hand reaching into his pocket to withdraw a wedge of parchment, offering it to her. She tried, as she noticed the thick red seal, not to show the curl of her lip. 

“My wife and children are leaving for Dragonstone within the week. I didn't wish to leave before giving you this.”

“A letter from my father,” she said, forcing girlish brightness into her voice so fake it nearly made her wince, “I thank you, My Lord.”

“You misunderstand,” he replied, running a thumb over the paper before slotting it into her hands. “It is from my sister Laena. I received a letter from her this week, with it inside. She asked me to deliver it personally, to assure you it was written by her and not your father, though why the clarification was required I do not know.”

She wanted her to know it wasn’t from her father. Valaeys held it hesitantly between two fingers. Has she realised she wasn't reading Daemon's letters? “Well. Thank you. I shall read it later. Was that all, Ser?” Another forced smile. He stood, stiff and awkward, hands twitching awkwardly over one another. 

“I um. If possible - she asked that I make sure. I apologise, Lady Valaeys, for asking, but would it be possible you read it in my company? 

She’s good, she thought to herself. “Of course, Ser. You are welcome to it. Shall I read aloud?”

A flush came over the man's cheeks as he waved his hands apologetically. “No no of course not! I would not remove your privacy.”

With a gentle exhale of defeat, she broke the seal, trying not to register his eyes on her as she scanned the page.

To the Lady Valaeys Targaryen.

I would like firstly to apologise for the untoward method of delivery. I did not wish to put you in an awkward position by employing my brother in my scheming, but I fear I had to resort to unsavoury methods to be assured this message would reach you. 

I understand that you may not have been reading those sent by my husband, your father, for which I cannot blame you. I myself am not fully aware as to what he states in those messages, but knowing his tendency for dramatics, I do not hold your lack of response against you. 

This message is not about my husband, as I am sure you would appreciate. In fact, he himself is not aware I am writing to you, but I can no longer allow myself to let my lack of communication continue.

You are a girl of four and ten. My daughters, your half-sisters, Baela and Rhaena, are seven. I look at them now, young and bright, and completely vulnerable despite their fire, and am reminded that they are the age at which you were left when your father remarried.

Perhaps that is something that others would discourage me from mentioning. I have a feeling you don't exactly need the reminder. But I mention it with the intention of making the point that what was done to you was unjust. This too, I am sure you do not need reminding of. You should not have been abandoned by your father as you were, though under the circumstances I understand you had responsibilities tying you to your lands that would have made it impossible regardless.

I imagine you think poorly of me. I hope you do not, but I wouldn't blame you for it. Until I had my children growing within me, I didn't spare much thought for you - you were half of an idea to me, a figment of a person, hundreds of miles away and hidden between your castle rocks. Perhaps you resent me, for wedding your father so early after your mothers untimely death. 

I hope you don’t. It would make my next request far less embarrassing to make.

If this letter has made it to you, hopefully my brother shall be within your company right now. Don't look up at him just because you read that - he’ll know I’ve said something about him, and despite the fact he won't press, it will make the situation decidedly awkward. I love my brother, Lady Valaeys. I miss him more than I think I'm capable of expressing with words, especially not to him. Telling him how deeply I feel his absence would worry him, I think. For that reason I feel I can try, within this letter, knowing it won't get back to him. For many years, he was my sole friend within the court of Kings Landing, excluding his wife, your cousin, the Princess Rhaenyra, whom I still hold fond memories of in my heart as the dearest of friends. Without him as my companion, I believe my life may have taken a far different path. I love my family. I do not regret marrying you father. But I find myself without many friends, in Essos, apart from my daughters, and have found myself dreaming of my home in Driftmark, wishing I could embrace my brother, mother and father, and tell them to their faces how deeply I love them. 

I am sorry. I’m getting off topic. I've never even seen your face, and yet I'm confiding more in you than I have to anyone within at least three years now. The point is, I learnt much from him, good and bad, that has made me who I am today. An older sibling can be a wonderful thing. They shape you. They shape your experiences, the way you see the world.

I wish the same for my daughters. They have asked of you much these past years. I believe my daughter Rhaena especially likes the idea of meeting her eldest sister. I have caught her composing letters to you, though without a definitive address, she fell short, and was always too embarrassed to show me.

I have another child, growing within me as I write this. Believe me when I say, there is very little I would love more in the world then for my baby to meet all of their sisters, you included. 

I do not wish my children to be strangers to their own blood. I do not wish you to be a stranger to yours, either. 

I understand you don't wish to talk to your father, Lady Valaeys. 

I won't claim to know his nature in the way you do - I believe we see different facets of his nature. But I shall not reveal your correspondence to him, were you to decide to write back to me, or my daughters. I hope to return to King's Landing within the next year. Perhaps I shall meet you properly there. 

I would love to meet you. Truly.

I hope to hear from you soon, stepdaughter.

She hadn’t bothered to sign off. The bottom of the letter lay blank, as though she had intended to write more, but thought against it. 

“Are you alright?” Laenor asked, after she had spent a frankly embarrassing time staring down at the words. 

“Oh, quite alright,” Valaeys croaked back, realising with a jolt of shame that her fingers had torn at the edges of the letter under the strength of her grip. She blinked her vision clear, smoothing her hand awkwardly over the parchment, folding it once, twice, and slipping it into the lining of her tunic as she straightened to look once again at her step-uncle. His face was quizzical as he looked her over, as if expecting to see something in her expression, so she jerked her lips into some semblance of a smile that died almost as quickly as it came. She cleared her throat. “Not to worry. It held nothing of weight.”

He baulked. “Oh, no I didn’t mean to - I don't need to know, it's quite alright, I wouldn’t invade your privacy like that.”

“If you say so.”

“It's just - I imagine you know a thing or two about missing loved ones,” He remarked gruffly, eyes set on a point above her head as he addressed her. 

She waited, for one, two, three beats, anticipating the cold horror that flashed over his face.

“Oh, Gods, no, forgive me I didn't mean - ”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Ser Laenor,” she broke in, mercifully. “You’re right. I do have family waiting for me at home who I miss… I miss very much.” Her mind rested for a moment on Gerold Royce, walking the moors alone, a small grey figure on the mountainside. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but I worry for him. I fear he will become lonely, as childish as that sounds. I have distant cousins on my mothers side but they are … infrequent visitors, at best. I don't believe they hold much fondness for me.” A momentous understatement to say the least. Her mother’s cousins may have been scarce visitors, but she was no stranger to the obvious distaste they held for her. It didn't matter. She didn't need to explain it to him. 

He shifted on his heel towards her. “Ah. Yes. I - I feel much the same way. It has been many years since I have seen my sister.” Another pause. Gods. She breathed out, drawing herself up. “Well. Thank you for delivering the message to me, Ser Laenor. It was generous of you. I wish your family safe travel back to Dragonstone.” It was as polite a dismissal as she knew how to give. He quirked his lip to her, bowing his head gently. “Thank you. I shall take my leave of you, Lady Valaeys.”

“Farewell, Ser Laenor.”

She waited, for a moment, idly toeing a red leaf on the stone path with her boot, as he walked down the path, until he turned the corner out of sight. She spun on her heel, making her way back to the willow tree, ducking under the branches into the hidden shelter beneath. 

Her hands ran across the knotted trunk, pulling herself up, up, up, into the branches, until she was completely concealed from the ground. It was only here, amongst the bark and the birds, that she allowed herself to breathe properly, long shaky pants into the afternoon air as she pulled the paper out and reread it.

….huh. 

She wasn't sure exactly what it was she was feeling, other than the fact her heart was racing against her chest, and the world had gone oddly sharp and bright at the edges. She wasn't sad. Certainly, there was nothing to cry for, here, in this fragile moment. Nothing to laugh for either. She lay down on the heavy branch, slowing her breath, and let the wind carry through her, cold and comforting, bark pressing clarity into the soft skin of her palms as she let her mind settle back on the message.

Breathe.

She wanted to meet her. Her half sisters had asked about her. She wanted her to meet her daughters. 

Breathe.

The thought flooded like wildfire through her brain. What a revelation it was to realise they might have been thinking about her just as much as she had thought about them. 

Breathe, Idiot.

It had been the first letter she had read from Essos in at least two years. Had the others been like this? Should she have tossed the others on the fire so quickly?

Yes, she decided. She didn't need to hear from her father, not now, not ever. This, though -

Crack.

A twig snapped in the distance, freezing her line of thinking, followed by the shuffling of leaves underfoot. Someone was walking below her branch. Slowly, she rolled on her shoulder, turning to lie on her stomach, lifting up her dangling legs to slot them against the wood. 

Out of all the people she had been expecting, her little cousin had not been one of them.

Aemond looked around quizzically under the space of the tree, a book held loosely in his hands. From this angle she could make out the soft strands of hair that refused to straighten into his half up hair, curling around his pale face as he shifted them off irritably with the heel of his hand. She watched, lying on her stomach, chin resting on her crossed arms, as her cousin paced once, twice around the trunk of the tree, opening his mouth as if to shout out, before snapping it shut, choosing instead to sit carefully against the trunk, opening his book as he looked around the space once again. 

Was he looking for her? He must have seen her disappear under the tree, though she had never caught sight of him, and followed her from a distance. Sneaky little thing, wasn't he? He hasn’t thought to look up, though.

She debated, for a moment, on calling down to him, waving a hand in friendly greeting, slipping down the trunk to sit with him in the grass as she had with his sister. 

…Nope . He had been acting weird since their late night conversation. She had hoped, for a while, that he would have warmed more towards her, but it seemed to have had the opposite effect. He didn’t nod back at her in acknowledgment in the halls anymore. Yesterday he had completely ignored her greeting as he had exited the library, dodging past her as she made to enter.

On the heels of her hands, she pushed her torso off the branch lightly, making sure the wood didn’t creak. She wondered, shifting down the branch towards the body of the tree trunk, as he flicked impatiently through the book resting on his knees, why he had been looking for her. 

Silently, she dropped down beside him, footsteps muffled by the soft moss. No reaction. He flipped through the pages, face absent, for once, of its scowl, forehead smooth and expression peaceful as he scanned the page. Slowly, slowly, she reached out a hand to tap gently at his shoulder.

“Fuck -!?’ Aemond yelped as if he had been struck by lightning, scrambling backwards on the grass, book abandoned. 

By the time she came back to herself, laughing so hard she had to support her arm on the trunk of the willow tree, he came into her blurry line of sight, cheeks flushed, arms crossed defensively over the book clutched to his chest. It set off another round of giggles that deepened his glare significantly, turning on his ankle to leave the green dome.

“Wait, no I’m sorry, don't go!” She called, laughter still thick in her voice as she snagged his elbow gently. He whirled to meet her, face twisted in an unhappy scowl. The faint freckles on his face melded together, and she felt an overwhelming urge to poke at them, as she had done with Aegon so many times. She clutched her hands to her trousers, instead.

“Sorry. Really! It's just that you were so calm, and I hadn’t told you I was there, and you would have been scared no matter what -“ “I wasn't scared!” he interjected indignantly, bristling under the comment.

She was reminded of a kitten she had once seen outside the gates of Runestone, white furred and yowling indignantly for food, batting at its furry head with its paws until she had scooped it up and nuzzled it to her cheek, cooing over its sweet little face. 

“Of course not, Prince Aemond. A slip of the tongue. Startled , it was what I was going for.”

Perhaps her sincere address would have been taken with more grace had she not been smiling gently through it. As it was, her little cousin huffed, turning to sit against the tree and open his book once more with added force, eyes trained pointedly on the page. She leant her shoulder against the branch, watching him.

“….what are you reading?”

“A book.”

“What kind of book?”

“A book on philosophy.”

“ Another one? I've seen you with three different ones this week alone!”

“I like reading.”

“….”

“….”

“Nice weather we're having.”

“It is nice, yes.” He flipped two pages. Valaeys wasn’t sure he noticed.

“….is that why you're out here? To read in the sunlight?”

“Sure.”

“….”

“…..”

“You might have come at the wrong time, you know. The sun is setting pretty soon. It’ll get dark out here.”

“Well in the meantime I shall enjoy reading my book in peace in the garden.” Ouch . Pointed. He was flipping the pages more aggressively now. 

“I think I’ll go and watch the sunset.”

“Alright.” Flip.

“…would you care to join me?”

The book closed with an abrupt snap. “We are not friends.”

Ok then . They were doing this route today. That was fine. She has so much energy she was practically fit to burst from that letter. She could handle a little indifference. “I beg to differ. You let me in your room a couple nights ago, to avoid the guards. That was pretty friendly of you.”

He shot her a look of incredulity. “You were in the Prince's quarters at two in the morning , wearing servants' clothes, with a letter opener tucked into your waistband. And I was so tired I could barely think straight. Excuse me for not wanting to be kept up by the flood ground of guards that appearance would have warranted.” Something inside her winced at the mention of the letter opener, tucked haphazardly in the box shoved below her bed. 

“Ok, firstly you weren’t sleeping, you were reading a book on ancient languages at roughly two in the morning. Secondly, you would have been completely in your right to call the guards on my suspicious appearance, but you didn't. You hid me in your room and asked me if I was ok. That was kind of you.”

“We. Are not. Friends.” He stood with a dramatic flourish, making to move past her. Her hand lifted, catching calmly at his wrist, jerking to a stop.

It was odd, touching him. It didn't come naturally to her. Linking arms with Helaena felt needed, obligatory - without touching her, their conversations would feel strange, missing half of their interactions, hands squeezing for emphasis, poking to tease, folded together for comfort. She gravitated towards Aegon, too, almost without realising it, shifting across the seats to press their legs together as they read, poking the frowns off his face, brushing his hair away from where it stuck unflatteringly to his forehead, reminding each other they were there, even in the quiet, even in the dark of a courtyard with no one around to see it but them.

Touching Aemond felt as though she was handling something incredibly valuable and fragile - not because she felt he would fall apart under her - he was a sturdy kid, healthy and capable if the training yard was anything to go by, but because she felt, at any given moment, as though someone were to round the corner and scream at her, horrified, for going near him, for interacting in any way. It set a pit of dread, of nerves in her stomach, like running her hand across Sunfyre’s scales, or losing a foothold on a steep mountain, feeling the entire weight of her body pinned into the crook of her fingers, the pads of her thumbs. It was like touching the wing of a small, anxious bird that might fly up into her face at any moment. 

He wasn't flying away, though. Despite his clear tension, eyes darting from his arm to her face, he had turned away from the path to face her properly, waiting. Under the skin of his wrist, her hand thumbed against a line of leather, thick and sturdy, and a smooth stone pendant. She felt more that she saw the blood flush under his skin. He was wearing it. 

It felt strange. It felt powerful. It gave her the courage to talk.

“Then regardless of that. I've had an odd day, and have heard some very odd news, so I feel in the mood to make odd requests, even from people who don't wish to be my friend. Watch the sunset with me, cousin? Just for a minute?”

He appraised her, eyes wide with incredulity. Perhaps he would yank his hand off hers and scold her, she thought, now that the silent armistice had been broken. Perhaps his young face would scrunch up in anger as it had done that day by the Dragonpit, as she had tasted blood and smoke in her mouth, dragging him away from the flames. Perhaps he would turn and leave, reporting to his mother that he didn't want to be near her, ever again, spine stuck upright in adolescent pride. 

His body defaulted, hand turning heavily in hers as he relaxed his arm, eyes fixed pointedly on her left ear. “…ok. Just for a minute, though.”

She leant back on the balls of her feet, pulling them both out from under the green dome into the warm gold glow of the afternoon sunlight. It was oddly exposing, shifting out of their little bubble into the open air. 

“There's a good view up by the Dragonpit. You'll be able to read your book better up there anyway.” She kept their hands linked determinedly together as they walked up the hill towards the stone monument.

In the grass by the top of the hill, she sat down ungracefully, tilting her head towards the light. The sun felt nice against her skin, warm and gentle, dappling. From her peripheral, she could see Aemond sat cross-legged, posture pulled straight and awkward as he stared down at his book.

“Why do you make such an effort?”

“What do you mean?”

“You try to please everyone. To be friends with them. Why? Is it for security? Do you feel like you’re in control because of it?”

“I really, really don't. I'm only friends with Aegon and Helaena, truthfully. Is it such a trial for you to believe that I truly like you, too? That I want to be your friend?”

“I’m not the best company.”

“According to who?”

“…”

“Well, I enjoy your company.”

He flicked through his book obstinately. It didn't bother her. She was in too good a mood now for silence to bother her. She watched as the light tapered from bright orange to soft blue through the afternoon sky. They stayed there, watching the world shift and darken, until he couldn't read anymore, and bade her goodbye, walking down the path, glancing back over his shoulder all the way. 

.

Nearly the moment she eased shut her bedroom door behind her, she was fumbling to pull the letter out from her tunic. She pulled out the dark wooden box hidden below her bed, gently folding her stepmother's letter to slot it, carefully, next to those she had received from Gerold, before neatly turning the key, and tucking it back on the space.

Tap tap.

The sound of rain plinked against the window as she walked through her room, lighting the candles slowly to brighten the dark space, shucking off her shoes to rub carefully at the soles of her feet, sore from the climb up through the willow tree. Gods, these boots can pinch. It was worth it, though. She smiled, thinking back to the squeal he had let out when she had dropped beside him, the wide blue eyes, the tightly crossed arms over the book on his chest, puffed up with indignation like a snowy owl.

Tap tap tap.

Logs, dry driftwood, and a handful of hay went on top of the fireplace, Valaeys crouching, candle cupped in hand, to light the pile, blowing gently on the flickering flame to get it to dance across the brittle kindling. 

Tap tap tap tap tap. 

“Pssst!”

Her head moved towards the window. Valaeys’ stomach dropped at the sight of a small figure crouched outside the sill, feet barely slotting into the stonework, illuminated from the light within. 

“ Fucking- Oh my gods!”

She rushed to the window, cracking open the lock to let in the cold air. Finch looked up at her, young face flushed a cheerful pink from the cold, as she raised a red hand to wave cheerily.

“You’re really playing into this whole bird thing, aren’t you?”

“It’s my name! Are you going to let me in? I’ve been here for ages waiting for you.”

“Why in the seven hells would I do that?”

“Because out here a guard could see me by the light of your window. And that would lead to questions I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t like to answer, such as who I am and what I’m doing.” She let out a shiver from the cold air, goosebumps pricking over her uncovered arms. 

“And that would be bad for me why ? I'd just tell them you were trying to break in. Which you are, by the way!”

“And I'd tell them where you’d been four days ago. Not sure how well the court would take to hearing that a Lady had been walking around Flea Bottom at midnight, lugging around a drunken Prince.”

Reluctantly, Valaeys opened the window, ushering in the small figure as she drew the curtains, whirling to meet her. 

“What do you want?”

“You threatened my Lady with a knife.” She looked far too happy as with the statement, eyes glinting in intrigue as she walked around the room, poking at the murals on the walls, before perching on the soft coverlet of Valaeys’ bed, petting the knitted fabric with wonder. 

“You don't seem to mind too much?”

“Oh, she’s fine . She’s the reason I'm here, actually. Asked me to give you this.” From her satchel, the small girl produced a slip of paper. Valaeys took it, gingerly, unfolding it to look down on the words inked in bright indigo ink as Finch opened her closet and began sifting through the clothes.

“Don’t - hey! Stop snooping!”

“Read the letter,” she shot back, pulling a small cape over her head that Valaeys had outgrown a month prior, running her hands delightedly over the soft bearskin lining.

Sighing, she looked back down to the slip of parchment.

Write to Misery, should you need answers for that which ails you. Any destination in Kings Landing will suffice, so long as you address it as such. It shall get back to me. My services could be of much use to you, Lamb.

“…you broke into the Keep over that? I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I shan’t be going near Flea Bottom again, much less take the time to write to someone who lives practically a stone's throw from my doorstep.”

“Breaking in implies it was difficult, which it was not. You know as well as I how easy it is to scale these walls. You're a climber aren't you? At least you locked your window!” She walked across the room towards the fireplace, “And you won't be a stone's throw for much longer, M’lady,” she held her cold hands by the fire and rubbed them together.

“And why’s that?”

“Because you’ll be travelling soon.”

“I'm not going back to Runestone yet .”

Finch straightened up, still bundled in her old cloak. “Not Runestone, m’lady.”

“Where then?”

Finch regarded her with a look of blank incredulity. “You'll hear soon enough, I bet. Mad , it is, that we hear about this stuff before you lot. Then again, I suppose he did send a letter to her first.” Valaeys’ mind went back to that blue curtained room, to the long mahogany desk and the pale letter sat innocently on the woodwork. Red wax with a Targaryen sigil. She stepped forward. 

“Has something happened to my father?”

“Go to bed, M’lady. You’ll find out by day's break, no doubt.”

“I shall find out now, because you're going to tell me! Isn't that your whole job? To fly around telling people secrets?” Finch swung a leg back over the windowsill, looking back amusedly. 

“My job was to give you that paper. Think about writing, ok? She’ll be disappointed if you don't.”

“Hey! Give me back my cloak!”

But she was gone, melding into the night, as Valaeys ducked her head out the window to peer into the poorly lit grounds below. She drew the lock bar on the window, pulling to ensure the hinge remained firm.

…what was that about? She paced around the length of her room, her mind scanned all she knew about her fathers situation in Essos. The list fell rather short.

Had he learnt about the letter Laena sent? Why would that mean anything to him? He himself wrote frequently enough, even if she didn't read his letters.

Perhaps he fell off Caraxes and broke a leg, her mind proffered up hopefully, as she buried her face into the soft down of her pillow, yanking up the thick cover to fall over her shoulders. Or maybe both legs! It was a marvellously comforting thought. The fire crackled warm and deep orange from the grate, red coals glowing like rubies in the dark. She blinked dazedly into the flames until sleep misted over her eyes. 

The flames cracked higher, slipping over the wood and stripping back the bark. It blacked, crumbling gently through the metal frame, filling the room with the comforting scent of burnt cedar as she nestled, warm and safe, into the blankets.

.

Viserys 

“Dead?”

“Dead, your grace.”

“….you are certain?”

“The Lady Laena burnt up by the flames of her dragon Vhagar, Your Grace. Both her and the child are lost. Daemon and his daughters fly for Driftmark for the funeral.”

Viserys slumped back against his bedpost despite the sharp pain it elicited in his back, dragging his hand against his face. The smell of something sickly escaping from the bandages had him jerking it quickly away as he stared at the face of Otto Hightower, long and lit by the corridor light, hands folded in front of himself.

“A letter from the Prince Daemon, Your Grace.” 

It sat innocently in his hands, a small sliver of paper and wax. Seven years, Daemon. Seven years with no word, and now here it was, finally, after everything, pathetically small and white against the grey mottled skin of his hand. 

He cracked open the seal, fingers fumbling with the effort, leaning forward towards the candlelight to scan at the message. It was almost laughabley short, little more than a list of names and a signature. Seven years. He handed it quickly back to Otto, staring blankly at the tapestries of his bed.

“Shall I wake your family, your grace? I’m afraid Princess Rhaenyra and her husband have been informed already.”

“No, no. Let the rest sleep. The gods know they shall need it.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

The crinkle of paper filled the room as Otto flipped the letter, searching the blank back for words that Viserys knew weren’t there. “If I may, Your Grace?”

“Go on. I don't suppose this night can get any worse.”

“There was no allusion to the Lady Valaeys in this letter.”

“He is her daughter.” He snapped irritably, “His first daughter, his first heir, and first niece to the King. She shall come, invitation or no, no matter what my fool brother thinks of it.”

Otto bowed his head, moving towards the door, “As you wish.”

“Otto. Arrange for her to meet me, come morning. I would like to speak to my niece.”

.

It was clear from her attire Valaeys had just woken, hair still sticking around her face despite her smoothing, mannish clothes slightly crumpled. He was reminded, sharply, of Daemon in his youth, brash and frazzled, gap toothed and grinning wildly as their mother picked the leaves from his hair, chuckling lightly. Back when he had been small enough for Viserys to scoop up, squealing indignantly, and hanging off his shoulders, wooden sword swinging in his young, pudgy child’s hands. His foolish little brother. His niece was not smiling. Her arms were folded defensively around her frame, even as she dipped her head in greeting. “You wished to see me, Your Grace?”

“There is no need to address me as such, child. You are my blood. Take a seat.” He gestured to the chair across from him.

Surprise flickered across her face as she appraised him, sinking slowly into the cushioned seat opposite him to look down at the stretch of kings landing in front of her. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yes. It took years of work to replicate the masonry. Though I must admit, it is far more pleasant smelling from this distance.” He watched her chuckle awkwardly, eyes trained on him as her hand reached to pull at the end of her braid.

“Is everything alright….uncle?” He felt an odd stab at the title, mouth shifting despite the dried skin to smile gently at his niece, before falling again, quickly. 

“Not quite.” He cleared his throat. “I, um. I'm no great politician, Lady Valaeys, nor do I claim to be a generally clever man. I have a Hand for that, after all. But I am no fool. I realise you may hold some animosity towards my brother, in his absence.” The hand pulling at her hair went still as she tensed. He made to soothe her. “It is justifiable , child. After the death of a mother, it was his duty to be there for you, and join you in your grief over his wife’s accident. I too found myself frustrated with him. No one would shame you for it.”

A strangled cough came out of Valaeys’ throat, hidden behind her hand as she looked at him incredulously. He soldiered on. 

“His journey to Essos…. Well. I haven't talked to him in some years, but even then I made clear my disapproval of his abrupt marriage. He did not carry out his princely duties as he should have with your mother.”

“I am aware, Your Grace.”

“He… he always had a healthy amount of respect for her, though. When we talked.”

His niece leant back in her chair, arms folded gently as she looked over to him. Defensive. Irritated. Hiding it behind a front of relaxation. It was almost eerie, how closely some of her mannerisms shaped up to her fathers, as though a young fragment of his brother had fallen forward in time. “I’m sure the reports were positively glowing.”

Perhaps, he thought, he should move the conversation forward, rushing to get out his points. “Despite these animosities, I find I still harbour love for him in my heart, feelings I am certain you also share.”

His niece's gaze was perfectly still and steady on his face, cold and careful, despite the smile pulling gently at her mouth. Faked ease . “Pardon me, Your Grace, but I fear I must ask again why you called me here?” 

…a different tactic, perhaps. Straight to the point, clean and quick.

“Laena Velaryon is dead. Your father has invited the family by name to Driftmark. You were not mentioned within his addressal. As your uncle and your King, I would like to extend an invitation regardless.”

Her mouth opened and closed as she leaned back slowly into the pillow of the chair. 

“…….oh.”

Perhaps it was a tad too straight to the point, he thought, as she stared blankly at him, watching but not quite seeing his grimace.

“Are you well, my dear?”

“Um.” Her eyes blinked slowly. “Ah.” 

Pain ribboned up his side as he shifted in his chair towards her. “…Lady Valaeys? What do you think of my suggestion?”

“Hmm?”

“About the funeral, Lady Valaeys.”

“Oh. Right. Sure, yes, ok. Yeah. It sounds like a fine idea, Your Grace.” Uncle, he thought to himself, looking at the white wisp that was his niece, I’m your uncle.

“…you are sure? I would not press you if it was against your wishes to go. I only ask because I believe you may wish to be there for your sisters, in their time of need. And - and perhaps it was not an intentional slight. In fact I'm sure it was not meant to be as such. Perhaps he simply forgot about you.” As soon as the words left his mouth, Viserys wished he could shove them back in. It was only the shifting of his niece's gaze to meet him that stopped him from lifting his good hand to rub against his temple in exasperation at his stumbling.

“Oh. Yes, he does have a habit of doing that.” There was some light, now, some clarity, in her eyes, her spine straightening as she drew herself up in the seat. Her hand flexed in his peripheral, and he focused his gaze on the small stone she was turning over, habitually, in her hands, a small blue iris painted carefully onto the funeral stone. 

“…So you wish to go?”

“How - how did she die?”

“Dragonfire. The childbirth had… complications. She induced flame from Vhagar.”

She exhaled, long and slow. “…yes. I would - I would like to meet my sisters. I lost my own mother at their age. Perhaps I can help them with it, in some way.”

Relief rushed over him. “I thought so too.”

It would be good for all of them, amid all this chaos. Perhaps it would even be good for Daemon, to see his child after so long, to see the young girl she had become, who looked and acted so achingly like her father, such an unforgiving reminder of his failures to remedy their relationship. Not anymore. He would try, Viserys resolved, to fix this mess. Even if Alicent remained determined to wed Aegon and Helaena, ruining his original plan, he had other sons. He would propose the match, once things had settled, once the grief of Laena’s loss had faded slightly. This coldness had gone on too long.

“Well. I thank you for the invitation. May I take my leave?”

“Of course.”

She seemed rushed to depart, tripping slightly as she rose from the chair, bowing her head hastily as she moved quickly towards the door. 

“May I ask where you’re headed?”

She paused for a moment by the door. “I have to return a letter, Your Grace.”

.

Valaeys

She found him by Black Water Bay, a speck in the distance, small and dark with the black of his tunic. From the castle window, she might have confused him for a chink of driftwood, if it wasn’t for the seafoam and his stillness that gave away his position, foaming in large swathes around his body, marking him out in a circle of white salt and swaying water.

The rocks were tricky to climb down, wet and smooth, thin leather shoes slipping left and right as she picked her way towards him. 

Clack. A pebble loosened from the pile under the sole of her shoe, falling onto the ground below with a sharp noise. She watched, cautiously, as his shoulders tightened, head not moving to look at her.

“I am not in the mood for conversation,” he spat, staring out over the water, waves foaming around his ankles. 

“Then it's a good thing I do not plan to stay for long.”

She clambered the rocks to shuffle next to him, cold saltwater seeping through her socks, clogging the leather of her shoes. Her feet sunk into the sand, thinned by the relentless wash of the tide, water rippling past her knees.

For an inescapable moment, they stood together, looking over the sea as if their eyes could reach all the way to Driftmark, where her body would soon be put to rest.

“I stared out of my bedroom window everyday for three months after my mother died. She was buried on the moors, right by my window. The moonlight shone directly on her gravestone for miles and miles, regardless of where it sat in the sky. I used to think she was haunting me.” No reaction. The waves were cold and biting against her hips.

The words escaped her quite before she knew she was speaking them. “I hate my father, you know.”

Laenor’s head tilted, just slightly to the side, eyes still fixed red raw and unwavering on the horizon. It was all she needed to know he was listening. She continued on. “I recognise that’s something I shouldn’t say, which is exactly why I’m saying it now. He was never present, you see. He -“ she bit back her words, smoothing them into something more proper, “he held no fondness for me or my mother. Upon her… unfortunate death, he left me, alone without a second thought, to marry your sister.”

He was looking at her now, eyes narrowing in defensiveness. She soldiered on quickly, rushing to get the words out before he could interject. “But despite that, I never resented her. He could be charming, when he wanted. The handsome Rogue Prince. He knew how to make people love him, though he never cared enough to try with me.”

From out of her pocket came the letter, crumpled slightly from her hasty shifting through the locked box in her room. She handed it to him, watching as he unfolded the already broken wax and began to read. “Your sister tried, though. Despite everything, she wanted me to meet her daughters. She acknowledged me, despite my position as a child from another woman, though she held no obligation to. Not like my father did.” She watched as his face tightened as his eyes scanned the carefully inked words. “I meant what I said when I told you it held no weight to me. No one will ever replace my mother in this life. No one. But I can tell your sister was a good woman. And I'm sure, a wonderful mother to her daughters. The love she feels for them, for you - I could feel it through the letter. She missed you, dearly, but she didn't want to worry you with it. She wanted you to be happy, even when she was not. I've never been proud to be my fathers daughter. But I think I would have been proud to be your sisters, in another life. Had the world not unfolded in the way it has.”

Laenor let out a choked noise, quickly reaching a hand over his eyes to rub the water away and draw himself up into a more respectable state. When he finally did look at her, the emotion was undefinable in his face.

“I think she would have liked that, Lady Valaeys.” The water sprayed gently against his cheek, mixing salt spray against his temple. He looked cold and pale, but calm, standing still and sturdy in the foam where the water rocked against her, near lifting her feet from the sand as she stumbled. “In her stead, I am - I am content to call myself your uncle.” He shifted, looking longingly over the letter, before proffering it back to her. “Thank you. For letting me hear from her one last time.” She stared down at it, the fragile slip held in his hand, the last words either of them had of Laena Velaryon.

“Keep it.” She folded his hands back over it, careful not to drip water on the parchment. “I’ve known grief. A last letter from my mother - there’s not anything in the world I think I wouldn't have done to keep it. These words mean far less to me than they do to you. She would want you to have it.”

He stared down at where their hands clasped over the paper, slowly drawing back to hold the pages, gently, to his chest. “Thank you.”

She had debated adding more. She had thought to talk about missing home, about losing those you love unjustly. She had thought to talk of grief. But in the end, she did nothing. She left him there, clutching the letter, as the sea foam climbed further up his body. 

She reckoned he understood, anyway.

Chapter Text

Valaeys

There was a thin band of sunlight tracing across the floor of her bedroom, the only illumination able to worm its way through her hastily drawn curtains.

If the strength of it was anything to go by, morning had passed her by, light waning from a gentle blue to a fierce orange glow as she sat, curled on her floor, tracing a young finger against the wooden swirls of her floorboards. Next to her, propped against her bedpost, the carefully stitched eyes of a knitted owl stared down at her, as if silently judging her lethargy. Just because she could, she frowned back at him, rolling onto her side to lie her head against the wooden floor, eyes sliding to the thin gap under the bottom of her door. Through it, the light flickered, shapes shifting gentle shadows across the floor.     .

She felt more than she heard the vibration of her mothers footsteps as she shifted her feet in the hallway.

“Valaeys?” Her voice was soft through the wood of her door, barely able to make its way through the wood. “Little bird? Are you sleeping?”

She cleared her throat, slumping into a sitting position, voice hoarse with sleep. “No.”

Valaeys wrapped her arms around her knees, burying her face in her arms as the hinge swung open, her mother stepping carefully through the room.

“Gaul and Oksar have arrived. You remember them, don’t you? From the last visit?”

“…I saw their horses from the window.”

“Ah.” Her footsteps clunked through the room, leather walking boots shedding smatters of soft soil over the wooden floorboards. The swish of curtains flooded the room with sunlight, illuminating the silhouette of her mother against the green backdrop of the hills. “And yet that was some two hours ago. You did not come down to greet them, I noticed.”

“Didn’t know what to say.”

“Well. Perhaps we could try riding with them, today? We could try to find some common ground with them, you and me.”

“Can’t I just stay here? I’ll read the history book you got me! You said you wanted me to learn it - I’ll do that today while you're out!”

“Little bird.” Rhea crouched beside her, drawing her small figure into her side. “You cannot hide in this nest forever.”

She tucked her head quietly into the safe crook of her mothers strong arms. 

“They stare at me. They think I’m weird, because of how I look. They’re mean, when you’re not around.” And then, quietly, “They don’t like me.” She felt the leather of her mothers tunic creak quietly, smelling of rich soil and bonfire wood as her arm tightened protectively around her, running careful, calloused fingers through her white hair. “My cousins may be childish, but they are not fools. You are my daughter, and a Royce, far before you are his, regardless of your namesake. Whether they like it or not, you shall one day be the lady of all of this.” She tucked a finger under her chin, lifting her daughter's head to look at her, brown eyes staring into their perfect replica, soft with love. “I’m certain that with time, they shall come around to you, little bird. It's difficult to stay mad at you for long, after all.” And she had lent down, pressing fluttering kisses in rapid succession over her freckled forehead, scooping her up squealing into the warm glow of the midday light.

.

The wood on the ceiling was different than usual. It was the first thing she noticed as she came into consciousness, breathing shakily out through her nose. She didn’t jolt, didn’t raise a hand to push the hair off her face - she just lay there, for a moment, staring blankly up at it. It’s curved all wrong. The shade is off. The tree circles she had memorised for months in the uppermost corner were gone, smoothed into polish. 

Knock Knock Knock. 

“My Lady?” A voice came muffled through the wood of the door. Sweat was sticking to her undershirt, blood rushing in her ears as she assessed her surroundings slowly.

Silk bedding under her fingers. Hair sticking to her neck. An unfamiliar ceiling, with a spiderweb in the corner. The world tilting, slowly, steadily, from left to right. The smell of wet wood.

A boat. She was on a boat.

“Lady Valaeys?”

“I’m awake,” she croaked, then coughed, voice sticky with sleep. “I’m awake. Thank you, Gaius.” She heard his armour creak as he turned to straighten up against the door once more, as she pulled herself through the motions of waking up, shifting her bedding off her legs and letting the cold air flush in as she turned to the dresser, rifling through the drawer for the stiff black funeral clothes packed neatly within. 

.

In all of her fourteen years of age, Valaeys could count the amount of times she had been on a boat with one hand.

When she had been not quite nine years old, Gerold Royce had woken her up one morning, cheeks flushed and beard ruffled with the cold mountain wind, and had informed her that the two of them were going to go sailing. It had taken him an hour or two to convince her to even leave the warm confides of her bed, much less agree to the outing itself. It had been a stark winter morning, with pale grey sky and frost just kissing the grass, and she remembered looking across the long blue stretch of ocean, foaming with heavy waves on the rocky fossil beach, as her guardian dragged a paltry sailboat towards the tide, plotting in her head the distance from the nearest cave formation along the bay to her uncle. Perhaps he wouldn’t even notice she had hidden until it was too late. 

The boat had been unsteady in the wind, all creaking wood and flapping sails, held together, she had felt, purely by steel nails and Gerold’s sheer force of will. She had lasted all of ten minutes by the prow before she was tasked with the tamer job of tying ropes, churning out Bowlines and Reefs and Figure-8 Knots until her fingers had ached, chilled to the bone by the wind as her uncle hummed sailing songs under his breath. 

The memory had been tinged with a sort of fond reminiscence in the three months she had been away from home - as generally unpleasant as it had been, all wet salt spray and cold fingers (not to mention how she managed to capscise it not forty feet from the shore), it had been a memory of home, and of her uncles roaring laughter as she had plucked wet seaweed from her hair. It had reminded her he cared enough to teach her the little things, the meaningless things that would hold no value to her role, on the off chance she would enjoy it - and even when she didn’t, that gave them time to spend together, untainted with lessons or responsibilities. In a moment of weakness, lying in her stiff silk bed in King's Landing, she had even contemplated writing to Gerold to ask if he still had the little boat, and that perhaps when she came back, they could go out again. In warmer weather, of course.

For all the softness of that memory, Valaeys was steadily remembering just why she had hated the open ocean so much.

The persistent swaying left her staggering, unsure on her feet for one of the first times in her life, the wood creaked as though it were about to snap off the frame, and the slap of sailors stepping across the deck left her with dark smudges under her eyes, a pallid complexion and a general lack of awareness, bumping into every second object as the waves lifted up the hull. There were very few places to escape to from the judgemental gaze of the newly reinstated hand Otto Hightower, puffed up smugness emanating from his entire being, whose narrow gaze followed her like a rash across a room, and the unrepentant hacking of King Viserys over port-side as he hurled up his dinner echoed through the entirety of the hollow frame. Even now, as she stepped out onto the deck, the smell of royal bile hit her gently in the very back of her nose, causing her to wince slightly. 

The air was biting and cold compared to the warmth of her room, but it was an achingly beautiful morning all the same, all pale blue and pink sky and sparkling sea stretching out unrelentingly for miles on end as she drew her black shawl firmly around her shoulders.

In front of her, framed by the mist of his breath against the air, pale face turned away from her, Aemond sat, looking out at the horizon, thick blanket propped around his knees. He would look almost at ease, were it not for his ramrod posture, impossibly perfect despite the sway of the boat. No doubt it was something that had been impressed upon him at court. She found some satisfaction, at least, in the ruffle of his hair, pulled out of its clean half-back style by the whipping wind, causing strands to flutter around his young face, curling from the spray.

She squared her shoulders, coughing under her breath. “Good morning, Prince Aemond.”

“….” He looked up from his book, blue eyes scanning her cautiously. She raised her hand in a half hearted wave, before backtracking, jerking her hand back to her side. 

“Good morning, Lady Valaeys.”

“May I join you?” 

He lifted a hand, gesturing to the bench beside his. “Be my guest.”

She crossed the deck unsteadily, smiling half heartedly in his direction as she situated herself, gazing out at the long stretch of blue sea ahead of them. 

In the air, a snatch of sound trickled through to her, so faint she almost didn't catch it. “Val!” She turned her head quizzically back to the boat deck. “Hey! Val!!” 

“He’s above you,” Aemond murmured, not looking up from his book as she squinted upwards, shielding her face from the sun with her arm.

Cutting through the sky in a line of brilliant gold, Sunfyre streaked above their heads, scales catching the sunlight in sparkling glints of rich orange. Atop his back, the ridiculously tiny figure that was Aegon lifted both his stick figure arms to wave eagerly down at her as he whooped into the open air, white hair whipping around his minuscule face. Tie your hair back, idiot, she thought to herself, thinking back to the truly frightful knots she had been cajoled into picking out of his hair after previous flights. 

Without really meaning too, she found herself smiling back up at him. She glanced furtively over her shoulder to the ship deck, relatively empty save for her and Aemond, stepping up onto the prow to wave her arms back in the same dramatic wide arch.

“Hello!”

The little figures waving intensified. Tinny, muffled noise came down, “Hey!”

“Good morning!”

“Hello!” Clearly he couldn't hear her half as well as she could him, darting down a hand to grip at his saddle as Sunfyre swerved against the wind. 

“Do you mind? ” Glancing back down, she realised she had shifted her foot across the bench towards Aemonds seat in an effort to stabilise herself, leg nearly pushing his book into his lap.

“Oh. Sorry.” After one last dramatic flourish to Aegon, she slumped back down against the cushions next to him, head leaned back to watch the dragons sweeping the air above the white sails. Dreamfyres scales shone so blue she nearly merged with the sky, save for the small dot of Helaena’s black riding clothes peeking out against her back. Somewhere behind her cousins, Syrax and Seasmoke skimmed the waves, silent and reproachful figures.

She found herself staring out over the side of the boat. Peaking over the horizon, a misted castle spire had come into view, Driftmark rearing upwards into the morning sky. 

“You can see it from here.” She remarked quietly, hearing the rustle as Aemond craned his head to see into the distance. 

“It’ll be less than an hour now, then.”

“Hmm.”

“…is everything alright?”

Nothing was alright. She shouldn’t have come. This was all a huge irrational mistake. She struggled to put how she felt into words without sounding small and childish. “There's a map of Westeros, hung up in the main hall in Runestone. My guardian never let me touch it, because it was so old. I suppose he thought I’d rip it. But it was right across from where I sat when he taught me, so I used to stare at it a lot. It was filled with all these little symbols of the houses, so I memorised them pretty fast.”

It was clear from Aemond’s face he had no idea where this could possibly be going.

“You’d think that there’d be dragons crawling all over Dragonstone, but there was only one. A little black smudge on the canvas, barely there at all. I used to pretend it was Balerion the Black Dread, when I was little. Driftmark , though. Driftmark was covered in them. Not little winged things like ‘Balerion’, but huge sea serpents poking up through the waves. I used to think it was a breeding ground for them. Why is Dragonstone named after them, I thought, when Driftmark is a breeding ground? But really, the serpents didn't symbolise dragons. They were hidden rocks, riptides, uncharted waters. Symbols of peril.”

Aemond watched her profile carefully over the pages of his book. 

“ ‘Here there be dragons.’ I used to think they meant it literally, that that's where dragons nested, where they were brought into the world. I must have been ten when Gerold caught me looking at it and explained it really meant, ‘Here lies danger.’ Cartographers drew serpents to symbolise dangerous places. The unknown. I was always scared that if I came to Driftmark, something bad would happen to me even before I reached the shore.”

Above her head, Dreamfyre screeched against the wind, pulling swiftly through the air to glide over the towers of Driftmark.

“You think something bad will happen?”

“I think I don’t need a map to tell me that coming here is probably a bad idea.” 

“Then why go through the trouble of telling the anecdote in the first place?”

“…I suppose I like saying what I’m thinking, point or no. It fills up the spaces.”

“Well I like reading. And silence is rather instrumental for that. Would you mind?”

“Right. Sorry.” The waves foamed soft and white over the ship's bow. She watched on in silence, as the dragons dipped overhead to land gracefully onto the island, watching the port grow closer and closer with every wave.  

.

The funeral was a small, quiet affair, a gathering of black shrouded figures standing against the ocean rocks as Laena Velaryon’s coffin was brought out to the fore, hushing the crowd as what was left of her Stepmother was dragged through. If she had known the drawn faces of more than half the people here, she would guess that the scene almost felt intimate. Unluckily, she was forced to look at them each in turn, slowly identifying the sorry crowd as Vaemond Velaryon spoke carefully in thickly accented High Valyrian, foreign words lost on Valaeys save for the odd snatch Aegon had managed to teach her. Brilliant. Now there was nothing to focus on other than the sheer misery of the crowd. 

The man standing motionlessly towards the ocean was clearly his brother - but there was an elegance too him his twin did not possess, held in the line of his shoulders, the strength of his posture. He had the same strong jaw and handsome face as Laenor. The Sea Snake, then. Colrys. The black veiled lady weeping quietly beside him must have been Rhaenys Targaryen then, his lady wife. The two girls by her side—

 She flicked her eyes away quickly back to Laena’s coffin, heart in her throat.

  Fuck.

Calm down.

As Valaeys began to tense further and further at the swelling familiarity of the crowd, linking mournful faces to blurred names, Aegon, as was his way, had began to readily enjoy himself, grinning uncomfortably wide and waving at anyone whose eyes passed over Valaeys for too long a time, shifting a shoulder in front of her, until their gaze dropped awkwardly away from the pair.

“Well, this is boring,” Aegon muttered to her, looking at the swell of the ocean as Laena’s body was drawn further up the path by ropes toward the drop. “I’d been picturing something more elaborate, you know? Like a naval fanfare. Or them putting her corpse on a boat and setting it on fire with burning arrows, like one of those First Men funerals you told me about. You get what I mean?” 

Valaeys did not, in fact, get what he meant. Neither did she know that Aegon had focused at all on anything she had told him about her ancestors. She chose to focus on that general realisation, as not to have her fifth near breakdown in the past hour. 

Aegon shifted next to her, lifting his head to stare mournfully towards where the handmaidens were decanting wine for the reception in the distance. By his side, his hand twitched, moving to signal towards one of them. Watching the crowd carefully to make sure no eyes lingered on her, she swatted his arm quickly in reproach.

“ Stop that.”

He paused, hand retracting slowly as he turned to look back at her. “Stop what?”

She breathed an irritated exhale through her nose, bringing a hand up to lace her fingers firmly with his, restricting his ability to signal for wine, or wander away from the crowds as he did so frequently. “I had to sleep on a boat consisting of your brother, your mother, the King and the Hand for this funeral, with miraculously little incident. If you get drunk here, so help me, Aegon, I won't talk to you for the rest of the week. And stop making a scene anytime anyone looks at me.”

“Is that supposed to discourage me? Blissful silence and wine? If only -“ he choked out a stuttered wheeze as she subtly drove her elbow into the skinny gaps of his rib cage, feeling the weight of gazes flick over them as Laenas body was slowly carried past them. Teeth gritted, eyes fixed on the ground to avoid the possible gaze of the two young girls staring tearfully over the crowd, she ground out, “wait two hours and you can drink as much as you damn well like. Hell, I might even join you.” She certainly felt she needed it. Gods, she hadn’t even seen him yet. 

She felt sick. 

Aegon drew up his posture to gaze on the scene before them with overexaggerated solemnity. She joined him, gazing carefully over the smooth lines of Lady Laenas coffin, wood and heavy stone carefully softening into a carefully carved face, peaceful and modestly pretty. Was that what she had looked like? She had pictured her differently in her mind's eye, though now even that picture was lost to her in place of this chunk of stone. She tried to divert her mind away from what lay beneath the coffin, no doubt a body blistered by flame beyond recognition. If there was even anything left. How long had her body been held through the flames before the dragon had decided the job was done?

Through the corner of her eye, the crowd shifted, a sea of white hair and black cloth pulling aside like weeds under the tide.

And there he was. 

Standing calm amongst the crowd, her fathers gaze was fixed on the coffin as it creaked past, face trained into careful blankness that did nothing to conceal the bleakness clear in his eyes. He had grown his hair out, though not as long as it had been when she was smaller, soft and almost crystalline in colour, when it had been long enough she could have touched it with the tops of her fingers, in those fragile moments when she had dared to venture close to him. Now it cut a sharp line over his shoulders, neat and clean, drawn neatly away from his handsome face to show he had nothing to hide. 

She was irritated to realise that was the only difference, really. He might have been a memory picked from her mind's eye, infuriatingly similar to how he had been when she had seen him last, that cold day on the mountainside when he had ruffled her hair absentmindedly, head already turned towards his dragon. Good riddance, she had thought, thinking back to the hall where her mother was waiting for her, the warmth of the fireplace and the softness of her mothers smile as the wind whipped cold and biting around her face from the push of Caraxes wings. 

And not a month later Rhea had been dead, not fifty feet away from where Valaeys had last seen her father, her blood seeping into the soil of the mountain.

Had he not changed at all? 

His face was the same, free of wrinkles, sunspots or scars, in direct parallel to his decrepit brother, watching the funeral hunched on a wheelchair. His posture was straight, but relaxed, tunic impeccably cut across his shoulders. She was almost as tall as him, now. Her hair was almost as long as his had once been. How had he changed so little, when she had changed so much? 

Had she truly left so little an imprint on him? 

He wouldn't even look at her.

As if he had heard her, grey eyes flickered up from the coffin to meet hers. With an odd stab, she saw the exact moment of realisation in his eyes, head tilting almost imperceptibly to the right with appraisal as he scanned over her. No other reaction, save for the pale grey eyes locked onto her own. Frown. Yell. Tell me to leave. Make a scene. Gods, make a scene. Something, anything.

Has this changed you? She wondered to herself, looking back at him, calm and cold, refusing to be the one who looked away first as Vaemond’s words filtered uselessly through her ears. Somewhere behind her, Laenor let out a choked sob into the heel of his hand as what was left of his young sister was drawn slowly, gratingly, towards the drop. Did you pick up what was left of her? Did you cradle her to you, regardless of the mess and the heat coming off what was left of her and your baby, as Vhagar stood before you? Was it you that packed her, neat and clean and tidy inside this box, never to be seen again? You left my mother. For all you cared she could have rotted on that mountainside, brains scattered against the grass. Somewhere in the back of her head she registered the gentle squeeze around her hand as Aegon readjusted his palm, no doubt in response to her tightening grip. The tip of his pointer finger tapped out a gentle rhythm against her knuckle bone, warm and clarifying. She focused on it, as her eyes stayed locked on her fathers. 

In the end, it was him that looked away first, gaze drawn towards a drawling Vaemond as a laugh shook through his body, a smile creeping onto his face as the crowd looked on incredulously. Laughing at a funeral. Perhaps the years had done nothing to alter him after all. She leant down towards Aegon quickly - there was no need to be cautious, when Alicent’s gaze was just as trained on Daemon as the rest of them, mouth pursed in disdain. “ What the fuck is he saying?” Aegon's mouth twisted in concentration as he processed the foreign words, before twitching upwards slightly, leaning towards the crowd in barely concealed interest. “Velaryon blood runs thick with salt, and won't be thinned.” “…What does that mean?” His hand crept to rest on her upper back, shifting her so her line of sight fell on Rhaenyra, holding Jacerys and Lucerys carefully to her in the crooks of her arms as Vaemond drew his gaze off them, back towards her grinning father. As she watched, Jacerys lifted his young face to glare reproachfully at the back of Vaemond’s head, brown eyes brimming with indignation. 

“He’s calling them bastards. Indirectly, of course.”

“Shh!” She snapped her head around, scanning the crowd for anyone who could have heard. “ Don’t say that so loud!”

His lip slid into a pout. “You asked.”

Reaching the precipice of the drop, Laena Velaryons body pitched into the water, the tide sucking the stone coffin down into its depths, quick and unfailingly undramatic, leaving the group to stare silently at the clear wash of the waves. Just like that, the remains of the woman they had cared for were gone forever, hidden behind the ocean swell. Maybe Aegon was right . 

A naval fanfare would certainly have held more panache. 

. 

The reception was a cold event, grey and miserable against the rain thick clouds, filled with the murmurs of black shrouded guests and the clink of jugs against wine goblets. 

More of a reunion, really, than a funeral, she thought to herself, pressed against a wall as if her bones could slot right right through the cracks, as she watched the figures around her greet each other warmly, reunited after years of separation. Once or twice, she could have sworn she felt their gazes flick over her face curiously, though it may simply have been her paranoia.

Was her hair messy? Was she wearing her funeral clothes wrong?

Don't be an idiot, the voice in her head whispered to her, you know that's not why they’d be looking at you. 

…She couldn't see him in the crowd anymore. Where had he gone?

 She sidled her way around the crowds towards the castle entrance. No one needed her here, not right now, so what was the point in staying? She was out of place. She didn’t belong here, not like the rest of them.

And then, not fifteen feet away from where she stood, a young girl came into focus through the crowd. Valaeys paused, concealed somewhat by the throng, and let herself, for the first time, properly look at the face of one of her little sisters. 

She was small, and flightly - her hands twitched around her body, picking at her clothes and her fingers, with a shock of brilliant white hair that was twisted into neat lines away from her young face. Her complexion was warm, her cheeks soft and childish, with the widest purple eyes Valaeys had ever seen. She reminded her of one of Helaena’s dolls, glossy and perfectly stitched to preserve the illusion of childish youth. Nothing like their father, a voice in the back of her head nagged at her, was this what Laena had looked like, once? It pulled her to a stop for a while - had she truly been that small when her mother died? It wasn't possible. She had been throwing herself off rock faces not days before her mother’s funeral, scrabbling up cliffs and running down dark caves. She would have remembered if she had been this young, this fragile. 

Which one was she, Valaeys wondered, taking in the youthful face, the small, quivering lip, the twisting hands. Her wide eyes were red rimmed as she stared out at the waves. Baela or Rhaena? 

Purple eyes darted towards her, resting on her face listlessly before widening in shock. Valaeys had barely registered how the young girl had reached through the crowd towards her sister's arm, mouth opening in the shape of her name, lifting a hand to point over the crowd, before her body moved almost without her willing it to, making her way out towards the interior, feeling the weight of two pairs of eyes against her back as she left. Coward, a small voice whispered in her head, as she ducked behind an alcove, heart racing. You fucking coward.

.

Aemond

Within the doorway to the courtyard, Aemond found himself somewhat sheltered from the wind, and the unfailingly miserable conversation milling around outside. With their mother gone, standing stately and respectful next to the King, he and his siblings had been able to slip away, seeking out respite from the grim atmosphere surrounding them. In the end it didn’t seem to matter - even Aegon, as drunk as he was steadily becoming, was quietly morose, swilling red liquid in his cup with the air of some ancient philosopher as he glared quietly towards their sister.

Helaena was hunched over the flagstones, watching in abject fascination as a spider scuttled across her pale hands. Next to him, Aegon huffed a quiet noise of disdain, wrinkling his nose as the spider twitched and spasmed. He had always had far more of an aversion to the creatures than his siblings - Aemond remembered the cheerful way Daemon had once dropped a spider into his lap, grin toothy and proud. He had known how much Helaena liked them - once after offering her a clutch of eggs Helaena had scooped him up and landed a kiss on his young cheek - Aemond supposed he had been trying to gain a similar reaction. To this day, the reminder of the pitch and volume of Aegon’s shriek continued to make Aemonds mouth twitch upwards. 

“ Move!” His brother jumped to the side as a white figure shot next to him, eyes wide in panic. “Val!” His brother grinned, brightened suddenly with boyish charm. “We were just talking about you.” “ Shhh! I’m not here.” She cast a furtive look over her shoulder, reaching a hand to tug at her braid. “Gods, do you have to be standing?”

“ What? ” Aegon questioned bemused, as their cousin let out an irritated huff, sending one last glance over her shoulder before diving quickly down to the floor where their sister was crouched. 

He felt Aegon shift behind him, turning to place his full attention on the two girls,  Valaeys watching stiffly as Helaena muttered into the air, eyes attentive on the creature twitching in her palms.

His brother's voice was thick with disdain. “We have nothing in common.”

“She’s our sister.”

The apprehension was clear as Aegon pulled his lip into a sneer. “Exactly! You marry her! She’s Helaena. She used to stick stag beetles under my pillowcase!”

“She’s your future queen.” As viscerally unpleasant as that pairing may be. And then, gently, under his breath, “Besides, we all know who you’d rather be marrying.”

“Hmm?” Aegon followed his line of sight, focusing on the pale figure crouched beside their sister, shoulders tense as quarry marble as her gaze darted out into the crowd. He took in a sharp intake of breath. “What, Val? Gods, no!”

Something clenched oddly in his stomach at the horror in his brother's voice. “What could you possibly mean by that? She’s a perfectly respectable match, with Valerian blood. That’s why our father invited her to king's landing in the first place. And she’s your friend, isn't she? What could you possibly not like about her?”

Gods knew those two could barely get enough of each other. In the three months their cousin had been at Kings Landing, Aegon's days had nearly shaped themselves entirely around her presence. Never mind the fact that he was the first born prince - lessons were neglected, dinners were rushed through, where once Aegon had sat through events with an almost narcotised dismissal, he now brimmed with energy, shadowing his cousin even as she attempted to bend out of sight from the eyes of the court. Outside of Ser Cristan Cole's sparring, Aegon's presence in Aemonds life had tapered out almost completely, save for the occasional meal, leaving long gaps of blissful silence in his wake as he left to track down their cousin. Never mind that she may have had tasks of her own - according to Helaena he would drag her out of lessons with their Septa, would wait for her like a dog outside the council chamber until she had filled the council's wine cups, pulling her down the hall on some frivolous adventure. 

Aegon was looking down on him with incredulity clear on his face. “…I like her plenty. I like her a lot, actually, because, as you said yourself, she’s my friend. But just because I'm fond of her doesn't mean I want to marry her, either.”  

“You're a fool if you think you’ll ever be able to choose who you marry in this life.”

A grin twitched onto his brother's angular face, crooked and neverending unnerving. “You seem rather defensive, dear brother. Anything I should know?”

“Stop making this weird. Smiling doesn't suit you.” A snort erupted from Aegon, so loud it caused Valaeys to turn her head towards the pair, raising a pale eyebrow quizzically. Aegon sent her a thumbs up that had her brow furrowing, gaze darting between him and Aemond as she dipped her head slowly back down towards Helaena, gingerly accepting the spider being pressed into her palms as their sister muttered gently. Beside him, his brother clapped a hand to his shoulder, so hard it seemed he was almost supporting his weight on him. His breath was thick with wine, wrinkling Aemond’s nose as he murmured, “It's all the better I suppose. Seeing as how the mantle has fallen to you.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Come on , Aemond. She’s still here, isn't she? Not that I'm complaining, of course, but she wouldn't be here if our father didn't still have a use for her. Why do you think he’s keeping her around? Whether I like it or not, our sister has taken me off the market. …you, however.. you’re still a bargaining chip for him. Same as her.” Despite his false cheer, the disdain was clear in his voice, staring at their cousins back. 

“At least she’s fond of you. It’ll soften the blow, I’ll wager. You know she told me you’re sweet?”

….he would attribute that last bit to Aegon's inebriation. So what if she tolerated him? It wouldn’t do anything to soften the pure idiocy of his fathers attempt to place their cousin in a marriage pact. Three months in, and she still hadn’t been informed of the King's intentions. That was yet another obstacle that his father had delegated to gloss over, as if everything would fall neatly into place at his behest. Stupid. Foolish. Weak willed.

“I’m - I’m going to find some more wine. If you see her later, tell her to find me. She promised me a drink.” Aemond watched him go, staggering pale and shivering against the mess of the crowd calling for more wine, face twisted in exasperation. 

“ Aegon.” 

.

Valaeys

“Hand turns loom. Spool of green. Spool of black. Dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread. Hand turns loom. Spool of green. Spool of black. Dragons of flesh, weaving dragons of thread. You're going to have to do it eventually, you know,” Helaena murmured, breath warm in her ear, breaking Valaeys gently out of her stupor.

“Do what?”

“Two pairs of eyes followed you here.”

The cold stone floor grated under her as she shifted herself back onto the heels of her palm.

“…I don't know what to say to them.” She shifted closer to her, almost forgetting the wriggling insect scuttling across her hand. “What if - what if they don’t like me?”

“Bronze doesn't buckle to salt water. You know this.” A hand cupped over hers, taking back the small creature with careful fingers. “If they're worth anything, they’ll love you. If they don't, that's because they are mourning . I say this with the utmost respect, cousin, but I'm sure that you're not the first thing on their mind right now.”