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Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep – 111 A.C  

Fire.

Pain that swallowed everything until there was nothing left but the burn.

Silence.

Then nothing at all.

And out of that emptiness came a voice: “All of your dragons will be returned to you, even the one that was lost. But choose better this time. A prince you need.”

I jolted awake like I’d been dragged out of drowning. My lungs clawed for air that wouldn’t come fast enough. I pressed a hand to my chest expecting to feel the wound still there, the last mark of my brother’s dragon, but the skin beneath my fingers was smooth and unburned. It felt wrong.

Only when I looked down did the truth strike. The body wasn’t mine, not the one that had borne children and lived through war. My arms felt lighter, my legs too thin, my own weight untrustworthy. I froze, barely able to breathe, afraid even to test whether these limbs belonged to me.

The blankets twisted around me until they felt like they were choking me. I pushed them away and stumbled toward the mirror, heart pounding in my ears. The reflection didn’t lie. A girl stared back at me, barely four-and-ten, young and untouched by everything I knew was waiting ahead.

A laugh broke out of me, but it cracked halfway, no true laughter in it. My mouth moved before I could stop it. “What in the name of the Fourteen just happened?”

The last thing I remembered was being grown, my son’s face burning in my mind as I screamed his name. I remembered the shadow of wings, the fire, the moment my half-brother’s dragon swallowed me whole. I remember dying.

And now I was here, alive, staring at a version of myself I hadn’t seen in decades.

“This must be the work of the Valyrian gods,” I whispered, my voice rough as though saying it aloud might make it real. “It must have been their voice I heard. ‘All of your dragons will be returned to you, even the one that was lost.’” I repeated it slowly.

I had only ever held one dragon of flesh and bone. But the meaning shifted as I thought on it. We are Targaryens. We are as much dragon as human. My children were dragons, every single one of them. The one that was lost—

“Visenya,” I breathed, the name knotting in my chest before it left my lips. My little girl would not be taken from me again.

But the gods had said more. Choose better this time. A prince you need. The words spun through me like a curse. What choice was I meant to make? I had already chosen a prince. My uncle, my love, my twin flame. Was that choice wrong? Was there another I was meant for?

The thought landed cold. “Aegon?” I muttered, shuddering. No. Never him. Not that usurper, not that monster. The gods would not send me back only to chain me to him. They would not ask me to save him, to tie myself to him. They had sent me back to stop him, to end him before he ever had a chance to rise.

Which meant something else. My mother had to live. Only then could Alicent be kept from my father’s bed, from stealing what was never hers to take. Rage filled my throat at the memory of betrayal I had once mistaken for friendship.

It left me with one path to follow. To stop my mother’s death, I had to stop my father from forcing another pregnancy on her. He needed what he had always wanted—a male heir. Which meant he could never name me his heir.

My fist clenched before I even knew it and when I struck the mirror the crack tore through the chamber like a scream.

Glass splintered, my reflection breaking apart, but my own eyes still stared back through the fracture. Lilac and unyielding, carrying a hatred I didn’t know how to hold anymore. And beneath it all, exhaustion.

I leaned my forehead against the cold surface and the sob broke free, one I had held back for two lifetimes. I was tired of fighting, tired of being ground down by a realm that never let me rest. I had carried wars I never wanted and the thought of doing it again, all of it, once more—I wasn’t sure I could.

“I need to marry a prince and give father a male heir. That’s the only way.” The words slipped out before I realized I was speaking and hearing them aloud made the path clearer. “That must be why they sent me back to my four-and-ten body. I’ve already flowered and I know I won’t share muña’s struggles with childbearing. My pregnancies were always easy, one boy after another.” My voice caught as another thought pushed through. “Except for Visenya…”

A tear slipped down my cheek before I even noticed it. I pressed my lips together and tried to swallow the ache that never really left me. My sweet girl, the only daughter I ever had, taken before she had a chance to grow. I had wanted a daughter for as long as I could remember. It was kind of ironic, as my father had lived his whole life wanting nothing but sons.

“I can do this,” I whispered, holding onto the thought as if it could steady me. “This time I’ll be a better muña. I’ll put everything into raising them, into making sure they’re ready for what waits ahead.” I could already picture it, the future spread out like a game board where all I had to do was move the pieces into place.

“Baela and Rhaena will be strong wives for my eldest sons, that will mend the Velaryons’ wounded pride. And I have Arryn blood, I can give my cousin, what she could never have otherwise. An heir. It’s not like the Lady of the Eyrie would ever bear a child, not with her preferences.”

“The Stepstones will be ours this time, and if it’s done right, we will never have to fight over them again. No more Triarchy threatening our livelihood. This time around, Jace will never be taken out by a stray arrow.” The more I strategize, the more ideas I get. “The Stepstones will be the start of a new branch of House Targaryen, a foothold to build trade with Essos and even Dorne.”

I stopped at that thought, heat sparking in my chest. “Dorne. That’s it. Qoren Martell, Prince of Dorne. If I marry him, Dorne will finally join Westeros.”

I could almost see it happen, a peace treaty signed between House Martell and House Targaryen, and the banners of Dorne raised in support of my line. The lords who dismissed me will be forced to bow in respect. After all, I would be the reason that the Seven Kingdoms will finally be truly seven.

“With Dorne and the Vale standing behind my children, no one will dare to plot against them. And if I make it clear that Martell blood must inherit the throne for Dorne to join us, then it’s sealed. No one will push my father to have another son or urge him to remarry. Not when it could cause a war with one of the most independent regions of Westeros.”

A smile tugged at my face before I even realized it. It trembled but it was real. “I can really do this,” I murmured in disbelief.

Hope. This was the first I had felt in years, maybe longer. The feeling pushed me forward. “Even the Stormlands can be won. It would not be hard either, all I need to do is betrothe one of my princes to one of Borros’ daughters. But which one? Maybe, Maris. Yes, Maris would do well. She’s the cleverest of the Four Storms, she’ll make a good match.”

The idea gave me enough strength to lift my spine and look at the broken shards across the floor. In the jagged pieces I caught my own reflection, streaked with tears I didn’t bother to wipe away. After all, they would serve me well.

“Now all I need to do,” I raised my chin, feeling determination take root, “is put on a good show.”

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 111 A.C  

“Muña! Father!”

Her cry yanked me out of sleep like cold water. I sat up too fast, breath caught in my throat, and there she was—my daughter. Her face was blotched with tears, her hair sticking out in wild tufts as though she’d wrestled herself awake from some nightmare.

“Muña!” she cried again, and before I could move, she threw herself into my arms, pressing her face into my chest as she trembled from the heart wrenching sobs that tore through her.

For a moment all I could do was stare in astonishment, before instinct broke through and I pulled her tight. Worry rushed in, pushing shock aside. “Sweetling,” I whispered as I smoothed her hair, “shh, it’s all right.”

“Please,” she gasped between cries, clutching harder. “I can’t lose you, muña. Don’t die.”

The words stopped me cold. My heart slammed in my chest, my mind blank as I looked down at her. Confusion twisted with dread until I couldn’t tell which one was which.

My husband stirred beside me, every part of him gone rigid. His anger had been replaced with something colder, and I could tell that he was wondering the same thing as me. What had driven her to this?

“Shh,” I tried again, quieter now, rocking her slightly like I used to when storms scared her as a child. “My sweet princess, calm yourself. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not dying.”

She sniffled hard, her cries turning into hiccups, but when she raised her face just enough to speak. “But you will. If you keep trying to have an heir,” the certainty in her voice didn’t belong to a girl her age, “you will die.”

The room closed in on me with every word.

“I saw it,” she whispered. “I dreamt it. You will die in 112 AC. Father will have the Grand Maester cut you open to try and save my brother, Baelon. But he will die too, only hours after you.”

I could hardly breathe, as horror made my blood run cold.

I turned too sharply toward my husband, my chest burning with betrayal I couldn’t hold back, ready to strike him with words I would not be able to take back. But when I saw him, pale as a corpse, eyes wide with fear he couldn’t cover, the anger left me. He looked as shaken as I felt.

What am I doing? Taking the words of my daughter as truth when she clearly had a nightmare? Am I losing my mind? This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. It was just a dream.

Just a nightmare.

And yet…

“So let me take your place,” Rhaenyra said, her hands fisting in my nightdress as she looked up. Her cheeks streaked with tears, her eyes red and swollen, yet behind them a saw a fierce determination that scared me.

My heart broke at her words.

Had we failed her so badly that she believed this was her only worth? That she would need to marry too early and bear heirs to us, for me, as though her life was nothing beyond fulfilling the duties her father and I had failed at?

I brushed her cheek with my thumb, searching for words, any words that might undo what had settled in her. My sweet girl. My brave, broken-hearted girl.

“Oh, Rhaenyra,” I whispered, pulling her tight against me again. “I am so sorry.”

“Do not worry, muña, I’ve seen it. I will have six children, five boys and a girl. I will even bring Dorne into the fold through my marriage.”

“Your marriage, my sweet princess?” Viserys’s voice cut in before I could speak. It was filled with something that made my stomach twist—hope, yes, but tangled with greed.

The horror was gone from his face as if it had never been real. Whatever fear he had shown for my life had already given way to hunger for the vision in our daughter’s dreams. I turned a glare on him, but he barely noticed, transfixed by what he was hearing.

“What have you seen?” I asked her, softer than I felt, desperate to keep her anchored to me and not lost to her father’s grasping.

“I saw myself marrying Qoren Martell,” she said, her face lighting with joy so bright it hurt to see. “And by 112 AC I will have birthed a male heir.” Her smile spread with pride, the kind only a mother could recognize. “Our first three boys will take after their father’s coloring, but all of their eggs will hatch in the crib from a clutch Syrax will lay in a few moons. There will be five eggs. The other two will go to Uncle Daemon’s twin girls, who will marry my boys.”

Viserys lit up. “I will be an uncle?!”

His delight was so open, so childlike, that it might have been sweet if not for what he was encouraging. I stared at them both, disbelief plain on my face. Was he truly believing these words so easily? Was I the only one unwilling to let go of reason? Had they both lost their grip on reality?

“And what of your other children?” he pressed, leaning closer as though he could already touch the future she was spinning. “Will they be dragonriders too?”

“Yes,” Rhaenyra said softly. Her tone was tender, it made her sound older, almost like a mother. “Unlike their older brothers, they will take after our Valyrian heritage in coloring. But they will not have any hatchlings, they will claim their dragons.”

Her certainty should have frightened me, yet the way she spoke pulled me in. Maybe she did know something we did not. Maybe it wasn’t madness, but some truth given to her in dream by the gods.

“Sweetheart,” I said carefully, forcing the doubt down, “can you tell us how this can be achieved? Dorne has never been easy to bring into the kingdom.” I reached for her hand as I spoke, hoping I would not come to regret this leap of faith.

She looked at me with the seriousness of a queen rather than a girl. “We must allow them to keep their title of Prince or Princess of Dorne. It is not like they will be stretch, after all my son will rule the region one day, and their family will carry Valyrian blood through their veins.”

Viserys’s face shone with excitement. It sickened me to see how easily he could sell our daughter as a broodmare if it meant being the king who brought Dorne into the fold of the seven kingdoms.

“They will need the assurance that a prince with Martell blood will one day inherit the Iron Throne. With their blood tied also to the Vale there should be no issue. Other than a few taxes and trade agreements, they should welcome it. Their territory will open to wider trade, strengthening their economy. They only need to believe we respect them, especially their customs and religion. As long as we do, they will join us willingly.”

“We can do that.” Viserys’s grin stretched wide.

I sat in silence, my mind reeling. My daughter was speaking as though she had already lived these years, as though she had seen it all unfold. And I could not tell if I should cling to the hope she gave or recoil from the path, I was setting my own daughter in.  After all, I knew all too well what it was like to be married off too early.

And that was without taking into account the devastating news she had dropped on me.

She had dreamt of the years ahead, and in those dreams my husband’s hunger for a son had been enough to outweigh the love we share. The thought stung, sharp and bitter, until I caught on to what I had almost missed in her words.

“Martell blood ruling the Vale?” I turned to her quickly, fear knotting in my chest. “What happened to the Arryns?”

“Nothing, mother,” she answered with a tilt of her head that looked too innocent for the mischievous glint in her lilac eyes. “I am an Arryn too and so will be my children.” Her eyes softened, almost playful. “My cousin has… specific preferences,” she added, lowering her voice.

I winced. Of course I knew. Everyone knew. The Lady of the Vale’s lack of interest in men was an open secret, though rarely spoken aloud. But hearing it from my daughter startled me. How much did she truly know? If her knowledge came from her dreams rather than gossip, then perhaps I was beginning to understand why Viserys was so quick to believe her.

Rhaenyra’s face softened again as she continued, her words falling like a recitation. “Jacaerys will be the future king. He will wed a Velaryon bride, and that will finally end the disputes between our families.”

Relief broke through me then, pulling a smile before I could stop it. Even before I could answer, I heard Viserys sigh beside me, heavy with years of worry that seemed to ease all at once.

“Lucerys,” Rhaenyra went on, “will marry the heiress of House Velaryon and become the Lord Consort of Driftmark.”

I stiffened at her words, my eyes wide. No male heir for the Velaryons? It startled me, though it was not impossible. Leanor’s preferences had never been a secret, and Rhaenys had never placed much weight on the need for sons. Corlys might grumble, but he followed her lead more often than not. With a prince as consort and Velaryon blood still ruling Driftmark, who would dare challenge it? It was not rare for minor houses to accept a female ruler when there was no other choice.

“Joffrey will be the Prince of Dorne,” Rhaenyra said, her voice softening as she moved to the next name. “Aegon will marry his sister Visenya, Lady of the Vale, and become her Lord Consort. My cousin will want a female heir, just to prove a point to those stuffy Vale lords.”

She smiled at that, small and almost conspiratorial, as if the thought amused her.

“What about your fifth son?” Viserys asked.

“I see him with a branch house of his own,” Rhaenyra answered dreamily, her gaze distant as though she was speaking more to her vision than to us. “I do not know where yet, but I see a war coming. There are many islands, and a Sea Snake coming with a warning. I will be there with Syrax, and I will claim those lands for my son.”

“A war?” The word left me in shock.

I turned quickly to Viserys and my stomach clenched as I saw the color drain from his face. For a moment he looked like a boy again, unsteady and unsure, then the mask of king settled back into place.

“We had better heed the Sea Snake when he comes,” I whispered, my hand reaching for his arm.

“We had better start putting coin aside for the war,” he whispered back, already lost in calculation. “And begin training more men.” His mouth drew into a thin line before he added, almost carelessly, “But for now, I have a letter to write to Dorne.”

I frowned at him. He was already reaching out to the Martells, already moving forward without even pretending to ask my opinion about the choice. For years I had believed we were partners in this marriage, equals in love and rule, but at that moment I saw the truth. I had been wrong.

It had never been only the pressure of lords or council or whispers in the hall. Those had been excuses he offered me, excuses he may have even believed himself. The hunger for a son had always been his. It had been there from the start, hidden behind vows of love and promises of unity, but it had never left him.

And now suddenly our daughter was enough. Not because of who she was or because he cherished her, but because she had shown him a future where her son, his grandson, would wear the crown. That was what made her worthy. That was why she mattered.

The bitterness rose in my throat. He only decided to stop because her vision ended with a grandson on the throne. Not out of guilt, not out of love, but because the story aligned with what he had always wanted.

He hadn’t thought of the cost to her. He hadn’t seen the terror on her face, the way she had begged me not to die. He hadn’t noticed what it did to her to imagine selling herself into Dorne in her dreams just to save me.

My sweet girl, who never wished for marriage, who never wished to be a mother, who should have had more years to herself before bearing such burdens.

And still he plotted. Still his mind turned to letters and soldiers and coin.

There was no sense to be spoken to him. There never had been. Now I could finally see it clear.

Chapter Text

Sunspear, Old Palace – 111 A.C   

I stared at my father, caught somewhere between disbelief and confusion.

“I’m getting married? This year? To the Targaryen princess?” The words felt strange in my mouth, like I needed to repeat them just to believe them. I searched his face for some hint of jest, but I found none. “How did you even achieve that?”

“I did nothing,” he said, almost too quickly, his tone cautious. “It was the work of the king… though from what I gathered, it was the queen who pressed it forward. She came herself to Dorne, with her daughter at her side and the Master of Laws, Lord Lyonel Strong, trailing behind them. They came to discuss the agreement and sign in the name of the crown.”

“An agreement?” My frown deepened as I leaned in closer. “We are to be wed. What more could there be beyond a betrothal contract and a bride price?”

His mouth tightened, eyes flicking away for a moment as though weighing his words. “It seems that because of the queen’s… difficulties with fertility, certain assurances had to be made.” He paused, then sighed, lowering his voice. “It has been decided that Princess Rhaenyra’s firstborn son will inherit the Iron Throne.”

My eyes widened as I realized what that meant. Martell blood will rule the Seven Kingdoms.

“And your second child,” he went on, “or the eldest if the firstborn is a girl, will rule Dorne as its Prince—or Princess.”

I sat back, breath catching in my chest as the image sharpened in my mind. My children, heirs to both sun and fire.

“We will keep our titles?” I asked, still not quite believing. “Princes and princesses of Dorne?”

“A way to sweeten the deal,” my father said with a sardonic twist of his lips. “The queen even told me that her cousin in the Vale has named her and her line as heirs to the Eyrie.”

I blinked, stunned into silence for a heartbeat before the words tumbled out of me. “So, Martell blood will rule the Crownlands, Dorne, and the Vale…” A laugh broke loose, sharp with exhilaration. “Mother Rhoyne. No wonder you accepted the marriage proposal.” My pulse raced, the thought of it heating my blood like good wine. “The Vale accepts female rulers, don’t they?”

“They do,” he answered, and the smirk returned to his face. “The Lady of the Vale herself demanded that the firstborn daughter of your line be named her heir.”

“Good.” The grin that spread across my face felt vicious, sharp with satisfaction. That will show those stuffy lords how’s it’s really done. “Is there something else I need to know?” I asked, half expecting him to say no, half bracing for whatever bargain had been tucked into the fine print.

“Your firstborn son will marry a Velaryon queen. That was written into the contract,” my father said, his tone carrying that warning weight he always used when he thought I might argue.

I only shrugged. If Princess Rhaenyra did not marry her cousin Leanor, then this was the next best outcome. Dorne might not play at the other kingdoms’ endless game of thrones, but that didn’t mean we were blind to it. We kept our eyes and ears open.

“There are some tax and trade concessions as well,” he went on, “in exchange for providing constant relief to the North and the Wall. Shipments of fruit and vegetables, mostly.”

I thought about that, weighing it quickly. It didn’t sound too steep, especially since our climate gave us good harvests year after year. The taxes and trade benefits would likely balance it out. Depending on the exact terms, it might even lean in our favor.

“Other than that,” he added with a flick of his hand, “nothing for you to worry about. Though Princess Rhaenyra did propose something else. A trade agreement with the North—for textiles, spices, and sand.”

“Sand?” I turned toward him, unable to keep the confusion from my face. “Why in Mother Rhoyne’s name would the North need sand? “

“For glass, of course,” he replied as though it were obvious. “In return, we’ll receive northern steel—the strongest steel in the Seven Kingdoms, outside of Valyrian—and the finest wood in the realm for shipbuilding.”

I let out a thoughtful hum, already picturing the possibilities. “That’s a fair trade. But we need to be careful. If our merchants grow greedy and start driving up the price of sand, we risk making enemies of the North, and I have no interest in turning half the realm against us over broken trust.”

“That we do not,” my father said with a low chuckle. “Princess Rhaenyra made sure to point that out. She dressed it up in pretty words, but the warning underneath was clear enough. She seems to hold the North in high regard.”

His expression softened, though his tone stayed serious. “The Dornish court seems to think highly of her as well.”

That caught me off guard. A Targaryen well regarded by our people? That was rare. The Dornish were proud, stubborn in their ways, and rarely impressed by outsiders. Especially, Targaryen. For one of them to win their respect so quickly was no small feat.

“Ever since she arrived,” my father continued, “she has worn our clothes, eaten our food, and asked to learn our customs. It was because of her insistence that the contract specifically states our religion will be accepted and honored, the same way the North’s is. We will continue to follow the teachings of Mother Rhoyne without being forced toward the Seven. You will be free to pass them on to your children, and in time, it will be for them to choose which path to follow.” He paused, then added with a pointed look, “All except your eldest son. He will be required to follow the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria.”

The freedom to pass on our faith, the assurance that we wouldn’t be bent or broken under the weight of another’s gods—that, at least, was a relief. I found myself softening, the thought creeping in unbidden: I might actually like this future wife of mine.

“She has also decided to begin training with a spear,” my father added, almost casually.

“She has?” The surprise colored my voice before I could help it. Who was this princess who kept overturning every expectation I had of her? “And the queen allowed it?”

“She did,” my father said with a small nod. “The queen’s words were, ‘It is her future husband’s culture and practices. There is no shame in learning them. If anything, it is encouraged. A wife should learn her husband’s ways so she can better adapt.’ Those two make quite the pair.”

I leaned back, still trying to picture it. A Targaryen princess, learning to hold a spear, moving through our training yards in Dornish silks instead of gowns that dragged in the dust. It was almost too strange a picture, yet the more I thought of it, the more I could imagine it.

“However, you don’t seem to think as highly of the king,” I pointed out, noticing the faint frown tugging at my father’s mouth.

His answer came sharp, heavy with disdain. “He already has an excellent heir in his daughter, yet he kept his brother as next in line for all of these years. Not to mention, that he continues to risk his wife’s life, desperate for a son that comes from his own loins. It is pathetic. Now he prepares to wed his daughter at four-and-ten, eager to see her bedded and bred quickly, all for the chance at a crown prince from his own line.”

The bitterness in his voice was impossible to miss, and though I shared some of his unease, I still reminded him quietly, “He is still the king. And he is my future wife’s father.”

“Which is why I have said nothing of this to anyone,” my father replied firmly. His eyes narrowed, the weight of his words pressing hard against me. “But you must hear me now, son. You will need to protect her. The court in the Red Keep is full of vipers, and you have seen for yourself how little the king values the lives of his wife and daughter. You must stand at her side. You must defend her, defend the birthright of your children, with everything you have. Do you understand me?”

I held his gaze, seeing the seriousness in his eyes, and nodded with all the resolve I could muster. “Understood, father.”

I will not fail. This marriage, this alliance, will raise us above every other power in the Seven Kingdoms. It will make Dorne stronger than it has ever been, and I will see it through. I cannot allow myself to fail.

“Now, let’s go and meet your future wife,” my father said with a smile as he rose to his feet.

 I followed him out, my chest tight with anticipation, and when we stepped into the training yard the sight that greeted me nearly knocked the breath from my lungs.

She was there, moving in a blur among the Sunspear guards. The most beautiful woman I had ever seen, silver hair catching the harsh Dornish sun so that it gleamed like fire, lilac eyes locked on her opponent with a focus that could cut steel.

That was not spar, if anything the princess was dancing. Each step, each twist of her body carried a rhythm that was both graceful and lethal. And that body… wrapped in crimson Dornish silks that clung to her with every motion, leaving little to the imagination. I felt my mouth go dry, heat rising to my face before I could stop it.

“She tried to take up the sword at first,” my father said lightly, clearly amused by the way I was staring. He chuckled, as if he knew exactly what was running through my head. “But we learned quickly that the speed and flexibility of a spear suit her style far better.”

“Her style?” I asked, though my eyes refused to leave her. I could not look away from the woman who was soon to be mine.

My father nodded, watching her with something almost like pride. “She knows she cannot match a man in strength, not blow for blow. She knows her strikes will not shake an opponent to the bone, nor will she be able to meet the weight of their swings without faltering. But that is not her way. She waits, low and patient, like a viper hidden in the tall grass. She lets them move first, lets them leave themselves open, and then she strikes—quick and merciless.”

I stared, dumbfounded, at both his words and the living proof of them before me. Each time her opponent overreached, she slid past him with ease, the spear darting forward before he could correct himself.

“Now you see,” my father went on, his voice lower now, almost reverent, “why our people have embraced her so quickly. She may be a dragon by birth, but she carries herself like she was born to be a Martell. She fights with the patience and the passion of our people. And with the fire of a dragon burning in her blood, she matches the heat of Dorne’s sun.”

I swallowed hard, he was right. She belonged here, and she was to be mine.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep – 111 A.C  

I frowned as I moved quickly through the halls of the Red Keep, behind me, Otto Hightower was left fuming. His voice carried down the corridor, as he was still trying to convince the king to reconsider.

Normally, his poisonous lies would have been enough to make my brother bend, but not today. Viserys had shut his ears to everyone but himself. There was a wildness in his eyes when he dismissed Otto, and the memory of it made my stomach tighten.

“Sister,” I said as I entered the queen’s chamber. Aemma was seated by the window, her gaze turned outward toward King’s Landing, expression distant.

“So, you’ve heard,” she murmured, not moving her eyes from the city below.

“This is madness,” I hissed, anger spilling too easily. “Marrying a Targaryen princess to a Dornishman? What could my brother be thinking? And to keep it hidden until the last moment… this is not like him.”

Aemma didn’t answer right away. Instead, she let out a sound that was half a soft laugh and half a bitter scoff. “Did you know I married Viserys when I was one-and-ten?” she asked suddenly, her voice cutting through my fury.

I blinked at her, caught off guard.

“I loved him—or at least I thought I did,” she went on, still staring out the window. “Which is why I forced myself to give him what he always wanted. A male heir.” She finally turned to me then, and I nearly recoiled at the hate in her eyes.

“My health has never been the same since Rhaenyra’s birth,” she continued. “I knew every pregnancy might kill me, yet I still tried, over and over, because I loved him. But it was never enough for your brother. Never.” She paused, her throat working as she drew in a slow breath. “It was not until our daughter barged into my chambers, weeping, declaring she would take my place to give him the son he wanted, that he stopped.”

Her words struck me like a blow.

“She saw it,” Aemma whispered, anger flickering in her eyes now. “She saw me die in a dream. She saw your brother order the Grand Maester to cut me open and take the babe from my belly. And she saw that babe live for only a few hours before dying as well.”

I froze where I stood, my mouth dry as my body went cold.

“A dreamer…” I whispered, the realization making my skin crawl.

“He does not care for anyone or anything but his legacy and those cursed Valyrian prophecies!” Aemma’s voice was sharp, her eyes burning into mine. For a heartbeat I thought her fury was aimed at me, but I saw quickly it wasn’t. All that fire was for Viserys.

“Does he listen to us? To his family?” she pressed on, her voice rising. “No. He would rather lend his ear to that snake Otto Hightower than to anyone who truly stands by him. He treats you like dirt, and he thinks of me as expendable. Expendable! When it is you and me—the both of us—who gave him the throne he clings to so tightly. Your dragon, my Vale army. That is why he sits there so comfortably.”

She drew in a deep breath, shoulders lifting as she steadied herself, forcing the rage back into something controllable. When she spoke again, her tone was quieter, but it cut far deeper.

“You love your brother. He is the last of your direct family, and I know what that means to you. But we both know the truth you don’t want to face. He does not love you back—not the way you love him.”

I flinched at the truth of those words, and I hated that she saw it. I wanted to deny it, to tell her she was wrong, but I couldn’t. We both knew she was right.

“He kept you trapped in an unhappy marriage, pulled you from post to post like a piece on his board,” she went on, eyes never leaving mine. “I don’t even know when it happened. When he turned so cold, so distant, so high on power that he forgot the people who carried him there. But I know this much—he will drag the realm down with him if nothing changes. And I need to know where you stand.”

Her gaze sharpened, unyielding, like the falcon on her banners ready to dive. “With your brother? Or with your niece?”

“My niece, of course,” I answered without hesitation.

The truth was already clear, even if I had spent years trying to hide from it. I might wish to cling to the bond of blood between my brother and me, but I was not blind. I knew where my place was. The only two people who had ever truly loved me—who had seen me for what I really was and still loved me for it—were Aemma and Rhaenyra. Not in spite of who I was. But because of it.

“Good, because she got your marriage annulled,” Aemma said, almost too casual for the weight of the news she had laid on me.

For a moment, I just stared at her, unable to process it.

“I got my cousin and House Royce’s permission,” she explained, smirking at the look on my face, clearly enjoying the shock. “House Royce needs an heir, so they had no trouble allowing this. I believe they assumed the two of you would eventually relent and bed each other.”

“As if!” I scoffed, tone dripping with derision. “The Bronze Bitch is as stubborn as I am!”

“I know that, I had only hoped my husband would come to see it too,” Aemma replied, shaking her head with a look of disappointment. “You will marry Laena Velaryon and finally have the Valyrian bride you have always wished for. Together you will have two daughters, one destined to be queen, and the other, Lady of Driftmark.”

I froze, the words sinking into me slowly. Hope sparked inside, weak at first but steadily growing as I searched her face for any sign of deceit. She smiled softly, and for the first time I let myself believe her. Two daughters. Two little girls who would carry my bloodlines, who would one day be one of the most powerful women in Westeros.

“They will both be wed to Targaryen princes,” Aemma continued, though then her expression grew sharper. “Rhaenyra wanted me to give you a warning as well.”

“A warning?” My voice slipped out quieter than I intended, fear pricking at the edges.

“After your second daughter is born, do not allow Laena to fall pregnant again,” she said firmly, her eyes narrowing protectively. “She will die in dragonfire if she does. Your daughters will grow, they will live healthy lives and reach their majority without issue. That is enough. Do not be greedy for another child.”

Not like your brother, was left unsaid but clearly heard.

“Don’t worry,” I said quickly, trying to reassure her as much as myself. “I am more than content with daughters. Two little princesses of my own…” The thought made me smile despite myself, and when I caught Aemma’s soft stare I looked away, heat rising in my face.

“What about my niece?” I asked, clearing my throat to cover the moment. “Will she manage with the Dornishman?”

“I do not know,” Aemma admitted, her gaze drifting back toward the city beyond her window. “She spoke little of the marriage itself, instead focusing on her children.”

“She will have more than one?” I asked, startled. Rhaenyra had always dreaded the birthing bed, shaped by years of watching her mother suffer through it.

“She will have six,” Aemma answered with a small smile. “Five boys and one girl.”

My eyes widened at the number, almost laughing at the sheer impossibility of it. “Well, that will certainly keep them busy,” I muttered, shaking my head. Six children. It was not quite the number our grandsire had sired, but still enough to the Red Keep and secure the lines.

And for a brief moment, I let myself imagine it all—two little daughters at my side, Rhaenyra surrounded by her brood, and a future where all of it might just be real.

Aemma took a deep breath before sharing the rest of the dragon dream with me. “Jacaerys will marry your daughter and together they will rule the Seven Kingdoms. Lucerys will become your other daughter’s Lord Consort of Driftmark. Two happy marriages formed out of a bond that started out as friendship.”

I felt my face soften into a smile; my sweet girls would have safety, companionship, and a secure future. What more could I wish for?

“Then comes Joffrey,” she went on. “He will be the Prince of Dorne after his father. After him will be born Aegon, then Viserys, and finally Visenya. I have already spoken with my cousin, and she has agreed to name Rhaenyra’s firstborn daughter as her heir.”

“With her preferences, that is the best choice,” I muttered with a short snicker, unable to help myself.

“Be good,” Aemma chided, though her lips twitched with amusement. “Visenya will marry her brother Aegon, and together they will rule the Vale. As for Viserys, he will begin a branch family of House Targaryen, with a keep of his own. But to claim those lands… a war will break.”

“A war?” The warmth I had been holding onto drained out of me instantly. “Where? When?”

“Rhaenyra does not know yet. Only that we must heed the warning of the Sea Snake,” Aemma said.

“Rhaenys’ husband?” I asked, unsettled at once. “So, he will be the one carrying word of war? Am I the only one who feels unease at that? Would they contest my future grand-nephew’s claim?” The thought slipped out before I could stop it.

“Not when we are promising them a Velaryon queen and giving them two princes,” Aemma replied, her tone measured. “If anything, I would expect the Velaryons to be our fiercest allies. I think the threat lies elsewhere. Pirates.”

“The Narrow Sea, then.” I rubbed at my jaw, my mind already moving. “We’ll need more ships. Dragonfire is useless if those rats can simply scatter and vanish back into their caves.”

“I’ve already put coin and men toward new ships,” Aemma sighed. “The idea had been Viserys’, if you would believe it.” She scoffed, her disbelief clear. “But he all but forgot about the war preparations the moment the Martell party made it to King’s Landing. I had to get everything started on my own, as my dear husband is too busy proclaiming to the world that he alone is the reason Dorne will finally join the Seven Kingdoms.” Her words dripped with dry disdain, and I grimaced, because I knew exactly how true they were.

“And worse,” she added, “he has not been making friends with the Faith lately.”

“They will be furious over the weddings being held in the traditions of the Rhoynar and of Old Valyria,” I scoffed, though my smirk turned sharp. “It’s laughable, really. Only recently did the royal family begin marrying in septs under the eyes of the Seven, and now they act as though it has always been this way. Why would anyone be surprised that we return to our own traditions after my grandsire died?”

Before we could say another word, a White Cloak burst into the chamber, pale and out of breath. “Your Grace, Prince Daemon—there’s a commotion in the throne room. The High Septon has arrived and proclaimed the princess a heretic.”

My eyes widened, and then the rage bubbled to the surface, white-hot and consuming. A heretic? They dared? There was no mistake who was behind this, it had Hightower’s stink was all over.

“Then let us show them why it is never wise to stand against a dragon,” my sister said, her voice sharp as steel.

She rose with effortless grace; I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips as I followed her. My chest swelled with pride at her resolve; at the fire she carried so openly when the moment demanded it.

We swept into the throne room together, the High Septon was in the middle of bellowing about how the crown no longer honored the Light of the Seven.

“What is the meaning of this?” my sister’s voice rang out, slicing through the air with authority.

The room froze. The noise of the gathered lords cutting off at once as every head turned towards us. Nobles shifted and dipped into bows, as the guards straightened into their position. We walked forward, joining our kin at the foot of the Iron Throne. My eyes found Otto immediately, and fury rose within me. He wore the faintest trace of a smirk, smug and poorly hidden, like a child who thought he’d been clever.

“A misunderstanding, muña,” Rhaenyra answered smoothly, her lips curling into an angelic smile that would have fooled anyone else. But not me. I knew that smile. Mischief lived behind it, sharp and dangerous.

“A misunderstanding?!” The High Septon’s outrage slipped into arrogance, his voice rising higher than it should have. He nearly choked on his own words when my glare landed on him, and the stuttering that followed would have been amusing if I wasn’t already picturing how easily I could silence him.

“Of course,” Rhaenyra continued, turning that same sweet smile on the High Septon himself. Her composure disarmed the entire room, even I had to marvel at her poise. “It is not that we do not respect the Seven. My betrothed and I simply follow another faith. The Seven Kingdoms welcomes many cultures and beliefs, so we did not think that would present a problem.”

The High Septon puffed up again, refusing to be outmaneuvered. “But we are the predominant faith, and the one that blessed the crown!” he declared, his voice ringing out self-righteously, as if he thought the weight of his office might shield him from consequence.

Gasps rippled through the crowd, nobles turning wide-eyed at the audacity of the declaration. Hightower’s smug little nod confirmed what I had known from the start—this was his work. My gaze shifted, scanning the room.

Lyonel Strong stood rigid with fury, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack. Just behind Rhaenyra, her newly named sworn shield, Harwin Strong, looked ready to draw his blade and cut the Septon down where he stood. His hand hovered near his sword hilt, and the look in his eyes promised violence the moment anyone gave him the excuse.

The air was heavy, every breath in the hall tight with tension. And all I could think was that we had walked straight into Otto’s trap—but my niece had already started to turn it back on him.

“No, you are not,” Rhaenyra corrected smoothly, her brow furrowed in a show of confusion. To the rest of the room, it looked like indignation, but I saw what others missed. It was the look of a cat who’d caught the canary.

“More than half the realm follows the Old Gods,” she continued, her voice calm, deliberate. “Even great houses south of the Neck, like House Royce and Strong, have never abandoned them.”

She turned her head and smiled sweetly at her sworn shield and at Lord Lyonel Strong, the Master of Laws. Both men bowed their heads slightly, smiling back with gratitude.

Rhaenyra didn’t pause, continuing on her tirade. “The whole of Dorne follows the teachings of Mother Rhoyne. House Targaryen and House Velaryon keep faith with the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria. So no, High Septon, the Seven do not hold predominance.”

Her smile turned sharp as her words landed. The High Septon flushed, his cheeks mottled with embarrassment and fury, while laughter rippled through the hall. I grinned wide, pride filling me until my chest ached. That was my niece. That was her, standing tall, reminding the court that she was a dragon and wouldn’t be intimidated by a sheep.

But then she pressed further, her tone still light though the edge in it was clear. “And do not claim we have been insensitive to the Seven either. It is the Faith alone who ever sought to crush other religions. It was your institution that raised arms against the crown.”

The laughter died instantly, cut short like a blade had sliced through the air. Silence hung over the throne room. My heart thudded in my chest. She had said it. She had gone there. By the gods, she had truly gone there.

At that moment, as though her words had summoned them, Dornishmen entered the hall. They were led by her betrothed, and behind them came servants bearing chests of seized treasure. The Dornish guards marched straight up the aisle, dragging septons in their wake, each one bound and gagged.

“What is the meaning of this?!” Otto finally lost control, his composure snapping. His face was red with rage as he shouted, voice cracking with fury. “Release these good and pious men at once! Guards!”

“Pious?” Rhaenyra repeated, the word dripping with disdain. She held the room still with a single glare before turning on the Hand of the King. “If you had allowed me to speak with my father instead of rushing to discredit my marriage, this would never have been necessary.”

Then she turned to Viserys. Her smile softened into something that looked apologetic, though I knew well enough it was nothing of the sort. “As I tried to tell you before, father, when we heard septons slandering this great union you arranged, we chose to investigate.”

Her voice dropped just slightly, but everyone in the hall heard her. “Do you know what we uncovered? Rapists, thieves, and child molesters hiding beneath the mask of purity and faith.”

Gasps broke across the throne room. “By the gods,” Viserys growled, his face twisting in horror. The sound of ladies crying rose above the din, as lords shouted in outrage. And through it all, my niece stood calm, unflinching, her eyes locked on the man who called her a heretic.

“Also, look at that,” Rhaenyra said, her voice cutting through the murmurs in the hall as she gestured toward the piles of seized treasure. “What does the Faith, who claim to devote themselves to the people and live with the bare minimum, want with all of this? We had better put it to better use. I think orphanages, soup kitchens, and learning houses would be a far better place for it.”

The ripple was immediate. Nobles leaned toward one another, whispering words of praise. The tone in the hall shifted, courtly approval blooming in hushed admiration.

“House Martell would be honored to add its coin to such projects for the people of King’s Landing,” Qoren Martell added smoothly, his lips curling into a smirk.

“Thank you, my betrothed!” Rhaenyra turned toward him, her smile radiant, the perfect picture of grace and partnership. The ladies watching nearly swooned, sighing about what a pious and generous match the two of them made.

I bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing aloud. My niece was playing them all like a song, and they didn’t even realize it. Not even Otto could find a single foothold to defend his precious Faith. Every path he might have used had already been sealed off with her words.

“As for the matter at hand,” Rhaenyra continued, her tone softening into something almost conciliatory, “of course I respect the Seven, just as I respect any other faith in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Liar. Bold, shameless liar. When did you learn to lie like that, my dear niece? And when did you learn to make it sound so convincing?

“Which is why I chose to aid you, High Septon,” she went on smoothly, “by arresting these criminals with the support of Dorne. I am certain that had you known their crimes, you would have acted yourself. But such a move from you would have caused division among your faithful. That is why I made sure the burden fell on me. I will take the blame, I will bear the outrage. You are welcome, High Septon.”

That was it—I couldn’t hold it in anymore. Laughter burst out of me, sharp and unrestrained, even as the court broke into cheers. Lords clapped hands together, ladies wiped at tears as they praised her bravery and her devotion to the people.

Aemma stood near us, her expression softening into a proud smile, while Viserys barked orders for the seized monsters to be dragged to the dungeons and for his daughter’s vision for the treasure to begin at once.

The High Septon, pale and shaken, looked as though the ground had been ripped from under him. He had nothing left to say. The Faith could no longer challenge her marriage, not after this spectacle. They would have no choice but to support it now, indebted to the very woman they had tried to bring down, trapped by her promise of public good.

I glanced toward Otto. That was my mistake—I couldn’t resist. The sight of him nearly doubled me over. His face was twisted tight, sour as if he’d bitten straight into a lemon, his glare fixed on Rhaenyra and Qoren with unmasked hatred.

I continued laughing, getting louder by the second.

You want war, Highfucker? Then war you’ll have. And this time, the House of the Dragon will stand together.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep – 111 A.C  

I couldn’t help the smirk tugging at my lips as I moved through the halls of the Red Keep. It was almost laughable how much easier the game had become. The game of thrones, the one that had once chewed me up and spat me out, now felt almost simple. Then again, this time around I carried knowledge I hadn’t had before, and my reputation hadn’t yet been torn apart by that Highwhore’s poison.

I was the lawfully wedded wife of the Prince of Dorne. That alone shifted everything. It gave me freedoms I never could have claimed before, not without whispers trailing after me. Now, if I wanted to be bold, no one called it arrogance. If I wanted to be wild, no one muttered that I was out of control. If I chose to be seductive, no one dared to call me shameless. Those things weren’t condemned anymore. They were expected of me, even admired, because I carried the title of a Dornish wife.

And the change went deeper than how others saw me. It altered how I moved through the world. What once would have been treated as faults was now celebrated. My marriage had given me room to grow, and that space was mine to keep.

And more than that, I was no longer the unwanted heir clinging desperately to a throne I had never truly been allowed to claim. It was my son who would succeed my father. The whispers in the court were no longer about doubt or scorn, but goodwill—hopes for a safe birth, a strong boy, a bright future. I had never known the court to smile so kindly at me.

As for my husband, I will admit he was not what I had expected. Sweet and protective in a way that reminded me of Harwin, yet passionate and unyielding in ways that echoed Daemon. He trained with me in the yard, putting a spear in my hands and laughing as we circled each other. He rode with me on Syrax, unafraid of the fire that rolled off her in waves. We read together, we talked for hours, and I began to see how deeply he had already fallen for me.

If I had been younger in mind, or if my heart had not been scarred by all that came before, I might have fallen just as hard. But history had carved its lesson into me too deeply to forget. Love without caution had cost me everything once—my crown, my children, my peace. I would not walk blindly into that trap again.

Still, I was not cold with him. I couldn’t be. I knew that monogamy was not popular in Dorne, and I would never allow him the excuse to stray. I let myself enjoy his company, and in the bedchamber I let myself enjoy him as well. He gave as much as he took, always intent on my pleasure and on reminding me that I was desired. It was a dangerous and intoxicating feeling, so much that many times I caught myself almost dropping my guard around him.

I could feel it happening already, the slow tug at the edges of my resolve. I could see myself falling for him if I wasn’t careful. And yet—I would be careful. This time, I swore to myself, I would hold the reins and not lose everything again to love.

“Cousin! These are the candidates for matron for the new orphanages!” Laena’s voice pulled me back from my wandering thoughts.

Of course. Laena and Laenor had remained here in King’s Landing with their parents. Corlys had been granted the seat of Master of Ships, while Laenor now served as Daemon’s squire in the City Watch. Laena herself had been given an honored role as Chief Lady-in-Waiting to my court.

And beyond duty, she was spending her days with Daemon, not just as her cousin but as the man she was to marry. Their betrothal contract had been signed and the wedding was set for the following year. The crown could hardly host another grand wedding or tourney so soon after mine, but the preparations were quietly underway.

“Then let’s get to work,” I said, setting my smile in place as I rose to greet the women my ladies had carefully selected.

This was the heart of the plan I had set into motion—using the wealth seized from the Faith to build soup kitchens, learning houses, and orphanages. Every decision passed through me; I had made certain there were no idle hands in the project. Thanks to my work, no one would ever come to call me “Maegor with tits” again. I was finally being seen as the Realm’s Delight, who was more than a pretty face.

The true test, I knew, would be in keeping it going. Building was always easier than sustaining.

“Are you well, cousin?” Laena’s voice snapped me out of my thoughts again. Her eyes lingered on me, laced with concern. “You look pale. More tired than usual.”

“It has been a busy couple of moons,” I replied, forcing the corners of my mouth upward in reassurance. The smile felt thin, but I hoped it would be enough.

“Busy, yes,” she allowed, though her frown deepened. “But even so, I think you should see a maester. Or at least one of the healers your husband brought from Dorne.”

The healers, right. They came from Essos and were the ones Dorne usually relied on. Unlike the maesters, women could also be healers, and they weren’t tied to any institution. They were only loyal to the people who employed them.

After I told Qoren about the poor care my mother received during her pregnancies, he made sure to bring several with him. He also arranged for instructors and caretakers from Essos to run the learning houses and orphanages in the city. That way, the Faith and the Citadel would have less control. If it worked, maybe other lords and ladies would start doing the same.

“All right, I will,” I promised, getting up and heading for my chambers. “Call Healer Sedan,” I told my maid, and she rushed off after bowing.

“Don’t give me that look. I’m fine, just tired,” I said without turning around. I didn’t need to see my sworn shield to know he was watching me too closely, worrying over nothing.

I chose to ignore it, since Harwin’s fretting would only make the knot in my chest worse. I kept moving, letting my steps carry me into my chambers. I closed the door behind me and sat down in the chair by the bed. The room was quiet, and I stayed there in silence until the healer arrived.

She examined me carefully, her hands steady, her face giving nothing away. I watched her as she worked, trying to catch some sign in the way she paused or looked at me. When she finally spoke, the words were so soft I almost thought I had misheard her.

“Could you repeat that?” I asked, staring at her.

“Of course,” she said with a small smile. “Congratulations, Your Highness. You are expecting your first child.”

I blinked, trying to let the words sink in. “I thought that’s what you said,” I muttered, still thrown. I knew I was fertile, but this quickly?

“Congratulations, Princess,” Harwin said warmly.

Once, that might have felt awkward. I had expected it to, half-braced herself for the strangeness of hearing him offer congratulations. In the other timeline, Jacaerys had been Harwin’s son, and the thought of him standing there, smiling and wishing me well, should have sat heavy and uncomfortable.

But it didn’t. The feeling never came. Instead, what surprised me was the quiet relief that settled in its place. Jacaerys would not be his son this time, he would be Qoren’s and born in wedlock. Rumors of bastardy will never chase him around, his future will be secured from the first breath. And that certainty, more than anything, eased the weight I had thought I would carry.

“Should I send for Prince Qoren?” Harwin asked.

My husband was in the city at the moment, handling trade agreements as heir to Sunspear. He was waiting for a northern envoy to arrive and start their negotiations.

“Yes, please,” I said, finally pulling myself together.

Then the panic set in. How was I supposed to tell him? Should I say it directly, or wait for the right moment? What if he didn’t take it the way I hoped? Would he be happy, or would this make things more complicated? My thoughts kept circling, piling on top of each other until it felt like I couldn’t catch my breath.

Gods, what a mess I was making of this.

“Are you all right, my love?” Qoren’s voice cut through my spiraling, full of concern. I jumped at the sound, and before I could react further, he was already pulling me into his arms. “Whoa, calm down,” he murmured, holding me close. “Tell me, what’s wrong?”

“I’m pregnant!” I babbled the confession clumsily. The moment they left my mouth I almost wished I could take them back and say them properly.

But Qoren’s expression shifted in an instant. The worry vanished, replaced by a smile so wide and bright it left me stunned. His joy was so unrestrained that I barely had time to register it before he lifted me off my feet, spinning me around the chamber. I laughed in surprise, as the tension drained from me with every turn.

I had been foolish to doubt Qoren, I had nothing to be afraid of. This time things were different. This time I wasn’t alone, and I wasn’t without protection. I had him, and I had the strength of my Gods watching over me.

Everything would be all right.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep – 112 A.C  

I growled as I slammed the door of my bedchambers, the sound rattling the hinges. Nothing has gone my way this year! Every plan, every scheme, all of it undone by that fool of a king and his blind devotion to that spoiled brat. He refused to take another wife, refused to sire more children, and now the duty of producing an heir lies squarely with Rhaenyra Targaryen of all people!

How am I supposed to see that infertile wrench dead if not through childbirth? That should have been the simplest path—childbirth claims women all the time. It would not have raised a single question, especially after years of struggles and miscarriages. But no, the gods seem determined to curse me, because Viserys now shields his wife as if she were made of gold, instead of focusing on fulfilling their duties.

Even if I killed her outright, what good would it do me now? The king has already made it plain: his heirs will be that brat’s children, not my daughter’s, not anyone else’s. And those heirs will be half Dornish, born of that whore of a husband Rhaenyra dragged into our court. Do they not see how dangerous that is? Do they not see what it means to hand over the future of the realm to a foreign line?

And the lords—useless, spineless lords—they will never support the king taking another wife now. Not after the bargain with Dorne. That cursed agreement bound Martell blood to the throne, made it law that their line must sit upon it. The moment Viserys swore to it, he shackled the realm to her children. If he tried to take another wife now, tried to undo what was done, the realm would tear itself apart, kickstarting a war for the succession.

And that brat knows it. She has secured herself too well. Not just with Dorne, but with the Vale and the Velaryons as well. They circle her like hounds around a feast, eager to share in her rise. She stands there smiling, draped in their support, while I am left with nothing but scraps. How am I to fight that? How am I to tear her down when every corner of the realm seems willing to lift her higher?

And then there are the people. The damned people, singing of her like she is Queen Alysanne returned to them. Fools, every one of them. Do they not see her for what she is? A heretic with her strange customs, dragging the realm into corruption.

They praise her because she dared to defy the Faith, as though it were some grand act of mercy. Have they forgotten what she has done? Worse, what she has inspired? The Faith is living only on scraps after ladies across the realm have followed her lead and stopped pouring gold into septs.

Instead, they waste it on orphanages, soup kitchens, learning houses. Women playing at being stewards and builders when their only worth is in their wombs. And commoners—why in the gods’ names should they be educated? Has the whole realm lost its senses?

All of it only feeds her legend. Everywhere I turn, there are ballads praising her beauty, her generosity, her wisdom. Every hall echoes with songs that paint her as untouchable.

I had hoped—prayed—that she might have inherited her useless mother’s cursed womb. That her body would betray her on the birthing bed, that all her ambition would end there. But the gods did not answer. Within two moons she was with child, and her pregnancy has been nothing but smooth.

Even Mellos, that snake, has been useless. He could not get close enough to try and “help” things along, not with her surrounded at every turn.

That idiot of a puppet king would hear no word against those Essosi healers arrived. He calls them miracle workers, but they are nothing more than witches dressed in silk. He attributed the fact that his daughter fell pregnant so fast to them. With her pregnancy being so free of complication, no one dares speak a word against them. Anyone who tries is quietly sent from court, stripped of influence before they can even finish their complaint.

And what use has my daughter been in all of this? None. She was meant to be my eyes and ears, my hand close to the princess. Once she held the most coveted position at court, the only Lady-in-Waiting of the Princess. Now she is just one among many, lost in the crowd of Rhaenyra’s ladies, with that heretic cousin of hers leading the circle and half of it filled with Dornish women who flaunt themselves as if they were born noble. They may claim the names of the great houses of Dorne, but everyone knows the truth—maidens they are not. They are but whores disguised as ladies.

“Father, the feast will start soon,” my daughter’s voice broke into my thoughts. She stood before me in a blue gown, her hands clenched at her sides.

I looked at her with nothing but disappointment. She flinched when I scoffed, shrinking back as though I had struck her. How had I sired something so pitiful? Why could she not be more like her brother? At least he carried himself like a man.

Then again, she would never be able to match him. She was a woman, and therefore a constant reminder of weakness.

I pulled on my coat and left her standing there, already heading toward the banquet hall. Tonight marked the end of the tourney celebrating the marriage of the king’s warmonger brother and that pathetic Velaryon girl.

Another union not blessed by the Light of the Seven.

Another pair condemning their souls, and those of their future children, by binding themselves in the queer rites of Old Valyria instead of under the Seven.

And now they were back from Dragonstone for the feasting, reveling in the king’s excess. Viserys had spared no expense, spending in a week what no other lord could waste in a year, simply to celebrate his brother’s marriage.

It should have been my daughter honored with a wedding of this luxury. She should have been seated as the future queen, with the court praising her name. Instead, I was forced to watch these degenerates bask in glory that was never meant for them.

“Otto! Come!”

The fool of a king greeted me with that same ridiculous grin, clapping his brother on the back. Daemon didn’t even pretend to enjoy it. He shifted under the touch, more uncomfortable than pleased, and that told me everything. Once upon a time Daemon would have wagged like a dog for any scrap of affection from his brother. Now there was only indifference. The Targaryens might have looked united to the hall, but it was clear to me they weren’t united behind their king.

If anything, they were united against him.

“Hasn’t it been a wonderful celebration?” Viserys asked, beaming like a fool who believed his own words.

“It has been, Your Grace,” I said smoothly, bowing before taking my place at the High Table, my daughter sitting dutifully at my side.

I let my gaze travel around the table as I settled in, making sure my expression revealed nothing of my distaste. The king and queen sat together, their daughter and her Dornish husband at their side. The newlywed bride and groom sat at the center, with the bride’s family filling out the rest of the honored seats.

I was outnumbered here, surrounded, but it was only for tonight. I would bid my time and soon enough the tide would turn.

“Congratulations, Your Highnesses,” I said, inclining my head toward the couple.

“Thank you, Lord Hand,” Laena answered, all sweetness and smiles, looking every inch the wide-eyed naïve child she was. Daemon gave a snort at her side, more beast than man, and I had to school my face not to show my contempt.

“And how is the princess doing tonight?” I asked, turning toward the bane of my existence.

Rhaenyra Targaryen. She sat there like she owned the hall, draped in a yellow Dornish gown that left nothing to the imagination. The deep neckline plunged so low it showed the pink cloth beneath, as if she wanted the entire court to see it. She leaned against her husband as if the two of them were already in bed, practically in his lap, while he preened beside her in his matching yellow coat, golden suns stitched along the front. The display was so obscene, I could not believe they were allowed to behave this way at a royal banquet.

For the gods’ sake, they were in full view of lords, ladies, and half the realm’s envoys!

“How’s the babe coming?” I asked, my tone pleasant enough to pass at the table, though every word tasted sour.

“Oh, I’m doing wonderfully!” The little bitch beamed, placing a hand over her belly as though she were already the Mother painted in glass.

Of course, her whore of a husband had to lay his hand on top of hers, completing the display. I nearly gagged when the table broke into soft sounds of approval, everyone turning to them with fond smiles. Even my own daughter, simpering along with the rest of them.

“I could not have asked for a more attentive family... I—” Rhaenyra broke off suddenly, her face tightening as a groan escaped her, both hands clutching her belly.

“Rhaenyra! Are you all right?” Viserys was on his feet instantly, his chair scraping back as he rushed to her side.

The entire hall fell into silence. The music cut short, as all eyes turned toward the royal family.

“My love, your water just broke,” the Dornish prince said, his voice a mix of worry and excitement. I looked down and saw his breeches already darkened, soaked through. “Someone call for Healer Sedan!” he shouted, and servants scattered in every direction. “Come on, my love, let’s get you to your chambers.” He scooped her up into his arms with practiced ease, and I groaned under my breath as half the women at the hall let out dreamy sighs, swooning over how strong he was.

“Is it truly wise to leave the princess in the care of some unknown woman from Essos?” I slithered towards the king. “I’m certain Mellos would take far better care of her in such a delicate state.”

“Like he cared for me when I lost every one of my children?” Aemma Arryn cut in sharply before the king could answer. Her voice was cold enough to freeze wine in a goblet. “Come, husband, our daughter needs us.” She rose to her feet and turned to address the hall, her poise impeccable despite the chaos. “Everyone, please continue to enjoy the evening. We apologize for the interruption. To my good-brother and good-sister, forgive our absence tonight. This night is yours, celebrate it well.”

Daemon smirked, his arm slung casually around his new bride’s shoulders. “We will. Just be sure to send word when our nephew arrives.”

“We will,” Aemma replied, her face softening for him, though when her eyes flicked back to me her smile sharpened like a blade. “Otto, stay here. As Hand of the King, it is your duty to represent the king and queen while we are absent.”

“I’m sure I should—” I began, already readying the words to argue my way into following them, but Viserys cut across me before I could finish.

“Do that,” he said absently, his mind clearly elsewhere. He was already moving, his hand at Aemma’s back. “Come, wife. We have a daughter to be with.”

And just like that, I was left at the table, teeth clenched behind a polite smile, watching the hall buzz with whispers as they swept out.

The music started again after a stretch of silence, hesitant notes filling the air, but no one seemed eager to dance. The whole hall was buzzing with gossip, every word circling back to the same thing—the coming heir.

I sat stiffly, seething in silence, while the Velaryons chattered happily about the new addition to their bloodline. My fool of a daughter was leaning toward the new Princess Targaryen, whispering with a giggle, the two of them carrying on like children. They were already speaking of how eager they were to dote on the babe, how ready they would be to care for the little prince.

Why was everyone so quick to assume? Why should it be taken for granted that the child would be a boy—or that it would even survive? Had none of them learned from Queen Aemma’s string of losses? How quickly they had all forgotten. If the babe dragged its mother down with it, the realm would be better for it.

I didn’t notice how far my thoughts had drifted, or how much time had passed, until the doors flew open and a servant girl hurried inside. She was flushed, breathless, and beaming. The hall fell quiet again as every eye turned towards her.

“Princess Rhaenyra has delivered a healthy babe safely! Both mother and child are resting!” she announced.

The hall erupted at once, a roar of cheers and applause shaking the rafters. My heart sank, though I still clung to the hope that at least it might be a girl.

“Prince Jacaerys, of House Targaryen and House Martell, has been born today!” she cried.

The cheers grew deafening.

“An heir to the throne!” someone shouted, the cry picked up and carried across the hall.

“She is truly blessed by the gods!” another voice rang out.

“Long live Princess Rhaenyra!”

“Long live Prince Jacaerys!”

“Long live House Targaryen!”

On and on it went, a tide of voices, none of them mine. I turned my head to the right and forced myself not to look at my daughter, who was openly weeping into Laena Targaryen’s arms, overcome with relief. Instead, my eyes found Daemon.

He was leaning back in his chair, as though it were his own throne, a goblet of wine balanced lazily in his hand. His gaze was fixed on me, like a dragon savoring its victory.

They think this is the end. They think I’ve been beaten. But I know better. He will see. They all will. I am Otto Hightower, and I will not be defeated so easily.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep - 112 A.C   

“Princess,” Ser Harwin bowed from his post outside my cousin’s chambers.

“Ser Harwin,” I greeted him with a nod. “I’m here to visit my cousin and her son.”

“Of course.” He gave me a small smile and turned to knock on the door. “Princess, Princess Rhaenys has come to pay you a visit.”

There was no answer. His brow furrowed, and he knocked again, this time louder. “Princess? Are you well?” Still nothing. Our eyes met, worry plain in both of us. Then he was pushing the door open, his hand already on his sword. “Oh, thank the Gods she is fine,” he breathed out, relief washing over his face.

I followed him in and couldn’t help the fond smile that spread as I took in the sight. Rhaenyra was curled up in her bed fast asleep with Jacaerys tucked close, napping against her chest. My smile widened when I noticed what the babe was clutching—a dragon egg nearly as big as he was. The little one looked so content, and I could see now why he had charmed the entire court so quickly.

He was a beautiful child. Just as Rhaenyra had dreamt, he had inherited his coloring from his father. With a head full of black curls, and wide, dark eyes that would surely undo half the realm one day. From his mother he had taken her light skin tone, aristocratic bone structure, and her slender nose. He was the perfect blend of both, impossible to mistake for anyone else’s son.

I let a smirk tug at my lips, knowing that it would be my granddaughter who will be standing beside him one day, and together they will rule as king and queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“She must be exhausted,” I whispered, tilting my head toward the door. Harwin understood immediately, and we slipped back out, leaving mother and child to rest undisturbed. “I’ve heard she’s pushing to gentrify the city center,” I said once we were in the corridor again.

“She has,” Harwin replied with a proud smile. “She wants to turn it into a space for people to gather. She’s planning an open park with a fountain at the center, where children can play and artists will be able to show their work. Not to mention, it would be perfect for musicians to perform, and mummers act out their plays.”

“It is a wonderful way to bring the city together,” I said with a smile, pleased to see at last someone in the royal family doing something worthy of their station. “With the kingdoms collecting more taxes from the commonfolk, thanks to all the new jobs and education, I would not expect anyone to raise much protest.”

“They are not,” Ser Harwin answered readily. “Especially with Martell coin footing most of the cost, and the Dornish ladies putting in the work while the princess recovers. The princess has already decided on a name for it—Plaza del Sol, in honor of her husband and his people.”

“That will please Dorne,” I murmured, my mind already turning. “And it will win the city, too. The first impression of the Dornish among the commonfolk could not be better, not with the donations flowing and their women working shoulder to shoulder with them.”

“Did you say something?” Harwin asked, blinking at me, clearly having missed my quiet musing.

“Nothing,” I replied with a small smile.

I had no plan of sharing anything… delicate with him. I like Ser Harwin, my cousin could not have chosen a better sworn shield. But he was not made for court games. He was as straightforward as they came. Clearly an attribute he had inherited from his First Men decent. Northerners were not known for being good liars.

Still, while he would not be helping us with our schemes. His duties lay elsewhere. Breakbones would keep the princess and her child safe.

“I was just thinking I ought to pay the queen a visit while the princess rests,” I added.

“Of course,” Harwin said, nodding quickly. “Would you like me to arrange an escort?” He gestured to a pair of guards nearby, who straightened the moment they felt his eyes on them.

“No, I’ll be fine,” I told him, shaking my head.

I left Ser Harwin behind and made my way toward the queen’s chambers, already running through what I wanted to say. When the guards let me in, I stepped inside and found her by the window.

“Good morn, cousin.”

“Rhaenys!” Aemma’s whole face lit up, her smile wide and genuine. “Have I mentioned how good it is to have you in court? Because it is. This place is crawling with vipers, and it’s a relief to know I have an ally.”

“You seem rather energetic today,” I teased, a laugh slipping out before I could stop it.

“With Jacaerys’ birth, no one dares press me about my duty anymore,” she said, a sneer tugging at her mouth. “For once, I am free of it. Though I wish it hadn’t been my daughter who paid the price to grant me that freedom...”

“Daemon told us she won’t have another child anytime soon,” I said carefully. “That it was decided she should rest, so her health isn’t ruined by bearing too many so young. And with an heir already born, there’s no need to hurry.”

“There isn’t,” Aemma agreed with a slow nod. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel guilty. My daughter was only four-and-ten when she was married off to a stranger, and now, eleven moons later, she not only has a son to care for but also the burden of fixing what we left broken. Her projects, her goodwill, they’ve spread far beyond the smallfolk. Lords and ladies alike speak of her. Her marriage brought Dorne into the fold, and with Jacaerys secured as heir—and his betrothal to your granddaughter tying all three Valyrian bloodlines—our house hasn’t looked this strong since King Jaehaerys died.”

“It shouldn’t fall on her,” I told her firmly. “Your husband is the king. We both know women are rarely listened to in this realm. My disinheritance is proof of that.”

“They listen when it comes to her,” Aemma said with a soft laugh. “She inspires loyalty without even trying. And it does fall on me, at least in part. I could take some of the weight from her shoulders with this Plaza del Sol project. I should. But I cannot bring myself to face Viserys. Not that he has noticed I’ve kept my distance. He’s too lost in the glow of our house’s newfound strength, basking in praise he barely earned, all because of our daughter.”

I frowned at the sound of her scoff. “What happened, Aemma? I know Rhaenyra must have seen something, but what could she have dreamt that has you speaking of my cousin this way? You loved him, right up until recently.”

“They’ll take the baby out,” Aemma said flatly. “That what he would have said before Grand Maester Mellos cut me open to take my son. He did not even have the grace to say anything else, to explain, before I was left to bleed out like a pig in a slaughterhouse.”

“No!” The word tore out of me before I could stop it. “There’s a practice like that? And Viserys would have allowed it? I can’t believe it.”

“I can.” Her eyes locked on mine, and I had to look away from the weight of them. They were lifeless yet burning with pain all the same. “He could have kept Daemon as his heir or named Laenor if he truly believed the poison Otto whispers about my good-brother.”

I flinched at the disgust in her eyes. In that moment, Aemma looked more like a dragon than I had ever seen her, sneering as she bared her teeth.

“Everyone knew the truth—that childbirth would end me if he pushed me again. I would have died this year, if not for my daughter. But he ignored it. He was too consumed by that obsession of his, too determined to have a male heir from his line, no matter the cost. Even if the cost was me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Now he has one, and there will be four more after him. He could not be happier.”

I shook my head slowly, still trying to process her words. “I always thought of him as a fool, a puppet for the Hightowers. To think that such darkness lived in his heart…” My voice trailed off, disbelief warring with the simple fact that I had nothing to counter her with.

Before either of us could say more, a loud knock sounded against the door. “Your Grace!” a guard called urgently.

Aemma exhaled sharply, her irritation plain. “What is it?”

The door swung open, and the guard all but spilled inside, his face lit with excitement. “Your Grace! Prince Jacaerys’ dragon egg has hatched! House Targaryen has a new dragonrider!”

For a heartbeat we only stared at him, then at each other, wide-eyed in disbelief. Then the tension broke, laughter bubbling out of us both as we scrambled to our feet. We hurried toward Rhaenyra’s chambers together, giddy as children. A new dragon had come into the world today. What news could be more wonderful than that?

A cluster of maids and guards were already gathered in the chamber, the princess’s ladies hovering close as they fussed over her. For a moment I hesitated, unsure of how to carry myself when I spotted Viserys standing there. He looked ridiculously pleased with himself, beaming like a proud rooster at the news that his heir’s egg had hatched so quickly.

Fortunately, I didn’t have to speak to him. My attention was pulled to the bed, and I felt a smile tug at my lips. Rhaenyra sat propped up against pillows, her arms wrapped protectively around her son. Qoren’s arms were wrapped just as tightly around her, holding them both close. And in the middle of it all was Jacaerys, babbling happily as he reached out toward the hatchling perched beside him.

The creature was striking, with scales the color of deep olive and wing membranes that glowed a pale orange. The little prince’s laughter filled the room as the dragon fluttered down into his lap. When he threw his tiny arms around him, holding on with the earnest joy of a child, the whole chamber seemed to awe in unison.

And it was then, watching that moment, that it struck me. The future of the realm would not rest in the hands of this babe, nor in the grasp of Viserys and his endless pride. The true weight of it lay elsewhere—on the shoulders of the one who had bound us all together. The one who had seen what could come to pass and given up her own peace to save her mother.

It lay with the girl before me, the brave little princess.

I may have been the Queen Who Never Was but mark my words; I will make Rhaenyra the first queen... even if it costs my life.  

Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep - 112 A.C     

“Father!” I greeted him with a wide smile.

“Son, I’m gladdened to see you doing so well.” His smile wasn’t quite as big as mine, but it carried the same warmth. We had already seen each other at the formal greetings—the reception for the Martell court at King’s Landing and the welcoming banquet—but this was the first time we had been able to sit down alone. “Dorne’s good name is spreading far, and our coffers have never been fuller, even with all the donations you’ve poured into projects for the commonfolk. You’ve made me proud, son.”

“Thank you, Father.” My throat tightened, and I had to blink quickly to keep my eyes from welling over. His words meant more than I could admit out loud. All I had ever wanted was to make him proud. “Come, sit. We need to talk about the trade contract with the North.”

That was the real reason for his visit. In the year and a half I had been in King’s Landing, I had signed deals with houses across the realm, but none had demanded more of me than this one. The agreement with the North promised to be the most profitable for both sides, but it had taken endless work to bring it to this point. House Stark had been firm from the beginning: the final signing could only be done between the heads of our houses. And on top of that, the crown wanted to hear the Prince of Dorne’s opinion about the situation in the Stepstones.

“Princes, Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Jacaerys request entry,” a guard announced with a knock on the door.

“My good-daughter and my grandson? Let them in!” My father shot up from his chair, his face breaking into pure excitement.

“Prince Manfrey,” my wife greeted him with a smile so sweet it could have melted steel. She looked radiant with our son in her arms, Jacaerys nestled close, and his dragon draped around her neck like a living ornament, nuzzling at him with quiet affection.

“Call me Father,” my own father corrected her gently, his tone full of warmth. He reached for Jacaerys, and though the little dragon bristled, puffing up in protest, he settled when my wife murmured softly in High Valyrian, her voice smoothing away the creature’s agitation.

“Look at you, little Jace,” my father cooed, blowing raspberries against the boy’s cheek until he squealed and giggled, kicking his tiny legs in delight. The sight of the Prince of Dorne making such a fool of himself would have been laughable to anyone else, but to me it was only endearing.

“How you manage to get anything done with him around, I will never know,” my father laughed, rocking the babe with surprising ease. “He is such a cutie!”

“I was expecting more from the feared Prince of Dorne, if I’m being honest,” Nyra teased, her lips curved into an amused smile as we both watched my father make a fool of himself with Jacaerys. The boy squealed with laughter, while his dragon didn’t take his eyes off the scene, watching protectively.

“Don’t worry,” she added quietly, glancing at the creature. “Vermax won’t do anything, as long as Jace is not harmed. Not like he could do anything, he fire is more smoke than ember.”

“I wasn’t worried,” I said, turning my gaze back to her. “You’re here.”

The words slipped out more honestly than I intended, and I caught the faint flicker of surprise in her eyes. She always looked beautiful, but moments like this—when she was unguarded—she was breathtaking. It made me ache, knowing how much she had endured because of insecure men too blind to see her for what she truly is.

A queen.

My queen. And I will see her crowned with Aegon the Conqueror’s own crown if it was the last thing I ever did.

“I trust you,” I added, softer now. “I was only thinking how grateful I am that our son has this bond, that he has someone who will protect him with everything, even at the risk of his life.”

“He will.” Her smile bloomed at that, radiant, though I could hear the sorrow beneath it. She reached out and stroked the dragon’s scaled head, and the beast leaned into her touch, rumbling with a sound that was as close to purring as any dragon could get. “But let’s hope it never comes to that. Every time a dragon loses a rider, something breaks inside them. A part of their heart goes with the one they’ve lost. And if it’s the rider who survives with the bond severed… that can destroy them. It leaves them shattered, sometimes beyond repair.”

“Beautiful, yet tragic,” I commented, unable to hide the sadness in my voice.

She didn’t look at me, her eyes fixed on Vermax, and I felt that familiar distance between us. Even when we shared a bed, I knew her dreams carried her somewhere far away from me. I had heard the whispers from my good family, even when they tried to be careful. After I had pieced together the stories and I was certain of it now, my wife was a Dragon Dreamer.

Not that Nyra had tried to hide anything, the moment I confronted her about it, she was quick to confess.

“We were discussing the Stepstones earlier,” I said gently, trying to draw her back. “Would you like to join the conversation?”

“Yes,” she said, her tone shifting as she finally turned to meet my eyes. Her expression had gone serious, almost grave. “I’ve been seeing… more clearly, lately.”

“That’s good,” I said quickly, surprised enough that my eyes widened. “Then maybe you can help us figure out who the Triarchy has hired.”

“In my dreams I’ve seen a lot of crabs,” she said quietly. “So many of them… blood everywhere and screaming.”

“Crabs?” my father cut in, his frown deepening as he looked between us. “That must be the Crabfeeder. Craghas Drahar, prince admiral of Myr. A nasty piece of work, if you ask me.”

“I’ve seen the things he’s done,” Nyra murmured, eyes cast down.

My father’s face softened, the sternness slipping as he watched her. “I’m sorry you had to see that, my dear. He’s a cruel man. He takes pleasure in suffering, kicking men when they’re already beaten, tormenting those who can no longer fight back.”

“And we’re going to face him in the Stepstones,” I said with a dry scoff, trying to mask the unease curling in my gut.

“We will win.” Nyra’s voice carried certainty that pulled my eyes back to her. She gathered Jace into her arms again, and the boy immediately reached for his hatchling, tugging at his wings with happy little squeals. She watched them both with a steady expression before speaking again. “We will claim those lands for our son. How long it takes, and how many lives are lost, that depends on the choices we make.”

“With the realm behind us and dragons in the sky? Those islands won’t stand a chance,” my father said with confidence. “But once they’re taken, keeping them will be another story. Clearing out every pirate and cementing our presence in every shore… that will take time.”

“That’s fine,” I said, forcing a grin as I thought of the company I’d be keeping. “It will be entertaining enough, taking turns with Daemon, Laenor, and Corlys. We’ll do our part too, won’t we?”

“We will.” Nyra’s smile flickered, small but real, and I caught it before she looked back down at Jace.

Something shifted then. I couldn’t put my finger on it—whether it was in what I said or something she saw in my eyes—but I felt it. A closeness that hadn’t been there before. A door cracking open between us.

Whatever it was, I would not waste it. My heart already belonged to her, but I knew I didn’t yet have hers. One day, I would.

I swore it, on Dorne’s sun.

Chapter Text

Stepstones, Bloodstone - 115 A.C  

I looked around the island, more than a little pleased with what we’d managed. It hadn’t been simple—dragging the Crabfeeder out of his caves had been a gamble that could’ve gone either way, and I knew it. It worked, though. He burned, and the Stepstones were ours, though I paid for it later in the way my wife nearly tore the walls down with her shouting.

She was livid, said I’d risked too much, that I’d thrown myself at death as if I had no care for her or anyone else. But she didn’t hold on to her anger for long. Helping her claim Vhagar worked wonders, and soon enough she had forgotten why she wanted my head in the first place.

Now the work was different—less fire, more ash-sweeping. We were dragging the last of the pirates out of their holes and laying claim to the treasures they’d stolen over years of unchecked raiding. My niece, as ever, kept proving herself sharper than most men in court. Why my brother thought he needed a son when he already had her, will always baffle me.

She turned those hoards into more than just spoils.

She poured coin into the royal coffers, paid out reparations to the merchants who’d lost their livelihoods, saw that soldiers were rewarded, and that widows and children weren’t left to starve. When all that was done, she still found enough left over to start preparing Bloodstone for her son to inherit,

A son who, for now, was known only to us. Sweet Viserys. Our little secret.

Constructions for a port city and castle will start once the discussion with the architects come to an end. I will be in them, someone needed to make sure that the island became as impenetrable as Dragonstone. My grandnephew will not be left vulnerable.

He won’t be left poor either. House Martell already had the start of a treasury for the upcoming House branch that will be built in Bloodstone. I also added some of the spoils of war I earned for this campaign. That and the sea fares, will leave Viserys with full coffers once he reaches majority.

As for Rhaenyra, the war had changed her, or perhaps it had only revealed what was always there. Lords couldn’t stop speaking her name, and it wasn’t just for the sight of Syrax streaking through the sky in fire and blood. She had fought in the dirt as well, shoulder to shoulder with her husband, twin spears flashing in the melee.

They cut through men like they were dancing, back to back, never faltering, never giving the enemy room to breathe. The songs are already calling them the dancing vipers. Ballads drift through the camps at night, and I know they’ll travel farther than that soon enough.

It wasn’t only the smallfolk who adored her. Even the hardest lords—the sort who had never once looked at a woman and seen a warrior worth their respect—had to admit she’d won them. Borros Baratheon, of all men, was nodding her way in respect before the end, and the Dornish were loud in their praise.

Though I think the turning point came early on, when she stepped out of her tent wearing that gold scale armor, shining bright as Syrax, and carrying a Dornish spear like she’d been born with it in her hands. She looked like the perfect blend of Targaryen fire and Martell passion, and she knew it. My sweet niece has always understood how to move the pieces across the board, and I couldn’t help but smile to myself at how well she played it.

The ladies still haven’t stopped talking about her. They speak of the way she carried herself with grace and fire, marching straight to the men of the Triarchy and demanding that they sit and put their names to a treaty. She gave them no chance to wriggle free of their responsibilities for starting this war.

There was nothing they could do, for once the disputed lands were officially claimed by House Targaryen.

That was the moment the title was born, first whispered in the camps and then sung louder: Princess of the Narrow Sea, Lady of the Stepstones. The people gave her the name, and my brother only confirmed what was already true when he declared it before the realm. The Stepstones belonged to her now, and no one could challenge it without being laughed out of court.

She wrung more from the Triarchy than just land, though. War leaves debts, and she saw to it that they paid every coin they owed. She wouldn’t hoard the gold away for jewels or feasts either. She already had plans set aside.

A new citywide sewer system for King’s Landing, so the people would finally be able to breathe in the capital. It was meant for hygiene and for dignity. It was for the lives of the commonfolk who had been left to choke in their own filth for too long. Of course, the small folk noticed and began to call her the second coming of Queen Alysanne.

But not all the voices are praise. The Faith has been restless, grumbling at the changes they’ve seen spreading through the realm. These past years, more and more people have turned their backs on the Seven, choosing instead to kneel to the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria, or to the Old Gods, or to Mother Rhoynar.

I can hardly fault them for it.

Those faiths, whatever their flaws, gave the smallfolk something the Seven never did. They offered care when no septon came, attention when no lord listened, and the simple comfort of feeling noticed in a world that usually passed them by. For the first time, people felt that their prayers reached someone who heard them.

Half the Vale and much of the Riverlands have converted back into the Faith of the Old Gods, back to the faith of their ancestors. In the Stormlands and Crownlands, it’s my Pantheon that have spread the strongest, carried like embers in the wind.

Oh, and before I forget—the Stepstones now fall under the Crownlands, even with all that distance between them and King’s Landing. It was decided without much debate, really. After all, dragons only knelt for another dragon. And the archipelago was Targaryen territory through and through.

Otto, of course, was fuming. He tried to mask it behind polite smiles and clipped words, but the man was simmering. He hated the thought of power slipping from his fingers, hated even more that he had no way to get it back.

There was nothing he could do.

The king praised my niece at every chance he had. The trade routes were open again and the coin was pouring in, the coffers were fuller than they had been in decades. The ports were alive with merchants eager to strike their bargains. And the commonfolk, who had spent their lives with nothing but hunger and fear, were finally living in peace and thanking House Targaryen for it.

Otto had gambled on the Faith Militant scaring my brother into submission while the rest of us fought, but in the end their influence simply crumbled away, especially when even those still loyal to the Seven looked at us and saw saviors instead of threats.

Still, I wasn’t about to leave the board entirely to chance. So, I put Larys to work. He had been a clever find by my niece, who had suggested Larys for Master of Whispers. He spread tales far and wide—about how the Faith Militant had once brought nothing but suffering to the smallfolk, how they’d cowered in septs while peasants bled in the streets. The stories found their mark. Fear turned to scorn, and the Faith’s grip loosened even more.

Otto made other attempts, of course. He always does. He tried leaning on lords unsettled by the changes in religion, whispering in their ears about loyalty and tradition. But my niece simply smiled, traveled to their halls, and outplayed him in her own way. She offered opportunities that no one could turn down. The chance of starting their own houses on one of the many islands in the Stepstones. Second sons who would never inherit anything.

It was, as always, a neat trick. Their fathers swayed by pride and the prospect of their sons’ fortunes were now in my niece’s pocket. Not to mention, my nephew Viserys will have his port and castle rise twice as quickly with all those eager hands and eager coin flowing in, but I’ve no doubt my niece would tell you she only did it out of generosity.

She’d claim it was for the good of the realm, for the happiness of the people. Perhaps it was. Or perhaps it was just another well-played move, another way to gather loyalty without ever demanding it. Either way, it worked, and that’s what matters.

Still, she managed to give those second and third sons something they had never truly believed they’d have—a future that wasn’t chained to their elder brothers. For once, they could step out of the long shadows of inheritance and build something of their own. They were no longer just waiting for scraps to fall their way.

Even Larys is having an estate built out for him, though I’d stake my life on it that he uses it less as a home and more as a well-placed nest for his web of spies. The Stepstones sit at the perfect crossroads, a bridge between Essos and the Crownlands, and it suits him too well for it to be anything but a base of operations.

“What’s on your mind, cousin?” came Rhaenys’s amused voice, as she walked closer. Then, with that familiar tilt of her chin, she added, “Or should I call you good-son?”

I rolled my eyes at that, though I couldn’t keep the corner of my mouth from twitching. That was Rhaenys, every time—half mischief, half affection, never one without the other.

She was here with me in the Stepstones because the business of ridding the islands of pirates had taken longer than any of us had expected. We couldn’t keep every dragonrider away from home indefinitely, not with duties piling up in our absence. And certainly not with Rhaenyra’s pregnancy keeping her grounded in King’s Landing. The thought of Jace growing up without his mother was unthinkable, so we rotated.

Laenor, Laena, Rhaenys, Rhaenyra (before she got pregnant), and I—all taking turns to come down here, switching partners every round so the pirates never grew used to our patterns or thought they’d spotted a weakness. It was tedious, I won’t lie, but it was effective. Now the last strongholds were cleared, and with the new Stepstones fleet stationed here along with men ready to defend them, we could finally leave this place behind. This patrol would be the last one.

“You’ve had three years to start calling me that,” I said drily, giving her a look that held more resignation than annoyance. “If you haven’t managed it yet, I doubt you’ll start now.”

She only smiled wider, amused at herself, and repeated, “What’s on your mind, cousin?” There was a warmth in her tone now, equal parts fondness and curiosity.

I took a moment before answering. The beach stretched quiet before us, the tide rolling in, carrying away the last stains of war that even fire hadn’t managed to scorch clean. “How much everything has changed,” I said at last.

My eyes traveled past the sand, up the slope of the hill where stone blocks were being set into place, scaffolding rising steadily toward what would soon be my nephew’s castle. “It leaves me dizzy sometimes. By next year, I’ll be a father.”

Her expression softened, the sharpness of her earlier teasing giving way to something gentler. “I’ve heard,” she said, her voice touched with something tender. “My daughter wrote to me. Congratulations.”

“You’ll be a grandmother,” I teased her, then I grew serious. “I always knew she would come, but I never realized it would be so soon.”

Rhaenys smiled back, pride flickering in her eyes, but her tone was practical when she answered. “We still have Rhaenyra’s second pregnancy to see through first. House Martell is already in King’s Landing, waiting for the birth of the second Targaryen–Martell prince.”

“I know,” I said, chuckling. “Laena won’t stop writing about how excited Jace and Vermax are. They’re convinced the egg will hatch just the same way it did for them.”

“It will,” Rhaenys said with a laugh, certainty in her tone. “Rhaenyra has dreamt it. Vermax, god of boundaries, travel, communication, trade, language, and writing. It’s a fitting name for the dragon of a king.”

“With all the trading and traveling Rhaenyra has been doing, it doesn’t surprise me in the least that he ended up with that name,” I snorted. Then I shook my head, half exasperated, half longing. “Let’s finish this up. I want to go home, back to my wife and my child.”

“Let’s,” Rhaenys agreed, fondness lacing the word.

Our dragons had followed us to the beach, their shadows stretching across the sand as the sun dipped lower. They shifted impatiently, wings rustling, as though they could sense our mood and the fact that this would be the last time we’d circle these skies. We climbed into our saddles, practiced in the motion, and without needing to glance at each other, we called the same command at the same time:

“Soves!”

The sound carried over the water, and the dragons leapt skyward, wings beating the last traces of war into the sea.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 115 AC  

I raged through my chambers, sending vase after vase crashing into the walls until shards littered the floor. None of it eased the fury in me. How had things unraveled this way? The whole issue with the Stepstones had been meant to work in our favor, to pull trade south toward Oldtown and let our business thrive.

Instead, the opposite happened.

Our coffers thinned as the trade lines shifted to the Narrow Seas, and now every ship worth anything passed through ports held by House Targaryen. The Stepstones, Sunspear, Driftmark, White Harbor, King’s Landing—every route lined their pockets and left ours wanting.

And the North. Gods, Rhaenyra’s endless obsession with the barbaric North. What could she possibly see in that frozen wasteland? It didn’t matter what I thought. The North adored her. They welcomed her as though she had been born of their blood, and now the Starks themselves had sworn oaths to her and her children.

The thought made my teeth grind. Every scheme I had laid, every patient step I’d taken toward binding my blood to the Iron Throne, all of it had been wrecked. The marriage I had envisioned for my daughter—gone.

That brat Rhaenyra slipped behind my back and arranged the betrothal between Elmo Tully and Alicent herself. There was nothing I could do or say when Viserys gave his blessing, after his daughter had made the announcement for all to hear in the middle of the opening banquet of the week-long tourney celebrating the coming birth of her second child.

And what did my daughter do? She smiled and thanked her, calling it generous, a kindness that the princess had deigned to notice her at all. She spoke of it as though the match were some benevolent gift instead of the humiliation it truly was. She even went so far as to call it a boon, insisting that a lady like her—the daughter of a second son from a minor house—was fortunate to be married to the Lord Paramount of the Trident.

She was blind, pitifully blind. I could hardly stand looking at her, this girl I had raised, reduced to fawning over a favor that stripped away her chance to become queen. Everything I’d worked toward gone, just like that!

As if to grind salt into the wound, the arrangements grew worse. Alicent was to be sent to Riverrun to start her training as future . Andlady of the house, and Rhaenyra, in her endless need to make a spectacle of herself, had promised to conclude the royal progress with the wedding itself.

That only served to endear her further to my daughter and to House Tully, who were flattered by the honor and eager to speak of it as though it were some rare gift. Bounding them to her side more firmly, and it left them all the less willing to let anything threaten the match.

The only thing left for me now is to pray that the child she carries ends in stillbirth or that a girl comes into the world. It feels like a pathetic hope to cling to, but every other plan I’ve laid has slipped through my hands. I have been trying to rid myself of that Dornish bastard for moons, but the cursed dragon is always there, close by, watchful.

The beast shrieks whenever poison is near or when an assassin dares to step too close to the boy, as though it were born to be his guard. It has become nearly impossible to get anyone near the bastard prince without that creature making the attempt known.

So far, no one has been caught, but I know it’s only a matter of time before the pattern reveals itself and someone is discovered. Someone who could be linked to me. I tried appealing to Viserys, tried urging him to send the beast to the pits with the others, away from the keep and the child.

But of course, he would not hear it. He insisted the bond between a Targaryen and their dragon is sacred, that it outweighs every other concern, and that he would not allow his heir to suffer the agony of being parted from his mount.

As though he had the faintest understanding of what dragonriding truly means, when his own beast is nothing but bones. The hypocrisy of it made my blood rise. Not even trying to turn the servants to my side worked. I commented that they ought to be frightened of a dragon roaming loose within the castle grounds. I thought fear might spread easily among them, but instead I found them smiling, speaking fondly of the boy and his beast. They used words like “adorable” and “charming,” as if they were describing a kitten instead of a monster with fire in its belly. Their cheer sickened me.

Heretics, every last one of them. That was all they were.

I caught myself grinding my teeth and forced a deep breath, willing my composure back. The tourney would begin soon, today was the joust, and appearances mattered more than ever. Still, all I managed was to hold back a snarl behind my teeth as I made my way toward the royal balcony.

I could already see my daughter with her betrothed, leaning in close to the princess, laughing as though the world had never known strife. And there she was, lounging against her Dornish husband, one hand resting on the curve of her swollen belly, playing the role of devoted wife.

“Did you hear of the work they’ve done here in King’s Landing?” one lady gushed nearby, her voice full of delight. “They’ve built orphanages, housing for the poor, food for those who had none, even medical care. And that sewer system—can you believe it?”

“I know!” another replied eagerly. “I never thought I would walk these streets without wanting to choke on the stench. But now it’s bearable, even pleasant. There are flowers lining the roads, making the air smells sweet for once.”

“They’re already being hailed as King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne reborn,” a third lady added, her words almost giddy. “That’s what my husband says the smallfolk are calling them.”

The three of them laughed together, all smiles and admiration, and I walked passed them with the taste of bile in my mouth, wondering how it had all gone so wrong, how she had managed to charm every last corner of this realm into believing her their savior.

By the time I reached the balcony, my patience was gone. I wanted to strangle the lot of them where they stood. Plans be damned.

“Otto! You’ve finally made it!” Viserys greeted me with that foolish grin of his, cheerful as ever.

But the rest of them weren’t so quick to smile. The Velaryons were gathered there, and Manfrey Martell beside them, each one wearing an expression that soured further when their eyes landed on me. Even the boy glared, though that was no mystery. He’d found out I had tried to strip him of that beast, and he would never forgive me for it.

What caught me more off guard was what I didn’t see. My daughter was nowhere in sight. Neither was Elmo. It looked as though they had slipped away the moment they saw me approaching.

Pathetic, I thought with a bitter twist. Truly pathetic.

Outwardly, I forced a smile, bowing my head in polite apology. “Of course I’ve come. I wouldn’t dream of missing such a momentous occasion, the celebration of another royal life. Forgive me for the delay.”

“Don’t worry!” Viserys said with an airy wave of his hand, dismissing it as though nothing ever truly troubled him. “Come, sit. The jousting is about to begin.”

And so, it did.

I endured every moment of it, the laughter, the cheering, the spectacle. Daemon, as expected, rode to victory, strutting about the lists as though the outcome had ever been in doubt. The only moment of satisfaction I found that day was in the crowning, when the Queen of Love and Beauty was not Rhaenyra. The warmonger had crowned his wife, Laena, who was all smiles. Not that the brat seemed to mind. She was too busy laughing with her husband, teasing him for falling into second place.

I thought that would be the end of it. That I could leave the grounds with at least that small satisfaction. But the night brought no such peace. The halls of the Red Keep shook with the cries of the whore princess as she labored, her screams carrying through stone and shadow until every man and woman was awake. And then the news spread, quick as fire. Another son.

They had a heir and a spare now.

I could already see it in Viserys’s eyes—the certainty, the pride. He would never turn back from her now. Whatever doubt I had managed to nurture in him had been crushed the moment her womb proved fruitful. His whore of a daughter had given him not one, but two grandsons. She had succeeded where her mother had failed.

The whispers spread through the court before dawn.

“A second prince!”

“Lucerys of House Targaryen and Martell!”

“Perhaps he will inherit his father’s princedom in Dorne?”

“I’ll have to speak to my lord husband—our granddaughter is near enough to his age.”

“Everything keeps improving! The Gods smile on her Highness, Princess Rhaenyra!”

“She truly is the Realm’s Delight!”

The words burned in my ears as the laughter and gossip filled the corridors. I heard their joy, their blind devotion, and every syllable felt like another obstacle stacked against me.

I could hear the laughter and voices even before I reached her chambers. It only fueled the rage already boiling in me, until I thought my teeth might crack from how tightly I was clenching my jaw. By the time I threw the doors open, I was seething.

Inside, the entire chamber was aglow with warmth and joy, as if the very air itself was mocking me. The Targaryens and Martells were gathered close, their faces lit with fond smiles and soft words. They hovered around the bed like worshippers before an altar, and on it sat the whore herself, her hair damp with sweat, her cheeks still flushed from labor, holding the newest bastard like he was the realm’s salvation.

And as if things could not be worse, the older bastard was holding out a dragon pearl to the babbling babe. The sight of the pearl-white with golden veins egg made my stomach turn.

“Your Grace,” I forced the words out, bowing low as I made my way straight to Viserys, refusing to even acknowledge the glares burning into my back. The barren failure’s eyes lingered on me with pure venom, but I ignored her. “Is it truly wise to allow this?”

“What in the fourteen flames are you talking about?” Viserys blinked at me, his grin collapsing into a glare. “Am I not allowed to celebrate the birth of my second grandson in peace? What nonsense do you bring me now?”

“I do not think that it is wise to give him a dragon egg,” I pressed quickly. “Giving a second son—a boy who will one day inherit Dorne—a dragon of his own is dangerous, Your Grace.” I bit back on the urge to sneer at his blindness, tacking the formality on only at the last moment. “One day he could raise arms against House Targaryen, claiming the Iron Throne for House Martell.”

The queen—defective, useless, yet still somehow bold—rounded on me with fury in her eyes. “Are you truly calling a newborn child a kinslayer and usurper?” Her voice cut through the air like a whip, silencing every murmur in the chamber.

The others froze, their gazes snapping toward us in disbelief.

But Aemma was not done, she continued unrelenting. “What sort of madness compels you to say such things? He is my grandson. He is a Targaryen, and by our tradition he will be gifted an egg. You have no right to interfere. None. To speak of kinslaying and treachery in this chamber, on this night, is to tarnish two of the greatest houses of the realm and brand an innocent babe with a crime he cannot even fathom.”

“I—” I began, but the weight of their stares pressed against me, and the hatred in her voice stuck the words in my throat. My fists clenched at my sides. I glared at her, loathing her audacity, loathing the fact that a defective woman dared raise her voice to me.

“You, nothing!” Viserys roared before I could gather my tongue. His face was blotched red, his eyes wide with anger I had never seen in him. “For years you and I have disagreed on how the realm should move forward. And for years I forgave you, because of your years of loyal service to my grandsire and to me. But this—this goes beyond insult. This I cannot forgive.” He surged to his feet, his hands gripping the pin at my chest. “You are no longer Hand of the King.”

The chamber was silent but for the soft rustle of fabric. Then the princess herself spoke, her voice deceptively soft from the bed.

“Father,” she said gently, though her eyes flicked to me with unmistakable triumph, “perhaps Alicent might remain. She has no part in this and losing one of my ladies so soon after birth would only make things more difficult.”

Viserys, the fool, melted at once. “Of course, my sweet princess,” he said, turning back to me with renewed venom. “But you—Otto Hightower—you are banished not only from King’s Landing, but from the Crownlands entire. Your daughter may remain in service until she is to leave for Riverrun, but you will leave before the day is over.”

For a moment I stood frozen, the world tilting. Stripped and humiliated, before these heretics as if they had any right. But then the hollowness was swallowed whole by fury, burning hotter than ever.

I turned my gaze across the room—at the princess with her mocking smile, at the Martells standing smug beside her, at the Velaryons smirking as though the game had already been won. And in front of them, their puppet king… he was supposed to be my puppet king!

I bowed stiffly, every muscle trembling with contained rage. Without another word, I turned and walked out, the sound of their murmurs following me into the hall. I swore then and there that they would come to regret this night. They would rue the moment they thought they could cast aside Otto Hightower.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 116 A.C  

I couldn’t help smiling, part relief and part joy, when I looked at my daughter. She was radiant in a way I had rarely seen, her face open with the kind of happiness only new mothers could understand. In her arms she held the future queen of the realm, Rhaena Targaryen-Velaryon, and I found myself staring at her longer than I should have, still caught by the surprise of it all. None of us had expected such beauty to arrive today.

At the bedside, my cousin—my good-son—stood proudly with my first grandchild, Baela Targaryen-Velaryon, the heiress of Driftmark. For moons we had all spoken of this day expecting one child was waiting to greet us, and then, with almost mischievous timing, her younger twin decided to make her presence known as well.

Twins.

“We’ve been blessed, haven’t we, wife?” Corlys said gently, his voice softer than usual, his eyes fixed on the young parents who looked at their daughters as though the world had just been remade. For a man who so often carried pride like armor, it was startling to see him stripped down to something this tender. “It’s almost a pity that they will be the only grandchildren we’ll have.”

“It is,” I admitted with a sigh, feeling as disappointed as my husband. “But you heard the princess. If Laena carries again, it will cost her life.”

The words were difficult to speak, and I saw the same shadow fall over Corlys’s expression. The idea of losing our daughter—our bright, fierce Laena—was something neither of us could bear to imagine.

I reached for him, needing the reassurance of his closeness as much as he needed mine. “If that changes, Rhaenyra will tell us. Otherwise, these two will be enough. They’ll grow strong, they’ll grow healthy, and one will take her place as queen while the other becomes the first Lady of Driftmark. That is enough.”

Corlys’s silence was agreement, though a heavy one, and I thought of our son as well. His choice had already been made, and for the first time Laenor stood his ground against us. He would father no children, especially when House Velaryon will get two heirs from Laena.

“I know,” Corlys sighed, the sound rough around the edges. “That doesn’t mean I like it. But I do love our son, Rhaenys. Please, understand that.” The plea in his voice was almost uncharacteristic, like he needed me to hear it out loud.

“I know you do, husband,” I told him, and I meant it. “But I also know you carry both worlds inside you. You hold to the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria, yet you were raised in the traditions of this realm. Those teachings run deep, and they make it hard for you to accept our son’s choice of spouse, even when our own faith would allow it.”

Corlys nodded, his gaze dropping for a moment before he looked back at me. “Maybe once that would have been true. Not because I couldn’t accept him, but because I feared what it would cost him. In those days, loving another man could mean persecution, even death. I didn’t want that burden on his shoulders.”

His expression shifted, thoughtful and faintly amused. “But times are changing. The Light of the Seven wanes, and all the other faiths grow bolder—faiths that allow what once was forbidden. House Baratheon even abandoned the Seven entirely, the first great house to do so, and embraced our Pantheon. With that tide turning, it is different now.”

A chuckle slipped out of him, almost against his will. “Not that it matters much. Our children have your stubbornness. Leanor hardly waited for anyone’s blessing. He took Joffrey with him, wed him at Dragonstone, and the two of them went off to the Stepstones to serve as castellans in the Targaryen hold there. They never looked back.”

He shook his head, and though he was trying for exasperation, I caught the pride behind it. “If this path continues, then Laena will serve as the first Lady of Driftmark, with Baela right at her heels.”

“Well, is that so terrible?” I asked him playfully. “Our son will have a life secured, living with his spouse in peace. Between Essos and Dorne, where marriages and loves like his are not just accepted but celebrated, he’ll find freedom there.”

The words steadied me, and I felt the smile forming before I could stop it. There was pride in it, pride in the courage he had shown. My son had gone after what he wanted, knowing full well that it might set him against the realm, and still he did not waver. That was a dragon’s heart, pure and unbending.

“And as for our daughter,” I went on, softer now, but certain. “I believe—no, I am sure—she will make a fine Lady of Driftmark.”

“That she will,” Corlys said, his own pride clear. Then he added with that half-teasing glint in his eyes, “I’ll leave it to you to see all of this made law, Hand of the King.”

That title still sat strangely on my shoulders. It had only been a year since Viserys cast Otto aside and the post fell to me. One word from Rhaenyra had been all it took, and suddenly I was seated at the King’s right hand. She spoke of dreams where she saw me rise to become one of the greatest Hands the realm had known. I’ve wondered often whether that was truly foresight or whether she had simply tricked Viserys, using her gift as a Dreamer to get what she wanted. I suppose I’ll never know.

But whether it came from prophecy or politics hardly matters. The duty is mine now, and I intend to bear it as best I can. I will work for the realm, work until I have nothing left to give, and if history remembers me kindly, it will be because I became the best version of myself in service to it.

“Princess Rhaenyra, Prince Qoren, Prince Jacaerys, and Prince Lucerys!” the guard called out before pulling the chamber doors wide.

Talk of a dragon and one appears, I thought with a quiet laugh to myself as I turned to greet the royal family.

Prince Qoren came forward first, carrying little Prince Lucerys in his arms. The boy clung happily to his dragon, the creature nestled close to him as though it were just another toy to be hugged. Only it was anything but a toy.

The hatchling’s scales shone in a soft pearlescent white, catching the light like polished stone, and his golden chest gleamed with each shift of movement. Even his eyes were striking—two bright orbs of molten gold that seemed far too knowing for a creature so small. And then there was the fire. Unusual yellow flames that had left half the court speechless the first time they saw them.

Lucerys had been the one to name him, blurting out “Arrax” as soon as he could form the word. To everyone’s shock it had been his very first, that small act had turned into a story retold across the castle halls. Watching them now, I couldn’t help but feel the name fit. A worthy dragon for the boy who would one day stand as Lord Consort of Driftmark.

Beside them, Prince Jacaerys walked with all the pride a four-names-old boy could muster, holding his chin high as though the whole world needed to know he belonged at his parents’ side. He had reason to be proud. His own dragon, Vermax, had already outgrown any hope of staying within the Red Keep. Just last year he had been no larger than a horse, and now his wings stretched far beyond that.

Still, my eyes lingered on Rhaenyra. She held no child in her arms this time but something just as powerful in its own way. Two dragon eggs, cradled carefully, each one a miracle of its own. One was pale green streaked with white, like seafoam frozen in stone. The other glowed faintly pink, its shell marked with veins of black that looked almost alive.

“You knew!” Laena accused from the bed, trying for a glare but giving herself away with that wide, glowing smile. “You could have told me!”

“How else would I have had any fun?” Rhaenyra teased back, her tone playful as she crossed to the bedside. She set down the first egg—a delicate shell of soft pink streaked with black—nestling it beside Laena as though placing a treasure into her keeping. “This one is for the graceful Rhaena.” Then she turned, lifting the second egg, pale green marbled with white, and carried it over to the chair where Daemon had been sitting only moments before, until Baela’s fussing had pulled him back to his daughter’s side. “And this one is for the brave Baela.”

“They’ll hatch?” Daemon asked, his voice carrying a thin thread of hope that slipped out before he could mask it.

He knew as well as any of us what it meant to be chosen by a dragon instead of having a hatchling. The hollow ache of finding your own egg gone cold in the crib, was one none of us ever get over. It was not shameful to be chosen, not truly, but it left a scar, nonetheless.

“They will,” Rhaenyra said with conviction. “The Gods swore it to me.”

The chamber went quiet at her words. None of us would ever speak of the Gods so lightly, not without care for blasphemy. But this was Rhaenyra, who carried dreams like other people carried memories. She was different, and everyone in that room knew it. If she spoke for the Gods, we believe her.

“You had better heal quickly,” she added with a wry smile, “because I’ll need all the help I can during my next pregnancy.”

“Again?!” Laena laughed, throwing her head back. “You two can’t seem to keep your hands off each other.”

“As if you two are any better!” Qoren shot back, though the enormous smile plastered across his face betrayed him completely.

“It’s almost as if we aren’t even here,” Corlys muttered, dry amusement threading through his voice as he turned toward me.

“Youngsters,” I said with a chuckle. “I’ll make use of the distraction and go meet with Viserys about naming Laena and Baela as our heirs. With Rhaenyra’s dream behind them, he won’t dare refuse.”

The thought made me sigh even as I rose. It wasn’t as though I truly wanted to speak with him. Now that I knew his true self, none of us had the patience to spend more time in his company than was absolutely necessary. The fool never even seemed to realize it.

How had we gone so wrong with him?

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 117 A.C  

“The last dragon egg from Syrax’s clutch,” Qoren said as he carefully carried in the red-and-black shell, the one that would soon hatch into Tyraxes.

I couldn’t help but think of how it had gone before. My son and his dragon had both died far too young, and the memory lingered like a bruise I couldn’t quite shake. But this time would be different, every time I bore a son with dark hair, there were no whispers in the halls, no pointed fingers or sly remarks. Instead, the court celebrated, delighted to remark on how much he resembled his father.

“Put it in the crib,” I told Qoren, my hand resting on the curve of my belly. I loved the act of creating life with him, and I loved the children we had made together. But the truth was, I hated being pregnant. My body always felt heavy and bloated. “It makes me feel sad to place a dragon egg in an empty crib…”

“But our son will join it soon enough,” Qoren said, finishing the thought for me. His smile was warm, and he sealed it with a kiss before turning to do as I asked.

I watched him with a fondness that caught me off guard even now. The praise of the court, the chants of my name echoing across the realm—it had taken me time to adjust to all of that. Yet what surprised me most was not the people or the power, but Qoren himself. When we were first wed, I had expected a strong ally and a reliable partner in bed, nothing more. I hadn’t dared hope for more. But what I found was something I hadn’t imagined: love and friendship.

In my first marriage, I had known friendship. That much had been true and real, and I had cherished it. But there had been no passion, it had been a partnership I valued and cared for, and I would have kept it gladly had it not been for the venom of the Greens and the foul rumors they spun to tarnish me.

In my second marriage, I had love and passion in abundance, but I never found friendship or trust in it. For all our declarations about how much we had wanted each other, about how long we had burned with desire, the foundation was never steady. We claimed love, but we never gave one another the kind of faith that makes love safe. Daemon could never accept that my position stood above his, and I, in turn, was too quick to let the whispers of the White Worm sway me. I accused him of cheating, even though I knew better. A dragon in love does not stray.

With Qoren, everything unfolded differently. He never needed to compete with me, never felt threatened by the fact that I was a Targaryen princess before I was his wife. He accepted that his title came second, and he carried that truth without bitterness. His own lineage had never bent to the Faith or the Andals, clinging to their customs of firstborn inheritance and their own sense of sovereignty.

Perhaps that is why he trusted me so easily, why he believed without hesitation that I could rule as well as any man. When he disagreed with me, we discussed it in private like adults. And whether or not I yielded to his perspective, he always stood behind me once the decision was made, giving me not just his loyalty but Dorne’s as well.

Time with him stripped away the fear I had carried from the past, and in its place, I began to see the little things. I noticed the way he buried his face in the pillow in the mornings, grumbling at the sunlight slipping through the shutters. I noticed how the smallest joy could light up his smile until dimples creased his cheeks, especially when he played with our sons. I saw the calm certainty in him when he trained the new guards in the yard. And I caught the way his smirk deepened whenever he realized I was watching him, shameless in his desire and in the love that was written all over him.

I could spend hours just staring into those deep black eyes, the very same eyes my sons now share, and I would let myself get lost in them. No—more than that, I chose to let myself get lost. I trusted him, and that was something I hadn’t been able to give anyone in a long time. Not since before the Dance truly began. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped trusting altogether, and I think it started the day I discovered that my closest friend had seduced my father on her own father’s orders. That wound had never healed properly. But now, with Qoren, I felt that trust return.

It was no surprise to anyone, least of all myself, that I ended up falling in love with him.

“A letter came from Riverrun,” Qoren told me. “Lady Alicent Tully has safely delivered her second son. They’ve named him Oscar Tully.”

“She does seem quick to have them, doesn’t she? Some things never change,” I muttered with a quiet laugh under my breath, then added more clearly, “Good for Kermit. He’ll enjoy having a younger brother so close in age.”

That was another shift in this life. Alicent and I were still friends—or at least, I kept our bond as strong as I could. In this timeline, she had never turned against me. If anything, she had stood with me at every step, through my wedding, through my first two pregnancies, only absent now because she was carrying her own child.

And even then, she still found ways to stay close, sending letters every fortnight with apologies for not being here beside me, always asking after my health, always trying to remind me that she hadn’t forgotten me.

It felt strange, if I’m honest. I had gone out of my way to keep some distance between us, always arranging for my other ladies-in-waiting to serve as a kind of shield so that Alicent and I were never truly alone together. At the very least, it lessened the number of moments where we had to be. I had almost forgotten how naïve and easily tricked she could be. She hadn’t noticed my careful retreat at all, and even went so far as to claim that our bond had only grown stronger since my marriage.

That poor girl, I thought, shaking my head with a quiet smile. In a way, it worked to my advantage. Elmo Tully had refused his grandfather’s wishes to join the Greens the last time, and I could use that same stubborn loyalty now. Giving Oldtown to their second son would tie House Tully closer to me. It would also serve another purpose—one I had long planned. When the time came, I would see every last Hightower burned away, save for Alicent herself. Afterward, Oscar would be free to choose whatever name he wanted for his new house, as long as it was not Hightower.

“Just like ours do,” Qoren murmured as he lifted me easily, making me laugh out loud at the suddenness of it.

He carried me over and dropped into the armchair with me still in his arms, settling me on his lap. His arms wrapped around me from behind, holding me close, and then his lips found the curve of my neck, pulling a soft sound from me before I could stop it. It had been too long since we had stolen a moment like this, just the two of us, free of duties and eyes.

“This will be the future Prince of Dorne,” he whispered against my skin.

I fell quiet, the sound of my own moaning cut short as a frown tugged at my face. When I realized I time traveled, I had made a plan. Every step had been thought through, each child’s place secured, and their futures arranged as carefully as a battle map. At the time, Qoren was little more to me than a means to an end—an army at my back and the father of the heirs I needed.

But things had changed, and he had become far more than that. Still, the plans I made for our children were drawn without his counsel. I had already decided who they would marry, what lands they would inherit, what titles would pass to them. By law, Lucerys should be the one to ascend as Prince of Dorne.

Yet I knew my sweet boy had never wanted such a crown. It had never been in his heart to rule. He preferred to step aside, to let Jace and the twins shine in the forefront while he gave them his quiet support. That was what fulfilled him—being the strength behind those he loved, not the one wearing the weight of command.

We had refused to see that truth before. We had forced him into roles he wasn’t ready for, pushed him forward when he only wanted to stand at our side. And it cost him his life. Lucerys had always been the best of us, the gentlest soul, and we lost him because we did not listen.

“Are you really all right? With the plans for the children?” I asked hesitantly.

“Doubting yourself now? Where has my dragon gone?” Qoren teased with a smile, though his eyes softened quickly, the jest fading into something kinder. “I am all right. Truly. If your dreams hold true, each of our children will rule lands of their own, their futures secure. I admit, I’m not sure how I feel about a Baratheon becoming Princess of Dorne, but they’ll be of Targaryen blood as well. That line may give House Martell not just one but two generations of dragonriders. That alone will silence any houses here who might protest.”

He leaned back slightly, his voice thoughtful as he laid it out with his usual calm logic. “As for Aegon and Visenya… well, Dorne may be more permissive than most when it comes to matters of desire, but sibling marriage has never been among our customs. That’s a Targaryen thing, not ours.”

“They are Targaryens,” I reminded him, perhaps more firmly than I intended. “Those practices are normal for us, meant to keep our blood pure.”

“Maybe so,” Qoren replied, his voice firm but not unkind. “But at the end of the day, I would rather hear what they want for themselves. Forcing matches rarely leads to anything good. They almost always end badly, and it would be disastrous if that happened when we’ve placed our children in positions across the realm that are meant to strengthen us.” His gaze was sharp as he added, “And this is not just any match. It’s one between siblings.”

I wanted to argue, and for a moment the words rose to my lips, but then memory pulled me back. Aegon and Helaena. That marriage had been nothing short of a disaster—unhappy for them both, and costly for the realm that had to endure the consequences of it. If they had simply allowed the match between Jace and my sister, everything might have turned out differently. I pushed the thought aside with a sigh. The past had already been rewritten, and this time, we would finally see a Velaryon queen seated on the throne.

“When the time comes, we’ll ask Joffrey, Aegon, and Visenya what they want,” I said at last. That earned me a beaming smile from my husband and a kiss pressed gently to my forehead, warm with approval.

“What about Viserys?” Qoren asked after a pause.

“Oh, I have no idea who he’ll end up with,” I admitted, frowning as I thought it through.

My supposed gift as a Dreamer was more performance than truth, there had been real visions. I did see flashes, moments when the gods seemed to nudge me in one direction. They had pointed me toward Qoren, and they had guided Syrax to lay the clutch of five dragon eggs when she did. But most of the time, I was guessing as much as anyone.

“All I know for certain is that Viserys must claim the Stepstones, and that his match will come from Essos. Beyond that, the gods have given me nothing.”

“Essos?!” Qoren repeated, his surprise plain.

“Yes, she will be a high lady from Essos,” I pursed my lips thoughtfully. “In the Narrow Sea your youngest son must remain. His fair lady he’ll find east, but if she lingers in the West too long, she’ll leave with the prince’s broken heart.”

“Well, that’s not ominous at all,” Qoren scoffed, though there was humor in it. “Still, I can see the sense in it.”

“You do? Good, because I’m lost,” I admitted with a shake of my head.

“You see, Dorne and Essos share more than the rest of the realm ever has,” Qoren began, leaning into the thought. “When I first came to King’s Landing, it was suffocating. Everything was stiff and I felt caged by all the rules. If not for you, and the Dornish court I dragged along with me, I don’t know how I would have endured it.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, turning to him in genuine surprise. “Why did you never tell me?”

“Because back then we hardly knew one another,” Qoren admitted with a rueful smile. “We were a political match, one with undeniable chemistry in bed, but little else at the start. You saw me for the strength I could lend your house, and I saw you for the power and prestige you carried as a Targaryen princess. That was all we let ourselves acknowledge.”

I winced, because he wasn’t wrong.

“But time changed us,” he went on, “and in its own way, it changed the city too. The Faith loosened its grip, the people grew bolder, and slowly King’s Landing began to feel less like a cage. There was laughter in the streets again, color returning to a place that had been gray for too long. Maybe it was our influence, maybe it was simply bound to happen, but life returned to the city. For that, I will always be grateful. But if things had stayed the way they were, rigid and stifling, I would have reached my limit. And our son’s future wife would have as well.”

“She would have left him and gone back to Essos,” I realized, the thought hitting me harder than I expected. “Oh, my poor boy.”

“But that won’t come to pass, not with Viserys seated on the Stepstones,” Qoren said quickly, eager to reassure me. “Let’s not dwell on sorrows that haven’t even happened.”

“You’re right,” I admitted, letting it go with a breath. “Let’s speak of happier things. Did you hear that my sworn shield has begun courting one of my ladies-in-waiting?”

“He has?” Qoren’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. “Who?”

“Clarissa Dayne,” I answered with a smile, pleased for him more than I could explain. Harwin had been loyal to me through everything in the other timeline, faithful even when we couldn’t be together openly, even when our sons were mocked and called bastards. Now, seeing him free to pursue his own happiness made my chest ease. “Her father and his both approved the match. In truth, many of my ladies have had marriage offers arriving from all corners of the realm.”

“Dorne’s influence spreads nicely then. My father must be beside himself,” Qoren snorted, clearly amused.

“Well, we can always ask him,” I teased. “He’ll be here for the long-week tourney in honor of Joffrey’s coming birth. If I didn’t know better, I’d say my father is trying to turn this into some sort of family tradition. Even Baela and Rhaena had their own long-week tourney when Laena was pregnant with them.”

“I still do not know if that was to placate the Velaryons or because Daemon finally had kids,” Qoren snorted.   

“A little bit of both,” we both laughed at my answer.  

Gods, if this a dream, do not wake me up, because I am finally home.  

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 117 A.C  

“So, you’ve decided to convert to the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria… that’s quite brave of you,” Princess Rhaenyra said with a smile that carried real pride.

“You’ve already reshaped so much of how Westeros is run,” Lady Jeyne replied with a quiet laugh. “The Faith once held itself as the true heart of the realm, or at least that was the story they forced us to believe. They tried to keep their hands on everything, while the Citadel dictated how knowledge was shared, how our people were educated, how the very structure of power was upheld. And now both of them are losing their influence. I won’t lie, I enjoy watching it unravel.”

She leaned back slightly, the amusement still in her voice. “In the Vale, most lords and ladies now converted to the Old Gods. Their sense of honor and justice matches the values of my people in a way the Seven never could. Already, only about thirty percent of those under my rule remain under the Light of the Seven.” She gave an unconcerned shrug. “Why would I cling to a faith that condemns who I love and does nothing to protect my place as Lady of the Vale? I chose instead to follow Borros’ example, to look to our blood ties across the sea and pledge myself to distant kin.”

“Why choose our gods and not the Old Gods?” Rhaenyra asked curiously. “Politically it might have been the safer move, and it still would have allowed you to remain with Jessamyn.”

“Because my heirs will be of the Targaryen dynasty,” Lady Jeyne answered plainly, lifting her cup and taking a sip of tea before continuing. “I’m already asking them to change their names and leave the only home they’ve ever known. The least I can do is give them the right to keep their gods. That way, even as they leave everything else behind, there’s still a piece of what they are that remains untouched.”

“Cousin,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice softening, touched in a way she didn’t often let show. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. When cousin Aemma sent me that letter that solved nearly all of my problems, and then you stood against the Faith and forced them back into their place, you didn’t just make my life easier—you made it the happiest I’ve ever known,” Lady Jeyne said with a bright smile. “That’s what family is for. Now!” She turned to me suddenly, making me tense under the weight of her attention. I stood just behind the princess, taking Harwin’s usual post while he readied himself for the tourney.

“How’s married life?” she asked, eyes alight with curiosity.

“Incredible,” I admitted with a long sigh. “I never imagined I could feel this free, this content. For a time, I worried constantly about how others would react. Even with the rise of other religions, old beliefs linger. Leanor and I kept ourselves tucked away in the Stepstones, slipping often into Dorne or over to Essos, avoiding the eyes of Westeros.” A laugh escaped me as I remembered it. “But Leanor wasn’t having it. He sat me down and told me we couldn’t keep running forever. He was right. While there are still sneers, still stares full of judgment, most people barely care. And some even go as far as to congratulate us.”

I smiled at her then. “Converting will be the best choice you ever made. It certainly was mine. Honestly, I expected far more backlash from the lords and ladies who cling to the Light of the Seven. The silence, or even their reluctant acceptance, was the greater surprise.”

“Good,” Lady Jeyne said with a knowing smile. “And I can tell you why that is. The Faith may bow to the Targaryens, but everyone knows it isn’t done willingly. Lords and ladies see the greed and corruption in the septons as clearly as the common folk do. None of it goes unnoticed—how could it, when the High Septon struts through King’s Landing draped in jewels and gold trinkets like some merchant prince? Their hypocrisy has soured what little loyalty they once commanded.

“Plenty of lords and ladies have decided the Faith has stretched itself too far, clawing at power that was never theirs. The truth is, most of them are far more relaxed about religion than they pretend. They pay lip service to the Seven because it keeps appearances and grants them influence, but in private, they couldn’t care less what gods their neighbors worship. They believe, yes, but not in a way that leaves them blind to the excesses they see paraded before them.”

She let out a sharp snort, shaking her head. “Unlike the other great religions in Westeros, the Seven have given no one a reason to feel loyalty toward them. No miracles, no strength, no justice. Nothing. Meanwhile, they’ve all seen what the Princess and Prince have done for their people. The improvements to the lands, the prosperity flowing in, the coin filling their coffers from taxes—all of that carries more weight than empty sermons. As long as those benefits keep coming, most will shrug and look the other way at whatever choices the royal family makes.”

Her snort this time was derisive, almost amused. “Things are shifting, and they know it. They’re flocking to the winning side before they’re left behind. And truth be told, an open, more accepting Westeros serves them just as well as it serves us.”

“Then why did no one ever do it before?” I asked, my voice breaking with confusion, edged with desperation. I couldn’t stop thinking that I might have grown up in a better realm if someone had simply spoken out sooner. Why had no one dared?

“Because of fear,” the princess answered with a sigh that carried more sorrow than frustration. “No one had the courage to say what everyone could see—that things weren’t right, that they could be different. Tell me, before I ever called out the High Septon, what did you really know of the religions of the Seven Kingdoms?”

“That the Seven ruled over everything,” I admitted, shame heating my cheeks. “That the North was full of tree-worshipping savages, it is how they were described to us.” I winced, even repeating it. “And the Gods of Old Valyria were as much a mystery as Mother Rhoyne.”

“Dorne chose isolation, and the North had its own winters to battle. Neither sought to get involved in southern politics,” Rhaenyra explained. “The Seven saw the opening and seized it. They spread their lies freely, twisting rumors until they became the narrative. And we—those of Valyrian blood—kept our faiths hidden, believing that no one outside our lineages should join us. That secrecy was a mistake, one of many. It allowed the Seven to demand that we bow our heads and pretend. To live as though their gods were ours.” Her frown deepened, her tone hardening from the memory.

“So, I broke the silence. I told them the truths we had kept close. That Mother Rhoyne embraces all who come to her, that she stands for passion without shame. That the Old Gods demand honor and justice, rooted in the very land itself. That Old Valyria was not just about dragons and fire but about freedom, about learning to claim the sky. Against that, what did the Seven offer? Corrupt septons and septas, lining their pockets with gold and preaching virtue they never practiced. Once people saw the contrast, it didn’t take long for the Faith to start losing influence.”

“I think I understand now,” I said with a frown. “And I do not like it.”

“No one does!” Lady Jeyne laughed, brushing the heaviness aside with ease. “Let’s end this tragic talk. Could you bring me my nephews? I would love more time with them. The Vale keeps me so busy that I’ve only had the chance to see them properly during the royal progress.”

“That’s a wonderful idea!” Princess Rhaenyra agreed brightly. “Joffrey, go fetch them.”

“I should stay here to guard you, princess,” I objected, though it was half-heartedly.

“I have guards posted outside the tent,” Rhaenyra sighed, rubbing her swollen belly with one hand. “I am pregnant, not helpless. Go on, shoo!”

“Fine,” I laughed, bowing my head as I gave in. “But keep your eyes sharp while I’m gone,” I told the guards on my way out. “I’ll be bringing the princes.”

With that, I headed toward the Velaryon tent, where the boys had been spending the morning visiting with their future good-family—my good-family. “Good morning, everyone,” I greeted as I stepped inside.

“Joff,” Leanor said warmly, crossing the space with that easy smile of his before leaning in to kiss me. Heat rose in my cheeks at the simple gesture, especially when I noticed how the Velaryons softened at the sight, their gazes fond and approving.

“What brings you here?” Leanor teased lightly. “Shouldn’t you be standing guard over my cousin?”

“The princess asked me to bring her sons to spend some time with Lady Jeyne Arryn,” I explained with a smile.

“Muña?!” Jace and Luke perked up at the word, though Luke stumbled over the word, his younger age showing as he tried to keep pace with his brother.

“Yes, your muña is excited to see you and to spend time with her cousin from the Vale,” I told them with a smile. Their faces lit up, and in a blink they were running toward me, cheering as only children can. “I’ll be taking them now,” I said with a nod to my good-family and my spouse before ushering the boys out of the tent and back toward the royal pavilion.

“Your Highness, the princes are here,” I called as we approached.

“Let them in!” came the cheerful voice of the princess from inside.

I pushed the flap open, smiling as I guided the princes in. Quick as the wind, Jacaerys rushed straight to his mother’s side, Lucerys following close behind but with his usual carefulness.

“Here they are! My precious princes!” the princess exclaimed, kissing each boy’s forehead until they were giggling.

“How’s our little brother?” Jace asked eagerly, already pressing both hands against the swell of her belly.

“How much longer do we have to wait?” Luke added with a pout, mimicking his brother’s gesture.

“Just two more moons,” Rhaenyra said with a laugh. “Now, show the manners I’ve taught you and greet Lady Jeyne Arryn. She is family, after all.”

I let their chatter fade into the background as my attention shifted. A maid had entered the tent, moving about quietly as though she were simply tending to her duties. At first, I thought nothing of it, but then I noticed the way she moved. Too quiet. Her footsteps made no sound at all. My instincts prickled, and I edged closer, watching her carefully.

I approached her just in time to see it. My eyes went wide, as I shouted. “Princess!”

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep - 117 A.C  

“Surprisingly, many think it wise, the inheritance order you’ve laid out,” my father remarked as he plucked a grape from the bowl between us. We were seated in the Martell tent at the King’s Landing tourney held in honor of my third son, the air thick with noise and movement just beyond the canvas walls. “You’re uniting all three Targaryen bloodlines, securing the throne against quarrels before they even start. With your two eldest sons betrothed into Princess Rhaenys and Prince Daemon’s line, the realm sees a stability in it. And with House Velaryon lacking an heir beyond Baela, no one was surprised when you named this child Prince of Dorne.”

“That’s reassuring to hear,” I admitted with a sigh. “I know our way of doing things seems peculiar to some, but sweet Luke was never meant to sit as Prince of Dorne. He’s too much a Sea Dragon for that.” I chuckled at the memory, repeating my wife’s words as if they explained everything.

“Placing someone in power simply because they are eldest, only invites ruin,” my father said, shaking his head slowly. “Especially when the one meant to rule does not even desire the seat. Your choice avoids that. And the truth is, the situation itself is unusual enough that people accept it. The lords and ladies of the realm see what this arrangement accomplishes, and they understand. For once, they see a path to peace, a chance for the realm to move in one direction instead of tearing itself apart.”

“Good,” I said, nodding with real satisfaction.

“Now,” my father smirked, leaning back with that familiar glint in his eyes, “I would very much like to know—since when have you been planning your little attack on the Citadel?”

“Ha!” I couldn’t help but throw my head back and laugh, the sound loud and delighted. “Unlike with the Faith, we had to be more careful. The septons had already shown itself rotten and weighed down by hypocrisy, we just had to introduce other religions and wait for people to flock to them. Wouldn’t abandon a faith that told them their suffering was punishment for sins from some past life?” I scoffed, and my father gave a snort of amusement.

“But the Citadel—that was different. The maesters have been staples in every part of Westeros for centuries. They serve in every household, every raven message passes through their hands, every healing method is dictated by them. Breaking their hold was never going to be easy.”

I smiled, remembering how it had begun. “It was Nyra who shattered the pattern first, bringing healers from Essos into her own household. That single act gave the lords and ladies who already felt unease with the maesters the courage to try something different. And then came the results—two strong, healthy sons, followed by a third pregnancy, even with her family’s long history of struggling with fertility. It stunned every lady of the realm. Suddenly, they were all demanding healers of their own, insisting that if it worked for the princess, it could work for them.”

I leaned forward, my voice dropping slightly, more thoughtful now. “And it didn’t stop there. With teachers from Essos arriving and Nyra’s learning houses spreading through the realm, the Citadel’s control over learning started to loosen. Knowledge was no longer a treasure hoarded for those wealthy enough to pay for it. Slowly, it began to slip into the hands of more people. And for the first time, the Citadel no longer controlled the flow of knowledge in the realm.”

I smirked, and my father mirrored it, both of us sharing the same venomous satisfaction. “Slowly but surely, the Citadel is losing its grip. By the time our son sits the throne, they’ll have no power left to wield.”

“Will the position of Grand Maester lose its place on the Small Council?” my father asked curiously.

“Under King Viserys? Never,” I said with a scoff. “But perhaps when my wife takes the throne.”

“Son! Watch your words,” my father snapped, sharp enough to make me bristle. “Especially here, where anyone could overhear. Your son is the heir, not your wife.”

“I don’t need you reminding me of that,” I shot back, scowling. “The King’s decree is foolish. If anyone deserves to be the first queen to sit the Iron Throne, it is Nyra.”

“I agree,” my father admitted with a sigh. “But the law stands as it is, the King’s word is final. Maybe your son can find a way to amend it—at least to allow the lords and ladies of the realm to name a daughter heir if they choose.”

“That isn’t good enough,” I muttered, still bristling. “You know as well as I do that in most houses, the daughters would still be ignored. Younger brothers who are unprepared and unfit, would be chosen instead. I would rather see a law passed that makes it clear: the firstborn inherits, regardless of gender. There should be no way around it.”

“That kind of law would only bring you a rebellion,” my father said with a snort. “The Vale and the North might accept it. There have been plenty of houses there willing to let a daughter inherit—but usually only when there was no son to take the place. Your girl will inherit the Arryn title, that much is certain. But the rest of Westeros?” He shook his head, scoffing. “They aren’t ready for that. Not yet. Maybe after a few generations, if the law I’ve suggested takes root and people grow used to seeing women rule, then it might stick. Until then, no one can say.”

“All of this is ridiculous,” I muttered with a long sigh. “If it weren’t for Nyra and our beautiful boys, I would have already boarded a ship to Dorne. I miss Sunspear.”

“Then why not come back?” my father asked, his tone softening. “You’ve been gone five years. After your wife gives birth, when she and the baby are ready, bring them home for a time. Dorne is part of your sons’ heritage too. They should grow up knowing it, learning to value it.”

“I’ll speak with Nyra about it,” I said, and I could feel the spark of excitement at the thought. “I don’t see her objecting, but we’ll still need the king’s permission. The children are his heirs.”

“Leave that to Princess Rhaenys and Queen Aemma,” my father replied with a dismissive wave. “They’ve got him well in hand.”

We both laughed at that, knowing all too well how easily controlled Viserys could be.

“You just make sure your wife agrees,” he added, and I nodded, already planning how I’d ask her.

“There won’t be any need to convince her,” I said, shaking my head. “She loved our time in Dorne during the royal progress, and she would have stayed longer if she could.”

“Perfect!” my father exclaimed, his excitement plain. “Then I’ll have everything ready and make sure the cooks prepare everyone’s favorites. My grandsons are coming home at last!”

Before I could respond, Oberon Sand, one of my father’s knights, burst into the tent, panting hard. “My princes, there’s been an attack on Princess Rhaenyra!”

The world blurred into white noise after that. I barely registered my father shouting orders at the guard, or the chaos stirring outside the tent. I was already moving, shoving past anyone in my way. My guards and my father shouted after me, warning me to stop, to think, to stay back while an assassin still roamed free. I didn’t care.

My wife had been attacked. My unborn child could be—no, I couldn’t even let the word settle in my mind.

Mother Rhoyne, have mercy. Protect them. Please, protect them, I prayed again and again as my feet carried me faster toward the royal tent.

“Kepa!” my little dragons cried out the moment they saw me.

I froze for a heartbeat, staring at the blood on Jace’s clothes, my chest locking tight with panic. But before I could reach for him, both boys broke free from Laena and Leanor’s arms and threw themselves at me. I caught them, clutching them so tightly I nearly crushed the breath from their lungs. My sons were safe. I could feel their hearts pounding against mine, alive and whole.

But where was my wife?

I pressed Jace and Luke’s faces into the curve of my neck and shoulder, shielding them as best I could. When I finally looked up, my eyes caught on the Velaryon children, pale and shaken, before sliding to Joffrey Lonmouth. His clothes were streaked with blood.

“What happened?” I demanded my voice came out harsher than I intended. He was my good-cousin’s spouse, but all I could see was the red on him.

“Princess Rhaenyra and Lady Jeyne Arryn were speaking inside the royal tent,” Joffrey began, his face still unsettled. I tried to listen, but my mind kept racing, desperate for only one answer—was my wife alive? “I had stepped out to escort Princes Jacaerys and Lucerys, since Lady Jeyne wanted time with them. That’s when I noticed a maid slipping behind the princess with a knife in her hand.”

I shuddered, my arms tightening around my boys.

“The assassin managed to stab the princess in her shoulder before I struck her down,” he continued. “Lady Jeyne quickly pulled the princes away and called for the healers. I stayed with the princess until they arrived… she’s giving birth now.”

“No,” I gasped, but I could say nothing more.

My sons were still pressed against me, their small hands clutching my tunic, and I couldn’t let them hear the terror that wanted to spill out of me.

She couldn’t be in labor now. It was too soon. Nyra had been clear—she didn’t want to give birth during another great event, not with the eyes of the realm on her. We had agreed to hold the tourney in her seventh moon for that reason, leaving her next two moons free from strain and spectacle.

The baby wasn’t ready. My son wasn’t ready. And my wife—Mother Rhoyne, why now?

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 117 A.C  

We finally cleared the space outside the royal tent, giving the healers room to move freely so my niece could give birth without the crush of bodies pressing in. Inside with her were Laena, Jeyne, Aemma, and Rhaenys, their voices low and steady as they supported Rhaenyra through the ordeal.

The rest of us—Leanor, Joffrey, Qoren, Manfrey, Corlys, my brother, and I—waited outside, restless with worry. Ser Harwin stood with us, every inch the sworn shield, Larys slipped off into the shadows, already working to figure out who was behind the attack. On his part, Lyonel Strong was in charge of keeping the court calm, while the Targaryen family was dealing with this.   

“This is outrageous!” Manfrey erupted, his voice louder than I had ever heard it. The Prince of Dorne, usually so laidback, looked ready to spit fire. “When they are found, I’ll run them through myself with my spear!”

“That’s if I don’t get to them first,” I muttered, my hand already tight on the hilt of my sword. The promise in me was dark, though not as dark as the blade I had once held. Dark Sister was no longer mine—it had passed to Prince Qoren when he wed my niece and fathered the heir to the throne. Still, the hunger for vengeance lived in me as sharp as steel. “Caraxes will be eager enough to burn them from the sky,”

“Shut up.”

The sound of it was broken, raw enough to pull all of us still. We turned toward my good-nephew, and my own anger drained away as I looked at him. He was slumped on the ground, arms tight around his sleeping sons, holding them as though letting go would shatter him.

“My wife is in there,” he said, his voice fraying at the edges, “fighting for her life and for my son’s. And you stand out here bickering like children.” His glare swept over us, muted but burning with that unmistakable Dornish passion. “I will be the one to deal with the traitors. I will be the one to present them with Dark Sister.”

“I apologize,” Ser Harwin said immediately, bowing his head in shame. “I am the princess’ sworn shield. I should have been with her.”

“I was with her and still failed to protect her,” Joffrey said self-deprecating as she shook his head. “If anyone should be blamed, it is me.”

“The fault lies with whoever sent the assassin,” Viserys cut in, his voice firm enough to silence them both.

I turned to look at my brother, surprised. He was calm and collected, carrying himself like a king. When had he started to speak like this instead of the weak, malleable puppet we had all grown used to?

“Ser Harwin, you had leave to take part in the tourney in honor of the third prince. You are not to blame,” Viserys continued evenly. “Ser Joffrey, you struck down the assassin and kept my daughter safe until the healers arrived. You saved her.” He met his eyes, and his face softened in a way that felt almost welcoming. “Thank you.”

“I was only doing my duty, Your Majesty,” Joffrey said with a bow.

He had never held Viserys in high regard, and I knew why. Rhaenys, Aemma, and I had never spoken kindly of my brother, and Joffrey had listened. Still, whatever he thought of the man, Viserys was his king, and being thanked so directly by him would leave anyone flushed and eager.

“Which is why our son will be named in honor of his savior,” startled looks were exchanged all around us at Qoren’s sudden declaration. “Nyra always said the boy would be named for Ser Joffrey, though she never explained why. I don’t think she knew herself. Her dreams are not always clear.”

Another cry of pain rang out from within the tent, and whatever warmth or surprise had flickered between us was gone in an instant. No one spoke after that.

More cries followed, as we all stood frozen as healers rushed in and out of the tent, their robes stained with blood. I could feel the grip on my sword tighten, knuckles white around the hilt, as the metal groaning under the strain of my fury.

It was only when the thin wail of a newborn that the tension broke. The sound of life, fragile but strong, was enough to still the chaos within us.

“It’s a boy,” the healer Qoren had brought from Lys announced, her face breaking into a relieved smile as she stepped out of the tent. “A healthy boy.”

“What about my wife?” Qoren asked immediately, his voice cutting through the king’s attempt to speak. While improper, no one faulted him for it.

“The princess’ wound has been stitched,” Healer Lana explained carefully. “Thanks to Ser Joffrey’s quick thinking in keeping pressure on it, she lost little blood. But there was aa poison on the blade. Luckily, I recognized it at once. It is a toxin from Lys, meant to force abrupt abortions.”

“T-they tried to abort my grandson?” Viserys stammered, though his eyes burned with a fire I hadn’t seen in him since the day his dragon died.

“They did, Your Majesty,” the healer answered solemnly as she bowed her head. “As the poison specialist in Her Highness’ court, I’ve prepared cures for every toxin I’ve encountered… including that one. I was able to administer the antidote quickly enough, though I couldn’t prevent the premature birth of the prince. Both mother and child live.”

Healer Lana took a deep breath to collect herself. “The boy is small but fully formed. Over the next moons he will make up the growth he missed in the womb, before slowing again to the pace of other infants. The princess herself will be confined to bed for some time while her body heals. The greatest danger ahead is not the wound or the poison, but infection.”

“Whatever you need, you only have to ask for it,” Viserys declared, the words rushing out with urgency. “My daughter and grandson will have every care we can provide.”

“May we see them?” Qoren asked hopefully.

“You may,” Healer Lana answered gently, her smile small but steady. “Though, if I may advise, it would be best the young princes not go in yet. It is better to wait until the princess is moved back to the Red Keep, the sight inside the tent will be too much for them. There is blood everywhere, and she is pale, weaker than they have ever seen her. For children that young, the image of their mother like this could be frightening.”

“Of course,” Qoren agreed with a firm nod. “Ser Harwin, take my sons back to the Red Keep with a squad of guards.” He handed the boys over carefully, his tone softening as he added, “Do not take your eyes off them until we return.”

“Of course, Your Highness,” Ser Harwin swore, bowing before gathering the princes and moving swiftly to carry out the order.

“Then let’s go meet little Joffrey,” I said with a smirk. “The boy couldn’t help himself—he just had to follow his brother’s example and make a dramatic entrance into the world.”

“Not funny, Daemon,” Corlys muttered, letting out a heavy sigh as he watched his son tend to his spouse. “Not funny at all.”

“You lot simply don’t appreciate my humor,” I countered, pulling an exaggerated pout before breaking into a grin. I was just trying to de-escalate the tension with humor. “I’m a funny man, whether you admit it or not.”

My niece and her son were alive and safe. That was all that mattered at this moment. And yet, even with relief, a darker thought settled in my mind—the head of whoever had ordered this would soon be mine to take. But that could wait. For now, there was a newborn dragonrider waiting to be welcomed into the world.

Chapter Text

King's Landing, The Red Keep - 117 A.C

"The commonfolk have been leaving flowers at the gates of the Red Keep," I told my daughter, unable to hide the pride that crept into my voice.

I sat beside her bed in the chair that had practically become mine these past fortnights, watching her propped against the pillows. Joffrey was asleep in his crib nearby, curled up against his dragon egg as though the two had always belonged together.

The sight of him resting so peacefully made the words easier to share. "Whenever one of your ladies or someone from your husband’s court goes down into the city, they bring back good wishes and prayers from the small folk."

Rhaenyra smiled at that, and the expression was soft, genuine, though not untouched by weariness. "I am happy," she said, and I could tell she truly meant it.

The news pleased her, though I could see the fatigue in her eyes. She was usually so full of energy, so quick with her words and her laughter, and seeing her like saddened me. The healers had reassured us that it was all part of the recovery that her body needed time. Even so, it hurt to see her spend her days laying down, to notice how much strength she still had yet to regain.

"Syrax, though, has been inconsolable," I added, shifting the conversation gently. "Daemon had to go down to the pit himself to settle her. She nearly lashed out at the dragon keepers in her unrest."

Rhaenyra’s expression grimaced with sorrow, her hand moving instinctively over the blankets as if she might reach for Syrax from her bed. "Oh, my sweet queen," she murmured, her face drawn with regret. "Soon I’ll be myself again, and I’ll bring Joffrey to her. We’ll give him his first dragon ride, just as we did with all my sons."

"That you will," I said, unsure if I spoke the words to agree with her or reassure myself.

I just needed to be certain she would heal soon, that nothing else would go wrong. The children couldn’t afford to lose their mother, and I couldn’t imagine losing my daughter.

"Qoren mentioned taking me to Sunspear, to spend some time in the Water Gardens," she said suddenly, her smile faint but there, catching me off guard. "Once I am fully healed," she added quickly, almost as if she wanted to reassure me before I could interrupt. "It will be good to return to Dorne. The beauty and fresh air of the region always rejuvenate me. And it would be especially nice for little Joff, who will one day rule as a Martell prince. My good-father wishes to present his son’s heir to the lords and ladies of Dorne as well."

"I believe that is a wonderful idea," I answered, a breath escaping me as if I had been holding it. "You deserve the chance to rest and enjoy yourself. But I would feel easier if we waited until the one responsible is caught."

"I told him much the same," she replied with a light laugh. "It would not only endanger me, but our sons as well."

"Whoever seeks to take your life, is aiming at more than you," I said, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. "They wish to see every heir to the throne gone, which is why they tried to force an abortion." My eyes followed hers toward the crib, where Joffrey slept, small and still unaware of the danger that had nearly claimed him before he could even draw his first breath. "You do not think that—"

"Otto Hightower," she cut me off, the name spoken with such certainty it might have been carved into stone. "He was furious when I chose to wed Alicent to the Tully heir."

"Curious, is it not?" I said, leaning closer, still turning the thought over. "Should he not be thanking you for such an advantageous marriage for his daughter? I mean, Alicent is a lovely girl and was raised as a pious lady, but she is still the daughter of a second son, who rose to marry a future Lord Paramount."

"It is a good marriage, but not as good as being queen and mother to a future king," she replied with a dry edge to her tone.

"You do not believe that..." I stared at her, shocked that she could even voice such a thought.

"The Grand Maester serves him," Rhaenyra said, her voice low but steady, "and it was no coincidence he suddenly pressed for a caesarean just as his daughter reached a marriageable age."

Her eyes met mine, and they were empty in that way they sometimes became when her sight turned toward shadows others could not see. Those eyes always frightened me a little, not for myself, but because they carried the weight of knowledge no daughter should have to bear. Why must she carry such a gift, one that shows her not only greatness but cruelty as well?

"He could not risk the king remarrying before Alicent had the chance to slip into his bed and seduce him."

"That snake!" I seethed furiously. "We must act. This is no longer merely scheming for influence. This is treason itself!"

"That is why I set Larys to watch both Mellos and Otto," Rhaenyra told me calmly, though I could hear the steel beneath her composure. "When he uncovers the proof of their conspiracy, we will be free to punishment. Mellos will be replaced with Gerardys, whose loyalty is to House Targaryen."

"Good," I breathed, though the relief was weighted with worry. "Still, you must be gentler with me, daughter. Too many shocks like this will finish what little is left of my poor heart."

"You are still young, muña," Rhaenyra giggled.

We laughed, breaking the tension that had accumulated, lighting the air between us for the briefest moment. Though, the moment did not last. A firm knock sounded against the chamber doors, pulling us both back to courtly reality.

"Your Grace, Your Highness, Lord Rickon Stark has come to pay his respects to Princess Rhaenyra," Ser Harwin announced.

"I completely forgot about him!" Rhaenyra hissed under her breath, clearly frustrated with herself. "Qoren was meant to meet with Lord Stark to discuss extending the trade contract between Dorne and the North, as the trial period had proved so beneficial to both sides. Lord Stark had also asked for an audience with me. With everything that happened, I completely forgot!"

"We can always send him away," I said quickly, wanting to ease her worry. "House Stark is the most honorable of houses, well—after House Arryn, of course." I added a wink to lighten the moment with humor, and it worked; she giggled, her shoulders loosening just a little. "He will understand. You are injured and in need of rest."

"No, I want to meet him," she insisted, shaking her head with a spark of determination that lifted my heart. Relief swept over me as I saw the fire return to her eyes, the dragon in her spirit reemerging after days of weariness. That was my brave girl. "Help me look more presentable," she added.

And how could I possibly deny her anything?

"How do I look?" she asked once I had straightened her gown and smoothed her hair.

"Like a queen," I told her, smiling at her startled expression. She might not always believe it, but I would never stop reminding her. I turned toward the door. "Let him in, Ser Harwin!"

"Your Grace, Your Highness," Lord Rickon Stark said as he entered, his bow was as respectful as they came. "Congratulations on your third son." His voice carried warmth, breaking through the usual frost of his northern manner as his gaze settled on my grandson.

"Thank you," Rhaenyra replied, her smile this time unguarded and bright.

It was the sort of smile she only ever gave when surrounded by those she trusted—our own House, the Velaryons, the Martells, the Arryns, and the Starks. I could easily understand her fondness for the others, as blood and marriage bound them to us. But what had made her so open to the North? Was it perhaps the dreams she so often spoke of?

"My apologies for receiving you in this state," she added politely.

"There's nothing to apologize for," Lord Rickon said, shaking his head firmly. "To attack a pregnant woman with the intent of killing her child—that is beyond forgiveness. If you need the strength of the North, you shall have it."

His eyes were sharp with anger, cold enough to chill me, and yet I felt something shift inside. Somehow, I was softening toward him, this Warder of the North who held himself together like a storm barely under control.

"I will not keep you long," he continued. "I came simply to thank you for what you have given the North. Not only for the return of the New Gift and facilitating the trade agreement with Dorne, but also for the matter of my brother, the traitor."

The bitterness in his voice when he spoke that word was so raw, so cutting, that it left me momentarily unsettled. The Starks, I reminded myself, were wolves. They understood loyalty, but they did not forgive betrayal. In that, they were not so different from us, Targaryens with our dragons.

"So, it was true, then," Rhaenyra breathed, the weight of her sigh carrying more than disappointment.

"True?" I pressed at once, unwilling to be left in the dark. I was the queen, and it grated on me to know less than my daughter or any lord who stood before me. "What was he doing?"

"I dreamt it," Rhaenyra said quietly, choosing her words carefully. "A future where Lord Rickon died, even though his body was healthy and strong. I told him about it." She glanced at Stark, and then back to me, unflinching. "The North remembers, mother. Their magic lingers still. They believe in such things, and they believe us when we speak of dreams."

"Starks are wargs," Lord Rickon said, the corner of his mouth lifting into something that was not quite humor, not quite challenge.

"Like in the old tales?" I gasped, taken aback by the ease with which he admitted it.

"Like in the old tales," Lord Stark said with a short laugh, though it carried little joy. "When I first received a letter from the Master of Whispers hinting that a member of my own family might be guilty of treason, I refused to believe it. I could not accept it, not until word reached me of the princess’ dragon dreams."

He let out a long sigh. "In that future, Bennard seized my son’s seat at Winterfell after my death. He disguised his actions by claiming that he was simply acting as regent until Cregan reached his majority, but when that day came, he did not relinquish the power. My son was forced to take up arms against his own uncle."

The story chilled me. To think of such a betrayal within the Stark family was horrifying, and yet it struck too close to home. That kind of treachery could easily have unfolded here as well, had I died, and Viserys been pressed into another marriage. The thought alone left me shaken, though I reminded myself firmly that it was not the fate waiting for us now.

"I began to investigate," Rickon continued, his voice low, "and I uncovered that Bennard had already started working on his nefarious plan. He had been slowly poisoning my food and drinks."

"Outrageous!" I burst out, the words leaving me before I could stop them. "Have they been punished?"

"Bennard and those who conspired with him met the justice of the Old Gods," Lord Rickon said. His eyes were as sharp as the Valyrian-steel blade his family carried for generations, yet beneath that sharpness I could still see the grief that lingered there. "His children have been taken in by the Karstarks, their mother’s kin. His eldest, Benjen, will inherit Queenscrown. It was meant for Torrhen..."

"My condolences on your second son’s passing," I told him softly.

There was nothing more terrible than burying a child, and I knew too well the ache it left behind. So many of my own children had been lost, some stillborn, others never even carried long enough to meet the world. That pain never faded, no matter how much time passed.

"The North is a cold place to live in, Your Grace," was all he said at first, and truly, what more could he have offered? "But as the princess said before, the North remembers. We will remember this, and we will also remember how you have protected and championed our faith south of the Neck. It brought us great joy to see so many houses return to their true religion, after being forced to convert by the tree burners."

I lifted an eyebrow at the insult directed toward the Faith of the Seven. I found myself liking it, and perhaps I would even keep it for my own use.

"I noticed that myself," Rhaenyra added with a small chuckle. "Many weirwood saplings making their way down past the Neck. We even made sure to get one for the city, it was a pity that the only weirwood in King’s Landing was hogged by the Red Keep. Then again, I am very grateful to have a heart tree so close. Sitting beneath it has always been a comfort to me, and I bring my sons there sometimes, one of our favorite activities is reading under its branches."

"It warms my heart to know we have a princess who cares so much for us and for our traditions," Lord Stark commented with a genuine smile as he looked at her. "House Stark, and the North with it, will not forget. You have my word on that."

And it was at that moment that I finally understood what my daughter once told me, when I had asked why she cared so deeply for the North, even when it brought her no immediate advantage and only hardships in the beginning.

‘If you have House Stark, you have the North, mother. And the North remembers.’

The North carried an honor I had only ever seen in the Vale, and as an Arryn I understood well the importance of remembering favors and returning them in kind. Rhaenyra was not only supported by the Vale, Dorne, and the Crownlands—she now had the North standing behind her as well.

I tried to school my expression, to stop myself from staring at my daughter in open disbelief. Since when had she grown into such a careful player in this endless game? When had she learned to weave alliances so tightly around her?

"How is Queenscrown doing?" Rhaenyra asked suddenly, pulling me out of my thoughts. Making me realize that the conversation had moved forward without me.

"It is up and running," Lord Stark answered evenly. "My good-sister will soon take her place in the lands as Lady Regent until her son comes of age. The soil there is fertile, and the lords and ladies are grateful to have it restored, even with the obligation of paying taxes to the Wall. Then again, with all the aid from the crown, the Wall has never kept us more protected."

"Good, I am glad to hear it," Rhaenyra replied with a warm smile. "Will they keep the Stark name?"

"No, they will form a cadet branch," Lord Rickon explained with a shake of his head. "They will take the name Whitestark."

"Good," I said firmly, satisfied by the decision. "That way none of them will think again on trying to usurp your line."

"Let us hope they have learned from their father’s mistake," Lord Stark replied, his words heavy. "But in the North, we do not condemn children for the sins of their parents."

"Dorne does not either," Rhaenyra said with a soft, sad chuckle. "Let's hope the rest of the realm learns that too."

"Here is hoping," I murmured, releasing a long breath. "Here is hoping."

Chapter Text

Sunspear, Water Garden – 118 A.C

Larys uncovered the conspiracy between Mellos and Otto, and with that revelation, both of them met their end swiftly. Mellos was the first to fall, Qoren’s sword tasting his blood, and Dark Sister finally claiming the sacrifice she had been thirsting for. Syrax’s flames reduced what was left of him to ash, her anger burning hotter than any funeral pyre.

Otto’s fate came at the hands of the man he had wronged most—Daemon. Caraxes tore into his corpse after Daemon himself had taken his head, and the dragon feasted on the remains as though the man had never been more than prey.

House Hightower wasted no time in distancing themselves. They refuted having any knowledge of Otto’s plans and even went as far as disinheriting his sons. Alicent severed her own ties with her family, choosing instead to pledge her allegiance to Princess Rhaenyra. Because of her closeness to the princess, and her marriage into House Tully, she was spared suspicion. More than that, she was pitied—viewed as a daughter burdened with the misfortune of being born to such a man.

Otto’s death brought me comfort, and for the first time since waking up in the past, I could breathe with ease. I could finally let go of the resentment and hate of the future that will never come to pass.

The Alicent who had haunted me, who had been my bitter stepmother and had turned my life into torment, did not exist in this time. How could she? That Alicent was little more than a frightened girl, wed to a man old enough to be her father, giving birth to four children before she had even grown into herself. She was lonely, isolated, and far too easy for her own father to mold with his poison.

We had always been just two little girls, caught in the hands of men who bent us to their will and shaped our lives without asking what we wanted. Looking at the Alicent of this timeline, who wore her hair loose and laughed unguardedly, I understood that freedom had not come only to me. She was free as well. The self-inflicted scars on her fingers were gone, her hands had been tended to and healed during her life in Riverrun. She no longer needed to wound herself in secret just to feel in control of something.

Alicent had come to King’s Landing with her husband and their two sons, to swear they had no part in Otto’s schemes. She had wept into my chest, words tumbling from her lips in broken apologies, until her voice was raw with grief. She begged me to forgive her, again and again, as though the weight of it might crush her if I did not.

And at that moment, how could I refuse her? How could I hold blame against this Alicent, who had never been the one to turn cruel? The despair in her eyes was the same as I remembered from the other life, only there it had been hidden behind coldness and sharpened into anger. Here it spilled out unguarded, and it reminded me too much of my own pain.

In my other life, we had both made mistakes. We had both cut each other with words and with silence, had twisted our grief into weapons. We had both lost children, had both lied, had both carried betrayals we thought we could never forgive. But I was no longer that woman. I am in a happy marriage now, loved by the Realm, with my children alive and safe. Why should I cling to the other timeline any longer? Why should I let Otto’s poison still live in me, when he himself was gone?

I would forgive her, though the memories would remain. I would not carry the bitterness; I would not let it chain me again. I chose to move on and to be free of the weight at last.

I was free. Finally, truly free.

“We are here,” Qoren said with a smile.

He looked so handsome when he smiled, and for a moment I just let myself watch him, remembering how as a little girl I used to dream of a prince who would belong only to me. Somehow, without ever expecting it, I had found exactly that in him. He was the greatest surprise of my return, and I loved him with a depth I had never anticipated. And not once had I regretted allowing myself to fall for him.

“Tyraxes! Calm down!” Qoren laughed suddenly, swatting lightly at the young dragon who stumbled through the air, wings beating clumsily as he circled around him.

Tyraxes is a true beauty, with ruby-red scales and black horns that glimmered like onyxes. He was as striking as any of his clutch-siblings. With his hatching, all five dragons from Syrax’s clutch had come into the world. He had followed not long after his clutch-sisters, Moondancer and Morning.

“All right, sweet one, calm yourself,” I said gently, reaching toward him as he wound closer. “I’m sorry, love,” I added to Qoren with a small laugh.

“You’d almost convince me of that if you didn’t have that smile on your face,” Qoren muttered, though his eyes gave him away.

He was amused, even pleased, when Tyraxes curled himself comfortably around my neck like an oversized necklace. It had become a habit with all my sons’ dragons, and I had long since given up wearing jewelry because of it.

“Let’s get off this boat,” Qoren went on, shaking his head but still grinning. “Before the dragons reach Dorne ahead of us and cause a panic without you three there to keep them in hand.”

That was right—we had finally returned to Dorne. Our dragons had flown ahead of us, and I knew well enough what sort of unease that would stir. Jace in particular had not taken it well. He had wanted to fly with them, to join Vermax in the skies, but at only six namedays old I would not permit it. No matter how strong his bond with his dragon is, he was still far too young to take such a risk.

“Princess, Sunspear is yours,” my good-father declared, bowing low with the full entourage gathered behind him.

“Thank you, father,” I answered with a smile, and in his beaming face I saw the reflection of my husband and my sons so clearly that it melted something inside me.

“Grandpa!” Jace and Luke cried out as they rushed to him, while little Joff babbled happily from the safety of Qoren’s arms.

“My sweet princes!” Manfrey’s joy was unmistakable as he swept them both up, one in each arm, his voice warm and booming. “How are you?”

“Good!” Jace shouted.

“Great!” Luke chimed in right after.

“I am glad,” Manfrey said, his smile as bright as the Dornish sun. “Come now! I cannot wait to show you the new blossoms in the Water Gardens!”

I couldn’t help but laugh as he turned and carried the boys off toward the wheelhouse, their little voices already chattering eagerly about their dragons, filling his ears with stories that would no doubt spill over one another in excitement.

If I am being honest, I felt almost as excited as my boys. After all, how many women in Westeros can boast of the fact that their husbands built a whole castle for them. The Water Gardens was the most grandiose wedding anniversary of all times. A palace so I would feel at home in my husband’s region, one that had its own Dragon’s Pit.

I was just about to follow when a sound rose from the crowd that pulled me still.

“Princess! We love you!”

“Thank you!”

“Mother Rhoyne bless you!”

“The Dragon Princess!”

“The Golden Queen!”

I stopped where I stood, staring out at them—these people, my people—and for a moment I could hardly breathe. They called to me with affection, with pride, and yet in my mind I still heard the jeers from the other life.

Maegor with tits.

That was what they had named me. My own people, the ones I had bled for, the ones I had tried so desperately to shield from Otto’s schemes. I had told myself again and again that it was his whispers, the White Worm’s poison, and yes, my own missteps, that had twisted them against me. Even now, even with all this love thrown at my feet, the scars of that betrayal clung stubbornly.

Still, it struck me as strange to see how much had changed. I had always known my image was cleaner now, free from the rumors of bastardy and the bad reputation I had once had. But even so, to be greeted like this, to be welcomed with cheers and devotion—it was something I still hadn’t grown used to.

“They love you, my love,” Qoren murmured close to my ear, his lips brushing against my forehead in a kiss that was as gentle as his words. “You are the Realm’s Delight, yes, but to them? To them you are the Dragon Princess of Dorne.”

“The Dragon Princess,” I repeated softly, tasting the title as though it didn’t quite belong to me.

“Though,” Qoren went on in a lower voice, his tone slipping into something more teasing, “I prefer the Dragon Queen.” My eyes went wide at that, but he only smiled faintly. “The Dragon Queen, mounted upon the Golden Queen—a dragon fit for a future queen of greatness.”

“My son will be king, Qoren,” I hissed back, my voice sharper than I meant, my chest tightening as my heart hammered. “The king himself decreed it. To speak otherwise is treason. You must hold your tongue.”

He looked at me then with a sadness, that cut deeper than any retort might have, and a smile that carried no joy at all. For once, he said nothing more. He remained silent until we arrived at the Water Gardens, though I barely noticed the quiet as my mind was occupied with daunting thoughts.

The last time I reached too high for the crown, it destroyed me and dragged my children down with me. I would not allow that to happen again. Even if my children were the only heirs by blood, I knew too well what the lords of Westeros would do. They would never accept a woman on the Iron Throne; they would rise in rebellion before bending the knee to one.

Passing the crown to Jacaerys was the wiser path, the safer path. He would sit the throne, with Aegon the Conqueror’s crown upon his head, and he would look every inch the king I knew he had always meant to be.

Far better than the usurper I once called my brother, I thought bitterly as I readied myself for the welcoming banquet.

“You look wonderful,” Qoren murmured as he pressed a kiss to the back of my neck.

I tilted my head back, the sound that escaped me only urging him to continue. Here in Dorne, walking into a hall with a kiss mark would hardly draw aghast whispers of lack of decorum. If anything, Qoren and I would praise, as the kiss mark would be proof that we still shared passion even after three sons.

Why had peace never been made with Dorne before? I could not stop myself from thinking it—they were, in truth, the best.

“Wearing Dornish dress as though you had been born to it,” Qoren growled against my skin, his hands seizing my waist with a suddenness that made me gasp as he pulled me flush against his chest. “You cannot know what it does to me.”

I let out another moan as I felt the proof of his desire pressing hard against me, my hips moving instinctively in answer to him.

“Oh, you little…” His voice was rough with need as he spun me to face him, his mouth crushing against mine in a kiss that left no space between us. “I love you. So much that it’s driving me mad.”

“Me too,” I whispered back between breaths, my lips still brushing his. “I love you. I never expected it, never sought it, but I do. I love you.”

“Then let me bear your burdens,” Qoren said, lowering himself to his knees before me, his large hands wrapping around mine as though to steady me. He lifted my knuckles to his lips, pressing reverent kisses against them. “Let Dorne stand behind you.”

“You do not know what you are asking,” I said with a frown, tugging at my hands though Qoren’s grip held firm. “The lords of the realm will never accept it. Look at what they did to Rhaenys. She was the rightful queen, her claim should have been undeniable, and yet they handed the crown to my father instead—a weak man who was unprepared for the weight of the crown. They condemned the realm for the sake of pride, for nothing more than the fact that he was a man and she a woman. Westeros is not like Dorne.”

“It may not be,” Qoren admitted, but he continued passionately, “but who is there to stand in your way now? Dorne supports you. The Vale supports you. The North supports you. The Stormlands may have resisted once, but you proved to Borros that you are both a queen of the battlefield and of the throne. That gives you four of the Seven Kingdoms.”

He leaned closer, his words quiet but insistent. “As for the rest—the Tyrells owe their position to your family, for it was House Targaryen that placed them as the Lord Paramounts of the Reach. The Tullys owe your house the same loyalty as well, and that is without counting the fact that their heir, wed your dearest friend. And the Westerlands?” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “Without another possible heir to rally behind, what harm can they truly do? Alone, they cannot stand against you.”

“My father would never allow it,” I reminded him, shaking my head. “He named Jace his heir.”

“He is but one man,” Qoren said firmly, his eyes piercing mine. “You have the loyalty of every dragonrider in your family. And his health is fragile now… with Jace still so young, who would protest if the Realm’s Delight, their beloved princess, stepped forward to take the throne?”

“Qoren… what did you do?” I asked slowly, my chest tightening with dread as the words left me.

“Me?” he replied, feigning innocence, though the smirk tugging at his lips betrayed him. “Nothing. I am here in Dorne with you, am I not? But your mother—she is still in the Red Keep. And she has not forgotten what your father was willing to do to her in his obsession for a son.”

“Muña?” The word escaped me in a gasp. Horror filled me at what he was implying.

Yes, my father was weak. Apathetic at times. A man whose choices dragged our house to ruin. He drove his wife to exhaustion, nearly to death, all for the hope of another son. He cast aside his own brother like it was sport, banished him from court out of jealousy, and then placed the crown of heir upon my head only to let the vipers circle me, tear at me, while he sat by and watched.

That was the man he was—or the man he would have been.

And yet, he had also been my only ally in a court overrun with Greens. The one voice that, however faint, had stood with me when all others turned their backs on me.

Now that man—the father who had betrayed me and protected me in equal measure—was being killed by his own wife. The thought left me in despair, though a morbid part of me could not help but see the irony in the situation.

My father killed his wife for his son, and now, his wife killed him for her daughter.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep - 118 A.C

“Tonight will be a tragic day,” I whispered to my husband as we lay side by side in our bed within the Tower of the Hand.

“At least our children are safe in Dorne,” Corlys commented, echoing my relief. “They are with the princess, finishing the agreements that will allow Dornish goods to pass through the Stepstones and on to Essos.”

“Daemon is here,” I reminded him, the thought gnawing at me.

“It troubles you,” Corlys said knowingly.

“He has always stood by his brother,” I admitted, the bitterness slipping through in spite of myself. “Once, he even gathered an army to support him against me. His loyalty has never wavered, and it could undo everything we have built.”

“That much is true,” Corlys allowed, “but only for those he chooses to give it to. And now, his loyalty lies with our daughter, with his niece. Not with the brother who never appreciated his greatest ally. Daemon will not be a problem. Everything will move forward as planned.”

“I hope you are right,” I sighed, still not fully convinced. “We have worked toward this for so long.”

In truth, it had begun from the moment Jace was born. That was when I first saw Viserys for the man he truly was, and when I made my choice to throw my support behind Aemma. From that day, it became a long and careful game. Each morning and night, small doses of a poison slipped into Viserys’ food and drink.

Just enough to make him ill, to see him recover, and then to watch him weaken again. The healers would shake their heads and call it a frailty of his body, a lingering malady that came and went. Slowly, each bout left him weaker than the last. When that day came, his end would appear as nothing more than the natural conclusion of a failing body.

That day was tonight.

As if summoned by my thoughts, a sharp pounding rattled against the door.

“Lady Hand, Lord Velaryon, we bring grave news!”

“Shows on,” Corlys muttered with a dry little chuckle, before raising his voice. “Come in!”

The Kingsguard entered, bowing low. “My apologies for disturbing your rest, my lady, my lord.”

“What has you so panicked?” I demanded to know, though it was all an act, as I already knew what words were about to fall from his lips.

“His Majesty, the King…” the knight hesitated for only a breath before delivering the blow, “he passed in his sleep.”

“My cousin?!” I gasped, my voice rising as I clutched at the hands Corlys had set firmly on my shoulders. “How could this happen?”

“The Grand Maester has said it was natural,” the Kingsguard replied carefully. “There was nothing to be done. The healers all agreed with his verdict.”

“His health has been on a decline for some time,” Corlys said, as if reminding me as much as the Kingsguard. His tone was heavy with practiced solemnity. “It is a sorrowful thing, but perhaps now he has found peace in the Underworld.”

“That he has,” I murmured, releasing a long, steadying sigh. “Bring me my robe. I must go to the Queen and to Daemon, they will be devastated by this news. And send word for the princess and the princes.”

“I will see to it,” Corlys assured me at once. “Also, I shall write to the lords and ladies of the realm myself. They must be summoned to King’s Landing for both the funeral and the crowning.”

“Of course,” I said with a nod, pressing one last kiss to my husband before stepping out. The Kingsguard fell into step around me, as protocol demanded. Even if the king had passed from so-called “natural” causes, the crown was fragile now, the realm holding its breath.

“Aemma! Daemon! How are you?” I called as I entered their chambers.

“My brother is dead!” Daemon roared, hurling a chair across the room with such force that it splintered against the wall. The servants flinched, one letting out a squeak of terror before bowing low. “How do you think we are?!”

“Everyone out!” I ordered sharply. They scattered in a rush, leaving the three of us alone. Only then did I allow my tone to soften. “Well done, Daemon. That was a convincing display.”

“It was not a performance,” Aemma said wearily, her sigh heavy with truth. “Whatever love Daemon once held for Viserys may have turned to hatred after so much betrayal, but he was still his brother.”

“I am sorry,” I murmured, chastened by her words.

“It is all right,” she said, though the weariness never left her.

“By the end, everyone hated him in their own way,” Daemon muttered, lifting his cup and draining it in one long swallow. “I never thought his reign would bring so much of that. From the very start he was weak, but I never imagined he would become a man who could inspire nothing but resentment.”

“Power corrupts,” Aemma said, another sigh slipping out of her. She had been sighing often these days, each one seeming to weigh heavier than the last. I knew she would not find relief until she saw her daughter crowned, until all of this reached its conclusion.

“Do you think Rhaenyra will hate us?” she asked quietly.

“I think she will be stunned,” Daemon answered, calmer than I expected. “Whatever she saw in those dreams, after your death, it must have been terrible. It has held her back, smothered her desire to claim what was always meant for her. But she was born to rule. That truth has never changed.”

“Daemon is right,” I admitted, lifting a brow. “Gods, I never thought I would say that.”

“Hey!” Daemon cut in, smirking with mock offense. “I can say clever things when I want to.”

“As I was saying,” I went on, shaking my head in quiet amusement. It was a morbid kind of humor, considering we had just killed the king, but perhaps that was what made it easier to laugh. “Daemon is right. This will be the catalyst Rhaenyra needs to break past her fear and rise above it. She will come out stronger for it.” A smile pulled at my lips, sharp with satisfaction. “Soon, we will have our first queen.”

“For now, we need to plan a funeral,” Aemma sighed, though there was a mischievous glint in her eye when she added, “And I remember exactly what he wanted for his funeral… so let’s do the complete opposite.”

“Petty till the end,” Daemon snorted, lifting his cup for another swallow of wine. “I taught you well, good-sister.”

“That you have,” Aemma said with a soft chuckle. Then her gaze turned toward me. “Well, Hand of the King, are you prepared?”

“I was born ready, Your Grace,” I replied with a bow.

And so, we set to work, arranging every aspect of the king’s funeral. Letters were dispatched to lords and ladies across the realm, offering chambers in the Red Keep or lodgings in the city for those who would come to mourn—and more importantly, to witness the crowning that would follow. The planning dragged on for days, each matter branching into another until the day itself seemed to vanish beneath preparations.

By the time we convened again, the Small Council chamber was full. Lyonel Strong sat as Master of Laws, his son Larys as Master of Whispers, and Lyman Beesbury as Master of Coin. Harrold Westerling was there as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Daemon at his place as Lord Commander of the City Watch, and my husband as Master of Ships. At the head sat the queen, and beside her, I, the Hand of the King.

“How are the smallfolk reacting to the king’s passing?” I asked Larys, my gaze fixed on him as he sat in his usual quiet way, fingers steepled as though everything were a game of cyvasse only he could see the end to.

“They are grieving,” he replied, his voice calm and measured as always. “Prayers have been offered to whatever gods they follow, asking that his soul find peace. Yet, even as they mourn, their talk has turned to what comes next. Already, they speak of how well the reign of Princess Rhaenyra will go. She is deeply loved by the realm.”

I found myself wondering, not for the first time, where Rhaenyra had plucked him from. Larys was strange, unsettling even, but his usefulness could not be denied. He was another of those unexpected talents she had gathered to her side these last six years, quietly building a court that seemed stronger with each addition.

“But Prince Jacaerys is next in line, not the princess,” Lyman protested, his brow creasing in a frown.

“The smallfolk do not see it that way,” Harrold said with a shrug, his armor creaking as he shifted in his chair. “They find it absurd to place a boy of six namedays on the throne when a Targaryen princess they admire is already prepared to rule. They cannot understand it.”

“Will this cause trouble when the prince is crowned?” Corlys asked, his tone carrying just enough doubt to keep up appearances. We all knew where this was leading, but the game required its pieces to move properly.

“Perhaps the answer is simpler than we think,” Lyonel said, his deep voice cutting through the chamber and catching us all by surprise. “Why not name her queen? Jacaerys is still very young, and even if Rhaenyra were named his regent, the reality is that her authority would remain limited. If his mother takes the throne, he will still inherit after her and Viserys’ decree would still be fulfilled. In the meantime, Rhaenyra’s reign would bring the stability we need. She is respected by the nobility, beloved by the smallfolk, and she has already strengthened her position through her marriage and the betrothal contracts of her sons.”

I held back the smile threatening to break across my face, though it wasn’t easy to contain. I’d thought we’d have to pave the road before Rhaenyra came back from Dorne, but she’d already managed it herself. In my head I was dancing, even laughing, yet I stayed in my chair, composed, while the rest of the Small Council voiced their agreement one by one.

“Then it is settled,” I said, with a tone of finality. “Our next ruler shall be Rhaenyra Targaryen, the Dragon Queen.”

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 118 A.C

“Such a sad day for House Targaryen,” my wife, Elenda, said softly as she passed our youngest, Maris, into the arms of a maid. “I cannot begin to imagine the pain the Queen Mother and the princess must be feeling.”

“The princess was visibly distraught during the mass,” I agreed. “She carried herself as a true and dutiful daughter.”

Though, you could not find that kind of pain in any other Targaryen member, I thought, with scrutiny. The closest was Daemon, and even the devout younger brother held some kind of hate in his eyes.

“Will you be all right kneeling for the princess when she is crowned queen?” Elenda asked gently, studying me with care.

“I have my reservations about women ruling,” I admitted with a sigh. “But she has proven herself capable, and she has three sons to inherit after her—perhaps more in the future, given her youth. And what is the alternative? A boy of six namedays on the throne?”

“I have heard he is a clever child,” Elenda countered. “Gentle as well. It would have been a fine match to betroth Cassandra or Ellyn to him.”

“Prince Jacaerys and Prince Lucerys are already betrothed to their cousins,” I reminded her, shaking my head. “Those unions will finally bring peace between the three branches of House Targaryen. It is a move that ensures unity and stability for the realm. But even beyond that, we still have Prince Joffrey. Through his father he is destined to inherit Dorne, no small prize, and betrothing one of our daughters to him would make an excellent match.”

“Maris is his age,” Elenda said with a spark of excitement in her voice.

“I’ll make it happen,” I promised her with a smile. “But for now, we have a crowning to attend.”

From the moment the letter arrived announcing the king’s passing, I had felt a tension settle over the realm, one I had not sensed since I was a boy during the bitter choice between King Viserys and Princess Rhaenys. That same unease lingered now, thick in the air and impossible to ignore.

For four moons my court had been occupied with preparations, the crown moving quickly, too quickly if you asked me. The speed of it all raised suspicions I dared not voice, for without proof my doubts would serve only to endanger me.

The funeral was private, as Targaryen tradition dictated. Only the family and the Small Council were present for the burning of the body, with Syrax, or “the Golden Queen,” as the commonfolk and some nobles had begun to call the princess’s mount, doing the favor.

Last week the lords and ladies of the realm gathered for a mass to mourn the king. Next comes the crowning of the new queen, followed by a week-long tourney. Each night will have its own banquet focused on one very important celebration.

The first night will be spent in mourning, to honor the king’s passing. The second will celebrate the ascension to the throne of the new Queen and her King Consort. The third will be for the Crown Prince and his betrothal to Rhaena Targaryen-Velaryon. The fourth will honor House Velaryon and the union between the second prince and Baela Targaryen-Velaryon. And the fifth will celebrate the third prince and show off the deep bonds the crown now has with Dorne.

Quite clever, I thought, a way to honor the dead while binding the living closer to the throne. My wife’s sudden gasp pulled me out of my thoughts, and I turned toward the entrance. My eyes widened at the sight. Gods.

There she was, standing at the doors of the throne room, ready to walk down the long path toward the Iron Throne.

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.

She wore a Dornish gown of deep carmine silk, the fabric shimmering with richness even at a distance. The neckline plunged into a sharp V, bordered with diamonds that traced a path up to her throat and down again along her back. The sleeves were long and open, trailing to the floor so that they blended seamlessly into the skirt, the entire dress flowing as though it had been designed to move like water with her every step.

At her side stood her husband, proud as any man could be, his smile one of open triumph. He seemed to preen under the eyes of the court, delighted to see his wife be the center of attention. His coat, cut in the style of Dornish nobility, matched hers in carmine-red, with black dragons embroidered across the fabric. So, that his loyalty to her and her house was stitched as plainly as the pride on his face.

Other than the striking picture they made together, what truly caught me off guard was the simplicity of the princess’s appearance. Her gown, though beautiful, was understated, and her hair was arranged in a single delicate braid falling down her back. There was no glittering display of jewels, no heavy ornaments, no overwhelming extravagance on what was, without question, the most important day of her life.

It was not until the crown was brought forth that I understood the reason for such restraint. In the hands of the Queen Mother rested a creation unlike any I had seen before—a pure gold halo crown, more lavish and commanding than any worn by the kings who had come before her.

The gold was shaped into rising flames, a clear nod to House Targaryen and its dragons, but woven among them were flowers, a subtle nod to her title as the Realm’s Delight. Rubies glimmered in greater number than even Aegon the Conqueror’s crown had boasted, each stone catching the torchlight.

When that magnificent weight was lowered onto her head, a sound swept the hall. It was not applause, not cheers, but a collective breath stolen away. She stood before us transformed. With the halo crowning her, she seemed less like a woman and more like some radiant goddess descended into flesh, the golden arcs casting rays around her face like the blazing sun of Dorne itself.

It was impossible to look at her and not think that her crowning had been inevitable. That she had always meant to sit on the Iron Throne. She was a vision meant to be remembered in every retelling, a symbol not only of what she had gained but of who had chosen to stand behind her.

Well played, princess, I thought as I sank to one knee, giving my oath to her and to her heir. No—well played, Your Majesty.

“That was beautiful!” Elenda said, her voice bright with delight. “That crown! It is so fitting for the first queen of the realm. Bards will sing of this day for decades to come; I have no doubt of it.”

“That they will, and of much more besides,” I agreed, though my words faltered when I noticed a Queensguard making his way toward us. A Marbrand. I straightened slightly. “Ser Lorent, what brings you here?”

“Lord Baratheon, Lady Baratheon,” he said with a bow. “Her Majesty, Queen Rhaenyra, requests your presence in the Small Council chamber.”

“The queen?” Elenda’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Well, we had best not keep her waiting,” I said, schooling my own expression and masking the same surprise that flickered through me. “The queen is not one to be left waiting.”

When we reached the chamber, we bowed deeply. “Your Majesty,” we greeted together.

“Lord Baratheon, Lady Baratheon, please—take a seat,” she said warmly, a smile softening her command.

We obeyed, and as I sat, my eyes took in the scene before me. Her crown was gone now, set aside, though the weight of it seemed to linger all the same. At her side sat her husband and Princess Rhaenys, seated close to show their support. Behind her stood Ser Harrold Westerling, his white cloak flowing as he kept a solid, protective stance.

That alone startled me more than I would have expected. Of course, I knew that as queen, only her Queensguard should stand at her back. That was the custom. Yet Ser Harwin Strong had been her sworn shield since her betrothal was first arranged. He had become part of her image as surely as her dragon—an ever-present reminder of her strength.

To see him absent was a shock, even with the news that he now served as the Crown Prince’s sworn protector. His new role, alongside the knowledge that Clarissa Dayne had taken her place as the main caretaker to the prince, was still something I struggled to reconcile with the image I had grown used to.

“You must be wondering why we asked you here so soon after the crowning ceremony,” Prince—no, King Consort—Qoren began. “As you know, over the next week the realm will celebrate with a tourney. Each evening there will be a banquet, and the food left over from those feasts will be sent to orphanages and soup kitchens across King’s Landing. Still, what we wish to speak of now are the dedications of each of those celebrations.”

“For every banquet, something will be honored,” the queen continued, her words flowing with the same practiced ease as her husband’s.

It caught me off guard how well they work together. I had known of their love—everyone had, and many in the realm rejoiced in it—but to see them so seamlessly in step, as though one thought spilled into the other, was still striking.

“The last three nights will be dedicated to my sons, the princes of the realm. Two of them are already betrothed, and their future unions will be celebrated.” Her gaze rested on us, her smile warm, though I fought to keep my own expression from betraying the stir of excitement that flared in me. “I would like to extend the same to my youngest. Joffrey, as the future Prince of Dorne, deserves a bride worthy of his station. Who better than a lady of House Baratheon?”

“We wish to discuss a betrothal between our children, Joffrey and Maris,” Qoren concluded. “If all goes as we hope, we would also like to invite you to sit with us at the High Table for the last banquet of the week. It would be only right, as the parents of a future princess.”

Well played, Your Majesty, I thought, impressed beyond measure.

With this, every trace of doubt or unease faded. Why would I raise a sword against a queen who would unite her house to mine, who would place my daughter in a position of such honor?

Well played indeed.

“We would like that very much,” I said at last, a smile spreading across my face.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 118 A.C

I laughed as I sat beneath the weirwood tree in the Red Keep, trading gossip with Rhaenyra. For a while, it felt like nothing had changed. We were not Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen or Lady Alicent Tully, burdened with crowns and titles. We were simply Nyra and Ali again. The simplicity of it was refreshing, and I cherished every moment of it.

It struck me how, despite everything my old family had tried to do, they had not managed to destroy the bond between us. Even with the years apart, even with all the duties of ruling and the endless demands of motherhood, what we had built as little girls had endured.

I watched Kermit running about with the princes, laughter spilling freely from them, while Oscar exchanged toys with little Joff near us. The scene warmed me, and I hoped our children would grow up sharing a bond as strong as the one their mothers still held.

“You know, my husband was saying he would not mind taking Oscar as a squire when he grows older,” Nyra said suddenly, a smile tugging at her lips.

“Really?” I turned to her, surprised. “But he is the king.”

“And you are my friend, and I am the one who rules,” she teased, nudging my shoulder until I laughed with her. “Besides, Oscar is a Tully. He is the son of a future Lord Paramount.”

“He does have the pedigree,” I admitted, the relief settling in even as I spoke. “And as a second son, being knighted by the king would be an honor for him.”

“I would also like if he and Joff could form a bond,” Nyra said with a conspiratorial smile.

“That would be wonderful!” I replied, unable to hold back my excitement. “Two generations of friendship.”

“Let’s hope for more than that,” she murmured, her voice trailing as her eyes wandered, her thoughts clearly drifting elsewhere.

“For many more to come,” I said gently, reaching for her hand and giving it a squeeze.

I understood her pain more than I wished I had. I had lost my father as well, though mine had been a cruel man—abusive, treacherous, and a traitor to his own blood. It had taken me years to accept that truth, and even then, he had still been my father.

For Nyra, it was worse. She had lost a kind father, one who had loved her and been a good king. The grief she carried was heavier for it, and I knew it must be tearing at her in ways she would never speak aloud.

Sometimes I found myself asking why someone like Nyra—someone who had always given so much of herself—had been made to suffer so deeply. The Gods worked in ways I could not understand, their justice always seeming uneven, their mercy too often withheld from those who deserved it most.

Those thoughts lingered with me even after I returned to my chambers in the Red Keep. I handed the children to the maid so she could prepare them for the week’s last banquet, and while I changed into my gown of Tully blue, the weight of Nyra’s sadness stayed with me.

“Are you all right, my love?” Elmo asked, watching me closely, concern in his eyes as the maid fastened the last ties of my dress.

“I am,” I assured him, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. “It’s just that Nyra seemed so sad today.”

“The queen lost her father not long ago and now carries the weight of the realm on her shoulders,” Elmo said thoughtfully. “I cannot fault her for still mourning. Even so, I have no doubt she will prove an excellent ruler.”

“That she will!” I agreed, unable to hide the smile that spread across my face. One of the things I loved most about my husband was how he never dismissed the strength of women, and how much faith he placed in Nyra. She was remarkable, and the realm would be stronger for her leadership, though she was praised far less than she deserved. “Oh! She mentioned to me that Oscar could squire for the king once he is older. And perhaps he might even become Prince Joffrey’s companion.”

“That is a most generous offer,” Elmo said, his eyes widening with genuine surprise and pleasure. “I will raise the matter with the royal couple before we depart for Riverrun. My father and the Riverlands will be well pleased by such an arrangement.”

I smirked inwardly at that, thinking of how much of my life had been shaped by Nyra’s hand. It was through her sponsorship that I had been able to wed a future Lord Paramount, and it was through her support that I was shielded when my own father was unmasked as a traitor.

Even now, there were whispers questioning whether I was worthy of Elmo, though no one could deny that I was a faithful wife, a diligent Lady of Riverrun, and I had given him both an heir and a spare. Whatever doubts lingered in the nobility of the Riverlands, they would find no fault in me.

But now, I had secured something greater than polite approval. My son, a Tully, would one day be squired by the king himself and grow as the companion of a prince. A prince who, even if he did not carry the Targaryen name, will one day inherit the lands of his father. That alone proved my worth far beyond what they had once reduced me to—a highborn woman fortunate enough to be chosen.

That will silence them, I thought with no small satisfaction, picturing the tight smiles and bitter whispers of the ladies of the Riverlands when word reached them. All those women who had spent years waiting for me to stumble, eager to see me replaced, would have to swallow this instead.

“House Baratheon is sitting at the High Table,” a woman hissed to her husband as Elmo and I walked past, heading toward our seats.

Another smirk spread across my lips as I took Elmo’s arm and kept walking. “What is the meaning of this?” Another lady demanded, in a low voice, but I did not turn my head.

“This is the banquet celebrating the third prince, right? His brothers’ betrothals were officially announced during their banquets, does this mean House Baratheon will be united with House Targaryen and House Martell through marriage?” a lord thought out loud.

“So many great houses binding themselves together at once…” another muttered.

“This is unprecedented!”

“We will have to tread carefully.”

“You are right,” someone else agreed quickly. “One cannot afford to end up on anyone’s bad side now a days, they are all connected!”

“Targaryen, Martell, Arryn, Velaryon, and now Baratheon—Gods!” a lady exclaimed, lowering her voice only when she realized how many were listening. “The Queen has more support than the last king ever dreamed of.”

“And with more dragonriders than the realm has seen since Jaehaerys’ day,” another chimed in.

Beside me, Elmo leaned closer, his lips twitching into a smile. “The new Queen and her King Consort do enjoy making a commotion,” he whispered, his amusement pulling a quiet laugh out of me.

Of course, we already knew. Nyra had told me everything herself once the contract was signed, though she had sworn me to secrecy.

“Congratulations!” came the voices around us as we approached the High Table.

“Congratulations!” we echoed, bowing toward the royal family and catching Nyra’s smile as tradition demanded before taking our seats. My own smile lingered as I settled beside Elmo. Tonight promised to be memorable.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep - 119 A.C

“Dear niece, or should I call you Your Majesty,” I strutted into her chambers with a smirk.

“You’ve never done outside of political events, so why should you start now?” Rhaenyra smiled as she stood from her chair at the vanity. She crossed the room with that easy confidence she always seemed to possess and pulled me into a hug.

I held her a moment longer than I should have, remembering how once I thought we might marry. There had been a time when I wanted it, when it felt almost possible. In some other life maybe, it would have been us, but not in this one. And honestly, we’d both made peace with that. We were where we needed to be, and we were happy with the lives we’ve led.

“How’s Driftmark?” she asked.

“Good. My wife has taken to her role as heir like a fish to water,” I said with a half grin. “But what worries me is you.”

“Me?” Her brow pulled together as she stepped back, all brightness gone from her face. “Why are you worried about me?”

“Because news travels quickly. Word of you and your husband keeping separate chambers has already reached Driftmark.” I noticed the way her posture stiffened, as her frown deepened. “Most dismiss it as the stress and nerves of being newly crowned, but I think it’s more than that. Did he cheat on you? If he’s taken up his Dornish traditions and humiliated you, then he’ll have to answer to me and to Caraxes.”

“Cheat? Ha! I wish!” Rhaenyra’s laugh was sharp and ragged, nothing like laughter at all, and it lodged in my chest. “Uncle… how can you manage it? Live with the knowledge.”

I didn’t need her to spell it out. The way her eyes darkened was enough, the weight in them said more than words ever could. This was about Viserys. Even after a year it hadn’t left her, and maybe it never would.

Why would it? A voice I couldn’t quiet reminded me that in her eyes, she blames us for killing her father. And there were days when I wondered if she was wrong to think like it.

“Some days are better than others,” I admitted because there was no use pretending otherwise. “I just tell myself that the man I should mourn died the moment they put a crown on his head.”

“Qoren lied to me, you all did!” Rhaenyra’s words snapped out, edged with fury she could no longer hold back. “How can I trust any of you? I’ve seen things I wish I hadn’t, I’ve been betrayed more times than I can count, and my dreams are filled with what might have been.” Her voice cracked as tears ran down, but she didn’t break. She held herself tall and proud, glare cutting through the blur, every inch a Targaryen. “I decided to trust him. To love him. Even when every lesson I’d ever been given told me not to. And still I chose it. Maybe I shouldn’t have.”

“He loves you, Rhaenyra.” I shook my head, wishing she could believe it as firmly as I did. “He made a mistake by keeping it from you. We all did. We wanted you to be free of guilt, away from the burden of what had to be done. It was a choice no one should have had to make, but it was necessary. You knew better than anyone where the realm was headed before you took the throne. Can you truly say we chose wrong?”

“No.” The word came out sharp, and the bitterness in it said more than anything else.

“Qoren just wanted to protect you, to give you what you deserved,” I tried again, though even as I said it I wasn’t sure if she’d believe me.

“No, you all just wanted to see me crowned for yourselves.” Her glare cut straight through me, and I felt myself flinch before I could stop it. “Mother wanted to get one over on my father. You wanted him to suffer because he wronged you. Rhaenys wanted nothing more than to see a woman on the throne, to spit in the faces of every lord who denied her. And me? I was content with what I had. I didn’t mind leaving the crown to my son. In truth, I preferred it. So don’t stand there and tell me it was done for me, or in my name, because it wasn’t.”

I just stared at her, caught off guard. Somewhere along the way, the girl I’d once teased and guided had turned into a woman who could strip me bear with words alone.

“You are right,” I said at last, though it hurt to admit. I dropped my gaze, not wanting her to see the shame I felt. “We did it for selfish reasons, and we put the weight of it all on you. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t think I can trust you, any of you.” The anger drained out of her voice, replaced by exhaustion. She sank into her chair, her shoulders slack in a way I wasn’t used to seeing. “If I can’t trust you, who am I supposed to trust in this pit of vipers?”

“We are sorry. Truly.” I had nothing else to offer her, no clever defense or excuse left to hide behind.

“I know, uncle. I know.” She let out another sigh, softer this time, like the fight had burned out of her. “I just need time.”

I took the dismissal for what it was and left her chambers, the unease lingering long after. There wasn’t anything more to say, so I threw myself back into duty. As Lord Commander of the City Watch I kept my head down, led my men through the streets, and made sure the peace of her city held. It was the least I could do for my niece as the guilt ate me alive.

A few moons later the rumors about Rhaenyra and Qoren were replaced by louder gossip about her fourth pregnancy. The court seemed to breathe easier, as this meant that there was no trouble brewing within the newly crowned couple.

I didn’t share their cheer.

Still, things between them were tense. More likely than not, this new “blessing from the Gods” came from a fight that ended in angry sex.

Even so, I gave thanks to all fourteen Gods for the gift. Day by day she seemed less guarded, as if the walls she’d built around herself were coming down, and it was this child who gave her the first step back.

She was still hurt, though, still carrying the hurt of what we had done. A child could only mend so much, and I knew it would take more than this to restore her faith in us. But I was ready for that work, ready to do whatever it took, because she was worth it.

Our queen was worth every ounce of effort, every hard step forward, she was worth it.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 122 A.C  

In 120 AC the sound of screams carried through the closed doors of the king and queen’s chambers. They’d made the choice to share one, breaking with the habit of keeping separate rooms, so the whole Red Keep knew what was happening before the news reached their ears.

Two years of steady rule had passed without much disruption, peace holding firm and prosperity taking root, and now the royal couple was blessed with another child. The court counted him among the princes of eight, five, and three name days, another boy added to their growing line.

The labor wasn’t gentle, though. Her cries cut through the night and stirred every soul in the castle, answered by the echo of Syrax’s roars that rolled across the city. Making sure that all of King’s Landing knew their queen was bringing another heir into the world.

He was a beautiful boy, golden-silver hair already soft against his head and eyes the clear shade of amethyst, and even hardened lords and ladies gasped when they saw him. He seemed almost otherworldly, too perfect for the rough hands that carried him. They named him Aegon, after the first king of their line.

Even with that kind of legacy tied to him, the queen surprised many when she refused to place a dragon egg in his cradle. There were whispers in the court, confusion that spread fast, but she answered it simply with one line.

“He has no need for an egg. His dragon waits on Dragonstone.”

She smiled when she said it, a smile that showed she knew something others did not, the sort of knowledge I knew even as Master of Whisperers I’ll never be able to reach.

Two years later the halls rang with celebration again as another babe came into the world. This one, too, had the unmistakable marks of their blood—silver hair, almost white, with dark violet eyes. They named him Viserys, for the previous king and the father our queen still carried in her heart.

Once again, the cradle stayed empty of a dragon egg.

“His dragon is on the Narrow Seas,” the queen whispered as she rocked young Viserys against her chest. She murmured more for herself than for the courtiers around her. “A worthy dragon for the future Prince of the Narrow Seas and Lord of the Stepstones.”

Most dismissed her words as the idle talk of a mother still dazed from birth. Few lingered on the strangeness of it when their attention was fixed instead on what they believed to be the Gods’ blessings. Five healthy princes born in such quick succession was something the realm had not seen since Queen Alysanne’s day. Even she had struggled to bring forth so many sons, most of her children having been daughters. To both nobles and smallfolk this was more than fortune or luck, it felt like a sign from the Gods.

They whispered that this was why Queen Aemma had never borne a son. Her loss, they said, was the Gods’ design, clearing the way for Rhaenyra to rise as the first queen to sit the Iron Throne. It was her sons, not Viserys’, who were meant to carry the bloodline forward, their births seen as the promise of a dynasty secured for generations to come.

And truthfully, I couldn’t argue with that. The Old Gods had guided me to King’s Landing for a reason, even if I didn’t see it at first. My gift as a greenseer had never matched the strength of the queen’s dragon dreams, but it was enough to guide me, enough that I knew I was meant to protect and aid the queen.

At first, I had thought it would be Aemma who I was meant to serve, or perhaps another who came after her, when the birthing bed finally claimed her. But it wasn’t.

It was Rhaenyra. A true queen, the songs will remember as the first to sit the Iron Throne, the Dragon Queen whose reign I was bound to protect.

For that I’ll always be grateful.

We’ve managed to do so much good since she took the throne. Back when she was still only a princess her reach was limited, everything had to pass through a king who thought coin was best spent on tourneys and feasts. Now that she holds the highest power in the realm, she’s been able to push for the reforms she always dreamed of.

One of the first was changing the seat of Grand Maester into the seat of Grand Healer. It wasn’t just for maesters anymore, healers could claim it too, and that opened doors no one thought possible. Geradys, who’s been nothing but loyal to the queen from the start, kept the seat, though I sometimes wonder if by the time Prince Jacaerys rules, we might see a woman hold it.

The thought doesn’t feel impossible anymore.

Learning houses have sprung up across the realm, drawing trade and business in ways we couldn’t have predicted. More knowledge led to more profit, and more profit meant more taxes filling the coffers. When she was still a princess, we used to marvel at how full they were, but now it feels as though the treasury can barely hold what pours into it.

People have already started calling this the Golden Reign of Westeros, not just for the strength of the economy but also as a nod to the nickname of our queen’s dragon.

Women too have begun stepping into roles that once seemed impossible to them. At first it was in places that felt natural to the lords—matrons running orphanages, instructors guiding young children, women organizing the kitchens that fed the poor.

But once they began to study healing, everything shifted. No longer did a household depend entirely on a maester for every illness or wound. Families started to prefer having a healer of their own blood, and with that came a change no one could ignore.

Even my own sisters chose that path. All three of them, and yes, even my baseborn sister. They’ve thrown themselves into the study of healing. Alys went even further, sailing to Essos to finish her training. I never thought I’d see the day, yet here we are, and it’s all thanks to our queen.

Maybe I could find Alys a place here at court, I thought. With how much our family’s influence has grown, it shouldn’t be too hard. Some knight would take her hand, even if she is a bastard. The queen and king have never cared about that sort of thing anyway, and half the time they’re surrounded by Sands serving in one role or another. A Sand knight would suit well enough, and with the dowry my father has set aside, the match could be made sweeter. The dowery was not as much as my other sisters’, of course, but for a bastard it’s far more than most could ever expect. My father has always been generous like that. Thinking about him—

“What has the Red Keep so excited?” my father asked as we made our way through the keep’s halls.

“Crown Prince Jacaerys is finally ten namedays old,” I told him. “The queen is overseeing his first solo flight on Vermax.”

“That’s right!” My father’s face lit with pride, almost as though the boy were his own. “The crown prince will finally be a true dragonrider.”

“Let’s hope this calms my brother,” I muttered, though there was no hiding the deep sigh behind it. “I’ve had to listen to him fret all week about his charge being in the sky without him to guard him.”

“He is the sworn shield of the crown prince, given that honor after years of loyal service to the queen,” my father reminded me firmly. “If you were in his place, you would panic too.”

No, I thought, I wouldn’t. I would already know the outcome. My gift as a greenseer would have shown me what is to come.

But I kept that to myself, some truths are best left unsaid.

We stepped into my office, and I went straight to the stack of missives that had piled up while I was gone. I broke the seals one after another, scanning them quickly, and with each letter my frown deepened until my face felt carved in stone.

“Father, we need to call the Small Council,” I said, holding the papers tighter than I meant to. “The queen has to hear this.”

“Son? What is it?” His voice carried a note of worry, and I wished I could give him better news.

“Nothing good,” I muttered, grimacing as I set the letters down.

That was all there was to say, so we both got to work. Most of the Targaryens and Velaryons were still at the Dragon’s pit, so it took close to an hour before they made it back to the Red Keep. I spent that time combing through what my spies had sent me, reading each line twice over, hoping I’d find some mistake or exaggeration.

I didn’t.

By the time the council was seated and the reports passed around, I hated what I saw even more. So did the rest of them.

“The Greyjoys?” Rhaenyra’s voice caught in disbelief. “The Hightowers allied with the faithless ironborn? The same ones who raid Oldtown’s coast for sport? Are they out of their minds?”

Her outburst left the room staring at her, surprised. Usually, her gift kept her ten steps ahead, but it seems that this time, it failed her.  

“I hated the guts of that viper Otto,” Daemon admitted, the words dragged out of him with clear reluctance, “but I’ll say this, he was the brains of his brood. Cunning and patient, he knew when to bide his time and when to strike. Without him, the Hightowers were left with nothing but swollen pride and ambition, and no sense of how to direct it.”

“Which leads to stupidity like this,” Aemma said with a sigh, shaking her head.

“But that still doesn’t explain why the Faith Militia would rally behind them, not when the ironborn follow the Drowned God,” Rhaenys said, her tone sharp as she leaned forward.

“They’re desperate, and the same goes for the Citadel,” Qoren answered. “Desperation makes people foolish. Nyra and I have become a particular problem for them. Every change we push through, every reform we see to, strips away a bit more of their power every day.”

“The greedy sons of bitches can’t stand it. The Citadel used to be the gatekeeper of knowledge of the realm, and they’re clinging to the dream of dragging us back to those so-called good old days.” Daemon let out a cruel snort. “And the Hightowers are the perfect allies for it, since they’ve always despised everything that defines us—magic, incest, our refusal to bow to their faith. The Targaryens flaunt everything they loathe, and that’s something they’ll never forgive.”

“We’ll just have to abolish the institution of septons and septas,” Rhaenyra said with a weary sigh. “We won’t strip the faith from the people, but we can’t allow its leaders to rise against us again. The septs will remain and the book of the Seven will still be allowed to circulate. But from this day forward, there will be no septons or septas to wield influence.”

“Quite fitting,” Corlys said with a firm nod. “Dorne, the Vale, the Stormlands, the Crownlands, and the North will have no issue with this decree. They’ll burn the septs without hesitation since they’ve never had much love for the Seven, if the North ever had any to begin with. The Reach and the Westerlands though, they’ll cling to the Light of the Seven with both hands. And the Riverlands will be split down in the middle. Those closest to the Neck have converted to the Old Gods while the southern half remain faithful to the Seven. That division could fester into something worse if we’re not careful.”

“That’s something we’ll have to watch closely,” Rhaenyra agreed. “Alicent may be devoted to the Seven, but she’s learned to be more flexible in her judgment. I’ll ask her to act as our voice of reason there, to keep the peace while the realm adjusts to the changed. But that’s a matter for another day.”

Her gaze drifted back to the war table, the pieces and markers that told a grim story. Her brow tightened as she studied them. “Right now, we have a different concern. The war is afoot.”

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 122 A.C 

I had never been so grateful that my husband was sworn to the Crown Prince. Being anyone’s sworn shield was dangerous, but guarding a royal was something else entirely. Every day he carried the risk of giving his life for another, and while I loved the queen and her sons as much as loyalty demanded, I didn’t want to lose my husband to duty.

That was why I felt relieved, even if Harwin himself was far from relieved. He was pacing in frustration, his voice sharp with anger that really came from worry for the ones he loved.

“Your Majesty! I am a knight of the realm, I should be following you to war!” Harwin’s voice rose as though sheer force could convince her. “I used to be your sworn shield. I cannot allow you to ride into battle without me at your back.”

“Used to being the key word,” the queen said, and it stopped him cold. “You are my son’s sworn shield now, the Crown Prince’s. I gave you that duty because I trust you above anyone else to protect him, just as you once protected me.”

Her smile softened then, carrying warmth that reached even through Harwin’s stubbornness. He’d told me more than once that it was the kind of smile that filled him whole, that made every sacrifice worthwhile.

“You need to stay here and protect him, and all of my children,” she went on. “If anything happens to me, he is the next in line. He’ll need someone close to him, someone he can trust without question, to stand at his side.”

I watched the fight in him falter. He was torn between duty and longing, and I could see it plain as day. I understood both, because I’d felt that same pull myself.

“Why should you be the one to go to war? You’re the queen now,” Harwin said, though I could hear in his voice that he’d already lost the argument. He wasn’t going to fight her choice any further, no matter how much he wanted to.

“Because I am queen, I must go,” Rhaenyra answered simply. “I need to show them all that being a woman doesn’t make me unfit to rule the Iron Throne or to lead on the battlefield. Syrax and I will remind them what happens when they anger a dragon. Fire and Blood.”

There was nothing else to say after that. We bowed to her dismissal and left the room together, the silence between us saying enough on its own.

We walked the familiar halls toward the Crown Prince’s chambers and found Jace waiting there, his small frame held too stiff, his face shadowed with worry that didn’t belong to a boy of ten name days.

“Congratulations, Your Highness,” I said, softening my voice and smiling in hopes of easing him. “Your first solo flight on Vermax. A great achievement.”

“Just in time to watch my parents go to war,” he muttered, sulking more like an old man than a child.

“The queen and king are great warriors,” Harwin told him with certainty. “They claimed the Stepstones before, and they’ll return victorious from this rebellion as well.”

“You can’t promise me that,” Jace replied, and the sigh that left him felt far too old for his years. That was the burden of the eldest, already looking toward what lay ahead. “If anything happens to them, I will be the next king. I’ll be the one in charge while they’re away. I need to protect my brothers.”

“The Mother Queen will be here for you, to guide you,” I reminded him gently. “Harwin will be here to guard you and your brothers, just as he always has. And the queen’s ladies will stay behind as well, they’ll do whatever they can to help while Her Grace rides to war.”

“But it won’t be the same,” Jacaerys grumbled. “Muña and kepa will be gone, far away, and I’ll be here. My brothers will be here too, waiting for them to come back.”

“And they will come back,” Harwin said as he bent down so he could look his prince in the eye. The boy’s resolve finally cracked then, and he all but collapsed into Harwin’s arms. “Oh, my prince,” Harwin whispered as he held him close, Jace sobbing into his chest.

I didn’t linger. The moment was theirs, and I left the chambers quietly, making my way through the winding halls toward our Dornish court. Since his marriage, the king had brought us into the Red Keep, where we were given chambers and settled much like any other court.

The moment I entered, Darion Sand was already demanding answers. “Is it true? There will be war, and the queen herself is going to fight in it?”

“Of course she is!” Obella Sand’s voice cut across the room, her spear striking the floor with a sharp crack. “She is the Dragon Queen. Our queen, and the pride of Dorne. She might have been raised among Andals, but she was born to be Dornish. Her skill with a spear is matched only by the king’s, and that’s only because he has years more practice.”

“The Pyke will be a bloodbath!” Arthur Dalt said with a vicious grin, his teeth flashing as though he could already taste the fight. “Our queen will bring Fire and Blood to the traitors, and it will be glorious.”

“That it will,” I said, my voice cutting into the room and drawing all their eyes to me.

“Lady Strong,” Darion teased, his tone light but curious. “Welcome to our little council.”

“Thank you for having me,” I answered with a smirk of my own. “My husband and I will remain here, we’ve been charged with protecting and caring for the princes, especially the Crown Prince. Half of you will stay as well, for the same reason. The rest of you will march with the banners to the Pyke and to Oldtown.”

“Dorne will answer the call for war!” Obella declared, her words ringing as sharp as the spear she carried. “Our homeland holds the queen in the highest regard. When the news reaches them, from the nobles in their halls to the smallfolk in the streets, they will rise in fury.”

“As they should,” I agreed, though a frown tugged at my lips. “Oldtown and the Pyke dared to raise arms against the crown we serve, and worse, they’ve troubled our sweet Crown Prince. For that alone, when you meet them in battle, drive your spears deep.”

I could see the angry and dark expressions on their faces, a promise of what's to come.

You wanted Dorne as your enemy? Then so be it. Hightowers, Greyjoys—you chose this fight, and now you’ll face the cost. Fire and Blood is not only a Targaryen vow, it’s ours too, and we are coming for you.

Chapter Text

Iron Islands, The Pyke - 123 A.C

I couldn’t help the swell of pride I felt as I watched our queen and her king consort stand together, side by side, Blackfyre and Dark Sister hanging at their belts. It was a sight that spoke louder than words, a reminder of what true rulers should look like. Not like the coward who came before, a king who let his brother fight his wars and then cast him aside once the danger was gone.

He showed neither honor nor loyalty, nothing of a true king.

In that moment I knew I had chosen well. I’d put my trust in the right hands, and they were already carving a golden path toward a future worth following. That thought pleased me, though it was clear not everyone had chosen as wisely.

My eyes drifted to the Greyjoys and the lords of the isles, and the sight of them turned my stomach. Sniveling, treacherous men, clutching at scraps of power they didn’t deserve.

The plan was simple enough. Strike the ironborn first, for they were the greatest danger. As long as their ships ruled the seas they could raid and burn our ports unchecked, leaving nothing but blood and ash along the coasts. Cut them down and the seas would be safe. Oldtown, meanwhile, would be forced to face the wrath of the Reach on land, with no chance of slipping away.

But nothing could have prepared me for what we found when we set foot on the Iron Islands. What I saw there left me sick, unable to speak for a long while. Salt wives by the dozen, locked away like animals, treated worse than beasts. Even children, little girls who hadn’t even flowered, kept in kennels and used for sport.

It was beyond cruelty. It was rot. Such were the men who dared oppose us.

The smallfolk here… I’d never seen people so hollow. Poverty wasn’t new to me, I’d walked through the slums of King’s Landing enough times to know what desperation looked like, but this was different. The queen’s reforms had softened life for most across the realm, given people food, work, and some measure of hope.

Yet here, in these blasted isles, none of that light seemed to reach them. All I saw was bitterness carved into faces, the sort of misery that made you wonder if they’d ever known anything else.

“Fire and Blood. That will be their sentence,” Queen Rhaenyra said, her expression unreadable. Then her voice rang out, clear and final. “Dracarys.”

I didn’t flinch when Syrax unleashed her fury. Flames swallowed the gathered lords of the Iron Islands, their screams drowned out by the roar of dragonfire. I found myself smiling as I watched them burn. Why had I ever doubted she might be too soft for the throne? She wasn’t weak, not in the slightest.

She was a true Targaryen, our Dragon Queen.

“Luckily there were no children among them… at least not trueborn,” one soldier murmured as the blaze raged on. “But what happens to the isles now? Who will rule them?”

“Will House Targaryen claim them like the Stepstones?” another asked under his breath.

“It wouldn’t be a surprise. Their dragons were the ones that broke the ironborn fleet, burning down half their in an instant,” a third added, not bothering to keep his voice down.

“Silence!” I snapped, my words cutting through the whispers. They all jumped, startled. “Show some respect. The Queen and King Consort stand before you.”

That shut them up. Not another word was spoken as we marched to the Pyke.

Inside its central hall I caught sight of their so-called Salt Throne and couldn’t stop the scoff that slipped out. Did these squids truly think themselves kings? The only royalty this realm had ever bowed to, sat the Iron Throne in King’s Landing, forged by fire and blood. Salt Kings be damned.

I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips as I watched her take the throne. Our queen looked every inch the ruler, calm and unshaken as she surveyed the hall and the soldiers who filled it. Her husband stood solidly in her right, Prince Daemon at her left, and below the steps the Lord Commander of the Queensguard held his place, ready to strike if anyone dared to test their luck.

“Half of each house’s coffers will be spent on the people of these isles,” she declared, her voice even but carrying easily through the stone walls. “There will be orphanages, soup kitchens, healing centers, learning houses—whatever the people need. The state of these isles is appalling.” Her lip curled in disgust. “The other half will go to the new lords and ladies of the isles. Isles that now belong to the Crownlands.”

The word ladies caught more than a few of us off guard. I hadn’t expected it, and judging by the ripples moving through the soldiers neither had they.

“Lord Tyland Lannister, step forward!” she commanded.

A commotion stirred among the Westerlands contingent. They hadn’t been closely tied to the new royal couple and clearly hadn’t foreseen this moment. Still, Tyland proved smarter than his brother, moving without hesitation. He strode forward, kneeling smoothly, and kept his composure as though he’d been expecting it all along.

“Welcome home, Lord of the Pyke. This island is yours.”

The cheer that rose from the Westerlands soldiers shook the hall, their banners lifting in triumph as Tyland smiled wide, clearly pleased with himself. He didn’t see what I did—that he’d just been maneuvered neatly into the queen’s debt. And debts, as the saying goes, a Lannister always pays his debts.

One way or another, she had him.

“Lords Daeron and Daemion Velaryon, you will both receive Blacktyde and Saltcliff!”

No one was surprised about those appointments. The Velaryons had always been her fiercest supporters, second only to Dorne. Ser Vaemond’s cheer carried across the entire hall, loud enough to make me wince. With this, she had tied him to her completely. He’d been muttering about how Driftmark should pass to one of his sons instead of a woman, but now his arguments would vanish like smoke. She’d given him too much to betray them now.

“Lord Rickon Stark, step forward. Your nephews Brandon and Elric Whitestark will inherit Harlaw and Orkmont once they come of age.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Lord Rickon said as he bowed, his voice full of genuine gratitude as the northern host broke into proud cheers.

I couldn’t help but whistle under my breath, impressed. Winning the loyalty of the North was no simple feat, and yet she had managed it with grace and calculation. Not that impressing me came easily either.

I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I almost missed it when my name rang out. For a heartbeat I froze, startled, as the hall fell quiet around me. My feet carried me forward automatically as all eyes turned. I had no sons to inherit, everyone knew that. But then… she had said ladies…

“Lord Borros Baratheon, your daughters will inherit Great Wyk and Old Wyk,” the queen declared, her words echoing through the hall and freezing the crowd in stunned silence. “If you should die without a male heir to claim Storm’s End, Lady Cassandra Baratheon will remain as your heir. Lady Maris Baratheon will take Great Wyk, and Lady Floris Baratheon will take Old Wyk. Should a son be born to you, then Great Wyk, as the largest island in the archipelago, will be divided between the Ladies Cassandra and Maris.”

The silence stretched until my men broke it with shouts of approval, their voices rising into chants that celebrated their Lord Paramount’s house. The sound filled the hall and rolled back against the walls.

I caught the queen’s gaze then, and it struck me what she was doing.

Dorne had already won more than anyone when she married into their line. Martell blood will one day rule most seats of power in Westeros, that is without mentioning the trade privileges, lighter taxes, and deals that brought gold and goods flowing across their borders. They had even secured the right to keep their princely titles, even though they are not Targaryens.

Now she was making sure the other great houses are as indebted and loyal to her as House Martell. The Tyrells and the Arryns were the only ones who were not granted an isle, and only because they had no heirs to inherit one.

She had us all bound to her now, turning these salt-stained isles into another set of Stepstones. From this day forward, trade along this side of the Seven Kingdoms would pass through here, and every lord in the hall knew it.

Well played, Your Majesty, I bowed, my thoughts caught between amusement and pride. Well played indeed.

Chapter Text

The Reach, Oldtown - 123 A.C

I looked out at my hometown and felt a heaviness settle in me. The tall white tower that had given my family its name lay broken, jagged pieces scattered where it once stood proud, blackened with scorch marks. The Citadel, which had lasted for centuries, was little more than debris now, half of it still standing as if only out of stubbornness.

The city itself was spared, though, the people had been unharmed, which was not that much of a surprise. Nyra would never let the smallfolk suffer for the sins of their lords. She was gentle and kind at her heart, though when men pushed too far, they had a way of waking up the dragon in her.

“How are you holding up?” Elmo asked softly as he settled beside me in the wheelhouse.

“As well as I can,” I said with a tired smile. “I’m just glad we cut ties with them years ago.”

“So am I,” Elmo said with a sharp little snort. “Not that we’d have ever taken up arms against the Targaryens. They were the ones who gave us Riverrun and raised us to a Great House in the first place. Still, keeping our distance was the wiser choice.”

“It was,” I agreed, though the words felt heavy. “I only wish it could have gone differently. Why did they have to be so greedy? Why couldn’t they be satisfied with what they had? Compared to most Small Houses, we were incredibly well-off. Compared to the smallfolk, we lived like royalty. Yet it was never enough for them, they always wanted more.”

“Greed and power… people get addicted to them,” Elmo said with a long sigh. “The Hightowers and Oldtown were once the center of the realm, until the Targaryens came and changed it all. The Citadel was the seat of knowledge for centuries, until Queen Rhaenyra decided everyone deserved access to it. They couldn’t let go of that loss, which led them to cling to their grudges instead of moving forward.”

“It rots you from the inside,” I muttered bitterly. “It blackens the soul and twists the heart. They preached piety, called themselves true followers of the Seven, but they were hypocrites through and through. They always have been”

“But you’re not like that,” Elmo assured gently. “That’s why you thrived while they crumbled.” The wheelhouse came to a halt, and he offered his hand as we stepped down. “Come on. We shouldn’t keep the queen waiting.”

“Of course, husband,” I said with a small smile, following him through the camp that had sprung up around the ruins. The tower was too unstable to house anyone now, so the tents served as our meeting halls. Guards stood aside as I was ushered into the royal tent. My husband was asked to remain outside, since the queen had called for me alone.

“Your Majesty,” I greeted her with a bow as I entered.

“How many times must I remind you?” she said, her smile soft despite the weariness in her eyes. “When it is only us, we are Ali and Nyra.” She studied me for a moment, the satisfaction of victory just visible beneath her tiredness. “I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

“What are you apologizing for?” I asked, hardly believing what I was hearing. “I should be the one begging for forgiveness. After what they did… I don’t even have words. I’m appalled, ashamed of it all. I am so sorry.”

“You were not involved,” Nyra said gently, taking my hands into hers.

Her grip was gentle and warm, and I clung to it as though it could anchor me. The relief escaped me in a sob. Grateful that my family had not managed to steal this from me, had not ruined the bond we shared. I still had my oldest, dearest friend.

“We don’t get to choose the family we’re born to,” she went on, her voice carrying that quiet certainty that always made me listen, “but we can choose how we rise above it. And you have.”

I lowered my head, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. “I am grateful to have your confidence and your trust.”

“Now chin up!” she said, suddenly brighter, a hint of mischief creeping into her cheer. “I have a special duty for you.”

“Whatever you need, I am at your service,” I replied without hesitation, and I meant it with every fiber of me.

“The Hightower House has come to its end, but Oldtown will live on,” she announced. Even though I had expected this decision, a pang shot through me. The Hightower name would die with me, and yet… perhaps that was the only way forward. “You know the city and its people better than anyone left alive,” she continued. “So, I would like you to take charge of its reconstruction.”

My breath caught, eyes widening as I took in the enormity of what she was asking. The trust she placed in me was staggering, the kind of confidence I wasn’t sure I deserved, yet it filled me with fierce determination to prove her right.

“I know that as a future Lady Paramount you already have your hands full, but your husband has not yet taken the title from his grandfather. You could both see this as a practice round, a chance to prepare for when you one day take up the Riverlands and Riverrun.” Her smile shifted then, sly in a way that pulled me straight back to our childhood, the same look she used to wear whenever she was plotting some bit of mischief. “After all, this will be the future seat of little Oscar.”

“Y—your Majesty?” The words tumbled out of me clumsily, my voice catching as I defaulted to the formal title. “I… I don’t understand.”

“Your blood has ruled these lands for generations, and it will continue to do so,” Rhaenyra said, her smile softening again. “Oscar is a second son. By rights he would never inherit a keep. But this way you will be able to secure the future of both of your sons. The only conditions are that the new keep cannot be another tower, that Oscar’s new name will not be Hightower, and that his house colors will never be green.”

Her beautiful face twisted slightly when she said it, the word itself tasting bitter to her. I understood why. The tower in Oldtown had always shone green when the Hightowers called their banners to war. That color would never be welcomed again.

“Other than that,” she finished, “you have free reign.”

I bowed low, overwhelmed all over again by the sheer generosity of her words, by the way she could still give so much even after all that had been taken from her. “Thank you,” I whispered, meaning every word. She was my queen, but at that moment, she was also still the girl I had grown up with, the friend who had never let me fall.

“You’re welcome,” she said simply before turning back toward her desk, her hand brushing over the scattered parchments there. “Go fetch your husband, we have much to discuss.”

I nodded and went to find Elmo. He had been waiting outside, and the moment I told him what had been said his face mirrored my own shock and relief. Reality still hadn’t quite settled. Our little boy’s future had been secured in a way we could never have imagined, and the happiness of it left us almost giddy.

“First of all,” Nyra began once we returned, “Oscar will still go to squire with Qoren when he is of age, and he will be little Joffrey’s companion.”

Both Elmo and I exchanged smiles at that. We had worried that after my family’s rebellion she might have been forced to change her mind, but she hadn’t. She kept her word.

“The Citadel will not be rebuilt,” she went on, her voice steady. “The land will be divided into three sections. One part will be made into an orphanage, another into a healing center open to all, and the last into a learning house. You will have the Citadel’s own hoarded wealth to fund these endeavors.”

I found myself nodding immediately. It felt right. The smallfolk of Oldtown deserved to join in the changes Nyra had been making across the realm, and with this, they finally would.

“As for the library,” she continued, her eyes flicking toward me mischievously, “I left half the Citadel standing for a reason. I will be opening the largest learning institute of Westeros in King’s Landing. It will be open to all, with no restriction of birth, gender, or coin. Anyone who wishes to learn will have the chance. For that, I intend to claim every book the Citadel has left.”

I was floored by the vision she laid out for us, so much larger than anything I could have imagined. My heart swelled with pride, with awe, as I looked at my friend sitting there shaping the future of Westeros with her words as easily as others breathe.

“That’s a wonderful idea!” I blurted out, unable to keep it in, and Elmo gave a firm nod beside me in agreement.

“Now,” Rhaenyra continued, the brightness fading as a tired sigh slipped from her, “we move on to the hard part.”

I frowned as concern prickled at me. None of what she had already laid out counted as the hard part?

“The Faith Militia raised arms against the crown… again.”

A cold shiver went through me. My stomach knotted. I didn’t like where this was going. For a moment, dread filled me. Would we be asked to cast aside our faith altogether, to turn away from the Seven? No, I told myself quickly. That wasn’t Nyra’s way. I refused to believe she would demand it.

“We cannot allow them to do this a third time,” she said firmly. “I will not have my sons, or my grandchildren grow up wondering when the Faith will strike at them again. The institution of the septons and septas will be abolished.”

Another sigh followed, heavy with resolve. “We will not strip the people of their belief. The septs will remain, everyone will be allowed to continue praying to the Seven, and the Seven-Pointed Star book will still be read in learning houses and castles. But from this day forward, there will be no more septons or septas.”

I didn’t like it, not deep down, but I could see why she had chosen this path. They had pushed her hand time and again, and this was her way of ending the cycle. It was harsh, yes, but also kinder than what her ancestors might have done. She wasn’t erasing the Faith, only cutting away the rot so her family and the realm could feel safe again.

“Maesters, septons, and septas are the ones who teach the young lords and ladies of the realm,” Elmo said carefully, though I could tell he was choosing each word carefully.

“South of the Neck, maybe,” Nyra replied. “But in the North, and to some extent in Dorne, it is governesses and governors who take on that role. Men and women who are trained in the art of teaching, who actually study methods and practice ways of passing on knowledge. That’s not something the maesters, septons, or septas were ever truly equipped for. And if any child wishes to seek deeper knowledge, there will always be my future Tessarion Academy—named after the Fourteen Flames’ Goddess of Knowledge.”

“That could work,” Elmo mussed thoughtfully, nodding slowly as if testing the thought in his own mind. “It will also be a relief not to have religion tied into every lesson we were forced to learn as children.”

“It will be,” Nyra said with a small chuckle, the sound lightening the air around us.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, my racing heart finally beginning to settle. She had not made any hasty decision and had thought it through carefully.

Religion has always been a difficult subject for me. I’ve always been devout, and I know that sometimes I can be too rigid in the way I hold to it. Even so, I couldn’t deny the truth staring us in the face—the Faith had turned traitor to the crown more than once. If the septs were allowed to remain, and I could still practice my faith in peace, then I could accept the rest.

“The problem with this,” Rhaenyra continued slowly, “is that the Riverlands will be left in a… delicate position.”

“Why is that?” I asked, thrown off by her cautious phrasing.

“Because the northern half of the Riverlands converted to the Old Gods, while the southern half still follow the Seven,” Elmo explained with a sigh. “This kind of division could easily spark a religious war.”

“Let’s stay positive and hope it doesn’t come to that,” Nyra answered, though her own sigh showed she wasn’t blind to the risk. “But it won’t hurt to be cautious and keep watch over the situation.”

Her gaze flicked toward me then, a moment of hesitation before she spoke again. “I know how much your faith means to you. But as the future Lady Paramount of the Riverlands, you can’t be seen protecting only one of your peoples’ religions. Both must be safeguarded equally.”

“I know my faults,” I said with a chuckle, though the sound carried a hint of self-mockery. “I can be inflexible at times…”

“At times?!” Nyra and Elmo said together, their voices overlapping in perfect unison.

“Alright, alright—most of the time!” I laughed, raising my hands in defeat. “But I am a Tully now. Family, Duty, Honor—that’s what I live by. My duty is to the Riverlands and to my family, and I’ll see to it that the honor of House Tully is upheld.”

Their faces softened at that, both of them looking at me with a warmth that left my chest tight. Pride and love shone in their eyes, and it struck me harder than I expected because I had never once received that kind of look from my own father.

Not once.

In that moment I knew with complete certainty that I had chosen the right path, the right family to stand by.

Later that day, as the wheelhouse rolled past the ruins of Oldtown’s tower, its broken stones still blackened and jagged, the thought came back to me. It was a pity, really, that I was the only one from my bloodline to learn that lesson.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 123 A.C

Handing out islands to Vaemond’s spoiled sons and a Lannister had taken more patience than I thought I had. Even the concession to that stubborn Baratheon had left a bitter taste, though at least Borros had changed with time. He had finally started to see the value in my rule.

Vaemond, on the other hand, was still the same insufferable man he had always been, no better in this timeline than the last. Maybe giving his sons their own keeps would keep them far enough from him, and maybe it would keep their greedy little hands away from my son’s inheritance. That, at least, was worth the gamble.

It helped too that Borros’s heirs were daughters. The more women we had ruling houses in their own right, even smaller ones, the stronger the realm would become. It shifted expectations, slowly but surely. And with the Iron Islands, now part of the Crownlands, it doubled the taxes flowing directly to the crown’s coffers, which wasn’t a bad outcome either.

There were times when I truly hated the game of politics. The backroom bargains, the endless scheming, it all left a sour taste afterward. Still, it had to be done, and if I was going to play the game, I would play it well.

I saw to it that Ser Tyland and Vaemond’s spawns were granted the worst of the isles. The Pyke, Blacktyde, and Saltcliff were little more than barren rocks, places that would bleed them of coin and effort long before they gave anything back. To turn those islands into something resembling greatness would take years of struggle, and in the meantime, they would know just how cold a victory could feel.

The Starks, on the other hand, would get the richest lands, and that was no accident. They had suffered long enough under the raids of the ironborn. Giving their kin wealth and independence not only rewarded them for their loyalty, but it also cut off any chance of rebellion from within their own bloodline. Each cousin with their own seat meant no one would ever again rise up to challenge Cregan, like it happened in the other timeline.

“Long live the Dragon Queen!”
“Long live the Golden Queen!”
“Long live the Targaryens!”
“Long live the Crown!”

I snapped out of my dark mood, as I heard the crowd cheer. I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face as I lifted a hand in greeting, even if I doubted anyone could see it from where I sat astride Syrax. The roar of the crowd only swelled, and I laughed, head thrown back, the sound mixing with the wind as she carried us down.

It was strange, almost funny when I thought about it. Once, when I had taken King’s Landing from the Hightowers, I was met with suspicion and coldness, though it had been my birthright all along. Now, after taking Oldtown from the same family—lands that had been their birthright for generations—I returned home to warmth and celebration.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Choices carve the road ahead of us. I had made so many poor ones in the past, stumbling where I should have stood firm, but this time… this time I seemed to have chosen well.

“Your Majesty,” my mother said as she bowed, waiting for me at the steps of the Dragon’s pit. My sons stood beside her in a neat line, though I could see the impatience in their bodies, the way they shifted on their feet, barely holding themselves still. “Congratulations on your victory, and welcome home. King’s Landing is yours.”

“Muña,” I said with a smile that felt warmer than the sun overhead. Sliding down from Syrax, I crossed the space quickly and embraced her, gratitude swelling in me. “It’s good to see you again. Thank you for caring for the realm while we were away.”

When I turned toward my children, I bent down, lowering myself so I could meet them eye to eye. “Come here, my sweet boys,” I said, opening my arms. “Muña has missed you all so dearly.”

They rushed into my arms, voices rising together in happy cries of, “Muña!” Their little bodies pressed against me, each hug carrying all the moons I’d been gone. Only Viserys stayed back, safe in Laena’s embrace.

“My sweet baby,” I murmured as I reached for the toddler, lifting him into my arms and kissing his soft hair. “How are you, cousin?” I asked her.

“Good. Though I miss my husband,” Laena said, her smile touched with longing. “Muña is waiting for us in the Red Keep, handling the royal welcoming as Hand of the Queen.”

“Good,” I said with a nod, pleased to hear it. “As for our husbands, they’ll be home in a week. But I couldn’t wait any longer. I missed my boys.”

“They’ve missed you too,” Laena replied with warmth, her smile full of understanding.

As the wheelhouse carried us through the streets, I waved and smiled at the people who lined up on the road. The open seats were filled with flowers, tossed in by eager hands, their colors bright against the dark wood.

My thoughts, though, stayed with my children. So much time had passed, and they had grown so much in that short time. Viserys especially—my beloved youngest—already on the edge of speaking his first word. At any moment now, I was sure.

That evening the Red Keep glittered with a grand banquet in our honor. Lords and ladies—though mostly ladies—paraded before the high table to offer their congratulations for the victory. Their words washed over me, and I smiled and thanked them, but my eyes kept drifting back to my sons. I wanted to memorize every little change in them, every expression I had missed while away.

Later that night I found a quiet moment to ask Harwin, my sworn shield, now entrusted with their care. “Any troubles, Harwin?”

“None at all, Your Majesty,” he answered, and the relief on his face was clear.

My sweet Harwin. Always so loyal and kind. I looked at him and felt a warmth I couldn’t quite put into words. This time, I promised myself, he would have the happiness he deserved.

“I would have thought that the Hightowers, being the cowards they are, might try something more desperate,” I said with a frown, my hand brushing lightly against the scar on my shoulder. The skin there still ached some nights. “An assassin or two, perhaps. That is their way—or it used to be, at least.”

“Hobert was never as clever as his brother,” Harwin replied slowly, as though choosing the words with care.

“You know, my uncle said the same thing,” I muttered with a dry snort. A little laugh escaped me after. I did have a type, it seemed—men who saw straight through the Hightower bullshit. “Not that it matters now. They paid for their treason in Fire and Blood.” I turned toward him with a smile. “How’s Harrenhal coming along?”

“Thanks to your grand donations, better than I could have hoped!” His face lit up, the gratitude clear in his voice.

It was the least I could have done. His loyalty—and Lyonel’s too—had meant more to me than I could ever repay, in both lives. But what I said aloud was, “Your father and your ancestors laid a fine foundation. The Hall of a Hundred Hearths, the kitchens, the brewhouse, stables, kennels, the mews, smithy, hunters’ hall, the armory, the barracks—most of it was already standing strong before I could so much as lift a hand.”

“Yet it was thanks to you that the King’s Pyre Tower and the Tower of Dread are finally open to and hospitable again!” Harwin said eagerly, the pride in his voice impossible to miss. “And with the dowry from my marriage to Clarissa, we’ll soon see the Wailing Tower rebuilt as well.”

“I’m glad,” I said with a smile that came easily for once. “Then only two more towers remain, and Harrenhal will stand in its full glory again.”

“One day,” Harwin answered, his own smile touched with wistfulness. “But for now, we’re content with what we’ve rebuilt.”

That was what made them such good vassals, I thought, full of quiet admiration. Loyal and patient, never grasping for more than what was just. If only others were as honorable as the Strongs.

“Good night, Ser Strong,” I teased lightly.

“Good night, Your Majesty,” he replied with a chuckle, bowing as he left my chambers.

When the door closed behind him, silence filled the room. I undressed slowly, climbed into bed, and lay still, disliking how empty it felt. I had hurried back to King’s Landing because of my impatient character, yet now all I could think about was how much I missed my husband. The sheets were cold without him.

Still, sleep came, but it did not comfort me.

Dreams found me instead. Dreams that left me restless. In them I saw my son under the control of my drunken half-brother, and the misery that followed.

I smirked even in sleep, because Aegon the Second would be remembered only as the Usurper. It served him right. His line ended with his daughter, the girl he had forced upon my son in marriage, and she gave him no heir. The Hightower blood never got to truly sit on the Iron Throne, and I wondered if all the blood spilled in search of power had been worth it.

Was that what Alicent thought of in her final days, as she withered away alone and forgotten? Did regret chase her as much as ambition once had?

Not that it mattered anymore. Alicent had made her bed, and in the end, she lay in it.

In the dreams I was trapped, unable to look away no matter how much I tried, even when all I felt was disgust and horror.

I saw the last dragon die with my son, and I saw how my line withered into madness, one king after another losing themselves until nothing remained. By the time it was over, the Baratheons had usurped it all, snuffing out our house and slaughtering the dragons until only two were left.

The Sack of King’s Landing made me sick to my core. I couldn’t even put words to the disgust that filled me. To see a mother forced to watch her child’s skull smashed in, then raped as her son’s blood still soaked her skin—that memory will haunt me forever.

I had always thought the Lannisters were fools but never had I imagined them as that cruel.

Rage burned hotter when I remembered the lioness herself, spitting her venom about bastards while her own sat on my family’s throne. I didn’t care about the incest or the bastards. I am a Targaryen. In one life my first three children were not trueborn, yet they were mine all the same.

But it was Cersei Lannister’s hypocrisy that clawed at me.

I had never known a person more hateful, more twisted. If I had stayed out of his way, he would have done the same… to a certain degree. For all his scheming, Otto weighed his choices, reasoned his path, and in some ways, he reminded me of Tywin Lannister.

Cold, yes. Calculating, yes. But at least his cruelty had a purpose.

Cersei and Joffrey… they were something else entirely. It was a bitter irony that my sweet boy bore the same name as that monster.

Those two… they were mad, stupid, and cruel. Entitled in the worst way. The things they did shocked me. And I am not easily shocked.

My dreams took me further north, where septons and septas now instructed young lords and ladies. Where had the governors and governesses gone? The practice of true teaching, the careful passing of knowledge, seemed all but erased.

And why, in the name of Mother Rhoyne, had most of Dorne turned to the Seven? Her teachings were almost forgotten, reduced to a handful of followers scattered among her people.

Then my eyes caught on to something worse. Where in all the Fourteen Flames was my Tessarion Academy? Instead of the grand institute I had envisioned, the Sept of Baelor the Blessed rose in its place, towering and gaudy. I felt sick. What had happened to our faith, our progress, everything we had built?

And then it struck me. Of course. My son hadn’t been raised by me at all, but by a false Targaryen—one shaped by a zealot. A religious fool had molded Aegon, and now all of Westeros was left to bear the cost of their religious hypocrisy.

The future was chaos. A drunken stag on the throne, driving the realm into ruin, sinking it into debt and decay. My own blood scattered and broken, even the Prince that was Promised, born to save us all, had been cast aside and treated as though he was nothing more than a mistake.

My heart nearly stopped when I saw him take the black. I watched as he faced what lay beyond the Wall, the endless night about to come, and I understood the choices that forced him to sacrifice everything. I mourned when he became a kinslayer, though I could not condemn him, and fury burned through me when I saw him exiled beyond the Wall. He was the last Targaryen, the rightful king of Westeros, and they had thrown him away.

The rage still burned in me when the vision shifted. The Sept of Baelor vanished, and in its place stood my Tessarion Academy, gleaming and whole, towering over the city as I had always dreamed it would.

My chest eased as I watched Lord Samwell Tarly and Prince Jonothor descend its steps, laughing as they made their way toward a waiting wheelhouse. They were fresh from their lessons and heading for the Red Keep. Waiting for them there were King Rhaegar and Queen Lyanna, along with Jonothor’s half-siblings—Rhaenys, his future sister-wife, and Aegon.

I beamed as I watched Rhaenys crowned the second Queen of Westeros, her brother-husband standing proudly at her side. He was the savior who had delivered them all—riding his dragon Arrax with the great direwolf Ghost at his side, Dark Sister gleaming in his hand as he cut down the Night King. A weapon of legend, carried by a prince who had never cared for glory, who had always chosen to protect and to guide from the shadows rather than sit a throne.

My heart swelled as I smiled at the sight of my son’s dragon, loyal Arrax, finding the perfect rider in the future.

And then my smile widened further when I saw Clarissa Strong standing behind Rhaenys as the crown was placed upon her head—my crown—her posture straight and unyielding as she took her place as Lady Commander of the Queensguard.

Harrenhal was whole again, rebuilt in full, every tower rising proud against the sky, and House Strong’s loyalty to the crown remained as firm as in this era.

Tears ran freely down my cheeks as I took it all in. My reign had passed, but what I left behind had become something greater. History would remember it as the Golden Era.

I woke with a sharp gasp, pulled back into the present by the noise of hurried voices outside my chamber. My brow furrowed in confusion as my eyes focused on the familiar dark gaze hovering above me. Qoren, my husband, his beautiful black eyes lined with worry.

“Shouldn’t you still be a week away from King’s Landing?” I asked, my voice unsteady, confusion spilling into the words.

“It’s been a week, my love,” Qoren said softly, pressing a kiss to my forehead. His touch was warm and grounding. “You’ve been asleep all this time. You worried us. For a moment we feared you had been poisoned, but the healers could find no trace of it.”

“I saw,” I whispered, holding onto him as if afraid the vision would slip away. “I saw far away… and it was beautiful.”

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep - 129 A.C

I stepped into my chambers and let out a long sigh. My feet led me straight to the chair by the window, the one place I always seemed to end up when my mind felt too crowded. Before I sat, I unbuckled my sword belt and reached to set Dark Sister down at my side, though the way the sunlight caught the hilt made me pause.

The blade shimmered in the golden rays, gleaming as I stared at it in silence, my chest tightening with the memory of the day it had been placed in my hands. I had been six-and-ten, celebrating my nameday, when tradition demanded that as the heir, I had to take up Dark Sister, just as Blackfyre is passed from ruler to ruler.

It had felt strange from the start. All my life I had known Blackfyre at my mother’s hip and Dark Sister with my father. Now my father bore the Conqueror’s dagger instead, and I was the one expected to wield the ancient blade of Queen Visenya.

Half a year had gone by since then, yet the responsibility still didn’t feel naturally in my hand.

“How was the Small Council meeting?” Clarissa’s voice snapped me from my thoughts, and when I turned, she was smiling at me. Even after two pregnancies, she was as radiant as the first day she had entered my service.

“Tiring,” I admitted, sinking into the chair with another sigh. “I still don’t know how muña and kepa manage it.”

“You must be doing well, if the queen trusts you enough to replace her,” she said, her smile meant to comfort me.

“She only gave me the seat because the healer insisted, she rest this far along in her pregnancy,” I muttered, shaking my head. “All I’ve managed to do is make a fool of myself.”

“Don’t say that,” Clarissa chastised me with a frown. “The queen has carried two other children since she was crowned. If she didn’t think you were ready, she would have sent only the king consort to represent the crown at those meetings. Instead, she asked you to go with him.”

I frowned back at her; not sure I believed a word of it. Being the firstborn of five—soon to be six—siblings was a responsibility on its own, but worse still was the fact that I was also the Crown Prince of House Targaryen. Now as part of the Small Council, every day I am reminded me of the shoes I would be expected to fill.

How could I ever measure against Rhaenyra Targaryen? My mother wasn’t just queen, she was the Conqueror of the Stepstones and the Iron Islands, the first Queen of Westeros, rider of the Golden Queen herself, the Dragon Queen.

It was a lot. Too much at times.

“Now,” Clarissa continued, ever practical, “you have a dragonriding session scheduled with Princess Baela Targaryen, then a meeting with Queen Rhaenyra, and after that dinner with Princess Rhaena Targaryen to discuss your wedding preparations.”

My frown only deepened at that last part. My wedding. At seven-and-ten, with all the responsibilities already weighing on me, the last thing I wanted to spend time worrying about was what color my garments should be, or which jewel matched which cloak.

I said nothing, as I stood to follow Ser Harwin, my sworn shield and Heir of Harrenhal, as he led the way toward the Dragon’s pit. The ride through the city was a blur of movement and sound, the clatter of hooves echoing against the cobblestones, the air thick with the scent of smoke and salt. But as we passed, the people lined up the streets to see me, cheering and throwing flowers as though I were already their king.

I waved back, letting myself smile at them, though I knew the truth. Their cheers weren’t for me. They were for her—for my mother, the queen they adored. No queen had ever been loved as she was, not even Alysanne the Good.

“You don’t seem very happy about your upcoming wedding, Your Highness,” Harwin said after a stretch of silence, his tone careful but edged with curiosity.

“I love Rhaena,” I told him honestly. “She’s a wonderful cousin, and I know she’ll make an even better queen. But I can’t stand how everyone insists on comparing us to my parents, saying we’re their story reborn. A silver princess and a Dornish prince.” I scowled at the thought. “First of all, I am a Targaryen, no matter what my coloring says, and second, we’re not in love like they were. We’re doing this out of duty.”

“In love?” Harwin burst out laughing as he threw his head back.

I glared at him, taking offense immediately. “Of course they were in love. Everyone knows my parents’ love for each other. Bards sing of it all the way to Essos. My kepa built the Water Gardens in Dorne for my muña. What other proof do you need?”

“Oh, they’re in love now,” Harwin said, the smile on his face softening into something sadder. “But back then… do you know what they were to each other?”

I shook my head, baffled.

“They were a crown and an army,” he said simply.

My eyes widened. I didn’t believe him—not for a moment. My parents’ story would go down in history as the love that united Westeros. Everyone knew that.

“The previous king…” Harwin hesitated, his voice lowering. “He wanted a male heir. Queen Mother Aemma could not give him one. She tried, but each stillborn, each miscarriage, only left her weaker. Her health slipped further every passing year.”

He smiled sadly then, as though he was lost in memories of the past.

I stared, trying to make sense of his words. No one had ever told me any of this before.

“At four-and-ten, the queen’s gift awakened,” Harwin shared in a murmur, barely heard over the noise of the city. “She saw her mother die… after the king ordered her cut open to save a male heir.”

I gasped in horror. I was in disbelief; this could not be the same grandfather who used to shower us with gifts before his health deteriorated.

“Distraught as she was,” he went on, “the princess offered herself up. She would bear the burden, take on the duty of giving heirs. She was quickly betrothed to Prince Qoren Martell, and they were married on Dragonstone within a moon’s turn.”

“My parents didn’t love each other?” I asked, struggling to understand what Ser Harwin was trying to explain. It felt wrong, strange, almost insulting to everything I thought I knew.

“Not then,” Harwin said, shaking his head. “They were drawn to one another, yes, and willing to make something of it, but love came later. The Martells wanted their blood sitting on the Iron Throne, and the promise of a dragonrider prince ruling Dorne sweetened the bargain. Then the Vale inheritance was added to the mix, and that was the cherry atop the cake. With Driftmark and the Stepstones following during the marriage, House Martell had everything it wanted and more.”

I sat there, shaken by the thought, not sure how to even put it into words. My parents had always loved me—I never once doubted that. I’d felt it in the way they held me, heard it in the way they spoke to me.

But now I was being told that love hadn’t been the reason at all, that we were brought into this world out of ambition, a way to combine Martell and Targaryen blood and stretch their power across Westeros. To think of myself and my siblings as pieces in that plan… it was hard to take in, harder still to accept.

“What about muña?” I asked, my voice catching in a broken whisper.

“It wasn’t common to skip a generation,” Harwin said with a sigh. “The lords of the realm would have pushed for more children from the queen, or for the king to take another wife. But if Dorne agreed to finally join Westeros, bringing their armies with them, and make it a condition that Martell blood sat the throne… then no one would have dared protest. If anything, they would have praised the king for the wisdom of it.”

“But it was muña’s plan?!” I turned to him, stunned.

“The previous king took credit for many of her plans,” Harwin replied, his frown deepening. “If you think she achieved much as queen, you should have seen what she managed when she was still only a princess.”

“I didn’t know that…” The words came out small, quiet.

“They credit her with stabilizing the realm for good reason, Your Highness,” Harwin reminded me. “She carried more than her share of burdens. She worked as royalty, as a wife, as a mother. At first it was duty, pure and simple. But with your birth she began to fall for the king, and by the time Prince Lucerys came, they were already in love.”

“I see,” I murmured as I slid down from my horse, my legs unsteady but my mind even more so. “Thank you for telling me.”

“You are welcome,” Harwin said with a nod. “I’ll be waiting for you.”

I nodded my thanks to Harwin and made my way toward Vermax. “How are you, boy?” I asked as soon as I reached him, laughing when he lowered that great head and nudged against my chest. “That good, hm? Well, we’re about to make it even better. You ready to fly?”

I laughed again as Vermax rumbled deep in his throat and patted his neck. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

When I looked up to the sky, I caught sight of Moondancer already circling high above. My gaze shifted, and then I saw Arrax. The sight made me stop in my tracks.

They weren’t just flying. They were moving like dancers, weaving through the sky as though the wind itself carried a rhythm only they could hear. Moondancer was quick and sharp, every turn like a spark snapping free, wild and fiery. Arrax was the opposite, smooth and unhurried, his body gliding with the calm certainty of water.

Yet together, they didn’t clash. They fit.

Where one burned too hot, the other cooled. Where one moved too slow, the other quickened. They covered each other’s weaknesses, balanced each other’s edges, moving in perfect accord.

It was beautiful, and it struck me all at once.

Like two sides of the same coin. Like…

My eyes widened as the thought slammed into me. “I’m sorry, boy,” I whispered, stroking Vermax’s scales as guilt pricked at me. “I’ll come tomorrow, I promise.”

He huffed in irritation, but he understood. He always did.

“Harwin!” I called, already moving. “We need to get back to the Red Keep! I have to speak with muña—now!”

I didn’t even wait for his answer. I swung onto my horse and spurred it forward, the wind whipping at my face as I ignored Harwin’s shouts behind me. All I cared about was reaching her.

When I burst into her chambers I didn’t bother with courtesy. “You did it on purpose!” I accused, chest heaving.

Thankfully kepa wasn’t there. I’d already walked in on them once before and once was more than enough for a lifetime.

“You betrothed me to Rhaena instead of Baela, even though she’s the elder, because you wanted us to balance each other out, didn’t you?!”

“Took you long enough,” muña said with a snort. “Sit down, it seems we have a lot to talk about.”

I forced myself to take a deep breath before lowering into the chair across from her.

She looked as beautiful as ever, her face lit with that soft glow that seemed to come with her pregnancies. She had always smiled at me with fondness, but this time there was something different in her expression, almost like the joy surprised her too.

Maybe it was because of how long she and kepa had waited for this child, for my little sister. I didn’t quite understand it, but kepa made sure all of us knew she was delicate right now, and we were to treat her with care.

“I saw a future once,” she began, pulling me back from my thoughts. “A future where you were betrothed to Baela and Luke to Rhaena. There was friendship between you, but no love. You found love up north instead, which I would not have minded, but…”

“We need a Velaryon queen,” I finished for her.

“I’m sorry I have to put this burden on you,” she said softly. “But you’re right. We need a Velaryon queen. The realm is stable now, but if we want it to stay that way, you must wed one of the twins.”

She sighed and turned her gaze out the window, toward that faraway place we all recognized. It was the look she wore whenever she got lost in her dragon dreams.

“Baela and you are too alike,” she went on. “You’re both made to lead, driven to push yourselves further, and drawn to the fire. Standing in the light suits you each, but together you’d shine too brightly and might end up blinding each other. And when there is too much fire, all you get is destruction.”

“Was this why you never went after Uncle Daemon?” I asked, watching her closely and smiling when she actually looked startled. It wasn’t easy to catch a Dreamer off guard. “There are rumors, you know… about how close you were before you married kepa.”

“Yes,” muña admitted after a pause, her voice careful. “That is exactly why I never acted on those feelings. We would have burned each other to the ground. We were too similar, too passionate. That kind of fire doesn’t make a stable marriage; it only leaves ashes behind.”

Her eyes glazed over, but this time it was not because of dreams. It was the same expression I saw on Ser Harwin earlier. It was the look of an adult lost in the memories of their past.

“Rhaena and Luke are alike as well, but in a different way compared to you and Baela,” muña continued. “The two of them prefer to step back, to watch and gather knowledge before making any decision. If it came between a fight and diplomacy, they would choose to talk things through. That kind of pairing works for companionship, but it doesn’t make for a strong couple to lead Driftmark.”

“I think I understand,” I murmured, mulling over her words. “We’re meant to balance each other. To cover one another’s weaknesses with our strengths. That’s how you build a marriage that can also rule.”

“Exactly,” muña smiled, she was clearly proud of me for catching on.

“You could have just told us,” I pouted, though I couldn’t help my grin.

“I could not,” she said, shaking her head with a soft laugh. “Some things you need to learn on your own. It’s part of growing up. If anything, I’m glad you realized it before the wedding.”

“Speaking of which, I have dinner with my betrothed,” I said as I rose to my feet. “Thank you for your time.”

“Whenever you need us, we are here. For all of you,” muña promised, her voice carrying that quiet certainty that always settled something in me.

I gave her one last bow before leaving my parents’ chambers. My steps carried me toward the Tower of the Hand, where House Velaryon stay whenever they visit the Red Keep.

“I wanted… I wanted to apologize,” I blurted the moment I stepped into Rhaena’s chambers, and the words hang clumsily between us. Gods, I sounded like a fool. She blinked at me, clearly confused, and I scrambled to fix it. “I’m sorry. I should probably… start from the beginning.”

Fourteen, can you burn me down? Right now? Please?

Rhaena laughed—a real laugh, light and easy—the most relaxed I’d heard her in moons. I hadn’t even noticed how tightly wound she’d been until now, how much weight she’s been carrying on her shoulders. And still, the sound of it made my ears burn, which only made me feel worse.

“Alright,” she teased, her eyes glinting. “Start from the beginning.”

Had she always been this beautiful? The thought blindsided me, but I couldn’t push it away. No wonder people kept comparing her to muña, the Realm’s Delight. They weren’t wrong.

“I haven’t been much of a betrothed lately. Truth be told, I don’t think I ever really was one,” I admitted, the words spilling faster now that I’d started. “Since the day Dark Sister was put in my hand, I’ve made everything about me. How much responsibility I’ll have to carry, the pressure, the duties that fell on me one after the other. Between the wedding preparations and sitting on the Small Council while muña rests, I’ve been drowning in it. None of that excuses the way I’ve neglected you.”

“You’ve always been kind and loyal,” Rhaena said softly, her smile small but genuine. “You don’t need to apologize. I know this must be difficult, and trying to live up to the Dragon Queen would be hard for anyone.”

“But that’s it! It isn’t just me carrying all this stress,” I said, the words rushing out before I could stop them. “You’ve been compared to my muña every time you walk into a room, and they’ve already started loading you with duties as Crown Princess. That can’t be easy. Pretending I’m the only one suffering is unfair to both of us.”

Rhaena blinked, her eyes widening, clearly caught off guard.

“Have I ever told you how good you’ve been at all of it?” I pressed on, my chest tightening. “How much I appreciate everything you’ve done? Half the things I’ve managed these past moons, I never could have done without your advice. You’ve been my anchor through it all.”

She shook her head slowly, and guilt washed over me. Gods, how hadn’t I said it before?

I reached for her hands, brought them to my lips, and kissed her knuckles gently. “I’m sorry. Truly. You’re the best partner I could have hoped for. Maybe we didn’t choose each other, but if I had the chance, I wouldn’t have chosen differently.”

Her eyes shimmered as tears slipped free, her shoulders shaking with quiet sobs.

“Hey, no crying,” I murmured as I pulled her into my arms, holding her while she wept against my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“S-stop a-apologizing,” she managed between broken sobs. “T-these are h-happy t-tears.”

“Oh. Good.” I let out a shaky sigh of relief.

I let her cry until she calmed down, then I guided her over to the table where our dinner had long gone cold. Neither of us cared. We ate what we could, talking quietly about wedding details that suddenly felt less like burdens and more like something we could face together.

At some point, the thought struck me. “Hey,” I said, setting my goblet down, “could you give me your advice on something? Better yet, could you come with me to the Small Council meeting tomorrow?”

“Of course!” she said, her smile breaking wide with surprise and a kind of happiness that made me wonder why I hadn’t asked her sooner. “What’s it about?”

“There have been some administrative issues with the Tessarion Academy. A few things that need sorting before we can open the doors to students,” I explained, and just like that, the rest of the night slipped into easy discussion.

Muña had been right all along. Rhaena really did balance me. She pointed out angles I never would have thought of, offered solutions I wouldn’t have reached on my own, and even shared information I couldn’t begin to guess how she’d gathered. By the end of it, I was almost eager to face the council again, because this time I wouldn’t be standing there alone.

The next day, we walked into the council chambers side by side. I caught Uncle Daemon’s wide smirk out of the corner of my eye, saw Uncle Corlys puff out his chest in pride, and Auntie Rhaenys’s eyebrow arch higher than I thought possible. I ignored them all. Instead, I pulled out a chair for Rhaena, then went to fetch another for myself.

“What is the meaning of this?” kepa asked, his tone sharp, but I knew it was all for show as I could see the amusement in his eyes.

“Rhaena is my future wife, the future Crown Princess of the realm,” I said, my voice steadier than I’d expected, full of a confidence I hadn’t felt since Dark Sister was first placed in my hand. “If there is a decision I should take, I will take it with her. Just like you and muña.”

Daemon’s booming laugh filled the chamber, and kepa’s eyes glinted with pride, but I barely noticed. All my attention was on Rhaena—on the way her smile lit up as though I had just handed her the world.

I didn’t love her like that yet, not the way my parents loved each other. But I could learn to. And something deep inside me told me I would, sooner than I thought.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 130 A.C

I laughed and raised my goblet high, drinking deep as I let the joy of the night wash over me. Why shouldn’t I celebrate? It was my daughter’s wedding banquet, after all.

I’ll admit, at the start I had been worried. I’d seen what the pressure of being heir had done to Jace, and no matter how often my niece assured us it would be fine, I couldn’t help but watch my sweet Rhaena shrink beneath the same strain. The thought of her being pushed aside, neglected, had me ready to burn it all down.

But then Jace walked into a Small Council meeting with Rhaena at his side and announced that she was his partner.

Just like that, everything changed.

Corlys nearly burst with pride, puffing out his chest like a peacock and strutting about bragging to anyone who’d listened, that his granddaughter had saved the Tessarion Academy project. And maybe it was only a small problem she’d solved, but that didn’t matter—not to him, and truth be told, not to me either. I wasn’t much better at hiding my pride.

In the end, my niece had been right. Rhaena and Jacaerys had worked through their troubles, and they did it in a way that made me proud to watch. They arranged their wedding without fuss, and when Visenya was born and Rhaenyra decided to continue resting, they stepped up again. This time they did not try to do everything alone, they worked together, and they did it spectacularly.

The wedding itself had gone smoothly, and the banquet showed no signs of slowing as the night wore on. I was grateful, too, that Jace had spared my daughter the humiliation of that abhorrent bedding ceremony. Gods, the very thought of it made my blood boil. It was a practice I would see banned at the next Small Council meeting.

When I turned toward the dance floor my smile grew wider. Sweet Luke had coaxed my wild daughter out of her seat and onto the floor. I laughed as I saw her blush at being gently guided through the steps by her betrothed. She could handle a sword better than most men and she wore her trousers proudly, but that didn’t mean she didn’t want to be treated like a lady now and then.

Too many foolish boys had failed to see that, assuming her fire made her less of a woman. Luke never made that mistake. He had always been thoughtful in ways that surprised us all. He brought Baela roses, swept her into the skies for dragonback rides that doubled as their courting. Sweet, steady, considerate Luke was the perfect match for my eldest.

“We did good,” my wife whispered in my ear, her eyes never leaving our daughter on the dance floor.

“That we did,” I agreed, my heart as full as hers.

“I’m just glad Laenor and Big Joffrey managed to drag themselves away from the Narrow Ghost,” Laena continued with a laugh. “Those two are incorrigible!”

The Narrow Ghost was finally complete, not just the castle but the city that had grown up around it. Seeing it finished brought a mix of pride, relief, and even a touch of disbelief after so many years of work. It was my grandnephew Viserys who gave it its name.

That was also the day he claimed his dragon—the elusive Grey Ghost, the one most had thought untouchable. To watch him step forward and bond with a creature we had all believed would remain wild and unclaimed for life filled me with pride.

Of course, the rumors began immediately. Lords and ladies alike called it a sign, saying the boy was meant to rule the Narrow Seas. Grey Ghost had haunted those waters for decades, after all, prowling the skies of the Stepstones like some restless spirit.

Maybe it was a sign, maybe it wasn’t, but we celebrated it the way Targaryens always do; loud and proudly.

The same way we had when Aegon claimed Vermithor. Gods, I’ll never forget that sight. Little Egg astride the Bronze Fury, the boy looked smaller against the bulk of the old dragon. Yet he still rode him as though he had been born for it.

I think Qoren nearly fainted on the spot, his face had gone white as bone. And me? I just threw back my head and laughed, roaring like a madman at the sheer absurdity and glory of it all.

My niece and her brood—Fourteen help me—they never fail to amuse, and they never fail to make me proud.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 130 A.C

“So, we agree to betroth Cassandra to Joffrey Arryn, Ellyn to Oscar Tully, and Floris to Thaddeus Rowan,” Elenda repeated for confirmation.

“Yes,” I answered with a nod. “They’ll all be heirs to their own houses, with the exception of Joffrey Arryn. But then again, Joffrey is still an Arryn. Oscar may not inherit Riverrun, but he’ll have Oldtown, and that’s no small prize. Besides, having two sisters marry close friends like Prince Joffrey and Oscar will be good for them. They’ll have one another’s company.”

“Yes, it will,” Elenda said, her smile warm as she looked at me.

Our marriage had been better since I’d learned to swallow my pride and stop looking down on women. The day I told her I didn’t need a son, that I was more than happy to let Cassandra inherit Storm’s End, she had cried as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

I hadn’t realized until then how much pressure I’d placed on her, how afraid she must have been with every single pregnancy. Childbirth could kill, and I had treated it like a duty rather than the risk it truly was.

When Royce came to us last year, he had been a surprise, but one we welcomed gladly.

Now, with all my children’s futures secured, I could turn back to my own duties as head of House Baratheon with a clearer mind. For the first time in years, I felt the storm settle.

Or at least that’s what I thought, until Maris came into our apartment in the Red Keep with tears running down her face, Cassandra trailing behind her looking just as shaken.

We’d come to King’s Landing for Prince Jacaerys and Princess Rhaena’s wedding, and we’d stayed on for another moon to see through the betrothal contracts for our girls and finish up a few matters of business. None of that mattered in the moment, though, because the sight of Maris crying stopped us cold.

“Maris!” Cassandra rushed to her sister, voice full of worry, but Maris had already slammed her chamber door shut behind her. Cassandra stopped right by the door, letting out a long sigh that said more than words could.

“Sweetheart, what happened?” Elenda asked gently. She always had a way of reaching them better than I did, so I let her take the lead, holding myself back even though every instinct screamed at me to charge forward.

Cassandra looked between us hesitantly, before finally speaking. “We overheard some young lords saying that Prince Joffrey lucked out by getting the ugliest Baratheon sister.”

The words hit me like a blow, and before I could think, my anger was already spilling out. “I want names!” I snarled, fury threatening to boil over. “I’ll show them not to speak that way about a Baratheon, least of all my daughters!”

Elenda’s expression tightened, not at me but at the insult itself. She was just as upset, I could see it, though she managed to keep her voice steadier than mine. “We’ll have to deal with this tomorrow,” she said firmly. “We’re expected at dinner with the Queen and the King Consort tonight.” She turned to Cassandra then, her tone softening. “Stay with your sister for now. We’ll handle the rest.”

Cassandra gave a small bow and slipped away to comfort Maris, leaving Elenda and me standing outside. My fists clenched uselessly at my sides.

“How dare they?!” I burst out again. The fury still burned hot, and there was no cooling it. “My daughter is one of the greatest beauties in the realm. How dare they insult her like that, insult our house in the same breath!”

“Jealousy, my dear,” Elenda said as she laid her hand on my shoulder, the kind of touch that always steadied me even when I was worked up. “She is a lady of a Great House and will one day be a princess.” There was pride in her smile, pride in our girl, and it made me breathe a little easier even as the anger still burned. “Those boys won’t amount to more than lords of some small houses, if they even inherit at all. They can’t insult the prince without risking dragon fire, so…”

“They picked on our daughter instead, thinking she was the easier target,” I muttered, my jaw clenched as I tried to swallow the rage. “They’ll learn soon enough that it isn’t wise to provoke a Baratheon. ‘Ours is the Fury’ are our house’s motto for a reason.”

“For now, we need to get ready,” Elenda reminded me, her tone practical but still kind. She had a way of steering me back when I was too far gone in my temper.

I was still seething, but she was right. One couldn’t simply refuse an invitation to dine with the Queen and King Consort. So I forced myself to change into something more presentable, though every step of it felt reluctant. After that, I offered my arm to my wife, and together we walked to the royal apartments.

The meal that followed was fine enough—lavish dishes, Dornish red flowing into our goblets, the sort of thing you were expected to enjoy even if your mind was elsewhere. Conversation flowed easily too, though I caught myself drifting now and again, still replaying the insult in my head.

It was only after dessert that the Queen leaned in, her sharp eyes fixed on me. “May I ask why you look ready to go on a war path?” she asked, her tone almost light, though I could tell she’d noticed from the start.

“Nothing escapes you, does it?” I said with a chuckle, trying to hide the anger still in me. “Some brats decided to insult my daughter Maris.”

“Maris?” the King echoed, his brows lifting in surprise. “Why would they be so foolish? That would bring down not only the wrath of House Baratheon, but House Martell as well—and the royal family on top of it.”

“Stupidity can’t be cured, my dear,” the Queen said, her voice dry in that way that made you wonder how many times she’d had to deliver the same judgment about one lord or another. Her gaze shifted back to us, piercing as ever. “What did they say?”

“They called her the ugliest Baratheon sister, and that Prince Joffrey lucked out with his future wife,” Elenda answered, her hands tightening into fists on her lap. I could see the effort it took for her to stay composed when the insult had cut so deep.

“Ha!” The King threw back his head and laughed, though it was more disbelief than amusement. “Those idiots just signed their own death sentence.”

The Queen leaned back, her tone softening just a little. “Did you know my Joffrey had many doubts about taking the Martell princeship?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said, not unkindly. “Dorne has never been shy about its independence, and they’ve never made it easy for outsiders—especially those with Targaryen blood.”

Her lips curved, almost fond. “All of those doubts disappeared the moment you brought Maris for the wedding and the two of them started spending time together. Do you know what he told me when I asked about the change in behavior?”

We both shook our heads, caught between curiosity and the hope she might say something that would ease the sting of the earlier insult.

“Muña,” the Queen said, slipping into a softer tone as she repeated his words, “why should I worry when Maris is so smart? She knows so much and will help me whenever I need it. I’ll burn down anyone who tries to get in our way.”

I felt my eyes widen, caught off guard by the force in it, while Elenda’s eyes brimmed with tears beside me. Pride swelled in my chest at the thought of our little girl being spoken of like that, not only for her beauty but for her mind, for the strength Joffrey saw in her.

Elenda straightened, her own pride matching mine, and for a moment we both sat taller, as though the Queen’s words had reminded us of everything, we already knew to be true about our daughters.

“Speak with the parents,” the Queen added, the warmth fading back into her usual command. “Badmouthing the Targaryen family is treason, after all. But leave the boys to Joffrey. He’ll deal with them himself.”

Before either of us could answer, the royal nursemaid entered carrying the baby princess Visenya. She was fussing in her arms, clearly wanting her mother—or muña, as the Targaryens preferred to say. The little one was striking, even at that age, all golden-silver hair and lilac eyes, the image of her mother.

You could already tell she’d turn heads one day, likely to break more than a few hearts across the realm. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ended up with her mother’s old nickname, the Realm’s Delight, once she was grown.

It wasn’t a secret that families everywhere were already whispering about the younger royal children. The three youngest had no betrothal contracts yet, and every ambitious house wanted to try its luck. Still, I doubted Visenya would ever be within reach for them, nor at least one of her brothers. The Queen would want to keep certain traditions alive now that she had a daughter, and she had never been the type to compromise where her children were concerned.

We rose and bowed our farewells, then made our way back to our chambers. The strain of the day caught up with me once we were behind closed doors, so I settled in beside Elenda and let sleep come.

Sometime in the early morning, noise from the corridors dragged us awake. Shouts and hurried steps echoed down the hall, enough to pull us both from bed. Elenda and I traded bewildered looks as we threw on our clothes and hurried out to see what was happening.

When we reached the training yard, the sight waiting for us pulled an unexpected smile out of me. There was my daughter, tears on her cheeks though they weren’t born out of pain. They shone with love and gratitude, as three boys knelt before her, stammering their apologies. Their faces were bruised, lips split, and I didn’t need to ask who was responsible. Behind them stood Prince Joffrey Targaryen, sword still in hand, looking more than pleased with himself.

I couldn’t hold it in. I threw back my head and laughed. The Queen had been right, as she always was. My part would be to deal with the parents. The boys themselves had already been handled by the prince, in the most fitting way possible.

As I turned to go, already planning what I’d say when I spoke with their fathers, I felt lighter, reassured in a way I hadn’t expected to be. My daughter wasn’t alone in this. She had someone ready to stand for her, to protect her with his own hands. I knew then that she would be well cared for, and the thought brought me peace.

Of course, that didn’t end my responsibility. I still had three more daughters, and I meant to see each of them treated with the same respect. No one, no matter their station, would ever have the right to insult or belittle them. And should anyone be foolish enough to try, they would be reminded of the words our House carries with pride.

They would face the Fury of House Baratheon.

Chapter Text

The Reach, Oldtown - 133 A.C

I wandered through Oldtown with a frown, taking in the streets and the sight of the keep that had only just been finished, ready in time for my coming of age. Soon enough I’d be traveling to King’s Landing to bend the knee to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, though to me and my siblings she would always just be Auntie Nyra.

Lately my mind kept circling back to why I had been granted Oldtown in the first place, and how the choice had been made. My mother had been more than the queen’s lady-in-waiting, she’d been her closest childhood friend and, in the end, the only Hightower who’d remained loyal to the crown. Her loyalty had lifted her higher than most might have imagined possible, and with her rise came the rise of House Tully as well.

My brother Kermit would inherit Riverrun, and with it the title of Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. His betrothal had already been set with Lady Myrcella Mallister, daughter of Lord Jorah Mallister. Everything about his future was expected and natural.

My own path had been a little different.

I would take Oldtown, and my betrothal was to Lady Ellyn Baratheon, who herself would inherit Old Wyk. Oldtown and Old Wyk—the names were so alike it made me think our parents had seen some small humor in pairing us up. Perhaps it had been planned, perhaps not, but I couldn’t help finding it ironic all the same.

And then there was our little sister, Nyra Tully. She had been the surprise of the family, but a joy from the very start, named after the queen herself. Her betrothal had already been arranged as well, to Loreon Lannister, and one day she would become the Lady of Casterly Rock.

It was almost strange to think of the three of us, each set on such different paths, connected to the great houses of the realm through matches that seemed to have been made by both strategy and sentiment.

Yet, with all the ways House Tully had thrived, it often left a bitter taste in my mouth. I felt it most when I saw Mother’s face tighten with pain and guilt as she walked through the town where she had grown up. At night she would sit us down and explain why some lords and ladies still whispered behind our backs about the blood we carried. House Tully had always stood loyal to House Targaryen—but not House Hightower. And that stain was something we could never forget.

Not even when the king himself placed a sword on my shoulder and named me knight. Not even when my dearest friend, the future Prince of Dorne, laughed beside me as Tyraxes carried us high above the clouds. Those moments of honor and joy didn’t erase it. They only made the burden clearer, a reminder of the stain I carried and how easily loyalty could be questioned.

That was why I chose the name Oscar Leal. It was deliberate, a way to show everyone where I stood and where I would always stand. Loyal till the end—that became my oath, the motto of my new house. My banner carried a blue shield on black, a reminder of both my Tully heritage and my vow to the crown.

I kept pacing the room, trying to shake the same thought that always found its way back in. I’ve got Hightower blood, and no matter what else I do, that part of me isn’t going anywhere. My mother made me proud though. She’d gone from nothing to standing at Queen Rhaenyra’s side, trusted and honored, and because of her we had lands and titles no one in the family would’ve dreamed of before. I loved her for that.

But then there’s the other side. The part where House Hightower once went to war against Joffrey’s family. And Joffrey—he’s more than a friend. He’s my brother in everything but name. I’d give my life for him, no questions asked. We’ve shared secrets, schemes, stupid adventures, all of it.

So yeah, thinking of how my blood hurt his house… it eats at me.

It feels like being pulled in two directions at once. Pride in what my mother built, anger at what her kin did. And stuck between them, I kept wondering—how do I stay true to both? How do I not betray one while holding on to the other?

So, I made a promise to myself. I’d be proud of my mother and her devotion. And I’d stand shoulder to shoulder with Joffrey, always. If that meant I had to be the bridge between blood and chosen family, then that’s who I’d be.

When I finally stopped pacing and stepped out of the room, I felt lighter. Still torn, yeah, but with a clearer sense of where I was headed. Whatever storms came, I’d face them with both sides of me intact—my mother’s son, and Joffrey’s brother.

“I knew it!”

The shout jolted me, and before I could gather myself the door burst open. My best friend strode in without so much as a knock, and my heart skipped when I saw him.

“Your Highness! What are you doing here?” I blurted, my eyes widening as Joffrey Targaryen-Martell swept into the room. He was dressed in an orange Dornish coat embroidered with a black three-headed dragon, every bit as proud and impossible to ignore as the boy wearing it.

“Don’t start with that again,” Joffrey said with a scowl, though it didn’t last long. “We’re childhood friends, remember?” The scowl broke into a grin so wide it practically split his face. He didn’t bother with ceremony, just crossed the space between us in a few long strides and pulled me into a hug.

I didn’t even try to resist. I melted into it, realizing in that moment just how much I had missed him. The last few moons had kept us apart, too busy with our duties. Him in Dorne, learning what it meant to be the future prince of the region, and me here in Oldtown, readying the city for my upcoming lordship.

“I knew you were having a meltdown,” he teased as he pulled back slightly, though his arms still lingered around me, “when you didn’t even notice Tyraxes landing outside the city.”

“I missed that?!” I blurted out, panic rising before I could stop myself. Oldtown might not have suffered civilian casualties during the Hightower Rebellion, but the memory still lingered, and people here were quick to panic at the sight of a dragon overhead. “Shit—how did my people react?”

“Not bad,” Joffrey said with a shrug, as if the whole thing were nothing. “I think they’ve gotten used to Tyraxes after all the times I flew you here through the years.” His grin turned proud as he tilted his head and pointed at something I hadn’t even noticed before. “Some even came forward with flowers.”

It was only then that I realized he was wearing a crown of red blossoms perched on his head, like some Dornish prince of spring who had no idea how ridiculous he looked. He, of course, carried it as though it were proof of conquest.

“Oscar, you know you’ll do great, right?” Joffrey’s tone shifted then, the pride giving way to something softer. His smile was gentle, familiar, the same smile his muña—the Dragon Queen herself—was known for. “Muña and kepa adore you, you’re like another son to them. It was muña who gave you Oldtown. You have nothing to fear.”

“I know,” I admitted, though my gaze dropped to the floor. I might understand it, but it was harder to believe. “It’s just that I… finding out about my mother’s family, what they did, that was hard.” I let out a long breath, wishing the knot in my chest would ease with it.

“It was hard for me too,” Joffrey said quietly, his brow furrowing as he thought back. “When muña finally explained the reason for her scar, that I had almost been killed as a babe… I had always believed she got it during the war.”

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, not daring to lift my eyes from the ground.

The shame burned hot, my vision blurring as tears welled up. My best friend could have died if not for Ser Joffrey Velaryon, and that possibility haunted my worst nightmares.

“I’m not saying this to make you feel bad,” Joffrey said with a sigh, and then he pulled me into another hug. I held on tight this time, unwilling to let go, needing that closeness to calm myself.

“Muña is an amazing queen,” he went on, his tone softening into that mix of reverence and affection he always carried when he spoke of her. “The best ruler Westeros has ever had, if you ask me—and I’m being completely unbiased, of course.”

That earned a weak chuckle out of me, and he grinned as if he’d been aiming for it. “Poor Jacaerys and Rhaena, though. They’ll have to follow her reign.” The way he said it made me laugh properly this time, even though the hurt still in my chest.

“But you know,” he continued, “she always did have her quirks. Things neither of us could make sense of.” His eyes gleamed as the memories came back. “Like that healer she insisted on keeping by her side, the one who knew every cure for every poison ever brewed. Or her decree to ban the color green in King’s Landing. Gods, the Tyrells looked more like Baratheons after that, forced to come to court in only gold.”

That sent us both into laughter again, remembering the affronted look on our future good-father’s face. He had puffed up like a rooster, all wounded pride, and it had taken everything in us not to laugh in front of him then.

“Finding out the truth was hard,” Joffrey admitted once our laughter ebbed. His tone solemn now. “Hard to swallow. But none of us ever blamed you. Not your mother, not the Tullys either. We’ve always known where your real family stands.” He leaned back just enough to meet my eyes, his grin sliding back into place. “Lord Leal,” he teased, and I could feel my cheeks heating up. I shoved him lightly, shaking my head, but the blush gave me away.

“If anything,” he said with quiet certainty, “muña told us plainly—your mother was just another victim of Otto Hightower.”

I winced at the way he spat my grandfather’s name, as if just saying it left a bitter taste in his mouth. I couldn’t blame him. After hearing from my father about the things my mother had endured at Otto Hightower’s hands, I’d wished more than once that I could drag that wretch back from the grave just to kill him myself.

I didn’t care what it would have made me—kinslayer, cursed, damned—none of it mattered. The anger always flared brightest whenever I saw the way my mother hovered protectively around Nyra, as if she feared history might repeat itself.

I didn’t want to stay stuck in talk of Hightowers and their poison, so I changed the topic of conversation.

“So, you came all the way from Dorne just to tell me this? That you’re here to support me?” I asked, shaking my head in disbelief.

“Of course,” Joffrey replied without hesitation, like it wasn’t even something that should need to be asked. “Now go and get ready,” he added. “Tyraxes can’t wait to see his siblings back in King’s Landing.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” I said with a laugh, playing into the formality he hated.

“Don’t call me that!” Joffrey shot back immediately, scowling in mock offense, which only made me laugh louder.

Chapter Text

Stepstones, Narrow Ghost - 138 A.C

I absolutely love dragon riding! I thought, as Seasmoke burned down pirate ships that had the guts to breach Targaryen territory. One would think that by now they would realize that the Narrow Seas are off limits. My smile only widened as dragonfire lit up on the other side of the sea. That’s my nephew!

That’s right, I was not dealing with the pirates on my own. As my nephew has now reached his coming of age, he had been sent to the Narrow Ghost to take his mantle as Prince of the Narrow Seas. Grey Ghost surely loved being back on his territory!

Even with Viserys as Lord of the Stepstones, I remained as castellan of the Narrow Ghost with Joffrey, acting as trusted advisors to our prince.

Viserys was not the only one who had to go and take his place in Westeros. Baela and Lucerys have relocated to Driftmark and now work hard under my sister, to support her and keep on making Driftmark great. My father and mother, having long stepped down to enjoy their remaining years in peace and in each other’s company.

Joffrey and Maris had gotten married and were now overseeing the Water Gardens and working with Prince Manfrey Martell, who looked ready to retire at any second.

Another person ready to retire and live with her wife was Lady Jeyne Arryn. However, she still had a couple of years left as Lady of the Vale. Aegon had been beside her for two years now, serving as her second. He was only eight and ten, and still unwed, even so, he’d taken to the role well enough, learning the ins and outs of the Vale and its people, though it was never what he wanted most.

Visenya was only eight namedays, still so young, yet already named the heir to the Vale years before. Her match to Aegon had been announced by the queen long ago, long enough that it felt more like a certainty than a promise. That alone set her apart, but claiming Silverwing sealed it. She had become the youngest dragonrider anyone could remember, even a moon younger than her own mother had been.

And of course, everyone remembered Jaehaerys and Alysanne and their dragons, how beloved they had been by both the commons and the lords. With those memories still warm in people’s hearts, who was going to speak against a union that would bring together the new riders of Vermithor and Silverwing?

So, Lady Jeyne was biding her time. She would wait until Aegon and Visenya were wed and had a child between them, and only then would she step aside. The Vale couldn’t afford another generation spent arguing over the Eyrie’s succession. She’d lived through enough to know how dangerous that kind of uncertainty could be.

From what Viserys told me, it suited Aegon fine. He certainly didn’t have the patience for the Vale’s lords, not the endless complaints and demands that seemed to come with them. If anything, he was eager for the day he could set that burden down and let Visenya take it all on. She had the temperament for it—or at least more of one than he ever would.

For now, though, Visenya remained in King’s Landing with her parents, her oldest brother Jacaerys, my niece, and their son Daemon. I can still recall tears in my good-brother’s eyes when they announced the name. I’ll never forget the tears in my good-brother’s eyes when the name was announced. He gave so much love and loyalty and rarely received enough back. Finally, he will, and we will all have a king named Daemon.

Let’s just hope Damon the Younger got the temperament of his parents and not his grandsire. If he did… poor thing.

“Are you done, uncle?” Viserys called as Grey Ghost circled closer to Seasmoke.

“I am!” I shouted back. “And looks like you’re done too!”

“Nothing better than burning enemies to ash!” He smirked then, a flash of pure Qoren Martell charm. “Fire and Blood!”

“Fire and Blood indeed!” I threw my head back laughing. “Come on, your uncle Joffrey will already be fretting.”

That was enough to turn him homeward, and I laughed harder watching it. Joffrey had every one of Rhaenyra’s children wrapped around his finger, even the spoiled little Princess Visenya. Once they learned the story behind Little Joff’s name, they came to adore my husband. Not only was he a knight of worth, but he’d saved their brother and guarded their mother. To them, he was a hero.

“They were from Lys,” Joffrey informed us, as soon as we got off our dragons.

“Does that mean the Triarchy is making moves to try and make a claim on my lands?” Viserys frowned.

“No, those pirates have been even bothering Lys’ coasts,” Joffrey shook his head, giving me a kiss when I reached his side. “They are as much of an issue to them as they are to us.”

“So, we partner up with them,” Viserys decided.

“Are you sure that’s a wise idea?” I asked him, surprised by his fast decision.

“We might have had war recently, but now we have a common enemy,” Viserys pointed out. “If we are lucky, we might create a bond between us that goes beyond just business. After all, our relations with Essos have deteriorated after the Stepstones war. If not, we deal with these pesky pirates. What could go wrong?”

Famous last words.

Clearing the pirates and winning Lys’s help had gone smoother than I thought it would. The problem came after—my nephew went and fell in love. Larra Rogare, daughter of Lysandro Rogare, head of the great banking family.

Which left me stuck here, sitting across from Lysandro and his wife, trying to make the match acceptable enough to bring her to King’s Landing.

You always land me in trouble, nephew, I thought exasperated, shaking my head with fondness. I’d rather be chasing pirates through the Stepstones, not listening to Lysandro preen like some self-made conqueror.

“Your daughter is lucky,” I cut in, tired of his posturing. “She’s caught the eye of a prince.”

“He’s only the fifth prince,” Lysandro said flatly.

“Careful,” I warned, narrowing my eyes. “Fifth he may be, but he’s no lesser. Unlike most of his brothers, he has kept the Targaryen name. He is Viserys Targaryen, Prince of the Narrow Sea and Lord of the Stepstones. I would be careful before insulting him. Your daughter is fortunate to have caught his fancy.”

“How dare you—” Lysandro started, but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

“I dare,” I raised an eyebrow in amusement. “My nephew not only has old Valyrian blood running through his veins, but he also has magic. He is the dragonrider of the Grey Ghost and a Targaryen Prince. What is Lady Larra in comparison? She is but a child of a banker, no matter how wealthy or influential you are. Can you really compare those two?”

“What do you expect us to do then?” Lysandro’s wife stepped in before her husband burst. “Send my daughter to Westeros with no promises of a betrothal contract or anything?”

“My cousin will never endanger her life and as long as her son is happy, she will allow the marriage,” I assured them, well, mostly her—Lysandro could go and die for all I care. “I can promise guest rights, we take them quite seriously in Westeros.”

“We accept,” she said, ignoring her husband’s protest. “I’ve never seen our daughter so happy. And ties to the Targaryens will only strengthen us, especially with your nephew ruling the gate to Essos.”

“…Fine. We accept,” Lysandro muttered, clearly displeased.

He did not look happy with how negotiations went. But I had not a single care in the world. These games bore me. So, I left and told the young couple the happy news. They were, of course, overjoyed. As I had promised Larra’s parents, Rhaenyra welcomed Larra with open arms, almost as if she had been waiting for her.

… maybe she had. You never know with my cousin.

Many lords of Westeros were not happy with the choice, a foreign lady marrying into the Targaryen family? Preposterous!

But they could see the benefit of an alliance with the Rogare family. Especially when Viserys’ seat borders with Essos. Larra’s valyrian coloring also helped. When Aegon was born one year into the marriage, the protests began to fade. By the time Aemon and Naerys followed, and all three were strong, healthy, dragonriding children with unmistakable Targaryen looks, the protests stopped altogether.

Joffrey and I never had kids, but we helped raise these three beautiful babies and that was everything to us. We stood proud when Aegon married Naerys, and later when Aemon wed his cousin, the eldest child of little Joffrey and Maris, Princess Aliandra Martell of Dorne.

Two things had always been clear to me: Joffrey would always be my soulmate, and none of what we built would have been possible without Rhaenyra. She was my dearest cousin, and she would be remembered as the greatest ruler Westeros ever had.

We hadn’t asked for more than a quiet partnership at the start, something just for ourselves, but it became a life that was honest and full of love. It was the life I had dreamed of, and I gave it everything I had.

One night, lying in bed, I felt the end coming. I wasn’t afraid. If anything, I welcomed it, because it meant following Joffrey to the Underworld. I went with a smile, with no regrets, knowing Aegon and Naerys were ready to take up their parents’ duties when the time came. There was nothing left to worry over.

I was ready—ready to move on, ready to see Joffrey again.

Chapter Text

The North, Winterfell - 282 A.C

Brandon, Eddard, Lyanna, and Benjen stood lined up across from their father’s desk, fidgeting under their father’s stare. Rickon Stark sighed, and the sound carried more disappointment than anger.

“You got Barbrey Ryswell pregnant,” he said to Brandon, not surprised but still looking at him like he’d expected better. “Even though you know I’ve been talking with Lord Tully about a betrothal with his oldest daughter, Catelyn.”

“I will not marry some trout, especially not one who preaches about Family, Honor, Duty, yet the moment she sees a chance to climb higher she betrays her sister without a second thought,” Brandon shot back. “I have married Barbrey. Our men would have accepted nothing else. And no contract had ever been signed.”

“This will cause us some issues with the Riverlands,” Rickon said with another sigh.

“Why should we care about trouts? It is Dorne we get the most food from,” Brandon pressed.

“Because we might be dealing with some issues with them soon,” Rickon muttered under his breath, though none of them seemed to hear. His gaze slid to the next son. “You, Eddard? What’s your excuse? You sneaked out of the Eyrie and married Ashara Dayne in Runestone. Why? I was already in talks with her parents, and as the heir to Moat Cailin they would not have refused.”

“News reached me that my brother had run off with Lady Ryswell,” Ned admitted quietly. “I did not want to end up bound to his broken contract, if there had been one.”

“Sorry, Ned,” Brandon said with a wince, only just realizing what his choice had done to the rest of them.

“Have children, they say! The most wonderful thing in the world, they say!” Rickon barked out a dry laugh, and the sharpness of it made them all flinch. “They have never raised wolves before, that much is clear.” He shook his head and turned on Lyanna. “And you, daughter? Punching an heir in the face? Your brother’s foster brother at that!”

“Lady Arryn had my back,” Lyanna answered without hesitation. “That drunkard you wanted me tied to already has two naturalborn children — one in the Vale, another in the Stormlands. And worse, he tried to grope me.”

Rickon’s face darkened at once, and so did all her brothers’. The wolves in them showed clear enough then.

“I will rip that bastard’s throat apart!”

“No wonder I hated being around him in the Vale!”

“Where is he? I’ll show him what it means to touch a Stark!”

“Enough!” Rickon’s voice cut through them. “I will write to his parents and see that it is dealt with. Do not worry, daughter, you won’t marry him.”

“Thank—”

“You will be marrying Rhaegar Targaryen,” Rickon said instead, and the room froze. He smiled, sharp and satisfied. “See? It’s not so pleasant being on the receiving end.”

“I’m sorry, I will be marrying WHO?!” Lyanna shouted.

“But Prince Rhaegar is already married, father,” Benjen said quickly.

“Not anymore…” Rickon’s voice dropped, and with it his head. “King Aemon, Prince Aerys, and Princess Elia have succumbed to greyscale.”

“What?” Brandon’s face went pale, and the others looked on in horror.

“The king is dead…” Ned whispered, stunned. “Greyscale — that’s from Essos. Ashara was meant to go with the princess there for business, but she slipped away to the Vale instead. She could have been infected too.” His voice cracked into a curse. “Oh, Ashara… she’ll be shattered. She loved Princess Elia…”

“We all did,” Lyanna murmured. “She was a great princess… her poor children. Aegon had only just been born.”

“King Aemon did not have an heir,” Brandon pointed out. For all his recklessness, he showed then why he was considered a worthy heir to Winterfell. “With Prince Aerys dead, Prince Rhaegar, his children, and Prince Viserys of the Stepstones are the only heirs to the throne.”

“Princess Rhaella is also pregnant,” Rickon said. “But House Targaryen lost its main line, and Prince Rhaegar will need to father more heirs. He’ll also need the support of two Great Houses if his reign is to hold. The realm hasn’t been this unstable since King Viserys, but after Queen Rhaenyra took the throne, stability returned, and we’ve only grown stronger since. We cannot digress now.”

“Dorne won’t like it,” Ned muttered, shaking his head the way wolves did when unsettled. “They love… loved Princess Elia. Ashara is always telling me how protective her brothers are of her, especially Oberyn… the Red Viper.”

“They know it must be done, it will secure the position of Princess Elia’s children,” Rickon said.

“Secure?” Benjen repeated, clearly not convinced. “Bringing in a new princess, someone who will be crowned as the future queen, and having her bear more children isn’t going to make their claim any safer.”

“That would have been true if Prince Rhaegar had taken a Lannister or Tully as his next wife,” Rickon said with a raised brow. “Which is why Doran Martell made sure to… strongly recommend he takes a Stark wife.” His smile grew as his children straightened with pride. “It is well known we would never take the claim of another. Stark speaks for itself.”

“What else did Prince Martell get out of it?” Brandon asked slyly, and Rickon couldn’t help but give him a proud look.

If only the boy weren’t so difficult, he thought. But asking that was too much. Better to hope his grandchildren might be easier—or worse, just so Brandon could see what it was like. Then again, Brandon would probably laugh and cheer them on, leaving Rickon to handle twice the chaos. He shook his head at the thought.

“Prince Viserys will be betrothed to Princess Arianne Martell and serve as Prince Consort of Dorne,” Rickon continued. “Since he rides Tyraxes—the dragon once claimed by Dorne’s first dragonrider—both Rhaegar and Doran saw it as a sign. Princess Rhaenys will remain heir to the throne, as is custom for the firstborn, and Prince Aegon is to inherit the Stepstones.”

Then he turned to Lyanna, his expression softening. “If you bear a son, he will wed Rhaenys and become the King Consort. If you give birth to a daughter, she will wed Aegon and become Princess of the Narrow Sea and Lady of the Stepstones.”

“They are trying to combine both bloodlines, so there won’t be any inheritance dispute,” Lyanna said, her tone quieter now. “Just like Queen Rhaenyra did with Princess Rhaenys’ granddaughters and her sons.”

“Smart,” Brandon murmured. “Then again, Prince Doran Martell has always been smart.”

“Benjen,” Rickon said suddenly, and the boy stiffened before standing straighter. “You will finally have the chance to fulfill your dream. You’ll ride south to squire for Ser Arthur Dayne, and in time you’ll take the white cloak.” Rickon smiled at the awe on his youngest son’s face. “And when you do, protect your sister in King’s Landing as her Kingsguard.”

“I will, father,” Benjen promised, proud as he said it.

“Hey! I can do that myself!” Lyanna protested, sharp as ever, like the she-wolf she was.

That day, Rickon Stark’s office was filled with carefree laughter, as the Lord of Winterfell basked on having all his children under one roof. In a moon’s time they would leave for King’s Landing, and after that each would go their own way.

For now, though, Rickon enjoyed it, to his heart’s content.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep - 282 A.C

“Your Majesty,” Olenna Tyrell bowed as she stepped into the Small Council chamber.

“Take a seat, my lady,” Rhaegar said, motioning to the chair across from him. She bowed again and sat where he indicated. “I must say, meeting the infamous Queen of Thorns is quite the honor.”

“You honor me with your words,” Olenna replied, her face composed, giving nothing away.

It did not give away anything, neither did her words. She never specified how it honored her, or if she was honored by Rhaegar’s presence. A true diplomat. Rhaegar smirked to himself, choosing her was truly a great idea.

“Tell me, do you know the situation of our kingdom?” he asked, then added, “I want your complete honesty.”

Olenna studied him for a long moment, silence stretching until she allowed herself a small, sly smile. “We are in the most unstable climate since the reign of King Viserys Targaryen. Not only have we lost our dear King Aemon, but with his death from greyscale we also lost the main Targaryen line. For that, we should all be grateful to Queen Rhaenyra for having the foresight to establish a branch of House Targaryen at the Stepstones.”

She paused, not searching for words, but weighing how he might react. Then she went on. “Prince Aerys, Prince of the Narrow Seas and Lord of the Stepstones, and Princess Elia succumbed to the same sickness as King Aemon. And what makes it worse is that at present there are only four Targaryens alive, with only two dragonriders. And even calling Prince Viserys a dragonrider is generous—he’s still a boy, too young to take Tyraxes into war. In a few moons the number could be five, or remain four, or fall to three, depending on the Gods.”

Rhaegar raised an eyebrow, impressed by her bluntness, not believing the audacity of the lady before him to go there of all places. Yet, she spoke the truth and only the truth.

Olenna went on, either unaware or unconcerned with how far she was pushing. “And that is only House Targaryen. I do not envy you, Your Majesty, not with how close the rest of the realm is to breaking. House Lannister and House Reyne are at each other’s throats, dragging the Westerlands toward open war. Tytos Lannister was weak and easy to exploit, but his son Tywin is no fool. He’s proud and cunning, and he’ll tear down House Reyne stone by stone if he must.”

Rhaegar tried not to wince at her words, the mess that is the Westerlands is not something he was excited to clean. However, before Rhaegar can even think of moving to fix the Westerlands he will need to maintain House Targaryen strong. What caught his attention was the tint of respect Lady Tyrell’s tone took when speaking about Lord Tywin Lannister.

“The Iron Islands and the Stepstones, along with the rest of the Crownlands, are stable,” Olenna said next. “They always will be as long as a Targaryen rules from the Iron Throne. So that is no cause for concern.” She leaned back slightly. “However, up north trouble is brewing. Everyone’s heard the scandal of the youngest Tully girl running away to elope with Petyr Baelish of all people.”

Her smirk sharpened, edged with satisfaction, and Rhaegar could see she was relishing the humiliation. Or rather, Hoster Tully’s humiliation. “It’s left the Vale and the Riverlands on opposite sides. Serves that greedy trout right.”

House Baelish had never been much to talk about. To say their story was unremarkable would be generous. For most of their existence they were just another small family in the Fingers, sworn to House Royce, keeping to the Old Gods like the rest of the First Men around them. Until recently the fingers ancestral home did not even have a name. Everything changed with the birth of Petyr Baelish, who ended up fostered at Riverrun under Hoster Tully.

The bard songs about him are messy, some exaggerating, some contradicting each other, but they usually stick to the same point—that Petyr had a boyhood crush on Catelyn Tully. The “frigid trout,” as half the realm had taken to calling her, never gave him the time of day.

But Lysa Tully did.

She helped him sign up for the Targaryen scholarship at Tessarion Academy, and he thrived there, building connections and finishing top of his class in political science and economy. From there he threw himself into trade, opening shops in every corner of the realm until he was at the center of Vale commerce. When he returned home, he turned the old family holdfast into something closer to a castle and named it Drearfort.

With money behind him, a rebuilt stronghold, and half the Vale’s nobility owing him favors, Petyr came back to Riverrun with a proposal. He didn’t ask for Catelyn’s hand, though. Instead, he asked for Lysa’s, the woman who had been his ally from the start. Still, a small house sworn to another house, even one of the prestige of House Royce, was not enough for Hoster Tully, so he refused the petition.

Not that it stopped Lysa. She ran off and made her way back to the Fingers, where she converted to the Old Gods and married Petyr beneath the heart trees of Drearfort’s godswood. From that moment she was Lady Lysa Baelish.

Hoster Tully’s fury could have lit the Riverlands on fire. He demanded House Arryn to depose Petyr Baelish on the grounds of kidnapping and raping the highborn daughter of a Lord Paramount. Not that the plea was ever going to work. Littlefinger was already a fixture in the Falcon Court and had the ear of the Lady Regnant of the Eyrie. After all, his business had helped raise the Vale and fill her coffers.

By the time Lysa bore him a son, Robin Baelish, there was nothing left to contest. The scandal stuck, and so did the fallout. At the end it caused a rift between regions, though most noble houses and smallfolk blame House Tully, as they were quite taken by the love story that will soon go down in history.

The runaway trout whose devoting had earned her the love of her beloved, and love had shaken two kingdoms. Young ladies all over the realm were swooning and wishing the men courting them would be as valiant as to go against even a Lord Paramount.

“And that is not adding the issues Riverrun will soon have with the North, or that the North will have with the Stormlands,” Lady Olenna went on with a chuckle. She seemed to delight in each new fracture appearing across Westeros, maybe because the Reach is the only region that remains untouched by all the chaos. “The Wild Wolf decided to elope with his northern lover after hearing about the talks between his father and the greedy trout to betroth him to Catelyn Tully.”

Rhaegar closed his eyes, realizing that in asking for Lord Rickon Stark’s daughter’s hand he might have created another problem. Rickon must have been thinking about the crops and fruit trade between Dorne and the North, worried about how it would change now that his daughter was set to take the place once held by Princess Elia.

His heart ached for Elia, for the woman who had given him two children. He had not loved her as a husband should, but he would never stop being grateful to her for Rhaenys and Aegon. They were his pride and joy. The knowledge that they would grow up without knowing their gentle and kind mother will always hurt.

“There’s also the fact that Robert Baratheon got vanished in shame from the Eyrie after getting handsy with Lyanna Stark.”

It took all of Rhaegar not to react to the news that his betrothed had been shamed like that. Rhaegar will need to talk with his cousin about his behavior soon. There will be no repeat, no one will disrespect Rhaegar’s queen.

“Oh, what I would have paid to see that pompous boy get his ass handed to him by the She-wolf of Winterfell,” Olenna laughed, sharp and mean, her smirk curling when she added, “Any talks of a match between House Stark and House Baratheon will never happen now. Which works perfectly for you.”

Rhaegar let himself return the smirk and kept his sigh buried. “I have put forward many plans to stabilize the realm, though most of them will have to wait until I am crowned. As for the place you will have into shaping this realm, that will depend on how many of those plans you guess correctly.”

Their gazes locked, and he didn’t bother to hide the challenge in his voice. Olenna’s smirk only deepened, her eyes bright with something like excitement, though Rhaegar was sure that he could only see it because she had allowed him to see it.

“The Red Viper will be furious that you will marry so soon after his beloved sister’s death, but the realm needs stability and a queen. We need more Targaryen children and dragonriders. We’ve gotten used to having around a dozen dragonriders every couple of generations, and the realm is starting to feel the vulnerability.”

For once she lost her mocking expression. What showed instead was a trace of unease, and he couldn’t fault her. He felt it too—the way Essos seemed to be watching, their greed stretching toward Westeros. With no Targaryen left to guard the Narrow Ghost, the Stepstones felt exposed. Pirates and the Triarchy would see this as an opening to attack.

There is a reason why The Dragon Queen had placed the branch of their house there. Essos had only ever feared Westerosi dragons, and House Targaryen acted as a prevention against anyone trying their hands on the Stepstones. Only the truly reckless or greedy ever tried to push into those waters, and even then, Rhaegar had flown Vermax on raids, burning pirate fleets to ash in the Narrow Sea

“Then again, Prince Doran Martell is the brains behind the family,” Olenna went on, composed once more. “He knows the need of a queen, and rather than setting contingency plans, it would be smarter to be part of the choice. Unfortunately, all my daughters are already married, and unless there is some accident, no Tyrell woman of marriageable age will be free to be put forward.”

Rhaegar leaned back and laughed, catching the dark spark in her eyes. “But it’s not like you would ever choose any of my daughters. Everyone knows about my ambitious nature, and while I am not scrupulous enough to try my hand against children, like other families, I would always support my blood over the children of your first marriage. That is why the Reach has no bride from a Great House, and that is the support you will need.”

Rhaegar gave a small nod, amused, because she was right. “House Baratheon and House Arryn have no daughters to offer. That leaves House Lannister, House Tully, and House Stark.”

“Cersei Lannister is entitled in all the worst ways, and her father would not hesitate to arrange an accident for Prince Aegon if it served his purpose. Then they would scheme until Princess Rhaenys was pushed aside in favor for a son.” Olenna’s tone was blunt, not malicious, just sharp honesty, and Rhaegar grimaced because he couldn’t dismiss the truth in it.

“Catelyn Tully is her father’s daughter, just as greedy and cold. Too devoted to the Seven to plot murder perhaps, your children will never have their full support, and the frigid trout will never have it in her to love children that weren’t her own. It is simply not in her nature to do so.” Olenna shrugged carelessly. “Of the two, she might be the lesser evil compared to the lion bitch, but that does not make her good.”

Rhaegar almost laughed at the names Olenna tossed so casually, but he couldn’t deny the point. “Which leaves House Stark, and the She-wolf of Winterfell. Their line goes back further than any other in Westeros, and they rule the largest of the kingdoms. All of that matters, but what interests Prince Doran the most is that the Starks are not usurpers. When they make an oath, they keep their word. So, if you name Rhaenys as your heiress, as tradition demands, and the Starks kneel for her, they will keep their loyalty even if Lyanna Stark gives you sons.”

Rhaegar smiled, because that was the truth he wanted to hear most. Since the match with Lyanna had been secured he had felt something close to peace. The Starks were pack, and Lyanna would treat Rhaenys and Aegon as her own. He could see it already, her fierce spirit turned to protecting them, and for that reason alone she would have been his choice. His children deserved a mother who would love them.

“However, Prince Doran would not simply allow this marriage to pass so soon after his sister’s death. He may be calculating, but he loved her deeply, and Dorne still loves their princess. They will want more,” Olenna deduced, making Rhaegar’s smile grew, because she was proving even sharper than her reputation.

Her eyes narrowed with that shrewd glint again, as she continued. “Prince Viserys rides Tyraxes, the same dragon once claimed by the first Targaryen-Martell prince to rule Dorne, Joffrey Targaryen-Martell. Dorne has always been superstitious about signs, especially since Queen Rhaenyra’s reign. Do not be surprised if they insist on a Targaryen prince becoming Prince Consort of Dorne and ruling beside Doran’s daughter.”

“They want the Narrow Seas to remain in the hands of a Targaryen-Martell line, and what better way than to place the only other claimant—your son Aegon—there,” Olenna said thoughtfully. “They will also push for Lyanna’s daughter, if she has one, to wed Aegon and rule the Stepstones with him, or for her son, if she has one, to wed Rhaenys and stand as King Consort beside her.”

“Bravo! I should have not expected less from the Queen of Thorns herself!” Rhaegar began to clap slowly, genuinely impressed at how sharp her deductions were. “Now, how do you believe I plan to appease the rest of the Great Houses?”

“Let’s see,” Olenna said, clearly enjoying herself, “the Kingsguard lost two members to greyscale, Jonothor Darry and Ellard Crane. You’ll need to replace them, and I imagine House Tully would be eager to earn some of its reputation back. What better way than placing the brother of the lord himself in your Kingsguard?”

She tilted her head, thinking aloud. “Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish. He’s a fine knight, trained in the Vale.” Her brows pulled together, and then her face lit as if the next thought had just clicked. “And House Stark has a third son, doesn’t it? One with no inheritance ahead of him. Lord Stark won’t send his daughter south on her own, not when she’s to be queen. He’ll send her brother to guard her.”

“That he will,” Rhaegar admitted, surprised at how neatly she hit the mark. “The North has always been one of our strongest allies, ever since the reign of the Dragon Queen, but their warriors aren’t knighted. So, there has never been a northern Kingsguard before. This will be the first Stark to take the white cloak.”

“As for House Baratheon and House Lannister,” Olenna went on, tapping her fingers on the table in a steady rhythm, “you give them seats on the Small Council and matches to soften the blow of losing the betrothals they wanted. Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister will be a dreadful pair, one that everyone will suffer from, but it will keep the lion from prowling too close for now. Perhaps Master of Coin for Tywin, and Master of Laws for Steffon. His son is a pig, but Steffon himself is a decent lord of the Stormlands, fair and just enough for the role.”

“Which leaves your house, my lady,” Rhaegar said with a smirk, enjoying the rare feeling of having someone able to keep pace with him. “I was thinking of giving you Mistress of Whispers, but since you’ve guessed every one of my plans correctly, I think I’d rather shake things up. Would you, Lady Olenna Tyrell, accept the position of Hand of the King?”

The stunned look on her face was something Rhaegar knew he would remember forever. His smirk grew when he caught the flicker of hunger in her eyes before she masked it again.

“Only if my grandson Garlan Tyrell gets the honor of being squired by the new king.”

Rhaegar raised his brows, caught off guard by the request, which only made it more amusing. “Deal.”

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Sunspear, Water Gardens – 285 A.C

Prince Doran Martell and Prince Oberyn Martell stood watching as Vermax and Tyraxes came down roaring, wings shaking the air as they settled into the dragon pits built in the Water Gardens long ago. The palace itself had been built by Qoren Martell for his beloved wife Rhaenyra Targaryen, remembered in every history book as the first Queen of Westeros and the King Consort who stood beside her.

The ties between House Targaryen and House Martell went back generations, weaving moments of glory and long stretches of peace. Now another union was set to tie their houses together, this time through a queen again. Doran found it a bit ironic: in the main line the firstborn had been sons for generations, but in the Stepstones it was often daughters who were born first and ended up ruling.

However, the peace and glory of Westeros has not only been built upon two houses. No, Queen Rhaenyra has seen the good and advantage of the North. The Crownlands, the North, and Dorne became the three pillars that upheld the real for over a century. Now, all three bloodlines will be combined and bring forth a new era of peace and glory, with the betrothal of Crown Princess Rhaenys and Prince Jonothor.

For now, the family had come to the Water Gardens on a visit, leaving Queen Mother Rhaella in charge of King’s Landing, so Rhaenys and Aegon could meet their Dornish kin. It had become a tradition since Rhaenyra’s death, part of keeping the bond alive, alongside the weeklong tourneys King Viserys had started to celebrate every new Targaryen birth.

“Brother, I’ve heard they betrothed Daenerys to Monterys Velaryon,” Oberyn said with a smirk.

“Princess Daenerys and Lord Monterys Velaryon,” Doran corrected with a sigh. “It doesn’t surprise me. He is the heir to Driftmark, and it’s been some time since a Targaryen married a Velaryon. They’ve lost the dragonrider’s gift for three generations, and we need more riders.” His brow creased.

“Which you don’t like,” Oberyn teased.

“House Targaryen used to have a dozen dragonriders. Now we have only two.” Doran’s voice sharpened. “With the sudden death of King Aemon, and with Prince Aerys and our sister gone too, the crown passing to a branch house has made things more fragile than they’ve been in a long time.”

“I know,” Oberyn said, his smirk fading. He hated hearing anyone mentioning Elia’s passing. “Since King Viserys, and the crowning of Queen Rhaenyra.”

“We need stability,” Doran pressed, tired but unrelenting. “The Crown, the North, and Dorne held this realm together for a century. It won’t come apart in my time. For that, we need dragons.”

“Luckily for you, there are four Targaryen children yet to claim theirs,” Oberyn said dryly. “That will give you six riders. Is that enough?”

“It will make do,” Doran answered, letting a rare smile slip.

“As greedy as always,” Oberyn shot back, though he shared the smirk.

“We are vipers with dragon blood, brother,” Doran said. “Don’t ever forget that.” His eyes shifted to the approaching banners. “Come. The royal family is here.”

Whatever grudges Oberyn carried against the king and queen, he kept them away from the children. He doted on little Jon as easily as he did on Rhaenys and Aegon. He understood what Doran was building, that stability mattered, yet it still burned that his sister’s ashes had barely been cold before the dragon and the wolf wed and their child was born.

Oberyn knew Elia’s match had been political, that not all unions between Targaryen and Martell could be like Rhaenyra and Qoren, whose passion and loyalty were the stuff of legend. His sister had loved another and been forced into Rhaegar’s bed.

What stung most was how quickly Rhaegar seemed to forget her, how fast he gave his heart to Lyanna Stark. Oberyn could admit Lyanna was beautiful. No one denied it. But Elia had been beautiful too, even more so in his eyes. He could not stop asking himself what his sister lacked that Lyanna did not.

“I never get tired of the beauty of this place,” Lyanna said, her voice soft with awe.

“King Consort Qoren built it for his beloved wife, Queen Rhaenyra,” Doran told them as they left Oberyn behind with the children and a few guards. “He carved his love into these stones, and they’ve watched the gardens bloom as their marriage did.”

He smiled faintly as he led them to what he considered one of the greatest treasures in the palace — the painting of the Dragon Queen’s family. In it, Rhaenyra sat with Jace and Viserys in Targaryen red, Qoren and Joffrey in Martell orange, Lucerys in Velaryon teal, Aegon and Visenya in Arryn blue, with black accents threaded through each house’s colors to show their shared Targaryen bloodline.

The whole family looked at ease, content in the peace of the Water Gardens.

“I’ll tell you, you’re lucky it was me who took the throne and not my father,” Rhaegar said with a laugh. “He used to rave about how that painting should hang in a Targaryen hall. If not in the Red Keep, then at the Narrow Ghost. Of course, Uncle Aemon refused. My father never relented either… he never liked being told no.”

“Why don’t we settle down for a bit?” Lyanna suggested, smiling as she placed her hand on his arm. “We still have a banquet to get ready for.”

“You’re right, my love,” Rhaegar said, returning the smile before they both said their farewells to Doran.

They only saw the Martell princes again late in the evening.

The banquet was exactly what one expected of Dorne — lively, full of food and music and heat. Rhaegar and Lyanna laughed more than they had in moons, only letting the mood grow serious again when they joined Doran and Oberyn in the prince’s study afterward.

“Here you go, Prince Oberyn,” Rhaegar said, handing him a set of papers. “Elia had requested this of King Aemon. He promised to see it through when they returned from Essos…”

“But they never did,” Oberyn said, both sad and angry. Most of his negative emotions led to anger. His eyes dropped to the parchment, widening as he realized what they were. “Papers of legitimation? For Obara, Nymeria, Tyene, and Sarella? And Ellaria too?”

“Elia said she had never seen you as happy as you are with her,” Rhaegar said with a quiet smile. “This gives her the Uller name, and with it the right to marry a Martell Prince.”

“A marriage between a Martell Prince and a Lady from a loyal House like the Ullers, will serve us well,” Doran said warmly, looking at his brother. “And I’ll finally be able to see him wed properly.”

“Thank you,” Oberyn said at last, bowing low, his voice carrying the strain of too many emotions at once. “This will mean everything to us, but especially to the girls.”

“They are family,” Rhaegar said simply. “But you should thank your sister. This was her idea.”

“She was always too good for this world,” Oberyn said, his mouth curving into a soft smile as he remembered her.

“That she was,” Doran agreed.

Lyanna’s eyes gleamed as she leaned forward. “We also have a proposal for you. We’d like to offer you, Prince Oberyn Martell, the position of Lord Commander of the City Watch.” Both brothers blinked in shock at that, and Lyanna only grinned wider. “It’s been a long time since a fiery prince held that office. Not since Prince Daemon Targaryen, if I’m remembering right.”

“That you are,” Rhaegar said with an indulgent smile. “Of course, it would be after your wedding. And your wife and daughters would be welcome in the royal apartments. As I’ve said before, you’re family.”

“I think I’ll like that,” Oberyn said slowly, and for the first time he felt these two weren’t enemies to guard against.

“Dorne will like it too,” Doran added with a nod.

“Perfect!” Lyanna clapped her hands together. “King’s Landing has grown stifling. You’ll make things interesting again.”

And she wasn’t wrong. Oberyn Martell’s years as Lord Commander would be remembered right alongside Prince Daemon’s. The dragonblood in him showed plain enough—in the fire in his temper, the daring of his choices, the way he bent the Watch to his will as if it were a blade in his hand. People would always put the two of them side by side, and they weren’t far off.

Two peas in a pod, as the saying went.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 295 A.C

Rhaenys, Aegon, and Daenerys were racing through the skies, their dragons flying so close to each other, it looked like they might collide. Syrax, Grey Ghost, and Seasmoke all fought for the lead. Down below, Jon stayed behind at the Dragon’s pit, fussing over Arrax and his direwolf Ghost, calm as ever while his siblings tried to outfly each other.

When the four of them had claimed their dragons, the realm hadn’t stopped talking about it. People called it a sign from the Gods. Rhaenys had bonded with Syrax, the Golden Queen, the very same mount of the first Queen of Westeros that had been left riderless for so long.

Aegon managed to bond with Grey Ghost, a dragon known for slipping away from riders and only ever accepting to three before him, all heirs of the Targaryen seat in the Stepstones. Then Daenerys claimed Seasmoke, a dragon that only Velaryons with Targaryen blood has ever claimed. And finally, Jonothor claiming Arrax, the mount of the fabled Lucerys Targaryen-Martell, the second prince who stepped back and lived a happy life supporting his wife.

“I won!” Rhaenys shouted, once they were back in the Red Keep, darting through the halls.

“You are a big cheater!” Aegon shot back, laughing even as he growled.

They all laughed, right up until they came face to face with their parents’ unimpressed stares. The scolding that followed seemed to drag on longer than ever before, every word piling up until the fun of the moment was long gone.

Of course, Jon was spared from it.

He always was. Who could ever get angry with sweet, lovable Jon? Everyone who met him ended up adoring him, and his siblings and even his aunt couldn’t help but envy that gift. It wasn’t fair, but it was true—when he looked up with that mop of northern black curls and those wide, puppy-purple eyes, any hint of annoyance just melted away.

Even when he was caught in the middle of the mischief, somehow, he always dodged the blame without even trying. The rest of them had learned to take the brunt of it, because really, who could bring themselves to feel anything but fondness for him?

“Next time you want to race, don’t do it over the city,” Rhaegar scolded, still grumbling about it later as they sat for dinner in the royal apartments. “You gave the smallfolk a heart attack!”

“Ok, darling, I think they got it,” Lyanna said, trying to hide her giggle.

“Oh, well, onto important things now,” Rhaegar sighed, moving on. “Your cousins up north have been getting betrothed lately.”

“They did?” Jon asked, surprised. “I don’t see Arya or Rickon interested in any of that.”

“Well, they’re not,” Lyanna said with a laugh, agreeing with him. “Those two have the wolf’s blood running deep. But my brothers decided it was time to arrange betrothals and strengthen ties in the North. With Ned and me marrying south, and Ben taking the white cloak, only Brandon made a northern match. Our bannermen weren’t happy about that.”

“Which is why Brandon promised his children to influential houses,” Rhaegar added. “Robb, as heir, is betrothed to Alys Karstark. Sansa to Domeric Bolton. Rickon, who will one day rule Sea Dragon Point, to Lyanna Mormont.”

Once Bear Island had been poor and desolated isle, but everything changed after the ironborn fell and new trade opened in the west. The land prospered, and so did House Mormont, growing wealthy on sea trade much like the Manderlys did in the east.

“Ned betrothed his son and heir, Bran, to Meera Reed, daughter of our loyal friend Howland Reed,” Lyanna said, her smile softening as she thought of her dearest, if a bit strange, childhood friend. “And Arya is going to Dorne. It’s been years since a northern lady married into Dorne — it usually goes the other way. She’s betrothed to Quentyn Martell.”

“Our cousin?!” the children all cried at once.

“Yes, your cousin,” Rhaegar laughed at their faces, enjoying their shock. “And with Viserys and Arianne already married, it’s time we spoke to you, Aegon.” He turned to his son, who blinked at him in disbelief and pointed at himself.

“Yes, you,” Rhaegar chuckled. No matter how much trouble they gave him, his children brought him endless joy. “You’re already three and ten namedays. It’s time your bride, and the future Princess of the Narrow Seas, is chosen. And since your mother doesn’t plan on having more children, it won’t be a Valyrian bride.”

“Sorry, Egg, you five are enough,” Lyanna chuckled.

“It’s ok, mama,” Aegon said with a smile. “I don’t mind not having a Valyrian bride,” he assured his father. “Who were you thinking about?”

“Well, that’s quite the mature reaction,” Rhaegar commented, sounding impressed. “I was thinking of Lady Margaery Tyrell…”

“The Rose of Highgarden?!” Aegon burst out, his excitement spilling over. “She’s said to be the most beautiful lady in the realm! Yes!”

“Well, that was easy,” Lyanna laughed, and the other children joined her, while Rhaegar just stared at his son, then shook his head like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Boys can be so simple sometimes.”

“At least now the Queen of Thorns and the Tyrells will leave us in peace,” Rhaegar muttered, though there was a smile tugging at his lips as he watched Aegon’s delight.

He might be King of Westeros, but in his heart, he still held the same belief all Targaryens had carried since the days of Queen Rhaenyra — that before crowns or coins, they were dragons. And dragons looked after their own. They put family first, keeping them safe and happy.

An unhappy dragon could burn everything around them, and Rhaegar knew that better than anyone.

He had grown up in the shadow of an unhappy marriage, and his mother bore the scars of it. She had suffered under his father’s temper for years, and only now, as Queen Mother, did she live in peace, content to watch her children and grandchildren thrive.

But it hadn’t always been so.

His father had been one of the few dragons forced into a marriage he hadn’t chosen, and he’d never forgiven the world for it. His misery had seeped into everything, and Rhaegar had been forced to watch, powerless. It was then that he made a vow.

Never again.

And he would keep it, no matter what it cost. Otherwise, he had no right to call himself a dragon.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep - 297 A.C

Rhaegar had always admired Queen Rhaenyra. Like many Targaryens she was his favorite ruler by far. She was the one who built the alliance with Dorne and the North, turning it into an economic boom that carried Westeros into becoming the most advanced realm of its time.

She had crushed the Triarchy and claimed the Stepstones, which would later become his ancestral home. She had broken the Hightowers, the Citadel, and even the ironborn. But she hadn’t just shown her strength through war. She had reshaped the way people thought about ruling itself, opening knowledge to anyone who sought it, making health care and education free.

She changed the rules and stood by it.

To Rhaegar, she was a legend, the most beloved ruler Westeros had ever known. He would even say the most beloved in all of House Targaryen’s long line. He couldn’t imagine how difficult it had been for her, when the realm had wanted only a man on the throne. Yet she had endured and proved them all wrong.

And when he thought of it, he couldn’t picture a Westeros where women were barred from inheriting seats of power. Dorne had seen more ruling princesses than princes. The Vale had been led by women time and again. Even the Stepstones and Driftmark had seen their share of ladies and princesses in power.

So, when Rhaegar unexpectedly took the throne, he put her forward in his mind as the model to follow. Everyone knew her son had been King Viserys’ heir, but when the king died suddenly, Prince Jacaerys had been too young, and it had been Rhaenyra herself who took the crown.

He often wondered if she had felt the same way he did. Had she been afraid, like he was? Had she mourned as he had? Had she second-guessed herself every decision she made? Those questions lingered, and holding onto them — and onto Lyanna’s hand under the table — was what kept him sane most days.

But not this day. Nothing could keep him collected here.

This was the greatest scandal Westeros had seen.

He was only grateful that all his children were grown and married. He didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if they had been tangled into this disaster too. It was bad enough that House Martell had been dragged as well.

He looked around the Small Council chamber. No one wanted to be there, not even Varys or Olenna.

The council now sat as follows:
Hand of the King: Lady Olenna Tyrell
Master of Coin: Lord Tywin Lannister
Master of Whispers: Varys
Master of Laws: Ser Stannis Baratheon
Master of Ships: Lord Monford Velaryon
Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Ser Barristan Selmy
Lord Commander of the City Watch: Prince Oberyn Martell
Grand Healer: Melisandre of Asshai

The king and queen were in attendance as always, but today the attention kept drifting towards Stannis, Tywin, and Oberyn.

“Ok, that’s enough!” Lyanna said at last, her patience worn thin. “Let’s get this started! Lord Baratheon, Lady Tyrell, congratulations on the wedding between Ser Renly and Ser Loras. It is especially touching that House Tyrell allowed it, and Ser Loras’s conversion to the Fourteen Flames of Old Valyria, considering your house’s faith.”

“All we want is my grandson’s happiness,” Olenna replied easily, recovering without missing a beat. There was a reason she had climbed so high.

“They are to take the position as castellans of Storm’s End, isn’t that, right?” Rhaegar added, following Lyanna’s lead.

“That is right,” Stannis answered. “My younger brother and his spouse will take that position…” He paused, letting his words hang before glancing at Tywin and then back at the royal couple. “And my daughter Shireen will foster with them, to learn about her future household.”

Silence reign over the chamber.

No one could forget the reason why this change of heirs happened in the first place. Robert Baratheon had claimed to fall in love with Lyanna Targaryen, née Stark, the very moment he first laid eyes on her. He never forgave that she was given instead to his cousin, Prince Rhaegar, and he carried the grudge through the years, even after wedding Cersei Lannister and fathering what the realm thought were three children with her. Everyone in Westeros knew it, just as they knew his drunken antics had finally driven the royal family to send him from King’s Landing.

The problem was that none of those supposed children were Robert’s at all. Their true father was Cersei’s twin. The truth came out the day after Renly Baratheon wed Loras Tyrell. Robert, already deep in his cups, flew into a rage. He killed his wife in front of half the court and nearly did the same to her brother, stopped only when the guards rushed in at the last moment.

And that was how things had unraveled into the mess before them now. Myrcella Storm had already been promised to Prince Trystane Martell, which meant Dorne was dragged into the quarrel between Stormlands and Westerlands whether they wanted it or not.

Incest in itself wasn’t the issue. The Targaryens had filled their family tree with it for centuries. The problem was Cersei trying to pass her children off as Baratheons, stealing the birthright of the Stormlands. Worse still, she tried to marry her daughter into House Martell, making a mockery of two proud bloodlines. Both carrying Targaryen ancestry at that!

Not the wisest move, to say the least.

“As Her Grace has said, let’s cut to the chase. What will be the punishment for my house?” Tywin finally asked, looking at the king with determination that only a lion could muster.

“Jaime Lannister and Joffrey Storm will be sent to the Wall,” Rhaegar answered solemnly. “Normally I would not send a child there, but after your daughter’s death, many crimes against the smallfolk came out. Both Cersei and Joffrey committed atrocities that cannot be ignored.” Tywin gave a stiff nod, jaw tight. Rhaegar then turned to Oberyn. “Good-brother, what is the stance of House Martell?”

“We do not hold House Baratheon or House Lannister accountable,” Oberyn said, drawing startled looks from around the table. “Why so surprised? It’s clear neither house knew. The guilty are dead or soon to be sent to the Wall. The only thing we ask is the annulment of the betrothal between my nephew and Myrcella Storm.”

“As she is not blood, I have no say in this,” Stannis answered. He looked uncomfortable, and there was pain in his eyes.

He had never liked Joffrey, but Myrcella and Tommen were different. They were sweet children, and their uncles had taken joy in raising them. Renly had even whisked them out of Storm’s End to keep them safe from Robert’s fury, and no one at the table doubted that those two were blameless.

“I agree,” Tywin said, his frown deepening.

“Then, as of today, Prince Trystane Martell and Myrcella Storm are no longer betrothed,” Rhaegar announced. “Lord Stannis, what is House Baratheon’s stance on the children?”

“They are innocents, Your Majesty,” Stannis said. “We wish no punishment to fall on them. Renly and I are fond of them and still see them as family, even if they carry no Baratheon blood. We watched them grow…” His voice faltered, his grief showing plain. “But we believe it best they be moved to Casterly Rock. Renly had to smuggle them away from our brother already, fearing for their lives.”

Now the whole table looked angry, none more than Tywin’s. For all his faults, those children were still his blood.

“Would House Baratheon mind their legitimization as Lannisters?” Rhaegar asked, and the words caught the whole chamber off guard.

Though really, should they have been surprised?

The memory of the Reyne–Lannister war still loomed over the Westerlands. It had come so close to wiping out both houses that the crown had been forced to intervene. Castamere had drowned in blood until only Lady Reyne, and her infant son remained, while at Casterly Rock only Tywin and his children had survived.

Even then, Tyrion had died young. Tywin had always grumbled about his brothers’ weaknesses and made no secret of the shame he felt for his youngest son, but the loss was still bit deeper than he ever let on. For all his cold pride, the Old Lion wasn’t made of stone.

Tyrion’s death had left a wound he carried to the grave, scars he never admitted to but never managed to hide completely either. It was there in the way he drank more than he used to, in the long silences that stretched after someone mentioned his son’s name, in the hard set of his jaw whenever the subject of family came up.

Those scars never healed, no matter how fiercely he tried to bury them.

“There are no Lannisters left,” Stannis said slowly. “House Baratheon understands that and will not protest, as long as it’s made clear they’ll never inherit Baratheon lands.”

“Lord Tywin,” Rhaegar turned to him. “Is this solution agreeable to you?”

“It is,” Tywin answered, his voice rougher but calmer now. “There’s no way I’ll leave Casterly Rock to the Pyke branch.”

“Good. As for Myrcella Lannister’s betrothal, we’d strongly encourage you to speak with House Reyne,” Lyanna added smoothly. “Their heir, Roger Reyne, is only a few years older. It could stop further feuds before they begin. And Tommen—will there be any trouble finding him a bride?”

“The bastardy will be the hardest part, but now that he’s legitimized and heir to Casterly Rock, most houses won’t care. House Westerling would be eager. They have a daughter near his age, Jeyne Westerling,” Tywin said, careful to keep his thoughts about Castamere to himself. The situation was fragile enough. His family needed the backing of House Targaryen, and they’d already been given more grace than he expected. “Will there be any change with my position as Master of Coins?”

“Neither House Baratheon nor House Martell see fault in House Lannister as a whole,” Rhaegar told him. “Why should we see this as more than two people acting out? You’ll remain Master of Coins, unless you need to return to Casterly Rock. And your grandchildren are welcome to stay in the Red Keep. I’m sure Lord Stannis will enjoy their company.”

“That I will,” Stannis agreed with something close to a smile, which was about as far as his face allowed.

“I think they’ll enjoy the change of scenery,” Tywin agreed, bowing his head with more gratitude than he showed most men.

“Any other matters?” Rhaegar asked. When no one spoke, he let out a long sigh. “Then this meeting is adjourned.” He pushed back his chair, offered his hand to Lyanna, and together they stepped out of the chamber. “Thank Arrax! I don’t think I could’ve stayed another second there. Why is it always us dealing with this mess?”

“Because we’re the King and Queen of Westeros,” Lyanna laughed, sharing in his relief.

“It’s still completely unfair,” Rhaegar groaned, and his wife only laughed harder at his sulking.

Chapter Text

King’s Landing, The Red Keep – 300 A.C

Jonothor Targaryen—Jon, as Rhaenys always called him—tossed in his sleep, caught in another nightmare. The Long Night had never really left him. In the dream he was back beyond the Wall, watching the world swallowed by ice and darkness. He saw the pale monsters moving through the snow and remembered how six full-grown dragons had been needed just to hold them back, and even then, it had almost not been enough.

He jolted awake with a gasp, sweat sticking to his skin, the nightmare still too fresh in his mind. The sudden movement woke Rhaenys, and she turned quickly, steadying him with a hand. He pulled her in without thinking, holding on and finding his peace in her warmth. For a while he just breathed her in, thankful she was there.

When he finally managed to speak, he told her what he’d seen—endless waves of ice creatures, the fear that sat like a stone in his chest, and the relief when it was finally over. She didn’t interrupt, just brushed her thumb over his hand, murmuring now and then but mostly letting him spill it out.

She knew how much those memories still weighed on all of them, and she was glad he trusted her enough to share instead of keeping it locked away. Bit by bit his heartbeat slowed, the tightness in his shoulders easing.

Lying there with her, he could almost let himself believe the world was safe.

“I feel so bad for doing this to you, but we have a Small Council meeting to get ready for,” Rhaenys whispered once the first light crept through the curtains.

“No, I understand,” Jon said, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Let’s get up.”

They rose together and dressed after taking a quick bath. Thet shared a simple meal before heading down to the council chambers. The Small Council had already begun to gather to discuss the coronation of Rhaenys.

King Rhaegar Targaryen, who had carried the realm through war, had been wounded by the end of the Long Night. The injury was not fatal, but it was enough that he had decided to retire and pass on the torch to his daughter.

In a fortnight, Rhaenys will be crowned as the second queen in Westerosi history, and Jon will stand by her side as her King Consort.

As council members took their seats, all eyes went to the Hand of the King. Sansa Bolton, nee Stark, had been appointed young but already carried herself with the calm authority of someone born to it. Olenna Tyrell had been the one to recommend her, and it was easy to see why.

Sansa opened the meeting with a polite smile; Jon shared a quick look with her. One that said more than words ever could, a silent reminder that they weren’t carrying these responsibilities alone.

The nerves were there—too many expectations piled onto both of them—but having each other close made it easier to breathe. Family always did.

“Thank you all for coming,” she said, voice calm but not without a trace of relief. “We’re stepping into something new with Queen Rhaenys and King Consort Jonothor’s coronation. It’s not a small event. It’ll take care and planning if we want it to come together properly. I’m asking each of you to put your strengths into this. If we do, the transition will be smooth, and the realm will see the justice, prosperity, and unity it’s been needing.”

Wendel Manderly, whose northern steadiness always calmed Jon a little, leaned forward to speak first. “I’ll start us off with the numbers. We want the celebration to feel grand, but we can’t forget the treasury has its limits. I’ve put together a detailed budget that includes everything necessary without overindulging. I’ll keep a close eye on it, so we don’t overspend. It’ll be memorable, but it won’t break put us in debt.”

He was still one of the newer voices on the council, yet it was already obvious why people trusted him. Money and management came naturally to him, and it showed.

Rhaenys’ smile broke some of the formality. “This is excellent, thank you for the work you’ve put in. We all know how expensive Targaryen traditions can be. A weeklong tourney after my coronation, banquets every night… our family has never been shy about extravagance.” That won a round of laughter, easing the tension around the table. “All right, Master of Whispers, let’s hear from you.”

Jonothor was glad to see his cousin on the council, but it was Rhaenys who felt the real relief. Having Princess Sarella Martell in that seat was no small thing. She had already shown that she had her father’s cunning edge, and her network of informants—her snakes—was as effective as any in the realm.

Sarella’s tone was confident. “Security is our first concern. My people have been listening carefully. So far, no credible threats have risen, still my spies will keep watching for trouble.  I recommend doubling our efforts as the coronation gets closer. It will be better if we catch problems before they reach the surface.”

Dame Clarissa Strong, who had taken up the white cloak when Barristan the Bold retired, spoke next. Her reputation was already enough to quiet a room, though she never raised her voice to do it. “I agree. The Queensguard’s duty is the safety of the queen and king, and that will not falter under my command. We’ll place our knights where they’re needed, we’ll use our training as we always have, and nothing will be left to chance. The Queensguard will make sure this coronation is remembered for the right reasons.”

Clarissa had been chosen because no one else could match both her skill and her loyalty. She had also been the Sworn Shield of Rhaenys since her marriage to Jonothor. Everyone knew it, and it gave her words weight without her needing to force them.

Then Garlan Tyrell, as expected, was eager to add his voice. “The City Watch will be ready as well. During the coronation we’ll guard the streets, protect citizens and guests, and keep the peace. If anyone tries to stir trouble, they’ll be stopped before they make it far. We’ll coordinate with the Queensguard, to make sure there’s no gap in our defenses. The goal is for the city to feel like it’s celebrating, not holding its breath.”

Jonothor leaned forward, approval plain in his voice. “That’s exactly right. Sarella, work with both commanders. Your information will make their jobs easier.”

Sarella dipped her head slightly, a smile flickering across her face. “Of course, Your Highness. It will be done.”

“Lord Monterys, how are things looking?” Rhaenys asked, turning toward the Master of Ships, one of the last two men left from her father’s council.

He nodded slightly. “Your Highness, the main task is to keep the harbors strong, and the fleet coordinated, so supplies and guests reach King’s Landing without trouble. Dignitaries will be coming from everywhere. I’ll see that the navy does its part, that the coasts are protected, and everything and everyone arrives safely.”

It was said in such a matter-of-fact way, and exactly what she had expected from him.

“We should also make sure the coronation follows the letter of the law,” Stannis Baratheon added, his voice clipped as always. He was the other old holdover from the previous council, as the Master of Laws, and if nothing else he was reliable in that role. His sense of justice never wavered, not even for convenience. “I’ll personally oversee the process. Every step will fall in line with the laws of the realm. That way the crown stands on firm ground. I’ve already secured Queen Rhaenyra’s crown for the ceremony.”

“That’s wonderful,” Rhaenys said, her smile softening. For a heartbeat she let herself imagine it—the crown she had longed to wear, now finally within reach. Soon she would be queen, and Jon would stand beside her as king consort. That dream, once so far away, was almost here. “Grand Healer?”

Her gaze landed on Sam Tarly, Jon’s closest friend, and pride tugged at her chest. It was still strange to think of how it all began. His father had sent him to Tessarion Academy out of shame, thinking books would be punishment, and had fully intended to shove him onto the Wall once he came of age.

The plan had unraveled the moment Jon made it clear that Randyll Tarly had no say in Samuel’s future, that if he tried to replace him with his younger son, the Targaryens themselves would call it usurpation. Randyll had never forgiven that, and he never learned to be proud of the son who had done everything right in his own way.

It was his loss.

Because Sam had grown into exactly the man the realm needed. The youngest healer in over a hundred years, the one who managed to treat greyscale, and the one the Targaryens would never stop being grateful for.

Sam stood a little straighter before speaking. “The health of the people is just as important. My healers and I have a full plan prepared for the coronation. We’ll set up medical stations throughout the city so anyone, hurt or unwell, can get help right away. The idea is simple—we don’t want illness or injury to ruin anyone’s chance to be part of the celebration. Everyone should feel safe and merry in such a special day.”

The words carried more of him than he probably realized. Caring, thoughtful, and dedicated. Jon looked proud just listening.

“Thank you, all of you,” Rhaenys said, as she looked around the table. “You’ve given me nothing but support, and I don’t take that lightly. As your future queen I’ll do my best to lead with compassion and strength, and I’ll hold fast to justice.”

Jon reached for her hand before speaking. “You’ve all heard my wife. I stand with her in this, now and always. My loyalty is hers, and my duty is to the realm we’ll lead together. I’ll serve as king consort with as much honor as I can bring, and I’ll work beside you to make sure the coronation runs smoothly. Let this be the beginning of something better.”

The council went on, each member offering their part, each plan weaving into the next. Bit by bit the picture of the coronation took shape, and it was clearer with every voice that this would not just be a ceremony but a turning point.

Moons later, when the day finally came, Rhaenys stood before the people wearing the Dragon Queen’s crown. Her voice rang out proud and confident as she gave her first speech as Queen of Westeros, with Jon at her side as king consort.

The Queen that Was and the Promised Prince—already their names were tied to history, the ones who had faced down the Night King. People would remember that Arrax’s fire had burned him, that Jon had driven Dark Sister into him while Ghost held him long enough to make it possible.

And they would remember how Rhaenys had taken command of their army when her father fell wounded, proving she could lead in the heat of battle just as Rhaenyra once had. It was always teamwork with them, the same way their ancestors had ruled side by side.

One day their daughter, Alysanne Targaryen, would inherit that same strength, flying the dragon of her namesake and taking her place as queen. But that was a story for another time.

For now…

Long live the Queen that Was and the Promised Prince.
Long may they reign.

Chapter Text

As there have been some inquiries about the family line and who married who, here's an explanations of everything! There were more children born from these unions, but I will only mention those that I wrote in The Dragon Queen.

Rhaenyra Targaryen (Syrax) × Qoren Martell

1. Jacaerys Targaryen (Vermax) × Rhaena Targaryen (Morning) → King & Queen of Westeros

   • Son: Daemon Targaryen

2. Lucerys Targaryen (Arrax) × Baela Targaryen (Moondancer) → Lord Consort & Lady of Driftmark

3. Joffrey Targaryen (Tyraxes) × Cassandra Baratheon → Prince & Princess of Dorne

   • Daughter: Aliandra Martell (married cousin Aemon Targaryen)

4. Aegon Targaryen (Vermithor) × Visenya Targaryen (Silverwing) → Lord Consort & Lady of the Vale

5. Viserys Targaryen (Grey Ghost) × Larra Rogare → Prince & Princess of the Narrow Seas, Lords of the Stepstones

   • Children: Aegon Targaryen (married sister Naerys), Aemon Targaryen (married cousin Aliandra Martell), Naerys Targaryen (married brother Aegon)

Future: Aerys Targaryen × Rhaella Targaryen

(from Viserys & Larra’s line; Lords of the Stepstones)

1. Rhaegar Targaryen (Vermax) → King of Westeros

   • Wives: Elia Martell & Lyanna Stark

2. Viserys Targaryen (Tyraxes) × Arianne Martell → Prince Consort of Dorne

3. Daenerys Targaryen (Tyraxes) × Monterys Velaryon → Lady of Driftmark

Rhaegar Targaryen × Elia Martell

1. Rhaenys Targaryen (Syrax) × Jonothor Targaryen (Arrax) → Queen & King Consort of Westeros

   • Daughter: Alysanne Targaryen

2. Aegon Targaryen (Grey Ghost) × Margaery Tyrell → Prince & Princess of the Narrow Seas, Lords of the Stepstones

Rhaegar Targaryen × Lyanna Stark

1. Jonothor Targaryen (Arrax) × Rhaenys Targaryen (Syrax) → King Consort & Queen of Westeros

   • Daughter: Alysanne Targaryen

Brandon Stark × Barbrey Ryswell

1. Robert Stark × Alys Karstark → Lords of Winterfell

2. Sansa Stark × Domeric Bolton → Lady of the Dreadfort, Hand of the Queen

3. Rickon Stark × Lyanna Mormont → Lord of Dragon Sea Point

Eddard Stark × Ashara Dayne

1. Brandon Stark × Meera Reed → Lords of Moat Cailin

2. Arya Stark × Quentyn Martell → Princess of Dorne

Chapter Text

Hi!

First of all, thank you for all the support you've given me during this story. This was my first House of the Dragon fanfic and I am so happy so many people have enjoyed it. I've been wanting to write a fanfic about Game of Thrones for a while, but since watching House of the Dragon I simply got inspired and The Dragon Queen was born. Since that story I've been trying to sit down and write another story about the Song of Ice and Fire Universe. And finally it happened!

The Pearl of Driftmark is out and anyone is welcome to read it! I will be updating once a week, all Fridays, if I am lucky enough to get the next chapter done in time. I hope you enjoy it as much as you've enjoyed this one.

Here's the link: https://ao3-rd-18.onrender.com/works/54016939

XOXOKURENOHIKARI;)