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Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

King Viserys Targaryen had lived far too long and gained too many regrets along the way; unfortunately, they had returned to haunt him in this life and not the next.

Viserys knew little of his second son apart from Aemond being the pinnacle of his seed, a second son who bore none of his mother, the Queen's, features. A child of pure Valyrian stock, a worthy grandson of Alyssa bearing her long face, skinny stature, and dirty blonde hair. Unlike his mother, Aemond did not have mismatched eyes but with the mangled scar that bisected half his face, no one would know he once bore two violet eyes.

Absently, he wondered if this was the lot of Targaryen kings, cursed to see their children die before their time, his Queen had alluded to such between her sobs.

Alicent's eyes were red-rimmed and swollen drawing attention to the colour, a vivid emerald surrounded by fair lashes, her lips had swollen from her teeth biting into the flesh and her cheeks raw from where the salt of her tears had sanded away at the skin. 

"Your hubris and the temerity of your house have sent the Stranger to visit me. Adamant that the dragon's blood was above all men, yet you still bleed and die, like all men of the land. You are not gods, you never were."

Viserys' fingers curled into a fist, and he raised his hand to the Queen, but Alicent did not falter, content to stare into his eyes her gaze filled with judgement. "You may beat me, you may chastise me, but you will not steal the truth from my lips, I have lost a child there is no pain that my heart cannot face." 

A strong man would have slapped her, taken his fist to her face and spoken words of chastisement, pressing the importance of respecting House Targaryen and its king. Yet, Viserys could not bring himself to discipline his wife, not when it had been Targaryen blood spilt. When a head of blonde hair and sockets of violet eyes had not protected the slight child from the slice of the blade or the kiss of the Stranger. 

There was no reprieve in sleep. In his dreams, he saw Aemond as a young man. The young man had always been tall, but in the never future, he had broadened with a barrel-like chest, gained thick rope-like muscles across his arms and legs, and lost all of the last vestiges of his youth. To Viserys, he looked far more like Baelon than he had suspected Daemon prior, and with the lost weight of his face, he fiercely resembled the late Aemon Targaryen. Absently, Viserys noted that he’d be a handsome man if not for the scowl that seemed permanently plastered across his lips that did not subside as he approached the child. But that man did not exist, he would never exist. 

In the day, Viserys was haunted by the absence of the young Prince. The Red Keep seemed to be emptied of any form of joy and happiness. The children did not play, least of all because Viserys knew his daughter kept her children close to hand now, fearing the worst. He knew he would have to address such, even more so now. Before he had been bidding his time, hoping to present the image that he was mulling over the best course of action. Now, he was dawdling, he knew it within him. The death of a prince. It was no small matter, he could not simply request goodwill and goodnight, not again. 

Even if his Queen did not request blood, the som would, the faith would. The loss of an eye was one thing, but a life? Viserys could not ask the court to forget such an infraction not when they too feared for the safety of their heirs from House Targaryen. He was not blind - wilfully or physically. Viserys knew, as he supposed all Targaryen kings before him knew, that the balance held by House Targaryen was tenuous at best, solely supported by the dragons they claimed. The nobility of Westeros had not wanted them and no matter how much goodwill, the sentiment had not changed. Would not change if he were more truthful - heavy was the head that wore the crown.

A hand firmly rubbed at the bridge of the nose, the skin beneath blossoming a fierce red in irritation.  It could not persist, Viserys knew he was to take action, to steer the course right and yet he did not know how. For the first time the crown had been placed upon his head, Viserys thought himself the true successor of the Good King, for he had followed in his footsteps and the gods had taken his child as the price. A small part of Viserys hoped he would not have to pay such a price again, that the debts for his hubris had been settled. An even smaller part of himself cursed him for the callousness he felt at the loss of his own son. Yet was self-preservation not the Targaryen's way? Honest with himself in a manner he had not prior. 

The wide chest of the King hefted a sigh, and the portly man shook his head. Something deep within him groaned, it ached and bled in the same manner he had watched Aemond. The slight boy convulsed as he succumbed to the fever. At the moment of Aemond's last breath, something within Viserys had gleamed to light, but it was not welcomed. Viserys had known that when he ushered it aside in the same way the Queen's attendants had done so to him. When he'd gathered himself outside the room, listening to the wails of the Queen, it had held his heart in its grasp and squeezed. It was an ugly, fretful thing and Viserys hated it.

Chapter Text

One

Though he was now a man who bore no last name, the seed of King Jaehaerys was undeniable. He held the typical stature of House Targaryen and in his visage held a facsimile of what Aemond could have been, the same long face with deep-set eyes and aquiline nose. His hair was the same dirty blonde as Aemond, Princess Alyssa, and the Good Queen, his eyes the lightest lilac like Helaena. His mouth set in the same scowl that Aegon sported every time Viserys rested his eyes upon him. Viserys found his mouth grew dry as he neared the man, he had never met personally but knew of distantly. 

"The Queen has sent for Archmaester Vaegon," Lord Lyonel Strong whispered into Viserys’ ears as they approached the waiting man." She requested his council as young Prince Daeron was set to be given to the faith and his brother the citadel, but things have now changed with the loss of Prince Aemond." There was a pause before Lyonel spoke Aemond’s name as if the man felt discomfort at making mention of the boy. Slowly, as not to draw attention to himself, Viserys nodded his understanding and greeted Archmaester Vaegon as was customary.

Vaegon looked down his nose at Viserys, an action aided by his great height, and for the first time in many years, Viserys felt a sense of inadequacy similar to that of how the Good King had elicited within him in his last days. The last of Jaehaerys’ seed seemed to possess the same ability to render Viserys to the size of a tick, treating him with a casual disdain highlighted by the tightening of his jaw and the narrowing of his gaze. When he spoke, he talked in the manner of a man accustomed to giving orders and those around him falling into line without question.

"King Viserys," his voice was cool and detached, “I bring the greetings of the Citadel, the Seneschal of Maesters and the learned men.”  

The presence of Archmaester Vaegon brought no assurance to King Viserys, though it was an attempt to. He bowed his head somewhat, gave the perfunctory greeting and was met with the turn of the nose he associated with Vaegon.  

Third sons were destined for the faith, second sons the citadel. The promotion of Rhaenyra as heir had disrupted the typical pathways for nobility. Aemond was once to join the citadel to maintain relations with the sciences and learned men, Daeron was to sojourn to the sept and maintain relations with the faith and Aegon, well Aegon was to be Aegon. He had been the heir of Rhaenyra until she had born Jacaerys but after the birth of her third son, there was now, no more need for Aegon and yet Viserys could not bear to see him go.

Viserys did not wish to dwell on it, not when the limp hand and bony wrist of a boy who would never become a man haunted his sleep. But the realm would not wait, as proven by Maester Vaegon's presence. The Starry Sept had also sent their representative, a Septon Hassan who was clearly of sandy Dornish blood and spoke with the same lilt as Ser Criston Cole, his Queen’s beloved sworn shield. He was far more jovial than Maester Vaegon, but it was not by much, especially not under the circumstances. The High Septon would not be in attendance, the death had come too sudden for him to prepare appropriately but there would be far more eyes and ears upon him than just the nobility. Lord Lyonel’s trepidation had borne fruit, Viserys could see it in the manner in which the som whispered and the furtive glances. They had not requested anything, content to observe but Viserys knew they would soon descend like carrion to a carcass.

He only hoped they would have the decency to wait until the child had been set to ashes and interred first, though it increasingly seemed unlikely.

Queen Alicent had sequestered herself and her children away in the Tower of the Hand whilst the absence of Prince Aemond loomed heavy over the Red Keep. Unsurprisingly, none of the King’s children from the womb of Queen Alicent required anything of the aged man and bar that of the Princess Royal, none wanted anything to do with the crown. They did not wish for proximity to the cold body and living memory of the once prince and so in the Hand’s tower they stayed.

Vhagar, the Queen of dragons, had not stopped her mournful cry from the moment of her rider’s death and in many ways, she was the herald that brought the news to the small folk. They had watched her mourning dance, the same pattern of flight Silverwing had once employed at the death of the Good Queen. It was a sight that brought no comfort to the people of Kingslanding. The Queen of Dragons cast a long shadow over the city that blocked out the sun many times in the day. It was a herald and an omen, and it was at an hour in which Vhagar had darkened the day that King Viserys saw fit to bring both his attentions and thoughts to the Queen.  

"My Queen, I have thought of who should set Aemond alight," Viserys broached lightly, with careful steps as he entered the Queen’s apartments. His eyes rested on his chosen Queen, a pale slip of a woman bearing a blank expression. At her side, Prince Aegon’s lips slipped slightly into a sneer that was quickly masked with an impudent look in the eye. It was clear that Viserys had intruded on an intimate moment between the Queen and her children, Aegon stood at her side, Daeron’s head cradled in her lap, and Helaena leant against her shoulder. They sat in the corner of her chambers in which the fire crackled and burned and the cushions were clothed in silks and filled with goose down.   

Viserys had broken the little peace that existed betwixt the group as Daeron tilted his head from his mother’s lap and Helaena straightened her back and narrowed lilac eyes. Unsurprisingly, his Queen did not speak, and instead, her oldest son curled his nose into a facsimile of a snarling dog and barked, "You have no dragon." The words were clipped and lacked any of the perfunctory respect due a King, but Viserys was far too weary to reprimand him and a wise king did not baulk at truth.

He hefted a sigh and shook the weariness from his face, "That is truth Aegon, but Rhaenyra-”

Immediately, the embroidery that had been held gently between nimble fingers dropped into the flames and Helaena’s eyes widened into a glare and a hiss erupted from Aegon's lips as though he was a snake, "we would rather choke." He spoke for his siblings, and they joined him in showing their distaste at his words, Daeron rising to his feet to stand in front of his mother as though Viserys would strike a blow against the fragile woman.

Absently, Viserys noted that his words hit far worse than a slap, for Alicent recoiled with such fear and disgust that he felt something akin to shame, though the feeling quickly dissipated. Alicent gathered herself quickly, and though emerald eyes were wet with unspilled tears she spoke with a queenly character, “The traditions of House Targaryen must be adhered to as that is the house of A-A-Aem” Her voice hitched but still tears did not fall, “of his birth, but if he must be burned it will not be by a dragon under the command of the Princess Royal.”

Alicent had not found favour with Rhaenyra, no matter what Viserys had wished but he had hoped that she would overlook her mislike for the greater good of the House of the Dragon. His lips twitched to retort but a sweet voice spoke saccharine words on the air.

“It would be unseemly your grace, to allow the mother of the man who caused Aemond injury to set his body alight.” Viserys was not accustomed to hearing Helaena speak, she had often stood silently at her mother’s side and looked upon him beseechingly. Unlike his Rhaenyra, in her gaze he was always found wanting, lilac eyes ever trained upon his person. Looking, for what, Viserys did not know. Still, he found it hard to respond easily to her words, Helaena spoke the truth but there was a hardness in her lips, a stoicism in her face that betrayed her feelings on the matter.

“We have dragons too,”

Viserys had heard the call-name his Queen’s brother had bestowed on the youngest son, a term of affection Ser Gwayne Hightower had knighted the boy with alongside a wooden sword. The 'daring' lived up to his name as he postured in front of him, raising himself to his rather insignificant height and looking him in the eyes. Yet the boy did not posture for long as the Queen stretched out her arm and tapped him lightly on the side of his rib, a touch that made the daring deflate somewhat and step aside so that Viserys' eyes rested upon the Queen's regal figure.        

Deep in mourning, Alicent's slender frame was covered by a black lace dress that sheathed her from neck to wrist, her hair the colour of the flames that licked in the fireplace hidden from his view by her wimpole, and the white of her eyes bloodshot, making the green piercing in her face. “Your majesty, the children possess dragons of their own, they would be best placed to honour their brother.” There was a steal to Alicent’s voice that had not been present for many nights, the Queen straightened her back and looked him in the eye as she spoke, "If the blood of my body and the heritage of my house cannot be honoured in my son than his blood siblings will honour him as appropriate. I will hear no more of this Viserys, not when I mourn my son."

She had no need to demand the respect due to a wife, mother, and Queen and Viserys knew that there was no more to be said. 

“It is said that the good king requested of you your wisdom as he made the decision to consult at Harrenhal?”

Viserys opened the conversation with ease as they proceeded through the necessary and expected niceties. Lord Lyonel had looked contrite when Viserys had requested his absence, but he did not voice any opinion merely inclining his head and bowing as he left.

“You seek my council when six men sit alongside a table ready and chosen by you to offer such services?”

Viserys bristled at Vaegon’s words, and the older man simply stared at him in question. Unused to such scrutiny and expectation, King Viserys stammered his response. “They council for the good of their houses, you council for the good of the people. There is no other of suitable birth impartial enough to offer guidance to a king, with nary a hidden agenda.”

“What of your Lord Hand?”

Viserys blanched reflexively, “Lord Lyonel is many things, but he is unable to...” he trailed away and Vaegon looked upon him knowingly. The older man nodded slowly and adjusted his robes across his knees. 

“These eyes may be aged but they have rested upon the children of the Princess Royal before she departed to attend Dragonstone,” Archmaester Vaegon said no more, but the silence was the only confirmation needed. He leaned back into his chair and peered at Viserys with judgement in his eyes. The King did not rise to the bait, but he did allow his dissatisfaction to appear across his face.  

“Then you know that Lucerys is but a child, he cannot be held responsible for the death of his uncle,”

Vaegon watched him, lilac eyes trained on the King sat adjacent. “Do you wish that to be the truth, or do you know it to be so?” Vaegon inched forward and titled to head to ask, “I am astonished to find you are a man reserved for the loss of a son,” it was a pointed barb, but it was not spoken in cruelty but matter of fact.

Viserys did not know what to say so he did not reply.

“You suffer greatly from the affliction of the good king,” Vaegon’s thin lips sneered over the word ‘good’ as though Jaehaerys was anything but, Viserys knew his opinion of his father was truth to him to all those who were in close proximity to the once king. “Typically, a man favours their sons above all else, but you favour the princess to your ruin,” Vaegon mused aloud, content to look down his nose at Viserys even at his seated stance. “A father’s daughter is cherished but you more so than others. Tell me o'king, is it the Andal blood you despise so?"

Viserys felt the accusation like a slap to the face, he bristled once more, the anger rising in his veins.   

"That is an insult to the Queen,"

"An insult perhaps, but you did not condemn it to be a lie." Vaegon eyes Viserys before allowing the corner of his lips to curl ever so slightly in what was likely his version of a smile. His amusement was no comfort to the King of Westeros. “Although, the Queen Aemma held Andal blood from her Arryn father - First Men blood too, though it is distant.”

"I did not invite you to trade petty barbs Archmaester Vaegon"

"No, you intend to do as your predecessors did and forgo your decision-making, to thrust such a task upon my head," Vaegon said cooly, folding his hands over his knees and staring down Viserys. 

"Do you not wish to confer to me your opinion? A supposed learned man who has studied at the citadel and rose through its ranks to Archmaester?"

"I gladly accept the opportunity, but I know you will not listen to reason and good sense, just as King Jaehaerys before you."

"Cease the riddles and doublespeak Archmaester Vaegon, your King commands you."

Lilac eyes narrowed into a slit and Vaegon thinned his lips before speaking. "Your heir, chosen by you and unsuitable before the realm, overstepped and broke the sanctity of marriage and the bond of family. You have already given the lot of Queen Alicent and House Hightower to Princess Rhaenyra and House Arryn, and now you have allowed her to steal the life of a trueborn Targaryen Prince without remorse. You have not honoured your wife and for that, the people will rebel."

"It is the purview of the King, who is decided heir."

Vaegon sniffed, "If that was so, I would have abandoned my oaths and accepted my father's plea to sit on top of the throne, as opposed to yourself o'king, Oaths made are not so easily broken and the people do not forget, though they may have short lives their memories are long. You may be King but the legitimacy that makes you King lies in the very ceremony you wish to discard."

It was an insult because it was the truth. 

"It is not about popularity, it is about peace," Vaegon said plainly, looking down at Viserys though he remained seated. "You seek to choose an heir based upon desires not afforded to you as King. It does not matter if you like the boy, it matters that your son possesses a cock and a claim."

"I refuse to believe that you have maintained Rhaenyra as an heir because of your love and ardour for her. She is an unremarkable child, as are all the children of nobility I have had the displeasure of meeting. Spoiled by indulgences, ruined by hubris, she would rule in the manner of a child, a tyrant with too much power and no sense of duty. But I suppose that is what you find pleasing in her, that she extols all the ‘virtues’ of Valyria." Vaegon sniffed rolling his eyes lightly as before looking intently at Viserys again.

"Lucerys is but a boy of age five," Viserys argued, content to divert the conversation to another manner, “it would be cruel to punish a child for the accidental death of his uncle.” 

"Is it better a living grandson than a stable realm?" Vaegon questioned cruelly.

"Aemond did not die of the blade,"

"No, he died a painful, pitiful death from a fever that ate the boy alive - caused by the improper care of the blade. A child should not be permitted such a tool if they are incapable of caring for it properly." He looked down his nose at Viserys with a pointed gaze.

Viserys could not disguise the exasperation in his voice as he retorted “Do you not think of the future of the boy? That they will call him a kinslayer and assign all actions he takes as being that of his nature,” the nature of all such type of children born to noble blood was unspoken but heard.

“What does it mean to be a boy with the same blood on his hands as that of a man grown?” Vaegon questioned Viserys with a look of disappointment in his unspoken decision. After a long moment of silence, on the part of Viserys, Vaegon sighed and shook his head.

"You are a man who cares little for the death of his son and more so the standing of his daughter", Vaegon stood to his height and bowed his head in a respect it was clear he did not feel for Viserys. “It is clear to me now why Jaehaerys settled upon you as heir. You have none of the discernment of Septon Barth, and all the character of himself. I bid you a good night."

Chapter Text

Two

It was an honour to court the Stranger - To serve as one of his handmaidens. 

In many ways, her life prior was a distant memory, remembered solely for the markers her childhood had left upon her body. The stretched-long skin of her arms when she bathed her flesh, the freckling that dotted her chest and face and the power of her calf muscles that were dotted by the marks of pox she caught as a child. She resonated more with the grey robes and cowled face that made her indistinguishable from her sisters than she had ever the threadbare sackcloth that her mother could afford to sew into scraps. She could not escape the way the guant face of Prince Aemond was interchanged with another small boy in her mind, one with the same fire and knobbly knees but who had held none of the privileges of the nobility and died bawling for his mother and for compassion.

The chamber, which was cleansed and set aside for them to carry out their duties, was wide with a domed roof. White plastered walls filled from ceiling to floor with the soft glow of lit candles, the flickering flames provided the only light source besides a small circular window high in the back wall. She watched as her sisters toiled with the instruments of death, the sound of a blade slicing through flesh and singing its song with glee was the music that accompanied her life, providing solace in its simplicity. All men would die, and she had vowed, as did her sisters, to deliver them to the next life in dignity and respect. Yet, shadows lurked in the corners of her mind.

The air smelt of ointment and herbs, as did the flesh of her hands, but underneath was the almost acrid scent of dried blood, she could not forget such a smell as it followed her through her first life and into her second. Her sisters had spoken before of the once-Queen and her slew of lifeless babes they had wrapped, but the young Queen was hearty and hale and her court had flourished around her too. The prince had been the first child of nobility that had passed into the stranger's arms in many moons, the skin of the young prince far firmer than the bodies she had prepared before. She had been tasked with bringing the limbs back into motion once the stillness passed and the rot began. 

Prince Aemond had been a slight thing, knobbly-kneed and sure to have grown like an ox in the way all bony men were, yet the clipping of his wings early meant that she and her sisters could prepare him with ease. Rot and puss, stinking of death and yellow infection coated with blood had settled into the wound of his eye socket, the fever of his last days had stolen most of the fat from his face as he had sweated the waters of the body. 

She was to reconstruct what was remaining into a good impression of the once prince, ensuring that those who would view him before wrapping would not be frightened by his visage. It was the compassion of the Seven that worked through those who would see the harsh reality of decay and stare down the face of death.

Children were gifts of the Seven, a blessing bestowed by the Mother and Father Above and it was a privilege to bring them out into the world and an honourable task to usher them into the next. 

So far had her mind wandered that she missed the entrance of the Queen. 

The Silent Sisters were not typically in the attendance of the royal family and so the sisters had not expected Her Highness to enter their chambers.

The Queen was timid in her steps and unobtrusive in her manner. The sister noticed how she seemed unable to stray far from her daughter as she glanced around the room in near distress. She nodded her respect to her sisters but before the Queen could address as was appropriate she let out a garbled cry. 

From the moment her frantic fearful eyes rested upon the body lying still on the slab in front of the sister, the Queen's body bent and shook as a choked cry escaped cracked lips. Twisting her hands the Queen adjusted her fingers to grip the arm of Princess Helaena firmly, the young princess was the unbreakable Valyrian steel on which her mother drew strength.

They drew nearer and the silent sister could see there was a curl of dissatisfaction to the young princess's lips and the sister knew from her keen eyes that Prince Aemond did not live up to the figure of Princess Helaena's. She wondered if his skin was too pallid and pale through the Princess's eyes, that she was disappointed by the loss of his typical glow and usual scowl, that she was perturbed by the thick veins protruding through the single thin eyelid and the cracking of his lip skin, but she could not ask for her vow had stilled her tongue and her compassion had broken her heart.

If not for the crater that stood stark in the centre of his face, the pair to the hazy lilac lost to violence, he would have looked almost peaceful. Almost. Not for the first time, the sister wondered if the calm smile she had teased onto the still lips was a farce to the sneer she felt suited the wrinkles between the brows that would not ease.

The Silent Sister watched as violet eyes stared at the milky hand that tentatively stretched forward to touch the head, they closed at the sharp hiss of breath heard by all, only opening when there was silence. The sister saw the realisation dawn on the face of the young princess and the moment of heartbreak that etched itself into her soul.

Slowly, long fingers carded through the now fine hair on top of Aemond’s head, and the sister was reminded of the time it had taken to wash the blood from his scalp and to work through the matted hair from prolonged bed rest. They all stood together in that manner for a long moment, the only sounds that broke through the stillness of the Sister's mind were the shuffling of feet and the ragged breaths of the Queen at her side.

“The body will be ready for the ceremony on the morrow, my Queen, princess,” Maester novice Ayo softly spoke at her side, bowing his head to avoid catching the red eyes of Queen Alicent. “You may wish to leave the Silent Sisters to their work. It is ill luck to look upon the face of death.” The young umber-skinned man added with the appropriate propriety.

“The Stranger has visited me more times than I can count kind sir,” Queen Alicent murmured, taking a deep breath of subdued pain, “I assure you, he cares little of whether my eyes are open or closed.”

The old superstition had no place here, not in the midst of the shared grief - and for the first time in many years since her pledge, the sister felt dispair as she could not speak. She did not have to speak of it, the tugging of Princess Helaena's body closer to her Highness' own was words enough of their mutual pain. Of the frayed bonds of family and blood that had been violently and systematically torn within them.

There was almost nothing left, just the echoes of the loss of Aemond and the many torn links in the sister's heart and mind sang the sad song of grief.

Novice Ayo simply bowed his head lower and walked away, unable to offer words of comfort to the withered couple. She stayed, though her hands were still, it seemed rude, and inappropriate to continue with her work as the mother and sister of the Prince were in attendance.

So, it was there they stood. Together.        

The tentative peace was broken by the tapping of heels on the stone floor. “My condolences Queen Alicent,” the sister knew the woman who had entered the chambers all of those in attendance of the Redkeep knew of the Crown Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen - beloved child of the King.

For the Sister, it was the second arrival of the Princess before a moons turn. The Princess had journeyed once prior to their chambers to inquire, in discretion, about the mending of Prince Aemond's body and the nature of his wounds. She was cold and distant then, even more so now.

Her condolences were offered between stilted breaths and the Princess nodded in acknowledgement to the rest of her sisters who fulfilled their duties as the Crown Princess glided past them.

The Queen did not speak a word in reply, instead, she smoothed the fine hair of Prince Aemond’s head and stroked his cheek, fingers twitching at the feel of cooling skin. It was not an easy, familiar texture, she knew from experience but the Queen would not take caution, not when her heart had been broken.

The atmosphere was far from welcoming with the arrival of Princess Rhaenyra, the light of the flickering flames casting long shadows that loomed across the floors.

“I do not quite care for condolences Crown Princess,” was the first words the Sister had heard her Queen utter since she had arrived with her daughter. “Condolences cannot aid me in the midst of my grief, they simply remind me of all that I have lost.”

The Princess Royal was not cowed by the Queen's obvious ire and the beseeching look prominent in the eyes of young Princess Helaena.

“Well,” Princess Rhaenyra let the word hang on the air as she stood apart from the mother and daughter, her back straight with stiffness, her hands covered by long lavish red velvets far brighter than the Queen's black silks. Her words were direct but cut with uncertainty, “I find I do not have the words to say.”

Though the Princess spoke she had no words, the Sister could tell that the Queen did not share such sentiment. “Here lies my son,” Queen Alicent’s voice was thick with emotion, just above a whisper but in the silence of the women's work her voice carried, the Sister had never heard such emotion from a woman of noble birth before, especially not the Queen.

"The third-born fruit of the womb, my second son, the only child of mine who held true resemblance to the House of my marriage and his father. Aemond was not always the most respectful or polite of children, he had a temper fierce and a stubbornness that only a mother could love and yet he was my beloved son. And he has been stolen from my arms." The Queen took a deep, wheezing, breath, "There is nothing to say because there is nothing you can say Princess, nothing at all.” She heaved a hollow laugh that descended into a garbled cry as she heaved sobs into Aemond’s hair.

At the sight of her mother's tears, the Sister saw a cruelness and darkness in the Princess' eyes that she had never spied before. The cherished daughter of King Viserys could offer no comfort to the Queen, simply standing with her hands behind her back and avoiding true eye contact.

After a long moment, she gave an awkward half-smile of faux-companionship and closeness, offering "I'm sure your love for Prince Aemond will persist long after his untimely death Princess" pivoting to addressing Princess Helaena.

“What would you know of loving a sibling?”

The Sister watched the Princess Royal bristle at the harsh words, it was clear she was unused to such address from a child no matter her relation to the young lady. The Crown Princess' lips thinned and she rolled her tongue across her teeth before tightly replying, “It is not your mother alone the Stranger has visited, my mother the Queen lost many of my siblings to the birthing bed. I love them as though they had lived.”

“And yet you have four that lived and love them you did not,”

The Sister could see the way in which Princess Helaena’s words cut at the skin of the Princess Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra, surprisingly, did not give in to the childish fury that the Sister knew filled the young princess's heart, instead, the Sister watched as Rhaenyra regained her composure and schooled her expression.

"Well then, despite the distance in our famililal relationship it would be pertinent we remain as one accord, to stand as a united front, as House Targaryen before the court. Surely the whispers have reached your ears?"

“United front? Do you think me able to care about the politics of the court? My family is not disposable Princess. They are not the bodies on which you hang your sovereignty and prop up your legacy. Have you no shame? Have you not taken enough?”

Rhaenyra stepped forward and opened her mouth to speak, to clarify her words surely but Queen Alicent cut her off completely from speaking once more. 

“My son is dead, my SON IS DEAD!” Queen Alicent roared, and with an all-mighty swing of her arm, the instruments of the Silent Sisters were strewn across the room, blades clanging as they hit the ground, pots rolling as metal screeched against the stone.

The Sister could understand such grief, she too had been once ruled by the emotion, the Crown Princess Rhaenyra flinched at the uncharacteristic display of emotion from the Queen. Princess Helaena capitalised on such raising a brow and clicking her tongue, drawing the attention of all to herself.

She held it tightly as she slowly raised her head to stare at them both, her eyes flickering up and down in derision, “My mother, the Queen is in mourning, as are we her children. It is grossly offensive to approach her while mourning to question her on matters beneath her."

Her voice brokered no room for argument and though the lines around Princess Rhaenyra's mouth tightened, she did not let her annoyance show as easily. With a well-practised expression of cordial court politeness, she schooled her face and slowly released the breath held close to her chest.

The Sister's eyes were trained on the princess, eyeing her as she eased in her ire, at her back, she heard her sisters still in the actions, eyes trained on the women and girl. Princess Rhaenyra nodded slowly, “Yes, it seems I have overstayed my welcome, my Queen, Princess Helaena." 

The Sister's eyes were trained intently on them as she left, only dropping the stare when the door shut firmly. In the presence of only women, she heard the last knot loosen in the Queen's chest and she fell to the ground violently sobbing. She knew her tears would wet the stone floor slick and that her cries would echo across the barren castle.

She resisted her urge to toy with her cowl or offer the Queen comfort with a hand across her back, she knew intimately that her Queen, the former Lady Alicent would never surpass this grief, that the pain would linger with her forever as it did herself. As was the custom, she did not say a word, lending her strength she simply stood at the side of the Queen and the kneeling princess and gave them, both the space they needed and the strength of understanding.

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