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Chapter Text

RHAENYS

“Angos, Meleys.” 
For a second, she doesn’t believe it will work. Vhagar’s claws scrape towards her head, and Rhaenys narrows her eyes against the gust of wind as they snap shut— 

Just behind her. 

Then there is clear air ahead of her and Meleys, her goddess of love, flies faster than a kiss. In a heartbeat, she’s dropped below Vhagar. The wind slices across Rhaenys’s face like knives, but she can feel the heat of Vhagar’s roar belch across her back. 

Close, but not close enough. 

She gives a glad cry, a bright sharp laugh, and cracks her whip to drive Meleys forward. Her dragon bugles a challenge to Visenya’s hoary old bitch, and Vhagar’s answer rumbles the marrow of her bones. 

Good. 

Rhaenys is fast as lightning, skimming over the trees and castle with breakneck speed. The trees creak and whine in her wake, and she can hear the screams from the soldiers below as she passes like the Stranger above them. Vhagar’s on their tail, so she makes a break for the bright blue sky, where Vhagar’s bulk is an easy target. 

Aemond is vicious, but inexperienced. Rhaenys is the daughter of Aemon Targaryen and mother to Laena Velaryon; she’s been flying with Vhagar her entire life. 

She knows how she moves. 

Rhaenys is high now, gone well beyond the gulls, into air so thin that Vhagar’s bulk cannot reach her, no matter how she strives and snarls. Here, Rhaenys taunts the beast, harrying the rider on Vhagar’s back. She strafes Aemond with bright gouts of fire, dropping out of the sun like a hawk to rake Meleys’s claws against Vhagar’s eyes. Each stoop is peregrine swift, bedevilling the larger beast with merciless strikes. 

When the beast is frustrated and her rider furious, Rhaenys feels fate whisper like a lover against the shell of her ear. She was born of fire and blood, but she is beloved of salt and sea. 

Either way, she’ll return to it. 

“Vrogagho, Meleys”, she commands, and the Red Queen responds. Her wings fold backwards, legs tucking up against her undercarriage, and the world drops out from under Rhaenys. 

The world is a smear of green and blue from these heights, but Vhagar is a quickly approaching black ink spill marring the pretty tapestry. Meleys is quiet as they dive, only the whistling of the wind and the snap of her braid to accompany Rhaenys as she plummets towards the waves. 

They pass mere feet in front of Vhagar, close enough that the beast rocks in the air and her pissant nephew yelps like he’s been slapped. 

It takes him a moment to reconcile what has happened and goad his beast into a stoop. Vhagar obeys, eager to attack the dragon that’s been harrying her. Rhaenys is glad for it, even as she hears the rattling horror of Vhagar’s inhaled breath. 

The blue of the sea is approaching faster by the moment as Meleys makes herself sleek as a seal. The wind is sharp against Rhaenys’s eyes but she refuses to close them, simply tucking her face against the curve of the saddle. She’s glad for the chains; if she were to lift from her seat now, for even a fraction of a heartbeat, she’d be sure to be ripped off by the force of the dive. 

Her cheek is pressed to the dragon-warm leather, and the rich reptile scent of Meleys’s hide fills her nose. Beneath it, the dear scent of salt spray approaches, and even the bitter scent of Vhagar’s breath feels right. 

Like threads of fate, weaving together into a bright tapestry. 

“Sōves, Meleys!” 
The command is barely a whisper. It doesn’t need to be any louder for her red lady to hear her; she’s already spread her wings, just enough to skim across the surface of the sea. The momentum pushes Rhaenys down into the scales and leather of Meleys’s back, and she wheezes out a breath as the world abruptly returns to the horizontal plane. They’re close enough that the spray tastes salty against Rhaenys’s lips — and the waves caused by Vhagar’s crash into the bay nearly swamps them. 

Nearly. 

But Meleys was born on Dragonstone and has spent a good life life chasing the waves of the Gullet, and her happy roar as she flaps through the mist earns a cheer from the men in black and red still battling under the walls of Rook’s Rest. 

Meleys lifts into the air, low and fast as she’ll go, but there is no pursuit. Vhagar’s green bulk turns the water frothy with her heaving as she struggles to keep her titanic bulk afloat, but there’s no sign of silver hair. Her nephew hadn’t worn armour, and what she’d considered overconfidence may now save his life. 

She hopes to all the fourteen Gods that he drowns, and saves them all the trouble of becoming kinslayers.  

Meleys’s roar hones her focus to the battle at hand, and it’s short work after that. The Darklyn troops turn on their erstwhile allies, attacking the Kingmaker’s troops as Staunton’s men bolster their numbers. 

Rhaenys lends her support where she can, lashing the battlefield with great gouts of fire — and it’s over in a matter of a few quick and bloody moments. 

Finally she can land, and when her boots hit the dirt, the golden dragon in front of her hisses. She simply stares back, holding its gaze with fearless resolve. Behind her, Melys rumbles, a low croon that Rhaenys feels down to her bones. She approaches, open-handed, and Aegon’s dragon regards her with angry eyes. Sunfyre guards his rider with pained resolve, knowing Meleys can burn them both in moments. Below the dragon’s shimmering gold wing, Rhaenys can see blackened skin and what looks like twisted metal. 

Two broken dragons, scions of Old Valyria shattered on Westerosi ground. 

Rhaenys pities the dragon almost as much as she regrets the necessity of attacking her kin. The house of the dragon has splintered, a day she has dreaded her entire life, and she finds herself breathless with knowledge that the last of the dragon lords have come to this. 

Daemon and Laena both had believed that the dragons were the Gods, the living manifestation of the fourteen flames. The last living link to Old Valyria and her makers. The dragon hisses again, and Rhaenys speaks, as though the Gods exist to hear. 

“You cannot care for him.” She stands beside the dragon, holding Sunfyre’s bright gaze as she speaks in Valyrian. “You cannot protect him. But you know where to find him. Heal yourself, and then come to Dragonstone if you must.”

The dragon stares at her for a moment, so long that Rhaenys feels a bead of sweat trickle down the back of her gambeson. Then, Sunfyre lifts a wing with a pained whine, revealing Aegon the Second, King Claimant of the Seven Kingdoms — burnt, and barely breathing. 

She remembers Vhagar’s arrival, the frantic happiness on the Pretender’s face turning to abject horror as the Prince had called for his annihilation. His scream of betrayal. 

His armour is still hot to the touch. 

It might be kinder to end him now, Rhaenys knows… 

But she is not a kind woman, and so she lifts him, ignoring his anguished, unconscious groan, and lashes him to her saddle. 

Melyeys departs to Sunfyre’s shrieking keen. 

Chapter Text

RHAENYRA

“Dragon!” The cry comes from the keep itself, and Rhaenyra’s head snaps up at the thunderclap sound of large wings opening like the heavens above her. 

A fast stoop from a height on a dragon of that size is dangerous, and there are not many riders brave or skilled enough for that technique. 

Daemon, Rhaenys… 

Aemond. 

For a moment, she expects the worst — fire, a conflagration, Vhagar descending in fury. She watches the shadow get closer, blotting out the sun. Relief tastes sweet on her tongue as the shape hones into Meleys’s sleek lines. 

Rhaenys has returned.

Rhaenyra’s legs shudder with relief, and will alone keeps her standing. Determination goads her like spurs towards the dragon’s caves. When she arrives it’s to a whirl of activity, and Rhaenys snapping out orders like a battlefield commander as she unchains something from the back of her saddle. The dragon-keepers bear it to the ground and huddle around it as the Maester joins their congregation. 

When the older woman sees her, triumph glows like fire in her eyes. 
“Your Grace”, Rhaenys says. “I bring you the crown of Aegon the Pretender.”

Rhaenyra sees no crown, only a crowd. “And where is it?” 

“Melted to his head”, Maester Gerardys says, looking up from the bundle of char at their feet, and Rhaenyra’s stomach churns when she makes out a human shape, blackened skin oozing red against his metal helm. 

“That— he— is that the King?!” The metal is charred and what flesh she can see is blistered and angry. Every inch of Aegon is unrecognizable, coated in a greasy black oil that reeks of dragon, so much so that it makes her skin crawl. Rhaenys herself wears a few spattering of the mess across her armour and cheeks, and the skin under it is welted. 

Burned. 

Rhaenyra knows, suddenly, what this is. “Rhaenys”, she asks, mouth drying with horror. “Was Aemond aiming at you?”

She shakes her head. “No. The Kinslayer attacked him”, Rhaenys’s voice hard with disdain. “Aegon was between Vhagar and myself, Rhaenyra. This was deliberate.” 

Rhaenys is a solid commander and experienced on dragon back. If she says Aemond did it, she must trust her. Nevertheless, when Rhaenyra tries to imagine Joffrey attacking Luke, or Jace hurting his youngest siblings, she cannot picture it. Then she remembers Alicent’s sons as princelings, and cannot say the same for them. 
“Who saw?” 

Rhaenys laughs. “Everyone, Your Grace. The Kinslayer lacks discretion, or else wanted to make a point. We engaged above the castle, and after his attack the Pretender crashed into the woods. His dragon yet lives, Rhaenyra, and I commanded it to join us anon.” 

A new nightmare to consider. 
“Why?” 

Rhaenys grins, a vicious thing that shows all her white teeth. “If he dies, better that the dragon be here. You might yet find another to ride it.” 

A thought Rhaenyra hadn’t considered blossoms like a Pentoshi lily. 
“Rhaena?” 

Rhaenys shrugs. “Who can say? The Gods may yet  see fit to preserve him. But should they not, I would see her have the opportunity.” 

Rhaenyra nods; the girl is studious and reserved, with a deep well of daring that can make her a bit reckless. She might suit Sunfyre, if only the Pretender would do her the decency of vacating the saddle.  

“Does the Dowager Queen know?” She shouldn’t think of Alicent now, but something compels her to ask. 

Rhaenys looks at her with something approaching pity, and then shakes her head. “If she does not yet, she will soon. Your Grace, I do not know if the Kinslayer lives. I drove Vhagar into the waves, and I hope they both drown, but I cannot be sure they were consumed. Even the crabs may yet reject that meal.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head. It is enough to have this. The King has been captured and his most dangerous general removed from the cyvasse board, possibly permanently. If the Gods are kind, the war is as good as won. 
“You have our gratitude for your bravery, Princess.” Rhaenyra cannot imagine that battle, nor how Rhaenys survived it, but she is grateful beyond measure that the gods in their kindness saw fit to make her the victor. She clasps the older woman’s hands, sincerity in every beat of her heart. “Thank you, Rhaenys.” 

For a moment, silence sings in the caves as the two Queens hold each other’s gazes. Then, Rhaenys dips her head, just a fraction. 
“Don’t thank me”, the Queen Who Never Was says, tone wry. “I’ve brought you a dying rival to nursemaid.”

The Maester makes a noise of concentration as Aegon’s helm peels away, and Alicent’s son smells of cooked pork. Rhaenyra’s stomach churns. 
“Can you keep him alive?” Rhaenyra asks over her shoulder. She receives a non-commital hum from her Maester. 

“I shall do my best”, he agrees, but she can see the way his hands shake. She fights back the urge to laugh. They would think her mad, or else cruel. She only thinks of the irony of Aemond the Kinslayer leaving her, Rhaenyra the Cruel, with the ugly task of saving the little brother she manifestly does not want, and that he tried to assassinate. 

“Do your utmost, and tell me should you need anything. I will not have Aegon die in my care.” 

She does speak again until the Maester has moved Aegon to a private suite. She trusts to Gerardys’s discretion, and Rhaenys’s judgement, but not the interested eyes of the maids. With two heavily armed Queensguard stationed at the door, she can finally unclasp the vise of her lips, and exhale a sigh as she looks over the mangled wreckage that is Aegon’s torso. 

“He is gravely wounded”, Gerardys confirms, when Rhaenyra finally musters the courage to ask. “He may yet pass.” He tries to keep his tone professional, even as the Maester struggles to peel the metal away from his legs without removing too much meat.

The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion, Rhaenyra hears, clear as though whispered by a spectre, and her blood chills with resolve. “I exhort you to do your utmost to stabilize him, Maester. He must not die.” 

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow, and Rhaenyra heaves a sigh aloft to the Heavens. “He is my brother, Rhaenys, for all that he has turned against me. I will not be called a kin-slayer”, she says. “And-“ 

She is interrupted by a pained moan. Unlike the unconscious gasps they’ve heard before, this one is a word. 
“Mommy-“, the Pretender King begs as more skin sloughs off along with a piece of armour, and Rhaenyra’s heart aches despite herself. She remembers the small boy in Alicent’s arms, tow-haired and petulant. She remembers Alicent’s tight expressions and unhappy eyes when she’d tried to teach him her name. How quickly she had snatched him away, as though Rhaenyra might unhinge her jaw like a dragon and gulp him down. 

As though Rhaenyra would.
She’s burned enough little brothers to last a lifetime. She might not have forgiven her friend for her myriad betrayals, but she finds she does not have the stomach to cause her further pain. 

She is a mother too, and if there was a moment for Lucaerys, her brave sweet boy, to call for her— 

“I will tell the Dowager Queen her son is here”, Rhaenyra declares, before she can think better of her mercy. “I will advise her that he in the care of our Maesters but cannot be moved. Offer her safe passage under a white flag, so she may ascertain the veracity of our statement. Maester, you will write a report detailing your treatments, so her Maester may corroborate your sound judgement.”

The man looks at her with wide, incredulous eyes. 

“Anything else, Your Grace?” Rhaenys’s voice is diplomatic, but she sounds sincere enough in her question.  She is asking, because he cannot, and Rhaenyra is suddenly, acutely, tired of this performance. 

“Yes. Rhaenys, I would have Lord Corlys summon a physician from Essos, one he trusts, to assist Maester Gerardys in his work. I would not have it said that I have failed to provide my brother every advantage to recovery.” 

“You are kind to a man who would have you — all of us — killed”, Rhaenys says, but Rhaenyra can’t find it in herself to be sharp. 

“I have never killed a man. Why start now?” 

For a moment, there is silence from the elder statesman across from her. The only noise is the clink of mortar against pestle as Maester Gerardys plies his skills, studiously pretending to have gone deaf. Rhaenyra knows her goodmother searching for the lie in her voice, the proof of her complicity in Laenor’s so-called murder, but eventually she nods, sharply, just the once. 

“Very well, Your Grace.” Warmth leeches back into her tone, and something that sounds like regard. "I shall ask my Lord Husband, but-“ 

“But?” Rhaenyra’s voice is tart. “I am resolved, Lady Hand.” 

“I understand, your Grace”, Rhaenys says, damnable amusement quirking her lips upwards. “But I would suggest speaking to our dragon keepers while you wait. It will take time to reach the Free Cities, time which our dear nephew does not possess. And I should think the dragon keepers have experience in treating dragon burns.” 

It’s so blisteringly obvious that Rhaenyra feels a fool for not seeing it. She supposes that’s why she has Rhaenys — to see the sensible path and shove her down it. 
“Pray speak to them, Maester”, she says. “And I shall offer an invitation to the Dowager Queen.” 

Rhaenys looks like she’s chewing gristle, but swallows her thoughts at Rhaenyra’s softness, and nods. “I will ask my husband to extend passage to the Dowager Queen, or else invite her to make arrangements for her own safe passage under a white flag.” Her eyes flick to the living corpse that is the Pretender, and her lips go tight. 
“What Aemond did was badly done.” Her mouth works like she’s tasted something sour. “Aemond is everything those weak men feared Daemon to be. If the Kinslayer has survived—“ 

“We shall deal with him”, Rhaenyra promises, not wanting to dwell on what her husband is or is not alleged to be. Valyrian steel girds her every word. Rhaenys regards her with dark eyes, and then nods once, quick as a headman’s blade. 

Rhaenyra breathes out a sigh of relief, and then turns to her Maester. “Whatever you need, Maester, simply ask the Queensguard at the door and it shall be provided. I shall see to my work. Rhaenys, thank you, we shall meet for supper.” 
She can bear it no longer; she turns on her heel and strides out of the chamber before she unmans herself. 

Frantic feet take her to her private chambers, to the shaped stone balcony off of her study. The black basalt curls out like a dragon’s wing out over the sharp dragon-glass peaks, cutting the wind like a scythe. There is only the wild shrieking of the night wind to accompany her thoughts, and the whistling of the dragons hunting in the dark. 

With nothing but the solitude and the sky to see, her head falls back, and Rhaenyra allows herself to laugh until tears of relief wet her cheeks. 

Chapter Text

“My dear Dowager Queen, I have your son.” 

Too threatening.  

“Your Grace; fear not, your son lives.” 

Too alarming. 

“Alicent, you needs come, quickly. It’s Aegon.” 

Entirely too casual. 

The third piece of parchment paper meets an ignominious death, hurled in the hearth as her Hand shuts the door behind her. 

Rhaenys’s thin lips purse with stifled amusement. “Having difficulty?” She crosses her arms with the easy poise of a military commander and Rhaenyra envies her her confidence. 

“I would rather slit my throat with this parchment than send it”, she admits. She’s never been the best diplomat. “I think it would be an easier sort of pain.”

Rhaenys’s cool gaze is considering. 
“You were friends with her, once.”

“More than that, in truth.” She thinks of nights spent curled under covers, telling stories of Nymeria and her adventures, or Lys where her Aunt Saera has taken up residence. Dreaming of flying together, something Rhaenyra has only shared with those she loves the most. With family. “We were sisters, Rhaenys.” Her mouth twists on the bitter words. “At least until she crawled into my father’s bed.”

Rhaenys snorts out a wry breath. ”How very Targeryen of her indeed.”

Rhaenyra shudders at at the dark humour. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism pardons many Targaryen idiosyncrasies, but Rhaenyra thinks of her father and her friend, and feels a bit sick. She cannot imagine being asked to marry Otto, either, and feels an unexpected — and wholly useless — empathy for Alicent.

“A word of advice, Your Grace?”

“Of course”, Rhaenyra says with a wave of her hand. Ink spatters from her quill as she does, marking the paper with a blood-like spray of cochineal. She sighs, and fetches new parchment from the stack. She doesn’t want to be Rhaenyra the Cruel, but neither does she want to be Rhaenyra the Craven.  “Counsel me.”

“Only… some advice from a mother — your good mother”, Rhaenys says, and for the first time since Laenor and Laena’s deaths, she says it without bitterness. “A splinter hurts worst when first pulled. That does not mean extracting it should be delayed. Grasp, and then move decisively.”

The difference between Rhaenys and Viserys has never been more stark, and Rhaenyra sighs softly, staring at the fire as though it might tell her secrets. 
“It occurs to me that perhaps adulthood is realizing that one’s father was a fool.” Rhaenys’s eyes narrow in regard, and Rhaenyra tips her head wryly. “He ought to have abdicated to you. We would all have been happier.”

“The lords of the Realm would not have tolerated it.”

“Then they should have been made to endure it. We have dragons.” 

“Your father did not.” 

“Another failing”, Rhaenyra agrees. “I am glad to have you as my Hand, Rhaenys — and as a goodmother, as well, for all that Fate saw fit to sunder us.”

Rhaenys laughs, dry as old bone. “I confess am surprised to hear you say so, Your Grace. I advised my husband against the match between you and Laenor.”

“I am glad you did”, Rhaenyra says, twisting her signet ring, over and over again. “Laenor would have been happier erstwhile.”

“I know it.” There’s a world of loss in those three words. 

Rhaenyra sighs, grief gnawing at her like a lamprey. “Had we not married, I should have made him Kingsguard. To release him. I only thought of it years later, to my shame.” He and Joffrey might have spent a lifetime sharing the close affection of the Kingsguard’s brotherhood. If only— 

Grief doesn’t change anything, and neither does looking backwards. Rhaenyra sucks in a lungful of air, and soldiers on. “I loved Laenor, Rhaenys, even if we did not share passion. Before we were to be wed, we… discussed how we might live our lives together, in companionship. He swore to be a steady Prince Consort, and I promised to give him the most freedom I could, as we provided the realm with heirs.” She can feel Rhaenys’s measuring gaze, and looks down at her hands. “I wish I had been able to offer him a better position at my side. That I might have brought him some measure of peace.” 

Rhaenyra hopes their grim compromise has been enough. She has lost a dragonrider and a companion, a friend and confidante — and cost Rhaenys a son. She still knows it to be the right thing to have done. Even if it hurts sometimes. 

“It would have insulted my husband”, Rhaenys admits after a long moment. “The Heir to Driftmark spending his life a celibate Kingsguard?” 

Rhaenyra chuckles, conceding the point. 
“I would have offered Lady of Driftmark to my cousin in her own right.” 

That catches Rhaenys’s attention. 
“I see.”

Rhaenyra nods, gaze sliding again to the flames that twist and writhe in the hearth. She sees hungry waves, high towers and always, the all-consuming fire. 
“So do I”, she tells Rhaenys. “I see so many ways we might have avoided all of this, and it hurts me to the bone. I do not want war, my Lady Hand.”

That earns her a wry laugh. 
“If only the Gods cared.”

Rhaenyra supposes that is true. They have taken everything from Rhaenys — kingdom, crown and children alike. Rhaenyra doesn’t want that. Cannot endure it. 
She must change it, for what is flight if not a constant struggle against gravity?
Resolve hardens in her spine, implacable as Valyrian steel. “They say Targaryens are nearer to gods than men. Perhaps that is true. If so, I care. We earthly gods must endeavour for peace. 

“That is hubris.”

Rhaenyra shrugs. “We fly, my dear Hand. What could be more audacious than that?” 

Rhaenys’s lips go tight as she looks to the letter. “Will you deliver the letter on dragon-wings?”

“And be taken? No; a raven should suffice, and preferably one from a house that will not be shot on sight.”

That earns her another dry chuckle. “You are learning.”

Rhaenyra laughs, the sound too gravedust dry to be mirth. “Indeed, I now know just enough to be truly dangerous.”

There is a long moment of silence, and then Rhaenys leans forward, fingertips bracing on the ironwood table of the study. 
“You could just slit his throat and end this, Rhaenyra. It might be considered mercy; he is in agony even now. He begs for death, when he can speak at all. I thought he might die the whole way over. And should he survive? He is a danger to you every second he draws breath.”

Temptation gnaws at Rhaenyra. She has considered it; simply telling the Maester to go harvest herbs in the furthest high meadows of the Dragonmont, and leave Aegon to his mothers’ gods. She had considered being an executioner, long into the darkness of the night, and after considering it, finds she has no stomach to further wound a whimpering man. 

“I will not kill an injured man in his bed”, she says finally, and prays she does not regret it. 

Her Hand seems to agree. “Kindness is weakness.”

“It is not kindness. They already call me Rhaenyra the Cruel and place the head of a dead child at my feet. Shall I become Rhaenyra the Kinslayer next? A dying man whimpering for his mother in a bed, mine own half brother no less? Carried from the battlefield by my own Lady Hand? No. If he must join our father, let it be with his mother at his side, listening as he accuses his killer with his last breath. And it will not be either of us that ushers him on his way.”

“You believe Alicent will come?”

“I do. If only to save him from me”, Rhaenyra admits with a heavy heart. Alicent has never ceased to think the worst of her. “She forever expects me to live down to her expectations.” 

“You did countenance the assassination of her grandson.”

“I had nothing to do with that”, she hisses, forgetting her composure in the face of Rhaenys’s casual accusation. Rhaenyra’s snap has the finality of dragon-jaws closing. 
There is a moment where Rhaenyra can feel the Princess’s eyes scrape over her like blades. She doesn’t back down, keeping her spine straight and her resolve foremost in her mind. After a long second, the older dragonlord dips her head, relenting. 

Another test passed, Rhaenyra thinks, and feels so weary of it she might cry. Rhaenys, however, is indefatigable. 
“Then I shall see to the arrangements, Your Grace. I am sure the Dowager Queen will be eager to make the crossing.” 

Rhaenyra dips her own head, gracious in victory. 
“Thank you, Rhaenys”, she says, and the Queen who never was excuses herself from the chambers. 

In the peace and quiet, Rhaenyra takes a deep breath and a new piece of parchment, and begins anew. 

“My Dear Dowager Queen; 

I write with regret to inform you that Aegon Targaryen has been wounded by dragon-fire above Rook’s Rest…”

Chapter Text

ALICENT

“Is he alive?” It’s been two days since Criston and his host had departed, and one since her son had flown off on his great golden beast. 

Her master of whispers shuts the door behind him, and then closes the distance between them with careful steps. Alicent has grown to hate the sound of his cane, each tap like the click of the mandibles of some malevolent spider. “His Grace’s location is as yet unknown to us”, Larys Strong says, and Alicent’s heart stutters to a standstill. 

“What?” She cannot have heard him correctly. The world narrows to a pinpoint as black threatens to swallow her vision. She pulls her own shoulders back tightly, and soldiers on. She must light the way through this storm Rhaenyra’s selfishness has wrought upon them. 
“How does one lose the King? What happened?”

“He was attacked, Your Grace-“

“Rhaenyra, no doubt.”

Lord Strong’s brows furrow with oleaginous concern.  “His Grace has many enemies, I’m afraid. In this case, it was the Princess Rhaenys who attacked… at first, your Majesty.”

“At first?” The greasy cold spit of fear wells in the back of Alicent’s throat. She swallows it down regardless. 

“At first”, Lord Strong confirms. “Prince Aemond was… valiant in his attempt to burn the dragon Meleys… but His Grace was in the line of fire.” The insinuation turns her blood to a winter river, sludgy with fear. 

“But my son— the King—“
She does tear at a hangnail now, the pain bright and sharp and steadying. 

“We have credible witnesses who attest to seeing His Grace taken by the Princess Rhaenys as she fled the field.”

Alicent’s bile rises, and she presses her hand to the base of her throat, desperate for relief. 
“What was he doing there?” It’s a choked out question; Alicent can barely breathe. She cannot believe Lord Commander Cole to be so stupid, nor Aemond so unstrategic.  

“My sources suggest he was not intended to be”, Lord Larys says slyly, and Alicent’s gut churns at the thought of the last time she’d seen her eldest son. Had she been the last to speak to him?

Awful words ring in her ears. 

Do nothing, she had told him. 

She ought to have known. Aegon has been contrary since childhood. 

Lord Strong continues on, relentless as a forced march. “His Grace’s unexpected arrival offered Princess Rhaenys an opportunity to seize the advantage.”

“And Aemond?” She fears the answer. 

It comes quick as a headsman’s blade. 
“Also unknown. He attempted to chase the Princess Rhaenys, some reports say, but others allege the dragon Meleys taunted the Prince. Nevertheless… all sources concur, Vhagar was driven into the sea and unable to rise.”

The world sways. One son taken, the other missing. She staggers where she stands, gripping the head seat for stability. “Gods be good. Any word from Dragonstone?”

“None, my Queen.”

“Or Driftmark?” Rhaenys is a mother, and she has spared Aegon before. She wonders what she’s done with him now, and chokes back a sob. She must keep her composure; it’s all she has left. 

“I regret not, my Queen.” 

She doesn’t trust him to tell her if a letter has arrived, and for a moment, Alicent feels like she’s alone in a howling storm. 
“Keep me informed, Lord Strong”, she says, trying for calm, but she knows he’s seen her white-knuckled hands as he bows his departures. 

“I serve at my Queen’s pleasure”, he says, and Alicent envies Laena Velaryon her rest. Would that she were Queen, and Alicent safely asleep under the waves of the Whispering Sound. 

She waits until the sound of tapping fades down the stone hall before turning to her handmaid. 
 “Rose, please find the Lord Commander, and request he meet me at his earliest convenience.” 
 
 The girl scurries off, and in what feels like an aeon and might be five minutes, Criston enters the Small Council chambers looking like a mad horse. There’s white around his eyes, and he looks spooked. Alicent’s stomach plummets and she clenches her fingers until her joints ache.
 “Your Grace. You called for me.”
 
 “Ser Criston. What happened?”
 
 Criston’s mouth works like he’s chewing on bitter orange. “The war belongs to the dragons now, Your Grace.” She doesn’t know if he means the beasts, or their dark riders. 
 
 Alicent shatters, for she has neither dragons nor sons. 
 “The King is gone, Ser Criston! The war is irrelevant if you do not have your King! My son”, and it is nearly a wail, only years of practice keeping her cry stifled, “my son, Ser Criston, flew to battle and the other-“
 
 She sees the moment Criston knows she knows. 

It takes a moment, and his lips purse as though he’s fighting to avoid an ugly, awful truth. 
Alicent knows Larys Strong is many things, but a liar is not one of them, not when the truth is so much worse. He wouldn’t spare her, the way her poor Lord Commander is trying to. She doesn’t have it in her to be patient. 
 “Say it. Speak whatever it is that makes you look so sick.”
 
 “It was Aemond, Your Grace. It was Prince Aemond whose dragon attacked.” The words spill out like a torrent, an ugly confession. “The Princess Rhaenys engaged and His Grace gladly accepted the fight. He was…”
 
 “He is a good dragon rider”, Alicent snaps, because Aegon cannot be dead. Cannot. “But what were you thinking, risking your king? So soon after Jahaerys? Were you mad?!”
 
Criston shudders as though he’s been slapped.
 “Rhaenys arrived to attack the Rosby troops, as intended. We had planned to lure one of the Black’s dragons out with an attack, and flank them with Vhagar. We knew a dragon would be in play, and were prepared. Vhagar was hidden well away. We had a plan, my Queen”, he promises, fervent in his devotion. Alicent is so tired of inspiring mania she might scream, if only she might find a moment to herself. 
 
 “I understand”, she soothes. “It seems to have been an… effective one. What changed?”
 
 “His Grace. His arrival was unanticipated, and although we rallied the men, it was a weakness. We called for Prince Aemond but... The Princess Rhaenys engaged and battle was joined. Vhagar… she was slow in coming, my Queen.” Alicent shudders at the thought of her hard, star-eyed son.

Would he have it in him to harm his brother? 
 
 Criston seems to think so. “Prince Aemond attacked the two… but His Grace’s dragon was between Vhagar and the Red Queen when she flamed.” 
 
 “And where is Aemond now?”
 
 “We… have not found him, Your Grace.” 
 
 “And the dragon Vhagar?” She remembers Laena Velaryon’s reptilian monstrosity, and the way her stomach had roiled the first time she’d seen her brave, bold boy climb fraying rigging onto the ancient creature. Now, she fears the power he’s capable of wielding. 
 
 Criston is too shocked and pale to notice her tight lips and hard eyes at the thought of her quiet, angry boy. “Dead in the shallows off of Rook’s Rest, my lady. We yet search for the Prince.”
 
 “And for the King? Where is his dragon?”
 
 “At Rook’s Rest, your Grace. But King Aegon has not yet been found… and the dragon will allow none near it. We feed it sheep, and… it eats soldiers, uncaring of their livery. And the King…There is the chance the Bitch of Dragonstone has taken him-“
 For all that Rhaenyra has abused his trust… Alicent doesn’t like the hard look in his eyes as he insults the Princess. 
 
 Weariness cascades over her, years weighing on her shoulders like a cape. She sways, suddenly, as blackness swallows her gaze, and Ser Criston aborts his tirade to help her to a seat. 
 
 “Thank you, Ser Criston”, she says, because courtiers are a lady’s armour. “Please send my handmaid to me.” Rose, on the other side of the open door, steps in as he steps away, nodding. 
 
 “… Your Grace?” Her maid’s voice is sweet, high and young, and Alicent wonders if Aegon has eyed her yet, or if she will be spared his advances now that her son, the King, might be dead.. She takes a deep breath, and tries to get the world to stop spinning. 

“Water”, she croaks. “Please.” The girl scurries off like a mouse, even as Alicent’s trembling fingertips turn bloody. 

Chapter Text

ALICENT 

“My Queen, I beg permission to enter.”

A knock on the royal door late at night is never a good omen, especially when the voice is that of the Grandmaester’s. For a moment, Alicent lies in bed, heart thudding like the Starry Sept’s seven bells. She is so tired of bad news, of challenges and threats. Of men demanding her time, demanding her attention, demanding sweat and tears and blood from her. Perhaps if she ignores it— 

Another discrete knock. 

She had prayed that the midnight incursions would end when her husband had joined his forebearers, but now every late night brings nothing but interruptions. Some times Alicent fears the Seven are mocking her. 

One of Larys’s little spies has helped her into a heavy samite robe, which she belts tightly around herself for warmth before coming around the screen. She sends the girl for refreshments, which buys her just enough time to speak candidly. 
“The hour is late, Grandmaester”, she says as Rose guides him in. “Is there aught amiss?

To his credit, Orwyle examines the tiles as he speaks, offering Alicent whatever modicum of privacy he can. 
“Yes, my Queen. I am afraid…” Steady hands hold out a scroll, sealed with a yellow smear of wax. “A raven has come from Storm’s End, your Majesty, bearing with it a message from Dragonstone.”

“Storms End?” Alicent clutches the sheet to her chest with clammy hands. “Were they not sworn to the King?” 

“Yes… but it would appear the Princess Rhaenys has impressed upon them the benefit of an alternative position.”

Could they have defected so quickly? Alicent has always heard that bad news travels on rapid wings, and there are no wings so swift as dragons. What had Lord Borros been shown to convince him so quickly? She thinks of Rhaenys the first, dead in Dorne, and her courage trembles. 
“Have they turned the cloak?” 

Maester Orwyle shakes his head, eyes carefully down. “No, your Majesty. Only sent a raven.”

“They act as intermediaries?” How can that be?
The Seven know Rhaenyra is in an ideal position to offer terms; she has the King and both of his heirs are dead or missing. That leaves only Jahaera or Daeron, himself pinned down in Oldtown with a dragon the size of a zorse. Dread wells in her chest and in the darkness, Alicent picks at a ragged cuticle until pain flares brightly behind her eyes. 

“So it would appear”, Orwyle agrees, handing her the small roll of parchment. “Your Majesty, this is addressed to you.”

Alicent stares at the paper as though it might bite her. “Who else knows of this?” Gods forbid Larys—

“No one, my Queen”, Orwyle assures, shooting a hard look at the empty doorway. “It was addressed to you specifically… by Rhaenyra Targaryen herself, if my recollection of her penmanship serves, and I have come from the Rookery myself. I have not opened her letter to you; only the address directing it. Your Majesty, there is a letter directed to the Grandmaester of Red Keep. I abstained from opening it until you had received yours.“ 

He motions to the letter in her hand and indeed, the seal remains unbroken. Alicent steels herself for the bad news. “I — see.“ 
For a moment, she can barely bring herself to move. It’s as though she can’t bear to fling herself off of a cliff into cold water, but with flame at her back, she has no choice. In a sharp movement, Alicent tears at the wax seal with bloody, trembling fingertips. The paper unfurls like a banner of war. 

“My Dear Dowager Queen;
I write with regret to inform you that Aegon Targaryen has been wounded by dragon-fire above Rook’s Rest.” 

It sounds distant, but the penmanship is Rhaenyra’s. There’s no sign of the woman she knows in the words, though, and for a long moment, Alicent dreads to read on. Only willpower pushes her through, mouth dry with fear. 

“Your son is being tended by a Maester of the Citadel, a conclave of Dragon-keepers, and shortly, a Pentoshi physician of excellent reference and reputation. Nevertheless, he begs your attendance at his sickbed.” 
Confusion strangles her. Alicent has expected a gloated claim of victory, a snide gibe at Aegon’s weakness. But no — 

A Maester, and she’s sent for a Pentoshi physician. Dragon-keepers attend him. 

Has she summoned down the Mother to heal him, as well? Alicent scrabbles for the paper, eyes devouring the page for more impossible truths. 

“In truth, he is gravely wounded, Alicent, and calls for you in his sleep. I may not have love for the man who claims my throne, but I cannot deny my half-brother the comfort of his mother. 
Our Maester and Dragon-keepers concur that Aegon cannot bear to be moved, but my Maester has written of his treatment so yours may be assured of his good care.” 

Alicent’s gaze snaps to the letter held in Grandmaester Orwyle’s hand, and she nods at it jerkily. “His Grace—-“ Alicent cannot think of her son, alone among strangers who have no incentive to care for him. She cannot. She tries again. “The Pretender Rhaenyra has sent you a letter detailing—“ Alicent lifts a hand to her mouth, silencing her babbling. After a moment, when her composure has been regained, she speaks. “The Maester of Dragonstone. Gerardys. What do you know of him?” 

Orwyle blinks at her sharp change of subject, but rallies quickly enough. “Maester Gerardys is competent; highly so, Your Majesty.” He has many and more chains of silver, your Majesty, and is held well in regard even by those in Oldtown. If he is tending to His Grace, he is in capable hands.” 

Alicent’s relief feels like letting the air out of a pig-skin; she deflates so quickly that she must grab for the chair lest she topple like a poorly built tower. “That— that is good”, she manages to choke out, and then turns to her letter even as Orwyle reviews his own with slowly arching eyebrows. 

“Further, I extend to you the hospitality of Dragonstone, so that you may nurse your son yourself and be assured of his well-being. 
If you agree, light a candle in your window this coming eve at the hour of the bat, and a servant shall collect you from your suites at the hour of ghosts. Be assured I mean you no harm. 

I swear this on the memory of my brother Baelon. 

We have had our differences, Alicent, but I would have you hear the account of the battle from one who was there, as I was not. 

I am not a Kinslayer, but there is a beast sheltering under your room and board, and it has consumed my son, and yours. I do not trust a letter — even if Lord Borros cannot read it! — and you must hear the truth from your son’s own lips. 

Come under a white banner, and be welcome. 

Rhaenyra Targaryen” 

Alicent can hear her voice, as clearly as though the woman herself were speaking in her ear. There is not much light in the room, and in the half-dark, Rhaenyra’s spiky penmanship looks like thorns, or claws, reaching up to ensnare her. She has already gripped her sons, and left Alicent no choice but to— 

She heaves a hollow sob, ears ringing with decades old recriminations. 
Cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy-

Alicent wonders what she has ever done to make the gods so cruel. Has she not only ever done her duty by father, husband, king and realm?
It appears she needs must sacrifice even more, now. They demand her whole self. 

If that is the pound of flesh Rhaenyra the Cruel will claim, then Alicent shall let her sink her teeth in and tear, if it means the safety of her children. 

“The Maester’s letter-“, she asks, and Orwyle considers his words for a moment. 

“As I expected”, he finally says, every syllable as careful as though he walking on rotten ice. “Comprehensive, and thorough. Indeed, it appears the Princess of Dragonstone has demanded her Maester exhaust every resource in service of his care.”

Alicent stares. It’s one thing for Rhaenyra to swear; she has broken faith before. But the Hightowers created the Citadel, and she trusts to their impartiality and rigour. “Grandmaester? In truth?”

“Indeed. There are treatments here I myself would not have thought to attempt-“ 

“For fear of failure?” 

“For fear of success, Your Majesty. The cost alone…”

“He is a King”, Alicent says. “What could be out of his reach?” 

Orwyle’s gaze is kind, but honest as a battlefield surgeon. “Everything, Your Highness. He is a hostage in a rival court. And yet, this treatment includes everything I would have recommended, and additional therapies besides. Indeed, from this, it would appear that Maester Gerardys has been instructed to spare no expense or trouble.”

Alicent’s chest feels so tight she can hardly inhale. 

Cleave to Rhaenyra and pray for her mercy…

Blackness warps her gaze, and she can suddenly bear no more. The letter in her hand feels as heavy as lead, but she makes herself dismiss Orwyle with a light hand. 

When he’s gone, she lets Rhaenyra’s missive fall into the hearth. The paper curls and chars as Alicent lets it flutter into the coals and when the flame catches, she stares for a moment. She studies the flames, looking for the signs her husband had sworn to see in their dancing, but the room is bathed in warm firelight. 

If the Gods deign to show visions, it’s clear they have nothing to share with her. 

That’s all right. Alicent doesn’t even know which pantheon to pray to anymore.

From her tower, she can just make out the Kingswood in the far distance, a black smear beyond the lights of King’s Landing. 

Perhaps I ought to go mad, Alicent thinks with a quiet laugh that makes Larys’s little spider glance uneasily her way. Then I can talk to the trees like the Blackwoods do. 

It takes Rose a moment to guide her back to bed, and longer still for Alicent to fall asleep. 

By the time sleep finally claims her, she has picked her fingertips red, and come to a decision.  

The next evening, after the bells for the Mother’s Prayers are rung and the hour of the bat has painted the sky its bruise-purple tint, Alicent orders Larys’s spy to leave her be to bathe. 

Once she’s alone, Alicent fetches her tools. 

She’s cautious, even now, hiding the slim column of beeswax from view of the door with her body. 

Only then does Alicent light a single candle in the window, and watch as it slowly burns down into the velvet dark. 

Chapter Text

HELAENA 

The air has taken on the ominous heaviness of late night as they make their way down the hallway, and their fine cloth slippers make no sound on the rugs of the royal apartments. Despite the pressing quiet, the hall is awash with torchlight, sconces flaring so brightly that there aren’t shadows big enough for even a rat to hide in. 

Helaena squints as the light blinds her, and Jahaera shades her eyes with one little hand. Her precious daughter, so sweet and vulnerable that Helaena’s heart breaks just to touch her. She can see futures for her, spread over her like so much fine lace tatting. A bridal shroud, a funereal veil. They’re indistinguishable except by touch, and Helaena grips Jahaera’s hand tight to keep her from being torn away, just another victim swept off by the river of time. 

It isn’t hard to muster tears as she approaches the door. Ser Arryk stands there, and he greets her with the respect due a Queen. It makes her feel sticky, like old spiderwebs, and she wriggles her fingers to shake the feeling off. If he notices, he is chivalrous enough not to mention it. 

“I should like to speak to my Lady Mother”, Helaena says, mindful of courtesy. Mother says subtlety and courtly manners are the currency of the Red Keep, but Helaena has never understood the necessity. 

Then again, her mother has never had a dragon. 

“The Dowager Queen is asleep, Your Grace”, Ser Arryk tries, and Helaena hitches her daughter closer to her side.  

“Ser, I must impose.”

He nods, rapping once on the door. The maid in the antechamber lets the two of them in, curtsying as Helaena makes her way towards the bedroom. They have shared quarters often enough after Jahaerys’s death. The servant will simply curl back up on her pallet in the antechamber, and Jahaera will climb into the large bed, wrapping herself around Alicent even as Helaena sits at the window and stitches the stars into a web of embroidery. 

But Alicent is not asleep now. 

She had not expected her to be. Instead, Helaena finds her seated on her chaise lounge in the midnight dark, the only sign of her the shadow she makes silhouetted against the new moon night. 

“Helaena? Did Rose let you in? Is aught amiss?” 

“Yes”, Helena says. “It is all amiss. The tapestry is ruined, all of it. Every thread is frayed, the linen is rotting, and the story with it. It’s all gone wrong.” She can see it, all but touch it, and horror fills her mind at the immensity of the decay. She cannot be lost to it, and so releases Jahaera’s hand to spin her amethyst again. “But I can fix it. I see the knots. Aegon had a dream, Mother. He told me and it was horrible.” Her mother stares at her, eyes wide. 

“Your husband? Aegon? He dreamed something?” For a moment hope, fragile as a dove, takes flight in her mother’s eyes. Like a dragon, Helaena decapitates it in one gulp. 

“No”, Helaena says. “Not your son.” Her brother rarely sleeps; more so he drinks until he’s incapacitated. “Aegon the Conqueror. Daenys. Rhaena. They dreamed of ice, a wall of it, with hungry things behind. They hate, oh — they hate us all. I saw it. I did!” She keeps her voice low but insistent. “I saw dragons bowing before blue star eyes. I can feel blood like ice water on my hands. Mother, the stars are not our friends. They watch. We must go.”

Her mother stares at her, eyes tracing over her features as though trying to sieve sincerity. “Helaena”, Alicent says, with an airy little laugh, as though Helaena is a child playing at charades. “Pray go where?” 

Helaena is tired of it, of the lies and subterfuge. 
“To Dragonstone, of course. Is that not where you were summoned?” Her mother’s eyes flash wide, white and wild in the gloaming. 
 
“How- Absolutely not”, she says, voice trembling. “Think of the child. You cannot leave King’s Landing.”

“I cannot stay. The sun has fallen.” 
From the sky like a red comet, metal plating molten hot as the sun’s fire had cascaded around him, saving his life from a shadow with a bloody eye. She watched it happen a hundred times before Aegon ever left the keep. 
Helaena shudders, feeling as though she’s stepped on a stone stair expecting roughness and had her slippers come away greasy. She fears the gaze of that blue star eye should she fall, and so pulls herself back as best she can. 

She can feel the heat that is her dragon’s awareness rising bright and hot in her chest, even from here. Helaena’s fear rouses Dreamfyre, but she soothes them both with the quiet spin of her ring. The amethyst cabochon catches the light over and over, until she is calm again. 

“You are the Queen”, her mother reminds her. 

“I am”, Helaena agrees. “It was an accident of birth. I never wanted it. Did you?”

Alicent looks stricken, before she looks away. There is a distant look of unhappiness on her face, quickly smothered as the queenly mask returns. 
“… … sometimes what we want… is less important than what the Realm needs.”

“The Realm needs fire, and blood. Not blood and cheese”, Helaena says. No one has told her the ugly name for the murder of her son — but then, they hadn’t needed to. She’d already dreamt it, seen it laid out in black scrawl before her, written in her own hand. The murder of her boy, reduced to so much spilled ink in the pages of a boring history book. 

She’d been incapable of averting it. 

The threads had already been woven, the picture too late to change. Helaena grieves a son born to die. She may yet, however, avoid turning the puddle of blood on her tapestry into an ocean of it. 
“It is long past the hour of the bat, mother, but not yet the hour of the wolf. If we are fast, we may miss it.” She takes her daughter’s hand, leading Jahaera to a square of mosaic carefully pebbled into the wall. 

“The girl is too young”, her mother says as Helaena’s fingers rest on the graven figures of a woman with a bared breast, kneeling before a Valyrian sphinx. 

“To stay behind”, Helaena agrees, and presses the hidden latch. The secrets of the Red Keep reveal themselves in the hearth fires and torches, candles and sconces. Helaena simply has to look, and listen. 
This passageway had been Rhaena’s, and it makes Helaena smile to think of the long dead dragon-rider, a dreamer like her. If she looks closely, the gem-picked woman with the bared breast seems to wear Helaena’s face. She smiles, patting fingers against the design in thanks. It’s so nice to be expected. 
“Come”, she says, leading Jahaera inside and pulling a hat over her daughter’s tightly braided silver hair. 

Alicent stares at her, mouth open, and then to the yawning black passageway. “But the ship-“

So there had been a message sent. 
Helaena’s dreams had shown a letter written in blood, burning in flame, but it is good to know she is not entirely mad. “No, mother”, she says; and holds out her hand. “It shall take too long. To flee, we must fall without dropping, and place faith in nothing.”

Her mother stares as though Helaena has all changed into a dragon herself, like some ancient warg king of the north. 
“Do not be absurd, Helaena. I am no dragon-rider. I have never flown.”

“I know.” She smells lemon cake on the still air of the passageway and hears the rustle of leaves, the giggles of two girls sitting under a tree. Then the memory is gone, as though it were never hers at all. “But do not worry, mother; my dragon has long been able to carry two.” 

“Three, Mummy”, Jahaera says, correcting Helaena on a fundamental fact, as obvious as fire being hot. “Dragons have three heads.” 

Helaena knows. She has seen the tapestry, each stitch picked out with exquisite care. She could lose herself counting each tiny point, each moment in time pricked into history— Helaena can feel the river of time reach out to sweep her away, and shakes herself back into time and place.

“Just so, my darling”, she says, and leads her family into the yawning blackness. 

*** 

The passageway leads in a winding, claw-dug tunnel through the bedrock of King’s Landing.  Helaena can taste the flames that had gone into this tunnel’s secret construction tickling the back of her throat, even as sulphur itches her nose the closer they get to the Pit. Helaena’s mother lifts a handkerchief to her nose. 
“It reeks of dragon”, she mutters, and Helaena hears the words as though echoed in a dream. A different queen, a different time. 

“Yes”, she says with a bright smile, because she can make out her own dragon’s lair. “Isn’t it wonderful?” 
Dreamfyre is eager to see her, shoving her muzzle into Helaena’s torso and thrumming with pleasure at the way their scents curl together. Helaena sighs, spirit finally at peace now that her hands cradle Dreamfyre’s scaled maw. Jahaera remains at her side, solemn but fearless as she clutches the dragons Morghul and Shrykos to her chest like puppies. 

Alicent hangs back, though, behind a row of dragon-keepers. Dreamfyre chitters low in her throat at the insult, and Helaena soothes her with soft touches and gentle words. 

“Bisa ñuha muña issa, Ēdrurzys. Ziry Zaldrīzdōro Dārilaroso ondoso jorrāelaks. Va konīr īlōn maghilā?” 

Alicent’s mouth is a hard line as she looks at the dragon. “I do not care for this, Helaena.”

“I know”, she says. “I am sorry”, she adds, because she is. “But we must do our duty regardless of what we do or do not care for. Put your hand out”, she orders, and Alicent does as she’s bid. 

“I am not a dragon”, Helaena’s mother stammers, and Helaena nods. That is true enough. House Hightower is older than Valyria and her clever shepherds. 

“It doesn’t matter. You must light the way nevertheless.”
At her side, Alicent steps forward a hesitant meter, sliding her slippers feet on stone worn slick by years of riding boots. Helaena nods, coaxing as she might a frightened spider. “Just so, mother-“ 

And then Alicent’s trembling hand is on Dreamfyre, and the dragon’s lungs heave like a bellows as she sucks in a breath. 
Alicent does as well, but doesn’t move from the contact until Helaena releases her hand. 
“That was not so difficult, was it?” 

Alicent makes a small noise of unhappiness, even as Helaena climbs the rigging onto Dreamfyre’s saddle. “Come, Jahaera, sit in front of me.” The girl does, scrambling up the knotted ladder with ease despite the late hour, and snuggling into the quilted folds of Helaena’s travelling cloak, dragons wrapped around her like warming stones.

It takes Alicent a longer moment, as well as the assistance of stairs and three Dragonkeepers, to ascend but she is eventually settled into the seat behind Helaena, and chained into place to avoid any mishaps at altitude. Helaena can see the way her mother toys with her cuticles, feels Dreamfyre scent the bright red tang of fresh blood on the air. She reaches out, fingertips resting on the back of Alicent’s hand just long enough to still her compulsive picking. 

“You’ll want to hold onto me”, Helaena says by way of excuse, and Alicent smiles, a bit bitterly. 

“You are bolder now, my daughter.”

Helaena nods. That might be true. But perhaps some of it just comes from finally knowing the design she must yet pick out with hand and loom and careful eye. 
“Yes. I can finally see the tapestry is all. It’s so beautiful.” 

Alicent’s mouth opens to ask, but before she can, Helaena speaks. “Sovēs, Dreamfyre”, she calls out, and the stars rush down to greet them in a lover’s embrace as the ground falls away like so much silk. 

Chapter Text

JACAERYS 

Grotesquely, the Pretender’s sick room smells like a feast. Even a day and a night after his arrival, the air is still redolent with the scent of fatty meat hot off the fire, only slightly muffled under the bitter tang of medicinal herbs. Rhaena swears the stench stopped turning her stomach almost immediately, but it still makes Jacaerys’s churn and his mouth fill with sour spit. 

He lurks the Pretender’s suites at his lady’s request, nevertheless. 

Rhaena has seen fit to make herself useful translating between the Dragon-Keepers and Maester Gerardys, and Baela has asked that her sister not be left unattended around Aegon. 

Not for her own safety, either, given that the man is mangled almost beyond repair and mercifully unconscious with milk of the poppy.

No, that would be too simple. 

Instead, Baela merely asks that Jace do his best to intercede against a modern Visenya. 

Jace has oft heard Maester Gerardys say that the difference between a poison and a medicine is the dose. 
Not a candle-mark later, his beloved had quietly informed him that her younger sister was a pragmatic girl in the Pentoshi fashion. There, Baela had said, young ladies learn the healer’s skills to better serve their household. 

Rhaena had been a deft pupil. 

So Jacaerys watches Rhaena, and Rhaena watches the Maesters and the Dragon-Keepers, and keeps her hands ever near her pockets. 

Jacaerys wonders if he ought not spend a pleasant hour napping in an early morning sunbeam. That might be just enough time for Rhaena to see to her business and rid his mother of the challenge to her throne, and the threat to all of their lives. 

But then he remembers the Uncle Aegon of his childhood, a distant memory with a jackal smile and a sly sense of humour. He’s gotten Jace ruinously drunk, just the once, before Jacaerys had known better. He’d led their merry pack of princes to malfeasance in lessons and the training yard, Luke trailing after them as they ran amok through the castle, playing pranks and stealing pigs—

The thought stops him dead in his tracks, because there lies the realization that those pranks were played on someone with a long memory and an infinite capacity to hold a grudge. 

The proof of that lies cooking in his skin as he lies maimed on white linen sheets. 

Aemond has tried to kill his own brother. 

It’s almost worse than how Aemond succeeded in murdering Luke in cold blood. Jacaerys hates the Kinslayer with every fire in the fourteen flames, but he knows that Aemond and Luke had been enemies from the moment they’d fought as children. 

Aemond has killed a messenger. 
The realm will judge him for it, though few will censure him for the murder of Luke aloud. They yet fear the beast Vhagar, even if they might suck their teeth at a Prince being heaved from the heavens by his own uncle. 

But Aegon? 
Aemond unleashed dragonfire on his King — his own brother. That is not only a dishonour, it is a sin, and one that makes Jacaerys queasier than any old bandage or new debridement can manage. 

The thought of ever turning his dragon on Luke — on Joffrey or Aegon and Viserys makes his flesh crawl, as though he’s the one covered in maggots. 
“I need air”, he hears himself say suddenly, as though from a far distance. Rhaena looks up from the book on Valyrian botany she’s perusing, and smiles, a tight little thing that shows no teeth. 

“Don’t go far”, she says, voice barely above a whisper. “There’s a rattle in his lungs.” It’s a mockery of tender care, because there is no attempt at sincerity, only a deep and oceanic rage. 

Jacaerys loves Baela, her command and poise, her resolve and ingenuity. She will make a magnificent Queen, a firey Alysanne—
But he respects Rhaena, for she is as remote and austere as her namesake, and as unrelenting as the cold sea the Velaryons hold so dear. The future Lady of the Tides is as implacable as a rip current, and he worries for the Pretender’s well-being now that Rhaena has felt the war personally.

Jace’s heart feels like a lump in his chest as he steps onto the balcony. The morning sun is just starting to just starting its knife’s edge sparkle on the waters of the Gullet as he forces himself to close his eyes and breathe in and out in measured beats. 

Father had taught him that as a boy, a way to slow his pulse before attempting deep dives or difficult drills. It’s useful when he feels out of his depth at court, too, and eventually, the tense muscles of his neck unclench enough that he feels able to inhale at all. 

He opens his eyes, but there’s something different. 

There is a blaze of white in the quickly brightening sky, quickly becoming visible as a long stream of unbound white hair. As he stares, the undulating bulk of a dragon the same pearlescent blue of the horizon at dawn begins to glide down for a graceful landing. 

“Rhaena.” His voice is steady, years of training holding when his knees shake. His hands grip the bannister tightly enough that granite chafes his skin. 

“What is it?” Her voice floats from the room, sweet and ladylike as ever. She could be poisoning Aegon as she speaks and he’d never know. 

“Is he alive?”  

“The Pretender? The Gods are yet patient.” 

“The Greens are not. There is a large dragon approaching.” Jacaerys strides into the room, and Rhaena leans forward, interest in her gaze. The fabric of her skirts rustles as she does, but he does not hear the clink of bottles. Laena Velaryon’s daughter probably wouldn’t be so obvious as that, but he still checks the steady rise and fall of the Pretender’s chest, just to be sure. 
On the wall, he can hear as the sentries begin the hue and cry.

“Is it Vhagar?” 

“Dreamfyre, I think; I can see blue. Come, Rhaena, we should greet our noble guests.” 

“No”, Rhaena says in a voice as cold as the Wall. “Their first visit will be here. Better that they see the Pretender with noble attendants.”

“And if she attacks?” 

“If Dreamfyre attacks?” The laugh he gets in return is weary as the grave. “Shall I man a scorpion, brother? Perhaps grab a polished shield, like Ser Perwyn? Without a dragon, I am nothing more than an obstacle for riders to trip over. Better that I be somewhere I can affect some good.”

“By poisoning him?” 

Rhaena’s expression is achingly fond as she looks at Jace. “By pretending to care, Jace. In any case — the Faith says it’s as much a sin to kill a wounded hostage as a messenger.” When she shifts her gaze to the unconscious man, her smile goes glacial, and Jace remembers that she was raised far from the sight of the Seven. In Pentos, Baela says they worship fire gods with blood sacrifice. “I hope they hurry. The Gods are yet fickle.”

Jace stares at her, deeply alarmed. 
“Seven Hells, Rhaena, I’m not sure I should so much as blink. Baela would have my head if you took his.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Jace”, Rhaena chides. “I’d not be able to get through his windpipe in time.”

“Rhaena-“ 

“Oh, just go, Jace. They’ll need your dragon, if it comes to it, and this one hasn’t died under my care yet.” She flicks her gaze towards the window. 
“I wonder how they’ll take— it”, she says, waving her hand at the mess Aemond Kinslayer has made of his brother. 

Jace’s heart hurts for his aunt, the only one of them who’d never so much as swat a spider. He should not call her Queen, for her husband is not King, but cannot call her Helaena, for they are no longer such close companions. 
“I trust she’ll manage. I should go” Jace says, watching the blue dragon grow ever larger in the sky. He can see a blaze of white now, and realizes it is Helaena’s unbound hair, and that of her daughter’s as well. “His lady wife arrives.”

“Just her luck”, Rhaena says, dry as old bone. “Her husband is so incompetent a King he cannot even provide her the safety of making her a royal widow.” The blistering look of disdain she aims down at her unconscious patient  has Jace fleeing for the relative safety of dragonfire. 

Chapter Text

RHAENA 

Rhaena watches the dragon land in the courtyard with cool regard. 
Dreamfyre is a large beast, capable of carrying any small number of noble passengers. Currently, her cargo is three generations of Hightower Queens. One blaze-red head stands out like a weirwood leaf, but the other two are white as snow. 

The elder is dressed in periwinkle blue riding leathers, and the younger is dressed in what looks to be a smaller version of the same. Only the Dowager Queen is dressed formally in a dress of habitual green, a colour so dark as to be nearly black. 

There is commotion as they all leave dragon-back; a ring of knightly swords and Valyrian pikes surrounding the snapping dragon, who hisses but doesn’t flame. The Dowager Queen staggers down  to the dirt with unladylike eagerness, and even from her tower, Rhaena can see the way she trembles. The Queen and the Princess, however, each slide down off of Dreamfyre’s wing as though born to dragonback. 

She doesn’t miss the way Helaena turns back, as though anticipating another little body. 

Rhaena knows what it is to wait on a ghost. 

A door slams open, loud enough that Rhaena can hear it on the breeze, and a mass of red and black exits the Great Hall. She can just make out two silver heads, with tell-tale black hair between them. 
“Her Grace, the Lady Hand, and the Crown Prince” floats upwards on the breeze— a proper Royal welcome, even if Rhaena would have suggested Jace stay indoors. 

No sense in risking the entire chain of succession if Helaena decides to commit perfidy. 

Helpless to do anything but watch and wait, Rhaena scours the view for a sign. She’s too far away to make out the words, but when the party moves inside, Rhaena knows to expect visitors. 

It is the work of an instant to prepare. 

Aegon’s wounds have been freshly bandaged, but she swoops about like a peregrine, checking to ensure they’re clean. Fresh white sheets are hitched over his hips to preserve his royal dignity, but his chest and pale legs are bare, the better to keep his deep burns slick with fresh honey from the Dragonstone apiaries. 

That had been Rhaena’s own suggestion.

She has read that Valyrian healers used tinctures of honey local to the Lands of the Long Summer to cure an outbreak of blood boils. She is keen to know if Dragonstone honey will heal dragon burns, and Aegon is an unwitting but delightfully compliant subject. 

The gentle early morning breeze through the distant balcony door keeps the sickroom fresh, sweeping out the worst of the cooked meat smell emanating from the patient. Satisfied that the room is well arrayed, she settles herself back into the chair beside the Pretender’s sickbed in a carefully curated portrait of ladylike gentility. 

The Mother herself could not find aught amiss as Rhaena lifts her book and begins to read softly aloud. She keeps her voice light and gentle, as though she were reading to little Egg. 
“Blossoming and stretching their glossy fingers up, as if alive, these tendrils are written to have braided and folded themselves apart and together again like coils of rope. If Jaehaelor can be believed, these grasses also laid the foundation for almost every meal on the Valyrian Peninsula, as garnishment. Though it must be noted that while this variety of vegetation was enjoyed by dragonlords and their kin, it was forbidden to slaves.
In a sad turn of events, Jaehaelor himself describes his own misfortune of having walked in on a bed slave, Narha, nibbling on this particular fruit of his precious soil. Forced to slit her wrists with his Valyrian steel blade, he notes having bottled her blood and using it to nourish his Ruby Ferns, which he then describes as having grown to extraordinary heights—“

Voices carry in stone hallways, and Rhaena has exceptional hearing. The royal progress approaches like a tempest. 
“My son”, Rhaena hears the Dowager Queen say, tone tight as a drum-skin and louder with every step. “Gods be good, where is my son—” The Dowager Queen’s voice is low for a woman’s, and sharp with concern. 

“Alicent, we must speak-“ Queen Rhaenyra sounds as though she’s passed wit’s end, even as she strides into the foyer of the royal suites, scattering attendants and dragonkeepers like pigeons. 

“I must know what has happened to my son, Rhaenyra!” The Dowager Queen’s eyes are white and wild as a spooked horse’s, and her face is drawn, frown lines graven in alabaster. “What did you do to him?!” 

Her stepmother splutters, looking like a splashed cat. “What did I-“

“Who are you to shout vile calumnies at Her Grace”, Ser Alfred blusters, as though he hasn’t made a recent pastime of contradicting the Queen. 

“Your Majesties… Where is the ship?” That’s the Lady Mysaria, the one tasked with the logistics of sending it. Rhaena does not trust her stepmother’s new Mistress of Whispers as far as either of them can fly, and knows Baela does not either. 

“The crabs returned to the sea with the tide”, the Pretender’s Queen says, gentle voice lilting over the din. Rhaena’s attention hones to a focus on her. Crabs? 
That’s House Celtigar’s sigil— 

Had she seen the ship’s flag while flying? 

“You brought a dragon.” Her Grace sounds as though she’d like to pull out her own hair. “A dragon! Are you out of your mind?! We have scorpions trained on Blackwater Bay! Alicent!” 

Jace’s expression darkens as Her Grace reveals their last line of defence. Rhaena watches his expression shutters like storm hatches as she continues, “You could have been shot!” 

Rhaena sees her grandmother roll her eyes up to the heavens at the concern in the Queen’s voice. 

She can only assume Grandmother has turned to prayer in the hopes that the Gods will be merciful and put them all out of their suffering. They might be so kind as to make another Doom out of Dragonstone and render this someone else’s problem. 

“Oh, as though I had a choice, Rhaenyra!” The Dowager Queen snaps back above Rhaena’s head in a too-familiar term of address. “I had intended to sail, as someone so kindly demanded. Her Grace insisted otherwise.”

Rhaenyra’s attention slides to Helaena, who just bobs her little girl on her hip. “I dreamed of fire, consuming a letter, and then we flew across the water. I am sorry we are unannounced. There was no time to wait, dear sister”, the Pretender’s Queen says, voice soft. “There was no time to waste. The sun has fallen, but dragons must rise-“ 

“The only dragon rising shall be red on a black field”, Lord Celtigar blusters, even as the Dowager Queen turns to her daughter.

“Not now, Helaena”, the Dowager Queen says, finally clapping  eyes on the motionless mass in front of Rhaena. Her hand covers her mouth when she sees the ruin the Kinslayer has made of her eldest son, and Rhaena feels a smear of pity for them both. 

Grandmother shepherds the remainder of the congregation of Queens into the Pretender’s sickroom like so many truant children, a thin-lipped smile on her face. Rhaena falls silent, but rises to her feet and dips a small curtesy to her stepmother. 

“I was reading-“, she says softly, and Queen Rhaenyra smiles at her. 

“That was good of you, Rhaena, thank you. How is he?” 

Rhaena keeps her true thoughts to herself — that he would be better off if he were dead, that it would be kinder to expedite him on his way. 

That she would trade him for Luke. 

She can’t say that. 

Not with his mother, wife, sister — she coughs to cover the snort — and daughter at his side like so many carrion crows. Rhaena holds her book to her chest instead, and is careful with her words. 
“He has not yet woken, Your Grace, your Majesties, ”, Rhaena says, before turning to the Dowager Queen and her cousin Helaena. “I have helped Maester Gerardys and the Dragon-keepers, Your Majesties, and should be happy to translate for you if necessary.” 

It will keep her close, and in her practical ochre-brown hessian apron, she could be any serving girl or lesser healer. Dragonstone has any number of silver-haired kitchen maids. Easy enough to slip an extra splash of poppy milk in the thin gruel they massage his throat into swallowing. 

“Thank you, Lady Rhaena”, Alicent Hightower says, to Rhaena’s dim surprise. She hadn’t thought the Queen would remember her. She’s the least remarkable of the Blackwater brood; even little Aegon and Viserys had managed to hatch their eggs — she’s just the common cousin. 
But then, she corrects herself, after Aemond had lost his eye, she supposes it would be hard to forget the parties involved. “But I will speak to the Maester myself, immediately.” 

The Maester and Dragon-Keepers consult with her, and Rhaena finishes the tidy knot holding the bandage over the gory mess of Aegon’s side. It might be improper for her to see him in deshabille, but Aegon Targaryen, the Green Pretender, resembles melted wax more than he does a whole man. Judging from the Maester’s quiet grunt of pity when he’d removed Aegon’s metal faulds and cod, Rhaena has reason to suspect her virtue is well protected in the Pretender’s presence, even if he were to wake with incurable priaprism. 

Rhaena has spent years learning Valyrian, if for no other reason than to court her lord father’s affection. She has been helping where she can, translating books of healing and translating for the Maester, but it all feels a pittance. 

When her cradle egg hadn’t hatched, and the dragons refused her, she had become reconciled to the fact that she would never be a dragon-lord.
She had hoped, perhaps, to be a dreamer, but despite her prayers, her own had remained mundane. After prayer and sacrifice, Rhaena had resigned herself to being a scholar of Old Valyria instead, carrying the traditions of their great houses forward with pen and ink instead of fire and blood. 

Confronted with dragon-lords and dreamers in the flesh, it would appear that she is not meant for the greatness of Valyria after all. All Rhaena has are books in a dead language and bandages slathered in honey.

Which she still needs to change, come to think of it.

She rises to her feet, drifting over to the Dragonkeeper on duty and helping her lift the Pretender. He groans, and she shushes him on instinct, the way she might a cringing dog. It continues, so she carries on, ignoring her patient’s agony in order to heal him. 

He can’t die yet. She won’t allow it. 

Rhaena might be dragonless, but even the Royal Navy awaits the pleasure of the tides. 

The Gods must hear her, for when she lifts her head from her work, it’s to find the Pretender’s pale queen staring at her across his sickbed with wide, dreamy eyes.

“I followed the golden thread here”, Princess Helaena says, and the hairs on Rhaena’s arms raise at the way her voice seems to come from a thousand miles away. “It’s so beautiful. So beautiful. The gold threads twining together, old gold and bright gold, and always stronger together.”

Helaena seems luminous in the watery morning light, and Rhaena remembers every story she’d ever heard about Daenys, and shudders. 
It must be awful to see and not be believed. 

She hears a commotion above her, and looks up from her reverie. It’s the Dowager Queen, pale as a paste-paper statue of the Mother, and as brittle. 
“Absolutely not— I will not have him treated by women— and Lady Rhaena— it is improper!” Rhaena lifts her head from her strange cousin’s gaze, only to see Her Grace and the Dowager Queen nearly nose to nose with exasperation. 

“Oh Alicent, pick one war to lose, not all of them!” Her stepmother sounds at wit’s end, but even now Rhaena can hear the fondness under it all. 

This could be a problem… 

“I’m trying to avoid one”, the Dowager Queen hisses. 

…Or a benefit, Rhaena realizes. 

“A war that I’ve won?” Rhaenyra says with a feline grin that Rhaena had seen a hundred times on Luke’s face. 

It hurts enough that she looks down, busying her hands and mind with another bandage. On the one hand, it would be better to avert bloodshed — but misery likes company and they stole Luke from her.
Her patient groans in his sleep as she ties one bandage too tightly, but she works fast regardless. Needs must, and he’s already had enough poppy to drop a literal dragon. If he can still feel it, she cannot help that. 

“I believe I was the one present at Rook’s Rest, Your Grace. Your Majesties”, Grandmother says, and Rhaena hears Jace exhale an aborted laugh. “And in the spirit of averting further battles — and avoiding gossip — we ought to discuss this more privately. Perhaps after their Majesties have had time to visit with their brother. Rhaena-“

“I should translate-“

“I am sure we will be fine”, the Dowager Queen says, but before Grandmother can cut her with a Valyrian steel glare for interrupting Rhaena, she demurs. “But I thank you for the offer, Lady Rhaena. Did you stay with him?” 

Rhaena considers her answer, and then offers her the truth. It will trouble Alicent more. 
“We took turns”, she says. “My sister, good-brother and I. We speak Valyrian, Your Majesty, and can serve to translate between the dragonkeepers and the Maester. They are, as you might expect, very experienced at treating burns and have been working closely with Maester Gerardys. But I thought that this morning I might read to his Majesty.” 

The Dowager Queen stares at Rhaena as though seeing a talking cat. “Read to him?” 

“Why yes”, Rhaena says, in a tone so sweet her grandmother’s eyes instantly narrow in recognition of mischief. “Her Grace thought the company might help speed the Pr-“, a delicate pause, just enough that Grandmother’s lips quirk, “-rince’s healing, and bid us attend him as we would a brother. He is our kin, after all.” 

It’s worth the mouthful of bile just to see the expression of blank-faced shock on the Dowager Queen’s lean face. 

Chapter Text

DAEMON 

Daemon follows the humming away from the drafty, dripping bedchamber. It’s like something out of a child’s tale — a distant and nearly recognizable sound wafting through the empty walls of a haunted Keep. 

It beckons him on, wordless, almost tuneless, and still as keen as a fishhook. 

He knows it’s stupid to follow it. He does it anyway.

He has heard this song before, he sure of it the closer he gets to the source. It’s louder now, emanating from the warmly lit room ahead. He can see a cozy little den tucked away from the damp of the rest of the keep, and a female figure in the deep chair placed in front of the fire. 

Only when he steps into the glow of the room does he realize why the singing is so familiar. 

It’s a Valyrian lullaby; one he’d taught— 

“Always coming and going, aren’t you?”

It’s Rhaenyra, and she is a maiden again.  

For a moment, he is frozen in time, place and space, staring at an impossibility. Rhaenyra is his wife, mother to his children and a woman grown. 

A Queen, albeit a weak one. 

She cannot be here. 

That means this cannot be real. 

And yet, here he stands. 

He rounds the chair carefully, sword at the ready. The creature in front of him wears the face of a girl, cheeks still unlined by frowns, eyes still unburdened by grief. There is anger in her gaze, though, and a withering disdain that makes him feel less than a snake. 

“And I have to clean up afterwards.”
There is a headless child in her lap, and a row of septa-straight stitches across the gash separating his component parts. Rhaenyra turns back to her grisly work, a sneer blossoming on thinned lips. 

The frost in her tone could cleave flesh from bone; he feels flayed alive under her dismissive eye. She returns to her work, careful stitches slowly winding their way across the neck of a boy who looks like he could be their son. 
He thinks of little Aegon, of Viserys, the way he’d cradled their little bodies to his chest in the moments after their births. 

The way they’d learned to smile at him, to clutch at his fingers, to smile at Caraxes and demand to fly. 

Daemon tries to hold his resolve, to cleave to the steel of old Valyria. 

Only death may pay for life— 

The boy, Aegon’s son — Jahaerys — opens his violet eyes, and smiles up at him. 

Daemon opens his own eyes as his whole body jerks on a silent scream, sudden and sharp as though he’d fallen through rotten ice. He shudders, hard, and then freezes. Years of war have taught him when he’s being watched. 

He turns on his heel. There’s a woman staring at him from the base of the ancient weirwood, standing as still as the tree he’s put behind him. He can feel that staring at him too, an angry scowl burning a hole into his back. He has no idea how he’s arrived here. Tree and woman are each an inhospitable sentinel, pale columns in the darkness, glaring at him as though he were trespassing on hallowed ground. The rivermen are backwards cunts, after all; they do still worship the trees. Perhaps she’s just an impertinent maid— 

Until she speaks. 

“You will die in this place”, the phantasm says in a burr so thick he feels it stick to his eardrums like mud.  

It’s no less menacing for all that; the conviction in her pale gaze makes his skin crawl. 

Then she’s gone, bustling away into the dark maw of the castle as though she’s said nothing at all out of the ordinary. 

He stands under the weirwood tree for a moment, watching as sap seeps out of the eyes and screaming mouth. He can still hear Rhaenyra’s lullaby, can still see the boy’s violet eyes looking up at him. 
He eventually makes his way back to his rooms, but sleep evades him. He sees the boy every time he blinks, a ghoulish smile sweet on his face. 

They look alike, his sons and the Pretender’s. 

***  

There’s something in the water here. 

Or the air, something unholy on the breeze that disturbs his sleep and makes Caraxes restless. 

He keeps hearing voices. Keeps seeing things. 

He hears lullabies in voices he recognizes and wishes he did not; Rhaenyra’s sweet voice, Laena’s gentle croon, his mother’s husky one. He sees Rhaenyra, a charming and imperious girl, bold and demanding. He sees her again, a woman grown and tempered like a fine sword. He thinks he should like to press his lips to the edge of her, run his tongue along the razor-honed seam between loyalty and obsequiousness. 
He has bowed to Rhaenyra; has let her crown him with her hands and anoint him with her desire. It should not be harder to swallow losing an actual crown, but the witch woman’s words have made love taste like ash on his tongue. 
The queen herself is a creature of fire now, a thing consumed in dragon-flame every time he sees her. He sees flashes of gold between the white-hot sear, and feels the transcendental agony of dragonfire wherever her lips touch his skin. 

When it passes, he sees a green dragon with a gold crown on its head, and a line of black stitching across its throat. He hears a boy’s voice, begging for his mother to save him, garbled and choked as though through wet with blood. 

He sees a trembling finger, pointing at one of two children.  

Daemon sleeps poorly, chasing ghosts both awake and asleep. 

In his dreams, Daemon chases the Kinslayer through a maze of weirwood roots, and then becomes him before disappearing into the blue gloom of a dead castle. 
He is alarmed, but not surprised, when he wakes from his reverie to find himself in something like looks like an kitchen but smells like a Maester. 
There’s something sizzling on a spit by one of the hearths; it smells of pork crackling and his stomach rumbles. 

He doubts it’s food. 

“It’s a touch late to be stalking about a strange castle putting its people to the sword”, the woman staring at the hearth fire says, sounding amused at his discombobulation. His skin crawls, as though she’s stroked fingers along his brainstem. 

“You-“ 

“I’m called Alys”, the woman tells him, finally deigning to look up. A Strong bastard, apparently, and he tries not to scrape her features for similarities to Jacaerys. The hair’s the same, an inky black so deep it’s nearly blue. There’s a similarity around the jaw, too, but the strong lines that lend him nobility just make her look ageless. Their eyes are the same, too, almond and dark with wisdom. Jace has a kind spirit, though, and this woman has a beak and brain like an owl.

She challenges him, needling him with questions and dangerous allegations. She inquires as to his loyalty, doubts his motives, and speaks of the Queen with such casual knowledge that he begins to wonder if she’s a figment of his addled mind. He’s heard of bastard boldness, but she is inhumanly brave. 

The barn owl in human form stares at him with piercing eyes from her apothecary, and then offers him a drink comprised of some bloody pulp. 
“Here, drink this. You’ll need your sleep if you’re to win this place to your side.” 

He won’t eat peas for fear of poison, but quaffs this brew without complaint or hesitation. He isn’t sure what’s in it, but it tastes like cinnamon, and blackberries, and — 

Daemon wakes in the Hall. 

Lord Simon blathers on about various minor houses and their interminable squabbles. Beside Daemon sits some rat-faced man with lank brown hair who stares at him as though he were one of Viserys’s obscene Qohorik tapestries. 
His ears are filled with noise, words that phase in and out as the world looms and contracts around him and— 

Daemon looks up to find Laena looking down, an expression so solemn and grave he cannot bear to meet her gaze. She knows what he has done; feels it for a certainty, the way he knows to fly, and swing a sword. 
She pours him wine, her look down at him ripe with disdain, a perfect echo of Rhaenyra’s. He takes a deep sip. 

Drunkenness would be a relief, but he is not so fortunate. 

He gives Blackwood his leave to cry havoc, and ignores Lord Simon’s angry-caterpillar eyebrows.  

The screams distract him. 

There are so many of them now: carried on the wind, whispered in his sleep, even as the silence from Dragonstone becomes all the more damning. He tells the barn owl that does not want to sit idle as someone brings him his crown— 

But Blackwood is a monster, Bracken is recalcitrant, the Tullys are led by a gentle boy and a dying man, and Lord Simon sits as castellan of a death-pit. 
In short, the Riverlands are a blight on his patience, and he ponders the merits of burning everything in it all to ash at least once a week. He would, but even nature seeks to thwart him, and it rains constantly. 

Dragonfire would still catch, but Caraxes does not enjoy the rain, and Daemon already finds his suites soggy enough without flying through a storm to discipline some of Rhaenyra’s recalcitrant vassals. 

So he stays. 

It is a tactical error. 

One night, he wakes in the silence of his room to find the dead child staring at him, inches away from his face. Daemon spits curses at it like a thing possessed, but the phantasm doesn’t disappear. It just smiles its ghoulish, sweet invitation, and holds out its hands in a childish plea for affection. Daemon’s blood ices with horror as his older brother’s dimple pop into existence on the creature’s cheek. 

Daemon has had enough. 

He lunges forward out of the bed in a mad grasp, hand on his sword. He can just feel the cold chill around his fingertips and—

then Daemon is falling— 

Falling from the sky, a red comet streaking down towards a blue star, inexorably drawn towards each others’ gravity. 

The crash feels like enough to break the Arm of Dorne anew; a cataclysm that shakes the foundations of the planet. They fall into the sea, a wave of water higher than the wall rising upwards. Above him, everything is blue, but the child sinks them both down into the deep like an anchor. Daemon struggles upwards, desperate for breath, but it is for naught. A heavy weight carries him inexorably down towards the silt of the lakebed, and at last a gasp of breath escapes him. 

He does not die. 

He can breathe. 

There are weirwood roots at the bottom of the lake, thick and lazy as eels, and when he settles against them, he feels their icy pulse against him. It is cold as death, and beside him the dead child’s hair floats in the current like lake weed. 

“I am sorry”, Daemon says. It is clear, despite their predicament. “It was a mistake.” 

The corpse does not care, only keeps smiling as blood begins to darken the water around them, seeping from the stitches, black as the deep dark of night. 
The sky opens above them, water cleaved like a sword, and he is staring into eyes as cold as death. He opens his mouth to scream, but now water rushes in and—

Then he is in an empty cavern, roots crawling over the pale body of a man with white hair and a red mark on his patrician face. There’s something familiar about him, but then he’s gone, dissolved into a horrific crow that shrieks at him in a language older than Valyrian. The scream turns into the sound of a child’s wail, the sick squelch of meat being cut. He can see a puddle of blood, and when he looks up, his hands are wet with it. 

Coiled at his feet lies a dragon, green and gold and glorious. It stares up at him with Valyrian eyes, and he knows it is the boy, trapped beyond reach.  

When the dragon flees him, he follows it. 

He walks through a world of blood, each banner red and black, gold and green, a conflagration he cannot resist. The banners turn to yellow and black, the stag of Baratheon burning red hot to the touch. Above him, a comet flies through a sky devoid of dragons. In front of him, seated naked on the dirt, is a girl that looks like she could be his daughter. She is curled around three hatchlings, sooty with the fire, bloodied by sacrifice. She looks up into the red sun and—

There is Rhaenyra, standing on the dais and— 

Around her, a sea of silver hair, of pug noses and easy smiles, of Laena’s grace and Rhaenys’s resolve, Corlys’s daring and Viserys’s caring; all encircled by Rhaenyra like a dragon coiled around her hoard.

Fire licks at her, green and liquid gold, but she embraces it the way he has her, and does not burn. She is at home amidst the emerald flames, a beacon with the crown of Jahaerys glowing ruby-bright, and his Valyrian steel like armour around her throat, and— 

There are dragons eggs now, hundreds of them, hot as coals and clustered around her. They tumble around her feet like common pebbles, so generous is their bounty. The three he’d seen cradled by the silver-haired stranger, the ones Rhaenyra had chosen for Aegon and Viserys; and others, a thousand each glowing like fire-lit gems. Each cracks with a noise like the song of stars, like the cleaving of the moon, as a congregations of dragons roar to greet each new hatchling.  

He can hear Caraxes’s high delighted shriek, high above the rest. Daemon’s heart leaps, the way it does when he takes a steep dive, a glad vicious thrill and— 

He wakes at the foot of the weirwood, hands bloody from where they’d clutched Dark Sister in his sleep. There are fresh slashes on the bark, and red sap on his hands too. Cold rain falls in horizontal sheets, and in the distance, Caraxes screams his fury to the angry skies. 

Enough. 

He will fly to the Brackens and deal with them, resolve the matter of the Blackwoods into the bargain, and return home. If nothing else, he can burn them all along with their trees and let the old gods sort the rest of this mess out. 
He has his sword at his side and his dragon roosting on the shale scrabble below him. It might be the hour of ghosts, but he needs nothing more. 

To the Hells with the Riverlands and their ignorant lords and barn owl girls— 

“You weren’t going to bid me farewell?” The witch of Harrenhal’s voice could cut Valyrian steel. 

“There’s something wrong with me.” It is, perhaps, an understatement. He’s being haunted by a headless child and the shade of his niece. He might be seeing the future. 

He’s sure he’s going mad. 

“Someone poisoned me. The food. The wine. Or else it’s this swamp air-“

She smiles. “The ghost of Harren the Black moaning his curses from Kingspire Tower?” 

Kingspire? 

King’s pyre — he wonders if they burnt the child like a true Targaryen, or if the Hightower queen demanded they give the boy to the worms. He wonders why he cares. 
“Drivel”, he snarls, because he cannot skewer a spectre, cannot run it through with a sword. He tried. A dragon should be fire, not food for insects. “The ghost, the curses, the blasted weirwood bed— I am done with it!” 

“Ah yes”, Alys Rivers says, tone as sharp as Caraxes’s claws. “That is your way, is it not? When something doesn’t please you— you run.” 

Those are Rhaenyra’s words in her mouth. He cannot bear it. “DON’T LECTURE ME!” 

A child’s indignant howl, he knows it the moment the sound escapes. The smile he receives reminds him of the last thing a mouse might see; all beak and bad intent. 

But the Owl means wisdom as well as death, so he throws himself at its talons regardless. 

“If you have any advice for dealing with the Riverlords… expeditiously…”, it feels like pine sap, sticky as tar on his tongue, but he spits it out anyways. “I’d be glad of it.” 

The witch doesn’t let him off easily, but she does give him an answer. “You? No.” 

“I need help, Alys.” He hates the plaintive note in his voice, the childish lilt and the way she smirks as though she sees into the pit of him. 

“Do nothing now”, she orders, strict as a Septa. “Soon, the winds will shift.” 

Caraxes shriek of thwarted fury guides him back to the discomfort of his weirwood bed.  

When he wakes the next morning, it is to blue skies and fresh air. The castle glistens, melted stone creating candle-wax sculptures throughout the Keep. He abides by Alys’s advice, making himself useful with petty tasks around the keep. 

Let her sneer; it lets him listen, and take the pulse of the soldiers. 

The men gossip about the Pretender as they work — what they heard, where he’s gone, who did it to him. Some say Rhaenys struck the blow, striking out of the sun like the vengeful hand of the Gods. 

That she took him away like a spoil of war. 

Others, quietly, whisper that Aemond did it, that he rode Vhagar to battle and unleashed fire upon his brother. 

Nobody seems to know what happened, but to ask would be to reveal himself ignorant of the truth. 

So he waits, and early in the morning of the fourth day, Lord Simon greets him with porridge, fresh cream, and raven scrolls. 

One bears the red and blue trout of House Tully, and Daemon opens it first. 

It’s good news; Lord Grover has shuffled off his mortal coil, and young Lord Oscar comes to swear his fealty and swords to him— and Rhaenyra’s cause. 

He nods with satisfaction, handing the scroll to Simon Strong to read. 
The man nevertheless looks uneasy and Daemon knows too good to be true usually is. “What else?” 

The man hands him a second scroll, bearing the seal of House Targaryen picked in the colours of Driftnark. 

Rhaenys. 

Daemon rips into the letter with shaking hands. 

“I have enjoyed our game of cyvasse, dear cousin, and collected the pieces you left strewn about. The golden one and its clutch are at the family pile. I am afraid the largest piece is yet missing. Pray return and make yourself useful in the search. You may return and play tin soldiers at your leisure later.” 

There is nothing else. No signature, nothing more than his cousin’s elegant penmanship, deliberately vague. 

But it’s enough. 

And his clutch—

Daemon thinks of the little boy. 
A fresh breeze slaps at his cheeks, feeling for all the world like little hands. Daemon shudders. “And when will the Rivermen be here? I have tarried long enough.” 

Chapter Text

AEMOND

His arms are tired.

His feet are bricks.

The water burns, and fish nibble at the ends of his hair. He’s down to a fine linen shirt and his trousers, the rest of his leather having been shed as dead weight, along with his belt and boots. But Aemond is alive, and that is enough. 
Vhagar’s last act had been to save his life; her bulk connecting the water had broken the surface, and the blast of air leaving her body had cushioned his crash. 

She had died in that instant, a violation as immediate and severe as the popping of his eyeball. 

Worse, perhaps, because he feels her absence in his mind like a gaping wound. 

And yet, he lives, and so he must survive. 

Meleys’s stoop had led them far out over the waters of the Bay, eating up the leagues towards Driftmark and Dragonstone beyond. The current had carried Vhagar’s mighty corpse further still, and none had dared approach her bulk for fear of the fierce heat that made the water sizzle and steam around her. 

It had been agony to rest on her dead body, feeling the heat slowly diffuse from her scales. The water had approached closer with every wave that filled her broken maw, and though she is lighter than her size would imply, she is only meat. 

Her slow sinking been enough time to gird himself for the next leg of his journey. 

He is an adept swimmer. 
Alicent had insisted on it, for both Dragonstone — to which he is entitled as Aegon’s heir — and the Hightower are islands. Nevertheless, the nearest land is claimed by enemies, and he would not make himself a willing hostage so soon after Daemon’s attempt at kin-slaying. 
The Whispers are near enough, and the current is favourable. Crackclaw may be half-wild, but that is to his benefit, and he may work his way back to King’s Landing from there. 

All he has to do is make it. 

He was done impossible things before. 

It is with that resolve in mind that he had stripped himself of riding leathers and metal. His body aches, each movement a tax on his dwindling energy, but he cannot stop. 

If he does, he is lost, and he has endured too much to die at sea. 

The water is warm enough, and the sun is bright. That is a benefit now, as Vhagar’s body is finally at water level. He strokes his hand along the crest of her head one last time in farewell. The hole in the bond aches like a bite out of his soul, and he would scream and rage at the Gods for their injustice, if only he had the reserves of energy with which to do so. 

He does not; everything must be about survival now. 

Vhagar had taught him that; shown him the way and wisdom of the Crone. He must endure, and so he lets himself slip into the water very quietly, without any ripples, and begins to carefully swim away before the sharks come to feed. 

With any luck, they’ll all be drawn to her and away from him — one last sacrifice. If there are any tears from his remaining eye, the merciful sea brushes them gently away. 

*** 

He swims for a day and a night and a day, resting in fits and spurts as he floats, never exerting himself but steadily making his way north with the current. . 

It is interminable, and time passes slowly. 

Hate powers him — hate for Aegon, his useless, feckless, reckless brother. His profligate cruelty, his wanton ignorance, his flagrant disregard of his station. 

Of their sister. 

He thinks he hears Helaena, once, in the gentle lapping of the waves, but that is well into the night and he is so tired he cannot think. Aemond stares upwards into the starry sky, watching the void between each glowing pinprick, and the silence speaks to him with her voice. 

She speaks Valyrian, but delirium or dreaming makes it garbled and impossible to understand. He yearns. 

It doesn’t matter. 

She isn’t really there. Helaena is safe behind the walls of the Red Keep, held safely away from the bloodshed, so he keeps paddling. 

He just has to get home. 

*** 

Late in the morning, he sees a vessel’s sails far in the distance. He does not wave, nor signal for help. He does not need to attract attention; there are no friends in these waters. 

Aemond keeps swimming, always careful to keep the coast on his left. 

*** 

In the early afternoon, the ship catches him. 

It is an oar-powered galley, fast and nimble, designed for close combat in tight quarters. Once he knows he’s been spotted, Aemond does not try to out swim it. That would be futile in the open sea. 

If it has seen him, his only options are to bargain, or to kill. 

Without a sword, or a dragon, and dressed in breeches and linen, he is simply an unarmed man. 
One with a sapphire for an eye, but what good is a gem? If he doesn’t hand it over, they’ll just slit his throat and take it off his corpse.

When hands reach down to pull him out of the sea, he does not resist. After an eternity of swimming, it takes him a second to catch his breath. When he finally looks up, the man’s beard is as blue as Aemond’s sapphire eye. 

Tyrosh, Aemond thinks, and knows this is the Triarchy. 

“My name is Aemond Targaryen”, he informs the blue-bearded captain, once he’s caught his breath. He might be bedraggled and sunburnt, but he is still a Prince of the Blood Royal. Blood of the dragon. “Rider of Vhagar. I would speak to your leader.” 

The Captain scrutinizes him for a moment, but whatever he reads in Aemond’s posture and expression must decide him, because he nods once, sharply. “Sit”, he says, and then nods sharply. “My Prince”, he adds, and Aemond relaxes a fraction. 

He is not safe, but this is a start. 

*** 

It’s a long day’s sail south again, and the moon is starting to climb the sky when their galley finally makes port. The island is large enough to host a small settlement, and tents pepper its dry, scrub-covered hills. The cliff-ringed bay is prickly with masts, each ship flying a sail of a different colour. Each sloop is shallow-keeled, with banks of oars to provide an extra burst of speed in coastal waters. Aemond imagines them maneuvering through the tight channels of the Gullet like so many feeding sharks, and smiles. 

He’s guided up along the beach, and although the pirates do not see Vhagar it’s clear they don’t intend to provoke his fury and discover where she might be hiding. Her loss aches like a badly broken rib; hidden, internal, and nearly disabling
. 
Aemond is led to a well-furnished tent, with good beeswax candles to light it and a steaming bath to soothe him. He’s even provided with an attendant, a pretty Lyseni girl in golden cuffs and collar with a long fall of silver hair. He sends her away, washing himself and relishing the sensation of fresh water against his skin. When he finally feels human again, Aemond rises from the bath to find that a indigo blue robe and trousers, as well as a set of golden sashes and leather belts, have been laid out for him. There are shoes to match, leather soled slippers with upturned toes that more closely resemble something Helaena might wear about the Keep. 

Still, he is a diplomat and a gracious guest, and so ensures that he is attired well in his host’s fashions before leaving the tent. 

He is glad for it, because the moment he lifts the flap, he comes face to face with the largest man he has ever seen. The giant is sun-gilded bronze, bald, and muscled like an auroch, with a gold torque around his thick neck. His chest is bare, but tattoos cover his arms like a tapestry. 

He should be intimidated… but Aemond has faced Vhagar and won, so a Myrman doesn’t frighten him. He stares the behemoth down, until the man cracks a craggy smile. 
“Admiral wants you.” 

Aemond is not in the habit of being summoned, but what he wants is irrelevant. He must yet see to his duty, even now. 

Especially now. 

Aemond nods, acceding to the impolite request. 

He’s guided through a dusty camp filled with sailors, each more uncouth than the last. There is no attempt at camouflage or discipline, tents set up wherever they might, and camp followers mingling freely. It’s unlike any camp Aemond has been in, and in the middle of the merriment stands the largest of the silken tents. 

His guide lifts the gauze flap serving as a door for him, but does not himself follow. Aemond leaves him standing sentry at the door as he winds his way through the silent group of men seated cross-legged on reed mats laid on the floor. 

One of the men stands, and Lyseni blonde hair tumbles down his back. His face is lovely and noble-featured, with the bladed Valyrian nose and fine bone structure. Then, the pirate speaks, and the husky, sweet voice belies a woman. “Aemond Targaryen, they say you call yourself.” 

“It is what I am called.”

“I have seen a dragon fly, and I have heard of sea dragons, but neither of them look like a man who needs to be fished out of the bay.”
 
 “Your assistance, though appreciated, was unnecessary. I was swimming-“
 
 “To Bravos?” 
 
 “To the Whispers”, he says after a moment, because it doesn’t matter now. “What news of the war?” 
 
 “You are a dead man”, the pirate lord says dismissively. “Some say you attacked your brother the King. Others say he was injured as you tried to attack the Red Queen. All say you pursued her and were killed.” 
 
“The rumours of my death were greatly exaggerated”, he says with a smile. “And yet, I find myself in need of a navy.” 
 
 “A navy.” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “It is convenient for you that I happen to have a navy.” Her look is foxlike, and Aemond feels a bit like the hare, and a bit like the hunter. 
 “But I shall not give it to you for nothing. Your squabbles with kin are not mine, and as I have no dragon…” 

The and neither do you is unspoken but not unheard. 

 “I should like some assurances.”
 
 “I understand. What should you like in return?” 
 
 The pirate lord shrugs a shoulder. “Give us the right to tax trade routes in the narrow sea.” 
 
 “Absolutely not”, Aemond says. He’s not in any position to negotiate, but there is an art to selling something you don’t yet own — and that is by negotiating aggressively for it. “You will raid ships and steal pretty boys and girls for your pillow houses.” 
 
 “It’s good business”, the pirate lord says unrepentantly. “You Westerosi are spirited.” 
 
 Aemond narrows his eye at that, but the pirate shows no sign of fear. “No.” 
 
 “Then give us the Step-Stones. A few small nothings, dusty rocks with a few sheep.”
 
 “Then why should you have them?” 
 
 The pirate lord grins. “The Dornish are wealthy and their ships sail further south than yours. Let us target them. In return, we shall strike your enemies from there, and harry them in the Narrow Sea besides.”
 
Aemond looks at her with narrowed eyes. The islands have historically been fought over as the gateway to the Narrow Sea, and the filter through which trade from southern Essos must naturally pass. It is no small nothing; it is giving the Triarchy the base from which to strike. 
 
 But to strike, they must first break the blockade. And if they can do that, then their first target shall be… 
 
 “Very well”, the Prince Regent says. “But on a few conditions, and I shall plan the attack.” 
 
 “Of course”, the Lyseni admiral says, and beckons forward a serving girl with trays of wine and finger foods. “Shall we begin?” 
 
 *** 
 
 The wine had been an excellent vintage from the Arbor, and the conversation stimulating. The admiral — Sharako by name — had been a pleasant host, and between the wine and the heavy smoke curling out of the low brazier in the corner, Aemond feels loose and relaxed in the tent he has been given. 
 
 Alone, he runs the plans over in his mind again and again, pleased by their elegance. 
 
 It will be enough to see Aegon crushed in his jaws, to find his enemies and root them out in their dens, return to his nest victorious, with the taste of blood on his teeth- 

There is a restlessness in him tonight that even the wine and smoke cannot sate. He rises from his cot and wraps himself in the loose linen over-robe he’d been given. 
 
 When he exits his tent, the camp is quiet but for the ripple of the water. The silence does not soothe him, and he longs for the scream of battle, the sear of fire to flesh, the moment when the look of relief on Aegon’s face had turned into dawning horror. 
 
 It is right for Aegon to fear him. He is the stronger brother. 
 
 Bloodstone Island is remote, a barren and inhospitable place baked by the sun and buffeted by the currents. It is a harsh place, and it suits his mood as he picks his way along the rocky cliffs. Each step is placed with deliberation and focus, so when he looks up, it’s to see a oleaginous shadow crawl out of one of the honeycomb caves that pepper the coral cliffs. The creature slinks with predatory menace, legs splayed out low and wing-tips held wide. If Vhagar had lumbered, this monster lurks. 
 
 Then, it unfurls wings the same iridescent black-green as oil in water, and a wash of heat buffets him as the creature opens its mouth and heaves out what sounds horrifically like a laugh. 
 
 Aemond stands his ground, but it’s hard. 
 
 He doesn’t recall this being so difficult when he had claimed Vhagar. That had felt like sticking his hand in hot water, a comforting warmth prickling his capillaries. This is like holding his face to a hot iron and letting it cauterize his eyeball. He wants to scream, but the pressure against his skull is so tight he thinks he might vomit. 
 
 The dragon looks like something out of a nightmare, all bright green eyes and greasy black scales. His teeth are longer than Aemond’s leg, heel to hip, and when the creature dips its eye down to look at him, Aemond sees a horrific intelligence there. 
 
 Vhagar had been his beloved bondmate, his truest companion — but she had been, at the end of it all, a beast. She had loved him, in her way, but he had been her master. 
 
 This creature has no master, and even as Aemond stares at it — it is assessing him, as though considering his usefulness. 
 
It feels like being scraped raw from the inside out. 

The dragon comes down lower, until Aemond can smell the sickly-sweet stench of rot, and make out the charnel still clinging to the creature’s teeth. 
The dragon’s pupil flares and that’s his only warning. Then, Aemond does vomit as the world inside his head expands to accommodate the Cannibal. 

The pounding in his head subsides soon enough, although the whispering remains. 

He catches glimpses of a white haired man with dark green eyes of the periphery of his vision, but the shade is gone just as quickly.  

Disappeared into the night, or never there at all. 

Aemond scrapes a hand under his nose, catching the blood that drips there. 

When he returns to the camp, it is to the Admiral’s tent that he goes. 

He finds the commander there amidst his wives, and for a moment Aemond cannot draw his eyes away. Sharako notices, smirking even as her canny gaze takes in the way Aemond’s nose still leaks sluggishly from the pressure of the Cannibal’s consciousness. He can feel the beast under his skin, whispering in his ear, counting all the ways he might yet kill his enemies. 

“What has happened?” 

“I must return to King’s Landing”, Aemond tells the pirate lord. 

“I shall give you a ship.” It’s a generous, but unnecessary, offer. “No need”, Aemond says with a grim smile. “I have a dragon, after all.” 

Sharako stares at him, white as bone, and Aemond can see her calculations shift. When she nods, he returns the gesture. “I shall have need of you soon. For now — harass the Seasnake, and do nothing else until you hear from me.” 

Lohar nods, and then holds out a hand in wordless invitation. A pantheon of goddess, from the moon-pale Lyseni to a Summer Islander with skin the same blue-black as the void between stars, giggles in chorus. It is clear he would be welcome. 

Aemond considers it. 

Aegon would have… 

But then Aemond remembers the vicious little Lbastard hidden in the fighting pits, and declines. 

He will not sire a dragon on a pirate’s concubine. 

The Cannibal, however, is intrigued. 

He can feel the nettle-prickle sharpness of his interest. A nestling, it thinks, eager and hungry. Those are the most tender. 

No, Aemond chides. 
It is an opportunity, hidden behind red walls and the reek of mortality. Aemond climbs aboard the Cannibal in a fugue, ignoring the lack of saddle or winches. 

He has no need of them, not now. 

When the ground drops out from under him, there is no triumph, no victory. He feels only grim resolve as the dragon climbs and banks for the south, towards Cape Wrath and the Slayne that cleaves it like a scythe. 

Chapter Text

Aegon 

If there is a hell, Aegon is in it. 

The world is anguish, dragonfire licking at skin that feels flayed to the air. He cannot open his eyes, for the effort is too great and there is something sticky and sweet-smelling wrapped around one side of his face regardless. 

It takes him a moment to place the voice, but when he does, it costs everything in him to keep still. The honeyed scent is a threat now; he worries about scaphism. Some small part of his spirit curses him for a coward, but he is helpless before Rhaenyra the Cruel, and he wants more time, he doesnt want to die like his son, a helpless wretch in a bed—

“You cannot die”, Rhaenyra says, and it connects harder than any kick ever could. 

Cannot? 

She wants him alive? Gods be good, to what end?

“Do you hear me, Aegon? You cannot die. If you do, none of us will ever know peace again, and I am so tired of this stupid war. I want—“ her breath catches, another hiccupping sob. 

When she speaks again, it’s barely a whisper. 
“I want to leave, to fly the narrow sea and— and have no responsibilities or cares. What I would not give to escape this destiny.” 

He has never felt this close to his sister in his life. 

It’s awful. 

He remembers the dark of the nook in the Great Sept, the way the early morning streets had smelled nearly clean. He had almost made it to Sunfyre before collapsing, and regrets that he didn’t every day. 

He hadn’t known Rhaenyra had dreamed of the same. 

Then, the hell worsens. 

“Do you know”, she says, conversational in the way someone can only be with the unconscious, “I sometimes wish you were the elder.” 

She could not have devised a better torture if she had planned it. 

She is merciless in her candour. 

It’s galling.

Then, his personal hell grows hotter still. 

Rhaenyra sobs, a sound so broken it makes his skin ache. “I wish— Were that you had been my mother’s son — or you—“, she trails off, sound strangled in her throat, as though even the words are too heavy to pass her tongue. 
“If only this burden had not passed to me. But I cannot shirk from it, only seek to lighten the load.” 

Burden? She thinks ruling is a burden? 
Then why not fucking abdicate and leave him his birthright—

“Fucking Aegon”— she grinds out, and for a second vindication and disappointment flare in equal measure. Rhaenyra the Cruel indeed—
“and his fucking prophecy”, she continues in a vicious mutter. “Visenya ought to have buggered him with that sword instead of just cutting his cheek. She should have stuck him with the dagger to teach him the cost of prophecy. Gods know I feel as though I’ve been soundly fucked by it.”

Prophecy? There’s a prophecy? 

Not one he’s ever heard of. 

A prophecy about him? 

He laughs in the privacy of his mind. Even less likely. No one has ever cared enough for him to scry his future, and he doubts he is so important as to necessitate one. 
The name Visenya would imply the Conqueror, anyway, but that can’t possibly be. Except— 

Rhaenyra knows about the dagger. 

The one Viserys had worn at his hip like a talisman every day, and had left him on his deathbed . 

Had left him… 

But told her about. 

Yet another failure. 

The air leaves his lungs in a betrayed gasp, an agonized wheeze, and suddenly there’s a hand in his hair. For a heartbeat, he fears the grip of fingers baring his throat for the knife, but then she’s stroking the good side with instinctive, motherly tenderness. She’s fucking crooning. 

Would that he could vomit without drowning in it. 

If this is what the Velaryon boys have benefitted from— 

He fights a surge of envy, of self-loathing. His own mother would sooner slap him than soothe his wounds. 

And yet, is she not here to kill him? Is she so cruel as to play with her food? 

Fear floods through him, again, making his pulse speed. Rhaenyra notices, because the stroking becomes more gentle. 
“I know it hurts. I am sorry. I wish I could give you more milk of the poppy but Maester Gerardys has been quite strict. Not for another hour, he says. Aegon, I am so tired of the wars and the fighting.” 

He has tasted war, endured loss and grief. He wants blood. 

But this…
This is not the voice of a woman who would order the head of a child and laugh. She might want his — and he should be equally as delighted by hers — but a child?

It is an uncomfortable realization to find he does not believe her capable of that. 

Her next words just add insult to the injury of her benevolence. 
“I am so tired of death. I miss— oh, Gods— 
I miss my son.” 

Something else he shares with the bitch of Dragonstone. 

“I wish I had never sent him, and I wish—“ her voice goes strangled, “I wish I had never asked for Aemond’s head that night.” 

Wait, what? 

Aemond? She’d wanted Aemond?

Not him. Not Jahaerys? 

Rage evanescences like dew, replaced by the sensation of falling from the sky like rain. If she’d been sharpening her knives for Aemond’s throat? 

He wishes she’d succeeded. 

He thinks of Aemond’s drawn, pale face when he’d marched in from the stables the night he’d returned from Storm’s End. His eye had been wild, white all around the iris like a spooked horse. Aegon had thought it was adrenaline, delight at scoring the first point on a hated opponent. 

Now he wonders if politics featured at all. 

Aemond may have just been settling scores. 

He knows Sunfyre, had felt the searing anguish of Meleys’s claws, the wordless horror at the way his leg had dangled helpless in the air. Sunfyre is not meant for dragon-battle, and he — he cannot bear the thought of it. Of facing those flames again. 

Those dizzying heights. 

Aemond had ridden Vhagar, a war dragon, and it had shown. 

He remembers the pig, the way they’d all laughed. Remembers the brothel, the way Aemond had stood in silent fury. 

Oh, Hells. 

Rhaenyra herself sounds stricken with horror, and he would laugh if he were not so pinned with terror at his own realizations.  He has no friends in this fucking world. 

“I see him, Aegon”, she admits in a haunted voice. “The boy, Jahaerys — in my dreams, Aegon. He looks like— like Viserys, like little Egg.” She says their names with such tender, aching fondness that he almost envies the infants, too. “I did not want— I never wanted… he was your heir, but he was your— he was just a child. Gods—“ she chokes. “I wanted the blood of my kin, and they punished me for my viciousness. I should have never spoken. The cost— it was too high. They call me Rhaenyra the Cruel, but perhaps it’s Rhaenyra the Craven. The Gods know I am a bad Targaryen. I find myself with no stomach for fire or blood. None at all.”

The worst part of all of this is that there’s nobody to hear, she thinks he’s halfway to death’s door, and there is nothing to gain. 

She’s being honest. 

Truth sizzles out of her like a gout of dragonfire, searing him with its flood. She can no more stop than Vhagar can swallow flame. 

“I have seen so many little bodies, burned them all because Father was incapable of it. Brothers, sisters, each a little golden shroud. Father was a dragon without fire.” Her voice sounds odd; the words are respectful enough but the tone is strangled, as though she chokes on her anger. 
“I have supped on blood and fire and found it— empty. Hollow. We are better than this. Are we not? We deserve more than this. I have to believe we were meant for more than burning everything down. ” 

Her voice is so plaintive he nearly opens his eyes. It makes him think it’s a trap, and so fear keeps him frozen. “I want to keep our children safe, the ones who are left. I am sure you— you prayed for the same.” 

His heart contracts, and he feels a tear track down his ruined cheek. The salt burns, and he prays she doesn’t notice its shining track. 

“Aegon, we have failed”, Rhaenyra says, and lying in a sickbed as the recipient of her hostage hospitality, he’s obliged to agree. 

Again, she stuns him. 

“Two children dead. And for what? A squabble over who sits the throne that made our father rot like meat left a week in the sun? I feel like a carrion crow.”
It’s grim, but he can’t help the wheeze. Thank the gods she mistakes it for pain. He hadn’t known she was funny. 
“If you want that chair so badly, be welcome to it. I’d melt it to slag and beat it into plows if I thought it would bring back everyone it’s cost me. It’s Aegon’s own will that bade me sit on it at all, but would that Daemon had never opened his mouth and disinherited himself. I might have been in Essos drunk with your mother—“

Wait, what?

“—content with no more responsibility than remembering to re-dress for dinner.” 

He wheezes again, and she strokes another gentle caress across his brow. “Oh well. Stupid to dream, isn’t it? We were never meant for something so simple. In another life, perhaps. A happier one.” 

And then the hand is gone, whipped away so fast that a strand of his hair tangles around her ring and is ripped out. A familiar voice speaks. “What are you doing here?” His mother, cold and haughty.  

He keeps his eyes closed, not ready to see the disappointment on her face. 

“Thinking.” 

“Of how easy he would be to kill?”

Rhaenyra sighs, sounding as weary as she ever has. “Oh, Alicent. Isn’t it too late for all that? I was thinking…” she pauses, “of how small he looks.”

Hate rekindles. Cunt. 

“You would belittle him at his weakest-“

This may be the first time Aegon’s mother has spoken in his defence. It would warm him, except Rhaenyra chuckles, husky and dark as Bravosi goldwater. 
“He’s only a little older than Jace, Alicent. I’m not belittling him. My heart aches for him.” There’s that fucking sincerity again. “They can be men grown, and yet— I remember how small Jace and —how they all weighed in my arms. I am sure… you remember the same.” 

His mother sounds as though she’s been eating lemons. “Our sons are very different.” Her tone is so tart as to be acidic. 

“Indeed?”

“Yes”, his mother says, and Aegon is fucking tired. Who cares if they’re not Laenor Velaryon’s children? They claim Rhaenyra’s crown, so the stud is irrelevant. He’d never minded his nephews, at least until he was told they’d be taking their crowns over his cooling body. 
Now he’s lying in a bed, smelling like charred pork, and his greatest enemies are providing him aid and comfort. 

He wonders which God is so cruel as to have a Hell this confusing. 

Yours…”, his mother says, “may be—“ 

“Have a care, Alicent-“ 

“Let me speak! Whatever else, Rhaenyra, they were wanted.” 

Aegon thinks he should be more hurt.

More surprised.

But lying there, this is merely something he knows to be fact, like how dragons fly and falling hurts. His mother never wanted him. Any of them, really. Perhaps she wishes she were in Essos, too. “You wanted those children so badly you’d burn half the realm for it”, his mother adds, each careful word as sharp as a maester’s knife. “Enough to cuckold your husband-“

“Cuckold? Certainly not. I assure you, my husband was present at every conception”, Rhaenyra says with a sly tone, and Aegon’s horrified to find he wants to laugh again. Trust his sister to have experienced Flea Bottom and its scurrilous delights. 

“As a spectator?! That’s even worse! What if the Velaryons-“

“—Had known their son was not meant make a fit husband for a wife? Alicent. They brought his paramour to court as part of our wedding party. I had promised him a spot on the Kingsguard!”

There’s a moment of dead silence, broken eventually by his mother’s strangled voice. 
“….. the knight of kisses… Joffrey of—“, dawning realization seeps into her tone. “Joffrey. You named your son—“

“My husband named our son for his truest companion, with my blessing. Laenor was a dragon rider — what shame need he feel? Alicent, come now, surely you knew-“

His mother sounds like she’s speaking through a mouth full of sick. 
“Then why— why could you not—“

“Why could I not what?”

His mother breaks like a glass goblet. 
“Why could you not abdicate for Aegon? Why insist?! And having insisted, having obliged the lords to acknowledge you, why would you not simply do your duty?”

“Do my duty? Lie under a man — or ride over, as the case required — a man who did not want me, who cried with grief for the lover Ser Criston turned to— to jam! On our wedding day! You wanted us to do our — our duty?!”

“Yes, duty! It is that thing we are bound by, that you seem to float over as though you could fly above it all-“

“I can fly! And who is this ‘We’?”

“Women! You are not so far above us yet, Rhaenyra!”

She is a dragon-rider. Aegon thinks that rather supersedes anything else she might be. 

It would appear his sister agrees. 

Her voice goes high on a frustrated shriek, sounding so much like her dragon that Aegon finally succumbs to temptation, cracking the one eye he can move open just a fraction. The room blurs into existence, midday sunlight nearly blinding in its brightness after eons of blackness. 

Rhaenyra the Cruel is pacing a rut into the stones of a richly appointed tower room, hands in her hair before she whirls to face his mother, looking as frazzled as he has ever seen a noblewoman look — and he’s met Helaena. 

She stares at his mother as though she were speaking in Lengi. 
“If I were a man I could have any number of bastards! How many does yours have?”

Aegon… has never truly given it much thought. It is the whore’s job to worry about such things,  surely? 

“He— he is a man!” His mother’s defence is stammered, and Rhaenyra swoops in like Sunfyre on the hunt. 

“And so it is acceptable? If I were a king, it would be my duty to sire as many as possible regardless of which side of the sheets they were found upon! It was my duty to provide the realm an heir of my body! Why should it matter who the father was? Does it matter which firewyrm sired the first dragon, if the beast yet breathed fire? Are their hatched eggs not evidence enough?”

“It is not duty to philander with a strong, dark-haired man! That was pleasure!” 

“Because I enjoyed it?”

“Yes! Duty is sacrifice”, his mother says, sounding as though she’s repeating a well-worn phrase, familiar as the seven gem strand she carries to her devotionals at the Sept. “I did my duty, night after night, as he rutted into me and I could smell his back rotting. Worried his seed was rotting—“ 
Aegon gags at that. 
“—And you! You couldn’t… couldn’t tolerate the affections of your young and handsome husband for long enough to beget a single silver-haired heir?! One?!”

“Oh, Alicent.” Rhaenyra the Cruel sounds like Rhaenyra the Choked, voice strangled with tears. 

“Don’t! No matter what else you might be, you were not a Prince!”

“To my regret!” Rhaenyra snaps, closing the distance between she and his mother. He can see them both now, Rhaenyra haughty in her Targaryen colours, aquiline nose giving her a look of regality despite the odd environs. She stands toe to toe with Alicent, who glares up at her with a boldness Aegon has never before seen in her. She seems spirited. 

Lively. 

“Because then you would be King uncontested!”

Rhaenyra rears back, hissing with frustration.
“King? What good has that damned chair ever accomplished?! If I was a man, Alicent, Aegon would be mine!”

The bottom drops out of Aegon’s gut as his mind spirals into free fall. He knows what that feels like firsthand, and finding out your sister— and your mother— 

It’s the same sensation with a similar result. He feels like he’s had the soul knocked out of him. 

“Your father would have never supported a Queen Regent — but if I had been born a man, it would be mine own son lying in this bed right now. He would be mine.” 

Aegon stiffens. 

“You would have been mine”, Rhaenyra whispers with all the conviction of a zealot, and Aegon’s world spins as though he’s sucked a poppy pod. 

A sharp laugh cuts through the ringing silence like a Valyrian steel blade, even as he can make out a flurry of slippered footsteps. 
“Her Grace is correct”, Daemon Targaryen says as he steps into the room. “I can’t imagine Otto Hightower missing that opportunity. I suspect the only reason he didn’t throw your fop of a brother at her is because even he knew that would be overreaching. I’m sure he didn’t expect you to fall for her instead. Someone ought to tell him, it would be hilarious.”

“Daemon”, his sister says, voice tight. 

“Your Grace”, a familiar, gentle voice says. “I’m sorry, Father insisted-“ He can only just make out a column of red and brown, a fall of sword-bright silver coiled into high braids. 

“It’s all right, Rhaena, thank you. Daemon”, his sister says tightly, as though stretched taut between two pillars. “How lovely to see you back home.”

“Hello, dear wife”, he simpers back, amusement gilding every syllable. “Sister in law. Or has it become sister-wife in my absence?”

Alicent makes a strangled noise. 

Aegon’s own groan of horror escapes unbidden. 
“Gods—-“

“Aegon!” His mother’s yelp is undignified, but he’s glad for the way she clutches at his good hand. “My darling son.” 
He wants to laugh. All it took to be her darling son is nearly dying by his brother’s dragon fire. 

“Oh, gods”, Rhaenyra groans in turn. “I must be dreaming. Or else having an awful nightmare. You would bring this chaos, uncle.” Now that the game is up, he opens his one good eye all the way to see his sister looking harried as a hare in a snare, and his uncle grinning down at her like a hawk. 

“I see you are entertaining.”

Rhaenyra’s whole face contorts. 
“In a matter of speaking.”

“Indeed”, he agrees, and seems to mean it. “And I am most entertained. Come, let’s leave these two to their tears. I would speak with you, my Queen. I have brought you a gift from my travels.”

“Oh?” 

Daemon switches to Valyrian. “Yes. A trident.” Daemon purrs the exotic syllables like a caress. Aegon may speak bad Valyrian, but he isn’t stupid.

The war is lost, now. 

Daemon guides the queen out, leaving the nurse, and the Dowager Queen, who looks shellshocked. His mother soaks his hand with wretched tears, even as the silver-haired nurse streaks about with purpose. 

“Dragon-“, he says, through a throat singed by fire and smoke.
“I will protect you”, his mother vows, clutching his hand to her chest. She is not a Targaryen; she misunderstands.

“—fyre”, he groans. “Hurt…” 

Her eyes go wide. 
“Of course, my darling. I’ll get the Maester, something for the pain—“
She’s gone in a flash, leaving him wheezing and grateful for blessed, merciful silence. 

After a moment, he gathers his meager strength and lifts his head. “My dragon.”

The nurse looks up, eyes the colour of coffee searing him with a regal look. “Alive, no thanks to you.”

“Alive?” The world blossoms with relief as sweet as sunrise. Sunfyre, his darling, his dearest companion—

“Yes.”

“Where.” It is a king’s demand. 

She snorts down at him, regal as a queen. 
“Safe from your stupidity.”

If his groin were not a firey mess of pain, he might be hard for this brown-skinned goddess of judgement. 

“What did I ever do to you?”
He’d like to know so he might begin to atone for it. Ideally on his knees. Her disdain makes him weak, and if he were not five-eights dead, he’d do something about it. 

She stares down, remote as the sun and moon. 
“You woke up”, she says, a searing dismissal, lips pursed so tight they look the same rich purple as a fine Dornish vintage. 

Maybe it’s the poppy, or the adrenaline of battle, but he feels drunk on her presence. 
He grins, ignoring the agony of skin cracking as he does. It must be ghoulish, but she never so much as blinks. 

Magnificent.

Chapter Text

RHAENYRA

Rhaenyra is in a Hell of her own devising.  

Her brother should have been her son, her enemy ought to have been her wife, and her husband won’t stop smirking at her. He looks more smug than Caraxes mid-coil, and the moment they’re safely alone in her chambers, his gilded tongue begins flapping. 
“I have brought you the Riverlands, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra rolls her eyes so hard she feels her back muscles move. “The Riverlands? Your Grace?” She pins him with the haughtiest look she can, because it’s better than feeling like the greenest queen to ever try to rule, and she still remembers their last argument. He’d left her with nothing more than rumours that she cannot even control her own consort. “What flattery.”

Daemon has the decency to duck his head. His brow furrows, gaze ripe with contrition. 
“You are my Queen, Rhaenyra.” He says it the same way he told her she was his wife. Fervently, with passion, fire and blood and promise in every word. 

But she also knows her husband is not a giving man, nor a gentle one. He also seems disinclined to share his toys. 
“Daemon— what you heard—“

“Is true enough.” His shrug is eloquent. “Had you been male, Otto would have thrown that girl at you so quickly she’d not have needed a dragon to fly.”

Rhaenyra snorts out a laugh despite her jangling nerves. “That isn’t what I mean-“

When Daemon closes the distance, it takes all the courage in her to stay rooted in the spot. Even now, she remembers the grip of his hand at her throat… 
But his hand comes to rest at her cheek, cradling it with a sword-callused palm. 

“Do you think me a fool, Rhaenyra? I attended court between my many exiles. I have eyes, and if yours weren’t on me, they were on her.” Rhaenyra knows she’s been cursed with a glass face. Every expression shows, including incredulity. 
Daemon must see it, because he snickers. “You commissioned a double saddle, muña. Subtlety has never been your strong suit.”

As though a dragon — or a Queen — is even capable of it. 

Still, she thinks of her childish infatuation with the young Lady Alicent, and cringes with mortification. “Was I that obvious?” 

“Only to those who knew you. Or her. Or spent more than a candlemark in your presence-“

“Do not be unkind, uncle. You know what it’s like to have all those eyes on you all the time. It’s like living in a fishbowl.” Rhaenyra heaves a sour sigh. “I feel ever more a fool, Daemon.”

Her uncle’s teasing turns immediately serious, and the hand at her cheek drops, squeezing her bicep. “Do you believe she is playing you for one?”

“What?” Her tone is perhaps sharper than it should be. It happens when she gets defensive, she knows. 

Daemon does as well. 
“If you have one weakness, Rhaenyra, it is your tender heart.” 

“That’s the first time I’ve been accused of having one. I thought my sobriquet was Rhaenyra the Cruel.”

“A mistake I will endeavour to rectify. But Your Grace, the Dowager Queen once sent you a letter to prey on that same organ; has Alicent now come to deliver honeyed words herself?”

“You think she has come to entrap me?”

Daemon’s eyes are calculating. She’s never seen him at war, but she has seen him try to burn stone bridges while crossing them. “Is it possible?” 

She nods. 
“I suppose, except-“

“Except-“

The moment of truth. She will either claim a dragon, or burn in its fire. 
“I invited her.”

He goes as still and honed as fresh dragon glass. 
“Did you? Whatever for?”

“A witness, at first.” She chuckles grimly at the pickled expression on his face. “Well, it’s true. Aegon was half-dead, and I could not be held responsible for extinguishing father and child. Daemon—“ 
He looks at her with cool regard, and Rhaenyra feels her stomach shrivel. “I don’t have the stomach for this.” 

It’s a whispered admission. 

If anyone else were to hear it, she’d find her head on a platter in a heartbeat. On the bad days, she worries her own Council would do it. Not her blood, but the men who surround the table look at her as crabs do meat on a beach. As it is, she feels as though she’s handing Daemon a Valyrian steel dagger and inviting him to stab her in the heart with it. 

Daemon, for his part, simply looks at her. 

It’s the most disconcerting thing. He doesn’t immediately demand the crown. He doesn’t shout, or sneer, just watches her with pale, pale eyes. Then, once he seems to have drunk his fill of her features, he speaks. His voice is hard with conviction, but his gentle hands turn firm on her arms. 
“If you must wage war, Rhaenyra, let me lead it. Allow me to be the darkness that shelters your hunt. Do not sully your hands with it.”

Though his words are martial, his grasp never tightens. Rhaenyra feels as though she’s missed a step somewhere, or else turned a familiar corner and found herself somewhere strange. 

Something has changed in him. 
A restlessness, settled. A darkness, diminished.  This is violence honed to a purpose, a blade in her hand.

She is tired of fearing Daemon and his fiery temper. She must rule, for now there is no one else and all depends on her. If he calls her Queen, she must rule. 
“No”, Rhaenyra says. “I do not want war. I meant what I said, Daemon. I do not have the stomach to win a kingdom by killing my kin. Children. A little boy. I cannot win if that is what gilds my crown. The Gods will not suffer a kinslayer to sit the throne. Aegon the Conqueror loved his family. Aenar, too, who fled the Doom with all his people. All of them. I would be Aenar, not Maegor. Aemond is a monster, and no brother of mine, but—“

There is an awful truth hovering on her tongue, but Daemon speaks before she can utter it. 

“But Aegon is a threat, Rhaenyra.” Daemon’s voice is inexorable, implacable as Valyrian steel. But there’s only a blunted edge to it, as though he’s sheathed his sharp tongue. “To you, and to me, and everyone here. Our sons. My daughters. Your boys. Every living person here.”

“I do not believe it”. Today is a lancing of boils, uncomfortable and messy honesty offending all around her. “Once, perhaps, but now? No. And here? Where resides his mother? His sister?” 

Daemon snorts, and Rhaenyra graves him with a narrow look. “Helaena, Daemon, not me. I’ve asked Rhaenys and apparently, the only person he succeeded in gravely injuring during the battle was himself. Regardless, he can barely breathe without pain at the moment, Daemon. Jace can scarce look at him without going the colour of moss and yet sits for hours at his side regardless. He’s the one who must help him void, you see.” 

Daemon evidently has not; his pale eyebrows almost disappear into his hairline. 
“Void?” 
  
“Ask the Maester”, Rhaenyra says glibly, because she is no maiden, but seeing the mess her brother has been turned into makes her skin itch. “Your girls have been the soul of helpfulness. Baela has been a stalwart support in your absence, and Rhaena a devoted nurse to the Pretender. But… we so nearly lost Rhaenys.” 

Daemon looks uncomfortable at that; perhaps he hadn’t known that, either. She elaborates, explaining it in terms a dragonrider might understand. “She inverted at speed during a stoop, trying to strafe Vhagar and Aemond. Princess Rhaenys estimates Meleys was, at best, three arm lengths away from the lowest claw.” She can see as his eyes widen, and nods. “I shook to hear it. She must have been moments from Vhagar’s grasp — dragon and goddess alike. It could have gone so terribly wrong, Daemon, and you off in the Riverlands. Every night after that, all I see in my dreams is golden fire. If I can find a way to peace, shouldn’t I grab it?”

Daemon watches her for another moment, and then releases her, stepping away and turning his back. His eyes are fixed on the flame, but she can’t see whatever has him rapt. 
“And if the cost is the Throne?”

It’s easier to be honest when he isn’t looking at her, but even now she keeps her body angled towards him. 
“What of it? It is a heavy burden, Daemon, and one I never asked for. But if it comes to me, I must set myself to the challenge. Aegon dreamed of ice and fire, and I stand charged with that knowledge. I know you don’t believe in Dreams, but I do, and so does Helaena. So did Rhaena, and she first put the dragons eggs in the cradles. They hatched. Were her dreams wrong?” 

His head jerks up, but she carries on. 
“Aenar believed Daenys, and history has remembered us ever since. You have read the stories yourself; are a hundred Valyrians before her wrong?”

“Dragon dreams are myths told to children in Essos.” 

“Are glyphs spoken aloud.” She takes a breath, and then asks a question she fears all answers to. “Daemon, do you want the crown?”

That gets him to turn around. 
“Rhaenyra.” His eyes are wide. 

Rhaenyra feels like this is her first flight. Bravery makes her close the distance, but then her eyes land on the fire and she’s transfixed, clutching at her husband’s hand. 
The vision glows like a warm hearth in her mind, behind her ribs. She can see it now — a congregation of dragons, each cloud gilded with the kiss of a wing.

Dragons curl around each other in the snow, in the sands, in the high mountains and the sweet rolling meadows, the deep woods and wide open grassy plains. 

She can taste the brine of the Sunset Sea, ancient and gilded with the low light. She can smell the sweetness of the Narrow Sea, the bright mingling of the lively waters, and over it the softness of the sweet river water.

Under it all is the sharp reptile scent she associates with a dragon in clutch. 

Her palms tingle with heat, sudden as a gift, and she speaks to him with zealous fervour. 

“Dragons roost together, Daemon. You’re the expert in our winged kin. Tell me I’m wrong. Why should we fight amongst ourselves, when we might yet be more powerful together? Over who sits in a chair? We have enough dragons; melt the damned thing down and make a bench long enough for all of us to sit comfortably. It’s meant to intimidate our enemies. Let them fear our numbers, not their defeats.”

“The Conqueror-“

“I have more dragons than he does”, Rhaenyra says, and realizes in that bright moment that she does. She has enough dragons now to rival Aenar at his greatest. And all he did was take Dragonstone and raise a family in peace and prosperity. “We do. All of us, together, if we can stay alive long enough to win this thing.”

“You want to make common cause with the Pretender.”

“If nothing else, we share a common enemy.”

Daemon grunts. “The whelp? Isn’t Vhagar dead?” 

“Her body was found by fishermen off the Whispers. She’s been feeding the local wildlife.” 

“And the Kinslaying cunt?” 

Rhaenyra’s face goes hard. “As I said — we have a common enemy. Alicent is a remarkably adept swimmer and says she taught her children well.”

Daemon laughs in delight. “And he evaded Rhaenys? She must have flown over his head and thought it a wave. My cousin will be thrilled. I’m glad I’ve returned to you… but I’m sure a reconciliation with the Dowager Queen is a tangential benefit.” To his credit, he isn’t snickering when he says it.  

That’s almost worst. It’d be easier if he were upset, or possessive. This playful indulgence has her wrong-footed. It’s like taking an inversion and realizing you’ve forgotten to latch your belt. 
“Does it offend you?” 

Once again, Daemon surprises her. He gives it some thought, and then shrugs. “Why should it? Can she be King?”

Rhaenyra wrings her hands in frustration. 
“Daemon. This again. Do you truly want the responsibility of rule?”

“I can command!”

“Of course you can. No one doubts your capability in the field. It is the talent for bureaucracy that wants developing.” 

“You would have me do battle with quill instead of lance? I should humour you, just to see your expression.” Her husband closes the distance between them, reeling her in like a banner tossed in the wind. 

“Please do, I invite you to wage war with the stack of invoices from the castellan, or the complaints of Gulltown merchants saying Spicetown’s undercutting their import duties. The ones from Spicetown carry similar exhortations, and both parties demand Lannisport see its taxes raised. The Greyjoys, as ever, raid and offend in equal share. All sit on my desk as we speak.”

“Tedious.”

Rhaenyra nods. They are. “And yet, necessary. And why should you be king, ruling in your own right, if you don’t listen to Aegon’s own words? He used dragons to conquer, but Jahaerys built roads North. We ride dragons. What’s to say the rest isn’t true? Jace says the Old Gods speak to the Northmen through weirwood trees—“

“Gods-“

“Daemon; you’ve gone pale.” Daemon seems rattled again by the mention of prophecy, and she wonders what in the world happened to him in Harrenhal. 

“It’s nothing”, he lies, and she allows it. She can see the black bags under his eyes, a weariness that seems to run bone deep. 

“Are you tired?”

“No”, he lies, and presses his lips to her throat. She can feel her pulse hitch every time his breath tickles the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. 

“Hungry?” Somehow, despite the fact that she is a widow twice over and a mother to six, he can still get her whispering like a misbehaving maiden. 

He makes a noise like he hasn’t eaten in a lifetime, and the hot blade of his tongue traces a line along the vein of her neck. 
“Famished.”

Rhaenyra tilts her head, eyes closing as she enjoys the pleasure of having Daemon home. It takes her a moment to realize his kisses have turned into hungry, open mouthed things that risk leaving bruises on her pale skin. 

She laughs at his audacity, and dips her head, denying him acces. 
“Don’t say you’re understanding of an unconventional arrangement and then be territorial.”

“A dragon-“

“Is not a slave”, she chides. Her father’s lesson, graven into her memory like stone. 
When Daemon tries to press another lovebite into her décolletage, where the swell of her breast rises with every inhale, she sneers down at him. “Have a mind where you mark your Queen, my Prince, lest I return the favour.” 

He grins in the face of her faked disdain.
“I should be so fortunate to wear your favour, my Queen. But what of your Queen of Love and Beauty?”

There’s a bit of a playfulness to his voice that tells her he’s teasing, and that perhaps Laena’s letters about their social lives in Pentos had left a few details out. 
“You are fixated; it’s worse than Syrax and sheep!”

“Is that a sin?” Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, and Rhaenyra pants out a laugh against his hair as his teeth tug at the fabric of her bodice. 

“…. Only to the Seven.”

That earns Daemon’s laugh, and he cants his eyes up at her under heavy brows. He has never looked more youthful; it’s as though he’s returned home to find a marvellous new weapon to whack his best enemy with.
Rhaenyra snorts; Daemon and Otto Hightower could be dead in their graves and yet trying to accuse the other of producing the stench. 

“Otto will be livid to hear it. Either story. Especially both.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, expression firm. 

“No, Daemon. You have known me my whole life, and have seen— you know she matters to me.” 
His face is solemn, but she doesn’t stop speaking. “I love you. And I care for her. I—“ 

“You love the lady Alicent.” 

“I think I might have, once. I might yet. And yet, I have missed you every night since your departure. So what am I to do?” 

“Love both.” 

“Oh, be serious!” 

He shrugs at her incredulous exasperation. “If you were a man, no one would begrudge you a mistress.” 

“It has been brought to my attention that I am, in fact, a woman.” Her voice is deadpan, but Daemon laughs anyway; and that sets her off. Daemon laughs a bit at her expense, until she’s clinging to him. “Perhaps you should rule after all. The Seven could crown me in stars and I doubt the Lords would assent to bend the knee.”

Daemon shakes his head, hair tickling her throat as their brows press together. 
“No. My sword, my dragon, and my self are yours, Rhaenyra. The world is not what we thought it was. This was is just the beginning. Winter is coming, with darkness and doom.” 

Rhaenyra searches, but there are no lies in his eyes, or in the way he presses to her as though he could transmit memory through flesh. But— 

“You sound like my father”, she says, with something like wonder. Viserys had thought himself a dreamer and perhaps it was so — Daenys, after all, had been the one to hatch Balerion, and Viserys his final rider. 

But Daemon— 

Something has happened at Harrenhall. 

“I saw that we cannot withstand it, not yet, and somehow, we must.” 

“Then all the more reason why the house of the Dragon must stand together. If the threat is from the North, then Fire shall be its enemy.”

“In that battle, the realm’s only hope is a leader who can—“ For a moment, Rhaenyra thinks he’ll say fight. Wage war. Do battle. “—unite it. 

Her breath catches. 

“My brother chose you. The dragons have chosen you. You are my Queen, Rhaenyra, and in you I see the glory of house Targaryen. Now, and in the flames.” 

It all becomes too real suddenly, prophecy and obligation colliding like planets in orbit. She can’t bear it, and turns her eyes away. “Now you do sound like Viserys”, she teases, and he laughs, a low pleased thing. 

“Don’t say that too loudly, my lady, or your paramour shall have more reason to hate me.”

That shocks a mischevious gigglw out of her, and his lips crack in a remarkably boyish grin. 
“I’ve missed your laugh, my lady.”

“I am glad to have you home, Daemon. Do not leave me again.” It’s a plea, hidden with regal intonation. “Not anymore. If what you say is true, all of us will be needed. You must not seek to give offence.”

He nods, understanding. “I will not, and I shall heed you. I was hasty, to my shame. I will not bring it upon you again.”

Relief blossoms in her stomach. 
“We will make it whole, Daemon. Somehow. I will help you make it whole.”

“I know”, he murmurs, and reels her in again. 

Chapter Text

ALICENT

“Father, hm? Then Daemon is your sire, but I see no dragon, so you must be one of the Seeds…” Alicent can hear Aegon speaking as she rounds the corner, a glass of watered wine in hand. His voice is low, and she doesn’t like the tone. He can sound so much like his father. 
“Clearly your mother was the most beautiful of flowers—“, and before she can intervene, she hears a pained yowl and the sort of hiss she’d last heard when facing down a she-dragon. 

“I am no Seed, you flightless fucking wyrm.” It’s a lady’s voice, patrician breeding in every syllable despite her crass words. 

Her son wheezes out a laugh. 
“Of all the insults, flightless? Takes one to know o-OW, fuck! Again?! Harpy!”

“I’ve never been to Mereen. Anyway, don’t be a child. It was your good arm!”

“So what?!” His voice is tight with pain, but bright with amusement. “It still hurt!” Alicent steps into the room to see Lady Rhaena glaring down at her injured son. 

“Did you strike your King?”

“No.”

“She did! She pinched me!”

“You are not my King”, the girl snaps back. “You’re my patient, and a test of my patience. In any case, Lady Alicent, he’s feeling well enough to pass comment. He should be well enough to endure the consequence.”

“The Mother bids us be gracious. Lady Rhaena, that was poorly done.”

“So are his manners”, spits back the girl, pointed chin lifted higher than the Wall. “And my Lady Mother’s dead, in any case.”

Aegon, for his part, looks enchanted.
“Lady Mother? Oh— you’re Lady Laena’a girl!” It’s a bad look on his half-melted face, but Alicent is so relieved to see him alive that she doesn’t care. 

Rhaena seems to. “We’ve met, Your Highness”, she sneers, and he shrugs, all charm. 

“I was inebriated at the time.” 

Would that Alicent could groan without losing her propriety. “There were other considerations at the moment”, she says, because it’s more polite than mentioning her son’s poor behaviour. 

The girl pins her with those dark, considering eyes. “Yes, my Lady. There were.” She makes no move to leave, and eventually Alicent is obliged to ask. 

“Lady Rhaena, will you excuse us?”

“No.”

Aegon wheezes, but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh. 

“Are we hostages to be denied privacy?” Alicent almost fears the answer, and it comes with scalpel brightness. 

“That would just be unnecessary. Could he walk out of here on his own?” Aegon mutters another curse, but the Velaryon girl doesn’t stop speaking. “He’s a patient and I am changing his bandages so the wounds his brother inflicted on him heal.” She smiles, bear-trap tight on her fine-boned features. “Just pretend I’m the Seed he mistook me for and speak around me.”

“You do not mince words, do you?” Her frankness makes Alicent think of Rhaenys, but that is a woman grown and a dragonrider, not a girl still sweet with the Maiden’s flush. 

“Should I? I may not have a dragon but I do not lack for resources. In any case, I must attend to my work. Would you like to see?”

Alicent’s stomach churns. This is not a maiden’s work— a Maester should be here—

“Can we not?” Aegon’s voice is a frightened whine. 

Rhaena’s is final as a swing of Valyrian steel. 
“No, lest you fester like your lord father.”

“Lady Rhaena.” 

“I was young, but I still remember the sweet rot of the Red Keep. I suppose one does go nose blind. But I assure you: the honey is better.”

Aegon frowns. 
“It wasn’t the Throne that pierced me.”

“That is fortunate”, Rhaena agrees. “Look at what it did to Maegor. Lady Alicent, this is fireweed honey.” The girl ushers her closer, and Alicent girds herself to see a gruesome wound — suppurating flesh or blackening muscle. Nightmarish but not unfamiliar. 

She does not. 

As Rhaena Targaryen rinses the honey gently off of her son’s wounds, raw, shiny, pink flesh reveals itself. 
“The wounds—“ Alicent has spent a lifetime nursing her husband’s illnesses, and these have healed more rapidly than anything she’s ever seen. 

“I am most pleased with the progress.” She sounds proud, and Alicent thinks she ought to be. This is impressive work. 

Aegon doesn’t see it that way. 
“Well, I’m not. It fucking hurts!” His voice is a tight low animal whine of pain. 

Rhaena doesn’t so much as blink, let alone stop pouring the cooled distilled salt water over his wound. 
“Self-improvement usually does”, she tells him, and Alicent is once again taken aback by her fearlessness around royalty. 

“Self-improvement?!” Aegon snarls, mood darkening. “I’m a cripple. Burned, melted.”

“Aegon”, Alicent says, trying to soothe him before he can become agitated and injure himself. Rhaena doesn’t give her the opportunity. Rather, she adds salt to his wounds. 

“So you’re slightly maimed. What of it? Dragon riders acquire burns as an vocational hazard, provided they live long enough.”

“Lady Rhaena!”

“Should I lie? He has eyes.”

“One and a half”, Alicent’s sharp-tongued son snaps, and the future lady of the tides just laughs. 

“So? That’s still more than Aemond Kinslayer can claim.”

Aegon’s barked laugh turns into a pitiful mewl on the second inhale. When he groans, Alicent can see clear fluid leaking from one of the large blisters over his heart.

Aegon gasps, writhing in pain with every shallow inhale, eyes screwed tightly shut. Rhaena leans forward, hands moving over his chest with confidence as she quickly applies a thick paste of fireweed honey over the skin with a silver spatula. 
His agony churns Alicent’s own stomach, but the girl seems to ignore it with single-minded focus as she meticulously checks his other lacerations and bandages. She’s thorough, hands flying like the most adept lace tatter, eyes already moving to assess the next injury with a Maester’s cool regard. 
Rhaena finishes her task with the bandages on his cheek, and Alicent can hear the girl’s low voice as her hand slides behind Aegon’s neck, holding a little cup to his lips. 
“Shh, shh, I know. Here. A sip of poppy, my lord”, she says, in a voice completely unlike her usual reserve. “You’ve done very well.” In the same instant, Aegon’s opened his eyes. 

Black meets violet, and it isn’t poppy that has Alicent’s son’s gaze going liquid soft. 
Alicent watches, helpless and wordless, as Daemon’s haughty little daughter slowly goes burgundy around the cheeks. 

“My lady”, her son breathes, and Alicent cannot bear it. 

“Lady Rhaena”, she says, and the girl shakes herself like a spooked Kingswood hunting hound. 

“I should go, the — the Maester— excuse me-“, but even as she’s turning on her heel to beat a hasty tactical retreat, the door opens and a Queensguard announces the Lady Helaena. She slips in and blocks the doorway, smiling absently at their rattled congregation. 

“Hello, Mother. Lady Rhaena. Brother.”

“Hels”, Aegon wheezes, and where Alicent hears a curse, Helaena hears her name. She closes the distance, even as Rhaena sidles closer to the door. 

“It’s all right”, Helaena tells Aegon. “You look much better.”

“Than what?” His voice is hard, and Alicent wonders if he believes in her dreams. 

“Than I’ve ever seen before. I’m very happy”, she admits, and then turns to Rhaena with an eager expression. “Did you use maggots?”

“No, my lady”, the Targaryen girl says, polite as you please. “The wounds never festered. We used honey instead.”

Helaena smiles, sweet as the food they’re discussing. “Ladies at work”, she agrees. “Mending with sweetness and fire. Cheerful wings, hiding dangerous stings.”

“My lady?”

“Oh, just daydreaming.”

“Of course”, Rhaena says, tone considering. It’s clear this one keeps her own judgements, sharpening her words like a sword on a whetstone. “I ought to get more linens for the bandages. My ladies, my lord, excuse me.” 
Alicent watches her go, knowing this might yet be tomorrow’s problem. 

But that is tomorrow. For now—
“Helaena, my darling. Come, sit.”

“In a moment, mother. Hello, brother”, she murmurs, and crosses to kneel beside the bed. She’s eye to eye with Aegon’s ruined side, but never turns away. 

“Helaena, please-“ 

“Shush”, she soothes, hand gently stroking over his hair. “It hurts now, I know-“

“It hurts— and— they’ll—“

“They’ll care for us, Aegon. I know it.” Her voice is sure, and Alicent wonders how she knows. The dreams? 
She still finds it hard to believe— but then, do her children not possess dragons? Did Helaena not anticipate Alicent’s own flight? 

What are some dreams after that? 

“What if it’s a ruse?” 

Helaena shakes her head. “Would I have brought our little girl if I thought it were so?”

“You came? It was your idea?” 

“Mother was ready to fly. I dreamed of fire. We came as quickly as we could.”

Aegon chuckles at that, poppy making him loose. “Dreamed of fire. Ha. I saw it first hand.” 
 
“I know. I saw you. A gold dragon, shattered like a flagon on the ground… but— this is much better.”

“Better? I’m horrible. Ugly. Crippled. Useless.”

Alicent’s heart breaks, but Helaena shakes her head. “Wounded. Fire purifies, even as it scalds.”

“I was impure before?”

“You are refined now”, Helaena agrees. “Rare as Valyrian steel. Keep your kindness honed sharp as a blade, brother. Our sister will have need of you.”

“You’re my sister”, he says, and that earns him another smile. 

“Yes. I am.” Alicent watches as Helaena takes a small dragonfly pin from her robe, turning it in her fingers for a moment. Then, before Alicent can intervene, she cuts a small knick in her lower lip, biting until the blood wells up, shockingly red against her pale skin. 
Alicent makes a small noise as Helaena chastely kisses Aegon on the lips — she has done her duty to her husband’s family, but she wishes she had been able to save her sweet daughter this fate. 

When Helaena pulls back, she kisses him softly on each cheek and then, finally, on his brow. Blood smears wherever her lips touch, an unholy anointing on his fire-burned skin. 

“I am your sister now, and I release you to fly freely.”

Alicent stares in silent horror. A wife cannot release a husband— But then, a Queen should not rule. And yet, here they all are, in a strange new world. 

A free son. A daughter bound by her duty. 

When she thinks of it that way, is it truly so strange?

“I’ll never fly again”, Aegon says in a voice thick with grief. “I’m broken, Helaena. My hips-“

“You will soar.”

“Helaena.“ Alicent fears false hope. It’s cost her so much already. 

Helaena just shakes her head. 
“Mother, do you ever regret not telling Her Grace about your mother’s dress? You looked so very pretty in it. I’m sorry you did.”

Alicent can barely breathe. She remembers that damned dress, a beautiful sea-deep blue and far too mature for a maiden to be wearing. She wishes she’d burned it. 

“It will be all right, mother”, her daughter assures her. “This tapestry is much prettier.”

“The one you’ve been working on lately?” 

“Our family legacy.” 

“The Targaryen history?”

Helaena looks at Aegon, and smiles. There’s a world of sorrow in it, even now. 
“No. You cannot change what has happened. We can only change what comes after.”

“The rats”, Aegon says, all of a sudden. His voice is stricken. “Helaena, you told me you were afraid of the rats—“

“Yes. I was so afraid to see it happen in front of me, not just in my head. I’ve been dreading it my entire life.” 

“You knew it would happen?”

“I saw. It’s not the same thing. It isn’t clear.”

Alicent cannot believe her own ears. It’s  a horrible thought. 

I’ve dreaded it my entire life, Alicent thinks, and remembers Helaena as a child, shrieking every time Alicent had tried to put her to sleep in the Queen’s chambers. 
Helaena had screamed for hours in her crib, until Alicent had bitten her nails past the quicks, and every finger was a lance of flame as she bounced and dangled her colicky baby. 
Now she wonders what Helaena had been forced to see, and feels her gut churn at the horror. When her daughter meets her gaze, though, there’s only softness in her gaze. “I already said I forgave you”, she reminds Alicent, and squeezes her hand. 

“You didn’t say anything?” Aegon’s voice is slurred, poppy slowly taking the pain and his wits. 

“It had to happen. Just like your sun setting.”

His good eye opens all the way. 
“Did you see me dying?”

Helaena nods, face grave. “A number of ways, yes.”

“Helaena. Have you seen how this war ends?” Alicent steels herself, because if her daughter can see the future, Alicent would know her sins in advance. 

“Yes.”

“Do we win?” She isn’t even sure who we is, any more. 

“No. There is no winning. The dragons die.”

“What?” That’s Aegon, voice sharp despite the medicine. “They die? Sunfyre-“ 

“If we dance, the dragons all die. Green, Black — we’re all red, just so much meat. Luke, Jahaerys, they will only be the first to shift their spirits.” Helaena’s eyes go wide, horrified at whatever she sees. Her fingers fidget with an amethyst ring Viserys had given her, turning it over and over with relentless anxiety. “We—“

“Will sue for peace”, Alicent says. 

Aegon speaks over her. “Have a common enemy.”

“Aemond?” Alicent doesn’t want both of her sons to be Kinslayers, but— 

“Yes”, Helaena says, hollow. “But I am afraid there are more.”

“Who? The Greyjoy cunts?”

“No, the Kraken yet sleeps, deep in silent smoking seas. There is another beast, an enemy old as the dawn.” 

Despite the bright tower room, Alicent feels a weight, a heat, as though something invisible and malevolent were slavering down the back of her neck. “Helaena. You’re frightening me.”

“I am scared.”

“So we stay?” Aegon’s voice is slurred, but it’s clear he wants to have his say. 

“Until you are recovered at least enough to move”, Alicent agrees. “Then, we’ll go-“

“To the Red Keep? With Aemond? He tried to burn me, Mother. He won’t leave me alive again. To Oldtown? He’d threaten to make another Harrenhal in the mouth of the Whispering Sound, and they’d put me in a rowboat and send me over like a picnic hamper. No.” He gasps for a breath, pain overwhelming even the large dose of poppy he’d been served. He staggers on anyways. “We’re here. We’re not dead yet. And if Aemond is still out there, whether he has a dragon or not is irrelevant. A knife can kill just as easily as a dragon, and I cannot escape him. He hates me, Mother; at least Rhaenyra hasn’t actually tried to kill me.” 

“She sent assassins”, Alicent reminds him. 

Aegon nods, dreamily. “But she told me that it was for Aemond, which… I can’t blame her for. His dragon ate her son. I’ve seen down Vhagar’s throat myself. I want his head too. And she sent Luke as an emissary. Imagine something happening to Daeron?” 

Alicent’s blood turns to icy chum. 
“Daeron, I need to tell him. He must join us-“

“Is he safer here, truly? We’re strangers to him, so how do we get him out?”

“A raven?”

“Like the one you sent Rhaenyra?” Aegon says, snidely, and Alicent feels it like a sliver to the nail bed. 

“Do not be unkind-“

“Sorry”, he mutters. “It just hurts-“

“Hammering hones Valyrian steel”, Helaena whispers, and Aegon hisses out a breath. 

“Where did you hear that?” 

“In my dreams”, she says, and Alicent doesn’t like the anxious way her hand twirls that ring, over and over again. 

Alicent takes a deep breath, girds her courage, and nods. “So we stay, and kneel to the Black Queen”, Alicent says. “Cleave to Rhaenyra and beg her mercy.” 

Helaena’s eyes land on Alicent’s like violet stars, and then shift to the sun streaming through the window. Dragons fly in the sea breezes, and bask on the warm black stone. “It’s sunny”, she says. “A better day, this time.” 

Alicent remembers cold, wet rain, the wet squelch of slippers on soaked cobblestones, and the smell of her father’s vetiver cologne. The petrichor, the sharp tang of grief. 

“Yes”, she agrees, following her daughter’s gaze into bright blue sky. “Today is a better day.” 

Chapter Text

TYLAND 

Tyland’s skull hurting is the first sign that something is horrifically wrong. It’s loud, but low, so he feels the rumble in his marrow more than he hears it in his ears. His teeth aching is the second clue that the situation has deteriorated. 

It’s vibrations, a rhythmic thumping that makes his bowels shudder in his body. 

“What is that noise?” Lord Wylde looks as confused as he does, and goes to the window of the Small Council rooms. 

When he throws them open, the sound intensifies into a horrific, malevolent thrum. It’s like the lowest galley drum he’s ever heard, rung in a discordant cacophony that hurts the bones of his chest, combined with the unwholesome buzz of a hundred thousand carrion flies surrounding him. 

The air is heavy and moist. 

The usually rowdy city is quiet as a crypt, but for the eerie sound of the low bells in the Sept ringing a warning. 

The people in the streets stare upwards at the abomination flying overhead. The setting sun gilds the creature in oily red, and the air is ripe with the sweet battlefield reek of decay and rot. The stench makes Tyland’s bile rise, and he swallows it back down. 

Lord Wylde stares, and then his mouth starts to move and vomit of another kind spews out. “Seven protect us, what in the Hells is that?! What Ungodly nightmare have the Blacks dropped on our heads?” They watch as the large shadow, a greasy black creature with an unwholesome green sheen to the black of its scales and the membranes of its wings, settles down into the Dragonpit. It engulphs it entirely, gulping at what appears to be an unfortunate bystander or two, and Tyland feels his armpits grow cold with fear.

This creature is a dragon in the same way that a direwolf and a lady’s lapdog are both canine. The abomination hunching over the Dragonpit looks as though it could eat Balerion as a snack. 

He wonders if it’s worse to see a Black banner or a Green one descend from the back of that thing. 

“I am sure we shall know soon enough, my lord”, Tyland says, and is proud that his voice is steady. He can, at least, die a man. 

Lord Wylde seems to agree. He lifts a full decanter full of something the colour of amber. “Wine?”

“How good is the vintage?”

“Sweet Arbour gold, an excellent year. Strong.”

"Something worthy of a last libation. Cheers, Lord Wylde”, he says, and clinks their goblets together. 

The other man quaffs his in a gulp, and makes for the door. Only at the very end does he turn back. 
“You’re not leaving?” 

Tyland laughs. “Whomever it is that rides that monstrosity will find you, whether you went North of the Wall or to the Shadow beyond Asshai. But good luck running”, he says insincerely, and takes the bottle from his erstwhile colleague, toasting his fleeing back with it. 
 
 *** 
 
 AEMOND

“Good even, my Lord.” Tyland’s voice trembles like he’s the bride at a bedding. Aemond would laugh, were he not so disgusted with this farce. 
 
The Small Council chambers are well-lit, with a fire in the hearth. Lord Tyland has put out very good wine and some minor refreshments; a small bunch of iced green grapes rest on a small silver tray by the Hand’s seat. 

He takes the spot, and Tyland remains standing until Aemond gives him leave to sit. 
 
 “It is good to have been missed.”
 
Lannister relaxes minutely.  “Of course, my Prince. We have patrols riding up and down Crackclaw Point, and skiffs disguised as fishermen searching the Bay for you; I am sure our men will be glad to hear that you are safely returned to us.”

Aemond hums. It’s probably even true. Tyland is meticulous in covering his bases. 
 “Very good. And my brother?”
 
 Now his Lord Lannister goes the colour of greasy ash. “Taken by the Usurper”, he says, voice hoarse. 
 
 “How tragic”, Aemond says, without so much as a smear of sincerity. “My mother and his lady wife will have grieved to hear of it. I shall see them anon.”
 
 Tyland freezes like a hare before the shadow of a hawk. “The hour is late, my Prince.”
 
Deflection. Aemond scents a rat. 

 “I am sure they shall be relieved to know at least one son has returned from war. I shall see my mother.” Aemond rises, and Tyland gets to his feet in turn. Had he stayed in his place, Aemond might have left him unmolested. 
 
 But the cretin moves, placing himself between Aemond and the door. 
 
 Aemond goes hunter still, assessing this pasty-cheeked challenger. 
 
 “Perhaps in the morning”, the drippy quim says, nearly stammering. Aemond loathes him with sudden and deadly passion. He takes a step forward; the cretin takes a step back. “My Lo—“, his squeak is abruptly cut off by Aemond’s hand crushing the column of his throat in a vise grip. 
 
 His free hand holds his belt knife to Tyland’s wet crotch. 
 “Perhaps I should slit you from cock to jaw, Lord Tyland. Lying to your sovereign deserves no less. Where are my mother, and my sister?”
 
 “They— I— we do not know, my Lord.”
 
 “You do not know.”
 
 He shakes his head as best he can, eyes wide and terrified. Aemond’s lip twists into a sneer. 
 
 “You may speak.”
 
 “Yes. Thank you. We—“, he visibly girds himself. “My Prince, we feared abduction, but…”
 
 “But?”
 
 “Shortly after King Aegon’s abduction by the Princess Rhaenys, Queen Helaena’s dragon- ah— disappeared.”
 
“Disappeared.”

Words fail the man, and he nods, weak as a decapitated puppet. 

“From the *unguarded* Dragonpit.” The intonation is as precise a a suture. 

Another urine scented acquiescence. Good that he should fear him. 
“We didnt know they were hostages!” It’s a whimpered protest, his first sign of life. Aemond ignores it. 

“Did you speak to the Dragonkeepers?”

“We— “

“You—“, he mocks, an inch from his face. The knife is closer still, and Tyland wheezes again. 

“We couldn’t!”

“You could not ask the Dragonkeepers?”

“No, my Prince.”

Aemond’s voice is soft as a grave shroud. 
“Whyever not?”

“They set themselves afire when we tried.”

Aemond snarls, a well of malevolence filling his blood with ice and hunger. The Dragonkeepers are as Valyrian as the Targaryens, fanatically devoted to the blood of the dragon. 

Ancient, and loyal to the line beyond breath. 

Coldness settles over him like the darkness of night. “Who is gone?”

“My Prince-“

“WHO.”

“All of them! Queen Helaena, the D-Dowager Queen Alicent, and Princess Jahaera!”

Two riders, gone. 

But that is nevertheless only the one dragon lost. 
There might be enough left that it hardly signifies. 

“… and the dragons?”

“Sire?”

“The DRAGONS!” It’s a roar so loud it’s nearly wordless, and he can feel Tyland tremble under his hand. “Did Helaena take the fledglings!”

The man trembles. “I don’t know!” It’s convincingly terrified, but he hesitates a heartbeat too long. 

He’s thought about the answer. 

There is nothing that Aemond hates more than a liar. He leans closer, until they’re nearly nose to nose. 

“Are you very, very sure, my Lord?” 
His voice is the whisper of autumn air against a barrows door, the scratching of skeletal twigs and the whisper of chill winds. 

“Yes”, Tyland Lannister lies. “I swear it on my—“
Aemond lifts the knife, and neatly spears out his eye. “Gods!” 
It’s a single syllable of agony and horror that ratchets up into a wordless wail of agony. 

Aemond understands the exquisite agony of losing an eye, so he gives Tyland a moment to compose himself again. It takes him longer than it had Aemond as a boy, but well, the man is inferior stock. 
“Do not lie to me again, Tyland”, he says, tone conversational. “Lest I take the other eye. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes“, the man mewls, clutching at his ruined face. 

“Lock down the Keep, and the gates of the City. Tell the Gold Cloaks: Nobody in. Nobody out. And fetch me Larys.”

“Y-yes, my Lord.” 

“Your Grace”, Aemond corrects, ever gracious. 

Tyland nods, amending his address with a bow that slops more vitreous humour from the socket onto the stone floor. 
“Yea, Your Grace”, he moans, and flees. 

Aemond lets him go, sheathing his knife and settling in to wait. 

*** 

He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Fear is a potent motivator, and even a cripple exerts himself to hurry when summoned by the Cannibal. 
“It would appear Lord Tyland has elected to show his devotion to your rule through sartorial preference, Your Grace”, Lord Larys says as he settles into his seat at Aemond’s invitation. 

“Mm”, he agrees. “Oleaginous as ever, Lord Strong. Tell me what you know.” 

“Hardly more than you, Your Grace.” That, at least, is true. Lord Larys appears to have no incentive to lie just yet. “The Dowager Queen and the Royal family disappeared in the night without a sign of struggle; the only thing found in Lady Alicent’s rooms was an empty cup of… tea.” His tone is as bitter as tansy dregs. “I had it examined for poison, and it was untainted.” 

“I understand”, Aemond says, because Lord Larys’s fixation on Alicent is none of his concern. The toad is useful, and she is a traitor. “Very well. Lord Larys, I need you to arrange some things in my absence.”

“Your Grace, you’ve only just arrived.”

“And yet matters of state demand that I depart again”, Aemond says, without elaboration. “You shall find me every Dragonseed in King’s Landing and bring them to me, alive. The eldest to the youngest, sparing none. By any means necessary — but willing would be better.”

“My Prince?”

“I need dragons”, Aemond says. He can see the shadow of wings in the sky, the sweet scent of incense in the air. She’s stolen them, robbed him of his birthright. “The Empress took the last-“ 
Images swarm him. Tall cliffs of black stone, a sky painted red with eruptions, girded with green forest and sweet green straights of water. And a beautiful shining city, a gleaming throne of carved mother of pearl, a woman with silver hair the colour of shell and eyes like chips of amethyst—turned hateful, disdainful—pulling away and—-

“Empress? Your Grace, you must rest-“ 

“What?” Aemond has no idea what Lord Larys wants now, shaking his head like there’s water in his ears. “She took Dreamfyre, and the fledglings. Now I needs must hunt dragons. Find me their riders, Lord Strong, and do not disappoint me.”

*** 

He soars high above the clouds, with nothing above him but the blackness of the sky, and nothing below him but the darkness of the Reach laid out like velvet below him. 

There is a song on the wind, a high and keening demand. He can hear it, thin and sweet. A hundred thousand voices, a legacy dating to the darkest night before the dawn, whispering invitations and invocations in long dead languages he nevertheless understands as well as his mother’s tongue. 

The Mander cuts like a trickle of blood, glinting like a blade bright as moonlight, and he follows it down, down— 

He sees Highgarden below him, lights bright as a candle flame, but pushes forward. 

Something about it feels wrong, hostile. The breeze prickles his nostrils, scented with a bitter sap that keeps his wings pushing hard, gaining purchase in the thin air. His lungs heave like a bellows, but there’s nothing here to inhale. He doesn’t care; at least the stench of vegetal wrongness, of flavourless water and putrid loam, can no longer assault his delicate senses. 

Then he’s winging south, and west, until there is a range of crags sharp as a broken spine to his left. There, he spots the lightest smear of colour. 

Horn Hill, something small and feeble whispers in his mind. 

A memory, a small and easily swatted thing. 

Ahead, the scent of iron. 

It’s faint, but compelling, beautiful as an eclipse. He feels his mouth fill with slaver at the thought of hot, fresh blood. The crunch of bone and the squeal of fresh, eager prey. The sizzle of meat, the scorch of burnt hair — 

There. 

He banks, the tiniest twitch of tail and wing caressing the wind like a lover. 

There, in the distance, and growing brighter with every beat of his wings, lies his lodestone. 

Green light sears against the black of the night horizon, guiding him home to the Whispering Sound. 

Chapter Text

DAERON

A whisper to his left pulls Daeron’s attention from the Septon’s hymn to the Smith. 

“I heard the Red Queen ate him up in six bites, just like that!” The woman keeps her voice low, but she’s clearly eager to share, so he listens.  

Daeron knows it’s important to take the measure of the people.

Grandfather has always said that what the smallfolk say matters, so he takes care to cover his hair and keep his eyes down when in he mingles amongst the Commons. 
Today, he’s in breeches and a tunic of decent homespun, just rough enough to pass as a prosperous merchant’s son. Simple clothing and a bit of humility is small enough coin to buy him the privacy to listen to the rustle of the smallfolk kneeling in the Starry Sept. 

“Gods be good”, says the woman’s companion, a doughty-looking lady with a baker’s strong hands . “Marys, don’t say things like that. If nothing else, the highborns’ll whip you for it.”

The other woman shakes her head hard. “It’s the truth! I heard it from Old Jeyne down at the fishmonger.” Her voice is adamant, so Daeron eavesdrops all the more intently, shifting to hear her better. 
“She says she got it from her sister’s boy, who does horseshoes for the Royal farrier and he swore it on the Seven!” 

“Aye, and that’s a reliable witness. Might as well say he heard it whispered on the wind.” The elder woman sounds sensible, at least. Daeron is inclined to agree. 

The girl is not. 
“And what would you know, Daisy?”

“No more than you”, the older woman scoffs. “Just rumour.” 

“Tell us, then”, Marys sneers, and the woman shrugs. 

“Well, I heard that it was the King’s own brother who did for him, swooped right down and burnt him up to take his place, but that the Red Queen did for the second son in turn.”

“No!” The girl’s aghast, clutching at her throat. It’s the first sensible thing she’s said all conversation. “That can’t be!”

“Well, why not?” The older woman sniffs, adding quietly, “He’s already a Kinslayer.” 

Marys looks appalled, nose up in the air. 
“That Strong boy is no kin of his and all know it.”

“Don’t be stupid”, the woman says, but before Daeron can demand satisfaction, she continues. “Of course he is. They’re related through their mother—“ 
She’s interrupted by a low pulse of sound, a noise so low that Daeron feels it in his sternum, more than his eardrums. Unease fills the hollow of his chest, as another nearly inaudible pulse makes the crystal dome above them shudder and creak in its frame. 

The woman called Daisy looks up, and her sun-wrinkled face goes grey. 
“Mother have mercy, what is that?” 

Daeron’s gaze follows hers and for a moment he almost doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. The dome of the Sept is made of faceted crystal, and should show the night sky. That isn’t what he sees. Instead, the blue gloaming of early evening has been turned into inky blackness as a shadow glides overhead. 

He’s read about Balerion and the way his wingspan could put the ground into shadow under him. Every dragon-rider has. 

But the creature above him blots out the sky. 

The women around him shriek. 

The Starry Sept is made of black marble, from floor to walls and buttresses. With the crystal covered, the grand chamber is as dark as any tomb. It feels like an eternity, and may indeed be five or six interminable seconds, before the shadow passes and Daeron can eke out a breath. 

When he forces air in again, it’s enough to jog his senses. The creature is a dragon, but he has never seen its like. 

Nothing is that big; not even Vhagar. 

The younger of the women runs to the door, peering out from around one of the posts. “It’s the size of the High Tower”, she hisses back at them. It’s the chatty one, but now he’s glad for it. No one else was mad enough to gossip at the gates of the apocalypse. 

“No!” 

The chatty one shakes her head. “In sooth! It’s…” 

She falls silent, words failing her as another hard flap of wings rattles the dome above them. Daeron cranes his neck to see. The dragon is massive, enough so that it doesn’t bother flapping twice. It’s gargantuan wingspan is such that it can glide soundlessly above them in a slow vulture’s circle. The quiet is so much worse, because nothing else dares make a noise as the creature looms like an eclipse above them, getting larger the closer it gets. 

Daeron feels acutely ill at the knowledge that there is someone on the back of that thing, and that they’re coming for him. 

The creature makes a sound that’s less a roar than a reptilian bellow, an ululating challenge that makes a bead of cold sweat sluice down Daeron’s spine. 

That’s when the women’s nerves break and they flee out into the street, racing for home in the vain hope of dying amongst loved ones. Daeron admires their optimism and pities their foolishness. 

He stays where he is, kneeling on the black stone of the Sept. 

That’s where the monster’s rider finds him. 

“Hello, little brother”, Aemond says, voice echoing in the black marble hall. Daeron feels another bead of sweat itch its way down his back at the way his brother steps slowly towards him. 

“Aemond, brother! It is good to see you well!” He means that, at least. It has been years since last they saw each other, and Aemond has seen war since then. “But— Vhagar?” 

Aemond shrugs. 
“She has joined the fires. I have need of you.”

The action is uncharacteristic of the poised and reserved brother that Daeron remembers.  The dismissive tone, even moreso. 
“What? I heard you were dead, Aemond. What’s going on? What do you need my help with?”

“Someone has taken our brother, our sister and our mother. I believe they are on Dragonstone as hostages.” 

A yawning pit opens in Daeron’s gut. He remembers the woman’s gossip, and imagines what Rhaenyra the Cruel might possibly want with the mother, wife and daughter of a hostage king. 
“How-“ 

“I am not sure, but they took Dreamfyre.”

What? 
Daeron’s horrified thoughts stutter to an abrupt halt. A wife, a daughter, a mother? All easily enough stolen away. Helpless and harmless, they’d have each been easy prey for a killer or kidnapper. 

But Dreamfyre? 

Tessarion is but sixteen and she’s already taken two arms, a leg and badly burned a novice dragon keeper.

Dreamfyre is easily five times Tess’s size, and a thousand times as fierce. He cannot imagine anyone other than Helaena being able to beard the she-dragon in her den, even if they had made it past the guards. 
“The Dragonkeepers?” 

“Dead”, is Aemond’s flat reply. 

“I see.” That things have spiralled dangerously out of control. 

“And they’ve captured Aegon.”

Daeron words his next inquiry carefully. 
“How was His Grace injured?”

“By dragonfire in the battle above Rook’s Rest.”

“Gods—“ Daeron breathes. 
Had it been Rhaenys to strike the blow, Aemond would have had spared no time in naming her. His obsfucation is damning, and Daeron’s blood runs cold in his veins. 

If Aemond can sense his dawning horror, he doesn’t seem to care. 
“We have lost the dragons, Daeron. Tessarion is the last of them left to us. We needs must have more.”

“What of yours? I saw you overhead, brother. Your new mount is-“

“The ancient is powerful, but he must have thralls.” 

Thralls? Daeron shudders at the thought. Slaves, more like. 

“Come”, the stranger wearing his brother’s face says. “I have business with the Hightower.” 

*** 

It’s an uncomfortable walk towards the beast hunched down in front of them on the plaza. The creature is the same black as the marble, but when it raises its head its teeth are red with gore. There’s something its mouth, and Daeron feels his bile rise when what he recognizes as a woman’s arm flops away from the masticated mass of flesh onto the floor. 

“Aemond-“ 
His voice is breathy with horror. 

His brother doesn’t seem to notice. He pulls Daeron inexorably forward, like iron towards a magnet. The creature only gets larger the closer they approach. Its head the same size as the bakery it hunches beside, and its eyes gleam with malevolent intelligence. 

It’s so unlike the warmth of Tessarion’s bond that Daeron finds himself abruptly nauseous. It doesn’t improve when Aemond hauls him bodily into the rigging and up on to the saddle. 
“Where is the green flame kept?”

There is nothing to do but speak the truth. The evidence is as clear as bright day. 
“At the top.”

He’s barely spoken when the ground peels away like sloughing flesh, and the smell of ripe rot and fresh blood assaults his nose. It’s the creature’s breath and as Daeron grips the pommel for all he’s worth, he says a silent prayer for Marys. 

When they land, it’s on the very top of the Tower. The creature sinks its talons into the stone, clinging like a shadow on the dark of the moon. His wings flap thrice, each time wide enough to blinker the Tower’s light entirely. It also sends a shuttering breeze whistling down the stone, shrieking through every open window. The sound is an eerie wail, and across the city, Daeron can see lights extinguish as smallfolk and small nobles alike hide from the demon of night that’s come to stalk the darkness. 

Aemond slips off of the creature’s wing and down the circular stairs into the topmost room of the Tower. Uncle Hobart and Grandfather are there, dressed in green and black and waiting for them. 

Daeron has never seen the High Tower before; that is a privilege reserved for the Lord and his invited guests. He had expected heat — stones hot to the touch from an eternal flame. He had anticipated smoke, searing to the eyes. 

He had not thought to see an open colonnade, with braziers burning in each archway. 

He also had not expected to see a sharp green shard of dragon glass in the centre of the chamber. It’s as tall as he is, carved into the shape of a coiled dragon with a crown of spikes similar to the ones Aemond’s new beast wears. 

“Grandfather”, the man wearing Aemond’s face says as he ushers them both in. The hand on Daeron’s neck isn’t brotherly at all, and Grandfather takes in his too-tight grip and Daeron’s pale face with a single glance. 

“Aemond. I’ve heard rumours.” His tone gives the impression they have not been good ones. 

“I come to set them to rest.”

“I’m sure”, Lord Hightower says. “You have flown a long way to do so.” 

Aemond laughs, a noise like the rustling of dead branches against stone walls. 
“I have swift wings.”

“So I see”, Grandfather says. “My condolences on your last mount. But what brings you here?”

Aemond smiles, and Daeron inches his way back towards the wall, where he can just see the hilt of the Hightower ceremonial sword hanging on the wall. 

“I needed to see the green flame before going to war”, Aemond says, stepping closer to where the two men cluster around a green shard of sharp rock. Grandfather frowns. 

“Going to war?” 

Lord Hightower scoffs. “Your mother-“

Aemond steps closer. 
“I have come from King’s Landing, Grandfather”, Aemond says in a voice as cold as winter. “My mother, my sister and my niece have been taken by the Imposter and her bastards. I will prosecute this war to get back what belongs to me. They are my blood.”

“They took Dreamfyre”, Daeron says quickly, and watches as Grandfather comes to the same conclusion he has. 

“Aemond”, Grandfather starts, cautiously.  His eyes are fixed on the man like a fox watching a wolf. 

“We needs must have dragons”, Aemond agrees. “I know how to control them. I know the price that must be paid.” His smile is wide, his eye is wild, and he speaks with a vicious joy. “Fire and blood.” 

Then, it’s a flurry of violent movement.

Lord Hightower makes the first mistake, lunging with his dagger in an attempt to slash at his nephew. Aemond is better trained and a younger man; he opens Lord Hightower’s throat in an instant. 

Blood pools around him, running into grooves carved into the floor. Daeron recognizes maybe one in five as Valyrian-looking. The rest are a mystery.  All funnel in towards the carved green dragon. 

Aemond doesn’t seem to care about the bloody glyphs. He steps through them, towards Otto. 
“He must have his thralls, Grandfather”, he whispers. “Only death can pay for life—“ 

“Aemond, don’t—“

Aemond lunges towards Grandfather, and Daeron lunges towards the sword on the wall. Both hit their targets, but by the time Daeron whirls around armed, Grandfather and Aemond are locked in a struggle. 

It isn’t much of a contest and before Daeron can even scramble his way across the blood-slick floor, Grandfather lets out a howl as he’s slammed down hard onto the tallest of sculpture’s two horns. 

Grandfather’s next words are caught in the blood of his pierced chest. Aemond frowns for a moment, face working as though he’s struggling to make the expression at all, and then the wide smile is back in place. Grandfather wheezes, pain lining his face. Daeron watches for a moment in horror before shoving himself into action with a scream of rage and anguish. 

The sword comes up, he swings — he prays the Gods forgive him for becoming a Kinslayer — 

And the sword comes down where Aemond is not. 

A smashing blow to his sword hand makes him drop the hilt, and even as he scrambles for it, Aemond is on him. He snatches at his wrist, fingers gripping tight as dragon-jaws on his arm. 

For a horrific instant, Daeron thinks he sees the Stranger, lurking in the corner of the room. He’s sure to meet him, and the only consolation is that he will be with Grandfather soon. 
Then, the bright flare of pain rockets up his arm, and his palm is wet with hot red blood. The sharp obsidian blade of the statue’s mouth is as well. The scent of copper is all around them, sweet rot and hot meat. Above them, the Cannibal bugles a vicious and victorious cry — 

And the statue glows a noxious green, pulsing bright enough to mark every line on grandfather’s gray face. 

Below, in the chambers beneath the High Tower, Daeron can feel Tess wake from her slumber and begin to shriek. Soon, her cry is loud in his ears, carried on the wind. 

Daeron shudders in horror as Aemond takes him by the wrist and pulls him to the Tower’s exterior pier again. There she is, his cobalt queen, hovering in the air above them as the Cannibal makes that awful, laughing rumble. 

“Fly her”, Aemond orders, and for an instant, Daeron wonders if his brother is speaking to him. He’s disabused of the notion when the Cannibal hisses again, and Tessarion spins up and then down in a death spiral, halted only by another hiss. 

He rules her, and Daeron feels a violation so soul-deep that it makes him dizzy. 

The green light bathes them all in a sickly glow, even as Daeron allows Aemond pull him onto the Cannibal’s back again. It’s clear Tessarion will be going with them, and Daeron won’t leave her. 

“Where are we going?” 

He doesn’t expect a response. 

The one he gets is worse than silence. 

“King’s Landing”, Aemond says. “We yet have family to meet.” 

Chapter Text

BAELA 

“You missed supper.” 

Baela can’t imagine choking down a single mouthful. 
“I wasn’t hungry”, she says, loosing another crossbow quarrel. It strikes home with a heavy thud. Jace picks his way carefully down the salt-crusted rocks, grinning as he approaches her pin-cushioned target. 

“Good shot”, he says with that affable smile of his. “And I don’t think any of us were, really. Too many unfamiliar faces.” 

She’s glad he agrees. 
Baela’s been raised to be Queen since she was a girl, but she is glad she doesn’t have to face all of this alone. Diplomacy may be the better part of valour, but it feels strange to break bread with people whom, a fortnight ago, wanted her head on a spike. 
Now Aegon lies crippled in a bed just above them, the object of Rhaena’s obsessive interest. Father laughs like he knows a dangerous secret he can’t wait to share, and the Dowager Queen and Her Grace are both skittering about like spooked dragons, ready to trample anyone and everything in their path. Even Grandmother’s acquired a new line between her brows, and spends hours in the sky with Meleys, patrolling ceaselessly above the waters that have hidden her quarry. 

The only sane one seems to be the family madwoman. 

Helaena smiles at everyone and sings to her daughter as they stroll along the high parapets. She has a beautiful voice, the Dreamer Queen, high and sweet and carrying. 

Baela can hear it when she flies, long after she’s out of earshot. That frightens her. 
“Am I a coward for running away?”

“Not at all”, Jace assures her with another one of those sideways glances, like he’s inviting her into some marvellous joke only they know. He leans closer a moment later, voice a whisper. “I wish I had joined you.”
They’re so close that Baela can smell the mint on his breath; the herbal scent of his hair and feel the heat of his body half a hand from hers.
It takes an act of sheer will to focus on his words, and not the fact that one day, soon, this dark and handsome dragon-lord will be her husband. 

Even now, her eyes watch his mouth as he speaks. 

The longer he stays beside her, the more relaxed his posture and the more conversational his tone. Jace blossoms under pressure, but seeks her council once alone, and she knows he will make a formidable king. She’ll ensure it. 

“—and then your father told the Dowager Queen that they might as well consolidate households, and I half wanted to run screaming. Everyone else was poking at their plates like the food might bite back, except for little Jahaera, who just wouldn’t stop staring at Daemon. The Dowager Queen looked like she was sitting on a brazier; she twitched towards her trencher knife every time he laughed.”

Baela laughs, feeling some of her bad mood recede like the tide. “That tense?”

Jace nods, leaning closer still. His breath stirs the fine curls at the nape of her neck. If he knows he’s teasing her, he gives no indication.
“The Lady Hand ensured the topics were swiftly truncated to a conversation about Seasmoke’s increasing restlessness, and Her Grace just looked as though she would rather a dragon eat her. Poor mother. She’s been crushed under all her victories.”

He says it quietly enough that she can tell he’s as uneasy as she is with their new allies. 
“I’m sorry I missed it”, she says, and means it. She ought to have been there. They’re a unit, and she left him without support. “I was—“

“Murdering straw soldiers”, Jace says, tone warm. “And misery may love company, but it’s a bitter cup I wouldn’t care to share with you. Better that you were here. I am glad to have such a deadly bride to defend my honour, and such a keen eye aimed to the horizon. I never asked — how high were you when you spotted Criston?” 

“Five thousand”, she confesses, delighted. It’s the highest she’s ever flown, and the fastest she’s ever plunged. 

“Incredible”, her future husband says, looking at her like she’s some goddess stepped off a tapestry into flesh. His voice is sweet with sincerity and warm with admiration, and Baela feels her cheeks warm at how deeply and well he loves. It is immensely flattering. 

When he hands her a travel tin filled with her favourites from the kitchen’s cold meats cellar and a handful of the spicy Volantine olives she scours the Spicetown markets to find, she could weep. There are so few good men in the world, and here is Jace, hers to have and hold. He’s smiling down at her as he holds out something brought simply to make her happy. 
She pops an olive into her mouth, savouring the flavour.

“This is thoughtful of you, Jace, thank you.” Still, as she stares back out over the waters of the Gullet, the rich flavour curdles on Baela’s tongue. She spits out the pit in an unladylike gesture, nerves too rattled to remember to cover her mouth with a sleeve. 

Jace is as perceptive as ever, uncorking the skin for her. “You are still unsettled, my lady.”

She takes it, smiling as their fingers touch. He soothes her spirit, even when she feels as restless as her uncle’s dragon.  
“I am nervous, Jace. It’s been too quiet.”

“With all these people?” 

“Absent voices are the loudest”, she says, putting down the refreshments and picking up her crossbow again. “The Kinslayer— do you know where he went?” 

Jace’s handsome face goes cold, final. He looks regal, all strong lines and measured cadence. 
“To each Hell in turn, I should hope.” 

“I hate him, you know. Long before he — killed Luke, he stole Rhaena’s chance to bond with Mother’s dragon. Now he’s flown Vhagar into the sea. It’s so unfair.” Another arrow hits its mark. “Vhagar knew us. Rhaena grew up flying her, and she might have had that last link with Mother. Aemond took the chance — fair enough. Father always says that dragons are not slaves to be commanded, and Vhagar chose her rider. But he told Rhaena to ride a pig, the day we fed our mother to the sea. All because she was mad. Then he didn’t even care for her…”

It’s so childish, now. So much blood shed over such an infantile comment, on such an awful day. Jace’s mouth does something funny, twisting like he’s tastes something sour. 
“I am sorry, Baela.”

“It was—“ Baela takes a shuddering breath, carefully loading the crossbow with deliberately steady hands. She allows herself to feel the adrenaline and let it sharpen her senses, just as Father had taught her. “When Vhagar burned Mother, there… wasn’t a body, Jace, not really. Dragonfire is sticky, like honey, and it burns hot and fast and it doesn’t leave much behind.“

“Rhaena”, Jace starts, obviously thinking of her tireless efforts with their royal patient. The way she’d taken a single look, squared her shoulders and put herself to work at the Maester’s side the day Aegon had arrived. 

Baela nods. “Rhaena’s always run faster than I. She got there just after Father.”

“She always said the smell of the sickroom never bothered her.” He sounds as though he’d like to be sick himself. 

Baela agrees. 
“I can’t stand it. The Pretender is fortunate she has a strong constitution. I can’t even look at him, but she saw Mother. He’s not that bad.”

There’s a moment of quiet as Jace stares at the orange-painted waves of the water below. When he speaks, his voice is so soft the rustle of the waves nearly drowns it out. 
“They found my father dead in a fire, too. I had always wondered — if I stared at the hearth too long one day, would I see him in it?

“Do you think my Father murdered yours?” That is the rumour, after all. 

It would appear Jace doesn’t believe it. “No. They fought together in the Step-Stones. Father made Daemon laugh. I can’t imagine he would have him murdered, not even to marry mother.”

“And Lord Harwin Strong?” Another father, dead by fire. “What of him?

“He was a Gold Cloak”, Jace muses. “I suppose he knew the Prince of Flea Bottom. I was young, and I only remember that he was good. Strong, just as they say. Gentle; and fierce in the defence of people he loved. I remember how careful he was the first time my hair got tangled in my helm. And I remember the way he defended us in the yard when Ser Criston made insinuations against my lady Mother.”

“I should have let Moondancer flame him.” Baela means it. “The fool wore silver plate in an open field on a sunny day. Truly, an invitation.”

That ekes a laugh out of her Prince. 
“Don’t they call him a strategist?”

“Clearly not a scholar”, she says, but restlessness makes her load another quarrel. This time, it goes wild, winging off the cliff and into the open air below. Her betrothed reaches out and gently takes the crossbow from her, putting it beside the tin for someone to collect later 

“Jace”, she murmurs, as he takes her hand. Her own tingles where he touches, and she sighs with frustration. 

“Baela, let me help you. What can I do?” 
That’s a dangerous question to ask in her restless, reckless mood. She has any number of suggestions, courtesy of a Lyseni book Rhaena found tucked away in Visenya’s library high in Seadragon Tower. Her sister had taken one look declared it far more suitable for Baela’s circumstances than hers. It’s hidden under Baela’s feather mattress, awaiting her marriage — or fifteen minutes without a chaperone. 

Assuming they don’t all die before the end of this, Baela intends to rival her namesake in enthusiasm. 
“I need a distraction. I can’t seem to settle”, she announces, and Jace nods as though solving a complex equation. 

“Shall we go fly the Channel?” 
It’s a good suggestion. They can patrol high above scorpion range, keeping a weather eye on the waters below. When she bends to pick up her crossbow, he takes it from her and puts it down. 
It’s then that she notices the sunset is painted in a glorious palette of reds, oranges, and a bright eager gold. It’s fire, painted on the thin high cirrus clouds. 

It’s beautiful, and she knows Jace. 

“Is that just an excuse to watch the sunset?”

He grins, unrepentant at being caught out. 
“Only if my lady would do me the honour of accompanying me in appreciating it.”

His affability charms her, and she nods. 
“Of course. Let me get my coat-“, she trails off as Jace presents her with her best flying cloak, the one lined with plush furs from the Bay of Seals. “—you’re thoughtful, Jace. Thank you.” She means it.  

“My pleasure, Baela”, he murmurs, and wraps it around her, securing the collar with careful hands. He’s so close she thinks he might kiss her, but then holds out his hand. “Come, my lady, let me take you dancing.” 

The gallantry should be ridiculous — but she falls for it just the same. Baela places her hand in his, and lets him lead her towards the Dragonmont. 

*** 

They’ve been dancing for what feels like hours, so long that the sky around them is the deep indigo of night when Baela sees it. 
It’s far below them, and for a moment she thinks she’s going mad. But then it happens again, and she leans down into the lee of her saddle’s pommel to get a better look. 

Now that she’s out of the cutting wind, the green blur sharpens into a bright blinking light high in the spires of the Keep. It glows brightly thrice; darkens for a moment, and then repeats the gesture. 
“What is that?” 

Jace can only just hear her shout, and glides Vermax closer. He and Moondancer are gliding on the same breeze, wings nearly touching, but this high up the wind currents coming off the water snatch her words from the air. 
“What?”

“That!” She points in lieu of speech, and sees when he notices it. 

“Visenya’s tower? What in the Hel—“ he goes silent as a flash of white passes one of the tower windows a few floors below the sickly green light. From here, Baela can just make out the highest, thinnest hint of a song. 
“Who’s that?” He doesn’t need to ask; there’s only one woman it could be — and she shouldn’t be out wandering that high in the Keep this late. 

The sudden sense of wrongness goads her like a spur. Baela gives a wordless cry and immediately, Moondancer folds her wings and drops like a rock. 

Jace’s shout tells her he’s following hard on her tail, but Moondancer is streamlined, and Baela lies so far forward in her saddle she’s nearly flat. The wind shrieks like a hurricane as they cut through it, and the blackness of the ocean is a quickly approaching wall. 

Only the bright line of whitecaps gives her the orientation, and as they approach, she leans backwards, letting her shift in weight guide Moondancer. The dragon reads her like a quadrille, banking her wings so suddenly that her claws nearly strike sparks on the black granite cliffs. 

They rocket up the towers of Dragonstone with a scream of speed. Thin windows are cut into the sheer granite, and she’s close enough to see faces in them. Baela whips past balconies and gargoyles at blistering speed, never doubting her decisions.

She cannot; there is no time. She does not look back, eyes focused on the balcony high above. 

It’s approaching at speed, the song growing impossibly louder in her ears despite the whipping of the wind. Under her, Moondancer shrieks in time with music she can’t possibly hear. The stone rockets towards them, and there — a tiny current of air whispering around the lip— and— then her wings unfurl out with a blast of sound, and the balcony is just feet below Baela. 
It’s glowing that sickly green, and Helaena stands in front of a shard of green dragon-glass the size of a great sword. It pulses, a metronomic rhythm that reminds her of the Pentoshi lighthouses of her youth. There’s a high whining noise in Baela’s ears, and she tastes copper. 

Then, Helaena steps towards the open pier, sightlessly staring away to the horizon. 

“You’ll be dead”, she whispers to someone Baela can’t see, and steps forward. 

Baela leaps, trusting to years of being tumbled by horses to keep her unharmed. It works, but only barely. 
For a horrific second, she feels the pier’s edge under the toe of her boot. The other leg pushes hard, and the momentum is enough to launch her forward, away from the endless drop onto rocks. She grabs the once-Queen by the waist as she goes, whirling her away from the edge and down to the floor. 
Baela’s frantic momentum rolls them halfway back into Visenya’s chambers, sprawled in a mix of riding leathers and nightgown, tight white curls and cobweb-thin strands tangling on a dusty rug. Helaena yields under her, beautiful and remote as any graven image of the Maiden, even as Baela trembles with adrenaline. 

Baela’s breathing hard, a stitch in her side at the physicality of flight and fight, when Helaena opens her eyes and smiles. 

“I’ve been waiting to dance with you”, Helaena says, directly to Baela, and Baela’s mouth goes acutely dry as Vermax shrieks outside.

 Jace’s boots strike stone. “Baela”, he says, voice stock-stunned. “What the Hell was that?” 

Her heart stops in her chest for a moment, but before she can think to beg his forgiveness or make an explanation, swear she is his lady and true, just don’t leave her to the pawing of men like Larys fucking Strong or that insipid Lannister twat, he’s kneeling, cradling them both. “— you were inches from the rock— magnificent flying but were you mad—You could have both been killed!”

He’s gentle when he lifts them both, cautious of Helaena’s scraped back and Baela’s smashed and bleeding knees. 
He isn’t even winded, carrying on a single person conversation despite cradling two grown women to their feet. Baela’s never noticed how strong Jacaerys Targaryen is, and now she knows she truly is her Farher’s daughter. 

“Too quiet”, she says, and starts to giggle. “Too quiet! I should have kept my mouth shut!” Baela says, and starts to laugh. 

Helaena just smiles, and squeezes her hand. “I knew you’d be brave enough”, she says, and tucks herself against Jacaerys like an owl sheltering in an oak. 

Jace stands there for a minute, like he can’t decide if he’s gone mad or just smashed his head, and then muffles a wry laugh in Baela’s crown of curls. 

They are, it would appear, ever their father’s children. 

Which is, of course, how their mothers find them.

Chapter Text

HELAENA 

They cross paths in the Dragonmont, where the narrow riding pier makes avoidance impossible. The Dragonkeepers step as far away as safety allows, establishing a perimeter and then turning their eyes to the Gods. Daemon uses Westerosi, as an added insurance against eavesdroppers. 
Helaena has never seen anyone less trusting. He even doubts those who have sworn their blood to Targaryen fires. 
“I should have spoken to you earlier”, her uncle says, and she doesn’t see why. 

“There was nothing to say”, Helaena says. The facts are clear; everything else is just… the tiniest reminder of blood on white silk backing, a pricked finger and a sharp bright pain. So personal, and so inconsequential in the grand design.

“I did not order your son’s death.”

He wants to sound adamant. Confident. That’s unnecessary, too. 
“I know”, she assures him. “You ordained it.”

She knows she’s confused him when he stares up at her through furrowed brows. The effect is so reptilian that she smiles; he resembles his bondmate so thoroughly she almost expects him to blink a set of second eyelids. 

He doesn’t seem to understand her smile, either. 
“Speak sense.”

“Aren’t I?” She feels like she’s never been clearer; everything in lightning-sharp relief. “It had to happen, I think. No matter how many designs I stitched, the tapestry remained the same. Only death may pay for life.” Helaena had heard her father say that once, to an unassuming looking man with brown hair and a Braavosi accent. Those had not been her memories, of course, and when she’d woken from her dream, she’d stitched an entire panel of tapestry. 

Daemon’s eyes narrow to slits. 
“Where did you— Whose death? Whose life?”

“All. Every one, as many as the stars in the sky.” 
There are so many of them, cold and bright and merciless. “I dreamed it.”

“Seven save me from dreamers.”

Cold fear yawns like a chasm, beckoning her. Helaena twirls her ring, reaching for the soothing warmth of gold and amethyst. 
“The Seven do not Dream”, she whispers. “They are the death of dreams.”

”Take yourself to the kitchens for a drink of warm milk if you had a nightmare”, he says, aiming for snide.

The memories stop, as suddenly as a marionette with a string cut. Helaena steps back despite herself because for a moment — a half-heartbeat — there had been a woman there in the darkness of the Dragonmont, hard-jawed and sharp-eyed, draped in darkness and crowned in blue sapphire. She’d been smiling, and there had been blood on her teeth. 
Helaena stares up at her uncle, horrified. 
“Is that what you drank, in the kitchen? I see an owl, white as wierwood, with a bloody red beak. It fed you meat, but you ate it so willingly. You were too frightened not to.”

“How—“

Helaena twists her ring, looking down at the stones. Steady, reassuring, and entirely mundane. No smiles, no strangers lurking in the shadows. 
“Dreamers have saved us more than once”, she murmurs, remembering the comforting warmth of a small black dragon clinging to her bare arm, red eyes glowing like candle flames in the hungry dark. 
Not her memory either. But still true.  

“Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did.” 

That makes her look up. 
“Who do you think sends the dreams?” 

It’s his turn to step back, now. “Dragons are-“

“Fire made flesh”, Helaena repeats the words she hears Daemon whisper in her ear. It’s a memory from a lifetime ago, and belongs to another dead woman. “‘We are kin to the ones we control.’ You read that to a woman who swallowed the moon and kissed the sun.” 
He’s pale, as all Targaryens are, and the moonlight leeches colour from him. Her words, however, have left him looking ashen and drawn. 

“I hear songs that command fires, see hands that swirl through canals of blood.” She thinks she’ll never get the smell out of her nose. “The magic of Old Valyria was used to make her strong. The dragons yet exist. Why not their songs?” 

“You want me to believe you see things.”

“When you are wounded, does Caraxes not roar? Why does it surprise you that the dragons should speak to us, in their way?” 

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Isn’t it? The dragons know who we are. Do you?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me.” Daemon seems inclined to be glib, but Helaena knows that for the ruse it is. 

“What is there to say? Dreams didn’t make us kings. Dragons did. Who is the third head? In your song.”

He stares at her, purple eyes wide with shock. It feels like taking a sledgehammer to ice; the effect is that immediate. 
“Helaena.”

She stares at this most curious of specimens. A dragonfly, encased in amber. “Daemon.”

“I am sorry”, he says in a harsh whisper. “It… was a mistake. It was not my intention to cause you pain.”

“I am sure it hurt Jahaerys more. I tried to trade them my necklace— it was amethyst”, she adds, but he stares at her blankly. “They said if I didn’t tell them, they’d hurt the girl and then kill us all anyway, so… I told. I had to choose.” 
She can still feel the horror of that night. It exists in the deep well of sorrow that threatens to overwhelm her when she waits for a second smile, or a little six fingered hand patting at her skirts. The world around her spins. 
“I told them that Jahaerys was my son and they held him down in his crib. It took them a long time to do it. They used a very small knife, and as they tried to saw off his head… He called for me, until they severed his throat.” Her own hand rises, and for the first time, she looks up from the ground. “He just gurgled after that. Like when he was a little baby. He was such a happy baby.”

Daemon looks like he wants to vomit.
“I am sorry.”

“Me too”, Helaena agrees. “You are a father.”

“I am.” His tone is wary, cold. A protective father, apparently. 

She’s curious. 
“What would you do in my place?“ 

“Never rest until I ended you.”

Helaena nods. That sounds like him. 
“I suppose that would feel good”, she agrees. She has never burned anyone with Dreamfyre, and the dragon herself is relatively calm, but she can see the power behind wielding death from above. “Do you think it would change anything?”

“No.” 

Helaena nods. “They made us promenade him.”

The sharp line of his mouth twists into a sour frown. 
“I heard. An obscene Andal ritual. You have my condolences.”

“Grandfather’s idea. Aegon was against it, too.”

“Your husband is a better father than he was a king.”

It’s probably meant to be cutting. Helaena just nods. “And how well does my brother know it. You will be a comfort to him, I think.”

“Me.” The incredulity again. She just nods, because some things cannot be forced. 

“In time.”

“In time?”

“Mm. You must excuse me.” He doesn’t need to do any such thing; he is the Prince Consort and she is a hostage, dragon-rider or no. 
But her uncle steps aside without complaint, sweeping a half bow. 

She goes to pass, and then curiousity makes her stop, and turn. The pier is dark, and all around them, the sulphur scent of their mounts fills the air. Here, among her kin, Helaena finally feels grounded in her own skin. “My lord?”

“Yes, my lady?” 

“You said you did not intend to hurt me. To harvest Jahaerys’s little life. Who was your intended target?”

“Your brother Aemond. It was in the hours after Lucaerys’s death. My Queen — my wife —  demanded the life of Aemond Kinslayer. A son, for a son. My latter order, as you see, was misinterpreted.”

“That was not a very specific order”, she muses. “Would you give it again?”

This time, he asks the right question. 
“Would it change everything if I didn’t?”

Finally, Helaena thinks. 
This must have been how Daenys felt, the first day someone said, ‘I believe you’. 

“Yes”, she tells him. 

His face goes hard for a moment, fixed with the resolve of a surgeon making a necessary amputation to save the body. 
“Then no”, he says to the mother of the child his actions delivered to death. “I would still do it again. Valar morghulis.” Daemon says it with the grim resolve of the man who took on a battlefield single-handedly. 

“Valar dohaerys”, Helaena whispers, because they all have their sins to eat. 

She might have lied. 

Could have tried to flee with both. 

Should have stayed. 

“Just so”, he agrees, and escapes towards the castle. 

*** 

JAHAERA

“Wake up now”, Jahaerys whispers in her ear, and she does, snapping to wakefulness like she’s been shocked. It still feels strange not to see him beside her, familiar as a reflection. Instead, Shrykos stares down at her with unblinking eyes, and a quiet hum pulls at her attention. 

It’s her mother, swaying as she gets out of her own bed. 

The handmaid is on her cot in the antechamber and if she gives any sign of hearing Mother, she doesn’t show it. 

Mother makes her way for the doors of the chamber, and Shrykos hisses in alarm. Jahaera’s clambouring out of the bed as fast as she can, but even planting herself in front of Mother like a stump doesn’t get her to stop. She just flows around her like water, humming a sad slow song under her breath. 

Morghul flaps up in front of Mother, flaring her wings in a threat display. Mother steps around her, ignoring the dragon as though it weren’t there. 

Shrykos hisses again, and Jahaera runs. 

The hallways are empty, but brightly lit despite the dark stone. There are more guards than back home, but Jahaera doesn’t have to go far or evade them for long. 

She follows the green dragon down the black stone halls of Dragonstone, trusting to his unerring guidance. There’s darkness in every window, and Jahaera doesn’t know what time it is, but it’s long past bedtime. Mother should be asleep, not wandering around. 

She and Morghul follow Shrykos down torch-lit hallways until he stops in front of the door to a great hall. There’s a graven table in the centre of the room, and a tall man with a sword standing to one side, staring at the fires half-lighting the room. 

“I need your help”, Jahaera says, and the man turns. 

His face goes white as a dead thing’s. 
“Jahaerys”, he breathes in a shuddering voice. 

Jahaera nods. 
“He said you can help. I dreamed that something bad is singing to Mother.”
She doesn’t understand the words the man says after that, but she doesn’t need to in order to know they’re bad. 

The next few minutes are a blur as the man, Daemon, scoops her up as though he’s done it a million times before, glaring down Morghul when she snarls, and sprints to Father’s sickroom. He’s bouncing her around awfully, but he runs faster than she can. When he slams into the room where Father lays abed, everyone jumps at the bang of wooden door against stone. 

“What-“ Grandmother says, voice sharp with fear. 

“Daemon!” The Black Queen says, leaping to her feet. “What’s gone wrong?” 

“The girl says her dead brother told her to find me so I can save her mother from a bad song. I don’t see why I should have all the fun.”

There’s a moment of stock-stunned silence, and then the old woman with the sun-kissed face and smile lines turns her steady gaze to the young lady in brown standing beside the bed. 

“Rhaena, run”, Rhaenys Velaryon orders, and the girl is the first past Jahaera, rapid as the wind. She isn’t the last; Grandmother and the Black Queen follow in a rush of fabric. 

Jahaera stares down at her father, who is trying hard to avert his face from hers. She stares at him, unblinking as a reptile, until he turns to look at her. When he does, she wiggles her fingers in greeting. He waves back, a smile on his face, but Jahaera thinks his eyes look sad. 

“Hello, Uncle Daemon”, Father says in that too-cheerful voice of his, once the noise dies down. “What was that about my son?” 

The man holding her puts her down on Father’s cot like she’s a hot rock. “Shit”, Daemon says, looking down at Father. 

Jahaera looks back up, and smiles. She knows that word. 

*** 

HELAENA 

The most beautiful music she’s ever heard draws her out of sleep and into movement. Helaena tries to resist, but the pull to dance is inexorable. The song is older than language, a wordless tune that feels like it comes from between the very stars. 

It urges her ever upwards, onwards, round and around the high tower. 

When she pushes she door open, Visenya’s tower is bathed in a green light nearly as bright as day. It throws the books and implements into a sharp relief, and makes the yawning blackness outside look ever more like a hungry mouth. She steps through the ornate arch into the whistling night wind. 

Below her, Dragonstone and the black waters of the Gullet spill like so much ink. Above her, the sky is clear, a cirrus of clouds the moon’s only veil. The lights of the port glimmer, and she can just make out the smeared glow that is Spicetown in the distance. 

So many little lives laid out under her, each an easily extinguished pinprick. 

She hopes— 

“Sister”, Aemond says, and Helaena doesn’t turn. He isn’t really there. She knows that much. “We share the same blood, you and I.” 

As though that’s ever stopped anyone in their family from doing anything. 
“I know you wish no harm to anyone”, he whispers, and that at least is true. He closes the distance, prowling soundlessly forward. “But in a time like this, when the good of the realm depends on us. . .” 

He’ll ask her to hurt people anyway. 

The man who isn’t there reaches out to touch her, and Helaena almost expects to feel the clammy chill of the grave. He stops just before touching her arm, and worse than cold — she feels the warmth of body heat. 

Before she can turn, he lets his hand drop. 

“Our mother is not a dragon rider. She cannot understand that you and I have a truer call to heed. Come with me, to Harrenhal?” 
He asks the way he had when they were children, and he her darling little brother. Plaintive. Sweet. Beseeching. 

That was been a lifetime ago. Aemond is a different person now. 

“We will lay waste to Daemon and his army”, he promises. “Let our enemies see we will answer outrage with outrage. Let me save you.”

Save her? Does he not know she went on dragon back? 

Or perhaps he does, and doesn’t care anymore. 

Curiosity needles her with kitten-sharp claws. 
“And if I refuse, will you burn me as you did Aegon? 

“That is a lie”, he lies. 

Helaena whirls around. “I saw it. You burned him, and you let him fall.” 

“What you say is treason.” 

As though aiming to kill a king and missing isn’t. 

Helaena is tired of prevaricating. The silk spools out, a gold-flecked tapestry. 

It’s beautiful, and it’s so close to completion that she can nearly feel it under her fingers. . 
“Aegon will never be King”, she says, knowing that  dangling thread has been knotted and cannot be unravelled. He is free, although he has paid the price in fire and blood. 
“And you————“ 
Beloved little brother, murderer, dearest confidante, Kinslayer… 
“————you’ll be dead.” 
Only death may pay for life. “You were swallowed up in the God’s Eye, and you were never seen again.” 

“I could have you killed.”
 
 “It wouldn’t change anything”, she promises, and as the wind shrieks and the music turns to screams in her ears, Helaena steps forward to prove her point. 
 
The dragon’s passing nearly buffets her off the balcony, so close does it pass by the stone. Moondancer is sleek, built for speed and stealth, and in the moonlit night, her brindle colouring makes her nigh invisible against the rippling waves far below them. 
 
The wind is slammed out of Helaena, sudden as a  meteor strike, and the world spins for a moment. Stone and rug, silver hair and tight riding leathers— 
 When the dance finally ends, her ears have stopped ringing with music, and Aemond is gone. 
 
 Baela Targaryen pants down at her, pupils pin-prick tight with adrenaline. She’s beautiful, and brave and bold. Helaena smiles up at her. 
 
 “I’ve been waiting to dance with you”, Helaena whispers up to her saviours, spirit glowing warm with relief as she hears Jacaerys’s low voice, and feels Baela’s warm embrace, each tight with concern and affection. 
 

Chapter Text

RHAENYS 

“How do you handle it?”

The gathering pressure behind her eyes threatens to blind her. “Daemon, don’t ask unnecessary questions-“

It’s too late. Viserys’s son takes the bait. “Handle what?”

Viserys’s brother jigs the hook. “How eerie they both are. The girl. Your Queen.”

If she were thirty years younger, she’d roll her eyes. 

How alike these two men seem. 

Desperate for any whiff of attention, and prepared to peacock unto death if it gets them any. Even mangled, Viserys’s son has inherited his father’s flair for dramatics. 

“I’m used to it”, Aegon says, stroking his daughter’s hair with his good hand. “If it helps, I did think my sister was mad until very recently.”

“Mad”, Rhaenys says. Mad? When they all descend from Daenys? 

“As a hatter”, Daemon agrees. “Didn’t you think so?”

Gods save her. 
“I didn’t know either of them to make the judgement”, Rhaenys says, and Aegon smiles. It’s ghoulish in his still-raw face. Rhaena’s done good work in regrowing burnt skin, but he’ll never be handsome again. 

“True enough”, the Prince agrees. “But I know of you, Princess. And you, Your Grace.” He keeps his words cutting, like Laena at her most prickly. 

“Do you, then?” Daemon leans down with a leer. “And what do you know of me.”

To his credit, the boy doesn’t quail away. 
“I know you’re a murderer. Unpredictable. Dangerous.”

Even Daemon seems impressed by his audacity. 
“Your grandfather is correct. I am all of these things, yes.”

“You wanted me dead.” 
At least he doesn’t mince words. She can respect that. 

“You were a threat to Rhaenyra’s life.”

That wrings a laugh out of the young man. “I was a threat to her life? Criston Cole and Aemond found me hiding; I had passed out on my way to the Dragonpit.”

Rhaenys could laugh at his ignorance. 
“The night your father died, your mother and her accomplices saw fit to lock my dragon in the pit, and me in my room. That way, I could not prevent them from assassinating Rhaenyra and her children in their sleep and crowning you with their bloody hands. Viserys was half a corpse and needed no help to meet Morghul… but rest assured, my Prince, knives were sharpened to aid in your ascension the moment your father left to meet his Gods.”

Aegon shifts uncomfortably, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Rhaenys nearly pities him; he had only ever expected to rule, not been prepared for it. 
“Do you think so?” His tone is plaintive, although she doubts he means it to be, and now Rhaenys feels sorry for her earlier cruelty. 

“You were the son he wanted, but Rhaenyra was his heir. Your sister-“

“Helaena is my sister-“ he tries, but Rhaenys will have none of it. 

“Enough. Your sister Rhaenyra”, Rhaenys snaps, maternal tone sharp as Meleys’s talons. “She is your blood, Aegon, and kinder to you than the Kinslayer has been. We have bigger threats to face, and I will not have our House die divided over Viserys’s poor judgement in pillow partners.” 

“My son is dead”, Aegon says, and the dragon at Jahaera’s side hisses unhappily. The little girl shifts uneasily, stroking the green dragonet’s neck to soothe it. 

“So is hers”, Daemon starts, but Rhaenys interjects. 

“As is mine, Daemon”, she reminds him, and the man has the decency to shift where he stands. “A word of advice, Aegon— a Targaryen alone in the world is a dangerous thing. Do not burn your allies.”

“Is that a threat?”

A threat? As though he’s worth killing. 

How funny that, of all his traits, this this boy has inherited Viserys’s sunny optimism. 

“Pragmatic advice”, she says, tone level. “I was estranged from the House of the Dragon over politics. It cost me a son and a daughter. Given that we have a dangerous mutual enemy to address, I would counsel both of your Majesties to consider the benefits of diplomacy amidst yourselves instead. Things can always get worse and a good king plans for eventualities.”

“Oh, now we’re Kings”, Daemon mutters under his breath, and Rhaenys smiles. The easiest way to manage children is to give them a common enemy. Soldiers are not so very different. 

“Don’t flatter yourselves, my lords. Neither of you are qualified for the task.”

"Says the Queen Who Never Was”, Aegon scoffs. “And you are?” 

By right of conquest, Rhaenys thinks. I took Aegon’s crown right off your little head myself…

Only to hand it to Rhaenyra. 

“Yes”, she says, because it’s true. “But that’s irrelevant. The burden came to Rhaenyra, and now it falls to us to support her, or else the monster that your dear little girl is afraid of is going to kill us.”

“You believe in dreams?” Daemon sounds shocked. 

Rhaenys wonders why. She had thought him so in tune with his dragon. 
“I am not so arrogant to believe I know all that exists between Gods and men. Do you not feel your dragon? I know I feel Meleys like an extra sense. 
When I’m up there it’s like I can feel the breath in her lungs, sense the invisible currents and eddies of the breeze. Haven’t you ever let go of the saddle simply to feel the wind under your wings? Hasn’t Caraxes ever anticipated your thoughts, or moved in tandem with you?” 

She knows it to be true; Laenor had told her of Daemon’s prowess in the Stepstones with a breathless enchantment that had left Rhaenys with no delusions as to her sons tastes in paramours. Even Corlys had spoken with approval of Daemon’s handling of his beast, and she knows it had influenced his blessing of Laena’s match. 

“Is that… usual?” Aegon pipes up, sounding unsure. “I thought… I was the only one.”

Rhaenys feels like she’s just hit a downdraft, cold welling down her spine as air falls out from under her.
“Viserys was dragonless”, she breathes. He’d flown Balerion the once around a tower and the beast had dropped dead. Even at the time, she had feared it for an omen. “Aegon, who taught you to ride?” 

The man in the bed shrugs. 
“I just got on, strapped myself in and told him to fly. Isn’t that how it works?” 

And he calls his sister mad. 

“No”, she says, tart as a Dornish lemon. “It is not.” It is for dragon-riders to train dragon-riders: the dragon-keepers can no more fly with dragons than they can swim with selkies.
“Daemon, it would appear you and I have have been remiss. Aegon, I apologize for the oversight. As does your uncle.” 

She looks at Daemon, who struggles against whatever snide comment he’s obviously choking back as he realizes the magnitude of their error. 
If this child is a Hightower, it’s only because the dragons have been too engrossed in petty squabbles to claim him. 
It does take Daemon a second, and Rhaenys can see Jahaera watching him with lilac eyes so pale they’re the colour of morning storm clouds. Eventually, he grinds together enough civil words to make a sentence. 
“A dragon may have green scales”, Daemon manages to say. “I suppose that doesn’t make it a snake.” 

“How magnanimous of you-“, Aegon starts dryly, but interrupts himself to shift his attention back to the door the second he can detect footsteps in the corridor. Rhaenys isn’t blind to the way he struggles to rise to a seated position, squaring his shoulders and shoving a hank of silver hair over his burned cheek as though that makes it any less horrible. He manages to finish his preening just as Rhaena careens through the door, cheeks red and braids loose from her bun, eyes wide and white and alarmed. 

“Grandmother”, Rhaena wheezes, “we have a problem.”

“Marvellous”, her father says. “it’s gotten worse! What’s gone wrong now, my darling?”

Rhaenys is glad she’s saved the Pretender’s life, if only to be treated to the hilarious sight of Aegon’s expression going from rapt adoration at Rhaena’s flushed presence to abject fear at the realization of her paternity. 

Then it just goes pale with terror as his mother, her lover, his sister— and both of Rhaenys’s grandchildren troop in like a cavalcade of court fools. 
“They were embracing, Rhaenyra, the three of them—“, the Dowager Queen says, hot on Rhaena’s tail as she ushers in the rest of the circus. 
By all appearances, they still are. Rhaenys would be offended, but for the fact that it’s Baela’s arm around Helaena’s waist; Baela glaring at every shadow as though it’s done her personal dishonour. 

Her Grace, however, leaps to the whip-crack of the Dowager Queen’s voice like a trained lion. “Not the issue, Alicent-“

“The Dragonmont-“ Jace tells Daemon, even as he guides his two princesses to Aegon’s sickbed, who takes one look at the unlikely congregation and opens his mouth. Before he can say anything snide, Rhaena seizes the opportunity to stick a straw in his face with a terse order to drink.
He swallows mouthfuls of warm honey tea obediently instead, clearly deciding that pleasing Rhaena is better than sounding clever. 

If the situation weren’t so dire, Rhaenys might find it laughable. The Old King must be sizzling in his fires. 

As it is, she’s glad the majority of the assembled have dragons, because her nerves are jangling the way they had when she’d seen only three silver heads on the prow of a Pentoshi ship. 

Something is terribly, horribly amiss. 
 
“What about the Dragonmont”, she asks, because someone needs must be the adult in the room. 

“The green light”, Helaena whispers, eyes the same eerie violet as her daughter’s. They’re haunted, dark, but Baela links their fingers where they sit, and translates for Rhaenys. 

“I think she saw Aemond. Helaena was speaking to someone when we found her.”

“Blue — God’s eye- commanding green light — summoning the sea to run red, run red with blood—“ Viserys’s daughter trembles like a leaf as she fights to grit the words out. 

“Helaena”, Jace whispers, kneeling in front of her. She fixes her gaze down on his, and he smiles up at her, warm as summer honey despite her alarming words. When her eyes focus, he gives her free hand a squeeze. “There you are. You’re all right. Baela won’t let anything near you, I promise. She’s much fiercer than me, anyway; look how she’s gripping you. You’re safe with us here. I don’t care if he thinks he’s a god; I don’t believe in him.” 
 
“Prince Jahaerys-“, the Dowager Queen starts, but Jace simply looks up at her with a steady gaze and quiet words. .

“The Princess Helaena is shaking, your Majesty. Let us care for her. A blanket, if you’d be so kind.”

“Here.” A blanket comes from over Baela’s shoulder and across Rhaena’s lap; the hand that extends it is shiny with new flesh. 

“Thank you”, Jace tells Aegon, who nods and shifts so his daughter is on his good side, tucked between her parents like a gosling. 

“Jacaerys, what happened”, Rhaenys asks, and her grandson’s face goes tight.  

“Baela and I were patrolling the Gullet for enemy ships when Baela noticed Visenya’s tower begin to glow green, an unwholesome bright green that looked bright as day and illuminated the sky like tame lightning—“

“Impossible-“

“Daemon, I shall have you gagged”, Rhaenys snaps, and he shuts up like they’re both children in the training again. “Jacaerys, please continue.”

“Thank you, Grandmother. We were at about 2500 feet and saw the light in Visenya’s tower pulse green thrice, go dark, and then repeat. We wanted to investigate why.”

“What?!” That’s from Rhaenyra, and it’s the mother who speaks, not the Queen. “Investigate? What if it was an enemy?” 

Rhaenys wants to sigh, but Baela interjects instead. 
“In Visenya’s tower? If it was an spy we might have spotted them, and if it was a friend; why the secrecy? And why the pattern? So we flew closer and—“

“Baela saw Helaena in the top window and did some of the most sophisticated maneuvering I’ve ever seen”, Jace tells Daemon, as proud as though he’d done it himself. “Inches from stone, and going easily as fast as a peregrine.”

“Jace, you over-exaggerate”, Baela says, blushing, but Helaena interjects. 

“You were a dragon-fly, dancing on the wind”, she says, voice soft and sweet. It goes flat when she turns to find Rhaenyra. “Baela’s right, Your Grace. I did see Aemond. He’s done something terrible.” 
Rhaenyra looks pale as milk-glass, and Helaena’s eyes are wide and haunted. Rhaenyra believes in dreams, it would appear, and Helaena’s are nightmares. 
“I think he’s summoned the dragons to him”, the Dreamer whispers, and the word is out before Rhaenys can choke it back. 

“What-“

“We saw Silverwing leaving the Dragonmont, Your Grace”, Baela says as she rises to her feet. “In addition to the silhouette of at least two other dragons on the horizon… flying away from Dragonstone. It’s too dark to tell much else.”
She does her best to keep her tone businesslike, but Rhaenys knows her granddaughter, and knows her knuckles are white under her long sleeves. She rises to her feet, standing as though at attention. “Vermithor is beside himself; the whole mountain is glowing like the Doom from his fires.”

“He hasn’t left?” That is Rhaena, keeping her voice so carefully neutral that Daemon and Rhaenys shift to look at her. Her face is as impassive as any sphynx. 

Jace shakes his head, but a soft noise from Helaena cuts off anything else he might say. 
“… Helaena?”

“The beast of blood stone summons his thralls.” 

That catches her cousin’s attention. 
“Bloodstone?“ Daemon sounds pensive. “Isn’t that the island Laenor and I spent years murdering Myrmen on? Awful little place; scrubby and infested with Tyroshi and their ridiculous little beards. No dragons other than the ones we brought, or at least, none when we were there.”

“Do you think Aemond is trying to find one to bond with?” Rhaenyra’s voice is pensive, and she turns her head to the Dowager Queen. The woman twists her hands as she considers for a meditative moment. Eventually, she’s obliged to agree. 

“He was prepared to die trying as a boy. I can’t imagine he’s become less determined with age.”
 
 “We need to send someone to find out”, Jace says. 
 
 “Send me to end him”, Daemon offers. 
 
 Rhaenys dismisses it out of hand. 
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re the least inconspicuous person alive, and the most rash. Your Grace, whom do you have who may travel unnoticed throughout the city in order to ascertain the truth of the matter?” 
 
Rhaenyra takes a breath, and Rhaenys can see the moment she decides to trust in their unlikely allies. “Lady Elinda Massey would see the inquiry done discretely”, she says, and Rhaenys makes a note of her name. 
 
“There is also the lady Mysaria”, Darmon suggests. “She’s loyal to us; or at least, has been adequately convinced and compensated. And she can go places your lady in waiting may not be able to.”
 
 It’s not a bad idea. Two unassuming women in drab clothes, slipping in with the throng.
 
 “Very good”, Rhaenys says. “Your grace?” When Rhaenyra nods, Rhaenys firms her voice. “Then we shall send them to gather knowledge and report back. Jacaerys?”
 
He looks up, dark eyes assessing. “My lady Hand?” 
 
 “See it done, would you? Discretely.”
 
 He nods, firming his lips just like Laenor had at his age, trying to seem resolute. She can see Laenor in the way Jace holds himself, the way he speaks with his hands and is fiercely protective of the ones he loves. 
 
 If she can’t have her son back, these little glimpses are more precious than gold. 

*** 

“Lady Hand? A word, if you would.” 

Rhaenys turns. The morning light is bright, and sharp on her weary eyes. She hasn’t slept, and isn’t sure when the sun rose to insult her with its brightness. Today seems poised to be a long one. 
“Yes, Lord Celtigar ?”

“There has been a disturbing development out of Driftmark, my lady. It would appear the dragon Seasmoke claimed a new rider early this morning.”

Rhaenys snaps to full wakefulness. 
“What?”

“Yes, your Grace”, Lord Celtigar says, and then closes the distance as though sharing a dangerous confidence. “The rider is low-born.” 

The world shudders to a stop under Rhaenys; it’s not the first time she’s felt this sensation; but it’s awful every time. “I see.”

“He is a shipwright from the yards in Hull, if the rumours be true.” 

If dragons are fire, she is the hottest, most searing of blue flames. “Very well.”

“And the Queen…” he trails off, leaving a heavy and delicate silence in his wake. 

Rhaenys keeps her face neutral through force of effort. She had faced the god of death, and come away victorious. “I shall speak to her Grace.”

“Very good, my lady.”

It does not take her long to find Rhaenyra. She’s seated in the room of scrolls, staring sightlessly down at the illuminated page in her hand. It looks torn straight from a Septa’s primer, but the colours are dulled with time, and the vellum has been worn to softness by the caressing of fingers. Rhaenyra is staring down at it as though the story of Nymeria might save the world. When she clears her throat, the Queen jumps like a scalded cat. 
“R-Rhaenys!” She recovers well, rising to her feet and smoothing out the wrinkles of her gown. “Any word?”

“I believe so”, she says. Years of politics and swallowed disapppintments have taught her to keep her voice steady. “Seasmoke, at least, has been sighted nearby. I shall ride out anon to see if he and his rider will follow Meleys back to Dragonstone.”

Rhaenyra seems to steel herself, knowing she’s sending Rhaenys back into the line of fire. “If you’re sure?” 

Rhaenys is. Meleys is more than a match for Seasmoke, regardless of whom might be riding him. She straightens her spine, and nods sharply. 

Realization floods Rhaenyra’s face. This is Laenor’s dragon, and Rhaenyra herself knows the bond that means. 
“I understand, Rhaenys. Thank you.”

“Of course, Your Grace”, Rhaenys says, and seeks Meleys.

*** 

“You stand before the Lady Hand of the Seven Kingdoms, with a Dragon of House Targaryen.” Rhaenys’s voice is low, and as commanding as the crashing of the tide. Seasmoke bugles, a piercing call that Rhaenys knows as dearly as her son’s laugh. 

“I have no designs upon it”, the man kneeling in the wet sand says. His voice is muffled by the downward tint of his face, but his hair is the same silver of his dragon’s scales, and knotted with salt water. 

His skin, however, is the same rich brown as Corlys’s, as familiar to her eyes as her son’s laugh is to her ear, or her daughter’s smile is to her heart. 

“What do you want?” Rhaenys demands in a flat voice. 
He could take whatever he pleased, in truth; that is the inescapable truth of dragon riding. Any rider is a lord, if they apply themselves to the business of war. He could claim one of her granddaughters, or Joffrey’s place as heir to Driftmark—

“To learn the ways of Dragon riders, and serve my Queen”, he says. Perfect words and so sincere— 
Meleys doesn’t even scent the fear sweat that accompanies a lie. 

Unbelievable. 

He’s either the most loyal man alive, or the least ambitious. He might not be her husband’s bastard after all. 
Rhaenys closes the distance, striding forward. When Seasmoke bugles, she pins him with a look that has his muzzle snapping shut with a click of fangs. Good. She is in no mood for theatrics. 

“You kneel quickly for a man so suddenly elevated.”

“This dragon came to me, not I to him. I have sweated blood in the service of House Velaryon. I may appear low-born, but I know much and more of service. And if the Gods call me to greater things, who am I to refuse them?” 
The boy lifts his head, and now Rhaenys can see Corlys in his features clear as day. Not in the bones— but in the eyes. 
In the hunger for glory, for renown, for … recognition. 

“Stand”, she says, already knowing the weight she must now shoulder. “What is your parentage.”

She needs to know why she has never met these boys before— 

He looks confused, and when Rhaenys slides her eyes to the dragon behind him, he misunderstands her entirely. 
“My mother was a shipwright, my lady.” He pauses, as though chewing gristle. “My father was… no one of consequence.”

“I doubt that very much”, Rhaenys murmurs under her breath, anger and sorrow twinned in her chest. She’s given Corlys two children capable of kissing the sky, and-

His mother must have been very beautiful, to give Corlys two sons from the sea. 

“My lady?”

“What is your name, dragon-rider?”

“Addam”, he says, and then adds, “of Hull.”

There’s that pride again. 
It should gall her, but there is something about the way he lifts his chin that reminds her of Laenor. And he is the child, Rhaenys reminds himself. Do not hold the boy accountable for the man’s indiscretions. 

Rhaenys takes a breath, and resolves to carry the weight. 
“You have done something believed impossible, Addam of Hull. The Queen will be glad of it.” Now, more than ever. She looks at the dragon chittering at Meleys like an old friend. “Can you get him to Dragonstone?”

“I can try.”

He’s game, she’ll give him that. 
“Then lash yourself in and follow me there.”

*** 

The court has gathered in her absence, and Rhaenys waves away the guard prepared to announce her. 
Why give away the element of surprise? 

The lords cluster around the table, which has been lit in anticipation of a fight overhead. Battle plans and prospective counter-maneuvers are discussed, and it would appear they are anticipating the worst from Aemond and his flock of fire-breathers. 

Addam follows in her wake like a gosling learning to fly. Where her riding boots snap a military tattoo against the stone floor, his thin-soled boots are nearly silent as he skittishly approaches the table of high lords. 

A dragon-rider he might be, but there is still work to be done on his confidence if he is to join their ranks. 
“Your Grace”, Rhaenys says, and the lords of the Small Council raise their heads as one. Lord Celtigar’s expression is pickled; Lord Massey looks concerned, and Maester Gerardys quietly curious. 

Lord Corlys looks as though he’s seeing a ghost. 

“Lady Hand”, the Queen says, crossing the table to approach. “You have brought us a guest.”

“Yes”, Rhaenys says, voice so composed she could be reading a letter about the weather. “May I introduce my husband’s natural son, Addam of Hull, and rider of the dragon Seasmoke.”

Chapter Text

DAERON 

The Dragonpit stretches up around them, a hewn beehive of stone and metal. They stand on a graven promotory, removed from the crowd below. 

A sea of silver hair stretches out under them; at least fifty smallfolk, if Daeron’s any judge. There are men and women, tall and small, young and old. His stomach churns when he sees a child amongst the congregation.

Aemond’s patrician voice breaks the sepulchral gloom of the observation bier. 
“Lord Larys. Is everything in order?” He does not need to speak loudly to frighten Daeron. His quiet inquiry carries more implicit menace than any shout. 

“Yes, your grace”, his Master of Whispers slithers to assure. “We have fifty candidates, of… various ages.”

Oleaginous cretin. 
Daeron loathes him. Of all of Aemond’s council, Lord Larys Strong is one who performs his duties with the most enthusiasm and alacrity. 

“Excellent”, Aemond says, and sounds as though he means it. Daeron’s soul curdles to see the pleasure in his eyes. “Bring them in.”

“Of course, Your Grace”, the torturer says, and kowtows his way out of the room. 

Daeron waits until the door is firmly shut and they are alone before he speaks. Even then, he is careful to keep his tone level. 
“Brother, do you believe this will work?” 
He hopes keeping his eyes wide and curious, and his smile easy and youthful will persuade Aemond he can be brought to his side. 

“It cannot hurt”, his brother says, and Daeron can’t believe his ears. 

“Aemond, all of those people are going to die.”

“Not so”, his brother assures him. His voice is gentle, as though compromising with a child. “Two might survive.”

Daeron feels sick. 
“Larys said ‘various ages’. Aemond, what does that mean? Are there children?” 

If he has any hope that his brother yet retains a heart, it is dashed by a single, simple shrug. 

“We were children”, Aemond says, and Daeron feels his heart break. 

“We are Targaryens”, Daeron insists, but it feels like a lie. Whatever Aemond is has superceded something so simple as House. The creature he has… bonded with is no dragon of House Targaryen. 

His brother, mercifully, misunderstands him. 
“One must assume that a whiff of Targaryen blood will suffice. If the black haired bastards can manage to hatch their cradle eggs—“

“They’re Targarye—“
Before Daeron can even finish the word, Aemond has closed the distance between them, and placed a gentle hand on the nape of his neck. 

“If you speak another word, little brother”, he says without any rancour whatsoever, “you will lose your tongue. I can control your dragon without it.”
It’s the cold menace that frightens him the most; the easy way he is prepared to break even the most sacrosanct of bonds. 

“All right, Aemond”, he soothes. “All right. All right, I’m sorry. Of course. It’s worth a shot, of course. My only concern was the ability to control a would-be dragon lord… they are bastards, you know, and you know those are a grasping sort.”
He knows nothing of the sort, and the words feel rotten in his mouth, but they’re enough to shield him from the worst of Aemond’s fury. 

“Very conscientious of you, little brother. Uncle taught you well”, Aemond says fondly, and Daeron feels cold sweat dampen his tunic at the near miss. “Now. Kindly do them the honour of ushering them in.”

“Aemond-“ he doesn’t think he can do it, doesn’t believe himself capable of guiding a child to its death by dragon fire. His comments must have mollified his brother enough to buy him some grave, because the older man relents with grace. 

“I see you lack the stomach”, Aemond says in a magnanimous voice. “Very well. You’re young yet; I’ll give you an opportunity to acquire seasoning another time. Ser Criston, if you would open the gates. 

“Of course, Your Grace”, the Lord Commander says, but Daeron notices that even his battle-seasoned hands shake as he opens the first gate. 

*** 
 
HUGH 

The doughy, white-haired man beside him seems offended by silence. Every time he encounters some, he seeks to annihilate it. “Where do you think we’re going?” 

It’s the third time he’s asked since they were herded in here like sheep and Hugh has no better idea now than he did fifteen minutes ago. 
“Does it matter? Nowhere good, and they’re taking us there regardless of what we do.”

From the looks of it, they’ve been plucked from beds and brothels, places of business, pubs and, in his case, straight from the smithy. There’s about fifty of them, all dirty from the march through dark passages under the city, and stuffed like sardines into some grim cave. It’s galling to be so powerless, but fighting against reality won’t accomplish anything. 

Whatever happens, at least Kat and Saera are out. 

They’re safe. 

Whatever happens, he has to remind himself of that. 

His family is safe. He got them out. 

“You ain’t a rat catcher, are you?” The man interrupts his thoughts, putting a lump of black dread in Hugh’s gut. He’d seen them dangling on the walls at the King’s whim. 

“No”, he says, thinking about how he’d spoken to the king. The man knows his face. “A blacksmith. You?”

The man smiles, all smarm and sleaze. 
“I ramble about. Odd jobs here and there.”

“I see.” A charlatan, spending someone elses’s money to buy his small-beer. 

“Silver hair though, hey?” The man smiles with all his teeth, gesturing to another man. “Same as Silver Denys there, and—“ 
The man whistles low as he recognizes the other people crowded into the narrow tunnel with them. “even Marys Silverring from the Street of Silk. She’s worth a mint. I’ll be damned, they’ve got a bag full of seed here.”

“Seed?”

“New to town? The dragon-seeds. The royal bastards.”

Black fury ripens in his chest. His hands clench tight. “Might be there’s something you want to say to my face, friend?”

Hands come up, waving as though to waft away the insult. 
“Nothing! Meant no offence”, the man yelps. “Only… that’s why we’re all here, ain’t it?” 

“What makes you say that.” 

The man motions around, incredulous. 
“Use your eyes, friend. You’re a young man, but I’d wager your hair’s always been that colour. Why d’you figure that is?”

Hugh hasn’t made it this far by asking dangerous questions. In any case, he knows who he is. It’s others he doesn’t trust. “Keep asking questions and you’re like to lose your tongue.” 

“Funny you think we’re getting out of this alive, tongue or no.”

“I have a family”, Hugh says. He’s getting back to them. No matter what. 

The heavy bronze door at the end of the hallway creaks open with a shriek. 
“Glad for you. I hope they say nice things at your wake, friend”, the silver haired man says, “because I think the Lord Confessor is here for us.” 

Hugh’s mouth goes dry, even as the man’s voice starts to babble. 
“Here we go”, he mutters as they step out into a dark cavernous building. It’s arena-like in construction, with a wide roof open to the elements, and a warren of yawning black caves at the base. 
There’s a bier above them, and spectators within it, but Hugh can’t take his eyes from the caves facing them. 

“Shut your mouth”, he hisses to the chatty man beside him. 

“I talk when I’m nervous.”

“I don’t care. Do you know what this place is?”

“No?”

“If you did, you’d be quieter”, Hugh growls. “We’re in the Dragonpit.”

That catches the man’s attention. He makes the sign of the Seven reflexively, looking around in fright. “Gods be good”, he whispers, and Hugh snorts. 

“You might be about to meet them.”

“Dragons aren’t— Gods”, he breathes as the shadows within the caves begin to move. The darkness churns, and something sluices towards the bier. The body is lean and sinuous, almost skeletal, and he can see each rib with every breath. The wings are large, and green veins pulse through the membrane with every heartbeat. The thing smells foul, like a battlefield, ripe with the scent of dead and juicy things. It settles itself under the bier as though it were spectating as well, and rumbles something that sounds sickeningly like laughter. The thing is all neck and tail, and when it opens its mouth, it’s teeth long as Hugh is tall and the same black of the deep sea at night. The creature roars, a noise so low it makes Hugh’s chest ache. 

For a moment, nothing happens — 

And then a large, silver head breeches the darkness of one of the caves. The rest of the dragon follows, a majestic silver creature larger than his house and smithy combined, and the same sword-bright silver as Saera’s hair

“Why are they staring”, the man says, and then his eyes make out what Hugh has seen for an eternity already. “Oh, Gods-“

Then the world is fire, and blood, and it’s all Hugh can do to stay alive. 

The dragon’s feet turn grown men to mist, and her swinging tail spares neither woman nor youth. 

His fellow seeds turn into beasts straight  from the fires of the hells in their eagerness to escape the dragon. He sees the chatty man shove another aside in his mad scramble for the safety of one of the caves. 

Hugh has spent a lifetime dodging sparks and swing-backs, and that quickness helps him make his way across the pit to a hunk of stone deep enough to shield him from anything other than a direct hit. 

It’s safe as he can be, and for the first time in what feels like eternity, he exhales a breath. 

Looking around, he can see a small girl tucked into a crevasse in the rock, staring in horror as the dragon decimates their group. Her hands are over her ears and her eyes are squeezed tightly shut, which is why she doesn’t notice the man sneaking up behind her until it’s too late. 

She shrieks in fear as a weasel-faced man shoves her bodily out of her crevasse. He doesn’t even fit, and Hugh watches in horror as the dragon’s head turns eagerly towards the commotion. In a second, she’s consumed the man, swallowing him down as though he were a mouthful of good stew. The silver beast stares down at the girl, mouth opening avariciously, and suddenly it isn’t a stranger in front of Hugh. 

It’s his silver star, his sweet little girl with the mismatched eyes and the eager smile. That fall of silver hair and the way she could lift her nose in the air high as any queen. 

The dragon rattles in a breath, slaver gilding every porcelain-white fang, and Hugh cannot bear to watch. 

He knows that black monstrosity is here to ensure everyone bonds, or dies trying. He isn’t getting out of here alive, and he knows it now— so the least he can do is buy this little girl a few more breaths with his body. 

Hugh runs out in a burst of movement, flinging himself between the child and the dragon. 

The little girl instantly flings her arms around his waist, hiding her face in the back of his tunic. The gesture is so familiar that Hugh reaches down, cradling her little silver head with his hand. 

“Not her”, he tells the dragon. He doesn’t bother raising his voice; he’s sure that wouldn’t impress it. Instead, he keeps his voice the steady cadence of the stern father, the one who sees to bedtimes and arguments alike. “Not like this. She’s too young for that.” 

He feels ludicrous speaking to an animal… but Mother had always told him that her family had been closer to Gods than Men… and perhaps it’s so, because the creature blinks and shakes its head hard. Hugh can see the pupils of the shield-sized eyes flare and contract, flare and contract, as though the creature is struggling to focus. 

“Go”, he whispers to the little girl. “Into that cave.” He jerks his chin towards his hiding place, and the girl disappears with the alacrity of the street-urchin. 

Good for her. He hopes she survives. 

He knows he won’t. The dragon’s nostrils flare, wide as a bellows as she inhales. He can feel the wind rustle his hair, and hopes he doesn’t smell too strongly of fear. 

He doesn’t want to see death approaching. He’d rather think of his life, of Kat’s sly laughter and Saera’s sweet giggle, of Sevenmass spent sharing orange slices and stories, and of teaching Saera to make shadow dragons against the candlelight the way his mother had taught him. 

They made it to Tumbleton, Hugh reminds himself. You got them out. You saw the gates shut, and they were outside of them. 

It’s enough. 

He spreads his arms wide, and prepares to meet his ancestors. 

In the next instant, the wind is knocked out of him.  

He looks down with no small amount of trepidation. There’s no pain, but perhaps he’s been so grievously wounded he cannot feel it yet. He knows some blacksmiths who have been burned and swear that once the skin blackens, it feels no pain. 

But he also feels no heat. 

Hugh opens his eyes, and a yellow eye greets him, glittering with recognition. 

“I know you”, he breathes, before an echoing clap rings through the Dragonpit. With the dragon’s fires extinguished, the inky black night presses down heavily around them. 

“Well done, dragonseed”, the Prince Regent says in a high, proud, cold voice. “Who dares claim Queen Alysanne’s dragon?”

“My name is Hugh”, he says, and prays nobody asks more. 

*** 

AEGON 

He isn’t sure when his sickroom became the morning solar, but he has found himself consistently besieged by caring friends and relations. 

The novelty has long worn off. 

Now, all he wants is peace and quiet. Instead, the quiet buzz of company fills the room. 

Helaena sits in the window seat and watches the sea with a pensive expression. Jahaera sits beside her, petting her brother’s restless dragonet. The creature hisses and rustles its wings relentlessly. Baela’s perched on her other side, oiling throwing blades in companionable silence, even as Jacaerys reads reports aloud between idle bites of savoury pasty. Rhaenyra herself wears a rut into the stone as she listens to her son, sometimes issuing decisions that he is quick to note on the paper at his side. 

Mother sits in state over it all nursing a cup of mint tea and humming as she picks out a needlepoint design, her presence ensuring propriety is observed and all fun avoided. 

It doesn’t stop Aegon from trying anyway.
“It hurts”, he whimpers, limping and leaning on the lady Rhaena for support. 

“We’ll continue on regardless”, she informs him, graciously ignoring the way his bicep presses against the bodice of her gown. He wheezes out a laugh and takes another step forward with her steady help. 

His mother disagrees with her. 
“Lady Rhaena, that’s unkind-“, she starts. 

Jacaerys lifts his head, eyes narrowed and mouth open to intervene, when Rhaena gets there first. 

She has a way of using bald fact as a blunt force weapon, and he finds himself in awe of how little she cares about propriety. Her insouciance is thrilling, like seeing someone fight without armour and win. 
“Coddling him is unkind”, Rhaena sneers. “He is a man, not an invalid. He cannot be weak. Prince Aegon is unequivocally necessary for our House’s continued success, and so must regain his health. The sooner the better.” She shoots him an assessing look. “His Majesty is a dragonrider of House Targaryen. He’s wasted on the ground.”

Aegon feels warmth suffuse him. He’s never been necessary, or for that matter, successful, in his life. 
“That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me”, he says, to cover the clog in his throat. 

“That is tragic”, Rhaena informs him tartly. “Here, another step forward.” She’s steady as stone, and as he balances himself on her arms, he can feel her corded strength lifting him up like a warm thermal. 
To distract t himself from the sickening pain in his hip, he lets his eyes roam over her face. She has fine features, graceful as a Lyseni doll, with assessing almond eyes that make him itch to ask her deepest thoughts. Her skin is the brown of the rich farmland of the Reach from dragonback, wholesome and lush. Her hair is silver glint of the Mander gilded by the sunset, and he longs to explore her like conquered territory. 

The closest he can get in this mangled state is needling her, so he does eagerly. 
“My lady, if you wanted to torture me, I might suggest any number of any more pleasurable implements-“

“No doubt you could”, Rhaena says dryly, but he thinks he detects a hint of amusement. “You must practice with the walker anyways.”

Aegon looks at the miserable contraption meant to bear his weight, as though he were as decrepit as Viserys. 
“I’m not sure what pains me more”, he mutters sourly, “my hip or my dignity.”

Before she can reply and shatter both, a quiet knock cuts the breakfast chatter like Valyrian steel. 
“Your Majesties”, the woman says. She’s a slim thing with a pretty, pointed face and dark, assessing eyes. 
Dressed in discrete but finely tailored grey, she blends into the background in the same calculated way that Larys does. That’s not the worst of it. Beside her is a small figure in a tatty brown cloak, stained and crusted with salt from the sea passage. 

“Lady Mysaria”, Jace says in a businesslike tone Aegon’s never heard from him before. This must be his court voice — and Aegon’s appalled to realize he wears it well. “You’ve returned.”

The woman nods. 
“I am afraid I come bearing” — a delicate pause — “news.”

Mother’s trembling hand rises to her throat. 
“What news of King’s Landing?”

“What has your brother done”, Rhaena hisses to Aegon. “And how are we going to clean up his mess?” 
Given the way her mouth pronounces “mess” and her eyes say “Aemond”, he’s glad he’s on her side now. 

“What misery is Aemond up to now?” Rhaenyra asks, but it’s mother who rises to her feet and makes her way to the smaller figure. Her hands reaches out, and very gently, bring the hood down. White hair is immediately visible, followed by eyes the soft lilac of the sky at sunrise. 

Aegon can see his face, too; the boy has his chin, as though he were looking in still water. 

For a moment, Alicent Hightower stands as tall as the edifice she’s named for. “Who is this?” Her voice is quiet, regal.

The woman in grey looks up, and her eyes flick from Alicent to Rhaenyra to Aegon. 

“Maelor”, she says. “That is the name his mother gave me, before she was taken away from the House of Kisses to the Dragonpit by Larys Strong’s men.” 

Chapter Text

DAEMON 

“We have word that the Hightower army has moved into the Reach, and even now progresses north along the Mander. Our allies in the Crownlands report they move in a host, and we have not heard from our allies in Bitterbridge. Lord Footly’s rookery has likewise has fallen silent.” Maester Gerardys’s voice is heavy with concern. 

“This may have something to do with reports that the dragons Tessarion, Silverwing and Grey Ghost even now move south from King’s Landing towards Tumbleton.” Lord Caswell serves bad news with the gusto of a good chef. 
Daemon wishes he could reach for his drink, but one glance at Aegon’s desperate expression as he stares at the carafe of wine like it’s the blood of the gods themselves is enough to convince him otherwise. 

Gods forbid he have anything in common with Alicent’s whelp. 

Daemon watches as his own daughter slides a glass of watered small beer in front of his nephew; he gulps it down like a draught of poppy milk. When he holds out his glass again with a pitiful look, Rhaena serves him fresh juice like he’s a child. 

Aegon’s puckered look of disgust at the taste could almost endear him to Daemon. 

Almost. 

Happily, the business of bloodshed continues on, distracting him from adolescent frustration even as the Lady Alicent tries to spoil his fun. 

“Daeron wouldn’t—“ She starts, only to have Lord Staunton vociferously interject. 
“We must assume our allies are threatened — and they intend for us to give battle.” 

“And so we shall”, Daemon agrees. Fire licks at every nerve, eager to spark a conflagration in the field. “Let’s burn the traitorous cunts and allow the Seven to sort out the details.” 

Alicent looks at him in horror. 
“My son and my brother are in that host. Allow me to reason with them.”

“Please, Alicent, you must see reason”, Rhaenyra murmurs, striving for a gentle voice and sounding like an affectionate executioner instead. “Do you think Gwayne or Daeron are the minds behind this? It’s Aemond’s doing, I’d bet on it.” 

Alicent tosses her head, unbound curls bouncing.
“You cannot be sure. And even if these were Aemond’s plans… Daeron… He must listen to me-“

The burned man seated on Rhaena’s other side lifts his head from the glass of pomegranate juice. His teeth are stained red when he offers his mother a ghoulish smile. “Must he?”

“Aegon!” His mother sounds appalled. 

Daemon cannot help but agree with her dismay. 
How dare the whelp be endearing. How dare he make sense. 
Damnit. Now he’ll need to defend him. “He’s right, you know”, he says, ignoring his nephew’s look of surprise. “When was the last time you saw the boy?”

“What does that matter? I’m his mother!” 

From the heavy silence around the table, it’s evident no one thinks that’s going to be enough. 

“Everything else aside”, Rhaenys says, cutting the quiet like vinegar through cream, “the milk of love might be curdled by the venom of interested third parties.”

“And you might have birthed him”, Rhaenyra adds, “but you’re not the mother of dragons. Tessarion might yet eat you.”

“Meleys didn’t”, Alicent murmurs. 
Daemon shifts forward in his seat, cutting in. 
“—What? When did you face Meleys?”
“… indeed Meleys did not”, Rhaenys speaks over Daemon, consideration in her tone. 

“How should we see this business done?” That’s Jacaerys cutting through the din, ever practical and pragmatic. Rhaenyra’s son is growing into a good man, and an excellent match for his brave, bold girl. 

“I’ll go, and end this farce”, Daemon says. It’s a show of martial support that Jace receives with a tight lipped nod, hands draped over the pommel of his sword. At his side, Baela looks regal as any Valyrian, and he can see Laena’s fierceness glinting in her eyes. 

“You cannot go alone”, Rhaenyra says, voice tight. Her hands are clenched, but Daemon can see her white knuckles. 

Hurt flares. Has he not proven himself loyal? Has he not begged forgiveness from those he has harmed, made himself a good and leal man— this is Viserys, all over again— his hands clench, he moves to rise to his feet—
“Because you don’t trust me?”

Rhaenyra shakes her head in surprise. 
“What? No — Because it’d be a dogfight, Daemon. Even Caraxes would struggle against three dragons, and I would have you return home, rather than turned into the stuff of songs.”

“Two and a half at best”, he says, mollified and insulted by turns. Tessarion is so young she’s still wet with ichor, and all the riders are likely to be greener than grass. 

Aegon wheezes out a laugh through singed lungs. “That half still breathes fire. Take it from me, uncle, burning even halfway to death still hurts.”

“I’ll defer to the expert in the subject”, Daemon agrees, because the man has a point. “Will you fly with me, then?”

Aegon laughs, unrestrained and bright with grim humour. “I would love to! I shall flap my arms and endeavour to join you post haste.”

“I see. Then in the interim, Rhae-“
Voices erupt like the Doom. 

“Mother cannot leave-“, Jacaerys says, in a flat tone that suggests he’ll personally and summarily dispatch anyone who dares object. Clearly his sojourn in the North has done him a world of good. 
“-nyra cannot be risked!” Alicent gasps. 
“-na can’t leave me!” Aegon bursts out, tight and terse and alarmed. His good hand clutches for hers. She doesn’t amputate his arm at the shoulder, so if Daemon survives this battle, he knows he’ll still have lost the war. 

Might as well enjoy what victories he can. 

Daemon pastes a smile on his face as wide as Caraxes is long, and finishes his sentence. 
“—Nys, would you join me?”

His cousin looks as though she’s torn between laughter and making a break for her dragon and never returning. 
“If Her Grace wills it”, she says, and it’s clear amusement’s won. 

Rhaenyra looks up at that, eyes hollow and frightened. 
“Are you—“, a heavy pause, “ready—“

Rhaenys just shrugs a shoulder. 
“For a negotiation? I see no impediment. I’ll bring Addam and Seasmoke, as well as Caraxes and his temperamental rider. That ought to even the odds, and our experience should help season Addam. Better than he learns now than later.”

Helaena makes a little noise, fingers tapping over the God’s Eye. The heat of the fires below should bother her, but she pays it no mind. “Blood and stone, blood in the stone. A hundred thousand screams, a thousand thousand eyes. There’s power in the bones and blood in the stones. The barn owl knows why the tree bleeds. The night bringer summons light from the heavens.”
The pale Princess looks up from the Table towards Baela, and she looks towards Rhaena. 
There’s some unspoken communication between his daughters, because Rhaena’s already reaching for the notebook and quill at her side. 
“Already on it-“

Aegon seems as perturbed by it as Daemon does. “Taking notes of prophecy? Planning a negotiation rather than a battle? You’re all mad.”

“And you’re one of us now, little brother”, Rhaenyra says, aiming for levity and failing. The lines of strain are graven on her face, and Daemon can see from the tight way she holds her muscles that she is near breaking. 
He watches as she gathers herself, pulls her shoulders back as though she were clad in armour, and settles into the role of Conciliator. 
He sits up straighter— as does Aegon. There is a dragon in attendance. 
“Very well, Rhaenys, very well. Take Daemon and go.” Rhaenyra’s voice is low, but steady. “You must attempt diplomacy first and most strenuously. I empower you to offer fair terms of surrender to any who would lay down their arms.” 

Rhaenys nods; it’s a fair gesture. Daemon wouldn’t offer it, but as he has recently been informed — he is intemperate. When Rhaenyra says his name, his head whips around with reptilian alacrity. “Daemon, if it comes to battle—“

“Aim for appropriate targets?” Ground troops are peasants, yeoman farmers and the levies of petty lords. Who would miss them? They are born to farm the earth in lifeand fertilize it in death. 

Rhaenyra disagrees. 
“Aim for a minimum of death. Civilian and soldier alike are my people, and I would not have it said I ascended to my throne on steps made of their backs. Further, every dragon is our kin — as are their riders. The house of the dragon must not stand divided. Bad enough it’s come this far. You are to be judicious.”

He remembers Alys, and her talk of whispers on the winds blowing across Bracken land. He doesn’t want to hear them again. 

“My queen”, he promises, and he and Rhaenys excuse themselves with a bow. 

Rhaenys strides on ahead, presumably off to inform her husband’s bastard that he’s sent to certain battle and likely death. 

That leaves him alone and vulnerable. 

“Prince Daemon”, Alicent Hightower calls out. Her voice echoes through the fused stone halls of his ancestral seat, and the sound of his footsteps stops. 

“My lady”, he says, perfectly courteous in the face of his brother’s wife and his wife’s lover. 

“I-“ Her face is pale, and her brown eyes are wide and haunted in her pretty, heart-shaped face. He can see why Viserys chose her — but he knows it isn’t her loveliness that attracts Rhaenyra to her. There’s a desire for self-immolation inherent to any dragon-rider, and in Alicent Hightower, he sees the same tendency to Touch fire and risk a burn. 

Shame Otto’s been such a cunt, and that Rhaenyra had the bad luck to be born with one. They’d have made a formidable dragon together, Rhaenyra and her companion. As it is, he suspects he’ll be the steel hand to Alicent’s silk glove. 

If nothing else, he won’t be bored. 

“How may I be of service, my lady? I am afraid I must away.”

Alicent nods, and begins in a trembling voice. 
“I would ask a great favour of you. I know you have no reason to agree, but-“ 

He has no time for self-abasement. 
“Don’t. My Queen has asked that I not raise a hand against your boy unless he does something immeasurably foolish. If he does, though—“

“Would it give you satisfaction?”

“Depends on the son, I suppose.”

She laughs, dry as old bone. 
“I’m told Daeron is a good boy. Sweet, and gentle, and kind-“

“Nothing like his parents, then.” It’s snide, and out of habit more than rancour. 

He regrets it the moment it’s out, but Alicent nods anyway. 
“I suppose the distance has been good for him.” There’s a moment where he thinks she might laugh, but those big doe eyes are watery with tears. “I didn’t want to marry your brother. My father— insisted I comfort him in his grief, and the King asked that I not tell Rhaenyra, and I could refuse neither sovereign nor Lord Father, and so I let that man—“ 

“You were Queen.”

Alicent laughs, a noise so bitter. “I’m told you’re partial to roast mutton, my lord.” 

“The only redeeming part of the Vale.” 

“Then know that the dresses were the only redeeming part of being Queen. Your brother was … well. You saw what he was. And I was too young to have the children he wanted, and certainly unprepared to lose a…friend and become a mother… but that did not stop your brother from ensuring I did both.”

The words seem drawn out of her by a leech, and he hates that he can empathize with Alicent Hightower. He can still taste Rhea Royce’s cold spit and clammy hands the first time they’d kissed. 
“Viserys was always a feckless cunt”, he admits. “Be grateful he was kinder to you than Aemma.”

“He loved Queen Aemma!”

“Viserys spent his life mourning the woman he ordered vivisected.” Daemon’s mouth puckers.  
“He gutted her like a fish for a son that died six hours after her. Be thankful he didn’t love you that much.”

“You don’t mince words.”

“Should I? We are allies now, are we not?”

The Dowager Queen looks weary and brittle, a badly treated porcelain doll. 
“Could such a thing ever hope to occur?”

Daemon is weary too, and he knows when he’s done. One daughter’s making cow eyes at Alicent’s mad Dreamer, and the other seems to be leading Alicent’s son by the short hairs. Even if he had never caught Rhaenyra’s outburst… life has taken too much from his girls for him to intervene in their happiness. 

Daemon extends the olive branch. 
“You granted me your favour once, Lady Alicent. I would wear it again as I ride to battle.”

“You would wear green?”

“No”, Daemon’s tone is as final as a guillotine. “But find us something red — like her dress that day —and I’ll do my best to bring you a son, for a son, if I have to haul the whelp back by the ear.” 

For a moment, Alicent studies his face in that anxious way of hers, before stepping forward. “Your sword, Prince Daemon.” 

He indulges her, holding up Dark Sister for her inspection. He expects a kiss to the blade or a lock of her auburn hair. He’s enchanted when she unsheathes the blade and presses the Valyrian steel against her forearm, an echo of the wound she had once inflicted upon Rhaenyra. 

Blood trickles down to pool in the well of her hand, and then she presses it against the chest of his black armour. The blackened metal gleams early in the shape of her palm, three splayed fingers a crude mimic of their sigil. 

“There”, Alicent Hightower says. “‘My favour, Ser Dragonknight.” She sounds as though she means it, and that, more than anything, makes Daemon understand her loyalties. 

The problem is, now he’s promised his ally something. Shit. He hates obligations. 

“Fight gallantly” she says, and he wants to tell her there’s no such thing, but he’s wearing her favour so what does he know. 
Then she steps away into the dark basalt hallway, and retreats away from the Dragonmont. 

Daemon can only bow, and watch her disappear into the far distance. 

When he steps into the Dragonmont, he sees Rhaenys helping the new Laenor into the saddle. 
“How do I fly?” The man asks as he stares up at rigging cinched onto Seasmoke’s salt-grey back. 

“Well, it does help to strap yourself in first”, Daemon advises, patting the leg buckles. 

His newest cousin stares. “Is that what they’re for? To winch you into place like a boom in a storm?” 

“Precisely so”, Rhaenys agrees. “Otherwise any sudden movement might send you slipping off and plummeting to the ground many thousands of miles below.” 

The man goes an odd shade of mossy-brown around the lips. 
“I did not know.”

Daemon stares at him, delight welling in his chest.
“You flew here across the Gullet untethered?” Those winds could slap the colour off Balerion’s black arse. 

“My own ignorance, my lord”, the man says, but Daemon’s already closing in. 

A fearless dragonseed on a fast dragon—
“You are a bold one”, Daemon says, delight welling in his chest. “Here, I’ll show you before we go.“ 

*** 

They descend upon Tumbleton early the next morning.

With the sun at their backs, they have the strategic advantage. The smoke of cooking fires is silvery against the watery dawn light, and Daemon squints to better see where the dragons might be roosting. 

It doesn’t take them long to spot them. 

They’re frozen in place on the castle walls like some grotesque collection of gargoyles, fixedly pointing at the horizon. 

At his side, Rhaenys sees the same thing he does, and her gaze is cold. The dragons below should have bugled by now — 

Unless they cannot. 

Dull horror suffuses him when he remembers Helaena’s words. Controlled. 

Fury follows horror in hot pursuit. 

Beneath him, Caraxes roars out a challenge, splitting the sky like a red comet — and the dragons below begin to hiss, an unnatural noise that makes the hair on the back of Daemon’s neck stand up. 

“Rhaenys—“ 

“I hear it”, she agrees. 

Behind them, Addam makes a sharp, choked noise. Daemon twists in the saddle and Corlys’s son points down, to where three dragons have lifted into the air, flying heavy like carrion crows on a battlefield. 

Chapter Text

HUGH

“This is more like it, hey?” 

Of all the men to claim a dragon. 

Hugh says a quick prayer to the Smith for patience, and then counts to five for good measure. “We ought to be out there, with the dragons-“

“And I will go”, the silver-haired man whines. “But surely they would not deny me my pleasure after so long… I may never eat fish again!” He isn’t wrong but he is uncouth. 
“And Gods know the wenches are prettier in Keeps— C’mere, love, show us your tits.”

“Ser!” The young woman he’s insulted yelps, deftly avoiding his grasping hand as she straightens. The platter of buns nearly goes flying as she flees to the safety of the kitchens. 
Lord Footly rises to his feet, gallant despite his thin arms and soft scholar’s hands. 
“Ser Ulf, I must insist! That maid is a woman of my household!” 

The man leans back, greasy paunch on full display. 
“Am I not entitled to the first pickings? Thought Lords were allowed to have first go.”

“Good Queen Alysanne outlawed that before you were born, friend.” Disgust makes Hugh’s voice hard as an anvil. 

“And even so”, Ulf sneers, unrepentant, “dragonseeds keep being born. Guess some girls just yearn to ride dragons. Might be that’s one, hey?”

“Speak for yourself.” He knows there are men who would pay a fortune to ride a dragon. He’s the son of one. That doesn’t endear Ulf to him. 

“Right”, the man smarms, greasier than roadside sausage. “Family man. Where’d you say your family was again?” 

Hugh will bite his own tongue out before he breathes a word of Kat or Saera to this cretin. 
“None of your business”, he says, flat as the board they’ll be burying Ulf on if he asks again, but he’s interrupted by a panicked steward rushing in at a fast trot. 

“My LORD! Dragons overhead!”

Lord Footly goes the same grey as his keep’s stone walls. “How many?!”

“Prince Daeron says three”, the steward pants, and Ulf slams to his feet. 

“Three?! Shit!”

“Coming here?” That means they’ve been made. If the Targaryens are sending their dragons, they won’t care one whit about whomever’s unlucky enough to be around. 

Kat. Saera. They’re somewhere in the town, hidden away from sight. He hopes to the gods they were able to escape to somewhere — anywhere — else, though where they might go is anyone’s guess. 

Tumbleton was meant to be safe, after all. 

“What do we do?” Ulf hisses, face contorted in fear. 

“Get to your dragon”, Hugh says. “And pray the prince knows what to do.”

*** 

HUGH 

Heights have never bothered him, and now he understands why. From dragonback, the world looks like a tapestry picked in silk. 
“Good morning, Prince Daeron!” The voice is husky but undeniably female, and plummy with patrician diction. Gods be good, this woman sounds like his Mother. 

And she sits a red dragon like she was born to it… which, of course, Rhaenys Targaryen was. 

“Prince Daemon, Princess Rhaenys”, Prince Daeron Targaryen says in a trembling voice. “What an unexpected pleasure to find out enjoying the morning air!” 
The young man is a steady hand, mounted on a dragon the same deep blue as a Lyseni sea at night. His posture is easy but composed, his voice confident despite his young age. Yet more nobles, and despite the dragon keeping him aloft, Hugh feels like the rankest imposter. 

“And you as well”, Daemon Targaryen says. Hugh has grown up in King’s Landing, so the black iron armour is blisteringly familiar. So is the long white hair streaming from under the helm. “You’re a ways from Oldtown, little prince; are you stretching your Cobalt Lady’s wings already?”

“Enjoying a jaunt-“

“With a few new friends, I see.”

“These are-“

“Dragons of House Targaryen”, Princess Rhaenys says, voice firm, “of which you are a part and your brother no longer has any place in. Your mother bids you come to Dragonstone, Prince Daeron. She is there, with your sisters and Prince Aegon-“

“King Aegon”, Daeron interrupts, and is interrupted in turn by a sharp laugh from the Prince of Flea Bottom. 

“Daemon, don’t be unkind”, the Queen who Never Was chastises. “Ravens can only fly so fast. It is a … complex situation, my Prince, but one that might yet avert war. Queen Rhaenyra rules, and your brother-“

The Prince looks truly grief-stricken. 
“My brother Aegon dead. I know.”

A snort from the man in black. 
“Chattiest corpse I ever met-“

“Is recovering, with the help of a Maester and Princess Rhaena’s help”, Princess Rhaenys says, and is interrupted by another of the Prince’s loud laugh. Unlike the others, this one sounds genuine. 

“Oh is *that* what we’re calling it?”

The lady ignores the cad. 
“Will you come with us?” Princess Rhaenys’s question sounds sincere. “We can offer terms for your uncle’s soldiers, as well. Your sister would unite us all under the banner of the red dragon, and have you join her.”

Hugh wants to say yes, desperately, even as Silverwing shudders under him, little ripples of muscles like she’s trying to shuck off biting flies. It’s the compulsion, he knows, and forces himself to keep his nerves settled. That seems to help her. 
“We cannot”, Prince Daeron says, sounding as though he regrets that very much. 

Rhaenys hones in like a hawk. 
“Are you so committed to the cause of a man who would burn his brother to assume his birthright?”

“I— we truly cannot, my lady, my lord. Would that such a thing were possible, but my dragon-“, 

Beneath Hugh, Silverwing shudders and hisses. He can feel her in his head, the way he knows when the iron is just soft enough to strike, or the way he knew just when Saera needed to be burped. The dragon curls in the space of his mind and heart that remembers his daughter’s giggles, his wife’s carob-dark eyes sweet with pleasure or tender with love, the feeling of the midwife placing Saera’s little silver haired body in the cradle of his arms for the first time—
Silverwing’s hissing stops like a tea kettle taken off the hob. 

The young prince is not so lucky. 

As though the Prince Regent knows he’s being spoken of, the cobalt blue dragon begins to twist and writhe in the air, beautiful and deadly as molten glass. 
Tessarion!” The young prince’s voice goes high with fear, reminding Hugh that for all the trappings of royalty, it’s a boy under the samite and ermine. 

“Daeron, control it-“, the Rogue Prince commands sharply, and the boy grips the pommel as the creature heaves in the air, wings outstretched as it struggles for purchase. 

“I’m trying! Tessarion, no!”
It’s like watching something get crucified, and he can feel waves of roiling darkness he knows — knows, with blood-sure certainty — are the compulsion shoving against Silverwing. He snarls, shoving back with every ounce of will, every thought of Saera’s laugh, of Kat’s wry smile— even, at the last, the low Valyrian lullabies his mother had sung to him. 
He won’t let some pretty boy in a castle tell him what to do with his birthright. Silverwing roars, loud enough to rattle the Hightower shields below them. 

It’s not enough. 

And worse — he’s neglected to keep an eye on their third dragon. In a single hot blast, Grey Ghost rakes a stream of fire across the three dragons hovering in the air two hundred feet away from them. 
The Queen who Never Was takes the worst of the fire, and Hugh is sure she’s gone to meet her gods. 
No one could survive that inferno— 

And then the fireball disperses and the Red Queen hangs in the air. 

Her wings are folded in front of her, legs tucked up to shield her vulnerable underside. Rhaenys is lashed into the saddle, and its good thing too, because the position has her nearly vertical. She looks as casual as though she were seated in the Red Keep’s many gardens, enjoying some refreshments the way his mother said ladies liked to. The ground is a thousand feet below them, but there’s a sly smile on her face, like she knows some marvellous secret no one else does. 

Hugh stares, eyes wide, because he’s always heard Targaryens were closer to Gods than men… 

But he also knows exactly how much one is worth an hour, so he hadn’t thought it to be true. But here is the proof, walking on air in front of his very eyes. 

Silverwing roars, and Hugh can feel something like joy in the creature. This is what it means to be a dragon— to be something capable of walking on air, a creature of fire. 

Then, Princess Rhaenys opens her arms wide, and the red dragon falls backwards towards the ground like a shot hawk. 
Ulf snaps his whip, hard, and his slender grey dragon folds her wings and begins the death-spiral. 

The Prince of the City shrieks her name like a dragon possessed and immediately falls into a stoop. 

*** 

Hugh watches through wind-teary eyes as Ulf goads his beast onward. 

He doesn’t know when or how he spurred Silverwing into a stoop. He isn’t even sure he did — only that the dragon knew what he wanted, and reacted. 
However they did it, they remain in hot pursuit of the three dragons. The vicious crack of the Valyrian steel tipped whip makes the dragon shriek in pain every time, and the poor beast shudders as though it’s a butterfly pinned on a board while living. 

The creature is fast, though, plunging towards the ground with mad abandon, goaded on by the scum on his back. 
The Blood Wyrm is in hot pursuit, a streak of red deadly as a comet. The air seems to blister around them from the heat of their descent; Caraxes’s furious shriek tears the air like a battle horn as he tries to avenge his fallen kin. 

The two dragons are barely higher than the cliffs of the Red Keep when the Red Queen seems to rouse herself back to the land of the living, and Hugh realizes Ulf has been played by someone vastly more proficient. With a roar that sounds downright playful, she extends one mighty talon, snatches at her pursuer, and latches on. Her wings snap open with a boom like thunder, rattling the very stones of the houses beneath them. 

Hugh has seen the dragons fly; any Flea Bottom gutter rat has. He’s dreamed of them his entire life— but this isn’t flying. It isn’t even dancing. 

It’s watching a peregrine massacre a pigeon. 

The grey dragon shrieks with abject terror, and he can see the way its wings flare and contract as it fights whatever the Prince Regent’s monster has done to their mounts. 

The Red Queen is merciless — to the dragon’s rider. 

The larger red dragon flips upside down, talons still locked, and like those same cliffside eagles, whips the smaller grey dragon abruptly from a vertical drop to a horizontal spin. 

He understands, suddenly, when he sees a silver head ragdoll against the saddle pommel and then ricochet back, coming mere inches from the steeple of Tumbleton’s small Sept. 
He’s watched terriers take rats before, and it’s a sharp snapped neck that usually does for them. 

The Red Queen isn’t done. 

Another flex of wings and tail and Meleys sends the dragon slamming down into the market square before she spreads her wings, flaps hard once, and shirks the embrace of gravity. 
The grey dragon hits the ground, in a blast of stone chips and dust and a grunted puff of fire. Hugh squints down from where Silverwing hovers, trying desperately to make out any figures. 

There are prosperous townhomes lined along the square, each with windows shuttered tight as though that might protect the inhabitants inside. He prays it works, because one of these tall buildings hides his family. 

Might be they’re lucky. 

Maybe they’ve boarded up and fled for a farm in the Riverlands somewhere. 

Could be the fall killed Ulf. 

But then he hears it, that low reptilian hiss. 

Silverwing shudders under him, and he hunkers down further into the saddle, trying to get as close to her as he can. 

The dragon, at least, isn’t dead. 

Just as he thinks it, the grey fog of dust goes the deadly orange of dragonfire as Grey Ghost flares bright as the sun. 
Hugh’s heart chokes into his throat as Ulf snaps the whip again and again as the grey dragon roars in pain. Gouts of fire stream out, setting thatched roofs ablaze. Screams come from inside, and in that awful moment, Hugh hears laughing. 

When he looks up, it’s to see Ulf’s doughy face break into a chipped-tooth smile. 

“We’re real dragonlords now”, he crows. The sharp light of early morning is harsh on his features, even as the red flames make the hollows of his eyes look cadaverous. Screams echo around them as the townhomes go up ablaze and merchants and their families rush out, running from dragon fire into the dragon’s teeth. “We can make our own Harrenhals, ain’t no one could stop us.”

“Don’t you fucking dare”, he snarls. Silverwing hovers feet above the ground before landing with a bone-jarring thud, snarling as the smaller grey dragon does its best to turn its face away from her. It catches a lash to the back for its trouble, but Ulf just laughs as the scales shatter and ichor streams from the wound. 

“Or what? You’ll stop me? You’re just one man, and as new a dragonrider as I am. Anyway, they’re peasants. We’re dragonlords now, what’s it to you-“ 

“Hugh!” 

Gods have mercy. He’d recognize his wife’s voice anywhere, and his entire body goes cold as the grave. 

“Oho”, Hugh says, voice cold and bright as a fresh blade. “What this, then?” He cranes his head, taking in Kat, staggering under Saera’s weight as they stumble out of a burning store. “The girl’s got silver hair, bright as you please. Have we found your family, Lord Hammer?” The dragon’s head swings back slowly towards Ulf, as though it were struggling against the inevitable command. It clacks its jaws, muzzle snapping like a hunting dog denied its prey. 
Ulf snarls, slashing at it with the whip, and the creature roars up at him, throat glowing amber before it shudders and goes very still as the compulsion takes over again. 

“Don’t you touch them”, Hugh snarls, dragon landing in front of his family like a moving balustrade. His flat threat is echoed by Silverwing’s stone-rattling roar, and he can hear Kat’s sharp, sucked in breath as his dragon wraps her tail around all of them like a shield wall. 

“Our lord will be so happy to know there are other dragonriders-“ 

He sees red. “Don’t you fucking dare-“

And then the world is mist, and 

Red mist. 

For a second he thinks it might be blood-lust clouding his vision. Then he realizes it’s just blood, pattering to the ground like so much rain. 
The Red Queen has come screaming out of the sun, fast and deadly, and with a mighty snap of her jaws, the remains of Ulf the White turn into so much red meat. 

His lower half slumps out of his saddle and to the ground with a wet plop. 

“Gods be good”, Kat whispers into the dead silence surrounding them, and then Meleys lands in a rustle of wings and a shriek of clear pleasure. 

“Who was that?” The Queen who Never Was sounds as though she couldn’t care less. 

Conveniently, neither does Hugh. 
“No one of consequence”, he assures her, watching as the dragon, now free of the bond, sniffs at the leaking remains of his rider, snagging a leg and moving the mess a few feet away. It doesn’t seem to have a desire to venture further, despite it’s freedom, and Hugh wonders why. 

“And who are you?” Princess Rhaenys crosses her armour-clad arms over her chest, watching him with regard in her eyes. 

“Hugh Hammer, rider of Silverwing… my grandmother’s dragon.”

“Ha”, the Princess says, with a sharp satisfaction that reminds him that Viserys only became King because of the Old King and his disdain for daughters. “Grandmother would have liked that. She was fierce in the defence of her family.” Beneath her, Meleys shifts as though preparing for flight — or a fight. 

When Hugh looks up, it’s to another red dragon coasting low. Kat makes a sick noise of fear from behind and below him, and he wishes he could wrap her in his arms and keep her safe. 
He stays on his dragon, instead, and Silverwing snarls a low threat to the newcomer, making his feelings clear. 
“So am I”, Hugh assures her, a flat warning, as Caraxes’s wings beat the dust around them as he lands. 

It isn’t received quite how he expects. 

Where he’d anticipated frosty regard, he gets something closer to warm relief. “I am glad to hear of it, cousin. Will you join us in defending it?”

It feels like aiming for iron and hitting sand. 
“Cousin, my lady?” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Where were you when we were starving in the City?”

“Unaware of your existence”, the Prince of the City says from his own mount. “Came as soon as we heard.”

Hugh rolls his eyes. “Mother said all Targaryens were self-serving fucks.”

Daemon cackles with delight, and even Rhaenys laughs, dry as cooked bone. 
“And where is Aunt Saera?”

“In Lys. She found Volantis too political in retirement. Said she likes the heat.”

“Sounds nice”, Daemon says. “I hear the beaches in Lys are lovely. Dragonstone lacks the white sand, sun, and Lyseni beauties, and of course, it’s infested with your family. You should come, it’s a capital time.”

“You make a convincing case, my lord.” Hugh squints upwards into the blue sky. “Where is Prince Daeron?” 

“Helping our next newest cousin acquire some battlefield experience.”

“Daemon!” Rhaenys sounds appalled, but the Prince just waves his hand. 

“It’d solve your problem, though, wouldn’t it?”

“No!”

Daemon shrugs. “Oh, right, there’s at least one more. Don’t panic, dear cousin. I ordered Addam to distract Tessarion, and rest assured that Seasmoke can outfly that overambitious iguana.” He stops, leaning almost sideways in his saddle to peer around Silverwing’s tail. “And who are they?” 

He jerks his chin at Kat and Saera, and Hugh squares his shoulders. He has no chance of beating two trained dragons and their noble riders… but if they threaten his family he will die trying. 
“My brother in law and his family, your Majesties”, he says, careful but firm. “And my own wife, Kat, and our daughter, Saera— she’s ill.”  

Rhaenys looks down, eyes assessing sunken cheeks and recessed eyes. Saera looks a single gasp away from meeting the Stranger, and the Princess’s lips form a hard line.  
“Saera. Well. More reason to come with us to Dragonstone, then. We’ve Maesters.”

Kat speaks for the first time, voice trembling. 
“It would take weeks to travel… she doesn’t have…” 

The Princess’s voice goes soft as she speaks to his wife, and Hugh remembers that Princess Rhaenys Targaryen has lost both her children. 
“The saddle can accommodate three, my lady, provided you do not care much for comfort. Silverwing is a cautious flyer. She’ll bear it.”

“Y-you want us to go to Dragonstone, my-“, Kat stammers, eyes wide with nerves. “Princess?”

“It is the royal seat, and the Queen has sent out the summons to all Targaryens to roost there. Regardless of which side of the sheet they were born on.” 

Hugh’s feels his face contort into a hard scowl, but that only earns a bark of laughter from his new cousin. “Gods, you look the spitting image of Grandfather when you do that!” Daemon sounds thrilled beyond measure. “Wrinkled prick would have hated this.” 

“And that pleases you?” Hugh asks, only to get a wide, white grin in response. 

“Oh, immeasurably.”

“Dragon incoming”, the Princess warns, shadowing her eyes against the sun as a shadow coalesces out of it. “Tessarion, by the looks of it.” 

Behind the smaller dragon, the shadow of wings unfurls — a second beast, gliding in for an easy coast. 
“And Seasmoke.” Daemon sounds pleased. “The Waters boy shows promise. And it would appear Alicent’s boy has managed to tame his dragon.”

“So it would appear”, Rhaenys says, but cuts a glance to Hugh. “Guard your family anyways. Use the wing to deflect flame, if required.”

Kat makes a small, unhappy noise, and the tight grip of her arms makes Saera cough piteously. The riderless grey dragon stops chewing on what’s left of Ulf and perks its head up, nostrils flaring in curiosity. 
Hugh just bares his teeth at it, and Silverwing shifts to better shield his girls. The dragon hunkers back down to its meal, ignoring him, but he isn’t blind to the Princess’s look of regard. 

*** 

“Hello again, Daeron”, Rhaenys says as the two dragons land. 

“My lady. My lords.”

“We seem to have a problem”, Prince Daemon says the moment Daeron lands, tone cheerful. “Your brother is a craven shit.”

“If you knew him”, Prince Daeron says, voice flat, “you would not say so.”

“And yet, he fled without a fight. I see Gwayne Hightower and his men. Is the Kinslayer’s horsemanship so poor he cannot ride in the van?”

“Fled?” Hugh’s confused. “He never left King’s Landing.”

At the Princess’s hard glance, the young Prince rushes to explain. “Aemond told Gwayne to leave Oldtown for Tumbleton the day we flew to King’s Landing. They’ve had no other word since, only a fast march north, and we were only just dispatched to join them. Aemond never said why. Only that as soon as the dragons had their riders, we were to decamp.”

The Princess Rhaenys’s eyes cut to Prince Daemon’s. “Do you think it a lure? He might seek to mount an attack in our absence.” 

Daemon scoffs. 
“With what Navy? The Lannisters? The Greyjoy fleet? The Redwynes? I wish them the best against the Seasnake’s fleet and Baela’s theatrics.” It’s clear he finds the idea preposterous. Hugh isn’t sure why. 

“A fleet? He doesn’t need a fleet. He has a monster.”

Rhaenys’s attention turns to him faster than Ulf’s whip. “Vhagar is dead.”

Daeron looks acutely sick. 
“It— isn’t Vhagar. It’s… something else. Something wrong.”

Daemon’s voice goes honed as steel. 
“He has a dragon? He can fly?!”

“Dragonstone-“ Daemon breathes, and in the next instant Caraxes has burst into the air. 

“Gods-“, Rhaenys spits, and then whirls to Hugh. “Collect your kin, lash them to you, and follow me.”

“Is it safe?” 

Rhaenys laughs. “Is anywhere? Better in a flock than alone.”

Good enough for him. “Get on”, he orders, and holds his hands out as Saera is passed up to him. 

Chapter Text

JACE 

Sunset paints the waters of the Bay beneath them a deep oxblood red, and foam glints like unsheathed knives. The sun hangs heavy in the Western horizon, bloated and crimson red from the smoke of Dragonstone’s volcanic fires. 

It’s beautiful, and Jace opens his arms wide to embrace it. 

Up here, with Vermax’s quiet companionship and the fresh iodine scent of the sea, it’s easy to pretend everything is perfect. 

It comes first at the highest pitches of his hearing; a whine so shrill it makes his ears itch. Then the sound rounds, swells like a wave, turns to a howl— 

And Baela shrieks past him, barely a breath above his head. Laughter escapes, a delighted cry of greeting. He raises an arm, straight up, and his outstretched fingers nearly touch the nimbus of silver that crowns his Lady Dancer’s head like a halo. 

She’s ahead of him in a heartbeat, Moondancer’s lithe form cutting through the air the way a shark might split water. Her wings are tucked so far back that she seems a single sleek line of tooth and scale, and her shriek of delight rouses Vermax to the challenge. 

Jace gives him his head, and in a second they’ve burst forward into heaving motion. Vermax is all muscle, corded and lean, build for strength and stalwart glory. He won’t catch her, but he might— 

Jace drops, low and fast. 

He shifts forward in the saddle, nearly over the pommel. His knees dig in and down towards the bellows that is Vermax’s ribs, and Vermax responds with alacrity. The dragon heaves a gout of flame into the air below Moondancer, making the sky ripple as though seen through rainy glass. 

He can hear Baela’s cry of delight as the warm air caresses her cheeks. Moondancer gives another shriek and responds to her mistress’s joy by spreading her wings, catching the thermal Vermax has made for her. 
She twirls vertically upwards through the air with the grace of a Maiden’s Day dancer, all gossamer wings and arching tail as she spirals around the updraft with effortless ease. Another of Vermax’s breaths sends Moondancer and her rider soaring so high that Jace has to squint to make them out. 

For a moment, they hang suspended against the inky blue of the gloaming. Moondancer flaps once, and then she’s dropping, hard and fast, and something small and hard congeals in Jace’s stomach. 

Baela is at his side in a heartbeat, face pale as the whispy clouds a thousand feet below them. 

“What is it?” He doesn’t want to know, but duty demands sacrifice. “Is it Aemond?”

“… sails”, Baela says, breathless. “I see sails.”

“Grandfather’s fleet? But if it’s the Red Queen and her escort ships, why head to Hull if the physician’s bound for Dragonstone?” 
Jace tries to look at the world as though it were a painted table laid out below him. 
“Perhaps they need repairs? The shipyards at Hull see to the Velaryon fleet. Might it be that they’re limping in?” 

Baela looks down at the sea far below them, where even now more sails are starting to materialize against the wine-dark water. 
“Might be.”
She chews on the inside of her lower lip as she thinks, and Jace is every inch every one of his father’s son, because — even now — he can’t help but imagine nipping it for her. 

If they survive this night, he’ll see to it that Helaena sees them wed by dawn. Surely Rhaena’ll know how to manage it. She’s had her nose stuffed in Visenya’s old books since they arrived. 

But then, he ought not fantasize. 

If that armada below them is not friend, it must be foe — and there is no guarantee this will end well. 

His lady, a far better student of war than he, seems to agree. 
“Jace, I don’t like it. I’ve seen that style of ship before, in Essos, but never here. Why are there galleys in Spicetown?”
Any other woman would be frightened. Her voice might tremble. Not his Princess of Dragonstone; her tone is hard as the steel she carries. “We must tell the Queen.”

He strongly agrees. 
“You go.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

He appreciates that the love of a good woman is a rarer treasure than summer snows, but they do not have the time for her adamantine loyalty. Not right now. 

“I don’t say it to get you out of the line of fire, Baela.” 
That’s merely a happy side-effect, not that he’d ever tell her. 
“You know the prick did this on purpose”, Jace adds, thinking of the table. He can see it laid out below him — draw the three most battle-seasoned dragons, leaving the Gullet vulnerable to attack by sea. “Aemond wants to break the blockade, and must have heard that Grandfather’s fleet was split. I fear he’s found allies.” 

Two of his fathers spent years trying to keep Westerosi ships and people safe from Triarchy slavers. Now Aemond’s gone and traded the Stepstones for a few silly little ships. Jace is so mad he could spit. 
His mother raised a gentleman, however, so he refrains, turning instead to Baela and taking a deep, deliberate breath. 
“Moondancer is faster, my lady. I do not doubt your capacity for the fight. Indeed, I relish it — only, I would have you bring reinforcements first.” 

She snorts at his obvious attempt at massaging the situation, but presses her gloved hand to her mouth and then tosses him a kiss anyway. 
“Fine, my silver tongued prince. I’ll go. Then I’ll come back, and we can finish our dance.” 
The look on her face is alight with martial fervour and no small amount of desire. Baela is a creature of fire and blood, and battle excites her as much as it does any knight. 

He catches her kiss with an outstretched hand and brings it to his brow, a supplicant knight with his lady’s favour, just to see the way she rolls her eyes at him… but blushes anyway. 

“I love you”, Baela tells him, and she so rarely says the words that he knows she means, “don’t die”. 

“You have my heart, my bold lady. I’ll see you soon”, he promises, and watches until she’s safely disappeared into the setting sun. 
Then, he takes a deep breath, thanks the Gods for his dark colouring and Vermax’s deep green scales, and descends slowly and silently towards the ships dotting the waters of the Gullet. 

*** 

ALICENT 

The garden air is perfumed with night-blooming flowers and the laughter of their children. Joffrey is trying to marshal the younger ones into a game of come-into-the-castle and succeeding, resulting in a small cacophony of high-pitched screams. 

Helaena picks at her needlepoint, chatting idly with Rhaena as Aegon sits in a chair, wrapped against the chill. Despite everything, his burned face is smiling, and Alicent feels something in her slump, a puppet cut loose from its strings. 

For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, she allows herself to kick off her shoes, curl into the seat, and ask a question without fearing the answer. 
“Did you ever think it could be this way?”

Rhaenyra looks up from the reports she’s reviewing. Her brows are furrowed the way they get when she’s concentrating, but her gaze focuses on Alicent’s with that same piercing intensity. 
“What way?”

“Happy”, Alicent admits. She probably ought not to be, but she is. “I don’t think I ever expected it.”

“That’s not true. We were happy together.”

“I suppose, once, when we were girls. Before everything happened. We were happy then, and young. But once— once my Father asked me to visit yours…” Alicent’s skin crawls at the memory, despite the pleasant evening. She wonders if there will ever be a day where the thought of her husband and her duty does not make Alicent want to retch, or else run screaming into the Kingswood like a madwoman. 

“Why did you never tell me?” Rhaenyra’s voice is soft, as though she understands the magnitude of her question. 

“He asked me not to”, Alicent says, confessional-quiet. 

“Your father?”

“Yours”, she whispers, and for a moment Rhaenyra’s face is as white as her hair. Alicent watches as the last sprigs of a daughter’s respect for her sire wither into so much chaff. 

“… of course”, Rhaenyra says with a wry laugh. “Our family has ever been ruined by the cowardice of men who believe a cock is a prerequisite to wear a crown.”

“You speak of upturning the way of the world, Rhaenyra.” Alicent is only now coming to realize that Rhaenyra might be capable of it. 

“I suppose I do”, Rhaenyra says with a grin. “But who better than a dragonlord? Is that not what Valyrians did, when we tamed fire and called it dragon? My father told me, once, that Aegon had a dream—“

“Ice, and fire”, Helaena agrees quietly, crossing from her perch near the garden’s balcony. Rhaena and Aegon follow more slowly; her son can walk, but he will never be a hale man again. Rhaena doesn’t seem to mind, even though her long face is stern and still beside his smiling one. 

“He told you about the dagger?” Rhaenyra sounds surprised. 

“No. Rhaena did. Rhaena the Dreamer. We dream. And in those dreams, I have seen the black void between the stars, the darkness riding on cold winds from the north. A sky alight with green, pierced with blue star eyes. Aegon—“ 
Helaena’s hand hand flings blindly out, and Aegon hurries to catch it in his. He cradles her delicate hand gently, a gentle ballast pinning her to the world. 

“I’m here. Helaena”, he assures, every inch the big brother. “I’ve got you.” 

Helaena trembles, pale eyes wide. “I’m frightened.”

“I will not let anything happen to either of you. Not any of you.” Rhaenyra’s tone is final, and Alicent would recognize that stubborn jut of jaw, even with both her eyes put out. 

“You really mean that”, Aegon says, incredulous, and Alicent grieves the errors she had allowed fear to needle her into making. 

“I do. This is my family. I have seen too many younger brothers burned”, Rhaenyra says, and Alicent remembers standing at her side during the funeral for Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon. She’d seen Rhaenyra’s resolve first-hand; but also, her heartbreak. Her grief. 
“You’re just the first to walk away from it”, the Queen adds. “How dare he threaten my family”, she snarls, sounding every inch the protective mother. “If something comes, be it Aemond or some chill breeze from the north, I shall see it soundly dealt with. If it falls to House Targaryen to steward the end of days, we should put many hands to the work.”

At her mad talk of protecting her children, Alicent grieves at how easy this might all have been if only Rhaenyra had been a little more loved by the Gods. 
“It is to the realm’s detriment that you were born a woman, Rhaenyra. You would have made a magnificent king.”

That just earns her another wry, reptilian grin. “I have never understood the Westerosi fixation with primogeniture. There were no kings or queens in Valyria — the Freeholders were all equal, for fire cares not for one’s sex. It burns all alike. There isn’t even a difference between the words for prince and princess.” 

“Really?” Aegon sounds intruiged. 

“You didn’t know?” That’s Daemon’s haughty little daughter with the observant brown eyes. “Aegon, how bad is your Valyrian?” If she’s worried about insulting a Prince, it does not show. 

Aegon doesn’t seem at all bothered. He just plays dumb, eyes wide and mouth falling open. “Oh, who was there to teach me?” 

Rhaena has barely opened her mouth to respond when the blue darkness above materializes into a dragon’s stooped wings.
Moondancer lands with a hard thud and a gust of downdraft, careful to do so far from the children. It’s clear from the rapid way that Baela throws herself off dragonback and closes the distance at a run that something is terribly wrong. 

“Excuse me, Your Grace. Your Majesties. Rhaena.”

“Baela.” Rhaenyra is good at keeping her voice calm, but Alicent can see the way she grips her hands tight, hear the slightest wobble of pitch to her greeting. “You look pale. What’s wrong.”

Daemon’s daughter doesn’t mince words. 
“I come from Spicetown, Your Grace. They’re being attacked, Your Grace. A fleet of galleys, a hundred thick. We saw it while patrolling. Jace—“

Rhaenyra’s voice goes flat. 
“Where is my son.”

“He stayed behind to—“ for a moment, the young lady seems to choke on her next words, “—to buy Spicetown time, while I came here for reinforcements, my lady.” 

Rhaenyra is on her feet before Alicent can think to draw breath. Then, she stops, and looks back. 
“Alicent—“

“Go.”

“But”, she sounds sick. “If they’ve come to Spicetown, they’ll come here—“

“Go. He is your son, and you have a dragon. You can save him.” The Triarchy have experience fighting dragons; the sooner Rhaenyra can help her son, the safer he’ll be. 

“But you”, she starts, and her eyes drift over to their children, watching with big eyes. 

“We shall manage. Baela, can you stay to guard the children?”

She nods, firm as the headsman’s block. 
“Yes, your Majesty. I can.” 

“So can I”, Helaena says, looking up from the needlepoint she’s been steadily picking away at. “Dreamfyre and I can. I will protect what is mine.” 

“It… may come to battle, Helaena. Fire, and blood. It will be ugly. I wouldn’t ask this service of you”, Rhaenyra starts, but Helaena just shakes her head. 

“That is why I am offering”, she whispers, and gives Rhaenyra’s hand a swift squeeze. “It will be all right, sister.”

“I’ll take your word on that, Helaena”, Rhaenyra says, and Alicent watches as Helaena beams bright as the sun. 

“Thank you”, Helaena says, and then rises, holding out her hand. “Baela, will you come and join me in the dance?” 

Alicent should say something about Daemon’s daughter introducing Helaena to queer Targaryen customs, but she rather fears this one has come down the maternal line. Her daughter must share her mother’s affliction, for with a pair of dipped curtsies, Helaena leads the new Princess of Dragonstone to the Dragonmont. 

Rhaena wastes no time either, although Alicent cannot help but feel a bit more… scrutinized by this sister. Her dark eyes flick between Rhaenyra and Alicent for a moment, and it’s clear she’s still reserving judgement. 
“Come on, Aegon”, she says after a long moment. “Let’s get inside.” 

“Because I’m a liability”, Alicent’s son says sourly, and Rhaena just stares at him. 

“Thank the gods every day that you were born wealthy enough to afford guards”, she says eventually. “Because you lack all situational awareness.” Another hard look between Alicent and Rhaenyra, and the girl pops up to her feet like a daisy. “Get up, Aegon, your parents want to talk”, she orders, and then drops a sharp curtsy to Rhaenyra. 
“Your Grace. Your Majesty. We’ll remove the children to deeper within the mont.”

“Good”, Rhaenyra says, voice trembling. It’s their children and grandchildren threatened now, a war brought to their very doorsteps. 

“Alicent”, Rhaenyra says again, once they’re alone in the garden. This time, Alicent rises to her feet when she stands. 

“Rhaenyra, listen to me.” 
There may not be a table, nor Rickard’s Rules of Order to guide them; but Alicent has never felt more like a Queen than she has in this moment. 
She can see Rhaenyra’s indecision; torn between saving her eldest boy, and protecting the rest of the flock, she wavers without action. Alicent bites down on the topic like it’s a hangnail, and rips. 
“Listen to me. I need you to go. You must defend your allies; with Rhaenys absent and half of Lord Corlys’s fleet in Pentos, the people of Driftmark will look to you — and Prince Jacaerys — as their liege. You must go, immediately. Their shipyards are valuable in maintaining the fleet… and the leople there are innocent.” She can imagine what a sack is like, and fears the scope of it. “The Tyroshi take slaves, after all, and there are women and children there.” 

She sees the moment Rhaenyra’s resolve firms, and she tightens her jaw against fate. 
“You will stay hidden”, Rhaenyra commands, and Alicent shakes her head. 

“Of course not. I’ll help hide the women and children of the castle and town, and rouse the men to their defences.” When Rhaenyra’s face gets hard again, Alicent allows herself to roll her eyes… just a little. “Rhaenyra, see reason. Being a lady isn’t all popping out babies — this is what ladies do when their Keeps are besieged. Trust I was raised for this, Your Grace.”

That wrings a smile from Rhaenyra, despite everything. She takes her hand and reels her in, until only a breath separates them. Rhaenyra has ever been tactile, linking arms and cuddling close, an affectionate octopus or a possessive dragon, depending on her mood. 
“I trust you could do anything you set your mind to, Aly.” The simple, matter of fact way that she says it makes Alicent’s heart warm like a brazier. Rhaenyra’s other hand raises, hovering a breath away from Alicent’s cheek. She reaches out, then, and gently, tenderly, cradles it. “Do you think you can light the way back for me?” 

Alicent’s breath escapes in a little gasp. She nods anyway. 
“I can”, she swears, fervent as any knight. “Come back to me, Rhaenyra. Don’t leave me, now that I’ve only just found you.”

It’s that plea that finally shatters Rhaenyra’s resolve. 

The dragon queen’s fingers slide from cheekbone to chin, and Alicent feels herself being drawn gently, but inexorably, forward. She could run away she could flee. There is no weight to the grip, no pressure to the touch. 

But she stays where she is, and when Rhaenyra’s warm, wind-chapped lips touch hers, Alicent feels the rightness of it down to the marrow of her bones. 
She has waited her whole life for this feeling of rightness, for the way Rhaenyra’s perfume scents the air around them and the way Alicent’s fingertips tingle with the need to touch her.

So she does.

Fingertips stroke over Rhaenyra’s braids, trace down the column of Rhaenyra’s throat. Rhaenyra’s tongue traces lightly over the seam of Alicent’s lips, and the gesture is so teasing that Alicent gasps.

Rhaenyra has always been greedy; she’ll lick her finger to chase the last crumb of lemon cake. All Alicent has to do is give her that single spot of weakness and Rhaenyra shamelessly pursues the advantage, stroking her tongue along Alicent’s, making it clear what she would do elsewhere  Alicent is not wholly innocent — but Rhaenyra’s taste, and touch, has rendered Alicent weak at the knees  

When Rhaenyra pulls away, it’s Alicent who embarasses herself by staggering, and making a little noise of discontent. 

Rhaenyra laughs at her, but there’s no malice in it, only aching fondness. Her hands cradle Alicent’s arms, holding her close against the threats they face. 
“I’ll come back, I swear it. Be here when I return. Hear me, Alicent. Do not die.” 

“I promise”, Alicent swears, and watches as her Queen departs 

Syrax’s shriek splits the air minutes later, and Alicent watches until the gold dragon has disappeared into the gloaming sky. 

Chapter Text

NETTY

It’s a nice night down by the promenade. Pretty sunset, lots of prosperous couples out for strolls. Spicetown is thriving. The ships go out with goods and bring back gold, and rich men spend money on foolish purchases to impress silly misses and eagle-eyed mamas. 

Foolish purchases like… an unengraved gold-plated pocket watch. 

Netty is happy to liberate an especially prosperous merchant from his largess. From the looks of his richly brocaded surcoat, he won’t suffer the loss of a poorly secured timepiece, and the shaved off slivers of gold will see her fed through the winter if she’s canny about how she goes about pawning it to Old Gregg over in Hull. 

There’s a musician down the way strumming idly at a travelling harp, and happy couples dance slowly in the small square. 

Happy, and distracted. 

Perfect marks for a light-fingered pickpocket. The pocket watch will see her through the winter but requires work before it’s useful. Her stomach’s rumbling now. Her mouth waters at the thought of a steaming hot meat-pie, the first in days, and that settles things. All she needs is a loose coin or two, nothing extravagant. Just enough for a pie. Netty keeps her pace casual as she makes her way towards the dancers, eyes scanning the crowd for a prospective mark. 

One second, the cobblestone plaza is full of them. 

The next, it’s a smoking ruin, and a scalding hot shard of stone strikes Netty in the face. She yelps, high and loud, and scrambles backwards from the smoking crater. There are screams from the periphery, and through the smoke Netty can make out shapes —

And not all of them seem human. 

Some have antlers, and others huge ram horns. Big, shaggy shoulders shove through the crowds with rapacious hunger. She doesn’t scream — years on the streets of port cities have taught her that silence is golden. She does start to run north, up the steep streets and towards the hills. 

There are caves there, and maybe— 

Another fireball arcs overhead, and then another, and for a stupid moment, Nettles wonders if the stars are bleeding, big red droplets that hit the ground with a sound like the shattering of the moon. 

A sharp turn around one of Spicetown’s steep and winding streets shows her the truth — the bay is thick with single-masted galleys.

Their sides bristle with oars like so many insect legs, hulls bowing out like the carapace of some carrion beetle. Their sails bear unknown insignia — snails, and something that looks like House Manderley but cannot be, and a spyglass. Another is launching the fireballs that even now light up the night sky. Small boats ferry back and forth, disgorging more of the howling men, and it’s how quickly they move that make Netty put speed in her step. 

The invaders are not unmolested; a dragon harries them from high above. It shrieks and spins, a dangerous dance with the Stranger. Each galley bristles with scorpions, each eager to drink dragon blood. One grazes the great beast, and it spits a gout of flame onto the ship in the bay. There are screams, and the dragon flaps upwards again, content with its bloody work. 

It’s soon joined by another. 

This one is large and the same colour as honey in the sunshine. It shrieks, ducking below the green dragon, and strafing the nearest ships with ruthless accuracy. 
The green, not to be undone, swoops closer and closer to the galleys, banking and spinning to avoid shorts from ballista and scorpion alike. The yellow dragon seems to guard it with vicious attention, harrying any ships that get too close, even as it also tries to strafe the dinghies carrying the boarding parties. 

That leaves the city helpless, and Netty without recourse but to flee. 

She moves ever higher up the hills, towards the many caves that tunnel into the hills above Spicetown. She isn’t the only one with the idea; everywhere she turns, a crush of humanity boils through the narrow streets and towards the Keep. 

She’s headed in the opposite direction — away from people worth stealing and expensive objects worth sacking — but they all have to take the same stairs and passageways. It takes all of Netty years of evading the garda to evade the crush, and even so it’s a tour through each of the seven hells. Alleyways have turned to orange infernos, and the shrieks of children and the wails of women chill her to the bone despite the gouts of hot air that slap at her exposed skin. 

She runs, and for a few frantic minutes she manages to dodge fireballs as she sprints through smoke-filled alleyways. Her luck runs out near to the Breeze Gate, nearest the craggy cliffs, when she rounds a blind corner at a sprint and comes face to face with a man. 

For a moment, she thinks he’s a demon straight from the deepest hells. 

His horns are massive, balanced on a helm shaped like a snarling ram. Shaggy black goat pelts drape over the shoulders of his boiled leather armour, matching the colour of the beast’s head crudely painted on his shield. He keeps a long and scraggly beard twisted into two grey braids that drape down to his chest. His eyes are the worst, flat as any wild ram. 

Netty snarls, unwilling to back down, and the man’s face inside the helm contorts into an evil smile, showing off teeth filed shark sharp. 

He advances. 

She retreats towards the fiery mouth of the alleyway, but he follows. Netty doesn’t want to burn to death, but she also doesn’t want whatever this pirate intends to do to her. She turns to run, hoping to leap through the flames, but it turns out a pirate is faster than a pickpocket. 

A big hand tangles in her curly hair, tightening its grip hard enough that she screams. The laugh she hears makes bile churn in her stomach. 

Fury joins it, because who the fuck is he to laugh at her? The motherhouse saw fit to call her Nettles for her prickly temper. Let this man get a handful. 

Resolved to die fighting, Netty bursts into savage movement. 

She’s fast, fighting like a cornered street-rat, letting momentum smash their heads together. The back of her skull slams into his chin and nose hard enough that her own teeth rattle. The nose bridge of the helm smashes into the back of her head, and the pain is blinding — but so is the satisfaction when he howls and the wet gush of fluid and the sharp smell of copper that dampens her hair tells her she’s broken his nose. 

While he’s clutching at his face, she scrabbles for the knife at his belt. He fights her, of course, but blood makes his hands slick on the hilt and she manages to get his dirk away. The air smells like an abattoir when Netty finally manages to get a step or two away from the man with the black ram on his shield. 

She grips the knife, panting like a bellows and covered in blood. Some of it is hers, and some of it is his, but all she feels in the moment is a sense of furious stubbornness.

This is her town. Her stomping grounds. These are her people to steal from, and who in the Hells is he to fuck with her? 

She refuses to die to this creature. 

The whistling noise above her means she might not have to. It’s high and shrill, wind whistling across a thin surface. It sounds almost identical to the incessant wind skirling around the cliffs and whistling through the alleys. 

It isn’t. 

Netty’s smile goes sharp, and mean. 

The Ram laughs at her again and advances, but their struggle this time is sharp and short. No sooner has he grabbed her than three things happen in quick succession: 

First, a riderless brown dragon the size of two galleys laid stern to snout comes bursting its way out of the smoke and fire of a collapsing building as it lands. Sparks spray sky-high, and the creature adds its roar to the cacophony of shrieks around them. It has scales the colour of rich loam, golden with the same gold as autumn light through the canopy. It has eyes the colour of harvest squash, and she sees the pupil flare and contract as it stares at her. 

Secondly, and almost as immediately, she shrieks in the Ram’s ear. It’s as loud a noise as she’s ever made, right in his ear. It makes him drop her back to her feet, and turn to face the beast. 
His distraction gives Netty her shot.  

Putting something in a pocket is harder than taking something out, but stabbing a man is no harder than slaughtering a sheep. One fast slash opens the Black Ram’s guts with his own blade, and when he doubles over in surprised agony, she darts behind him like a snake, gets him by the horn and uses that grip to pull his head back, baring his throat. 

She opens it for him. 

Blood sprays out, arterial and bright, and the dragon’s maw opens eagerly. Too late to back out now, Netty knows. She holds the creature’s gaze, and shoves the dying man forward. 

“Sheepstealer!“
Adrenaline makes her voice waver, but her spine is ramrod straight. “A ram for you today!”

Netty swears she hears a rumble that sounds like laughter before the creature bites down hard, swallowing the man in one gulp. Another rumble, like an affectionate earthquake, and then the beast dips one wing. Netty stares at the dragon, who stares back as though waiting. Another shift of that single wing, a clear invitation, and Netty feels cold sweat blossom under her arms. 

Feeding a dragon a human is one thing. 

Riding a dragon herself is entirely another. 

When she shudders, the dragon chuffs a very distinct laugh, and that’s enough to get a sigh out of her. Won’t lose a game of chicken with a flying lizard. “All right”, Netty huffs. “But remember if I die, there won’t be anyone to open the sheep paddock gate anymore.” 

That shuts it up, and Netty climbs on, gripping the spikes for her dear life. The creature shudders once, lungs working like a bellows, and then a burst of wings brings the stars that much closer. 

Netty lets out a shriek, and Sheepstealer matches it with a cry of fierce delight. 

The world furls out like a blanket below her. 

It’s the most surreal thing she’s ever seen, and grips tighter as the ground swirls beneath her. It’s abruptly closer as Sheepstealer drops into a rapid stoop. 

Approaching from behind the fleet of galleys, he’s a dun-brown missile, everywhere that the yellow dragon isn’t. The one on the olive-green dragon takes the lead, so Netty sets to work ridding any threats to his flanks. There are screams from the men in the ships, and many fling themselves into the sea to escape. The galleys crumble and break, and it’s then that Netty realizes that the men rowing are chained to the oars of the sinking ship. 

She cries out, but there’s nothing she can do. 

Her dragon bellows its fury, and this time when the Prince attacks the galleys, she joins in. Better a fast death by fire than a slow one by drowning. 

She still tastes bile. 

It’s quick work after that, and through teary eyes, the fires look almost beautiful. 

*** 

She’s barely had time to scrub her cheeks free of salt upon landing on the cliffs above High Tide when the green dragon drops to earth beside her. The honey-coloured one stays up aloft, circling like a golden eagle ready to hunt. His voice, when he speaks, is patrician and stern, even if roughened by the smoke. 
“You ride a dragon of House Targaryen”, he says, as her own snarls and flares, skittish as a colt. “What has the Kinslayer done? Are you a dragonseed? Have you defected?”

“Does it know that? Cause as I see it, he came to me and I don’t see a saddle on his back.” Even now, her hands are blistered from clinging onto its hot scales. “And I don’t know any kinslayers, nor got any kin to slay.”

He stares at her, suddenly surprised. 
“You flew bareback?” For the first time, she notices he’s tightly cinched in. After a moment, he speaks again. “What do you want?”

“Nothing from you!” Presumptuous prick. Hasn’t she just helped him?

He sniffs. “How did you come by him?”

“The dragon?” Netty decides to tell the truth. “Same way you tame any wild beast, I suppose. Feed ‘em lots, often.” She pauses, gives it a thought, and then shrugs. “I fed him a black ram just now; a big one, so I know he likes me more than you.”

The man stares at her down a noise straighter than castle-forged steel. “Are you threatening a Prince of House Targaryen?”

“Is the Prince of House Targaryen threatening me?” She’s genuinely curious. It’d be rude, given she just saved his life, but who knows how these highborns think. She isn’t going to perjure herself. 

“Gods be good”, the man mutters, relenting. His spine unscrews and suddenly the man in front of her is almost approachable. “It’s like arguing with Joffrey. What is your name, Dragonrider?”

“Netty, to my friends. Nettles to you, your majesty.”

His gaze shifts from her to the dragon she rides; he’s clearly trying to do some sums in his head. 
“What is your paternity?”

That earns a barked laugh from her. 
“Do I look like I know it?” She looks around, face sour. “What I want to know is: Who’s burnt my home?”

“You reside in Spicetown?”

Reside? Fancy word for a tin roof, but why argue? “I’m from around, sure. I’m guessing they’re not?”

“No.” It’s a flat reply, confirming her suspicions. 

She thinks back to the filed teeth of the Black Ram, and gives a hard nod. She isn’t sure where he was from, but she’s sure she wouldn’t have cared to visit it with him. 
“All I needed to know”, she says, and shifts the dragon moves with her, turning to lumber up the serpentine stairs. 

“Hold!” The Prince’s voice is tight. “Where are you going?”

“Defend my town in case there are any stragglers?”

“Who gave you leave? Do you know who I am?” 

He doesn’t mean it to sound as posh as he does, she’s sure of it. It’s still laughable; a black haired man on a dragon. Who else could it be?
“I have some guesses.”

“And yet you don’t show respect?”

She shrugs, once again tacking to the truth. “If you must know, I don’t want to offend, and rumour in town is-“

His face goes still as a mummer’s mask. “That I’m a bastard?”

"Like anyone here cares about that”, she snorts. "You hatched a feckin dragon whilst at the teat. Naw, only… they say princes are popping up on Dragonstone like mushrooms these days. This one was a king, that one a bastard, the other a kinslaying bastard his mother shoulda—“ 

“Rhaena’s going to like you”, the Prince of Dragonstone mutters, and Netty shrugs. 

“Never met her. I mean no harm, only… Gods forbid I say His Majesty instead of His Excellency and offend. They take tongues for less on the mainland, or so I’m told. Ain’t never been. Don’t really care to find out.”

The man’s face twists, like he’s trying not to laugh. “Prince Jacaerys will do.” 

“Sure.” 

“How did you learn to fly a dragon?”

Netty stares at him. 
“Well, I climbed up on him, and then I thought burn those cunts in the Bay real hard, and he did. How did you fly yours?” 

“You—“ the Prince stops, as though he can’t believe himself. “You spoke to him?”

“Not in so many words. But we like our peace and quiet and the people running into the hills were disrupting him. Burn the nest, have less hornets.”

“Eminently pragmatic.”

“Dunno what that means”, she agrees cheerfully. “But I am common, and sensible, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re a quick wit.”

“Gotta be, living on the street.” Not that there’s much of a street left, she realizes with a squelching sensation of dread. There aren’t any nice covered alleyways tucked out of the way, nor any fishmongers who might not miss a kipper. Only the luckiest are in dire straights; everyone else is just fortunate to be alive. 

The Sack of Spicetown.
Netty can imagine the songs already, and her jaw clenches stubbornly. 

Prince Jacaerys notices. 
“… you will come with us, then?”

“Hard to beg for scraps when nobody’s got anything to spare”, she agrees. She can feel Sheepstealer’s skittishness, but also its drive to protect its territory, blending into Nettles’s own prickly determination. “Yeah. We’ll help you, my Prince. I have a few conditions.”

His lips tighten into a thin line. “Continue.”

“When this is done, I’d like a house made of stone, way up high in the hills. Near a cliff, maybe. And some land, with a forest on it. A salary, so I don’t need to whore or marry or work to death. Enough space for Sheepstealer. And he’ll need goats. He likes at least one a day.” 

The Prince nods, but then the pause stretches out into an awkward silence. Another moment and he makes a gesture with his hand. “And?”

Netty is confused. “And?”

“What else? Do you want?”

Netty thinks hard, and gambles. “I don’t like that there were chained men on those ships. If I’m going to help, I think the ships should be captured if possible. Those men we burned didn’t deserve it.”

“Soldiers die in war.” 

Netty’s face goes hard. “Chained men aren’t soldiers, my Prince. Take it or not. That’s my price.” 

He nods, satisfied. “I’ll call the Queen.”

That surprises Netty. That means— she looks up, where the gold circles endlessly. 
“She — Her Grace— is here? In Spicetown?”

She squints again, because she thinks she sees something glowing on the horizon, behind the soaring dragon  

“These are her people”, the Prince says. “Of course she is here.”

“No, sure”, Netty says to assuage their prickly Crown Prince. She looks again, because the glow on the north-east horizon has gotten brighter. “Only — if I’m here, and so are you, and so is she — then who’s back at the big island?”

His eyes narrow.  “Why do you ask?”

Suspicious highborns. 
“Well only cause I see green fire...”

“What—“ he turns, looking, and his face goes pale. “Aemond.”

The Kinslayer? Gods be good… 

“It’s just the two of them… We need to go”, he says, and Nettles feels her hands go clammy. “Right now.” 

“Better be a big fucking house”, she tells him, and climbs onto Sheepstealer’s broad back again. 

Chapter Text

AEMOND   

The Small Council chambers are quiet as a tomb as Aemond watches the sun set into the crest of the Dragonpit’s domed roof. The members await his words with bated breath, but he is in no hurry to illuminate them. He yet waits for one more seat to be filled. 

Lord Larys Strong takes his time as well, stepping carefully towards the table and bowing as he approaches. 
“Your Grace.” His voice is unctuous, but Aemond can sense something under it, some sort of malevolent and oleaginous pleasure. 

“Lord Larys.”

“I come bearing gifts, Your Grace.”
He motions to one of the guards, who ushers a young woman forward. She’s plain, with hair the colour of mahogany and an oval face with narrow features. Her red cloak implies her profession and Aemond’s mouth goes hard with disapproval. 
“I am not my brother”, he sneers. “Take her away.”

Larys stops the guard with the lightest movement of his hand. “You will care to hear what this woman has to say, Your Grace.” He smiles, polite as a cotillion guest. “Lady Elinda, please be so kind as to tell the Prince Regent why one of the pretender’s noble ladies in waiting should be skulking about the Street of Steel?” 

Tyland Lannister’s hands go white on the table, clenched tighter than a beartrap. Grandmaester Mellos keeps his face studiously blank, and everyone else is quiet as a crypt. 

A lady in waiting to the Queen. 

Lady Elinda lifts her chin, and lies straight to Larys Strong’s face. “I wanted a broach.” Magnificent. Butter wouldn’t melt. 

“A broach.” Larys sounds as incredulous as Aemond feels. 

“As I said”, Lady Elinda agrees. “The Silver Hammer is known for its fine craftsmanship.”

“I’m sure.”

“The Hammer?” The name sounds familiar, and Aemond suddenly puts a face to it — silver hair, pulled back to frame a face ripped straight from the Old King’s portrait. “Hugh Hammer.”

Lord Larys nods, unctuous as ever. 
“The very same, Your Grace.”

“I see.” When he looks down, Lady Elinda glares up at him with accusing blue eyes. “Well done, Lord Larys. And you say she still won’t speak the truth?” Aemond closes the distance, until he’s a breath closer than might be polite at court. He holds her gaze the entire time. 

“That’s very rude, Lady Elinda. If you were sent, I assume it was as an emissary.” 

“I have told your Master of Whispers my errand. A broach for my name day. I have nothing more to say, my lord.” 

“The correct term of address is Your Grace”, Lord Jasper says, and the young woman shakes her head. 

“I’m afraid not, Lord Wylde. Nothing about Aemond Kinslayer is gracious.” It’s said with scathing disdain, but Aemond can see the way her clasped hands tremble. 

“Brave words from a woman far behind enemy lines”, Aemond reminds her, and gets a small smile in return. 

“Feed me to a dragon, or better yet, burn me the way you did your brother. I have served my lady loyally. It would be an honour to be burned like family.” 

He wonders what it is about Rhaenyra that inspires this fanatical devotion. 

Rhaenys had been prepared to face the Stranger itself, and now this woman is prepared to heave herself into the dragon’s teeth to preserve her lady’s secrets. 

“You presume much, Lady Elinda”, Aemond’s Master of Whispers murmurs, and Elinda Massey keeps herself poised . 

“All in service of my Queen, Lord Larys.”

“A brave woman”, Lord Tyland says, plummy Westerlands accent in full force. “That is to be expected in a loyal lady in waiting… but sending a woman to spy? Gods be good! Women are so ruled by their emotions, Your Grace. Clearly, this is merely another why the pretender must not rule.” The Westerlands may be more traditional than some of the kingdoms, but Aemond can see what he’s doing. 

A noble lady in waiting, even to a pretender queen, should not easily be harmed. 

But those are rules for men, and Aemond is far beyond that now. 
“Loyal unto death?” He’s curious to see if Elinda’s loyalty, like Rhaenys’s nerve, will hold to the last. When she turns her narrow blade of a nose up at him like she’s the God-Empress of Leng, he takes it as an answer. 
“That is very commendable”, he assures her, and when he pats her clenched hands, she draws away like he’s clammy. “Lord Larys”, and the man’s head pops up like a a spider sensing movement in the web. “See that you extricate the answers from her before you send her on her way.”

“Of course, your grace—”, the man agrees with a twisted, tight-mouthed smile, and the room erupts into a cacophony of objections. 

“Your Grace!” Tyland Lannister’s voice trembles, and yet he sees fit to interrupt Larys. “The lady may be a member of an opposing court, but she is yet a lady!” 

“A traitor”, Larys says. 

Tyland’s at the topic like a lion on a carcass. “Then the Silent Sisters should suffice. They’re based in Oldtown, surely His Grace could send her with Lord Hightower upon his return.” 

“And why would I do that?” He’s amused by their cringing insubordination; the only one who will meet his eyes is the woman he intends to kill. How curious. 

Grandmaester Mellos makes the first case for her survival. “House Massey is an ancient House, Your Grace. They were among the first to declare for your ancestor, the Conqueror, and have historically sworn themselves to House Targaryen.” 

It fails. 

“Even better”, he says, because he is as much Hightower as he is Targaryen. His is the fire of the dawn, the cold fire of the stars, older than any shepherd’s small dreams, or the sulphuric stench of the belching earth. “Let it make a statement to those who would adhere to old loyalties.” 

“Your Grace, you cannot-“ Tyland starts, but Aemond interrupts in a whisper: 

“I cannot?”

Tyland’s stammer is almost as loud as his heartbeat. “I only meant— a woman, a lady— a noblewoman, at that, the damage to your image would be irreparable—“ 

“Lord Commander?”

Criston Cole snaps to attention. “Your Grace?” He, at least, seems to recall that Aemond has returned from the dead and perhaps ought to be obeyed more immediately. 

Aemond makes use of his quick draw hand. 
“Arrest the Master of Coin”, he orders.  

By the time Tyland has the presence of mind to yelp, he’s already been pinned by Criston’s hard grip. 

“Your Grace—“, he tries, but Aemond ignores him entirely. 

“Lord Larys. See to it that after she has been interrogated, Lady Elinda and Lord Tyland share a cell. If he cares so much about the wellbeing of an agent of Rhaenyra the Cruel, let them commiserate in company.” 

That makes Elinda laugh, a dry noise. “Rhaenyra the Cruel. Rhaenyra the cruel!” Her laugh rises, gets genuinely bright. “Gods have mercy, have you been under a rock?! You don’t know a single thing! Rhaenyra the Cruel. Ha!” Aemond turns, slowly, only to find genuine mirth in her bright blue eyes. “She’s going to win, you know”, the condemned woman says. 

“I know nothing of the sort.”

Elinda smiles, clearly having decided to go out in a blaze. “Your mother does, and the Princess Helaena, as well.”

“What.” It’s a single word, flat as the plains of the Dothraki Sea. 

“They found a red cloak more palatable than green, I suppose. Or maybe they just found you a monster worth escaping.”

“You won’t escape me”, Aemond promises, and the lady in waiting nods, even as Lord Larys motions for the guards. 

“I knew that before I came”, she sneers. “But I was the first woman to hold Lucaerys Targaryen other than Her Grace. I came because I wanted you to hear it from someone who isn’t afraid of you: Kinslayers are reviled amongst men, and your gods are coming for you.” 

Her words carry the ring of prophecy, but Aemond doesn’t care. That’s what he wants.

It saves him the trouble of hunting them, after all. 

*** 

The Gods are kind to him. 

They had arrived at Dragonstone in the dead of the night, with little more than a bedroll and some travel provisions. It had been a gruelling trip to marshal his forces, but he has secured his armada. 

Departing south from King’s Landing over the Kingswood, he had avoided Storm’s End and flown along to Tarth and towards the waters of the Narrow Sea. There, Sharako and the Triarchy’s armada awaited his command. 

He’d flown them north, scouting along the Narrow Sea and burning any ships he found. With Meleys and Caraxes a thousand miles away, they were so many sitting ducks. 

Once the fleet had seen a clear line of sailing, Aemond had gone on ahead to set himself in place. They had arrived at Dragonstone in the hour of the bat, flying low to the water so as to avoid any detection. The ancient one’s scales are the same shade as the Gullet’s deep channels, an inky pitch that holds within it a moon bright silver, as well as the deep sapphire blue of his bad eye, and a bright, steady green glow deep in his throat that casts everything else in stark shadow. 
With his hair braided and carefully hidden under a leather helm and hood, it’s easy to avoid the patrol ships and the endless peregrinations of a bronze coloured dragon circling endlessly above. It’s smaller than the ancient one, but not by much, and so they avoid it. 

They take shelter in a deep cave on the far side of Dragonstone’s high cliffs, well away from keep and town. When sleep comes for Aemond, his dreams taste of charnel and victory. When he wakes, the sky is a steel-bright grey. He does not bother moving; there is nowhere to be until nightfall. 

Above them and to the southwest, he can just make out the dip and swirl of the dragons, and he studies his enemy until the light leeches out of the sky. When there is nothing else to see, he closes his eyes, and lets himself slip back into pleasant memories of a grand city bright as the full moon, belted by a river that shined like new silver. 

Night and day again, and then afternoon comes. Only then does he rouse himself, climbing to his feet with a quiet groan. 

Sunset. Sharako will be here soon. 

The ancient one’s eye cracks open and so does his mouth, every tooth on display. He doesn’t need their unspoken bond to know what the creature wants — 

He’s hungry. 

Good, Aemond thinks. So is he. 

It’s the work of a moment to climb on to the back of the colossal beast. Vhagar had been the largest dragon to come from the line of Targaryen, but the ancient one is from another pedigree entirely, and the coiled strength in his body makes Vhagar seem crude by comparison. 
 
The ancient one preens at Aemond’s thoughts, for it is a prideful and vainglorious thing. Its talons click against the hard stone of the cave, a promise of violence, and Aemond smiles. 

“To war, then.” 

*** 

The horizon is a glorious blue of a bruise when he sees Moondancer arrive so quickly he can hear the whistling of her wings from his cave. 

Syrax rips shrieking out of the Dragonmont mere minutes later. The yellow dragon wings away across the Gullet with furious speed, and Aemond waits with the patience of a shark until she is long gone. 

They’ve taken the bait. 

Only then does the ancient one extricate itself from the cave and stretch its leather wings. Sweetness engulfs Aemond as the creature preens; the smell of jasmine and other even more exotic flowers seduces his senses. His ears are full of the song of wind and water, the bright blue gleam of starlight above. He’s never noticed how clear they glow, how sweetly they sing to him. 

The urge to rise closer, hear better, see more clearly — it all wells up in his breast. There is a hunger in him, rumbling through spirit and marrow, and when Aemond next opens his eyes— 

He is high above Dragonstone. 

Screams sing out, a chorus of prayers to a god so ancient no name remains. Wordless supplications waft up on hot winds, and the ancient one’s fire blesses all with its wisdom. The town below him is a broken husk, alight with green flame and redolent out the rich scent of cooked meat. 

And there, rising up from the black stone keep like a piece of burnt paper, is his first meal — a tiny brindled hatchling ridden by a girl so brave she doesn’t even know she’s dead yet. 

Chapter Text

The waters of the Gullet are wine-dark, painted by a sunset the same colour as their banner. Darkness has come and with it, Aemond. 

Her hands tremble. Her palms sweat. 

Baela doesn’t want to die. 

She wants to fly far, far away, take Helaena and find Jace and leave for the lands beyond Asshai, somewhere so distant and Gods-forsaken that nobody, not even Aemond in his madness, will find them. 
She doesn’t want to die like her mother, doesn’t want to be a charred black corpse, crumbling away in the first stiff breeze. She doesn’t want to live like Aegon had those first few weeks, dancing on the edge of the Valyrian steel blade separating life and death. She still remembers his shrieks of agony, his moans of anguish, the way even tears had made him writhe in pain. She doesn’t want to die like Luke, either, consumed and never found. 

She wants to live, wants to marry Jace and cleave to Helaena and raise a family with them both. She wants to grow her mother’s Pentoshi roses up the side of the Red Keep, wants to hear Jace’s quiet laugh and Helaena’s shocked giggle, like she’s surprised to find herself happy in the moment. She wants to see Father and Grandmother flying above, shepherding Grandfather and Joffrey off to sea. Baela wants to watch Her Grace walking through the gardens with her younger boys and the Dowager Queen, or strolling through the City learning the ways of their people. She even wants Aegon happy, provided he makes Rhaena smile again— 
“You look magnificent”, Helaena says, stepping on to the Dragonmont’s pier. “Baela, I’ve made something for you.”

That catches her attention; none of them have had an idle moment since Dreamfyre landed in the courtyard. “Whenever did you have the time? You have been sleeping, haven’t you?”

Helaena waves her concern away with a gentle smile. “Oh, long ago.” She clutches the black fabric bundle to her chest, as though working up the nerve, and then thrusts it abruptly at Baela. “It is finally the right time now.”

Bemused, Baela accepts her hasty gift. When she shakes it out, a length of fine Vale wool unfurls like a standard. The lining is the same inky black of their banner in a fabric so thick and soft to the touch that it feels nearly velveteen, while the topmost layer is a soft, supple leather. Above that, embroidery turns a thoughtful gift into something worthy of an Empress. 
The three headed dragon of their sigil is picked out in a juicy pomegranate red, and when Baela looks closer, each minute stitch holds a tiny gemstone bead. She can make out the warmth of amber and the pure red of ruby, the matte sheen of red jasper and deep oxblood sheen of garnet. The entirety of the black field is picked out of dragonstone, each sharp shard overlapping, and when Helaena steps forward to drape it around her shoulders and clasp it tightly into place, Baela realizes she’s been draped in a layer of dragonstone scales. 
“A cloak- it’s beautiful but Helaena-“ 

“Fire cannot burn a dragon”, Helaena whispers, and smiles like it’s the happiest day of her life. 
“I have one for Jacaerys, as well.”

Good enough for her. Baela takes her hand, and presses a kiss to the knuckles in the very image of a courtly paramour. “I pray we’re fortunate enough to wear them, my lady.” 

“We shall.”

“So certain”, Baela murmurs, in no small amount of wonder. She’s become so confident, their dreamer. “Did you dream it?“

Helaena shakes her head, silver hair tumbling like spiderweb around them. “No dreams. Just faith. In you. In him. In them.”

“Them?” 

“Yes. The smith is almost done the forging. Gold is soft, malleable, but bronze is unyielding. Ancient metal, and old, to fight the cold-“ 

Baela knows she’s heard that phrase somewhere, and wishes she had either Rhaena’s notebook or her encyclopaedic memory. 

As it is, she knows she’s nigh out of time. 

“I’ll look for it while I’m up there.” She looks out, to the mouth of the Dragonmont, where even now the night grows darker. Dread fills her stomach again. It must be nice to know the ending. I think the waiting is the worst.” 

Helaena frowns, just the slightest bit. 
“It wasn’t always a happy one. There are so many tangled threads. Snapped. Stained. Cut entirely. This one is so close to weaving in, so close to being good. This ending could be. I know it.” 

The conviction in Helaena’s usually-quiet voice puts new resolve in Baela’s spine. “Then give me a kiss to warm me against the chill, my lady”, she says, and reels Helaena in. 

It starts out chaste, with Helaena’s lips brushing her left cheek in an almost sisterly caress. She repeats the gesture on the right, and then again on Baela’s brow. It’s the same ticklish sensation as a butterfly landing on her, and Baela smiles. 
Helaena’s lips press again to the dimple that blossoms on Baela’s cheek, and then to her mouth, where the hint of the smile still lingers like morning dew. 

Baela allows Helaena to guide the kiss, keeping it a gentle brush of lips, and the slow tangle of fingers. The far door heaves open with a thud, and Baela snaps back to a formal posture like she’s been caught wearing her lover’s skirts as a hat. Even Helaena snickers at what must be a look of abject alarm on Baela’s face, but steps back a respectable six inches anyway. 

Good thing, too, because it’s her mother crowding in like a spring storm over the Reach. 

Dowager Queen Alicent looks elegant as ever in a gown of deep blood red, and Baela bites back a smirk at the way the Queen’s lady shows her favour. Baela sees the moment that the Dowager Queen realizes that Baela is wearing a sartorial statement of her own. 
“Lady Baela”, she says, and it’s clear she’s making an effort to keep her voice warm and unruffled. “Helaena dearest.” 

“Helaena. Baela.” Rhaena sweeps into the room with her arms full of something wrapped in what looks like a length of grey flannel. “Are you ready?”

Baela isn’t sure that’s possible, but she’s dressed in dragonhide leather, wearing her lady’s cloak, and her bethrothed’s ring. She has things to do once this is over, and she’s made this one-eyed cretin cry before. She isn’t going to be afraid of him now, no matter what lizard he’s scraped out of some puddle in the Stepstones. 
“For whatever may come”, Baela says, and means it. “He has hurt enough people.”

Alicent looks to the wall of stone as though they’ll tell her the answer to why Aemond’s such a prick. When they offer her no answers, she finally speaks. 
“I have sent runners to Dragonstone town telling the women, children and infirm to make for the dragonkeeper’s caves“, the Dowager Queen says. “Lady Rhaena was kind enough to translate for us, and the Dragonkeepers have said they will shelter them in the deepest caves nearest the most recent clutch of eggs. The Triarchy’s men wouldn’t dare enter there, and the Dragonkeepers say that Vermithor is”, she pauses, searching for a delicate way to say he. “They say that the dragon is extremely protective of the clutch inside.”

“He’s been shrieking like a fishwife at everything that breathes anywhere near it”, Rhaena says, looking up from her notebook. “And the windward side of the island has been denuded of anything with more meat than a rabbit. He’s attacking anything that comes near the cave mouth; even the stone there is melted smooth. I can’t imagine a pirate bothering, no matter what an egg is worth to the Essosi. Even the Dragonkeepers won’t risk it; they’re leading the civilians in through the back passageways.”
She pauses, consulting her chatelaine’s notebook. 
“Baela, I’ve instructed the sharpshooters on the wall to have their scorpions ready. The trebuchets are ready, as are three lines of pikemen above the choke points on the bridge. Should they make it past, there are Valyrian fire jars set below the last bridge waiting to be lit off by the archers. You know the range and maximum height, so stay above it. There are chains across the mouth of the Harbour and I’ve deployed the sunken spikes in the Narrows, as well, and marked them the way grandfather showed us. I’ve also dropped sealed jars of Valyrian fire in the Gullet, so see to it that you steer well clear of any ships in the channel. They’re liable to go up if they hit one of the chains. If you see Jace or Her Grace, tell them to look for bright green buoys and lines fifty feet long following behind in the currents.“

It’s an exhaustive, and inventive list. Baela’s thankful it isn’t Rhaena who decided to turn cloak; they’d all have been dead before dinner. But one thing stands out 
“Bright green?”

Rhaena’s as hard to read as the great Harpy of Old Ghis; stone faced and coldly implacable. But now, at the mention of green, she blushes. 
“Easiest to see in dark water”, she says, too fast, “and if spotted, assumed to be the Kinslayer’s doing and left alone.” 
It’s a solid reason… and not at all why Rhaena did it. Her little sister has inherited their father’s facility with massaging the truth, but Baela’s got their mother’s nose for sniffing bullshit. The lightest hint of coral on her sun-bronzed cheeks gives her away. As Baela looks closer, she notices the thinnest gold and ruby netting holds her sister’s bun in place. It would seem they’re all fools wearing their favours today.

“Formidable”, Baela says anyway, because who is she to judge. She’s likely to be her little sister’s own sister in law before this is done. “Where’s Aegon?” 

Rhaena gives her a withering look. 
“Repeating my instructions to the men who won’t listen to a woman without a dragon.”

“…… I suppose that makes sense”, Baela says with a little frown. “I’m sorry, though.”

“I don’t mind delegating”, Rhaena says, and that’s truth. “He’s better at it than I am. They listen to him. He’s good with the men; they find him charming”, she concedes, sullenly. Baela wishes she could laugh at the way Rhaena doesn’t want to admit that she may have found some redeeming features in the man she’s personally snatched back from the jaws of Morghul. 

“He would have been a good king”, the Dowager Queen says wistfully, and Rhaena shakes her head. 

“No, he wouldn’t have”, she says without any vitriol. “And he knows it. I respect him for that. Aegon knows he’s his father’s son.” Alicent’s head snaps up, but Rhaena keeps on, nonplussed. “A people pleaser down to the bone. He wants his staff to like him. He wants his people to love him. He has a soft heart that way”, she says quietly, almost pensively, before choking off mid-breath when the door creaks open and a silver-haired head pokes in. 
“Mother”, Aegon Targaryen says, and Baela wants to laugh. He’s more tenacious than a blood stain and she’d bet money he was hiding behind the door eavesdropping. She can respect that; Rhaena deserves someone as sneaky as she is to keep her on her toes. “Sister”, the man says, and Helaena smiles. “Lady Rhaena. Lady Baela. What have I missed?” 

“Nothing of importance”, Rhaena says so quickly that Helaena swallows a little giggle and even the Dowager Queen has to look away with pursed lips. “Have you given the men their marching orders?” 

“Consider the rabble suitably roused. Baela”, she turns, never having been addressed so directly by him. He meets her eyes, and she stands a bit straighter under his regard. “The scouts tell me Vermithor is flaring, great gouts of fire. I think— I think he’s close.” 

No need to tell her who. 
Baela’s stomach clenches tight as a fist — 

Good. 

Fists break bones, and she can’t wait to rearrange a few of Aemond’s. 

Baela closes her eyes, reaching for the martial calm her father says is the core of dragon-riding. The capacity for violence, and the ability to see the battle in six planes. Nerves sizzle through her, but she thinks of Moondancer’s speed, her agility and white-hot fire, and trusts in her dancer to lead them safely through the round. 

When she opens her eyes, it’s to see Rhaena a few steps away, waiting for her to collect herself. 
“Everyone’s given us a moment”, her little sister says. “I have a gift for you.” She holds out the bundle, swaddled as though it were an especially long infant. 

Baela looks at it, almost afraid to touch. Her sister is half a sorceress by now, and Baela just swings steel in the general direction of her enemies. She lifts the fabric and a familiar dark grey glint greets her. 
“What in the world… that’s a Valyrian steel quiver and—“ she twitches the rest of the wrapping off, and the white wood reveals itself. “Gods be good, are these-“

“Weirwood arrows”, Rhaena agrees. 
 
“Where did you find them?”

“Visenya’s tower. She has any number of things up there, but she notes that these were a gift from the North upon the occasion of their first visit — from a Brandon Snow. “To kill the dragons”, he said.”

“And he gave them to Visenya, of all people?”

“A token of eternal peace, allegedly”, Rhaena says. “Something about ice, and fire. A dark, long winter night. A partnership to end an ancient evil. Helaena calls this thing you’re off to fight the ancient one — I suppose there’s no better time to call on ancient weapons. You were always a better shot than I was.” She pauses, and when she speaks, her voice is quiet and sad. “I did not love Luke the way you love Jace. I should have, but I didn’t. He was my friend, though, and he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. If you get the shot, Baela, take it. I’ll find a way to save you, however I can, but you need to end him. If the weirwood help you kill him, I imagine Visenya would be pleased to know you ended the man who murdered her Vhagar.”

Baela is touched, and a little terrified. These are weapons as legendary as her father’s sword, and Visenya’s legacy weighs heavy in her hands. “Thank you.”

Rhaena nods. “I wish I were up there with you.”

“I feel better for knowing my beloved is protected by the fiercest of the Targaryen dragons.”

“She’s got her own”, Rhaena says, and that’s true enough, even as they both know Dreamfyre must remain whole, should the children need to flee. “Don’t die, Baela”, Rhaena says suddenly, reaching out and clasping Baela’s hands tightly. “Please. You can’t. Not like this—“, she stops, as though realizing what she’s admitting. Baela can see the instant Rhaena pulls herself back under her patrician mask. “You can’t leave me alone with these people”, she drawls, and Baela’s heart breaks for her little sister. 

“Why”, Baela teases, because it’s better than grieving the smiling little girl who died with their mother in Vhagar’s flames. “Afraid they might grow on you?”

Rhaena nods. “Like mold.”

“You’re sweet on him, aren’t you?”

That makes Rhaena flare crimson along her cheekbones and she can’t even meet Baela’s eyes. “…. You shut up.”

“The ancient one awakes”, Helaena says, loud enough to be heard without interrupting. Baela’s nerves turn to steel. 

“We’ll talk when this is over”, Baela promises Rhaena. 

“Yes. When it’s over.” 

*** 

The wind kisses her cheeks as Moondancer rises into the evening light. The dragon hangs in the sky in front of Dragonstone like a second moon, a tick stuck to the side of the sky. 

It’s sinuous, all lean muscle and length, a creature unlike any dragon she’s seen before. From a distance, it seems like one, but up close it’s all wrong. It seems like something that wants to be a dragon but isn’t quite… yet. The jaw is too large, too circular, too leech-like. 
Vhagar’s maw had been a forest of teeth but this creature has spikes down its throat, like those giant turtles Grandfather has mounted in the hall of treasures. The body is too robust, like a horse that’s been deliberately overbred, and the membrane attaches from the bone protrusions on its wide arms to the knees like some sail. This thing looks like nothing she’s ever seen, and what’s worse is— 

It knows it. 

There’s intelligence in the creature’s green eyes, a recognition that the other dragons lack. 

Moondancer shudders beneath her, fear plucking at her nerves in front of the beast. It watches them with avaricious green eyes, but Baela doesn’t let that frighten her. If he hasn’t flared yet, he wants to gloat. 

That’s fine. 

The longer he waits, the sooner reinforcements can return. She just has to hold out long enough for Father and Grandmother to return, or for Jace and Her Grace to come back. 

Just long enough.

“Hello, cousin”, Baela greets Aemond as she coasts to his altitude. She forces her voice to project in the thin air, and her spine to stay straight in the face of his thinner smile. 

“Hello, Lady Baela. Come to surrender?”

“To extend an invitation, as a matter of fact. Your mother is below, Aemond.”

“As a hostage.” 

She sees a potential avenue here, and is careful in her words. “The Dowager Queen and her family are members of the Royal household and always welcome at their ancestral seat. Come down. See them. Let us discuss this.”
It’s a dangerous invitation, Not least because Rhaena will try to slit his throat mid-parlay, but Baela extends it regardless. Her Queen would demand she try peace first. 

“I will see her after I take the Keep”, the Kinslayer says, and Baela knows the window of opportunity is rapidly closing. 

“She’s helping defend it.”

“Then she is a traitor.”

“Or she has found an avenue for peace and would share it with her sons.”

“There can be no peace with a usurper”, the Kinslayer says. His dragon is rousing now, maw chittering in a sharp clacking noise that she’s heard only in the sharpest of war dogs. It’s deeply unnerving to hear it from something the size of a small island. “Only a public execution, the better to make a point to the others who would try.”

Fucking madman, Baela thinks, but soldiers on.
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Aegon is prepared to let bygones be bygones for the sake of lasting peace. Her Grace is, too, for Helaena and the Dowager Queen’s sake.” She has no idea if it’s true, but she doesn’t think it’ll matter. It’s her one, last, shot. “If you come down and kneel to Her Grace.”

A look of disdain curdles Aemond’s patrician features. 
“Kneel, to that inbred sheepfucker? I ruled dragons long before Valyria was a dream in the mind of some Stygian slave. Perhaps a reminder is in order.” His dragon’s throat vibrates and for a silent monent, Baela doesn’t understand. Then, the wave hits her, and the air ripples around her from something she can’t see but feels like a punch to the sternum. 

Dread suffuses her, but now she understands the source — 

It’s the creature’s doing, a sound so low she can hardly hear it but feels in her spinal cord. 

And that’s enough of this shit. 

She shifts in the saddle, Moondancer’s body hiding the shifting weight of the crossbow behind the pommel of her saddle. It’s on his bad side, hidden from his sight, and already loaded with one of Rhaena’s weirwood arrows. 

She’s as prepared as she’ll ever be. 

It’s time to burn her own legacy into history, one way or another. She lines the dragons up face to face, careful to keep hers a smirkingly casual mask despite her fear. It’s risky, but she needs the right angle.
“You know”, Baela goads in a too-conversational tone. “I can see why Helaena prefers Aegon to you. She’s a Dreamer. You’re a fucking madman. And between you and I, cousin, and having met all of you Hightower boys, I can understand why she chose Jace and I over either of you.” 

Aemond’s face goes the pallid white of a corpse, and for a moment, Baela watches as his face into a rictus of pure, murderous hate. 
“You lie.”

She smiles, showing more teeth than his dragon. 
“Don’t believe me? I have proof. Come closer. My dragon won’t bite.” He does, and his dragon comes near with a waft of hot, stinking air that makes Baela’s gorge rise. He’s trying to intimidate Moondancer by giving her a good look at the inside of his monster’s throat. 

Showboating prick. 

Baela hangs steady in the air, goading on the Stranger. “Look at my cloak. Recognize the work? The hand behind it? Look at my face, you kinslaying fuck. Do I look like I’m lying?”

And while Aemond is staring in horror at the delicate needlework that could only have been the product of hundreds of hours of Helaena’s quiet focus and devotion, Baela’s finger depresses the trigger of her crossbow, and the quarrel whips downwards—  

Right into his monster’s bright green eyeball. 

Its shriek of agony sounds like the rending of the sky, the burning of the world, and she feels fear skitter down her spine at the way her eardrums rattle and the very marrow of her bones feels like it’s rippling. Something leaks out of her left ear, and she grits her teeth against the agony of a pierced eardrum. Great gouts of of green flame lick across the blackness of the sky, and Baela knows it’s time to go. 

While his dragon writhes, shrieking in pain as it claws at its eyeball where the quarrel has sunk in, Baela lets her body fall backwards. Moondancer into a vertical spinning drop to escape the beast. 

Green fire slashes out like a bullwhip, and Moondancer spirals and weaves directly towards the ground to avoid them. Each whip reeks of ozone, air splitting like lightning from the heat, but Baela just exhales, and lets the dance begin. 

Chapter Text

People like to believe Aegon is a lot stupider than he actually is, and he likes to let them think that. He’s made a career of living down to the low expectations of others, and that puts him in a wonderful position to learn a lot about people. 

For instance, Lady Rhaena Targaryen is the sneakiest person he has ever met, and watching her is like watching a master pickpocket at work. Even now, she approaches her next mark with a  shark-like precision. 
“Lady Alicent”, she says, with a beatific smile that his mother falls for like a dropped brick. 

“Lady Rhaena, yes. What is it?”  

“The Dragonkeepers have told me that the townsfolk are nervous in the caves.”
Her thin fingers link and twist, elegant nails catching the candlelight with a pearl-like sheen. He’s positive she buffs them for that exact reason. Her voice is carefully modulated to caramel-sweet concern. “They’re restless, and the little ones are frightened. The Dragonkeepers are afraid they might run off at the first loud noise.”
Butter wouldn’t melt in Rhaena’s mouth as she tells the truth so skillfully that it might as well be the most expert manipulation. “The senior member of the family present should go calm them, and comfort them. I’m afraid that the ability to soothe is not a gift the Gods saw fit to grace me with. May I entrust that to you?”

Aegon watches from his seat as Alicent stands a little straighter. “Why, yes. Yes, of course”, she says in her Dowager Queen voice, the one that makes a hard ball of anxiety congeal in his gut, but no sooner has the dread formed than his mother makes for the door, Queensguard in tow, and it evanesces like dew. Rhaena doesn’t even blink. 

Rhaena stands, unbothered as an Oldtown Sphinx, as she watches his mother depart. A satisfied smile flirts at the corners of her lips. 

***

Her next move is surprising in its ruthlessness. 

“Joffrey”, Rhaena calls, “come here for a moment please.”

Joffrey is the picture of innocence, tar-black curls bouncing in youthful abandon as he trots over to where Aegon sits and Rhaena stands with her hand on the back of his chair like a perching eagle.
“What is it, Rhaena?”

She kneels so they’re eye to eye, and her hands go to the young boy’s shoulders. 
“I need you and Tyraxes to do something for me.”

“Do what?” 

Aegon smirks at the boy’s suspicious nature. Clever lad. 
 
But then Aegon gets distracted thinking of all the things he’d like to do for his Lady Rhaena, and suddenly her position at his feet is a serious problem. As though she can read his mind like the morning reports, Rhaena looks up and cuts Aegon a look that has him thinking of Septas instead. When she’s satisfied that he’s behaving, she turns back to the boy in front of them. 
“Joffrey, I need you to help Princess Helaena take care of the children, all right?”

“Aren’t I a child?”

“You were this morning”, Rhaena agrees, “but now you’ve got to grow up. Aegon and I need to speak to the Dragonkeepers about something, and I can’t leave the babies undefended. Luke is gone and Jace is away, so I need you to protect Jahaera, Egg, Maelor and Viserys. Can you do that for me?”
She includes his children without a second thought, and Aegon’s chest warms at how quickly she’s taken his own concerns to heart. From this angle, the rubies and gold netting in her hair is hard to miss, but now all he can think of is how badly his fingers want to trace up the back of her neck, how perfectly her chin would fit in the cradle of his hand—

How sweet it might be to sit of an evening, with Rhaena’s head a comforting weight on his thigh, voice a rich counterpoint to the crackle of fire in the hearth as she reads to him in Valyrian. There might even be laughter of children, the quiet chatter of a happy family—
The image is so sudden and all-encompassing that Aegon wonders if it’s a vision, or just a dream he desperately wants to will into existence. 

“I’m little. Why do I have to?”

“You have a dragon, and I don’t”, Rhaena tells the boy bluntly, heedless of the world coming to an abrupt and shuddering stop around Aegon. 
“So I’ll need you to listen to whatever Lady Helaena tells you to do, and do it right away. And I need you to be brave, Joffrey, because if you see Aemond, you’ll need to tell Tyraxes to fight.”

“Rhaena”, the boy whimpers, pale as a ghost. Aegon completely empathizes; Aemond scares the shit out of him too. 

Rhaena is having none of it. She firms her voice, and ensures the young boy holds her gaze. 
“He is big, and frightening, but you are small, and quick, and clever. You will see opportunities he cannot. And whatever else, Joffrey, you are a Targaryen. A dragon-rider, with an egg that hatched in your cradle. What are your words?” 

Magnificent woman, he thinks. She’s more finely honed than even Dark Sister. 
If Rhaena Targaryen were a man, Aegon would fear her. Since she’s a woman, he wants her the way a man underwater needs air. 

“Fire, and blood”, the boy says, and Rhaena nods. 

“Good. Then you know what to do”, she agrees, nodding a greeting to his sister as she drifts over like mist. “Listen to your aunt Helaena, and do not be afraid. We’ll be right back.” 

“Hel”, Aegon whispers, half because it’s her name and half because he’s writhing in the fires of the very hottest one every time he looks down at Rhaena, poised so prettily on her knees in front of them. It must be impending death that has him thinking of that most life-affirming of acts. 

And you’re never getting that again, Aegon reminds himself bitterly. 

“Bronze and gold”, his sister interrupts, and gives his good hand a little squeeze. 

“Gold?” Aegon thinks of Sunfyre, his beautiful beast, and his heart wrenches in anguish. His dearest companion, the other half of his soul. His deepest regret. He should have taken him and flown to Dragonstone, and never looked back. 
Grief swells, vicious as the lash of a whip. He’d marched his sweet companion to war, only to prove nothing to everyone. 

“Gold is currency”, Helaena whispers in his melted ear. “It pays. But bronze lingers, and lasts.” 

Aegon hopes so, prays that wherever his poor beauty is, whatever future Aegon bought with Sunfyre’s short and shitty life, he’s happier for being free of him. 

“Helaena”, Rhaena says, standing and cutting his melancholy like a knife. “I’ve asked Joffrey to protect the children. Can I trust you to protect him?”

“Of course”, his sister says, and rests her hand on Joffrey’s shoulder. “I shall tell them a marvellous story about the fiercest of dragons, and we will see you soon.” 

“Of course you will”, Rhaena says. “We’re just going to see the Dragonkeepers.” 

That, Aegon can tell, is a lie. 

*** 

He waits until they’re out of the room, down the corridor, and into the bowels of Dragonstone before he asks. 
“Rhaena, where are we really going?” 

“To bond Vermithor, of course”, his lady says without a scintilla of prevarication. “One of us has to.”

He stops in his tracks, almost dropping his cane in shock. 
“Are you mad?”

She looks at him as though he is. 
“Aegon.” 

“Rhaena”, he replies, just as flatly. “It’s Vermithor. You said it yourself. The dragon was dangerous before Silverwing fled. Now he’s a fucking menace, and we’re going to die if we try this.”

That doesn’t seem to bother Rhaena. “So? We’re the last two possible dragon riders of House Targaryen. If we don’t try, your brother is going eat my sister and then land that abomination of his in our courtyard and systematically feed the children to it until you break.” She says it as though it were as obvious as the alphabet. 

He has never understood her more clearly than he does in this instant. 

Rider or not, his lady Rhaena is a dragon-lord, a scion of Old Valyria.

She looks at him with the cold objectivity of the battlefield general and the eyes of someone who could boil the Rhoyne and call it a sound strategic decision. She can predict Aemond’s moves, because she can put herself in his eyepatch. 

For a moment, Aegon thanks every one of the Gods that Rhaena chose him, and not his brother. 

“And you will break”, she continues with delicate emphasis, merciless as a morningstar to the face, “because you are a good man, and those are your children, and your brother is a fucking monster. So he’ll use them, and then, he’ll go after your mother. And then me, because he won’t want to hurt Helaena… but he will want to hurt you, and he knows that’ll do it. Them, then her, then me, and I for one don’t plan on letting him have a free run of it.”

“Oh.” He stares at her, mouth open at her capacity to read Aemond like a child’s primer. “Well. In that case. Is that all?”

For a moment, Aegon thinks she’ll swerve the bait like a naughty trout, but then she rears back and bites. “No”, Rhaena confesses, in the dark of the hallway leading to the Dragonmont. “I’m also very tired of asking other people to fight my battles for me.” She stops, then, and finally meets his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

Aegon stares at her, open-mouthed. 
“And that makes you think you’re capable of riding the Bronze Fury?”

“I intend on mastering him or dying in the attempt”, she says without an instant’s hesitation. “I’ve done all I can from the ground, Aegon, but I am not yet done fighting.”

And he thought Helaena was the madwoman. 

Rhaena, however, is mad like flying through a gale simply to feel the turbulence. 

Which Aegon has, in fact, done before, for no other reason than to try it. 

“All right”, Aegon says, because he’d rather die like a man than a mostly-cockless maggot, wriggling helplessly in front of his asshole of a brother. “Let’s go get baptized. As the only man to survive Vhagar’s flames, who better to walk you through it than I? Let us away, my lady, before you lose your nerve.” 

Or he, his. 
He can still taste his own searing lungs, still smells the fatty scent of his own flesh cooking in his nightmares. He hadn’t known he was so well-marbled. A life of indolence and alcohol, well spent. 

He heaves himself up the last flight of stairs before the pier a bit more aggressively than he should. It should be an easy step, but nerves make him unsteady and his foot slips. The sudden pain in his hip has him hissing like a smacked cat and wobbling like a child on a warhorse. Rhaena flings herself to his side, snatching for his waist and bolstering him with her own height.

Humiliated, his good mood goes sour. “I am not sure how you expect me to ride in this condition. I am burned. Dickless. Dragonless.”

“Quit complaining”, she mutters as the door shuts behind them. “Nobody made you fly your show pony into the vanguard of a dragon-fight. You should have stuck to joyriding the Reach in clear weather.” The pier stretches out in front of them, and Aegon watches as Rhaena clutches for a torch cradled by the door, and walks them slowly forward along the black basalt spike. 

“You hate me for that, don’t you?” He doesn’t blame her. “Fear not, my lady”, Aegon mutters, “I hate myself more than you ever could manage. He was my dragon, after all.”

She laughs at his frank words, unoffended. “You had a dragon and lost him through your own poor judgement. My cradle egg never even hatched. They might as well have given me a rock.”

The hand not wrapped around her shoulder raises in surrender. “Did you try-“

“Everything”, she snarls. “I tried everything. I put it in the fire. Then I got frightened it would crack and reached in after it, and there is still a burn scar on my arm from where my dressing gown singed away. I sang to it — Common, Old Ghiscari, High Valyrian. I soaked it with tears and had it been a rock in truth, it would have been so well-watered as to hatch a diamond. I would prick my finger with a needle and bleed on it, Aegon, over and over, just to see if that might nourish it, like a plant-“

He knows this story. She’d read it to him, once. 
“Jahaelor’s Ruby ferns?” 

When she looks to him, her eyes are wide and white. 
“…. Jahaelor…You heard. You were awake.

He sighs, a slow hiss like air guttering out. “…. Not for everything. Not all the time. But sometimes… it was as in a dream. I didn’t like it”, he admits as they cross into the antechamber. “It was easier to be dead. I wished I had been.” 

He thinks of those early days, of all the cruel, honest things she had whispered to him as he’d hovered in the grey twilight between poppy and death. She’d been so furious about Sunfyre, and magnificent in her rage.

 “Gods be good”, Rhaena breathes. “I was unkind.”

He shrugs, wincing as it pulls on the scar tissue at his jaw. “You weren’t wrong. I was a feckless twit with more shit than sense.” 

“I”, she stammers, and her cheeks are so red she might as well be wearing war paint. “I do apologize. I-“ 

He must be Aegon the magnanimous after all, because he offers her a warm grin that he’s sure looks must awful on his melted face. “Did not succeed in poisoning me after all. I was expecting it, in truth. I’d been told my entire life that my sister and her kin were keen to have me ended. It was terribly confusing to be held amongst enemies and be given warm honey milk instead of tears of Lys.” 
Aegon doesn’t hold it against her. In this family, a death threat or two is basically good sport. 

“I was very upset about that at the time”, Rhaena admits. “I had suggested letting you meet your gods.”

“Not upset enough to neglect that foul lotion”, he mutters as she puts them back into motion, one agonized step after another. 
He gags as the toe of his shoe catches on a rough shard of basalt, tweaking his bad leg. She lifts him again, but he knows she notices the way his lips have gone tight from the pain. 

He hates this. 

Hates relying on the woman he ought be charming to drag his carcass around like some dragon’s half-eaten sheep. 
“Honey”, Rhaena says in that low voice of hers. once again seeming to read his mind and leaping to distract him. It succeeds, entirely too well, because now he can imagine nothing but honey: 

Dripping from her fingers, an invitation to curl his tongue around each sharp nail— 

Drizzled over skin the colour of burnt sugar, the kind they serve hot at banquets and he likes to smack with a spoon just to hear that first decadent crack—

Warm and glistening on her lower lip, the remains of the Pentoshi pastry she favours for breakfasts, inviting him to take his pleasure and have a taste—

“My lady, your favour is far too sweet”, he says, a bit breathless, and Rhaena rolls her eyes at him. 

“Sweet? I’d rather pucker your mouth like a lemon.”

He hadn’t considered that. What a fascinating suggestion. 

Perhaps she’s as tart as her attitude, teasing his tastebuds like the cream of a lemon posset—

Maybe she’s got that Velaryon salt-water in her after all, making his mouth water like oysters fresh off the rock—

“I’d have you tart on my tongue, if that’s your delight-“ he promises. 

It doesn’t get him the reaction he wants. 

“Aegon, shut up”, his lady love says, and he grins. She’s shy. 

“No, shan’t”, he says, teasing. “It’s taking my mind off of the excruciating agony of existence-“

"Your Grace, you need to be quiet right now”, Rhaena tells him flatly, and there’s no playfulness in her expression whatsoever. There is, however, a new tension in her pose, as though she’s just spotted danger — or opportunity. 

Aegon goes quiet as the tomb.

Something very, very large moves in the far distance of the cavern. He can hear it breathing as it approaches, a wet, hot, reptilian pant that makes every instinct in him shriek at him to run. Sunfyre was nothing like this. 

Sunfyre was light, and happy, the warmth of a summer afternoon, the sweetness of a sunbeam after a cloudy day. This is the sullen heat of a hot stove, a heavy, pressing presence in the air around them. 

This is old, and implacable. 

Aegon’s head lifts, very, very slowly. 

He’s facing her, so he can’t see the creature she’s staring at — but whatever she sees has her rattled. Her expression gives it away — wild, white eyes to match the bloodless grey of her lips. 

“That’s a fucking dragon, isn’t it?” 

“Yes”, she whispers, eyes luminous in the dark of the cave. 

“Is it very large?” 

“Immense”, she breathes in wonder, and he wishes she’d say that about him. 

“Hungry-looking?” He asks instead, because that’s much less likely to humiliate him. 

She nods. “It’s, um… smiling.“

“Marvellous” Aegon says, and knows Rhaena can feel the way he trembles. 

Then he wheezes out a breath, and slowly looks over his shoulder. The beast’s cavernous maw is indeed held open, saliva dripping down teeth that are each as long as a spear. Its bulk fills the entirety of the cave, soaring above them like a mountain taking itself for a stroll. 

“Oh”, he says with gallows cheer as the Bronze Fury’s jaws open, and a gout of fire turns the dark of the Dragonmont to the bright of high midday. “We’re going to die after all.”  

Rhaena, the absolute lunatic, tosses her head back and laughs.

Chapter Text

RHAENA

“Oh”, Aegon says as the Bronze Fury’s jaws open, and a gout of fire turns the dark of the Dragonmont to the bright light of Dornish midday. “We’re going to die after all.”  

He says it with such glib enthusiasm that Rhaena can’t help it. She tosses her head back and laughs.

There’s nothing else to do, because he’s probably right. 

Behind him, the Bronze Fury swells up from of the depths of the cavern like some monster out of the deepest Valyrian slave pits. Leathern wings flap against the dead air, and when the beast touches down, the gale of his landing whips the sulphuric air of the Dragonmont. 

“….. I thought that was part of the mountain”, Aegon confesses, voice very quiet. 

“I’m going to die beside a moron”, she whispers back, because she’d rather chew dragonglass than show fear in front of the beast, or the man. 

Aegon grins back, a wretched thing on his once-charming face. “For my part, I find the company much finer this time.” His eyes are the blue as the coast off of Tarth, and sparkling with grim humour despite the ash-grey pallor of his raw flesh. 

Rhaena knows what dragon fire does to people. 

So does Aegon. 

She won’t make him face it first. 

Rhaena steps in front of Aegon, blocking as much of him with her body as she can, never breaking eye contact with the dragon looming like a mountain peak in front of them. 

She’s battled the gods of war and death for Aegon’s sake for over three moons now. 

She’s won, so she cannot turn tail now. 

“Hold my hand if you’re frightened.” Aegon holds out his good hand, the very soul of chivalry at the end. “We can go together, my lady. What is it those Essosi say? All men must die?”
It’s that old warning, a grim promise, a favourite of slaves and Red Priests alike. 

Rhaena rebels. 

All men must die, but not this one. Not him. Not now. 

Rhaena is not done with him yet. 

She stiffens her spine, and remembers her words. 

Fire, and blood. 

She remembers where she was born, the dusty ochre-coloured towers of Pentos. The Red Temple and its night fire, the way they’d lit the way for ships in the darkness. The way the ashes of those dedicated to the God of Light had risen into the night sky. 

“I’m not afraid”, she says, and means it. 

“Rhaena-“

She wants to fly like those embers, up to the stars. 

Only one way to achieve that, and it is to accomplish the impossible. 

All right, then. The path ahead of her is clear.

Rhaena steps forward, away from Aegon and the light of the braziers. 

She paces towards the dragon, and the oily black of the cave. Words whisper up from the depths of memory, gutteral and ancient. It’s an old melody, a legacy of a childhood speckled with bloody fingertips. 
“Drakari pykirios—

She can see waves, stretching for eternity below her as she soars. Images superimpose like falling leaves — flying north as a road creeps like a vein inexorably upwards into the very heart of winter. 

The sight of a wall — the Wall — a sheet of ice the dragon cannot surmount, and a cold fire that chills the soul. 

The black of a Northern night fades into the glory of black-sailed ships, each bearing red dragons rampant. She can hear the familiar songs of Caraxes and Vhagar as they wing overhead, unleashing fire and flame hot enough to burn the sun and spear of Dorne. 

There is fire licking over her, a heat so overwhelming it feels as though her skin were too tight for her body. In front of her, the Fury roars, blasting the roof of the cave with great lashings of fire. 

“Saelot vāedis—
Perzyssy vestretis—“

The heat scorches her, hot as the fire of a hearth as she boils off a tincture, or the refined warmth of a candle as she distills a delicate poison. 

It is familiar as a friend.

The dragon snarls and rages, but in each roar Rhaena hears a hundred voices, a thousand songs. They’re greetings in dead languages she cannot understand but recognizes in the marrow of her bones. 

“Se gēlȳn irūdaks—“

She takes a step forward. Her hand reaches for the knife at her belt, a Valyrian steel dagger the length of her forearm. 

“That’s mine-“
 
 It had been, until he’d come to her in blackened armour and helpless agony. She’d taken it from his living corpse before ever starting to help, considering it payment for services rendered. 
 
 Now it sits, a pendant at her side, and every instinct in her screams— 

“— Ānogrose—“

Rhaena croons, and presses her forearm to the blade. Pain flares from the lightest of touches, hot and sweet as a kiss, and blood begins to trickle down her arm. 

Aegon exhales a shuddering breath as the dragon begins to ululate, a sound so low it’s like the roar of waves through the caves. As she moves forward, Aegon steps back. “Gods, have mercy”, he breathes, and the waver in his voice puts steel in Rhaena’s spine. 

“Ours are here”, she tells Aegon, fearless as a priestess. 

The Bronze Fury opens his maw in a lascivious leer, each tooth as long as her torso. She can see the sheen of dragon-oil slick as bacon grease on its tongue, the same substance that had so badly burned the man beside her. 

There is a glow in the darkness and it takes Rhaena a moment to realize it’s dragonfire, bright as a sun in the creature’s gullet. 

Rhaena stares, because this — 

This is the last thing Laena Velaryon ever saw, and it’s— 

It’s beautiful. 

Relief fills her. If she cannot live as a dragon-rider, she can at least die like one. 

She welcomes it. 

She spreads her arms wide and tilts her face back, and never averting her gaze from the beast in front of her. 

“Prūmȳsa sōvīli”, she breathes, reverential in the face of her God. 

“Rhaena, you need to back up.” Aegon’s smoke-singed voice is tight, hard. Frightened. Of the dragon? For her? “That thing is going to eat you-“

He is afraid for her. He doesn’t understand.

“Gevī dāerī—“ she croons, low and sweet. Rhaena can feel the truth welling up in her breast even as the blood welling on her hand, a conflagration of flame as hot as a new star, and bright as a ruby.

She was never meant to hatch her egg. Its fires would never have been hot enough for her. 

“He knows me”, she says to Aegon behind her, to the dragon in front of her, and to the gods watching them from every torch, hearth and candle flame. “I know him.” 

She can feel something at the edge of her awareness, a sense of something ancient and hungry looming over her shoulder. 

She smiles. 

It’s the quiet reassurance of a deadly ally, merging with her own banked need to protect what she has claimed from all threats to it. 

“Amisagon, Vermithor”, she croons in the face of his heavy regard. “Help me”, Rhaena demands, and holds out her bloody hand. 

For a long moment, there is nothing but the acrid smell of dragon, the sulphur of the fire in its maw, the heat of the death waiting in its gullet, and the heavy wetness of its breathing. 

Then its maw has closed, and the heat of scales presses against her bare palm. The world blossoms like a hearth’s fire behind her eyes. 
The air is rich with the smell of brimstone, and sweet with the tantalizing curl of salt, beckoning the dragon to hunt, to soar, to seek-

Aegon’s wheezed breath snaps her back into her own body, even as the dragon’s maw bumps against her torso. 

His silence speaks volumes. 

In the ringing quiet, Rhaena holds out her bloody hand to Aegon. He looks at it as though this time, she might be the one to bite him. 
“Come”, she asks, and he shakes his head. He’s pale as a ghost. 

“Absolutely not.” His leg wobbles, his eyes water with fear, but Rhaena is merciless. 

He brought her to this point. He can see her through it. 
“I said, come.”

“…………… it— the fire—“ 

Rhaena can’t help it. She laughs. 
“Is that what you fear?” 

He stares as though he’s gone mad. 
“Of course it is-“ 

Rhaena gestures at him, burnt and knocked out of the sky, and stubborn enough to walk right up to the block again. “Fire cannot kill a dragon, Aegon. What does that make you?”

He goes still as a Valyrian sphinx, eyes wide and white. “I—“ 

“Stop feeling bad you got a little singed and start acting like you’ve survived a frontal attack by Vhagar at close range. Nobody else has that claim. Not even the Conqueror managed that feat. Act like you’ve achieved the impossible.”

Kissed by fire, the Pentoshi say. Blessed by R’hollor. That must mean something. 

“I need to fly, Aegon. You swore to guide me through it.” 
His lips are pinched white, staring at a dragon large enough to burn him where he stands, or swallow him in a single gulp. 
“You were gallant enough to offer to hold my hand, but I need—“ 

She can feel something licking at her consciousness, the scent of salt and sea and sky, the need for freedom and height, the frost of altitude and the fire in her belly, the boundless pleasure of mating on the wing—

The bond hums like a plucked harp string, desperate to be made a melody. 

Aegon is a dragon-rider, and she can see the moment he consigns himself to fate. 

Rhaena holds out her hand again. “Come”, she commands, and this time, Aegon does. 
Vermithor stares at her unblinkingly as she assists her man into the saddle first, lashing his bad leg in with careful cinching. He’s in the first position, draped over the saddle face down and nearly flat. There are grips for his hands, a space for each knee, and it is evident at close range that this is a saddle built explicitly to carry two. For all that Rhaena is relieved, she can feel the way he shakes with abject fear anyway. 

She says nothing. 

It would humiliate him, when all she feels is pride. 

Fear is a natural instinct, but he is a dragon, and he yet draws breath. He’s a prodigy, wasted on the ground, and she will not settle for half-measures or half-men. 

If she must marry for the good of her family, let it be to a man stubborn enough to outlast her. Rhaena isn’t afraid of death. She’ll greet Morghul as a friend. She’s just afraid of outliving everyone. 

“Rhaena. I trust you”, Aegon says as she mounts behind him, covering his bulk with her own body, and lashes them tightly together. 
She wishes she were bigger, if only to better protect him, but she’ll take what she has and work with it. He winces at the weight on his knee as her hips against his pushes forward, but she can’t let herself feel bad about that right now either. He needs to be safe, more than he needs to be comfortable. She nods, even as she tightens the final cinch. 

“Good. You should”, Rhaena says. “And once we’re done handling your brother, we’ll have your saddle modified”, she adds, because the bond is singing at her to fly with them, to take to the wing and never come down but to lay clutches. 

“What-“ he starts. “Whose saddle-“ but before he can even finish, Vermithor is already in motion. 
The Bronze Fury lumbers to the mouth of the cave in a half a heartbeat, and then the ground has disappeared, the ocean rushing up to meet them. 

It’s clear Aegon has only ever flown from the Dragonpit. A terrestrial takeoff is an ungainly thing, a series of graceless running hops until the dragon has achieved enough momentum for lift. 

Dragonstone, though, was built by dragon-lords at the height of Old Valyria. 
Here, every dragon-fire hewn tunnel out of the mountain faces a steep basalt drop to the sea. Each gargoyle and grotesque is sinuous and strange, the better to cling to or fly through. The sea is as furious as a dragon-battle, winds shrieking past every opening. Each gust blasts past them with fearsome speed, ready to launch them to the skies. 

All of it is hidden by the smoke and sea salt of the volcanic island, obscuring their silent descent. 

A vicious smile splits her face as Vermithor begins to gain speed. His flight takes them within a man’s height of the basalt cliff face, so close that she can feel the heat of the day emanating off the rock. 

The black basalt whips past, so smooth it might as well be a slide, and he rides the cold downdraft of the lee side of the slope like he’s surfing a current. 
Mother had taught her how to ride a wave with her body, and it’s no different now. She can feel each minute adjustment, each tiny turn and shift of wing and leg, body and spirit. Behind her, Aegon’s breath has stopped entirely, but his cheek is pressed to the front of her coat, and her hands clutch tightly around his waist. The pommel protects them from the worst of the wind, and keeps them low to the body mass, almost flat. 

Rhaena sighs in relief. There’s a deep reassurance in knowing that the thing she’s most worried about in the world is safely tucked under her very large wings. 

Finally, she has a weapon other than her mind. 

Perhaps fifty feet above the whitecaps and just at the mouth of the lowest, hottest cave, Vermithor’s wings burst open like a hammer strike. The gale catches them and in the span of that same dizzying heartbeat, they’re hundreds of feet in the air, buffeted by the winds of the Gullet. 

Ahead of them, Rhaena can see the green fire that marks her target, but it’s Aegon’s strangled voice that distracts her. 
“Sunfyre.” His breath is the only warmth at this altitude. “Below us. My lady—”, his voice cracks, and now Rhaena feels hot tears on the nape of her neck where his face presses into the crook of it. “—Rhaena, my lady— look—“

For a moment, Rhaena doesn’t understand. 

When Aegon’s hand points downwards, a quick glance below them reveals a glimpse of something gold and small, flying immediately under Vermithor’s much larger bulk. The golden dragon is shielded from sight in much in the way that Rhaena’s protected Aegon, and she can feel the Fury’s resolve. 

Anything that touches his mate will be fed to their clutch. 

“It won’t touch her”, Rhaena promises, glancing forward at the beast harrying Moondancer. “We won’t let it.”

 Aegon’s arm flexes. 
“Wait- what do you mean her?!” 

The rumble that rattles their saddle is, very clearly, a laugh. 

Chapter Text

HELAENA 

“Aunt Helaena?” 

It’s the youngest of her sister’s eldest three, the boy named after a beloved sacrifice.   
“Yes, Joffrey?”

He looks up pensively, as though gauging if he can trust her. He’s only recently taken to addressing her at all, but now he’s planted himself between her, the children, and the door, loyal and square-jawed as a mastiff puppy. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” His voice is a child’s whisper, and the memory of another sweet boy is more painful than knives. When she nods, he narrows his eyes. “You have to promise not to tell Rhaena. She’ll laugh at me.”

She doubts that very much. 
“Very well”, Helaena agrees anyway, because little boys are not deep thinkers. “But let me guess, first.”

“All right.”

“Is it that…” Helaena pauses and then leans in, “you’re frightened?”

“No!” 

“Oh, that’s good then”, she admits with an easy smile, “because I am.” That’s true enough, although this is perhaps the most calm she has ever felt in her life. 

Fear is immediacy, and action — the body’s response to danger. 

Dread — that’s so much more insidious; the sure knowledge of something heinous and catastrophic and impossible to avert looming ever closer. 

She’s endured that her entire life. 

After that — What’s a little fear? 

Doesn’t that just mean she’s still alive to feel her heart race?

“You are?” 

Joffrey doesn’t understand, of course. He’s still too innocent, soft and floppy-eared, and Helaena will extinguish herself and her dragon to keep him that way. 
“Why, yes! It’s a war; I think it’s only natural to be scared. I’ve dreamed of watching dragons dance since I was younger than your littlest brother. It frightened me terribly.”

He looks back at little Viserys, hardly out of swaddling, and then back up at her. 
“You did? You were? But you aren’t now?”

“No, not now”, she agrees easily. “Do you want to know why?”

He stares up at her, and Helaena is reminded of the role of younger sons — septon, maester, or soldier. It seems Joffrey will take after his fathers, and learn to make war. 
“Why?” He demands it, as though he can squeeze courage out of air. 

Helaena smiles at his youthful impatience. Were that it so easy. But they’re so close now, and he’s so very little… 
He shouldn’t be this afraid. None of them should be. Helaena leans closer, and pitches her voice like a secret. It’s an easy trick to catch a child’s attention; she’d watched Alysanne use it once. 
“Has your mother told you about the Doom?”

He nods. “Of course!” 

“So you know about Daenys?” 

“The Dreamer? Everyone does.”  He speaks with all the confidence of a little prince, and it makes Helaena smile. 

“Then you‘ll know what I mean when I say I’m like her. I’m a Dreamer.” 

“You are?!” 

“I am.” Unlike a grown-up, he believes her without question. “And I’ve dreamed of the beginning — of how dragons came to be. Would you like to hear the story?”

“Yes!” Another childish demand. For all that he’s a dragon-lord, he’s still so very young, and desperate for a distraction. The other little children have come scrambling at the sound of a story being spun, ladies in waiting in tow. Now little Egg and Viserys have plopped at her feet, joining Joffrey in the audience. 
Jahaera and Maelor, more introspective, stay by the scrolls. They’re reading quietly and with their silver heads together, Helaena can see into the past and future at once, overlaid like two watery panes of glass.  

She blinks, and the image rights itself. 
“Very well”, Helaena says, because the present is what matters and the children are frightened now. “Then listen well, for in the beginning, the priestly scribes of Yin declare, all the land between the Bones and the freezing desert called the Grey Waste, from the Shivering Sea to the Jade Sea — including even the great and holy isle of Leng — formed a single realm ruled by the God-on-Earth, the only begotten son of the Lion of Night and Maiden-Made of Light, who traveled about his domains in a palanquin carved from a single pearl and carried by a hundred queens, his wives.” 

“He had two wives?” Aegon the younger is a sweet thing about Jahaera’s age, with hair the colour of corn silk and eyes the same shade as her ring. 

Joffrey scoffs. “Don’t be stupid, Egg, so did the Conqueror.” 

“Be nice, both of you”, Helaena warns gently, “or I’ll stop.” 
They fall silent immediately, so she continues on. 

“For ten thousand years the Great Empire of the Dawn flourished in peace and plenty under the God on earth, until at last he ascended to the stars to join his forbearers. 
“Dominion over mankind then passed to his eldest son, who was known as the pearl Emperor and ruled for 1000 years. The Jade Emperor, the Tourmaline Emperor, the Onyx Emperor, the Topaz Emperor, and the Opal Emperor followed in turn, each reigning for centuries…” 

She pauses for effect, watching as the boys’s eyes go wide. “Yet every reign was shorter and more troubled than the one preceding it, for wild man and baleful beasts pressed at the borders of the Great Empire, lesser kings grew prideful and rebellious, and the common people gave themselves over to avarice, envy, lust, murder, incest, gluttony, and sloth.
“When the daughter of the Opal Emperor succeeded him as the Amethyst Empress, her envious younger brother cast her down and slew her” — 

Helaena feels fire lick over her, a ghost of a future that she hopes she has ensured will never come to pass. She lets the blaze burn through her, and leave her purified. 

“Having done so, he proclaimed himself the Bloodstone Emperor and began a reign of terror.” 

Aegon’s eyes are wide as cabochons.
“Why did he cast her down, Aunt Helaena?” 

Jealousy, Helaena thinks. He wanted her power. 

Desperation, Helaena knows. He had feared her strength. 

Avarice, Helaena thinks. He had desired her. 

She cannot explain the ways of the world to a boy who still believes it is good, so she just smiles, and explains it the only way she can. 

“He wanted her crown, of course — power is nothing if not a delicious poison. But worse than that, he wanted her. 
“This Empire was a cruel one, mating humans and beasts to create useful abominations. Their most efficacious monstrosities were the dragons. These creatures were the result of the darkest blood magic, and controlled by a race of men from the sunset lands who had learned to commune with beasts.” 

Lady Alysanne Blackwood’s head pops up; black curls like a nimbus around her face. Helaena smiles dreamily at her. Rare amongst the houses of the south, the Blackwoods still hold to the Old Gods, and Helaena knows that Alysanne recognizes a warg when she hears of one. 
“These men could slip their skins, walking through the world in the bodies of the animals they were bonded to, and now, their minds and magics were bonded to the fires. These slaves served as royal guards, each controlling a compelled dragon though whom they might wage war.”

“They controlled dragons?” Joffrey asks, even as Egg squeaks, “What happened?” 

Helaena answers them both. 
“The Empress fell in love with someone she ought not to have, and that was enough to change the world.” 

“I don’t believe you”, Joffrey says, and Helaena smiles down at him. 

“You don’t? But don’t you know you’re blood of the dragon?” She gently pokes at Viserys’s round tummy, just to hear him giggle. “However else do you think it got in there?” 

“She kissed the dragon?” Aegon asks, all innocence.

“Yes”, Helaena agrees, “or at least, she kissed the dragon’s man. The new empress was young, but she was bold and clever. She knew she must secure her line against her brother’s duplicity and acting quickly, took her guard for her lover. With him, she made a daughter. 
“Their happiness was short lived, for her brother’s spies had seen their happiness and could not abide it. Knowing his sister’s weakness but not her condition, her traitorous brother kidnapped both woman and dragon-man.” 

The boys all look at her, eyes wide and white. Helaena knows how they feel; she had felt the same way the first time she’d dreamed it. 
She had felt that ancient woman’s sickening dread as she’d rushed through echoing halls made of cold black stone, searching for a missing man. Helaena knows exactly what that dread feels like, congealing her bloodstream as she’d searched for someone, anyone, to help protect her daughter. 

“Though the Empress begged and pleaded, her brother would not be swayed. In front of her, he slit the man’s throat and tossed him — still living — to the beast. No sooner had the dragon burned the man did it consume him, and after a moment, swiftly turn to face the helpless woman. 
In that moment, the Empress knew all hope was lost, and consigned herself to her Gods. Just as the beast approached with open mouth and senseless eyes, she cut her thumb to anoint herself. The scent of her blood halted the beast, for you see, the man recognized his blood in the woman’s veins, and the dragon knew it to be his mate.” 

“His mate?” Joffrey asks, rapt. 

“Of course. And in knowing them to be joined, the Emperor’s control over the dragon’s mind snapped and—“ Helaena realizes how to help her family in the exact moment that Jahaera rests a hand on her shoulder, making her jump like a startled frog. 

“Mother?” Her daughter’s eyes are luminous and wide. 

It is work to keep the tremble out of her voice. “Yes, my star?” 

“Maelor is missing”, she whispers. “I saw him go up Visenya’s stairs.” The curved stairway up to Visenya’s tower is a lethal thing, worn slick with the pressure of a thousand rushing footsteps, and a hundred years of storms. 

“I see”, Helaena does, because up those stairs lies the tower, and Aemond’s balcony. “Joffrey, why don’t you, Egg, and Viserys go with Lady Emmeline and Lady Alysanne. Ladies, please see to it that the Princes are entertained for a moment. I’ll take Jahaera and return with the boy.” 

“My lady”, the women say, dipping uneasy curtsy’s as Helaena takes Jahaera by the hand and sweeps up the spiral stairs to Visenya’s private suites. 

*** 

She doesn’t have to go far; Maelor’s sitting on the landing two flights up, waiting for her. 
“Maelor”, she sighs with relief once she catches up to him. At her side, Jahaera looks pink cheeked but not winded, and the dragons hiss and flare their wings at the dark, yawning staircase above them. 

“Aunt Helaena”, the boy greets, and if he lacks the royal diction her own children has, he doesn’t lack for confidence. 

“Why did you come up this way?”

“I could hear you”, he says, and then blinks at the look of confusion on her face. “Didn’t you? Aunt Helaena, I heard you calling me. You told me to come fly with you… but I don’t understand. Shrykos is too little to carry me.”

Helaena’s entire body goes icy, as though she’s fallen through the lake. She isn’t sure what’s calling to the boy, but she knows she doesn’t want him to meet it alone. 

“Stay with me”, Helaena whispers, and leads the way up the stairs. 

*** 

The candle is lit again, a bright and eerie green. It’s the same acidic colour as the fire lashing the black night sky like a whip, electric and unwholesome. It reminds her of the static of flying through volcanic smoke, the green flame that licks over scaled skin but leaves no trace of a burn. 

It is the colour of a grim river, glowing brightly through a dark canyon. 

There’s a shrill hum in the air as well, a skirling that could be the wind or might be the ringing of crystal, like a goblet struck with a silver fork. 

Helaena doesn’t trust it, but a look out into the black shows her what must be done. 

“Maelor”, Helaena whispers. “May I take your hand?” 

He holds it out, violet eyes so dark they look nearly black. 

“Jahaera?” 

Her daughter only hesitates for a moment. Helaena links her hands with theirs, and leads them towards the glass candle. 

The sound deepens the closer they get, belling out into something that no longer hurts their ears to hear. It’s clear now, the howl of dragons, and when Helaena reaches out, they roar as one.  

*** 

When she opens her eyes again, the balcony is gone, and so are the children. 

It is nighttime in a palace made of columns of what looks like white marble, but could be white wood. 

The air is fragrant, every breeze perfumed with vanilla orchid and night-blooming cereus, the scent of lily and the rich loam of riverbank. 

There’s water lapping somewhere, a quiet rhythmic pulse that soothes her enough to exhale her tightly clenched breath. 

There’s a woman watching her. 

She’s beautiful, but more importantly, she’s someone Helaena has never seen before. Her eyes are the lightest amethyst, the same pale purple hue as the clearest gem. Her hair is so long is neatly sweeps the ground, and the hammered white-gold of sunlight through hoar-frost. Her skin is as pale as Helaena’s, and her robes are sheer, and the same white-gold as her hair. Each layer drapes over another until she’s enveloped in an iridescent sheen, girded with amethyst beading that seems to ripple like crystal chimes when she walks. 

She’s beautiful, and familiar, and she holds her hands out like a friend. A sister. 

A mother. 

Helaena rushes forward, but no sooner has Helaena clasped her hands than she is in the woman’s robes, a mirror her only companion — and there she is, the woman in all her finery. 

Behind her, Helaena sees a man dressed in blue so deep it might as well be black. 

He is handsome, a stranger to her, even as he wears her brother’s face. 

“Shǔjīng?” The man who is not Aemond asks, in a language that is not Valyrian. 

“No”, Helaena says. “I am not she. Aemond, you need to wake up now.” 

The man’s noble face contorts into a sneer. “He is dead.” 

“Not so long as you draw breath. Aemond, he is going to get you killed. You need to wake up now. 
You need to fight him.” She closes the distance, despite every instinct screaming at her to flee. 

He does not move, so she steps into his personal space. It is strange to see her brother with two eyes; odd how the meat is every bit as cold as stone. 

Her hand raises — why is it stained red? — and cradles his cheek. She knows her brother should have one eye. 

The creature in front of her, whatever creature it is that calls her Shǔjīng as he wears Aemond’s face, is not her little brother. 

“Aemond”, she whispers. “Wake up now!” 

Coming to feels like surfacing from deep water, and she sucks in deep lungfuls of air like a dying thing. Jahaera and Maelor stare down at her with wide eyes and bloody hands; it’s clear she’s slumped down to the ground in her topor. 

It doesn’t matter; the tower’s so high Helaena is yet eye level with the dragons. 

Only now, there’s no hint of green anywhere . 

“Mother?” Jahaera asks, voice high and frightened, and Helaena reaches out and tucks both of the children under the fabric of her cloak as a furious roar shakes the crenellations of their dark tower. 

“It’s all right, my little ones”, she whispers. “That is your father come to join the battle.” 

Chapter Text

RHAENYRA 

It cuts her soul to the quick to see her son risk his life in order to protect her claim to a seat she never asked for. 

But Gods, she is fortunate to have the boys she does. 

Jace is the best of all his parents, greater than the sum of any of their component parts. Harwin was protective and Laenor gentle, and Rhaenyra basks in the warmth of their memory every time she sees her son with his siblings. Daemon’s fierceness is clear in Jace’s steely resolve, and the steadfast way he holds steady in rough air. 

Those traits were planted in fertile soil and watered well, and have grown her a brave and bold Crown Prince. 

He attacks the Triarchy’s galleys with grim resolve.  Vermax drops and spins, each move more acrobatic than the last. Scorpion bolts whip past like snowflakes on a storm, each terrifying her with how close they come to stealing her son. 

Fear turns to fury when Jace shouts and banks Vermax, hard. There’s an arrow sticking in the meat of his thigh, and she watches as he snaps the shaft low down near the barb and roars a challenge down to the men in the ships. 
When the next volley misses, he stoops again, painting the world in shades of orange, and it’s everything Rhaenyra can do to keep up. 

Syrax is everywhere that Vermax isn’t, but the Triarchy has fought Daemon, and knows how to shoot ahead of a target. Aemond was a fool and a madman to bring them this close to King’s Landing. 

They must not be allowed to leave.

A new fire-front opens on Jace’s left side, and Rhaenyra wonders if Helaena has come after all. Another glance at the crooked crest makes it clear that Sheepstealer has decided to reappear. Even more astounding is that there is a rider nestled between those craggy spikes. 

The beast is saddle-less, and ridden by a slip of a girl with a mat of wind-tangled black hair. 

Sheepstealer is larger than Vermax by a considerable measure, with dun-brown scales the same thickness as a curtain wall. They have a similar effect as well, as his massive broadside shields Jace from crossbow quarrels and longbow arrows alike. Dragon and rider follow Vermax’s lead, strafing each galley with ruthless accuracy. 

Between the three of them, the sortie is quickly ended. When defenders from High Tide 

Jace follows Sheepstealer to the cliffs overlooking High Tide, landing when the other rider does. Her gut squelches uneasily as they both dismount. Her son strides into speaking range, uncaring of the arrow still sticking out of his thigh. The girl slinks closer like an alley-dog, measuring every step to ensure she has enough space to leap away from a threat. 

Equally uneasy, Rhaenyra circles high above, restless as an eagle. 

Jace and the girl are mid-conversation when they both sprint for their dragons. Syrax shrieks and for a moment, Rhaenyra worries it might have come to fire and blood after all. A a shrill noise catches her attention and when her head rises, the midnight sun has risen over Dragonstone. 

It is green. 

Jace is at her height in an instant, the girl hot on his tail. Both dragons are as disconcerted as she has ever seen them, eyes wild, and Rhaenyra knows she has no time for formality. She needs must be brief. “Who are you?”

“Nettles, from Spicetown, your Grace.”

“How did you acquire the dragon?”
Sheepstealer may be wild, but he is nevertheless Targaryen stock. If he is, so too must she be. 

The list rolls out behind her eyes like a scroll. 

Corlys? Father? Grandfather?

Daemon? 

Rhaenyra mislikes all her options, so it is an unexpected relief when the girl shrugs, blithely uncaring and unconcerned. “Wouldn’t know, Your Grace. Father’s obscurity, Ma’s a mystery. Came from a Motherhouse, and they said they found me squallin’ on the steps with my hair still wet. As for him? Alls I did was feed him.” 

The gods are generous. An orphan. 

“If that’s what it takes to tame a dragon”, Rhaenyra decides in a swift moment, “we’ll feed and claim you, Nettles of Dragonstone. Will you defend your home?”

“From *that*?” She sounds incredulous. 

Rhaenyra spares a glance at the green blaze turning the sky over her home an eerie, oily sheen. “Yes. From him.” 

“Him?” 

“Aemond Kinslayer.”
 
 The girl’s face goes abruptly bloodthirsty. “He’s the beast that did this to Driftmark? Called those Triarchy cunts down on my people?”
 
 “Your people?” 
 
“Beggin’ your pardon, Your Grace, but yeah my people. I’ve been pilfering the stalls and picking their pockets since I was but a cabbage in the patch. Course they’re mine, who else’s’ would they be? Not that Ram’s-“
 
 “I thought you said you fed your dragon a ram?” Jace’s eyes narrow. Rhaenyra doesn’t understand. 
 
The girl grins like she does, perfectly. “Like I said. Fed him a big ol’ mouthful.” She gives the brown dragon an affectionate pat and Sheepstealer trills delightedly, maw hanging open. There’s a hank of black fabric snarled around one chipped fang. 

Rhaenyra understands now and will have to explore that nightmare later. There are more pressing concerns. “You have no saddle.”
 
 “I know it”, the girl agrees tersely, and for the first time a bit of fear shows through the bravado.
 
 “Can you hang on?”
 
 The girl laughs, dry as an old bone. “Got a grip like a tick right now, Your Grace.” 

“Good”, Rhaenyra says, resolved. “Jace. Throw her a rope, and lash yourself in as best you can on the way. We fly to war.” 

Syrax bugles their mood, a challenge and invitation both, and makes for the acid green horizon as fast as her wings allow — and then faster still. 

*** 

Syrax’s pace consumes the miles of ocean under them, and it’s a quick flight from High Tide to Dragonstone. The sky is that hateful acid green the entire time, cut now and then by strafing gouts of orange flame. 

There’s a high ringing in Rhaenyra’s head that feels like ice picks slowly pressing into her eyes. Syrax shudders under her as though freezing, but soldiers on relentlessly. 

The girl flies steady, with a crude waist belt worked out of rope haphazardly lashed to the dragon’s neck. It’s madness. No one would think to fly bareback; not even Rhaenys. And yet, the girl’s jaw is set and her face resolute, knuckles white as a ghost. Rhaenyra can appreciate her stubborn streak. It’s also another dragon to throw at the man who murdered her son, and that’s more than enough to make this dragonseed a lady when they land. 

Whatever Jace has promised this girl, Rhaenyra will see done. All they need to do is survive this. 

“Ahead”, she shouts, and Vermax roars as he slips into her wake trail. Sheepstealer falls in after him, but before they can launch an attack, their target goes dark. She looks back, noting Jace’s pale but resolved face, and the wide-eyed and unhappy expression of her newest relation. The blackness of the Bay consumes them, but Rhaenyra doesn’t care. 

She’ll hunt the creature that murdered her son with echolocation like a bat if she has to. 

Jace never falters, following her down into the inky darkness. Moondancer’s high shriek echoes around them, by turns right over them and then far away, striking through the darkness at her adversary. 

“Baela”, her son howls like a thing possessed, searching for his brave lady, but Moondancer was made for this. She’s brindled, disappearing into the dark waves when seen from above. With Baela’s silver hair covered, she’s nearly invisible.  She rockets in front of them, inverted so her dragon’s armoured belly is facing upwards, and her hand is angled down, close enough that Jacaerys is able to lift his hand and brush fingertips against hers, two dragonlords embracing at altitude. Then the young princess shoots ahead of the pack like a quarrel from a bow, and her agility is second to none. 

It’s a good thing, too, as the blackness of the void creeps over them as the dragon chasing her looms overhead like the wrath of the gods. The air rumbles as it passes above them, the low menace of a meteor breaching atmosphere. To make it worse, the keening noise drilling into her eardrums is enough to make Rhaenyra’s gums ache. 

Whatever the rumble is, it’s coming from Aemond’s mount. 

Dull horror fills her at the thought of killing Alicent’s quiet son. It will hurt her, raw as lemon juice on a ripped cuticle, but if this is what Aemond is commanding, there is no option for quarter or surrender. 

There is only death or victory. 

And this is her home. Her kingdom. 

Her family. 

He’s threatening all of them, every single soul she’s been tasked with keeping safe. She thinks of Rhaenys coming back to find her family extinguished overnight, for the second time. 

She thinks of Daemon, finally given a worthy cause to champion and a caring hand to kiss. Daemon has never wanted to be king, only considered kin, and of use to his family. 

He cannot return to find both stolen from him again; he’ll burn the world, and worse, he’ll be alone. Exiled, again, only this time to the land of the living. Rhaenyra can’t stand the thought. 

The world narrows into focus. 

Aemond is in front of her, commanding his beast to chase Baela the way he must have harried Luke— Arrax— her sons— 

She’ll bite his head off herself, toss him down to the waves— 

One moment the abomination is there—

The next, he is not, and the top of one of the larger dragon-roosts collapses as he crashes through it. Something massive has snatched it out of midair, all that momentum diverted by something with enough ballast to loom out of the darkness at low altitude, and with a single deadly lateral spin, send the monster whirling like a tossed snake. 
Aemond’s dragon manages to right itself at the last instant, shaking its rider like a puppet, but the new attacker is relentless, chasing after him like a war dog. This new beast is almost the size of Vhagar and the colour of hammered bronze, with wings easily capable of covering a small town should he wish it. When he flares, his fires are the colour of molten gold piping hot from the forge, and hot enough to wrinkle the sky around it. 

Midnight turns to midday with every roar, and clear in front of them flies Vermithor, the Bronze Fury. 

Rhaenyra has never been gladder for a dragon’s drive to protect its own territory. 

Then, a flash of sun-bright gold streaks out from under the shadow of the titan’s wings. The much faster dragon sprints ahead, a sparrow evading a vulture, and joins Moondancer in the race against the beast. “Sunfyre?”

“Is that-“ Jace sounds like he’s torn between alarm and deep amusement. “Gods be good. Your Grace-“
 
Rhaenyra looks again and there on the Old King’s mount are two silver heads. The larger is tucked into the nook of the saddle, as protected as anyone up here can be. The latter, more slender figure is Rhaena, and her face is alight with martial fervour. She looks every bit as deadly as her dragon, and Rhaenyra realizes she might be mother to a Visenya after all. 

Before she can even begin to comprehend the seismic shift that has just occurred, Rhaena tries to set the sky behind Baela on fire. 

“Gods be good!”, Nettles yelps, but rather than be alarmed, Jace has burst forward into sudden motion, banking to run interference for Vermithor. Hot on his tail comes Sheepstealer, bugling as though he’s offended at being left out. The girl’s delighted whoop at the shift in altitude is enough confirmation of at least a little Targaryen heritage, as is her bloodthirstiness. 

Rhaenyra almost hopes she gets the chance to feed Aemond One-Eye to her snaggle-toothed brown dragon. She, at least, will never be called Kinslayer. 
Jace is targeting the black dragon’s weak spots, not the rider, a gentleman to the last, but Nettles seems to have no such qualms. The dun-brown drake claws at the extended bat-like wings and snaps eagerly at the vulnerable bag of man-meat between them, even while Jace sets Vermax to clawing at the dragon’s remaining eye. 
 
Ahead of them, Moondancer and Sunfyre make the most of the distraction. 
 
 Rhaenyra understands, suddenly, why Vermithor had scalded the air. Each gout of heat gives them massive lift. Syrax shrieks in fury and snaps where Sheepstealer reteats, harrying Aemond and making his dragon bellow its rage at her. 
 
A quick glance over her shoulder reveals Baela’s genius as Moondancer’s wings angle laterally to catch the wave of heated air and immediately bell outwards like full sails. Sunfyre immediately mimics her, and in an instant, the dragons are far forward, much further than a single flap could take them. 
Another blast from underneath has each soaring upwards, each dragon spiraling around the other in a tight formation like two ribbons up a Maiden’s Day pole. 

First brindled silver and then shining gold by turns, and below, the heat of Vermithor’s mighty fire lifting them ever higher aloft. Soon, they’re high above the clouds, into air so thin that Rhaenyra is grateful that Baela was taught to ride by the greats. Sunfyre, riderless, seems content to follow in her lead— 

Which seems to be straight back down towards the beast in a vertical stoop, and it’s then that Rhaenyra realizes what Baela intends to do. 
 
When the Cannibal’s big head swings forward, trying to angle his remaining eye towards all his foes, Syrax moves in that same instant to engage and distract him. 
It’s a frantic sixty seconds that feels like a lifetime evading the hungry jaws of death, even as she tries to introduce Alicent’s son to his ancestors. Then the air around them turns to fire as Baela and Sunfyre strafe the dragon’s blindside at speed — aiming for Aemond Kinslayer, not the beast. 

Evidently, Baela doesn’t see Aemond as a relation either, and Rhaenyra supposes she can’t blame her. 

Rhaenyra feels the fire cut across her, scorching but passing like a fever. Syrax’s wing and Aemond’s mount have deflected the worst of the flame, and the heat it leaves almost feels pleasant at this altitude. 
 
When the Cannibal snaps its jagged-toothed maw at Sunfyre, Vermithor lunges with maw open, ripping at one of the creature’s distended wings. Rhaenyra is close enough that she can smell the greasy smell of grease, the same scent that clung to Aegon for days after his arrival. She could reach out and slap Aemond, if she weren’t lashed in, and at this distance, she can make out the oily sheen of his mount’s scales. The beast whips around to glare at the Bronze Fury with baleful anger, and for a moment Rhaenyra sees human malevolence in the dragon’s remaining, jade-green eye. 
 
It’s there and gone, but it’s enough to put the chill back down her back. She remembers her father, gilded in shadow and candlelight before Balerion’s black skull, back before it all went so terribly wrong— 
 
The idea that we control the dragons is an illusion. They’re a power man should never have trifled with— 

And when he had been a young man, her Father had bonded Balerion.

One flight with Daenys the Dreamer’s cradle-hatched dragon and he had spent the rest of his life neglecting his family and kingdom to rebuild a little Valyria… and fearing the dragon bond. 

Gods be good, what had he dreamed?  

What had he been shown? 
 
The look in that dragon’s eye makes her wonder, and that’s almost enough to make a fatal mistake. She sees the fire in the exact same instant that it leaves the Cannibal’s throat. 
It’s the same deep green as the jade tiara Daemon brought her from his travels, the one she never wore after her wedding night. The colour had matched Alicent’s dress exactly, and it had burnt her eyes to look at it for years. 
 
 It’s the same now, a brightness almost blinding, and Rhaenyra thinks
 
 Dracarys— 
 
 A flash of silvery-blue blocks her view of the fire, a gust of wind sends Syrax flapping backwards, and Rhaenyra’s ears ring with Aemond’s shrieked command— 
 “DAOR!” 
 
 The furious rumble that splits the night sky sets the water thousands of feet below them to quaking, as though hammers pound the earth of the seabed. Syrax shrieks and the rest of the dragons are likewise affected; Rhaenyra can feel the air drop out from under her, a sickening loss of altitude that sets her stomach to squelching. 
Syrax shudders and recovers, and when she rights herself from the inversion, it’s to see the Cannibal fleeing to the western horizon, pursued at breakneck speed by Vermithor and his vicious rider, with Dreamfyre holding the rear guard over Driftmark. She’s saddle-less, but Rhaenyra thinks of the look in the Cannibal’s eye and wonders how much intelligence is stuffed in the silver-blue she-dragon. 
 
“She’s going to kill him”, Jace says. “Rhaena, I mean.” He holds Vermax steady at her side, cheeks are pale as a ghost. “Muña— He nearly killed you. If it weren’t for Dreamfyre—“ 

“You will be a good king”, Rhaenyra says, feeling a bit like she’s had her soul knocked out of her. She’d stared down the abomination’s throat, seen the flames curdle, and she had known in that instant that her son would carry on, despite her. That he would not falter, no matter what. It’s the only thing she can think of to say that encompasses how proud she is of her magnificent son. 

“I don’t want to do it over your dead body”, her heir says, aghast, and Rhaenyra thanks the gods for all the men that made him so good. 

She takes in a deep breath for what feels like the first time in millennia, watching as Vermithor flares one last gout of fire at the departing serpent and then banks sharply over the distant lights of Rook’s Rest. 

It appears Alicent will not lose her son today. 

Rhaenyra’s too tired of war to feel relief for her poor lady. She wants this over. Wants to taste a simple peace and grow old in comfort and quiet. In the end, after a long moment, Rhaenyra just nods. “Let’s bring the flock to roost.” 

Chapter Text

RHAENYS

They’ve been flying so long her tailbone feels bruised from the saddle, but Rhaenys is keen to end this war. She will not accomplish that by taking pit stops to walk off muscle cramps. 

She’s organized the dragons into a sharp V formation, spaced at fifty foot intervals and angled such that none faces the rear of another in order to prevent an incident of less than friendly fire. The distance is also far enough apart that any of the dragon’s grease should ignite in the air orather than on them, should they care to try it. 

Unlike horses, dragons are disinclined to follow in a straight line, and it’s easier to take advantage of upwash in tight formation. Daemon and Addam hold the rear flanks of the V, ensuring that the more inexperienced riders are kept in tight flight, and each dragon wears a red lantern around its neck to provide a visual reference while flying at night. It’s far more advanced work than she’d like for this first flight together, but there’s nothing for it. She looks back, peering through the blackness to check on her other riders. 

Her newest cousin sits a dragon-saddle like he was born on one, Silverwing trilling delightedly under him as the wind bells her colossal wings out. The young girl tucked tightly between her parents never speaks, but Rhaenys notices the sliver of her lilac-grey eyes watching the clouds passing below them. Every now and again, a grey whisp slips out from a cirrus cloud and into view as the Grey Ghost tracks their party, undoubtedly following the bond. 

Rhaenys knows they’ll need to be careful with Saera’s son. If he’s ambitious enough to have come to Westeros and stayed, he’s not one to be underestimated, and he and his daughter will have the love of the commons. Rhaenys knows she’ll needs must mention it to Rhaenyra, if only to nip it in the bud. 

Thankfully, the Queen has done the hard work of reconciling with the Hightowers herself. It would appear pillow diplomacy has worked, insofar as they’re not all at each others’s throats. 
Of course, their collective progeny have decided to go at other organs entirely, leaving her with yet another thorn-briar of a problem to attempt to prune barehanded. 

As it stands, the only Hightower not to give her problems is flying beside her, and yet nearly invisible. Daeron sits the saddle as though he’s practiced it, but his body moves against the dragon’s flight — the sign of someone just learning the air. To make matters worse, the small dragon Tessarion is virtually indistinguishable from the night sky itself, and so small Meleys might whip her about like a terrier with a rat.
As though sensing her vulnerabilities, the small dragon’s cobalt blue hue disappears unless she’s silhouetted against the grey cloud.

In that, she’s Seasmoke’s exact opposite. The grey dragon banks and shifts, picking up each updraft off the waves like he’s gliding. He is much more confident in the air than Tessarion, but Addam is less easy in the saddle, shifting from side to side as though he’s counting the miles. 

He looks the way she feels. 

Daemon, of course, radiates an aura of smug silence that she can hear from all the way over here, and Caraxes seems fresh as a blood puddle. 

She can only imagine what this must look like from below, and is quietly grateful that it is the dead of night. She doesn’t need the terrified smallfolk of Sharp Point announcing their presence with a cacophony of bells and a chorus of terrified screams. 

They pass from continental shelf to deep water with a little drop of altitude and a roll of the gut. She can hear Lady Kat make an unhappy noise, but Alicent and Corlys’s sons both breath through it like warriors. The Bay below them is as black as a yawning mouth and above them, the sky blazes with the glow of a thousand thousand stars, but ahead of them, the islands of Driftmark and Dragonstone are painted with an evil orange glow. 

The water around them is the same colour, and it takes Rhaenys but a moment to realize the problem. “We’ve being sacked.” 

“Been”, Daemon corrects. “The ships are all aflame. What I want to know is why some of the fire is green.”

“Who would attack? Those don’t look like Lannister ships”, Daeron says from her right side. 

“Triarchy galleys, each with at least 170 rowers”, Addam tells her from the left. “They’re common in the Narrow Sea, but those are thick with armaments. And the sea is thick with them.” 

“What are those?” Hugh jerks his chin at the ships looming out of the far darkness of the Narrow Sea. They’re yet an hour away, if she rough-eyeballs the distance but from this altitude she can see forever, and hear as clear as the Gods themselves. The deep drums she hears accompanying them are as familiar to Rhaenys as her heartbeat, itself syncopated with giddy relief. 
“My lord husband’s fleet”, she says, with a hard smile. Below her, she can hear the bugle of a conch signalling the sailors to war, and Meleys dips a single wing into the darkness. 

Corlys. Her errant lover, returned to her like driftwood from the sea. 

Ahead of her, the sky ripples with green phosphorescence. Shapes are silhouetted against the acrid, acid glow. Rhaenys recognizes Moondancer’s sharp angles and Vermax’s solid bulk and even Syrax’s aerodynamic curves are lightning-flashed against her retinas. 

The thing that makes her gut churn with cold bile is the shape of something sinuous and massive, larger even than Vhagar, blocking the green light of its fire. What it lacks in bulk it seems to make up for in length and wingspan, and the creature’s deep chest is large enough that Rhaenys is sure it might swallow a dragon Syrax’s size nearly whole.  

“What am I looking at?” Daemon’s flapped up to her side, even as Caraxes snaps and hisses at the boiling sky ahead of them. 

“I don’t know”, Rhaenys admits. “I don’t like it.”

“I know it”, Alicent’s youngest son says, fighting to be heard over the howling of the wind and the shrieking of the dragons. “That’s Aemond’s dragon. My lady, it is an abomination—“

Hugh nods, face grim. “The Prince says it true. Though, if that’s a dragon, I am not sure who’s riding who. Begging your pardon, my lady, my lords.” 
That’s true enough; Rhaenys can hear Aemond’s high laugh even over the shriek of the wind and the intermittent roaring of dragons, and it doesn’t sound entirely sane. Then, a bellow so loud it makes Rhaenys’s sternum shudder cracks the night. 

“Vermithor”, Daemon breathes, and Rhaenys snaps around in her saddle to stare at him. 

“Who—“ they’re out of potential riders, unless— 

But no, Rhaena would not be so—

“Is he chasing that thing?!” Daemon’s voice is tight as two titanic dragons barrel across the blackness of night towards the shores of Rook’s Rest. “That’s suicide—“

A smear of gold streaks out from under the larger dragon’s slip-stream, using the lift of Vermithor’s searing flames to snap and harry at the monstrous dragon’s silver-haired rider.
“That’s Sunfyre-“ Daeron breathes, and suddenly Rhaenys’s chest is tight with pride and fear.  

It would appear her granddaughter has not claimed one dragon, but two. 

“It’s coming our way”, Addam says, and Rhaenys urges Meleys forward. The other dragons bugle their response; once engaged, dragons never shirk a battle. Each contributes their flame, different shades of orange, white and yellow painting the sky like watercolours. Fire gouts towards, hot as the Fourteen Flames and as high as the Wall, so searing that even Rhaenys’s sun-brown face feels tight with the desert-dry blast of air. 

Her stepson’s premonition is proven correct a moment later when the beast banks to avoid the flames, slowing him just enough that Rhaena is able to close the distance. Vermithor follows in blazing pursuit like a hound after a boar, Rhaena fierce as her name-sake on his back. 

Rhaenys can hear her shriek as the beasts whip past, a clash of consonants howled at a decibel level so loud that it’s audible even at altitude. 
“Gaoman daor pendagon aoha muñar issi sesīr hen keskydoso lentor!” 

Beneath her, Meleys drops a foot of altitude in sheer shock. “Did she—“

Daemon has no such surprise.
“There she is!” His face is split in a smile as sharp as Valyrian steel and the pride in his voice rings out like the hiss of a tempered blade. He strains in the saddle as though he might slip his own bonds and join her fight, even as it’s clear she needs no assistance. By the time Daemon’s reacted, Caraxes is roaring in fury at the beast’s long-retreated back. 
Rhaena pursues, harrying the beast until he disappears over land accompanied by Vermithor’s low roar of challenge. Only once the Bronze Fury is assured of the sanctity of his territory does he deign to bank and come winging back towards them, two riders on his back and a smaller dragon flying under him. 

Daeron peers into the darkness as though it might whisper sense to him. 
“Is that Aegon under her?” Daeron sounds as though he isn’t sure he believes his eyes. 

Daemon snorts, clearly still convinced his daughter can do no wrong. Rhaenys shares his opinion, so she stays silent when he ever-so-casually remarks, “Alicent’s going to love this.” 

Rhaenys keeps her voice low lest she give the woman’s son something to fear. “Daemon, pray the Lady Alicent remains well. Rhaena’s fury may be one of vengeance.”

Daemon rolls his eyes at her, as allergic to emotion as ever. “Hells, Rhaenys, I didn’t know you were an optimist-“

“You’re wearing her blood smear on your left tit like a banner, my lord”, Addam points out, presumably under the misapprehension he’s being helpful. “I don’t think you’re one to talk.” 
Rhaenys is acutely reminded of Laenor, and for a mad moment, wishes he’d been able to meet his brothers. 

He might have felt less alone — might have had less pressure to— 

What-ifs are water under the oars, she knows, and resolutely puts the thoughts aside. 

“Oh, I’m all for peace talks-“ Daemon is oozing at her husband’s son. “Especially ones whispered over pillows.” 

Rhaenys has to laugh at his optimism. She isn’t sure the two Queens have even managed to find themselves alone in a room together. They’ve been entirely too good at heirmaking, and now suffer from an abundance of success and an dearth of free time. 

She hopes. 

They might all be charred husks, the castle so much melted slag. The beast is vicious, and the dragon he rides is large and powerful. She will not underestimate the abomination that is Aemond Kinslayer. She can only hope that Rhaena’s fierce smile and vicious insult means success is within her reach. 

Her grim musings are interrupted by Daeron’s spluttered, 
“What’s this about you and my lady mother?”

“Oh, my Prince”, Rhaenys whispers in dawning horror. He doesn’t know—

 Daemon, the profligate prick, just laughs in the boy’s face. 

*** 

Vermithor and his riders are the last of the flock to kiss the earth, landing with a resounding thud that rattles the crenellations. It doesn’t escape Rhaenys’s notice that her granddaughter assists Aegon down, careful as any gentleman. 

Then, Rhaenys’s heart breaks with gladness and sorrow alike at the way Alicent Hightower wails her son’s name. 
“Daeron?!” She’s moving forward, long before the little dragon has landed. “DAERON!” 

His eyes go wide and he stumbles off of his mount’s back before the dust of the courtyard has even settled. For a moment, he hangs back, as though struggling to be strong, to remain stoic. 

Rhaenys has seen her son wear that expression, seen that glass-fragile rigidity, and knows that there is nothing holding him together but surface tension. 

It is the moment a glass cracks, but has not yet shattered— 

Daemon slides off of Caraxes’s back, removing his helmet and propping it on his hip as though merely returning from tourney. 
“As promised, my lady. A son, for a son.”

Alicent looks at him with wide and hollow eyes. 
“Daemon— you returned him to me. I— Daeron—“ Alicent stops, hands at her mouth for a moment. Her son is nearly her height, a comely lad who will grow more handsome yet. But his eyes are still puppy-soft, and hollow with his troubles. Alicent Hightower watches her son for a moment and then sighs softly. 

“I’m sure you have been so very brave, my dearest. May I say hello?” 

And then, like Laenor coming to her to beg forgiveness, to apologize for being as the gods made him, and later to weep over the loss of his lover with an anguish that had torn Rhaenys’s heart to hear— 
The shell of the man splinters into the grief of the boy, and he runs for his mother. 

“Daeron, my dearest— oh!” He is yet a child under the armour, no older than the young lady slight as a bird in her father’s arms, and for a moment Rhaenys envies Alicent so badly she can taste tears. 

“Wish she’d felt that way about me”, Aegon says under his breath, as though he doesn’t expect anyone to hear. She and Rhaena are both within earshot, but before her granddaughter can open her mouth, instinct has her reaching out to give the man’s good shoulder a squeeze. 

“That woman walked into a dragon’s maw for your sake, twice. She was ready to rip Rhaenyra’s head off for your sake. She might not know what to do with you, but she loves you more than she loves herself. Know that, if nothing else.”

She looks away, then, because she is a mother and yet has no children. Her eyes lift to the sky, blocking out the salt water that is so keen to fall, and so it is she that calls the first alarm, high and clear. 
“DRAGONS INCOMING.” 

They circle ahead like buzzards, each wheeling down lower and lower. Jace comes first, Vermax roaring defiance to all in earshot. 
Sheepstealer comes next, cutting through the air like so much heaved pudding. It’s clear why the animal likes mutton; it’s favouring a leg, and no doubt taking flight must be a challenge. It must hunt by launching itself off of the cliffs and then climbing back up like a lizard. 

Fascinating. 

Almost as interesting is the young woman on his back, knuckles white as a Queensguard cloak, and skin brown as a nut. 
Rhaenys’s stomach drops, but when she turns around there’s no hint of her lord husband in the girl’s narrow fox-like features. She chatters absently to the dragon at her side, and Rhaenys’s ear picks up the singsong merchant slang of Spicetown, further putting her heart at ease. A true dragon seed, dropped like so much dandelion fluff in the breeze. 

Rhaenys lifts her eyes to the heavens, where dragons still wheel in the early dawn. 

Syrax is the colour of a gold coin, catching every hint of the early dawn light. Baela, though, is visible only when her cloak reflects the darkness. They hang suspended in the aether, sun and only once the Dragonkeepers have lowered their pikes and the guards retreated does he signal for Rhaenyra to land. 

The Queen comes down hot and fast, skidding to a stop, even as Baela circles above, the last to leave. It’s clear she’s the rear guard, and she hangs suspended a moment longer than perhaps she should. 

The reason why is quickly evident. 

The dragons, riderless but each claimed, have taken to circling overhead in an ever wider vortex;  the skies over the Bay are thick with the creatures in all directions. 

No sooner has Moondancer touched earth than Baela hops down without assistance, releasing her to soar upwards with a single heave of her wings. Jace is cautious, helping his mother down with a care that makes Rhaenys wonder just how close the battle was. 

“Your Grace”, he says, and that’s all it takes for Hugh Hammer’s wife to drop into an inelegant but bedrock deep curtsey. 
Rhaenyra, without even thinking, reaches out and gets Kat back to her feet. “None of that. Not today.” The woman looks up at her, eyes wide in surprise to be addressed so familiarly by royalty. Rhaenyra seems to pay it little mind. Her gaze has already shifted to Hugh’s, and to the dragon Silverwing behind him. The child cradled in his arms coughs, a bone-deep rattle. 
She pauses for a moment, and then speaks. “You flew here to fight for me, and I thank you for it. What is your name?”
 
“I am called Hugh Hammer, Your Grace—“

“Seven hells—“, Aegon whispers to Rhaena, loud enough this time to be overheard. “I owe him money-“

Alicent’s head whips around like a serpent. “What?” 

Hammer’s eyes are wide when he looks to their burned some-time sovereign. 
“You remember?”
For some reason, his wife sounds a bit shifty. “He remembers?”

Rhaenyra, at least, keeps her wits about her. 
“Aegon! For what!”

He lifts his hands as though he were holding a shield. “Scorpions!”

“Gods be good, Aegon!” Rhaenys can recognize sibling frustration the way she can sniff dragon at a distance and Rhaenyra is as frazzled as ever an elder sister was. “For what?!” 

“The dragons!” 

“Did we think that through?” Rhaenys is curious  “Consider if it’s a good idea to teach the smallfolk how to shoot us out of the sky.” 

“Exactly!” Rhaenyra says, sounding so much like Laena at her most precocious that it makes Rhaenys’s heart ache  

Aegon scowls right back up at his eldest sister. “I was mad at you!” 

“Then why didn’t you pay in advance?!” 

An excellent question; Rhaenys would ask it herself. 

He shrugs. 
“… the coffers were empty. Your blockade made me broke!”

Daemon rolls his eyes. “Don’t you have a Lannister? Hold him by the ankles and shake until his pockets empty.” 

“Don’t be clever now, uncle Daemon, the Crown is broke and Rhaenyra owes that fine craftsman money!”

For a moment, silence reigns supreme over all, and then Rhaenyra groans, lip curling in adolescent disgust. 
“What— …. … oh, go on, you think you’re so silver-tongued.”

Never one to choose discretion or valour, Aegon opens his mouth wide enough to stuff his dragon in it. “Your step-daughter says so”, he says, all smarm. 

Rhaenys should take offence at the insinuation, but Rhaena just smiles like she plans on taking it out of his hide later. Who is she to interrupt her granddaughter’s flirting. 

Or Daemon’s fun, for that matter. 

“My daughter says so”, the man says, looming at Aegon as though to remind him that they have a lifetime of cosanguination to look forward to. 

Aegon goes as pale as though he’d been examined. “Oh.” 
The word is rife with horror. 

“You’ll manage”, Rhaena assures him. “He only breathes flame.” 

“Only”, Aegon says, as though he’d rather walk into Caraxes’s open maw than make eye contact with his grinning future father in law. 

Perhaps Alicent’s Gods are the true ones, because it’s the Smith who intervenes, in the end. 
“If I might-“ Hugh interjects. 

Rhaenys leaps at the opportunity. “Please, do save his majesty from his own wit.”

He nods, pale-faced but game. 
“May I present my wife, Kat Weaver of Tumbleton and our daughter, Saera.”

“Saera”, Rhaenyra says, and Hugh nods.  

“For my mother.”

“… the one the Old King sent away—“ Rhaenys’s eyes narrow in realization. “Three of her sons came to the Great Council. One brought elephants, if I recall.”

Hugh makes a noise of disgust. “That one was the son of a Triarch-“

“I remember him. Puffed up like a peacock, had everything to say about Westeros and none of it pleasant. A cocky little prick”, Daemon sneers. “I dreamt of feeding him and his ridiculous animals to Caraxes for weeks after the farce at Harrenhal.”

“There’s a reason I stayed behind when they returned to Essos”, Hugh admits.  

“Oh? You ceded them the continent?” Rhaenys had always been curious where those men had gone, although she’d had problems of her own to deal with. 

“No, I found my own.”

“OHO!” That’s Daemon’s bark of a laugh; almost a challenge. “Aren’t you a chip off the old Dragonstone!”

“That’s all very good”, the Queen interjects. “But let’s save the start of the second Targaryen civil war for tomorrow, if you please.” Rhaenyra’s been so quiet that the rest seem to have forgotten her — all but the Dowager Queen and the Crown Prince, who attend to her like loyal hounds. 
“After today, I would invade the Grey Wastes for a bath and a meal. If I can trust you all not to conquer my kingdom in my absence, I suggest we all retire to our suites and refresh ourselves, before reconvening in an hour and a half to take the morning meal and get to know each other a bit better when we’re not all suffering from battle-shakes.” 
She pauses for a moment, looking at the way Saera shivers in the chilly Blackwater wind. “The young lady is chilled by her flight, and I mislike the rattle in her lungs. We’ve excellent Maesters here, I will-“ 

Fall over where she stands, if nobody does anything. 

Rhaenys intervenes. 

“Your Grace, I will see to the details. Go, refresh yourself.” 

“Thank you, Lady Hand. Daemon-“

He looks up from where he’s got his daughter’s’ hands clasped in a tight grip. 
“Your Grace?”

“May I trust you to see to the dragons and their riders? They’ll need billeting. The family quarters will need airing, but there ought to be enough space.”

“Of course”, he says, eyes keen at the new command. 

“Jace. Baela.”

Their heads pop up like daisies. “Your Grace?”

Her voice is tired, but the tone rings with pride. “You have both served admirably this evening, and every soul between the Whispers and Stoneden owes their lives to you. We are grateful to you both. If you would ask anything of the Crown, I would see it granted.”

“I-“ Rhaenys’s grandson opens his mouth, and then shuts it; for a moment, the words seem stuck. 

Baela opens her mouth. “Jace-“

The words escape then, unstoppered and overflowing like sparkling wine. “I would ask the Crown’s permission to take the Lady Helaena Targaryen to wife in the tradition of the Faith of the Seven, and the Lady Baela Targaryen to wife in the rites of Old Valyria, as is the custom of our House.”

“Do you have her mother’s blessing?”
Rhaenyra’s eyes cut to Alicent, as Rhaenys knew they would. She also knows that this is a marriage the Queen has suggested before, to curtail bloodshed through a shared lineage. 

She wonders if it will work now. 

Jace makes a valiant attempt. “Your Majesty, you may doubt the legitimacy of my Velaryon blood and the quality of my alliances, but you must know the strength of my character and of my arms. I would apply both to the care of the Princess Helaena. My lady Baela, of course, shares none of my faults and all of the high virtue of her joined legacies — she is born of sea, and tempered by fire, and her lineage dates to Valyria. Her parents are noble dragon lords and her grandsires equally prestigious.”

Baela interjects, fierce in the defence of her fiancee. “Jace is gentle and kind, and he’s curious. She trusts him, and he understands her. My lord the Crown Prince is noble, and honourable, and loyal — all traits most appealing in a husband. Moreover, we love your daughter and pray you believe we would allow no harm to come to the Princess Helaena, as long as she might choose to have us.”

Alicent’s mouth falls open, but before she can speak, the lady herself slips out of the open courtyard door and pipes up for herself. 

“I should think the lady in question is perfectly capable of her own defence”, the once and future queen says dreamily. “I do have a dragon, after all.”

She smiles, light as a sunbeam.

“Hello, Daeron. I’m sorry Aemond frightened you.”

The boy looks so uneasy Rhaenys knows she’ll need to do some digging there to find out what’s gone wrong in Oldtown.

“Hello, my darlings”, she says, pressing a chaste kiss to Baela and Jace’s lips in turn. 
“You both danced beautifully. Just like I dreamed it. I should like to be your queen of the seven very much. Jace, I’ve a cloak for you, as well.” 
She hands it to him carefully, a heavy weight of onyx shards and red silk, a perfect match to the one Baela wears. The shards glisten with liquid, and Jace carefully passes the cloak to a servant in order to cradle her hands. “Mother, I should like you to give me your blessing.” 

“Of course I do”, Alicent murmurs, and for once it doesn’t sound like a concession is being wrung out of her by the rack. “Be happy, my dragonfly.”

Helaena smiles, dabbing away a tear, but that leaves a smear on her cheek. 
“My Lady”, Jace murmurs, “you’re bleeding.”

Indeed she is, and so are the children trailing in her wake. Neither child seems particularly perturbed — which might and something to do with the fact that each cradles their dragon like a babe, and each creature laps at their bloody hands like motherless kittens seeking out milk-soaked rags. 

It’s the eeriest thing Rhaenys has seen in her life, and she has lived a full one. 

“Aren’t we all”, Helaena adds, only contributing to the uncanniness of it. “And yet, that only shows that our hearts yet beat hot blood. The children cut themselves on some glass”, she adds blithely, and Rhaena’s eyes narrow. 

“As did you.”

“How curious.”

“The candle”, Rhaena starts, and Helaena only shrugs. 

“The lamp burned out its oil. Aemond had hoped to find enough light to sear the sky, but was disappointed.” 

“I’d say he came too close for comfort”, Daemon mutters. 

“True enough, and yet irrelevant at the moment. Make conversation later, Daemon. See to your ducklings now.
“Rhaena, escort Prince Aegon, Princess Helaena, Lady Saera and the children to the Maester if you please. No doubt you’ll all need some tending. The rest of you, see to your dragons. Your Majesty, might I rely upon you to tend to Her Grace? I gather she has had something of a difficult day.”

Alicent nods, eyes wide and shocky.  

If Daemon seems perturbed, it doesn’t show. He just claps a hand on Aegon’s neck and offers a shit-eating serpent’s grin as he leads him— and the other riders — away. “Come along, my Prince, and tell me about your ride with my daughter.”
Aegon looks acutely terrified, but Rhaena stays at his side. When she links her arm with his good one, Aegon’s spine straightens and he walks a bit taller. 

“She was magnificent—”, he says, and it’s the last she hears as they disappear into the darkness of the pit. 

 “Thank you, Rhaenys”, the Queen says, once they’re nearly alone. “Thank you.” 
 
Gratitude weighs heavy as a mountain in every word. Rhaenys simply bows her head before it. 
“Rhaenyra.”

“Come, your Grace”, Alicent murmurs, linking her arm with the Queen’s as though they’re just girls out for a garden stroll. The quiet invitation is enough to spur Rhaenyra into movement. 

That leaves Rhaenys almost alone.

For the first time in days, she sucks in a breath and feels her lungs expand past the tension balled tight in her chest. 

She has survived. 

They all have. 

“She— none of this is anything at all what I expected.” That’s from the sharp-featured woman in the woven linen tunic dress. 

Hugh’s wife, suddenly elevated from weaver to a dragon-lady.

“You get used to it eventually”, Rhaenys says, looking as Rhaenyra’s figure disappears into the dark of the Dragonmont like a phantom.

Chapter Text

AEMOND 

He is tired. 

His head hurts, a throbbing that makes his remaining eyeball feel like an ice pick into his brain. Agony is a familiar companion, but this is the worst pain Aemond has ever felt. 

Despite the second inhabitant in his soul, this is also the most alone he has ever been. 

The Ancient One flees the dawn, winging westward overland as sunlight chases them like a scourge. Aemond clings to his back as Rook’s Rest passes below them, and fury prickles at him. 

It was here he lost everything— 

Aemond throttles his rage, swallowing back the fire that threatens to rise and choke him. Burning the ants below him to cinders would accomplish nothing other than alerting his enemies to his direction of travel. 

Let them hunt him through the darkness. 

It is easier if he is alone. Then nobody can betray him, the bond whispers, soothing as aloe on a burn. The only one he has ever been able to rely upon is himself — that has ever been a hard home truth. 

Memories of unfair fights fill his mind like bile in his mouth. He can recall the indignity of being given a pig with wings by a braying pack of boys who would never see Aemond as worth the time. He can recall the brutality of an unfair fight, the bone-deep loss at the sure knowledge that he would be forever excluded from the merry ranks now. 

Then, the horror of his father’s interrogation, even as Aemond’s empty eye socket still wept bloody fluid. The hateful and laughable fact that he could be permanently maimed simply to protect the sanctity of Rhaenyra’s reputation. 

It had been Viserys’s own punishment to lose his eye. Aemond still remembers the day Grandmaester Mellos had announced it, too; the memory warms his soul like a summer sunbeam. 

It remains one of the purely happy days of his life. 

It feels very long ago, now. 

Time fades in and out, along with his vision. It doesn’t matter; his only duty is to hold on. They fly at breakneck speed, faster than Vhagar had ever felt spurred to go. Unlike his dear grand dame, this creature has no care for Aemond’s comfort. It whips through the air like a winter breeze, and it’s all he can manage to hold on to the archaic handles bolted into the dragon’s scaled neck. 

Below, he can see the lights of Maidenpool to his left, and Wickenden to the right. The foothills of the Mountains of the Moon rise up ahead of them, and the dragon careens towards them. It’s clear it will need to roost soon, and better that they’re not spotted during the day. 

It takes a few passes but eventually Aemond spots a crevasse large enough to hide inside, and the Ancient One comes down in a slow glide, ominous as a vulture. Their roost is on the steep cliffs to the south-west of the Redfort, and in the last remaining shadows of the pre-dawn gloaming, the Ancient One leaves Aemond and goes to hunt. 

He hungers for the blood of the dragon, the potent magic that lurks within the beasts, but sating his physical appetites will suffice for now. 

Aemond’s own mouth waters for fresh fruit and crisp salads, for cool water and a hundred thousand things he knows he’ll never taste again. 

Even if he wins — the Ancient One is beyond such petty mortal delights, and even now Aemond feels the heavy storm-cloud weight of his presence as the dragon approaches. 

Daylight crests, but the dragon crawls inside the deep crevasse after Aemond, and here, almost shielded from view, they dream away the day. 

*** 

THE BLOODSTONE EMPEROR 

He dreams of home, although it has been a long time since last he saw it. 

He can smell the scent of osmanthus drifting through the lattice screens as vividly as though he were standing there. Shapes move in the sky, and two full moons providing enough light to see through the gauze draped over the windows. The shapes outside soar and dip and spin, riding the wind with all the ease of birds. 

Dragons, he knows — out on patrol, or else the creatures are ferrying in the tributes and lesser nobles which always arriving and departing. 

Jixueshi rejoices at the strength of his people. 

He can feel the fresh breeze of the early evening on his cheeks as though he were drinking it in through his skin. White wooden beams soar from the floor nigh to the heavens, perfuming the air with the resinous, nearly bitter scent of its wood. 

In his dreams, he is free of his prison, and the feeling of cool marble under his bare feet is a blessed relief. 

The world is right, and full of all good things. 

It has ever been thus, so long as he has lived. He has never known want, nor penury, nor even the ache of loneliness— 

For his sister is there, ever behind him with a hand on his shoulder or a bump of the hip, a wry smile when their father is wroth, or a steady gaze when his own temper flares. 

She is his constant; steady as the moons, and gentle as the mother he never knew well enough to miss. 

“Jixueshi”, his elder sister calls, holding out a hand. “Where have you been hiding all this time?” 

In the way of dreams, one moment she is a girl, cheeks still soft with baby fat— 

In the next blink, he has touched her hand, and she is a young woman, so heartrendingly beautiful that he cannot wait to possess her for his own and be possessed by her in turn—
But her face is twisted in sorrow, and the hall has changed around him. They stand now in a smaller but no less ornate room, incense masking the smell of sweet rot as they watch an old man breathe his last. 

He remains at Shujing’s side until the end, until the withered grey hand of their father drops from her head, and the keening begins. 

It is Jixueshi who raises his sister up. 

It is his hands that place the jade and amethyst fenguan on her brow, he who renames her Nissa Nissa. The word for the divine and the crown are the same, and so he blesses her with them twice, for she is Goddess below and Empress above in equal measure. 
Jixueshi is the first to kneel and kiss her robes, and the first to be lifted from his obeisance by her hands. “Stay beside me”, she whispers, and he believes she means forever. 

It is the deepest betrayal when he learns that she does not. 

The truth about dragons — cultivated from the finest sources, using the highest arts and only by those who have passed the most rigorous of studies — cleaves them like a blow to the soul. 

Ruin comes quickly; in the manner of dreams, he can see it spiderwebbing out like red veins beneath the membrane of a wing. 

They have dragons, hundreds each. It is expected of them; each heir must have their cortège and guards. Dragons and the men from the sunset lands who command them guard the gates, wage wars, run messages and serve at the pleasure of the crown. 

It has ever been thus, as true a fact as the moon. 

So what if they were made for a purpose, plucked from lesser races and combined into a glorious whole? If they were created to serve, would it not be crueller to deny them their vocation? Jixueshi doesn’t understand why their slavish obedience bothers Shujing so terribly. Is it not their collectuve duty to serve their God-Empress?

In this regard, Jixueshi is no higher than the lowest dragon-binder. 

He lives to serve Shujing, and if he could command the dead, they would rise from their eternal rest if only to kneel at her feet. 

He doesn’t understand why she won’t fly with him any longer, will no longer take to the clouds on her palanquin. 

Doesn’t understand why she cares to intervene on the behalf of the dragons, or why she punishes the grand lady Hyeyu for putting one down. The lady has many dragons for whom promotion to body service will be a privilege — why should she retain an petulant one? When he asks his sister this, the look she gives him is so cold it ices his marrow. 

For a time, he tries not to think on it. 

He is not a God, nor even a king, only the brother to one. He cannot understand the unfathomable. Perhaps in her mercy as a divine being, Shujing feels called to pity. 

It is not to be. 

In the end, it is a mortal failing that kills the Shujing he knows. 

It is love, simple and pure and wrong. 

She dies the day he he finds her, coiled in the embrace of her guard. It is a travesty. A sin. 

The creature is not human. He is other. 

Other, from that barbaric land beyond the sunset. Other, for he was a greenseer — another species; a creature of forest and cave. Other, for he is not of their Empire — he was created by it, lives only to serve a purpose, at their pleasure. 

His hands should only ever hold a dragon’s leash. 

And yet, the creature dares touch her. 

He dares press his mouth to hers, to taste and defile the hallowed flesh that even Jixueshi must only dream of? 

Abomination. 

The word is a sharp as the shattered glass in his fist, the wine he had thought to offer her spilling like blood between his fingers. Then it is blood, reeking and hot and sullying his hands with its animal musk. 

He throws the greenseer to his beast. 

Shujing screams, a sound so high and horrible it rattles his soul to endure. Her wail sounds like agony, and he is ecstatic at the sure knowledge that without him— without the other, wild man from that hateful place —Shujing is his. 
Jixueshi reaches out for her; she claws at his eyes. When her nail sinks in, spilling vitreous humour down his cheek, agony and instinct make him to smash his fist into the side of her head. 

She drops like a rock, but at least she stops her keening. 

It isn’t all good. The abrupt cessation of her cry catches the monster’s attention. The dragon’s eyes focus and then, with clear deliberation, the dragon snaps his chains one by one. 

He uses a steady, low gout if fire to do it, heating the iron until it weakens and snaps. The creature never breaks his gaze. In that moment, Jixueshi knows fear, for the creature that stares at him contains a man’s intelligence in the body of a weapon. 
The creature reaches out, masterless and yet sane, and carefully clasps Shujing’s unconscious body in its talons. Jixueshi reaches out, but the reptilian scent of ichor and fire fills the air and he drops his hand. There is a moment where he thinks he will die, but he realizes the dragon cannot attack him, and protect its prey. The creature makes its choice — he whirls, and takes flight in one ungainly flap. 

Chaos erupts throughout the city and in the scrum, the beast escapes. Shujing has taught it how to evade capture, and for a time, there is a chase. Jixueshi sends out scouts, ranging as far afield north as the Leisi, and as far south as the Qaathi. They return, but none have news. 

But the one he sends to the sunset lands never returns and that — that is a sign. 

As in the red comet he sees overhead, arching like a red dragon towards the sunset lands. The tail splits the sky like the slice of a whip, leaving a bleeding tail in its wake. 

The new Emperor is clever, and tracks the red wanderer to its homeland far in the west. 
He would wager that Shujing and her inhuman lover have succeeded in blending into the wild backwater, far from their colonies and their glass candles. 
Nevertheless, it isn’t all a green hell. There are a few quaint outposts serving as extraction ports for the ships that ferry fresh tithes across, and it is to them that Jixueshi goes first. 

The pearl divers are as insipid as ever, still worshipping their repulsive greasy stone and considering themselves too grand to grow plants. They have no news of Shujing, and he is glad to leave their miserable, salt-crusted rocks. 

The men who cling to the golden rock are even more useless still. None claim to have seen her, and the governor sent to pacify the region is a man so vain his underlings claim he robbed the sun of its gold. 

Jixueshi would laugh if he thought the man was worth the effort, but he isn’t. The lord in front of him is too low-caste to merit a coterie of dragons. Given that the local greenseers have been eradicated, Shujing’s beast will find no allies here. He leaves, allowing these rubes to content themselves with being big fish in dry puddles. 

He travels down the coast, searching outpost after outpost, hovel after hovel. 

The settlement at the mouth of the Whispering Sound is more helpful. While they haven’t heard of Shujing and her mount, they do report that the neighbouring Dayen have been making unhappy noises about the Empresses’s prolonged absence. 

Now he knows where they where sheltered, and he can guess where they are going. 

He catches Shuijing and her beast on their desperate flight north.

There is an island on this ugly continent where the magic runs deep as the roots of the trees. The creatures that call this backwater home say it is holy, so he lands his beast there, and lurks amidst the green trees until his sister approaches. 

He hopes this island is sacred to the creature his sister loves, for he intends to desecrate it. 

His trap snaps shut on Shujing over the island, falling like a lightning bolt out of the sky. They fly fast and fight hard, but in the end, he wins. 

The dragon — and the abomination inside of it — falls from the sky. Shujing falls with him. They land on the shore opposite the island in a broken and crumpled heap. 

He is dead. 

She yet lives. 

That, of course, is his opportunity. 

There is power in blood, and no blood is more holy than theirs. They are descended from the God on Earth, the only manifestation of divinity in their ugly world, and Jixueshi knows he can harness the power that even now curdles the air around them. 

Black fury fills him at the knowledge of Shujing’s betrayal, and in that moment, he knows what he must do. 

His sword comes out, raises high, thrusts deep—

Pain sears through his body, each movement worse than the last. His blood boils, each second growing in agony, until a scream of agony rips out, in his voice. 

Above them, the sky darkens to a dim grey night as the moons and sun seem to collide above them. Blackness creeps over the face of the sun, and in the primordial darkness, a spear of light shines as brightly as a sword. 

The red comet approaches the void in the sky like a red-hot sword ready for quenching, and for a single moment, Jixueshi is afraid… 

…that it will not work. 

But then, there is a crack as loud as any he has ever heard, a titanic roar of sound and fury, and the sky goes dark with dust. The air is alive with dragon-stones, meteors crashing through the heavens like the wrath of an angry God. 

Which, of course, he is. 

When the eclipse ends and the sky stays dark, Shujing and her wretched beast stay dead. 

Jixueshi knows then that he is the God Emperor and the world is his to remake in fire and blood. 

*** 

AEMOND 

Harrenhal is a miserable place, where rain falls incessantly and the very dirt smells of old blood. The leaves of the colossal weirwood tree carpet the floors in a thick layer of viscous black mulch, and fresh red ones drift in with every breeze. The roots burrow their way through the castle’s stones like worms through a corpse, and he shudders uneasily. 

He dismounts the Ancient One, and stays standing until the beast settles, content in the knowledge that they will be unmolested here. The stairs are greasy as he makes his way down them, vitrified stone worn slick by centuries of rain and footsteps. The Keep itself is a ruin, collapsed and poorly maintained, labyrinthine in construction and scope. 

For a moment, he thinks he sees Daemon, but it is his reflection in some glass. He turns a corner and thinks he hears Jahaerys weeping softly but when he looks, there is nothing there. 

“Little brother”, Aegon says, walking at his side. When he turns, his smug, smirking face is a melted ruin, and his eyes are accusing. “Why did you betray me?” 

“I hate you”, Aemond spits, truth in every venomous syllable. 

“I’ve never met you”, the woman standing in the doorway of the kitchens says, looking non-plussed. “But I’ll assume you’re a dragon lord.” 

“Who are you?” The world spins around him, disorienting. Every candle is too bright, every shadow too dark. 

“Alys Rivers”, the woman says, in an accent as thick as riverbank clay. 

Another Strong by-blow. He’ll never be free of them. “A bastard, then. I’m taking Harrenhall”, he announces. 

“Definitely a dragon lord”, she sneers, as though it were ever in doubt. “But you’re welcome to it, by the way. A soggy ruin stuffed with corpses? By all means, my Prince, come into my castle. I’ll put up no resistance.” 
He prowls in, hand on the pommel of his sword in an unspoken threat. She remains unimpressed. “I met your uncle once. You’re much like him; I could barely tell you apart in the dark.” 

The dagger is at her throat in an instant, thirsty for her blood. “You speak very cavalierly, woman.” 

She doesn’t even flinch, just smiles wide as an owl. “Truth needs no gilding. Your uncle was here. He saw what he needed to see, and then he went on his way. Why have you come to Harrenhal, my Prince?” 

“To wed the tree”, he says, words escaping before reasoned thought can stop them. He doesn’t even know what that means— 
Only that the Ancient One demands it, and so he must obey. 

“Wed the tree”, she repeats, voice soft as a rustle of wind through dry leaves. “Very well. Come, then, sit. You’ve  travelled far. There’s no rush; some things, like trees, take time.”

He has, and there is yet longer to go. 

It isn’t until he drops his lanky frame down into the seat that he realizes how sore his muscles are, how stiff his joints. How weary he is, and how tired his spirit. 

The woman puts a mug filled with a red liquid down in front of him, and then toasts him with the slightest lift of her own. She drinks deeply, as though to assuage his nerves, and he follows shortly after. It’s tart, but refreshing, and he drains and refills the glass. After days living rough, he aches for the simple creature comfort of a cold drink, a hot hearth, a kind ear. 

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” Aemond’s head rises at the sound of her voice, and she smiles, a closed-mouthed thing. “To carry the weight of the past.” 
She sounds as though she would know, and she takes another deep sip of her drink, wiping a stray red droplet off her lower lip with a stained fingertip. He follows the gesture with his eyes, watching the way the fluid beads like blood. 

He thirsts for solace, and so Aemond drinks of her. 

When he pulls back across the small table, the lights are too bright, dazzling his good eye. The candles refract like starbursts, and a curious warmth fills his body. “What— the drink—“ 

She laughs, low and pleased. “Do you like it?”

“Poison”, he spits, but there’s no venom in it. 

She laughs louder. “Poison? You? I suppose you do feed an animal poison if you want to kill a parasite… but no my Prince, that’s not poison. Just wine.”

“No grape of the vine I’ve ever tasted” he mulls, staring at the lees in the bottom of his cup. 

“Weirwood wine”, she agrees. “I make it.” 

“For what purpose?” Suspicion crowds through him. A lifetime of court politics has made him alert to the smallest manipulation. 

The woman just leans back in her chair, tilting that strong, square jaw at him like a portcullis. “To get drunk after an awful day, of course. Why else does anyone brew strong liquor? I tap the sap, and make a strong wine with it.”
A smile breaks her stoic expression and for a moment she looks happy, and wild, and lovely. “Come”, she says suddenly, and rises to her feet. 

“Where to?” 

“The Godswood”, she tells him, and he stands, and takes her hand. 

*** 

AEMOND 

Rain slicks hair to skin as his hands trace over hers. Long fingers, and elegant, but callused in a way a noblewoman’s would never be. 
There is a strength in these hands that grip him like ballast, that drag him down to the ground and demand he take root. 

Roots— 

Their bridal bed is a weirwood bower. 

As in a dream, he strips off the layers of fabric that separate them. The barn owl woman removes his clothes with steady hands, and he remembers the old saying: “no knot can confound a woods-witch”.

“Sorceress”, he breathes. “You have enchanted me.” 

The giggle that warms his skin is surprisingly girlish. “Aren’t you charming, my prince—“ and for a time, the world is animal heat and the demands of the flesh. When he presses their brows together, breath mingling, he can feel her shift closer to him. Then her mouth is on his, lips angled over his, tongue caressing the parting seam of his mouth. A breach in his defences, one she pursues with the focus of a masterful general, and he is plundered.

They do not kiss in brothels, and this is something revelatory and new. When she pulls away, only to brush a feather-light caress of lip to lip as though she cannot resist a stolen moment of affection, what should be the basest carnality transmutes into something holy. It might be his last night alive, but in this moment, Aemond feels eternal. 

The smell of copper rises in their noses every time he shifts his hips; the scent of petrichor perfumes the air. It is not home. 

This is not peace. 

But Aemond feels alive for the first time in an eternity. When she bites down on his shoulder to stifle her cries, drawing blood, he finally feels himself come into his body, a whole man once again. 
Faculties sharp as a blade, he grips her hair and tugs the length of it back like a rope, even as he thrusts up, impaling her as he would an enemy, or the dearest lover. 

She might be both; when she cradles his cheeks and watches him through his release, Aemond knows he’s gone mad. He wants her.

Wants this. 

“There you are”, she whispers in the shell of his ear, quiet as a thought — but for the fact that this one cannot be plucked out of his mind by the Ancient One. 

“Where are we? What—“

Loose and sated as a cat, Alys distracts him by curling herself around him more deliberately. “Who wanted you to wed the tree?”

“He did”, Aemond confesses. He doesn’t say the name, but his eyes cut to the hulking shadow that even now circles over Harren’s grave like a vulture. Where others make the sign of the Seven or tremble in fear, Alys just smiles, as though she knows a marvellous secret she can’t wait to share. 

She leans in to his good side, and her weirwood wine-red lips brushing the shell of his ear.  
“And wasn’t that bloody stupid of him”, she whispers, and slides her hand down his chest. She leaves a red smear on the pale skin of his bare chest. 

“Now”, she says, dark hair an impenetrable shroud around them, blocking out the watery light of dawn. “Don’t you feel better?” 

The devil of the thing is: 

Aemond does. 

Chapter Text

ALICENT 

They meet in the Stone Drum, where the crushing waves beat a relentless, martial tattoo outside. Alicent’s jangled nerves rattle every time a boom breaks the heated discussion taking place over the raised table. 
“We must take the city from Aemond!” Daemon’s voice is hard. 

Rhaenys’s response is dry as a handful of Dornish sand, “If indeed he is there at all.” 

Alicent’s eldest son shrugs, drumming his good hand against the table. He sits near to Rhaenyra’s perch on Aegon’s seat, high above the table. 
“Can’t be that hard”, he says. “We have the air, and the advantage. There’s enough of us that we could pincer him— Caraxes, Vermithor and Sunfyre to lure him out over the Blackwater, while Silverwing, Dreamfyre, Syrax and Meleys come to the city from Fawnton while he’s occupied? Easy work.” 
He motions the route with his cane. It’s a new one, made of seven feet of white wood with a plush black leather bolster for his arm. A latticework of melted gold and hammered bronze holds an hunk of obsidian in place on the pommel, with rubies caught in the web like so many blood-droplets. It looks heavy enough to bear his weight — and he uses it with confidence to point out his strategy. 

Daemon shifts to loom over the Riverlands, staring over the God’s Eye down to King’s Landing as though considering the field of play. “It’s a solid strategy. I’d suggest another dragon or two in the Fawnton pincer, as we have them to spare. Never hurts to make it uneven odds—“ 

“The Faith might be endeared if we field seven of us”, Jacaerys says, ever the diplomat. 
His princess of fire just snorts, bumping shoulders with her bethrowed playfully. “And the Fourteen know we’ll need them amenable.” 

“So we’re agreed to send the dragons?” Aegon sounds delighted. “Excellent! To war!”

Rhaenys makes a strangled noise of amusement. 
“Nephew. You know exactly what happens when a dragon is sent to war. If Aemond is in the city, he has about a million hostages. What is your contingency plan for collateral damage? Who do you intend to volunteer for burn ward duty? Rhaena?”

“Right”, Aegon mutters, seeming to remember his paramour’s brisk bedside manner, but then quickly rallies. “But if he’s being a prick and burning everything we love to the ground, we just need to bait him out of the city. Perhaps Rhaenyra should be in the Blackwater van? Once he’s over the water, there’s nothing that says we can’t pounce him like a rat-terrier on vermin.”

“Thought there weren’t any of those left in King’s Landing”, the girl from Spicetown says tartly, making the smith look like he’d very much like to swim across the Narrow Sea if only to get out of the line of fire. 

Aegon, for his part, simply has the grace so look a bit chagrined at his example. “That was ill-considered, I confess—“ 

"Aemond isn’t in King’s Landing.” 
The words are out before Alicent can think better of them. “We would have heard by now; I cannot imagine we would not see the flames from here. No, I think you shall take the city unimpeded, Rhaenyra. But you must mind what you return to, your Grace.”

That catches the Queen’s attention. “My lady?”

“You must be wary of Larys Strong, your Grace. He has fingers throughout the entirety of the Red Keep, and he has no love for you, and—“

“And?”

Alicent’s nerves rattle a frantic alarm, but she can’t seem to shut her mouth. Information spills out, a nigh-incriminating confession. 
“He has undoubtedly allied with the Kinslayer. I know he is Ser Harwin’s brother but I assure you, your Grace, he cannot be trusted. Rhaenyra. Please, do not trust him.” 

“I never did, Alicent”, Rhaenyra assures her. “Have faith, dearest, that is a rat I would not hesitate to poison. Daemon, Rhaenys, you’re the most experienced with Court; I’ll trouble you to advise me on cleaning house. Alicent, you as well. You’ve always been an adept politician-“ 
Aegon snorts, and the look Rhaenyra pins him with could blister obsidian. Aegon wilts like a dry daisy, muttering a hasty “pardon” under his breath, a trick Viserys never once managed. Alicent would laugh, were it all not so grim. Rhaenyra — her father’s daughter, indeed. And doing a better job of it, Alicent’s uncharitable side whispers. 

“Now”, Rhaenyra continues, “presupposing that Aemond has left the city entirely, how shall we take King’s Landing without terrifying our small-folk?” 

“Descend in a flock?”

“What a terrible idea, my lord”, Rhaenyra teases Daemon. “They will think it Valyria come again.”

“What’s so terrible about that?”

He truly doesn’t seem to see an issue with it whatsoever, but Alicent has always had a soft spot for the Rhoynar. “Do you intend to conquer?” 

Daemon grins, all teeth. “Has her Grace not already done so?”

Rhaenyra, seated between them, just rolls her eyes in wry amusement. 
“All right, you two, you’ve made your points. Daemon, we will not be descending upon King’s Landing like a flock of hungry gulls at a fish market. Alicent, presuming a frontal approach, what would you suggest to mitigate the fears?” 

Alicent valiantly ignores Daemon’s smirk at Rhaenyra’s word choice, and considers it for a moment. 
“I cannot speak to strategy”, she hedges, “but the order of arrival should be carefully planned lest we give the wrong impression—“ 

“That I’m in charge?” Aegon says, tone wry. 

“Precisely”, Rhaena agrees, before Alicent can sugarcoat it for him. 

“And deliberate enough that they are not frightened”, Alicent adds. “It would not do to cause a panic amongst the people; they have suffered enough over what is our own family’s quarrel.” 

There’s a moment of quiet, broken only by the angry rumble of the sea, and the shriek and howl of the dragons outside. Eventually, the Queen breaks the silence, and the resolve in her voice makes everyone sit up straighter, even Daemon. 

“Hugh, Kat — the smallfolk will recognize and trust you. Might I rely upon you to oversee the orderly dispersal of food? Silverwing is as well-known as our grandmother was, or more. I trust her presence will ensure that everyone stays orderly. Daemon, your Gold Cloaks will assist in keeping the peace, but Baela, I might further trouble you to join them. I also would like you and the lady Kat and see to the Motherhouses and septs in the city, and set up stations for the elderly and infirm. Hugh, I’ll task you to oversee the same for the men who cannot work, for reason of age or infirmity. The young men, get them to work.” 

“What work?” Hugh asks, skeptical. 
“Paid with what coin?” Rhaenys sounds curious, too. 

“Make some work”, the Queen tells Hugh. Rhaenys, she greets with a grim smile. “I’ll let you shake a Lannister the moment we find one.” 

Rhaenys nods, even as the weaver and her husband look at Rhaenyra with fresh appreciation. In the gesture, Alicent can see the catgut beginning to stitch the cleaved realm back together. 
“Of course, your Grace”, Baela says, voice steady despite the responsibility Rhaenyra has tasked her with. 

“Thank you”, the Queen says with a smile. “It’s rather a lot, I know. And Netty, Addam, I’m afraid I must ask a similar burden of you both. I’ve no doubt that our people are in desperate need. I’ll need those ships offloaded, and I’m in a hurry. Netty, you know traders — ensure they are fair and know the crown will see to fair pay for honest dealings. Sheepstealer shall have his pick of the livestock, and we shall pay their price… but make a show of it to keep the rest of the cost down, if you would. We’ll needs must stretch that mutton. Addam, I’ll rely on you to see the ships in to port smoothly and Jacaerys, I’ll trouble you to assist with that as well. No doubt Lord Corlys will be happy to have the dragons escorting his ships through; Rhaena’s charges may yet be floating in the channel.”

The assemblage nods. The smallfolk’s eyes are wide and shocky with surprise at being tasked with so much power by their new monarch. The elders in the royal family seem much more sanguine. It must be the blood of the dragon, because Alicent herself feels a little like she’s been stepped on by Balerion. 

When Rhaenyra meets her eyes, though, it’s with all the banked warmth of a well-tended hearth. She’s good at this, Alicent realizes. At ruling. She’s been a good mother from the moment Alicent watched her cradle her first dark-haired darling. Perhaps she’s simply decided to be mother to a realm, now — 

And Alicent feels something in her unhook with relief. 

“Very well”, Rhaenyra agrees, as though all she was waiting for was Alicent’s assent. “We depart on the morrow.” 

*** 

As a girl, Alicent had loved being at court. 

It had been like living in a song — a beautiful palace, a King who loved his gracious lady wife, and a happy princess with a head full of dreams of flight. 
It had been a time of quiet afternoons in the Godswood, or secret smiles during a Septa’s lessons, the scent of dragon filling a wheelhouse. She can still remember that playfully haughty tone as the princess summoned her off on another adventure, sure of an indulgent response from her doting parents. In the absence of a mother the Queen had been kind to her. 

Second only to her own mother, Lady Aemma’s passing is the loss she feels the most. 

It had meant the sudden death of her innocence, and the end of her dearest companionship. Court had become a beautiful cage around her. 

But today — up here — life feels magical again. 

Once upon a time, there was a dragon queen… 

The clouds swell up off of Blackwater Bay and from behind her, Alicent can hear delighted whoops from a few of the dragon-riders behind them. One sounds suspiciously like Aegon, voice lighter than she’s ever heard it. 

“They’re happy”, she tells Rhaenyra, who just smiles back at her. 

“Me too”, the Dragon Queen agrees, and taps her waist where Alicent’s hands are tightly gripping her. “Hold on, there will be a bit of a drop ahead.” 

Alicent is glad for the warning, because a heartbeat later Syrax’s wings fold into her body and the only sound becomes the whistle of the wind as they descend through the clouds. Alicent would scream, but her breath has been sapped from her lungs by the beauty of the approaching scene. 

She had thought she would be frightened flying during the day but from here, the world seems perfect. Below them, the dew-washed tiles of the Red Keep glisten like pomegranate arils, and a flock of gulls takes flight at their approach. Syrax bugles delightedly, and the call is taken up by the beasts in the cortège behind them, until the sky is alive with the song of dragons. 

As they pass, Alicent can see the guardsmen at the Red Keep scrambling to throw the doors open for their arrival. Evidently, they’re prepared to crown anyone with martial superiority, or else are so terrified of Aemond they’ll risk creating a new Harrenhal to be rid of him.

The small-folk outside the castle walls show no such fear. 

No sooner has Syrax crested the parapets of the Keep than they come spilling out of their homes, faces upturned to the sky and eyes shadowed against the sun. Alicent can hear their cries of delight as they see the kaleidoscope of dragons flying in uniform formation. 

Names are shouted up from the streets below— cheers for Meleys or Dreamfyre, Syrax and Sunfyre, Vermithor, Silverwing, Seasmoke and Caraxes alike. Even the new dragons receive wordless cheers, and the riders astride them seem to glow with the warmth of it. 
Dragons are a power unlike any other in the world, and they have come en masse to protect King’s Landing. This morning, dawn broke over an uneasy city unsure of when the dragons might return — and which ones would come back. Now the bright afternoon sun shines on a house united, and these are people who have grown up in the cool shade of jeweled wings. 

They know it’s too many riders for it to be just one side. 

As the Red Keep disappears behind them, the Dragonpit approaches, roof glistening with dew like a cabochon jewel. Their shadows darken the cobbles and shingles as they fly lower, perhaps only a hundred feet above the Sept spires. Alicent presses her cheek to the Queen’s riding doublet. 

Funny how this close to the ground, she fears falling. 

The Dragonpit looms up ahead of them, a massive edifice of fine white marble. The heat of the day has baked the stones, and as though sensing her nervousness, Syrax unfurls her wings and catches a thermal. 
In the span of a blink, the world is a thousand feet below them, each dragon small and bright as a jewel.  
Alicent and the gulls have a perfect view of the incoming dragons as they bank over the Pit and begin to roost on the steps and plazas making up the avenue to the Dragonpit. 

Caraxes is the advance guard, landing at a skid and roaring loudly enough to rattle her eardrums. His head whips every which way as though assessing for threats. There are none… but there are also no Dragonkeepers coming out to guide him away. The eerie quiet clearly makes the high-strung dragon restless, and the beast hisses and spits every moment it remains on the ground. 
Her Daeron follows hot on Caraxes’s trail, although Tessarion is wise enough to give the foul-tempered animal its space as she comes to a hard stop. Vicious though it may be, Daemon’s red dragon curls its long neck around the small cobalt-blue she-dragon to shield her as Alicent’s son dismounts. The moment it is done, Tessarion bursts upwards like a stone out of a trebuchet. At altitude, the only thing that can hurt a dragon is a bigger dragon, and even Aemond in his madness wouldn’t dare to attack against these odds. 

Corlys’s son and the girl from Spicetown are next, each landing their beasts just long enough to dismount. The dragons heave themselves back up into the air with a shriek, joining the tight spiral Rhaenyra has led Syrax, Tessarion, and the riderless Grey Ghost in to. From their vantage point high above, Alicent can see the crowd growing, filling the streets in every which direction. The bells across the city have begun to peal, the high ones that ring for weddings and royal births, not the heavy ones that ring for deaths, or coronations. 

She remembers that disaster, and wonders how many people her willful blindness led to their deaths. As though sensing her dismay, Rhaenyra’s hand tightens again, a steady grip. “It will be all right”, she assures her. “We’ll make it right. I promise.”

Below them, Silverwing is next to land. 

The smith helps his wife and daughter off of dragonback with more chivalry than most knights, and Alicent marvels at the colourful mess these tangled threads have made of fate. The crowd below them heaves forward when Hugh becomes visible; they recognize the weaver and her husband, or else the smith and his wife. They stop in their tracks when they notice the colours they wear; royal red and black — the colours of their new House.

Though they don’t approach the dragons, the word ripples back. Alicent sees a wave of bodies turning, whispers passing the news along like ripples in a pond, and marvels at how easily she can survey the world from this great height. 

She had seen the painted table, but now she understands how it might have been created. 

After Silverwing follows Dreamfyre, Moondancer and Vermax. The largest of the three, Dreamfyre shoots a baleful glance around the terraces of the Pit, as though peering into every crevasse for enemies. Only when she is satisfied that no threat exists does she relax the flare of her fins and allow  the other two dragons to land, and their riders to dismount. Helaena and the children wait, safely in the saddle, and only step down into Baela’s waiting arms. 
Jacaerys stands with one hand on the pommel of his sword, proud stance visible even from this high height. He scans the crowd like a mastiff on high alert, and Alicent remembers the way Harwin Strong had plowed his way through the fracas of Rhaenyra’s wedding feast. After everything, she is privately glad that his son’s strength will be at her daughter’s disposal. 

Meleys kisses the earth next, landing on the steps of the Dragonpit as though she owns it. The rider swings down from the saddle with the same supreme confidence. Alicent watches her confer privately with the rest of the riders on the ground before turning back to the remaining dragons, raising a hand to her mouth, and splitting the air with a piercing and deeply unladylike whistle. 

The lady in question drops from on high like the hammer of the gods. Vermithor bugles as he crashes into the avenue, hard enough to rattle the scaffolding holding the rebuilt dome up, even as Sunfyre’s happy shriek echoes around the red stone streets of the Hill of Rhaenys. Again, the gathered crowd inhales as one, shock ripe on their features. 

When they land, Rhaena waits for Aegon to undo himself from Sunfyre’s new saddle, and makes no move to intervene. 
He steps down cautiously, bracing his strong leg in the stirrup and lowering himself hand over hand with a winch. Addam’s idea, no less, so now Alicent owes her son’s well-being to yet another natural son of her lover’s house. No sooner has Aegon stepped off of his stirrup than Vermithor and Sunfyre launch upwards again, joining the ever-expanding spiral above their heads with a happy roar. 

Aegon turns and says something to Rhaena, who nods once, sharply, and reaches for the pack on her back. The girl removes something from her satchel and hands it to him as though it were clammy. 
Whatever it is glints in the sunlight, and he turns it in his hands for a moment, watching the way the light refracts. Then Rhaenys closes the distance to speak, and whatever the older woman says spurs him into action. 

Alicent watches as her son steps forward, out onto the broad landing of the Dragonpit’s stairs. Rhaena stands behind and to one side, attention sharp as a hawk on the wing, and even Jace and his ladies have approached closer, as though ensuring a united front behind him. 
Baela and Jacaerys scan the crowd for any threat, but find only curious faces, or else optimistic smiles. Rhaena and Helaena keep their eyes on Aegon, ready to leap to his aid, but in the face of all those people, dressed in the red and black of a dragon-rider, Aegon stands tall. 

“I am Aegon Targaryen, second of my name” her son says, and his voice is clear and bold. There are no swords to gird him, no Septon to anoint him. Only Aegon, and what Alicent knows must be the crown of Jahaerys the Conciliator. 
“I was a King, with the Conqueror’s own crown. I carry the conqueror’s own blade. But I tell you this — if the price of that sword is to keep it whetted with blood, I will not do it. Aegon united the realms under his name. I will not tolerate it to be sundered in mine. If the cost of the crown is the peace of the realm, then what ruler should want it? 
“The blood of brothers and children has been shed over a throne whose rightful ruler has already been decided. My father, Viserys, appointed my sister Rhaenyra as his heir. I would honour my father, a peaceful man who loved his family and his kingdom, and who would abhor this violence. My brother the Prince Regent sought to maim me and usurp the crown in my name. Let you hear it in mine own voice now: I will be the first here to call her Rhaenyra, first of her name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men. Long may she reign!”

Alicent’s heart swells with pride, even as her stomach drops out from her as Syrax folds her wings and drops out of the air. The steps of the Dragonpit approach at a dizzying speed, but Syrax banks her wings over the wide promenade, and glides down to a graceful landing. It takes a moment for Rhaenyra to help her down, and longer for Alicent’s jangled nerves to settle. It isn’t helped by Rhaenyra’s leather-gloved thumb tracing over Alicent’s bare wrist, before the Rhaenyra she knows disappears and the Queen emerges. 

Schooling her face into a reserved mask, Rhaenyra squares her shoulders back and marches up the steps as though walking to her execution with dignity. 

Alicent follows, more slowly, and thus is far enough away to see Aegon cautiously and laboriously drop himself down to one knee as Rhaenyra approaches. When she’s close, he offers the crown up as high as his bad arm will go. It is Rhaenys who closes the distance, taking the crown from Aegon and resting it on Rhaenyra’s head. 

The new queen doesn’t hesitate. 

Her first action is to lift Aegon carefully up and press a kiss to each cheek. Aegon bows and Rhaena curtsies, and even the Princess Rhaenys bends that stiff spine of hers at the waist. The rest of the crowd of red-and-black clad riders do the same, and from the looks of pride on their faces, it’s clear Rhaenyra has succeeded in knitting them in to this tapestry of hers. 

Behind them, the crowd ripples like a wave sucking back from the shore. The Gold Cloaks remain standing, heads bowed, but everyone else present in the crowd bends the knee. 
There’s a moment where everything hangs in absolute stillness, and only Alicent is close enough to hear Rhaenyra’s quiet exhalation of relief. 

Then, still wearing the crown of Jahaerys the Conciliator, Rhaenyra takes the first step off of the Dragonpit’s dais and on to the wide avenue in order to begin the walk through the crowd of her people, from Rhaenys’s Hill to the Red Keep. 

“Does she truly mean to go all that way? I don’t think I can walk that far”, Alicent hears Aegon mutter to Daemon, and before Alicent can summon a litter, Rhaenyra steals the breath out of her very lungs. 

“Then ride your dragon”, the new Queen says. “I would feel better to have eyes in the sky. Aegon, might I rely on you to protect the procession?” 

From the look of pale-faced shock on Aegon’s face, he had never expected to be asked. Alicent knows this is Rhaenyra, offering her son a sword to end her with. He could burn them all with a single order — it’s the only word he knows in Valyrian. It’s clear he’s aware of what he’s being offered, too, because Aegon takes a shuddering breath before nodding. “You can.”

“Thank you, Aegon”, his sister says, and claps him casually on the good shoulder as she passes. “I appreciate you, little brother.” 

Alicent watches Aegon sag the moment Rhaenyra turns her back, poleaxed expression clear on his face. A lifetime with Viserys, and Rhaenyra’s shown more care in fifteen minutes. Only Rhaena’s quiet voice murmuring in his ear gets her son unstuck and moving towards a dais large enough for Sunfyre to land on.

*** 

They meet no resistance on the road or upon arrival at the Red Keep. That might have to do with the golden dragon low overhead, or the golden cloaks lining the avenue, or even Rhaenyra’s look of quiet confidence as she walks through the people she intends to rule. 
When they step through the open gates and into the kneeling assemblage, some of the courtiers give Alicent sharp looks, while others keep their eyes down at Rhaenyra’s approach. It’s clear there will be some management to be done there. 

The remaining members of the Large and Small Councils look like they’ve taken a bite out of a bitter orange when Daemon oozes in, all unctuous smiles. Now that she knows he does it for precisely that reason, Alicent watches his eyes flicker across the crowd, gauging reactions and — just as importantly, whose face stays too blank. One of those professionally neutral faces is her handmaid, and Alicent’s mouth goes tight. If she’s around, then so is Lord Larys Strong. 

Too late, she realizes that even as Daemon is watching the crowd, Rhaenys is watching her — and she’s spotted her distress. 
Alicent looks away, but she knows it’s too late by the way Rhaenys’s eyes focus on Larys’s mousy little spy like a snake’s. 

It doesn’t take long after that. 

In the time it takes them all to settle into Maegor’s Holdfast for repose after the flight, Rhaenys has disappeared. Alicent’s gut churns when she notices, and she can barely swallow the mouthfuls of fresh fruit juice she takes from a cup someone hashands her. It gives her something to do other than pick at her cuticles with sharp nails. Nervous energy makes her want to pace, but decorum keeps her planted in her seat like a hibiscus in a hothouse pot. 
When the door opens, it’s to see the Mistress of Whispers, that whippet-sly Lyseni lady who stares at Alicent as though she’s given some deadly offence despite never having shared a conversation. She’s accompanied by two gold-cloaks, presumably loyal to the Prince of Flea Bottom, or else the late Lord Commander of the City Watch. With them is a man Alicent had hoped never to see again, and she rises from her lounging position as though the chaise has stung her. 

“Lord Larys!” She hates how high her voice goes, how her nervous hands give away her alarm. She knows he’s noticed. 

Knows everyone has. 

Everyone in this court is always watching her, each trying to calculate her every move and gesture to better advance her position. 

“I found him trying to leave the Mud Gate in a hired carriage, your Grace”, the spymaster says, and Rhaenyra offers her a tired smile in return  

“Your Majesty. How good to see you are well. Your disappearance was… most distressing”, the kinslayer of Harrenhal says with all the sincerity of a Ghiscari slave-trader. “And you have returned Her Grace to us. A most touching scene, Your Majesty—“ 

Alicent isn’t surprised when Rhaenyra shifts, placing herself bodily between the master of whispers and Alicent. She is a bit taken aback when Daemon does the same, unbidden. 
He doesn’t unsheathe his sword, but the low angle of his head reminds Alicent of his dragon, scanning every horizon for enemies. 

It would appear Daemon’s found one within range of his teeth. 

Rhaenyra cuts a glance back at Alicent and her warm expression leaves Alicent wondering if being a maiden in a high tower is such a very bad thing after all. Certainly her dragons are most fierce protectors. 
“Rhaenyra.” The familiar address catches Lord Larys’s attention, as she had known it would. “He burned the Hand of the King and his son, Ser Harwin Strong.” 

“What.” 
It is as though the world has shattered around one single word, and for a moment Alicent feels envious of a dead man. 

It passes soon enough; there is no point to carrying the pain further. They are here, now, and Harwin Strong and Laenor Velaryon are both dead. These days, Alicent can hardly bestir herself to envy a living man; the dead are no threat to her. 

For his part, Lord Larys does not deny it. 

He doesn’t confirm it, either. 

He just flicks his eyes around the room, as though committing everything to memory. When his eyes land on the children and the corner of his mouth turns into a tight little smile, Alicent has had enough. 
She still remembers what he had said about the encumbrances of love. Whether it’s their long and unhappy history, or the magic she is quickly coming to believe in, something about Lord Larys makes her skin crawl more than it ever has. He is a man capable of murdering his own kin, raised in a place held together by blood and spent lives. 

“Helaena, get them out of here”, she says, tone sharper than she’d intended, but nobody seems to mind. From the tight silence, it’s clear the family is of one mind on the matter. Helaena scoops Jahaera up, and Baela takes Maelor by the hand. Lady Kat guides Joffrey, who takes Aegon even as Lady Alysanne Blackwood follows, cradling Viserys in her arms. It doesn’t escape Alicent that the girl has dropped her veil over the child’s face, as though to shield him from the Lord Confessor’s beady black eyes. The lady from the Riverlands fixes Lord Larys with a hard look before she leaves, as though she’s spotted an enemy she cannot — for the moment — engage. 

With all the finality of winter, Alicent signs Larys Strong’s death warrant — and possibly her own. 
“He told me, your Grace. After their deaths.” The words taste like stale tongue in her mouth. 

Larys just sighs. “What servant would refuse a Queen?” 

It’s the same mild words, but Alicent is not the same mild girl. She has slept with serpents and woken unscathed. “I never asked such a foul service of you, nor would I ever.” 

The Lord Confessor shifts in his restraints, unctuous as ever. “Envy makes us blind to our faults, your majesty. Or was it jealousy? They are such similar flavours of pettiness. In any case, it is not for a servant to question their master’s palate. If you request a certain dish served cold—“

“Or hot, evidently”, Aegon interrupts nastily, evidently taking the choice of weapon personally. 

“— then it is my duty and pleasure to provide it.” His gaze slips down to the hem of her gown. What should be respect instead feels like the rankest violation. “The Queen wanted the Lord Hand gone. The son, I inferred, was the Lady Alicent Hightower’s own wish, whispered into a northbound breeze.”
The room spins around her, breath tight in her lungs and the edges of the room winnowing out into a yawning blackness. She cannot catch air, claws at her throat— 
“Alicent”, Rhaenyra’s voice is quiet, and yet it rings through her panic like a gong. “I believe you.” 

The world stops as abruptly as a top. “You do? I have raised monsters— been monstrous—“

Rhaenyra shrugs. “You were unhappy and wanted company in your misery. We’d been friends all our girlhood; why shouldn’t you seek to drag me to your level so we might share that bitter dish as women?” 

Daemon snorts, but not unkindly. Alicent does not chastise him; she’s overheard enough of the waspish conversations between husband and wife to know this is simply Rhaenyra’s way of speaking frankly to loved ones. She’d chivvied her mother ruthlessly, too. The Queen soldiers on, steady in her good regard. “But you wouldn’t have had two good men burned to death simply because you wanted me, or even more laughably, to reinstate your father.”

Alicent is beggared by her belief. “How can you be so sure?” 

“I know you. You feared your father’s presence in your life far more than you hated the presence of Harwin Strong in mine.”

That earns Daemon’s laughter, as happy and free as Alicent has ever heard it off the tourney field. 
“If only we’d known that sooner, Lady Alicent. We might have all settled our differences over a hearty breakfast.” 

Aegon barks out an almighty laugh, and Lord Larys’s face looks like he’s bitten into that same bitter orange as everyone else on the Small Council. 
Daemon continues, mercilessly derisive. 
“I’ve been to Harrenhal, your Grace. It rained the entirety of the time I was there. Not always heavily, but incessantly. And the castle is not watertight — I cannot imagine something kindling for anything less than Balerion. Certainly no mere candle or hearth-coal could manage it.”

“The Gods do take who they will”, Lord Larys says mildly, and Alicent’s gut churns at the oleaginous way he speaks. 

“And whose Gods are those, Lord Strong?” Daemon’s voice is flat. “You forget I’ve been to that greasy pile you call a family seat. Have you any cousins who keep to the Old Gods?” 

Larys shrugs. “None who carry the family name, and I would not know a bastard.”

“You might well know the healer, clubfoot”, Daemon sneers. Alicent gasps at the bald-faced insult; she would never have dared speak so bluntly.

Still, it’s a vicarious vindication to see Daemon so roundly savage this cretin. 

“I did, many many years ago. They blamed her for what became of me, and I have stayed at court since my arrival years ago, as Her Majesty the Dowager Queen can herself attest-“ 
The insinuating tone is knocked out of his mouth by the back of Rhaenyra’s ringed hand. 

It’s clear the Queen had not intended to strike the man, nor so hard, but she squares her shoulders and opens her mouth to speak. 
Before she can, the wall nearest where Jahaera and Maelor sit creaks open, and Alicent leaps towards the children with a shriek, nerves already frazzled. Her handmaid’s non-descript face is the first thing she sees, and Rhaenys’s care-worn one next. 

“Oh, good”, the Hand of the Queen says, looking at the assemblage and Larys Strong, bleeding from the mouth on the floor. “I see we’ve already started.” 

“What?” Daemon’s voice is flat. 

Rhaenys smiles, hard as the fused stone the Hightower was built on. “Go on”, she commands the quaking girl. “Tell them what you told me.” 

“He—“
The look Larys shoots her is venomous, but the eager twitch of Daemon’s booted foot encourages him to rethink his next move, and he wisely keeps his mouth shut. 

“He has Lord Lannister”, the girl says. “Down in the black cells. Put him there on… on the Prince Regent’s command, my lords, my ladies. I’ve been serving them.”

“Them?”

“Him and the woman”, Alicent’s handmaiden says. Her skin crawls at the memory of this woman bathing her. Her body is tense enough that Rhaenyra turns back in concern, but Alicent firms her spine. 

“What woman?” She keeps her voice quiet, gentle, maternal. This isn’t the first time she’s cleaned up after some man’s indiscretion; she’s sure it isn’t this girl’s either. “Can you describe her?”

“I think so, Your Majesty”, the maid says, voice trembling. “I remember what she looked like before they did all that to her.” 

“All what to her”, Jacaerys says, and Alicent remembers Elinda Massey, the brave lady-in-waiting whose eyes had burned with anger at every bitter injustice Alicent had forced Rhaenyra to endure. 
She had been at Rhaenyra’s side through every birth, and held the boys through the death of their father — natural and legal alike. 

“Can you lead us to her?” Rhaenys’s voice is very, very quiet. 

“Yes”, the girl says, sounding terrified — as well she should, for she has wandered into the dragon’s den uninvited and made herself unwelcome. 

“Capital”, Rhaenys says. “You will take myself, Her Grace, and Her Majesty immediately.” 

“Daemon”, Rhaenyra says, and his eyes lift from under heavy brows. “Question him, but keep him alive until we’re all back safe. All of us”, she says, and by her cold enunciation, it’s clear she’s including her lady in waiting among that number. 

It’s as final an order as an execution ever was, and Daemon nods. “Your Grace.” 

Rhaena rises to her feet and gives her son’s good shoulder a gentle squeeze. “I’ll be but a moment, darling”, and then sets off following Daemon out of the suites before anyone can protest otherwise. 

“Your future daughter in law, Alicent”, Rhaenyra teases with a wry laugh. Rhaenys just snorts and shoves Larys’s spy through the passageway ahead of them. 

***  

Down, down, down and further yet they go, until the very air itself is damp, and the walls feel slick to the touch. There are torches distantly interspersed, casting greasy shadows on the slick walls. It is an unwholesome place, and the sweet smell of rot clings to the air, as does the sharp smell of stale urine. 

Alicent covers her nose and mouth with a sleeve, but Rhaenys strides ahead, unbothered as a hunting dog on the trail. Rhaenyra follows; her warm hand lingers for a moment at the small of Alicent’s back, just long enough to bolster her courage. 

It’s enough, and she moves unsteadily towards the last cell. 

The torchlight has barely reached them when a ghoul lunges at the bars. His face is dark with grime and blood, green eye wild with animal desperation. “Don’t you touch her”, he howls at the handmaiden, the first to break the ring of light. 

“Tyland”, a woman’s weary voice murmurs. 

“Don’t come any closer, I’ll—“ there is nothing for the man to do. No weapon other than talons and gnashing teeth and those grasping, grasping hands— 

“My lord Tyland”, Elinda Massey says, voice raspy and strained. “Please. There is no need—“ 

“I won’t let her— I will NOT-“ 

“Tyland, it’s all right. We’re safe. I can recognize my lady’s footsteps”, Elinda tells him. “My Queen has come for us.” 

“Elinda”, Rhaenyra gasps, and steps towards the yawning blackness of the cell. “Open it”, she snaps at the handmaiden, vicious as Syrax when she’s hungry. “Now!“ 
The woman’s hand trembles on the keys, but she does as she’s told and the gate swings open with an agonized creak. 

“Your Grace.” Rhaenys’s voice is low; a warning. “Your Grace, you must steady yourself.” Her eyes are pinned to something inside the darkness. 

“Elinda, we’ve come to take you home”, Rhaenyra promises, voice trembling as she sees what Rhaenys does — the empty eye sockets, sewn shut vertically in the same way as Aemond’s, so it can only have been deliberate. She sees the burns, the missing teeth, the missing fingers— 

“Have you won, my lady? Are the children well?” 
Even now, her wavering voice is gentle, luring the mad lion back from the grate and towards her. “My lord, kindly help me rise?” 

The noise that she makes when he does is a groan of utter agony. Alicent gasps as the two prisoners step closer into the light. Both have been mutilated, but Elinda Massey has been mangled. Her legs are broken, knees irreparably crushed, and it is clear that were Tyland Lannister not lifting her, she would not be standing. 

“What happened?” Alicent cannot imagine the agony the woman is enduring. Even Viserys had received good care and poppy’s milk — these two have been left to fester with barely a cup of water between them.

“The Prince Regent demanded she renounce her Queen and bend the knee”, Larys’s spy says. 

“I declined to do so”  Elinda whispers, pale-cheeked  

“So the Lord Confessor had them broken so she might never rise unassisted again”, Tyland Lannister spits, as though the words were venom. She remembers Tyland Lannister as a laughing, arrogant man with more money than sense. The man she sees now has had the golden jocularity burnt out of him, and what remains is the bedrock left behind. 

Rhaenyra has gone pale as parchment, eyes deadly as the hottest fire of the Doom. It is only Rhaenys’s hand on her shoulder that keeps the Queen steady, and Alicent can see the moment Rhaenyra reminds herself that she has Larys upstairs. 
“I see”, Rhaenyra says. “Very well. Lord Tyland?” 

Tyland’s face lifts, grimy and hollows and it’s clear he’s taken beatings meant for someone else; his nose is broken and teeth are missing. One eye is gone, too, and Alicent shudders at the malice her son is capable of. “My Queen?” 

“Why don’t we let Elinda down gently, out here, while Rhaenys goes and fetches a few Gold Cloaks to help carry a litter, and advises the Maester that we’ll need his care. Elinda, my dear, can you bear it a moment longer?” 
 
 “Of course, Your Grace”, the girl says, voice already fading into the dreaminess of fever and pain. “I knew you’d come for us-“, her eyes roll, and she sags in Tyland’s arms. He simply scoops her off her feet entirely, seemingly unaware of the exertion  

“She is loyal to you. Never said a word, not under even the harshest torture”, Tyland Lannister says, once it’s clear unconsciousness has given the Lady Elinda relief. “And she loves you. She swore you’d come to find her. When it got bad, that rallied her. She’d swear it, once they were gone and we were alone — she’d say you were that kind of Queen.” He stares at Rhaenyra, hard. “The kind to care. The good sort. I thought she was mad. I’d met you, and I didn’t believe her.” He sighs. “I expect I owe you an apology, Your Grace, and my head besides “

Rhaenyra frowns, graven lines of unhappiness bracketing her mouth. “And yet, we find ourselves here, Lord Lannister. I am Queen now, and will rule. We would have you bow your head rather than lose it, and use it help the Crown as the leal servant we know you to be.”

“On one condition.” 

“Even now a Lannister negotiates”, Rhaenyra mutters to Rhaenys, sounding so much like her brother that it makes Alicent’s head spin. 

“I’m sure I know it already”, Rhaenys mutters back, and Alicent privately agrees. 

“I would have the Crown’s blessing to take Lady Elinda Massey to wife.” Tyland says it with the fortitude of a man going to battle— 

Or else, having returned from a war. 

From the way he cradles the unconscious Elinda, and the vicious look he’s shooting Larys’s little mouse, it’s clear the lion will not be deterred. Nor, it would appear, does Rhaenyra intend to scare him off. 

“What are her thoughts on the matter?” 

“You may ask her when she wakes”, the man says, and Alicent has to admire Lannister pride. Covered in filth, half-blind, and wholly mad, and still acting as though he’s owed an audience with the Seven themselves. Then, he tempers himself, and despite their grim surroundings, a small smile lights up his remaining eye. “But I would be a wealthy man if she accepted me.” 

“Then best we move while the young lady is unconscious and go as high up the tower as we can get her before she wakes”, Rhaenys says. In a single swift movement, she tosses Alicent’s maid by the scruff of the neck in to the yawning black mouth of the cell, and slams the door shut behind her. “Shall we?” She ushers them out of the hallway, leaving the woman in the darkness of the black cells.

Alicent can hear her screams echoing in her head long after they’re all out of earshot, but a single look at Elinda’s ruined legs steels Alicent’s nerves. She doesn’t miss the way Tyland sticks close to the girl, though, or the anxious way Rhaenyra watches her passage. 

“She’ll be all right”, Alicent promises, voice and touch soft on Rhaenyra’s arm. “You found her. The way she knew you would.” 

“Thank you, Alicent”, Rhaenyra says, and links their fingers together for a moment that lasts an eternity, before breaking the contact to stride up the winding stairs into the light of the Red Keep. 

Chapter Text

DAEMON 

In the sepulchre, Balerion’s black skull gleams like a deeper darkness, underlit by a thousand tiny flames. The bones bones glitter like dragon glass as Rhaenyra stands in front of the beast’s cavernous maw, staring as each little fire licks steadily upwards. Jacaerys had told Daemon that she’d stared into the oblivion of the Cannibal’s fire, and it seems the war has rattled his lady wife more than she would care to admit. 

They’ve all been summoned from one corner of the Keep or another by worried looking household staff, and nobody seems to know anything. It’s approaching the hour of ghosts, and all seem to be en deshabille. Some, like the Crown Prince and his princesses, seem roused directly from sleep. They rub their eyes, squinting at the candlelight as though even their dim glow offends them. 

Others — like his younger daughter and her rumpled-looking royal steed — seem to have pulled straight from bed. Daemon rolls his eyes, praying to Balerion’s empty skull for patience. He cannot burn Alicent’s whelp, for the Gods and his daughter seem to love him, but he gives Rhaena a sharp look regardless. She ought to know better than to drag him down the aisle by the short hairs. The stare she offers in return is flat as a shield-wall. 

Laena had been a master of that implacable expression, too, and it’s a small shock to see her resolve written so clearly on Rhaena’s fine-boned features. 

But then, Laena had also seized his attentions with a grip as fierce as Vhagar’s, so he holds his tongue. Rhaena is her mother’s daughter, and has already lost a fiancée. Why should she not seek to claim another? 

Daemon puts it out of mind and turns to the object of his own ardour. “A little late for a family chat, isnt it?” Daemon teases the Queen, because nobody else seems inclined to break the silence. 

Rhaenyra doesn’t even turn around. 

It isn’t that she’s ignoring him — rather, she stares at the black holes of Balerion’s empty eye-sockets as though she hasn’t even heard noticed their arrival, swaying where she stands. She looks entranced by the darkness there, staring as though the void in the dragon’s skull might whisper an answer to some silent question. Daemon does his best to keep his concern muzzled, but he can see the Dowager Queen’s eyes cut his way. 

Perceptive as a fox in the brush is their sly Lady Alicent, and it soothes Daemon to know his Queen is so well served. 

An army needs more than one general, and a King needs a Queen to manage the household. The Gods know Daemon won’t be doing that dirty job, so he does not protest when Alicent steps forward and lightly touches Rhaenyra’s elbow. “Your Grace?” 

When the Queen turns, there are blue-green circles under her eyes, and her skin is wan and waxy. 

“Oh—  Alicent… I was lost in thought. Daemon, forgive me, were you speaking?” 

“I mentioned that it’s late.”

“Is it?” Rhaenyra exhales a quiet breath. “I’ve been staring at these candles for so long I’ve lost track…“ 
Her voice trails off, and for a moment she sounds so much like Viserys that Daemon feels the chill of the grave wash over him. Rhaenyra rallies herself and carries on, resolute. “Is everyone here?” 

Daemon does a head check, and is pleased to see all of the family present. 
Even the new members seem to have settled in; the gaunt cheeks are fading thanks to good food, and they’ve stopped slinking around corners like alley cats. It’s good progress in a short while, and he’s about to confirm the count when he sees the Crown Prince shift. 

Daemon keeps his mouth shut and in the silence, offers Jace the glory.

“This is all of us”, the Crown Prince says, stepping confidently into the role of second in command. Daemon hears the echoes of Uncle Aemon ringing through the ages, a ghost from days when Jahaerys had been happy and the family robust. 

Daemon’s never hated a single arrow more, though he’d never said so to Viserys. For all he knows, his brother had felt the same way. Gods know Rhaenys does. 

“Thank you, Jace”, Rhaenyra says. She looks at her son for a long moment, and something about her quiet regard makes Daemon’s nerves prickle. It’s as though she’s trying to commit his expression to memory, and it’s not the sight one expects to see in a victor’s eyes. 

Rhaenyra looks as though she’s hesitating before sharing some awful news. 
“There’s something I need to tell you alll”, Rhaenyra says, and there it is — the other shoe dropping. “Something I should have told you before now.” 

She takes a breath, as though committing to claiming a dragon — taking that first, willing step into the line of fire. “It’s a secret that Viserys told me before he named me his successor—“

For a moment, Aegon looks sour, but Daemon falls back and whispers in his ear. “Fix your face. He knew me longer and this is the first I’m hearing of it.” Aegon shoots a startled look up at him, and Daemon shrugs. “We all know the man played favourites”, he says, and gets a wry snort from his nephew. 

“It has passed from King to heir since Aegon the Conqueror’s time”, Rhaenyra continues, and Daemon averts his eyes as his daughter strokes the back of Aegon’s uninjured knuckles with her thumb. The prince smiles back at her, a melted and soggily affectionate mess, and Daemon leaves them to their puddle, joining Alicent and Rhaenyra in front of the skull. 

“Then why are you telling us now?” He’s careful to keep his tone level. He can see Alicent’s tripwire tight lips and knows she’ll be quick to take umbrage at a sharp tone. It isn’t Rhaenyra’s fault that Viserys had never truly trusted him, just as it isn’t Alicent’s fault her father had been the one to hone the blade that cleaved them apart.

In any case, the best revenge is living well, and so he bites back any rancour and lets his Queen speak prophecy. 

Rhaenyra doesn’t disappoint. “I never told anyone because…”, she hesitates, and then admits to her sin in a rush, “— because I was unsure I believed it myself.” She shakes her head, eyes hollow. “But after everything… I must believe it to be true.”

“Believe what, your Grace?”  That’s Rhaenys, ever measured, temperate as a finely tuned scale. 

Rhaenyra’s voice, on the other hand, is haunted. “The Targaryen who sits the Iron Throne is not just a king or a queen. They are a protector—“

Out of the corner of his vision, Daemon notices as Rhaenys, the Queen Who Never Was, goes still as the mountain-stones of Dorne. He whips around, quick as Caraxes.
“You knew.”

His cousin, once a Crown Princess in her own right, stares at him as though he were a gaping, slack-jawed carp pulled fresh from the Blackwater Rush. 

“Of course I know”, she says. “I thought you knew. Father told me.”

“He didn’t tell me. Nobody did.” Daemon tries not to be sour, but the hurt still curdles in his gut. Aemon, Father, Viserys, Rhaenys and even Rhaenyra — and him, the only one in the dark. 

“Baelon was never meant to be heir”, Rhaenys says quietly. “And by the time he was, I suppose I thought Jahaerys would tell him. I didn’t imagine he wouldn’t tell both his sons— Gods knew there were so few of us left by then, and none of us on comfortable terms—“ 

“And yet here we are”, Rhaenyra cuts the rumination, tone quiet. “And that’s the problem, isn’t it? Some know. Others did not, and nobody had the presence of mind to sit around a table and put aside family squabbles over a throne, rather than what Aegon meant for it to represent.” 

Rhaenyra breathes out through her nose, lips pursed tight. “We risked the good of the realm for—  for slag.” 

“About fourteen dragons worth of metal, all in, Your Grace”, the smith supplies helpfully. That’s barely enough to buy a good suit of tourney armour, and nowhere near the cost of a good stallion. Daemon could vomit at the banality of it. 

“We all have dragons… and yet, even Valyria met its Doom. Fate weaves a curious tapestry and the crown might as well be a feather for the way it seems to float around. It came to my father, and Viserys chose me to succeed him. He held to this the whole of his life.” 

Alicent’s head dips, every muscle humming with tension, and Daemon remembers those nightmarish nights after Viserys’s death, after Visenya’s and Luke’s and Jahaerys’s — but blood has paid for blood and so Daemon takes a breath, and lets the fire of fury burn to the embers of distant memory. 

“My father believed that I, alone, was meant to be this protector”, Rhaenyra says, and Aegon looks wounded. Daemon feels the same injury. But when he looks up, Rhaenyra’s expression is hard as the Wall and steady as granite.
“But I am not my father and I don’t want to do this alone. I don’t think it *should* be done alone. How can it be, when the dragon has three heads? If what Viserys feared, and Aegon dreamed, comes to pass, it will take all of us to defeat it.”

“What is it?” Jacaerys’s voice is tight, a general assessing the field below him. “You don’t sound as though you mean the Kinslayer.” 
He rests his hand on the pommel of his sword, the one he wears cinched over a prim brocade house-jacket. The effect should be ridiculous, but there’s something about his fixed focus that makes Daemon concerned. The boy knows something, or he wouldn’t have dressed for battle. Now that he looks, Baela is also wearing a dagger at her waist, and her riding boots on her feet. When his eyes cut to Rhaenys, he sees by her narrowed gaze that she’s also marked their preparation. 

“Aegon the Conqueror’s dream”, Rhaenyra continues, and Daemon blinks as Helaena Targaryen sidles up beside her brother. “Rhaena”, their Dreamer asks, “—your dagger? Where did you get it?”

“From Aegon”, his daughter says unrepentantly. 
“Stole it right off my sickbed”, he agrees indulgently. 

Rhaenyra pauses. “Aegon, where did you get it?”

That simple inquiry makes the prince behind him stop breathing. Daemon remembers Viserys roaring a question at Aegon — 

“Boy”, he had snarled at him, as though he hadn’t been worthy of the name Viserys himself had burdened him with, “where did you hear this?!”

A stricken, wooden silence fills the sepulchre.
“From—“ he tries to grit out, but the Dowager Queen leaps into action, the way she had that night. 

“I took it from Viserys when he passed. I knew he valued it and did not want it to be… misplaced.”

“Aegon”, Rhaenyra murmurs, steady as though she were speaking to her own child, "May I see it?” She slowly extends her hand, as though introducing herself to a strange dragon. 

Daemon watches as Viserys’s son hands over the Valyrian steel dagger with a trembling hand. Rhaenyra turns it over in her hands for a moment, as though weighing it, and then thrusts the blade into the nearest brazier. She leaves it there, although she withdraws her hand quickly. 

“Rhaenyra!” The Dowager Queen sounds appalled. “What on earth—“ 

“Look”, Rhaenyra says, and when Daemon does, he can see the metal glowing. Inscribed on the blade are glyphs, angular lines as clean as though they were written on parchment. 

“Cuts? On Valyrian steel?” The Spicetown girl sounds taken aback, leaning over the brazier to better observe. If the heat bothers her, she gives no indication

“What could do that?” Addam asks. “Thought Valyrian steel was impossible to scratch, never mind engrave.” 

Hugh shrugs. “Qohorik smiths, might be, but there aren’t any in King’s Landing. Expensive work, too.”

“Who’d import a smith just to scratch some First Men runes into the blade?” Addam retorts back, and Daemon cuts in.

“Those are Valyrian glyphs”, he replies, and then Aegon snatches the air straight out of his lungs. 

“What do they say?” Viserys’s son — Prince of the blood Royal — seems just as confused as the smith and the shipwright. 

Daemon hisses out a breath, aiming for calm when he wants to rail against Viserys’s lack of foresight. “The moment this is over”, Daemon vows, “you are being put to work learning your letters.” 

“Like a child?” Aegon mutters under his breath. “I was a king!” He’s not quiet enough. 

Behind him, Daemon hears a dry snort from Rhaenys Targaryen. “Spell 'king’ in Valyrian, your Majesty, and I’ll take the crown off your sister’s head for you.” 

“Princess Rhaenys!” Alicent sounds horrified, but to her credit, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms just waves away their chatter like so much dragon smoke. 

“Yes, yes, one must never rest easily on a throne made of swords, Princess Rhaenys, thank you for the reminder. And might one of my royal scholars translate it for our cousins who lack the benefit of your long instruction in High Valyrian?”  

Daemon is happy to rise to the occasion, using his sword tip to point out each glyph in turn. 
“From my blood”, Dark Sister guides, “come the Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the song of ice and fire.”

“His?” Rhaenys makes a quiet noise of consideration. “That glyph — Dārilaros—“

Daemon’s eyes narrow. “Do you think it refers to a title?” He remembers the sulphuric stench of amniotic fluid that had accompanied his vision, the figure of a young woman wreathed in smoke and salt under a bleeding star. A thrill of fear tickles his marrow. 

“It might”, Rhaenys agreed. “My lord Father thought so. As it refers to neither specifically, it might refer to either a prince or a princess more generally.” 

Rhaenyra nods. “Viserys must have agreed, or else he’d have saved us some trouble and plopped the crown on Aegon’s head in the cradle. But if I am the blood of the dragon, then so are all of you. It could be any one of us called to the task. It could be all of us. It could be our children, or theirs…” she pauses, looking back at her son and his brides with a mother’s concern before continuing. 
“But all of us here have felt the bond. It doesn’t matter if we were born to Queens or to the seafoam, we know it to be true. And if we exist, what else might? I fear nothing more than what I don’t know, and if the prince that was promised is to come from our blood, then we must close ranks, for we face a threat more terrible than even the Kinslayer.”

Rhaenyra stares down at the fire, and Daemon can hear five thousand years of resolve girding the steel of her spine. “The night before he named me heir, Viserys told me of Aegon’s dream-“

“Just as Daenys foresaw the end of Valyria, Aegon foresaw the end of the world of men—“, Helaena murmurs, and Rhaenyra turns, slowly. 

“You saw us?” 

Daemon feels the hollows of Balerion’s skull leering down at him like a living void. 

“You were right here”, Helaena adds, lost in memory. “Just like this. The candles were lit, so many, a thousand thousand stars, and he— Viserys had only the smallest bandage on his little finger. I had never seen Father whole before. But he was frightened-“

Rhaenyra nods, voice gentle as a Septa’s. 
“Terribly so”, she agrees. “He believed in the prophecy.”

“No”, their dreamer insists. “He Dreamed it. A night so long that children were born and died without ever seeing the sun. A terrible winter, screaming out of the North—“ 

“Helaena-“ Jacaerys’s voice is sharp. It’s the first time he’s ever heard Rhaenyra’s son sound so commanding. In an instant, the lad’s caught Helaena’s hand. The princess grips it tightly, as though it were a safety line in a blizzard. “What do you see?”

“The wind is cold, Jacaerys. Cold as death— cold as winter—“ 

“Your Grace”, Jacaerys says, turning to his mother but never letting go of his bride, “you needs must summon Lord Cregan Stark.”

“Jace?” Rhaenyra sounds confused and Daemon can’t blame her. 

The Starks are practically sheep-herders, tucked up north of the Neck, hunting snarks in their frozen wastes. But then he thinks of Harrenhal, the coldness leeching into his bones, the endless fucking nightmares blurring the line between truth and dream. That weirwood witch, praying to the Old Gods of the North… 

And the dreams. 

He looks at the rigid way Helaena stares into the fire as though it might save her from some terrible fate.

“He knows”, Jace says. “He knows what comes in the winter.”

“Jacaerys—“ Daemon starts, but Helaena looks at Daemon and speaks. 

“Death”, Helaena says, and Jacaerys grips her hand even as Baela pins herself to Helaena’s side like a burr. “It’s death that comes in the cold.”

Jace nods. “Lord Stark said as much.”

“Rhaenyra?” Daemon’s asking permission but even as he says it, he knows he cannot go. They yet have Aemond to manage, and Dark Sister sings with thirst. 

“Send a raven—“ Aegon suggests. 

“Send a dragon”, Jace replies. “Send Vermax. Lord Stark trusts me. I will go, collect Lord Stark, and return. If we fly, it should be no more than three days.”

Rhaenyra’s mouth goes tight. “Can Vermax seat two for such a long flight? I would not have you vulnerable on the ground. And what if you are caught on the way? We do not yet know where Aemond has gone-“

“I can accompany the Prince, Your Grace.” 

Rhaenyra’s head turns to the unexpected offer. The smith seems surprised at his own words, but squares his shoulders under his Queen’s regard. 
“Hugh? But your family-“

“It’s only three days, as the Prince says. Kat can manage the smallfolk as your Grace requested; she’s a familiar face in town, and Saera’s well on the way to mended, with thanks to your Grace’s good care. Silverwing is familiar to the Starks; might be she’d allow one to ride south.”
Daemon’s impressed; Saera’s son has stepped up. When Hugh meets his gaze, Daemon’s steady nod has him standing up taller. 

Despite the compelling case, for a moment Rhaenyra seems poised to refuse. 

Her eldest, her Crown Prince, is volunteering to be sent north through the Riverlands with a mad dog on the loose. He can see her mull it over, eyes sliding from Helaena’s pallid cheeks to the dagger still red-hot with runes, and finally the Queen concedes where the mother cannot. “Very well. But be careful, the both of you, and fly high.”

Jacaerys nods, military-sharp. 
“We’ll make the preparations to leave in the morning, your Grace.” 

“Excellent, Jacaerys”, Daemon interjects, “Before you leave, Lord Hugh, you’ll visit the Master of Arms and get kitted out. Do you have a preference in weapons?” 

When the smith shoots him a look of surprise, Daemon pays it no mind. “I was never trained, my Prince-“

“Daemon”, he corrects, because he knows how prideful men work. “No sense in formality at this late fucking hour, cousin. I suggest we find you a warhammer, then. It makes a good impression on the Lords Paramount if we look the part upon landing. Find something gem-crusted, it’ll be perfectly impractical. Jacaerys, you’ll be senior diplomat on the mission, but my Lord Hammer, do take heed. As you’ve heard, Her Grace intends to make us earn our pease and saltback.” His grin is wicked, but Hugh’s responding one is worth the peacocking. Hugh Hammer is a dangerous man, and now one placed solidly on their side. 

“Very good”, Rhaenyra agrees. “For the rest of us—  we must be judicious in the application of our dragons, and wise in the stewardship of our kingdom. And I am afraid we must… address the issue of the Kinslayer.” 

“Perhaps he is in the Mountains of the Moon”, Alicent suggests. “He might seek to hide—“ 

“To lick his wounds and plot”, Netty mutters, unrepentant. “I don’t think that sort considers surrender much of an option.” 

“Harrenhal”, Rhaenys says, and it’s the logical choice. 

“Lord Larys would have said”, Alicent rebuts, but Daemon shakes his head. 

“That man would bite his tongue out before revealing a secret he didn’t want shared. In fact I think he did—“

“We must go in force. I would not take a single chance against that—“ Rhaenyra’s gaze goes hollow, and Daemon knows she’s staring into eternity again. “If it is at Harrenhal, we must spare no expense. I would have the Arryns lend their men to the mission, as well as the Westerlands. Surely Lord Tyland will not object. Prince Daemon, the Riverlands?” 

Daemon is less confident in them, but only if he asks. “Lord Tully will herd his cat-fish if you tell him to, Your Grace, although I’m sure it will take some time to organize.” 

“Then we must act quickly. I shall send emissaries on dragonback.” 

Rhaenys nods, considering logistics with quiet resolve. “We should send dragons to pin the Abomination in his den. Sheepstealer and Moondancer to the Vale; the cliffs will be a natural benefit to Sheepstealer and Lady Jeyne did ask for a dragon. We’ll send the two. Lady Netty can keep her ears open, whilst the Princess Baela can make an excellent case for our… enhanced support. The Vale be obliged to provide troops or else meet the beasts in question.” 

Baela nods, so Rhaenys moves relentlessly down the list of riders. 
“Seasmoke is a familiar beast to the sailors of my Lord Husband’s fleet; I would recommend stationing Lord Addam in the Blackwater the better to hunt any lingering Triarchy ships that come ashore, and guide the Velaryon ships through the wildfire caches. Dreamfyre and Syrax will stay to guard the city, whilst Prince Daeron and I fly to Storm’s End, the better to remind my cousin of his vows and obligations.”

Rhaenys is in her element, issuing proclamations with all the confidence of a battlefield general. Daemon isn’t surprised when the junior members of the bloodline all stand a little straighter under her frank address. 

“Daemon?” Rhaenyra asks at the end of it, and he nods, all business. 

“I’ll decamp to Riverrun and see to it that Lord Tully sees to his mud-men. Have your Lannister send a raven to his Lord brother to muster his levees and meet us there. We’ll march to Harrenhal from Riverrun with Tully’s men. I’ll lead the Van with Caraxes.”

“And I shall join you with Meleys”, Rhaenys agrees. “In the meantime Syrax, Dreamfyre, Sunfyre and Vermithor can stay to guard King’s Landing.”

“Excellent”, Rhaenyra says, finally sounding more herself. “Once we have our armies staged, we will do what we must. Once we have, though— when I have the Lords come for the coronation, I will announce a few new additions to the Small Council.”

“Oh?” Rhaenys’s tone goes curious.

“Yes”, the Queen agrees. “Daemon, I’ll name you Prince Consort, and protector of the blood. Your mandate is the well-being of the Targaryen line. All of it, with no exceptions.” 

Shit, he will be babysitting. 

Daemon looks up with a mouth full of retorts, only to see Helaena’s eyes fixed on him like a pin through a beetle wing. He nods instead, a silent assent to his penance, and Rhaenyra purses her lips with approval. 

“Good. Alicent, you’ll remain Dowager Queen as is your right. I’ll need you to introduce our newest cousins to the joys of court life and their positions in it. I’ll also ask you to continue to oversee the education of the children — all of them, with no exceptions. I do not care which side of the sheet they originate from — or indeed, the type of sheet. I will not have Targaryen children raised in wine sinks and brothels.” 

Alicent Hightower, raising royal bastards. 

At least Daemon will have company in his misery. 

Rhaenyra pauses, and then turns to her brother. 
“Aegon-“

The prince goes goes pale as a ghost, no doubt thinking of his strange, brothel-born bastard. The child, Maelor, has taken to carrying little Shrykos around like a pet, whispering to the dragon as though it expects a response. Once upon a time he’d have thought him mad, but now Daemon isn’t so sure. 
“Rhaenyra”, Aegon stammers, “I swear I didn’t know-“

“You’ll be named Master of Air-“

“Pardon?”

Daemon could bounce a ball into Aegon’s open mouth. Daemon hears Rhaena’s quiet laugh at the man’s clear confusion. 

“A new position, for an unprecedented situation. I want you to study strategy with the Lady Hand, and begin thinking of ways to train our dragon-riders in the art of flying together.” 

Aegon stares at the Queen as though she’s begun speaking Dothraki — or Valyrian, for that matter. It isn’t as though he can understand either. 

Rhaenyra doesn’t miss a beat. 

“Daemon, I would like us to begin performing royal passages again; we’ve the numbers and need to show a united front. I would leave training the riders for that task to you, and in good time, to Aegon.”

“Why me?” 

“An object lesson in the importance of downrange awareness for new riders?” Baela offers helpfully. 

Her sister glares at her. 
“A reminder to recalcitrant lords of a dragonlord’s capacity for endurance”, Rhaena says steadily and Daemon watches as Aegon’s unburnt cheek goes a ruddy pink. 

“Thank you ever so”, Aegon says. “But Rhaenyra, why me, really?”

“Your bond with Sunfyre, for one”, the Queen says. “It’s as intuitive as it’s possible for a bond to be, and I watched you on the way over. You fly like you were born with wings. You’ve also benefitted from the martial education I lack so you’ll be able to look down at the countryside and see it in a way I cannot. I need dragon-riders I trust that can send into the field to parlay or go on progress or — indeed — to fight. We must be trained, lest we present a bigger threat to our kingdom than even Aemond, or whatever he has wrought.”

“A heavy responsibility-“ Alicent demurs, concern bracketing her mouth with unhappy lines. 

“And one I am sure he will easily carry, my Lady”, Daemon assures her. “The Prince has been allowed to waste his talents. He’ll find I’m a much stricter taskmaster than their Royal Father, but then, Viserys couldn’t fly either, so what does his opinion on the topic matter?” 

Rhaenys snorts, even as Aegon pipes up, 
“Will they fly under me?” 

“If you did us the honour of asking”, the chit from Spicetown snaps. “We are standing right here, your majesty.” 

“My apologies”, Aegon says, easier with the commons than with his kin. “Will you fly with me?” 

“I would”, Saera’s son says. “I want to know how you fly that low in the saddle.” 

“It’s been modified to accommodate a bad hip”, Aegon says, “but I don’t see why you couldn’t have one made to suit how you ride…”

“If His Majesty will have us”, Addam hesitates. “And her Grace approves?”

“He shall.” 

“She does.”

“Then we’re agreed”, Jace says. “Lord Hugh and I shall fly north to collect Lord Stark and return for the Coronation. The rest protect the city, and, gods willing, end the abomination.”

“You must be careful”, Baela murmurs. 

“Avoid the God’s eye”, Helaena whispers, clutching at Jace’s hand, and Daemon watches as Baela pulls them both into a tight embrace. 

*** 

The meeting leaves them all restless.

Rhaenyra and Alicent had decamped together, making their way to the night gardens. Daemon had followed them through the torchlit corridors at a respectful distance, hand on the pommel of his sword  

There had been no threat; only a distant garden bench draped in jasmine. He had placed himself at the gates of the garden, a sentry proceeding no further  

That had been what feels like an hour ago, and he can’t say they’ve moved since.

The two women sit a hand’s breadth’s apart on the garden bench overlooking the Blackwater, frozen in silent contemplation. The auburn headed woman sits straight as any Septa, with a dignified carriage only practice can ensure. The other slouches as though weary in the saddle, silver hair cascading down a curved back. Her elbows rest on her knees, a charmingly anachronistic pose for a lady. 

Daemon has been here for as long as they have, but in that time neither has breathed a word. 

He isn’t close enough to make out words, but he’d hear if they were chatting. He’s leaning against a pillar near the moon-garden, far enough out for privacy, but close enough to respond to any would-be assassin. 

He of all people knows how easily one might be acquired, and the Red Keep has many blind corners. This is the most dangerous, so he’ll claim it and ensure no one else can. . 

He’s on high alert, and it takes an act of will not to jolt when Viserys’s other daughter glides closer. He hadn’t even noticed her, but then, she might know passages even the Gods and Maelor forgot.  

Unlike Baela, her slippered feet are quiet on the stone and she is unarmed but for her smile. 
“They look happy”, Alicent’s daughter murmurs, and Daemon recalls that she, too, has a lady love. A true daughter of the Reach, Alicent could give the Fossoways lectures on apples and trees. 

“They do”, he agrees. They’d been thick as thieves as girls, and this war has knit them together again. 

Before Otto had sunk his claws into her, Alicent had been a solid sport, and a leal companion to Rhaenyra. He can still remember her smile at the tourney, even in the face of her father’s scolding. 

Daemon has always known he will not outlive Rhaenyra; if war does not claim him, age will. He is glad, now, that she will have someone to guard her when he is but a story for the bards to tell. 

“It has taken them some time to get there”, Helaena says, as though remarking on the progress of a tricky bit of embroidery. 

Some time, Daemon thinks, and battlefields of blood. It is only the capriciousness of the Gods that had given Rhaenyra a dragon instead of a cock, but they had made the realm bleed for it. He cannot regret it, though; he’d pay an ocean’s worth to be at his Queen’s service. 
“It has.”

“Are you happy?”

Is he happy? 

It takes him a moment, but in the end he must confess to the laughable truth. “Insofar as I can be, yes”, he says, ducking his head. “Are you?”

“Yes.” She sounds just as perturbed as he does by that truth. “Insofar as I can be. I’ve untangled most of the knotted threads. The loom turns much more neatly now.”

He’s never woven. Nevertheless, he knows better than to doubt their Dreamer now. 
“You’ve seen it. What comes after Aemond.”

She nods, eyes hollow. 
“Only a little. I’m glad I have not seen more. In the worst dream I’m flying through a clear blue sky, but there is no warmth in it. The air itself hurts to breathe”, she whispers, as though it were a horrifying secret. “So acute is the chill, and in that quiet comes—“

He remembers. The thing in the darkness, the haunted wood full of star-eyed revenants. 
“The thing with the blue eyes.”

“Yes”,’Helaena whispers. “We have both seen Death.”

“Has it seen us?”

“What do you think, Prince Daemon?”

He doesn’t know why he even asked. 
“What does that thing want?” Once he knows that, he’ll know the creature’s weakness. 

Helaena shakes her head, gnawing at her wind-chapped lip. “Who does that thing need?”

“You think whatever it is needs one of us.”

“I think whatever it is may have already received it.”

“Your brother-“

“Has committed a multitude of sins. But he was kind to me when so very few were. I grieve the gentle man, uncle, but know that the creature he has become cannot be allowed to live. But—“

Daemon can feel his mouth pucker like a lemon. 
“Always a but-“ 

“But it’s a story.”

He shudders to hear his own thoughts echoed aloud to him. “You said that to me once.” He remembers, acutely. The blood — the sap — had flowed over him; into him, into each hangnail and the small knicks on his palm. It had bewitched him. And there, at the end, in the hallowed quiet, he had seen Alicent Hightower’s daughter, as luminously pale as the beacon that is her namesake. “I saw you, in a Dream.”

“You did.”

“I was at Harrenhal.”

She nods. “You were.”

Daemon spits; it tastes of copper, and he isn’t sure if it’s memory or real. 
“That fucking place.”

“Indeed. But if this was a story worked on a loom, Prince Daemon, know that Aemond has found no pleasure in his part. He is… a player on a stage, reading lines lest he be pulled from the boards by the mob. There is something inside the ancient one, Uncle, something aware. It is not just my brother riding that dragon.”

Daemon knows it. Three heads has the dragon—

It does not grieve him to kill Aemond, for he was the monster that murdered Luke long before the beast claimed him, but it brings him no joy to wound his daughter in law. 
“Your brother cannot be saved, my Princess. I am sorry; I would spare you this if I could.” 

Helaena regards him with those luminous eyes.
“I know he can’t be saved. But if you can, let him die as himself.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“Only that”, Helaena murmurs, inscrutable as a dragonglass mirror, then dips a cursey. “Good night, Uncle Daemon.” 

“Good night, Helaena.” Daemon stares, perplexed and shakes to the marrow, as she leaves. It is a long time before his skin stops crawling at the memory of her pale lilac eyes reading him like a Septa’s primer. 

Neither of his Queens moves the entire time. 

*** 

It is in the grim, gray hours before dawn that Daemon is awoken by the frantic knocking of his valet at the chamber door. 
“My lord! My lord”, the man hisses, insistent as a Dornish sand snake. “You must wake up!” 

So he does, flinging on his housecoat and boots. “Come in”, he says, and the man nearly rips the wooden door off its hinges in his haste to enter. It cannot be good. “What’s happened? Tell me and be quick about it.”

“You are summoned by the Queen—“, the man pants, winded as though he’s run full tilt. “Princess Helaena is gone!” 

Daemon feels his blood go to ice, and reaches for Dark Sister. 

Chapter Text

HELAENA

The river of time moves slowly, and the burden in her arms weighs her down, but Helaena makes haste. 

The snow crunches under her feet, so crisp that it squeaks, and the jade-green dragon she cradles in her arms whimpers like a child. The air is still and deadly as Valyrian steel, and Helaena can see her breath crystallize in the air as she exhales. The sky above is black as ink, and pierced with a hundred thousand uncaring stars. 

Helaena marches onwards, and though her steps make noise, her feet do not puncture the snow. She drifts, light as hoarfrost along the icy crust, and though the woods are dark she does not feel frightened. 
Ahead, a grove of weirwoods scrapes towards the sky like gnarled hands. Nine trunks grow in a circle, each carved with a face she recognizes but can’t quite place. 

She has dreamed so many lives that sometimes they blend together. 

Ahead, she sees a long-faced, dark haired boy in fine, heavy furs bow his head— 

The green dragon in her arms hisses in recognition—

She blinks, and the hulking mass of the boy in black furs turns into something vaguely shaped like a kneeling woman, cloaked in a black cloak that gleams with an oily green sheen. 

The closer Helaena gets the smaller the shadow becomes until by the time she’s entered the grove, there is only an owl staring up at her. No sooner has she approached than the owl flings itself into the air, coming to a perch in the tree bearing a woman’s face. The owl and tree alike glare accusingly down the bridge of beaked noses at Helaena. 

“Took you two long enough”, the owl says, clear as a whisper in Helaena’s ear. Her vowels are a bit too broad for it to be a Northern burr, but her tone is cutting as the winter wind. 

“I did not know I was being waited on”, Helaena demurs. 

“Didn’t you?” 

The dragon shifts uncomfortably in her arms at the accusation, so Helaena releases it. The creature slithers over her back until it can rest comfortably, draped around her like a python. It’s a comfortable weight, almost like the way Jahaerys had loved to cuddle her. It’s galling to admit, but the owl is right. She has been craven, hiding behind walls while Baela and Jace and even Aegon fight. She has ever consoled herself with the knowledge that she and Dreamfyre have another role to play, but Helaena has been dreading this day her whole life. She cannot be faulted for wanting to delay it.

“I don’t disagree”, the owl demurs as though reading her mind. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but I’ve held that—“, Helaena sees the silhouette of the Cannibal in her mind’s eye, black as shadow against bright stinging white, “—thing off for as long as I can, Your Majesty. I am, after all, merely human.” Her tone is so bitter that Helaena can taste it on the back of her tongue. “And it is not. The beast is stronger than I am.”

There is a bone-deep weariness to the sluggish way the bloody sap courses like tears down the tree’s face, a heaviness to the creaking boughs. Even the owl roosting in the branches looks tattered, feathers missing and beak chipped. The woman’s fatigue isn’t surprising — whomever she is, it’s clear she’s gone to battle and come out worse for the wear. 

“Do you know what it is?” Helaena means the dragon, but also— this strange magic that binds them, that lets her speak to a weirwood woman through a dragon-dream. 

“An abomination”, the tree snarls. “Something that ought not to be. A half-life, lived too long.”

Helaena tastes rancour, smells the iron scent of sap. “Show me”, she demands, and the owl drops down on to a burl shaped like an eyebrow. Below its lethal talons, sap drips from hacked out eyes. She reaches out and touches the red tears on the tree-woman’s carved face. 

Helaena sees. 

History splays out beneath her like an unfurled tapestry, rolled out in a weirwood frame for her inspection. If she looks ahead, she sees gold threads stretching out, looping and overlapping in a magnificent weave. If she looks back, a bloodstained morass of red fabric and black thread intertwines with a single line of jade green. 
When she looks up, she’s in her solar at home, seated in front of her loom. 

She isn’t alone. 

A woman with black hair and a harsh, square face stares at her without a single droplet of the respect due her station. No matter; Helaena’s never stood on formality and while she’s never seen this woman before, she knows who she is to Aemond. She’s wearing his cloak, the one Helaena herself had stitched with thread the same mossy green as Vhagar’s scales. 

That makes this stranger family, if only by marriage. 

The owl-woman reaches out. 

The moment she touches the fabric, the warp and weft shimmer, fabric rolling backwards in time. When she removes her finger, time stops. 

She reaches down again, and this time, the figures picked into the fabric begin to move. 

Helaena sees the shape of Westeros as though she were a moon in the sky above, peering down at a verdant continent. It is picked out in bas relief as though it were Aegon’s painted table, and she wonders if this was perhaps the inspiration. The world is not quite right, though; the Narrow Sea does not exist. 

The Arm of Dorne yet stands, cradling a deep inland sea where Cape Wrath would be. The world below her is unlike anything she has seen, and she careens forward to see better. Giants and children of the forest wander where they might, while First Men and Green Men clash and reconcile like waves lapping upon the sand. 

The First Men are a fractious people with many petty kings, but the Green Men are led by a single one who rules from the green heart of Westeros. When Helaena peers down, she can make out the Mander, and the glory of Highgarden cradled on lush plains. Crowned in carved white wood, the High King peers through the eyes of the trees into past and future. For a moment, their eyes meet, and every hair on Helaena’s body rises in recognition. It’s as though she’s stepped on her own grave, but then the river of time sluices onwards and the feeling fades. 

The tapestry becomes dreamlike again, and Helaena watches as the Green Man’s halcyon days are ended. 

It is his own brother who sends the man to his doom. 

Said brother is a bitter thing, sent north to guard distant and ancient Walls against the dead things that slink and creep in cold northern waters. It is a hard life, far distant from warmth and comfort, and the greasy black stone that makes up the colossal Keep he inhabits seems to breed resentment in those who dwell there. 
Gifted with his own green sight, but cursed with ambition beyond his station, this brother claims the weirwood crown through treachery, and sells his brother to a distant land. 

Helaena sees the night the king of the Green Men is taken from his throne, spirited across dark salt water where even the eyes of his Old Gods cannot find him. He is not alone; his followers have been sold with him into enslavement. The Green Man’s brother has been thorough. Precious few loyalists remain, and those that do are silent in the face of his evil. 

Helaena follows the tapestry and grieves as the Green Man’s gifts of sight and skinchanging are put to ill purpose in a far empire. The once-king is a slave, controlling strange beasts for cruel masters. He becomes nothing more than the shadow of a man. 

The black-haired woman reaches out; pulling Helaena back from the grinding horror of the man’s mind, and the loom whirls again. 

The pattern changes. 

The Green Man is there, shackled in gold like a captive king. He is older now, and there is no longer any laughter in his green eyes. Helaena watches him command a dragon for a young Empress, can see the way his face contorts in agony every time he extends his mind to the beast he is forced to control, as though he were gripping hot iron. 

Despite the agony, he flies. The Empress watches, and listens, and learns to fly with him. Soon, even the dragon welcomes her presence. 

It doesn’t take long for the inevitable to occur. 

Despite his golden collar, the man is yet a High King, and his companionship is welcome. Soon, the Empress seems less solemn in his presence. He whispers quiet counsel from on high, where the wind may carry it back from his mouth to her ear. He offers silent support when she would be away from court and her brother’s grasping desires. One day, the Empress allows herself to succumb to her affections, and that is the beginning of the horror. 

Although they are happy in the moment, Helaena dreads this story’s end. 

The high king and the empress, the slave and his lover— they are destined to be separated, even as they cling together like snakes in a coil. Helaena sees the knots in every stitch that makes up their kiss, the tight way he holds her close. Helaena turns away, feeling as though she’s caught her mother and Rhaenyra in an embrace. 

The loom spins again, landing on another horrible scene. 

They have been discovered. 

Helaena sees a palace carved into a white marble cliff, beautiful and remote as the two moons that gleam overhead. There are balconies and promontories, austere balustrades built for dragons to perch on, and indeed Helaena can see a behemoth roosting outside. 
It is the Empress’s dragon, but its skinchanger and imperial passenger are nowhere to be seen. 

Inside, the lovers savour whatever small morsels of happiness they might find in each other, until one day their peace is interrupted by the Empresses’s brother. 
Her fingers trace over familiar needlework; a woman kneeling in horror at the body of her lover. Her brother looming behind her, hands grasping a sword still dripping with blood. A dragon, rearing before them, wings rampant and eyes wild, possessing a human head. 

She recognizes this. It’s Helaena’s own feverish stitching, done in a blind fugue. 

Helaena had pricked her fingers a thousand thousand times, but it had been the only way to rid her mind of memories that hadn’t been hers, Dreams of lives she hadn’t lived. 

Helaena knows what they are, now.  Who they are. 

A brother prepared to commit the ultimate abomination for power. 

A king who loves his Empress. 

A woman, prepared to risk everything for the man she loves. 

Helaena hears a wordless wail ringing in her ears— a sound so high and clear it sounds like running her finger around the rim of a fine crystal goblet. A sacrifice, narrowly averted as the dragon rises through blood and fire. Void-black but for the red coals of its eyes, it is a nightmare come to life. It looms over Usurper and Empress alike, and for a moment life and eternity balance on its ebony fangs. 

Then the dragon snatches the woman, forcing itself through the marble pillars of the balcony and out into the yawning dark. 
She sees as the man inside the dragon takes his Empress and flees, hopscotching along dark cliffs and sweltering jungles, sleeping on the wing as soon as he learns how to fly at night. They rarely land, risking storm and exhaustion to escape torment. In the low eastern sky, a red smear appears. The comet looks like a droplet of blood left to congeal for a moment, smeared by some incautious action. It grows larger in the sky by the day, seeming to chase Empress and escaped slave as they flee westward. 

Helaena feels their gritty exhaustion, the way the woman’s silver hair goes grey with sand and grease, the way his muscles ache with the steady beat of unfamiliar wings. She wants to weep for joy as the tapestry below them begins to pick out the familiar shapes of far western Essos. 

They fly without rest, soaring on the thermals even as they sleep. They are chasing the sunset, and fleeing the comet. The dragon’s weariness makes Helaena’s bone’s ache, even as the man’s screaming horror at his fate makes the hair on her arms rise. 

Over it all rests the dawning realization that the third head of the dragon rests safely within the golden shelter of its mother’s womb. 

They wing onwards, avoiding every sign of civilization, and cross along the southern coast of the whole Arm of Dorne in the dead of night. When the steep cliffs that make up the Torrentine reveal themselves in the dawn light, Helaena can feel their relief like a physical weight being lifted. 

It has taken them months to make the perilous crossing, and when the Empress steps off of the back of her dragon, she is heavy with her lover’s child. 

Figures cascade across the tapestry in a colourful rush. Men and women tumble out of the building in the mouth of the river and stop in their tracks at the sight of the beast. A woman steps forward, silver hair and amethyst eyes marking her as kin to the Empress. When the dragon hisses, the woman soothes it with a gentle touch, and the fire sparking in its throat dampens again. The silver-haired stranger’s eyes go wide, and she ushers the Empress inside at once. 

“Tell him to stay low, your Radiance”, the lady of Starfall tells her Empress. “There is a jade flame glowing in the Whispering Sound. The false Emperor is in attendance there, but you are safe among family here. We will protect you.”

The dragons scales rattle as he shakes himself, and the silver-haired lords crouch and flinch. Only the Empress remains standing, and her eyes rise to the two moons hanging low in the sky like twin pearls. 

“Keep him safe”, the Amethyst Empress prays, and Helaena can feel the weight of her gaze. 

The labour begins barely a moon’s quarter turn after their arrival. It’s fraught, and the silhouette of the dragon is picked across the fabric of the tapestry circling endlessly, restlessly, like a vulture overhead. 

The Amethyst Empress bears twins at Starfall. 

Like their mother, each has hair white as the brightest star. The girl has eyes the deep wine colour of Bravosi galleys, but the boy’s are the colour of green and growing things, the lush and verdant spring. 

His father’s eyes. 

Helaena watches with ragged familiarity as the mother rises from childbed and makes her way gingerly to the window, where the shape of a dragon soars overheard. The children’s eyes seem to track the creature in the sky above, lilac and green and aware. 

The children look like hers. 

Like Jahaera… like Jahaerys. 

Helaena can’t bear it any longer. It’s all too much. She doesn’t want to see, doesn’t want to know. If the glass candle is knowledge so bright it’s blinding, this is horror so dark it’s a void.

Trapped in her tower by the failings of tender flesh, the Empress listens as the stories she is told grow more ominous by the day. 

Traders up the Torrentine whisper of screams across the Whispering Sound, of flickering green lights in the sky and a queer electric taste to the air. Of a dead, stale wind come down from the north to rattle the eaves and frost the white-caps. Of a dread woman who came with it, blue eyes distant and ancient as stars, riding a dead horse and leading an army of corpses in her van. 

In the sky above them, the red comet grows tick-like, bloated red with blood. 

The new Emperor has arrived, and with him, the seven hells. 

Helaena rears back, away from the tapestry. 

When she can breathe again, the black-haired woman is sitting at the loom beside her, too-large eyes and wide mouth giving her a beakish expression. 

“He— they put him in…”, Helaena stammers, the first and greatest of the horrors. 

The woman nods.
“Everyone says Targaryens are kin to their dragons. Even I’ve heard that, stuck in the mud as I am. Having met Prince Daemon I’d believe it.” She snorts, wry at the thought of their impetuous Prince Consort. “Aemond calls it the blood of the dragon”, the woman admits, in a much softer voice. “He says he still hears Vhagar some times. Wishful thinking, he calls it, but one has to wonder.” 

Helaena grieves at the knowledge of what that must mean. Aemond cares for this woman, and Helaena is glad her brother has company at this grim end.
“We are all told that. That the dragons are our gods, and our blood kin.”

“So how do you suppose it got in there?” The woman pokes a finger at the needlepoint Empress in the tapestry, cradling her children. “Blood kin such as you are.”

Horror dawns like sunrise over a battlefield. 
“Fire, and blood.” Helaena recites their words — a recipe, she realizes. Ingredients. Bile fills her mouth, rich and foul as spoiled seafood stew. 

“Aye, blood sacrifice”, the woman says bluntly. “Yes. Easy enough. But how? How do you stuff a man in a dragon?” 

Helaena thinks of the green men in her tapestry, and the ravens roosting on every branch of their living throne. Of House Stark, and their direwolves. 

The woman must see the recognition in her expression. “Exactly. And what do you know about Skinchangers?” 

“That they are a northern myth-“

“A First Man myth, my lady”, the woman corrects. “From the Reach to the North; anywhere the children of Garth the Green travelled. They believe that a skinchanger can share the mind of a beast-“

That kindles a memory. 
“Jacaerys says Lord Stark calls that a Warg”, Helaena interrupts, and gets a nod in return. 

“He would know. The Kings of Winter warged their direwolves.” She says it like it’s a known thing, although Helaena’s only heard it said as a story. “Anyway, a warg is just a skinchanger who can share a wolf’s mind. Others can ride boars, or dogs… or birds.” 

Her owl clacks its break, and Helaena thinks of the way the world sprawls out underneath her when she’s on Dreamfyre, and her voice is quiet. 
“—Or dragons.”

The weirwood witch nods. “Just so. Or dragons. They’re creatures of fire, yes, but they’re beasts nevertheless. You understand, now.”

“But there are three heads?” 

“The beast”, the woman says, and her owl clacks its beak as though passing an opinion on the epithet. 

“The rider”, Helaena adds, thinking of that tiny golden thread weaving its way through the tapestry, held tightly in the child’s hand. “And the third-“

“The soul of a skinchanger inside the beast”, her companion finishes, voice going quiet as though she hardly dares speak the word lest she be overheard. “A Half-life.”

“Half-life?”

“A skinchanger who remains in the mind of his animal when his own body is killed. The man fades, and in time only the wolf remains—“ 

Helaena thinks of the dragon-man, his screaming terror and grim resolve to protect his wife and children, and the way he’d hissed at would-be allies. Another wave of grief fills her like an empty water skin. 

The woman is merciless, continuing onwards like a headsman’s downward swing. 
“Even in half-life, when the beast has taken in the soul, the man is there. He remembers the ways of man for a while.” Her voice is quiet, almost sad. “But awareness fades in time, and in the end his beast too passes. We don’t know if a half-life’s children would be able to control the progeny of their wolves. No warg would allow themselves to breed in their animal form and no First Man’s family would allow the resulting abomination to exist if they did.”

Helaena’s heart shudders. “But the dragons— they breed—“

“None of the other green men escaped, did they?” 

Bile makes Helaena’s belly churn. “No.” 

“Think they were given much choice about siring offspring?” When Helaena shakes her head, the woman inclines hers. “There you go. Fire, and blood. A skinchanger stuffed in each, and his children to ride the beasts.” 

Helaena reels. “Each dragon?”

“Or else a shared mind, like the weir—“ she goes very still, as though listening to something Helaena can’t hear. Whatever it is makes her expression tight when she turns back to Helaena. “Like the dragons”, she rephrases carefully, although Helaena’s heard enough to guess. “Aemond said Vhagar could recognize an inbound dragon long before he could.“ 

Helaena’s heart hurts at the mention of her brother’s name. “Vhagar was a loyal friend, and Aemond loved her.” 

The woman’s voice goes gentle, as though she grieves. “You know the creature he rides now is mad.”

“Yes”, Helaena agrees. “I know.”

“It’s leeching through the bond. Do you understand why?”

Helaena remembers the intelligence in the abomination’s eyes, the hungry way it had stared at Helaena, even as Aemond had struggled to keep it from consuming her. That had been a man’s avarice, staring out of a dragon’s slitted gaze. 

“There is a man inside the beast. Is he aware?” When the woman nods, Helaena feels acutely sick. To be trapped, wordless and burning forever… it is no wonder he is mad. 
“For how long?”

“Since the Long Night. He tried to stuff himself in a dragon.” She sniffs in disdain. “Stupid. There’s a reason they used slaves for that, but by then I suppose he was too far gone to care.”

“Did it work?” 

“Yes unfortunately for him..” 

“Then why is he still stuck?”

The woman shrugs. “Where was he going to go? Just because you can stuff yourself into a crack in a cave wall doesn’t mean you can wriggle your way back out of it.”

Helaena remembers the man in her vision, the intemperate younger brother staring hatefully at his sister and her lover with eyes green as jade. He’d wanted her, and settled for none other. “What of his corpse queen?” 

“What of her? His woman was an icy thing, giving him no children to command the dragon and spare him from the madness of aeons. Nowhere to go, no one to be. Just a candle and a creature. At least, until Viserys married young Alicent Hightower of Battle Isle. How the Hightowers must have been thrilled. They must have thought it their own clever idea.” 

Helaena thinks of the fused stone of her mother’s childhood home. Dragon-made stone, nowhere near Dragonstone. Thinks of Daeron and his stories of that awful green light, of Grandfather and Lord Hightower. 

Eight thousand years of waiting had resulted in a perfect opportunity: A Hightower on the back of the last Asshai dragon. 

There is ice in her veins at how close they have flirted to annihilation, and she’d been as blind as the rest of them. She’d been mistaken, looking at the wrong thing. Like a butterfly, she’d been watching the threads. 

She ought to have been watching the weaver. 

Helaena remembers of that single oleaginous line of green stitching its way through the fabric of her tapestry, pooling under Alicent as she enters the white wedding. She remembers the coppery green of the lit Hightower, the same green her mother used to declare war all those years ago. 

The same shade as the glass candle, the fire— 

The acid bright eye of the beast, beneath the scales. 

It can control Aemond, because it knows him. 

Now she understands why the Cannibal has never been ridden, and why he gorges with delight on the young and feeble of the Targaryen flock. The Cannibal is a methuselah, and deep inside is the gibbering madness of an ancient king who hates the Targaryens with every atom in its soul. 

The breath leaves her throat. 

“Fire, and blood. A bloodline. And the Cannibal— everyone says he cannot be tamed. That it loathes Targaryen dragonriders. It eats the dragon eggs, the young and the weak, because we are subjects it can no longer control?” Horror churns anew. “That why it wants Aemond. Because he’s of his line. It can compel us.”

When the owl clacks its beak, Helaena feels a cold chill in her gut. 

“For how long? How long have we been capable of communing with that beast?” 

“Since the Dawn”, the woman scoffs. “‘We light the way’? From where? For whom? That is not a blameless legacy, Princess. You are descended from that madness. The Starry Sept? The Citadel? An ancient city older than the First Men? Do not be naive.”

Helaena thinks of the distant Dawn lands, shining bright and terrible as a scythe. White stone, arching up to heaven. 
“It waited for us. For us three—“

"And any one of you would have done, I think. Didn’t even need to work hard at it; you lot stuck his soul-jar in your attic and used it to light the place up like a lamp. My prince was simply the easiest target, since it isn’t as though any of youse have a tart’s fuck about him until he could burn castles with a whistle.”

Helaena’s feels acute so grief it curdles her marrow. Poor Aemond, lost in the woods and found by a wolf. “Did the abomination plan this?” 

The woman smiles her gallows smile down at her. “Did it have to, when everyone was so quick to feed him to it? But yes, it might have done, and dawn is near, Princess. You’d better hurry in case it did.” 

Helaena wakes with a shriek, flinging herself from bed and into her riding leathers before the crust of sleep has cleared from her eyes. She doesn’t want to leave, but cannot remain. There is no time. 

Jacaerys will be horrified, and Baela furious. Both will be hurt she didn’t tell them. But she can’t. 

She needs to keep the abomination from turning the loom, and she cannot risk them. 

Helaena crosses the room on tiptoe and presses the carving of a dragon rampant near the window ledge. A panel opens, and she waves away the cobwebs and disappears through the yawning gap. 

*** 

MAELOR 

The comet hangs over the world like the end of days, a sword heavy in its sheath. The tail sears, hot as a brand, and the head is redhot as dragon-fire. It is a thing of black stone heated to a oleaginous sheen, wrapped around a core of gritty ice. 

Fire, ice, and nothing nice— 

It’s a simple rhyme, the sort Ma might have sung to coax him to a bath, but he’s alone in this hungry dark. 

He clings to a pillar of stone-hard white light that casts harsh shadows on his eyelids every time he blinks. It is the only steady place in the gale, a shrieking nothingness filled with voices he doesn’t recognize. 

Perfectly round jewels roll about on black velvet and for a moment Maelor doesn’t understand what he’s looking at. Recognition is as slow-and-sudden as a cracking dawn — these are planets, the seven celestial wanderers tight against the firmament. He can just see seven if he squints, strung out like jewels on a crown. Topaz, amethyst, opal, pearl, and then an emerald one approaches, looming ever closer in swirls of blue ocean and green land and lilac-white ice. 

Fear wells in Maelor’s stomach and he screams, a wordless wail that accomplishes nothing. It doesn’t even make a sound. He coils himself around the pillar of light, begging for succor, but the darkness of the void around him sucks away any respite. 

He can hear something else, now, a low rumble that is more a sensation than a sound. It is a beckoning thing, like a leviathan calling in the distant deep. Around him, beneath him, the red comet shudders and speeds, loyal as a hound to its master. 

His vision traverses over a mountain and tropical jungle, a colossal shining city and a high range of mountains so high they nigh touch the moon.  
The comet’s flight takes him over river delta and verdant continental step, until— 

Maelor’s fear turns to dread, for the Arm of Dorne is whole, and quickly approaching. There is an inland sea where the Narrow Sea ought to be, and Maelor may not be learned but he also isn’t a fool. He was whelped on the docks and he knows that isn’t what the coast of Westeros looks like. 

In the distance, the low rumble intensifies — as does the piercing green light beginning to drown out the now-comforting brightness. 

The world approaches, and now the ice of the void is the fire of entry. Maelor feels scalded, like he’s bathing in dragon-fire. There’s screaming, a wail as high and shrill and lovely as he has ever heard. 

And then he is there, gone from the comet and corporeal, clinging to a silver-haired woman. 

For a moment, he thinks it’s Ma. 

The woman has the same fine cheekbones and elegant profile, and the same long sheets of hair cascading down her back like silvery spring rain. 

His hopes are dashed when he sees her clearly. 

The resemblance is uncanny but there’s a hardness to the woman’s expression that Ma, even at her most tired, never carried. This woman looks like she could kill; Maelor doesn’t think he remembers seeing Ma ever eat meat. ‘Course, they’d never had much of it and what they’d had had gone into his bowl, but still. 

This won’t ever be Ma, though, because Ma never rode a dragon and Maelor finds himself a thousand feet up, clinging to the back of a black monstrosity, big enough that he thinks it could curl in the Dragonpit and only just fit.
The creature’s wings are big enough to block out the view for leagues, which makes Maelor’s tummy feel a little better— but then he looks around the body of the woman who isn’t Ma, and wishes he hadn’t. 

There’s an even larger dragon ahead, horrifically large and twisted. Its wings scrape against the sky, claws ending in jagged talons clearly designed for rending flesh. Each tooth is larger than any great sword, and Maelor knows they could disappear into the maw of this beast in a single breath. 

It doesn’t matter. They lunge forward regardless. 

The two dragons fling themselves at each other with murderous intent. The Emperor’s mount lunges for belly and throat, but the dragon Maelor’s riding goes for the man commanding the beast. 

They swoop like a peregrine, movements surgically precise. The Empress flies like she was born in the air, inverting and swirling like a storm of swords. The dragon seems in his element, tucking and flaring his wings like a ribbon-dancer at the Maiden’s Day faire, indulging his lady with ruthless grace. 

Only up close do they realize something unsettling. 

The man isn’t focused on them. He’s letting his dragon fly where it will to evade them. Instead, he’s staring up at the red comet, whispering an invocation. His hand is bloody, a cut seeping viscous black blood. Staring at him, Maelor thinks panic has dimmed his vision. Then he looks up, and everything becomes blisteringly clear. 

The red comet, bright as a hot sword, has passed behind the moon, casting the world in shadow. 

It does not emerge. 

The Empress’s body goes rigid, hard as stone. 

The world erupts into movement and sound. There is a cataclysmic roar as the small pearl in the sky shudders, glows, and then begins to crack. Red lines trace along the surface, a fire-filled egg in a brazier, and then, it crashes open and dragons escape. 

They aren’t made of flesh, but they burn through the world with a rapaciousness simple hunger couldn’t hope to match. 

Above Maelor, the sky sizzles and burns as chunks of moon begin to pierce the firmament, turning the sky to a blood-red mess. None crest immediately overhead, but a large chunk whips above them with a piercing shriek, heading south-east. 

Below, the Empress screams, a noise of inchoate and wordless rage so high that it makes Maelor’s eardrums ache. The dragon she rides whirls and dips to avoid flaming brands, but the woman has her eyes fixed on the Emperor below her, distracted by his pleasure at the apocalypse raging above them. 

“Take care of them”, the woman tells her dragon, and in that moment lunges from her saddle and into the sky. 

The dragon beneath them roars in anguish, a cry that seems loud enough to shatter what remains of the moon. 

Down, down, down she falls, fifty feet if it’s five, hair a shining silver tail behind her. Her sword remains on the saddle, too long to pull from its sheath, but her white steel daggers are a flash of bright death as she falls.  

She hits the Emperor like a ballista, wrapping herself around him to slow her momentum and nearly heaving them both off his mount. When that fails, they grapple for purchase, a vicious struggle made all the more precarious for its perch on the back of a heaving dragon trapped in boiling air. The creature whips about as though trying to dislodge his handler and his imperial riders, even as the two scions try to murder each other. 
The coal-eyed dragon Maelor rides is a constant menace, aiming for the dragon’s mahout with vicious prejudice. It doesn’t take long before the man is released from his enslavement into the mercy of death, and the dragon can turn his attention to the misshapen beast his woman clings to. 

He attacks with ruthless prejudice, and it nearly works. 

Nearly. 

The dragon takes a painful slice to the belly and the woman shrieks as though she’s taken the blow herself. In that instant, the Emperor lunges forward, shoving a rippled black steel blade through her body. 
She makes an awful noise, a terrible grunt, and then pauses. A moment of stillness and then a relieved smile arches across her lips. It’s as though she knows something he doesn’t and with a soft sigh that sounds nearly like relief, she steps forward into the blade. That single movement brings her close enough to kiss the man; it’s certainly near enough to slit his throat. 

Blood sprays, mingling with the flames painting the air in crimson and carmine. Maelor screams. 

“Fire, and blood”, the man mouths, looking right at Maelor over the woman’s shoulder before sliding off the saddle and down, down, down into a thousand feet of free fall. His eyes are wide and wild, and in their black pupil Maelor sees the void yawn open. 

There is something in that darkness, and it sees him. 

He wakes silently, rigid with terror. 

Beside him curls the green dragon. He’s been told it’s his, and that its name is Shrykos, but Maelor doesn’t trust these people. He’s seen the almost human way the dragon watches the crowd of silver-haired royals. He’s dreamed of a silver-haired boy with stitches at his throat, who hisses just like the dragon staring at him now. Yellow eyes reflect the light of the single candle like a cat, and across the room, Jahaera sleeps restlessly. Her face is scrunched into a miserable scowl, unhappy even in sleep. 

Their nanny sleeps on a cot in an antechamber by the door, far enough away that Maelor can barely see her. The Princess’s suites are larger than the brothel where he was born, and more finely appointed beside. 

He moves with all caution of an alleyway kitten, careful not to trip over Jahaera’s toys on the floor. The dragon slithers along the stone with less consideration, but Maelor is faster. He gives the Princess a gentle push, whispering her name. “Princess Jahaera—you must wake up.” 

She doesn’t, although her brows furrow unhappily. “Wake up”, he hisses under his breath, pushing her more fervently. “Please wake up. Wake UP.” Fear has him shoving her hard enough that she comes to full wakefulness in an instant, violet eyes bouncing around the room for the threat. 

“Maelor! What is it?” 
 She keeps her voice a whispered hiss, and her dragon’s displeasure is a jaw-dislocating snarl that luxuriates in demonstrating every night-black tooth. Yesterday, that would have terrified him. 
 
Now, Maelor can’t afford to be frightened, so he puts on the same steady voice he uses for dealing with the City Watch or Auld Mag back at Ma’s place, and lifts his chin. “Something’s wrong. Shrykos showed me.”
 
 For a moment, the silver-haired princess just looks at him, and Maelor feels a little bit flayed. Then she nods, and scratches her dragon’s crest gently. "All right. We can tell my mother.”

“It’s about your Lady Mother”, Maelor says, and forestalls Jahaera’s pickled scowl by adding, “She’s gone into the God’s Eye. It swallowed her up. I dreamed it.”

“Oh”, the Princess says. “Well. Shit.” 
She enunciates the Flea Bottom curse with the fine elocution of a Septa and even while cold with terror-sweat, Maelor gawps.  
“Are you allowed to say that? You’re a Princess.”

“My father was the King—“ she starts, nose so high in the air it might as well be a comet, and then freezes as though stricken with an idea. “Father. Right”, she says, and scrambles for the fireplace. When he doesn’t follow, she stamps her foot. “Come along!”

He’s never felt denser. “What, up the chimney?” 

The princess stares at him for a moment, and then smacks a dragon carving beside the lintel like it’s the back of his head. The back of the hearth slides back an inch, just enough to squeeze through, and Maelor’s jaw drops. 

“Maegor’s tunnels are real? Thought that was a whore’s story-“

“Now, Maelor!”, the princess snaps, and he flings himself off the bed like she’s tossed a scorpion at him. 

“Okay! Gods ha’ mercy but you’re bossy.”

*** 

RHAENA

The world is aflame as the dragons separate, flesh dangling from black talons. The south-east is a red glow, and the earth below them rumbles and quakes. Rhaena thinks of the painted table and in a heartbeat it’s there— or rather, she is, staring down with the cold objectivity of a surgeon debriding necrosis. South-east of the God’s Eye is…

Her stomach churns, because the red sky suddenly makes sense. 

The Broken Arm of Dorne. Bloodstone Island, her father’s seat in the Narrow Sea. 

The Bloodstone Emperor— Rhaena remembers the stories she’d read in Pentos, and now knows them to be true with all her soul. 

After all, she’s watching it unfold like a mummer’s play. 

The large, unwholesome beast belonging to the Bloodstone Emperor writhes and twists in the air. Its scream is the shriek of a dying man, and a kicked dog, and every ugly thing in between. Its twisted body contorts in what seems to be agony, even as flecks of burning rock continue to pepper its wings with vicious stings. Suddenly, the creature breaks and flees south-west, fast as it can. It does not have a rider, but Rhaena thinks of the way Vermithor’s dreams of flight have become her own, and knows there’s more than one way to ride a dragon. 

Still, the Dream will not allow her to chase the beast; this is only what has happened, and she cannot reweave a tapestry. 

Of course, the Empress isn’t riding any at all. 

She’s slid off of the side at her brother’s collapse, blade still embedded in her torso as she falls, pale and beautiful as a strip of pure white silk. 

In the curious way of dreams, Rhaena stares with detached concern as the other dragon drops like the wrath of a furious God, green eyes narrowed against the smoke and fire. He chases the white streak that is his woman, daring the looming ground with every second he descends. 
He arrests her fall perhaps a spire’s length above the water, and a heaving blast of his wings keeps them from crashing into the God’s Eye. He’s careful not to snap her spine, inverting his mass so his bulk takes the brunt of the momentum as they skid along the water. 

It is a titanic effort that sees him right himself in a single heave, wingspan all but pushing the water out of his way. His roar is agony and triumph at once, and in it Rhaena hears Vermithor, and Vhagar, and Sunfyre— every dragon she has ever loved. 

The black dragon whips across the surface like an osprey on the hunt, making for the island in the lake. Though the sky churns above them, the island has not yet burned and Rhaena knows — somehow — that they will be safe there. 

It appears the Empress does as well, for she opens her eyes as they land in a clearing. The bower of white trees rise like the soaring halls of the Eyrie, marble-white and high as the heavens. 

The sky is a conflagration above them, but somehow it feels a world away. 

“Green”, the woman with purple eyes whispers, looking about. “Just as you said. No taint. It’s beautiful.” The dragon makes a crooning noise, so sorrowful that Rhaena’s eyes well with tears. 

“No, no”, the woman soothes. “It’s all right. You’re safe. You’re home.” An expression of peace crosses her face after a second. “We’re home. I’ll stay here, and you’ll be free .” She shudders, face contorting in fear for the first time. “You’ll tell our children about me?” 
When the dragon rests his head on the ground beside her, if only to be closer in wordless reply, the woman rests her hand on the scaled brow. “You know what I mean. Teach them how to fly. The way we do. Together. Freely.” 

Rhaena’s blood goes cold. She knows those words. 

Rhaena feels the heavy weight of awareness behind her. Once one has stared down a dragon, one never forget the feeling, and Rhaena turns with glacial slowness and icy reserve to face the beast behind her. There’s a dragon at her eye level, but it’s not the colossal black one curled around the silver haired woman. It isn’t even the emperor’s Abomination. 

This is something much smaller, and infinitely worse. 

She recognizes this dragon. 

“Hello, Shrykos”, she whispers. 

“You need to wake up”, Jahaerys the Younger says, dragon and dead boy by turns, and although Rhaena has never heard his voice, she can hear Aegon’s timbre in every syllable. She’d know his son anywhere, in any form. Even with a slit throat. 

“Your parents love you”, she tells him, because all men must die, but Jahaerys had been a child and her father had given a stupid fucking order. She wishes she could hate him, but she’ll just have to add this to his list of senseless sins. 

“I know”, the boy says. “I haven’t forgotten that yet. But it doesn’t matter. You need to wake up, now. Mother has gone to the God’s Eye.”

Rhaena sits up in bed, slick with cold sweat, to the sound of stone grinding slowly out of alignment. 
“Aegon”, she whispers quietly. “You need to wake up. Your children are here.” 

“Jahaerys?” He squints at the flash of silver just visible in the gloaming. 

The hair on her arms rise. 
Rhaena is about to open her mouth when the silver-haired boy pipes up instead. 
“Just Maelor, my lord, I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be”, Aegon murmurs, rubbing at his eyes. “My eyes were clouded with sleep.” Rhaena loves him for the kind lie, though she’ll never admit it to his face directly. “What is it?”

The boy stammers at being questioned directly by his father and once-King. 

“Mother has gone to the God’s Eye”, Jahaera says baldly, meeting Rhaena’s gaze, and Rhaena feels the hair on her arms rise. 

“What?” Aegon splutters even as Rhaena flings herself out of bed in a rush. 

“Harrenhal-“ she says, remembering her dream. “She’ll have a head start, but Dreamfyre isn’t a war dragon—“

“Well, shit”, Aegon snarls. 

Jahaera smirks at her half-brother. “See, Maelor? Told you.”

“What— never mind”, Aegon says, even as Rhaena turns to the boy. 

“When did she leave? Do you know?”

“I don’t know, my lady. I just… dreamed it.”

“A Dream?” Rhaena’s blood turns to tallow in her veins, even as Aegon tries to laugh it away. 

“Viserys would be proud-“

“I saw it, your Majesty, I did”, Maelor insists. “The green queen went to the God’s Eye. But it was on fire— the whole world was on fire! The sky was screaming, and—“ 

Rhaena wraps her arms around the terrified boy, pulling him close. 
“I know, Maelor. We believe you.”

“We do?”

“Aegon!”

“What!” 

“We do. I dreamed the same thing, just before I woke up. I saw—“ she freezes, not quite sure how to tell her lover she’d spoken with the shade of his dead son. 

“And call me Father, boy, or they’ll think Rhaena means to render you for parts; rumour has it she’s feeding me healing potions or something.”

In all the horror, Rhaena finds she can still find to be horrified by her idiot man. “AEGON!” 

“What?! It’s true! You know half the court thinks you’re a sorceress after you strolled down the Dragonpit stairs with Vermithor and carrying half the scrolls on Dragonstone!”

Maelor leaps forward with a distraction. “It’s all right, m’lady. They do that in Flea Bottom, but I know you wouldn’t do it to me.”

Rhaena watches as Aegon goes abruptly gray-faced. He reaches out for the boy’s hand, gripping it with his good one. “You are never going back to Flea Bottom unless it’s with a guard of fifty goldcloaks”, Aegon swears, flat as a royal command. “No one will ever harm you again.”
The child looks taken aback for a second, and then allows himself to be tugged in closer by Aegon. The man himself looks to Rhaena like a lost spaniel. “What do we do? Rhaena, what *can* we do?”

Rhaena tries to think logically, even as every instinct tells her to flee to Harrenhal and turn Aemond Targaryen into a bad bedtime story. 
“The Queen. We need to tell her.”

“I’ll send a runner”, Aegon suggests, but Rhaena shakes her head. 

“No runners. We must be discrete, because Jacaerys and Baela will go after Helaena the moment they know, and your mother will be apoplectic with fear and prone to bad decisions. Your half-sister will be worse.“ She stops, and then allows her natural cynicism to shine through. “Not to mention, do not know if this is a trap, so gods forbid we wipe out the royal line in one fell swoop. Is it possible she has been compelled by the creature?”

“How would I know? You’re the sorceress, my darling, isn’t that your purview?”

It’s hard not to be flattered when he means it. 
“Aren’t you charming”, she admits, and then turns to the children. “Jahaera, Maelor, where is your nurse?” 

“We left her sleeping.”

“You wandered through the halls?”

“We came through the walls”, Maelor says. 

“Like the rats”, Jahaera adds, and Aegon looks gray around the lips again. 

“Who told you about the tunnels?” She’s curious, because Maegor was said to have removed all witnesses. If Aegon’s children have found a way to commune with that particular spirit, Rhaena’s going to be forced to do something drastic about those glass candles no matter what Helaena says about it. 

“I do, Rhaena”, Jahaera says, and Maelor nods. “Shrykos does as well.” 

Well. Better Jahaerys than Maegor, if she’s got to choose. Rhaena’s eyes fix on the boy, but Aegon speaks first. “I’m sorry your dream frightened you, Maelor.” His tone is surprisingly warm. 

“My lord?” Maelor seems unsure, and Rhaena watches as Aegon’s face twists with subtle unhappiness. 

“I’m your father. You may call me that.”

“I don’t know you”, Maelor says, stubborn, and Rhaena has to purse her lips to muzzle her laugh. The resemblance between sire and son is striking. 

Aegon struggles against his own chuckle. “Nor I you, but I think we should get to know each other. Do you agree?” 

Rhaena watches the boy chew it over like a piece of gristle, almost petulant. He reminds her of Luke at his age, stubborn and wary. “Mother said you’d find me.”

“Did she?”

“Yes”, he says. “One way or another.” Rhaena wonders if that had been fear of a threat. If so, Maelor’s mother had been a smart woman to worry. 

“I remember her”, Aegon says, to Rhaena’s surprise. “Your mother had a beautiful voice. I remember the way she’d sing. High and sweet as a silver bell.” 

“She sang me lullabies before she went downstairs”, Maelor admits, and the boy’s sorrow drowns any jealousy that might have kindled in her soul. Then the child’s voice goes very small, and shatters her heart completely. “Ma’s gone now, the white worm said so.”

“I know”, Aegon says, and means it. “I’m sorry for it, Maelor.”

“Rats”, Rhaena muses. “White worms. We’ve got an infestation of pests. We’ll need to clean house once this is done, Aegon, but Maelor, your mother was right. You are Maelor, a Dreamer of House Targaryen, and your father is Prince of the Blood Royal. However, right now we have work to do. Aegon”, she says, and holds out her hand to help him to standing. 

His foot lands wrong and his pursed lips go white. “Gods, my hip—“

Rhaena’s brow furrows in worry. 
“You could stay-“

“Like hells I will. My little sister’s gone, my lady, and my brother might kill her the way he tried to end me”, Aegon murmurs. “I’m done lying in beds.”

Rhaena wants to fight. Wishes she could wrap him in wool and keep him from all harm. But that is not their lot in this life, so she takes a breath and motions to the open panel. 

“Well said, my lord. All right, then let’s all go tell the Queen. Jahaera, lead on.” 

The passageways are tangled corridors of stone, but it doesn’t take them long to wind towards the Royal suites. The family has kept close since the battle on Dragonstone, and Rhaena is glad of it. 

The battles have restored Aegon’s confidence but set back his recovery, and she knows he must ache. He doesn’t say a word, spine straight even if his cane steadies his weight. 
Rhaena remains at his side as best she can, but the narrow slips of space made it difficult. She’s glad when they escape from them, stepping into Rhaenyra’s bedchamber. 

Red hair stains the royal pillow like it never left, and Aegon drops his cane in shock. 

It clatters against the stone like a hailstorm. 

Alicent Hightower bolts to conscious, takes one look at the congregation gathering like witnesses to a bedding, and disappears back under the covers like a shy bride. There’s panicked scurrying, a bevy of hissed whisperers, and then out of the mess of coverlets comes a shriek of dismay. 

“Your Grace?” Rhaena says, because she’s never seen a knife she hasn’t wanted to twist. 

“Get out!” Rhaenyra yowls in a strangled voice. “All of you!” 

The Lady Alicent is more judicious, for all that she’s shrouded by three layers of damask quilt. “We will be in the receiving room in a moment.” 

“Please hurry, Your Graces. We wouldn’t interrupt if it weren’t urgent.” Despite the seriousness of the situation, it’s hard to keep the amusement out of her voice. From Aegon’s look of misery, she hasn’t entirely succeeded. 

“There is nothing graceful about this”, he mutters, herding the children into the parlour. 

Rhaena shrugs. “Pillow diplomacy is proving more effective than any military action. Shame Viserys never considered it.”

Aegon looks at her in horror. 
“That’s my mother”, Aegon sulks. “And my sister”, he adds, even as he wraps two blankets around the children, tucking them together on a pile of pillows like drowsy puppies. 

“At least they’re just related to you”, Rhaena whispers back, “and not each other.” 

Aegon chuckles at that, almost despite himself. “True enough.” He looks down at his burned hands, mangled and still capable of holding tight to what matters. “She looks happy”, he confesses after a moment. 

“I should hope so”, Rhaena says, and hands him a glass of Hippocras. “This royal isn’t rotting at the seams.”

 Aegon shakes his head. 
“No— I don’t mean in this moment. I mean, in general. I haven’t seen my mother happy before, only… perhaps resigned to her duty? But now, she seems happy. She’s young, Rhaena. I’d forgotten she’s young.”

“We all are.” 

“I don’t feel it.”

“I don’t think I ever did. Does it matter?”

He laughs, wry. “I’ve found that it does not. You make the best of what you’re given.” 

Rhaena thinks of Luke, of Aemond, of Mother, of a hundred thousand missed opportunities to make things better. And in the end, it had been Helaena to make the first move. 

Now she’s gone alone, to face Aemond. Stubbornness flares. 

Like hell she has. “We’ll get her back”, Rhaena promises Aegon. “Or else, avenge her.” Her man releases a shuddering breath, and rests his head on her shoulder. 
That’s how the Queen and her Lady find them, eyes heavy and nerves jangling. They’re dressed in simple gowns, composed but pale, although Alicent can’t seem to meet her son’s eyes. 

“What is it?” Rhaenyra’s face has been schooled into a regal mask as she faces them. It’s clear she knows a midnight interruption is bad news. 

“Helaena is gone, your Grace”, Rhaena says, and Alicent sways. 

“What?!”

“I dreamed it, my ladies”, the boy whispers from his nest of blankets. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not”, Rhaenyra says firmly. “Your gift has warned us. Would that Rhaenys had remained”, she muses, already leaping to action. “Meleys would be the fastest…” 
But they’ve set her to patrolling the Gullet, the better to support Addam, and, Gods willing, reconcile with Grandfather. 

Rhaena’s stomach churns. She knows with Dreamfyre gone, Vermithor cannot be spared from the city guard, and Rhaenyra cannot be risked. Baela and Jace must remain to ensure at least one branch of their family tree remains stable, Aegon cannot take on that beast, Daeron would die in the attempt, the Seeds are too unseasoned and so Rhaena takes a breath and reconciles to becoming an orphan. 

“I’ll notify father”, she says, knowing that she has signed his death sentence. 

“Thank you, Rhaena”, the Queen says, like she knows it too.  

*** 

RHAENA 

“His Majesty the Prince Consort is asleep”, her father’s bodyman says, like it matters. 

“I don’t care”, Rhaena says, cold as a winter breeze. “Rouse him.”

“My lady?”

Rhaena hisses like a dragon at the valet, eyes narrowed. “Wake my lord father now. Tell him the Queen requests his presence. Tell him that the Princess Helaena is gone to Harrenhal.” 

The man’s eyes go wide, and then he turns on his heel and flees.