Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

“The storm is coming in from the south,” observes Valaena as she gazes out the window. Her brother Joffrey stands on a chair beside her, his eyes flitting between the swirling clouds in the sky and the choppy waves beyond the isle’s shore. She waves her hand in the same direction as the gusty breeze, and his eyes follow as though he can see the wind. “That means it will have left Storm’s End, and Luke will be able to fly home soon.”

After their grandsire, King Viserys, had passed away a week before, their uncle, Aegon, had usurped the Iron Throne from their mother, Rhaenyra. Their mother had been crowned regardless, and plans for war had soon followed. As part of the effort to rally allies, their brothers Jacaerys and Lucerys had been sent to different lords of the realm to remind them of the oaths they had sworn to Rhaenyra in her youth. Lucerys had gone on dragonback to Storm’s End, less than a day’s ride away, but has yet to return.

“I’m afraid not,” calls a voice. Attention stolen from the weather outside, Valaena and Joffrey turn around to see their step-father, Daemon. Joffrey hops off the chair and rushes over to him. Daemon pulls the boy to his side with a surprising amount of tenderness, running his hand through Joffrey’s curls. Ever since news had come that Viserys had died, he has been cold and distant from the rest of the family, consumed by his quest for fire and blood. Seeing him as he is now, hesitant with his face contorted in something akin to pain, sends Valaena alight with panic.

As has become her habit in moons past, her hand falls to her swollen belly, rubbing over it in wide circles in an effort to soothe herself. “What’s happened,” she asks.

Daemon sighs. “Sit down.” He gestures towards the chair Joffrey had vacated.

She does not move. “Tell me what has happened,” she demands, using her most queenly voice. Now that her mother is queen, new but not unexpected responsibilities have been foisted onto Valaena. She is Princess of Dragonstone, and with that role comes people asking after her opinion day and night in matters of the household, the isle, the crownlands, the Seven Kingdoms, and the conflict the Dowager Queen Alicent has created. She has learned quickly that she must be the very picture of authority at all times.

Daemon moves his hand to Joffrey’s shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Lucerys and Arrax were cut down over Shipbreaker Bay.”

Valaena feels the blood drain from her face and pour into her limbs, making her feel laden and unable to move, as Joffrey gasps and whines. “Luke is dead?”

“Yes,” answers Daemon without reprieve. Joffrey, who is too young to quell his emotions, bursts into tears at once, sobbing and pressing his face into Daemon’s waist.

For her part, Valaena herself does not join him in his cries, though her body does, crying out to echo her brother’s agony. Pain erupts in her lower back, so sharp as to make her think she has been stabbed. She moves her hand to the base of her spine and presses down, and the pressure moves to the floor of her pelvis, growing the longer it sits there. She grits her teeth as she wills herself to think past the discomfort. “That is not possible. Lord Borros and his men haven’t the means to slay a dragon, even one so small as Arrax.”

Daemon does not dispute this. “It was Vhagar.”

Unable to keep herself quiet at this, Valaena groans and clutches at her stomach. The pain in her spine has returned, but she is almost blind to it. All she can think of is little Lucerys, flying through a storm on his fledgling dragon, trying to make his way out but to no avail. How frightened he must have been, staring down the maw of a beast as fearsome as Vhagar, the terrible, ferocious mount of her terrible, ferocious husband.

“Aemond did this,” she gasps. She turns wide eyes on her step-father, desperate for him to deny it. Fervently, she wishes for him to relay a tale of the old dragon gone rogue, having leapt from the ground without her rider on her back.

“He threatened Lucerys in the Round Hall and pursued when he tried to flee,” he says instead.

“He will die for this,” Joffrey screams with all the ferocity an eight-year-old can muster. He tears himself away from Daemon and makes for the door. “Tyraxes will burn him to ash!”

Valaena surprises herself with how quickly she moves into his path. She grabs her brother by his shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length as she kneels before him. Blinking through her own tears, she stares into his watery eyes, entreating, “No, Joffrey, I cannot allow you to go.”

“But he killed Luke,” screeches Joffrey, his fists balling at his sides.

“I know. I know,” she heaves. She moves her hands to caress his cheeks, keeping her eyes on his face even as all she sees are Lucerys’s own upturned nose and round eyes. “Trust me, valonqar, he will be made to answer for his—agh!” An anguished cry cuts her off as her pelvis explodes with pain. Distracted from calming her brother, she drops her hands to the floor to keep herself from falling on her front.

“Damn it,” Daemon curses. He appears at her side and wraps one of her arms around his shoulders. “You’re just like your mother. Joffrey, help me take your sister to her chambers. The babe is coming.”

“No,” she argues as Daemon hefts her to her feet with Joffrey pushing her up on her other side. He drags her out of the room even as she struggles against him. “Daemon, I cannot—I cannot have his child, not now, not after this.”

Daemon huffs. “It is too late for that, riñītsos.”

Climbing the stairs to reach her rooms is an arduous task. They have to stop twice and move slowly once her feet begin to slip on stone steps made slippery by her own leakage. Once at their top, Daemon forgoes dragging her about, walking off and disappearing around a corner. Without him around to bully her, Valaena has half the mind to stop where she is, but as another contraction hits, she realizes she cannot hope to pretend that her labors have not started. Gloriously unhappy, she trudges down the hall with Joffrey’s hand clasped tightly in her own.

Once in her rooms, she sends him off in search of their mother as she collapses onto her bed, where she lies on her side until another contraction forces her onto her knees. That is how Maester Gerardys and the midwives find her, squatting atop the mattress as she struggles to rid herself of her kirtle. One of the midwives steps forward to help her, and once the oppressive garment is off, she gasps out, “Where is my mother?”

Gerardys replies, “Your mother collapsed when news arrived that—” He stops, gazing at her as though to glean how much of the truth she knows.

“Luke,” she mewls, answering his unspoken question. Her eyes squeeze themselves shut as her muscles contract again, and she sees his face behind her eyelids. His dark, curly hair, his pale skin, his plump, rosy cheeks, his precious, little smile—

What happened to him, she wonders. Had he been burned beyond recognition? Had he fallen from Arrax’s back and been devoured by the sea? Had Vhagar swallowed him whole? At the thought of his fate, her stomach rolls and, when added to the sensation of her womb revolting, turns.

She pitches to the side and retches over the side of the bed. The youngest of the midwives shrieks and jumps out of the way, prompting Gerardys to snap at her to clean up the mess. Valaena, for all that she would normally apologize for getting sick on someone, is unrepentant, throwing up again and again.

When she has emptied her stomach, she is clammy and trembling. The midwives urge her to lie back on the mattress, and she complies, too sapped of her energy to resist.

This is not how she imagined her labors would be. For months, she had been preparing to give birth in King’s Landing, but all that had changed last week with that disastrous final supper with her entire family. She had wanted to make the best of things on Dragonstone, but when her mother had begun her labors early four days ago, every last optimistic thought had fled her mind. Still, she had not anticipated an early birth for her own child, one she could only hope would survive as her little sister Visenya did not.

For the first several hours, Valaena pushes every time the midwives command it. She pushes and pushes until her voice has gone hoarse from screaming and every ounce of sweat in her body has found its way onto her skin and into her long, black hair. She pushes so hard that at one point, she fears her eyeballs will pop out of her skull, and the thought sends her into delirium.

Aemond was meant to be here with her, she remembers. He had sworn he would be. He had begged her not to venture to Dragonstone without him. He had said he would follow, but he never did. He put his hobrenka brother on her mother’s throne instead. He killed her brother. Aemond, Aemond—

Aemond killed her brother.

She pushes and pushes, but the babe stays where it has been for the last eight months, spiting her just as its father has.

After a while, her strength leaves her. She lies back on a mountain of pillows and allows her own body to ravage her as the world around her dims and sputters like a dying flame.

A dying flame. Lucerys.

“Lucerys,” she weeps, crooning out the name of a boy she will never see again as every muscle in her body clenches. She moans it over and over again, stopping only to grind her teeth together every minute or so. She is stalled only when someone is bold enough to grab her by her shoulders and shake her back into lucidity.

“Valaena,” her mother groans. Valaena blinks to clear her vision of the black spots that have been marring her sight for some time now. Her mother stares down at her, her face ashen and her mouth drawn into a miserable line.

Valaena means to say something in response, something reassuring and clearheaded, but she is not sure any words make it past her lips.

Rhaenyra turns her awe-inspiring attention onto someone else. “Why is she like this? This birth should be easy. It is her first, and she is only nine-and-ten.”

“The princess is distraught, Your Grace,” answers a gravelly voice Valaena knows to belong to Gerardys. “Sometimes, a woman’s emotions can make even her natural burdens too perilous for her to bear.”

“Do you mean to say she will die,” asks another voice, tinged with panic. Rhaena.

There is a beat of silence before he answers. “It is too early to tell, my lady, but the princess is weak. She has emptied her stomach and refuses drink, and the babe has moved little.”

Defeated, Valaena lets her eyes fall closed. How pathetic, she mourns, dying on the birthing bed at the start of a war. If she had the strength, she would haul herself outside to die a dragonrider’s death like her Aunt Laena.

There is more conversation happening over her head, but she tunes it out. She focuses instead on the wispy movements of the babe inside her. All throughout her labors, the babe has been moving around, kicking her as it tries to shove its way into the world. It is a shame for it all to end like this, she thinks. She had so wished to meet the babe. Her baby, a perfect blend of her and Aemond. Aemond—

Aemond, who killed her brother. Aemond, who now threatens to kill her, too. Aemond, that wretched, vile, soul-sucking viper. How could she have let him fool her for so long? How can she let him be the end of her?

Set astir, Valaena opens her eyes and lifts her head. She reaches for her mother, whose head swivels in her direction as soon as her hand brushes her arm. “Help me,” she rasps.

Her mother seems to know exactly what she needs. She cleaves herself to Valaena’s side at once, pulling her up so that she squats atop the mattress once more. At her mother’s insistence, Rhaena helps hold her up on her other side.  

“You can do this, sweetling,” encourages Rhaenyra. “You are strong, my perfect, brilliant daughter, my heir. You will not allow them to take you from me, too.”

Valaena nods jerkily, tearing up as another contraction comes, stronger than any others have felt for hours. Groaning, she bears down, silently urging the babe to leave her womb. After another ten minutes of pushing, she turns to beseeching it aloud, screeching, “Get out! Get out! Move, you little—ahh!”

Another hour passes before the babe begins to crown, but once it has, her labors come to a swift end. Valaena spreads her legs so wide that they burn from her hips to the tips of her toes and squeezes around her child until it slips from her and lands in the arms of a matronly midwife.

The babe howls, clearing its lungs of her blood and waters. Her mother and Rhaena cheer for her, and the midwives chorus them.

Their jubilation chafes, and she shoves them all back. She falls onto her hands and knees and wails during the afterbirth. Valaena drowns out the babe’s cries, her own yowling without words but carrying an oath of vengeance all the same. A clap of thunder and a flash of lightning accompany her roar, cementing the vow.

The babe in her arms has wisps of white-blond hair and dark violet eyes. Ever since she and Aemond had been betrothed, she has envisioned children with pale hair and purple eyes, children who would never have their births questioned, but now that such a child rests in her arms, it is a bittersweet victory.

She had toiled ceaselessly to be content in her marriage. After much time and effort, she had thought that she and Aemond were of the same mind, but she had been woefully mistaken. Surely, her husband holds no affection for the woman whose brother he would enthusiastically murder. This leaves her to look upon a boy who bears his father’s likeness not with joy but with morose sentimentality.

Despite her misgivings, she feels no less devotion to her son than she had expected she would a month ago. She knows already that she would do anything for his sake. Still, it feels strange being so attached to the babe now that his father has betrayed her so thoroughly.

“I love him,” she confesses, quiet and timid.

After her labors had finished, she had suffered fussing from the midwives and visits from Joffrey and Baela. Eventually, near everyone had cleared out, allowing her to rest for the evening. 

Only her mother remains. Rhaenyra sits on the edge of her bed, absently petting along one of her legs. She has been silently stewing since they had been left alone, doubtlessly plotting how to retaliate against the Greens given the murderous expression that occasionally slips past her façade. She manages a tremulous smile for Valaena’s sake. “It will fade.”

Valaena is quick to rebut her mother’s assumption. “No, not—” She cuts herself off, unable to say his name. “Not him. I would say he is dead to me if not for the fact that I wish to send him to the Stranger myself.” Her mother grins approvingly at her. Valaena sighs. “The baby. I love the baby.”

The contempt in her eyes melting away, Rhaenyra places a hand on her knee. “Oh, jorrāeliarzus, of course, you do. He is your child, your firstborn. I love him also.”

Valaena bites her lip. Her thumb strokes along the crown of her son’s head. “But what if I should come to resent him for his father’s sins?”

“You will not. You always love your children no matter what their father has done,” her mother assures her. Disbelieving, Valaena’s face twists in a way her mother must recognize. “I know this to be true.” She brushes Valaena’s hair from her face. “I know because of you.”

“How can that be,” questions Valaena, her gaze dropping back to her son’s face. She finds it difficult to keep her attention elsewhere. Her eyes trace the line of his brow, the curve of his miniature nose, and the bow of his tiny, pink mouth. “My father was a good and honorable man.”

“He was,” Rhaenyra takes a deep, shuddering breath, “but I speak of your true father.”

Breath caught, Valaena’s eyes snap to those of her mother. In all her life, her mother has never confirmed that Laenor was not truly her or her brothers’ father, not even to them. The fact that she is willing to do so now unnerves her. She hesitates before replying, a part of her loath to have the lie end. “Ser Harwin was a fine man, as well. He was loyal to you.”

Her mother’s sad smile returns. “He was, but he was not your father. In truth, my love, the man who sired you was Ser Criston Cole.”

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

Aemond strides through the halls of the Red Keep, his boots squelching against the stone floor with every step. He makes haste towards the small council chambers, expecting to be joined there soon. He had flown out of the storm whirling over Shipbreaker Bay on his way back to King’s Landing, desperate to get away from the howling winds and torrential downpour that masked his greatest blunder, if only for a time. Upon arriving at the castle in the dead of night, he had bade the first servant he had seen to wake the king, queen mother, and small council members at once.

He is alone in the council chambers when he arrives there. He paces up and down the length of the room as he awaits the retinue, boots squelching all along. Despite having been out of the rain for some time now, he remains drenched to the bone. His riding leathers stick to his skin, chafing the creases of his joints. His slick hair is adhered to his neck, strands woven around his throat like ropes threatening to strangle him.

Unexpectedly, Aegon is first to trudge into the room, Criston Cole trailing him. With dark shadows under his eyes, Aegon glares at Aemond as he shuffles towards his chair at the head of the table. “Why have you awoken your king,” he snipes.  

Aemond is spared from answering as they are joined by their mother, who flounces into the room with a fretful air about her. Hair rumpled from sleep and eyes wide, Alicent takes in his disheveled appearance. She is by his side at a moment’s notice, exclaiming, “You are sodden to the skin!” She presses her hand to his cheek, though he scarcely feels it.

Grand Maester Orwyle, Jasper Wylde, Larys Strong, and Tyland Lannister join them next in quick succession. Upon taking his seat opposite Aegon, Tyland comments, “Another meeting without the Sun, and with the king alive and well.” A smattering of chuckles accompanies his remark.

Aemond’s grandsire is the last to take his seat. He issues no greeting, asking only why Aemond is back so soon and if anything had gone awry in the course of his talks with the Baratheons.

Whereas on any other day, Aemond would smart at the insinuation that he had failed, he merely shakes his head. “Daeron will have his pick of Lord Borros’s daughters.”

Murmurs of approval sound out from around the table. His mother clasps her hands together, clearly pleased. Otto nods, the beginnings of an acclamatory grin curling at his lips.

Aemond does not allow their cheer to settle. “There is something else,” he admits, swallowing roughly. At the prospect of confessing his misdeed aloud, the numbness he has been carrying with him since Shipbreaker Bay begins to fade. The cold from the rainwater seeps through his clothes, carrying with it a great dread. “I killed Lucerys Velaryon.”

Everyone’s first reaction is to go deathly quiet, none daring to move. They all remain at a standstill until Orwyle turns his head towards Otto to glean his opinion, at which point the room erupts. Tyland and Jasper begin shouting in unison, their words running together to produce an inscrutable gallimaufry. 

“Mother have mercy on us all,” gasps Alicent. Her face goes completely pale, exaggerating the lines across her brow. Her hands go to her throat. “Rhaenyra will have our heads.”

Otto pales to the same shade as his daughter before his skin flushes a violent shade of red. Surging to his feet, he glares at Aemond with a naked desire to strike him. “You idiotic boy,” he spits. “You only lost one eye! How could you be so blind?”

Aegon has a singular reaction. A wide grin splits his face, and he cackles, a wild gleam in his eyes. Their mother turns a dismayed stare on him, and he scoffs at her. “Come now, be not so severe.” Waving a hand in Aemond’s direction, he proclaims, “This man is the true blood of the dragon, slaying his enemies without remorse!”

The line of Aemond’s mouth tilts towards a frown. Aegon is surely a fool if he cannot grasp that Aemond regrets what transpired between him and their nephew. Though he had resented Lucerys for close to a decade, and he cannot say he is sad knowing that he will never have to suffer his presence again, he would take back what he did if he could. The little bastard had sorely wronged him in a most egregious manner when he took out his eye, but family they had still been, in both marriage and blood. He would rather have loathed him until senectitude than be the reason for his demise. 

Ever oblivious, Aegon slaps the table and suggests, “I say we throw a feast.”

Alicent ignores her eldest son in favor of demanding of Aemond, “What possessed you to do such a brash thing?” 

“It was an accident,” he reports.

She scarcely believes him. “Accident? Is that the tale you mean to tell, after everything that boy did to you?”

“I speak the truth,” he maintains. “I intended only to frighten the bastard. It was he, as usual, who took matters too far. His dragon breathed fire at Vhagar, and I was unable to calm her.” She turns away from him, but he follows after her, desperate for a reassuring word from his mother. “Do you think she will believe me?”

She looks back at him, appalled. “Do I think Rhaenyra will believe that you murdered her son by accident?”

Frustrated, he swipes his hand through the air as though to cast the idea aside, snarling, “Not her!” He cares little what his unscrupulous half-sister thinks of him. He knows well that her opinion of him has always been paltry, turning entirely irremediable upon his marriage to her daughter. Her daughter, with whom he is foremost preoccupied. “Valaena!”

Valaena, his sweet wife whose one flaw is her relation to her mother, is sure to be devastated when she hears the news of Lucerys’s fate. Jacaerys has always been her favorite brother, but she is protective and fond of them all. He knows well that she is loath to forgive anyone who wrongs them, as evidenced by the argument between the two of them before she had retreated to Dragonstone.

During a supper with their entire family nearly a week past, he had picked a fight with her two eldest brothers in the heat of the moment. While normally she is patient and understanding with him, she had scorned him for his passions that night and been unwilling to hear his perfectly legitimate grievances. Considering that she had abandoned him, if only for a time, for shoving her brother to the floor, he imagines her rejoinder to him killing another of her brothers will bear far more dire consequences.

Not for the first time, he questions his own wisdom in helping his mother and grandsire install Aegon as king. Even as he had been scouring the city for Aegon with Criston, he had pondered whether he was taking the correct course of action. Placing Aegon on the throne would dispossess Valaena of her own claim to the throne. She had been born and bred to one day be Princess of Dragonstone and queen after that. Now, she is left only as good-sister to the king, a demotion she is sure to repudiate.

Had she never ventured to Dragonstone, he thinks she could have made her peace with her new station. She is passive in most matters, exhibiting a quiet wisdom that might have bespoken a good ruler had fortune been on her side. He feels secure in his presumption that she would have been free from harm at least until she had given birth, which would have left him with enough time to convince her to capitulate to his plans for their family. If she had sworn obeisance to Aegon thereafter, he would have been able to keep her safe. Moreover, this calamity likely never would have come to pass. Rather than being sent to Storm’s End to negotiate a match for Daeron, he would have been tasked with keeping an eye on Valaena, and there would have been no opportunity to confront Lucerys.

Ultimately, Aemond receives no verbal answer. Alicent stares at him, utterly incredulous, before turning away again and returning to her seat, where she slumps down and puts her head in her hands. Aegon’s uproarious laughter starts up again, tears coming to his eyes.

In the days that follow, people give Aemond a wide berth.

Aegon throws his feast, but Aemond does not attend, claiming illness when summoned.

Whispers of the word kinslayer float through the halls of the Red Keep, shadowing Aemond wherever he goes, spoken by companions and strangers alike. Most of the men in the yard refuse to spar with him, feigning exhaustion and retiring whenever he finishes with another opponent. Even his beloved sister Helaena keeps her distance, staring at him with wide eyes from across rooms and flinching whenever he comes too close. He has not seen Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, or Maelor since his return from the stormlands.

Given his new reputation, he keeps mostly his own company. Never has he had many close companions, predominately fraternizing with his siblings and their children. Prior to Aegon’s coronation, he had spent most of his time in the company of his wife. With them estranged, he feels her absence more strongly than he had during any of her sojourns on Dragonstone.

He squanders most of his solitude in her rooms. His own rooms have garnered little of his attention over the past four years—he usually sleeps there only if Valaena is on Dragonstone, though he finds he cannot observe the same practice now. He spends his nights alone in their bed, pressing his face into bedclothes that are quickly losing her scent and missing the little movements she makes in her sleep that typically drive him mad.

Many days now feature endless meetings of the small council. They discuss potential allies, the concerning movements of different lords’ armies, and revising the terms they had sent to Dragonstone.

Initially, they had offered Rhaenyra terms skewed mostly in their favor. Aegon would be king with Helaena as his queen and Jaehaerys as his heir. Upon acknowledging as much and swearing obeisance before the Iron Throne, Rhaenyra would have confirmed her possession of Dragonstone, which would pass to Valaena upon her death. Jacaerys would be confirmed as the legitimate heir to Driftmark and all the lands and holdings of House Velaryon. Her sons by Daemon would have been given places of high honor at court; Aegon the Younger as the king’s squire, and Viserys as the king’s cupbearer.

In light of recent events, Otto suggests they make a drastic change to their terms. “We propose that the first son issued by Prince Aemond and Lady Valaena be Aegon’s heir.”

Aemond only just keeps a frown from his lips in hearing Valaena’s new styling. Now that her mother is no longer the named heir to the Iron Throne, Aegon has stripped her and her siblings of their royal titles. The slight stings especially considering whereas before, whatever child they had would have been styled as princess or prince, he will now have only a lady daughter or a son who would have to pursue a knighthood for the title of ser.

Aegon, who appears at each small council meeting drunker than he had at the last, complains, “Why cannot my son be heir?”

Alicent speaks as though she had not heard him. She reminds Otto, “Father, we know not if Valaena has borne a son. We know not if any child has yet been born.” Aemond lets his eye fall shut, displeased by the reminder that more than a week past Aegon’s anointment, he still knows nothing as to the fates of his wife and child.

Otto is unmoved. “If it is a girl, or if the child is lost, they will have another.”

“He has killed her brother,” interjects Jasper. Aemond turns a baleful eye on him, though he takes no notice. “You cannot expect that she would willingly—”

Otto interrupts the master of laws. “I did not say she had to be willing.”

At this, Aemond reaches his breaking point. Fist striking the table, he stands and declares, “I will not rape my wife.”

“How fortuitous, then, that such a feat is impossible,” Otto sharply rebuts. He looks around the table, exasperation ruling his features. “Unions do not end because of the whims of little girls! We will put a male heir in her. This was always the plan!”

“What plan,” challenges Aemond.

Out of the corner of his eye, he notices his mother’s head turning away from him. Otto’s gaze moves between her and Aemond before he huffs, answering, “To put your son on the Iron Throne.”

“Only after Rhaenyra and Valaena after her,” ripostes Aemond, though he knows that Otto has not intended for Rhaenyra—and thus Valaena—to take the throne since before Aegon’s birth. Aemond has spent much of his life hearing that Rhaenyra cannot be allowed to rule—if not for the fact that she is a woman—because it would be Daemon, her bloodthirsty husband, who would rule in truth.

Otto seems to know where his mind has taken him. “With you as king consort, Valaena could have been allowed to rule. It would have been a sensible partnership. She was always a sweet-tempered girl—”

“A girl, nonetheless,” interrupts Aemond. He stares into the grim face of his grandsire and realizes, “You meant to kill her.”

Otto makes no attempt to deny the accusation, and he hardly appears remorseful.

Anger and betrayal flooding through him, Aemond moves to round the table. “You meant to kill my wife.”

As Aemond advances on him, Otto wisely steps back. “That girl calls herself Princess of Dragonstone—”

Panic in her voice, his mother calls for her former sworn shield to intervene. “Ser Criston!”

Criston is too slow to intercept Aemond, who fists Otto’s doublet in his hands as soon as it is within reach. “You meant to kill my wife.”

Otto remains quiet, allowing everyone to hear the sound of Aegon’s low chuckle. With sinister amusement coloring his voice, he remarks, “The kinslayer strikes again.”

Self-conscious, Aemond goes rigid. Looking around the room, he takes in everyone’s wan, grimacing faces. Alicent is chewing on her cuticles, and Tyland cannot bear to look at them, as though anticipating the sound of blood splattering.

Criston offers a reprieve. With a hand on Aemond’s right shoulder, he suggests, “My prince, let us take out our frustrations in the yard.”

Favoring an opportunity to work off some steam, Aemond shoves away his grandsire, who briefly stumbles before righting himself. After a final, deprecatory glance, Aemond gives him his back and strides from the room with Criston at his heels.

In the yard, Aemond assails Criston with all of the fire burning through his veins. He spends less time evading his opponent’s swipes than he would on another day, choosing instead to meet every stroke with a harsh blow from his own saber.

After parrying a lunge that Aemond had made for his throat, Criston makes a riposte and tries to persuade Aemond to put Valaena out of his mind. “Do you know, it may not be so lamentable a thing that the Lady Valaena will have disavowed you.”

Aemond blocks his strike. “What is it you mean to say, Ser Criston?”

“Only that there is no shame in succumbing to the wiles of a beguiling, young woman.” Criston steps back from the reach of his saber, sucking in a few deep breaths.

Annoyed, Aemond crinkles his nose. “Whatever happened to speaking of women only with reverence?”

Criston misses the warning in Aemond’s tone by a mile, senselessly continuing, “I cannot imagine she is too different from her mother. Willing to seduce her uncle—”

Ire burning from within, Aemond comes at Criston fast. With but three swipes of his blade, he disarms Criston. Throwing down his own blade, he pulls Criston in close by his chest plate, much as he had with Otto in the small council chambers. “My Valaena is nothing like the old whore. Never speak such slanders again.”

Without waiting for Criston’s response, he shoves him away and bends to take up his sword again. He nods towards Criston’s longsword and orders, “Again.”

A week and a half after Vhagar swallowed whole Lucerys Velaryon, news arrives that the Blacks have razed most of Storm’s End to the ground.

With the news comes a gift for Aemond. Upon arriving in the small council chambers, he is presented with a large, wooden box crowded by anxious councilors. Atop it is affixed a wax-sealed missive that bears Valaena’s script.

Pick a bride for your brother, it reads.

A servant removes the lid from the box, dropping it when he sees the contents of the package. Tyland and Jasper cringe away in tandem, whereas Orwyle and Larys lean in for a better look. His mother gasps, and even Aegon is sobered by the sight before them, but Aemond does not shrink back.

Within the confines of the box is an assortment of burnt human remains. There are four distinct skulls, one for each of Borros Baratheon’s daughters.

Alicent begins to ask, “The Lord Borros—”

“Dead, along with his lady wife,” reports Larys. Moving back from the table, he limps towards one of his whisperers, who stands at the front of the room. “Princess Rhaenys, as his first cousin, has taken command of House Baratheon, which has now sworn to back Princess Rhaenyra. She has named the Lady Rhaena Targaryen as her heir and betrothed her to Ser Raymont Baratheon, the eldest grandson of Ser Borys Baratheon, to keep the peace.”

Several councilors groan, distraught by the news. Aegon curses, throwing his goblet of wine at the wall.

The whisperer hands Larys an unfurled scroll. From its contents, he relays, “Most of the battlements survived, like by design. There were three dragons spied: Caraxes, Meleys, and Veraxes.”

Taken aback by the name of his wife’s dragon, Aemond pulls his attention away from the charred remains of the Baratheon girls. His initial surprise derives from the mere fact that Valaena has flown her untried steed into battle. He had not thought she had the inclination for bloodshed, though mayhaps that is simply because they have lived only through peacetimes until now.  

After a moment’s thought, he is more so stunned by that which her presence at the battle implies. Valaena is a prudent woman. She would not have involved herself in so perilous a skirmish if she had still been with child.

Alicent seems to be of the same mind as he. “Is there any news of a child?” As they await the answer to her question, he feels her gaze on the back of his head.

Larys dithers for a moment, shifting his weight between his cane and his good leg. He avoids Aemond’s gaze, keeping his eyes on the dowager queen. “There was news some days ago that funeral rites were performed at Dragonstone following a stillbirth.”

Abruptly, Alicent’s hand snaps out and grabs Aemond’s left shoulder. Startled by the unexpected touch, he springs away from her. Once in motion, he stays there, vaulting from the room and hastening through the corridors, all the way to Valaena’s rooms.

Once there, he finally comes to a halt, but the restless, nauseous energy swirling within him does not allow him to remain still for long. Looking around the vacant rooms, he spies a blanket that Valaena had spent weeks stitching for the babe but never finished. In a flight of feeling, he takes a few unsteady steps and snatches it up. Rashly, he whips into the roaring fireplace and watches as it burns to ash.

Chapter Text

126 A.C.

The sound of urgent knocking rouses Valaena from her slumber. She stumbles from her bed, eyes blinking rapidly to clear the crust that had accumulated along her lashes, and shoves her feet into her slippers. Once they are on, she shuffles towards the door, careful of her path in the unfamiliar room.

She is on Driftmark with her family, but unlike on her other visits here, she does not sleep in the room across the hall from Baela’s and Rhaena’s rooms as it had been given to her brothers Jacaerys and Lucerys. This time, she has been assigned a room in the guest quarters of High Tide. Her grandparents, Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen, have been obliged to accommodate far more than their usual number of guests this week, people having come from far and near to attend their daughter’s funeral. Those who would normally have their own accommodations, such as the Princesses Helaena and Valaena, have thus been made to share.

Valaena does not mind the imposition too much. She would hardly complain about something so trivial on such a forlorn occasion. Moreover, she has missed her aunt Helaena, the girl being a closer friend than most others. When Valaena and her family had moved to Dragonstone a week past, she had been sad to leave her behind.

Opening the door, Valaena is greeted by Ser Steffon Darklyn, the member of the Kingsguard assigned to watch her and Helaena for the night. He tells her, “Her Grace has summoned you both.”

Valaena turns back to look at Helaena, who sits up in her bed. Helaena wonders, “What’s happened?”

“The princes have quarreled,” answers Steffon. “Prince Aemond has been injured. Come, Princesses.”

After murmuring their assent, Valaena closes the door. They dress quickly, Helaena throwing on a green dress and Valaena a black one. They follow Steffon arm-in-arm from their room and through the corridors to the Hall of Nine, where a commotion stirs. Both girls stumble at the sight of Aemond, sitting in a chair near the fireplace with a maester hovering over him and sewing up the left side of his face. So jarred is Helaena that she has to be called over by her mother to prompt her into movement.

With Helaena no longer at her side, Valaena looks around for her own mother. She sees neither Rhaenyra nor her father, Laenor, but she does see her brothers, covered in blood and huddled together.

Alarmed, she rushes over to them. She places a hand on each of their shoulders, drawing them into a loose embrace. With Lucerys clinging to her arm, she asks, “Are you alright? What happened?”

“Aemond stole Vhagar,” Jacaerys answers, forgoing her first question. “Baela and Rhaena woke us, and we went to confront him, and we fought.”

Lucerys mumbles something, but she cannot understand him with his hand covering his nose and mouth. “What,” she asks.

Jacaerys answers for him. “I dropped my knife—”

Aghast, she interrupts, “You brought a knife?”

“Yes,” he hisses back, defensive, “but I dropped it, and Luke picked it up, and—” He does not finish, electing instead to glimpse over her shoulder at the back of Aemond’s chair. Over the din of the room, she can hear Aemond groaning.

Gradually, Valaena realizes that it must have been Lucerys who slashed open Aemond’s face. Her horror growing, she whispers, “By the gods.”

Their grandsire Viserys, standing on the other side of the room before the Driftwood Throne, appears troubled and weary. He addresses Ser Harrold Westerling, demanding, “How could you allow such a thing to happen? I will have answers.”

Browbeaten, Harrold replies, “The princes were supposed to be abed, my king.”

“Who had the watch,” asks the king.

Ser Criston Cole answers him. “The young prince was attacked by his own cousins, Your Grace.”

Unsatisfied by their answers, Viserys cries, “You swore oaths to protect and defend my blood!”

“I’m very sorry, Your Grace,” expresses Ser Harrold.

Criston, not sounding nearly as upset as his superior, makes to defend them. “The Kingsguard has never had to defend princes from princes, Your Grace—”

Swooping on him, Viserys shouts, “That is no answer!”

Valaena hears Queen Alicent, though she does not see her. “It will heal, will it not, Maester?” Everyone quiets so that they may all hear the maester’s answer.

“The flesh will heal,” he says, “but the eye is lost, Your Grace.” The king hangs his head, chapfallen. 

Alicent directs her ire at one of her other sons, standing and turning on Aegon. “Where were you,” she demands.

Aegon appears confused at the attention. “Me?” His mother claps him across his face for his rejoinder. Hissing in pain, he complains, “What was that for?”

Unpitying, she hisses back at him. “That was nothing compared to the abuse your brother suffered while you were drowning in your cups, you fool.”

There is the sound of a door opening, quickly followed by Corlys’s commanding voice. He descends the staircase leading into the hall, demanding, “What is the meaning of this?”

Their grandmother is at his heels, her attention on their cousins. “Baela, Rhaena, what happened?” They rush over to her, tearfully explaining the events of the night.

Their grandsire looks over at Valaena and her brothers as he steps farther into the room, but neither he nor his wife move to comfort them. Valaena holds onto her brothers a little tighter, realizing that until their parents arrive, she is their only defense.

Thankfully, she need not stand vigil for long. Another door opens, revealing their mother.

Rhaenyra bursts into the room, looking harried and calling out their names with concern painting her voice. As she nears them, Valaena moves out of her way to allow her to kneel before Lucerys. She pries at his arms, beseeching him to show her his injuries.

“I think it’s broken,” Valaena supplies, however helpfully. Her mother briefly glances at her before turning back to Lucerys, inspecting his nose.

“Who did this,” their mother asks, addressing the room at large.

Aemond answers, leaning around the arm of his chair. “They attacked me!”

“He attacked Baela,” protests Jacaerys.

“He broke Luke’s nose,” adds Rhaena. All those involved in the skirmish add to the shouting.

Quietly, Rhaenyra turns to Valaena, inquiring, “Where were you?”

Beginning to feel ashamed that she had not been present to protect her brothers and cousins, she explains, “I was asleep. No one woke me.”

Her mother hardly blames her. She runs a hand down her arm, heartening, “All right.”

The screaming around them continues even as the king calls for it to cease. Lucerys cries, “He was gonna kill Jace! I didn’t do anything!”

Even the queen joins the fray. “It should be my son telling the tale!”

Ruffled, Jacaerys shouts out, “He called us—”

Waspishly, Viserys flashes at them all. “Silence!”

At last, everyone falls quiet, though Jacaerys still wishes to finish his thought. Leaning in towards their mother, he whispers, “He called us bastards.”

In hearing this, Valaena is hardly moved. At eleven years old, she has heard the insult thrown around before but never thought much of it. For all that many claim Ser Harwin Strong was her true father, he never paid her enough favor for her to give the rumor any credence.

By contrast, their mother is alarmed by Jacaerys’s report. She stands and turns away from them, running a hand down his arm as she does.

At his wife’s behest, Viserys ambles toward his injured son. “Aemond, I will have the truth of what happened.” When Aemond makes no immediate answer, he demands, “Now.”

Strangely, Alicent appears to see no need for Aemond to speak now. “What else is there to hear? Your son has been maimed. Her son is responsible.”

“It was a regrettable accident,” returns Rhaenyra.

“Accident,” echoes Alicent. “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son.”

“Jace brought the knife,” Valaena interjects, wishing to set the record straight.

Nonplussed, Alicent turns her wrathful gaze onto Valaena. “What?”

As though commanding her to keep silent, Rhaenyra places a hand on Valaena’s shoulder and nudges her back a step. She redirects the hall’s attention onto her. “It was my sons who were attacked and forced to defend themselves. Vile insults were levied against them.”

Suitably distracted from Aemond, Viserys turns to her. “What insults?”

Holding Lucerys’s hand, their mother answers, “The legitimacy of my children’s birth was put loudly to question.”

Bewildered, he returns, “What?”

“He called us bastards,” elaborates Jacaerys.

“My children are in line to inherit the Iron Throne, Your Grace. This is the highest of treasons.” Rhaenyra contends, “Prince Aemond must be sharply questioned so we might learn where he heard such slanders.” Provoked, Aemond leans around the side of his chair, glaring at her.

Alicent is stunned by the suggestion. “Over an insult? My son has lost an eye!”

Rhaenyra does not back down, unmoved by the other woman’s emotion.

Viserys seems to share her opinion. He looks back to Aemond. “You tell me, boy. Where did you hear this lie?”

“The insult was training yard bluster, the lot of boys. It was nothing,” excuses Alicent.

Viserys ignores his wife. “Aemond, I asked you a question.”

For whatever reason, Alicent continues to speak in Aemond’s place. “Where is Ser Laenor, I wonder? The boys’ father. Perhaps he might have something to say in the matter.”

This interests the king, as well. “Yes, where is Ser Laenor?”

Everyone looks to Rhaenyra for the answer. Valaena does, too, knowing her father would valiantly defend them was he here.

“I do not know, Your Grace,” she admits. “I could not find sleep. I had gone out to walk.” Valaena frowns, disturbed by her words. Curiously, she does not think them truthful, though she knows not why her mother has reason to lie.

Standing next to Vaemond Velaryon, Alicent jests, “Entertaining his young squires, I would venture.”

Valaena, burning from within, glares at the queen, as well as at Criston Cole, who she notices suppress a chuckle at the queen’s quip.

No longer distracted, Viserys attempts to interrogate Aemond anew. “Aemond, look at me. Your king demands an answer. Who spoke these lies to you?”

Aemond’s answer is slow to come, Viserys looking back at his wife as they all wait. Valaena does not hear it when it arrives, but Viserys focusing on Aegon gives it away.

He strides over to his eldest son. “And you, boy, where did you hear such calumnies?” Aegon, like his brother, is slow to respond. Impatient, his father shouts in his ear, “Aegon! Tell me the truth of it.”

Grimacing, Aegon replies, “We know, Father. Everyone knows. Just look at them,” he breathes, looking right at Valaena before his gaze returns to the floor.

Valaena, having seen the disgust in her uncle’s eyes and standing under the attention of the entire hall, begins to question her birth herself. She suddenly, fervently wishes that she more closely resembled her mother or Helaena.

Viserys cuts through the palpable silence that had followed Aegon’s statement, though his own words only add to the tension. “This interminable infighting must cease! All of you! We are family!” Everyone looks to him, though it is clear that none feel the truth of his words. “Now, make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your king demands it!” Having said his piece, he hobbles past his family, avoiding their eyes.

Alicent is not assuaged by his demand for apologies. “That is insufficient.” He turns to regard her once more. “Aemond has been damaged permanently, my king. ‘Good will’ cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent, but I cannot restore his eye,” Viserys frets.

“No, because it’s been taken,” she follows up quickly.

Exasperated, he appeals, “What would you have me do?”

Lachrymose, she insists that “there is a debt to be paid.” She turns towards Valaena’s family, her eyes on little Lucerys. “I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.”

Murmuring breaks out throughout the hall. Frightened by the queen’s request, Valaena moves to her mother’s other side and draws Lucerys into her arms.

Viserys, disturbed, too, tries to calm Alicent. “My dear wife—”

“He is your son, Viserys. Your blood,” she tearfully argues.

Growing severe, he cautions her, “Do not allow your temper to guide your judgment.”

He turns away from her yet again. Displeased, Alicent declares, “If the king will not seek justice, the queen will." She shifts her gaze to her sworn shield, who appears uncomfortable at the attention. “Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

Affrighted, Lucerys tears himself from Valaena’s arms and goes to their grandsire, who takes his hand. He cries out, “Mother!”

Her other grandsire speaks with a warning in his voice. “Alicent.”

The queen holds fast. “He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege he did not grant my son.”

Eerily calm, Rhaenyra declares, “You will do no such thing.”

Viserys throws an order at Criston, who has not moved. “Stay your hand.”

Wagging her finger, Alicent blusters, “No, you are sworn to me!”

Still, Criston remains where he is. “As your protector, my queen,” he answers, and though it sounds like an assent to Valaena, by the look of disappointment on Alicent’s face, she supposes it is not.

Viserys approaches his wife again. “Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” He starts away once more before thinking better of it. “And let it be known: anyone whose tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed.” As he imparts this final word, he gives his stare to Alicent.

Losing one’s tongue sounds like too harsh a punishment to Valaena, but what does she know, she supposes. Her mother seems relieved, breathing, “Thank you, Father,” and turning back to her children, having been satisfied.

Whereas Rhaenyra’s attention returns to Lucerys and his damaged nose, Valaena is transfixed by the look on the queen’s face. She steps around her mother, standing at her back. Poised, she sees the exact moment when Alicent’s eyes drop to the blade of Aegon the Conqueror at Viserys’s waist.

As the queen steps towards the king, arm extended, Valaena darts forward, too. She brashly moves toward the queen as the woman ducks to rip her husband’s blade from its sheath.

Shouting starts up as Alicent makes away with the blade. Valaena's dauntlessness begins to fade as the queen hastens in her direction with the knife held aloft, but she presses forward. Once Alicent is within reach, she holds out her arms to stop her from reaching her brother.

Alicent hardly bothers with her. Her face contorted with rage, she grabs Valaena by the shoulder and thrusts her onto the ground behind her. Valaena hits the unforgiving floor with a smack, her hands too slow to catch her or keep her head from striking the hard stone there.

The clamor and crush of bodies intensify as Valaena languishes on the floor. Alicent raves about expectations and duty as Viserys shouts at her to let go Rhaenyra, who she has in her grip, holding the knife at her eye.

Her head throbbing, Valaena manages to push herself to her feet as her grandsire nears her, his cane striking the floor with a loud click with every step. Once she has returned to her full height, he stops at her back and puts his arm around her, the cane caging her in as he leans against her.

Even Alicent’s father, Otto Hightower, tries to persuade her to stop the madness. “Release the blade, Alicent.”

However, Alicent goes on, increasingly distressed. “And now, you take my son’s eye, and to even that you feel entitled.”

Rhaenyra grunts from the effort of holding Alicent back. She jeers at her, “Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness.”

Her mother whispers something more that Valaena is too far to hear, but whatever it is appears to be the last indignity brought to bear. Grunting, Alicent brings down her hand and slices at Rhaenyra’s arm. The force of the blow propels the two women away from one another, Rhaenyra falling into Corlys’s sure arms and Alicent stepping back to Viserys’s side.

As blood drips down her mother’s arm and the blade in Alicent’s hand, Valaena glares up at the queen. The wariness she has always felt around the woman morphs into unadulterated loathing.

Alicent, as though shocked by her own actions, drops the dagger. It falls to lie against the stone floor, much as Valaena had when Alicent shoved her.

As Rhaenyra and Alicent stare at one another in awe, Valaena’s great-uncle Daemon at her mother’s side, Aemond steps into the throng of people that had gathered to watch the confrontation take place. “Do not mourn me, Mother," he says. "It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye, but I gained a dragon.”

Valaena had known that Aemond had always longed for a dragon of his own, him being the only one among any of their siblings to not have one. She had not expected that he would gladly lose an eye for one, however.

He steps past his father and Valaena, who gets an eyeful of his bloodied, marred face. He folds himself into his mother’s side, his injured cheek on her breast.

Huffing at her back, Valaena’s grandsire sounds fatigued but oddly determined. “This cannot be allowed to continue. There being two sides in this family, always standing apart from each other. There must be a way to bridge the divide.”

An uncanny feeling settles over Valaena’s shoulders, and she resists the urge to shiver. Looking up at Viserys, she finds that he is already staring down at her. Disquieted, she tries to pull away from him, but to no avail. His arm locks around her with more strength than she would have expected from him, and she ceases struggling, unwilling to risk unbalancing him.

“A union,” he decides. Valaena watches her mother’s face as he does, panic racing over her features. It flares when he makes clear, “Between the Princess Valaena and the Prince Aemond.”

Valaena notices Aemond twitch beside her, but she cannot see his face, and he does not look at her.

Appearing displeased, Alicent starts, “My king—”

“I have heard enough from you this night, Alicent,” her husband curtails her. She falls silent.

Valaena’s mother is permitted to make her protest. “You would have my heir married to a boy who questioned her birth?”

Viserys is hardly swayed. “He will have no further reason to question it once he is bound to her.”

Valaena, spooked at the sound of something so permanent and begrudging, has her own objection. “I had no involvement in the scuffle that cost Aemond his eye. Why should I be punished?”

Viserys finally lets her out from under his arm. She turns towards him, and he bends to her height. “This is no punishment, dear girl. It is an opportunity to mend the rift in our family. As you are your mother’s future heir, I trust you are equal to the task.” With the task he has for her, she finds it difficult to accept the compliment.

Rhaenyra, still in dissent, suggests, “Would it not be more prudent to marry my daughter to your eldest son?” Valaena blanches, repelled by the thought of wedding Aegon. She has seen how he leers at the serving girls in the Red Keep, his eyes alight with a sick fascination. She may not wish to marry Aemond, but she certainly does not wish to marry Aegon.

“Aegon is already betrothed,” answers Alicent.

“To whom,” wonders Rhaenyra.

“Helaena,” supplies Viserys. “It was decided some days ago.”

Unconcerned, she points out, “An unannounced betrothal can be easily broken.”

Valaena whirls on her mother, distraught. “Mother, stop. You’re making it worse,” she whines. Rhaenyra appears confused by her complaint, but she does not get the chance to rebuke it.

Before any further arguments can be made, Viserys declares, “The matter is settled. Upon Aemond’s fourteenth nameday, the marriage will be done.”

At the pronouncement, Valaena, standing between the king’s family and her own, finally looks to Aemond, who glares fiercely at her with his one eye.

Chapter Text

128 A.C.

Valaena spends much of her fourteenth nameday crying. Whereas the day should bear joy for the hope of another year of a life well-lived, this year, it serves as a reminder that her time on Dragonstone is drawing to a close. In a little over a month’s time, it will be Aemond’s fourteenth nameday, and she will be forced to return to King’s Landing and surrender her maidenhood.

Valaena’s distress spreads through the castle like wildfire. Rhaena spends the day crying, as well, not only because she will soon lose the company of her cousin, but because her sister is set to depart for Driftmark to become their grandmother’s ward. Rhaena’s upset sends Lucerys into melancholy, which in which in turn sets Joffrey and Aegon into hysterics. It is only Jacaerys and Baela who manage to hold themselves together, though even they are gloomier for the occasion.

After a bleak supper, during which Valaena barely enjoys the taste of her favorite dishes, the family retires to the largest of Dragonstone’s sitting rooms so that she can receive her gifts. Predictably, the children perk up for the affair, Valaena excited to open her presents and the rest anxious to see her reactions.

Sitting beside the fire with Rhaenyra, Daemon nurses a cup of ale. He lours at the children gathered on the floor as Valaena wonders at a purse Rhaena stitched for her. Under his breath, he grumbles, “Finally, they stop behaving as though we are sending her to the Wall.”

Rhaenyra cuts her husband a glare, vexed by how insensitive he can sometimes be. He acts as if he alone is unmoved by the fact that their daughters will soon leave them. His demeanor is a stark contrast to his actions of late, such as his insistence on both girls sitting beside him during meals so that he may regale them with tales of his victories at war, more to the interest of Baela than Valaena. So, too, had he insisted that he be the one to teach Valaena the various dances she would have to know for her wedding, spinning endlessly around the Great Hall of the Stone Drum with her.

Rhaenyra has had her own difficulties as to Valaena’s imminent departure. Years earlier, she had twice entreated her father to call off the betrothal, the queen lending her assistance each time. Both women had relented, however, when the last time they made such a request, Viserys threatened to move the wedding up to Aemond’s thirteenth nameday.

Having accepted that she would have no choice but to send her daughter away, Rhaenyra has done her best to make her peace with the matter. She has kept Valaena close to her side in recent months, apprising the girl as to what will be expected of her when she one day rules Dragonstone. Valaena takes to the lessons remarkably well, sopping up knowledge like a sponge. Rhaenyra hopes she will take to life in King’s Landing with the same sort of zeal. Valaena had spent the first eleven years of her life in the realm’s capital, so it should be an easy transition, but whereas her childhood had been spent in the merry company of her loving family, she is set to return to the city completely alone.

129 A.C.

Their family makes for King’s Landing two days before the royal wedding. A ship ferries most everyone and their belongings to the city. Valaena flies overhead on her dragon, whose purple and green scales glint in the sunlight. Veraxes, while still a drake, had grown large enough for the girl to ride him a year past, and he carries her weight well now. Valaena directs him toward the Dragonpit whilst the ship docks in the harbor.

A sizable carriage takes them to the Red Keep, where they are welcomed by a meagre gathering of minor nobles. Unwilling to let the paltry reception bother her too greatly, Rhaenyra sends the older children to prepare themselves for the feast her father is holding to commence the wedding celebrations. Valaena arrives a mere hour before the festivities are set to begin. Aware of the time crunch, Rhaenyra orders a slew of maidservants to help Valaena bathe, dress her, and arrange her hair into an elaborate bun.

Rhaenyra had decided on red as a color theme for this evening. While the party of the princess has long been known for the color black, the shade is far too dismal for a wedding, even a dismal one. Bright, crimson fabric thus adorns their figures as they stride into the throne room. Rhaenyra and Daemon lead with Valaena a step behind and between them. Her siblings, first Jacaerys and Lucerys and then Baela and Rhaena, follow her in pairs. They are announced by Ser Lorent Marbrand. “Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, and her royal consort, Prince Daemon Targaryen, and her daughter and heir, Princess Valaena of House Velaryon.”

The entire hall gets to their feet as their party strides down the aisle toward the long table situated before the throne. Viserys is seated at its middle. He alone does not stand, along with his lady wife, watching their procession with fondness in his eyes. Rhaenyra is glad for that much. She recalls how anxious she had been to report to her father that she had wed Daemon nearly three years past, fearing that he would not speak to her until this very day. To be sure, he had been chagrined for a time, issuing her letter no reply. However, when she came to King’s Landing a few months later, advancing her first supplication that Valaena’s betrothal be forgotten, he had offered her his congratulations on her pregnancy with her son Aegon, and the matter had been resolved.

Her family bows to the king before sitting down. Up close, she sees that her father has grown grayer since she last saw him. His face is wanner, and he has significantly less hair. Still, he is in good enough spirits, and she kisses his cheek in greeting before going to her seat. She sits two places down from him. Aemond is sat on his left, and Valaena on Aemond’s left.

As Rhaenyra takes her seat on Valaena’s other side, she hears her daughter try for polite conversation with her betrothed. “Hello, Aemond. You look well.”

With the injured side of his face to them, Rhaenyra can hardly tell his expression, though she can see that his lips are pursed in a slight pout. He displays his displeasure further by ignoring Valaena. Displeased in turn, Valaena shoots Rhaenyra an aggrieved glance, as if to tell her that this farce is not worth her efforts. As if Rhaenyra does not know that much already.

Once the parties of a few more houses have been announced and people have settled at the other tables, her father rises from his chair, balancing himself on his cane. The hall quiets as he begins his speech. “Be welcome, all. How joyous an occasion this is. In the ancient tradition of our house, in less than two days’ time, my son Aemond is to wed my favorite granddaughter.” Obligingly, the court chuckles at the king’s jape.

As he speaks, Rhaenyra peers down the other end of the table. Alicent sits on his other side with her face tight, her mouth drawn into a disgruntled line as she tries to maintain her composure. Aegon gazes longingly at the goblet of wine sat in front of him, paying their father little mind. With her head down, Helaena smooths a hand over her pregnant belly. Daeron, the youngest of the king’s children, is listening attentively, gazing up at their father with wide eyes. Lastly, at the far end of the table, Otto sits with an oddly glad expression, one that elevates the anxiety already swelling within Rhaenyra’s breast.

Viserys rounds off his address. “The Houses Targaryen and Velaryon are further bound, much as they were at the time of the Conqueror and the days of Old Valyria. The Second Age of Dragons continues!”

As uproarious applause flows throughout the room, the band readies itself for the first dance of the evening. At the sound of tuning instruments, Valaena begins fiddling with the rings on her fingers, shy about dancing in front of the court. Rhaenyra tries to lend her some support. “My wedding with your father started just like this.”

She inhales, meaning to continue the story and tell her daughter about what fun she had with Laenor—how she could not contain her laughter as they danced together—but Valaena heads her off. Her daughter stares at her unnervingly. “We all know how it ended.”

Unsettled by her remark, Rhaenyra nearly rears back from her. She knows the children have heard the stories of her gruesome wedding feast-turned-ceremony, and indeed, the assemblage here bears an eerie resemblance to her own wedding, but surely, they do not anticipate the same bloody outcome this night. “Valaena—”

Aemond finally gives Valaena his attention, distracting her. Having stood, he offers her his hand. Standing, too, she takes it, and they walk to the center of the hall together.

A drumroll starts them off, and stiff-limbed, they go through the motions of the dance. While the set they perform is meant to present the two dancers as one, fluid unit, Valaena and Aemond display no such harmony, their stilted movements betraying only discord.

Once the song concludes, Aemond returns at once to his seat. Valaena, left behind on the floor without so much as a backwards glance, is bombarded by well-wishers. Gamely and graciously, she accepts the kind words of the nobles. Thereafter, she lingers in the aisle as others gather to dance, though she has no partner herself. Rhaenyra imagines that she is ill-inclined to rejoin her betrothed and further suffer his company.

The sudden presence of Lucerys at her shoulder surprises Rhaenyra. He pleads, “Mother, may I dance the next set with Valaena? She looks sad to be all alone.”

Cheered by her son’s kindliness, she happily gives her consent. “Of course, sweet boy. Go.”

A spring in his step, Lucerys dashes to Valaena’s side. She brightens at the sight of him and takes his hands in hers. They perform the following two sets together, giggling as they twirl in each other’s arms. Rhaenyra is endlessly pleased by the sight, glad of her children’s love for one another. It is most unfortunate that Valaena must be without it so soon.

Before the feast comes to an end, Rhaenyra endures the queen’s company. “Hello, Step-Daughter.”

“My queen,” she replies, cold but passably deferential. Glancing up at her old friend, she notices Alicent’s gaze on the scar along her left forearm, the very one that had produced their children’s undesired betrothal. Nettled, she turns over her arm.

“I wish to congratulate you as to your daughter’s wedding. It is a blessing to see one’s daughter married,” remarks Alicent.

Rhaenyra scrutinizes Helaena again, watching as her sister stares wistfully at those dancing on the floor. Her brother-husband, seated beside her, neglects her in favor of his cups. “Thank you,” says Rhaenyra, tarrying for whatever reason Alicent truly approached her.

Alicent does not make her wait long. “It would be prudent, I think, for there to be a final fitting of dear Valaena’s wedding gown. My seamstress can make certain the dress is appropriate.”

Rhaenyra bristles. “Why would it not be?”

Alicent frowns, as though stunned that Rhaenyra has taken offense. “Valaena has not yet fully ripened. It is best to make certain that which fit her well a month past does still now.”

Swallowing a sigh, Rhaenyra finds little cause to resist. So long as she is in King’s Landing, she must follow the queen’s steps, at least until she herself is queen. “Very well.”

“Excellent. I will make the arrangements.” From there, Alicent’s attention moves to Aemond, who sits slumped in his chair, moping. Her fingers fiddle with some stray strands of his hair. He shifts, wordlessly complaining. Rebuffed, Alicent gives Rhaenyra a final, unenthusiastic smile and returns to her seat. Rhaenyra turns back to Daemon, who raises his brow at her, looking terribly amused.

The next morning, Rhaenyra and Valaena are summoned for the fitting immediately after breakfast. Valaena grouses about the imposition all the way to the queen’s chambers, having tried on the confounded dress so many times already. Thankfully, when they arrive, she immediately brightens upon the sight of Helaena, who is seated along an upholstered bench. She makes for her aunt but is stymied by Alicent, who diverts her to the podium situated by the windows and her awaiting wedding gown.

After Valaena has been swallowed by the gown, Alicent inspects her with twisted lips and a discontented hum. She runs her fingers along the neckline as Valaena discreetly glares up at her. “Can the bodice not be brought higher?”

“It is easily done, my queen,” espouses her seamstress.

“What is the need,” Rhaenyra remonstrates. The dress had been made with great care over the span of many months. She sees no reason to make any last-minute adjustments.

Turning to her, Alicent casually drops her gaze to Rhaenyra’s own bust, which today is partially on display. Rhaenyra feels her face harden as Alicent says, voice clear, “No need.” Turning back to Valaena, she asks her to stand on her toes and takes a few steps back to survey how high the hem raises. There is the barest sight of the bottoms of her ankles, at which Alicent sighs, supposing that the gown will do fine as is.

Relieved, Valaena undresses quickly, slipping into her other frock and joining Helaena at last. Alicent calls for tea, and Rhaenyra, seeing the girls chatting amiably, makes no argument.

The girls spend most of the refreshment discussing their dragons and Helaena’s collection of critters. After she finishes her tea, Helaena generously allows Valaena to feel around her belly for the babe within her.

Letting her aunt’s hands guide her own, Valaena bites her lip. Timidly, she wonders, “Do you like being married?” At the question, both Alicent and Rhaenyra look from their cups to their daughters.

Helaena shrugs, her attention not straying from their overlapping hands. “It’s not so bad.”

Her earnest expression turning increasingly forlorn, Valaena enunciates, “Helaena, I asked if you liked being married, not how bad it is. Do you like it?”

Eyes meeting Valaena’s, Helaena smiles. “No.”

Valaena chokes on an anxious breath, which Helaena shrewdly catches. She qualifies, “Don’t worry. The worst part is the bedding.”

Growing despondent, Valaena pulls away her hands and clenches them in her own lap. Alicent and Rhaenyra silently agree that their tea is over. Rhaenyra makes their excuses and ushers Valaena from the room, Helaena waving as they depart.

Seeing as how Valaena’s new quarters in the Red Keep are still being prepared, the rooms she occupied as a child not fit for a married woman, Rhaenyra guides them to her own rooms. Thankfully, no one else is present when they arrive. Hoping to provide her solace, she pets Valaena’s hair, telling her, “Mind not that which your aunt said. You know how strange she is.” Rhaenyra has always thought her sister sweet but simple.

Unfortunately, Valaena is not allayed. “Helaena’s not strange,” she disputes, scowling. “I have known her near my entire life! We took our lessons together. We went to the Dragonpit together. She’s not strange, not to me.”

Blinking wide, Rhaenyra drops her hand from Valaena’s hair. After a moment, she recovers from the girl’s outburst. “Of course, dearest. I misspoke.” In trying again to lift her spirits, she takes a more measured approach. “At least, you were right to not marry Aegon.”

Precipitously, Valaena tears up, gasping, “Do you think I am the reason Helaena is unhappy?”

“No, no,” exclaims Rhaenyra. She takes Valaena by the shoulders and watches as the girl’s bottom lip and chin quiver. “She is not unhappy.”

Valaena’s head droops, her hair covering her face. When Rhaenyra hears sniffling and feels Valaena’s shoulders shaking under her hands, she kneels in front of her daughter. At the sight of her scrunched-up, reddened face, she sighs, “Valaena, what Helaena said about the bedding—”

Pulling away from her, Valaena viciously wipes at her splotchy cheeks. “We already spoke of what it will entail.”

Before they had departed from Dragonstone, Rhaenyra had explained to her the mechanics of marital relations. Squeamish, Valaena had listened to her lecture with a pinched-up face and tightly crossed legs.

“Yes,” she agrees, “but I simply wish to tell you that there can be pleasure found in the marriage bed.”

“I know,” Valaena intones, rolling her eyes.

Rhaenyra recalls with mild amusement how the girls had reacted after she and Daemon had married. Older than the boys, they’d had much more awareness as to the goings-on. She had caught them giggling together, Valaena and Baela exaggeratedly mimicking moaning sounds. Perhaps regrettably, Valaena regards such intimacy with far less hilarity now.

Valaena continues, lamenting, “But I’m marrying Aemond. I doubt he knows anything as to that, or that he would care to share if he did.”

Rhaenyra has little choice but to agree with her again. “Yes, but you will learn as you grow.”

“I don’t care about the bedding,” Valaena bursts, throwing up her hands. “I wish for no part in it. I wish for no part in any of this.” Sniveling again, she prays, “I wish to go home. I do not wish to marry Aemond.”

“Valaena,” grieves Rhaenyra, eyes closing to keep at bay her own tears. Should she cry in front of Valaena, there will be no chance of revitalizing the girl.

Recognizing Rhaenyra’s weakness, Valaena clutches at her hands, entreating, “Do you think if I beg Grandsire, he will reconsider? Or if Aemond and I beseech him together?” A touch more despairing, she goes on, “If-if I take out my eye, do you think the queen will be appeased, and I can—”

“Valaena,” interrupts Rhaenyra. Her voice is stony, even to her own ears, but the desperation in her daughter’s tone had frightened her. Valaena must learn to harden herself, and with haste. Firmly, she grasps Valaena’s chin and declares, “The matter is settled. You will wed Aemond, and you will remain here thereafter. You will not allow the queen or her party to impair you in any manner. Do you understand?”

Tilting her head back until her chin escapes from her grip, Valaena’s watery, brown eyes flit about Rhaenyra’s face. Whatever she finds there sends her over the edge, and she hurls herself into Rhaenyra’s arms, mashing her face into her chest and letting loose her wails. Regretting her harshness, Rhaenyra murmurs apologies and reassurances into the crown of her head, permitting Valaena to find comfort in the arms of her mother for perhaps the last time.

Valaena wears a heavy gown of ivory samite for her wedding. Its long train drags behind her on the floor of the royal sept as Rhaenyra, standing in for Laenor, walks her down the aisle. The hundreds of dragons embroidered along the fabric, with Veraxes’s likeness directly over her heart, dance with every step she takes.

Another heavy garment hangs from her shoulders. It is a maiden’s cloak made of sea green, damask fabric. A large, silver-threaded seahorse falls in the middle of her back, its tail curling as the cloak flutters around her.

As they reach the end of the aisle, they pass Valaena’s siblings and Daemon on their left. On their right, stand the king and his family. Ahead of them, Aemond stands beside the statute of the Father. He wears a dour expression, his lone eye replete with quiet resentment.

Reluctantly, Rhaenyra hands Valaena off to him. As she releases her daughter, Valaena squeezes her arm as though to reassure her, but she only feels worse for it. Valaena is the one in need of consolation, not her.

Aemond offers Valaena his arm, and she puts her hand in the crook of his elbow. They climb up the steps to the pale marble altar before which the High Septon stands, old and frail. Once at the top of the steps, Valaena’s hand slips down to Aemond’s own, and they face one another, Aemond’s eyepatch to the crowd.

The seven vows are made, the seven blessings are invocated, and the seven promises are exchanged. A wedding song is sung by all those in attendance, though the voices of Rhaenyra and her family do not join them.

The High Septon issues a challenge to anyone who wishes to speak against the marriage. “Be there any among us who would seek to keep these two to wed asunder?”

Rhaenyra feels rise within her the urge to speak, but she holds her tongue. Rather than voice her concerns, she walks to Valaena from her place halfway up the steps.

For her part, Valaena has managed to keep a saccharine smile on her face throughout the entire proceeding. This is a stark contrast from the last few months, during which she had vacillated between glumness and despondency. As Rhaenyra removes the maiden’s cloak from her shoulders, she cannot help but think that she has the consummate daughter and heir, one who can keep up appearances in even the most dreadful of times.

Cloak in hand, Rhaenyra turns and makes her way down to Daemon’s side. She faces her daughter again in time to see Aemond remove the cloak from his own shoulders and drape it over Valaena’s.

It is a black cloak emblazoned with a large, three-headed, green dragon. The sight of it enrages Rhaenyra. She is further provoked when she glances to the side, spying Otto, whose face is drawn up in a smug smile at the sight of her daughter draped in the color associated with his daughter's cause.

As the septon wraps the couple’s joined hands in a handfasting cloth, the second set of vows begins. Valaena goes first. After a deep breath, her sweet voice carries throughout the room. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lord and husband.”

Far more sullenly, Aemond recites his part. “With this kiss, I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

Despite her best efforts, Rhaenyra is sure that she cringes as she watches the two of them lean forward. Valaena stands on her toes, engaging her new husband in a chaste kiss.

“Let it be known that Valaena of the Houses Targaryen and Velaryon and Aemond of the Houses Hightower and Targaryen are one flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever,” pronounces the High Septon.

The pair of them turns toward the crowd, their bound hands held above their heads. Valaena’s smile is dimmer, whereas Aemond’s frown is no longer so severe. Avid cheering commences, with Rhaenyra and her family measuredly partaking. Viserys is the most pleased out of anyone in their entire family, enthusiastically tapping his cane against the floor and grinning widely.

The celebration moves to the throne room for the reception. For the remainder of the day, Valaena and her siblings are in curiously high spirits. They watch the performances with keen interest and dance with one another for hours.

The king enjoys the rout, as well, reveling in his grandchildren’s delight and overlooking his children’s dissatisfaction. Nevertheless, feeble, he tires early, calling the festivities to a close as he does.

As those amassed begin to disperse, Valaena suddenly darts for Rhaenyra, clutching at her arm. “Mother,” she spouts, her grasp on Rhaenyra fiercely tight. “Uncle Aegon told me that I will be carried into Aemond’s bedchamber by strange men who will undress me. Is it true?”

Livid, Rhaenyra scours the room for her eldest half-brother, though she does not see him. Looking back to Valaena’s earnest, distraught countenance, she hesitates to answer, “It has been known to happen.”

Valaena bites her lip, wracked with nerves. Rhaenyra wishes that she not have to suffer the bedding at all, but with Valaena having flowered two years past, there is no defensible reason to postpone.

Blessedly, Daemon approaches them, bowing his head as he speaks to Valaena. “I’ll escort you, riñītsos. None will dare touch you.”

Relieved in some measure, Valaena moves her grip to his arm. Verily, as he leads her from the hall, Rhaenyra notices as a group of men stood loitering by the door shrink away from them, cowed by Daemon’s stare.

After seeing the rest of the children to bed, Rhaenyra anxiously awaits Daemon’s arrival in her chambers. She pounces on him when he comes through the door. “How did she seem when you left her?”

Her husband shakes his head, as though unwilling to play into her worries. “She is a brave girl. This will not break her.”

Knowing he speaks of more than the bedding, she sharply rebuts, “We do not part with Valaena as we do Baela. We leave her in a nest of vipers eager for her flesh.”

He does not take kindly to the reminder of his own daughter’s departure. “Let us hope her skin is thick enough to withstand their fangs, then, if she is not so quick as to evade them.”

At the king’s insistence, the whole family breaks their fast together the following morning. Rhaenyra and her family arrive in the dining room dressed for travel, planning to depart after the meal’s conclusion. The king and queen are present already when they arrive, and the queen’s children soon join them. When Aemond enters the room, he does so without Valaena. Rhaenyra cannot decide whether this pleases her or not.

When at last Valaena does arrive, issuing an apology to her grandparents as she does, she instinctively moves towards her siblings before realizing that the only place left available is the one next to Aemond. Lips twisting, she takes it, wincing slightly as she settles in her seat.

As sympathy spikes within Rhaenyra, she spies Aegon grinning at her daughter’s discomfort. He nudges his brother to commend him, and Aemond smirks in reply.

Rhaenyra feels her blood burn so hot as to morph into ice, rendering her frozen, rigid with rancor. She despises utterly that this, a husband and good-family who delight in her suffering, is that to which she must leave her daughter.

When, later in the meal, Alicent pledges to Rhaenyra that she will care for Valaena as if she is one of her own, it only serves to further incense Rhaenyra. This is the woman who had shoved her daughter to the ground not moments before she had held a knife to her for want of her son’s eye and their children had been betrothed.

This is all a horrible, wretched mistake, but the mistake is made. The deed is done, the marriage consummated, and Rhaenyra has no choice but to leave her darling firstborn behind.

Valaena follows their family to the carriages that will take them to the harbor, drawing out their parting. The children are a mass of ardent embraces and fervent tears as they give each other their farewells. Baela bounds over to Rhaenyra and her father to say her good-byes as Rhaenys spares a kiss for Valaena.

Once Rhaenys and Baela have started away and their younger children are firmly settled in their own carriage, Rhaenyra and Daemon approach Valaena, who stands patiently to the side.

Daemon presses his lips to her brow. “Should you require it, I will return for you on dragonback.”

As Valaena steps up to Rhaenyra, Daemon having received his kiss from her and retreated into the carriage, Alicent appears in the doorway to the castle. “Valaena, come along,” she calls, unfeeling.

Rhaenyra glowers at her erstwhile friend, pained by the woman’s attempt to deprive her of her daughter’s valediction. Already, she has her. Why must she take more, always more, wonders Rhaenyra.

Valaena, made uneasy by the rival attention, looks back and forth between Rhaenyra and Alicent. Whatever decision with which she grapples turns out to be one easily made, as she soon throws her arms around Rhaenyra’s middle and holds her close.

Gratified, Rhaenyra buries her face in her daughter’s hair, telling her, “You can always come to Dragonstone if you feel the need. You are not obligated to remain here.”

Valaena nods valiantly. “I shall miss you.”

After a final squeeze, Rhaenyra releases her, smacking kisses on her cheek. “I shall miss you every day, sweet girl. I love you.”

“And I, you,” breathes Valaena.

Feeling as though her feet are sinking into the ground with every step, Rhaenyra tears herself away and climbs into the carriage. As it sets off, she peers through the fenestrae to observe Valaena as the girl watches their retreat, unmoving as Alicent continues to call for her and the gates close between them.

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

The Round Hall is a joyless, dark, dank room. The stone floor beneath Valaena’s knees is frightfully cold, so much so as to seep through her skirts and chill her skin. The blood atop it countervails the cold, however, keeping her flesh warm enough to prevent her from going numb.

How she longs for numbness, as well as for the apathy that would come with it. How she longs to not be here, kneeling upon the algid, unforgiving floor, holding down Lucerys as he tries in vain to writhe away from the knife carving out his eye.

Somehow, Lucerys’s pleading and howling is too quiet to drown out the sound of Aemond’s laughter. Exultant, her husband cackles as his blade splits apart Lucerys’s once-untarnished face. Valaena begs him to stop. She begs him even as her arms obdurately keep Lucerys pinned to the floor. Lucerys screams, screeching at both of them as bright, red blood spews from his face. Aemond hears neither of them, his sapphire eye glinting in the dim light as he continues to dissect the little boy underneath him.

As thunder cracks, resounding through Shipbreaker Bay and the hall, Aemond and Lucerys vanish, though the floor remains. Valaena lingers there, still kneeling in a puddle of Lucerys’s blood. Her attention is drawn from the soiled ground by the sound of wind whipping through a small opening. She looks up to find her mother standing before an open window in the nursery on Dragonstone, holding her son in her arms.

“Grandmother loves you,” Rhaenyra coos to him, stepping closer to the window.

Gripped by a presentiment, Valaena shrieks, “Mother, no!” She struggles to stand, hoping to put a stop to this awful, wretched nightmare and save her son. As her mother thrusts forward her arms, however, she finds that the blood underneath her has grown sticky. It ensnares her to the floor, atop which she lies, wailing, as the babe is lost to the storm outside.

Valaena jolts awake, her head slipping from her pillow as she does. Clutched by an insistent need, she jumps from her bed and rushes from the room, desperate to hold her son in her arms. In her haste, she forgoes her robe and slippers, barreling down the halls on her way to the nursery.

As she streaks past the closed doors to the rooms of her relations, all of them still abed at this time of night, Valaena wonders why she keeps having that same, harrowing night terror. For nearly two weeks, she has dreamt of Lucerys suffering at the hands of her and Aemond in the Round Hall before the delusion shifts to the unfathomable death of her son by Rhaenyra. This has not changed despite any action or meditation on her part. She herself had burnt most of Storm’s End, including the Round Hall, to ash, yet still, the beginning of the dream takes place there. She has endured endless introspection, wondering as to what guilt she must feel for Lucerys’s death for her to be the one holding him down in her dreams. She cannot fathom why it always ends with Rhaenyra killing her own grandson, something she knows her mother would never do. She wonders, too, why Lucerys merely loses an eye in her nightmare, whereas in truth, every bit of him is gone.

Upon arriving at the nursery, she discovers her infant son crying in the arms of a wet nurse. The woman stands in front of an open window as she rocks him from side to side.

Unbidden, Valaena bites at her, “Give him here,” startling the poor woman. She is quick to do as bid, gently passing the babe into Valaena’s arms.

Valaena welcomes the fussing boy into her embrace, lulling him with quiet words. “Hush, Aenar, hush now,” she murmurs, her lips brushing his brow. “I’m here now. Mama’s here.”

She continues to dandle Aenar until he settles and falls back asleep. The nurse tries to explain why he had been up crying in the middle of the night, but Valaena does not hear her. She turns away, taking him to her own bedchamber.

Once there, she is greeted by the sight of a white-blond head on her pillow. Her mind still fuzzy from sleep and the terrors that await her in such a state, she imagines she is standing at the threshold of her bedchamber in the Red Keep, gazing upon her husband lying in their bed with her marriage cloak hung on the wall above him.

The head turns towards her, and the illusion is broken. The walls turn from red to gray, the marriage cloak becomes her maiden’s cloak once more, and all is well, or as well as it can be.

“Aegon,” she breathes, relieved. Wandering over to the bed, she wonders, “What are you doing here?”

Rubbing at his eyes, her brother sleepily mumbles, “I had a nightmare, and Father says I can’t sleep with him and Mother anymore.”

Valaena sighs as she settles into the bed next to him, careful not to disturb Aenar, who lies scrunched-up along her chest. “All right, you may sleep here.” Pleased, Aegon cuddles into her side. He pulls out a hand from underneath the bedclothes to pet the babe’s head, whispering twaddle to him as he does.

Eventually, he succumbs to fatigue, likely coaxed to sleep by Valaena as she continuously brushes her thumb across his forehead. She copies the motion on the nape of Aenar’s neck, keeping both boys serene and slumbering until daybreak. Valaena does not join them in sleep, wary of what may await her in her dreams.

In the morning, nurses come to collect Aenar and Aegon, and Valaena reluctantly surrenders them. With no more reason to remain in bed, she rises and readies herself for the day. She calls for her handmaid, Aster, to assist her.

Aster fashions her hair into a low, braided bun at her request. As she finishes her work, she gingerly asks, “Would you like to wear the pendant this day, Princess?”

When she had left King’s Landing for Dragonstone, Valaena had brought with her Aster, who had happily accompanied her with the assumption that they would return to the capital within a few short months. When war had broken out, Valaena had offered her the opportunity to return to King’s Landing, where Aster’s family has lived for five generations and her son and husband now reside. Ever faithful, Aster had declined, refusing to leave Dragonstone until they could return to King’s Landing together.

Aster has been with Valaena longer than any other handmaid, having served her for nearly four years. As such, Aster knows all of Valaena’s habits, including her choice to don a sapphire pendant necklace every morning since the day she had received it. That is, until the day she had left King’s Landing for the last time.

“I would not,” Valaena replies, with as little venom as she can muster.

After Aster leaves her, Valaena remains seated at her vanity, arrested by her reflection in the mirror. Her face is not as full as it was a month past. Most of the added weight from her pregnancy has left her, her grief aiding her in shedding it by encumbering her eating full meals. Her grief also keeps her from sleeping through the night, inducing dark circles to take up residence underneath her eyes. The intricacies of her face hold most of her attention. She has never inspected her face so much as she has in the last two weeks. She stares endlessly at her brow, her nose, her mouth—all features she cannot see as anything but Dornish now.

While the Sun is still low in the sky, she takes breakfast in her sitting room. Halfway through her meal, Grand Maester Gerardys sweeps into the room, his long chain thumping against his chest with every step. Not long after her mother had been crowned and she had become Princess of Dragonstone, she had instructed Gerardys to bring to her for approval any messages prior to sending them by raven, as well as permit no unauthorized missives to leave the castle, even if it means cutting down whichever man or raven carries it. These are times of war. There is little trust to go around, and she will see no treason carried out against her mother in her own hold.

He presents her with a small basket filled with numerous tied scrolls, each of them small enough to fit around the leg of a bird. He takes out two of the scrolls and gestures to the rest, “These have been dispatched by your mother, Princess.”

“Very well,” she responds, seeing no reason to examine them further. She may be the mistress of Dragonstone and thus responsible for any dealings therein, but she has neither right nor reason to question her queen.

He hands her the first of the missives in his hand. “This was penned by Lord Gunthor Darklyn.”

Taking it from him, she unties and unfurls the scroll. Her eyes quickly scan the billet, finding it to be a short letter to Lord Gunthor’s lady wife Meredyth. It contains no confidential information, simply informing the Lady of Duskendale that her husband shall return in the evening, his ship set to depart from Dragonstone this morning. Tying the band around the letter once more, she returns it to the maester’s basket.

With a degree of trepidation, Gerardys passes her the final note. “This was carried by a raven not of my flock. It was shot down by an archer.”

Dismayed, she reads the note.

My dearest Mysaria, it begins.

I write to you with a momentous request.

As you may have yet to learn, my step-son, Prince Lucerys Velaryon, was slain by Aemond One-Eye over Shipbreaker Bay. Before chasing him on dragonback, the boy spoke of the debt he felt Lucerys owed him, an eye for an eye.

With all this talk of debts, I see cause to demand yet more. A son for a son. For the loss of the Queen’s precious son, the knave “King” Aegon should lose one of his own.

I am certain you know of someone who can bring me the little head of Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen. I would pay him a hundred gold dragons, and owe you a favor, my dear. I have gold cloaks stationed at the Dragon, River, King’s, and Old Gates, and Gate of the Gods who remain loyal to me and would smuggle him out of the city.

I require no answer.

The epistle bears no signature, but Valaena knows without having read his name who wrote it.

Hand to her mouth, she rises from her seat and clutches the letter to her chest. She asks Gerardys, “Did you read this?”

“No, Princess,” he replies staunchly. “I brought it to you forthwith.”

Aware she has company, she endeavors to compose herself and mask her distress, though she must come up short. Gerardys’s concern is plain on his face. “I thank you, Grand Maester. These missives from my mother and the Lord Darklyn may be sent out. Please leave me.”

Once she is alone again, Valaena allows the horror that had been bobbing at the shoreline to wash over her. She is utterly repelled by the contents of the letter, which she knows to have been written by Daemon. Daemon, who helped raise her and, until this very moment, she had trusted implicitly. She knows of his desire for vengeance and that he is always far too keen to spill blood, but she had not imagined that he would so eagerly spill his own blood, that of an innocent child.

Valaena deeply cherishes the innocent child in question, Jaehaerys, along with his siblings and mother. She had been in the room when all three children were born, holding Helaena’s hand whenever her aunt could bear to be touched. She has seen them throughout their entire lives, playing nursery games with them and taking them for rides on Veraxes.

In her heart of hearts, Valaena knows she must somehow put a stop to Daemon’s plot, regardless of whether its success would be a boon to her mother’s cause. For now, as she stands with his undelivered missive in hand, that much is assured. However, soon or late, he will realize that his letter never made it to its intended recipient, and he will send another. She knows, too, that she cannot simply ask that he desist from his scheme. Daemon is notoriously stubborn in his conviction, and he does not take kindly to others infringing on his plans.

Valaena also feels a strange aversion to taking this matter to her mother. Rhaenyra has been on the warpath since Lucerys’s death. Though the same can certainly be said of Valaena, she knows that for herself, that path does not extend to permitting the demise of her beloved nephew, and she does not wish to learn if the same can be said of her mother. Moreover, the one person who she trusts not only to consult but to not go straight to Daemon, Jacaerys, is unavailable, still away on his mission north.

She will have to handle the matter herself, she recognizes. The best course of action would be to convince Helaena to decamp from Daemon’s reach with her children, but she knows not how to do so without venturing to King’s Landing, a perilous idea if ever there was one. She could end up dead, or worse, captured by the Greens.

Withal, however much she wishes to write off the inkling of a plan forming in her consciousness, with Jaehaerys’s little face shining at her in her mind’s eye, she knows she must do the unthinkable, and she must do it now.

With a new detail of her plan coming to her with every passing minute, Valaena rushes about the castle. She takes from her own quarters her gift from Daemon upon her being named Princess of Dragonstone, a dagger in the event that should she ever need to defend her seat. She slips into the servants’ quarters to borrow a uniform to better keep her from sticking out in King’s Landing, and after that, heads back to Sea Dragon Tower for one last errand.

As with the rest of their family, Rhaena has been in low spirits of late. She had lost not only her cousin in Lucerys but her betrothed, and so soon after his untimely demise, their grandmother Rhaenys had promised her hand to Raymont Baratheon, a man she has never met. When Valaena arrives in Rhaena’s chambers, she asks after her good health.

Distracted from the book she had been reading, Rhaena sighs, “I am well.” She musters a smile. “How is Aenar?”

Having been at Valaena’s side during Aenar’s birth, Rhaena has continued to show a particular devotion to her young nephew. She has held him more than anyone else in their family, save for Valaena, and knitted him a pair of socks to keep his feet warm.

Pleased by her interest, Valaena replies, “He is doing nicely.” She dawdles for a moment before broaching, “Actually, I wish to speak to you as to him. I would ask a favor.”

“Anything,” Rhaena readily agrees.

“Would you mind attending him on occasion,” she petitions, “just for a few days.”

Rhaena furrows her brow. “Is he not in the care of the wet nurses?”

Valaena confirms, “He is, but who better to care for him than my beloved sister?”

“The nurses, surely,” replies Rhaena, confused.

Bordering on impatient, well aware of how soon Lord Darklyn’s ship is set to sail, Valaena repeats her request. “If you could simply check on him from time to time.”

Bewildered still, Rhaena wonders, “Why cannot you attend him?” She peers down the length of Valaena’s form, noting the white cloak and threadbare, red dress she wears. Valaena has worn nothing but black since they had received news of the king’s death. Solicitude splashed across her face, she stands, approaches Valaena, and takes one of her hands into her grip. “Why are you dressed so? Where are you going?”

“I am leaving the isle for but a few days,” she answers, proceeding quickly when Rhaena makes to object, “and I would ask that you wait until this evening to disclose my absence to our parents.”

“This is foolish,” argues Rhaena. “You have given birth only two weeks past. You should be resting, not embarking on some mad adventure.”

Placing her free hand over both of theirs, she calmly intones, “I have rested enough. There is an urgent matter that requires my attention. I would ask, as your sister, that you abide my request.”

“Not my sister,” refuses Rhaena, her face pinched into a scowl. “I care for her too deeply to permit her to run off on account of some fantastical plan.”

Somberly, Valaena amends, “Your princess then.” She had so hoped she would not have to oblige anything of her cousin.

Rhaena nods. “By her demands, I will abide.” She tugs Valaena into her chest. “However, I demand in turn that she preserve herself at any cost.”

Valaena lies her head on Rhaena’s shoulder. “I will, my lady,” she promises, however truthfully.

As soon as Lord Darklyn disembarks at Duskendale’s port, Valaena offers the ship’s captain three gold dragons to see her all the way to King’s Landing. He refuses, asking after her name and impudence. She doubles her offer, he reconsiders, and they dock in the capital’s harbor an hour before midnight.

Valaena wanders around the city on a loose route to the Red Keep, unused to having to make her own way there. She purchases a meal with a copper star in a seedy tavern close to daybreak, and by dawn, she arrives at the crest of Aegon’s Hill. For the first time in her life, she is glad for her unremarkable coloring. It had been tremendously easy to slip down the city streets unnoticed, and it is easier still with her borrowed uniform to slip into the Red Keep, a guard waving her through the service entrance with hardly a glance.

Aware of Helaena’s routine, Valaena pulls her bonnet down low and heads for the nursery, knowing that her good-sister will arrive there to wake the children as soon as she has finished her breakfast. As she makes her way to Maegor’s Holdfast, it occurs to her that she could alter the purpose of her mission and put an end to the whole war. Aegon is like to still be abed at this hour. She envisions stealing into his bedchamber and slitting his throat. Then again, Aegon is a light sleeper, and though a drunken fool he is, too, he was trained in the sword in his youth and could easily overpower her. After that, she would have no hope of escape and possibly face execution for treason.

Valaena is pulled from her musings by the sound of shouting, only belatedly realizing that it is directed at her. A wrinkled, busty wet nurse glowers at her, barking, “Are you ignoring me?”

Dumbstruck, Valaena is afraid that at any moment, the woman will recognize her and put up a hue and cry. When no such condemnation comes, she blurts, “No.”

For whatever reason, this response does not satisfy the woman. Her mouth pulled down in a great frown, she strikes Valaena across the face.

Valaena, never having been struck in her life, staggers back from her, a hand pressed to her hot cheek and her eyes blown wide.

“Don’t you gawk at me, girl. I may not have brought you on meself, but I’m still your mistress. You’ll not get around me,” she declares. Not wanting to be struck again, Valaena nods. “Why’re you wandering around? An’ why are you wearing your cloak?”

“Winter is coming,” is all she can think to say. She hardly wishes to remove the garment and reveal the dagger she has at her back.

“All right,” the woman grumbles. Gripping her arm, she hauls Valaena into the nursery. “You’ll stay with the little princes and princess until dusk,” she orders, walking off thereafter.

Perturbed but otherwise pleased to have made it to her destination relatively unscathed, Valaena wanders farther into the room. Along the far wall, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera lie asleep in their respective cots. Closer to the door, Maelor is on his feet in his cradle, his hands clutching the railing. At the sight of her, he starts bouncing and chanting, “Va-va-va-va-va!”

Cheered by his recognition, she saunters over to him. He giggles when she tickles his cheeks, and she whispers, “Hello, rūs.” Faced with the blond, violet-eyed babe, she feels a pang of longing for her own child, so far away.

It is only a few minutes—most of which Valaena spends trying to keep Maelor from ripping off her bonnet—before Helaena glides into the room, hardly looking in Valaena’s direction as she does. Blessedly, she dismisses her guard before treading over to the twins.

Wordlessly, Valaena pulls away from Maelor and goes to close the door. When it clicks shut, Helaena whips around, her expression wrought with turmoil.

Whatever anxiety there is in Helaena’s eyes disappears when their gazes lock. Elated, she rushes over to her, exclaiming, “Valaena, you’ve returned!” Valaena is graced with a tight hug from her aunt, and she squeezes her back, burying her nose in her fragrant hair. When Helaena pulls back, she informs Valaena, “You are a fool to have done so.”

Spoken by anyone else, she would take such words as an insult or a threat, but having heard them from Helaena, Valaena merely laughs. “I am, am I not?”

“All the same, I am glad of it.” Her demeanor turning somewhat melancholy and uncomfortable, she says, “I was ever so heartsore to hear of dear Lucerys’s fate.” Swallowing roughly, Valaena nods gratefully. “And I regret not being there for you,” she trails off, glancing down at Valaena’s pudgy belly, “when you lost the babe.”

Befuddled, Valaena furrows her brow. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

Helaena looks to a spot on the wall. “Lord Larys reported a stillbirth.”

“I see,” responds Valaena.

She had not known that news of her sister’s stillbirth had traveled all the way to King’s Landing, let alone that it had been warped into a rumor about her own child along the way. She wonders whether it is a good thing for the Greens to believe there to be no line from her and Aemond and cannot decide. She wonders, too, whether it would be prudent to correct Helaena’s misapprehension and decides against it. She remains at risk of being discovered in the castle, and should that occur, she would prefer to have all her secrets be wholly her own.

With the success of her plot in mind, she steels herself for the reason she has come all this way. “I fear I have yet more disturbing news. It is my last wish to plague you, but you are the only person to whom I could bring this.” Without any further ado, she extracts Daemon’s letter whence she has it tucked in her skirts and hands it to Helaena.

Helaena reads the letter with a burgeoning amount of concern. As her eyes surely reach the bit about Jaehaerys, she yawps, drops the missive, squeezes shut her eyes, and covers her ears.

Resolving to give Helaena a minute to conduct herself, Valaena picks up the missive and stows it once more. She also makes a funny face at Maelor when he starts fussing, likely feeding off his mother’s distress.

Eventually, knowing how pressed they are for time, she shades Helaena’s eyes with her hand, prompting Helaena to open them once more. Helaena gradually slides her hands down from her ears, her gaze on the floor.

“Helaena,” she starts delicately, “I do not wish for Daemon’s will to come to pass. I come here to warn you, to encourage—to beg—you to abscond with the children before it is too late.”

Rapidly shaking her head, Helaena replaces her hands over her ears. “No, no. The tapestry is too far woven.”

Gently, Valaena disputes, “It is not too late—”

Helaena switches to nodding. “He is to die.”

More firmly, Valaena objects, “Jaehaerys is not to die, Helaena.”

At last, Helaena returns her gaze to Valaena’s own, so obstinately as to pierce her with it. Eerily, she recounts, “My brother lies about his love for you, and you cut through his heart.”

Valaena, well accustomed to the odd turns that conversations with Helaena sometimes take, inhales sharply and finds herself incapable of immediate reply. Though she had already suspected as much given how callously he had slain her brother, she is devastated to have it confirmed that Aemond holds no love for her.

His claims to the contrary from her memory grate at her. So many years she had squandered at his side in King’s Landing. Mayhaps if she had relocated to Dragonstone as she had often desired early in her marriage, Lucerys would never have had cause to die. Never would Valaena have come to be with child, and it would have been she or Jacaerys sent to Storm’s End in his place.

Suddenly, it occurs to Valaena why she harbors guilt for Lucerys’s death. All she needed to have done to keep Aemond from killing Lucerys was inspire him to love her, the one task her grandsire had given her to keep peace within the family. Now, they all suffer for her failure, and none first but her sweetest brother.

Anguished and unspeakably angry, she gravely manages, “I am glad you see things my way.” Struggling to comport herself, she moves the conversation back towards a productive end. “I hope you agree, too, that you and the children must leave.”

Lips twisting, Helaena ponders, “Where should we go?”

Relieved by their progress, Valaena hurries it along. “Wherever you feel would be safest, where none—not your mother, not Aegon, not I—would think to search for you.”

Helaena speculates as to the answer, biting down on her lip and swaying from side to side. Finally, she says, “I won’t leave Dreamfyre.”

“No,” agrees Valaena, not having thought otherwise. Though they never shared a cradle, Helaena and Dreamfyre share a remarkably strong bond.

As though gripped by a sudden impulse, Helaena skirts around Valaena, moving towards the door. “Dress the children for the sky,” she imparts.

She pulls open the door, and through it comes Valaena’s dread that she may be caught and her plan may fail. Quietly, she calls after Helaena, who disappears into the hall, “Speak to no one!”

Resigned to wait for Helaena’s return and pray that none come upon her before then, Valaena turns to the twins. Gently, she shakes them awake, pressing a finger to her mouth once their eyes have opened to encourage them to keep quiet. Jaehaera stares up at her with a pleasant air about her, whereas Jaehaerys jumps from his cot and rushes into her arms.

Kneeling to his height, she presses her finger to her lips once more when she sees his part for him to speak. “Jaehaerys,” she whispers, “we need play the quiet game this morn. You may not speak until we leave the castle.” His sister, always a quiet girl, she trusts to remain silent without instruction. 

“Where are we going,” he whispers back, botching up the game at once.

“To the Dragonpit,” she answers, and he cheers until she shushes him.

Thankfully, the children remain quiet as she dresses them and they all four await Helaena. When she turns up, Valaena is stunned by the sight of her. As usual, Helaena looks well put-together, wearing her dark green riding leathers, but this day, she dons another item in which Valaena has never seen her. Alicent’s crown, now her own, rests atop her head, fringed by golden strands of hair that match its surface.

Helaena fails to notice her astonishment. She holds out her hands, saying, “Come along, my loves. I’ve a carriage waiting for us.”

As Jaehaerys and Jaehaera bound over to their mother, Valaena swallows a curse and lifts Maelor into her arms. She had been hoping to sneak Helaena and the children out of the castle through one of its many secret passageways, but she supposes this is the better strategy. A carriage convoyed by guards would reach the Dragonpit unmolested, whereas four well-groomed, blond, purple-eyed strangers may not.

Most regrettably, Helaena leads them to the gate that fences the Red Keep’s training yard. The area is teeming with guards, squires, and knights, all of whom could easily detain Valaena should she be discovered as they await a carriage that has yet to arrive.

Their chances of escape grow only more precarious as they are joined by an achingly familiar reprobate, whose deliberate footsteps alert her of his presence. Auspiciously, he comes to a stop on her right, putting her in his blind spot.

As he stands over her, Valaena keeps her face to the ground, hoping she passes for a meek servant. Staring hard at her feet, she grinds her teeth against the urge to cave into her fury. She feels her dagger burning at the small of her back, tempting her to exact retribution.

He lied to you. He loves you not, her mind hisses at her. He slew Lucerys.

“Sister,” Aemond greets Helaena as Jaehaerys tugs at the hem of his pourpoint. Something in Valaena hardens at the sound of his rich voice, and she bites the inside of her cheek until she tastes blood. Slowly, she moves the hand not supporting Maelor’s bum underneath her cloak.

Helaena makes no reply, and Aemond sighs, “I wish you would speak to me.”

That incites a response. “I wish for that, too,” she murmurs forlornly.

He slew Lucerys. He loves you not. He lied to you.

As Valaena’s hand closes around the dagger’s hilt, Aemond’s attention turns to the twins. He pats them on their heads, both children peering up at him with adoration shining in their eyes. At the look on their innocent, little faces, Valaena feels her wrath recede, replaced by revulsion at her own lack of control. How close she had come to spoiling her own plan to rescue her cousins, traumatizing them for life, and becoming a kinslayer herself.

Consumed by her thoughts, Valaena neglects to notice Aemond taking a step yet closer to her. He ducks to give Maelor his attention. Frozen in abject terror, she watches as Aemond’s face swims into view and he nudges the babe’s plump cheek with his thumb. Fortunately, his left side still faces her, so he does not see her.

As he pulls back, she breathes a muted sigh of relief, thinking herself in the clear. Maelor, menace that he is, imperils her anew as he begins to chant once more, “Va-va-va.”

Aemond seems to understand him, though not enough to doom her. “Your aunt isn’t here now.”

“Yes, she is,” chirps a sweet, little voice. Jaehaera, of all possible traitors, stares directly at Valaena, raising her hand to point at her, too.

Helaena catches Jaehaera’s hand, tugging her along. “Come, the carriage is ready.” Still reeling from her harrowing brush with calamity, Valaena hurries after her.

In the carriage, Jaehaerys sits next to Valaena. He waits until they have begun rolling away from the castle to ask her, “Why did you not speak to Uncle?” Unsure of how to answer, she says nothing. Keen, he asks further, “Is it because of what Father said, that we’re at war now?”

She turns to him, surprised. “Your father told you that?”

Looking down at his feet, which kick against the bench on which they sit, he replies, “He said he wants to kill you and your brothers and Aunt Rhaenyra.”

“Your father did not mean that,” Helaena excuses.

Inflamed, Valaena challenges, “Yes, he did.” Helaena shoots her an admonitory look, but she goes on. “And he is not the only one out for blood. Your great-uncle Daemon—”

Helaena audibly objects, “Valaena—”

“—wants to kill you,” she finishes, unrelenting.

Jaehaerys blanches, knowing, as does any child in Westeros, of the grisly tales of the Rogue Prince and his brutishness. “Me?”

“Yes,” she confirms. Looking between him and his sister, who appears fearful, as well, she feels badly for frightening them but feels it is necessary. “That is why, from this day on, the two of you will accompany your mother wherever she goes. You will not leave her side for any reason. Do you understand me?”

The twins mumble their assent, and they ride on under a tense silence.

They arrive at the Dragonpit within the hour. Valaena makes certain to keep up her disguise until they enter the structure, at which point she eases her stringent efforts. If any of the Dragonkeepers are surprised by her presence, they do not show it. Helaena calls out to them, requesting that they saddle and bring above ground Dreamfyre, Morghul, and Shrykos.

Valaena blinks wide at her. “You mean for the children to mount their dragons?” She merely hums in affirmation, so Valaena presses, “They are barely half ten. This would make them the youngest dragonriders in history.” Her mother currently holds that honor, having first mounted Syrax at the age of seven.

Helaena smiles warmly at her. “You are full of complaints today, Valaena.” Groaning, Valaena acquiesces to her aunt’s wishes without further protest.

Shrykos is the first of their dragons to emerge from the depths of the pit, her dark green scales rippling with every step she takes. Jaehaerys shouts with glee as she approaches him, growling a bit too menacingly for Valaena’s taste. This is the trouble she has with mounting dragons when so young, especially if those dragons were ones’ cradlemates. Such dragons, even ones who have grown as quickly as Shrykos and Morghul, are yet to be fully trained and still prone to undue hostility toward their riders. One wrong move, and Jaehaerys and Jaehaera both could be dragon food.

Despite her unspoken worries, the Dragonkeepers aid the young prince up Shrykos’s wing and chain his legs to the harness with little fuss. Valaena helps fasten Maelor to Helaena’s front, making use of her borrowed cloak, for which she has no more need. Her arms held out to her sides as Valaena weaves fabric underneath them, Helaena calls to her eldest son, “Remember, the reins are just as they were with that pony you rode on your nameday.” Hearing such a comparison, Valaena swallows another complaint.

Shrykos takes off as Jaehaerys shrieks in delight. As Morghul is brought out, Valaena cinches the last bits of the cloak into a knot at Helaena’s back. Jaehaera is much timider with her dragon, daunted by the task before her.

As Morghul stomps towards the Dragonpit’s egress, Jaehaera strapped to his back, the girl whimpers, “Mother, I’m scared.”

“Don’t be scared,” cautions Valaena. “Your dragon can feel your fear.”

Sanguinely, Helaena advises, “Think happy thoughts, dearest.”

Tone lightening to one more sympathetic, Valaena amends, “Yes, think of the fun you shall have flying with your brother in just a moment.”

After Jaehaera and Morghul have gone, Valaena and Helaena are left to themselves, squirming baby Maelor between them. Valaena dips forward to embrace her aunt one last time, careful not to squish the babe. Helaena allows the hug for three seconds before twitching, and Valaena pulls back.

She gazes into the lilac eyes of the woman who has been her closest companion for most of her life, sighing, “Helaena, my sweet good-sister, I shall miss you so, but you cannot know the relief your absence shall bring me.”

Helaena’s gaze darts between her and Dreamfyre, who is currently being saddled. “I know,” she murmurs. She meets Valaena’s eyes again. “Tell Aegon I’m sorry.”

Flustered by the request, she cavils, “I cannot say when I shall see him again.”

“Sooner than you expect,” counters Helaena.

Helaena mounts Dreamfyre with ease, as she has many times before. Valaena follows after Dreamfyre as she stamps from the Dragonpit. The blue queen takes off as soon as her hips are free of the pit’s arching exit, spreading her massive wings and leaping upwards. The children’s dragons, circling high above the dome of the Dragonpit, with Morghul closer to the ground, squawk as Dreamfyre sweeps past them. There is a brief delay before Shrykos and Morghul follow after her, but soon, all three soar eastward, and a bright grin adorns Valaena’s face.

One of the Dragonkeepers, an elderly man who she has known since childhood, approaches her. “Udir va P’sombāzmion jitas, Dārilaros.”

Her grin shifts into one more wicked. “Ivestrās ñuha qȳborar, ‘Rytsas,’ vestrin.”

Valaena makes her return to Dragonstone with the aid of a Ser Garth of the City Watch. He secures her safe passage along the Rosby road, on which she travels in the back of a fetid, covered wagon for two days and three nights. Upon arriving in Duskendale, she petitions Lord Darklyn for passage across Blackwater Bay.

Lord Darklyn sends a raven ahead of Valaena, and as such, she is greeted by two members of the Queensguard upon reaching Dragonstone’s shores. The men escort her to the Chamber of the Painted Table, where she is received by Daemon and her mother, who dismisses the guards.

On the receiving end of Rhaenyra’s stately, stern stare, Valaena quails slightly. She dips her head in a respectful nod. “Your Grace.”

“Where have you been,” her mother demands, her concern peeking through her flinty tone.

“King’s Landing,” she answers promptly.

Daemon jumps in. “Is Aegon dead?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she responds.

He turns away, as though having lost interest. “A journey wasted.” Despite herself, Valaena wilts a little in the face of his disappointment.

“Why would you venture there, where our enemies have their stronghold,” her mother questions.

In answer, Valaena walks around the Painted Table and hands Rhaenyra the missive she has carried with her for the last five days. As Rhaenyra reads it, her lips alternate between twisting and forming a line. Once she reaches its end, she closes her eyes and whispers her husband’s name.

He whips around at the chiding tone, striding over and taking the missive from her. He scans it quickly, likely recognizing it at once. With a glare directed at Valaena, he crumples it in his hand and tosses it into the fireplace at the far end of the room. Pointing at her, he opens his mouth and inhales, but she speaks before he has the chance to do so himself.

“I encouraged Princess Helaena to flee with her children, and she has,” she reports, keeping her gaze on her mother. Rhaenyra hardly looks pleased, but neither does she appear dissatisfied.

“Fuck’s sake,” Daemon bursts out, gripping the back of a chair to steady himself. “You sentimental, little—”

“Daemon,” reproves Rhaenyra once more.

“Why would you do something like this, Valaena,” he hammers. “You have wasted my efforts toward our cause.”

Feeling a tendril of contempt curling within her breast, she condemns him, “It would have been needlessly cruel.”

“Needless,” he bites at her, raising his brow. “Can you not comprehend the advantage this would have won us?”

“What advantage is there to be gained by killing a helpless child,” she argues.

“Aegon would have been without his heir,” he condescends.

Rhaenyra interjects, “And so he is.” That much is true. For all that Jaehaerys is Aegon’s eldest son and purported heir, Maelor next in line after him, the throne can pass to neither child with their whereabouts unknown.

“What’s more, Daemon, you did not act with the queen’s leave,” Valaena tacks on, reinvigorating him.

His pointing finger returns. “Your husband demanded an eye for an eye, but there is a new debt to be paid.”

Knowing the debt of which he speaks, she rebuts, “A son for a son does not demand Jaehaerys’s life. ‘Twas neither Aegon nor Helaena who slew Luke. A son for a son is my son—” Her diatribe cuts off abruptly as her breath catches in her throat.

Moved by the sight of her distress, Rhaenyra assures her, “Sweetling, you have no cause to worry for Aenar. He is perfectly safe here.”

Sullenly, Valaena replies, “I know,” but hardly means it. Her recurrent dream picks at her from the back of her mind, sowing doubt.

Daemon’s glower has lessened somewhat, but still he persists. “People die in war.”

“Soldiers die in war.” Valaena contends, her fire returning to her, “Let us kill their men, not their little boys!”

He argues, “I do not recall you bearing this same aversion to butchery when you proposed we sack Storm’s End and ordered the Baratheon girls’ deaths.”

Incensed, she shouts, “Those sluts enticed Aemond to chase after Luke!”

He grins. “Enticed him, did they?”

Biting her tongue, Valaena does not rise to his bait. Privately, she can admit that perhaps she should feel remorse for her actions as to the Baratheons. She had ordered Lord Borros’s entire family slain, and solely was it for the sake of revenge. In just a few short weeks, she has come to learn that when only one person stands between one and whatsoever one desires, it is difficult to deny oneself.

She decides to remind Daemon that the same principle is not true for him. Forcing her voice to come out calm and orderly, she declares, “This and actions like this will not stand.”

He smarts at the command. “You will not order me about. I am king.”

“King consort,” she finishes for him, “and I am the mistress of this castle. No plots shall be hatched in this hold without the approval of the queen and myself.” Meaning to draw the dispute to a close, she nods to her mother and turns on her heel.

She does not make it so far as the other end of the Painted Table before Daemon calls after her, “If that raven had carried orders for Aemond’s head, would you have intercepted it?”

Steps halting, she twists to face him. “You question my loyalty to my mother’s cause?”

“Answer the question,” he orders.

“No,” she hisses, retreating at last.

Later, after a much-needed bath and change of clothes, Valaena takes supper with Rhaena and Baela, who tattles that Rhaena had come to her with Valaena’s secret a mere hour after she had heard it. Valaena, more so amused than cross, waves off Rhaena’s apology. Apparently, after Rhaena had gone straight to Baela, Baela in turn had gone straight to Daemon. He had sworn both of them to secrecy as to Rhaena’s involvement in Valaena’s mad plan and informed Rhaenyra of it himself.

For what it is worth, Rhaena had kept her promise to check on Aenar during Valaena’s absence, though Valaena still feels the need to look in on him herself. As she has done several nights previous, she dismisses the wet nurse on duty for a couple of hours, attending him and Viserys herself.

During her watch this night, Aenar sleeps through her presence, and she dares not to disturb his rest. Viserys wakes after the first hour, and to keep him from kicking up a fuss and rousing his nephew, she extracts him from his cot and holds him as she stands over Aenar’s cradle.

Eventually, Viserys starts babbling and refuses to quiet, even as Valaena hefts him higher in her arms and pats his back. Soon, she realizes the cause.

The door creaks, and she turns to see it standing open and admitting Daemon. “Keeping up the babes,” he asks, a funny look on his face.

One side of her mouth quirks up. “Only yours.”

Sighing, Daemon treads over and takes Viserys from her, trading him for a dragon egg that Valaena cautiously accepts. She holds it away from her, examining its surface and wondering why she has been handed it as he settles Viserys back into his cot. As Viserys roosts under his blanket, he draws his own egg into his arms.

Once Daemon has returned his attention to her, she asks him, “What is this?”

“The egg I chose for your sister.” Seeing she requires further explanation, he adds, “for Aenar.”

She holds it out to him, shaking her head. “I couldn’t—”

He presses it into her hands. “Your mother and I wish for you to have it.” He nods towards Aenar’s cradle.

At his prompting, she walks over to the cradle and places the egg beside her son. Daemon comes to stand at her side and puts an arm around her shoulders. He gestures toward Aenar. “This child will always be safe with us, and we will do everything in our power to keep him from harm. Always. Do you understand?”

Gazing up at him, she smiles. “Yes.”

From one moment to the next, something in his eyes changes, and she feels as though she is staring into the gaping maws of two dark caves as opposed to the light eyes of her beloved step-father. Grin fading, she tries to withdraw from him, but he curls her farther into his side with one hand on her ribs. His other hand slides into her hair and seizes a clump of it at the base of her skull, maneuvering her face towards his. “You, on the other hand, should endeavor to never undermine me again. I care not that you are Princess of Dragonstone.” He snarls her title at her, as though to show her the truth of his words. “I have fought and won wars. You are a little woman playing at commander.” He tugs at her hair, and her scalp burns. His voice drops to a grave whisper that heats her skin like dragon’s breath. “You will not command me. Do you understand?” 

Voice hoarse, she says again, “Yes.”

“Good,” he murmurs. Softening his grip a little, he presses his lips to hers, so similar in the way he has pressed kisses to her cheek or brow over the years and yet so different. When he pulls back, his eyes flick about her face before he releases her at last and leaves the room. Valaena is left in his wake aghast, her eyes wide and a chill running up her spine.

Chapter Text

130 A.C.

Aemond sits in the private audience chamber of the Tower of the Hand, having been summoned there by his grandsire. Otto is seated across from him at his desk, his hands steepled as he scrutinizes Aemond. Aemond’s mother is also in attendance, standing at her father’s left and regarding Aemond with a far kinder expression.

Otto speaks in the same formal tone he always does. “I’ve asked you here today, my prince, because you have not risen to certain expectations.”

Stung by the criticism, Aemond looks away from his grandsire. His jaw clenches as he stares out of one of the arched apertures over Otto’s shoulder.

“Aemond,” his mother chides, “your grandsire the Hand is speaking to you. Show him your respect.”

Reluctantly, Aemond gives Otto his full attention once more. When their eyes meet, Otto continues, “Within the first year and quarter of their marriage, your brother and sister rendered issue. It is past time that the same accomplishment could be possible of your marriage with the Princess Valaena.”

Having no rebuttal, Aemond simply nods. Though he is tempted to argue, loath to be interrogated as to so intimate a topic by his close relations, that which his grandsire says is beyond dispute. The marriage between Aemond and Valaena is a half-year gone, and there is yet no sign of it bearing fruit.

Incisively, Otto probes, “How often do you visit the princess in her chambers?”

Hoping to cut this examination down as much as he can, Aemond skips forward a few questions. With his eye trained on the ink well on his grandsire’s desk, he confesses, “I’ve not lain with Valaena since we consummated our marriage.”

“Why is that,” Otto inquires, unsympathetic.

Aemond rolls his eye in an effort to mask his discomfort. “I don’t know.” Otto looks at him as though to suggest his answer is unacceptable, so he tries again. “She doesn’t seem to like it.”

His and Valaena’s begrudging wedding had been buttressed by an even more grudging wedding night. Neither of them had wanted to be enclosed in Aemond’s bedchamber together, though out of the two of them, he had been better off. He has little sympathy for his half-sister’s children, but he does feel badly for having hurt Valaena. At the start of the night, she had been more skittish than he had ever before seen her, and by the end, she had been listless. The deed had been done, and she had withered in its wake.

He had tried to draw on that which he had learnt the night of his thirteenth nameday, when Aegon had strongarmed him into visiting a brothel. However, his fourteenth nameday, like the year before it, had been mortifying and woefully uncomfortable. Valaena had lain under him with her eyes clenched shut and her every breath leaving her in a quiet hiss whilst he had blindly rutted into her. As soon as he had finished, her hands had moved to press against his hips. Abashedly, he had withdrawn from her, murmuring a hasty apology that she had accepted with a twitchy nod.

As she often does, his mother seems to know his thoughts. Gently, she explains, “It is no fault of yours if Valaena felt discomfort when you were together. Women have more difficulty when it comes to the marriage bed. Once she has grown accustomed to her duties there, they will no longer pain her.” His befuddlement must show on his face because she analogizes, “If I was to pinch you again and again in the same spot, it would eventually no longer hurt you.”

“Because the flesh would be numb,” he reasons, not quite sure as to her point.

She mistakes his confusion for comprehension. “Precisely.”

Otto approaches Aemond’s misgivings with an entirely different strategy. “Any discomfort felt by your wife should not concern you. You have a duty to propagate the royal line. The day will come when your father passes and Rhaenyra makes a claim to the throne. When it does, if there is issue between you and her daughter, she could be persuaded to step aside. War would be avoided, and it would all be due to you.”

A sense of pride blooms in Aemond at that which his grandsire proposes. After so many years of strife between the parties of the queen and the princess, it would be glorious to be the cause of the Greens’ triumph. With all the time he spends in the training yard, he might have preferred to claim victory on the battlefield, but he supposes the outcome with less bloodshed should be his preference.

Aemond is dismissed from the Tower reinvigorated by his consigned task. He heads straight for his wife’s quarters, bypassing his own on the way there. He finds Valaena in her solar, sat by the window and leisurely reading a philosophy tome, one he recognizes as a treatise on the cyclical forms of government. After turning a page, she looks up at him, one dark, delicate eyebrow raised in question.

Faced with her expectant stare, Aemond stumbles. Unsure of how to broach the subject, he submits simply, “Let’s fuck.”

Valaena’s face flushes an exquisite shade of red. He imagines she is taken aback by his sudden overture and scandalized by his coarse language. Huffishly, she denies him, squeaking, “No!”

“Why not,” he demands, indignant.

She fidgets with the book in her lap. “It is yet early in the day,” she quibbles.

He accepts her carp for the delay it presents. “Very well. I shall join you in the hour of the owl.”

He turns back to return whence he came, but her sedate voice keeps him in the room. “No.” Deliberately, he turns back around. Fiddling with her rings, she does not meet his eye as she explicates, “I do not wish to lie with you.”

Confronted by her refusal, he stiffens, a spark of indignation flowing through him. “I wish to lie with you neither, but we are expected to produce heirs.”

“We are young yet,” she excuses.

That much is true, but “you have certain duties as my wife,” he reminds her.

Her face glows red anew, though more so with chagrin than bashfulness. “I understand your brother does not bother Helaena with such duties when she is not so inclined. He adjures others for that purpose.” Despite this being her suggestion, her upper lip curls in distaste. “Mayhaps you should consider doing the same.”

“Fine,” he spits. So long as he can help it, he has no intention of ever trolling the Street of Silk again, but he minds little if Valaena believes otherwise. “At least, those girls do not pretend they are not bastards.”

He keeps his eye on her only so long as to watch her face contort in outrage before turning on his heel and storming out of the room, frustrated by his own failure.

One idle afternoon, Aemond is disturbed by someone knocking at his door. He pauses where he stands in front of the mirror, combing through his mussy hair after a morning of riding Vhagar and taking a bath. He contemplates ignoring the interloper, but for fear of them intruding whilst his scars are on display, he capitulates. With a frustrated growl, he sets down his brush, hastily slips on his eyepatch, and stamps over to the door.

Irritated already in having his quiet day disrupted—so few of them does he get—his irritation only grows when he pulls open the door to reveal his vexatious, little wife. “What,” he barks, unable to help himself.

Valaena’s lips purse at his brusque tone and demeanor. “Good afternoon,” she greets him, as though to rub his nose in her superior manners. He finds himself tempted to shut the door in her face, but she speaks again before he can act on the impulse. “Have you Signs and Portents?”

“What,” he asks again, his tone more so bewildered than vexed.

“Signs and Portents,” she repeats. “It is a chronicle of Daenys the Dreamer’s visions—”

“I know what it is,” he interjects, bristling at the insinuation to the contrary.

“Yes, well,” she says, “Grand Maester Orwyle informs me that you have the only copy in the Keep.”

Expectant, he prompts, “And?”

Her mouth twitching a little, she petitions him, “May I please borrow it?”

“Why,” he questions, as though the answer is not obvious.

“I wish to read it,” she responds.

He asks, “Have you not read it before?”

She starts, “I have—”

“Then why do you wish to read it anew,” he wonders, mostly hoping to rile her at this point. He will enjoy himself this day, if not by relaxing by his lonesome, then by provoking his wife.

He is marginally successful. Her retort is shrewder than he would have liked. “Why do you wish to keep it in your possession if not to read it anew?”

“You merely assume I have read it,” he retorts.

“Have you not,” she asks, puzzled.

“I have,” he confounds.

Valaena closes her eyes, though she cannot quite hide her eyeroll. “May I please borrow it,” she repeats, made weary by their exchange.

Similarly, Aemond is no longer amused. “No,” he refuses, closing the door on her at last.

As he strides away, he can hear her squawk through the door. She knocks again with more insistence, shouting his name, but he ignores her, and she must be too proud to knock a third time.

In the hour of the eel, after a quiet supper shared with his sister and mother, he accompanies Helaena to the twins’ nursery.

When they were born, he had not thought he would enjoy Jaehaerys and Jaehaera, never having been one for little children. However, when not snotty, stinking, or crying, they can be quite pleasant. Jaehaerys, in particular, gushes with the most delightful cachinnation whenever Aemond tosses him in the air.

Helaena draws him from his thoughts when she suddenly drops his arm. Claiming to have forgotten the children’s story for the night, she dashes away, leaving him to himself. Rather than trifle in the corridor, enduring the nervous glances of any servant who encounters him, he continues on his path.

As he nears the nursery, he hears two familiar voices chatting excitedly. He sidles up to the doorway, through which he sees Valaena and Daeron seated on the floor with Jaehaerys lying between them. Jaehaera sits up in her cradle, watching with an apathetic expression as her aunt and uncle fiddle with her brother. Morghul, her newly-hatched, miniature, red dragon, perches on the cradle’s railing as he surveys the babe to whom he is bound. Aemond observes the animal with only a trace of envy. While he has had a dragon for over three years now, he has never forgotten how desperately he had craved a cradlemate hatchling like his sisters’ children.

One of Jaehaerys’s feet rests in Valaena’s lap. She holds it gently in one hand, ticking off his toes with the index finger of her other hand. “One, two, three, four, five, oh, six! That’s one too many.” Jaehaerys, doubtlessly ignorant as to her meaning, makes a soft, burbling sound as he gazes up at her and waves his arms. “Daeron, how many do you count,” she asks.

Grinning, Daeron pokes at his nephew’s other foot. “Six.”

She holds the baby’s foot up higher. “We must need remove the extras, but how?” Humming as though deep in contemplation, she mentions, “I feel a bit peckish,” before giving an exaggerated roar and lowering her head as though to nibble on Jaehaerys’s extra toe. Daeron mimics her with the babe’s right foot, giggling as he pretends to take a bite. Jaehaerys twists around, kicking at them and shrieking in laughter.

Helaena suddenly sweeps past Aemond, asserting, “You may finish consuming my son on the morrow, but it is time for bed.”

Still laughing, Daeron gets to his feet. Valaena, too, is amused. She draws Jaehaerys into her lap and grins over her shoulder at Helaena. When her gaze lands on Aemond, however, her smile slips from her face. Morosely, she rises and surrenders Jaehaerys to his mother.

As she nears him, heading for the door, Aemond tries to fashion his expression into one more cordial, but it must come off as something closer to a grimace. With her own expression closed-off, she darts around him and disappears down the hall without a word. Frowning, he watches her go. Usually, she says something to him in parting, too polite is she for anything else.

“Do you know,” Daeron says, drawing his attention. “I think she’d like it if you would be more affable.”

Aemond scoffs at his little brother. Daeron has it too easy, he thinks. Affability is hardly an issue for him. Everyone describes him as the gentlest and most courteous of the king’s sons. Despite Valaena’s distaste for Aemond and Aegon, she likes Daeron just fine.

He gives Daeron no response, silently swallowing his juvenile envy and turning away, but later in the night, he wishes he had. Mayhaps if so, he would not still be awake, wondering why he cares what his wife thinks of him. They had not wanted to marry one another, and he doubts she has a habit of lying awake and thinking of him. Well past when he usually succumbs to sleep, he drifts off with her still on his mind.

The following morning, Aemond arrives at breakfast later than everyone else, having spent the early hours of the day scouring his rooms for a text he has not read in years. As he takes his seat next to her, Aemond places a slender tome beside Valaena’s plate. He steadfastly ignores the tender smile that graces her lips as her fingers trace over the word portents.

As a child, Aemond had trained at arms alongside his brothers and two eldest nephews. Admittedly, his talent for sword fighting had been nothing special at first. His talent had exceeded that of the younger boys, but he had lagged behind Aegon. After losing his eye on Driftmark, however, a fire had been lit underneath him, and his prowess in the training yard had begun to swiftly progress. Though he remains young enough to take his lessons with Daeron, Ser Criston had allowed him to advance last year, and he now refines his skills alongside squires and knights.

This morning, he spars with the squire of Ser Willis Fell, a man his age and half again. He does not allow the man’s superior age and experience to daunt him, throwing himself into the match with confidence and vigor.

A crowd has gathered around him and his partner, as it often does. A match involving a prince always interests the court. The squire tries to beat him down, swinging his sword down hard from overhead. Aemond ducks his blows, not so reckless as to attempt to counter them. Their blades meet whenever he strikes at Aemond from the side, but otherwise, Aemond dips out of his way and lets the man tire himself out.

Eventually, the squire takes a step too wide, and Aemond manages to get around him entirely. Ruthlessly, he lashes out, kicking hard at the back of his left knee. The man stumbles, falling on one knee. Before his opponent can recover, Aemond places the edge of his sword at his throat.

The man drops his sword, and a polite smattering of applause follows. Like a true sportsman, the squire congratulates him on his victory. Not wanting to appear bigheaded, Aemond keeps a smirk from his face as he shakes his hand.

Aemond allows himself a moment to glory in his success. He stands in the middle of the yard, twirling the hilt of his blade in his grip. As he works to regulate his breathing, he looks skyward.

His eye catches sight of Valaena leaning over the ledge of the terrace that overlooks the yard, her own eyes trained on him. As soon as she sees that he has taken notice of her, her face blooms red, and she hastily darts back. Her long, dark hair fluttering in the wind, she disappears from view.

Taken by surprise himself, Aemond feels his face heat somewhat, too, as he continues gazing in the direction that his wife had vanished.

Aemond is not alone in having spotted Valaena. Approaching him on his right, Criston draws his attention back to the yard. “Do not allow that girl to divert you, my prince. I have another match for you.”

Nodding, Aemond follows after his mentor. He shakes off his distraction, mentally preparing himself for another bout.

When the archmaesters of the Citadel announce the beginning of the first summer in nearly sixteen years, Queen Alicent sees fit to celebrate the occasion. She invites the lords and ladies of the court to gather in one of the castle gardens and mandates that all her children attend. Helaena and Daeron gladly comply, Aemond does so with reluctance, and Aegon confoundingly manages to weasel out of his responsibilities, having disappeared from the Keep during the hour of the nightingale before anyone could intercept him.

Aemond wiles away his time stood between an elderberry bush and the refreshment table. He successfully avoids the attention of any nobles, languidly drinking from a cup of mead and counting down the minutes until he can flee.

On the other side of the shrub, a gaggle of young ladies gossip amongst themselves, his wife among them. Listening to their chatter, Aemond rolls his eye every so often, entirely uninterested in topics such as jewelry and gardening. Eventually, their conversation turns to which men of the court they fancy.

As the other ladies blather about various lords and knights, Valaena is singularly quiet. It is so unlike her usual, loquacious self, though Aemond is glad for it. Clearly, her mother’s roving eye is not a trait she acquired. He does not imagine he would take well to the indignity of being cuckolded.

Lady Lysa Farman takes note of her reticence, too. She attempts to usher her into the conversation. “And you, Princess? Who has caught your eye?”

Demurely, she answers, “Just Aemond.”

Aemond straightens at the sound of his name. It is the proper answer, though it takes him by surprise, nonetheless. He wonders if she speaks the truth or merely a convenient lie. Ever since he caught her watching him in the training yard, he finds his eye frequently straying to the terrace there, wondering if she has a habit of it.

Lady Elenda Mallery, a little too far in her cups, snorts and needles, “You mustn’t need say that. Those with homely husbands can hardly be blamed for their wandering eyes.”

At the insult, Aemond glares in the direction of Elenda’s voice. Though he is aware of how the ladies of the court view him, repulsed by his scars and missing eye, it is an unpleasant thing to hear. He may take pride in being a fearsome swordsman, but being a reviled prince does not please him.

Valaena astonishes him anew by coming to his defense. “He’s not homely.”

Sloppily, Elenda professes, “Oh, Valaena, you never have a biting word to say!”

Aemond huffs at her dreadful attempt at currying favor. Valaena says plenty of biting things. One need only be clever enough to hear them.

Sure enough, she replies, “I would only disparage another for their prettiness if it inspired me question my own.”

Aemond hardly appreciates being characterized by so feminine a descriptor, though he finds he is oddly pleased all the same, especially by the noise of confusion that escapes Lady Mallery.

Valaena excuses herself from the other ladies’ company before long. She appears from around the bush, heading toward the other end of the garden. As she passes him, he hears her mutter to herself, “My husband isn’t attractive? She’s married to a rock goblin.”

She raises her cup to her lips, though she draws it away without taking a sip, frowning down at it as she must realize it is empty. Gripped by a sudden urge, he grabs from the table a full cup of wine and makes his way over to her. She jumps when he reaches out to pluck her empty cup from her grip, though she relaxes when their eyes meet.

“Hello,” she greets pleasantly.

He makes no verbal response, merely passing her the fresh goblet.

Her lips part in the shape of an O as she accepts it. Up close, he notices that they are already stained scarlet from her last cup of wine. “Thank you,” she says, and he nods. After a beat, she adds, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Brusquely, he answers, “No.”

His blunt response startles a laugh out of Valaena. She leans forward as she snickers, and he gets an eyeful of her cleavage. He does not mind it.

Once she has recovered her wits, she asks, “Wherefore do you torture yourself then?”

“My mother has mandated I be in attendance for an hour,” he grumbles.

Amused, she takes a sip of wine. “How much time have you left?”

“Last I checked the sundial, I had forty minutes,” he reports. “That was ten minutes past.”

“Thirty minutes,” she exclaims. “However wilt thou survive?”

Slyly, he suggests, “Mayhaps my wife will preserve me.”

Valaena seems pleased by his coquetry. “My husband wishes for me to amuse him until his purgatory is ended?” He nods, and with a finger to her chin, she hums as she considers her task.

She comes up with a story about a lecture she had attended with Daeron earlier in the week. A maester from the Citadel had traveled to the city to expound his theory that the world orbits the Sun, as opposed to the contrary. Additionally, he posited that the world was akin to the seven wanderers. Aemond debates her on this point, arguing that the proposition goes against the doctrine of the Faith of the Seven. His remark sends her into an animated divagation about a septon who had been in the audience and argued with the maester as to his theory, accusing him of blasphemy.

Aemond ends up departing from the gathering nine minutes later than he had intended.

Aemond’s fifteenth nameday arrives with far less fanfare than had his fourteenth nameday, the latter having seen a royal wedding. As he had been last year, he is resentful of the fact that he is forced to share the day with Valaena, it now being their anniversary.

The day is replete with performances for which he could not care less, frivolous favors from members of the court, and an overdone supper rife with honeyed speeches. Thankfully, Viserys is quickly tired by the festivities, calling them to a close early in the evening.

With their official duties performed, his family retires to the queen’s solar for a more intimate gathering, one that Aemond knows is solely for his benefit. Hippocras and cake are served, and after they have eaten, he receives his presents for the year.

Alicent presents him with his gift from Viserys, who has gone to bed early. It is a sword, very similar to the one he had received from Viserys last year. Disappointed though he is by his father’s inattention, he keeps his face impassive as he sets it aside, not wanting to appear ungrateful and receive a lecture.

Alicent herself gifts him a new set of evening formal wear, the fabric green and chased with gold. Daeron presents him with a matching pair of armlets.

Turning to Aegon, Alicent prompts him, “Aegon, have you something for your brother?”

Aegon makes face as though to say he has nothing, not even a thought, and returns to ogling the rump of the serving girl cleaning up their empty plates and cups.

Helaena steps in where her husband has faltered, offering Aemond a cloak pin she had crafted for him. The silver brooch is circular with a sinuous dragon slithering along one side of it. Pleased by it, he thanks his sister.  

After Otto presents him with a dark green, fur-lined cloak, Aemond sits back, thinking that another portion of the evening has concluded.

Uncharacteristically excited, Valaena confounds him. Sitting beside him, she pulls apart the strings of a little pouch. “My turn. I wished to save the best for last.”

Aemond shoots his mother a glance, trying to convey how little more pretense he can bear this night. Unsympathetic, she mouths to him, “Be nice.”

Valaena thrusts a pair of purple, velvet gloves into his hands. “Put these on,” she instructs.

A little peeved that she had unveiled the gift herself, he mutters, “Gloves. Thank you.” Sliding them on, he supposes that they are nice enough. He has plenty of gloves but none so soft as these.

“The gloves are not your gift, silly, but you’ll need them.” From the floor, she lifts a long, wooden box and places it on the table before him.

Curious, he unlatches it and lifts the lid to reveal an aged scroll. His gaze darts back over to Valaena, who is practically vibrating with enthusiasm. Reaching into the box, he unfurls the scroll somewhat and spies High Valyrian script. “The Fires of the Freehold,” he reads. His eye widening, he once more looks over to his wife, who sports a wide, anxious grin.

Blowing out a breath, Aegon deadpans, “Ooh, a poem.”

“It’s not a poem,” Aemond snaps at him. “The Fires of the Freehold is the most definitive history of the Valyrian Freehold, written by Galendro.”

Aegon scoffs. “So, it’s a history? That’s even worse.”

Leaning forward with interest, Otto wonders, “Is this one of the actual scrolls?”

“It is the first of the Fires scrolls, from the Citadel,” confirms Valaena.

Alicent, too, is engrossed. “You procured this for Aemond?”

“How did you convince the Citadel to part with it,” Otto questions.

“I bartered with them. I gave them an afternoon with Veraxes. The archmaesters inspected him under my watch, and in exchange, they agreed to loan Aemond the scroll for the year.” Turning to Aemond, she informs him, “The conditions are that you must always use the gloves when you handle it, never hold it near a flame, and never attempt to bend or flatten it.”

Still reeling, Alicent remarks, “This is an incredibly thoughtful gift, Valaena.” Out of the corner of his eye, Aemond notices as she exchanges a pointed glance with her father, the two of them like to be devising some new plot.

In answer to his mother, Valaena shrugs modestly. She returns her attention to Aemond. “Do you like it?” Her voice is soft and unassuming, as though the answer is unclear.

Warmth spreading through his chest, he replies, “Yes.”

Later in the night, after Alicent has sent everyone to bed, Aemond finds himself unable to fall asleep. He paces around his bedchamber, stopping every few minutes to inspect his borrowed scroll. It truly is an incredible gift. He has only ever read of Galendro’s seminal work, and he had always planned to peruse the Citadel’s collection sometime in the future. Now, he will have had a head start.

Feeling emboldened, he dons his eyepatch and robe, slips out of his rooms, and heads down the hall. He stops at Valaena’s door, and rather than barge in, as he has done before and knows is his right as her husband, he knocks quietly.

A minute passes before the door is pulled open. Valaena peers through the crack in the doorway, and upon seeing him, admits him into her rooms. She is dressed for bed, wearing only a flimsy, white chemise. Her hair is undone, hanging in waves down to her elbows. She peers up at him expectantly, like to be wondering why he is disturbing her at so late an hour.

Not quite sure himself, he improvises, “It occurred to me that I neglected to properly thank you for your gift.”

“Ah,” she breathes. “You are most welcome.”

A tremulous smile pulls at her lips, drawing his attention. He shifts closer, and when she does not pull away, he bends to press their mouths together.

Her lips move against his, certainly more fervently than they had during their first kiss. His hand comes up to caress her cheek, and he opens his mouth, prompting her to do the same. As the kiss grows heated and slick, her hands clench at the front of his shirt, pulling him yet closer. Readily, he presses the line of his body against hers and draws their mouths together with yet more insistence.

A gasp is startled out of her as their hips come flush together, and he pulls back, embarrassed for her to have felt his arousal. “Sorry,” he blurts.

He tries to extract himself fully and make his exit, but a hand on his arm stops him. Her voice wavering a little, she proffers, “It remains your nameday and our anniversary. If you wish it, you may share my bed tonight.” She makes a nervous gesture towards herself, as though offering herself as his final present for the day.

Staring at her, Aemond considers that Valaena is somewhat life a gift herself, given to him for his fourteenth nameday. As the future queen, as well as a girl so comely and gentle, she is like to be the best present he will ever receive.

Not so inane as to refuse her invitation, he takes her hand and leads her into her bedchamber. As she takes a seat on the edge of her mattress, he notes her disquiet, exemplified by her hiked shoulders and the hitch in her breath. He proceeds with caution, thinking, as she must be, of when he had deflowered her. He would hate to ruin the best day with his wife to memory by having to watch her grimace and squirm later.

Slowly, he brings his hands to the straps of her shift and pushes them off her shoulders. The gown pools at her waist. He tries to keep his eye from staying on her breasts too long, even as he grazes his knuckles over their peaks.

With his hands on her elbows, he pulls her to her feet. Her nightgown slips the rest of the way to the floor, gliding over her slim hips. His hands move to her waist, sliding down to rest on her hips.

Taking the lead, she steps forward and slips her arms around his shoulders. She gets on her toes to give him a quick peck, one that he tries to prolong into a more involved kiss, though she thwarts him, pulling back with a bashful grin. She proceeds to undress him, and he helps her along by making quick work of his trousers. For a moment, he is nervous that she will go for his eyepatch, but she leaves it alone.

Once he has her pressed into the sheets, they do little more than neck for several long minutes. He waits until she has relaxed to move one of his hands between her legs, though her knees come together as soon as she feels him there. He murmurs sweet nothings into her mouth until she unwinds once more.

He does not press into her straightaway, choosing instead to brush his fingers along her soft skin. It is not until she grows slick, so much further than she had their first time, that he delves farther.

As his fingers glide in and out of her, he relishes hearing her sigh his name into his mouth over and over. Her hand brushes along his chest, her nails occasionally grazing the skin. As she reaches her peak, her breathing picks up, morphing into short, keening gasps, and she squirms in a whole new, delicious way.

Worked up by the sight, he moves his hand, still wet from her warmth, to his member. Valaena, still dazed, dopily smiles up at him, a sparkle in her eyes. She lowers her hand to brush along his abdomen, and her sweet breath caresses his lips as she slurs, “Valzȳrys.”

A dizzying thrill of lust surges through him, and he stiffens. His muscles spasm as he comes with a grunt, spilling on the sheets.

Spent, he collapses along her side. His hand goes to her hair, combing through the strands lain across her pillows. Nuzzling her cheek, he whispers to her, “Ñuha irūdy.”

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

Three weeks after the disappearances of Queen Helaena and the king’s children, Prince Daemon takes the greatest stronghold in the riverlands, Harrenhal. Harren’s great folly bows easily to the prince and his dragon Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm, its castellan Ser Simon Strong striking his banners almost as soon as Daemon arrives.

There is a glum reception of the news of the Blacks’ victory in the Red Keep. King Aegon, who has been cantankerous ever since his queen’s departure, grows even more bilious upon hearing of his uncle’s success. He takes to pressuring his grandsire the Hand to take steps to quell rebellion by any means necessary. When yet more news arrives, that of the Vale, White Harbor, and Winterfell swearing to back the Princess Rhaenyra, His Grace loses his patience entirely.

The efforts of Ser Otto Hightower had consisted mostly of sending ravens to various lords and foreign powers with little immediate result. When summoned to the Great Hall, Otto makes excuses for the delay in action, but the king refuses to hear him. Stepping down from the throne, Aegon tears the brooch from Otto’s doublet and clenches it in his fist. “Ser Criston,” he calls.

Standing straighter in his place beside the Iron Throne, Criston meets the king’s gaze. Aegon tosses the brooch in his direction, and he catches it adroitly. Opening his hand, he peers down at the pin depicting a crowned hand.

“My new Hand is a steel fist,” Aegon declares, and Criston’s life is forever changed.

Eager to prove his mettle, Criston proposes an ambitious plan to the king and small council. The underhanded Rhaenyra may boast sundry allies scattered about the realm, but it is the crownlands, the home of the seat of House Targaryen, which is principally important. Thus, with a hundred knights and five-hundred men-at-arms of the royal household, augmented by three times as many hardened sellswords, Criston marches north, determined to commandeer every holdfast and garrison from Rosby to Rook’s Rest.

Upon his approach, the lords of Rosby and Stokeworth repent apace their allegiances to Rhaenyra. He commands that they prove their loyalty to the king by further appending his army. With yet more men to his cause, he marches next on Duskendale.

His forces take those of Lord Darklyn by surprise. Upon his defeat, the lord details his brief tenure on the Black council and subsequently loses his head. Rather than share his fate, his household knights and garrison swear their swords to the king, as well.

Planning for a siege, Criston has his army set up camp a few hours’ ride from Rook’s Rest. Tents go up quickly, and the camp’s fortified walls soon follow. It is when the men are in the midst of constructing the bastions that an interloper arrives, far earlier than Criston could have hoped.

Along with a sprinkling of fine rain, a sizable dragon descends from the sky, larger than Tessarion but smaller than Sunfyre. It circles the encampment, captivating the men with its screams and serpentine ambulation. It is not the dragon that interests Criston, however, but its rider, who sits on its back with a streaming, white banner in hand.

A score of archers take up their bows as the dragon lands roughly fifty yards from the entrance to the camp. Another score of men takes up spears, each half of them settling on either side of Criston as he awaits the dragonrider’s approach.

Wearing a black dress and a matching, leather coat, the Lady Valaena stops a dozen paces from him. For a moment, she stands across from him, saying nothing. Her eyes search his face, heavy with some indistinct emotion. Before he can discern that which it is, she shades it and accosts him, “Ser Criston.”

“My lady,” he returns. He nods at the streamer still in her grip, smirking. “Come to surrender?”

She matches his grin. “I come for a truce.” She looks to the men pointing spears and arrows at her. “Your men appear ignorant to the concept.”

His eyes dip next to the belt that bears the blade at her hip. “You remain armed.”

“As do you,” she counters. “I ask you not to discard your saber, but for a word.”

Criston considers the girl, along with the dragon at her back leering at him. Had she wished it, she could have burnt the entire encampment to ash with none to stop her. She had chosen instead to disembark with only a dagger at her disposal. A dagger that he doubts she knows how to wield and of which he could easily relieve her.

He nods, and his men lower their weapons. He leads her through the camp to the commander’s tent. As they pass by, soldiers turn towards them, eager for a glimpse of the mysterious, fallen princess. She pays them no mind, steadfastly looking straight ahead. Stepping ahead of her, he pulls open the flap of his tent and heralds her inside.

“‘My lady,’” is the first thing she says as soon as they are alone, echoing his earlier words.

There is a question in her voice, and he answers it. “No longer is your mother the named heir, and you are not one of the king’s sisters.”

Jocosely, she reminds him, “I am Aegon’s good-sister.”

Unamused, he replies, “That is insufficient.”

Her lips purse. “So it is.”

He gestures to the long table he has covered in maps, offering her a seat that she does not take. She continues to stand a dozen paces from him, inspecting him with a queer look in her eyes. He broaches, “You are not here to surrender, but neither are you here to battle us, it seems. I can only imagine your mother knows naught of your presence here?”

Valaena gives a tinkling laugh. “No. I should think she would be most displeased by my coming here to speak with you.”

Huffing, he swallows the bitterness that her words evoke. “Your mother has never had any great love for me.”

A wry grin spreads across Valaena’s face. “That is not how I understand things to have been.”

She must have heard tales of the few years he had carried Rhaenyra’s favor and served as her sworn shield, he assumes. He sees no reason to apprise her of the circumstances of their falling out.

“Why have you come then,” he asks.

She takes a deep breath, as though to ready herself for some momentous undertaking. “To make you an offer.”

Offhand, he dismisses, “The king has no interest—”

She waves her hand, casting his presumption to the side. “I come to make you an offer.”

“An offer made to me is one made to His Grace.” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. He clarifies, “I am his Hand now.”

She smiles indulgently. “I know what you are.” Taking a step closer, she accuses, “Oathbreaker.”

As his face twists itself into a scowl, Criston contemplates the change in Valaena. He remembers her as a mild-tempered child, always polite but mayhaps more confident and not as quiet as most other ladies. Now, there is a barely restrained, fierce bitterness that spews from her, very similar to that which her mother had always displayed. He wonders if it had always been within her, lurking beneath the surface, or if it had been engendered solely by the death of her brother.

Not one to suffer insults, he replies, “Careful, my lady. You speak to your better.”

Valaena appears oddly pleased by the slight. She smiles as though she disagrees but says, “Certainly, in manner of birth.”

His scowl morphs into one of confusion as he works to discern her meaning. To his mind, there is but one conceivable conclusion. Deliberately, he asks, “Are you admitting to being bastard-born?”

“Yes,” she responds, eerily calm. He is not sure he could display the same composure was he in her place. When trying to assert oneself as being part of the royal line, bastardy could mean death.

Whatever her misfortunes, he can hardly believe his luck. “Why?”

“Because I am here to make you an offer,” she reiterates. “A position within my mother’s Queensguard and on her small council.”

Criston balks at the suggestion. Since Aegon’s coronation, he has been hailed as the Kingmaker, a noble epithet if ever there was one. He should hardly wish to renounce it and back the would-be queen’s claim, especially after all that has passed between them.

Though he feels it mostly for Rhaenyra, he turns his ire on Valaena. “You think me a turncloak?”

She gives an infuriating response. “Certainly, with the right motivation.”

“And what motivation is that?” He takes a step towards her, hoping to constrain her cheek.

She is hardly cowed. “The same that drives Otto Hightower.” He narrows his eyes at her in question, and she elaborates, “What man would not wish for his blood to rule?”

With another riddle before him, he furrows his brow as he thinks on it. He and Rhaenyra hardly share blood. The same could be said of her children by Breakbones, with whom he also shares no relation. Mayhaps if a different fate had come to pass after his tryst with the princess—

A cold feeling crashes over his shoulders, and a chill travels down his back. Slack-jawed, he stares at Valaena in a new light, one that illuminates the cocksure smile spread across her face.

“It just dawned on you.” She taunts him again. “Oathbreaker.”

“You lie,” he denounces.

Shaking her head, she counters, “How would I know to lie about such a thing?”

He inhales sharply, agitation sprouting within him. “Your mother lied to you, then, that deceitful cu—”

Stepping closer, Valaena sharply cautions, “Careful, Ser Criston. You speak of your queen.”

“I do not,” he refutes. “She is no queen. She is a pretender. She pretends that you are my—” He dare not speak the word.

As though unbothered and unhurried, Valaena shrugs. “The timing is right.”

He recalls that Valaena had been born exactly eight months after Rhaenyra had wed Laenor Velaryon. He had thought nothing of it at the time. So miniscule had she been that he had believed without question that she had left the womb prematurely. “Hardly.”

“Your hair and eyes match mine own,” she raises.

He shakes his head. “No.” Come to think of it, her coloring is a shade darker than that of her strong brothers.

She continues, “I am quite shorter than the other women in my family. I’ve heard the Dornish are small.”

“That is an untruth,” he contends.

Staring him in the face, she alleges, “I think I have your nose, too.”

“Enough,” he commands roughly. Resolutely avoiding the question of her birth, he refuses her offer once more. “I will hear nothing of treachery, much less consider it.”

She sighs, sounding hardly disappointed. “A shame. I so wished for you to meet your grandchild.”

Taken by surprise yet again, he confutes, “Your pregnancy ended in a stillbirth.”

He recalls the reaction of the Prince Aemond to the news of the stillbirth, made only more drastic by his belief that he was the cause of it. The man had not strayed from his wife’s rooms for days, and when he had emerged, he was a vortex of rancor and cruelty. He had snapped at anyone who dared to cross his path, softening only for his sister and her children, all of whom vanished within that same week. In the months that have since passed, he has calmed somewhat, but a single misspoken word is usually all that is necessary for him to flare dangerously.

“No,” Valaena denies. As though genuinely saddened, she frowns in a way that reminds him not of her mother, but of his. It is the very same expression his mother bears whenever there is a death in the family or his father forgets her nameday. “It was my sister who was stillborn—” 

All other concerns suddenly abandon his mind, and he finds himself gripped by a frightful sense of urgency. Approaching her on quick feet, he grabs her shoulders, demanding, “Are you truly my natural daughter?”

Her melancholy struck from her face, she somewhat exasperatedly answers, “Yes.”

She inhales as though to say more, but he heads her off. “You must leave at once.”

Her eyebrows pinch together, though any disappointment she feels is quickly masked. “An outright rejection. All right. I hardly expected you to embrace me with open arms, but—”

Frustrated, he stammers, “No. This—Rook’s Rest is a trap. We meant to lay siege to the castle until Lord Staunton sent word to your mother and she sent a dragon. When one arrived, Sunfyre and Vhagar would have struck.” A horrified expression crawls onto Valaena’s face. “When you landed, a scout sent word, and I entertained you to buy time.”

She appears lost for words, all but one. “Vhagar?”

He says nothing more, but there seems to be no need. Spurred into action, she strides over to the tent’s opening, pushing apart the canvas to peer outside. At her shoulder, he sees that the rain has begun to come down harder, and with it, two dragons cascade toward the ground. Overhead, Sunfyre and Vhagar circle the camp, slowly but surely gliding downward.

Breath shallow, Valaena gazes up at the beasts with terror in her eyes. Despair radiates from her, too, though still she takes the plunge, bounding outside in an attempt to make her unlikely escape. Raising her skirts, she takes off in a sprint, tearing through the camp as though the Lord of the Seven Hells is on her heels.

Watching her go, he does not like her chances. She has several hundred yards she must cross before she reaches her steed, and either aerial dragon could land within ten seconds should its rider choose it. On her way to Veraxes, so must she dodge numerous men attempting to seize her. Propitiously, she darts around them, scurrying through the camp like a spider, but it slows her down, nonetheless. The commotion is made greater by the men who challenge those who seek to impede her, discordant loyalties revealed in the bedlam.

Criston follows her at a distance, his eyes pinned to her dark figure as it weaves through the crowd that has formed. Mayhaps foolishly, he orders his men back from her, and haltingly, most of them clear a path. She takes it, dashing for the lawn on which Veraxes rests.

She is almost to her dragon when Sunfyre lands in front of her, the claws of the great, golden dragon sinking into the earth. Faced with the fearsome beast, she slips on a muddy strip of ground in her haste to come to a halt.

Criston has long admired the king’s mount, appreciating the dragon for its beautiful coloring. He finds that he suddenly abhors the creature, however, observing how it turns its great maw toward Valaena, its teeth glinting and jowl dripping with saliva. Dread coursing through him, he looks on as he recalls how Aegon has spent the last two moons raving about Valaena and the retribution he shall have her face once he has her in hand.

She is certainly in hand now, lying on the ground with Sunfyre looming over her as though he wishes to devour her. Aegon sits atop his dragon, surveying his niece with distaste. Whether or not it crosses his mind to immolate her is unclear, as he is soon distracted by Veraxes, who screams at him in outrage and makes as though to stand and charge him and Sunfyre. In response, some muted word passes the king’s lips, and Sunfyre loses interest in Valaena, turning his head away from her.

Carefully, Valaena rises from the ground and steps around Sunfyre. She starts off toward her dragon again, picking up speed once she notices that Vhagar has landed beside Veraxes.

She does not make it another ten paces before Aemond is upon her, the prince having leapt down from Vhagar’s back the moment the she-dragon had touched upon the ground. Screaming out in protest, she tries to skirt around him, but his arm whips out as she makes to pass him, catching her own around the bicep.

At first, she tries to wrench herself free of him, but his grip is ironclad. When that fails, she makes use of her dagger, tearing it from its scabbard and making to slash at him. She aims for his face, but the blade comes no closer to his head than a foot, Aemond deftly catching her wrist in his other hand. Criston watches as Aemond presses his thumb into the tender flesh there so as to force her to release her weapon, a trick that Criston had taught him long past. Valaena cries out against the painful hold, and the dagger falls to the ground at their feet.

With both of her arms within his grasp, Aemond twists her around, crushes her to his chest, and begins to pull her away from the dragons. She is persistent in her strife to get away, her legs kicking as she throws her weight back against him, but he hardly staggers for her efforts.

Valaena is practically in hysterics, shouting to her only ally. “Veraxes! Dracarys!” Alarmed, Aemond throws a hand over her mouth, hauling her to the camp with renewed vigor. Still struggling valiantly, she twists enough to free her mouth, crying out again, “Dracarys! Asēnās—” only for her mouth to be covered anew a moment later.

Palpably distressed by her treatment, Veraxes rises to his feet and screeches at Aemond. The air rends from the force of his roar, sending rainwater in every direction. Aemond stumbles but does not falter for fear of the dragon’s wrath. He pushes Valaena behind him as he faces the snarling beast, who approaches the pair with a pernicious gleam in his reptilian eyes. One of Valaena’s arms manages to slip free of Aemond’s hold, and she extends her hand towards her dragon’s snout, though it remains too far for her to touch. The gesture seems to have the opposite of her desired effect, however, as Veraxes snorts and turns back, resolving not to burn his rider alive.

Aemond squanders not a moment now that Veraxes’s malice is no longer focused on him, whirling and placing both arms around Valaena’s middle for better leverage. He drags her close enough to the camp for Criston to see the tears streaming down her red face as she shoves at his chest and heaves, “Let go of me! Ao hōzalbor—” Her voice breaks off as she crumples at last, sobbing and cringing away from her husband even as he cradles her against his chest and murmurs reassurances into her hair.

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

Detachedly, Valaena stares forward as the men who tried to aid in her failed escape are led at spearpoint onto the lawn outside of the Greens’ encampment. Her eyes are puffy from crying, though the rain has washed away the salty tracks left by her tears. A heavy shackle weighs on her ankle. Its edge digs into her flesh as it tethers her to the wet ground.

Criston slides the key out of the manacle on her wrist. “Is that too tight?”

At the sound of his voice, the buzzing in her ears fades, and the world comes roaring back to her. She registers the dragons’ rumbling noises, the cries of men begging for mercy, the din from the camp behind her, and the plunking droplets of rain striking the ground. Her clothes are soaked, even through her leather coat, though the chill from the rain and the late-autumn air fails to cool her. A fire roars inside her, keeping her warm and sharp.

Glaring at Criston, she yanks from his hands the chain connecting the shackles, barely flinching as it snaps into her thigh. He steps back from her, a contrite look to him that a despairing, spiteful part of her relishes.

As he steps away, Aegon sidles up to her, his face set in a caustic expression. Usually, she hardly minds his animosity, irksome though it can be, but there is a dangerous spark to his eyes now, one she does not wish to see ignited into a full-blown blaze. Still, she pins her eyes to him, preferring the sight of him to that of his brother.

The mere sight of Aemond disturbs Valaena, more so for her thoughts than his appearance. Over the last few months, he has morphed into a monster in her mind, altered according to his heinous transgressions. She discovers now that he looks much the same, and all he is different for is his touch. He had gripped her as though his life depended on keeping her on the ground, and she can feel her arms throbbing for it still. Despite her knowledge of his crimes, she feels surprised for it. Other than when they were six and he had shoved her into a rose bush, never had he handled her so roughly as he had this day.

Being in his arms again had been a daunting experience, inspiring such terror and anger within her that she had pled for both their deaths and mortifyingly burst into tears. With him standing several yards from her now, the fear has receded somewhat, shadowed by her fury at the indignity of having been captured. Mostly, however, she is furious at him. Her resentment for him licks underneath her skin and claws at her throat, begging her for license to stream from her mouth and burn through him.

In spite of the wetness coating her form, the hair on the back of her neck stands up, keeping her apprised of the focus of Aemond’s eye. It has been steadily fixed upon her since Veraxes had turned away from them on the field, beseeching her for attention. She keeps her gaze trained on the restrained soldiers, loath to give into him more than her captivity demands of her.

The dragons eye the two-hundred some men gathered on the lawn with more hunger than does Aegon, who declares, “These men are traitors to the realm.” Standing at her side, his eyes drill into the side of her face, his breath touching the same spot as yet more words slither out of him, “Tell me where Helaena is, and I shall spare them.”

Valaena sweeps her gaze over the men who had taken her side. Sitting on their knees, most look terrified of the dragons stood before them and at their backs, whereas some appear resigned to their fates. All ages are represented. There are mostly common foot soldiers but some knights, too, some of whom she recognizes from the royal household.

Her eyes slide to Aegon’s briefly, and she considers him. He looks absolutely ridiculous wearing the Conqueror’s crown. If ever she had thought that it would have been better for all of them to have simply let Aegon be king, and she has not, this futile scheme would certainly have her gainsaid. Truly, he is too thick-headed to rule. After what she did in Storm’s End, he should know better than to assume that she remains a girl with a bleeding heart. Certainly, he should not have placed hundreds of his own men before her, ripe for the slaughter.

Turning away from him, she shouts across the field, “Zaldrīzar!” The three dragons quirk their heads in her direction. “Ipradī.”

Ever faithful, Veraxes wastes not a moment in obeying her order, setting the soldiers afire. Taken by surprise, the men scream, standing and trying to run, though the flames cut them down. Vhagar and Sunfyre, bound to other riders, wait until the men have begun to cook to partake. Sunfyre eagerly scorches the remaining men and bites clean off the head and shoulders of the nearest knight. Vhagar does not waste her own breath, merely stealing some of Veraxes’s kills as the younger dragon feasts on a group of young men writhing on the ground.

Criston and the unburnt men at his command edge away from the grisly blaze whilst the Valyrians stay put. The fire warms Valaena’s front as she surveys the carnage. Upsetting though it may be, she would be a dastard to look away after igniting the massacre. The other culprit observes the spectacle with displeasure but not much disappointment, his lips curled into a frown.

He sighs, bored by the affair, and turns toward the camp. From the corner of his mouth, he orders her, “Come.”

As Aegon moves away from her, dreadful anticipation curls in her gut. There may already be a chain on her, but should she re-enter the camp, she will truly be a prisoner. She will have no chance of escape when enveloped by a thousand enemies.

“Wait,” she calls. Stopping, Aegon turns toward her with an expectant look on his face. Somewhat nervous, she attempts, “I came under a white flag. You have no right to hold me.”

His eyes sweep over her form before glancing at their surroundings. “I see no flag.”

Irritation breaking through her nerves, she bites, “I dropped it.” In her haste to make it to Veraxes before Vhagar or Sunfyre could land, she had thrown it to the ground in favor of hiking up her skirts for better ease of movement.

He frowns, shrugging. “Too bad.”

“It remains in your better interest to release me,” she maintains. His expression darkens, though not enough to dissuade her. “No one on Dragonstone yet knows of my absence. I would keep my silence, and you would face no consequences provided—”

His snide laughter interrupts her. “Come now, Valaena, groveling is beneath a strong girl like you.” Smarting at the remark that, all things considered, should no longer bother her, she glares at him. “Now, do as your uncle tells you. You’re good at that.”

Slipping up, her glare slides over to Aemond, who stands to his brother’s left. An inscrutable expression rests on his face, and his eye continues to bore into her. Not wishing to be further ensnared by him, she tears her eyes away.

Sighing, Aegon reflects, “If only Luke could have done the same. Mayhaps he would still live.”

At first, his cruel remark suspends her, her body freezing up and her face slackening as his words roll over her. However, she quickly grows enraged, furious that he should have the gall to taunt her as to her bereavement. Incensed, she surges towards him, hoping to claw the fiendish smirk from his face. Unfortunately, as she should have expected it would, the chain holding together her left arm and leg snags, sending her to the ground. Squeaking, she falls into the mud yet again, landing on her hip and completely immersing her right side in mud. She is quick to push herself into a seated position, but the damage is done. Her hip throbs, and her long braid sticks to her chest, heavy from the mucky water.

Thrilled, Aegon barks out a round of surprised laughter. Aemond takes an urgent step towards her, though he stops when she flinches back from him. Before she can think to stop him, Criston grabs her by her elbow and hefts her to her feet.

Aemond demands of him, “Remove that chain.”

Obsequiously, Criston reaches for the key on his belt, but Aegon deters him. “Are you mad? She sought to attack me. I’ve half the mind to add another.”

Thankfully, no other restraints come forth as the rainfall morphs into a deluge. Bothered by it, Aegon retreats into the camp, beckoning for them to follow. Criston does so with some reluctance, briefly glancing back at her. Audaciously, Aemond offers her his hand, which she flouts, looking at him as though he has lost his head and stalking past him.

Her third trek through the encampment is vastly different from the two that had proceeded it. When she had arrived, every step had reflected her sense of security, so confident had she been in her stratagem. Her second jaunt through the camp had been turbulent and fraught with apprehension. As she strides through the camp yet again, she feels little else but humiliation, compounded by the fact that she must measure each step carefully. The chain catches whenever she moves her arm too far forward or back, and the cuff on her wrist had been secured too tightly. It digs into her wrist with every step she takes, encouraging her to keep her pace slow, which she is loath to do. As little as she looks forward to whatever will transpire in the commander’s tent, she would rather be done with it as soon as possible, and she feels all the more self-conscious for all the men observing her defeat in this moment.

As they reach the tent, Aemond bounds ahead of her to pull back the tarpaulin. She stalls before ducking under his arm, avoiding his gaze as she does. As her eyes adjust to the warm light inside the tent, Aegon, sitting at one end of the table, gestures for her to take the opposite seat. Wishing to be as far away from him and Aemond as possible, she does so without protest.

Aemond and Criston remain standing, stood on either side of Aegon. For a moment, no one says a word. Staring down at the table, in particular at an illustration of Lord Staunton’s castle, Valaena resists the urge to scratch at the mud drying on her face.

“Ser Criston,” Aegon starts. “Apprise me of your conversation with the Lady Valaena.”

Clenching her jaw, Valaena waits to see whether Criston will throw suspicion on himself.

Clearing his throat, he obliquely answers, “You and your brother arrived with remarkable swiftness, my king.” Aegon looks away from him, convinced, but Aemond keeps his eye on him for a moment longer, appearing skeptical.

“Very well, Valaena, you tell us why you’re here,” Aegon probes.

Though she has no intention to answer his question, she contemplates it, nonetheless. She recalls that when Jacaerys had returned to Dragonstone three weeks after their brother’s death, he had been devastated to receive word of it. He had despaired for weeks, vacillating between morosely berating his own hubris for suggesting that Lucerys deliver their mother’s message to Lord Borros and obsessively trying to think up a way for them to end the war with as little bloodshed on their side as possible.

His most recent concoction had been to send away their remaining brothers and Aenar, hoping to keep them removed from the conflict. Valaena had stringently objected, arguing they were insulated from attack so long as Aenar remained on Dragonstone. Jacaerys had disputed her rebuttal, reminding her that the Greens were yet unaware of Aenar’s existence. Thus, her own plot had been born, and she had devised to travel down the coast of Blackwater Bay until she came upon Criston Cole’s army and inform him of her son’s birth.

Withal, spreading the news of Aenar’s birth had hardly been the only reason for her visit. Had she wished it, she could have spread the word by bidding Gerardys to send out ravens, but she has other concerns. Lately, Valaena knows not to whom to turn as she grapples with the war effort. Her mother is despondent and forceful in turns, unhearing either way. Jacaerys is single-minded as to his own concerns about the war, resulting in them quarreling over the most minute of details until neither of them gets their way. Daemon, though away at Harrenhal, has been an antagonistic ally ever since she had foiled his plans for Jaehaerys, and she is hesitant to rely on him even when she feels he will agree with her.

Criston had seemed like the answer to her troubles. In thinking of what it would be like to have someone who would always be on her side, she had remembered how Ser Harwin Strong reacted when Criston tormented her brothers during their training-at-arms. He had torn Aegon off of Jacaerys and proceeded put Criston on the ground, heedless to concerns about his own well-being. She had thought that mayhaps if he learned the truth, Criston would do the same for her.

She feels now foolish for having embarked on so shortsighted a plan. She should have known she would have no better luck with her natural father than she had her others. Laenor, who she knew as her father in the purest sense of the word, left her and her brothers too soon, and he had not even cared enough to sire them himself. There had been Harwin, too, in a sense. For many years, she had considered him her true father, but he had never cared for her beyond his sense of duty to her mother. Daemon is the closest thing she has to a father now, and he is mercurial at the best of times, his favor easy to win but hard to keep. She finds that Criston, too, is treacherous and inadequate.

Her lack of response does not seem to bother Aegon. He asks again, “Where are my wife and children?”

Her thoughts turning to her aunt, Valaena resolves once more to remain silent. She may not know where Helaena took the children, but she hardly means to tell Aegon as much. So long as he believes that she is the only person who knows where his family is, her life and tongue are worth preserving no matter how she irks him, which she certainly intends to do.

Taking a surprisingly diplomatic approach, he broaches, “What if I was to offer you something in exchange for your cooperation?”

Breaking her private vow of silence, she drones, “Unless you are prepared to vacate my mother’s throne,” her meaning clear as she trails off.

Undeterred, he proposes, “Tell me where she is, and I will set aside your marriage with Aemond.”

“What,” Aemond asks sharply, craning his neck to glare down at his brother. “You will do no such thing.” For her part, Valaena straightens in her chair, more pleased by how angry Aemond is, for whatever reason, than by the offer itself. He points at her. “No.”

Intrigued by the offer though she may be, she knows she cannot possibly accept it. In coming to Rook’s Rest, she has made a crucial mistake. She had been too cocky after the success of her plan with Helaena, and now she has overplayed her hand. She has been taken captive, and she may be allowed to live so long as Aegon believes she knows where Helaena and his children are.

Her only other value to the Greens is her ability to give Aemond legitimate children. Setting aside their marriage would not only eliminate that cause to keep her alive but make her son a bastard, a fate she will not allow.

“A tempting offer, to be sure,” she intones.

Aegon replies, “But not enough to tempt you?”

Laying her cards on the table, she wonders, “What use am I to you once I have told you where Helaena is and can no longer issue you nieces or nephews?”

“You are your mother’s named heir,” responds Aegon without pause.

Valaena waves that fact aside. Her mother would be loath to replace her, but “I have five brothers.”

Grinning wide, he corrects her. “Four.”

The slight smirk that had been playing at her lips slips from her face at the reminder. She clenches her jaw again.

Leaning forward, Aegon taunts, “Would you not prefer to be liberated from the man who brought that number down?”

“Shut up,” snaps Aemond. “I will not allow it.”

“My desires are not of consequence,” responds Valaena.

“And why is that,” inquires Aegon.

Taking a deep breath, she reminds herself of her purpose in coming here, at least in part. The Seven Kingdoms learning about her son’s existence serves to strengthen her mother’s claim, and more importantly, keep him safe at Dragonstone. She may not wish to reveal the truth to her uncles herself, but so long as they know it, they will not attempt an attack on her mother’s stronghold. Tremulously, she explains, “Aemond and I have issue.”

Waving his hand, Aegon gripes, “Yes, yes. You have issues. That is precisely my point.”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes in spite of her anxiety, she clarifies, “I have borne a son.”

All three men straighten their backs at the revelation. Aemond is the only one to speak, asking, “Truly?”

Resolutely, she ignores him, though only so long as he remains still. Once he embarks on a hasty march towards her, she stands, spooked. Her chain catches on corner of table as she walks around it, though she rights herself before she can fall this time.

Aemond stops at the opposite corner, unmistakably tense. “Why did you not send word to me?” Still, she does not speak to him, and he flashes, “Valaena.”

Provoked at last, she slams her free hand onto the table’s surface. “Why do you think?” Snarling, she reminds him of his crime, “You killed Luke.”

He has the decency to appear ashamed. He looks as though he is trying to swallow his tongue until he uncurls it and offers, “That was not my intention.”

Glaring up at him, she feels herself grow so unspeakably angry as to tremble, so outraged is she that he would lie so wantonly. She had been told by primary sources what transpired in the Round Hall. She knows how he had taunted Lucerys before pursuing him. It is not as though they had met unexpectedly in the sky.

Finally, she calms enough to say, full of scorn, “It was not your intention to mount Vhagar?”

Deliberately, he closes his eye, as though only now hearing how ridiculous his own lie is. “I only wished to frighten him.”

“In that, I am sure you succeeded. I am sure my little brother died with terror in his heart.” She finds herself tearing up again, and her voice quakes, though she does not let that keep her from speaking. “I hope that leaves you satisfied.”

“He took my eye,” he complains.

Her composure giving way, Valaena roars, pointing a finger at him, “An eye for which you were more than compensated! You said it yourself that night. It was a fair exchange. You lost an eye, but you gained a dragon, the largest in the world!” Her finger turns towards herself. “More than that, you got me. I was my brother’s penance. Your father sold me to you to assuage the rage you and your mother carried.”

Rashly, he argues, “I never wanted you.”

As though she had been struck, she takes half a step back. From the other side of the table, Aegon cackles. She glances over at him, her mouth still slack from the attack, and sees Criston wearing an uncomfortable, pinched-up grimace.

“I apologize,” says Aemond, and she looks back to him. “I did not mean to say that.”

“You do much you do not mean apparently,” she spits, forcing herself to recover. She has known for months that he holds no love for her. It should not surprise her to hear him say it. “Though it matters little. I’ll not forgive you for your words, just as I did not forgive Maris Baratheon for hers.”

Aemond screws up his face, clearly thrown by the abrupt change in topic.

Emboldened, she goes on, “What was it she said to you? Something about Luke taking your balls and not your eye?” Aegon emits another high-pitched snort, but she ignores him. The flare in Aemond’s nostrils is all that interests her. “For the part she played in his death, I took out her tongue before I put her in front of my dragon. I burnt House Baratheon to the ground, and now it is your house that shall fare the same,” she takes a brief pause, allowing her words to sink in, “barring the children.”

Aegon calls her attention back to him. “Does Daeron remain a child, would you say?”

“For now,” she warns. Until Daeron commits some atrocity against her side of the family at his brothers’ behest, she does not believe he deserves to be put to the sword.

“Is that why you sent Helaena away,” wonders Aemond, a bitter edge to his voice, “for the sake of revenge?”

“How dare you,” she seethes. “How dare you compare my shepherding Helaena and her children to safety to you murdering Luke in cold blood.”

“Shepherding her to safety,” scoffs Aegon. “What safety need my wife from me?”

She scoffs at him in turn. “Your wife. She never wished to marry you.”

Nodding, he supposes, “So, you manipulated the little idiot—”

Already at great tension, his insult pushes her over the edge. She bursts, “Helaena is not an idiot!” 

Screeching, he returns, “Where is she?”

Valaena forces herself to take a breath. She cannot allow herself to become so inflamed as to say anything that comes to her mind. Carefully, she answers, “Beyond your reach.”

His mouth drawn in a line, Aegon puffs up before quickly deflating. He flicks his fingers in Aemond’s direction. “Allow our niece retake her seat, Brother.” Aemond hesitates before complying, just as she does. Once she has lowered herself into her chair once more, Aegon asks, “How did you steal out of the Keep?”

“I stole nothing.” Aegon’s lip lifts in a half-snarl at her peevish answer. More seriously, she offers, “I rode out of the Keep in a carriage.”

His brow furrows. “How is that possible?”

Criston gives his opinion. “I suppose there could be those still loyal to the Princess Rhaenyra within the Red Keep, Your Grace.”

Aemond hits the nail on the head. “The wet nurse with Helaena and the children. It was you.”

A slow, sure smile comes to Valaena’s face, confirming his supposition.

His face contorts into the expression that it always takes on whenever he has bungled something, his mouth forms an angry line, and his eye lights. Overwrought, he storms out in a huff, a loud commotion outside following his exit.

Valaena’s smile grows a little wider, which Aegon notes. “You think yourself so clever?”

In agreement, she digs the knife in deeper. “Before she left, Helaena bade me to express her regrets to you.”

Suitably inflamed, Aegon stands and approaches her. She compels herself not to display her uneasiness or move as he takes the seat closest to her, even as he grasps her right hand, which had been resting on the table.

Pressing his thumb into the center of her palm, he ventures, “Do you know, Valaena, I myself have a talent for stealing out of the Keep.” Well aware of his talents, she makes no response. “As such, I was not present when Viserys died. Rather, I had to be found.” He says nothing further, merely staring at her as though to convey some meaning as he continues to manipulate her fingers to his will.

Thinking on it, Valaena’s anger returns to her in full-force. “Aemond went in search of you to ensure your ascension?” How little he must have thought of her claim to the throne, she thinks, so willing was he to toss it out for her.

Pleased by her ire, Aegon smiles. “He and Cole dragged me out of the hole the White Worm stuffed me—”

“Who,” she interjects.

“The White Worm. Lady Misery.” He waves his hand dismissively. “Some Lysene whore who my grandsire employs on occasion.”

Lady Misery, she ponders.

Mysaria, her mind substitutes for her.

As she realizes that it is Mysaria of whom Aegon speaks, she wonders, perturbed, how it is that Daemon is so trusting of someone who worked to put their rival on the throne.

Ignorant to her epiphany, he continues, “Anyhow, after I was anointed, Jaehaerys was my heir. Though he was never formally installed, he was the Prince of Dragonstone. Your rival, I suppose.”

Preemptively, she refutes, “I did not encourage Helaena to flee with her children so as to dispatch my rival, if one can refer to a five-year-old as such.”

“But would he not be the rival you prefer, as opposed to the one you have now,” asks Aegon.

Distracted again by his doublespeak, she grimaces in confusion until she grasps that Aemond must now be styling himself as the Prince of Dragonstone, at which point her expression shifts into a glower.

In an effort to calm herself, she blows out a slow breath through her nose. She informs Aegon, “However much it may satisfy you to anger me, you will never do so enough for me to betray my sister’s confidence—”

Abruptly, he yanks her hand towards him. Her voice breaks off in a yelp as her ribs slam into the table. Leaning in close, he hisses at her, “She is my sister, not yours.” He grips the left side of her neck in a pressing hold, his nails digging into the muscle there. “Now, you listen to me, your king. You owe me two boys and a girl. You may pay me in words or flesh.”

A thrill of fear coursing through her, she rips herself away, and her skin tears as his nails streak down her throat. Standing, she backs away from him. “You’re revolting. I am your good-sister.”

Rising, too, he trails after her. “It would not be the first time I partook in sister-cunny.”

Fraught with terror, her skin simultaneously burning and clammy, she throws a chair down in between them. His hands held out towards her, he feigns a go at her. When she recoils, he laughs nastily. “The choice is yours.” Moving around the other side of the table, he heads for the tent’s egress, calling over his shoulder for Criston to watch her.

Desperately, Valaena tries not to think of how her durance will only get worse from here on out. Pressing her free hand to her chest, she closes her eyes as she works to steady her breathing and slow her rapid heartbeat.

Criston presses a light touch between her shoulders, ruining her progress. She flinches away from him on instinct, and he murmurs a quiet apology.

Once she masters herself, she turns to face him. Their eyes meet, and he tells her, “A tent has been prepared for you.”

Embittered, she bites, “Not a cage?”

Frowning, he gestures for her to follow him outside, and she reluctantly complies. She keeps her gaze forward as she exits the commander’s tent, her eyes barely sweeping over Aegon and Aemond, who stand together at a distance.

Criston leads her a short distance to another, smaller tent. Stepping inside, she sees that there is a wooden beam in the middle of the tent. He walks her right up to it and holds out his hand. Belatedly, she realizes that he means to wind her chain around it. She sighs, acquiescing.

After the shackle on her wrist has been redone, she lowers herself onto the pallet laid out beside the beam. The thin mattress is the only furnishing the space has, other than a small oil lamp in a corner too far for her to reach. Sparse provisions for a princess, she thinks, though she supposes that she is a lady for as long as she is here.

Valaena sits, leaning against the beam, for hours, hardly moving. Wishing to distract herself from the unfortunate circumstances in which she finds herself, she occupies her hands by chipping away the drying mud from her form. The clay crumbles as she works, making it a difficult task. She occupies her mind by thinking of another place, Dragonstone. She thinks of how her family must be worried for her absence. It is too bad that she had not told anyone of her destination before flying away this morning, for she might have had a rescue by now. Then again, she supposes, mayhaps it is for the best that she had not. No one else should have to suffer for her stupidity.

After she has finished cleaning her clothes and hair, she picks at the dirt left underneath her nails. By now, the cold has made her back stiff and sent her teeth chattering. She shivers, too, though she only notices as much whilst inspecting the red thumbprint Aemond had left behind on her wrist, incapable is she of keeping her arm still as she holds it up in front of her.

Criston, who has been standing guard at the door of the tent, suddenly dips outside. He is absent for several minutes, during which she tries to dig her fingers underneath the beam. She figures that if it is not driven too far into the ground, she can excavate a pit around its base and slide her chain on the nether side of it. What she will do from there, she is not sure, but she knows that she must make some attempt at an escape lest she lose her sanity.

Unfortunately, she finds that the post was set too deep for her to reach its bottom, which is mayhaps a foot or two beyond her reach. Disheartened, she gives up and has resumed picking dirt from underneath her nails by the time Criston returns.

If he notices the fresh crater in the earth beside her, he makes no mention of it, even as he frees her from the beam. He places his hand on her elbow to help her stand, tightening it around the girth of her arm when she tries to dart away from him. He gives her a silent, scolding look as he locks the manacle around her wrist again. She sneers at him while his face is turned down.

“Come along, my lady,” he says, ushering her towards the door.

She drags her feet. “Where are you taking me?”

“His Grace wishes to see you,” he answers.

“For what purpose,” she quickly responds, her voice somewhat shaky. She cannot fathom for what reason Aegon wishes to see her now that night has fallen, but she cannot imagine it is anything good. Morbidly, she rather hopes for a headsman.

Wincing, he attests, “It is nothing unseemly, I assure you.”

Snarkily, she replies, “Oh, well, I certainly trust your word.”

His mouth twists in displeasure. More firmly, he repeats, “Come along, my lady,” and with a hand on her back, propels her outside.

On the way to the commander’s tent, Valaena suffers the scrutiny of the men-at-arms milling about the area. They whistle and hoot at her, some of them so depraved as to grope themselves as they leer at her. Her face flames as she staunchly ignores them.

As they reach their destination, she walks inside to discover that she has been summoned for supper. The table set up for a meal, Aegon and Aemond sit at either head of the table, the latter of whom alone stands when she enters. Criston walks to the left side and sits across from the only remaining, available seat, which is clearly meant for her.

Seated at the far end of the table, Aegon looks at her expectantly. Dourly, she tells him, “I am not hungry.”

“I doubt that,” he counters. True enough, she had been lying. She has not eaten for the better part of the day.

Obstinate, she turns on her heel and tries to walk back outside, but the guards posted at the door block her. Reluctantly, she turns back and takes her seat.

The food is served promptly, consisting of ale and simple, roasted fowl. Feeling somewhat hysterical, dreading so greatly sharing a meal with her three least favorite men in the known world, she laughs, muttering, “Gods, I hope this is poisoned,” and gulps down her drink.

The dinner from the depths of the Seven Hells commences in silence, for which Valaena is glad. Wisely, she had not been provided with any utensils—indubitably, she would have plunged any fork or knife at her disposal into someone’s heart, whether it be that of Aegon, Aemond, or herself. As such, she condescends to eat with her unfettered hand, ravenous enough that she hardly minds the offense to her waning dignity.

She dines until Aegon initiates conversation. “Do you know, this reminds me of the feast we held in celebration of Luke’s death.”

Abruptly losing her appetite, she drops the drumstick on which she had been gnawing.

Aemond protests, “Aegon—”

“Come now, Brother, you recall. You were the guest of honor,” reveals Aegon.

In her peripheral vision, she sees Aemond turn toward her, though she keeps her eyes trained on her plate. “I did not attend,” he declares.

With the same, maladjusted laugh as before, she contravenes, “As if you would shy from the attention when, at last, you were at its center.”

Aegon laughs, too. “Too true.”

Aemond makes to insist, “Valaena, I swear to you—”

Aegon speaks over him. “Now, that night, we dined on fowl, too, though it was finer than this pigeon shit.” Boorishly, he continues spouting about the wretched feast he had thrown, detailing the drink that had been served, the speech he had given, and the many guests, all names she commits to memory.

Contumaciously, Valaena maintains as impassive an expression as she can, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of upsetting her. She stares down at her half-finished meal, aware of the five eyes trained on her.

She slips up when Aegon’s storytelling turns to a different night. “And you regaled us with the tale of his death, such a thrilling story,” he says to Aemond. Valaena’s face crumples a little, her eyes clenching shut and her mouth twisting slightly.

“This is enough, Aegon,” urges Aemond.

Sharply, Aegon differs, “It is enough when your wife tells me where my children are, or I finish my supper. The choice is hers.”

He desists for half a moment, waiting for her confession. When it does not come, he goes into excruciating, gruesome detail. Telling a story that she has heard several times before, he makes various embellishments that she does not believe but bristles at, nonetheless. When he claims that Lucerys wet himself during his flight from the Round Hall, she finally lifts her gaze from the table to glare at him as her nostrils flare. He grins as their eyes meet.

She has less of an idea of the truth when he moves on to what transpired after Lucerys and Aemond left the Round Hall, and a nauseous feeling makes itself known in her gut and underneath her ribs. As she resists the urge to rub at her chest, he claims that Lucerys had almost gotten away. Apparently, he had disappeared into a crevice in the bay for a time, though of course, Aemond had found him again. Her heart throbs as she wonders if he speaks the truth.

When he questions whether Aemond could hear Lucerys’s bones crunching in Vhagar’s mouth, Valaena is overcome. Her nausea makes itself known with a vengeance, and she gags, moving her hand to cover her mouth. Regrettably, she instinctively uses her left hand, which cannot make it past her bust, and she is forced to curl over the side of her chair and give up her dinner.

Once her queasiness has receded, she sits upright again, aligning her back with the splad of her chair. As she wipes her mouth with her sleeve, she makes the mistake of flicking her eyes to Criston’s face and sees his pitying expression.

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” remarks Aegon, heartless.

A spark of anger lighting within her, she grabs her plate and hurls it at him. Unfortunately, she misses him, her plate sailing three feet to the left of his chair, and most of the food that had been on it lands in her lap. He chuckles quietly as he alone returns to his meal.

As she waits for him to finish eating so that she may be allowed to return to blissful, solitary confinement, she slips a clean bone that had fallen onto her skirt into her sleeve, thinking that she can whittle it into something to set loose her shackles. Without her limbs bound, she may have a better chance of escaping in the night.

At the meal’s highly-anticipated conclusion, Aegon stands, prompting Criston and Aemond to do the same. Valaena remains seated. Aegon hardly minds, excusing himself for the evening and mentioning that he promised Aemond a moment alone with her.

On principle, she retorts, “I should rather like to be alone in the company of fifty Dothraki horselords.”

Snorting, Aegon walks past her on his way to the door. He surprises her by grabbing her arm as he stands behind her chair. She tries to pull it back down, but he manages to get his hand up her sleeve and extract the bone hidden there.

He brandishes it in front of her face. “What were you planning to do with this?”

“I meant to swallow it,” she spits. Callously, he tosses it aside.

Once he has departed, Criston moves to stand at the door, allowing Aemond to claim his vacated seat. After an indicative glance from Aemond, Criston leaves the tent, much to Valaena’s chagrin. She had rather hoped there would be some buffer between her and Aemond but supposes there is nothing for it but to face him head-on now.

She holds his gaze, aware that hers is far sharper. As he contemplates how to start, he sets his hands on the table, much like he does whenever his mother insists on saying grace. She notices that he still wears both of their signet rings, as he had taken to doing when her fingers had swelled during her pregnancy and the larger ring had no longer fit her thumb and remained too big for her middle finger.

“I regret that it has come to this,” he begins, bringing her attention back to his face. “It does not please me to see you like this.”

The corner of her mouth lifts in a sour half-smile. “Doesn’t it?”

“Of course not,” he replies, as though sincerely. “Once we return to King’s Landing—”

“I am not going to King’s Landing,” she rebukes.

“I’m afraid you’ve little choice in the matter,” he disputes.

“Just like you always wanted,” she replies, embittered. Obnoxiously, he looks at her as though he does not understand what she means. “How it must have grated on you all those years, being a man with no right to command his wife.” Comprehension smoothes out his face. “I indulged you from time to time, but that is all it was. Indulgence. Pity.”

Sadly, he hardly seems offended. “You have no talent for cruelty.”

“Truly? The two-hundred men I slaughtered this afternoon purely out of spite might disagree.” She frowns, adding, “If they could.”

He purses his lips. “Aegon’s stupidity notwithstanding.”

Despite herself, she laughs, though she covers it up with yet more ire. “He is stupid. He is a horrible, stupid fool, and yet you put him on my mother’s throne, robbing me of my birthright, you fucking traitor.”

Briefly, he looks away from her. “I thought you would make a good ruling queen. I did, truly.”

“Why, thank you,” she sarcastically replies.

“But I knew you would never make it to the throne.” She glares at him, and his resolve hardens. “The realm would not accept a queen—”

She heads him off, “So you Greens always claim, and yet Aegon has little more than half the number of lords sworn to him than does my mother.”

Appearing somewhat stumped, he dismisses, “Be that as it may.” She scoffs. “I wished only to protect you.”

“Fuck off,” she grumbles. She should have known he would use gallantry in his defense, though why he bothers to defend himself at all, she cannot say.  

He continues, “Aegon was the king’s eldest son. By right, the throne is his. If only you could have accepted that, I could have ensured your safety as my wife.”

She leans forward, ordering, “Do not patronize me.” He stops speaking, seemingly waiting for her to say something, so she does. “It is not as if you care.”

“Of course, I care,” he argues.

“Had I not been on Dragonstone when your brother usurped the throne, I doubt I would have lived long past Aenar’s birth.” Rather, she thinks Otto would have poisoned her before she left the child bed.

Aemond has gone rigid. “Aenar?”

Aware of her blunder, Valaena swallows around a lump in her throat as she feels the atmosphere change. Lost for what else to do, she nods.

“Aenar Targaryen,” he recites, as though he likes the sound of it. “For Aenar the Exile, a wise man without whom our house would not be what it is.”

That had been her line of thinking when she named Aenar, though the name had been inspired in part by his birthplace. Aenar the Exile had been the first Lord of Dragonstone. “I have the same hopes for my son. He will be king one day.”

His tone changing again, Aemond demands, “Why did you permit me to believe he did not live?”

She grows yet more uncomfortable, a shameful seed of guilt sprouting in her heart. “I was not the cause of that rumor.”

“But you were aware of it,” he accuses.

Angered, she sees the same emotion reflected in his eye. “You are hardly one to lecture me on cruelty.” He opens his mouth to speak, to defend himself yet again mayhaps, but she proceeds, inflamed, “What you did almost killed me and your son, as well as Luke. My labors started far too early, as soon as I heard the news, and I languished in the birthing bed for hours, hovering over the line between our world and the next, and you weren’t there even though you promised you would be—”

Recognizing that her emotions have gotten away from her, she breaks off her diatribe. She tugs on the hairs at the front of her scalp, using the pain to keep herself from crying, to which she feels frustratingly close.

Tenderly, his hand brushes along her arm. “Ñuha irūdy—”

She recoils, flashing, “Don’t call me that. I’ll not suffer any longer you pretending to love me.”

His brow furrowed, he contends, “I love you.”

She shakes her head, willing her tears back once more. “Helaena told me of your lies.”

Grimacing in apparent confusion, he wonders, “What lies?”

“All of them,” she exaggerates. “That you loved me, that you wished for me to be queen—”

“I do love you,” he bursts. “After all that has passed between us, how could you think otherwise?”

“How could I not,” she returns. “You help Aegon usurp the throne, you take my title, and you kill my brother.”

“It was an accident,” he insists, maddeningly. “He wronged me—”

“He was six years old,” she erupts. “He picked up a knife our brother had dropped. Our brother, who you were threatening to kill—”

“It was hardly a threat,” he opposes. “I was eleven years old.”

She gesticulates with one hand. “And he was six!”

Taking a breath, he maintains, “He still took my eye.”

She shouts, “I don’t fucking care!” His face slackens, but she holds fast. “I don’t. I do not care. Your eye means nothing to me.”

Manifestly piqued, he stands, startling her with his abruptness. “You are upset. We will speak again come the morn.” He makes for the door.

Panicked at the thought of still being here in the morning, Valaena rises, too. Careful of her restraints and the mess she had made on the ground, she moves into his path before he has the chance to leave. “Wait.” Wilting slightly under his lurid stare, she hesitates before taking his bejeweled hand. Fiddling with her ring, she ventures, “If you truly love me—”

“I do,” he avers.

Softly, she beseeches, “Let me go.”

His other hand comes up to grasp her upper arm. “No.”

Instinctively, she tries to pull back from his hold. As he tightens his grip, she forces herself to relax. Taking a deep breath, she asks, “Is this what you want for me? You wish for me to be a prisoner?”

“Once we return to King’s Landing,” he repeats, “and you swear obeisance before the Iron Throne, you will be one no longer. All can be as it was.”

Valaena is repelled by the thought, though she endeavors not to show it. “And what of Aenar? He is without either of his parents on Dragonstone. He would remain so.”

As though teetering on the edge of a cliff, Aemond sways before asserting, “My half-sister is not so unscrupulous as to neglect her own grandchild.”

“Aenar still needs me.” It is the most honest thing she has said all day. She had seen him just this morning, but she longs for her baby. She cannot say how she will fare if she is apart from him any longer than need be. The trip she had made to King’s Landing so soon after his birth had been agony.

Pitiless, he lashes, “Mayhaps you should not have left him then.”

Stung, she drops his hand and shrinks back from him.

He lets her go. “I’m sorry, Valaena. We will get Aenar back in due time, I swear it. I’ll not rest until I see it done.”

She lets the conversation stall, refusing to speak to him more than is necessary. There is so much for which she wishes to scream at him, all so ugly and vile, but she knows not how much more bile she can stand to have pour from her this night. All she knows is that she is exhausted and desperate for this day to be over.

He, too, seems ready to turn in for the night. His hand comes up again in a motion she recognizes well, to stroke her hair. She shies away from it. Indomitable, he offers, “I could arrange for you to sleep in my tent.”

Disbelieving, she gives no response, merely turning around and walking outside. Mercifully, Criston is quick to return her to the privacy of her tent.

Even as the hour grows late, Valaena does not fall asleep, anxiously lying awake. She spends most of the night staring at the peak in the tent’s ceiling, though she is easily distracted by Criston’s absence as he wordlessly steps out. Sitting up, she carefully draws out one of the hairpins holding up her braid. With her mane tilted to one side, she brings the pin down to her ankle, hoping it will be sufficient to pick the lock on the shackle there.

She is in the midst of digging the thin piece of metal into the lock when Criston slinks back into the tent. She freezes, warily looking up at him and wondering how he will react.

He approaches her on quick feet, and she panics, tossing the pin away and trying to scoot back from him. He grabs her ankle, tugging it towards him. She parts her lips to impart some objection, but his hand covers her mouth, keeping her “Quiet.”

Valaena, oddly moved by the command, remains silent as he pulls his hand away. It goes to his waist, and he removes the key from his belt. He brings it to the shackle on her ankle and deftly undoes the lock.

The metal brace slackens around her flesh and falls from her leg. “What are you doing,” she whispers, shocked.

Criston does not answer her question directly as he fiddles with the brace on her wrist. “The guard is changing. We must need be quick.”

Once the second shackle has been removed, he peers outside before waving for her to follow him. She does so without protest, unwilling to question his change of heart lest he do so, as well.

Together, they sneak through the camp, the noise from their movements masked by the rain. Occasionally, he holds up his arm, and they wait with bated breath for a sentinel to pass them before continuing on their path.

He stops at the camp’s entrance. “Go. You’ll have until I make it back to your tent and discover your absence before I raise the alarm.”

Looking between her natural father and her slumbering dragon, Valaena remains rooted to the spot.

“Go,” he urges again.

He turns to leave, and she grabs his hand. “Wait,” she whispers. He turns back to her after a casting a glance around them. “I must ask you a favor.”

He vows, “I will not betray the king—”

She shakes her head, though she thinks he has done so already. “No. It concerns Mysaria.” He shakes his own head, clearly puzzled. “The White Worm.”

That name sparks something. “What of her?”

“She must need die. She works for Daemon,” Valaena tells him.

He frowns. “Why tell me this?”

“It would be a boon to Aegon and myself if she dies,” she asserts, though she has not the chance to explain herself further.

They hear a noise, and their conversation is forgotten. Gently, Criston shoves her beyond the camp’s barrier, and they turn away from each other.

Exhilaration and apprehension flowing through her in equal parts, Valaena ventures into the field littered with corpses, stepping over bits and pieces of dead men as she approaches Veraxes. Halfway through the debris, something glinting under the moonlight catches her eye, and she realizes that it is her dagger. It is situated beneath a half-eaten, charred corpse, but disturbingly accustomed to decay by now, she does not let that deter her. Kneeling, she shoves the carcass away and reaches for her weapon.

As the body plops against another, it appears to make the ground shake, though she soon realizes that the tremor is coming from Vhagar. The hoary old bitch rumbles as she stares at Valaena, her hot breath flowing from her nostrils. Valaena is caught in the thrall of her haunting, glowing, orange eyes, which were like to be two of the last things Lucerys ever saw.

Soon enough, Vhagar recognizes Valaena by sight and scent and closes her eyes once more, but Valaena does not move. She grapples with her resentment for the beast, one she used to favor so strongly—

A hue and cry go up, and having taken too long, Valaena frightens. Jumping to her feet, she races for Veraxes, who raises his head as she approaches. He chirps at her, pleased to see her. She rubs her hand along his neck, returning the sentiment. As she climbs up his wing, he sits up on his haunches. She ties herself into his saddle as he spreads out his wings, doubtlessly feeling her sense of urgency.

She only has one leg buckled down by the time archers lined up along the border of the camp draw their arrows. Impatient, she resolves to finish securing herself once she and Veraxes are in the sky, ordering him, “Sōvēs.”

Leaning back, Veraxes pushes back against the ground and leaps upward. He careens forward, and they start off soaring low over the encampment. Men cry out as they pass overhead, darting out of the way of dragonfire that never comes.

Tugging on the reins, she directs Veraxes higher, and they make a steep ascent past the clouds. She guides Veraxes in the direction of Dragonstone, and as they glide beneath the stars, she finally unwinds. Full of relief, she laughs and pets along Veraxes’s side. “Sȳz,” she commends him.

As they near the coastline, she starts work on the buckles for her other leg. Pulling up her skirts, she slips her leg through the leather straps. A shadow falls over her, and she thinks it a cloud until it screeches.

Her head whips up in time to spot Sunfyre diving towards her, his golden scales gleaming.

Veraxes feints out of the way just as Sunfyre reaches them, and the bigger dragon claws at his side. Veraxes cries out as he moves lower, immersing them in the freezing cold of a raincloud. As they descend through the sky, Valaena’s body lifts out of the saddle on one side. It is a strenuous effort to grip the handles on the saddle, but she reaches them and holds fast. As they come out on the other side of the cloud, she gasps for breath and blinks through the water dripping down from her hair. When Veraxes levels himself out once more, she lands fully in her seat, hard enough to make her wince, still sore is she from Aenar’s birth.

Frantically, she peers around the sky for a glimpse of Sunfyre or Vhagar. She thinks that this is how Lucerys must have felt in his final moments, a quarry for a dragon in a storm, unsure of which way to fly to safety.

She hears the sound of wings flapping and looks behind her. Sunfyre looms behind her, Aegon on his back. Aegon shouts something that gets lost in the wind, and Sunfyre advances. He extends his neck to bite at Veraxes’s tail, though he falls short of it as Valaena turns Veraxes in a circle.

Furious at the treatment she has faced all day, as well as mad at Aegon for a thousand different reasons, spanning over years, she comes around to face him, brashly shouting, “Dracarys!”

She feels Veraxes suck in a breath and blow out fire. Sunfyre twists out of the way, twirling downward before righting himself and rising through the air again. The fire is returned, warming Valaena’s back as it wafts over Veraxes’s croup.

One arm held out behind her, she twists around in her saddle in search of Sunfyre and Aegon, though she does not see them and is thus surprised when a weight knocks into Veraxes from the left.

Wind rushes past her as the entwined dragons lurch to the side. Sunfyre has his mouth around Veraxes’s neck, causing Veraxes to yowl as his teeth dig into his flesh. Unable to steer themselves, the dragons are caught in a spiral, and they plummet downward.

As they lose altitude at a dramatic pace, Valaena makes eye-contact with Aegon, who is grinning maniacally and not as though they are both about to die. She sucks in a breath to shout at him, but before any word can pass her lips, Veraxes’s head comes up over Sunfyre’s shoulder and bathes him in flame.

Valaena is so shocked as to scream, too, as Aegon howls in agony. His arms flail as he drops Sunfyre’s reins, and he scratches at himself, as though attempting to claw his armor from his flesh. Sunfyre, echoing his rider’s anguish, releases Veraxes and continues his descent toward the ground.

In a stupor, Valaena directs Veraxes, a little worse for wear, back in the direction Dragonstone. She peers over the back of the saddle, watching as the flaming figure of her uncle vanishes through the torrent of rain and wondering if she had just evened the score between her and Aemond.

Chapter Text

131 A.C.

Valaena basks in the warm, afternoon breeze as she nears the coastline of the crownlands atop Veraxes’s back. Veraxes glides among the clouds, descending as King’s Landing comes within his sight.

The two of them are returning from a month-long sojourn at Dragonstone, one she makes once a year. She had enjoyed spending time with her siblings and parents, though it had been something of a lonely moon. Everyone had split into pairs, it seemed, all but her. Jacaerys and Lucerys had always been together, Rhaena had clung to Baela, and Joffrey and Aegon had been inseparable, running about the castle together day and night. She had fit in where she could—watching the older pair of her brothers train sword fighting on the beach, going into the fishing villages with her step-sisters, and falling victim to the younger boys’ many amateur pranks—but it had been difficult to fit in after being away for so long.

Now that she is set to return to King’s Landing, however, giddy anticipation leaves her feeling higher than she truly is atop Veraxes. It has been weeks since she last saw Aemond, and though they had exchanged letters, she is eager to be in his arms again.

As Veraxes soars closer to the city, the light from the Sun blinks away. She believes them to be flying beneath a cloud until the shadow stays with them a touch too long. Squinting, she peers upward, spying Sunfyre and his gleaming, golden scales as he floats overhead.

Veraxes, too, takes notice of their unexpected flying companion. He shrills at the other dragon in greeting, prompting Sunfyre to dip lower and fly at his side.

As he comes into view, Aegon directs a smirk at Valaena. He is always so cocky whenever he rides Sunfyre, so proud is he of his admittedly gorgeous mount. She scrunches up her face at him in reply.

She does not share the sky with him for long. As he makes for the Dragonpit, she supposes that he was nearing the end of a joyride when he spotted her nearing the city. She proceeds to circumnavigate the city a few times, drifting over the various neighborhoods and hoping that by the time she descends on Rhaenys’s Hill, Aegon will be long gone.

She sets Veraxes down beside the Dragonpit and dismounts. As she leaves him to the Dragonkeepers, Ser Willis greets her, and she nods to him before climbing into the carriage set to convey her to the Red Keep. When she passes through its door, the sight of Aegon seated to her right startles her, and she cannot quite keep her disappointment from showing on her face.

Aegon wears the same, smug smile that she had seen in the sky. “I thought to wait for you, Niece.”

Allowing her annoyance to shine through her voice, she replies, “Thank you, Uncle,” and takes her seat. Still grinning, he knocks on the wall of the carriage, and they take off.

The first quarter-hour of their ride to the Keep is silent. She keeps her eyes pinned to the various fenestrae of the carriage, peering out at the city as she twists her rings around her fingers. In her periphery, she sees Aegon alternate between apathetically inspecting his nails and leering at her.

“So,” he says eventually, breaching the silence between them. “How fares my namesake?”

The tension runs out of her shoulders, and she slumps in her seat. “For the thousandth time, my brother is not named for you. He is named for his uncle.”

Gesturing to himself, he asserts, “Yes, his Uncle Aegon.”

She rolls her eyes hard enough for her whole head to move. “His other uncle, your uncle.” He appears flummoxed, so she explains, “Daemon’s late brother.” His confusion does not clear. “Have you never studied our lineage?”

He shrugs. “For what purpose? You are the heir, not I.”

Supposing he is right, she shrugs, too.

The remainder of their journey is punctuated by frivolous questions from either of them. He wonders if any new eggs have been laid on the Dragonmont, and she reports that there have not been any. She asks after the twins, and he answers in frustratingly paltry detail.

When at last they arrive at the Red Keep, Aegon spurns protocol and emerges from the carriage ahead of her. He is halfway to their receiving party, made up by his siblings and children, by the time her feet touch the castle grounds.

“This is too much,” remarks Aegon as he waves his arm at his siblings. “I was absent from your lives for a scant few hours.”

“No one cares about you,” scorns Aemond.

Aegon presses a hand over his heart. “You wound me, Brother.”

“If only,” Aemond grumbles.

Valaena disregards their bickering as she reaches the small party, heading straight for Helaena. She throws her arms around her aunt, careful not to squash Jaehaerys, who Helaena has in her arms. Excited, Jaehaerys tries to weave his arms through the huddle of their bodies and embrace her himself, so she stands back to give him his own hug and kiss.

With her nephew satisfied, she moves onto her uncle Daeron, who stands beside his sister and holds Jaehaera. She opens her arms wide for him, but rather than embrace her, he merely deposits their niece into her arms, turns away, and stomps into the castle.

Somewhat dismayed by his rebuff, she settles Jaehaera in her hold and sends Aemond a bewildered glance.

He answers it. “It’s nothing to do with you. He’s in a snit.” He glances behind him for sight of his brother, but Daeron has disappeared already. “Mother and Grandsire have decided to send him to Oldtown to serve as Cousin Ormund’s squire and cupbearer.” Surprised, Valaena draws up her brow.

Aegon sighs, agreeing, “Yes, it is quite the shame.” She turns to him, further surprised by his sentiment. “He’ll be gone before his nameday, and I’ll not be able to introduce him to the Street of Silk.”

Not quite sure why she feels disappointed—she should have known that which he meant to say—Valaena stifles a groan. Aware of how the same experience had traumatized Aemond, she makes a sarcastic comment out of the side of her mouth, “A terrible shame, indeed.”

If she could have her way, she would cut her time with Aegon short here, but Jaehaera confounds her. The little girl leans toward Aegon, reaching for his shoulder with one hand. Following her niece’s unspoken direction, Valaena steps up to Aegon and hands her over to him amidst his feeble protests. “What? No. Why?”

“She wants you,” persists Valaena, though she does not understand the child’s desire herself.

Sighing, he accepts his daughter into his arms. Pleased, Jaehaera settles her little head in the crook of his neck and puts her thumb in her mouth. He greets her by poking her belly, and she squirms unhappily, moaning in complaint.

Helaena chides him. “Don’t upset her.”

“I thought she liked it,” he complains.

“I like it,” Jaehaerys rectifies, throwing his arms out wide and nearly smacking his mother in the face.

Aegon takes a step closer to Helaena, grumbling to himself, “Am I meant to keep track?” He focuses his jabbing finger on Jaehaerys, who at once cackles with glee. Maladroitly, the boy grasps at his father’s quick hand, which slips through his delicate grip at every interval.

With their little family absorbed in themselves, Valaena turns away from her aunt and uncle and gives her full attention to the sole other member of her own little family. Stepping up to Aemond, she feels the giddiness that had waned in Aegon’s company returning. Taking his hands, she beams up at him.

A grin cracks through his contrived, aloof demeanor. He carps, “Should I be insulted that you have chosen to greet me last?”

Her smile growing, she gets on her toes and raises her chin, silently beseeching him for a kiss. “One must save the best for last.”

He hums, satisfied by her response, and leans down to grant her request. When their lips part again, he whispers across her skin, “Ñuha irūdy.”

A merry sigh escapes her. “How I have missed my lord’s voice.” Brushing her nose along his, she goes in for another kiss.

A gagging noise off to her right ruins the moment. Valaena drops down to her normal height and turns her head to glare at Aegon. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Aemond do the same. Aegon directs his next complaint at him, “Do spare the rest of us.” He starts up the steps leading into the Keep, adding under his breath, “Cunt-struck idiot.” As they follow after him and Helaena, Valaena suspects it is only the presence of Jaehaera in his arms that insulates Aegon from retributive attack from Aemond.

As the six of them enter the castle, Jaehaerys demands to be put down and runs off as soon as his feet touch the floor. Helaena goes careening around a corner after him, Aegon and Jaehaera following at a far more sedate pace.

For her part, Valaena remains caught in the entrance hall, taken off guard by the new decorations she finds there. Symbols of the Faith of the Seven, including a gigantic, seven-pointed star suspended from the cavernous ceiling, jut out at her from every direction. Absently, she wonders if the Hightowers had waited until her absence to put them up, though she knows well that they are hardly timid for her presence.

Aemond notes where her attention lies. “You don’t care for it?” By the way he asks the question, it is clear he knows her answer already.

His voice conveys a bit of humor, though she is aware that he finds little comedy in religion. After all, he had been raised by Alicent, who is as somber as any septa Valaena has ever known. Not wishing to offend him, she charitably responds, “Uh.”

He turns his head away to hide his reaction, though her ears do not miss the muted huff of mirth that escapes his lips. He leaves her in the hall with a final peck to her cheek, excusing himself to the training yard. She wanders in the direction of her rooms, vaguely wary that a silent sister will pop out at her at any moment. For the remainder of the day’s light, Valaena is preoccupied by the tasks of unpacking, bathing, and dressing for supper.

Whenever she returns to the Red Keep after a lengthy visit to Dragonstone, Alicent welcomes her back with an overdone supper and mandates the attendance of the entire family, though Viserys is usually too ill to attend, as he is this night. Alicent commences the meal as she always does, by welcoming Valaena with a strained warmth. “We are all glad for your return, Daughter.” Her meretricious smile is mimicked by her father, who sits beside her.

During her childhood, Otto and Alicent had been distant and cold with Valaena at the best of times. When she had returned to King’s Landing to marry Aemond, they had certainly paid her more attention, but if possible, they were colder than before, wary as they were of her presence. Their attitudes shifted, however, following Aemond’s fifteenth nameday. For whatever reason, they had warmed up to her and made more of an effort to include her in their family affairs.

After fifteen years of disdain, she had understood that it was all an act, and the same remains true now. Nevertheless, she plays along, raising her cup and replying, “Thank you, Your Grace. I am most pleased to be back.”

Daeron diverts the room’s attention to himself by scoffing, “Right.”

“Daeron,” admonishes Alicent. The trite note in her voice suggests that he has been the object of her scolding quite a lot as of late.

Petulant and most unlike himself, Daeron quarrels, “Well? She is only here because she is made to be. She hates all of us.”

“Not true,” disputes Valaena. “I only dislike Aegon.” Seated on her right, Aegon turns a deadpan stare on her. Sunnily, she smiles at him in return.

Daeron scowls at her. “Whatever. You would remain on Dragonstone forever if you could.” With that, he stands from his seat and storms off.

Alicent, like to be more so displeased by his poor manners in leaving the table early than anything else, stands, too, and shouts after him. “Daeron Targaryen, you come back here at once!”

When her order fails to elicit his obedience, she sighs and retakes her seat. She takes a moment to compose herself, after which her false smile returns. She fixes her attention on Valaena once more. “Tell us, dear, what news there is of Dragonstone.”

Valaena proceeds with her rehearsed answer. Alicent and Otto always try to glean information as to her mother’s and Daemon’s dealings on Dragonstone during these suppers, but Valaena never lets anything slip that Rhaenyra has not permitted. “Nothing that would interest you, I’m sure, Your Grace. It was an uneventful month.” Alicent appears as though she wishes to continue needling her, so she preempts the queen, adding, “Although, Aegon’s egg finally hatched. He wishes to call the beast Stormcloud.”

Disinterested in that tidbit, Alicent orders that dinner be served.

The rest of the evening proceeds without further outburst from anyone. Most of it is spent, rather predictably, by Otto and Alicent trying in vain to subtly steer Valaena into conveying sensitive information to them. At its conclusion, Aemond unsuccessfully attempts to draw Valaena away.

She gives him a light peck on the lips to head off his displeasure at that which she is about to say. “I will be along shortly, after I’ve a word with Daeron.”

As expected, he bemoans the delay. “Fuck that. Speak to the boy tomorrow.”

“I will be along shortly,” she reiterates, gently pushing him away. Lips twisting, he stomps in the direction of her rooms, his hair swinging from side to side as he goes.

Valaena heads in the other direction, coming upon Daeron’s rooms before long. She knocks, and when no answer comes, she pushes the door open and steps inside. She spots him sitting beside the far window with his arms crossed and staring out at the city. “Hey, Dae. How is my favorite uncle?” He turns his head to glare at her. “Still moody, I see.”

He takes issue with her assessment of him. “I am not moody. I am forsaken.”

“Forsaken,” she echoes. Joining him in the alcove, she sits on the bench across from him. “Is that not a dash dramatic?”

Uncurling his legs, he shifts to face her. “No. They’re sending me away. They’ve all but renounced me!” She opens her mouth to object, but he goes on, “And wherefore? I am the better son than Aegon and Aemond both, more agreeable by leaps and bounds. Why not send Aegon to Oldtown, or force Aemond to join you on Dragonstone?”

Unthinkingly, she sighs, “If only it could be so.” She can only fantasize as to how amazing it would be if she could live on Dragonstone with her family and Aemond both, but she knows it to be a mere fantasy. She is well aware that Aemond detests her mother and siblings, and that they dislike him in turn.

Daeron jumps on her admission. “See? I knew you’d not return here if you could.”

Seeing no use in arguing the point, she acquiesces. “Yes, Daeron, you are right in this, and you are right to be upset.” His brow raises, as though surprised that someone is supporting rather than dismissing his feelings. “However, you are not right to be desolate.”

His scowl makes a return. “Who are you to tell me how I should feel?”

“I am your wise, elder sister,” she replies. Pointedly, he rolls his eyes. “Just hear me. I know how it is to be sent away from one’s family. I know what it is to miss one’s parents, one’s siblings, one’s own bed. I know how lonely it is at first, how it feels as though none understand your discomfort.”

Quiet and heedful, he wonders, “How did you endure it?”

“I made a place for myself so that I might be content, and I formed attachments with my new companions,” she explains.

It had been simple to take up with Helaena and Daeron, already fond of them she had been, but similar efforts had taken months with Aemond. They had both resented each other horribly at first, but she had known that should she fail to endear herself to him, she would be miserable for the rest of her life. In spite of her efforts to charm him, it had been something of a happy accident for them to develop genuine affections for one another. Initially, she had only hoped so much as that he would hold a place in her heart as her children’s father, though she is endlessly pleased that their fortunes had turned out more serendipitous than that.

Mindful of the issue at hand, she inquires, “Lord Ormund is fond of you, is he not?”

“I don’t know,” mumbles Daeron. “I have made his acquittance mayhaps twice.”

“What of his children,” she presses.

He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t care for Lyonel. He is avaricious.” Contemplative, he supposes, “I favor Martyn and Garmund.”

Pleased with their progress, she says, “Very well, cleave unto them. Forge friendships and find pleasure with them.”

Back straightening and face flaming, he complains, “But they’re boys!”

“That is not what I meant.” Standing up, she places her hands on her hips. “Aegon has vitiated your mind.”

Deflating, he grumbles, “Aegon hasn’t done anything. Stop picking on him.”

Valaena is tempted to argue that she does not pick on Aegon enough, but she abstains. “Yes, all right.” Playfully, she pokes his shoulder. “Do you feel better?”

Petulantly, he answers, “No,” though the smile he tries to suppress belies his response.

Pleased with her success, she tells him, “I shall bid you goodnight then,” and turns to leave.

“Wait,” he says, halting her departure. She turns back to face him in time for him to collide with her, hard enough to make her stumble. He throws his arms around her and mumbles into her shoulder, “Welcome home.”

Laying her cheek against the crown of his silver-blond head, she hugs him back and whispers, “Thank you, valonqar.”

With Daeron settled, she finally retires to her own chambers. As soon as she has the door to her solar open, a hand snaps out to grasp her wrist and drag her into the room. Laughing, she submits to the solicitation.

Aemond uses his spare hand to slam closed the door behind her before bringing it under her chin. As he tips up her face to meet his in a kiss, he breathes, “At last,” and presses their lips together. He opens his mouth wide as though to consume her, biting down on her bottom lip as he drags her yet closer. She goes easily, her hands sliding over his clavicle.

His arms go around her back, and he begins to unlace her dress. As she feels the gown come loose around her shoulders, beginning to slip down her frame, she abruptly pulls back and darts away from him. Pettish, he growls under his breath and gives chase as she giggles and rushes into her bedchamber. He tackles her onto the bed, and her laughter blooms into a full-blown chortle.

Pinning her to the mattress, he intones in a gravelly voice, “For a month, I have been deprived of my lady’s touch. It shall not elude me for a moment longer.”

Teasingly, she needles, “Is that a promise?”

“It is a vow,” he asserts, swooping down to kiss her again.

Slowly, they inch toward the headboard as one, occasionally breaking apart to shimmy out of their clothes. Once her dress and underclothes have been discarded onto the floor, Valaena rips the pins from her hair, letting it fall down her back in waves like she knows he prefers. Sure enough, his hands dive into her locks immediately, combing through her hair as he lays her down.

Their hands glide across each other’s heated skin, Aemond moving his lips down to the curve of her neck as his hand reaches the crux of her thighs. Fingers probing there, he groans, “You are wet for me already.”

She gasps as two digits strike a point deep inside of her. “Like you, I have anticipated this moment all day.”

“All month, I said.” Spreading her legs wide, he slots himself between them. He presses his hips to hers, rutting his member through her folds and getting it slick.

The friction sets Valaena’s nerves alight. Impatient, she chases his mouth with her own. “Come on,” she entices breathily, “join with me, Valzȳrys.”

Groaning, he slides into her, his hands clutching hard enough at her hips to turn his knuckles white. His thickness settles into her inch by agonizing inch, and her eyes roll into the back of her head once he is fully seated within her. “Yes,” she gasps.

They sway in tandem, leaning toward one another as they meet in a dozen different places. Lips touching, hips pressing together, groping hands skimming along each other’s flesh, chests flushing, and bellies brushing whenever he pushes in all the way. Valaena revels in every bitten-off sigh that passes Aemond’s lips, every drag of his member through her folds, and the strain of his muscles beneath her palms. It is the finest bliss to be so close to him after so much time spent apart, and even as she feels her peak approaching, she is loath to have this moment end.

Only her heels and her bum touch the bed, making her feel as though she is precariously seated on the edge of a cliff. The only thing holding her back from the ledge is Aemond, and yet it is he who pushes her from it, and she back falls with a drawn-out cry, landing in a heap against her pillows.

Aemond places a hand beside her head for better leverage as he leans farther over her, and she reaches out to entangle it with her own. His face scrunches up as his hips stutter against hers a few more times, and he comes with a big exhale before collapsing atop her.

Valaena relishes in the limp weight of him as their breathing calms. The giddiness that she has carried around with her all day finally leaks out of her, and she laughs as her arms go around his middle.

After a minute, his head turns toward hers, and she receives a kiss on her jaw as he noses behind her ear. “I missed you,” he admits quietly.

She sighs happily. “I missed you, too, my love.”

“I confess, I am excited,” admits Valaena, who is doing her utmost to not bounce in her seat. The gravel road over which they are traveling is jostling the carriage enough as it is. “I’ve not ridden with anyone else since Veraxes grew large enough to ride.”

This morning, Aemond suggested that they go dragonriding, an activity in which they partake frequently but usually with each their own mount. Today, however, he has offered to take her up on Vhagar’s back with him. Her excitement at the prospect spills into her every word. Vhagar is a huge, seasoned dragon, so it is bound to be a thrilling ride. Whenever their families had been together on Driftmark during her early youth, Valaena had itched to ask her aunt Laena for a ride on Vhagar, but she never had, too intimidated by the enormous beast had she been.

Aemond grins at her from across the carriage. He is eager to show off to her, she can tell. Having a bond with the oldest and largest dragon in the world, one who saw Aegon’s Conquest, is a point of pride for him, though he is too taciturn to openly gloat.

Before long, they arrive at the clearing beside the Kingswood in which Vhagar roosts. They stop several hundred yards away from her, the men accompanying them too wary and too wise to venture too close to her. While they are close enough to hear her thunderous inhales and exhales, they remain too far for her to smell them.

Aemond tells their convoy to expect them back in a few hours, takes her by the hand, and leads her toward his dragon. As they near her, he calls out her name until she wakes, lifting her head from the ground. Valaena slows her steps when they get close, trailing behind Aemond as he tugs her along. He walks them right up to her snout and releases her hand to take the last few, hurried steps to reach Vhagar. “Hey, girl,” he greets the ancient beast. He strokes along the scaly skin of her cheek. She rumbles at him in response, the noise growing louder once her eye moves to Valaena.

Not made apprehensive by the aggressive sound, he dulcifies, “You know Valaena. She’s going to ride with us today.”

Blindly, he reaches back for her hand, which she gives him. He draws her closer, pulling her in front of him. One of his arms goes around her waist, holding her to him, while the other presses along hers. Together, their hands splay against Vhagar’s snout.

“Hello, Vhagar,” says Valaena, her voice portraying a confidence that she feels only in part. She may not be afraid of dragons, but she is wary enough of them to recognize the importance of not revealing one’s weaknesses before them. She may have never ridden Vhagar before, but she knows her well. Showing hesitance or fear around Vhagar could mean her death.

After a little more petting, Vhagar huffs and turns her head away from them. They share a laugh at the old dragon’s lassitude before Aemond pulls her away, drawing her over to the elaborate weave of ropes running up Vhagar’s back. He waves her up the ladder first.

As she climbs, Valaena expends far more effort than she ever has mounting any other dragon, whether it be Veraxes or Caraxes, the largest dragon on which she has flown to date. When, well after two minutes, she arrives in the saddle, she leans against its back, leaving more than enough room for Aemond, who soon joins her.

Aemond spends the next few minutes readying them for flight, beginning with chaining his legs to the saddle. Once he is secured, he undoes from around his torso the extra band they had brought and hands it to Valaena. She winds it around her back and moves forward until her front is flush with Aemond’s back. Extending either end of the band before his chest, she buckles them together.

Once they are fully fastened together, she winds her arms around him for good measure. She hooks her chin over his right shoulder. “Hi.”

He smirks at her. “Try not to distract me.”

She wiggles against him. “Is this distracting?”

“Restrain yourself, woman,” he commands gruffly, the humor in his voice belying the reprimand.

Giggling, she pulls back to lay her cheek against the back of his neck.

Focusing on the task before him, Aemond takes hold of the reins. He gives them a sharp tug, inducing Vhagar to stand. When she does, he starts off with a basic command. “Dohaerās, Vhagar.” No protest follows, so he tacks on, “Sōvēs!”

Turning, Vhagar lumbers in the direction opposite to King’s Landing. As she reaches the top of a hill, she stretches out and takes a bounding leap. For a moment, Valaena feels sure that Vhagar is going to crash along the lowland, but with a single flap of her enormous wings, they shoot into the air, higher than the trees with only one push. With each subsequent beat of her wings, the ground grows farther away, and sooner than she expected, Valaena can no longer make out the settlements she knows to be beneath them. It is the fastest Valaena has ever ascended into the clouds, and she imparts her exuberance by screaming into her husband’s ear the entire way skyward.

Once they level out, thousands of feet above the ground, Aemond flaunts a little. He directs Vhagar to fly in a loop, causing Valaena to clench her knees around him, worried is she that she will slip out of the saddle while they are upside down. After they have completed their circumvolution, she relaxes, and just in time for him to send them into a sharp dive and set her screeching again.

Throughout the flight, the serene and thrilling parts both, Valaena delights in observing up close how much her husband enjoys dragonriding. It is something she notices whenever they fly together, but in those moments, she is often too focused on conducting Veraxes to enjoy his satisfaction. From this perspective, it is clear that he feels a sense of belonging up here in the clouds, an emotion with which she certainly sympathizes as a dragonrider herself. Nevertheless, it does not escape her notice that his shoulders are a little stiff as they soar about, and his movements in guiding Vhagar slightly exaggerated.

After an hour spent in the sky, during which they circled King’s Landing and flew over the bay, Aemond puts them down on a plateau set into one of the mountains that overlooks the Blackwater. Following a strenuous few minutes spent disentangling themselves from the saddle and climbing down from Vhagar’s back, Valaena stands on the rocky terrace, surveying their surroundings and glorying in how high up they are.

Still exhilarated from the flight, she gushes, “I know I’ve ridden my own dragon dozens of times, and he would be terribly envious to hear me say this—could he understand me—but that was amazing!”

Crowding her back from the terrace’s ledge, Aemond grins down at her. “I am glad my lady enjoyed herself.”

As her back bumps up against the mountainside, she inquires, “Had you any ulterior motives in bringing me up here?”

“I did,” he freely admits. Fervidly, he presses forward and brings their lips together.

She hums into his mouth. “How presumptuous.”

Thereafter, Valaena is pinned against the stony wall in a position that, as a lady, she knows she should find offensive, though she does not quite have the mind to care. Her husband keeps her distracted, lavishing amorous attention on her with his lips, his hands, and the press of his hips.

They pull apart only when Vhagar begins scaling down the cliffside, threatening to abandon them. Aemond runs after her, shouting for her to stop. She does so very reluctantly, turning back to huff at her rider before settling down again.

Valaena straightens out her clothes before traipsing over to Aemond. Once she is at his side, he remarks, “She likes to have her own way.”

“Dragons are fickle beasts,” she says in agreement. “But like recognizes like.” It is well known that Targaryens are fickle, too.

Abstractedly, as she watches Vhagar’s ravenous gaze follow a flock of birds, she proposes, “You might do well to emulate her more.”

Aemond turns toward her, though she keeps her eyes on Vhagar. Shortly, he asks, “What?”

“Mayhaps if you were more flexible, less stiff, she could better understand you,” she suggests, thoughtful.

Veraxes hatched when Valaena was very young, too young for her to remember the egg with which she shared her cradle cracking apart. For that reason, she has spent her entire life receiving lessons about dragons and the bonds their family shares with them. One of the earliest conversations she can recall is one she had with her father, who told her that just as much as one’s dragon is an extension of oneself, it is its own being, too. A dragon’s mind is its own, and one must work to convince it that one is worthy of being its rider.

“I’m stiff,” he echoes flatly.

Valaena is surprised by his scowl when she turns to look at him. She hastens to explain, “I only mean that, well—like when we were riding her, your movements did not flow with hers.”

“Didn’t they,” he responds, his tone dull.

Taken aback, she replies, “Not as such.”

Aemond keeps his violet gaze on her for moment longer before huffing and stalking away. He shouts to Vhagar, calling for her to ready herself for flight, sterner than ever. Later, as they ride back to where they had left the carriage, she notices that he is somehow tenser than he was earlier in the day.

The following day, festivities are held in honor of Aegon’s twentieth nameday, beginning with a tourney. They are all obliged to attend, and for once, it is only Aegon who is agreeable. He drowns himself in Arbor red and prowls around the royal box, placing ill-advised bets. His wife, by contrast, remains in her seat, clearly uncomfortable with the violent nature of the event.

Valaena, who has never been shy of blood, is scarcely bothered by the gruesome display, though she imagines that even if she was, she would be too distracted to be distressed. She is entirely focused on the grumpy man to her left, trying to get back on his good side.

Aemond’s bad mood from the day before has persisted. This is the first time she has seen him since they returned to the Keep after riding Vhagar. He had avoided her during supper and gone so far as to sleep in his own bedchamber the previous night, something he has not done in well over a year. This morning, she had asked Aster to track him down so that they might share breakfast together, but when Aster had returned, she had done so alone.

Valaena feels inclined to mope herself given the neglect, but she endeavors to be optimistic, hoping that she can assuage him. Thankfully, the queen had arranged for them to share a bench during the tournament, a windfall that Valaena is happy to exploit.

She snuggles into his side, and whereas he would usually let her under his arm, he remains firm. “I wonder if you’ll ever enter the lists,” she muses aloud, trying to infuse her voice with an idle inflection. Rubbing her hand along his arm, she boldly moves to intertwine their fingers, and she is relieved when he does not resist. “You would be sure to win.”

Stolidly, he replies, “I don’t give a shit about tourneys. Why should I risk crippling myself further for want of a boast?”

Her composure cracking, she attempts to put a positive spin on his biting response. “I have the most sensible husband.”

His composure cracks, too. “Valaena,” he sighs, sounding weary.

Her patience waning, she whines back, “Aemond.” Pouting, she demands, “Stop being cross with me.”

“I’m not cross,” he disputes.

“You are,” she insists. “You are upset that I gave you advice about dragonriding, not that I understand why. I’ve more expertise—”

His head turns towards her. “More expertise?”

“Yes,” she responds.

Manifestly rankled, he turns toward her fully, shifting his hips, letting go her hand, and placing his arm over the back of the bench. He informs her, “I mounted Vhagar before Veraxes was large enough for you to ride.”

Confused as to how she has made things worse, she rebuts, “And you’ve nearly fallen from her back a dozen times.”

Blustering, he darts his eye about the box and leans closer to hiss, “I told you that in confidence.”

Exasperated, she contends, “I’ve not revealed it to anyone.”

“Confidence that you would not throw it back in my face,” he spits.

She scoffs. “You needn’t be so sore simply because I am your superior in some pursuits.” He appears affronted, and she does not know what inspires her to add, “like speaking Valyrian.”

Aemond takes issue with that claim. “Your Valyrian is not superior to mine.”

“It is so,” declares Valaena. She crosses her arms and turns up her nose at him. “Your pronunciation is always overdone.”

He raises his good brow. “Oh, kessa?”

“Kessa,” she responds, lowering the emphasis that he had placed on the first syllable.

“—Princess Valaena!” The shout of her name distracts from their argument, Valaena belatedly realizing that someone is asking for her favor.

Another thing that she is slow to realize is that she and Aemond are both breathless and staring each other down like maniacs. Glancing around the box, she sees that everyone is already looking at them, much as though they had been for some time. Alicent, in particular, wears an expression that suggests she thinks them both deranged.

Clearing her throat, Valaena comports herself and rises from her seat to bestow the favor. It turns out to be Ser Balon Byrch who requested it. Graciously, she smiles down at him as she drops down his lance one of the floral wreaths she and Helaena had spent yesterday afternoon crafting.

Her duty complete, she opts to sit next to Helaena for the remainder of the tournament, wary of the foul-tempered husband that otherwise awaits her. As Valaena perches on the chair beside hers, Helaena turns toward her, fixing her attention on her so as to avoid having to observe the match. Hardly interested in the tourney, Valaena turns to her, too. They maintain eye contact for a while amidst comfortable silence, until Valaena launches conversation. “Helaena.”

Helaena hums in question.

“When Aegon is upset with you, how do you mollify him,” she asks.

Eyes wide, Helaena discloses, “When Aegon is upset with me, he refuses to speak to me.”

Nodding, Valaena anticipates the rest of the answer, particularly the critical bit about what she does to rectify the situation. However, she soon realizes that having Aegon not speak to one is ideal, and that is rather Helaena’s point. Grumbling a sigh, she leans back and fastens her gaze to the match at hand.

The tourney is followed by a feast, one that the guest of honor is barely lucid enough to attend. Valaena and Aemond are seated next to each other at the head table, as always. He has somewhat cooled since this afternoon, but not nearly so much as she would prefer.

With everyone else engaged in idle conversation, supper having commenced some time ago, she ventures, “You know, there are many pursuits in which you are my superior.” He neither responds nor looks at her, but she can tell by the lift of his brow that she has his attention. “Sword fighting, for instance.”

His mouth drawn in a line, he turns his eye on her, unimpressed by the example.

“Truly,” she insists, though her slight grin undermines her sincerity. “You are vastly superior. I can hardly even hold a sword. They are so heavy.” Her grin slips as his face shifts into the contrived, impassive expression that he wears whenever he thinks someone is poking fun at him. She jumps to morph the conversation into one more genuine. “And reading.”

Her efforts pay off, a grimace overtaking his features. “Reading?”

“You can go through two books in a week, whereas I only ever manage one,” she expounds.

“I hardly think it a competition,” he argues.

“Precisely. It is not a competition.” She takes his right hand in both of hers, raising it to place a kiss in the center of his palm and hold it to her chest. “My only wish is that we might improve one another, neither one of us prevailing over the other, but that means you mustn’t take it so personally when I offer loving advice.”

Aemond wrinkles his nose against the blush blooming across his face. Looking down, he takes a moment to consider her words. “You will take my advice, as well, then?”

She assents, “Gladly.”

He takes another moment to himself, plainly trying to think up a recommendation. “You should take your hair down.” She raises her brow in question. “You look prettier that way.”

Pleased though she is by the compliment, Valaena feigns indignance. “You think I don’t look pretty with my hair up?”

“That’s not what I said,” he blurts, flustered. When she lets the façade drop, laughing, he scoffs. “My wife is so amusing.”

“She is,” she agrees, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. “And she wishes for you to dance with her.”

“What is in it for me,” he quibbles, though she can tell his aloofness has left him.

She bats her eyelashes at him. “It would make me so happy.”

In keeping with their repartee, she expects him to respond with another retort. He surprises her by standing and drawing her from her own seat. As he escorts her to the middle of the Great Hall, where only a small number of other couples have yet gathered to dance, he smoothly intones, “A welcome reward.”

On Dragonstone, Valaena is often permitted to do whatever she likes. Rhaenyra considers a remarkably small number of activities to be too dangerous or too improper for a lady, and so there is little overbearing influence in her home.

Alicent is a different creature. Valaena is never allowed anywhere outside of the Red Keep with nary an escort, and even within the castle, there are many restrictions imposed upon her affairs. She is not permitted to enter the training yard, the barracks, the cornerforts, the stables, or of course, the dungeon. She may occupy her time sewing, reading, playing with the children, or consorting with the court ladies. Most commonly, however, she is resigned to consorting with Alicent herself, as well as with Helaena, whose company she easily abides. She regularly accompanies them into the city to tend to the less fortunate of the smallfolk or sits with them in Viserys’s chambers to keep him company.

This afternoon, she finds herself partaking in the latter activity. The three of them sit with Viserys in his solar, listening as he tells them a riveting tale that, admittedly, Valaena has heard from him already.  

Viserys has grown haggard, more so than he had been in years prior. He has lost a considerable amount of weight, leaving him gaunt. His skin hangs and is littered with age spots. He has lost nearly all of his hair, too, and what is left of it is stringy and sparse. Most striking is the loss of his right eye and the swaths of gauze covering that side of his face.

His appearance is not the only aspect of his person that has been diminished. Like his healthful image, he has lost his attention span and ability for discernment. Nevertheless, he has retained most of his memory. His recollection of the histories of Old Valyria and their family is nothing short of remarkable.

On this day, he tells them of the life of Aegon the Uncrowned. He has recounted his great-uncle’s childhood, marriage, and fight for the throne in extraordinary detail.

“Though the high septon was dead, and his cause, too, Maegor remained in Oldtown for some time,” continues Viserys. He sits by the fire with a blanket across his lap. Alicent sits to his right, occasionally leaning into his space to adjust the blanket or his dressing. Helaena and Valaena sit across from him, serving as his points of focus.  

With his eye on Valaena, his brow furrows. “Now, what year was it that Grandsire said Aegon claimed Quicksilver?” Confused by his phrasing, Valaena gives no answer, not quite sure that he had been speaking to her. Her confusion only grows when he adds, “Rhaenys?”

Alicent, too, is perplexed. Gently, she touches his arm, drawing his attention. “My love, it’s Valaena.” He furrows his brow further, so she elaborates, “Rhaenyra’s daughter.”

Viserys looks back to Valaena with a cloudy eye that takes a moment to clear. A gap-toothed smile soon follows. “Ah, yes. You look,” a heavy exhale leaves him, “just like your grandmother, my dear.”

Stunned but pleased, Valaena beams at her grandsire. His own smile wanes as a coughing fit strikes him. Alicent, who had been peering at Valaena as though she had grown a second head, becomes preoccupied with her husband.

Later in the day, during the hour of ghosts, Valaena tells Aemond of her encounter with his father. They are in the midst of settling in for the night as she gives him the account, with her taking off her jewelry and him already in bed, his attention split between her and the book in his hand. “Your father said something strange to me this afternoon.” He grunts in question. She answers, “He called me by my grandmother’s name.”

He turns a page. “The Queen Aemma?”

Struggling with the ring on her right middle finger, one that bears the Velaryon house sigil, she clarifies, “My other grandmother.”

This statement garners more of his attention. He looks up at her, as though unsure as to whom she refers.

Smarting a little, she makes clear, “Rhaenys.”

Deliberately, he replies, “Right.”

Her eyes narrow. “‘Right?’”

Aemond keeps her pinned with his heavy stare for a moment longer before looking back to his novel. “Yes, right, the Princess Rhaenys. What of it?”

Hesitantly, she chooses to let the contentious moment slide. After finally succeeding in removing her ring, she walks over to the right side of the bed and slides under the covers. “Well, it is odd, is it not?”

The tension returns when, insinuation heavy in his tone, he replies, “Do you think so?”

Harshly, she states, “I am not my grandmother.”

He hums, as though idly. “He’s reaching senility, it’s to be expected. Last I spoke to him, he called me Aegon.”

She waves off his excuse. “All parents make such mistakes. My mother once called me Jace.”

“Forfend the thought,” mutters Aemond.

Sitting in bed next to him, she stares at him sidelong. A part of her wishes to forget the unpleasantness of the moment. This had been a good day, on balance, and she is loath to have it spoiled now. Nevertheless, another part of her feels horribly uneasy about the direction in which their conversation had turned. It has been years since Aemond last alluded to the rumor of her bastardy, and she had been fairly convinced that he no longer minded it. At this juncture, however, she is not so certain.

“Aemond, do you,” she almost allows herself to trail off before continuing, “resent being made to marry me?”

His head whips to the side. Much like his mother had earlier in the day, he looks at her as though he cannot fathom the sight before him. “You know my feelings for you,” he objects.

Feeling doubtful, Valaena breaks eye contact and looks down at her lap. Her finger plays with a loose thread in the bedclothes. “Do I?”

Without her eyes on him, she cannot tell his expression as he continues to stare at her. She hears a protracted sigh come from him, as well as the snap of him closing his book and the plunk of him setting it aside. She also hears some rustling, but she has not the time to ponder it before his arm is winding around her waist and yanking her into his lap. She swallows a yelp as she is relocated, and it is not until she has settled atop his thighs that she notices a distinctive piece of him is missing. She barely has the time to let out a gasp before he grasps her hand and lays it against his marred cheek.

Entranced, Valaena traces along the scar with her thumb. The scar is hardly a new sight. Most of it is left uncovered by Aemond’s eyepatch. She has touched it before, too, but only ever by accident, and he usually flinches away when she does. She is impressed by his steadiness in this moment.

It is that which rests above the mark on his cheek that interests her most. For the entire duration of their marriage, she has never been allowed to see his injured eye. Truthfully, she had not cared to see it at first. The first half-year of their marriage had been unpleasant and stilted at the best of times, and there had been days when she had actively avoided him. It was not until she realized that the state of things as they were was untenable that she took any sort of interest in him, and that interest had been limited to his disposition for some time thereafter.

After the romance between them had ignited, it did begin to bother her that he refused to remove his eyepatch around her, as did the reasons he gave for doing so. At first, he claimed that it was because it had been her own brother who maimed him that he did not wish to show her the damage that had been done. She had taken issue with that, reminding him that it was hardly her business what had transpired between him and Lucerys, especially since she had been asleep at the time. His next justification had been the same one he presented to any lady who was curious as to that which laid underneath his eyepatch: noble ladies are feeble and liable to faint at any gruesome sight. 

This rationale she had wished to accept neither, but after the handmaid who she had employed at the time, Poppy, had accidentally walked in on him tying back his hair one morning and screamed like a mad woman at whatever she had seen, Valaena had no choice but to relent. Aemond had brooded for days following the incident, Poppy had been jittery around him, and Valaena, horribly frustrated, had been forced to dismiss the girl and retire the issue.

Despite her resignation, she had imagined the sight many times, wondering how the tissue under his brow had regenerated and whether he had a false eye. She sees now that the skin is cerise and crinkled, and he does indeed have a false eye, though not one she would have been able to fathom before this moment.

As gently as she can, she grazes her thumb along the broken skin of his eyelid. “What is it?”

Her hand moves with his jaw as he answers. “A sapphire.” The rock gleams whence it is set within his face, the light striking it making it all the more arresting. Even the inside of the gem appears to shine, causing the deep blue hue of the rock to ripple like the surface of a pool, vacillating between cyan, azure, cobalt, and sapphire.

Her first thought slips past her lips. “It’s terribly pretty.” He draws back a little, and she hastens to correct herself. “I mean, it’s striking and august.” The corner of his mouth lifts, and though it is clear he has not taken offense, she atones, “I know you don’t like it when I call you pretty—”

“I do like it,” he divulges. He draws her closer, and her breath catches as the earnest look on his naked face mesmerizes her. “You are my wife. I know that we are not always of the same mind, but you must know that I haven’t any misgivings with respect to our alliance. I trust you, and I admire you, and I love you.”

Nearly dumbfounded, Valaena feels herself choking up. “Oh, Aemond,” she breathes, looping her arms around his neck and crushing herself to him. “I love you, too. Olvī ao jorrāelan.” She pulls back far enough to be able to plant an affectionate peck on his lips. “I adore you.”

His confession evidently not quite finished, Aemond grabs her from the bottoms of her thighs and lifts her up so that she is hovering over him. As he stares up at her, she strives to focus on his purple eye. “Ao rijībia,” he declares with solemnity. Shifting, he pulls her beneath him and lies her against the bed. His hands trail up from her legs to her back to her shoulders and neck until they reach either side of her head, his thumbs pressing into the tender flesh between her cheekbones and her jaw. “Never doubt my devotion to you again.”

Enthralled by his heated gaze, she shakes her head in agreement. “Never.” She imparts not another distinct word that night, all sense fleeing from her mind as soon as his lips start on a path down her body. 

At noon the next day, Aemond returns from the training yard to find Valaena in the midst of a project that had consumed her entire morning. She stands atop their mattress, affixing a new decoration to the wall above their bed. She and Aster had dug out and put up her marriage cloak earlier, centering the mantle with the mattress. She now hangs the handfasting cloth along the top of the black and green cloak, arranging it so that it droops in the center.

Valaena notices Aemond as he comes to stand at the foot of their bed and examine her work. She asks if he likes having the cloak displayed as it is, and by the way he dismisses Aster and makes use of the bed underneath it, she gleans that he does.

Approaching her seventeenth nameday, Valaena travels back to Dragonstone for a short, three-day visit. Seeing no reason to send a ship ahead of her with her belongings for so brief a stay, she carries with her on her journey a large, canvas bag, fastened to the back of Veraxes’s saddle.

She also touts with her Aemond, who had complained ceaselessly that she was again departing for Dragonstone after returning thence so recently. He rides alongside her this day, though he accompanies her only so far as the same plateau to which he had taken her with Vhagar weeks past. Valaena had not favored stopping in the midst of so short a flight, seeing little reason for it. She and Aemond could have easily said their good-byes in the Red Keep or even at the Dragonpit, but he had insisted.

Veraxes is the first to arrive at the expansive terrace, having taken to the sky before Vhagar. He and Valaena wait for twenty minutes before Vhagar and Aemond join them, Valaena shivering all the while. Autumn has come, and with it, chilling breezes made cooler by the high altitude of the mountains. Once Aemond has dismounted, she complains to him of the cold. Her arms wound around herself, she gripes, “I believe I will soon catch a chill, and then I shall have to remain on Dragonstone long enough to recover.”

“You are made of stronger stuff than that,” he rebuts, though he comes over to wrap his own arms around her and rub along her back all the same. Warmed in her flesh and her heart by his attentions, she loosens her grip on herself and shuffles farther into his embrace.

He caresses the left side of her face with his own, his smooth skin brushing along her cheek. Over the past two weeks, he has taken to wearing his eyepatch less frequently whenever they find themselves alone. She hardly ever sees it within her chambers anymore, and when they had departed from the Red Keep over an hour past, he had removed it in the carriage. Beyond being glad of his comfort—as surely it is more comfortable to go without a leather thong digging into one’s flesh—Valaena is delighted that he no longer feels the need to be so guarded with her.

Eventually, he pulls back, and his hands move to smooth down her hair. Beginning to dread not seeing him in the days to come, she leans forward to kiss him.

He keeps the kiss brief, breaking it and stepping back. “I shall miss you.”

She clasps his hands to make up for the distance he has put between them. “You know, you can still come with me.” His face twists in subtle displeasure. Hoping to avoid an outright rejection, she drops the subject, shaking her head. “Mayhaps next time.”

Nodding, he shakes off her grip. Before she has the chance to complain, his hand goes under his cloak, and he announces, “I have something for you.” He extracts from his belt a small, velvet pouch. “Ma irūdy syt ñuha irūdy.”

At the revelation of what is doubtlessly the reason he had asked her up here, Valaena is nothing if not surprised. Already, he had given her a star atlas and an astrolabe during the minor celebration Alicent had foisted on her yesterday.

Excited, she reaches for the bag, but he pulls it back. She sends him a pout, but pitiless, he ignores it. “Close your eyes,” he commands.

Buzzing with anticipation, she does. After a moment, she feels as he moves her braid to hang over her shoulder rather than down her back. Next, his forearms perch on her shoulders as he fiddles with something, and another something, thin and somehow colder than the morning air, drags along her collarbone.

Another moment passes, and his arms slide back so that his hands can rest on her shoulders. “All right,” he says.

Her eyes fly open, and her hand immediately goes for the chain that she knows to be hanging from her neck. It is dainty and silver, and suspended from it is a sizable pendant. She holds it up as her thumb smooths over the large, inlaid stone at its center. The stone is sparkling and blue, and when she glances up at her husband, she sees the color and glimmer matched in his false eye.

Peering back down at her new necklace, she wonders, “Is this—”

“It was cut from the same stone as was my eye,” he confirms. “Wear it and know I have my eye on you.”

The Sun, still relatively low in the sky, is hidden behind him. A ring of light glows around his head, the image made ever brighter by his pale hair. Captivated by the sight and moved by his words, she promises, “Va moriot.”

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

Valaena gazes down at the silver-encrusted stone resting in her palm, the chain to which it is attached dangling from her hand. The dress she wears this day has a low collar, leaving her neck feeling naked. Some compulsion had pushed her to walk over to the chest in the corner of her bedchamber and pull out the necklace she has not worn in near four months. She knows she will not wear it this day either, but something keeps her in place, staring at it with sorrow in her soul.

A noise by the door spooks her, and she hastens to stash the necklace back in its drawer. When she looks up, she sees Aster standing at the front of the room and giving her a kind, knowing smile. Turning away from the chest, Valaena raises her brow in question.

“Lord Corlys wishes to escort you to the small council meeting, Princess,” Aster answers.

Thanking her handmaid, Valaena makes her way to the hall outside. She finds Corlys waiting by her door. “Grandsire, good morning,” she greets him.

With a warm smile, Corlys offers Valaena his arm, which she takes. He gives her a kiss on the cheek, and they start down the corridor. “I wished for a brief word with you before today’s meeting,” he begins, pragmatic as ever. She nods her consent. “I want you to know that no matter what lies ahead, I will always support your claim to the throne.”

“I never doubted as much,” she is quick to respond. Briefly, she wonders why he feels the need to reiterate his support, though the reason soon comes to her. “Oh, I see. You intend to support Jace.”

The queen announced at the last small council meeting that today she would decide whether to send away her three younger sons, as Jacaerys wishes, or to keep them on Dragonstone, which is Valaena’s position. Rhaenyra had acceded to keeping Aenar on the isle after Valaena’s return from Rook’s Rest, deferring to Valaena as the boy’s mother.

For her own sons, however, Rhaenyra is far charier. Her wish is to spare them from any and all harm. Especially after what happened to Lucerys, she does not wish to take any chances. For this reason, Valaena is nearly certain that Rhaenyra is going to side with Jacaerys, along with the fact that her risky excursion to Rook’s Rest called into question her judgment. Nevertheless, she holds out hope that she may be able to convince her mother of her stance, though the lack of the Sea Snake’s support does not prove a good sign.

Corlys peers down at her, his surprise clear on his face. “I—Well, yes—”

“I cannot fault you for that, Grandsire. You must act your conscience,” she affirms. “I know that your foremost interest is the well-being of our family and house.”

“It is indeed,” he confirms. As they reach the doors leading into the Chamber of the Painted Table, he brings them to a halt. Turning toward her, he caresses her cheek. “I thank you for your understanding, my dear.”

Smiling, she pats his hand before stepping back from him and entering the room. She and Corlys are among the last to arrive, the queen being the only other person absent. Walking to the far end of the room, Valaena takes her place to Jacaerys’s right while Corlys positions himself opposite to her.

When Rhaenyra arrives, all bow their heads in respect. Once she is stood at the head of the table, with Valaena on her left and Corlys on her right, Rhaena, as the queen’s cupbearer, starts pouring wine.

“What business have we today,” Rhaenyra inquires, commencing the meeting. Lord Bartimos Celtigar answers her by reporting that Dalton Greyjoy has pledged his men and ships to their cause, and the discussion moves along from there.

Eventually, the moment of truth arrives. Jacaerys, who has been staunchly avoiding Valaena’s gaze despite the many glares she has sent in his direction over the course of the meeting, restates his position. He proclaims that Joffrey would be safest in the Vale, as would be Aegon and Viserys in Pentos, the prince of which having agreed to foster them until the war is ended.

Valaena replies by pointing out that there is no safer place than Dragonstone so long as the Greens have ample reason to leave it be, and it has been established that they do. She mentions also that their brothers wish to remain on Dragonstone. Aegon and Viserys, the latter of whom is still a babe, are loath to be separated from their mother. Joffrey has been adamant about contributing to the war effort and does not favor being sent away.

“Joff will be contributing by taking Tyraxes to the Vale as he would be fulfilling the promise by which I secured the Vale’s support,” Jacaerys argues.

“The support of the Vale was never in question,” she dismissively counters.

Stung, he says, “And yet I was sent there to treat with the Lady Jeyne Arryn.”

“A courtesy,” she replies, riling him further.

Jacaerys does not take her gall lying down. He contends, “Our brothers will be safer absent whence your husband believes them to be.”

Valaena smarts at the reminder of Aemond’s treachery. Following the broken truce of Rook’s Rest, Aemond has taken on the mantle of ruler for the Greens, calling himself the prince regent. While it is merely one more insult to everyone else, it is another stinging blow to Valaena. It is her husband against whom they now contend, and she the cause for the change given the near-fatal blow Aegon had incurred during their bout.

Vexed by her brother’s taunt, she turns to face him. “They would be safer here at Dragonstone. Aemond will send neither army nor navy against this hold for he knows his son resides within its walls, and he would not dare venture here himself. He knows it would mean the end of his miserable life.”

Turning towards her, too, he argues, “You sent Princess Helaena and her children to safety. Why do you not wish for the same security for our brothers?”

Exasperated, Valaena sighs. She cannot very well say that she would have brought Helaena and her children to Dragonstone if not for the fact that they would have been less safe here given Daemon’s plans for Jaehaerys, of which Jacaerys and the other council members do not know. Thus, she does not argue the point with him, choosing instead to silently convey it to their mother, who she had herself made aware of Daemon’s plot. She says, “The decision lies with you, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra frowns in quiet contemplation. After a moment, she turns to her right. “Lord Corlys, which idea has your support?”

As of now, Rhaenyra’s small council is made up of solely advisors, no formal positions having been assigned. At Jacaerys’s suggestion, she has been trying out Corlys as her Hand, though she has not yet made her decision to appoint him for the role.

“I favor the prince’s plan, Your Grace, and I would have my own men see your sons Aegon and Viserys safely across the Narrow Sea,” answers the Sea Snake.

Rhaenyra hums. “And Rhaena, do you still wish to travel to the Vale with Joffrey?”

In hearing the question, Valaena deflates. The queen has made her decision.

“Yes,” Rhaena answers.

“Very well then.” Rhaenyra decrees, “Prince Joffrey and Lady Rhaena will go to the Vale, and Prince Aegon and Prince Viserys will go to Pentos.”

As Jacaerys straightens beside her, like to be preening at his victory, Valaena swallows her disappointment. She had done her utmost to see that her brothers and son remained on Dragonstone—pleading with her mother, arguing with her brother for weeks on end, and risking her life in the crownlands—and she has only succeeded by half. That must need be enough, she supposes.

Jacaerys promises to make the final arrangements for their siblings’ journeys. Nodding, Rhaenyra asks if there remain any other matters for discussion.

Clearing his throat, Corlys announces that there is one matter. He says it concerns yet another of Jacaerys’s ideas, the challenge to master the unclaimed dragons on the Dragonmont.

Following the inadvertent confrontation between Valaena and the elder two Green princes, in which she was woefully outnumbered, Jacaerys had reiterated the need to bolster Rhaenyra’s claim by adding to the number of dragons possessed by the Blacks. As of now, the count is eight Black dragons and two Green—Sunfyre having been grievously injured when he struck the ground near Rook’s Rest—but Jacaerys hopes to bring the former number up by five. Thus, he had extended an invitation to dragonseeds, bastards of Valyrian descent, to claim any of the riderless dragons found on the isle.

“I wish to put forth two candidates for the challenge,” Corlys professes.

“All are free to partake,” replies Jacaerys.

Dipping his head in acknowledgment, Corlys adds, “I ask that they have special license to try for Seasmoke.”

Rhaenyra furrows her brow. “Wherefore?”

Briefly, he glances at his wife, stood beside him. Rhaenys appears just as curious as does Rhaenyra. Turning back to the queen, he takes a deep breath and gives his answer. “Seasmoke was my son’s mount, and I would prefer that he remain a Velaryon dragon.”

“You wish for one of your nephews to ride Seasmoke,” Rhaenyra speculates.

“Not one of my nephews. One of my grandsons,” he clarifies.

Confused, Jacaerys tells him, “Grandsire, we already have dragons.”

Shaking his head, Corlys departs from the Painted Table. Perplexed, everyone in attendance watches as he strides to the door and steps outside. After a moment, he returns with two adolescent boys in tow. Growing wary, Valaena begins to think that she should have let her grandsire finish his thought when they spoke before the council meeting.

Stopping at the other end of the table, Corlys places a hand on either boy’s shoulder. He makes their introductions. “This is Addam and Alyn of Hull. They are Laenor’s sons.”

Consternation ripples throughout the room following Corlys’s revelation. Several people rear back in astonishment. Some of the lesser lords standing near him turn to each other and begin gossiping amongst themselves. Lord Bar Emmon, who had been sipping from his cup of wine, chokes.

Reeling from shock herself, Valaena takes a moment to examine the boys more closely. Both boys seem to be younger than Jacaerys but older than Lucerys would have been. Alyn, the boy to Corlys’s left, is willowy and has an innately sly expression. Addam has a darker complexion than does his brother, along with brighter hair. Catching Valaena’s eye, he gives her a modest smile.

More noticeable than anything about the Hull boys individually is their resemblance, not only to each other, but to any Velaryon. A resemblance that, standing across from them, Valaena and Jacaerys do not share. Her conflict with him forgotten, she turns to Jacaerys for his reaction. He moves in tandem with her, and they gaze at one another in disbelief. Baela, standing on Jacaerys’s other side, leans over him and matches their incredulous stares.

“What is this,” cries Rhaenys, fury painting her features. Waving her arm in a more dramatic gesture than Valaena has ever seen from her, she orders, “Everyone out!”

Rhaenyra, with slightly more decorum, amends, “It appears this has become a family matter. My lords, if you will take your leave.”

The noblemen not their relation retreat, leaving only Targaryens, Velaryons, and their by-blows in the room.

Looking to Rhaenyra, Corlys requests, “I would ask, as well, my queen, that they be naturalized as true Velaryons.”

Willing to show her anger now that they are alone, Rhaenyra yells, “You wish for me to naturalize my own husband’s bastards? This is absurd! How dare you insinuate that Laenor was unfaithful to me!”

Holding up a hand, Corlys steps away from the Hull boys and moves back toward his previous spot. “Your Grace, I merely bring to you the truth—”

Rhaenys intrudes with a loud scoff, diverting his attention to her. “I doubt that very much. My Laenor sired no bastards. Of that, I am certain.” Raising her chin, she pins her husband with a daunting stare. “I think it more likely that these boys are yours.”

Foolishly, Corlys remains silent, clearly unsure as to how he should answer the accusation.

Her feeling of betrayal unmistakable, she speaks anew in a hushed whisper. “How could you do this to me?”

He protests, “I have done nothing to you—”

“You mean to tell me that these boys are my grandsons, and yet I knew naught of them until this very moment,” she exclaims. “How dare you? How dare you, Corlys Velaryon!”

Behaving fatuously once more, he reaches for her shoulders. “My love—”

Rhaenys shoves his hands away and stalks from the room. Baela, after imparting a final, scathing glare to their grandsire, rushes after her.

Valaena remains rooted to the spot, well aware that her grandmother would not favor her comfort. She, too, scowls at her grandsire. They do not always see eye-to-eye, a truth made plain by the earlier events of the day, but this is the first time she has found his actions repugnant or beyond understanding. Rhaenys has always been a good and faithful wife to him, and yet he has humiliated her by bringing forth the Hull boys. As the woman pointed out herself, few would believe the story that Laenor fathered them.

Rhaenyra continues the conversation despite the disruption. “Regardless of these boys’ true parentage, naturalizing them as Laenor’s sons would only serve to reinvigorate rumors that my own children are illegitimate given their lack of resemblance.”

“I do not feel their lack of resemblance is a fault laid with me,” Corlys darkly suggests, belatedly adding, “or Laenor.”

“Careful, Lord Corlys,” warns Jacaerys, his voice grave. “You speak to your queen.”

Corlys has the decency to appear contrite. “My apologies, Your Grace. It was not my intention to offend.”

Her nose in the air, Rhaenyra decides the matter. “Your champions may try for Seasmoke, but without special license. They will have the same chance as any other. Should they come upon the beast, I pray they are successful, at which point I will consider naturalization.” She strides from the room, offering as a parting shot, “I recall that my late husband’s mount was a finnicky beast.”

Dozens upon dozens of men and boys, as well as a fair number of women and girls, gather on Dragonstone at Jacaerys’s behest. They have all come for the chance to claim a dragon, from throughout Blackwater Bay, and not all of them dragonseeds. Two of the queen’s maids have joined the ranks of the aspiring dragonriders, and Valaena wishes them the best of luck, alongside all others.

Before the challenge commences, all participants are gathered in the castle yard for an introductory speech. Valaena and two of her brothers, Jacaerys and Joffrey, stand atop the gallery created by the steps leading into the castle. Jacaerys stands in the forefront with hundreds of eager eyes trained on him.

“Thank you all for coming. Your queen is most grateful for your loyalty,” he begins, projecting his voice across the yard. “To show her gratitude, she offers any man who masters a dragon land and riches. He will be dubbed a knight, his sons will be ennobled, and his daughters married to lords.”

Murmurs of excitement travel through the crowd. Jacaerys continues, “The unclaimed dragons available to you are Sheepstealer, Grey Ghost, Vermithor, Silverwing, and Seasmoke.” Unwittingly, Valaena’s gaze dips to Addam and Alyn, who stand in the front row of spectators on either side of Corlys.

“Do not try for the Cannibal. You will not survive any attempt made,” warns Jacaerys. Solemnly, Joffrey nods from beside him. “We wish upon you all success.”

With that, the men and women disperse, more than half eager to prowl down to the Dragonmont straight away. The rest mill about, discussing their plans with their competitors. Most of the conversations Valaena overhears indicate that the castle dragons will be the most sought-after, and she privately commends the wisdom of such aims. Dragons who have had riders in the past are less likely to treat one as a snack.

Nearly a half-week passes before the challenge starts in earnest. During the early days of the competition, they suffer the losses of several esteemed men, among them Ser Steffon and Lord Gormon Massey, to Seasmoke and Vermithor, respectively. Another three men die by Sheepstealer and the Cannibal. 

Vermithor and Silverwing, the mounts of the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne, are brought to heel by two dragonseeds of foul temperament. A man called Hugh tames Vermithor and boasts of it every night thereafter. Ulf the Sot claims Silverwing, and as she watches him sling his leg over the dragon’s back, Valaena imagines that her great-great-grandmother would not be pleased to see the fruit of a first night mount her former steed.

On the fifth day of the challenge, Alyn and Addam attempt to claim Seasmoke. As soon as Jacaerys receives word of their plans from Rhaenys, who has been keeping out an eye for Corlys’s doings, he wakes Valaena. She dresses quickly, and before the Sun touches the other side of the horizon, they find themselves scouring the Dragonmont for their alleged half-brothers.

They find the Hull boys with Corlys and a half-dozen men-at-arms sworn to House Velaryon, arriving just in time to observe Alyn approach their father’s mount.

Since Laenor died, Seasmoke has resided primarily on Driftmark. Every now and then, he travels to Dragonstone and cavorts with the other dragons before making his return to the birthplace of his former rider. On one such occasion, years earlier, Valaena had happened upon him. When she was seventeen, she had travelled to Dragonstone for the birth of her brother Viserys. One morning, she had woken early to ride Veraxes, and she had found him in the company of Seasmoke. The two dragons had been slumbering side-by-side. Unwilling to scare off her father’s old mount, she had laid down beside her own dragon and gazed at the pale, silver-gray beast until midday. Seasmoke has now returned to Dragonstone once more, and just in time to find another rider, or rather the opposite.

Alyn takes broad, brash steps as he advances on Seasmoke. Despite it being the hour of the wolf, the dragon is already awake, like to have been roused by the commotion, so Alyn is lucky for that much. It is poor form to wake a dragon with whom one is not intimately familiar.

Another few steps, and Alyn gets too close for Seasmoke’s liking. He extends his neck and screeches at the boy. Under the torchlight, his eyes glow with malice. His feet shuffle beneath his belly, readying him for a pounce.

Wisely, Alyn retreats, smart enough not to give Seasmoke his back as he does so. Once he has returned to neutral ground, he gestures for his brother to have his try. “You are the elder.”

Addam is more careful than his brother, and a good thing that, what with Seasmoke already on edge. He approaches Seasmoke slowly, holding out one hand and keeping his head bowed.

Seasmoke growls but makes no move to attack. He permits Addam to pass his nose and maw. Everyone watches with bated breath as Addam arrives at Seasmoke’s left flank and grabs one of the ropes hanging over his shoulder.

At the touch, Seasmoke makes a jerky move, snapping his head around and snarling. His breath shallow, Addam stares at the dragon head-on. Before long, Seasmoke turns his head back from him, shaking out his neck and sitting on his haunches.

Jacaerys, standing beside Valaena, mumbles to himself, “By the gods.”

With little added strife, Addam climbs onto Seasmoke’s back. He straps himself into Laenor’s old saddle, and with a gay wave to his brother, orders Seasmoke to fly.

Spreading his wings, Seasmoke runs along the ground on his hindlegs before taking off, projecting himself off a cliff. Unused to the task of pulling the reins of a dragon, Addam is at Seasmoke’s mercy. He hangs onto the saddle as Seasmoke makes tight maneuvers above the Dragonmont, shouting his exuberance. Most of the onlookers echo his cries, Corlys clapping with relief and pride coloring his face, and Alyn whooping loudly. Only Jacaerys and Valaena are quiet.

When Addam returns, he receives accolades from Corlys’s party. Many a “hear-hear” is thrown out, and both Alyn and Corlys clap him on the back.

Eventually, he approaches Jacaerys and Valaena, stood apart from everyone else. Jacaerys shakes his hand. “Congratulations,” he commends the younger boy, his expression surprisingly even.

Demurely, Addam bows his head. “Thank you, my prince.” He nods to Valaena, too, and she hopes the smile she dons in return is passably polite.

Valaena does not return to sleep thereafter, made restless by the early scene of the day. She chooses to spend the remainder of the morning in the nursery, keeping her slumbering child company. Aenar wakes thrice under her watch, and each time, his cries are reedier than is typical. As she tries to soothe him, she wonders if her own agitation is rubbing off on him.

She leaves him to be fed by one of the wet nurses at midday. As she heads down the hall, she passes Rhaena’s rooms. The door to her solar is open, and Valaena spies her step-sister sitting by the window and staring out into space.

Slipping into the room, she rouses Rhaena from her thoughts with a knock on the door. Her face still blank, Rhaena turns, and when she sees that it is Valaena who joins her, she remembers to smile. “Good afternoon,” she says.

Valaena echoes the greeting, stopping halfway into the room. Not wanting to appear too meddlesome, she casually wonders, “Have you any plans for the day?”

“No,” Rhaena answers, pleasantly enough.

Gesturing out at the Dragonmont, visible through the window, she queries, “Do you intend to try for any of the dragons? Sheepstealer and Grey Ghost are still unclaimed.” At her inquiry, Rhaena stiffens. Fixating on her betrayed weakness, she presses, “You have more right than anyone here to claim a dragon, not to mention a better chance. None know Dragonstone or its dragons better than you. I am certain you could uncover Grey Ghost if you wished—”

“No,” Rhaena says, more firmly than before.

Valaena shakes her head. “Why not?”

Rhaena dithers before answering. “I’m frightened.”

Unbidden, Valaena scoffs. “You fib.” She knows well that Rhaena has never feared dragons. She is fascinated by the creatures and wants one for herself more than anything. “Why will you not answer me?”

“I have answered you,” asserts Rhaena. “I am frightened. Not of the dragons, not of trying, but—”

When Rhaena does not continue, apparently lost in thought, Valaena prompts her. “But?”

Rhaena sighs. “I am afraid to fail.” She points toward the hearth, and Valaena spies the egg resting beside it. “I have had the chance to become a dragonrider my whole life, but fate confounds me. Do you know how many mornings have come during which I lie in my bed and convince myself to go outside and claim a dragon? And yet I never do.” Her hands shake. “I am too meek for it, just like Father says.”

Her heart breaking for her sister, Valaena protests, “Rhaena, you mustn’t be so hard on yourself. You’re not meek—”

“Am I not? I am venturing to the Vale with Joff rather than staying here,” she argues.

Feeling very much as though she is waging a losing battle, Valaena disputes, “You are going to keep company Joff, and I see not why there is any shame in it.”

Unconvinced, Rhaena asks, “Would you leave Dragonstone?”

“That is hardly a fair comparison,” Valaena complains. “I am the Princess of Dragonstone. I cannot abandon it.” In hearing her own words, she hastens to amend, “Not that you are abandoning anything or anyone.”

Holding up her hands, Rhaena requests, “Can you just leave me to my thoughts?” She turns back toward the window before Valaena can give her answer.

Lost for what else to do, Valaena complies and spends the rest of the day in a haze of her own.

As the competition carries on, Valaena makes the effort to check on Veraxes every so often. With so much activity on the Dragonmont, she can feel his agitation and hopes to soothe him. A week and a half into the challenge, with eleven dead and thirty-seven injured thus far, she finds him roosting on the far side of the Dragonmont. It is rare that her dragon ventures here. This side of the mountain houses the many caverns in which the wild dragons reside, and he prefers the company of the tamed dragons.

He is glad to see her when she stumbles upon him. He crows at the sight of her, uncurling and lumbering over to her side. Laughing, she indulges his silent plea for affection, running her gloved hands along his snout as he nudges it along her front.

Valaena and Veraxes are distracted from one another when they hear another dragon land nearby. Seasmoke touches down some twenty yards from them, Addam and Alyn on his back. As the boys disembark, they wave in Valaena’s direction. Aware that they cannot discern her pinched-up expression from this distance, she waves back.

“Don’t mind them,” she murmurs to Veraxes, petting along his scales again. “I certainly don’t.” Even as she makes the statement, she cannot speak to its veracity. Ever since Corlys had brought forth the Hull boys, she has resolved to not let them bother her. They have never done anything to her, she reasons, whether or not they truly are Laenor’s sons. At times, she wonders if she is jealous at the suggestion that they are, but surely not. She might have wished fervently for near-half her life that Laenor was her true father, but that does not warrant her having a monopoly on his long-past affections. She knows that he had loved her, and it is not as though he is around to—

Screaming interrupts her introspection, and she whips around in time to see Alyn rushing out of one of the nearby caves, his cloak and trousers flaming. Sheepstealer is quick on his heels, striding forward with a wide gait and lowering his head as if to take a bite.

Quick to react, Addam calls for Seasmoke to come to his brother’s defense. The younger dragon does as bid, driving off Sheepstealer. Meanwhile, Addam attends to Alyn, using his own cloak to beat out the flames dancing along his brother’s back.

Valaena, who had started running towards them as soon as Sheepstealer and Seasmoke had taken to the sky, reaches them and tears Alyn’s cloak from his shoulders. Addam continues to stamp out the fire along Alyn’s legs, succeeding in smothering it after another few seconds. Once the fire is out, Alyn collapses onto his front, moaning and writhing in pain.

Panicked, Addam wonders, “What do we do?”

With a plan in mind already, Valaena turns and shouts, “Māzīs,” to Veraxes. Eager to join her, Veraxes stalks over to them. As he nears them, she tells Addam, “Do not let him think he intimidates you.”

“He’s huge,” Addam argues, though he makes the valiant effort to not cower as Veraxes looms over him.

That much is true, Valaena supposes. Though a fair bit younger, Veraxes had outgrown Seasmoke years earlier. “Nevertheless, he’ll need to respect you if you are to ride him. Wait here.”

Walking over to Veraxes’s shoulder, she climbs high enough to reach his saddle and digs through the bags there until she finds her quarry. When she returns to Addam’s side, he asks her, incredulous, “You want us to ride your dragon?”

“How else do you expect us to take him to Maester Gerardys? It is too long a walk with him injured like this.” She hands him the tin she had retrieved from Veraxes’s saddlebags. “Here. This should soothe his burns until the maester can see him.” With that, she turns away from him, permitting him to tend to his brother with some privacy.

As she works on allaying Veraxes, readying him to take on two unfamiliar passengers, she hears Alyn complain, petulant, “No, don’t take off my trousers.”

“Shut up,” Addam grumbles. “I am helping you.”

After a minute or so, Addam calls out to her, signaling that he has done his best to treat his brother’s injuries for the time being. When she turns back to them, he is cumbersomely pulling Alyn to his feet. She rushes to assist him, slinging Alyn’s free arm over her shoulders. “Come on,” she orders, dragging them toward Veraxes.

As the two of them raise the squirming boy onto the dragon’s back, Valaena resents Alyn’s choice to try for Sheepstealer. He is a notoriously unfriendly beast. Privately, she thinks the girl who brings him sheep has a better chance of taming him than does anyone else.

After considerable strife, her cantankerous dragon not helping matters, they all three manage to settle along Veraxes’s back. Valaena situates herself in front of his saddle, which is hardly large enough to fit three people. She grips steadfastly to the spikes along his shoulders as she orders him into the air.

When they reach Dragonstone, she has Veraxes land within the castle yard, where people scurry out of his way. A pair of men-at-arms rushes forward to assist them, and she asks that they bring Alyn to Maester Gerardys. Addam follows after the men carrying his brother, haphazardly throwing a grateful exclamation over his shoulder to her as he goes.

In the evening, Valaena stops by the maester’s quarters, driven there by her curiosity. There is a score of men laid up in the infirmary, all of whom are asleep when she arrives. Only one person stands at her entrance, and she heads over to him.

“Princess,” Addam greets her. She beckons for him to retake his seat, though he only does so when she sits on the other side of Alyn’s cot. “Thank you again for your assistance.”

“Of course,” she excuses. “How is he?”

Addam’s lips turn up in a wry smile as he looks down at his brother. “He fainted while the maester was working on him, but he’ll live.”

She smiles, and they lapse into silence. After some time, an uncomfortable topic of conversation comes to her. “My mother remains reluctant to naturalize you and your brother.”

Though Rhaenyra promised to consider naturalizing Addam and Alyn following either boy’s success in claiming Seasmoke, she can hardly profess to have done as much. She still sees their presence as threatening to her own children’s legitimacy, and with Rhaenys whispering that same sentiment in her ear, Valaena is not sure what might change her mind.

Surprisingly, Addam is unbothered. He shrugs. “That’s fine.” Valaena raises her brow, and reading her confusion, he explains, “I’m not ashamed to be a bastard.”

Astonished, she wonders, “You’re not?” He shakes his head. Endlessly curious, she asks, “Why not?”

“Because I am not ashamed of my mother,” he unabashedly answers.

A gradual smile overtakes Valaena’s face. “Well said, Ser Addam.”

Laughing quietly, he disputes, “I’m no ser.”

She quirks an eyebrow. “No? Jace promised to knight all those who claimed a dragon.”

Addam nods. “And surely, he will. Your brother seems a man of his word.”

“He is,” she agrees. In that same moment, she settles a conflict that has been raging within her for the past two weeks. “And he’s our brother.” Addam’s eyes grow wide. Emboldened, she adds for good measure, “I intend to add my voice to Lord Corlys’s petition that you and Alyn be naturalized.”

He gapes at her. “You do? Why?”

She shrugs. “It seems the proper thing to do.”

The truth, which she does not wish to tell him, is that she is ashamed of being a bastard. It is an awful thing, bastardy, and one that she has never understood. It makes little sense to her why a man should be free to cast out his seed without care, responsibility ensuing only when it takes root in his lawful wife. Why, she has always wondered, must children pay for their parents’ mistakes? Why must she suffer ceaseless questions as to her birth and right to rule simply because her parents had taken liberties from which they should have abstained?

Addam and Alyn, like her, are dragonseeds. Like her, their noble forebear wishes to bestow upon them the name their blood deserves. She sees no just reason to withhold it from them. Besides, she is beginning to think, she rather likes them.

“I thank you, Princess.” Inhaling, he hesitantly inquires, “May I ask you something?” She nods. “Do you think Ser Laenor would have liked us?”

“Would he have liked you,” she blurts, taken aback. Behind her, a man grumbles in his sleep. “Certainly.”

“Do you truly think so,” Addam wonders, doubtful. “Even if we were his half-brothers, rather than his sons?”

Kindly, she cautions him, “You must learn to keep a careful tongue, ser—”

Bashful, he interjects, “I’m no ser, I told you—”

“And never correct a princess,” she finishes. Acquiescent, he holds up his hands. “He would have liked you,” she reiterates. “I have it on good authority that some of his favorite people were bastards.”

At her statement, Addam’s brow shoots up toward his hairline. She chuckles at the picture he makes, and soon enough, his surprise gives way, and he joins her in her mirth.

By the time the competition draws to a close days later, Valaena has two new brothers, her mother having yielded when hers and Jacaerys’s voices had joined that of their grandsire and legitimized both Alyn and Ser Addam. There are also four new dragonriders, leaving the Blacks twelve dragons to the Greens’ two.

Long after the competition is concluded and following Valaena’s twentieth nameday, the final week of the year sees the last of the preparations made for Rhaenyra’s youngest sons’ journeys from Dragonstone. After a day of teary good-byes, Joffrey and Rhaena depart northward for Gulltown, whereas Aegon and Viserys sail away on the Gay Abandon, a Pentoshi cog bound for the other side of the Narrow Sea.

Jacaerys and Valaena stand on Dragonstone’s shore, watching as the ships carrying their brothers diverge near the horizon. A frown mars both of their faces, and Valaena feels a breath away from crying.

Jacaerys surprises her by taking her hand. “I did not mean for there to be a battle between us,” he broaches. She turns her head to look at him. “I have a care only for their safety.”

Swallowing roughly, she says, “I know.” She means to go on and apologize for her own belligerent behavior, but he heads her off.

“I wish for them to be spared Luke’s fate.” His voice tinged with grief, he confesses, “It was my idea for Luke and myself to serve as messengers. He’d not have ventured to Storm’s End but for my interference.”

Valaena’s free hand comes up to rub along his shoulder. “It was no fault of yours,” she insists. For some time, she knows, Jacaerys has been harboring guilt for Lucerys’s death. She feels terrible for it given that the blame lies more suitably with her. “It was my duty to assuage Aemond, and I failed.”

His frown worsening, he wonders, “Is that what you think?”

She gives a bitter laugh. “It is true, is it not?”

“Valaena,” he chides. His voice has a consoling edge to it, but it is swaddled by a sly, little smile. “You don’t have a magic cunt.”

Imparting an offended squawk, she rips her hand from his grasp and smacks his shoulder. “In the first place, yes, I do.” His smile widens, and a grin cracks across her face, as well. “And in the second, how dare you speak to me in such an uncouth manner. I am a lady, and your princess, and your elder sister.”

He holds his hands over his heart. “My sincerest apologies, Your Worship.”

“Quite right,” she sniffs.

Turning away from the sea, they begin their trek back to the castle. Arm-in-arm, they traipse through the harbor and the fishing village, two of their mother’s guards at their backs. As they move along, they wave to those of their mother’s subjects who notice them, though eventually, they are caught up in the crowd of a marketplace, where they blend in amongst all others.

Jacaerys loosens his grip on her as they make their way through the throng of people, allowing her to trail behind him. She peers into people’s faces as she passes by them, noting the weathered skin of sailors and the fresh eyes of children. Most of Dragonstone’s inhabitants have the same coloring as is common in her family, though there a few dark heads in the crowd. Along with her and Jacaerys, there is an old woman with dark, gray hair selling beaded necklaces, a young woman and her brown-headed babe, and a soldier with wavy, black hair and a white cape.

Gasping, Valaena draws up short and tugs Jacaerys to a halt. Concerned, he whirls around to ask what troubles her, but her eyes remain forward, staring past him.

Criston Cole comes to a stop a scant ten paces from her and Jacaerys. His hands rest on the hilt of his blade, though he makes no move to draw it, even as Jacaerys rips his own sword from its scabbard.

“Protect the princess,” Jacaerys shouts back to their guards, one of whom steps up to draw Valaena behind him. She goes with some reluctance, her gaze still pinned to her natural father.

Jacaerys lifts his sword to point at Criston. “I see the false king has sent another of his guards to slay the rightful heirs to the throne.” He takes a careful step closer to the older man. “Your attempt shall prove as fruitless as was that of Ser Arryk.”

At last, Criston pulls his own sword, only to lay it along the ground at his feet. “I do not come here to fight you.” Though he speaks to Jacaerys, his eyes are locked with Valaena’s.

“No matter.” Jacaerys takes another step forward, raising his sword higher.

“Wait,” Valaena shouts. She urges her brother to stay his hand, “Don’t kill him.”

Grudgingly, he restrains himself. “He is a traitor. I see no reason why I should spare him.”

She presses forward, trying in vain to get past the arm of the guard holding her back. “’Twas Cole who freed me from imprisonment in Rook’s Rest.” Thrown by the revelation, Jacaerys lowers his sword and glances back at her. “He unchained me and took me to Veraxes. I would not be here but for him.”

Jacaerys looks back to Criston, contemplating what next he should do. He decides to order him restrained, picking up the man’s surrendered weapon himself. As Valaena falls into place at his side once more, he stonily demands, “Why have you come?”

His dark gaze still on her, Criston answers, “To keep my oath to your mother, Queen Rhaenyra.”

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

The return of the king’s army to the capital is a somber affair. Despite the three victories under his belt, Criston feels little pride as he rides through the Iron Gate. The king rides behind him in a closed litter, keeping his subjects from beholding his gruesome injuries.

When Aegon and Valaena had battled in the sky above Rook’s Rest, it had been impossible to tell which of their dragons was which through the deluge, so close in size were the two of them. Criston recalls wishing for Aemond to mount his own dragon and end the fight between his relations, but he had refused. The prince had watched anxiously, as had Criston, as the two dragonriders locked on to the death. When one dragon had plummeted to the ground, its rider flaming on its back, they had known not who they would find when they reached the crash site.

It had been a horrible, nerve-wracking hike to the fallen dragon, only at the end of which had they discovered that it had been Sunfyre who had crashed. Criston is ashamed to admit that he had breathed a terrible sigh of relief at the wretched sight of the crippled dragon and the burnt, barely moving form of the king.

Aemond rides beside Criston on a borrowed horse, having landed Vhagar an hour past. The prince wears a fearsome glower, one he had donned as soon as they had discovered that his brother had been maimed by his wife, who had successfully made her escape thereafter, and not removed since. He also wears Aegon’s iron-and-ruby crown.

A half-dozen common healers had tended to the king after his fall from the heavens, all of them concluding that he was lucky to be alive and unable to do much more than take nourishment and soil himself. Solemnly, Criston had removed from his head the Conqueror’s crown—the ornament sticking to his melted skin—and given it to his younger brother. “You must rule the realm now, until your brother is strong enough to take the crown again,” he had told Aemond.

The prince had taken up the crown with measured enthusiasm, proclaiming that it looked “better on me than it ever did on him.” So, too, had he taken up one of his brother’s titles, Protector of the Realm, as well as the appellation of prince regent.

When they arrive at the Red Keep, His Grace is taken directly to the grand maester. Orwyle attends him with potions and milk of the poppy. Despite his many efforts, the king remains confined to his bedchamber. Aegon’s entire left side is swathed in bandages, shielding from his mother’s eyes his mangled flesh. Queen Alicent prays over his body day and night, pleading with the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, and the Smith to permit her son to recover, with the Crone for guidance, and for the Stranger to keep his distance.

Alongside her prayers, Alicent curses Valaena. “After all the kindness I showed that girl, this is how she repays me. She keeps from me my only daughter and all my grandchildren, and now she tries to take my firstborn.”

Aegon curses Valaena, too, his resentment for her having grown following the fates befallen to him and his dragon at her hands. “I want her head,” he informs Criston during one of the few hours of the day when he is awake. “I want it in my fucking hands. Bring it to me. Let Aemond handle Rhaenyra. Your foremost task now is to bring me Valaena’s fucking head.”

“I care not what Aegon says,” Aemond says in council meetings. He sits in his brother’s seat and supposedly makes pronouncements in his stead. “So long as he remains abed, I am as good as king, and I say my wife’s head stays atop her fucking shoulders.”

When the prince regent is absent, his grandsire speaks differently. Otto Hightower and the other members of the small council speculate as to the most efficacious method by which to put Rhaenyra, her husband, and her remaining children to the sword.

“I thought the Lady Valaena was to be spared,” demurs Criston.

Never has he felt so perturbed at a small council meeting. For decades, he stood silently in the corner of the small council chambers, willing his ears shut or pretending not to listen. He had flinched at not a single topic of conversation, not even when it concerned matters of life and death. When he joined the small council as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, he had suffered doubts as to his ability to sit on a council presiding over the realm alongside lords and their ilk, being the mere son of a steward himself. Those doubts had only worsened following his promotion to Hand of the King. None of those misgivings compares to those he suffers now, what with his newfound, all-consuming conflict of interest.

Since freeing Valaena from imprisonment, he has felt an enormous amount of guilt. Not only for his treason, but for its effects. If not for his interference, never would the king have suffered his injuries, nor would his cause have been weakened.

Nonetheless, Criston finds himself incapable of truly regretting his actions. Aegon had tortured Valaena the entire time that he’d had her at his mercy, having her chained up, tormenting her with tales of her brother’s demise, and threatening her with all manner of unpleasant retribution. It had been miserable watching her suffer all day, and Criston had felt an immense shame in sitting by and doing nothing. He had never expected that he would be a father—having gone to great lengths to avoid such an eventuality, in fact—but suddenly, a daughter had been dropped in his lap, and she had needed his help.

Surprisingly, the fact that it was Valaena who revealed herself to be his daughter did not faze him. Admittedly, before the events of Rook’s Rest, he had never thought much of her, both in the sense that she did not often cross his mind and he did not much like her. For the longest time, he had considered her as merely an extension of Rhaenyra, who he has long detested. Now, however, he ruminates over his memories of Valaena, trying desperately to dredge up favorable recollections.

“We’ll not forbear dispatching the self-proclaimed Princess of Dragonstone simply to spare my grandson’s feelings,” Otto dismisses. “Now that she has borne him a son, we’ve no further need for her.”

Criston concedes in part, “Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon are beyond redemption, surely, their treason unforgivable, but perhaps the children—”

Otto issues him a scathing reply. “Have you forgotten that which you said when the King Viserys passed? ‘Seven save this realm if we seat a bastard on the Iron Throne.’ I understand it is unpleasant business, but we are protecting the realm by stamping out the princess’s line.”

Unable to offer a passable response, Criston tunes out the rest of the meeting, unwilling to meaningfully contribute to the conspiracy of his daughter’s murder.

With Aegon abed, Criston shadows Aemond most days. Whereas he usually attends the dowager queen when the king does not require his presence, he has been avoiding Alicent. Though they had been close for decades, and he reveres her in the highest sense of the word, they began to grow apart when he replaced her father as Hand. Now, with his newfound ardor for Valaena and Alicent’s vendetta against the younger woman, he feels as though they no longer see eye-to-eye on anything.

He follows a pace behind the prince regent down halls he has walked tens of thousands of times. Though he hardly has any choice but to accompany Aemond, he is amenable to the change. Considering the friction between himself and the other small council members, it feels as though Aemond is the only person he can stand anymore. Despite their estrangement, Aemond’s persistent affection for Valaena is unmistakable.

Jasper Wylde walks past them with his eldest daughter by his fourth wife, nodding to Aemond as they go. Criston’s eyes stay on the little girl holding Jasper’s hand, Cassinda, he thinks her name is. He recalls a similar sight from years past, one of Laenor and Valaena walking around the Keep hand-in-hand.

His attention is drawn back to the present by Aemond stepping into a room that has been vacant for the past three months, the nursery. As has been his wont since their return from Rook’s Rest, Aemond frequently visits the nursery. He typically spends a few minutes gazing into Maelor’s empty cradle, tapping his finger along the railing before stepping out once more and going about his day.

Not breaking step, Criston follows him inside. Blankly, his eyes sweep over the room, as is his habit whenever he steps through a doorway. Not having been fully on his guard in so innocuous a space, he is taken aback when he belatedly realizes that the composition of the room has changed since he last entered it.

Aemond notices his apprehension. “I had the twins’ cots removed. They’re like to desire each their own chambers when they return.” He points to the smaller of the two cradles in the room. “This will be Aenar’s.”

Not quite sure that Aemond desires a response, Criston does not offer one.

“He and Maelor will enjoy sharing, I think,” he adds, clearly meaning to engage him in conversation. “Unless Valaena insists on keeping him in our bedchamber, but that was never something she—”

“You mean to bring Lady Valaena here,” Criston interrupts, unable to withhold his surprise.

When Aemond smiles, it reminds Criston of how Viserys would smile whenever someone said something he did not want to hear. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Criston feels none of his amusement. “You know that which your brother means to do to her.”

His false grin slipping from his face, Aemond dismisses, “Aegon is merely upset he lost a fight he should not have started. Once he recovers, he will relent.” Criston’s expression must convey his disbelief, prompting Aemond to continue, “He promised me that I could bring her back here.”

“When,” Criston counters.

“At Rook’s Rest,” answers Aemond.

Criston’s skepticism only grows. “Before or after she used him as kindling?”

Aemond looks away from him, his breath leaving him in a slow, stormy exhale. “Aegon will see reason, I assure you. I know my brother.”

“I hope you are right,” replies Criston, his tone wry, “for her sake.”

Set into a sudden frenzy, Aemond starts forward with a wide gait. Spooked and disinterested in getting into a scuffle with him, Criston steps out of his path. Thankfully, Aemond’s aim is the door, which he slams closed before turning on Criston. “What did she say to you?”

Lost, Criston asks, “What?”

“Valaena, at Rook’s Rest, before Aegon and I arrived,” he elaborates. His one eye is wide, a spark of outrage flashing within it.

Criston is disconcerted by how nervous he feels in staring down a man less than half his age. “As I said, my prince, you and the king arrived with great celerity.”

Nostrils flaring, Aemond intones, “I do not believe for one second that my wife sat there quietly for however long you were alone with her. She came to Rook’s Rest for a purpose. She came to speak to you. I wish to know wherefore.”

“She would hardly state her intention so plainly to me,” Criston objects, though that is exactly what she had done. After they had dispensed with formalities, Valaena had been incredibly forthright. She had explicitly told him that she had come to Rook’s Rest to make him an offer, one that was contingent on him knowing that he fathered her.

“No,” Aemond agrees. “But she said something to you, and when I hear it, I shall know her intention.”

Discreetly gulping down his unease, Criston racks his brain for Valaena’s exact words and how to warp them into something safe enough to tell Aemond. “She complained first of being called a lady.” Unsatisfied, Aemond does not alter his severe expression. Criston continues, “And she told me that the Princess Rhaenyra was unaware of her presence there.”

“Get to the point,” Aemond interjects.

“She told me about Aenar,” he reveals, skipping over the relevant bit of the conversation. Suitably intrigued, Aemond raises his lopsided brow. “Not in so many words. She told me neither his name, nor his sex.” He fumbles for what else to say. “And that was it. She heard the dragons and ran out.”

“So, it had to do with Aenar,” surmises Aemond. He turns away from Criston, who blows out a muted sigh in relief. After a moment, Aemond pivots to face him once more, a look of contemplation on his face. “Why did you not say?”

Hesitantly, he excuses, “I had not the credulity to relay her claim.”

“Your credulity is irrelevant,” rebukes Aemond at once. “You are the king’s Hand, not his mind.”

Criston ducks his head, trying to appear contrite. “My apologies, my prince. My only wish was to spare you the torment had her words proven themselves lies.”

Lips twitching, Aemond orders, “Speak not to my wife’s veracity,” and stalks from the room. Criston grants himself a moment’s repose before following, and the rest of the day is spent under a tense silence.

Another week goes by, compunction eating at Criston each day, before Alicent manages to corner him. She finds him in the private audience chamber of the Tower of the Hand whilst he is in the midst of pouring over correspondence. He is halfway through a letter from Lord Swyft of Cornfield when he hears her approach.

He stands when he sees her in the doorway. “Your Grace.”

“My lord Hand,” she returns, stepping farther into the room. “I have seldom seen you of late, like by design, it would appear.”

“I would never presume—” She raises her hand, and he desists from his pretense.

She broaches, “I wonder how I might have offended you.”

“You have done no such thing, my queen,” he insists. Though his words are misleading, he speaks them with fervency. He may resent Alicent’s feelings toward Valaena, but he does not contemn her for them.

The corner of Alicent’s mouth lifts in a half-smile. “No longer am I your queen. That honor belongs to my daughter.”

Zealously, he professes, “You will always be my queen.” He has long admired Alicent, since even before she spared him from self-immolation, thinking her a queen preeminent among all others. Throughout her late husband’s reign, she hewed to all noble principles, honor and decency foremost among them. He is not sure there will ever be another queen so worthy of veneration.

Warmed by his reassurance, she reaches out to take his hand. It is of the more familiar of the gestures they have shared over the years. She wonders, “Why, then, have you turned from me?”

Ducking his head, he argues, “You turned from me when the king made me his Hand over your father.”

She admits, “I was dismayed by Aegon’s treatment of his grandsire, but I knew that the fault was not yours.” She gives him a searching look. “I wish to rely upon you once more.”

You can rely on me, sits on his tongue, unable to leave his mouth. The fact that Alicent feels the need to make such a request frightens Criston. Clearly, his doubts are plain for all to see.

She continues, “By installing Aegon as king, we have done what is right by the law.”

He concurs, “We have.”

“We swore that we would jettison the rotten fruit of my husband’s willful blindness,” she reminds him.  

“We did,” he agrees, albeit with less conviction.

Somehow, her piercing gaze intensifies. “Why do you now balk at the task?”

He offers her the least reproachable explanation of which he can think. “The Princess Rhaenyra’s children are but children.”

“Valaena and Jacaerys are a woman and man grown. Theirs and Joffrey’s blood will be that of bastards, shed at war.” Taking his hand back from her, he raises it to pinch the bridge of his nose. “As for the younger two, we cannot risk them growing into avengeful iterations of their father.”

“Yes,” he utters, if only to halt her unpleasant expostulation. He has heard it numerous times already in meetings of the small council.

“We must cleave to one another if we wish to bring a swift end to this bloodshed,” she insists. “We are in disorder. Aegon is infirm, desiring only vengeance and nothing for his people. Aemond wishes to run off according to his whims. Daeron is trapped in the South, at my cousin’s beck and call. My father speaks of nothing but distant, hopeful allies. Helaena is gone.” Alicent runs out of breath, bringing up her hands to cover her face.

Mute, he allows her a moment to compose herself.

Frankly, he is not quite sure why she is so distraught. Since Viserys died, she has hardly stood by, twiddling her thumbs. Most days, she leads the small council. After Queen Helaena and her children left King’s Landing, it was Alicent who ordered closed the city gates, forestalling further sabotage by Valaena or any other interloper.

He reasons that Alicent must be desolate, feeling as though she is the only one making any real effort. He wonders if she would take comfort in reassurance from him, he who has been long at her side whilst others have chased their own desires.

Eventually, her hands travel down to the base of her throat, once again revealing her stressed countenance.

He assures her, “A path forward will become clear.” Privately, he prays his own words hold true. He could do with some clarity about now.

Alicent appears dubious. “Will it, Ser Criston? I sometimes wonder.”

That night, Criston dreams of a world that he has not visited in over twenty years. A world that, unlike the last time he had ventured there, has a new inhabitant.

Following her betrothal to Laenor, Rhaenyra accepted Criston’s proposal to run away together. They stole away in the dead of night the day after their return to King’s Landing, going first to the stormlands, where they boarded a ship set for the Orange Shore in Essos. After arriving on the other side of the Summer Sea, they traded one of Rhaenyra’s necklaces for an orange grove and set up their new home there.

The grove is an excellent source of sustenance, allowing them to trade with the Volantenes and sailors who dock at the nearby harbor. Rhaenyra does not often tend to it with him, unused is she to toilsome labor, but he minds little.

One afternoon, as he works on a bountiful tree halfway through the orchard, he registers that apart from the birds chirping and the wind rustling the leaves, the grove is too quiet for his liking. Leery, he hails, “Clarissa!”

Clarissa was born exactly eight months after their furtive departure from Westeros. Rhaenyra wanted to name her Valaena, for the mother of Aegon the Conqueror, but given the clandestine nature of their presence in Essos, where Old Valyrian names were no longer prevalent, Criston successfully argued for a common name.

When no answer comes to his call, he shouts, “Clarissa, if you do not come out in the next ten seconds!” He receives no immediate response. “One!” Still, he hears nothing. “Two!”

At last, the sounds of quick feet and giggling reach his ears. Clarissa runs up to him from behind, stopping just short of him.

Fixing a firm expression onto his face, he turns to her. “What have I told you about hiding from me among the trees?” Away from any big cities and outside of the usual path of the Dothraki, their grove is relatively safe, but one can never be too careful. He prefers to have his eyes on her.

Appearing chastised, though not to the extent that he believes she has learnt her lesson, she apologizes, “Sorry, Baba.” 

As Rhaenyra says is typical of him, he folds easily. Sighing, he tugs Clarissa closer with a hand on her shoulder. Her arms go around his legs, and she presses her face into his thigh and grins up at him. “All right, princess. How would you like to help me strip this tree?”

In answer, Clarissa raises her arms, practically buzzing from excitement as he lifts her with his arms around her legs. As she picks the oranges from the tree, twisting the fruits until their stems detach from the branches, she drops them into the basket by his feet. Half of the oranges miss the basket and roll away from them on the dusty ground, though he does not have the heart to admonish her.

Once they have removed all of the low-hanging fruit from the tree, he lets her pick an orange for them to share. They sit against the trunk, where they are shielded from the afternoon sun by the crown of the tree. He peels the orange, pops the seeds from the segments, and feeds them to her one-by-one.

She babbles to him while they eat. “Mama told me about one of the big dragons in Westeros. Car-ax-es,” she sounds out.

“Oh, yea,” he asks, ignoring the spike of jealousy at the indirect mention of Daemon.

Nodding enthusiastically, she informs him, “She says he whistles when he roars!”

“Really?” She nods again. “What else,” he inquires.

Clarissa takes a moment to think, her nose scrunching cutely as she scours her memory for anything else her mother might have told her. “Um, he’s red, and uh, he looks like a worm!”

“A worm,” he exclaims, as though astonished.

Giggling, she assures him that he heard her correctly. As she finishes the last of her half of the orange, she suddenly climbs into his lap. Accustomed to her capriciousness, he moves his arms around her without dropping the piece of fruit in his hand.

Leaning back into his chest, she fancies, “I wish I had a dragon.” Bemused, he thinks of the toy dragon that he carved for her for her third nameday, one that she named Veraxes for one of the gods of Old Valyria.

“In another life, you do,” he tells her. “You and Veraxes soar over the rest of us and rule the world.”

Pouting, she wonders, “Why can’t I have a dragon in this life?”

Sighing, he swallows what resentment he has for himself. It is only because of him that she has neither a dragon, nor a crown. “Because you have me,” he answers truthfully.  

“So, I can only have you or a dragon,” she seeks to clarify, her voice pitched high by her confusion.

He sighs again. “Yea.”

“Okay,” she replies, easily enough. Clumsily, she twists around in his lap and throws her arms around his neck. She presses a kiss to his stubbled cheek. “I pick you, Baba.”

Touched, he brings her into his own embrace and buries his nose in her dark brown hair. “I pick you, too, princess.”

In the morning, Criston is presented with five orange segments on his breakfast plate, and the last piece of his resolve falls into place.

Criston departs from the city in the same fashion that he entered it a month past, through the Iron Gate, though he takes a lengthy detour to get there. He dawdles through Flea Bottom, well aware that it is the perfect place to find someone with a desire to lay low. As Hand, it had been easy for him to learn of the brothels of which the White Worm was the proprietor. From there, he gleans her hiding spot with little difficulty, going to each establishment until he encounters the most heavily-guarded one.

He slips into the brothel at the base of Rhaenys’s Hill as a patron. As he works his way through the building, he shies away from the wandering hands of harlots, uncomfortable in being touched by girls younger than his daughter.

Eventually, he encounters a cellar door in a conspicuously deserted corridor with a guard posted at it. Insouciant with the thought of being caught out, he cuts through the man with a single, broad swipe of his longsword. There are two more men stationed beyond the door, one just behind it and another at the bottom of the stairs to which it leads. With but a few forceful sweeps of his blade, they, too, fold.

In the cellar, a few women huddle against the back wall, including one dressed in all white. Another of them, a short, stout girl, breaks away from the group and rushes him with a long knife. Unruffled, he disarms her with one arm and backhands her into the wall with the other. She crumples to the dirt floor, benumbed.

The woman in white stands apart from the rest of her associates, glaring at him. “I know not what you think you are doing here—”

Without finishing her thought, she dives toward a table in the other corner of the room. Too slow to intercept her, he watches as she picks up a glass and thrusts its contents at him. Instinctively, he holds up his arm to protect his face. The liquid splashes against his armor, corroding the metal there, burning through the clothes underneath, and searing his skin. A strangled yell escapes his throat as he hastens to rip off his gauntlet and sleeve.

With his attention diverted, the White Worm makes for the stairs. Not so distracted as to be blind to her movement, he requites her with a haphazard slash, getting her across the chest with the end of his blade. Stymied and bloodied, she collapses back against the table.

Forcibly, he turns his attention from his inflamed arm, shaking it to ward off the pain. He stalks toward Mysaria.

Mysaria groans, her fingers grazing along the crimson gash torn across her breast. Her mien hardens as his steps grow close, and she intones, “Do not forget you are a common man, like us. It is your mistake to serve as a dog for the Hightowers.”

Obdurate, he plunges his sword through her belly. “Don’t worry. I’ll put a commoner on the throne yet.”

He extracts his sword, and she slumps to the ground, gurgling as blood seeps from her mouth and her middle. Though he is certain she will never again leave this dingy room, he sinks the point of his sword into her throat for good measure.

The demise of Lady Misery elicits a gasp from one of the women still gathered in the corner. Turning toward the sound, he comes face-to-face with Talya, one of Queen Alicent’s handmaidens. She shrinks under the glower he directs at her, pushing herself farther back against the wall.

As he steps away from the nearest corpse, he dampens the flare of resentment he feels for this woman, who relies on the dowager queen’s trust and steals her secrets. He recognizes that he has now done the same.

Talya cowers at his approach. Imperiously, he dictates to her, “You serve a new mistress now.”

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

Ser Criston is dragged into Dragonstone’s throne room, where Queen Rhaenyra and her court await him. Valaena and Jacaerys stand on either side of her throne, staring down at the man as he is dropped onto his knees by a pair of guards.

After Criston was apprehended, he was stripped of his weapons and armor, detained in the dungeon, and questioned as to his true purpose in coming to Dragonstone. His answers remained true to that which he had told Jacaerys, and he demanded an opportunity to speak with the queen. Rhaenyra, who was already interested in knowing why her longtime adversary had decided to come to her stronghold, readily obliged him.

“Ser Criston,” she coolly greets him. Though her deportment is poised, Valaena can tell that Rhaenyra is tense, with unease and anger swirling within her. “So long has it been since I last saw you, and longer since that I have been glad for the sight of you.” The court fool emits a laugh at the queen’s quip, the nasal sound echoing throughout the otherwise quiet hall. “Why have you come?”

Criston hangs his head, fixing his gaze on the stone beneath him. “I wish to swear anew my oath to you as the true Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and to Princess Valaena as your heir.”

In hearing this, Rhaenyra glances sidelong at Valaena, as though trying to glean how much Valaena knew of the likelihood that Criston would turn his cloak. Valaena shifts under her mother’s shrewd gaze.

Rhaenyra regards his proclamation with little credence. “So, you have abandoned the Usurper and his cause?”

With his head still bowed, he answers, “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Why,” she questions.

At last, he lifts his head. “I wonder if you recall your eldest half-brother’s second nameday.” Beyond her eyes narrowing, Rhaenyra gives no indication that she does. “You went off on your own, and I followed, as was my duty. When we returned to your father’s camp, we saw a white hart. It walked right up to us, and it looked at you. The white hart is a symbol of royalty in these lands. It avoided the hunting party the King Viserys sent out in your brother’s honor and sought out you instead. It was clear to me then, as it is again, that you, not he, were meant to rule. I wish to correct my misjudgment for the many years that I forgot so plain a truth.”

Rhaenyra levels a heavy stare at Criston, who has once more bowed his head. After a stifling moment of consideration, she decides, “I will reinstate you to my Queensguard, and you will serve as the sworn protector of my daughter and heir, Princess Valaena.”

Shocked murmurs ripple throughout the room, the royal court well aware of the queen’s longstanding dislike for Criston. When Criston raises his head again, he, too, appears surprised. Valaena is surprised, as well. She had thought her mother would require more convincing to reach this end.

Having spoken her declaration, Rhaenyra stands, signaling an end to the proceeding, though her eldest son objects. “Mother, you cannot mean this. You cannot put Valaena at Cole’s mercy.”

Stepping forward, Lord Corlys joins in his grandson’s complaint. “I must agree with the prince, Your Grace.”

In a near nonchalant manner, Rhaenyra dismisses her advisors’ concerns. “Ser Criston has before been charged with safeguarding the Princess of Dragonstone. I assure you, he is equal to the task.” As she passes the man in question, however, she grows more severe. She warns him as though she had not spoken in his defense just a half-moment past. “Should your loyalty fail you again, I will feed you to Syrax.” Commencing her stride from the hall, she tosses a look over her shoulder back at Valaena, who has not yet moved from her place beside the throne. “Come, Valaena. I’d like a word.”

Picking up her skirts, Valaena follows her mother all the way to the queen’s quarters. Once in her solar, Rhaenyra sits along a cushioned bench and pats the seat beside her.

Having been expecting a rebuke, Valaena is relieved as she observes her mother’s placid demeanor. She takes her seat, and at once, Rhaenyra tugs her close and smacks a few kisses onto her cheek.

Pulling back, Rhaenyra remarks, “You’re very mischievous, has anyone ever told you that?”

“Once or twice,” Valaena cheekily replies.

Taking one of Valaena’s hands, Rhaenyra pulls it into her lap and plays with the rings on her fingers. “Why did you not tell me you asked him to come here?”

Shrugging, Valaena admits, “After Aegon took me captive, I did not think he would.”

Rhaenyra presses, “Even after he helped you escape?”

Unsure of what to say, Valaena shrugs again. She had thought it promising when Criston had released her from her bonds and guided her from the camp, though not promising enough. Even as he had pushed her toward her dragon, he had reiterated his allegiance to Aegon.

Rhaenyra inquires further. “Do you trust him?”

Valaena shakes her head. “I don’t know.”

Despite the newfound shift in Criston’s loyalties, she is doubtful as to how much faith she should give them. His loyalties had shifted once before, from her mother to Alicent. She wonders if they have truly made another reversal.

“Do you,” she deflects.

Sighing, Rhaenyra divulges, “I never told him the truth about you because I knew not what he would do. When you were born, he had just become loyal to Alicent, and he has hewn closer to her ever since. I wished not to risk him putting her interests ahead of yours.” She reaches up to pull a strand of Valaena’s hair behind her ear. “I see now that I worried for naught. I thank the gods his heart learnt to beat anew in Rook’s Rest.”

Leaning forward, she presses their foreheads together. “You and your brothers are my strength and consolation. I cannot bear to lose you.” She squeezes Valaena’s hand. “I trust that Cole will preserve you, jorrāeliarzus.”

Rhaenyra’s characteristic, wide grin makes an appearance, and though the sight of it is right before her, Valaena feels a pang of longing for it. Rhaenyra has borne no more than a slight smile since they learnt of Lucerys’s death.

Rhaenyra finishes her previous thought. “You and my favorite grandchild.”

Startled into laughter, Valaena beams at her mother in return. “I thought you did not have favorites.”

“Each rule has its exception,” Rhaenyra replies, her grin turning impish.

Pulling away, Valaena gets to her feet. She suggests, feeling enlivened, “You might visit your exception with me right now.”

Her smile fading a little, Rhaenyra stands, too. “Go on without me. There is much work to be done.” With that said, she grants Valaena another kiss on the cheek and heads into her private study.

Valaena’s mouth twists in disappointment, but she offers no objection. Just yesterday, they had sent off Rhaena, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys. It stands to reason that Rhaenyra’s longing for them is yet too fresh for her to gaze upon Viserys’s empty cot.

As she steps out of her mother’s apartment, Valaena finds herself accosted by her new protector. “Ser Criston,” she greets him, her voice a tad squeaky.

Criston appears a far cry better than he had when last she saw him. Though the bruising along his face is the same, his skin and hair are clean of the blood and grime that had marred them a mere half-hour past. He also dons his armor and white cloak once more, allowing him to look every bit like the member of the Queensguard that he is.

He bobs his head. “Princess.”

Though she has been convoyed by a guard countless times before and knows there is no need to converse with him—indeed, one might consider it improper—she finds it feels odd to regard him with silence. “I was just on my way to visit my son.”

At her words, a gleam of interest sparks in his eyes, though he displays no other outward reaction. Feeling there is nothing else to be said, she leads the way.

When they reach the nursery, they find Aenar awake, though only just. The babe drowsily blinks up at her as she leans over the side of his cradle. As it always does whenever she lays eyes on him, her heart swells beneath her ribs, and a smile tugs at her lips.

Aenar is somewhat excited by the sight of her, growing fidgety. She takes his jerky movements as an invitation to lift him into her arms, cooing softly at him as she settles him on her hip.

Beside her, Criston quietly admires his grandchild. “So, this is the little princeling.”

Valaena leans toward him. “Would you like to hold him?”

He hesitates before refusing. “I shouldn’t. My armor,” he explains. Nodding, she bounces Aenar as she notices him begin to nod off. “He is a handsome babe. He looks just as his father did at this age.”

Lips twisting at the reminder as to how much Aenar resembles Aemond, Valaena wonders, “Is it horribly selfish of me to wish that he looked more like me?”

His eyes flitting across her face, Criston kindly replies, “I don’t think so.”

“Mayhaps the next one shall not resemble Aemond so entirely,” she envisages, offhand. Her words reach her own ears, and as she gazes at Criston’s surprised face, she feels her own turn red. “Not to say—I suppose I just pictured that all of my children would be his, too, and now—” She lets herself trail off, shaking her head and refocusing on Aenar, who is nearly asleep now.

Stepping back over to his cradle, she lays him down on the bedding. After pulling his blanket over him and tucking it in at his sides, she situates his dragon egg beside his feet.

Satisfied with her son’s disposition, she turns away to find Criston closer than she remembers him being. He speaks to her in a low voice. “I did what you asked.”

Not quite sure what he means, she asks, “You did?”

He seems to know she is at a loss. He clarifies, “The White Worm.”

Eyes wide, she whispers, nearly struck dumb, “You killed Mysaria?”

“And I have inducted her subordinates into your service,” he adds, handing her a slip of paper.

“You have?” Amazed, she unrolls the parchment, off of which she reads a woman’s name and how one might go about contacting her. “Talya. Is that—”

“Queen Alicent’s handmaid,” he finishes for her.

Astounded anew, she breathes, “Well, if this isn’t a red-letter day.”

135 A.C.

Over the next few days, Valaena suffers a myriad of stares of contempt and distrust, though none are directed at her. Rather, they glide over her shoulder, landing on the man who serves as her shadow. The stares lessen in their intensity as time goes on and Criston behaves without animosity, quietly acting as Valaena’s armed escort and even making helpful recommendations during small council meetings.

Valaena finds herself warming up to him a degree faster than does everyone else. At first, it feels a bit odd to have him always at her arm. He was often a constant presence during her time in the Red Keep, though he was usually situated across any given room, and she regarded him with mistrust. Now, the intrinsic threat that she once associated with him no longer feels appropriate, and indeed, its presence fades from her mind remarkably quickly.

She also discovers that he is remarkably chatty for a member of the Queensguard, though she does not much mind it. She likes to hear his opinion on various matters, especially given his former allegiance to the Greens. So, too, does she enjoy having him ask her about herself and peppering their conversations with anecdotes from his life.

One morning, when she dismisses Criston in favor of spending time with Jacaerys, she finds herself in his company anyway. After breakfast, she arrives with her brother to the field on the beach used for training-at-arms, content to watch him swing around a blade for a few hours. Criston is already in attendance, sparring with some of the younger knights. When he spots them, he offers to engage Jacaerys in a match.

Somewhat reluctantly, Jacaerys accedes. Valaena can tell that as much as he has an interest in further developing his own skills, he wishes to discern how he holds up against his old master.

They take up arms against one another, Jacaerys with a shield and sword and Criston with his morning star. When the match commences, Jacaerys darts forward. He gets close enough to Criston to jab at the man’s open side, extending his sword arm to do just that, but before he can land a hit, he is forced back by a vicious swing of Criston’s morning star. Criston raises his weapon again, and Jacaerys has to raise his shield to avoid being struck in the chest by the spiked, metal ball sailing through the air.

At one point, their weapons meet in the space between them. The chain of Criston’s morning star winds around Jacaerys’s blade. Jacaerys pulls his arm back, evidently trying to pull Criston’s weapon from his grip.

At the outset of the younger man’s potential victory, Criston’s demeanor suddenly shifts. With a loud grunt and a marked show of force, he yanks his weapon downward. Jacaerys’s sword ends up pointed toward the ground, at which point Criston kicks its hilt out of Jacaerys’s hand.

Jacaerys’s face shifts into a stony scowl as his sword falls into the sand off the left of him. Extending to him his hand, Criston tells him, “You are much improved, my prince. I look forward to seeing you advance from here.”

Gruffly, Jacaerys shakes his hand before trudging over to where Valaena sits. His lour still in place, he drinks greedily from a canteen handed to him by another squire.

Hoping to improve his spirits, she offers, “That was excellent. You nearly won.”

Hardly consoled, he disputes, frowning, “No, I didn’t. He was just playing with me.”

Valaena sighs as he turns and walks back toward Criston, demanding another match. Leaning back, she peers over their heads at the sky and watches as a lone cloud drifts past the isle. After a moment, she notices as a large bird partially blocks out the Sun, though she thinks little of it until it grows so curiously great as to blot it out completely.

Standing, she wonders at the increasingly familiar, flying figure. “Is that Stormcloud?”

Distracted, Jacaerys joins her in peering at the nearing animal. As they walk closer to the shore, they begin to hear piercing wails that are sharp and garbled but unmistakably a dragon’s call.

The small, blue drake flies clumsily with a little boy hanging from his neck. He struggles to stay in the air, dipping up and down. Soon, he falls short of the beach and crashes into the water several yards out.

Alarmed, Valaena and Jacaerys rush into the sea. Jacaerys is faster, diving ahead as Valaena swims after him. He comes back to the water’s surface holding their brother Aegon.

Aegon, who cannot swim as well as his Velaryon siblings, thrashes in the water even as Jacaerys holds him up. Coughing up saltwater and crying profusely, he pleads with them for Stormcloud.

Hoping to answer his prayer, Valaena dips underwater. Just beyond the shallows, she spies Stormcloud thrashing and drowning. He is heavily wounded, the stubs of countless arrows embedded in his belly and a scorpion bolt skewering his neck. Hot blood gushes black and smoking from his wounds. Mournful yet aware that there is nothing that can be done for him, she resurfaces.  

With her head out of the water, she hears Aegon speaking to Jacaerys, “—and when the other ship sunk, Stormcloud came down to get me, and I didn’t know what to do, so I hung onto his neck, and we flew away, and—” He breaks off, sobbing.

More so to Jacaerys than Aegon, Valaena inquires, “What about Viserys?” Their youngest brother has no dragon on which he could have escaped if the Gay Abandon and its convoy were sacked, as it seems they were.

Aegon sobs harder at the mention of their brother’s name, giving her some answer. Though she regrets already interrogating him while he is so upset and has just lost his dragon, she demands with more urgency, “Aegon, what happened to Viserys?”

“I don’t know,” he whines. His youthful countenance twisted in remorse, he confesses, “I left him.”

Though the water has been made warm by the dying dragon sinking within it, Valaena feels as though she has been encased in ice. She and Jacaerys lock eyes, wearing what she imagines are similar expressions of horror and distress. Their eyes turn next to the shore, where more people have gathered since Aegon’s arrival, drawn by the spectacle of Stormcloud’s demise. Together, they move to return to the beach.

This time, Valaena reaches their destination first. As she wades onto shore, her soaked skirts weigh her down, forcing her steps to sink into the wet sand. Criston steps forward to offer her his arm and steady her, as well as drape his cloak over her shoulders.

Her eyes scan the beach, and upon spying Ser Robert Quince, she shouts for him to “Ready the castle for attack! I want every man capable of wielding a weapon armed and prepared to defend this hold!” Glancing around once more, she hopes for sight of her grandsire but does not see him. “And summon the Sea Snake! Tell him he need reinforce the Velaryon blockade now!”

When Jacaerys emerges from the sea, he, too, begins yelling orders. “Assemble the dragonriders around the Painted Table!” He also calls for a maester for Aegon, who he still carries in his arms.

As soon as Aegon is handed off to Gerardys, Jacaerys rushes off, though Valaena remains to inquire after Aegon’s good health. After a careful examination, the maester reports that Aegon is bruised and frightened but otherwise unharmed. Relieved, she leaves him with a promise to return and heads for the Chamber of the Painted Table.

When she arrives, she learns that it is the Triarchy—not the Lannisters, as she had expected—that has attacked them. Many of the Velaryon ships near the mouth of the bay were bombarded soon after the Gay Abandon fell to the Free Cities. Corlys has departed already, going to meet the enemy’s southern squadron, which has bypassed Dragonstone and attacked Driftmark.

As she falls into place beside him, Jacaerys carries on, “Their line of ships is still closer to Driftmark.” He points to the isle on the Painted Table before drawing a line from it to Dragonstone. “We can come in from the east and take down their galleys one-by-one.”

Around the table, every dragonrider from both Driftmark and Dragonstone listens attentively. Addam and Nettles, Sheepstealer’s rider, harken with earnest expressions. Ulf White and Hugh Hammer appear restless, doubtlessly eager to mount their dragons for battle. Rhaenys, standing to the right of the queen, is grave. Rhaenyra stands tall but uneasy, her countenance pale and furious.

Jacaerys continues, “Bear in mind that we must leave whichever ship has aboard it Prince Viserys unmolested. It is like to bear a signal of some sort to spare itself from attack. Once you spot it, alert the Princess Rhaenys.” He pivots toward Rhaenys. “Grandmother, you must inform Lord Corlys at once.”

Rhaenys, for all that she has been reluctant to deal with her husband of late, nods shortly and without a hint of protest.

Satisfied with the directions he has given thus far, he says, “All right, let us depart—”

At this, Rhaenyra objects, “No. You and Valaena will remain here.”

Straightening, Valaena raises an objection of her own. “Mother, you cannot expect us to do naught while the Triarchy attempts to besiege us, and with our brother at its mercy.”

“I can, and I do,” Rhaenyra sharply rebukes. “You two are not to leave this hold.” With that, she sweeps from the room and ignores Valaena as she calls after her. Everyone else soon follows the queen, her departure having dismissed them from the meeting over which Jacaerys reigned.

Once they are alone, Valaena and Jacaerys turn to one another. They share a look of unmistakable intent and walk from the room as one. They head for closest secret passageway leading onto the Dragonmont, hastening up a flight of stairs, at the top of which they are outpaced by Criston. He steps into their path, placing his hand on Jacaerys’s chest and pushing him back a step when he tries to move past him.

“I cannot permit you to leave the castle. Your mother the queen has commanded it,” Criston informs them.

Valaena counters, “Our mother commanded us to remain in the castle. She issued you nary a directive.”

With a slight, indulgent smile, he replies, “I am sworn to obey Her Grace and abide by her commands.”

“You are sworn to me,” she contravenes him.

His tone a little more serious, he clarifies, “As your sworn protector, it is my duty to guard you from any and all peril, including that which you invite unto yourself.”

Valaena sighs, anxious to rescue Viserys and annoyed that Criston is exhorting her as though he is her father. She tries to think of something snappish to say, but before she can, a blade appears under Criston’s chin. Noticing it, as well, he slowly brings up his hands.

Baela, who is barely visible over Criston’s left shoulder, orders him, “Remove your baldric and place it on the floor.”

Nostrils flared, Criston does as ordered. As soon as it touches the ground, Jacaerys darts forward to pick up the baldric and throws it down the staircase behind them. Criston watches it soar through the air with a vexed expression that worsens when Baela says, “Go on and get it then.”

Ignoring her, Criston turns his somber gaze onto Valaena. “Do not do this, Princess. You are your mother’s heir. Should she fall in battle, you would be queen. You cannot fly out alongside her.”

Though Valaena is sympathetic to Criston’s plight—she knows that he has joined their cause out of concern for her safety, as well as that her mother is sure to castigate him as soon as she learns that he allowed her children to slip past him—she will not abandon her baby brother for his sake. “Go get your sword, Ser Criston,” she placidly commands. Her statement is bolstered by Jacaerys, who places his hand on the hilt of his own weapon.

Huffing, Criston rushes down the stairs, likely hopeful that he will be able to intercept them again. Unfortunately for him, the entrance to the passageway is too close for such a feat. The three of them make for it in a mad dash, squeezing through the hidden fissure in the stone wall in less than a minute.

As they jog through cramped, dusty, old corridors, Valaena breathlessly asks Baela, “Where have you been?”

Striding in front of Valaena and behind Jacaerys, Baela answers, “Trying to mount Moondancer.”

“I take it she wasn’t amenable,” gleans Valaena.

“She let me saddle her,” Baela contradicts, though with a weary tone. “But she would not permit me to mount her.” Mindful of Baela’s chagrin, Valaena buries her surprise. For years, Baela has been trying to place a saddle on Moondancer’s back, hoping that she would then allow Baela to ride her, but to no avail. Baela may not have succeeded in becoming a dragonrider this day, but Valaena imagines the occasion is forthcoming.

At last, they make it to the end of the passageway, blinking against the sunlight that greets them on the Dragonmont. Turning to her sister, Valaena consoles her, “It is like for the best. You’d not want your first ride together to be for the sake of a battle.”

Baela hums noncommittally as she steps forward to hug Valaena. Valaena attempts to evade her embrace, aware that her clothes and hair are still wet, but Baela persists, gripping her tightly. When she pulls back, she says, “I shall return and stay with Aegon.”

“Good. Tell him all will be well soon,” replies Valaena.

Nodding, Baela steps over to Jacaerys, clearly intent on giving him a kiss. He startles and takes a half-step back, likely for the same reason that Valaena tried to avoid her, but Baela catches him and presses their lips together.

After they pull away from one another, Jacaerys clears his throat. “We must be on our way.” He grabs Valaena’s wrist and starts dragging her along, calling back over his shoulder, “Keep safe!”

They run into Vermax first. The dragon practically runs toward Jacaerys, who quickly scales his shoulder and settles into his saddle. Without bothering to chain himself down, Jacaerys grabs the reins and shouts down to Valaena, “Do you need help finding Veraxes?”

“No,” she calls back. “Go on!”

Nodding, he snaps the reins and yells, “Sōvēs, Vermax!” Shifting his weight onto his haunches, Vermax lets loose a cry of excitement and takes to the sky.

It takes Valaena ten minutes and the effort of climbing three hills to find her own dragon. Veraxes, made antsy by the nearby battle, screeches as soon as he lays eyes on her. She tells him to calm, though if anything, he only grows more anxious as she mounts him, chittering all the while. Once she has strapped herself into her saddle, she repeats, “Lykirī, lykirī.” She strokes along his neck until she feels she has enough command over him to ride him into battle, at which point she orders him skyward.

As they make it out over the sea, Valaena is struck by the scene before her. Near two-hundred warships clutter the Gullet, at least a third of them smoking and sinking. Eight dragons, including her own, soar overhead, spitting fire down the line of Triarchy galleys. Catapults cast blazing stones from ship to ship, sending splintered wood in every direction. Flaming men jump into the sea as their ships go down, their brilliant figures snuffed out by the water. 

She cannot see her mother’s face from this distance, but she knows when Rhaenyra spots Vermax and Veraxes. Syrax shouts out their combined displeasure, both mothers unhappy to see their children in the thick of battle.

Valaena flies as far eastward as she can manage, searching for any indication of Viserys and blowing apart ships that bear no sign of him. She turns back when so many arrows and scorpion bolts are aimed at her that she can no longer discern which ships carry friends and which ferry foes. Tugging on the reins, she urges Veraxes into the clouds and turns back toward Dragonstone. She reasons that if she cannot find Viserys herself, she may as well go on the defensive. The sooner the Triarchy realizes that they are like to lose this battle, the sooner they will surrender and offer the safe return of her brother as part of their plea for mercy.

Once they rejoin the other dragons, Valaena follows Jacaerys’s lead. He and Rhaenyra lead two separate assaults, with him tackling a group of Myrish ships near Dragonstone and her striking Lysene galleys nearer to Driftmark. Following after Seasmoke, who trails Vermax, Valaena aims Veraxes’s maw at a ship with an archer in its crow’s-nest.

Even as the Sun nears the horizon, the fighting wages on. From what she can tell, despite the Triarchy’s unexpected advance, the Blacks retain their advantage. It is they who command dragons, and though the Triarchy and Velaryon fleets are fairly evenly matched, it is the latter that wars in its native sea.

Still, even victors suffer losses. Valaena mourns this truth as the Triarchy succeeds in its assault on another of her family’s dragons. Though a much larger dragon than Stormcloud had been, and nearly fully grown, too, Vermax falls to a well-aimed missile.

A grapnel shoots out from a Myrish galley, its prongs finding purchase between two of Vermax’s scales and tearing a long, jagged gash through the dragon’s belly. Shrieking, Vermax goes down screaming and smoking. His body twisted in agony, he crashes into a burning galley and sinks into the waves beyond it.

Sitting atop her own dragon, who is too close to the clouds to fall victim to any enemy projectiles, Valaena finds herself unable to take breath. She wonders if there is too much smoke in the air, so much so that her lungs refuse to draw it in, but she suspects that it is mere shock that constrains her. Shock and terror and grief, the very same emotions she felt when she learnt that Arrax’s mangled body had fallen into the sea.

Eventually, her body demands that she inhale, though this pushes her into hysteria. She begins hyperventilating, and so disturbed is she that she knows not how to proceed. All is lost, she feels. What does one do when all is lost?

The answer never comes to her. Agitated by her upset, Veraxes takes charge, submerging them in the battle below once more. She allows him to guide her, her thoughts too fuzzy from despair for her to lead him, herself, the other dragons, the queen’s men, anyone, or anything.

As Veraxes nears the very ship that dealt the lethal blow against her brother’s dragon, her eyes trail across the wreckage of Vermax’s crash. The green dragon has already completely disappeared, his and her brother’s corpse drowned and never to be seen again. The ship Vermax had struck is mostly sunken, as well, only its fractured stern peeking out of the water. Nearby, large pieces of driftwood float, some aflame but most too damp to sustain so much as a spark. She spies a desperate sailor clinging to one such piece, his slight frame taut from the effort of holding on and his dark head of hair sodden from the—

Leaning forward, Valaena nearly pitches herself from Veraxes’s saddle for want of a better glimpse of the familiar figure. Her heart set to beat from her chest, she bellows, “Jace!”

Her brother is too far to hear her, but he is alive. Alive, she rejoices.

Alive for now, she recognizes. A nearby Myrish ship hosts a score of archers, many of whom raise their bows for a chance to slay him.

Enraged, Valaena roars, and Veraxes echoes her cry. Fraught with protective fury, she brings Veraxes into a sharp dive and directs him to loose a ball of flame at the galley, so hot that it burns blue and bursts the whole ship asunder in one fell swoop. With that threat vanquished, she turns Veraxes in a wide circle over Jacaerys’s wafting form, intent to remain close until one of their grandsire’s ships finds him and pulls him aboard.

No such Velaryon ship ever comes to his aid, however. Rather, Triarchy ships close in from every direction, their sights set on Veraxes now that they know they can bring down a dragon near his size.

She and Veraxes are beset by a barrage of arrows, scorpion bolts, and other such missiles. Most of them sail past them, though some glance off of Veraxes’s scales. Incensed, Veraxes returns their fire with just that, burning through Tyroshi and Lysene ships left and right.

Before long, however, one shot aims true. A flaming arrow rockets over Veraxes’s head and strikes Valaena in the shoulder.

Mindlessly, Valaena responds to the searing shock of pain blooming along her shoulder by ripping loose the arrow from her flesh and patting out the small fire that persists on her torn bodice. From then, she holds her arm carefully at her side, not wanting to jostle it and arouse any more discomfort than is necessary.

Veraxes, made distraught by her injury, sends a final tendril of fire toward their enemies before turning toward Dragonstone. Panicked by the thought of leaving Jacaerys behind, Valaena protests, “Do! Daor, Veraxes!”

Her dragon tries to ignore her, going so far as to flap his wings harder as he strives to bring her to safety. Displeased, she yanks hard on the reins with her good arm, barking, “Dohaerās, Veraxes!” Veraxes squawks in dissent but turns back at the command all the same.

After locating Jacaerys once more, Valaena keeps Veraxes in the air and engaged for as long as she can manage. She sends dragonfire at any enemy who so much as looks in her brother’s direction. By contrast, her eyes almost never leave him, and she clings to hope of his survival just as he clings to the hunk of driftwood beneath him. 

Eventually, however, she grows too light-headed to continue, the wound on her shoulder bleeding more heavily than she would have anticipated. When Veraxes turns back toward the castle a second time, she is too tired to protest, even as guilt eats at her.

Veraxes lands within one of the castle wardens and lets out a loud bellow, as though to call for help for his rider. His cry seems to have the opposite effect, however, most of the men who had been milling about scrambling back from the giant beast and his apparent fury.

Withal, one man comes forward. As Valaena climbs down from Veraxes’s back—a difficult task with the use of only one arm—Criston steps up to meet her. His hands go to her waist, pulling her from her dragon’s wing and onto the ground beside him. At first, he merely offers her his elbow, but when he spies the bloody gash on her right side, he draws it back and takes her up in his arms.

Startled, she squeaks quietly but objects no further, doubtful of her own ability to walk all the way to Grand Maester Gerardys. She does not remain quiet, however, shouting to anyone they come across that Jacaerys is in desperate need of a rescue.

Once in they arrive in the maester’s quarters, which are filled to the brim with bleeding, broken men, Gerardys’s attention is diverted from a young man who has had his leg blown off to her. He directs Criston to carry her into a small, private room and set her down in a chair.

“Thank you, Ser Criston. You may leave us,” says Gerardys, his tone surly. In the time since her mother reinstated Criston to the Queensguard, Gerardys has twice made it known that he does not approve.

Criston lingers by the door, clearly reticent to leave. He only does so when Valaena nods to him, putting on a brave face even as she fights against the instinct to wince as she moves her arm into a better position for inspection.

Once the door is shut behind Criston, Valaena loosens the lacing on her dress and pulls down her bodice and sleeve enough to bare the tender flesh of her shoulder. Reprovingly, Gerardys clicks his tongue when he sees the full extent of the wound.

He starts by treating the burn, holding up a flame near the wound to draw out the igneous particles attached to the tissue. As the fire leaks out of her, burning as it goes, she grimaces and resists the urge to twitch away from the flame.

After that bit is finished, he moves onto digging whatever pieces are left of the arrow out of her shoulder. She groans as he digs into the wound with a probe slathered in rose honey, making it wide enough for him to insert tongs and extract the shrapnel. As he works, one of his apprentices comes into the room and offers her milk of the poppy to soothe the pain, but she refuses, wary of the drug after watching her grandsire waste away under its thrall.

Once the wound is clean, he stitches it up. At this point, the pain hardly bothers her, relieved is she that the treatment is nearly over.

He covers the stitched wound with honey salve and a plaster. As his apprentice helps her tie up her dress, he tells her to be careful not to irritate the wound and that he will see her about its progress in four hours. In the meantime, he adds, she should drink broth to regain her strength.  

She does just that, though she is perhaps not as careful as he would have liked. For the duration of the battle, she marches through the halls of Dragonstone, barking orders and drinking goat stock from a flask. She allows herself to take a breath only when she learns that Jacaerys has been pulled from the sea, burning up from a fever but still breathing.

Once the battle is concluded, she gathers in the throne room alongside the rest of the small council and most of the other dragonriders. Other than Jacaerys, she notices that Ulf White and Hugh Hammer, too, are conspicuously absent.

Grimly, her grandsire Corlys informs everyone present that the battle is won, though at great cost. Stood between Addam and Rhaenys, he states, “We have captured a great many sailors from the Free Cities. Everyone with so much as a scintilla of authority has been questioned, and the resolution is,” he stalls, exhaling a shaky breath, “the Prince Viserys is gone to the Stranger.”

At the report, Rhaenyra is thereupon distraught. Her hand flies up to cover her mouth, out of which erupts a haunting scream of anguish. Baela reflects the same emotion, a visceral sob bursting from her, though her reaction is soon masked by her grandmother, who pulls Baela into her embrace and whispers condolences against the crown of her head. On the other side of the hall, Nettles’s face, black with smoke, is soon streaked with tears.

Valaena, too, feels despair and turmoil rise within her, but before it can spill from her, she swallows it. Stony and silent, she draws her mother into her arms to console her. Rhaenyra folds into Valaena’s embrace, sobbing into her ear and pressing their heads together so hard that her crown digs into Valaena’s skull. As Rhaenyra grips her, she leans into Valaena’s tender shoulder, though Valaena does not complain.

Peering over her mother’s heaving shoulder, Valaena asks Gerardys, her tone dull, “What of Jacaerys?” Though she feels that she cannot bear to hear any more bad tidings, she recognizes that it is best to dispense with any such unpleasantness soon rather than late.

Unmistakably trying to place an optimistic edge to his voice, Gerardys answers, “He may yet recover.”

Hardly cheered, she inquires further, “‘May?’”

He expounds, “The Prince Jacaerys is beset by a fever, like to be the result of something he imbibed from the sea. Was he able to keep down any of the drink or elixir I have administered, I might have more hope, but—”

The maester breaks off as Rhaenyra’s cries increase in their intensity. Pulling back from her, Valaena stares into her mother’s overflowing, lilac eyes. As gently and as evenly as she can manage, she says, “Go be with Jace, Mother. I will attend to matters here.”

Rhaenyra surprises her by moving in quick, staggered movements as she untangles them. Gripping either side of Valaena’s head, she groans, “I told you both you were not to leave the castle. I forbade you from joining the battle.” Biting her lip and nodding, Valaena admits her impertinence. Rhaenyra lowers her voice to a grave whisper. “If he should die, too,” she trails off, changing course. “You are the elder,” she says, plainly insinuating that Valaena shall hold the blame for having allowed him to enter the fray. Another powerful wave of emotion strikes Valaena, replete with guilt and grief and self-loathing. She nods again and desperately wills herself not to cry.

Therewith, Rhaenyra allows herself to be drawn from the hall by Baela. As her mother is pulled away from her, Valaena avoids her sister’s eyes, wary of encountering more sensation in them than she currently feels within herself.

Feeling as though the Stranger is standing at her shoulder, the cold feeling she has borne since learning that the Gay Abandon had been attacked having sharpened with the news of her brother’s demise, Valaena turns away from those gathered around her. Stiff-limbed, she walks toward her throne and takes her place on it for the first time, her mother having occupied it until now.

Almost as soon as she has sat down, Gerardys steps up to her, telling her that he wishes to check her wound. Listless, she waves him on.

As the lords standing before her begin to speak amongst themselves, Addam notices her pulling down her dress for treatment. Treading over to her, he shields the room’s view of her by raising his cape. Looking up at him, she watches as the corner of his mouth twitches up in a reassuring half-grin, though she is unable to return the gesture.

Beyond her sight, she hears Lord Celtigar congratulate her grandsire on his victory. Despite the long, bloody battle, the Velaryon fleet has been brought down by only a third, and his blockade is still strong enough to withstand another attack.

Driftmark, Spicetown, and High Tide have all been burnt and sacked, however, and all of his treasures from his decades of seafaring adventure destroyed. His heir lies in what may very well be his deathbed, with little Prince Viserys lost to the sea. Corlys answers Celtigar, “If this be victory, I pray I never win another.”

After Gerardys finishes replacing the plaster over her shoulder, Valaena fixes her dress. His chivalrous duties complete, Addam returns to his place at Corlys’s side.

Sitting with her back straight, she folds her hands in her lap. Once she feels as though she can speak without weeping, she starts, “My husband has cost me another brother.” Mayhaps two, she privately adds, thinking of her eldest brother clinging to life in Sea Dragon Tower.

For a moment, all are quiet. Criston breaches the miserable silence. “Not as such, Princess.” She glances at him. “This was Ser Otto’s plot. The Prince Aemond forbade it so long as you and Prince Aenar remained on Dragonstone.”

Valaena turns her head toward him more fully, less interested in what he says than that which it implies. She surmises, “You knew about this.”

Haltingly, he admits, “Yes.”

Lip curling in a half-snarl, she accuses, “And yet you said nothing.” Suddenly, horribly, she feels as though she ought not to trust him so readily.

He ducks his head. “As I said, Prince Aemond forbade it. I thought that the end of the matter.”

“Evidently, you were mistaken,” she harshly intones. “Be there any other plots of which you are aware, forbidden or not?”

After taking a moment to think, the cynical eyes of the room on him, he produces, “When I left King’s Landing, Prince Aemond was considering a plan to take Harrenhal back from Pri—King Daemon.”

“I see.” She finds herself glad, for once, for her husband’s ambition. His desire to win a victory against Daemon will rob the Greens of the only dragon safeguarding their stronghold in the capital.

Her own ambition turns her mind to strategy. Thinking of the slip of paper Criston had given her when first he arrived, she says, “I shall reach out to my whisperers in the city.” Her fists clench in her lap, and her voice hardens. “And as soon as we hear word as to when the lone Green dragonrider and his army are to depart, we can slate our attack.”

Valaena peers down at the lords and dragonriders assembled. They straighten their stances as her eyes fall on each of them in turn. She declares, “We have eight fully grown dragons. We can take King’s Landing in a day and have every Green head left in the city mounted on a pike before the fucking Sun sets.” 

In the days that follow the Battle of the Gullet, Rhaenyra regains what strength she lost when Lucerys died. Her heart hardens, and she becomes ruthless. She has executed the entirety of the near twelve-hundred men they captured from the Daughters’ fleet. She is more proactive in other ways, too. At last, she solidifies some of her small council, naming Corlys Hand of the Queen and Valaena mistress of whisperers. Plans are set forth for the taking of King’s Landing.

Rhaenyra is not the only one who undergoes a change. Rather, everyone is in poor spirits. Valaena remains stoic, languidly drifting through the castle as she goes about her duties.

Aenar turns restless, unwilling to calm no matter who beseeches him. Throughout the past week, he has been crying for long stretches of time with both the nursemaids and Valaena unable to soothe him. He screeches unrelentingly with his face red and his little fists clenched.

Despite her lack of success, Valaena still tries to calm her child. She paces up and down the length of the nursery, dandling him in her arms. At first, she makes a pointed effort to avoid Viserys’s cot in the corner of the room, wishing not to dwell on its vacancy. After a while, however, she notices that the closer they are to it, the louder are Aenar’s cries.

Curious, she steps up to it. Indeed, his wailing grows louder and louder, and once they are close enough, he extends his arm down toward it, as though reaching for something or someone.

Looking between the whining boy and the empty bed, Valaena is struck as she realizes the cause of her son’s distress. Though so young, he, too, misses Viserys, with whom he had shared this room his entire life. That is, until Viserys had been sent away and—

Groaning, Valaena presses her spare hand against her breastbone and tries to steady herself. The dam she has constructed within herself buckles under the forceful weight of another unsplit wave of tears, though before it can give way, a voice from the door distracts her. Turning, she finds Baela gesturing for her to follow and proclaiming that Jacaerys wishes to see her.

Stunned anew, Valaena asks, voice watery, “What? He’s awake?” Jacaerys’s fever has remained constant for the past three days, and despite Gerardys’s best efforts and everyone’s prayers, he has shown no signs of recovery.

“He is. He’s,” Baela pauses, the tremor in her voice audible in her shaky inhale, “He’s upset. He wishes to see you. He wishes for Aegon, as well, but—” She does not finish her statement, for Valaena knows her meaning. Since the battle, Aegon has not deigned to leave his rooms, all the joy having gone out of the boy.

Distractedly, she hands Aenar off to a wet nurse, somewhat reluctant to part with him while he remains so upset but mindful that she should not bring her weeping babe to Jacaerys’s sick bed. She and Baela set off, arriving at Jacaerys’s apartment before long with Criston at their heels. At the door, she can hear shouting, and the clamor is revealed to her once she reaches Jacaerys’s bedchamber.

His blanket tucked around his writhing legs, Jacaerys sits up in bed, sweaty and sobbing violently. Their mother sits at his side, fruitlessly trying to soothe him. Valaena finds herself unable to make her way into the room, so shocked is she by the sight before her. She has not seen her brother cry like this since their father died. He had made it past Lucerys’s death with but a few tears, and there had been none for their grandsire Viserys. Seeing him now, she suspects he has been holding in his sorrow all these months. Now, with Viserys’s and Vermax’s deaths, as well as the weakness from his fever, it all pours from him, scalding him on its way out.

It is only when Baela points her out to him and they lock eyes that Valaena regains her mobility. He reaches out toward her, and feeling for her little brother, usually so strong, she moves to his side. Teary-eyed, he grasps her arm. “Valaena, you were right. You were right.” Confused, she raises her brow, and he clarifies, his voice pitched high, “I killed our brother.”

“No,” she and Rhaenyra dispute in unison. Jacaerys shakes his head, trembling. Trying to steady him, Valaena grabs him by the shoulders and adds, “Hark, Brother. It is no fault of yours.”

“It is,” he howls. Despite herself, she shrinks back. “We never should have sent them off. You were right. I killed him, just as I did Luke—” His voice breaks off in a gasp, and he chokes on a half-formed breath as his heaving recommences.

For the next hour, the three women try in vain to calm him. It is only his own fitfulness that finally does him in, exhausting him to the point that he faints.

Once Valaena has been shooed from the room by Gerardys, who insists that Jacaerys hence requires solitude for his recovery, she abstractedly moves down the hall, advancing only so far as another door down the way. Turning the door’s knob, she slips inside the room that lies beyond it and shuts the door behind her.

Staring into Lucerys’s dusty, unoccupied rooms, she finally permits herself to ponder all that which she has chased from her mind of late. She thinks of Viserys, alone on the high seas, too young to understand his fate as the ships around him burned and sank. She speculates that it was she who doomed him, not Jacaerys, as it had been she who cursed him by insisting that he would have been safer at Dragonstone.

Her face crumples, and as she often does whenever she visits Lucerys’s empty apartment these days, she falls to the floor and cries. Her skirts pooled around her, she claws at the stone beneath her and whimpers until she feels that her heart is about to burst.

Her cries must grow so loud as to be heard outside. The door is thrust open, revealing her sworn shield. Criston bears a look of great pity as he marches over and envelopes her in his arms. Too weary to fight against any unseemly affection, she breaks down entirely, slumping against his afflictive armor and wailing the name of the latest of her brothers into his shoulder.

Chapter Text

133 A.C.

Aemond lands Vhagar on one of Dragonstone’s many beaches, directly beside Veraxes. He takes his time dismounting, not looking forward to his wife’s gloating.

When he reaches the ground, he hears Valaena’s teasing voice. “Took you long enough,” she taunts him. She stands beside her dragon with her arms crossed and a cocky grin on her face.

“You may attribute your victory to your mount’s diminutive size,” he gripes. Though the Dragonkeepers recently declared that Veraxes was fully grown, Vhagar remains little less than three times larger than him. He will continue to grow as the years pass them, but for now, his smaller size allows him to best Vhagar in any race in which the two dragons and their riders partake.

Valaena scoffs at his characterization of her dragon, though there is not a shade of ill will to her countenance as she takes one of his hands in hers and stands on her toes to grant him a peck on the lips. Pulling back, she beams up at him, “How fortunate I am to have you with me. I always miss you so desperately whenever I venture here alone.”

After years of effort, Valaena finally convinced Aemond to accompany her on her annual month-long sojourn to Dragonstone. She had spoken frequently of how happy it would make her for him to join her. At last, he decided that he did not want to be the sort of man who begrudged his lady her wishes. So, too, did he not want to spend an entire moon of another year without her. All that said, he still resents the weeks he is to spend playing guest of the whore on Dragonstone.

Heedless as to his misgivings and manifestly excited, Valaena gestures at their surroundings. “So, how dost thou favor it thus far?”

He hums, as though unimpressed. Having never been to Dragonstone before, he is taken aback by its splendor. The enormous, black castle, while smaller than the Red Keep, is certainly magnificent. Its dragon architecture bespeaks its Valyrian heritage, adding to its allure. He deadpans, “It’s small.”

“Oh, hush,” she chides him. Grabbing his hand, she begins pulling him along the beach.

They traverse the sand as Dragonstone’s salty breeze pushes at them, filling their nostrils with the smell of smoke and brimstone. After a few minutes, they round a large rock formation and find themselves on another beach, one that buttresses the bridge leading up to the castle. Its open gate is blocked by a large, red dragon. Slumbering, Caraxes lies coiled around the gate. Though only half the size of his own dragon, Aemond is worried by the sight of him, having heard how temperamental the beast can be, much like his rider.

Unconcerned herself, Valaena claps and shouts, “Caraxes, aerās!”

Jolting awake, Caraxes snaps open his eyes and turns his head. With a whistly breath, he lifts his long neck from the ground and winds it towards them, imparting a threatening look before getting up and stomping away. With him out of the way, Valaena practically skips past the gate, tugging Aemond along with her.

They make it halfway up the long, winding path amidst a comfortable silence before she breaches it. “I should tell you that my family’s enthusiasm as to our joint arrival is a bit more measured than is mine.”

“Is it,” he comments wryly, entirely unsurprised. He knows well how Rhaenyra and her brood loathe him, and were he to ever forget, he need only look into a mirror for a reminder. “No matter. I care naught for their thoughts of me.”

For all his projected confidence, he feels himself subconsciously squeeze her hand a little tighter. Though he does not doubt Valaena’s devotion to him, he is aware of the credence she gives her family’s words. He has long suspected that they use her visits to attempt to draw her away from him, and soon, he shall know for certain.

Humming a little disbelievingly, she says, “Very well. I ask only that you not stir up any trouble.”

“Me,” he challenges, somewhat offended. He thinks it is better her brothers, the little savages, who should mind themselves.

“Yes,” she returns sharply. “I beg you, keep the surliness to the least.” When he grunts in complaint, she offers him a provocative incentive. “I promise, you shall be handsomely rewarded.”

Bringing them to a stop, he turns toward her. “Is that so?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, placing her free hand on the nape of his neck and pulling his head down for an involved kiss.

After they pull back and continue walking, it is not long before the gate on the other side of the bridge comes into view. As the sound of quick feet approaches them, Aemond drops her hand. A boy with chin-length, white-blond hair runs out to greet Valaena first. Excitedly, she shouts his name and drops to her knees to welcome him into her arms. Her half-brother crashes into her, nearly tipping them both over.

Clumsily, Aegon untangles himself from her. Standing upright once more, he grabs her hand and begins dragging her toward the castle, shouting all the while, “Valaena! You’re here! You’re here! You have to see Stormcloud. He’s gotten so big. And look!” He whips around, sticks one of his fingers into his mouth, and pulls back his lips, slurring, “I lost another tooth!”

Ducking down to his height even as spittle flies in every direction, she applauds, “Wow, a molar. That’s a big one.”

As they continue on their path, Aemond lags behind the pair, dragging his feet even more so once they are in sight of the reception. He is surprised to see that the entire family has come out to greet Valaena. Receptions are never so grand at the Red Keep.

Once they are past the gate, she detaches from Aegon and runs into Jacaerys’s arms. His wide grin matching hers, he picks her up and swings her around. After they part, she pivots to the right, throwing her arms around one of Daemon’s twins. “Baela! You beat us here.”

Gazing fondly at Valaena, Baela tells her, “I wished to be here to receive you.”

Valaena moves onto Rhaena, breathing her name as they embrace. Lucerys is next, though before he can wind his arms around her, she steps back from him, a look of consternation on her face. “Are you taller than I?” A smug grin comes to his face, infuriating Aemond. “But you are only three-and-ten!”

Her displeasure does not last long, and they embrace. As Lucerys rests his head on her shoulder, Aemond glares at his blissful, cherubic face. It is absurd, he thinks, that after all that the little twat has done, he should be able to keep up the act of the innocent younger brother.

Rhaenyra is next in the line of people for Valaena to greet, though if there was any protocol to this reception, she would have been first. Rhaenyra holds her youngest child, Viserys, in her arms. Valaena coos at him and leans in to give him a kiss, but he starts crying and turns around in their mother’s arms before she has the chance.

Pulling back, Valaena pouts at the rejection. Sympathetically, Rhaenyra tells her, “He doesn’t remember you. He shall warm to you with time.”

Dejected, Valaena forces a smile and embraces her mother from the side. She moves open-armed to Daemon, who rejects her, too, gingerly reaching out an arm to push her away. She sends him a wounded look.

Wrinkling his nose, he defers, “After you’ve bathed.”

On his left, Joffrey shouts up at his sister, “Yea, you stink,” and takes a jittery step back.

Slowly turning towards him, she intones, “I stink like dragon!” She holds up her hands, fashioning them into the shape of clawed feet, and roars like an animal. Delighted, he dashes away, and she gives chase. Aegon runs after them, too, jumping onto Valaena’s back when she finally catches Joffrey.

Left alone with the rest of her family, Aemond finds that it is Rhaena who glares at him the most persistently, though Daemon, Rhaenyra, Baela, and Jacaerys are all closely tied for second. It is Rhaenyra who finally acknowledges him. Dipping her head slightly, she says, “Brother, be welcome.”

As politely as he can manage, he returns, “Rhaenyra.” In the corner of his eye, he sees Daemon’s frown worsen.

As the screaming in the background escalates, Jacaerys dryly comments, “The future queen, everyone.”

Everyone else twists around to look at the commotion going on behind them, watching as Valaena successfully wrestles down two squirming, shrieking little boys. Meanwhile, Aemond wonders if Jacaerys is as bitter about his elder sibling being the one to inherit as he is with Aegon.

From twenty feet away, Valaena turns around with Joffrey flailing about in her arms. “I heard that, Jace!”

Jacaerys’s face contorts in disbelief. “How?”

“Mayhaps being the future queen gives one magical abilities,” suggests Baela.

The assembled children look to Rhaenyra, who stifles a grin and nods solemnly. They all giggle, and Aemond stifles his resentment for the lot of them.

Blessedly, Valaena draws him away from the group before long. They head directly for her apartment, arriving to find Aster already there and unpacking, the handmaid having come to the isle by ship with their luggage earlier in the day.

As Valaena moves about her rooms, Aemond remains by the entryway and takes in the space. He finds the layout of the rooms to be very similar to that of her apartment in the Red Keep, if reversed. As he steps into her bedchamber, he discovers that even here, a cloak hangs over her bed.

She notices where his attention lies. Pointing to the mantle, which he vaguely recognizes as her maiden’s cloak, she says, “I thought it would be fitting there.”

“How fortunate I am that you did. I do not know that I can fall asleep without a cloak hanging over my head,” he jests warmly.

Lips quirking as she fits herself into his side, she remarks, “The handfasting cloth is absent.”

In a deadpan, he replies, “Then I shall lie awake.”

She pulls away, laughing, and retreats into the bathing room. He spends half an hour padding around her apartment, examining the trinkets strewn about her rooms and inspecting her book collection, before she re-emerges wearing naught but a towel. With the bath free, he takes his turn and dresses before returning to her bedchamber. When he finds it empty, he heads into her solar.

He spots her seated along a cushioned bench, waiting for him. He draws up short at the sight of her in a dress with one of the lowest necklines he has ever seen. His gaze is uncontrollably drawn to her bosom, which is on prominent display. The sight is made all the more alluring and eye-catching by her sapphire pendant, nestled between her swelling breasts.

The uncomfortable feeling in his small clothes worsens as her arms cross under her chest, somehow propping up her teats even more. He just barely notices her raising an eyebrow at him. “Really? You see them all the time.”

“Not like this,” he blusters, embarrassed to be so aroused after having been married this long.

Standing, she treads over to him and runs a finger down the length of his belly. In a low voice, she promises, “Well, if you can contain yourself through supper, I’ll let you come on them later.”

Tearing his eye away from her, he turns his head and hisses a curse under his breath. As she laughs and leaves the room ahead of him, he gives himself a few seconds to compose himself before following.

He trails her down long, winding corridors and several sets of stairs as her blue skirts sway from side to side. At last, they come upon a modestly-sized dining room, where Valaena’s entire family awaits them, even the younger boys, save for Viserys. He feels his steps grow heavier but refuses to linger by the door and appear timid.

Everyone else is already seated, with Rhaenyra at one end of the long table and Daemon at the other, and the only two seats available to the right of him. Valaena is already at his side, greeting him with a kiss on the cheek. As Aemond rounds the table, she moves to sit next to Lucerys, leaving for him the chair between hers and Daemon’s.

While he realizes that she is simply keeping up their usual seating arrangement—she sits to the right of him so that he can see her—he does not want to sit next to Daemon. Though, he supposes, lingering behind the empty chair, he would enjoy sitting next to Lucerys even less so.

When Daemon catches sight of Aemond, he objects, “Absolutely not.”

Somehow surprised, Valaena starts, “Don’t be silly, Dae—”

“No,” he interrupts.

The beginnings of annoyance trickling into her expression, she glances up at Aemond and his flat countenance. She thereupon appears to realize that this disposition will not work. Sighing, she looks across the table, points to Baela and Jacaerys, and makes a circular motion with her hand.

Agreeable, Baela rises from her seat at once, but Jacaerys protests. “What? Why?”

Aemond steps back to permit Baela to take the seat beside her father, ignoring her glare as he moves around her. In the same moment, Valaena takes the seat opposite to her. “Because I said so,” she tells her brother. “Move.”

Peering up at Aemond, who now stands behind Valaena’s chair, Jacaerys clenches his jaw. “No.”

Valaena looks at Jacaerys as though he has gone mad. “I shall not stand for this impertinence.”

“You are seated,” he reminds her.

Squawking in outrage, she slaps the table and says to Rhaenyra, “Mother, what have you been feeding him?”

The corner of her mouth lifting, she replies, “Cheek, mostly.”

Valaena nods. “Ah, yes, and now, it spills from him.”

Having had enough, Jacaerys finally stands and walks to the other side of the table as his siblings chuckle. Aemond takes the relinquished seat on his wife’s left.

Supper starts off slow, with conversation mostly taking place on the other side of the table. Valaena splits her attention between there and her plate, occasionally leaning forward and chiming in. Aemond’s eye goes to her whenever she speaks, as it often does, until at one point, he notices someone else’s eyes on her.

As Joffrey prattles on about his dragon, Daemon stares fairly persistently at Valaena’s bust. Aside from coming into Aemond’s notice, he masterfully avoids being caught, always returning his gaze to his plate whenever Valaena’s head moves back toward their side of the table. Whenever she is distracted anew, however, it consistently slips back. In observing the covert display, Aemond grows volatile and is glad when Daemon’s attention is diverted by his wife as she addresses his eldest daughter.

“And Baela, tell us, how hast thou occupied thyself at Driftmark,” inquires Rhaenyra.

“There is an exciting development,” she says, speaking mostly to Valaena. No one else seems particularly interested, and Aemond assumes that they have all heard this story already. Privately, he wonders how much more frequently Baela travels to Dragonstone than does Valaena, having a shorter distance to traverse.

Valaena wonders, “Oh?”

Eyes alight, Baela reports, “I lost my maidenhead.”

Valaena blanches. For his part, Aemond cannot believe what he is hearing. Are the Blacks truly so depraved that one of their daughters can sully her virtue and boast about it at dinner?

“Horseback riding,” finishes Baela.

Valaena deflates, knowing, as do many, that noblewomen often lose their maidenheads prior to their wedding nights due to the equestrian sport. “Baela,” she complains, her hand pressed to her heart. Baela cackles with glee. “One day, your antics shall kill me.”

“I do not doubt it.” Baela’s grin widens. “And you recall Rolland Hollard?” Valaena rolls her eyes in answer, leading Aemond to believe that the man in question is not well-loved. Baela continues, “He claimed rather that it was he and not my horse who claimed my maidenhead.”

As Valaena gasps loudly, Jacaerys dryly remarks, “What a sentence.”

“He did not,” Valaena nearly shouts. Leaning forward, entranced, she questions, “What did you do?”

Proudly, Baela says, “I challenged him to a duel.” 

More excited than she is scandalized now, Valaena exclaims, “You dueled him?”

Baela shakes her head. “Grandmother forbade it, so I named Father as my champion.” 

Pivoting toward Daemon, Valaena realizes, “Ah, so, he’s dead.” Manifestly pleased with himself, he nods. “A satisfactory ending.” 

Baldly, he remarks, “A more satisfactory ending than she would have found with him.” Valaena’s mouth drops open at the innuendo. “What? You are a woman grown. I can say such things to you now, unless you’ve not yet discovered the meaning of the term.” A smirk playing at his lips, he glances at Aemond, who scowls.

Subtly, she responds, “Just this morning, I rediscovered it, in fact.” Without looking at either of them, she takes a sip of her wine. Daemon, for all that he had started the spat, is not amused, and his gaze turns to a glare.

Rhaenyra unintentionally intervenes once more, asking, “And Valaena? What news is there of King’s Landing?”

Aemond returns to his food, expecting from his wife the same sort of reserved answer she gives whenever Alicent asks her about Dragonstone. Valaena puts down her cup and starts by divulging, “Well, Aegon has fathered another bastard on one of the queen’s maidservants.”

“Has he now,” replies Rhaenyra. “Poor Helaena.”

Valaena goes on as dread begins to pool in Aemond’s gut, killing his appetite. “More of concern, the queen recently had brought out the annals of the last meeting of the Great Council, and note was made of which lords spoke for the king, and which for the Princess Rhaenys.”

His scalp prickling, Aemond gradually appreciates that he is witness to a Black conclave, in which his wife acts almost as a whisperer. She goes further into Alicent’s and Otto’s dealings, as well as into the affairs of other small council members. Until now, Aemond had never realized that she was paying so close attention as to be able to report the exact number of gold dragons lent to the westerlands to aid in the coming harvest.

“And you accompany them,” asks Daemon when Valaena mentions the frequency with which Alicent and Helaena travel into the city to deliver alms to the poor.

Offhand, she affirms, “Always.” Daemon nods his approval.

“Is there anything else,” asks Rhaenyra.

After taking a moment to think, Valaena alters her serious tone to one more lighthearted. “Oh, Helaena is expecting again.”

Not sounding particularly enthused, Rhaenyra remarks, “How wonderful.”

Valaena does not seem to catch her disinterest. “She’s chosen names already. Maelor for a boy, Maelora for a girl.”

Wryly, Daemon suggests, “Or both if it’s twins.” Valaena laughs, not quite hearing the insult that Aemond does.

Pointedly, Rhaenyra inquires, “Have you any more personal news?”

At this, everyone looks at Valaena expectantly, throwing her off. “No?”

“Are you certain,” her mother asks.

“Yes,” she answers, still confused.

“Are you pregnant,” clarifies Daemon.

Her face turning red, she blurts, “What? No.”

Daemon points his knife at Aemond. “Then why is he here?”

As Aemond stiffens, Rhaenyra and Valaena reprove in tandem, “Daemon.”

Unbothered, he gestures at the room at large. “We’re all wondering.”

Aegon, sitting on Aemond’s left, disputes his father’s claim. “I don’t care.” Aemond looks over to watch him shovel some vegetables into his mouth, truly apathetic as to the goings-on.

Aemond turns his head back as Valaena takes his hand. “Because I want him here.” She stares head-on at Daemon, who raises his brow and blows out a sigh. The gesture seems to mean something to Valaena, who turns her attention from him as though the matter is settled.

After dinner concludes, Aemond strives to draw Valaena away, hoping to catechize her as to the report she had given earlier, but she confounds him. She recommends that he head up to bed without her, adding, “On this first day back, I always stay up and get drunk with Jace and the twins.”

Surprised for what feels like the hundredth time that day, he asks, “You’re going to ‘get drunk?’” Never has he seen her drink more than two cups of wine in a day.

“You needn’t wait up for me.” She spares him a kiss on the cheek before skipping after her siblings.

In spite of her advice, Aemond does wait up for Valaena, despising the idea of falling asleep without her. He spends quite some time perusing one of the books on the table beside her bed. When he finishes it, and still, she has not come to bed, he goes out in search of her.

Aster, who is also waiting up for Valaena, informs him as to the path to Jacaerys’s apartment, where she says Valaena most likely is. Sure enough, he does find her there. Valaena, Lucerys, Baela, Rhaena, and Jacaerys are scattered across his solar, all slumped in various, odd positions with cups of wine near at hand. Valaena lies across Jacaerys on one of the benches, with the twins mimicking their position across from them. Lucerys lies on the floor, face-down and with a pillow over his head. From his breathing, Aemond cannot be sure if he is asleep or awake.

None of the five of them notice him. Rather, all eyes are on Baela, who is finishing up some story about a monkey that got loose during an important supper held by the Princess Rhaenys on Driftmark.

Soughing, Valaena declares, “Baela, you live life.” This leads Baela to snort and jostle Rhaena, who spills wine on herself and snaps at her sister to watch herself.

“Luke,” Jacaerys suddenly calls out. Indeed awake, Lucerys grunts in reply from his place on the floor. “How are you feeling?”

Groaning, he answers, “Like I loathe you all.” His older siblings laugh. Turning onto one side, his voice comes out at a sluggish pace as he wonders, “Truly, how do you do this every year?”

Jacaerys snorts. “We drink more often than that.”

Gasping and sitting up, Valaena feigns outrage. “Do you mean that you imbibe without me?”

Baela nods. “Sometimes, Father drinks with us.”

With a more genuine gasp, Valaena complains, indignant, “I wish to drink with Daemon!”

“You do not. He gets mean,” Rhaena tells her, shaking her head.

“Meaner than usual?” Rhaena nods. Exaggeratedly, Valaena snickers and proclaims, “Now, this I must see and hear with mine own eyes and ears!”

Lucerys turns over fully onto his back, his pillow falling to the side of his head. When it touches the floor, he spots Aemond in the doorway and shouts in surprise. Valaena and Rhaena both overreact when they hear the noise, jumping up and screaming. Standing on the bench she and Jacaerys have been sharing, Valaena demands, “What is it? Is there an insect?”

“No,” the boy answers her, his head nodding in Aemond’s direction.

The other four carousers turn to look at him as one. They all right themselves, suddenly far more tense and certainly no longer relaxed, save for Valaena, who cheerily jumps down from the bench and staggers toward him. Jubilantly, she exclaims, “Aemond! I told you you needn’t have stayed up for me.”

Catching her by the arm to prevent her from toppling over, he keeps his voice low so that the others do not overhear him. “I did not venture all the way to Dragonstone so that I might fall asleep by my lonesome.”

Pouting, she pokes his belly. “So surly, just as I said.” In the next moment, her countenance lightens, with her eyes bright and her cheeks beautifully flushed. “Care to join us?”

Jacaerys spares him from thinking up an excuse. Standing, he says, “I think it best we all retire. We should stop before we kill Luke.” Still on the floor, Lucerys concurs with a grunt.

Glad for the dismissal despite the obvious rejection, Aemond takes the opportunity to drag his wife from the room. Surprisingly cooperative, Valaena calls out her farewells to her siblings as they go.

Once back in her bedchamber, he walks her up to the bed before releasing her. She promptly, gracelessly falls onto her back on the mattress. Eyes closed, she spreads out her arms and laughs. “Are we going to fuck?”

He scowls. “No.”

She furrows her brow but still does not open her eyes. “No? But I promised you could come on my tits.”

Vexed by the reminder, he points out, “You’re drunk.”

Finally opening her eyes, she blinks wide and rubs at her face, evidently trying to stay awake. “So, what? Is there a law against fucking when you’re drunk?”

“There should be,” he mutters.

She hums, laughing again. “Mayhaps when I am queen, I shall make you my master of laws.” Her face scrunches up. “Can a king consort be the master of laws?”

He reminds her, “There has never been a king consort.” And there never will be, he suspects.

Whining as she thinks, she supposes, “Well, Tyanna of the Tower was Maegor’s mistress of whisperers, so there is some manner of precedent. I think I can do it.”

Aemond, not sure how he likes being compared to some evil, lowborn witch, does nothing more than hum in response. Turning Valaena over, he begins unlacing the back of her dress. “We shall have to wait and see.”

She ends up dozing off before he can remove her dress, and getting her into her nightgown from there is a chore. By the time he gets them under the bedclothes, lies back, and draws her against his side, he is just as tired as she is and does not remember falling asleep himself.

Sometime in the middle of the night, Aemond is woken by a sudden movement. Looking down the length of the bed, he expects to find his slumbering wife kicking at him, as is her wont. Rather, he discovers Aegon as he crawls into the bed. The boy cuddles up to Valaena, who has migrated to the other side of the mattress from Aemond.

Disbelieving, Aemond grumbles, “Aegon, what are you doing here?”

Aegon takes his time making himself comfortable, arranging Valaena’s limp arm over his back and snuggling farther into her side. “Sleeping,” he answers at last, before promptly mashing his face into her bosom and closing his eyes.

Still half-sitting up, Aemond watches with incredulity as his cousin drops off in under a minute. Unsettled by the thought of going back to sleep with the little intruder in their bed, he taps Valaena on the shoulder until she rouses.

She looks up at him through bleary eyes and makes a questioning sound. Exasperated, he gestures to Aegon.

She pets his hair. “What?”

“Make him leave,” he entreats her, surprised he need make the request.

“I can’t,” she refuses, closing her eyes once more.

Aemond does not let her return to sleep. “Why not?”

She does not open her eyes again. “He likes to sleep with me on occasion. If I turn him away, he’ll know it’s because of you, and he’ll not like you.”

“Already, he doesn’t like me,” he gripes.

“Don’t be silly,” she murmurs, hugging Aegon closer. “And worry not. Unlike having your brother Aegon in one’s bed, there is no danger with mine.” Upon making herself laugh, she orders him, “Don’t tell anyone I said that,” and falls asleep again.

Annoyed but unsure of what else to do, Aemond shifts a few inches away and endeavors to fall asleep himself.

Come the morning, Valaena chats to Aegon while getting dressed. Aemond woke earlier than the pair, wanting to dress without a strange six-year-old watching him. As Aemond sits at her vanity, tying back his hair, Aegon babbles to her about everything that has happened in her absence. She listens attentively, just as she does whenever Jaehaerys thinks he has something important to tell her.

Eventually, she excuses herself to use the chamber pot, leaving Aegon and Aemond alone. Aegon takes the opportunity to stare at Aemond, who ignores the boy in turn.

Breaching the uncomfortable silence between them, Aegon chooses to ask, “How did you lose your eye?”

Looking into the mirror before him to gauge his own reaction, Aemond can scarcely believe his ears. Slowly, he glances over at Aegon. “No one’s ever told you?” Aegon shakes his head. “Your brother took it.”

Aegon’s mouth drops open. “Jace took your eye?”

His lip curling, Aemond snarls, “Not Jace. Luke.”

At this, Aegon’s shock melts away to reveal a tentative smile. “No, he didn’t.” He laughs. “You’re lying.”

Piqued, Aemond returns, “I’m not lying.”

“Yes, you are,” insists Aegon.

Reentering the room, Valaena wonders, “Lying about what?”

Pointing at Aemond, as though to tattle on him, Aegon tells her, “He says Luke took his eye.”

She stiffens, clearly unsure of what to say or do as she avoids looking at Aemond. After a moment, she elects to shoo her brother from the room. “Mother will be looking for you. Run along.” 

All of Aegon’s humor drains from his body as disappointment fills him. “But—”

Pointing to the door, she maintains, “Out.” Groaning, he trudges outside.

With the intruder finally dealt with, Valaena gives her attention to Aemond once more. Sending him a warm smile, she comes over to place her hands on his shoulders and lean against him. “Never mind Aegon, darling. Let us go down to breakfast—”

“Go on without me,” he interrupts.

Even in this moment, he feels annoyed with himself for allowing himself to get worked up to the point that he would rather not be with his wife seeing as he has come all this way for the purpose of keeping her company. After supper last night and his interaction with Aegon, however, he finds he requires a moment of solitude. He had not expected how thin-skinned he would feel surrounded by Blacks.

Standing above him in the mirror, Valaena bites her lip to stifle her own disappointment. Upon mastering herself, she says, “All right,” and winds one of her arms around him. She thumbs at his chin in a silent appeal for him to turn his face up, and their lips meet in a chaste kiss. “I shall return to give you a tour of the castle and grounds.”

He nods, and she leaves. He takes breakfast alone.

As promised, Valaena returns an hour later and takes him on an expansive tour of Dragonstone. They explore the Stone Drum tower, the Chamber of the Painted Table, Aegon’s Garden, and the sept of Dragonstone, which has the most interesting depictions of the Seven that he has ever seen. She also takes him through some of the holdfast’s secret passageways, known only to the blood of the dragon. The last passageway they take leads them out to the beach, and they return to the castle by walking past a training yard on the sand where Valaena’s brothers Joffrey and Aegon are practicing archery and walking up a long, winding flight of stairs leading into the Windwyrm tower.

That night, when time comes for supper, he is bewildered to hear that the entire family is gathering together again. He asks Valaena if there is some special occasion, but frustratingly, the question only serves to confuse her. Not wishing to be dragged into another cumbersome meal with his half-sister’s family, he feigns exhaustion and eats alone once more.

The days that follow on Dragonstone are similar to his first one on the isle, though he sees less and less of Valaena, who is constantly occupied by her siblings. Every day, she spends an hour or two sitting on the floor of Dragonstone’s nursery and playing with her youngest brother. She allows Joffrey and Aegon to drag her about the castle for any activity they see fit. She spends hours with Baela and Rhaena in the other girls’ rooms, doing whatever it is that women do when they are alone with one another. Most irritably, she spends much of her time with her two eldest brothers, Aemond’s least favorite of the bunch. She goes over the family histories with them, helps them study their Valyrian, goes dragonriding with them, all that and more.

In her absence, Aemond tries to occupy himself as he does in the Red Keep, mostly reading and training. In doing so, however, he comes to realize how much he relies on Valaena, Helaena, and the twins to entertain him. He finds he even misses Aegon, the drunken oaf.

Near a week past their arrival, Aemond has taken to spending the vast majority of his time in Valaena’s apartment. Today, he finds himself brooding about the manner in which Jacaerys and Lucerys fall over themselves for Valaena’s approval and attention. When they were younger, they tended to scoff at their sister, more interested in Aegon’s opinion than hers. Now, she is always busy with them, and they are ever close to her side.

As the time for supper nears, Valaena comes to find him, asking, as she does every evening, if he will join the rest of the family.

“No,” he answers, as he does every evening. By now, he thinks, she should not expect any other answer. He is not even dressed for supper, still wearing the clothes he had worn to train earlier in the day, with his eyepatch discarded.

Her patience having run, she throws up her hands. “Wherefore? What have I done to upset you?”

He restrains a sigh. “You haven’t upset me.”

“Why, then, do you glare at me?” Not having realized that he was glaring, he moves his stare to the wall behind her. Undeterred, she moves back into his eyeline. “What is it?”

He moves his gaze again but answers, “Your brothers.”

“What have they done to earn your ire,” she inquires, thoughtless. He raises an eyebrow, which she ignores. “They’ve scarcely spoken to you.”

“No, too busy are they bending your ear,” he concurs, embittered.

Gasping as though delighted, she points at him. “You’re envious for my attention!”

Scoffing softly, he sneers, “How conceited you are, Wife.”

Her nose scrunching cutely, she wonders, “Can it be considered conceit when one is undoubtedly correct?” Not quite seductively—though it certainly does the trick—she taunts, “Your need for me is eating at you.”

Forcing his voice down to a pitch he knows has a certain effect on her, he intones, “It is,” and her teasing smile drops. Standing, he stalks over to her and places his hand under her chin, raising her face to his. “Though I would prefer to have something else eating at me. You promised I would be handsomely rewarded.”

Her dark eyes blown wide, she says, “I did, though I’m not sure your behavior thus far is worthy of reward.”

“Mayhaps a preemptive reward is in order,” he suggests, trailing his hand down to the hollow of her throat.

Valaena, clearly disbelieving but also aroused, avers firmly, “You will come to supper this night.”

“I will,” he agrees.

She keeps her discerning gaze on him for a moment longer, before whirling away and bringing her hands behind her back to unlace her kirtle. Over her shoulder, she orders him, “Sit down.”

Eager, Aemond pulls the chair out from the reading table near fireplace, twists it to face her, and sits down.

As soon as she has her kirtle off, she walks over in only the shift she wears underneath her clothes and gives him a thorough kiss. He places his hands on her waist and tries to pull her into his lap, but she does not come easily. Breaking the seal of their mouths, she swipes his hands off of her and pulls back. He means to protest but refrains when he spies her kneeling on the floor before him.

Enthused, he undoes the lace of his trousers while she pushes apart his knees and shuffles forward. With one hand, she pulls various pins from her hair and undoes the tie keeping it up, all while maintaining sultry eye contact. She uses her other hand to pull his cock out. Lightly, she pumps him as he plumpens in her hand.

Leaning down, she brushes her plush lips, soft and pink like rose petals, over the head. Before she sucks him down, he reaches down to thumb at her bottom lip, which is covered in a glossy sheen of his milky spend. Her tongue plays at the underside of his shaft, massaging just under the head like she knows he likes.

As she moves to suckling at the head, he inhales a quick breath and grips at the table beside him. She slides her hands up his thighs as she moves her mouth up and down his length, her nails digging into the flesh of his hips when they reach them. His hips jolt forward at the sensation, a thrill running up his spine as they do. Valaena takes the adjustment well, swallowing hard around the added flesh.

His head tips back as the hot, wet cavern of her mouth fully embraces him. He moves his free hand to her head so that he can comb his fingers through her hair, hissing out a breath when a suck synchronizes with him hitting the back of her throat.

The slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out of her mouth fill the room. He gets lost in the heady sensation created by her gentle breath, fanning out across his groin, and her sweet mouth.

The glorious moment is shattered when someone barks, “What is the meaning of this?”

At the interruption, Valaena instantly pulls off him, gurgling around his cock in a way that makes him want to slide his hand down to the nape of her neck and push her back down. He turns his head toward the source of the disturbance to see Rhaenyra, and irritation fills him. As he tries to bring his breathing under control, he does not move to make himself decent other than to reach over to the table, grab his eyepatch, and slip it over his head.

Silently panicking, Valaena remains crouched on the floor with a hand clasped over her mouth. Her throat convulses as she subtly swallows, and arousal flares in him anew. Knowing that Rhaenyra cannot see as both Valaena and his bottom half are blocked by the table, he moves his hand to squeeze at the base of his cock. He swivels in the chair so that she only sees his back when he stands and does up his trousers.

Rhaenyra is hardly concerned with him, snapping at Valaena, “You! Get up.” Valaena complies, terribly nervous and still covering her mouth. Plainly surprised, Rhaenyra gapes at her. “Valaena?”

At the inane question, Aemond realizes that when she entered the room, Rhaenyra had assumed that he was fucking a servant in his wife’s bedchamber. He feels insulted that she, of all people, has the gall to think so little of him. Besides, he thinks, why should he give his attention to some simple girl when he can have his resplendent wife?

Evidently not having come to a similar conclusion as to her mother’s apprehension of the situation, Valaena replies, “Yes?”

“I—” Glancing between them, Rhaenyra recovers, “I came to fetch you for supper. I shall wait for you in the next room.” She narrows her eyes at Aemond before ducking out.

As soon as the door clicks shut, Valaena whirls around, clearly mortified, and hisses, “My mother saw us!”

Beyond the fact that it was her mother who walked in on them, Aemond understands why she is embarrassed. Many consider it beneath highborn women to give pleasure with their mouths. Still, he detests Rhaenyra. “Serves her right.” 

Overdramatic, she grabs one of his hands and places it at her throat. “Just kill me.”

His arousal revisiting him yet again, he squeezes down on her neck and backs her up against the nearest wall. With his free hand, he starts unlacing his pants again.

Breathily, Valaena asks, “Really?” Wordlessly, he pushes up her smock and lifts one of her legs. She shudders and presses forward against him as he grips his cock and rubs the tip along the wet seam of her. Holding onto one final qualm, she softly exclaims, “She’s just beyond that door!”

He nudges her clit with the head of his cock, punching a breath out of her. Dipping his head, he whispers in her ear, “Best be quiet.”

For all her hesitance, she hops up and wraps her legs around his hips as he pushes in. They both grunt as their hips come flush together. Thereafter, she buries her face in his neck, her lips pressing into the muscle there so as to stifle her cries.

As he fucks her against the wall, her hand weaves its way into his hair. At one point, she tugs at the strands a little too hard, and he rejoins her with a particularly sharp thrust that tears a moan deep from her throat. She leans back, allowing the gasping breaths he fucks out of her with every thrust to be heard, interrupted only by the kisses he steals from her amidst the hot air between them. Bringing her arms down from around his shoulders, she undoes his jacket, pushes back the fabric, and returns her mouth to the skin of his neck, this time closer to his clavicle.

When he comes, he grips her ass with both hands, grinding their pelvises together as he glories in the pulse of her around him. He presses on even as the sensation grows to be too much, rewarded when her legs twitch around him and she stifles a gasp. Shifting his hold on her, he brings one hand around to her cunt and rubs circles on her clit, moving his thumb faster as her suppressed noises grow louder. When at last her release rolls over her, she jolts against him and bites his shoulder to keep quiet. He winces at the feeling of her teeth digging into him.

When she finally pulls back, she licks up the blood beading along his skin. Their mouths meet again. He tastes his own blood on her tongue, licking it up himself.

As they catch their breath, he sets her down gently. She does nothing more than lean against him for a moment. Her arms cinch loosely around his waist, and he idly pets her tousled hair.

At last, she pulls away, robbing him of the warm press of her against his front. She sets about dressing again, stepping back into her kirtle and tying it up in the mirror. Sighing, he figures that there is naught for it but for him to do the same, so he fixes his jacket and trousers and readies himself for dinner with his least favorite people in this world.

After a few minutes, she turns to him, patting down her hair. “How do I look?”

He cannot help but smirk as he takes in her flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and still-mussed hair. “Well fucked.” Whining, she settles herself at her vanity once more.

Upon finally deeming herself worthy of public spectacle, she takes a few deep breaths and opens the door to her solar, where her mother is not-so-patiently seated.

Fleetingly, Aemond thinks of slipping out of Valaena’s apartment ahead of them, but ultimately, he does not feel so craven. More than that, he finds he rather enjoys staring down his eldest sibling after having just fucked her golden child, as they both well know he did.

Stiffly, Rhaenyra stands and addresses her daughter. “Will you both be joining us this evening?” Valaena hums in assent, and with a twitchy smile, Rhaenyra leads them from the room.

Despite the awkward start to the evening, supper proceeds far more breezily than he would have otherwise expected. As it goes on, he notes that it is certainly among the more informal family dinners that he has ever attended.

Early on in the meal, Daemon gets on something of a rant. “Every parent has a favorite child,” he contends.

“I do not have favorites,” argues Rhaenyra, further fueling him.

“I know who your favorite is. I know who your least favorite is,” he insists. She shakes her head, and he adds, “You are your father’s favorite.”

At the indirect dig, Aemond forces himself to have no reaction. He sees Valaena glance at him out of the corner of his eye, but he keeps his eye on his plate. He avoids looking at his half-sister, as well, entirely uninterested in watching her gloat.

“Who is your favorite then, Daemon,” asks Jacaerys.

Without so much as a speck of hesitation, he answers, “Baela.”

Everyone at the table gasps, save for Aemond and Rhaena. Admittedly, Aemond is surprised. He would have thought that Daemon’s favorite would be Aegon, his eldest son.

Jacaerys goads him further. “And your favorite step-child?”

Interestingly, Daemon takes to dithering. “Well.”

Joining in, Valaena prods, “Now, he falters.”

Suitably provoked, Daemon sends her a sharp smile before pointing at Jacaerys. “I like you most.” Delighted, Jacaerys preens as Lucerys lightly shoves him. Daemon’s finger moves to Valaena. “But I prefer daughters.”

Aegon leans toward his father. “What about me?”

Dismissively gesturing at Rhaenyra’s other children, Daemon assures him, “I like you more than them.”

Aegon pumps his fists as his half-siblings groan.

“So, that’s Baela, Rhaena, Aegon—or do you prefer Viserys,” wonders Jacaerys.

Daemon shakes his head. “Time will out.”

Jacaerys keeps the list as-is. “So, then Aegon, Viserys, me—”

Raising her hand, Valaena protests, “No.”

Grinning at her, he maintains, “Then Valaena, and then is it Joff or Luke?”

“Don’t answer that,” urges Rhaenyra.

Heedless, Daemon says, “Joffrey.”

More gasps sound out, and Joffrey exaggeratedly wipes his brow in relief.

Trying to stifle her laughter, Valaena says to Lucerys, “Oh, no. You’re his least favorite child.”

Looking a little sore, Lucerys manages a shrug. “Whatever. He’s my least favorite parent.”

“Ooh,” the children chorus.

Hardly offended, Daemon commends him. “Keep that up, and you shall improve in rank.” Most everyone laughs, including Rhaenyra. Even Aemond finds himself mildly amused by their antics, though he endeavors not to show it.

Her laughter petering out, Valaena remarks, “I do not think I could select a favorite among us.” Unbidden, a soft laugh escapes Aemond. Her ears sharp, she turns to him. “What? You think I have one?”

His eye darting away from her, he sees that all the eyes around the table are pointed at him. Feeling emboldened, he challenges, “If you can whisper the truth to me, I’ll not announce it to the room.”

Giggling, she leans into him. Cupping her hand around his ear, she whispers, “Jace?”

He shakes his head. When she rears back, curiosity plain on her face, he annunciates, “Jace.”

Everyone gasps yet again. Valaena shrieks, outraged, “No, that’s what I said!” Jacaerys sits up straighter at the exclamation, pointing at her as though victorious. She is quick to discourage him. “No, no. I simply chose who I thought he would think was my favorite, not my true favorite.”

As though humoring her, Jacaerys nods. “Sure.” He beams as he looks around the room. “I am everyone’s favorite.”

Nonchalant, Daemon knocks him down a peg. “Not your mother’s.”

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra snaps.

Though he has ended his practice of isolating in Valaena’s apartment, Aemond still keeps some of his habits from his first week on Dragonstone. He keeps to training every morning after breakfast. He usually spends a few hours with his sword on the beach before he allows Valaena to divert him with dragonriding, entertaining one of the younger of her siblings, or fucking.

This morning, the older pair of Rhaenyra’s sons comes down to the beach earlier than is their wont. Aemond contemplates retiring early until he notices that they are joined by a trio of young women.

Aemond stalks over to his wife as she diverges from the group. “What are you doing here?” She never turns up at the yard in the Red Keep, in part, he knows, because his mother has forbidden it. Still, he had not thought she had any real interest in weaponry or martial arts.

Fingering the hilt of his sword, which hangs at his side, she apprises him, “Every so often, I like to join my brothers and Baela down here and play—”

His brow raising, he admonishes, “‘Play?’”

Correcting herself, she amends, “Train seriously in the way of the sword.” He rolls his eye, stopping her when she grabs for his sword again. “Come on,” she complains. “You are not my keeper.”

“I believe I am, actually.” She laughs, and he cracks a smile. “Besides, my sword is too large for you. You require a smaller blade.”

Cheekily, she says, “I think I can handle your sword just fine.” His lips curling further, he feels glad that no one can overhear them. She holds up her hands, acquiescent. “But very well, I shall defer to my lord’s expertise.”

Drawing her over to the weapons depot, he selects the smallest sword he can find for her, thinking that it must be one made for Aegon or Joffrey. As she lets it droop in her grasp, he offers, “I can show you how to use it.”

“I know basic form,” she attests.

He lifts his brow in surprise as she takes a beginner’s stance, though it is not quite right. “Put your left leg back,” he directs her.

Her double-handed grip on her sword, though technically correct, is too stiff. He takes the opportunity to reach out and push her arms to the side with one hand. She is startled into dropping one hand from her hilt, at which point he uses his other hand to pry it from her grasp.

Moaning in complaint, she grouses, “Why did you take it?”

“Why did you not stop me,” he challenges, grinning.

With her legs still spread, she places her hands on her hips. “Why am I not surprised to discover that my husband is a braggart?” His grin widens.

The both of them are distracted by Baela calling Valaena’s name from across the sandy field. “Care for a match,” Baela asks of her.

Enthused, Valaena takes back her sword from Aemond and rushes over. He trails after her, a little unsure. While he knows that it is merely a spar Baela proposes, and that the girl is fond of Valaena, she seems sharp for a girl with a sword. Even unintentionally, she could injure a clumsy opponent like Valaena.

Valaena conveys no such misgivings as she takes up the position opposite to Baela. Beside them, Rhaena has already taken to cheering for her sister. Jacaerys whispers something to Baela before stepping back to give the girls their space. Lucerys, standing beside Rhaena, sends Valaena a smile and claps encouragingly.

Uninterested in sharing the salty air with them, Aemond stands across from the Black children to observe the match.

Clapping picks up again, this time from Jacaerys. “Come on, Baela!”

Peering over at his brother as though offended, Lucerys complains, “You won’t cheer for our sister?”

“It’s not as though it is a fight to the death,” dismisses Jacaerys.

Distracted by the sidebar, Baela turns to him. “But if it was, you would not root for me?”

“I think it would be treason to root against Valaena,” he returns. He exchanges a look with Valaena, who tips her head as though to say rightly so.

Baela scoffs before turning back to her opponent. “Whenever you are ready,” she tells her.

Haltingly, Valaena takes the invitation and steps forward. She makes a slow, wide-reaching sweep with her blade, the point of which misses Baela and her weapon.

Practically frozen thereafter, Valaena engages in a single parry before standing by and letting Baela disarm her with her next stroke. As the swords clash, Valaena shrieks, drops her weapon, and holds her arms over her head.

Lucerys winces whilst Jacaerys and Rhaena burst out laughing. Less amused, Aemond frets, “Never drop your weapon!”

Still frazzled, Valaena shouts, “I’m sorry!”

Stepping up to her, he places a hand on her arm and looks her over amidst her assurances as to her good health. Once he is satisfied that she is unharmed, he criticizes, “You are a terrible swordswoman.”

Scrunching her nose, she says, “It is a good thing, then, that I am to spend most of my life surrounded by knights of the Queensguard.”

He hums in acknowledgement, and she mimics him before tugging his head down for a kiss. He reluctantly abides her wish, not overly fond is he of displaying affection in public. When they break apart, he spies Jacaerys glaring at him from over Valaena’s head. His good-brother’s displeasure brings a smile to his face.

Rubbing a hand down his arm, Valaena says, “Well, I only came down here to flirt with you, so having accomplished that much and more, I am off.”

“Whatever happened to training seriously in the way of the sword,” he teases.

Stepping back from him, she admits, “A falsehood.”

As she passes him, Lucerys bellyaches, “You’re leaving already?”

Turning on him, she declares, “I know you’ll miss me.” Jumping onto him, she manages to land a kiss on his cheek before he shoves her away, the both of them wheezing from laughter.

After Valaena has gone, Aemond, uninterested in interacting further with her siblings, decides to finish training early after all and hike down the beach to where Vhagar rests. His dragon usually remains wherever he leaves her, so she is easy to find.

He is surprised to discover Veraxes lounging beside her. The younger dragon has a tendency to wander off, and as Valaena tells him, he has his own roost on the Dragonmont. When Veraxes spots him, he looks around for Valaena. He is visibly disappointed when he does not see her, inciting a chuckle from Aemond.

Aemond walks up to Vhagar, petting along her side and gauging whether she is up for a ride. She gives him the barest hint of a response, grunting faintly at him and keeping her eyes closed, so he leaves her be.

He walks farther along the beach and takes the bridge back into the castle, heading for Valaena’s rooms so that he can take a bath. When he arrives in her solar, he is surprised to see Valaena and Rhaenyra seated there, drinking moon tea—he recognizes the fragrant, unpleasant smell—together while Joffrey plays on the floor at their feet.

His surprise derives mostly from the fact that Valaena is drinking the concoction so openly. In King’s Landing, she has to brew it herself in order to hide it from Alicent.

When he and Valaena were fifteen and newly intimate, Alicent had discovered her drinking the tea one month. Aemond had come into her rooms to find his mother screaming hysterically at her, raving about Valaena killing her grandchild. He’d had to escort his mother from the room, and in an attempt to stop her from saying vile things about his wife, he had taken the blame for the incident, claiming he had proposed that Valaena drink the tea. He had suffered a slap for his efforts, his mother scolding him for abusing his wife. Thenceforth, Valaena had become very strategic in deciding when and where to regulate her courses.

Here and now, Rhaenyra stares at him, clearly wary. Not sure why he feels the need to redeem himself to her, he nevertheless says to Valaena, “Still mourning the fact that the maesters have not discovered a moon tea for men?”

“Every month,” she grumbles. Her nose wrinkles as she stares down at the mostly full cup of the unsavory drink.

Popping up from the floor, Joffrey asks, curious, “Why can’t men drink it?”

“It’s not that you can’t drink it, just that you haven’t a need,” she explains.

“What if I like it,” he challenges.

Trying and failing to suppress a mischievous smile, Valaena pushes her cup and saucer toward him. He takes a sip, and his face instantly pinches up. For a moment, he appears to contemplate swallowing his mouthful, still trying to pretend that he might like it. Soon, however, he gives up the charade and spits the tea back into the cup.

Valaena squawks, “Joffrey! I still have to drink that!”

Grinning, he musters enough saliva to spit into her cup again.

Irate, she jumps from her seat. “Come here, you little—” He takes off, and she chases him around the room. Joffrey dashes past Aemond and into the hall, Valaena fast on his heels.

Left alone with Rhaenyra, Aemond avoids looking at her. He looks instead to Aster, who is sat in the corner of the room, sewing something, and asks her to draw him a bath.

Just as he is about to retreat into Valaena’s bedchamber, Rhaenyra’s voice stops him in his tracks. “Is there something the matter with the bath in your chambers?”

Aemond, who knows that guest rooms were assigned to him but has not the faintest idea of where they are, replies, “I wouldn’t know.” He steps into the bedchamber just as her face collapses into a glower, a slight spring in his step.

In the final week of their time on Dragonstone, their visit continues to proceed with relative peace. Aemond still avoids Valaena’s family when he can, but it is not so painful now when they are obliged to interact.

For a time, Aemond had felt a little neglected once more as Valaena had taken over running the castle. She had spent much of her time in her mother’s study, going over reports and records with Ser Robert Quince, Dragonstone’s castellan. This had been her third year having such practice, done in order to prepare her for the role of Princess of Dragonstone. This year, she had taken on her mother’s duties for a full week with no supervision, the only mandate being that she could not make any permanent changes to the way the castle or the island was run.

The morning of one of their last days at Dragonstone, well after her trials as the next mistress of Dragonstone had concluded, Aemond wakes up before Valaena. This, in itself, is not irregular. Valaena is a heavy sleeper, and he imagines he could play the flute in their bed without rousing her if he so wished. For that reason, he is not at all concerned about waking her as he slips out of bed, rustles through one of his trunks, returns to bed, lifts her left arm, and slides a ring onto her index finger. Still, she remains asleep as he sets her arm back down and rises once more to ready himself for the day.

As he finishes lacing up his shoes, she wakes at last. Drowsily, she pushes herself out of bed and trudges around room. Aster comes in to help her dress and tie up her hair.

She finally says her first word of the day as she sits alone at her vanity, putting on her jewelry. Her voice is raspy and slow. “Aemond.”

Walking over, he sees that she wants him to fasten the clasp on her necklace. He does so as she ties a bracelet around her wrist and slips her rings on one-by-one. As she moves onto her left hand, she draws up short, inspecting the ring already on one of her fingers. Softly to herself, she murmurs, “What?”

Aemond takes this as his cue to press her hand down onto the surface of the vanity table with his similarly-adorned hand. His fourth finger aligns with her second, placing the two matching rings beside one another. Both signet rings are gold, etched in their centers with their initials, V on her hand and A on his.

“What,” she says again, more excited and fully awake.

He explains the cause for the gift. “Today, it is four and a half years since we married.”

“Four and a half,” she exclaims, turning around in her seat. Her lips bow in concern. “I haven’t anything for you.”

He had not expected that she would. Four and a half years is no special date. “That is why I had the pair made.” He shows her his ring again, holding up the finger on which it rests.

She grabs his hand for a closer look. Her expression grows contemplative, and she removes the ornament from his hand in spite of the noise of protest he emits. She removes her own ring, as well, before slipping it onto his smallest finger. His ring goes onto her middle finger, and when it is found to be too big, fits onto her thumb.

As he examines her signet ring on his hand, she asks, “Do you mind?”

“No, I like it,” he assures her. It would certainly be nice for them to wear each other’s rings, especially given their significance as a pseudo-anniversary present.

Standing up on her chair, she leans into him, hugging his shoulders and dipping her head down to kiss him. “Thank you,” she whispers sweetly into his mouth.

With his hands on her waist, he holds her steady. Standing as she is, her head blocks out most of the window above her vanity, creating a ring of light that shines above her like a crown. “Mirres syt ñuha irūdy.”

Soon enough, their necking evolves into something more carnal. Given their late start to the day, they take breakfast by themselves in her solar.

Once they finish their meal, they head out, intending to go for a stroll on the beach. Valaena’s giddiness from earlier is persistent. As she stares down at their linked hands, swinging them back-and-forth, her lips are spread in so wide a smile that her face must hurt for it.

Sighing, she idly muses, “Sometimes, I forget how sweet you are.”

Theatrically, he cautions her, “It would do you well to remember.”

“What does that mean,” asks a sharp voice, drawing their attention. It is Jacaerys who speaks. Unluckily, they have unwittingly come upon much of her family, consisting of the older children and Daemon. Aemond feels their presence chafe, dulling his good mood.

“It was a jest,” defends Valaena.

Jacaerys stands firm, crossing his arms and straightening his hunched neck. “It sounded like a threat.”

Aggravated, Aemond narrows his eye at his nephew. Throughout their entire sojourn on Dragonstone, Jacaerys has been stubborn, disagreeable, and pugnacious. He imagines that the boy’s brusqueness derives mostly from his own perceived-failings. Always have they been leery of one another, and when Aemond married his sister, Jacaerys likely felt as though he had failed in his brotherly duty to protect her. He probably feels as though he is making up for his shortcomings now.

Aemond smarts at the insinuation that his wife requires protection from him, and unthinkingly throws out, “I’ve no need to threaten your sister. She does what I tell her.”

Fists clenching, Jacaerys puffs up defensively. The rest of the group glowers at Aemond, while Daemon emits a cackle.

Valaena’s face loses all of its joy and good humor, sliding into an impassive slate. Extracting her hand from his grip, she stomps off. Rhaena and Baela follow at her heels, with the latter tossing a bellicose glare at him from over her shoulder.

Regretting his blunder, Aemond tries to go after Valaena, calling her name, but Lucerys steps into his path. Forcefully, he orders the boy, “Move.”

Surprisingly bold, he avers, “No.”

Incensed, the urge to shove the boy comes to Aemond, though he judiciously refrains, feeling Daemon’s watchful gaze on him. Swiveling on his heel, he storms off himself.

As he usually does whenever he feels tumultuous, he opts for training-at-arms, hoping to work off most of his agitation before he has to swallow his pride and apologize to Valaena. Foolishly, one of Rhaenyra’s knights offers him a spar, and Aemond gives the man a drubbing. The only man who dares to face him thereafter is Ser Lorent Marbrand, one of his father’s Kingsguard.

Marbrand turns out to be a more difficult opponent. Out on the beach, it is challenging to maintain good form, the sand constantly shifting under one’s feet. Still, Aemond holds his own against the older man, not too dissatisfied when the match ends with the point of a sword at his throat.

Marbrand proves to be a good sport, as well. After Aemond has yielded, they shake hands. The knight suggests, “Why don’t you indulge your cousin in a match, my prince?” He looks to the side, and Aemond follows his gaze.

He is dismayed by the sight of Jacaerys and Lucerys, who have come down for their daily training, as well. Jacaerys is already occupied with another squire, fighting on the far side of the field. Lucerys, however, still stands off to the side, waiting for a match.

A certain vehemence thrumming under his skin, Aemond takes the suggestion. Striding over, he grabs the little bastard by his breastplate and drags him into an open area.

Discontent in being yanked around, Lucerys shoves down on his arm and complains, “I can walk!”

A soft chuckle escaping him, Aemond releases the boy. He stands apart from him, holding his sword at his side with a contrived apathy. “Let’s see if you can fight, too.”

His brow furrowed, Lucerys lifts his sword with determination. Aemond does not give him the opportunity to settle himself more than that, stepping forward to commence the match. One-armed, he makes a vicious swipe with his sword, hoping to knock Lucerys’s blade from his hands with his first blow. Unfortunately, Lucerys holds his own surprisingly well, absorbing the strike and taking a prudent step back before recuperating.

They trade blows for roughly a minute before Aemond grows restless. Taking broad steps forward, he forces Lucerys back, feeling exhilarated when panic sets into the boy’s eyes. Vigorously, he brings his sword down from above before sweeping his arm out to the side, successfully forcing Lucerys’s weapon from his grasp at last.

Though he realizes that at this juncture, the match is won and he should relent, Aemond brashly continues his advance. His aim is to swipe at the boy’s cuirass, just to frighten him. He is confounded, however, as a shock of sand suddenly raids his eye. Apprehensive, he whirls around and steps away as he wipes the sand out of his eye, which he is uninterested in losing as he did his other.

“What the fuck do you think you were doing,” he hears Jacaerys shout after him.

Aemond ignores him, continuing on his path away from the field. Without looking back, he wends his way back into the castle through one of the secret passageways that he knows will lead him directly into the hall at the base of Sea Dragon Tower. Once there, he aspires to remain there until he has his temper back under control, not wishing to return to Valaena’s apartment to find her there and be too angry to adequately make his amends to her.

He is distracted from cooling his blood by his second least-favorite person in this Seven-forsaken castle. “What is this I hear that you attacked Luke,” his half-sister demands, her snide voice grating on his ears.

He does not turn around to face her, still trying to keep himself from erupting. “I did no such thing.”

“That is not what I am told,” Rhaenyra counters. “No, Jace tells me that he had to stop you—”

Vexed that his irksome nephew tattled on him, Aemond whirls on her. “Your son threw sand in my eye, an underhanded tactic I am not surprised to hear you condone.”

Affronted, she raises her brow. “I beg your pardon?”

“And I did not attack Luke,” he persists. “I engaged him in a match, one that he lost. There is a difference.”

Closing her eyes, Rhaenyra takes a deep breath. She seems to be restraining herself from doing or saying something, and when she speaks again, her voice comes out in a far more reserved tone. “I invited you here out of the goodness of my heart.” Aemond scoffs, turning his head away. “Because my daughter ardently requested it, not that I understand why she would not rejoice for the pleasure of a moon outside your presence.”

Incensed, he brings a finger up to point at her. “You do not know anything about me.”

“As you know naught about me, so allow me to enlighten you, little brother.” Lowly, she swears, “If you ever lay a hand on Luke, or on any of my other children, there will be Seven Hells to pay.”

He is robbed from responding when the both of them are sufficiently detracted by Daemon dragging Baela and Valaena into the room. The women struggle against his hold, and Rhaena follows the three of them at a more sedate pace.

Oddly, all three women are dressed like boys, wearing caps, tabards, and trews. Speaking to his wife, Daemon says, “Look who I caught trying to sneak into town without an escort.”

Looking entirely impenitent, Valaena asks, “What need have we of an escort?” Daemon glances back at her, and she points to Baela. “We have Baela.”

“I shall tell you the need.” He points to each of the girls in turn. “Abduction. Rape. Murder.”

Rhaenyra protests his dramatics. “Daemon, please.” Though she speaks to admonish him, her voice has an amused edge to it.

Acting as though she had been adding to the list, he says, “Yes, and me. Your final punishment.”

“You can’t punish us,” argues Baela. “We are all women grown.”

Her father returns, incredulous, “I can’t?”

Fanning the flames, Valaena contributes, “You certainly can’t punish me.”

“Oh? And why might that be,” he wonders, smirking at her. “Because I’m not really your father?”

Her lips twitching as she attempts to suppress her own smirk, she denies, “No,” though Aemond can tell that had been her meaning. Her hands on her hips, she endeavors to think of something else. Her eyes meet that of Aemond, and inspiration strikes. “I’m married.”

“Fine.” He snaps in Aemond’s direction. “You punish her.”

Squawking in outrage, she stamps her foot.

Paying her no mind, Daemon once more addresses Aemond, who is clearly reluctant to participate in the conversation. “She does what you tell her, isn’t that what you said?”

Her ire toward Aemond burning anew, Rhaenyra shifts her gaze back to him. “What’s this?” Inconspicuously, his muscles clench as he resists the urge to step away from her.

“What say you, Nephew? Do you favor the rule of six,” asks Daemon, his proud smile growing.

As Valaena storms off, having had enough, Rhaenyra turns her wrath onto her husband. “Konir pirtimmi daor.” Faced with her displeasure, Daemon makes an acquiescent gesture.

Uninterested in watching the rest of their spat play out, Aemond follows after his wife, thankful that this time, none try to stop him. With her several paces ahead of him, they march all the way up to her apartment. She retreats to her bedchamber, frowning when she sees him enter the room after her. “I think I should like to be alone,” she says.

“I think we should talk,” he entreats.

Clearly angry, she begins to pace. “Very well. Let us talk about that which you were discussing with my mother.”

Thrown, he asks, “What?”

“I do not think I have ever seen you alone with her, so it must have been a topic of great import. Please do tell,” she requests.

“It was nothing.” She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. He supposes that he might as well give her some answer, seeing as how a story outside of his control is like to make its way to her soon or late. “I was sparring with one of your brothers, and when he lost, he complained to your mother.”

Skeptical, she inquires further, “That’s it?” He shrugs in response, and she accepts his answer. “Fine. Is that enough talking for you, then? May I be alone now?”

“No,” he refuses, exasperated. “I wish to apologize for the events of the morning.”

“Oh, the events of the morning,” she questions, striding up to him. This close, he sees that her eyes are glassy. “Are you referring to when you insulted me in front of my siblings and father with no cause?”

His mind catches on one word in particular. “Your father?”

Dismissively, she returns to pacing and contends, “He’s as good as.”

“Yes, it was very paternal of him to ask me to strike you six times,” he scornfully remarks.

Stopping, she utters harshly, “As if he would ever let you strike me. He’d sooner remove your head.”

“I’m sure,” he mutters.

Unhearing, she goes on, “Daemon is stern, but at least, he cares.” A beat passes, and she adds, rashly, “Unlike your father with you. I wonder if he has so much as noticed your absence from the Red Keep.”

For a moment, both of them are silent from shock. As she stares up at him, uneasy, he considers that that might have been the cruelest thing she has ever said to him. He can scarcely believe that she has said it, and from her expression, she seems to think the same.

A quiet fury building in him, fueled by the fire that has been burning within him near the entire day, he intones, “You wish to speak of fathers who care not for their children?” Valaena frowns. “Let us talk of Ser Harwin Strong, then.”

Her head drooping, she curses, “Fuck.”

Ruthless, he presses, “He did not care a whit for you. He followed your brothers around like a dog, but you?” He shakes his head in answer to his own question.

Her face red with anger, she shoves a finger in his face. “Fuck you! It always comes back to this with you! You don’t like that you were wed to a rumored-bastard—”

Bursting, he shouts, “Of course, I don’t fucking like it!” Blanching, she steps back from him. He forces himself to calm. “Not—You—” He takes a deep breath through his nose. “I do like being married to you. I love you, but—”

Her voice cracks. “‘But?’”

“They are disquieting, the rumors,” he explains.

“Rumors peddled by your family,” she interjects, venom in her tone.

Choosing to ignore the dig, he continues, “You are second in line for the Iron Throne. If it should be pronounced, your bastardy, it would mean your death.”

Valaena looks off to the side, quiet and still. Aemond uses the lull in the argument to draw her into his arms. She comes surprisingly easily, laying her head against his chest. “I do not mind it, truly, but neither do I like it.”

Her hands clench in the fabric covering his back. In a small, shaky voice, she asks, “Do you really think he did not like me?”

Squeezing his eye shut, he regrets his words, spoken in anger. Nevertheless, he does not wish to take them back. He spoke the truth, and she has not recanted her hurtful words, true as they were, too. “Perhaps he was of the sort of men who do not favor daughters.” He kisses the top of her head. “’Twas his loss.”

Abruptly, she pulls back, wiping at her eyes. “May I be alone now?”

Murmuring his assent, he lets his arms fall away from her, and she gives him her back. Though he does not wish to leave things as they are, aware that his apology was never fully made, he feels he should permit her time to herself. Still, he is heedful to remind her again, “I love you.”

She does not look at him. “I love you, too.”

Aemond spends the remainder of the afternoon seated in her solar, listening to her cry and digging his nails into his palms.

The day before they are set to depart from Dragonstone, Aemond is more than prepared for the entire ordeal to have its end.

Following their quarrel, he and Valaena made their peace with one another, though they are not as warm with each other as is usual. He also resumed his practice of avoiding her family, thinking that further interaction with them can only prove injurious.

For his part, he can hardly believe how poorly the visit has gone, and the poor result being largely his fault. The only reason he had deigned to venture to Dragonstone had been to make his wife happy, and he could not manage to do it—not well, at least. She seems far happier without his presence, alone in the company of her parents and siblings, even the one who cannot yet speak.

In the late morning, he finds her wandering around the halls with Viserys in her arms. The two of them go from tapestry to tapestry, with her explaining the story behind each one.

Pointing to a stitched, winged woman with the tail of a scorpion battling a dragon in a tapestry depicting the Fifth Ghiscari War, she expounds, “—harpies are legend, so the Ghiscari did not actually have them at their disposal.”

Aemond doubts very much that Viserys is capable of understanding her explanation, though even if the child could, he is not listening. His eyes are on Aemond from where he stands farther down the corridor. He flaps his arm in Aemond’s direction, successfully diverting Valaena’s attention, as well.

Looking over at him, she greets him genially enough. “Hello.” He walks over, staring down at her all the while. Teasingly, she wonders, “Has something caught your eye?”

“The same thing that always has my eye,” he answers, infusing a rich quality into his voice.

Blushing, she turns her head. When she looks back to find him still staring at her with no less intensity, her face flushes further. “Stop it!”

He laughs shortly. “What can I say? I like the sight of you with a Targaryen child in your arms.”

Pleasantly surprised, she asks, “Oh, yes?” He hums his confirmation.

Unfortunately, the Targaryen child in question chooses this moment to reach out and tug at his hair, ruining the moment. Aemond pulls back, grimacing.

Laughing, Valaena disentangles his hair from the child’s grip. She smooths it out afterwards, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment, still fiddling with his hair, she says, “Do you know, I have always envied you for your hair.”

Feeling the turn in the conversation, he asks, “Truly?” The question is fairly redundant; her years of braiding his hair for vicarious enjoyment have let him know that much.

“I used to long for silver-blonde hair, preferably curly like Baela’s and Rhaena’s.” Sighing wistfully, she moves so that her own hair swings a little before falling down her back again. “Alas, I have dark, wavy Baratheon hair.”

Aemond says nothing, neither confirming nor denying that her hair is Baratheon, not wishing to kick up their fight from the other day again.

She makes her point. “So could our child have.”

Hearing the implication, that their child’s birth could be put to question just as is hers, he avers, “It would be our child.” Whether or not anyone would imply that a child born to Valaena could be a bastard—and they would surely be a fool to do so—such concerns would never be his own. He affirms his conviction with a kiss to her forehead, moving away when Viserys makes another grab for his hair.

Valaena, not as amused by her brother’s antics this time, quietly says, “Let me think on it.”

For years, it has been Valaena holding up their parturition, though he is glad for it. He had certainly not been prepared to be a father at fifteen, or even sixteen or seventeen. Never has she fully communicated her reasoning with him, simply having told him years past that she was not yet ready. He knows that she wants children, having secured a promise from him for at least four, so he is unsure of the reason for the delay.

Unwilling to push her any further on the subject now, he simply nods.

After supper, which Aemond took alone while Valaena dined with her family, he overhears her speaking with Daemon and Rhaenyra as he passes the latter’s apartment. Curious, he stops to listen.

Rhaenyra’s disembodied voice travels into the hall. “I know you enjoy Helaena’s company, but perhaps after this next child is born, you can make your return and live here.”

Aemond stiffens, disturbed by the suggestion. Valaena seems to voice his thoughts. “I do not think Aemond would like that. He is not terribly comfortable here.”

“He does not need to join you,” argues Rhaenyra.

Simultaneously, Daemon says, “Who gives a fuck what he thinks? You are the heir, not he.” The sound of footsteps rings out. “Give him a child, and he will do what you tell him.”

“Is that how Mother keeps you in line,” asks Valaena, her tone wry.

Chuckling, Daemon agrees, “Exactly right.”

Her mind sounds far-off when next Valaena speaks. “He wishes for a child. He broached the topic with me just this morning.”

“You have always desired children,” Rhaenyra states, sounding confused by her daughter’s discernible reluctance.

“I have. I do, I just,” she trails off. “Everyone thinks me a bastard.”

Rhaenyra objects, “No—”

“They do,” she insists. “And if I should have a child who bears my coloring, I wonder if they would believe that child to be his. I wonder what Alicent would think; if she would undermine the child as she does me.”

After a beat, Rhaenyra points out, trying to sound optimistic, “It would be her grandchild.”

“But would she believe that,” Valaena questions.

Aemond walks away, not wanting to hear the answer and not knowing it himself.

That night, after he and Valaena have settled in bed, she burrows along his side, endeavoring to fall asleep. There is no light in the room but that from the moon.

He finds himself unable and unwilling to succumb to sleep himself. “I have been thinking,” he broaches. She shifts her head up higher on his chest, indicating that she is awake and listening. “Next year, we might stay here for six moons, rather than one.”

This time, she shifts her head high enough so that she can peer up at him, her face open with shock. “What?”

He clarifies, “We could live half the year here, the other half in King’s Landing.”

Her eyes flick about his face. Deliberately, she says, “No.”

Shocked, he rears back as far as the pillow under his neck will allow. “No?”

“Why not two months, to start,” she submits.

Exasperated, he says, “Valaena, I am offering you six.”

“And as appreciative as I am, I am declining.” He is sure he looks astounded, and she laughs. “Darling, you would be miserable! Why not start with two?”

“I just—” Getting his bearings, he grabs her hand. “I wish for you to be happy.”

More than that, he thinks that their joined lives might proceed more smoothly if they are not under his mother’s and grandsire’s thumbs all the time. Certainly, the day will come when his father passes and he will have to convince her not to go to war over her lost chance at succession, but time remains before then. If Valaena can have her chance to breathe freely on Dragonstone, as she does not in King’s Landing, perhaps they can grow together more easily, without wearisome quarrels tearing at them every so often.

Besides, he thinks, just as she appears to be spying for the sake of the Black cause, if he lives half the year under Rhaenyra’s nose, he can do the same for the Greens.

Valaena leans up to kiss his along throat, her fingers playing at his jaw and chin. “I am happy.”

“Happier,” he quibbles.

“I am happier for every day with you,” she promises sweetly.

Looking down at her, he finds himself annoyed with his wife’s spirit for abnegation. “Three months.”

Snickering, she buries her face in his chest. He means to say something else, though he is distracted by the door opening and Aegon shuffling past it.

Valaena, whose head has raised to watch her half-brother tread over to her side of the bed, objects, “Aegon, tonight—”

Contentious already, the boy whines as he climbs onto the bed. He stands on his knees over his sister, complaining, “But tonight is your last night here.”

Sighing, she acquiesces, “Fine.”

“Yea!” Aegon throws himself down on the mattress and forcibly winds one of his arms around her, burying his face in her back.

Valaena returns her gaze to Aemond, who scowls at her. Grinning, she whispers, “This is your future.” He lifts his brow in question. She explains, “With the talk of children.”

Lowly, he says, “If you think—”  

Aegon hushes them. “Shh!”

Aemond growls softly, irked. Valaena giggles. Aegon shushes them both again.

Two months it is, then, he supposes. Hopefully, when next they are on Dragonstone together, he will be able to hold his temper and they can be in harmony for the entirety of their time on the isle.

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Valaena lands her dragon outside of the great curtain walls of Harrenhal, directly beside Caraxes. As she dismounts, she stares up at the five rotting towers of the crown of the riverlands, shadowed by the early evening light. Though Harrenhal has long since grown decrepit, it remains an awful sight. Only Balerion could have reduced it to the charred, melted hold that remains, she thinks.

As the Blacks’ invasion of King’s Landing approaches, Valaena has been sent to Harrenhal to work out the finer details of their plans with Daemon. She meets him just outside of Harrenhal’s main gate, where he awaits her alone.

“Your Grace,” she greets, stepping up to him. “Is it just you?”

His expression more closed-off than is usual, the corner of his mouth lifts in the barest of smiles. “I did not wish for anyone else to see you weep.”

“What? I—” Her own voice chokes her, and her eyes abruptly fill with tears. “Damn it.”

In the last month, she has found herself crying almost ceaselessly over Viserys’s death, every morning and every night. She misses her youngest brother terribly, and with the war raging on, there is hardly a moment to sit down and truly mourn him. As such, the wound caused by his death stays open and raw.

With his hand on the nape of her neck, Daemon pulls her face against his chest and lets her wet his pourpoint with tears. Sobbing, she winds her arms around him and shudders as her grief spills from her. He rubs along her back and murmurs complacencies into her hair.

This outpour of emotion had been among her concerns in coming to visit Daemon, even for so short a tarriance, and one that concerned business. Part of her had been ashamed to face him, having just lost his son in a battle that should have been far more easily won.

“Lykirī,” he suddenly says, distracting her from her emotions. Peering up at him, she sees that his gaze is directed over her head. “I’m not hurting her.”

Looking back, she sees that Veraxes is looming close to them, his long neck extended and his razor-sharp rows of teeth bared. His nostrils flare as he sniffs at her back, and his eyes glint as he glares at Daemon. Despite the threat to his rider, Caraxes watches the confrontation without raising his head from the ground.

She coughs up a wet laugh, turning around to pet her dragon’s snout. “I’m all right.”

When she turns back to her step-father, he brings up his hands to wipe roughly at her cheeks. “Come on,” he orders once he deems her presentable, turning and striding away. She hurries after him.

It is quite a trek through the grounds for them to reach Kingspyre Tower. Daemon points out a few landmarks along the way, showing her the kitchens, the Widow’s Tower, and the godswood in the distance. When they make it to their destination, she is blown away by the sheer height of the tower. Inside, the halls, though decomposing as they have been for over a century, are alive with the din of dozens of voices.

Daemon explains the cause for the commotion. “The Strong castellan likes to curry favor by throwing feasts.”

Intrigued, she says, “Let us not begrudge him.”

They enter an expansive room with dozens of hearths, so large that she believes it must be the castle’s great hall, though he assures her that it is not. There are long dining tables arranged around the room, populated by scores upon scores of men. Those of each party rise to their feet as they pass, all the way to the far end of the room, where an assemblage of Trident lords and knights awaits them.

“My daughter, Princess Valaena,” Daemon introduces her.

Smiling graciously, she greets each of the men in turn, allowing them to kiss her rings and bow their heads to her. She goes from Mooton to Blackwood, from Piper to Roote, and from Darry to Mallister.

Approaching a strapping man dressed in silver-gray and blue, she offers him her hand. He takes it, telling her, “Do you know, Princess, I begged your mother the queen for her hand when she was but a few years your junior. I see that you inherited her empyreal beauty. Had I no wife of mine own, I would beg for your hand, too.” Utterly astounded, Valaena gapes at him as her face heats, unsure of what to say.

“Fuck off, Frey,” Daemon tells him, taking her by the shoulders and guiding her over to the end of the line.

An elderly man wearing a warm smile and the seal of House Strong nods to her. “Be welcome, Princess. It is the honor of House Strong to welcome yet another monarch of the Targaryen dynasty into our great home.”

“I’ll not be queen for many years yet,” she tells him, clasping his hand.

The feast commences shortly thereafter. She sits at the head table between Daemon and Ser Simon Strong, the latter of whom regales her with endless tales of his grandsons’ antics.

After supper, Daemon escorts her to her accommodations for the duration of her stay. The set of rooms assigned to her are enormous, bigger than her rooms at the Red Keep and Dragonstone combined. As he leaves her at the door, he tells her, “I am down the hall and three flights above you.”

She frowns. “Why did they place us so far apart?”

Beginning to walk away, he calls over his shoulder, “They didn’t. It’s the next closest apartment.”

“This place is absurd,” she mutters under her breath. She hears him snicker just as he disappears from sight.

She asks the maidservant assigned to her for a bath and spends the remainder of the evening doused in warm water and oils smelling of rosemary. During the hour of ghosts, she falls into a restless sleep in a borrowed nightgown and a bed framed in white wood.

In her dreams that night, she visits another Harrenhal, its appearance just as dismal but its atmosphere far livelier.

A year into her reign, Queen Visenya Targaryen the First of Her Name embarks on her second royal progress. Near twenty-five years earlier, she made a progress in the place of her mother the Queen Rhaenyra, who had been pregnant with her youngest child at the time. After traveling through the entirety of the Reach, the stormlands, and the crownlands, three months after she had set out from King’s Landing, she arrives at Harrenhal.

Her brother Jacelyn, the Lord of Harrenhal, receives her and her party in the Hall of the Hundred Hearths. He welcomes her alongside their father, the Dowager King Harwin Strong, who relocated to the riverlands upon the death of their mother. As Harwin greets her with the same mild temperament he has always had with her, Jacelyn shakes the hand of her husband, King Cregan Stark, his old friend.

As Visenya embraces the Lady of Harrenhal, Baela looks around her, wondering, “Where is Prince Gaemon?”

Refraining from rolling her eyes at the mention of her second son by her first husband, Visenya answers, “You know how he is. No taste for duty, just like his father. He wished to remain in King’s Landing, so we left him.” Even at this time of day, before the hour of the bat, she expects he is drinking, fucking his Lysene paramour, or both.

Thankfully, her other children are all in attendance. Her firstborn and heir, Aenar, stands a few paces to the left of her, greeting his uncle Joffrey. His twin and sister-wife Aerea stands to his left, holding their daughter Jaenara. Her youngest children by her second husband, Raya and Mariah, join their party, as well, along with their husbands and children.

“Chin up, Your Grace,” says Rhaena, standing beside her sister.

Scoffing, Visenya embraces her other cousin. Looking around herself, she wonders, “Where is Luke?”

“He has a terrible headache,” Rhaena reports, and Visenya frowns in sympathy.

Before long, Jacelyn calls the niceties to a close, ushering them all to their seats for the feast he had prepared for their arrival. He sits beside her at the head table, and she soon finds herself comforted by their decades-long rapport.

“So,” he ventures, “how dost thou fare, ruling the Seven Kingdoms? Is it every bit as exhausting as Mother found it?”

She stifles a groan. “More so, I fear. At last, I understand why Grandsire Viserys turned gray so young.”

He nods. “At least, you finally understand how I feel.”

“How you feel,” she squawks. “I was Princess of Dragonstone for twenty-nine years, if you remember.”

He waves off her complaint. “Harrenhal is larger than Dragonstone.”

“You only use the lower third of two of the towers,” she heatedly rebuts. At this, he relents, breaking off into laughter, in which she joins him.

Later in the evening, Visenya finds herself in the rooms she often occupied as a girl during those times when her family would visit her father’s home. Though they are certainly not the most impressive rooms in the castle, such rooms belonging to her brother and his wife, they remain fine enough for a queen, every apartment in Harrenhal being grand enough to house any person of import.

As she readies herself for bed, a knock sounds at the outer door of her apartment. From upstairs, she hears her handmaid Poppy answer it. Low voices echo against the walls, followed by Poppy’s march up the stairwell.

“Your Grace,” Poppy says, bowing her head. “Your brother the Prince Lucamore wishes to speak with you.”

Raising her brow in perplexity—she would have thought it would be her husband disturbing her at this time of night—she nods in acquiescence. Poppy helps her dress in a fur-lined houppelande and don her shoes. Along with a member of her Queensguard, she follows after the servant her brother had sent.

Curiously, the man leads them all the way into the Widow’s Tower. They arrive at last in a room decorated by various tapestries, the largest among them being one depicting the burning of Harrenhal by Aegon the Conqueror and Balerion. Her brother stands in front of it, staring up at the stitched dragonfire with an eerie intensity.

“Leave us,” she tells their attendants.

Lucamore does not divert his attention from the tapestry, so she walks over and touches his arm to rouse him. “Luke, sweet one, what is it?” With the both of them in their forties now, her younger brother has long since outgrown her, taking on their father’s physique, though she finds she still thinks of him as the little boy with whom she grew up.

“I wished to speak with you,” he says abstractedly, still not looking at her, “about Aemond.”

Thrown, it takes her a moment to recall to whom he refers. “Uncle Aemond?” She frowns. “I do not think we have met since he brought his youngest to court.”

After his father died, her half-uncle Aemond wed Cassandra Baratheon, and he has lived at Storm’s End ever since. From what she understands, the couple has never been fond of one another, as Aemond had married her with the hope that he would rule the stormlands upon her father’s passing. When Lord Borros finally brought forth a son and robbed Aemond of his wife’s inheritance, their marriage had turned irredeemably sour, and she hears that they live in opposite wings of the castle.

“Yes,” declares Lucamore, his voice clearer and firmer than before. Tightly, he takes her hands into his grip. “Valaena, you must heed me. I know that you resent him now, but it does our house no favors for you to hold onto your ire.” 

“What ire? I’ve no ill will for him. I recall him being bothersome in childhood, but no worse than that.” Her brow furrows. “Who is Valaena?”

Frustrated, he answers, “You are. You are Valaena. You shall be queen someday, but for that to happen—for it to go well—he must be your king.” 

Flustered, she asks, “What? Brother, I am already queen, and I have a king consort.” For twenty-eight years, she has been married to Cregan. “What are you jabbering about?”

He continues as if she had not spoken. “And it must be as it was before my death. You must be happy again, Valaena, or it will tear our house apart. You’ll all kill each other, and only the Dragon Twins and our brothers Aegon and Viserys will survive.”

Growing upset, as he is, she questions, “The Dragon Twins? Do you mean my twins? And ‘our brothers?’ Luke, we haven’t any brothers named Aegon and Viserys. There is only you, Jace, Joff, Laryn, Melly, and myself. Are you well? Have you had too much to drink?” She does not think it likely, as Lucamore has never been one for drink, but it would explain his headache from earlier, as well as his behavior now.

Abruptly, he grabs her face and draws her in close. “Valaena, please, you must be happy again. I am telling you that it is all right. You need not hold back for my sake. I gain nothing from it. You must keep the family together, you must. We must be one house. We cannot be at odds. The only thing that can tear down the house of the dragon is itself.”

“Yes, all right. I will see to it,” she accedes, if only to pacify him. “I shall reach out to Aemond, I shall.” 

Looking unsure, as though he knows her to be humoring him, he probes, “You will remember this?”

“I will,” she swears.

Warily, he accepts her answer, letting his hands drop from her cheeks. “All right.” The tension running out of his shoulders, he pulls her into his embrace. His face buried in her hair, he murmurs, “I’ve missed you.” 

Relieved, she emits a laugh and coos, “I have missed you also.” Pulling back, she smooths down his dark hair, curlier than is her own. “Know that you and Rhaena and the children may always come to King’s Landing. I shall find a place for you in my court, if that is something you should like.” 

Lucamore gives her a half-smile that she remembers well from childhood. “If only it could be so.”

Visenya, a little dismayed by how down on himself he still seems, means to comfort him further. “Luke—”

“—Luke. Luke?” Valaena sits up in bed, suddenly awake. Her eyes scouring her bedchamber, she sees no one. Nevertheless, she still feels very keenly her brother’s presence, as though he had spoken to her not in a dream but in her waking hours.

Her skin prickling with cold and unease, she is driven out of bed by intuition. It is with scarcely a thought that she leaves her apartment, not even bothering to put on a dressing robe as she steps into the hall and follows the same path she had taken in her dream. Traveling up several flights of stairs, she finally comes upon the bridge that leads into the Widow’s Tower. She crosses it, and soon, she finds herself in the room she had visited in her dream. Haunted, she treads over to the tapestry portraying Aegon the Conqueror’s victory over Harren the Black.

“Who did you dream of meeting here,” a voice wonders, and Valaena jumps.

Spinning around, she is faced with a woman with long, black hair standing in the doorway. As she steps into the room, the torchlight flickers. Suddenly, Valaena feels uncomfortably naked. She wears nothing but a flimsy, white chemise, and she is without her dagger.

“Who are you,” she demands.

“I dreamt of meeting you here,” the woman tells her, confoundingly. “I’ve dragon dreams, like you.”

Valaena’s ears catch on one word, disbelieving. “You have dragon dreams,” she scorns, doubting very much that this riverwoman has the premonition ability known to affect the blood of the dragon.

Eerily placid, the woman informs her, “We don’t call them that, us woods witches.”

Valaena narrows her eyes at the strange woman. “Who are you,” she asks again.

The woman smiles sharply. “Why, I am your Aunt Alys, dearie.”

Abruptly, Valaena realizes where this is going, feeling oddly amused. “Are you?”

Alys nods. “Lord Lyonel was my father.”

Valaena nods, too, having expected as much. “Well, Alys Rivers, I am no dreamer.” Hoping to slip past the older woman, she makes for the door.

“Afraid you haven’t enough dragon’s blood, Valaena Waters,” Alys calls after her.

Valaena stops in her tracks. “I may not be a dragon dreamer, but I am still a dragon,” she avers. “It would do you well to remember that, especially once my husband arrives here. He is far more volatile than I, and provided he survives his clash with the king, I do not think he would take kindly to you controverting the birth of his child’s mother.”

Alys hardly looks concerned. “I do not think I have cause to worry when it comes to your husband.”

“A fool, you are then,” she spits, finally striding from the room.

The following afternoon, Valaena meets Daemon in Hunter’s Hall. She had not slept well following her confrontation with the queer Rivers woman, so she stifles a yawn as she steps into the room.

“Wake up,” Daemon tells her. “We have much to discuss.”

Valaena sends him a sour lour. “I am awake.”

The two of them convene at a long table in the center of the room. Helpfully, it is already decorated with maps of the riverlands, the crownlands, and King’s Landing. Eyeing the various carvings of dragons and banners, she picks up the largest one and places it atop the dot on the map that signifies the Gate of the Gods.

She begins her proposal for the Black conquest of King’s Landing. “My whisperers have confirmed that Aemond intends to depart from the city along the Kingsroad five days hence, bringing with him four-thousand men and Vhagar. Tessarion remains in the Reach, the injured Sunfyre near Rook’s Rest, and when Helaena and her children absconded, they took with them the other three Green dragons.” She sends him a pointed look, as though to instill that he was wrong to chastise her for aiding in Helaena’s escape. “Thus, the prince regent will have denuded King’s Landing of its defenders, and the city will be open for our attack.”

She moves the wooden carving of Vhagar away from the capital and brings closer the carvings of Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke, and Veraxes. “We can surround the city with our dragons, coming in first with Vermithor and Silverwing from the west and Seasmoke and Veraxes from the east. Mother can fly directly to Aegon’s Hill and take the Red Keep with Syrax thereafter.” She places Syrax atop the illustration of the Keep. “The gold cloaks will aid in subduing the meager Green forces on the ground. I have been in contact with Ser Garth of the City Watch, and he assures me that save for some officers, the watchmen support our cause. We have had sent already soldiers from our bannermen through the Kingswood, and they should reach each of the city gates by the day of our attack.” She places seven carved banners over the graphic forest on the map.

Bringing out three more dragon carvings, she steps over to the map of the riverlands. Caraxes goes first to Harrenhal. “Princess Rhaenys has volunteered to come here and aid in fortifying Harrenhal against Aemond’s attack while we take King’s Landing, and Mother wishes to send Sheepstealer, as well.” Meleys and Sheepstealer go beside Caraxes. She pushes Vhagar closer. “It will be three against one, and not even Vhagar can beat those odds.”

Stepping back, she gestures wide at both maps and waits for his assessment.

His lips pursed, Daemon considers her presentation. “I like this plan.” In hearing so, she beams with pride. She had been involved in much of the planning, alongside Rhaenyra, Rhaenys, and Corlys.

“But,” he says, and she groans, hanging her head. “I would like it better was I to fly to King’s Landing, as well. My gold cloaks will be eager to follow my lead, and I don’t favor the idea of your mother going to the Red Keep alone.”

“What of Harrenhal,” she asks. With only two dragons to stand against Vhagar, a Black victory is not so well assured.

“What of it? It is a decaying pile of rock for which we’ve no further need,” he dismisses, gesturing to their eroded surroundings.

“You wish to fly all of our dragons to King’s Landing?” Five dragons are more than enough, she thinks. Already, she would wager that Alicent has been stirring up dread in the smallfolk, priming them to fear a brutal attack from the Blacks. She does not think they should terrorize the people more than is absolutely necessary.

Daemon seems to read her thoughts. “Were you an Andal, what difference would you find in five dragons from eight?” Having no answer, she shrugs, and he alters the plan to his liking.

That evening, Simon Strong subjects them to yet another feast. Valaena feels embarrassed to wear the same ensemble to two consecutive feasts, but unwilling to borrow an ill-fitting dress from one of the steward’s daughters, she makes do. She feels somewhat appeased when Forrest Frey flirts with her for the second night in a row. Seeing this, Daemon quietly tells her that she should count herself fortunate that his wife Sabitha is not a jealous woman.

As the feast draws to an end, Forrest propounds, “Would you care to join me for a drink, Princess? I have a toothsome juniper ale in my quarters.”

Blushing, Valaena is surprised to find herself actually considering his proposition. Having gotten married at fourteen, no one has ever courted her before. A few boys from Dragonstone had flirted with her when she was twelve and thirteen, but since then, the only man in her life has been Aemond. Though not quite sure that she is interested in anyone else, she supposes that she ought to think about it now that they have become bitter enemies. Moreover, beginning to move on by having a dalliance with a handsome, puissant lord does not seem too impudent a course of action, even though he is twice her age.

She opens her mouth to respond, not yet knowing that which she means to say, when Daemon intervenes. “The Princess has already agreed to close out the evening with me. Fuck off, Frey.” Forrest takes the dismissal remarkably well, grinning as he walks off.

As Daemon comes around to stand in front of her, she expects a scolding. Ducking his head, he points at her. “I’m not against it. In fact, I would like to emphatically endorse such behavior.” Stunned, she blinks wide at him. “I loathe your husband, and your cuckolding him would bring me endless joy. However, not while you are alone with me. If you should become with child, your mother would cast the blame onto me.”

“Come on,” she gripes. Abashed, she looks around to see if anyone has overheard them.

Daemon offers to have her for a drink in his quarters, and she accepts, thinking she could use a drink to help lull her to sleep in the night. They walk up to his rooms, which are grander than hers by a margin that would be small anywhere but Harrenhal, and he pours her a glass of hippocras. She downs it in a few gulps and requests another. Snickering, he fills her cup once more.

“Sip that one,” he commands. She complies easily, doubtful as to her ability to guzzle two cups of wine in a row.

As soon as they both are seated across from each other in his solar, he demands, “Tell me about the Battle of the Gullet.”

She stiffens, the sweet taste of the hippocras suddenly souring on her tongue. “I do not wish to speak about it.”

“Too bad,” he says, ruthless.

Sighing, she supposes she has little hope for resistance. “It was bad,” she starts, baldly. He raises his brow, silently urging her to continue. “I was shot. Aegon lost Stormcloud. Jace lost Vermax, and he feels so guilty about Viserys that he no longer trusts himself. He has no desire to come to King’s Landing with us, wishing to remain on Dragonstone where he will be ‘out of the way,’” she finishes, parroting her brother’s inane words.

Daemon sucks his teeth. “He should know the fault lies not with him, but with your husband.”

“No,” she dismisses, offhand. “Ser Criston said that Aemond had no hand in the Triarchy’s attack. ‘Twas all Ser Otto’s doing.”

Daemon directs a patronizing stare at her. “I understand the impulse, Valaena, to believe such things. It must be disturbing to think that one shared a bed with a monster for so many years.” Her lips twist, but he presses on. “But it is better that one not forget so until the monster is dead.”

Unsure of how to respond, she says nothing.

“Tell me about Ser Criston,” he requests next, his severe demeanor shifting back into a relaxed one. “Have I any cause for concern in being unseated as your father?”

Bewildered, she plays dumb. “How do you mean?”

Unimpressed, he asks, “Did you really think I would have been married to your mother for nearing nine years and not know who fathered her heir?”

That is exactly what she had thought. “No.”

He gives her another reproving look. “I’ve known since I first met you, soon after you were born.”

Shocked anew, she leans forward in her chair. “Really?”

He nods. Far too casually, he divulges, “Until then, I thought you were mine.” 

Silently, she gapes at him, struck dumb yet again.

He goes on to explain, “The night that you were conceived—”

“Wait,” she objects, not sure that she wishes to hear the full, unabridged story.

“Shut up. That night, I drove your mother into Cole’s arms by abandoning her, drunk, at a pleasure house.” Her face drops, and he waves her off. “I knew not that at the time, however, so when I heard that she was with child so soon after, I assumed that we had fucked and I had forgotten.” He scratches his chin. “Anyhow, I was banished at the time, so I needed wait until she ventured to Driftmark with you to discover the truth. As soon as I saw you, I knew I had been mistaken.” 

Curious, she inquires, “Were you disappointed?”

He shrugs. “I lost interest in you soon after.” She frowns at him, and he offers, “I did have a plan to spirit you away to Essos, but—”

“You meant to abduct me,” she exclaims.

He points at her. “Only had you proven to be mine, as would have been my right.” 

She scoffs in disagreement. “I think my mother and your wife would have taken issue.” 

He flicks away her concerns. “Laena was aware of my plans, and with time, your mother would have come around.” Valaena raises her brow, enhancing her look of disbelief. He leans forward, and with a teasing smile, says, “Do you know, the Conqueror had two wives.” 

Grinning despite herself, she shakes her head in disapproval. “I hope this to be a joke.” 

Taking a sip of wine, he sits back again. “You’ll never know.” His tone changing, he adds, “Of course, you’ve no right to complain about others’ plots, having so many yourself.” 

More genuinely than the last time she had spoken the same words, she asks, “How do you mean?”

“I mean, how is it that you came to command whisperers in King’s Landing,” he clarifies, a sharp glint to his eye.

Feeling as though she has been lured into an interrogation as opposed to an idle, late-night conversation, she holds her tongue. She sets down her cup, deciding that she does not wish to be any more inebriated than she is already. Retrospectively, she regrets having gulped down that first goblet of wine.

Given her interference in his plans for Jaehaerys, Valaena is well aware of Daemon’s affection for Lady Misery. My dearest Mysaria, he had called her in his letter. Valaena had used that same knowledge to have her killed weeks later, and she desperately, fervently wishes for him to never find that out.

Too late though, it seems.

Carefully, she admits, “When he came to Dragonstone, Ser Criston brought me the allegiance of one of Alicent’s handmaids, who had a connection to a string of whisperers throughout the city.”

Humming, he sets down his own cup of wine. “What was the handmaid’s name?”

Disinclined to be caught in a lie, she says, “Talya.”

“Yes, she was Mysaria’s right-hand woman,” he recalls, “though I suppose now, she’s yours.”

With his intense, knowing stare boring into her, her breath grows shallow. Fidgeting, she makes the mistake of looking toward the door, and he is afoot before she is.

All of the wine she has consumed this evening, both at the feast and after, unsteadies her, and she does not make it far. Daemon catches her around the middle and presses her against the nearest wall with his hand under her chin. She claws at his fingers but is unable to pry them from her skin.

Looming over her, he grits his teeth and demands, “What did I tell you about trying to wrest control from me?”

“That is not what this was, I swear it,” she frantically asserts, her eyes growing moist. He gives her an expectant look, loosening his grip on her ever so slightly. “Aegon, in Rook’s Rest, he said that a Lady Misery delivered him to his grandsire so that he could be crowned. After I told Criston that he was my father, I asked him to slay her for me. I knew not that she was the same woman to whom you wrote until he arrived at Dragonstone.”

Silently, Daemon considers her. He lets his hand drop from her neck, and she sucks in a long breath. As he continues to stare, no part of his countenance lightens, his face still drawn in taut, grim lines, and she thinks that he must not believe her fictive story—

“What do you know of the Song of Ice and Fire,” he asks abruptly.

Nonplussed, she grasps, “The Conqueror’s dream?”

“So, you do know it,” he surmises.

“Mother told me of it on my thirteenth nameday,” she recalls. She had thought the tale a little fanciful. One day, a darkness will come from the distant north, carrying with it the end of men, avertible only by Aegon’s own blood.

Daemon hums in acknowledgement. “Do you believe it?”

Further perplexed, she says, “Yes.” Self-important though his dream was, Aegon foresaw his conquest of the Seven Kingdoms, too.

“And would you allow dreams to distract you from our personal ambitions,” presses Daemon.

Suddenly, Valaena recalls her dream from the night before, odd though it had been. Casting that thought aside, she feels the safe answer to be “No.”

At last, he appears satisfied. “Good.”

Instinctively, she flinches back from him, knocking her head against the wall. He reacts with a strange, leery look, peering down at her as though he wants to pick her bones clean. Desperately, she wants to look away from him, but a visceral part of her does not feel it wise to drop her gaze.

“Goodnight,” she says, hoping it will make the end of this harrowing encounter.

“Goodnight,” he returns.

Ducking her head, she sidles past him and rushes for the door. Standing out in the hall, her first thought is to head to her rooms, and with haste, but something holds her in place. For whatever reason, the prospect of spending another moment in this gods-forsaken place is repugnant. Finally, she understands why all those who have walked these halls claim that Harrenhal is cursed.

Agitated, she turns back, barging into Daemon’s rooms once more. She finds his solar empty, so she follows the noise coming from upstairs and comes upon him in his bedchamber. Standing beside his wardrobe, she sees that he has already divested himself of his shirt, having begun to dress for bed.

He stares quizzically at her. She informs him, “I am going back to Dragonstone.”

“Now? It’s the middle of the night,” he protests.

“I shall see you in King’s Landing.” Having made up her mind, she does not wait to hear anything else from him. Spinning on her heel, she departs from his rooms once more.

He follows after her, though she is faster than he this time. Behind her in the corridor outside, he shouts after her, “Valaena! Valaena, come back here!” She does not slow, and as far as she knows, he does not follow her any farther.

As she comes outdoors, she finds Veraxes prowling around directly before Kingspyre Tower, her dragon evidently having sensed her need for him. She keeps her urgent pace toward him, climbing into his saddle as soon as she is beside him. Together, they take to the air, and the gargantuan specter of Harrenhal soon fades to a speck in the distance.

Near dawn two weeks later, Valaena flits about Dragonstone’s nursery, fretting over her child. Aenar feels none of her restlessness, sitting in his grandsire’s arms without a care in the world.

“Should it grow too cold, there is a coat I made for him. It’s red, and the lining is fur,” she tells Criston. “And if he should develop a cough or a fever, write me. I shall return straight away.”

“Be at ease, Princess,” he says, laughing. “All will be well.” He looks to Aenar, who turns his head toward him, as well. “Isn’t that right, little one?”

Glad for the attention, Aenar shrieks at him in agreement.

Looking between her natural father and her son, Valaena swallows a sigh. She leaves for King’s Landing today, alongside the other dragonriders. They expect the city to fall to them within the day, but her duties there will persist thereafter. She sits on her mother’s small council, so she will have to remain in the city for some time. As such, she will be without her child until she can make her return to Dragonstone, which for all she knows, could be for weeks or months. The longest she has been apart from him thus far has been less than five days, so the prospect of weeks without him distresses her.

Stepping forward, she gives the boy a hug and a kiss. Her nose in his hair, she says, “I love you, sweetling,” kisses him once more, and steps back. Desiring more affection, he grunts and reaches out toward her. Swallowing a sob, she grants it to him, embracing him once more.

With her so close, Criston takes the chance to loop his free arm around her shoulders and press his lips against her temple. Still holding Aenar, she allows it for a moment before pulling away again.

He smiles at her. “Gods spede, Princess.”

With a small smile of her own, she thanks him. Gazing at Aenar once more, she drinks her fill, and then without saying anything, flees from the room before she can deter herself from leaving entirely.

She goes to her mother’s rooms, where she finds Rhaenyra and Rhaenys donning their armor. Her grandmother is half-dressed in her steel and copper armor, whereas her mother is almost entirely clad in the new armor she’d had constructed for this day, a gleaming suit of black scale. Like Valaena, her hair hangs down her back in a long, intricate braid. Only her left arm is free of any metal, which leaves her right hand for Aegon to hold as her handmaids work on assembling the pauldron and vambrace for her other arm.

Since the Battle of the Gullet, Aegon has clung to Rhaenyra day and night, hovering by her side like a small, pale shadow. Having been anticipating their departure from Dragonstone all month, Valaena has questioned—out of earshot of the queen and the prince—the wisdom of promoting such behavior. However, in seeing the comfort the pair draw from each other, she has not been so bold as to bring the issue to her mother.

“Hi, Aegon,” Valaena says to him, having already nodded in greeting to her mother and grandmother. Kneeling in front of him, she gently inquires, “How are you feeling?”

Briefly, he lifts his eyes from the floor to look at her. His eyes, though dry, are replete with despair, and they soon return to the ground without an answer having come from his lips. Concerned, she glances up at their mother, who shakes her head, cautioning her not to push him.

Nevertheless, she ventures, “Aegon, could I trouble you for a favor?” Before she has even asked it, he wordlessly shakes his head, but she presses on. “While I am away, can you play with Aenar for me, make sure he is happy?” It is her hope that in engaging in such idle diversion, he will cheer up himself.

He looks to Rhaenyra for encouragement, and she gives it to him, nodding. Looking back to Valaena, he hazards, “I don’t know.”

“Just check on him, then,” she tries. “Make sure he sleeps well.”

“All right,” he accedes without further protest. She does not know if he has agreed simply to assuage her, but she will take it.

Standing, she kisses the top of his head. “Thank you, Brother.”

Stepping away, Valaena moves over to Aster, who has come to help her into armor of her own. The suit made for her matches that of Rhaenyra, the two having been made as a set, though hers is less extravagant. The scale is silver and chased with black, and the crests of House Targaryen and House Velaryon are embossed on either pauldron.

Aster and one of the queen’s handmaids strap her into the various bits of armor, leaving off the helmet, gauntlets, and sabatons for ease of movement. Once all three ladies are fully clad in steel, they make to head out to the Dragonmont. Following a brief, tearful tantrum from Aegon, they do just that.

Once outside, they congregate with the other dragonriders. Valaena stands beside her mother as she addresses the group.

“My half-brother has brought the realm to war, stealing both my sons’ lives and those of countless others. For this treason, he shall lose his head, and this day, it shall be done,” she calls, her voice carrying over the hills. “You all have valiantly volunteered to take on the terrible responsibility of bonding with a dragon. As we fly our dragons to battle, I caution you to exercise restraint. Loose no flames that you do not feel are absolutely essential for us to take the city. King’s Landing is the heart of this realm, and it must remain for me to rule.”

With that, she turns to Syrax, who looms behind her, and readies them both for flight.

Moving toward her own dragon, Valaena shouts, “You know the plan! Mount up!”

Once all seven dragons soar above the island, they wait for Rhaenyra to commence their advance across Blackwater Bay. Set on a direct route, they fly for less than an hour before they reach King’s Landing, their dragons shadowing the pale, red stone of the Red Keep as they fly overhead.

Already, Caraxes circumnavigates the city, squirming as he moves through the air. He and Syrax meet among the clouds, circling each other and shrieking with glee. The other six dragons pair off, going their separate ways.

Meleys and Sheepstealer light upon Visenya’s Hill, while Vermithor and Silverwing land on either side of the Dragonpit. Daemon waits an hour before descending on the Red Keep atop Caraxes, Syrax following shortly thereafter. Seasmoke and Veraxes diverge above the Hook, each moving toward the city walls. For hours, they remain aloft, circling the city and discouraging any defiance below.

Already, fighting had broken out at each of the city gates. Inside the city, Hightower knights and men-at-arms battle gold cloaks, who as assured, had turned their cloaks for Rhaenyra as soon as they had spotted Caraxes in the sky above them. Outside the walls, the Black army batters the gates. The strife at the River Gate lasts the longest, persisting for eight hours, but by dusk, the city is won.

As she and Addam pass each other in the air, Valaena signals for him to move toward the Dragonpit. After landing, they hand their mounts over to the Dragonkeepers and join the party of dragonriders and Targaryen knights waiting nearby.

She approaches her grandmother, grinning wide and hoping for an exultant embrace, but the frown on Rhaenys’s face stops her in her tracks. “What is it?”

“Aegon is missing,” she reports.

“No,” Valaena exclaims, kicking along the ground. She had so been looking forward to watching him be decapitated. She wonders, “How?” Ever since she crippled him, he has been abed. How had he escaped?

“That much is yet to be known,” says Rhaenys. “Come, we ride for the Keep.”

Their party rides through the city on horseback, and they find the smallfolk to be astonishingly welcoming for all the fighting that has occurred this day. As she travels along the Street of the Sisters, she hears thrown out “Long live Queen Rhaenyra” and “Welcome back, Princess!”

When they arrive at the Red Keep, they need dismount and tread carefully past Caraxes and Syrax in the outer ward of the castle. Once inside, they make their way toward the throne room. Valaena lags behind her grandmother to address the other dragonriders. “The Princess Rhaenys and I will enter first. Addam, you’re a step behind us. White, Hammer, and Nettles, the three of you take up the back.”

“Why should we not enter as one,” gruffly objects Hugh Hammer. “You did no more than we in this battle.”

Halting her steps, Valaena turns on the man with one incredulous eyebrow raised. “Why, I hadn’t realized you were a princess, too.” From beside him, Ulf White snorts.

Hugh takes the snub surprisingly well. “You can think of me however you like, little lass,” he intones, looking her up and down with a lascivious eye.

Before she has the chance to fully experience her disgust, Addam steps in. He takes a half-step in front of her, barking, “Back off, Hammer!”

Resentful, Hugh shoves Addam. “Fuck off, Hull.”

Inflamed, Addam reaches for his sword, prompting Hugh and Ulf to do the same. The household knights are spooked, as well, pulling Valaena away and drawing their own weapons.

Before any blood can be shed, a commanding voice brings the men to heel. “Enough,” orders Rhaenys, staring down the two instigators with distaste. As soon as they have all set down their weapons, suitably chastised, she takes Valaena by the arm and leads the group the rest of the way to the Great Hall.

As they enter the hall, Ser Lorent announces their arrival. “Valaena of House Velaryon, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, and her grandmother, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Lady of Driftmark.”

From the corner of her mouth, Rhaenys mutters to her, “To think I have reached the day that I might be announced as a grandmother.” Subtly, Valaena suppresses an amused smile.

Ahead of them, Rhaenyra sits upon the Iron Throne, in her rightful place at last. Daemon stands to the right of the throne, Dark Sister in his hands. On its left, Tyland Lannister, Jasper Wylde, Otto Hightower, and Queen Alicent stand together in chains. Valaena lets her smile broaden as she locks eyes with Otto.

Valaena takes a knee before the throne, bowing her head to her mother. She declares, “The city is yours, Your Grace, as is long overdue.”

Thereafter, she takes Daemon’s place off to the side, watching with considerable satisfaction as he takes off Otto’s head and Alicent howls in anguish.

Later that night, Valaena retires to her rooms in the Red Keep after five long months. As she changes into her bedclothes, her eyes catch on a pile of letters sitting on her reading table. Sifting through them, she finds that they are all addressed to her and scribed in an achingly familiar, scrawling script.

Chapter Text

134 A.C.

Valaena lies propped-up against the pillows of her bed, luxuriating in the pleasurable sensations wrought by her bedpartner. Aemond hunches over her to avoid her protruding belly, pumping into her slowly. His long hair hangs around them in a curtain, enclosing them in their own little world.

Panting against his cheek, she breathlessly demands, “Faster.”

He brushes their lips together as he shakes his head, keeping his same, leisurely pace. She whines but does not complain again.

Since her pregnancy was discovered six moons past, Aemond has been an irritatingly staunch proponent of tender lovemaking. For her part, Valaena enjoys gentle intercourse as much as the next woman, but there are times when she longs for the days when he would hold her down and fuck her until she was incoherent, sobbing and gasping for breath.

After another few minutes, she feels herself finally reach the crest of the tall hill up which she has been walking, before tumbling down its other side. As the waves of pleasure roll over her, she sighs into his mouth.

Lightly, he places a hand on her belly, his fingers spreading out along her stretched skin, and pumps into her a few more times. When he comes, his eyelids flutter and his head tips back. She dips forward to kiss up the line of his neck. He brings his head down to nudge their noses together and claim her lips, before at last falling onto the mattress beside her.

Side-by-side, they rest for a while, bringing their breathing back under control and soaking in a few more minutes of unhurried ease. It is yet early in the day, the Sun having risen just two hours past, and there is no rush to leave their bed. Valaena lounges with her eyes closed, idly humming as Aemond’s hand strokes over the skin of her belly. She is disturbed only when his hand suddenly dips lower.

Peeling her eyes open, she pushes herself into a seated position. “We’ve just finished.”

He sits up, as well, leaning over her to cage her in with his arms. “And we could finish again.” Kissing along her throat, he begins to run a hand up her leg.

She pushes him away with a finger to his naked chest. “Later.”

Swinging her legs over the side of the mattress one-by-one, she awkwardly pushes herself to her feet. Across the room, she spies Aemond’s sapphire eye on the reading table, sitting in a bowl of white wine and herbs. “Stay there. Let me rinse my hands and put in your eye.” Going into the bathing room, she rubs her hand over a soap ball and rinses her hands in a bowl of water. After drying them on a towel, she returns to her bedchamber, fishes his eye out of the wine, waddles back over to him, and fits it into his empty socket.

Self-conscious, he tries to pull away once the eye is in, but she keeps her grip on his face, dipping to kiss his nose. When she finally permits his escape, he shoves himself to his feet. Moving toward his wardrobe, he grumbles, “What has you in such high spirits this morn?”

“Well, you did just fuck me,” she states bluntly, cracking a grin when he throws her a smirk from over his shoulder. “Besides that, my family arrives today.”

For months, she has been expecting her mother to travel to King’s Landing to be with her for the birth of her first child. However, that would not have been for another moon. Now, given the development of certain unforeseen circumstances, her entire family is on its way, and with promises to remain until her child is born.

“Your family has come only to fend off accusations against your birth,” he reminds her, his countenance far sullener than hers.

Unwilling to let him dull her good mood, she infuses her voice with a cheery strain as she grouses, “I wonder how upset you are considering that it is your family which has invited the voice of such accusations.”

Recently, her grandsire Corlys has fallen ill, as the result of a fever caught at sea. Capitalizing on the Sea Snake’s weakness, his own brother, Vaemond, has petitioned the Crown to reconsider the matter of inheritance of Driftmark. This plot, while enormously beneficial to Vaemond, also serves the interests of Alicent and Otto, so naturally, the three of them hatched it together. Should Vaemond’s claim to Driftmark be considered with any homage, it would serve only to discredit the fact of Jacaerys’s birth, and by extension, repress Rhaenyra’s claim to the Iron Throne.

Admittedly, it had been Aemond who told Valaena about this latest Green plot. As soon as it had been made known to him that Vaemond intended to question Jacaerys’s—and thus Valaena’s—birth before the royal court, he had let it slip to her. “Write your mother, write your grandmother, write whomever—let’s fucking kill this covin in its cradle,” he had said.

Not looking at her, he mutters, “I’ve half the mind to cut out Vaemond Velaryon’s tongue myself.”

She does not respond until he turns to look at her with one eyebrow raised, silently questioning her own silence. Sarcastically, she remarks, “How chivalrous you are.”

Grinning slyly, he looks her up and down. He reaches out to touch her belly, and after a moment’s thought, steps closer.

She takes a reciprocal step back. “Later, I said.”

“It is later,” he points out.

“Much later,” she defers.

Later—not much later, but sometime later—the both of them are dressed and ready for the day. Aemond leads her to the nearest dining room, where she expects to find Helaena alone to breakfast with them. Unfortunately, Alicent and Otto are seated on either side of her, and Valaena’s face pinches up as she realizes that she has just walked into an ambush.

She and Aemond had started actively trying for a child the previous year, a moon past Maelor’s birth. They would have started sooner but for the fact that Valaena had been witness to the ten-hour birth and consequently felt the need to abstain a little longer.

The decision had also followed months of introspection. Initially, her concerns had been limited to the potential of the Greens spreading rumors as to the birth of her own child, though they melted away in the face of a long overdue observation. For whatever reason, for years, Alicent and Otto have been very keen on her and Aemond procreating. Regardless of her own desire for a child, she had not wished to do the Greens any favors. Eventually, however, she had decided that her suspicions should not keep her from having the life she wants.

As soon as their attempts at conception had proven fruitful, near everyone had been overjoyed—even Otto had worn a genuine smile. For the first few months, Aemond had been glued to her side. It had been charming at first, but when he had objected to her taking any stairs by herself and insisted that she wait for him before going anywhere, she had nipped that behavior in the bud.

Alicent had also become overcautious. She had promptly forbidden Valaena from leaving the Red Keep, barring her from traveling to Dragonstone or flying Veraxes. In response, Valaena had written to Rhaenyra, pleading with her mother to rectify the situation. She had never received a response, and she suspects that Alicent had directed Orwyle to withhold her missive.

In recent weeks, Alicent has moved onto proponing that Valaena enter confinement for the final month of her pregnancy. During such a time, she would be restricted to her rooms, wherein no men would be permitted to enter. Rather, the only males who she could entertain would be Maelor, Jaehaerys, and her brothers Joffrey, Viserys, and Aegon.

Valaena is in resolute opposition to the suggestion. She finds the prospect of remaining in the same four rooms for an entire moon, unable to see her husband, deeply repugnant. Moreover, she suspects that just as she has done every other day this week, Alicent intends to pester her about it here and now.

Alicent gestures for them to sit. As they do, she says, “Good morning, my loves.”

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Valaena returns. Politely, she nods to Otto, too. Aemond does nothing more than glance at his kin in greeting.

As the meal progresses, Valaena notices Alicent glancing at her every so often. Anxiously, she swallows her mouthful of smoked anchovies and prepares for the onslaught.

“Valaena,” Alicent ventures, as predicted, “have you put any more thought to entering confinement?”

Aemond, who is against the idea of confinement, as well, remonstrates, “Mother, we’ve discussed this.”

Alicent sighs. “Yes, and each time, without a satisfactory conclusion.”

Speaking to Aemond, Otto says, “Her Grace your mother and Princess Helaena always took great comfort in their confinement.”

Wishing to speak for herself, Valaena interjects, “Be that as it may, I am neither Her Grace nor Princess Helaena. I am, in fact, another, entirely separate person.”

“But still a woman,” Otto condescends.

“Yes, as I am ceaselessly reminded,” she quietly mutters. At this, Alicent gives her a cutting look.

Firmly, Aemond states, “The answer is still no.” Alicent sucks in a breath to rebuke him, but he cannily heads her off. “And I am certain that when my half-sister the Princess Rhaenyra arrives, she will affirm our position.”

Nettled, Alicent purses her lips but ultimately lets the topic drop. Meanwhile, Valaena stifles a smile and glances sidelong at Aemond, who smirks at her. Blushing, she returns to her food.

She and Aemond part ways after breakfast. He offers to escort her downstairs, though she assures him that Lord Caswell has already agreed to accompany her. The man in question arrives shortly thereafter, and they depart for the entrance hall of the castle.

She and Lord Caswell wait on the steps of the castle for fewer than ten minutes before the gates on the inner curtain wall of the Keep part to reveal a pair of carriages, several carts carrying luggage, and two mounted, Targaryen men-at-arms waving flags with the house sigil emblazoned on them. A member of the Kingsguard calls out, “All hail Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, and her royal consort, Prince Daemon Targaryen.”

The door on the nearest carriage opens, and Rhaenyra and Daemon step out. Filing out of the other carriage, their children go unannounced, lining up in order of rank, with Viserys held by a nursemaid beside Aegon.

Valaena can see the displeasure displayed on the faces of her family given their paltry welcoming party, consisting of only her and Lord Caswell. Still, she keeps her smile on her face, descends the steps with Lord Caswell’s aid, and greets her mother first. “Be welcome, Mother.”

Swallowing whatever grievances she may have, Rhaenyra allows a gentle smile to overtake her face as she gazes at Valaena. “My sweet girl.” She kisses her on the cheek, and they engage in a clumsy hug as their rounded bellies bump together.

Two moons after she had informed her mother of her pregnancy—a letter that did make it past Alicent’s stoppage—Rhaenyra wrote back to apprise Valaena of her own pregnancy. Now, with her gravidity six moons gone, Rhaenyra’s middle is considerably smaller than that of Valaena, who has been with child for near eight moons, according to Maester Orwyle’s calculations.

Over the course of her pregnancy, Valaena has been pleased to discover that she does not find the condition to be too cumbersome. Early on, there had been a very brief period of time when she suffered from nausea, but it had passed quickly. Beyond that, even her aches and tender bladder bother her little, so overcome is she by the delight of carrying her child. Every time the babe reaches out with its fist or foot, she is beset by pure joy and becomes preoccupied with trying to place her finger where next she expects a kick.

Over the years, she has observed Rhaenyra as having the same outlook on pregnancy, though she usually grows irritable in the final month. Valaena hopes that the same will not hold true for her, but only time will tell.

From beside Rhaenyra, Daemon glances around. His lips twist with the barest hint of amusement. “Is it just you,” he wonders, ignoring Lord Caswell.

“It is just us,” she confirms.

Humming, he steps forward to pull her toward him with a hand on her upper back. He kisses her on the forehead.

With her parents out of the way, Valaena moves onto her siblings. She directs her gaze down to Joffrey, who grips their mother’s hand. He grins once he has her attention and throws himself into her embrace. She grunts as he collides with her, and he giggles. They are soon joined by Aegon, who throws his arms around her large belly, too.

As soon as the younger boys release her, she heads over to Jacaerys, who has had a profound frown on his face since he stepped out of the carriage. Holding out her arms, she excitedly exclaims, “Jace!”

He grins despite his poor mood. “Sister,” he says, and she squeezes her arms around him.

Lucerys falls easily into her tight embrace, as well. She moves onto Rhaena next, and the two women share a sly grin, as though silently rejoicing in each other’s female company after so many months apart.

Valaena saves the youngest of her siblings for last. “Viserys,” she sings, walking up to him. Clutching at his nursemaid’s shoulder, the child looks over to her. “Do you remember me?”

His smile hiding behind the fist in his mouth, he utters, “V’laena.” Squealing, Valaena swoops in to kiss his cheeks until he squeals, too.

As Rhaenyra and Daemon head into the castle together, with Aegon and the woman holding Viserys at their heels, Jacaerys pushes Joffrey in Valaena’s direction. “Can I trouble you to watch him? Luke and I wish to visit the training yard.”

Lucerys pipes up, “We don’t,” but Jacaerys shushes him.

Laughing, she agrees and takes Joffrey’s hand. The older boys run off, and Rhaena disappears herself, leaving only Valaena and Joffrey in the curtilage.

Peering up at her, Joffrey wonders, “Where will we go?”

“We shall wait here for Grandmother Rhaenys and Baela to arrive,” she tells him. Dramatically, he groans in complaint, and she frowns reprovingly at him.

It is another half-hour before a third carriage arrives, bearing two more Targaryen ladies. Rhaenys appears distracted as she accepts their greetings, rushing off almost as soon as Joffrey has dropped his arms from around her waist. Baela remains a little longer, chatting with her step-siblings, but she soon excuses herself, as well, hoping to freshen up before supper.

Valaena elects to beguile Joffrey with a tour of the Keep, showing him the Great Hall, the library, the river walk, and the pig yard, from which he derives the most amusement. With each room they enter, he asks if he has ever been inside it before, and when she says no, he pouts.

“I can show you the nursery,” she offers. “You lived there for a few days.” Nodding, he accepts her attempt at conciliation.

When they arrive at the nursery, the twins’ cots are empty, though Maelor is in his cradle, sitting up as his guests enter the room. Joffrey walks right up to his cradle, pointing at it. “Was this my cradle,” he asks.

“Mayhaps,” she answers, not having been paying such fine attention when she was eleven. “It belongs to Maelor now.”

At this, he finally takes notice of the babe staring at him through the wooden bars of the cradle. When they lock eyes, Maelor gives him a gummy smile.

Walking over, Valaena takes Maelor into her arms. She takes a seat on the floor, and Joffrey does the same. She arranges Maelor to sit in her lap as he mumbles the first syllable of her name to her over and over. Once he is settled, she lightly scratches at his nose to produce a giggle and says, “Hi, rūs.”

“Hi,” he murmurs back to her.

She points to Joffrey. “This is your cousin, Joffrey, my brother. Can you say ‘hi’ to Joffrey?”

Shyly, Maelor looks to Joffrey. “Hi.”

“Hello, Maelor,” sighs Joffrey. He directs another pout toward Valaena. “Can we leave?”

Pursing her lips, she refrains from snapping at him for his impatience. She supposes, she need become accustomed to the difficulties of children as she anticipates her own child. Turning her lips up in a contrived smile, she broaches, “You play dragons very well with Viserys. Would you care to show Maelor how to play?”

“I suppose,” he says, sighing again. She hides her eyeroll, as well as the triumphant grin she develops as soon as Joffrey becomes as engrossed in the game as is Maelor.

When the time for supper arrives, she replaces Maelor in his cradle and shepherds Joffrey toward the dining room near their family’s guest quarters. On their way there, they run into a familiar, unwelcome interloper.

He stops in the middle of the corridor as he catches sight of them, and feeling caught, she nods her head respectfully. “Uncle Vaemond.”

“Princess,” he replies, purposefully not acknowledging their relation, she suspects. “I hope you are not upset by my presence here.”

Taking in his haughty grin, she suppresses a glower. Some men are too brazen for her tastes, she thinks. She chooses to return his same impudence, “Certainly not. I understand it is difficult for men to change their natures.”

He twitches. “I beg your pardon?”

“What was it our father called you once, during your war in the Stepstones?” She pretends to think on it. “Ah, yes. The master of complaints.” Hearing this, Joffrey laughs.

Affronted, Vaemond blusters, “If I recall, your father had difficulty changing his own nature.” His gaze dips to Joffrey. At this, she openly glares. He receives her disdain with a subtle grin and clicks his tongue pityingly. “And now you suffer questions as to your right to the throne.”

“I do not,” she replies, as coolly as she can manage.

Holding back a smirk, he counters, “No?”

“No, for I am a Targaryen,” she avers.

“Are you,” he sneers. “Why is it, then, that you bear my name?”

“Not yours, Uncle.” He parts his lips to say something more, but she heads him off. “Good evening to you.” Thwarted, he scowls and stalks off.

As she continues to glare in his direction, Joffrey wonders, “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” she answers shortly. Taking a deep breath, she tries to force her good mood to make a return. “Come, we are expected for supper.”

When they arrive in the dining room, they are the last to do so. As Valaena takes the open seat beside Lucerys while Joffrey sits next to Aegon, she sees that Baela has chosen to join them. Rhaenys, however, remains absent.

While dinner is pleasant—the fare and company both palatable—a tense atmosphere subsists in the room. Daemon and Jacaerys don frowns for most of the evening, sullenly chewing their food. Rhaena and Lucerys try to fill the silence that otherwise reigns with idle chatter. Rhaenyra spends the majority of the meal sending nervous glances down the table, and she fails to return Valaena’s smile when their eyes catch.

As the evening draws to a close and Rhaenyra sends her children off to bed, Valaena asks for a word. With surprising ease, Rhaenyra grants it to her. “There is a matter I wish to discuss with you, as well.”

“Oh,” Valaena murmurs in question.

Sighing, Rhaenyra pulls her to the side. She forces a smile. “Daemon and I have discussed it, and we wonder if you might like to betroth your child,” she presses her hand to Valaena’s belly before moving it to her own, “to ours.”

At once, Valaena is thrilled by the prospect. She thinks of how wonderful it would be for her child and half-sibling to grow up side-by-side and one day rule the realm together. Desperately, she wishes for a daughter and a brother, or a son and a sister. “That would be most delightful! I shall speak to Aemond of it—”

“His opinion on the matter is irrelevant,” Rhaenyra tersely interrupts. “You are the heir. The decision is yours alone.”

Disconcerted, Valaena is at a loss for what to say for a moment. When all is said and done, she is the arbiter as to her own little family. However, it seems a poor choice to betroth her firstborn without so much as mentioning it to her husband, especially since they were unwillingly betrothed themselves. She reiterates, “I intend to discuss it with him.”

Rhaenyra hangs her head. “Fine,” she says brusquely. “We shall speak of it another time. Goodnight.”

Distressed, Valaena reaches out, reminding her, “Mother, I still wish to ask you—Have you spoken to Grandsire, or to Alicent, at least? What of tomorrow? What of—”

Weary, Rhaenyra waves her off. “I cannot speak of it now, Valaena. There is nothing to be done of it. We, each of us, may do no more than hold our breaths until your brother’s fate is decided by the Hightowers.”

Her answer sets Valaena’s heart racing, and she struggles to take in her next breath. “Very well then, Mother, sorry to bother you. I shall bid you goodnight.”

Sighing, Rhaenyra steps close once more. She hugs Valaena from the side. “You are not a bother, sweetling. I am sorry.” She spares Valaena a kiss as she steps back, clasping her hands over her belly. Her mouth drawn in a tense line, she confesses in a disturbingly small voice, “I have come all this way, and yet I could not stop it.”

Reaching out to grasp her mother’s hands, Valaena tries to bolster her spirits. “I am certain your efforts shall prove enough come the morrow.”

Showing a genuine if strained smile, Rhaenyra caresses her cheek. “Let us hope so.”

Unattended, Valaena returns to her apartment. She takes laggard steps on her way there, feeling horribly, inexplicably weighed down. When she arrives, it takes her a good twenty minutes to change into her bedclothes, so vexing does she find the many buttons and ties she need undo. By the time she wears her nightdress, she is breathless, and a thin sheen of perspiration sits on her skin.

Outside, the beginnings of a storm churn over the bay’s waters, causing the waves to swell and crash against the shore with greater intensity. Something stirs inside Valaena, as well, cresting with clashes of lightning and claps of thunder. Low in her pelvis, the waters within her swirl to form a whirlpool, all drawn into a tight, constricted point. Hoping to escape the feeling, she instinctively crouches on the floor, holding her belly and pinching up her face.

As she breathes heavy through her nose, wondering for the world what has gotten into her, she hears, “What’s the matter with you?” It is spoken in a rough tone, urgent and anxious.

Her eyelids quavering as they part, she sees Aemond standing in the doorway, staring down at her with one wide eye. When she musters the strength, she responds in a reedy voice, “I don’t know.” She is barred from saying anything more—though she does not know that there is anything else she means to say—when a sharp twinge resounds in her lower back, forcing a feeble moan from her.

“Aster,” Aemond shouts without further delay. The other woman enters the room, and a gasp is heard, along with a stretch of low murmuring. When next Valaena perceives something, it is her husband’s touch along her arms as he tries to pull her to her feet.

She resists him, desiring for some reason to remain hunched on the floor. In realizing he has no hope to move her without great strife, he asks, “How long has it been like this?”

“I don’t know,” she moans in answer once more. She struggles to come up with a more substantive response. “I was dressing—” Her speech halts as another lick of pain lashes at her insides, and every muscle in her body clenches.

Fleetingly, she begins to wonder if her labors have started. At first, the thought is hurriedly dismissed. Too early is it for the baby to arrive. After another wave of pain strikes her, however, she thinks on it again. Perhaps Orwyle counted his weeks wrong, she ponders, or perhaps her child has simply decided it is ready to face the world, the final few weeks of its time within her be damned.

As she continues to sit along the floor, waiting for whomever it is that Aemond has sent for Aster to collect, she tries to focus on something other than the periodic flashes of pain that rock her lower body. Aemond sits along her side, his arm around her as he once more suggests she move to their bed. She insists on remaining where she is, fixating on the warm press of his body against hers. Already, she is uncomfortably warm herself, and with his proximity, she feels even worse off, but she cannot bear to push him away. Laying her head on his shoulder, she removes a hand from her belly to one of his sleeves and clings to the fabric.

Lamentably, the first person to enter the room is Alicent. Her good-mother flounces over to them, a fretful air about her. She is still dressed in her gown from earlier in the day, though her hair has been brought down. She gestures at their stooped forms, displeased. “What are you doing? Up, up,” she urges.

“She does not wish to move,” Aemond informs her, but his tone lacks conviction. He knows not what to do himself, and with only his mother here to guide him, Valaena realizes, he will cave to her demands.

“She knows not what she wants. Just lift her,” Alicent commands, her voice very matter-of-fact. Irresolutely, Aemond looks between her and Valaena.

Valaena moves her grip to his hand, lowly murmuring, “No.” She does not know why she wishes to remain on the floor—always has it been her plan to give birth whilst laid-up in bed—but she does. Come Seven Hells or high water, she does not intend to permit Alicent to baffle her.

Blessedly, when Aemond looks back to his mother, he shakes his head minutely. Mystified, she throws up her hands. “At least, get the girl a cup of water.”

With something beneficent to do, he vaults up from the floor and dashes from the room. Alicent takes the opportunity left by his absence to bend toward Valaena and stroke her knee. “Valaena, dearling, I know the pain you feel. I know how frightening it can be, but you must need move to the bed so that the maester can examine you when he arrives.”

At this, Valaena yearns to object, not sure that she wants Orwyle examining her at all. She would prefer a midwife, if honest, never having liked or trusted the man and feeling too vulnerable to put up with him at the moment.

Fortunately, it is not Orwyle who joins them next but Rhaenyra, who has her own hair down and wears a dressing robe. She rushes over to Valaena and kneels beside her. Relieved, Valaena reaches for her mother, grasping tightly at her wrist.

“Oh, my sweet girl,” coos Rhaenyra, huddling up to Valaena for a brief hug. “I should have kept you by my side this night. I am terribly sorry.” Shaking her head, Valaena tries to communicate that there are no hard feelings between them. Rhaenyra touches her cheek. “What do you need, jorrāeliarzus? I have already sent Aster for a midwife.”

Hearing this, Valaena nearly crumbles from relief, whereas Alicent reels. “The king’s grandchild need be ushered into the world, and you call for no more than a midwife?”

Rhaenyra turns a hard stare on her. “We shall call for a maester should we require one. That much is yet to be determined.”

Further argument is averted by Aemond, who steps into the room holding a cup of water. Treading over, he tries to hand it to Valaena, but her hand is too shaky to accept it.

Rhaenyra steps in, taking the cup from him. “Thank you, Brother. You may return to your rooms.” Carefully, she tips the cup against Valaena’s mouth, helping her to take a sip.

Aemond frowns at the dismissal, and his mother defends him. “Aemond sleeps here.”

“Does he,” comments Rhaenyra, almost idly.

A midwife soon arrives, Aster trailing her. The woman bows her head to the older women in the room before kneeling at Valaena’s feet. Thankfully, she makes no complaint as to their position on the floor as she sets about her work.

She starts by pushing Valaena’s skirt up to her hips, though when the fabric droops over her thighs, she asks her to hold it up. Valaena, who has her hands braced on the floor, struggles to abide by the request.

Aemond intercedes, moving to sit behind her and pull her back against his front. The strain on her muscles somewhat alleviated, she releases an involuntary, gusty sigh as she slumps against him. Helpfully, he holds up her skirt, too, bunching it up around her belly.

The midwife moves her hands to Valaena’s thighs, pushing them farther apart. Valaena winces at the additional strain. She startles at the gentle touch of the woman’s hand along her most sensitive skin. Aemond caresses the length of her arm, and she tries to gird herself for the ordeal, which can only grow more uncomfortable.

As pain forces her to spasm once more, she grunts, feeling as her muscles close around the woman’s fingers. The latter sensation makes her all the more discomfited, and her hips hitch back as she tries to move away.

Opportunely, the examination comes to a swift end. Pulling back, the midwife smiles at her as she fixes her skirt. “As I suspected, Princess. False labors.”

“The child is not coming,” asks Alicent, a tinge of disappointment to her voice.

“Not this night, Your Grace,” the woman answers.

“False labors,” Valaena questions.

Rhaenyra explains, “Your body gives you these pains to prepare you for the actual birth.”

“What,” shrieks Valaena, distracted by her own outrage. “I need feel these pains more than once? What fool god contrived such an asinine plan?”

“Careful,” warns Alicent, not one for blasphemy.

Rhaenyra laughs. “Your true labors shall bear far more pain, I’m afraid.”

“What,” Valaena shrieks again. The rumble of Aemond’s laughter, quiet enough to be felt but not heard, settles her. Still, she grumbles to him, “What cause have you for mirth?”

“None,” he answers, inconspicuously pecking at the back of her neck.

With her husband at her back, Valaena continues to languish atop the floor. She lets the pain roll over her in waves and tries to breathe through it. Her hand on her belly, she concentrates on the movement of the babe, who is more active than usual. She suspects that, like her, it can feel the contractions of her muscles, and she hopes that the pain is hers alone.

The midwife having departed, her mother suggests, “Why not have a warm bath, sweetling? I’ve found them soothing when the pain gets to be too much.”

“I think walking would be best,” recommends Alicent, “just around the room, for the flow of her blood.”

“Walking,” scoffs Rhaenyra disdainfully. “She can scarcely move!”

Alicent takes a half-step closer to Valaena. “If we simply lift her, she will—”

“Do not touch my daughter,” Rhaenyra interrupts, stepping into Alicent’s space. The queen draws herself up taller, and the two stare each other down. At the same time, lightning flashes outside, rain pelting the window, and Valaena feels another sharp pain. She moans loudly, gripping tightly at Aemond’s arm.

Fractious, he spits, “Get out.” Valaena feels his venom slide along her back as it slithers out of him, and her face crumples into a frown, further distressed is she by the fresh tension in the room.

Rhaenyra looks to him. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re upsetting her,” he asserts. Valaena is too distracted by another twinge to shake her head.

Affronted, Rhaenyra questions, “I?” There is a moment in which she does naught but stare at him, sitting with Valaena in the loose embrace of his arms and legs, before she hastens toward them. “Get back from her.”

Aemond tightens his arms around Valaena, drawing her farther back against his chest. For her part, Valaena still feels unnaturally attached to him, and she does not favor her mother digging her hand between their shoulders and attempting to pry them apart. Before Alicent can intervene—she has taken a step toward Rhaenyra with her own arm extended—and cause further discord, Valaena finds her voice. “I think I should like to sleep!”

Everyone draws up short, and she haltingly continues, “I—I’ve grown tired from the stress of the day, and I think I shall retire to bed.”

Under her breath, Alicent mocks, “Now, she wishes to move to the bed.” Rhaenyra cuts her a glare.

With them distracted, Valaena gestures to Aemond for him to help her up. Unluckily, just as he pulls her to her feet, her muscles contract again. Leaning against him, she grits her teeth to mask her reaction.

Once the sharp pain fades, leaving only the dull ache in her back, she steps toward her mother. “Do not let me keep you any longer, Mother. I am well, truly. You may return to sleep.” In truth, she does not wish for Rhaenyra to leave her, but she feels that the fighting will stop if she and Aemond are alone without their mothers.

Thankfully, Rhaenyra is amenable, if a little downcast. “Very well, we shall leave you. I am just downstairs, if you should need me.” She presses her lips to Valaena’s cheek and waits for Alicent to depart before stepping out herself.

Despite the excuse she gave their mothers, Valaena and Aemond spend the next several hours attempting to ease her pain, indeed soaking in the bathtub and partaking in a jaunt around the room. It is not until the storm passes and the birds can be heard outside that the pain ceases, and she collapses into an exhausted, fitful sleep.

Come the next day’s light, Aemond wakes before her, just as refreshed and alert as he is every morning. She gnarls at him when he tries to rouse her, telling him to go on to breakfast without her. When at last she does rise, it is with great effort, and she emits a lengthy groan as she puts her weight on her feet.

Her mood improves when Aster comes into the room bearing a gift from her mother. She holds out an elaborate dress with elongated skirts. The fabric is fine and embossed, colored a Velaryon sea green. The sleeves and bodice are embroidered with gold and purple beads, forming various entwined dragons.

Having perked up, Valaena decides to join Aemond for breakfast after all. She dresses quickly and proceeds toward the dining room on this floor of the castle. As she reaches it, she overhears the conversation going on inside. Aemond is speaking, and she catches the very tail-end of his statement. “—us tomorrow.”

Her hand moves toward the handle, intending to push the door farther open and slip past it, but she stops when she hears Alicent. “It is a shame Rhaenyra behaved as she did last night, upsetting Valaena.”

“She’ll not care,” Aegon says, an edge of humor to his voice.

Aemond concurs, “No, too blinded is she in her pursuit of that which should be beyond her reach.”

Valaena is dazed by his statement, and her face collapses into a stupefied glower. She is angry to hear him speak of what can only be her mother’s birthright like this. She had thought that they were past this—that he had accepted that he and his brothers had lost any right they might have once had—but evidently not.

Beyond the door, Aegon snorts. “Valaena, I mean.”

“What about Valaena,” Aemond prods, his tone sharper.

“It matters not that Rhaenyra was so callous as to her suffering,” Aegon tells him. “She will never choose you over her.”

Irate, Aemond argues, “She did last night.”

Aegon huffs. “As you say, Brother,” he says, though not as though he means it.

Quietly, Valaena creeps back from the door. Her mind whirls as she considers the Greens’ conversation. The queen’s party, of which her husband—I should have known, I know, I remember, I should have fucking recognized—is a part, is actively plotting to unseat Jacaerys as the heir of Driftmark. It should come as no surprise that they disparage her mother’s claim to the throne; she knows they do as much behind closed doors. Too bad they left this door ajar, she thinks.

Embittered, she turns on her heel and marches down the hall. As she passes her rooms, she ditches her sapphire pendant.

Valaena takes breakfast with her family, and much like last night, a sullen pall shrouds the room. This meal is different only for the absolute silence that reigns, even the younger children too disquieted to twaddle.

Sitting around the table, the Velaryons and their mother wear a similar dress. Valaena’s gown matches that of Rhaenyra, whose gown is black, red, and gold, as opposed to green, purple, and gold. The sea green color of her dress also compliments her brothers’ clothes, which are composed in the same color, if a dimmer hue. She thinks it will make a nice statement, the four of them standing together as a definitive, united front.

With that in mind, Valaena remains with her mother’s party as it approaches the Great Hall. Baela breaks away from them on their way there, choosing to join their grandmother. For her part, Valaena worries over the fact that Rhaenys has chosen to stand apart from them. She knows she and her siblings are not as close with their grandmother than are their cousins, and that Rhaenys has considerably less affection for them, but she would hope all the same that she would support them. She wonders what Rhaenys’s purpose is in coming to court, if not to do just that.

As the lords and ladies of the court file into the hall, announced by their parties one-by-one, Valaena stands beside Rhaena, nervously fiddling with her naked fingers. Her mother has informed her that she and Jacaerys will flank her while court is in order, with her on the right and him on the left. She will be front and center throughout the entire, grotesque spectacle, so she endeavors to master her wayward emotions now, lest Otto catch sight of them and pounce when the time is ripe.

Just as Lyman Beesbury and his wife are called, a set of familiar-sounding footsteps approach Valaena. She turns minutely to verify that it is the man who she expects and sighs when she sees that it is.

As Aemond steps up to her, his eye flicks down to her bosom, doubtlessly taking note of her missing necklace. He raises an eyebrow but does not comment on it. “I’ve been searching for you. Court is set to begin.” Presumptuous, he offers her his arm.

Pointedly, she does not take it. She tries to keep her voice from conveying her dismay. “I will be standing with my mother. You may stand with yours.”

His expression darkens as his bright eye gleams. “No.”

Taken aback at so brazen a response, she parrots, “No?”

He goes a step further. “I forbid it.”

Appalled, she rears back. Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Jacaerys take a step closer to her, but for the life of her, she cannot muster the will to subdue her reaction. “You forbid me from standing with my family?”

Aemond raises his chin. “I am your family.” A thought passes behind his eye, one he clearly thinks is better left ignored, but he speaks it anyway. “As your husband, I command you to stand with me.”

A short, high, incredulous bark of laughter passes her lips. “No,” she denies flatly. Viciously, she thinks of forcing him to sleep in his drab, dusty rooms this night.

His expression shifts, growing softer but yet more somber. Gently, he takes her by the elbow and pulls her a step closer, which she begrudgingly permits. In a low voice, he wonders, “Do you not understand that which is about to take place? Your birth is to be questioned in open court.”

Coldly, she intones, “I am well aware.” Mayhaps if he was so opposed to this of his mother’s maneuvers, he would oppose all her actions. Alas, no. He entertains them as he always has.

He presses on. “I will not have you standing beside your brothers when it happens, not while you carry my child.”

Reflexively, her hand goes to her belly, and she swallows against the unease that washes over her. “While I thank you for your concern, I would have preferred you express it before this mummer’s farce came to be.”

Irked, he hisses back at her, “You believe I had a part in its construction? ‘Twas I who made you aware of it.”

“Be that as it may,” she dismisses, growing yet more irritable herself. “I know you—”

“Aemond. Valaena,” Alicent calls, disrupting their dispute. Expectantly, she waves for them to follow after her. “Come along.”

Peering up and down the corridor—now occupied solely by members of her family—Valaena discovers that all eyes are on her. Her face heats for the fact that they all witnessed her spat with Aemond. Facing down Alicent’s imposing, lofty stare, her nerves return to her. “My queen, I shall stand with my mother this day, if it should please you.”

Her spine straightening, Alicent directs her gaze, having grown wary, onto Rhaenyra. From over her mother’s shoulder, Valaena notices Daemon smirking at the queen. When she looks back to Valaena, Alicent tells her, “I think not. Come along, both of you.”

Valaena makes a more outright refusal. “I should prefer—”

“Your preferences are irrelevant,” Alicent interrupts. “You may be second in line for the throne, but you are not above your queen.”

Her face red more for humiliation than embarrassment now, she amends, “I did not mean to suggest any such thing, Your Grace.”

Alicent sends Valaena another haughty, commanding look, gesturing once more for her and Aemond to follow her. Valaena looks to her mother for help, but Rhaenyra offers no solution, her face contorted in a forlorn grimace as they stare at one another. When Aemond offers her his arm a second time, she swallows her pride and takes it.

They follow after Alicent, entering the throne room through its side-entrance deeper in the castle. Aegon, Helaena, and Otto join them, and all together, they settle on the throne’s right. Valaena stands beside Aemond, from whom she deliberately extracts her arm, and behind Aegon.

Once all others have gathered in the hall—Rhaenyra and her family, sans Valaena, stand opposite to the throne and on its left—Otto climbs the steps of the Iron Throne. As he stands before it, he pronounces, “Though it is the great hope of this court that Lord Corlys Velaryon survive his wounds, we gather here with the grim task of dealing with the succession of Driftmark. As Hand, I speak with the king’s voice on this and all other matters.”

As the buzz around the room begins to simmer down, the buzz in Valaena’s head only grows. She seethes over the plot being sprung by her good-family, so wretched are they to concoct it whilst she lives under their noses. They smile to her face but stab her in the back. This, that their kindness is a ruse, she has known for years, but it sears her now more than ever. Now, she knows Aemond plays a part in it, however active, and even though he resents the idea of Jacaerys’s right to Driftmark being challenged by Vaemond, he stands by his mother’s side as it is done and makes her do the same.

“The Crown will now hear the petitions.” Otto calls first, “Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon.”

Valaena watches as her great-uncle strides to stand not too far from her family. He stands closest to Jacaerys and her mother, who is flanked on her other side by Daemon. Lucerys and Rhaena stand behind them.

Vaemond acknowledges Alicent first. “My queen.” He turns his head to regard Otto, facing the throne full-on. “My Lord Hand.” Otto nods at him to proceed. “The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land knowing that were they to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines and their name.” He takes a dramatic pause. “I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’s closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

Hearing his lattermost statement, dread hits Valaena at full sail. No one has ever been so bold in questioning hers or her brothers’ births. Suddenly, she regrets the words she spoke to him the day before, and she wonders if her brazenness is the cause of his own. Scratching at what skin of her arm she can reach under her sleeves, she feels as her impeachable blood rises to meet her nails.

Her mother makes a rash interjection, and Valaena closes her eyes, knowing it to be a mistake. Rhaenyra addresses Vaemond, “As it does in my daughter and sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon. If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir.” She sneers at Vaemond while Jacaerys glowers at him from her side. “No, you only speak for yourself and for your own ambition.”

Alicent intrudes next. “You will have chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaemond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.” Her voice holds a hint of apathy, but Valaena knows better than that. Alicent is relishing in this opportunity to humiliate Rhaenyra, the waves of satisfaction practically rolling off her.

Vaemond turns around to smirk at Rhaenyra, though she averts her gaze before his can reach it. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? I could cut my veins and show it to you, and you still wouldn’t recognize it.” Her mother absorbs the blow, still looking straight ahead. “This is about the future and survival of my house, not yours.”

He turns back around. “My queen. My Lord Hand,” he says again. “This is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the continuation of the survival of my house and my line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor, the Lord of Driftmark and Lord of the Tides.” Rhaenyra reacts far too much at that, swaying and bringing her hand to her face.

Sounding pleased with the events thus far, Otto says, “Thank you, Ser Vaemond.”

Vaemond nods almost imperceptibly, cutting a final, intimidating glance at Rhaenyra, and before he turns, to her surprise, Valaena, too. She is too caught off-guard to respond appropriately, however that might have been. Her eyes rove over different members of her family, and she notices Daemon looking right at her. She lifts an eyebrow at him in question, a gesture he mirrors, leaving her only more curious. Aemond seems to take notice, as well, glancing down at her, but she ignores him.

Otto, sounding noticeably less enthused than he had when he called Vaemond, summons “Princess Rhaenyra, you may now speak for your son, Jacaerys Velaryon.”

Rhaenyra steps to center of hall, standing directly before the throne. She sighs, “If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that over twenty years ago, in this very—” The doors to the hall creak open, interrupting her, and everyone’s attention, including her own, is diverted.

Two members of the Kingsguard step into the room. One calls, “King Viserys of House Targaryen the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Astonished, all observe as the king hobbles into the room, the man not having sat the throne in some years now. As Alicent, Otto, and Vaemond begin to panic, their distress plain for all to see, Valaena feels incredibly glad. The only thing keeping a grin from her face is the sight of her grandsire struggling down the aisle in the center of the hall, a mask covering what she knows to be the ghastly wounds of his illness.

Her mother steps off to the side as Viserys passes her, and he stops beside Otto, huffing and puffing. Bent over his cane, he declares, “I will sit the throne today.”

For what it is worth, Otto nods without complaint. “Your Grace.”

Moving forward, Viserys struggles as he ascends his throne, moaning more than he had on level ground. One of his guards steps up to assist him, but he waves the man off. “I will be fine. I will be fine.” He takes another step, and his crown falls from his head.

Daemon steps forward to pick it up. Viserys turns to him, evidently unaware that it is his brother who means to assist him. “I said I’m fine,” he snaps.

With one of his more reassuring expressions, Daemon softly encourages, “Come on. Steady.” He helps Viserys up the rest of the steps as he groans, reverently replacing the crown on his head once he sits slumped on the throne.

Daemon returns to Rhaenyra’s side, and Viserys takes a few deep breaths before first speaking. “I must admit my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’s wishes is the Princess Rhaenys.”

Everyone’s eyes go to Rhaenys, who stands behind Vaemond. Her countenance is oddly pleased, as though something amuses her. “Indeed, Your Grace,” she says, exchanging a heavy glance with Vaemond before stepping past him. He watches her go with no small amount of trepidation.

Valaena, too, is nervous, though for entirely different reasons. She knows that her grandmother has never held any fondness for her or her brothers, for the very reason that they stand before the royal court this day. She knows Rhaenys despises Rhaenyra, though not why. Above all else, she knows that Rhaenys’s tongue is sly and unpredictable.

“It was ever my husband’s will that Driftmark pass through Ser Laenor to his trueborn son, Jacaerys Velaryon. His mind never changed, nor did my support of him,” Rhaenys proclaims. Like her family, Valaena breathes a sigh of relief. “As a matter of fact, the Princess Rhaenyra has just informed me of her desire to marry her sons, Jace and Luke, to Lord Corlys’s granddaughters, Baela and Rhaena, a proposal to which I heartily agree.”

Pleasantly surprised by the revelation, knowing well her brothers’ and cousins’ affections for one another, Valaena feels a smile coming on. Catching Jacaerys’s eye, she waggles her eyebrows at him.

“Well, the matter is settled. Again.” Valaena suppresses a chuckle at her grandsire’s dry tone. “I hereby reaffirm Prince Jacaerys of House Velaryon as heir to Driftmark, the Driftwood Throne, and the next Lord of the Tides.”

Rhaenyra grins, satisfied with the result. Meanwhile, Valaena glories in the disappointment emanating from her good-family, standing tall while they droop.

Unfortunately, the Black victory sours quickly. Vaemond launches into another speech. “You break law and centuries of tradition to install your daughter and her daughter after her as heirs.” Having been mentioned, Valaena straightens further. “Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon. No. I will not allow it.”

“‘Allow it,’” questions Viserys. “Do not forget yourself, Vaemond.”

Vaemond fumes silently, his blood vessels standing out on his brow. He turns abruptly, pointing at Jacaerys and growling, “That is no true Velaryon and certainly no nephew of mine.”

Jacaerys scowls at the accusation, an expression Valaena is sure she mirrors. Lucerys, for his part, looks terrified, and their mother appears concerned as to where this tangent is taking them. She orders Vaemond, “Go to your chambers. You have said enough.”

Viserys affirms her. “Jacaerys is my trueborn grandson, and you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

His pride stung, Vaemond blusters, “You may run your house as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine. My house survived the Doom and a thousand tribulations besides!” He turns back to face Jacaerys, his voice dropping low. “And gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this—” Abruptly, he stops himself from going any further.

Valaena, holding her breath alongside half the room, wonders if he will state his accusation plainly.

Brash as ever, Daemon whispers, “Say it.” She silently curses him, along with Vaemond.

A slow smirk overtakes the fool’s face. “Her children are bastards!” Shock ripples throughout the room, a few gasps sounding out. Lucerys stumbles back at the accusation, whereas Jacaerys has taken to full-on glaring at Vaemond.

For her part, Valaena feels something ugly and heavy curling in her chest, though she takes pains to not outwardly react. When Aegon looks back at her and smirks, she gives him the most disinterested glare she can muster in return. At her side, Aemond narrows his lone eye and reaches for the hilt of his sword.

Slowly, Vaemond turns back towards the king, who has straightened on the throne, rising to the occasion, as it were. He whispers, “And she is a whore.”

As yet more gasps are heard, Valaena bites her lip and turns her head to the side, her eyes falling shut, so overcome is she by the insult. She feels Aemond’s hand on the small of her back, holding her steady. When she opens her eyes again, she sees that Viserys is standing, pulling Aegon the Dragon’s dagger from its sheath with remarkably little difficulty. “I will have your tongue for that.”

There is a sudden sound of a blade rending the air, and half of Vaemond’s head flies from atop his neck, his body slumping to the floor.

Everyone startles, some so severely as to scream. Helaena’s hands go to her ears, and she turns away, as does her mother. Aegon stays rooted to his spot. Aemond takes half a step back, pulling Valaena with him. She staggers, as her instinct did not compel her to move, though her husband keeps her upright. Staring down at Vaemond’s less intact body with a detached sort of pity rising from within, she cannot say whether or not she frowns.

Daemon, standing over Vaemond’s body with the point of his blade resting on the floor, proudly declares, “He can keep his tongue.”

There is a delayed reaction from the Kingsguard, who only spring into action when Otto shouts, “Disarm him!”

Daemon steps back as he wipes his blade. “No need.”

As the clamor settles, Valaena notices Aemond’s rapt attention on Vaemond’s corpse. She mutters to him, “You might not look quite so keen.”

The tilt of his mouth shifts into a more noticeable grin. “He got what he deserved.”

There is further commotion as Viserys groans, falling back into the throne. Troubled, Alicent runs up to him, shouting, “Call the maester!”

Concerned, too, Rhaenyra steps up to the base of the throne. “Father?”

As everyone disperses, Aemond tries to draw Valaena away with him, but she pulls away. Pushing past Aegon, she steps in front of Otto, and when impulse grips her, she turns on him. Lowly, she warns, “I hope you see this as the misstep it was. Like Vaemond, you are bleeding.” The man is taken aback in being confronted by Valaena, who has permitted him and his daughter to walk all over her for too many years now.

Valaena resumes her march across the room toward her brothers, lifting her skirts as she steps over the true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon.

That evening, the king requires the entire family to dine together. Valaena is unbothered by the prospect, well accustomed to sharing her meals with the Greens, but her siblings grouse. As they wait for the king to arrive, they crowd at the far end of the table, discussing the events of the day. Tactfully, they avoid explicit mention of Vaemond. Mostly, they focus on the two newborn betrothals among them.

“When do you think you would like to have the weddings,” Valaena asks Baela and Rhaena. “You can plan for the end of the year and have them before winter comes.”

Lucerys squirms. “The end of the year? I’m only fourteen.”

Gaily, Jacaerys interjects. “Yes, Valaena, he’s so young. Can you imagine marrying at fourteen?”

As Baela cackles from beside her, Valaena feigns her own laughter, reaching up to pinch Jacaerys’s nose.

When Viserys arrives, they settle down and into their seats. Rhaena takes the chair to the right of Lucerys, and before Jacaerys can think to claim it, Aegon sits on Valaena’s other side. Jacaerys is left standing with the only free seat beside Aemond, who stares intently at Valaena, silently willing her to get out of her seat. She has not spoken to him since the royal court adjourned, still upset with him for the conversation she overheard earlier in the day.

Jacaerys leans over her, patting her on the shoulder. “I’ll take the worse end of the staff.”

Costively, he stalks to the other side of the room. As he slides into the chair next to Aemond, the two men glare at each other, thenceforth assiduously avoiding so much as glancing at one another. Meanwhile, Valaena looks over at Baela, who scowls at her. “Sorry,” she mouths.

Sitting between Alicent and Rhaenyra, Viserys remarks, “How good it is to see you all tonight together.” He looks around at all of them as he breathes laboriously. Valaena musters a smile for him, though she is not sure he lingers on her long enough to catch it.

“Prayer before we begin,” suggests Alicent.

Leaning into her, he agrees, “Yes.”

Respectfully, Valaena places her clasped hands upon the table, but she does not bow her head or close her eyes, as does everyone else, save for Daemon, who keeps one hand on the back of Rhaenyra’s chair. As Alicent prays to the Mother and the Smith, she mouths to him, “Jorepis tolvie bantis.” Stifling a chuckle, he sends her a lopsided grin.

When the prayer is done, Viserys speaks up again. “This is an occasion for celebration, it seems. My grandsons, Jace and Luke, will marry their cousins, Baela and Rhaena, further strengthening the bond between our houses.” His grandsons and nieces trade shy smiles, and he suggests, “A toast to the young princes and their betrothed.”

Gleefully, Daemon raises his cup. “Hear, hear!”

Valaena’s smile is masked as she brings her own goblet to her lips, though it slips from her face as she hears Aegon mutter from beside her, “Well done, Jace. You’ll finally get to lie with a woman.” He leans over Helaena as he delivers his taunt, though she hardly seems to mind. Jacaerys receives the barb surprisingly well, electing to ignore Aegon. Intuitively, Valaena exchanges a glance with Aemond, who closes his eye as though to say what can you do, it’s Aegon.

Oblivious, Viserys continues, “Let us toast, as well, Prince Jacaerys, the future Lord of the Tides.”

Rhaenyra, somewhat more subdued than was her husband, cheers, “Hear, hear.” From across the table, Baela and Jacaerys smile at one another.

Aegon, the little nuisance, turns to Jacaerys again after taking a deep swig from his goblet. “You do know how the act is done, I assume, at least in principle? Where to put your cock and all that.”

Irritated anew, Valaena sets down her goblet with a soft thud. “Kivio.”

“Let it be, Cousin,” Baela cautions her. Shocked that Baela, of all people, is counseling her to rein in her temper, Valaena shoots her a wide-eyed look.

Jacaerys strives to maintain his composure, as well. He tells Aegon, “You can play the jester if you wish, but hold your tongue before my betrothed.”

Humming, Aegon promptly ignores his advice. “You could ask my brother for tips. I understand your sister lets him fuck her regularly. She practically begs him for it.”

Mortification crawling over her skin, Valaena stiffens. Everyone knows that she and Aemond are intimate—she is visibly pregnant, after all—but that does not mean she favors hearing her revolting good-brother discuss it in front of their parents.  

Aemond is dismayed, as well. “Aegon,” he warns sharply.

“Do not speak of my sister,” Jacaerys follows up.

Aegon ignores Jacaerys in favor of Aemond. “I mean no offense, Brother. I salute you. Our niece is a pretty one, and she will be again once she squeezes out the whelp you put in her.”

As Aemond stands abruptly, Valaena instinctively grasps her knife, though however fortunately, she never gets the chance to decide what to do with it.

Viserys, roused by their bickering, taps his cane on the floor before standing. Everyone falls silent, and Aemond reluctantly takes his seat again, cutting Aegon a final glare. Viserys sighs as he looks around the table, disappointment gleaming in his eye. “It both gladdens my heart and fills me with sorrow to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.” He takes off his mask, and half the table looks away. He keeps Valaena’s attention, not unused to the sight of a missing eye is she. “My own face is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was, but tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just a king, but your father, your brother, your husband, and your grandsire, who may not, it seems, walk for much longer among you.” He drops his mask onto table with a clattering clunk. “Let us no longer hold ill feelings in our hearts.” Surprisingly strong, he strikes the table with his fist for emphasis. “The Crown cannot stand strong if the house of the dragon remains divided.” He pounds the table again. “But set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the Crown, then for the sake of this old man, who loves you all so dearly.”

Her lips pressing together, Valaena begins to feel guilty. Up until today, she would have been the only person in the room by whom her grandsire would not be disappointed, having been acting as the bridge between the two sides of the family as he had requested all those years ago. Now, however, the string drawn between them is all the more taut for her displeasure.

Glancing over at Aemond, she considers that she might have made up her mind too rashly. She had overheard some form of unsavory conversation this morn, but she had not known precisely that about which Aemond had spoken. Rather, she had made an assumption, and they have been disjointed for it all day.

Remorse surmounting her, she rises from her seat. Everyone looks to her, like to be expecting another speech, but she behaves as though naught is amiss. When she reaches Jacaerys, he stands, too, and helps her settle into the empty seat. She waits until Jacaerys has taken his own seat beside Baela before peeking over at Aemond. His eye is on her, as she suspects it has been for some time, though it rests on her middle as opposed to her face. The top layer of her skirts is rumpled, and he reaches out to smooth them down, leaving his hand on her belly thereafter. Moving her own hand to cover his, she brushes her thumb over the initial engraved on the ring on his smallest finger.

Rhaenyra is the next to stand, though for a more likely purpose. Grabbing her wine goblet, she holds it up for a toast. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace the queen.” Alicent, withdrawing from fixing Viserys’s mask, looks up at her in surprise. “I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his good wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor, and for that, she has my gratitude and my apology.”

As Rhaenyra retakes her seat, Alicent stiltedly replies, “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We are both mothers, and we love our children. We have more in common than we sometimes allow.” She stands with her own cup in hand. “I raise my cup to you and to your house. You will make a fine queen, as will the Princess Valaena after you.”

All along the table, several people are stunned by the display, so rare is it that the two women have a pleasant thought for one another, let alone one that they would deign to speak aloud. As the queen sits once more, they all drink.

Aegon downs his entire cup. Rather than wait for a servant to replenish his drink, he gets up and goes for the pitcher of wine himself. He leans over Baela as he does so, speaking in a voice so low that Valaena only catches snippets of his proposition. “I, um, I regret the disappointment you are soon . . . ever wish to know what it is to be well satisfied, all you have . . . ask.”

This is the breaking point for Jacaerys, whose fist hits the table as he stands abruptly. Nonchalant, Aegon walks back around him to his seat.

Softly, Baela exhorts, “Jace.” Concurrently, Valaena glares at Aegon, offended on behalf of both Baela and Helaena.

Jacaerys heeds his betrothed, taking a deep breath and recovering by playfully punching Aegon’s shoulder. He pretends as though he had stood to give a toast. “To Prince Aegon, we have not seen each other in years,” he looks to Lucerys, “but I have fond memories of our shared youth, and as men, I hope we may yet be friends and allies. To you and your family’s good health, dear uncle.”

Aegon, hardly enthused by Jacaerys acting as the bigger man, barely reacts when the younger man clasps his shoulder. “To you, as well,” he mutters.

Viserys taps his cane, commending Jacaerys. “Well done, my boy.”

Helaena surprises everyone by standing, too. While she is certainly amiable enough for her contribution to be the only one that seems remotely well-motivated, she is normally quiet in such large groups. “I would like to toast to Baela and Rhaena. They’ll be married soon.” Looking to the women in question, who appear pleased, as well, Valaena smiles in agreement. “It isn’t so bad. Mostly, he just ignores you.” As Valaena’s smile slips, Aegon has the decency to look embarrassed. After a moment’s thought, Helaena adds, “Except sometimes when he’s drunk,” and Daemon laughs.

Impulsively, Valaena’s hand moves to cover her mouth, though Aemond catches it before anyone can notice. He brings their joined hands to rest on the table, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles to soothe her.

Unaware of anyone else’s discomfort or revulsion, Helaena sighs, pleased with herself. She turns to Valaena for verification. “Isn’t that right, Valaena?”

Still reeling from her own horror, Valaena forces her smile back to her face. “Yes.” Satisfied, Helaena shares a grin with her grandsire and sits once more.

The feasting portion of supper commences at last, with Viserys requesting that they have some music. Before Valaena has the chance to fill her plate, however, Aemond pulls her hand to his shoulder, obliging her to twist to face him.

“So,” he begins. “I only give you attention when I’m drunk. Is that why you’re angry with me?”

“That is not funny,” she repines. “Nor is it the reason I am angry. That, we may discuss later.” She heaves a sigh. “However, I would like to apologize.”

Confused, he furrows his brow. “Wherefore?”

She lets her hand trail down to his chest. “I have been unkind to you all day, despite not yet being entirely certain you deserve it.”

He hums, manifestly skeptical. “In that case, I don’t accept.”

“What,” she blurts, dismayed.

“Should you decide that I do deserve your ire, you’ll be all the more displeased with me for your own apology,” he explains, reaching for a bap and setting it on her plate.

Biting into it, she grumbles, “You know me so well.”

As Aemond furnishes the rest of her plate, she notices Jacaerys walk over to Helaena and gallantly offer her a dance, to which she happily agrees. Seeing this, Aegon appears embarrassed, but when he looks to Aemond, his brother is unsympathetic, giving him a disapproving look that suggests he has only himself to blame.

As dinner proceeds, it does so far more merrily than any of them might have expected at its outset. There is laughter and the din of overlapping, cheerful voices. Valaena spends most of the meal chatting with Aemond, not feeling any of the tension that has been looming over them for days.

Eventually, Viserys is doing more groaning than eating, having hit his limit. Alicent calls for the guards to carry him back to his rooms. Those who do not live in King’s Landing, unused to the king being carried away from dinner early, stand as he leaves, though the queen gives them permission to sit again.

A roasted pig is set down in front of Valaena and Aemond. She wrinkles her nose, unsettled by the smell of pork. For whatever reason, the baby does not like it. Thus, she has not been able to stomach it for almost a year. She raises her hand to call for a servant to place the dish elsewhere, though she is diverted by Aemond, who strikes the table with his fist and grabs his cup as he stands abruptly.

“Aemond,” she starts, but he talks over her as though he does not hear her.

“Final tribute,” he announces, holding out his goblet. Diverted themselves, Jacaerys and Helaena stop dancing, turning to stare at him. “To the health of my nephews, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey.” Valaena expects him to go on, listing Aegon and Viserys, as well, but he does not. A certain queasiness forms in her gut, though she cannot say whether the pig or her husband is the cause. “Each of them handsome, wise,” he goes on. Terribly anxious, she stares up at him, willing him not to say “strong.”

Face shuttering, she turns away. She spies Jacaerys, who appears furious, standing rigid and glaring at Aemond. Helaena, behind him, seems to think her brother’s words a genuine toast, her hands clasped and face alight.

Remonstrative, Alicent tries to stop her son. “Aemond.”

He ignores his mother as he had Valaena. “Come, let us drain our cups to these three strong boys.” Delighted, Aegon raises his cup to do just that.

“I dare you to say that again,” threatens Jacaerys, his voice hard.

Eagerly, Aemond rounds on him. “Why? ‘Twas only a compliment.” He walks around Valaena’s chair toward Jacaerys, who approaches him on quick, sure feet. Valaena tries to snatch the back of Aemond’s doublet, but he slips away. “Do you not think yourself strong?”

Just as brash, Lucerys rises from his seat at the other end of the table, moving to round it with his eyes on Aemond.

Jacaerys punches Aemond in the face, and Valaena flinches as though he had struck her. Aemond barely reacts, not so much as staggering or dropping his cup.

Lucerys’s advance is halted by Aegon, who gets out of his seat and grabs Lucerys. Gripping him by the head, Aegon slams his face into the table, and Lucerys struggles underneath him.

Alarm flaring in her, Valaena rises to defend her brother, her haste unburdened by the extra weight she carries. Sweeping past Aemond’s blindside, she shoves Aegon off of Lucerys, baring her teeth at him.

Aegon readily releases Lucerys, turning on her and pushing her back into the table, the edge of which digs painfully into her lower back. Her left hand fists in his jacket, and with her right, she tries to grab for something on the table, but his hand snaps out to cover hers and hold it to the table’s surface. His other hand finds her belly, and the touch disturbs her. He stares her down with a wild glint in his eye and a maniacal smile, and her breath hitches as she freezes up. In her peripheral vision, she notices Daemon quickly rounding the table, his face turned toward her.

The commotion grows more tumultuous as Aemond shoves Jacaerys to the floor. Lucerys tries to throw himself at Aegon’s back, though he is thwarted when a guard grabs him and pulls him toward the eastern wall as he thrashes in the man’s arms. From the back of the room, an anxious voice rises above the others, the queen crying out, “Aegon! Let go of Valaena!”

His head turning, Aemond abandons his squabble with Jacaerys and whirls around. He rips Aegon off of Valaena, gripping him by his collar and snarling, “What do you think you’re doing?”

His feral grin fading, Aegon evades, “She touched me first.”

“I care not if she sticks you in your breast. You don’t touch her,” Aemond asserts peremptorily.

For a moment, Aegon makes no response, so Aemond shakes him until he accedes, “Fine.”

Extending his arm, Aemond pushes his brother to the floor, too. Striding over to Valaena, he runs his eye over her in solicitude. Though she still stands against the table, gripping it as she struggles to regain her composure, she has the wherewithal to smack his hand away as he brushes her cheek. It is far too late for him to show his concern now, she thinks, for he had instigated the entire altercation that led to Aegon impinging her.

Looking around, she sees Lucerys continuing to struggle in the guard’s hold, with Rhaena similarly keeping Baela from engaging any of the Greens. Daemon stands between Jacaerys and Aemond, cautioning the former to abandon any further plans for attack. Rhaenyra stands at his side, ordering Valaena’s siblings, “Go to your quarters. All of you, go now.” Turning, she looks to Valaena and says her name, though no more than that, her eyes cutting to Aemond. Likely, she thinks that if Valaena should go back to her quarters, she will be alone with him.

Throughout the room, every eye falls on Valaena, all watching to see what choice she will make. Feeling frustrated and enervated, she allows her shoulders to droop. She has spent the entire day being humiliated, first by her good-family and now by her husband, and she is weary of being stranded in the middle, between the Blacks and the Greens. She tires of straddling the boundary between the two camps, born from one but forced to live in the other, and all she wants to do is go home and rest.

Where is home, she wonders. Is it here, in King’s Landing with her husband, or on Dragonstone with her parents and siblings? She fears she will never know.

Ultimately, she resolves to simply retire to her apartment here, wanting to have it out with Aemond, if nothing else. Starting from the room, she slides her eyes from him to the door, and deferential, he follows. As they pass through the doorway, she hears her mother—though she knows not to whom she speaks—sigh, “It’s best, I think, if we go back to Dragonstone.”

This statement from Rhaenyra fans the flames already burning within Valaena. Just the day before, she had been overjoyed that her entire family had come to be with her for an entire moon, even if the cycle would have started out with a rough passage. Now, they are all set to leave, abandoning her in the Red Keep yet again.

When they arrive in her rooms, Valaena makes sure to slam the door closed behind them. Aemond does not so much as cringe at the plangent sound, wearing a remarkably, infuriatingly placid expression. “Are you not glad now that I did not accept your apology,” he asks.

“Your words are not amusing,” she hisses, her arms rigidly crossed around her middle. “‘These three strong boys.’ Tell me, is your niece as strong as her brothers?”

“I did not speak your name,” he counters tightly, but she does not accept his answer.

“Did Vaemond Velaryon,” she rebuts, her voice rising. “No! He spoke only against Jace, and yet you were ever so concerned.” She turns away from him, muttering, “Or at least, you pretended to be.”

Catching her by the elbow, he spins her to face him once more. Not wishing to become unbalanced, her gait tenuous as it is, she allows it. “My concern was honest,” he avers.

“Was it? Why, then, are you always so eager to remind my brothers and me that we are bastards, hmm? For a decade, it has been like this. You make note of it at every opportunity! For fuck’s sake, it is the entire reason we are married,” she shouts. “Had you not called Jace and Luke bastards the night that you claimed Vhagar, the entire incident could have been eased, and our lives would have gone on with far less strife.”

Incredulous, he returns, “How dare you blame me for the events of that night.”

“You should not have claimed Vhagar at her rider’s funeral,” she replies, offhand.

“And do you mean to say that you do not wish to be married to me,” he persists, his voice strained.

“No. No,” she insists. Closing her eyes, she forces herself to calm. She takes his hands. “Valzȳrys, I adore you, I do, but I feel that I do not understand you sometimes. This night, what possessed you to even make such an insult? We were all having such a lovely time.”

His eye darting away from her, he tells her, “It was your brother who started it.”

“What,” she asks amidst an incredulous laugh. “Why? Because he was dancing with Helaena?”

“Not Jace,” Aemond spits. He tears his hands away. “Luke. He laughed at me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “He laughed at you? Wherefore?”

“For the pig,” he spews. Saying this, he looks so genuinely furious, though she cannot fathom why.

“The pig,” she echoes, bewildered.

“Do not feign ignorance,” he replies. When comprehension fails to dawn on her, however, his temper abates. “They never told you.”

“Who never told me what,” she wonders, exasperated.

Fidgeting, he blows out a hearty breath before answering. “The Pink Dread.”

Her confusion only grows. “Who is the Pink Dread?”

He pinches his nose. “Fuck.”

Thereafter, he falls silent, and she has to prompt him. “Aemond, I do not understand. Please speak plainly.”

Sighing, he divulges, “When we were eleven, your brothers gave me a pig dressed up as a dragon. They named it the Pink Dread.”

Valaena frowns. “So, because Jace and Luke, who were eight and six, played a prank on you eight years ago, you insulted my birth and assailed my brother?”

“He attacked me,” objects Aemond.

She turns indignant. “Aemond, you have ruined this evening, and indeed, this entire month! My family was meant to stay until I gave birth, but now, you’ve run them all off!” He sucks in a breath to respond, but she does not permit it. Stepping closer, she presses, “You cannot allow yourself to be ruled by your whims. You are to be a father soon. Do you understand that? A father to the child of your bastard wife!”

“Stop calling yourself that,” he hisses, his mouth drawn into an apprehensive line.

“What, bastard? You can apply that word to me, but I cannot,” she asks, resentful.

He argues, “I did not—”

She does not give him the opportunity to finish. “Perhaps I should enlighten the world, just as you do.” Heading for the door, she fully means to make a spectacle, though not quite to the extent that she suggests. “I am certain that all would care to hear that I am—” Her voice breaks off as a scream rips its way out of her throat. She had not expected someone to be standing on the other side of the door.

As Aemond hastens to her side, Daemon stares down at her whence he stands in the corridor, an almost disinterested expression on his face. Her heart nearly beating out of her chest, she asks, “Were you eavesdropping?”

“Yes,” he answers, unperturbed. He levels a minatory stare at Aemond. “I wished to ascertain that nothing unsavory was occurring.”

“All is well,” she assures him.

“Sounds that way,” he dryly remarks. She frowns. “I also came to tell you that we are leaving.”

“Now,” she gasps, and his lips slide into a frown of their own. She whines, “No, you can’t. You all just arrived.”

“I’m sorry, Valaena,” he sighs. “Your mother has decided it best.”

Swallowing roughly, she tries to keep her lips from trembling as the urge to burst into tears strikes her. She peers back at Aemond, and seeing him stand behind her, glaring at Daemon with just as much acrimony as he had at the conclusion of their family’s disastrous supper, she makes up her mind as to where she would rather home be.

“Aster,” she calls. Both men peer at her in question, but she ignores them. When her handmaid arrives, she requests, “If you could please pack my trunk, Aster. I am leaving for Dragonstone, and I’ll not return until the babe is born.”

“What,” Aemond asks sharply. Aster moves to dart around him, heading for the bedchamber, but he holds up his hand and snaps, “Don’t fucking move, girl.”

“Leave her be,” Valaena commands. Sighing angrily, he permits Aster to slip past him.

“You cannot go to Dragonstone. Are you—” He tries to close the door on Daemon, but the older man throws out his arm, smacking it farther open and striding into the room. Aemond shrinks back from him, though not from her. “Are you mad? You are a month away from the birthing bed. You cannot fly with Veraxes.”

Insouciant, she remarks, “My great-grandmother, the Princess Alyssa, rode her dragon up until the day she gave birth, all three times.” She turns to Daemon. “Isn’t that right?” He inclines his head in confirmation.

Aemond rolls his eye. “You are not Princess Alyssa.”

She agrees, “No, I am Princess Valaena. Dragonstone shall be my domain soon, and I wish for my mother to be close when I bring our child into this world, so to Dragonstone on my dragon I shall go.”

Frustrated, Aemond looks between her and Daemon, clearly unsure as to how to proceed. Finally, he settles on, “I shall join you then.”

“No,” refuses Daemon.

Taking pity on her husband, Valaena suggests to Daemon, “Why don’t you inform Mother that I am to join you? I shall be along shortly.” He raises an eyebrow at her as though to ask whether she is certain that she should like to be alone with Aemond. When she nods, he departs easily enough.

As soon as they are once more unattended, Aemond steps in close to her. “Valaena, please do not go to Dragonstone. I am sorry for what I said, truly. I should not have spoken as I did.”

Equanimously, she articulates, “I would ask one more thing. Early this morning, I heard you say that my mother was blind for the pursuit of that which should be beyond her reach. How did you mean?” His expression closing off, likely in an attempt to mask his guilt, he gives her no answer, but that is answer enough. She nods. “You may join me on Dragonstone in a week when my temper, I am sure, will have cooled. Mayhaps by then, you will have an explanation for me.”

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

A week past Aemond’s departure from King’s Landing, word arrives that the city has fallen to the Blacks. He takes the news with considerable poise, only slashing through one wall of his tent. Echoing him, Vhagar torches a clump of trees.

Once his initial fury has burnt away, his scorching blood cooling to a more febrile temperature, dread and shame set in. He had left his family in King’s Landing, taking with him the vast majority of their men and their only dragon, and now, they are all surely dead. Only Daeron, stuck in the Reach, and Helaena and her children, nowhere to be found, are left, and they will undoubtedly condemn him for this loss. All this for Harrenhal, which is still more than a week’s journey along the Kingsroad from him. There, he suspects a battle far bloodier than he had originally expected awaits him, the Blacks evidently aware of his plans.

Am I king, he wonders, his head spinning. With Aegon’s children still missing, he remains the Prince of Dragonstone, though if Aegon has perished, he is as good as king. There will be no definitive declaration until a crown might be placed on his head, but having a son of his own and being Aegon’s eldest brother, it is terribly unlikely that he would be passed over for Daeron. He still carries the mantle of Lord Protector of the Realm, so he might already possess the crown had he not left it in King’s Landing at Aegon’s request. He hardly spares a thought for it now, however.

His breath caught in his throat, he asks the squire who holds the raven’s message, “How did—Aegon and—” His voice dies out, so restless for the answer is he that he cannot form a single other thought as he anticipates it.

The man shakes his head. “The king is alive, my prince. When your half-sister took the Red Keep, her men found his bedchamber deserted.”

Unspeakably relieved, Aemond heaves a great sigh. Aegon may be the least favorite of his brothers, but he is still among Aemond’s closest kin, and he shudders to think of a life without him. Aegon’s good fortune also lends Aemond hope as to their mother’s fate. Surely, Aegon and Alicent had absconded from the Red Keep together, and hopefully, he thinks fleetingly, they had taken with them the crown of Aegon the Dragon.

“Where have they gone? Do they mean to retreat to Oldtown,” he inquires. Aegon’s dragon, Sunfyre the Golden, still languishes near Rook’s Rest, so perhaps they intend to venture there first.

Looking the missive over again, the man reports, “I do not know, my prince. When His Grace your brother escaped—”

Aemond holds up a finger, halting the man’s speech. Suspicion prompts him to ask, “He escaped? He—Who was with him?”

Nervously, the man takes a step back. “I do not know, my prince. The letter, all it says—”

Weary of conferring with the squire, Aemond tears the missive from his hands. His eye scours the top of the letter.

King’s Landing and the Red Keep have fallen to Princess Rhaenyra. By the grace of the gods, His Grace the King Aegon managed to escape her clutches. The Princess’s men found his bedchamber empty when they stormed the royal apartments. Alas, the Dowager Queen Alicent and her father Ser Otto Hightower were forced to surrender. Her Grace the dowager queen is left as her step-daughter’s prisoner, and her father suffered a worse fate. His head is mounted on the castle walls, alongside those of Lord Jasper Wylde, Lord Rosby, Lord Stokeworth, and several others.

Aemond stops reading, digesting that which he has learnt thus far. For whatever reason, Rhaenyra has spared his mother. This alone, though deeply perplexing, is an incredible solace. For Rhaenyra to have taken King’s Landing—while a devastating defeat—without Alicent or Aegon losing their lives in the process, is nothing short of a miracle.

Otto is another story. Appreciating that the man is gone and Aemond will never see or speak to him again, he feels a spark of mournful sorrow, though not for long. Ever since he learnt that Otto long held plans to assassinate Valaena, as well as that he had gone ahead with his plot for the Battle of the Gullet despite Aemond’s fervent disavowal of it, he had lost his love for the man. Otto Hightower might have been his grandsire, but Aemond suspects he has only ever been a pawn in the man’s obscure game, and he has tired of playing it.

Secure in the knowledge that his mother and Aegon are alive and presumably well, Aemond reads on.

The Princess has installed considerable defenses. The gold cloaks have flocked to her, and her dragon Syrax dwells within the outer ward of the Red Keep. Ser Addam Velaryon guards the Dragonpit, where his dragon Seasmoke resides, as well as the other Black dragons, Veraxes, Meleys, Vermithor, Silverwing, Sheepstealer, and Caraxes.

The last word on the page has Aemond’s rage returning to him in full force. Daemon has abandoned Harrenhal, he realizes. Rather than a fearsome battle, there is no one to face Aemond in the old castle. His uncle clearly thinks nothing of him, to the point that he would rather hand the most impressive seat in the riverlands over to him than do him the courtesy of facing him on his dragon.

Furious, Aemond’s first instinct is to continue onward to Harrenhal and sack the ruin, dispatching any of the men that Daemon might have left behind, or mayhaps scorching the riverlands as a whole atop Vhagar. As he continues to fume as to the neglected holdfast awaiting him, however, his anger soon dispels.

There is another neglected holdfast out there, one that contains a far greater treasure than any Strong prize that Harrenhal may house. Dragonstone stands to the east, bereft of all its capable dragons. To his count, there are ten dragons left to the Blacks following the Battle of the Gullet. The eight adults gather in King’s Landing. Tyraxes is off with Joffrey, wherever that may be. Moondancer still resides on Dragonstone with Baela, but the she-dragon is yet too small to bear his cousin’s weight.

Casting the letter onto a firepit, Aemond declares, “This host is to reverse and join its western brother, and it shall do so without me.” Picking up his sword, he strides from the tent and moves swiftly toward Vhagar.

Harried, the squire hurries after him. “What of Harrenhal, my prince?”

Darkly, he asserts, “If Daemon does not want Harrenhal, neither do I.”

Approaching his dragon, he leaves the man behind. Vhagar appears irritable at the prospect of rising when she has only just settled down after a long day of flying, but Aemond is inflexible, urging her up from the ground despite her rumbling protests. Together, they take to the air, and without a host of four-thousand men-at-arms with a long baggage train, they soon arrive at a similar camp near Acorn Hall.

The young Lord Roland Reyne meets him at the edge of the encampment. Before the man can speak a word in greeting, he orders, “Show me to Lord Lannister.”

“Lord Jason is dead, my prince,” reports Roland. Aemond stops in his tracks. A question must sit on his face, as Roland soon expands, “He was slain on the Red Fork.”

The Lannister host having set out so recently, Aemond is displeased in hearing that it has already lost its foremost commander. Nevertheless, he knows the Lannisters’ leal lords will carry on in his stead. “Very well. Where is Tarbeck?” Roland winces. Incredulous, Aemond deadpans, “You jest.”

“A hedge knight slew him some days past.” He points to a large tent, beside which rests an elaborate litter. “Lord Lefford leads us now.”

Sighing, Aemond makes his way over to the commander’s tent. Two soldiers pull back the tarpaulin for him as he approaches, and he and Roland march inside. Various lords and knights crowd around a table strewn with maps and battle plans. Nearby, Lord Humfrey Lefford reclines in a low chair, his aged body swathed in bandages and leaking blood and pus.

Aemond just barely represses a grimace. “Lord Lefford.” He nods shortly to the other highborn men in the room, and they return the gesture.

“My prince.” Humfrey tries in vain to rise from his seat, but after a full ten seconds of struggle, Aemond waves him off. “This is a welcome surprise.”

Aemond raises his chin. “I have decided that the advance on Harrenhal is no more. I require a thousand men from you so that I might take Dragonstone.” When he visited Dragonstone with Valaena two years past, the castle had hosted thirty knights, a hundred crossbowmen, and three-hundred men-at-arms. Should he turn up with a thousand men, he is confident that Criston will surrender Dragonstone to him without bloodshed, leaving less for Valaena to complain about when she makes her return to the castle.

Humfrey appears hesitant. “My prince, we have suffered many losses. I fear I cannot afford to lend you the men you need and continue to defend your brother’s claim.”

“My own host numbers four-thousand strong. I have ordered them to join you here,” he informs Humfrey, whose face clears in hearing so.

“In that case,” begins Humfrey, though he trails off as he thinks on the matter.

Zealously, Roland proffers, “It would be an honor for myself and mine house to join you in your quest, my prince. I have three-hundred-fifty men under my command, thirty of whom are knights and squires.”

Appreciative, Aemond takes the offer. With three-hundred-fifty men and Vhagar, he could take Dragonstone, though not without bloodshed, which he is loath to risk. As of now, Dragonstone is Valaena’s domain, and her siblings and their child reside there. After what transpired with Lucerys, he wishes neither to cause her anymore grief, nor incur any more rancor from her. He has enough to make up for already.

He looks back to Humfrey, who, thankfully, has come up with a proposal of his own. He addresses Lord Swyft. “Alastor, what say you? You’ve enough men to make up the difference.”

Alastor, who matches Humfrey in years but is far haler, contemplates the proposition. Aemond directs a menacing stare at the old man, hoping to incite his obedience, but he hardly seems swayed. Notwithstanding that, his agreement comes after a moment, and Aemond has the men he needs.

Nodding succinctly, he says, “Each man shall have his own horse and carry his own luggage. We will ride fast and arrive at Dragonstone before next week’s end. We leave at dawn.”

True to his word, his new, reduced host embarks eastward as soon as the first sliver of the Sun appears on the horizon. It is a long distance to Blackwater Bay, longer than it would have been had he simply taken a thousand of the common men with whom he had rode north, but they make good time. By the time they reach Duskendale and secure by threat of dragonfire four ships from Lady Meredyth Darklyn, Rhaenyra has held King’s Landing for well under two weeks, just as long as Dragonstone has been left by the wayside. Aemond waits until his men will have run ashore before setting out across the bay himself, wanting to make as much a surprise attack as possible.

As he and Vhagar arrive at the small isle, soaring high over its rocky beaches, he spies his men steadily climbing its jagged hills. They keep to the path he ordained for them, one out of the way of the dragons’ usual haunts, touting the banners of House Swyft and House Reyne, as well as the black and gold banners Aegon had commissioned in honor of Sunfyre.

He circles the isle once, scoping out the defenses being manned and mounted by the Blacks. He sees crossbowmen take their places along the crenellations of Dragonstone’s curtain walls, as well as the foot soldiers gathering in the castle wards. Flying lower, he intends to land Vhagar on the near side of the Dragonmont, where he can easily confer with both his men and the enemy without having to stray too far from her. However, before he has the chance to select any such ideal spot, a slender, pale green creature no larger than a warhorse rises over Dragonstone’s smoking peak to meet him.

“No, no, no,” he murmurs as dread fills him, fearing another encounter like the one he had with Lucerys. He had thought that Baela was not yet a dragonrider, but evidently, he had been mistaken. She rides out to face him now, her face set in determination and her little dragon furiously flapping her great wings. Pulling on her reins, Aemond attempts to persuade Vhagar to restrain herself, preemptively calling, “Lykirī,” to her.

Already, however, it is too late. Seeing the other dragon, one crying out for fire and blood alongside her rider, sweeping towards them, Vhagar is invigorated. She dives for Moondancer, bellowing a fearsome roar as she does. When the two dragons near each other in the sky, Vhagar sends a vast tendril of flame toward Moondancer, though the smaller dragon eludes it. She eludes Vhagar’s gaping mouth, too, darting beneath her great underbelly and coming back around to rake her claws across Vhagar’s weathered skin. Doing so, she opens a long, smoking wound along Vhagar’s back and tears at one of her wings. Enraged, Vhagar roars in protest, though she is too slow to evade Moondancer’s fire as the smaller beast comes around once more and spits it in her face.

With nowhere to go, Vhagar elects to return the fire, breathing out an arc of flame wide and bright enough to blind Moondancer. Despite this, Moondancer flies on, slamming into Vhagar in a tangle of wings and claws. Vhagar, beset by the little beast, who strikes at her neck repeatedly, tearing out mouthfuls of flesh, flounders in the air, and all four of them together begin to plummet downward. As they near the ground, Moondancer beats her wings desperately, spurred on by panicked commands from Baela which are just barely audible amid the rushing wind. However, her attempt to break away is ultimately in vain. The dragons slam into the mountainside, Vhagar’s hulking weight crushing Moondancer beneath her.

Shaken from the fall, Aemond staggers down from Vhagar’s saddle, his descent made all the more arduous as Vhagar continues to struggle with the ailing and flailing Moondancer. Once on the ground, he sees that Baela, burned and battered, had found the strength to undo her saddle chains and crawl away from their coiled dragons. He feels inordinately relieved at the sight of her alive, though not for long. On the approach, a knight whose surcoat is emblazoned with a rampant, red lion regardant draws his sword to slay her.

Running forward, Aemond draws his own weapon and cuts through the man’s arm as he brings it down. The man howls in agony, the gushing stub of his shoulder spraying blood all over himself, Aemond, and Baela. Uncaring, Aemond kicks him to the side, intent on grabbing his cousin before she has the chance to make away.

Difficult as she is, however, Baela seizes the man’s discarded sword, using it as a crutch to push herself to her feet. She levels it Aemond. It is too large for her and awkward in her injured grip, but she presses forward nonetheless, ferociously swiping at him as he hurries to raise his own blade.

With her on the advance and him in retreat, they trade blows, their swords scraping together as their dragons continue to scuffle at their backs. He finds that she is surprisingly adept with a blade, more so than he had imagined when he visited Dragonstone two years past. She is granted a greater advantage than his surprise by his reticence to aim to kill. As he works mostly to block her jabs, she displays no such compunction, frequently targeting his gut with the point of her sword.

At last, Vhagar prevails over Moondancer, biting into the younger dragon’s belly. As hot blood pours from her, Moondancer lets out a final, blood-curdling scream. Baela echoes the cry, viscerally anguished. Sloppily, she charges Aemond, who disarms her at last. Without her weapon, she still runs at him, crazed with grief, but her heedlessness permits him to finally take his victory. He subdues her with a well-placed kick to the chest, hard enough to wind her. Choking on a breath she cannot quite inhale, she falls to the ground.

His men drag her away as she gasps and sputters, howls and curses him, and he orders that she be restrained and seen to by a healer.

He joins with Alastor and Roland, and they apprise him of the status of their campaign thus far. Apparently, there has not yet been any bloodshed, aside from that shed from the man who Aemond partially dismembered. Three ravens have departed from Dragonstone, though all have been shot down, and their archers remain on the lookout for more. Criston and Jacaerys, who lead Dragonstone’s garrison, have gathered their men in the outer ward of the castle. They are prepared for battle, though they have agreed to treat with them first.

Accompanied by the two lords and several score of their most trusted knights, squires, and men-at-arms, Aemond passes through the first of Dragonstone’s curtain walls. Across from them, Criston and Jacaerys stand amid an organized crowd of their own men. Jacaerys glares fiercely at him, his sword already in his hand.

An exultant grin coming to his face, Aemond greets him, “Hello, Jace.”

Extending his blade, Jacaerys takes a single, broad step forward. “Where is the Lady Baela?”

His smile still in place, Aemond offers, “Surrender, and I shall return her to you unharmed.”

Jacaerys’s scowl worsens. Unexpectedly, he does not cave to Aemond’s demand. “Baela would rather die than see Dragonstone handed over to the likes of you.”

Sighing, Aemond rolls his eye. He shifts his attention to Criston. “Surrender and continue to serve the rightful ruler of Dragonstone.”

“My sister is the rightful ruler of Dragonstone,” rebuts Jacaerys. “I shall bow to her and my mother alone, Kinslayer, not you. You shall die this day instead.”

Sharply, Aemond bites, “I speak no longer to you, Good-Brother, but to the man in charge.” He looks back to Criston.

Irked, Jacaerys disputes, “I am the man in charge.” 

In spite of Jacaerys’s claim, Criston humors Aemond. “I am the princess’s sworn protector, and she is mistress of Dragonstone. I’ll not hand over this hold to you and allow her to walk into whatever trap you might lay for her.”

Aemond narrows his eye at the older man. Still, he is not sure why Criston turned his cloak for Rhaenyra, though it is readily apparent that he has a genuine devotion to Valaena. Wary of it but willing to play along, Aemond states, “As my lady wife, Valaena would remain mistress of Dragonstone.” 

At this, Criston is brought up short. He makes no immediate reply, indubitably considering Aemond’s proposal. Seeing this, Jacaerys panics. “No,” he shouts, turning his sword on Criston. Most of the men at his back follow, drawing their own weapons, though the rest follow Criston when he turns on the prince.

As fighting breaks out within the ranks of Dragonstone’s garrison, arrows raining from the sky as the crossbowmen loose them, Aemond shouts for his men to join the fray. At the forefront of their advance, he quickly finds himself within the melee. It threatens to throw him around and cast him back out, but he presses forward, cutting down a half-dozen men on his way to Jacaerys. His nephew is holding up remarkably well against their former master-at-arms, who he suspects is going somewhat easy on the boy.

With a flourish of his sword, he jumps between Criston and Jacaerys. Seeing him, Jacaerys grows more vehement, his dark eyes glinting with malice as he swipes viciously at Aemond. With powerful strokes from each of them, their swords clang together and shine under the light of the mid-afternoon sun. The men around them give them a wide berth, half of them mindful of falling victim to a wayward slash and the other keen on watching the altercation between the two princes.

Eventually, Aemond’s superior age, build, and skill empower him to surmount Jacaerys. With a single, sound blow, he forces Jacaerys to take a wrong step, and in the next moment, the point of his blade hovers at the base of Jacaerys’s throat. With their leader vanquished, those still loyal to Jacaerys drop their weapons, though he does no such thing. Rather, his blade need be pried from his grip, and even then, he does not yield.

His teeth bared, he gnarls, “Go on then. Do it!”

To Jacaerys’s chagrin, however, Aemond does no more than replace his sword in its scabbard. A pair of knights takes hold of him, and the day is won.

As Aemond enters the castle unimpeded, he feels a sense of pride at his victory. He had left King’s Landing for the glory one in earns battle, and now, it is his.

Instinctively, his feet carry him to Valaena’s rooms in Sea Dragon Tower. Along the way, he orders that Baela, Jacaerys, and Aegon the Younger be confined to their quarters. Anyone else unwilling to submit to his rule is to be imprisoned in the castle’s dungeons, he adds.

When he arrives at Valaena’s apartment, Aster is there to greet him. Seeing him, the girl appears terribly nervous, her face pale as she wrings her hands.

“A bath,” he dispassionately orders her, already beginning to shed his bloody armor. “A cold one.”

Half an hour later, scrubbed clean and wearing borrowed linens—he will unpack his luggage from Vhagar’s saddle on the morrow—Aemond strides down the halls once more, on his way to a far less familiar room. When he reaches it, he gives himself a moment before opening the door.

He has arrived, at long last, at his foremost purpose in coming to Dragonstone. For months, he has anticipated this moment, envisioning it day and night.

Extending his arm, his palm embraces the cool metal of the doorknob, and he twists it, but it sticks. Disconcerted, he tries again with the same result, leaving him to furiously wrestle with the door. Exhaling a flustered breath, he finally relinquishes the handle, opting to knock lightly on the door and listen for any movement beyond it. His sensitive ears pick up some indiscriminate noise. There is some shuffling, as well as the sound of faint whining.

Hearing the delicate voice, his heart lurches, and he tries the door another time. It remains locked, resigning him to knock again and ask, “Hello?” No answer comes, so he pounds harder against the wood.

Before long, he is joined by one of Lord Swyft’s household knights. Anxiously, the man tells him, “My prince, my apologies, but we are unable to locate your cousin Aegon.”

Slowly, Aemond looks back to the closed door before him. He bangs on it once more. “Aegon! Open this door!”

Finally, he receives an answer. “No! Eat shit and die!”

“Hobrenka,” he curses, his hands balling into fists. Turning to the knight with him, he barks, “Go find someone with a fucking key.”

Ten minutes pass before the knight makes his return, towing with him a young squire. Timidly avoiding Aemond’s gaze, the boy hunches over the doorknob and fits a small, iron key into its lock. Pushing him aside, Aemond twists the handle and shoves open the door to the nursery. Once in the room, he finds that it is indeed guarded by his eight-year-old cousin Aegon. The boy brandishes a knife at him, standing wide-legged in front of a terrified wet nurse, who clutches a wailing, blond-headed babe. His face red from fury, Aegon screeches, “Get back!” 

“Aegon,” he starts, as calmly as he can manage. “Put down the blade.”

“No,” cries Aegon. His arms shake as he continues to hold the knife aloft. “Fuck you!”

His temper running short, Aemond snarls and darts forward to take the knife by force. His face rounding with terror, Aegon lets out a short scream and takes an involuntary step back before remembering his courage. Gritting his teeth, he lashes out at Aemond as he steps in close, getting him across the thigh.

Hissing, Aemond grabs the boy’s arm and pries the knife from his grasp. Keeping his hold on Aegon’s wrist, he thrusts him toward the knight. “Take him to his rooms.” As Aegon is dragged away, he shouts his grievances over his shoulder, screaming and crying hysterically.

Aemond entrusts the knife to the squire and checks that there is no blood on his hands before stepping over to the woman huddled in the corner of the room. At his approach, she cowers farther into the wall, still trying to calm the crying babe in her grasp even as she shields him with her body. Holding out his arms, Aemond commands her, “Hand him over.” Surprisingly bold, she refuses, shaking her head. Her pluck does not stay with her for long, however, as he snaps, “Now,” and she caves.

Aenar, very upset but clearly not sure why, clings easily to Aemond as he continues to bawl his eyes out. In his softest voice, Aemond endeavors to soothe him, cooing, “Hey, hey, it’s all right.” He continues speaking in low murmurs, hoping to coax Aenar to peace.

Soon enough, Aenar is pacified by the subtle rumbling of Aemond’s voice as he is held against his chest. His cries dwindle, reduced to quiet puling as he stares up into Aemond’s face. His purple eyes, the same color as Aemond’s but several shades darker per his mother’s influence, shine with unshed tears.

Pleased, Aemond asks him, “Do you recall my voice? I used to speak to you in your mother’s womb.”

Reaching out, Aenar slides his little hand along Aemond’s unmarred cheek and bestows him with an angelic, gummy smile. A reciprocal smile comes to Aemond’s face, and he feels his eye begin to sting.

Aware that they have company, he barks to the wet nurse, his voice weaker than he would have liked, “Get out.” Once she has left them, he settles in a cushioned chair in the corner of the room, one he suspects is used for nursing, and folds Aenar’s legs beneath him so that he can sit atop Aemond’s uninjured leg.

He remains in the nursery for the remainder of the day, incurious as to any of the other goings-on in the castle. Rather, he is far too entranced by Aenar, who sits serenely in his lap as he continues to talk to him and plays gently with his miniature hands and feet.

In the months that he spent envisaging meeting his son, he’d had trouble picturing exactly how the boy would look. He had wondered if Aenar would be purely Valyrian in appearance, with silvery hair and purple eyes, or if—as with Valaena and her siblings—having a brown-haired parent would give him duskier features. He sees now that the former turned out to be true, and he is glad for it. Beyond the paternal pride he feels in seeing his son’s blatant resemblance to him, it is a relief that none shall ever have cause to doubt that he is a trueborn Targaryen. As for the other aspects of Aenar’s appearance, his facial features, for instance, it is yet too early to tell whom he takes after more, whether it be Valaena or Aemond.

After an hour, a healer comes to see him, offering to sew up the slash that Aegon had given him. Having grown somewhat faint, which perhaps he cannot attribute entirely to meeting his son for the first time, he accedes and places Aenar in his cradle. Doing so, he notices that a dragon’s egg rests in the crib, and his satisfaction for the day grows.

As Aemond is stitched up, he is careful to remain quiet, not wishing to unsettle Aenar. When the healer has done his work, Aemond dismisses him and returns to his son’s side. Leaning over the cradle, he sees that Aenar has begun to drowse, so he does no more than pet along his fine, white-blond hair, helping to lull him to sleep. As he nods off, Aenar reaches up and captures Aemond’s finger, proceeding to keep a surprisingly firm grip on it. With nowhere else to go, Aemond is content to remain in his clutches for hours, staring unceasingly at him.

He is disturbed only when yet another trespasser enters the room. Clearing his throat, Criston alerts Aemond as to his presence. Turning his head slightly, Aemond does nothing more than that to acknowledge him.

Since Criston’s covert departure from King’s Landing, Aemond has lost his opinion of the man. For most of his life, he held the knight in high regard, trusting him implicitly. Now, however, he knows not what to think of him. Criston’s mind and loyalties are fathomless to Aemond, especially given his latest betrayal toward Jacaerys just this day. Inconspicuously, he slides his finger from Aenar’s grasp.

Criston breaches the silence between them. “It must be gratifying to have him in your custody at last. Congratulations, my prince.”

Grated by the other man’s compliments, a bitter smile comes to Aemond’s face. Still, he does not turn toward Criston, though he is mindful of him at his back.

Foolhardy, Criston goes on, “I can tell you what I know of him, if you should like. His mother told me—”

In a flash, Aemond pivots on his feet, tearing his dagger from its sheath and pressing it to Criston’s throat. Criston tries to step back, but Aemond grabs his pourpoint, keeping him from straying from his blade. He demands, “Give me one reason why I should not remove your head for your treason.”

“I have committed no treason,” avers Criston. Aemond scowls in disbelief. “Her Grace your mother sent me here.”

“Is that so,” questions Aemond, his skepticism only growing. He recalls his mother’s acute distress at their discovery of Criston’s betrayal.

Criston nods as much as the blade at his neck will allow. “After His Grace the king authorized your grandsire’s proposed assault on Dragonstone, she sent me here so that I might safeguard Prince Aenar.”

Aemond, who had expressly forbidden Otto’s plan, wonders, “Why did you not tell me?” So, too, does his mind reel as he considers that Aegon had known that the Triarchy would attack Dragonstone, and not only that, but he also approved of it. Not faced with him now, however, he sets such thoughts aside.

Criston answers him. “His Grace gave the plot his blessing. As you say, I am his Hand, not his mind.”

Resentful, Aemond shoves Criston away and sheathes his blade. Turning back to his son, he orders, “Leave us.” He shall decide Criston’s ultimate fate another time. For now, he supposes, the man is convincing enough to have earned his confidence.

After Criston has gone, Aemond thinks of fitting his finger back into the palm of Aenar’s hand, but he sees that in the time that has passed since Aenar held his undivided attention, his arm has migrated so that he might unconsciously caress his egg.

When at last he convinces himself to part with Aenar for the night, he retires to his quarters. He had dictated that the lord’s chambers be prepared for him, and as such, he finds himself in Rhaenyra’s apartment. Spitefully, he thinks of having all of the rooms cleared out, her things disposed of, but he ultimately decides against it. He does not expect to hold Dragonstone for long, after all.

Borrowing what is surely a set of Daemon’s nightclothes, he settles into bed, eager to close out the long day and greet the next one come the dawn. To ease himself to sleep, he searches for something to read, coming upon a slender tome at the bedside. He opens it to find periodic entries of a person’s innermost thoughts, and leaning back against the headboard, he feels only a tinge of shame as he begins to peruse them.

4.7.103

To day, the dragons keepers told me that Syrax is finaly big enouf for me to ride, so I tryed it. She did not want to let me on her back in the begining but I said that she should listen and she did. We flew around the dragon pit and it was very fun. I wanted to fly with her out side but father said no. But he was still prouded of me. He said that I am the youngerest dragon rider in the world and I was very happy.

6.22.104

This day, Alicent and I played in the godswood. Her mother came to read to us, and it was a amazing story about Maris the Maid who is Alicent’s ancestor. She was a daughter of Garth Greenhand and she married King Uthor of the High Tower and they started Alicent’s house. They built the Hightower with Bran the Builder and Maris was so beautiful that Argoth Stone Skin spent the rest of his life roaring at the tower because he wanted to marry her.

Alicent says it is a silly story, but I think it is great. I hope when I am older I am beautiful enough that Uncle Daemon will marry me. Mother says I can not marry him because he is already wed to Lady Rhea, but he said that I am the realm ’s delight and that any man would be fortuneat to marry me so I will ask Father when I am older.

2.13.105

Aeryn died this day. Mother and Father are sad, but Uncle Daemon says that I should not be. He says that Aeryn was small and sickly and always meant to die. 

I miss him. I never had the chance to play with him, but Mother says he plays with the Stranger now. I do not know that the Stranger is a good playmate. It seems he always steals.  

Aemond wakes in the middle of the night, chased out of bed by a nightmare. He had dreamt that the rumor Larys brought had been true after all; that Aenar had been stillborn, and somehow, his little corpse had been preserved for Aemond to find upon taking Dragonstone.

Engrossing, genuine, visceral fear sends him down the hall, and he bursts into the nursery. Startled, a wet nurse jumps up from the nursing chair, desperately trying to cover herself without unlatching the babe on her breast.

His heart near beating out of his chest, Aemond forces himself to take a breath. Holding up a hand, he blocks her out of his eyeline before turning and waiting for his son to finish feeding. By the time the woman hands Aenar over, the child has returned to sleep, his business in the waking world finished as soon as he had drunk his fill. Though his eyes are closed, Aemond still takes comfort in the mere fact of his presence. Setting Aenar in his cradle, Aemond keeps a hand on his chest, weltering in the solace provided by his lungs constantly filling and depressing with air and his heart steadily beating.

He remains with Aenar past dawn, not tempted by the promise of more sleep should he leave him. He is drawn away only by Lord Swyft when he comes to fetch Aemond, making mention of business that need be done to maintain the castle and the isle. They join Lord Reyne in what must be the castellan’s study. Roland looks through various scrolls and books, evidently unable to lay his hands on that for which he searches. He complains, “I cannot find the records for the garrison or the stores. How do they run this fucking place?”

After several hours—the man’s rooms are a fucking mess—a servant manages to locate the books detailing the castle’s arms, soldiers, grain, livestock, and so on. Alastor flips through them, his brow furrowing further in consternation as he reads on. “I cannot make sense of these figures.”

“Shocking that a woman does not a good lord make,” mutters Roland under his breath.

“It is not Valaena’s handwriting. This must be Quince’s work,” Aemond remarks, perhaps too defensively. “And I see not what it matters; we can simply keep our own records.”

Reservedly, Alastor expresses his hesitance. “It will be difficult to discern what grain is shared with the village.”

Aemond does not see the issue. “What need have we to share with them? If they need it, they may pray for it.”

Patiently, Alastor explains, “They will have already asked, my prince, or they will have shared it with us.” Tactfully, he suggests, “Allow me to speak to Ser Quince. Mayhaps he will share with me the methods to his madness.”

Stumped as to what else should be done, Aemond nods his approval. “What else is there?”

“We have halted travel from the isle, as well as taken over the rookery, so there shan’t be any word sent to the mainland of our victory here,” reports Alastor. Pleased, Aemond nods again.

“Wherefore,” asks Roland, scornful. “Should we not wish to make the princess and the realm aware of her defeat?”

“Tell me, Lord Reyne, would you care to stand against the entire Velaryon fleet and eight adult dragons,” asks Aemond, censure in his tone.

His face contorting in a slight scowl, Roland points out, “My prince, you killed a dragon just yesterday, and the Velaryon fleet has been cut down by a third.”

“Do you truly believe the princesses and Prince Daemon would so assail this hold,” piles on Alastor. “Their children and grandchildren reside within its walls.”

Aemond corrects Roland, “Vhagar killed a drake yesterday.” He addresses Alastor next. “And I believe we would be fools to pretend to know their minds.” Privately, he adds the word again, still choking on the embarrassment of his forsaken conquest of Harrenhal.

Aside from keeping the Blacks from attacking, Aemond has another purpose in keeping his seizure of Dragonstone a secret. Should Valaena still believe that she possesses it, she is like to return here alone and unsuspecting.

Aemond closes out this day as he had the one before, with Aenar. He takes his supper in his quarters and has Aenar set up on a blanket along the floor with some of his toys. Contentedly, he watches as Aenar rolls around on the floor, clutching at a rag doll and gnawing on its head. Once night has fallen, a nursemaid comes to collect Aenar, and Aemond retires to bed.

Aemond wakes in the middle of the night again, though not for any nightmare or incessant need to see Aenar. Rather, it is the chamber pot that requires his attention. He bows over it, shaky and sweaty, emptying the contents of his stomach. After his gut has settled, he staggers back toward his bed, hoping for a few more hours of sleep before he need face the day. As he steps past a window, however, his reflection stares back at him, blood trailing from its nose.

Alarmed, he calls for a healer. As the man examines him, he tries to keep from trembling, not wishing to appear too out of sorts. After checking his nose and eye, he asks Aemond how many times he voided his stomach.

“Once,” he answers, succinct but breathless.

The man nods, appearing satisfied. “It is no more than a light head, I suspect, from riding your dragon.” Dubious, Aemond tries to shake his head, but he finds he is too dizzy for it. Nevertheless, the healer seems to take note of his objection, and he offers, “Mayhaps abstain from wine for a few days, as well.”

When his nausea follows him into the ensuing night, too, he stumbles over to Valaena’s rooms and digs through her drawers until he comes upon the trove of ginger that he knew he would find there. During her pregnancy, it had been the only remedy that would settle her stomach. As he chews on a root, he collapses onto her bed, mashing his face into one of her pillows and mumbling, “I love you.”

8.27.110

Mother is dead, my father’s rapacious desire for a son having killed her at last. Her efforts were all for naught, as well. Baelon died before dawn broke on the second day of his pitiful, short life.

One of Mother’s handmaids told me of her final moments. Father had her cut open amid her disoriented protests. She bled all over the sheets, screaming as her life was ripped from her. She was held down for it. She the queen, she

10.3.110

Both of my grandmothers died for their efforts to bring a child into the world. My great-great-grandmother died in the child bed, too, in the same manner as did my mother. At least, for Queen Alyssa, it was her choice.

I think it best that I never have a child of mine own. Mayhaps I shall name as my heir one of Daemon’s children, should he ever have any, or mayhaps Cousin Laena and her children.

2.15.111

Father has chosen Alicent as his new wife. I give him my blessing, and this is how he repays me.

I wonder how long after my mother’s death Alicent waited before visiting my father in his chambers. I wonder what it is they do in there, inside the confines of closed doors and outside the confines of marriage.

As Aemond’s inexplicable illness subsists into the next week, he gradually grows paranoid. He develops a habit of being careful what he eats, having begun to suspect that it is no light head poisoning him, but rather that which he is fed by the castle’s servants.

He also develops a habit of checking on Aenar in the middle of the night. Much as he had his first night on Dragonstone, he finds it soothing to simply watch the boy sleep. Some nights, he stops by for a few short minutes, merely to make certain that he is still breathing. Other nights, he remains for hours, hunched over the railing of the cradle and watching as Aenar’s little eyelids flutter as he dreams.

One such night, he briefly steps away from the cradle to stretch, having been stood in the same position for over an hour. The nursemaid sitting in the corner of the room pauses in her sewing, her eyes on him. He ignores her and returns to gazing at Aenar.

“Do you know, your wife often does the same,” she ventures, gaining his attention. He looks over his shoulder at her, and she expands, “Coming in during the early hours, watching over him.”

Becoming abstracted, he pictures Valaena stumbling into the nursery during the hour of the wolf, much as he does. He ponders if she ever goes a step further than simply standing over Aenar, watching him from above. Mayhaps she lifts him from his cradle and allows him to slumber away in the safety of her arms.

Closing his eye, he wonders at how he longs to see them together.

He startles when he feels a light touch along his arm, opening his eye to see the wet nurse standing right under his nose.

The pitch of her voice low and libidinous, she remarks, “You must miss her. I could—”

His arm snapping out, he shoves her back from him. She falls with a shriek, landing hard on her back.

As she stares up at him, looking set to piss herself, he stoically gives her his back. “You’re dismissed. Get out.”

For a moment, the only sound in the room is from that of her teeth, chattering from fear. Then, she says, “I—I’m sorry, I—”

“I will not repeat myself,” he warns, and she sagely scurries from the room. In his cradle, Aenar unperturbedly sleeps on, oblivious to the world around him.

Come the morning, he makes the acquaintance of yet another unsavory woman. Despite the outward hostility of this latter interaction, he cannot say which one he prefers.

Baela is being dragged through the halls by a pair of guards, thrashing her legs and gnashing her teeth. Her hair is tied back in a single braid, and she wears trousers, one leg of which is torn up to her knee.

Aemond looks to one of the men holding her with a query set on his face. The man tells him, “We caught ‘er scaling the walls of the castle, tryna escape.”

“I was not trying to escape, you fucking imbecile,” she spits at the man. Turning to Aemond, she viciously declares, “I meant to steal into his rooms and slit his throat!”

The man shakes her. “You watch it, girl!” Baela pulls back the arm not in his grip, likely meaning to strike him, but the other soldier holds it fast, keeping her from doing much more than thrash around again.

Still jaded from the night before, Aemond does little more than sneer at her. Beginning to walk away, he tosses out over his shoulder, “Put bars on her windows before you return her to her confinement.”

As he turns the corner, Baela’s furious, vile exclamations follow him, reminding him that he is a despicable kinslayer, lest he ever forget.

He hopes for a reprieve in his study, but the gods see fit to spite him again. Criston awaits him by his desk. He swallows an irritated sigh at the sight of him.

Settling into his chair, he bites at the man, “What do you want?”

Criston receives his vitriol with remarkable alacrity. “Good morning, my prince.” 

“What the fuck do you want,” repeats Aemond.

In the past week, Criston has given Aemond no reason to distrust him, but Aemond has not forgotten the man’s prior betrayal. Criston claims that he acted with righteousness and devotion when he left King’s Landing, but Aemond is not so certain of his intentions. After all, he only ceded Dragonstone after Aemond made assurances to him as to Valaena’s good standing. Why that seems to matter to Criston, Aemond cannot say, and the speculation unnerves him.

“I meant to post a letter, but Ser Martin Reyne, who masters the rookery now, would not permit me,” Criston discloses.

“On my orders,” Aemond coolly affirms. “To whom need you so desperately post a letter?”

Rather than give him a verbal answer, Criston hands him a small scroll. Aemond unfurls it to find a short but descriptive message.

Princess, Prince Aenar flourishes here on Dragonstone, though I am certain that he misses you. He has a new favorite toy, a rag doll which I purchased for him from the village. He has also learnt to roll over onto his front when laid on his back. Prince Aegon continues to care for him, per your request. Yours faithfully, Ser Criston Cole.

Briefly, Aemond’s eye flicks to Criston before returning to the letter. He states the obvious, “You write to Valaena.”

“Yes, my prince,” confirms Criston. “She asked that I keep her apprised of Prince Aenar’s good health. My most recent report, I sent the day before your,” he searches for the correct word, “arrival.”

Still intent on the words scrawled onto the page, his eye lingering on the word yours, Aemond inquires, “Do you suppose that she might return, should she not receive your letters?”

“She might,” hazards Criston, his eyes narrowed, “replete with woe, as to the well-being of your son.”

Aemond smarts at the reprobative tone. He flicks the missive back in Criston’s direction. “Send your fucking letter.”

5.24.114

I am with child, my first. Father is pleased, though I am less so. I did not expect this burden so soon. I wonder if I shall share the fate of my foremothers and perish in the child bed, pitifully clinging to life for hours only for the maesters to strike me from the world, never permitted to hold the little thing that kills me. 

10.5.114

Laenor wishes to name the child Joffrey if it is male. I have chosen Visenya for a female. 

12.14.114

Alicent argued with the king this day. He wished to have her children share their nursery with mine, so that they all might bond, but Alicent took a firm stance against any fraternity. I did not voice my opinion, glad was I of the outcome when Alicent prevailed. I am happy that I must not need suffer the sight of my half-siblings whenever I wish to visit mine own child.

12.16.114

Valaena was born this day at high noon. I have loved none as I love her. She is perfect in every way. My only wish is that my mother had lived long enough to meet her. 

1.20.115

Alicent bore my father another child this day. Her feat is diminished only by her failure to bring her babe into the world before mine own. Her plot for revenge is failed. Already, my father is besotted with his granddaughter, the future queen, too much so to care for a diminutive second son. 

One afternoon, Aemond spends his time hearing petitions from the local fishermen for aid, their trade having been cut off when he took the isle. He finds he has little patience for their entreaties, casting many of them off to Alastor for the older man to address.

As nightfall approaches, he expects the trickle of visitors to peter out, but frustratingly, it continues. When another servant enters his study to announce someone else’s arrival, Aemond barks, irked, “Who else is there?” Already, Alastor has left his side for the day, so any newcomers, he will need handle alone.

“Ah, your cousin Aegon, my prince,” announces the man, and the young boy in question enters the room, his head held high.

His brow raising, Aemond is surprised by Aegon’s appearance. Of all his prisoners, Aegon has been among the least disruptive. Occasionally, Aemond overhears crying when he passes by the boy’s rooms, but no more than that.

Without waiting for leave to speak, Aegon begins, “Hello, Cousin.”

Oddly amused by the reserved manner in which the boy conducts himself, Aemond stifles a grin. “Aegon,” he returns.

Clearing his throat, Aegon proceeds, “I would like to apologize for stabbing you.”

“You did not stab me,” objects Aemond. “’Twas but a scratch.” It had been a little more than that, deep enough a slash to require stitches, but the boy need not know that.

For a moment, Aegon’s countenance darkens, as though he is displeased by Aemond’s diminishment of his good work. Nevertheless, he soon masters himself. “All right. I apologize for scratching you.”

His grin wide enough to show now, Aemond accepts the atonement, whatever its motive. “Very well, you are forgiven. Is that all?”

“No,” replies Aegon, a touch fast. He clears his throat again. “When Valaena left for King’s Landing, she asked that I play with Aenar and check on him, and I should like to keep my promise to her.” Raising his chin, Aegon awaits Aemond’s response.

For his part, Aemond has no cause to doubt Aegon’s claim. He recalls from the letter that Criston sent the other day that she and Aegon have some understanding that he should care for Aenar in her absence. That, coupled with the fact of the boy’s general amicable spirit, gives Aemond no reason to deny Aegon’s request.

He rises from his seat. “You may play with him under my watch,” he allows. As he heads through the door and toward the nursery, Aegon follows him, pleased with his success.

When they arrive in the nursery, Aenar is already out of his cradle, lying atop a blanket on the floor and watching with rapt attention as his nursemaid fiddles with a wooden rattle for his amusement. His head turns at the sound of their footsteps, and he squeals as Aegon comes into his view, the older boy having rushed over to him as soon as he had set foot in the room. Aegon falls to his knees at Aenar’s side, and in a silent plea for more attention from him, Aenar reaches out toward one of his legs, taking the fabric of his trousers into his little hand and gripping it tightly.

Gratified in seeing his son enjoy himself, Aemond bends briefly to pat his head. Peering up at him, Aenar squeals again.

For the remainder of the afternoon, Aemond allows Aegon and Aenar to play together. He sits in the corner of the room, reading a novel that he had swiped from Valaena’s apartment.

At one point, Aenar rolls onto his back at Aegon’s request, and the older boy tickles at his little belly. His legs scrunching up, Aenar sways from side to side, trying to squirm away, and unbidden, a short, tinkling laugh escapes him.

Aemond raises his head at the sound, just as Aegon gasps, delighted himself. Excited, Aegon picks up Aenar and draws him into his lap. “Aenar, you laughed,” exclaims Aegon. His head lolling back slightly, Aenar reaches out for his half-uncle’s face, still smiling but making no further noise.

“Is this the first time he’s done that,” Aemond wonders.

Aegon nods, appearing more contented than Aemond has seen him since he came to Dragonstone. “I think so,” he confirms. Nodding and smiling, too, the nursemaid silently affirms him.

Charmed, Aemond leans back in his seat. His book forgotten in his lap, he watches as Aegon resumes playing with Aenar, succeeding in drawing several more enchanting giggles from him.

Soon enough, the wet nurse leans back toward Aemond, informing him, “Prince Aenar need be fed and put down soon, my prince.”

Accepting the deferential dismissal, he nods. Getting to his feet, he orders Aegon to hand Aenar over to the woman and follow him. Pouting, Aegon does so. Before they depart, Aemond spares his son a kiss on his brow.

Once in the corridor outside, Aegon stands at his side, like to be waiting for Aemond to guide him back to his rooms. Aemond stays put, however, taking a moment to think.

For several hours now, Aegon has been out and about, and yet he has caused no trouble, whereas his elder siblings certainly would—and have—if the same were true for them. Moreover, with the castle patrolled by men loyal to Aemond, there is little cause for concern that a boy so young as Aegon might cause him any actual strife. It seems as though there would be little harm in allowing him to regularly stray beyond his rooms.

With that in mind, Aemond ponders another matter. For near a week now, he has been certain that the castle servants are poisoning him. There has been little to no change in the castle’s staff, and he only ever feels ill soon after a meal. Thus, he has no choice but to surmise, Rhaenyra’s peasant loyalists mean to snuff him out themselves. Nevertheless, with a poison so slow-acting, as this one must be, he has been unable to identify the culprits, and indeed, whether there are any culprits to identify.

With Aegon at his side, however, an idea strikes him. “Come. You shall dine with me this night.”

Surprised but agreeable, Aegon trails him, and they make their way to a small dining room high up in Sea Dragon Tower where Aemond regularly takes his supper. When they arrive, the servants assembled in the room are taken aback by the younger prince’s presence, though sensibly, they make no mention of it. Two of the attendants, a man and a woman, covertly glance at one another, and Aemond resolves to keep his eye on them as the evening progresses.

An extra place setting is arranged for Aegon across from Aemond’s own, and they both take their seats. Aemond is poured a cup of wine, whereas Aegon is given only water. “Pour him a cup, too,” Aemond commands.

“Mother says I am not allowed to drink wine, not until I am ten,” demurs Aegon.

“Your mother is not here, is she,” challenges Aemond. He raises a finger. “You may drink one cup.”

Shrugging, Aegon accepts this new privilege. Reaching for his cup, he takes a tenuous sip.

While he drinks, Aemond looks to the two servants he had found suspect earlier, observing them for any signs of apprehension as Aegon drinks the wine. Neither of them appears particularly concerned, so Aemond supposes that it is not the wine that they have tainted.

Once Aegon has set down his cup, Aemond asks him, “How do you like it?”

“It’s all right,” supposes Aegon. After a moment, he adds, “It tastes like spoiled juice.” Amused, Aemond snorts.

A plate is prepared for Aemond first, but before the servers can get to work on a plate for Aegon, Aemond sets his own dish in front of Aegon. “Make me another,” he orders. One of the servants, the woman of whom he is mistrustful, stiffens. He catches her eye and raises an eyebrow at her. This sends her into a condensed panic, her breath shortening and her eyes darting about. Still, she does not object as Aegon takes a bite of quail.

Even as Aemond’s serving is set down in front of him, he does not partake. Rather, he keeps his eye on the woman, having made her out.

Aegon takes bites from most everything on his plate, though he avoids the small cake sitting on the ledge of his dish. Hoping to prompt some action, Aemond comments, “You have not tried the fritter.”

Aegon explains, “I don’t like clams.”

“Just try it,” he suggests. Credulous, Aegon takes a bite.

At last, the woman exclaims, “No!” Her male compatriot flees from the room, dropping the platter he had been holding in the process.

Standing swiftly, Aemond orders Aegon, “Spit that out.” Thoughtlessly, Aegon does so. Aemond draws his sword, making for the treasonous wench with the gall to poison him. Seeing this, Aegon pales, and when Aemond demands that he return to his rooms, he does so without protest, shoving his chair back from the table and scurrying from the room as quickly as he can.

As Aemond rounds the table, the woman throws a candlestick at him. He does not bother to smack it away, letting it collide with his chest, its flame snuffed out by the leather of his jacket. He backs her against the table. She appears to contemplate climbing over it to get away, but before she can decide as much, he slashes at her middle, eviscerating her. Her mouth gaping, she slumps to the ground, never to rise again. With her dealt with, Aemond stomps off to see to her co-conspirator.

From that day on, he drags Aegon along to near every meal with him, and his nausea finally leaves him.

3.4.126

This day has shown itself to be far more dismal than I had anticipated it would be at its start. I had hoped only to mourn Laena, my dear, departed friend, but now I need mourn my daughter’s innocence, too. Valaena has been betrothed to my half-brother Aemond this day, and all for the sake of his and my father’s pride. It is dreadful that he should have lost his eye, but that she should be punished for it is untenable, especially as it is only for his own hubris and disdain for my children that he has suffered such misfortune.

3.9.126

The day has come at last. I have wed my great love, my beloved Daemon.

I shall mourn Laenor and Laena always, and I resent the Seven for keeping them from us on this day, but I have never been happier than I am in this moment, with my three sons and three daughters and my resplendent husband on Dragonstone.

1.20.129

The day has come at last. I am set to walk Valaena down the aisle this afternoon. I will hand her over to my half-brother and abandon her to his tender mercies. I pray to the Mother that he is kind to her. Gods willing, he will give her a child, so that she might have some joy in this life, or he will die young, freeing her to find love and happiness.

It is not until two weeks past his conquest of Dragonstone that Aemond first sees or hears from Jacaerys. Eerily, the man has remained quiet in his rooms, causing neither clamor nor commotion. At last, he sends a servant to summon Aemond.

When the man comes, Aemond is in his study, trying without success to read through Quince’s accounts of the castle’s treasury. Aegon sits on the floor in front of his desk, trying to coax Aenar into crawling towards him.

“Come on, Aenar, come here. You can do it.” Aegon tries to lead by example, crawling over to Aenar himself and then crawling back to his position on the other side of the room. “Like so. Come on!”

Lying on his belly, Aenar remains rooted to his spot across from Aegon. His eyes wide, he grunts at his uncle, the sound prolonged into a mellifluous laugh when Aegon responds with a frustrated grunt of his own.

A knock interrupts Aegon’s experiment. All three Targaryens look toward the sound, though Aenar has a slower reaction than do his elders.

Aemond raises an eyebrow at the man standing in the doorway, and he stiltedly reports, “Your nephew begs a word, my prince.”

Turning to Aegon, Aemond japes, “What do you want,” but the joke goes over the boy’s head.

Anxious, Aegon sits up on his knees, pleading, “May I come?”

“No,” Aemond sighs, standing. Allowing Aegon to be out and about on his own is one thing. Permitting him to consort with Jacaerys is quite another. “You shall remain with Aenar.”

Staggering to his feet and dashing over to Aenar, Aegon hefts the babe into his arms. “We can bring him!”

“No,” Aemond reiterates. “Take him back to the nursery and stay there.”

Pouting fiercely, Aegon abides by his demand. Aemond makes his way to Jacaerys’s chambers alone. When he arrives, the guard posted in the corridor unlocks the door for him.

He steps into the apartment to find it in a state of disarray. His rooms look as though a hurricane had run through them, with furniture tipped over and books and clothing strewn about the floor. He finds the rooms’ owner in much the same condition. Standing across from him, Jacaerys wears rumpled clothes, and his hair is an unruly mess, his locks having grown out long enough to curl and tangle together. It is the most out-of-sorts Aemond has ever seen him. Usually, Jacaerys is utterly put-together, true in form as Rhaenyra’s perfect son.

Watching where he steps, Aemond remarks, “This place is a fucking sty.”

Jacaerys, with more wit than Aemond would have expected, returns, “You would know, being so well-acquainted with pigs.”

Instantly, Aemond is irate, his curiosity as to why Jacaerys wishes to speak with him melting away almost entirely. “Is this why you’ve called me in here, to tempt me into killing you?”

“I have called you here to ask why you have not killed me,” bites Jacaerys as he throws up his arms in frustration. “Why am I still alive? Why are Baela and Aegon still alive? Why did you not slaughter us all when you,” his voice briefly falls off, “took the castle?”

Aemond does not answer the question directly. “What use are you to me dead?”

“As much as I am to you alive, surely. I have done naught but waste away in here for weeks, of no use to you,” Jacaerys contends.

“Your use shall come with your sister,” Aemond informs him.

Jacaerys scrunches up his face, perplexed. “Valaena? Do you mean to kill us in front of her?”

“What? No,” Aemond barks, incredulous. “I am not going to kill you.”

“Why not,” Jacaerys shouts, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Though he is the only one with a weapon between them, Aemond takes a step back. “You hate me. You’ve wanted to kill me all my life.”

Aemond feels the urge to object rise within him. He could tell Jacaerys that all he wanted when he was younger was for him and Lucerys to admire him the way they did Aegon, but he refrains. Instead, he says, “You can understand why. You’re a mean-spirited little shit, even now.”

“Oh, shut up,” replies Jacaerys. He waves Aemond off. “You complain about our jokes and our pranks, but you pulled them, too. You were the instigator, along with Aegon, just as much as were we.”

“It was different,” disputes Aemond. Disquisitive, Jacaerys raises his brow. Aemond elaborates, “I was constantly reminded that I was the only one without a dragon.”

Exasperated, Jacaerys asserts, “You were not! Helaena claimed Dreamfyre mere months before you claimed Vhagar.”

Inflamed, Aemond fires back, “Helaena had a different playmate than did I. Valaena would not rub her nose in her shortcomings.”

“For fuck’s sake, Aemond, we were children! We were under ten, all of us but you and Aegon. He was the mastermind. You know that,” bursts Jacaerys. He deflates, turning away from Aemond. “And not having a dragon isn’t a fucking shortcoming, you fucking—”

Aemond catches onto his line of thinking. “Ah, yes, it is you now who does not possess a dragon.” He waits until Jacaerys turns back toward him, enmity in his eyes, to ask, “How does it feel?”

Unfortunately, Jacaerys does not rise to the bait. He changes the subject. “What are you going to do to Valaena upon her arrival?”

Bristling at Jacaerys’s sure tone, Aemond avers, “I am not going to do anything to her. Valaena is my wife.”

“Yes, unfortunately,” mutters Jacaerys. “So, what?”

“So,” Aemond’s tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he forces himself to impart his next words to his hateful little nephew, “I love her.”

Jacaerys scowls, completely bewildered. “What? No, you don’t.” Aemond parts his lips to contravene him, but Jacaerys presses, “You don’t. You cannot kill someone’s brother and steal their throne and their seat and then claim that you love them.”

Striving to keep his expression flat, Aemond responds, “Believe what you like. I do not expect you to understand.”

“I understand more than you might—” Jacaerys cuts himself short, ducking his head. Palpably at his wit’s end, he rubs the heels of his palms vigorously against his eyes, leaving them redder than before. When next he speaks, his words follow a shaky exhale. “Whatever you anticipate, Valaena is different now, for that which you have done. Whatever she felt for you, that is gone. She is different. We—We are all different now.”

Aemond’s gaze travels up-and-down Jacaerys’s haggard form, from the unfiled ends of his bare toenails to the disheveled thatch of hair on his head. Unbidden, he thinks aloud, “You are unravelling.”

Jacaerys sends him a morose smile. “Yes, well, you killed my dearest friend.” Heaving another blustering sigh, he collapses onto the only bench left standing in his solar and expresses, “Do you know what, just send me back to his side or leave me.” With only the latter option as an acceptable choice, Aemond scrutinizes his nephew for a moment longer, noting his listless posture and downcast face, before turning on his heel and departing without another word.

8.28.134

Father is dead. I am queen now, though Alicent would have her wish to usurp me at last. 

They have killed my daughter, too, my youngest daughter, my Visenya. They stole my crown and murdered my daughter, and they shall answer for it. 

9.5.134

Lucerys is gone. I told Valaena t

1.5.135

Viserys, my Viserys

1.6.135

Jacaerys will survive. He must. I cannot bear to lose another son. 

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Valaena,

Word shall reach you soon that I a terrible in the stormlands, your brother and I

A week into Queen Rhaenyra’s tenure in the Red Keep, a consolidated small council meets in its designated chamber for the first time. Ser Lorent, recently installed as Lord Commander of the Queensguard, stands to the right of Her Grace’s chair at the head of the table. Also on her right sits Lord Corlys, her Hand, with his wife the Princess Rhaenys a place down from him, Lord Bartimos Celtigar, the newly appointed master of coin, sat between them. Her king consort sits to her left, with her heir on his left. On Valaena’s other side sits Ser Medrick Manderly, the heir to White Harbor, and beside him, his brother Torrhen.

Proudly, Rhaenyra surveys her council. Presiding over the meeting, she prompts its start. “Lord Corlys, what business have we this day?”

“There are several matters for your consideration, Your Grace,” Corlys tells her. He looks to his granddaughter. “Let us begin with the Princess Valaena’s report.”

Standing, Valaena commences her accounting of her findings as mistress of whisperers. “My whisperers throughout the city confirm that the people are most glad for your return, Your Grace.” Rhaenyra nods appreciatively. “They remember you as the Realm’s Delight and have no love for Prince Aegon the Elder or Prince Aemond, the boors. However, there is discontent among the merchants and traders as to,” she glances at Bartimos, “the new taxes. I have concerns that they may foment tumult among the smallfolk so as to have their way.”

“We are at war,” Bartimos reminds the room, predictably. “We require funds, and the queen’s unscrupulous half-brothers have cleaned out her coffers. Rest assured, the smallfolk shall come to heel in due time.”

Valaena doubts that very much. The Celtigars have a long, poor history with taxation. As rulers of Claw Isle, they frequently try to tax the people of Crackclaw Point, entirely without success. That being said, their lords are often named as masters of coin and lords treasurer. With any luck, despite Rhaenyra’s faith in Bartimos, she will soon see reason and repeal the more stringent of his exactions.

Not seeing fit to make further note of such concerns now and incite a tiff with the old lord, she goes on as though she had not been interrupted. “Word has traveled north that following the Battle of the Honeywine, a victory for the Greens,” she bitterly acknowledges, “Prince Daeron has been knighted and dubbed Daeron the Daring.”

At this, Rhaenyra’s mouth twists with displeasure. For her part, Valaena is not so distressed by the development. While their loss at the Honeywine had been devastating, it had not been a calamity. Moreover, a small part of her feels glad for Daeron. Her young uncle has spent most of his life in the shadows of his brothers and Oldtown, so it is fine for him to have something lofty for himself. It remains lamentable, however, that his good fortune should come to him on the wrong side of this war. She wonders how she might convince him to repent his fealty to Aegon and support the rightful queen.

She ends on an unsatisfactory note. “Tyland Lannister has not yet confessed whither he has sent the Crown’s coin, and there is yet no word as to the whereabouts of Aegon or Lord Larys Strong, though I hope to root out all our quarries soon.”

Rhaenyra accepts her optimism with a nod, and the conversation moves on. Valaena retakes her seat.

There remains another whisper which she could have mentioned. Since Rhaenyra first sat the Iron Throne, rumors have circulated through the Red Keep that she would not be long for it. Some claim to have seen cuts along her legs and the palm of her left hand, believing that the Iron Throne had spurned her, and thus that her days upon it would be few. Such rumors are worrisome, weakening Rhaenyra’s claim to the throne with their mere existence. Notwithstanding, they are but rumors, and they cannot unseat her alone. Moreover, Valaena believes it would be a poor choice to disclose them at this junction. It is so recent since her mother settled in King’s Landing, and she requires time and peace of mind to establish her rule.

Corlys inhales, preparing to announce the next topic for discussion, but Daemon pipes up before he has the chance. “The Lannisters should be punished, to set a precedent and show the realm your regard for rebels and traitors, Your Grace. We should sack Casterly Rock as we did Storm’s End and grant their lands and castle to men who have proven themselves more loyal.”

Corlys appears horrified by the unheralded proposal. “Your Grace,” he ventures, addressing Daemon, “I fear that would be unwise. Half the lords of Westeros will turn against us if we are so cruel as to destroy such an ancient and noble house.” Frowning, Daemon shrugs at him.

Valaena attempts to find the middle ground between her grandsire and her step-father. “The Lannisters should face retribution for their treason, but it should not be so grave as extermination.” Grateful for her intervention, Corlys nods deliberately. “We might take some of their lands and, say, grant them to Hugh Hammer and Ulf White. They are due to be knighted for their valor in battle.” Privately, she contemplates how favorable it would be to have the two unsavory dragonseeds stowed so far to the west.

Her suggestion sends Daemon on another tangent. He turns to Rhaenyra. “Speaking of Hammer and White, I believe I have a solution as to our troubles with the Rosby and Stokeworth successions.” He proposes, “We wed Hammer to Rosby’s daughter, White to Stokeworth’s, and the girls inherit.”

It comes Valaena’s turn to frown, and far more sincerely. Though she believes that Rosby’s and Stokeworth’s daughters should inherit their lands and titles, being their eldest children, she should not wish them tied to two brutes such as Hammer and White. Lady Roslin Rosby, in particular, is a maid of twelve. Should she be betrothed to Hugh Hammer, they would be wed soon, and her torment would commence forthwith.

The corner of Corlys’s mouth tilts down, too. “Both girls have younger brothers. Disinheriting them in favor of their sisters would overturn centuries of law and precedent, as well as call into question the rights of scores of other lords with elder sisters.” He shifts to face Rhaenyra, too. “Yours and Valaena’s claims are special cases. Your father named you heir, just as you have done for your daughter.”

With such high stakes, potentially losing the already-tenuous support of countless lords, Valaena notices Rhaenyra leaning in Corlys’s direction, quite literally. Before the queen can make her choice, however, Valaena steps in.

“Mother, never mind the centuries of law and precedent,” she says, avoiding her grandsire’s stare as she inflects his words with sarcasm. “House Targaryen has long overturned such traditions in favor of that which is just, from the time of the Conqueror. As the first ruling queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you have the opportunity to create a new order and show the realm that a woman has just as much a right to rule as does a man.” She looks to her grandmother for support, and Rhaenys nods with vehemence.

Rhaenyra’s lips twist. “Valaena, Lord Corlys is correct. You and I are special cases. We were brought up to rule. Most ladies are not so fortunate.”

Disbelieving, Valaena refrains from sputtering. “What matter is that? There are scores of fool lords who disregard their maesters’ teachings and behave as complete oafs! Think of Lord Darnold Arryn, whose temerity caused him and his brother to be murdered by mountain clan raiders, or Lord Lothar Bracken, who dishonorably attacked his neighbor’s army from behind, rebelled against Harwyn Hoare months later, and was starved to death by his king.”

Daemon jumps in. “The Stokeworth girl is but six. She and the Rosby girl can be taught to rule if it is so desirous.”

“Yes,” Valaena emphatically affirms. Her mother returns to gaze to her, having been staring consideringly at Daemon. “And they need not be wed to head their houses. It is not as though either of us requires a king consort.” 

At this, Rhaenyra seems to make up her mind. “The girls will rule.” Valaena clenches her fist in victory as Corlys exhales a put-upon sigh. “But they will do so with husbands. I shall knight Hammer and White on the morrow and inform them of their betrothals.”

Valaena wishes to object, but Rhaenyra’s eyes light on her before she can think of what to say. “This brings us to another matter, that of the Princess Valaena’s betrothal.”

“My betrothal,” Valaena questions, pointing to herself in unadulterated shock.

Rhaenyra nods. Gently, she urges, “Valaena, should you hope to rule one day, you are in need of a husband.” Gaping like a fish, Valaena tries to shake her head. Rhaenyra turns her attention from her, looking back to the other members of her council. “I am hereby open to recommendations.”

Bartimos pounces at once. “If I may be so bold as to suggest mine own son, Your Grace. He is my heir, yet unmarried and of Valyrian blood. An excellent choice, if I may say so myself.”

“You may say whatever you like, Lord Bartimos, but so minor a house as yours cannot hope to provide the princess with the support she shall need in the coming years,” argues Corlys.

Taking offense, Bartimos puffs up and turns red, much like one of the many crabs that adorn his house’s coat of arms. “I suppose you would suggest one of your own blood. Your grandson mayhaps, Ser Addam Velaryon?”

Rhaenys scoffs quietly. “Of course.”

Corlys levels Bartimos with an unimpressed stare. “Not so. Addam is not set to inherit Driftmark.”

“You wish to betroth Valaena and Jacaerys,” assumes Rhaenyra, not sounding at all opposed to the idea.

“Jacaerys is betrothed to Baela,” Rhaenys interposes, having taken issue with the turn in the conversation.

“I wish nothing of the sort,” Corlys clarifies, sending his wife a conciliatory look that does nothing to soften her glare. “My endorsement goes to Lord Cregan Stark. He is Lord of Winterfell and head of House Stark, a Great and strong house. Such an alliance would do the princess well, and it would satisfy the pact arranged by Prince Jacaerys, who speaks very highly of Lord Stark.”

“Yes, let us marry the brown-haired, brown-eyed Targaryen princess to a brown-haired, gray-eyed lord,” Daemon sarcastically intones.

Corlys quibbles, “She is a Velaryon.”

“No matter,” Daemon dismisses. “Bartimos is correct. Valaena need wed a man of Valyrian blood, and there is but one clear choice.” Curious, everyone looks to him. “Aegon.”

Rhaenyra balks at the suggestion. “Aegon is but eight years old. Valaena is twelve years his elder.”

Daemon waves aside her protests. “In four years’ time, he shall be old enough to put a child in her.”

She rephrases her grievance. “He will be half her age.”

“What matter is that? He is my son. He will enjoy fucking her.” He switches to a more offensive tactic. “Do you not wish for our son to be king?”

Her voice pitching high, she defends, “Naught could more delight me, but—”

As the small council continues to quarrel over which man is the best choice for her, Valaena spirals. She can scarcely believe that she is witness to this conversation—No, that it is taking place at all. Already, she has been married off once. How can this be done to her again? How could her mother spearhead such efforts?

Her sixth anniversary with Aemond passed just a few weeks earlier, though she spent it in his absence. It is the only anniversary for which they had not been in each other’s company, and she spent near the entire day trying to distract herself from that very fact. She spent the morning assuring herself that she cared not that it was her anniversary at all. The afternoon, she spent telling herself that she cared not that Aemond was not present. She spent the evening with Aenar, though every time she gazed upon his face, she thought of his father. When night came, she finally collapsed and wept into her bedclothes.

For so long, she had put so much effort into her marriage. At first, she simply wished for she and Aemond to be friends. When she began to have feelings for him, she hoped that he would return her sentiments. Once they had fallen in love, the battle was fought not between them but together, trying to carve out a place for themselves amidst the warring sides of their family.

When he tore her heart from her breast and stomped all over it, she had assumed that her love for him was lost and that it would fade entirely within a few weeks—months, at most. She sees now that this had been wishful thinking, as she suddenly, desperately wishes sincerely, fervently to not so much as consider wedding anyone else.

She cannot do this all again. In her efforts to make Aemond love her and keep their marriage afloat thereafter, she had made herself vulnerable. She had given him the power to hurt her, and he had taken it. She cannot give another man that chance.

She is drawn away from her panicked thoughts by Ser Medrick, who asserts himself, “Your Grace, if it please you, I should like to put myself forward—”

At last, Valaena summons the will to intrude upon the discussion of her own future. With unintended vigor, she erupts, “No!” From beside her, Daemon chuckles at her outburst.

Recovering, she turns to her left. “My apologies, Ser Medrick, but I cannot marry you. I cannot marry anyone. I am already married. I am already married, and I have a son, and I am,” she struggles to think up another complaint, lamely concluding, “already married.”

“That is no matter,” says Rhaenyra.

“It does matter. This is blasphemy,” Valaena asserts, however disingenuously. Daemon snorts, and she turns her passion onto him. “You must not scoff at the Seven, Your Grace. In their wisdom, they condemn polyandry, and we would be remiss to offend the Faith.”

“Valaena,” Rhaenyra says, holding back her own mirth. “I do not mean that you should remarry now. When Aemond dies, however, it is expected.”

“Why,” she blusters, growing palpably distraught. She knows that she should not allow herself to become so worked up in the company of others, but at the prospect of marrying again, she finds herself unable to maintain her composure. She reminds everyone, “I already have an heir, Aenar, who is perfect in every way.”

Indulgently, Rhaenyra nods. “He is, but gods forbid, should something happen to him—”

Repelled by the thought of any harm befalling her son, Valaena objects, “Mother!”

“Gods forbid, I said,” Rhaenyra says, holding up her hands. “Gods forbid that anything should happen to him, you would be without an heir.”

“I would not,” she contends, her heart thrumming wildly. “I would have Jace and his children with Baela, Joff, Aegon.” She scours her mind for another name.

Daemon assists her, muttering under his breath, “Baela.”

“Baela,” she all but shouts. “Rhaena,” she adds. “Others.”

Rhaenys offers her support, as well. “You could always wait twenty years, have a pair of bastards, and pass them off as Aenar’s children.”

His eyes trained on the council table, Corlys discreetly clears his throat. Rhaenys continues to gaze at Valaena, plainly expecting some response. Hesitantly, Valaena concedes, “That’s a thought.”

“The matter of heirs is less pertinent than the simple fact that the lords of the realm would be loath to accept a woman without a husband as their sovereign,” Rhaenyra informs her.

Valaena dissents. “But I do not need a husband to rule. I am to be a ruling queen. Whether or not I am a widow should have no bearing on the acceptance of my claim.”

“It should not,” agrees Rhaenyra, “but all is not as it should be. The truth of the matter is that you have a duty to the realm, and that duty obliges you to marry again. It is for that reason that I married your father at mine own’s behest. You will recall, also, that my father remarried for his duties when my mother passed.”

“But his remarriage was the whole cause of this war,” bursts Valaena. Reaching across Daemon, she grasps for her mother’s hand. She entreats, “Mother, please do not make me do it again. I cannot do it again.”

At last, Rhaenyra recognizes her daughter’s overwhelming distress. Clasping Valaena’s hand in turn, she shoos the rest of her council from the room. Meanwhile, Daemon pulls Valaena farther into his side. He presses her head to his shoulder, and with his lips to her temple, mumbles along her skin, “Lyka, riñītsos.”

As soon as the three of them are alone, he rises from his seat, permitting Rhaenyra to take his place beside Valaena. She pulls the younger woman into her embrace, the both of them leaning over the arms of their chairs. “What is it, sweetling? You had to have known this was coming.”

Embarrassingly, Valaena registers that she has begun to cry. She shakes her head, wiping her tears along the sleeve of her mother’s dress in the process. “I don’t know. I don’t know.”

Rhaenyra pulls back from her. She looks into Valaena’s eyes, peeling strands of hair away from her wet cheeks. Once Valaena’s weeping has trickled down into slight sniffling, she grips firmly at her shoulders and assures her, “It will be better this second time, I swear it. Whosoever we choose, he shall not mistreat you.”

“That’s not—I just—” She takes a deep breath before trying to speak again. “I do not wish to be—” Abruptly, she bites down on her lip.

I do not wish to be married to anyone else, she had wanted to say.

She and Aemond may not have been a match made in the Seven Heavens, but a match they are, and she had found felicity with him. For the first time in months, she realizes that perhaps what they have is not lost—not yet—and she is not so certain that she truly wishes for it to expire.

However, there is little that she can do with such an aspiration, she supposes. She knows not whether they shall ever meet again. More than that, she cannot fathom how they might reconcile.

Sighing, Valaena shifts strategy. “If we could simply postpone this discussion to such a time as when it might be appropriate. I am still married, and thus I cannot be formally betrothed to anyone. Please, if we could wait until—” She finds she cannot bear to say it.

Rhaenyra takes pity on her. “Very well. We shall table it for now. However, you must promise me that you shall consider the issue. You have countless prospects, my dear, and as much as it is possible, I wish for you to have your choice. Think on who you might like.”

“Aegon,” interjects Daemon.

“Daemon,” reproves Rhaenyra, glancing over at him.

“No, not I.” He sends Valaena an apologetic look. “I am unavailable.”

As Rhaenyra huffs, a startled laugh bubbles up in the back of Valaena’s throat. She hunches over as it dribbles out of her mouth, diverting her somewhat from the troubles of the day.

Dear Valaena,

I cannot properly express the deep sorrow I feel in having learnt that our child is not to be. I realize that I am to blame, having shocked you with that which transpired in the stormlands, but you must believe that this is the last thing I hoped for when my father died. I would have come to you, as I promised, but I knew I would not be welcome.

Furthermore, I regret my altercation with Luke. I know what you must think, that I let spite take Vhagar’s reins, but you must know that it was not my aim to bring about his end. In truth, ‘twas his little beast who antagonized Vhagar, and I could not calm her. I hope that we can reconcile as to this disappointment.

Yours everlasting,

Aemond

Valaena is in the midst of sewing a blanket for Aenar—she knows not where it went, but the sea green blanket with embroidered seahorses that she had started for him while she was pregnant is missing—when Talya enters her rooms. Her head whisperer wears a triumphant smile, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she catches her breath.

Setting down her needle and thread, Valaena rises from her seat. A grin plays at her own lips. “Do we have them?”

Talya nods. “Just Lord Strong, but the harlot who secreted him confirms it was he who facilitated your uncle’s escape.”

Valaena claps her hands together. “Good enough. Where is he?”

“The black cells, Princess,” answers Talya.

Wrinkling her nose, Valaena mutters, “His favorite place.”

In being appointed mistress of whisperers, so, too, has Valaena been unofficially assigned the role of Lord Confessor. As it is not her official duty, she does not directly oversee the torturers of the black cells—indeed, she discovers that they have inflicted a new injury onto Tyland each time she inquires whether he has yet confessed where he sent the Crown’s treasure—but it remains her charge to uncover any secrets kept by traitors.

With that in mind, she tells Talya, “Have him brought up to the Great Hall. I shall question him there.” The Iron Throne should prove an impressive, commanding emblem. She hopes it will inspire his obedience.

When Larys is lugged into the Great Hall, his legs drag on the floor behind him, both of them crippled. His good leg, Talya informs her, had been broken during his seizure, a sadistic tactic employed by his captors, two men known only as Blood and Cheese. They drop him on the floor at Valaena’s feet, collect their payment from Talya, and depart with wicked, gap-toothed sneers across their faces.

Lying along the floor, Larys does not bother to move his gaze from Valaena’s shoes. He groans, “If it isn’t my successor.”

Valaena taps her foot along the stone beneath her. “Lord Larys. I was ever so disappointed, at first, that you could not teach me the tricks of our trade, though I think it for the best now. I’d like to think I would not alert anyone as to my whereabouts when in so desperate a situation, especially one of such devious sorts.”

Larys makes to defend himself. “Talya is in my employ.”

“You do pay her,” grants Valaena. She digs her foot into the space beneath his chin, forcing his face up so that their eyes meet. He grins, too wide for her comfort. “Tell me where Aegon is.”

He leans his cheek against the toe of her boot. “Do you know, I often exchanged secrets with the Queen Alicent,” he pauses meaningfully, “for a price.”

“Name it,” Valaena demands coolly. She may not be willing to pay his price, whatever it is, but he need not know that at this juncture.

“You might ask her,” he suggests. He inhales deep through his nose.

“You’ll not tell me yourself,” she asks, bewildered. Why delay the inevitable, she wonders.

“More fun this way,” he says, answering her unspoken question.

Rolling her eyes, she steps back from him. “Ser Loreth,” she calls, speaking to Loreth Lansdale, one of the newest members of the Queensguard. “Please remain here and watch over Lord Strong. Ser Glendon, with me.” With a curt nod from each knight, she departs from the hall, Glendon Goode at her heels.

She arrives at Alicent’s quarters in the Tower of the Hand before long. A pair of guards are posted at the door, though they step out of her path as she approaches. At her behest, one of them knocks at the door.

One of Alicent’s handmaids, a mousy, young girl, answers. She squeaks, “Princess,” and dips her head in deference.

Loud enough for Alicent to hear, Valaena orders, “Inform the dowager queen that I require a word with her.”

The girl looks to the side, making eye contact with someone, and steps back from the door. Before stepping past the room’s threshold, Valaena signals for Glendon to remain in the corridor. Coming into the apartment, she sees Alicent standing by her oriel-window.

With an even tone, Alicent greets her, “Good-Daughter.”

Valaena is infuriated by the mode of address, though she endeavors not to show it. With a blank expression, she pointedly looks to the maidservant and does not speak.

Alicent addresses her handmaid. “That will be all, Viola.” After curtseying to both of them, the girl scurries from the room.

Once they are alone, Alicent steps away from the window and into its light. She wears a deep green gown typical of her. Her hair is down, making her appear more out-of-sorts than she would otherwise. Altogether, she seems somewhat unmoored, as though pieces of her are missing. Valaena recognizes the carriage well. She, too, is recently bereaved and separated from her offspring.

Valaena steps forward. “Lord Larys has returned,” she informs Alicent, her phrasing purposefully innocuous. Alicent takes her meaning well enough. She appears stricken, her face pale and gaunt asudden. “There is information I require from him. He tells me there is a price, and that you have before paid it.” The inquiry is unspoken, but from the look on Alicent’s face, Valaena knows her to have heard it.

Alicent’s lips twist in neither quite a smile, nor quite a frown. “He’ll not tell you where Aegon is.”

“Allow us to work that out ourselves. What is the price,” she asks more clearly.

Alicent shakes her head. “You’ll not pay it.”

Valaena takes another step closer. “Allow me to decide that for myself.”

Alicent glances at her feet. “Take off your shoes.”

Nonplussed, Valaena raises one of her feet from the ground. She peers down at her shoe for any sign of irregularities. “What? Why?” Had she scuffed the floor on her way in? Is she tracking dirt on Alicent’s Qartheen rugs?

“He shall want you to remove your shoes,” Alicent clarifies.

Her confusion growing, Valaena scowls. She cannot fathom why Larys might require that her shoes be removed. She tries for a full minute to think of a plausible reason, coming up with naught. “I do not understand,” she admits.

Alicent sighs. “No, you wouldn’t. My Aemond was always so kind to you.”

Valaena bristles at the change in topic. “Yes, he never murdered my brother, or stole my crown, or lied to me for years. Truly, I’ve no complaints.”

“He could have been crueler to you,” Alicent cavils. Inhaling, Valaena desires to impart a word otherwise, but Alicent speaks again before she can. “I thought he would be.”

Disturbed by Alicent’s demeanor, Valaena tries to steer them back toward her original purpose in coming here. “I do not wish to speak of,” her throat closes up around his name, “him. I have asked you of the payment that Lord Larys demands.”

Finally, Alicent gives her a straightforward answer. “He shall want you to remove your shoes, and he shall bring himself to completion whilst staring at your naked feet.”

Completely taken aback, Valaena briefly wonders if Alicent is making a joke. She has never before heard the other woman jest, so she ponders that perhaps she is simply not very good at it. Soon, however, such an explanation seems unlikely. There is no mirth in Alicent’s gaze. Rather, it is pinned to the floor, as downturned as is her mouth.

Revulsion overcoming her, her flesh heating and her scalp prickling, Valaena breathes, “Oh, Alicent.”

“Spare me your pity,” Alicent bites.

“I’m afraid that is all I have left for you. That and contempt.” Valaena remains standing across from Alicent for a moment longer, watching as the older woman begins to bite at her cuticles. After a moment, she decides to take her leave of her, moving back toward the door. She supposes that Alicent is right; she is unwilling to pay Larys’s abominable price.

She does not make it to the door. Alicent calls for her to stop, and reluctantly, she does. Deliberately, Alicent holds herself up in the queenly manner Valaena recalls from much of her childhood and marriage. With her arms crossed along her middle and her chin raised, Alicent requests, “You might grant your good-mother a favor.”

Unpersuaded by Alicent’s pathetic attempt to wield sentiment, Valaena refuses, “I think not.”

Outraged, Alicent pesters, “You will not even hear me? I am the queen.”

“The dowager queen,” corrects Valaena, but her face clearing somewhat, she obliges Alicent, nonetheless.

Alicent arranges her features in what she must imagine is a compassionate expression. “I wonder if your mother might be more receptive to a plea for mercy from you as to my sons’ fates.”

Brow raising, Valaena is surprised by the request. It sounds almost like an admission of defeat.

She decides to throw Alicent a bone. “It should please you to know that I have implored Her Grace to show Daeron mercy. I have asked that she permit him to become a septon or take the black.”

Tearful, Alicent sends her gratitude to the wrong woman. “Thank the Mother Above.”

“However,” Valaena is quick to add, “his brothers have done enough to deserve their fates.”

Valaena leaves out that she has asked her mother for some small amount of mercy when it comes to Aemond. Telling Rhaenyra that she did not wish for Aenar to grow up hearing of his father dying some gruesome death—Daemon once propounded that Aemond’s remaining eye be torn out before he is executed—she beseeched her mother to grant Aemond a clean and quick demise. She knows not whether this was her only reason for asking as much, not overly fond of introspection is she these days.

Alicent’s face drops. “My sons have done no more than press for their birthrights.” At this, Valaena cannot help but laugh. Alicent does not share in her amusement. “Their birthrights, of which you and your vengeful mother have robbed them.”

Scoffing, Valaena turns from her, having heard enough. Alicent fires vitriol at her back. “You are no deserving, benevolent ruler. You crippled my Aegon.”

That gets her attention. She turns back, defending, remorseless, “Aegon has only himself to blame. Your sons have a propensity for attacking those better left unprovoked.” With that, she moves to leave once more.

Turning desperate, Alicent throws herself across the room, grabbing Valaena’s hand to keep her from leaving. Astoundingly, she kneels and begs, “Just—If you could just speak for Aemond. Your mother wishes for you to be happy, and Aemond made you happy, did he not?”

“He did,” she allows before spewing venomously, “and then he murdered my brother.”

She tries to yank her arm from Alicent’s grasp, but Alicent holds fast. “Valaena, dearling, please, he is your husband. He is Aenar’s father. Do you truly wish for your child to grow up without his father?”

Unnerved, Valaena takes to begging herself. “Stop this. Let go of me.”

Alicent tightens her grip. “Aemond spoke to me of his guilt. He regrets his actions as to Lucerys, I swear it.”

Teeth gritted, Valaena tries to twist her arm out of Alicent’s grasp. “I know. There is a score of letters in my bedchamber attesting as much.”

Alicent’s face slackens, confused. “You know, then, the depth of his remorse.”

“Yes, I know, but no words, no matter how deep, can make up for that which he has done. Some things are unforgivable.” This is what she tells herself on those days when she longs for her marriage as it was. She must remind herself that it cannot be.

Alicent is not so sure. “You may yet forgive him,” she hedges.

Valaena is scornful. “May I? Tell me, Your Grace, may you yet forgive my mother for the role she played in the death of Ser Gwayne, however indirect it was?”

At last, Alicent releases her, a crestfallen shine overtaking her eyes. “No,” she concedes. Valaena nods, having expected as much. It is not until her hand grazes the doorknob that Alicent speaks again. “But if Rhaenyra spares my children, I will be resolved to put it behind me.”

Permitting those to be the last words that pass between them, Valaena departs from Alicent’s company. Dismissing Glendon, she does not return to Larys. Rather, she orders that he be returned to the black cells and gelded, a punishment fitting for his crimes against Alicent.

My love,

I realize now that I should not have pursued Lucerys on Vhagar, and because I was too fool to master myself, I murdered him. I am profoundly sorry. I would return him to you if I could.

I realize, too, that you do not understand my reasons for supporting Aegon’s claim to the throne. It goes beyond his right as Viserys’s firstborn son. Our entire lives, we heard of how Rhaenyra and Daemon would slaughter us without a second thought the moment Viserys died. I know you do not believe that they would go to such lengths, but I assure you that they would. So, too, do I think that my mother and Otto would go to such lengths. I worried that if you pressed your claim to the throne, they would kill you. I thought that I could persuade you to relinquish it, and that if you did, they would spare you. I thought that we and Aenar could live in peace if you stepped to the side. I know now that Otto I thought that I know not what I think anymore.

I love you,

A moon past their arrival in King’s Landing, Valaena sits at breakfast with Rhaenyra and Daemon. Daemon polishes off a plate of sweetmeats as Valaena and Rhaenyra pour over correspondence. As Rhaenyra formulates her response to a letter from Ser Elmo Tully, Valaena unfurls a missive she has received from Criston, happy to read a letter from someone whom she does not simultaneously long for and resent.

Princess, There has been a delightful, new development with Prince Aenar. He has begun to laugh when amused, usually due to frolic with Prince Aegon. I look forward to when you might hear the sonance for yourself. Yours faithfully, Ser Criston Cole.

“What’s the matter with you,” asks Daemon around his last bite of food. Valaena looks up from her father’s letter to find that both he and Rhaenyra are looking at her with some measure of concern.

Suddenly aware of the frown she wears, Valaena attempts to smooth out her face. “Nothing.” Rhaenyra raises an eyebrow at her, disbelieving. She reveals, “Aenar has begun to laugh.”

“Aww,” coos Rhaenyra, taking the letter from her. She reads it over, her smile growing wider. “I see that Aegon has cheered, too.”

“It only makes sense that you’re so morose,” remarks Daemon. “I recall when Rhaena first laughed, I wished to slaughter a village.”

Valaena does not appreciate his sarcasm. “Is that not the point? You recall it, whereas I am here, away from Aenar and his laughter, having missed it.” Lips twisting, Daemon cedes the point.

“If you feel you should, you may return to Dragonstone,” offers Rhaenyra.

Looking back to her mother, surprised, Valaena wonders, “What of my duties on the small council?”

“You can appoint a proxy,” Rhaenyra suggests.

Turning enthusiastic, Valaena jumps from her seat. She thinks of dashing from the room at once, all the way to the castle’s entrance, where she would demand a carriage and ride out to the Dragonpit, but something holds her in place. Idling beside the breakfast table, she says, “May I have a word with you before I depart?”

Rhaenyra nods, setting down her quill and paper. Rather than start straight away, Valaena looks to Daemon and considers whether she wishes to speak with him in the room.

He takes the hint, rising from his own chair. “I can see when I am not wanted.”

Feeling badly, Valaena supposes, “You needn’t go—”

Her voice breaks off as he grabs her by the face and kisses her forehead before taking his leave. As she retakes her seat, her mother reaches out for her hand.

“The war shall be over soon,” Rhaenyra tells her. “Once all is settled, there shall be no more adversity, and you shall have no cause to ever be separated from Aenar.” Valaena musters a smile, and patting her hand, Rhaenyra asks, “Now, what is it you wish to discuss, jorrāeliarzus?”

Haltingly, Valaena begins, “Do you recall our conversation after the Battle of the Gullet? That which you said about Jace and my being his elder?”

Rhaenyra’s demeanor turns somber. “I do.”

Valaena takes a quick breath. “Did you mean—That is, surely you recall how heavy it is, the burden of the heirship.”

Sighing, Rhaenyra squeezes her hand. “What I said, Valaena—I wished only for you to recognize that people heed your word. You are the heir to the throne. You cannot afford to be so glib. This is especially true as to your siblings. You are the eldest. Always, they have looked up to you. They will do as you command, often without thought, I would wager. Just look to your wretched husband, who would betray you and his own son for the sake of his elder brother.”

Unhappy for the reminder, Valaena languidly contends, “You are his elder, too.”

Showing a wry grin, Rhaenyra acknowledges, “Only by half.” 

Valaena sighs, too, turning reflective. “It is lonely having only half-siblings.” 

When first she learnt that Criston was her father, and thus that she had not any full-blooded brothers, she had thought little of the matter. After all, she had never before felt closer to Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey than she had to Aegon and Viserys, excepting allowances for their vastly disparate ages. Nevertheless, she finds that she feels at a certain distance from them all now, especially with Lucerys and Viserys gone. She mourns them just as Jacaerys, Joffrey, and Aegon do, though she perceives herself as being yet another level removed from them.

Rhaenyra uses her grip on Valaena’s hand to pull her closer. “I know, sweet child. I am sorry.” She kisses Valaena’s brow just as Daemon had.

Having resolved the discord she felt from her mother, Valaena embarks on her return to her own child, who would only ever have half-siblings, too, if any at all.

My sweet wife,

Please, let us meet in person so that I might explain everything to you. We can meet on our plateau. I swear I’ll not keep you any longer than it might take for us to speak, unless we should decide

As Valaena rides out to the Dragonpit, she observes the smallfolk as being in lower spirits than when they took the city. She speculates that Bartimos’s regrettable taxes are not being received as he had anticipated.

Upon arriving at the Dragonpit, she encounters Addam. The young knight had been assigned to reside in the pit most days, in the event that the city should come under attack and require a dragonrider to defend it. From what she understands, Addam has taken well to the role, it being a position of honor, though he cheers considerably at the sight of her.

He rushes to her side as she awaits Veraxes, leaving Seasmoke to loiter along the eastern wall of the pit. In high spirits herself, she welcomes him with a hug and a kiss to his cheek. “Good day, Brother.”

“Ah, yes, good day, Princess,” he returns, his eyes bright in the low light of the pit. “Are you going out for a ride?”

“I am returning to Dragonstone, actually,” she informs him. His shoulders droop. Laughing, she asks, “Are you so wanting for your brother that you feel you shall be bereft of my company?”

“I do miss Alyn,” he affirms, the corner of his mouth picking up in a grin. “But I shall miss you, as well.”

Warmed, Valaena spares Addam another kiss as Veraxes prowls from the depths of the Dragonpit, stalking toward her as soon as she is within his sight.

It is a brief flight to Dragonstone, one she has flown countless times before. She lands Veraxes along the shore, directly beside the long, winding bridge that leads up the mountainside to the castle. He takes off once more almost as soon as her feet have touched the ground, his massive form twisting eagerly toward the Dragonmont.

As she traverses the bridge, she basks in the smoky, salty air swirling the isle, though her steps are quick, keen as she is to see Aenar. When she nears the gate leading into the castle’s outer ward, the two wide-mouthed, stone dragons carved on either side of it hailing her return, another dragon runs out to meet her. On swift feet, Aegon sprints out onto the bridge, his little figure heading right for her.

Gleefully calling out his name, she drops to her knees to receive him. However, rather than collide with her as she had been expecting, he grabs onto her hands and whirls her around as he dashes around her. Wrenched back, she staggers to her full height once more, trying to hold her ground as Aegon tugs forcefully at her arms.

“Sister, flee,” he shouts, tugging at her with yet more insistence. Despite their appreciable differences in weight and strength, he manages to drag her a few paces farther from the gate, his nails tearing at her skin as his hands clench tighter around her own.

“Aegon, stop,” she says, disturbance rolling over her. Planting her feet, she returns his efforts with a yank of her own, bringing them both to a halt. She kneels once more, pulling him toward her by his shoulders. At last, with him standing still before her, she sees that his face is red and streaked with tears. “What is it? What is the matter?”

“It’s Aemond,” Aegon tells her, the revelation bursting from him amidst a sob. “He took the castle. He’s been holding us captive. Please, you must flee before he gets you, too!”

Feeling the blood drain from her face, in a state of pure shock, Valaena releases Aegon. At once, he takes her arm back in his grip and attempts her haul her farther down the bridge, but she does not budge. Rather, she stands and turns in the other direction, towing Aegon along with her as he screams and hollers and tugs and tugs.

Her heart beats loud in her chest, so much so that it is practically the only noise she hears. She steps through the gate. Her breath turns shallow. Her eyes light on a stone that she has not seen for near a half-year, one that matches a necklace she has not worn in just as long.

Standing across from her, tall and imposing, proud and handsome, great and terrifying, Aemond welcomes her home.

My dearest Valaena,

I shall go to any lengths to have you in my arms again. Please come back to me. 

Your devoted husband,

Aemond

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Standing across from Aemond, Valaena stares him down, slack-jawed. Her skirts sway as Aegon continues to yank persistently at her arm, the boy pleading with her to flee.

Twenty minutes past, a sentry had spied a grape-colored dragon soaring in the distance, and hoping to soften Valaena upon her arrival, Aemond had brought Aegon along to receive her. As soon as the top of his sister’s bobbing head had appeared past the gate, however, the boy had slipped from Aemond’s grasp. Watching him tear across the pavement toward her, Aemond had sorely regretted having brought him along.

Nevertheless, Aegon’s efforts to warn his sister appear to have been for naught, as she had made her way past Dragonstone’s innermost curtain wall despite the boy’s objections. Per Aemond’s instructions, the great doors of the gate behind them are drawn closed, taking both Valaena’s and Aegon’s notice. Aegon is made hysterical by their separation from the bridge, whereas Valaena scarcely twitches for it. She remains rooted to her spot as Aegon hurls himself at the massive, sealed doors, trying to pry them apart with his tiny, bare hands.

Valaena glances back at Aemond. Her form is tense, though it is too far for him to see her exact expression. Just as he begins to grow impatient, wondering if he should further instigate interaction, she is sprung into action. She turns back, rejoining with Aegon and stealing his attention from the gate. Bending, she places her hands on his shoulders and says something to him. He does not take it well, shaking his head, stomping his feet, and shouting out manifold refusals, but she remains firm, nodding at him and doubtlessly repeating herself.

After his protests have died off, she straightens and offers him her hand. He pouts for a moment longer before taking it with a dissatisfied flourish, and together, they walk over to the rest of the receiving party. As they make their approach, Aemond studies Valaena. She bears a strained yet livid demeanor, one that practically glows with her ire. She is incandescent with its intensity, shining like a blaze in which he fervently, recklessly wishes to immerse himself. Her visage is made all the more entrancing by her dragonriding clothes. She is dressed dramatically in Targaryen red and black, her coat topped with blood-red fabric styled in the shape of wings that swallow her neck and shoulders, and her sleeves are made up of black, leather scales. Silver dragons-feet clasps run down her front, and a thick, dark braid down her back.

Once she and Aegon are but a few paces away, Aemond straightens, anticipation coursing through him. In his peripheral vision, he sees Criston brace himself, as well.

Rather disappointingly, Valaena ignores him. She goes first to Alastor. “Lord Swyft,” she greets him, her voice remarkably even but decidedly displeased.

He dips his head, returning, “Princess.”

She takes a step closer to Aemond, stopping this time before Roland. By the look in her eyes, she does not recognize him, though upon glancing down at his house sigil, emblazoned across his doublet, she gleans, “Lord Reyne.”

“My lady,” he replies, his tone surly where Alastor’s was deferential. Subtly, she wrinkles her nose at him before proceeding.  

She comes to a halt at Aemond’s left, peering up at him with a hard frost over her eyes. Aegon matches her glare from below. She says nothing, and before he can think to say anything himself, she turns up her nose and stalks past him.

As she clomps up the stairs leading into the castle, the men look to each other in perplexity, thrown by her confidence and the lack of any overt belligerence. She disappears through the hold’s entryway, and Aemond realizes that there is naught to do but chase her.

Hastening after her, he catches up to her as she makes a direct route for Sea Dragon Tower. Aegon trails behind her, keeping his lour on Aemond as they walk. The boy’s docility from the past two weeks is gone, replaced by a protective fury in the presence of his eldest sister.

Valaena strides through the castle like she owns the place, which he supposes she does. She heads straight for the nursery, gliding through the open door on feet so quick that she appears to be hovering above the floor. Aemond comes into the room to find her stooping toward Aenar, who lies on the floor beside his nursemaid. The babe squeals excitedly at the sight of her, pushing himself up on his little arms in his own attempt to reach her.

Lifting him into her arms, Valaena holds him close, relief clear across her face. “Oh, my baby,” she murmurs, burying her nose in his hair and inhaling deeply. She sways from side to side, dandling him in her arms. Aenar, wanting a better look at his mother, pushes back from her embrace to gaze up at her face. He reaches out and runs his pudgy hands along her cheeks, nose, and mouth. She kisses his palm. “Hello, sweetling. Has your father been treating you well?”

Stepping closer to the pair, Aemond revels in seeing them together. Valaena gazes at their son with unadulterated adoration shining in her eyes and an instinctive, irrepressible smile on her lips. Petting his short hair, Aemond answers her question on Aenar’s behalf. “Of course.” As Aenar twists around to gape up at him, Aemond notices Valaena’s eyes on him, as well, though she averts her gaze when she catches his. He does not allow this to deter him from ogling her. With her so close, their child in her grasp, he longs to wind an arm around her and pull her into his side, hold his whole world close.

Aegon breaks through Aemond’s reverie. He wedges himself in between Aemond and Valaena, puffing up in an effort to intimidate the former. Thinking Aemond sufficiently subdued, he turns to Valaena, reaching up to pat along Aenar’s back and clutch at her arm. He tells her, “I looked after him, just as you asked.”

She smooths her hand over Aegon’s head. “Thank you, Brother.” Her eyes lock with Aemond’s over his head, and she swallows roughly as some palpable, ardent emotion passes between them.

He has the impulse to step in close to her again, though it dissolves as she sweeps out of the room, barging past him, Criston, and Alastor. Aegon stays on her heels, and Aemond is left to follow after them again.

She marches downstairs to Jacaerys’s apartment. The guard at the door straightens at the sight of her. In a profoundly authoritative voice, she commands, “Open this door,” and he does so without hesitation.

Aemond makes it to her back just as she strides through the door. Jacaerys stands in the middle of his solar, rigid, though he deflates somewhat when he sees his sister.

Valaena steps carefully around the litter on the floor, ushering Jacaerys into a one-armed embrace and spouting, “Thank the gods for preserving you.” His own arm slung around her, Jacaerys glares at Aemond from over her shoulder.

Aemond, beginning to smart at being the object of her disregard, bites, “Thank me.”

Piqued, she whirls around, her eyes lighting on him and sparking with outrage. Plainly, something sits on her tongue, though after a deep breath, she swallows it. She looks to the soldier standing in the corridor. “Bring the Lady Baela here at once,” she orders, and the man runs off before Aemond can stop him.

Turning back to her brothers, Valaena hands Aenar off to Jacaerys despite his objections. Notwithstanding his agitation, Jacaerys holds the babe well, with the ease and experience of a man with four younger siblings.

With her arms free, Valaena busies herself with picking up Jacaerys’s furniture. Once she has all the seating righted, she enlists Aegon’s help in gathering the other effects strewn about the floor.

Tired of being ignored, Aemond calls, “Valaena.” Steadfast, she continues to neglect him. He repeats her name, and when still, there is no response, he moves toward her.

All three Black siblings move at once, Valaena straightening, Aegon dashing toward her, and Jacaerys stepping in front of Aemond. Aemond stops short, staring down at the man holding his infant son hostage. Aenar is unaware of the tension in the room, heedlessly stuffing the wide collar of his uncle’s shirt into his mouth.

Sharply, Valaena upbraids, “Jace, don’t confront deranged lunatics whilst holding my baby.” She comes around to pluck Aenar back from his arms and hand him off to Aegon, who she thereafter orders to take a seat. She remains standing between Jacaerys and Aemond, who continue to glare malignantly at each other over her head. Pressing her hand to Jacaerys’s chest, she pushes him back a step and murmurs something to him in a low voice. He looks as though he wants to argue, but her head raises, and he relents, biting off a curse. Stepping back, he stomps over to Aegon and Aenar and takes a protective stance over them.

Aemond and Valaena are left together in the lateral part of the room, both of them facing the south window. He shifts closer while she slowly turns toward him, fiddling with her rings. Just as her head turns toward him, her eyes scarcely meet his before they catch on something behind him, and she expeditiously darts around him.

He twists his head in time to see Valaena catch Baela by her outstretched arms as the younger woman makes to attack him. Her muscles straining, she holds Baela back, grunting, “Lyka.”

Baela’s voice wavers—whether from anger, grief, or both, Aemond cannot tell. “He killed Moondancer.”

Closing her eyes, Valaena presses her forehead against Baela’s and digests the revelation. Her hand squeezes around the arm in her grip as Baela tries to push past her once more. She opens her eyes again, promising, “Leave him to me. I shall handle him.”

Provoked, Aemond voices, “You’ll handle me?”

Valaena releases Baela, pivoting toward him. Her face alight with fury, she finally speaks to him. “That’s right.” As Baela moves toward Jacaerys and Aegon, she takes a brash step forward. “Why are you even here? We left Harrenhal for you, ripe for the taking! Why are you here?”

“I did not want Harrenhal,” he tranquilly informs her.

“Why not,” she barks.

Smoothly, he poses, “What should I want with Harrenhal when I can come here and have you?”

Her eyes flashing like lightning in a violent storm, she takes a step yet closer to him. “You do not have me.”

With her standing so close, he catches the scent of her dragon on her, and it arouses some animalistic inclination within him. The feeling is only exacerbated as her head tilts to the side as she surveys him, much like a dragon would when faced with a bothersome obtruder, and he wants to grab her, press her onto the nearest surface, and claim her in front of everyone.

Shrewd, she recognizes his desire for her, perhaps from his eye roving over her, the slant of his body toward hers, or the flare of his nostrils. Clearing her throat, she moves back from him. “I think I should like a moment alone with my family.”

Stung by his exclusion from her perception of family, he looks around at those who made the cut. All three of Valaena’s siblings have trained baleful eyes on him, with Baela looking particularly antsy, as though she yearns to drive a stake through his heart. Leery, he thinks it a poor prospect to leave the four of them alone together to scheme. “I think not.”

With more vehemence and her teeth gritted, Valaena demands, “Leave us.”

Peering down the length of her again, his eye lingers on the girdle at her waist. He recalls from trailing her through the halls that it holds up the knife resting along her lower back. He decides, “All right. Give me your dagger.”

One of her hands inches toward her belt as her eyes glaze over in contemplation. She glances over at Jacaerys and Baela, both of whom glare at her as though to say don’t you dare.

She does not heed their advice. Turning back to Aemond, she softly intones, “Take it, just as you do everything else.”

Whilst he does not appreciate the dig, he takes the opportunity she gives him. Slipping two fingers underneath her belt, he tugs her closer. He reaches his other arm around her, pulling the dagger she had once tried to plunge into his remaining eye from its sheath. He tucks it into his own belt. The hand still tangled with her girdle slides up to her ribs, spreading out there as he grapples with the urge to lean down and kiss her.

Jacaerys, sounding as though he is on the verge of launching himself over the furniture to get at Aemond, snarls, “Let go of her.”

Aemond and Valaena look to Jacaerys as one, Valaena to quell him, and Aemond to incite him. Hoping to further roil his nephew, he pulls Valaena closer.

Bringing up her own hand to brush his off her, she reminds him, “Aemond, you said you would leave.”

He hums. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Her eyes flash anew. “Aemond.”

Having far too much fun, he replies, “Valaena.”

She is not amused, continuing to glare fiercely at him. His eye strays along her form yet again, traveling down to the line of her shoulders, which have been extended into sharp points by her jacket, akin to the spikes on Veraxes’s joints. Their shape is further altered by the hunch in which she has them, as is typical of her when she is angry. He reaches out to straighten them, thereupon skimming his hands down to her biceps. Squeezing the flesh there, he finds he cannot stop touching her, the desire to do so impossibly strong after months in her desolate absence.

She steps out of his reach, her feet moving her yet farther when he stalks after her. To his left, he hears but does not see some movement, which he suspects is Jacaerys or Baela trailing after them. More so, he is troubled by the movement to his right, causing him to cease his pursuit. Criston takes two indicative steps into the room. His arm is tense, hovering at his side, though his hand does not yet rest on his sword.

Valaena halts at the knight’s advance, as well, glancing sidelong at him. His vigilant gaze moves from Aemond to meet her own, at which point she redirects her eyes to her hands and returns to restlessly playing with her rings. Upon twisting a large turquoise around her thumb for the fifth time, she looks back to Aemond.

This time, it is she who inches toward him. “May I, ah, speak to you in private,” she wonders, pointing toward the door.

Thrown by the shift in her demeanor, now meek where it was bold moments before, he stalls, though not for long. Unwilling to renounce an opportunity to have her all to himself, he takes her cue and steps after Criston into the corridor. He expects her on his heels, though as soon as he hears the door—not her footsteps—close behind him, he recognizes his folly. Immediately, he throws out a hand to pry open the door, but he feels the knob stick. “Valaena,” he shouts.

He can hear the smile in her voice as she responds. “I am sitting in front of the door with Aenar in my lap! Do break it down on us, should you feel the need!”

Thwarted, Aemond clenches his hands into fists and bites down on an irritated gnarl. Despite his vexation, he marvels at how quickly she has managed to turn things around on him. His intent had been to get her alone and make his amends to her as soon as she had arrived, and now, not half an hour later, she is locked in a room replete with people who hate him.

To his left, Alastor chuckles quietly. Deliberately, Aemond turns his head to look at him sidelong. “Something amusing, my lord?”

An amused grin sitting under his mustache, Alastor nods. Before walking off, he reveals, “My wife was clever, too.”

Left with Criston, Aemond turns to him. Firmly, he orders, “You stay on her. She does not leave this tower.”

He stomps off to vent out his frustrations on some unsuspecting knight. After working up a good sweat, he spends the rest of the day in his rooms, trying to think of what to say to Valaena when next he has the chance to speak to her. For all the time he spends in deep contemplation, however, he fails to root out any suitable words from his subconscious. Someway, somehow, she will find a way to talk circles around him.

Late in the evening, he learns that Valaena had supper ordered to Jacaerys’s rooms for her and her siblings, as well as that she had sent Aenar to be fed and put to sleep. Hearing this, he spirals further, pondering if he shall have to wait until tomorrow to talk to her. Intuitively, he imagines that barging back into Jacaerys’s rooms and forcibly separating her from her brothers and Baela would scarcely produce a favorable outcome for him.

When at last he hears that the Black siblings have dispersed for the night, it is the hour of the wolf, so he decides it best to wait until the morning to see Valaena, after all. Dressing for bed, he continues to languish in his rooms until the mood to drop in on Aenar strikes him. It has become so commonplace that he knows he shall not be able to fall asleep until he sees him.

Embarking on a leisurely jaunt to the nursery, he arrives to find it divested of the wet nurse who sits in the corner through the night. No matter, he thinks, quietly creeping over to the cradle. So long as Aenar remains asleep, he has no need of her.

Peering over the side of the cradle, he looks down to find it empty but for a dragon egg, sat in its southeastern corner.

His spine seizing up, he panics. He pats along the little mattress within the crib, though it possesses not so much as a lump, let alone his son. Growing frantic, he looks around as though Aenar will appear elsewhere in the room, even going so far as to call his name, but predictably, he receives no answer.

Floating on a wave of turmoil, he is carried from the room. He flows down the corridor and instinctively comes to berth at the shore of Valaena’s apartment. In his haste, he disregards the man standing vigil at the door, reaching for the doorknob. He clenches his hand around it, but he has not the chance to turn it, Criston’s armored hand suddenly closing around his wrist like a vice. Nonplussed by his gall, Aemond stares at him.

Manifestly nervous, Criston licks his lips before suggesting, “Mayhaps a walk to sort out your frustrations before you see her, my prince. You’d not want to do anything you might regret.”

His bewilderment turning to outrage, Aemond lifts his encumbered hand from the doorknob and twists the handle with his left hand. He walks into the apartment, snatching his right arm back and leaving Criston behind.

The solar is empty, as expected at this time of night, so he marches through to the bedchamber. He bursts through the door, thinking that he shall need to make a considerable amount of noise to wake Valaena. However, she is out of bed almost as soon as he steps into the room, rolling onto her feet and taking a lax defensive stance across from him.

Valaena’s appearance presents a stark difference from her earlier semblance. Whereas before, she had been practically dressed for war, wearing a dusky, leather dress replete with sharp lines, her hair tied back in the style of the Queen Visenya, making her fearsome expression all the more severe, she now sports only a sheer, white nightgown with lace embellishments. Her hair hangs down her back in loose waves, and her feet are bare against the rug beneath them.

Despite her soft countenance, her words remain harsh. “You are not welcome here, Uncle.”

He barely registers the dispassionate address. “Aenar is missing.”

Hearing this, Valaena rolls her eyes, of all things.

Appalled, Aemond further explains, “He is not in his bed.”

Shifting to the side, she waves toward her own bed. “Because he is in mine.”

He looks past her to see Aenar lying atop her bedclothes, covered in his blanket, which he clutches in one fist. Unspeakably relieved, he exhales with a shudder and moves forward with the aim of resting his hand on the sleeping babe’s chest so that he might feel his heartbeat.

His wife steps into his path, and a hushed argument of biting whispers and quiet hissing commences. “Don’t wake him.”

“I know how to handle my son,” he contends, aggrieved.

She regards him with disdain, her eyes glowing with ire in the dim light of the room. He recalls that when last they met, in Rook’s Rest, there were moments when she looked upon him with dread, going so far as to flinch back from him whenever he grew close. She displays no such unease now, and he is glad for it. He finds he much prefers her animosity to her fear.

“Ah, yes. After two weeks, you are the consummate father,” she jeers.

“I have been his father for far longer than two weeks,” he avers, glaring down at her. “Not that you would permit it.”

Affronted, she holds her hand to her chest. “I? I would have been glad for you to be at his birth. You could have been the first person to hold him, to welcome him into this world, but alas, you decided you would rather usurp my throne and kill my brother.” He wishes to contravene her words, but she heads him off. “Oh! And now, you’ve usurped my seat.”

“I’ve not usurped your seat,” he claims.

Her brow raises with incredulity. “Oh, no? That is not what Aegon tells me. No, he tells me that you have commandeered operation of the castle—my castle—imprisoned most of my men, and executed some of my staff.” She steps in close to him, right under his nose, and declares in a yet quieter voice, “Ao Dārilaros daor. Nyke sa.”

Gazing out over her head, he frets as to his ability to reconcile with her. He had taken Dragonstone for several reasons. Foremost among them had been to bring Aenar into his care. At near the same level of importance had been to force Valaena to hearken to his expiations. Depriving her of her own seat of power and sanctum had perhaps not aided him in that effort.

In the same low voice, she pulls his attention back down to her. “I trusted you. You were mine husband. I—” She swallows around some difficult word. “I thought that I could rely on you, always. I thought that you were good and kind at heart, but now,” her voice drops to a grave whisper, “I see you as you are.”

Demoralized by her characterization of their relationship, he forces himself to ask, “And how is that?”

Her eyes narrowed, she seethes, “A kinslayer.”

How he loathes that epithet, he wonders as he clenches his jaw and grinds his teeth. “You are a fine one to levy such an insult after what you did to Aegon.”

Her voice raises ever so slightly. “I will have you know that while it was not my intention to—” 

“Not your intention, you say?” He quirks an eyebrow. “Was it not your intention to mount Veraxes?”

Furious, Valaena’s lip twitches up in a half-snarl. “Your brother pursued me, just as you did mine. And he deserved what I gave him after the day I faced in Rook’s Rest, the way the both of you treated me.” Her breathing picks up, and she leans in closer. “You—You let him chain me.”

Shame heating the back of his neck, he reminds her, “I tried to have them undone.”

“Yes, you tried. Some effort there,” she sneers.

He suggests, “Mayhaps if you had not been so belligerent.” 

“I? Was it not he who threatened to rape me and then tried to kill me with his dragon,” she spits.

Aghast, Aemond is capable of muttering naught more than “What?”

His shock hardly phases Valaena. “Oh, did he not tell you? It was just after you left me with him.”

Vaguely, he recalls storming out of Criston’s tent at Rook’s Rest upon discovering that Valaena had been in King’s Landing and excruciatingly near at hand months prior. He recalls how angry he had been in that moment, feeling both mortified and as though he should flee before he said something regrettable. At present, he regrets more so his choice to leave. He had not been present for whatever Aegon had said to Valaena, but surely, he rationalizes, it cannot be as terrible as she alleges. “He only meant to frighten you.” 

Scoffing, Valaena gives him her back and strides several paces from him. “How you all make ceaseless excuses for him, I will never understand.”

“I make excuses,” he inquires, incredulous. If anyone makes no exceptions for Aegon’s crude behavior, it is he. Of all their siblings, he is the only one to ever stand up to him. Save for Rhaenyra, he supposes.

“Yes, and on that I must commend you.” She sets her hands on her hips as he furrows his brow, curious as to her meaning. “Clearly, any indecision you might have had in choosing between your wife and brother is cured.” 

“I had no indecision,” he avers, taking her by surprise. She turns her head back toward him, her narrowed eyes visible over her shoulder. “’Tis not that I believed Aegon would make a good king. Indeed, he is not, but he is my elder brother.”

She takes that bit surprisingly well, doing no more than nodding her head. He continues, “Besides, all our lives, it would have been an arduous task, upholding your claim to the throne. The lords of the realm would be loath to accept two ruling queens in a row.”

Her shoulders drooping, she turns to face him once more. The lines of her face are drawn, and her voice is tired. “Did you truly believe that I could have been content in being usurped? In being shuffled off as no more than the wife of some country lord?” She points to him, and he frowns at the idea of the two of them off in some backwater corner of the realm. “And I—Even if I would have stepped aside, my mother would not have. You know that. Did you truly think that I would have been content to stand aside and watch her die?”

“I was not so concerned with Rhaenyra,” he admits.

Valaena agrees, viciously flicking at her own temple as she hisses, “No, because you never think. You are a selfish, senseless man.” Something cruel sparks in her eyes, and she lifts her chin and tells him, “I will be happy once this war your mother started kills you, and I am free to marry again. Mine own choice for a husband will be far more pleasing, of that I am sure.”

Spurred by the notion of her bound to someone else, he shoots across the room, striding up to her and grabbing her roughly by the waist. As he pulls her close, her hands come up, landing on his shoulders forcefully enough that she might push him away, but she does not, her hands lingering there instead.

Her palms are cool against his warm skin, inciting a shudder from him. Overcome with ardor, he breathes across her face, “You are not permitted to belong to another.”

Unbowed, she whispers back, “I am permitted only by my queen.” Craning her neck, she brings their noses so close as to nearly touch. “And if either of us belongs to the other, it is you to me.”

“In this, you are right,” he concurs.

He drops his head, allowing his nose to nudge along hers and their cheeks to slide together. Though at first he keeps her fervid gaze, her eyes soon dip to rest on his lips, prompting her tongue to glide out across her own. Her hands slide farther up on his shoulders, coming to rest at the base of his neck. Her breath hitches, and he feels as her lungs compress under his hands, her flesh retreating before swelling up to meet him. He lurches toward her, and they sway together on their feet.

This heated moment, unlike the one they shared earlier in the day, results in violent kissing. Their mouths crash together, lips and tongues and teeth all slick and tearing at each other. With one arm, he crushes her against him and rejoices in the hot press of her magnificently familiar body against his. His free hand goes into her hair, tugging hard at the lustrous, satiny strands as he follows her mouth with his own.

At one point, he pulls too hard, and her legs buckle. Moving her grip on him to his nape, she tugs him to the floor with her, and they crumple together in a tangle of limbs. He presses her against the woolen carpet beneath them, keeping his mouth crushed against her softer, plusher lips. Every so often, they part to fill their lungs, Valaena briefly turning her head aside and sucking in a swift, breathy gasp of air before raising her face to meet his once more.

One of his hands returns to her waist, lifting her writhing body to meet his along more places, her calves skimming along his and her bosom rising to brush against his chest. The hum of excitement that has been steadily thrumming under his skin surges into a lively buzz, and he presses his hips down into hers, scraping them together as one of his thighs comes up to rub against her center.

Abruptly, her hands slide down to his chest, and she shoves him back with enough force to dislodge him. Stupefied, he pulls back from her, thinking her finished with the encounter and not wanting to push her too far. The distance between them does not endure for long, however, as she gets on her knees to pursue him, drawing him in for another impassioned kiss before pushing him to lie back.

With one finger, she undoes the strings holding up his trousers. Her hand reaches underneath the fabric, hastily encircling his cock and extracting it from his breeches. With her hand stroking along his tender flesh, her fingers clenched tightly around him, he soon grows hard, pushing up into her grip as she pumps him faster and faster. Rubbing her thumb over the tip, she smears the liquid collecting there, and he quivers from the tingling sensation that rockets through him. Simultaneously, she moves her free hand underneath her nightdress, throwing her head back as she undulates on her own, probing fingers.

For his part, sitting back as Valaena gives them each their pleasure, Aemond has just enough wherewithal to be stunned by the turn of events. Upon her arrival at Dragonstone, he never would have thought that this is how the day would end, with the two of them in raptures on the floor of her bedchamber. As the day progressed, such a result seemed all the more unlikely. Nevertheless, here they are, with her permitting him to kiss her as his hips jerkily rise to meet her hand.

His astonishment is doubled as she suddenly pulls back from him, detaching their lips, dropping her hand down to the base of his member, and lowering her head to suck him down to the root.

A half-aborted grunt spills from him, incapable is he of withholding his surprise. Mindful that they have company, he glances back toward the bed. Unperturbed, Aenar slumbers on, even as the boy’s mother gulps noisily and Aemond winds his fingers through her hair.

Turning back to his wife, Aemond basks in the feeling of her sweet, wet mouth on him, though it slides off of him before long, leaving behind a rope of saliva and spend that keeps them tethered to one another. Maintaining her hold on the base of his cock, she crawls over his lap and replaces her mouth with her cunt, pointing him toward her sultry, creamy center and sinking onto him.

His face pinches up as he becomes reacquainted with the tight embrace of her cunt, his cock throbbing almost painfully as her silken walls constrict around him, threatening to spill his load far too soon. She leads with sinuous, supple movements, invoking bright, blinking stars behind his eyelid. He sets his hands on her waist once more, his fingers finding purchase in her lush flesh as he drifts forward to bring their lips together in time with her swaying. With each kiss he bestows on her, she pulls away, though not quite to the extent that she is refusing his touch.

Shortly, he desires a better grip on her, so he swipes across her front and tears open the bodice of her nightgown, the fabric ripping in a long line down its center. He reaches past the shredded lace to palm at her breasts. They have lost the firm shape they had during her pregnancy, when she was often too sore along her chest for him to touch her there. He savors the pliant mound under his hand, squeezing and pinching her nipple. Gasping, she falls onto his cock with greater vigor.

Her gasping continues, becoming strained as she persists in bucking against him. Eventually, as her panting turns to hissing, he comes to realize that she is skinning her knees along the rug. She winces, tears gathering along her lashes, though she sustains her punishing pace, nonetheless.

Concern blossoming within Aemond’s breast, the act soon loses its zest. Shifting his weight, he runs his hands up Valaena’s succulent thighs, all the way up to her oscillating hips. He buries his fingers into the fluid sinews there in an attempt to slow her. She resists his efforts, swiping at his hands, but he holds fast. Digging in his hands, he forcibly slackens her pace as he whispers sweet nothings in her ear, hoping to calm her. Vexed, she bites at his neck less kindly than is her wont, the occlusion of her teeth along his muscle sloppy and jagged.

Inflamed, he shoves her down. Her back hits the floor, punching a muted grunt from her. She stares up at him kneeling over her, with her eyes wide and gleaming with a spark of anger. Responding to it, he grabs her by the hips and impales her on his cock anew before proceeding to pound into her at a brutal pace. She bucks up against him, baring her teeth, so he moves a hand to her shoulder to press her into the floor. Her own hand comes up to clasp his wrist, though she neither pushes him away nor pulls him closer.

As his pleasure peaks, he strives to keep his harsh thrusts steady. Beneath him, Valaena’s face begins to screw up in a manner he recognizes well, signaling her own crest. Forthwith, he slips two fingers into his mouth, wetting them before dropping his hand to her already-sodden cunt. Caressing her delicate skin, his arousal accelerates as he feels himself sliding in-and-out of her.

He strokes her bud, and her efforts to suppress the little gasps that accompany her peak finally fall away. Hearing her saccharine sounds, he is forced over the precipice ahead of her. He swivels his hips as he grinds into her, his mouth dropping open as bliss rolls over him. His eye falls shut, as well, remaining so until a further sound makes it past her lips, a soft moan that sends another thrill up his spine. Gazing down at her, he watches as her brow pinches together and her entire body convulses from her silent release.

Once he has spent himself fully, he permits his weight to fall onto her in its entirety, a privilege he has not been allowed in longer since last he laid with her, having had to be mindful of crushing Aenar for much of the previous year. He noses behind her ear, kissing her neck and running his hands along her sides. Softly, he murmurs, “How I missed you, my sweet Valaena. My love. Ñuha irūdy. Please never leave me again.”

He hears her swallow, and her heavy breathing gradually eases. Soon, her muscles tense, too, though before he can make so much as a questioning noise, her leg comes up from around his hips to kick him away. He grunts, not only for the surprise but the sensation as his sensitive, spent cock slips from her dripping, still-snug quim.

Driven back, he stumbles onto his feet. Standing over her, he has a prime view of her disarray. Her dress hangs open, exposing her teats, and her skirt is rucked up, permitting the lips of both her mouth and her cunt to glisten at him.

Trembling but not otherwise moving, she stonily demands of him, “Leave us.”

Reminded that they are not alone, Aemond looks to Aenar, who remains peacefully asleep. Briefly, he glimpses back at Valaena, whose hard expression has solidified further. Reluctantly, he abides by her request, something in her voice warning him not to argue this time.

Valaena arrives in Aemond’s study the following morning, glowing with fury. “You summoned me,” she bites.

Standing before him, she is dressed more so for leisure than she was yesterday, though her costume is no less elaborate than her dragonriding clothes. A red, satin gown gilded with lace dragons is draped along her form, accentuating her slim curves and reminding him of her wedding gown, if a more vibrant and sophisticated version of it. Her hair is embellished by braids and gold lock-rings, most of it twisted and piled atop her head, with the rest of it cascading down her back in chocolatey ripples. Most of interest is the accessory that sits on her hip, Aenar, who plays with the frill at the top of her bodice.

Aemond sets down his quill, calmly folding his hands together along the surface of his desk. He smiles at his little family. “Good morning.”

Glancing toward the ceiling, she curses, “By the gods’ light.” She heaves a taxed sigh. “What do you want?”

In an effort to stifle his displeasure at her short demeanor, he drums his fingers along the table. “I wonder if you would care to breakfast with me?”

“I would not. Is that all?” She waits not for his answer, turning to stride from the room. Despite the shift in her orientation, Aenar’s eyes remain on Aemond, his head swiveling on his short neck so as to keep his father’s gaze.

Aemond gestures to Criston, who stands in the corner of the room, having followed Valaena in. Obsequiously, he steps into the doorway, blocking her egress. He looks down at her with an apology written in his gaze, and when she turns back, Aemond sees she spares him no forgiveness.

She points to Criston. “I want the oathbreaker off my detail.” Her eyes shine with resentment, though not for him—a welcome change.

“Fine,” he approves, easily enough. Pleased, she straightens, though he soon disappoints her. “But you’ll not be permitted to leave your rooms.”

Outrage flashing across her face, she enunciates, “You mean to immure me in mine own hold?”

“Such is not my wish.” She scoffs, but he persists. “Cole is your sworn shield. Should he remain with you, I shall feel comfortable with your having free rein of the castle.”

Pouncing, she inquires, “Oh? Shall I be allowed to visit, say, the rookery, my lord? Post a letter?”

“You shall,” he affirms, confounding her. Somewhat apprehensive, he reveals his foremost reason for summoning her, “I should like for you to write your mother, informing her of your safe arrival.”

When the two of them lived in King’s Landing, Valaena’s most steadfast correspondent was her mother. She and Rhaenyra exchanged a legion of letters, so many that he could never have hoped to keep count. Notably, whenever she returned from Dragonstone, she would at once write to Rhaenyra, assuring her that she had arrived in the capital in one piece.

Valaena instantly recognizes his plot. Clearly wroth, she bites her lip to keep from erupting. She pivots the conversation somewhat. “My mother, whose apartment you’ve stolen, laodys?”

Showing a bitter smile, he states, “I’m sure my sister will not mind my borrowing her quarters for a few short weeks.”

“Ha,” exclaims Valaena, derisive. Aenar echoes the noise without any venom, squeaking staidly.

Returning them to the matter at hand, Aemond asks, “Will you write the letter or not?”

She narrows her eyes at him consideringly. “I presume this letter shall need be altered should my words not suit.” He has no choice but to confirm her assumption, nodding and already knowing her answer. Expectedly, she says, “Then no. Is that all?”

“No,” he replies. “I should like to discuss last night.”

Her cheeks turning pink, she grows flustered. “I do not wish to speak of last night.” Subtly, her head turns in Criston’s direction, as though she is all the more embarrassed for his presence.

Flicking his hand in the man’s direction, Aemond wordlessly orders him to take his leave.

Once he has gone, Valaena amends, “It was a hindrance, nothing more.”

“It was rapturous,” he corrects.

Her face reddening further, she avoids his gaze. “Aemond, honestly.” He smirks at her, and she holds up a commanding finger. “It shall not happen again.”

Aenar diverts them from further conflict as he begins to whine. His little hand dips, beginning to grope at his mother’s teats.

Valaena turns her attention to him at once, her deportment shifting in its entirety. Softening, her face clears, and she coos at him, “Are you hungry, sweetling?” She cradles the back of his head and presses her lips to his brow as he begins to pule in earnest, his reedy voice pitching high. With Aemond all but forgotten, she sweeps from the room with their son in her arms.

Feeling forlorn, Aemond endeavors to not be upset by her easy dismissal of him.

He tries again to consort with her later in the day, inviting her for supper with him. He works himself up in anticipation of the meal, ordering that her favorite dishes be made and dressing in the finest set of clothes which he had packed. Alas, she never arrives. Upon finishing his dinner by his lonesome, he hears that she had once more supped with her siblings, this time hosting them in her rooms.

That night, he wonders if he might run into her in the nursery as he visits Aenar in the hour of the owl, but he appears to have missed her. Aenar is asleep in his cradle, lying on his stomach with his feet on either side of his dragon egg. His blanket is strewn across him and caught under one leg, as though he had long ago wriggled out of the swaddle in which his mother had wrapped him.

He does not see her again until the following night. This day, he had spent entirely with Alastor and Roland in his study, mulling over meaningless matters of the lordship. When at long last he retires to his bedchamber, he takes out his false eye, the damned thing having itched at him all day, augmenting his irritation.

He is sat up in bed with a book, just having cracked it open when the door to his bedchamber flies open and Valaena, dressed in her robe and slippers, glides past it. She moves her arms behind her so that her dressing robe slips from her figure and onto the floor, thereupon climbing into bed with him and crawling onto his lap. Despite the surprise, he welcomes her into his arms with scarcely a thought to tossing his reading for the night aside. Her hands coming up to cradle his face, she sighs, “I want you,” and parts her lips to devour him.

She rides him into the mattress, bouncing in his lap like she would in the saddle of a raucous destrier. Her arms cinched around his neck, she chants his name into his ear. He grips her by the ass, occasionally lifting her almost entirely off him and fucking several vicious thrusts up into her before yanking her back down on him and grinding their hips together.

She emits a loud, wordless cry when she comes, slumping against him as he pumps into her a few more times before spilling his seed. With them both sated, he leans back against the pillows, content to drift off like his, his wife limp in his arms as his hands rub along her back.

The peace does not last for long, however, as her arms come down to push at his chest and she climbs from his lap. He lets her go, grunting as he slips from her. He expects her to settle down at his side to sleep. Instead, she rises from the bed, awkwardly putting her weight onto her shaky limbs. His eye follows her, thinking she intends to use the chamber pot, but she moves to the other side of the room, picking up her robe and slipping it back on.

He sits up, alert. “Where are you going?”

She does not look at him as she ties the sash around her waist. “Bed.”

Mind still fuzzy from his release, he musters a flimsy argument. “You can sleep here.”

She laughs, though without mirth. “Already, I have fucked you in my parents’ bed. I shall insult them no further.” Swiveling, she returns whence she came, slamming the door closed behind her.

Fleetingly, he considers following her to her rooms. Ultimately, however, he remains abed, thinking he would not be well-received.

Valaena keeps her pattern of ignoring him during the day and visiting him at night, consistently abandoning him to his solitude after they fuck. He attempts to persuade her to linger by exhausting her, though without success. One night, he goes so far as to fuck her twice in quick succession, using his recovery period to bring her to ecstasy with his mouth. Still, however, she summons the strength to return to her own apartment. At that juncture, he had nearly pleaded with her to stay, but he refrained, not wanting to be so pathetic a man as to have to beg for his wife’s company.

With all this effort, he is rather exhausted himself, not only for the physical strain but the emotional torment. This is the only intimacy she allows between them, as though their marriage is good for no more than coupling, and it burns him.

One night, she arrives in his chambers to find him already abed. Usually, he waits up for her, or they meet in the nursery, bid Aenar goodnight, and retreat to his rooms. This night, however, he is not sure how much he wants to fuck. He rather wants to go to sleep early, inexplicably tired from the day is he.

She seems to sense it, approaching him in a subdued manner. Perching on the side of the mattress, she runs a finger along the scar on his cheek, as she has done many times, though she does so now with her nail, unkindly digging it into his flesh. She pulls away before he can muster up the will to complain.

She moves to petting along his thigh, her hand inching toward his groin. As her fingers brush along the fabric there, his cock stirs but does not harden. She clicks her tongue mockingly. “Are you too stale to fuck me, Uncle?”

Irked, he lifts his head, moving his gaze from her wandering hand to her face. Before he can impart some objection, her derisive expression drops, replaced by a far more familiar, concerned countenance. She straightens her spine, budges closer to him, and grips his face with both hands as she inspects him. “You’re bleeding.”

Aemond, glad for her concern but finding it wanting nonetheless, carps, “Mayhaps if you had not scratched me.”

“No. Your nose,” she clarifies. She runs her thumb across his upper lip, and it comes away with blood.

He knows at once what is amiss. He curses, “Fuck.”

She catches on quickly, as well. Something of a smile pulls at her lips, though it is weak. “They’re poisoning you.” She eyes the blood on her fingers, mumbling, “How affirming.”

Expecting her to gloat further, he is surprised when she eases back and jumps from the bed. She hustles out of the room, and he hears her pull open the apartment’s front door and request, “Call for the maester.”

Criston responds, just loud enough for Aemond’s ears to pick up. “Prince Aemond had Maester Gerardys confined to the dungeons, Princess.”

For a brief moment, there is silence, though it is quickly followed by swift, angry footsteps. Valaena reappears with Criston at her back and her hands on her hips. “You imprisoned the grand maester?”

“No,” he snarks, “I imprisoned Maester Gerardys.”

Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she turns back to Criston. “Have him brought up from the dungeons and allowed to bathe and eat, and then bring him to see us.”

Criston dips his head, turning to go. Wishing to protest, Aemond stands. “Wait now—” Dizzy, he falls back onto his rump.

Rushing back to his side, Valaena flusters, “Wait for what, Aemond, for you to keel over?” Taking him by the arm, she helps him lean back against the bed’s pillows.

Once he is settled, he looks up for sight of Criston, only to find the man gone, off to do Valaena’s bidding. Disgruntled, he feels as though control is slipping away from him, not only for his command of his men but of his own body. He lashes out at Valaena. “What do you care? I should think you would be glad to be rid of me.”

There is a long stretch of time when she is quiet, as though thoroughly contemplating the question. Finally, she comes up with, “You shall leave this world on my terms.”

In the time they spend anticipating Gerardys, they manage to halt the bleeding. Valaena tries to dispel his dizziness, as well, having him drink two cups of water and eat a cluster of nuts, but their efforts are for naught. He remains vertiginous, the room spinning around him each time he so much as shifts his neck.

When at last Gerardys arrives, Valaena peppers him with premature praise, as well as apologies for his internment. As she explains their need for him, he smiles at her before turning to Aemond with a glare, one that Aemond returns tenfold.

Once Valaena has settled at Aemond’s side, clutching one of his arms, Gerardys inquires, “What symptoms have you?”

Grudgingly, Aemond lists, “My nose bleeds, and I’m faint. Last week, I’d a tender stomach, too.”

Unprompted, Valaena supplies, “His cock has difficulty hardening, as well.” Mortified, Aemond turns his head to stare at her, vertigo be damned. She is unabashed. “What? The maester cares not for your cock.”

Exasperated, he pleads, “Just stop saying that word.”

Rolling her eyes, she lightly swats at his arm and says, “You’re such a prude.”

Feeling impetuous and resentful, he returns, “You’re a wanton.”

Her head whips toward him. “I beg your pardon?”

“All this week, you have desired me for naught more than my cock. Mayhaps it did not rise this night because you have exhausted it.” Disbelieving, she stares at him, wide-eyed and with her mouth slightly agape. He tops off his diatribe by throwing her own words back at her. “What? The maester cares not for my cock.”

Flushing, she looks away from him, suddenly, exorbitantly preoccupied by her fingernails. Meanwhile, Gerardys glances between them as if to say if the both of you are finished. He thereafter proceeds with his examination, asking Aemond a few more questions, looking into his mouth, nose, and eye, and feeling his glands. He also has Valaena release Aemond’s arm so he can detect his pulse along his wrist.

At last, he arrives at his conclusion as to what afflicts Aemond. “It seems an imitation of greycap.”

Aemond nods, having expected some manner of poison. He soon regrets the small action, however, his head spinning unpleasantly.

“Is there an antidote,” wonders Valaena.

Gerardys shakes his head, offering instead, “I can provide a draught to purge what remains of the poison.”

Aemond considers the proposal, wary. He worries that Gerardys will simply dose him with poison strong enough to kill him in one fell swoop. Moreover, purging sounds distinctly unpleasant, and he wonders if he cannot merely rid himself of the toxins. Withal, glimpsing at Valaena’s hopeful face, his resistance crumples, and he gives his assent.

Purging the remnants of the amateur poison is indeed unpleasant. Aemond spends much of the night hovering over the chamber pot, and his throat burns for all the bile that has passed through it. Blessedly, Valaena takes pity on him, remaining with him through the night despite the horrendous smell that surely lingers in the air. Once he has finished disgorging, she even permits him to nestle his head into her breast and strokes his hair.

Come the morning, he still wakes up alone, though the apartment is not entirely empty. He can hear someone bustling about in the next room, so he dons his dressing robe and goes through the door to find Valaena sitting at the table by the window and a servant setting up breakfast. Upon seeing him, Valaena brightens and waves him over.

Languidly, he trudges across the room and takes the seat opposite to her. “Good morning,” she welcomes him as the serving girl pours them each a cup of tea. After the girl has left, Valaena takes a sip from her own cup. “Ginger tea, for your stomach. There is porridge for you, as well. And I have refrained from fish this morning, so as to not upset you.”

Taking in some of the peppery, sweet drink, Aemond glances at the porridge with a hint of distrust.

Valaena recognizes it. “It should please you to know that I have tracked down the culprit, and it was indeed an attempt at greycap, as Grand Maester Gerardys expected. They used some of the mushrooms in the kitchens but did not quite know the recipe. Anyhow, I have obliged them to hereon desist.”

Aemond, outraged but more so relieved, raises some objection, “We aren’t going to punish them?”

She fixes him with a disapproving stare. “And dispatch one of my leal servants? I think not.” She starts eating, signaling the end of the discussion.

As the meal persists, Aemond is awash with contentment despite his lingering nausea. They dine mostly in silence, though it is pleasant, nonetheless, providing a quiet intimacy that he has long mourned.

After Valaena has cleaned her plate, she reaches across the table to take his hand. Sweetly, she broaches, “Also, I should like to apologize for embarrassing you last night. I promise, I shall never concern myself with your cock again.”

Amused but not willing to show it, he taunts, “I’ll put it in your mouth right now.”

Her lips spread as though to invite him. Not having had any plans to follow through on his threat in the first place and still drained from the ordeal of the night before, he merely grunts, and her laughter fills the room.

From there, Aemond spends most of his nights in Valaena’s chambers. The night after Gerardys had treated him, she lures him there from the nursery, stating that she shall no longer bed him in her mother’s bedchamber, ashamed as she is that she let it go on for as long as she did. Later in the night, after he finishes making love to her, he expects her to toss him out and is thus cheerfully surprised when she permits him to stay.

Aemond is pleased with the familiar kinship, though it is not as it once was. There are some differences which he does not mind, such as Valaena’s sleeping habits. Whereas before, she was a heavy sleeper, she now springs out of bed at the softest of sounds and slightest of movements. This is an alteration she blames on Aenar, claiming that since his birth, she has not been able to slumber as soundly. Not all of her newfound sleeping habits are favorable, however, as she no longer sleeps in his arms, preferring to rest entirely on the right side of the bed. She is also colder than she once was. Sometimes, she will speak just as she had for the first five years of their marriage, gently and conscientiously, before morphing into a hostile variant of herself, one that speaks to him in harsh, clipped sentences and snarls at him to get out when one night, Aegon arrives in her apartment in tears.

Alongside the change in his sleeping arrangements, another adjustment comes along the day after his recovery from the greycap. He is set to work in his study, trying yet again to sort out the queer numbers in Quince’s records, when Aegon inexplicably turns up, drifts into the center of the room, and waits to be acknowledged.

Aemond, unsure as to why the boy is here, inquires as much. “Aegon, what are you doing here?”

Innocently, Aegon shrugs. “I always come here.”

“Yes, when Aenar was in your charge, but he is with Valaena now,” argues Aemond.

“So?” Aegon pouts. “Do I have to leave?”

Sighing, Aemond privately compares forcing Aegon to leave with kicking a puppy. Supposing he does not mind the boy’s company, he says, “No, you can stay. Just—Here.” He hands Aegon the book nearest at hand and points to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Sit there and read this.”

As Aegon does as bid, Aemond returns to his work. He notices Aegon’s head lifting every so often, Aegon briefly glancing at him before returning to his book. Studious, Aemond ignores him until Aegon asks, “What are you doing?”

With his eye still on the page in front of him, Aemond mutters, “Working.”

Aegon follows up with a leading question. “On what?”

Moving his gaze to his nephew, Aemond answers, “On the records of our grain stores.” Alastor attests that as winter approaches, it is of prime importance that their stock of food be fully ascertained.

“Why,” Aegon wonders.

“Would you like to starve to death,” Aemond fires back, grown tired of the incessant queries.

Aegon shrinks back from him, frowning. “No.” Gesturing as though to say there you have it, Aemond once more resumes his review of Quince’s abysmal work.

From that day on, Aegon spends a few hours with Aemond in this study and thereafter takes supper with him and Valaena, who afterward puts him to bed and returns to her quarters to fall asleep herself alongside Aemond. As this new routine solidifies, Aemond grows fond of it, and he wonders how long it might subsist.

There is a stumbling block when one evening, he arrives at supper to find Valaena entertaining all three of her siblings as though nothing is out of the ordinary. As he comes farther into the dining room, Jacaerys and Baela glare ferociously at him, though they appear oddly restrained. Valaena is cheerful, which is not odd in and of itself, greeting him, “Good evening, Husband.”

One vacant chair remains at the table, across from Jacaerys and between Baela and Valaena, who sits at the table’s head. While wary of sitting next to Baela lest she knife him, he does not wish to appear craven, so he gingerly takes the seat beside her. They stare each other down, cognizant is Aemond of the fact that should he face forward, she will be entirely within his blind spot.

He is finally diverted by Valaena, who tells him, “I’ve written a letter to Her Grace my mother, as you requested.”

Criston, having been standing to the right of Valaena’s chair, walks over and hands him a small missive. Aemond reads through it, finding it to be sparsely and innocuously worded, with naught indicating that he has taken the castle. Still suspect, he holds it over a candle to discover whether there exists any hidden writing. As he inspects it further, he sees Jacaerys roll his eyes over the scrap of paper.

“If you could have it sent,” Valaena prompts him, and without a reason to refuse—indeed, he should not want to refuse, this had been his desire—he gives his assent.

After the servants have finished setting the table and poured them each their wine, save for Aegon, Valaena leans toward Aemond, asking, “Prayer before we begin?”

Dumbly, Aemond nods. The suggestion is an appropriate one if odd for Valaena, who in the past did not say grace unless his mother constrained her.

As she and Aegon clasp their hands beneath their chins and close their eyes, Aemond keeps his eye open, allowing it to leap between Jacaerys and Baela, whose intent glowers remain pinned upon him.

In an enchanting voice, Valaena recites, “Gentle Mother, font of mercy, teach us all a kinder way.”

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Valaena sways farther along the expansive mattress, perched on her hands and knees. Her hair, hanging over her shoulders, swings with each forward press of Aemond’s hips. He plows into her at a steady pace, gripping the plump flesh of her behind with such firmness as for it to bleed white under his fingers. A long, wobbly moan leaks out of her, punctuated by low, guttural groans.

Spreading her apart under his hands, Aemond watches as he slides into her again and again, aided by the slick produced by her excitement and, he notes, the blood of her courses. Growling under his breath, he shifts an arm down to curl around one of her thighs and splits her farther apart. When next he pushes in, harder than before, a high, squeaking grunt escapes her, repeated over and over as he proceeds with the same, harsher momentum.

In company of one particularly forceful thrust, he grabs her by her nape and shoves her face down into the sheets. Valaena screams, comes, and screams again. He continues until he has had his pleasure, too, and she has taken to puling, her eyes spilling over as much is her cunt. When he finishes, he thrusts her forward, and she crumples atop the bedclothes, her limbs askew and twitching. Her crying persists, smeared onto the fabric beneath her.

He exhales a shudder, uneasy. “Was it too rough?”

She wipes at her eyes and gasps for breath. “No. It was perfect.” A final, few sobs slip from her. Once her eyes have dried, she stands up on her knees and shuffles away from him, fixing the bottom of her dress to cover her lower half.

He thinks to tell her, “You’re bleeding.”

Her neck twisting around so that she may peer down at her calves, she wonders, “I am? Where?”

“Your moon’s blood,” he clarifies.

Her hand goes under her dress. “Is it the seventeenth?” When her hand reemerges, her fingers shine mostly with white but with some pink. She peers farther back, eyeing his sloppy cock. “Sorry.”

“You should be sorry,” he quips, clapping her on the bum and educing a shriek from her. His hand does not stray far, falling to the hem of her chemise with the aim of pulling it over her head. She resists his efforts, and he complains, “Are you to never bare yourself to me again?” For as many times as they have lain together in the past two weeks, she has never denuded herself more than to raise her skirts high enough for him to find her core.

Waspishly, she complains in turn. “I let you fuck me. What more do you want?”

Enunciating, he reiterates, “I want to see you.”

“Well, everything is not as it was,” she dismisses.

Unwilling to let himself be spurned, he climbs onto the bed, as well, and eases up behind her. He slips his arms around her, pawing at her hips as she leans back against him. In a dull tone, he says, “I know. You hate me now.”

Since Valaena returned to Dragonstone, they have spent more and more time with one another each day. While she certainly no longer ignores him, she does not mind him as she did before the war. Before he blundered and killed Lucerys, she was stout in her devotion to him. She spent every minute of the day with him feasible and listened to every word he wished to grace her ears. She never stepped out of the room in the middle of a conversation or stared too long at the sword he left by the door when they retired for the night. He is no longer certain that same devotion exists. He wonders if she is merely passing the time with him, using him as a familiar tool for her enjoyment.

She denies, “No. Well, yes, I do, but no, it’s—” She trails off, appearing bashful despite what they have just done. Gesturing down the length of her body, she repeats herself. “Everything is not as it was.”

He gleans that she speaks of the changes wrought on her body by her efforts to bring their child into the world. In doing so, his thoughts turn to that which lies underneath her dress. Feeling his excitement grow once more, he squeezes one of her breasts. She tips her head back onto his shoulder, and he nuzzles into her neck.

“Aemond,” she breathes, pushing back against him. “We’ve just finished.”

Sucking a mark into her skin, he says, “We could finish again.” Hoping to tempt her further, he lifts her skirt, his hand running up along her warm, slippery thigh until it meets her silken cunt. His seed drips out around his fingers as they dip inside. Once he has her mewling and rubbing herself back against his arousal, he tries to pull her dress all the way off of her.

She catches his hands, still surprisingly alert. His lips hovering over hers, he richly entices, “Come on.”

Her breath comes out heavy, her chest heaving as she glances between his eye and his mouth. He edges her on further by grinding into her backside. A gasp flutters out of her, and she caves. “Very well,” she accedes, though before he can crow in victory and whip her dress off her, she grabs his chin, her nails digging into his skin. “But if you so much as blench, I shall kill you in your sleep.”

Grinning, he tears her dress over her head and tosses it onto the floor behind him. Taking her by the shoulders, he spins her around and pushes her back to lie on the mattress, her legs twisting underneath her as she falls. She lies there, her hair strewn about her head and her arms spread out, staring up at him with both fortitude and trepidation in her face.

Pleased with his victory, so early in the day, Aemond drinks his fill of her. For all the suspense, he finds she appears much the same as she did before her pregnancy, her limbs and breasts only slightly thicker for it. He recalls that in Rook’s Rest, her face had more weight in it, less than in her gravidity but entirely gone now. Her skin is as pink as it always is after they fuck. The main difference is the pudge of her stomach, detailed with lines of stretched skin, lighter than is the rest of her. He does not mind it, as she might have feared, thinking it somewhat charming, this proof that she had borne Aenar. With that part of her sufficiently explored, his eye travels back toward her head, and—gods help him—he blenches.

Wroth, she bites, “What have I just said?”

He points to what appears to be a scar, the skin raised and red, on her right shoulder. “What the fuck is that?”

Valaena’s neck crinkles as she tips her chin down to peer at her shoulder. She deflates. “Oh, that.” Aemond shoots her an exasperated look, and she explains, very matter-of-fact, “I was shot by a flaming arrow.”

“What,” he blurts. “When?”

Not sounding terribly upset, she reveals, “During the Battle of the Gullet.”

Gradually, he deflates, too, lying down next to her. Leaning across her, he rubs a thumb along the months-old wound, relieved when he sees that his touch does nothing to irritate it. After a moment, he brings his hand down to the base of her sternum and caresses the skin there. “I’d no involvement in the Triarchy’s attack, do you know.”

“Yes, I know. Ser Criston told me so,” she divulges.

Any reprieve he might have felt in learning that there is something for which she does not blame him quickly turns sour at the mention of the turncloak with the inexplicable, newfound attachment to his wife. “What else has Ser Criston told you?” He stays quiet for only a handful of seconds, an old curiosity winning out. “What did you tell him at Rook’s Rest?”

Her brow raising, she parrots, “Rook’s Rest. That feels so long ago now.” She takes a pause herself before saying, “I confess I don’t recall.”

Huffing, he accuses, “A lie.” She shrugs, not seeing fit to deny it.

His hand still lingering low in the valley between her breasts, her own hands come up to embrace it. She becomes preoccupied with the ring on his index finger, the one she used to wear every day. Slowly, she drags it from his finger and moves it onto her thumb, its former home.

Warmed by this gesture of acceptance, Aemond’s mouth ticks up, and he pushes it too far. His hand trailing up her sternum to its top, he wonders, “Where is your necklace?”

Valaena is silent for a long moment, giving no indication that she has so much as heard him speak. She strokes along the A engraved on the ring on her finger, seemingly serene, before heartlessly informing him, “I flung it into the sea,” and getting up to dress for the day.

Listless, he watches as she saunters around the room, adding an extra layer of linen to her underclothes and stepping into a sea green gown. He rises from the bed only when she impels him so, telling him that he need dress himself so that she may invite Aster into the room. As soon as he has on his trousers, the other woman intrudes, and before he is fully dressed, every hair on Valaena’s head is in its rightful place. Without so much as a backwards glance toward him, she strides through the door too quickly to hear his half-aborted suggestion that they breakfast together.

Sore at the abrupt shift in her demeanor, so commonplace now that he wonders why it still lashes at him, he forgoes breakfast, choosing instead to beat out his frustrations on a squire who arrives at the training field at just the wrong time. He spends the next few hours in his study, getting absolutely nothing done. Rather than be productive, he sits behind the desk, wondering why it has been so difficult—no, not difficult, strange—to reconnect with Valaena. In anticipating her arrival, he had expected that she would either shun him entirely or be just as she once was, not this queer mixture of both. With her behavior so erratic, he scarcely knows how to act himself, constantly wary is he of provoking her and having her toss him aside for good.

Past the time for lunch, in which he partakes neither, a letter arrives for Valaena, set on his desk. Unfurling the missive, he discovers that it is from Rhaenyra.

Dearest Valaena, I am glad to hear of your safe return. I am sure that Prince Aenar was glad, too, to be reunited with you. On that note, I should like to be reunited with mine own sons. Do ask your brothers when would be best for them to board a ship and sail their way to me, as well as dear Baela. Joffrey journeys down from the Vale, where Rhaena intends to remain. You and Aenar are welcome also. With love, your mother.

A small, hand-drawn heart and an illustration of a serpentine dragon accompany the note, scrawled within the bottom, right corner of the slip.

So, Joffrey has been in the Vale, along with his dragon, surmises Aemond. This tidbit, while certainly interesting, he puts to the back of his mind. Already, Joffrey has left the Vale, and regardless, Aemond has no way of informing any of his allies not with him of any such critical information, not without revealing that he has taken Dragonstone. Though even if he could, he is not certain that he would. All it might do is put targets on Joffrey’s and Rhaena’s heads, and having taken so much care to preserve Jacaerys, Aegon the Younger, and Baela, all to appease Valaena, he sees not why he should wreck his own efforts now, especially for two so inconsequential as Rhaenyra’s third son and Daemon’s second daughter.

With that decided, he ponders as to when he should pass the letter onto Valaena. She will expect a reply from her mother, if not today, then tomorrow or the next day. Furthermore, Rhaenyra will expect a reply from Valaena soon, and lest she send a ship unbidden for her children and discover his plot here, she need receive one.

Before he can decide how to proceed, the door swings open, permitting none other than his wife to enter. With Aenar ensconced in one arm, Valaena closes the door with the other. Wearing a wide smile, she skips over to Aemond’s side as though hopping along the clouds that hang around the castle, both she and Aenar giggling to themselves as she does. Once she is close, she gestures for him to push his seat back from the table. He does so, and she perches in his lap, settling hers and Aenar’s weight onto his bad leg.

He hisses, and making her apologies, she shifts to sit atop his other leg. “Watch this,” she tells him. Turning her attention back to Aenar, she asks him, her voice pitching high, “Are you ready?” He grins up at her, the edge of one little tooth peeking through his gumline, and she ducks her head to smack a kiss against his pudgy cheek.

Grunting, he leans forward, extending his arms to wrap around his mother’s head and keep it near. He brings his face to hers, and open-mouthed, smears a kiss of his own along her chin.

Squeezing her eyes shut and squealing as their son slobbers on her, she exclaims, “Look! He’s kissing me!”

Aemond feels his grin match hers. Already, he was pleased in having his little family nestled in his embrace, but this display has lightened his mood even further. Both of his hands come up, one to caress Valaena’s waist and the other to support Aenar’s back. She kisses Aenar thrice more in quick succession, and the boy shrieks, sways back against his father’s hand, and kisses her back once more.

Pulling away from him, she pushes her hair back from her face and readjusts him in her hold. She glances to Aemond. “Your turn.”

Eager, Aemond dips his head down to bestow a light kiss on Aenar’s cheek. Aenar’s eyes only briefly travel to him, however, and that is the length of the attention his son spares him, those same eyes soon returning to Valaena’s countenance. Staring at him expectantly, her smile dims somewhat, and she whispers to Aemond, “Try again.”

Only slightly disheartened, Aemond does, but this time, he receives no reaction. Aenar continues to stare at his mother, his gaze wide and unwavering.

Valaena’s smile broadens again, while her brow furrows in confusion. “Won’t you kiss your father?” She quirks her head to the side, and Aenar does the same. Straightening, she speaks to Aemond, “I don’t know why he won’t do it. Sorry, darling.” Condolent, she appeases him by kissing his cheek herself.

At last, Aenar turns to Aemond, reaching up to grip his face with his little hands and pulling it down so that it is close enough to drag his lips against. Elated, Aemond hardly cares that his son is doing little more than drooling on him. Valaena is pleased, too, gasping in delight. “Oh, I see! He was not returning my affection, but rather mimicking me.” Experimentally, as soon as Aenar resumes staring at her, she sticks out her tongue, and to the best of his ability, he wags his own tongue back at her.

She leans back against the arm Aemond has around her, asking him, “Haven’t we made the most interesting creature?”

He sucks his teeth. “Don’t call him that.”

“Oh, so serious,” she complains, swatting his chest. “There’s no one to hear me, and we are all creatures of some manner.”

“We are not,” he argues, pinning her with a firm stare. “We are Targaryens, anointed by the gods to rule the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Are we,” she returns, growing irritable, “because I seem to recall you usurping mine and my son’s right to rule said kingdoms.”

His lips twist, and he clenches his jaw. “Alas, neither of us was meant to be Prince of Dragonstone.”

“No? Why art thou here, then, sitting in my seat,” she bites. Her voice just barely conceals its venom, lest it sting Aenar’s ears. Her merry temperament has dropped off near completely, replaced by a disposition that is barely civil.

He tries to explain, “I do not mean to occupy it for long—”

She interrupts, “Yes, so you have said before. Wherefore? Where do you mean to go?” He gives her no answer, not sure that he wants to continue the discussion at this juncture. “If you do not mean to keep Dragonstone—”

“Dragonstone is not mine to keep,” he points out.

“Certainly not,” she agrees. With Aenar still peering up at her, she forces a smile.

Aemond pivots the conversation. “Jaehaerys is the rightful heir.” Her smile turning bitter, she shakes her head. “Mayhaps if you were to tell me where—”

“And at last, the gambit is played,” she remarks.

For a moment, he says nothing further, but soon enough, his curiosity gets the better of him. “Where are Helaena and the children, Valaena?”

Much like bringing Valaena and Aenar back within his reach, finding Helaena and her children was another of Dragonstone’s allures. He had hoped that with time, Valaena would admit the truth to him. This had not been how he wished to broach the topic, however, as he finds it unlikely that she will be amenable when in so poor a mood.

Rather than respond at once with the same thread of hostility in her tone, Valaena chooses to remain quiet for a moment herself. She occupies herself with Aenar’s clothes, mindlessly adjusting his tights and the cuff of one of his sleeves. Finally, she confides, “I do not know.” With his one eye narrowed, he appraises her, not quite sure of her veracity but finding her convincing enough that he feels it inappropriate to accuse her outright of dishonesty. “I sent them off I know not where, telling her to go wherever she thought we’d not be able to find them.”

Considering this, Aemond’s first thought is concern. His sister, while not simple, as most others believe, is not someone he feels should be completely without anyone on whom to rely, especially with all three of her young children in her care. If it is indeed true that she has ventured to a refuge of her own choosing—he suspects that it is, given Valaena’s modest expression—he wonders if she is as safe as he has thought her these past several moons. He ponders how it is he may go about finding her, or if he should simply bide his time and hope that she returns on her own someday.

Before he can think more on the subject, Valaena notices the missive from Rhaenyra. She picks it up, asking, “What is this?” Quickly, she reads it over and looks toward him, appearing faintly betrayed. “How long have you had this?”

Clearing his throat, he confesses, “It arrived here a few minutes before you did, actually.” She hums, disbelieving. He resists the urge to nettle her further, opting instead to ask, “How would you like to respond?”

Rolling up the letter, she sticks it underneath her bodice for safekeeping. “I suppose I can forget to reply for some days, then write that Aegon has taken ill—nothing serious—and that I shall write again once he has made his recovery.”

Satisfied with her plan thus far, he prompts her further. “And then?”

“And then,” she sighs, laying her head on his shoulder. “We can decide what we should like to do from there.”

We, he hears. They are, the two of them, in this together in both their minds. For whatever reason, she wishes for him to remain here with her, without incident, at least for a little while longer.

Making a noise of agreement, he leans down to kiss Aenar’s brow before burrowing farther into the chair and turning his head to gaze at Valaena. In such close quarters, her eyes cross, and he suspects his would do the same. Bringing his head yet closer to hers, their noses touch, and their lips slide together in a series of chaste kisses.

A knock at the door startles Valaena. She shrieks into his mouth and bites his bottom lip. As Alastor enters the room, she tries to get up from his lap, but he tightens his arm around her waist, keeping her where she is. Abashed, she hides her face in his neck. Digging her nails into his nape, she hisses, “Let me up at once.”

Worried that he will not be able to keep his face impassive for much longer with her pinching him, he releases her. Gracefully, she gets to her feet.

Politely, Alastor waits until she has made her way around the desk to greet her. “Princess.” His eyes dipping lower, he makes a funny face and adds, “Prince Aenar.”

Laughing as Aenar twists in her arms and buries his face in her shoulder, Valaena dips her head. “Lord Swyft.”

Turning to Aemond, Alastor inquires, “Any luck, my prince?”

Aemond’s mind returns to the tiresome, weeks-long task he has before him. He sighs. “None.”

Inquisitive, Valaena pries, “No luck as to what?”

Obliging, Alastor informs her, “Ser Quince’s storage records have somewhat confounded us, I’m afraid.”

Her face clears in comprehension. “Ah, yes, I’d some trouble with them myself at first.” She extends her hand in a silent request for one of the record books on the table, so Alastor holds it up for her, flipping it open and watching as she runs her finger down a page. “The calculations in the margins confused me until I realized that these are usage records, not storage records.”

Alastor’s face clears, too, astonishment taking the place of frustration. “Of course! How had I not realized it sooner?”

Valaena reassures him. “Ser Robert is a poor mathematician, so it is not immediately clear that this,” she points to some number on the page, “is a remainder only when added to this number.” She concludes by pointing to some other number, and Alastor is further amazed.

A kernel of resentment set to pop within him, Aemond wonders, scornful, “What use are usage records if the point is to keep record of what you have?”

Charitably, she illuminates, “It helps some people think, and they are useful in some circumstances, like now, I imagine.” His brow furrows, and reading his confusion, she clarifies, “If you haven’t had access to storage records, how have you been keeping track of what you have used?”

At the question, it occurs to Aemond that he might have been botching the task of running Dragonstone. He wonders what the fallout may be for not having kept track of any of the food eaten, the animals slaughtered, or the armaments displaced. 

Alastor steps in, assuring her, “I have been keeping a record, Princess.”

“Excellent,” she says. “I do keep duplicate storage records. They are in my chambers. I can show you, if you should like, my lord.”

Alastor bows his head. “I would be most grateful.”

Cheerily, Valaena briefly returns to Aemond’s side to hand Aenar off to him, entirely heedless of his fresh sullenness. He tries in vain to convey it to her in a glare, but she ignores him and heads out the door with Alastor a deferential step behind her.

Exhaling heavily, Aemond rests his head on one hand whilst the other cradles Aenar against his chest. With his hands near Aemond’s clavicle, Aenar pushes up with his knees, bouncing and half-standing atop Aemond’s thigh. Desiring him in a more secure position, Aemond sits up and brackets Aenar’s torso with both hands.

In spite of his son’s liveliness, Aemond feels little of his exuberance. He peers over his head, down at one of the open albums. Even with a newly-enlightened eye, he finds it difficult to decipher Quince’s nonsense scribblings. Glancing up toward the open door, he spies Criston peeking in on them, the man peculiarly not having followed Valaena. He suspects this is not by chance, and much as with the management of the castle’s stores, Valaena is more adept than he at managing its men, too.

On another day, another embarrassing incident takes place in his study, though he is spared his blushes this second time that Valaena visits. She and Alastor are in the midst of discussing trade between the isles in the bay and the westerlands, the existence of which he had not been aware, when Roland intrudes. Spotting her, Roland casts a distrustful eye on her. She ignores him.

Roland steps over to Aemond’s side. Obsequious, he bows his head and tells him, “We mourned your absence on the training field this morn, my prince.”

Aemond stifles a grin as he spies Valaena mime kissing over Roland’s shoulder. He replies, “We rose late.”

He watches as Valaena’s face crumples into a glower, and she mouths to him, “Do not tell others—” Her lips draw together too quickly, and the rest of what she says is indecipherable. Amused, Alastor observes as she silently sputters at Aemond.

Ignorant to the commotion at this back, Roland asks Aemond, “I wonder if I may ask your advice as to a matter of some importance?” At the request, Valaena scowls, scornful. Aemond resists the urge to sneer at her. He waves Roland on. “You arranged the Prince Daeron’s betrothal, yes?”

“Yes,” he confirms. “And then Valaena spoiled it by burning the girl alive.” All eyes in the room go to her, and she turns from their sight, her lips twisting in not quite a smile, but certainly not a frown. “Why do you ask?”

His eyes cutting away from Valaena’s back, Roland heaves a weighty sigh and reveals, “I must need marry my sister, but I’ve encountered some difficulty in selecting a suitable candidate.”

Aemond hums, disinterested. He attempts to get out of acting as counsel. “I was merely sent to secure the betrothal. I’d no role in its inception.”

Valaena offers him reprieve. “I should be happy to lend you my assistance, if you should like, Lord Reyne. Some womanly advice,” she proffers.

Despite himself, as he wanders over to his seat, Aemond wonders, “Skoros syt?”

From out the side of her mouth, she returns, “P’glaesot hen ābrītsos ābra bērīs Pa—” She trails off, searching for the correct translation in her head. When it does not come to her, she finishes simply, “Balance.”

“Gīda,” he ponders.

“Do,” she sighs, squinting and then shaking her head when still, the word eludes her.

After they have finished conferring, Roland gives Valaena a strained half-smile. “Thank you, my lady, though I do not think I require anything as invaluable as that.”

Valaena tenses at his derisive tone. “Do you know, women are half of all marriages.”

“The inconsiderable half,” he mutters.

The insult is quiet enough for Valaena to pretend as though she had not heard it, and when she does not immediately parry it, Aemond wonders if that is indeed what she intends to do. Alas, no such luck for the young lord. Rhetorically, she posits to him, “The purpose of marriage, at least in your circles, is to propagate the family line, a task which only a woman can perform, mind you.”

Roland laughs without humor. “Tell me, my lady, does Prince Aenar take his surname from you or your husband?”

Valaena smiles as though she is furious. “Me.” Roland parts his lips to refute her, but she heads him off. “My Aenar is a Targaryen for my marriage to a Targaryen, not his father’s spunk.” With that said, she turns away, as though to dismiss him. However, under her breath, though not so low as to not be heard by all the men in the room, she remarks, “If that was not so, your bastard daughter would be Iris Reyne, not Iris Hill.”

Umbrage shades Roland’s face with puce, and he sways toward Valaena, as though to trounce her for the slight. She pays him no mind, but Aemond takes more care, standing and pinning Roland with a warning glance. Alastor displays alarm, as well, one leg extending as though to step between Roland and the princess. Roland’s teeth grind together, and rather than condemn himself to the chopping block, he swivels on his heel and storms from the room.

With the threat, however definite it was, vanquished, Aemond places Valaena on the other end of a disapproving stare. She is without regret, snarling, “How that hideous sycophant’s wife stands him, I do not know.”

“I do not think she spends very much time with him on her feet,” quips Alastor, his mustache curled over his curling smile. It is well known that Roland is desirous of a son and heir, having only daughters, both trueborn and otherwise, with two of the former and, all suspect, another on the way.

Her eyes wide, a bark of surprised laughter leaves Valaena. Aemond is less amused, chastising Alastor for being so crass in front of his wife, “Swyft.”

Suitably admonished, Alastor bows his head. “My apologies, Princess.”

“No, please, my lord. I relish a good sense of humor,” she assures him.

Nevertheless, Alastor takes his leave of them, excusing himself. With them alone, Valaena turns to Aemond and continues chortling.

Once she has finished, she seats herself on the edge of his desk and pushes an errant tendril of his hair over his shoulder. He assumes the gesture is an attempt to make him smile, and when it does not work, she frowns. “Wherefore art thou so glum, Husband? Art thou cross with me for insulting thy friend?”

“He’s not my friend,” he quibbles.

“Good,” she lauds. “What then?”

It is frivolous, he knows. “That which you said about Aenar,” he admits.

“That I gave him his surname,” she gleans. He gives a half-nod, his frown smoothing out somewhat. “Oh, hush. It was your spunk, as you well know.”

Aemond loses the chance to respond, as he spies a small figure in the doorway, one that soon inquires, “What’s spunk?”

Her countenance reddening, Valaena jumps from atop the desk and swivels to face her youngest brother. “Ah, it means courage,” she fibs.

Aegon sits down across from Aemond, gawking at her with guileless, plum-colored eyes. “What about courage?”

Valaena’s hand comes down on Aemond’s shoulder. “Aemond was just recounting to me the tale of his claiming Vhagar and his courage in doing so. Have you ever heard the story?” Aegon shakes his head. She signals to Aemond, “Start over,” and flees, doubtlessly from embarrassment.

Aemond, left with Aegon staring at him expectantly, has no choice but to start the tale. At its end—after he has narrowly avoided immolation by the old queen, after his voice has gone hoarse from screaming and his hair has grown windswept, after Vhagar has burrowed into the sands of Driftmark once more—Aegon wonders, “What happened next?”

Aemond feels the lacerated muscles around his false eye spasm. “Then Luke took my eye.”

Aegon is quiet for a long while, looking down at his lap. In that time, Aemond thinks the conversation over, until Aegon asks another question. “Is that why you killed him?”

Stupefied, Aemond looks up from his own lap. Aegon glares at him from underneath his fringe, his petite face pinched up in a resentful scowl. Aemond is surprised not only at his nerve, but by the extent of his knowledge. By the manner in which Aegon conducts himself—he is the least hostile of all of Rhaenyra’s children, and he is less fearful of him than Aemond had anticipated—Aemond had been of the belief that he had not known precisely how Lucerys died.

“Yes,” he confesses quietly.

No reply is issued, and as the silence between them persists, their dialogue dies a deplorable death, same as Lucerys.

Aemond wakes to an erthequake. The bed shakes, and a heavy weight falls onto him. It grips his shoulders, shakes him harder, and calls his name, apprising him of the fact that his wife is simply being dramatic.

Groaning, he turns onto his front, mashing his face into his pillow. He grumbles into it, “Get off me, woman. What hour is it?”

“The Sun is out,” she retorts. “And look what else.” Rushing across the room, she undoes the latch on one of the windows and flings it open. A cold breeze immediately tears through the room, blowing at the draperies, her maiden’s cloak, and most importantly, Aemond.

Shuddering, he burrows farther underneath the bedclothes. “Close that,” he commands.

“But look! It is snowing,” she exclaims. She points to the cascading flurries of white past the window, beaming and practically vibrating from excitement.

Nevertheless, he retains his sour disposition. “You have seen snow before.”

“Yes, but our son has not,” she sings. She returns to the bed, trying to tug the sheets from his body.

He holds them firm. “Can he not see it at a reasonable hour?”

“It could cease at any moment,” she argues, resolute. Sighing, he gives in. He supposes he would hate to miss the wonder in Aenar’s eyes at his first snowfall. He shoves up from the bed, and she cheers.

Valaena is attired faster than he has ever seen, gone from the room before he can so much as wipe the rheum from his eye. She returns before he has finished dressing, touting with her Aenar, who wears a tiny, trimmed winter coat and a matching cap.

He admires the visage of his wife and child. “He is better dressed for the weather than I.” The heaviest coat he brought with him to Dragonstone is the long, leather one he wears for dragonriding.

She smooths down the woolen fabric of their son’s cloak. “I made this myself, do you know.”

“Yes, well done,” he salutes. Stepping over, he grants each of them a kiss on the cheek, which elicits a squeal from Aenar.

Valaena’s smile widens, and she grabs his hand and leads him from the apartment. With Criston trailing them, they venture to Aegon’s Garden, where they encounter a brumal landscape. The sight surprises Aemond. He speculates that it must have been snowing for hours, for so much snow to be covering the sultry grounds.

As she steps out onto the main path, Valaena’s foot slides along a patch of ice. Shrieking, she clutches Aenar to her chest and pivots before throwing herself back into a small snowdrift. She falls onto her rump, and half-buried in snow, laughs heartily. Aenar, like to have felt little more than a jolt, joins her in her mirth.

Despite what little harm appears to have befallen them, Aemond frets. He and Criston both bound over to the decumbent pair. At his approach, Valaena holds up Aenar for him to take, so he does, settling the still-cachinnating boy on his hip. This gives Criston the opportunity to step in and lift Valaena into his own arms, much to Aemond’s chagrin.

Flushed prettily from the excitement, she keeps a steadying grip on the knight’s arm. “Thank you, Ser Criston.” Criston tells her to think nothing of it, his gaze affectionate and his hand still on her waist, and Aemond fumes.

More roughly than he had intended, he grabs her by the arm and snatches her back from Criston. She stumbles and collides with him, though he keeps them all upright. Glaring at Criston, he orders him to remain by the castle’s entrance and drags Valaena farther into the garden.

She hardly notices his displeasure, coaxing him into passing Aenar back to her and subsequently becoming consumed with the boy. Holding him up high, she points out the falling snow to him, at one point collecting some in her free hand and sprinkling it over his head. They continue along the laid path, past laden heather and barren honeysuckle bushes, with Aemond steering her away from the ice along the ground.

There is an enormous snowbank at the end of one, long path. Aemond wonders at the hedgerow which must sit underneath it, at least until it moves. It shivers and shakes, snow falling off its back in clumps as white gives way to purple chased with green. Once it is at its full height, its weight on its hind legs, it leers down at him, its rows of teeth bared and yellow eyes glinting.

Valaena stands closer to her dragon, beyond the reach of Aemond’s arms. They grow farther apart as Veraxes’s long neck intervenes between them, Aemond having no choice but to step back or face the beast’s maw. Veraxes opens his mouth, and a low, sinister rumble slithers over his tongue. Aemond feels sure that Valaena, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Veraxes, means to either mount him and fly away or set Aemond aflame. For a terrible moment, he wonders if this has all been a plot; if all her joy and enthusiasm had been a ploy to draw him outside so that she may finally do away with him, and in front of their infant son.

He can tell that she is considering her options, too, her gaze darting between her dragon and her husband. Mercifully, she chooses neither of his imagined alternatives. She whistles sharply, and Veraxes’s attention is drawn to her, his head receding from before Aemond and turning to point toward her. She pets his snout, and Aemond forces himself to relax, even as one yellow eye stays on him.

“Rytsas, zaldrītsos,” she says. Veraxes rumbles at her, too, though the sound is far more cordial.

Soon enough, he becomes preoccupied with Aenar. He sniffs at the babe, whose tiny hand nearly fits into one of his giant nostrils before Valaena tugs it back. Aenar stares up at the great beast with wonder, and he tries to speak to him, waving his arms and murmuring nonsense. Valaena relishes the friendliness between her son and her dragon, pointing out to Aenar that his eyes are the same color as Veraxes’s scales.

With how calm the boy is around the gargantuan dragon, Aemond wonders if they have met before. Taking a cautious step closer to the triad, he speaks the question aloud.

“No,” answers Valaena. “I had the thought of taking him aloft on Veraxes soon after his birth, as your grandmother did with your father on Meleys, but,” she sighs, “I was too unnerved by the war, I think, as well as diverted by the trips to Storm’s End and King’s Landing.”

Trips, she calls them, he thinks but does not say. He is nearly at her side again, with Veraxes permitting him close enough to step around his nose. Once he is within arm’s length of her, he reaches out to fix Aenar’s hat, the garment having been pushed to the side by Veraxes’s hot breath. His hand drifts down to Aenar’s back thereafter. He shares, “I have thought of taking him on Vhagar—”

At once, Valaena turns on him, her mien livid. “No,” she rebukes sharply. Taken aback, he means to say something to assuage her, but she preempts him with further, sterner disapproval. “Never ever take him near her.” Veraxes echoes her concern, rumbling menacingly again.

Reluctantly, he accedes to her wish. “All right.” 

With his acquiescence, Valaena calms, taking in a few heavy breaths through her nose. She spares him a calculated, tremulous, plainly false smile before turning away and stomping back toward the castle. He follows her at a safe distance, loath to be left alone with Veraxes. As she makes her way inside, Criston steps in between them, and Aemond watches as his white cape disappears at the end of a corridor.

Aemond spends the rest of the day alone, whiling away his time in Valaena’s apartment, which remains conspicuously empty but for him and Aster. At supper, it is only Aegon who joins him, with the boy just as bewildered as he by this outcome. When night comes and still, Valaena does not arrive in her chambers, Aemond ventures into the hall, intent to search for her.

Mayhaps fortuitously, he finds Criston there. Curtly, he inquires, “Where is my wife?”

Having been staring straight ahead, Criston glances sidelong at him. For the briefest moment, he hesitates, and Aemond thinks he will not receive an answer. The moment passes, however, and Criston supplies, “Her brother’s rooms.”

Turning away from him, Aemond starts down the hall. “Which brother?”

“Lucerys,” the man answers, and Aemond’s steps falter.

He wonders why Valaena would idle away her time in the rooms of a dead boy. He suspects that at his mention of Vhagar earlier in the day, she had begun to despair over her brother’s death, but for her to stew in it like this astounds him. He does not think it prudent to ruminate over such misery all alone. With that thought in mind, he continues, once more intent on retrieving his wife.

When he arrives at Lucerys’s apartment, he dithers once more. He is not one to fear vengeful spirits, though he feels that entering the boy’s rooms would be unseemly considering the way Lucerys met his end. Nevertheless, he had come down here for a purpose.

The door creaks open, and as he steps into the abandoned solar, he is greeted by a stale smell. The room also hosts Valaena, who sits with her head delicately balanced atop one hand and her back to the door.

“I told you I shall be along to bed soon.” She rubs at her forehead, and her voice wavers when she speaks again. “Just wait for me there.”

Not sure as to whom she believes she speaks, Aemond inhales, meaning to tell her that he has been waiting for her in bed, though no words need pass his lips. She must recognize him by his breath, as she whips around, her eyes wide at the sight of him. Shakily, she stands and commands him in a grave, quavering whisper, “You, get out.”

He stays put. “Have you been in here all day?”

Just as he expected, her wallowing in the dusty rooms which have become something of a shrine to her dead brother has taken a toll on her. She looks wretched, with her nose red and salty trails suspended beneath her eyes. Stepping around the bench on which she had been sitting, she points at him and reiterates, her teeth gritted, “Get out of my brother’s rooms.”

Perhaps too viciously, he replies, “These are not his rooms anymore.”

The cruel words must push her another step too far. She howls at him with the sort of scream that tears apart one’s throat from the inside. “Get out!” Darting forward, she shoves at him, as though hoping to spur him from the room. He falls back a step but no farther than that, standing firm. Stymied, she turns from him, wild-eyed and in search of something. He follows her, listening as she mutters to herself, “He was a boy. There must be one somewhere.” Realizing that she is in search of a weapon, he is dismayed but not particularly worried. He knows well how easy it is to disarm her.

Roughly, she tears open a wardrobe. A glass jar falls down from its highest shelf, smashing against the floor and breaking into several hundred pieces. He sees that among the shards of glass, there are fractured pieces of something else, too, in an array of colors: pink, blue, purple, orange, and white. Seashells, of varying sizes and shapes, all broken.

This pushes Valaena yet another step toward the edge of the cliff over which she teeters. Precipitously, her tears return to her at full force, and she begins yanking at strands of her hair.

He tries to snap her out of the state in which he has found her, calling her name, but she does not hear him. She falls to her knees, her hands reaching out to grasp at the jagged bits of mollusk, groaning, “The seashells.” In a stupor, she looks up at him and answers an unasked question. “He used to collect them whenever we ventured to Driftmark.” Her gaze returns to the floor, littered with the shattered remains of her brother’s memories, and she gasps out a sob. “I’ve ruined them.”

“What does it matter? He’ll never know,” Aemond tells her in what he realizes as soon as he speaks it is a wretched attempt at comfort.

Sobbing harder, she clenches her hands into fists around the broken shells. “Aemond, please. I shall speak to you come the morning. Please leave me.” Carefully, she pries her fingers apart. The shell fragments, now painted red, fall from her grip.

Unhappy to see his wife along the floor, just as broken as her brother’s seashells, Aemond stays where he is. He desires to patch up the rift between them, with the hope that she will not hide away like this again. “I think we should speak of him. What happened.”

Some of her ire returns to her voice. “You have spoken enough of him.”

He endures, “I have told you some of it already—”

She holds her bloody hands up by her ears. “I cannot hear any more of your excuses.”

Fighting against the instinct to quibble over her choice of word, he takes a deep breath. “I just—I wish to admit—to confess—that the blame lies with me.” He thinks of telling her more. He could tell her how Lucerys cried out for his dragon to stop, to serve him, but to no avail. He could tell her that it was only after he and Lucerys left the storm brewing over Shipbreaker Bay that Vhagar struck the final blow.

Bursting, Valaena slams her palms against the floor and stands. “I know the fucking blame lies with you! We all know. The entire realm knows!” She points at him again. “You are the Kinslayer.”

He smarts at the sobriquet but again holds his tongue.

Growing yet more incensed, she spits, “I shall never find the strength to forgive you, no matter what you say; no matter what you do! You have done that which can never be undone!” Her speech wavers, “Lu-Luc-Luke can never grow old. He can never marry Rhaena and sire her children. He cannot live on Driftmark with her and Jace and Baela. His life is over, and it is all for you!”

Suitably chastened, he looks away, though she does not see fit to end there. She inhales slowly, building herself up again. “It can never be undone, and that is the worst part of it. Everyone else loses him just as I do. None of us can ever see him again. But everyone else—If it had been anyone else who did it, not you, I could fall into your arms and weep to my heart’s content, but rather,” she shouts, as though to ward off the very weeping of which she speaks, which seems imminent by the way her chin wobbles. “Rather, I must lose you both. I must despise you evermore.”

At her spoken thought, a chance for reconciliation shines in his mind’s eye. She must see the moment he decides to act on it, though not what he intends to do, as she takes a half-step back and goes rigid. Unwilling to make a slow advance and risk her slipping from his grasp, he surges toward her, trampling over the sea of broken shells and cracking them into yet more pieces.

She tries to evade him, though in her fragile state, she does not get far. She bucks against him as his arms come around her, caging her in and crushing her against his chest. Her weeping indeed starts up again, yet she is still intent to get away. Throwing out an arm, she shoves him away by his head, smearing her blood on his skin. A piece of broken glass, imbedded in her palm, scrapes against his chin. Hissing, he twists his neck and keeps his grip firm.

“Aemond, let go of me,” she shouts. Heaving panicked breaths, she calls for help, screeching, “Criston!”

He grimaces, displeased by her calling for that man to save her from him. “He’s too far to hear.”

Recognizing the truth of his words, she switches tactics, crying, “Jace! Jacaerys!”

Predictably, her brother does not come to her aid. If he heard her at all at this late hour, he is like to be barred from leaving his quarters, forced to do no more than listen at the door.

Aemond tightens one arm around her and moves the other to cradle her head against his chest, even as she renews her efforts in shoving at him. He caresses the line of her jaw and murmurs reassurances into her hair, “It’s all right, ñuha irūdy. Let go. Let it out.”

She keeps at bay the bulk of her emotions for a little while longer, kicking and trying to pry herself away. Eventually, however, her frustration turns to utter distress, and she begins wailing in full. Watery ramblings escape her as he strokes her hair and rocks her like he sometimes does Aenar when he is upset in the middle of the night. Soon, her legs give out, and he holds her up until she has disposed herself of all her strength. She slips into a senseless torpor, slumping against him entirely.

He gathers her into his arms in the same manner as northmen carry their brides and brings her to her rooms. When Criston sees them, solicitude and a hint of outrage color his face, though before he can speak any such sentiment, Aemond dismisses him with an order to fetch the maester. Aemond carries Valaena to her bed, sitting back against the headboard and lying her down along his side. When Gerardys arrives, the old man glares something terrible at Aemond but quietly gets to work on the broken skin of Valaena’s hands. She barely stirs as he threads stitches through the biggest of the scrapes, her head laid on Aemond’s shoulder. Once he has wrapped her hands, he glances at the shallow slash across the bottom of Aemond’s face but does not see fit to dress it.

After Gerardys has left, Aemond rouses Valaena enough to strip her of her dressing robe. He arranges them along the mattress again, and she falls asleep in his arms for the first time in months.

“There has been a battle, south of the Gods Eye, led by House Dustin for the Blacks.” Roland licks his lips, as though considering how he wants to deliver the rest of whatever news he has. “Both the Lannister host and the men you sent south down the Kingsroad were butchered by the Black army and their allies throughout the riverlands. There were five-hundred or so survivors of your brother’s men, all of whom deserted to join the cause of your half-sister.”

Aemond stiffens, his spine made straight by his disquiet. “How is that possible? We had thousands of men.” It disheartens him to learn that not only have their forces have been so grievously depressed, but that his decisions had been the cause of so many lives lost.

“So had the Black queen,” Alastor tells him.

“She is not queen,” Roland spits at Alastor. The older man shakes his head, turning away from him.

Looking away from Roland himself, Aemond peers over at Aegon. The boy sits across from him, his eyes wide as he takes in the revelations of the afternoon. When first Roland had burst into the study with his report from the rookery, he had complained of the little prince’s presence. Aemond had told him to think nothing of it. Aegon is too young to be any cause for concern as to the goings-on of the war. Even if he was capable of fully understanding of any of the events being discussed, it is not as though he could act on any feelings he might have.

Sighing, Aemond inquires, “What else is there?”

Roland sifts through the letters in his hold. “Your uncle, Prince Daemon, has left the capital, going to Maidenpool with another of the Black dragonriders.”

“Which one,” he asks.

Reading the missive again with palpable frustration, Roland shakes his head. “I do not know. This describes them only as ‘the Spicetown bastard.’”

Frowning, Aemond fails to come up with a name himself. He knows that several dragonseeds had claimed dragons at Jacaerys’s behest, but he hardly knows who any of them are or which dragons they ride. Glancing over at Aegon, he wonders, “Do you know of whom we speak?” Haltingly, Aegon nods. “Would you care to tell me?” Aegon shakes his head.

“You will obey your elder, boy,” flashes Roland. Aegon flinches back from him, his eyes welling with tears.

Aemond stands, drawing everyone’s attention to him. He dismisses Alastor and Roland with a flick of his hand, with the latter bowing his head before they both leave. Left with Aegon, he tells the boy to run off and play with Aenar, an opportunity for escape which Aegon eagerly takes. He soon leaves the room himself, intent on seeking out Criston. The man has been here since the Battle of the Gullet; he is like to know who this Spicetown bastard is.

After he is informed that Criston is off-duty, he heads toward the knights’ quarters in another wing of the castle. Once he arrives, he finds the corridors wholly deserted, most men either at their posts at this time of day or asleep in preparation for standing guard through the night. Criston’s room is on the topmost floor, alongside the quarters of the other White Swords. He is glad to find the door ajar when he arrives as it means the man is awake. He raises a hand to knock, though he is soon deterred.

Criston is entertaining company, and not of the sort a knight of the Kingsguard is meant to keep. A voice speaks, high and feminine. Of more concern, it is a voice Aemond recognizes well.

“May I remind you, ’twas you who brought down the drawbridge for him. You’ve no standing to complain now,” Valaena tells Criston. Aemond can see the both of them through the crack in the doorway. Criston stands with his back to him, bereft of his armor. Light from the window shines behind Valaena, bathing her face in shadow.

Criston takes an urgent step toward her, picking at the gauze wrapped around one of her fingers. “May I remind you, I know the color of your skin beneath these plasters.”

“So dramatic,” she complains, pulling down the cuffs of her sleeves so as to cover her bandaged hands. “I told you what happened. It is not as though he beat me.”

Criston wags a finger at her. “Any damage done to a married woman is the fault of her husband.” She scoffs, but he continues, “Even if he does not inflict it himself, it is his duty to protect her from those who would do her harm.”

“And if she should stumble when going down the stairs,” she wonders, a sportive grin on her lips.

He does not miss a beat. “He should have been there to escort her.”

She scoffs again. “Oh, you are absurd, and you speak only as one who has never wed can.”

Taking a step yet closer to her, he thumbs at her chin, and his tone turns fond. “Were that I could have wed. You would be mine in name.”

Seething at the image that Criston’s words invoke—of Valaena wed to another man, to his own mentor, of all people, the traitor—Aemond smacks the door, and it blows wide open. He steps into the room as its two occupants jolt and turn toward the resounding noise the wood makes as it slams against the wall. Seeing his rage, Criston steps in front of Valaena and reaches for a sword that is not at his hip.

Aemond sways toward them on his feet, not quite inclined to move forward yet. His mind soon changes, however, as Criston panics and pushes Valaena out of harm’s way, back onto his bed with a hand on her middle, and this is the final insult brought to bear.

He throws himself at Criston, punching him hard across the face. He follows up the blow with a knee to his gut. When Criston doubles over, Aemond grabs him by the shoulder and thrusts him aside. As he crumples to the ground, Aemond is somewhat surprised by how well he is faring. Criston has both weight and experience on him. If he wants to come out on top, he thinks, he must act swiftly. Taking a step toward the prone man, his hand travels to the hilt of his dagger.

Before he can draw it, his arm is seized by his foolish wife. With an anxious breath, she urges, “Aemond, wait—”

Turning on her, he grips her by her shoulders and pushes her back against the door, which clicks shut underneath her back. Staring up at him, her eyes glassy and wide, she appears terribly frightened. He stares back, shoving down the unease swirling in his stomach and hissing, “You are next.”

In an unexpected, entirely ungentlemanly maneuver, Criston grips him by his hair and yanks him back. He bends backward at the waist, and unbalanced, he is easily brought to the floor, where Criston proceeds to pummel him. He catches blows along his collarbone, his jaw, and his neck, which chokes, sending a gasping, stuttering breath from him. Criston’s fist next delivers a particularly vicious strike to his nose, and blood gushes down from it as, he suspects, it breaks.

He is faintly aware of Valaena shouting for them to stop, her voice clarion and distressed. Neither he nor Criston pays her any mind, too engrossed are they with trying to kill each other. Pushing his shoulders up from the floor, Aemond throws his head forward, smacking it against Criston’s in an effort to stun him and knock him away. The maneuver works in part. Criston reels back, but he does not go far. Kneeling on one leg, he brings his other leg up to kick Aemond hard in the stomach.

Aemond curls in on himself, wheezing. He throws up an arm to ward off further attack, though it never comes, a loud crack reverberating over him instead.

Valaena has slammed a wooden chair into Criston’s side. It knocks him aside and breaks apart over his form, leaving her holding only the chair’s back, with its seat and legs scattered across the floor. She holds it up as she steps between them, shouting, “Enough!”

Hastily, Aemond gets to his feet. Criston follows suit. Still poised for combat, they stand across from one another, breathing heavily. Valaena raises the chair back higher as a silent warning for them to refrain from further violence. Irked, Aemond rips it from her grasp and throws it against the floor, destroying it completely.

He advances a single step, with Criston mirroring him behind Valaena’s back. She holds up her hands, ordering, “Wait.”

Sparing, he allows her a moment to offer an explanation—anything that might shed light on why she was alone with another man in his quarters—but it does not come. Rather, she glances back at Criston, concern pulling up her brow. Inflamed, Aemond presses forward anew.

She catches him before he can pass her, drawing his arm and then his hand into her grasp. “Wait, wait, all right? I—” Rather than go on, she glimpses at Criston again.

Chafing, Aemond grabs her nape and forces her to face him once more. “Wait for what?”

“Release her,” Criston demands.

Aemond lifts his glare to him. “Shut up.”

She starts again, “I—”

“Do not tell him,” Criston cautions her.

Valaena closes her eyes, as though to shut out his voice. She squeezes Aemond’s hand tighter. Apprehensively, she admits, “I am a bastard.”

Stunned, Aemond frowns and clutches her closer to him with an arm around her waist. For as long as he can remember, Criston has been relentless in professing hers and her brothers’ bastardy. He does not think it wise for her to speak such truths before him, never mind her reasons for doing so. Ducking his head, he whispers in her ear, “What are you saying before this man?”

“I am saying that which I said to him in Rook’s Rest,” she illuminates. His brow raises in interest, and she continues, “I told him the truth of my birth. I told him,” her mouth opens and closes as her words stall, “of his grandson’s birth. I told him that I am his natural daughter.”

He drops his arm from around her and tries to step back, but she holds his other arm fast. “No,” he mutters, disbelieving. Looking between her and Criston, he sees no resemblance but for the color of their hair. Their noses, he supposes, are of a similar shape. The sets of their brows are the same, as well, drawn up in dread as they await his full reaction. “No,” he says again, though with far less certainty.

Finally tearing himself loose of Valaena’s grasp, he steps back from her whilst continuing to peer between her and Criston, her father.

Her father. Suddenly, a great many things make sense. This is why Criston turned his cloak and joined Rhaenyra’s cause so abruptly. He had no love for her but for their daughter. This is why Criston has taken such a profound interest in Aenar, speaking to Valaena of him and buying him toys. This is why he watches Valaena with so careful an eye. It is not merely for his charge that he worries whenever she finds herself in so much as a breath of peril but his blood. Blood which a knight of the Kingsguard is not meant to possess.

He takes another step back. Valaena follows, reaching out as though to take his hand again. Her expression is open and tender, and he finds he cannot bear to look at it. “Aemond—”

Criston grips her shoulder and holds her in place. “Let him go, Princess.”

As Aemond ponders how strange it is that the sight of Criston laying a hand on his wife no longer infuriates him as it did mere minutes ago, he turns and departs from the room. He thinks that if he is not alone in this moment, he may say something regrettable.

He tramps through the castle, all the way back to Sea Dragon Tower. His feet take him to the nursery, wherein Aegon and a nursemaid startle when he flings open the door. Stomping over to Aegon, who sits on the floor with Aenar in his lap, he demands, “Give him to me.”

Aegon hugs his half-nephew to his chest. “No.”

His arms still extended in anticipation of being handed the babe, he asks sharply, “What?”

Staring up at him with defiance in his gaze, Aegon justifies his refusal. “You’re angry.”

“I am not angry,” he snaps before turning his head aside. His eye catches on the wet nurse, and upon sitting under his glare for no more than three seconds, she rises and flees. Belatedly, he recalls that his face is still wet with blood. Pressing his lips together, he resists the impulse to wipe his face clean and forces himself to take in a long breath through his throbbing nose. “I am not angry,” he repeats in a more reserved tone. “Give him to me.”

When still, Aegon does not move to hand over Aenar, Aemond bends to pluck him from the boy’s lap, thinking that his cousin is not fool enough to fight him. He is correct, and soon, Aenar is settled within his embrace. He waves at Aegon with the back of his hand. “Run along.” Frowning, Aegon obeys him this time.

Aemond settles down in his usual chair and arranges Aenar to sit in his lap. Aenar’s eyes flick about the room, curiously uninterested is he in the gory picture his father makes. By contrast, Aemond’s attention is focused firmly on Aenar’s face. He examines it for any resemblance to Criston, but the effort is fruitless, as he sees only a reflection of himself. Scarcely a trace of Valaena, even, stands out to him.

How strange it is, he muses, to no longer think of Ser Harwin as her father. For all that he had believed the Strong heir to have sired her—and he had believed it, never doubting his assumption for a moment—Harwin and Valaena had never been linked in his mind. Never had he supposed that she bore any resemblance to the man. Rather, she shared traits with her eldest brothers, who—surely, they were Harwin’s sons. Yes, they must have been. Harwin’s competing sentiments for the lot of them—his adoration of the boys and disinterest in her—are discordant no more.

Another man’s competing sentiments come to his mind. For the longest time, Criston cared only for Aemond and his brothers, scorning Valaena’s brothers and thinking nothing of her. Now, he realizes, Criston’s loyalties have shifted. No longer will Criston make derisive comments about Valaena whilst he and Aemond spar. Now, he imagines, his former teacher will stab him in the back at the earliest opportunity.

Already, Criston has lied to him. It was not Aemond’s mother who sent Criston here to safeguard Aenar, as he claimed weeks past. Rather, he came of his own accord, perhaps with the same ambition but with a different heart. About what else has Criston lied to him, he wonders, besides the obvious.

Eventually, Aenar grows fussy, having grown weary of sitting in Aemond’s lap with naught to occupy his flighty mind. Supposing he ought to clean himself up, Aemond calls for a wet nurse and surrenders Aenar to her. As he makes his way toward Valaena’s rooms, he realizes that he has missed supper but does not feel hungry, more preoccupied is he with wondering as to whether he will be welcome in his wife’s apartment. Mayhaps opportunely, she is not there when he arrives. He bathes and dresses for the night, pleased to discover in the midst of his routine that his nose causes him too little pain for it to be broken. He eyes himself in the mirror, staring at the large, red mark in the middle of his face, which is sure to develop into a ghastly bruise in the next day or so.

He thinks of waiting up for Valaena but thinks better of it, considering how he lost his temper earlier in the day. He falls asleep wondering if she will throw him out when at last she comes to bed.

Mercifully, she does not. He stirs to her gently shaking him. She sits on the edge of the mattress beside him, looking terribly vulnerable with her hair down and the strings of her corset undone.

“Hello,” she whispers when she sees that he is awake. He drags himself into a seated position, leaning back against the headboard. “I did not think you would come to my bed this night.”

“Why not,” he asks, his voice gravelly from sleep.

Her hand drops to the bedclothes covering his legs, her gaze following the movement. “You are angry with me.”

“I am not angry,” he repeats for what feels like the thousandth time this day.

She insists, “You are. What transpired this day, and—” She sighs. “We argue most days, and ’tis not I who starts our quarrels on half of them.”

He reiterates, “I am not angry with you.”

“You are,” she maintains.

“I am not.” He attempts to render his state of mind into words, “We are reft apart, you and I, standing on opposite sides of this war, and so I feel at war with myself. I—” Thinking further on it, he admits, “I feel angry at myself, at my mother, my brother.” She makes a sympathetic noise, petting down the length of his arm. Even as she comforts him, he can tell that she is need of reassurance herself, and he heartens, “I love you.”

Her mouth quirks up at the side as her gaze warms. “Are you certain?” The jovial note in her tone keeps him from avouching straight away. “Now that you know you were right. I am a bastard.” Her eyes return to the bedclothes, her smile turning bitter, perhaps even forlorn. “I hope that pleases you.”

“It does,” he confesses, surprising her. He reaches out to card his fingers through her hair. “You please me as you are. Your beauty, your cunning, your tenderness. Were you trueborn, you would not be you.”

Valaena leans closer, drawn in like a moth to a flame. With her sitting on his left, he can hardly see her, so he stays where he is and lets her come to him.

Once her faces are but a few inches apart, their breath mingling, he continues, “More than that, had I never had cause to question your birth, my father would not have betrothed us. You would not be mine. My love, my lady, ñuha irūdy.” His lips hover over hers, his eye flicking between her mouth and her dusky, amber orbs, as he waits for her to cave.

Overcome, she presses forward, bringing their lips together. Their necking starts out slow and chaste before melting into something more tortuous but no less intimate. Her hand comes up to caress his nape, and he takes that as his cue to wind an arm around her and draw her farther onto the bed. Their bodies slide together as he works to pull her frock down from her shoulders. When it gets caught on her hips, she pulls away just long enough to extract herself, settling underneath him as soon as she is freed from the garment. 

They proceed, and it is the softest she has allowed him to be with her since she arrived on Dragonstone. There is no biting, no pulling of each other’s hair, not even a whisper of nails against flesh. Her hands skim along his arms, his chest, his back, but they live mostly on either side of his face, her thumbs dragging along his cheekbones.

He presses into her until she is full to bursting, and burst she does. She flutters around him, her eyes falling shut, her brow peaking, her fingers splaying out, gasping, “I missed you while we were parted. I missed you. I-I didn’t—” Respiring shakily, she tries again but gets just as far. “I didn’t—”

She is near tears, wholly overwhelmed. Even as his belly draws back, even as his arms shake, he shushes her. “I missed you, too, my darling.” He grits his teeth as pleasure sprints up his spine, his hips flush with hers, trapped between her quivering limbs. “I love you.”

Eyes wide as she trembles and stares up at him, she starts, “I—” She swallows around some obstacle and makes another attempt. “I—” Ultimately, her affection remains in her throat, pushing up only tears as she weeps, her arms reaching out for him. He collapses into them, and together they fall down from the sky and crash into slumber whilst cradled against one another.

Come the morning, he wakes to an empty bed, though it does nothing to diminish the contentment in his bones that has rolled over from the night. He groans as he rises and stretches, a pleasant burn rippling through his muscles. He dresses quickly, expecting to find Valaena waiting for him in her solar.

It is rather Aster who greets him when he pulls open the door, standing and fidgeting with her joined hands. Raising her chin, she informs him, “The princess sent me for you.”

Valaena wants for them to breakfast with her siblings, he surmises. Sighing, he dons his eyepatch and sword and gestures for Aster to lead the way.

She takes him a farther distance than expected, all the way to the Stone Drum. She draws up short before a pair of doors inlaid in a frame in the shape of a dragon’s mouth, motioning for him to go on ahead of her. He strides into the room, anticipating a dining room, but not so. Rather, he stands in Dragonstone’s throne room as Aster slides into place the bar on the doors behind him.

A horde of knights and squires fills the expansive room. Mostly, he recognizes men loyal to Criston, though all of the men of rank sworn to the Houses Swyft and Reyne are present, along with their lords. Unnervingly, Jacaerys and Baela are in attendance, too, stood on either side of the throne and well-armed. All are arranged around the room’s focal point, not the throne but its holder. Valaena stands tall in the center of the hall, the ground around her bare for ten feet in every direction. Standing out against a black gown with fabric that fans out behind her head like the frill of a dragon’s neck, silver gauntlets and sabatons cover her hands and feet. A jade tiara sits atop her head, the sparkling, green gems dangling across her forehead.

Agitated, Aemond demands, “What is this?”

Evenly, she explicates, “This is the end of your reign here.” Her next words spear him. “I have tired of playing with you.”

Wounded but endeavoring not to show it, he wonders yet again at how her moods vacillate. Last night, she had been so tender; it was almost as though the last eight months had never happened. Now, he thinks it more likely that it is only the latest month which never transpired. Just as she had when she arrived on Dragonstone, she stands in defiance of him with contempt gleaming in her eyes.

“I have tired of the humiliation I have suffered at the hands of mine husband and the disloyal men who serve him,” she goes on, sighing. “Sadly, such discourtesy is rather commonplace for the women in my family. My ancestor, Argella Durrandon, a woman who aspired to be a queen herself, suffered a similar abasement when trying to defend her own castle. In service to her future husband, her own men denuded her, bound and gagged her, and delivered her to Orys Baratheon.”

Thus far, Valaena has been staring unwaveringly at Aemond. For the remainder of her speech, her gaze takes a turn around the room. “Though Princess Argella would have been justified in demanding the heads of any of the apostates, seeing as how I have not been treated with such flagrant indignity myself, I will gladly see pardoned any man here for his treason against myself and my mother.” A buzz sprouts amid the crowd. She cultivates it, “Know that there has been a battle south of the Gods Eye, won by the queen’s faithful army. Know that there is no Lannister host to which you can return. Know that there is no shame in abandoning a lord who hath abandoned his rightful queen.”

The gathered men peer around the room in search of those bolder than they. All are too craven to act until does the oldest and most wizened among them. Alastor lays his sword flat and kneels beside it, bowing his head to the princess. In quick succession, his leal men follow suit.

Spitting mad where Aemond is struck dumb, Roland castigates them. “Fucking traitors! You would turn from your king for this bastard-slut and her whore mother?”

Whilst Valaena appears largely unbothered, her face displaying displeasure only by the tilt of her brow, Aemond is aggrieved. His hand twitches toward the dagger at his waist before he realizes that he had failed to add it to his belt before venturing here.

Criston hefts his morning star. “I will not suffer insults to the princess.”

Roland sways on his feet, and this is the only warning anyone gets before he rushes Valaena, drawing his sword and holding it high over his head.

Criston surges forward, as well. Jacaerys shouts in terror. Baela hastens down the steps from the throne. Aemond takes a few quick steps, as well, but it is all for naught. They are all too slow. Roland reaches Valaena. She stands her ground, grinning up at him with all her teeth. He brings his blade down, and she catches it, the metal shrieking as it slides along the mail hull over her palm. Her arm soon buckles under the weight and force of the swung blade, and the weapon careens toward the floor behind her back. Roland pulls his arm back, hoping to make another strike, but in the next moment, blood sprays all along Valaena's front, her dagger sticking through his neck.

As Aemond ponders as to when she might have retaken possession of her weapon, Martin Reyne charges her next. By now, Criston is close enough to defend her, smashing his morning star into the man’s face and tearing off his nose. Her back to the pair, Valaena lowers her arm and kicks away Roland’s body.

With the magnates of House Reyne in the arms of the Stranger, the fighting starts in earnest. Most of the men sworn to the deceased raise their swords, though some are wise enough to follow Lord Swyft’s lead and lay theirs on the ground. Surprising even himself, Aemond is among those who do not throw themselves into the fray. His sword remains at his hip, his hand fisting the air rather than its hilt.

Through the melee—Jacaerys stabs through a man’s heart, Baela slices almost clean-off a knight’s head, Criston bashes in a squire’s skull—Aemond’s eye locks with those of Valaena. She twists the blade in her grip by its pommel, considering him as he does her. Her hair is plastered to the right side of her face, sticky with bright red blood. It makes an unsettling picture, but her poise is near serene as she begins her march over to him, her sabatons clicking against the stone beneath her feet.

Her hand finds its way onto his sword’s grip before his can, and she maintains solid eye-contact as she slides the weapon from its scabbard. She sheathes her dagger, and with his sword’s point resting on the ground, she places her hand on his chest and sibilates, “Be a good boy and kneel for me.”

Inflamed, the compulsion to oppose her finally strikes him, but too late. Jacaerys appears at her shoulder and holds his sword out past her, deterring Aemond from any resistance. A mixture of exultation and pure hatred shines in his eyes, alongside the barest hint of restraint, which Aemond suspects is the only reason the point of Jacaerys’s sword rests at his throat and not through it.

With him hindered by Jacaerys, Valaena is free to give him her back and stride to the other end of the hall. She drags his sword along the ground, past his subdued allies, all of whom are either on their knees or lying flat in pools of crimson. The blade bounces along the steps leading up to the throne as she climbs them, and she twists its handle as she takes her seat. Once she is settled, it stands beside her planted feet, its point digging into the base of her throne. Unbidden, Aemond recalls his father gripping Blackfyre in much the same manner when holding court when he was very young.

Baela returns to her place to the left of the throne, planting her sword against the ground, too, and proclaiming, “All hail Valaena of House Velaryon, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.”

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

“Did you really think that you could just fly about the realm and steal my throne at no cost?” Valaena stares down at her husband, who at last stands on his knees, put there by Criston. He stares back at her and holds his tongue, defiant to the last.

Sighing, she issues him a more meaningful question. “Where is Aegon?”

This time, he answers her. “I do not know.”

“But you believe he lives,” she gleans. It has been the topic of some debate, whether Aegon’s abscondence from the Red Keep had been wholly successful. Aemond nods. “Wherefore?”

His frown worsens. “Just a feeling.”

Dryly, she remarks, “How romantic.” From beside her, Jacaerys and Baela snicker.

His jaw clenching, Aemond inhales a long breath through his nose. For a moment, Valaena thinks he will make some rejoinder, but no such response comes. Flicking her hand in his direction, she orders that he be taken to his new accommodations to await his remotion to King’s Landing.

As two burly squires drag him from the room, Jacaerys complains, “I still think it best we dispatch him now.”

The decision to take back Dragonstone today had come to her as she laid in bed last night. For a moon, she had been laying the foundation of her plan to oust her usurper husband, but following her coupling with Aemond, she had realized that she was allowing him to ensorcell her anew. She had been swayed nearly to the brink last night, on the verge of admitting her true love for him and just barely withholding the admission. If she did not act swiftly, she had appreciated, she would lose her chance.

Baela reproves Jacaerys before Valaena has the chance. “Her Grace will want the pleasure herself.”

His lips twist in displeasure. “Very well. I shall write to Mother—”

“No, no,” Valaena diverts him, standing from her throne. As a unit, the three of them descend from its dais. “Allow me. I should prefer that you oversee the men.”

He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I did not succeed in that role when last you gave it to me.”

“Don’t be silly,” she admonishes. After months of her brother doubting himself, she has grown tired of his lack of self-confidence. Nevertheless, after the Greens had come harrowingly close to exterminating the lot them by setting the Triarchy on them—and indeed succeeded in stealing little Viserys away—she cannot quite blame him. She keeps her irritation from her voice and sets him on a practical course. “We need free our leal men from the dungeons. I do not trust those who turned for Criston.” Jacaerys nods, more self-possessed with responsibility before him. “Give the commons and the squires to Ser Robert. Let him decide their fates. The knights,” she distinguishes, her eyes trailing to Ser Alfred Bloome, a sullen and sour man, “hang them. They have broken their oaths.”

“And Criston himself,” wonders Baela, her voice low so that the man in question does not overhear.

Biting her lip, Valaena tastes the late Lord Reyne’s blood. “Leave the oathbreaker to me.” She leaves for her chambers, touting Aemond’s heavy sword with her. Criston falls into step behind her, ignorant to that which lies in store for him. As they make their way through the winding corridors of Sea Dragon Tower, a squire informs her that, already, Aemond has requested a word with her. She waves the man off, distracted by the task before her.

Upon her arrival, Aster greets her. The woman gushes over how nervous she had been in guiding Aemond to the throne room and how glad she is that all had gone well. Valaena assures her that she had played her role to perfection and apologizes again for assigning her any role at all. On such short notice, she had had to improvise.

Requesting that Criston remain in her solar, she leads Aster into her bedchamber. The two women take pains to delicately remove from her head her mother’s jade tiara, a gift from Daemon in her girlhood. Aster promises to clean it with the utmost care before leaving Valaena to finish disrobing whilst she prepares her bath.

After a short soak and a thorough scrubbing, Valaena reattires herself far less richly, donning a white smock and a seafoam green kirtle. She dithers for a moment over returning Aemond’s ring to her hand, ultimately deciding that none will notice the ornament and sliding it onto her thumb.

Stepping out into her solar, she sends away Aster and thus commences her confrontation of her father.

With her eyes pinned to him, he seems to realize that something sits on her tongue. He prompts her, “Princess?”

Fiddling with her rings, she takes a deep breath before starting. “I wonder if you might settle a matter of some confusion for me.” He nods, and she presses, “You swore to my mother as a member of her Queensguard and my sword and shield, and yet when my husband arrives to take my seat, you give it to him.” The question is unspoken, but she is certain he understands it.

His voice has a sharp edge to it. “Would you have preferred that I fight him to the bitter, bloody end?” Unsatisfied by his response, her mouth draws into a tenuous line. Sighing, his gaze darts to the floor before returning to her face. “I thought it for the best.”

When he does not continue, she spurs him. “Why?”

His mouth draws into a line, as well, as he grinds his teeth. “You are adept at ruling Dragonstone, as I am certain you would be in ruling the Seven Kingdoms, but,” he sighs, his head twitching as though he is refraining from nodding it no, “it would not be right.”

Hearing this, she expects to feel a spark of outrage—at his betrayal, at his lack of confidence in her—but not so. Rather, all she feels is unease, unfurling across her shoulder blades. “No?”

Something in his gaze firms. “When first I learnt that you were of my seed, I felt much as I had when I spilt it. This was a time when I thought your mother was best to inherit. The white hart that your mother and I saw, I thought it might have been you, but that is fantasy.” This time, he does shake his head. “I cannot support your claim simply because you are my blood. It would go against my oath as a Kingsguard.”

“A Kingsguard,” she challenges, the betrayal smarting all the more. How wrong she had been to believe that her true father would defend her, no matter the cost. Aghast, she looks around the room as she attempts to gather all her thoughts. “Why, then, did you help me take back Dragonstone today?”

He licks his lips before answering, “When Prince Aemond arrived here, I thought you best positioned as his wife—the mother of his child—but seeing how he treats you,” sucking his teeth, he shakes his head again, “I could not abide any longer. For now, it is better that you hold Dragonstone.”

Her face sets in what she imagines is an ugly grimace. “So, despite our efforts this day, you do not mean to support my mother’s claim.”

He confirms her suspicion. “My only aim is your safety, as is my oath.”

“Your oath is to Her Grace. You have broken it,” she contends.

“I have sworn no legitimate oath to the Pretender. Rhaenyra cannot hope to hold the throne. She is a woman, as are you, and the lords of the realm will not brook her rule for long. Yours will never come,” he adds, offhand. She recoils at his insouciant cruelty, though he does not notice. “Beyond that, she is not so virtuous as to sit the Iron Throne.”

Incredulous, Valaena thinks first of Maegor the Cruel, her mind thereupon turning to Aegon, who is perhaps the least virtuous person she knows. “Virtuous?”

Patronizing, he elaborates, “Valaena, your very existence, it speaks to your mother’s wantonness.” She raises her brow, affronted and resentful that he has omitted his part in her existence. “And think of Prince Daemon, his infamy. They will turn the Red Keep into a brothel. No man’s daughter will be safe, nor any man’s wife. Even the boys,” he concludes, “all know what Laenor was.”

At last, outrage sparks. She points at him. “Speak no slanders against mine father.”

Criston appears to take offense, for whatever reason. “He was not your father.”

“Yes, he was,” she avers, vehement. “In the purest sense of the word. He gave me his name. He held me as a babe.”

Heatedly, he rebukes, “Enough. I am your father, and you shall do as I command. My only aim is your safety, as I have said.”

She balks. “I shall not sit idly and let you hand my mother’s throne over to Aegon.” She takes a step closer to him. “Aegon, who you said wishes to kill me, for all that you care for my safety.”

He hardly seems concerned. “Allow me to worry about Aegon. I know the king well—”

“No, no, enough. I want you out,” she interrupts, unwilling to hear anymore drivel from him. His mouth forms a displeased line again, his brow raising in indignation. “Let us say that I gave you leave, and you may go. Take off that white cloak which you so clearly do not cherish and be gone.”

Plainly holding back his frustration, his voice shakes as he responds. “You asked me to come here. I came here for you. I abandoned my post for you. I betrayed the queen mother for you!”

She sympathizes, “I realize, but—”

His ire only grows, and he speaks over her. “You are just like your mother, drawing men in with false promises.” Gaping, she wants to argue that she gave him everything she promised—a place on Rhaenyra’s Queensguard and her small council—and it is he who has broken his promises, to her and everyone else, but her voice catches in her throat as she tries not to cry.

Blinded by anger, he does not see the tears accumulating along her lashes. “I was Hand of the King! I was the Kingmaker, you spoiled cunt!”

There is a flash of pain as his arm whips out, and he cuffs her with the back of his armored hand, hard enough to knock her aside and force her head against the—

When she opens her eyes again, half of her vision is black, and the rest is fuzzy. She lies with her back along the floor, not quite sure how she got there until her head throbs sharply. Looking up toward the ceiling, she spies the hard edge of her tea table, its sharp corners made round by the mistiness of her eyes.

Kneeling beside her, Criston attempts to rouse her further with a hand on her shoulder. He turns apologetic, begging her forgiveness for losing his temper, but it does naught to sway her. Still, she wants him to leave, now more than ever.

She gets her feet underneath her again, though not without his help. Blots of light flash in her vision, and she nearly tips back over as she pushes away from him, though she manages to keep upright. She walks far enough away to put a chair between them, her hands gripping its top rail. “Leave,” she grits out as her head swims. She blinks hard to clear yet more spots of yellow, white, blue, and purple. “You and I are finished. ’Twas a mistake for—” She allows her voice to die out with a groan, her head throbbing anew, acutely enough to divert her.

For a long moment, he does no more than stare at her. Anxiety keeps her spine as straight as a staff, as she wonders whether he intends to go, stay, or stay and strike her again. At last, blessedly, he chooses the foremost option. She droops as the door slams shut behind him, praying that he intends to leave the holdfast and then the isle entirely. She would hate to have to chase him out.

Still gripping the chair before her, she leans a fair bit of her weight against it. A long, rattling breath escapes her as she trembles, the thrill from the near-brawl slowly leaking out of her. She waits until her hands no longer shake to venture out into the hall, confident that by then, the corridors will be free of him. Her mind still muddled from her brief lapse in wakefulness, she sways as she makes her way to Aemond’s cell. Occasionally, she need push herself away from the wall, lest she run headlong into it.

Not so heartless as to consign him to the dungeons, she had Aemond placed in one of the cells in the lower half of Sea Dragon Tower. Such rooms were designed for noble prisoners, with enough amenities so as to not offend them. When his guard unlocks the door, she sees that the room contains a bed—smaller than that to which he is accustomed but not uncomfortably so—various chairs, a breakfast table, and a fireplace walled-off by a grate.

She also finds Aemond, wroth and raring to go. He stands apart from her, likely having prepared a rant, though the energy drains from him when he gets a better look at her. He marches over, taking advantage of her slowed reflexes and gripping her chin. “What is this?”

“What,” she mutters, confused until his thumb brushes high on her cheek. She winces as tender pain flares. She thinks of pulling away, but he fixes her with a commanding stare, and she divulges, “I dismissed Criston. He—” The words stagger across her tongue, “He struck me.” Tactfully, she leaves out the bit about her briefly losing consciousness.

Aemond, with a flat face replete with scarcely concealed fury, takes a deep breath. “Wherefore?”

She tries to keep her voice from sounding too reedy. “I don’t know. Mayhaps he feels I owe him—”

“Not why he—” He inhales slowly once more. “Why did you dismiss him?”

Glad for the opportunity to pivot, she explains, “He’s turned his cloak so many times. I don’t trust him.”

Still staring down at her, he nods in agreement. His thumb returns to her cheek, gentle at first, though his dull nail soon digs into her sore flesh. Wincing and hissing, she rips herself away from him. He swivels and puts a few feet between them himself.

Standing in place, she feels as though she would rather flee and be alone, but something keeps her in the room, like to be whatever brought her here in the first place. “You wished to speak with me.”

His anger fully restored, he turns on her again. Pointing at her, he accuses, “You tricked me.”

“I’d not say I tricked you,” she denies at once. “Rather, I lulled you into a false sense of security.”

In truth, she had thought to trick him at first, after she had laid with him that first night and been unable to keep herself from his bed thereafter. She had figured that as long as she was following her instincts, she might as well reap some other reward along the way. Soon, however, she had recognized that her efforts to fool him into believing that there could be a partnership between them had begun to delude her, as well.

It was a dream long dead, she needed remind herself. He killed it over Shipbreaker Bay. 

“And that differs from trickery,” he sneers, dubious.

She holds up her hands in a half-shrug. “I should say so. After all, you should have known better than to attempt to take my seat out from under me.”

Frustrated, he stresses, as he had weeks past, “I was not trying to take it. I am not the heir. I know that.”

“No, but neither am I, in your mind.” Quirking her head to the side, she feels her fire return to her. “Why is that? I need ascend the throne one day, a task you have made nigh impossible, and for what! You would have been king.”

Flames erupting within him, as well, he bursts, “Daughters and second sons are not meant to be queens and kings!”

Her jaw slackens as something clicks into place in her mind, and she feels so much of the pain and rage from the last eight months drain from her. “Oh,” she blurts, for lack of anything more eloquent.

Not having followed her line of thinking, he snaps, “What?”

She articulates, “This is why you are so staunchly Green despite our marriage and our son. You feel as though you would be usurping your elder brother were you my king consort.”

Scowling at her, he asks, “Have you just realized this?”

Having ebbed like the tide, her anger flows back. “By the gods, Aemond! This is why?” Unable to help herself, she aggrandizes, “Fuck! You’ve fucked us!”

Condescendingly, he argues, “How have I fucked us?”

She refrains from shouting again. “Aegon did not want the throne until you and your mother and my fa—my father—”

“Do not call him that,” objects Aemond.

She amends, “Until the lot of you put him on it. Now, we are fucked.”

“We are not fucked. I am fucked. I have made the irreparable blunder. I will suffer the consequences.” His hand wrings his own neck. “Soon, I expect.”

Her hands go to her hips. “Do you imagine you are the only one who has made an irreparable blunder? No amount of groveling can convince Aegon to take me back into his heart, if indeed I ever had a place in it. Either I one day sit the Iron Throne, or I die now.”

“What are you talking about,” he wonders, his brow furrowed.

Exasperated with how thick her husband can sometimes be, she makes plain, “I mutilated him.”

Dismissive, he waves a hand. “That was his own fault.”

“That is not how he sees it,” she contests. “He wishes me dead. Criston told me so.”

Gradually, he registers that they are, as she so crudely put it, fucked. They cannot back Rhaenyra because she would take Aemond’s head. They cannot back Aegon because he would take Valaena’s. Their only choice is to come asunder and face their fates alone.

Abruptly, he steps up to her again, his hands encircling her waist. “Then let us flee.”

Nearly dumbstruck, her eyes round as she mumbles, “What?” Thoughtlessly, her hands go to his shoulders.

“Let us take Aenar and flee. We can go to Essos. We can return to Valyria,” he fervently proposes, no matter how incredulous the idea. She wonders if he recalls the story of Princess Aerea Targaryen. “Let us go away together, exile ourselves as our forebears did and save ourselves from the doom awaiting us.”

Captivated but not quite mesmerized, she whispers, “I am not so craven.” She could never abandon her mother or her little brothers, not even for the preservation of her poor, maudlin heart.

His hands clench tighter around her waist, his knuckles pressing in uncomfortably under her ribs. “You are not the one who is days away from the chopping block.” He pulls her closer, and their lips brush with each word he utters. “Will you watch as the headsman does his work?”

“No,” she admits. When at last the queen hears of his durance and demands that he be brought before the Iron Throne for justice, Valaena intends to remain on Dragonstone. She does not think she can bear to watch him meet his end.

His lone eye darting between hers, he discerns, lowly, “You are craven.”

Unhurriedly, her hands slide up to his neck, and her thumbs settle over twin beats of his pulse. Her eyes fall shut as she revels in it. Steady and strong, for now.

The rhythm of his heartbeat accelerates as their mouths meld together. She imagines the thrum of her own pulse matches his, her blood growing hot underneath her skin, fervid enough for her to feel as their cheeks come flush together.

His teeth graze along her lips, never so much as to snag but enough to send shivers down her spine. In spite of them, she yearns for something softer. She tilts her head and slows the oscillation of their mouths.

When once she pulls back to suck in a deep breath, his grip on her grows taut, his hands strangling her waist. She gasps into his mouth as she is yanked forward, sacrificing the air she has only just secured. Ardently, he murmurs against her lips, “Please don’t leave me again.”

Once before in this moon has he begged her for as much. Hearing the supplication this time, she makes a sound like she is wounded. Her desire for tenderness slipping away, her own grip tightens, and she pushes her lips harder against his. He seems to be comforted by her fervor, releasing her waist and allowing his hands to roam along her form. His touch strays to her lower back, and his fingers catch on the hilt of her dagger.

Alarm flares within her as she hears the metal scrape along the wooden innards of the small scabbard. Throwing out a hand against his chest, she tears herself away. Thankfully, his hand had not yet closed around the hilt, and it slips through his fingers. Stepping back from him, she presses the blade back into its sheath.

For a moment, they simply stare at one another, the both of them panting from exertion. Soon, however, his muscles tense as though he means to charge her, so she flees before he has the chance. Without moving her gaze, she swivels on her heel and races for the door. He follows suit, but she is closer and faster, and he is soon closed in once more. She holds the door fast as he tries to tear it back open, the sentry beside her haphazardly sliding the key into the lock and twisting it.

Leaning against the door, she grants herself a moment to regain her bearings. Aemond pounds on the wood, heedless to her presence a scant few inches away and shouting, “Valaena! Come back!”

Valaena spends the next morning with Alastor, trying to understand his position. When hastily planning her retaking of the isle, she had not expected him to declare his house for the Blacks. There had been just enough men loyal to Criston to best the knights and squires sworn to him and Lord Reyne. For that reason, her best hope had been that he would surrender, rather than attack as had Roland.

Now, he explains that he had simply seen reason, or perhaps the truth, and with a clearer pair of eyes that his overlord, the late Jason Lannister. Beyond his allegiance to House Lannister, he is liege to House Targaryen. King Viserys had declared Rhaenyra his heir, and neither he nor Jason is fit to question his wisdom. Beyond that, he worries that Aegon and his brothers are not fit to rule. He makes some comment, quiet and inchoate, as to Aemond’s ability to govern Dragonstone, and Valaena considers the matter settled.

She orders him to King’s Landing to swear his life and sword and honor to Rhaenyra, directing him to take with him all his men, as well as those sworn to House Reyne, thinking the common men will see no difference in one western lord from the next.

She spends the afternoon correcting the record books, making only halfway through them before she is called for supper. In the evening, Gerardys comes to her and offers a most distasteful treat, moon tea in lieu of dessert. Carefully, she considers the proffered drink, her nose wrinkling from the smell. Ultimately, she claims that she has no need of it, even as the maester casts a doubtful and censorious eye on her.

The Sun rises again, and with it Aenar. He rises early and refuses to rest as the candles grow shorter and shorter. He misses his first nap, scheduled for the late morning, though he had grown fussy long before, claims the wet nurse sent to fetch Valaena. He refuses to feed, as well, and by the time his second nap rolls around in the early afternoon, he is flushed red, and his voice is worn from screaming.

Valaena skips all of her own meals, too, so engrossed is she in trying to calm him. She paces the room, bouncing him in her arms and trying to sing a lullaby loudly enough to drown out his wailing. In the hour of the bat, Aegon takes a shot at trying to put his nephew down, but his efforts yield only more tears, from both him and Aenar. In the hour of ghosts, as a nursemaid tries again, without success, to feed Aenar, Valaena collapses onto the deserted cot in the corner of the room, and an idea strikes her.

Making off with Aenar, she descends the stairs. She does not know if bringing him to see his father is a wise choice, but neither does she know how much longer she can stand to watch her baby suffer.

When they arrive at his cell, Aemond startles awake. She is somewhat surprised to find him abed at this hour, though she supposes that there is little for him to do in this room but fume, sleep, and eat when permitted. Standing from his cot, half-asleep and half-dressed, he takes a defensive position that drops when he sees the whimpering child in her arms. He holds out his hands in a silent request for her to hand the boy over.

Sliding her palm along his shoulder, she quietly tells him to lie back down. He does, and she lays Aenar along his bare chest. Soon, the boy realizes to whom has been given and settles, dropping off soon thereafter. Valaena breathes a sigh of relief as she watches his miniature nose twitch in his sleep. For all that she is relieved that her suspicion had been correct—that Aenar had simply missed his father—she worries for the future. Not much longer will she be able to bring him to Aemond whenever he desires.

Kneeling beside the bed, she startles when she feels Aemond’s hand close around her arm. Lightly, he tugs at her, urging her up onto the bed with them. Tentatively, she does as bade, nestling along his side and gently laying her hand atop Aenar’s back. He covers her hand with his own.

When Aenar wakes his parents in the blackest part of the night, crying as he does when hungry, neither of them says a word, and the door locks quietly behind her.

After a half-night of fitful sleep, Valaena’s breakfast is disturbed by whistling too strident and too resonant to be anything other than what she first imagines. She abandons her meal and makes it to the front hall just in time to watch Daemon stride in from the courtyard, where Caraxes and Sheepstealer lurk. Nettles trails behind him. Baela, waiting by the doors, steps forward to greet her father.

As he stops and permits her to kiss his cheek, Valaena notes the restlessness that seems to emanate from him. His hand sits on the pommel of Dark Sister, and his foot taps impatiently. It is easy to imagine his purpose in coming here.

“Your Grace,” she calls out, hoping that her nerves do not show in her voice. “Be welcome.”

Daemon, uninterested in further pleasantries, demands, “Where is he?”

She plays dumb. “Who? Aegon? His rooms, likely.”

His unimpressed stare is hard enough to bore through her. “You know why I am here.”

“I do,” she questions. She does, but not for any trying on his part. It is not as though he sent a letter to warn her that he intended to drop by and execute her husband. How he even knows that Aemond is here is beyond her.

When he is unmoved by her apparent misknowledge, she looks from him to Baela, who divulges, “I wrote to Father to inform him of our victory here.”

“Ah.” So, that is how. “Excellent.”

“Valaena,” Daemon snaps, growing irritable. “Where is he? The dungeons?”

Baela answers for her. “He is in Sea Dragon Tower.”

Head swiveling between them, he inquires, “What? Why?”

Hoping to keep his temper from flaring any further, she reasons, “The cells there are well-equipped—”

She is interrupted by Aegon, who tears down the hall, shouting, “Father!” Without slowing, he jumps into Daemon’s arms.

Despite his speed, Daemon receives him well, the barest of grunts leaving him as he hefts Aegon high enough to kiss his brow. “Hello, my love.”

Completely oblivious to tension in his father’s shoulders or the room, Aegon babbles, “Father, guess what!”

Still intent on his mission, Daemon defers, “Not now.”

Aegon goes on regardless, grinning proud and wide. “Valaena made me one of her whisperers. I spied on Aemond for her.”

Eyes cutting back to Valaena, Daemon barks, “What?”

“Never was he in any danger,” she assures him. That much is true. Never would he admit it—or even realize it, perhaps—but Aemond is quite fond of Aegon. She knew that her little brother had nothing to fear from him.

Aegon enthusiastically agrees. “He never suspected me! He is so dumb.” Humming, Daemon is reluctantly appeased.

Despite his success, Valaena has come to regret having Aegon serve as a whisperer. Yes, it had worked beautifully. Indeed, Aemond had never suspected a thing, and Aegon’s efforts had won them the news of the battle in the riverlands, which lent to them ousting Aemond. So, too, had it made them aware of Daemon’s occupancy at Maidenpool, however, thus giving Baela the opportunity to invite him to come to Dragonstone and rob Valaena of her husband before she was ready to part with him.

Once more, she attempts to divert him. “Why don’t I arrange for breakfast? Had I known you were coming—”

Smiling viciously, he defers, “We may feast when there is something to celebrate.” Dropping Aegon onto his feet, he makes to step around her, headed for Sea Dragon Tower.

Brashly, she steps in front of him and drops her clueless act. “You can’t kill him.”

He returns, incredulous, “I can’t?”

“Not yet,” she says, hoping to stay him. “I have sent a raven to Her Grace, asking how she would like to proceed. It would not do to circumvent her.”

“Your mother shall raise no objection when I gift her his head,” he asserts, mayhaps rightly. Once more, he tries to get past her.

She does not budge from his path. “Would you not prefer to remove it with Alicent as witness?”

This persuades him, a glint of interest sparking in his eyes. “When did you write to your mother?”

She gives him the same lie as she had Jacaerys and Baela. “Three days past.”

“And there has yet been no reply,” he wonders, suspect.

“I am certain a raven shall arrive at any moment,” she fibs.  

Unconvinced, he commands, “Write her again. Inform her of my arrival.” She thinks to argue, but a look from him quells her. She looks away from him, though his gaze does not leave her. Tipping her head aside with two fingers, his eyes flick between the bruises on either side of her face. “What happened here?”

“We had to take Dragonstone back by force after Lord Reyne attacked me,” she informs him, worried that if she was to tell him that Criston stuck her, he would turn his bloodlust onto the man, hunt him down, and kill him.

Satisfied, he appraises her for a moment longer before stalking away, thankfully not in the direction of Aemond’s cell. Baela, Aegon, and Nettles all follow after him, leaving her with the abominable task of writing to Rhaenyra—as she should have done days past—to ask how best to do away with her husband.

The queen’s response does not arrive until two days later. Past the hour of the owl, Valaena sneaks into the rookery and finds it while Gerardys sleeps. Her eyes scan the letter quickly. Dismayed by its contents, she casts it into the room’s roaring hearth. Before returning to her chambers, she rips the little band from the raven’s leg to make it look as though the missive was lost mid-flight.

The following morning, she manages to avoid Daemon, Baela having serendipitously diverted him by asking for a ride on Caraxes. She breakfasts alone with Jacaerys and Aegon, the latter of whom escorts her to the dining room. Lately, her youngest brother has had a penchant for chivalry, constantly offering her his arm and pulling out her chairs. As he takes his seat after her, she remarks on it.

Cheerily, he shares, “Father told me that we are to be married.”

In tandem, Valaena and Jacaerys exclaim, “What?” Alone, she goes on, “I cannot believe he told you that.”

Astounded further, Jacaerys turns to her. “It’s true?”

Glancing at Aegon’s pleasant face, she carefully replies, “Nothing has yet been decided, but there have been discussions as to my future prospects.” Somehow, they are more distasteful to her now than ever. “Aegon is Daemon’s champion. Grandsire prefers your friend, Lord Cregan.”

Seemingly alarmed, he prods, “Cregan? Of Winterfell?”

“No, Cregan of Longtable,” she snarks. He rolls his eyes.

Aegon runs off once his stomach is full, leaving Jacaerys to escort Valaena to her confabulation with Ser Robert. On the way to the man’s study, he asks her preference for a new husband.

“I suppose it is Aegon, but he is so young. I should hate for Aenar to be so much older than his half-siblings. That is exactly why Mother—” Breaking off, she sighs. “I just wish that—” Once more, she cuts herself off as she realizes that which she was about to say.

I just wish that I could remain married to Aemond.

Jerkily, she extracts her arm from her brother’s hold and offers him some half-formed excuse about having left something in her rooms. She rushes off and spends a quarter-hour sobbing in her bedchamber, extending a pitiful apology to Robert when she arrives at their meeting nearly thirty minutes late. Later in the afternoon, she sits in her chambers once more, cringing as Gerardys pulls the stitches from of her hands. Once her skin is free of strings and he has wiped her hands clean of old, dried blood with a damp cloth, he again offers her moon tea. Again, she declines.

Late in the evening, long after supper, Valaena receives a visitor as she catches up on work in Rhaenyra’s study. She keeps her quill moving as Jacaerys steps into the room, sparing him a quick glance. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Must a man be questioned whenever he wishes to visit his favorite sister,” he ponders, humor in his tone.

She smirks. “Careful that I don’t tell Baela that.” 

“Yes, Baela,” he sighs, taking on a far-off look. “Actually, there is something I wish to tell you. If I—If I could have your advice?” Receptive, Valaena sets down her quill and folds her hands over the desk. She waits for Jacaerys to begin, though he is soon distracted by the muttering of a faint voice. Frowning, he wonders, “What is that?”

She points to the open vent where the floor meets the wall. “The vents allow one to hear into the cells in the tower.” 

Fascinated, he treads over to it. “This leads into Aemond’s cell?” She nods. “Can he hear us?”

“No, it only goes one way.” She ponders, “Unless we yell, I suppose.”

“No wonder Mother named you mistress of whisperers,” he commends, cracking a grin at her.

Flushing pleasantly, she returns the smile and recalls, “She told me of them when I was five-and-ten. We tested them together. I ran downstairs, spoke words to myself, ran back, and asked her what they’d been.”

His smile turning wistful, he remarks, “She used to be fun.” 

Her own smile diminishing, she assures him, “Her good humor will return to her once the war is won.” He tips his head in neither agreement nor denial. Not wanting to linger on the topic, she redirects him. “What is this matter for which you desire my counsel?”

Jacaerys, usually so straightforward, takes to dithering. “Well, it—You will reserve judgment, I hope. I acted rashly, and I did not mean, at first, for this to come to pass, but—”

The sound of a door opening reverberates through the vent. Jacaerys draws up short, raising his brow in question. “His guard bringing his food,” she rationalizes, though it is a little late for that.

As opposed to his earlier mutterings, Aemond’s voice rings clear through the vent. “What are you doing here?” At the suspicious question, she and Jacaerys both look toward the duct, thoroughly distracted from whatever poor decision plagues Jacaerys.

Daemon’s silken voice is the next to slither through the grate. “I thought to pay you a visit, Nephew.”

Valaena feels as though she has been tossed into the wintertide sea outside. She holds her breath, just as she would under the waves.

Aemond is anxious, too, though only to the point that one intimately familiar with him can hear it. “Is that Aenar?”

“It is,” confirms Daemon.

Panic lighting a fire underneath her, Valaena leaps from her chair and strides over to the vent. Jacaerys moves in step with her. The sounds of footsteps and something unlatching, along with a creaking noise, drift up to their ears next.

Softly, Jacaerys asks, “What was that?”

Dread in her stomach, she realizes, “The window.” 

“What do you want,” demands Aemond, his voice quavering ever so slightly.

Sounding almost bored, Daemon says, “Netty.”

Jacaerys and Valaena make eye-contact. He mouths, “Nettles?”

There is a thwacking noise, perhaps of something being caught. Then something breaks, something made of wood, she thinks, and yet more footsteps and quiet again.

“I think you know what I want,” Daemon tells Aemond, venom in his voice. “Your days of killing my sons and raping my daughter are over.” 

Aemond, definitely disquieted now, challenges, “You’re bluffing.” 

An acerbic smile shines through Daemon’s voice. “Do you think so?”

Valaena pictures the room. She envisions Daemon standing beside an open window with Aenar in his arms, silently threatening to toss him out unless Aemond does whatever is being asked of him. She visualizes, too, a day moons past, when Otto came to Dragonstone to deliver the Greens’ terms, and Daemon later told her and Rhaena that he had replied by saying, “I would rather feed my sons to the dragons than have them carry shields and cups for your drunken, usurper cunt of a king.” Even at the time, she had not been entirely certain that he spoke in jest.

Heedless to her imaginings, he proceeds, “Do you know, your wife spoiled my plans for retribution for your murder of Lucerys, though I now see it might have been for the best. This is a far better way to reap a son for a son.” 

Horror gripping her, Valaena dashes from the room, Jacaerys on her heels. She goes down the winding stairs at a rapid pace, faster than she has ever run, likely. She trips over the last few steps, landing hard on her front with her arms barely out to catch her. Terror still fueling her, she vaults up from the floor without a second gone.

Bursting into Aemond’s cell, she notes the missing guard and the unlocked door. Nettles, the person closest to her in the room, whirls around and steps out of her way. Opposite to her, Aemond carries himself like a cornered animal, puffed-up and afraid to move. Valaena fumes, “The fuck is this,” marching up to Daemon—who indeed stands beside an open window—and forcibly extracting Aenar from his hold.

Pulling her son close, she blows out a shaky breath against his temple. His dainty hair lifts from the light breeze, but he does not stir. He remains asleep, blissfully unaware that for whatever reason, his grandmother’s husband just threatened to kill him.

Spitting mad, Valaena hisses at Daemon, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Wordlessly, he stares down at her, his expression a mixture of annoyance, disappointment, and resignation. Glimpsing back at Aemond, she notices something in his grip, something that looks like a poorly-made stake, or perhaps the broken-off post of a bed. Behind him, the frame of his cot is splintered on one end. “I see.” Walking over, she picks it up and brandishes it at Daemon. “You meant to stage a suicide.” 

He does not deny it. Inflamed, she hurls the stake at him. It lands at his feet as she shrieks, “How dare you seek to undermine my orders in my hold and threaten to kill my child to do it!” Startled awake, Aenar begins to yowl.

Frustratingly placid, Daemon tells her, “Valaena, I was never going to hurt Aenar.”

Her teeth chattering from overexcitement, she scoffs as she tries to settle Aenar.

Daemon raises his voice. “And what did I tell you about giving me orders?”

“Is that what this is then, your pride is hurt,” she bites, baring her teeth at him.

Irate, he takes an indicative step toward her. “You—”

Jittery, she takes a reciprocal step back into Aemond’s space. Simultaneously, Aemond’s arm winds around her, his hand gripping her shoulder. His other hand comes up to cradle Aenar’s head. Ensconced in his protective embrace, she calms somewhat, her rapid heartbeat slowing.

Daemon stops his advance, at least for now, regarding them with caution but no less anger. Valaena, not sure that a civil resolution is possible here, wants Aenar out of the room. She looks to her brother. “Jacaerys, will you please take Aenar back to the nursery?” She holds the babe out for him and, when he appears reluctant, snaps, “Jace.” Invigorated, he crosses the room to receive Aenar, though he does not make it out the door, still entrenched is he in the goings-on of this room.

With Aenar out of the way, Daemon opens his mouth to impart what is like to be some directive, though no word ever passes his lips. Rather, it is stayed by Aemond, who rips the dagger at Valaena’s back from its scabbard and brings it to her throat. At once, everyone in the room stiffens, none more than Valaena, who feels the sharp edge of the blade graze her delicate skin. Daemon is swift enough to draw his sword, though not so bold as to make an advance.

In her ear, Aemond whispers, “Lykirī, Ābrazȳrys.”

Though she does not feel particularly endangered, she is careful to speak as inertly as is possible. “Pilos egromy ñuha yrgos sesīr ȳdrassis nyke hae zaldrīzes sa?”

“Ao ñuha zaldrīzes,” he murmurs back.

“Shut up, both of you,” flashes Daemon. He raises his blade higher. “You put down that blade, boy.” 

“You first, Nuncle.” Silently, Daemon refuses. Unperturbed, Aemond nods his head toward the other side of the room. “Get in the corner. All of you. Not you.” He singles out Jacaerys, nodding at the breakfast table. “Sit down.”

None move at first—save for Aenar, who waves his arm at Valaena, trying to get her attention—so Aemond tightens his grip on Valaena’s shoulder and slides the blade closer to her jugular. She gasps, beginning to worry that her husband’s impetuous plan is going to result in him accidentally killing her in front of their son.

The plan appears to be working, however, as Jacaerys and Nettles are set into motion, both of them doing as ordered. Begrudgingly, Daemon complies, as well, lowering his weapon and backing into the corner with Nettles.

With the other dragonriders a safe distance from them and Jacaerys inhibited by Aenar, Aemond slowly draws her toward the open door. He drops his arm to her waist, thus freeing one of her arms. Fleetingly, she thinks of disarming him but does not think the attempt would be successful. Worse, she might not survive it.

Once they reach the door, he instructs her to close it after them. Alone in the hall, he finally releases her. She takes in a great gulp of air, sliding her hand along her neck, which remains blessedly immaculate.

Her solace is short-lived. Aemond whips her around and drops a lightning-fast smooch onto her lips, their teeth clacking together in his haste. He pulls back before she can think to close her eyes, and before she can think to complain, he turns and sprints off.

Soon afterward, the door is torn open, practically off its hinges. Daemon rushes out, running off in the direction in which Valaena is staring with Nettles at his heels. Jacaerys follows at a more sedate pace and hands Aenar off to Valaena. “Are you all right?”

“I—Yes, I—” He ignores the rest of her statement, waving at her from over his shoulder and making off after their step-father.

Left in the corridor with her still-fussing baby, she hops in place, half to soothe the boy and half for want of something to do in this crisis. Soon, the halls are flooded with soldiers, as men are summoned from throughout the holdfast to search for the fugitive. They pass her by, scarcely sparing her a glance, and it finally occurs to her what it is she need do.

Hustling up the stairs, battling against everyone using the stairwell to reach the ground, she reaches the floors with her family’s private apartments. Slipping into Aegon’s rooms, she rouses him from sleep, settling Aenar into his arms as soon as his eyes crack open.

“What’s going on,” he wonders, his words slurring together as he struggles to put his bum beneath him.

She presses him back down. “Keep Aenar with you and stay here. Do not leave this room.” Pulling away, she heads for the door.

Far more awake, Aegon implores again, “What’s going on?” Sitting up, he clutches Aenar to his chest, looking near tears himself.

“I shall tell you everything upon my return. Do not leave this room,” she reiterates. He nods, tremulous, and without another backwards glance, she at last makes her own way out of the castle.

From the Stone Drum, there is a passageway that leads directly onto the Dragonmont. It lets out just beyond the castle’s outermost curtain wall and, coincidentally, right where Aemond left Vhagar to roost.

The old she-dragon rumbles at Valaena when she sees her, though without raising her head and thus without threat. Assured as to her safety, Valaena circles the great beast, searching for any sign of her husband. The effort is almost certainly futile, she knows. If Aemond had made it to Vhagar, they would surely be in the sky by now.

Soldiers continue to pour out of Dragonstone, so he must have escaped the castle, she reasons. Where else would he go but to Vhagar? Where is he?

Where is he!

Lifting her head at last, Vhagar peers skyward, her hoary eyes squinting to look past the moonlight. Following her gaze, Valaena spies Caraxes and Sheepstealer soaring above the isle, the air rippling as they fly directly overhead. The two dragons swoop low over the rocky beaches and the shore and the sea, streaking out toward the Gullet.

Torrents of fire rain down, onto each and every ship within sight. Distant, orange dots line the horizon. Dawn comes, and still, they burn, brighter than the Sun.

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

A ship arrives for Jacaerys and Aegon, just as Rhaenyra promised. There is space enough on it for Baela, as well, just as Rhaenyra promised, but despite her brothers’ fevered protests, she does not wish to take it.

Oddly enough, despite Jacaerys’s departure, Baela wishes to remain on Dragonstone. She likes it here, quite simply; she always has. It is close to Driftmark, where her grandmother, she very recently learned, has made her return. She looks forward to visiting Rhaenys, which would be unfeasible was she residing in King’s Landing, where, it is worth noting, she has never before lived.

Beyond her desire for comfort and familiarity, there is the rift between her and Jacaerys to consider. He denies its existence, but she is not so blind. When the war started and he returned from his trip north, she had not been able to bear the thought of parting from him. The longer the war has dragged on, however, she finds she needs time to herself, especially so long as she remains just herself. Before he boards the ship bound for the capital, she asks him again to wed her now on Dragonstone. Again, he refuses her, so she bid him leave without her.

She thinks also of her recently widowed sister, who she is loath to abandon now. As they stand in Dragonstone’s front hall, bidding farewell to Daemon, who intends to follow the boys’ path atop Caraxes, Valaena stares steadfastly at the floor. Her form is buried underneath a capacious, black dress. Her hair is held up by a bejeweled net. Her face is covered by an impassive mask, mottled with bruises that have turned from purple to yellow to green over the past week.

Baela’s eyes are forced away from Valaena as her father steps up to her. He brings her closer with a hand on her shoulder. It is his way of silently requesting a hug from one of his daughters, so she indulges him with a kiss to his cheek and a warm embrace. One last time, he asks her if she is certain she wishes to remain here, offering to fly her to King’s Landing on Caraxes if she likes. She stays firm in her decision, shaking her head.

Valaena’s jaw clenches as Daemon moves over to her. She resists his touch when it falls onto her shoulder, muttering a quiet but resolute valediction.

Evidently, this is insufficient. Keeping his grip on her, Daemon ducks in close. She stiffens. Even when so near, it is difficult for Baela to hear that which he whispers to Valaena. She catches some whisper of a regret, but the rest of what he says is too soft for her ears.

Despite his efforts, Valaena does not warm to him. Knowing when the battle is lost, he relents and leaves them both with one last word of parting. After he has gone, Caraxes’s sinuous body winding around the castle and Sheepstealer shoving off from the ground, Baela turns to Valaena. She thinks to suggest some activity that will cheer her, mayhaps a card game. However, Valaena strides from the hall already, marching in the direction of Sea Dragon Tower.

She does not see Valaena again until supper. The atmosphere is dismal and quiet as Valaena sullenly pushes food around her plate and occasionally takes a bite of bread. They had gone through the routine pleasantries at the start of the meal but fell silent after that.

Though it does not usually fall to her, Baela strives to liven the mood. “The roast chicken is excellent.”

Her eyes not moving from her plate, Valaena agrees, “Yes.” The affirmation is as good as a lie. She has not touched the fowl.

Unsatisfied, she tries again. “How did you spend the day?”

Valaena is silent for a long moment. Baela wonders if she has forgotten that they are in the midst of a conversation before she sighs loudly and answers, somewhat inopportunely, “The ledgers are in order, at last, and the villagers have all been accorded their share of grain for the coming winter.”

“This is most welcome news. They must be terribly pleased.” From Aemond’s brief reign over the isle, Baela recalls many a disgruntled commoner being led past her rooms to beg for bread and for trade to be restored. She recalls, too, all of them being led away disappointed.

Valaena sighs again. “Yes.” Listless, she takes another bite from her bap.

Baela refrains from sighing herself. Hoping to stir Valaena, she opts for a more exciting topic. “So, I’ve had a thought.” Valaena makes no response, but, fairly certain that she is still listening, Baela continues, “I intend to try for Vhagar.”

As expected, this rouses Valaena. Her head pops up, her gaze riveted to Baela. “What?”

She continues, “Now that she is once more without a rider—”

“Sayeth whom,” questions Valaena, setting a captious eye on her.

Brow furrowing, she wonders, confused, “What?”

Definitively, Valaena orders, “You may not attempt to claim Vhagar.”

“Wherefore? We are at war. For us to leave by the wayside the largest dragon in the world would be a folly,” she objects, roiled. With Moondancer gone, how could her sister keep her from becoming a dragonrider again?

“It would be a folly for you to approach her. She is bound to another,” counters Valaena. 

“She is not,” argues Baela. “Aemond is dead.”

Shaking her head, Valaena finally puts her knife to her plate and takes a bite of chicken. “No body was ever found.”

Gesticulating, Baela exclaims, “Because it is at the bottom of the sea!” Valaena’s jaw clenches. Baela presses, “Was he alive, why would he leave behind his dragon?”

For a moment, Valaena flounders, her mouth opening and closing without a sound coming out. At last, she settles, though she never answers the question. Callously, she reiterates, “You shall not try for Vhagar, and I shall hear naught else of this.”

On Maiden’s Day, the Citadel sends forth three hundred white ravens to herald the coming of winter. The grand, alabaster bird sent to Dragonstone arrives alongside several other ravens, each bearing letters for Baela. The largest brings news from Rhaena, whereas the smallest bears Rhaenys’s word, which invites her to come to Driftmark at her pleasure. There is also a letter from Joffrey. In his messy script, her youngest step-brother tells her of his new chambers in the Red Keep, next door to Aegon’s rooms. He gives his condolences for her loss of Moondancer and offers to take her up on Tyraxes as soon as the drake is big enough to carry two riders.

Amusement abounds for Rhaena in the Vale. Ser Raymont Baratheon has traveled to the Eyrie to safeguard her and begin their courtship. They get on well, from what Baela can tell, as Rhaena describes him as kind and gentle and noble. Apparently, he recently competed in a joust simply to ask for her favor. Rhaena also makes mention of a knight named Corbray, who Baela suspects has caught her eye, as well. Reading her enthralling letters, Baela feels slightly envious of her twin. There are certainly no handsome boys to entertain her here. With Jacaerys away in King’s Landing, she can think only of the scullion who graces her with a smile on the days that she sneaks into the kitchens to pilfer an afternoon snack.

This is not to say that life is dreary on Dragonstone. Certainly, she has developed a routine, but it is rife with diversion. She trains in fencing or archery each day after breakfast. Late each morning, she carries off Aenar from the nursery as soon as he wakes from his first nap of the day, and they play together in some new corner of the castle. Her most exhilarating pastime takes place in the dark hours of the night, as she plots when she might steal out of the holdfast and lay claim to Vhagar.

Another habit she enjoys is the meals she shares with Valaena, every morning and evening. As such, she is dismayed when one morning, Valaena is conspicuously absent, leaving Baela to break her fast alone. She goes off in search of Valaena as soon as she has finished, expecting to find her in her rooms. As the weeks have gone by, her cousin has remained unusually quiet and moody, though Baela supposes her behavior is not too unusual for the war. She thinks it likely that this morning, Valaena had awoken and simply not seen fit to drag herself from her bed.

Valaena is indeed abed when Baela arrives in her bedchamber. She lies burrowed underneath the bedclothes, gnawing on a ginger root. Idly, Baela recalls that towards the end of her pregnancy with Aenar, Valaena compiled a stash of ginger lest her nausea rear its ugly head.

Striding over, she startles Valaena, who thought, perhaps, it was her maidservant who had intruded. Valaena stashes the ginger under the bedclothes, thus confirming Baela’s suspicion. She snatches the sheets back and grapples with Valaena for the root, holding it aloft when she prevails. “What is this?”

Valaena feigns disinterest. “Nothing. A snack.”

“A snack,” Baela returns, dubious. Valaena avoids her gaze. “Are you pregnant?”

Valaena scoffs. “What? How can that be when I am,” her voice softens, as though she is embarrassed by her own obvious lie, “a virgin?”

Unimpressed, Baela gives her a flat look.

“Fine.” Scowling, Valaena confesses, “Yes, I am again with child.”

Appalled, Baela hurls the root at the floor. “Valaena!”

“I know, I know,” grouses Valaena as she pushes herself up into a seated position. Slouched over, she rubs her hands over her face. “It is quite possibly the worst timing in all the world.”

“I’ll say,” shouts Baela. She cannot believe that Valaena would do something so shortsighted. And the father—there is only one reasonable conclusion. “How do you mean to explain this to Her Grace?”

Valaena digs the heels of her palms into her eyes. “’Twas she who obliged me to have more children, so—”

“So, you think that she will be pleased by this,” Baela presses. “After all that she has endured? And with the choice of sire?”

“It was hardly a choice,” Valaena returns, before quickly shaking her head. “Not to say that he—I was perfectly willing. Well, not—It got away from us, I mean.”

Baela rolls her eyes. “Be eased, Sister. I judge not. I admit, I see the attraction.”

Her face contorting in disbelief, Valaena frowns up at her. “You do?”

“Yes, he’s quite comely,” she sighs. She gestures in the direction of Valaena’s middle. “Good fortune for the babe, I suppose.”

Valaena’s hand slides over her abdomen. “Yes.”

“Though it will make matters rather difficult to explain,” she supposes.

Brow furrowing, Valaena asks, “How do you mean?”

Trying to tamp down a wry smile, Baela points out, “It is not as though it will come out looking anything like your eldest.” Her response does not clear up any of Valaena’s confusion, so she goes on, “Two black-haired parents—”

“Black-haired,” interrupts Valaena, incredulous. “Who do you take for the father?”

“Cole,” she answers, nonplussed. It had been Valaena who drew Criston to the Blacks. For several moons thereafter, Criston had clung to her side, often disappearing behind closed doors with her for hours on end. Never mind how prim and proper Valaena is, Baela cannot imagine her being alone with a man for so long and so often and not lifting her skirts.

“Cole,” Valaena shrieks, shooting up from the bed. Thoroughly revolted, she appears just short of gagging. “Absolutely not!”

“All right, sorry. Who else—” She gasps, rearing back from Valaena. “You fucked Aemond?”

Wide-eyed, Valaena chastises, “How could you think I would lie with anyone else?”

“How could you lie with him,” Baela shouts back. Anger sears through her veins. “He killed Moondancer! He killed Luke and Viserys!” 

“He did not kill Viserys,” Valaena argues, almost offhand.

Baela feels her outrage burn through her scalp. She would not be surprised if her hair was to catch fire. “Now, you defend him?”

Holding up a hand as though to placate her, Valaena says, “I am not defending him, but hark.” Lips pressed firmly together, Baela patiently, graciously complies. “I did not intend for this to come to pass.”

“But you did naught to prevent it,” Baela bursts, characteristically impatient. “Hast thou ever heard of moon tea!”

“I have,” Valaena affirms, her hand returning to her still-flat belly, “but I mean to keep the child.”

Throwing up her hands, Baela wonders, “Why?”

“Because it is what I wish,” she blusters. “I wish for more children. I wish for Aenar to be close with his siblings. I wish for—” She bites her tongue, but Baela hears the unspoken end to her thought.

“What, Aemond? You can’t have him. He’s dead,” she taunts. Looking away, Valaena bites down on her lip, which had begun to quiver. Pitiless, Baela hisses, “You’re pathetic.”

She storms out, unwilling to hear another mendacious word from her step-sister. Valaena shouts after her, hoping to entice her back, but her strides stay firm and purposeful as they carry her from the room.

An angry click to her heels, she flies down the corridor toward her chambers, stomping first past her parents’ rooms and then the nursery. As she moves past the open door, someone calls out to her, “Bah!” She draws up short.

Exhaling an irate breath, she thinks it better that she stays on her chosen path lest she take her wrath out on someone who decidedly does not deserve it. She is swayed, however, when the voice calls again, “Bah!”

Sighing, she arranges her face into the most pleasant expression she can manage and lets the tension run out of her shoulders. Turning back, she steps into the nursery. Aenar cheers upon the sight of her, bouncing in his cradle and repeatedly chanting a poor imitation of the first syllable of her name.

A moon past, he had achieved clear if sparse speech. Still, the only word he can say properly is mama, which had sent Valaena into raptures when first it passed his lips. More recently, he has striven to articulate Baela’s name, as well, though he is capable only of bah thus far. Thinking it better than nothing, Baela happily accepts it.

Aenar is also old enough now to be left alone whilst he sleeps. As such, though he has woken early from his nap, there is no nursemaid to tend to him. With her to entertain him now, he grips the bars of his cradle and pulls himself to his feet. He raises one of his arms in a silent demand for her to lift him, and she does as bade. “Hello, zaldrītsos.” She tries to keep her eyes on his face as he becomes engrossed with her hair, enclosing her curls into his tiny hands. “Your mother has vexed me greatly this day.”

“Mama,” he gleans. Leaning back from her, he looks around the room for Valaena. Thankfully, he does not become too upset when he does not find her.

“Yes,” she agrees. She purses her lips to stop herself from saying anything more. It would not do to disparage Valaena before her infant son, no matter how she deserves it.

Baela moves to settle them along the floor, but he impedes her, reaching back towards his cradle and shrieking, “Ehh!”

This sound, though nearly unintelligible, is another new speech of his. He regularly squeals as such whenever he wishes for his dragon egg or for someone else to admire it.

Sighing, she reaches a hand back into the cradle. She takes the egg into her hold and assuages, “Yes, yes, I have it.” She returns it to him once he is seated on the rug in the center of the room. He rolls it along the floor in front of him, soon becoming consumed by the activity.

While he is preoccupied with his egg, Baela simply watches him. Even with some of the plumpness of his infancy beginning to slough off, he remains awfully cute, with round, sparkling purple eyes and pudgy, little cheeks. She can certainly understand why Valaena may want another, similar child.

Ducking down to his eye-level, she waits for him to notice where her attention lies. When he does, he grows excited, expelling breathy grunts and reaching up toward her face. He pats her cheeks, and her voice is slightly distorted as she reveals, “Your mother tells me she is with child. There is to be another babe, just like you. What say you, hmm?”

Once more, he picks out only the reference to his mother. “Mama,” he murmurs as he continues to poke at her face.

She carries on, unbothered by his meager participation. “Would you care for a sibling, do you suppose? You do seem to long for company.” He is always so eager for attention. She supposes growing up during a war has not served him well in that regard. Mayhaps a sibling would cure his loneliness. She considers also, “You did favor living with Viserys before he—” Her throat closes up. She hates voicing her littlest brother’s fate; she has done it once today already.

Shaking her head, she tries a more direct question. She uses one of his favorite words. “Aenar, would you care for a brother or sister with whom to play?”

This evokes the precise reaction she had desired. Grunting again, he whips his head around in search of his toys and bounces on his bum when he spots them. Turning back, he uses her knees as leverage to shove himself onto his unsteady legs. He toddles toward the box along the wall which contains his playthings. He selects a toy from his collection—the rag doll, his favorite—and graciously delivers it to her. Baela is content to indulge him, and they play together until it is time for his next nap.

In the hour of the bat, she and Valaena meet for supper, as is their routine. Unusual is their shared demeanor, with each woman wary of the other. Valaena appears still shaken by Baela’s earlier reproach, whereas Baela’s hesitance derives from her awareness that she need furnish her sister with an apology. Making amends has never been her strong suit; too froward, her father calls her.

The meal commences in silence. A tense atmosphere hangs above the room, keeping both of them from enjoying the evening. Valaena’s palpable distress makes Baela feel all the more guilty despite her completely righteous anger.

Towards the end of the meal, Valaena calls her name, drawing her attention. As always, her better manners and tact prevail. “I am sorry. It is my last wish to upset you.” She looks down to her plate, twirling her fork around the last few peas atop the dishware. “I know I am difficult to understand as I am now. Our lives are so different from what they were a year past, our futures even more so. For so long, Aemond was a great part of the future I wanted. I suppose, I am not yet ready to relinquish either of them.”

Not wanting to appear contrary, Baela moves to bridge the last bit of distance between them. Reaching across the table, she takes Valaena’s hand and quickly receives a comforting, affectionate squeeze. “I am sorry also. I overreacted. I was merely surprised and—” She trails off, her eyes latching onto a spot on the wall over Valaena’s shoulder.

Gently, Valaena prompts, “And what?”

Bashful, she divulges, “I know not when I will have children.”

She is of the age to begin having children. Both Rhaenyra and Valaena had their first child when they were her age, and her own mother bore her and Rhaena when she was a year younger than Baela is now. Yet the war has forestalled her, or so her betrothed claims.

Valaena’s thumb glides over Baela’s knuckles. “It will be soon, I am certain.”

Bowing her head, Baela finally voices a long-held fear. “Jace does not wish to marry me.”

Jacaerys has long been adamant that they wait until the war is over to wed. Once all is said and done and the bloodshed has trickled to an end, they can enjoy their wedding and marriage and children, he attests. In the early months of the war, she had accepted this rationale, displeased though she had been. Following the Battle of the Gullet, however, he has grown particularly malcontent, and she is lucky if she can prize a word from him, let alone one of reassurance.

“What nonsense.” At the brisk dismissal, Baela raises her head to scowl at her. Insistent, Valaena elaborates, “Just the other day he spoke to me of you.”

Intrigued, Baela investigates, “What did he say?”

“Well, it was not much,” admits Valaena. Her face pinches up, as though she has just sucked on a lemon. “We were distracted by your father trying to kill my son.”

Baela disregards the barb, knowing well that though Daemon never intended to actually cause Aenar harm, Valaena is still within her rights to be cross with him.

Valaena recovers her mood on her own. “My point is you must not be so glum. Keep hope. Jace is merely preoccupied with the war. Your day shall come. You will marry. You will have wonderful children.” A wistful smile coming to her lips, she drops a hand to her belly. “They will like be near in age to mine. Mayhaps we can betroth them.”

Baela musters a smile of her own, wondering when it is that hope gives way to delusion. “Mayhaps.”

Each great regret of Baela’s life is tied to Vhagar. She regrets not encouraging Rhaena to claim their late mother’s dragon before they left Pentos. It is this blunder that gave Aemond the chance to claim Vhagar in Rhaena’s place, which had led to the horrible skirmish that cost him his eye, which in turn had led to his irascible pursuit of Lucerys over Shipbreaker Bay.

She regrets, too, flying Moondancer out to meet Vhagar when Aemond arrived to take Dragonstone. Certainly, she supposes, she could not have done naught. She is not one to sit by and do nothing when her home and loved ones are in danger. It is for that very reason that she tried to mount Moondancer during the Battle of the Gullet. On that day, she failed and lost her youngest brother. When Aemond attacked the stronghold, she succeeded and lost her dragon.

Two moons after Aemond left Vhagar a castle dragon once more, Baela sneaks out of the castle in the hour of the wolf. Treading out onto the Dragonmont, she discovers Vhagar lying not far whence she slew Moondancer. There remain tears down her back and wings, and down her long neck, there are several gaping, yet unhealed wounds. Seeing them, Baela feels a thin burst of pride; her little dragon had put up a valiant fight.

Creeping up to the monstrous beast, she is careful to keep her steps slow but loud. Vhagar need be aware of her presence but not startled. Baela should hate to find herself at the maw of a surprised dragon.

Vhagar’s head twitches, and her eyelids peel back. The glowing, orange orbs laid underneath them fasten to Baela’s form. Vhagar growls lowly at her next step closer.

Cautious, Baela halts. She waits until Vhagar has calmed, though not so much so that Baela does not have her attention. To claim a dragon, one must be deferential yet firm. That is how her mother claimed Vhagar, and that is how she intends to do the same.

Holding out a hand, she edges closer to the prone dragon. Vhagar’s watchful eyes do not leave her, though she remains quiet. Hopeful, Baela stops once she is within a few yards of her, mandating in a clear and confident voice, “Dohaerās, Vhagar.”

At last, Vhagar is roused fully, though not as Baela had hoped. Rising onto her forelimbs, Vhagar bellows a fearsome roar, warning Baela against further commandment.

Baela, however, is not one to be so easily curbed. She stands her ground, persisting in her quest. Unyielding, she repeats, “Dohaerās!”

Vhagar is unpersuaded. She drops her jaw and lights the back of her throat. The bright threat is accompanied by yet another roar, which drowns out Baela’s plea of “Lykirī!”

Lowering her hand so that it shields her eyes, she awaits the onslaught of flames, but it never comes.

“Kelītīs, Vhagar,” shouts another, louder voice. “Kelītīs! Lykirī!”

Running toward the unruly pair, dragon and would-be dragonrider both, Valaena waves her arms and hops up and down as she screams. She wears only her nightdress—indeed, even her feet are naked—which the sea wind whips around her. Uncaring, she carries on yelling and gesticulating, and ultimately, she is successful in diverting Vhagar’s attention.

The hoary dragon closes her mouth and lowers her head, peering in Valaena’s direction. After a moment, another growl springs forth. Vhagar appears displeased with her commands but nevertheless willing to tolerate them. This rankles Baela, and she steps forward anew. Taking advantage of the dragon’s renewed calm, she makes another attempt. “Dohaerās, Vhagar!”

Vhagar’s head whips back toward Baela, just as Valaena shouts, “No!”

Quickly, the dragon grows irate again, though Baela misses any resulting fallout. She finds herself shoved to the ground as Valaena collides with her. She scrambles to get back on her feet. She does not want to lose her chance to claim Vhagar, as she surely would if she remains on her back much longer. Valaena thwarts her once more, kicking her on her rump.

By the time she pushes herself up from her supine position, Valaena is again consumed with assuaging Vhagar, calling out entreaties for the beast to calm. For her part, Vhagar is finally more interested in Baela, who still lies along the ground, almost like an offering. Alarm prickling along her scalp, Baela hurriedly vaults to her feet.

Valaena turns to Baela once Vhagar is firmly disinterested. The dragon lies back down on her front, and Valaena whirls around and yells, “Are you mad!”

Instinctively shrinking back from a roar almost as vicious as that of Vhagar, Baela redoubles her courage. “Only so mad as anyone who forges a bond with a dragon.”

Pointing her finger, Valaena reminds her, “I forbade you from attempting to mount Vhagar. She is bound to another!”

“She is not,” counters Baela as she rolls her eyes, “but so spake the princess. I knew you would not complain when I prevailed.”

“Just as I knew you would make so foolish an attempt despite my warning,” Valaena replies, raising her chin.

Baela gleans, affronted, “You placed a spy on me?”

“And I am well glad I did,” declares Valaena. “You would be dead right now if not for me.”

Inflamed, Baela returns fire. “So, too, would I be a dragonrider if not for you!” Mystified, Valaena opens her mouth to refute her, but Baela plows on. “Aemond came here for you. Had you not spurned him and kept his son from him, he would never have ventured here.”

Frustrated, Valaena throws up her hands. “So, what? Now, I should have kept my affection for him?”

“No, you should have killed him and Criston and Aegon in Rook’s Rest,” she contends, buried resentment bursting from her. “Alas, you spared him as you flew to safety, and the war went on, and your miserable husband killed my dragon!” 

Blanching in the face of her fury, Valaena manages, “I’m sorry!”

“I want no apology! I want Moondancer!” Baela continues, even as Valaena flinches at the emotion in her voice, “I only ever rode her once, and then that beast ate her, just like she ate Luke!” 

The sorrowful reminder lies between them until Valaena ponders, “Why do you wish to claim her then?”

Baela expels a deep, shaky breath as she tries to wrangle her emotions. “I am the blood of the dragon. I cannot sit meekly to the side, cowering behind walls, as my blood wars.” She points at Valaena. “You, you get to fight, but I—”

This replenishes the fire within Valaena’s gaze. “Do you think that I relish my part in this interminable infighting, that any of us does? If not for Alicent—”

“No, if not for Uncle Viserys,” counters Baela, holding her chin high. “You sound just like him. ’Twas he who cast the first arrow, not Alicent, by sinking his cock into her. You act as he did, too, letting his and Alicent’s vile son sink his cock into you!” She steps closer as Valaena’s expression hardens. “Do not forget, as he did, there can be no accord between Green and Black.”

Frowning, Valaena needles, “What resolution is there then? Must we let ourselves be torn asunder—”

“Hast thou forgotten the words of our house? They reached to usurp our queen’s throne. They must be answered with fire and blood.” Valaena appears discomfited—her gaze wandering and her jaw clenching—as she usually does when she does not wish to admit that one of her younger siblings is in the right. Baela digs in the knife. “But they plunge the realm into war, send their dragons and allies to kill us, and you let them fuck you, too?”

Valaena’s look of reluctant contrition turns to one of exasperation. She gripes, “Enough, Baela. I thought us past this. You said you understood—”

“I said nothing of the sort,” she disagrees, shaking her head. “I said I overreacted.”

Valaena holds out her arms, as though to put on display this display. “And is this not an overreaction? What are we still doing out here? It is late. It is cold. Let us go back inside.”

She waves her hands at Baela, beckoning her back to the castle. Baela evades her. “No. I came here for a purpose. I wish to be a dragonrider again.”

“You will be a dragonrider again when fate demands it. She hath told you no this night,” Valaena insists, striving anew to herd her toward the sliver in the castle’s curtain wall whence they both came.

Baela means to step around her again, though the need soon evaporates as Valaena suddenly whips around, staring into the blackness beyond Vhagar. Baela, still feeling somewhat irked by Valaena’s interference, grumbles, “What are you doing?”

In a hushed murmur, Valaena wonders, “Do you feel that?”

“Feel what,” asks Baela.

As the sensation comes to her, Valaena answers in her own voice, though she seems to speak with another’s breath,

“Malice.”

Vhagar lifts her head from the ground and peers behind her, as well, inspiring Baela to examine the unseen terrain closer. She squints, desperate for sight of whatever is so captivating. She is granted the whisper of a wing, black as the night, the talons at its end extended to sink into the ground beside Vhagar’s own, closed wing. Large jaws come together around Vhagar’s neck, the menacing green eyes above them shining with connate light.

Vhagar screeches, the bones of her shoulders shifting underneath her weathered skin as she tries to get her feet beneath her, but to no avail. The Cannibal leans on her hunched back, keeping her to the ground. Meanwhile, Baela and Valaena screech, too, alarmed by the presence of a second, giant, ancient, far more hostile dragon. Reflexively, they stumble back from the perilous tussle. When the Cannibal’s spiked tail floats too close to them, Baela’s wits return to her. She grabs Valaena’s wrist and drags her back toward the castle.

Fire blooms at their backs as they flee, flooding the plain. The flames nip at their heels and crash against the stone of the curtain wall just moments after they slip through the crack in it. Baela keeps her grip on Valaena tight as they tear up the narrow stairway within the walls, all the way up to the crenellation that overlooks the west side of the isle.

They reach the battlement, standing on either side of a parapet as the dragons continue their struggle along the face of the Dragonmont. The Cannibal remains atop Vhagar, pinning her to the dirt, so far from the sky to which she longs to escape.

In the time since she last had her eyes on them, Baela sees that the Cannibal has shorn clean through one of Vhagar’s wings, rendering the older dragon incapable of flight. Behealdan to the sight of her mother’s dragon floundering, her future robbed from her just as Laena’s had been, her hand slips down to that of Valaena, which enfolds hers tightly.

Bellowing a warbling cry, Vhagar makes a last, harried attempt to dislodge the Cannibal from her back. With one of her arms lacerated beyond repair, however, she has not enough strength for it, and her efforts and her weight fall flat. The hunter looms in close, taking final advantage of his good health to crane his unmarred neck before snapping back low. The Cannibal plunges a long claw into her gut and, when she turns her head to roar out in protest, takes half of her throat in his own with a single bite.

With his jaw still clenched around her flesh, fire bursts from his maw, steam rolls through his nostrils, and he howls in victory. Vhagar slowly goes limp beneath him, her body exhaling a final shudder. After nearly two-hundred years, the light fades from her eyes, and thus passes the last living creature from the days of Aegon’s Conquest.

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Daeron loses his dragon and his brother’s war in the sixth moon of 135 AC.

After Aemond set up the Butcher’s Ball, the last great Green army marched north along the Mander. Longtable and Bitterbridge ceded easily to Daeron and his cousin, Lord Ormund Hightower. The same easy victory was expected of Tumbleton, even after the arrival of the Winter Wolves. The tide turned, however, when Rhaenyra’s dragonriders arrived.

Never before had Daeron seen Vermithor and Silverwing fly, but his wonder at the beasts was short-lived. Their riders, two dragonseeds calling themselves Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth, scourged the town with whips of flame from one end to the other. Thousands died by dragonfire, and as many perished by drowning as they tried to swim the Mander.

His dragon—his Tessarion, his Blue Queen—never stood a chance against the older, larger mounts of the Old King and Good Queen Alysanne. She threw herself into the air before he could climb onto her back. He watched through tears as she was torn apart in the sky, Silverwing tearing through her wings and lower limbs and Vermithor locking his teeth into her neck and tearing off her head. As the pieces of her corpse plummeted to the ground, he felt as though he was being lanced through the gut, and he promptly lost the contents of his stomach.

Somehow, circumstances only worsened after the dragonseeds landed their dragons. Roddy the Ruin slew Ormund and his cousin Ser Bryndon, leaving Hobert Hightower in command. Despite Hobert’s leadership, a savage sack of the once-prosperous market town followed. Lord Unwin Peake, Lord George Graceford, Ser Victor Risley, and Bold Jon Roxton turned their men against Hobert’s, and soon, thousands more were dead, Hobert among them. The chaos continued for days, Green and Black soldiers both partaking in the carnage. Drunken soldiers robbed every home and shop, and every wealthy man was tortured unto death to reveal where he had hidden his gold and gems. Every woman was fair prey for the soldiers’ lust, even crones and little girls.

Even Daeron.

The dragonseeds haul him sixty leagues northeast to King’s Landing, eager for a prize from the Queen Rhaenyra. It is the only reason he was spared the sword or their dragons’ teeth, he suspects, as several of his former loyalist lords had suggested they slay him and claim he died in the battle. By the time he finds himself in the Great Hall of the Red Keep, held up by Hugh Hammer before his eldest sister, he is well and truly sick of having the man’s hands on him.

He holds strong only for the sake of his mother, who kneels prostrate before the Iron Throne. He is sure to be executed within the hour. His mother’s begging merely delays the inevitable. Nevertheless, he intends to remain standing until Rhaenyra’s headsman puts him on his knees, no matter how he trembles from the effort of keeping his spine straight.

“He is an innocent boy,” his mother attests, her hands clasped above her head as if in prayer.

Innocent. The word resounds in his mind, taunting him. He certainly cannot claim innocence, not to Rhaenyra. Their father had named her his heir, binding the entire realm in loyalty to her, and yet Daeron had betrayed her. No, he cannot claim innocence. He is far too old for naiveté to excuse his actions with regard to the war.

How circumstances might have differed if he had kept his tacit vow to her. She would have been a more favorable master than Aegon, certainly. Their brother abandoned the capital and their family moons past and has yet to be seen by anyone. Mayhaps Rhaenyra would not have placed Daeron in a position in which he might lose his dragon and his dignity.

Rhaenyra breathes his thoughts aloud. “Prince Daeron might have had a place of honor at my court if he had kept faith, but he sought to rob me of my birthright. Now, retribution is nigh.”

Alicent’s body jolts as she gasps out a sob. “Please, Rhaenyra. I—”

The giant doors at the front of the hall creak open, stealing everyone’s attention. Only Daeron keeps his eyes on Rhaenyra, too weak to turn his neck and peer backward. He is alerted only to the sounds of heavy breathing and broad steps smacking against the stone floor.

Another sound soon joins the cacophony. The voice of a knight is projected across the hall. “Valaena of House Velaryon, Princess of Dragonstone a—”

“Your Grace, I beg a word,” interrupts Valaena, fighting to catch her breath as she bustles down the aisle toward the throne.

Rhaenyra appears displeased with Valaena’s arrival, which strikes Daeron as odd. When last he saw them together, the day after Valaena’s wedding, Rhaenyra had been distraught in returning to Dragonstone without her only daughter. Lips pursed, she hails her now, “Valaena. What an unexpected pleasure.”

An unexpected pleasure, indeed. It will be nice to see Valaena again before he dies, he thinks.

At last, she comes into view, shooting Ulf White a scathing glare as she turns past him. Daeron is surprised to find her much the same as when last he met her, soon after Maelor’s birth. She is the same height, her braided hair is the same length, and she still smells of rosemary and Veraxes. The only true difference is her face. It has more weight to it and is more enraged than he has ever seen it. That, and the gaudy necklace Aemond gave her is absent.

Seething, she shoves at Hammer’s arms and hisses, “Let go of him.”

Hammer releases him, and Daeron is so overcome with ease and exhaustion as to crumple as he leans toward Valaena. She holds out her arms for him, shining like an angel in the light from the windows behind her. Slurring her name, he falls into her embrace and collapses in a dead faint. 

When he comes to, he finds himself lying along the floor, partially propped up in Valaena’s lap. She cradles his head against her breast, deftly petting the short strands of his hair. His blood seeps through his soiled clothes and stains her red dress.

Staring up at her mother, Valaena does not seem to notice that he has regained consciousness. She and Rhaenyra are in the midst of conversation. “It is as you say, he was led astray by the counsel of evil men.” 

“Led astray, he was, but he has since grown into a man with enough sense to reject such counsel,” Rhaenyra callously argues.

Under Daeron’s cheek, Valaena’s chest rises but does not fall as she holds her breath. “Please, Your Grace, he has committed no great sin—”

Rhaenyra counters, “Treason is a great sin, as is the betrayal of one’s kin.”

Valaena responds apace. “Then permit him to repent his sins, as you have so graciously done for others.” She nods toward Lord Alastor Swyft, who stands to their right. “Let him swear an oath, not just of obeisance, but of subservience,” she suggests. Her voice takes on a persuasive inflection. “Let Ser Daeron the Daring become a knight of the Queensguard, one of the fiercest protectors of yourself and your reign.”

Jerking back his neck, Daeron peers up at the bottom of Valaena’s chin. With what little wherewithal he has, he recoils from her assumption. Notwithstanding his position at the start of the war—when he fretted about the lives of all the little children in their family and worried over House Beesbury, the Hightowers’ own banner which would not support them—nor his present regrets, he is disinclined to support Rhaenyra now. Her enmity for Aegon is well known, and he should not wish to contribute to his brother’s demise, however remotely.

Rhaenyra, clearly not taken with the idea either, raises her brow. “Like his brothers, he broke a vow when he helped them usurp my throne. How could I trust him to keep this oath, one on which the safety of myself and mine children depends?”

Daeron thinks he hears the sound of Valaena’s teeth grinding as she thinks. After a moment, she comes up with, “Swear him to me. I am in need of a new sworn shield. Daeron will follow my direction. He is accustomed to obeying his siblings, and he certainly considers me as such.”

Lord Corlys casts his lot with Valaena. “An act of mercy toward the most well-liked of your brothers would endear Your Grace to the smallfolk, who grow restless from this winter’s dearth.”

Rhaenyra purses her lips, her interest piqued.

Her voice reedy, Valaena makes a final plea. “Please, Mother. I cannot bear to lose another brother.”

With this, Rhaenyra is suitably swayed, though she is loath to show mercy before Alicent, who stares agape at Valaena with wonder. “Return Queen Alicent to her chambers.” Alicent’s handmaids step forward to help her stand. Fettered hand and wrist by a gold chain, she permits them to lead her from the room. As soon as she is absent, Rhaenyra accedes, “Let us adjourn so that I may consider Princess Valaena’s proposal.”

The headsman sets down his axe, and unspeakably relieved, Daeron decamps from the waking world anew.

Daeron wakes ensconced in warmth, silk, and a sense of comfort he has not known in months. Peeling his eyes open, he sees warm light shining along the wall above his head. It illuminates the black and green thread of Valaena’s marriage cloak, and he realizes he is drowsing in her bedchamber. Fleetingly, he recalls the evenings he would often spend in this room with her and Helaena, ones that would typically culminate with Aemond arriving for the night and kicking him out.

A familiar presence makes itself known at the end of the bed in which he lies. Squeezing his foot, Valaena murmurs, “Hey, Dae.”

Drawn from his cozy reverie, he resolves to extract himself from the bedclothes. Quietly, he replies, “Hey.” Once he is seated on the edge the mattress, he registers that his form is swathed in soft cotton. Pinching the large shirt, he wonders, “Are these Aemond’s nightclothes?”

She smiles. “They are. And look,” she points to his naked ankles, “his trousers are too short for you.”

“Too bad I’ll never get to lord it over him,” remarks Daeron, grinning ruefully.

News of Aemond’s death reached him just after his and Ormund’s victory in Bitterbridge. A messenger had ridden for them from the village, carrying with him the ghastly revelation. His older brother had taken Dragonstone and lost it in little more than a moon, Daeron had learnt, whereupon he had managed to miraculously escape confinement, only to be foiled by the unforeseen arrival of their uncle. Daemon had swiftly blown the ship on which Aemond had stowed away asunder. Hearing this, Daeron had cried and screamed and sworn vengeance upon Daemon; vengeance he would never see now, no matter if he lives or dies.

Valaena’s smile turns strained, and she changes the subject. “I brought a healer to tend to you. He gave you a few grains of sweetsleep, so some hours have passed.” Blinking slowly, he supposes that must be why his tongue desires to stick to the roof of his mouth and his head feels cloudy, as though trying to usher him back under the fog of sleep. “If you’re hungry, I can call for supper.”

“No,” he refuses at once. His stomach churns at the thought of forcing down a meal. “I’ve not been able to keep very much food down since Tessarion died.”

Shuffling closer, she pets down the length of his back. “I am so sorry. I cannot fathom such anguish.” Her hand travels upward to push the fringe of his hair from his eyes. “But you must need eat.”

At her stern tone, he quips, “Do you carp at your son like this?”

“Indeed, I do not. Unlike some, he behaves,” she says. “You might come to Dragonstone and see for yourself. With time, who knows? Aenar and I may share a favorite uncle.”

Lighthearted though her tone is, he squirms, made uneasy. Since childhood, Valaena has japed that he is her favorite uncle. Before her marriage to Aemond, it had perhaps been true. Thereafter, it had grown into a cheeky joke, one that would inspire a smirk from him whenever Aemond was in the room with them. Now, however, it makes his insides churn. Valaena has plenty reason to resent him. He wonders, “Am I?”

“Are you,” returns Valaena, not having followed his line of thought.

“Your favorite uncle,” he clarifies. Hesitantly, he adds, “Are you not angry with me?”

When he learnt that his father had died and his family had quickly moved to crown Aegon, Daeron had been surprised. Not so much for his mother’s betrayal of Rhaenyra—that, he had long foreseen—but for Aemond’s betrayal of Valaena. Jilting Valaena had certainly given Daeron pause, and she was not his wife.

None of the warmth in Valaena’s gaze diminishes. “No. I understand. Aegon is your elder brother. You did what had long been expected of you. Surely, it was easier than would have been abandoning your cousins and flying to Dragonstone to swear allegiance to a half-sibling for whom you had never had any great love.”

Nodding, another heap of relief crashes into his chest. As the youngest of four—five, he supposes—he hates when his siblings are displeased with him. He had accepted early on that he could not please Rhaenyra, but Helaena and even Aemond were easily won. Aegon liked and misliked him in turns, leaving behind either a burst of joy or an ugly, gnawing feeling in his heart. When Aemond had wed Valaena, he had gained another easy companion, one he would hate to lose now that Aemond is gone and Helaena is missing.

She reaches out, patting his knee. “Besides, this war is so wearisome, near to its end though it is. I cannot stand to feud with one of my brothers.”

He nods. “War is wearisome. The battle at Tumbleton—” Emotion and painful words clog his throat, suffocating his voice.

“I came as soon as news of it reached Dragonstone,” she informs him, petting down his back again.

Something anxious and dreadful bubbles up from his stomach, squeezing past the block in his throat. He needs someone to hear what he witnessed in Tumbleton; someone who can hear and listen and answer him. “After Lord Dustin killed Ormund and Bryndon and the other dragons tore apart Tessarion,” he exhales a shaky breath, trying to withhold the tears for which he knows Aegon would mock him, “the dragonseeds burnt the rest of the Winter Wolves, and sundry of Aegon’s lords turned against us, and Roxton killed Hobert. And then they turned against the town. Why?” Valaena frowns, and he articulates his query further. “Lord Footly’s men surrendered, all of them, but they were bound and beheaded.”

She sits quietly for a moment, before sighing and explaining, “War brings out our more savage tendencies, I fear, whatever one’s loyalties. Men who would otherwise keep their displeasures to themselves will cut through those who glance at them with any untoward emotion in their eyes. Already, I have my own regrets from this strife.”

“Yes, well, you have never torn a babe from its mother’s arms and impaled it upon the point of a spear,” he spouts, and her eyes widen from horror. “I recall how Lady Sharis Footly wept as her husband was slain and her gown was torn from her by his murderer; how every girl not burnt or drowned was ra—” He gasps around the word, unable to force it past his lips.

Shushing him, she moves to wind her arm around his shoulders, but feeling frayed, he flinches away. She settles her hands in her lap. Gently, she elucidates, “In this world, men are ruled by lust and bloodlust. Present company excluded,” she appends, sparing him a slight smile. “I am sure it is terrible to behold; to learn that every woman fears the day when a man may choose to exert his power over her. I am sorry you were witness to such unpleasantness.”

Teeming with shame, he admits, “I was more than witness to it.”

Her gaze turns searching. Carefully, she asks, “How do you mean?”

“After the battle,” he takes a deep breath to keep his voice from shaking, but to no avail, “Ser Ulf dragged me into his pavilion and—and Hammer—” He bites his lip, knowing he will not be able to finish without thereupon weeping or gagging or falling so silent as to never speak again.

Valaena holds herself incredibly still, as though she is afraid to spook him. Hesitantly holding out her arms, she asks, “May I?”

Nodding, he falls into her arms yet again. She holds him tightly, and he indeed weeps into the crook of her neck, with his hands curled into the fabric of her dress. She murmurs comforts against his hair, rocking him as she must do her son.

Oddly but favorably, he feels better for his tearful release by its end. When he straightens, still burrowed against her side, she squeezes his shoulder. “Hearken to me. You shall never need brook their presence again.”

Wiping at his eyes, he shakes his head. “You cannot ensure that.”

With an odd set to her eyes, she promises, “I certainly can.” She squeezes his shoulder again. “But let us speak of something else.”

His hand, bunched in her skirts, unfurls and starts poking at her stomach. Dismayed, she smacks his hand away and furrows her brow at him. Undaunted, he picks the new topic of conversation. “Are you with child?”

Instantly, she is exasperated. Looking to the ceiling, she bursts, “How does one discern this so readily! I am not showing!”

Amused, he expounds, “Your middle feels as Helaena’s did when she carried the twins."

Sighing, she accepts his explanation and affirms, “Very well. Yes, I am with child.” Her lips twist. “I’m sure you wonder who the father is.”

“It isn’t Aemond,” he blurts, taken aback. He glances down at the signet ring emblazoned with Aemond’s initial, sat on her thumb.

“No—I mean, yes. He is the father,” she confirms, as though surprised by his precision.

Unsurprised himself, he congratulates her.

Her cheeks turning rosy, she briefly caresses the flat plane of her abdomen and thanks him.

“Did he know,” wonders Daeron.

Valaena shakes her head. “No, he doesn’t know. At this rate, I think I need not worry about informing him. My belly or mayhaps the child will surely take the task from me upon his return.”

Beset with confusion, he asks, “Whose return?”

“Aemond’s,” she clarifies.

“Valaena, Aemond is dead,” he says slowly, concern painting his voice.

Daeron went through his own denial of Aemond’s death when news of it reached him weeks past. However, when later news of Vhagar’s demise arrived, dreadful acceptance set in. The old dragon might have fought harder, he thought, had her rider still lived.

There is a stubborn set to Valaena’s frown. “No body was ever found.”

Having learnt when it is better to leave a battle, he leaves this one. “Never mind. What of Aegon?”

“What of him,” she sniffs, dismissive.

“He is my elder brother, as you said. I have my loyalties to him to consider,” he pronounces.

Rising from the bed, Valaena strides to the other side of the room before turning back, muttering something about loyalties under her breath all the while. Finally, she comes to a stop before him, loftily peering down at him. “You worry what it would mean for him, for you to join my mother’s Queensguard,” she discerns. He nods, and she tells him, merciless, “Think naught of him. Think of yourself.”

“Valaena,” he starts but never finishes.

“I did not come here, flying over the sea without a cloak in the midst of winter, sprinting through the halls of the Red Keep, for you to throw your life away for Aegon. Aegon, who will not come to save you, as I have,” she states, callous and without room for argument.

Nevertheless, he finds it. “Aegon is my brother. He loves me.”

Her face softens. “Surely, he does. But I love you, too, valonqar, and it is I who stands before you, offering salvation, not he. I offer the bargain to be struck.”

Swallowing, he glimpses to the side. He is nervous to make the wrong decision, notwithstanding his desire to live; to not die a pointless death, serving no one and injuring those left who love him, one of whom stands before him, her gaze boring into him.

“I understand your hesitance,” Valaena assures him. “I would surely doubt myself before turning mine back on Jace or Joff or my Aegon, but your obedience would mean more than allying yourself with Rhaenyra over Aegon. It would mean the reunification of our house.” She kneels on the floor, reaching up to grasp his hand. Intent, she avers, “For this war to end, we must be one house. The only thing that can tear down the house of the dragon is itself.”

Hearing this, Daeron feels swayed—thinking again of all the little children in their family, of his own tenuous grasp on the future—but he withholds himself from the precipice yet. Standing, he sets his shoulders and announces, “I wish to speak with Rhaenyra.” 

Rhaenyra, it turns out, cannot speak to him until the hour of the eel, too engrossed is she with her master of coin at present. The burst of confidence Daeron had felt subsides somewhat as he sups with Valaena, especially as she bludgeons him into drinking an entire bowl of soup. His stomach rumbles as he is at last escorted to Rhaenyra’s apartment, his father’s old quarters. When he is granted entry, his eyes sweep over the front rooms, noting the variations herein since his last visit.

Rhaenyra’s voice draws his attention to her. Across from him, she stands tall and imposing, with the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, Ser Lorent Marbrand, at her back. Her eyes narrowed, she speaks his name.

He bows his head. “Your Grace.” His eyes wander back toward the lateral part of the room. “You removed Valyria.”

Diverted, Rhaenyra looks toward the empty space. A sad note to her voice, she says, “’Twas Aegon who removed it, or mayhaps Alicent.”

For a moment, Daeron wishes to argue. He thinks his mother would not wish to see his father’s hard and skillful work amputated from the Keep, but he bites his tongue. Alicent had undone all of Viserys’s hard work in naming Rhaenyra his heir, after all, and without delay.

Rhaenyra pulls his attention back from the corner of the room, where their father’s model of Old Valyria used to sit. “Valaena informs me you wished to speak with me.”

“Yes,” he confirms. He picks at the sleeve of the jacket he wears, which he suspects Valaena procured from Jacaerys. “I wish to know your mind as to her proposal.”

“My mind,” she asks, though he is not fool enough to answer. Nodding, she shares, “I am of the mind that I little know you and your character.”

Dipping his head, he carefully acknowledges, “I was young still when you left for Dragonstone.”

Rhaenyra laughs shortly. “Yes, you were. Near ten years, you were born, after the death of mine mother. ’Twas Otto’s final insult to her. After all, what need did Viserys have of a third son?”

His old resentment for her blooming in his chest, he quietly scoffs and foolishly mutters, “That is not why.”

The volume of her own voice louder, she demands, “I beg your pardon?”

“You,” he starts, his voice wavering as he compels himself to continue, “do not know me because you cursed mine name before our father ever gave it to me.” Her chin raises as her eyes glint dangerously, but he brashly persists, “For your disregard and distaste for us, did you never wonder why we thought you would slit our throats the moment Father died? All know you are quick to anger and never forget a slight—”

“That slight,” she interrupts, “was your mother’s work, not yours.”

Suspended, Daeron waits for her to continue, but as is typical, Rhaenyra has few words for him. He fills the silence with his own thoughts. “I do not believe it anymore, do you know, not after what happened to Luke and then your Viserys.” Her jaw clenches at the mention of her deceased sons, but he does not withhold his statement for fear of her. They must be of one mind if he is to trust that she will not bury a knife in his back as soon as it is turned. “If we had done as you asked, came and bent the knee, you would not have betrayed our faith. So, I am willing to leave our muddled past behind us. To cut at its root my bloodline, for the threat I know it would do to you. To live and serve and die for you.”

Suspect but intrigued, she wonders, “Why?”

“Because I love Valaena. I love her as I love Helaena. And I love Aenar. I love him as I love the twins and Maelor, even though I’ve not met him.” Rhaenyra has ceased frowning, though she does not smile. “I don’t love you as I do my other sisters, but I’ll protect you,” taking a deep breath, he adds, “and your boys.”

“And you would give your life for it,” she presses, curious.

“Now or late, it makes no difference to me.” His life is hers, whether he surrenders it to an assassin or a headsman. With the Butcher’s Ball and the Battle of Tumbleton, Rhaenyra has as good as won the war, and all that is left is Aegon’s fate. Heaving another great breath, he broaches, “That said, I require assurances of mine own.”

Her brow lifts with something close to amusement. “Do you?”

His mettle grows. “Your husband killed my brother. I will not suffer his gloating, nor do I wish to serve him.”

“To serve the sovereign is to serve the royal consort. There is naught to be done for that,” she replies at once. For his part, Daeron is disappointed to be so forthwith refused, though Rhaenyra soon sighs and appends, “But you will be Princess Valaena’s protector, and she lives on Dragonstone. I doubt you shall often need endure his presence.”

You will be, she says. Feeling as though his fate is sealed—and not for the worst, as he had been expecting—he relaxes minutely. Rhaenyra’s suppositions leave him partially satisfied, as well, or as much as he can be with Aemond already dead. With that in mind, he confides, “Valaena seems to think Aemond still lives.”

Looking close to rolling her eyes, she waves his concern aside. “Valaena does not wish to remarry, as she now must. That is all that is.”

“All right.” Returning to the matter at hand, he inquires, “After the war is concluded, what will happen to mine mother?”

A nonchalant air about her, Rhaenyra divulges, “I confess, I have not yet decided. I may keep her here or remove her to Oldtown. Mayhaps I shall send her to Dragonstone so she may be with Helaena, though this would require Valaena’s consent,” she contemplates, shrugging.

Daeron’s surprise at Rhaenyra’s leniency as to Alicent, for all that the other woman has slighted her, is overpowered by his inquisitiveness at her mention of “Helaena?”

Rhaenyra slakes his curiosity. “Helaena and her children will live on Dragonstone with Valaena after she returns and bends the knee. This is long decided.”

Daeron suppresses a smile, glad to hear that he will often be in his sister’s company. He nods succinctly before moving onto the meat of his demands. “What of Aegon?”

Rhaenyra sucks her teeth and looks away from him. “Aegon has committed a great treason.”

“He has only followed our mother’s and grandsire’s will,” he argues.

Incisively, she corrects, “He attempted to kill Valaena. He celebrated Luke’s murder and sanctioned that of Viserys. He ordered the assassinations of my remaining children. Tell me, Brother, is all this not his own treason?”

Contrite, he looks toward his feet and tries to refrain from swallowing his own tongue. For want of anything better, he offers, “He is a traitor then. Traitors often take the black.”

She heaves a frustrated sigh. “I ask again, what is a vow to an oathbreaker? His vow did not trouble him when he took my throne.”

Frustrated himself, he takes a rash step toward her. Ser Lorent startles, his hand going to the hilt of his sword, but Rhaenyra waves him off. When Daeron is near enough to take her hands, she is not so repelled by his touch as he had imagined she would be. He pleads, “Aegon has no desire to rule. He is lecherous and mercurial. If you offer him an escape, he will take it.”

Staring up at him, Rhaenyra carries her displeasure on her face. It sits in her mouth as she withholds another sigh, and it rings in her voice when she finally accedes, “I shall consider offering mercy to the Usurper, but I make no more promises than that.”

As Lorent and Ser Lyonel Bentley lead him to the Great Hall, Daeron discovers the Red Keep as it was before he was sent away to Oldtown. For much of his childhood, the Keep was draped with Targaryen heraldry. His mother and grandsire replaced the regalia of his father’s house when he was twelve, stringing up symbols of the Seven in its place. Though he knows his mother must be upset by this change, among all the others of Rhaenyra’s reign, he finds himself glad for it. It had always felt distinctly unpleasant, returning to his home only to scarcely recognize it and soon be sent away again.

As the doors to the hall crack open, the ceremony soon underway steals his thoughts. Holding his back straight, he keeps his gaze directly forward. He tactfully avoids the gazes of the court, wary of being unnerved by meeting Jacaerys’s eyes. In his peripheral vision, he spies his eldest nephew standing rigid beside Valaena, like to be displeased by Daeron coming into any good fortune.

Rhaenyra stands from her throne and comes down the steps toward him, forcing his thoughts for his least favorite of her children to fall from his mind. He gingerly pushes back the white cloak hanging from his shoulders lest it snag as he kneels on one leg.

With the morning, he was drilled on the duties and expectations of a knight of the Queensguard by Lorent. He was taught the vows he would now swear, asseverations he brings from his mind to his tongue one after another.

“I swear to ward the queen with all my strength and give my blood for hers,” he begins, his sister’s lilac eyes locked with his own. Her stare tightens, and he deliberately raises his voice. He tries to keep his voice even as he swears his oath, even as some of the words burn his tongue. “I shall take no wife, hold no lands, and father no children.

“I shall guard her secrets, obey her commands, ride at her side, and defend her name and honor.” Where the oath usually ends, his continues as Valaena steps up to his side. Briefly, he glances sidelong at her before returning his gaze to Rhaenyra. “After her, I swear to ward her heir. I shall give my blood for hers, obey her commands, and defend her claim.”

Valaena returns to her place to the right of the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra holds out her right hand. Taking it, he kisses one of her rings. Once he stands and polite applause fills the hall, she surprises him with an unexpectedly warm embrace around his shoulders. Stunned, he is too slow to bring his arms up to her waist. When she pulls back, her matchless, slight smile is directed at him, and he abruptly realizes that it has never before been aimed at him. Taken aback, he feels the corner of his own mouth twitching upwards.

As lords and ladies begin milling about the room, her hands slide down to his wrists. “Well done, Daeron. I pray your new station serves us both well.” Her fingers pinch around his wrists, and he suppresses a flinch. Quietly, she hisses, “But know that should you ever betray me, you shall die screaming.”

Discreetly, he pulls his hands away. She smiles at him again, colder than before. This time, he does not find it within himself to return the gesture.

Valaena rescues him from Rhaenyra’s wrath yet again, clapping and squealing from excitement. “Well done, Dae!” She holds her arms out for him, and he leans forward to embrace her.

At her side, Jacaerys glares at some point over Daeron’s shoulder and reluctantly offers his hand to shake. They exchange tight smiles as they shake hands, with Daeron trying to crush Jacaerys’s hand under his gauntlet as inconspicuously as possible.

Valaena, smiling wider and more genuinely than the both of them combined, glories in their contrived companionship for a moment longer before taking pity on them. “All right, that’s enough.”

Ripping his arm back, Jacaerys flexes his hand as if to ward off the whisper of Daeron’s touch. Giving Daeron his back, he leans into his sister, whispers something into her ear, kisses her cheek, and starts away.

Daeron’s gaze slides from Jacaerys’s back to Valaena’s brown eyes, still sparkling with mirth. “Was that necessary?”

“It was.” Fitting herself into his side, she slides her hand into the crook of his arm and starts them from the hall. In his peripheral vision, he spots her youngest brothers, Joffrey and Aegon, slinking after them. Amused by the boys’ antics, he pretends not to notice them. Valaena draws his attention back to her. “Now, I’ve the Dragonkeepers replacing Veraxes’s saddle with one large enough to comfortably sit two. We can depart as soon as they’ve finished.”

Dragging his feet, he brings them to a stop in the middle of the corridor. Hesitantly, he wonders, “May I speak with my mother before we leave for Dragonstone?”

The grimace of distaste he expects to flash across her face never comes. Rather, she shifts her grip on him from his elbow to his shoulder and squeezes. “Daeron, you are a free man.” She glances aside. “Or as free as any member of the Queensguard. And your vows certainly do not preclude you from speaking to your mother.”

“So, I can,” he asks, for the sake of clarity. Usually, when he insists upon receiving his elder siblings’ explicit permission, Helaena drifts off, Aemond snaps at him, or Aegon smacks him.

Far more patient than the rest, Valaena merely nods and says, “Yes. I shall await you in the outer ward of the Keep.”

They diverge, with Joffrey and Aegon taking his place at her side, each of them taking one of her hands and violently swinging their arms. Turning, he heads up the grand staircase, unaccompanied and free to move about the castle. On his way to the Tower of the Hand, he receives a smattering of glares, though most of the stares that pass over him are vacant, indifferent as to his presence.

His mother’s door is guarded by a pair of household knights, who part ways for him to pass. Alicent’s absent gaze is pinned to the fireplace as he steps into her rooms. It remains there until his sabatons clink against the floor, alerting her to his presence. Her eyes widen, and she shoots to her feet. Rushing over, she enfolds him into her embrace. “Oh, my purest love.”

As she grips him tightly, he is careful not to pinch her with his armor. He buries his face in her hair, expecting the soft, flowery fragrance that he usually finds there, only to smell sweat from locks that feel as though they have not been washed in days.

When she pulls back from him, she slides her hands along his face, her fingers brushing from his brow to his chin and her thumbs digging into his cheeks. Gritting his teeth, he strives not to wince as her touch frets over his bruises.

Keeping her grip on his cheeks, she brings his head down. As she touches her forehead to his, she breathes, “My only child.”

He tries to pull away from her. “Mother—”

“Your sister and her children are nowhere to be found. The same can be said of your brother Aegon. He left this city infirm and in the care of Strong, who abandoned him.” She takes a fortifying breath, though for naught, as her face soon crumples. “And Aemond—”

Overcome himself, he drags her close, permitting her to bury her face into his shoulder as she sobs. His mother’s shoulders shake as he holds her, and he rubs along her back to soothe her. He thinks of telling her how he misses Aemond, too, but she looses her grip on him before long.

With her cheeks wet and her eyes wide from agitation, she spouts, “But with you, there remains hope for our cause yet.”

“Our cause,” he parrots, nonplussed.

Nodding, she draws his hands into her grasp. Intent, she apprises him, “Valaena has put herself at your mercy. When the time is ripe, mayhaps when Daemon’s daughter ventures here to wed Jacaerys, you can cut her throat as she sleeps.”

His breath shallow, Daeron feels as though he has been dragged under icy waters. His mother’s suggestion appalls him, and he feels the strangest inclination to scream. Remarkably quietly, he manages, “What?”

“She trusts you. It will be easily done,” she insists.

“Valaena has just saved mine life,” he reminds her, as she appears to have forgotten.

She has not. She shakes her head, warding off such trivialities. “I am grateful for that and nothing more.” He feels himself frown, and she grips him closer lest he extricate himself from her hold. “Bastards are monstruous by nature, and that girl is a fiend wrought upon your father’s house by her mother’s depravity. It falls to you to exorcise her.”

“You cannot mean this.” He recalls when Alicent thought of Valaena almost favorably. No more than a year past, when she believed that Aemond’s grip on her would permit the Greens to use her and her children for their will.

Her fingers squeeze his with enough strength to drain the blood from them. She embarks on another strategy to persuade him. “Aegon may not live to see the end of this bloodshed. If Valaena dies, your brother’s child will be Rhaenyra’s heir, and then we need only dispatch her to have our blood on the throne, and you may be relieved of these wretched vows you swore this day.”

This new ploy serves only to repel him further. “You would have me forsake mine own word?”

Her frustration at his pugnacity turns to umbrage. “It is no worse than forsaking your blood, as you have done this day.”

“If I have done, it is only because you taught us so,” he refrains from spitting. “After all, what sort of brother steals his sister’s birthright?”

“She has no birthright. You and your brothers were the king’s trueborn sons, with a better claim to the throne than her brood of bastards,” she hisses, incensed.

Wroth to have had his integrity insulted, but more so disappointed with how far his mother has fallen—rather, with how long it has taken him to notice—he extracts himself from her grip. “Valaena is expecting me.”

Alicent’s face crumples anew. This time, the creases at the corners of her mouth are drawn with bitterness. “I should have known. How that girl has a talent for ensorcelling my sons.”

Rather than issue some rejoinder, Daeron bites his tongue as he steps back from her. When he reaches the door, he offers, “I shall visit you when next I return,” but, having turned away, she refuses to acknowledge him further. With fresh disappointment, he makes his egress.

As he makes his way out of the castle a few minutes later, he spies Valaena standing with Aegon gripping her hand as she yells at Joffrey to “Come away from Veraxes! He is not your dragon. You should not be trying to climb him.” She turns, spying Daeron in turn, and gasps in apparent relief. “Praise the gods. Can you take him for a moment?” She holds out Aegon’s hand to him. With a small amount of horror, he notices that Aegon is quietly crying.

Dumbly, he nods, and she steps away. He tries to take Aegon’s hand, but the boy withholds it, choosing instead to bring it and its twin to his face and cover his tears. Awkwardly, Daeron pats Aegon on the shoulder as he stifles his silent weeping. Daeron is spared from having to comfort the boy further as his brother soon bounds over and wraps his arms around him like an octopod.

Off to the side, Valaena, speaking in a hushed tone, wraps up her conversation with a maidservant Daeron vaguely recognizes. “—matter dealt with after I have sent word of mine and the Prince Daeron’s arrival at Dragonstone. When it is done, do not take pains to inform me.” Once the woman nods her understanding, Valaena takes her leave of her, marching back to Aegon’s side. Growling playfully, she pries Joffrey from his back and hugs each of the boys to either side of her. Starting with Joffrey, she kisses their brows. “We’re off then. I shall miss you both.”

His voice thin, Aegon warbles, “I’ll miss you, too.”

Meanwhile, restless, Joffrey rips himself free of her. He sidles over to Daeron and offers his hand to shake. “Fare thee well, Ser Prince Daeron.”

Daeron, amused by the mishmash of his titles, extends his arm to shake the boy’s hand.

Joffrey raises his hand over his head, exclaiming, “Too slow,” and dashing back into the castle. Aegon soon follows him, though he spares his sister another hug and Daeron a nod before he runs off.

Watching the boys run off with a hint of sorrow in her eyes, Valaena sighs. “Aegon has been melancholy since we lost our Viserys. We hope his spirits will improve with the end of the war,” she explains. Her expression turning wry, she notes, “Joff is as sprightly as ever.”

Glancing at him, she sighs, “Here I am rambling.” Grabbing his arm, she turns them around. Together, they approach Veraxes, who lurks at the far end of the curtilage. He is as menacing as Daeron recalls from his youth and larger than was his Tessarion. Staring up at him, Daeron feels his neck grow tight from apprehension.

Valaena gestures toward Veraxes’s back. “You first.”

Wary of the beast and his yellow glare, he quibbles, “Ladies first.”

“I am a princess. Move it,” she fires back.

Having run out of room to argue, he fortifies his courage and approaches the dragon. Veraxes rumbles but permits Daeron to mount him, and his true rider is not far behind. Once they have both strapped in their legs, they take to the air, and Dragonstone is less than an hour away on this cloudless day.

Two weeks later, on a day with clouds and snow, a letter arrives for Valaena from Jacaerys as she, Baela, and Daeron sit for breakfast. He writes of the recently discovered, untimely deaths of Hammer and White, the both of them slain while in a brothel in Flea Bottom.

As Valaena passes the letter along for him to read, a slight smile pulling at her lips, Daeron realizes that though whores are like to hang for these crimes, the true culprit sits before him. Filled to the brim with an atrocious lack of shame, he thanks her—for the letter, Baela must think—and they never speak of it again.

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Upon the discovery of Hugh Hammer’s and Ulf White’s deaths in Flea Bottom, a revelation which rocked the Red Keep, Jacaerys sends a brief notice to his sister. Two days later, his betrothed arrives in King’s Landing, intent on claiming one of the fallen dragonriders’ mounts.

Rhaenyra, approving of the idea, sends Jacaerys and Aegon along with Baela, bidding they try for the dragons, as well. In the castle yard, Joffrey begs Jacaerys to permit him to join them, tugging on his arm with his round face shining up at him. Guiltily, Jacaerys refuses, stating that there is no need as he has Tyraxes. Joffrey shuffles away, dejected, as Jacaerys stifles a frown and climbs into the carriage after Aegon.

At the Dragonpit, Aegon is timid around both Vermithor and Silverwing, not daring to come closer than a few yards to either beast. Jacaerys makes a lackluster attempt to claim Vermithor, but as soon as the old dragon’s hackles rise, he retreats. He would rather not burn for the chance to claim a dragon, certainly not when Vermax is so recent in his memory.

Baela is fearless as she approaches Silverwing and not hesitant in the least. It is this boldness, he thinks, which lends to her success. Silverwing bows her head and extends one winged arm, and Baela practically scrambles up her back. Her smile gleams like her new mount’s silver scales as the beast treads out of the Dragonpit, and even amidst the ache that has lived in his soul since this war started, he feels his heart warm with hers.

Rhaenyra treats Baela to a feast upon her return from her victory lap in the sky. She commends her on her bravery, and a dozen lords toast Baela the Brave. A score of fat, roast quails are served. Jacaerys picks at his, his stomach roiling from emptiness and regret as he watches its mostly intact carcass be carried away at the end of the night.

The next morning, Baela suggests they marry forthwith, and he refuses anew. She asks him why, fixing him with a hard, unhappy stare. When he gives no answer, she leaves him and returns to Dragonstone. He swallows his sense of dread and guilt, swirling low in his gut, for having disappointed her yet again.

In the afternoon, a short riot erupts near the harbor, crushed by the City Watch but not forgotten. There is another the next day. A skirmish a week later. After a fortnight, Celtigar decrees that traitors, rebels, and murderers will be beheaded in the Dragonpit, and their corpses fed to the queen’s dragons, with the cost of three pennies to witness the fates of such evil men. The next moon is mostly quiet. 

In its midst, a peasant woman with long, black hair arrives from the riverlands, praying for an audience with the queen. Jacaerys thinks nothing of her until the request is granted. Later that evening, he finds Rhaenyra staring out at the sea, the turmoil of the bay’s waters reflected in her eyes.

The following evening, the strange woman meets with his mother again, alongside Celtigar and the Manderly brothers. Late in the night, a guard discovers a maidservant impaled on the spikes beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. When Jacaerys raises the matter, Rhaenyra seems unconcerned, inexplicably believing the woman to have slipped when cleaning the windows.

Within a week, she dismisses Addam from his post in the Dragonpit, invoking resentment from Corlys. Her Hand complains of the disfavor shown to his grandson after all the loyalty the boy has shown his queen throughout this war, but Rhaenyra brushes him off. The war is near over, she reasons, let the dragonseeds be returned to Driftmark. Jacaerys has to persuade his grandsire from joining Addam himself.

The next edict from Her Grace is just as erratic, though it does not evoke the same cause for concern in Jacaerys as did her others. She summons to the Red Keep King Daemon and Princess Valaena, demanding audiences with them both. Daemon arrives after three days, disappearing into Rhaenyra’s rooms with her as soon as he enters the castle. When Veraxes and Silverwing are spotted on the horizon later in the afternoon, Jacaerys embarks to collect their riders.

On this trip to the Dragonpit, Joffrey absolutely refuses to be left behind. All the way through the city, he jabbers to Jacaerys about everything that has captured his attention of late, the two of them not having spoken at length for some time.

Upon arriving at the Dragonpit, they find Valaena, Baela, and Aenar waiting for them. Daeron joins them, as well, having already mounted a destrier to escort them back to the Keep.

Stepping out of the carriage to greet them, he offers Valaena a peck on the cheek. As she leans into him, she hefts Aenar higher up on her hip. Jacaerys tries to greet his nephew, as well, waggling his fingers at him, but to no avail. The babe is far too engrossed with the furry collar of his mother’s capacious houppelande.

As Valaena kisses Joffrey’s brow and climbs into the carriage, Jacaerys sidles over to Baela. Stiltedly, he broaches, “I did not know you were coming.”

Stiffly, she answers, “I shall keep you apprised of my comings and goings when you are mine husband.” With that, she turns up her nose and stalks into the carriage. Wincing, he joins her.

Once the carriage has set off, jabbering starts up again, though not to the extent that Jacaerys can understand. Sat in his mother’s lap, Aenar babbles to anyone and everyone, growing louder with each passing second.

Upon sitting under the boy’s lurid stare for a full minute as he repeatedly shouts a mixture of unrelated syllables at him, Jacaerys lifts his gaze to that of Valaena. He remarks, “He’s very voluble.”

Pleased, she agrees, “Oh, yes, I’ve a loquacious babe on mine hands.” She beams down at her son, and her voice turns so high as to squeak. “Aenar, can you say, ‘Mama?’”

Excited by the attention, he squeaks back at her, “Mama!”

She points to Baela. “And who is this?”

His gaze shifts to his aunt. “Bae-uh!”

Endeared, Valaena and Baela giggle as the latter reaches over to play with Aenar’s foot. Once her jubilation has subsided, Valaena goes on, “He calls Daeron ‘Dae Dae,’ Veraxes ‘Err-ack-see,’ and he also quite favors the word no.”

Sure enough, Aenar exclaims, “No,” and proceeds to repeat it over and over whilst flapping his arms.

Joffrey, charmed, as well, leans forward and speaks Aenar’s name until the boy looks at him. “Can you say my name? Joffrey,” he enunciates.

With commendable effort, Aenar parrots, “Off-ee!”

“Very good,” applauds Valaena. She points to Jacaerys. “And Jacaerys?” 

Somewhat disappointingly, Aenar does no more than squeal gibberish at him.

Laughing, Valaena cheers him, nonetheless. “Good job, sweetling.” 

“That didn’t sound anything like ‘Jacaerys,’” complains Joffrey.

She replies in a deadpan. “Yes, thank you for keeping me honest, Joff.”

Joffrey smiles wide, perversely pleased to have been called out for his cheek, though his grin slips away as a violent thwack sounds from one of the walls of the carriage. A revolting, sulfuric stench soon follows.

Shrieking, Valaena clutches Aenar to her chest. As shouting starts up from around them, she plugs her nose. “Has someone thrown dung at us?”

Standing, Jacaerys bangs thrice on the driver’s side of the carriage as a signal for him to speed up. As they hasten down the street, grievances and yet more projectiles are hurled at them. Most of what is shouted is unintelligible, all jumbled together, but they do catch wind of one name.

“Maegor,” questions Baela as she peers through the fenestrae.

Sighing, Jacaerys mutters, “I worried this might happen.” Valaena sets her eyes on him, a query on her face. He sighs again. Grudgingly, he admits, “There have been riots.”  

Thrown, she says, “But—There were riots under Aegon, but they stopped once Mother took back the city.”

Fractious, he argues, “Yes, but Lord Bartimos raised taxes and hasn’t brought them back down—”

“He hasn’t? He assured me he would when I left,” she replies.

Irritated, he snaps, “Well, he misled you.” Her frown worsens. “Now, winter has brought along a crop shortage, making hunger all the more acute. We’ve tried to redistribute food, but there is only so much, and,” his voice drops low despite the company, “I believe the merchants are hoarding rations so as to inflame the smallfolk. Their taxes are the highest, and they have had their displeasure from the start.”

Valaena is silent as she considers all he has said. Finally, she asks, “Have you expressed these concerns to Mother?”

“I have tried, but with little success. She is difficult to find alone these days.” He recalls when last he tried to speak with his mother about the whispers of Rhaenyra the Cruel spread throughout the capital. He came upon her in her solar, hearing whispers from another source.

Sniffing, Valaena supposes, “Well, I should think she desires a private audience with me, so I shall share our worries with her then.”

Relieved, Jacaerys straightens his back. He wonders how it is that people without elder sisters handle their problems.

Nevertheless, he is not so certain that Rhaenyra wishes for a word alone with Valaena, as she had called back Daemon at the same time, and he wonders, “Do you know wherefore she summoned you?”

Valaena shares a covert glance with Baela. “I have my suspicions.”

Upon their arrival at the Red Keep, Lorent Marbrand attends to escort them to Rhaenyra. He salutes their party as the carriage comes to a stop. “All hail Valaena of House Velaryon, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne.” Valaena steps into the castle yard, and he hastens to add, “And her son and heir, Prince Aenar Targaryen.”

As Joffrey clambers down the short tower of steps set up for them, he queries, “Why aren’t we announced?”

From the corner of his mouth, Jacaerys sets him right. “Because we are not in the direct line.”

Blowing out a disinterested breath, he nods and runs off.

The rest of their party heads into the Keep soon after, with Lorent leading and Daeron taking up the back. Lorent guides them into Maegor’s Holdfast and up to the threshold of the queen’s apartment, where he and Daeron post up on either side of the doorway.

Daeron leans over to open the door for Valaena. She starts inside, spies Daemon, still conferring with Rhaenyra, and backtracks, causing Baela to collide with her. She steps back into the hall and hands Aenar off to his paternal uncle. “Daeron, take Aenar to the nursery and stay with him, if you please.”

As Daeron does as bade, Valaena turns to Jacaerys, hissing, “Why did you not tell me he was here?”

Jacaerys is nonplussed. “Does it matter?” He appreciates that she remains apprehensive of Daemon after the stunt he pulled on Dragonstone, but he had assumed that, by its result, she would recognize that all that ends well is well.

In calling her name, their mother restrains her from issuing a rejoinder, one which had so clearly been perched on the tip of her tongue. Valaena smooths out her face, clearing it of its anxious creases, before turning to regard Rhaenyra. Much unlike Valaena’s own dress, the queen wears a slim, black gown, the neckline of which is encrusted with rubies. The golden heads of two dragons sit on her shoulders.

As they three enter the room, Rhaenyra turns toward them and strives to leave Daemon behind. Nevertheless, he continues to loom over her, discouraging her from some endeavor. “Do not do this. You will regret it.” Aegon, standing between his parents, peers up at his father and clings to his mother’s wrist with both hands.

“Kelītīs. Valaena kesīr issa. Henujās,” she tosses at him from over her shoulder. When he does not move to leave, as ordered, she repeats, “Henujās.”

When still, he remains, Rhaenyra sighs and shakes her head. She resumes her march toward Valaena, taking her into her arms and kissing her cheeks. “My sweet girl,” she whispers to her eldest daughter. Turning her attention to their audience, she appends, “All of you may leave us. Aegon, go with Baela. Daemon, get out.”

Both Daemon and Aegon abstain from following her directives, Daemon from apparent obstinacy and Aegon from puerility. Meanwhile, Baela picks at the back of Valaena’s coat, whispering, “Do you still wish for me to stay?”

Valaena pats Baela’s hand in affirmance, whilst telling Rhaenyra, “That’s all right, Mother. They needn’t leave us yet.”

Viciously, she responds, “One of them must. Daemon.”

“There is no cause for me to leave,” he bites at her. “I’ve done nothing to her.”

Scoffing, Rhaenyra turns back to Valaena and holds her by her elbows. Peering down the length of her form, she assures her, “You must know, jorrāeliarzus, you hold no blame for this.”

With a tremor in her voice, Valaena replies, “Truly?” Rhaenyra nods, and Valaena slumps slightly, as though from relief. “Muña, kirimvose. I meant to inform you earlier than this, but I knew not how to tell you.”

Rhaenyra bows their heads together. “Be eased, sweet girl. I have the solution to your troubles.”

“What troubles,” queries Aegon, with Jacaerys silently echoing his question.

Standing tall again, Rhaenyra answers with a condemnatory note in her tone. “Your sister is carrying your father’s child.” 

A chorus of “what” echoes throughout the room. For all his consternation, Jacaerys cannot say whether his voice joins in it. He looks over to Daemon, who scowls at the back of Rhaenyra’s head, his hands set on his hips.

“I am not,” contends Valaena, aghast herself. Instinctively, she tries to pull away from Rhaenyra, though their mother is not content to let her go far.

“It’s all right, Valaena. I do not fault you,” Rhaenyra insists. “And you have already admitted it.”

Daemon steps back up to Rhaenyra’s side, interjecting, “She knew not that she was answering so vile an accusation.” Pulling at her arm, he draws her away from Valaena and Aegon, who finally goes with Baela as previously bade. “Enough of this. You are mistaken.”

Whirling on him, Rhaenyra flashes, “I have seen the way you look at her, and you certainly know no limit.” He scoffs at these charges, though any humor in his face vanishes as she tacks on, “And you told me you wanted to fuck her.” 

“That is not what I said. I never—” He looks to Valaena, who stands entirely still and pale as a sheet, and shakes a finger. “Valaena, I never said that.” 

As their parents continue spitting at one another, Valaena regains her mobility and turns to regard her siblings. Still stricken, she looks to Jacaerys and wonders, “What is happening?”

His mouth opens and closes, unsure is he of what to say. It had been somewhat conspicuous, Rhaenyra summoning Daemon and Valaena at once, but never could he have imagined that this was her purpose in doing so. Of course, neither had he known that Valaena was pregnant.

“You’re pregnant,” he blurts, it being the loudest thought in his mind. His gaze drops to her belly, the slight curve of which he had not noticed until this moment.

Momentarily diverted from her distress, she tersely answers, “Yes.”

“How,” he stresses.

“How do you think,” she snarks back.

“Because I would never do that,” shouts Daemon, his voice booming and startling all but Rhaenyra. “Who the fuck told you these lies?”

This steals Valaena’s attention, too, and she turns to better hear the answer.

Rhaenyra scowls up at Daemon. “These are no lies. ’Twas the grand maester himself who informed me she was with child.”

“Maester Gerardys told you I was pregnant by Daemon,” Valaena intrudes, curious.

With a half-sigh, Rhaenyra admits, “No—”

“Then how could you accuse me so,” questions Daemon.

“Because I know you were alone with her in your rooms at Harrenhal. I know you both were spied in its halls in states of undress,” reveals Rhaenyra. She narrows her eyes. “I know you had the opportunity to be alone together again at Dragonstone when her gravidity began. How dare you take advantage of her?”

He puffs up, unbowed. “I was never alone with her at Dragonstone, and at Harrenhal, I only invited her to my chambers—not my bedchamber—for a drink.”

Rhaenyra scoffs, but Valaena steps in to assist him. “It’s true. And it was another night at Harrenhal that I happened to leave my rooms in only my nightgown, but I—” She stalls as she surely realizes how that all must sound. “Daemon never touched me. I swear this to you.”

Rhaenyra’s sagacious gaze moves to her before sliding farther, onto Jacaerys. “Who is the father then, if not Daemon?”

With his mother’s suspicion turned onto him, Jacaerys panics and steps back from Valaena. “Not I!” 

Baela volunteers the answer. “It’s Cole.”

Horrified, Rhaenyra reaches back to grasp at Daemon’s arm. “What,” they both exclaim.

Jacaerys is rather appalled himself, though he is little surprised. Valaena did tend to disappear with the man on Dragonstone.

Turning on Baela with an incredulous look, Valaena disputes, “No, it isn’t.” Baela shrugs at her, unrepentant. Clearly wishing for an end to this inquiry, she sighs and confesses, “Aemond is the father.” 

The revelation casts a pall over the room. Daemon seems to take no pleasure in being absolved of any guilt, his head drooping as he scowls at the floor. Rhaenyra takes the news harshly, as well, biting her lip as her eyes water.

Jacaerys’s own musings turn sour, too. He thinks back to when their uncle held them captive on Dragonstone and recalls one night in particular. Roughly a week before they took back the isle, he heard a crash in the hour of the owl, shortly followed by his sister screaming, “Aemond, let go of me! Criston! Jace! Jacaerys!” Hearing her call, he tried to go to her, but his locked door thwarted him, proving impossible to knock down. The next day, she came to him with bandaged hands and a distant look in her eyes. She told him that it had all been a misunderstanding, that she was sorry for worrying him unnecessarily, and he suppressed his knowledge of the truth. He feels guilty for it now, more than ever, as she begged for his help, and he might have been able to stop it had he known the true danger. He feels regret for not killing Aemond that very day, for letting it go on for another week. Aemond is certainly fortunate to be dead, Jacaerys thinks, else he would rue the day.

As Jacaerys ruminates on yet more of his failings, Rhaenyra pulls Valaena into her arms again. She cradles her head against her shoulder, kissing the crown of her head and rubbing her hands along her back. “It’s all right, sweetling. Thank you for telling me.”

With her face squished against their mother’s shoulder, Valaena murmurs, “Mother, it wasn’t—” She trails off as Baela coughs loudly, catches her eye, and shakes her head.

Seeing this, Jacaerys sends Baela an accusatory glance, silently inquiring as to what she knows. She does no more than raise her brow at him, as though to assert that she has no obligation to tell him anything. Huffing, he tries to correct the anxious hunch of his shoulders.

Rhaenyra, having missed the minute interactions, tells Valaena not to fret. “As I said, I have the solution to your troubles,” she adds.

Straightening her back, Valaena wonders, “You do?”

Rhaenyra nods. “I have decided that, in anticipation of the birth of this new child, you will take a new husband. Upon your grandsire’s recommendation, you shall satisfy the Pact of Ice and Fire and marry Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell.”

Jacaerys’s wariness grows. His expedition to Winterfell had been nothing if not favorable, but he is instantly concerned about sending Valaena there.

Her eyes wide, Valaena is surprised and discontent, too. “What? No.”

“No? Valaena, you require a husband,” their mother informs her.

“And I have one,” she answers. “I cannot marry Lord Stark. I am still married to Aemond.”

Graciously exasperated, Rhaenyra reminds her, “Valaena, Aemond is dead.”

Valaena is obstinate. “No body was ever found.”

Through gritted teeth, Rhaenyra endeavors to not sound too dismissive. “So you have said. Repeatedly.”

“Yes, and if I am right, any marriage to Lord Stark would be void,” Valaena clarifies.

Their mother is unconcerned. “If my half-brother does indeed still live, he will be executed. Thereafter, you may swear anew your vows to Lord Cregan, and any children from your bond may be naturalized.”

Valaena’s breath turns shallow as her distress grows. Her voice small, she wonders, “Is this a punishment?”

Firmly, Rhaenyra shakes her head and takes her hand. “It is hardly a punishment for you to be allied in blood with the Warden of the North. It is a good thing.” 

“It is a punishment for me then,” infers Daemon, his tone sharp and cutting. “You promised me she would wed Aegon.” 

Rhaenyra scarcely spares him a backwards glance. “I made no such promise.” 

“But you did promise me that I would have my choice this time,” Valaena submits.

Rhaenyra suppresses her irritation with yet another sigh. “Very well then. You may choose: Aegon or Stark.”

At once, Valaena selects, “Aegon.”

Pleased, Daemon nods approvingly at her. Still standing at Baela’s elbow, Aegon gives her a tentative smile.

Dissatisfied, Rhaenyra purses her lips. However long she considers accepting defeat, she soon denies Valaena her choice. “No.” 

“No? Wherefore,” Valaena questions.

“I believe,” Rhaenyra’s gaze drops to Valaena’s distended belly, “you require a husband who can mind you,” she suggests. “And I should tell you, Lord Cregan has already assented to the match. It would not do to revoke the offer now and so insult one of our greatest allies.” 

As Jacaerys wonders when it was that their mother reached out to Cregan and proposed the marriage, Valaena searches for some other objection. She raises, “But the Pact of Ice and Fire was meant to be satisfied by Jace and Baela’s eldest daughter, not I.”

“Lord Cregan has already agreed to the change in the Pact’s terms,” Rhaenyra reminds her.

“Mother, I do not know this man,” she presses, urgent.

“No, but your brother does.” Rhaenyra turns to him. “Jacaerys, you will accompany your sister to Winterfell and give her away.”

With this directive, Jacaerys’s disquiet deepens. It is one thing for Valaena to be sent off to Winterfell. It is quite another for him to join her there.

As his scalp prickles with unease, Valaena switches tack. Her attempts at reason having failed, she employs an emotional plea. “No, I do not wish to be given away again. Mother, please.” Their mother’s hand still in her grasp, she brings it to her breast, clutching it over her heart.

Rhaenyra’s patience, thin as it has been of late, runs dry at last. “Valaena, enough of this. You have a duty to the realm, as you well know. You will see it done.” Valaena parts her lips to argue, but Rhaenyra heads her off. “Without protest. The wedding is set for a week from today. You should go and pack what winter things you have here and select a suitable gown.” Gently patting her hand, she extracts herself from Valaena’s grip. “Now, I intend to visit with my favorite grandchild before you take him away again.” Imparting a final kiss on Valaena’s cheek, she leaves with Aegon in tow.

Valaena is left staring blankly at the floor, ashen and slightly shaking. With Rhaenyra gone, Daemon takes the opportunity to approach her. He reaches for one of her shoulders. “Riñītsos—”

Flinching back from him, she hurries from the room. Staring at the ceiling, Daemon sighs, disappointed.

At first, Baela endeavors to follow Valaena, but her father withholds her. He calls her over, and when she reaches him, he sets his hands on her shoulders and kisses the crown of her head. He thereafter lays his cheek atop her head, sighing again, “Ñuha riña.” His eyes travel over to Jacaerys, and he wonders, “How long has she been like this?”

Still unfond of having the attention on him, he wonders, “Her Grace?”

“Who else,” returns Daemon.

Jacaerys refrains from rolling his eyes and chooses to ask another question. “Where is Nettles?” Rather conspicuously, Nettles, who has accompanied Daemon for months, did not accompany him here.

Pulling away from Baela, Daemon blows out an aggrieved breath. “Evidently, Her Grace believes my lechery knows no bounds. She ordered the girl slain.”

Shocked, Baela blurts, “What?” Silently, Jacaerys echoes her sentiment.

Daemon nods in affirmation. “So, I sent her off to safety.”

“You ordered her flee the queen’s justice,” interprets Jacaerys.

Sharply, Daemon corrects, “It is no justice. Your mother is mistaken.” He turns away from him and Baela both, muttering, “If only I knew who put these slanders to her mind.”

After another moment, Daemon orders them out. Somewhat reluctantly, they go, with Jacaerys supposing that he ought to pack his own belongings for the abrupt trip to Winterfell. He is diverted by the faint sound of shouting down the corridor. Hearing the same, Baela rushes toward the source of the commotion, and he follows.

The hubbub turns out to be emanating from Valaena’s rooms, and they enter to find their sister kneeling on the floor and sobbing into her bedclothes. A handmaid stands hunched-over at her shoulder, trying in vain to allay her.

Worried, Baela moves to her side, kneeling before her and gaining her attention with a hand on her knee. “What is it, mandia?”

Her face stained with tears, Valaena picks up her head and points to the wall above her bed. “It’s missing,” she slurs.

Baela’s gaze moves between her and the indicated wall. “What is?”

“The marriage cloak,” Jacaerys gleans. Valaena’s eyes move to him, red and glassy. He answers her unasked question. “Mother had it burned some weeks past.” He recalls the incident with some measure of fondness. Rhaenyra had been in an awful snit that day, but he had enjoyed watching the green fibers of the cloak shrivel as they turned to ash.

Valaena is not so content. Her mouth slides into a frown, and something in her eyes hardens. With some effort, she rises from the floor and strides from the room. Thinking it best to attend her, he trails her, and Baela trails him. She returns to Maegor’s Holdfast with celerity, heading for the nursery rather than the queen’s quarters. When she arrives, she stands at its threshold, huffing and puffing and watching their mother dandle her son.

Rhaenyra stands beside an open window with Aenar perched on her hip as he babbles to her. She listens to his infantile ramblings with a bright expression, jumping in after a moment with “Yes, yes. Grandmother loves you.”

Stepping into the small room, Valaena steals her attention from the boy. “Mother.” She holds her arms out for her son, though Rhaenyra does not move to hand him over. After a moment, she drops them and broaches, “Jacaerys tells me you burnt my marriage cloak.”

Her eyes turning back to her grandchild, Rhaenyra confirms, “Yes.”

“And the handfasting cloth,” she wonders, her voice strained.

Dismissively, Rhaenyra replies, “I do not know, Valaena. What does it matter?”

Valaena looks to the floor, her bottom lip quivering, and her hands clenching into fists. As though to prevent her from crying, Rhaenyra sighs, marches over, and deposits Aenar into her arms. She brushes through Aenar’s sparse hair before moving her hand to Valaena’s barely burgeoning belly. “You already have all the tokens you need from that chapter of your life. Let its end be written.”

Quietly, so much so that it occurs to Jacaerys that Valaena does not realize he and Baela followed her here, she rasps, “I loved him.”

Rhaenyra, with a more genuine and sympathetic frown than he has seen from her of late, raises her hand to cup Valaena’s cheek. “I know. It will fade.” Before stepping away, she leans in to kiss her daughter’s other cheek several times.

Valaena stays rooted to the spot as Rhaenyra moves past her. When Rhaenyra reaches Jacaerys’s side, she graces him with a similar treatment, skimming her knuckles along his cheekbone and kissing him, too. She tells him to take care of his sisters and himself and departs, touching Baela’s shoulder as she goes.

Later, after he and Valaena have both packed for the North, they gather in the castle yard to return to the Dragonpit. As they await their carriage, a maidservant approaches Valaena and stuffs something into her grasp; a thin, long, white cloth. Tearful and grateful, Valaena thanks her for it. She clutches it to her breast all the way to the Dragonpit, silently weeping all the while. Jacaerys and Baela, sat across from her, pretend not to notice. The only blissful part of the ride comes when he feels Baela take his hand, and as it draws to an end, he is reluctant to let her go.

The journey to Winterfell is a mess.

Atop Silverwing with Baela, it is relatively smooth sailing. The dragon’s wings cut through the clouds with ease, and they soar high above the land, basking in the tranquility of the quiet, open sky. Even amid the bitter, winter air, they warm to each other, and many an hour is passed with pleasant conversation, shouted over the roaring wind.

Veraxes’s flight is far more fraught. This journey is the first Aenar has taken on dragonback, and it is too long for a babe his age. He cries frequently, and in the first day, they need land several times for him to nurse. Thereafter, Valaena stows a leather canteen under her cloak so she may feed him in the sky, an effort which he abides with great reluctance. In the end, a progress which should last less than two days takes that time and half again.

At Winterfell, their receiving party is visible from above as they approach. Flying close, Valaena makes a signal to Baela, and they loop around the castle, Silverwing soaring west and Veraxes east. When they meet again, Valaena sends a different signal, and Baela lands Silverwing. Veraxes circles the castle a final time before touching down on the snowy field below.

Jacaerys and Baela wait for Valaena to dismount before joining the receiving party, Jacaerys waving at Cregan from afar. As he anticipates meeting again, his limbs grow unnaturally stiff, though he blames the sensation on the frightful cold.

Briefly, they confer with Valaena before heading over to the gates of Winterfell. Valaena passes Aenar to Baela. Blessedly, the babe goes easily, whereas in Antlers, Maidenpool, Fairmarket, and at the Twins and Moat Cailin, he screamed bitterly whenever he was turned out of his mother’s arms.

“All right,” sighs Valaena as she straightens out her gloves. “Let’s get this over with.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jacaerys remarks.

“Shut up,” she returns, striding past him.

She marches toward the gates, with him and Baela a step behind and Daeron taking up the back. A great deal larger than the Red Keep or Dragonstone, House Stark’s fortress stands tall and impressive before them, towering over the nearby winter town. High, granite walls withhold from sight the ancient godswood and the many smaller castles within the compound. Only the towers’ white-capped spires peak out from above the walls, their diamond-shaped windows shining white from the sky and snow. As they get close, Jacaerys watches as Valaena’s shoulders tense, and he hears loud chittering start up from behind them. Veraxes extends his neck and turns his head from side to side, rumbling menacingly.

When Valaena reaches Cregan, he steps forward. He extends his hand in a silent request for her own, kissing it and greeting, “Princess.”

A smile sits on her lips, stilted but not so frigid as the weather. “Lord Stark.” The smile slips somewhat as she stalls, lost for what else to say, so Jacaerys comes to her aid.

Stepping forward, he offers his hand to shake. Cregan takes it, grinning and hailing him, “Prince Jacaerys.”

“Lord Cregan.” He gestures to Valaena. “I’ve already warned my sister about you, so there’s no danger of her running off.”

Chuckling, Cregan reinvigorates their handshake. “Good man,” he says. Valaena laughs, too, though her mirth is belied by the pinch she covertly delivers to Jacaerys’s side.

Despite this retaliation, he tries to buy her a bit more time to master herself. Gesturing to his other side, he points out “Lady Baela, my betrothed, and my nephew, Prince Aenar.” Pointedly, he leaves Daeron out.

Cregan kisses Baela’s hand, too. “My lady.”

When he looks back to Valaena, he makes the mistake of looking toward her middle, and murmurs soon erupt from his party. Notwithstanding, she keeps her chin high, apparently unembarrassed. Rather, she looks Cregan up-and-down herself, taking in his bewhiskered face and the bulk of him hidden beneath his fleecy cloak.

Her eyes catch on the bottom of his cape. A tiny, mittened hand curls around the fabric. Glancing back up at Cregan, she mouths, “May I?” More than amenable, he nods.

Little Rickon, who Jacaerys remembers as being much smaller, hides behind his father’s legs. Valaena kneels to greet him, beckoning him forward. Slowly but surely, he emerges from his place of refuge, taking her hand and trying to give it a shake. “Hello,” he mumbles.

With far more sun in her voice than before, she replies, “Hi. What is your name?”

“Rickon Stark,” he answers, his voice muffled by his collar as he scrunches his neck. Peering toward Baela, he points and wonders, “Is that your baby?”

“Yes, that is my son Aenar,” she responds.

“How old is he,” he inquires.

“In a few short weeks, he will be a year old,” she tells him.

He holds up two fingers. “I’m two.” Eagerly, he adds, “Can I play wi' him?”

Promptly, she answers, “You certainly may.” Overexcited, he darts away and positions himself underneath Aenar. He holds up his arms in a silent request for Baela to hand him the babe. Aenar stares down at him, waving his arm as though to grasp the older boy’s hand.

Laughing, Cregan stoops to pull Rickon away. “Not right now, lad. I need speak to the princess, and Prince Aenar like requires a nap.”

“He does’n look tired,” Rickon argues. As if to confound him, Aenar chooses this moment to yawn. Groaning, Rickon stomps into the castle compound.

Amused, Valaena chuckles at the antics of the spoon-fed boy, though her gaiety drops off when Cregan offers her his arm. Simpering, she takes it, and all assembled head into the great fortress.

Cregan guides them directly to the Great Keep, the inner castle where his family has its residence. Assuring Valaena that he intends to take her on a full tour of the grounds on the morrow, he leads them to the private apartments. Most of the lodgings are empty, with House Stark fewer in numbers than it was at any other time in the last half-century.

They begin at the nursery, at the far end of one hall. It contains a small cot in one corner, adjacent to a tall, wooden cradle. A nursemaid stands beside the cradle, curtsying as Cregan introduces her. After she kisses his nose and each of his cheeks, Valaena is persuaded to leave Aenar behind, with Baela promising to look after him until he has eaten and fallen asleep for the afternoon.

A few doors down from the nursery are Cregan’s rooms, which he points out. Across from them is another set of rooms. He ushers Valaena in first, and he and Jacaerys follow while Daeron stations himself at the exterior door.

“This is your apartment,” Cregan explains. He points to a large door. “Your bedchamber is just beyond there.”

Looking around, she exhales and remarks, “It is lovely.”

Under his breath, Jacaerys mutters, “Jehākōs.”

She steps in close so as to prevent her betrothed from overhearing. “I know it has been some time since I last trounced you, but I assure you, I can still do it.”

Just as softly, he replies, “I doubt that very much.” Nevertheless, he retreats, inspired by recollections of her wrestling him to the ground and lying atop him whenever his pestering grew to be too much in their early youth.

With aplomb, Valaena perches herself on the only chair in the solar, leaving various benches for him and Cregan to occupy. When each of them takes a seat, she begins, “Lord Stark—”

“I insist you call me Cregan,” he interrupts.

She forces her pursed lips to stretch into a smile. “All right. Please call me Valaena.” She clasps her hands in her lap. “Cregan, I should wish to start by appreciating the awkwardness of this state of affairs.”

Caught by surprise, he laughs shortly. “Oh, yes?”

“Yes, indeed. You and I have no acquaintance of which to speak, and we are both,” she clears her throat, “recently widowed. Most marriages are more organic, I think.”

“So, they are,” he concurs. “My condolences, of course.” 

At this, Valaena goes stock-still, her expression turning vacant. Jacaerys is disturbed, as well, though mayhaps for a different reason. Before this day, he did not think he would hear someone give condolences for Aemond’s miserable life.

Evidently touched, Valaena recovers and utters roughly, “Thank you. And to that point, because I am more recently widowed, I should very much appreciate your patience in some matters.”

“Certainly,” he agrees at once, though with a hint of restraint in his tone.

“Namely,” she continues, “the bedding. As I am sure is manifest, I am with child. A parting gift from my late husband, as it were. Thus, for the child to have his name, I should prefer that the bedding be postponed until after the birth.”

A moment of consideration passes, after which he assents, “Naturally, I will accede to this.”

Glad for his acquiescence, her posture eases, and she says, “Excellent.”

“But I must inquire,” he quickly follows up, astute, “wherefore I was not informed of these circumstances when the marriage was agreed.”

Subtly, he hopes, Jacaerys stiffens. He thinks of the fallout were Rhaenyra to be caught in such a lie, misleading the lord of Winterfell as it appears she did. He ponders if she intended to make Cregan misbelieve that the child was his own, back when she misbelieved the child’s natural father to be Daemon and had not yet seen with her eyes how far Valaena’s pregnancy had progressed.

Tactfully, Valaena makes up for the misapprehension now. She explains, “When she wrote to you, Her Grace had not been made aware that she was to be a grandmother again. This shortcoming was mine alone, I assure you.”

He nods. “Very well. Let us speak of the wedding then. It is soon; four days.” She nods, too, masterfully masking her displeasure, which Jacaerys gleans only from her eyes. Less accustomed to her, Cregan misses it. He straightens his spine and his shoulders, proposing, “I should like for us to marry in the way of the old gods.”

“All right,” Valaena agrees with ease.

Evidently having expected more pushback, Cregan wavers and glances toward Jacaerys. Vaguely, Jacaerys recalls a debate they had over the North’s reluctance to convert to the Faith of the Seven.

Catching onto Cregan’s surprise, Valaena discloses, “I have no love for the new gods. My house declared its belief in the Seven long before the Conquest, so I shall play along when I am queen. Until then, I feel no such obligation.” Pausing briefly, she swallows around some emotion. “As my heir, my Aenar shall sing the same tune. You may raise whatever children we share how you like.”

The conversation stagnates, with Valaena biting her lip as she ponders something. After another moment, she slides her attention to the right and requests, “Jace, if Cregan and I could have a moment alone?”

Hesitant, he objects, “I am meant to act as chaperone.”

Unmoved, she replies, “Without purpose. It is not as though I have anything left of mine virtue for him to sully.” Abashed, Cregan coughs.

Swallowing a sigh, Jacaerys thinks of calling her a menace but thinks better of it. As he makes for the door, he wonders what it is she wishes to say without his ears to hear. She had no qualms about discussing the consummation of her marriage before him, after all.

Out in the hall, Daeron closes the door after him. Jacaerys resolves to wait here for Valaena, discontent to stray too far. Stood in the middle of the hall, he turns to find Daeron’s gaze on him. Unnerved, he stares back at him. “Turn your eyes forward,” he orders.

Rather than comply, Daeron turns toward him more fully, narrowing his eyes. Ruffled, Jacaerys stands taller, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.

“What do you intend to do with that? Take out my eye,” taunts Daeron. Vexed by the indirect reference to Lucerys, Jacaerys sneers at him. Daeron smirks. “For that, you would need wait until I am unsuspecting and alone.”

“Your brother tried to kill me with a rock,” he hammers, made unhappy by the reminder of that fateful night on Driftmark.

“And I wish that he had,” enunciates Daeron. Some flicker of fire gleams in his eyes, scarcely withheld by the brow of his helmet.

Crossing his arms, Jacaerys facetiously queries, “Did you not swear an oath to safeguard my life?”

“I swore to safeguard Valaena’s life,” Daeron quibbles.

“And my mother’s and those of her heirs,” finishes Jacaerys.

Daeron shrugs. “You are more so Corlys’s heir than Rhaenyra’s.” Jacaerys begins to roll his eyes, though he is forestalled when Daeron adds, “However mistruthfully.”

Feeling his jaw clench, Jacaerys replaces his hand on the pommel of his sword. “I dare you to say that again.”

Daeron lifts a blond eyebrow. “You think I won’t?”

Taking a calming breath which fails to calm him, Jacaerys says, “I wonder how often you speak to my sister in this fashion.”

“I do not, for she is not a spoiled cunt,” Daeron rebuts, leaning toward him. He straightens when the door beside him suddenly swings open, and his eyes finally turn forward.

Valaena steps into the corridor, interceding, “Don’t be silly, Dae. Of course, I am. I’m a princess.” Imperceptibly, his face flames.

Stepping to one side, she allows Cregan to pass her. Before making away, he informs Jacaerys that he will have the same guest quarters as during his last visit, with Baela’s chambers directly beside his.

Once he has gone, Valaena continues, “Now, I know you don’t like each other anymore—”

Jacaerys snorts. “We never liked each other.”

She spares him an annoyed glance. “You used to walk hand-in-hand around the Keep until Aegon teased the habit out of you. I would know. I am the elder, and I remember.” Her eyes slide between them. “Now, I know you don’t like each other anymore, but you are family, you are cousins, you are both my brothers, and you are milk-brothers, so behave like it. This is a wretched week for me, and I will not tolerate you two making matters worse. Am I understood?”

Silently ashamed, neither of them answers her.

More firmly, she repeats, “Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Jacaerys resolves. Mulishly, Daeron echoes him.

“Good,” she commends, nodding succinctly. Setting her hand on Daeron’s shoulder, she changes the subject. “And Daeron, I wish for you to attend my wedding as my uncle, not my protector. Lord Stark has assured me that there will be provided for you the appropriate dress.” As Daeron accedes with a smile, Jacaerys refrains from rolling his eyes anew.

Loud wailing emanates from down the hall, drawing their attention. Baela soon rounds the corner with Aenar, the nursemaid leading her. Aenar is screaming his head off, though he calms minutely upon seeing his mother. He leans toward Valaena, nearly falling out of Baela’s arms for his efforts, and whines, “Mama!”

Cooing in sympathy, Valaena takes him into her embrace. His crying diminishes into hiccups as she bounces him on her hip. More so distressed than the babe, the wet nurse explains, “My apologies, Princess. I could not persuade him to take any milk.”

Valaena makes another noise of sympathy. “Think naught of it. It’s been too much travel and unfamiliarity for him. He needs to settle.” She ceases jouncing and pulls back to peer at his face, though this causes his crying to pitch high again. Replacing his head on her shoulder, she resumes bouncing. “We’ve a few hours until the supper with Lord Stark and his bannermen. I think I’ll take a nap with him.” With that, she strides back into her new rooms.

Shooting Daeron one last glare, Jacaerys leaves him at her door, dragging Baela with him. After they have left the Great Keep, heading toward the Guest House, he gripes that Daeron is a pompous cumberground and wishes that Valaena had left him at Dragonstone.

By the time they reach their rooms, Jacaerys has not let up, and Baela has not said a word. Disconcerted, as she typically enjoys disparaging others, he presses, “Don’t you think so?”

Sighing, she looks up-and-down the hall, as though in search of an escape, and supposes, “He is not so rotten.”

“What,” he blurts, setting his hands on his hips. “He’s Green.”

“He was,” she allows. Disbelieving, he raises his brow at her, and she amends, “The war is almost ended. He is loyal to Valaena. And I’ve spoken to him on occasion, without strife. He’s nice.”

“Oh, isn’t he,” Jacaerys grumbles.

She sighs again. “I know you don’t like him anymore—”

“I never liked him!” She sends him a startled look, so he tempers himself. “And wouldn’t it interest you to know, he just called me a bastard.”

She raises a dainty eyebrow. “Did he really?”

“Not in so many words,” Jacaerys admits, though Daeron’s meaning was well clear. She purses her lips, and he quickly appends, “But yes.”

“All right, Jace,” she replies, unaffected.

“Do you know what, mayhaps you should marry him instead, if you like him so,” he continues, rash, and immediately regrets it.  

Irked, she narrows her gaze. Scathingly, she issues, “Despite his vows, I might have more luck with him.” With her head held high, she stomps off despite her limited knowledge of their surroundings. Anywhere will do to get away from him, he supposes.

He does not see her again until late in the evening. Cregan hosts a small feast to introduce his betrothed to his bannermen. All are assembled, having traveled to Winterfell in preparation for the march south to King’s Landing as a part of Cregan’s army. Despite her earlier, sour mood, Valaena manages to charm the northern lords, winning over even Lord Manderly, who had been displeased to learn she was already with child. A well-timed compliment as to his sons’ performances on the small council is all it takes to sway him. Baela’s earlier, sour mood endures, and she ignores Jacaerys the whole night.

The following day, Cregan takes Valaena on a tour of the grounds. Jacaerys attempts to act as chaperone again, but Valaena thwarts him, determining that Daeron suffices as an escort. He spends most of the day silently stewing, as Baela still refuses to speak with him.

Despite his absence, Valaena apprises him of the events of the tour at supper. Speaking mostly to Baela, she says, “The Glass Garden was of most interest. Just fascinating how the hot springs keep the crop warm.”

Teasingly, Baela comments, “Of course, you became preoccupied with the science of it and bored your new husband to tears.”

Smiling despite the slight, she returns, “He is not yet my husband, and gods forbid I have my curiosity.” She takes a bite of her food. “I also met his sister.”

As inconspicuously as he can manage, Jacaerys stiffens.

“Sister? I didn’t realize he had such a relation,” says Baela.

Valaena nods. “And for good reason. A half-sister, a Snow.” Baela nods, too, her confusion cleared up. “Lovely girl. I’m told Rickon enjoys her very much, and she him.”

Unexpectedly, she turns to Jacaerys. “She mentioned her love for you, as well.”

“What,” he chokes. Scarcely daring to breathe, he thinks of Valaena and Sara meeting without him there to run interference.

Bewildered by his reaction, which he hopes was not so openly alarmed, she asks, “Did you not meet her when last you were here? She drew the most favorable comparison between us; called me pleasing,” she appends, grinning at Baela. When she turns back to him, he gives some floundering response. She takes it well enough, shrugging and returning her attention to her plate. “Well, I suppose you smiled at her or some such thing.”

He clears his throat, gruffly responding, “Yes, I must have,” though he soon thinks that it might have been for the better if he had not spoken at all, as Baela’s shrewd gaze catches on him, narrows, and remains for some time.

Speak of the Lord of the Seven Hells, and he doth appears.

Jacaerys learns the truth of this expression come the morning. After breakfast and an hour of training archery with Cregan, he plods back to his rooms to change into his leisure clothes. As soon as he passes into the bridge between the armory and the Great Keep, however, he is waylaid by a wild spirit from the past.

Stepping into his path, Sara grins at him, brazen and wide. “Hello, my prince.”

Alone in the corridor with her, Jacaerys thinks of being spectacularly discourteous and walking past her. Ultimately, his manners get the better of him, and he remains. Aloof as he can be, he replies, detachedly, “Sara, good morrow. How art thou?”

She shrugs. “I’ve fared better. One of my friends has been avoiding me.”

Thrown off guard, he contends, “I have not,” however falsely.  

She points to him, a cheeky smile set on her lips. “So, you admit to our friendship.”

Taken by surprise yet again, he finds it impossible to stifle a laugh. “I do.”

When last he was at Winterfell, Jacaerys did not linger amongst the northmen. The snow and ice and cold made Vermax ill-tempered, but still, many an enjoyable experience came from his short sojourn. He and Cregan took an easy liking to each other, drinking together, hunting together, and training together. A convivial evening was also spent before a weirwood tree in the godswood, wrapped in furs amidst the snows with a pretty girl and no expectations.

“And you have been avoiding me,” she continues. Astute, she deduces, “You fear your betrothed will see me with you.”

He falls silent at that, peering around at their surroundings. A rather telling reaction, he supposes.

“I’ve seen her, do you know. Very pretty, just like you said,” she continues. He swallows nervously. “You shouldn’t worry. I don’t wish to make trouble for you. There are plenty of comely, less effortful boys at my disposal here.”

She thereupon falls silent. He is quiet, too, anticipating further explanation from her. Evidently, she awaits a response from him, so he offers, “I love her.”

With a considerate smile, she stands on her toes to kiss his cheek. “I know.” She walks off, and he spends the rest of the day in a state of absorption, trying to think of a way to put things with Baela to right.

The day before the wedding, Cregan invites Jacaerys and Daeron on a celebratory hunt. Thankfully, Daeron chooses to stay behind, so their party ventures into the eastern edge of the wolfswood without him in the late afternoon. After an hour, a scout spots a stag suitable for the wedding feast, and they follow its trail.

As Jacaerys and Cregan stalk the beast from afar, the latter instigates a soft-spoken conversation. “So.”

Crouching beside him, Jacaerys responds, “So.”

“Your sister,” he mutters, “what is she truly like?”

Jacaerys frowns. “How do you mean?” For several days, Cregan has made Valaena’s acquaintance. This is not so much longer than was their own acquaintance, and Jacaerys thinks they know each other well enough.

“I mean, it is plain she is putting on a show,” he explains.

“How do you mean,” Jacaerys says again, putting on a show himself. “Valaena is pleasing and sweet and—” His speech slows to a stop as he becomes aware of Cregan’s stare, unimpressed and unconvinced. “She’s usually livelier,” he admits.

A rustle sounds from within some nearby shrubbery, and their conversation dries up. After they have determined that the source of the noise was merely a low-soaring snow bunting, Jacaerys exhales a breath, visible and fraught. He divulges further, “Valaena is doleful, and it has turned her mood. Her temperament will improve once she stops being absurd.”  

Cregan takes issue with this assessment. “Absurd?” He fixes Jacaerys with another disapproving stare.

Defensive, Jacaerys expounds, “She mourns our boorish uncle without cause.” Cregan’s stare does not lighten, the grays of his eyes continuing to swirl like a winter storm. Contrite, Jacaerys shifts his weight and rationalizes, “Mayhaps because of the babe.”

“Few understand how devastating it is to be widowed so young, perhaps because it is so rare.” Cregan scowls into the middle distance, and Jacaerys sees him for a man made a widower at twenty, the same age as Valaena now. Embittered, Cregan adds, “Mayhaps the princess will benefit from the company of one who does understand, as she apparently lacks any such sympathy at present.”

Feeling chastised, Jacaerys issues no rejoinder, and the hunt goes on.

When later they return to the fortress, Valaena accosts Jacaerys at the earliest opportunity. “Jace,” she near shouts amid an anxious breath, thrusting her hand out towards him. “Take off my ring, if you please.” Daeron stands at her back, frowning at her.

Perplexed by the odd request, he takes her hand. He stops short at the sight of it. “Your thumb is purple,” he observes, alarmed.

She rolls her eyes, huffing. “Yes, I realize. That is why I have asked you to aid me.”

Lips twisting in displeasure at her short tone, he does as requested and tries to pull the ring from her swollen finger. It resists him, so he twists it and yanks it toward him as gently as possible. When both of those tactics fail, he tucks her arm under his own for better leverage. At one point, he thinks he may be able to get it off, but then Valaena whines in pain, so he releases her forthwith. Wondering how she got the ring on her thumb in the first place, he apologizes, “Sorry.”

As she sighs in disappointment, trying to remove the ring herself, Daeron says, “Told you. Now, let us call for the maester—”

“No,” she snaps, cutting him a vicious glare. “The maester will destroy the ring. If we give it another day, I’m sure—”

“‘Another day,’” interrupts Jacaerys. “When last were you able to remove the ring?”

Still grappling with her jewelry, she mumbles her answer. When she relents her efforts, unsuccessful as they were, he raises his brow at her, and she confesses with more volume, “Three days past.”

“Valaena,” he scolds shortly. Crossing her arms, she looks away from him. He shifts his attention to Daeron. “Fetch the maester,” he orders.

Surprisingly dutiful, Daeron jogs away to do as bid, even as Valaena hurls accusations of betrayal at his back. During his absence, Jacaerys leads Valaena into her rooms, and together, they await Maester Kennet. When the man arrives, he clicks his tongue at the sight of her hand and immediately determines that he will need make use of his pliers for the task before him.

Made even more anxious, Valaena disputes, “I do not think that necessary. My fingers were not so distent so early in my last pregnancy. I think, with a few more days, the swelling will go down, and the ring will slide off with ease.”

Kennet spares her a compassionate smile. “I think that unlikely, Princess. The cold often causes the flesh of one’s extremities to expand. Expectant mothers complain of it often here in the North.”

“No,” mewls Valaena, her bottom lip puckering and beginning to quiver. As she begins to cry in earnest, she hides her face behind her unencumbered hand. Throughout her spontaneous weeping, the men in the room exchange awkward glances. Sniffling, she pleads, “I can hold my hand close to the fire, and the flesh will shrink, and the ring will come off.”

Wincing slightly, Kennet shakes his head. “I do not think that wise, Princess.”

“Valaena, it’s all right,” Jacaerys tries, settling his arm around her shoulders and tugging her close. He knows her pregnancy is making her unnaturally upset, so he strives to comfort her. Examining her ring, a gold signet ring engraved with the letter A—like for Aenar, he expects—he suggests, “We can have another one made, same as this one.”

Her crying resumes. “No. It’ll not be the same.”

Eventually, Kennet extracts his tools, Valaena’s sobs taper off, and he coaxes her into extending her hand. In under a minute, the band snaps under the pressure of the tongs. Kennet then twists the band, contorting it into a spiral and pulling it from her finger, all without leaving behind so much as a scratch. Kennet discards the broken ring on the nearby tea table, and there it sits under Valaena’s plaintive gaze, its band warped beyond repair.

In the afternoon on the seventh day after Rhaenyra’s confrontation of Daemon and Valaena, the latter’s wedding to the lord of Winterfell is set to begin. Jacaerys and Baela wait for her in the courtyard before the Great Keep, stood off to the side of Cregan’s own party. All are attired in their finery, with Jacaerys wearing a festive, red caftan chased with gold and a borrowed wool cloak.

Baela, too, wears borrowed robes. She left Dragonstone without any portion of her wardrobe, barring the clothes on her back, so Valaena has been sharing her gowns with Baela for the past week. This day, Baela is outfitted in a golden, white-beaded dress. In the time it takes Jacaerys to deduce exactly which shapes the beads on her gown depict—bellflowers and peonies—she catches his eyes on her. A smile tugging at her lips, she inquires, “See something you like, Cousin?”

Trying to play off his infatuation, he comments, “It is a lovely gown.”

Idly, she kicks out one of her legs, flashing her ankle at him. “It is, but it’s a fair bit short.”

He grins, too. “Have you been goading Valaena over the length of her dresses?”

“I have,” she confirms.

“And what say she,” he wonders.

“That I have no cause to tease her, as Rhaena is taller than she and I both,” Baela replies.

Their gossip is diverted by Daeron as he finally arrives. With Daeron’s role as Valaena’s escort, Jacaerys expects her to be a step behind him, but she does not materialize. Bewildered, he waits until Daeron has sidled in close to him and Baela to ask, “Is she not yet ready?” For nearly an hour, already, they have been waiting for Valaena to appear. It would not do to delay the ceremony much longer.

“She is not ready,” Daeron confirms, scratching at the back of his head. “Nor will she be.”

Mindful of their company, Jacaerys’s tongue switches to Valyrian. “Skorion massites?”

Daeron stares at him, clearly at a loss, before quietly admitting, “I, ah, do not speak Valyrian.” At this, Jacaerys and Baela share an incredulous look. Embarrassed, Daeron blusters, “No one ever taught me, all right? I know skorion means ‘what,’ but—”

Grabbing Daeron by the arm, Jacaerys cuts off his flustered tirade. He drags him toward the Library Tower so they can speak freely and repeats his earlier question in Common Speech. “What is happening?”

Ripping his arm back, Daeron directs a vicious glower at him. It is only when Baela catches up to them, the same question set on her face, that he answers. “It has finally dawned on her, I believe, that Aemond is dead. Apparently, she thought that in the days leading up to the wedding, he would reveal himself to stop it, but alas.”

Made dismal, Jacaerys frowns at his boots. Almost nothing about Aemond’s death saddens him but for its effect on Valaena and, one day, Aenar. He wonders, “Is she crying, then, in her rooms?”

“Not at first,” responds Daeron, cryptically.

“But,” Jacaerys senses.

Sheepishly, Daeron divulges, “But I tried to persuade her down the aisle by saying that Aemond would wish for naught more than her happiness.”

Baela interjects, “So, you lied to her?”

“Yea,” he flashes. “Anyhow, now, she is inconsolable, and she’ll not come out.”

Shaking his head, Jacaerys mutters, “Mittys.”

Sighing, Baela offers, “I shall handle this.”

Holding up a hand, Jacaerys halts her. “Wait. Can you handle it without disparaging Aemond?”

She sends him a blank look. “You should go.”

Without a moment to lose, he makes back for the Great Keep, sparing Cregan a tense smile as he goes. He sprints up the stairwell on the way to Valaena’s apartment, practically flying down the hall until he arrives at her door. Once there, he intrudes at once, only to be foiled by Valaena’s handmaid as the girl slams the door closed on his foot.

“No, you cannot enter,” she shrieks, pushing with all her might. “Milady is not decent!” 

Cringing as his little toe gets caught under the bottom rail of the door, he explains, “I simply need speak with her.” He has no wish to scandalize the girl, but neither does he wish to keep the northmen waiting any longer.

Faintly, he hears someone heaving and wailing, and his patience runs short. Valaena may be his elder, but he has always been inexplicably protective of her, and he feels she needs him.

Shoving his way past the threshold, he barges in and strides past the frantic maidservant and towards the bedchamber. He finds Valaena there, her face wan and streaked with tears as she sobs for breath. She fans herself with her hands, though he cannot imagine that she is too warm for the room as she is almost entirely nude, wearing only the bottom half of her small clothes. Her swollen teats and stomach are covered with gooseflesh for the cold. The only bit of her in order is her hair, done up in ringlets atop her head.

Graciously, he trains his eyes on the ceiling. “Sister, art thou well?”

She ignores him, pacing up and down the room. Her handmaid muscles past him and corners her at her bedside, draping a shawl over her torso.

Sniffling, Valaena manages, “Thank you, Lily. If we could have a moment.” Lily bows her head and darts out of the room, closing the door behind her. Valaena, still distraught, rips the shawl from her shoulders as though she is peeling off her skin. Flinging it at the wall, she harshly demands, “What do you want, Jace?”

He moves his gaze back to the ceiling. “Mayhaps you wish to dress.”

Ferociously, she gnashes, “No, I do not wish to dress. As soon as I put on that accursed gown, you shall peddle me down the aisle to my doom.” 

Huffing, he grouses, “Be not so morbid.” 

“How can I be anything but? This is a funeral for a life I cannot mourn,” she returns.

“Whose life?” Inadvertently, his gaze dips to her. He notices the scar on her shoulder, won with her efforts in protecting him from the Triarchy’s archers.

“My life,” she bellows, gesticulating between them. “None acknowledge how hard it was, being sent away into the belly of the beast. I was surrounded by Greens, with one in my bed, as a child, but I made the best of it. I made myself a life, and now, it is destroyed,” she gasps, clutching at her neck, “and yet, because of Luke, all think I should be glad for it, and I should do it all again.”

Her penultimate statement takes his attention entirely. He endeavors to keep his eyes on her face. “Luke?”

She grimaces. “Because of how he died, I am not permitted to be upset that my husband, my children’s father, is dead.” Unwittingly, his expression must convey his accession. She points to him. “There you have it. You think it, too.”

Unabashedly, he lets his feelings show. “Of course, I think it. One day, you will, too.” Laughing bitterly, she shakes her head. Indignant, he presses, “Valaena, he betrayed you time and again. He thought too little of you for you to be queen. He stole Dragonstone from you. He—” His gaze points down to her belly, and he feels his face contort into a terrible grimace as he recalls one of Aemond’s most heinous deeds.

She must read his thoughts on his face, flinching and spitting, “By the gods, he did not rape me. I fucked him.”

Gradually, her words register, and his pity turns to fury. “What?” She turns away, biting her lip. “He killed our little brothers!”

She holds up a hand. “You do not understand.”

“You are right in this. I do not understand how you could betray our brothers’ memories so easily,” he venomously retorts.

“How dare you,” she seethes, striding up to him and standing under his nose.

“How dare you.” As he returns her scowl, his eyes involuntarily dip to her exposed, heaving bust, and he snaps, “Put on your clothes so I can glare at you!”

“No,” she fires back.

“You’re being ridiculous,” he bites.

She raises her brow, incensed. “Ridiculous?”

He affirms, “Yes. This is a better marriage than you could have ever hoped for, really, yet you behave as though I am marrying you to a Brindled Man.”

“Oh, is that so,” she replies in a flat voice, and he grows uneasy. “I should be grateful to be married to a stranger not a year after the death of my husband, which is the proper mourning period, mind you. I should be grateful to be married to a man my elder, though I would have rather wed our brother, because I need be minded as I am always the scapegoat!”

Mystified, he asks, “What are you talking about?”

Poking him in the chest, she inhales shakily. “It matters not that I have always striven to do the proper thing. As soon as I make a mistake or misjudgment, innocent or no, I am as wretched as any whore. Mother suffers the same fate, and yet she punishes me so.”

Taking a deep breath, he strives to bring the temperature of the room back down. He came here to assuage her, after all, not roil her. Calmly, he states, “Mother is not punishing you.”

Frustrated, she throws her hands in the air. “Can you not commiserate with me in the least? I cannot control mine own life! Again, I must marry and live so far from our family, yet you care not.”

“Of course, I care, Valaena,” he disputes, “and I understand why you are upset.”

She scoffs quietly. “That, I very much doubt. Your marriage will be not begrudging, as mine are.”

“This marriage is not begrudging,” he argues.

She insists, “It is. I do not wish to marry Lord Stark, nor he me. Rather, he still mourns his late wife, and he hath agreed to this union only at the behest of his queen. As have I.”

“We all do as Her Grace commands us,” he seeks to rationalize, but Valaena heads him off.

“She hath commanded you to wed the love of your life. Do not repine to me,” she dictates.

Fatigued by her own repining, he shouts, “Who can say if I ever will marry her!” Recoiling, she grimaces at him in confusion, and he backtracks, quieter, “None know what the future holds.”

Exaggeratedly, Valaena groans and rolls her eyes. “Are you truly moping, having come here to cheer me?”

“I am not moping,” he contests.  

“Please,” she mutters, glancing down at her nails. “You have been moping for months.”

Grown irate once more, he says, “Have I been moping? Apologies, Your Worship, if I have had some difficulty remaining in high spirits during a war that has killed two of our brothers.”

Looking entirely miserable, just as he feels, she gentles her tone. “Do not think to mislead me so. I know you, Jace. I know something is amiss.” She pins him with a knowing stare. “Something to do with Baela.”

Unsettled by the change in the current of the conversation, his tone gentles, too. “Do you?”

“Yes. I know how you haven’t been eating well since Viserys was killed.” He flinches, indeed surprised that anyone, let alone someone whose company he has shared so little since then, has noticed. “I know how you have grown restive of the dragons since you lost Vermax. I know you find it difficult to be around Joffrey, for every day, he looks more and more like Luke. I know you avoid Baela when possible, especially when you think you shall not be capable of minding your tongue. I know these things because I have known you all your life, and you have always been my concern.” She lays her hand on his cheek. “No one else in this world knows you as I do. Not anymore.”

Overwhelmed, he leans into her touch. “I betrayed her.”

Valaena’s thumb swoops over his cheekbone. “Tell me.”

Chest tightening, he wonders how it is that this interaction has shifted into her comforting him. Nevertheless, he confesses, “Cregan’s bastard sister, Sara; I kissed her when last I was here.”  

A flicker of displeasure slides across Valaena’s face. “Did you fuck her?”

Affronted, he denies, “No.”

Her demeanor shifting, she permits her displeasure to show completely. She rips her hand away, exclaiming, “Then who gives a fuck?”

His hackles raising, too, he asserts, “Baela certainly will.” Valaena nods but displays no sympathy for him. “I know not how to tell her.”

Sans warning, she grips him by his collar, tugs him forward, and plants a brief, bruising kiss on his lips. Thrown, he yanks himself back, careful to neither jostle her too much nor glance at her bosom again.

With a stone face, she tells him, “Concern yourself with telling her about this kiss first. Get out.” Having said her piece, she turns from him, resuming her distraught pacing.

Dazed, he ventures back outside, having failed in his task. As he approaches Baela and Daeron, he avoids Cregan’s perturbed gaze, wondering how it is he will explain—as he surely must—that the wedding will not take place.

Baela and Daeron appear nonplussed to find him alone, too, with Baela inquiring, “Where is she? What happened?”

Unsure of what precisely to say, as he and Valaena had quarreled about so much, he replies, nervous, “Uh, she kissed me.”

“What,” she blurts, taken aback. When he does not elaborate, she continues, “Why?”

It comes to him then, Valaena’s reasoning, and he shares, “To prove a point.”

“About what,” Daeron asks, confused and faintly disgusted.

Abstractedly, he appreciates, “Having courage and facing one’s mistakes.”

Rolling his eyes, Daeron turns away from him, grumbling, “Whatever that means.”

Baela, despite being bewildered herself, seems to accept his answer without acrimony. Intrigued, he wonders, “You’re not angry?”

“No,” she replies, shrugging.

A weight lifts from his shoulders, and Jacaerys silently sends his sister his gratitude. Before he can think too much on it, he further confesses, “I kissed someone else, too. Moons ago, when I was here last.”

She stands still and silent for a long, fraught moment, and Jacaerys wonders if his insides are truly eating themselves, or if it merely feels so. At last, she breathes, wroth and heartsore, “Who?”

Far less self-assured now, he reveals, “Sara Snow, Lord Cregan’s half-sister.”

In the distance, one of the dragons moans its outrage. Before him, Baela contains hers, her emotions roiling soundlessly within her. She trembles, looking as though she means to storm off or strike him—or both—until she is distracted by some vision at his back.

Turning, he spies Valaena at the entrance of the Great Keep. With a pallid face and a red nose, she stands in her wedding dress, a gown of light gray satin fashioned into the shape of a thousand dragon scales. False black claws dangle from all the hems of the dress, and the partial cape hanging from her shoulder blades kisses her heels. Seeing her, too, Cregan and his party depart for the godswood.

Stepping into his space, Baela pinches the tender flesh on the inside of Jacaerys’s elbow. As he winces, instinctively pulling away from her, she hisses, “This is not finished.” Her displeasure made plain, she marches after the northmen.

Moving to follow her, Daeron claps him on the back with false cordiality. “Well done, mittys.”

Simultaneously full of relief and regret, he heads over to Valaena, resolving to make peace with his betrothed on the morrow. When he reaches his sister, he tries to take her hand and kiss her cheek, but she impedes him with a hug, winding her arms around his shoulders and squeezing tightly. “Sorry I spoke harshly to you,” she murmurs in his ear. “I know how strange it is for me to mourn Aemond. In the end, I loathed him as much as I loved him. And I miss Luke and Viserys, too, of course, so much—”

“Valaena, please,” he interrupts, unable to bear the sound of her regret. When he pulls back from her, he sees that her eyes have filled with tears, but rather than let them spill, she blinks to clear them. Remorseful, he atones, “The apology should be mine.” It had been his task to reassure her, and he had left her to do the job herself.

She gives him a queer smile. “Do you know, before my wedding to Aemond, I asked Mother if taking out my eye would stop it. Do you think this would save me this time?”

He frowns, disturbed by the visual. He had been there to witness Aemond lose his eye, after all, as well as all the fallout, the whole nine years of it. “I am sorry you have never had your choice.” He knows that, was he given the choice, he would have chosen Baela. He does not know of anyone whom Valaena might have picked, at eleven or twenty, had the privilege been hers.

Hoping to improve her mood, he tells her, “You look beautiful.”

“Gods,” she groans, laughing with only a hint of hysteria. “I’ve emptied my stomach twice since you last saw me, do you know.”

“You can’t tell it.” Placing her hand in the crook of his arm, he starts them toward the godswood.

Passing through the alley between the Guest House and the armory, it is a short walk to the heart tree under which the ceremony will take place. Already, Cregan stands before it, his beard carefully combed through and Ice cinched at his waist. As they approach him, Valaena clenches her hand around Jacaerys’s arm with the utmost strength, to the point that he would not be ashamed to admit it pains him.

As they come to a stop several feet from the tree, he whispers to her, “He’ll be kind to you, I promise.”

She gives him no indication that she heard him, her gaze attaching to that of the bridegroom. Both are somber as they stand under the shade of the weirwood tree, reconciled with their respective duties.

Lord Torrhen Karstark, uncle to Cregan’s cousins, stands in for Cregan’s late father. Stepping forward, he commences the ritual exchange. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

Jacaerys, standing in for his own late father, answers, “Valaena of the House Velaryon, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, comes here to be wed. Trueborn and royal, she comes to beg the blessings of the gods. Who comes to claim her?” A faint, whistling groan leaves Valaena, unheard by all but him.

Cregan steps up to Torrhen’s side. “Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell.” His eyes shift to Jacaerys. “Who gives her?”

“Jacaerys of the House Velaryon, her eldest brother and heir to the Driftwood Throne.” At this stage, he encourages her to release his arm, digging his fingers underneath her own and prying them away. Her hands fall to her sides, clenched into fists.

“Princess Valaena,” Torrhen speaks, calling her attention to him, “do you take this man?”

Looking back to Cregan, Valaena maintains the silence amid the bitter air for a moment, too long a moment. At last, Cregan need prompt her with a hand, held out for her to take. Mercifully, she does not leave it hanging long. She takes it, and he draws her in close. “I take this man,” she recites, not quite meeting his eyes.

The couple travels a short distance to the base of the heart tree, crouching underneath its face. They bow their heads, alongside the assembly of northmen, who commune with their gods in a silent prayer. For his part, Jacaerys joins Baela and Daeron, off to the left of the tree. They three, along with Manderly and his men, do not submit to the old gods.

With the ceremony near its end, Cregan and Valaena rise to their feet. Valaena struggles somewhat on her way up, clutching at Cregan’s arm and cradling her swollen belly with her free hand. Once upright again, she stands in anticipation, stoic and morose, appearing somehow even sadder than she did at her first wedding. Still, Jacaerys thinks she must be fooling the rest of those in attendance. It is like to be only Valaena’s siblings who see through her flimsy, saccharine smile.

Lord Jon Cerwyn, Cregan’s closest friend, hands him the marriage cloak. Cregan drapes it over Valaena’s shoulders. Long and white, it hangs over her back, marking her as a member of House Stark with the embroidered visage of a gray direwolf.

Loud applause follows the placement of the garment, the northmen rowdily hooting and hollering. Perfunctorily, Jacaerys, Baela, and Daeron clap, as well. The children in attendance scurry forward and shower the couple in seeds of barley. Surprised, Valaena sputters and laughs as some of the grains land in her mouth.

Her laughter morphs into a startled shriek as Cregan attempts to lift her into his arms. With her hand on his chest, she amiably protests, “I am much too heavy, I think.”

“Nonsense,” insists Cregan. With the eyes of the North upon her, she has no choice but to relent, and he soon hoists her above the ground and carries her to the Great Hall for the wedding feast.

Their guests follow them in a crowd, and a blockage forms as they enter the hall. Having followed at the slow pace, Jacaerys, Baela, and Daeron are among the last to join the festivities. They find their seats at the head table, all three to Valaena’s left.

As Jacaerys sits beside her, she turns to him, beaming from ear-to-ear, and quietly states, “I am married again.” Despite her shining smile, she does not seem glad of it.

Jacaerys’s attention is drawn by Daeron as the other man seats himself on his left side, and he resists the urge to grimace. Baela has every right to punish him, he supposes. His irritation grows insurmountably, however, as Daeron begins to scratch under his arms. Under his breath, he reproves, “Are you an animal?”

“Were that I was,” Daeron retorts. “I might be able to stand this abominable wool.”

Lord Hoarmun Umber stands to give a speech, serving as sufficient distraction for Jacaerys from his annoyance with his half-uncle, chagrin as to his betrothed, and sorrow for his sister. Hoarmun brags about the improved position of the North, commending the queen’s wisdom in arranging the marriage of his lord Cregan and the new Lady Stark. Hearing her new title, Valaena closes her lips around her smile.

A few more speeches follow, culminating with one from Cregan. He toasts his new bride, extoling her as a queen of love and beauty. Thinking that the adulation does not quite suit their sister, Jacaerys tries to share a glance with Baela, but she ignores him.

Before the stag they had shot yesterday is brought out, the newly married pair has a first dance. Cregan leads Valaena to the middle of the hall, and the two take up a slow dance, like because of the extra weight Valaena carries with her. As they spin around the room, Jacaerys cannot help but notice that Valaena pays more mind to her feet than her partner, and it is a stark contrast to his memory of the celebration that followed her first marriage. He recalls dancing with her himself, hopping and spinning and grinning with their faces close. Despite the dismal quality of that wedding, she had beseeched all of her siblings to pretend as though they were celebrating her nameday as opposed to her marriage, if only to keep up their spirits. Notably, she did not ask the same of them this time.

The dance draws to a close, and with it ends the bride’s overt discomfort. Still, Jacaerys worries, for all know a bond with a dragon cannot be forced. 

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

The ship lurches, and Aemond tumbles from his hammock. Falling onto the uneven, wooden floor, he rolls uncontrollably to the port side of the ship and stops by smacking into the wall. Groaning, he struggles to sit upright and regain his bearings.

Deftly, the member of the crew nearest to him swings his legs from his own hammock and stands. Grinning down at Aemond, the man taunts, “Up on your feet, greenie.”

Groaning again, Aemond uses the wall as leverage and shoves himself up from the floor. Following the rest of the men, he stumbles as he makes his way to the ladder leading up to the deck. He is the last to emerge into the waterlogged, night air. Crewman run off in every direction, taking up a dozen tasks to keep the vessel upright amid the storm into which they had wandered while they slept. Disinclined to drown himself, he gets to work, too, helping to pull all of the sandbags hanging from the ship onto the deck. As the ship lurches again, he catches sight of the moon, white and waxing and gibbous between the clouds.

Two moons past, he had escaped from Daemon’s clutches with the unwitting aid of his wife. Years earlier, Valaena had shown him the secret passageways carved into Dragonstone, and so he had hidden within them for a week, stealing food from the kitchens and waiting for Daemon to lose his scent. For five days, his uncle and the little girl he brought with him had burned every ship that sailed from Dragonstone’s shore. On the sixth day, for whatever reason, they had stopped, and so Aemond had contrived a plan to stow away on the next ship with sails wide enough to leave the bay. In his time on Dragonstone, before Valaena had overthrown him, she had told him of how she smuggled her way onto a ship to Duskendale at the start of the war. He had thus embarked on a similar strategy, disguising himself by using her dagger to shear his hair as close to his scalp as he could get it and covering what was left with mud. He boarded a Westerosi merchant cog called Woods Witch with a gray flag for its destination. Gray, he had foolishly hoped, for Oldtown.

Gray for Asshai, he had later learned.

Now, he toils like a peasant, and for what, he often wonders. He meant to return to the mainland so he could recoup his losses, mayhaps find his brother, come back to Dragonstone with more men, and reclaim his dragon and his wife and his son. Rather, he is bound for the farthest part of Essos on a vessel set to make its return home after another three moons.

Pulling the last of the sandbags onto the ship, he takes a break to breathe. Leaning on the rail, he squints at the turbulent sky through the rain. A cord of lightning sparks in the distance, and he is reminded of a breath of fire amid the clouds in another storm a year past.

“Luke,” someone calls, the shout nearly lost in the roaring wind. Still, Aemond hears it and turns toward the sound. The first mate, Devan, waves to him, silently begging assistance with the aft sail. Rushing over, Aemond helps him set it to right.

Aemond had lasted a half-day on Woods Witch before being discovered. When one of the crew had rooted him out, he had been brought before the captain, Tom, who had asked his reason for stowing away on his ship. Naturally, he had bent the truth in his answer. Whilst he had maintained that he was fleeing Daemon, he claimed that it was because he feared the old prince would burn the whole island, not just him. The captain had accepted this tale of cowardice and asked his name.

He had offered the very first name which came to his mind, even as shame crawled up his throat alongside his voice. “Luke.”

At this, Tom had smiled. “My son is named Luke also, after the queen’s late son.” He had thus permitted Aemond to remain so long as he carried on like a member of the crew.

The ship lurches again, and Aemond struggles to maintain his hold on the halyard. A tall wave makes its way over the starboard side, soaking him and Devan. His grip on the rope slips, and he staggers back into Devan, who shoves at him. Aggrieved, he turns to confront him, but this loss of focus turns out to be a grievous mistake. Yet again, the boat lurches, and he tumbles toward the port side afresh.

As his head bangs against the wooden railing, his visions swims. He clutches at his head, his fingers digging through the short, wet strands there, and another blinding pain strikes him, though not from any sort of blow. It feels rather like a cord snapping, tearing him away from all he knows.

Suddenly, despite his pitiful knowledge of seafaring—why, he often despairs, did he not hearken to Valaena more closely when she spoke of such things—he knows exactly which direction is northwest. Craning his neck, he squints past the railing and through sheets of rain, out toward Dragonstone, invisible at this distance of hundreds of leagues. Dragonstone, where he left Vhagar, and where he feels her slip away now. Like a light going out, it occurs to him that he is not a dragonrider anymore.

He begins to feel glad for the battering rain, even as it continues to rock the ship and push him farther away from home, as it conceals the fact of his tears. By the time Woods Witch makes it out of the storm, he is completely numb, and he cannot say whether it is for the sopping cold or the hollow cavern opened up within him.

Most of the time on the boat, Aemond spends on odd chores. Typically, he considers such grunt work beneath him—and so it is—but he finds that, without some enterprise to distract him, he spends his days in a state of abstraction. He ruminates over all he has left behind with another three moons between them—his family—and all he has left behind forever—his dragon. When he is not mopping or replacing rotten floorboards or stirring a large, noisome cauldron of soup, he stares off into space and trips over his own feet and gets in the way of the filthy crew, who he would rather not touch him, even by accident.

Some of his shipmates, he supposes, are passable company. The men and boys near his age are far too boisterous and crass for his tastes, so he shirks any fellowship with them. Some of the older sailors are less objectionable, mostly for their quietude. He does not mind too much squandering his time sharing a room with the boatswain or the healer, both men beyond their primes.

It is several days past his distant loss of Vhagar that Woods Witch arrives at Asshai-by-the-Shadow. With his vantage point on the sea, he discovers that the eastern mountains do indeed cast a shadow over the sprawling, port city. The sight should fascinate him, he thinks, as he had long wished to travel to Asshai and ask after dragonlore. Oddly, however, he finds it charmless, a whole land seemingly bereft of color.

It is not until a half-day in the city that anything not a shade of gray stands out to him. Alongside the rest of the crew, he had helped to unload the ship’s cargo. Now, they have been ordered spread out across the port to collect supplies for the journey west along the Essosi coast. Down one lengthy, market street, to which he was assigned with Devan, he encounters a woman with bright red hair, eyes, jewelry, and robes. He tries to bypass her, but she steps into his path.

Her scarlet eyes practically glowing in the dim light, she accosts him, “Hen aōha ānogar.”

Aemond does not permit the use of High Valyrian by one not of his kin to flummox him. “Skorion?”

The red woman sways closer. “Hen aōha ānogar amāzis Azor Ahai.”

No less confused by this statement, he shakes his head. “Do. Ao emilas P’vala pirta.”

“Nyke emilas,” she insists. “Kīvio dārilaros, mērī ziry ōz maghagon kostas, se zȳhon suvio perzō vāedar issa.”

Aemond, no less leery of the odd woman and her impertinence than he was at the start of their short acquaintance, skirts around her at last and leaves her behind. Until he turns a corner at a vegetable stand, he feels her ruddy gaze on him, and he relaxes when it is lost.

Down a third street, darker and louder than the first, he encounters yet more characters of a shifty sort, though these, he does not mind so much. Metal, somehow too dim to shine, lines the path, displayed by vendors of swords, knives, axes, lances, and all else in the ways of bloodshed. Foremost interested in the foremost, he stops before a merchant with a missing eye—the one Aemond managed to keep—points to the longest saber at the man’s side, and queries, “Take a ring for it?”

For two moons, he has had only Valaena’s dagger at his disposal. Though it has been some comfort—with respect to sentimentality as well as security—he desires more than the meager protection it provides. A sturdy sword will do him nicely, he thinks, even if it is not so fine as that to which he is accustomed.

Confused, or mayhaps not versed in the Common Tongue, the man scowls at him. Aemond articulates his question further by removing the largest of his rings, a silver ring with a bulk of metal on one side forged to mimic a dragon’s scales, and holding it aloft. The man is all too happy to accept it, snatching it from him at once.

Without any coin to spare, Aemond has no choice but to barter. As a man who little favors jewelry, he finds himself with few options. He left Westeros with three rings on both of his hands and no more than that. Already, he has offered up the one which he considers dispensable. He chose it years past simply for its fashion, and he had been wearing it by chance when he departed from King’s Landing for Harrenhal. The other two rings, he wears with more diligence, another silver ring bearing the Targaryen house sigil and the golden signet ring with Valaena’s initial. The former, he will surrender if need be, but the latter, he fully intends to bring back home with him.

As he secures the saber along his side, his companion catches up to him. He had left Devan behind at a fruit stand, grown bored of watching the man haggle for a measly bushel of oranges. Come upon him again now, Devan is irate and has no qualms in showing it.

Dropping the basket of fruit at his feet, Devan demands, “What’s this, boy? You were meant to buy a wheel of cheese, not a blade for yourself.”

Affronted, as he is no thief, Aemond extracts the bag of coin he had been given for the task and shoves it into Devan’s chest. “I purchased it with mine own funds.”

Devan scoffs, even as he pockets the small purse. “You haven’t the funds for a saber of this quality.”

Insulted anew, Aemond puffs up to his full height and stares down his nose at the older man.

Unintimidated, Devan turns further reproachful. “You stand down, boy. You’re not the first man to try to twist my arm, and you’ll not be the last. You may think you’re frightening, but you’re featherless, you hear me?” Bending, he lifts the basket and mutters something along the lines of “lucky I’m not your father.”

Well tired of being addressed as boy so often, as well as dismayed by the indirect mention of his father, Aemond heatedly suggests, “Mayhaps I should remain here, make mine own way back to Westeros, and plague you no further.”

Somehow, this displeases Devan even more so. “No, you don’t want to be left in a place like this. No. Back to the Witch with you.”

With that, Devan gives Aemond his back and starts back toward the grocery. Left to his own devices, Aemond thinks he should feel sore to have been so easily discounted. Rather, despite the bitter air, he feels warm for it, and his cheeks heat as he makes his own way down the busy street.

He takes a detour on his path back to the ship, electing to ask after dragonlore, after all. Most he encounters either claim nescience or point him in the direction of various self-proclaimed sorcerers. It is not until the seventh person he comes upon that he receives a different reaction. The woman brightens, turns, and shouts to an acquaintance in Astapori Valyrian. “Cleon, pindas ez zaldrizar!”

Cleon, a short, stout man, ambles over, eagerly divulging, “Pon honan tol P’Blinun ez Andalos.”

In High Valyrian, Aemond replies, cynical, “Ūndas zaldrīzar?”

“Aye.” Cleon grins and holds up three fingers. “Hari.”

More so convinced, Aemond’s mind spans across the foreign continent, trying to recall its exact geography. He investigates further, “Skorī?”

Frowning, Cleon estimates, “Ampa hurar.”

Soon, Cleon and his companion are distracted by a true customer, and Aemond moves on, thinking of what it means for there to be three dragons in Essos.

Three days later, after Woods Witch has docked in Turrani to freight a shipment of spices, Aemond approaches Captain Tom with a proposal.

“You want me to let you off at Volantis,” Tom parrots, incredulous. He shakes his head. “I can’t do that, not in good conscience.”

“Why not,” Aemond argues. “I am not of your crew. I am not your concern.”

“All those on this ship are my concern,” Tom firmly disputes. He stares Aemond down, as though trying to will him into submission, but to no avail. At last, he sighs. “Listen, son, you came to be with us in a moment of,” he searches for the gentlest words available, “confusion and fear. You don’t want to make this excursion any longer than it need be. Surely, you’ve a family that needs you back.”

Surely, he does, but it is not as though Tom realizes exactly where Aemond’s family resides.

Tom continues, “These parts, they’re perilous. There are corsairs and slavers. Go too far inland, you’ll run into the Dothraki.” Aemond stays firm, and Tom sighs anew. “I suppose, I cannot compel you to remain, but you think on this, long and hard. That’s an order.”

Think on it, Aemond does. He thinks on it especially hard as Woods Witch passes the ruins of Valyria.

The shattered peninsula smolders in the distance. Much like Asshai, a shade sits over it, though not from any tall summits. Rather, a cloud of ash and smoke enduring centuries cloaks the blighted lands and masks the sight of the treacherous Smoking Sea. The only light visible from within the black haze is the dim glow of volcanoes, still spewing molten rock from the depths of the Seven Hells so long after the Doom. They illuminate a ravaged city on the very tip of the peninsula, one whose towers have been reduced to naught more than melted stalagmites. As Aemond studies it, he wonders if ever any of his kin lived there and what their lives might have been like before Daenys’s dreams drove them into exile.

In exile himself, just as far from home as were his ancestors from Valyria, he wonders whether their family has come upon the doom again. He had suggested as much to Valaena, months past now, but it did not feel so tangible as it does now, with the result of such destruction before him. He wonders, too, whether it was truly so prudent to flee; if doom is inescapable, if it is better to face it, to let it swallow one whole.

Before the ship docks in Volantis, Aemond’s decision is made, though not by him. Mere hours before Woods Witch would have reached the harbor, it is besieged by another, larger ship, a galley with a black sail.

“Corsairs,” one of the men bellows, alerting the captain. Tom looks up from the wheel, peering out into the fog concealing the inky blackness of the Summer Sea. Flickering lights seem to dance in its depths, signaling the inferno to come. Gripping one spoke of the wheel, Tom thrusts it starboard, and the ship lurches dangerously as it takes a sharp turn against the tide.

This attempt at escape fails, and chaos ensues. A blazing stone rockets through one railing and then the other, sending splintered, flaming wood in every direction. It is swiftly followed by two more, one which slams into the mast and the other which blows one of the cabin boys overboard.

Grapnels arrive next, sending the crew into a panic. Men run in every direction, trying to dislodge the hooks and scouring for any weapons which may be found. The boatswain drops to his knees and commences a prayer to the Mother.

Devan, sprinting onto the deck, calls out to the crew. He queries whether it is a ship from the Northern or Southern Pirate Compact which assails them. The remaining cabin boy answers that it is the Southern, and Devan turns ashen. Looking skyward, he rasps, “Father, show us mercy.”

Another burning stone soars into the ship, crashing through the deck and leaving a hole which swallows the nearest man. Stood near the ship’s cabin, Aemond stares at these bumbling fools, whose fates are briefly, unfortunately tied to his, and wonders at their alarm. Surely, he reasons, it is not too arduous to survive a simple plunder.

Devan moves toward the cabin, as well, popping the cork out of the barrel at Aemond’s side and guzzling the rum that pours from it. Faintly disgusted, Aemond steps out of the way of the leaking drink. Devan does not notice his discomfort. He gestures to the barrel and advises, “Take some while you can. These are your last moments as a free man.”

Unnerved, Aemond asks, “How do you mean?”

“The Northern Pirate Compact forbids participation in the slave trade. The Southern are the slavers.” He glances down at Aemond’s belt. “Pray you know how to use that sword.”

Loud clunking distracts Aemond from both Devan and his own mounting horror. Looking over his shoulder, he spots a grizzled corsair clinging to a line of rope. Seeing him, too, the man rips his saber from its sheath and rushes Aemond. He swings the blade widely, permitting Aemond to duck underneath it, jab him in the hollow of his neck with Valaena’s dagger, and shove him through the hole in the deck.

Another pirate arrives on the other side of the ship, too far for Aemond to impede. As soon as he gets his footing, he plunges his sword into the boatswain’s belly. The old man spews blood and keels over, flopping like a fish out of water until his killer stomps on his head.

His dread fully realized, Aemond draws his sword. As he awaits the rest of the onslaught, he ponders whether he will have escaped death at Daemon’s hands in their ancestral home only to be slain on the other side of the known world by savage strangers.

The grapnels finally bear fruit, with a score of hostile men climbing aboard and screaming their victory before it is won. As one of the only crew members with a blade, Aemond fends off as many scoundrels as he can, but he is not enough for twenty foes. One pirate grabs the cabin boy by the scruff of his neck and hurls him overboard. Another cuts through the ship’s healer with one swipe and Tom with the next. The captain keeps his hold on the wheel to the last, his bloodied hands slipping from it only after his eyes have rolled back into his head.

Never having had to fight so many enemies at once, Aemond begins to flag from exertion. He maneuvers a curved blade from one corsair’s hands and swivels to skewer another, but it is not enough. A gang of pirates pummel a pair of young men on the ship’s upper deck, and another two manage to steer Devan out of Aemond’s reach. Preoccupied with a man the size of a rock goblin, Aemond watches in snippets as Devan is slashed to pieces.

Seeing this, Aemond falters, and his own battle is lost. With one meaty hand, the rock goblin takes hold of his wrist in a punishing grip, halting the progress of Aemond’s sword. Balling his other hand into a fist, he strikes Aemond hard across the face. The blow pushes his sapphire eye deep into his skull, and after one, startling moment of blinding pain, away falls the world.

For two dreadful days, Aemond and the sailors captured from Woods Witch are held in the brig of the horribly old, horribly fetid pirate galley. They are fed once, with a miniscule block of molding cheese. The other men scramble for it as it is thrown into their cage. Despite his hunger, Aemond does not partake. After they have eaten, one of the sailors weeps, despairing that he shall never again return to his home, to his wife and three children. Staring at the wall so as to not look at him, Aemond silently vows not to follow him into despondency.

As Devan predicted, the southern pirates who bombarded their cog were indeed slavers. With bestial precision, they butchered the older men and took prisoner the younger, like for the better price they would fetch. This left only five for their quarry: four men and the second cabin boy. They were stripped of their belongings after they were taken onto the pirates’ ship, Aemond is told, as he was unconscious at the time. He feels naked for the lack of his weapons and rings. His only comfort is that of his eyepatch and the valuable stone it hides.

After a day at port—which must be that of Volantis, Aemond reasons, it having been the closest city when they were assailed—they are doused by buckets of frigid water and released from their confinement. Each of them has their hands secured behind their backs, though not without strife. When it comes his turn for his hands to be bound, Aemond struggles and shouts, only to be rewarded with an elbow to his empty gut and another blow to his head.

Prior to being led off the ship, their captors draw on their faces. Peering down at the cabin boy, Aemond sees the illustration to be a single tear under his right eye. He wonders it means, this imitation of a tattoo, as he knows the custom in Volantis is to tattoo one’s slaves according to their vocations.

They are taken directly to the city’s slave market, situated near the water. As the pirates barter a price for them, Aemond can hardly understand what anyone is saying, confused by the use of trade talk. Nevertheless, he gleans the moment of sale. A stick-thin, shifty, old man takes them all for a few small coins, along with all of their belongings. Aemond resolves to kill him before the day is through.

The old man has other slaves, too, ones with tattoos across their cheeks in the color and shape of green tiger stripes. Together with these unfortunate souls, Aemond and the other captive men are tied together and led from the market to a finer part of the city. They travel along the eastern shore of a river, like to be one of the Rhoyne’s tributaries. Aemond discerns that this puts them in western Volantis. He can see the Black Walls of eastern Volantis, and he wonders what it means for him to be here and not there; whether it gives him a better chance at freedom.

Before long, they arrive at their destination, a large, elegant building with lacy curtains and terraces spilling over with greenery—clearly a pleasure house. Aemond is disconcertingly reminded of the Street of Silk, and, seeing those who are unmistakably pleasure slaves adorned with real tattoos in the same shape as the false one under his eye, he resists the powerful urge to hurl. Briefly, he thinks of making a run for it. Fastened to the other wretches, he knows better than to bother.

They are led in through the back of the house and arranged in a line beside a grand door. Seemingly, the old man organizes them according to age, with Aemond in the middle. Thereafter, he unties the rope bonding them from around the cabin boy’s wrists and ushers him through the grand door. It is a short while before the boy reemerges, holding his belongings as he is escorted farther down the hall. Here, it occurs to Aemond that the old man is not their true captor. Rather, whosoever awaits him on the other side of the door is his actual adversary.

The next sailor returns in half the time as the boy took, though without his belongings. His cheek wiped clean, he decamps at once, disappearing whence they came without looking back. Aemond takes some small comfort from this. There is an easy way out, it appears, though without his property, with which he would rather not part.

His hands are set loose, and he contemplates wringing the old man’s neck. Before he can act, however, one of the tiger men grips him by his shoulders and shoves him through the door. Any further thought of resistance evaporates as he regains his footing. A half-dozen guards occupy this grand room behind the grand door. It appears much like a throne room, with elegant furnishings and golden trimmings, finished with a regal woman sat upon a dais. The woman, older than was his grandsire, bears his same coloring, though her eyes are a lighter shade of purple. She wears a Qartheen gown, leaving for display one wrinkled breast. With her eyes and cheeks painted, Aemond recognizes her as the sort of woman who was comely in her youth.

A tall, grisly man with the same color eyes and hair stands at her side. He commands Aemond, “Kneel for the princess.”

If possible, Aemond’s disposition sours further. Contemptuous, he clenches his jaw and narrows his eye. He silently withholds from the slaver the respect she demands. A prince kneels only before a king.

Or a queen, whispers a transient thought, sounding much like Valaena.

Ultimately, his refusal wins him none of his dignity. One of the guards canes the back of his legs with a lance, and he drops to his knees. He tries to stand again, but with the butt of the spear pushing into his back, he has little room to move.

Inspecting him from her perch, the old woman catechizes, “This was a Westerosi vessel, you said?”

“Indeed, Princess,” answers the old man. He gestures to Aemond. “We believe this one to be a sellsword, mayhaps from Lys. The corsairs who sold him claim he defended the ship with a sword, killing several. By the same token, his belongings include the sword and a dagger.”

As they discuss him, Aemond hardly listens. Rather, he ponders princess, as the men hail the old woman. The Volantenes are ruled by triarchs, he knows, and none have been female for a hundred years. Moreover, the triarchs are elected. The Old Blood of Volantis are noble at best, with no royals among them.

Aemond is torn from his recollections of the histories as someone snaps the thong of his eyepatch. His jaw tightening further, he resists the urge to bite at the man’s hand like an animal. “He is damaged,” the old man dispassionately notes.

“This matters not,” the old woman supposes. “He is handsome in a roguish sort of way. We could try him out.” Repelled, Aemond curls his lip. The woman smiles at him. “Young man, I offer redemption. I have bought back your freedom. You may remain here, labor in my service, and be well taken care of, or you may repay me at the cost of your personal effects and be on your own way.”

Here, she pauses, as though waiting for an inevitable display of gratitude and acceptance. It never comes. Undeterred, she goes on, “What is your name?”

Moving his eye to the floor, as though to further convey his contempt for her, he issues no reply. She turns to her aged servant for the answer.

Frowning, the old man evokes what memory he has of Aemond’s name. Aemond believes naught will come of it until he says, “The boy made mention of a Luke and a—”

“It’s not Luke,” Aemond interrupts. He cannot bear to have that particular appellation applied to him one more time.

“What is it then,” she asks, leaning her arm along the side of her throne. “My patience is not unending, and should I come to sponsor you—”

“Muña, kostonlo, bisa vala harrenka daor issa,” interjects the grisly man, and a flame lights within Aemond’s mind.

At last, it occurs to him who his captor is. There is a royal in Volantis, he recalls, though not one of their own. Rather, she was forced out of her own family long ago, for her profession repulsed her august father.

“You are Princess Saera Targaryen, daughter of King Jaehaerys,” he postulates. Despite his confidence, he is rather astounded that she still lives. All of her siblings died years ago, as well as her parents.

Appreciatively, as though it is not often someone recognizes her in this fashion, she confirms, “I am.” The man at her side, who must be one of her bastard sons, crosses his arms and scowls at Aemond.

Aemond pays him no mind. He addresses Saera, informing her, “I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, son of King Viserys.” 

As she grins with one half of her rugose face, her underlings chuckle. She derides, “Are you?”

Unused to being ridiculed so openly, Aemond takes a much-needed moment to compose himself. Once he has reined in his temper, he evinces his claim. “I have a ring. A signet ring with the seal of our house.” 

With a degree of credulity, the old man sifts through Aemond’s things and produces the ring. On bended knee, he presents it to Saera.

Delicately holding it between two fingers, she examines it. She rubs her thumb along the ring’s surface, and most of the good humor slips from her face, leaving it to sag markedly. Nevertheless, she regards him with a twinkle in her eyes. Handing the ring over to her son, who studies it with keen interest, she turns his name over in her mind and on her tongue. “Aemond. Are you the one they cast out to Oldtown, like me?”

He shakes his head. “My brother, Daeron. I was my father’s second son.”

This morsel seems to settle it for her. She points to him. “’Twas you who wed Rhaenyra’s eldest bastard.”

Aemond bristles, not only for his recognition merely as Rhaenyra’s good-son—he once rode the largest dragon in the world—but for the slander against his wife. “She is not a bastard.”

Condescendingly, Saera clicks her tongue. “Come now, Nephew, I mean no insult. All of my children are bastards,” she adds, shrugging. She glances sidelong at her son, smirking and inciting him to laughter.

“Be that as it may,” he replies, trying to conceal his distaste.

Mockingly, she coos. “You love your lady wife.” Cackling, she waves to the man whose spear sits on his back, and the pressure relents. Aemond rolls his shoulders as he stands. “You must be eager to see her again. I would be so kind as to secure you passage back to King’s Landing.”

The desire to return to Westeros—to Aenar, to Valaena, to all he knows—tugs at him, but he abstains. For weeks, he has favored remaining in Essos a while longer, and he would rather fulfill his purpose in doing so. After all the failures he suffered in Westeros—in protecting his mother, his brother, his wife—he should like to succeed here.

Even under these most degrading of circumstances, Aemond strives to be somewhat polite as he refuses. Finally, he has struck upon some good fortune, and he means to milk it for all he can. “I journey to Lorath.”

Saera raises a naked eyebrow in question. “I think it best you return home, little dragon. A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing.”

The candor of her words strikes him in his breast, but he holds strong. “I am searching for someone.” 

Saera appraises him for a moment longer before clicking her tongue again. “Very well.” She turns back to the old man and orders, “Arrange for my nephew a room in the private wing and bring in the next one.”

Though he is somewhat, queerly reluctant to part from her—she is his only kin for hundreds of miles, and he supposes there must be some comfort in what familiarity he finds in that—Aemond permits himself to be led away to a quieter part of the house. Once there, he finds himself in friendlier surroundings than he has in months. A servant prepares him a warm bath, and he bathes and shaves clean his face. For months, he has been forced to grow out his mustache and beard, leaving his reflection to remind him eerily of his father. His missing eye makes the resemblance all the more uncanny.

After having groomed himself, he dresses in clean clothes that do not irritate his skin. He dons, too, his sword and his rings and Valaena’s dagger, all of which were polished and left for him in his allotted room. That night, he feasts on fine food, satisfying a hunger which he has known since Blackwater Bay.

In the morning, Aemond is appointed a steward and offered a tour of the city. He is also offered a tour of the pleasure house, but, upon viewing a single courtyard teeming with whores, he prefers they venture out at once. He makes it a point that they avoid the slave market. They travel through the city in a hathay pulled by a dwarf elephant, exploring the harbor and Fishmonger’s Square. They spend much of the day along the Long Bridge, which connects the two halves of the city and houses a plethora of shops, inns, and taverns. All through the agora, what is most of interest is that he is surrounded by many who look just like him. Here, there is nothing novel about white-blond hair and purple eyes.

In eastern Volantis, without an invitation, he is not permitted beyond the Black Walls, though he does not allow this disappointment to vex him. Rather, he admires this among the last vestiges of Old Valyria from its exterior. Running his hand along the thick, black stone, he is reminded of Dragonstone and all its own walls contain.

When he returns to Saera’s establishment late in the evening, he expects he will be granted her company. He thinks to ask her of the heyday of Jaehaerys’s long reign, of his grandparents, of her decision to come to Essos, but she rebuffs him, and the only companionship he finds upon his return is a young harlot left to him in his room. He dismisses her and falls asleep early.

Come the morning, his great-aunt finally grants him the gift of her presence, though for the last time. She summons him to a terrace overlooking the river for tea. He dips his head in deference before taking his seat.

Beside his cup and saucer rests a sizable purse. He hefts it to find it filled to the brim with clinking coins. Sat across from him, Saera explains, “For your own care, for as long as you find yourself across the Narrow Sea.”

He sets it back down. “Thank you.”

She nods. “I have arranged for you to board a ship traveling north along the Rhoyne, one that’ll not be raided. It should depart in a matter of hours.”

Loath to show gratitude again, and so soon, he does naught more than nod himself. Smiling pleasantly, she turns her attention to her cup, whereas Aemond’s eye drifts out to sea. From this vantage point, he can see where the river spills out into the Summer Sea. There are a few cogs which he can see at this distance, and he wonders if any of them are the ship on which he will find himself later in the day.

Eventually, his gaze moves back to Saera. This day, she is draped in sheer, turquoise fabric and various golden ornaments. His eye catches on her provocative choice in dress, and he wonders, not for the first time,

“May I ask,” he broaches. Her attention turns back to him, her face open and receptive enough that he feels comfortable inquiring, “Wherefore you ran off to, ah, this?”

“‘This’ being,” she goads. With her lips curved into a slight smirk, he suspects she simply means to make him squirm.

Ever tactful, he supplies, “You are the proprietor of a brothel. You were a princess.”

“A whore, you mean,” she clarifies, getting to the heart of his query. Despite this indeed being his intention, it does make him writhe.

Judiciously, he deflects, “So your father said.”

“Yes, mine father. It all comes back to him, does it not? I came all this way, yet I cannot escape him.” She purses her lips and clasps her hands atop the table. “You see, your mother, your sisters, your wife, they are all whores.” Aemond straightens, inflamed, though her next statement cools him. “That is all a woman can be in the world my father made. That is what he failed to understand.” 

Relaxing back into his seat, he thinks to dispute her, but the proper words escape him. She has far more experience than he with whores and womanhood, after all, and he is not entirely certain she is mistaken.

She shrugs. “Some women, like myself, know better how to make our peace with it.”

“That is not something I understand,” he finds himself admitting, though only gods know why, “making peace with one’s lot in life.”

A sour smile comes to her face. Something just as bitter comes to her tongue, and she spits it at him, “Clearly.”

Aemond is taken aback by the change in her tone, but before he can ponder it and her meaning for too long, she stands, signaling an end to their rapport. Courtly, he stands, too. “I have matters of business which require my attendance, but you may remain as long as you like; finish your tea. And I hope that your search is fruitful. I know what it is to search for something here on this continent, which hath risen and fallen a thousand times.”

She tries to step away, but he withholds her. Reminded of the story his father once told him of his ascension, Aemond recalls the reason she is said to have given for not coming to claim the Iron Throne herself. “That which I seek is not so scarce as a kingdom.”

Saera’s smile spoils afresh, as though they have once more come upon a topic she had hoped to avoid. “O that you have not sought a kingdom. At least, I needn’t have become a kinslayer for mine.”

Aemond’s face slackens, made uneasy is he by this revelation that she knows more about him than he originally thought.

She explains this discrepancy. “I shut my ears to tales from home after Vaegon passed.” Fleetingly, Aemond recalls Maester Vaegon, his father’s last uncle, a surly old man he met once in his early youth in Oldtown. “Mine sons, on the other hand, never did.”

His nerves ratcheting, he recalls how Saera’s son glared at him at the revelation of his name in the throne room. He wonders what venom he poured into her ears afterward, how many of his transgressions she knows. He wonders if the ship he is meant to board is bound for King’s Landing, for Rhaenyra, and not for Lorath, not for—

“Be eased,” Saera assuages, interrupting his panicked thoughts. “I seek not to punish you, though I’ve half the mind for it. To think a Targaryen woman might at last have had her rights preserved by her father, and her own brothers seek to rob her of it. I would punish you,” she heaves a sigh, “but I believe you may be the last of our blood I will ever meet, even if your mother is a Hightower.” She grimaces, and Aemond suppresses a flicker of offense. “And as I said, I am not a kinslayer.”

“I am a kinslayer neither,” he ripostes, though he soon walks this back. “That is, I do not feel like one.”

This much is true, truer than most he has said these past few months. He has long accepted responsibility for that calamitous fate which befell Lucerys, but he did not mean for it to come to pass. He simply wished to frighten the boy, to make him regret his own transgressions, not to kill him.

Saera’s face clears somewhat. “I see now. You hoped I would answer that I am not a whore.” Thrown, Aemond means to refute this, but he soon realizes the truth of her words. He had hoped she would tell him of how she forged her own way, beyond the mold their family had for her, but alas. Stepping closer, she tells him, “I have had the great privilege and burden to learn many things in this life. Above all, you are not what you feel. You are what you do.”

Placing a hand on his shoulder, she looms closer. Her lips meet his, and, laggard, he permits it. As she pulls back, she murmurs, “Valar morghulis.” She lingers for a moment, seemingly in anticipation of some response. When it does not come, she slinks away, her chiffon robes billowing in the briny breeze.

The ship Aemond boards later that day is indeed one that will not be raided as, he discovers, it is one that does the raiding. Blackheart, the carrack is called, lurks within the waters of the Rhoyne. Relatively well-disguised as a merchant vessel, it sits in harbors while the Sun is out and comes upon unsuspecting commercial ships under the moonlight. It boasts the flag of the Northern Pirate Compact, lending Aemond some measure of comfort.

When the river pirate captain, Drako, asks after his motherland, Aemond tells him he is from Lys. At once, Drako knows this for a lie, as he is Lysene himself, and their accents differ greatly. Notwithstanding, in a place like this, his dishonestly disturbs no one, and, with the arbitrary assumption that he is an escaped slave from Qarth, none trouble him as to his origins again.

Compared to the Westerosi sailors with whom Aemond began his eastern odyssey, Aemond finds his new comrades utterly repugnant. Whereas, at least, the sailors had passable manners and sponged themselves every few days, these pirates are completely uncouth. Each and every word from their mouths is an obscenity, and they smell of something wretched and certainly half-dead. Aemond avoids their company whensoever he can, holding his breath when he cannot.

Though the crew does most of its work in the night, Aemond soon gains the privilege of sleeping through it. This is for his sacrifice in remaining aboard and alert in the days. While most of the men, even the captain, disembark after the ship has docked to patron the local pillow houses, Aemond stands sentry on the ship’s deck. The only downside is that, according to Captain Drako, he requires a partner.

This day, he is accompanied by a man his age and half again. Inopportunely, this unwelcome companion has a penchant for garrulity. Amid the sounds of waves and gulls, he pollutes the air with endless stories of his favorite shipping routes, his favorite raids, and his favorite whores. All throughout, Aemond remains silent, hoping the man will take the hint and muzzle himself, but to no avail.

At midday, their one-sided conversation takes a turn for the worse. Placing himself in Aemond’s eyeline, the man inquires, “Do you have a cock?”

The question takes a moment to register, so abhorrent does Aemond find it. After it has, he responds, deliberately, “What?”

“Do you have a cock,” the man enunciates, going so far as to mime gripping his own member. Aemond is so outraged that speech fails him. The man goes on, “’Cause you never use it.”

Rolling his eye, Aemond retreats from his stench. “I have a wife.” 

The corsair shrugs. “Me, too. Several.” 

Under his breath, Aemond remarks, “They have my condolences.” 

On another day, Aemond finds himself trapped below deck with most of the crew. A strong, sudden tempest forces Blackheart to drop anchor on the outskirts of Valysar’s harbor. To avoid the rain, the sailors take refuge in the belly of the ship, whiling their time away with drink, idle games, and tattoos.

Standing with his arms crossed, Aemond squints down at the half-written scrawl across the skin of the quartermaster’s mate. The boy squirms as the tattoo is administered, further marring whatever word is being written. The surgeon, a middle-aged man called Mathis, who is like to be one of the few literate crewmembers, takes his hand away to replenish the ink on his pen. Aemond’s eye narrows farther when his unencumbered view of the mark fails to clear up his confusion.

“What does it say,” he wonders, flummoxed.

Grinning with far too much excitement, the boy answers, “‘Kiera.’ She’s my best girl.”

Further mystified, Aemond questions, “Why?” He very much doubts that this girl, whosoever she is, even knows how to read.

“It’s romantic.” The pen returns, and the boy winces briefly. “She’ll definitely suck my cock when she sees it.” One of his friends, the second mate, joins him in a hearty laugh.

Thinking the younger man a fool, Aemond rolls his eye. Mathis, not having seen Aemond’s scorn, offers, “I can do you next.”

Childish, the second mate points at Aemond and japes, “Ha! You can do him.”

With commendable restraint, Aemond disregards this outburst. “No, thank you.”

Still looking for a fight, the second mate feigns a pout and taunts, “’Fraid of a little prick, One-Eye? How can that be when you have a little prick?”

Sufficiently infuriated, Aemond swiftly reaches out, grabs the boy by his nape, pulls Valaena’s knife, and holds it to his throat. The little runt’s eyes bulge, and he sputters and gasps and tries in vain to slip from Aemond’s unforgiving grasp.

As a crowd gathers and jeers, the boy makes a grab for the hand Aemond has on the back of his neck. He screeches, “Let go o’ me, you moonstruck fuck!”

Placidly, Aemond asks, “Why? Afraid of a little prick, are you?” This, he thinks, is one of the few advantages of traveling amongst pirates. None bat an eye when one takes forceful, incisive vengeance.

The boy takes to twisting to try to get away, violently wrenching himself from side to side. Aemond keeps his grip firm, slackening it only when the boy reveals, “Me da’s the captain!”

Someone clears their throat, and Aemond looks over to find Drako’s eyes on him. From a few feet away, the man glares at Aemond and drops his hand to his sword’s hilt. Wisely, Aemond releases his son, who retreats to the safety found behind his father’s back. Uncontrite, he returns Valaena’s dagger to his belt and resolves to prove his mettle without warranting a walk from the ship’s plank.

Taking a seat beside Mathis, he informs him loud enough for all to hear, “I’ve two names for you.” Laughing, Mathis bids him wait as he puts the finishing touches on the Kiera’s name.

Somewhat starry-eyed, the quartermaster’s mate exclaims, “You’ve two girls?”

“I’ve a wife and a son,” Aemond sharply replies. Mathis guffaws anew, whereas, disappointed, the boy loses interest in Aemond and returns to grimacing every so often.

When it comes his turn to go under the needle, Aemond removes his jacket, draws up one of his sleeves, and instructs Mathis to write on his bicep. Mathis wipes the pen on his leg and asks Aemond’s preference for the ink. “Green or black?”

A clash of thunder strikes. Aemond sits somewhere underneath it, consternated. Briefly, he thinks of reneging, of replacing his jacket, retreating, and braving the storm above deck.

His mouth dry, he asks, “Which is best?”

Mathis shrugs. “They’re the same.” This does naught to lessen Aemond’s sudden, inexplicable panic. It must show on his face, as Mathis takes pity on him and admits, “The black’ll last longer, and I’ve no’iced green infects the skin more times.”

Aemond swallows roughly, deciding, “Black then.” He tells himself it is only for his desire to keep his arm.

“I’ll put yer wife’s name first, for yer own sake,” says Mathis. Those left in the crowd chuckle. “What’s ’er name?”

Closing his eye, Aemond calms as he pictures her face. He utters her name in a wistful whisper, so many months has it been since last he spoke it. “Valaena.” Wary of Mathis’s competence, he spells it for good measure.

One of the other corsairs blows out a lengthy, low whistle. “Sounds like a fancy lass. How’d ya get ’er?”

As the pen pushes into his skin, Aemond answers, “My father gifted her to me.”

Three weeks into the pirate’s life, Aemond decides it is not for him. On a ship of this size, a three-week journey could have brought him to the headwaters of the Noyne. After another two weeks through the Hills of Norvos, he could have been at Lorath Bay. Alas, Blackheart has neared the Sorrows and turned back thrice. This third time, it left the Rhoyne entirely, traveling to a conclave of galleys with hulls striped in bright hues near Lys.

Aemond watches, discontent, as a board is extended from Blackheart onto a Triarchy warship. Drako and the first mate cross it to meet a man with a hideous, extravagant hat. Together, the three of them disappear into the other ship’s cabin.

Stood at the foot of the plank, Drako’s son holds himself as tall as he can and bellows, “Below deck with ye!” Most of the crew, milling about the deck, descend into the bowels of the ship. Aemond stays put, inciting a glare from the insufferable coxcomb. He marches up to Aemond, seething, “My da wants everyone below deck, so get.”

Blowing out a slow breath, Aemond does naught more than tip his head to one side as he looks the boy up-and-down.

Further vexed, he stammers, “You—You listen to me! I’m the second mate!”

Aemond purses his lips. “How old are you?”

The boy’s antsiness heightens. “Fourteen.”

Hearing this, Aemond’s pugnacity leaves him, a kernel of shame sprouting in its place. He admits defeat and commences his retreat toward the ship’s hatch, though an exclamation from a small voice distracts him. “No! My egg!” He and the second mate both look toward the source of the clamor. Seeing it, he is struck dumb.

A mouth, bowed in displeasure, sits underneath a mop of silver-gold hair on a pudgy, puerile face. Traversing the plank connecting the two ships, the first mate holds in his grasp a boy no older than three as he squirms and whinges. Behind him, Drako clutches a large, round object as he comes back onto Blackheart. At this distance, Aemond cannot glean the color of the child’s eyes, but he thinks he knows it.

That child, he realizes, he is certain, is Viserys Targaryen.

As the first mate disappears into the ship’s cabin with Viserys, Drako takes notice of Aemond and sends his son an aggrieved glance. Ashamed, the boy looks to the floor. Sighing, his father takes pity on him. “’S’all right. It’s only the wanderer.”

Once the crew is free to roam about the ship again, Drako tells them their new cargo is Magister Bambarro Bazanne’s bastard son, and they have been charged with transporting the boy to him for a hefty price. Naturally, Aemond knows this for a lie, but he is not so certain that Drako knows the same. So far as he can tell, Drako does not seem to realize exactly whom he has in his possession, notwithstanding the boy’s dragon egg.

For the remainder of the day, Aemond spends his time slinking about Blackheart’s cabin for a glimpse of Viserys. For months, all have thought the boy dead, including Aemond. He feels he need be absolutely sure the boy is Viserys before he takes action. He is almost certain he recognizes him by his face—the curve of his nose matches that of Rhaenyra, and he looks as though he has Daemon’s brow—but it has been near a year since he last saw the child. His surety comes in observing the manner in which the boy treats that which he knows to be a dragon egg, holding it with care and reverence.

Convinced of his suspicion, Aemond travels abaft the mainmast to the captain’s study. He stands in the doorway until Drako notices him, thereupon closing the door after him. He treads over to Drako’s desk.

Drako, clearly unsettled by his presence but unwilling to show his apprehension, briefly flicks his gaze toward him. “What d’you want, boy?”

Suppressing his own agitation, Aemond probes, “I wish to know what sort of river pirate sails into the Summer Sea.” Glowering at him, Drako issues no answer, not that Aemond had truly expected one. “I was promised passage up the Rhoyne.”

“I didn’t promise you nothin’,” Drako bites, a sneer set on his face. Looking back toward a manifest, spread out across his desk, he adds, “I made a promise to a whoremonger, one I’ve kept: to take you off ’er hands.”

“But there is a promise you have broken. A compact,” Aemond prods. Slowly, warily, Drako’s eyes return to Aemond’s face. Aemond continues, mordant, “I wonder what the punishment is for breaking pacts among pirates. I don’t imagine your lot has a penchant for leniency.”

His lip curling from dismay, Drako replies, “What’re you implying?”

Placing his hands on the desk, Aemond leans toward him and breathes, “You’re transporting a slave.”

Drako feigns nonchalance. “Corsairs move all manner of goods, and plenty sell slaves themselves.”

“Those of the Southern Pirate Compact do,” Aemond agrees. “But Blackheart is bound to the northern compact, which forbids any participation in the slave market.”

Evidently not having expected Aemond to know such things, Drako is stumped. Rather than repent his malfeasance, he demands, “What d’you care?”

Aemond cares for that which this can win him. This, he thinks, is how he wins back his place in Valaena’s heart, by bringing her youngest brother back to life.

Deliberately, he does not answer Drako’s question. “Give the boy to me.” He resolves to take Viserys and venture to Lorath another way. Notwithstanding Viserys’s miraculous appearance, Blackheart is taking too long to reach Aemond’s destination.

Grimacing, Drako queries, “And what d’you want with ’im?”

Sedately, Aemond responds, “That does not concern you.” He appreciates that, certainly, demanding that he be entrusted with a seemingly nongermane child is suspect, but he hardly intends to divulge the truth of his and Viserys’s relation to an unscrupulous pirate.

Drako, doubtlessly vexed by Aemond’s pompous disposition, tells him, “I’m bein’ paid a fine sum to ship this boy, and I’m not one to fuck up a good thing.”

Bending toward Drako again, Aemond indicates, “Whatever sum you’ve been promised, you’ll have naught more than a black spot after I’ve told your crew you broke the compact. Even gold is worthless to a dead man.” 

At last, Drako is so inflamed as to stand. “I could kill you right now, you little shit!” 

Withdrawing slightly, Aemond rethinks his paltering stratagem. Knowing that it is not in the nature of any Lyseni to make a gift of anything that might be sold, he opts for the price of something fresh, rather than a threat. Without giving himself time to think on it too long, he tears off his eyepatch, takes out his false eye, and smacks it onto the wood of the desk. “This is pure sapphire. Give me the boy, and it is yours.”

Aemond does not mind losing the eye. His mother once gave it to him in the hope that the healing properties of the sapphire would help soothe the raw maw left by his gouged eye. Now, with the flesh long healed and Valaena divested of her matching stone, he sees no trouble in losing it, too, to the sea. He need not have this sightless, heavy thing weighing him down, especially as discarding it may be his salvation.

Taken aback, Drako returns to his seat. He takes the sapphire into his grasp, turning it over between his fingers. “Where’d you get this?”

As he replaces his eyepatch, Aemond repeats, “That does not concern you.”

As he continues to inspect the gem, Drako peers consideringly between it and Aemond’s face. “We’ll need part ways.”

“Gladly,” says Aemond, and the bargain is struck.

Drako leads him to the small quarters shared by the first and second mates. He had intended to hold Viserys there until the ship made port in Lys, whereupon Bazanne would dispatch one of his slaves to secure Viserys. He tells Aemond that he can share the room with Viserys until then.

There is only Drako’s son to greet them when they arrive. The boy frowns in confusion as his father gives him an abridged explanation of the new state of affairs. Aemond, callous of them, shuts them out of the room.

The room is narrow, with a narrower yet set of bunks along one wall. Atop the lower cot sits Viserys, clutching his egg to his chest and eyeing Aemond warily. Gingerly, Aemond stoops to his height. He converts his tongue to Valyrian lest anyone overhear. “Rūnas nyke?” Viserys shakes his head no. Nevertheless, a spark of recognition shines in his eyes, so Aemond questions, more incisively, “Rhēdes sparos sa?”

At this, Viserys nods. “Aemond.”

Gratified, Aemond tells him, “Ja maghagon ao va Valaena.” 

Viserys perks up, a tiny smile coming to his face. “Really?” When Aemond gives him confirmation, he carefully slides down from the bed and shuffles into Aemond’s side. As he clings to his shoulders, Aemond awkwardly pats the boy along his back. Aemond cannot help but feel strange for the affection. Not only has it been months since someone last embraced him, but this is Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s child. Though he is the youngest of the brood, it surprises Aemond, nonetheless, to discover that he has not yet learnt any hatred for him.

After a fitful, half-night of sleep, throughout which Viserys continuously wakes him for reassurance that he will soon be reunited with his eldest sister, Aemond tramps down the ship’s ramp onto the boardwalk of the Lysene harbor. He meets an impeccably dressed man with a stern face. He tells Aemond, “I come to collect my master’s son,” peering over Aemond’s shoulder for sight of Viserys.

Stoically, Aemond points down the length of the pier. He tells Bazanne’s slave that they intend to bring the child around in a skiff and waves the man on ahead of him. When they reach the end of the dock, the man turns back, a question perched on his face. Before he can voice it and thus alert anyone out and about amid the dawn, Aemond draws Valaena’s dagger and stabs through the man’s breastbone. As he sputters and gurgles, Aemond pushes him back into the wharf’s waters.

With the sea bubbling behind him, Aemond returns to the ship’s berth. There, he convenes with Drako, who hands Viserys over to him. Taking Viserys on his hip for ease of movement, Aemond drapes a knapsack containing his belongings and Viserys’s egg over his unencumbered shoulder. In a sarcastic drawl, he tells Viserys, “Bid farewell to the pirate.”

Guileless, Viserys waves at Drako. “Farewell, pirate.”

Leaving Blackheart in his wake, Aemond looks to the foreseeable future. He need think of a way out of Lys and to Lorath, preferably before Bazanne sends someone else to collect Viserys. Winding through the docks, he hopes for sight of a passenger ship. He thinks it too great a wish for him to happen upon a Lorathi vessel. Thus, he does not turn away from those ships flying the flags of the other Free Cities, including a Pentoshi cog with a captivating name.

Vhagar.

Among the larger ships in the harbor, the cog sports a green hull and cream sails. The Pentoshi maid of the sea springs from the ship’s bow, her hair flowing and her hand stretched outward. Though it is early yet, men crawl all over the ship, loading its cargo and unravelling the stowed sails. As Aemond stands gawking at it, he obstructs one such man.

Carrying a crate low in his grip, the man inquires, “Can I help you, lad?”

His attention split between the sailor and the enthralling vessel, Aemond forces himself to cease gaping and ask, “Is this your ship?”

The man’s gaze turns to Vhagar, too. “Aye.” As though having gleaned that Aemond is impressed by the ship’s well-kept semblance, he boasts, “Fifteen years, she is.”

Taking note of the still-shining hull, Aemond nods. He waits a beat before posing, “The name is queer.”

Beguiled further, the man divulges, “I named her for a dragon. You see, the Lady Laena Velaryon of Driftmark, the dragonrider—she graced our maiden voyage with her presence.”

Hearing his cousin’s name, so far from home, sets Aemond’s heart beating faster. That, and his assumption that “It’s a passenger ship.” Having learnt the many colors that ships fly these past few months, Aemond recognizes the vermillion hue of the smaller of Vhagar’s flags, indicating Pentos as its destination.

Vhagar’s captain shakes his head. “No longer, too old for that. Just goods, now.”

Nevertheless, Aemond asks for passage. Thinking of the pouch of coinage Saera gave him, he proffers, “I can pay you handsomely.”

Glancing between Aemond and the child perched on his hip, the man lets him down gently. “I’m sorry, lad.”

Thinking quickly, Aemond does not permit the man to abandon them. “I can pay our way by other means. I can work; my son and I can share a cot.” He dares not glance toward Viserys, praying that the boy knows instinctively not to belie his words.

Shaking his head anew, the man hefts the crate higher, as though he means to be on his way. “I’ve no need of any more crew.”

Flashing his sword, Aemond offers, “I can defend the ship from corsairs.”

More steadfast, the sailor refuses, “I don’t hire sellswords.”

“Please,” Aemond stresses, despite how the word pains him. Never did he think he would need beg a peasant for a measly favor. He hitches Viserys higher, hoping the babe’s cherubic face will charm the captain. “I need return him to his mother.”

As if on cue, Viserys squeaks, “Muña?”

As predicted, the man caves. “I suppose I could do with another cabin boy,” he sighs, beckoning them onto the ship with him. Hearing this, Aemond’s relief is so profound as to drown out his discontent in being saddled with the lowest post on the ship.

Aemond grins privately as they board the vessel. Once more, he has lost an eye but found Vhagar.

As with each new leg of his nautical journey, Aemond requires time to acclimate. This time, aboard Vhagar, is all the more challenging for Viserys’s presence. He need make certain the boy is capable of carrying a lie with him. Foremost, Viserys need answer to a new name, as well as refer to Aemond as his father. Aemond tries to make it easy for him by assigning him the name Rys. As for himself, he keeps the name he gave on Blackheart, Devan.

A bastard Valyrian is spoken on the ship, so diverged from High Valyrian that Aemond finds it simpler to converse with the Common Speech. In between his various, grueling tasks—swabbing the deck, shoveling slop, throwing refuse overboard, all that and a thousand other debasing chores—the sailors pester him with questions. When they ask after his origins, he tells them Lorath. This, they believe without suspicion, as few travel to Lorath or have an acquaintance with a Lorathi. When they wonder how he lost his eye, he fabricates a fable of forfeiting it amid a joust with a river pirate. When they inquire as to how he and his young son came to be hundreds of leagues from home, he claims it would be too painful to speak the tale.

Most of his spare time, which is spectacularly rare, he spends with Viserys. Not only need he mind the boy, as few else on board appreciate the child’s presence, but he finds himself oddly drawn to him. He may not favor the boy’s parents, but Viserys is a token of home, nonetheless.

One evening, Aemond is cloistered in the kitchen with Viserys, pleading with him to sup on an admittedly atrocious stew. He soon learns that, in order to inspire the boy to take a bite, he need distract him with conversation. Accordingly, he slakes his own curiosity, bidding Viserys to recount his travels.

Viserys begins with the Battle of the Gullet, which he scarcely remembers. All he can recall is his brother’s dragon swooping down and carrying him away. Thenceforth, he has been at sea for months, carried from port to port under the protection of someone he calls “the captain knight man.”

“What is a captain knight man,” Aemond interrupts, bewildered. Setting down his bowl of stew, Viserys mimes the answer. He raises one arm above his head and waves around the other as though it wields a sword. Further perplexed, Aemond wonders, “Why are you holding your arm in the air?”

Viserys transitions to pantomiming having in his grasp a crown and placing it on Aemond’s head. Aemond’s confusion persists until he thinks back to the Triarchy ship from which he watched Viserys emerge, evoking a garish piece of the memory. “Do you speak of the man with the ugly hat?”

Tickled, Viserys giggles and parrots, “Ugly.”

“Yes, his hat was ugly,” grants Aemond, inciting Viserys to cackle even louder. Aemond permits the boy’s amusement to consume him, watching as Viserys’s eyes crinkle up at their sides, much as Valaena’s do when she has her own mirth. Pushing such thoughts from his mind lest he be consumed himself, Aemond spurs on the conversation. “Do you know anything about why he handed you over to the pirates?”

Viserys shakes his head, nescient. Blessedly, he is idle-minded enough to spoon more of his stew into his mouth.

Sighing, Aemond leaves him to his devices and turns his attention to his own meal. He ponders that the man with the ugly hat, who is surely some general or admiral for the Triarchy, must have traded Viserys to the Lysene magister Bazanne for some advantage. Fortunately, Viserys is too young to grasp the exact nature in which this transaction took place. Far wiser, Aemond tastes as his rations turn to ash in his mouth, lamenting the pervasiveness of the eastern slave trade.

With little more than a week’s time between Lys and Pentos, their voyage aboard Vhagar is the shortest Aemond has undertaken thus far. When the ship stops in Tyrosh, he dares not risk abandoning it to venture out and explore the city lest it leave without them. He thus travels no farther than the verge of the deck, holding onto Viserys as the boy balances along the railing. Together, they gaze out at a sea of blue, green, maroon, pink, purple, scarlet, and vermilion heads of hair.

The following day, Vhagar passes Shipbreaker Bay. Though it is too far for Aemond to see the bay’s gaping mouth, his mind clouds with dark thoughts as he gazes into the distance that conceals it. Amid a warm breeze, the towers of Storm’s End appear to him, taller than he remembers and floating above the horizon.

After another few days, the cog makes port in Pentos. As they disembark, the crew behaves asudden as though they are infatuated with Viserys, almost each and every one of them insisting upon ruffling his hair before he and Aemond depart. Viserys brooks this treatment with remarkable aplomb, though he begins to convey his displeasure in a pout after the third greasy hand grazes his scalp. Aemond, preoccupied with unloading Vhagar’s freight, spits a wayward, fractious commination at the owner of the fifth hand.

Late in the morning, equipped with naught but his knapsack and his nephew, Aemond peers up at Vhagar’s freshly stowed sails. Though the true Vhagar left this world weeks past, he feels as though he is writing the end to a glorious chapter of his life. The tale of Prince Aemond the dragonrider is concluded, leaving only Aemond One-Eye, Aemond the Kinslayer.

Aemond thinks, too, of how close they are to Dragonstone. The isle sits just across the Narrow Sea, with only a few days’ worth of waves between it and Pentos. In his first two months at sea, he had wished for naught more than to return home, only to be waylaid time and again. Now, with home so tantalizingly close—he could board any one of the Braavosi ships in Pentos’s harbor and sail to King’s Landing or Duskendale—he knows there is more for him to accomplish in Essos before he sees Valaena and Aenar again.

Viserys interrupts his thoughts. “Kepa?”

Kepa, the boy has called him since they left Lys. Naturally, this is because Aemond impressed upon him the need for Vhagar’s crew to believe he was Aemond’s son. Withal, as the use of the title has now persisted beyond their time on the ship, Aemond wonders how sincere Viserys is in employing it. Mayhaps Viserys means to call him qybor but does not appreciate the difference from kepa.

Putting such concerns aside, Aemond answers, “What is it, Rys?”

“Are we in Pentos,” he wonders.

They are, certainly once they leave the harbor and enter the city proper. Having passed through the city’s massive, high walls, they meander past square, brick towers. Street musicians are scattered about the city, many with dyed, oiled beards. Aemond thinks everything a bit too colorful for his tastes, though Viserys seems fascinated by the bright clothes and loud music.

“You know we are in Pentos,” Aemond replies. After they left Tyrosh, when Aemond told him that they would soon arrive in Pentos, Viserys has spoken of little else but the Free City.

Laughing, Viserys asks him, “Did you know that Baela and Rhaena and their muña and real-Kepa lived here?”

“I did know that,” confirms Aemond. He had, of course, known where his twin cousins resided prior to their mother’s death. Notwithstanding, had he not known, Viserys has said so no less than a dozen times over the past few days.

Heedlessly, Viserys goes on, “They lived with a magician—”

“A magister,” Aemond corrects.

“No, a magician,” insists Viserys, practically shouting in his ear.  

Shifting so that Viserys rests lower along his side, Aemond educates him, “Magicians do not host guests, Rys. Magicians are impoverished charlatans.”

“I don’ know what that means,” Viserys admits.

“Just as well. I need speak to a charlatan of a different sort, so be silent,” commands Aemond.

Aemond approaches a horse trader, having decided to travel by land from now, rather than chance another jaunt at sea. Beyond the risk, ships sailing to Lorath are few and far between. After near an hour of haggling, he spends half his purse on a brown rounsey, disinclined to settle for a stot and wishing he could afford a palfrey. He names the steed Perzys, which delights Viserys. By midday, they exit the city atop Perzys through the Sunrise Gate, starting along one of the dragon roads toward Norvos.

Along the Valyrian roads, their progress is slower than Aemond would like, though he is satisfied now that he need not answer to anyone. They stop in various hamlets along the way, spending some nights at inns but usually camping out. As they pass through the Velvet Hills, they come upon a deep lake, giant, standing stones, and a grand statue of a Valyrian sphinx.

When they reach Ghoyan Drohe, Aemond is breathless. Never before has he seen a ruin so close. From the many histories he used to read, he knows it to have once been a Rhoynar city. He tries to picture Valaena here, before the city became a smoldering ruin. Her blood is equal parts of Old Valyria and the Rhoynish, after all. He wonders, if she lived here centuries ago, how she would spend her days, whether she would be common—as she both is and is not in Westeros—of how Aenar would fit in with her. The illusion is shattered as he peers south down the Little Rhoyne. He knows it more likely that she descends from Ny Sar, another ruin of old.

A week past Ghoyan Drohe, they make camp along the bank of the Upper Rhoyne. Aemond aims to fall asleep under the stars, though he finds the endeavor difficult with a voluble three-year-old sharing his bedroll.

Viserys, more so interested in his dragon egg than sleeping, rolls it along the pebbled ground. For the third time this night, he softly calls out to Aemond, “Kepa?” Repressing his irritation, Aemond grunts to show he is listening. “Do you have a dragon?”

“I did,” he affirms, his voice a touch wistful. Staring up at the night sky, he locates the Ice Dragon with some difficulty, the constellation farther west than is usual. He recognizes it by its blue eye, pointed north. He long believed Vhagar complimented his own blue eye well, her eyes fiery and orange.

The old queen was past her prime but no less incredible than Sunfyre or Dreamfyre, and certainly superior to Vermax or Arrax. Flying with her was exhilarating; it made him feel as though he could conquer the world. Now, he trudges across Essos on horseback, more likely to be conquered than to conquer. This must be his penance, he thinks, for killing Lucerys. He won Vhagar when Lucerys took out his eye. With him gone, and by Aemond’s own hand, he no longer deserves her.

He is reminded asudden of what Daemon said to him in Sea Dragon Tower, that true retribution for his misdeeds would be a trade, a son for a son. He remembers that terrifying moment in which Daemon held Aenar out by the window, threatening to toss him out. He wonders if his monstrous uncle would have actually slain his son, even now, as Daemon’s own son sits in his care. Viserys lies cushioned along his side, entirely heedless of his thoughts.

Glancing down at Viserys, barely visible underneath the starlight, he thinks of how easy it would be to take revenge against Daemon. The boy is feeble and trusts him completely, but he finds he has no heart for it. He is enough a kinslayer already, and, as much as he loathes the epitaph, he loathes more the rotten feeling it evokes within him. Whenever he thinks of Lucerys, his chest burns, and his stomach turns.

Having stumbled upon Viserys, it has finally occurred to him the full gravity of what he has done. Unlike his half-brother, Viserys has not been robbed of his life. He will mature and marry and become a father, whereas Aemond stole such hope from Lucerys, if even the boy had a chance to contemplate it before Vhagar consumed him. If only he could stumble upon Lucerys, he muses, living as a fisherman somewhere, so he could resurrect him, too.

Viserys, feeling Aemond’s eye on him, glimpses up at him. Aemond more so hears than sees the boy’s accompanying smile. Unbidden, he grins somewhat, too, and reaches down to pet Viserys’s hair.

Wriggling into a more comfortable position, Viserys queries, “Do I look like your baby?”

“A little.” A lot, in truth. Viserys and Aenar both have fair complexions, purple eyes, pale hair, and plump cheeks. Aenar’s eyes and skin are a shade darker than his half-uncle’s, whereas his hair is lighter than that of Viserys, though it may darken to match his over time. It may have darkened already.

“I can’t ’m’member,” Viserys confesses. “But I ’m’member him crying. He was so loud, and I couldn’t sleep!”

“Sorry,” Aemond says, though with little sincerity. He considers the score even, what with Viserys keeping him up at this very moment.

Magnanimous, Viserys supposes, “It’s all right. I miss him.”

Aemond gazes westward once more. “I do, too.”

Three weeks later, they near Norvos, riding past terraced farms and small, walled villages. Aemond views the city’s massive Sinner’s Steps in the distance, and it is another day before they reach them. As Perzys stands at the foot of the Steps, Aemond silently gripes about how long it has taken him to reach Norvos. Had Blackheart gone up the Rhoyne as he had been assured it would, he would have arrived here two moons past.

Then again, he supposes, it would have been only he who arrived in Norvos, not he and Viserys.  

Auspiciously, they come upon Norvos during its annual festival, with bears dancing down the Sinner’s Steps. Swept up in the celebration, Aemond purchases Viserys a wintercake and a cup of nahsa for himself. They lodge in an inn that night, and the next day, Aemond asks around for passage to Lorath. Regrettably, he comes up with naught that he can afford with what funds he has left. Thus, after another night spent in the inn, listening to the city’s bells, they set off again with Perzys.

Working their way through the rolling Hills of Norvos, which seem to get taller the farther they go, proves some difficulty. Eventually, Aemond roots out the beaten path, far easier to travel, though not without trial.

The screaming is what first alerts him to the coming danger. Initially, he thinks some unlucky traveler has had a run-in with a wild animal. The longer he hears the noise, however, the more it makes his skin crawl and his scalp tingle. The screams are human, certainly, but distinctly feral.

Another sound joins the cacophony, that of hooves beating along the ground. Mayhaps, he briefly considers, centaurs are upon them. Supposedly, the half-men, half-horses once lived east of the Dothraki Sea, not too far east from this valley.

The Dothraki, he grasps.

Yanking on Perzys’s reins, he brings them to an abrupt halt. He fights to comport himself, his breath having turned shallow and his heart beating too fast.

He cannot hope to best the Dothraki on horseback, he knows. By the sounds of their screams, they are not many, but they are close, and they know where he is.

Shakily, he dismounts from Perzys’s saddle amid curious questions from Viserys. Aemond shushes the boy, wondering if he has enough time to hide him in the nearby shrubbery. Before he can make up his mind, four mounted warriors climb onto the mountain pass and besiege them.

The men accosting them wield arakhs and whips, both of which Aemond prays they will not put to use. They have long, dark braids littered with little bells, ringing softly as they move. They are draped in untanned leather, from their shoulders to their toes. Beyond their unkempt appearances, Aemond finds that they stink less than he would have thought, though this discovery makes their presence no more welcome.

With one arm raised in surrender, Aemond keeps his head down as the horselords circle them. It pains him to yield so meekly, yet he knows he has no choice but to submit. The Dothraki are notorious for their ruthlessness, and he has no interest in dying some obscure death in an obscure corner of the world.

As one of the horselords takes Perzys’s reins, another leaps down from his steed and approaches Aemond. Viserys, like to be fearful of the scowl on the man’s face, whimpers and hides his own face in Aemond’s shoulder. In an abysmal usance of the Common Tongue, he demands of Aemond, “No move.” Without further ado, he rips Aemond’s saber from its scabbard, taking it for himself. Next, he removes Valaena’s dagger from Aemond’s belt, though without the same regard for it. Rather than keep it for himself or one of his comrades, he tosses it onto the ground, making what seems to be some derisive comment about it in his native language. Amused, the other horselords laugh at Aemond’s plight.

The Dothraki man takes, too, his knapsack, containing near all of their belongings. With great restraint, Aemond holds his tongue as the man rifles through the bag, pilfering their food. Thankfully, he is uninterested in the bedroll, their money—like as the Dothraki consider buying and selling emasculate—and Viserys’s dragon egg.

Upon throwing the knapsack onto the ground, he takes hold of Aemond’s free arm. Rent to the side, the violent motion eliciting a shriek from Viserys, Aemond stifles his umbrage anew as the warrior wrenches his rings from his fingers. He curls his smallest finger as the man slides Valaena’s ring from it, but his efforts hardly slow his adversary.

Before Aemond can mourn his losses, the warrior clips his cheek, just below his missing eye. He delivers a caustic indictment, “You no slave. You defect.”

“Fucking,” Aemond begins to seethe, and the man clips him again.

Reaching for Viserys, the warrior goes on, “Give. She make good bed slave when old.”

Alarm flaring within him, Aemond tries to hold Viserys behind his back. Frantically, he fends off the horselord with one arm. “No, he’s a boy. He’s a boy! Male! Man! Vala!” Desperately, he grasps for any knowledge of the Dothraki language. Lamentably, all he knows are their words for city—vaes—king—khal—and that which they call Westeros. Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals.

Still trying to prize Viserys from him, the Dothraki man shakes his head. “No.” Feeling the warrior’s firm, insistent grip on him, Viserys begins to wail.

Aemond stands firm, reiterating, “He’s a boy! Taoba!” Momentarily, he thinks of grabbing for Valaena’s dagger but refrains. As soon as he incites bloodshed, one of the men still on his horse will slash at him with his arakh and kill him, and they will take Viserys.

Seemingly having tired of grappling with him, the Dothraki man relents somewhat and orders, “Show.”

Left without a favorable alternative once more, Aemond is obliged to pull down Viserys’s trousers and reveal his genitals as he howls and thrashes his limbs. This humiliating tactic proves successful, and the Dothraki become entirely disinterested in what is left of them. The warrior shoves Aemond to the ground, mounts his horse, and rides off with his brethren.

Having landed hard on his back, Aemond sits up with Viserys still pitching an anguished fit in his lap. He takes a steadying breath before doing up Viserys’s trousers, trying to soothe the boy with absentminded apologies. The rest of his mind, he puts to suppressing his frustration at being assailed and robbed like some hapless fool. He should have known better than to travel alone. He should have paid for passage from Norvos with his silver ring. He is deprived of it now regardless, and he has lost their means of transport, too.

Later, when he exits the valley with everything left of his life here piled on his back, he thinks he can still hear the Dothraki warriors laughing at him, their voices echoing against the mountainsides.

The penultimate leg of Aemond’s journey, he makes on foot. He has too little money to buy another horse, not even a stot. He has too little money to purchase a room at the inn, too, on any such night that they come upon one. Everything he has left, he spends on food, with each meal somehow more dismal than the last. Each night, as he lies along the ground with Viserys pillowed on his chest, he grazes his thumb along the space Valaena’s ring once occupied, his mind hundreds of miles away.

Near an entire moon after their run-in with the Dothraki, they arrive at the coast of Lorath Bay.

The day before, Aemond’s purse had run dry. In the evening, with a rumbling stomach, he had despaired of traveling all this way, worried that it had all been for naught. Mayhaps, he had pondered, he should have simply sailed west from Pentos, as he had briefly considered when in the city. He had worried, with Lorath Bay visible in the distance but absent of what he had hoped to find, that he had starved and stranded himself and Viserys without cause.

Rather than surrender all hope with the end so near at hand, he presses on. They come across a marina, where Aemond negotiates passage to Lorath on a fishing dingey in exchange for a day’s work. Famished and fatigued, he toils through the day, checking countless shellfish for egg pouches and hauling nets bursting with putrid cod.

They set out across the Shivering Sea in the late afternoon. The bleak, stony isle on which Lorath sits swims into view after two hours of tottery sailing. Even with the setting sun behind it, the city is gray and seemingly devoid of all life. From Aemond’s vantage point, it stands out against the red sky as a bad omen, and his mood sours near completely. Should his search prove fruitless, he cannot fathom how he will secure their return to Westeros.

His mood only worsens as the fisherman starts up jabbering about his trade all the rest of the way to the city. Aemond nearly nods off from sheer boredom, though he is invigorated when he hears an exhilarated gasp come from Viserys, alongside an exclamation of “Look! A dragon!”

His head snapping to one side, Aemond spots a slender, blue-and-silver dragon on the far side of Lorath, soaring low over the bay’s waters. Dreamfyre appears to float above the sea, the waves rippling underneath her belly. Aemond nearly topples the boat as he hurls himself at the starboard side for a better glimpse of the she-dragon. He hopes to see a rider on her back or a pair of younger dragons near her tail. Neither appears, but he is elated, nonetheless, shouting out his joy with more exuberance than he thinks he has ever produced in his life.

He is so exultant as to offer to aid in paddling the ship to shore, hoping they will reach it faster. Unfortunately, given his adroitness for the water, or lack thereof, his efforts merely serve to slow them.

When, at long last, they make port in Lorath’s meager harbor, the fisherman begins firing off instructions as to how to unload the boat, but Aemond pays him no heed. He bounds onto the pier with his eye pinned to a figure at the end of the docks.

Dressed in a bright, yellow gown, Helaena shines like a beacon of light. Taller than he remembers, Jaehaera stands to her left and Jaehaerys to her right, holding Maelor’s hand. Helaena waves to him, and he breaks out into a sprint. He scoops her up when he reaches her, spinning around with her in his arms. When he sets her down, he keeps his embrace firm, even as she squirms to get away. As his chin digs into her crown, he breathes in her achingly familiar, saccharine scent and relaxes after six long months.

When he finally relents and releases her, she bends down to ask Jaehaera to collect her cousin, pointing toward the dingey in which Viserys still sits. As Jaehaera takes off, skipping her way down the boardwalk, Jaehaerys gloms onto one of Aemond’s legs and greets him with a broad grin. “Uncle Aemond, you’re dirty and you smell bad!”

Still radiating ebullience, Aemond grins, too, as the insult sails past his ears. Helaena draws his attention back to her, her hands smoothing along either side of his face. She smiles serenely and says, “Well, it took you long enough.”

Again, his good mood does not suffer in the least, and he emits a loud bark of laughter. He will have plenty of time later, he reasons, to spout his displeasure at her, to chastise her for scaring them all half to death and demand her reasons for doing so.

Amusement curling her grin, too, she inquires, “How did you know where to find us?”

Gesturing at their surroundings, he proclaims, “Lorath, the queerest of the Free Cities! Where else would you go?”

At this, she laughs, too. He is so overcome with relief and pleasure as to hug her again, and then each of the children. Like her mother, Jaehaera wriggles from his hold, leaving him with Viserys once more. Hefting the boy and his egg into his arms, he turns back to his sister. She fits her arm into the crook of his free elbow, and they start off into the city. The rest of the children lead the way, capering through the streets and squealing with laughter. Piercing shrieks sound from above, too. Aemond cranes his neck to view Shrykos and Morghul frolicking in the sky, the siblings never straying too far from one another.

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

At dawn, the moon turns the sky red, bathing the lands of white and gray in blood. Three amethyst eyes look out across the hills as a storm gathers. Wind and lightning lash at the landscape, scourging the sand to reveal great, cavernous paths. As night settles over the land, one traveler takes to the trail set out for him, whilst the other forges ahead in the sky.

Across the sea, four lilac eyes close forever. Valaena towers over two of them, having gouged them out herself. On Dragonstone’s shore, two sets of legs lie still as she stands on their toes. When the sky clears, the tide swallows one of them, and the other burns.

Valaena blinks up at the ceiling as her mind clears. Another night has passed, leaving with it another strange dream. For weeks, she has dreamt of purple eyes and stormy, bloody skies. She has dreamt of Essos, with its sandy plains and rolling hills, recognizing it despite having never ventured so far east. She thinks she dreams of Aemond sometimes, but she can never recall seeing him once she wakes. On some nights, she is sure she dreams of a girl with three dragons. The girl looks much like a dragon herself, with moon-white hair and violet eyes. The girl reminds Valaena of a storm, much like the one that brought Aenar to her.

This past night is strange for the dream it brought her. Usually, she wakes as soon as the girl sets out across the sky, perched on the back of a black dragon. This night, her dream concluded in Westeros, rather than Essos. Distinctly, she recalls a vision of Dragonstone, and it pulls at her like the tide. It is nearing a moon now since she left the isle, and she longs to make her return.

Sequestered in Winterfell, Valaena thinks she should be angry. She waits for resentment to build within her for her mother, her step-father, her eldest brother, her new husband, but any piece of it that does soon wilts for the winter. All she feels is a bleak melancholy, set deep in her bones.

That, and the early stirrings of the babe within her belly. The child speaks to her in light whispers of touch, too young yet to respond to her own caresses. Some days, this connection is all that preserves her, while on others, it drives her further into despair. The child is her last link to Aemond, alongside its brother, and she deplores that it will never meet him.

Languishing in bed, Valaena bemoans her life as it is now. For the first time in her existence, she feels directionless, unsure of how to conduct herself. So much as she might have once claimed that she did not belong to Aemond, she sees this now for a falsehood. They married too young for her to be wholly her own, and the same was true of him. Thrown together, they were cast in the same mold, taking on each other’s mannerisms and tastes. Without him, she wonders which thoughts and impulses are purely her own, and which to follow.

In the absence of surety, she has settled on doing only as others expect of her. Always, she has lived at the mercy of others—her grandsires, Otto, Alicent, her mother. It has long chafed at her, but no longer does she see cause to fight against it. It is simpler to be the sort of princess for whom none worry, one that does as she is told and naught else.

After the Sun has climbed over the horizon, Valaena goes through the motions of readying herself for another day in Winterfell. When Lily helps her dress, she smiles at all the appropriate junctures of the maidservant’s stories. When Lily asks whether she prefers black or red for her gown, she answers red. When Baela summons her for breakfast, she goes, even as her bed calls for her return.

Daeron accompanies her to the Guest House, taking the seat beside her when they reach the dining room Baela has reserved for them. When Baela arrives, she does so in a huff, plopping down opposite to Valaena.

With a contrived cheerfulness, Valaena says, “Good morrow.” Looking down at her plate, she laments the absence of fish there. Ever since she arrived, she has been craving anchovies. Unfortunately, Cregan tells her that all of the fishing spots north of White Harbor have dried up for the winter.

Grumpily, Baela spoons some sugar into her tea and then lets the utensil fall with a clunk. “You shall never believe what Jace did last night.”

Happy to focus on someone else’s worries, Valaena beckons for her to spill her—or rather, Jacaerys’s—guts. Without further ado, Baela divulges, “He asked me to marry him before the heart tree.”

Her brow raising, Valaena sips from her own, unsweetened tea. “Did he?”

“Yes,” confirms Baela, manifestly irate.

“And did you,” Valaena asks.

Baela throws out her arms. “No!” Slumping back in her seat, she blusters, “Only now, he accedes to marry me!”

Before Valaena can throw some water on Baela’s flames, Daeron fans them. “Always, he has had such gall.”

Baela purses her lips, supposing, “He has, hasn’t he?”

Unfond of the turn the conversation has taken, Valaena interjects, “Daeron, you are not being helpful.” 

Frowning, he responds, “Who sayeth I mean to be helpful?”

“You only defend him because he is your favorite,” Baela accuses her. Jumping on the charge, Daeron nods vigorously at her.

Unconsciously, Valaena glimpses to the left, as she has done amid a thousand other conversations to share a glance or take a cue. Her gaze drops to the floor when she sees that there is no longer anyone there to answer her stare.

Halfheartedly, she prolongs the spat. “Jace is not my favorite.” 

“Yes, he is,” Baela and Daeron say in unison.

Singly, Baela crosses her arms and queries, “Why else would you have your special lunches with him every day?”

Valaena sighs. “Because he feels left out—”

Baela’s hand smacks the table, halting Valaena’s tongue. “Because there is an embargo, to which you agreed.” 

“I did,” acknowledges Valaena, “but it’s gone on too long. He knows he’s done wrong. He apologized—” 

“So, all is forgiven,” Baela remonstrates, nearly at her wit’s end.

Receding somewhat, Valaena makes clear, “I did not say you need forgive him, but bear in mind, you still need marry him.”

Her wit’s end met, Baela switches tack. “What if Aemond had kissed another, hmm? Would all have been forgiven?”

Valaena feels as her face collapses into a glower, displeased is she to have her late husband invoked. Beside her, Daeron shifts uncomfortably. “If Aemond had done such a thing, he would have done so as my husband, not my betrothed, and even so, I would not have forbidden his sister from dining with him.” 

Valaena imagines steam coming from Baela’s nostrils as she blows out an angry breath, glaring daggers at Valaena all the while.

With a sigh, Valaena switches tack herself. “Baela, of course, you are right in this—”

Taking up her spoon once more, Baela declares, “Thank you. Let that be all that is said.” 

Simultaneously satisfied and displeased by this outcome, Valaena relents and finishes her meal.

For the remainder of the morning, Valaena meanders about the castle, listless. The castellan manages to corner her an hour into her stroll. He confers with her on Winterfell’s food stock and the myriad of guests’ needs—all those things which concern the lady of the house. As noon approaches, she is enlivened by the prospect of spending time with her son. At this time of day, she can wake him from his nap and play with him for an hour or so before he need eat.

In the nursery, she finds Aenar awake already, sat on the floor with Rickon running circles around him. Each boy holds a small, wooden sword, Aenar’s clenched in his little fist. He waves the toy sporadically, and, whenever he does, Rickon dashes forward to tap it with his own.

Spying her in the doorway, Aenar drops his weapon and crawls across the floor to her. Put out by his playmate’s inattention, Rickon picks up Aenar’s sword and reproves, “’Enar, don’ put your sword down. In a real battle—” Spying Valaena, too, he gasps, drops both swords, and bypasses Aenar as he rushes toward her. 

“Hello, Mother!” Valaena emits a surprised grunt as Rickon embraces her legs, his hands high on her thighs. “Me an’ ’Enar are playing!”

“Yes, I see that.” As Aenar finally reaches her feet, he stands, too, clinging to her skirts for stability.

Aenar tries to articulate something to her, as well, waving his arm at Rickon and saying, “Icky,” as he has taken to calling his new step-brother, not quite able to pronounce his name. Silently, she affirms him, too, bending to comb a finger through his hair.

His hands pulling on her skirts, almost as though he means to climb them, Rickon continues, “I’m the big brother, so ’Enar has to play wi’ me.”

“Does he,” she questions. Sagely, Rickon nods.

Unconsciously, she drops one of her hands to caress the swell of her belly. His eyes catching on the gesture, Rickon’s excitement heightens. Hopping in place, he adds, “An’ the new baby, too. An’ when you an’ Father have more babies, they all have to do what I say because I’m the olderest!”

Trying to mask her discomfort, she defers, “Well, I don’t think that your father and I will be giving you any new siblings for at least two years.” 

Outraged, Rickon stamps his foot. “Two years!” 

Valaena, amused by the behavior of the only son of a lord, explicates, “I must need deliver this child first, and I shall require another year to cook up a new one.” 

Blanching, he clutches his hands to his chest. “You’re gonna cook the baby?” 

Briefly, she thinks of remarking about infants tasting good over a bed of rice. “No. I am merely teasing you.” Hoping to distract him, she asks, “What game are we playing?”

Handing her one of the toy swords, Rickon teaches her the game he had been playing with Aenar. It consists mostly of crossing their weapons as he expounds on an ever-changing battlefield. At one point, she permits him to slide his wooden blade between her arm and her torso, and she falls to the ground, feigning death.

With one eye open, Valaena watches as Rickon glories in his victory. Flaunting his sword overhead, he declares, “I defea’ed the queen! An’ now, ’Enar is king.” Turning to Aenar, who sits on Rickon’s cot, he bows at the waist. “King ’Enar.” 

Low chuckling sounds on the far side of the room, alerting both Valaena and Rickon. They look toward the doorway to find Cregan leaning there and watching the play with a wide grin. Abashed, Valaena gets her feet underneath her.

As much as possible, Valaena avoids her new husband. He is usually busy in the day, and it is only on occasion that he requests her presence at supper. The previous evening, he spoke for an hour about his late wife whilst Valaena silently ate her food and pondered whether she should feel offended. As she later laid in bed, she decided she was only envious for the fact that he and Arra had been friends before they married, allowing him the great privilege of a honeymoon period, something she would never experience.

Here and now, Rickon dashes toward Cregan, who hefts him into his arms. The little boy exclaims, “Father! I was playing wi’ Mother an’ ’Enar, an’ I defea’ed her, but not really, so now, ’Enar is king, an’ I’m lord Win’erfell, an’ um,” he trails off, grasping at the furry fringe of his father’s coat.

Making up for the shortfall in the conversation, Cregan remarks, “That’s great.” Pivoting his attention to Valaena, he greets her, “My lady,” takes her hand, and kisses it. Valaena forces a smile. Turning back to his son, he informs him, “Maester Kennet sent me for you. He requires your assistance in feeding the ravens.” 

Eager, Rickon shoves at his father’s shoulder in a silent plea to be let down. As soon as his feet touch the floor, he dashes from the room, only to return seconds later. He runs up to Aenar, patting his head and saying, “G’bye, ’Enar! I love you.” He hugs Valaena’s legs again. “G’bye, Mother! I love you.” Before she can respond, he runs off again.

Delicately, she clarifies, “I did not instruct him to call me that.” 

Cregan’s grin has not diminished in the least. “I know. I tried to explain the concept of step-mothers to him, and I believe he understands, but.” Trailing off, he shrugs. “I am fortunate that you and he have taken to each other so swiftly.”

“Of course. He’s precious.” Thus far, the only thing she appreciates about being Lady Stark is that she is Rickon Stark’s step-mother.

He inhales a deep breath, and his eyes darken, and her own breath stutters. Clearly swept up, he takes an abrupt step forward, his hands going to her waist. He leans forward, but she is just as quick as he, pushing against his chest and stepping out of his hold.

Just as abruptly, he steps back, clearing his throat. Feeling flustered, Valaena hears herself speak, “I apologize.”

He waves her off. “No, please. Nothing need happen between us for some time.” Briefly, his gaze dips to her thickening middle.

She turns her own gaze away, averting it from the lingering awkwardness. Doing so, she spies Aenar attempting to climb down from Rickon’s cot, so she rushes over to help him down. He abides her assistance with some impatience, fidgeting as she sets him on the floor. As he gets his footing, her eyes scour his form, taller every day. She thinks of his first nameday, having come and gone a few days past. This prompts another thought, and she turns back to Cregan. “May I ask, do you mind terribly?”

“Do I mind,” he inquires, not sure what she means.

“That I am expecting a child with my,” she forces out the word, “late husband? Much has been delayed for it.” 

He is quiet for a moment. Finally, he says, “I think if I had the chance to have another child with my Arra, I would take it.” 

Overcome, she returns to his side and takes his hands into her grasp. She is glad, she thinks, to have someone who understands what it is like to be widowed so young. “Thank you,” she utters, her voice rasping. She takes a moment to settle herself and appends, “And know that, though I do intend to act as Rickon’s mother in every way I can, I shall do everything to see that he appreciates his true mother as he grows.” 

Just as gruff as she, he returns, “Thank you. I shall do the same for Prince Aenar and this next one.” 

She is distracted from Cregan as Aenar waddles past them on quick feet, careening through the door and into the hall. She sighs as she observes this, her hands going to her temples. Conspiratorially, Cregan remarks, “Yes, it’s very distressing when they learn to walk.”

Sparing him a brief smile, she follows after her son. Out in the hall, she hears Daeron rumble, “Where are you going,” and Aenar shriek with laughter.

In the early afternoon, she lunches with her brother. What with Baela—and Daeron, of course—ignoring him, this is their daily custom. With each passing day, Jacaerys turns gloomier. Oddly enough, she notes a lift in his spirits this day, whereas she feels at her lowest since their arrival in Winterfell. He seems to sense this, asking after her friendship with her new husband.

“I don’t know. He is perfectly amiable, but,” she trails off, reticent to admit her displeasure. Several weeks into this marriage, she had hoped she would feel more content at this juncture, but alas.

Jacaerys prompts her. “But?”

She sighs, relenting. “But all is too fresh. I wish to don a black veil, but this is too morbid for a new bride.” Carefully, her brother nods, conveying little else but understanding. This non-response irks her. “I simply cannot understand why. It was too early. Why could we not have waited, at least until the babe was born—”

“Mother knew not you were with a trueborn child,” he interjects.

“Yes, very well, but the mourning period is a year. Why need I have married again so soon?” He gives no answer, so she impels, “Did she not say anything to you?”

Apologetic, he shakes his head. “She has been withholding of late.” Something in his expression shifts, and he drops his head into his hands. He confesses, “I should have been more abreast of the goings-on.”

Remorseful, she reaches out to peel one of his hands from his face. She had not meant to place any of the blame on him. “No—”

Squeezing her hand, he insists, “I need be more in the thick of things. I have spoken to Cregan, and I intend to march south with his army when Her Grace summons him.”

Scanning his face, Valaena finds a note of self-possession there, one that she has not seen since they lost Viserys in the Gullet. She nods approvingly, glad for him to have found the conviction that seems to have abandoned her. “Good.”

He returns to his meal. “And as soon as I have made my return to King’s Landing, I intend to deal with that riverwoman once and for all.” 

Confused, she is diverted from taking up her own spoon once more. “Riverwoman?”

“Did I not tell you,” he wonders. She shakes her head. “This woman from Harrenhal. She arrived a moon past like an omen. Odd happenings accompanied her, and I tried to keep her from Mother, but—”

Apprehension spreads within Valaena’s breast. “Do you speak of Alys Rivers?”

“So, I did tell you,” he surmises.

As she stares down at the steaming surface of her soup, it finally occurs to her why Rhaenyra and her choices have been so erratic of late. She realizes why her mother would marry her off again despite her fervent protests. She also suspects she now knows why she stopped receiving word from her proxy on the small council in the weeks before Rhaenyra summoned her to King’s Landing.

Her mother is beset by a spell, cast by the alleged bastard daughter of Lyonel Strong.

Her agitation growing insurmountably, she rises from her seat. She vents, “By the gods, Jace, you didn’t tell me! I met her at Harrenhal. She’s a witch!” 

Unmoved, he frowns at her. “A witch, Valaena, really?”

In no mood to debate him on Westerosi magic, as they often did in their youth, she chastises, “Jace, we ride dragons. Witches exist!” Hardly convinced, he shakes his head.

Turning away from her brother’s skepticism, she worries her fingers as she ponders what need be done. Undoubtedly, Alys Rivers need be dispatched, and with haste. A fire having been lit beneath her, Valaena has half the mind to fly for King’s Landing at once so that she may confront the wicked woman, but she knows she cannot leave Aenar in Winterfell.

Impulsively, she hollers, “Daeron!” Her shout startles Jacaerys, who fumbles his spoon. Stepping into the room, Daeron peers questioningly at her. “Fetch Aenar. We return to Dragonstone forthwith.” Despite her mother’s wishes that she remain in Winterfell, she knows she must return to King’s Landing to liberate Rhaenyra and indeed the realm. She will drop in on Dragonstone, settle her son there, and leave for King’s Landing at first light.

His brow raised, Daeron stays put. Meanwhile, Jacaerys moves to stand, too. “What? Valaena, you overreact.”

“I think not.” Pointing to Daeron, she beckons for him to get moving. Not seeing fit to argue with her, too, he goes. Satisfied, she turns back to Jacaerys and explains, “I need speak with Mother at once.” It occurs to her now that she left King’s Landing without raising a single concern about the taxes on the merchant class or the rations for the smallfolk, too consumed had she been with her mother’s accusations and her own impending, second marriage.

That’s why Mother thought ’twas Daemon who sired this child, she realizes, her hand dropping to her belly. The witch must have dripped such poison into her ears.

Her brother continues to pester her as to her hasty plans, and when he rebuffs her offer for him to join her, she leaves him behind. Setting out for her apartment, she bids Lily package her necessaries. Leaving her to the task, she drags her feet down the corridor, knowing but resenting that she need inform her lord and husband that she intends to leave him.

Blessedly, she finds Cregan alone in his study. He sits behind his desk, writing correspondence. Upon sighting her, he stands and hails, “My lady. How fortunate I am to encounter you twice so early in the day.”

Valaena, deciding she would rather take the plunge than tread water, tells him, “I need convene with my mother in King’s Landing, and I will return thereafter to Dragonstone, where I intend to remain until this child is born. I depart this day.”

Predictably, he is baffled. “What? You’re leaving?”

“Yes,” she replies shortly.

At once, he is decidedly displeased. “You cannot.”

Brow raised, she squawks, “I cannot?”

Reversing somewhat, he explicates, “I am to travel south soon, whensoever Her Grace your mother commands it. You must remain here to rule in my stead. Winterfell must be ruled by a Stark.”

Equal parts mystified and displeased in being called a Stark, she raises, “You have been planning this excursion for months, yet you only knew you would have a wife on whom to rely a few weeks past. Who did you mean to appoint in your absence before we were betrothed?”

“Rickon,” he answers.

Incredulous, she need stifle a laugh. “Rickon is a child!”

Exhaling heavily, he permits his annoyance to show. “I meant to appoint a regent, too.”

“Then appoint a regent,” she recommends, crossing her arms. “Like Winterfell, Dragonstone deserves its appropriate ruler.” As with Cregan’s mulishness, a thick tension persists, stifling the room. She sighs. “Hark. I realize this is a contentious alliance—”

“It is not,” he contests at once.

“It is,” she contends. “You are Warden of the North. I am Princess of Dragonstone, and, one day, I shall be queen. We each have our realms which require our full attention. An alliance so close as marriage will surely be taut when stretched between us.” With somewhat less conviction, Cregan glances away, though he is still stubborn enough as to not speak his agreement. Valaena pounces on what little weakness she can sense. “Despite this, I do not mean for you to be disadvantaged in your role as my husband. I do not wish for you to feel neglected. You may take what liberties you deem fit. You may take a mistress, if you like, so long as you never bring her to Dragonstone or King’s Landing.”

At this, his frosty gaze hardens into ice. Biting off a sigh, she realizes that she miscalculated. Coming around his desk, he tells her, “I have no intention of breaking my vows. Do you?”

Forcing herself to not take offense, she takes a deep, slow breath. “I do not. I simply understand that men have certain needs.” 

Caustically, he assures her, “I believe I can restrain myself.”

Unfond of this road upon which they have embarked, she endeavors to alleviate the strain between them through another avenue. Cordially, she ventures, “Then you are a queer breed of lord, my friend.” 

“I am not your friend.” He grips her hand, unsteadying her. Seeing this, he lessens his smolder and, keeping their eyes locked, bends to kiss her hand. With that done, he moves back to his chair and takes up his quill again. Raising it, he cedes, “Go back to Dragonstone. You have my blessing.”

Lips pursing, Valaena supposes she should take what victories she can get, but something stops her at the door. “I did not ask your blessing.” Peering up from his desk, he raises an eyebrow at her. “So that we understand one another.” Having said her piece, she ducks out before he can issue any rejoinder.

Moving back down the hall, she catches sight of the nursery, its door ajar. Drawn to it, she thinks to have it as her last stop on her way out. She means to explain to Rickon that she and Aenar need go to Dragonstone, that they would see him again in a few months, and that he would have yet another sibling from her when they did. Peeking through the doorway, she finds him asleep, his blissful, puerile face turned towards her. She holds her breath, knowing better than to wake him merely to upset him, and that his father will explain her absence to him. Keeping her steps quiet, she turns her back on the little room.

Without any further delay, she collects her things from Lily, dons her leathers, and heads out to meet Veraxes. The cold air strikes her as soon as she steps from the Great Keep, but the chill does naught to dissuade her. Rather, it enlivens her. She feels self-assured and almost sanguine, as she has not in weeks.

As she nears her dragon, who rumbles at the sight of her, she notes that Silverwing lurks nearby, as well. Soon thereafter, she notes Baela, too. The younger woman trudges through the snow to reach her side. Shielding her eyes against the pale sky, the pale ground, and Baela’s pale dragon, she wonders, “Are you joining us?”

Baela plants her boots in the ground and crosses her arms. “I cannot bear to remain here any longer, with Jace or Sara Snow.” She wrinkles her nose. When Silverwing wails, her neck craned toward her rider, Baela adds, “And much as with her time with Queen Alysanne, Silverwing cannot brook the snow and ice for long.” Valaena nods. Veraxes, too, has been antsy ever since they arrived in Winterfell.

Wading over to them, Daeron pokes at Baela, “Are you certain? You may miss your chance to marry Jace under the heart tree.”

Her eyes lighting on him, she remarks, “Do you know, Daeron, now that I’ve come to know you, I’ve learnt you’re not clever.”

He feigns laughter, though it turns genuine when Aenar joins him in it, and Baela chimes in with a snort. Turning, she makes for Silverwing, whilst Daeron hands Aenar off to Valaena. Taking the furry bundle in Daeron’s arms into her own, Valaena settles her cheery child against her breast.

Arranging her wrap around him, she coos, “Hi, rus. Are you happy? Are you excited?” Kissing his head, she thinks, Not for long. She recalls how much he had fussed during their journey to Winterfell. She imagines he shall not fare well on the journey home either, but she cannot bear to leave him at so great a distance.

Aenar babbles some answer at her as Daeron ties the wrap at her back, thereupon handing off to her the provisions he received from the wet nurse. As she starts toward Veraxes, he follows, asking, “Should we not wait for some send-off party?”

Valaena does not break step. “No. I, too, have tired of the snow and ice.”

The trip to Dragonstone lasts two days, requiring only one stop in Strongsong. Their passage south is far more leisurely than had been their trek north, with Aenar dozing most of the way. Mournfully, Valaena ponders that it must have been she who caused him such agitation on their way to Winterfell, having been so agitated herself.

Upon their arrival at Dragonstone late in the evening, they retire at once. After laying Aenar down to sleep, she dresses for bed. Aster helps her to comb through the mess her hair has become after two days of flying. As she does, she engages her in idle gossip. “So,” Aster entreats, “is he very handsome?”

Grinning with somewhat more girlishness than she feels, she confirms, “He is.” As she parts Valaena’s hair down the middle, Aster squeals, inciting Valaena to a round of laughter. Suddenly feeling far more talkative, she adds, “I find I far more prefer the company of his son as now, however. A boy of two.”

Looking at her through the mirror, Aster pouts. “Oh, that’s how old Jon will be now,” she remarks, speaking of her own son. She smiles, but with no less melancholy.

Not for the first time, Valaena insists, “Aster, you simply must make your return to him. It is not as though either of us need remain here any longer.” For months, she has said as much, ever since Jacaerys and Aegon made their way to King’s Landing.

Aster stands firm. “I swore to you that I would remain at your side until the war had its end, and we could return together.”

“And so we can,” contends Valaena. “I have before ventured to King’s Landing. It is well safe now. And I return again tomorrow.” Gripping by a sudden thought, she turns in her seat to gaze at Aster directly. “You will come with me.”

Eyes wide, Aster tries to curtail her own excitement at the prospect. “But you and Lady Baela are to travel on dragonback.”

“So we are, and you can, too. I am sure she’ll not mind sharing her saddle.” Though all may prefer that Aster ride with her, she could not oblige Daeron to fly with Silverwing, and three adults is too many for Veraxes to carry. “And upon our arrival, you shall take a lengthy furlough. I’ll not hear a word of argument.”

Squealing again, Aster conveys her agreement and appreciation in a hug, squeezing around Valaena’s shoulders. Valaena returns her embrace, though she does not quite feel the same measure of exuberance. Though she understands that it is a great honor for anyone, let alone one of the smallfolk, to be invited to ride a dragon, she cannot quite find it within herself to make a fuss of it. After all, there is much else on her mind.

After Aster has gone, Valaena has a light meal brought to her rooms and nibbles at it as she contemplates howsoever she will oust Alys Rivers and set her mother to right. She paces as she thinks, and on her fourth circuit around the room, she works on unravelling hers and Aemond’s handfasting cloth from her wrist. For weeks, she has worn it underneath her sleeves, on every day but that of her wedding to Cregan. She is in the midst of draping it over her maiden’s cloak when the door bangs open, startling her.  

Her heartbeat slows again when she sees that it is Daeron who intrudes upon her solace, and she steps down from her mattress to slip on her robe and greet him. She scarcely has it over her shoulders by the time that he is before her, gripping them tightly. Unsettled by his unrest, she queries, “Whatever is the matter?”

Frazzled, he pulls back and runs a hand through his hair. “I, ah, I was asked down to a tavern. I said no, but they said I needed come with them. They said my brother was asking for me, and I thought they meant Aemond, and I went, and—”

Valaena is horribly confused, her consternation growing with each word from him. She sets her hands on his shoulders, hoping to steady him. “Dae, what are you talking about?”

Gasping, he swallows around his nerves. “It was Aegon. Aegon was in the tavern, in the back. He has been here, on Dragonstone, for months.”

Feeling herself grow ashen, she breathes, “What? You saw him?”

Jerkily, he nods. Her head ducking, dread and shock wash over Valaena. She wonders how it is that Aegon has been hiding out here, and she has not known it. She wonders what it is he is planning.

Haltingly, Daeron expounds further, “They’ve been hiding him, these men—they’re cousins. I know not how he arrived here—”

“What does he mean to accomplish,” she interjects, practicality winning out against horror. “Wherefore is he here? Wherefore did he summon you? Why now?”

“His wish is to take the castle—the whole isle,” Daeron tells her. “We left and stayed away for weeks. He thought he had time to prepare, but we returned, and he summoned me, and he asked for my aid—demanded it, really—”

“What did you tell him,” she asks, incisive.

He raises a finger and his brow. “I told him I would think on it.”

Clenching her eyes shut, Valaena thinks of how foolish Daeron was to have not said yes, whatever his intentions. Her mind turns next to Aegon, and she ponders how she would react was she him. Urgently, she squeezes down on Daeron’s shoulders. “Did you come straight to me after you left the conclave?”

As though to put her mind at ease, he exclaims, “Of course, yes!”

Stepping back from him, she slides her hands over her face. “Daeron,” she groans. “They know you are warning me. The attack will be underway.”

He frowns. “What? No.” Treading over to her window, he pushes against the glass and gazes past it. Distantly, she can hear shouting and stomping. After a moment, he dips his head and turns back toward her. Chagrined, he affirms, “The attack is underway.”

“Fuck!” Frantically, she looks around for her shoes. “Fuck. Fuck. We need reach Aenar. We need reach Baela. We need reach our dragons.”

Queerly, she and Daeron seem to have exchanged temperaments. Composed whereas before he was harried, he says, “All right, just calm yourself.”

Harried, she returns, “Calm myself?”

“Yes. One should never ride into battle without one’s head on one’s shoulders,” he propounds.

In a deadpan, she informs him, “I have before ridden into battle.”

Ushering her toward her apartment’s egress, he says, “Good. Then you’ll not be caught unawares.”

She takes up Aemond’s sword, left by the door nearly four moons past. “I certainly won’t.”

Daeron leads the way into the hall, cautiously stalking to the nearest corner and beckoning her after him as soon as he confirms the coast is clear. In that same manner, they creep down corridor, steadily making their way to the nursery. Upon entering, Valaena makes for Aenar’s cradle, though she is brought up short by a man with worn leather armor and dirty blond hair. He stands beside a terrified nursemaid, clutching Aenar to her chest. Caught unawares, Valaena and Daeron halt their advance.

Coolly, the man greets them. “Good evening, Prince Daeron.” His eyes slide to Valaena, and he adds, “Milady.”

“Who are you,” demands Valaena. Terribly disturbed, she feels just as ill at ease and vulnerable as she did when she made the acquaintance of Alys Rivers. Why, she wonders, is she always in her nightclothes when she meets such foes?

“I am Ser Marston Waters,” he informs her.

Very skeptical of Marston’s knighthood, she questions further, “Wherefore are you in my son’s nursery?”

He replies, “His Grace the King Aegon has instructed me to safeguard his nephew until such a time as he can mind him himself.”

Valaena stiffens, troubled by the thought of Aegon with Aenar. Hoping to avoid such a fate for her son, she tries a tactful approach. “Why don’t you let me sit with him, and you may hand us over to Aegon together?” Anxious, the nursemaid shuffles forward, her laden arms extended. Valaena edges closer herself, trusting that once she has Aenar in hand, Daeron will distract Marston and permit them to slip out.

Marston grips his sword and pulls it a few inches from its sheath, startling the wet nurse and halting Valaena afresh. Daeron brandishes his own weapon, but he holds any advance. Marston’s voice darkens, “His Grace also instructed me to not accept a word you say.”

Valaena feels her temper flare, though she suppresses it lest it burn her son. Beyond the open window, she sees the distant flicker of flames. She hears clanging metal and raised voices, and she knows she need act now to have a chance at protecting her seat. She knows she need leave this room, even as her every maternal instinct howls at her to stay.

Inching back toward the open door, she orders Daeron, “Stay with Aenar.”

Daeron, wanting neither to remove his gaze from Marston nor let her go, takes a half-step back with her. Blindly, he reaches out to grab her arm. “No. I cannot let you go without me. I am sworn to protect you.”

“You are sworn to protect my heir also,” she reminds him. “Stay with him.” As she turns to leave, she casts back one last glance at Aenar. He gapes back at her with wide, guileless eyes, and she departs even as her heart tears at her.

As she makes her way through the castle, Valaena throws caution to the wind, forsaking the careful means of escape she took with Daeron earlier. She hurries down stairwells and through empty rooms, taking the most direct route to the Stone Drum. As she passes Baela’s rooms, she finds them vacant, and she prays her sister has already found her way to safety.

Upon reaching the Stone Drum, she hopes to escape through a secret passageway that leads out to the Dragonmont, but she only makes it halfway there. She is waylaid by three strange men. On the other end of one hall, they spot her, point and shout, and give chase. She takes off in the other direction, though she quickly grows short of breath, difficult as it is to run when with child. When the men come to be too close, she screams for help, shucks the sheath from Aemond’s sword, and swings it at them in a wide arc. She manages to keep them at bay until one of them is bold enough to swat at her wrist with his own weapon. She moans as she drops the sword, and another of the men kicks it away.

Yet another of the men, the youngest of the group—a boy, really—wonders aloud, “Is she pregnant?”

With a hard scowl, the man who struck her tells him, “Don’t matter. We’re not meant to skewer her.” He levels his blade at her. “You don’t move, Princess.”

Holding up her hands in surrender, she means to reason with them. “My good men, let me exhort you—Oh, gods!”

She is diverted by a blade, peaking through the man’s belly. The other man loses his head, and the boy drops his sword, surrendering as she has. As the man before her slumps to the floor, coughing up his blood and trying to drag himself away from his assailant, Baela stands over him, her sword wet. Valaena’s own men stand at her back, attending to the remaining invaders. Immensely relieved, Valaena throws herself at Baela, grasping her in a tight embrace and whispering praises to her and the gods.

Holding her back at arm’s length, Baela inquires, “Are you all right?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“Where is Daeron,” Baela wonders next.

“He is with Aenar,” she answers, inciting a displeased look from her cousin. “There was a man in the nursery,” she explains, seeking to justify her decision to run off without her sworn shield.

A fresh layer of concern painting her face, Baela says, “We must get to our dragons.” She urges Valaena on, ordering their men after them. As they go, Valaena bends to take up Aemond’s sword again. In the company of skilled allies once more, she feels less trepidation as she makes through the halls this time, but the thrum in her veins keeps the same beat, keeping her alert for whatever battle is to come. She simply prays she reaches Veraxes before it starts.

When at last they make it outside, having had to forgo the path to the Dragonmont and take to the main hall and its egress instead, she worries that it is too late. Already, Sunfyre flies above the isle, shrieking and spitting fire as he circles the castle. Before them, there is a melee in the courtyard, with men of unseen green and black banners slashing at one another. The greatest skirmish gathers in a crowd, with little offshoots replete with just as much bloodshed. Baela grabs her hand, like to pull her around the mass, though they are forestalled as it spreads, Sunfyre dipping low and burning a line of fire through it.

The afflicted men howl in anguish, many throwing down their weapons and their lives. The din and confusion grow, and Valaena sees this as their chance. While all others run from the blaze, Valaena knows her and her sister brash enough to walk through the fire. Looking to her, she squeezes her hand, and they run forward together.

They need vault over many a fallen man once they reach the thick of the carnage, careful to trip over neither blood nor flailing limb. They move quickly through the fire lest it bite them, and on its other side, Valaena need only pat out a small flare along one side of her robe. Having briefly dropped Baela’s hand, she rests her weight on Aemond’s sword, set against the ground, though it slips when a man is cut down directly before her. His own weight hits the ground hard, causing her to flinch and lose her bearings. Peering up at his killer, she loses it anew, faced with a man she had dared not hope to meet again, her father.

Chapter Text

135 A.C.

Sat on Dragonstone’s throne, Aegon cannot hide his grin as Valaena and Baela are dragged into the Great Hall. Both are fettered wrist and ankle, Baela’s chain singing as she thrashes wildly. Valaena is impassive as Criston leads her to the foot of the throne, her steps careful. Both girls are bloody and singed, the soot on Valaena’s face streaked through with tears.

As the girls are brought to a stop, their guards leave them but do not stray far, lest either doxy rush him. Stood to the right of the throne, Marston Waters calls, “All hail King Aegon! Aegon the Dragonheart, Second of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Baela spits as high as she can, though this does nothing to diminish Aegon’s joy. He spreads out his arms in greeting. “My dear cousins, how glad I am to see you both again.” His eyes fasten to Valaena, who is rounder than he remembers. “Valaena, you’ve gotten fat.”

Inflamed, Baela answers for her, “Fuck you.”

Ignoring her, he points to Valaena’s rotund belly, pronounced by her flimsy, blood-soaked nightgown. “Do you know, it is treason for you to have stepped outside of your marriage to mine brother. And now, you’ve married again, Lady Stark. It will be a wonder that you are not remembered as the second whore of Dragonstone.”

Whereas Valaena had scowled somewhat when called Stark, this latter appellation fails to make its mark. “Call me what you like,” she dispassionately replies. “So long as you admit the order of things.” 

At the implication that she is Princess of Dragonstone, a title which he feels should not exist, he smarts. Grasping Blackfyre’s hilt, leant against the side of the throne, he poses, “Is it not a man who should sit this throne? Any throne? Is that not the order of things?”

She raises her chin. “Her Grace my mother has created a new order.” 

“As you say, Niece,” he allows, smiling pleasantly, though his grip on Blackfyre tightens. Pivoting, he announces, “Now, enough fanfare,” and nods to Marston.

Marston steps away from Daeron, who he has minded till now. Idly, Aegon eyes his youngest and only remaining brother, not quite sure what to make of him. This night, Daeron has not been nearly so obliging as Aegon would expect. Notwithstanding, he stops short of interfering with Aegon’s plans, staying put when left alone.

Moving to stand behind Valaena and Baela, Marston places a hand on either girl’s shoulder. He orders, “Kneel and swear obeisance before the king.”

Valaena declines, shrugging off Marston’s hand. Baela refuses with yet more vehemence, whirling and slashing him across the cheek with her nails. “My cousins the Queen Rhaenyra and the Princess Valaena can command me. You cannot.”

Marston does not seem to appreciate this slight, though neither does he possess the nerve to give the girl the clip she deserves. Undaunted himself, Aegon needles her, “Come now, Baela, I should not like for us to get off on the wrong foot.”

Looking back to him, Baela rakes her eyes over him and remarks scathingly, “That would be your left foot, yes?”

Incensed, Aegon feels a sharp twitch in his left cheek, the flesh there thick and stiff. Resentment broils within him, hot enough to burn, just as Valaena had done to him near a year past. Malice bubbling beneath his mangled skin, he turns his eyes onto her. Discreetly, she casts her gaze aside.

Too late, with his attention already fixed on her. “Valaena,” he calls. She glances back up at him. “Have you put more thought to how you should like to pay the debt you owe me?” Her lip curling slightly, she appears confused, so he clarifies, “Words or flesh?”

The words evoke a memory, so clear he can see it in her eyes. Two boys and a girl, he had demanded of her in Rook’s Rest. A year past his children’s disappearance now, and she has not yet made satisfaction for his loss.

She says nothing, so he asks again, simpler, “Where are Helaena and the children?”

Before the war, he little minded when his children were absent. He found them bothersome, often shrill and unpleasantly sticky, but they were his. Jaehaerys, in particular, he thinks especially valuable, as the boy is to be his successor. For near the entirety of the war, he has been without his heir, having to settle for Aemond and, worse now, Aenar, Valaena’s own son. His queen consort being absent has also been a great inconvenience, the vacancy left by Helaena granting Alicent far too much latitude.

Just as she had in Rook’s Rest, Valaena remains silent. Aegon raises his brow, though he is largely unsurprised. “Do you not wish to answer?” He gives her yet another chance to make good, but foolish, she flaunts it. “Then I think we require a whipping girl.” With the prompt spoken, the doors to the hall creak open, and Valaena’s handmaid is led into the room.

As the girl—comely enough to distract him on some other day—is made to kneel, horror dawns on her mistress’s face. With no small amount of glee, Aegon recalls how fond of her servants Valaena has always been. “Aegon,” she begins before biting her tongue. After a moment’s thought, she tries again, “Uncle,” and stops again, hearing her blunder as he does. This address, more deferential than the last, is an admission of defeat. Still, she presses on as he grins. “I do not know.”

At this, he feels his face contort in surprise. Whilst before, Valaena told him she had Helaena’s trust, she now claims no such confidence exists. “You do not know?” She shakes her head. He sighs, disappointed. “You do your handmaid no favors.” Lifting his hand from Blackfyre, he signals to a nearby guard, designated a headsman, who readies his own sword.

“No! Aegon! Aegon,” she cries, panic gripping her. Earnestly, she entreats him to believe, “I do not know where they are. I told Helaena to go someplace where she and your children would be safe, and none, including myself, would ever find them. I could not possibly tell you where they are. I could tell you a lie to satisfy you now, but it would be a lie.”

As if credulous, he leans forward, a look of contemplation pinned to his face. After a moment, he looks to the handmaid. “Girl, what is your name?”

At first, the woman does not seem to realize he speaks to her. When she does, she answers, her voice shaking like a leaf, “Aster, Your Grace.”

He smiles warmly. “Good-bye, Aster.”

Valaena screeches, lunging toward Aster, but Marston withholds her. The sword drops, and she hits the floor in the same moment as does Aster’s head, having gone limp in Marston’s grip.

Blood pools along the floor, seeping into the cracks in the stone. Aegon straightens in his seat. He suggests, “Let us try this again.”

Two men step forward to drag Baela away from Valaena. Gasping wetly, Valaena tries to grasp for her, her hands clenching in her skirts, but Marston keeps his grip on her, and the fabric slips through her fingers. Even as the men push at her, Baela still refuses to kneel, choosing instead to go slack and let her body hang awkwardly between them. Aegon rolls his eyes.

His solace is that, at last, Valaena takes him seriously. She begins sniveling, her voice nasally. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know.” Finally, she gives in, kneeling before him, her hands clutched as high as her chain will permit. She blubbers, “Please. I swear—I swear, I do not know where they are. I don’t know, I swear. I swear to the Seven, to the old gods, to the gods of Old Valyria! I swear on my life.” She must realize he does not think much of that. “I swear on Aenar’s—on my son’s life, I swear—”

“All right,” he interrupts, grown tired of her weeping, whatever pleasure it gave him at first. Besides, he supposes, Baela is a useful pawn so long as her father and grandsire live. By contrast, Valaena does him more harm than good. He makes this clear, informing her, “Do you realize, if you’ve no knowledge of my family’s whereabouts, you’re of no use to me.”

Valaena, still shivering from fear, takes his meaning. She protests, “I’m your kin.”

Amused by this newest attempt at groveling, he replies, “So, what?”

Hysteria threatening to return, her breath comes fast, and her voice cracks. “I’m with child.”

His amusement waning, his voice hardens. “So, what.” He waves the headsman forward.

Alarmed, she tries to stand and flee, but Marston takes hold of her again, keeping her pinned to the ground. One of the Toms—Tangletongue, Aegon thinks—takes her right arm. Marston slides his hold to her left arm, stretching it back. He places his foot near the top of her spine and presses her head forward. The headsman unsheathes his sword anew.

Baela tries to intervene, but she is held back by too many men, the lot of whom need press her to the floor to keep her from meddling. The true impediment comes in the form of Daeron, who is at last enlivened, tearing his sword from its scabbard and surging for the headsman. Their blades clash, and a bout ensues.

The headsman is drawn back from Valaena, who kneels nearly prostrate whilst she struggles to free herself. Stepping forward, Criston draws Aegon’s attention. “Your Grace, I implore you, be prudent. Whilst her treason is grave, the Lady Valaena is of a dignity—”

“Fuck dignity! I want revenge,” snarls Aegon. As far as he is concerned, Valaena has lived too long without retribution for her crimes against him. Pointing to Criston, he reminds him, “I told you to give me her head. Now, I shall have it.”

Valaena whines as Marston presses harder on her back, and Aegon refocuses on her. “Now, Valaena, have you any last words?” Without the wherewithal to so much as peer up at him, she says nothing, apparently too panicked to speak. Despite this wonderous display—with blood spilled already, the violent collision of blades, Baela screaming like a harpy, and Valaena so distraught she can scarcely breathe—Aegon finds himself growing bored, so he orders Criston, “Just cut her fucking head off already.”

Criston does not move, though there is progress. Her mind returning to her at last, Valaena musters a shout of, “Wait,” but little more than that.

Impatient, he demands, “For what?”

Pathetic, she stammers, “For this—this—”

“This, this,” he mocks, hoping to hurry her along.

“This revenge,” she articulates at last, “it’s pitiful.” She manages a laugh, too, of all things.

“What are you saying,” he asks before promptly following with, “Shut up!”

Despite this warning, she persists, “If it is revenge that you seek, this is a poor substitute. Think of all the anguish you might cause me were you to keep mine head where it is.”

Unpersuaded, he replies, “So that you might have the opportunity to slip my grasp again? I think not.”

“Think harder,” she snipes.

Inflamed, he points at her. “I tell you again, shut your bitch mouth.”

“I am a bitch,” she agrees, strangely enough. “And whose child do you think I whelp now, hmm? Do you think that I, of all people, would whelp a bastard? That I would give mine son a mere half-sibling, just as mine mother was cursed to have?”

Reluctantly, his curiosity soars. His gaze dips to her belly, though it is concealed with her back stretched so taut. For want of a better view of her, he waves his men off her. Haltingly, they step back, inciting even Daeron and the headsman to stop swinging at one another. He points to her again. “That is Aemond’s child, you claim.”

She clutches her arms around the swell. “It is.”

He hums, unconvinced. He chides, “That you should steal his essence again, after you stole his life.”

“What,” she blurts, ruffled.

He expounds, “He died on this isle, did he not, whilst it and he were in your care?” He recalls hearing of Aemond’s death whilst on Dragonstone himself and wondering how near his brother was when Daemon killed him. He spent the weeks when Aemond ruled Dragonstone pondering how best to reach out to him, to reveal himself and have them join forces, but Aemond’s pitiful reign ended too soon. Valaena reclaimed the seat, imprisoned him, and saw him slain all within a single week thereafter.

Here and now, Valaena takes deep breath, as though to calm herself. “That was not my fault.”

Faced with her uncaring insolence, his patience once more abandons him. “Shut up!”

Looking aside, he blows out an irate breath as he thinks. Begrudgingly, he supposes that he ought not risk killing his brother’s child, however remote the possibility is that Aemond is the true father of Valaena’s spawn. He cannot imagine she willingly laid with Aemond during his time here. Nevertheless, he supposes he shall know the truth of the child’s birth as soon as it comes forth, as there is no reason it should not share its brother’s likeness had Aemond truly sired them both.

Frustrated, he relents, “Fuck. Fucking fine.” Glimpsing at Daeron, he flashes, “You, put that fucking thing away. Come back here.” His shoulders slumping, Daeron sheaths his sword and trudges back to Aegon’s side. Aegon glances at Baela, as well. She is still restrained along the floor, though she no longer struggles against her captors. Rather, she merely observes the goings-on, so he decides to give her a show. Looking back to Valaena, he commands her, “Come here.”

Shifting her weight onto her hands, Valaena makes to rise.

He waves a finger. “I did not tell you to stand.”

A beat passes before she shifts her weight again. Swallowing her pride, she crawls to him, struggling somewhat as she climbs the steps to the throne on her hands and knees. He extends his good hand, and she takes it into both of hers and kisses his rings. He does not withdraw it, so she dares not move again.

His voice low, he advises, “If I had my choice, I would put your head on a pike so high that when I go to my window, I could see my seed land on your fair cheek.” He runs a finger down the path of her tears. She recoils, so he grabs her face to keep it close. “But I am merciful, and I should not forgive myself should I slay my brother’s child, however like it is that this new whelp is his, so I shall stay your execution.” Before she can take too much heart from these assurances, he lifts a finger. “Know that these last few months of your life shall be a misery, and if you should disobey me once, I shall cut the little bastard from you. Am I understood?”

He loosens his punishing grip on her jaw, and she nods, conveying no further arguments. This does not do enough to please him. Sensing as much, she intones, “Yes.” Still unsatisfied, he stares down his nose at her, his face set in a frown. Despite his silence, she catches his meaning. She shakes her head. “You know I would not mean such words.”

He promises, “You shall speak them and learn their truth.”

Silence occupies the space between them once more. Again, it is she who breaks it, the words dragged from her. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Very good.” Nearly satisfied now, he leans back. “Now, suck my cock.”

Valaena’s head twitches, as though she has barely withheld herself from rearing back in shock. As if in need of reassurance that it was not she alone who heard him, she peers off either side of the throne, looking to the members of his Kingsguard. Marston observes the spectacle with mild interest, his head tipped back. Criston does not look at her or otherwise move, but Aegon can see just how tense his jaw is, how rigid his spine.

From her place on the floor, Baela makes an objection, calling out to Valaena, “He’s bluffing!”

Aegon sends Valaena a cool look, as if to ask her am I?

Gradually, hers gaze grows distant, and her breath turns shallow. Swallowing roughly, she moves to untie the laces of his trousers. She struggles with the string, her hands shaking. Given her hesitance, he wonders if she has ever done this before, if Aemond ever had the balls to demand it. Either way, he hopes she chokes on him.

Though naught has been asked of her, Baela quickly grows frenzied, shrieking and scratching herself along the ground as she labors to put her feet beneath her. Daeron has a singular reaction, standing in apparent, frozen horror. He stares resolutely at the ceiling, his eyes disturbingly wide, his jaw and fists clenched, swaying as though he means to move but cannot muster the will. As an especially loud shrill from Baela echoes throughout the hall, Valaena flinches. She stills her hands on his trousers and closes her eyes, clearly trying to settle her nerves.

Impatient, Aegon clasps the back of her neck and presses her face down into his groin. He endeavors to work the garment open with his spare hand, but further spooked, Valaena sets her hands against his thighs and shoves herself back from him. In her haste to get away, she trips at the bottom of the stairs, the chain on her wrist and ankle snagging. She falls to the ground, sprawled out on her back, having thrown herself to one side to keep from collapsing onto her front. Having risen from his seat in pursuit of her, Aegon catches her by one leg before she can right herself, yanking her toward him. She loses her bearings, and he pushes her flat as she attempts to wrestle him. She is easy to subdue, trying more so to keep his hands away from her belly than push him off her.

He figures that, while he has her here, he may as well sample the cunt that kept his brother captivated for years. He is only emboldened further as she shouts, “No, stop! Please don’t do this, Aegon! Aegon—”

He palms himself, sucking in an aroused breath. “Yes. Say my name.”

Sobbing, she redoubles her efforts to cast him loose, her expression caught halfway between determination and a cringe. “No!”

Pulling his arm back, he gives her a hard smack, a trick that usually works with fickle slatterns. Sure enough, it stuns her, and she lies listlessly long enough for him to get a good grip on the hem of her skirt. Baela hollers at him with yet more volume as he pulls his cock from his breeches, her voice now turned hoarse. Ignoring her, he tears a long gash in the fabric of Valaena’s skirt, all the way up to her hip. He sets his scarred hand on her thigh, plumper than he prefers but—

His collar tightens around his neck, and he chokes as he is thrust backward. Criston intercedes between him and Valaena, placing a hand on his chest and shoving him back another step. He proceeds to stand over Valaena as she stirs along the ground, gathering her torn skirt about her and trying to push herself upright.

Stuffing his cock back into his trousers, Aegon glares at Criston, outraged that the man had the gall to manhandle him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Criston defends his actions, “She carries your brother’s child in her belly, Your Grace.”

“So she claims,” opposes Aegon.

“I was her sworn shield when the child was conceived. I assure you, the Prince Aemond is the only possible candidate,” attests Criston.

Accepting as much for the sake of argument, Aegon counters, “So, what?”

“So, you might be more careful, Your Grace,” Criston enunciates.

Aegon sighs, grown weary of this man and his tedious, overreaching suggestions. Briefly, he ponders ordering Criston aside so that he might finish his business with Valaena. In the end, he merely sighs anew, marching back up to the throne and replacing Blackfyre on his waist. He orders Marston, “Take my cousins to their new accommodations in the dungeon. Separate cells.” As for Criston, he obliges him to show him to the lord’s chambers.

As they traverse Dragonstone’s winding corridors, Aegon glories in the victories of the night. After months of living in agony and squalor, he is glad for all his efforts to have paid off, for all his suffering to have been worth it. At the fall of King’s Landing, Larys had him smuggled from the city amongst a load of codfish on a fishing skiff, stripped of his finery and clad in a salt-stained fisherman’s cloak. In the first few months of his time on Dragonstone, kept in the care of his newest Kingsguard, Ser Marston Waters, and the man’s cousins, he concealed his scars beneath a heavy cloak and idled his time by dulling his pain with shabby wine. This changed when Sunfyre arrived on the isle, their bond having drawn the noble beast to his master. With Vhagar dead, the maimed dragon sustained himself on her flesh, taking what he could when the Cannibal neglected his spoils. Eventually, he was spied by sailors, and so Marston and his cousins took Aegon to seek out his dragon. When reunited with Sunfyre, Aegon was reinvigorated.

In the weeks that followed, a plan was hatched to take Dragonstone, long Rhaenyra’s seat and stronghold, then that of Valaena. For months, it smarted at him to be on Valaena’s isle with no cost to her, wishing so deeply to punish her for her misdeeds against him. Slowly but surely, his allies grew in their numbers, weary were they of toiling under women, and he and Sunfyre progressed in their respective recoveries. Before long, Valaena left to wed Cregan Stark. They finalized the plan for their attack, readying their forces. When she returned too soon, he resolved not to worry for this unexpected development. He promptly summoned Daeron, certain that he could sway his brother back to his side. There was a slight hitch when Daeron responded to his offer with less enthusiasm than was warranted, so as soon as Daeron left, he decided the attack was to commence straight away. The fight would be harder won, he knew, but it would be won so long as Valaena and Baela were caught unawares. Should the girls be unable to mount their dragons, both stronger than Sunfyre in his current state, they and Dragonstone would surely fall to him. As he suspected, the scuffle in the castle yard did not last long, finished by the time he landed Sunfyre. The castle’s castellan, Ser Robert Quince, was killed by one of his own men in the strife, and the rest of those sworn to Valaena were put to the sword.

Abruptly, Criston halts, and Aegon stumbles lest he collide with him. Criston opens a door, and Aegon marches past him. At once, he gleans that the apartment is occupied. He wonders whether it belongs to Valaena or Rhaenyra until he picks through the armoire and discovers a wide-breasted doublet with a red, three-headed dragon emblazoned on it that must belong to Daemon. Aegon continues to mill about the rooms, soaking in their splendor and all in which his half-sister had draped herself during her many years on Dragonstone. Knocking over a gilded vase just to watch it crack open on the floor, he decides he will have the lot disposed, all of Rhaenyra’s and Daemon’s possessions destroyed. Or kept for himself, he ponders, inspecting a tiara decorated with green gems that he thinks will suit Jaehaera nicely upon her return. As he holds it aloft near a candle, he asks Criston, “How certain are you that the child within Valaena’s belly was born of Aemond’s seed?” He does not wish to wait months to kill her, especially considering how many methods of torture would be barred in consideration of the babe.

“Entirely,” Criston answers. Displeased to hear so, Aegon scrutinizes him with baleful eyes.

Three months past, Criston returned to Aegon’s service. Through Tom Tanglebeard, Aegon learned that his former Hand was lurking about Dragonstone, having been cast out of the castle by Valaena for some mystery. Ever gracious, Aegon bade Tanglebeard to summon Criston to him and offered the knight a path to redemption. Criston accepted with ease, though more dispassionately than Aegon felt was warranted. For that reason, he resolved to keep a close eye on the man, no longer certain as to where his loyalty lied, though not much certain that it mattered either.

Haltingly, Criston offers further, “On her first night here whilst your brother ruled, he intruded into her rooms. When he left, I intruded myself. She was laid out on the floor, her dress torn open, and between her legs, one could see,” the final word is birthed with much hardship, “spend.” 

Amused, Aegon finds himself growing aroused again. What a sight that must have been. “Was she bloodied?” Criston shakes his head. Disappointed, Aegon clicks his tongue. “Too bad.” Turning his head, he winces, his neck straining under the weight of his iron-and-ruby crown. All these months, and he has not yet grown accustomed to it. Carrying Blackfyre does not make the strain any easier. Trying to ward off the twinge in his muscles with a firm hand to his nape, he probes, “When would you say then, the child will be born?”

“It is difficult to say. She welcomed him into her bed most nights thereafter.” There is a note of bitterness in Criston’s voice, piquing Aegon’s interest.

“Did she? What a strange creature my niece is.” He inquires, “The latest you would say.” 

“Early in the new year,” supposes Criston.

Aegon groans, as that is a half-year away. He supposes he will need entertain himself in other ways until then. An hour later, an opportunity presents itself in the form of a mousy, young serving girl, enclosed in his new rooms with him when she comes to serve him his wine.

Having slept in, Aegon rises late the following morning. He breaks his fast with stout, lazes at the foot of Rhaenyra’s bed an hour longer than is strictly necessary, and at last dons passably appropriate daywear and his crown around midday. Having no wish to be in Criston’s company, he orders Marston to attend him as he roams the halls of Dragonstone.

Discontent to walk too far, he stays within the tower, certain that, given its size, he can uncover some enthralling cranny. He happens upon that which he assumes is Jacaerys’s apartment. He steps inside to pick through his things, throwing random artefacts through the windows when the mood strikes him. He thinks he stops in on those which must have been Lucerys’s rooms next, though he does not intrude, dissuaded by the thick layer of dust covering every surface.

In Valaena’s rooms—he recognizes them by the ridiculous mantle hung above the bed, the stupid, sentimental bitch—he cuts holes into all of the gowns he can find. He also tears the blasted maiden’s cloak from the wall, some scrap of white fabric falling from it and disappearing behind the headboard as he does. Bundling it up, he chucks it into the hearth and tosses the nearest flame onto it. Faintly, as he watches it burn, he ponders what a shame it is that Valaena is consigned to the dungeon, ignorant to the loss of her treasured possession. Whereas she would surely despair in seeing it destroyed, he feels a great catharsis, much as he had when he took a cudgel to his father’s precious model of Valyria and bludgeoned it to bits.

Once the cloak has been completely reduced to ash, he meanders back to his new lodgings, a satisfied spring to his step. On his way, he passes an open door and peeks inside on a whim. In a relatively small room, he finds a little boy with white-blond hair and violet eyes puttering around. A nursemaid sits in the corner, her face tense as she eyes Aegon. He ignores her as he steps into the room, far more interested in his nephew. Though he had sent Marston to secure Aenar yesterday, he had somewhat forgotten about him in the excitement that followed.

As he approaches the boy, Aenar whips his head back to gaze up at him. Thinking Aegon a new playmate, he offers up the dragon figurine in his grasp, introducing it as, “Er-ack-sees!” He follows this exclamation with a soft roar.

Uninterested in the toy, Aegon does not take it. Aenar quickly grows distracted and takes to playing by himself again. As he makes the doll climb the bars of his cradle, Aegon kneels at his side for a better glimpse of him. He picks out a few similarities with Aemond—his hair, his eyes, mayhaps his chin—though he sees far more of Valaena in his face.

When he has Aenar’s attention again, it is rather unwanted. Aenar glances about Aegon’s face and, ruled by some callow whim, pokes at the scars to the left of his chin. The light touch is painless, but Aegon smarts, nonetheless, for it was the boy’s own mother who damaged him. Viciously, he smacks his nephew’s hand away. Aenar stumbles back and begins puling at once, his face scrunching, and an irritating whine spilling from his lips.

Rising, Aegon retreats, disinterested and somewhat disgusted by the boy. He is certainly a wandought, like his father before him. As Aenar scurries to his minder for comfort, Aegon thinks of how pitiful it is that Aemond’s son is the only heir left to him.

His mood having soured, he stomps the rest of the way back to his rooms. When he arrives, he finds his brother lying in wait for him. Daeron stands before the hearth, bouncing with his weight on one leg. Aegon’s feet drag as he stops within the doorway, and Daeron stills, his attention fixating on him. Aegon frowns, a question set on his pursed lips, when Daeron surges toward him. For a moment, he almost anticipates a hug, and Daeron does indeed embrace him, catching him around the middle and slamming him onto the ground. He falls back, blindly trying to push his brother off him, but Daeron’s pummeling does not let up. Grappling with him proves an even lesser success, as Daeron has grown too strong and too heavy for him.

Thankfully, he need not long endure the tussle. Marston and Criston tear Daeron off him, restraining the boy as he hisses and flails. Using the wall for leverage, Aegon staggers to his feet. He spits out a mouthful of blood and barks, “What the Seven Hells is wrong with you!”

He flinches as Daeron lunges for him again, though neither Marston nor Criston slackens their hold on him. “What is wrong with you! You tried to rape our niece, our sister!” 

“She’s not our fucking sister anymore,” Aegon spits, disregarding the misstatement’s accompanying, rash accusation. He sneers at his brother. “To think I meant to forgive you your treason.”

Aegon learnt of Daeron’s induction into the so-called Queensguard almost as soon as it came to pass. Tenderhearted, he resolved at once to grant his brother clemency for his treachery, as it had clearly been induced by great duress. Now, he realizes he should not be so lenient when considering a turncloak, no matter how much blood he shares with them.

Daeron’s eyes bug, and, scornful, he lashes, “You? That I should desire your forgiveness—”

“Be silent,” Aegon snaps. “I should not like to need remove your tongue to keep your company.”

Of all things, an incredulous laugh departs from Daeron next. Aegon smarts further, affronted that the foolish boy does not take him seriously. Angrily, he flashes, “Do you know what, I think some time in the dungeon with your sister will do you well.” He flicks his hand, and with only a moment’s hesitation, Daeron’s misbegotten brethren drag him away.

Expelling an agitated breath, Aegon stalks into his apartment, further displeased to discover a slight limp as the muscles in his bad leg atrophy. Waspishly, he orders a servant to call for the maester. As he waits, he plops himself down in front of Rhaenyra’s vanity to inspect his fresh wounds.

There are lacerations all across his face, already beginning to weep blood. Though they are not especially deep, and he can tell that he shall not need suffer them long, he loathes them for their ghastliness. Red slithers along the creases of his face, making him look all the more a monster. Distantly, he recalls his visage from before Rook’s Rest, handsome and unblemished and peaceful.

By the time Rhaenyra’s maester arrives, Aegon is so irascible that he briefly contemplates forgoing the man’s expertise. He does not take kindly to his sister’s creature poking about his face, and he certainly does not trust the man’s offer of milk of the poppy for his pain. When bedridden, he needed slake his agony with the mind-altering drink, consuming near as much as his father had when near his death. He hath sworn to himself that he shall never partake in the seed of that vile flower again.

After Aegon’s face is clean—but not remedied, for it can never be as it was again—the maester broaches, “My prince, if I may.”

Aegon raises an eyebrow at him, insulted to be addressed according to his former title, though he is intrigued enough to make no open refusal.

The healer continues, “I worry for the Princess Valaena’s condition, given her confinement in the dungeon.”

Aegon sniffs. “My mother has always spoken of how beneficent confinement is to women when they are expecting.”

The maester nods. “And Her Grace is surely correct, but that is for the peace it brings. There is no peace in such a dark place.” Aegon inhales, meaning to tell the man just how little he cares for Valaena’s peace, but the man hinders him. “And as you must know, the womenfolk cannot suffer much distress without their bodies failing them. ’Twas the news of Prince Lucerys’s death, causing such strife, that caused Princess Valaena’s labors with the Prince Aenar to begin early. Was she to grow so desolate now, and with the same result, the child would not survive.”

Queerly, hearing so makes Aegon smile. “Then I’ll not tell her your fate.” 

An hour later, after the maester has been thrice hung by the very chain of office bestowed onto him by Rhaenyra, disemboweled, and his legs and innards fed to Sunfyre, Aegon finally feels better for the indignities he suffered this day.

Aegon finds that, when not sequestered in some dreary cave or shack, he very much enjoys Dragonstone. He revels in riding his dragon for leisure, tormenting his cousins, and fucking his way through the hold’s population of serving girls. He has the freedom to prevail over a castle without need of prevailing over pesky small council meetings. Neither Otto nor his mother are here to ply him to their own ends, though he supposes his grandsire will trouble him upon his return to the Red Keep neither.

One afternoon, as he lounges along a bench in his bedchamber, creating a sizable dent in what wine stores Rhaenyra accumulated over the years, Marston intrudes with news of his true seat. Though nettled, he permits his incursion upon his peace, as the news is most welcome.

“Dead,” repeats Aegon, so intrigued as to prop himself up on one arm, his drink forgotten. “You are certain?”

A few days late, tidings have arrived of a riot, sprung up against Rhaenyra in King’s Landing and incited by a zealot called the Shepherd. News of it was sent by sea rather than by raven, in a letter composed by Corlys Velaryon. As he tells it, the rabble rose up all over the city, grown tired of the war and fearful of famine. Carts and wagons were overturned, shops looted, and homes plundered and set afire. The walled manse of Rhaenyra’s treasurer was invaded, and the man was bound to a post and poked and prodded until the mob saw fit to relieve him of his cock and his head. The Red Keep came under siege, too, by two characters, one known as the witch queen, and another a dayfly king called Truefyre. Even the Dragonpit was not spared the smallfolk’s savagery. Thousands upon thousands stormed the Dragonpit, dying in droves but succeeding in their ambition. By hammers and picks and axes, Tyraxes and Vermithor were slain, their hulking forms buried beneath the rubble which once made Rhaenys’s Hill stand so tall. Amid the mayhem, the Pretender was forced to flee with Aegon the Younger, and her elder son Joffrey was lost. Mayhaps best of all, the masses managed to put down Daemon, too.

Marston nods. “If this report is to be believed, only his foot was salvaged, the rest of his remains plundered and carried off by the Shepherd’s mob.”

Fully straightening, Aegon feels a grin split his face. “A fitting end.” Remembering it, he finishes the cup in his grasp. Staring into the bottom of the empty goblet, he decides, “I believe a celebration is in order, to toast the end of my dear sister’s reign.” Accordingly, he orders a fine meal prepared.

As with any feast, he requires suitable guests. Daeron, Valaena, and Baela are thus released from the dungeon for the occasion. So as to not too greatly disturb their penance, he does not allow them to bathe or otherwise prepare for supper, though he does permit Valaena to change her gown. It is rather improper for a lady to dine in her nightgown, and he relishes seeing the sliver of skin beneath her left breast through the slit he left in her dress.

Presiding over the table from its head, he raises his arms in welcome. “Good evening, family. How good of you to join me.”

Sat across from him, Daeron scowls, his face smeared with filth. To his left, Baela is dirty, too, her hair hanging limp about her face, and she sneers at him. For her part, Valaena gives a rather disappointing reaction, staring impassively at him.

The servants serve them steaks of venison and pour the wine. Just as she did when last she was his guest, Valaena swallows her entire drink in one go. Meanwhile, without waiting for leave from him, Daeron and Baela both grab their cuts of meat with their hands and stuff them into their mouths. As Aegon sets his knife to his plate—for he alone was given utensils—only Valaena abstains, her leery gaze still on him.

Once half his steak is gone, he decides to get to the real meat of this dinner. “Now, see, we have this fine meal before us, but do you know who has not had such good fortune of late? The people of King’s Landing, for whom, I believe, Rhaenyra has claimed responsibility for some months now, hmm?” He peers around the table again, at all the wary faces staring back at him. “All this to say, all have their limits, and the smallfolk certainly reached theirs.”

He pauses there, wishing to drag the revelation out and hoping most of all for Valaena to answer him. Regrettably, both girls are silent. Daeron is the only one bold enough to ask, “What are you talking about?”

Gratified, Aegon responds, “I speak of rebellion—righteous rebellion—for, you see, the Half-Year Queen has been overthrown.”

Baela’s eyes flash. “You lie.”

“Absolutely not. In fact, ’twas your grandsire who wrote to inform me—or you, rather,” he pivots, glancing at Valaena, “of the revolt against Rhaenyra, describing how she needed flee with my namesake, and how, most auspiciously, Daemon and the other one died.” 

At this, the anger at last begins to slip from Baela’s face. Her expression turns pinched, anxious. “What? No.”

“‘The other one,’” Valaena questions, her tone dull, deceptively so.

He masks a smile. “Yes, what was your youngest brother’s name? Not the one from Daemon who was slain here. The last one from Harwin.” Exhaling, he pretends to remember, “Joffrey, that’s it. As I recall, when the mob fell upon him, it was savage in its precision. Looters cut off both of his hands so that they might claim the rings on his fingers, and one man sawed clean-off his head so that he might sell it for a great price to your mother.”

As he goes on, he watches Valaena assiduously, hoping she will retch as she did when he delineated to her the gruesome details of Lucerys’s demise. Alas, her food remains in her stomach, her visage merely paling as she sits horribly still. Baela, far more prone to hysterics this day, gnashes at him and calls his bluff. “You lie!” A pair of guards hold her to her seat, keeping her from throwing herself across the table at him.

Once more, he avers to her, “I assure you, I do not. This was a similar treatment that your father met when he fell from Caraxes’s back, and the mob claimed him. His dismemberment was so complete that only his foot was recovered—”

His voice halts as a shadow falls over him. He glances upward, his eye drawn by something glinting above him, bright like the Sun. The point of a blade hovers disturbingly close to his eye. Valaena holds his own dinner knife aloft, evidently having knabbed it and leapt from her seat to drive it through his skull. She is withheld by Criston, who barely keeps her at bay with a firm, closed-hand grip on either arm. Fighting against the knight, she grits her teeth and strains with all her might to bring the blade lower, though she scarcely budges another inch for her efforts.

Aegon stands, careful to avoid the sharp edge of the blade. Roughly, he seizes her wrist and extracts the knife from her. She keeps her teeth bared as he grabs her, her snarl abating only as his free hand dips low, and his knuckles drag along the swell of her belly. Softly, he intones, “What did I say would happen if you misbehaved, hm?” Deliberately, he moves the knife toward her middle, too.

Her breath ragged, she neither whimpers nor begs him for mercy, as he might have expected. Rather, she pins him with the eeriest stare. For a moment, he thinks she will not say anything, too daunted by the prospect of reprisal, but she soon speaks her mind. “You should not have taken this hold when you did. I would have been in King’s Landing in the morning.”

He gleans her meaning. “So, you might have died with them.”

A frenzied laugh spills from her. “I might have.” At last, the whimpers come, Valaena doubling over and clutching at her middle. Stepping back from her, he watches with a keen eye as she sinks to the ground and moans sundry objections to some god neither of them worships.

Turning frantic, Criston hollers, “Bring a healer!”

“A healer? Wherefore? She is perfectly well. Isn’t that right, Valaena?” Aegon kicks her side, and she cringes away from him. Soon, she is unable to bear her own weight, and she crumples into a heap on the floor.

As Valaena writhes along the ground, trying desperately to keep her guts within her, Aegon glances about the room, having forgotten his other guests. Baela is still for once, bound to her chair and sobbing for breath. Her grief having overcome her, she does not seem to notice Valaena’s plight on the floor. Daeron is fastened to his seat, as well, and he stares up at Aegon with some measure of horror in his eyes.

Aegon retakes his own seat, intent on finishing his meal. He addresses his brother, “Well? Will you apologize?”

Daeron blinks at him, clearly thrown. “What?”

Painstakingly, Aegon explains, “If you pray for it, I may forgive you your crimes against me.” He points his fork at Daeron. “This seems a troubling concept for you to grasp.”

Valaena’s chair bangs against the table, and she looses a harrowing scream. Daeron chokes on the first word that comes to his lips. “I’ve nothing to say to you.”

Aegon smiles to keep from seething. “Truly? After a week in the dungeon?” His brother does not change his plea, so Aegon spurns him in turn. Ruefully, he marvels at Valaena’s influence, the succubus having seduced all of his siblings away from him. Fleetingly, he wonders if mayhaps she practices Valyrian blood magic or some brand of Westerosi witchcraft.

Gnashing on a particularly tough piece of steak, he mandates that both Daeron and Baela be taken back to their cells, and they can rot there for all he cares. As for Valaena, he deigns to wait for the healer to inspect her.

A gangly, young man soon arrives. One of the late maester’s apprentices, Aegon suspects. He is dressed like a maester, though the chain is absent. Despite his awkward frame, he is confident as he goes about his work, and he does not forget to bow to Aegon first.

Valaena resists him when he approaches her, turning her head away and folding her legs to her chest. Grasping at her skirts, he asks that she recline for him, but she refuses. Aegon soon grows tired of this act, as though she has some trouble spreading her legs. Intruding, he kicks her ankles apart and barks at her to stop whinging.

If even she tries to heed him, she fails miserably, whining and squirming as the healer probes her with his fingers. When he withdraws them, they are wet, though not with blood. He wipes them on his smock and judges, “She is not miscarrying as now.”

“‘As now,’” echoes Aegon.

Standing, the man explains, “Whatever labors she feels, they are not so great as to push the child out. But should she continue in this fashion,” he trails off, but Aegon takes his meaning. Distantly, he recalls that which Rhaenyra’s maester told him of the circumstances of Aenar’s premature birth.

The healer offers, “I could give her something to dampen her affections until the danger is passed. And, if I may,” he waits for leave, which Aegon impatiently grants, “the princess—uh, the—Lady Stark should be removed to her rooms.” Vexed, Aegon makes to deny the suggestion, but the man heads him off. “The food given to the prisoners contains too much salt than is advised for an expectant mother, and so kept away from the Sun, it may be difficult for the child to develop its heart.”

Scowling, Aegon is outraged that he should even need contemplate doing Valaena any kindnesses. Already, he has permitted her to survive longer than should have been her fate, all for the sake of a babe that his brother might have sired. Now, he need consider the blasted thing again.

Supposing that he has come far enough already, he exhales his anger. “Fine,” he relents. “Fine! Take her upstairs, but I will have her chained to the fucking bed!” The healer nods, rushing off to retrieve whatever concoction he intends to pour down Valaena’s throat. Meanwhile, she continues to languish at the foot of her chair. Hiccupping sobs leak from her as she turns her head away from Criston, the man trailing a finger down her cheek. Intrigued by the display, Aegon allows it to continue for another minute before ordering Criston to haul her into Sea Dragon Tower.

The healer meets their party at her rooms, toting with him a satchel of fragrant ingredients. At once, he extracts a vial of dreamwine. Aegon recognizes it by its color and consistency, having stolen into Orwyle’s chambers to pilfer it many a time in his youth.

As the healer pours the contents of the vial into a cup, Criston struggles to attach Valaena’s manacle to her bedpost amid all her kicking and screaming. Marston need assist him by holding her shoulders to the mattress, though this causes her howling to escalate. Aegon is relieved when the task is finished, as she quiets, and he relishes watching her violently, fruitlessly attempt to free her leg from its shackle.

Slowly, like a skittish animal, the healer approaches her, the drink proffered with one hand. Rolling his eyes, Aegon stops him before she has the chance to snatch it and toss it away. “I believe you are missing an ingredient,” he tells him.

Confused, the man shakes his head. “Dreamwine is sufficient to calm the nerves.”

Aegon hums. “But do you know that which works better? Milk of the poppy.”

For two moons, he was obliged to drink milk of the poppy because of Valaena. He suffered through bloating and poppy dreams, and he thinks she should endure the same.

The healer disagrees. “Milk of the poppy is only necessary for great pain, Your Grace. Its dangers are not worth suffering otherwise.”

Aegon thinks he takes this criticism well enough, stepping over to the bed, seizing Valaena’s right hand, and twisting her littlest finger until he hears it crack. Crying out, she snatches her arm back and doubles over her injured hand. Moving back from her, he says, “There we are then. Some poppy for the lady’s bent finger.”

Despite his misgivings, the man obliges his king and adds several drops of poppy essence into the cup. As soon as he finishes, Aegon plucks the goblet from him and hands it off to Marston. Just as she had with the knife and the manacle and all else, Valaena fights to the bitter end. She shouts and slaps and even tries to bite her way out of it, but Marston gets the better of her, holding her down anew and forcing the drink down her throat. He presses a hand over her nose and lips, forcing her to swallow that which she has in her mouth.

The fight does not end when he releases her. She attempts to gag herself with two fingers, and he need twist her arm behind her back to stop her, her injured hand crushed beneath his own.

As she gasps from the pain, Criston intervenes, evidently hoping to calm her by more gentle means. His efforts mean naught to her, and she screeches at him, “Unhand me!” Her wrists caught in his grasp, she tries to tear herself away, but to no avail. “I hate you! You traitor, I hate you! Unhand me!”

Whatever venom she spits at him, he keeps his hold on her until the dreamwine and poppy do their work. Growing limp, she fights to stay alert, blinking wide and sucking in long breaths. She wields her anger to keep her awake, as well, though Aegon can tell her mind has already begun its travels elsewhere. “You,” she hisses at him, “I blame you for this. That you had not fled for your cravenness, the smallfolk might have slaked their hunger on you instead.”

Oddly tickled by the suggestion, he decides to have yet more fun with her. “If your mother’s subjects had such hunger, mayhaps she might have fed them.”

“With what coin,” Valaena seethes. “You emptied her coffers.”

“Yes, the treasury. I heard of your efforts to learn whither I sent such coin, but Tyland never told you, did he? A leal servant, if ever there was one.” He leans in close to her, near enough to smell the wine on her breath. “I suppose I can tell you now, there being no harm in it.” Her eyes widen, from equal parts outrage and intrigue. He recalls, “Let’s see now, I sent one quarter to Oldtown, of course—you really should have guessed that—another to Casterly Rock—another easy one—and then to Braavos.” He clicks his tongue, as if disappointed in her. “If only you had known this moons past. Daemon and little Joffrey might have lived.”

Flaming, she wails wordlessly, loud enough to cause his ears to ring, but as now, she is too tired to thrash against Criston’s hold anymore. Before long, she spends herself and collapses. From that night onward, she is lost in poppy dreams, her rooms bereft of all noise. Even the clank of the chain fettering her to the bed is seldom heard, as she is often too sapped of her energy to so much as lift her head, let alone stand.

One morning, Aegon wakes to discover blood upon his lips. At first, he licks them clean, sure that he simply bit through them in the night. When the metallic taste returns, he frowns and sits up, intent on inspecting himself in the mirror. The room spins before he can so much as shift his legs, and he vomits onto his own lap.

Groaning, he shouts, “What the fuck? What the fuck!” His bile is replete with blood, and more pours down from his nose.

Marston soon intrudes into the bedchamber, having heard his alarm. Alarm appears on his own face when he sees Aegon, covered in blood and sick. When he does no more than stand there and gape, Aegon snaps at him, “What the fuck are you standing there for! Get the maester!”

Dithering, Marston reminds him, “You had him slain, Your Grace.”

“The other one! His fucking replacement,” Aegon flashes. Nodding jerkily, Marston goes off in search of the man.

While he waits, Aegon suffers from his nerves. They tingle with dread, much as they had when he woke from his fall with Sunfyre in Rook’s Rest. He scarcely dares to move, terror gripping him for fear that the Stranger looms close.

When the healer arrives, Aegon submits himself to his care, which is not much. The man merely suggests that he rest, as there is little more that he can do for him.

“Little more than this? This is nothing,” complains Aegon. “You have pronounced no ailment, no—”

“It is greycap, Your Grace,” the man offers.

“Do not interrupt me,” Aegon roars. Breathing heavily, he fights not to retch again. When it feels safe to speak, he asks, “Greycap?”

“It is a poison, Your Grace,” the healer explains, indecently stoic.

Aegon glowers at him. “Give me the antidote then.”

The man shakes his head. “There is no antidote for greycap. But this dosage is not lethal, else you would not have awoken this day. You simply need wait until it leaves your body.”