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Chapter Text

113 AC

The scenery of the Kingswood is as stunning as it has always been. Since she was but a child, Rhaenyra has enjoyed the greenery of the place, and often it had been enough to put her in a good mood. But unfortunately, the circumstances of her current situation prevent it from having such an effect. She would prefer flying over the forest with her beloved Syrax rather than to be stuck here among peacocking nobles and blushing ladies. No matter what anyone does—her loyal maids even try to appeal to her with her favorite lemon candy and a bath scented with her favorite oils—but her discontent is far from being dispelled.

The Crown Princess is displeased for many a reason. For one, this level of fanfare: it is utterly unnecessary for the king’s second born—the title only rightful if one ignores the countless babes Queen Aemma birthed, barely living a few hours or not—especially considering the certainty of him not even remembering the celebrations, but also because of the incessant parading of suitors her father has thought it fit to subject her to.

Even more insulting and maddening is the fact that before coming to her, they all go to her father. Probably to barter some wealth, lands, or ships in exchange for her hand in marriage.

She is to be Queen, first of her name, the first of all Westeros. The only other woman to ever come as close as her to the throne was Visenya, rejected as Queen because of Aegon’s desire to appease the sheep of this continent, despite her ruling more than he ever did. The Conqueror conquered, but Visenya ruled, especially after her sister Rhaenys’ demise. In his desire to rule, he forgot that dragons do not care about the presence of a cock or lack thereof, but only about Fire and Blood. Visenya was the blood of the dragon, as much as Aegon the Conqueror and as much as herself. Rhaenyra’s mother might have been part Arryn, but in her veins the fire runs true.

This child, however, is half tower and half dragon—and if his mother’s plans prove successful, he will grow to be more the former than anything else. And yet, he is being celebrated as if a new age is to be brought by his growth. Her father has yet to change the succession, she still remains heir, but she knows many, many lords would prefer a child barely out of infancy over a girl of sixteen namedays and almost ten sunturns of lessons on how to rule and present herself to court.

It irks her endlessly how adored he is. Because while she is adored because of her beauty—a fact that, with her undeniable vanity, never displeases her—he is revered simply because he was born a male. There is also no shortage of compliments to his lady mother, the new Queen. They compare her to her own lady mother, praising her for succeeding when Aemma had failed. She wants to cut out the tongue of all those who speak such insults about her mother and praises for Queen Alicent.

The title tastes sour in Rhaenyra’s mind, the betrayal of the one she considered to be her friend still fresh in her mind. The betrayal of her father, too. Barely six months had passed before her kingly father remarried and put a babe in his newest broodmare.

No matter how much pressure the council could have applied, the mourning period required the king to wait at least ten moons before even considering courting someone. Instead look what happened. This stinks of Hightower’s machinations so much even the Fourteen of Old Valyria can smell it. But not her father.

No, her father is happy to have his so long coveted son. No matter that his wife—the one he claimed to love above all else—was dead because of those wishes, no matter that his daughter is now alone, that his brother is once again in exile. Something she’s sure is the product of the Hand’s doing as well. How can’t her father see that, despite it is him physically wearing the crown, in truth it’s that damned Otto ruling for him? He has reduced himself to naught but a puppet king, or as close to one as he can get.

He is even happier at the thought of having more children. His new wife is proving to be quite good at fulfilling her role, Rhaenyra will give her that at least, getting with child almost immediately after the wedding, and now pregnant once again. The Queen struts about the camp, smiling at nobles and chatting with emerald-clad figures, her dress draping around her midsection to accentuate the shape of her rounded belly. She even had the audacity to announce this second pregnancy during the feast for Rhaenyra’s sixteenth nameday. She wouldn’t put it past Alicent to plan the pregnancy so that she’d manage to give birth a few months before her seventeenth nameday and present the newest brat to the feast, once again ruining her celebrations, this time with a wailing child. Gods be willing, the child would be a girl and she won’t be as smug as she was with the birth of Aegon. A distant thought in Rhaenyra’s mind whispers that it would be nice to have a sister, but she immediately silences it.

“My Princess” a voice slithers itself between her thoughts, bringing her back to reality.

She turns, bending her neck to look down at the sitting form of Larys Strong, second son of Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws and Lord of Harrenhal.

Hunched and a cripple, he oft sits with the ladies of the court, observing his surroundings with keen eyes. Those very same eyes are now fixed on her, dark and cunning.

“Forgive my bluntness, but you don’t seem particularly content, Your Highness. Is there something I can do to help?” he asks her, smiling faintly. Rhaenyra has to suppress a shiver. His smile has always rankled her, even as a small child.

“Indeed, I am not. Unfortunately, changing the circumstances of my unhappiness is beyond your control and, sadly, even mine. But I thank you for your consideration, Larys.”

He bows his head, a smile still on his face. “I shall always be at your service, Princess.” No more words are spoken between them because, as soon as the silence settles, Ser Harwin Strong— his half-brother, Commander of the City Watch, successor of her uncle—joins the two of them.

“Your Grace” he bows, “A fine day for a hunt, is it not?”

“Yes, Ser Harwin” she answers, smoothening the leather of her tunic, toying with an idea in her mind. She’s sure her father won’t appreciate her plan, but she’s not in the mood of caring about it. “Do you have any idea about when the hunt will start? My kingly father seems to have forgotten to tell me, in his haste to present me with more suitors” she says, unable to mask the twinge of bitterness that shines through her words.

Both Harwin and Larys smile, one more sincere than the other, understanding but not commenting on her plight. “His Grace should mount his horse soon, that’s when the hunt shall begin.”

“If it is as such, I need to make haste and prepare my own mount then” she informs them, turning away from the two men.

“Princess, forgive me, but I don’t think the Lord Hand meant for you to join the hunt” Larys interjects before she can move further than two steps away.

She stills, fire burning in her eyes. “Are you presuming to tell me what I can and cannot do, Larys? Am I to follow the orders of others? Me, the Crown Princess?” she hisses. She is sick and tired of men, of her father demanding a marriage, of her uncle missing, of her brother’s celebrations. She is tired and if that sentiment translates into anger, then so be it.

Ser Harwin is quick to step in, “Of course not Your Highness, I’m sure my brother was just echoing the thoughts many others will have if they see you riding along with us during the hunt. No disrespect was meant.”

Rhaenyra eyes Ser Harwin, so different from his half-brother. He is certainly attractive: broad shoulders, lovely brown curls, and even darker eyes. They call him Breakbones, the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, and she has no trouble believing suck a moniker to be true. His arms are almost as thick as her own waist. Another fact that endeared him to her is that he has yet to hint at anything regarding marriage. After all, he is a possible suitor himself.

She clicks her tongue, eyes dancing between the two brothers. “Of course, he didn’t. But given his worry, it feels proper to inform you that you would be wrong to presume I will be riding with the rest of the party.”

She leaves them after that, their gaping faces staring at her back. She walks between the tents with new purpose, the sea of nobles parting in front of her so she can reach her destination. She caresses her horse’s side, before signaling to the young men assigned to care for the mounts. She asks the stable boys to ready her mare for the hunt, saddling her and strapping some weapons to the saddle, and they immediately spring into action, not questioning her orders.

A few noble ladies give her strange looks, but she is used to ignoring the opinions of lesser people. She keeps her back straight and her eyes hard as she strides back to her own tent. She finds her maids tidying her quarters but as she enters, they drop what they are doing and bow low. She wastes no time with her words. “Please braid my hair so they won’t hinder me as I ride in the woods” she orders, not unkindly.

Two of her maids come to her while the others resume their work. In a matter of minutes her silver mane is braided tight over her head, similarly to a crown, and out of her face. “Do you like it, my Princess?” Elinda inquires, her smile timid but sincere. Rhaenyra answers with one of her own. “Immensely. Thank you very much. A job well done, as is always the case with you.”

Elinda Massey, a woman of three and twenty, a legitimized bastard of House Massey, holds a special place in the princess’ heart, being the maid that has been with her for most of her life. After all, the septa that took care of her was the same that cared for Alicent—her father thought it a wondrous thing that his daughter and the Hand’s shared the same septa, a way of bonding even closer he called it—and therefore in the service of House Hightower. She entered Alicent’s household after her marriage and now cares for that brat Aegon. Although, judging by the nearly constant screams the child produces at nearly every waking hour, she isn’t doing a very good job, nor are the other two septas assigned to the young prince. She mentally scoffs, able to express her emotions freely in the privacy of her mind. Three septas for one boy. How utterly ridiculous.

“Is something wrong, Your Highness?” another maid asks. If her memory doesn’t fail her, her name is Agatha.

“Nothing that can be done, I’m afraid. The parade of suitors is tiring but sadly necessary, at the least according to my father.”

“Would you like for us to prepare a bath for when you return from the hunt, Princess? It would also give you an excuse to stay away from other people for a while, if you so desire” Elinda asks, a knowing glint in her eyes.

“You know me well, Elinda. Yes, I’d appreciate it.” Rhaenyra laughs, followed by timid chuckles from her maids. Their mirth is interrupted by the sound of the trumpets, signaling the beginning of the hunt. She rises from her seat, grabbing the black cloak she has stolen from her uncle’s wardrobe to cover herself.

“Then it will be done. I hope your hunt is to be fruitful, my Princess. We shall await anxiously to see your surely impressive prey” Elinda bows, Agatha and the other two maids following her cue and wishing her luck as well.

With a smile, Rhaenyra exits the tent, going straight to her horse. The stableboys meet her as she is about to mount and detail the various weapons strapped to her saddle. She makes a point of remembering their names and thanks them for their service before mounting her white mare and galloping in the forest a mere few minutes after the rest of the party. She doesn’t miss the disbelieving whispers her departure spark.

True to her words to the Strong brothers, she doesn’t ride in the same direction of the other lords, but instead takes a more hidden route that she was only able to spot while flying with her Syrax. She has to circumvent a few fallen branches and must be careful while passing over slippery and mossy rocks, but her horse is more than capable, and they manage well.

Despite Elinda’s words and wishes, her catches are but small hares and a couple of wild birds—she silently sends a thanks to the Gods that she managed to convince her uncle to teach her how to use a bow as a child—and just as the sun begins to descend from its place high in the sky, she gets bored and decides to stop for a while to stretch her cramped legs and allow her mare some rest.

She guides her mount towards a stream they had passed earlier and ties her to a thick branch before placing her cloak on the ground and laying down on it. She closes her eyes, immersing herself in the calm and soothing sounds of the forest around her. She always feels the most at peace atop Syrax, breathing the fresh air of the skies and feeling the dampness of the clouds they dance around, but she must admit this is nearly as soothing. Certainly better than the chatter and frenzy of court.

Rhaenyra does so enjoy the adoring gazes of the smallfolk, the privileges, the compliments that hide the deep envy of the nobility, she really does, but even a dragon needs a safe place to rest. Her uncle would often take her riding when she was still too young to mount her own dragon, to take her away from the bores and sheep and fools of the court he used to say, and after she was able to take to the skies on her own their trips had doubled.

She used to ride her girl nearly every day, despite Daemon’s exile—something she was still particularly salty about—but lately her father has demanded her presence at court more often, limiting her trips to once or twice a week in the last moon.

Rhaenyra is so relaxed—for once having evaded both the nobles at court and the Kingsguard assigned to her for the day, Ser Criston Cole if she recalls correctly—that it takes her a few moments to hear the thumping sounds that seem to swiftly come closer to her place on the ground.

The Princess barely has time to spring on her feet before a boar bursts out of the foliage of the surrounding bushes and runs over the place she had just been laying on, dirtying the cloak with soil and leaves. She runs to her mare, who is now agitated aplenty, and rips arrows and bow out of their place on the saddle.

She curses her trembling hands as they prevent her from taking proper aim, but she doesn’t have time to steady herself before the boar is back on its assault, rounding back and charging at her with a savage squeal. She lets loose the arrow, but her aim is not true for the arrow lodges itself in the side of the boar, but only deep enough to slow its charge and not stopping it completely.

She doesn’t have time to move out of the way and the boar knocks her on her arse, and the only luck she apparently has left makes it so that she is still able to extract the dagger she has hidden in her boot. The boar is atop her chest, one of its legs digging in her lower stomach, making her short of breath. She cannot even hear her own thoughts over the squealing of the boar when her trusty mare knocks the boar away from her with a well-placed kick, sending it a few paces away from her and allowing the princess to regain her footing. Not giving the beast any time to recover, despite it being weak both from the arrow and the blow, Rhaenyra launches herself at it with a sharp cry, raising the dagger far above her head and bringing it down on its neck over and over again, splattering her face and with its blood until it wheezes its last breath.

She collapses beside the carcass, breathing heavily and wiping the blood from her eyes. She gingerly palms her abdomen where she’s sure there will be sizable bruises by the end of the day—even now every breath she takes hurts—and pushes away from her face the few strands of silver hair that managed to escape the coils of her braid. Her maids will have a fit at seeing her like this.

As she regains her bearings, she slowly gets on her feet, patting and thanking her mare, and then sets to figure out how in the seven hells she’s supposed to carry a boar all the way back to the royal camp. Before soon, however, her musings are interrupted by another set of animal feet, this time lighter and slower. Still, Rhaenyra is not willing to risk her safety any further and she quickly prepares her bow, this time with thankfully steadier hands.

However, what she sees shocks her into dropping her weapon.

The White Stag, proud and beautiful, struts in front of her, stopping at the other side of the stream and staring at her with dark, intelligent eyes. She is speechless. She doesn’t know what to do, but she can’t help but be filled with immense pride at being the one chosen by the stag. She is blessed, her rule will be true and rightful, or so the superstition around this magnificent beast says.

The stag croons lowly, bringing her back to the present, and takes a step forward, placing its hooves in the water. The stag seems to nod at Rhaenyra, beckoning her to come closer. So she does.

She takes off her boots and socks, rolling her trousers a bit so they don’t get wet, and steps into the freezing waters. Not matter the season, she has always found the waters of the Kingswood cold. She is close enough to touch the stag, but she doesn’t dare, afraid to scare the creature into fleeing.

The stag croons again, and then it does the most wondrous thing: it bows. It bows to her, Crown Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen. Such a thing as a White Stag bowing to someone was unheard of, but maybe that was reserved for those of the blood of the dragon, as much mythical and grandiose as the creature in front of her. Her breath catches in her throat, and suddenly all her injuries are forgotten, the aching pains supplanted by wonder and pride. The stag nuzzles her with its nose, and she relents and pets its silver skin, so much like her own hair.

She almost feels bad killing such a wondrous creature, but that is what she must do. The intelligent glint in the creature’s eyes tells her it’s aware of this too and does not begrudge her. After a few more reverent pets, she retreats to her side of the river, only barely surprised by the stag following her. It places itself beside the boar carcass, but before she’s even able to retrieve her bow—wanting to give the stag as much of a painless death as possible—another croon stops her. The stag nods to her cloak, still dirty and battered, then to a couple of thick branches and it occurs to her that she may be able to create some sort of carrier with which to carry it back to camp. She just might leave the boar here. Who would care for a boar when they have the great White Stag as prey?

She nods her thanks to the creature, sure it understands her, before picking up bow and arrow. The stag lays down on the ground, never taking its eyes away from her. Rhaenyra is amazed at the intelligence in its eyes, and she bows once again, her action once again returned by the stag. “Thank you for this honor, great one” she whispers and then lets loose the arrow.

The White Stag dies soundlessly and without pain, or so she hopes, for the arrow struck true in its heart. She is speechless. She stares at the silver carcass for so long her eyes start to water. She feels bad for killing such a grandiose creature, but she knows she had to. This will only further back up her claim to the throne. The stag is surely a gift from her beloved Gods, and she will not squander it.

The sun has just begun to set, time passing awfully fast, when Rhaenyra is done building the carrier for the stag. She’ll have to march slower and off her horse as to not strain her too much, but she thinks she might be able to carry back the boar as well. The procession must have already returned to the camp, her father not willing to separate himself from his beloved son for too long, and, despite the displeasure she feels for his continuous insistence at having her wed and bred before soon, she doesn’t want to make him worry too much. She did go out without her guard after all.

True to her predictions, the boar is safely placed beside the stag on the carrier, the cloak straining a bit under the combined weight of the two carcasses. The bloodied dagger she used to kill the boar has been cleaned of the blood, but the arrow that killed the stag is still embedded in its chest—she knows the arrow itself will be a testament that she was the one who killed it, clearing any doubt that surely envious tongues will start spreading. The arrows had been a gift from her uncle for the thirteenth nameday, customized to be smaller than normal and with a red, black, and golden tail. The colors of House Targaryen and her beautiful girl Syrax.

The walk back is as slow as predicted, and her mare is panting by the time they exited the woods—she’d make sure she’ll get some more treats from the stableboys—but the gapes on every noble’s face are more than worth it.

It’s almost as if every activity ceases as she emerges from the woods and trudges further deep in the camp, aiming for her father’s table in the middle of the settling. People part from her, and everyone does a double take when seeing her bounty. She is immediately surrounded by Kingsguards, the men got anxious at her disappearance, and she can vaguely hear some of them being dispatched to inform the others that the princess is back.

She spots her kingly father immediately, at his table as predicted, holding Aegon in his arms while perusing the sea of people with his eyes. Alicent and Otto are by his side, with Lord Lyonel and Tyland Lannister, and they are all dining calmly. Alicent, despite all her lessons on posturing and propriety, can’t mask the displeasure of seeing her. Whether that is because she stole the White Stag from her husband or because she’s covered in blood, which she hasn’t bothered washing off, she can’t tell and frankly she doesn’t care. Otto at least manages a small, fake smile, while the other two are simply astonished. Her own maids look as if they are debating whether to faint at the sight of the blood or beaming with pride for her kills.

“My girl!” her father booms, giving the wiggling child to his wife, and coming towards her, “I would ask where you have been all this time, but your prey speaks for itself.”

“Indeed, father. I regret not being able to inform my assigned Kingsguard of my departure, but I felt compelled to go in the forest as soon as possible. I would have been remiss if I hadn’t answered such an important call.” Rhaenyra is lying through her teeth, she most certainly doesn’t regret not informing Ser Criston, but she needs to play the part.

The princess can feel the physical weight of all the eyes on her. “I hope you are not displeased with me for killing the White Stag in your stead.”

Her father looks appalled at the thought. “Of course not, Rhaenyra. I’m very proud of you, my dear child. Not only the White Hart, but also a boar! This proves with even more certainty that I chose my heir well. A prey borne of Holiness, and one borne of strength. The Realms shall be secure with you as their Queen.” the last part he shouts, opening his arms to let everyone bask in the glory of the Crown Princess, who now holds the blessing of the gods.

“All hail Princess Rhaenyra, Heiress to the Iron Throne!” a voice which sounds suspiciously like Ser Harwin booms from behind her, and soon cheers, applauses, and toasts are made in her name.

She smiles when her father kisses her brow, mindful of not getting any blood on his lips, and he gestures for servants to retrieve the boar and stag. “I want the stag skinned and its hide fashioned into a coat for me, while for the boar do whatever you wish but make sure that there’s enough fur to line a pair of boots. I shall gift my uncle at least part of my kill” she says, intercepting one of the butchers in charge of her kills.

“As you command, my Princess” he says, bowing deeply.

“Come, my girl, your maids are surely eager to have you washed” her father says, putting an arm around her shoulders before leaning down to whisper in her ear, “I’m very proud of you, my dear, I’m sure your mother would be as well.”

With that, tears spring unbidden to her eyes as they always to at the mention of her late mother. It’s a small comfort to know that her father still has her on his mind, for even if she always sees the ring her mother used to wear on his finger, she cannot help but wonder is she truly is still in his heart.

“I’m sure they do, father. I think I’ll spend the night in my tent if it’s amenable. That boar was a tough one, trampling me and knocking me to the ground” she jokes, blinking her eyes to subtly will away her tears before anyone can notice them.

Her father whirls to look at her. “What? Are you well? My child, you should have said something earlier, I’ll have a maester sent to you at once” he frames her face with his hands, the worry in his eyes visible.

“Worry not, father. I am well and shall remain so. The maester’s examination can wait. I feel like I’ll have some very impressive bruises on the morrow, but nothing is as grave as you make it sound” Rhaenyra hurries to assure him.

He sighs, “As you say. But at the first hint of pain…” he trails off.

“I’ll fetch a maester at once. Please, don’t worry about me.”

He smiles and starts once again to guide her to the table. “Choose some food to bring into your tent, it’s best if you put something in you before sleeping or on the morrow your belly will rumble loud enough to wake the entire camp” he jokes, making the princess chuckle.

“As you command, my King” she kisses his cheek, before approaching the table while her father goes back to his seat.

“Step-daughter” Alicent greets her, her tone barely warm enough to pass off as civil. “It’s not polite to disappear without telling anyone.”

The smile on Rhaenyra’s face turns icy, but before she has any time to reply her father chuckles and places a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Alicent, be at peace. You heard my daughter. The call could not go unanswered, and for her faith in them the Gods rewarded her with a plentiful hunt and a great honor. Is the White Hart not sacred in your own religion as well, wife?”

Rhaenyra is barely able to contain a gleeful smirk at the disgruntled expression on Alicent’s face. She had lightened up when her father mentioned the Gods, only to sink back to sulking rather pettily at the remark that he was not referring to her beloved Seven, but the Valyrian Fourteen. She is immensely pleased by her father’s words. As much as he plays the part of a Westerosi king, he is still a Targaryen, and while historically they kept cordial relations with the Faith, they are Valyrian and as such their allegiance and devotion is only to the Old Gods of Valyria and them alone.

“I’m sure that the blessing you speak of will not only extend to her rule” Otto manages to say with a poisonous smile, “but also her marriage and the birthing bed, Your Grace.”

And with those words, the smile falls off Rhaenyra’s face completely, unable to mask her distaste. She can clearly see her maids flinching. They know better than most of her feelings regarding the matter, having listened to many cries and weeps about the fate destined for her womb. However, her father manages to not see her flinch, oblivious as always, and instead smiles brightly at his cunt of a Hand. “I certainly hope so, Otto.”

The rest of the men offer their congratulations for her kills, praising her skills and thanking her for providing a tasty meal for the following days.

Rhaenyra quickly instructs one of her maids to gather some of her favorites from the spread on the table and then hastily retreats to her tent, not bothering with anything more than a barely cordial farewell. Elinda is already awaiting her to help with the bath, and she couldn’t have been more thankful for the maids she has chosen as they immediately divert the conversation away from marrying men and birthing babes, and instead launch in a discussion about her fruitful hunt followed by a heated debate about how the seamstress will surely do a marvelous job at creating a coat out of the skin of the stag.

Chapter Text

By order of the King, the hunt has been called off sometime after she retired to her tent the night before, and as such the day is set to be a lazy one, filled with chatter and food. Her father has decided to remain in the proximity of the Kingswood to bask in the sun and nature for another day and then begin the return to court on the morrow.

Rhaenyra doesn’t mind staying out of the Red Keep another day. Despite the fact that she grew up in the palace and enjoyed the attention the court gave her, the appeal of the freedom nature grants has never been lost on her. What she does mind, however, is the dreadful company.

The gossip sparked by her plentiful hunt the night before has not yet weaned, something the Crown Princess quickly finds out as she settles into an armchair of red velvet, awaiting the tea and pastries she asked to be served for breakfast. Like for most things concerning the royal house, and Valyrians as a whole, there are those who speak of her feat with awe and reverence, and those who condemn it as inappropriate and untasteful. Unfortunately for her, the present company seems to be of the latter category. The only positive to that is that the Queen is nowhere to be seen, leaving her surrounded by noble ladies and Larys Strong, sitting hunched over in a chair near the walls of the tent.

“Princess Rhaenyra, how fortunate for you to find the White Stag” Lady Redwyne says, her words kind but her tone not at all. The old woman has never liked her, for whatever reason Rhaenyra cares not, and that dislike only grew after she was named heir to the Iron Throne.

“’Twas not fortune, Lady, but the will of the Gods. The Stag showed itself to me, and now the Gods’ grace belongs to me. It is indeed a great fortune, for my future reign has been blessed, but I’d like to think my actions have endeared myself to my Gods as they do not give blessings readily.”

She doesn’t miss the souring of the Lady’s expression, no doubt at the mention of her Valyrian Gods, but she elects to ignore it in favor of sipping her tea. The other nobles present all take the hint, breaking their silence and beginning to eat as well. The gossipers, however, don’t stop the wagging of their tongues despite the Princess’ presence.

“The Queen was furious, I could hear her hissing all the way from her tent to mine own…”, “The Princess sure is a bold one. Who would want to marry such a wild thing…”, “Her future husband better be of the strong sort, or else!”, “Her rule shall be blessed…”

At some point, Rhaenyra simply decides to ignore the whispers of the people surrounding her, both positive and negative, instead focusing on one specific sound.  Not that it’s too difficult—it is a very… piercing one.

The young Prince’s cries can be heard all over the settlement, and while the majority of women and men here have much familiarity with children’s tantrums, the Princess has not. The only cries she has ever heard before her half-brother’s birth were the ones of her mother’s labors, and the wailing of both her parents after each of the babes’ deaths. As such, the jarring contrast of the peacefulness of being an only child and the noisiness of a younger brother is quite grating on her nerves. Rhaenyra has always desired a sibling, but that was before her former best friend firmly planted herself in her father’s sheets. She wrestles away the thoughts that soon she’ll have to deal with not one, but two sets of wailing lungs.

The horror of that not so far future is quickly squashed by the realization of the present cries getting closer.

She doesn’t bother raising up and greeting her father properly as he enters the tent, his youngest child in his arms, ignoring the wails he emits and the grimaces on the nobles’ faces before they hide them behind bows and curtsies. He doesn’t seem to care, too focused on his beloved male child and what she assumes is a failing attempt at curbing his displeasure.

“How can such a small thing produce such deafening sounds is beyond me” she whispers under her breath, so low that she doubts even Elinda, who is standing behind her, has heard. A suffocated chuckle proves that she has.

Her father’s attention finally falls on her, just as she’s chewing on a pastry. “Ah, my child. I was searching for you” he exclaims, prompting everyone to make space around the Princess so the two, monarch and heir, can have a modicum of privacy.

She washes down the pastry with a hearty gulp of tea. “Here I am, father. Why were you in such haste to find me this early in the day?”

Her father gestures for a servant to bring forth a chair for him to sit on, and as soon as he’s presented with it, he takes place with his son perched on his knee. The now slightly calmer child looks at her in wonder. They have not interacted much, Rhaenyra and Aegon, so his curiosity is understandable. What is not understandable, nor acceptable, is the fact that the King straightens his arms and wordlessly plops his son right in his daughter’s lap.

Viserys, as is known, is a master at ignoring signs—many of them and even the most obvious, all in the name of keeping peace and quiet. He appears to do the same as he blissfully ignores the glare his firstborn sends him, instead smiling at the picture the two children of his seed make. Rhaenyra muses that it must be a pitiful picture. She is frowning quite fiercely and the child is grabbing the closest silver braid he can get and stuffing it in his mouth, slobbering all over it. Disgusting.

“Ah, what a wonderful family I’m blessed to have” the king sighs wistfully, a small smile lighting up his round face.

“The only thing missing is mother” Rhaenyra snaps back, with more bite than she originally intended, but she cannot help it. He is so happy, while some nights she still dreams about her mother slipping from her grasp, crying and wailing, butchered by the man supposed to love her and all but forgotten a few moons later by nearly all. But not by her.

She doesn’t miss the hurt that flashes in his eyes, but the king attempts to placate her with his usual patience nonetheless. “Your mother will always be in my heart, as she must always be in yours, I hope. But I think my dear Aemma would want our happiness, even if she cannot be part of it.”

And the worst thing is that he’s not wrong, Rhaenyra thinks. Her mother was a kind, gentle and altruistic woman. One who would have thrived had she been given any role other than being a simple broodmare. She knows her parents loved each other, but she also can’t help but think her father loved what his wife’s womb could give him so much more. And when the time came to choose between the two, the choice was clear.

But the Gods work in mysterious ways, taking back what they could have given, either to punish or reward. Leaving some with nothing and others with everything. Their goodwill is known to be fickle, but above all else they value family and loyalty. The blood of the dragon binds more than any oath, after all. Viserys paid for his choice with the lives of his beloved and his lifelong desire, a true Targaryen son, and his sin will remain with him for the rest of his days and haunt him even after Balerion takes him back in death.

“My daughter, you should spend more time with your brother. After all, you’ll soon have children of your own in your arms. You could use the practice.”

Her bones freeze, as they always do when childbirth is mentioned, as they did the evening before when the Hand drove a knife in the still-tender wound of her mother’s demise. She forces herself to relax her limbs, not willing to accidentally harm Aegon by squeezing him too hard. Despite her dislike of him, she isn’t going to fault him for the sins of his parents. Another point in his favor is that he quit his whining as soon as he got settled in her arms. His eyes are now fixated on the rings adorning her fingers and the braid still in his mouth.

The sensation of small fingers on her own ones helps keep her from unpleasant memories. None of the memories of her mother contain a living child.

“There is still time, my King. I am not yet betrothed as you well know” she says, pursing her lips. Her gaze shoots to Aegon when he makes a gurgling noise before returning to her father as she hears a long, tired sigh.

“Rhaenyra, I have thought much about your future. You must marry, you know this. It is our duty as royals, and I’m sure that you’ll thrive in the role of mother. I only wish for you to grasp whatever chance you have at flourishing, and to excel as I’m certain you’ll do” he begins, speaking calmly in an attempt to placate her for the news this conversation is due to bring.

“Do not dance around the point, kepa” she says sharply, switching to High Valyrian for a conversation that she’s certain has no place being heard by the surrounding nobles’ ears. They all pretend to be busy, to eat and talk among themselves, but their hearing is sharp, and the smell of gossip is enough to make them circle around them like vultures to a carcass.

He clicks his tongue, but acquiesces her obvious desire for secrecy, his next words in High Valyrian as well. His accent is not perfect, rusty after many years of spare use of the language, but Rhaenyra decides not to tease him for it. “I have spoken with many suitors while you were hunting, tala. Many of them offer advantages and luxuries you could enjoy, but none more so than the Lannisters. I think Jason Lannister would be a fine match for you.”

She needs to resort to every bit of courtly manners that her mother and tutors drilled into her to avoid making a scene. She wants to screech and rage, to wipe the benevolent expression off her father’s face, to kill Jason Lannister and flay his skin and use it as a rug, for a man like him deserves nothing but to be under her feet like the disgusting dirt he is. Not at her arm, her side, as husband and future King Consort.

How can her father think it a good match? Rhaenyra asks the question aloud, the High Valyrian flowing from her tongue tinted with rage and barely contained disgust.

He sighs, “Tala, he is from a powerful house…”

She doesn’t let him finish. “He is an arrogant, prideful child trapped in the body of an adult, and he won’t respect me nor my future role in the hierarchy of the Realm. You cannot possibly think it’ll be a good idea to have Westerosi blood on the throne. Much less Lannister’s.”

He raises an eyebrow, ignoring her blatant disrespect. “Your own mother was an Arryn, you’ll do well to remember.”

A scoff. “You know just as well as I do that the only Westerosi traits about my mother were the lack of a dragon and her devotion to the Faith.”

“Still, you’ll have to marry someone, Rhaenyra. You cannot help it. None of us is above tradition and duty, my girl. I have given you enough freedom as it is, you are ten and six namedays old and have yet to be betrothed. It’s unheard of, and it will change soon.”

The Princess snarls at the same moment her brother squeals and tugs at her braid. “I will not marry Jason Lannister, kepa. I’ll sooner drive a sword in his gut than be tied in any way to that man. That I swear to you, Gods as my witnesses.”

She has been trying her father’s patience for the entire discussion, but the flash of ire in his eyes tells her how close he is to losing his wits. She gently takes the braid out of her brother’s hands, lest he rip it off in his excitement, and sighs, pretending to be tired. In reality, she’s furious at the way her father sees her. Like something to be exchanged for a powerful fleet, gold or an alliance. He forgets that he is the King, he doesn’t need alliances when he is owed the Realm’s obedience.

“Kepa, give me time. Nine moons and I shall present you with a betrothed.” She knows he’ll never accept such a lengthy measure of time to pass, but she needs to try.

True to her predictions, he sputters in rage. “You are out of your mind if you think you’ll have that long. I’ve been slowly drowning in parchments filled with marriage proposals these past years since you’ve come of age, and I won’t see you try and weasel your way out of your duty. Three moons.”

She grits her teeth. “Seven moons for a tour of the Seven Kingdoms in search of my betrothed.”

“Five moons will be more than enough.”

“Six. And when I choose a husband, I’ll have a short betrothal before the wedding, just long enough to prepare the celebrations.”

Her father sighs tiredly, massaging his temples. He looks much older than his eight and thirty namedays. The stress of ruling, the death of Queen Aemma and all the babes lost have surely tired his spirit, not to mention the devastation he must have felt when his Balerion died. All those tragedies, however, do not give the King the right to make others as miserable as he feels. Although, the happiness on his face when Alicent bore him a son was greater than Rhaenyra had ever seen.

“Very well, but I must ask you to exercise the intelligence I know you possess. Choose wisely, and not from a minor house. Given your desire to choose a suitor yourself, I’ll henceforth direct all mail about marriage to you” he says, with no small amount of satisfaction.

“So be it” she answers, this time in the Common Tongue. And as such the matter is settled.

She sips at her tea for all of a second before the child in her arms demands her attention, nearly smacking the teacup from her hands in his eagerness. She deftly avoids his grubby fingers before turning the child so he’s sitting facing her, his back supported by her hands. He looks up at her, wide violet eyes and smiling mouth, and his father chuckles. “I’ll leave you two to bond and be together for a while. I shall visit my wife” he says, drinking the rest of his wine and disappearing outside the tent. The nobles immediately bow as he retreats but then go back to their mindless gossiping.

“My Princess, is everything alright?” Elinda asks softly, so that only she might hear.

“No, but that is something we’ll discuss in the privacy of my tent. Please, grab some water for Aegon” her answer is curt but not unkind, and the servant girl rushes to obey her beloved mistress as she has always done.

The child babbles about dragons and battles, squeezing her little finger with all his might. “Hello” she says to him when his eyes return to hers once more.

The only answer she gets is a silverly laugh, her brother’s eyes alight with happiness. When Elinda comes back, the cup of water is readily presented to the young prince, who grabs it with eager hands and drinks the entire thing, spilling only a few drops. He hiccups a bit when he’s done, but after a few pats on the back he’s back to being calm. The princess hums, “It seems you’re not so terrible when you’re not wailing, valonqar. If only you were not related to your mother’s blood.”

The prince of course doesn’t understand, and instead keeps looking at her necklace, trying and failing to reach the three rubies which hang from a golden chain around her neck. She bounces him on her knees, evading his attempts at stealing her pastries, and occasionally blowing some air on his face, making him giggle.

The Princess quickly tires of sitting there and gets up, intending on going to her tent. The sun blinds her when she finally escapes the nobles piled in the tent, and even Aegon is displeased by the sudden light if his muted whine is any indication. She strides to her destination, ignoring the looks she garners just because she’s holding her brother in her arms.

What she doesn’t miss, however, is the almost panicked look Otto Hightower throws her. She barely catches it, just as the flaps of her tent close behind her, but it is clear that it was directed to herself. She doubts that the conversation with Lord Marq Ambrose could have warranted such a reaction.

Her maids immediately flutter around her, taking the child from her arms and placing him on her bed, cooing at him. She would have preferred him to be on the ground, but in her tent there is no place where he can play safely and without getting cold. Entertaining a child was not, after all, on her list of priorities when her maids thought about what to pack for this hunt.

“Princess, this arrived while you were breaking your fast.” Elinda bows as she presents the missive to her mistress, before resuming her work of arranging the Princess’ oils and lotions.

Rhaenyra is surprised by the Velaryon seal stamped on the wax keeping the message closed. She makes her way to a cushioned chair and sits, opening the roll of parchment. The words are in High Valyrian, and her dear cousin Laena’s loopy handwriting is clearly recognizable. No longer bearing the sweet flowery embellishments there used to be in her childhood, her penmanship has evolved in these years during which they have corresponded. Rhaenyra has many sheets of parchment to attest to this growth, the Princess and Laena’s letters being many and lengthy, their only form of contact after the leave of the Velaryons from court. Her cousin’s hand pens delightfully, but still her words worry her.

My beloved cousin,

I wish this letter would bring only congratulations for your half-brother’s second nameday—another year during which you have remained heir, much to my delight and dismay of some men at court. But alas, it does not. I write to you in secret, to tell you upsetting news I wish for you to hear before others.

My father and Daemon are planning to go to war, Rhaenyra.

They will announce this to the King in a fortnight. My father has already sent a letter to yours stating his desire to return to court and med the relationship between our Houses. He’ll probably hope to talk the King into a betrothal between Laenor and yourself, as well. The war shall be against the Crabfeeder, a man who kills my father’s sailors by feeding them to crabs, thus crippling our trade. This vile man is not only backed by the Triarchy, such is called the coalition between Myr, Lys and Tyrosh, but is also plagued by Greyscale.

My father plans to take with him Daemon, my uncle Vaemond and my own twin brother. I ask this of you, my cousin: please, do all you can to convince the King to aid them in this war. My father, as you know, is a proud man, he’ll want to win this war regardless of the cost. Please, make it so this cost can be as minimal as possible.

I am delighted that we’ll meet each other after so long, but I’m also afraid for their lives. The only thing keeping me from despising this entire affair is our imminent reunion. Until then, my sweet mandia, I’ll dream of your arms comforting me and your Golden Lady making me taste the skies. Hopefully, this will be enough to keep the nightmares away.

Forever yours,

Your cousin Lady Laena.

Rhaenyra is speechless. She’s sure she must be paler than ever.

Her uncle has been exiled from court for some moons, after the death of her queenly mother, but not too long ago her father revoked the exile. Yet, her uncle has not returned.

This seems to be the reason. War.

She cannot help but worry: her uncle is formidable, she knows this, but still vulnerable. Rhaenys, the Conqueror’s wife and the woman she was named after, died in battle despite riding a formidable dragon herself. Recalling a mental map of the Kingdoms, the Princess correctly places the Stepstones near Dorne. The very same place where the weapon that killed Meraxes and her rider was invented.

“My Princess are you well?” a serving girl with mousy brow hair approaches the stock-still figure of her mistress.

Her focus snaps back to the present, seeing how all the maids are subtly looking at her with worry, even the ones entertaining the young Prince. She clears her throat unnecessarily.

“Everyone leave, only Elinda is to stay. While you go bring some toys and fruits for my half-brother and writing supplies for myself. Do so at once.”

The order is carried out in the blink of an eye and soon she has Aegon in her arms, his pudgy hands fiddling with a wooden dragon, while Elinda settles the paper and ink she has requested on a table. The Princess has not yet spoken of the message in the parchment, but the serving girl is sure that it must be something truly upsetting for her to react as such.

She dares speak. “Your Highness, are you certain you want nothing else? Forgive my candor, but you’re as pale as snow. Shall I have some chamomile prepared for my Princess?”

Rhaenyra sighs, breaking out of the perfect posture her lady mother drilled into her at a young age, the circumstances too heavy and somber for propriety to remain a priority. Especially in such trusted company. “What I desire cannot be granted easily, Elinda, but I thank you for your effort. However, I shall need your services shortly. For now, please entertain my half-brother. Be careful with the fruits you feed him and, if necessary, sing him a song to keep him occupied. Take care not to be too loud, for I shall be penning a message of utmost importance.”

“At your behest, my Princess.”

Rhaenyra prepares the stationary in front of her and starts scribbling on the sheet in front of her. The High Valyrian flows from her mind to the parchment under her ministration in small and precise letters, forgoing the preferred flourish her cousin adds in favor of compressing the message in as little space as possible all the while maintaining a proper calligraphy. Her mother oft used to lament her minuscule printing, but she never grew out of it.

My dearest Laena,

Hearing from you is always a delight, and you know more than well that your support is a fortune I shall never be worthy of. The news you pass along is indeed troubling, and my heart grows somber with the thoughts of the times ahead.

I thank and commend your effort in getting this message to me with such secrecy. I shall repay it with my own efforts in convincing my father of the necessity of this war. However I will not lie to you, it shan’t be an easy feat. You know my father wishes for his reign to follow in the footsteps of the Old King Jaehaerys, and a war would surely mar the peaceful rule he has managed to uphold till now. ‘Tis no matter that snakes and vultures circle all around us at every moment, but I digress.

Your father’s ambition has not diminished in time, I see. Not that I blame him, being quite the same as he, but he must know that a marriage between me and Laenor would bring only sorrow to his son. Thankfully, the King has just this very morning renewed his promise in letting me choose my betrothed freely on my own. I adore both you and your twin, hāedar, and it’s that very same love that tells me that such a match shouldn’t happen. As you are aware, I am not what Laenor desires, and I refuse to bind him to such an unhappy predicament.

I shall attempt to placate your father by proposing you enter my household as my first lady in waiting as Crown Princess. I cannot think of anyone I’d love to have beside me the most, my sweet. Naturally, the first person to agree to this must be you. When we meet again, wear pearls if you agree with my proposition, and sapphires if you don’t. I shall not begrudge you a refusal, the Gods know I myself would flee the court in favor of the freedom of quieter avenues if I could.

Do not attempt to respond to this, I shall await these days till we see each other again. The comfort of your arms is as dear to me as it is to you it seems, and I know my Lady will be more than delighted to carry you to the skies again.

Eternally yours,

Crown Princess Rhaenyra.

As soon as the missive is finished, sealed and secured, the Princess tasks her maid with its delivery, speaking to her in hushed whispers of the secrecy required for the task. With her departure from the tent, the Heir is left with the one many would wish to hold the title instead. She must admit that now, away from the judging eyes of both allies and enemies alike, she cannot bring herself to feel contempt for the boy. She despises everything that led to his birth, that’s true, but her mother would curse her to the depth of her Faith’s Seven hells if she even considered hating an innocent child for the sins of the parents.

She eats a slice of orange, sheds her boots and outer layers, remaining only in her red cotton dress and stockings, and then picks up her brother. The boy is sleepy, his eyes are drooping and it’s clear that he’s in need of a nap. He’s not so tired as to be unable to mutter her name, avoiding several letters in favor of a babbled “Nyra”. The princess smiles nonetheless, tendrils of affections slowly blooming in her heart for the young child. He curls contentedly in her arms, cooing softly and absentmindedly playing with strands of her silver hair. His own hair is unlike her own: where her strands are straight and pure white, his curl slightly at the ends and have a more golden hue. No doubt influences of the Andal blood of his mother.

She is no expert when it comes to children, but she is quite certain that even as a child sleeping with an embroidered coat on is not particularly comfortable. His little coat is red like the rest of his outfit, with golden dragons embroidered all over his back and the cuffs of his sleeves. Alicent surely doesn’t pay any expense to make sure her son is regarded as a true Valyrian dragonlord.

The Princess sighs, shaking her head to rid herself of those sour thoughts, before removing Aegon’s coat. ‘Tis by simple luck, or maybe the will of the Gods, that she spots the abnormality in the garment.

Holding the boy with one hand, having him lean on her chest, she unfurls the coat so that the inside is visible. Her throat closes as soon as she sees the patterns embroidered in the fabric, hidden by view but nonetheless less important. No wonder the boy cries every second, for bright green flames over white towers are stitched over his back and over the lapel that falls on his heart, along with several small seven-pointed stars. The tailor managed to hide the stiches so that the depiction on the outside and the one on the inside don’t overlap. She wouldn’t have paid attention to the detail had it been the mere symbol of Alicent’s House, but the green stands out like a beacon to her. For that’s what it is: a beacon of war.

Her eyes turn to her brother, peacefully dozing in her embrace and drooling on her shoulder. She hums and lays on her back, settling him more firmly on her chest, his little hands thankfully hanging on the neckline of her dress and not her necklace. “What are they trying to do with you, valonqar?”

As soon as she utters the Valyrian word for younger brother, however, the peace of her tent is abruptly disrupted by the quite rude entrance of none other than the Queen herself.

Rhaenyra is infinitely grateful for the fact that she has folded the coat properly as to hide the presence of the inner layer, because as soon as Alicent notices that Aegon isn’t wearing it, her eyes dart to the garment so quick she almost misses it. Despite her superior station compared to her, Rhaenyra doesn’t rise. Her brother is asleep and she doesn’t wish to disturb him. Moreover, she doesn’t have to pretend with niceties and courtesy when it’s just her and Alicent. Both of them know that she is no Queen of hers.

“I have been searching for my son for quite a while, stepdaughter. You could have at least bothered to inform the mother of the child you are taking that you are doing so” her voice is haughty, and colder than usual.

After the betrothal with her father, the relationship between the two girls had inevitably withered, reaching incredibly low levels the days near the wedding itself. It was only thanks to much begging from the King that Rhaenyra had even bothered to attend the Queen-to-be in her preparation for the ceremony. While Alicent had at first tried to reconcile with the Heir, she had and still has no intention of ever letting her close to her heart ever again. And so the Queen’s attempts at polite conversation, her invites for teas and walks, had all gone unanswered.

Rhaenyra had known that her friend was truly gone when the betrothal had been announced, but the last embers of affection had truly frozen over when Alicent had sent to her all of her mother’s belongings—jewelry, books, gowns, accessories and so much more—and expected her to be grateful.

As if was not mere decency that she did so. Alicent had used her lady mother’s dresses to seduce the King, did she want to use the former Queen’s as well? Has she not sunk low enough? Whoring herself out to the King in spite of every notion of dignity she has always prided herself on having. Oh, Rhaenyra had heard many tirades of Alicent’s, back when the betrothal was announced, of how she had been forced by her father, how she didn’t want to do that, how she still wanted her as a friend.

Never mind that as Rhaenyra’s lady in waiting, all betrothals were supposed to go through her, that the orders of her mistress were supposed to come over those of family, that she should have come to her for protection and not to the King to warm his bed.

“The King himself entrusted me with Aegon and prompted me to spend time with him. Perhaps the next time you are worried about you child’s whereabouts it would be advisable to ask the King first. You can avoid the fatigue of walking in your condition, after all the King’s word is law on all matters, including his children and who they spend time with. Not that there is need for such orders when it comes to blood relations.” Rhaenyra’s voice is flat, devoid of any warmth.

The brunette’s eyes narrow before she schools her features into a calm mask. “I am the Queen, I come second to the King, dear stepdaughter.”

“Ah, but that’s where you are wrong” the Princess clicks her tongue with faux disappointment. “Perhaps you should have studied our culture a little bit more devotedly before marrying into my House. Although, I do not blame your lack of knowledge about royal hierarchy given your previous… station. When it comes to House Targaryen, blood comes first and foremost. The hierarchy is defined by rank, naturally, but the blood of the dragon is thick, and it runs true in all of us. Then, and only then, the sheep follow” she smirks at the Queen’s outraged look.

Without giving her interlocutor a chance of rebuttal, Rhaenyra continues her lesson. “My Father, myself, Prince Aegon and any future siblings of mine, then Prince Daemon, followed by any legitimate children he might have in the future. Princess Rhaenys, Lady Laena and Ser Laenor.” She counts every name on her fingers.

“Then the others come. The Hand of the King, the Queen Consort” she places an excessive amount of attention to the last word, “and all the other Lords and Ladies.”

“I hope it is clear to you now, Alicent, that that is the hierarchy you must respect.” Her tone is nothing short of disrespectful, but frankly she doesn’t care.

The Queen’s cheeks are as red as her dress, her forehead a bit sweaty, and she looks ready to start screeching when one of Rhaenyra’s maids, Agatha, comes into the tent, quivering under the furious Queen’s gaze but still giving the message she was sent to give. “His Grace the King wishes for Princess Rhaenyra to join him in his tent for a most urgent matter.”

Rhaenyra rises from her bed, Aegon still blissfully asleep in her arms. As she tries to put on his coat without waking him, she delivers the final blow to her former friend. “Agatha, please, escort the Queen Consort to a maester. She looks quite tired. Have him brew her a calming tea or something of the likes. I know not what is better for the babe. Do not let her dissuade either of you from this, for she mistakenly thought she had the strength to walk around the camp when it’s clear she’s in no condition to do so, as you can clearly discern. Thank you.”

Her maid is quick to obey her orders and the last thing she sees before exiting her tent with Aegon still in her arms, after redressing herself as to be proper when stepping outside, is the absolutely enraged expression on her dear stepmother’s face. Her cackle is not loud, but she’s sure Alicent must have heard it, which makes it all the more satisfying.

Chapter Text

Alicent has always been pious, dutiful. She has learned all the duties of a good woman from her mother, her beloved mother who left this world too soon. Alicent cried for days after her death, but her father consoled her by saying that she now swims in the beatifying Light of the Seven-in-One.

Since she was young, she has followed in her mother’s steps, serving her House and the Faith with unyielding loyalty. Serving food and drinks to the learned maesters who visited her home in Oldtown, praying all days with the Septons and Septas at the Starry Sept, sewing tunics and garments for the Silent Sisters who took care of her family members’ bodies, dutifully following her House’s role as protectors, sponsors and followers of the Faith.

Alicent has done everything her father ordered her to do, as is his right as the patriarch of her little family in King’s Landing, an extension of the one in Oldtown. He promised her that his words carried the will of the Gods, and by following them she would be rewarded. And Alicent has indeed gained what he promised. The title of Queen, riches and admiration, a loving husband that listens to her, a child that one day will sit on the Iron Throne. She had been most skeptical by the pronunciation of this last decree, done by her father in the privacy of his rooms in the Tower of the Hand. But her father has never steered her wrong, not even when she was afraid of what the people would say as she spent hours and nights in the mourning King’s company, and then later entered his bed before the holy union of marriage. She was terribly afraid of the judgment of the people, yes, but above all her Gods. Her father had reassured her that in the eyes of the Seven the King and she were already one, and the Mother was anxious to reward her by filling her womb with children to spread the message of piety and love of the Seven. Her septa said so as well, and so she did as commanded.

She has lived her life in piety and dutifulness, trying to make the Seven proud, for their Light guides all those who are worthy to goodness. She has even tried to bring Princess Rhaenyra, her childhood friend, to see the true path of the Seven-in-One. She read to her from the sacred scriptures, brought her to the sept, had her confer with many septas and septons, but it was all for naught. Despite the fact that both Queen Aemma and the King honored the Seven, the Queen more publicly than her husband, their daughter has not inherited the same devotion. Alicent has tried, truly, to bring her to the Light, but her friend wanted to hear none of it. None of the teachings were enough to pierce her misplaced devotion for her own false gods. The Fourteen Flames, she recalls they are called.

When she was a mere girl, she oft used to defend this bizarre religion to her father, who was ever worried about the future of the Princess, for nothing good comes of defying the true gods. But as she grew older, she realized that it is as her father always warned her it would be. The Princess was not a true follower of the Faith, despite all their efforts. She was entrenched in her false, barbarian religion and would not listen to sense.

Her mind is poisoned.

How can a princess of the realm uphold duty and decency whilst refusing to bend to the truest form of decency itself, to the Seven? Honor, duty and sacrifice. These are the words women must always keep in mind, and Rhaenyra has shown time and again her defiance of all. She remembers the way she would laugh and mock her devotion. The freshest memory of that occurring is a few moons before Queen Aemma’s death, on the anniversary of her own mother’s death. She had prayed at the sept for an entire morning, forgetting to tell Rhaenyra where she would be. Her knees had been left bruised by the constant kneeling, and when she had revealed them to her friend she had only laughed, wiggling her eyebrows in a manner most unbefitting of a noble lady. “Alicent, I didn’t know you had it in you!” she had giggled, and Alicent had frowned. How could her friend not know of her devotion?

“Daughter mine, what has you so deep in thought?” Otto Hightower asks, recalling the young Queen from her mind back to the present. His green overcoat was threaded with black, a nod to the House he serves as Hand, and gold, his hair a lighter brown than hers. All of Alicent’s features bar the dark eyes have been an inheritance from her mother, something her father has always been immensely pleased by.

“I was thinking about my stepdaughter” she answers, not minding her words due to the lack of nobles surrounding her. It would not do, after all, to bother the Queen in front of her tent without invitation.

“You think about her,” he says, his tone sharp and reprimanding, “and yet you miss her doings that happen right under your nose.”

Her head snaps to him, the red net holding most of her hair at her nape rubbing her skin, though not unpleasantly. The accessory has been fashioned by one of her maids, arrived from the Hightower a few days before her wedding, in a style that would emulate the cap the Septas wore. Naturally, she has to maintain a level of propriety and clothe herself as befitting of her station, but her septa had shed happy tears when told of this tribute.

“What do you mean, father?”

“I mean that the Princess has just entered her tent with your son of her hip and none to guard him.”

The Queen’s gaze rapidly falls on the aforementioned tent, spotting a singular guard a little bit removed from the lapels of cloth that constituted as entrance, but still close enough to hear of any problem or defend from possible threats.

“There is a guard, father. Nothing shall happen to my boy.”

Otto clicks his tongue, the disappointment clear in his eyes. “Foolish daughter, ‘tis not physical threats that worry me. Not yet anyway, but the threat of corruption.”

At her wide, scared eyes, the Hand tones down his fury and places a rough hand upon his daughter’s cheek. “I do not fault you for not seeing this, ‘tis not your duty to pay attention to such things, but be thankful that you have me at your side or otherwise we’d be doomed. The Princess is a source of sin, my daughter. You know this to be true. Your son cannot interact with her, or she will corrupt him and make him stray from the path of the Seven.”

A quiet gasp leaves her throat at that, for her father is right.

She has never even considered the Princess to be a threat. She herself has spent many years at Rhaenyra’s side without ever straying from the true path, but Aegon is a babe. He cannot defend himself from her vicious sinning. What would come of her boy if he started to emulate his sister? He would not be a worthy King, just as Rhaenyra is not a worthy Princess—hells, she’s not even a worthy woman!

Then another detail plants itself in the Queens mind, “What did you mean when you said, ‘not yet’?”

Her voice trembles as she asks, and her hand drifts to her middle, laying upon her rounded belly. In less than two moons she’ll have another child, if the maester did his calculations well. She doesn’t particularly care for the sex of the child, but she knows that her father wishes for her to birth sons. It would please the King as well, after all of his previous wife’s failures.

Otto sighs, fiddling with his sleeves before regaining proper posture. “I am afraid for my grandchildren, daughter. For the one who already lives and the many others who’ll hopefully follow. Rhaenyra is a heathen, just like her deranged uncle, and I have no doubt that she’ll do anything to ensure her inheritance of the throne.”

“Do you think she’ll kill my children?”

“I am sorry to say it, but I’m almost certain of it. She’s too similar to her uncle, his lecherous and violent ways could rival even those of Maegor if he’ll be allowed close to the throne. With Rhaenyra’s love for the whoremonger, that is all but guaranteed. Maybe she’ll have them killed young, or maybe she’ll wait until she’s secure on the Iron Throne and put them all to the sword.”

Alicent has trouble believing that, but her father—her dear father who knows her better than anyone, who has always guided her to goodness—proves her doubts untrue.

“Do you not remember how often she’d want you to fly with her?” he asks, grasping her shoulders and wrinkling the fabric of her gown.

“Indeed, I do. And I have always refused her, just as you advised me to do.”

“And that’s a good thing, my dear, for only the Seven know what she would have done with you. She could have carried you far away with none the wiser, abandoning you somewhere alone to die. She could have thrown you right of her beast while flying, making you fall to your death. We cannot exclude that she won’t do the same to your children who are, in every possible way, her competition for the crown.”

Alicent is horrified. She has never even imagined something so gruesome, but then it all falls in place. The words of her father resonate in her mind and ring true. Why would the Princess want her to ride her dragon so intensely, if not to eliminate competition? Targaryens are notoriously jealous of those beasts and Rhaenyra has told her on multiple occasions how selective dragons are with their riders. The thing that makes chills run down her spine, though, is that the Princess has wanted to eliminate her for even longer than she has ever imagined.

“So, she has plotted my death for far longer than we both thought, father. Even before her mother died!” she gasps.

He scoffs. “Speak for yourself, child. I have known she’d desire to eliminate you for long enough. That’s why I advised you to stay away from her beast in your youth. Now I shall be vigil over both you and your offspring, the future of this Kingdom.”

“Thank you, father, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out, by the time I’ll be gone we’ll be secure, our bloodline on the throne, and you’ll be surrounded by allies. Worry not my child, for the Seven-in-One will answer our prayers and mete justice to those who dare oppose their will.”

“You are right, father. Their Light guides us and shall never steer us wrong. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll go fetch my son and bring him to pray with me and my septa.”

“Very good, my child. Be careful, the girl is cunning and evil, do not linger.”

“I will not, but I hope that what I’m about to tell you will lighten your heart a little. I have commissioned several garments for Aegon, all to be done by mine own loyal maids. The outside, the part for the court to see, shall depict my child as the Conqueror come again. Red, black, gold and dragons shall be plentiful on his clothing, so that the court might see him for the good King he’s bound to grow up into. The inside, however, is to be a depiction of his true core: Hightower blood runs through his veins as much as Targaryen, and in his heart the Seven rule supreme over anything else. Green and white will protect his virtue and be a tangible sign of his true self.”

“That is a wonderful thing you’ve done, my darling. Be careful that no one knows, but I’m sure that you’ll be able to convince the king to close an eye on this if it ever comes out.”

“Indeed, father. Being in his bed has allowed me a direct line to his ear. I shall guide him to piety as Good Queen Alysanne did with her own husband.”

Chapter Text

As soon as Rhaenyra enters the King’s tent, she immediately realizes that the issue must be serious. No one else but the servants are present with them, and she immediately passes her brother to one of them. She goes to sit in front of her father, who has his forehead in his hand, massaging his temples as if to soothe a pain.

“What is the problem, Father? Why have you summoned me with such haste?”

“Because troubles are arising, my dear child. And we must be united to face them at our strongest.” Even his voice sounds tired, and suddenly her father looks decades older than his actual thirty-eight namedays.

“We shall always be united, Father. But I can tell this is not what worries you. Let us speak of this plainly so we might come up with a solution.”

Her father smiles at her, patting her hand. “Oh, how I wish I could spare you the same headaches that afflict me daily.”

The Princess lets out a tinkling laugh, squeezing his hand and sipping on the wine the servants have brought as refreshments. “I am your chosen heir, Father. I can think of no better honor than to follow in your footsteps and rule after you, and if some headaches are the price I must pay to make you and Mother proud I’ll gladly take the deal.”

Rhaenyra loves her father, truly, but sometimes she cannot help but feel some resentment for him. Her mother should be here, helping her in her journey to become Queen, to help her fend off the insecurities that marriage arises in her and the fears that spark whenever there are talks of childbearing. These are all things that will be demanded of her. Her duty and her burden. She will be the ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, but those lands hold power over her as well.

“You could never disappoint me, tala. You are my greatest accomplishment, my loveliest miracle. You are the Realm’s Delight, and while the title is more than deserved, the Realm has need for more than just delights. It needs protection.”

The words from Laena’s letter come back to the forefront of my mind, and my heart starts beating a little faster. “Protection from what?”

Her father produces from his hands a piece of parchment, just big enough for a raven to carry. He hands it to her and she read its content with slightly shaking hands.

The Stepstones are being threatened, the lands’ trade is severely crippled. We shall arrive in a fortnight to discuss the beginning of a war. Lord Corlys Velaryon

The message is short and lacks propriety and courtesies, but she can see how that would stress her father even further. She would have expected a more detailed letter, with the beginnings of a plan. The situation must truly be dire if the Velaryons are so abruptly returning to court with such little words of motive. There is also no mention of the betrothal Corlys wishes to offer. Perhaps that is a good thing, maybe the lord understands that wars must be fought before pacts are to be made, and what is a betrothal but a pact of unification between two Houses?

“The Stepstones…” she utters.

“A land close to Dorne. Many of our ships pass near the islands that make up the majority of that territory.”

Rhaenyra starts to plant some seeds in her father’s mind. “Then it is imperative that we defeat the threat, is it not? Lord Velaryon himself has written that trade routes have suffered from this plight.”

The King sighs. “’Tis not that simple, my child. Such a conflict could destabilize the Realm just as much as the pirates, if not more so. As of right now, I am not inclined to begin a war. We are not ready to sustain it and I’m certain that in a couple of sunturns the people plaguing those lands will grow tired of it. It is inhospitable, dare I say even undefendable. It would be a loss of time and a terrible expense to try and repel those vermin.”

“What if they don’t? They are pirates, Father, and moreover not every conflict can be solved with diplomacy and peaceful means. Sometimes wars are the right thing. As for budget, we can reduce the number of feasts. Lord Beesbury will be more than happy to provide a plan to sustain the war, if you ordered so.”

“Rhaenyra, I do not know why you insist on this. Wars are not necessary. The Old King, your great-grandfather, never endorsed a war and his reign was one of progress and rebirth after the brutality that was Maegor’s rule. I have endeavored to respect his legacy of peace, as I have told you on multiple occasions, and I have no plans to change that. The realm will prosper under my reign as it did under his.”

His eyes are harsh, dark violet irises piercing her own light lilac—the color inherited from the Good Queen Alysanne herself, but she doesn’t let herself be cowed. Instead, she offers an alternative solution that might prove fruitful in her endeavor to render him more affable to the petition of the Velaryons. “Father, you yourself have taught me not to enter a political debate with prejudice or preformed opinions. Nothing is set in stone. Please, I beg of you, listen to what Lord Velaryon has to say and, if you desire to be more knowledgeable about what will be discussed, why not ask your Small Council to prepare reports about the actual situation in the lands and its effects?”

He seems to think about his heir’s words, before heaving a small sigh. In these last sunturns after the death of his first wife new wrinkles have appeared on his forehead, and those very same wrinkles now crease as he frowns. “Very well, if you insist. How cheeky of you to use mine own words against me, tala” he smirks, and she answers his smile with a small one of her own. “I shall ask Otto to draft a report about the conflicts in the lands, and we shall see if they correspond to what Lord Corlys will say.”

Rhaenyra needs to fight to keep her pleasant smile on, but she cannot allow herself to let her displeasure show. With her father’s words, she can now consider her suggestion invalid. Otto rarely has the best interests of the Realm at heart, he cares only for his pathetic House. It would be something Rhaenyra could respect if it didn’t go directly against her own family. In her mind, the thought of telling her Father about Aegon’s clothes passes like a strike of lightning but dissipates just as quickly. He is too deep in his Hand’s clutches. He would simply laugh and justify it as a twisted way of showing appreciation for the House of the mother. He’d say that as we Targaryens flaunt our ancestry and power, other Houses, while not as fierce or spectacular, have some pride of their own.

He would not see the challenge that is being issued.

“Very well, my King” she says, fighting the stiffness out of her tone, “I shall go, then. I bid you adieu.”

As she rises from her seat, she cannot help but throw one last barb at him, “I suggest you check on your wife. She didn’t look well when she quite rudely stormed in my tent not too long ago.”

“Rhaenyra…”

She doesn’t hear the rest of his words, dismissing herself from his presence.

Rude, spoiled and capricious. Those are the terms the noblefolk would use to describe their Princess if they had seen her behavior. She grits her teeth and strides confidently towards quarters she has never visited before.

The squire at the front of the tent stands at attention immediately, looking at her with wide brown eyes. “Is your Lord inside?” she asks, and a nod is her answer. “Announce me, then” she commands sharply. She is too incensed for pleasantries.

The boy bows and springs into action, darting inside the tent and coming out quicker than expected. “My Lord is ready to receive you, Your Highness.” she nods at him in thanks, and promptly ducks in the tent.

The yellow and black heraldry of House Beesbury is prevalent in the tent, both in the furniture and in the clothing of the servants. Lord Lyman Beesbury himself favors more black than yellow, as a show of fealty towards her own House. The man is now seated behind a wooden desk, a small pile of documents in front of him. It is evident by the ink staining his fingers that he was writing something before her arrival, but his attention is completely on her as he rises and bows.

“My Princess, you honor me with your presence. How may I serve you?”

Lord Beesbury has always treated her kindly, having known her since she was a small child, and his loyalty to the Crown is something that all know. That alone would endear him to Rhaenyra, but the fact that sometimes he’d spend afternoons with her in the empty library to go over certain decisions of the Council, so that she may understand the reasoning behind each decree better, have done no harm in elevating him in her eyes.

“I require you help, my lord” she says, as servants put a plate of honeyed pears in front of them and serve tea, “I would prefer what I ask of you to remain between us, at least until the time comes for us, or better yet, for you, to reveal your report.” She accepts the proffered cup of tea.

Lord Beesbury is quick in dismissing the servants surrounding them, leaving them alone in the tent. “I am yours to command, Your Highness, but I must ask what exactly is my role in this plan you’ve brewed.”

She chuckles. “There is no need for such cautious words, my lord, for my plan is not as nefarious as you may think it is. For my request to make sense, however, I shall let you in on a secret privy to none but myself, the King and, if not already then soon enough, the Hand: soon Lord Corlys Velaryon will arrive at the Red Keep to petition our King for sanctioning a war in the Stepstones. I know not whether you’ve been made aware of it, but it seems trade has suffered under the pirates now swarming those waters. Our coffers are surely being threatened in turn. You know the King, my lord: he desires for peace above all, and as the heir I do as well, but I fear this is one of the times when war is needed in order to achieve long-lasting tranquility” she says, carefully examining his face for any reaction.

By the frown on his aged face, it seems that he doesn’t know anything about what I’m telling him. “My request” she continues, knowing very well it’s not a request but an order, “is that you prepare a report about the situation in the Steps and that you formulate a plan to provide House Velaryon with financial support from the Crown during the waging of the war. I have no clue regarding my uncle’s actions, whether he shall join this war or not, but I would ask you to include him in your plans” she lies smoothly. Trust or not, it wouldn’t do for her to reveal more than she’s strictly supposed to.

“At your behest, Your Highness. I shall do so at the best of my abilities. Would you like for me to give you a copy of the report?”

“Yes, my lord. I thank you for your kind help.” She knows the report might not be completely accurate, but for a more complete overview she should have gone to the Master of Ships, Tyland Lannister, a man she most certainly doesn’t trust.

“’Tis nothing, Your Highness. I am honored that you have decided to place your trust in me, I shall endeavor to repay you with excellent results.”

The princess smiles, “Your words warm my heart, my lord” she begins, before another idea takes root in her mind. “If I may abuse your kindness even more, would it be possible to for you to begin planning the necessary budget for a royal tour around the Realm? My Father has decided that a progression is the most effective way of finding a suitable consort, and I shall abide by his wishes. I will want to take Syrax with me, and possibly a new lady-in-waiting.”

If he is surprised, the lord doesn’t show it. “It would be no hassle at all, my Princess. I dare ask… if you could provide me an outline of a plan of all the keeps you desire to visit. That way, my predictions shall be more precise.”

“You shall have it as soon as possible, my lord.”

Her departure from the tent is accompanied by many questioning glances from the crowd, but once again she ignores all in favor of quickly going back to her own tent, where she has just seen Elinda return.

“I trust you completed your task?” Rhaenyra asks in place of a welcome as soon as the flap of the tent closes after her.

“Indeed, Your Highness” the blue-eyed woman answers, then comes closer under the guise of fixing the princess’ hair, “I also saw a couple of little boys around the Hand’s tent that I have seen in the Red Keep, but I am certain they do not belong to staff.”

The Heiress’ eyes narrow. That damned snake, she thinks. “Keep an eye on them” she whispers, then louder to all of the handmaids in her presence: “One of you, fetch me a map of the Realm with all the major keeps depicted. I’m sure either the King or the Hand have something of the like.”

A short redhead darts out of the tent, coming back with the requested item just as Rhaenyra sits herself in front of the stationary she has abandoned earlier. The map is beautifully done, probably borrowed from her father himself.

“All of you, come here.” Her five maids position themselves in a line, hands clasped in front of them, and heads bowed. Occasionally she borrows maids from the common staff of the Red Keep, but these five are the ones that have been a constant during the last sunturns. She knows two of them by name, Elinda and Agatha, but naught else except for the fact that they are all bastards, as many royal maids after her mother’s reign are. Queen Aemma had requested solely bastards to attend to her immediate family so that the loyalty to one’s House couldn’t interfere with their tasks, but still appeasing her husband who wanted more educated people in his halls and not mere commoners. The Princess also knows they all come from different parts of the Realm, which is something that could be of use in her endeavor.

“I am planning a progression through the Realm, to choose a husband” she informs them, relishing in their surprised glances. “All of you will follow me, obviously, and from what I recall all of you come from different regions of the Kingdom.”

It’s Agatha that answers. “Yes, Your Highness.”

“Then you must know some things about the keeps of your region. The most grandiose ones, the most fitting for a Princess of the blood to visit.”

She splays the map in a way that both her and her servants can see. “Tell me your name and the region you’re from.”

Elinda steps forward. “Elinda Massey, legitimized bastard of Ser Justin Massey, brother of Lord Gormon Massey.” Her finger taps the map over House Massey’s sigil: three spirals in the colors of red, blue and green.

“I am Agatha Stone, bastard child of the late Lady Melcolm.” A minor House belonging to the northern part of the Vale, their sigil a rusty anchor on a turquoise field under a stripe of yellow and three blue circles, Rhaenyra is not surprised that she has never heard of the scandal that is a bastard borne to a noblewoman. The coloring fits, however: Agatha’s dark hair is surely of the First Men.

The redhead is next. “Milla Hill, daughter of Lord Marbrand.” Ah, so that’s who she inherited her fiery hair from. The red is almost the same as the one of the burning tree depicted on their standard.

“Ennia Snow, daughter of an unknown knight from the Isle of Skagos.” Rhaenyra is surprised at this. Her blonde hair and blue eyes would have her placed as a Hill or even a Rivers, but most certainly not a Snow.

The last of her maids steps forward, a young woman with bright green eyes. Her finger lands on the black and silver standard of House Harlaw. “Corinna Pyke, daughter of the late Lord Harlaw.”

The Princess hums. She’s not surprised that none of her handmaidens are from the Reach, and she won’t spill tears over the fact. She’s sure she can even weasel out of a more thorough visit of those lands during her progression, considering the Queen herself belongs to that region.

“Many of you have traveled from far away to come to King’s Landing, I expect all of you will know what I might need during my journey. Now tell me, which are the keeps worthy of housing me and my retinue?” Rhaenyra is quite disgruntled at having to rely on the advice of handmaids, but she has no other to turn to. Her mother used to plan the progressions, on the rare occasions they happened, and since her father prefers to have entertainment brought to him rather than explore, she has no one to learn from.

Ennia stutters, “My Princess, we would never be so bold as to advise you in something so important. I fear it is out of our area of expertise.”

“And yet I am asking you to do so. Worry not, none but us shall know of the words you’ll share with me. Now speak.”

“I would advise to begin with the Northern areas of the Realm, Your Highness, for Autumn is rapidly approaching. In a couple of moons the first cold days will arrive, and it would be a terrible idea to tempt the Gods and travel in the North during the colder seasons” advises Elinda.

“I shall desire to visit Dorne, too. Do you perchance know of any servant that can help me in that aspect?” Rhaenyra says, after jotting down the advice from her handmaid.

“Your guard is Dornish, my Princess” Milla reminds her kindly. The oldest of her maids and already married, having first served her mother and now her, she’s probably the one that will serve as a wetnurse when Rhaenyra gets with child.

The Princess grunts at the reminder. The guard had been chosen by the Hand himself, most likely due to him unhorsing his oldest enemy, Prince Daemon. While not being her sworn shield, he has oft been assigned to her. She is sure that no one could ever surpass Ser Harrold as her favorite guard—him having stayed with her for a grand total of eleven sunturns—but she still thinks she should try and befriend the knight. It would be better to be protected by someone that holds some embers of respect if not even fondness for her, rather than doing it by simple obligation.

“Then call him in, Milla.”

The woman bows, before quickly summoning the Kingsguard. He must have been right outside the tent for it takes no more than a few moments for them to return.

When the flap of the tent is drawn back, Rhaenyra spies the lights of the setting sun and is briefly surprised. Time passed swiftly, soon she’ll be called to dine with other nobles unless she desires to exile herself in her quarters once again. The gentle lights of the lanterns glint over the armor and white cloak of the guard. His helmet is on, but as soon as he steps inside he quickly takes it off and goes to one knee.

How dutiful.

“Your Highness, how may I serve?” his voice is thick with a Dornish accent and drenched in devotion.

“Where do you come from, ser?”

He looks confused for a moment, but answers without question. “I hail from House Cole, a minor house from the Dornish Marches, Your Highness.”

“Ah, so not properly from Dorne.”

“Nay, Your Highness. My House’s overlord is House Dondarrion, in turn theirs is House Baratheon. We belong to the Stormlands.”

Rhaenyra hums, “So you wouldn’t happen to know anything about Dorne and its nobility.”

He blushes, “Unfortunately not, Your Highness. I simply know that the current Prince’s name is Qoren Martell, and the current Sword of the Morning is Ser Dastan Dayne, appointed but a few moons before I departed to join the tourney where I earned my cloak.”

“Very well. Thank you, ser. You may return to your post.”

“At your leisure, Your Highness.”

His cloak flaps as he turns to go out, and as soon as the man’s figure is out of sight, Rhaenyra sighs heavily. His knowledge is absolutely useless, but that is all that she has. Dornish people are rare to find in the rest of the Realm, and even rarer in King’s Landing’s vicinity.

Rhaenyra clicks her tongue. She spends the rest of the evening talking with her maids, listening to tidbits of knowledge about their lands and gossip alike. She’s quite bored by the end of it, but she can feel the beginning of a plan forming in her head. She refuses to be kept away from the Keep too long, so she looks at the map and tries to think of ways to shorten her trip as much as feasible.

“My Princess,” Elinda interrupts, “I believe supper will soon commence. Shall we help you get ready, or would you rather dine here?”

“I shall dine with everyone else. Fetch me one of my red dresses and a pair of slippers.”

The dinner proves to be uneventful, with only but a few whispers regarding her visit to Lord Beesbury and none regarding the Stepstones. She would not put it past Otto to spread the information through gossip and let some of his loyal friends sway the King into refusing to support the war.

She cannot contain her excitement for the arrival of the Velaryons. She’s sure that, if Laena agrees to become her lady-in-waiting, every meal will be more cheerful, for surely her dear cousin will share with her rowdy jokes and steamy gossip. She still remembers the dinner held three sunturns ago at Driftmark, during one of her visits to the island: the twins and her had spent the entire evening giggling and whispering about the scandalous view Laena had stumbled across a few hours before the feast. It seemed that Lady Lorelai Lannister, mother of the obnoxious Lords Jason and Tyland, was not very content with her match, for she had been spotted copulating with a cousin of Lord Velaryon’s. They had cackled the entire night, wondering about what would happen if a child were to be produced during the evening, but no rumors were heard and so the matter was dropped a few moons later.

If Laena agrees to stay with her, she’s sure she’ll be able to help her claim Vaghar. After all, her plan is to tour the Kingdoms, they are bound to hear whispers of the dragon’s whereabouts.

The Princess sighs as she’s helped out of her garments and readied for the night. She can see that some of her belongings have already been stored back in their chests, in preparation for the morrow, when they’d ride back to the Red Keep.

Time passes swiftly after the hunt. It is the day set for the Velaryons to arrive, and Rhaenyra cannot contain her excitement at seeing her cousins and uncle again. The boots she has commissioned for him had been delivered to her quarters two days prior and, while she still doesn’t have the hide of the Stag, she’s sure her uncle will enjoy being shown the prize of her hunt.

If she’s to be completely honest to herself, she’s also a little bit nervous. In these past days she has imagined traveling the Realm and seeing all that it has to offer, and yet she has no real certainty that Laena will accept becoming her lady-in-waiting.

As Elinda helps her into a golden gown with red scales stitched along the sleeves and neckline, she looks proudly at the sheet of parchment where she has jotted down a possible itinerary.

Maidenpool

Gulltown

The Eyrie

White Harbor

Winterfell

Pyke

Casterly Rock

Highgarden

Sunspear

Storm's End

King's Landing

These are quite a few destinations, but traveling by dragon will certainly speed things up. She is determined to return to the Red Keep as soon as possible. Rhaenyra will present the plan to Lord Beesbury after the meeting with the Velaryons, along with confirmation about the presence or not of an added lady, and hopefully the man won’t take long to plan the trip.

A knock at the doors to her chambers brings her out of her thoughts. “What is it?”

Ser Criston, once again faithfully standing guard outside of her rooms, cracks open the door to let his voice filter in. “The Velaryons have arrived, Your Highness. His Grace requests your presence in the Throne room.”

Rhaenyra thanks him, before turning her attention to the maid doing her hair. “Are you done, Milla?”

“Aye. I have just finished, Your Highness. I believe you are ready to go.”

And so she does. Ser Criston one step behind her, she traverses the corridors until the door of the Throne room stands in front of her. With a nod to the guards stationed there, they open the doors and announce her to those in the room, which turn out to be Viserys, Otto and Alicent, with a squirming, wailing Aegon in her arms.

The Queen’s belly is fit to burst and yet the child doesn’t seem to care judging by the amount of kicks he’s delivering to the young woman, but neither his mother nor his grandsire are able to calm him down. Her father doesn’t even seem to be aware of the struggles, for he immediately crosses the room to hold Rhaenyra in his arms and kiss her forehead. “My child, you are finally here.”

“Indeed, Father. Thankfully I managed to arrive before the Velaryons. I feared my maids would take too long on my hair and cause me tardiness.”

Her Father looks at her from top to bottom. “It did not happen, but had it come to pass it would have been worth it. You look beautiful, my darling.”

She blushes, “Thank you, Your Grace.”

Aegon seems to win the battle against his mother’s hold, for not a few seconds after Rhaenyra finishes speaking, she feels a blur of blonde hair run into her legs, nearly bowling her over. “’Nyra! Mandia!” he squeals, fisting his fingers into her skirts.

“Valonqar.”

Rhaenyra has been spending a few hours every day with her brother, much to the delight and despair of her father and the Hightowers respectively. Part Andal or not, her half-brother has the blood of Old Valyria running in his veins and she is determined to have him honor it. The first step is, naturally, to teach him High Valyrian. While the Princess had been introduced to the language from the cradle, at the behest of her mother and especially Daemon, the young Prince has no one to teach him except for her and she would not squander the opportunity of stealing a little bit more of her half-brother. The Queen and Hand are surely aiming for him to grow up as a Hightower with Targaryen colors and status, but she will never allow that.

The child tugs on her skirts. “I want cup.”

“Are you thirsty, Aegon?” He nods excitedly. “What do we say when we want something?”

The child thinks about it for a moment, then exclaims “Please!”

“Indeed, we do.” Rhaenyra congratulates the boy, before grabbing the cup her father offers her. She balks when she smells the liquid contained in the metal.

“Is this wine?” she asks incredulously.

Her father laughs, holding his belly with one hand and waving the other in the air. “Ah, yes. He quite likes wine, this boy of mine. He laughs so delightfully every time he drinks it!” More laughs and this time the Queen joins in on the fun, ridding herself of the sour expression she sported after hearing her child speak Valyrian. “He becomes so lovely, his cheeks so red. A true delight!” she says.

Rhaenyra is speechless. She would expect this level of cluelessness from Alicent, who has never had to deal with children before. But her own father should have known better than to give wine to a child that small. She herself tasted her first sip of watered-down alcohol at the feast for her eighth nameday.

“The cup!” the child in question demands once again. He raises his arms and uselessly tries to reach his sister’s hands.

“Mandia! The cup!”

“Calm, valonqar. Let a servant bring water and I’ll give it to you. Be patient.”

Rhaenyra, just to avoid letting the child drink the wine, downs the entire cup in one big gulp, nearly choking on the golden liquid. While she prefers the sweet, bloodred Dornish strongwine, her father delights in the sourer Arbor Gold and as the wine slips down her throat she cannot help but hope that her father—who is now back on his throne, shaking his head at seeing his heir down the cup—hasn’t always given Aegon this foul thing. She hopes he, at the least, introduced her half-brother to the cup with some watered-down spiced honey wine from Lannisport, or hippocras.

A servant quickly comes back with a smaller cup, fit for the little Prince’s hands, and gently gives it to Aegon. The child drinks greedily and then throws the cup to the ground with surprising force. Before Rhaenyra has the chance to reprimand him—seeing as the Queen has no desire to do so—the crier announces the arrival of the Velaryon household.

“Lord Corlys Velaryon, Lord of Driftmark and High Tide; Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, Princess of the blood and Lady of Driftmark and High Tide, and their children Ser Laenor and Lady Laena Velaryon!”

Both Otto and the Queen straighten in their places, at the right of the Iron Throne. Rhaenyra is left alone in the middle of the room. With a child attached to her skirts. She can feel Aegon’s giggles as he presses his face into her legs, and she reins in the urge to shiver. It’s quite ticklish.

“House Targaryen welcomes House Velaryon” the King greets them.

Rhaenyra still hasn’t raised her head or removed her gaze from her smiling half-brother. She’s not sure she actually wants to. She’s afraid of what she’ll see, whether Laena is wearing pearls or sapphires. She hasn’t heard the crier announce Daemon, so se assumes he isn’t here. Knowing her uncle, that just might mean that he wants to make a dramatic entrance or simply slither in the Keep without anyone knowing.

“House Velaryon thanks Your Grace for your welcome” Lord Corlys says, and it’s only then that Rhaenyra gathers the courage to lift her face.

The first person she sees is the Lord himself, clothed in a tunic of gold and Velaryon blue. His locks are decorated with gold and the occasional shell and pearl, while a golden hoop gleams on his pierced ear—a practice popular between sailors, from what she understands. Then her eyes fall to Princess Rhaenys, as regal as ever, clothed in the same blue as her husband but, where he is decorated by sea creatures, from the hem of her gown rise embroidered golden flames, and at her throat glimmer pearls and red rubies alike. If Rhaenyra had somehow missed Meleys’ screeches, she would know that the Princess has ridden her dragon by the hairstyle alone. Unlike her usual look, her hair was braided tightly around her head, with pearls of the same silver as her locks decorating a few strands.

It is clear by the lavishness of the consorts’ attires that they are here not only to begin a war, but also to make alliances.

With shaking knees, Rhaenyra’s gaze falls upon the youngest of the twins. Laenor looks much like his father, both in appearance and clothing. His locks are shorter and bare of decoration, as are his ears, but the mischievousness in his eyes speaks of a desire for adventure surely inherited from the Sea Snake.

Finally, her eyes fall upon Laena, who’s looking at her with a smile so blinding Rhaenyra can do naught but return it with one of her own. Dressed in a lovely blue gown, Laena is positively dripping in pearls. If they weren’t in the presence of so many people, the Princess would laugh herself silly. The front of her cousin’s gown is embroidered with a mixture of gold and pearls fashioned to depict sea creatures and dragon wings. At her wrists and neck gleam strings of pearls and diamonds and she’s nearly certain she spies some pearls embroidered on her slippers, too.

“Mandia” Laena giggles, dropping down into a bow.

“Hāedar” Rhaenyra winks.

It is at that moment that Aegon decides to bolt out from where he had slithered behind her. He sticks his tongue out at the Velaryons. “Nyra is my mandia!” he yells and starts running as best as he can around the throne room, rather expertly evading the maid trying to catch him.

“What an unruly secret you kept behind your skirts, my dear mandia” Laenor jests, smirking at the outraged gasp the Queen makes at the insult to her child. She simply laughs, and nods in agreement. “Indeed, valonqar.”

She doesn’t miss the gleam in Lord Corlys’ eyes as he looks between the two of them. Her mind jumps back to Laena’s message and her words explaining the extent of the Lord’s ambitions for this visit.

She hurries to redirect the attention to other matters. “I’m sure that after such a journey you’ll be delighted to be received by His Grace, Lord Corlys, Princess Rhaenys. If you don’t mind, my King” she says, turning to her father, “I find myself desiring to reacquaint myself with my cousins. May we excuse ourselves from your presence?”

“Ah, yes, daughter. Of course. You have fun, my cousin and Lord Corlys will be received by the Council immediately.”

Hurriedly, she locks Laena and Laenor’s arm in her own and tugs them away. The three of them fall into step easily, and the Princess finds herself relaxing under the gentle caresses of both her cousins.

Who knows, everything might work out.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra and the twins quickly make their way through the halls and corridors of the castle, sparing only a few smiles and nods towards the nobles they come across. The Crown Princess briefly debates whether to reacquaint herself with her kin under the shade of the weirdwood or in her own quarters, then settles on the latter. The topics she desires to discuss about are not fit for public ears.

When the trio finally arrives at their destination, they are welcomed by three of Rhaenyra’s maids. Ser Criston Cole, who has dutifully accompanied his charge back to safety, closes the doors to her quarters and stands outside, constantly on the lookout for any threat or coveting an order to follow to please his Princess, be it opening doors for Rhaenyra’s servants or personally doing her bidding. His first task is relayed in the form of a maid informing him to ask the kitchens to prepare some refreshments for the three nobles inside, for Rhaenyra could not spare any of the maids currently in the vicinity.

As the knight departs from his post to obey, three dragons—one of fire and two of the sea—lounge lazily on the settees in the Princess’ rooms, having maids remove their outer garments and leaving them in simple tunics and shifts. They request them to massage oils into their feet as they used to do in their younger days, when visits to the Red Keep were more frequent.

“Elinda, feed the fire please. This Autumn is making itself known quite too early in my opinion” Rhaenyra complains to the woman on her knees in front of her.

Two more logs are dropped into the fireplace when Laenor speaks. “Indeed, mandia, and I cannot imagine the coldness of this next Winter. The last one, when I was but a child, persevered for two long sunturns. I hope this one shall be more lenient.”

“Sadly the maesters do not think so. In the last council meeting I recall them telling my father this Winter is predicted to last several moons longer than the last, maybe even a full sunturn more.”

Laena sighs, before saying in Valyrian: “The Winters are becoming ever longer. I dread the cold that will inhabit these lands, but I dread even more the thought of you at war during these trying times.” She extends her arm out for her twin and the two lace hands as Rhaenyra has seen them do many times before.

“I have talked with our King and arranged for some things to sway the tides in your favor, cousins, but, alas ,my Father relies upon his Hand as he always does, which makes me fear for the success of your petition.”

“We thank you, mandia, and we know that you’ve done your best. I think there is hope yet, for Father is quite determined in his pursue of his goal, but musing over these matters shall not help anyone. Let us speak of more pleasant subjects. ‘Tis true that you’re set to go on a royal progression in search of a betrothed?” Laenor asks, eagerly leaning forward.

Even Laena seems intrigued by the prospect, and she laughs at their unashamedly eager faces. Her merriment is interrupted by two knocks. The handmaids rise, putting a divider to shield the three underdressed Valyrians from the eyes of the pages bringing the requested refreshments. Soon, two small tables are set between the trio: one filled with their preferred wines—Arbor red for Laena, Dornish strongwine for Rhaenyra and a Pentoshi pale amber for Laenor—and the other piled with candied fruit and cheeses. After all three of them have their fill, the conversation resumes.

“Yes, I am and your sister will follow me. I presume you didn’t inform him of your new position as my lady, dear hāedar?”

“That’s amazing news, sister” Laenor exclaims, his genuine joy making the other two girls smile. “I am happy that you won’t be alone once Father and I go to war.”

“We shall taste the skies together for a long time, my heart, for we shall rely on my lady Syrax to accompany us in our travels” the princess tells Laena, then clicks her tongue, “Speaking of…”

She asks Elinda to get her the piece of parchment abandoned on the table, along with writing supplies. Writing with such bad posture is not at all comfortable, but the oil on her feet prevents her from getting up for fear of a tumble. “This is the itinerary I have planned, do you have any suggestions?” she asks, reading aloud all the Keeps she has selected.

Laenor hums, “I fear, mandia, that we are not the ones you should be asking this to. Mother is certainly more knowledgeable regarding this matter. If you desire, we can ask her for help. I shall be honest with you, helping you both with this might take her mind away from our war. Even though she tries to hide it, I can see she frets and hurts.”

“Her husband and child are going to war. I don’t blame her for her anxiety. I myself feel my heart constricting at the thought of anything happening to you or Daemon. Speaking of my rogue of an uncle, where is he?”

“Given the time of his departure on Caraxes, I dare say he arrived here a day before us. Given that you still are not aware of his presence, I’d reckon he has hidden his mount somewhere to navigate the street of King’s Landing undetected. I’m sure that, if you were to investigate, any of his goldcloaks would know of his whereabouts” Laena reassures her.

“My sister is right. I have oft spied him corresponding with a certain Ser Harwin and, if memory serves me right, he is the current commander of the City Watch.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head with a fond smile. Her uncle is crafty indeed. She’s sure that through Ser Harwin he has kept abreast of everything that has been going on in the capital, but she doesn’t yet know how that makes her feel. He slandered the names of her late brother and mocked the struggles that resulted in her queenly mother’s death, yet he has always shown the utmost love and care for her, still sending her gifts that she cannot help but accept despite the strife between them. Oh, she’s quite certain she wasn’t meant to discover that the two tomes—one full of fables from the far land of Sothoryos, the other about trade routes in the Vale and North—were from him, but she’s quite certain that no one else but her uncle could smell so strongly of smoke and dragon, a smell she so adores, as to make it seep through the very pages of his gift. When she had received them, she was torn between keeping them or tossing them away in petty retaliation for all he had been putting her through. Those tomes now sit in her personal library.

“Then mayhap it would be appropriate to send a little message through Ser Harwin. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen my dear uncle.” Rhaenyra grins.

Laenor snickers, shoving a piece of cheese in his mouth with as much gusto as a starved peasant. “Is he as dear to you as you say, cousin? I recall him moping about you quite often whilst he resided with us at Driftmark. It seems you have hurt his feelings.”

“It seems you don’t know of his own offences towards those dear to me, then. I shall leave to him the honor of telling you the details, but insults towards my mother and late brother have not and never will be taken kindly.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is icy as she answers, so much so that even the maids in the rooms, who don’t understand a lick of Valyrian, freeze momentarily, ready for one of her rare yet terrible tantrums. The two heirs of Old Valyria have their eyes locked in a stare down, but the tension dissipates as easily as it has created with one clap of sweet Laena’s dainty hands.

“Let us not talk about this anymore. What Daemon has done is not our concern, nor is it how the Princess reacts to it” she especially admonishes her twin, “We shall concentrate on her upcoming royal progress. I am delighted to participate in your search for a husband, and yet I cannot help but dread boredom. Mandia, many men will come and vie for your hand, and I fear it will chain us to our duties more than we’d like.”

“Then we shall ask your mother about this as well. I’m sure she’ll think of a solution perfect for what plagues us. I hope she’ll agree to join me this evening for supper.”

The twins nod. The oil on their feet has mostly zabsorbed, so they stand up and let Rhaenyra’s handmaids redress them as proper for the public eye. “We shall go to our rooms to settle and deliver your invitation, cousin” Laena says, taking her hand and placing a sweet kiss on her knuckles. After putting on his tunic, Laenor bends down to hug Rhaenyra, whispering a short apology in her ear. A solid squeeze is his only answer, but it’s more than enough for the young man. “We shall see you on the morrow, Princess” he kisses her cheek.

“Farewell, my dears. I sincerely hope your mother will accept the invite.”

The twins smile. “We shall do our best to convince her, then” Laenor smirks.

As the two depart, silence reigns in the rooms. The servants begin to collect the leftover food and the wines, leaving just enough for the Princess’ pleasure. Rhaenyra rises as well, adding Laena’s name to the list of people that will travel with her before dropping that sheet of parchment and grabbing another.

“Elinda, please call in Ser Criston” she orders, after writing her message and folding the paper. She won’t entrust it in the Kingsguard’s hands, but she’ll need his help for other matters.

“Yes, Princess. Would you like a robe to cover yourself with, as well? I fear your dress is quite wrinkled at this point.”

Only then Rhaenyra remembers her state of undress. She blushes, nodding and allowing the maids to help her into a red robe that covers her fully from shoulders to ankles.

Ser Criston enters, bowing his head as he’s wont to do. “You have orders for me, Your Highness?”

“Locate Ser Harwin Strong for me, Ser, and bring him here with haste. I have need of him.”

“As you command, Your Highness.”

The sound of his heavy armored steps fades into nothingness as he departs but Rhaenyra has but a few minutes of silence before another knock disturbs the quiet. Milla goes to open the door, and a small boy no older than nine and clad in yellow clothing timidly enters the rooms. He bows deeply, before handing the Princess four sheets of parchment full of scribbles and numbers with only slightly trembling hands. “My Princess, I come on behalf of Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin. I bear the report you have asked, Your Highness. Along with this” he says, handing her a rolled-up message, “where my lord explains the finer points of the report.”

“Very well. Is the Small Council still in session?” Rhaenyra asks. Usually she would have been present, as her father’s cupbearer, but by letting her entertain the Velaryon twins her father has implicitly relieved her of her role for the day.

The boy nods, “Aye. I was ordered to bring these to you the same moment my Lord began talking, Your Highness.”

“So you were present in the room all this time, I understand.”

“Correct, Your Highness.”

“And is our King willing to entertain Lord Corlys’ proposal?” Rhaenyra asks, absentmindedly twirling a strand of silver hair around her finger.

The boy goes to open his mouth, but before a single word can exit, another knock interrupts him.

“Not a moment for resting, these days” the Princess complains under her breath as Cole once again enters her quarters. The guard’s eyes jump to the hand that she has in her hair, but then he focuses fully on her.

“My Princess, I have Harwin Strong with me.”

“Very good. Let me finish this and I’ll receive him” she dismisses the guard, who bows and returns to his post outside.

The Princess turns to the boy, no longer interested in the answer to her question. She's going to find out soon enough one way or another. “Thank your lord for his service, boy. You have done well. Now go.”

The boy scrambles to obey, bowing deeply and departing the room without crossing eye with anyone. The doors don’t even have the chance to close behind him when Ser Criston and Ser Harwin come into view. “Ser Criston, you can leave us.”

“Your Highness, I’d prefer to be—”

“I am perfectly safe with Ser Harwin and I have my maids with me, in case you’re worried about what people may say. Regardless, Ser Harwin would never dishonor me in such a way, isn’t it right?”

“Aye, Your Highness. I wouldn’t dream of it.”

With a grimace, knowing his opinion to be worth less than nothing compared to the orders of the Princess, Ser Criston retreats to his post outside the closed doors. His fists are clenched tightly and his ear is ready to catch any improper talk, so that he’d have an excuse to barge in and remove the knight from her presence. A futile endeavor, for the doors prevent any noise from escaping the privacy of the room.

“Tell me, Ser Harwin, how do you find your position in the City Watch?” Rhaenyra begins after the goldcloak sits on the proffered chair. She doesn’t think of offering Harwin any kind of beverage, for if she has her way, he won’t stay long enough to enjoy it.

He seems surprised by the question, but then his easy smile returns bright. “I enjoy it, Princess. It is very rewarding to see proof of one’s work. After the strike Prince Daemon led some time ago, crime has been lowering steadily and the occasional unrest is quickly dealt with nowadays. It’s very satisfying to see the smallfolk walk in the streets with the certainty that they’ll be protected.”

Rhaenyra is mildly surprised by the passion with which the knight answers, the fervor in his eyes. “It is certainly reassuring to know that the city is in such caring, capable hands.”

“You flatter me, Princess, but most of the work was done by your uncle. He was the one who trained us, made us into what we are now.”

She hums. “Your devotion to my uncle seems to run deep. He has been away for some time now and yet you still revere him.”

Ser Harwin barks out a laugh. “I doubt Prince Daemon will ever be forgotten by us, Princess. And as for revering him, is it not said that Targaryens are closer to Gods than men?”

“True enough, but I suggest you don’t say that to my uncle, ser, or his ego will inflate even more than it already is.”

The two share a laugh at that, then Rhaenyra decides to cut to the purpose of his visit. “I have a request for you, Ser.”

“I am ever at your service, Your Highness.”

She hands him the message. “Give this to him.” She needs not say aloud who it is she’s referring to.

His expression doesn’t change one bit, but he can see the light in his eyes taking on a different meaning. It’s as if he’s searching in her own gaze for something. She knows not what, but she is determined to see her order obeyed. The only sound to be heard is that of her maids fussing with things in the room, cleaning her mirrors and fluffing pillows to perfection. She has not dismissed them, and so they linger.

The man seems satisfied by whatever he sees in her, and he nods his head. “As you desire, Princess.”

“Then you are dismissed, Ser. Go back to protecting the city as you’ve excelled to do in these last moons” she decrees.

He chuckles. “At your behest, Your Highness.”

He rises, towering above her sitting form—although Rhaenyra thinks he must tower over her even when she’s standing—and bows. His golden cloak shimmers in the fading lights of the afternoon and reminds her of her Golden Lady. She’s due for a flight. Perhaps she’ll take a short trip into the skies before dinner.

She instructs her maids to get her flying leathers ready, and, as she puts them on, she reminds herself to instruct the royal tailor to sew better fitting ones for her. She has had this set since she was five and ten and in the last sunturns her body has lengthened and filled out just so that the buttons and laces are close to not lacing anymore. She looks at herself in the mirror. Despite the ill-fitting ensemble, she looks powerful. Like a dragonrider should. The pitch-black leather is lined with burgundy, sturdy wool to isolate her body against the chill of the skies, and the outside is decorated with many small golden dragons embroidered around her collar and a scale-like pattern of gold and red on the lower part of her sleeves. The coat was originally designed to fall down to her ankles, but her latest spurt of growth has made it so it just about covers her knees, showing to all the simple leather pants she wears and her boots.

“My Princess, what would you like us to with your hair?” Milla asks, nodding at her unbound mane.

Rhaenyra would love nothing more than to let the wind fly through her hair, feeling the strands battle against each other in the wind and trail behind her like the most brilliant of capes, but if in the evening Rhaenys decides to join her at supper, she wouldn’t want her hair to look like a raven’s nest. With that in mind, she requests a simple braid—a worthy compromise between order and freedom.

Ser Criston is relieved of his post halfway through their journey to the dragonpit, and so it’s with Ser Erryk that she traverses the city. She is eager to get to the skies, so they choose to take the shortest way. They pass through Fleabottom, her uncle’s reign, and she briefly wonders if Ser Harwin has already passed on her message. If her uncle is between the people looking at her, spying her, following her every movement.

Once they reach the dragonpit, Ser Erryk helps her out of the coach and wordlessly follows her into the pit, where she is immediately met by several dragonkeepers that guide her to where Syrax is lounging. Her girl adores the dark and so the keepers have provided her with a warm, cozy cave with no light except for the few torches on the walls and the feeble light from the opening. The golden dragon is curled up on herself, her head near her belly and covered by her own wing, but as soon as she hears her lifelong companion enter her nest, she immediately rises her head and croons softly at Rhaenyra, extending her neck for a few pets.

“My beautiful girl” the princess smiles at her, leaving Ser Erryk and the keepers at the opening of the cave and quickly running up to her dragon. Her gloved hands skim over the scales of her neck, causing Syrax to purr and arch into her touch, acting like a spoiled cat would.

“Are you up for a flight, my sweet?” Rhaenyra asks her. She has always spoken with her dragon as if she were a real person and although her beloved wyrm can’t answer with words, the feelings she projects down their bond are more comforting than any spoken reassurance would ever be.

The adrenaline flooding through her from Syrax’s end of the bond is addictive and soon Rhaenyra and the dragonkeepers have her saddled and ready to fly. Ser Erryk stirs his horse at a safe distance from the landing area and takes up his watch, solemnly nodding at her when she cheekily waves at him before takeoff.

She sighs, what a queer bunch the Kingsguards are. Hers certainly are: Ser Harrold, before becoming Lord Commander and switching to her father’s protection detail, used to worry about her endlessly but still allow her to ride her horse as fast as she wanted and play with wooden swords—with him always ready to soothe her if she got hurt; Ser Criston is so evidently devout to her it’s quite amusing, but his zeal in protecting her and ensuring all maintain the proper level of deference towards her oft results in the knight himself breaking some of those boundaries; and then there’s Ser Erryk, arrived at the keep along with his twin after the tourney for her tenth nameday, who is always so dutiful. Both he and his brother have been her guards, but now Arryk guards Aegon, and if the twins were serious enough before, after being separated they are simply stone-faced. Not that she doesn’t appreciate their capabilities and devotion to her and her family, but a smirk or two has never hurt anybody.

An impatient grumble from her girl brings her back to the present. “Alright, my love. Let us go. Sōvēs!”

In a matter of seconds, the two are airborne and the wind gently caresses them as they twist around the Red Keep, basking in the late afternoon sun, and soar even higher. They breach the clouds surrounding Blackwater’s Bay and Rhaenyra laughs, opening her arms as if to embrace the skies.

From that altitude, the setting sun is even prettier, and Rhaenyra smiles in contentment. She is never as happy as when she’s flying. The freedom, the feelings bouncing back and forth from dragon to rider, the crispness of the air she breathes… all these magnificent sensations are something that she would never give up for anything in this world. She hopes that in whatever place she will go after death, she will still be able to enjoy this feeling. She will wait for her Syrax to live her life to the fullest and then ride her again for the rest of time.

Shaking herself out of those morbid thoughts, she guides Syrax into some spins, dives and then directs her back to the ground. It is a shorter flight than usual, but she needs to be back at the Keep in time for supper.

She can feel her girl grumbling as her hind legs slam on the ground during the landing, making the ground shake and dust fly around. The dragonkeepers immediately surround the two. As Rhaenyra descends from dragonback, a couple of them are already approaching, staffs in hand, and commanding Syrax with stern voices. The dragon momentarily basks in the affection her rider bestows upon her before following the keepers back into her cave.

As the Princess and Ser Erryk begin the journey back to the Keep, she doesn’t fail to notice that Caraxes is not accounted for in the pit. She knows her lady and him oft share his cave: Syrax has been attached to him since their first meeting, when both Rhaenyra and her were around seven moons. Despite the other dragons’ wariness of the Blood Wyrm, Syrax had taken to him like a duck to water and they enjoyed flying together as much as their riders. His cave has an opening at the top to let light in, and her sneaky dragon usually whines about the light so much that Caraxes is forced to cover her with his wing if he wants to get any decent rest. Her lady is spoiled as much as her rider is and has no qualms using her beauty to get what she wants. Rhaenyra is mildly hopeful that the two dragons will coil together and mate, eventually, but she has no hurry. It is said that when dragons first mate, they crave each other so fiercely that no one can separate or disturb the two for as long as five whole moons. Her Syrax is still young and the Princess would love a few more sunturns with her before Caraxes lays his claim. Or Syrax lays hers.

The return to the Keep is quite uneventful. She still hasn’t received an answer from Princess Rhaenys and the sun has almost completely set. She usually dines as the sun descends, but she’s willing to wait a bit longer. There is the chance that the council is still in session, leaving Rhaenys unable to leave her husband’s side.

“I shall stand guard, my Princess. Is there anything that you wish to let me know?” Ser Erryk inquires as they reach the doors to her rooms. He probably noticed her pensive expression.

“I am expecting a response from Princess Rhaenys for a summon. If anything of the kind arrives, let me know immediately. No one else is to disturb my peace.”

“Aye, Your Highness.”

Entering her rooms, she is immediately enveloped in the tantalizing scents of her favorite bath oils. Sure enough, separated from the rest of the room by a divider, her maids have prepared her a lovely, steaming hot bath. “My Princess,” Agatha bows, “We took the liberty of preparing a bath for you. Would you like us to assist?”

“I appreciate your thought and yes, I would like your help with undressing. Then your services will be no longer needed.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

In a matter of minutes she is naked and submerged in the hot water all the way to the shoulders. A cap made of seal skin prevents moisture from ruining her hair, piled high on her head to avoid getting it wet. Agatha and the other maids leave, after pouring one last scoop of salts and aromatic oils in the bathwater, and silence falls upon the room. Rhaenyra can only hear the sounds of water sloshing as she washes herself and plays with the water, enjoying the feel of being submerged. It is after a couple of minutes that a knock comes.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t come from the door. It comes from the wall beside her bed.

She bolts out of the tub, knees shaking and hands trembling as she ignores the splatter of water on the floors and grabs her robe. It immediately becomes damp with the moisture on her skin, but she won’t face any potential assailant naked. She has just opened her mouth to call for Ser Erryk to come and deal with the intruder, when a very familiar voice drifts from behind the wall.

“My darling niece, it isn’t polite to let your family wait so long before inviting them in.”

His voice is as smooth as she remembered, his Valyrian as flowing as lava dripping from one of the volcanoes on Dragonstone.

She sighs in relief, “Kepus. You scared me. Where in the seven hells are you coming from?”

A small door opens right beside her bed. She looks at it with wide eyes, surprised by the presence of such a threat to her security in her room. Daemon, as always knowing her better than she herself, reassures her, “Worry not, niece, only three people know of the existence of these tunnels, and one of them is dead” he smirks, boldly going to sit on her bed.

Her eyebrow raises. “Should I be worried about finding some dead body in there?”

A scoff. “No, I am referring to our ancestor, Maegor. It is common knowledge that he ordered this whole Keep built but almost none know that he desired for fast escape routes, and so this net of tunnels was built. They reach every area of the Keep, along with many private rooms and even offer escape routes ending as far as the Dragonpit. Naturally, Maegor had every builder in charge of these tunnels killed so they wouldn’t sell the secret.”

“And am I to believe that no one else has ever found out of their existence? It seems quite unlikely.”

“Maegor didn’t exactly have the time to tell his successors of them and I only found out because I was exploring as a child. As you can see the passages are well concealed. I memorized them all and, in my time, I have never crossed paths with another. What other conclusion would you have me draw, dear niece?”

She begrudgingly admits he must be right. She shakes her head, plastering a frown on her face and looking down at his sprawled form on her bed. She does her best to ignore the way his eyes roam over her robe-covered, still-dripping body. “Your lackeys are quite efficient, kepus.”

His smirk widens. “Why did you want to see me with such urgency?”

“I wanted to talk to you. Is it a crime for a niece to desire the company of her uncle?”

“Of course not, my little dragon, but I do wonder why all this secrecy.”

“You are the one hiding from the court’s eyes, not me.”

“Is it hiding if I am, right this moment, in front of the most important person at court?”

She cannot help but blush. Her uncle knows her inside and out. He knows how vain, how hungry for praise and attention she is and knows how to push her to make her show her best and worst qualities. She only hopes one day to know him as well as he her. “You know that is not what I meant.”

His eyes are glinting. He stands up, coming closer to her but still at a respectable distance. “Do I?”

She can feel the blush spreading from her cheeks over her chest and shoulders. Thankfully the robe covers her quite well otherwise he would have no doubt teased her mercilessly. “I hear you are going to war, kepus. And dragging my cousin with you.”

He hums, “Yes, well, it’s high time that Laenor sees some battle. And Lord Corlys won’t let anything happen to the lad, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“’Tis but only one of my worries. And not all of them belong to the war” she says, leaning on the edge of the tub. Her feet are in a puddle of water of her own creation, but she doesn’t mind. The cooling water helps her keep her wits about herself.

His face turns somber. “What is it that ails you, Rhaenyra?”

“’Tis not me that is ailed, but my half-brother” she tentatively says, knowing that with all likeliness her uncle’s disdain for the Hightowers would extend to include even Aegon.

As predicted, his eyes darken. “Why would I, or you, care for that little half-breed?”

“Don’t call him that. He’s still my blood, Viserys’ blood.”

“You called him half-brother yourself, sweet Princess. That means you yourself know that he is only half like us” he points out.

“I call him half-brother because that’s what he is. He is not of my mother’s blood, but he is of mine and that should be more than enough to ensure he’s not poisoned by those against us” Rhaenyra replies ferociously, barely managing to control the volume of her voice. She wouldn’t want to alert her guard that something’s amiss.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that they’re trying to take him away from us. They strive to turn him into a tower with scales, and we cannot allow that.”

“And how would they do that, darling? You worry for nothing” he tries to reassure her, dismissing her worries altogether.

“So you think that finding the Hightower sigil and several Seven-pointed stars inside Aegon’s coat is irrelevant? You must be as blind as Father, then.”

His eyes narrow. The Princess can tell she has made him angry, but she’s past caring for his feelings. “First, you insult my deceased—our deceased—then you ignore my warnings regarding the living. I am beginning to think that you no longer value the blood of the dragon as highly as you did once, kepus.”

Fire blazes in his eyes, the same color as her father’s. “I would warn you to thread carefully, niece mine, before you say things you do not mean.”

“Oh, but what if I mean them wholeheartedly? You have done all that I have said, have you not? I do not deny that my father has a penchant for banishing you at the most insignificant of the offenses, but you must admit that you make it very easy for him to find excuses to do so” and with that, she goes in for the kill: “Mayhap Otto Hightower is not so wrong in his assessment of you, kepus.”

He bolts upright, prowling closer to her with startling speed and stealth. A true predator, her uncle. “Am I to understand that not only they desire to turn Viserys’ son into a tower, but that they have already sunk their filthy claws into you as well, Rhaenyra? Should I stop calling you dragon and start thinking of you as a lowly tower? A simple piece in this cyvasse match that is life at court?”

Daemon’s anger is a thing of myth, something that cannot be understood or quelled. The only thing that one can do is try to withstand the fire of a true dragon in human flesh, but Rhaenyra is no mere human. In her veins runs the blood of Old Valyria, she’s a dragonlord as much as he. With a dragon egg hatched in her cradle, the Fourteen deeming her worthy of a dragon of her own, she has grown alongside her mount, one’s fire feeding the other’s. She refuses to be cowed.

“The unworthy will never sink their claws in me for only dragons can harm one another. And you, kepus, have harmed me in countless ways. You have abandoned me in this viper’s nest and now that you have come back you refuse to heed my words. Do you consider me like the others do, a feeble woman-child worth only what her womb can produce? Ruled by feelings?” she chuckles grimly, “I have called you here to ask for help, for you have always been the one person I know will perpetually support me. Have things changed so much in your time away? Am I alone in my fight?”

Daemon crosses the last of the space between their bodies in two long strides. He smells like dragonfire and his arms are as comforting as they have always been as he hugs her. From the moment she was put in his hold as a babe they have never failed to make her feel secure, and despite her current anger she cannot help but curl into his embrace.

“My sweet girl, I beg you to forgive me for making you feel such. I beseech your forgiveness for my many sins and beg you to let me commit more of them in your name for you will always have me at your side. I am forever your servant and shall always work in your interest” he caresses her head, pulling away the cap over her hair and letting it fall to the floor. He threads his fingers in the hair on the back of her neck, pulling her face up so that their foreheads can touch. The action is familiar, one that has been repeated many times throughout the course of her life.

“Then trust me on this. We cannot allow Aegon to become a tower” she says, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead more firmly against his.

“I shall investigate at your behest, then. If the Keep doesn’t yet know I am back at court, it will allow me to spy more effectively. I will trust you, Dārilaros.”

She sighs in relief, “Thank you, kepus. I believe the only ones that know of your return are the Velaryons, but I suspect Father will soon start to wonder where you are. Especially given your involvement in the war Lord Corlys is trying to wage. You don’t have much time.”

“Worry not, Princess. I will use that time wisely. Just don’t be surprised if in a couple of days I mysteriously appear in these halls” he jokes.

She fights back a giggle. “Well, if you manage to bring back satisfactory results I might just begin to forgive you for what you said about Baelon.” Rhaenyra cannot forget his slight against her deceased, but her uncle is all she has now. The King is ever in the clutches of the Hightowers and, while he still undoubtedly loves and adores her, he cannot help her like she needs.

Her uncle sighs heavily, before stepping away until a proper distance is back between them. “I will have you know, niece, that I simply repeated the words that your own mother told me during our last meeting.”

“What?”

“Aemma knew it would be her last babe, just as she felt that it would not survive. I doubt she expected to die along with the child, but she was fully aware that the little dragon growing within her would not see the light of day for long. I tried to tell my brother that, but Otto had already spat his poison into his ear.”

Rhaenyra is speechless. She doesn’t know what to say. Her father had tried to keep the full extent of Daemon’s offence from her but Alicent—during one of the few moments after Queen Aemma’s death when she was in her company—had given her a full report, having heard everything from her father.

But then the pieces fall together.

“That cunt” she hisses furiously.

Daemon is certainly surprised by her outburst but if the smirk on his face is any indication, he is not at all displeased by her eloquence. “I agree, but what exactly prompted you to react so strongly? You and I both know Otto to be a lying snake.”

“Indeed, but it was Alicent who, on his orders no doubt, relayed to me what you did, not Father. They are not only trying to isolate the King, but to divide us too.”

His eyes are a blazing inferno. “They shan’t succeed, my dragon. I am your blood as you are mine. Bonds as strong as ours, forged in dragonflame, cannot be broken. I swear to you—”

Before the Prince can finish his tirade, a knock on the door interrupts him and the muffled voice of Ser Erryk causes both the occupants of the room to quell their anger in lieu of listening. “My Princess, a steward of House Velaryon requests an audience.”

Rhaenyra curses under her breath. It’s probably Princess Rhaenys’ response to her summons, but she would have gladly traded her company for that of Daemon. alas, things are set to go this way. “One moment, ser. Let me make myself presentable and I’ll receive them at once.”

“As you wish. Would you like for me to call a handmaid to help you, Your Highness?”

“It won’t be necessary, thank you.”

After an affirmative response, Rhaenyra turns back to her uncle. “It’s time for you to go, kepus. Investigate, come back with results. And I expect you to one day teach me about these passages” she orders him.

A smirk is her only answer before he disappears back from the tunnel he came from. Rhaenyra hastily removes her robe, using it to pat herself dry before shrugging on a shift and one of the few dresses in her possession she can comfortably put on without assistance. Made from a roll of fabric gifted to her from her grandfather, the late Prince Baelon, the dress is of purple brocade, carefully fitted as to highlight her waist and chest without being too revealing, with no embroiders nor frills yet beautiful in its simplicity. The dress laces in the front, all the way from the waist to the cleavage, with a thin, robust golden chain forged in the smithy of the far Qarth, and a few well-placed buttons ensure the proper fit of the gown.

Daemon thankfully managed to not mess her hair too badly, so with a few minor adjustments she deems herself presentable once more. Placing the divider in a way that hides the rest of the room from the solar, where she plans to have supper with the Princess, Rhaenyra goes to let the steward in.

It is with a deep bow that the conversation begins. “Your Highness, I come to tell you that my mistress, the Princess Rhaenys, has accepted your invite for supper. She requests a few moments to freshen herself after the tiring council session and then she shall make haste to join you.”

“Very well. Tell the Princess that I await her most anxiously and will endeavor to have food already on the table for when she arrives. I am certain she’s famished after such a tiring ordeal.”

“At once, Your Highness.”

“Ser Erryk,” she calls after the steward leaves, “Have the maids set the table for a late supper in my solar at once, please. The Princess and I wish to dine as soon as possible. The kitchens should already be informed and have some food at the ready. Also call upon someone to tidy my room.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

Chapter Text

The two Princesses, one clad in purple the other in Velaryon blue, look at each other with attentive gazes as servants file in and fill the table with lemon-water, wine, breads and place small bowls of green peas and brown rice along with a tray of cold meats and cheeses. The ensemble is not as rich as she is used to having, but Rhaenyra thinks it will suffice, considering the late hour.

Rhaenys is the first to break the silence, once all the servants have filed out of the room. “My children were overjoyed at being welcomed so heartily by you, Princess. They have not stopped smiling since they came back from your rooms.”

“It is my utmost pleasure to welcome my kin in my home. I love them dearly and it fills my heart with joy to know that my fondness is reciprocated.”

“I am glad as well. I cannot help but also notice that you have grown close to your brother, as well.”

Rhaenyra hums, filling her plate with rice and beans and waiting for Rhaenys to finish picking her meats. “He is slowly growing on me, although his frequent temper tantrums are quite heavy on my nerves.”

A small chuckle. “He seems very possessive of you.”

“I apologize if his behavior has caused your family any embarrassment. I don’t know what passed in Alicent’s mind to make her think it appropriate to bring a young child to such an occasion. I admit, it is also the first time he has acted so possessively.”

The lack of formalities or the proper title for the Queen Consort doesn’t escape Rhaenys’ notice, but she chooses to ignore it. She herself isn’t particularly keen to acknowledge the role of that woman. “The actions of a child cannot harm us, Princess” she takes a sip of water, before diverging the conversation to another topic. “I have something to ask of you, if you are amenable.”

“Ask away, and please drop the formalities. We are kin, let us interact as such.”

A small smile blooms on the aged Princess’ face and she nods her head. “As you desire. My daughter has been much joyous these last few days and has insisted quite heavily on wearing pearls today. I also didn’t fail to notice your own pleasure at seeing my daughter dressed as such. I might be old, but I am not oblivious. You two have planned something and I would like to know what it is.”

Rhaenyra smiles, enjoying the thought of her cousin being so eager to enter her services. “I would never do you the disservice of thinking you obtuse. The reason is quite simple: I have asked Laena if she was amenable to join my household as my lady. She has graciously accepted. I have, admittedly, asked her through personal correspondence, but I plan on making the request formal as soon as possible. I was simply awaiting her approval which she has wordlessly given through her clothing.”

Rhaenys’ eyes narrow. The Crown Princess cannot tell if it’s in amusement or anger. “It is quite bold to bypass so thoroughly the maiden’s family when making such a request. A smart trick having her answer through her jewelry, very devious indeed, but I hope you know you require permission from the head of the lady’s House to proceed. The contract must be signed by all parties.”

“Of course I do, but I also know that Laena will do whatever it takes to convince your husband to agree, and I hope that my father’s actions have not soured our relationships so thoroughly that Lord Corlys would deny Laena and I a sliver of happiness in this vipers’ nest.”

Rhaenys hums, delicately chewing on a small bite of meat. She’s clearly thinking about Rhaenyra’s words, but that’s not all the Crown Princess wants to tell her. “I have not asked you to dine with me simply for the sake of chatter, however pleasant it is to reacquaint myself with you, velma. I myself have some questions for you” she says, falling back to her childhood way of referring to the Princess. It’s not the exact familiar link they share, but it fits well enough.

A small spark of fondness warms the Princess’ eyes, and she extends a hand towards her younger counterpart. Rhaenyra doesn’t hesitate to lace her fingers with hers, reveling in the familiar feel of calluses borne of many dragonrides. “What do you require of me, child?”

“I have need of your help. I’m sure you already know that I am to go on a six-moon long royal tour in search of a betrothed.”

“Yes, rumors have reached the shores of Driftmark as well as the rest of the Realm I suppose” Rhaenys chuckles.

Rhaenyra grimaces, causing her older relative to laugh outright. “’Tis not a tragedy, Rhaenyra. You have been given an opportunity many women in Westeros don’t get, just as I have. You get to choose your own husband.”

“I would agree with you if it weren’t for the fact that I have no desire to get married at all.” Rhaenyra spears a piece of cheese and brings it to her mouth.

“Unfortunately,” Rhaenys sighs, folding her hands on her lap, “That is a duty that befalls every woman, but even more so it’s relevant for you. It is on you that the future of the Seven Kingdoms relies upon. I was deemed not worthy of that honor by a council of men who though, still think, that a bit of meat hanging in between a ruler’s legs is somehow indispensable to bear the crown, but you have the fortune of having the King by your side.”

“Then it should be enough for me to ascend peacefully. The King decides the heir. What difference does it make if I marry in the next moons or not? I will have to produce an heir regardless, might as well enjoy my life before I endanger myself in such a way” she snarls, her mind going back to her mother’s pyre, to all the babies she had lost in her quest to produce a male heir and every piece of her heart she lost along with them. Her eyes water.

Rhaenys’ eyes widen in sudden realization before her face settles in a tender mask. “Ah, so this is what it’s about. You are afraid of childbirth.”

“How could I not? My mother died after countless failed births and miscarriages that took away bits of her happiness one after the other. Both my grandmothers died bringing a child into this world. Why would I ever desire to condemn myself to the same fate?”

Rhaenyra cannot help but let tears fill her eyes. It is only in front of Rhaenys, more than anyone else, that she can truly let voice to her concerns, for she is a woman that was once in her position and a mother that has survived to tell the tale. She can’t ask one of the other ladies at court for they are not born with the same freedom all dragonriders enjoy and Gods forbid she asks Alicent.

“Oh, my sweet girl. What happened to them was a tragedy. The greed of men and the will of the Gods have prevented them from living to see their children grow and truly flourish, but many women survive the birthing bed. I myself have faced the terrible challenge that is birthing twins and I am here in front of you, safe and healthy.”

“And what assurance do I have that it won’t be the same for me? That my future husband won’t choose a possible son over me like my father has done with my mother. After all, if I were to die it would be my husband that would care for my child and my Hand ruling the Kingdom, and that’s only if I last long enough to feel the crown upon my brow. How am I to know that they won’t poison the mind of the future monarch to suit their interests?”

Those concerns are more present than ever into her mind, especially after seeing what Alicent is trying to do with Aegon. If such a thing can happen with her father alive and well, what would happen without anyone restricting her future consort?

Rhaenys sighs. “That is why you must choose your spouse well. I was lucky enough to find a man that respects me, completes me and adores me as if I were a deity myself. Tour the kingdoms, find your match. Someone that makes you happy as well as serves the realms well.”

“And how many men like that do you think are alive, velma? You make it sound as if every lord’s son has anything but their own interest at heart with no regard for me or mine.”

“You must be smart and weed them out. The road to your coronation as Queen is still long, but you’ll quickly need to learn how to play your cards to suit your interests. And then, once you’re crowned, you’ll use that knowledge to rule justly and bring prosperity to the Realm with the help of the people you’ve deemed worthy of your trust. You have much to learn, my girl, but still a long time to do so, Gods willing.”

“And yet Father still has me as his cupbearer in his council. I have no use to those men except for filling their bellies with wine. I can only learn so much from listening to council meetings and not actively participating.”

Rhaenys’ expression sours. “Still a cupbearer, you say? That is wholly unacceptable. You are the Crown Princess, not a child borne of a minor House. You should have a seat at your Father’s council, if not a position altogether.”

The young woman scoffs. “The Lord Hand would throw a fit if I were to ask for such a thing, and my father would never agree if his dear Otto” she mocks, “doesn’t agree. And frankly, simply listening to the council sessions is irritating enough, I cannot imagine what it would be like having to effectively participate.”

Rhaenys looks supremely disappointed. “I suggest you quickly change your mind because you’ll need to fight for your position, Rhaenyra. As long as my cousin is alive, I can tell he will fully support you, but once Balerion will take him from us to the afterlife you’ll need to have the support of the Realm, or else you will fail.”

Rhaenyra straightens up, food forgotten in her plate. “You dare insinuate they’d attempt treason?”

“I dare insinuate that they’ll use whatever mistake you have made to elevate your brother’s claim over yours and put Aegon on the throne instead of you. Marrying, having heirs, securing a place and household at court, making your presence known across the Realm, … these are all ways to solidify your position. Certain Houses, especially those in the North, will honor their oaths, but other won’t do so as easily.”

“And how am I supposed to do that? My father has not given me the means to do so and I have no intention of asking Alicent or her father for counsel, given the fact that they’d only try to lead me astray.”

Rhaenys scoffs, waving a hand in the air. “What a silly question. I will be the one to help you, of course.”

Rhaenyra is left speechless. She has heard the stories about the no longer good blood between Princess Rhaenys and the Targaryens living in the Red Keep. Slighted by them during the Great Council of 101, she has rarely returned to court since then and only to let her children interact with the only other child with Targaryen blood in the Seven Kingdoms. She has always known that the animosity Rhaenys feels toward her father and uncle has never extended to her, but to know that she’s so willing to help her achieve what she could not is something else entirely.

“Will you, really?” she asks, her voice insecure.

“Please, do not mistake my conviction with arrogance, but I fear I might be the only one who can help you. I will never presume to take the place of your mother, and yet that is part of the role I shall assume to aid you. Only another queen knows of the burden that is being one, and while I have never felt the touch of the crown, I certainly have felt its weight. Your lady mother is not here to help guide you and so I shall endeavor to do good by her and even better by you.”

Tears fill the young Princess’ eyes.

Every day she wishes her mother had not left her, and every day she is left with a gaping wound inside her heart where her mother once stood. She misses her easy smiles, her fingers threading through her hair, the sweet floral perfumes she favored and the tales she told of her home in the Vale. She knows Rhaenys will never come close to the place her mother held in her heart, but she cannot help but desire someone to hold her hand and guide her through this time in her life.

Rhaenys sees the struggle taking place behind her eyes and decides to put her out of her misery. She stands up, elegantly placing the napkin beside her plate, and walks around the table. She reaches Rhaenyra just as she throws herself in her arms and the two women embrace each other. The sobs racking the smaller girl’s frame make Rhaenys’ pain from losing her own mother resurface after many, many sunturns. She knows how much it hurts to lose a parent, but she would never presume to understand Rhaenyra’s pain. She not only lost her mother, but she lost her at the hands of her father, who immediately replaced her at court with someone that the Princess considered her own confidante, putting children into her that would inevitably be seen as rivals for the Iron Throne.

Shushing the girl, Rhaenys leads her to sit back on the chair. She kneels in front of the girl. Her eyes are red and puffy and it seems like she has never had the opportunity to liberate herself from some of the pain she has in her heart. Rhaenys would give her that and more.

“Rhaenyra, this game is perilous. I will not lie to you and say that there won’t be any challenges, that you won’t have to compromise between your desires and what needs to be done. What I can tell you is that I shall endeavor to help you to the best of my abilities, offering my counsel and keeping yours. I shall teach you how to rule and if I don’t have the required knowledge, I shall find someone who does. You will get the throne that was promised to you, I swear it.”

Both Princesses’ eyes are damp, and yet their smiles are bright and spirits firm as they release each other from their embrace. The familiarity between the two makes it so that the need for propriety is not present, but the both of them still take a few moments to recompose themselves. The little uneaten food left in front of them has gone cold, and so Rhaenyra calls back the servants and orders the plates removed.

Once they have been left them alone once more, she straightens up in her seat. “I am glad you are so willing to help me, velma. I am sure that with your guidance we will prevail.”

The older Princess is quite amused by the posturing of the girl, especially after their shared emotional outburst, but she doesn’t let it show. “I sure hope so, my girl.”

“Might I ask your counsel already?”

“Naturally.”

Rhaenyra gets up and takes the parchment detailing the itinerary for the tour. “These are all the Keeps I have decided to visit during my progression. I am unsure whether this would suffice. What says you?”

 Rhaenys grabs the paper, quickly skimming her eyes over the ink. She also reads the list of people Rhaenyra wishes would follow her in her travels. Syrax, the servants, the guards and Laena.

“You plan to bring my daughter on Syrax with you, I presume.”

“Yes. My lady can carry us both comfortably and I know my cousin would like the chance to fly this often.”

“Indeed. And how do you plan to direct your household? A caravan of people moves much slower than a dragon.”

“I was thinking about making them depart earlier at every destination, so that they’d manage to keep up with us” Rhaenyra begins, but Rhaenys’ disapproving face stops her in her tracks.

“I am afraid you overestimate the speed of men and horses. They would have to skip keeps altogether to reach the next in time and that is simply not an option. What I suggest,” she clasps her hands on her lap, “is that multiple delegations of both guards and servants leave at different times and follow you to preselected destinations. I would also suggest modifying the itinerary: it would be best to include all the major keeps and leave some of the smaller ones to mitigate the influx of people. May I?”

Rhaenyra passes her ink and quill. The older princess crosses certain names and writes down others, along with an expected stay. “This itinerary would grant you a full moon which you’d dedicate to travelling from keep to keep.” Then she turns the paper so that Rhaenyra can read it. The Princess has removed Gulltown from the list and added Riverrun, Old Oak and Hellholt.

“And how do you propose to distribute the staff for the journey?” Rhaenyra asks once she has begrudgingly admitted to the superiority of Rhaenys’ plan.

“What do you propose? Keeping in mind that you’d need many more people than the one you have previously accounted for” she fires back, instead.

Rhaenyra frowns, trying to think about the best possible plan. “I would say one party could cover Maidenpool, another The Eyrie and White Harbor, another Winterfell—”

“Let me stop you there, Rhaenyra. I would beg you to think of poor Beesbury’s worries and the crown’s coffers. This many people away from the Keep not only would deplete the Red Keep’s halls but would require a lot of provisions for the time on the road. One party could follow you to Maidenpool, yes, but it could also await you at Pyke or Riverrun and only then return to the Keep. This would also be the typical approach in case of conflict: troops move where you tell them, it’s true, but they are not rooted to one single location and they also need food in their bellies to follow your orders. You have five handmaids, from my understanding. You can entrust each one with a party.”

Rhaenyra is already on the verge of a terrible headache. She has never busied herself with matters of war or planned such a big event. Despite her displeasure, she realizes that Rhaenys is right: she cannot expect to rule an entire kingdom if she doesn’t even know how to plan a simple progression. She doesn’t doubt her when she says that this is merely one of the trials she’ll have to face to reach the throne.

At the end of some debate, the two Princess have hatched the outline of a plan. Naturally, it’s up to the Master of Coin to ultimately decide whether that’s feasible or not, but the two are hopeful. Rhaenyra has also elected to let each of her maids decide which parties they’d belong in, so even that will be decided posthumously.

Rhaenys puts the quill down after having read for the umpteenth time the scroll. “The crown would still have to fatten up the Keep’s staff with some new people, but it could be spun to play in your favor. The Princess who travels the Realm to get to know it’s people and, in the meantime, provides new jobs for the smallfolk.”

“I am already the Realm’s Delight, shall I become the Realm’s Employer, too?”

Rhaenys clicks her tongue, annoyed by her cheek. “You shall be whatever you need to be in order to sit on the throne, child. One day you’ll be the Realm’s first ruling Queen. You shall have to do much more than delight and employ.”

Rhaenyra grumbles under her breath. “Another thing. Both Laena and I fear the presence of many unworthy candidates. The idea of sitting for entire days listening to men peacock and petition for my hand is already quite stifling and it would only be even more so if we were to entertain proposals that have no way of effectively going through.”

“What do you deem unworthy?”

“Men old enough to be my father or worse, or boys so young there would be doubts at their ability to perform their duty in the marriage bed.”

Rhaenys hums. “I agree. Those will be unwelcome presences during the tour, but you cannot completely exclude such a big portion of men. Once we finalize the finer points of the progression, if I were you, I would send ravens to all the major keeps informing them of any requirements you would like your future spouse to meet. They, in turn, would report them to their vassals.”

“Well, then, I shall take your words to heart and ask for men between the age of six and ten and thirty. I am not going to make the same mistake as my father and settle for a match that brings no benefit to my future rule.”

“I urge you to reconsider the age limits. I would lower the age to four and ten and raise it to forty. Unfortunately, there are not many unwed men of the right age, so you must compromise. An older husband dies first, if you are so unwilling to share your lifetime with another, and there is the chance that, if he’s widowed, he already has heirs. A younger one is more malleable, and if you were to ask for a longer engagement period you could still wait for him to become slightly more mature.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I have bargained with my father: he granted me the tour in exchange for a short engagement. Probably the couple of moons it will take to plan the wedding and have all the Realm attend. Maybe even less.”

Rhaenys purses her lips. “I see, yet I still urge you to listen to my counsel. At least, consider suitors of five and ten namedays.”

“You were lucky, velma. Lord Corlys is loyal to you, but most older men are also terribly attached to their own land. What is to say that they’ll be loyal to me more than their own roots?”

“Corlys is loyal to me because I am loyal to him and his House in turn. I know perfectly well that he married me for privilege and power first and foremost, as he was bound to do given his ambition, but I agree in that we were lucky: we found deep love in our marriage and fit one another seamlessly.”

The love in her gaze is undeniable and Rhaenyra has to divert her eyes from the moving display. She is vaguely reminded of the same look her parents had when they looked at each other, and the memory is unwanted and unnecessary in such a moment.

She clears her throat, “I am happy that your own marriage worked out, but you yourself have impressed the necessity for careful consideration of my future consort. Now you want to widen the candidates?”

“For a proper choice, there must be many options. Meeting plenty of men not only will allow you more choices for husband but will give you an idea of who it is that controls the lands you will one day rule over. Although, I would recommend you to also write a list of the Houses whose men you’ll consider for husband. It would do you no good to be seen accepting the courting of unsuitable candidates. That gives the impression of desperation and could potentially spark indignation with the higher lords.”

“I’m afraid I will need help for that.”

“And you shall have it, of course. That is why I’m here.”

In the end, the entire night is spent pouring heads over the royal progress and by morning the scrolls containing every detail planned is placed on the desk of Lord Beesbury.

“My thanks, Your Highness. I will get to work immediately and soon you’ll be able to depart on your journey. If there are any difficulties, should I take them to you, my Princess, or the King?”

“Thank you, my lord, and any issues may be taken to me. Let us not bother my Father with such things. I would also like to thank you for your impeccable report. You have been of much help.”

The evening before Rhaenys had commanded Rhaenyra to read the entire thing and make some sense of it. She doesn’t know enough economics or budgeting to understand much but she can tell that the situation is indeed grave.

“’Tis nothing, my Princess. I am always happy to serve the Realm.”

“I’m glad you feel like that, Lord Beesbury. Now, if you would excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Good day.”

“Good day to you, Your Highness.”

The Princess starts walking in the corridors of the Keep, once again dismissed from the Small Council. This time, the excuse is to spend more time with her half-brother. The Queen and Lord Hand had protested at that, claiming that the council had need of the cupbearer, but the King was overjoyed by her desire to bond with his other child.

“The council shall pour his own wine for once, Otto. We are not incapable of doing so. If my children wish to spend time together, then they shall” he had declared.

Rhaenyra heads to the wing of the castle where the nursery housing Aegon is located. Ser Arryk, loyally keeping watch outside the doors, seems surprised by her arrival and she has to admit that such a thing is not completely unwarranted. She has never directly sought out the child, only spending time with him when they cross paths or when he himself asks for her.

As she enters, she can already see that the preparations for the arrival of Alicent’s next child are on the way of being completed. A wooden crib is already stationed in a corner of the room, opposite of the small bed where Aegon most likely sleeps. Both have green blankets over them. Toy dragons and small blocks of wood painted in different shades of green litter the floor, as if the child who was using them had just disappeared.

She is angered at the blatant lack of Targaryen colors, but she wipes the scowl from her face once she sees her half-brother sprinting in her direction from a corner of the room, where he was hidden behind a rocking chair.

“Nyra! You came!” he squeals, colliding with her legs and nearly taking out her knees from under her.

“Aegon, please, avoid launching at full speed on my legs, you could hurt me.”

Obviously, the little terror ignores her, instead detaching himself from her legs and jumping up on her, leaving her with no choice but to grab him or watch him fall ruinously to the ground. “Aegon!” she admonishes, but the child only snuggles deeper in her embrace. He hides his face in her collarbones—she has opted for a golden dress with a square neckline, wider than she normally wears—and then winds his arms around her chest. Under her dress.

“Aegon, this is really not appropriate” she tells him as she feels his little hands reach all the way under her arms and rest over her shoulder blades. His nursemaid, who only then deigns to show her face, bows hastily and then proceeds to help the Princess disentangle herself from the Prince’s hold. Sadly, that is a feat easier said than accomplished. The young child seems determined not to let go of his older sister, who can clearly feel his nails try and dig into her skin. “Aegon, you will have to let me go sooner or later. You cannot be held in my arms forever” she attempts to coax her half-brother into letting her put him down.

“I want to stay” he turns his amethyst puppy eyes toward his sister, trying to convince her into holding him a while longer. “We can play. I am a little dragon and you are my mama dragon” he attempts a small growl that Rhaenyra is quite sure is meant to resemble a dragon’s. “Little dragons need warmth” he continues, burying his face in her neck once more. To be honest, his nose does feel quite cold.

The nursemaid, who the Princess now recognizes as one of the ones Alicent has requested from Oldtown, is still trying to pry his arms from her when she raises a hand. The woman stalls immediately, although she doesn’t look happy if her frown is any indication. Rhaenyra cannot possibly care less. “Very well, little dragon. Are you up for some playtime in my rooms?”

“Yes!” he laughs delicately, his breath tickling the Princess’ neck.

She turns to the nursemaid. “Grab some of his toys and follow me.”

“Your Highness, I am not certain that Her Grace would approve—”

“I don’t need the Queen Consort’s approval. I am the child’s sister and, even if that were not enough, the King himself gave me leave to entertain my brother for the rest of the day. Now do as you were told.”

The woman purses her lips but does as she’s ordered, following the two children of the King all the way to the Princess’ rooms. Ser Arryk shadows them as well and stations himself beside his twin once they reach their destination. The two brothers resume their watch over their charges while the nursemaid is immediately dismissed from the rooms. Once again, she tries to protest in vain, as Rhaenyra hears none of it. The woman leaves to immediately report the happenings to her Queen and the Hand, as she has been instructed to do any time the Princess approaches the little Prince.

“Little dragon, do you not want to lay on the bed and play?” she tells him, and sighs deeply when he shakes his head. His curls tickle her neck and she shudders.

“No, I want you. You are warm.”

Rhaenyra resigns herself to keeping him in her arms. She throws them over his back, holding him close as she sits down on the rug in front of the fire, laying upon a few pillows and letting the child drape himself over her torso. The boy seems to adore anything that emanates heat, for he switches to her other shoulder so that he can look at the flames burning in the fireplace. She can feel his fingers wiggle over her shoulder blades, kneading the skin there, and she sighs softly. She begrudgingly appreciates the closeness.

“Don’t you two look cozy.”

Both Aegon and Rhaenyra start—the boy nearly clipping his sister on the chin as he raises his head—but the Princess relaxes once she sees it’s only their uncle, emerging from the secret passage near her bed. The boy looks confused at the strange words coming out from the unfamiliar man’s mouth, not knowing nearly enough Valyrian to understand, but with a few pats on the head from his beloved sister he settles once again on her shoulder.

“You scared me, kepus. Aegon got frightened, too.”

“I seem to be doing that a lot, as of late. So, this is the brat—boy you were talking about.” Daemon quickly changes his tune once he sees the glare the Princess throws at him.

Given the fact that she has a whole half-brother sprawled over her, she elects to have this conversation while laying down. She nods her head towards the leftover space on the rug, motioning for her uncle to sit. “Have you found anything?”

His eyes darken, but he says nothing. He removes his red doublet, remaining only in his white cotton undershirt, and joins his niece and nephew on the floor in front of the fire as bid. The boy ignores him completely, relaxing even further in his sister’s hug and not noticing that Daemon is studying him quie intently.

“Well, have you? Do you want me to beg you to speak?” Rhaenyra challenges.

“You will never have to beg me, niece. Unlike me, who must beg you for forgiveness for it seems your concerns are founded.”

Those ominous words are accompanied by a low growl, his whole face contorting into an angry snarl. “I have investigated the Queen’s rooms after she went to the royal Sept for her daily prayers, as well as have overheard several conversations between her and her ladies and servants. You are right, niece. They are plotting to make the child as Hightower as they can without overtly committing treason.”

“I visited the nursery and the entire place is covered in green. No Targaryen heraldry in sight, but at least there were no Seven-Pointed stars” Rhaenyra adds, scowling.

“Fuck. Green is the color of the Hightower beacon of war. The whore is also planning to have the boy anointed with the Seven Holy Oils soon. I heard her talk about asking Viserys once again to let the dragonkeepers give him another egg since the one he currently has is small and still hasn’t hatched. I also heard her ladies talking about how Otto wants to send the child to foster for a few moons at Oldtown after a royal tour to present him to the Realm.”

Rhaenyra scoffs. “My Father might not see the danger in letting a child of Old Valyria get anointed this young, but he would never agree to the rest. I didn’t get a tour and he would never disgrace me in such a way. Moreover, I myself am set to go on a progression soon and Beesbury would have a stroke if he were to be asked to budget another.”

Daemon barks a laugh before becoming serious once more. “What is to say that he won’t be persuaded into letting him go live with the other side of his family for a moon or two? You know how sentimental your Father can become. If he were to agree, even if my brother refuses to allow the anointing, they might attempt to simply have it done in secret in Oldtown and only tell him after the deed is done. Viserys would no doubt avoid causing a scene and would simply cover his displeasure with a feast to celebrate the occasion.”

Rhaenyra bites her lip. Her uncle is not wrong. The King would never have the spine to oppose or deny Otto so openly, and would no doubt capitulate at his wife’s request of anointment. She knows that her father is fully aware that no Targaryen has ever been anointed in their youth but only when crowned, to symbolize the support of the Faith, but she’s also certain that he wouldn’t think about it too much if only to make Alicent and Otto happy and avoid any displeasure.

“The more devout followers of the Faith would no doubt start seeing Aegon as the better between the two of you and the smallfolk would no doubt start whispering about the favor of the gods of some bullshit.”

“You are Lord Flea Bottom, kepus, should you not be able to control the masses?”

“I am Lord Flea Bottom because I understand the masses, not control them. The people want stability, security, plenty of food and ale in their bellies. The crowning of a Queen would be a novelty and all new things are, by definition, unstable and unpredictable. They would use whatever excuse, as would the lords of the Realm, to discredit you.”

She scoffs, “Am I already doomed, then?”

His smile is feral as his fingers gently caress her knee over her skirt. “Of course not, my sweet. You have me on your side after all.”

She itches to wipe the self-satisfied smirk from his face, to catch him by surprise as she used to do when she was a child, and so she says: “As well as Rhaenys, I’ll have you know.”

When his face suddenly turns serious, she hides her smirk by kissing Aegon’s head. She knows her uncle and Rhaenys are not on the best of terms—Rhaenys has never forgotten Daemon throwing his support behind Viserys all that time ago and her uncle has not forgotten the distance his cousin put between all of them for, in his eyes, the most offending thing is to cause divide in their House—and his disgruntled face tells her that their grievances have not yet been laid to rest. Maybe by helping her they’ll also help each other.

“Since when the Queen Who Never Was is so willing to help you?”

“Since she realized I have no mother. Whatever displeasure she might have with you and Father, she’s mature enough to leave in between the three of you—far away from me and my needs. Will this make your support waver, kepus?”

She raises, taking care not to jostle Aegon too much. He doesn’t mind, nibbling her collarbone and hugging her more fiercely. She stares her uncle down, the flames of the fireplace enhancing those already present in her gaze. “Will your grievances prevent you from serving my cause? From helping me?”

Her uncle shifts position, coming to kneel in front of her. “My support is always yours, Rhaenyra. My sword and dragon and strength are yours.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra is busy readying herself for the family dinner her father has arranged for the evening. She has heard no news regarding the outcome of Corlys’ petition, nor regarding the small council sessions held in the previous days, but she supposes she’ll be able to discover more during supper.

Clad in a lovely dark red gown with puffy sleeves and an ample skirt, she is now sitting in front of her vanity with two of her handmaids braiding her hair into a simple but elegant updo meant to showcase her neck and enhance her bone structure. In honor of her Velaryon relatives, she has requested for a few pearls to be threaded in her strands, along with ribbons of crimson silk.

Once her hair is finished, they help her put on a pair of velvet slippers—a gift from her uncle for her last nameday. They will soon be too small for her to wear comfortably so she wants to make the most of them as long as she can.

Slipping on some rings on her fingers she deems herself ready. She dismisses her maids with the request for a calming tea to be left for her pleasure in her rooms and departs from her quarters. Ser Criston shadows her every step as they slowly walk the distance from her rooms to the King’s private solar.

“Mandia.”

She whirls on her heel, coming face to face with Laenor and Laena. They are quickly making their way towards her, arms interlocked and bright smiles on their faces. Ser Criston straightens at her side, coming to stand beside her as if her cousins were a threat. Ridiculous.

“At ease, Ser” she waves a hand, and he obeys with only the slightest of hesitation.

“Walk with us?” Laena offers Rhaenyra her other arm, which she gladly accepts.

“You look beautiful, cousins.”

And they truly do. Velaryon blue looks wonderful on their brown skin, and the gold and pearl accessories in their hair enhance the bluish purple of their eyes, inherited from their sire. Laena has, this time, chosen to add some sapphires to her jewelry, while Laenor remains steadfast in his preference of gold.

“Not nearly as much as you do, mandia. I see you adopted some of our fashion” Laenor smirks at her, nodding to the pearls in her hair.

“A mere externalization of my love for you” she winks at them, “I can’t wait to see Laena sport some lovely Targaryen colors once she becomes my lady.”

Custom says that, while ladies-in-waiting are allowed to keep their House colors, it is good manners to incorporate some of the mistress’ own House style of clothing in their daily wear, especially if she’s such an important person such as the Crown Princess. Rhaenyra already has in mind a few barrettes and bracelets that she could lend to Laena. “You would look divine in red, hāedar.”

Her blush is barely noticeable under the rouge already present on her cheeks, but it’s not nearly inconspicuous enough to avoid teasing from her brother.

“Are you planning to make the formal request soon?” Laena asks her.

“During this meal if I find the right opportunity. I have already informed your lady mother of my proposal and I hope that, between you and the Princess, we can manage to convince him to agree.”

“Naturally,” Laenor cuts in, smiling, “I will endeavor to steer my father’s opinion in your favor as well.”

“Kirimvose, idaña.”

Ser Harrold is stationed outside the doors to her father’s solar and he announces their arrival after quietly informing her that the Queen is already inside. Throwing him a grateful smile, the three detach themselves and enter with the poise required of their station. Rhaenyra is not happy that Alicent has been invited to this family dinner, but she supposes it cannot be helped. Her father did marry the woman after all.

Despite being dressed in black and red, the Queen is far from the typical monarch: even if one were to ignore the obvious physical differences, her spirit would never be able to fully embrace the Fire and Blood of House Targaryen. Her face is sweaty despite the fan one of her ladies—a Hightower, judging by the grey and green dress she’s wearing—is waving in her face and her feet are propped up on a foot stool. Even Rhaenyra’s mother, with all the difficult pregnancies she faced, had never looked as… disrupted as Alicent looks now. Her dark mane is lacking the usual luster, fashioned after the women of the Reach. Only a small circlet of modest rubies and diamonds serves as accessory, no bracelet nor earrings or rings in sight. Despite the valiant attempt at concealing, the makeup on her face is not enough to hide the dark circles under her eyes and Rhaenyra is sure the Queen has a small scratch on the hollow of her throat, nearly fully covered by the high neck of her modest gown. It’s probably from Aegon, considering the Princess herself has similar marks on her collarbones from his grasping hands. She hopes the nursemaids have cut his nails.

Rhaenyra blatantly ignores the Queen, unlike her cousins who bow, albeit very shallowly. She can feel Alicent’s glare, but it’s a weak and pathetic thing at best so she doesn’t even deign it with a smirk. Instead, she turns towards her Father, dressed in one of his favorite tunics—one with the rendering of the Black Dread stitched across his collar—and hugs him, nuzzling her face in his citrus-scented hair.

“Hello, my sweet. You look stunning” he tells her, holding her face in his hands and kissing her cheeks.

“Thank you, kepa.”

His gaze falls upon the two Velaryon children. He kisses Laena’s hand and shakes it with Laenor. “It’s a pleasure dining with you once again, it’s been too long since we last enjoyed a meal together.”

“Indeed, my King. You honor us with your invite” Laenor responds, as courteous as ever.

“Nonsense, the honor and pleasure are mine. But I can tell you have inherited your mother’s penchant for good manners.”

“I would say he has learned it after many lessons, more than anything else” a voice cuts in.

All heads turn to the entrance, where Rhaenys and Corlys are standing side by side. They must have requested not to be announced. Although the most surprising thing, however, is Daemon standing right behind them, his signature smirk on his face. His clothing is simple and yet he looks magnificent clad in his black leather doublet and red tunic. A true dragon.

“Cousin, Corlys, welcome. Let us take a seat. You, too, brother” the King adds, glaring a bit in his direction. His eyes are lacking heat, however, so Daemon takes it as his clue to begin his teasing.

“Are you not happy to see me, brother? I certainly am happy to be offered a place at your table, my knees ache quite a bit after all the stairs needed to reach your solar” he says, following in her footsteps and ignoring the Queen altogether. Not that he considers her as such, naturally. Rhaenyra throws a glance in her direction, enjoying the almost panicked look stricken on her face and the urgency in her whispers to her lady, who immediately goes to leave the solar.

“I would be happier if you had bothered to announce your arrival. You,” he nods toward the Hightower lady, who is halfway to the doors, “Inform a servant that we need one more place set at once.”

“Husband, Lady Rosalyn is not some simple maid” Alicent protests once the girl disappears.

He waves her off, “Peace. I have not asked her to clean the sheets. She shan’t be offended.”

“How lovely it is for all of us to dine together once again” Corlys quickly says, preventing a retort from the Queen.

Rhaenyra almost wants to laugh at how everyone is dismissing of the woman. A sheep in a crowd of dragons deserves nothing else, after all. She makes her opinion clear with a few words: “Even old dragons, from fire and from the sea alike, sometimes long for the company of their family.” She positions herself so that she’s blatantly giving her back to Alicent.

Daemon laughs out loud, both from his niece’s actions and her words. “Are you mayhaps calling us old?”

She throws him a mocking smirk. “Did you not just complain about sore knees, kepus?”

Both her father and Lord Corlys laugh boisterously and even Rhaenys cracks a smile. Predictably, the only one not finding joy in their jesting is the Queen, who remains sullen and steadfastly ignored.

She attempts to regain some semblance of authority over the conversation by asking the King for help in getting up. “Husband, help me get to the table. The servants have added Daemon’s place and will bring supper soon” she says, holding out a pale hand for Viserys to take. He readily helps her, and the other occupants of the solar take the hint and place themselves at their respective places.

Rhaenyra has to pinch her arm to contain her laughter when her father guides his wife towards the other end of the table, directly across from him, instead of her customary seat at his right. The King, after ensuring Alicent’s comfort and expertly ignoring her angered glares, sits at the other head of the table, with Rhaenys at his left and Rhaenyra at his right. Lord Corlys sits beside his wife and has his son on his other side. Laena, most likely in the name of peace, decides to exchange places with Daemon, letting him sit in between Rhaenyra and her, leaving her at the left of the Queen.

Her uncle doesn’t even wait for the food to be served before causing mischief. “I have seen your newest spawn, brother. The boy has no dragon yet, correct?”

Alicent pales with concerning speed, but the King ignores her—or simply doesn’t notice. “Ah, yes. Aegon hasn’t yet had the honor of being blessed with a mount of his own. And please, do not refer to my children as spawn, brother.”

White as a specter, the Queen still manages to speak. “The prince is right in his concern, however. The fact that our child’s egg has yet to hatch makes me worry. It’s undoubtful that the egg he currently possesses is faulty. I think it would be reasonable to change it with another, a heathier one that Gods willing may prove fruitful.”

Daemon barks a laugh. “You mistake my words, Alicent” he says, without even bothering to use the correct title, “The lack of a dragon is not worrying in the least. I’m sure you are aware that, out of all of us, only Rhaenyra has managed to make an egg hatch in the cradle—after many years of not seeing such an occurrence in the family—and that Lady Laena currently has no dragon. You surely don’t mean to imply that she is somewhat inferior to us?”

“Daemon…” Viserys admonishes him, but her uncle simply shrugs.

“I am merely correcting her views. It is normal that as an Andal she has no knowledge of dragons or the bond they share with their riders but, while she never will fully understand, the least she can do is not spread misconceptions in her child’s ears. What would happen if one of your children were to not hatch an egg in the cradle and heard their mother’s opinion on the fact? They would be devastated.”

Rhaenyra is not fooled in the least by his faux concern for her sibling, but she certainly appreciates the angry blush that graces the Queen’s cheeks.

Her father doesn’t catch the mocking tone in his brother's voice and sighs deeply. “I have to admit you are right, brother.” He holds up a hand when Alicent’s enraged splutters threaten to interrupt him, silencing her before she can even begin her tirade. “All of us except my dear daughter have claimed already-born dragons and not hatched them, and that is as much an honor as is having one bonded to you since the cradle. I will not change Aegon’s egg. If it doesn’t hatch, he shall be aided in the claiming of an adult mount. End of the discussion” he looks pointedly at Alicent when she once again attempts to press her case. The Queen grinds her teeth so hard Rhaenyra is surprised she doesn’t hear them crack.

“If I may propose something, Father…” the Princess begins, awaiting for his permission to continue. “I might be able to help both Aegon and the child soon to come with their dragons, along with the dragonkeepers. They shan’t be left without a teacher to guide them.”

Her father’s smile is blinding. “A wonderful idea, my girl. I have been told you have already begun Aegon’s introduction to High Valyrian.”

“Indeed. He grasps only a few words as of right now, but I’m sure that with the proper care he shall be as fluent as only a child of Old Valyria can be.”

“I would prefer it” Alicent interjects, looking at Rhaenyra around the arms of the servants who are busy setting various foods on the table, “If Aegon learned first how to properly articulate sentences in the Common Tongue, and only later High Valyrian. After all, ‘tis merely a requirement for interacting with his dragon, is it not? And at the moment he has no dragon, as you have pointed out.”

Even Viserys seems a bit offended at that. “Alicent, most of his family can boast High Valyrian as their mother tongue. We are the last bastion of Valyrian culture in this world. The cities in Essos have sullied the true tradition and speech, so it’s up to us to maintain it alive. You will not deprive him of a part of his culture, dragon or no dragon” the King’s eyes suddenly become misty, “Even my Aemma, who never claimed a dragon, spoke Valyrian with a fluency enviable by many. Fluency she has passed to my most beloved daughter.” He raises a hand and caresses Rhaenyra’s cheek with a finger.

“I think it is a wonderful thing for my niece to propose to take her siblings, even those yet unborn, under her wing. It is important for small hatchlings to bond with someone with dragon blood. I myself took on that role with her when she was young. Rhaenyra will no doubt prove to be a wonderful influence for the child” Daemon winks at her.

Rhaenyra’s mind is thrown back to a few days before, when Aegon had comfortably called her mama dragon and settled in her arms in front of the fire. Deciding to twist the knife a little bit more in Alicent’s flesh, she laughs delicately and takes her father’s hand in both of hers. “Kepus is right, my king. Aegon, as innocently as a child of his age can be, already has the possessiveness of a dragon and humorously delights in playing at being a little dragon with me, calling me his mama dragon and demanding to remain in my arms in front of the lit fireplace. He seems to adore warmth.”

“I would like to remind you all that Aegon is my child. Should I not get a say in his education? I’m sure that the Princess, while good-intentioned, will not have much time to take care of him, especially considering the rapidly approaching tour. Afterwards, I’m sure she’ll have found a wonderful husband that will give her many children” she flashes Rhaenyra a smile that is all teeth, rejoicing in the chill that visibly goes through her. “I have no doubt that the many maesters present in the Keep will suffice for his education and, if necessary, I’m certain that my father won’t mind summoning a few from the Citadel. A raven to my uncle Hobert will no doubt bring forth many worthy tutors.”

Daemon doesn’t let the idea settle in my father’s mind. “I doubt any of those maesters have ever ridden a dragon or experienced a bond with one. The fluency of the maesters’ High Valyrian is nothing compared to us native speakers. Moreover, you have heard my niece. Aegon searches for her presence and her warmth. Every hatchling needs a mother dragon, and you are no such thing. Depriving a small child of someone to comfort him is cruel enough, but the yearning for one’s blood is especially strong in Targaryens. It’s necessary to have for no one will ever be able to replicate the fire that thrums through a dragonlord’s veins. The boy searched for a mother dragon and found her in Rhaenyra, just as she herself found the bond with me.”

Viserys attempts to cool their spirits. “Peace, all of you. Daemon is entirely correct, although I don’t blame you for not knowing, my wife. Rhaenyra will be present in all our children’s lives, that is obvious and final. If you desire for more assurance regarding their education” he nods to Alicent, “I shall personally select the best maesters in the Keep to help them with their studies. Our children will grow to be clever and able like their eldest sibling. Any bond that will be born between the siblings will be nurtured and cherished.”

Alicent is not happy in the least, Rhaenyra can tell, but she elects to drop the subject in favor of bowing her head and starting to recite a prayer out loud, now that the table is laden with food. “May the Mother smile down on this gathering with love, may the Father grant us the strength to do what is right, may the Crone light our path and guide us to safety. May the Maiden bless this food so that it shall give us strength and nourish our souls.”

Rhaenyra can clearly see Daemon visibly vibrating with suppressed laughter. Alicent is the only one who mutters the prayer—the Velaryons are simply sitting in silence waiting for her to finish, throwing only a few ravenous glances towards the delicious food on the table just waiting to be eaten—but the Princess is mildly disappointed to see her Father’s bowed head. He has the need to uphold the appearance of following the Seven in public, but in private she would much prefer it if she didn’t bother with such falsities.

“Let us eat.” Alicent takes it upon herself to commence the dinner by piling small quantities of spinach, trout and potatoes on her plate.

The food has obviously been prepared with the presence of the Velaryons in mind, considering the unusual presence of many dishes of fish and seafood. Rhaenyra chooses for herself some prawns and trout, along with an orange salad and red beans. She is very amused when she sees Laenor and Laena hog the clam chowder with impressive vehemence.

She decides to scout for information. She turns to Laenor. “Valonqar, you seem eager to stuff yourself to the brim. Are you already anticipating the tasteless food you’ll get in the Stepstones?”

“You only think him ravenous now because you’ve never seen him eat mussels, Princess” Lord Corlys tells her, and his smile is mayhap a hint that things are going well for his cause.

“We shall await their victorious return to enjoy such a wondrous sight then. Although I expect that, with the provisions we shall send, you won’t suffer hunger along with the difficulties of war” her father laughs.

Rhaenyra perks up. “You have decided to support the conflict, Father? That’s wondrous news.”

“I would like to know the reason why, husband. My lord father has told me much about this so-called threat in the last days, and he fully believes it’s not as grave as Lord Velaryon believes.”

The lord in question looks quite ready to throw a cup at the woman, but Viserys—most likely noticing the chilling glare his offended relative is throwing his wife—promptly answers after swallowing a bite of potato. “I have elected to aid them not by giving them men, for there are few sailors as expert as those of the Velaryon fleet, but by ensuring a constant supply of food, medical resources and, if necessary, weapons. This war is, as much as I dislike it, quite necessary. Lord Beesbury has provided me with an exemplary report on the damage those blasted pirates are doing on our trade routes and, if allowed to continue, these fiends would no doubt completely cripple our economy. His report contradicted Otto’s beliefs and I agreed with Lord Corlys on the necessity of action.”

“Lord Beesbury has his uses” Daemon snarks.

Both Rhaenyra and Viserys glare at him, but he elects to ignore it in favor of filling his mouth with beans.

“Lyman has served me exceedingly well, brother. I’m sure that he shall plan a wonderful tour for Rhaenyra as well” he turns towards her, “He has informed me that you have given him your plan?”

“Indeed, kepa. I have planned the progression with the help of velma Rhaenys. She has been indispensable, and her counsel wise.”

Her father seems overjoyed at her words. She knows he has longed for a reunion between the two branches of his family, despite his actions resulting in anything but. “Wonderful! It gladdens me that you have found such a capable mentor.”

“Capable I might be, but I am in not way sufficient for her. I was informed,” the woman in question cuts in, “That Rhaenyra has no place on the council, nor specialized maesters to teach her the fine art of ruling.”

“Rhaenyra has no place on the council because she doesn’t need one, Princess Rhaenys” Alicent cuts in, wary eyes jumping between the two Targaryen women.

“Preposterous. She is to be the future Queen Regnant, the first of the Seven Kingdoms. You have made her heir, Viserys, a decision I commend you for, but it’s time you start acting like she’s one. Give her the necessary instruments to rule and ensure her reign is peaceful and flourishing. This progression is a small trial to see if she’s capable, and as of right now she has been an exemplary student. With the proper help she shall exceed all of our expectations.”

Alicent is on the verge of a conniption. Rhaenyra ignores her. “Father, I would feel much more secure in my abilities to rule if I were to have a more detailed knowledge of what it entails. I can only learn so much from listening to the council as cupbearer. How will the men switch from seeing me as their servant to seeing me wear the crown?”

Viserys seems conflicted, “Your ideas have merit. I shall think about your words but for now, let us eat in peace.”

The Princess can see the exasperation and tiredness in her father’s eyes, yet she steels herself against having to disrupt the calm once more. “One last thing, my King.”

“Rhaenyra…”

“I promise you’ll enjoy it, and hopefully Lord Corlys as well.”

Both men perk up, and her father waves a hand in her direction. “Speak, child, then let us eat in peace as a family.”

She throws a glance at the twins, who have remained in silence for the majority of the dinner. The two straighten, nodding briefly at her. The Queen doesn’t miss the action, narrowing her gaze at the trio and wringing her hands, food abandoned.

“I have already spoken with Lady Laena and she has gracefully agreed, but as propriety imposes I must also ask Lord Corlys and you, Father, as well. I would like for Laena to become my lady-in-waiting, my first since the decree naming me heir. Naturally, a proper contract shall be drawn and she’ll get the pick of the finest men of the realm, and if during our tour she should get the chance to claim Vhagar I’ll be delighted to help her.”

Rhaenyra knows that Laena has no desire to marry, not yet at least, but Velaryon men are ambitious and the promise of a worthy match will no doubt sway Lord Corlys. Her father, she can tell, is happy with her proposal. Her cousin’s, however, is more hesitant. Laena jumps in, “I would love to become part of the Princess’ household, Father. It would bring great honor to me and to our House both.”

Rhaenys smiles at her husband. “It would do her good to finally spread her wings and leave the nest. What better woman than Rhaenyra to guide her into the workings of court. I shall not suffer loneliness, I assure you, my duties at Driftmark will keep me busy.”

“You shall always be welcomed for a visit, velma” Rhaenyra adds, receiving an affectionate smile from the woman.

Lord Corlys looks between his family members. Laenor gives the final push in the right direction. “It would be lovely to strengthen even further the ties between our houses, especially now that the King” a nod to Viserys, “has graciously decided to grant us aid.”

The Velaryon patriarch sighs heavily. Rhaenyra tastes victory. “Very well. If the King agrees with the Princess’ proposal, I would be honored to have my daughter enter your services, Your Highness.”

“Naturally, my friend. I am most delighted. In the morn, along with the announcement of your plans for the war I shall officially welcome Lady Laena to my daughter’s household.”

“Thank you, kepa” Rhaenyra says, grabbing her father’s hand. She vaguely hears Laena say the same to her own father. The two cousins meet each other’s stares and smile brightly.

In their joy at having their plans furthered or completed, no one notices the hateful glint in the Queen’s eyes as she stares at the spectacle of familiar love in front of her.

 Aegon is comfortable on Rhaenyra’s lap, so much so that he ignores all the people around him, even those trying to entice him with sweets or toys. He is completely focused on his sister’s necklace, while she is expertly giving orders to her servants.

Lord Beesbury had given them his approval of their plan a scant hour before, but Rhaenys had insisted they immediately get into action. Rhaenyra’s departure would happen a sennight after that of Lord Corlys and Prince Daemon, which gives them roughly a fortnight to organize everything. Ravens to the Houses have already been sent, along with proper instructions regarding those who are allowed to present themselves as suitors, and Rhaenyra is now deciding which of her handmaids will go with what delegation. Rhaenys had advised her to choose it personally instead of letting her servants choose, and so that’s what she shall do.

“Agatha, you shall go with the delegation covering Maidenpool and Pyke. Milla, you will come to White Harbor and Winterfell. Elinda, for you The Eyrie, Riverrun, Casterly Rock and Old Oak. Ennia: Sunspear and Storm’s End. Corinna: Highgarden and Hellholt.”

She bounces Aegon on her legs when he starts to whine, patting his soft curls. “I shall want to have different wardrobes appropriate for the weather. The tailor should arrive soon, in the meantime get out my dresses and what fits me from my mother’s wardrobe and we shall decide what goes where.”

The maids spring into action. Rhaenyra has to rely completely on their help, having been saddled with her half-brother by her father. She doesn’t mind, to be honest. She is slowly growing to like the cuddly, smiling boy that shares half of her blood.

The doors to her rooms open, and in enter Laena, Rhaenys and the elderly tailor with her assistants. The two women immediately sit themselves on the proffered chairs, while the tailor bows. “Your Highness, I am honored that you’d entrust me with such an important project. I shall not disappoint you” she says.

“I’m sure you won’t. My cousin and her lady mother have vouched for your capabilities and I trust their judgment. I was just beginning to choose which dresses already in my possession to bring where. Do you have any input?” Rhaenyra asks.

The tailor immediately lets her gaze run over the several gowns and begins her work, aided by her two assistants. One of them holds in his hands a sheet of parchment where he writes everything the tailor says, and the other starts taking out swatches of fabrics from a bag slung over her shoulder.

“I would stick with your House colors, Your Highness, and maybe some purples. Golden details, as well. We also need to take into account that Winter is fastly approaching” the elderly tailor mumbles, sifting through gowns and fabric with startling efficiency.

“My Princess” Elinda interrupts gently, “I have heard from the servants that your cloak shall be ready soon, as well as the gift for Prince Daemon. You’ll surely be able to give it to him before his departure.”

“Very well, thank you.”

“My Princess, the cloak would surely serve you well in the North” the tailor begins, but Rhaenys interrupts her.

“I think it would be best if she were to bring it to the Westerlands and the Reach. During her travels the Princess will surely receive many gifts, and some are bound to be furs, especially in the North. By the time she reaches the lands of Lannisters and Tyrells, Winter will be even closer.”

Rhaenyra hears what the Princess doesn’t say out loud. The Starks and people of the North would need no convincing when it comes to keeping their vows to her, the other lands would no doubt need more convincing and tangible proof of the blessing of the Gods in the form of a cloak made with the White Stag’s hide is bound to no doubt help her in her endeavor.

“If the Princess agrees, then that’s what we shall do.”

Rhaenyra nods, and the assistant scribbles on his paper the decision.

The majority of the clothes she has are in light golden hues but she manages to salvage some from her mother’s wardrobe. It takes time to convince Aegon to let go of Rhaenyra, and the boy only accepts when he’s allowed to hold on onto one of her braids. Laena holds at such a distance so that the tailor’s assistants can take her measurements without hinder and so that Aegon is close enough to her to be comfortable.

“Luckily only a few adjustments are needed for you to fit the Queen’s dresses, my Princess.”

Aegon returns into her arms, planting his face on her collarbone and throwing his arms around her neck. Rhaenyra places a hand on his back to hold him close and prevent him from sliding down. Her half-brother had a habit of falling asleep in her arms at it was only Agatha’s reflexes that once prevented the boy from falling face first to the floor the first time it happened and the Princess was not ready to catch him.

Rhaenyra’s apartments remain full of movement and many, many pieces of fabric well until the evening. Her servants help the tailor and her assistants carry all the material and sketches away, while Rhaenyra decides it’s time to have a conversation with Aegon.

Her uncle’s words have made it clear that his attachment is normal, and very much to be encouraged, but even that cannot prevent the separation that is bound to happen. Laena and Rhaenys lave the two alone, tired from their own tasks. Rhaenys had overseen the preparation of the saddle for the travel—a new one, fitted to carry two riders, while Laena had gone to get a few dresses for herself and arranged her jewelry for the travel.

“Little dragon” she whispers in the child’s ear, gently rousing him from his sleep.

He stretches quite adorably, massaging his eyes and yawning. Rhaenyra almost smiles, before she feels his little teeth bite at her exposed collarbone. She yelps and he giggles, the little terror he is.

“You little rascal!” she growls playfully, and the child laughs.

He claps his hands on Rhaenyra’s cheeks, tugging her face down until he can kiss her cheeks like she has done to him many times. She does now as well, adding a few raspberries for good measure.

She will miss him during her tour, she thinks.

“Aegon” she holds his little face in her hands, running her thumbs under his eyes, the same shade as their father’s, “I need to tell you something.”

The boy is young, but not so much that he doesn’t understand the seriousness in her tone. Rhaenyra continues, “In a few days, I will leave on an adventure.”

She remembers all the times she had cried when her uncle had left her—every time their separation was ordered by either her father or her great-grandparents. He had used that very same excuse, trying to mask his departures with tales of faraway lands and gifts he would give her on his return. He never failed to bring those, placating her heart with his affections and offerings until his next inevitable adventure.

Rhaenyra hopes Aegon won’t feel the same pain.

He looks confused. “We go together?” he asks, looking at her with wide eyes.

The Princess can feel his fingers caressing her cheek, as he oft does. He has called her pretty almost as many times he has called her his mother dragon, and his fascination with her eyes—most likely born of the unicity of the color—and cheeks has not yet faded. Physical touch is certainly the boy’s way of expressing love.

“No, my sweet. I must go alone. I will bring you many gifts, however.”

The tears that fill his eyes are expected, yet her heart still clenches at the sight. “No” he murmurs, trying to contain his sobs. His face scrunches and his breaths come in faster and harsher with every second that passes.

“Oh, don’t cry. It will be alright. I will come back” she hugs the boy tighter, allowing him to envelop her with both arms and legs. His tears drench her skin and gown, and if she could, she would gladly bring him with her.

An idea crosses her mind then. “Aegon,” she guides him away from her despite his protests, “I am your mama dragon, right?”

His tears momentarily stop and he nods, once again reaching for her but she stops him. She holds his hands in hers. “I am your mama dragon, and it’s my job to protect you, right? Dragons protect their own.”

Another nod. The tears have thankfully stopped altogether, the boy fully focused on her. Rhaenyra’s heart beats a bit easier.

“I will tell you a secret,” she whispers, inching closer to him with a conspiratorial air. “You must promise to never tell this to anyone.”

“I won’t tell, mandia!” he smiles, wiggling a bit.

“In the future, I will take you on an adventure. I am simply going to make sure the places I will bring you to are safe, because I am your mama dragon.”

His mouth falls open. “Really?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

“Yes, sweetness.”

“I love you, Nyra” he shouts, throwing his whole weight on her and hugging her tight. He plants a kiss on her cheek, and in return she rains kisses on his entire face, causing him to giggle.

“I love you, my sweet brother.”

Chapter Text

Lord Corlys of House Velaryon is an ambitious man.

It has always been in his nature to seek adventure, and with every successful feat his desire for more grew and grew. Every step, every obstacle in his way has always been regarded as a milestone in his voyage. One more notch in his belt of triumphs.

His greatest one was, and still perhaps is, his marriage to the Princess Rhaenys. His beloved wife. Her fire burned strong even at six and ten, when she chose him to be her husband and lifelong companion. Corlys had been elated, he got to marry not only a dragonrider he adores, but the only daughter of the Crown Prince.

The greatness of his House would be forever etched in the history books, for it would be his blood that would bring forth the future generations of kings and queens.

Or so the Sea Snake thought.

Aemon died. Rhaenys got passed over, and with her their unborn heir still in her belly.

Corlys had been enraged, he had exiled himself from the court, choosing to pour all his strength and resources in the betterment of his House.

He had great respect for the Conciliator, but this he could not forgive.

All his effort gave birth to the richest family in all Westeros. The smugness at surpassing both Hightowers and Lannister had given a boost to his step that had remained for many moons, and yet there has always been the desire for more.

He has accomplished so much, why should he stop?

His plans for a new voyage have to be halted, much to his displeasure, for a new threat arises. His men are being killed by a savage of a creature, and the Three Whores have decided to band together and destroy his ships and the commerce lanes of the Realm. Corlys will not let that stand.

He petitions the King, and suspects that his success is also in part due to the Princess Rhaenyra. That girl is much smarter than she lets on.

To him it doesn’t matter how he has obtained help for his war, just that he has. The men of his fleet are formidable, and with Prince Daemon’s aid and the resources provided by the Crown, Corlys has no doubt that victory will be sure and resounding, if not even swift.

He comes back to the present, where his daughter’s laughter and the light banter at the table make a smile grow on his face. It’s always lovely to be surrounded by family, even if some members are not so welcome.

His children’s smiles at the Princess’ jokes are a sight he will certainly cherish during his time at war, just as his lovely wife’s snarky jests traded with Daemon. Less cherished will be the glares and sullen faces of the little Queen Consort.

She has not stopped throwing scathing remarks all around, only sparing Daemon from her barbed tongue, most likely in fear of retaliation. Daemon is not known for his love of propriety. No one would ever be truly surprised to bear witness to his disregard for the Queen’s position, especially considering her parentage. His disdain is predictable and expected.

Rhaenyra’s own contempt, however, is more entertaining to witness.

Objectively, Corlys knows that the Princess has been angered by the actions of both the King and her then-friend, but to see such blatant disrespect be allowed and, never mind be reprimanded, but not even acknowledged… ‘twas truly a wonder.

He admires the Princess if he has to be honest with himself.

He is no fool. He knows it was most likely she that had Lord Beesbury draft the report that allowed his petition to go through. Otto fucking Hightower was already spewing his lies about the needless war Corlys wanted the Crown to embark on—Viserys more than ready to listen to the fucking cunt—when the blessed help from the Princess had arrived.

The King changed his mind and help was secured.

Looking at the smiling young woman sitting a few seats from him, he would have never suspected her involvement. His wife has told him many times of her lack of political acumen, and yet she had returned after a dinner with the Princess with eyes full of dragonfire.

“She has come into her fire, husband. She will need guidance, but she is finally ready to play the game” she told him, hugging his neck and trapping his mouth with her own.

Few words had followed after that, and most certainly nothing concerning the young heir, but Corlys has not forgotten the pride in his wife’s eyes. The following morning, she had told him the truth of it. Not everything, for he was sure some things were better left between the two Princesses and he would not do them the disservice of prying where he shouldn’t, but she had told him of her new protegee.

“With your help” he had said, “I am certain that Rhaenyra will blossom into a fine Queen.”

Corlys can already see it. Rhaenyra as Queen and his son right by her side, as King Consort. Their name would go down in history and the Velaryon line will be forever secure. This option is even better than having Laena marry the King, since he now has his so coveted son and has yet to disinherit his firstborn.

Looking at her now, Corlys can see just how many steps she will have to take if she wants to become a worthy and respected monarch. The blatant disrespect of the Queen, while appreciated, would no doubt paint her as a spoiled, childish woman; the lack of a seat in the small council, whilst certainly not the girl’s fault, is not helping her in the least.

When the proposition for his daughter to become the first of the future Queen’s ladies is spoken, he is left momentarily without words.

The position of lady-in-waiting is surely a very coveted one, even more the first of the Crown Princess’ household, and for it to be offered to his daughter is an undeniable honor. And so, he agrees.

Yet, Corlys will not stop wishing for more.

He has no doubt that his son shall be knighted during the war, and what better husband to a future Queen than a knighted, war-hardened dragonrider of a fellow Valyrian House.

His House has been slighted once, but he would not let past grievances hinder his plan to bring his the Velaryon name even higher.

He has already started to introduce the idea of marriage to his son and his daughter and, despite their adamant refusal on the grounds of their youth, Corlys will see them both wedded and bedded before their seven and tenth nameday.

Laena shall begin her search for a husband during the Princess’ tour, under her guidance, and if none will be found worthy, the son of the Sealord of Braavos shall be a proper match.

Laenor, on the other hand, has been granted the affection of his squires for long enough. Lord Corlys himself has oft sought the carnal pleasure other sailors can offer, but he has never let such things hinder his duty to his House. Naturally the comeliness of his dear spouse has helped, and so shall the undeniable beauty of the Crown Princess. Many men turn their heads to follow her figure every time she moves, and Laenor will no doubt fall under her spell and come to realize the joys a woman’s body can offer. Corlys will make sure of that.

As the dinner ends and everyone retires to their respective quarters, his wife eyes him suspiciously. “You have something on your mind, husband.”

It’s not a question, but he nods nonetheless. “I understand now what you told me. Rhaenyra has the potential to become a great ruler, but what she shows the world is far from a capable heir.”

His wife sighs. “Indeed. I shall have my hands full, but I am eager to begin our work. I was denied the crown once, but now I have the chance to help her like I would have wanted to be helped all those years ago.”

“You shall do a marvelous job, my dear. Your magnanimous heart does you justice. Many would have been bitter, but not you.”

“I have come to terms with my disinheritance and find myself more than happy with my lot. ‘Tis you” she remarks, “That constantly desires for more.”

Corlys frowns, seating himself in front of the fire. “Do you blame me? I simply desire for our House to have what it deserves.”

Rhaenys comes to sit on his lap, curling contentedly in his arms and laying her head on his shoulder. Absentmindedly, he hopes that the embroidery on his tunic doesn’t disturb her.

“Husband. You cannot marry Laenor to Rhaenyra.” Her voice is soft yet her words hold no weakness, no chance at rebuttal.

He starts, twists his head to look into his wife’s violet eyes. “What are you saying?”

“What you refuse to acknowledge. Laenor will not be a good King Consort, and even Rhaenyra knows it.”

“He is still young, barely four and ten. His preference for men is not set in stone. The Princess is a comely girl, beautiful even, and he will come to realize it. It might take him seeing her naked under him during their bedding, but I’m most certain he will come enjoy the female body like any other man.”

He raises from his place, dislodging his wife, and begins to change into his nightwear. One of the servants comes forth to help him, as well as one for Rhaenys. He can practically feel her disappointment, but he chooses to ignore it.

As they settle into their bed—they requested a single chamber instead of the customary two—Rhaenys doesn’t settle on his chest as she usually does, instead she keeps to her side of the mattress. She stares at him with unflinching eyes, the usual love present in her amethyst eyes now absent.

“What, Rhaenys?” he says tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Our son’s heart cannot be changed by the will of men. ‘Tis not preference, but nature. I know it, Laena knows it and even Rhaenyra does. Only you refuse to see the truth.”

“Let’s say that I allow Laenor to remain unmarried. Who would continue our line?”

“Laena, of course. She is more than capable of being the Lady of Driftmark, the head of House Velaryon.”

“She is a woman.”

“And so am I. You supported me when I was in line for the Throne and you now support Rhaenyra, or is it simply because you have the chance to get your blood to wear the crown?”

He sighs heavily. “You know I supported you because I love you. I supported you because I thought you’d be a great ruler, and the added boon of having my blood on the throne was but an incentive—never the main reason.”

“Then trust me when I say that Laenor will not give you what you desire” she beseeches him, finally coming closer and holding his hands in hers.

“Let us sleep now. I will heed your counsel, for now” he amends when she begins to smile, “Our son will soon accompany me to war. Many things change under the constant threat of death. We shall see after.”

His wife is not happy, but she is slightly mollified. She knows that’s the most she’ll get out of him and so she settles more comfortably in his embrace, kissing his cheek before willing her mind to slip into the realm of dreams.

Corlys, however, remains awake for far longer than his beloved.

He is plagued by images of what should have been and what could be.

He should have been King Consort, his wife the first Queen and their children Prince and Princess. He has resigned himself to the impossibility of that ever happening. For it to become true at present, it would mean utter tragedy would have to strike, and no matter his ambition, he doesn’t wish for that. He always longs for more, but unlike that cunt Otto, he will not sacrifice his family’s lives for that.

On the other hand, now he has another opportunity to fulfill his desire for more.

Rhaenyra is a lovely girl, smart and beautiful, she gets along with both Laenor and Laena. She is the perfect candidate to become Laenor’s wife as much as he is fit to become her spouse. He understands his wife’s worries, but everyone must do their duty. Laenor is no exception.

He will do as she wishes, however. He will wait to push for the marriage until they both come back from the war—although the promise of a marriage and a future family of his own would be an incentive for Laenor to fight harder and survive. He will keep him safe and observe him. Many whores fill war camps and he has no doubt that Laenor will come to see the joys of women, both as a pair of warm legs and as lifelong companions—the Gods only know what he would do and be without his adored Rhaenys.

With thoughts of his lovely wife in mind, Corlys drifts to sleep, ambitions momentarily replaced by the love he holds for his family.

Chapter Text

Time passes swiftly and soon it’s the day when both Rhaenyra and Daemon are set to depart. Corlys has already left the day before, considering he’s travelling by ship and not by dragon. The first two of the groups for the Princess’ progression have already been sent.

The previous days have been full of planning, taking measurements, deciding fabrics and organizing people and supplies. Rhaenyra is endlessly thankful for Rhaenys’ help, otherwise she doubts she would’ve made it with her sanity intact, or in time.

“Oh, my daughter, you look beautiful” her father coos, quite embarrassingly, as he sees her.

Rhaenyra looks down at herself and she once again smiles at the lovely figure she cuts. Her new flying leathers have been completed just in time for her departure, and they look stunning. The black and red of her House are interwoven artfully, along with some embroidery similar to her old leathers but much more detailed and elegant. Some rubies and onyx glint on around her neck and sleeves, whilst a small amber glimmers where it’s positioned to look like Syrax’s eye.

“Thank you, father. We are set to depart soon, where are the others?” she asks, looking around the Dragonpit for traces of Daemon, Laenor, Laena or Rhaenys.

All three will accompany them for the first part of the flight before separating to go to High Tide, where they’d continue with their own preparations for war. Laena has already said goodbye to her father, while today it is Rhaenyra’s turn.

“They’ll come with the next carriage. I thought it best to say our goodbyes between immediate family at first. I fear my brother would make fun of me if he were to see me weeping” Viserys says. Rhaenyra notices that he, indeed, is trying to fight back tears.

His daughter is growing right in front of his eyes, and he can do nothing to stop it despite his desire to always have her remain his little girl.

“Your brother wanted to say goodbye as well” he teases, nodding back to where a struggling Aegon is trying to escape the hold of his nursemaid, “Alicent is too close to birth. The maesters have recommended rest for this last period.”

Rhaenyra is not unhappy to be spared the sight of her stepmother, so she simply shrugs—ignoring the admonishing look Viserys sends her—and instead opens her arms to Aegon. Seeing that, the nursemaid takes care to gently let him down and he wastes no time to sprint forward and crash in her arms. She nearly topples over, and only her father tempestive help prevents so.

The child burrows his face in her neck, hugging her fiercely. He is trembling and she can swear she feels he’s already starting to turn colder, despite the many layers he’s wearing.

“I don’t want you to go.” His sobs are muffled in her clothes.

“Oh, my sweet dragon. I will come back sooner than you think.” Her attempt at consolation results, instead, in more tears.

“I will be alone” he murmurs, fat droplets of water sliding down his cheeks.

“I will always be with you with my spirit. Every time you’ll look up to the sky,” she says, hoisting the child on her hip and pointing to the blue, cloudless sky over them, “You’ll think of my lovely Syrax soaring the skies. We’ll sleep under the same stars, brother, and we’ll walk the same earth.”

“But we won’t play together” he complains, and Rhaenyra’s heart aches at seeing the disappointment on his young face.

“I promise that, when I’ll come back, I’ll tell you all about the things I’ve seen and we can play as much as you want” she smiles.

“All the time?”

“All the time, my sweet. I will even bring you on your first flight, what do you say?”

“We fly!” he shouts, giggling and forgetting all about his tears.

“We will, my love. Now go to the nursemaid and be a good boy.”

She lets him down and he trots back to the woman, who bows to both father and daughter, the King steps forward to receive his own farewells.

“Please Father, take care of Aegon” she begs. She knows her father will never love any of his children like he does her, but still, she would not want her brother to go without affection during her absence.

He scoffs, “Naturally I will, Rhaenyra. I am the boy’s father, I have taken care of him since his birth.”

“I don’t mean simply making sure that he’s fed and clothed. You heard Uncle Daemon. He needs the touch of a dragon, and once I’m gone you’ll be the only one left in the Keep.”

He sighs, “I shall do my best, however I doubt that I’ll manage to take the place of the boy’s mama dragon” he winks at her.

She blushes. Aegon has taken to calling her such not only in the privacy of her quarters, but also in front of other people. Once, when the seamstress was in her rooms to take the final measurements for her new dresses, he had barged in—trampling laces and people alike—just to hold on her leg and demand to be warmed up. All the ladies had cooed, even more when he’d loudly and passionately expressed his love for his mama dragon with all the innocence of a child.

Suffice to say, not too soon after the declaration, Alicent had stormed in, claiming her desire to hold her child. Rhaenyra still doesn’t know which servant tipped her off, and she doubts she’ll ever find out.

“Take care, my dear. Enjoy the freedom this tour grants you and come back with a sound choice. I trust your judgment” he tells her. He comes forward, a bit awkwardly, and hugs her tight. He smells like ink and marmalade.

A long lost memory comes to the front of her mind, of days long past where she would run from the gentle hands of her mother to the arms of her father and back again. During those rare moments when her mother was not saddled with the life of a babe that would never see the light of day or with other duties at court.

She also remembers that, when she had not been available, it was oft Alicent’s mother that braided her hair and told her stories.

She shoves those thoughts away. Alicent’s mother is dead and now her daughter has taken the queen’s place. There is no time to drown in memories.

The sound of an approaching carriage helps her tug herself free from the cloud of melancholy gripping her. Soon enough a Kingsguard enters the pit, followed by the coach, trained by four black stallions, and followed by two knights. One bears the Targaryen banner, the other the Velaryon’s.

Daughter and father separate, the latter subtly wiping away a few escaped tears. The carriage stops beside the other, and more people than expected descend the few steps. First, Rhaenys and Daemon, proud and impeccable wearing their flying leathers. Rhaenyra is surprised her uncle didn’t take the chance to depart gloriously wearing full armor. Then come her beloved cousins, Laena and Laenor. Whilst her valonqar looks sharp in his House’s colors, the teal and silver shimmering in the morning sun, his locks tied back into a loose knot, Laena is mostly sporting Targaryen colors. Black leathers with many silver details and pearls, shells and flames alike stitched in her black trews. She has decided to use several little braids to keep the front of her hair away from her face while leaving the length mostly free to weave with the wind. Small pearls, rubies and sapphires decorate her hair and Rhaenyra thinks she looks wonderful.

All of them look quite uncomfortable, but none so more than Rhaenyra, when Otto also descends from the carriage. Wearing a tunic of green with a black and gold overcoat, he looks too proud for his own good. He immediately ignores everyone but the King and then turns to the Princess. He doesn’t even pretend to give her the proper respect before starting to annoy her.

“Her Grace the Queen is terribly sorry not to be able to see you off, but she is tired because of the babe and her queenly duties. I am sure you understand. As a consolation, she sent me to relay her well-wishes in her stead. She hopes that your tour provides successful and that you may soon grace us with the presence of your future husband, surely many men will vie for your hand and you’ll find one to your tastes.”

Otto, Rhaenyra has always thought, has the innate ability to sound condescending, patronizing and dismissive all at once. A truly fascinating talent, if only it weren’t directed at her.

She sees Daemon’s eyes narrow and even Rhaenys looks displeased.

“’Tis not a matter of tastes, Lord Hand, but more of being suited to ruling by my side. I am to be the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, I have many responsibilities as you endlessly remind me” she snarks, ignoring her father’s eye roll.

“I am glad that my words are being listened to” Otto smiles at her as if she were an unruly child and not a Princess of the blood. “Now excuse me,” he continues, turning to the King, “but the Queen has requested His Grace’s presence at her side. I know not what the matter is, but I suspect it pertains your future son.”

Rhaenyra’s expression sours. On the contrary, her father’s only brightens and he laughs. “Oh, Otto, how can you be so sure it’s a boy? Have you perchance become a seer?”

“Just a hunch, Your Grace.”

“Boy or girl, I’ll be happy as long as the child is hale. Regardless, I suppose we should go. Shall we ride together, my friend?” he says, sparing Rhaenyra only a smile before starting to walk back to the carriage.

Rhaenyra is fuming, as is Daemon, and her temper only worsens as she hears Otto’s words. “I would be delighted. ‘Tis been long since I saw my grandson last. Your daughter has been quite selfish with his time.”

She is tempted to walk up to him and sock him in the face. She doesn’t realize she’s stared to do just that until a hand on her elbow stops her. Turning back, she meets the quietly disgruntled eyes of Laenor.

“It’s not worth it, mandia.”

“I quite think it is, just to see how worse his ugly mug can get after a well-aimed punch.”

“Let it be, Rhaenyra” Rhaenys says, coming to stand beside her son and her protegee, “Now the only thing that should be on our minds is our flights, not insults and offences.”

Rhaenyra scoffs at their calm. “Very well, then we shall depart.”

“Will you deprive us of a proper farewell as your father has done, niece?” Daemon says, stepping forward.

Laena, too, joins the makeshift circle of Targaryen blood. Their beauty is unmatched, Rhaenyra thinks, and they certainly cut an impressive figure. Her and Daemon in full Targaryen colors, Rhaenys and Laena with a bit of blue and Laenor fully Velaryon.

“I would never, kepus.”

“Then come give me a hug, niece, before war forces me to be deprived of your affections for far too long.”

She throws her arms around him, hugging him close. Despite the many layers covering them, she feels the warmth from his own body seep into hers. His heartbeat is loud under her ear and she memorizes the sound. Another memory springs up, this time somewhat happier than the previous one.

Daemon had just come back from one of his numerous escapades—not an exile this time—but he had come back just in time to witness Aemma’s third miscarriage after Rhaenyra’s birth. She had been terrified. Her mother had been screaming the entire night, her father was nowhere to be seen, and she had been left all alone. At the young age of four, she had not understood what was happening and she was so scared she vomited back up the entire supper.

Her uncle had been the only one to stay with her and comfort her. He had sung to her in Valyrian, caressed her back and braided her hair. He let her braid his hair, too, and it had helped with her fear—concentrating on something else aside from the screams cutting the silence of the wintry night. He hugged her as tightly as he does now, keeping her head on his chest, one hand on her neck and the other on the small of her back. His arms like bands of iron on her body, grounding her with their warm weight.

“Be careful, kepus.”

“I will be, but you must be as well. Men are horrid creatures and there is no saying what a suitor could do to claim you for himself.”

“Worry not for me. I will have Syrax, Laena and my guards with me. I shall be safe; I am not the one walking into battle.”

He chuckles. “I will be mostly flying, if that is any comfort.”

She hits him weakly, “It does little to assuage my fear, but I know that as long as Caraxes is by your side you will be safe.”

She doesn’t mention that her great-uncle Aemon also had Caraxes with him and fell, or that arrows are almost more dangerous than swords for they are not limited to land. She revels in her uncle’s affections, trying to shove the crippling panic under her love for him, ignoring the shaking of her hands.

He cups her cheek, kisses her forehead. “My little dragon, all will be well. I will kill all those filthy bastards and bring you so many gifts you’ll never get to wear them all.”

She laughs wetly, and closes her eyes as his thumbs wipe her falling tears. Another kiss on the forehead, then he frees her from his arms. She does not think she has ever suffered the cold this much.

Mercifully for her pride, the other three people in the pit are not looking at them. Her cousins have tears in their eyes, too, so she doesn’t feel too ridiculous. She steps away from her uncle, going to hug her beloved Laenor. They squeeze each other with less strength but no less emotion, and the sobs start when Laena joins them as well.

The three cousins have their arms across each other and their heads bent close. The adults, having finished their own cool goodbyes, cannot her their whispered words, but they can guess by the tears blotting the dirt under their feet.

“Be safe, please. I could not bear it if something were to happen to you” Laena sobs.

“I shall do my best. You know Father and Uncle would never let anything happen to me” Laenor’s voice is choked.

Laena barks a laugh. “I know, but I also know that you’ll want to prove yourself to Father with some heroic act that will get you killed.”

Rhaenyra chuckles as well, then sniffs back a sob. “Be safe, valonqar. I will want to hear all the stories from your battles from your own mouth once you prevail.”

“I should be saying that to you, my dear ladies. The Gods only know what havoc you’ll wreak during you journey.” Laenor’s attempt at humor is pitiful—mostly because of the fat tears dripping incessantly from his beautiful eyes—but the girls smile all the same.

“You tell us your stories, we tell you ours.”

“Yes, brother. We’ll exchange letters, too.”

“Please do that. I fear I’ll go crazy in that cesspit all alone.”

They exchange another round of well wishes, some kisses and then they separate. Each of the youths wiping their own tears in silence, trying to come to terms with the separation of their family, never before that severe and possibly dangerous.

After a few minutes, a dragonkeeper steps forward. He bows, holding on to one of their customary long staffs. His voice is old and grave when he speaks. “The dragons are ready, my lieges. Who should we bring out first?”

Daemon steps forward. “Take out Caraxes.”

He puts on his gloves as the others step aside to make space for the Blood Wyrm to come out. Rhaenys takes Rhaenyra’s arm in hers, bringing her close to her side. Her hair is unbound and it tickles her ear as she leans down close.

“Write to me at every step of you progression. I shall help you however I can. Also” she advises in a low voice, “Keep a diary with entries about every suitor that comes to present himself. It’ll help you decide and if the King or the Hand were to protest your choice, you’ll have written proof of your thought process. I have told Laena to do so, as well. This way, you’ll have two points of view.”

“I shall do so, velma. I will miss you.”

“I will as well, my dear girl.”

Before long, the shrill cries of Daemon’s mount cover any other sound. The few birds that risk resting their wings on the walls of the Dragonpit immediately take flight, escaping what they correctly perceive as a threat. The long-necked dragon sticks his head out in the light, yawning and showing all of his very sharp teeth.

He immediately goes to Daemon, nearly running over a few novice keepers who barely get out of the way. Rhaenyra can see the elder dragonkeepers reprimanding them. Caraxes beats his wings a couple of times, shoving his deformed head in Daemon’s chest. A bloodthirsty and fearsome dragon he might be, but no mount ever misses the chance to ask for pets from their bonded.

He lowers his shoulder, letting her uncle climb into the saddle. She sees him fasten the chains that will keep him secure during even the most dangerous maneuvers and then, with barely a glance in their direction, he commands him to fly.

Dirt flies around them and Rhaenyra closes her eye to avoid having it blind her. When she opens them again, dragon and rider are already in the skies.

“Bring out Seasmoke next, please” Laenor instructs the keepers.

The beast is beautiful. White and pink scales with the barest hint of silver, the proud set of his neck and the magnificent blue eyes mark him as one of the most beautiful dragons Rhaenyra has ever seen, right after her own Golden Lady, of course.

With one last smile, Laenor, too, is airborne. Caraxes cries in welcome to the younger dragon and the two begin to dance and play in the sky.

“I think you two should go next” Rhaenys tells the two girls, smiling at them.

Syrax is resplendent if not a bit grumpy when coming out of the caverns of the pit. She was probably napping, her beautiful girl.

Laena smiles at her, taking her hand. “Thank you for allowing me this.”

“You are the blood of Old Valyria, you deserve to ride a dragon. It shall be with me until you’ll get your beloved Vhagar, and then we’ll soar the skies together once more, but at that time I shall get the chance to challenge you to a race” she winks at her cousin.

She laughs. “I doubt Vhagar will be up for a race, as old as she is. Yet I feel myself waiting for that moment nonetheless.”

“The feeling is one I share as well. But for now, let us ride together.”

Rhaenyra goes to her dragon, observing the new saddle. It is bigger, fitting for two passengers instead of one. On its sides, golden thread makes up Syrax’s likeness. Red cushions adorned with the Targaryen symbol and sturdy metal chains and black leather belts create the harnesses, completing the fancy saddle.

She puts her hand on her mount’s neck, “My love, it is time for us to go on an adventure. It will be a long time until we’ll come back here but we shan’t be alone. With us will come our dear Laena. You already know her. Will you let her on your back?”

Her girl’s soft croon is all the confirmation she needs, so she turns and gestures for her cousin to step forward. A dragonkeeper helps the younger girl to get to the saddle and Rhaenyra follows suit, placing herself behind her. Under both the keeper and Rhaenys’ watchful eyes and instructions, they fasten the chains properly. Two of the three chains connect the Princess to her dragon through a thick leather belt, while the other, thinner, links her to her cousin’s belt. Another chain goes from Laena to Syrax, offering further protection to the additional rider.

Once settled, chains tight and belts snug to their waists, they wave at Rhaenys who reciprocates. Laena keeps looking at her mother while Rhaenyra grabs ahold of the reins. “Fly, my love” she whispers.

Syrax is young and it shows in the powerful strokes of her wings. She goes soaring right in between the other two dragons and immediately begins to chase after them. Laena laughs and opens her arms as if to hug the blue skies while Rhaenyra simply leans back in the saddle. She enjoys the freedom that comes with flight, but she is almost certain she enjoys seeing her cousin this happy even more. She doesn’t mind the hair in her face or the cold wind biting at her cheeks, because she’s in the sky. Her Syrax is under her, her cousin between her arms and nearly the entire continent to explore.

Laena screams with delight when Syrax dives to chase after Caraxes, Seasmoke hot on their trail. Meleys, when finally airborne, follows them at a decidedly more sedate pace. They let the dragons take them over the city and Rhaenyra thinks she’s not the only one drinking in the sight of the capital. All of them have their memories intertwined with the city, and all of them have their own reasons to miss it.

The dragons sweep low over the city. From the skies, its stench is not perceived as strongly, but they can clearly see the bustle of life that is King’s Landing. The merchants selling goods in the streets, whores calling out for patrons even that early in the day, Gold Cloaks patrolling the streets. Not one head turns at the sight of dragons, as common as it is, not knowing they’ll not be graced with such a sight for much longer than usual.

Rhaenyra wills herself to stop crying and, when that doesn’t work, she fastens her hold on the reins of her mount and steers her upwards, directing her to fly north-east. The first to follow her lead is Meleys, who settles beside her with a greeting roar. The riders don’t bother trying to speak with each other—it would be useless at the speed at which they’re going. Caraxes settles on their left, flying slightly ahead to make space for Seasmoke.

The four of them fly like that for a while. Even Syrax, typically more than eager to play with her fellow dragons, seems to understand the somberness of the situation. Her wings cut through the wind with none of her usual swiftness, her speed only matched by that of Meleys, instead preferring a more sedate pace.

Rhaenys urges her dragon slightly ahead and with her leading the group, they choose to fly over the sea, taking a slightly longer way to prolong their time together. It won’t take long before their ways will diverge, but it seems Rhaenyra is not alone in her desire to keep her family together for as long as she can.

The sea is calm and the winds favorable as they soar in the skies, avoiding the coasts of Stokeworth. Blue surrounds them everywhere they can look, and no clouds mitigate the sun beating down on their heads. Rhaenyra hopes she won’t get sunburnt.

Laena has taken to resting her weight on the Princess’ front, letting her head be cradled by her cousin’s arms. The curls sometimes tickle her nose, when the wind sweeps them upwards, but otherwise Rhaenyra is more than content with their positions. She herself is quite lazily leaning on the cushioned seat of the saddle, her hands not even on the handles. The flight is steady enough not to require too much caution, especially for a weathered rider such as herself.

She feels a tap on her thigh. Laena points at where Caraxes is flying, his usual twists and dives abandoned in favor of flying by their sides. “Look at Daemon.”

She almost doesn’t hear her over the low groans of both wind and dragons.

She peers closely at her uncle. She cannot see his face for he’s flying slightly ahead but she can see that his head is thrown back, his long hair reflecting the light of the sun. He has his arms open, reaching towards the sky, gloved hands turned upwards as if to encompass the vastity of the heavens.

She directs Syrax to glide closer, switching places with Laenor who happily takes her place and goes to fly beside his mother. From that close, she can easily see that his lips are moving, yet she doesn’t understand what, exactly, he is saying until he bends forward, leaning down to place his hands directly on Caraxes’ scales.

She remembers this. He had done the same thing when she’d taken flight for the first time on Syrax. He had spied her in the sky, frantically trying to reach him to stop his departure, and he had promptly directed his mount to her, shouting both praises and warnings, before coaching her into a few basic turns before doing the very same thing he’s doing now. He had explained it all to her once they had safely landed in the Pit, in the few minutes before the carriage bearing her proud and frantic parents had arrived.

He was, and is, praying.

The Prayer of voyagers, he had called it. Done typically on dragonback or atop a horse during one’s travels towards unknown or perilous destinations, it beseeches the favor of Vermax, the god of boundaries, travel, communication, trade, language, and writing.

She explains it all to Laena, who lights up. “Let us do it, too, cousin.”

“Let’s tell the others, as well.”

Waving in the air, they get Rhaenys and Laenor’s attention. Through gestures and shouts they convey their intentions. Turning back to Daemon, they see that he’s interrupted his prayer, looking at them with a fond smile. The shores of Spicetown are ever nearer, as is the point of their separation, so they must make haste if they want to complete the prayer.

Caraxes flies over them at Daemon’s behest, settling between Syrax and Seasmoke. The dragons close their ranks as much as possible. It is said that dragons are the manifestation of the Gods and are able to understand their rider’s feelings as if they felt those very same themselves. Rhaenyra has no trouble believing the claim, for Syrax has comforted her, given her love and understanding more than any other. Who knows what results a prayer said on their back can yield.

They follow his lead when he, once again, opens his arms. When before he was whispering his prayers for only the wind and the gods to hear, now his voice is powerful enough to be heard over the whipping wind. The youths all start a little when Rhaenys’ voice joins Daemon’s in the prayer. It shouldn’t surprise them, really, for with a husband as adventurous as Corlys prayers for safe travels must be common.

The two elders chant as one.

“Of the Fourteen Flames we invoke you, Vermax, to answer our prayers. We stand under the skies and over the land with our heads high and our wings spread, and we ask, hoping to receive. Your guidance and protection are what we desire. As creatures born of your fire, we petition you to grant us your protection during our travels and that of our loved ones. May our journeys end in glory, may you guide our feet onto steps that will melt under the power of our blood, may you allow us to let our fires burn trails into this world for much longer. This we ask, and this and more we hope to receive.”

The Valyrian prayer is repeated word by word by them all and, once finished, they all bend down to touch the scales of their mounts, closing their eyes. Rhaenyra cannot quite reach all the way to Syrax’s neck, with Laena in front of her, so instead she reaches deep within her for the spiritual connection between dragon and rider.

Immediately, she senses the difference in their bond. Not only the air around them now feels hotter, the sun more burning and the wind more powerful, but even their connection is pulled taut, vibrating and full of what the Princess can only describe as an inferno. ‘Tis not consuming, or dangerous, but it’s positively violent in its protectiveness.

Vermax has listened to their prayers, she hopes.

When she opens her eyes, she sees the same wonder in her cousin’s eyes and in Laenor’s flabbergasted face. They must have felt the same. She’s tempted to laugh at him, yet she’s not willing to break the sacred atmosphere surrounding the four dragons.

“’Tis time, my dears” Rhaenys shouts, face red with the force of her lungs.

Both Laena and Rhaenyra turn to peer at the coast, now much nearer than before. Laena shows her young age as she reaches with both hands towards her mother and brother, while the Princess meets her uncle’s gaze. She wills her mind to memorize every detail of his face. The way his violet eyes, so similar to those of her father, seem to drink her in, or the way he subtly turns his body towards her direction. His smile is grim, but no less love-filled than those he bestowed upon her every time they came back from a flight after she successfully mastered a new maneuver.

She hopes he’ll understand. “I will miss you” she mouths to him, not trusting her voice.

His smile widens into a roguish grin. “I know” he winks.

She burst out laughing, much to Laena’s confusion, as does Daemon. She will remember him like this, laughing and teasing as customary for the Rogue Prince. She will hold the memories close until she’ll be able to hold him again.

“Goodbye!” shouts Laenor, catching the Princess’ attention.

She waves at him, sending him a kiss.

“Be safe!” Laena yells back.

“We will” answers Daemon.

Rhaenys is more somber in her goodbyes, most likely because it’s not Rhaenyra and Laena that will go to war. The Crown Princess is somewhat glad she’ll not be witnessing the goodbye between mother and son at High Tide, when they’ll depart for the Stepstones. She doesn’t think she’d be able to control the tears.

She simply waves at them, and the two girls answer in the same manner.

The dragons offer mournful cries of their own as they realize they’re about to be separated, dancing around each other before finally bowing to their riders’ will and going different ways. Syrax continues north, while Meleys, Seasmoke and Caraxes go east.

Rhaenyra keeps her damp eyes straight in front of her, fixed on the route, unlike Laena who follows with her gaze the other three dragons as far as her neck can twist. She wipes her cousin’s cheeks, ridding her of her tears. Laena turns to look at her own wet face before burying her face in the crook of her elbow, allowing herself to cry freely. The sobs are eaten up by the wind, but the sadness remains.

“To Maidenpool, my love. Fly swift” Rhaenyra directs Syrax to fly faster, finally letting her go at her usual speed hoping the excitement of dragonflight will dull both hers and Laena’s melancholy.

“They will come back to us, cousin” she kisses her head, “They must.”

Chapter Text

The winds are agreeable, and they arrive at Maidenpool speedily without encountering rain.

As her lady Syrax descends, neck lowered and hind legs bent to withstand the impact, Rhaenyra spots a small gathering just at the edge of the clearing where they’re set to land, near the pink walls of the city. A cloud of dust blocks hers and Laena’s sights, but once it settles, they are faced with a welcoming party worthy of a Princess of the Blood.

The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen is flanked by the banners of House Mooton, the red salmon quite underwhelming paired with the beauty of the royal symbol. Lord Cley Mooton, along with his wife and their two young sons, bow deeply. Their entourage, formed of ladies of minor houses and several servants, follows their example.

“We welcome you, Your Highness and Lady Laena, to the Riverlands and Maidenpool. We are forever honored to host you” the Lord says.

Rhaenyra smiles congenially. “We are glad to be here, milord. I have no doubt that your seat will treat us well during our stay.”

“We’ll certainly do our very best to make it so, my Princess” the blonde-haired lord smiles, “Allow me to present to you the rest of my family as your attendants settle your dragon.”

Indeed, whilst many of Rhaenyra’s maids were not in sight, Ser Erryk and two dragonkeepers were already by Rhaenyra and Syrax’s sides. As serious as always, the Kingsguard settles by her side with a bow and a brief greeting. With Laena to her right and Ser Erryk to her left, the Princess listens to the introductions.

“This is my wife, Lady Annabeth, hailing from House Wode, and our two sons, Willford, my heir, and Malcolm. Our youngest babe, Willa, is not even five moons old, so forgive us for not presenting her to you, Your Highness.”

“Of course, milord. I’d never endanger such a young life. I’m sure I’ll have many opportunities in the future to meet her.” The princess turns to the lady. The woman looks well, with some healthy weight on her and ruddy cheeks. Her golden hair is twisted in many braids and the pinkish red of her dress compliments her pale skin well. “I am gladdened by the successful birth of your child and your recovery, my lady.”

The woman blushes deeply, “Many thanks, Your Highness. The Mother has blessed me greatly with every birth.”

“I presume” Lord Mooton interrupts, “That both you and Lady Laena are quite tired after your flight, my princess. There is some time before this eve’s small feast commences. We have taken the liberty of arranging for some refreshments and relaxing baths in your chambers.”

A bath sounds heavenly. Despite the relatively short flight, her muscles are tense and if she must withstand petitioners and pretenders she needs to be as well-inclined as possible. “We are grateful for your care, milord. Shall we?” Rhaenyra gestures to the entrance to the Keep.

They pile in several carriages: Lady Annabeth and her youngest son, along with her ladies, pile in one carriage, whilst Lord Mooton, Willford, Laena and her sit in another. Rhaenyra is thankful that the boy seems too young to be vying for her hand in marriage, although the not-so-discrete glances he throws her way suggest that his interest is not contingent on the possibility of a union.

The ride is brief and filled with mindless chatter and pleasantries, yet Rhaenyra truly relaxes only in the privacy of her chambers. In her instructions for the progress, she has requested only one set of chambers in each keep, wanting to share them with her dear Laena, and as such her cousin is a spectator to her tumble over the bed, uncaring of her mussed hair and dusty riding gear.

“Come on, cousin. ‘Tis only the first leg of our journey, you cannot be tired already” she jests, smiling at the Princess’ sullen face.

“I dread the tiresomeness of the upcoming days—nay, moons” she retorts, sitting upright and letting Agatha help her out of her leathers.

Two tubs filled with steaming water are already in the room, oils and salts emanating pleasant aromas that the princess cannot wait to be surrounded by. Laena is being helped by another one of the maids present and soon both girls are naked and submerged in the near-boiling water.

“Is Maidenpool to your liking, Your Highness?” Agatha asks as she gently bends her lady’s head back to wash away the tonic in her hair.

“The hosts are welcoming, as far as I’ve seen, and the pink stone walls make for a pretty sight. I shall ask Lord Mooton if we can visit the harbor and Jonquil’s Pool.”

“They’ll oblige, no doubt. I’ve heard the harbor is quite busy, my princess, yet the vitality of the place must be of some interest, I presume” Agatha answers.

“Hopefully we won’t get stabbed in the pool” Laena snickers.

Rhaenyra snorts rather inelegantly. “Hush, Laena. Don’t invite trouble.”

The two ladies pluck some fruits and breads from a plate, relaxing and chatting about their expectations for the eve’s feast.

“I doubt they’ll start pestering me with marriage offers this very day. I might, however, have to deal with petitions” Rhaenyra laments.

Laena picks up on her cousin’s sullenness. “Princess, you must get used to all this politicking. You’ll be Queen, after all.”

“But I am not the Queen, yet. I would quite like to enjoy some years of peace before I must get drowned in duties and obligations” Rhaenyra says. As her maid finishes washing and rinsing her, she stands up and gets out of the bathtub. Agatha pats her dry with several towels, leaving one wrapped around her hair, before helping her into a robe and guiding her towards one of the two vanities in the room.

Several attendants immediately surround the Princess to help get her ready, whilst some other maids do the same to Laena, who has settled in the other vanity.

As a dark-skinned woman begins braiding and fixing her curls, Laena tries to impart some wisdom to her older cousin. “My mother always says it’s better to lay the foundations early than to build a house hurriedly and without a sturdy structure. It would serve us better to begin building good relations with the other Houses sooner rather than later.”

Rhaenyra huffs, understanding the truthfulness of the statement yet not eager to willingly subject herself to the monotony of such an endeavor. “And what could I possibly offer those lords? I might be the Princess, but I am a mere cupbearer. I have no voice in the council and no power to change anything.”

“You won’t always be so powerless, cousin” Laena reassures her, “Mother has already stated her intention to have your position in the council elevated, and you are set to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Pardon the interruption, my princess, my lady” Agatha bows apologetically, “but I fear it is time to get dressed. We can’t afford to dawdle any longer.”

Laena, requiring less time to fix her hair given the preexisting braids, is already halfway in her dress—a lovely red dress with silver embroidery—and, as the ladies tighten the strings, she turns to the Princess.

“I thought we could open our stay with the violet dress with golden embroidery. Mayhap pairing it with the ruby and amethyst earrings? This gown’s neckline is quite high, so I think a necklace is not quite ideal” she suggests, as she’s supposed to do as Rhaenyra’s lady.

“Very well, do as she says” she tells her maids.

She is efficiently dressed in her smallclothes, linen shift, an embellished cream silk underdress and the gown selected by Laena. Dark purple stockings and cream slippers, embroidered with pearls and small quartz, wrap around her legs and feet. Knowing this feast will not be the most lavish, Laena and she opt for relatively simple hairstyles. Her cousin adds more adornments to her braids and has her loose curls teased and puffed, whilst Rhaenyra goes back to her trusty braided crown, with two ribbons in the same hue as her gown weaved in the braid.

At that point, Laena shoos away the attendants swarming Rhaenyra and proceeds to jewel her up herself. Indeed, the neckline is quite high, unlike her usual style, but the nearness to water requires protection from the chilly winds. Once the earrings are safely in place, the two girls admire themselves in the massive mirror. They cut a lovely image. Laena looks wonderful in Targaryen colors and the gown she has chosen for Rhaenyra perfectly complements the color of her eyes. The long sleeves and the skirt are beautifully embroidered, and the waist is decorated as to give off the illusion of an even slimmer figure.

“My dear cousin” Laena whispers, coming to stand in front of the Princess, “I know I don’t possess the same political acumen as my mother, nor do I know more about ruling than either of you, but I am earnest in my pleas.”

She grabs Rhaenyra’s hands and looks her straight in the eyes. “This is a unique opportunity. You have the chance to establish positive relations with the Houses that will come to petition you, be if for your hand or for other matters. You can begin to present yourself as their future ruler. The’ll see the smart woman you are, cousin, and they’ll never even think of betraying you.”

Rhaenyra is moved by her conviction, yet she knows things Laena doesn’t. “And what will happen when my father refuses to listen to me? I have already tried influencing him, making him see things my way. Otto, the snake he is, always spoils my attempts.”

Laena looks pained. “Oh, my dear mandia. I cannot begin to imagine how difficult it has been these past moons. I can only regret not being there to support you. But listen to me on this: Otto is now far away. He cannot interfere with what you do. Build your own net of supporters, just as I’m sure the Hightowers will soon begin to do.”

The Princess snorts. “They’ve already begun grooming Aegon to be more like them than us” she clicks her tongue, not revealing too much of what she knows, “I have no doubt that Otto already has his own supporters.”

The younger girl grabs her shoulders, “Then we must act. We must begin to plan our own countermoves. The Hand and the Queen are already in positions of undeniable power, and the King trusts them on every matter with little to no question. Yet, you must never forget that it is you who holds His Grace’s heart” she exclaims vehemently.

She has to admit, she’s right. Despite the birth of a son, her father has yet to rip the title of heir away from her. Maybe he’s simply waiting for Aegon to grow older—no doubt, that’s what Otto is hoping for—and no matter her efforts, she’ll be supplanted. Never mind if the babe Alicent is set to birth is another son. Rhaenyra knows better than to blindly place her trust in her father. He loves her, and that affection she’ll never doubt, but she doesn’t think it above Otto to convince the King that a life as Queen would make her unhappy, causing her to be disinherited under the guise of love. And yet, it would not be so farfetched to believe her father will choose to keep her as heir if she proves herself worthy. In her own mind, Rhaenyra is already more than worthy—certainly more than a babe of two—but she must prove this to every other House.

Emboldened by this newfound conviction, she smiles at her cousin. “We shall, my sweet. We shall prove to all the lords that snub every woman that we are just as capable as them, if not more.”

The smile she receives as an answer is blinding and warms her heart. She wishes she could keep young Laena away from politics as much as possible, yet she also knows that between the two of them, it is Laena herself that is most likely the most experienced in these games. Living with Rhaenys and coming from her womb is bound to give you some advantages.

Agatha, who silently assisted to the entire conversation, smiles at the two girls. She knows it would be improper to show too much attachment to her charges or involvement in their private affairs, so she limits to inform them that the eve’s supper is bound to being soon. She doesn’t bother with expressing her pride for her princess, who she’s certain will prevail against every enemy of hers. She watches as the two girls, impeccably dressed, step outside their quarters chattering amiably between themselves before turning back to her tasks.

Ser Erryk escorts the two girls to the hall where dinner is set to be held. The low buzz of several simultaneous conversations can be heard even before the doors are opened. His voice as he announces the presence of the two Valyrians silences even the loudest of the assembled nobles. If Rhaenyra thought it would be a relatively quiet dinner, she is quickly proved wrong when she sees the amount of people in the hall.

She knows that House Mooton is wealthier than one would expect for a vassal house, and it is evident in the pomp of the feast. Whilst not close to the lavishness of King’s Landing, it has an appeal of its own and it definitely cannot be considered cheap.

The crowd parts to let the two girls walk to their place at the main table. Lord Mooton is already present along with his sons, whilst his wife is absent. Most likely she’s dealing with the babe, Rhaenyra thinks as she throws pleasant smiles to every noble whose gaze crosses hers.

Laena and she are sitting front and center. Her cousin is sat on her left, followed by who Rhaenyra assumes are Lady Annabeth’s own ladies, or maybe some relatives—the bright yellow of their dress, whilst nearly painful to the eye, fits with their banner colors. To her right sits Lord Cley himself, then his heir, his wife and his second son. Another seat is occupied by an old and wrinkly woman, who struggles upright as Rhaenyra approaches. Malcolm helps her and it’s only when they’re close that the Princess sees the resemblance.

“Your Highness, it’s an honor to be in your presence.” The woman’s voice matches her age, hoarse and tremulous, yet her eyes are sharp.

Rhaenyra smiles at the woman. “The honor is mine.”

Before the silence can become too long, Lord Mooton cuts in. “Your Highness, permit me to introduce you to my lady mother, Rosalynd Mallister.”

Ah, so that’s who he takes the blue-grey eyes from.

“I reiterate my pleasure at meeting you, my lady, and I am equally pleased to introduce you to my lady and cousin, Lady Laena Velaryon” she says with all the poise her mother instilled in her since she was able to understand it. Her cousin curtsies briefly.

The woman smiles, smoothing her simple dark pink gown. A veil covers her hair, and the only jewelry she wears are simple golden rings and several strings of pearls. “I am glad you’ve decided to pass through our holdings, Your Highness. I’m nigh certain that you’ll find much to be delighted by during your stay.”

“I certainly hope so, my lady. In the short time we’ve been here, I’ve already found much to admire.”

Pleasantries exchanged, each of them goes to their assigned seat. Ser Erryk helps her in a chair before doing the same with Laena’s. During her conversation with the old lady, Lady Annabeth finally arrived. With every member of the household present, Rhaenyra sets about commencing the feast as proper of the highest-ranking person in the room.

Just before she can raise from her seat and speak, Lord Mooton stands up and holds up a silver goblet already filled with wine. Rhaenyra can feel Laena hold her hand under the table, her surprise mirroring hers.

“My lords and ladies, I welcome you all in my abode for this joyous, albeit moderate, feast. Most of all, I welcome Princess Rhaenyra and her cousin, Lady Laena Velaryon. House Mooton is honored by your presence, and we dearly hope that your search for a husband is successful. The Realm shall be in wonderful hands once your consort and you ascend. May the Seven bless the Princess and the House of the Dragon, for the future King and Queen will guide us into bright years as they’ve done for decades now.”

A chorus of ‘hear, hear!’’ nearly silences Rhaenyra’s thoughts. She has to wonder if Lord Cley has drunk more than she thought, for such words could only come out of the mouth of an imbibed man. Not acknowledging her status as heir, her future as Regnant Queen, not letting her speak first as custom… his words leave a sour taste in her mouth. He must be drunk, indeed.

She has no more time to wonder on his level of sobriety for all the nobles turn to her, expecting her to reciprocate the good wishes of the lord. She is torn between making a scene and simply ignoring the disrespect. She doubts Rhaenys, or her father, would much enjoy receiving reports of her unruliness—moreover it would not serve her well in her newly-embarked quest for allies and approval—so she chooses the safest option, even if she burns with anger.

Plastering a pleasant smile on her face, Rhaenyra rises as well. Lord Mooton has yet to sit down, so he flanks her as she speaks. She tries to keep her irritation at bay. “Many thanks, my lord. I am honored by the wonderful welcome and your kind words. In the upcoming days I am certain I shall meet many great knights, and if they prove worthy, I shall be delighted to bestow upon them the honor of being my consort, my helping hand during the years of my, hopefully, long reign.”

Alright, maybe she is not entirely able to keep the pettiness out of her words, but who’s going to chastise her?

“May the Gods” she continues, raising her own cup and smiling beatifically, “give as many blessings to House Mooton and every other house present as they deserve.”

She can see Laena hide her smile behind the rim of her goblet.

The lord sits, giving her a bright smile and completely missing her japes. As the servants begin to pile baked salmon and trays of mashed peas and chickpeas, quail eggs and spinach on the table, Rhaenyra sighs as she sees some lords throwing glances at her. She shares a meaningful glance with Laena.

This is going to be a long night.

As predicted, a few lords take the chance to dance with her as an excuse to express some of their grievances or boast about their House’s accomplishments, oft gaining from her the promise of a chance to express those very same in a private setting. Not at all surprisingly, as Laena later informs her, since those lords have sons that would be considered as possible candidates for her hand.

“At least, they didn’t immediately throw their sons at me” she snorts, once Laena and her are back in their chambers.

The maids have already helped them undress, brushing out Rhaenyra’s hair and gently wrapping Laena’s curls with teal blue silk. At her cousin’s insistence, the maids do the same to the Princess’ own hair. It is a strange sensation, having cloth on her head as she sleeps, but she will try.

The two girls ask for a pot of chamomile tea, wanting to gossip a bit before going to bed. They fix their nightgowns and settle in front of the low fire in the fireplace. Ser Erryk has been instructed not to let anyone in until morning barring an emergency, so they have all the privacy they need.

“Lord Mooton is truly bold” Rhaenyra clicks her tongue.

Laena hums, “Indeed. He is either a fool or an enemy, for only one of those two would be so blatant with his disrespect of your station.”

“At least, the lords I danced with all deferred to me with the proper level of humility, even if they were endlessly singing the praises of their own Houses and bemoaning their troubles at the same time.”

Her cousin snickers, “Was it that bad?”

“Lord Edmund Darry spent the entire song talking about the recent knighting of his son and simultaneously hinting about the need for gold to fund the fortification of a damaged part of their keep.”

 “How old is Ser Darry?”

“I believe he is nine and ten.”

Laena hums, grabbing a thick ledger and beginning to jot down information. “An appropriate age, but I suspect that you won’t choose him?”

Rhaenyra nods her assent. “Indeed, I shan’t take a knight of a minor House for a Consort. Not unless he is truly exceptional, but that shall be seen when he presents himself before us. If we can even find the time.”

“I agree. Actually, I have to wonder at their presence. I am almost certain I saw the son of Lord Whent, as well. I fear they think themselves worthy of your hand.”

Rhaenyra grimaces. “I am nigh certain I didn’t include their Houses in the list of passable candidates. Why are they here?”

Laena places a calming hand on her cousin’s thigh. “Let us not jump to conclusions. They might be here simply to admire your beauty” she winks.

The two girls giggle, finishing their cups and pouring themselves another. “I also danced with Lord Bartimos Celtigar. I would like to hear his son’s proposal, in truth. All the lord could tell me was that their wealth and Valyrian ancestry makes us almost relatives” the Princess scoffs, “And how glad he was to be able to dance with me. The man nearly started the marriage proposal in lieu of his son.”

Leana snorts in her cup, almost spilling the hot liquid all over herself. “Well, at the very least they are worthy of asking for your Hand. I have not crossed paths with the first son recently, but I remember Ser Crispian Celtigar from one of the many feasts thrown at High Tide. He is a handsome knight, his light blond hair speaks of the few drops of Valyrian blood in his veins and his green eyes are quite captivating.”

“Then I shall pay careful attention to his proposal. It will be houses Strong, Mallister and Celtigar, am I correct?”

“This round, yes. Hopefully, the other houses are here simply to petition you. It would not to for them to ignore a royal command.”

They keep gossiping about the feast, commenting on the lords’ countenances and the ladies’ stares. Which sons looked interested, and what daughters looked envious. Laena dutifully jots down every piece of detail that Rhaenyra and she discovered, and by the time the pot is finished their eyes are heavy and hands stained with ink.

“Let us sleep, cousin. These days shall be full of excitement, hopefully, and I’ll need you by my side.” Rhaenyra kisses the young girl’s temple, shoving back a curl under her silk wrap.

“Good night.”

“Merry dreams, Laena.”

Their first morning in the keep begins as they’re used to. Maids wake them up as the sun rises, despite their protests, and platters of eggs and fruits are delivered, along with bread, to break their fast. Bitter tea is served, quite distasteful but useful to remain awake during the day.

Once the infusion has made its way into their veins, the maids begin to prepare them for the day.

“My Princess, today the weather seems agreeable” Agatha informs her as she ties the laces of a deep red gown, “And I have been informed that a visit to the harbor has been planned.”

“Was I not supposed to spend the day with the Mallister heir?”

Her cousin nods. “I thought so, but maybe plans have changed. You did inquire about the possibility of a visit after all. I shall go and ask whilst you finish getting ready.”

“Thank you, Laena” she smiles, then she turns back to her reflection. The red dress is one she already had in her possession, but a few added decorations make it seem fancier than it originally was. The slightly shorter hem is also optimal for a walk outside the keep.

“Agatha, fetch me an overcoat. I wouldn’t want to be cold during my outing” she commands.

“As you desire, Your Highness. Might I recommend the silver one? It perfectly complements the embroidery on the dress.”

“Perfect.”

After the maid puts the garment on her and fixes her gown, Laena returns. “It seems the change in program was Lady Mooton’s idea. She has been taking care of the logistics of your stay here and has programmed the petitions for your hand to happen during other activities, to stave off boredom.”

The heir hums, “Not a bad idea. Regardless, I shall have to inform her that any change to the schedule must first pass through me.”

“As you desire, I shall pen a message in your name” Laena bows. Her attire is a direct mirror of Rhaenyra’s: where she is wearing red with silver details, the girl is beautiful in her dress of silver silk. A few rubies adorn her neck and ears, whilst Rhaenyra has opted to avoid any jewelry except for a ruby circlet on her head—it would do well to remind the people of her status—and several rings. The rich embroidery on her dress shall serve as decoration enough, especially considering she’ll be traipsing in the harbor for the better part of the day.

As Laena writes the message, Rhaenyra’s servant laces up her boots and powders her cheeks. The ensemble is finished with a pair of sturdy gloves and a cloak.

“Are you quite finished, my sweet?”

“Yes, mandia.”

“Very well. Agatha, take care to deliver this to Lady Mooton” she gives the rolled-up parchment to her servant, who bows and goes to do her bidding, then she motions to another servant. “Give my cousin her gloves and cloak.”

Once both girls are properly dressed, they step out of their quarters.

The sun is fully up in the sky by the time they reach the main hall of the keep, Ser Erryk faithfully trailing behind the two ladies. He will serve as both protection and as a chaperone, along with Laena.

In the hall, right beside a tapestry depicting a naval battle, Lord Mallister and his heir already await them, dressed impeccably in their house colors, a brilliant indigo and silver. Both men have the blue-grey eyes typical of their House but, while the lord has reddish-brown hair, his heir has curls of darkest black. After some reflection, she recalls one of her numerous discussions with Rhaenys and remembers that his lady mother is a Blackwood.

As Rhaenyra and her entourage approach the party, she notices Lady Rosalynd, Lord Mooton’s mother, a Mallister by birth, standing not too far away, looking intently at her. Her gaze is heavy, piercing, but the princess doesn’t waver. She doesn’t let her eyes linger long, but she assumes the woman is taking her measure. Rhaenyra allows herself a small smile. The elderly lady will find that the princess is not lacking at all.

Once Rhaenyra is close enough, the two men bow deeply.

“Your Highness,” Lord Lymond Mallister starts, puffing out his chest and proudly displaying the silver eagle stitched on his breast, “It is an honor to be in your presence. My heir will offer his own gratitude during the day but allow me to give my own thanks to you and His Grace for deeming our House worthy of vying for your hand.”

As the man bows once more, Rhaenyra extends a hand that he immediately kisses. “Your House has a long history of greatness, my lord, and of loyalty to House Targaryen. I would do every Mallister a disservice if I forgot about your devotion to the Crown.”

It’s at that point that the young man, who must be around twenty sunturns, steps forward. “Your graciousness knows no bounds, Your Highness” he, too, kisses her hand.

The lord straightens himself, most likely realizing he has not yet formally introduced the man who is meant to court her for the day. “Your Highness, it is a privilege to be able to introduce my heir, Ser Jorah Mallister, to you.”

“It is a true pleasure, my princess” he says, smiling at her.

She must admit, the man is handsome. She looks him up and down, admiring his slender build, before holding out her arm. He wastes no time in lacing his own arm with hers and, with a last goodbye to the others, the couple exits the keep. Laena and Ser Erryk follow closely, and they all pile in the same carriage to go to the harbor.

Rhaenyra sits in front of the man and, now that she is paying more attention, she can see a few freckles on his face. Jorah must notice her stare for he smiles, showing off his dimples. “Your Highness, if I may be so bold as to say you look even more radiant than I would have ever thought possible.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes, instead graciously thanking the man. Here we go.

“Thank you, ser. You flatter me.”

“’Tis but the truth, Your Highness. Your beauty and gracious nature are a blessing for us all. I am grateful to have received the opportunity to bask in your presence.”

“And I am grateful that you’ve accepted travelling far from your future seat to come and meet me.”

“It’s a sacrifice I am more than willing to make, if I get to spend even a minute with you, Princess.”

The harbor is even busier than she would’ve imagined. Ser Jorah has kept up a steady stream of conversation mixed with compliments the whole way there. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, but, nonetheless, she hopes that the harbor will provide some new topics of conversation.

“My Princess, I would advise you to remain close. You as well, Lady Laena.” Ser Erryk admonishes them as soon as they step off the carriage. The place is very busy, and the knight has no desire to see his charge or her lady harmed or worse.

“As you say, ser” Laena responds.

“I shall, naturally, offer my own protection. I have no doubt that the harbor hosts many criminals” Jorah says, putting one hand on the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip.

“We thank you, ser. You are obviously a knight” the princess continues, “Care to share that story?”

Rhaenys advised her that, above compliments and platitudes, one must pay particular attention to how a man talks about the honors bestowed upon him, about his mother and about the future. “Remember this, dear girl. Small talk” she had said, “whilst boring or shallow at first, can provide a lot of insight about one’s character.”

Ser Jorah is more than eager to recount his story to knighthood as they traipse through the streets of the harbor. Rhaenyra attracts more than one glance, many admiring, some curious and, thankfully, none of them hostile.

“I began squiring for my uncle, Ser Starick, when I was not even eight namedays old. I was eager to prove myself worthy of my House’s motto.”

Above the rest, Rhaenyra recalls.

“I served under him, and other knights on occasion, until I received the honor of knighthood, after I won the tourney for my nephew’s birth. I squired for eight sunturns and have been a knight for five.”

Rhaenyra is quick to do the calculations, “It is unusual for a knight of one and twenty, especially the heir of a noble house, to be still unmarried.”

She can see that he’s momentarily at a loss for words. “Well, Your Highness, I shall not lie and say I haven’t received plenty of offers, yet I find myself glad I haven’t entertained any of them for now I get to make my own play with you.”

The man smiles, charmingly. It’s a pity that Rhaenyra is not charmed at all.

Play, he says.

The harbor is full of life, and Rhaenyra is pleasantly surprised by the lack of foul smells. She knows that men coming down from ships after travelling for several days, if not moons, don’t exactly smell like fresh roses, and all the traffic is bound to result in the production of much garbage. Yet, the streets are fairly clean—not at all like the many alleys of King’s Landing, piled with garbage emanating foul odors and diseases.

The waters aren’t exceptionally limpid—not like those surrounding Driftmark—but many children are splashing in the shallower areas, parents and guardians looking on fondly.

During their visit they pass many inns and people selling their goods in colorful stands. Spices and freshly baked delicacies fill the air with mouth-watering aromas, and Rhaenyra is tempted to abandon her suitor in favor of scouring each and every stall to her heart’s desire.

Instead, she remains by his side and they make small talk about the state of the harbor, its business and all the trade routes that benefit the eastern part of the Riverlands. Ser Jorah also talks about the might of his own house and their small but still relevant fleet, and how well his future seat, Seagard, is protected and plentiful of fish. A detail that is heavily remarked, for some reason.

As they talk about the legendary bronze bell of Seagard, her eyes catch sight of a sparkling stall, colorful jewels and a few weapons littering its surface. An elderly woman sits behind it, polishing a necklace with a white cloth. Unlike the other vendors, she doesn’t bother with shouting at the people passing by, trying to entice them into checking out her goods. She doesn’t even look up when people approach, simply raising her fingers to indicate the price of something when asked by customers.

“Those jewels look enticing, don’t they?” Ser Jorah, following her stare, smiles at her.

“They do. The woman selling them as well.”

“Let us check it out, my princess. And if you see something you desire, mayhap I shall leave you with a small gift to remind you of me” he offers, gently guiding her to the woman’s stall.

Rhaenyra twists her neck, briefly meeting her cousin’s amused stare. As their eyes meet, both girls struggle with containing their laughter. Men are so predictable. Why bother having a meaningful conversation when one can simply buy someone’s heart? Hells, even Ser Erryk looks mildly amused.

Standing in front of the stall, the princess has to admit that the jewels are truly impressive. The weapons don’t interest her, moreover she is no expert, but even her untrained eye can tell they are worthy of being displayed with such pride. She can feel the Mallister heir’s eyes on her as she inspects the merchandise. Laena is quite interested as well.

“Anything that catches your eye” Rhaenyra tells her, “I shall buy for you. You are my lady and my dear cousin. It is my pleasure and duty” she adds when the girl goes to protest.

Ser Jorah looks intrigued by the lilting sound of High Valyrian and also mildly annoyed he cannot understand it, if Rhaenyra were to take a guess. She returns her eyes to the sparkling goods, but a hand on hers stops her in her tracks.

Over her hand rests the sun-darkened, lined hand of the merchant woman. Rhaenyra stops Jorah with one hand, blocking his attempt at tossing the woman’s arm away from her. The merchant’s eyes are of deepest black, a void in the middle of her wrinkles and flyaway grey curly hair. Her lips, already thin, disappear completely as she purses them.

She doesn’t speak and doesn’t bow to the princess. When he snarls at her to do so, she glares at Jorah and ignores him completely.

“Leave her be” Rhaenyra orders. She doesn’t know if the woman is too old to recognize she has nobility in front of her, but she has no desire to start a quarrel about it. It would do no good to her to be seen in an unseemly light.

The woman, still holding her wrist, presses something cold in her hand, shaking it a few times. As Rhaenyra opens her palm, she sees a beautiful pair of earrings. A stud of solid gold supports a large amethyst in the shape of a drop that is so long it would nearly reach her shoulders. On the back of the earring, on the golden foil where the jewel is nested, three words are written. Rhaenyra is stunned when she realizes it is High Valyrian.

Hae aōha laesi.

Like your eyes.

She shows the inscription to Laena, whose eyes bug out as well. They both look at the elderly woman, who seems immensely pleased of herself. She makes a gesture with her hand to signify that the earrings are old, and the two girls are even more surprised. Any type of Valyrian jewelry is rare on this side of the Narrow Sea, and even if this is no Valyrian steel, it would not be farfetched to think this is old, maybe even belonging to the Valyrians of old.

“They do match your eyes, mandia” Laena remarks, giggling sweetly.

“Are you interested in those, Princess? I commend your taste, they are exquisite” Ser Jorah hums, getting quite a little bit too close to her. “I will be more than happy to purchase them and even something else for you, if you so desire.”

She ignores him, turning towards the woman. “How much are these?”

The merchant spares a look at the young woman’s suitor before holding up one single finger. “One silver?” Ser Jorah scoffs, “My Princess, are you certain these earrings won’t fall off once you put them on? For this price, they must be faulty.”

Rhaenyra meets the merchant’s laughing eyes and smirks. She turns to her suitor. “I doubt the woman means silver, good ser.”

Immediately, the man stops smiling. He turns his neck so fast she can almost hear it crack. The old woman meets his stare with no hint of fear, simply smirking with clear mischief. The expression makes her look younger by decades, even if the wrinkles deepen with the action.

“One gold?” he asks, now decidedly less amused.

A nod.

As the man works around his conniption, Laena nudges the princess’ hip. She shows her a ring of pearl and ruby. “May I have this?” she asks.

“Naturally, sweetling.” She turns to the woman, who is accepting the coin from a grim-faced Jorah with a smirk. “How much is this?”

She lifts three fingers.

“Three silver stags?” clarifies Rhaenyra, to which the woman gives another nod.

“You would do well to answer the Princess with your words. You can play your guessing games with other customers” snarls the still crabby man.

Laena and Rhaenyra share a long-suffering glance before the latter says what she’s guessed early into the mimed conversation. “She is mute, ser.”

With a final nod, the woman smiles and returns to polishing her jewels, sparing no other glance at the trio in front of her. Rhaenyra doesn’t mind the lack of proper manners, not this once.

Ser Erryk approaches the Princess as she makes to linger a little bit longer. “My Princess, I think it’s better if we move on, if you are done with your purchases. I fear your interest in the stall has caused many people to pay attention to it, as well” he nods to the gaggle of people closely approaching, either to strike up conversation with her or to buy from the merchant.

“Then let us go.”

This time she doesn’t bother holding Ser Mallister’s arm as they continue their visit, her earrings and Laena’s ring safe in a pouch on Ser Erryk’s belt.

“I reckon Ser Mallister shan’t be the one you’ll marry” Laena jokes, after they are left alone in their chambers. Dinner was a quiet affair, all of them knackered after their excursion, and after dessert was consumed, the two girls had immediately excused themselves and run back to their quarters.

Rhaenyra grimaces. “I hope not, for it would mean all the others are worse.”

Her cousin grabs the diary given to them by Rhaenys, sweeping the pages until she reaches a blank one. “So, what should we write about Ser Jorah?”

“I have no doubt about his capability as a knight, but I fear his pride is too excessive for his lineage. The way he spoke to that woman, as well, was quite unsavory.”

Laena hums, “I would also add his hesitance to pay the coin.”

“Indeed. One golden dragon is not exorbitant for such a fine jewel, especially considering its origins and age. Either he lied about the current richness of his House, or he simply didn’t expect to pay that much. I have no use for a man who is in either situation” she remarks dryly.

Laena snorts at that, “Indeed you have not.” She finishes writing down all that is said, before stretching her legs with a groan. “We walked too much today.”

“My back hurts” Rhaenyra agrees, “but the harbor is quite different to what I would’ve expected.”

“Certainly cleaner.”

“Undoubtedly. I shall have to ask Lord Mooton how they manage to keep such a busy environment so clean. Hopefully that will work for King’s Landing, as well. With how clean the air smells here I already dread the time when we’ll be forced to return to the stink of the capital.”

Laena wraps her head in silk, trying and failing to hide her smile, “We could simply evade the Seven Kingdoms and live far away, free from duty and stink.”

Rhaenyra laughs boisterously, trying to forget the time when long ago she proposed something similar to a very different person. “You are mad, cousin. What would we survive on? Are you ready to work to earn a living?”

An inelegant snort. “We could sell our jewelry, the earrings bought by Ser Mallister can yield us some months of luxuries alone.”

Rhaenyra looks to where the earrings lay, in her jewelry box, piled together with many other precious pieces. “I highly doubt that cousin. I fear we would spend too much on delicacies and find ourselves coinless.”

Laena sprawls on the bed, sighing dramatically. “We are cursed with duty and stink, then.”

“I’m afraid so.” Rhaenyra joins her cousin under the covers.

A few minutes of silence stretch on, before Laena groans again. “Gods be good, my feet ache so much.”

That prompts a laugh out of the princess. “Tomorrow we are set to visit Jonquil’s Pool. That shall heal us of any ailment.”

“I sure hope so, otherwise I might demand coin as retribution for my pain.”

The two girls laugh, drifting to sleep with entwined hands and smiles on their faces.

Chapter Text

The waters of Jonquil’s Pool are indeed as miraculous as they say.

The two girls, with the entire pool for themselves, are lazily floating around in the warm water. The temperature is not ideal for them—Valyrian dragonlords prefer much higher temperatures than this—but whatever curative power is attributed to the place is clearly working.

Both Laena and Rhaenyra can feel their muscles and feet relax and loose the aches. Before, a few maids gave them a nice massage that had the Princess almost falling asleep in the water, but now, naked and alone, the two girls showcase their swimming prowess acquired after many hours under Lord Corlys’ tutelage, back when they were two little lasses.

Their hair, left unbound for the occasion, floats around their heads, creating silverly halos that make them look like angels or, better yet, sirens looking to lure unsuspecting sailors.

Certainly, Lord Templeton looked thoroughly tempted when he coincidentally crossed paths with Rhaenyra and her entourage, en route to the pool.

“I can feel your grimace, cousin. What troubles you?” Laena giggles, diving in the water and coming up beside her lady. She pushes her wet curls behind her ear and lays her head on the Princess’ shoulder.

Rhaenyra hums as she rests her own arms around her cousin, embracing her, before laying a gentle kiss on her forehead. “Merely remembering the audacity of some men.”

Laena snorts inelegantly. “Then I’m afraid you’ll be plagued by a frown forevermore, my dear. Let such thoughts go now, mandia. Do not spoil such a wonderful experience with sour musings.”

“Weren’t you the one who was advocating for always having one’s head in the game? Of taking every opportunity presented?” she teases.

“Yes, but right now it’s just you and me here. There are no men nor women to charm, nor suitors to judge, nor politics to discuss. There is just us and this water. Let us enjoy it, please” Laena deploys her notorious begging eyes, not dissimilar to that of a puppy beseechingly asking you for another piece of dry meat.

Rhaenyra sighs, banishing any thoughts barring those about the water and her darling cousin. “So be it. You Velaryon blood sings strong in the water, and I fear you have bespelled me as well” she winks.

With cheeks as red as rubies, Laena gently splashes her. “Charmer. But if my spell allows you to relax for just a minute longer, I am more than happy to provide.”

“No need for magic, my heart, I merely need your presence to make me feel at ease.”

The two girls laugh, swimming around and splashing each other, but soon their fun is set to end.

A septa enters the chamber where the pool is situated—rather unexpectedly, for Rhaenyra has instructed them to remain outside for the duration of their bath and for only her personal maids to enter. She would not have a repeat of what happened to Queen Alysanne.

The old woman bows, her seven-pointed wooden necklace dangling in the air. “My apologies, Princess, but I’m here to inform you that Lady Mooton and Lady Rosalynd—Lord Mooton’s mother” she adds, as if Rhaenyra would be so rude as to forget the woman’s name, “Are preparing for their own soak in the pool.”

Rhaenyra has to resist the urge to snarl at the woman. So much for enjoying peace and quiet. “I believe I was promised solitude, was I not? And now you go back on your word” she snarks, clicking her tongue.

The septa fidgets with her hands. “I-I know, Your Highness, and I deeply, deeply apologize for the inconvenience. But the Lady Rosalynd has expressed her desire to soothe her aging bones in the pool, and Lady Annabeth has recently given birth and oft comes here to relieve herself of the last of her aches and I supposed—”

Rhaenyra interrupts the blabbering woman. “Very well. Let them in, but let it be the last time something like this happens. It is by my graciousness that I’ll allow my orders to be surpassed by the desires of women who have every day in their lives to come here and yet choose today.”

Her eyes are steely and her voice cutting, so much so that the septa doesn’t even hesitate to hastily retreat to wherever she’s come from, barely bidding the two nobles the necessary adieu.

Laena traipses the water to lay a calming hand on the incensed Princess’ shoulder. Their eyes meet and Rhaenyra sighs, “It seems we are bound to being disturbed.”

“Let us hope that they’ll leave us to our own devices, mandia.” Even as she says this, Laena does not look to hopeful.

Indeed, once the two women enter the pool—Lady Rosalynd with more purpose than Lady Annabeth—they immediately accost the two Valyrians.

The old Lady leads the discussion and does not waste any time with her questioning. “My nephew was enchanted by your beauty, Your Highness. I’m sure he was a most entertaining companion to spend the day with. My brother told me of how Jorah gifted you with the most beautiful of jewels.”

“He certainly provided some entertainment, my lady, and I am grateful for his gift. A most thoughtful gesture, truly. Ser Jorah’s gift shall serve as a reminder of the time spent together, useful once I depart for my other destinations and encounter new suitors.” Rhaenyra does not want to discuss this whilst naked in a pool, with the elderly aunt of the man aspiring to be her consort, but here she is. The Gods must delight in making her feel uncomfortable.

“I am sure you’ll encounter many worthy men during your tour, Princess” Lady Annabeth interjects, taking the attention away from her good-mother’s mildly souring face. “Your next stop is the Eyrie, correct?”

“Yes, and I’ll brave the North after that.”

“None would fault you for interrupting you tour early if you find the right consort, Your Highness” Lady Rosalynd laughs. “No need for a girl to stay so far away from home.”

Rhaenyra’s smile turns sharp. “No one would fault me either way, my lady, for I am the heir to the Iron Throne. I am no mere girl. I shall one day have to rule the Seven Kingdoms and the least I can do is tour them properly.”

“A good ruler takes into account every possibility before making a definite choice” Laena adds, “For how else are they meant to make just decisions if they are without all the facts?”

Whilst Lady Annabeth is clearly uncomfortable with her good-mother’s actions and her words, it’s not enough to stop the old woman from speaking. “But surely, you would not want to squander your most fertile years gallivanting around the land. The Seven know I already had my eldest daughter on the way at your age. Whilst the Crown is secure—Gods bless Queen Alicent and her child, with another on the way, yes?—there can never be too many children around. A good wife must provide many heirs, as the Good Queen Alysanne once did.”

Lady Annabeth hides her face in her hands, her damp lock floating around her shoulders. Rhaenyra and Laena, on the other hand, would not be surprised to see the water around them boil with the hotness of their anger.

“You dare lecture a future Queen on her role?” Laena says, voice as sharp as steel.

The old woman seems to finally realize her mistake. She’s a helpless sheep cornered by two angry dragons, lethal even with just their words. “I merely meant to offer my advice as a fellow lady and as a mother…”

“But I am not a lady” Rhaenyra spits out, “I am the Crown Princess. I have responsibilities weighting on my neck that you’d never even imagine. I have power and choices you’ll never have in your entire life and I intend to use them for the betterment of the Kingdom once I become Queen. For that is what I’ll be, Lady Rosalynd, not a mere broodmare for some Lord to keep and coddle.”

And fuck them if they felt slighted by her words, if they took offence.

Her cousin’s hand on her wrist stops her from spewing even more fire. Rhaenyra sighs deeply, steeling her back and staring at the two women—one embarrassed and one thoroughly stunned by her reprimands—before ending the argument in the most gracious way she feels capable of in the moment. “I shall leave you both to soothe your… pains, but let it be known that I will not allow such liberties nor actions to take place at my court. And for as long as I am here, this is my court. Have a wonderful continuation of the day.”

“That was wicked. You told them off good” Laena giggles. A futile attempt at tempering the Princess’ anger, not yet abated even in the privacy of their own rooms. She knows full well her cousin was right in her reprimand and that Lady Rosalynd crossed many lines with her words, yet she cannot help but think of how awkward their stay is going to be now.

Rhaenyra does nothing but grumble as Agatha fixes her freshly dried hair, munching on a piece of roasted trout. They had requested their midday meal to be delivered in their rooms, not wanting to risk encountering any more opinionated nobles.

Laena herself is being attended to by two servants whilst she delights in the honey-glazed carrots and green peppers that accompany the fish. The people here may not be the best, but the food is not bad at all.

“First Lord Templeton with his damned proposal—you heard him, as well, right? A couple sunturns younger than mine own father and yet he dares propose to me. What use have I for a man that will be old and decrepit by the time I am crowned queen? And a man without the necessary social standing, might I add.”

Laena hums, “It’s most curious he has tried to propose to you when you specifically requested in your letter which Houses you’d be entertaining proposals from.”

“And then” the Princess continues as if her cousin never spoke, “That damned Darry boy. Four and ten, Laena. He is four and ten. Unbelievable. Am I to be sold in marriage to either a child or a decrepit man? Ones I didn’t even invite to take part to the biddings for my hand, might I add.”

“Do you not think it curious, my sweet?” Laena interrupts her.

Rhaenyra scoffs. “You have seen the disrespect levied towards me since we arrived. I wouldn’t be surprised if they simply disregarded my orders.”

“And that would be ground for serious punishment, but I cannot help but think not everything is as it seems.”

“Laena, please, you have heard with your own two ears the words of Lady Rosalynd and her son.”

“And yet when I went to inquire about every meeting scheduled for you, neither Lord Darry nor Lord Templeton were mentioned. It’s most curious.”

Agatha bows, her work finished, and gestures for the other idle servants to leave the two girls alone. She has a feeling the less people know about these conversations the better.

Laena doesn’t miss the sudden emptying of the rooms. The High Valyrian flows softly from her lips. “Lady Rosalynd didn’t mention anything about any other proposal earlier. It must mean she didn’t know anything about them.”

Spirit cooled, Rhaenyra begins to truly think about her cousin’s words. “Your ideas might have some merit. Now that I think about it, I just cannot see Lady Rosalynd resisting the urge to elevate her nephew’s proposal by bringing down someone else’s.”

“I am glad we are in agreement about the strangeness of the situation. If you desire more clarity on the matter, might I suggest some covert investigation?” her smirk is positively wicked.

The Princess matches her cousin’s ferocity. She goes to sit beside her on the bed and puts her head on her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of the oils on her skin. “What are you thinking of, dearest?”

“This eve, during the banquet, you are set to meet Ser Harwin Strong, the heir to Harrenhal. Whilst you converse with him, I might mingle with the other nobles present, gain some insight into what is happening. Maybe, we could ask your own servants to pay more attention to rumors and such.”

“Agatha is loyal, she’ll do so with no complaints.”

“She is smart, that one.”

“Not nearly as smart as you, my dear” Rhaenyra teases her.

Laena giggles, “I am the progeny of the Sea Snake and Princess Rhaenys, how could I be different?”

“I am lucky to have you.”

“As am I. Now let us not get lost in sentimentalism. I shall call back the Agatha to tell her of our plans, then we shall rest until it’s time for the banquet. What says you, Princess?”

“I say that rest sounds divine, right now. Have some digestive tea brought to us as well. I fear I have eaten a little bit too much.”

“As you desire.”

“You look breathtaking, mandia” Laena beams at her, bringing the cup of watered-down wine to her lips. Music and bards’ voices floated around the two girls, sitting front and center at the banquet table.

Rhaenyra nods. “You have chosen the dress well, Laena.”

The younger girl preens and smiles even brighter at her cousin, resplendent in a gown of black and purple. Amethysts shine at her ears and fingers, and modest heels click on the stone as Rhaenyra taps her foot on the ground, half keeping a rhythm with the musicians and half eager for dessert. Few frills embellish the gown, but a few cuts in the dark skirt and sleeves hint at the beautifully embroidered purple fabric underneath. Laena is no less beautiful as she mingles with the people in a gown of silver and red.

For this banquet, the Princess’ hair has been left down her back with only a few Valyrian braids keeping strands away from her face.

She is starting to regret it, for there are even more people in the hall this night and the temperature has risen accordingly. She can feel beads of sweat sliding down her back, but she cannot yet depart from the room—not before having tasted dessert and not before having listened to Ser Harwin.

Once again, her eyes skim over the crowd of dancing people and find the mountain of a man that is Ser Harwin Strong. He certainly does his family name justice, both from what she’s heard of his doings in the City Watch and from his physique alone. She has been able to spot him since he stood up from his seat, and she can perfectly see every attempt he makes at evading a Lord’s attentions. She can see the desperation slowly build on his face, along with a heavy dose of impatience, but from what she is able to gather from her position, he seems to be dealing with this with grace.

A desirable trait for a possible consort.

Rhaenyra’s attention is grabbed by the sound of a throat being cleared. She turns, expecting an apologetic Lady Rosalynd—she hasn’t seen her since this morn at the pool, and whilst she held no ill-will towards Lady Mooton, she most definitely expected an apology from her mother-in-law—or maybe another young lass coming to compliment her for her beauty and ask about Syrax.

She is most surprised when, instead, she comes face to face with a servant. The young page boy is not one of hers, and he is quite timid as he passes her a message saying, “From Driftmark, my Princess.”

She clutches the parchment in her hand. “Thank you.”

As much as she’d like to read it right now, she knows that whatever is written in there is reserved for only two pairs of eyes and for much calmer environments. Rhaenyra turns back to the page. “Please, inform Lady Laena that as soon as she’s able I’d like her to return to my side. Also, please, have the cooks speed up on dessert.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

And not a moment too soon, after the page left, the shadow of Ser Harwin Strong falls on Rhaenyra.

“My Princess, I apologize for the wait. I was held up, much to my displeasure.”

His smile is charming and sincere, and she answers it with one of her own. “No worries, ser. I could see your predicament from here. I do not begrudge you your tardiness.”

“Then Her Highness is kind and merciful. Allow me to make up for my slight by, hopefully, delighting you with a dance?”

She takes his outstretched hand, noticing how his palm dwarfs hers, and lets herself be led in the throng of dancing nobles. Smiling politely at every curtsy and nodded head she receives, she takes her position in front of him and lets herself be guided into a simple dance, one that doesn’t require too much contact between the partners but is perfect for chatting.

“I must say, my Princess, you have honored my House by allowing me to court you, and I shall forever be thankful for the opportunity, but I fear I am not the most suited candidate.”

The words surprise her. “You are selling yourself short, Ser. Your House has been unfailingly devoted to the crown, moreover your father serves in the Small Council, offering wise and learned counsel. I am sure you have been brought up to be more than just the strongest man in the realm.”

They do the turns required for the dance, and then come back together. “If you consider my father’s counsel sound, I am even more obliged to tell you what he himself told me before I came here.”

“And what would that be, ser?”

“He advised me to pay you the proper respect as the future monarch, but also told me to not get my hopes up. He said you are a smart young woman, and that you’d choose the best match for both yourself and for the kingdom, and that this match would most likely not be found during this tour.”

Rhaenyra is even more surprised. “He thinks so?”

“Indeed. This tour, he also believes, is a chance to make your presence known in the Seven Kingdoms. And I find myself agreeing with him.”

A laugh. “Then tell me, dear knight, who do you think I should marry?”

“Either Ser Laenor, the young Stark or your uncle. My father believes that Ser Otto has already begun pushing for a betrothal between yourself and your brother but he’s almost certain the King rejected that idea, if it’s any comfort.”

His brazenness shocks her into a stunned silence. He doesn’t seem to care, but the surrounding nobles certainly pay attention to the shift in the mood of the dancing couple. Just as the first whispers start to spread, the young servant reaches Lady Laena, who has just finished dancing with a boring lord.

He relays the Princess’ message, before disappearing back into the corridors used by the servants to move around.

It doesn’t take the young Velaryon long to locate her cousin, and she has to contain a smirk when she sees her stunned face. The discussion with Ser Harwin must be going either very well, or horribly.

Rhaenyra is still at a loss for words when Laena reaches them, just as the song finishes. “Ser, Princess” she greets, “You make for a lovely sight.”

Her eyes, especially, linger on Ser Harwin’s figure. Piles of muscle hide a sharp mind, if the voices about him are true, and his face certainly doesn’t detract from his handsomeness. Actually, his eyes are quite lovely.

“I thank you Lady Laena, I would never presume to be chosen by appearance alone. I simply have faith in our future Queen to make the best choice.”

“As we all do, ser. I am sure my cousin will choose well.”

Rhaenyra’s voice is hard as she talks. “I appreciate your faith, both of you, and I respect both of your opinions. As such, I ask you to follow me. Our conversation is not over.”

Safe in a corner of the hall, guests kept away by the loyal Ser Erryk, the princess interrogates her supposed suitor.

“Your father is certain of this?”

Laena has yet to recover from the revelation, lacking words, but she cannot help but think this is exactly the kind of move someone like Otto would make. Underhanded enough to not be detected, but still damaging.

“Fairly. The King laughed it off as a joke, and ten asked my father his opinion on your match and my father told him what I told you, Your Highness.”

“And how did he react? My Father, I mean.”

“My father did not say. Although, I personally believe that Otto will not stop in his pursuits.”

“And does your father relay all of this to you by word or by letter?” Laena asks.

“He told me all of this himself, however I will spend the next moons at Harrenhal to oversee things there, I can inquire about possible updates and then relay them to you if you desire.”

“Your offer is most generous, ser, and I am happy to accept. I would also ask you to join us during our stay at Riverrun so that we may confront face to face.”

Ser Harwin bows deeply. “With the utmost pleasure, Princess. I might not be the ideal choice of consort, but my loyalty and that of my House is not dependent on that. The King chose you as his heir and I shall do my best to ensure that his will is carried out.”

“We are glad that there are at least some nobles that remember their oaths” the Princess says, sourly.

“I believe Lord Mooton is simply too simple to realize his errors, since I have heard him speak to other nobles about your grace and intelligence, praising you and the bright things you’re sure to do once you become Queen.” Breakbones’ words do little to assuage the Princess’ fears, for what use does she have of stupid allies—it would almost be better having intelligent open opposition rather that whatever Lord Mooton is doing.

“I have listened to plenty of conversations during the evening, as well, and most seem to be on your side, my Princess” Laena adds.

“This is the bare minimum, not something to be happy about. But I appreciate your positivity. Now, ser, if you’ll excuse us” she puts her hand out, waiting for him to kiss it, “I have privates matters to discus with my cousin.”

His beard is rough against her hand and she would definitely feel something if it weren’t for his previous words and the way he’s looking at her cousin as he kisses her hand, as well. That, and the fact that her darling Laena is looking back, too.

Fighting back a smirk, the Princess has to admit that this leg of the journey has not been entirely useless, after all.

“So, what did you want to talk about?”

Back in the solitude of their quarters, Rhaenyra produces Rhaenys’ letter. “Your mother has sent this.”

Laena’s nightgown flutters with the speed of her movements as she hurries to her side.

The letter is short and to the point. Rhaenyra wouldn’t expect anything different from the older Princess.

Dearests,

The war party has finally departed for the Stepstones. Plans have been drafted and resources have been secured, so I am most optimistic all will be well.

Just in case, I shall pray to the Gods for their safe return, as I hope you’ll do as well.

I also hope your journey has been fruitful and illuminating. I await your letters most ardently.

Princess Rhaenys.

Rhaenyra can feel her heart skip a beat with worry, as she’s certain Laena’s also does, and concedes herself a moment to despair about the thought of anyone of her family falling on the battlefield. The next, strength steels her spine. All of them are strong, capable fighters. They won’t fall.

She tells as much to Laena, who half-heartedly nods, eyes misty and mouth downturned.

Plans of conquering allies and joking remarks about possible crushes leave Rhaenyra’s mind, and the night is spent holding her cousin tightly to her chest. She lets her cry her worries out, holding her together when the pain of war threatens to tear her apart. They pray, they cry and they tell their hearts every missing piece will come back intact.

There will be time for scheming tomorrow. This night, it’s the time for family.

“Lord Celtigar is almost as insufferable as his heir” Rhaenyra laments, as the maids hurry to clear the room of the cleaning supplies they’d brought in to bathe the two nobles.

“I would describe him as delirious, rather than insufferable.”

“Now that I think of it, I believe both epithets fit his personality. For the first part of my time with Ser Eltos he didn’t let the lad put in a single word, droning on and on about our shared Valyrian ancestry” Rhaenyra scoffs, “As if every trace of Old Valyria hasn’t been washed away by decades of mingling with Westerosi blood.”

Laena sighs into her cup of tea, exasperated by her cousin’s exasperation. “Yet you need their support. True or not, Westeros still views the Celtigars as Valyrians, still. Having the three Valyrian Houses united under your name will do your reputation good.”

The Princess throws her a smirk. “Aren’t Velaryons and Celtigars archenemies or something of the like?”

A scoff. “That’s my father’s competitiveness making itself known. He still gives credit to the rumors about them having this unimaginable wealth hidden from the world. Mind you, most likely it’s true, given the opulence Lord Celtigar and his heir flaunted earlier today, but it’s highly dubious it can surpass ours. Father is worried for nothing.”

And, indeed, wealth had been flaunted. Chains of gold dangling from one shoulder to another, pins of various jewels strewn all over their broad chests. They had even dared to wear tunics with dragons embroidered on the lapel.

As if they could ever aspire to touch the skies like Targaryens do, to be as powerful as they are. Not even the Velaryons, ambitious as they are, have ever dared reach so far.

Rhaenyra shakes off the lingering anger and indignation and sighs. “Nevertheless, you needn’t worry. I was perfectly polite and courteous, even in the face of such arrogance and boorishness. I believe I thoroughly charmed them both.”

It had been a challenge not cursing the Gods for creating such an odious person as Ser Eltos. Not even five words into their private conversation and already he was talking about the looks of any possible offspring. Unbelievable.

“I am glad to hear it” Laena rubs her hands together, “I don’t know about you, but I am quite tired. Tomorrow we are set to depart for the Eyrie and I’d rather sleep one hour more than one less. I suggest we write the missive for your father and that for my mother and then go to bed. What do you say?”

The days had passed surprisingly swiftly, with unaccompanied visits to the neighboring villages and afternoons used to mingle with nobles—and one specific instance of Lady Mooton apologizing profusely on behalf of her mother-in-law, who they thankfully haven’t crossed paths with anymore.

“Wonderful idea, dearest. Would you bring me my supplies, please?”

The letter to her father is quick to write. A few platitudes, some reassurances about the usefulness of this tour and a couple inquiries about Aegon’s health and the letter is ready to be sent. She makes sure to include a few positive opinions about Ser Harwin: not too much as to hint to a possible betrothal—if her intuition is right, it won’t be her the knight will put his House’s cloak on—but just enough so that her father will start paying more attention to Lyonel Strong and, hopefully, keep at bay any thoughts about betrothing her to Aegon.

The letter to Princess Rhaenys, on the other hand, takes more to draft.

Beloved velma and muña,

We have received your letter and thank you for informing us about our family’s departure. We are sure that their fighting prowess paired with our prayers and yours will surely mean their safe return.

In regard to our progress, the first leg of our journey has been… enlightening, to say the least. No husband is to be found in these lands, certainly—and yes, we have done as you advised and kept a comprehensive diary detailing each encounter and the reasons why they have all been denied the position of consort—but an ally was obtained.

Ser Harwin Strong is as loyal as they can be and has promised to serve as an additional link between us and King’s Landing, feeding us information through his father. Another man that, we believe, can be trusted.

Ser Harwin has also informed us of a worrying plot that might be afoot at the hands of none other than Otto Hightower. Apparently, the Hand is pushing onto the King the idea of a betrothal with Aegon. We have no idea why or how the King could ever consider this as a viable option, but we are still cautious. We all know of his fickle nature and his unnatural desire to appease those damned vipers.

Another thing that, in our opinion, can be traced back to their influence is the blatant disrespect of my orders. Houses that have not been invited to make their attempt at courting the hand of the future Queen have dared to do so, with no shame nor hesitation.

We have chosen to believe that such foolishness and brazenness can only come from the reassurance that something of the like would be acceptable. Such a thing can be given only by those close to the King.

We will keep our eyes open in the Eyrie for similar events, and will surely contact you as soon as possible if we find anything.

All in all, many of the nobles here are not openly against a female ruling them one day. In truth, none of them seem opposed to such a thing—all but Lady Mallister, mother to Lord Mooton. His loyalty, we believe, is secure, yet he has acted unintentionally disrespectfully on more than one occasion. Given his mother’s opinions about women, we are not surprised. His wife, thankfully, is aware of his mistakes and we trust that she’ll be able to gently keep him on the right path.

For now, this is all. We wish you pleasant days and restoring nights.

You and your wisdom are always in our hearts.

Rhaenyra and Laena

Chapter Text

The Eyrie is beautiful.

The welcome they have received is warm, yet formal. As Rhaenyra walks the corridors of Lady Jeyne’s keep, she cannot help but wonder.

Did her mother like the tapestries on the walls? Did she like the view from the many windows of the palace? Did she run around, happy as only a child can be, those very same corridors her daughter is now crossing?

The princess knows that she will find no answers here, but she is also aware of the fact that the Eyrie has not forgotten Queen Aemma, nor her daughter.

As Laena and her, guided by a servant, reach the High Hall where the court is awaiting them—they arrived just in time to avoid the rain—they see that many, if not all, are wearing the blue of the Arryns. The same blue the former queen used to favor. It brings tears to Rhaenyra’s eyes.

Lady Jeyne, regal in her simple blue dress, steps forward, walking away from her seat in front of the famed Moon Door. “Greetings, Princess, Lady Laena. It’s a true pleasure and honor to host you at my seat. I have arranged for a welcoming party to take place this eve. I hope your journey hasn’t left you both too tired to grace us with your presence.”

Rhaenyra laces her arm with Laena’s. “Dragons energize us, cousin. ‘Tis the people that prove the most tiring.” She doesn’t miss the spark that enters the Lady’s eye as she calls her cousin.

A laugh. “Worry not, Princess. This eve is reserved for my most trusted bannermen and women, nearly all of which are already here” she gestures to the dozen or so people in the hall, “You shan’t have to deal with flies buzzing around you, praying for the chance to drain you of your blood.”

An apt description, and one that makes both Rhaenyra and Laena laugh. “We are glad to hear so, my lady” says the young Velaryon.

“I am glad that you’ve found the time to meet with us first thing, but I am certain you wish to rest. Your maids and guard have already settled in and I’m most certain they eagerly await their Princess’ arrival.

“I thank you, cousin” Rhaenyra replies, then she turns to eye the windows that, while thin, provide a clear view of the pouring rain beating on the Eyrie. Rhaenyra spares a thought and prayer for her darling Syrax, outside in the rain. No weather can hurt a dragon, but it can surely inconvenience them. The cold, especially, is particularly irksome for both dragons and dragonriders.

Letting her eyes wander, the Princess admires the décor of the hall. The blues of the banners and curtains and rugs and everything around her remind her of her mother—Queen Aemma, the only true Queen of this generation. Alicent could never, will never, compare. And Laena, her dearest, darling cousin, feels immediately the change in her Princess and grabs her hand, providing a grounding presence in the sea of memories.

Lady Jeyne instructs one Lady Jessamyn Redfort, her rumored lover, to accompany the two girls to their room. The three women make small talk as they traverse the corridors of the place, avoiding the more crowded areas to lessen the chance of being stopped.

“Here we are, Princess, Lady Laena. I have arranged these rooms myself and I dearly hope they’ll be to your satisfaction. Your maids and Kingsguard are already inside, awaiting your arrival.”

“Thank you, my lady. We appreciate your care.” Rhaenyra’s response is gracious, having slightly recovered from her earlier turmoil.

The redhead bows elegantly, low enough to be polite but not so much as to let the Princess see the purple-ish bruise Jenye left on her neck in the morning. Thankfully, the ever-colder weather offered a valid reason for her to wear a high collared dress.

“It is no trouble, Princess” she smiles, “I shall leave the two of you to rest. In the evening, however, expect an invite to a banquet. Our Lady Jeyne is eager to celebrate your arrival.”

“Yes, we are aware of this eve’s festivities. We shall rest to be in full form for the banquet. Thank you, Lady Jessamyn.”

The woman leaves them alone, her dress swishing around her calves and her heeled slippers clicking on the stone. The feeling of a hand sliding in her own drags Rhaenyra away from her thoughts. Laena smiles brightly at her, “Shall we see our rooms, Princess?”

Pushing open the intricately carved wooden door, they are met with the stiff face of Criston Cole and the worrying of Elinda. The Kingsguard immediately relaxes at the sight of his charge, bowing to the waist and expressing his happiness at seeing them both safe.

“Greetings, my Princess. I have personally scoured every inch of the quarters assigned to you to ensure their safety, Your Highness” he says, still bent in a bow.

“Thank you, ser. You are free to begin your duties.”

“At your behest, Your Highness.” The door closes behind him with barely a noise, and immediately after, Elinda is there, bowing and gently leading both ladies to a table set with tea and sweet pastries. “I have taken the liberty to arrange for a light soup to be served, in hopes that the warm temperature will be to your liking. I’m afraid the fire has not yet caught as much as I’d have hoped, Your Highness.”

Indeed, in one massive fireplace, a few paces away from an equally massive bed, burned a fire that was very bright, but had not yet warmed the chambers to the young maid’s satisfaction.

“Call for a bath as well, Elinda. We passed through some clouds on the way here and I can still feel the humidity on my skin.”

“At once. I must say, you arrived at the most convenient time. Had you delayed a mere few minutes you’d have been caught up in the storm.” The servant points to the long and thin windows that line one of the walls of the rooms, where the rain is beating down with furious intent.

“Yes, I noticed the rain as well. We were most lucky, indeed.”

As Elinda leaves to call for the bath, the two girls attempt to regain some warmth through tea and freshly baked pastries. Whilst not as good as the lemon cakes she prefers, Rhaenyra is satisfied by the apricot and nut pastry. After the two of them have drained their cups twice over, Laena dares to breach the subject. She doesn’t bother to lower her voice or change language, knowing that, more than anyone, Elinda is loyal to the bone. “Are you feeling better now, cousin?”

“Yes, thank you. I didn’t expect so many memories to assault me all at once. I should have. This is my mother’s childhood home, after all.”

“There is no shame in feeling a bit overwhelmed, you know that. Nevertheless, I hope that being here will give you many opportunities to get to know your roots better.”

Rhaenyra halts her movements, a pastry halfway to her mouth. “My roots?”

Laena smiles kindly. “Your mother was an Arryn, and through her so are you. The Eyrie is a land of proud people, they will not care if your shared lineage comes from your mother. Already it seems that they will welcome you in their fold anyways, if you prove willing. Accepting your Arryn heritage is the key. After all, my brother and I both are not Targaryens by law, but only through our mother’s lineage. Suggesting we deny half of ourselves because it comes from the wrong parent would mean hell.”

Rhaenyra barks a laugh. “Especially since it’s your mother we’re talking about.”

Laena’s eyes sparkle with amusement, and the atmosphere quickly returns light and relaxed. The bath gives the two girls some much-needed warmth, and the day passes swiftly between arranging the wardrobe and gossiping about whatever.

“It truly is a beautiful piece, my Princess” Elinda gushes, holding up in her hands the cloak made of the white stag’s hide, “And it will surely send an important message to all the fools that still doubt your worth.”

“Indeed. I had hoped to use it at a later date, but with the temperatures as low as they are getting, I might need to use it out of necessity more than political advantage.”

“The weather has turned cold quite abruptly, as you say” Laena muses, “I hope it’s not a sign of trouble to come.”

“Winter always brings trouble, whether it be insufficient resources or illnesses. The true issue for us is ever-present and residing in the Red Keep. Whatever happens, we shall endure it. With both your mother and Ser Harwin helping us we should have enough ears to keep track of the most important things.”

“Ser Harwin? The son of Lord Strong?” Elinda inquires, before hastily ducking her head. A servant is not supposed to ask questions, but neither the Princess nor Lady Laena seem to mind.

“Yes. He has agreed to serve as an informant of sorts. A surprising yet entirely welcome proposition that I quickly accepted.”

“If I may, I could be of service in that aspect as well” Elinda timidly says, wringing her hands nervously.

The Princess straightens up. “Oh? How so?”

“Just before my departure from the palace I came to know that a few maidens I knew in my youth have come into the service of the royal family. They are not yet in the private service of neither the King nor the Queen, but I might be able to convince them to pass me some information under the guise of gossip. It should be innocent enough for them not to suspect anything.”

Rhaenyra thinks about if for a second. It would certainly be useful, but would the information be worth it in case of discovery? Otto is known for his pickiness and there is no doubt he wouldn’t let just anyone near his close family, so there is little to no chance of the servants being close enough to pick up relevant intel. And yet, would it truly hurt to have some more ears around?

“I shall think about it. I’ll consult Princess Rhaenys and let you know, Elinda. Thank you for your suggestion and willingness to help, it is noted and very much appreciated” Rhaenyra says, in the end. The good and bad aspects of this idea weight almost the same in her mind, and counsel from her velma is just what she needs. As such, she will seek it.

“I am glad to be of service, my Princess, however I can.”

Sooner than Rhaenyra expected, there is a knock at the door.

With the way the storm is still beating against the stone of the castle, the Princess finds it difficult to tell the hour, but she supposes they must have some sort of system to keep track of hours beside the sun in the sky, for just when her stomach starts to lament its emptiness there comes a servant, dressed in light grey and blue, announcing the evening’s banquet is soon to commence.

Laena nods and thanks the servant, who promptly leaves. Elinda draws her Princess in front of the mirror to add the finishing touches to the look.

The three of them—having dismissed the other servants that had come to offer their help—have debated for the better part of the afternoon what to wear. Rhaenyra had initially intended to wear a silver dress with purple accents, but Laena was all for a light blue dress to nod to her Arryn heritage.

“This dinner will be attended by loyal bannermen only, as Lady Arryn said” Laena made her point, “It would be a good move on our part to bring to attention your own Arryn blood. It might make them more willing to accept you and welcome you in their fold.”

“I must say, I have just the perfect dress in mind for that, my lady” Elinda had added, before Rhaenyra could point out the unnecessity of the whole debacle. Under the watchful eyes of Princess and lady-in-waiting, a beautiful pale blue dress was revealed.

Now, in front of the mirror, Rhaenyra gently caresses the silver-embroidered silk. She traces with a finger the robins and hawks embroidered on her sleeves and collar. A blue topaz brooch sits pinned right over the fabric over her heart, matching the earrings Laena selected. Simple brown boots adorn the feet of both girls, preferring warmth and comfort over fashion this time.

That said, no one would even dream of describing either of them as plain, or anything short of beautiful. Hair perfectly groomed—Elinda’s hands practiced with both hair textures— and matching jewels make them almost look like a matching set. Laena, clad in a dark blue gown, grabs her cousin’s hand, enjoying the feel of the calluses there. “Are you ready?”

A weary sigh. “As I’ll ever be. I simply hope I’ll be able to maintain my composure when Lady Jeyne will inevitably make a speech about my mother.”

“I am sure all will go well, Your Highness. I shall await your return with a cup of chamomile and a, hopefully, warmer room.” Elinda smiles.

“Many thanks. Now let us go” Rhaenyra says, turning to Laena.

Ser Criston, who has remained steadfast in his watch despite having been reassured of the safety of the place, straightens up at the sight of his charge and shadows her movements as Lady Jeyne’s personal steward, a lanky man with curly blonde hair, escorts them to the main hall of the castle.

The banquet proceeds smoothly, Laena’s idea of wearing blue seemingly paying off if the many appreciative glances thrown her way are any indication. From their places at the high table, the Princess is able to observe the people of her cousin’s court, recognizing their Houses and pleasantly noticing that, whilst some potential suitors are in attendance, not one of them has dared go against their Lady Paramount’s orders and breach the topic of marriage with her.

“Cousin, how do you find the Eyrie?” Lady Jeyne asks, spearing a piece of lamb on her plate.

“Simply beautiful, my lady. The openness of the Vale is truly refreshing, and I cannot help but be glad that, in this place, my mother’s memory has not yet been erased.”

A flash of anger enters Jeyne’s eyes. “The Vale and its people don’t forget their own, my Princess. Queen Aemma was a much beloved queen, mother and relative. Her soul may not walk among the Red Keep anymore, but her presence shall always be remembered here.”

“Your words bring me immense joy, cousin. I can see why my mother oft spoke fondly of the Vale and its people. I have felt nothing but welcome here.”

“As have I, my lady” Laena adds with a smile, “Many have greeted me and thanked me for being a loyal friend and lady to our Princess. Your people have honor, Lady Jeyne.”

“As High as Honor is House Arryn’s motto, and we demand such of our bannermen and women also. You shall find no traitors here, and if you do, trust that they’ll soon pummel to the Seven Hells, where they belong.” Lady Jeyne’s vehemence is fierce.

The discussion drifts off after that, both the Princess and Lady Laena busy with greeting the nobles.

After a while, Rhaenyra feels her dear Laena’s hand grip hers.

“What is it, dearest?” she asks in a whisper.

“Look to your right” is whispered back.

Much to Rhaenyra’s astonishment, when she does as told, she is met by a sight she would have never guessed she would see.

Lady Rhea Royce, dressed in a pale blue gown with nearly unnoticeable bronze jewelry, is discussing something with who appears to be Lord Templeton, one of the fathers of her possible suitor. Her uncle’s wife—technically, her good-aunt—as if feeling the eyes on her, turns to where Laena and Rhaenyra as looking at her.

The girls can see her excusing herself from the conversation before she walks to the high table. Sharing a conspiratory glance, the two steel themselves to meet the famed Bronze Lady—or, as Daemon says, the Bronze Bitch.

The woman, not beautiful by any means but still worthy of notice, bows to the royals and does not waste any time getting down to business.

“Princess Rhaenyra, I am glad to have finally met you. The few times Daemon has stayed at my seat—” none miss the emphasis on the possessive, “—he could do nothing but talk about you. When he wasn’t insulting my entire bloodline and people, that is.”

Her voice is powerful—any woman in power must have such a voice, lest the men surrounding think her prey and not predator—and suddenly the noise in the hall diminishes. Rhaenyra almost laughs, it’s almost comforting to know that the penchant for gossip can be found in every court. She would laugh, if she weren’t so irked by the woman’s words.

Spine straight, she stares at her right in the eyes. “Good-aunt, I am glad you feel so familiarly to me that you think referring to my uncle—a Prince of the Blood, let me remind you in case you have forgotten—in such a way will be permitted, but alas it is not. Husband or not, he deserves the respect his status as Prince affords him. It would do you well to remember that.”

Her cheeks redden, but Lady Royce does not back down. The eyes of the court are on them, and the Princess cannot help but think this moment will either gain her favor or enemies.

“I shall not give my respect to a man who has not earned it, Princess. I have enough self-respect to not let myself be trampled over.”

“And yet your so-called self-respect allows you to disrespect another. You hate so much how my uncle treats you that you feel no remorse at treating him the same way. I am no fool, Lady Rhea” she raises a hand, stalling the woman who was ready to counter her words, “I know perfectly well that some of the most unsavory rumors of my uncle’s exploits are greatly exaggerated by your own bannermen. Whether it be by your order or not, this all ceases now. I am fully aware of the slights my uncle has done against you, but if you truly think lashing out like you have been doing is the right solution to the problem, I fear you have yet much to learn about the games of court.”

Before anyone else can get a word in, Lady Jeyne—who has been content with watching the drama unfold—decides to take over the conversation. “I fear that this is not the right time to discuss such grievances. I suggest that we all meet tomorrow in my solar, so that we may smooth over any disrespect and offence, my Princess.”

Rhaenyra clicks her tongue. “I think not.”

The entire court holds its breath. For a moment, Lady Rhea looks thoroughly terrified, as if it just occurred to her that she has been dealing with dragons, not mere men.

Laena subtly grabs her cousin’s hand from under the table, silently begging her not to fuck things up. But Rhaenyra doesn’t need such reminders. She is no fool, and she is determined to gain the Vale’s favor, and will let nothing stand in her way.

Turning to Lady Jeyne, Rhaenyra speaks with a clear and powerful voice. “I think Lady Rhea and I will benefit greatly from a private encounter. I have heard much of her prowess in the hunt, and I am eager to see her in action. I myself also hunt, and I am certain she shall give me some pointers to better the craft as only a Valewoman such as herself can. Tomorrow, after hearing the petitions, I shall be free to meet her.”

Stunned if not appeased, Lady Rhea bows deeply. “I eagerly await the occasion, Your Highness. Many thanks.”

After that, the mood returns jovial. More people glance at the Princess now, but neither she nor Lady Laena seem to detect any kind of animosity—which is a relief.

The banquet ends on a positive note, after all, and as the nobles retire each to their own rooms, Laena is giddy. “I cannot wait to tell mother of how well you handled Lady Rhea. She’s going to be elated that, for once, your hot-headedness didn’t work against you.”

The princess scoffs playfully, “I know not what you mean, cousin. I am always so level-headed.”

The two girls giggle and Ser Criston, trailing behind them, lets himself smile. There is nothing more satisfying for him than seeing his charge happy.

The following day, morning arrives too soon in Rhaenyra’s opinion. Her head hurts a bit from all the wine consumed, but Elinda swiftly presents her with a remedy that does wonders in turning the Princess from a grumbling mass of cloth and pale skin into a somewhat functional person.

Laena doesn’t seem to share the same grievances with morning as her cousin, so it’s no wonder when she’s already halfway through breaking her fast when Rhaenyra finally lets herself be dragged out of bed.

“Good morn, cousin” she greets jovially. “Today is sure to be a busy day for you. On the schedule we have the meetings with the suitors, and your recent addition of a hunt with Lady Rhea. We are most lucky that the sun has decided to peek through the clouds today.”

“Oh, sweet heavens. Can’t you meet the suitors in my place, dearest?” she jokes.

Laena laughs boisterously. “I am afraid not, mandia, and even if I could I am not sure I would.”

“Traitor.”

Another giggle. “I live to serve you, my dear Rhaenyra.”

Preparations for the day are done swiftly, this time both girls reverting to their House colors in both clothes and jewelry. Modest heels take the place of boots, and earrings and pendants and rings, along with intricate braids, embellish the two girls, marking them as the nobility they are.

“You shall turn many heads today, mandia” compliments Laena.

“Indeed, Your Highness. Many will lose their minds when looking upon your beauty” Elinda adds, smiling shyly.

“Let us just hope they don’t completely lose reason, or I may have to shove some of them down the Moon Door” grumbles Rhaenyra, “I am not too eager to experience the same level of disrespect I encountered with the Mootons.”

As Elinda looks confused, Laena quickly fills her in. at the end of the tale, it’s almost amusing how the slight girl looks almost ready to burst into flames. Her loyalty and devotion to Rhaenyra is well known, and it shows in her anger at her mistress being treated with less respect than she deserves.

Soon enough, the meetings begin. Thankfully, not all of them in one day, and it also seems that only the people scheduled to propose themselves as suitors have done so. A gladdening thing, for Rhaenyra would have been angry at such disrespect coming from her cousin’s subjects.

With Laena a constant, solid presence beside her, the Princess faces the first two suitors with a stiff lip and clear head, knowing that offending any family from the Vale will cause more harm than good. Activities are not so numerous in the Eyrie, so Rhaenyra and her retinue are stuck with strolling around. By the end of the two meetings, her legs hurt. Her only consolation is that, by visiting the Maiden’s Tower, she was able to see Syrax lounging near the castle, on the closest patch of grass available.

Changing into her riding leathers—the closest thing to hunting gear she has available—Rhaenyra makes her way to the godswood of the Eyrie, where Lady Rhea is awaiting her. Having decided that Laena shall remain behind to socialize with the court, the Princess is only accompanied by Ser Criston, who Rhea eyes critically.

Before any protest can be made, Rhaenyra speaks. “My knight shall accompany us. He has accompanied me on my previous hunts before, so you shan’t have to worry about him.”

Rhea grunts. “Very well, then. Princess, if you will follow me.”

Soon enough, after many more flights of stairs, the three of them are atop their respective mounts and riding away in the nearest hunting ground. Unable to keep her away, Rhaenyra simply hopes that Syrax flying and screeching over their heads will not scare away the game.

After a few minutes of silence, Lady Rhea begins to talk. “I apologize for my rudeness yesterday, Your Highness. You have been most gracious towards me and my fellow Valemen and women, so to let out my grievances towards my husband to you was unacceptable. You have my most sincere apologies.”

“I appreciate your apology, good-aunt, but it seems you have yet to realize the real offense.”

A frown mars her face. “Then help me understand, Princess, for it seems I cannot.”

“You think that your mistake was airing out your grievances, as you have called them, to me. In truth, you should not air those grievances at all, my lady.”

The bronze eyes of the lady shimmer with righteous anger. “Then what do you suggest, Your Highness? That I let my husband trample over my character and pride as he sees fit? That I let him insult me and my people, bringing disgrace to not only me but my ancestors as well? He is a man and could have anything he wanted in this Realm and yet he cannot seem to manage the will to distance himself from me. Princess, I have the utmost respect for you, but I will not let a man such as Daemon Targaryen sully me even more than he already has.”

Rhaenyra brings her horse to a halt, as do the other two after noticing her action. She fights to keep the anger out of her eyes, but there is no mistaking the loud roars Syrax releases. “I will say it once and never again, Rhea Royce” she hisses, “Speak another disrespectful word about my uncle and I shall have your tongue, eyes and fingers.”

Another roar seems to drive the point home, because the Bronze Lady suddenly pales, striving to keep her horse’s agitation under control.

Rhaenyra is not done. “If you must, never speak of my uncle at all. I shall deal with his insults against you, for I am fully aware that he has done much to insult you, but remember this: the man you so hate could have done so much worse to you than sullying your name.”

A tinge of courage seems to color the lady’s cheeks. “I genuinely cannot imagine anything worse he could have done. He has done everything in his power to destroy my reputation, Princess.”

The tone of her voice is flat, factual, and as such, Rhaenyra takes no offense. Her voice is equally moderate as she answers. “Lesser men would have taken you against your will. I know that, for many women in history have suffered the same fate.”

Rhea pales even further, looking on the verge of vomiting as she answers. “The fact that he has not raped me does not make him a good man.”

“I agree with you. It doesn’t make him a good man. ‘Tis the bare minimum, the barest of decency and respect that every man should owe a woman. And yet, it doesn’t make him the monstrous devil you seem to see him as.”

They remain in silence, letting the sound of Syrax’s cries wash over them and the feel of the cold breeze sneaking under the many garments protecting them from the harsh wind.

After a while, Rhaenyra guides her horse to a walk, as do the others. Even more time passes when Rhea finally speaks again. “Yet we are still shackled.”

The Princess sighs. “Indeed, you are, though not because of my uncle. Since the day you married, I’ve been told he has fought for an annulment, and he has not stopped. Due to Ser Otto’s manipulations, my father believes that time will make the two of you finally accept the fact that you are married and produce heirs. Or rather, it’ll make Daemon accept it. You rarely come up in these discussions.” She adds, as a devious plan takes form in her mind.

Rhea is disgruntled. “I am, much as I hate it, his wife. I am one half of the marriage. Should I not be considered in regards to an annulment?”

“Indeed, and that is why I insisted on meeting far away from court. I wanted to discuss with you my plan.” A complete lie, for Rhaenyra’s plan is only a few minutes old. But Rhea doesn’t need to know that.

Her interest seems piqued. “What plan, my Princess?”

Rhaenyra sees her eyes dart towards Ser Criston, and she rushes to reassure her. “Ser Criston has my utmost confidence. He shall keep any secret we spill here safe, I guarantee it.”

More relaxed, Rhea gestures for the Princess to continue.

“I fear that the King’s reticence with granting you the annulment comes not only from Otto’s influence, but also from his belief that you do not mind the match.”

Rhea seems disgusted at that—at the thought of the King being so gullible or the idea of actually liking the marriage, Rhaenyra doesn’t know—and snaps, “Then what am I to do? Am I to suffer in these chains forever?”

“Not at all, my dear lady” she smirks, “For I have a plan, as I said. By the time I will leave the Eyrie, I ask that you let me have as much written proof of your desire to be freed from the marriage. My father is well aware of Daemon’s desires, so he shan’t be involved. Write one, five, ten pages of parchment with as much evidence you desire—remember not to insult,” she chastises the woman, “for it would do us no good. I shall keep them with me until my return. I shall send a raven to Runestone to summon you to King’s Landing, while simultaneously introducing to my father the idea that you, too, want an annulment. I shall show him the proof of your desires and, regardless of his approval or not, he won’t turn you away as I will tell him I’ll have already sent for you.”

Rhaenyra settles back onto her mount, having leant forward in her haste to get the words out.

Rhea seems… almost optimistic. “That is indeed a sound plan my Princess.”

“Then so we shall do. Prepare as much as you can, and I swear to you I’ll do everything in my power to help you.”

In the eve, after having taken a long bath to relax her muscles, Laena and Rhaenyra share their thoughts. When the Princess tells her of her brilliant idea, she laughs. “You have become even more devious, mandia.”

Still, both girls decide to ask for counsel regarding the matter in the raven to Rhaenys, in the raven they have promised to send at the end of every stay.

As such, after several days of politicking, strolls through gardens, hunts and hawking trips, a raven flies from the Eyrie to Driftmark. It bears an exciting plan and no news about possible consorts.

Despite being saddened that they have to go, Laena and Rhaenyra, bearing three pages of parchment written in the hand of the Lady of Runestone, are airborne once more. The winds are beating at their faces, but both girls are very excited to see the famed White Harbor.

However, Syrax’s wings are not the only ones being boosted by the wind. For, much later thank expected, a raven flies all the way to the rookery of the Eyrie, bearing orders that would no longer be carried out. The storm slowed the carrier, but its brothers would no doubt reach every keep in time.

And what a surprise that is going to be.

Chapter Text

Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Laena have just departed when the maester interrupts the Lady Paramount.

“My liege, a raven has just arrived from the capital, marked of the utmost urgency.”

Jeyne tsks, “It must have been slowed down by the storms of the past days. It has rained more than usual for the season. Have it forwarded to the Princess, at White Harbor.”

“Whilst I agree with your hypothesis, my lady, this raven is for you, not the Princess Rhaenyra.”

Confused and curious, for the capital hasn’t deigned to write to the Lady of the Vale since Aemma was Queen. Even more interestingly, as Jeyne discovers when she opens the small scroll, it seems that, just as much as the last letter was from a Queen, this missive, too, seems to from the current Queen.

Hiding her distaste, she thanks the maester and retreats in her rooms. She orders a bath to be drawn and then dismisses her maids. She is sure her Jessamyn will soon come, but in the meantime she is decided to get this out of the way of more interesting pastimes.

The message is not signed, but she recognizes Alicent’s penmanship from the pitiful message the bride-to-be had written to her, thanking her for the Vale’s presence at her wedding—and what a sham that event was, how rushed and utterly disrespectful.

The words are few, but they do not lack the venom and scheming nature Jeyne has come to associate with the Hightowers.

Lady Jeyne, I wish for my dear stepdaughter to have as many suitors fighting for her hand as possible. She only deserves the best. I ask you to allow all men, regardless of age or social status, to pay their respects to the Princess. This will show her how appreciated she is.

So focused is she on the words, that she misses the entrance of her beloved, causing her to flinch when gentle hands place themselves on her shoulders.

“My love, what has you so deep in your mind?” Jessamyn asks, kissing her lover’s temple.

Jeyne shows her the message, for there are no secrets in her relationship. She thanks the servants as they inform her the bath is ready, before dismissing them once again. She shall undress herself or, should she suddenly become uncapable of doing so, her Jessamyn is sure to be more than willing to help.

“This is peculiar. The Princess has made no mention of this, has she?”

Jeyne shakes her head, “On the contrary. While you were entertaining Lady Laena, her Highness indulged mine and Rhea’s curiosity about this tour, and she specifically said that only the best of the eligible men has been selected and approved to pay respects and court her.”

“Who selected them? Alicent?”

Chuckling at the blatant lack of respect for the queen, she answers in the negative. “No. they were chosen by Rhaenyra herself, along with some trusted advisors—so she said when we asked.”

Jeyne begins undressing, removing the many layers required to not freeze in the weather of the Eyrie, and Jessamyn does the same, the message safe on a table away from the bathwater.

“I must say, this does not seem like a kindness on the Queen’s behalf” says the redhead.

“I agree. And it’s not solely because I think those Hightower cunts completely incapable of humane emotions.”

“Hatred and envy are emotions typical of a human, and I fear this is what this request is born from.”

Jeyne frowns. “Why do you say so? It could be simple pettiness. A woman-child’s attempt at belittling the Princess.”

“Woman-child she may be, but she is Queen. We are loyal to Princess Rhaenyra, and close enough to her to be allowed to know things that most don’t, but other Houses might not hesitate to obey the orders of the King’s wife.”

Jeyne grunts as she lowers herself in the warm water. “My cousin is more than capable of handling anything the bitch throws at her. You have seen how she handled Rhea.”

A burst of pride surges in Jeyne as she thinks back to the way her bannerwoman had so callously and disrespectfully talked to the Princess.

“Do not frown, my love. It’s not a good look for you.” Jessamyn jokes, getting into the bath and nestling in the arms of her lover.

Picking up a rag to clean themselves with, Jeyne kisses her cheek. “I am not frowning.”

“Sure you aren’t. And, frankly, I don’t blame you. Rhea behaved quite abysmally in the presence of the Princess.”

“We are lucky Rhaenyra took no offence, or else the eve would have ended much differently than how it did. And the entire visit, for that matter.”

“Her Highness was merciful and understanding, indeed, but from what I’ve heard it was not an entirely selfless act.”

“And what have you heard, my love?”

Jessamyn hums, before turning into her arms and straddling her lover’s legs. Fighting not to get distracted by the lovely view of her bare chest, Jeyne focuses on her words.

“It seems that Rhea and the Princess are working together to convince the King to grant Rhea and Daemon the annulment they have so long coveted.”

The Lady Paramount hums. “Not entirely what I expected, but I can’t say I’m surprised by this. The Princess is not a fool, and she knows that by giving them their annulment she’ll have their loyalty forevermore. She already has the loyalty of the Vale secured by blood, but this would also show my people that she cares about their desires.”

“It would also leave Prince Daemon pleased and, more importantly, once again open for marriage.”

Jeyne jerks upright, splashing water out of the tub. “My cousin would not be so stupid as to attempt to bind herself to that horrid specimen of a man through marriage.”

“Yet you saw how she defended him against Rhea’s accusations. They are Targaryens, my love, they think, act and love differently than any other. Regardless,” she tries to soothe her lover with gentle caresses, “I did not say they’d try to marry each other. I am not certain the King would agree to it. He did name Princess Rhaenyra his heir to keep his brother away from the throne, didn’t he?”

“My spies at the Keep told me he did so under Otto’s influence, but the sentiment is shared between the two, I presume.”

“There you go, then. Regardless, Daemon’s loyalty resides deeply with the Princess. This, even a fool could tell you. Her Highness may choose to free him from one marriage just to attract more plausible allies with the promise of a Prince’s hand.”

Jeyne snorts. “And you genuinely think he’d agree to be shackled to somebody else after just getting freed from Rhea?”

“I am of the opinion that whatever the Princess wants, she gets, if it’s up to Prince Daemon. Word of how he spoils her has reached every corner of the realm. You yourself know this.”

“Whatever you say, my love. I still have my doubts, but I trust your judgment and the intelligence of the Princess.”

“She has behaved admirably. The, dare I say, friendship that has bloomed between her and Rhea is most unexpected, but welcome.”

“Indeed. I believe even the court was surprised when they saw the way the two interacted. A few of them must have been expecting there to be bad blood between them.”

“Yet the Princess surpassed all expectations. It wasn’t long ago that rumors of the Princess’ capriciousness spread through the realm and now she acts like a seasoned politician. Such a change doesn’t occur naturally. Our own eyes tell us that she has Lady Laena by her side, but what if she is being tutored by Princess Rhaenys herself?”

“You think so? I must admit, the possibility never crossed my mind. One could easily attribute this growth to her new position as heir.” Jeyne points out, gently washing the soap off her lover’s hair. “Our dear Princess has spent the entirety of her life being considered either a potential bride for a hypothetic brother or as a spare. Some still think of her as a spare. Maybe she is simply adapting to her new situation.”

Jessamys giggles. “Oh, my love. Sometimes I am astounded by your wit and intelligence, other times you shock me with your blindness.”

The woman in question looks quite baffled. “Why do you say so? What have I done now?”

Raising from the now lukewarm water, Jessamyn pats her body down with a soft towel. Usually, that is a task for the maids, but both her and Jeyne have decided to transform these baths into a ritual shared by them alone. Not out of distrust of the maids and servants of the castle, but out of desire of privacy and intimacy.

Putting on a white nightgown trimmed with dark blue lace, a color than nicely compliments her red hair, she helps her lady to dry and get herself ready for bed.

“You fail to see that, for the very reasons you cited before, Princess Rhaenyra has had no reason at all to learn how to politick. And, as admirable as she is, I doubt anyone could spontaneously become so adept at such an art is such little time. At least, not without guidance. A steering hand that, most likely, is Princess Rhaenys’.”

The two women make their way to their shared bedroom, Jeyne briefly sticking her head out the doors to her quarters to instruct the servants to take away the tub. Drawing the billowing canopy close around their bed, the lovers shuffle under the covers.

“If what you say is true, then our Princess is in very good hands. I’m sure she’ll gain more allies and goodwill on this tour, and with the might of the Velaryons and the Vale behind her, any resistance to her rule shall be vanquished. The North and Prince Daemon, as well, are bound to throw their support to her cause.”

“I agree.” Jessamyn kisses her lover, languidly enjoying the taste of her lips, before drawing back. “That said, what are you planning on doing about the raven you received?”

“I am unsure if I simply should claim to have never received it—after all, these types of storms are known for their violence and it would not be so far fetched to believe a raven to have gotten lost—or to answer and tell the simple truth, that we didn’t receive it until the Princess was gone.”

“Perhaps the second option would be the wisest of the two. The relationship between the Vale and the royal family are already strained, apart from the one with the Princess, and it would do us no good to ignore something like this. However…”

Jessamyn lets the words hang in the night chill, a cunning smirk lighting up her face, the rain still beating on the castle providing background noise. Jeyne can almost feel the mischievousness surrounding her lover.

“And what has my darling planned in that pretty head of hers?” she asks playfully.

“Mayhap a direct raven to the King is necessary. After all, this is his heir the Queen Consort is supposedly meddling with. And I would also suggest letting Princess Rhaenyra herself know. It would do her good to be prepared for the event that this raven has been sent to other houses.”

Jeyne hums. “I must say, my dear, I love your deviousness. But should we not also let Princess Rhaenys know? The King is a spineless fool, after all, he may not even do anything to keep Aemma’s replacement in check.”

Jessamyn scoots closer, nestling in her lover’s arms. “Then let us do this. We write to Princess Rhaenyra first, informing her of our suspects and asking her for guidance with our answer. It would do us no good to accidentally worsen her position, and that is not even considering the fact that we might be wrong about House Velaryon’s involvement. Do you not agree?”

“The only thing I feel at the moment is tiredness and the delightful body of my beloved in my arms. Your opinions have value, my dear, but in the dark of the night little can be done. The storms are raging still. Whatever we decide, there is still time to do so. Let us sleep, then we shall see what tomorrow brings.”

A breathy laugh. “As you say, my love. As long as you dream of my I shall allow the night to pass with no disturbance.”

The two women laugh, and then let the cover of the night sweep them in a land of dreams and contentedness.

Chapter Text

White Harbor is a busy, vibrant city.

Something, admittedly, that is to be expected considering it’s the major port of the seas of the North. Still, Rhaenyra is mildly surprised by the level of activity in the streets she can see from the window of her rooms. The city is very well organized, with ample streets filled with people, sailors and merchants. Despite everything, the smell is not nearly as bad as the one in King’s Landing.

She mentions as much to Laena, who is busy lacing her up into a gown fit for a princess, and she laughs. “Very few places smell as bad as the capital. I am almost certain that, were we to venture to the docks, the smell would undeniably worsen. Sailors are not known for their hygiene after all.”

“Don’t let your father hear you, cousin.”

“He can hear me all he likes. He would agree, and you would, too, had you been anywhere near my father when he returns after one of his voyages.” Laena shudders dramatically, making Rhaenyra laugh.

“If it’s as bad as you say, I shall take your word for it.”

As both girls begin readying themselves for the welcome celebrations Lord Manderly has in store for them, a storm looks to be brewing in the horizon.

Feeling her Syrax’s displeasure at the cold temperatures, Rhaenyra tries to distract herself. “What do you think about the Manderlys?”

“They are the most southern of the northerners. Father has had trade with them, and he never had any problems. I would say they have the honor of the North, but that will have to be seen.”

“They worship the Seven but allow the worship of the Old Gods freely. I consider this a point in their favor.”

“Such permissiveness is surprising considering the fact that the entire place is fashioned after the palaces and residences of the Reach.”

The girls look around, recognizing shapes and geometries that would not normally be found in the North. Whilst pleasant to the eye, Rhaenyra cannot help but not appreciate them. The Reach is a beautiful place, no doubt, but the many snakes in human’s skin that populate it make it a viper’s nest more than a solace for her.

“I doubt many in the Reach have so many shields and swords mounted on their walls” the Princess’ maid, Milla, jokes.

A laugh. “I do so, as well. I know that House Royce of Runestone is said to have many armors of bronze exposed for all to see” says Lady Laena.

“Yes, Lady Rhea told me a little bit about her seat. She is very proud of her lineage.”

As the three women continue with their conversation, they can hear the bustling of servants going to and fro the corridors, preparing for the feast—or trying to close as many windows as possible before the storm hits New Castle.

Rhaenyra dons a dress of dark red, high-necked and long-sleeved, with a finely woven silver wool kirtle that barely peeks through carefully placed slits in the purple fabric. Delicate stockings and fur-lined slippers adorn her feet, while matching diamond rings and earrings adorn her hands and ears. Milla drapes a silver shawl over her shoulders—the Princess does look more matronly that she’d like, but they hadn’t expected this much of a drop in temperatures, so they must do what they can.

Laena follows Rhaenyra’s example, layering up with heavy fabrics in the shades of teal and black.

Both girls choose to keep their hair down, providing added coverage to their cold skin, using oils and headbands to elevate the look. After all, it would not do to go around with their hair down and not accessorized, as if they were going to bed.

Lady Laena is debating whether to add a bracelet to her own outfit when Ser Glendon, the Kingsguard tasked with Her Highness’ safety, lets them know that the lords and ladies of the castle are ready for them.

“Fuck it, I’m adding it” Laena mutters, earning a scandalized look from Milla and a giggle from Rhaenyra.

“Please, have some warm tea ready for us when we come back, Milla” she orders as Laena grabs her hand and guides her out.

Indeed, much of the walls are covered in shields, swords and old, faded banners, interspersed with statues of sea creatures and House Manderly’s banner. As they reach the Merman’s Court, where the feast is set to happen, they see the two massive marble statues of mermen standing outside the great wooden doors of the hall.

Ignoring Laena’s mutter about how Hightide has more beautiful statues, Rhaenyra nods for Ser Glendon to announce them.

“Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and Heir to the Iron Throne, and Lady Laena of House Velaryon.”

As the entire hall stands up to welcome them, the Princess is pleased to see that many, while still wearing their own colors, have hints of Targaryen red on their person. A necklace of ruby, a ring, the embroidery on a shawl, the underskirts of a dress, …

A decidedly different welcome than what she received from the Mootons and their court.

Lord Desmond Manderly is a heavy-set man, with wide shoulders and a bushy brown beard, but none cloud deny the shrewdness in his green eyes as he welcomes the Princess into his abode. “A most warm welcome, my Princess, to White Harbor. We are honored to be able to host Targaryen royalty once again. It has been a long time since your own great grandmother, the Good Queen Alysanne, has graced these halls with her presence, but we hope that you’ll enjoy your permanence as much as she has if not even more.”

“I thank you for the hospitality of your House, and for hosting me, Lady Laena and my dragon on your lands. I am sure we shall thoroughly enjoy our stay” says Rhaenyra, repeating the polite, diplomatic phrases that have been ingrained in her mind through countless hours of etiquette lessons.

“And after your kind words” says Lord Manderly, “I think it is safe to say that the feast can commence!”

To the cheers of the many men and women in the hall—a great thing made of wooden planks decorated with all the creatures of the sea—several dishes of fish and seafood are served. Red cabbage, potatoes and peas make up the majority of the vegetable dishes, and a few plates of spiced lentils add color to the table.

Lady Selina Manderly, a waif-like thing with wispy blonde hair and soulful brown eyes and a belly just barely beginning to show, peeks over the mountain that is her husband to speak to the Princess, seated on his other side. “Apologizes, Your Highness, for I’m sure this is not the pomp you’ve grown up with and are accustomed to, but the recent storms have done some damage to the city and some water has even leaked through the oldest parts of our storages, damaging some of our stock.”

“With winter coming closer and closer, we must save up as much as we can” continues Lord Manderly, “The cold here is not as bad as in the truer North, but our people will suffer the cold all the same.”

“I am glad that our people have such thoughtful overlords to take care of them,” smiles Rhaenyra, “I absolutely do not begrudge you the choice. I shall live happily and hale even if I do not feast as I would normally, on the contrary your people will appreciate even just one more loaf of bread at their disposal.”

“I am glad to hear you understand, my Princess, and that you have not taken offence.”

“Absolutely none taken, Lady Manderly. And, before I forget, let me congratulate you on your pregnancy.”

The lady blushes bright red. “Thank you, Your Highness. I am in the fifth moon now, the babe has just begun to quicken.”

“Is it your first babe?” asks Laena, after gulping down some peas with the wine provided.

“My second, my lady. I have already given birth to our daughter nearly a year ago. My husband has provided me with plenty of midwives, along with our maester, to ease my worries.”

“Why are you worried? Are you in poor health, my lady?” Laena inquires.

“As you can see, my Princess, my body is not the most robust. My last pregnancy took a lot from me, I had to be confined to my bed for two entire moons before being deemed fit for public sight and childbed fever wreaked my body for two days after the labor. This time, I am taking all the necessary precautions to ensure my health as well as that of my babe.”

Rhaenyra is not one to shy away from any topic of conversation, but she has to admit that birth is not something that she particularly enjoys talking about. Thankfully, Lord Manderly is clever enough to discern her mood and successfully steers the conversation away from the topic.

The eve passes swiftly and merrily. Rhaenyra dances with many lords and sers, both those that will vie for her hand and those that simply wish to be in her presence. She is pleased to find that, while this place and the House in command are from the Reach, the people are as noble as those in the North.

After agreeing to a calm afternoon with the ladies of the keep, the day after, Rhaenyra and Laena bid adieu to those still in the hall and go rest.

“My Princess, your beauty is not exaggerated at all in the songs. You are truly the Realm’s Delight. And from what I have seen so far, your mind is sharp as well. Good qualities for a future monarch” Lady Delilah Locke says, sipping on her tea.

“I thank you, my lady. Your kindness is appreciated.”

Rhaenyra delicately pats her stomach, filled with warm peppermint tea and caramelized apple slices. The treat is not one she’d expect served to a lady’s court, but she has found she doesn’t mind the taste—and with the way Lady Manderly is feasting on them, she thinks the choice might be not entirely hers but rather the babe in her womb’s.

Clad in a grey gown with golden and red embroidery, the Princess sits in Lady Manderly’s settee, where six other ladies, not counting Laena, keep them company. She’s not been here long, but the conversation has already been vastly different from what she’s used to at the capital.

“How do things fare in the rest of the kingdom, Your Highness?” asks Lady Reed, a short woman with black hair and even blacker eyes.

“I have found that what of our kingdom I have visited is faring well. Lady Laena and I have been most lucky to be able to escape the storms that have been chasing us since our departure.”

Laena nods eagerly. “Gods, I swear I almost thought we’d get drenched on our way here. The clouds looked darker by the second.”

“I admit” begins Lady Sunderland, a girl of no more than eighteen summers, “I had expected the warmth to last a couple moons longer. The cold is arriving much sooner than expected.”

“Indeed. And with our granaries damaged by the heavy storms I fear that the smallfolk will suffer even more than they do each winter. Even with the night homes and the orphanages I’ve had built over the last few years, poverty never seems to end” despairs Lady Manderly.

Rhaenyra is intrigued by “Night homes?”

“Yes, Your Highness. It’s a project I began implementing soon after my marriage to my husband. They are lodgings funded entirely by our House, where the poorest can rest for the night and eat supper. With the way our port has been expanding, it happens that the most desperate sell their homes to richer folks that desire to create a tavern, or a hostel, or even the occasional brothel.”

Some ladies titter at her blunt wording, but the lady is not deterred. She truly looks proud and eager to talk of her project. “Many of those who frequent the night houses have a source of income, yet not enough to pay for lodgings of their own. This way, they have a safe place to spend the night, and those that don’t have jobs often find it by meeting the right people there.”

“An intelligent way to keep the people off the streets and promote work, but why not simply build more houses?” inquires Rhaenyra, taking a sip from her cup. The warmth of the tea helps ward off the ever-growing cold. She dares not imagine how terrible it’ll be in the true North.

“Our ports are ever expanding, my Princess. My lord husband wants all resources to go to the building of more docks and ships. Besides, who is to say the same thing shan’t happen to the newly built houses. They could be bought out again and again, resulting in the same outcome each time.”

Lady Sunderland nods, “Yours is a fine idea, Lady Manderly. In our lands, we, too, struggle with poverty. The war in the Stepstones is beggaring nearly every shipping lane in the eastern shores of the kingdom. I shall see this fine idea of yours brought to my lord husband’s attention. I am sure he’ll see the intelligence in your plan.”

The ladies spend a bit more talking about various topics—from the way the cold and recent storms have been beggaring the already poor, to teas and herbal medicine, passing through tastes in fish and cheeses—before Lady Manderly calls the ladies’ court off, citing the need to rest.

“The maesters have urged me to rest aplenty. It will be good for the babe.”

“I believe” begins Rhaenyra, gathering her skirts and standing up, “the lady Laena and I shall also retire. It’s been a pleasure spending this time with you, my ladies.”

“The honor and pleasure is ours, Your Highness” bow the Ladies Locke and Reed.

“If you are amenable, my Princess, I shall send to your rooms our servants. Recently, a ship from Essos brought in a new practice that I’ve come to enjoy. Your feet will rejoice after the treatment” exclaims Lady Manderly.

“Our feet?” blurts out Laena.

“Oh, yes, my lady. Fear not, for it is a procedure done to relax the appendages. I would not steer you into treacherous hands.”

“Very well,” interjects Rhaenyra, before Laena can ask any more questions. “We shall trust you. Hopefully this treatment shall put us into a good mood, for this eve I shall entertain the first of the petitioners for my hand. I believe that this eve it should be your son, Lady Reed.”

The woman smiles. “Indeed, Your Highness. My son is most eager to be in your presence. I trust he shall uphold our House’s dignity.”

“I have no doubt of this, my lady. I bid you all aideu.”

“This is truly phenomenal” moans Laena, wiggling her toes in the servant’s hands.

“Indeed” agrees Rhaenyra. “I wouldn’t have expected this pedicure thing to be so relaxing.”

After softening their feet’s skin with perfumed water, the two servants of clear Essosi descent began shaving off skin from their soles and toes. Rhaenyra had protested at the action only for them to explain that it was dead skin, and therefore would not hurt the foot. On the contrary, sometimes the accumulation of dead skin could create painful callouses. Like the ones on warriors’ hands—or the small ones Rhaenyra has from riding Syrax. This pedicure could remove them or even prevent them.

Now, the two women are massaging the ladies’ feet with oils and wrapping them in linens, leaving instructions with Milla to remove them in a couple of hours. Just in time for her eve with Ser Howland Reed.

As the Essosi women leave them in Milla’s hands, Rhaenyra sighs. Today, House Reed, tomorrow Roderik Hornwood and two days after that it would be time for Dustin Locke. She shakes her head, trying to maintain the relaxed atmosphere.

Thoughts of marriage and suitors leave her be, for now, but another matter takes up her brain.

“What has you so pensive, cousin?” nudges Laena, drawing her out of her own thoughts.

“I was just thinking about Lady Manderly’s idea. I did not lie when I said that it is a sound one. Perhaps we could implement it in King’s Landing, or even just at Dragonstone to begin with.”

Laena hums. “It would do good to your image, for sure. Such a project is costly, though. We must plan this carefully.”

“Of course. I shall bide my time. Winter is harsh, but not as harsh as here in the north. Mayhap I might begin proving my goodwill to the smallfolk by reviving some of Alysanne’s projects, or even my mother’s.”

“A fine idea, cousin. Provided, of course, that Lord Beesbury doesn’t keel over at the cost.”

The two girls laugh at the image. Lord Beesbury is ever so strict with the Crown’s money, and with good reason. If left to his own devices, her father would throw so many feast that, no matter how much gold King Jaehaerys amassed, the Realm would be on its way to be beggared.

“I shall write to velma about our ideas, cousin. She’ll surely be able to steer us in the right direction.”

“A fine idea, Princess. I will also write something to her, but  Now, let us relax before going to bed. The servants should arrive soon with a light supper, then we shall retire for the night.”

“As you say, Laena. Say, are you sure you’re not the royal out of the two of us? Surely, how you order me around is not fit for anything but a Princess” she jokes, prompting a laugh out of the younger girl.

“Silly, Nyra. There is no need for me to be a Princess to order you around. After all,” she smirks, “I was raised by Princess Rhaenys herself, and who better than my mother to teach me how to order people around.”

“My Princess, I apologize for the late hour, but my lord has ordered me to pass on this raven to your hands and your hands only. ‘Twas addressed to him, but he wishes for you to read it also.” The maester, a short bald man with grey eyes and many wrinkles, bows before leaving, leaving in the hands of a bleary-eyed Princess a scroll bearing the broken seal that indicates it’s from King’s Landing.

Laena, still in bed, pokes her head out from the pile of furs she’s surrounded by. Her cousin is facing the fireplace, the just rekindled fire making her silver hair seem almost bright gold. But that’s not the thing that catches her attention. Her cousin is shaking.

“What is it Rhaenyra?”

Dear muña,

I am having a grand time during this tour. Rhaenyra not so much. She doesn’t enjoy being subjected to the bother that is her suitors’ posturing. But I have paid attention, as you’ve said, and I’ve noticed that she’s becoming smarter in how she acts. I am sure you’ll be surprised by what we’ve written in our journal. We’ve not only included our observations on the Princess’ suitors, but also some ideas that I’m sure the Princess will tell you all about.

However, that’s not what is occupying my mind right now. We’ve received a most worrying message from King’s Landing. Actually, ‘twas Lord Manderly that received it and he was most kind and loyal in showing it to us.

Please, bestow upon the Princess your wisdom, for I’m afraid she’s going to need it.

Send love to Father and Laenor, and the Prince.

Much love to you, also,

Your daughter, Laena

Rhaenys,

The search for a consort has not yet yielded a clear result, but it’s too soon to say yet.

The Queen is not helping either. I send along our missives a raven penned by the Queen’s hand, sent to Lord Manderly, that he was kind enough to show to me. He is a most loyal man, I’m sure his oaths shall hold in the face of danger and opposition.

I have no idea what Alicent’s playing at, but I beg of you to be our eyes and ears in the Keep. I shall also send a message to Ser Harwin Strong to scour the waters in the capital and tell us of anything he sees. One thing is for certain, the Queen is overreaching.

Please, velma, help me.

We still have some days before we have to leave for Winterfell, so if you have any news, send them with the utmost haste to White Harbor.

On a happier note, I have sent some gifts for yourself and my father and brother. I am hopeful you shall enjoy them.

Send my happiest regards to our family in the Stepstones and tell them to write more often.

Much love,

Princess Rhaenyra

Lord Manderly, it is my most ardent desire that my stepdaughter be courted by all men available. She is the Realm’s Delight and would surely enjoy the attention, and how desired she must feel. She’ll surely entertain all men as only she can do. My regards, Queen Alicent Hightower.

Ser Harwin, I send you this raven in the hopes that it shall reach you sooner than any other means of communication. Pardon my bluntness, but I need your help. Inquire to your lord father about anything regarding my betrothal. It seems the Queen Consort is plotting something. We’ve still some day before our departure but have anything sent to Winterfell, along with a copy to Princess Rhaenys. Many thanks, Princess Rhaenyra. Lady Laena sends her regards.

“My Princess,” Lord Manderly bows to her, eyeing the many ravens and missives in her hands.

“Apologies for cornering you in such a way in the rookery, but I wished to have this conversation as soon as possible, and with as little eyes on us as possible. I’m sorry if you feel like I overstepped.”

Night still draping a heavy cloak on the Harbor, the shadows make the Lord look even bigger than usual.

Rhaenyra looks at him with tired eyes, her fingers still stained with the ink from the letters. “You did me no offence, my Lord. On the contrary, you demonstrated great loyalty when you passed on the Queen’s message.”

“My lineage may originate in the Reach, but the honor of the North is strong in us, Princess. Our loyalty is to you, Your Highness. Any child I’ll rear will also be loyal to the King’s named heir.”

“Many thanks, my lord. How may I reward such loyalty?”

“There is no need for a reward, for our oaths are not given to gain wealth or privileges. Although, if I may be so bold,” he seems to hesitate for a second, before a nod from Rhaenyra gives him the leave to continue.

“My House and I would be honored to have our children bond with yours. Not necessarily through marriage” he hastens to add, when he sees the Princess’ frown, “But my daughter could possibly become your lady once she comes of age, or even the lady of any daughter you might be lucky to have. My sons could squire for your husband and mayhap gain a place in your household guard.”

Rhaenyra does not have a household guard, but maybe she should. She files away that information to later reconsider it, focusing on the conversation once more.

“I shall consider it, my lord. In the meantime, know that I value your loyalty greatly. I already knew you were an honorable man from what Lord Corlys told my Lady Laena, that she in turn told me, but it gladdens my heart to see proof of such claims.”

The man bows deeply then, with a whispered goodbye, leaves the rookery so that Rhaenyra may safely see all her messages be delivered, an acolyte helping her.

Rhaenyra returns to her rooms, and finds Laena still awake and pondering over what they’ve discovered.

“What could the Queen hope to accomplish through this?” she muses.

“I know not, my dear. I have long since stopped trying to understand that wretched woman, for it would also mean trying to understand Ser Otto’s mind.”

“That’s what is puzzling. Otto has always been covert in his attempts to sow discord. My father has oft come back from a council’s meeting with complaints about the man—”

“Yet this is not subtle at all” Rhaenyra finishes her thought, catching where Laena is going.

“This might be Alicent’s idea alone” the Princess muses.

“Maybe. Do you think she’s sent similar ravens to all Houses we’re set to visit?”

“It would explain why in Maidenpool there were so many knights clamoring for my hand even though they weren’t supposed to be there at all.”

“Yet, in the Eyrie we didn’t face such disrespect. Lady Jeyne didn’t mention anything.”

“Maybe Alicent was smart enough to not send anything to House Arryn. The Gods know of the bad blood between the Hightowers and the Arryns, it would not be surprising if she realized it would be a lost cause from the start. And even if she did write to my cousin, the castle was besieged by storms for the majority of our stay there. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to think that the raven simply did not manage to arrive in time, or got lost altogether.”

“Maybe you are right, cousin. Now, let us rest, for tomorrow we’ll have much to do. It would do us no good if we were to be not at our best.”

“As you say, Laena.”

The following nights and days pass with little in terms of news. While no storms plague the Harbor any longer, rain beats upon the keep, forcing every activity to be indoors. Rhaenyra spends half of her time with her suitors, and half with Laena and the other ladies of the court.

After the show of loyalty done by Lord Manderly, Rhaenyra feels decidedly less like she’s on the verge of making an enemy out of the House. This tour might be for finding a husband, but she’s under no illusion that the lords and ladies of the Realm won’t take this opportunity to gauge her character.

She has no intention of failing this task.

Her other task, however—that of finding a suitable consort—she’s not so sure about.

As the Princess, lets the maids and servants pack up her things for their departure, she thinks back on her suitors.

Ryam Reed, a short lad one year younger than her with striking green eyes, was pleasant company enough. He has a deep scar going from his right ear to his collarbone, acquired when he along with his father, Lord Serran Reed, joined a Stark party to fight back wilding incursions. His House is loyal, steadfast, and while it’s not the wealthiest, they breed strong warriors. Rhaenyra appreciated his honesty when describing both his faults and merits.

Roderik Hornwood must be a shocking sight for anyone, for his hair bears more resemblance to a Lannister’s than anyone’s in the North. The shining gold of his mane is rare for the people in this corner of the Kingdom, but the rest of him is undeniably northerner. Dark eyes, pale skin, strong build. As they chatted above a cup of tea for her and ale for him, he told her of his family: three siblings, two brothers and a sister, and a mother dead in childbirth. No uncles, no cousins except for a Snow. His views on bastardy are more like those of Dorne, yet the truly surprising thing is how he reassured her. Having heard of the reason why Queen Aemma had died, he sought to reassure her that he’d never force her to bear any heirs beyond what is necessary.

Whilst Rhaenyra finds talking about children before even agreeing to marrying someone a bit… distasteful, she is mostly pleased by his words. Mostly, because there is always that voice in her head that tells her that no man can be trusted, that they’ll butcher her for a child regardless of her desires, that he is lying because after all what is strictly necessary? One, two children? Six, seven? Who knows with men.

Ser Dustin Locke has clear blue eyes, yet their beauty cannot make up for his boorishness. He spent the entire time of their meeting talking about how he was knighted at the end of a glorious tourney in honor of his younger brother. After having heard the stories of the men of Houses Reed and Hornwood, Ser Dustin sounds like a child playing war.

“Your Highness, two ravens have arrived for you. Where should I put them?”

“Thank you, Milla. Give them to me, I shall read them now.”

Laena, who has just finished putting away all her jewelry, comes to sit on the settee beside Rhaenyra. The both of them are already clad into their flying leathers, several additional layers added under them to protect them from the biting cold and harsh winds. The keep’s maester has also prepared a cream made with honey and lard, following the recipe passed down from one dragonrider to another. Whilst the smell of the cosmetic is not the best, it will do wonders in protecting the skin from the weather. Besides, the smell will go away during the flight. Another added protection will be the woolen scarves they’ll wrap wound their neck, lower face and ears.

“Who wrote us? Is it Harwin or mother?” she asks, laying her head on Rhaenyra’s shoulder.

“Your mother and a missive from the King” she murmurs in answer, giving Rhaenys’ letter to Laena and immediately opening that of the King. She breaks the black seal, the three-headed dragon impressed in the wax, and unrolls the paper.

Her eyes scan over the contents, her heart both rejoicing and plummeting to the ground at the same time. She’s so engrossed in what she’s reading that she barely hears Laena’s excited voice.

“Mother says she’ll do her best, and to keep our eyes open. Harwin has already had contact with her and they’re working in tandem to find out as much as they can. What about the King? What does your father want?”

Wordlessly, Rhaenyra hands her the paper.

My daughter,

I am delighted by your words and your gifts alike—I shall treasure them fiercely until you come back to me. Aegon misses you, deeply. I have resorted to telling him stories of your younger years to keep him calm, for otherwise he is inconsolable. He reminds me of you when Daemon used to leave when you were a child. You gifts have greatly appeased him—I believe he hasn’t let go of the stuffed dragon since it was placed into his arms and his nurses tell me he spends the majority of his free time looking at the pictures of the book you sent him. I am delighted by the closeness between the two of you, and it is my hope that you’ll have a similar bond with your new sister.

Alicent has given birth to a little girl, my sweet. Her name is Helaena. She is a tiny thing with strong lungs, strong enough to be heard in every corner of the keep. Mayhap she, too, will calm once you have her in your arms.

I eagerly await your return, my dearest.

Your stepmother sends her regards.

With eternal love,

King Viserys, your father

Chapter Text

The North is cold. Colder than she’d have imagined, especially since winter has not yet completely set over the lands.

Syrax is not pleased with the climate, but she is glad to explore these unknown and vast lands, and with a warning to not wander too far, Rhaenyra lets her beloved mount fly to her heart’s contentment.

Lord Stark, meeting them where her and Laena landed in the middle of the massive Godswood that occupies nearly a third of the surface of Winterfell, is quick to dispense the necessary courtesies before bringing them inside. They are quickly brought to the Great Hall, where the rest of the Princess’ household awaits them. Blessed warmth envelops the two girls and their meagre welcoming party—only the necessary people were outside to meet them: her Kingsguard Ser Glendon, then Lord Stark, his young heir Cregan, his castellan and the local maester.

As the wide doors of oak and iron open and close behind them, the entirety of the people in the room bow to the Crown Princess, as do for the second time the people who welcomed her and Laena.

“My Princess, please, join us for our midday meal” says Lord Rickon Stark, gesturing to the various plates of food being distributed by servants to the most prominent occupants of the room. Her own servants, Corinna at the head of the group, help with setting up everything.

“Laena and I both would be glad to join your court, my Lord” smiles Rhaenyra.

Ser Glendon helps Laena in her chair as Lord Rickon Stark does the same with the Princess. Ale, bread, hard cheeses, boiled eggs and a hearty stew are served, with a side of cabbage and roasted potatoes. The meal is simple, but spiced in a way that makes it delicious, and it’s warm.

The cold is still plaguing their body, but the meal and the several fires help them keep all their toes on their feet.

“Before anything else, my Princess, I would like to bring to your attention a message we received but a few candlemarks before your arrival.”

For a second, Rhaenyra thinks that the message Lord Stark is holding is another letter much like the one that was sent to Lord Manderly and the food turns to lead in her stomach. But then, when she reads the raven, conflicting emotions surge in her.

Seeing her cousin almost frozen, her hand lightly shaking, Laena leans over Rhaenyra’s shoulder and reads the message.

Lords and ladies of the Seven Kingdoms,

It is with great joy that King Viserys I of House Targaryen announces the birth of his third child, the Princess Helaena Targaryen, a fine princess of ethereal beauty and peaceful temperament. The Princess was born after an easy, swift labor, on the seventh day of the thirteenth moon of the year 113 a.C.

The King, the Queen and their family wish to share with you this joy, and as such we invite you to celebrate with us the new addition to the House of the Dragon with a three-day-long celebration, two moons from now, beginning on the ninth day of the second moon of the year 114 a.C.

We would delight in your presence.

Many regards,

Otto Hightower, Lord Hand of the Seven Kingdoms, writing on behalf of King Viserys I, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.

That evening, after a private meal and a warm bath—the final step to finally dispelling the biting cold that had taken hold of the two girls during their flight—Laena and Rhaenyra discuss.

“I admit” begins Laena, snuggling deeper under the covers of the bed they share, “I had not expected Otto to act so soon.”

Rhaenyra stifles a snort. “The man is as slimy as one can be. His daughter gave another child to the King, already one more than the previous Queen did. He must be beside himself with his desire to show off his accomplishments to everyone. He’s probably already telling Alicent that she’ll need to birth another child soon. Knowing her, she’ll do it, too.”

“I would expect nothing else from Otto Hightower’s daughter. He has surely impressed in her mind that the only role of a woman is to birth children. I suppose Alicent should be proud of the only thing she’s allowed by her father to do.”

Silence stretches for a minute, before a knock sounds at the door. When bid to enter, Corinna steps inside with a tray holding cups of hot tea. “Many apologies, Your Highness, but I thought it best to bring you some relaxing tea. The day has been long and tiring, and this tea is sure to have you rest comfortably.”

“I appreciate the thought, Corinna, but in the future ask before taking the initiative, understood?” admonishes Rhaenyra, awaiting the teacup in the bed still, while Laena mournfully leaves the nest of warm furs and blankets to receive the cup from Corinna’s hands.

“I understand, Princess. My deepest apologies, it will not happen again. I just thought…” she shuffles her hands after handing Rhaenyra her cup, “I thought that today’s news would have upset you?”

“You mean the birth of my sister?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Rhaenyra takes a sip of the tea, finding it particularly strong in its taste. “This tea has more mint than water” she complains with a grimace.

Corinna flunders for a second before hastily bowing her head. “I’m afraid the people of the North find such tea pleasant, for it’s what I was given when I asked. I’ll make sure to add more honey in the future, Princess.” She is apologetic in the face of her mistress’ displeasure.

“Make sure you do. As for your hypothesis,” she downs another sip, liking the warmth of the tea if not the taste, “I am not displeased by the fact that I have a sister. I already knew of the news, in fact, for my Father sent me a missive that reached me at White Harbor.”

Corinna hums, not looking at either noble in the eyes as she speaks, fretting with the remaining porcelain on the tray, “A sister is better than another brother, is it not, Princess?”

“I will love my siblings regardless of their sex” Rhaenyra bites out, before sighing and reigning in her irritation, “But admittedly, Alicent having another son would have been worse than her having a daughter.”

“We must think about their future either way” Laena adds, finishing her tea with a grimace and immediately diving back under the furs of the bed.

“Indeed,” sighs Rhaenyra, handing her cup to Corinna, “We need to think about their future, what I’ll be able to do without that damned Alicent challenging me.”

“I must go now, Princess. Seven happy dreams to you and the Lady Laena.”

“Goodnight, Corinna.”

“The Umber lad seems like a strong candidate” Laena says as she writes the day’s events in their journal, her words muffled as she munches on a piece of spiced bread. “The Dustin man is also worth considering” she continues.

“I’d prefer to wed Rupert Dustin rather than Magrot Umber, their House is more connected to the affairs of the Kingdoms rather than the Umbers. They are so far North I’m surprised the news of my tour even reached them. They are too far away from the rest of the lands to be of use.”

“I must say, Rupert Dustin is certainly not—”

Laena is interrupted as a knock sounds on the doors of their apartments. A rather insistent knock.

For a second, fear rolls in Rhaenyra’s veins, thinking that Otto has finally snapped and hired assassins to get rid of her and Laena in one fell swoop, but then she takes reassurance in the fact that she is in the North. Northern people would rather die than break their vows, and guest rights were shared immediately after they landed in the keep. Here, for a time, Rhaenyra is safe.

Again, the knock sounds again, but this time a voice joins. “My Princess, Lord Stark requests your presence in the Great Hall with haste. I’m afraid the matter seems to be quite pressing.”

Sharing a concerned glance with Laena, the two girls quickly instruct the maids present in the room to help them get presentable. After donning a sufficient number of layers and a wool shawl over their shoulders—red for Rhaenyra and blue for Laena over their matching silver dresses—the two make their way to the Great Hall, escorted by a grouchy Ser Glendon.

Before they even enter the hall, a cacophony of noise can be heard coming from behind the closed doors. Two men hastily throw open the heavy wood, barely bowing to her before sprinting in the direction of what Rhaenyra thinks is the armory.

Lord Rickon Stark is rapidly speaking with three weathered men, one visibly a messenger of some sort and the other two donning armor and weapons, while his young heir seems wholly unbothered, smiling at Rhaenyra as she makes her way to where his father is pacing the room with long, precise strides.

“Lord Stark, you seem troubled. What ails you?”

“I have received terrible news, Your Highness. Nigh a dozen wildlings have begun to raid our lands, and they are swiftly moving South. Typically, they would raid only the northern part of our territory, targeting smaller villages and towns in The Gift, but it seems that this time they have become bolder—or more desperate. They are making their way down the land. Their group was said to be originally thirty men and women, but some men managed to bring down their numbers at Last Hearth. With many able men here to court or pay their respects to you, I’m afraid not many remained in the keeps to counterattack. Just enough to defend.”

Rhaenyra is horrified. “I am deeply saddened by this news. I regret the timing of my visit, since it created so much damage.” Laena holds her hand tightly, and the Princess draws comfort from her cousin.

“You have no blame in this, Princess” the lord reassures, voice blunt and decisive, “However, this does put a damper on your schedule. I must take a contingent of men to battle these raiders, and the men that are here to court you are some of the best warriors in the North. Since they are here on your invitation, I must ask you to release them from their duties so that they may follow me in battle, and die for the defense of our kingdom, if necessary.”

Before she can answer, a small yet eager voice pipes up from behind her. “I shall stay here, in Winterfell, Your Highness. A Stark must always remain here” says young Cregan, his grey eyes focused but with a smile on his still chubby face.

“Indeed, a Stark must always remain at Winterfell, and my heir will be more than enough to handle the keep while I’m away” assures Lord Stark, sparing a tender smile for his only child. “My men and the maester will no doubt be able to help you when my son won’t, Princess.”

Yet Rhaenyra is no longer paying attention, her mind caught in a web of words and memories.

A Stark must always remain at Winterfell. A Targaryen must be seated on the Iron Throne. Winter is coming. Fire and Blood. The Song of Ice and Fire.

Are the Starks and Targaryens the players in the song? Hells, even the swords match the names: both of Valyrian steel, one is named Ice and the other Blackfyre. It makes sense.

Her father is going to be elated when she’ll tell him her hypothesis.

Emboldened by her thoughts, Rhaenyra smiles at the lord. “There is no need to dismiss the brave men of your land to follow you, my lord, for I will be following you as well, on Syrax.”

At that, Lord Stark, Laena and Ser Glendon, all begin protesting.

“My Princess, surely that’s too dangerous—"

“Cousin, you cannot possibly be serious—”

“Your Highness, I must protest—”

All is silenced when Rhaenyra holds a hand up. “Are these wildlings equipped with Valyrian steel, or lances big enough to harm dragons?”

All eyes are on her, young Cregan looking at her like she personally hung the sun in the sky, and when Lord Stark shakes his head, barely hiding a small smile, her own grin grows in width. She struggles to contain her excitement. “Very well then, they have no weapons to harm my Golden Lady, and since I’ll be safe atop her back, none shall be able to harm me, too. Laena shall remain here to help with the keep if needed.”

“My mother is going to be so pissed” mutters Laena, the Valyrian so low that Rhaenyra strains to hear her.

Ser Glendon tries one more desperate attempt to make Rhaenyra see reason. “My Princess, I won’t be able to protect you—”

“My Syrax will provide all the protection I need. Whilst I am gone to battle, you shall remain here and protect Lady Laena with the same dedication you’ve shown to me, ser.”

Sufficiently cowed, the knight merely bows before taking a step back and resuming his watch over his two charges.

Lord Stark, who has remained silent while the nobles fixed their feathers, now enters the conversation. “Princess, will this be your first battle?”

Rhaenyra nods at the man, the reminder of the fact that this will be a battle, not a mere leisure flight, dimming a bit of her enthusiasm.

“Then I suppose you have no armor to your name?”

“Indeed, you are correct, my lord.”

The man nods. “We shall rectify this. Your fearsome lady might be strong and hardy, but any stray arrow can pierce human skin. We have had some female warriors in our walls, and some leather armor should still be fit for wear. Cecil here” he points to a nearby servant, a woman in her late forties with greying red hair held by a simple bonnet, “Will bring you to our armory, where my men will find something that fits you, Princess.”

“As you advise, my lord.”

The armor feels weird on her body, the stiff leather rising too high under her armpits and squeezing a little bit too tight around her bust, but the master-at-arm couldn’t find anything better, and so Rhaenyra wore the dark leather with a wolf stamped on the front with black dye, with matching vambraces. Laena and Corinna had both fussed over her, Corinna insisting on loosening the armor for her comfort while her cousin insisted on keeping it tight and also covering the Stark wolf on her bust with a red scarf.

That same red scarf is now fighting against the wind as Rhaenyra directs Syrax to fly over the contingent of ten men riding towards the sight of a burning village. As Lord Stark had explained, he intended to take at least twenty men with him to ensure they overnumbered the enemy, but with her dragon that number was reduced.

The party had left the Keep a couple hours before Rhaenyra took flight, with Lord Stark insisting she eat some more before the battle to ensure she has enough energy—going so far as to order a goat butchered for Syrax as well. Her darling Lady had no trouble retaking the party, and now they fly right above the group of warriors riding to battle.

Rhaenyra can scarcely believe it. “Are you ready, my sweet? Today we ride into battle for the first time” she whispers, patting the scales of her dragon with a gloved hand.

A roar is her answer. Feelings of elation, anticipation and a small dose of nervousness flood their bond, and Rhaenyra does her best to reassure her beloved. “Worry not, this won’t be much dangerous. I won’t let you fly into battle like Uncle and Caraxes do. This will be a learning experience for the both of us, are you not happy that we get to do it together?”

A gentle coo is her only answer, warming her soul where the climate cannot. The winds are cold, colder than she would have ever imagined, and there is little to protect her. Lord Stark and Ser Glendon both had advised against wearing too many coverings around her face, for it could loosen and impair her vision at critical moments, and so she only wore the red scarf Laena had wrapped around her neck and bust and a black one as a hood tight around her braided hair.

High up in the clouds, they cannot be seen but they can see, and so Rhaenyra can easily discern the moment when a group of far more than a dozen men dressed with furs and with wild hair both long and short, both dark and red, detaches itself from the burning ruin of the village they were pillaging and begins to charge forward towards the contingent of Lord Stark.

At least thirty people face the meagre ten northerners, but a dragon is worth much more than twenty warriors.

“Embrot, Syrax!”

And so Syrax dives, and their fight begins.

Rhaenyra is almost surprised to feel the call of blood thrumming in her veins. Her uncle Daemon had told her about it once, before one of his many exiles in her childhood. Brōzare hen ānogar, a phenomenon only dragonriders experience. “The dragons feed the fire in our blood” he had told her, “And our own emotions prompt theirs to rise. Our fire feeds their own, and their thirst for blood feeds ours. Just as a dragon hungers for fresh prey to butcher, we too yearn for the blood of battle.”

With her uncle’s words in mind, as the terrain approaches with wondrous speed, Rhaenyra recites a prayer—for her, for her allies in this battle, and for her family fighting far from her.

Vhagar, jaesa hen vīlībāzma, gaomagon īlva ȳgha, sumby īlva rȳ se ānogar hen īlva qrinuntyssy, dāez īlva hen zūgagon thorugh aōha perzyssy se emagon īlva jikagon arlī naejot īlva lenton.

Vhagar, goddess of war, keep us safe, shield us through the blood of our enemies, free us from fear thorugh your flames and have us go back to our home.

Despite them being overnumbered, the northerner men charge as if they were a hundred and not merely ten, and as Rhaenyra sweeps over their heads, her voice joins the war cry of the warriors.

The wildlings falter in their charge when faced with her lovely, ferocious Syrax, and they loose their formation. Some stay behind, frozen in fear, others keep running but keep watching her and lose their direction, spreading in a way that even she, as green as she is about war, knows is not a good thing.

 The word is soft on her tongue, the destruction tastes so sweet to her as she yells. “Dracarys!”

And so, Rhaenyra kills the first men of her life.

Six men are felled by her flame, two burnt instantly and four screaming for a mercy that will never come.

Rhaenyra tugs on the reins, making Syrax bank and turn back. Lord Stark’s men have clashed with the first of the wildlings, and it’s up to Rhaenyra to dwindle their numbers even more and protect their backs.

“Precise now, Syrax” she tells her Lady, aiming for the warriors who are late to the charge.

“Dracarys!”

Five down.

The sound of steel on steel reaches the Princess’ ears, and just as she leans to the side to peek at the situation below, an arrow whistles near her ear, causing a drop of blood to spill. Rhaenyra gasps and throws herself closer to her dragon’s body, narrowly missing another arrow that would have ended in her shoulder.

“Vēzot!” she yells, anger rising within her.

Syrax obeys with a roar, gaining altitude and allowing Rhaenyra a bit of respite. For a second, her mind flashes to the pain in her father’s eyes when he recalled the death of his uncle Aemon. Felled by a stray arrow.

Seething, she peeks down, seeing a group of three people, one man and two women, holding arrows and aiming at her. Looking to where the fight is at its heat, she can see that some of Lord Stark’s men have arrows embedded in their shields.

“They dared try and hurt us, my love” Rhaenyra roars, “Let’s show them what happens when you anger a dragon. Angōs!”

The wildlings soon found out that no arrow nor armor is strong enough to withstand dragonfire.

As Syrax and Rhaenyra dip and dive, releasing fire bursts that burn people and terrain alike, carbonizing the land into a dreadful masterpiece of fire and blood.

It doesn’t take long for the fight to end, not with the Princess’ aid, and soon she gets to safely land.

She ignores the nauseating smell of carbonized human flesh, and instead focuses on the men standing in front of her. The Dustin brothers, one who is courting her and the other simple there for support, both have cuts on their faces, Roger Mormont has the end of an arrow sticking out of his calf, Magrot Umber has a dreadful bruise on his jaw and what Rhaenyra thinks is a bite mark on his neck, bleeding lightly. The other men seem more or less intact, only a few bruises and minor cuts telling the tale of their battle.

What worries her is that she cannot see Lord Stark.

“Where is Lord Rickon?” she asks the man closest to her.

“I don’t know, Princess.”

“Search for Lord Rickon” she yells, the men seemingly only now realizing one of them—arguably the most important one—is missing.

After fighting with the Mormont man to convince him to go back on his horse—how the fuck can he even think about moving with an arrow sticking out of his leg Rhaenyra doesn’t know—she too joins the men, bidding Syrax to stay alert for any other potential threat.

Every able body is dedicated to the search, and soon Lord Stark is found unconscious under the body of a gigantic wildling, with an arrow sticking out from his gut, embedded in the gap between his armor plates.

The men shout curses and prayers alike and hoist his heavy body on their shoulders, all weariness forgotten at the sight of their injured liege lord.

When they go to put him on a horse, Rhaenyra stalls them. She nearly cowers under the many glares sent her way, but when she suggests putting him on Syrax, the men quickly agree. “She is much quicker. I’ll be able to get him to a maester faster than any horse” she tells them.

“Godspeed, Princess. Keep our Lord safe” tells her the aged Mormont warrior, and the other men bow in respect, a strange glint in their eyes. It might almost be approval.

“Return to Winterfell with speed and safely, my good men. I shall alert the maester to the injuries I can see on you, so that they may be prepared.” And with that, she takes flight, Lord Rickon safely strapped to her saddle.

The maester starts to work on Lord Rickon as soon as he’s let down from Syrax’s saddle, still unconscious but not bleeding much anymore. Benjen Stark, his brother who had remained in the keep to aid young Cregan, looks worriedly at his brother before going to comfort his distraught nephew.

Rhaenyra refuses all care except for a tin of cream to put on her wounded ear, to prevent infection, in favor of a warm bath.

It is only when she sinks in the scalding water, being fussed over by her dear cousin, that she realizes how tired and sore she is. “I must admit, I thought fighting on dragonback would be less taxing than this” she complains.

“Lord Stark, a man as tall as Ser Harwin and nearly as wide, came home with an arrow in his intestines. I daresay you got the easy deal, cousin.”

“Tell that to my poor limbs.”

It’s when the sun is setting that the other warriors return to Winterfell. The maester had finished on Lord Stark and had immediately begun preparing to treat the injuries Rhaenyra had detailed to him, and so now all the men are hastily treated, given ointments and a foul-smelling tea that even the Princess is forced to take.

At her grimace, the maester laughs. “I’d think you’d like teas, Your Highness. Your servant has the kitchens boil a pot of water every eve to prepare you and the Lady Laena teas.”

Indeed, Corinna every evening comes inside with her pot of tea—now much sweeter than the first time. Rhaenyra grunts, “Yes, but it’s not as foul as this one.”

“This one will keep you alive, my Princess. You bled quite a bit for such a small wound. Besides, it’s better to be safe than sorry. Now, please excuse me, I must go check on my Lord.”

That night Rhaenyra sleeps fitfully, angering Laena with her constant tossing and turning, and only barely managing to sleep for three hours straight.

The next day, her morning meal sits heavy in her stomach, and her skin prickles when the delicate silk of her dress touches her wrists. She cannot pay attention to the suitors vying for her hand, not that they mind. Some are quite content to sit with her in silence, while others distract her with talks of their own first battles.

Is this a consequence of killing people? Am I bound to feel like this every time I’ll be called to take someone’s life?

The only positive thing is that, finally, Lord Stark is out of the woods. “He passed the night”, as the maester said when asked, “So chances are that he’ll make a full recovery. Your speed in bringing our lord home played a vital role in his survival, Princess.”

‘Twas three days later that she got called to the Lord’s rooms for an audience with the man. Still bedbound, Lord Rickon did not shrink his duties as liege of these lands, and so Rhaenyra finds him surrounded by parchment, opened books and a single raven scroll in his hands.

“Good morrow, my Lord. I hope you feel well. I apologize for not coming to see you sooner, but the maester had encouraged us to keep you resting. Not that you agreed, it seems” she jokes, nodding at all the material around his body.

Still pale and gaunt, the man manages a short laugh. “I do my part in the upkeep of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess. And you owe me no apologies, on the contrary it is me who should thank you. I have been told that your willingness to carry me on Syrax back to Winterfell spelled my survival.”

“It was nothing more than what you deserved. As you say, you are the liege lord of the North. The Realm needs you. Moreover I am not keen on letting a boy become an orphan so soon.” Her eyes darken as she speaks, memories of her mother filling her head with their comforting warmth and stingy pain before she locks them back into her heart to focus on Lord Stark once more.

The man hums. “And I will be forever thankful for that, my Princess. But my gratitude is not what I called you for here today.”

He gestures towards a cushioned chair near his bedside and Rhaenyra goes to sit there. “I am all ears, my lord.”

“I have received two ravens today” the man begins, eyes grave and serious, “One is addressed to you, and as such I have not opened it” he gestures to a rolled up sheet of parchment, and Rhaenyra takes it in her hands, “And another addressed to me, from the Queen Consort.”

Oh, Rhaenyra has a bad feeling.

“Go on, my lord.”

“The fire in your eyes tells me that you already have a clue about what I’m going to say.”

“Yet I won’t stop you from expressing your thoughts.”

He hums, “So be it. The Queen Consort is only that—a consort. She overreaches by doing this, and I wish to reaffirm my standing. I am loyal to your father, the King, and yourself in turn, my Princess. Any doubt I might have had was dashed but a few days ago, when you rode to battle for the defense of a Kingdom oft forgotten among the Seven that make up Westeros, and then took me upon your dragon—to my understanding, a sacred experience to you dragonriders—to save my life when you could have simply left my fate to the hands of the Gods.”

“I shall ignore this raven here, Princess” he continues, waving around the thin strip of paper with Alicent’s calligraphy on it, “For I am loyal to those who have right to my fealty and even more to those who have earned it.”

Rhaenyra is a bit chocked up. “I express my sincerest thanks for your trust, my lord, and I vow that I’ll do my best to not abandon your Kingdom as my predecessors seem to have done.”

Lord Rickon chuckles, “Us northerners have no need for a nanny, Princess. We have taken care of ourselves for millennia and shall do so for many more years to come. We simply need our due.”

Rhaenyra suddenly understands what he wants. “You speak of the New Gift.”

A hum. “Queen Alysanne thought she was doing a favor to the Nightswatch when she gave them those lands, but instead she simply gave them additional work that they do not need. They are not landowners; they have neither the time nor the means to maintain such a wide strip of land. And now, not even a century later those lands are all but abandoned, with but a few villages that are constantly raided by wildlings. You have seen the damage they’ve done. Imagine suffering that every sunturn.”

Her heart aches at the thought of the poor people living in those lands. With no overlord, they are all but abandoned to themselves, with no law nor protection. Her resolve strengthening, she seeks to reassure the lord: “I shall do all I can to ensure that the New Gift will be given back to the Lords of the North. I suppose that you’ll be giving the land to House Umber?”

“That would be my aspiration, yes.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do, my lord. Now excuse me, as you mentioned I have letters to read and I wish to do so as soon as possible.”

“I shan’t keep you here, then. Have a fine day, my Princess.”

The letter is from Harwin.

My Princess,

I bring you discomforting news. I have already written a similar raven to the Princess Rhaenys, to where she has gone to Driftmark to deal with some unspecified trouble.

The Lord Hand is planning a grand celebration for Princess Heleana’s birth. They have invited the entirety of the Hightower family, as well as the Lannisters and some houses from the Stormlands, or so my father tells me.

At first suspected that they might seek to bind the child to a family through a betrothal, but then through pure happenstance I managed to overhear a conversation between the Hand and the Consort the truth is even more worrying. They plan to convince the King, during the three-day celebration, to betroth Prince Aegon with Princess Helaena.

I know not of the intricacies of Targaryen relation, but I suspect that it’s a ploy to make Aegon’s claim stronger than yours, my Princess, by having him marry another Targaryen bride. Probably knowing that your chances of securing such a match are nearly down to zero.

I shall await Princess Rhaenys’ response and from there we shall see how to proceed. Know that you are not without allies, Princess.

My sincerest regards,

Ser Harwin Strong, Commander of the City Watch of King’s Landing.

“Oh, those foul cunts!” hisses Rhaenyra, scaring Corinna, who nearly drops the pillow she’s fluffing.

“Mandia! Mind your words” admonishes Laena. But then, when she reads the letter, she too is quietly fuming. Only the rigorous manner lessons her mother forced her to take prevent her from screeching in anger.

“So what do we do?” asks then Laena.

And when Rhaenyra grins like a maniac, grabbing quill and paper, Laena can do nothing but sigh.

Oh, what has she gotten herself into?

Chapter Text

If Rhaenyra thought the North was beautiful, the kind of beauty that not everyone can see, the kind of beauty you find in a sharp dagger and a polished sword rather than petals of flowers, well… the Iron Islands do not belong to that category.

Cold, barren and desolate, the smell of the sea is so pungent here that Rhaenyra has taken to carrying multiple handkerchiefs to wipe her nose in, since it keeps dripping because of the smell. It’s not like Driftmark here, even Laena agrees: Driftmark is freshness, is freedom and salt and sand, sometimes sweaty bodies unloading goods form a ship and not-so-fresh fish, but here on Pyke one’s nose is constantly assaulted by the abrasive smell of the sea in all its wildness. It feels like someone is constantly shoving fingerfuls of salt in your nostrils and down your throat.

Needless to say, it’s not pleasant.

Inside the actual keep, however, the smell becomes more bearable, thankfully. She has heard many a maid of hers complain about it and she cannot help but agree with them. Perfumed handkerchiefs are a blessing in this situation.

Rhaenyra is thankful for one thing only. She has a single suitor on this tour, and he seems as opposed to their possible marriage as she is. Hells, maybe even more.

Dalton Greyjoy is… an interesting man, for sure. One who she would never take as husband, never mind as Consort. The lad is talented, an expert sailor and is well-traveled, yet he already has three salt wives and is already looking for a fourth one, if the looks she saw him sending toward a courtesan from Essos are any indication. She has no desire to tie herself to such a man, not even taking into consideration the syncope her father would have if she turned up with a Greyjoy as her chosen.

Dalton is bloodthirsty and cunning in a way she can appreciate, but that definitely doesn't overshadow his many, many flaws.

“Why did we decide to add this place to our itinerary, remind me? we could have skipped it, especially since at the end of the day we didn’t even get to visit Castle Black. We could have gone there instead of coming in this damned place” Laena laments in the privacy of their rooms.

Rhaenyra sighs, sitting in one of the only three padded chairs available in the rooms. A servant immediately arrives to give her a cup of warm tea and a blanket to cover herself with. The place is smaller than any other rooms she’s ever been given, it’s cold and damp. The windows are drafty and some parts of them are covered with green lichen slowly growing over the glass.

The Princess almost had a stroke when she saw exactly where they’d been housed: the Sea Tower, where the members of House Greyjoy resided, is separated from the Great Keep by three increasingly narrow bridges, the last of which made of rope. She has no idea how in the Seven Hells the servants can carry things around in these conditions.

“This is the seat of one of the Paramounts of the realm. It would have been rude to ignore them” Rhaenyra repeats for the umpteenth time. It’s not the first time Laena has expressed her displeasure with the situation, and it probably won’t be the last. Not that she blames her.

“If your father has never travelled the Kingdoms I don’t see why you should bother with places such as this one.”

“You know it, and you know it well, Laena Velaryon. I cannot be like my father. I must be better, more loved, more respected. If it means spending a sennight in this dreary place, then that’s what I shall do.”

Laena scoffs and whines a bit more, acting her age for once, but then composes herself. She grabs once again her abandoned cup of tea and takes a long swig.  She switches to High Valyrian: “Do we have any news regarding our little surprise?”

The Princess puts down her cup. “Ser Harwin has already answered he’ll do all he can, and has reinforced his support during all of this, but Rhaenys and Daemon have yet to answer. I am not surprised by their delay, though. Your mother is probably exasperated, and Daemon is likely yet to receive the raven. That’s why I insisted on sending them early. For that, and also to ensure our allies are ready for our return.”

Laena smiles mischievously. “You have begun to grow a political mind, my dear mandia. My mother will be proud.” Then her smile dims a bit, “If only your father could see the same.”

“I do not deny it would give me much pleasure to have my achievements and skills acknowledged, but I must admit that it would make many things more difficult. We are not fighting against my father’s blindness, but Otto’s cunning. As long as they see me as a silly girl we can move freely. This plan already exposes me quite boldly, but it’s a gamble I’m willing to take.”

“And I’ll be right beside you, mandia. You know you’re not alone in this.”

“I know, and I cannot express how much I’m grateful for your help, as well as that of your mother. I fear I could not have done much without her guidance.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit” begins to say Laena, but Rhaenyra interrupts her with a shake of her head.

“I am fully aware of my strengths and weaknesses, and I am not so arrogant as to believe myself a master at politics. My father never taught me anything of worth and my mother was always too busy creating and losing babes to teach me anything she knew. My education was always that of a consort, of a woman that would rule social gatherings, not the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, now that is the legacy I am set to inherit and I wish to be worthy of it. Your mother once had the same destiny, before it was ripped from her hands. There is no one else more qualified to teach me all I need.”

Laena’s eyes are teary when Rhaenyra finishes, and she extends a hand to her. Fingers intertwined, they stare at each other and revel in their shared affection until a knock sounds at the door.

“Come in!”

Unexpectedly, it’s the heir of the Iron Islands that enters. Hair ruffled by the ever-present winds, skin speckled by the sun and thin build, one would never expect such a diminutive man to be as lethal as she’s heard he is.

“What an unexpected surprise, Dalton.”

“Apologies for the interruption, Princess” he smirks, “but I wished for you to see a new treasure of mine.”

“I have no intention of witnessing your claiming of another salt wife” tuts Rhaenyra.

“Oh no, I would never subject you to that spectacle. Southern sensibilities are so different from ours, after all.”

“Indeed. Now that I think about it, I do not think you would appreciate the Targaryen tapestries of the Keep.”

A flicker of confusion sparks in his icy eyes. “I must admit I have never had the pleasure of seeing them.”

“A pity. With such gentlemanly manners you most likely never will” she snipes, earning herself another savage grin.

The young man doesn’t seem to mind the distrust and dislike Rhaenyra shows him, given the fact that he has no qualms about making it clear he feels the same for her. She doesn’t know whether these feelings descend from the fiery history between House Targaryen and House Greyjoy or whether it’s pure and simple incompatibility, and frankly she doesn’t care. She wants to be as far away from this place as possible, alliances and politics be damned.

“How lucky then that I’ve had the chance to find this, then.”

And with that, Dalton unsheathes a sword from his side, where it was hidden under his long grey overcoat. The Princess’ heart jumps into her throat.

Immediately, Laena shifts to place herself between Rhaenyra and the man, and the Kingsguard that accompanied them to the islands barges into the room, sword drawn and ready to be bloodied.

In Dalton’s hand, held firmly by his calloused fingers, is a sword made of Valyrian steel, a golden lion as its hilt with a few scratches adorning it. The blade itself, however, is perfectly intact, the precious steel withstanding even the most impervious of conditions.

Rhaenyra, though having never seen it before, immediately recognizes it.

“Brightroar” she whispers, just as her Kingsguard yells: “Drop the sword, or you will be cut down.”

Dalton throws an amused glance at the man, before throwing the sword in the air, flipping it midair and presenting it to Rhaenyra hilt first, uncaring of the blood dripping slowly onto the stone floors from where he is squeezing the blade.

“I would never dream about harming our dear Realm’s Delight, ser. You need not worry” he snarks, a mocking grin on his face.

The guard doesn’t react to the provocation, instead turning his attention to the Princess, who in the meantime has relieved Dalton of the sword. Her eyes are focused on the sword, but she doesn’t fail to feel the eyes on her.

“’Tis fine, ser. Thank you for your protection, but I believe there is no threat to me in this room.”

“Very well, Princess. I shall return to my post.”

Once the door closes behind the Whitecloak, Dalton turns his mocking grin back on Rhaenyra and Laena. “So, have I left you speechless?”

Letting go of the lack of proper address, Rhaenyra instead inquiries with marvel “Where did you find this? It was lost in the Valyrian ruins centuries ago.”

“Even my father tried to find this sword, failing each and every time” murmurs Laena.

“He probably searched in the wrong places then” he teases, before plopping down gracelessly—and without permission—on one of the chairs that sparsely filled their rooms. “It was not in the ruins of Valyria. I have no idea how it came to be in Lys, but that’s where I found it.”

“How did you acquire it?” asks Rhaenyra, still admiring the beautiful sword.

“I attacked the ship that was transporting it, obviously. I believe it belonged to a Dothraki clan. There were plenty of Dothraki artifacts on that ship, so it’s a safe assumption.” He gestures to the sword. “I had it burned for three days and three nights consecutively, to get rid of ay possible illness on it. And none in my household has developed greyscale yet so I believed it time to show you my newest treasure.”

Rhaenyra passes the sword to Laena, crossing her arms and fixing Dalton with a withering glare. “And what do you want? I doubt you would show it to me for nothing.”

“Now, now, Princess. Can’t a man show off his loot every once in a while?”

A spark of anger flares in her chest. “Don’t be foolish, Dalton. And it would serve you well to remember who you’re talking to, and the respect they’re owed. Not to mention, the fire-breathing creature she wields. Your fleet is made of wood, after all.”

The smirk on his face visibly darkens at that, but he’s not so easily deterred. “How perceptive, Your Highness. Yet, it would be better to hold off your pyromaniac tendencies and listen to what I have to propose.”

That little—

Teeth grinding with the effort of biting back an insult, barely held back by Laena’s comforting hand gripping her own, Rhaenyra gestures for him to continue.

“We will never get married, Princess. I have no desire to be King Consort or Prince Consort or whatever title will be bestowed to the poor fucker destined to be stuck in that hellish palace at your side—no offence intended to you, of course” he smirks, “I have all I desire here, but there is a possibility that we’ll both benefit from each other.”

“And what might that be, Dalton Greyjoy?”

“Well, I have this lovely sword right here, and a fleet that is close to rivaling that of the Lannisters, while you will be the future Queen despite some people not wanting so. I believe you can see where I’m going with this.”

“You propose an alliance.”

“Well, not an alliance per se, after all, we are not yet at war, are we? I merely propose—” he gestures vaguely in the air, “—an arrangement of sorts. A tentative friendship if you will.”

“And why do you come to me and not the King?”

Dalton scoffs, raking his hand between his hair. “Because this is an agreement between you and me, Princess. My father would whip me if he knew about this, would rather see me die before seeing a member of House Greyjoy ask for help to anyone, never mind a Targaryen.”

“So you wish to keep this secret until the time is right” concludes Rhaenyra.

“Indeed, and that time will be right when, at the earliest, my father is dead and I’ll have complete control of the entire fleet instead of only my own ships. Twelve oars are many, but nothing compared to the near eighty my father has at its disposal.”

“So what, are you promising me the services of the Iron Fleet once you become Lord of your House? I admit, nearly one hundred ships are not a useless boon.”

“Oh, much more than that. I am willing to be persuaded” he emphasizes, “into helping you when you might need it with my own part of the Iron fleet, for a price of course, and if this arrangement proves fruitful I might just help you when the time comes to secure your place as Queen.”

She narrows her eyes, “And what price might that be?”

At that, Dalton’s smirk turns positively predatory. “Why, of course, spoils of war. The Iron fleet is always looking to welcome new oars into its ranks. If they also come with a few women included, even better.”

“Absolutely not, I will not trade in flesh with you or with anyone else. Ships and gold I can promise you but the kidnapping of women is firmly Ironborn territory. In compensation,” she starts with a counterproposal, “I might just be willing to let father close an eye to any plundering you make to the Lannister and Oldtown fleets. Within reason and the merchant ships only.”

“How many ships? Once each week?”

“One a moon for the Lannisters and one every two moons for the Hightowers.”

He makes a face, “That’s barely enough to keep me entertained. And why would you want to target the Hightowers less? They’re the biggest threat to you.”

“They are also the closest ones to my Father. If Otto starts complaining, I might not be able to guarantee the continuation of our arrangement. Content yourself with this or nothing.”

Dalton scoffs but then extends his hand. “Keep the sword. My father would take it for himself and claim the glory as his own if he knew about it. Better it serving as a reminder of our deal.”

Rhaenyra shakes his hand firmly, “Lovely making deals with you.”

She is just about to throw him out of her rooms for a chance to discuss all of this with Laena, when an idea takes root in her mind.

This time, it’s her turn to smirk at him. “What do you say about starting our arrangement a bit earlier?”

Rhaenys’ and Daemon’s responses arrive within the following days, and Rhaenyra is quite pleased. She knows Father won’t be pleased by her stunt, but she is confident she’ll be able to mollify him sufficiently.

As the days pass, she gets ready to depart, one day earlier than expected, but with good reason.

“Is everything ready?” the Princess asks her maids.

All of her household is very relieved to be finally going away from this dreary place, and it shows with how eagerly the maid nods in affirmation. “Yes, my Princess. All your belongings have been packed away and safely put on the ship under heavy guard, Brightroar included. We have taken care to leave out the necessary items and the clothes and jewelry for the journey. The White Stag cloak is also being aired out as we speak.”

“Good job. Please summon Dalton Greyjoy to me.”

She has already said her farewells with the surly Lord Greyjoy, and right now Laena is concluding her turns with the other important nobles on Rhaenyra’s behalf. Another step of her tour proving fruitless, but she didn’t mind. She has always known nothing would come from visiting the Iron Islands, so the agreement between her and Dalton is a great improvement from her initial expectations.

The maid bows and leaves, and it doesn’t take long for Dalton to respond to her summons. From his face she can tell he doesn’t particularly enjoy being called like a dog, but she frankly doesn’t care. Simply because they have some sort of an agreement, it doesn’t mean she likes the man.

“What do you want?”

“To ask if you’ve done what you were supposed to and prepared the ship.”

“Of course I have. I am the sailor, Princess, not you. I would know better than most how to prepare a ship. We are simply awaiting your delightful presence before departing. The wind is picking up, so we might even be able to make good time.”

“At least you’re good for something. Now be a dear and help me get down this infernal tower.”

“We’ll soon be docking, Your Highness!”

The old sailor’s yell can barely be heard over the sound of the wind beating around Rhaenyra’s ears, cold even with the shawl covering her head and part of her face. When Dalton told her of favorable wind she didn’t expect a gods-damned hurricane. Still, they made good time—many sailors remarked so—and as such, the Princess is pleased.

Any chance to vex the Lannisters must be taken with stride.

Arriving on a Ironborn’s ship, one bearing the Targaryen symbol hastily painted for the occasion, would surely send a powerful message. The message that the Princess is capable of forming alliances with the most brutish and warmongering people of the Seven Kingdoms.

“Mandia, I think it’s best we now retire to our cabin” counsels Laena, fighting to keep all her curls in check, and mostly succeeding.

“Yes, it would be wise. I need to refresh my appearance. I fear I am more disheveled now that when I ride on Syrax” she complains.

It was decided before the beginning of her tour that she would wear no red and very little gold during her stay with the Lannisters. It would do no good to give the twins any false hope, or simply to stroke their already massive ego. As such, Laena helps her into a deep purple dress with ivory embroidery and pearls scattered around the high neckline and the sleeves. There is no dragon motif on the cloth, deliberately, for she is certain all the attention will be on her cloak. The White Stag’s fur perfectly matches with the color of her underdress and the embroidery, and the leather gloves she has put aside for the occasion. One of the gifts from her uncle for her thirteenth birthday, they go well with her ensemble and will protect her hands from the slimy kisses that Lord Jason likes to bestow on any lady he vaguely appreciates the looks of.

Laena, too, is clad in ivory and purple, hers a lighter shade, and pearls are joined by a silvery embroidery that decorates the lower part of her overdress. Both girls wear simple leather boots, and fashion their hair in tight braids with very little jewels in them. The true piece de resistance, for Rhaenyra, are the earrings: a gift from Princess Rhaenys for her last birthday, the massive raw pearls are dangling from a gold-set oval-shaped diamond and another, smaller, raw pearl makes up the stud to go in her ear. Delightfully fancy, yet completely neutral.

Laena has chosen to garb herself with a simple silver and pearl necklace, no rings and no earrings.

Having dismissed all the servants to continue with their own planned voyage to their next keep—the Princess fought quite valiantly to convince her Kingsguard that she would be safe with just her lady on the ship and Syrax patrolling from above—Laena and Rhaenyra are left to dress by themselves, but they don’t mind. It’s a moment of tranquility before the inevitable buffoonery that will be their welcome to Lannisport and then Casterly Rock.

This change in the order of her visits will not please her father, but she has already written and acquired the blessings of both House Tully and House Lannister for this, and both were amenable. Actually, Lord Tully was surprisingly grateful. Apparently, a violent tempest damaged part of the castle and slowed down the arrival of some of her suitors, so he appreciates the additional time to get his household in order.

A blessing in disguise, for Rhaenys is certain he would have started despising even more than he already does. Lord Grover Tully supported King Viserys at the Great Council, and he never gave her the impression of being particularly modern with his views. Velma Rhaenys also told her he would be hard to please, for he doesn’t believe in the idea of women in power. She told Rhaenyra to do her best, but also to not expect much.

As the two ladies finish dressing up and fixing their makeup, several knocks sound on the worn door separating the main deck of the ship with their assigned quarters.

“Come in, Dalton.” Only he would knock so insistently.

“We are docking. I can already see the assembled Lannisters awaiting at the port.”

“Very well. We shall greet them together. Be on your best behavior, Greyjoy” she threatens.

A smirk that reminds her of her roguish uncle flits on his face. “I always am, especially with our dear Lions.”

Laena sighs, more than exasperated by their antics, and gently guides Rhaenyra outside. Indeed, the docks are quite near. Syrax is roaring and swirling around in the sky above where their hosts are waiting, a sea of red amongst the much more modest clothes of the sailors that are loading and unloading merch and other commodities, their ships docked at least two piers away from where her own would be placed.

“I still can’t understand why you didn’t bring Brightroar with you” grumbles Dalton, coming to stand besides her after barking the last orders to his crew to ensure a smooth docking.

She clicks her tongue. She is no paragon of masterful politicking, but he is abysmally worse. “Because otherwise they would be focused on where I got the sword, and the conversation would inevitably revert back to you and your accomplishments—and their grievances with you and your people—instead of focusing on me. I wear the symbol of my Gods-given legitimacy around my shoulders” she fingers the downy fur of the Stag, “and I wish for the people to be focused on this. I shall reveal having Brightroar in my possession at the most appropriate time, and this is not it.”

He scoffs but blessedly doesn’t offer a rebuttal.

The ship docks without problems, the prowess of the Ironborn navy showing not only in their sailing techniques, and soon enough they are safely on land. Rhaenyra takes a moment to regain her footing after being on a ship for several days, before looking at the assembled party before her.

She has to hide her glee when she notices the disgruntled faces of the Lannister twins, both present and clothed in full splendor with gold and red to welcome her. Just as Lord Jason steps forward to begin the necessary greeting customs, Syrax makes her presence known.

Rhaenyra has debated long the merits of travelling by ship instead of dragon, and missing the comforting feeling of Syrax under her was nearly enough to dissuade her from her plan. Yet, her lovely Golden Lady is always with her. During the voyage she could feel her elation as she twirled in the sky, enjoying the wild currents of the wind, she laughed while watching her beloved chase and gorge on schools of fish, and whenever Rhaenyra felt sad or overwhelmed she always twirled near the main mast, scaring all the sailors and making her laugh.

As Rhaenyra smiles at the startled reactions of the Lannister retinue, a hand slips in her own, squeezing gently before letting go. The Princess relaxes even further. Her darling Syrax and lovely Laena are the only thing keeping her sane during this tour, and she is reassured that they are always near her.

She can do this.

“Your Highness,” Lord Jason recomposes himself before bowing respectfully, the golden chains adorning his chest clinking over the solid golden embroidery on his red velvet doublet, “House Lannister is beyond honored to be able to welcome you and your lady to our lands, even earlier than expected. I am sure your stay here will be pleasurable, for our seat offers much comfort and beauty to be admired.”

Of course, he cannot help himself. The man has to gloat at least once every conversation, or else. It also doesn’t escape her notice how he blatantly ignores Dalton Greyjoy’s presence.

“Many thanks, Lord Lannister. I accept your hospitality and hope our stay will be fruitful in bettering the relationships between our Houses. Ser Tyland, greetings to you, also.” Poor Tyland got ignored by his own twin. How terrible must it be to be related to someone like Jason.

“Greetings, Princess. I extend my own welcome to you and Lady Velaryon, as well. Your presence will surely brighten the halls of our Keep with your beauty and graciousness.”

Dalton, tired of being ignored, interjects scathingly. “They most certainly do brighten entire lands with their wonderful presence.”

The attention of the entire Lannister retinue, composed of roughly twelve men and twice the number of knights, all emblazoned with the Lannister sigil or some other sort of lion iconography, shifts from her to the Greyjoy man, who looks drastically different from anyone else in the vicinity.

Wearing dark grey and black leathers, the man presents as a striking opposite to the very… decorated Lannisters. Dark tousled hair versus combed blonde locks, malicious dark eyes versus pale green eyes… Rhaenyra can go on, but she thinks it better to focus on the present, since the mutual disdain of the two parties is quite evident.

“Many thanks for your kind words, Dalton” she hurries to say, “I also thank you for lending me your ship.”

She tries to steer back the conversation to the agreed-upon script. Of course, that mongrel of a Greyjoy never does anything as it’s supposed to be done.

“But of course, Princess. I am glad you enjoyed yourself so much in my future seat. My services will always be at your disposal, should you be amenable.”

Oh, she is going to strangle this motherfu—

“Your House’s hospitality is truly as warm as they say,” she smiles between clenched teeth, “But I doubt I will need naval charter anytime soon, what with my closeness with House Velaryon. That said, your willingness to put yourself under my service is noted and appreciated.”

Rhaenyra wants to cackle madly when she sees the flash of anger in Dalton’s eyes. But what can he do, especially since in that very moment, Syrax roars so loudly the horses of the Lannister knights have to be restrained from shying.

“Have a safe journey home, Dalton Greyjoy.” And with that, she dismisses him.

She can’t contain a small smirk as she sees him turning on his heel with an almost imperceptible scoff. Rhaenyra hopes this partnership with Dalton will prove fruitful, but she is not planning to become friends with the Ironborn in any way, shape or form, and when she becomes Queen she is determined to bring an end to their raping, if not their reaping. It’s quite shameful how it’s been allowed to continue for this long. She knows that some of the salt wives are quite happy with their position—she saw so herself while in Pyke—and some even volunteer to become one, but many more are not so willing.

Shaking these thoughts off her head, she plasters on her face a charming smile and turns back to their next hosts. If they are offended by Dalton ignoring them, they make a point not to show it and instead flash bright smiles in her direction.

An elderly man with dark blond hair and brown eyes, also clothed in vibrant red, steps forward. “Welcome to Lannisport, Princess Rhaenyra. I am Lorent Lannister, the Lord of this city.”

“Ah, a Lannister of Lannisport. I admit I have never met a Lannister of this branch, for most often the twins are at court and they bring their family alone.”

“Indeed, Princess. Managing such a large port often means we cannot leave, besides we are but a secondary branch of the family.”

“Yes, indeed” interjects Lord Jason, “I would hate to deprive you of getting to know the Lannisters of Lannisport, but I believe it would be best to get going now.”

“Lord Jason truly hates not being the center of attention all the time” Laena comments under her breath as they are quickly led towards a heavily gilded carriage, not even allowing the other members there to introduce themselves.

“And to think we’ll be stuck with them until we fly to the Red Keep.” Rhaenyra already has a headache just thinking about it.

“Are you certain this idea is what’s best? It could backfire terribly.”

“We’ve already talked about this. Letting the Hightowers present their newest pawn to the court without me there is worse than facing the anger of my Father for disrupting the tour.”

They have talked about this, and even Rhaenys admits that it’s a daring plan, but one with more benefits than drawbacks. If what Harwin says proves to be true, then her presence might prove essential. Alicent and Otto cannot be allowed to marry Helaena to Aegon, and if they try to do so Rhaenyra wants to be present to voice her objections. She has already prepared a rebuttal, so she is confident it will work. Velma Rhaenys will help her, and she is sure Harwin will have already impressed upon his father their misgivings.

The Hightowers will not use her siblings for their own plots.

“Besides” she smiles cheekily, ignoring the way the twins are subtly trying to overhear their discussion as they herd them to the carriage, “My father will surely be more preoccupied with Laenor and Daemon returning from the Stepstones for the occasion, than with berating me.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra is aware of the madness of her statement, but she fully believes she’d rather be stuck in a room with all the Hightowers rather than spending one more minute with Jason Lannister.

His brother is not so bad—not good, but not that bad either. He spends less time with her, also because he might have obtained permission to leave his post as temporary Master of Ships but was required to bring some of the paperwork with him to keep working. Rhaenyra can appreciate his dedication to his position, and he seems mildly competent as well, but she’s fully aware that there is none that’d be able to surpass—or, hells, even come close—to the ability of the Sea Snake.

“—and the fact that they’d be even bold enough to ask something like that to me, is absolutely galling! Do you not agree Princess?”

Rhaenyra is violently brought back to reality by Laena’s elbow in her ribs, just in time to hear the last of Lord Jason’s spiel. She has absolutely no idea about what he’s talking about, so she covers her inattention with a non-answer. “I’m afraid that having been present at court hearings and council meetings since the age of eight has skewed my perception of galling quite a bit” she smiles, “You hear quite the strange things.”

A boisterous laugh makes Jason’s golden chain jewelry clink and shimmer under the lights of the dining hall. Rhaenyra is sure what she said is not that funny.

Just as he’s preparing to launch into another discourse, at which point even his brother looks annoyed, Rhaenyra’s maid for this leg of the journey speaks up.

“My Princess, I think it’s time to retire. It would not be proper for you to remain awake at such a late hour.” May the Fourteen Gods bless Elinda and her wonderful timing.

“I’m afraid you are correct, Elinda. It’s time to retire, I’m afraid. Thank you all for the wonderful eve and meal” she turns to the room, before standing up and leaving the room with nary a glance to any of the occupants. They, on the other hand, are obligated by protocol to raise to their feet and bow to her, and, while the Princess walks out with her head held high and her eyes firmly in front of her, Laena smirks a little when noticing that all eyes are on her mandia, and more specifically on her cloak.

Rhaenyra has not gone out in public even one time without her cloak. Always claiming to be cold, she has gotten around wearing it at banquets, even, like this night. Lighter stockings, one less layer of underclothes, and the Princess manages to avoid sweating under the warm fur, huddled like she is under the white pelt and the various gowns in shades of lilac, black and silver.

As they leave the hall where the banquet took place, Lord Jason’s sister appears to accompany them to their rooms as she has done every night of the ten days they’ve been here.

Much less insufferable than Jason, and marginally more annoying than Tyland, Evelina Lannister is, at the age of two and twenty, surprisingly not married yet. In her stay here, Rhaenyra has noticed her predisposition to converse and joke with anyone she meets, borderline flirting with many—women included—and yet she is not married, not even betrothed.

Rhaenyra is not yet certain she shares her eldest’s brother’s disposition, but one thing is certain—she thinks as the woman glides closer on golden slippers, with rubies embroidered in a lion-like pattern—she is not as quiet and serious as Tyland.

With a brilliant smile, she thumbs her golden mane. “My Princess, I shall accompany you to your suite.”

“As you always do, my Lady.”

A giggle. “It’s my duty as the highest-ranking Lady of House Lannister. Moreover, every moment spent with your Highness is a delight.”

“Thank you, Evelina. It warms my heart to hear you say this.”

Rhaenyra mentally prepares for what she knows comes next. Evelina doesn’t disappoint: “I hope my family has been equally as welcoming to you, my brothers especially. I know they greatly looked forward to hosting Your Highness.”

Even Cole rolls his eyes from where he’s silently guarding the Princess and Lady Laena.

“Your entire House has been very good to me and you surely have made your ancestors proud. I am grateful for your willingness to host me sooner than expected and for the speed with which you’ve summoned potential suitors for my hand. I simply hope the ones those from the Houses I’ve requested will arrive soon.”

None miss how Evelina’s smile falters for a moment. In fact, for each time she has brought up the argument of her House’s hospitality, it’s the first time Rhaenyra has explicitly addressed the issue.

The Princess was positively fuming when she discovered that, for all their willingness to accept modifications to the original itinerary, House Lannister didn’t bother to hasten the suitors from the Houses Rhaenyra and Rhaenys had approved. Instead, these past ten days—ten days out of the fifteen she is supposed to spend in the Rock—she ahs only met with Jason and Tyland, plus some minor Lords and various Lannister cousins.

She doesn’t doubt that the presence of minor lords is the work of Alicent’s letter, but the delay in inviting the proper suitors is solely a Lannister failure.

Evelina recovers quickly, always a step behind where Rhaenyra walks with Laena on her arm, her ever-present, ever-loved companion beautifully bedecked in shades of teal and silver, beautiful curls tamed into twisting braids and diamond hairpins.

The lady smiles, half-nervously half-charming, and attempts to pacify the fire she can see in the Princess’ eyes. “I’m certain they’ll arrive tomorrow eve at the latest. My brother has another banquet planned for tomorrow so your Highness will get the chance to meet everyone then.”

“I should have been able to meet everyone” she mockingly mimics, “the day of my arrival, and then use my stay here to properly evaluate all the suitors. A pity that your House’s negligence will not allow me that much.”

And it is not coincidence that Rhaenyra says this, quite imperiously, just as a bunch of laundresses pass, along with some other servants scurrying along the corridors. Evelina doesn’t notice in her haste to make up excuses, but neither Laena nor Rhaenyra miss how they subtly perk up, looking amongst themselves with greedy eyes.

Soon, this discussion will be all over the Rock, and if the suitors will indeed arrive the day after, the story will quickly reach them too. It’s a gamble, but hopefully they’ll blame House Lannister and not her for the mishap.

Finally realizing that nothing she says will improve her situation, Evelina falls silent, and Rhaenyra can finally enjoy a bit of peace. After the guided tour of one of the jewelry vaults with Tyland; after a tour of the Lannister gallery, one of the lonely watchtower above Casterly Rock and the admittedly beautiful sunset one can enjoy from there, and the tour of some of the more easily reached mines, with Lord Jason, and the umpteenth banquet, Rhaenyra is quite frankly tired. At this moment, silence is a boon for her worn out mind.

Ser Criston walks behind them, the sound of his armor echoing in the stone corridors, and when they finally reach their destination—a set of wooden doors engraved with gold filigree and actual pieces of solid gold—he doesn’t hesitate in dismissing the girl with a glare before turning his attention to the Princess. She doesn’t miss how he waits for Evelina’s footsteps to fade before speaking his mind.

 “My Princess, I think you should not be so harsh with the members of House Lannister. Is it wise to antagonize the lady so openly?”

It takes a minute for Rhaenyra to comprehend the reprimand being spit out by her guard’s mouth. Is he criticizing her? She is already tired from all the day’s activities and having to spend a significant amount of time under a damned rock with the Lannisters. Having to deal with a man’s unsolicited opinion is not how she wants to spend the last part of her day.

Laena is quicker in her reproach. “Ser, what the Princess does is none of your business. The only thing on your mind should be our protection and ensuring our safety throughout our stay here. Her Highness is more than justified in her disapproval of the Lannisters’ actions and however she chooses to deal with them is her decision and her decision alone” she scolds. “It would serve you well to remember your place, Kingsguard” she finishes with a hiss.

Finally having regained her composure, Rhaenyra speaks before the man can attempt to muster up a defense. “My cousin is correct, Ser Cole. You have no business nor reason to question my judgment, and even if I were to make a grievous mistake your only role would be to prevent anyone from physically harming either me or Lady Laena. You have neither the experience nor the authority to correct me about how I behave in court.”

The man looks properly chastised, a red flush spreading on his tan cheeks, and his shoulders slump slightly. He tries for some eye contact with Rhaenyra but the disapproval in them forces him to avert his gaze once again.

“I hope that during the night you’ll come to your senses, Ser Criston, for in the same way I elevated you to your position I can easily find a way to bring you down again. I might not be able to rescind your White Cloak, but there are other ways to punish unfaithful servants.”

And with that final blow, both Rhaenyra and Laena retire, tired from the hellish day they’ve had.

As predicted by Lady Lannister, the actual suitors arrive the following afternoon. Some reach the Rock just after midday and others closer to sundown, but all arrive safely.

Laena is in charge of making sure Rhaenyra gets to speak with all of them privately and in a proper fashion, with chaperones and in public spaces. The hardest thing is making sure that all the suitors are properly satisfied with the time dedicated to them while also ensuring the Princess doesn’t refuse too many invitations to teas and banquets and tours by the Lannister twins and the other persistent cousins. It would not do to properly insult them. Rhaenyra has already toed the line with her behavior towards Lady Evelina and—as justified as she was in her reproach—it would be a bad idea to offput too much a Great House of Westeros.

She doesn’t have many days left before she has to depart to go to her sister’s celebration, so she must fit as many meetings as possible in the little time she has left.

As such, when Laena hands her a slip of paper with her schedule on it, urging her to read it as she finishes to tie the laces to Rhaenyra’s gown for the day, she sees no free time. She knows it’s necessary due to the delay, but she still wishes she could just eliminate any and all meetings between her and fucking Jason Lannister. She has to refrain from rolling her eyes when she sees he has planned to take her on her fourth tour to the mines. Hells, she might know them better than him by this point.

Her eyes skim over the other engagements for the day. A stroll with Ser Loras Lydden before noon, an afternoon tea with Ser Samwell Westerling, and another stroll, this time in the early evening, with Ser Jonas Lefford. Laena ably fit the three major suitors in one day, therefore leaving their last day here free of any set engagement with them as so allow Rhaenyra to choose who to meet in order to get to know them better before their departure in the eve.

Admittedly, Rhaenyra is already a bit prejudiced against these Westermen, for good and for bad. House Lefford has not been particularly secretive in their favoritism towards Alicent, while she hopes that the Westerling man will have the same sense of honor as Ser Harrold and not be swayed by the false promises of Otto and his ilk. She knows not much about House Lydden but she hopes that their candidate will be suitable.

She is not fond of the Westerlands as a whole, but it would no doubt serve her well to secure an alliance with them.

Donning her Stag cloak, she allows Laena to fuss about their outfits for a little while, until Ser Criston knocks on the door to their private room to announce that it’s time for them to leave for the day.

Since their spat last eve, Cole has been subdued and completely proper. Not a single glance where his eyes aren’t supposed to be, not a word when he’s not supposed to speak. When the Lanniters’ steward came bright and early that morning to formally invite Rhaenyra to another stroll with Lord Jason, she did catch the knight clenching his jaw and look away in seeming disapproval, but she didn’t care much about his opinions.

When once he could be counted as someone trusted, he is now rapidly losing that privilege.

She can’t say that it’s sad to see him fall so low, only disappointing. She can almost hear Princess Rhaenys’ disapproval, ‘He is a guard, Rhaenyra, not your friend of advisor. You should not have given him so much confidence’ she can imagine her say.

And she would’ve been right. Rhaenyra knows this now. She can’t expect a mere guard, one not even belonging to a noble house and without the relative education, to understand the intricacies of politics.

“Alright, we are ready to face the day, mandia.”

Rhaenyra huffs and laces her arm with Laena’s. “If we must. I admit I am not certain I can handle another tour with Lord Jason.”

“Well, at least, you can have some variety today. Not only you have the suitors but also a meeting with the castellan to prepare for our departure.”

“How low we have fallen when planning such boring things has become the height of our day” she laments, provoking a laugh out of Laena.

And so, their day begins.

It is during the midday meal that the two girls have their first opportunity to speak alone and share their impressions.

“Ser Loras is an interesting fellow, but I’m not sure he’s the right one.” Laena chews on her lip, absentmindedly twirling a curl of her silver hair.

“A third son is not ideal, I must say. Also, I wonder why they didn’t send the second son.”

It wasn’t long in the conversation with the man that Rhaenyra discovered that he was not who she had expected they’d send. He was Lord Lydden’s third son, sent in place of his older brother, Ser Killian Lydden.

“The first son is already married with a child on the way, but I have not heard anything about a match or even a betrothal for the second son.”

The Princess hums. “You will inquire about it during this eve’s banquet. Might as well make all the fuss useful for something.”

“The last banquet before our leave. It won’t be out of place for us to mingle more, as a farewell of sorts” Laena nods.

During the afternoon the two girls find out that the Westerling heir is as honorable as his Kingsguard relative, but that unfortunately means blind and unconditional devotion to their liege lords. Now, such a thing normally would be much appreciated, sadly said liege lords are the Lannisters, almost completely in Otto’s pockets. Moreover, Joanna Westerling—the ser’s younger sister who had inexplicably come to help chaperone the two of them along Laena—seems quite taken with the older Lannister twin, even succeeding to strike up a tentative friendship with lady Evelina and securing an invite to one of her future afternoon teas.

Rhaenyra respects the drive and willingness to achieve more of the lady, but she can’t ignore how it directly contrasts with her plans.

Ser Jonas Lefford, as expected, is a dead end. While utterly and completely polite and proper, Rhaenyra noticed how, during their conversations, he never explored subjects of politics, warfare, economy; instead, the man wandered among safer topics, jousts and feasts, a few of her impressions of the Seven Kingdoms, and the two had an admittedly interesting conversation about the management of a household during wars and sieges, but nothing that could be counted as special.

The Princess has to thank Rhaenys, otherwise she would be even more clueless than she is now. She would have taken that attention to mean respect and acknowledgment of her capabilities. Now, however, she knows that it’s the lady that manages the household when its ruler is out to wage war. She now notices that he never spoke with her about war, but about the expected duties of a lady during such times.

Laying in bed, snuggling with Laena under the thick scarlet covers, Rhaenyra sighs.

“Have you found out anything of interest while I was busy entertaining that Lannister fool?”

“Apparently, the second Lydden son is set to be betrothed to the third daughter of House Redwyne. Nothing is set in stone yet, but it’s set enough for people to keep it a secret.”

A smirk graces Rhaenyra’s rosy lips, the High Valyrian rolling from her tongue like droplets of rain, “And how did you rip such a scandalous secret from their lips, my dear cousin?”

“My dear Princess, you should know that wine is the key to every secret. And Lady Farman seems to enjoy it a lot” she giggles.

“My darling, mischievous cousin. How would I ever cope without you.”

“You shall never have to find out. I am forever at your side.”

Rhaenyra places a gentle hand on Laena’s flushed cheek, and even more gently kisses her forehead. “And how glad am I of your presence, lovely. Now let us rest, for tomorrow is going to be a long day and we will need all our energy to face it.”

After trunks being packed, clothes being divided among different carriages to go to different destinations, guard rotations being revised, and many more boring yet necessary tasks later, Laena joins Rhaenyra in the bath.

“One last meal here and then we’re gone” Rhaenyra reassures the tired girl.

Indeed, Rhaenyra has managed to convince Lord Jason to drop the idea of a group promenade, whatever that means, he intended as the last event before their departure. After meeting once again with all three of her suitors—even though she crossed paths with Ser Lefford by accident—she has dedicated her last free moments before their noon meal to plan her next steps once she reaches the capital.

Rhaenyra wants to use her sister’s celebration for her own purposes, that’s for sure. As rude as it sounds, her sister won’t even remember the celebration, so she’s sure she won’t mind.

She is sure Otto and Alicent will have sunk their filthy hands in the court during her absence, but she has a few ideas on how to sway some of the favor in her direction. The fact that she also gets to spend more time with Aegon by doing so is a pleasant bonus. Hopefully, her uncle will manage to arrive soon into her detour to the Keep, so that she may truly capitalize on her stay to properly annoy Otto.

Besides, she misses her uncle terribly and she’s sure he’ll delight in hearing about her voyage across the Kingdoms. She absentmindedly hopes he’ll be proud of what she did in the North. Either that or he’ll scold her for putting herself in danger, but that’s more her father’s style.

She hopes to divert his anger with a hefty dose of sibling love. Hence, why she needs Aegon and, if possible, Daemon as well. It’s widely known that she’s always wanted a sister, and now that she has one she surely can’t be blamed for wanting to monopolize her, can she now?

And if Harwin is correct in his suspicions, it might also help to stall any plot Otto and Alicent are planning. She won’t let them use her siblings to usurp her rightful place. She has fought for the right to marry whoever she desires, and she’ll fight for them too if she needs to.

“I never thought I’d be saying it, but I can’t wait to got back to King’s Landing” bemoans Laena.

The Princess chuckles, “Why so? Am I not enough to entice you to enjoy the capital?”

Laena sticks her tongue out in a childish move that belies her young age. “Don’t be foolish! You might be the only thing worth in that entire damned, smelly place. But why would I want to torture myself with not only the smell, but also the hassle of having to share space with the Hightowers, when I can enjoy your company everywhere else now that I’m with you?”

Rhaenyra, honestly quite moved by the easy love her cousin gives her, leans forward and kisses her cheek, throwing her hands around her slender shoulders. To save time they have decided to share a bath, and she is glad of it because she can now cuddle with her beloved cousin as they slowly feel the water cooling.

“Princess, it’s time to get ready or you and the Lady Laena will be late” says Elinda. The loyal servant hates to ruin such a lovely moment, but she also has a duty to them and, even more importantly, to their set schedule.

The girls dress in simpler clothes, for all the statement pieces have already been packed away apart from the Stag cloak, but they still look stunning in various shades of lilac and purples. True to their word, they have both avoided red and gold during their stay, not even wearing the copious gifts—all made of gold and rubies, of course—Jason Lannister decided was appropriate to ply on her every time they crossed paths. Rhaenyra is fairly certain one of her chests has doubled in weight with all those added jewels.

As Laena finishes putting on her necklace, a lovely string made of blue pearls, the girls link arms and leave their rooms in the Rock for the last time. They have arranged for Elinda to help them change into their flying leathers in a service room near the exit. Otherwise, Rhaenyra has no doubt Lord Lannister would manage to intercept and delay them enough to force them to stay another night, the weasel that he is.

They walk, arm in arm, shadowed by a silent Ser Criston.

The dining room is the same as it has always been, Rhaenyra knows this, but this eve it seems House Lannister has decided to go all out. Not only every surface is covered by various tapestries depicting some the history of the Rock and others the story of the Conquest, each chair of the high table has been substituted by a sumptuous, plush almost throne-like chair made entirely of gold and with red cushions, those, too, embroidered with golden thread in the shape of a lion’s head.

Speaking of lions, as the herald announces her and Laena’s presence, Rhaenyra notices, in a corner of the room, a golden cage where a lion is quietly resting, a bright red leather collar around his carefully curated mane.

She curls her lip in disgust when she notices the marks of a whip on his back. She will never understand treating an animal as majestic as a lion in such a way. Especially since it’s supposed to be the animal representative of the House. A dragon would never be treated in such a way, but what can she expect from a bunch of Lannisters.

Lord Jason, as if sensing her gaze, rises on his feet. How he manages to not keel over under the weight of his own ego is astounding.

“Princess, I see you’ve already eyed your final gift!” he boasts, gesturing to the poor beast.

The entire room, filled with courtiers and servants, seems to still at those words. Either nobody knew about this gift, or Jason absolutely improvised this.

The Princess can feel Laena’s nails digging in her forearm, in shock or anger she knows not, but she keeps her stride and reaches the high table where Lord Jason is still smiling as if he has achieved something great.

“A gift?”

“Yes, indeed! A reminder of our mutual friendship, cultivated throughout this visit by me—and my siblings, of course” he hastily adds, when meeting the glare his twin, besides him, sends his way.

“Oh, what a… peculiar gift” Laena smiles with no emotion.

“I am aware such a creature might be difficult to manage, but I’m ever certain no other animal in your bestiary shall ever be more magnificent than this one.”

Rhaenyra’s smile turns sharp. “Let me reassure you, Lord Lannister, that House Targaryen is more than equipped for dealing with such an animal. My people on Dragonstone deal with dragons every day, after all. A mere lion is no competition.”

Only now he seems to realize his blunder, and attempts to backtrack. His twin, too, having remained silent until now, opens his mouth to speak, but before either can word their apologize or whatever, the Princess turns to the assembled nobility.

“I thank House Lannister and their bannermen for this wondrous stay, and I hope the loyalty you have shown in these halls both to me and your overlords will remain strong and steady in the face of the ever-changing future. May the Seven Kingdoms remain as united and thriving as it has always been under Targaryen rule!”

The hall explodes in thunderous applause, and in the chaos neither Laena nor Rhaenyra can make out any potential dissident. Quite frankly, they are both too busy thinking about how the fuck they’ll transport a lion all the way to Dragonstone.

In the end, the Lannisters prove themselves more useful than expected when they offer one of their fastest ships to transport the new addition to Rhaenyra’s bestiary. The Princess dictates the letter that is to be delivered to Dragonstone along the animal as she changes into her flying leathers, hoping that the heavy dinner will not come up during the flight. The reality of what, exactly, she’ll be doing has finally started to register and she’s feeling a bit nauseous.

She finishes lathering her face with the protective cream as she speaks, Elinda awaiting her every word with parchment and quill.

“Have the carpenters build a big enclosure for the lion, near one of the smallest caves where the dragons don’t nest. Have the fence be dense enough that no animal except small reptiles and insects will manage to pass through. I want the lion to be left alone, for the most part. Remove all traces of collars, chains and whatever will be on him. Have the golden cage melted into coins. I want it to be fed twice a week with two goats each time. Keep under observation whether he manages to hunt by himself or if his instincts are gone. All other care for him I’ll put in your hands” she finishes saying.

Elinda dutifully copies every word she says, before sealing the envelope and addressing it to Maester Gerardys—the only one Rhaenyra trusts with this. it will be delivered by messenger but there will be no way of tampering with the seal without being outed as a spy. Not that there’s anything damning in there, but the Princess has become a bit paranoid where her stepmother is concerned. That viper has already meddled around in too many ways for her not to be.

“Are we ready, mandia?”

She sighs as Laena’s arms come around her shoulders, letting herself melt in her embrace.

“I am as ready as I can be.”

“You aren’t getting cold feet now, are you?”

The sounds of Elinda tidying the final things before departure are the only things heard in the room until Rhaenyra sighs again. “I think I have just now realized how badly thing can go if we fail. How angry my father could be.”

“It could also go well. You know how sentimental your father is. He’ll never be angry at you for too long.”

“He is very sentimental, but now his affection will be directed to his new child and the wife that gave him another progeny. I know not if he’ll be as favorable to me and my antics.”

“Mother will surely back us up, if needs be, you know that. Moreover, we’ve gone over what you’ll say to him on multiple occasions: your excuses, your accomplishments, your justifications… why worry when we are as prepared as we can be?” Laena reassures her.

Rhaenyra allows herself a moment of insecurity, a moment when the voice in her head tells her that she is not ready for this, that she doesn’t know enough, that she won’t succeed, and then she steels herself. She straightens her spine, smoothing her leathers once more, admiring the fine embroidery fit for a Princess of her station.

She is Rhaenyra Targaryen, official Heir of the Iron Throne, daughter of Aemma Arryn, daughter of Viserys Targaryen and descendant of the Conquerors. She is not alone: she has Rhaenys, Laena, Daemon, Harwin, and many others that believe in her. She will succeed.

And so, as she orders her Golden Lady to soar over the Rock, basking in the enthusiastic waving and the fearful scurrying of the scared peasants both, she grins.

The Iron Throne will be hers. Alicent, the Hightowers and their supporters will not usurp her rightful inheritance; they will not turn her long-awaited siblings against her. The blood of the dragon runs thick, and no matter what, it will prevail.