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Chapter Text

“Princess Aelora, will you take this man?”

Her heart thudded in her chest as she softly said the words that forever bound her to Cregan Stark. “I take this man.”

They joined hands and knelt together in front of the heart tree, Aly bowing her head when he did. As the heart tree looked down on her with its bleeding eyes, she prayed that they might find some semblance of happiness in their marriage.

Perhaps, in time, Aly could come to love him.

I will never love him the way I love you.

She rose from her kneeling position with Cregan, and the pair faced each other once more. She did not have a maiden’s cloak to remove as, in their haste, neither Sara nor Benjicot had been able to find an appropriate makeshift one. So Lord Stark instead went straight to unfurling the white wool and grey fur cloak folded over his arm.

As Cregan fastened Aly’s bride’s cloak around her, a light snow began to fall. Snowflakes gathered in her hair as he smoothed the wool and fur cloak across her shoulders and gave her a kind smile that she did her best to return. He gently placed his hand on the middle of her back and led her back up the cracked stone path out of the godswood and towards Winterfell.

Aly could not help but feel melancholy as they walked under the arched stone door. And lonely. Only three people attended her wedding: Sara Snow, Benjicot Branch, and the infant Rickon Stark. All three people kin to Cregan. No one who loved and cared for her stood witness to Cregan formally taking her into House Stark. Not her mother, her stepfather, her brothers…

Her chest tightened as she thought of Luke. Thought of the games they had played as children, all the times Aly had told him what to do when they played together to ensure she almost always won. Thought of the jests she and Jace had made at his expense. Thought of the pranks he played on them in revenge. Thought of the man he was on his way to becoming. The determination to prove himself as the heir of High Tide. Thought of how steadfast he was when he told their mother he wanted to be a messenger in her quest for allies. 

She would never see him again. He was dead. Killed, according to Daemon. And instead of flying home immediately she had to remain in the north to secure Cregan’s support for her mother. Which she did. The entire north stood behind Rhaenyra. Aly could return home feeling proud she accomplished what her mother sent her out to do, even if her mother became furious at Aly marrying without her express leave.

Would she always associate her wedding with her brother’s death? Would she always look back on that cold autumn evening and feel the same deep pang in her heart that she felt now? She did not know, but for now she had to push that aside and steel herself for her wedding feast. The household would greet her as their new lady, and Aly could not be sullen even if she had every right to be.

“Let’s get you out of this dress,” Sara suggested once they reached the main entryway in the Great Keep. “I am sure it is not the most comfortable.”

Sara was correct. As they hastily arranged a wedding it dawned on both Sara and Aly that Aly did not have a gown appropriate for the occasion. So Sara allowed her to borrow the white lambswool gown Aly currently wore. It was absolutely beautiful, but it was too tight around the shoulders and chest. She would certainly feel better in one of her own gowns again. More like herself. 

“Yes, thank you,” she said with a grateful smile.

Sara nodded as she handed her infant nephew over to Cregan. Son secured in his father’s arms, Sara linked hers with Aly and the pair walked to the guest chambers in which Aly was staying. They were supposedly the warmest rooms in the castle, though the chill of the northern air still managed to find its way inside the four walls despite the large hearth and the rooms sitting just above the hot springs atop which the entire castle was built. The quarters were in the same state that Aly had left them - slight disarray. All of the gowns she brought with her were splayed over the furs covering the featherbed, the vanity items were cluttered onto the polished wooden surface, and the wardrobe doors were wide open.

“I’ll help with the buttons,” Sara offered. Prompting Aly to unfasten her bride’s cloak. 

Sara may have been a bastard, but she was Aly’s goodsister now, and her goodsister performing the work of a handmaid made her uncomfortable. Sara had been the one who helped her dress, though, claiming it was a northern tradition for family to be the ones to help a bride ready herself for the ceremony. The same may have been true for undressing. Perhaps northerners did that in lieu of a bedding ceremony.

“There,” Sara said once she tightened the laces of one of Aly’s black gowns. “I imagine that feels much better.”

“Yes,” Aly admitted with a small smile.

“Good.” 

Linking their arms again, the two walked to the Great Hall. Aly’s brows furrowed when she and Sara crossed the threshold into the hall. Instead of tables full of people laughing and drinking and dancing, the hall stood empty except for Cregan. Her husband. The word felt strange even in her own mind. The sound of her boots echoed off the stone walls as she and Sara stepped closer to the end of one of the trestle tables. The same table she had sat at earlier that morning when she received Daemon’s letter. Gods, that had felt like a lifetime ago.

The hall continued to be empty as two servants brought in their first course, a thick barley soup. Nothing special, nothing to indicate the party of three were celebrating a wedding. Aly could not help but find it strange. She did not wish to be part of a boisterous feast, true, but it seemed highly unusual that the castle did not gather for their lord’s wedding feast.

As they began the main course, roasted fowl with green beans, Aly managed to find a pause in between Sara and Cregan telling her of all the houses in the north to ask about their lack of supper companions.

The two siblings shared a quick glance, but not so quick that Aly missed it, before Cregan answered her. “Arra only died four moons ago,” he said. “If word of our marriage were to spread, it would offend the Norreys greatly.”

“And every mountain clan as well,” Sara added.

Aly nodded slowly as she recalled what Sara and Cregan told her of the mountain clans while they ate their first course. They sounded half-savage to Aly’s ears, though of course she would never say so. And no matter how loyal to House Stark the north may have been, marrying a southron princess so soon after his northern bride died in childbed was bound to stoke unhappiness and possibly resentment.

“We will announce our marriage once your mother sits the Iron Throne,” Cregan told her. He paused before continuing. “Some of the household knows, but they have all been sworn to secrecy.”

“Oh.”

“Sara will bring you to my chambers later tonight.”

Aly’s stomach dropped. Sara will bring you to my chambers. The thought of another man inside her made her skin crawl.

She had known for several days that this was going to be her fate, even if Aegon had not stolen her mother’s crown. She was always going to marry Cregan and be expected to perform her duty with him. She just thought she’d have more time. He was still clearly grieving his wife, his first wife, and Aly thought—hoped—that meant he would not want to bed her before she left the next morning. Thought perhaps in light of her own grief he would not insist on it. But an unconsummated marriage could be dissolved. For the sake of their alliance, Aly would have to endure.

She wanted to squirm as she considered the bedding. She was supposed to be a maiden. Would he be able to tell that her maidenhead had already been claimed? If he even suspected it, would he find a way to set her aside and refuse to support her mother? Would he spread it throughout the realm, completely ruining her? And if he couldn’t tell that she was no maiden, would he be gentle with her? Or would he hurt her? Cregan seemed kind, but they still did not know each other very well.

Regardless of how he treated her, though, she dreaded the prospect of sharing his bed. Despite her continued fury and sorrow over what Aegon had done, she was not ready to couple with someone else. Even her own husband.

It’s just the one night, Aly told herself as she chewed on a piece of roasted fowl. She could survive one night.

Her reflection stared at her as she sat at the vanity in her guest chambers wearing her simple white cotton nightgown. She looked as if she was waiting for the King’s Justice to call her name. Her brows were furrowed, her shoulders sagged, and her hand rested on her collarbones, the side of her thumb unconsciously tapping in rhythm with her heartbeat. Only the pinkness of her cheeks gave her any signs of vividness, but that was more to do with the heat coming from the hearth rather than anything else. 

Dread filled her with every moment she waited for Sara’s knock to sound upon her door. With her fear came the whirling thoughts that Aly could not stop. She needed Cregan to think her a maiden, which meant Aly forced herself to recall her first night with Aegon. Attempting to recall how she acted, how she moved. Her first time had not hurt, she had only felt pleasure, but Aly knew from overhearing other women talk of their wedding night that that was not always true. Laying with Cregan would not be like it was with Aegon, but the possibility that she would have to suffer him hurting her made her body tense even more.

It’s only for one night, she reminded herself again. As soon as he spends himself I will leave his chambers, and then I won’t have to think about it again. At least not for a while.

Aly stood from the vanity with a huff. She paced the length of her chambers, wringing her hands. Needing to do something other than sit and stare at herself while she waited. And while she waited and waited, Aly came up with so many different scenarios for how the night would go. Each one worse than the last.

Not long after imagining Cregan being able to tell that she was not a maiden and casting her out of Winterfell after promising to tell the entire realm she was a whore, the knock upon her door finally came. It was the hour of the bat. So late that all the servants had gone to bed, which left the corridors cleared of prying eyes that, if any belonging to a member of the household who had not been made privy to their marriage saw her, would whisper about the princess who used her cunt to convince Cregan to support Rhaenyra. The true circumstances would not matter.

Aly wrapped her dressing gown around her before making her way to the door. Sara stood on the other side of the dark polished oak still wearing her dark green and grey lambswool gown. She also wore an encouraging smile.

“Are you ready?”

Aly nodded despite wanting to shake her head. They’d stand in the threshold until the dawn broke if Sara wanted to wait until she was ready. She slowly stepped out into the corridor and followed her goodsister to another wing in the keep and then up several flights of stairs.

“He knows to expect you,” Sara told her once they stood in front of two large doors with direwolves carved into the wood. After a brief touch to her shoulder, one that Aly knew was meant to provide comfort, Sara left her to enter Cregan’s rooms alone.

Aly’s hands felt shaky as she turned the doorknob and pushed. The chambers were not nearly as warm as the guest chambers in which she had been staying, and she immediately wrapped her arms around her middle in an attempt to keep warm. Cregan stood at the edge of his large canopy bed, leaning against the tall wooden post and appearing uncharacteristically awkward. An awkwardness that served to put Aly slightly more at ease. Yet that did not prevent her from feeling unsure what to do as she stood next to the closed door. Should she approach him? Should she make him approach her? Would one action make him suspect she was not a maiden and not the other? 

Neither moved for several moments. Instead the pair stared at one another in silence until, unable to take it anymore, Aly slowly, hesitantly, walked towards him. Her fingers itched to reach up and grasp a pendant she no longer wore, but she kept them firmly at her sides. Grasping the silk fabric of her dressing gown where it rested along her thighs.

“You’re beautiful,” he said quietly once she stood in front of him. “I should have said earlier. In the godswood.”

 “It’s all right,” Aly assured him.

After a few too many beats had passed, she realized that she should respond in kind. He was trying to make her feel more comfortable with his compliment, and Aly knew she should do the same. She cringed after saying, “You are, too.”

“Thank you,” Cregan said, the corners of his lips slightly turned up.

Aly shifted her shoulders as she looked away from him. She found great interest in the stone direwolves carved along the mantle of the hearth until she saw movement from the corner of her eyes. As her gaze returned to her husband, his hands gently made contact with her shoulders before he stepped even closer to her. Practically eliminating all the space between their bodies. Aly had to tilt her chin upward to keep her eyes on his face. 

She wanted to step back, to keep the distance between them, but she forced herself to stay rooted on the spot. She had to do her duty.

“I know our wedding was not what you imagined it would be,” he said softly. “Once your mother sits the Iron Throne we will have another wedding. With your family in attendance and a gown that isn’t borrowed. And a feast comprising whatever dishes you wish.”

With your family in attendance.

But Luke would not be there. He would never be there. He would never see Winterfell. Or anything north of the Neck. He would never see anything.

Aly’s face scrunched as fresh tears filled her eyes. She turned to look away from Cregan, but his hands on her shoulders moved up to cup her face and forced her attention to remain on him. He was blurry through her tears, but she could feel his thumbs wipe them away as they fell down her cheeks. She began to cry harder when she recalled Aegon doing the exact same thing for her while she sobbed for her friend Alarra after Raymun Rosby died. 

She did not know how long they stood there like that, her crying and him wiping her tears away. As her tears slowed and her vision became less blurry she saw the same look of compassion on his face that he wore earlier that morning when he came to her rooms after reading the letter carrying the news of Luke’s death. The look that reminded her that he knew exactly how she felt. He, too, had lost a younger brother.

Perhaps they had quite a bit in common.

“I’m sure this is not how you expected the night to go,” she attempted to jest once her tears finally stopped. 

His lips quirked up in the ghost of a smirk she had become so familiar with in her short time in Winterfell. Her eyes cleared, Aly studied his face. A face that had been that of a stranger to her just three days past. A face that would, in time, become so familiar she would be unable to remember a time in which she did not know it. It was a handsome face, she could concede. A long face with high cheekbones and a sharp jaw. It wasn’t Aegon’s face, though. The face she truly loved. She was curious if his mind was filled with similar thoughts regarding Arra. If he was comparing her face to that of his late wife. If he found it strange to look into her blue eyes rather than whatever color eyes Arra possessed, as she found it strange to look into grey eyes and not indigo irises. If he also thought that hers was not the face he would prefer to look upon.

But Aly knew that she needed to force her uncle from her mind and heart as best she could. She did not know exactly what would happen to him. She hoped her mother did not kill him, that her mother allowed him to take the Black or perhaps live out his life in exile. All she knew was that it would never be like it was before. That, even if he was banished to Essos, Aly would remain here. She would have to. She could not follow someone who stole her mother’s crown, no matter how much lingering affection and love for him remained.

Her life would be here. In Winterfell. With Cregan.

Accepting that did not stop her body from tensing when his eyes flickered down to her lips. Did not stop her stomach from churning when he bent down to kiss her. It was all wrong. His lips were slightly chapped from the cold and he did not taste of Arbor red.

Everything about him was all wrong. He was too tall, for one. Even though he bent down to meet her, Aly still had to tilt her head up. His kiss was too gentle, and he kept his hands on her face. They did not travel down her sides or grab at her hips. And as he stepped even closer to her, she could feel that his body was too lean. The body of a swordsman, one with no softness to it. 

Cregan ended their embrace and looked at her with such tenderness Aly wanted to cry all over again. Surely he had to feel the same conflict within himself. Comparing her to Arra. But nothing in the way he had kissed her or was looking at her made her feel as if he only viewed her as a wife born from circumstances. One that he would not have even looked twice at if his first wife had not died giving birth to his son.

Her brows furrowed when he stepped back from her, but they smoothed when he began untying the belt around his dressing gown. Aly did the same with her own dressing gown. Her hands shook the entire time, and though she had not tied a tight knot around her middle she still fumbled with the silk belt before it loosened around her. She kept her eyes to the ground as she shrugged it off of her. The absence of the warm fabric around her caused her to shiver, but she resisted attempting to cover herself. Her eyes still focused on her toes, she bunched up her cotton nightgown where it sat against her thighs. Slowly, she began to pull it up, her breathing becoming shallow as she did so. By the time she stood as naked as her name day, Aly’s head felt light and all she could hear was the beating of her own heart. 

She kept her eyes on the ground as Cregan padded towards her. Refusing to look at him. Not wanting to look at him. Not wanting to see him looking at her. 

He cupped her face again when he reached her.

“Look at me.”

Aly hesitated before complying. His expression was open, and his grey eyes were focused solely on hers. 

“I’ll be gentle,” he promised her softly. “And slow.”

She nodded and did her best to give him a small smile. A smile that he returned before bending down to kiss her again. A kiss that still felt wrong, but a wrongness for which she was prepared. Cregan had kept his hands on her cheeks during their first kiss but now he slowly ran them down her bare skin, pausing for several moments when they wrapped around her neck, her shoulders, her ribs, before stopping at her waist. Calluses lined his palms, making his touch not feel as smooth as Aly was used to.

Cregan finally broke away from her when she began trembling, the cold air of his chambers causing her occasional shivers to turn into quivering despite the warmth radiating off of his body. 

“You’re cold,” he said, his embarrassment at not realizing it sooner evident on his face. “It’ll be warm under the furs.”

Not needing to be told twice, Aly turned away from him and headed towards the large featherbed. It was topped with fewer sheets and furs than she felt the cold air necessitated, but she still eagerly peeled them all back and climbed under them. Keeping her back to Cregan as she felt the bed dip behind her.

She briefly considered asking him to take her from behind so she did not have to see his face while he was inside her, but she was supposed to be a maiden, and maidens hardly knew of such things. So Aly steeled herself before turning to lay on her back once he had settled. The pair looked at each other in silence for several moments before he leaned down. Kissing her again. Kisses that were less chaste than they were previously, open mouthed and lingering. 

Aly wanted to turn away from him as she felt him harden against her. She wanted to turn away from him when his hand lightly caressed her neck, her breasts, her stomach, her hips. She wanted to turn away from him when she felt slick begin to pool between her thighs. She wanted to turn away from him when he shifted to move over her. 

But she didn’t. She needed to do her duty.

She had fucked Aegon hundreds of times, but laying underneath Cregan made Aly feel more like a maiden than she had the first night she spent with her uncle. She didn’t know where to look or  where to place her hands, which lay awkwardly by her sides. With Aegon that had all come so naturally. They both wanted to watch the other in the throes of pleasure, both wanted to touch the other wherever their hands could reach. Despite her inexperience they were both compatible from the very start. 

Cregan should have no trouble believing I come to him a maid, at least, Aly could not help but think as she inelegantly lifted her hands and placed them on her husband’s shoulders as his kisses grew hungrier.

Her breath hitched in surprise when the head of his cock breached her entrance, a reaction Cregan must have read as further evidence of her maidenhead as he peppered gentle kisses along her cheek while whispering to her that it was all right. He entered her slowly, groaning at the feeling of her around him. And once he was fully seated inside of her, Aly was struck by how wrong that felt.

Her uncle always felt perfect inside her and Aly had loved everything about fucking him. Loved hearing his soft noises of pleasure, loved feeling him against her, loved feeling the muscles of his body jump at her touch and the exertion of their movements, loved smelling his scent of soap and sweat, loved when his hair would tickle her cheek when he would be on top, loved looking at his every expression. 

With Cregan, she wanted to crawl away. She hated how he felt inside of her. Hated the sound of his groans and whimpers as he moved on top of her, slowly and gently just as he promised. Hated the smell of his soap, how scratchy his brown hair felt on her cheeks, how hot his hands felt on her hips. Aly kept her own hands on his shoulders and did not explore his body, and she was glad that he kept his face in the crook of her neck as it prevented her from having to look at him.

Her muscles jumped under his touch as he slowly traced his fingers over her stomach. She jolted when his thumb lightly circled her bundle of nerves.

“Cregan.” She intended his name to come out as a plea but instead it came out as a moan.

Aly hated how her body responded. How her hips began to tilt up to chase the pleasure. How her fingers curled into his shoulders and her toes curled on the bed. How her breathing began to become shallow and her cheeks felt warm. How a few sighs and whimpers escaped her lips. How her thighs quivered.

She hated how she didn’t stop him.

She hated how the pleasure built and built and built until it erupted, Aly breathing out an “oh, fuck,” shortly before her cunt clenched around him and her body tensed as small waves of ecstasy washed over her.

It wasn’t as pleasurable as it had always been with Aegon, but despite herself it had still felt…good. Good enough that guilt began to take root within her.

He is my husband, Aly reminded herself. But that did not stop the disgust she felt with herself from bubbling within her as Cregan chased his own pleasure in earnest on top of her. By the time he spilled his seed inside of her, Aly wanted to cry.

Cregan moved off of her quicker than Aegon always did, who would collapse on top of her while he caught his breath. She had always liked feeling the weight of him, but she was glad Cregan did not linger. The sooner he was on the other side of the bed the better. 

Once he settled next to her, he looked at her. His face immediately turned concerned.

“Did I hurt you?”

Yes, she wanted to say. Wanted him to feel as terrible as she did. Wanted him to think that her expression was because of him. But it wasn’t his fault. He had not done anything wrong. He had been nothing but kind to her, and he did not deserve her vitriol. He did not deserve her lashing out because she felt sick with herself.

“No. I just…” Aly trailed off, unsure what to say. Unsure what lie to tell him.

“It can be overwhelming,” he said. As if he had any idea. But he was once again attempting to make her feel comfortable. To come from a place of understanding. 

He deserves a better wife than me.

Aly forced a small smile upon her lips, pretending as if Cregan’s words made her feel better. He nodded in satisfaction before moving to rest his head on the pillow next to her. As she laid next to him, his seed spilling out of her, Aly once again did not know what to do. Would it offend him if she asked for a clean cloth? He clearly wasn’t in a hurry to get one for her. Perhaps he wanted her to leave. But if he didn’t, would he become offended if she got up? She would need to eventually. The majority of the household was not privy to their marriage, so she could not still be laying naked in his bed by the time the servants came to awaken him in the morning.

Overwhelmed with uncertainty, Aly turned onto her side. Facing away from him. Preventing him from attempting to hold her now that their coupling was over. If he wanted to in the first place. She felt so disgusted with herself that she knew being made to lay in his embrace would only make her skin crawl. So she remained on her side and kept her eyes on the stone wall even after he gently placed his hand on her back between her shoulder blades. Eventually he removed his hand from her, and Aly could feel him shuffling behind her. 

It was only once she heard light snores coming from him that she felt brave enough to turn her head. Satisfied that he was sleeping deeply enough that movement would not disturb him, Aly slowly stood from the bed. She would not, could not, remain in his rooms any longer. Everything about them was so…wrong. 

She scurried over to where she dropped her nightgown and dressing gown, eager to shield herself from the nippy air. Redressed, she crept out of his chambers and into the corridor. With each step towards her guest chambers Aly felt the urge to crumble. To disappear. Cregan’s cum dribbled down her thigh. Her cunt was sore. Her thighs and calves ached. It was all so familiar yet so bizarre. Feeling that way because of another man. Feeling bad that she felt that way because of another man.

He is my husband. It was always going to be like this. It was never going to only be Aegon.

When she entered her empty guest chambers Aly went straight to her vanity. She grabbed a clean cloth and wiped between her legs before creeping to the bed and climbing under the sheets and furs. Burying herself under them. There, she could pretend she was not in Winterfell. There, she could pretend she had not had another man inside her. There, she could pretend said other man had not pleasured her.

There, she could think of Aegon. Could think of his smile, his laugh, the way he always looked at her. The way he touched her and kissed her. Could think of his betrayal. The way he threw her away for reasons she would likely never understand.

Hot tears filled her eyes and her shoulders trembled as she sobbed.

I will never love him the way I love you.

Chapter Text

The soft light of the candles on Aegon’s bedside table made the canopy over his featherbed appear yellow rather than white. He hated it. The canopy. It had only been a few nights since he moved chambers, but he hated staring up at it as he laid in bed. Hated how it needled at him every single night. He also hated how when he wasn’t looking up at the canopy he was looking at the other side of the bed. Namely how empty it was, the sheets and pillows cool to the touch. The side Aly would have slept on.

His heart ached as he thought of his niece. He wondered if she had trouble sleeping without him. If she too felt as if her bed was suddenly too large for one person, even in the anger she no doubt felt towards him for taking the crown.

But he had to. For the lives of his sons. There was no choice.

By the time the hour of the eel arrived Aegon could no longer stand laying in the empty bed, staring up at the canopy. He sat up with a sigh and poured himself a generous goblet of wine. A goblet that he gulped down in just a few swallows before returning it to his bedside table and next to a matching cup full of moon tea. It was silly, Aegon knew, but he still asked the maesters to deliver moon tea to his chambers every evening. He did not want any of them to realize that he only stopped asking for it once Aly left the city. It had been long enough now, though, that he supposed he could tell them there was no longer any need.

He let out another deep sigh as he stood and slipped his dressing gown around his body. After throwing the moon tea out of the window and into the night he moved to sit in front of the hearth. The fire was dying, but it still provided enough light for him to see what he was doing. As he had done every single night since receiving it, Aegon opened the drawer in the table next to his high-backed chair and pulled out one of the many letters he kept there. He had unfurled this particular letter so many times the edges no longer curled and the pages were beginning to become soft from how often he handled it. The raven carrying it arrived the morning after his coronation. As soon as archmaester Munkun handed the scroll to him, Aegon recognized the hand and immediately returned to his chambers to read it.

Aegon,

These past two days have been strange. Strange because you are not with me. Strange because no one is. Have you been able to find something to occupy your time? I hope you have.

I miss you terribly. You are on my mind nearly every waking moment. I miss talking with you, seeing you, being held by you. The prospect of not seeing you for several moons makes my heart feel heavy, alleviated only by the fact that once you and Helaena move to Winterfell with the children we will always be together.

I have spent the past day thinking quite a lot about the future. Perhaps too much, but I am unable to prevent my mind from turning towards Winterfell and the years to come. My mother promised she would build a seat for my firstborn son, her way of making up for the fact that she has betrothed me to a widower who already has an heir. I will ask her to build it in the crownlands overlooking the Blackwater. My son will move there when he reaches his majority, and we will go with him. We will return home to the south and live out our days together. The household will be handpicked by me, I will ensure it, so we need not worry about anything.

The years before that will be difficult, I know, but we will manage them together. We will have each other, be with each other. That is all that matters.

I look forward to receiving your response and reading all about what you have been up to in my absence.

All my love.

It hurt to read it. To read her loving tone as she addressed him, her hopes and plans for their future. A future that would never come to pass. But he still read it every night. It was almost all he had left of her since her departure from the city. Her letters and the cyvasse board and favor she gave him as wedding gifts. The favor that he often took out of his bedside table and held tightly.

Aegon wondered what Aly did with all of the letters he wrote to her when she visited Dragonstone for a moon. Did she keep them safe, as he did hers? Did she reread them? Or did she burn them after she read them to prevent any snoops from finding them? He would not be surprised if she had burned them after Grand Maester Orwyle told her of his taking the crown.

I took it for my sons. There was no choice.

His eyes shifted towards his empty bed. At the gold and black quilt and white sheets that were twisted in the middle. At the pillows, one with a small indent where his head had been and the others smooth and flat. At the white canopy tied to the bed posts. At the dark wooden headboard.

Aegon hated that fucking bed.

He hated looking at it. He hated laying in it. He hated how empty it felt.

Aegon hated the rest of his chambers as well. Hated how they still felt like his father’s quarters. Hated how uncomfortable he found himself there. Hated how little warmth there was in them.

He sat in front of the hearth until sunrise, fiddling with his dragon egg ring while he imagined how different the rooms would feel if he shared them with Aly. She would love the books, all the histories of Valyria and the Seven Kingdoms, though he was sure that she would agree with him that the model of Old Valyria was an eyesore that needed to be removed. He’d have a trestle table placed there instead, and they would eat supper there every night. Together. And she would remain with him afterwards. They would spend the evening playing cyvasse or dice games or drinking and dancing to music playing in their own heads. Filling the rooms with laughter. Then, once they undressed for the night, they would head towards their bed and use the erotic tapestry that hung over the wall behind it for inspiration, Aly no longer having to quiet her noises of pleasure. When they were both spent they would fall asleep in each other’s arms, sleeping until dawn before departing to perform their duties—him to the small council and her to direct her own ladies-in-waiting.

The images conjured in his head made the chambers appear so much less dismal than they were in actuality. It was a nice fantasy, though a fantasy nonetheless. He was not a fool, he knew that even if Rhaenyra accepted him as king Aly would not eagerly rush back into his arms. Nor would she be happy about their relationship more or less remaining how it was.

But that did not stop him from imagining it.

Aegon turned when the door opened and watched in mild amusement as the face of the servant who had come to awaken him transformed from puzzled to surprised at seeing him already sitting up and out of bed. He did not know the servant well, the one who had been attending to him since his coronation. Aegon could not even recall the man’s name. He was quiet, barely said anything. Merely nodded his head when Aegon gave him a direction or suggestion. Aegon supposed that had served the man well in his at least two decades working in the castle.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” the servant greeted. “The water for your bath will be delivered shortly.”

“Good,” Aegon said as he stood from his chair. His body felt heavy from the fatigue of staying awake all night, and he hoped a hot bath would soothe his sore muscles.

To his chagrin it did not. Aegon still felt stiff as he dressed, and his shoulders felt especially heavy as the servant smoothed out his green surcoat and brushed off the lint only visible to the man’s eyes.

“What is your name again?” Aegon asked as he stepped into his boots.

“Armen, Your Grace.”

“You served my father.”

Armen briefly bowed his head. “I did, Your Grace, for nearly ten years. I was most appreciative when the Hand himself told Hildy and Pia that I could continue in the role with you.”

Aegon had been curious why the man who had served him before his coronation, Barth, did not continue on with him. He supposed the servants had their own hierarchy just as the highborn did. Barth had been with him since he reached his majority, but for Armen to be reassigned after serving the king could be considered a loss in status.

“You have clearly proven yourself capable.”

“I hope so, Your Grace.”

Aegon hummed before relaying to Armen that after he met with the small council and held court he would return to his chambers for his midday meal.

“I will ensure the servants are at the ready,” Armen guaranteed with an incline of his head.

Aegon nodded before turning on his heel and exiting his chambers, Sers Arryk and Willis following. He mentally sorted through what he expected the small council to discuss as he walked. No lord had responded to the letters Otto sent about his coronation and the request that they travel to the capital to pledge their fealty to their new king. The previous day Lord Wylde expressed concern over the lack of replies, but Otto and Tyland assured him it was simply a matter of time. Aegon figured Ironrod would bring it up again. There was also the matter of filling the vacancy of the position of master of ships brought about when Aegon named Ser Tyland as his master of coin at his mother’s suggestion. The council seemed split on whether to offer the role to Dalton Greyjoy or Lord Redwyne. Otto favored the latter while Aegon favored the former. He supposed the council would also need to discuss how to handle Lords Merryweather, Harte, Caswell, and Lady Fell. Unlike Lord Rosby and Lord Stokeworth, they had all refused to bend the knee to him after his coronation and still rotted in the dungeons. And there was also the mystery of where Ser Steffon had gone—the knight of the Kingsguard had not been seen since shortly after Viserys’s death, and no one in the castle knew his whereabouts. Larys mentioned rumors of him fleeing the city on a ship, but Aegon did not know whether to pay those whispers any credence.

He was barely three yards away from the small council chambers when one of the serving girls came scurrying around the corner. She stopped when she saw him, her mouth opening into an ‘o’, before she continued walking towards him at a slower, albeit still brisk, pace.

“Prince Aemond returned to the castle just a few minutes ago, Your Grace,” the girl told him when she was only a few steps away from him. “He’s asked to speak with you immediately.”

Aegon continued walking, and the serving girl trailed after him once he moved past her. “I have a small council meeting. I will speak to him later.”

“He says it’s urgent, Your Grace.”

That made him stop. His brows furrowed as he considered what his brother could possibly find so pressing that he needed to speak with him immediately upon his return home. He had thought Aemond’s offer to marry one of Borros’s daughters would sway Lord Baratheon and the stormlands to support him should Rhaenyra decide to protest his rule. Perhaps it hadn’t? Aemond was certainly gone for longer than Aegon anticipated, but he figured his brother must have taken a liking to one of the Baratheon girls. In hindsight Aegon should have known that wouldn’t have held up his brother.

He turned around to face the serving girl—or rather woman, as she looked to be about his age. He could tell immediately that his brother had sent her to relay his message himself. She attempted to mask it, but he could see the uneasiness in her features at the prospect of having to tell Aemond that the king refused to see him right away. She did not attempt to mask the relief in her eyes when Aegon told her that he would speak with his brother.

“Tell the small council I have had to move our meeting to this afternoon,” Aegon told Ser Willis before making his way further down the corridor and then turning right towards his brother’s quarters.

Aegon’s steps faltered when he saw Ser Criston standing outside of Aemond’s chambers. The presence of the Lord Commander could only mean that Alicent was inside. Aegon wondered if his brother had called their mother as well, wanting her to hear whatever it was he had to say as soon as possible, or if Alicent rushed to his rooms uninvited after hearing of his return. They both seemed equally likely; Aemond had always been their mother’s favorite child. It bothered Aegon when he was younger, always feeling like everything he did only served to disappoint his mother while she constantly coddled Aemond, but over time he taught himself not to care. Hardened himself to it.

“Your Grace,” Criston greeted quietly with a small nod of his head when Aegon reached him. As Aegon returned the gesture the Lord Commander opened the door to Aemond’s rooms to allow him entry.

Aegon expected to see his brother and his mother. He did not expect to see his grandfather sitting with them. The sight grated on him. With a healthy king now sitting the Iron Throne the Hand of the King was no longer needed so quickly to consult on matters of the realm. Aegon did his best to swallow his frustration as he sat across from his brother. His father had only just died, everyone was still getting used to the new way of things.

It was easy to push the annoyance from his mind as he watched his brother. Aemond seemed…off. He sat as straight as a knife, his face unmoving. That was not unusual, but Aegon could sense an uncharacteristic hesitance from his brother as he told them Lord Borros, who held no love for Rhaenyra and would happily support the rightful king with men should it come to it, had happily agreed to his betrothal offer.

“Though he is convinced Rhaenyra will accept Aegon as king once she learns of his support for him,” Aemond said, looking at Otto and Alicent.

Their grandfather nodded and that pleased yet calculating look Aegon had seen so many times when he spoke with Viserys entered into his eyes. “Which daughter did he choose for you?”

“He allowed me to choose. I am betrothed to his eldest, Cassandra. We will marry next year.”

“A fine choice,” Alicent praised. “I have heard of her beauty and wit from others.”

The fact that Cassandra stood to inherit Storm’s End upon her father’s death, which meant Aemond would rule in her absence and their son would inherit the seat, went unsaid. Though it was obvious that was the only reason Aemond had chosen her. Why marry a daughter with no inheritance when one could marry the eldest set to become a ruling lady instead? No matter how beautiful Cassandra Baratheon supposedly was, or intelligent, Aegon knew his brother well enough to know that it was her position and inheritance that swayed him more than any trait she possessed.

The news made Aegon pause, however. If Borros agreed to support him and Aemond was to wed one of his daughters, why then did his brother need to speak with him so urgently? And speak not just with him but also their mother and grandfather? Something else had happened. Either at Storm’s End or during the journey to or fro. Something serious. Perhaps Aemond had seen something? Or heard something while he was Borros’s guest?

Yet neither his mother nor grandfather seemed to think anything of Aemond’s request to speak with them. The pair continued going on about how, once they received similar messages of support from the other lords of the realm, Rhaenyra would bend the knee.

“Luke arrived at Storm’s End as Borros and I were discussing Cassandra’s dowry.”

Aemond’s words caused everyone to freeze.

“She is considering pushing her claim,” Alicent mused, saying what Aegon was thinking. Rhaenyra refusing to accept him as king was…not what he hoped would happen.

His brows furrowed as he pieced together the timing of everything. It was a three days’ journey to Dragonstone by ship and just a few hours from Dragonstone to Storm’s End, which meant Luke left Dragonstone after the Grand Maester arrived at the Targaryen ancestral island. After Rhaenyra heard of their father’s death and his terms to prevent war.

“She will find no allies,” Otto responded matter-of-factly. “Aegon is the rightful king.”

I took the crown for my sons. There was no choice.

“Perhaps we should send our own dragons to treat with the lords,” Aegon suggested.

“No,” Otto said. His tone made Aegon chafe. As if he was speaking with a child, one who had no idea what they were saying. “If she needs to resort to the illusion of a threat, then that shows she knows she occupies the weaker position.”

“And she’s responding with strength,” Aegon countered.

“Which may only serve to make the lords she seeks to ally with resentful. By not demanding their answer immediately after arriving on dragonback, you are proving you are not worried about threats to your claim.”

Aegon clenched his jaw. His grandfather made a good point, but it was not easy for Aegon to swallow Otto’s slight condescension.

When Aemond spoke again it felt as if all the air went out of his rooms.

“Luke is dead.”

At first Aegon thought he had misheard his brother. He must have. But the longer Aemond continued to sit there in silence—no one else amongst them saying anything either as they processed what he told them—Aegon came to accept that he had understood Aemond perfectly.

“What do you mean?” Alicent asked slowly.

“Luke is dead,” Aemond repeated. “We fought above Storm’s End.”

Alicent’s face went pale. “You fought on dragonback?”

“Yes. Vhagar viewed Arrax as an easy target, and—”

“Gods be good,” Otto interrupted, his face livid. “You were sent to Storm’s End to broker a marriage pact, not kill anyone.”

“How could you be so shortsighted? Any hope we had of Rhaenyra accepting our terms for peace is gone now” Alicent rebuked. “May the Mother have mercy on us all.”

Despite the seriousness of the situation, Aegon could not help but feel a hint of smug satisfaction as he watched his brother being scolded by their mother and grandfather. Aemond had always been so perfect, always did exactly what was asked of him. Now he was receiving just a small taste of the tongue-lashing Aegon had experienced so many times during his youth.

But even through his enjoyment of watching Aemond’s shoulders curl in an attempt to shield himself from his mother’s and grandfather’s berating, Aegon could not help but want to join in. Aemond’s actions were short-sighted, to say the least. The other lords would follow Borros’s example of backing his claim. Rhaenyra would have seen that and put an end to attempting to find allies even if she personally did not want to accept him as king. It would have forced her hand. Now, though…the death of her son would serve to fuel her even if the entire rest of the kingdom stood against her.

Aegon squirmed in his seat as he pictured Aly sobbing upon hearing the news of Luke’s death. He did not care that Luke was dead, the boy who had sliced out his brother’s eye so viciously and never seemed repentant, but he did care about Aly. He cared that she would grieve over it. He cared that, in conjunction with his claiming the crown, Luke’s death would cause her heart to harden against him. Against all of them.

He knew becoming king meant losing her, he knew it, but Aegon had spent the past few days trying to convince himself that with a bit of distance and the chance to explain everything to her, Aly would eventually come back to him. A fool’s hope but one he desperately clung to.

And now he had to let it go.

His throat felt thick as he said quietly, “As Mother said, any chance of Rhaenyra capitulating is gone now. We must prepare.”

“I will send more ravens,” Otto supplied. “If Rhaenyra sent Luke to Storm’s End, she must have also sent Jacaerys and Aelora to treat with lords. I would guess the Vale and perhaps Winterfell considering her intention to betroth Aelora to Lord Stark.”

I will never love him the way I love you.

“And in the meantime?” Alicent asked sharply. “If Rhaenyra decides to attack the Red Keep?”

“She’d be a fool to do so with Vhagar here,” Aemond said confidently.

Alicent shot him an unimpressed look before returning her attention to Otto. A fact that riled up Aegon’s irritation once more. That she looked to Otto rather than him. Aegon was the one making the decisions now. It frustrated him that they did not seem to take his opinions seriously. But he would make them. While his grandfather wrote letters, he would figure out something more decisive. Something that would put an end to Rhaenyra’s intentions to seize the throne once and for all. Something that would make her, and everyone else, realize he was the king.

“We will discuss it further this afternoon,” Aegon said as he moved to stand, everyone else in the rooms reluctantly following suit. “The small council will meet two hours after midday.”

Otto dipped his chin. “You will hold court today, Your Grace?”

Aegon wanted to groan. Aemond’s return had thrown his plans for the day into complete disarray. Instead of his day ending by holding court, now it only marked the beginning. Reluctantly he nodded his head. “I will arrive in the throne room in a half hour,” he said before turning and making his way out of his brother’s chambers.

I need a goblet or three of wine.

He slowed his steps when, several wings from Aemond’s rooms, Helaena turned the corner. She wore a black and red gown, eschewing her usual lighter colors, and the circlet their mother placed upon her head at Aegon’s coronation. She held Jaehaera’s hand as they walked, who in turn held her twin brother’s hand, while one of the servants carried Maelor in her arms. Jaehaerys was prattling on about some tall tale, his age making it so he often melded make-believe and reality in his mind, but he stopped when he saw Aegon. He wrenched his hand from Jaehaera’s grasp and ran to him, a wide smile forming on his face with each step.

Aegon kneeled down and did his best to return his son’s smile. “How much trouble have you caused this morning?” he asked in jest.

“None,” Jaehaerys boasted.

I took the crown for him. Rhaenyra would have had him killed. There was no choice.

“Don’t listen to him,” Helaena said with an affectionate smile as she walked closer to them. “He hid from the servants this morning when they tried to dress him.”

Jaehaerys simply shrugged, unbothered by his behavior being revealed.

“And you?” Aegon asked Jaehaera. “Did you drive the servants mad this morning while you attempted to climb the wardrobe in the nursery?”

His daughter nodded. Aegon knew everything was all right with Jaehaera, but he wished she spoke more. Wished she did not have such a melancholy way about her. She was too young to already be so unimpressed about everything.

“We are on our way to the orphanage,” Helaena told him.

“That’s a shame,” Aegon said wryly. “I was beginning to like our children.”

He punctuated his teasing by reaching out and tickling Jaehaerys, the boy immediately bursting out into loud giggles.

“Come with us,” Jaehaerys practically begged once he stopped laughing.

“I don’t have time,” he answered truthfully.

Time was strange ever since his coronation. The days seemed short yet the nights felt as if they lasted forever. His entire morning was often spent conducting his duties as king—the small council then court. If he was lucky he was able to spend the afternoon as he pleased, drinking with Martyn, Eddard, and Leon while they played dice games, but often some lord wanted his ear. Nearly all the courtiers who had written him off or ignored him now paid him obeisance. Aegon could admit he enjoyed it. It was nice to have them hanging on his every word, especially since his family did not yet.

Helaena looked as if she wanted to say more, but she didn’t. Instead she directed Jaehaerys to hold his sister’s hand again, which he did begrudgingly, and continued on with the children to the courtyard.

When Aegon returned to his chambers he made a beeline for the flagon of Arbor red on the table in front of his hearth and poured until the goblet was so full it threatened to spill over if he did not handle it carefully before his first sip. And carefully he did handle it, bringing it to his lips and taking a large gulp. On his fourth and final gulp before emptying the goblet he decided he would ride Sunfyre once his meeting with the small council ended. But first he had to get through holding court and then the meeting itself.

“Your Grace,” Ser Arryk said as he opened the door.

Aegon wanted to groan. To snap at the knight to leave him alone. But he couldn’t, so he settled for shifting his shoulders as he turned his gaze to the intruder.

“The Grand Maester just returned. He’s asked to speak with you.”

“Let him in,” Aegon insisted. The Grand Maester coming straight to him—him, not Otto—upon his arrival in the city pleased him greatly.

His brows furrowed when Orwyle slowly made his way into the rooms. He wore his ever-present drab brown robes, but the chain of his office was not around his neck. Despite the absence of the heavy chain around him, the Grand Maester looked as if he carried the weight of the entire kingdom with him. His shoulders were uncharacteristically rounded and his expression worried.

“Grand Maester,” Aegon greeted. “Please sit. I am sure you are tired after your journey.”

Orwyle did as offered and Aegon sat opposite him. He wanted to ask about Aly, if Orwyle had seen her during his apparently short visit to Dragonstone, how she looked, how her mood appeared. But he didn’t. He could not seem too interested in his niece when he had sent the Grand Maester to speak with Rhaenyra. So the pair sat in silence. A silence that stretched for a tad too long. A silence that made Aegon begin to dread what his Grand Maester was preparing to tell him.

“How did Rhaenyra take the news of our father’s death?” Aegon asked when he could bear the silence no more.

Grand Maester Orwyle swallowed. “She had already heard the news, Your Grace. And she had…she wore your father’s crown when I arrived. She is calling herself Queen Rhaenyra, Your Grace.”

Aegon clenched his jaw. Not only was his half-sister seeking allies, she was already claiming herself queen.

“Ser Steffon is with her on Dragonstone,” Orwyle revealed. “He’s the only one who could be responsible for her possessing your father’s crown.”

Aegon let out a deep exhale. That certainly made things more complicated. Sers Erryk and Lorent were already on Dragonstone and now Ser Steffon. That was almost half of his Kingsguard. Rhaenyra having a crown of her own and three of his Kingsguard did not make a weak picture in regards to her claim.

I am the rightful king.

The Grand Maester hesitated before speaking again. “She appeared to be preparing for war, Your Grace. Other lords were with her and they stood around a map of the realm.”

“Which lords?” Aegon asked sharply.

“Lords Celtigar, Massey, Sunglass, Bar Emmon, Staunton, and Darklyn, Your Grace.”

Only lords of the crownlands, then. That was a relief in a way. None of those lords were so influential in the realm that others would necessarily flock to his half-sister because of their support.

If Rhaenyra sent Luke to Storm’s End, she must have also sent Jacaerys and Aelora to treat with lords. I would guess the Vale and perhaps Winterfell considering her intention to betroth Aelora to Lord Stark.

Two others who lacked influence outside of their region. The north may agree to support Rhaenyra in name, but Aegon doubted the northerners would actually send men even with a betrothal. They had remained indifferent to politics south of the Neck since the Conquest. And the Valemen were smaller in number than in other regions. If Rhaenyra could only count on men from the Vale and the crownlands, any war she waged would end quickly. Which meant he needed to firmly secure the support of the rest of the realm and quickly. Before word spread of Luke’s death.

“I saw Vhagar in the sky when my ship was close to the dock,” Orwyle said. “Prince Aemond has returned from Storm’s End, then.”

Aegon nodded. “And brought Lord Borros’s support should Rhaenyra choose to fight my rule.” He paused before divulging, “He also brought unfortunate tidings. Lucerys Velaryon is dead. He and Aemond fought on dragonback. I don’t know the details. I suppose it doesn’t matter. A dead child is a dead child.”

The shock on the Grand Maester’s face would have been comical if not for the circumstances.

“The small council does not yet know of it,” Aegon continued. “No one does outside of the two of us, Otto, and my mother. I would appreciate it if you kept it that way. At least until we meet after midday.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“You’ve had a very tiring few days. I suggest you return to your chambers. I will send for you when the small council is to meet.”

The Grand Maester stood. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Oh, and Grand Maester,” Aegon called just as Orwyle reached the doors to leave his chambers. “I no longer have any need of moon tea. You can cease sending it to me.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

As soon as the door clicked shut Aegon poured himself another goblet of wine. And then another soon afterwards. In the privacy of his own rooms, sitting alone without having to put on the air of kingship, fear began to bubble within him. What if Luke’s death sent Rhaenyra over the edge? What if she and Daemon flew their dragons straight to King’s Landing?

What if Aly joined them?

His eyes shifted over to his empty featherbed as he took a large gulp of Arbor red.

I don’t know if I can do this without you.

Chapter Text

Aly’s skin was red and raw, but she still kept scrubbing. Her bath was now lukewarm, and the rose-scented soap no longer lathered as well as it had when she first stepped into the tub, but she still kept scrubbing. Scrubbing off the previous night. Scrubbing off Cregan’s touch.

“Do you require more soap, Princess?” Rana, the servant who had been assigned as her temporary handmaid, asked with uncertainty. 

The woman’s question caused Aly to slightly startle. She had not heard Rana walk into the privy. Her scrubbing slowed as she turned to look at the black-haired servant and completely stopped once her eyes landed on Rana’s apprehensive expression. The expression that made Aly realize how strange she must look sitting in a tub of rapidly cooling water and roughly scrubbing herself with a soft cloth no longer holding any soap. 

Reluctantly, Aly forced herself to shake her head. Her fingers itched to begin rubbing her skin again. She still felt contaminated. As if something unseen still soiled her skin even though it was obvious to look at her that soap had touched every part of her body multiple times. Her nerves flared as she forced herself to unclutch her fingers from the grey cloth, signaling that she was finished with her bath. Her hands empty, Aly stood from the metal tub and allowed Rana to wrap a heavy towel around her.

Everything is all right , she told herself as she stepped into the black gown Rana brought out from the wardrobe. I washed all of the dirt from my skin. No grime still clings to me.

But that did not stop Aly from glancing towards the privy multiple times as the servants emptied the tub of the dirty water within. 

Everything is all right.

A knock sounded at her door shortly after Rana finished tying a piece of ribbon in her hair to hold its simple plait. One of the servants with her morning meal, Aly figured. Instead of one of the kitchen maids standing on the other side of her door, however, Benjicot Branch’s face greeted Aly when she turned to look at her visitor.

The steward of Winterfell inclined his head to her upon being allowed entrance. “Princess Aelora, good morrow.” 

“Good morning, Benjicot.”

“I am happy to see you have not already begun breaking your fast. Lord Cregan asks that you join him for his morning meal in his solar.”

Aly’s polite smile fell, and she worked to keep it from turning into a frown. She had hoped Cregan would not ask to see her before she was ready to leave. That he would understand her desire for solitude. Anxiety surged within her as she considered the possibility that Cregan asked for her company so he could lay with her again before she left Winterfell.

“All right,” she said barely above a whisper. She could not refuse him. Not here.

Her stomach churned and her legs felt shaky the entire walk to the solar on the top floor of the Great Keep. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders before wrapping her hand around the door handle and pulling. The room was cold despite the sun, as was every room in the castle. Aly’s eyes quickly took in the clutter of the room that Cregan clearly used quite a lot. A shelf overrun with books and scrolls stood next to a large desk with its surface scattered with half-rolled scrolls of parchment, pens, and inkwells. Nearly every table looked the same, though some were covered with maps and ledgers and objects such as candles, a Myrish eye, a lamp, and an oilstone. Colorful tapestries hung on the walls vividly depicting what she supposed were great moments in the Starks’ history. Histories that she would come to learn and then teach her children.

“Aelora,” Cregan greeted as he stood from the round table atop which sat platters of bacon, roasted ham, boiled eggs, black bread, and winter peaches. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

Her skin began to itch as she looked at him, and Aly quickly averted her gaze.

He is my husband.

Cregan pulled out the chair next to him. “Please sit.”

Only once she sat down did he return to his seat next to her. His plate was already full, so Aly helped herself despite not feeling very hungry. 

“Are you all packed?” Cregan asked as he began eating.

Aly nodded. “I will leave shortly after we finish breaking our fast.”

She needed to return to Dragonstone. To her mother. Despite Rhaenyra’s best efforts to hide it in front of the lords of the crownlands, Aly saw how fragile her state was after Visenya’s death…and now Luke. Would Aly return to find her mother full of rage? Full of grief? Would she be locked in her chambers or would she continue meeting with her leal lords to keep her mind occupied? Aly did not know. All she knew was that she needed to return. 

“Sara asked to ride with us to the wolfswood,” Cregan told her after a few beats of silence. “She wants to get closer to your dragon than the treeline. I told her I did not know when you were leaving, so if you’d rather she—”

“It’s all right.”

Neither said anything else as they continued eating - Cregan quickly, Aly slowly. Sitting next to him, so close that her arm would brush his if she were not careful, made her pulse race and her nerves flare. She wanted to scoot away from him, to sit in the seat opposite him even though that would put her at risk for accidentally meeting his eye. She had felt his touch, his kiss, his cock inside her, and instead of it bringing any sense of familiarity it only made her want to turn away from him. And unwarranted guilt still gnawed at her for how good she had allowed herself to feel.

He is my husband.

“I awoke in the night expecting you to still be beside me,” Cregan said after he ate the last of his meal. His tone was not accusatory, merely curious, but it still made Aly feel slightly defensive.

“Not everyone in the household knows of our marriage,” Aly reminded him a bit curtly. “I needed to return to my guest chambers before the servants awoke.”

She could see him studying her out of the corner of her eyes, and she shifted under his scrutiny. 

“I know you did not want to marry me.”

Aly whirled her head to face him, surprised at his bluntness.

“I don’t know the circumstances surrounding your lack of betrothal to Prince Jacaerys,” he continued, “but I know you probably thought you’d marry him.”

“Yes,” she said. The fact that she wasn’t marrying Jace had nothing to do with how Aly felt about her marriage to Cregan, but she could never admit that. She would carry her time with Aegon with her for the rest of her life, and she could never share the heavy secret with anyone. 

“I thought I’d be married to Arra our entire lives, but the gods took her away from me.” He briefly paused, mulling over his next words. “Once you permanently return to Winterfell we will get to know one another. I do like you, and I think that in time we can become fond of each other. At least that is what I hope.”

He deserves a better wife than me.

A half hour later Aly entered the wolfswood atop Obsidian, the same black courser she had ridden into Winterfell after meeting Hallis and Jory shortly after she landed Lyrax along the edge of the woods. 

“We should stop here,” Benjicot suggested. “I’ll mind the horses while the three of you say your farewells.”

“It was a pleasure meeting you, Benjicot,” Aly told him once she had climbed off her horse.

The older man gave her a small smile. “Same, Princess. Please do not hesitate to write to me should you think of anything I can get you before your return. Anything at all.”

“I will,” she promised.

She barely made it three steps, Cregan and Sara behind her, before Lyrax swooped her neck in their direction. The bones of what Aly guessed to have belonged to a bear lay at her dragon’s claws; her dragon had indeed been able to find sustenance in the wolfswood during their short stay. Lyrax’s eyes immediately shifted from hers to Cregan and Sara, and Aly could tell by the narrowing of her eyes that she felt uncertain about them.

“Calm,” she said in High Valyrian. “They are no threat.”

That at least satisfied the twilight blue beast enough to slightly widen her bright orange eyes, though her gaze remained steadfastly focused on Cregan and Sara as the trio continued walking towards her. Watching to ensure her rider’s trust was not misplaced and the two unknowns did not attempt anything.

“She’s gigantic,” Sara exclaimed. “And you said she’s not even the largest on Dragonstone?”

“Correct. But she is still formidable, is she not?”

Sara gave a light laugh. “I would certainly say so.”

“How close will she allow us to get?” Cregan asked and, glancing at him, Aly could see the wariness on his face.

“As close as you want. She knows you are with me. No harm will come to you.”

Cregan nodded, but his slight skepticism remained even as the three of them stepped right up to her dragon’s side.

“See?” Aly asked Lyrax in High Valyrian as she gently placed her hand on hot blue scales. “They are friends.” Turning to her goodsister, she said, “You can place your hand on her side if you want.”

Sara wasted no time doing as Aly suggested, exhaling in wonder as her palm rested on Lyrax’s scales. Aly could not help but smile at the sight. Most people were too afraid to get as close to a dragon as Sara currently was, let alone eagerly place their hands on the beast’s body. Yet Sara held no such fear, only astonishment. And joy.

“We’ll leave soon,” Aly told Lyrax. “But we will return here permanently at some point.”

Lyrax’s huff in response revealed her distinct lack of desire to return. Aly perfectly understood how her dragon felt. They were both creatures of the south, ones who belonged near the Blackwater. They belonged in the warmth. 

“I suppose I shall let you say your farewells,” Sara said after several moments. She slowly, hesitantly, removed her hand from Lyrax’s scales. “I hope I will see you again sooner rather than later.”

With a shared smile and a nod, Sara returned to the thicket of evergreens where Benjicot waited. Leaving Aly alone with Cregan.

“There is enough space here to build a structure for her,” Cregan told her as his eyes moved to once more take in Lyrax’s size. “I imagine a fire-breathing creature would want a refuge from the snow.”

Aly’s chest tightened at his words. At the fact that he even considered building something for her. “Lyrax would like that.”

“I will ask my mason to begin drawing up plans,” he promised. 

“She laid a clutch of eggs a while ago. I’d like to bring them with me when I return. For our children. So be sure to tell him there may one day be more than just Lyrax residing within.”

“A dragonriding Stark,” Cregan said in amusement before his face returned to its typically stoic expression. “If you have a babe in your belly I want you to return to Winterfell, even if I’ve already marched south. Sara and Benjicot will vouch for you. You will have a place here.”

“No,” Aly said firmly. “I won’t leave my mother.”

His jaw tightened. “Dragonstone will not be safe for you once war comes.”

“It will be safer there than here,” Aly told him, trying to keep her frustration at bay. As if she would abandon her mother before she claimed the Iron Throne.  “The castle was forged with Valyrian magic. It’s impenetrable even to dragonfire.” 

Her words did little to comfort Cregan, as evidenced by his still-clenched jaw.

“It may not matter.” It was only the one night. Perhaps his seed did not take root within her. She hoped it didn’t. She would ensure it didn’t upon her return to Dragonstone. A babe now would only bring more complications.

“You will have a place here,” he repeated. “Should you change your mind, babe or no.”

Should I need to flee, he means.

Aly shifted her shoulders. “I will keep your offer in mind.” 

“Tell your mother I can promise at least 10,000 men. The greybeards will begin their march south as soon as they gather at Moat Cailin. I will lead the second, larger host once our stores here are full for the winter.”

She nodded before briefly glancing at the ladder leading up to the saddle atop Lyrax’s back. “I best be off.”

“Goodbye, Aelora.”

She hesitated before saying, “Aly. My family calls me Aly.”

Cregan echoed her name. Testing the word in his mouth and on his tongue. “It suits you.”

“Thank you.”

“Be safe, Aly,” he told her solemnly.

“You as well.”

And with that she climbed the saddle and buckled herself in. She barely began directing Lyrax to fly before her dragon readied herself to meet the sky, the beast of fire eager to leave the land of snow and ice.

By the time Aly landed in the Dragonmont her cheeks and nose were red from shed tears. In Winterfell she had been able to keep her mind somewhat occupied whenever she was not alone, but during the journey home all she had to keep her company was her thoughts. Thoughts of Luke. Of his death.

Luke has been killed.

She still did not know what happened, though she knew the full story would become clear soon enough. Daemon met her at the base of the Dragonmont, his face somber. When she stood right in front of him he reached out and wrapped his arms around her in an embrace. Her face buried in his shoulder, Aly allowed more tears to fall. Her stepfather continued to hold her as her shoulders shook

“What happened?” she sniffed as she stepped out of his embrace. 

“Aemond was already at Storm’s End when Luke arrived,” Daemon grit out. “Your brother asked for Lord Borros to support his rightful queen, and, once he left, Aemond chased after him on Vhagar.”

Her brows furrowed, and Aly opened her mouth but did not say anything for several moments. “What?” she eventually breathed out.

Aemond killed Luke? In all of her imaginings about what happened to her brother, that possibility had never once crossed her mind. She knew her uncle grew tired of training and had made a few comments related to it, but this? Killing a child? A child that posed no threat to him, the rider of the largest dragon in the world and a skilled swordsman.

The memory of her uncle laying on the ground at High Tide holding his left eye while blood seeped down his cheeks flashed to the forefront of her mind. As did Aemond calling her brothers strong boys during his mocking toast. Some wounds never healed, she realized after his toast. They only festered and festered and festered until hatred took over. Aly never blamed her uncle for refusing to forgive her brothers over the fight that cost him his eye, but killing Luke was so far beyond the pale that any sympathy she felt for him quickly morphed into anger and rage and bubbling fury. And self-loathing for ever feeling any sympathy for him at all.

“Borros did not even write to us himself,” Daemon was saying, though Aly’s outrage made his words sound as if he was speaking to her from several feet away rather than right next to her. “A servant did after witnessing it over Shipbreaker Bay.”

“Is Mother in her rooms? I wish to see her.”

Daemon gave her a look of mild distress. “She isn’t here.”

“She’s gone?” Aly asked in incredulity.

“She flew to Durran’s Point. She left almost as soon as we received the letter.”

“That was more than a day ago,” Aly told him unnecessarily, as if he did not know. “She’s been out there alone? You didn’t offer to go with her?”

“Of course I did,” Daemon said in a tone of slight defensiveness. “Your mother was very clear that it was something she wished to do alone.”

Aly sighed as she brought her hand up to rest on her collarbones. Her mother was in Storm’s End, a place where she would clearly find few friends, by herself. Rhaenyra was perfectly capable, but she was obviously not in her right mind. That made her vulnerable. More vulnerable than she already was after Visenya’s death. Aly had half a mind to turn on her heel, mount Lyrax, and fly to Durran’s Point herself. 

Daemon must have sensed her thoughts, for he told her softly, “This is not something you can help her with. You will be here when she returns. That is more than enough.”

Tears pricked her eyes and she looked at her stepfather. Despite not being his intention, his words only reminded her that she had not been home when her mother received the news. Her mother had received word that her son was dead and she had had no one to lean on. Not Aly. Not Jace. Daemon loved her mother, of that Aly had no doubt, but providing emotional comfort was not something he was particularly skilled at. 

She swallowed before clearing her throat. “Does Jace—”

“He was still at the Eyrie when I wrote to him,” Daemon said. “I suspect he will soon be at White Harbor if he is not already.”

Aly’s shoulders slumped and her heart felt so heavy it may as well have dropped down into her stomach. She had been able to more or less return home after hearing of Luke’s death, yet Jace had only just begun his journey. He still needed to treat with Lord Manderly through his grief.

“Cregan Stark agreed to support our cause?”

“Yes,” she told him, though she did not offer any more information beyond the number of men he promised. Their marriage was not yet common knowledge, and Aly did not want her stepfather to hear of it before she revealed it to her mother.

Daemon gingerly grabbed her by the elbow and led her towards the castle. “Good. I will leave for the riverlands once your mother and brother return. After I garner Lord Tully’s support, we will tell the northmen to gather at Harrenhal with the rivermen and then we will march on King’s Landing.”

Aly nodded. That would take months, she knew. And in the meantime? Would smaller battles be fought among loyalists and traitors as they itched to get their swords bloody? The thought made her uneasy. The entire prospect of war made her uneasy. But Aegon had stolen her mother’s crown and Aemond had killed Luke. There was no turning back. 

The castle felt remarkably empty in comparison to how full it had been when Aly left for Winterfell. It was as if all of the life had escaped from it. No voices traveled down the corridors, no sounds of feet walking the halls. All the lords who traveled straight to Dragonstone after receiving their summons to bend the knee to Aegon were gone. They returned to their own castles to prepare their men and land for war. Everyone who resided at Dragonstone were no doubt locked in their respective chambers mourning the life that had been taken.

“A letter arrived for you while you were gone. The seal indicated it came from the Dun Fort.”

Alarra. Aly had not heard from her friend in several weeks. Practically another lifetime ago.

“Let me get settled, and then I will—”

“Take as long as you need,” Daemon told her with a slightly awkward smile before leaving her at the foot of the main stairway. 

As soon as she reached her chambers Aly sat at her writing desk and hastily broke the seal of the lone scroll sitting atop its flat surface.

Aelora,

I must confess I am not sure how to properly express everything that is whirling in my mind. These past few days have been full of shock, confusion, and anxiety. I know the same must be doubly true for you. When we received the letter from King’s Landing demanding my father’s fealty to Aegon, I first thought it was an elaborate jest. The events that have transpired since my father’s return from Dragonstone have made me realize it was no such thing. I so wish to write to Helaena in the hopes of gaining insight into why her husband turned traitor, but my mother has convinced me not to. She fears Helaena would misunderstand and think my letter signifies House Darklyn’s support for Aegon.

I received a letter from Samantha Rosby a few days ago. As you well know, Lord Rosby moved to court not long after Raymun’s death. Apparently every lord in the Red Keep was marched into the Great Hall after King Viserys’s death and ordered to bend the knee to Aegon or risk death. I know Lord Rosby bent the knee only to save his life rather than any true loyalty to Aegon. His wife already lost a son, he did not want her to lose her husband in such quick succession. Still, the Rosbys are worried for his safety. They are worried Aegon will require proof of loyalty. I hope I do not offend you when I tell you that they are also worried your mother will not understand his reasons for bending the knee.  

I am deeply worried for what is to come. Father left the Dun Fort convinced Aegon could be persuaded to renounce his claim, but he returned confident that full-scale war would soon be upon us. I do not know the details, as he refuses to share them with me, but I pray to the gods every night that should war come it will end quickly.

Father tells me that you are to be betrothed to Lord Stark rather than Prince Jacaerys. Is that due to Aegon stealing the throne? I was sorry to hear of it regardless of the reasons behind it. You would have made a great queen. 

Please write to me as soon as you are able. Give me any insight that you can no matter how minor or unimportant you may think it is. My father feels that I am best protected by blindness, but we both know that does not shield one from danger.

All my love,
Alarra

Aly frowned as she read her friend’s letter. Her concern was palpable through the parchment. She worried not only for herself and her family, but also the family of her dead husband. Lord Rosby turning cloak was troublesome; even if he did it to protect his family Aly feared others living in the Red Keep or in the crownlands close to King’s Landing may do the same. Especially if Aegon threatened to kill anyone who did not bend the knee to him. 

With a deep exhale, Aly grabbed a clean piece of parchment, dipped her pen in ink, and began her response to Alarra. 

Alarra,

It is with great sorrow that I write to you. My brother Luke was killed at Storm’s End a few days past by Aemond. My mother sent all of us to find allies for her cause outside of the crownlands. As your father has told you, a war is coming and it cannot be won by the men of the crownlands alone. I still do not know the specifics of the circumstances, but that does not change the fact that my brother is dead, and Aemond murdered him. I do not know what will happen next, but I admit that I am afraid.

I am greatly vexed to hear of what has happened to Lord Rosby. Lords Stokeworth and Harte also resided at the Red Keep when I last left it. Have you heard of what has become of them? If they have bent the knee as well? 

I am betrothed to Lord Stark, but the decision was made prior to my grandfather’s death. 

Keep yourself safe and write to me when you can.

All my love,
Aelora

Reading over her letter, Aly could not help but find it lacking. Alarra was her closest friend, but she still felt as if she had to hold back from her. She could not write to her of her marriage, at least not yet. Could not tell her that she only married Cregan when she did because of her brother’s death. Could not properly convey how frightened she was over the war to come, over her brother’s death, her worry about her mother’s state of mind.

She also could not write to her about how devastated she felt over Aegon’s betrayal. Could not write how she and her uncle planned to remain together in Winterfell even after her marriage to Cregan. Could not write how she felt as if Aegon had crumpled her up and thrown her in the lit hearth like an unimportant letter. The closest she could come was writing that she, too, was surprised by Aegon stealing the crown.

After sealing the letter once the ink had dried, Aly walked to the castle rookery in Sea Dragon Tower. She paused when she saw Maester Gerardys—Grand Maester Gerardys—tending to the ravens. He looked strange with the heavy chain of the office of the Grand Maester, the one her mother took from Grand Maester Orwyle, around his neck. It appeared heavier around his shoulders than it ever did on Grand Maester Orwyle. He appeared to feel the same. He frequently shifted his shoulders as he moved amongst the ravens.

“Grand Maester,” she greeted with a courteous smile.

Grand Maester Gerardys focused his attention to her at once. “Princess Aelora. I heard you had returned.” His kind expression quickly turned deeply sympathetic. “I join you in your mourning for Prince Lucerys. He was too young, much too young.”

They had lived at Dragonstone for nearly a decade, and in that time the Grand Maester saw all of the children grow and mature. He spent countless hours with them in the library during their lessons, he helped nurse them when any injuries or ailments arose, and he served them as a source of counsel when any problem presented itself.

Aly swallowed thickly. “Yes.”

“The castle won’t be the same without him,” the Grand Maester said shakily as tears began to fill his eyes. He sniffled before clearing his throat and glancing down at the rolled up parchment in her hand. “Do you wish to send a letter?”

“To Alarra,” Aly answered while holding it out to him.

“I will send it posthaste.”

“Thank you.” She paused before saying, “There is another matter for which I require your help. One that requires discretion”

“Anything,” Grand Maester Gerardys answered at once.

“I…A woman in the castle requires moon tea, and she has asked that it be delivered to me to conceal her identity. My understanding is that it is a very delicate matter, and I—”

“Of course. I will personally deliver it to your chambers later this afternoon.”

If he knew the moon tea was actually for her, it was not obvious by his expression.

“That is perfect, thank you.” 

Aly lingered for several more moments, wondering if she should say anything to comfort him, but even if she wanted to, the words would not come. So Aly shot him a compassionate smile and a grateful nod before descending the steps.

When she reached her destination she debated whether or not to knock on the large oaken door. After several moments Aly decided on a middle ground: she turned the knob and opened the door just a crack before calling for the person who resided within.

“Rhaena?”

Several beats passed before her cousin answered. “Enter.”

Her cousin’s chambers were immaculate as always. The bed was made, nothing was out of place, and not a speck of dust was within sight. Nothing to indicate someone inhabited the rooms. Only Rhaena sitting on a bench in front of her window looking out into the Blackwater. She continued to look out even as Aly stepped closer, her hands folded in her lap. 

It was only when Aly sat next to her on the cushioned bench that Rhaena turned. And when she did Aly immediately moved to embrace her. Her eyes were red, her cheeks puffy with tracks indicating where her tears had fallen, and her shoulders were slumped. Rhaena began crying again once her face was buried in Aly’s shoulder. Tears pricked Aly’s eyes at the sound, and soon she found herself sobbing into her cousin’s hair.

“I was to marry him,” Rhaena sniffled after several moments.

“I know,” Aly soothed. 

Rhaena had not just lost her cousin and stepbrother, she had also lost her betrothed. Her entire future. Aly knew how that felt. Perhaps better than anyone.

“He cared for you,” Aly assured her cousin once they ended their embrace. Looking her straight in the eyes to emphasize her words. 

Rhaena nodded. “We were both happy with the decision to betroth us,” she said before letting out a hollow laugh. “We even allowed ourselves to imagine what it would be like to live at High Tide.” 

Aly reached out and grabbed her cousin’s hand, squeezing it. “It’s not fair.”

Rhaena’s face hardened. “How could Aemond be so cruel and heartless?”

Aly was at a loss for words for several moments. “I don’t know,” she practically whispered once she found her voice.

“He was cruel as a child, too,” Rhaena said harshly. “Throwing Ser Harwin’s death in your brothers’ faces and then calling them bastards.”

It all went back and back. Back to Driftmark. Back to her uncle claiming Vhagar when Rhaena wanted to do it in honor of Laena. Back to her brothers teasing Aemond. Back to the courtiers whispering about their paternity, whispering it but never saying it to their faces. 

A war is coming, Aly. One that has been brewing for perhaps longer than you realize.

“And this column here is for the kitchen expenses,” Grand Maester Gerardys told her as he pointed it out on the page in his ledger.

The pair sat in the solar in the Stone Drum, the one in which she and her cousins and brothers used to play games when they were younger.  A tradition that her younger brothers continued, Joffrey showing young Aegon and Viserys the joy of building a tower of blocks and then knocking it over. Daemon was locked in his study, which left Aly to the tedious work of going over the household accounts with the Grand Maester. It was nearing the end of the moon, which meant the castle’s outstanding debts needed to be paid and, with it, the ledger balanced. The Grand Maester kept up with all of the arithmetic, but Aly was required to double check his figures before approving it. Which she did relatively quickly, her arithmetic skills still quite sharp. But there were so many figures to check…

She wanted to sigh in relief when she heard footsteps coming closer. Ser Alfred Broome walked into the room, his usual sour expression making it impossible to gauge whether he came with sad tidings or just to announce the midday meal was ready. 

“Meleys just landed in the Dragonmont,” he reported. “Prince Daemon has been told as well.”

Aly nodded before turning to the Grand Maester. “We will continue this after I have spoken with my grandmother.”

She stood as he closed the ledger and followed Ser Alfred to the Great Hall. Rhaenys and Corlys had been at High Tide since shortly after Aly and her brothers left Dragonstone on their dragons to begin forming a blockade of the Gullet. Neither had been heard from since, and Aly hoped her grandmother’s return brought with it confirmation that the Velaryon fleet was now in place.

When she arrived in the Great Hall her grandmother and stepfather already stood near the hearth speaking quietly. They stopped as soon as she came up to them, and Rhaenys tightly wrapped her arms around Aly. When their embrace ended, her grandmother gave her a sympathetic smile.

“We were devastated to hear what happened,” Rhaenys said softly, her eyes glassy. “How is everyone?”

Terrible , Aly wanted to say. The grief and anger within the walls of the castle was so thick it sometimes made Aly feel as if she could not breathe. Rhaena barely spoke, and when she did she almost always burst into tears. Mourning Luke. Cursing Aemond. Baela handled her grief in much the same way as her father - avoidance. While Daemon locked himself in his study, Baela took to the skies. She circled the island nearly from dusk to dawn, not even coming in for her midday meal. As for Aly, she busied herself by caring for her brothers. She dealt with Joffrey’s moods that reared their ugly heads since he was still too young to fully process what death actually meant and helped the nursemaids where she could with young Aegon and Viserys. And every night she sobbed herself to sleep. Thinking of Luke, of her mother. Of Aegon.

“They are as you might expect.”

Rhaenys hummed, the lines on her face appearing deeper in her own grief. “I was telling Daemon that the blockade is now formed. Nothing will enter or leave King’s Landing. No goods, no food, no men. I will begin patrolling the blockade on Meleys after I leave here.”

“I’ll help you,” Aly blurted out, surprising both herself and her grandmother. But she had to get out of the castle. She feared she would go mad if she remained within the walls of Dragonstone any longer, managing the entire household and all its residents. And everyone’s grief.

“All right,” her grandmother agreed after a few seconds. “We’ll alternate. If you patrol during the day I will patrol at night. And if you see anything you will fly straight to High Tide to report it to me.” 

“I will,” Aly promised.

At everyone’s agreement, Aly went up to her rooms, changed into one of her riding outfits, and went to the Dragonmont. Her shoulders felt lighter the closer she got to the volcano. To Lyrax. To her opportunity to leave the castle and forget, if only for a while, the reason for the darkness within.

For days Aly flew back and forth over the Gullet. She awoke at dawn and flew from Dragonstone to the base of Cracklaw Point and then over Driftmark all the way to Massey’s Hook and back again. Covering as much ground as she could until the sun began to set and she could see Meleys in the distance, her grandmother beginning her own patrol. Aly returned to the castle every evening absolutely starving. And tired. Too tired to do much of anything beyond greeting her cousins and stepfather before she ate in her rooms and then went to bed. She occasionally played with Joffrey if he asked, but otherwise she spent her days and nights in solitude.

On the tenth day of her patrol, Aly sighed as she and Lyrax made their way towards Massey’s Hook. She was beginning to become sick of the sight of the Velaryon fleet, of the Blackwater, of the landmasses. The only interesting sights she had seen were the first few days in which ships from Essos attempted to make their way to the crownlands. Aly and Lyrax hovered in those instances, in case they needed to fly to High Tide to report back to Rhaenys, but each time the Essosi ships turned back. Aly was glad of it. She felt sick to her stomach whenever she thought about the possibility of having to attack if the Essosi decided to instigate battle to get their goods to King’s Landing. 

She supported her mother’s claim, but Aly did not know if she had it in her to burn anyone over it. It was a thought she turned over nearly every night as she laid in bed. Hoping she would never be asked to do so. Hoping she would never have to refuse.

A cry in the distance caused her to turn sharply. Her heart leapt into her throat when she saw the small figure of a dragon coming towards Dragonstone. Aly’s mind whirled as she quietly gasped, and Lyrax gave a bone-shuddering roar in the direction of the beast. A roar that the other dragon, which only grew with each flap of its wings, answered quickly.

Just as she tightened her fist around the reigns of her saddle, Aly realized the creature  was flying from the southwest towards Massey’s Hook - not the path one would take if they were flying from King’s Landing to attack. But it was the path from the stormlands.

She let out another gasp as she realized it was Syrax, and her mother, returning home. Aly sharply commanded Lyrax to return to High Tide. Rhaenys met her in the clearing on the beach with a look of alarm.

“Mother has returned from the stormlands,” Aly told her. “I need to go to Dragonstone to meet her.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Go.”

Aly gave her grandmother a quick, grateful, smile before she remounted Lyrax and flew to the Dragonmont. Orwello confirmed that Aly beat Syrax and Rhaenyra to the island, so Aly waited with him for the yellow dragon to make its way home. Which she did about ten minutes later. Without a word Rhaenyra unbuckled herself and made her way down Syrax’s saddle. Aly studied her mother carefully. She did not know how to feel when she saw her mother use both hands to climb down from her dragon - her mother either did not find Luke’s body, or she did and chose not to bring him back for burial.

Rhaenyra walked past her daughter in a daze and headed towards the castle.

She looks half mad , Aly could not help but think.

Chapter Text

The door leading out of the small council chambers had never looked so enticing. Listening to Ser Tyland drone on and on about the castle coffers and account books threatened to put Aegon to sleep. It would only be a few steps, he thought as Tyland recounted the daily expenses of the previous week. Just a few steps and he would be in the corridor. But he stayed put and attempted to distract himself by glancing at his small council. No one else seemed to be paying much attention to Tyland either. Aemond appeared to be looking at Tyland, but his gaze was unfocused. The others around the table cast too-frequent glances at Aemond to truly be paying attention to the master of coin. Including his mother. 

The mood in the Red Keep had been tense ever since Aegon told the small council of Luke’s death. He had exaggerated his brother’s mindset a bit in the retelling, claiming to the council that his brother attacked Luke purely to defend his king in the face of treason rather than a wound from childhood that never truly healed. Aegon hoped that once his version spread it would only make Aemond seem more of a force to be reckoned with. A sure advantage to anyone thinking of wavering in their support. Vhagar was the largest dragon in the world, and everyone needed to remember that.

Yet that still did not stop the court’s fear that Rhaenyra would rain down on the capital. She would be foolish to do so with Vhagar guarding the city, a fact that Aegon reminded everyone as soon as they brought up the possibility. But that did not negate that war was now inevitable, and they needed to be prepared.

“We have still received no response from any of the lords of the great houses that we sent ravens to,” Grand Maester Orwyle reported once Tyland finished with his exhaustive account.

That made everyone uneasy too. They had secured the support of the stormlands, westerlands, the Arbor, and House Hightower and its vassals, but that was all. The lack of response from Lady Tyrell or any of her infant son’s regents especially grated on Aegon. His mother was a Hightower and her mother had been a Florent, two well respected houses in the Reach. Rohanne Tyrell should have written back immediately of her support.

“Perhaps I should fly to Riverrun and Highgarden myself,” Aegon offered. His grandfather rejected the idea when he first brought it up in Aemond’s chambers, but perhaps the small council would agree to it.

Otto only thinly masked his impatience when he said, “Your Grace, that is ill advised.” 

Aegon fiddled with his dragon egg ring as almost every single member of his small council mimicked the Hand’s sentiments. Telling him that he and Sunfyre needed to remain in the city for their protection. Never mind that both Vhagar and Dreamfyre were larger than Sunfyre. Never mind that Rhaenyra was sending messengers on dragons to garner support for her false claim while he sent ravens.

“Fine,” he said once everyone had said their peace. “We will send more ravens, then.”

“And there has been no word from Dalton Greyjoy regarding our offer?” Alicent asked.

That was one thing the small council agreed with him on, at least. Aegon had managed to convince them to offer the position of master of ships to Lord Greyjoy over Lord Redwyne. The Arbor had already declared their support for him, and while he understood the need to keep allies happy, Aegon thought securing the Greyjoys to their side would be more beneficial. It would certainly ease the minds of the westermen. He had not forgotten Lord Gunthor Farman’s concern over Dalton Greyjoy building longships. And if the Iron Islands, which were so close to the riverlands, supported him that might sway Lord Tully to finally answer Otto’s letters.

“No,” Otto said. “But as soon as we hear from him, we will need to turn our full attention to breaking the blockade that has begun in the Gullet. Food and goods are still plentiful, but when war comes we cannot count on food getting into the city by road.”

“The cityfolk are already beginning to become anxious,” Larys revealed. “With the blockade in place traders will charge more for items brought into the city. The smallfolk fear being unable to afford to eat.”

“There is no need to panic,” Otto assured. “The blockade will be dealt with, it will just take time.”

Aegon could practically hear his grandfather thinking that, if he had offered the position of master of ships to Lord Redwyne, the Redwyne fleet would have already set sail from the Arbor.

“Perhaps we should place a freeze on all taxes,” Tyland suggested. “To prevent traders from increasing their prices as the blockade continues.”

“Yes,” Aegon granted before his grandfather could have his say. A response that he knew at once his grandfather did not agree with based on the tightening of his jaw. “Do that as soon as we are finished meeting.”

Tyland nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“Is there anything else?” Aegon asked, doing his best to keep the impatience out of his tone.

“There is one thing, Your Grace,” Tyland said. “The royal treasury.”

Aegon’s brows furrowed. “What about it?” As far as he knew the castle’s coffers were plentiful.

“With war on the horizon, I suggest we split the treasury for safekeeping. The roads are still clear for travel, but that may not be the case even a fortnight from now.”

“Split the treasury,” Aegon repeated in slight disbelief.

“Yes. As you have said many times, Your Grace, Rhaenyra would be a fool to attack the city while Vhagar, Dreamfyre, and Sunfyre protect us, but grieving mothers have been known to act foolish. Should she take the city, I think it would be best if she were to find the treasury nearly empty.”

She won’t take the city, Aegon wanted to argue.

“What did you have in mind, Ser Tyland?” Alicent inquired.

“We split it into four parts,” the master of coin explained. “One part remains here for the king to use as he sees fit, the other three parts are taken to Oldtown, the Iron Bank in Braavos, and Casterly Rock. All meticulously recorded to ensure nothing was misused.”

Misused. A courteous way of saying stolen. Aegon did not like the idea at all. Sending the coffers away, where anything could happen during travel, made him uneasy. They needed money for the war, and, as Tyland said himself, the roads may soon become impassable so if the castle needed more money the necessary funds from the treasury would not return quickly.

“An excellent idea,” Otto said nearly at the same time as Alicent agreed to Tyland’s plan as well. 

Aegon wanted to scream. Had his father had to deal with this? The constant push and pull with his Hand? 

“With your permission, Your Grace, I will begin dividing the treasury today.”

“I will think it over and let you know my decision once I reach it,” Aegon said curtly before standing, everyone else quickly following suit. 

He walked quickly towards the throne room, Ser Arryk on his heels, but not so quickly that his grandfather was unable to catch up to him.

“Freezing the taxes will not prevent price increases,” Otto more or less chastised him once they walked in step with one another. “All you’re doing is transferring the smallfolks’ anger away from Rhaenyra for forcing the conditions leading to the prices increasing and towards the traders.”

“So you do not think we will end the blockade before that happens?”

“How can we when you do not have a master of ships to control the royal fleet?” Otto shot back.

Aegon stopped and gave his grandfather a severe look. One that did not even cause Otto to flinch. 

“The blockade is an immediate threat,” the Hand said calmly. “One that will only become more urgent once men begin marching and travel becomes difficult.”

“Yes, travel will become difficult,” Aegon mused somewhat mockingly. “Which is why I do not think it a good idea to split the treasury.”

“It is a good idea,” Otto countered. “For all the reasons Tyland said. Should Rhaenyra attempt to sack the city—”

“But she won’t,” Aegon said, his voice rising. “She’d be a fool to do so.”

Otto’s brow quirked up and he gave Aegon an unimpressed look. Aegon did not know whether his grandfather was unimpressed at his voice rising or his perceived ignorance. Ultimately it did not matter.

“Allow Tyland to divvy up the treasury. At best you will be glad you did. At worst you will need to wait a while before using any coin, though I hardly think you will use one-quarter of the entire treasury before the war ends.”

Aegon let out a noise of frustration before continuing on to court. His grandfather followed him, though, thankfully, he did so silently. Ser Rickard Thorne met him in front of the private entrance holding his crown. It still felt awkward atop Aegon’s head, but he was slowly becoming accustomed to the weight of it. Once the Conqueror’s Valyrian steel circlet ornamented with large rubies was placed upon his head, Aegon walked into the throne room.

Several courtiers and smallfolk waited for him, and his annoyance only grew at the prospect of having to hear so many petitions. Matters of the realm he’d had to deal with so far had been fairly minor: one lord felt another lord’s requested taxes were too steep, another lord refused to pay for the entertainment at his son’s name day meal, a butcher commissioned an artisan for a gift that was never delivered. All told, holding court was dull, but Aegon did it without too much complaint. The courtiers and smallfolk supported him, and he needed to ensure that continued.

“The greengrocers Hobb and Joseth, the chandler Ben, and wineseller Pate,” Otto announced a half hour into Aegon hearing the various petitions of the day.

“Come forth,” Aegon urged kindly after a beat passed without anyone stepping forward. That happened often, one of the smallfolk too intimidated to step into the king’s eyeline even when called. 

Four men of various ages timidly made their way to the front of the crowd and stopped about a foot away from where Otto stood at the base of the steps leading up to the Iron Throne. Two of the men were young, one just out of boyhood and the other closer to Aegon’s age. If Aegon had to guess the age of the other two he would have speculated perhaps forty and seventy. None of the men looked as if they were kin, so he could not help but wonder why they combined their petitions. 

“Your Grace,” the eldest began. He bent over in a curtsy, an action his three companions mimicked, before continuing. “I am Ben the chandler. I have a shop close to Weasel Alley, as do Hobb, Joseth, and Pate. We have come to you today to express our concern over the blockade in—”

“There is no need to worry,” Aegon interrupted. He lifted his chin and addressed his next words to the entire court. “The blockade will be dealt with swiftly. There is no reason to worry. And in the meantime, my master of coin has agreed to freeze taxes on goods coming into the city.”

That immediately set everyone chattering. The smallfolk appeared pleased by the decision, which made Aegon want to give his grandfather a smug smile. 

Perhaps not every decision I make is a poor one.

A group of servants lit the candles inside his chambers while Aegon shuffled the cards on the table in front of the hearth. With dusk soon upon them it meant his guests would arrive shortly, and Aegon wanted them to be able to get straight to playing once they entered into his rooms. Platters of spiced mutton, roasted carrots, peppers, and peaches already sat upon the table alongside the wine. Lots and lots of wine.

His three friends arrived together about ten minutes later. Ser Rickard opened the door for them, not bothering to ask Aegon first if the king wished to see the trio. Leon Estermont, Martyn Reyne, and Eddard Waters had come to his chambers nearly every afternoon or evening since his coronation, and the Kingsguard all knew of their standing invitation.

Aegon preferred when they visited him in the evenings as it staved off the loneliness of the nighttime. If only for a little while.

“Come, come,” he said as jovially as he could.

The three joined him at the table and immediately began helping themselves to the food and wine.

“I am as hungry as an aurochs,” Eddard jested while he loaded his plate with a comically large helping of spiced mutton. “Prince Aemond decided to use me as his target of abuse in the training yard today.”

“Did he?” Aegon asked in only mild interest. His brother typically trained with Ser Criston, only occasionally bringing in another courtier. Over the past few days, however, his brother had apparently been duelling with others more frequently. Sharpening his skills for the inevitable battle to come, Aegon supposed. Though how sharp one needed to be with a sword while on dragonback he did not know.

“I had to soak in a near-boiling bath for nearly an hour just to ease my muscles,” Eddard said, which caused both Leon and Martyn to playfully scoff at their friend’s expense.

“Well eat all you desire,” Aegon told his friends unnecessarily. They always did with no reservations.

“And drink,” Martyn said cheerfully as he filled his goblet to the brim with Arbor red.

Aegon nodded as he poured his own goblet full of wine. “What sort of king would I be if I did not feed my friends?”

“A poor one,” Leon laughed. 

“A king completely without charity,” Martyn grinned. 

They played cards while they ate. And drank and then drank some more. Laughing about their various encounters since they all last saw one another the previous day. Eddard witnessed a brawl in a tavern in Flea Bottom between two women who were interested in the same man. Attractive women, too, to Eddard’s glee. Martyn relished in relaying that he saw Owen Fossoway, a courtier he did not particularly like, being confronted by his wife Megga about his lavish spending. And they had all had the joy to see the normally prim and prudish Lord Turnberry in one of the brothels earlier that morning.

“Lady Alla invited me to her chambers for her midday meal,” Leon told them with a cheeky grin. 

Lady Alla Appleton, the attractive wife of the unattractive Lord Alester Appleton, moved to the Red Keep two moons prior with her husband and immediately captured the attention of Leon. His efforts with her had been slow in light of the fact that she was both married and Leon’s gaze did not remain on one woman for long. At least not continuously. But a helping hand here, a secret smile there, and now Alla appeared to have finally wanted to speed things up. 

“And?” Eddard prompted once Leon took more than a beat to say anything more.

Leon smirked as he looked at Aegon. “You’re not the only one with a clandestine lover.”

Aegon rolled his eyes as his friends erupted into laughter and clapped Leon on the back. It was all so…uncouth. Sometimes he felt as if everything about his friends was uncouth. He liked them because they could all play games and drink together while they laughed, but sometimes they really grated on him and he was not sure exactly why. 

“Though I suppose that’s ended,” Martyn said to Aegon once their laughter finally died down. “Considering your nights are free to host us.”

Nights that used to be occupied by spending time with Aly.

Aegon swallowed thickly, and his voice came out quieter than he hoped when he responded, “Yes. It has ended.”

It was not lost on him that that was the first confirmation his friends received of him having a lover. They had jested and teased, but Aegon always shrugged them off without saying anything one way or the other. Not wanting them to know anything in case they tried to put their thick skulls together and piece it all together. He did not think they would ever seriously guess it was Aly, but he did not like the prospect of his friends accidentally figuring it out. 

“I never would have expected Lady Alla to invite you to her chambers,” Eddard said in wonder, having not moved on from Leon’s revelation. “Every time I’ve seen her she seems to dote on that husband of hers.”

Leon shrugged, his smug grin still in place. “You can’t always tell though.”

By the laugh Leon and Eddard shared Aegon knew they were laughing about something—or rather, someone—specific.

“What is so amusing?”

“Aelora,” Leon said with a slight laugh. 

Aegon froze. “What?”

“She opened her legs to every man who asked. That’s what I heard, anyway. And when Rhaenyra found out, she refused to betroth her to Jacaerys. The north is certainly too far for Cregan Stark to have heard his future wife was a whore.”

“That’s a lie,” Aegon snapped fiercely. The vehemence of his tone forced the lingering smile on his friends’ lips to straighten into thin lines. 

She only opened her legs for me. But he obviously could not say that.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked.

He clenched his jaw when all three of them looked dumbfounded. Refusing to name who had spread the rumor to them.

“Princess Aelora was a great friend to Hel—Queen Helaena while she lived at court as one of her companions,” Aegon reminded them as evenly as he could. Pushing them to tell him where they heard the rumor would get nowhere, he knew that. Unfortunately. “And I know it would greatly offend the queen to hear about members of the court spreading such a vile falsehood about someone she loved dearly.”

Thoroughly chastised, all three men sitting opposite him silently nodded their heads. The air in the chambers continued to be awkward as they continued their card game, Aegon barely saying anything while his friends only half-heartedly engaged in menial conversation until they finally left at the hour of the eel.

But even after they left he could not get Leon’s words out of his head. 

She opened her legs to every man who asked.

She’s a whore.

His grip on the stem of his goblet was so tight his knuckles turned white. Anger rolled through him at the thought of others saying the same. Whispering it. The courtiers laughing at her. Some of the men no doubt falsely claiming, boasting, that they were one of the men she bedded.

I’m not a whore.

That was what Aly said to him, her tone small and meek, the morning after their first night together. After she overheard Aemond scolding him about the fact that he had overheard them. And she continued to worry herself sick about getting caught the entire time she lived in the Red Keep. It had weighed and weighed on her during their entire time together. The repercussions she would face, the threat to her reputation, should she be discovered sharing a bed with him. And every time Aegon told her not to worry, that no one knew anything. Which was accurate, no one knew the truth. But that did not stop him from feeling foolish at how certain he had been. No one knew the truth, yet the courtiers still called her a whore. 

If Aegon ever discovered who began the rumor he’d feed them to Sunfyre. After making sure they properly understood his fury. 

He spent an hour thinking about it, how he’d punish the faceless person who started spreading such a contemptible rumor about Aly. He would throw whoever it was in the dungeons and, after letting them suffer there for a couple of days without food, he would go down to speak with them himself - club in hand.

And if anyone ever appeared curious as to why he took so much care to dispel a rumor about a traitor’s daughter, Aegon knew that convincing them that Helaena was distressed about said rumor would be easy. Their friendship was a good way to mask his own anger.

The rumor continued to eat at him as he undressed and then laid in bed. Holding Aly’s favor tightly. Staring up at that fucking canopy he hated so much. 

She opened her legs to every man who asked.

She’s a whore.

I’m not a whore.

When the hour of the wolf rolled around and Aegon’s eyes were no closer to closing, he got up from his bed with a heavy sigh. He needed to get up. Needed to get out of his chambers.

Candelabra in one hand and the favor in the other, he quietly stepped through the threshold.

“Your Grace?” Ser Arryk whispered. “Is everything all right?”

No.

“Yes,” Aegon answered. 

He did not provide an explanation to the knight before he began walking down the corridor. Walking and turning corners and then walking some more. Aegon did not think about where he was going until he reached the door. 

The rooms had been stripped bare since he moved out of them and into the king’s chambers. Stripped of all the laughter and love and warmth that had once resided in them. But even in the emptiness, Aegon found the ghost of the memories more comforting than the coldness of his current chambers.

He fell asleep pretending he could still smell Aly’s apple-scented soap on the bare pillows.

She opened her legs to every man who asked.

She’s a whore.

It was all Aegon could think about as he returned to his chambers, as he dressed, as he made his way to the small council chamber. He considered asking the members of the small council if they had heard the rumor, but with Aemond and his mother there he could not play it off as Helaena being the one who was upset should they ask. So he kept his mouth shut as he walked towards his ornately carved chair at the head of the table.

Aegon barely sat down before Tyland spoke.

“Lord Beesbury’s grandson has been sending Lord Lyman numerous letters since word arrived at Honeyholt of your coronation.”

“Assuring his grandfather that Honeyholt supports the true king,” Otto supplied.

Aegon deflated when Tyland told them, “Not exactly. He asks his grandfather for guidance and, due to a lack of response, he sent me a raven demanding to hear from his grandfather.” 

Lord Lyman had died shortly after Viserys’s death under circumstances no one ever fully explained. Aegon agreed with Otto to not mention his death until Alan Beesbury formally wrote of Honeyholt’s support as acting lord in Lyman’s absence. It was lucky, Aegon thought at the time, that Ylsa Beesbury, Alan’s sister who lived at court with her grandfather in the hopes of finding a husband willing to overlook how vexing she was, had returned to Honeyholt only a fortnight prior to Viserys’s death. Now it did not seem so lucky, though, since it meant Alan had to resort to asking members of the small council about his grandfather.

“Should we tell him?” Jasper Wylde asked, referring to Lyman’s death. “The longer we wait the more he may believe there were unnatural circumstances.”

Were there? Aegon wanted to ask. Yet he was not sure he wanted to know.

“Absolutely not,” Otto answered instantly. Before Aegon had the chance. “We will relay the news of Lyman’s death and Alan’s new lordship once he has formally agreed to join his forces with that of my nephew Ormund as he begins his march to Highgarden.”

“Have you heard from Lady Tyrell?” Alicent asked her father.

“No,” Otto admitted, causing everyone at the table to visibly deflate. “But we will. And once the armies of the Reach are all gathered at Highgarden they will join forces with the hosts of Lord Jason and Lord Borros in the riverlands.”

“The riverlands?” Aegon inquired in annoyed confusion. He knew the lords were gathering their hosts, but he had not been made aware that plans were already being drawn up. Plans he should have not only been privy to as the king, but plans he should have given his prior approval. 

“If Rhaenyra does get support from the Vale and the north, their hosts will have to march south. And the only way to reach the crownlands from either region is—”

“The riverlands,” Aegon interrupted flatly. The logistics weren't what he was confused about.

“We will bring the battle to them,” Otto said. “And with Daeron and Tessarion joining the Hightower host and Vhagar at our disposal, Rhaenyra’s supporters should yield quickly. Perhaps before she even realizes her supporters made it to the riverlands.”

“Daeron?” Aegon asked.

“Yes, he will join Ormund when they begin their march.”

Aegon’s chest tightened as he thought of his youngest brother. His sweet youngest brother who was always so quick with his smiles. Daeron was too young. Too kind.

“We will need him, Your Grace,” his mother told him softly. Aegon could see from the look on her face that she was not necessarily thrilled with the idea either, but he knew she spoke the truth. Vhagar was the largest dragon in the world, Dreamfyre was large as well, and Sunfyre was quick, but that did not change the fact that Rhaenyra had more dragons at her disposal.

“Do we know that we can count on Lord Tully’s support?” Lord Wylde queried.

“Lord Tully is ornery,” Otto said, “but he has been a friend to me and House Hightower for a great many years. He will not support Rhaenyra.”

“But he is not the one making decisions now,” Aegon said, suddenly recalling something Aly had told him several moons prior. There was in-fighting amongst the Tullys while Lord Tully lay in his bed, too unwell to rule his castle and people. “His grandson and brothers bicker over control of riverrun.”

Both Otto and Alicent looked surprised at his words, to Aegon’s frustration. As if he would not know anything about the inner workings of the realm. To his even greater annoyance they also appeared skeptical. 

“The last I heard Lord Tully appeared to be recovering from his illness,” Alicent said diplomatically. “Any division has likely passed now, but I think we should send more ravens. It is unusual that he has not responded yet since his support is so vital.”

“I will treat with him myself,” Aegon offered. And not for the first time.

“Your Grace,” his mother began gently. “In the aftermath of Lucerys Velaryon’s death, we need every dragon to remain here until your army is in place.”

Aegon clenched his jaw, but he did not argue. Not when he could see the fear in his mother’s eyes. The fear she tried so hard to conceal. The threat of Rhaenyra raining down fire and blood on the capital never completely dissipated even as the days since Luke’s death continued to pass. Aegon may have thought it lacked credence, but others did not. He was the king, and he would protect his family.

“Have we heard anything of Rhaenyra’s support outside of the crownlands?” Lord Wyle asked. “Have Lady Arryn and Lord Stark agreed to send men?”

“I have not heard any concrete whispers of promises of men,” Larys said a bit cryptically. “But I do believe they will do so.”

“Is a betrothal enough to force northmen south of the Neck?” Tyland asked with uncertainty. 

“Perhaps not,” Larys conceded, “but I have heard whispers that the alliance has already been permanently sealed.”

“What do you mean by permanently sealed?” Aegon asked. Dread flooded his stomach and crept up his spine. 

It felt like hours passed before Larys turned and locked eyes with him.

“I admit I do not know it is true, Your Grace, but I have heard whispers that Lord Stark and Princess Aelora married at Winterfell.”

“No, they’re only betrothed,” Aegon insisted without thinking.

Lord Strong merely shrugged as he kept his face neutral. “That is not what I have heard, Your Grace.”

Aegon’s heart began beating so fast in his chest that the sound of it flooded his ears. He wanted to argue, to tell Larys that his information was incorrect. That Aly couldn’t have already married Cregan. That there had to be more time between a betrothal and a marriage.

There had to be more time.

But more time for what? Even if Rhaenyra capitulated Aly would never want to see him again. Not after Luke’s death. Aemond killed both their nephew and any chance of Aly being willing to listen to Aegon’s reasons for taking the throne so he had vowed to try to let her go. Yet that did not stop her from constantly haunting his thoughts. Did not stop him from fantasising how things would be if she was with him. Did not stop him from wishing he could do anything to see her again, to touch her again, to hear her laugh again. Did not stop his fingers from curling into a fist as he thought of Cregan Stark rutting on top of her. 

Yet the council could not seem to care less about Larys’s news. They carried on as if Larys had not just relayed the most devastating piece of news Aegon had received since Aly first told him of the betrothal plans. They resolved to send more ravens to Lord Tully so the northerners would be met with an army once they arrived south of the Neck. They then began bickering about the master of ships position since there had been no word from Dalton Greyjoy: Tyland urged them to wait while Otto insisted they name Lord Redwyne so the crown could focus on the blockade. 

And all the while the only thing Aegon could focus on was Aly’s supposed marriage. 

There was supposed to be more time.

“Lord Larys,” Aegon said once the small council meeting finally ended and all the men and Alicent stood to leave the chambers. The first words he had said since hearing of Aly and Cregan.

Larys bowed his head and hung back while everyone else left the room. Many of them, including his mother, gave Aegon a curious glance, but they all remained silent.

“That was a very interesting rumor you shared earlier,” Aegon said as evenly as he could.

Lord Strong almost looked bashful as he said, “It is just a rumor, Your Grace. As I said, I do not know if it is true. People whisper falsehoods all the time.”

“So it could be a misunderstanding,” Aegon said. 

“It could, Your Grace,” Larys conceded. But his tone revealed he did not think it was a misunderstanding at all. 

Aegon felt as if his chest was being ripped in two as he debated his next words.

She opened her legs to every man who asked.

She’s a whore.

He still wanted, needed, to know who was responsible for the courtiers calling her a whore. 

“I understand that whispers are your forte. Hearing them, investigating them. Potentially putting a stop to them.”

Larys gave him a small smile. “I merely hear what the court and smallfolk are saying, Your Grace, and if I am able to convince them to say or stop them from saying in accordance with the king’s wishes then that is all the better.”

“The queen has been made aware of a vile rumor regarding Princess Aelora and is most distressed over it.”

Aegon let the words hang in the air in the hopes that Larys would know immediately what he meant. In the hopes that he would not have to repeat it. But Larys’s face remained still.

“Helaena tells me that some of the courtiers are saying Aelora is…that she shared her bed with many men during her time at court. As I am sure you are aware, Helaena was quite fond of our niece, and I would—we would both consider it a favor if you not only investigated it but made it cease once and for all.”

The change in Larys’s expression was minute, but Aegon still caught it. The way his eyes glittered and the ever so slight quirking up of the corners of his lips.

“I will do my best. For the queen’s sake.”

Aegon watched Larys leave the small council chambers. He already regretted saying anything to the man, but it was too late now. Perhaps his unease was unfair, and Larys would succeed in not only putting a stop to the rumor but finding its origin.

Aegon would kill whoever was responsible. 

As he walked to his chambers the swirl of emotions bubbling in his chest multiplied a hundredfold.

She opened her legs to every man who asked.

She’s a whore.

Lord Stark and Princess Aelora married at Winterfell.

He slammed the door shut to his chambers nearly as soon as he stepped into them. Aegon went straight to his bedside table and poured himself a generous goblet of Arbor red. And then another and another and another.

Aegon flung the goblet and flagon onto the floor once they were both empty. He watched the goblet roll on the stone floor until the leg of the table on which his father’s model Valyria forced it to an abrupt stop. A model he hated almost as much as the canopy above his bed. 

Without giving it much thought, Aegon marched over the model and grabbed anything and everything he could. The larger pieces were too heavy for him, but the smaller pieces, like the dragons and the trees, were easy enough to pick up and slam to the ground.

Lord Stark and Princess Aelora married at Winterfell.

Chapter Text

Aly laid on her side watching the sky transition from twilight to dawn. Her fatigue seeped all the way down to her bones, and her eyes felt heavy, but no matter how hard she tried she could not fall back asleep. Not when her dream, which had awoken her in the hour of the wolf, kept repeating in her mind. Making her chest feel as if it was going to cave in on itself.

She dreamt she was in King’s Landing. She dreamt she was in Aegon’s chambers, in the bed that they shared. They laughed about something Aly could not recall, her cheeks feeling warm from the effort. Until suddenly she wasn’t laughing. And Aegon wore a crown atop his head.

“Why did you do it?” she asked in her dream, tears falling down her face.

Aegon did not answer. He only looked at her with concern as he reached out and wiped away her tears.

“I love you. More than anyone.”

Her uncle leaned over and kissed her. A deep kiss. One she welcomed. Until he shifted and his crown bumped against her forehead. That was when she tried to pull away, pushing and pushing at his chest in an effort to separate herself from him. But he would not let go of his hold upon her.

Aly’s heart raced when her body jolted and her eyes flew open. As her eyes adjusted to the dark room, she turned over on the featherbed and extended her arm. Subconsciously reaching for someone who was not there. But there was no comfort to be found.

She tossed and turned for another hour or so before deciding to just stay still and watch the morning greet her. Thinking of Aegon the entire time. Of all the joy they had shared. It hadn’t been perfect, but she had been happy. Truly happy. Happy in a way she had never thought to feel. And then she thought of the way he ripped her heart into pieces when he took the crown. Throwing all of their plans, their future together, away as if it didn’t matter.

It would drive her mad if she let it. Wondering why he had done it.

Her handmaid Harra entered into her chambers shortly after dawn. Aly was glad of it. The start of the day would hopefully bring her some relief. The days were all right. She spent so much time worrying about everyone else that it gave her little opportunity to dwell on her uncle. It was the nights, when she was all alone with nothing but her thoughts, that were unbearable.

Aly felt a bit better after taking a hot bath. The heat soothed her tired muscles, and her movements were less tense as she stepped into one of her black gowns. The next day she would need to dress in a riding outfit - with nothing of note having happened since the blockade of the Gullet began, Rhaenys and Corlys decided there was no more need of a constant patrol on dragonback. The immediate fear of reprisal had come and gone, and the Velaryon fleet carried several ravens in case something changed, but otherwise Aly and Rhaenys only flew over the blockade every few days. Sometimes Aly missed it. The open skies. The freedom from the dark mood in the castle. But her mother had returned and needed her now. To Aly’s mind that obviously took precedence.

Her gown tied, her hair back in a plait, and her boots on, Aly made her way to the long gallery and to Sea Dragon Tower. The sound of her steps on the stone floor echoed through the corridor. The hall was empty except for her - no servants scuttling in this direction or that, none of her younger brothers running or toddling to see their mother. Few dared to enter Rhaenyra’s apartments in the three days since her return from the stormlands. Her mother’s ladies-in-waiting, Elinda Massey and Maia Buckwell, attempted to see to her shortly after her arrival, but Rhaenyra quickly kicked them out of her rooms. The same had happened when Melly, her mother’s handmaid, attempted the same. Daemon still slept in their shared bedchamber, but he spent his days locked in his study sending ravens back and forth. Otherwise, with the exception of Aly, only servants came in and out, and even then they did so sparingly.

Everyone wanted to give Rhaenyra the space to grieve her son.

When she stood in front of the door to her mother’s chambers, Aly’s hand reached up and rested along her collarbone as she took in a deep inhale. Steeling herself before she walked through the threshold. Squaring her shoulders, Aly slowly opened the door.

The rooms felt stale despite the open windows. Still-full plates sat upon the table in the sitting area, bits of dust had accumulated on the furniture surfaces, and clutter appeared on those same surfaces. The thing that struck Aly the most, though, was the silence. Her mother did not weep, did not move. She merely sat still in front of the window overlooking the Blackwater practically in a daze.

Her mother’s recovery from the deep well of grief happened in fits and starts. Sometimes Aly would enter her mother’s chamber and feel buoyed by the fact that she was eating. Then, just a few hours later, she would return to find her Rhaenyra either crying or silently gazing out into the distance. Then later her mother would be in a rage, speaking harshly with the servants before demanding they leave.

Aly quietly moved to sit next to her mother on the cushioned window seat. In the distance she spied Moondancer’s green scales glittering in the sunlight. Baela flew her dragon nearly every afternoon from midday until the sun began to set. Aly asked her the previous evening if the relatively small creature grew fatigued from the constant exercise, but Baela insisted Moondancer was gaining strength and could fly longer now than she could just the fortnight before. It was all calculated, Aly realized at her cousin’s answer. Training her dragon for the war to come. The war that had already arrived.

It made Aly nervous. Baela’s boldness was something Aly greatly admired about her cousin, but it also meant she sometimes acted without completely thinking things through. Until now it had only been little things, like flying Moondancer from High Tide to Dragonstone as soon as she was first mounted or sneaking into the village alone at night because she wanted to participate in a darts competition. But in light of all that had happened, Aly could not help but fear that Baela intended to do something not bold but rash.

“Rhaena and Joffrey have taken Aegon to the Dragonmont to visit Tyraxes and Stormcloud,” Aly told her mother softly. Hoping the first inklings of a conversation would motivate her mother to speak “And I suspect they will stop by to see Rhaena’s egg.”

The pale pink dragon egg that Rhaena had had for years still appeared no closer to hatching than when she first received it. Her cousin alternated between keeping it in the Dragonmont and her own bedchamber in the hope that one or the other would be more conducive for a hatchling to spring forth. A hope Aly both admired and felt slightly awkward about. Her cousin would be better served choosing a new egg, she could not help but think, but as long as Rhaena held out hope, Aly would do her best to keep from becoming completely cynical.

Rhaenyra gave a small nod, indicating she heard her daughter’s words, but did not verbally respond.

“I received a letter from Cre— Lord Stark last night. The northmen who will make up the first host has been decided and will gather at Barrowton. They await only word on where to march.”

Aly had told her mother that she secured Cregan’s support, but she had not said a word about their marriage. It just never seemed to be the right time. Not when her mother was so clearly not herself. Though part of Aly considered that meant it was actually the best time. Rhaenyra would be furious once Aly revealed it, and telling her when her mind was elsewhere would lessen the blow. But Aly knew that would be unfair, so she kept her mouth shut. She would wait until her mother had gathered herself. Or when her mother took the throne. Whichever came first.

Rhaenyra did not supply any hint of where, specifically, she wanted her army to meet. Daemon still intended to travel to the riverlands to treat with Lord Tully, or rather his grandson and brothers in light of his continued illness. There was no guarantee the Tullys would agree to support Rhaenyra, though the sight of Caraxes would likely be very persuasive. Still, Aly did not want to tell Cregan for his men to march to Harrenhal before Daemon secured the support of the riverlands. The northmen would need to pass through the Twins, and the Freys were not like to let an army pass through their lands if their liege lord did not support Rhaenyra.

Silence took over once more. Aly followed her mother’s gaze and watched the movement of the Blackwater. It was hypnotic, she could concede. The gentle ruffling from the breeze and the small waves that formed then crested before reaching their trough.

“I spent nearly ten days searching for him.”

Her mother’s voice made Aly startle. It was rough and thick. A sign that she had not used it that day prior to speaking. Her words were surprising too. Rhaenyra had cried and screamed various times over the past three days, clinging to Aly as she did so, but she had never said anything about her time in the stormlands. And Aly had not asked. She did not want to push it. Her mother would speak of it when she was ready. If she was ever ready. That time had apparently come.

“I flew up and down the coastline.”

Rhaenyra continued looking out into the distance. Aly wondered if that made the words easier to spill forth, saying them while watching the small waves rather than having to look into someone else’s eyes and seeing the emotion there.

“I even flew through the night when the sky was clear,” Rhaenyra said. “Just when I’d lost hope of finding him, to bring him home, I saw a crowd on the beach.” Her lips quivered and she took in a deep inhale to steady herself before her next words. “I found pieces of Arrax’s wing wrapped around torn scraps of fabric from Luke’s doublet.”

The memory must have broken her resolve, for Rhaenyra quickly burst into tears. If she intended to tell Aly any more, that would have to wait for another time. Aly wrapped her arms around her mother, as she had done so many times in the last few days, and allowed her to sob into her chest. Tears formed in her own eyes as her mother’s shoulders shook in her embrace. Great globs of salty water that fell onto her mother’s uncombed and tangled silver hair.

And as she sat there at the window seat, holding her mother while the pair of them sobbed, Aly’s newfound anger and hatred towards Aemond hardened in her heart. Her uncle, a man grown who attacked a mere child. Set his dragon on him so that there was nothing left of him. Nothing left except torn pieces of fabric found on a beach entangled with the spare pieces of Arrax that Vhagar did not devour. A sight no mother should have to see.

Aly may have been too much of a coward to fight an Essosi over the blockade, but she knew if she ever came face to face with Aemond again she would not hesitate.

“...and when Princess Daeryssa spied Serwyn in the thicket of trees surrounding the castle, her heart leapt with glee. Finally she would be freed from the giants who had captured her.”

Aly read quietly from the small book with illustrations. Viserys had fallen asleep a half hour ago in his crib, but Aegon’s purple eyes remained wide open while he snuggled into Aly’s side. Their nursemaid put them down earlier that evening, but when Aly walked past their shared nursery she could hear her youngest brothers’ giggles through the door. Upon opening the door she found them out of their beds and on the floor scooting their blocks across the rug. Knowing well how nightmarish children who did not receive enough sleep the night before could be, Aly stepped into the nursery and promptly urged them to return to their beds. Viserys complied, the perceived scolding enough motivation, but Aegon refused. He only agreed at Aly’s offer to read to him.

So far the pair had gone through five books, and the closer Aly got to Serwyn of the Mirror Shield slaying the giants the more she eyed their small bookshelf with anxiety. He has to fall asleep eventually. Aly herself was struggling to keep her eyes open after a full day patrolling the blockade, and she did not know if she was capable of making it through another five books.

Thankfully when she looked down at her brother after finishing the tale of Serwyn and Daeryssa, Aegon’s eyes were shut. Aly slowly closed the book and even more slowly climbed out of the bed, afraid that even the slightest movement would awaken him and cause him to beg to hear more tales from the Age of Heroes. After softly placing the book on her brother’s beside table, she crept out of the room on the balls of her feet and almost silently closed the door to the nursery.

Rhaena met her at the long gallery connecting Sea Dragon Tower to the Stone Drum. Aly’s shoulders slightly tensed at the fact that her cousin had clearly been waiting for her. Whatever news she had to share, it needed to be shared immediately. And that type of news was, more oft than not, grim.

“What is it?” Aly asked hesitantly, dread making its way up her body.

“Vermax landed in the Dragonmont a few minutes ago,” Rhaena told her.

Jace had returned home.

Aly barely got out a “thank you” before she pushed past her cousin and practically flew down the corridor to the main stairway. Right when her left foot landed on the second to bottom step did Jace walk into the castle with Baela, the pair of them holding hands. Brother and sister stared at one another for a beat. Jace’s red-rimmed eyes appeared nearly haunted and his shoulders sagged as if he carried the weight of the entire realm upon them. Which, in a way, he did. He was the Prince of Dragonstone now. With their mother refusing to leave her chambers and Daemon locking himself in his study with the intention to leave for the riverlands soon, Aly feared too much would fall to her brother.

He is too young for such a heavy responsibility.

The two moved to embrace each other at the exact same time, Jace dropping Baela’s hand and Aly making the final small descent from the staircase. They met in the middle of the entry hall and tightly wrapped their arms around the other. So tight Aly could barely breathe, but she did not care. The sea air still permeated her brother’s hair, and she wondered how hard of a bargain Lord Manderly had struck for him to not return home for so long. Irritation rose within her at the prospect. Manderly had to have been told of Cregan’s support of Rhaenyra while Jace was at White Harbor, which should have made any negotiations regarding his fleet quick and easy.

“I returned as soon as I could,” Jace said quietly into her hair.

“I know,” Aly assured him. Pushing down her anger at Lord Manderly. Her brother clearly felt terrible, the last thing he needed was her pestering him about the details.

“What happened?” he asked once they ended their embrace. “Baela only said that Aemond was at Storm’s End and killed Luke over Shipbreaker Bay.”

“I’m afraid that’s all we know,” Aly admitted. “Daemon said a servant of Borros saw it happen and sent a letter to Mother, but they did not provide any specifics beyond the fact that they argued.”

“Is Mother still awake?”

“Yes, but—”

“I need to tell her that I secured the support of the Vale, and Lord Manderly has promised us his fleet in addition to sending men to Winterfell when Lord Stark gathers his host.”

Aly studied her brother for a few moments. Studied his grief and anger and helplessness. He clung to his victory in gaining their mother allies, the same as Aly had upon her return. A small piece of good news in a sea of despair. So many things had gone wrong over the last fortnight, but at least something had been accomplished. At least Jace had done his part.

With an understanding nod, Aly linked her arm in his and retraced her steps back to Sea Dragon Tower. They walked past the nursery, which was still quiet within, and continued on down the corridor. She stopped a few paces from their mother’s rooms, forcing Jace to stop with her.

“She is understandably not herself,” she warned her brother quietly. “She’s…” Aly trailed off, unsure exactly what to say. Her mother’s current mood, what Jace would walk into, was unknown.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been here.”

The guilt on Jace’s face made her heart sink. “It’s all right.”

Her brother reached out and squeezed her hand before stepping past her. He stopped in front of the door to their mother’s chambers. Hesitating. Gathering himself. Then, he wrapped his hand around the doorknob, opened the door, stepped over the threshold, and closed the door behind him. Aly hovered in the corridor for several moments before she turned and made her way to her own rooms.

Any tiredness she felt in the nursery left her as soon as Rhaena told her of Jace’s return. After Harra helped her get ready for bed, Aly remained wide awake. She attempted to read a rather dry text on the history of the Night’s Watch to help her slumber along, but while she grew bored the longer she read she did not feel tired.

After reading the names of all six kings who took the black after Nymeria’s War, Aly closed the book with a heavy sigh and stood from the bed. She wrapped her dressing gown around her and sat at her vanity, drumming her fingers along the edge of the smooth wooden surface. After letting out a huff Aly opened one of the small drawers. Her chest tightened as she looked down at the mermaid pendant she kept there. The one she had taken off shortly after hearing of her uncle stealing the throne. The one she had not worn since. The one her fingers still reached up to grasp whenever she felt anxious. The one she looked at nearly every single night before she went to bed, as if just seeing it laying there carefully in her vanity drawer would soothe her.

Aly could not help but wonder what Aegon was doing at that very moment. Probably cavorting in Flea Bottom without a care in the world. Perhaps he wore his crown, to show it off to the smallfolk. Or perhaps he was sleeping peacefully, not caring that he had stolen his sister’s birthright and his brother was a kinslayer and child murderer.

She hated him. She hoped to never see him again.

She missed him. She wished she could cling to him in her anguish, lay in his arms while he told her everything would be all right.

But it wasn’t all right. Perhaps it never would be again.

A quiet knock on her door made Aly close the drawer in haste, as if she was in the wrong for still holding onto the pendant. Her need to hide it was quickly replaced by the feeling of foolishness. No one on Dragonstone had seemed to even notice she had stopped wearing it, let alone cared enough to ask about its origins.

Her brows slightly rose upon seeing Jace on the other side of the threshold once she opened her door. His eyes were still red, as were his nose and cheeks, and Aly knew instantly that he had only just left their mother’s chambers. She opened her door wider and instantly greeted him with a hug, an embrace her brother seemed more than eager to receive based upon how tightly he wrapped his arms around her.

“Come in,” Aly invited him once they ended their embrace. “Shall I ask for tea?”

Jace’s voice was throaty when he said, “No, that’s all right.”

He followed her to her sitting area and took the seat opposite the one she chose.

“How long has she been like that?”

“Ever since she returned from the stormlands,” Aly answered thickly. “She found Arrax.” She swallowed as the memory of her mother’s words flashed to the forefront of her mind. “She found pieces of Arrax.”

“And Luke?” Jace asked, his voice a mixture of dread, hope, and nerves.

Aly only shook her head, not wanting to repeat what her mother had told her about only finding scraps of Luke’s doublet.

Jace sucked in a deep breath and his shoulders hunched forward. Aly reached out and grabbed his hand, tears beginning to prick her eyes.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here earlier,” he murmured as he squeezed her hand.

“It’s all right.”

“It isn’t,” her brother practically snapped. “I should have been here.”

“You’re here now,” Aly said. “That’s all that matters.” She paused before telling him, warning him, “Things may fall to you soon.”

He is too young for such a heavy responsibility.

Jace’s shoulders sagged even more and his face turned anxious. “I don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” she insisted. “You secured the support of the Vale and Manderly’s fleet all on your own.”

“Lord Manderly did not need much convincing, especially after he received Lord Stark’s raven. All I had to agree to was betrothing Joffrey to his daughter Wynda,” Jace told her. Undercutting his own achievement.

“And Lady Jeyne?”

“She agreed as well. With one stipulation.”

Aly’s brows slightly furrowed. Stipulations were not necessarily cause for alarm, but her brother’s tone gave her pause. Whatever it was she asked, Jace considered it a large ask. It slightly troubled her. Lady Arryn shared blood with Rhaenyra and, if Aly recalled correctly, her own status as Lady of the Eyrie had been challenged at least twice by distant relatives. She understood possible hesitance when the realm had been at peace since Jaehaerys ascended the Iron Throne, but Jeyne Arryn should have been a quick ally. One without major conditions.

“She wants a dragonrider sent to the Eyrie to protect the Vale should the greens attack.”

“Oh.”

That was a large stipulation. One that Aly was surprised her brother even agreed to. The only claimed dragons large enough to protect the Vale were Caraxes, Syrax, Meleys, Lyrax, and Vermax. Daemon could not go, nor could their mother or Rhaenys. Which only left herself and Jace. Aly shifted in her seat as she considered it. Jace was the Prince of Dragonstone, so he would not be the one to leave. Aly would.

Discomfort took root within her chest as her mind turned over the prospect. She did not want to be sent away. Not now. Not when she knew things would only get worse. She needed to remain at Dragonstone. She needed to help her mother and her brothers. Jace was too young for what she knew would be asked of him. He could not carry the burden alone.

But he isn’t alone, Aly reminded herself. Baela will be queen one day, and it will be her counsel he seeks.

“I’m thinking of sending Baela,” Jace told her, causing Aly’s brows to rise in surprise. “Moondancer is growing stronger every day.”

Not strong enough to fight off an attack, Aly could not help but think. She did not argue, however, lest her brother think she was attempting to persuade him to send someone else. To send her. It was not her best moment, Aly could admit, but she would rather Baela leave than her.

“She will be safe there,” Jace continued. Perhaps thinking her silence meant disagreement. “It doesn’t make any sense for the greens to attack the Vale, and I want Rhaena and our brothers to go with her. I want them all away from Dragonstone.”

“I agree that is for the best,” Aly said carefully. Dragonstone the castle was safe, just as she had told Cregan, but that did not mean the island would not be targeted. And if a battle was waged and something were to happen, the safest place for the children was away from it all. Baela and Rhaena would look after them.

“I haven’t broached it with Baela yet.”

She will fight you on it. That went without saying, though. Baela was working to strengthen Moondancer so she could participate in battle, not so she could guard the Eyrie. If she fought hard enough her brother would bend, and he would begin to rethink how to honor Jeyne’s request. Mayhaps then the possibility of sending her and Lyrax to the Vale would cross his mind. And then Aly would fight him on it. She needed to remain here. She would be sent off to Winterfell once her mother took the throne, and she refused to leave before that happened. Her mother and Jace needed her. She needed them.

“Mother will have the final say,” Jace said with a hint of uncertainty.

“Of course.”

Her brother let out an audible exhale. “Jeyne Arryn revealed something interesting to me while we discussed her support. Did you know Daemon was married before Laena?”

“To who?” Aly asked.

“Lady Rhea Royce,” Jace answered. “She died before Daemon married Laena, and Jeyne said many in the Vale still hold a grudge against him. She warned me that the Royces may not send as many men as they have at their disposal.”

“A grudge for what?”

“He petitioned to rule over the Royce lands as her widower. Jeyne herself denied him. She made it very clear that she did not like the prospect of Daemon being so close to the throne.”

Aly chewed on her bottom lip as she mulled over her brother’s words. Daemon had been married thrice, the first time to a woman of the Vale. A woman of whom he never spoke. Nor had he ever made mention of the Vale beyond the occasional derisive remark whenever the opportunity presented itself. She need not wonder if it had been a happy marriage. Daemon’s time there still lived on in the minds of the Valemen, though. Jeyne Arryn and the Royces continued to hold animosity towards him. So much so that Jeyne expressed hesitance over his role as counselor.

“He married Laena not long after Jeyne said Rhea died,” Jace told her.

And he married Mother shortly after Laena died. Shortly after Father died. Jace did not say it, but Aly knew what he was getting at. It was still a tender spot that never quite healed between any of them. Neither she nor her brothers nor their cousins had any time to mourn the loss of one parent before they were forced to welcome a new stepparent. Where resentment could have festered instead turned to distant acceptance as the years passed. Aly liked Daemon, but he wasn’t her father. She knew Jace felt the same.

“It is just something to be aware of,” her brother said after a few beats of silence.

Aly nodded. Rhaenyra had an entire council, and she had yet to favor Daemon’s advice over anyone else’s. The Vale would see that in time. Any influence they feared Daemon having would be tempered

“Desmond Manderly said the north could muster several thousand men,” Jace prompted.

“That is what Cregan promised. They are all readying for winter, as I am sure you know. He intends to send the first host soon, comprised of older men, before he leads the second host himself once all the houses have filled their stores for winter.”

“He agreed to the betrothal then? Cregan.”

“I married him,” Aly blurted out. She had kept it from everyone else since her return, and it continued to eat away at her. The secret gnawed and gnawed and gnawed, and she was beginning to feel as if it would cause her to waste away.

Stunned would be an understatement to describe her brother’s expression. His eyes were wide, his brows were raised, and his mouth was agape. In other circumstances his expression, and how long he held it, would have been comical. But Aly did not laugh. She only shifted her shoulders under his scrutiny.

“I haven’t told anyone else.”

“What were you thinking?” His tone did not sound accusatory or judgemental. Merely…confused. Massively so. “You can’t—”

“Cregan asked to make the alliance official. Permanent.”

“And a betrothal wouldn’t have done that?”

“You know it wouldn’t have,” she said quietly. “He wanted security before everything turned upside down. A betrothal can be undone, a marriage can’t.”

He wanted to ensure Mother did not threaten to end the betrothal should she grow unhappy with him.

“How has the news not spread throughout the entire realm? Desmond received no word of his liege lord’s marriage.”

“Cregan’s wife, his first wife, only died a few months ago. He did not want to announce our marriage and risk offending her house.”

“And how long are you planning to keep this a secret from Mother?” Jace asked.

“I…” Aly’s hand moved to rest along the base of her neck. “It’s just never seemed to be a good time to tell her.”

He breathed out a humorless laugh. “The longer you wait the angrier she’ll be.”

“I know,” Aly said sharply. She did not like feeling as if her little brother was chastising her. Questioning her decisions. Aly agreed to the marriage to secure the north’s support and she had done exactly that. She had done as her mother asked.

Jace held up his hands at her tone. “I just want you to be ready for her reaction. It won’t be a pretty sight.”

“I know,” she repeated, her voice losing all its bite.

“What is he like?” he asked after a few moments of silence.

“He is kind,” Aly told him honestly. “He appears a hard man, but he is warm with those for whom he cares.”

He deserves a better wife than me.

“And Winterfell?”

I don’t know if I’ll be happy there.

That had been in the back of her mind ever since she and Lyrax first landed on the edge of the wolfswood. Winterfell was a perfectly fine castle, but it wasn’t along the Blackwater. There was nothing to look at except harsh land. And Cregan…he wasn’t the man to whom her heart belonged. At least not yet. Perhaps he never would be. No matter how hard she tried to harden her heart towards her uncle, the tenderness was still there.

Despite everything, the love was still there.

“Cold,” she answered wryly. Masking her doubt.

Jace did not laugh or roll his eyes or even smirk. Instead he kept his face still while he looked upon hers. Seeing right through her.

“I know marrying him isn’t what you envisioned for your future,” he said softly.

Aly’s posture immediately became defensive again. Her brother had tried to talk to her about her betrothal when they were all in King’s Landing, but Aly quickly put a stop to it. Jace clearly wanted to talk about it now, though. Talk about something which they had never truly discussed - their assumed future as man and wife and then their mother’s hasty change of plans.

“It’s all right,” she told him. Hoping that would be the end of it.

“We both spent nearly our entire lives thinking we’d marry each other. I can only imagine what you…” He trailed off and looked away from her for a few moments. “Can I confess something?”

Her voice barely came out above a whisper when she said, “Yes.”

“I love you, Aly, but I never…I never felt it. And I would with Baela when she would visit, and I would feel so guilty. Even now I feel guilty.”

“Don’t,” she said firmly. “I didn’t want to marry you.” A lie, but not because she felt for him anything beyond that which sisters normally felt for their brothers. She only wanted to marry Jace because her and Aegon’s entire future plans revolved around it.

Plans that did not matter now.

“I love you, too, but…” But the thought of taking you as a lover makes my stomach churn. Has always made my stomach churn. “But only as a sister. You deserve better than that.”

“So do you,” Jace said. “And I hope you come to love Cregan.”

Aly gave him a small smile. She hoped for that too.

“You would have made a good queen,” her brother claimed. “I am sorry that was taken from you.”

She swallowed thickly. “Mother needed to protect your claim.”

The words came out more bitter than she intended. Than she meant. At the time giving up all the plans she had made with Aegon had seemed the greater sacrifice, but her brother’s words caused an unexpected pit to form in the bottom of her stomach.

“When this is all over, we’ll betroth your eldest daughter to my firstborn son.”

Aly slowly nodded. Her son would be given a seat which her mother intended to build, somewhere near the Blackwater at Aly’s insistence, and her daughter would one day become queen. It was a nice thought. A nice future for them.

But she knew all too well that future plans seemed to have a way of not working out the way one hoped.

The setting sun caught the bag of tiles sitting atop her vanity. The rays made the roughly hewn brown cloth appear almost blindingly white in certain spots. Aly wondered if the bag would burn if it remained there long enough.

It will burn soon enough.

“How do you want your hair styled, Aelora?” Harra asked as she smoothed the creases along Aly’s back once she finished fastening all the buttons of her black gown.

“A simple plait will do, thank you.”

Aly’s eyes steadfastly remained on the bag of tiles the entire time her handmaid brushed, sectioned, braided, and tied a ribbon at the bottom of her brown curls. With Luke’s body unable to be recovered, they could not burn him in a funeral pyre or bury him at sea as befitted his Targaryen blood and Velaryon name. So instead they would burn small things that had belonged to him. At least that way there would be something to fill the urn that would be placed in the columbarium.

Her hands shook as she grabbed it, and her chest ached fiercely. Aly steadied her empty hand by resting it along her collarbone with each step she took out of her chambers and down the corridor. Jace already stood at the foot of the main stairway, as did Joffrey, Baela, and Rhaena. Her shoulders tensed and her heart clenched when she saw what each held in their hands: Luke’s favorite doublet, one of the dragon figurines that he used to play with, his Myrish eye, and a thin sea green blanket.

“Grandmother and Grandfather are already there,” Rhaena told her quietly once she descended the last step.

“We’re only waiting for Mother and Daemon,” Jace said.

No sooner had her brother spoken than Rhaenyra and Daemon came down the steps, Daemon tightly holding his wife’s upper arm. Likely to keep her upright. Ever since her eldest son’s return Rhaenyra occasionally ventured out of her rooms, but it was still too much like living with a ghost. Aly hoped that Luke’s funeral would at the very least begin to provide her mother with closure. And perhaps renew her purpose, as all plans for the Iron Throne had been halted in her grief.

The seven of them silently walked out of the castle and towards the same hill in which they had burned Visenya not that long ago. Rhaenys, Corlys, and Grand Maester Gerardys stood there waiting for them near the funeral pyre, all wearing solemn faces. The age lines on all of their faces appeared deeper in their shared anguish. Gerardys held in his hands the torch that would eventually light the wood. With no body to burn, dragonfire was unnecessary - Luke’s belongings would burn to ash with no issue.

One by one everyone silently placed items onto the pyre. Aly’s eyes filled with tears as more and more belongings piled on top of each other. Sorrow and anger gripped her, and she could not help but think that Luke deserved better. He deserved to be laid to rest in the manor of his ancestors, laid to rest with dignity, not digested through Vhagar’s stomach or ripped apart by the rough waters of Shipbreaker Bay. The mere thought made her insides twist.

The sound of crying and sniffles permeated the air as Rhaenyra, supported by her husband, stepped forward, grabbed the lit torch from the Grand Maester, and lit the pyre herself. As they stood there watching Luke’s belongings being swallowed up by the fire, Aly heard Daemon promise quietly to Rhaenyra, “Luke will be avenged.”

Chapter Text

The cavernous room was long and narrow. And dark. Only the moonlight shining through the windows provided Aegon with light as he walked onwards. Seeing nothing but a seemingly never ending corridor. But still he walked. After what felt like hundreds of steps a large featherbed appeared before him, though at a distance. Its headboard and footboard were ornately carved with dragons and wolves. And on the featherbed were a couple fucking, the woman riding the man with enthusiasm.

Dread filled his stomach as his steps brought him ever closer. Once he stood only a few feet from the bed he could see the woman’s back more clearly. And he knew at once it was Aly. He would recognize her long brown curls and firm ass anywhere.

As soon as his mind made the connection she began moaning. Loudly. Aegon’s pulse began to pick up. Stop, he wanted to demand. But he continued to walk onwards.

He kept his eyes glued to her form as he slowly made his way around the bed. He could not see the face of the man she rode so vigorously, as it was covered in shadow. But Aegon could see his body. How tall and muscular he was. How his thick hands pawed at every inch of Aly’s skin.

Aegon clenched his own hands into fists, but he did not look away. How could he? Aly’s expression, the sounds she made, the way her perfect tits bounced in time with her bounces on the other man’s cock. The sounds of their fucking become louder and louder, Aly’s moans and cries, their skin slapping together, and the squelch of her wet cunt were all he could hear.

“Valzȳrys,” she moaned as she threw her head back in pleasure.

Husband.

“Stop,” Aegon whispered, having finally found his voice. He repeated the word several times, each one louder than the last, but Aly only rode Cregan Stark harder and faster. Chanting the word like a prayer.

Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys.

Aegon stepped forward, to force his niece off of Lord Stark, but he stumbled. That was when he jerked awake, his heart still racing in his chest and the traces of fear and distress making his body feel tense. It took him a few moments to take in his surroundings. He was safe in his own rooms. Alone. Aly was not with him. Nor was Cregan Stark.

He had fallen asleep after holding court, hearing so many petitions regarding the sheep tax that was necessary to feed the dragons and fears of the blockade proved tiring. As did his annoyance with his grandfather. After nearly every man spoke Otto turned to walk up the steps to the Iron Throne. To counsel him. Aegon was already tired of it. A fact that he made clear as courteously as possible in front of the court. But his grandfather understood him perfectly, as shown by the tightening of his jaw.

Aegon could admit his patience had been thinner in the two days since Larys claimed that Aly married Cregan at Winterfell. He tired of his grandfather’s attempts at bouldering over him, he snapped at Aemond the few times he said anything at the small council meetings, the servants never moved hastily or neatly enough for him, his friends’ laughter and jests grated on his nerves. Even the twins were not spared. Jaehaerys had accidentally dropped a full inkwell on Aegon’s boots the previous day when the boy joined him to “help” Aegon with matters of the kingdom, and Jaehaera flung her squash from her plate the other night thinking it would mean she wouldn’t have to eat any. Aegon had scolded them both. Too harshly.

Everything weighed on him so heavily. The kingdom. The threat of war. His family’s safety. Aly’s supposed marriage.

Maybe Cregan did not bed her, he half-heartedly tried to convince himself as he poured himself a generous goblet of wine. Hoping the Arbor red would force his newly recurring nightmare out of his mind, if only for a while. He greatly doubted the marriage went unconsummated, though. Aly was the most beautiful woman in the entire realm. Cregan probably leapt at the chance to fuck her. It was a bitter thing to swallow down with his wine, but the sweet liquid at least helped ease the passage.

The thought of them together, of Cregan pawing at her the way he had in Aegon’s dream, made him feel sick. As did the thought of Aly enjoying it.

Aegon gulped down the goblet and poured himself another. And then another.

I love you. More than anyone.

I’ll never love him the way I love you.

But his heart ached fiercely at the possibility that one day she might.

By the time the sun began to set the servants had brought him four more flagons of wine. His mind felt hazy, and his face slightly numb, when his friends arrived at his chambers. Was he expecting them so early? He could not remember.

“Come in,” Aegon said with a wave of his hand. “I’ve not got the cards out.”

“It’s no matter,” Eddard said a bit mutedly, causing Aegon to frown.

“Do you not want to play cards? We can play tiles again.” Aegon swayed a bit as he pointed his finger at them. “Though I can’t promise I won’t win every game.”

That was one good thing about playing tiles with them. He always won. He hardly ever won at tiles when he played against Aly. He could still perfectly recall the proud and slightly cheeky smile that would adorn her face whenever the game ended. The smile that she seemed to only ever give him. The smile that always amused him. The smile that always made blood rush to his cock.

The smile that he would never see again. The smile that Cregan Stark would.

Aegon’s eyes shifted to the half-full flagon of Arbor red sitting on his bedside table, and his entire body itched to take a step towards it.

“We thought we could go out tonight,” Martyn told him. “It’s been so long since you’ve joined us.”

I’ve been occupied by ruling the kingdom, Aegon wanted to snap, but he held his tongue. Getting out of the castle, away from his cold and lifeless chambers, certainly seemed appealing. A chance to push his nightmare out of his mind. A chance for him to forget everything in a way that he couldn’t while within the castle walls. A chance for him to pretend things were as they had been once. Before Aly, even.

“Where did you have in mind?” Aegon asked.

Leon shrugged. “The Pink Lotus should be lively by now.”

That was the place his companions liked because of the serving girls. The ones who apparently dressed in a revealing manner and were more than happy to let the customers look and touch if it meant a few coins. Three years previously Aegon would have jumped at the suggestion of such a thing. Now he only felt apathetic towards it.

Aly has married. She will never want to see me again. She isn’t mine anymore.

Aegon’s chest felt tight as he agreed to Leon’s proposal, which caused all of his friends to grin.

Leaving the castle as king was not much more complicated than when he had just been a prince, though the Kingsguard were now impossible to lose. Before, even when Aegon would not use the secret passageways, he found it easy to get rid of his guard. Now, however, a knight with a pristine white cloak shadowed him any time Aegon placed even a toe past the threshold of his bedchamber. That evening his shadow was Ser Arryk, a good knight who knew when to remain silent and when to remain outside.

The Pink Lotus was certainly more lively than it had been the last time Aegon visited the establishment. Water still leaked from the ceiling and stains still covered the walls, but the patrons numbered so many there were only a few tables available. He immediately spotted the serving girls that his friends held in such high regard. They numbered about ten-and-five, all of them wearing bright dresses that clung to their figures, displayed the top of their tits, and were hemmed above their knees. And every single one of them fluttered around the tables with a smile and a laugh whenever a patron would pinch their bottom.

Their laughter stopped when everyone else’s did - once Aegon made it a few steps into the shabby building. Once everyone noticed him. He did not wear his crown, but over half the city had watched Ser Criston Cole place it atop his head. Before that day he could come and go in Flea Bottom as he pleased. Anyone who recognized him paid him no mind. Who cared if a young prince traversed the city? The king was a different story, though.

So silent had everyone gone that Aegon could hear the leather of his boots creak with each step he took. He swallowed as he walked further into the tavern. He wanted to shift his shoulders, but he kept them as straight as he could. He made sure to keep his eyes focused on the empty table towards which he walked. Aegon could feel everyone else’s eyes upon him, he did not need to see them.

The room remained still while he pulled out one of the wobbly chairs, and he could not help but notice that Leon, Martyn, and Eddard had their chests a bit puffed out as they joined him. At least they were enjoying the notoriety. And Aegon was sure they put it to good use. He heard footsteps coming from behind him, and from the grin on his friends’ faces Aegon knew it was one of the serving girls approaching them.

“What do ya want to drink?” the girl asked once she reached them. She paused for a moment before adding an unsure, “Your Grace.”

Aegon glanced up at the woman. She wore the same revealing style as all the other serving girls. Her low neckline showed off her ample tits, and the dress, which was too large for her, was cinched at the waist with a cord of rope to show off her curves. Her long blonde hair was pulled over one shoulder, though some stray pieces on the other side loosened to frame her face. Her brown eyes were warm but guarded. As was her smile. She was pretty. Aegon would have tried to fuck her once.

“Just a mug of ale,” he told her.

Her face fell slightly before the smile returned to her face. Surprised, perhaps, that he did not seem interested in flirting with her. She would find plenty of that with Martyn, Eddard, and Leon, though. His disinterest did not stop the touches of the serving girls as the night wore on. Nothing too bold. A palm on his shoulder, a brush along his upper back whenever one of the girls would bring another mug of ale. It felt nice, Aegon could admit. The touch of a woman. It wasn’t the same as Aly’s, but feeling the warmth of someone else through his doublet made him realize just how much he had missed being touched.

Touch had always been something he longed for. To be touched and to touch another. To just feel as if he was not alone. To know that there was someone else close to him. The whores in the brothels along the Street of Silk provided that for him once he was old enough to lay with a woman. And then Aly, who showed him the difference between the touch of obligation and the touch of love. Who showed him how it felt to fuck someone who cared for him.

How empty he had felt since her departure from the city.

Aly has married. She will never want to see me again. She isn’t mine anymore.

His recurring nightmare made its way to the fore of his mind. Aly riding Cregan Stark with vigor as she moaned and sighed and cried out in pleasure.

Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys. Husband. Husband. Husband.

Aegon gulped down the rest of his mug of ale. And then another and another and another. The more ale he drank the nicer the serving girls’ touch felt. The more he craved it, enjoyed it. Feeling miserable and lonely and drunk, Aegon did not disagree when Martyn suggested they all go to a brothel. He wanted to pretend again, the way he had before. Pretend that being close to a woman meant he mattered. He smiled when his friends cheered at his seeming agreement, but it was so hollow he did not know why they did not see through him. Perhaps they did not want to. Perhaps they did not know him as well as they pretended.

Aegon led his friends to a place inside of which he had not stepped foot in about two years. The House of Kisses. Mya the brothel owner stood behind the counter just as she had the last time he patronized the place. Her hair, which was longer, held more flecks of grey than it had the last time he had seen her, and her frown lines were a bit deeper than he remembered, but otherwise she looked the same.

Her eyes raised up from her ledger at the sound of the four men making their way towards her. Her brows rose and her mouth went slightly agape for a few moments once she saw Aegon. She quickly recovered, though, and gave him a warm smile.

“Your Grace. I am honored that you have returned to my establishment.” Her eyes politely swept over his companions before returning her focus to Aegon. “And you have brought friends. I am delighted.”

“I want that one,” Aegon heard Martyn whisper behind him, presumably pointing out the whore he wanted to fuck to Leon and Eddard.

Mya continued on as if she had not heard him. “I still remember your preference, Your Grace.”

Whores with long curly brown hair, whom Aegon would only take from behind.

“I have several girls who—”

“No,” Aegon interrupted. “I want something different tonight.”

He didn’t. Not truly.

She isn’t mine anymore.

Aegon hoped whichever whore he chose had a flagon of wine in her room.

Mya’s hazel eyes lit up. “Wonderful, Your Grace. I have several high quality girls that I think you will like.”

“Are not all your girls high quality?” Aegon asked a bit wryly.

“Of course,” Mya said smoothly. “But these are the absolute favorites of my patrons. Unless you want a maiden?”

Aegon shook his head. Maidens in a brothel tended to be girls who had just flowered, and it had been years since that interested him. At Mya’s slight tilt of her head, he followed her down a corridor, muttering a “Pick whichever one you want,” to his friends before leaving them.

Mya led him down a twisting hall until they reached a room in which about ten women lounged on velvet settees. All ten immediately stood in a line upon the pair entering, their backs straight and their smiles lusty. An act, Aegon knew, but one their livelihoods depended upon. The ten looked as if they hailed from all over the known world. Five were Westerosi, one of whom looked Dornish, two had the dark skin common in the Summer Isles, and the remaining three possessed the Valyrian look still found in Lys. Lyseni whores were particularly well-known for their skills, so it did not surprise Aegon that Mya had a few in her employ.

They were all wrong, Aegon realized as he looked at each of them. Studied them. Some were too tall, some too short. Their bodies did not necessarily please him, either - their hips too narrow or too wide, their tits not quite right. The ones with dark hair didn’t have the shade of brown he preferred.

None of them were who he wanted.

Just when Aegon was about to tell Mya that he changed his mind, that he did want a whore with long curly brown hair afterall, his eyes met the last of the ten women in the room. A Lyseni about his age. He didn’t especially like the look of her: silver-gold hair that fell across her shoulders in waves, purple eyes, narrow shoulders and hips. It was her smile that caught his attention. A smile that was slightly cheeky.

“Ferra,” Myra told him once he indicated she was the one he wanted. “An excellent choice.”

“Your Grace,” Ferra said with a dip of her chin when she stood before him. Her accent was still thick, indicating she had not lived in Westeros long.

Without Aegon saying a word, Ferra gently grabbed his wrist. He followed her up a spindly staircase, one that was only accessible from the back of the brothel, and to her chamber. It was larger than that of some of the other whores who worked in the House of Kisses but still quite small. A large featherbed stood in the middle of the room surrounded by a simple but polished headboard. A matching wardrobe stood opposite the bed, next to the entrance, and matching tables were on either side of the bed. To Aegon’s joy and slight relief, a silver flagon and goblets sat atop one of the tables.

“What do you like best, Your Grace?” Ferra asked as he made a beeline to her bedside table.

When Aly rides me. Aegon gripped the flagon tightly and poured until the deep red liquid threatened to spill over the rim of the goblet. He tried his best to avoid it, but the image of his nightmare, of Aly riding Cregan Stark, once more forced itself to the front of his mind. The wine was bitter, so bitter he had to hold back a grimace, but it at least helped wash the nightmare away.

Discomfort snaked its way through his body when the whore, Ferra, gently placed her hand along his back, dropping it when he turned to face her. She was a head shorter than him, forcing her eyes to tilt upwards to meet his gaze. That cheeky smile, the one he liked just a few minutes prior, remained frozen in place. Now though the smile did not seem comforting and familiar but rather haunting.

Not sensing his unease, Ferra lifted her hands once more and placed them atop his shoulders. The smile still on her face, she slid them across and down his arms before placing them on his chest and slowly bringing them down. Her touch felt so…impersonal. He did not like it. Not the way he once did. Not now that he had experienced the warm touch of someone who loved him.

But the body and mind were not always connected, and when she stepped back and removed the flimsy garment she called a dress, blood rushed to his cock. Aegon had not seen a woman naked since Aly. Ferra did not come anywhere close to his niece’s perfection, but she was still pleasing to the eye. And when she brought her hand to his cock, palming him expertly through his trousers, Aegon could not help the sigh that escaped him.

“How does my king wish to take me?” Ferra whispered into his ear before gently, teasingly, biting his earlobe.

“On your hands and knees,” he told her. As pleasing as her body was, Aegon did not wish to look upon her face as he fucked her. Did not wish to see put-upon pleasure, especially not after he had spent so long seeing the real thing.

Ferra nodded and stepped away from him. She gave him a coy smile before moving to her bed, getting into the position he requested as Aegon undressed himself. Once he joined her on the bed and aligned himself with her willing cunt he paused just for a moment before slamming his cock inside of her. She felt good, but not nearly as good as Aly’s tight wet heat. And her moans were not as enchanting, either.

Nothing about her was.

He tightened his grip on her hips as he sped up his thrusts. Eager to come. Eager to leave.

It was not lost on Aegon, as he tried to drown out Ferra’s shrill cries of “Ooohh my king,” that before Aly he would pretend the whores he fucked were her, and now that he was desperate to not think of his niece he still could not get her out of his mind. Could not stop thinking about how much better she felt around his cock, how much better her hips moved against his, how much better her sounds of pleasure sounded to his ears.

He spilled his seed when the memory of Aly’s face contorted in pleasure as she moaned his name and her cunt clenched around him came unbidden to the front of his mind.

“Your Grace?”

Aegon jolted awake and startled again when he saw Armen, the servant who helped him dress in the morning and undress at night, standing over him. He shifted in his chair, the movement causing him to groan. His back and knees felt stiff, a consequence of having fallen asleep in the chair in front of the hearth.

The previous night he left the House of Kisses as soon as he dressed himself, not bothering to wait for Eddard, Martyn, and Leon to finish with their girls, and went straight to his chambers upon returning to the Red Keep. He managed to fall asleep in his bed after helping himself to another flagon of wine, but a nightmare awoke him shortly before the hour of the nightingale. A different nightmare than his recurring one of Aly bouncing on Cregan Stark’s cock. A nightmare of Aly watching him fuck one of the whores at the brothel, hurt written all over her face. Aegon had awakened feeling sick to his stomach. Feeling guilty. And that guilt only raised his ire.

He had to let Aly go. Yet he couldn’t. She had completely, utterly ruined him.

He hoped he ruined her in return. Hoped she unfavorably compared Cregan to him every time Cregan fucked her, just as he would compare every woman to her, perhaps for the rest of his life.

“The small council meeting is in an hour,” Armen told him quietly.

Aegon exhaled a deep sigh before slowly standing. He was in no mood to deal with the small council, nor did he want to hold court later, but duty called. Perhaps it would take his mind off of the disaster of the previous night. Perhaps the distraction would cause his stomach to untwist and his muscles to finally not feel so tense.

After he bathed and Armen helped him into his green silk doublet embroidered with a golden dragon, Aegon made his way to the small council chamber. As always he was the last to arrive. All conversations ceased, and everyone stood, when Sers Willis and Rickard opened the door for him and he stepped into the room. Otto and Tyland had been deep in conversation until his entrance interrupted them, as had Lord Commander Criston Cole and Alicent and Lords Larys and Wylde. Only Grand Maester Orwyle and Aemond sat silently in their seats.

“Your Grace,” Otto greeted him as he moved to sit in the high-backed chair at the head of the long table.

“If I may, Your Grace,” Ser Criston began once Aegon motioned for the meeting to formally begin. “The Kingsguard are down three knights, as you know, and the four remaining are finding it difficult to cover all the required watches for the castle and your family even with the extra help of the City Watch and the household guard.”

“Do you have any suggestions on who to appoint, Lord Commander?”

They needed to be men Aegon could trust with his life, but every time Ser Criston brought up the need to replace the three knights who had turned cloak and pledged fealty to Rhaenyra, Aegon came up blank. And he did not have time to meet with every knight who wished to fill the vacancies.

“Ser Gyles Belgrave would be fitting,” Ser Criston answered. “As would Sers Marston Waters and Robin Massey.”

Belgrave Aegon could agree on. He was the fourth son of the lord of a minor house in the Reach sworn to House Hightower. Ser Gyles was perhaps one-and-thirty at most, and he had lived at court for many years. Aegon also recalled his name being mentioned as one of the first to bend the knee after Otto told the courtiers of Viserys’s death. He was unsure about Waters and Massey, for different reasons. Waters was young, too untried. Any hesitance could risk his life and that of his king. Massey hailed from the crownlands and his cousin Lord Gormon Massey had been at Dragonstone when the Grand Maester arrived. Aegon hoped Robin staying in King’s Landing showed where his loyalties lay, but he could not afford any doubts. Not now.

“You may bestow a white cloak upon Ser Gyles, but I ask that you come up with two others to fill the remaining vacancies.”

Criston dipped his chin. “Your Grace.”

“Ser Marston would be a good addition to the household guard, though,” Aegon told the Lord Commander. “See to it that it is done.”

“Lord Dalton Greyjoy has not returned our ravens,” Otto said before Cole even finished nodding his head, causing Aegon to tense his jaw. “I urge you to extend the position of master of ships to Lord Redwyne. The blockade must end.”

“I am aware of that,” Aegon said. He tried his best to not sound snappish, but his tone still held a note of curtness.

“The taxes on goods are still frozen as you commanded, Your Grace,” Larys supplied, “but those in the city with means are buying as much food as they can for fear of the blockade’s effect on trade. Those without means are finding themselves facing shortages and higher prices.”

Aegon clenched his fists underneath the table. That was exactly what his grandfather said would happen, that traders would raise their prices - some to make up for the lack of supply and others just because they could. The smallfolk were already becoming restless over the blockade and the sheep tax, the lack of food availability could result in a riot.

As much as he felt loath to say it, Aegon directed his grandfather to wait just one more week to hear from Lord Dalton before extending an offer to Lord Redwyne.

“There is still the matter of the treasury, Your Grace,” Tyland said.

Aegon wanted to let out an extended sigh. His master of coin had more or less allowed Aegon the time to think it over, but Otto, and recently Alicent, pushed him more and more to accept Tyland’s proposal of splitting the treasury. We have no idea what the next few moons will bring, his mother told him the previous morning after the end of the small council meeting. Should the worst happen we will know that the royal coffers are safe.

“I still wish for time to think over your proposal, Ser Tyland.”

“Of course.”

“Have we received word from Lady Tyrell or Lord Tully?” Aemond asked quietly.

“No,” Otto said slowly.

“Perhaps Lady Tyrell will fly the king’s banner once Ormund’s host and Daeron and Tessarion arrive at her door, but Lord Tully and the riverlands are essential, as you well know.”

“I am confident Lord Tully will declare for the rightful king,” Otto assured the table. “Give it more time, I am making progress in the riverlands.”

Writing your letters, Aegon thought a bit snidely. He had half a mind to again suggest riding to Riverrun himself on Sunfyre, but he knew what the response would be to that. Vhagar and Aemond were out of the question too. Fears were still too great that Rhaenyra would attack the city.

“Alan Beesbury has sent another letter, Your Grace,” Lord Wylde said after a few moments of silence. “He asks for news of his grandfather once more.”

“Something we will decide how to answer on the morrow,” Aegon told them as he stood, everyone else quickly doing the same. “Lord Larys?”

Larys Strong followed him out of the small council chambers, and Aegon purposefully slowed his steps to allow the Lord of Harrenhal to match his stride.

“You were prudent to freeze the taxes on goods, Your Grace,” Larys flattered.

“Thank you.” At least one person on his small council believed him to be making smart decisions.

“And you are right to wait and see if Lord Greyjoy can be brought onto the small council. The Iron Islands are much fiercer than the Redwyne fleet, which makes them an invaluable ally. I must admit I am surprised the Hand does not see this.”

“He has his reasons for his preference for Lord Redwyne,” Aegon hedged.

Larys simply hummed.

“Have you been investigating the source of the rumor about Princess Aelora?” he asked quietly as they approached the end of the corridor.

“I have, Your Grace. There are a few threads I am still pulling, but I believe I will discover its origins within the fortnight.”

Before Aegon could do more than nod, Larys dipped his chin and turned left, towards the library. Aegon watched him for a few moments before he turned right towards the throne room. His father had not bothered to have a master of whispers, but perhaps Aegon would. He could certainly see the uses for one, especially in a time of war. Or even just rooting out a malicious falsehood. One that the subject of the rumor did not deserve.

He slowed his steps when he saw Helaena, her ladies-in-waiting, and all the children walking towards him. Helaena was listening to something Bethany Mullendore chattered on about, while Margaery Cuy and Jeyne Caron spoke animatedly with large smiles. The Caron boys, Bryen and Ronnel, whom Aegon considered hellions, ran in circles around the women, practically begging to accidentally trip one of them. Bethany’s eldest daughter Jennis held the hands of both Jaehaera and Margaery’s daughter Selyse, neither of them talking in light of Jaehaerys telling them all about some bug he and Jaehaera had found earlier in the garden. Two servants, one holding Maelor and the other holding Martyn Mullendore, brought up the rear.

“Your Grace,” all the ladies said nearly in unison once they reached him. Jennis and Selyse hurriedly did the same; the Caron boys remained silent, but they at least stopped running about so recklessly.

“Father!” Jaehaerys exclaimed, and Jaehaera gave Aegon one of her rare half-smiles.

“Good morning,” Aegon said with a grin as he bent down to be closer to their eye level. “I see the two of you have been in the gardens.” Even if Jaehaerys had not been loudly telling the girls about the creatures to be found there, the dirt on the twins’ front was more than enough to make it obvious.

“Jaehaera found a big caterpillar, and I caught a frog,” Jaehaerys said proudly.

“Did you?”

“Mhm.” Then, as children often did, Jaehaerys abruptly changed the subject. “Can I help you with your letters again?”

“How about instead you come to the small council meeting with me tomorrow?”

Jaehaerys’s entire face lit up, and Aegon smiled at his son’s eager nod. It would be good to begin getting him ready for his own ascension to the throne. When the time came, he would be prepared to rule. Unlike Aegon.

Turning to Jaehaera, he ruffled her hair. “Did you keep the caterpillar?”

His daughter nodded and, after a beat, held out her closed fist and opened it. Sure enough a large green caterpillar wiggled its way across her small palm.

“Grand Maester Orwyle promised a glass container large enough for it,” Helaena told him. “Jaehaera will care for it until it turns into a butterfly.”

Aegon gave Jaehaera one last smile before he stood once more. His sister hid it well, but he could tell she was worried. Her forehead never completely smoothed, she picked at her fingernails whenever she appeared lost in thought, and her smiles never quite reached her eyes. Aegon wanted to tell her that everything would be all right, but the words always seemed to die in his throat.

“I’m going to take them out on Dreamfyre after we eat our midday meal,” she said. “It’s been too long since I’ve flown with them.”

“Can I bring Lolly?” Jaehaera asked quietly, referring to her favorite doll. The one Aly gifted her on her last name day, custom made with silver hair and purple eyes. Aegon tried not to think about how happy Aly looked at Jaehaera’s joy upon seeing the doll for the first time.

“Me first!” Jaehaerys demanded.

“You must practice patience,” Helaena lightly scolded their son before telling Jaehaera that of course she could bring her doll with her.

“Shrykos and Morghul are growing each day,” Aegon told his children, “and soon enough you’ll be able to fly whenever you wish.”

His words buoyed Jaehaerys’s mood, and Aegon chuckled at how quickly his expression morphed from sulking to eager.

“It is time for court, Your Grace,”

Aegon’s shoulders slumped at his grandfather’s voice. Spending hours listening to petty lords complaining about petty issues was the task he dreaded most. His Hand’s insistence on weighing in on nearly every matter did not make things any easier.

“I will see the two of you later this evening,” Aegon promised the twins before marching off towards the throne room.

Court was much the same as it always was. Lords insisted they had been wronged and demanded the king’s justice, and the smallfolk complained about the wealthier kingslanders buying more food than they needed to get ahead of any potential food shortage created by the blockade, which in turn created a food shortage of certain items. Aegon publicly floated the idea of issuing a decree limiting how many items one could buy at any given time, but Otto, of course, pushed back. If the arms of the throne weren’t so sharp, and Aegon did not fear being cut, he would have curled his fingers into the edge of it.

By the time Aegon walked out of the Great Hall his head pounded so loudly he was sure anyone who stood within a few inches of him could hear it. Wine would alleviate the ache, he hoped. When he reached his chambers, he poured himself a large goblet of Arbor red. It did not do anything for his pain, so he poured another.

Aegon drank until well after the sun set, eating his supper alone in his chambers. Eddard, Martyn, and Leon briefly made an appearance to ask him if he wanted to go out to Flea Bottom again, but Aegon declined their offer. He was not ready for a visit to the brothel again. Perhaps one day he would be again, but not tonight. So he spent his evening sitting in the chair in front of the hearth fiddling with the dragon egg ring on his smallest finger. Thinking of the realm. Of his responsibilities. Of Aly.

I will never love him the way I love you.

Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys.

It was only as he was falling asleep that Aegon remembered promising the twins he would see them before they readied for bed. It was no matter. He would see them on the morrow.

Aegon’s eyes bolted open when he heard the rough sound of his name and felt a strong push on his shoulder. He blinked his eyes open once, twice, thrice. His chambers were still dark, and it took him several moments for his sight to adjust. The hearth appeared to have long gone out, and the only light streaming in through the windows was that of the crescent moon. Except for the candelabra that Criston Cole held in his left hand.

The Lord Commander looked uncharacteristically ruffled. His armor was immaculate, but his white cloak sat unevenly upon his shoulders, his hair appeared mussed, and the expression on his face immediately put Aegon on guard.

“There’s been a breach of the castle, Your Grace.”

Aegon sat up straight in his bed, fear making its way through every vein in his body until it settled in his stomach. A breach of the Red Keep was unheard of. Even with the Kingsguard not being at full capacity, the City Watch and the household guard more than made up for it. Every entrance, every hall had at least two watchmen.

“They made their way into the Tower of the Hand,” Cole told him. “We’re not sure how they managed to go unnoticed.”

But Aegon did, he slowly realized. The secret passageways. Bile rose to his throat as he considered how the men who breached the castle knew about them.

“Are my grandfather and mother all right?” Aegon asked, his voice sounding hoarse.

Cole’s hesitation made Aegon feel as if time nearly slowed to a stop.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Your Grace…”

“I command it.”

Cole looked at him for so long, his face so full of compassion, that Aegon froze. Steeling himself for whatever the Lord Commander was about to tell him.

Yet he still was not prepared for what he heard.

“The queen took the children to see their grandmother right before bed, as she always does. When Queen Helaena arrived…the men were already in Queen Alicent’s chambers. They…Jaehaerys is dead, Your Grace.”

“What?” he asked as tears welled in his eyes. Refusing to believe what he was hearing.

“I’m sorry, Aegon. We’re—”

“You’re mistaken,” he interrupted desperately. “He isn’t... He’s not.”

“I’m sorry,” Cole repeated.

Aegon’s voice cracked when he again commanded Ser Criston to tell him what had happened.

“I don’t think you want the details.”

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t have asked,” Aegon snapped.

Ser Criston swallowed before he hesitantly shared the details. Details that made Aegon regret asking. Details that would live in his head for the remainder of his life. His mother restrained, his sister threatened with rape, Jaehaerys having his throat cut right in front of Alicent, Helaena, Jaehaera, and baby Maelor. And all the while Aegon kept repeating “no” over and over again, attempting to drown out Cole’s story, as his back hunched over and his sobs shook his entire body.

I will see the two of you later this evening.

But now he would never see his eldest son again. Jaehaerys. Sweet, perfect Jaehaerys. The boy who was loud to make up for his twin sister’s quietness. The boy who ran to him in the corridors whenever his eyes landed on him. The boy who loved his dragon. The boy Aegon had held the day he was born.

The Valyrians believed babes born with extra appendages are blessed by the gods.

But the gods, if they even existed, had abandoned him. Left him. Laughed at him.

“Where were my mother’s guards?” Aegon spat out, ignoring his still-blurry vision and the snot dripping down his nose. “Where were you? Her sworn shield?”

“The men were all stationed outside your mother’s apartments. They.. they claim they never heard a sound to make them think anything was awry until Queen Helaena… until the queen bolted out of the apartments.”

Aegon’s blood began to boil. “Am I expected to believe that my son did not make a single sound while he was being butchered?”

At Cole’s lack of answer, Aegon shot up from the bed and stood toe to toe with the Lord Commander. His eyes and voice hard, Aegon grit out, “And you? Where were you?”

Cole’s expression turned to one of regret. “I was off duty, Your Grace.”

“Off duty,” Aegon repeated incredulously as he turned around towards his bedside table. “Off duty?” he said again, flinging the empty goblet to the ground. “I want every guard who stood outside my mother’s apartments taken to the dungeons. Immediately.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“And the assailants?” he asked. “Who were they?”

“We are still looking for them, Your Grace. You must remain here until we find them.”

“Or you are sure they have escaped,” he hissed.

“I will return once we know the castle is safe.”

Aegon waved him away, eager for solitude. Looking out into the night, his fury and sorrow and grief festered. His heart felt hollow as he thought of his son. Of how his last moments had been spent in fear and pain, the last sounds he heard were his mother screaming out and pleading for his life. Did he cry out for his father to save him? Was his last thought the realization that no one would?

He clenched his hands into fists, hot tears falling down his face, as he envisioned that proud smirk Rhaenyra always wore whenever she got her way, the one he was sure she would wear once she heard of Jaehaerys’s death.

The one he himself would wipe off her face when he killed her.

Chapter Text

You need to tell her. The longer you wait the angrier she will become.

That had become Jace’s refrain over the past several days. Whether it was in the library, in the corridor, in the Dragonmont, or in her chambers, her brother made sure to take at least one opportunity each day to push her to tell their mother of her marriage to Cregan.

“It’s not the right time,” she told him for perhaps the hundredth time. The pair sat in her chambers, having just finished their midday meal of roasted chicken, sweetgrass salad, and green beans. Aly spent the entire hour wondering when he would bring it up.

“But will it ever be the right time?”

“She is still mourning two children,” Aly began before her brother interrupted her.

“We are all still mourning Luke and Visenya. That does not change the fact that telling her now is better than waiting until the northmen are on the steps of the Red Keep.”

“Why do you keep pushing so hard?” Aly could not help but ask, her tone possessing a hard edge. “The northmen support her claim. Is that not all that matters?”

Jace’s face remained calm despite her tone. “You married without her leave. You say no one else knows, but things have a way of spreading throughout the realm. It is better that you tell her before the news makes its way to her ear. She will feel the fool if she discovers from someone else that you have been married for however many moons.”

Aly tutted but did not respond. Her brother was right. Her mother would be furious to hear that Aly married without her express permission. She knew it in Winterfell, and she knew it now.

“I will tell her,” Aly assured, her stomach twisting as she said it.

A knock upon her door forcibly ended their conversation. Thankfully. Upon her call of “Enter,” Ser Robert Quince with his ever-present smile poked his head into her chambers.

“Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys have arrived on Meleys, Your Graces.”

Now that the immediate fear of the royal fleet attempting to attack Dragonstone had wavered, Lord Corlys began turning his attention to how the Velaryon fleet could be of use once the Manderly fleet replaced his warships in the blockade. Turning his attention towards the future course of the war and, as such, he and Rhaenys periodically made trips to Dragonstone.

“Thank you, Ser Robert.”

Baela and Rhaena beat Aly and Jace to the entry hall to greet their grandparents. Corlys had made a complete recovery from his wound in the Stepstones, though going straight from one war into another made him appear more tense than he had in Aly’s youth. Her grandmother was much the same, the grey streaks in her hair having become more numerous since Luke’s death and the lines on her face deeper.

“Moondancer grows stronger every day,” Baela was telling Rhaenys when Aly and Jace reached the top of the main stairwell. “I suspect she would be able to fly from here to Sharp Point without issue.”

Aly furrowed her brows at her cousin’s boast. She was more or less asking their grandmother to help patrol the Gullet. Baela’s desire to do more than sit around or fly around the island was growing nearly as fast as her dragon, and Aly knew the longer her brother waited to tell her of his intention to send her to the Vale the more she would fight him. But that was Jace’s burden to bear. At least for now.

“That’s wonderful,” Rhaenys responded slightly evasively. Gently turning down Baela’s request.

“There you two are,” Corlys greeted once he spotted Aly and Jace descending the steps. He wrapped his arms around her when she reached him. “How are you?”

“I am all right,” she told him softly.

He knew she was lying. Aly could tell by the slightly skeptical way he looked at her once they ended their embrace. He did not push, however. Her brother’s death, her mother’s state of mind, and the war weighed so heavily upon her. But it weighed upon everyone, and Aly’s grief and sorrow were no greater than anyone else’s.

“We will not intrude upon you for long,” Rhaenys promised as she brought Aly into her own embrace. “We wanted to see your mother. We have heard some rumblings regarding the Stepstones.”

“Oh?” Aly asked in concern.

“Nothing to worry about,” Corlys assured her. “Racallio Ryndoon has returned to Lys, is all.”

Her brows furrowed even deeper. Racallio Ryndoon, the man who claimed the title of King of the Narrow Sea before his defeat at the hands of Corlys and the Velaryon fleet, leaving the Stepstones did not seem a matter requiring much discussion. Unless there were fears he would convince the Triarchy to attempt to seize control of the Stepstones with the impending chaos of Westeros.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Corlys repeated.

Aly smoothed her face. Not wanting to add to her grandfather’s troubles. But her mind still turned over the little piece of news that had been shared with her. Perhaps the Stepstones were a matter for another day, but it sounded possible that, once her mother sat the Iron Throne, she would need to turn her attention to the Stepstones and the Triarchy immediately.

“My mother is in her solar,” Aly said. “I will walk you.”

As the three of them made their way to Sea Dragon Tower, chatting idly, Aly wistfully watched her grandparents out of the corner of her eye. Watching the way their shoulders bumped into one another as they walked, the way their thumbs caressed their intertwined fingers, the love and respect in their eyes.

It made her think of Aegon.

Aly felt foolish as a lump began forming in her throat. One she could not swallow down.

She went straight to her chambers after seeing her grandparents to her mother’s solar, suddenly feeling the need to be alone. She did not know why the sight of her grandparents had set her off so, but it had. That always seemed to be the way of things - the smallest reminders invited the hand of grief to wrap so tightly around one’s throat. Sometimes it was over Luke, such as whenever she would see something in the library or solar that he had frequently used. Other times it was Helaena, her beloved aunt that Aly did not know if she would ever see again.

And other times it was Aegon. The man who had torn her heart in two. The man she wished she could hate, if only to replace the love she still felt for him despite everything.

As if in a daze she walked over to her vanity and opened the same drawer that she did nearly every day. Her mermaid pendant sat atop a pile of resealed letters, as did a diamond and amethyst bracelet that had recently joined the necklace. Another gift from Aegon. One that she did not wear frequently and had not thought about until one day the previous week when Harra brought it out of the wooden box in which she kept her bracelets and asked if she wanted to wear it. One that she had hastily, and roughly, grabbed from her handmaid’s clutches and told her she did not wish to wear it.

Her nerves flared and her throat felt thick as Aly reached into the drawer and grabbed one of the letters at random. The bittersweet memories of receiving letters when she returned to Dragonstone for a moon, of how happy she always felt upon seeing her uncle’s cramped handwriting, flooded through her. She carefully tore the seal and, for the first time in months, looked upon her uncle’s words of devotion.

While his explicit claims of how he kept her in his thoughts while she was away had once made her face warm and wetness pool between her thighs, now it only made tears form in her eyes. As did the words which she had permanently written into her memory.

I miss you terribly.

I find myself unsure how to occupy my time without you.

I cannot wait to see your smile again.

I love you.

Unable to read any more, Aly folded the letter again and placed it back into the small drawer in her vanity. She hunched over and, covering her eyes with her hands, began to sob.

Aly’s pulse thudded in her ears as she made her way to Sea Dragon Tower, each step feeling as if she was making her way through ankle-deep mud. Her stomach twisted and knotted when she crossed the long gallery and then flew up to her throat once she turned the corner into the corridor in which her mother’s solar was located. Unbidden, she found herself thinking of Aegon. Again. Of the way he always managed to put her mind at ease whenever her anxiety threatened to overtake her. She wished she still had someone to do that for her. Wished she still had him to do that for her.

The quiet laughter that she heard once she stood in front of the large oaken door did little to soothe her, for she knew that in time she would kill any laughter that still remained on her mother’s lips. She gave a small, forced smile to Ser Steffon, the Lord Commander of the Queensguard, before telling him that she wished to see her mother. Aly wanted to cringe at the sound of her voice - it sounded timid even to her own ears. Ser Steffon nodded before entering the solar to announce her presence. Aly’s shoulders tensed when she heard her mother’s clear “Of course” through the door. She did her best to straighten them once Ser Steffon opened the door, bracing herself as she walked past the threshold.

It was clear as soon as she stepped inside that the laughter she heard came from her mother’s ladies-in-waiting, Elinda Massey and Maia Buckwell, rather than Rhaenyra. All three women sat upon the black velvet settee, its red cushions appearing dull due to the lack of sun shining into the room. Aly knew a storm would roll in before the day was over. Only Elinda and Maia appeared in particularly good spirits. While her grief no longer completely overpowered her, it was clear from Rhaenyra’s melancholy expression that she was still on the path to healing. Healing as much as one could after losing two children in such quick succession.

“My love,” her mother greeted quietly. Rhaenyra gave her a soft smile, though it did not reach her eyes.

With a tilt of her mother’s head Elinda and Maia gathered their embroidery and left the solar. Aly watched them leave, wishing her mother had not sent them away so quickly upon her entrance. At least then she could have delayed the inevitable conversation by engaging in polite courtesies. Though with everything that had happened those were becoming more and more muted. Elinda’s brother Lord Gormon was at Stonedance gathering his host, as was Maia’s father Lord Buckwell at Antlers. Men they loved were preparing to fight, and die, for their queen. Aly knew well that that made one uneager to discuss comparatively trivial matters.

After the door clicked shut Aly joined her mother on the settee, and Rhaenyra reached out and grabbed her hand.

“Grand Maester Gerardys came by earlier, and we went over the ledgers,” her mother told her. “Thank you for taking care of that for me while I…while I was unable.”

“Of course,” Aly said.

Her mother gave her a grateful smile. “I have always been able to count on you, Aly. I hope you know that I consider myself lucky.” Rhaenyra’s smile turned slightly wry. “Some are burdened with insolent daughters.”

Aly forced a chuckle, one which she thought sounded incredibly false. Her mother did not seem to think so, however, as her expression did not change. Aly’s fingers itched to reach up towards her collarbone, but she forced them to remain at her side. She instead bunched up the fabric of her gown between the fingers of the hand in which her mother did not hold. Needing to do something to keep her steady.

“I am glad that you are coming back to yourself,” she said honestly.

“I need to focus on retaking the throne. I will not allow Luke or Visenya’s deaths to be in vain.”

Aly was unsure how to respond beyond squeezing her mother’s hand.

“Daemon intends to fly to Harrenhal in the coming days,” her mother told her. “Once he secures the support of the riverlands my armies will gather there before marching on towards King’s Landing.”

“As soon as he does I will send word to Lord Stark.”

Rhaenyra gave an unimpressed hum. “Lord Stark with the second northern host,” she muttered.

“The first host numbers two thousand men,” Aly reminded her mother.

“That is barely a fraction of the northern strength.”

“Winter is coming, and the houses and smallfolk need to prepare. Daemon did not seem to think the number lacking.”

Rhaenyra breathed out a laugh. “Daemon thinks he could beat the entire realm single-handedly.” Her face returned to its previously serious expression. “I would have thought your betrothal to Cregan would have hastened his plans.”

Aly shifted under her mother’s gaze. Her mouth suddenly felt dry, her palms began to perspire, and she could hear her heart hammering within her chest. This was the moment.

“I suppose it’s no—”

“I married Cregan at Winterfell,” Aly blurted out.

Rhaenyra’s mouth froze, open, though no words came out of it. Slowly her lips came back together, as did her brows. The pair stared at one another for several moments. Silently. The tension in the air grew so thick Aly felt confident she could cut it with a blade.

“I’m sorry?” Rhaenyra asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Aly swallowed. “I married Cregan Stark before I left Winterfell. To seal the alliance.”

“Your betrothal sealed the alliance.”

“My marriage sealed the alliance.”

The words acted as a shield as Aly watched her mother’s eyes grow and her jaw tighten. She had always been afraid of her mother’s ire as a child, so much so that Aly rarely did anything to seriously earn it. And the entire time since her return from Winterfell she had avoided relaying the news to her mother to avoid her wrath. But seeing it now, after saying aloud that she secured the support of the entire north through her marriage, only made Aly more sure of her decision. And instead of curling away like she would have done as a child, like she would have expected herself to do just mere moments previously, Aly straightened her spine as she watched her mother process it all.

“I only gave leave for a betrothal,” Rhaenyra reminded her firmly. “I am your mother, but I am also your queen. You ignored my express wishes.”

“I didn’t,” Aly insisted. “You wished to garner Lord Stark’s support, which is exactly what I did.”

Rhaenyra dropped her hold on Aly’s hand and crossed her arms over her chest. “And he would have supported Aegon otherwise?” she asked in slight disbelief.

“He would have remained in the north with all of his men.”

Her mother scoffed.

“What difference does it make?” Aly’s tone came out more exasperated than she intended. “Cregan asked for the marriage—”

“Did he? I’m sure he’s quite pleased to have a princess for a wife without having to lift a finger.”

“He asked for the marriage for precisely this reason,” Aly snapped. “You are only angry because it means you cannot lord the betrothal over him during the entire war. You cannot use me as leverage just as you have always planned to use me.”

Aly wasn’t quite sure where the words were coming from. Perhaps it was all the built up anger ever since she had been told of the betrothal in the first place. Her mother shattered her entire perceived future with Aegon on Dragonstone with her plans to marry her to Cregan and now her mother was furious that she had married Cregan.

And as surprised as Aly felt over the words that tumbled out of her mouth, Rhaenyra was equally surprised. Aly could see it written all over her face. For nearly Aly’s entire life she had never snapped or spoken to her mother the way she was now. Had always bit her tongue whenever the pair disagreed.

You never push back about anything.

But Aly was now.

“I never—”

“That’s why you never betrothed me to Jace, isn’t it? Even after all those years. Even after all the time you spent pushing us towards one another. You still wanted to be able to marry me off if you needed to protect yourself. It didn’t matter to you what I wanted. It never has.”

“That is not true.”

“Yes, it is!” Aly’s voice was shrill now, but she did not care. “You’ve never asked me what I wanted. And you didn’t care about my plans when you told me you intended to betroth me to Cregan so you could betroth Jace and Baela. You didn’t care that I wanted—that I planned to live on Dragonstone.”

You didn’t care that I wanted to be with Aegon. That was what she had almost said, almost confessed, but Aly caught herself before the words left her.

“You didn’t care that you were sending me off to the north hundreds of leagues away to marry a man who already has a son and heir.”

Angry tears pooled in her eyes, but Aly ignored them. She had wanted to rage and scream that evening in King’s Landing when her mother first told her of her plans to betroth her to Cregan, but she hadn’t. And she had fought with Aegon about it soon afterwards, telling him that her doing so would not have changed anything. She still believed that, but it felt so good for the words to finally make the journey from her mind to her lips to her mother’s ears. To lighten the knot in her stomach that had festered for months. For years.

“I wanted you to marry Jace. More than anything. But I feared the day would come that I needed to protect you. To protect all of you.”

“And I’m the only one who was ever asked to sacrifice for it!”

The silence dragged on as her mother did naught but look at her. It was nearly deafening. But what could her mother have said?

“Be as angry as you wish with me over my marriage to Cregan, but it is the sole reason his men are going to march south to fight for your throne.”

The fire in her mother’s eyes grew brighter, though she remained silent. Perhaps still too shocked to say much of anything.

“I wanted you to hear of my marriage from me,” Aly told her, taking care to soften her tone. “It isn’t…none of the northern lords know of it.”

“I am relieved to know that I am not the last to hear of my own daughter’s marriage,” Rhaenyra said sardonically before letting out a humorless laugh. “I was worried you would dislike him, though I suppose I needn’t have been.”

He is not the man I would have chosen to spend my life with. He is not the man I did choose.

Her mother’s mouth opened, but whatever she planned to say was stopped by the sound of a sharp knock upon her door.

“Enter,” she called brusquely.

Ser Steffon stepped through the doorway, his face its usual blank mask. Not giving away that he had heard every word Aly and Rhaenyra exchanged.

“Forgive me, my queen, but Prince Daemon asks for your presence in the Chamber of the Painted Table.” He quickly glanced at Aly before continuing, “Everyone’s presence, Your Grace.”

“Very well.”

Rhaenyra stepped out towards the corridor behind Ser Steffon, leaving Aly to follow her mother with a quiet sigh. The air was still tense between the two women as they journeyed up to the top floor of the Stone Drum. Aly knew that their conversation would undoubtedly continue another time, though once her mother had time to process the news fully she feared her mother’s bite would not be so tampered by her shock. Aly had found bravery in her mother’s solar, sitting tall as she defended her choice to marry Cregan at Winterfell and blurting out old hurts she had attempted to bury, but she did not know if she would find it again.

The sky opened over the island just before they stepped into the Chamber of the Painted Table, the rain coming down so heavy and loud that it drowned out the sound of their steps. Aly and Rhaenyra were the last to arrive, everyone already standing around the table upon their entrance. Daemon’s expression was subtle, but Aly could tell that something had happened. Something he was quite pleased about. Grand Maester Gerardys, however, looked concerned. The contrast immediately set Aly on edge as she moved to stand next to the older man near where the Neck was marked on the map that made up the long, wooden table. Daemon may have been happy, but the news contained within the tightly rolled up piece of parchment the Grand Maester held in his hand was clearly grave. And grave news often brought trouble.

Aly quickly glanced around the table as her mother settled into the high seat. Her grandparents looked anxious, and Jace, Baela, and Rhaena appeared hesitantly curious, no doubt wondering the reason for their all being called. The three knights of the Queensguard all wore the same mask of disinterest that Ser Steffon did, a mask they had all perfected in their years of service to King Viserys. A mask that gave absolutely nothing away.

At Daemon’s encouraging nod, Grand Maester Gerardys began to speak. “I received a raven this morning from King’s Landing, Your Grace.”

“King’s Landing?” Jace asked in surprise.

Aly’s brows furrowed as she tried to anticipate what the Grand Maester was going to tell them. A raven from King’s Landing, news that troubled the Grand Maester but pleased Daemon…

“The boy is dead,” Daemon said, unwilling to wait for the Grand Maester to relay the news. “The usurper’s eldest son.”

The entire room went still in shock. The only noise to be heard was the rain and the loud crackling of the brazier underneath the Painted Table. And a ringing in Aly’s ears as she turned, on instinct, to the carving on the map, the one added after the Conquest, designating the location of King’s Landing.

“A son for a son,” her stepfather continued. Making it clear he claimed credit for the death.

"Aegon's child has been killed?" Corlys asked. His anxious expression morphed into one of horror, an expression mirrored around the table.

Daemon nodded before saying more, probably boasting of the genius of the plan he had set into motion, but Aly could barely hear him. So loud was the competition between the ringing in her ears and her heart thumping in her chest so quickly it felt as if she could barely catch her breath.

The boy is dead. The usurper’s eldest son.

Jaehaerys.

Her young cousin who was always so quick with his smiles and giggles. Who always laughed with glee whenever she would pretend her fingers were a spider crawling up his arm. Who called her Lala because he could not properly pronounce Aelora. Who schemed with his twin sister to avoid taking a nap if it interrupted their play.

The babe she had held in her arms the day he was born after holding Helaena’s hand while he came into the world.

Unable to remain still, Aly reached out and swept every piece in the shape of the sigils of the houses in the riverlands that sat atop the Painted Table onto the floor. The sound of the onyx pieces hitting the stone echoed throughout the chamber, and everyone turned to look at her in surprise at her sudden outburst. But Aly only looked at Daemon, who seemed equal parts taken aback and peeved by the interruption.

“Aemond killed Luke,” she said.

Aly was struck by how strange her voice sounded. How raw it came out. But that was nothing compared to how raw she felt. Her hands shook alongside her thigh from her rage and grief, and her face felt so hot she thought the temperature of her skin would rival that of her dragon.

If Daemon hadn’t stood so far away she would have lunged at him across the table. His fingers stretched towards the pommel of Dark Sister. A reflex, perhaps, as he knew she was no true threat to him, but one that told her that her visage matched the fierce storm she felt roiling within her.

“Aemond killed Luke,” Aly repeated. “Not—” She swallowed in an attempt to prevent the quickly gathering tears in her eyes from falling. “Not Helaena’s son.”

Not Aegon’s son.

“The greens needed to pay for what they did,” Daemon told her. His voice so nonchalant it only stoked Aly’s ire further.

“Aemond needed to pay,” she shot back. Yelling. “Jaehaerys was a child who still slept in the nursery.”

“Luke was a child, too,” her stepfather reminded her.

A son for a son. A child for a child. Two innocents.

Aly turned to her mother in a fury. Her mother who had not said a single word about her husband’s deeds. “Is this how you intend to gain the throne? By stepping over the corpses of dead babes?”

She was beginning to sound hysterical, but Aly did not care. A boy not even old enough to know his letters had been killed. An innocent paying for the crimes of his father and uncle. It was unconscionable. It was craven. It was wicked.

She returned her attention to her stepfather at her mother’s lack of answer. “Killing a child makes you look craven.”

Daemon’s eyes flared, his fingers stretched towards his sword once more, and his jaw tightened at her insult. She did not think anyone had ever dared to call Daemon Targaryen a coward, but what else could one call a warrior who targeted a child rather than his adult nephew? A nephew known for his own skills with a sword.

“That’s enough,” Rhaenyra said. Finally speaking up. Even if it was not what Aly wanted to hear.

“Do you not understand how this makes you look?” she asked her mother in desperation.

“I do understand,” her mother said firmly. Giving her a look of warning.

Aly’s jaw tightened. Had her mother known what Daemon planned to do? And he had planned it. All that time he spent locked in his study writing letters back and forth, he was writing to whichever monstrous contact he had in the capital. Making dark deals and promises to cowards willing to murder a child.

Aly did not know which was worse: her mother knowing or not knowing of Daemon’s intentions before he took action. If her mother did know, she sanctioned the killing of a babe. An innocent. Doing to Helaena what Aemond had done to her. If her mother did not know…she still refused to speak out against Daemon. She couldn’t. She could not allow everyone, even just her family, to think her husband moved without her leave.

Either way it all meant her mother would not publicly condemn Daemon’s deed.

“I see.”

Unable to remain in the chamber any longer, Aly turned on her heel and left the chamber. She managed to make it all the way to her rooms before she broke down. The tears that had been gathering in her eyes finally streamed down her cheeks nearly as soon as she slammed the door. She crouched down onto the floor, her grief bearing down on her too strongly to allow her to move as she sobbed. And sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

Memories of her cousin flooded her. Of his sweetness, his humor. And inevitably Helaena and Aegon made their way to the front of her mind. How much Jaehaerys had loved his parents. How much they had loved him. How, even though he had been conceived out of duty, he was a bright spot in the lives of both his parents.

Aly wanted to avenge Luke as well. Her brother whom she loved. But not like this. Not by killing another child.

If this was the price her mother had to pay to sit the Iron Throne—losing two children and being the reason behind the deaths of other children—Aly did not know if it was worth it.

A dragon’s roar sounded in her ears. One that sounded almost quaint in comparison to the bone-rattling roars of fully mature dragons. Baela was riding Moondancer around the island, Aly knew as soon as she heard it. And the deeper roar that sounded soon afterwards told her that Jace and Vermax were flying with her. Perhaps they were racing one another, Baela wanting to show off to her betrothed how much stronger Moondancer had become. Aly could almost perfectly envision the different shades of green of their dragons: the light green of Moondancer and the olive green of Vermax. How lush they must have looked flying next to one another as the morning sun beat down on them, scales shining.

Aly did not see them from her window, as she was still abed. She felt terrible, though no worse than she had the past few days. Her eyes were sore from her tears, her heart felt heavy, her stomach felt twisted, and all of her muscles felt fatigued. The only comfort she found was the pillow she clung to. Clinging to it for consolation like she once did her uncle.

She had not been able to stop thinking of Aegon and Helaena since hearing of Jaehaerys’s death. Wondering how they were doing. Thinking of the misery and grief surrounding them at any given moment, choking them from within. Helaena tended to keep her emotions close to her, and Aly feared her aunt would draw inward in her sorrow. Aegon, by contrast, wore his emotions practically outside his body. She imagined her uncle raging and drinking and crying. Cursing her mother. Vowing revenge just as her mother and stepfather had after Luke’s death.

Aly desperately wished none of it had happened. Wished she could reverse time and prevent her uncle from stealing her mother’s crown. Prevent Luke’s death. Prevent Jaehaerys’s death. If only she knew what was to come that morning she left King’s Landing for the final time. Gods, she would give anything to change it all.

But she couldn’t. Blood had been spilled and there was no going back.

The door opened, but Aly made no move to greet her visitor. She knew it was her handmaid Harra from the sound of her gait. And her humming. Anger flashed up her spine at the jolly tune, and Aly clenched her jaw. She remained silent, however, hoping her handmaid would just go away. Her hopes were quickly dashed, however, when the woman moved to stand right in front of her featherbed.

“The servants will be here with hot water soon,” Harra told her. Urging her to leave her bed.

Aly did so with a heavy sigh. Washing away her night full of sorrow certainly held an irresistible appeal.

After bathing, a bath in which she scrubbed herself raw in her grief and anger, and dressing into a black gown, Aly made her way to the little-used castle sept. As soon as she stepped inside the dark chamber Aly knew that the septon who resided in the village had presented an offering to the gods not that long ago. The potent scent of cinnamon and lemon incense wafted over her, proof that the thurible had been burned within the past half hour. It was the scent of comfort and contentment. It was not quite as strong as the clove, sandalwood, and ginger incense that the septons preferred in the sept in the Red Keep, but it had still provided Aly with comfort after the death of Visenya and then again after the death of Luke.

Her eyes needed a few moments to adjust. The rainbow of light that streamed through the small stained glass windows on each of the seven sides of the building was rather faint, the slope of the mountain blocking out the rays that would have otherwise allowed the colors to shine brilliantly. The candles did little to make up for the lack of natural light, as only a few of the candles circling the seven altars boasted any flickering of light.

Aly walked up to the simple stone altar of the Stranger and knelt before it. The hooded figure, carved from the mast of one of the ships that brought the first Targaryens to Dragonstone, looked down upon her as she grabbed a wooden splint, placed it over the metal tinderbox, and then transferred the flame to one of the many unlit candles at the Stranger’s altar. Making an offering to the face of death.

Thank you for leading Luke and Visenya on their respective crossings. I ask now that you protect Jaehaerys as you guide him to the seven heavens. He is young and needs someone to care for him on his journey.

She remained kneeling for several moments before she stood and then repeated the offering of candlelight to the Mother, the face of the Seven with the kind expression and eyes full of love. Her altar boasted the second-most lit candles after the Father, sparse though it was, as well as small trinkets such as dried flowers and colorful stones. Gifts of thanks and appreciation.

Aly more or less repeated the same informal prayer she had made to the Mother one of the days she managed to visit the sept shortly after Luke’s death. The prayer she had made on behalf of her own mother and now made on behalf of her aunt and uncle.

Watch over Helaena and Aegon as they navigate the loss of their son. Do not allow their grief to overtake them, to turn them into creatures of anger and bitterness and hollowness. They still have two children that they love fiercely, two children who still need them.

Next was the Father, the bearded man with the stern face. The one who judged and protected all. Aly bitterly thought that the latter was not true as she lit one of the candles at his altar. It couldn’t be, as if he truly protected all then both Luke and Jaehaerys would still be alive. As would Visenya.

I ask for justice for both Luke and Jaehaerys. Their deaths were dishonorable, and those responsible should be paid back tenfold. However you deem appropriate.

The matter was in his hands now. If he so deigned to respond.

Aly slowly stood. She winced slightly, her knees throbbing from the pressure of the hard stone floor. Her prayers now completed, she turned to leave the sept. Until one of the other statues caught her eye. The Smith. The mender of broken things.

Was that not what she was?

She crept closer to his altar. His wooden face tilted downwards towards the hammer he held. Just like the other faces of the Seven in the sept, his statue and altar was not nearly as ornate as in the Red Keep. His hammer was not covered in a light coating of gold, and his eyes were not glittering gemstones. But the sight of him still put her slightly at ease.

Her prayer to him was clunky. Unsure. She asked him to make everything right. To fix what had been broken. But that was too large of an ask, Aly knew even as she asked it. Not even the gods could mend what had already frayed.

Unsatisfied, she stood once more with a huff. Perhaps she would return another day. Hopefully with a better prayer.

Her steps slowed to a halt in the corridor leading back into the Stone Drum. Daemon walked towards her wearing his polished armor, his dragon-shaped helm in hand. A clear sign that he was leaving for the riverlands. She would not be sorry to see the back of him.

Daemon had sought his revenge on a child who had not even seen his third name day rather than the man who had murdered Luke. Because a babe was easier to kill than a man grown, and the death of his child, and the trauma to his wife, served as a more brutal blow to Aegon.

Aly had managed to avoid him ever since learning of Jaehaerys’s death, refusing to join her family for supper in the Great Hall and not venturing anywhere near the usual places he spent time such as his study and the armory. She had hoped to avoid him until he left the castle, but fate seemed to not look that kindly upon her.

“I am leaving for Harrenhal,” he told her unnecessarily as he walked towards her. “So you may join everyone else for your meals now.”

His flippant tone rankled her. “I am not in the habit of sharing meals with men who order the death of a child,” she said.

“Just those who attack them on dragonback.”

She clenched her hand into a fist at his reference to Aemond. At the time she had spent in the Red Keep with her aunt and uncles, with Alicent and Otto. Throwing the love she had once held for them, the love she still felt for some of them, back into her face.

“Jaehaerys was just a babe—”

“As you have mentioned several times to your mother and brother.”

Aly may have avoided Daemon, but she did not avoid the rest of her family. And every time she spoke with one of them she brought up what Daemon had done. What Daemon did was not right. It is shameful. Those were the exact words Jace, her mother, Lord Corlys, and Rhaenys said to her. But, to her ire, they never spoke against him more strongly than that. At least not to her.

“What you did was dishonorable.”

A look of sympathy flashed across Daemon’s face so quickly Aly did not know if she had only imagined it.

“Wars are not won by fighting honorably,” he said softly. “It’s best you learn that now.”

With a final nod her stepfather continued on past her and towards the Dragonmont. Aly watched him go, his departing words to her replaying in her mind.

Chapter Text

The pale blue and pink hues of the sky reflected off of the Blackwater as the sun slowly began to rise. It gave the city an appearance of tranquility that Aegon knew it did not deserve. His son had been brutally murdered mere hours ago inside the walls in which he should have felt safest, yet the capital saw the dawn of a new day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened overnight. As if the heir to the Iron Throne had not been butchered in his grandmother’s apartments, his throat cut so deeply his head was nearly removed from his neck.

Aegon had spent all night in his chambers, just as Criston directed, alternating between drinking and raging and crying. Now he felt nothing. His half-sister may as well have cut open his chest, shoved her hand within the wound she created, and tore out his heart.

I will kill her.

Aegon did not know how, or when, or where. But he would. Even if it were the last thing he did before the Stranger greeted him.

The sound of his door opening caused him to turn. Ser Criston strode into the room with purpose, and Aegon knew at once the assailants had been found.

“We found one of the assailants as he attempted to flee the city, Your Grace,” Criston said.

Aegon did not try to hide his disappointment. One was better than two, but both would have been ideal. He could imagine the second one sailing to Dragonstone. His fingers curled against his thigh as he thought of the brute laughing at him all the while. Bragging about how he had murdered a child, as if that was the mark of anything but a craven.

“He attempted to pass through the Gate of the Gods with the farmers who sell their stock to the butchers at twilight. Captain Largent stopped every man both entering and leaving the city, and this man was the only one to have blood on his tunic. He readily confessed once he was dragged into the garrison and questioned.”

“Did he say anything about his co-conspirator?”

Cole’s shoulders dropped. “No, Your Grace.”

“Then what did he readily confess to?” Aegon asked condescendingly.

“He confessed that the blood staining his tunic belonged to the Prince Jaehaerys, and he admitted the bloody knife he had on him was the one he used to…to commit the deed.”

“Where is he now?” Aegon demanded.

“The black cells.”

“Take me to him.”

Cole hesitated. “Your Grace, I—”

“That was a command, Ser Criston.”

Criston gave him a slow nod before turning on his heel. Leading the way to the dungeons. Aegon had never been to that part of the castle before. He had never had any need - it was located so far from the royal family’s apartments or the kitchens or any part of the Red Keep that civilized company came near that he never gave it much thought beyond threatening to send Aemond to a cell and throwing away the key when they were boys. The squat tower was only accessible by an elevated bridge that some called Traitor’s Walk, a pathway that became darker and colder with each step. Anyone taken this way would soon realize that their days before meeting justice would be gloomy ones.

The dungeons comprised four levels, three of which housed prisoners and the last of which men and occasionally women were only taken to when they were being questioned. Just the thought of the lowest level made Aegon feel uneasy as he climbed down the turnpike stairs by the light of the torch Criston held in his hand. The highest level had narrow windows but no individual quarters. Common criminals such as thieves and men who liked to throw punches while drunk were confined together. The second level had no windows but individual quarters, and it was where highborn prisoners were held if they were not highborn enough to warrant the privilege of being confined to an apartment. Lords Stokeworth and Rosby had been confined there prior to bending the knee, and where Lords Merryweather, Caswell, and Harte still remained. The third level was the worst, though. It contained cramped cells with no windows, no beds, no creature comforts. Not even a waste bucket. A fact that unfortunately greeted Aegon as soon as he stepped through the iron gate The smell of piss and shit made him cringe, but he forced himself to keep following Cole.

Two men stood under the archway at the beginning of a labyrinth of corridors, the kind one could get lost in if he did not know his way. To prevent anyone from attempting to escape, Aegon figured. One man, a man so wizened Aegon thought he may have been old even when King Jaehaerys ruled, hunched over a raised table writing in a ledger, the scratch of his pen the only sound beyond the crackle of the torches. The other was perhaps the tallest man Aegon had ever laid eyes on. And the fiercest. Aegon knew at once he was an officer of the City Watch by his black breastplate ornamented with four golden disks and his dyed golden cloak.

“Captain Largent?” Aegon guessed.

“Aye, Your Grace,” the large man said.

“I am told I have you to thank for capturing the man who killed my son.”

“One of ‘em, at least,” Largent said gruffly.

“It was quick thinking to stop a man covered in blood,” Aegon said. It wasn’t. Only a fool wouldn’t have stopped him considering the circumstances, but Aegon was grateful all the same.

The Captain of the City Watch merely shrugged.

“Largent recognized him,” Cole said after a few beats. Waiting for Largent to volunteer the information and only speaking when he didn’t. “He was a serjeant once. Relieved of his position after beating a whore to death.”

And no doubt promised a reinstatement, Aegon thought. Men of the City Watch more or less did as they pleased as long as they did not cause trouble with the wrong people. Which the bastard who murdered his son clearly had. Perhaps with Daemon. That had to have been how they knew each other. His uncle had been Commander once, years before Aegon’s birth. And that was exactly the type of man he would have sought out to watch over the city. Nay, terrorize the city and hide under the cloak of the law.

“I will speak to him,” Aegon told the ancient man hunched over the ledger.

His address caused the gaoler to finally cease his writing and look up at his king. The man’s eyes were red and puffy, a sign of his age. He nodded and grabbed the ring of keys tied along his hip.

“Come with me, Your Grace.”

Criston Cole looked as if he wanted to protest, but he kept his mouth shut as he followed the gaoler and Aegon. There was nothing he could say anyway that would convince Aegon not to look upon the face of the man who had slit his son’s throat.

They walked all the way to the last cell down the corridor. The prisoner was the only occupant of the black cells, all the other criminals or traitors currently locked up on the higher floors, but the distance furthered the feeling of isolation. He had to have walked the same path Aegon did, knowing he was yards away from the closest man should the need for help arise.

As the gaoler inserted his key into the thick wooden door, Aegon squinted. A few inches away from the edge of the door stood a wooden club. One that appeared stained. With dirt. With blood. Aegon grabbed it right as the creak of the door hinges met his ears.

The man who murdered his son looked utterly pathetic as he huddled in the corner of his small dark cell. He raised his hand in an attempt to shield himself from the light of the torches both the gaoler and Criston held in their hands, his sight having adjusted to the darkness of the cells. His hand did not hide his injuries though. His eye was swollen and cut and a bruise was already forming on his cheekbone, the telltale signs of a struggle. Perhaps he had tried to fight his way out of his initial questioning. Or perhaps that had come later, once he realized there was no way to explain the blood on his tunic. Or perhaps he had not fought at all - perhaps the men of the city watch had beaten him once they realized what he had done.

“How did you get into the castle?” Aegon asked. More for Criston’s sake than his own for he already knew exactly how the men sneaked into the Red Keep.

A flash of anger crawled up his spine when the man refused to answer. Thinking only of his son, of the pain he had endured in the last moments of his short life, Aegon lifted the club and swung it. Hitting the man on his raised palm. Hard. So hard Aegon heard the satisfying crunch of the bones and muscles hitting the wood.

“How did you get into the castle?” he repeated. And then hit the man on his unblemished cheek, sending his head sharply to the left with the force of impact.

“The White Worm,” the man answered shakily.

Aegon stopped and his brows furrowed. The White Worm? Who in the seven hells was that supposed to be?

His anger must have shown through his confusion, as the man continued.

“She told us about the secret passageways.”

His answer only raised more questions. A woman calling herself the White Worm had procured the men. A woman who knew about the secret passageways. Had Rhaenyra told her? Or Daemon? Aegon was not stupid. His uncle and half-sister had grown up in the Red Keep the same as he had, there was no reason to believe neither had not found the hidden corridors in their youth.

“How did she know of them?” Aegon asked.

“She didn’t say,” the man claimed in a whimper. “She only told us how to enter the castle near the barracks.”

Told us.

“Who was your co-conspirator?”

The man did not answer fast enough for him, so Aegon whacked him across the temple. Breaking the skin. The blood presented a gruesomely delightful sight as it trickled down the side of his head.

“I don’t know,” the man cried.

Aegon scoffed before hitting the man again - across the other temple.

“I only met him at the gate!” the man said, pleading in his tone.

The blood truly gushed down his face now. How had Jaehaerys bled? Did the thick red liquid run down his neck in a steady stream or did it splatter out as the knife cut across his skin?

Whack

Whack

Whack

“He said he was a ratcatcher! Please!”

“Please,” Aegon repeated incredulously. “Should I show you the same mercy you showed my son?”

Whack

Whack

Whack

“What was his name? Who is the White Worm?” Aegon demanded as he hit his son’s murderer over and over again.

But the man did not answer, and eventually the blows became too much for him to bear in consciousness. That did not stop Aegon, though. He continued hitting the man with the club wherever he could reach. Everywhere. Anywhere. His tears making it difficult to tell where exactly he was hitting. His grip so tight his knuckles hurt.

“That’s enough, Your Grace,” Ser Criston murmured.

The soft voice of his Lord Commander made Aegon still his hand. His vision cleared after a few moments, and he looked at the man in contempt. He sprawled across the hard stone floor, his swollen face buried in soiled straw. Aegon did not know when he would regain consciousness, but the man would be in pain until he was executed. Aegon had made sure of it.

“I want every ratcatcher in the city hanged,” Aegon ordered, his eyes still on the man who had murdered Jaehaerys. Ninety-nine of the hundred would be innocent, but Aegon did not care. The one who had aided and abetted the slaying of his son would be dealt with. That was all that mattered.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Aegon tore his eyes away from the man he had beaten and turned to Cole. “And assemble the small council. Immediately.”

He strode past Criston and made his way out of the black cells.

For once Aegon was the first to arrive in the small council chamber. As everyone except his mother filed into the chamber, he could tell from the looks on their faces that they knew what had happened. Aemond and Otto looked absolutely distraught, and everyone else looked at him with a mixture of sorrow and empathy.

“What has happened is terrible, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle said gently. “The loss of a child…and in such a brutal way.” The man shook his head in disgust.

Aegon could not help but glance at the empty seat to his right. The seat in which his mother always occupied. His fingers instinctively curled, as if around a club, as he thought of what she had endured while he slept in his featherbed. Of what Helaena had endured. And Jaehaera and Maelor, though he supposed it was a mercy that his youngest son was too young to understand what was happening. But no one else was spared of the horror of watching Jaehaerys slaughtered in front of their very eyes. No doubt screaming and pleading but being unable to do anything but watch.

“The silent sisters are looking after the prince,” the Grand Maester assured him.

The words did little to comfort Aegon, though. The silent sisters should not have had to look after him. The thought of those women in grey robes and shrouds tending to his young son, removing his organs to preserve the body until the funeral, made him feel sick. As did the thought of even attending his own son’s funeral. Jaehaerys deserved to be laid to rest, his ashes preserved with those of his ancestors, but Aegon did not know if he could go through with the ceremony. Watching his son’s body burned by dragonfire.

He wanted to rage just thinking about it.

“Ser Criston said one of the assailants had been caught,” Otto said.

The image of his son’s future funeral was quickly replaced by that of the bloodied man lying unconscious on straw covered in piss and shit.

“And dealt with. His co-conspirator will soon meet the same fate”

Lord Wylde leaned forward in his chair. “If I may, Your Grace, I understand that Captain Largent was the one who stopped the man trying to leave the city. Commander Garth is still in the dungeons, perhaps Largent could be promoted to take his place.”

Aegon wanted to scoff. His son had been murdered, and his master of laws was talking about some silly promotion. Though the idea was not a bad one. As Lord Wylde said, the previous Commander of the City Watch had been imprisoned alongside two of the captains of the gate for refusing to bend the knee after Aegon’s coronation. The City Watch needed a commander, and Largent had proven himself loyal.

“Fine,” Aegon said unenthusiastically. He had not called the small council together to discuss such trivial matters. “I have decided it is time to strike.”

To his irritation no one around the table spoke in agreement. Instead they all just sat there silently. Staring at him.

“The heir to the Iron Throne was brutally slaughtered,” he told them a tad incredulously. “The queen, the dowager queen, and my children attacked. Rhaenyra must answer for this.”

“You propose we attack Dragonstone?” Aemond inquired. Skeptically.

“No,” Aegon answered quickly.

He wouldn’t. Couldn’t. Not while Aly was there. It was a weakness, one he wished he did not have as he considered his options of making his bitch of a half-sister pay for what she had done, but one that he could not shake.

“I propose that we draw Rhaenyra away from Dragonstone.”

“And how would you go about that?” his brother asked, switching to High Valyrian. Ensuring the majority of the small council did not understand their conversation. Aegon chafed at his doubtful tone.

“Perhaps you should kill another one of her sons,” Aegon bit back without thinking.

He had not cared about Luke’s death, had not cared that his brother was responsible, but as he stood in his rooms earlier that morning, waiting for Criston to return, Aegon could not help the direction his mind turned. Rhaenyra sought vengeance for Luke, and instead of setting her sights on Aemond she cravenly, cruelly, targeted an innocent babe. A part of Aegon, deep down, knew that his son would still be alive if not for his brother’s actions at Storm’s End. Their mother had been right - Aemond had doomed them and brought about the wrath of the Mother.

“We can draw Rhaenyra out by attacking her allies,” Aegon told his council, switching back to the Common Tongue and ignoring the way his brother’s nostrils flared. “If she does not respond she risks them turning cloak.”

Otto quirked his brow. “We should use caution while you wait for your armies to gather elsewhere. You do not have enough men in the crownlands to—”

“Where are my armies gathering?” Aegon asked in exasperation. “The Tullys have yet to bend the knee. The Tyrells have not, either.”

“I have written—”

“Fuck your letters,” Aegon exclaimed. Not caring that the entire small council was watching him with expressions of barely disguised shock. “My son has been killed on the orders of Rhaenyra, and I can no longer wait for letters.”

“I know that,” Otto began cautiously. “We cannot count on the Tullys or the Tyrells, I agree. The westermen and the rest of the Reach will meet somewhere else to face Rhaenyra’s forces.”

“Once they finally begin marching,” Lord Larys supplied.

Otto ignored the comment. “In the meantime I am not only focusing my attention within the Seven Kingdoms.”

Aegon looked at his grandfather in slight bewilderment. “The Triarchy?” he scoffed.

“The Triarchy hates Daemon nearly as much as you hate Rhaenyra.”

“Unless they promise to kill him on their way to King’s Landing, I don’t care.”

Several beats of tense silence passed, Otto and Aegon looking at each other in annoyance, daring the other to speak first. All his grandfather did was urge caution and write letters. Letters that had not accomplished anything. Letters that had not saved his son.

The war would not be won by fucking letters.

The hinges on the main gate creaked as two members of the City Watch opened them and, despite the flutter of movement between the men, horses, and carriages, Aegon could still hear them as clearly as if he was in the front of the procession atop his chestnut destrier, Fire. He glanced sidelong at Aemond next to him, though there was no need to act so stealthily. Aegon was to his brother’s left, leaving him out of Aemond’s field of vision due to his eyepatch. His brother outwardly appeared as stoic as ever, but Aegon could tell by the loosening and tightening of his grip on his own horse’s reins that his brother felt just as uneasy as he did.

Everything felt like a complete fucking catastrophe. Not only had Daemon taken control of Harrenhal, more or less killing any chance of the riverlands throwing their support behind Aegon, news had arrived earlier that morning of a skirmish in the riverlands between the Brackens and the Blackwoods over the Brackens’ continued support of Aegon. It was unclear how many had died in the minor battle, but men from both houses had met their end at swordpoint. The first of many.

And that was not the worst news the small council received. Alan Beesbury and Lords Bulwer and Costayne had formally declared for Rhaenyra, despite the latter being vassals of House Hightower, as had Lords Tarly and Rowan and Lord Caswell’s heir on behalf of his still-imprisoned father. That made six Reach houses traitors. While the feud between the Brackens and the Blackwoods bleeding into the war caused little more than an annoyance, the news about the Reach caused all the air to leave the room upon hearing it. No one said it, but Aegon knew what they were thinking. If Ormund Hightower expected to leave the Reach to meet with the Lannister forces, he would be faced with a difficult march. Even with Daeron and Tessarion with him.

Aegon had been furious. Lords were declaring for his half-sister in every region except the westerlands. She had ordered the death of a child, and no one in the realm seemed to care. And all the while his grandfather urged him to not act rashly, to use caution.

The cortège began to move and Aegon returned his eyes forward, keeping them straight ahead. Not looking at the backs of his sister’s and mother’s heads. Not thinking about the fact that his mother’s wrists were still blemished from the ordeal, so deeply had the rope the brutes subdued her with cut into her skin in her fierce attempts to free herself so she could help her daughter and grandchildren. Not thinking about the fact that Helaena had been merely a shell of herself since the night their son was slaughtered, spending all day laying in her bed or staring at the window. Of her ladies, only Bethany Mullendore had been able to convince her to eat and drink, but otherwise Helaena’s conditions was such that no one else even attempted to see her a second time, unable to stand in the presence of such intense grief and guilt for too long.

He also tried not to think about the fact that on the cart in front of the open carriage in which his sister and mother sat lay Jaehaerys. Motionless. Cold. His skin pale and the deep cut of his throat sewn together to keep his head from jostling around.

Aegon’s hands tightened around the leather reins. He had initially been loath to follow his grandfather’s suggestion for the procession to include his son on display for the smallfolk, his wounds visible, but his mother convinced him of it. Let them all see what Rhaenyra has done.

At least the sight of the dead men hanging from the castle walls, every single ratcatcher residing in the city at the time of Jaehaerys’s death, gave Aegon some semblance of satisfaction. Both murderers had been dealt with. The man the newly promoted Commander Largent had caught at the Gate of the Gods was executed two days prior in a public beheading, and whichever ratcatcher had helped him was bound to be one of the men currently rotting in front of the Red Keep. The first part of avenging his son had been achieved. The second and final part would come once Rhaenyra had taken her last breath.

Aegon swallowed thickly as the procession continued on towards the field just outside the city walls. It appeared as if every resident of the capital lined up along the road leading to the Iron Gate. He could not help but feel resentful at their gawking. Their attempts to express their sorrow and fury rang hollow. They had not known Jaehaerys. Had not cared for him. Had never even seen him. Yet the way some of them cried and threw flowers towards Helaena as if they shared in the royal family’s grief plucked a nerve within him.

Sunfyre greeted them at the field, his golden scales shining brilliantly in the sunlight. Aegon dismounted as soon as the cortège stopped and made his way to his dragon, who gave him a low and melancholic note as the beast lowered his head. Aegon breathed in a deep inhale as he leaned his forehead against Sunfyre’s large jaw, the warmth washing over him. Comforting him. Steeling him for what was about to happen.

With tears in his eyes Aegon turned around to face everyone. Jaehaerys lay on the wooden funeral pyre, his body covered with the thick cloth the Grand Maester brought with him, while everyone else stood several yards away. Aemond and Otto stood straight as ever, their faces solemn. Alicent held her arms tightly around Helaena, who could not look at Jaehaerys for too long before glancing away, fat tears beginning to fall down her cheeks. While she could not look too long upon Jaehaerys, Aegon could not look too long upon Helaena. Unable to witness her grief. Unwilling to face the fact that he had only attempted to speak with her once since it all happened. He had gone to her chambers but froze upon seeing her. Unable to find any comfort to offer.

With the time having come Aegon found the word stuck in his throat. Once he said it there would be no unsaying it. No undoing it. It was only when he saw Aemond open his mouth that Aegon took action, unwilling to allow his brother to give the command.

“Dracarys.”

Sunfyre gave a loud whine before unleashing his golden flames onto the pyre, reducing Jaehaerys to ash.

Aegon remained on the field with his dragon and son until the sun began to set. He had not been there in his son’s final moments, but he steadfastly remained by his side as his son’s small body burned the way of his ancestors.

“I will gather Prince Jaehaerys’s ashes into the urn as soon as the fire goes out,” Septon Eustace told him softly when Aegon indicated that he would be returning to the castle soon. They were the only two remaining, everyone else having long returned to the castle. “Perhaps I will see you at the service on the morrow?”

Aegon scoffed. “Do many grieving parents come to you to exalt the gods?”

“Many find comfort in praying to them,” Septon Eustace said after a moment of surprised silence.

Fools, mayhaps. But Aegon kept his thoughts to himself, mounting Sunfyre without saying anything else to the septon. After landing in the Dragonpit and then returning to the Red Keep in the wheelhouse that awaited him after bidding his dragon farewell, Aegon was met with beasts of a different nature. With all the ratcatchers in the city dead, his grandfather had brought in dozens and dozens of cats to act as replacements. Long-haired, short-haired, orange, black, blue, grey, white, solid colored, patterned. One could hear meows and hisses and yowling any time they ventured out into the corridors, day or night. It drove Aegon mad, but he did not regret his actions regarding the city’s ratcatchers.

Jaehaera had named one of the black cats, or rather all of the black cats as she could not properly tell them apart, Morghul after her dragon. She attempted to play with them whenever she spied one when not in the presence of her grandmother - Alicent had very strictly told her that the cats were not pets. In other circumstances Aegon would have agreed, but he let it lie. His daughter only wanted a companion. Was that not the least she deserved after all she had seen? After the fact that her twin, the brother whom she had never lived a day without, had been taken from her?

“Your Grace.”

Aegon barely refrained from exhaling a sigh. He liked Tyland Lannister all right, but the last thing he wanted after Jaehaerys’s funeral was to conduct official business.

“Ser Tyland,” Aegon greeted him tightly.

“The treasury is almost divided,” his master of coin told him lowly once Tyland stood just in front of him. “It will be sent out tonight under cover of darkness accompanied by men of my own choosing.”

Aegon could not help his surprise. He had only given his assent to Tyland’s plan to divide the treasury two days prior. It was an about-face, he knew, and he had not changed his mind due to any particular counsel from his grandfather. The fact that men had breached the castle worried him greatly. So greatly he decided that perhaps it was best to divide the crown’s coin should the worst happen. Irritation still rose within him whenever he recalled the smug look upon Otto’s face after Aegon announced the decision to the small council, but it was the right decision.

“Ensure that you keep me apprised of any news,” Aegon ordered before continuing on towards his chambers.

He made a beeline for the flagon of strongwine as soon as he stepped through the threshold. It was sweeter even than Arbor red - too sweet for Aegon to enjoy the taste of it, but the taste was not why he drank it. The night would be lonely, his friends not especially eager to spend time with a grieving father, and the strongwine would help make the hours bearable until he fell asleep. As it had every night since Jaehaerys’s murder.

A groan left his throat when a knock sounded upon the door. Could he not be given at least the evening? He opened his mouth to snap at Ser Arryk that whoever it was could wait, but the knight of the Kingsguard’s “Lord Larys to see you, Your Grace” silenced him.

Larys Strong shuffled into the king’s chambers at Aegon’s allowance, his eyes darting left and right before landing on the spot, now occupied by a polished wooden table, where Viserys’s model Valyria had stood before Aegon destroyed it and ordered the pieces removed.

“I heard your father’s model was quite the sight to behold,” Larys said quietly as he tore his eyes from the table and landed on Aegon. “A pity that it should meet its end.”

“It was an eyesore.”

His goblet of wine in hand, Aegon plopped down into one of his high-backed chairs. He motioned for Larys to join him, which the lord did. Even once he sat down he kept his hands on the head of his cane and rested his chin atop his knuckles.

“I assume you are not here to look at how I have redecorated my chambers?”

“No, Your Grace.” Larys shook his head at Aegon’s gesture of offering him a goblet of wine. “I was sorry to not make Prince Jaehaerys’s funeral. I am unable to ride a horse, and I did not think it would be appropriate to ask about traveling in the carriage with your wife and mother.”

“It’s all right.”

In truth Aegon had not even noticed Larys’s absence.

“What happened to your son was brutal. I am sure you are mulling over plans to answer for his slaying.”

“I am.”

“Plans that the Hand of the King approves, no doubt. He is quite prudent, is he not?”

Aegon did not like Lord Larys’s tone. He was dissatisfied with his grandfather, that was obvious to everyone on the small council, but something about the way Larys spoke made him tense.

“He served your father well,” Larys continued. “And your grandfather towards the end of his life. His influence on the realm has been…immutable.”

“He has been a steady presence for multiple kings, as you say,” Aegon responded carefully.

“And it is good that you can trust him considering your shared blood.”

Aegon did not like the direction of this conversation at all. His throat felt dry as he said, “I never doubt his intentions are for the good of the realm.”

Larys hummed.

“Do you have any developments on the task that I asked of you?” Aegon asked in an attempt to move the subject of discussion away from his grandfather.

“I do,” Larys said, piquing Aegon’s interest. “I do believe that I have found the source of the vile whispers regarding Princess Aelora.”

She opened her legs to every man who asked. She’s a whore.

Larys hesitated, though Aegon could not tell whether his hesitance was genuine or not.

“The whispers first stemmed from Ser Otto.”

Aegon looked at Larys in disbelief. Starting rumors hardly seemed to be one of his grandfather's usual moves. And what would he have gained from it? Aly’s claim to the Iron Throne was too weak to target her, and while she had made friends while in King’s Landing she hardly made enough for anyone to choose Rhaenyra solely for her. Except Harrold Paege, perhaps.

But her daughter being a whore could further weaken Rhaenyra’s standing, Aegon realized. A whore for a daughter and bastards for sons, who would support her claim? That was something he did not put past his grandfather.

“You’re certain?” Aegon inquired. He needed to be absolutely sure.

Larys gave him a sympathetic look. “I’m afraid that I am.”

“I see.” Aegon gulped down the last of the strongwine in his goblet before refilling it. “I appreciate the time you took investigating the rumor, Lord Larys.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I am only sorry that the resolution will not bring Queen Helaena any comfort.”

Aegon looked at Larys in confusion before smoothing his brow. Recalling that he had claimed Helaena as the reason Aegon was so keen to find out the origin of the whispers surrounding Aly.

“I do not think anything could now.”

The surprise on Alicent’s face when Aegon opened her door and walked through the threshold was evident.

“Aegon,” she greeted as she hastily moved to stand. Pieces of parchment littered her writing desk, and the pen she held in her hand dripped ink onto a blank sheet.

He kept his eyes on his mother. He dared not glance around her chambers. He did not want to drive himself mad wondering where she had been tied up while forced to watch her daughter choose which son lived and which son died. Where Jaehaera had clung to her mother, Helaena covering her eyes to prevent her from witnessing her brother’s death. Where Jaehaerys had been standing when the bastards slit his throat.

Aegon took the crown to protect his sons, yet it had all been for naught. When it actually mattered he was not there. Aegon had let them all down, but he would not do so again. He would protect the family that remained to him.

“Please, sit.” Alicent motioned to the table in her sitting area. “Shall I call for tea?”

“No, that’s all right.”

His mother studied him once she sat opposite him, just as he studied her. Her physical wounds from that terrible night may have healed, but Aegon could see the damage she continued to carry with her. Her eyes were not as bright, her shoulders sagged, and her lips seemed always turned down into a slight frown. Unbidden, her scrutiny mixed with his imaginings of what had happened that night forced tears to make their way to his eyes.

Alicent did not say anything to provide comfort, but she did gently place her hand atop his. The hand that Aegon grasped tightly.

“They will pay for what they’ve done,” he promised her. “I won’t rest until they have.”

His mother squeezed his hand. “I know.”

“The time for caution is over,” Aegon continued. “I can no longer remain here sitting for an army to gather while her allies sit in their castles and laugh at us.”

“What do you suggest?”

Aegon could not help the pride that welled with him at his mother’s question. At the fact that she was asking him rather than counseling him.

“We should draw Rhaenyra or Daemon out. Attacking Dragonstone would be foolish. The Velaryon fleet would give advanced word, we would lose every element of surprise.”

“If you attack on dragonback,” she mused.

Her words gave him pause. Moving through the crownlands by land would not afford them surprise, either, as too many lords between the capital and Dragonstone were loyal to Rhaenyra. But if there was a way to go stealthily, he would have the element of surprise.

His grandfather would never agree to it, but that would no longer matter come that evening.

“Cole would see to it,” Aegon said as casually as he could.

Just as he expected, his mother understood what he was telling her. He thought for a moment that she would attempt to argue, but instead she simply nodded her head. Accepting the decision of her king.

“Thank you for taking over the care of Jaehaera and Maelor,” Aegon said after a few moments.

As a consequence of Helaena’s grief swallowing her whole she neglected the care of the children. She refused to even look at Maelor, her guilt making it too difficult, and Jaehaera immensely disliked the nearly suffocating hugs Helaena insisted upon whenever she was near. The girl’s rejection, in Helaena’s compromised mindset, only further pushed her into despair.

“I am happy to do it while Helaena is unable.”

“I haven’t built up the courage to see her since the funeral,” he confessed.

“She isn’t in a state fit to be seen,” Alicent said. Repeating what Aegon had heard from the servants. “Allow her this time. Allow her to find her way back to us.”

If she ever did.

An hour later, Aegon considered his mother’s words regarding an attack on Dragonstone as he walked back to his chambers. The seeds of a plan began to take root within his mind. Someone he trusted sneaking into the castle on Dragonstone, going undetected, and killing Rhaenyra right in her bed. Or Daemon. Or any one of their sons. And perhaps, if it was someone skilled, he could bring Aly back to the Red Keep. If only to get her away from Dragonstone, leaving it free to attack however Aegon pleased.

His grandfather sat at the head of the table in Aegon’s rooms when he arrived. Looking annoyed. Criston stood beside him, his expression full of its usual indifference.

“I was told you wished to see me nearly a half hour ago,” Otto said in lieu of a greeting.

“I did,” Aegon responded as he walked towards them. He grabbed the flagon of wine at the center of the table and poured himself a goblet before turning his attention to his grandfather. “I have decided that your time as the Hand of the King has come to an end.”

Otto tightened his jaw. “I have been Hand of the King for nearly twenty years. You have only been king for a few weeks. You need someone to help guide you through this war.”

“I do,” Aegon agreed. “Someone who does more than write fucking letters and spread falsehoods.”

His grandfather had the gall to look confused. “Falsehoods?”

“Aly,” Aegon said before he could stop himself. “That she’s a whore.”

Otto exhaled. “I know of the rumor of which you speak,” he admitted, “but I had no hand in it.”

“That is not my understanding,” Aegon said with a scoff.

“Then you understand incorrectly. I know…” Otto trailed off, quickly glancing at Ser Criston before returning his gaze to Aegon. “I know how much Helaena still cares for Aelora after her time in the capit—”

“Take off your badge of office,” Aegon interrupted in anger. Not in the mood to hear of his grandfather’s attempts at manipulating him. “Take it off and give it to Cole.”

Both men looked at him in surprise.

“My new Hand will be a steel fist.”

Otto begrudgingly took off the iron brooch in the shape of a hand, the same badge of office that had first been worn by Lord Orys Baratheon, and flung it onto the table. Childishly refusing to hand it to his successor.

“Whether or not you realize it, I have been strengthening your support,” Otto said as he moved to stand. His voice was steady, but Aegon could hear the fury lacing his every word. “You are my grandson, which is the only reason I will accept the position again once you see what a colossal mistake you have made, allowing someone to whisper poison in your ear. I can only hope the entire realm does not come to ruin before that happens.”

With that Ser Otto Hightower left the king’s chambers.

Aegon grabbed the badge of office his grandfather left behind and extended it out to Ser Criston.

“Tell Ser Arryk I wish to see him.”

Chapter Text

The afternoon sun made a strip of the Blackwater appear as if it was molten gold, the rays reflecting upon the beautiful blue water. Rhaenyra occasionally looked up from where she sat at her desk to admire the view outside her window, but otherwise her attention remained focused on the various letters in front of her. Several were in Daemon’s hand, her husband writing of his victories in the riverlands. He took Harrenhal shortly after he arrived at the castle, the castellan Simon Strong yielding to him and bending the knee to her, and several houses followed suit after hearing of Daemon’s arrival in the riverlands. To Rhaenyra’s frustration, however, not every house had bent the knee. Including House Bracken, a refusal that resulted in a skirmish between them and their constant rivals in House Blackwood. A skirmish that Daemon used to his advantage.

The riverlands are nearly ours. Lord Blackwood was slain during the minor battle, but so was Lord Bracken’s son and heir, Amos. Before the Bracken men returned to Stone Hedge I flew to the castle and, with the help of men from houses Piper, Paege, and Roote, forced Lord Bracken to yield. His daughter is wed to the heir of Autumnton, so I have no doubt that they will yield too once they hear of Bracken bending the knee. Simon Strong reports that the divisions amongst the Tullys are only growing now that Lord Grover is near death. His grandson and heir, Elmo, supports your claim. As do Elmo’s sons. It is only a matter of time before the entire might of the riverlands is behind you.

The riverlands yielding was good news. Especially after the death of the usurper’s son. A small part of Rhaenyra feared the realm would turn against her after hearing of it, would deem the boy’s death an act too dishonorable to support her claim.

Is this how you intend to gain the throne? By stepping over the corpses of dead babes?

She could still perfectly recall the expression upon Aly’s face as she said the words that day in the Chamber of the Painted Table. The look of distress and disgust etched onto her features. The look that, in the days since, still remained in her daughter’s eyes whenever she so much as glanced in her direction. Rhaenyra was no stranger to being on the receiving end of such looks, she had dealt with it so many times when she lived in the capital, but never once had her own child looked at her in such a way. She hated it.

Yet the boy’s death, no matter how shameful the circumstances, was inevitable. Her ascension to the throne now depended upon there being no other threats to her claim. The moment Aegon became a usurper he damned himself, his sons, and his brothers. That was the inescapable truth. One that Aly was too soft-hearted to face.

Based on Aly’s reaction that day upon learning of the child’s death and her reaction since—staring daggers, visiting the sept, and making contemptuous comments about Daemon—Rhaenyra feared her daughter was too soft-hearted for the war that had begun. Too soft-hearted to do what needed to be done.

The dragon in her so rarely rears its head.

But that wasn’t to say it remained in perpetual dormancy, Rhaenyra could not help but think in aggravation as her eyes shifted towards the piece of parchment that laid to the right of Daemon’s most recent correspondence. Towards the letter that she began the previous day but found herself unable to finish. The letter to Cregan Stark. Her goodson. Her frustration swirled and threatened to overtake her as she thought of her daughter’s defiance. She had sent Aly to arrange the betrothal, not marry him.

You are only angry because it means you cannot lord the betrothal over him during the entire war.

Perhaps the young Lord Stark was not as foolish as she thought. Rhaenyra knew that, despite Lord Rickon’s oath to uphold her claim over two decades ago, there was every possibility that Cregan would refuse to send men to fight for their rightful queen. The north was so isolated, any war fought south of the Neck was unlikely to affect them. With the promise of a marriage Rhaenyra hoped that he would command his northmen to leave their cold land. And if Cregan refused, or continued to claim he needed to prepare for the coming winter before he could send more men, then Rhaenyra would remind him what was at risk.

His wedding to Aly eliminated all of that. The vows had been said, the promises binding them to each other no matter what happened. No matter if Cregan Stark spent the entire war hiding within the walls of Winterfell waiting only for his bride to return to him.

Rhaenyra almost could not believe her own ears when Aly told her what she had done. Aly so rarely pushed back, so rarely did anything that would cause any ire. She had always been reliable and steady. Never particularly headstrong. She had of course attempted to argue a few times during her childhood—what child didn’t—but she always bent to her mother’s will.

It didn’t matter to you what I wanted. It never has.

When Aly had children of her own she would understand the lengths a mother would go to protect her children. Would understand the sacrifices required to keep them safe. Just as Rhaenyra had sacrificed to keep them safe. To protect their legitimacy and their claims.

The memory of Vaemond Velaryon’s head sitting on the floor of the throne room, separated from his neck and spewing blood, made its way to the forefront of her mind for the first time since the ugly business transpired. For the first time since Aly had been born, the man’s calculating eyes appeared blank. His gaze would scrutinize her children no more, his poisonous tongue would tell lies about them no more. Rhaenyra and Daemon had made sure of it.

The sound of a knock upon her door forced her to turn away from her writing desk. Ser Lorent cracked open the door and said, “Prince Jacaerys to see you, Your Grace.”

“Send him in,” Rhaenyra commanded.

Jace seemed so much more stoic since her coronation. It was how he carried himself now, she considered as her eldest son entered her apartments. His chin parallel with the stone floor, his shoulders set, his back straight. Rhaenyra knew all too well that the burden of being the heir to the Iron Throne was a heavy one.

“My darling,” she greeted with the best smile she could muster as he approached her. “Let us sit. Shall I call for tea? Or cakes?”

“No, that’s all right,” Jace answered. He sat next to her on her settee, his hand clasped in hers.

“I saw you flying with Baela earlier,” Rhaenyra said. “Vermax is not quite ready to allow Moondancer to outrace him, I see.”

Her son chuckled. “He is a stubborn and proud beast.”

“That sounds a bit familiar,” she jested.

Her smile faded when Jace rolled his eyes. For just a moment he looked exactly as Luke would whenever he would do the same. Whenever she made a jape he deemed trite, whenever Aly would ruffle his hair, whenever Jace would make a crack at his expense.

Rhaenyra blinked back tears before Jace could notice them.

“I wish to speak with you about something,” her son said after a few moments of heavy silence.

She knitted her brows together in concern. His serious tone indicated the topic of their conversation would not be a light one.

“What is it?”

“It’s about Jeyne Arryn. She only agreed to gather the men of the Vale on the condition that a dragon and its rider stay at the Eyrie to protect the castle.”

“Yes, I recall perfectly,” Rhaenyra said flatly. The mere fact that Jeyne even had conditions still rankled her. They were kin, Arryn blood flowed through Rhaenyra’s veins. That was not even to mention that Rhaenyra was the rightful queen. Jeyne should have backed her claim at once. Without any qualifications.

Rhaenyra found it maddening that the houses she courted for support—Stark and Arryn—required massive stipulations while the riverlands bent the knee after just feeling the wind turn towards Dragonstone’s direction.

“I fear if too many moons pass she may renege on her support,” Jace said. “And since I was the one who made the agreement, I have given a lot of thought as to who we should send. I think Baela should go.”

She did not bother masking her surprise at Jace’s suggestion. Though she supposed she shouldn’t have felt that way. Sending Baela, his betrothed, kept her away from potential danger. It was also smart and strategic. Moondancer was large enough that Jeyne would not feel insulted but not so large that they needed her to remain on Dragonstone.

A king in the making, Rhaenyra thought with pride.

“I think Rhaena, Joffrey, Aegon, and Viserys should go with her,” Jace continued. “They will be safe there. And I know it will ease all of our minds if they are away from Dragonstone, should anything happen.”

The fact that Jace did not mention his sister did not go unnoticed. Lyrax was large and fearsome, but Aly… She had spent too much time in the capital. Rhaenyra had realized it the moment Daemon told them of the death of the usurper’s son; her daughter had come to care for Alicent’s children and grandchildren. Sending her to King’s Landing had been a mistake. Rhaenyra saw that now. She thought she had been doing the right thing. She desperately wanted someone in the city to keep an eye on Viserys, to ensure the crows did not swoop in and attempt to take advantage of him. And Alicent and Helaena had asked, which meant her presence would not raise any unwanted inquiries. At the time she thought Aly’s childhood fondness for Helaena would help her ingratiate herself. Which it clearly had. But now it was only a hindrance.

She had already lost Luke. And Visenya. She would not lose another one of children.

“I think Aly would be a better choice,” Rhaenyra told her son, becoming more sure of her decision with each word she spoke. “She is older, more familiar with what the children need. Jeyne wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

Jace’s brows rose and came together. “But Lyrax—”

“Is larger than Moondancer, I know.” Rhaenyra studied her son as she considered her next words. “You were in the chamber when Daemon told us of the child’s death.”

His expression turned from confused to defensive. “She spent time with them, of course she—”

“Exactly,” Rhaenyra interrupted. “She knows them. Cares for them. Do you think she could kill them, if it came to it?”

Jace opened his mouth, perhaps to say he thought she could, but he quickly closed it. Because he knew it, too.

“Send her to Winterfell, then,” he said after a beat. “To her husband.”

Rhaenyra sighed out a deep exhale at hearing of Jace’s knowledge regarding Aly’s marriage. She wanted to feel irritated with him over the fact that Aly had no doubt told him of it before Rhaenyra even knew of it, meaning he kept his sister’s secret. But she couldn’t. She was grateful for their bond, and she did not want Cregan Stark to ruin that. Aly and Jace cared for one another, respected each other.

I wish I could have betrothed the two of you.

Everything would be so much easier. For everyone.

“And Jeyne Arryn?” she asked. “I will not send away both Aly and Baela. We can’t afford to lose Moondancer if Lyrax is at Winterfell.”

Jace’s brows furrowed in thought for a few moments before he said, “Tyraxes is still small, but he is growing quickly. Joffrey should be able to mount him before the end of the year and fly around the Eyrie to patrol, if that is what Jeyne wishes. She will have to understand that we cannot afford to send her a fully grown dragon.”

Rhaenyra watched her son become more confident with each word. Become more confident in doing as Jeyne asked but knowing it was not what she meant. Ruling required compromises, of doing what was best for the realm despite knowing it would cause disgruntled subjects. And while a usurper sat the throne Jeyne would need to swallow any hurt pride or anxiety over Tyraxes’s size.

“Perhaps only sending Joffrey and Rhaena will lessen the sting,” Rhaenyra said, the seed of an idea taking root and growing in her mind. “Fostering two children instead of four should be less of a burden on Jeyne. And should the greens set their sights on the Vale, it will be easier for Rhaena and Joffrey to escape without having to care for Aegon and Viserys.”

“Where do you propose sending Aegon and Viserys, then? With Aly?” Jace asked.

Rhaenyra shook her head. “Daemon still regularly corresponds with the Prince of Pentos. I am sure he will be more than happy to host Aegon and Viserys until everything is settled here.”

Her heart felt heavy at the prospect of sending her two youngest, her babes, all the way to Essos. But Stormcloud was too small for Aegon to ride, and Viserys’s egg had yet to hatch. If they were to remain in Westeros, whether on Dragonstone, at the Vale, or in Winterfell, they would be nothing but helpless should things go to ruin. In Essos they would be safe from harm. Away from the fighting. Away from the threat of being murdered in their beds.

“We control the Gullet,” she continued. “Their passage will be without incident.”

“Baela should accompany them,” Jace insisted. Still attempting to find ways for his betrothed to be sent away from the war.

Rhaenyra wanted to sigh, but she decided to humor her son instead. “All right. She will go and help them settle in, but she will return to Dragonstone as soon as they are.”

Compassion flowed through her as utter relief washed over her son’s face. She appreciated the burden he carried not just as the heir to the Iron Throne but as the one who felt responsible for the decision regarding who was sent away and to where. It was difficult to make decisions about those one loved. She knew it all too well. Was faced with it every single day. And despite her wishing more than anything that she could have betrothed Jace to Aly, his care for Baela touched her greatly.

“You should write to the Prince of Pentos. Establish a correspondence of your own. It will benefit you to have friends in Essos once you ascend the throne.”

“I will,” Jace said with a nod.

Rhaenyra gave him a reassuring smile before her eyes glanced towards her writing desk. At the letter she began writing to Cregan Stark the other day. A letter she would now need to finish.

Your Grace.

Rhaenyra heard the phrase over and over again in her dream. At first distant but then repeated by those standing at the base of the steps while she sat the Iron Throne. Her father. Daemon. Alicent.

“Queen Rhaenyra,” someone called urgently. A voice that was not in her dream but instead outside of it. In her chambers.

Rhaenyra’s eyes shot open and, despite expecting to see another, she still startled at seeing Elinda Massey standing right over her. The fire in her bedchamber was burning out, casting half of Elinda’s face in shadow. The expression on the half that Rhaenyra could see instantly made her breath catch and her mind whirl. It was late. The hour of the owl. Her lady-in-waiting would not have awoken her unless something was amiss. And judging by her frightened expression, something definitely was.

“What is it?”

“The castle has been breached, Your Grace,” the voice of Ser Alfred Broome answered. Rhaenyra had not seen him standing in the corner of her chambers, and even now she could only see the outline of his armored body.

The children!

Rhaenyra shot out of bed. She practically bowled Elinda over, but she did not care. She needed to get to the nursery. She needed to get to her children. Now.

“Everyone is safe,” Ser Alfred assured her as he moved to block the door.

“I command you to move.” Her voice was uneven. Shrill. Frightened.

“Guards are standing outside of everyone’s chambers. I cannot allow you to leave and walk the corridors until we know the threat has been taken care of.”

“And I cannot allow you to keep me here while I worry myself sick over my children. I command you to move. At once.”

But Ser Alfred did not budge no matter how many times she repeated her command. Rhaenyra grit her teeth. She was the queen. She directed him, not the other way around.

She would not forget his insolence. Would not forget that he forced her to remain in her bedchamber, going against his queen’s orders, while her children were alone and frightened and at risk.

“And how did you manage to gain permission to leave your chambers?” Rhaenyra bitingly asked her lady-in-waiting.

“I was in the corridor when Ser Alfred and the others in the household guard were making their way to your rooms,” Elinda said. “They told me it would be safer to remain with them.”

Rhaenyra responded with an unimpressed hum. Her companion was not revealing the entire story, she knew. She was not blind, she had seen for herself that Elinda had developed an affection for one of the minor knights in the retinue on Dragonstone. They must have been together, meeting clandestinely, when the commotion began and Elinda was then swept up with the guards on their way to the queen’s apartments.

“I am sure the children are fine,” Elinda said timidly.

“You don’t know that for certain, though, do you?”

Rhaenyra hoped—nay, prayed to the gods—that they were asleep. That the household knights allowed them to sleep through the night undisturbed while the Queensguard slew whomever the usurper had sent to kill them. Or her. That all the children would greet the morning completely unaware of the turmoil during the night. But the possibility that they had been awoken alarmed her. Especially Aegon and Viserys. The others were old enough to at least remain outwardly calm, but Aegon and Viserys were too young. They were too little to understand what was happening, all they knew was that something was wrong and that they were frightened.

She wanted to run to them. To assure them that she was there, that she would protect them. She wished she had the strength to take down Ser Alfred, to walk over him while she marched to the nursery.

If anything happened to any of her children, Rhaenyra would fly to King’s Landing and burn the city to the ground before the sun rose.

The image of Aegon and Viserys crying in their beds refused to leave her. Their faces red and shiny from their effort and tears while the sound of their fear echoed through the empty nursery. Her chest tightened at the thought of her babes calling out for her. At the thought of them clinging to one another, wondering why their mother had not come for them.

She refused to even entertain the possibility that the Queensguard would not protect her family. That the men her half-brother sent would be able to take down three accomplished knights. She had every confidence in Sers Steffon, Erryk, and Lorent. They were good men. Loyal men. Men that had served her father for years.

Yet that did not stop Rhaenyra from wringing her shaky hands as she paced the length of her bedchamber and ignored Elinda’s every attempt to assuage her fears. Did not stop her from recalling the details of the death of the usurper’s son, his throat slit inside while his mother looked on helplessly.

She cursed Alfred Broome once more. Cursed him to all seven hells. She cursed Aegon. And Otto. And Alicent. And everyone who bent the knee to her traitor half-brother. And she cursed the sun for not showing its face faster, for making the night feel as if it was lasting an eternity. A night which the castle spent in prolonged, suspended terror.

It was only once her stomach felt as if it had tied itself into one giant knot, her chest was so tight she could barely breathe, and her heart beat so rapidly that all she could hear was the blood rushing through her ears did Lord Commander Steffon Darklyn and Grand Maester Gerardys enter her quarters.

“Are the children unharmed?” Rhaenyra asked as soon as the men crossed the threshold. Her voice was raspy, her throat having dried in her fear.

“Yes,” Ser Steffon assured her. “They are all safe and still in their chambers.”

She audibly let out a sigh of relief. Her shoulders dropped, and the knot that had been her stomach mere minutes ago untangled itself.

“Tell me what happened,” she ordered softly as she beckoned them to follow her. She needed to go to the nursery. To see for herself that her youngest were all right.

“We are not entirely sure,” Ser Steffon admitted as they made their way down the corridor. “But it appears as if while Ser Erryk was patrolling the hall he came across his twin brother.”

“Ser Arryk?”

The knight nodded. “The brothers dueled, and the sounds of their swords clashing and their yelling alarmed those on the lower floors, which is how we knew the castle had been breached in the first place. Grand Maester Gerardys heard more than I did.”

Rhaenyra looked at her Grand Maester. His brown robes were wrinkled, his hair stuck out in multiple directions, and his expression shaken. It was clear he had bolted out of his chambers upon hearing the sounds of the duel between Sers Erryk and Arryk.

“I did not hear everything they said,” Gerardys said timidly. “But it is clear Ser Arryk was sent by Aegon.”

Rhaenyra huffed in anger. Her half-brother failed in his attempts at vengeance, which provided her some comfort, but that still did not change the fact that Dragonstone had been infiltrated. That it was only by chance that Ser Arryk had been stopped. The next time the usurper may act bolder. Rasher.

“Both Ser Erryk and Arryk are dead,” the Lord Commander told her just as they reached the door to the nursery.

Rhaenyra snapped her head to look at Ser Steffon. With Ser Erryk dead that meant she only had two knights in her Queensguard. Three was barely enough to feel safe, two was certainly not enough to protect the entire castle and its inhabitants.

The Prince of Pentos could not respond to Jace quickly enough. The sooner the children left for the Vale and Essos the better.

“Wait for me out here,” she directed just before quietly stepping into the nursery.

Rhaenyra could not help but smile as her eyes landed on her two youngest sons. They still slept soundly, the events of the night unknown to them. Viserys laid on his back, his little arms spread out beside him, while Aegon curled onto his side. She crept to their beds and, kneeling down on the floor between them, allowed herself to cry tears of joy and relief.

They were safe. Safe and alive. Nothing had happened to them. Nothing would happen to them.

She remained in the nursery until the tears stopped flowing and enough time had passed for Rhaenyra to feel sure her eyes were no longer noticeably red. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she stepped back out into the corridor.

“Tell the queen what else you heard Ser Arryk say,” Ser Steffon demanded of Gerardys nearly as soon as Rhaenyra closed the door behind her, his face set into a scowl.

The Grand Maester swallowed. “After Erryk wounded Arryk, Arryk attempted to stop the duel. He said that if Erryk allowed him to leave with the girl he would go quietly and leave your sons alone.”

Rhaenyra stilled. Her relief at her children’s safety quickly turned to outrage. Arryk had not only wanted to kill her sons, but he considered taking her daughter as a hostage a suitable alternative. To steal her from her bed and allow the greens to keep her as a prisoner. To use her as a pawn. If the usurper could not get his revenge by murdering one of her sons, he would do so by setting his sights on her daughter.

He would ruin her. Defile her. Humiliate her. He would parade her around like a prize of war. Her only daughter. Her firstborn.

Just as her younger sons needed to leave Dragonstone as soon as possible for their safety, Rhaenyra realized the same was true for Aly. She needed to go to Winterfell. And quickly.

She kept her back to the door of her solar as she watched the gentle waves of the Blackwater through her window. The horizon slowly grew brighter the longer she stood there—a sign that the dreadful night was nearing its end. Rhaenyra could not recall the last time she felt so grateful to see a budding sunrise.

The sound of her door opening drew her attention away from the window. Her heart clenched at the sight of her daughter. At the fear written all over her face. She knew something had happened, but the confusion in her eyes was unmistakable. As was the fact that she had been hastily told of her mother’s desire to see her. Her curly brown hair was slightly tangled, her body tense, and her dressing gown only haphazardly tied around her waist.

“What has happened?” Aly asked a tad frantically. “Ser Howard refused to say. All he told me was that I was to remain in my rooms, and then told me that you wished to see me.”

Rhaenyra gently placed her hands on the top of her daughter’s shoulders. Hoping her touch provided her daughter a sense of calmness. The pair were still cross with one another, Aly with her mother over Jaehaerys’s death and Rhaenyra with her daughter over both her marriage to Cregan and her constant criticisms over Daemon’s actions, but the events of the night had washed away the ill feelings between them. At least temporarily.

“Everything is all right now, but the castle was breached.”

Aly’s brows knitted together and her mouth went slightly agape in shock. “Breached?”

“Ser Arryk sneaked into the castle. It was only luck that Ser Erryk caught him. He was sent by Aegon to kill one of your brothers.”

“Are they all right?” Aly asked barely above a whisper, the fear on her face increasing tenfold.

“They are all fine,” she reassured her daughter. “Ser Erryk slew his brother before he could bring any harm to them.”

Aly nodded, taking in all of the information her mother shared with her. “Do you think he will try again? Aegon?” she asked after a few moments.

“Yes.”

“A son for a son,” Aly murmured, her troubled expression turning to one of anger and resentment. “Is that not what Daemon said?”

The boy’s death was inevitable. From the moment Aegon stole my throne.

“Or a daughter,” Rhaenyra shot back. Clinging to composure in the face of Aly’s continual misplaced ire. “Ser Arryk told his brother that he intended to take you back with him to King’s Landing as a hostage. Do you know what that means? What they would do to you? A young attractive hostage in the court of a traitor?”

Rhaenyra watched her daughter as the words sunk in. Her expression morphed from surprised to confused to uncertain to something else that Rhaenyra could not quite place and, finally, back to anger.

“You are lying to yourself if you do not think your half-uncle would brutalize you. Or that he would not murder your brothers one by one. No matter how angry you still are over the death of Jaehaerys, they started this war. They usurped my throne and they murdered your brother.”

Aly clenched her jaw and tears formed in her eyes as she remained silent. Because what could she have said? Rhaenyra spoke the truth. They both knew it.

“It is not safe for you here,” she said finally. “You will return to Winterfell, perhaps permanently. I will write to Cregan to expect you.”

Aly’s blue eyes hardened and her chin slightly tilted upwards, but she did not push back. Did not attempt to convince her mother to allow her to remain on Dragonstone. Did not tell her mother that she would be able to kill if need be.

Rhaenyra wished she would.

Chapter Text

Aly stared down at the contents of the wooden drawer, debating with herself on whether or not to take it all with her. She made her decision about the jewelry quickly, of course it would come with her, but the letters gave her an extended pause. Bringing them to Winterfell was stupid, and potentially dangerous should anyone find them, but leaving them on Dragonstone carried the same risk. While the possibility of anyone snooping through the vanity was low, it was still there.

Her chest feeling tight, she scooped up the pieces of parchment and walked over to the hearth. She did not, could not, allow herself to second guess her decision before throwing the paper into the fire. Aly watched as the letters written to her by her uncle caught in the flames and turned to ash. The letters that she still reread some evenings, the letters in which he told her that he loved her.

Regret bubbled in her stomach as it sunk in that she would never read those words again. She had memorized them, could still perfectly envision how they looked upon the parchment, but her memories were now all she had of them. Almost all she had of Aegon now at all.

“Are you about ready?”

Aly looked up at the sound of her brother’s voice. Sadness was written all over his face at their impending farewell. A sadness that Aly felt deep in her bones. Neither knew when they would see each other again. And when they did see each other again, once the war was all but won, she knew they would both be different people.

Jace was already different. The title of Prince of Dragonstone weighed on him heavily. Gone was his youthful cheer and ease and in its place was a wariness and sense of responsibility Aly had only seen on men much older. Her brother no longer appeared the child she had grown up with but instead the future king.

He is too young for such a burden.

“I only have to put away this one last thing,” Aly answered as she returned to her vanity.

She carefully placed her silver necklace with the mermaid pendant, the diamond and amethyst bracelet, and all the other pieces of jewelry Aegon had given her as gifts in her polished wooden box. Her eyes swept over her chambers as she put the box into her knapsack. The rooms had more or less been stripped bare over the past few days. Her wardrobe was still more than half full, as it was too cold in the north to wear most of her gowns, but everything else had either been packed away or would be remaining in the castle.

Shrugging on her lambswool cloak, she said, “I’m ready now.”

Aly took her brother’s outstretched arm and walked with him out into the corridor.

“I will write as often as I can,” Jace promised.

“I would like that.”

Everyone gathered in the main entryway to see her off. The memory of leaving for King’s Landing for the first time flashed to the forefront of Aly’s mind. How her entire family lined up to say their goodbyes, how she had not wanted to leave Dragonstone. Now, though… It was for the best that she was leaving. Her mother sending her away was born from fear and, even if her mother did not admit it even to herself, their disagreement over what had happened to Jaehaerys. Over her marriage to Cregan. Ser Arryk breaching the castle only provided an excuse.

Ser Arryk told his brother that he intended to take you back with him to King’s Landing as a hostage. Do you know what that means? What they would do to you? A young attractive hostage in the court of a traitor? You are lying to yourself if you do not think your half-uncle would brutalize you.

But Aegon wouldn’t have done that. Aly knew it, even if her mother did not. He had loved her. Not enough to not steal her mother’s crown, not enough to not send one of the Kingsguard to Dragonstone with ill-intent. But enough to not harm her. She was certain of it.

One by one she embraced each of her brothers and both cousins with declarations of love and promises to write. She asked Rhaena and Joffrey to tell her all about the Vale once they arrived, and requested Baela to regale her with tales of Pentos once she returned from helping Aegon and Viserys settle there. When Aly stood in front of Rhaenyra, neither moved nor said anything. They merely looked at one another, uncertain.

“Your things were sent ahead earlier this morning,” her mother said after a few moments. “The ship should reach White Harbor in no time.”

Aly nodded. “I will tell Cregan to send a carriage for everything.”

“You have packed everything you are taking with you?”

“Yes.” She patted her full knapsack to emphasize her answer.

Rhaenyra studied her for a few more moments before she reached out and wrapped her arms around Aly. “We will all miss you,” her mother said into her brown curls. “I will call for you once I have taken the throne. Once it is safe for you to return home.”

“All right.”

“Write to me once the first northern host begins their march,” her mother directed as she ended the embrace but kept her hands on Aly’s shoulders. “And then again once Cregan does.”

“I will.”

Rhaenyra moved her hand up to cup her daughter’s cheeks. Her eyes were full of sorrow and resoluteness. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Send a raven so I know you arrived safely.”

With a small smile and soft “goodbye,” Aly headed to the Dragonmont flanked by Sers Alfred Broome and Robert Quince. Orwello greeted her upon her entry, as did Lyrax with a slow whine. The twilight blue dragon ducked her head once Aly stood closer, and Aly obliged her beast by gently tracing patterns over her scales. Lyrax would not like their destination, nor their extended stay, but Aly hoped that, in time, her dragon would at least become used to their new home.

Perhaps her dragon eggs, which Aly insisted upon taking with her, would hatch and provide Lyrax with a sense of purpose and companionship.

“We’ve added as much burning coal as we can,” Orwello told her in High Valyrian as a pair of acolytes fastened the metal container holding Lyrax’s eggs to her saddle.

“Thank you.”

“They will need to be placed into a brazier as soon as you arrive,” the Dragonkeeper continued. “You said there is a hot spring near the castle?”

“There is,” Aly confirmed.

“You should immerse the eggs in it if you can find a way to do so. The heat will provide a more opportune condition than a castle brazier.”

“And if the eggs begin to hatch while they are immersed?”

“I suppose you will find out if dragons can swim.” He shrugged in an effort to keep his response light, but the anxiety he attempted to mask still revealed itself.

“I’ll keep a close eye on them, then.”

“Write to me of their progress,” Orwello requested. “Immersing eggs in a hot spring has, to my knowledge, never been done.”

“I will,” Aly promised as she began climbing the saddle. Once she was safely fastened, Orwello and the acolytes stood back to allow room for Lyrax’s wingspan and, with the directive to fly, rider and dragon left the Dragonmont for the north.

The flight was slow going, in large part because Lyrax was not eager to fly quickly once they reached the Vale. She understood from their trajectory that her rider was asking her to return to the vast land that possessed no warmth, the land in which she had been so eager to leave several moons prior after just a few days. But this time there would be no quick return home.

When Aly and Lyrax landed at the edge of the wolfswood, Aly was dismayed to see the thick coating of snow upon the ground. Lyrax was as well. The large beast at first refused to descend when Aly first directed her down, forcing Aly to speak more firmly than she usually did to finally get her dragon to mind her. And as soon as Aly’s boots made contact with the frozen ground, Lyrax turned her neck and spewed yellow flames onto a pile of logs several yards away. The resulting fire was not large enough to burn the entire woods to ash but enough to instantly thaw the chill that had taken root within Aly despite the lambswool cloak she wore.

“I didn’t know it would be so cold,” Aly told her dragon, half-apologizing, as she unfastened the metal box containing the dragon eggs from her saddle. “Cregan promised to build a structure for you. To shield you from the snow.”

While true, it was an obvious attempt to appease her. An attempt that was met with a skeptical and slightly annoyed look in Lyrax’s orange eyes.

She already hates it here.

Aly wanted to say more to soothe Lyrax, but the sound of hooves caused her and her dragon to turn. Lyrax immediately tensed as three horses, two with men astride them, slowly made their way towards them. Benjicot Branch, steward of Winterfell, sat atop the chestnut courser, a kind smile adorning his face upon seeing her. Lord Stark rode the white warhorse, his face stern though Aly could see a slight glimmer in his grey eyes. He wore his greatsword Ice across his back, the fur of his cloak collecting the light snow that flurried in the wind.

“It’s all right,” Aly said to Lyrax while the two men dismounted and walked towards her. Stopping several feet away, unwilling to come any closer to her dragon.

“Aly,” Cregan greeted at the same time as Benjicot said “Princess Aelora.”

She shifted her shoulders as she moved to join them. “Hello. It is nice to see you again. Both of you.”

Aly wanted to wince at the stiffness of her words. She hoped that the time since her leaving Winterfell after their wedding would end any awkwardness on her part, but seeing Cregan again only caused it to return with force. Unbidden, memories of their wedding night flashed to the front of her mind.

“What do you have there?” Benjicot asked about the metal box she held, unknowingly saving Aly from drowning in her discomfort.

“Lyrax’s eggs,” she answered. “The Dragonkeeper on Dragonstone ordered them to be placed directly onto a brazier as soon as I arrived.”

“Then it’s best we don’t linger,” Cregan said as he moved to take the box from her.

Her husband secured the box to his warhorse’s saddle as Aly mounted Obsidian, the same black courser she had ridden during her previous stay. Once settled she gave the men a slight nod and the three began their journey to the castle.

They rode in silence for quite awhile, broken only when Cregan said, “I feel I should warn you that news of our marriage has spread amongst my lords.”

That caused Aly to still. Neither expected their marriage to remain a secret forever, especially now that she had been sent to Winterfell by her mother, but Cregan’s choice of words made it clear he had not shared the news with the northern lords himself. And made her infer that their marriage became common knowledge before Aly had even told her mother of it.

“But so few knew,” she practically protested. The only two witnesses to the ceremony were Benjicot and Sara. A few servants were informed of the wedding after the fact, but only those Cregan said he trusted the most. Even then, they had initially been sworn to secrecy.

“A few is not none,” he said, annoyance clear in his tone.

“How did…have you heard from the Norreys?” she asked hesitantly.

“Aye, I heard quite a bit from him.”

Her stomach twisted at his words. So much already worked against Aly in the eyes of the northerners: she was southron, a princess, a dragonrider. An outsider. Now with the other lords knowing about their liege lord’s quick remarriage after his first wife’s death she feared they would never accept her. She also feared there was also the possibility that they would refuse to march south to support her mother’s claim, should they be angered enough. Not every house, perhaps, but the mountain clans may resist leaving their homes. And if the north was not at full strength…

What was the point of marrying Cregan if the entire north did not rally to her mother’s side?

“Lord Norrey is threatening for his entire clan to eschew the autumn feast,” Benjicot told her. As if she knew that to which he referred.

“If that is what he wishes, so be it,” Cregan said.

Aly did not know her husband very well, but she could tell by his expression that Lord Norrey’s anger weighed on him. He must have cared for the man, the father of his beloved childhood friend and first wife. Perhaps he had given Cregan council while he made his plans to retake his rightful lordship from his uncle. Or even provided men to help.

All thoughts of Lord Norrey left her once the castle walls were in sight, however, and Aly could not help but gawk. The winter town, as Cregan called it, had appeared more or less empty the last time she rode through it. The rows of small houses made of logs and undressed stone that stood along muddy roads largely appeared vacant, and the market with its wooden stalls was much the same. Now, though, the town seemed to be nearly bursting. Men, women, and children, all bundled up in furs, walked to and fro while peddlers sold produce, freshly baked bread, and other goods and trinkets.

“Farmers and villagers from all over the north move here in late autumn and stay through the winter,” Cregan told her upon seeing her slightly stunned look. “It is less harsh here than in some of the more remote parts of the region.”

Aly nodded in understanding as she followed Cregan and Benjicot straight forward towards the Hunter’s Gate, avoiding the inhabitants of winter town completely. Upon passing through the gate, Aly’s eyes, already wide from seeing winter town, grew even wider. The grounds and sloped walls of the castle were completely covered in snow, and Aly knew if the sun were shining it would nearly blind her from how bright it would have been. She had seen the castle on her last visit, of course, but seeing it now was stunning. The castle was made to be covered in snow.

“You’ll stay in the same chambers as you did previously,” Benjicot told her once they dismounted their horses and handed the reins over to the stablehands.

Tension Aly had not realized she was carrying left her body at the steward’s words as relief washed over her. She and Cregan would be sleeping in separate quarters. He had promised her, the morning after their wedding, that they would get to know one another once she returned to Winterfell permanently. And she was grateful that he seemed to be keeping his word, not forcing her to share his bedchamber.

Her stomach twisted again, however, when she reminded herself that separate rooms did not mean he would not claim his rights once night fell.

He is my husband.

“I’ll accompany you,” Cregan insisted as he finished untying the metal box containing Lyrax’s eggs from his horse’s saddle. “Benjicot, tell the servants to bring a large brazier to Aelora’s rooms.”

“Of course, my lord.”

“The Dragonkeeper suggested I submerge the eggs in the hot spring,” Aly told Cregan as they walked towards the Great Keep. “Is it possible? To keep them submerged without losing them to the bottom of the spring?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Sara ordered a few gowns for you,” Cregan said once they reached the corridor in which her chambers were located. “They may not fit you perfectly, but they’re lambswool. I’ve asked a seamstress to come in the next few days to measure you for better fitting items. Order as many as you desire.”

“I will, thank you. My trunks were sent to White Harbor this morning, when they arrive—”

“I’ll arrange Lord Manderly to send them here,” Cregan interrupted with a small smile.

She opened her mouth to thank him, again, but the sound of her name interrupted her. A servant walked towards them, an older woman with grey strands of hair peppered throughout her black updo. The beginnings of deep lines surrounded her eyes and mouth, a sure sign of her convivial humor. Aly vaguely recognized her face, though the woman had not been the one to tend to her during her previous time at Winterfell.

“This is Myra,” Cregan introduced.

“I’ll be your handmaid, Princess.”

“It’s wonderful to meet you.”

The chambers appeared exactly as they had during Aly’s last stay. The cushions, fabric covering the high-backed chairs, and the coverlets atop the featherbed were either Stark grey or white. A couple of tapestries on the stone walls provided most of the color in the room, each depicting various scenes of the landscape surrounding the castle. She hoped that, once she unpacked the things she brought with her and then the items in her trunk, the quarters would appear more comforting. Now, though, all she could think was that the chambers did not belong to her even though they did.

No sooner had the three of them entered into Aly’s chambers than three men walked into the room carrying a brazier. They wore thick gloves to protect their skin from the hot metal, the flames licking the top of the grate. It was a bit crude, but Aly hoped it would suffice. At least until she could take the eggs to the hot spring.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Cregan said as he set down the metal box containing the eggs on the floor in front of the brazier.

He dawdled in the doorway until Aly opened the container, no doubt curious what dragon eggs looked like, before stepping into the corridor. One by one Aly placed the eggs onto the metal grate. The fire would need to be tended to rather frequently, something she expressed to Myra once all the eggs were on the brazier.

The eggs taken care of, Aly turned her attention to the gowns in the open wardrobe. She currently wore one of her thicker dresses, but it was still not thick enough to feel comfortable in the cold castle without wearing a cloak. Just as Cregan said, the dresses were all made of lambswool. They were also all rather simple, she hoped due to the haste in making them rather than a lack of ability in northern seamstresses, but the colors were vibrant. In addition to the Stark grey, deep red, light blue, silver, purple, and green gowns hung in the wooden wardrobe.

To the right of the lambswool gowns hung several nightgowns made of plush velvet. They were not the nightgowns of a maiden but of a married woman seeking to please her husband. Had Sara ordered them along with the gowns, not thinking anything of it? Had Cregan? Her nerves flared as she thought of how quickly time would pass before she had to ready for bed. As she thought of how the night would go.

Every hearth in the Great Hall of Winterfell was lit, and Aly knew it was only for her benefit. Still, she was grateful for the warmth, as the trek from her chambers to the Great Hall had been a rather chilly one. No matter how lukewarm her rooms were, the rest of the castle was colder. Her walk had only emphasized that.

Mayhaps one day I will become used to it.

Sara Snow grinned as Aly made her way to the long trestle table situated in front of the largest hearth in the hall. “Hello,” she greeted when Aly reached them.

Cregan, who had been speaking with Benjicot so intently that neither registered her entrance into the hall until Sara spoke, abruptly ended his conversation with his steward and turned to look at her. He moved as if to stand, but he ultimately remained seated as Aly planted herself beside him before he could.

“Finally, we can eat,” Sara said with a look of amusement towards her brother. Her words were only said to tease, though, as steam still rose from the platters of green beans, roasted chicken, and winter squash.

“Thank you for ordering gowns for me,” Aly told her goodsister as they all began portioning food onto their respective plates.

“Of course,” she responded with a small shrug. “Hopefully they will do until more are made using your exact measurements. I could only guess at the numbers.”

“Bessa confirmed she’ll be able to come the day after tomorrow,” Cregan said.

“She’s the best seamstress in the region,” Sara told Aly. “She’s staying in the winter town until spring comes, so it should be a relatively quick turnaround.”

Aly nodded but otherwise did not respond. She had so little knowledge of northern fashion, she would simply have to trust Sara’s enthusiasm.

“Is Lyrax large enough to saddle two?” Sara inquired after a few beats of silence.

“Sara,” Cregan half-chided.

“I wanted to ask last time, but…well…”

The last time I was here I received word of Luke’s death.

“She is,” Aly answered carefully. “But I do not think it is a good idea. I’ve never attempted to have anyone join me.”

And I doubt she would be amenable to an additional rider given her attitude about being back here.

Sara visibly deflated. “All right.”

“She just wants an opportunity to show off her dragonlore knowledge,” Cregan told her, his voice full of amusement.

“Oh?” During Aly’s last stay at Winterfell, Sara had made no attempt to hide her curiosity about Lyrax and the other Targaryen dragons, but as far as Aly knew she had not possessed any particular knowledge surrounding the creatures of Old Valyria.

The chance to explain herself perked Sara right back up. With a look of pride, she said, “As soon as you left, Cregan and Lew, the head mason, began drawing up plans for a structure to house Lyrax. I told them that they shouldn’t even think of building something without consulting our volumes on dragonlore, so I borrowed every book on our shelves I could find pertaining to dragons.”

“You’ve already begun making plans?” Aly asked, turning to Cregan. He had promised that he would, right before she left, but she supposed she had not expected him to act so quickly.

He nodded as he reached into his pocket and unfurled the scroll he kept there. As if waiting for the right moment to show her. Her eyes roamed the lines and angles drawn onto the parchment. The plans called for a dome-like structure built of bronze and steel. The design was not nearly as grand as the Dragonpit, with no tunnels or caverns, but based on the notated figures it would be large enough to house Lyrax and a few other dragons.

“Lew will build piping connecting the hot spring to the building,” Sara said immediately. She had clearly seen the plans before, and Aly held no doubt that the idea of warming the structure using the hot spring had been Sara’s idea. It would not be as hot as the Dragonmont, nor the Dragonpit in light of the frigidity of the north compared to King’s Landing, but it would hopefully keep Lyrax comfortable, as well as any hatchlings that should spring forth from her eggs.

“Is it suitable?” There was a hint of uncertainty in Cregan’s voice. Aly could not blame him - no mason since The Old King’s reign had built a structure to house dragons.

“Yes.”

The addition of caverns would have made it better, but she did not know if that was feasible due to the expense or the availability of materials - or perhaps both. The construction of just what he and Lew had drawn up would take months, if not years, to complete due to its size despite its relative simplicity.

Cregan’s lips quirked up in a smile and she did not miss the relief when he said, “Good. We intend to build it at the edge of the wolfswood, a few leagues from where Lyrax is now.”

“Perhaps one of the Dragonkeepers on Dragonstone can come north once it’s completed,” Sara suggested.

“That would certainly be useful for when the eggs hatch,” Aly responded.

Sara nodded, as if the matter was settled, and the four of them ate their supper in silence for a few minutes before Benjicot spoke.

“Fran has asked to meet with you soon, Princess Aelora. She is in charge of all the servants, and she would like to familiarize you with them and their schedule and duties.”

“Thank the gods,” Sara said with a grateful sigh. “I am more than happy to turn over every duty of the lady of the castle to you, Aelora.”

“So eager to wash your hands of your responsibilities?” Cregan jested, to which Sara merely shrugged.

“I will meet with her in the next few days,” Aly promised Benjicot.

“Rena will want to meet with you as well,” Cregan said. “Rickon’s nursemaid.”

Anxiety shot up her spine and her stomach dropped. She believed herself ready to take charge of Winterfell’s affairs, having done so at Dragonstone whenever her mother was unable, but even then she had not taken over the care of her brothers. And now she was expected to care for Cregan’s babe. Her stepson. She knew the basics, having seen Helaena and Alicent make decisions for the children and then some of how her mother ran the nursery on Dragonstone, but having sole responsibility over Rickon suddenly made her feel overwhelmed and lacking in confidence.

“When you have a few moments, there are several letters for you,” Sara informed her. “Northern lords offering their daughters to serve as your companions. Eager to have fewer mouths to feed once winter comes. You should pick soon so they know they will be remaining here after the autumn feast.”

“What is the autumn feast?” Aly asked, a bit desperate to distract herself from the mounting list of responsibilities she needed to tackle soon. She knew running a household required work, but she naively did not think so much would fall to her so soon. And coming into a new household, one with already set ways, only served to daunt her.

It is my duty now.

“The Starks always host the northern families deep into autumn when it appears winter will soon arrive,” Cregan explained. “It is the last time the houses are together until spring comes, as the deep winter snow makes long distance travel difficult. If there are any disagreements or items needing my attention that need to be discussed in person, the autumn feast is the time to handle everything.”

“It’s also a chance for Lord Stark to show his generosity to his vassals by sharing his table before the winter comes,” Benjicot said.

Aly nodded, understanding the symbolic nature of it. While everyone worked towards filling their stores to prepare for the winter, their liege lord sacrificed potential food from his own while the northern houses gathered for one last chance to speak to him directly.

“I’ll help you choose your ladies,” Sara offered, redirecting the conversation back to the task Aly would need to do sooner rather than later, before grinning. “I know which ladies are so boring you should not waste your time on them.”

Aly breathed out a laugh. “I appreciate your help,” she said honestly.

This would be Aly’s first time choosing her own companions, and she did not wish to make a mistake - or to choose a lady she ended up finding horrid. Or irritating, like Bethany Mullendore. She wished she could ask Alarra to join her. That would certainly make her life in Winterfell more bearable. Perhaps she could once the war ended, if Lord Darklyn had not already attempted to use her for an alliance. Or even if Alarra had already remarried, if her friend disliked the man chosen for her.

I will write to her, Aly decided, and see if she would be willing.

Aly thought wistfully once more at how her hopes for her future in Winterfell had once been so different. She would have been joined by Aegon and Helaena and the children. All three children. Happy and alive, their laughter one day mixing with that of her own children filling the corridors. But that was not meant to be.

“I will walk with you back to your rooms,” Cregan told Aly once everyone had eaten their fill.

Her shoulders tensed at his words, and she could not help but recall the velvet nightgowns in her wardrobe. The ones that had been ordered for her. Her legs felt shaky as she moved to stand only after everyone else, and her pulse picked up.

“I will see you on the morrow,” Sara said with a smile and a wave once they returned to the Great Keep. Leaving Aly standing alone with Cregan.

He is my husband.

“The greybeards are gathering at Barrowton,” he told her after a few moments of the pair walking silently towards her chambers. “Once they are ready they will begin their march south.”

“To Harrenhal,” Aly told him, unsure if Daemon’s capture of the great castle and the riverlands bending the knee to her mother had been shared with him.

“To Harrenhal,” he repeated. “I will write Lord Roderick in the morning. He will be the one to lead them.”

“And Roderick is the lord of Barrowton?”

Cregan nodded in confirmation. “Old and hoary but not a man easily defeated in combat.”

Aly hummed but did not say anything. The awkwardness and dread that she felt only seemed to grow with each step, and by the time they reached the door to her chambers her stomach felt so twisted in on itself that she was beginning to feel dizzy.

“Thank you for escorting me,” Aly said, her throat dry. She hoped her words would signal that she did not wish for him to join her.

“Can I come in?”

Panic must have shown on her face, for Cregan quickly assured her, “Only to talk.”

She hoped the vast amount of relief that washed over her was not obvious or, if it was, it did not offend him.

“All right,” she said quietly as she opened the door.

Her chambers were empty, Myra having long ago finished putting away what few things Aly had brought with her in her knapsack. The items that sat atop the vanity and bedside table did make the rooms appear at least somewhat more familiar, though Aly knew it would take time before she felt truly comfortable. Before the quarters felt like hers rather than guest chambers.

“It’s warm in here,” Cregan claimed while he rolled up the sleeves of his tunic.

“I find it a bit chilly,” she told him. Despite the large fire and the hot springs piped through the walls, goosebumps still ran across her arms.

He looked at her in slight disbelief for a few seconds before his face smoothed. Aly brought her hand to rest upon her collarbone at his scrutiny. Unsure what he was thinking.

“I was surprised when I received your mother’s letter,” he admitted. “You were so firm in your desire of not returning to Winterfell for quite some time the last we spoke.”

Aly swallowed and then, in an effort to delay her answer, moved to sit at the large table in her sitting area. Cregan followed and occupied the seat opposite her. She remained silent for several more moments, thinking through how to respond. Wondering if she should tell him the entire truth: that her mother’s anger upon hearing of their marriage and then Aly’s anger upon hearing of Jaehaerys’s death and Rhaenyra’s subsequent refusal to condemn Daemon for his actions had created the perfect storm of chilliness and resentment so that, at the first opportunity, her mother sent her away.

“My mother and I agreed it was best for me to leave Dragonstone,” she settled on. Telling him a half-truth. “My younger brothers will be leaving as well, once the plans for them are finalized.”

“I imagine she fears for your safety after the death of the usurper’s son.”

His tone was light, but Aly knew he was asking her for more information. Who knew what rumors had spread this far away from the capital. Or what truths.

“Yes.”

“The killing of a babe is a line not many are willing to cross.”

“It’s not a line that should have been crossed,” she said before she could stop herself.

He was just a babe.

“Were you close with that branch of your family?” he asked in curiosity.

“Do I have to have been to think his killing was dishonorable?” Aly retorted before swallowing down her irritation. Cregan was not the man she wanted to argue with about Jaehaerys’s death. Not truly. “I spent time with my aunt Helaena as one of her companions the last couple of years of my grandfather’s reign.”

Aly looked away from Cregan when sympathy flashed across his face. They had not spoken of her time in the capital during her previous visit to Winterfell, he had had no idea about the close ties she felt with her kin. About the love she felt for them.

“How close were you with your uncle?”

“Not very,” Aly lied. Perhaps answering his question too quickly. “He and Helaena were not close, so I did not spend a lot of time with him.”

I spent every night in his arms.

“Still, it is difficult to move against those one loves.”

Aly tore her gaze away from the fire and returned her attention to Cregan. He was looking at her, but his eyes held a faraway quality that told her his mind was elsewhere. And she knew exactly where - he was thinking of his own uncle, Bennard, who ruled as his regent after Lord Rickon died and refused to give his power up once Cregan came of age. The uncle Cregan had had to rise against, along with Bennard’s three sons, to take his rightful place as Lord of Winterfell.

“I planned in secret for months,” Cregan told her, knowing, or perhaps hoping, that she would understand what he meant. “With Lord Norrey, Lord Locke, and Benjicot. Meeting in the crypts under the guise of paying respects to my mother and father so Bennard would not come upon us. We knew the best time to strike would be before dawn, before the household really began moving and panic amongst the servants could spread. I wanted it to be quick and bloodless. And it was.”

“What happened to them?” Aly asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“After I imprisoned them, you mean? The only thing that could happen to them.”

She swallowed as she envisioned Cregan swinging down Ice with both hands onto a man’s neck. A man and then three boys. Three boys that could have presented a potential threat to his lordship. Like Jaehaerys. Like Maelor, she realized helplessly.

When she was a girl, the stories and the songs made it all seem so easy. Made it seem as if the heroes were justified in killing their enemies, only killing those who truly deserved it. Never killing an innocent.

But life was not a song.

Chapter Text

The usually cool metal of the dragon egg ring Aegon wore on his smallest finger felt warm after spending so much time fiddling with it. Feeling the grooves of its surface under the pad of his pointer finger kept his mind occupied as he swept his finger over it first in a circle then up and down before repeating the sequence.

Helaena sat slumped in one of her high backed chairs. The fact that she was out of bed in the first place signified progress, according to her handmaid Kella. Ever since Jaehaerys’s death she only got out of bed to bathe and use the privy. Even when Jaehaera and Maelor had been brought to her, before Aegon placed them in Alicent’s care after he deemed her too unwell, she refused to leave the safety of her bed. It was only a few steps from the featherbed to the chair, but she had still made the journey. She looked terrible, though. Haunted. By their son’s death, by all that had occurred both before and after. Her hair was unkept and stringy, her once-bright lilac eyes now lifeless, her face puffy and red from tears, her clothing wrinkled, and her skin dull. And all she did all day was stare out towards the window. Looking but not seeing.

It was the first time Aegon had seen her since Jaehaerys’s funeral. She had actually looked better then, not having sunken quite so deeply into her grief. Now, though… In his own guilt and grief and shame, he glanced away from her. Kella stood nearby, ever ready in case the queen needed something, and she was flanked by three serving girls. Their eyes were cast downwards, Helaena’s state too pathetic and sad to even discreetly gawk at.

The sound of the door opening and skirts rustling caused Aegon to turn even further away from his sister. Bethany Mullendore stopped her entrance into the chambers as soon as her dark brown eyes landed on him, and she tilted her head down before saying, “Good morrow, Your Grace.”

Just as Helaena’s handmaid had provided her with quiet albeit constant companionship, so too had Bethany Mullendore. Even though she had her own children to look after, even though Helaena never said a word, even though Helaena never called for her ladies-in-waiting, she diligently reported to Helaena’s chambers every morning and remained with her until early afternoon. Aegon had always been more or less indifferent to Bethany. He found it amusing that Aly disliked her so much, but otherwise he barely paid her much mind. Yet ever since Jaehaerys’s murder he found himself feeling increasingly grateful towards her. She cared for Helaena, had ensured she ate and bathed in those early days after their son’s death, and steadfastly continued to remain by her side. Unlike the other ladies who, after it became clear Helaena would no longer call for them, filled their days with their own amusements and pursuits.

Without receiving a greeting back, Bethany silently moved to collect the embroidery hoop, thread, and needle that she left the previous day and began working on it once she occupied the seat next to Helaena.

“How are Jaehaera and Maelor?” Bethany asked after several minutes of silence.

Aegon’s heart lurched when he saw Helaena flinch at the mention of Maelor.

It isn’t your fault.

He had said those very words to his sister just a half hour before, speaking into the silence. He did not know if she registered what he was telling her, but he wanted, needed, her to hear it. Needed her to know that he didn’t blame her, that she had been faced with an impossible choice, that the responsibility for Jaehaerys’s murder did not rest on her shoulders.

“They are fine,” Aegon answered hesitantly. Not wanting to cause Helaena any discomfort by discussing their children. “How are Jennis and the babe?”

“Martyn,” Bethany supplied, knowing he did not remember the name of the son she had birthed shortly after Maelor was born. “They are well. Though Jennis misses spending time with Jaehaera. I have sent several notes to Queen Alicent asking about Jaehaera joining us in the gardens or for supper, but I haven’t received a response.”

“I will see that she does,” Aegon promised. It would be good for Jaehaera to return to some sense of normalcy. To have a companion again after losing her twin. And Jennis and Jaehaera had gotten along well, played together previously with no issue.

Several beats of silence passed, and Aegon decided it was time to leave. Decided he needed to leave. Sitting with Helaena, witnessing her state, made him feel as if he could barely breathe. Remorse crawled up his spine and wrapped itself around his throat, squeezing tightly, while the walls in her bedchamber seemed to close in on him.

“Petyr is wary,” Bethany said just as he began moving towards the door. Halting his movements. “He fears an attack by Princess Rhaenyra is imminent, especially after…”

She trailed off, but Aegon knew exactly what she was going to say. Especially after Ser Arryk’s failed attack on Dragonstone. The knight of the kingsguard’s death, and the circumstances surrounding it, had spread throughout the Red Keep like wildfire. Irritation roared within him at the unspoken reminder of Ser Arryk’s failure. He could have avenged Jaehaerys, could have ended the war with a single slice across his half-sister’s throat.

He could have brought Aly back to the capital. Back to him.

But Ser Arryk had not done anything except humiliate Aegon with his failure. Rhaenyra was no doubt laughing at him, at his inability to avenge his son the way she had avenged hers. At the fact that, after Daemon took Stone Hedge, she held nearly the entire riverlands. At the fact that even the Reach was split in its support.

She was fucking laughing at him.

Aegon’s fingers curled into fists. “The city is safe,” he said gruffly before continuing on his way out of his sister’s quarters.

When he was only a few steps from his own chambers, a few steps away from a large goblet of strongwine, he audibly groaned upon hearing a servant chasing after him and calling “Your Grace.” Aegon considered ignoring the man, going straight to his rooms and downing a goblet of wine while waiting for the servant to ask Ser Gyles for entry, but he knew that would only delay the inevitable.

“Pate has finished your armor, Your Grace,” the servant panted once he caught up to Aegon. “He can bring it to you as soon as you are willing to see him.”

At least seeing the master armorer would not be taxing. Not like meeting a courtier or a member of the small council.

“Take him to my solar,” Aegon directed. “I will meet him there shortly.”

Pate and three of his apprentices, young men who looked to be just a few years younger than Daeron, stood in the large, bright room when Aegon joined them a half hour later. Just enough time to nurse two goblets of strongwine. The apprentices held the pieces of the armor, the Qohorik steel glinting in the morning sunlight. Aegon had chosen Pate himself due to the man’s training, and continued connections, in the City of Sorcerers. Qohorik steel was second only to Valyrian steel in quality, and the latter could not be found in large enough quantities to build a custom suit of armor in the short amount of time Aegon needed one.

“Your Grace,” Pate greeted immediately upon Aegon’s entrance.

“This is it, then?”

Pate ushered his apprentices to step closer to the king so he could better see the pieces in their respective hands. “I am quite pleased with the results, Your Grace. I hope that you are, as well. It took some time to fashion the arm braces to resemble dragon scales, but ultimately the steel yielded. I took the liberty of making them golden to match your magnificent dragon.”

Aegon watched in the mirror as the three apprentices fastened the armor around him. The weight and shape of the steel covering his body felt awkward. When he was younger and still trained with a sword with Ser Criston he only wore a breastplate and occasionally a greave - never a full suit. As Pate stood behind him and explained the process of shaping the steel to his specifications, Aegon’s skepticism grew with each sweep of his eyes along his reflection. He looked a boy wearing his father’s armor. He felt as if it did not fit despite the fact that it had been forged according to his unique measurements. He felt as if it did not suit him.

“It looks spectacular, Your Grace,” Pate complimented, as if reading Aegon’s insecurities. “Armor fit for a true king.”

Would everyone else agree? Would his enemies think it made him look fearsome? Made him look the warrior that he wasn’t?

“I could not agree more, Your Grace.”

Aegon’s eyes darted up to the top left corner of the mirror. Lord Larys Strong stood in the open doorway behind him, leaning his weight along the wall as he carefully observed the armor. That increasingly familiar feeling of burgeoning unease mixed with a hesitant trust washed over Aegon as he met Larys’s eye in the mirror. Aegon did not like Larys, thought him grasping and not nearly as sly as the lord believed himself to be, but Aegon had to admit the man provided him with invaluable information—both regarding the realm at large and those who resided within the Red Keep. It had been Larys who first brought the smallfolks’ fear of the blockade to Aegon’s attention, it had been Larys who first broke the news of Daemon’s arrival in the riverlands after Ser Simon traitorously yielded his nephew’s castle, and it had been Larys who told Aegon of Otto’s role in originating the rumor about Aly that had spread throughout the Red Keep.

The latter was the one piece of news that brought with it immediate rewards. Ser Criston proved to be a much better Hand of the King in his relatively short time in that role. Where Otto questioned and pushed back and tried to get Aegon to agree with what he wanted, Cole ceded to Aegon every time. Listened to him. Believed his ideas to be good ones. He was exactly what a Hand should be.

“Lord Larys.”

The Lord of Harrenhal shuffled further into the room. His cane softly thudded against the stone floor with each alternating step.

“You look the very image of the Conqueror,” Larys claimed. Falsely, Aegon knew. He could see himself in the mirror, he knew exactly what he looked like. And Aegon the Conqueror he was not.

“I thank you for the armor,” Aegon told Pate, dismissing him. “The quality is magnificent. I will be sure to send all my knights your way.”

Pate’s stern face transformed into a satisfied grin. “Thank you, Your Grace. You are most generous. Please call on my services any time you need a smith.”

With one last smile and a quick bow of his head, Pate and his apprentices left the solar.

“What can I do for you, Lord Larys?” Aegon asked as he walked to the silver flagon. Hoping there was wine in it. Disappointed when he found there wasn’t.

“I thought you should know that the smallfolk are growing quite upset about the rotting corpses hanging on the castle gates—”

“One of those men was the traitor who murdered my son,” Aegon interrupted firmly.

“Everyone understands that,” Larys assured quickly. “But the smell and the flies, combined with the smallfolk still increasingly unable to buy all they need…”

Despite all Aegon had done to prevent the blockade from affecting the city, the situation was becoming more and more dire. Traders in the city, still able to get goods from the Reach and riverlands, had yet to completely price out those without means, but if the blockade was not lifted soon they would be. Aegon’s letter to Lord Redwyne offering him the position of master of ships had as yet remained unanswered, and Otto’s hopes in the Triarchy had, to Aegon’s complete unsurprise, yielded nothing. The only way to end the blockade was to either destroy the Velaryon fleet, which Aegon currently could not do with just the royal fleet, or kill Rhaenyra’s cause. And to do that he would need both time and a larger army.

It all meant the blockade would not be coming to an end any time soon.

“I have also received several reports that Princess Aelora left Dragonstone shortly after Ser Arryk’s failed attempt to infiltrate the castle. I am to understand that she was flying north. Perhaps to her husband, Lord Stark.”

Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys. Valzȳrys.

Aegon still occasionally had nightmares about Aly with Cregan, the faceless northerner. On nights when he was lucky, he dreamt of Aly smiling at him, laughing with him, touching him. But on those unlucky nights he awoke with his heart racing after dreaming of his niece’s wedding, of her wedding night, of her riding her husband with vigor as she cried out in pleasure.

He swallowed before saying, “Thank you, Lord Larys. The information you continue to provide me is invaluable.”

Larys bowed his head. “I only wish to serve you, Your Grace.”

“I will see you at the small council meeting ,” Aegon said. Dismissing Larys.

The Lord of Harrenhal gave him a small smile before shuffling out of the solar. Aegon removed his new armor with the help of a servant, and, once free of the heaviness of the steel, returned to his chambers. He made a beeline for the flagon of strongwine, pouring himself a large goblet. And then another.

He plopped himself down in front of the hearth, careful to keep his wine from spilling over the rim of the goblet, and opened the drawer of the table next to him. His movements felt slightly sluggish, his strongwine slowly beginning to affect him, as he grabbed the first piece of parchment on top of the pile and unfolded it as carefully as he could. Torturing himself as his eyes took in Aly’s handwriting.

Not for the first time, Aegon wondered what she did with the letters he had sent to her. Did she reread them, as he did hers? Were his letters to her so worn that the corners were thinning? Or had she burned them upon hearing of his coronation? Had she replaced all the love she once felt for him with loathing? Did she think of him at all once night fell and Cregan Stark forced his way into her bed?

I will never love him the way I love you.

The inside of the tavern was loud. Between the lively tune the musicians played, the conversations taking place at the tables and the bar, and the cries of disappointment and glee at the dice tables, the barkeep could barely hear Aegon’s shouts for a mug of ale and a goblet of wine.

“Did Berra make any lemon tarts?” he asked, but the barkeep had already turned away from him.

A warm hand landed between his shoulder blades, and Aegon’s shoulders dropped when the hand ran back and forth across his back. Soothing the muscles. Soothing him.

“We can ask for lemon tarts later,” his companion’s voice said into his ear.

Aegon turned his head and smiled at her. Aly’s cheeks were turning pink from the warmth of the tavern, and some of her curls had fallen out of her plait from their earlier dance. She looked beautiful in the simple brown dress she wore. She always looked beautiful. Even when she tried not to cringe at the bitter taste of the wine the barkeep placed in front of her.

Then, suddenly, her expression turned melancholy.

“I’m sorry about Jaehaerys.”

Aegon’s pulse quickened and his throat ran dry. Even her touch along the side of his face did not calm him. He gripped her wrist, forcing her to remain where she stood, forcing her touch to remain, as he properly took her in. The worry lines between her brows, the sorrow in her blue eyes, the tightness of her mouth. She studied him, too, and Aegon knew she saw much the same.

He wished she didn’t look so troubled. He wished all their worries would melt away.

Before he knew what was happening, everyone in the Slippery Eel decided to begin a group dance and they were both being pulled into the crowd.

“I love you,” he told her.

“I love you, too. More than anyone.”

And then Aly was gone.

Aegon’s eyes shot open and he startled at seeing Armen standing over him. The man must have called him from his slumber, unknowingly pulling him away from his dream. The dream that still made him feel hollow.

“It’s nearly sunrise, Your Grace.”

With a sigh he moved to rub the sleep out of his eyes, but the sight of jade stilled his hand. The jade fabric that Aly gave him, the favor she made for him, was tightly clutched between his fingers. He ran his fingers over the poorly embroidered seahorse as his mind joined his body in the land of the living. He recalled taking it out of his bedside table as he lay alone in his featherbed. He wanted to fall asleep with something of hers close to him.

Aegon gingerly placed the scrap of fabric on his bedside table before standing to ready himself for the day ahead.

Ser Rickard entered into his chambers not long after Aegon finished dressing, his freshly polished white armor shining ever so brightly. “Ser Gwayne Hightower has sent a raven, Your Grace. He will arrive at the capital around midday.”

Aegon forced his expression to remain unchanged. “Very well.”

He did not know to expect his uncle. He had certainly not called for him, so why had Gwayne made the long journey from Oldtown? Had Alicent asked for him? Or Otto? Certainly not Aemond.

Aegon briskly walked out of his bedchamber after placing his Valyrian steel circlet adorned with large square rubies atop his head. The Great Yard was lively even in the early morning hour, castle servants going about their tasks, knights and guardsmen laughing as they did their rounds, and a few cats mewling at each other, presumably telling each other of their kills during the night in their own language. The Tower of the Hand, by contrast, was so quiet Aegon’s boots echoed around the corridors with each step. Ever since Ser Criston had taken over the role of Hand of the King, the only resident of the tower was Alicent, and while the Dowager Queen required several servants, they all resided on the upper floors.

His mother sat with Jaehaera in the small solar, the two of them breaking their fast. Well, Alicent broke her fast by picking at her hot bread, strawberries, and thick slices of bacon. Jaehaera simply pushed the porridge around her bowl, finding it decidedly unappetizing. Aegon could not help but agree as he looked at the lumps of brown, but his daughter’s seeming dislike was new. Just the previous week she ate the dish with no complaints.

“Do you wish for something else?” Aegon asked as he sat across from her.

Jaehaera ceased her movements and looked at the bowl, pondering her answer, before she nodded her head.

“How about a large helping of plum pudding?” he grinned.

“Aegon,” Alicent scolded. “That is hardly appropriate first thing in the morning.”

But Aegon’s grin only grew at seeing his daughter give him one of her rare smiles. “But that is what the princess commands.”

His mother sighed, but Aegon could tell that the corners of her lips wanted to quirk up.

“Gwayne will be arriving at the castle later today,” Aegon told his mother as casually as he could once his own morning meal of boiled quail eggs, ham, bread, and apple butter was set in front of him.

Alicent looked confused for a few moments before she smoothed her face. Still, it was long enough for Aegon to realize she had not been the one to ask her brother to come to the city. She knew who had, though.

“Father wrote to him shortly after Viserys’s death,” she explained, confirming what Aegon had begun to realize. “He never said anything about asking Gwayne to come to the capital. I suppose I assumed he did not respond, because Father never mentioned it again.”

He nodded as he ate. There were a few possibilities regarding Otto’s intentions for his son in the capital, most of them involving his sword. Perhaps he wished for Gwayne to join the city watch or the household guard. He doubted Otto meant for Gwayne to join the Kingsguard, as his grandfather would never pass up the opportunity to forge an alliance through marriage. Mayhaps that was an ulterior motive for calling Gwayne there. Several of the lords at court had daughters and sisters of marriageable age. As did a few lords still in the dungeons such as young Lord Harys Merryweather. His youngest sister was six-and-ten and not betrothed, if Aegon recalled correctly. Harys’s first wife served Helaena as a lady-in-waiting prior to their marriage, though that had not been enough to secure House Merryweather’s loyalty to Aegon. Nor had their shared ties to the Reach. If he was related by marriage to the king, however…

“We should all have supper together tonight,” Alicent suggested. “We can have it here, if you wish, or in the private dining room in Maegor’s Holdfast.”

“The dining room. I’ll let the kitchens know.”

His mother hesitated before voicing the question Aegon knew she was going to ask. “Shall I let Father know?”

Aegon had not spoken to his grandfather since dismissing him as Hand of the King, despite his mother’s subtle and not-so-subtle attempts to dispel the tension between them. Alicent respected his decision to replace Otto, but she wished for her family to be on speaking terms. Aegon, however, was not yet ready to forgive his grandfather for all that he had done.

“No,” he said at last, doing his best to not allow his mother’s disappointment to bother him. “He is more than welcome to meet Gwayne at the gates and offer him refreshments in his own chambers upon his arrival.”

Aegon turned away from Alicent, ending the conversation, and watched as Jaehaera ate her last bite of plum pudding.

“How would you like to go to the Dragonpit?” he asked her.

Jaehaera’s rare smile returned as she nodded enthusiastically.

“I know Morghul will be thrilled to see you. Both of you,” he said, referring to Jaehaera’s doll Lolly that she took with her nearly everywhere. The doll Aly had given her.

“Can we see Shrykos too?” she asked, her melancholy returning.

The unexpected question was like a punch to the gut. Jaehaera and Jaehaerys always went to the Dragonpit together, always saw their dragons together. And to see Morghul without Shrykos was, to Jaehaera, unthinkable.

Aegon cleared his throat before promising his daughter they would see both dragons. “And perhaps once we return your grandmother will have arranged a time for you to play with Jennis Mullendore in the gardens.”

She is a bit young to begin lessons with the Dragonkeepers, Aegon thought as he picked up Jaehaera to take her to the courtyard. But strengthening her bond with Morghul will no doubt provide her with much needed comfort.

Morghul’s scales were so dark that, when Aegon, Jaehaera, and Collio entered into the cavern she shared with Shrykos, almost all they could see of him were his bright green eyes. They appeared close to where Shrykos lay curled in a corner, her brilliant white scales making her easy to see even in the dim torchlight.

“Come,” Collio called out in High Valyrian.

A dragon the size of a small boar let out a chirp at the same time as Jaehaera giggled, and Aegon released his hold on his daughter so girl and beast could play.

“He is growing strong,” Collio told Aegon. “At this rate Princess Jaehaera will be a dragonrider before her twelfth name day.”

“Do you think it is too early for lessons?”

“For proper lessons? Yes. They are both too small. But I am happy to meet with the princess to show her a few basic things and strengthen their bond.”

A few moments passed before Aegon asked, “How is Shrykos?”Jaehaerys’s dragon had yet to move from her spot in the back corner.

“She has become withdrawn,” the dragonkeeper said. “She is mourning Prince Jaehaerys, as everyone is, Your Grace.”

A memory of bringing both Jaehaera and Jaehaerys to the dragonpit just a few moons prior flashed to the front of his mind. They both ran in circles around the cavern, their dragons chasing them and their laughter echoing throughout the space. Laughter that now only came from one child.

After spending an hour watching Jaehaera and Morghul play together and another half hour visiting Sunfyre, father and daughter returned to the castle and went their separate ways: Jaehaera back to Alicent and Aegon to the throne room to hold court. Most of the complaints were more of the same regarding the sheep tax to feed Vhagar and Sunfyre, the cost of goods, the inability of traders to purchase new goods from Essos with the blockade. It all gave Aegon a headache.

By supper time, Aegon was bored and tired and wanted to do nothing but sit in his chambers and drink strongwine. But he couldn’t because he had to entertain his uncle. The uncle he had not seen since he was barely a man grown, the one who had never written to him even after his coronation. At least he did not seek Aegon’s favor, which marked a change from damn near everyone else at court.

He was the last to arrive, his mother and brother having already joined Gwayne in the dining room. All three stood at his entrance, but he waved them off. Alicent and Aemond returned to their seats but the man whom Aegon would not have recognized as his mother’s brother had he passed him in the corridor remained standing. Like all the Hightowers he looked younger than his years, and like so many who hailed from the Reach his hair was a light shade of auburn.

“It has been too long,” Gwayne said, the smile on his face never faltering. He had that type of face, Aegon realized—one that always seemed to be smiling. Amiable. Daeron was exactly the same.

“Indeed.”

It was only once Aegon took his seat at the head of the table, Alicent on his left and Aemond on his right, that Gwayne returned to sitting next to Alicent.

“I was apologizing for my late arrival in the city when you arrived,” Gwayne told him as the servants portioned food onto their plates. “I remained in Oldtown to help Ormund attempt to quell the dissent in the Reach.”

“And I understand that is going splendidly,” Aegon said sardonically. “Lady Tyrell has made it clear that she wishes to remain neutral, and many houses in the Reach continue to pledge fealty to a traitor. The Merryweathers, the Bulwers, the Costaynes, the Caswells, the—”

“Houses that will surely see the errors of their ways once Ormund and Daeron begin their march towards the westerlands,” Gwayne insisted.

Aegon hummed as he snatched the goblet of wine in front of him and brought it to his lips.

“How is Daeron?” Aemond asked.

“He is well,” Gwayne assured. “He feels the weight of the battles to come, but he has a good head on his shoulders. And he is brave.”

He shouldn’t have to be. He is practically still a boy.

Aegon was the king. He could command Daeron to remain in Oldtown if he so wanted. But he knew he would need Tessarion in time, even though it made him sick to send Daeron into battle. Without his youngest brother, Aegon only had Vhagar and Sunfyre. That was not enough to face all the dragons Rhaenyra had at her disposal, even with Aly and Lyrax at Winterfell.

“Perhaps by the time Daeron and Ormund meet with Jason Lannister, we can meet them to force Daemon out of Harrenhal,” Aemond said, the eagerness clear in his voice.

“We would need a larger host than I currently have,” Aegon reminded his brother. And not for the first time.

Aemond and Otto were of one mind in regards to strategy: the riverlands were of the utmost importance. Now that nearly every house in the region had bent the knee to Rhaenyra, and Daemon was doing gods knows what at Harrenhal, Aemond had become even more focused on retaking the riverlands from their uncle. But they both refused to see what Aegon repeatedly told them, that Vhagar needed to remain near the city as long as the crownlands was split in its support. The Red Keep was surrounded by houses that supported Rhaenyra, which meant the lands they would have to cross on their march were filled with enemies. Lords Stokeworth and Rosby had pledged for him, but their families hadn’t. Who was to say that their wives or sons would not inform Rhaenyra as soon as they marched towards the riverlands? And, even if they didn’t, House Buckwell at Antlers no doubt would. No one could not leave the capital unless the entirety of the crownlands between King’s Landing and the riverlands supported him and was a part of his host. He did not know why his brother could not see that.

Aegon’s jaw ticked when Aemond hummed.

“How was your journey?” Alicent asked her brother, her abrupt change in conversation an obvious attempt to prevent an argument between her sons.

“Thankfully uneventful despite the discontent in the Reach.”

“Are the houses who have declared for Rhaenyra gathering their own hosts?” Aemond asked.

“If they are, they are not marching along the Roseroad,” Gwayne said.

“And when does Ormund intend to begin marching north?” Aegon inquired sharply. The sooner he did, perhaps the sooner the rebellious Reach lords would come to heel.

“Soon,” his uncle promised him before turning to Alicent with a small smile. “Jeyne at the inn at Grassy Vale still remembers you.”

A nostalgic smile made its way upon her face. “Does she?”

Alicent and Gwayne spent the rest of supper reminiscing about their shared youth at Oldtown, in the years before Alicent was brought to King’s Landing by her father while her brothers remained in the Reach. It was always on the rare occasions in which she spoke of her life before becoming queen that his mother looked the happiest. Like all the weight of being queen left her at the memories of her girlhood, back when she was Lady Alicent and not Queen Alicent.

As he watched her, Aegon recognized that he and his mother shared that in common. Receiving their crowns was both the best and worst thing that had ever happened to them. He wondered if she, too, would do almost anything to go back for even just one day.

“I have something for Helaena,” Gwayne said once the servants began taking away their empty plates. “A moth brooch that a man in Oldtown swore is from Qarth. Does she still like bugs and insects?”

A heavy silence passed over Aegon, Alicent, and Aemond for several beats before Aegon broke it.

“She does,” he answered carefully, “but she is not…in the right state to see anyone.”

Sympathy and understanding filled Gwayne’s expression. “I am happy to have you take it to her.”

“All right,” Aegon said. Unwilling to admit aloud how rarely he saw Helaena these days. Slightly ashamed of how little he saw of her these days.

Gwayne stood. “It’s in my chambers,” he said, clearly intent on giving Aegon the moth broth before the night ended.

After bidding Alicent and Aemond goodnight, the two left the dining room and headed towards Gwayne’s guest quarters. His uncle did not attempt to make conversation during their walk, something Aegon was glad of. He and Gwayne barely knew each other—even when Aegon would visit Oldtown as a child, his uncles had been too busy to make special time for him.

“I saw Father shortly after I arrived,” Gwayne said once they reached his chambers. “He appears quite unhappy with his new quarters.”

“I moved him into the nicest guest apartments in the Red Keep,” Aegon defended.

“Ah, but they are not in the Tower of the Hand,” Gwayne told him in slight amusement. His face turned serious before saying, “Father is furious with you. He thinks you’re a fool for making Ser Criston Cole your Hand.”

“Perhaps I was the fool for keeping him as Hand so long after my father died,” Aegon shot back. “I was unhappy with how he handled his duties, how he conducted himself.”

She opened her legs to every man who asked.

She’s a whore.

Gwayne looked skeptical, no doubt unable to believe Otto anything but the perfect Hand. “You are still happy with your choice then?”

“Yes.”

His uncle studied him for a few moments before nodding in understanding. Seemingly satisfied, he turned towards his sitting area, grabbed the cloth-wrapped brooch, and carefully placed it into Aegon’s outstretched palm.

“I think you’re right about needing a larger host before you leave for the riverlands. Or even the Reach, should you decide to focus your attention there. I shall like to join you once you decide to march.”

“Is that why you decided to come to the capital?” Aegon inquired, curious as to why his uncle had answered Otto’s call for him. Curious as to what he hoped to gain from his time in the capital. “To march with me rather than Ormund?”

“I’ve come because my father asked me. If it were up to me I would have remained with the Hightower army. With Daeron.”

His uncle’s openness softened Aegon’s curiosity. Would Aegon not have done the same, had his mother called him? It seemed that no matter how many name days one saw, they still felt beholden to their mothers and fathers.

The sun landed on the long polished table in the shape of the seven-pointed star that was carved into the window from which the light streamed in. The long rays surrounding it highlighted the small specks of dust that had accumulated since the servants last cleaned earlier that morning. A few stray spots danced in the air, the movements mesmerizing Aegon as he waited for Ser Criston and Aemond to join him.

The time is ripe, he told himself. It needs to be done. It has to be done if I am to win this war. And Aly would be far away.

Cole and Aemond arrived together. His brother wore his usual attire of a black leather doublet, trousers, and boots while Criston contrasted the prince in his white armor. The pair silently joined him at the table, both dipping their chins in greeting.

“You asked to see us, Your Grace,” Cole said once he occupied the seat to Aegon’s left, Aemond just across from him.

“Yes. I think that the time has come to force the crownlands to yield. If I am to march on the riverlands I need a larger army and one that I know won’t give away our position to Rhaenyra.”

“You’re to march?” Aemond asked, skepticism dripping from his voice.

“I intend to lead the army atop Sunfyre, yes. What sort of king does not lead his own men to battle?”

Disbelief traveled up towards his brother’s face, and Aegon felt his defensiveness rise. Aemond did not think him capable.

“Vhagar needs to remain here,” he said before his brother could argue. “Surely you wouldn’t want to leave the city, and our family, vulnerable to attack?”

“You expect to defeat Caraxes with Sunfyre? Vhagar is twice the size—”

“Which is why you need to remain here,” Aegon contended. “If Rhaenyra comes, she’d be coming with Syrax, Meleys, and her sons’ trifling dragons. Sunfyre is quick, he can hold his own.”

Aemond opened his mouth to argue, but Cole cut him off.

“We can finalize our plans for the riverlands once the lords of the crownlands have bent the knee. It is a good strategy, Your Grace. The crownlands are essential to cutting off any men loyal to Rhaenyra and preventing her armies from marching into the city.”

Aegon shot his brother a smug smile, one which only grew at Aemond’s look of annoyance.

“Lords Rosby and Stokeworth should have a chance to prove their loyalty,” Cole suggested. “We should bring them with us.”

“Good,” Aegon praised as he nodded his head. “Should we go up the kingsroad? Towards Antlers?”

“Only if you want everyone to see us marching towards them,” Aemond said with a slight scoff. “If we want the element of surprise we should focus our attentions northeast. Towards the Dun Fort and Rook’s Rest.”

Aegon’s brows furrowed in confusion. Going northeast first, when their army would still be at its smallest, would only give cause to those lords calling for help from Rhaenyra. His face smoothed when he realized that was exactly what Aemond wanted, though. If Rhaenyra did not answer their pleas, they would turn cloak. Or, if she did answer them, she would send one of her dragonriders. Possibly even herself. Which made her ripe for the killing.

He knew the moment his brother realized he had worked out his plan. “We’ll arrive too quickly for anyone from the Dun Fort to call for help, but Lord Staunton will hold out. He will wait for her to send someone. And then I will end this war.”

“We will,” Aegon insisted. He was the king, and a dragonrider, and he could not allow his brother to bask in the glory. “She’ll never expect both of us there.”

Aemond’s jaw tightened, but he eventually agreed with a sharp jerk of his head. Aemond could be proud, but he would never defy Aegon.

The three spent the remainder of the afternoon drawing up the plans. Aegon and Aemond would remain in the capital while Cole, joined by Gwayne, would take the men and Lords Rosby and Stokeworth through the crownlands. Once the Rosby and Stokeworth hosts joined them, the forces would sack the Dun Fort before moving to Rook’s Rest. That would be when Aegon and Aemond left King’s Landing. Waiting for whichever dragonrider Rhaenyra sent to save Lord Staunton, who would have no idea that two dragons lay in wait near his castle.

Alarra Rosby crossed Aegon’s mind as they discussed battle plans. Aly cared for her a great deal, which in turn meant Aegon liked her a great deal. “No harm is to come to the women of the castles,” he insisted to Cole and Aemond. They both readily agreed, their interests laying solely in either building their host or killing the lords who continued to be traitors.

When Aegon returned to his chambers, he paused upon seeing Aly’s favor still on his nightstand. Some men believed wearing the favor of the woman they loved granted them favor with the gods during jousts and tournaments. Or battle.

No. I won’t risk it burning to nothing. If I never have anything of her ever again, at least I will always have that.

A reminder of the love she once held for him. Of the love they shared.

Chapter Text

“It’s cold,” Aly complained.

Her chambers were dim in the early morning hour and the blazing fire did little to fight the ever-present chill in the air. Even with her fur cloak the frigidity nearly seeped down into her bones.

Arms wrapped around her from behind. “I’ll keep you warm.”

She breathed out a laugh as she turned in his arms. Aegon was bundled up in more furs than she was, two cloaks underneath his coat. As little as she had adapted to the north, her uncle had done so even less. Though she could not help but think he looked quite adorable in his northern wear.

“And how do you propose to do that?” she asked, a smile playing upon her lips.

Aegon grinned and squeezed her hips. “I have a few ideas, ñuhe jorrāeliarze.”

She didn’t know why, but hearing him call her that made her chest tighten and tears form in her eyes.

“I miss you,” Aly told him, her words not quite making sense even to her own ears. “I know I shouldn’t, but—”

Her uncle interrupted her with a kiss. A deep kiss, one that made her heart flutter. Then he abruptly pulled away, looking at her with hatred burning in his indigo eyes and a crown now atop his head. His gaze moved downwards, Aly’s following, and she gasped when she saw the blood on both of their hands. A thick, dark red coating that covered the entirety of their palms and all of their fingers. Innocents’ blood staining both of them.

“A son for a son,” Aegon hissed, gripping her hands so tight he could crush all the bones underneath his hold.

“Stop,” she cried as she pulled and pushed and kicked at him in an attempt to wrench her hands out of his grasp.

Aly stumbled when she lost her footing, causing her body to jerk and her eyes to snap open.

It was only a dream, she reminded herself. Attempting to calm her rapidly beating heart.

She dreamt a lot of her uncle since her arrival at Winterfell. The war, and the way she still, deep down, longed for him, weighing so heavily on her mind that even in sleep it was inescapable. The dreams always started so sweet and tender, and on nights when she was lucky the dreams remained so—the two of them finding a small corner in which to steal away. The way they would have in the future they once hoped to build there together. Most nights, however, they ended with the pair of them hurting each other.

Do I haunt his dreams the way he haunts mine?

Aly’s hand reached up and rested along her collarbones, the weight of it keeping her steady. She remained in bed, her mind whirring, until her handmaid Myra quietly crept into her chambers to awaken her. No longer underneath the thick blankets and quilts, Aly quickly wrapped her dressing gown around her for warmth as Myra got to work on lighting the fireplace.

Her hand returned to her collarbones when her eyes landed on her silver paperweight atop her writing desk, the one that had once belonged to her father, and the unfurled parchment that lay beneath it. A letter to Alarra. The third one she would send since she arrived at Winterfell. Would this one remain unanswered as the previous two? Was her friend cross with her? In the letters they exchanged while Aly was on Dragonstone she skirted around her marriage to Cregan, unwilling to reveal it even to her closest friend before her mother knew of it. The circumstances of her returning to Winterfell, of course, necessitated confessing the truth. Did Alarra react with disbelief and irritation upon reading the news? Aly was beginning to worry that she had.

It’s not as if I have never lied to her before, she thought with a sinking feeling.

“Princess Aelora.”

Myra’s soft voice, as well as its closeness, slightly startled her. She had not heard her handmaid finish her task, nor had she heard her approaching footsteps.

“Bessa should be here soon. Shall I let her in when she arrives?”

Aly nodded. “And bring me a pot of wax while she is here so I can seal this letter once she is finished with me.”

“Of course.”

Aly would be glad once the seamstress came and delivered her new dresses. Dresses that would actually fit her properly. She was grateful for the lambswool gowns Sara hastily ordered for her once word arrived to expect Aly at Winterfell, the thick material keeping her mostly warm enough, but it would be nice to wear dresses that were tailored to her again. Dresses with sleeves the correct length and ones that were not just a tad too tight around her shoulders.

Myra returned with a step stool just as Aly tightened her dressing gown around herself once more in an effort to keep warm. An older woman carrying a quill pen, a piece of parchment, and a measuring rope shuffled in a half-step behind her handmaid. Bessa’s thick hair, black with multiple grey strands, was tied back in a loose bun, so loose Aly suspected it would come undone at some point in their time together, but otherwise she looked perfectly put together. Her fitted gown lacked any creases, her boots were polished, and nothing was out of place.

“Good morning, Princess,” Bessa greeted. “I’m told you would like some winter gowns that actually fit you properly.”

Aly nodded with a wry smile. “That would be nice, yes.”

“Place the step stool there,” the seamstress directed Myra with her pointer finger. “My eyes are not as sharp as they used to be, I need as much help from the sun as I can get.”

Aly stood on the stool and moved at Bessa’s direction. She lifted her arms out, she lifted her arms up, she stood naturally, she widened her legs. The seamstress placed or wrapped her rope around the necessary parts for measurement and then hastily scribbled said measurement onto her piece of parchment. The pair were mostly silent, just Bessa giving her commands, until the seamstress measured Aly around her waist and hips.

“Do you want more give in some of them?” Bessa asked matter-of-factly. Her pointed glance down at Aly’s stomach indicated exactly what she meant.

“No,” she responded quickly. Not thinking. “I…We aren’t…”

Aly trailed off, unsure how to backtrack. The entire north knew of their marriage, but it did not need to know that she and Cregan did not share a bed. For now, she thought as her stomach twisted at the thought of repeating their wedding night. It would be repeated eventually, though.

He is my husband.

She wondered if the thought of sharing a bed with her made Cregan’s entire body tense, as it did hers. She wondered if it would ever not fill her with dread—looking upon his grey eyes while he was inside of her instead of the indigo eyes she still loved.

“There is no need,” Aly told Bess after clearing her throat. “Not yet.”

The seamstress gave her a look both skeptical and confused, but Aly did not expand upon her answer. It was none of Bessa’s business.

“All right. Let’s discuss fabrics then, shall we? You’ll need several lambswool gowns, of course, but velvet is warm as well. Perhaps a silk gown or two.”

“That’s fine.”

“Mhm,” Bessa intoned as she scratched her pen across the parchment. “What about colors? I presume you do not wish to only wear grey and white.” She studied Aly for a beat. “Jewel tones, I think. Blue, red, and purple. Black as well, of course.”

“And sea green, if you have it,” Aly said.

Bessa nodded as she wrote down Aly’s request. “As for how many to order, shall we say twenty for now? My shop is in winter town, so do not fear about you being able to access my services once winter comes if you need more.”

“Twenty is fine,” Aly said with a small smile.

Bessa grinned. “I will deliver them as they are finished rather than wait until all twenty are done. Otherwise you’ll be wearing nothing but ill-fitting dresses for many moons.”

Aly dressed in one of her slightly ill-fitting gowns after bidding Bessa farewell and, after sealing her letter to Alarra and sending it off to the rookery with Myra, made her way to the Great Hall. Cregan and Sara were already there when she entered the hall, laughing over something one of them said. A simple morning meal of hot bread, butter, porridge, and rashers of ham garnished their plates and bowls, as did mugs of tea. The food in front of both of them stood untouched. They had been waiting for her, she realized.

“Good morning,” she greeted as she sat next to Cregan. “I apologize for keeping you.”

“It’s no matter,” Cregan said.

Aly was not sure that Sara felt the same, as she tore off a piece of her bread and brought it to her mouth before Aly even finished saying the word “good.”

“I ordered twenty gowns from Bessa,” she told Cregan while she began filling her own plate and bowl. “She said she would deliver them as they were finished.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell Benjicot when we go over the ledgers in a few days’ time.”

“Can I join you?” she asked, hoping her request was not presumptuous. “I went over the ledgers on occasion at Dragonstone. It’s something I enjoy doing.”

Sara snorted. “I knew there had to be something strange about you.”

“Don’t listen to her. Maester Uthor could barely get her to learn basic multiplication,” Cregan jested.

“Aye,” Sara grinned. “It all may as well have been runes to me.”

“Are you not taught runes in the north?” Aly asked in interest.

The First Men used runes as the basis of their writing system, and while no one in the south could decipher any of their meaning, she supposed she always thought some houses in the north could still make sense of them. An ancient language passed down through generations, the way High Valyrian was within House Targaryen.

“Hardly,” Sara answered, her grin still in place. “The language is lost south of the Wall.”

Aly considered asking about the wildlings, but the memory of Cregan’s claim about what lurked north of the Wall stopped her. The memory of how his tone and expression when he said there were far worse things there than the Corpse Queen of legend caused goosebumps to erupt all along her arm.

“Benjicot told Rena and Fran you’ll meet with them after we finish our meal,” Cregan told her, forcing away all thoughts of the Wall. “They are both eager to run the household as you see fit.”

Eager was not quite the right word for it, Aly realized about a half hour later. Cregan and Sara left her alone in the Great Hall once they all finished breaking their fast, Cregan to speak with Benjicot and Sara to go into winter town with her friend Yana, the daughter of the kennelmaster. In truth, Aly herself was not exactly eager to meet with the two women, either. Rena especially. She should have done so sooner, she knew, but the prospect of taking over Rickon’s care filled her with so much anxiety that she kept putting off meeting his nursemaid, and, to not appear rude, that meant she had to put off speaking with Fran as well.

Rena entered the Great Hall first. Her stern expression made her appear older than her age, which Aly guessed to be about forty. And she was sharp, too, as she quickly deduced that Aly knew little in the way of directing nurseries. Aly was cautious about making any suggestions or changes during the course of their conversation, as she did not know if the current order of things was the way Arra had wanted it. If it had been, she risked offending Cregan if she told Rena to do differently. Regardless, Rena seemed rather set in her ways.

“Rickon will stop needing a wetnurse in the next few months,” Rena reported. “And the wetnurse he has, Cissy, has begun complaining now that he has begun teething.”

“I see.”

“Sara and I discussed beginning him on soft foods for some of his feedings. If that is to your liking, Princess.”

“That’s fine,” Aly affirmed.

“Cissy’s husband passed shortly after her babe was born, so if you’ll be needing a wetnurse by this time next year we’ll have to look elsewhere.”

“That’s fine,” she repeated, hoping her words did not come out as curt as she feared. She needed Rena to like her, or at the very least not dislike her, as the woman would one day be her own children’s nursemaid.

“I know Maester Uthor is in charge of the childrens’ lessons, but what about the other arts? Like swordsmanship and embroidery?”

“The master-at-arms teaches the boys of minor houses the way of horses and swords, and I teach the girls to embroider and dance.”

“That is a lot to take on,” Aly said. “Running the castle nursery and instructing the girls of the castle. Perhaps once the war is over I can write to a motherhouse about sending us a septa.”

Aly knew at once she said the wrong thing. Rena’s lips pursed and her eyes hardened. Things are different here, she reminded herself. The northerners worshipped their own gods, and she doubted any of them wanted a septa of the Faith residing in the walls of Winterfell and teaching the children.

“I am pleased with how you care for Rickon,” Aly praised in a blatant attempt to smooth things over. “I see no reason for things to not continue on as they already were prior to my arrival. I only ask that you keep me abreast of any developments that you feel should be brought to my or Cregan’s attention.”

“Yes, Princess Aelora.”

Fran, the head of the castle servants, walked in just as Rena walked out, the two women’s skirts brushing past one another just a few steps from the threshold. Fran appeared even more no nonsense than Rickon’s nursemaid, which immediately made Aly want to groan. Her perfectly coiffed hair and her confident and prim expression told Aly she too was set in her ways. In the northern way.

I have taken over for Mother countless times on Dragonstone, she told herself. Steeling herself. I know how to run a household.

“Princess Aelora,” the woman said as soon as she stood right in front of Aly. “I am Fran, the head of the household servants.”

Fran looked to have held that role for decades. Probably since Cregan was born, if not before. The deep lines around her face, the way the corners of her mouth turned down as if to frown, and her sharp green eyes conveyed a woman who was good in her role and knew it. A woman who did not suffer fools.

But she certainly, albeit unintentionally, made Aly feel the fool as she explained the inner workings of the household servants. It was so different than Dragonstone or the Red Keep. In the south, all servants had their set tasks that they did either all day or all night, depending on when the head housekeeper assigned them their duties. There were exceptions of course, such as a lady’s handmaid or wetnurse, but the household servants primarily worked in one area. The north, by contrast, seemed to have servants work in every area of the castle. Gaining experience in everything but mastering none.

“Why not assign the servants just one task?” Aly could not help but ask.

“Some members of the household have their given tasks, such as your handmaid Myra or the steward and the master-at-arms or the head cook, but when it comes to the chopping of ingredients and the cleaning and the laundering every servant needs to be able to do all things. If I may speak plainly, Princess, some of our servants are older and they may not survive the winter. I need to know there will not be a panicked search for someone to take over their duties.”

Oh.

The north was a harsh land, and the way Fran organized Winterfell’s servants only reinforced that. A land in which a southron princess could easily fail to thrive.

Even wearing her borrowed fur coat, the chill in the air caused Aly to shiver. It nipped at her face, which she knew would be red when she returned to the castle, and seeped through the leather covering her hands and feet. But no matter how much Aly disliked the snow and the cold, her dragon disliked it more. It seemed the only thing the twilight blue beast did like in the north was hunting, a skill that remained underdeveloped over the years while in the Dragonpit or the Dragonmont. Lyrax quickly picked it up, though, and Aly noted with pride that her dragon seemed quite good at it. She initially worried that the ever-present fire in the clearing of the wolfswood to keep Lyrax warm would frighten away any animals, but it seemed several got close enough for her dragon to kill—or ambush in the thickets of trees.

“Try not to turn wild on me,” Aly jested to her dragon in High Valyrian one morning after finding the half-eaten carcass of a wild boar nearby.

Despite the frigidity Aly and Lyrax both continued to look forward to their morning flights. While the snowy wolfswood did not make for a particularly interesting sight from above, one of the tributaries of the White Knife and surrounding lands was pretty enough. And it served to stretch Lyrax’s wings, to keep her active and prevent her from becoming lazy after gorging herself on her kills, while also allowing Aly the freedom to be alone, if only for a while. No duties, no askance looks when she made a comment or suggestion that did not align with how it had always been done at Winterfell, no expectations. No feeling as if an outsider.

“Let’s go back,” Aly directed Lyrax. She had to thrice repeat the command, so hesitant was Lyrax to return northward to the wolfswood.

Her dragon landed next to three steel pillars, the beginnings of the structure that would eventually house Lyrax and her eggs. The eggs that Aly hoped would soon become hatchlings. Every day she checked on them in their braziers, and every day they appeared no more ready to hatch than the day Aly first saw them. Cregan promised to come up with a way to submerge them in the hot spring, and she hoped he managed to figure it out sooner rather than later.

“Once winter comes, it will not last forever,” she reminded Lyrax once she dismounted. A claim that was only met with a deep puff of air.

When Aly returned to the castle, she found Sara waiting for her in the main entryway of the Great Keep.

“Finished with your dancing?” Aly asked her goodsister with an amused smile.

Sara’s friend Yana asked Sara to practice their dancing every afternoon in anticipation for the autumn feast. While the feast was still a few moons away, Sara had confided to Aly that Yana set her hopes on catching the eye of a certain stable boy that enjoyed dancing with the women at the servants’ feast.

Sara rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why Yana is so set on Vik. Seren is sweet on her, and he is much better looking.”

Seren worked in the kennels with Yana’s father, and Aly could concede that he was a handsome youth. He did not seem to have much in the way of personality, though. Unlike Vik, who possessed charm and humor.

“There is more to a husband than looks,” Aly reminded her as the pair ascended the stairs and headed towards Aly’s chambers.

“Well we cannot all be as lucky as you,” Sara laughed.

Aly did not join her beyond smiling awkwardly.

“I gave all the letters to Myra earlier this morning,” Sara said just before Aly opened the door.

The words provided some warning, but Aly still momentarily paused in the threshold upon seeing the large pile of parchment on the table in her sitting area. Based on the size of the stack, Aly guessed every house in the entire north—lordly all the way to masterly—offered a daughter or granddaughter to serve as one of her ladies-in-waiting.

“There are a few that you can immediately discard,” Sara told her once the two sat down opposite each other. “Berena Hornwood, for one.”

“And why is that?” Aly asked distractedly as she thumbed through all the letters, attempting to mentally match seals and castle names with the northern houses.

“Because she is the dullest person to ever exist. If you desire a companion to help you with trouble falling asleep, Berena is the one to choose. Otherwise…”

“The Hornwoods are one of House Stark’s most loyal bannermen, though.” Aly was only repeating what she read in a book she grabbed from the castle library to refresh her knowledge on northern houses and culture, but it still meant the Hornwoods’ offer needed more consideration than whether or not Sara liked Berena.

“They are,” Sara conceded. “Which means they do not need to be courted the way some of the other houses do. Robett Hornwood will steadfastly support Cregan regardless of whether his sister is chosen as one of your companions.”

So there was at least some strategy in Sara’s comments. Aly was glad of it, as she would need her goodsister’s help in choosing her ladies-in-waiting. While she may have never chosen her own companions, she knew both her mother and Helaena had chosen theirs with care. Helaena was guided more by personal feelings, Rhaenyra politics, but all of their choices were purposeful. Many things were different in the north, but she doubted the importance of alliances and friendships was one of them. And Aly needed Sara’s assistance. One could learn a lot from books and maesters but not everything.

Aly made a noise of contemplation as she continued sorting through the letters before pulling one. “Donella Dustin of Barrowton. That might be a nice way to repay Lord Dustin’s agreement to allow the first host to gather there.”

“That would certainly make their heads bigger than it already is. Hosting Aegon the Conqueror twice, Jaehaerys and Alysanne once, and then a daughter serving a Targaryen princess.”

“All right,” she said as she moved Lord Dustin’s letter to a separate pile and chose the next one based on its seal. “What about the Boltons, then? Lord Domeric offers his eldest granddaughter Sybelle.”

“That would bring the Boltons too close,” Sara said.

“Would that be such a bad thing? My book said the Boltons and Starks have been uneasy allies since their last rebellion.” She tried to ignore the amused smirk that made its way onto her goodsister’s face at the mention of her book but found herself saying defensively, “Choosing Sybelle could go a long way in our relations with them.”

Sara snickered. “And did your book mention their last rebellion was thousands of years ago? It is true that the Boltons have never held any vast love for House Stark, and the Starks have kept them at a courteous distance for generations.”

“Fine,” Aly sighed. She clearly needed to rethink her strategy. Both her mother and Helaena chose ladies from houses that were either major houses in their respective regions to honor their loyalty, such as Elinda Massey or Alarra Darklyn, or minor houses to bring them closer to the crown, like Maia Buckwell or Ellyn Stackspear. Aly had tried the former, perhaps it was time for the latter.

“What of the mountain clans?” she inquired. “Perhaps choosing a lady from one of their houses would mend any ill-feelings about Cregan marrying me so soon after Arra’s death. It would need to be a house that the Norreys are friendly with, but not so friendly that their acceptance would cause offense.”

“Have you not gotten so far into your book to know which houses that would be?” Sara asked wryly. “Most of the mountain clans did not write, but those that did are the Wulls and the Harclays, the Wulls because they are the most powerful and would not turn down the prestige of a daughter serving you and the Harclays because they are currently in a dispute with the Norreys over land boundaries.”

Aly thumbed through the letters in an effort to find the one written by Lord Wull. Once she finally found it, she briefly read over it. The letter was very short and to the point, no flowery praise or attempts to flatter. Just Theo Wull offering his youngest daughter Marna to serve as her companion.

“Do you know Marna Wull?” Aly asked as she finished reading the letter.

Sara shrugged. “Not well. She married a member of the Liddle clan a few years ago, but when he died she returned home. The Wull only brought her to Winterfell once, though he himself has only visited here twice.”

“The Wull?”

“Your book will explain,” Sara grinned, causing Aly to breathe out a laugh. “Marna is a good choice.”

Aly smiled with self-satisfaction as she moved the letter written by “the Wull” to the left, starting its own pile. Thinking through the other offers, she considered the geography of the north. When she first returned to the capital, she thought Helaena smart to have ladies from the different regions, and she would do the same on a smaller scale. The Wulls resided in the mountains, to the north of Winterfell, which left the remaining cardinal directions from which to choose. Aly neither needed nor wanted four ladies-in-waiting, but she knew one would not be enough.

In the south lived the Manderlys, who were the most southron in character and culture as they had been exiled from the Reach more than a thousand years ago, but Lord Manderly’s youngest daughter Wynda was already betrothed to Joffrey. Aly did not need to strengthen the ties with them—they would all be kin soon enough. A pity, she thought as she considered the other houses that lived in that part of the north, as she would have likely found a great friend in a member of House Manderly.

“What about…” She trailed off as she sought a letter written by either Lord Locke, Lord Woolfield, or Lord Flint of Widow’s Watch. She stopped when she found one. “Domera Locke.”

Sara’s amiable face quickly turned serious. “I doubt you want her here.”

“Why not?” Aly asked, confusion seeping into her voice.

“Her granduncle, Lord Holt, visited Winterfell quite a lot when Cregan and I were children. He hoped for a marriage alliance between Domera and Cregan. Domera did, as well. And she continued hoping for one even after he wed Arra. Brazenly flirting with him, trying to get him to give her a second glance. Her marriage to Lord Locke’s second son may have tempered her shamelessness, but…”

Not Domera Locke then. While there was nothing wrong with flirting, ladies who did so too often could court trouble. And Aly did not wish for that headache. Not to mention that while she may not have felt anything for Cregan beyond a tentative friendship, she refused to be embarrassed should Domera openly attempt to catch Lord Stark’s eye right in front of her.

Guilt and hypocrisy crept up her spine as she thought of her aunt. Of one of Helaena’s own ladies fucking her husband behind her back.

Aegon and I loved each other.

“If you want a lady from that part of the north, I’d suggest Lord Woolfield’s unmarried sister. Branda, I think.”

Using Sara’s words as an excuse to force her uncle from her mind, Aly found the letter sent from Ramsgate and placed it on top of the one written by Lord Wull. “It is Branda.”

That was two companions chosen. Aly internally debated on whether or not she should seek a third. Her mother only had two, Elinda and Maia, and that seemed to be enough for her. But Aly could not completely push down the worry that there could be a perception of ignoring the eastern part of the region. Would that cause discontent and disgruntledness? Sara had advised her against the Dustins, but what of the Tallharts or the Flints of Flint’s Finger? Either house would be suitable.

Lord Timotty Flint graciously asked for her consideration in choosing his eldest daughter, Jonelle, as one of her ladies-in-waiting. She had just seen her eighteenth name day, and Timotty made no effort to hide his hope that, under the care of Lord Stark’s wife, she would eventually be considered for a good match. It was an added responsibility on Aly’s part, as she assumed Timotty believed she would take on the arrangements as Queen Alysanne famously had for several of her own companions, but she supposed that could be something she could take on. Practice for her own future daughters.

“Jonelle Flint,” Aly told Sara with an air of finality as she placed Timotty’s letter with that of the Lords Wull and Woolfield. “Marna, Branda, and Jonelle. Those are my choices. I will write to both them and their fathers on the morrow and tell them that, should they accept, they should expect to not leave Winterfell after the autumn feast.”

She hoped she was making the right decision with each of them. They all lived so far away that Sara could provide little insight into their personalities and, as Cregan had said, once winter came it was not as if they could leave or be easily replaced if dismissed. But she supposed things like this were always a gamble.

Hopefully it paid off.

“Lord Timotty responded to my letter,” Aly told Cregan as they made their way back into the Great Keep from the glass gardens.

The glass gardens of Winterfell, so named due to its roof of green and yellow glass panes, housed trees and plants from which sprang forth vegetables and fruits all year round—and during all seasons. Foods such as winter squash, beets, apples, winter peaches, figs, cabbages, carrots, green peppers, onions, pumpkins, and parsnips were always growing and ready to supply the kitchen of Winterfell even in the heaviest snowfall. Like every other building of the castle, water from the hot spring piped through the walls making it so warm inside that Aly had to remove her fur cloak while Cregan explained the preservation methods the kitchen utilized for some of the produce during autumn to prepare for winter and then once winter arrived.

“He was more than happy to accept your invitation for Jonelle to serve you, I assume,” he said.

“Yes.” One less mouth for him to feed once winter comes. “But I have yet to hear back from Lords Woolfield and Wull.”

Aly did not miss the small smile of amusement that made its way onto Cregan’s face at her referring to Lord Wull as such. She utterly refused to call him “the Wull.” It seemed so…ridiculous. Though of course she would never say so aloud. Not when the Wulls were part of the Mountain Clans. Like the Norreys.

“They’ll accept,” Cregan said with confidence. “The Wull is currently preoccupied with a recent raid by the wildlings on his land, so I am sure that is delaying his response.”

“Oh.”

“It happens occasionally,” he told her. “Mostly minor raiding, especially with winter approaching, but still troubling all the same.”

“Is there anything you can do to help? Or prevent future raiding?” Aly asked in curiosity.

“The mountain clans are a proud and fierce people,” Cregan said. “Offering the Wull my help before he asks for it will be seen as an insult. He and his folk are more than capable of warding off a few stray wildlings.”

“And when you march south? All the men who can fight will be gone.”

He breathed out a laugh. “The women are just as capable.”

It made sense, Aly supposed, for the women of the mountain clans to know how to fight. From what she had read the culture of the clans was much more martial in nature, likely on account of their relative isolation in comparison to even the rest of the north.

“Why do the wildlings do it?” she asked. “Raid south of the Wall?”

“To take anything they find of value. Silks, furs, spices, women, it doesn’t matter. It’ll likely happen more frequently, I’m afraid. Winter comes for them first and as harsh as it can be here, it is even more harsh in the lands beyond the wall.”

Unbidden, the memory of Cregan’s claim of what lay north of the Wall replayed in her mind. Goosebumps erupted along her arm, and Aly shrugged her fur cloak back over her shoulders.

Benjicot met them in the Great Hall, the ledgers already open atop the long trestle table at which they ate their meals. Every hearth in the large hall was lit—always for her benefit. The steward had rolled up the sleeves of his tunic and Cregan did the same before he joined Aly in sitting across from the man. Aly titled her head to the side as she studied the figures and tables on the open page in front of her. Everything seemed clear and orderly enough. A straight line ran from the top of the page to the bottom right down the middle. When the book was opened, the left page listed the expenses alongside the coin paid out and the remaining balance and the right side listed incomes and the additional balance, all organized by date.

“How often are the accounts settled?” Aly asked as she mentally confirmed the arithmetic on each page.

“Every sennight,” Benjicot answered.

She nodded. “And how often are the household accounts checked? We did them monthly on Dragonstone, but I know some households prefer to do it fortnightly. Or even every few moons.”

“Every sennight,” Benjicot repeated. “I do both at once and then go over everything with Lord Cregan the next day.”

“Aly will be joining me from now on,” Cregan told his steward, who nodded.

“Then let’s begin.”

Aly listened intently as Benjicot went over every item on the ledger, puzzling out proportions of expenses in the different categories. Trying to get a sense of typical prices. She alone would be in charge of the household accounts once Cregan went south, and she did not wish to be taken advantage of by anyone who thought her ill-informed. She also knew that expenses represented the best way to see which items were viewed as frivolous and which as necessities.

“Thank you, Benjicot,” Cregan said once the man completed his meticulous recount.

“Of course.” He stood and, with a dip of his chin to both Cregan and Aly, left the pair in the Great Hall.

“Do you wish to play tiles?” he asked her before she could make her leave.

“All right,” she smiled, moving to sit opposite him for their game.

Cregan often asked her to play tiles or dice or card games in the afternoons and evenings. The first afternoon he asked, a day or two after her arrival, he wanted to play cyvasse, an offer that Aly refused. Perhaps too strongly, by the way his face had scrunched up in confusion, but she just couldn’t bring herself to play it with him. That was her and Aegon’s game. She had quickly attempted to smooth things over by instead offering to play a dice game. Cregan agreed and, while they played games most every day, he never again asked her to play cyvasse.

They always talked while they played, Cregan asking her questions about herself and Aly returning the favor. Getting to know one another better. He often spoke of the letters he received that day and how he intended to answer them and why he made certain decisions. Acclimating her to northern politics and his way of ruling. Getting her ready to rule in his place once he left Winterfell.

Cregan was better at tiles than Aegon was, but Aly still won more games than she lost.

“There is a dispute between the Glovers and the Boles,” Cregan told her as he thought over his opening move, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What happened?”

He slid one of his tiles along the board. “Benton Bole claims the Glovers are hunting on his land.”

“And with winter approaching, any game caught on his lands belongs to him,” Aly said, understanding why the Boles were so upset.

Cregan made a noise of affirmation. “Every house preserves as much meat as they can while the hunting is still strong.”

“Will you write to Master Glover?”

Before he could answer, Maester Uthor entered into the Great Hall. The hinges on the doors creaked upon opening, the noise announcing the maester’s presence before the man even stepped foot into the hall.

“A letter for you, Princess Aelora.”

Aly smiled and straightened her shoulders. Perhaps Alarra had written back to her. With a nod of thanks, she practically snatched the parchment from the maester’s hand. She felt momentarily disappointed to see the handwriting belonged to that of Jace, but it soon dissipated as she anxiously unfurled the scroll. Eager to hear from her brother.

As her eyes traveled back and forth across the parchment, however, her elation quickly turned sour. Reading her brother’s words, her mouth ran dry and her breaths shallowed. As hot tears filled her eyes her chest felt as if it had been caved in with a hammer and her entire body trembled.

Aegon’s army marched on the crownlands—Lord Staunton asked for aid—Mother sent Grandmother—She wasn’t expecting—Both Sunfyre and Vhagar met Meleys in the sky—Grandmother is dead—Rest assured they both died fighting—We’ve heard Aegon is grievously injured.

“What is it?” Cregan asked softly.

Grandmother is dead.

She died fighting.

Sunfyre and Vhagar.

“Aly?”

“I have to return to Dragonstone,” she said. Her voice sounded distant. Weak.

“It isn’t safe for you there.”

Aly threw the letter across the table before she shot up from her seat. She heard him unfurl the letter. Perhaps now he would understand. Aly almost made it to the door when she felt Cregan’s warm hand wrap around her upper arm. Stopping her.

“I have to go back,” she shouted as she turned to face him. Her vision was blurry from the tears she stubbornly wished would not fall until she was in the privacy of her chamber, but she could almost perfectly envision the compassion that was no doubt all over his face. The same expression he had worn when Luke died.

“It isn’t safe for you there,” he repeated quietly. Kindly. “If the crownlands are falling, Dragonstone is only safe as long as your mother controls the Gullet, but that may not last forever.”

“But it is safe now,” she insisted.

“And if your uncle sends someone else to infiltrate the castle?”

For that Aly had no answer beyond a surprised look. She did not know her mother told Cregan about Ser Arryk. About the fact that her mother believed Aegon wanted to take her as a hostage.

“You will reunite with your family once your mother sits the throne. Do not jeopardize your safety by returning south before then.”

“But my grandmother is dead,” Aly said weakly. She pushed him away, only succeeding because he allowed it. “Don’t you understand?”

“I do,” Cregan told her. “But your mother sent you here to keep you safe.”

No longer able to control her outpouring of grief, Aly covered her face as sobs wracked through her body. As she sobbed for her grandmother. For Aegon.

Aegon is grievously injured.

She felt sick. Caring about what had happened to him even in the face of her grandmother’s death atop dragonback. Her grandmother’s death from fighting for Rhaenyra’s stolen throne.

It only made her cry harder.

Cregan’s hands gently wrapped around her shoulders and he pulled her into an embrace. Holding her tight as she sobbed into his chest.

Chapter Text

Sunfyre let out a roar of pain and desperation. As Meleys clamped down her jaw around his golden-scaled neck, the dragon not only clawed at his foe’s belly with his forelegs but also used his wings and golden flames in a further attempt to push the Red Queen away from him. Smoke rose from both Sunfyre’s and Meleys’s wounds, and the smell and thickness of it threatened to make Aegon dizzy.

His dragon’s jerky, panicked movements and position in the sky did not help matters, either. Aegon was more or less parallel to the ground below, the straps and buckles the only things keeping him from tumbling down. Swallowing, he chanced a glance downwards. Massive mistake. His stomach flipped at the view. At the way that he was so high up that Lord Staunton’s seat of Rook’s Rest looked no larger than a castle on his father’s model of Old Valyria would have prior to its destruction.

Aegon called out to Sunfyre in High Valyrian, offering him a sense of calm as the beast frantically worked to free himself. The frenzied movements only made Meleys clamp down harder, and Sunfyre needed a sense of stillness to successfully rid himself of Rhaenys’s dragon.

Sunfyre never got the chance, though.

A deep, guttural roar that made Aegon’s bones rattle sounded from above just before darkness cloaked him. Vhagar’s large bronze body completely blocked out the sunlight as she descended down towards Sunfyre and Meleys. Descended quickly. Too quickly.

“Wait,” Aegon shouted. Hoping his brother could hear him. Knowing that he couldn’t.

The call of his rider drew Sunfyre’s attention upward. Realizing what was about to happen, the golden beast stopped fighting Meleys and maneuvered his wings to cover Aegon as best as he could before the blue flames engulfed them. Sunfyre’s roar masked Aegon’s cry of pain. His armor suddenly felt boiling against his skin, and he could feel their chaotic descent, one marked by Sunfyre desperately resuming his clawing at Meleys to tear himself loose of her hold before they slammed into the ground as Aegon screamed nearly all the while.

His children’s faces made their way to the forefront of his mind as he squeezed his eyes shut. All three of them. Would he ever see Jaehaera and Maelor again? Wrap his arms around them? Would he be able to see them grow? Watch them as they found their way? Help guide them? Or would the Stranger take him on this day? He hoped he would be allowed to see Jaehaerys again, even if just for a little while. Aegon was sure he was destined for one of the seven hells—unlike his son, who had no doubt been ushered into one of the seven heavens.

Aegon had not been a good son or a good husband. He was a better father than his own, though that was not a difficult standard to meet. But he loved his children fiercely. He hoped they knew that. And he loved his mother, brother, and sister. He hoped they knew that, too. Hoped that when they remembered him, they did not recall that he could be careless and thoughtless, that he was gluttonous with wine, and that he was selfish with those he loved and cruel to those he didn’t. He hoped that they did not think he was a complete fuck-up.

He hoped that they looked at him through kind eyes, the way Aly always had. Once.

I wish I had brought her favor with me, afterall.

Aegon lost consciousness with the force of Sunfyre colliding with the grass surrounding Rook’s Rest.

Every turn of the litter wheels over a rock or a cobblestone or a tree branch caused Aegon to groan—when he was actually awake. The distance between Rook’s Rest and King’s Landing felt both incredibly short and incredibly long. He fluttered in and out of awareness during most of the trip, opening his eyes for just a few short moments before losing consciousness from the utter agony he was in.

His entire body throbbed in pain. Pain radiated from his hip, so sharp that it made him feel nauseous. His ribs felt sore and swollen, and every breath he drew caused waves of intense discomfort. And his left side…it felt as if someone was holding half of his body to a bonfire, refusing to let go even as his skin burned and tightened all the way down to the nerves, and he worried his skin would slough off at any moment. The heat went down so deep Aegon did not know how his innards had not turned to ash. The pain was so cutting that his eyes were always full of unshed tears and his cheeks wet with shed tears.

The smell was equally unbearable. Inescapable. So potent he felt as if he was trapped in a tannery. It made bile rise to his throat.

If this was what surviving dragonfire felt like, it was no wonder no one else ever had.

Through the agony he vacillated between relief and anger. Relieved that he was alive, that he would see his children again. That the Stranger had no need for him yet. The gods would see his through his continued quest for vengeance. Yet anger also coursed through him. Anger at himself for allowing Meleys to ensnare Sunfyre’s neck between her jaws. Anger at Aemond for not giving Aegon and Sunfyre a proper chance to free themselves of the entanglement before he attacked on Vhagar from above.

Did his brother think him such an incapable warrior, such an incapable dragonrider, that he believed Aegon would never be able to disentangle his dragon from the confines of Meleys’s sharp teeth?

Yes, Aegon thought bitterly. He does think me incapable.

Let him have his chance to rule, then. The small council will no doubt make him regent while I recover. Let him see how difficult it is. Let him see how the weight of the entire realm, in addition to our family’s safety, is the heaviest burden to carry upon one’s shoulders. Let his hubris turn to hatred.

Aegon’s return to the Red Keep seemed to happen in flashes. One moment he was looking up at the canopy of the litter, then the next he saw the cloudless blue sky, and then the next his eyes only saw the stone walls of the castle. He closed his eyes for only a second before he was in his chambers, in his own bed, the canopy he hated so much draping over him. Mocking him.

“How bad—”

“—melted into his skin.”

“—by Prince Aemond—”

“Sunfyre’s wing was practically torn clean—”

“—we had to leave him behind.”

“Meleys’s head—”

“The smallfolk were stunned, to say the least.”

So many whispered voices floated around him. He knew his mother’s voice at once. Recognized the fear in it. He eventually identified the others as belonging to Grand Maester Orwyle, Ser Criston, and his brother. Aegon wanted to call out, to tell them that he was awake, but his eyes fluttered closed before he could. Eyes that promptly shot open at the feeling of his armor being removed from his body. He called out then. In pain.

“Careful,” Orwyle commanded the archmaester and servants.

Aegon winced and groaned at the removal of his breastplate, the pain in his ribs turning from a throbbing pain to a shooting one. The pressure from the armor had actually been keeping the pain from being worse, Aegon realized to his deep chagrin. The tight bandage that one of the servants began wrapping around him helped some but not enough.

The sharp agony only grew worse when the Grand Maester slowly, ever so fucking slowly, peeled the rerebrace and vambrace off Aegon’s left arm. Aegon flung curses at the man, both in the hopes that would get the older man to cease and the need for Aegon to focus on his more colorful vocabulary. Is that what it felt like to be flayed alive? It certainly felt as if Orwyle may as well have pulled off all of his skin with the steel armor, leaving exposed his muscles and tendons.

He turned to look at his arm to assess the damage before darkness took him again, but the Grand Maester’s kind face moved to occupy nearly his entire field of vision. Blocking his ability to see everything properly.

“It’s all right, Your Grace,” Orwyle said softly before tipping a cup into Aegon’s mouth.

Milk of the poppy, he realized just before losing his fight to remain awake.

When he opened his eyes again he stood in the corridor. It was late, at least the hour of ghosts if not the hour of the owl. The low flames within the sconces danced close to the top of the ornately carved marble. If the candles were not replaced soon they threatened to cast the corridor completely in shadow before the dawn broke. His surroundings grew brighter as he walked, large windows beginning to greet him on both sides. The silvery moonlight landed on the stone walls and floor in exaggerated shapes due to the distortion as it traveled through the lattice screens. The only sound surrounding him was his own footsteps; otherwise the castle was completely still. Not even the cats made a noise as they stalked and pounced on their prey in the night.

Before Aegon knew where he was going he reached his destination. The Great Hall. It too was empty and, just like the corridor from which he came, the candlelight paled in comparison to the light of the full moon shining onto the wall and floor. His bare feet forced him closer and closer to the end of the hall and it was only once he was just a few feet from the steps to the Iron Throne that Aegon saw he was not alone.

Jaehaerys sat atop the throne, its size practically swallowing the boy whole. Aegon opened his mouth to tell his son to come down lest he risk one of the sharp swords injuring him, but his words caught in his throat. No matter how hard he tried he could not say anything. So instead Aegon could do naught but look upon his son again as the emotions bubbled up within him. Grateful to see him again, ashamed he had not been able to protect him. Jaehaerys looked exactly the same as he did during his funeral. He wore the same black and red silk tunic that Sunfyre burned to ash at his rider’s command. His face was pale and dark stitches circled his throat. Taunting his father with the reminder of what had happened to him. Of what Rhaenyra had done to him. Of what Aegon had been helpless to prevent.

“Kepa,” Jaehaerys greeted, his voice small and weak and hoarse.

As he looked upon his son from the base of the Iron Throne, barely noticing the deep crack that ran right down the middle of it and threatened to separate the dragonfire-forged steel seat clean in two, Aegon was finally able to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he told his son as tears formed in his eyes. Tears that soon turned to full-on sobs so strong that Aegon had to kneel to brace himself. He covered his face with his hands, unwilling to allow his son an unfiltered view of his breakdown. Desperate to hide how deep his guilt ran. “Everything I did was to keep you and your brother safe.”

Rhaenyra would have killed you if she took the throne, he thought bitterly. Angrily.

It was only when Jaehaerys’s cold hand rested on his shoulder that Aegon looked up. He immediately pulled his son into a tight embrace, sobbing into Jaehaerys’s shoulder the way Jaehaerys used to sob into his shoulder on occasion. Drenching the black and red silk tunic with his tears until his eyes ran dry.

Aegon tightened his arms around Jaehaerys when he felt him attempt to pull away. He refused to let his son go. Not yet. Not again.

“I will kill her for what she did to you,” Aegon promised Jaehaerys. “I will not rest until she is dead and burned.”

They remained like that until Jaehaerys outmaneuvered Aegon’s grasp and pulled free of him. He looked down at Aegon with a small melancholic smile that made him look exactly like his twin sister before he took a step backwards. Away from Aegon.

“Don’t leave,” Aegon pleaded as he reached out.

But his son evaded his grasp, as well as every subsequent attempt to keep him in the Great Hall.

“I must,” Jahaerys said.

“Please. Jaehaerys, come back. Come back to us.”

Jaehaerys paid his father no mind, only continued to walk backwards until he was completely out of Aegon’s sight. Once more lost to him forever.

Time passed strangely as Aegon laid in his bed. Every time he opened his eyes he did not know if it had been mere hours, days, or even months since Rook’s Rest. Sometimes he saw or heard his mother by his bedside, praying to the gods to heal him. Other times it was the Grand Maester or some of the servants. Their presence was not nearly as quiet and calming as that of his mother. They constantly poked and prodded at him or rifled through the medicines, poultices, and bandages on his bedside table. Sometimes loudly.

Every time he fluttered his eyes open, he groaned in pain. The metallic taste of a goblet always followed soon afterwards, as did more milk of the poppy. The taste itself was not one he particularly enjoyed, the thin liquid slightly bitter, but he very much enjoyed the feeling that accompanied it. Anything to control his pain. That was increasingly all he cared about, all that mattered to him—those few moments between waking and finding that sweet bliss of numbness and then sleep.

“Everything is all right, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle would always assure him calmly as Aegon gulped down as much liquid as he could before falling asleep.

Aegon’s fingers curled around the cool edge of the stone balcony railing. It was a crisp night, one in which even the slightest gust of wind would make him shiver. But the air was still. Even the soft waves of the Blackwater moved languidly towards the shore, the reflection of the full moon barely rippling as the waves troughed and crested.

“Aegon?”

His sense of calm only increased at hearing her voice, and he smiled as he turned to face her. Aly padded towards him with a smile of her own upon her face, a smile that conveyed how happy she was to see him. A smile that made his chest ache.

As she walked further out of the shadows he saw that her nightgown clung to her body in a way it never had before. Showing off the curves of her form to him, the swell of her tits and the roundness of her hips. He was mesmerized. He could never tear his eyes away from her, no matter how much or how little she wore. The most beautiful woman in all the realm, nay, in all the world, and she had chosen him.

“I’m glad you found me,” he told her honestly once she reached him. He intertwined their hands and brought her flush against his chest. So close there was barely any space between them as he led them swaying back and forth in a makeshift dance.

Aly’s smile widened. “Am I not always chasing you?”

“What do you mean?”

She gave him that playfully scolding look she always gave him whenever he said something cheeky. A look he always found amusing. “We’re always where you want to be.”

His brows furrowed. “That’s not true,” he protested.

“It is. But I like making you happy,” she said with a shrug.

“I like making you happy.”

“You do,” Aly insisted. She gently let go of one of his hands and traced her palm up and over his chest, his neck, before resting on his cheek. She gazed deeply into his eyes as she said, “You’re the only one who sees me.”

His heart clenched at her declaration. “You see me, too.”

And they had. Always saw each other. Always broke down the other’s walls. He saw that she buried such deep feelings behind her courtly mask, and he was the only one in her life to allow her to freely feel them. She saw his pain and his constant need for reassurance that he was enough just as he was, and she was the only one in his life that made him feel that he was. Because they loved each other, were devoted to each other.

The gods had molded them for one another. Their bodies, their hearts, their souls.

“I love you,” he told her.

“I love you, too. More than anyone.”

“I wish I had married you.”

I begged to marry you.

Aly’s smile turned melancholic. “Do you think it would have changed anything?”

It would have changed everything.

“Let’s go inside,” she insisted before he could answer her aloud.

Aegon let her lead him into the rooms in which the balcony was connected. He knit his brows as he took in the chambers. The bits and bobs on the table, the high backed chairs, the tapestry on the wall, the bed. These were his chambers. His old chambers, the ones he slept in before he became king. The chambers he shared with Aly. But his rooms didn’t have a balcony. It couldn’t have been, but it was.

“We should dance in here,” Aly said as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Where no one can see us.”

Aegon placed his hands on her hips, allowing her to lead their slow and sensual dance. Dancing the way they always did in the Slippery Eel, one of the few places they could be openly affectionate with each other.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged as he rested his forehead against hers.

“Why would I leave? Our entire world is in these rooms.”

He had thought similarly before, but hearing her say it while he looked out at his chambers from the corner of his eye made it all seem…unworthy of her. But it was all he could offer her. And she had accepted it as if it was the entire world. Because she loved him and wanted to be with him. Even if it did mean they would only ever have his chambers, and not the whole world as she deserved.

“Don’t leave me,” he repeated. His voice desperate now. “Everything is unbearable without you. I can’t…” Tears pooled in his eyes. “I can’t do this without you.”

She cupped his cheeks, using her thumb to wipe away the tears that were falling, and looked at him with so much love it only made him cry harder.

And then Aegon opened his eyes as a sharp pain caused him to awaken, the first thing he saw being that canopy he fucking hated so much.

All he did was dream and drink milk of the poppy. Dreamt because he drank milk of the poppy. Drank milk of the poppy so he would dream.

It seemed as if everyone and everything Aegon had ever known appeared to him in his dreams. Sometimes he dreamt of flying Sunfyre over the Blackwater, his dragon’s gold scales shining brilliantly in the sunlight. Occasionally Aly joined him on Lyrax, the pair racing one another as they laughed with glee. Other times he flew with Helaena and Aemond, just like that morning at High Tide after Aemond lost his eye to their nephews. On other nights Jaehaera and Jaehaerys flew with him on their little dragons, their silver hair swirling in the breeze and their laughter so loud it could not even be drowned out by the wind.

His favorite dreams were the ones in which they were all together. Sitting on the shoreline, in the solar, or in the gardens, it made no matter. The twins chased one another in a circle, giggling as they took turns over who chased who, while Helaena looked on with a smile and Maelor bundled up in her arms. His sister looked as she did before their son’s death: her eyes held life in them, her hair was sleek and plaited fashionably, and she appeared as if grief had never touched her. Aegon always sat next to her, watching the children play, his hand stroking up and down Aly’s side as she sat upon his lap. She leaned back, resting her head on his chest, and a permanent smile played upon her lips. One that did not fade even when he kissed her.

Other times he again dreamt that he and his niece were back in his chambers, dancing to a tune only in their own heads. Sometimes the dreams were happy, the pair of them doing nothing but smiling at each other and telling each other how much they loved one another. Sometimes, his least favorite times, the dream turned melancholy as he confessed how much he missed her and begged her to not leave him.

One night—or was it during the day? He did not know anymore—Aegon even dreamt of presiding over the small council again, Otto back as Hand of the King, and all the councillors praising his efforts as king, telling him that the entire realm accepted that he was the rightful king. Rhaenyra had capitulated and, as penance for all she had done, joined the Silent Sisters. And Larys, with those sharp eyes of his, told him that Princess Aelora wrote asking to return to the capital after finding so much unhappiness in her marriage to Lord Stark.

Aegon hissed when he tried to shift in the bed. Everything still hurt. His hip throbbed with a dull ache, his ribs felt tender, breathing was difficult, and his entire left side felt as if it still burned. Before Aegon could even think of grumbling, a goblet was shoved against his lips.

The corridor felt warm, both in light and temperature. The yellow flames and their reflections bounced along the walls in exaggerated shapes, and the air wrapped itself around him like a loving embrace. As he walked the chatter and laughter of hundreds grew louder and louder with each step. It sounded as if the entire court gathered. A feast, then? That must have been why he trekked towards the Great Hall.

Great oak and bronze doors greeted him upon arriving, doors which parted for him before he could reach out. Just as he supposed, everyone at court sat in the hall. They all watched him with merry smiles as he walked past the long tables and towards the raised dais and his family. Some inclined their heads to him while other courtiers waved. All acknowledged him in some way.

His parents sat in the middle of the high table, both watching him with looks of pride—looks that felt at once foreign and comforting. His father looked as Aegon always imagined him in his youth, before his illness claimed half the skin of his face, his golden crown gleaming in the candlelight. His mother looked younger too, the perpetual worry lines around her mouth and eyes smoothed and relaxed. Helaena sat next to Alicent and their three children, all of whom were too young to be attending a feast, squirmed with excitement in their seats at seeing him. An empty high-backed chair stood at his father’s right, and next to it sat Aly. Aemond, Daeron, and Otto occupied the remaining seats of the table, all of whom looked at him with the same awe as the courtiers.

“Happy name day,” Viserys greeted once Aegon reached them.

The feast was for him. For Aegon. The king and queen’s firstborn son. The son that his parents, by the looks of them, felt immense pride and joy in. It was such an unusual feeling for Aegon to be on the receiving end of his parents’ adulation that he was unsure how to properly accept it. He was sure how it made him feel, though. As if his chest was full and he was floating. And his smile was uncontrollable as he moved to take his seat next to his father on the dais.

The king stood as Aegon pushed his chair in, and the entire hall hushed all at once.

“We come here to celebrate my eldest son,” he said before turning to Aegon. “Your mother and I are so proud of you.”

Aly grasped his hand underneath the table and squeezed it tight as Viserys continued toasting him with words he had only ever reserved for his eldest child. The court lifted their goblets before drinking Aegon’s honor once the king ceased his words of praise, and the servants brought out platters of food. Platters full of all of Aegon’s favorite foods: roasted chicken, green beans, spinach, soft bread, and, for dessert, apple cakes topped with cinnamon.

“I told you that one day he would come to recognize your virtues,” Aly whispered in his ear.

Aegon breathed out a laugh. “My virtues.”

“Yes,” she said, humor dancing in her eyes. “Now everyone sees you as I do.”

“And how is that?” he inquired. Eager to hear her say the words.

“A good man. One who is kind and caring and clever.”

He kissed her then. Only on the cheek, but firm enough that he hoped she understood all the emotion behind it.

“Dance with me,” he insisted as he placed his fork down on the table after eating his first course.

“The musicians haven’t started yet,” she smiled.

He shrugged as a grin forced its way onto his face. “It’s not as if that has ever stopped us before.”

“You don’t wish to finish eating? There are still three more courses.”

“The food will be here upon our return.”

She laughed, a sound that made his heart leap with joy. “And we have all night to dance together. Let us enjoy our supper.”

Aegon finished his meal first, finding himself famished. He scarfed down his food as if he had not eaten in weeks. While his behavior normally would have been met with a scolding or disappointed look from his mother, or a disbelieving one from Aly, neither had anything written upon their faces other than joy whenever they glanced in his direction.

“Let’s dance now,” he said as soon as Aly placed the last bite of her apple cake, the last course, into her mouth. He felt pleased upon seeing her attempt to chew through her growing smile at his insistence.

The musicians began to play a lively tune as the pair walked, hand in hand, to the makeshift dance area. Aegon kept his grip on one of her hands and grabbed her hip with the other while she cupped her free hand around his cheek. For a beat everyone watched them, but Aegon only had eyes for Aly. And she only had eyes for him. It was as if they were the only two people in the entire world.

“I love you,” he murmured.

“I love you, too. More than anyone.”

Her eyes flickered down to his lips. Aegon mirrored her gaze, mesmerized at the tip of her tongue wetting her lips. He swallowed as he looked up again and met her burning blue eyes. The look that always made his pulse race.

Aly curled her fingers into his hair and brought his face to hers, enveloping him in a heated kiss. He sighed when she nipped at his lower lip and then moaned when she slid her tongue into his mouth, dancing with his own. The soft noises they drew from each other made each of their grips on the other tighten in a delicious dull pain.

They were both panting when they broke away from each other. And grinning like idiots.

“Shall we celebrate your name day in your chambers, Your Grace?”

He opened his mouth to tell her all the debauched ways he wished to celebrate with her, but a voice he had not heard in many moons spoke before he had the chance. A voice belonging to a man he hoped to never see again.

“Perhaps Lord Stark’s wife would be better suited to spending the night with him.”

Aegon’s jaw tightened at Harrold Paege’s snide remark. The man who had been so gauche in his obvious attempts to befriend Aly to further his own station had the nerve to lecture his king about who he spent his time with. He could admit to himself, however, that Harrold’s remark needled at him.

Lord Stark’s wife.

She was his family. Not Cregan’s. She was the blood of the dragon, not some…northern savage. She would never be a Stark.

“Wine,” he said, pointedly ignoring Harrold. Not wanting the man to know he had succeeded in getting a rise out of Aegon. “I have not had any all night.”

He dragged Aly back to the raised dais, grabbing a full goblet of sweet Arbor red as soon as it was in reach.

“You shouldn’t allow his remarks to bother you,” Aly counseled. “He is nothing.”

“Listen to her,” Viserys said from his seat at the long table. “Aly is a smart one. She will make a good queen, do you not think, Aegon?”

“Perhaps that is not my fate,” Aly answered for him. His chest tightened at the slight bitterness in her voice, the tone slipping through no matter how hard she attempted to mask it.

Viserys’s smile faded and a look of disgust replaced it. “Your first dragon egg. The one that never hatched. It was a bad omen. I never should have let Aegon choose it. He ruins everything he touches.”

A sharp pain caused Aegon’s eyes to open. So sharp it made him instantly forget the still-lingering anxiety and confusion and hurt that remained from his dream. Aegon had to turn his head to see the Grand Maester, who sat on the left side of his bed, as the bandages upon his face affected his peripheral vision. For his burns, he knew. The burns that covered nearly his entire left side. Burns he would carry with him for the remainder of his life as scars.

Mayhaps they will only scar minimally on my face, he hoped. He had instinctively covered his face with his steel-covered arm once he heard Vhagar’s roar and realized what was happening. Perhaps that had been enough. Perhaps the worst of the scarring would only affect his arm and leg.

He hoped but he dared not ask.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle said softly. “I just need to change your poultices.”

The Grand Maester’s second attempt caused another shock of pain, so bad that Aegon cried out. He attempted to silence it by gritting his teeth and breathing in deeply, but that only caused a different pain. One no less severe.

“How bad is it?” Aegon asked once the torture was over and his new poultice dressed. His voice was hoarse from lack of use, and he immediately began coughing from the strain. He regretted the attempt instantly, the coughing causing even more pain to radiate from his ribs.

“You’ve broken your ribs and hip,” Grand Maester Orwyle told him as he poured sips of milk of the poppy down Aegon’s throat between coughs. Confirming what Aegon already suspected. “And the burns…”

His broken bones would heal. Of that he was sure. It would take time, but he would leave his bed again. Aegon wanted to ask more, about how Sunfyre fared after Rook’s Rest, about how the realm that was no doubt being ruled by his brother was faring, about how bad the burns looked, but the pain stole the words from his lips.

All except, “Pour me another goblet of milk of the poppy.”

Chapter Text

The falling snow blanketed the godswood in white. Everything except the weirwood tree. No matter how much snow fell, the ancient heart tree continued to proudly show off its red leaves and melancholy red face. The lack of green, combined with the high trill of the snow shrikes that recently made their home in the godswood, gave Aly a sense of disquiet.

Other than the sound of the birds she could not see, everything in the godswood seemed so…still. Unlike the glass gardens, the location from which she looked out upon the forest. The location she fled to whenever she needed a moment for her grief. There was something comforting about the food and plants growing and sprouting within the garden. Life anew.

While the glass gardens provided her with some comfort, Aly could not help but wish there was a sept inside of which she could turn. Without one, there was nowhere for her to light a candle at the altar of the Stranger as she prayed for the Stranger to help guide Rhaenys to the seven heavens. There was nowhere to pray to the Father and the Mother, asking them to guide her family towards an end to the war, asking them to help Helaena in her grief, and asking them to watch over her younger brothers and cousins.

Above all, she wished there was somewhere to pray for the love that she still held for her uncle to leave her.

Aly briefly considered broaching the possibility of building a sept to Cregan, but after recalling Rena’s reaction to her possibling bringing a septa to Winterfell, she dared not. She knew he would only decline her request. The northerners worshipped the old gods, and her children would all be northerners. Building a sept for a lone, and only occasional, worshipper would only be a waste. So instead she said her crude prayers in the privacy of her chambers each night as she lay awake in bed. Awake and worried about her family.

The loss of her grandmother and Meleys was a heavy one. For everyone, both personally and for the war effort. Rhaenys was the most skilled dragonrider Rhaenyra had on her side, and Meleys the largest dragon. Now only Syrax, Vermax, and Moondancer remained on Dragonstone—and Vhagar was large enough to meet most of them. And if Helaena joined her brother on Dreamfyre, should she decide to seek vengeance for her son and husband, the battle could go either way.

You will reunite with your family once your mother sits the throne. Do not jeopardize your safety by returning south before then.

Cregan was right. She knew it, but that did not make it any easier. Feeling helpless while she did naught but remain away from the fight. Agonizing over her family’s safety every waking moment—and often in her slumber. Thinking of the last time she saw her grandmother. Thinking of her departure for Winterfell, wondering if that would be the last time she saw any of them. Because if Rhaenys could fall, anyone could.

As a child Aly had been closer to her grandfather, enraptured by his tales of sailing and always pleading with him to tell her more. But while most of her time at High Tide was spent with Corlys, Aly never thought of her grandmother as anything but fierce and strong and larger than life. A woman who loved her family and held enmity for those who crossed them. The Queen Who Never Was, some called her, and she was every bit as regal as a queen should have been.

Rhaenys fought for Rhaenyra, not for any love for her former gooddaughter but for her granddaughter’s future as Jace’s betrothed. Aly was no fool, she knew the betrothals of Baela and Rhaena to Jace and Luke was the deciding factor for Rhaenys once it became clear was was inevitable. Or at least one of them. Rhaenys cared for her son’s claimed children, as did Corlys. But that love did not extend to Rhaenyra. It never had and it certainly never would now.

It should have been her, Corlys wrote to Aly a few days after Rhaenys’s death. In his haste to leave Dragonstone upon his wife’s death, he did not know Jace had already told her of the news, and he wanted to ensure his granddaughter knew what had happened. And, due to her distance, he felt safe in sharing exactly how deep his emotions burned. Your mother calls herself the true queen, but she sends others to die in her place.

His words were treason, guided by old wounds that never healed but instead scabbed over and bled at the right provocation. Yet Aly knew they were words guided by anger and grief and regret. Emotions Aly knew all too well. And as she burned his letter to prevent another set of eyes landing upon his sorrow-fueled words, her own anger, grief, and regret caused tears to pool and fall down her cheeks.

“A letter arrived for you.”

Aly startled at Cregan’s voice. She had not heard him enter the glass gardens, so lost in thought and mesmerized by the sight of the weirwood tree was she. The fur collar of his coat was flaked with snow, as was the top of his head. His cheeks were tinged pink, a sign that he had just finished training in the yard with Winterfell’s master-at-arms, Leobold, and Hallis Holt, the captain of the household guard.

“Thank you.”

Her stomach flipped upon seeing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on the wax seal. A letter from Dragonstone. Cregan noticed it, as well, if his hovering while she broke it was anything to go by. He did that now whenever she received a letter, always at the ready should the piece of parchment contain defeating news. Aly alternated between finding it reassuring and irritating. He was prepared to be there for her, but by assuming she needed him she sometimes felt he thought her fragile.

“Joffrey and Rhaena have left for the Vale,” Aly told him once she finished reading Jace’s letter. Saving him the trouble of asking if everything was all right. “Jace is still corresponding with the Prince of Pentos about taking in Aegon and Viserys, but he is confident the prince will agree to ward them.”

“That is good,” he said.

Aly hummed. It was. With her younger brothers and dragonless cousin safe from harm, that would perhaps give her mother the freedom to make firmer, bolder plans. The crownlands up to Rook’s Rest had fallen to Aegon, which meant that despite his injury his army could march towards the riverlands and surprise Daemon. Would they do so without Vhagar? She doubted it, as Caraxes would ignite them to ruin. Aly thought Daeron too young to join the battle, though Tessarion was certainly large enough. Was he fighting in the Reach? She did not know. Regardless, Vhagar was the only one large enough to face Caraxes and, if Vhagar left the capital, that would possibly leave King’s Landing ripe for the taking. Only Dreamfyre would be left to defend the city.

The vision of her grieving aunt as a hostage made Aly frown. Surely her mother would not allow any harm to come to her. What had Helaena done but love her son? And what would happen to the injured Aegon once her mother took the castle? Would he be executed on the spot? And what of Maelor and Jaehaera?

“What happened to them?” Aly asked Cregan about the uncle who had refused to relinquish the regency and the uncle’s three sons.

“After I imprisoned them, you mean? The only thing that could happen to them.”

“Aly?”

She masked her worry with a small smile as she looked at Cregan. “I’m all right. Jace is going to attempt to convince my mother to name Corlys her Hand, and I am simply pondering what advice to give him.”

“Do you think that will smooth things over?”

While Aly had not told Cregan of her grandfather’s exact words regarding Rhaenyra, she had told him that Corlys left Dragonstone shortly after her grandmother’s death and that the personal relationship between her mother and grandfather had been frayed in his grief.

“Would it not with anyone?” she asked. “His support is vital to my mother’s cause as well as her council. Naming him Hand of the Queen not only acknowledges that support, but it also honors my grandmother and gives him a voice in all matters going forward. Matters beyond just the blockade and the Velaryon fleet.”

“Is your mother likely to listen to your brother?”

“Yes,” Aly answered at once. “She knows she needs to do something after my grandmother’s death, something to show that, while in mourning, she has not given up her sights on the Iron Throne. But Jace will need to push her in the right direction or else she will strew in her anger at Corlys’s leaving Dragonstone and refuse.”

“Sounds as if your letter to him is already written.”

“I suppose it is.”

With one last glance out into the snowy godswood, Aly followed Cregan back to the Great Keep. The servants hurriedly went about their tasks—not only did they have to keep the castle running smoothly, but they also had to prepare for both the coming winter and the autumn feast that Winterfell was hosting in just a few moons. A long list of duties that Aly was beginning to feel as well; she and Cregan met with Benjicot and Fran at least once a sennight to discuss preparations and budgeting for both. While the planning for the autumn feast was more involved in light of the increased number of people staying at Winterfell for nearly an entire fortnight, planning for winter was more important. Feeding the lords was all well and good but one could not forget that the priority, as Cregan explained to her, was the care of the household for the long winter.

“Lord Stark, Princess Aelora,” Benjicot greeted them upon their arrival to Cregan’s solar.

Both he and Fran rose upon their entrance and dipped their chins before sitting once again at a gesture from Cregan. Aly and her husband sat opposite them at the polished ironwood table in the back left corner of the bright room. A ledger book lay atop the surface in front of Benjicot and he opened it as soon as he began to speak.

“We are making good progress on gathering grains and wheat,” he said. “Our stores should be full by the end of the autumn feast.”

“And the planning for that?” Cregan asked.

“Is well underway,” Bejicot answered. “Most of the meat will be provided for by the hunts while the lords are here, and we can spare a few fowls from our yards before the hunt begins.”

“Princess Aelora and I have begun creating the menus,” Fran said. “In addition to what the lords bring back after the hunts, the dishes will consist of ripe produce from the glass gardens and a few things we can easily buy from the winter town.”

“Good,” Cregan praised, giving Aly a smile.

“Fran and I agreed to assign the chambers by the end of the current moon,” Aly told him. “The servants have already begun airing out all the rooms in the Guest House, and they will launder the sheets and tidy the rooms closer to time.”

“Have Sara help you,” Cregan advised. “She knows which lords are best kept apart.”

“All right.”

“The kitchens continue canning and drying fruits, vegetables, and meats,” Fran reported, shifting the discussion back to preparations for the winter.

“And the jams?” Cregan asked.

“That will begin next week.”

“We’ll have plenty of freshly cut meat during the winter as well,” Benjicot said, likely for Aly’s benefit. She could admit the prospect of eating nothing but dried and salted meat for several months seemed unappetizing. “The stables are gathering their own oats and barley for the animals, and we should have more than enough to feed the horses, goats, cows, and chickens.”

“I suppose we are well on our way, then,” Cregan told them, his words more or less a dismissal.

“How long do you expect the winter to last?” Aly asked him as Benjicot and Fran left the solar. The seasons varied so much, but she suspected northerners had ways of estimating the length of the coming winter. A knowledge passed down through generations to better prepare to survive.

But Cregan only shrugged. “It can be as short as one year, or it could be as long as a decade.”

“Ten years?” Aly repeated in disbelief. A ten-year winter sounded unbearable. Cooped up in Winterfell, all alone, unable to fly her dragon due to the frigid temperatures, barely able to go outside at all due to the snow.

She did not miss the way the corners of Cregan’s lips turned up in amusement. “It has been centuries since a winter lasted that long,” he assured her. “It has happened, though, so it is best to prepare.”

The more Aly considered it, the more preemptively anxious she felt about the possibility. Ten years of seeing no greenery outside the glass gardens, ten years of being unable to see anyone outside of those already residing in the castle walls. Ten years of discovering every bit of news secondhand. Ten years of feeling powerless in regards to family matters. Ten years to lose any influence she had south of the Neck.

Ten years to lose those she loved, unable to do a single thing about it.

Snow crunched under Aly’s boots as she crossed the courtyard, chewing on her lip as she contemplated Lyrax’s increasing stubbornness on their flights. She hoped that the occasional additions of an afternoon flight would serve to perk up her dragon, but it seemed it only planted ideas into the creature’s head. Every flight Lyrax would attempt to go further south than Aly wanted. An attempt to return home. And every flight Aly had to pull the reins hard and order her dragon to turn around. Lyrax always minded her, but the attempts caused both frustration and understanding to bubble up in Aly’s chest.

Lyrax seemed to be doing all right in the wolfswood, hunting animals and lighting fires to keep warm, but Aly feared that would not be enough once winter came in full force. Would Lyrax leave her? Would she return to Dragonstone until the spring came? Aly did not like the prospect of potentially being so far away from her dragon one bit. It made her feel so…empty. They had been together since Lyrax was a hatchling.

But if it’s what is best for her… She will come back to me. Winter will not sever our bond.

The sounds of swords clashing forced Aly’s attention away from mulling over where her dragon would spend winter. Several men of the household guard and garrison practiced their swordsmanship, keeping their skills sharp to ensure their ability to protect the household from any threats. A few stood aside and watched a pair sparring, shouting out in excitement when the taller of the two made a particularly good maneuver. Cregan, Aly could tell at once even with his back to her and in his plain tunic and trousers. He moved quickly, gracefully, against his opponent. He had been well-trained, that was clear.

Aly continued walking towards the Great Keep before Cregan could see her watching. She did not want him to misunderstand her interest.

He is my husband.

Her hand rested along her collarbones as she returned to her chambers. She sighed in disappointment at seeing no letters awaiting her. She wrote yet another letter to Alarra not so long ago, telling her she had heard about what happened and how sorry she was about her father’s death at Criston Cole’s hand and that Aly knew exactly how Alarra felt, having lost her own father to someone else’s hand. But so far her friend had not responded. Aly certainly did not blame her. After her father’s death, the last thing Aly wanted to do was write letters. No, she only wished to remain hidden in her chambers while her heart tore itself asunder.

I wish I could see her. To comfort her in her grief.

But Aly knew it would be many moons before she saw her friend again. Before she saw anyone again.

She sat at her vanity and opened one of the drawers. The drawer she opened daily, even though she never took anything out of it. Her ritual of looking down at the jewelry Aegon bought for her, just to remind herself of happier times. Times when he wasn’t a usurper. Times when they were together. Times when the weight of her sorrow did not feel as if it could crush her at any moment.

Aly wished more than anything that she could go back to those moments. She would live there permanently if she could. Because no matter how tightly her stomach had twisted into knots from the guilt of it all, she would rather feel that again than the profound grief she carried with her everywhere. Grief for her brother, for her grandmother, for her little cousin, for her aunt. And grief for her uncle, for the love they had shared.

At Dragonstone the mermaid necklace, diamond-and-amethyst bracelet, and all the other pieces laid atop a pile of folded parchment. Letters Aegon sent to her. Letters in which the words were burned into her memory. Letters in which she had physically burned prior to her leaving for Winterfell. She could still perfectly envision them in the fireplace in her chambers, their edges turning black and curling before becoming nothing but ash.

Unbidden, her mind wandered to her uncle’s current condition. Jace remained silent on the matter since his initial letter regarding their grandmother’s death, and Aly did not ask. Aegon has been grievously injured. What did that mean? Burns? Broken bones? Was he conscious? Was he teetering between life and death?

She did not inquire about his condition in part because she feared the answer.

A knock on her door caused Aly to slam the vanity drawer shut, not wanting her visitor to see its contents. Her private nostalgia was just that. She forced a smile when Sara’s face made itself visible to her through the opening door.

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” Sara confessed once she stepped into the room. “I didn’t want to drag you away from Cregan if you were with him.”

You wouldn’t have, Aly wanted to say, but she held her tongue. She liked Cregan a great deal—he was kind to her and patient with her as she navigated life in Winterfell, and he did occasionally make a jest—but there was nothing in her feelings for him that would make her feel as if Sara wanting to spend time with her qualified as dragging her away from him.

“I thought we could go into the winter town,” Sara said. “You’ve never been, and it would be nice for the townsfolk to see you patronizing their shops.”

“Yana is busy, I suppose?” Aly said wryly, causing Sara to roll her eyes.

“That has nothing to do with my asking you,” she claimed with a laugh.

“Yes, I am sure.”

After she wrapped herself in a thick fur cloak to cover her dark blue lambswool gown, a creation of Bessa’s that fit Aly perfectly, the pair made their way to the main gatehouse followed by Vayon and Mikken, two of the household guards. Jory, one of the guards on duty, gestured to another to open the gate upon seeing them and nodded at Vayon and Mikken before jesting to his fellow guards that he hoped they did not lose their coin gambling. Excitement built within Aly as the portcullis rose. She had only ever seen the town from the west, coming in through the Hunter’s Gate after her flights atop Lyrax, so while she knew the town was massive and lively she did not know quite what to expect.

In some ways the winter town reminded Aly of parts of King’s Landing with its spindly and tight alleys and streets made of mud. It was clearly a town with a layout born of necessity rather than any intentional planning. If there was room to erect a building on a street or road, a log and stone building was thus built. While the more residential parts seemed quieter than the capital, the only sign of its inhabitants the smoke spilling forth from the chimneys, the market square bustled with activity that could rival any square in King’s Landing. Crowds gathered around the well in the center of the square to draw water or, in the case of some, chat with their friends between stops to buy their necessities. Peddlers set up stalls all around the market square, as well as fire pits to help keep them warm outside of the confines of a four-walled shop, shouting out and showing off their late harvest produce, flowers, and other hand-fashioned goods such as soap, clothing, and figurines. Unlike King’s Landing, no one sold cooked food. That was not the point at this time of year, as everyone was only interested in stocking up on goods to then preserve later.

It seemed as if nearly everyone knew Sara, as Aly could not go a single step with her goodsister without at least one person smiling and calling to her by name. They knew Aly, too, by her higher quality gown rather than by sight. All the smallfolk dipped their chins at her, and some of the children pointed at her as they turned their heads to speak to their parents, no doubt asking some variation of “Is that Lord Stark’s new wife?”

“Where shall we go first, Aelora?” Sara asked.

It did not matter how many times Aly told Sara she did not need to call her by her full name, her goodsister would always smile but then continue to do so.

“How about we walk around the square for a bit?” Aly asked, unable to make up her mind about any one stall. “See if anything catches our eye.”

“All right.”

“Cregan said farmers and villagers from other parts of the north move into the town once autumn arrives,” Aly said as they walked.

Sara made a noise of agreement. “The mountain clansmen as well, third and fourth sons and their families. The farmers move so they can sell the last of their harvest before its time to plant seeds again, and the villagers move since they’re better able to purchase anything they need here than in their smaller hamlets.”

Once in the thick of the market square they stayed a little bit back from those actively looking to buy specific things. Aly did not want to appear interested in a stall only to walk away after catching the peddler’s eye. The produce looked good enough, though of course Aly had no need of any. The other goods varied from extremely well crafted to rather more homespun. She wondered if any of the soap makers had any apple-scented bars. Perhaps she would inquire.

“Princess Lady Stark!”

A thin, bald man standing behind a multi-tiered wooden stall full of flowers waved his hand in the air as he looked intently at the pair of them.

“I suppose he means you,” Sara grinned.

“Morning!” the man greeted once they reached him. He then waved his hands over his stall to proudly show off his flowers. They were beautiful, every color of the rainbow represented on some varieties Aly had seen before and others she hadn’t. One in particular caught her eye.

“Is that a winter rose?” she asked as she pointed to the pale blue rose. She had seen illustrations of the special variety that only grew north of the Neck, and still possessed an unused bottle of perfume with the flower’s scent that Alarra gifted her once for her name day, but Aly had never seen one with her own eyes.

“Indeed it is,” the man exclaimed, pleased she had noticed the group on his stall. He grabbed one to better show it off to her. “You clearly have an eye for beauty.”

She carefully took the rose from his outstretched hand to view it up close, mindful of its thorns. The stem felt thicker, hardier, than any of the roses that grew in the south. The petals, while still delicate, felt firmer to her touch as well. Natural protection from snow and ice and frigid temperatures.

“These are the first to come in this year,” he said. “A telltale sign of the coming winter.”

“Not the snow?” Sara snorted.

“More will bloom during the winter, of course,” the man said, ignoring Sara’s jibe. “But the first winter roses are always the most beautiful.”

“I’ll take a dozen,” Aly told the man, perhaps a bit impulsively. Since he had engaged her it would be rude to walk away without buying anything. Had Sara not said the smallfolk should see her patronizing the shops in the town? And the roses were beautiful. They would certainly look nice in her chambers and add some brightness to them.

“Thank you, Princess Lady Stark,” he beamed. “I shall make sure it is my best bouquet yet.”

He made quite a show of choosing which roses from the bunch would go into her bouquet, picking one up and thoroughly inspecting it. The first five made him shake his head, the next three caused him to nod emphatically, and so on until a dozen roses met his standards.

“Thank you,” Aly said once she held the ribbon-wrapped bouquet within her hands.

“Should anyone, such as Lord Cregan, ask where you received such a beautiful arrangement of winter roses, be sure to tell ‘em you stopped by Gerren’s stall.”

“I will,” Aly promised, though she doubted Cregan would even see them. Not if she kept them in her chambers, a room her husband rarely stepped foot in. They played tiles and dice together often, but they always did so in the Great Hall or Cregan’s solar. Rooms that did not feel so…intimate.

After Gerren told them he’d charge the castle for Aly’s dozen roses—after bickering with Sara over the price—the pair continued walking through the market. The smells of soaps, leather, flowers, wood, and oils wafted over them with each step—some pleasant, some that made Aly wish to scrunch up her nose. She could not help but smile when her eyes landed upon one stall in front of which a gaggle of young children stood, many on the tips of their toes, speaking to each other excitedly. It was only once Aly stepped closer that she could see what caused so much enthusiasm: a woodcarver making figurines and toys in front of the childrens’ very eyes. The sight was in fact quite mesmerizing. Watching the man alternate using a chisel and a mallet against the block of wood, attempting to decipher what the figurine would be once all was completed. If it would be something in the same shape as those lining the front of the stall, or if it would be something new and unique.

It did not take long before Aly was able to tell that the figure was indeed something different than the direwolves, bears, foxes, horses, and snow shrikes that he had already carved. The block of oak was well on its way to becoming a dragon, one with a long neck and a wide wingspan. Once the man completed the dragon, he looked intently at each of the children, likely attempting to find one whose father or mother were near enough to pay him for it. When his eyes met hers, he stopped.

“A dragon for a dragon,” he said as he stretched his arm over the tops of the children’s heads towards Aly. Offering her the freshly-carved figurine.

She stopped closer to accept it, Sara close behind her. The children in their path moved aside to allow the two of them to reach the front of the stall, and Aly could both see and feel their gazes now fixated upon her. Realization dawning on them as to who she was.

“I spent many weeks upon hearing of your marriage to Lord Stark perfecting the shape,” the woodcarver told her with a tinge of pride. “Adding dragons to my offerings in your honor, Princess. They are quite popular with the children.”

“What child does not like to play with dragons?” Aly asked with a smile. She cautiously swept her fingers over the wooden dragon but thankfully found no splinters. Only smooth, curved oak. “I am a seahorse, though, not a dragon,” she softly corrected.

“Those were not as popular with the children,” he shrugged. “Take it. And a direwolf.”

“The wolf and the dragon,” Sara said with a small laugh. “It sounds like the perfect bedside tale for Rickon…and his future brothers and sisters.”

Aly only shifted awkwardly as she accepted the carved direwolf from the woodcarver.

He is my husband. And we are not doing our duty.

Aly had always been a dutiful daughter, but she had known, since that first time Aegon kissed her, that she would not make a good, dutiful wife. Not to Jace when she thought she was to marry her brother, and not to Cregan now.

He deserves a better wife than me.

Her brows furrowed in concentration as the pen scratched across the piece of parchment. She had started her letter twice already before discarding it and beginning anew. Cregan told her just a few days prior that her letter to Jace regarding Corlys sounded as if it was already written, yet she constantly found herself second guessing her words once she attempted to put them to parchment. It was not as if it mattered much, Aly tried to tell herself, as by the time her brother actually received her letter he would have already made whatever decision he was going to make. As would her mother.

That was another letter she would soon have to conquer. Rhaenyra wrote to her the previous day, apologizing for not writing sooner, asking her about the north, and speaking wistfully of Rhaenys—and viciously of Aegon and Aemond.

I will feel naught but glee once they are dead knowing your brother and grandmother have been avenged.

“Enter,” Aly called upon hearing a knock on her door just as she finished her letter to her brother. She did not bother to look up while she sealed it, expecting the visitor to be Myra or one of the other servants.

“Are you terribly busy?”

She almost startled at hearing Cregan’s voice. Her eyes widened as she scrambled to stand from her writing desk and face him. When their eyes met, a wave of vulnerability washed over her. The pair stood alone in her chambers, Aly only wearing her dressing gown. Her fingers itched to wrap the garment tighter around her middle, but she refrained as she mentally berated herself. Cregan had seen her wearing no clothing, had been inside her. A thick woolen dressing gown should hardly cause notice. For him or her.

“Do you wish to play cards?” he asked, holding out the deck he brought with him.

It is late, Aly wanted to protest before catching herself. It was still a way off until the hour of the bat. And even if it had been later, it was not as if she could deny him.

“All right,” she answered softly.

Cregan smiled before moving further into her chambers and towards the sitting area. Aly watched him take his seat at her circular table, her surprise rendering her temporarily immobile. Cregan coming to her quarters to spend time with her was a threshold they had not previously crossed, yet his focus on shuffling the cards rather than her helped calm her wariness as she moved to sit opposite him.

“I still don’t understand how you’re not boiling in here,” he jested as he paused his shuffling to roll up the sleeves of his dark blue tunic to just above his elbows.

“Perhaps one day I’ll get used to the cold.”

He resumed shuffling the cards with an amused hum.

“Sara and I missed you at supper,” she told him once he began dealing out the cards.

Benjicot had found her earlier that evening in the nursery with Rickon and Rena, the babe’s nursemaid proudly relaying that Rickon was going to begin crawling soon, and said not to expect Cregan in the Great Hall. Business, Aly knew, though she did not press the castle steward for information.

“I received an urgent letter from Artos Karstark,” Cregan volunteered. “His keep is in the Grey Cliffs near the coast of the Bay of Seals. He is worried about the Skagosi.”

The inhabitants of the mountainous island of Skagos were, according to both legend and contemporary accounts, complete savages with a penchant for murdering outsiders. Their isolation meant they were only nominally part of the Seven Kingdoms, free to continue practicing their crude culture. The worst of the tales claimed they still engaged in ritualistic cannibalism and the first night, while other chroniclers argued that, while wild, the Skagosi had long discarded those practices but allowed the larger world to continue to believe it to discourage contact. Regardless of the disagreements over some of the finer details of their way of life, all writers agreed the Skagosi were a fierce people.

“Artos believes they’ve somehow heard rumblings of the war and are planning raids once the men move south.”

“What has him so convinced?” Aly inquired.

“They’re venturing further into the Bay of Seals to fish,” Cregan answered. “Artos thinks they’re scouts attempting to find isolated areas to dock their boats.”

“And they don’t usually sail so close to the coast?”

He shook his head.

“What will you do?”

Cregan opened his mouth to answer before quickly shutting it and giving her a searching look. “What would you do?”

Aly paused, thinking the situation over. The Skagosi sailing close to the Grey Cliffs when they typically did not was certainly reason to worry, and Artos, whose keep was a potential target for raids, was right to notify Cregan. But wasn’t it possible that, with winter arriving, the Skagosi needed to sail further south for better fishing?

“I would wait until I know more,” she eventually said, still piecing everything together. “Waiting for them to attack is certainly a grim prospect, but striking the first blow without knowing they are intending to raid could potentially lead to a larger, more gruesome, raid. I would ask Artos to increase any patrols he has, as well as notify Lord Karstark and Lord Umber to do the same.”

Cregan tilted his head back as he took in her idea before the corners of his lips quirked up ever so slightly. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

Warmth filled Aly’s chest. She wasn’t stupid, she knew Cregan had already independently decided to do as she suggested, but the confirmation that she had made the right choice forced a satisfied grin upon her face. Perhaps, for all the northers’ blustering about how different things were in the north, northern politics were not so different than southron politics.

Buoyed by her renewed confidence, Aly happily engaged in idle chatter as they played two rounds of their card game, Aly winning both times. Cregan told her that one of the kennel boys wanted to be moved to the stables, Hallis believed a member of the household guard was sneaking off to canoodle with one of the maids during his shifts, and, perhaps most importantly, the men building the structure for Lyrax were satisfied with the base and hoped to move on to the walls before the snow accumulated too much for them to continue. Aly only had some gossip to share, but she could happily relay that she had received letters from all of the women she asked to serve as her ladies-in-waiting and all accepted. Preparing for their arrival and stay was now one more thing to keep her occupied during the day.

“Rena said Rickon will be crawling soon,” Aly told him as he shuffled the deck again for their third game. “I warned her that she and the maids will need to be sure they do not turn their backs on him for long. Children are small, but they are quicker than you often imagine.” A laugh escaped her. “Especially if they have their eye set on somewhere they know they are not supposed to be. The twins liked getting into Helaena’s embroidery fabric.”

A deep ache settled in her chest nearly as soon as the memory crossed her mind. Jaehaerys would never get into his mother’s belongings again, and Jaehaera would never have a companion to do so with her. And Helaena…

“We’ll all have to keep a close eye on Rickon,” she reiterated, her voice thick with emotion.

“We will,” Cregan said. He studied her for a few moments, the empathy in his eyes so deep Aly had to glance away.

He wanted to ask her about her time in King’s Landing. She knew it, could tell by the way he opened his mouth only to immediately close it. Cregan was of course aware that she served as one of her aunt’s companions in the years before her grandfather’s death, but otherwise she had been incredibly tight-lipped about her time in the capital due to her immense grief, the importance of keeping how close she was with Aegon a secret, and the fact that her family there were now Cregan’s enemies. But her time there had been such an important part of her life, did it not make sense for her husband to want to know more?

Yet sometimes even just thinking about it made her feel as if her chest was being crushed and her heart was being ripped out. So how could she be expected to talk about it for more than a few moments? How could she tell him that the years spent in the capital were the happiest she would ever be? That those years would be the only time she ever felt what it was like to love and be loved?

So before he worked up the fortitude to voice his curiosity aloud, Aly looked down at the table and placed her last card atop the deck. Ending both their game and stopping any potential conversation. Cregan congratulated her for winning before gathering the cards up.

“Do you wish to play another round?”

“I think three victories is enough for me,” she smiled, though she knew it did not reach her eyes.

“All right,” he chuckled.

Uneasiness crept up her spine again as Cregan poured himself a goblet of wine. Appearing in no rush to leave her chambers despite the now-late hour. A heaviness grew between them as he drank his wine, though if it was felt by him as well, Aly could not say.

Did he intend to stay? Did he want her to ask him to stay? Their entire marriage he had been nothing but patient with her. A patience that only a man mourning his first love would extend to her. A patience that would eventually wear thin until it eroded completely.

It’s already starting.

That was her duty, was it not? To lay with him and give him children.

“Goodnight, Aly,” Cregan said softly after he drank the last of his wine.

“Goodnight.”

Aly’s eyes followed him as he stood, gently tapped the surface of the table with his pointer finger twice, and walked out of her chambers.

Chapter Text

Aly’s brows furrowed as she sipped her mulled wine. Unsure if she liked it or not. The wines of the south were served at room temperature and often tasted sweet or crisp. Not hot and spiced with cloves. The kitchens made a batch earlier, and Cregan had been more than happy to share it with her when he came to her chambers to play tiles.

It became part of their nightly routine. They talked and played tiles or card games after supper, Cregan occasionally jesting about the heat in her rooms from the crackling fire as he rolled up the sleeves of his tunic past his elbows. After their games ended, he never asked him to remain, and he never pushed. Though he always lingered. Perhaps hoping that one night she would.

It always made Aly feel wretched. Cregan was kind to her, patient with her. Kinder and more patient than she knew any other man would be. And she did like him. But he wasn’t who she wanted. Even now. But she could not hold that against him for the rest of their lives. Aly knew that she was not who he envisioned spending the rest of his days with, either.

She wondered how he felt, truly felt, though she was too frightened to ask. Having such an open and honest conversation with each other seemed too…daunting. She could never unhear whatever he told her, and she could never take back what she told him.

“Rickon is going to begin speaking soon,” he told her as he sipped his own mulled wine.

“Hmm.” Aly was so lost in her own thoughts that she barely heard him.

“I received a letter earlier from Artos Karstark. He’s still worried about the Skagosi.”

She gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

“And Sara saw a unicorn today in the wolfswood.”

“Pardon?” she asked, her eyes shooting up to his face.

Amusement danced in his grey eyes. “I just wanted to see if you were listening.”

“Sorry,” Aly said sheepishly.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied.

He pointed his chin behind her, towards her writing desk. “Maester Uthor told me you received a letter from Dragonstone this afternoon. Is everything all right?”

Irritation flashed through her. Did she not deserve even a shred of privacy? Did the servants report everything she did to Cregan? Report every letter she received? Report every letter she sent out? Did he know she finally received a letter from Alarra the previous fortnight, her friend apologizing for the delay but explaining that after her father’s death her mother suffered so much that Alarra had to run the broken and fractured household in her stead?

And how do you envision life in Winterfell? Every guard, every set of eyes, will be Stark men. You will be a stranger in Winterfell. No one there will be loyal to you.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” Cregan asked again.

Three options lay before her. She could play the fool, she could lie, or she could tell the truth. Cregan would see right through the first and, while appealing, possibly the second as well. Both would make him cross. Which she didn’t want.

“Jace wrote to me,” she began hesitantly, trying her best to stamp down her aggravation at the castle maester. “After Grandmother’s death…” She swallowed thickly, forcing herself to not conjure up an image of what had happened at Rook’s Rest. An image that she hoped was worse than the reality. An image that she knew wasn’t. “Jace feels my mother is at a disadvantage with Meleys’s death.”

Cregan’s brows furrowed. “But—”

“Caraxes is at Harrenhal,” Aly interrupted, already knowing what he was going to say. “Syrax is the largest dragon at Dragonstone with a rider. Vermax is not large enough to battle with either Dreamfyre or Vhagar. Perhaps Tessarion alone, but that is all. Moondancer is barely strong enough to fly from King’s Landing and back, and with Lyrax here… He has become convinced that Ser Steffon will be able to claim one of the riderless dragons on Dragonstone.”

“No one without Targaryen blood has ever been able. Or even been mad enough to try.”

“That’s just it,” she sighed. “The Darklyns are descendants of Daenys’s youngest daughter Daena. The claim is distant, but it does exist. Jace thinks that’s all that matters.”

“Your mother has agreed to his idea, then?” he inquired.

“She will if she hasn’t already. With her council gathering their hosts and my grandfather still at Driftmark, he is her closest advisor.”

Her mother once swore that she would not use any of her dragons until pushed by the greens. That was before Luke’s murder, though. And the death of Rhaenys.

“And if Steffon does succeed, now someone outside the family is a dragonrider,” Cregan said, likely thinking that was what troubled her.

It did trouble her, though that was only part of it. Ser Steffon was a knight of the Queensguard, who swore an oath to possess no lands and sire no children, but what if he was sent to battle and died? Battling on dragonback, against another dragon, was vastly different than crossing swords with an enemy. Ser Steffon’s ability at the latter was unquestionable, but the former? Every other dragonrider had years of experience not only riding but strengthening their bond with their beast. An untrained dragonrider in battle was dangerous, both to themselves and their allies. And if Ser Steffon did die, would Jace then seek another Darklyn to claim a dragon and serve their queen? What if he chose Alarra? And then she died, too? Or her brother or sister? What if they lived and their children claimed their dragons? Then there would be four houses of the realm with dragons: Targaryen, Velaryon, Stark, and Darklyn. Would the realm accept that? What if they didn’t?

“Dragons only bring death and destruction,” Aly mused aloud.

“So does war.”

“I know that,” she snapped.

“If Steffon is able to claim a dragon, perhaps another dragonrider at your mother’s disposal will mean you won’t lose anyone else,” Cregan said softly, not allowing her tone to get a rise out of him.

“And if Jace decides he wishes for more dragonriders to intimidate Aemond? If my mother decides to attack the westerlands, the stormlands, and the Reach for their support of Aegon? Dragonfire can lay land and castles to waste in the blink of an eye. Men can’t. The more dragons that are used, the greater the risk my mother assumes the throne of a barren wasteland. One in which the lords and smallfolk resent her.”

“And you think your brother will? Push for more dragonriders?”

“I don’t know,” Aly admitted. “Jace is still eager to prove himself as the Prince of Dragonstone, to both my mother and the realm.”

Cregan relaxed against the back of his chair, studying her. Scrutinizing her. Did he disagree with her? Did he consider her foolish to dwell on the potential downsides of additional dragonriders rather than the obvious advantage of an easier pathway for her mother to take the Iron Throne? But Aly stood by her words. More dragonriders was not the answer. She liked Ser Steffon a great deal, he had guarded her diligently during her time in King’s Landing and she trusted him with her life, but dragons were not the same as swords.

“Why did your mother never name you her heir?”

Aly balked at the completely unexpected question. She opened her mouth multiple times to answer, but each time the words remained stuck in her throat. Jace is the eldest son. My mother is an exception. She was the named heir, and she named Jace her heir.

“You’re the eldest child,” he said slowly, as if she needed to catch up to his meaning. “And if King Viserys wanted all eldest children to inherit—”

“He didn’t,” Aly cut him off, her tone curt. Put out that he was asking her. That he possessed the boldness to even ask in the first place. “My mother was always an exception.”

He hummed, which only made her hackles rise.

“It’s bound to come up with the men, is all. Why I’m leading them south to fight for your mother’s claim when she denies the throne to her own firstborn daughter.”

“She’s not denying me the throne. She’s…My grandfather named her the Princess of Dragonstone before Aegon was even born, and he never…my brother is her chosen heir.”

Only rarely had Aly ever truly considered her place in the succession. Jace had always been heir, and she was going to marry him and become queen. That was the end of it. But it wasn’t the end of it. Not anymore. Others had to have asked themselves the same question, both lords who supported her mother and those who supported Aegon. A firstborn daughter claiming her right to inherit due to her status as her father’s chosen heir and then not naming her own firstborn daughter as her heir.

Perhaps it didn’t make sense. Perhaps it wasn’t fair.

But did the lords who supported Aegon not provide proof enough that a woman ruling in her own right was enough to plunge the realm into war?

And when she does take the throne? Will her reign not demonstrate to the realm that a woman was just as capable as a man?

“The circumstances of her being named heir were unusual,” Aly repeated firmly, hoping to end the conversation. She was tired of talking in circles. Tired of having to think about it.

Her aggravation only grew at Cregan’s unconvinced look.

“I’ve had a long day,” she said brusquely. “I am going to bed. Goodnight.”

Aly stood and, resting her hand along her collarbones, turned away from him to face the wilting blue winter roses upon her vanity. Dismissing him from her chambers.

His voice was soft when he said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a sore point.”

“It’s not.”

It hadn’t been. Until he kept needling at it. And why was he so interested in the first place? Because he claimed his men would ask him? Or was it something else? Ambition, perhaps? If she was named heir, he would eventually become king consort. Mayhaps he was not content with the north being so isolated from the realm’s affairs after all.

But that didn’t make sense. She knew it deep down. Cregan expressed interest in the war as the commander of the northern host, but he never gave any indication that, once the war ended, he did not expect to return to Winterfell and keep his eyes north of the Neck for the rest of his lordship.

Aly heard him sigh behind her, but she kept her back to him as she walked over to the hearth. She continued to refuse to look at him as she slowly poked and prodded the fire to keep it alive. The legs of his chair scraped against the stone floor, his heavy footsteps made their way to the door, and the door to her rooms creaked before finally clicking shut. It was only once she stood alone that she tore her gaze away from the flames.

Why did your mother never name you her heir?

The question repeated itself in her mind over and over again as she pulled back the coverlets on her bed, removed her dressing gown, blew out the candles, and climbed into her featherbed. Cregan just didn’t understand. Viserys had named his eldest daughter his heir for love of Queen Aemma shortly after her death, and he never changed his mind even after Queen Alicent bore him healthy sons. He never intended to change the entire succession, as evidenced by her mother’s naming Jace her own heir.

Her stomach twisted as she lay in the dark. Her mother was the king’s named heir. Rhaenyra, not Aegon, who would then be succeeded by Jace. And that was the end of it.

She picked at a loose piece of thread on the grey silk pillow sham. It had not been loose when Aly first sat upon the settee in her little-used solar on the top floor of the Great Keep, but, as she listened to Fran read off her list of all those who had sent in their confirmations of attendance to the autumn feast that would be occurring in less than two moons’ time, she found her fingers playing at the corner of one of the ruffles along the pillow’s edge.

The solar, which had been well-used by Lady Arra, was largely decorated in the white and grey of House Stark, though the drapes were green and some of the cushions were yellow—the colors of House Norrey. Perhaps once spring came she would replace some of the furnishings. Sea green curtains would look nice, she thought. As would black cushions. The rug certainly needed to be beaten, if not completely replaced, and she cringed when Sara placed Rickon upon it shortly after their arrival. Babes got dirty, Aly knew that, but with him now old enough that he did not sit still the dirt and dust would get all over his clothing, knees, and hands as he played with some of his wooden toys. Toys that now included a dragon and direwolf carved from the man in the winter town.

“The Guest House is large enough for most of the lords and their families,” Sara said once Fran ceased speaking. “It sounds as if we’ll need to place some of them in the Great Keep, though.”

“Jonelle, Marna, and Branda should be placed in the rooms I’ve chosen for them,” Aly told them, referring to her ladies-in-waiting who were coming with their families for the autumn feast and then remaining at Winterfell. “Their families can stay in the Great Keep as well.”

“That solves the potential problem with the Flints,” Sara said, a wry glint in her eyes. “They all argue every chance they get over which branch is the oldest.”

“We’ll make sure the Flints of Widow’s Watch, the mountains, and Breakstone Hill are in separate corridors in the Guest House, then.”

Sara grinned. “And not sitting anywhere near each other at supper.”

“The Umbers and Karstarks need to be separated as well,” Fran told them. When Aly’s brows furrowed in confusion, she explained, “Lord Karstark declined Lord Umber’s offer of a betrothal between his grandson and Lord Karstark’s eldest granddaughter.”

“Mors Umber is the second son of Lord Umber’s heir, and Lynara Karstark is now married to Lord Mormont’s eldest son,” Sara relayed. “Lord Umber is still sore, he feels the refusal was a slight.”

“Was it?” Aly could not help but ask.

Sara shrugged. “In one manner yes, in another no. The Umbers are more prestigious than the Mormonts but not so much that marrying a second son is a better match than the future Lord of Bear Island.”

“You’ll need to assign the rooms with care,” Fran warned Aly. “The apartments in the Guest House vary in size, and you best believe the men in the larger rooms will boast at the feast. You mustn’t offend Lord Stark’s vassals.”

“Though some will claim grievance regardless,” Sara snorted.

Sorting it all out was like a puzzle. Certain houses were guaranteed larger rooms, namely the lordly houses of highest prestige: the Boltons, Manderlys, Ryswells, Dustins, and Hornwoods. Then the Umbers, Norreys, Mormonts, and Karstarks were given the next largest rooms and so on until everyone had not only been assigned a room but assigned one that would neither insult them nor force them to be near families in which there was enmity.

“Tell the servants to begin lighting the hearths a few days before everyone’s expected arrival,” Aly directed Fran. “That should help warm up the chambers.”

“Yes, Princess.”

“Thank you. That will be all for now, I think.”

Dismissed, Fran left Aly with Sara and Rickon. Aly watched her stepson play with his toys, though her gaze became increasingly unfocused as she thought over the plans for the feast. Everything seemed in order now: the menu was decided, the kitchens had been told what to prepare and when, all the necessary food was put aside from the winter stores, and the rooms assigned. The only thing left for Aly to do now was wait for everyone’s arrival and consider how she hoped to entertain all of the ladies while the men hunted. None of the women knew her, so she supposed that meant they would be content to just talk with her while they embroidered and drank tea.

A knock forced her to focus her attention towards the door as she called for her visitor to enter. Cregan stepped through the threshold wearing his fur cloak, and awkwardness washed over her. Their disagreement had occurred four nights prior, and in response he had not sought her out. They still ate their meals together, of course, but he did not come to her chambers after supper to play cards or tiles. Which meant they had not spoken about their discord, leaving it to fester until Aly’s irritation morphed into embarrassment.

In his absence, Aly found that she missed his company.

“Pate is finished with it,” he told her.

She stood at once and smoothed down her skirts. Pate, one of the castle armorers, had been working with Cregan on a method to safely submerge the dragon eggs into the hot springs nearly as soon as Aly arrived in Winterfell. They worked on the project in fits and starts. Preparing for winter was everyone’s primary priority, so Aly had long stopped wondering when it would be completed. But now it was. Finally. The eggs seemed to be all right in the brazier in her rooms, but the hot springs would be better for their incubation.

“I’ll get the eggs.”

“I’ll help you,” Cregan said before turning his eyes down to Rickon at the babe’s happy squeals.

Pride immediately covered his expression. He reached into the pocket of his cloak and pulled out a small wooden sword, which made Rickon babble in glee as he reached up from where he sat on the rug.

“You’re spoiling him,” Aly chided as Cregan bent down and handed the toy to his son. Rickon possessed more toys than any other child in the entire realm. Every inch of the nursery was covered with toys, books, and games. Several were gifts sent to Winterfell after news of Arra’s death made its way through the north, but Cregan and Sara certainly had no qualms about adding to the babe’s assortment of entertainments.

“Look at him. He’s a natural swordsman.”

She breathed out a laugh at the sight of her stepson bringing the toy sword to his mouth. Sara found it quite amusing as well—Aly could hear her giggles behind her.

“Just like his father,” Sara jested.

Cregan rolled his eyes before leading Aly out into the corridor. The pair walked side by side as they made the short trek to her chambers. Silently. Aly wasn’t sure how to broach what had happened, and she wondered if Cregan worried doing so would set her off.

Why did your mother never name you her heir?

Ever since that night, the question had crawled into her mind and created a burrow. She knew the answer, but the fact that Cregan asked meant that others did as well. Did they think her mother a hypocrite? Did they fight for her mother’s claim all the while whispering that she did not necessarily believe in the ability of other women to rule, just herself? Or did they understand that her mother had always been the exception? The king’s chosen heir, and that alone made her claim the rightful one.

But she never chose you as her heir.

Jace will be a good king, when the time comes.

When they reached her chambers, Aly put on her fur cloak while Cregan opened the brazier containing the dragon eggs. She checked the eggs periodically, just in case one had begun to crack open or their coloring changed, but all three looked just as they had after Lyrax laid them: one the color of the sky on a clear day, one pure silver, and the third a bright yellow with dark blue swirls. A heaviness formed in her chest upon looking at the latter. The colors of Sunfyre and Lyrax combined.

Forgoing her gloves in light of the heat that would come from the egg, Aly carefully scooped up the yellow and blue egg from the brazier after Cregan grabbed the silver and blue eggs.

“I received a concerned raven from Eddard Tallhart this morning. Lyrax has begun making her home in the southern wolfswood,” Cregan said as they walked out of her rooms.

Her dragon hated the north. Hated the cold and the snow. Hated not being close to her mate. Hated it so much that she had chosen to move further south in an effort to remain warm and be closer to home. Lyrax always came when Aly longed for her, flying back to the wolfswood near Winterfell and greeting her rider with enthusiasm, but Aly worried for the great beast. Once winter came, would she return to Dragonstone until spring? Or would she remain in the north, close to Aly, but have to spend the next year (or ten) fighting off the cold?

“It’s getting colder,” was all Aly said as a way of explanation.

“His smallfolk are wary. Afraid she’ll breathe fire on them if they venture too close.”

She might. Though Aly did not voice her thoughts aloud. Lyrax was not a particularly vicious or ornery dragon, not like the Cannibal or even Vhagar, but if she was already unhappy and agitated, someone stumbling upon her might cause her to perceive the unknown person as a threat.

“I’ll write to him,” Aly promised in the hopes of smoothing over Eddard’s worry. “Lyrax won’t attack his keep or lands, as you well know but I will assure him, though it would be for the best if any hunters kept their distance.”

He won’t be happy to read that, she knew. Telling a lord—or master, in Eddard’s case—that his men could not move about freely on his own lands due to the dragon of his liege lord’s southron wife was likely to only be met with frustration and curses. But it wasn’t as if Aly could command her dragon to remain near Winterfell. Their shared bond was strong, but Lyrax had a will of her own.

When they reached the godswood, Aly’s eyes could not help but land upon the weirwood tree. She often looked upon the godwood from the glass gardens, but she rarely stepped foot into it. The northern gods were not her own, and the godswood, while beautiful, did not bring her the peace and tranquility she knew it brought to every other member of the household. The weirwood tree, its face and the red sap that made it appear as if crying, still seemed strange to her. Unnerving rather than comforting.

A large copper lattice box sat next to the small pools of the hot spring underneath the Guest House. Leather straps were tied along the edges, and Aly at once realized the method Cregan and Pate devised to submerge the dragon eggs. This was what had taken them so long? A copper box tied to heavy rocks next to the pools?

Cregan opened the box and, after placing the two eggs he held in his arms within it, reached out and silently asked Aly for the one she carried. Once all three eggs lay snugly within, he closed the box, secured the top with a thick piece of rope, and slowly placed it in the steaming pool. Aly’s eyes remained fastened to it as it slowly sank as low as the leather straps allowed. She hoped the heat of the pools would be comparable to that of the Dragonmont. Or even the braziers within the Dragonpit. Lyrax would likely never lay another clutch again, and Aly desperately hoped all three eggs eventually hatched.

“We’ll check on them as often as you want,” he told her.

“Every day,” she insisted. If an egg showed signs of a hatchling attempting to emerge, she wanted to bring the egg out from the water immediately. No hatchling had ever sprung forth from an egg underwater, at least as far as anyone knew, and Aly would not risk anything going wrong.

“Every day,” Cregan repeated.

“Thank you,” she said as she turned to look at him.

“You’re welcome.”

Apologize for the other night, Aly urged herself as the pair looked at one another. But before she could open her mouth Cregan told her that he wanted to show her something. He guided her deep in the godswood, through the ironwood and sentinel trees, past the blackberry bushes, and off the meandering cracked stone path. The snow shrikes and squirrels provided the only sound beyond their footsteps crunching the snow beneath them. Aly could not for the life of her guess what Cregan wanted to show her. She had never expressed any particular interest in the flora or fauna of the godswood, and as far as she knew that was all that was in the godswood beyond the pools.

She stopped when she saw it. A wild overgrown bush full of frost blue roses.

“They haven’t grown in the godswood for quite some time,” Cregan told her quietly. “I noticed the other night that the ones you have in your chambers are wilting, so when I found these yesterday I thought you might like to take some.”

Aly hadn’t realized Cregan even noticed the bouquet of winter roses in her chambers, the ones she bought from the winter town, as he never commented on them. But he had noticed. Not only noticed them but realized when they began wilting despite her faithful watering and adding nutrients to their vase.

It unexpectedly filled her with an emotion she could not name.

“Yes, I would like that.”

He removed his gloves and gave them to her, so as to shield her fingers from their thorns. As she placed the too-large leather gloves over her hands he grabbed his blade and handed it to her once her hands were covered.

“Benjicot and I were able to extract the seeds of some of the roses,” he told her as she cut the stems of the roses she thought looked the best. “We’ve given them to Martyn to plant in the glass gardens.”

And once they bloomed, winter roses would become a mainstay of the gardens. Allowing her to pick them and place in her chambers for as long as she wished.

“I’m sorry about the other night,” Aly blurted out while her back was still to him. Unable to face him as she apologized after he had done her such a kindness.

“I overstepped.”

He had, but Aly had overreacted. Yet by showing her the roses he was apologizing to her again.

Her stomach twisted in on itself as she cut the stem of another rose. Cregan had not envisioned spending his life with her, but he was trying so hard to create a good foundation for their marriage.

Cregan would never be Aegon, but he was a good man.

He deserves a better wife than me.

Her fingers curled so tightly around the scroll she held in her hands that they were beginning to hurt. Aly walked down the corridor, her mind too focused on the contents of the letter to truly see any of the servants or members of the household she passed.

This is worse than I imagined. It is unbelievable. It is grossly irresponsible. If I had been there…

She opened the door without announcing her presence first with a knock. Benjicot and Cregan sat opposite one another in the solar, Benjicot stopping mid-sentence at the sound of the door opening and both looking at her in mild surprise. It sounded as if they were speaking about matters regarding the winter town, but Aly did not know for sure. She did not care in the moment, either. She needed to speak to someone about the letter she just received, and Cregan was the only one who could even begin to understand. And she did not want to wait until later that evening. For once, Aly did not want to bottle up her emotions inside of her for hours.

Because Jace has done something so incredibly foolish. And Mother allowed it!

“Leave us,” Cregan told his steward.

Benjicot obliged his lord at once, dipping his chin towards Aly as he walked past her, and silently left the solar.

“I received this letter from Jace,” Aly said, throwing it atop the table.

Cregan did not attempt to unfurl it. Instead he watched as she placed her right hand upon her collarbones and held on to her right elbow with her left hand as she paced in front of him. Speaking nonsensically.

“Just as I feared, Ser Steffon’s attempt to claim Seasmoke was a disaster! And instead of realizing it, he convinced my mother to allow anyone to make an attempt. Now smallfolk we barely know are claiming Targaryen heritage and riding our dragons. And some of them are telling falsehoods, though I’ve no idea why. This never should have happened. If my mother were not so—”

“Aly,” Cregan interrupted.

She paused and furrowed her brows at the confusion written upon his face.

“What happened with Ser Steffon?”

“It was a disaster,” she exclaimed again. “He tried to claim Seasmoke, no doubt since he is the dragon that most recently accepted a rider, and he…he died.” Tears burned in her eyes. “Seasmoke burned him.”

“I’m sorry,” Cregan murmured.

“And that should have been the end of it,” Aly said angrily. She began pacing once more. “But he has convinced everyone that the war will be won by dragons alone, so with my mother’s permission he sent word to Driftmark and the village on Dragonstone that anyone who could claim one of our riderless dragons would be granted a knighthood and lands. Land where? When my mother sits the Iron Throne she will need to focus on sewing the realm back together. That’s accomplished by making allies where there would otherwise be enemies, not granting their lands and castles to smallfolk! And of course the entire affair was bloody. Sixteen were killed and thrice that were injured. Needlessly so.”

“But the dragons have been claimed?” Cregan inquired.

Aly nodded. “Seasmoke, Silverwing, Vermithor, and even Sheepstealer. That’s…so many. Too many. And we don’t know any of their riders. Not truly.”

“They’re all smallfolk?”

“Yes. Two are from the village on Dragonstone, and two are from Driftmark. The man who claimed my father’s mount is saying that he and his brother are the bastard sons of my father. I don’t know why he’s lying.”

“Lots of men have bastards.”

Aly stopped. “Well my father didn’t.”

Cregan looked at her with an unreadable expression, and she worried she had unintentionally crossed a line. His own father had sired Sara outside his marriage to Cregan’s mother. Aly knew better than anyone that good men and women had children outside their marriage bed, but her father had not been one of them. He couldn’t have been, for reasons Aly did not want to share with her husband.

“I don’t say that from a sense of naivety, but I am certain that Addam is lying.”

Cregan nodded, though the furrow of his brow did not lessen. “That’s his name, then? The one who claimed your father’s dragon?”

“Yes,” Aly answered before she returned to her pacing. “Jace says he’s from Hull, which is near Castle Driftmark. His brother Alyn attempted to claim a dragon, as well, but his leg was burned in the attempt.”

“You are going to wear a hole in my rug.”

She ceased her pacing once more to look down at the rug she treaded over and then up to Cregan. His face was passive except for the slight uptick of the corners of his mouth. The only indication that his words were said in jest. Still, Aly moved to occupy the seat opposite him.

“Why do you think he’s lying?” he asked.

Aly shrugged. “I don’t know. A lot of the smallfolk on Dragonstone are descendants of Targaryen bastards, perhaps he thinks claiming more recent descent will help him receive better land once the war is over.”

“Perhaps,” Cregan said. “Who else claimed a dragon?”

“Hugh the blacksmith’s bastard claimed Vermithor, our largest dragon after Vhagar. I’ve talked with him a bit when I went to the village. Baela used to be sweet on him. He’s all right, I suppose, though I heard others say he has a temper and can be arrogant. Someone from Driftmark called Ulf claimed Silverwing. Jace doesn’t seem to know much about him, but he believes him uncouth.”

“And Sheepeater?”

“Sheepstealer,” Aly corrected with a small smile. “Jace knows even less about her. A girl called Nettles claimed him after she brought him sheep every day.”

“A good way to tame a beast,” Cregan said.

“My mother should have never agreed to it,” Aly insisted. “Dragonriders we barely know now command four large dragons. Not to mention the numbers of smallfolk now grieving their loved ones. Ser Steffon’s death should have been the death of Jace’s plan.”

“What do you think they’ll do now?”

She let out a huff. “I don’t know. Attack the capital, I am sure.”

With Seasmoke, Vermithor, Silverwing, and Sheepstealer now claimed, her mother had five large dragons at Dragonstone that could now fly into battle, and Caraxes in the riverlands. That was more than enough to defeat Vhagar, Tessarion, and Dreamfyre. And cause destruction to the realm the likes of which had not been seen since the Conquest.

How many deaths would result from five, if not six or even seven, dragons attacking the city? Helaena, Jaehaera, Maelor. Not to mention the courtiers and the kingslanders who did nothing except live there. And Aegon…

She knew, deep down, that her mother would not allow him to live. But just the thought made it feel as if her heart was being ripped out.

If only she was there to counsel her mother.

Why did your mother never name you her heir?

“Doing so will end the war swiftly,” Cregan told her. “Your uncles dead and defeated and your mother on the throne.”

“And then?” she challenged. “Jace is being short-sighted. None of the new dragonriders have any experience, which means they are a risk. So is the fact that they are outside the family. Promising land and titles is also a risk. Once the war is over and they are given their own keeps, who is to say that they will not terrorize their smallfolk?”

“Do you not think your brother hasn’t already considered this?”

Aly took a deep exhale. “I doubt it. He is only thinking of ending the war, he isn’t thinking about what happens afterwards.”

“Write to him,” Cregan encouraged. “I know he finds your perspective invaluable.”

She hesitated. With so much weighing on her brother, the last thing he needed was engaging in an argument with her over letter. Especially since she wasn’t there, she only knew what he chose to tell her. She wasn’t in the thick of the war planning. She was safe in Winterfell. Though Aly had to concede Cregan’s unsaid point: talking with him about it, while helpful, did not necessarily do anything to ease her mind.

“All right,” she agreed slowly.

Cregan’s gaze briefly shifted to the left, and Aly turned to follow it. Parchment, a bottle of ink, pens, and everything needed to seal a letter.

“Bring me a piece of parchment as well,” he requested. “I need to reply to a letter from my cousin.”

With a nod Aly did as asked, returning to the table with the ink, two pens, and two pieces of parchment. While Cregan began writing his letter right away, the pen scratching across the parchment with each word he wrote, Aly chewed on her lip as she contemplated her own.

She eventually settled on beginning the letter with praise. In the time between his letter divulging his plans for Ser Steffon and the claiming of nearly all their dragons, Jace had achieved two major accomplishments: convincing their mother to name Lord Corlys her Hand of the Queen and finalizing plans with the Prince of Pentos to ward Aegon and Viserys.

Her heart felt heavy as she expressed her sorrow to hear of Ser Steffon’s death. He had not been her sworn shield, but he may as well as have been during her time in the capital. The knight of the Kingsguard watched over her more than any other knight, a task he only ceased once he became Lord Commander of the Queensguard. A position now vacant, though she suspected Ser Lorent Marbrand would be named soon, if he hadn’t already.

I understand that you and Mother desire more dragonriders for the war, but I do not think it is the answer. I know that I am writing this after it has already been decided, and it cannot be undone, but I think the possible consequences after the war are far greater than any battle victory. Jace, I urge you to carefully think through what will happen to them once the war is over. You must follow through on your promise to grant them lands, but give them land close to the crownlands so that, if it is ever necessary, you and Mother are not far away. And make them swear that their dragons will return to House Targaryen upon their death.

She read and reread her words, her brows knitting together. Were her words too weak? The dragons had already been claimed, so there was no use in chiding him any more than what little she had. But she needed him to understand that Addam, Nettles, Ulf, and Hugh were now dragonriders for the rest of their lives, and that required serious considerations. Aly could only hope that her brother did not come to regret it.

Chapter Text

The sun rose over the city, the golden hues making the red and pink roses of the garden appear even brighter. It would be a clear day, though hopefully not a hot one. The humidity from the Blackwater never completely dissipated, but the temperatures slowly grew more and more mild as the days passed.

“It’s beautiful.”

Aegon sat on an iron bench in the rose gardens, his arm around Aly. Holding her to him. Clinging her to him. Gripping her upper arm so tightly he was surprised her face hadn’t twisted in discomfort. He couldn’t remember why they were there. Had they been outside all night? Both were fully dressed. Aly wore one of her purple gowns, and her curls were sleek and orderly. Not disheveled as they usually were after a night in their bed. But it was too early for Cass to have fixed them up for her. So they must have been out there all night. He couldn’t remember either suggesting it or agreeing to it. But seeing the joy in her eyes as she watched the morning greet them while they were surrounded by the flagrant flowers was all that mattered.

“Nearly as beautiful as you.”

Aly scoffed playfully, and Aegon smiled as she rolled her eyes.

“I wish we could do this every morning.” Her voice was wistful. Full of longing.

“We can,” he said quietly.

She attempted to shift to better look at him, the movement causing a burst of her apple-scented soap to wash over him, but Aegon only gripped her tighter. Not wanting her to be anywhere but right beside him. Not wanting to give her any room to maneuver away from him. Yet despite his fingers digging into her, Aly’s face betrayed no discomfort.

“Aegon,” she chided.

“We can do this every morning,” he repeated.

“You know we can’t.”

The overpowering sadness in her voice made his chest tighten. She deserved everything she wanted. And he wanted to be the one to give it to her. He would be the one to give it to her.

“Fly away with me,” he blurted out. “We’ll go to one of the Free Cities. Whichever one you wish. And if you don’t like any of them, we’ll keep flying until we find a place you do like.”

Now she fought him to force him to allow her to move. To allow her to face him fully. She placed her hands firmly along his thigh and chest, pushing with all of her might. It was only when she said “please” that Aegon loosened his hold on her. When she did finally look at him, the hatred and grief in her eyes nearly made him skip a breath.

“I…I don’t know if we—”

“We can,” he said. Again. Feeling more and more defeated and desperate as the sun rose higher and higher. “We’ll leave and never look back. We’ll find a manse along the sea and spend the rest of our days there together. Just come with me.”

Her brows knitted together as she looked at him skeptically. But she hadn’t said no. Perhaps there was still hope.

“And Helaena? The children?”

Aegon slowly unwrapped his arm from around her and cupped her cheeks. He had to keep touching her. Had to keep her with him.

“We’ll be together. That’s all that matters.”

Tears streamed down Aly’s cheeks, which he wiped away with his thumb as best he could. Hoping he had fixed everything. If Aegon had his way she would never cry again. Never feel any pain again.

“All right,” she said, so quietly Aegon thought for sure that he misunderstood her.

His heart leapt with glee once he realized he hadn’t. She was willing to go with him. To build a life with him still. With a happy and relieved grin, Aegon leaned in and kissed her. A deep kiss. Drinking her in as if her lips contained the elixir of life.

“I love you,” he murmured as he rested his forehead against hers.

Fresh tears fell down her cheeks once more. “I love you, too. More than anyone.”

Aegon’s body jerked and his eyes shot open. Instead of looking into Aly’s blue eyes he only saw the canopy above his bed. He wasn’t in the gardens with his niece. He was in his bed. Alone. Surrounded by the smell of incense rather than fresh roses. The pungent scent of cloves, lavender, and mint wafting up and into his nostrils, making them twitch. And instead of being surrounded by the brilliant reds and pink hues of the morning, all he saw was the drab walls of his chambers illuminated by the afternoon sun.

The sound of stone grinding together from his left caused Aegon to turn. He had to strain his neck a bit, the vision in his eye compromised by the bandage that still covered the left side of his face. Wearing his grey robes that just barely stood out against the color of the walls, the Grand Maester concentrated on using his mortar and pestle to crush some of the ingredients he added to the concoctions he gave to Aegon. Poultices, balms, and potions made of herbs, seeds, nettles, and flower petals. And milk of the poppy. That once-bitter liquid that now tasted sweeter to Aegon than even the best Arbor red.

That liquid that he now needed. Desperately. His hip and ribs throbbed something fierce, and almost the entire left side of his body felt warm and tight.

“Milk of the poppy,” he rasped.

Grand Maester Orwyle startled at his voice, so focused on his task that he had not realized Aegon was awake. Once Aegon would have found it amusing, but his laughter had died so long ago. He could not even recall the last time he felt joy rather than pain outside of his dreams.

Aegon cleared his throat. “Milk of the poppy,” he repeated, his voice sounding stronger.

“Of course, Your Grace. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

Aegon continued to watch as the man hastily put down the pestle he was using to crush dried marigold petals and grabbed the flagon full of milk of the poppy. One goblet would not be enough to take away his pain, and it hadn’t been enough for quite some time. They both knew that. But eventually Aegon would drink his fill and no longer feel pain. Would no longer feel much of anything. He hated his reliance on milk of the poppy. But the pain was so great, whenever he was awake all he could think about was how badly he wanted it to end.

He winced and inhaled sharply when he tried to sit up further on his pillow to better drink from the goblet the Grand Maester held to his lips.

“Careful, Your Grace.”

Aegon huffed out an exhale. “I’m being fucking careful. All I do now is lay here.”

“You are healing,” Orwyle claimed as Aegon gulped down the milk of the poppy, ignoring the terseness of his king and patient. “Your burns have begun to scar, which is good, and your hip and ribs are mending. You may be able to walk again soon.”

“Thank the gods.”

If he could walk he could finally leave his fucking bed. Could finally look at something other than that damned canopy. Could wrangle the title of Protector of the Realm from his brother and return to his role as king. He had a throne to keep. Children to protect. A realm to rule. And a half-sister to see dead.

“It will not be an easy journey,” the Grand Maester warned him. “The pain will radiate through your body with each step you take, and you will need to use a cane to assist you. At least for a while.”

Just like Father. Perhaps he could even use the same one.

His thoughts turned to the sky as he glanced out his windows. Once his hip healed enough for him to walk, surely that meant he would be healed enough to ride Sunfyre again. But anxiety wrapped itself around his heart at the Grand Maester’s cagey expression upon Aegon inquiring about it, and he immediately feared the answer. Would he ever be able to ride his beloved dragon again? He would walk again, Grand Maester Orwyle was confident of that, but perhaps he could never comfortably saddle his great beast again. Walking and sitting astride a large dragon were very different things. Perhaps the pressure on his hip would be too much.

No, he told himself. He would endure excruciating agony if that was what it took.

“Sunfyre was gravely injured at Rook’s Rest.”

Aegon stilled. It took him several moments to process the Grand Maester’s words, but once he did he realized they didn’t make any sense. Meleys had dug her claws into Sunfyre’s sides, drew blood from his neck, but nothing so deep that Aegon thought his dragon was at risk of a severe injury. Vhagar had countless battle scars along her body and wings. Seven hells, she even had holes in her wings from the Dragon’s Wroth. The dragonkeepers knew the ancient ways of the Freehold. They knew how to heal dragons. They knew how to heal gashes.

“Sunfyre is too strong and determined to allow a few wounds to ground him for long,” Aegon said with as much confidence as he could muster.

“I am afraid your dragon incurred more than just superficial wounds, Your Grace,” Orwyle said kindly. “Lord Commander Cole reported that his wing was torn half off.”

Vhagar. Aegon knew it at once. His memory of the battle was admittedly spotty, but he knew none of what Orwyle described came from Meleys. And Aemond had been so eager to kill Rhaenys, to prove himself, that he clearly did not care to attack with any finesse. And practically tore off Sunfyre’s wing in the process.

Aegon grit his teeth. As soon as Rhaenyra was dead he would send Aemond to Storm’s End to marry that Baratheon girl. But until then, he needed his brother. More than he wished to admit.

“What does Collio say?”

“He hasn’t tended to him,” the Grand Maester said slowly. “Sunfyre is still near Rook’s Rest. There was no method of bringing him back to the city.”

Aegon wanted to curl into himself. His injuries made him a prisoner in his own chambers, his brother ruling the realm in his stead, and his dragon, the one source of strength that remained to him, was leagues away. Leagues away and injured. Just like him.

And just like him, Sunfyre would heal. Aegon had to force himself to believe it. They had both defied the odds. Aegon survived dragonfire, and Sunfyre survived a broken wing. It all had to mean something. His dragon, the one he claimed as a small child, would greet the skies again one day. They both would. Together. Aegon’s life depended upon it. His son’s life depended upon it.

“More milk of the poppy, Orwyle.”

Aegon sighed in contentment. He could feel the sun shining on his skin, the coolness of the Blackwater along his back as he floated, and the gentle waves that carried him. The smell of the salt in the air made him feel at ease, as did the sound of his children laughing.

A targeted splash caused him to open his eyes. Jaehaerys floated right next to him, his head the only thing Aegon could see above the water. His wet silver hair clung to his scape and looked almost white in the bright light of the sun. He did his best to give his father an innocent look, but eventually a mischievous smile made its way upon his face.

“Do you think that’s amusing?” Aegon asked in his best stern voice. Which only caused Jaehaerys to laugh. Laughter that grew louder upon his father retaliating with a flick of his wrist. Laughter in which Aegon soon joined him.

Jaehaerys splashed him again, the clear water hitting Aegon in the face. It felt nice against his sun-beaten skin, though his vision temporarily blurred and the taste of salt lingered in his mouth. It was worth it, though, to hear Jaehaerys laugh. And laugh and shriek and giggle as the pair exchanged blows in their war of water.

“Let’s go back,” Aegon said eventually. They had been in the water long enough, it was time to return to the shore.

Jaehaerys shook his head. “No.”

“We’re going back,” Aegon told him. His stern voice that time was not put upon.

“I can’t.”

Aegon’s brows furrowed in slight irritation. “Well you cannot remain in the Blackwater the rest of the day. Come, Jaehaerys, otherwise your mother will worry. And you don’t want that, do you?”

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Aegon said as he placed his hand along his son’s shoulder. Encouraging him to begin moving towards the shore. “On you go.”

“I’m staying.”

Aegon’s tone was brusque when he said, “No, you’re not. You are a prince, not a fish. You are coming back with me to the Red Keep.”

You won’t leave me again.

Jaehaerys gave him a small, sad, smile and, in the blink of an eye, dunked his head below the water. Aegon jolted towards him, flailing his hands and arms in the exact spot from which his son disappeared, but he only felt the water pushing against his touch. His heart hammering in his chest so loudly that it drowned out the seagulls flying above him and the waves crashing along the beach, he took in a deep exhale and went under the water himself.

The sun provided some illumination but only about a foot deep. Aegon kicked his feet as he strained his eyes looking into the darkness. The burning in his lungs and eyes grew sharper with each passing moment that he desperately sought out his son. He swam this way and that, his panic rising the longer he went without finding Jaehaerys. Remaining beneath the surface of the Blackwater until the need for air became too much. He kicked himself up towards the light of the sun, the water becoming warmer the closer and closer he got to the surface. Relief at knowing air greeted him upon his reaching it temporarily outweighed his anguish.

When Aegon opened his eyes, for once he was not looking at the canopy above his bed. His head had tilted to the side in his sleep, and the first sight to greet him upon regaining consciousness was the hearth in his chambers and the lit candles atop the table just in front of it. With a sigh he turned his head and saw the dark blue light coming in from his windows. It was either the early hours of the morning or the early hours of the night. It was too difficult to tell the difference. Especially with how erratic his waking hours were.

He craned his neck a little further to the left in the hopes of seeing the Grand Maester, or even one of the archmaesters, standing at his bedside mixing their concoctions. Instead his eyes landed upon his mother. She sat in the highbacked chair next to his bed wearing her dark green cotton dressing gown, her head tilted downward and toward the side. Asleep. So it was the early hours of the morning, then. Alicent’s brows were drawn together and her lips were drawn into a frown. The weight of her concern for her family and the realm remaining on her shoulders even in her slumber. Aegon wished to one day see her with no troubles. To one day witness how she looked when at peace.

Alicent’s head lolled just a bit forward, the motion causing her to jerk awake. She blinked a few times, momentarily confused to find herself outside of her own chambers, before her eyes landed on him. All grogginess immediately left her.

“Aegon,” she said softly, her voice raspy from lack of use. “Do you need anything? The Grand Maester? Milk of the poppy?”

Milk of the poppy certainly sounded nice, but he did not want to fall back asleep so soon. As of late, whenever Aegon awoke it was always the Grand Maester at his side. Meaning Orwyle was the only person Aegon had spoken with over the past few days. He liked the Grand Maester quite a lot, he was a good man, but, despite his position on the small council, he seemed to know very little. Aegon worried Aemond had dismissed him from the small council, but Orwyle assured him that was not the case. There is little to report, he always said. Men are still gathering their hosts or marching. There have been no battles since your injury. Yet his evasive manner made Aegon feel as if there was something the man did not wish to share. Not even with his king.

His mother, Aegon knew, would be more forthcoming.

“I’m all right,” he assured her. “I only just awoke myself.”

“I hope it was a peaceful sleep.”

Memories of his dream flooded his mind. His joy at playing with Jaehaerys in the Blackwater. His fear at losing him and being unable to find him. His chest tightened as his stomach twisted in grief. Not a day went by that he did not think of his eldest. Of his sweet face, his merry laughter.

Of what Rhaenyra had done to him.

“How are Jaehaera and Maelor?”

While Aegon dreamed of all of his children, he could not recall the last time he asked after them. He was awake so little, often only just a few minutes before falling back into his milk of the poppy-induced slumber. Guilt gnawed at him.

“They are well,” Alicent said with a fond smile. “I can bring them to you, if you like.”

“No.”

As deep as his guilt went, he was not in a fit state for them to see him. Not covered in plaster and bandages and burns that still occasionally bled in their progression into scars. It would only upset them to see their father in his current condition.

“Jaehaera asks about you,” his mother said in an attempt to change his mind. “And Maelor has grown so much he will take his first steps soon.”

“No,” Aegon repeated. “Wait until I am at least able to get out of bed.”

Alicent sighed and looked at him for several moments before eventually nodding her head. “The Grand Maester says that should be sooner rather than later. He is quite pleased by how your hip and ribs are healing.”

“So he tells me.”

For a fleeting moment, Aegon thought of asking after Helaena. Did she still stare out of her window all day, neither saying anything or truly seeing anything? Unable to escape guilt she felt for what had happened to Jaehaerys? Guilt that was not hers to carry.

Yet he feared the answer, so the words remained stuck in his throat.

“What the Grand Maester doesn’t tell me is much of anything else.”

“You need to rest,” Alicent said. “Focus on healing. Let the small council and I worry about—”

“I am the king,” Aegon interrupted, “and I demand to know what is happening in my realm.”

His mother pressed her lips together into a thin line, and Aegon let out a deep exhale. Bracing himself for what she was about to tell him.

“Some of the houses in the Reach refuse to back down from their support of Rhaenyra. Ormund and his host are attempting to make their way towards the westerlands, but his camp is frequently raided and his scouts killed. He is making little progress, from my understanding.”

“How little?”

“He has yet to pass the Honeywine.”

Aegon swore. Ormund had barely made any progress at all. He left Oldtown soon after Aegon went to Rook’s Rest, and he was still marching along the Honeywine? By the time his forces made their way out of the Reach the war would no doubt be over. Useless. Ormund had always been more bluster than bite, and it appeared the majority of his men were the same.

“Alan Beesbury and Alan Tarly are the ones he believes are raiding his camp,” Alicent divulged. “But Lords Costayne and Bulwer are the ones attacking his baggage train.”

Aegon ran his right hand down the right side of his face as he sighed.

“I assume Daeron is not with him, then? No one would dare attack a host guarded by a dragon, even one as young as Tessarion.”

“My understanding is that Daeron intended to march with Ormund as his squire, but his letters make no mention of him. Gwayne thinks he may have remained in Oldtown for the time being and agreed to meet Ormund at an agreed upon day. Flying is much faster than marching, as you well know.”

His youngest brother having yet to witness or participate in battle, or prevent raiding, as the case may be, brought some relief. Daeron was too young, but Aegon needed Tessarion. Especially with Sunfyre unable to fly for the time being. Tessarion and Vhagar together could pose a formidable match for Rhaenyra’s dragons, once it came to it. Vermax was smaller than Tessarion, and Vhagar was large enough that she could handle Caraxes and Syrax.

“What else do his letters say?” Aegon could not help but ask a bit sardonically. Ormund had time to write letters to his kin, but he was incapable of defending his own camp.

“He asks for men from King’s Landing to reinforce his number, but Aemond refuses. He still has his eye set on the riverlands.”

Of course he does. Before they went to Rook’s Rest, Aemond obsessed over the riverlands and retaking it from Daemon. And that had clearly not abated in his temporary regency. Aegon conceded the strategic importance of the region, he always had, but he could not march into the riverlands before the crownlands bent the knee. Which they still had not all done.

And Vhagar needed to protect the city. Now more than ever. The great ornery beast was the only defense the capital had against Rhaenyra now.

“I’ve urged him to wait until you and Sunfyre are healed so you can join him on his campaign to defeat Daemon.”

His mother’s certainty in him touched him. Aegon felt the same, but he supposed he thought he was alone in that feeling. The Grand Maester certainly seemed convinced Sunfyre would never fly again. Yet even as he and his dragon both lay broken, Alicent held steadfast in her faith in them. In her faith in their ability to fight and protect their family, their claim, and their realm.

“You are confident we will both heal?” he asked, his voice thick.

Alicent nodded as she leaned towards him and gently cupped his face. “You are the blood of the dragon. You will ride again.”

Tears pricked at Aegon’s eyes as his mother smiled at him.

Every color of the rainbow covered the walls and floor, the crystals in the windows casting long shapes as a result of the sun streaming through the glass. The royal sept was quiet and nearly empty despite the hour. Courtiers typically visited the sept all throughout the day to pray at the different altars of the Seven or to speak with Septon Eustace. But it seemed as if hardly anyone had visited the sept at all that day. The smell of incense was faint, the number of lit candles fewer than ten. Even the septon and septas did not linger near the benches in the hopes of tending to anyone who needed them.

Only one supplicant kneeled at the marble altar of the Mother.

Aegon stepped towards her. Slowly. He did not wish to startle her. Dread filled him the closer he got to her. Afraid of what he would hear her say. But Helaena spoke so softly he could not make out her words even once he stood directly behind her.

Suddenly, his sister turned to face him. Helaena’s lilac eyes bored into his. Forcing him to remain rooted where he stood. She looked just as she had the last time Aegon saw her: dark circles under her eyes, hair limp and lifeless, her skin dull. She kept speaking all the while, though Aegon still could not understand her. Her lips moved and sound came out of them, but it was so quiet it was as if she was leagues away rather than right in front of him.

“I don’t understand,” he told her.

But she did not raise her voice. All he could do was stare at her while she told him something he would never hear.

When Aegon awoke his chambers were bright from the morning sun. The residual feeling of dread and confusion remained from his dream for several moments before floating away. The sound of the Grand Maester speaking with one of the archmaesters strangely comforted him. The men spoke softly, but Aegon could understand what they said. One of the courtiers required a poultice for a wound he acquired while sparring, and the two men exchanged ideas on which plants could be added to facilitate faster healing than the usual mustard seeds and nettles. The Grand Maester believed garlic was a good choice, the archmaester argued that lavender was best.

“Your Grace,” Grand Maester Orwyle said once he saw Aegon’s eyes were open. “Good morrow. How are you feeling?”

“I am fine.”

“I have fresh milk of the poppy for you.”

Aegon waved the offer away. After his talk with his mother, he vowed to lessen his milk of the poppy use. While he appreciated his brother’s desire to bring the riverlands the yield, his shortsightedness in potentially leaving the city defenseless troubled him. Aegon felt more motivated than ever to become well enough to rule in his own name. And that meant he could not allow his mind to become foggy or sleepy due to the milk of the poppy.

Yet the pain was sometimes too great. Aegon opened his eyes each morning yearning for the thin, bitter liquid. Some mornings he was able to decline the Grand Maester’s offering of it, others he gulped the goblet down in a matter of seconds.

But still he tried to not rely on it so much.

“Just food, Orwyle. Thank you.”

“We’ll speak with the kitchens at once, Your Grace.”

While he waited for his morning meal, his dream ate at him. He should have asked his mother about Helaena. She would know better than anyone, as even the Grand Maester was rarely called upon to see her. There was nothing he could do for her, anyway, beyond administering a sleep drought. He hoped that the time since Jaehaerys’s death provided her a bit more clarity. Made her realize that it wasn’t his fault.

He regretted not telling her himself prior to leaving for Rook’s Rest. He promised himself he would as soon as he was able.

When the serving girl arrived with a tray full of fried bacon, quail eggs, and porridge, she kept her eyes downcast the entire time. Never once looking up from her feet, and it nearly resulted in her tipping the contents of the tray onto Aegon’s lap. Even when he scolded her, she still did not look up. His hunger overpowered his irritation, and he dismissed her with a curt “Leave me.”

He ate in silence while he stared at the window. The bed was too far away from it for him to truly see out of it, but he could see the sky. It was something different than his canopy, at least. Aegon could not wait until he could walk again. Until he could sit outside his own chambers. He looked forward to breathing the fresh air, feeling the sunshine upon his face, and smelling the city air. Even if it did normally smell of shit. It was better than the smell of the incense that was so thick it sometimes made him feel as if he would choke on it.

Aegon’s gaze turned towards his door when he heard it creak open. He expected the Grand Maester, or perhaps his mother, to walk through the threshold. Not the Lord of Harrenhal. Larys ambled into the chambers, his eyes as acute as ever. Eyes that showed his shock once they landed on the king. Shock that he quickly attempted to mask. Shock that refused to leave his face completely.

Shock that made Aegon want to look away. To no longer have to see it. The reaction to his appearance. Aegon had yet to look upon his injuries. The Grand Maester always refused him a looking glass, telling him that while they still healed there was no use dwelling on them. Nothing prevented him from seeing his left arm and the left side of his torso, though. The pink melted and mangled flesh. He had covered his face when he saw Vhagar’s flames approaching, so he had held out hope that his arm had taken the brunt of the impact. That the burns on his face would heal with minimal scarring.

But looking at Larys’s expression he knew, without a doubt, that that wasn’t the case.

The realization sent him spiraling. For the rest of his life everyone would stare. Whisper under their breath. Call him a freak. Or worse. No one would ever look upon him again without turning their gaze away as soon as they could. No one would ever look upon him again without thinking that he was disgusting. Repulsive. Gruesome.

“Get out,” he demanded, his voice thick.

“I have important news to share, Your Grace. News that I think is vital for you to hear.”

Aegon swallowed down the tears that were forming in his eyes. He just wanted to be left to his misery. Wanted to no longer look upon Larys’s awe and pity towards him.

“Tell the small council, then. I am not in the mood for your whispers.”

“Prince Aemond has not been…receptive to my information. And this is something you need to hear before it is too late.”

Aegon sighed. Larys was clearly not going to heed his commands to leave, and the sooner Larys shared his piece the sooner Aegon would be left alone. Alone to wallow. Alone to think of the looks of horror that awaited him until the end of his days.

“Rhaenyra has found riders for four of the dragons that were on Dragonstone,” Larys said.

“That’s impossible,” Aegon said flatly. There was no one in the entire realm who could claim them.

“The impossible has been achieved, I’m afraid. Smallfolk from Dragonstone and Driftmark have claimed Vermithor, Silverwing, Sheepstealer, and Seasmoke.”

“No,” he said. Refusing to believe it. Only those with the blood of the dragon could claim a dragon. Not smallfolk of humble and questionable origins.

“They have been seen flying around the island.”

His breaths became shallow as Larys’s words began to sink in. If Rhaenyra now had four large dragons at her disposal, she could wreak havoc. Could burn the westerlands and the Reach in less than a week. Could end all resistance to her claim in one fell swoop. Could fly to the capital and kill him. And his children.

“You know what this means. There is no doubt that she will set her sights on the Red Keep, and with only Vhagar to protect the city there is no way to defeat her.”

The walls of his rooms suddenly felt as if they were closing in on him. Everything he had done was to protect his sons. Taking the crown, fighting a war to keep it. Had it all been for naught? Jaehaerys was dead, and if Rhaenyra’s attack was imminent…

“There is no way to defeat her by dragonfire,” Larys said pointedly.

“What do you mean?” Aegon asked gruffly. He was in no mood to play Larys’s game of speaking in near-riddles.

“An army cannot defeat one who outsmarts them. Nor can a dragon. Rhaenyra will attack the capital, that is a surety, but if you were to escape before that happened…that would cast a shadow over her false reign. It would keep your cause, the true cause, alive. Would bolster your men to keep fighting for you. That would worm its way into her mind. It’s all she’d be able to think about. And you will use that to your advantage.”

Escape… Would men think him a coward? But it was better than death. If Rhaenyra attacked the capital and killed him, Maelor, and Aemond, the war would practically be over. Rhaenyra would sit the throne and proclaim herself the victor after she easily overpowered Daeron and Tessarion. And Aegon would never get a chance to avenge Jaehaerys.

It isn’t running away. It’s biding my time until I am able to kill her. I will heal, as will Sunfyre. I will wait until she thinks she is safe, and then I will strike.

“What did you have in mind?”

Larys’s eyes looked as sharp as ever as he gave Aegon a cat-like grin.

Chapter Text

“Will that be all, Princess?” Myra asked while stepping back from Aly, their eyes meeting in the mirror of Aly’s vanity.

Her maid just finished fastening her hair into a simple plait, and prior to that she helped Aly into one of her grey lambswool gowns and her supple leather boots. By all outward appearances Aly was ready.

“Yes. Thank you, Myra.”

With a small dip of her chin, the dark-haired maid left the rooms. Aly stood as soon as the door clicked shut and appraised herself once more in front of the floor-length mirror near her wardrobe. She wanted to fidget with her hair, but instead she merely wringed her hands. Did she look suitable? Sara agreed with her gown choice, and Myra styled her hair in the way of other northern ladies. But she wasn’t northern. Everyone knew that. Would her attempts to adopt the fashions of her new home be met with approval or derision?

This is what a good wife does. Play hostess to her husband’s leal lords while looking the part.

The first of the lords and their families arriving for the autumn feast were expected that afternoon. Members of the Houses Cerwyn, Tallhart, and Hornwood, as well as those belonging to some of the minor houses, would be entering the gates of Winterfell at any time after the midday meal, and Cregan and Aly would by necessity meet them in the main courtyard. Aly had yet to meet anyone outside the household or the winter town, and she wanted, needed, to make a good impression. For her mother’s sake. For Cregan’s sake. For her own sake.

She turned when a knock sounded upon her door. Fran opened it but did not step inside. She looked just as put together as she always did: not a single hair was out of place in her updo, her dress was completely without creases, and her apron was a crisp white.

“Are you ready for the final checks, Princess Aelora?”

“Yes.”

Aly smoothed down the front of her gown, getting rid of nonexistent creases on the bodice and the top of her skirts. After one final look at herself in the mirror, she made to join Fran in the corridor before, on a whim, she stopped in front of her vanity. Feeling Fran’s gaze on her, but not wanting to change her mind, she opened the drawer she only ever opened when she was alone. The one filled with the jewelry her uncle gifted her in their time together. With a lump growing in her throat, Aly gently pushed aside her mermaid pendant and grabbed the diamond and amethyst bracelet, fastening it around her wrist. It did not match her gown at all, but…it would provide her comfort whilst she greeted her guests.

She did her best to stamp down not only the memory of when she received the bracelet from her uncle on her name day but the swell of emotions that filled her upon feeling the weight of it around her wrist. Happiness, anger, nostalgia, loss. The jewelry Aegon gave her was all she had left of the love they once shared. All she had left of the solace he once provided her whenever she felt anxious or worried.

Fran eyed the bracelet but remained silent as the pair walked down the hall and the spiral staircase. On the floor directly below her chambers were three large rooms adjacent to one another in which her ladies-in-waiting, Jonelle Flint, Marna Wull, and Branda Woolfield, would occupy. Since those quarters would now be permanently occupied, Aly and Fran worked just a bit harder to ensure they contained all the necessary comforts required of ladies of their station. The servants refluffed the featherbeds and topped them with silk sheets and woolen quilts, removed the soot from the hearths, cleaned and polished the furniture, placed parchment and pens and bottles of ink atop the writing desks, and filled the privies with soaps and hair oils of commonly-used scents of the north such as winter roses, pine, cedarwood, and nutmeg. Atop all three beds lay a golden embroidery hoop, a set of matching needles, and thread in every color. Aly’s gifts to them. Impersonal but she hoped better gifts would come in time once the three were no longer strangers to her.

The ladies’ families would be staying in the chambers on the floor below their quarters, so that was where they went next. All the rooms there looked to be in good condition: clean bedding, surfaces dusted, the hearth cleaned, and the chambers properly aired out. Aly and Fran proceeded to painstakingly repeat the process for every single room and apartment in the Guest House; once the first guests arrived neither would have time to check the chambers before its assigned occupant made their way to the castle.

By the time the pair finished it was already midday, and Aly’s stomach gurgled from hunger. When she arrived at the Great Hall, Cregan sat at one of the trestle tables eagerly eating his own meal. She knew he must have been as knackered as she was. While she spent all morning ensuring the guest accommodations were prepared, he and Benjicot walked through nearly every other part of the castle: the kitchens, the stables, the kennels, and the guard’s hall.

“All is ready?” she inquired as she sat opposite him.

He nodded. “I doubt even my great-grandfather Ellard prepared Winterfell for the last autumn feast as well as we have.”

Aly did not think that was quite true, but she accepted the compliment all the same as she ladled stew into her bowl. The meat was rabbit, she was disappointed to see, though she did her best to keep her small smile from fading. It did turn into a slight frown, however, as the moments passed and Sara did not join them.

“She went into the winter town with Yana,” Cregan informed her when she asked after her goodsister. “The town is hosting its own festivities, and Sara wanted to attend a dance at the Smoking Log.”

“But that means she won’t be here to help greet our guests,” Aly said in dismay.

“She is more than happy to cede that duty to you.”

Her anxiety began to flare once more. Sara knew all the northerners much better than she did, and Aly had been especially counting on her help with the ladies. Theomore Cerwyn had a younger unmarried sister, and Eddard Tallhart’s wife and their children were coming as well as Robett Hornwood’s sister Berena. Did they all get along? Was there a specific topic of conversation that she should avoid? Sara would know.

Cregan reached out and stilled her hand. The one she had not consciously realized was fiddling with her bracelet.

“They will all love you,” he told her gently.

Aly studied him for a moment, looking for even a hint of insincerity. But she found none. She hoped he was correct. So many things were riding on it.

Before she could respond, Benjicot hurriedly entered the hall.

“Lord Cerwyn has been spotted, my lord. He and his party should arrive soon.”

Calling it a party was a bit of an overstatement, Aly thought once Lord Cerwyn entered the courtyard from the South Gate. He sat atop his chestnut horse, only the top of his silver doublet visible underneath his large fur cloak, and behind him rode just seven people. She knew the lone girl in a lambswool gown had to have been his younger sister Serena, her lady’s maid riding beside her wearing a much thinner cloak. Three of the five men were Lord Theomore’s cousins, and the other two must have been servants, though it was difficult to tell which was which in the distance.

Theomore Cerwyn was her husband’s closest friend, and though the pair often exchanged letters and despite Castle Cerwyn only being a half day’s ride from Winterfell, Aly had yet to meet him in her many moons living at Winterfell. As he rode closer she was reminded of Harrold Paege. Not necessarily in their looks, but in the fact that both were handsome and both clearly knew it. His brown eyes were equally kind and cheeky, and he seemed to have an ever-present smile upon his face. The kind that had probably disarmed many maidens.

Aegon would hate him, she thought unbidden.

Theomore’s easy smile remained in place as he dismounted and approached them.

“You must be Princess Aelora,” Theomore said with a dip of his chin. “You’re just as beautiful as Cregan said.”

“Thank you. It is wonderful to meet you, Lord Cerwyn.”

“Call me Theomore, please. I apologize for not visiting before now. Cregan said you were still adjusting to Winterfell, but I see the truth of it now. He did not want to risk his lovely wife realizing how stoic and boring he is and running off with his dashing best friend.”

Aly stared at Theomore for a moment, surprised at his bold jest despite his obvious cheek. And it clearly was just a jest based upon the twinkle of amusement in his eyes. She glanced sidelong at Cregan, who rolled his eyes goodnaturedly at his friend’s remark.

“There would have been no risk of that, I assure you,” Aly said dryly.

Theomore grinned as he looked appreciatively at Cregan. “The princess is a good liar.”

“Fuck off,” Cregan said as he let out a breath of laughter.

The pair embraced in a tight hug before Theomore turned and gestured to his relatives who stood just a few paces behind him.

“I am honored to introduce you to my delightful sister Serena and my troublesome cousins Cley, Alaric, and Joseth.”

All of the Cerwyn cousins greeted Cregan with a side embrace and Aly with the bowing of their chins while Serena gave both shy smiles.

“We’re happy you’re here,” Cregan told them all genuinely. “Come, we will show you to your rooms.”

“Did you have a pleasant journey?” Aly asked no one in particular as they all walked towards the Guest House.

“We did,” Serena answered quietly.

“It was certainly more pleasant than it would have been if Mother joined us,” Theomore claimed.

He looked at Aly when he explained that his widowed mother, though he loved her dearly, was well known to be a poor traveler. Having her remain at Castle Cerwyn to run the household in her son’s absence was the perfect outcome for everyone involved.

They arrived at Serena’s room first, then the chambers the three Cerwyn cousins would share, all of which overlooked the pools in the godswood in which her dragon eggs were submerged and all of which the temporary inhabitants seemed very happy with. Aly and Cregan led Theomore to his quarters last, and once they reached them, Lord Cerwyn hesitated before he went inside.

“There’s brewing trouble among the Slates,” he reported.

Lord Slate of Blackpool was only nine years old, his father having died three years previously, and his mother, Lady Myranda, ruled as his regent. Aly doubted there were any serious problems between mother and son, which could only mean the trouble stemmed from elsewhere.

“Lady Myranda took ill with a fever a fortnight ago,” Theomore continued. “Currently Larence’s eldest uncle Rodwell is running the household for him, but Rodwell’s two younger brothers are making a fuss that they should be named regent in the event Myranda dies.”

Cregan nodded. “I’ll deal with it.”

“Osric and Harmond are attending the feast with their wives,” Aly said, her brows furrowing as she attempted to recall their wives’ names from Fran’s long list.

“And both will try to cuddle up to you in the hopes that you’ll name one regent over Rodwell,” Theomore told Cregan before giving his friend a lopsided grin. “At least I’ve given you fair warning. I didn’t want to risk you thinking they actually find you interesting.”

“More interesting than you,” Cregan shot back.

Theomore playfully scoffed before disappearing into his chambers.

“Why would Osric and Harmond believe you would name one of them regent over Rodwell?” Aly asked as she walked with Cregan. “He is the eldest uncle, should Lady Myranda die it makes more sense for him to serve as his nephew’s regent.”

“Rodwell is seen by some as grasping,” he answered. “He fought with Lady Myranda over the regency while his brother’s corpse was still warm.”

“Do you think he will refuse to relinquish the regency once Larence reaches his majority?” Aly asked him bluntly.

Cregan paused, clearly needing time to think it over before answering. Which wasn’t a point in Rodwell Slate’s favor.

“I will see what Osric and Harmond have to say,” he said at last. “But you are right, Rodwell is the eldest. By rights the regency should be his if anything happens to Lady Myranda.”

Cregan’s tone made it clear he was not necessarily happy with the possibility. But even he was bound to custom.

Master Eddard Tallhart arrived about an hour after the Cerwyns, accompanied by his wife Leona and their children Benfred, Helman, and Lysara. All of the Tallhart children were too old to play with Rickon, but they seemed more than content to play monsters and maidens in the courtyard. Much to the chagrin of the Tallhart’s maid, Berra.

“Your dragon is awfully close to my land,” Eddard said to Aly in consternation as she and Cregan showed them to their rooms.

“I know,” Aly responded crisply. They had already discussed the matter to death and exchanged multiple letters on the topic. “But as I have told you, Lyrax is not a threat to your keep or lands.”

“Though you advise my smallfolk to keep away from her,” he mused.

“Lyrax will not attack unprovoked,” Aly assured him. Again. “But that does not mean she takes kindly to strangers gawking at her.”

Eddard looked to Cregan as if expecting his lord to cut in and command his southron wife to bid her dragon to leave the southern edge of the wolfswood. But when no such command came, Eddard could do naught but harumph while his wife tutted.

“I have a right to control my own lands,” Master Tallhart grumbled. “And the game on it.”

“Should you find your keep low on meat during the winter due to your inability to hunt any game, we will recompense you,” Aly said.

Eddard Tallhart’s eyes flashed at her words, but any response he had at the ready was stopped by Cregan.

“That sounds more than fair, Eddard,” Cregan said firmly.

Eddard’s jaw tightened. “Yes, more than fair.”

Lady Leona did not accept Aly’s invitation to join her for tea before supper.

“I’m sorry,” Aly said to Cregan as they walked back to the Great Keep. “I didn’t mean to insult him.”

Cregan chuckled. “Perhaps Theomore is correct. You are a good liar.”

Better than you realize.

“Eddard Tallhart came out of his mother’s womb a curmudgeon.”

“That may be true,” Aly smiled, “but I understand the importance of making a good impression upon your lords.”

“You have been.”

Her smile morphed into a grin. “You are not a very good liar.”

“The Tallharts are the only ones with reservations,” he assured her. “And that’s more to do with Lyrax than anything else.”

Still, when the Hornwoods arrived a few hours after the Tallharts, Aly made sure she put her best foot forward.

The sky outside was as grey as the stone walls inside the Great Hall, the lack of sun making the hall appear more drab than it usually did. As men and women gathered into the large room for their daily audience with Cregan, Aly wondered if her husband would be amenable to hanging tapestries along the walls. There was bound to be someone in the winter town she could commission to create scenes depicting various moments in Stark and First Men history. Scenes rich in color.

Cregan sat still upon the cold stone of the high seat, the one Starks had sat upon for hundreds, if not thousands, of years, his hands curved along the heads of the snarling direwolves. Aly stood next to him upon the top step housing the seat. Over the past sennight, the pair began each day in the Great Hall, listening to the lords, ladies, and their proxies and their requests of Cregan they deemed so important they could not wait until the official start of the feast, which would be occurring that evening once the final guests arrived. Most of the matters were not very serious, at least not to Aly’s ears, but Cregan listened to all concerns with a measured silence and answered with as fair a response as possible.

As the northerners made their petitions, Aly formulated what her own response would have been. And, she was quite pleased, they almost always echoed what Cregan ultimately decided, which caused her confidence to grow exponentially. She would be regent once Cregan marched south, and each passing day saw her more and more certain that she would be able to rule the north well in her husband’s absence.

Robard Condon, eldest son to Lord Beren Condon, was the first to step forward. “Lord Cregan, Princess Aelora,” he began with a deep dip of his chin. “I request your approval of my betrothal to Meera Ashwood on behalf of our fathers, Lord Beren Condon and Lord Leobold Ashwood.”

Several young men had done similar over the past few days. Cregan always agreed, but it was the ceremony of it all. As it was everywhere else in the realm.

“And the terms have been agreed upon by both families?” Cregan asked.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then you have my approval and my blessing. May the gods look down upon your union as fondly as they have mine.”

Aly shifted her shoulders as a grin broke out upon Robard’s face. Cregan always gave the same response, and awkwardness washed over her each time.

Artos Karstark stepped towards the high seat next. The leader of a cadet branch of House Karstark, he was the great-uncle of the current Lord Karstark and lived at Karstark Keep in the Grey Cliffs. His keep had an unobstructed view of the Bay of Seals. And, in the distance, the island of Skagos. Artos wrote several times in the previous months of his fear regarding the Skagosi fishing within sight of his keep, afraid it meant they planned to attack once the majority of the northerners left to go south of the Neck. Cregan told him to increase his patrols and let Lords Karstark and Umber know his suspicions, but he refused to send men to preemptively stop a raid that may never come just because the Skagosi began fishing closer to the shore. Still, Artos refused to let up on his suspicion.

“Lord Cregan, Princess Aelora,” Artos greeted. His grizzled face gave him an unfriendly visage, and his sharp blue eyes and greased white hair did nothing to soften his features. “The Skagosi continue to fish close to my lands. Too close. I ask that you travel to my keep and see for yourself. Perhaps then you will agree to send men to help ward off an attack.”

Whispers broke out amongst the crowd, and on their faces Aly saw a mixture of disbelief and fear.

“My understanding is that the Skagosi have given no indication they are planning to leave their island,” Cregan said, raising his voice to carry over the murmurs. Hoping to quell the growing anxiety.

“I increased my patrols, just as you suggested, my lord, and my guards tell me the Skagosi have come no closer to the shore. But something isn’t right. I can feel it in my bones. That is why I ask that you see for yourself.”

“I wish to assuage your fear, but the time it would take to journey to Karstark Keep and then back to Winterfell would take away time I need to spend preparing my household for winter and our men for battle.”

Artos’s blue eyes glanced at Aly. “Dragons are quite fast, I’ve heard.”

Aly could not stop her brows from rising in surprise. The northern lords all seemed wary of Lyrax, but here Artos was inviting Lyrax to his lands, even if only for a few days. Though she supposed she saw the strategy of it. If the Skagosi set their sights on her, any plans for a raid would surely be abandoned.

Cregan turned to look at her, his grey eyes questioning. Silently asking her if she agreed to Artos’s request. She knew she should. Yet the thought of flying with Cregan made her uneasy for reasons she could not fully explain.

Bejicot slipping into the Great Hall from the lord’s door saved her from having to respond to Artos right away. The castle steward whispered something into Cregan’s ear before leaving the way he came.

“Aelora and I will discuss this privately,” Cregan told Artos. “I am afraid I will have to end the audience for today.”

He stood and, linking arms with Aly, the pair descended the steps and followed Benjicot out of the hall through the lord’s door.

“The Norreys are nearly here,” he told her as they walked through the dimly-lit gallery.

The final guests they were expecting. The only family to wait until the day the feast was set to begin to arrive. Aly did not exactly blame them, though she did think they would arrive sooner if only to spend time with Rickon. Their only daughter died in the halls of Winterfell, and though neither Lord nor Lady Norrey were in the castle when it happened, the entire place likely seemed haunted to them.

And then their goodson remarried less than half a year later.

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she turned her bracelet in time with each step. Every other house in the north had, more or less, met her with an open mind. The Tallharts arrived irritated about Lyrax, but otherwise everyone else greeted her courteously. Willing to give her a chance. For Cregan, if nothing else.

Would the Norreys?

After they fetched their fur cloaks from their respective chambers and Cregan grabbed Rickon from the nursery, the three made their way to the courtyard. He looks like a bear cub, Aly thought in amusement as she looked at her stepson. His fur cloak was nearly as large as he was.

The Norreys arrived through the South Gate on perhaps the hardiest garrons Aly had seen yet. All the mountain clans preferred garrons over destriers or palfreys due to the uneven terrain of the mountains, and the Norreys clearly bred the sturdiest. A hardy horse for a hardy people.

Aly studied the family as they rode closer. Lord Owen Norrey and his son, presumably the eldest, Hugo, boasted thick black beards, the color matching the hair atop their heads. The beginnings of a beard shadowed the jawline of his other two sons, a beard that Aly suspected would be just as thick as the one Lord Norrey sported. Though it looked as if their beards would be brown, the color of their mother’s hair. Lady Bethany Norrey piled her hair high on her head, showing off the grey strands along her temples.

The party stopped near the overflowing stables, dismounted, and made their way to Cregan, Aly, and Rickon once their horses had been taken care of. Their faces softened as they got closer, their eyes on the babe as he waved at them. It was only once they stood right in front of Cregan and Aly that their gazes moved away from their grandson and nephew.

“Owen, it is good to see you again,” Cregan greeted.

He was as nervous as she was. It wasn’t obvious, but Aly saw it all the same. Cregan did not talk about the Norreys a lot, but when he did it was clear that he admired them. Admired Lord Norrey.

“This is Princess Aelora.”

They all picked her apart with their eyes. Aly squared her shoulders in an attempt to brace herself against their scrutiny, though her fingers nervously rubbed her diamond and amethyst bracelet.

“We have heard quite a lot about you,” Lady Bethany finally told Aly, though from her tone it was difficult to tell whether that was good or bad.

“And I have heard many wonderful things about you,” Aly responded. Hoping to do all she could to smooth things over as best she could. For Cregan’s sake.

“We brought a gift for Rickon,” Bethany said as she returned her gaze to her grandson, warmth filling her eyes. “For his name day.”

Rickon’s first name day passed a few weeks ago, an occasion the household marked by gifts and pudding. The celebration was dampened, however, by the fact that Rickon’s name day also meant the anniversary of Arra’s death. Cregan and Sara tried their best to hide it, but Aly could see that their smiles did not reach their eyes at any point during the day. Not even when Rickon got pudding all over his face.

The youngest Norrey son—either Karlon or Lothor, Aly could not remember—reached into his cloak pocket and pulled out a parchment-wrapped gift. All the adults chuckled when Rickon reached out to grab it.

“We also brought flowers for Arra’s crypt,” Owen said soberly. “We would like to see her before anything else.”

Cregan cleared his throat. “I will take you.”

He handed Rickon to Aly, who gladly took her stepson in her arms, and led the family of his first wife to her tomb. Leaving his second wife in the courtyard with his son.

The sound of the door hinges was drowned out by the noise of the crowd. She was late. The amount of people in the Great Hall told her that, as did the low position of the sun in the sky outside. Aly had spent too long after her ladies-in-waiting left second guessing every decision. Her hairstyle, her gown, her jewelry. Even the shoes she wore. It was silly, she kept telling herself. All the guests at Winterfell had already met her, already eaten a meal with her. Yet that did not stamp down the waves of anxiety that churned in her stomach as Myra listened to her spiral without complaint.

The opening of the autumn feast took on so much meaning in her mind. Aly was the wife of their liege lord, the one whose marriage to her brought them all into a war they otherwise may have ignored. She needed everything to go perfectly. Including looking as perfect as possible in her dark grey gown. And her diamond and amethyst bracelet.

While the kitchens waited until Cregan’s eventual signal to bring out the food, the wine already flowed freely within the hall. And northmen drank just as much as their southron brethren. Some of the guests had already chosen their seats, perhaps wanting to ensure a seat they deemed the best, while others stood in groups catching up with kinfolk and friends they had not seen in many turns of the moon. Medrick Manderly chatted amiably with Roger Ryswell, Domeric Bolton, and Theo Wull, the four men laughing about something Roger said. Serena Cerwyn blushed as the young Rickard Glover spoke to her. Mara Mormont gestured wildly as she recounted some lively tale to Donella Dustin and Gilliane Umber, and Jeyne Knott's eyes sparkled from Theomore Cerwyn's flirtations.

She scanned the crowd looking for either Sara or Cregan. Just when she was about to give up and make her way to her seat at the high table, Aly’s gaze landed on Cregan. He stood with Domera Locke, listening intently to whatever it was she had to say. Aly made a beeline towards them. She had not forgotten what Sara told her about Domera: that in her youth she desired a betrothal to Cregan and then, even after their respective marriages, she continued to flirt with him. Their conversation was likely innocent, but Aly refused to be made to look a fool in her own castle.

Like I made a fool of Helaena?

Aegon and I loved each other.

“Hello,” Aly said once she reached them, not caring that she was interrupting Domera mid-sentence.

Domera was certainly beautiful. Aly thought so as soon as she saw her coming through the gate atop her chestnut mare. She boasted light eyes and thick, wavy, light brown hair that, every time Aly saw her, was tied back into a simple plait. Perhaps to better accentuate her sharp cheekbones and plush lips.

“Princess Aelora,” Domera greeted with a smile. “We were beginning to worry.”

“As you can see, there is no need.”

“Domera was telling me that House Locke has begun building a few ships to supplement Lord Manderly’s fleet.”

“Oh?” Aly asked in genuine interest.

Lord Desmond Manderly did not make the journey to Winterfell for the autumn feast, claiming he trusted no other to oversee the building of two warships to add to his offering for Queen Rhaenyra. In his stead he sent his son and heir, Medrick, who had not mentioned anything about other houses adding to their fleet.

“I think Lord Desmond is embarrassed,” Domera divulged. “He promised your mother his fleet, but his ships are not quite ready for more than transport.”

“Oh,” Aly repeated in mild disappointment.

She supposed it was no matter. At least not yet. Her mother still had the entire Velaryon fleet at her disposal. Aly did not know if her mother would even have need of a northern fleet.

“The ships will be magnificent once completed,” Domera said. “Which will be in no time, I am sure. My husband is overseeing it all himself. And then the Manderly men will set sail for wherever the queen commands.”

Whether that was true about the ships or only what Domera wanted Aly to relay to Rhaenyra she did not know.

“Where is your husband?” Aly asked, turning her head left and right. She had not seen Ondrew in the crowd earlier.

“Playing dice games in the corridor,” Domera said with a roll of her eyes. “Though I hid all his coin before he packed his trunk, so at least I know he is not gambling. I suppose you don’t have to do such things, Princess Aelora.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

Domera looked at Cregan and smiled before returning her gaze to Aly. “You are very lucky.”

And with that, Domera Locke left them to tell her husband and his fellow dice players to return to the Great Hall to take their seats for the feast.

Following a gesture from Cregan, Aly followed him towards the high table. He gently placed his hand between her shoulders to help guide her through the crowd. There was no need, however, as everyone in the hall parted for them. Yet his hand remained.

“You look beautiful.”

Aly slightly shifted her shoulders. “Thank you. You look nice as well.”

She told it true. The silk white doublet embroidered with the direwolf of House Stark that he wore fit him well.

“I’m sorry about earlier today. With the Norreys. I knew they’d want to see Arra, but I didn’t think—”

“It’s fine,” Aly interrupted. She thought of her own mother after Visenya’s death. After Luke’s death. Of the raw grief that overpowered her. The same grief that still wrapped itself around her heart and no doubt still held the Norreys prisoner. “I understand.”

Four chairs were set at the high table, one for each of them and two for Harwood Dustin and his wife Jyana. The firstborn son and heir of Lord Roderick Dustin was given the place of honor beside his lord to celebrate the first northern host of two thousand men led by Lord Dustin leaving Barrowton the previous month. Harwood and Jyana, seemingly waiting for them nearby, joined them with polite smiles. All conversation stopped nearly as soon as Cregan made his way to his chair, and everyone in the Great Hall shuffled to find seats. Looking at the crowd, at its enormity, Aly did not think she had seen so many people in one room since Aegon and Helaena’s wedding. And the attendants did not even comprise the entirety of the northern nobility, as many older men marched south with Lord Roderick and others still remained in their family castles preparing for winter and running the household.

“A toast,” Cregan began once everyone but him was seated. “To the men marching south to fight for Queen Rhaenyra. May the gods watch over them.”

The entire hall looked at Harwood Dustin and cheered.

“And to the coming winter. May everyone’s stores fulfill them and provide for their kin and household.”

Everyone shouted once more as they raised their goblets and gulped down their wine and ale.

“To the new year that we will greet together in seven nights’ time.”

Aly’s thoughts turned to her brothers as the hall cheered for the third time. In just a few days Aegon and Viserys would sail to Pentos on the Gay Abandon, a cog the Prince of Pentos sent to Dragonstone to carry the boys to the Free City, escorted by Baela on Moondancer and warships provided by Lord Corlys. She hoped her brothers enjoyed Pentos. Hoped the Prince of Pentos provided for them.

But her chest tightened and her stomach churned as she thought of what it would mean once her brothers and Baela were away from Dragonstone. With the smallfolk having claimed the larger dragons, and becoming more adept according to Jace’s last letter, and no one else left on Dragonstone that Jace felt he needed to protect, she knew her brother would try to convince their mother to turn towards the capital. It was the only thing that made sense.

She worried for Helaena. And the children. She worried for Aegon.

“Let us begin our last feast before winter sets in,” Cregan said, bringing Aly back to Winterfell. Forcing her to remove her uncle from her mind.

The high table was served first—two platters each of winter cabbage, venison, peppered boar, green beans, and winter plums—before the servants turned their attention to the rest of the tables.

“Are similar foods served in the south for feasts, Princess Aelora?” Jyana asked as she helped herself to venison and cabbage once Aly filled her plate.

“I don’t recall eating winter cabbage or winter plums very often,” Aly said, “but many feasts served peppered boar and venison from the kingswood.”

“Does the game taste different? Harwood claims he can taste the difference between a deer killed in the wolfswood and that killed in the Rills.”

Aly chewed her bite of venison thoughtfully. “It tastes the same to me.”

“Me as well,” Jyana told her with a coy smile that made crinkles appear around her eyes. “Though I pretend the deer he hunted himself tastes better than that killed by anyone else in the castle.”

Aly breathed out a laugh. “That is very smart, Lady Jyana.”

“We all tell our husbands little lies to stoke their manhood. I am sure you do the same for Lord Cregan.”

She didn’t, though of course she did not confess it.

“Do you feel settled to life in the north?” Jyana inquired. “I imagine it is very different from the south, even if we share food in common.”

“It is different,” Aly answered carefully. “The snow and cold is still something I am not used to, nor is my dragon. But I feel comfortable in Winterfell, and I have developed a certain fondness for the people.”

Jyana scrutinized her, as if ascertaining the truthfulness of her words, her brown eyes moving back and forth across Aly’s face. Eventually, she smiled. Seemingly satisfied with Aly’s sincerity. It was all true, though that did not mean Aly never felt heartsick for the sun reflecting off the surface of the Blackwater. For her family. For her friends. For Aegon.

“I hope I do not offend you when I tell you that I was wary of you,” Jyana admitted. “Lady Arra was so beloved, and…well, I was just wary of you, is all.”

I was wary of a dragonriding outsider who brought us all into a war we otherwise would have had no stake in, one in which possibly thousands of northerners will die. Though that went unsaid.

“And Cregan has clearly grown fond of you.”

He has, Aly thought as she swallowed. The late night games, the lingering. The respectful touches.

He is my husband.

“I am fond of him, as well,” Aly said with an awkward smile.

And she was. He was kind and patient, and humorous when he wanted to be. But he wasn’t…he wasn’t Aegon. It had been nine months since her grandfather’s death. Nine months to let Aegon go. But she couldn’t. Not completely. Maybe not ever.

I will never see Aegon again, she thought. Forcing herself to accept it. My life is here now.

A quartet of musicians Cregan and Aly hired from the winter town began to play once the servants served dessert, and the lords immediately stood and pushed the tables against the wall to make space for dancing. Aly smiled as she watched them, men dancing with their wives, brothers dancing with their sisters. Some clapping along with the beat as they moved however they wanted, others holding on to each other in learned steps.

“Do you wish to dance?” Cregan asked, noticing her attention on the dancers.

My life is here now.

“Yes.”

He led her to a relatively quiet corner of the makeshift dancing space, his hand on her shoulders. Once they stood in front of each other, they both timidly placed their hands in the appropriate places: her left hand atop his shoulder while she clasped his left hand with her right and his right hand rested on her waist. She did not know any northern dances, but thankfully Cregan led her in a simple one.

The last time she had danced at a feast was the one celebrating the new year in King’s Landing twelve moons prior. She tried not to think about it.

“How are you liking your ladies-in-waiting?” Cregan asked her.

“I like them all right,” Aly answered honestly. Branda Woolfield was the most outgoing, quick to fill the silence by inviting conversation. Marna Wull, while she did not talk nearly as much as Branda did, was often able to make the others laugh with a bawdy jape. And Jonelle Flint was sweet, even if she only spoke when spoken to.

“They are all very courteous and kind. I think we will get along well.”

“I’m glad.”

When the musicians began playing a different song, Aly wasn’t sure if Cregan would let her go and return them to the high table. But he kept his hand on her waist and continued clasping her right hand, so they kept dancing.

“I’ve been thinking about Artos’s request,” Aly started.

“If you don’t want to fly us to Karstark Keep, I will tell him—”

“It’s all right with me,” she interrupted. Clearly surprising him.

In truth, she wasn’t thrilled about the journey, about flying with Cregan, but if she refused the northerners may believe she would never do anything to help them. Their liege lord’s wife was bonded with a dragon, a creature that could stay their enemies from without. And if she did not respond to a perceived threat, even if Aly herself did not believe the Skagosi to be a threat, how could she expect the northerners to believe she would protect them?

“I do not think the Skagosi have done anything to indicate they are planning a raid, but if visiting Karstark Keep and seeing for ourselves is the only way to alleviate Artos’s concerns, then flying is the quickest option,” Aly said.

Relief and appreciation made their way across Cregan’s expression. “I will tell Artos on the morrow. I know he will be pleased.”

Aly smiled at him, a smile which he returned.

As they made their way back to the raised table a few songs later, Aly began to think that perhaps the new year could bring with it a fresh start. Perhaps she could attempt to begin anew. With Cregan.

Chapter Text

Seven days after everyone in Winterfell greeted the new year together, Aly sat in the Great Hall as she broke her fast. The hall was emptier than it had been in nearly a fortnight, only Sara and her ladies-in-waiting accompanying her as they ate their fill of fried eggs, bacon, and winter plums. The majority of the autumn feast attendants left over the previous two days, and those that remained, primarily the men and women whose castles and keeps were less than three days’ journey, were set to leave throughout the morning. As they scurried about their rooms to ensure nothing was left behind, they chose to eat their morning meals in their guest chambers rather than cease their packing.

And once the last guest passed through the gates, Aly and Cregan would set off as well to Karhold Keep. Artos Karstark and his wife Lyanna had been the first guests to leave Winterfell, passing through the South Gate on the second day of the new year to ensure their return to their keep in time to greet Aly and Cregan upon their arrival. Their stay would only be for a few days, a sennight at most. Long enough for Cregan to see to Artos’s concerns himself and convince him that there was nothing to fear. That the Skagosi were simply going further into the bay to fish and nothing more.

“I am sorry to leave you all so soon after your arrival,” Aly told her ladies, doing her best to stifle a yawn.

She had stayed up quite late the previous night playing card games with Cregan. Her life was in Winterfell with him, and in the spirit of that acceptance, she kept starting new games once they finished the previous one. Attempting to force herself to muster up the courage to ask him to stay. He was her husband, and that was what a good wife did. But, just as happened every night since the opening of the autumn feast when she decided to begin anew with him, she could not force the words to leave her lips. They remained stuck in her throat until Cregan wished her a goodnight and left her chambers during the hour of ghosts.

“It’s all right, Aelora,” Marna said with a polite smile. “We understand.”

“And you won’t be gone long,” Branda supplied.

Jonelle, as usual, said nothing. Only nodded with a shy smile playing upon her lips.

“I hope you all use the time to better acclimate to the castle,” Aly told them encouragingly. “Without so many guests, you will be able to traverse the corridors as you wish. Spend time in the library or the music room. Jonelle, I know you like playing the high harp.”

She considered offering Sara’s company to them, but she did not want to force her goodsister into that position. Sara liked her ladies fine, but she hardly considered them friends. And Aly knew that Sara would only chafe at being ordered to spend time with them, putting her in a mood that none involved would find amusing. For the sake of harmony, it was better for any time spent together to happen organically rather than forcefully.

The tall wide doors of oak and iron opened, causing all five to turn towards the sound of the hinges creaking over the crackling fires. Cregan stopped underneath the threshold and, locking eyes with Aly, gestured for her to join him. The first of the remaining guests were set to leave. She stood and, with a soft smile to her morning meal companions, walked out of the Great Hall.

“The Tallharts are all set,” he told her as they walked through the castle yard, Aly wrapping herself into her fur cloak that Cregan fetched for her prior to finding her in the Great Hall. With a slight smirk he said, “I am sure you will both be sorry to part.”

Neither Lord nor Lady Tallhart had warmed to her during their stay despite Aly’s initial attempts. For the first week of their stay she invited Lady Tallhart to nearly every afternoon tea she hosted, which she always politely declined, and she tried to engage Lord Tallhart in conversation during the feasts, which he always only lukewarmly participated in. All over their unhappiness with Lyrax so close to their land and Aly’s refusal to agree to cajole her dragon to stay elsewhere. As if she even could. It was childish, she decided, and after the new year she ceased all purposeful interactions with them. They were all still courteous to one another, but there was certainly a frostiness between them that could rival the crisp air beyond the castle walls. She was surprised they even remained in Winterfell as long as they did - until Sara told her the previous afternoon that Lord Tallhart privately attempted to persuade Cregan to get Aly to do as Lord Tallhart wanted during the daily hunts.

Every day Cregan tells him more or less the same, Sara relayed. “My wife may appear more salt water than fire, but I assure you that forcing her to do something is not as easy as you may think.”

As if I haven’t always done what was asked of me. What was expected of me, Aly could not help but think as Sara continued on complaining about Lord Tallhart. But she could be stubborn when she wanted to be, and Lyrax remaining in the southern wolfswood was not something she would waste her time arguing over. Dragons had wills of their own. And her dragon was a creature of the south who just wanted to keep as warm as she could as winter slowly crept up on them all.

Eddard Tallhart stood next to his dapple grey charger, the small wheelhouse containing Lady Leona, their three children, and their maid a few feet behind him. All of their belongings were already fastened to the carts they brought in their retinue, every man of their party other than Lord Eddard saddled onto his horse. The Tallharts were clearly ready to go, only waiting for their lord’s farewell.

“Lord Eddard, I do hope your family enjoyed your time here,” Aly said.

“Yes,” he replied gruffly. “Every hospitality was extended to us.”

“I was sorry that Lady Leona was never able to have tea with me. Please extend my well wishes to her.”

Eddard looked momentarily caught off guard that Aly brought up his wife’s declining her every invitation, but he quickly smoothed his face. “I will. Thank you, Princess Aelora.”

“Best of luck making the final preparations for the winter, Eddard,” Cregan said.

“You as well.”

“And should you find yourself unable to procure game on your lands due to Lyrax, please let us know,” Aly told him, offering him a courteous smile.

Eddard straightened his back and set his jaw. “I am a fine hunter. I will be perfectly able to provide for my household. Though I won’t be able to cover as much ground in the wolfswood, of course, due to your great beast.”

“I will send a raven once it is time for us all to gather to prepare marching south,” Cregan interjected, either not wanting to risk an argument breaking out between Eddard and Aly or having tired of hearing Eddard’s constant grumblings over the issue.

Eddard shifted his gaze towards Aly once more, and she again considered how little the northerners wished to be involved in her mother’s fight to claim the Iron Throne. They all attempted to hide it to varying levels of success, but she knew that, despite Cregan willingly joining the war, many blamed Aly for it. In their eyes, the blood of every father, husband, brother, and son who did not return north would be on her hands.

“I will keep an eye out,” Lord Tallhart said at last before mounting his horse and leading his family out through the South Gate.

Shortly after the Tallharts left, the Glovers, Hornwoods, and Boltons followed. Not long after the last of the men carrying the Dreadfort’s gruesome banner did the Slates gather in the courtyard to begin their journey back to Blackpool.

Just as Theomore Cerwyn warned upon his arrival, both Osric and Harmond Slate forced their way into spending time with Cregan in an attempt to curry favor with him. Osric often invited Cregan to his chambers before supper to share his Myrish firewine, and Harmond seemed to always manage to occupy a seat near Cregan as they all broke their fast. And both maneuvered to join Cregan’s small party during the daily hunts. Aly was not immune, either, as both of their wives advocated for their husbands, albeit much more subtly, during the afternoon tea she hosted for all the ladies. Yet it had all been for naught, as Rodwell Slate sent a raven just a few days prior joyously announcing that Myranda Slate’s fever had broken, and she had returned to her duties as her son’s regent.

“I hope you enjoyed your time here,” Aly said, repeating the sentiment she told everyone upon their leaving. “Cregan and I are both so happy you were able to join us for the feast.”

“Thank you, Princess,” Osric’s wife, Aregelle, responded with a polite smile.

“It was lovely to make your acquaintance,” Erena, Harmond’s wife, told her. “I do hope that, should you ever make your way towards Blackpool, we are able to return your hospitality.”

“Of course. As long as Lady Myranda is all right with hosting me.”

The smiles of both Aregelle and Erena faded slightly at the reminder that their goodsister, and not one of them, was to remain serving as the lady of the castle. The desire to rule Blackpool for the few years before Lord Larence reached his majority was so strange to Aly. The lands were not particularly fertile, nor the income from the smallfolk particularly large. It was the power, she kept having to remind herself. The ability of a third or fourth son to rise in prestige rather than remain at the mercy of their kin’s good graces.

Power, or even the possibility of it, could bring out the worst in people. Aly knew that all too well.

After sharing final farewells and a reminder from Cregan that he would send word once it was time to begin gathering to march south, the Slates began their journey back home, the tracks from their horses mixing with all the others made in the light snow over the past few days.

“What time do you think we will be able to leave?” Aly asked as she headed back towards the castle with Cregan. It was almost mid-morning, and while the flight to Karstark Keep would not take too long, she preferred to leave no later than midday.

But before he could answer, the main entry doors swung open and the Norreys stepped into the yard. Aly halted upon seeing them, Cregan stopping alongside her. Just as she was surprised the Norreys did not arrive sooner than the first night of the feast, she was surprised they remained in Winterfell as long as they did. They only did so for Rickon, Aly knew, and not because they felt any sort of warmth towards her. She kept them at a distance throughout the past fortnight out of respect, inviting Lady Bethany to tea (which she always refused with the excuse of spending time in the nursery with her grandson) but never attempting to ingratiate herself with them. She was polite, of course, smiling at them during the feasts, but the chilliness that radiated from them bested even that of the Tallharts.

In truth, she would not be sorry to see the back of them. The relief that washed over her at seeing them in the entryhall made her feel slightly wretched, as they had never said an unkind word to her or even given her a nasty look, but their presence still managed to make her feel uneasy. Made her feel like an interloper.

Cregan and Lord Owen embraced once the pair stood in front of one another. While Aly felt as if she walked on broken glass around them, the Norreys had at least warmed again to Cregan throughout their time in Winterfell. Much to his relief.

“We will return once I receive your raven,” Owen told Cregan, referring to him and his sons’ roles in the second host of northmen to march south.

Aly gave courteous smiles to Lord Owen and his three sons as they saddled their garrons. Lady Bethany paused in front of her, as if she wanted to say something, but she ultimately decided to leave it unsaid. Instead she kept her mouth closed, dipped her chin slightly, and joined her husband and sons.

“It was good for Rickon to see them,” Cregan said as they watched the Norreys leave the courtyard. “They weren’t here when…” he cleared his throat. “When he was born. They kept asking to come, to help, but I told them everything was under control.”

And then I came to Winterfell just a few months later, and you married me.

“Once Rickon is older he can visit them,” Aly offered quietly. She had loved visiting Driftmark as a child, loved hearing her grandfather’s stories of his adventures. She had once fancied herself a future of exploring the world. But that was long ago. A childish dream.

Cregan turned to her and gave her a small smile. “I think they would all enjoy that.”

“That was a fine feast,” a voice called out, startling them both.

Theomore Cerwyn made his way over to them with a large smile, his cousins and younger sister not far behind him.

“The feast was made finer, of course, by your presence, Princess Aelora.”

Aly breathed out a laugh. “Of course.” She turned to his sister Serena. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

“I did,” Serena smiled.

Thanks in no small part to Rickard Glover, Aly was sure. The two always managed to find each other in the evenings as everyone ate in the Great Hall, Serena blushing as Rickard told her lively tales. Aly could not help occasionally searching for them in the crowd, smiling to herself as she recalled how exciting it all seems the first time one develops an attraction for another. The rush of being in their presence, of being close to them, of being the object of their attention. But then her throat would feel thick as she thought of Aegon, and she would force herself to look away.

“I will hopefully see the pair of you sooner rather than later,” Theomore said as his cousins and sister saddled their horses. Then, shooting Aly a grin, he told her, “My mother tells me I am in need of a wife, so if you think of any beautiful ladies who are in want of a husband, please let me know.”

Aly did know of at least one woman whose father wanted Aly to secure her a match. Jonelle Flint. But Theomore and Jonelle would be a terrible pairing. Jonelle was a sweet girl, one that Theomore would certainly like teasing, but Aly knew she would wilt under his jests rather than flower.

“Gods help any woman whose father damns her to you,” Cregan gibed.

Theomore merely laughed. “Not every woman desires dourness.”

Once saddled and their trunks secured, the Cerwyns passed through the gates of Winterfell.

“Why is Theomore not married?” Aly asked Cregan once his friend was in the distance.

Theomore was the same age as Cregan, so he was certainly old enough to at least be betrothed. But he wasn’t, which surprised her. She figured a marriage to the best friend to Lord Stark would be a chance many lords would jump to take advantage of. And Theomore, while he could be a bit of a flirt, was otherwise everything a young maiden might want in a husband: handsome, funny, and a lord in his own right rather than still his father’s heir.

“He was betrothed,” Cregan informed her. “To Jeyne Ryswell, Lord Ryswell’s youngest daughter, but she died about eleven months ago from consumption.”

“Oh.”

Neither Cregan nor Sara previously mentioned it when talking about Theomore. She had noticed throughout the course of the feast that Theomore and the Ryswells seemed close, often speaking and laughing with one another, but that was true of so many of the guests.

“His mother, Lady Lysara, is pushing for him to seek a wife,” he said. “She wants him to marry and put a babe in his wife’s belly before he marches south.”

But it’s only been eleven months, Aly wanted to say, but she stopped herself. Arra had been dead fewer moons than that when Cregan wed her, and Arra had actually been his wife rather than just his betrothed.

“He still holds Jeyne’s memory dear to him,” Cregan continued. “I told him that marrying does not mean forgetting. And that it is possible to love again.”

Aly shifted her shoulders awkwardly. Would she come to love Cregan? In time, she thought she would. But it would never be the way it was with her uncle. And she was under no delusions that Cregan would ever feel for her what he felt for Arra. But perhaps that did not preclude love completely.

It is a new year, she reminded herself. And I made a vow to at least attempt to start anew.

Yet even the thought of it still made her stomach twist.

He is my husband.

The Cerwyns were the last of the guests to depart, and as the sun moved towards the highest point in the sky, Aly and Cregan returned to the castle to ensure everything they needed to take with them to Karhold Keep had been packed. Cregan warned her the previous night to direct Myra to gather everything first thing in the morning as she would not have enough time once the guests began leaving, and Aly felt grateful for the advice. From the Tallharts leaving until now, she and Cregan did almost nothing but walk back and forth from the entryhall to the courtyard.

“Everything you requested is in the bag,” Myra told her as soon as Aly reached her chambers, pointing to said bag near her wardrobe.

Since she and Cregan did not intend to be away from Winterfell longer than a sennight, it thankfully meant that her belongings could be packed into a bag small enough to tie onto her saddle atop Lyrax rather than having to send everything in advance. The bag was filled to the brim, though, despite Aly only bringing the bare minimum in terms of clothing. Just enough outfits to last her for a week, and no jewelry beyond the diamond and amethyst bracelet she wore on her wrist, no boots other than the ones currently on her feet, and nothing that the Karstarks could not provide themselves in the way of bath soaps and oils.

“Thank you, Myra,” Aly said as her handmaid grabbed the bag for her to take downstairs.

When they arrived at the main entryway, Cregan was already there with Benjicot and Sara, who held Rickon in her arms.

“I’ll send a raven before we return so you know when to expect us,” Cregan was telling Benjicot. “Hopefully it does not take long to convince Artos it is nothing.”

Benjicot’s face turned grave. “And if it isn’t nothing?”

“Then I will take care of it,” Cregan answered stoically before turning to Sara.

“I am quite jealous of you,” Sara grinned. “Riding a dragon.”

“It’s only in the interest of time,” Aly interjected. Perhaps a bit too strongly. It wasn’t fair of her, she knew that, but she still felt a bit uneasy about the entire thing for reasons she could not properly explain. Perhaps it was arrogance. Or selfishness. Or not wanting Cregan so close to her. Whatever the reason, she would have to bury the feelings deep. And quickly.

“Has anyone without Targaryen blood ever ridden a dragon? Or will you be the first?” Sara asked in slight amazement.

“Ronnel Arryn rode with Visenya atop Vhagar,” Aly answered, her voice slightly flat from reciting the fact from memory rather than any particular interest in the story.

And the girl who claimed Sheepstealer. Nettles.The one smallfolk who claimed one of their dragons that did not attempt to claim Targaryen ancestry. She supposedly brought it to heel by feeding the beast dead sheep. Using her wits rather than her blood.

“I may ask to join you on future rides,” Sara said excitedly.

“We’ll see how it goes today,” Cregan hedged, saving Aly from having to respond one way or another.

After exchanging hugs with Sara and kisses with Rickon, Aly and Cregan mounted their horses and led Hallis Holt of the household guard to the thicket in the wolfswood where Lyrax always came when she knew Aly wanted her. She saw her dragon in the sky as they rode, flying towards them from the south, her body shadowing the wolfswood as if it was night and her wingspan causing the trees to rustle as if a monstrous wind was upon them. They reached the edge of the clearing just as Lyrax landed, her twilight blue scales glittering in the sunlight, the impact shaking the ground and forcing them all to steady their horses. Aly had to grip the reins so tightly to prevent her black courser, Obsidian, from rearing back and galloping back towards the castle that her fingers practically went numb. Once the horse settled, Aly had to consciously relax her muscles to pry them loose from the leather.

Hallis remained behind with the horses as Aly and Cregan walked towards Lyrax, eyeing her dragon as warily as Lyrax eyed him before turning her orange eyes to Cregan. Fixating on him as he drew closer. The dragon knew him but not well enough to not consider him a possible danger to her rider. Aly overall felt comfortable with Cregan, but she knew the bond between her and Lyrax meant her dragon picked up on her conflicting feelings surrounding him at the moment. Her unease at him riding with her, her anxiety about their marriage. So Aly grabbed Cregan’s hand in an effort to show Lyrax that the man walking towards her was no threat.

She felt a slight tremble in his hand, and Aly gave him a sidelong glance. He did his best to mask it, but his trepidation was clear. The last time she brought him so close to Lyrax had been the day after their wedding, many moons ago.

“It’s all right,” she murmured in an attempt to comfort him. She wouldn’t let anything happen to him.

Aly stopped a few feet away from Lyrax, close enough for her dragon to hear her but still keeping some distance for Cregan’s sake.

“You know him,” she told her dragon in High Valyrian. “He will not harm me.”

Lyrax looked at Cregan for a few moments more, as if sizing him up and seeing if her rider’s instincts were accurate regarding him posing no threat, before locking eyes with Aly and lowering her head. Aly smiled warmly as she brought Cregan with her, their hands still interlocked, to stand just before her dragon.

“We are going on a short journey,” she informed Lyrax. “It will be good for you to stretch your wings and hunt someplace new.”

Her dragon made a low noise, happy at the prospect. The creature’s elation turned to hesitance once Aly told her they were going further north, but Aly promised that it would only be for a few days. There was plenty of land for her to light fires for warmth, Artos assured her before he left. An assurance that she repeated to her dragon. Lyrax’s eyes narrowed, but she put her trust in Aly’s words.

“He is going to come with us,” Aly said, tilting her head towards Cregan who stood beside her. Wariness was still apparent on his face, as well as confusion. He understood nothing she was saying, unable to speak the ancient language of the Valyrians.

Lyrax huffed unhappily, and Aly did her best to control her growing anxiety. Never before had she asked her dragon to saddle two despite her large size. And Cregan’s seat would not be nearly as secure as Aly’s—a makeshift and crude addition that the tanner had hastily made. Would Lyrax accept him atop her back? Or would she attempt to buck him off as soon as she took flight?

“Everything will be all right,” she murmured again. Though whether she was attempting to soothe her dragon or herself, she didn’t know.

Cregan’s hand still in hers, she guided it to Lyrax’s neck. Familiarizing the both of them with the other’s touch again. Aly shifted her hand to the left, keeping her smallest finger over his to maintain the connection, and allowed her dragon’s warm scales to bring her comfort as she continued to whisper in High Valyrian. Once she was certain that Lyrax was ready, that she would accept Cregan, she gestured for him to begin the climb. But he refused, only agreeing to ascend after Aly.

She was already tightening the leather straps when he climbed into his seat behind her. Right behind her. So close she could feel his chest on her back. Aly did her best not to tense. They had danced together at feasts, but the last time Cregan’s body had been so close to hers was their wedding night.

“All right,” he told her a few moments later, indicating that he had fastened his own straps. His breath right on her ear. She didn’t like that, either.

Wanting to force their proximity from her mind, she commanded Lyrax to fly. Aly studied every map of the north she could find in the modest castle library over the past few days, and she felt confident in directing her dragon northeast. They would fly over the Weeping Water, over the Dreadfort, over Karhold, and then, once they no longer spied the small forest below, she would direct Lyrax downward to land near Karstark Keep.

Her stomach flipped and she grit her teeth when Lyrax made a graceful turn. While she was used to her dragon’s movements, Cregan was not. He tightly gripped her waist for purchase as they began their journey in earnest.

In an effort to not focus on the warmth of his hands and the strength of his hold on her, Aly thought of Baela. Her cousin was no doubt flying her own dragon at that very moment, though over the Narrow Sea rather than the vast land of the north. Looking down at blue water rather than snow-covered ground. She wondered how far her youngest brothers and cousin were from Pentos. Surely they did not have much longer on their journey. Was Baela excited to see the Free City again, even if part of her did resent Jace’s desire for her to leave Dragonstone, if only temporarily? Or did she dread the no doubt inescapable reminders of her mother? Aly hoped the Prince of Pentos was good to Baela. Hoped he was good to Aegon and Viserys and provided them much needed stability that would ease the minds of both her mother and brother.

When Aly ordered Lyrax to begin making her descent the sun still hung in the sky but closer to the west than when they first ascended. Dead grass peaked out sporadically over the cliff tops of the Grey Cliffs, its brown patches resembling snakes attempting to slither out of the cold. As they came closer to ground level, Karstark Keep became clearer, and Aly guided her dragon to land about a league away from the modest castle. Lyrax landed graceful as ever, her claws digging into the ground to steady herself. Thankfully, Cregan relinquished his grip on her to unbuckle himself and Aly did the same while Lyrax turned her long neck away from the direction of the castle and spewed two fires, the heat of her flames melting away the snow and burning the dry grass to provide her warmth in addition to the sun.

Lyrax whipped her neck eastward nearly as soon as Aly and Cregan’s boots touched the hard ground. Cregan’s brows furrowed, recognizing the change in demeanor, while Aly walked along her dragon’s neck and towards her head. That was when they both heard it. The sound of horses galloping met their ears, and, turning, they saw five horses and two men riding towards them. Lyrax narrowed her eyes at the newcomers and tensed, ready to strike.

“They mean no harm,” Aly promised as she gently moved her hand back and forth across her dragon’s jaw.

The men stopped several feet away, their horses neighing and rearing up but remaining where they stood due to the force of the men controlling their reins. With one last look towards Lyrax, Aly and Cregan approached them. Artos sat atop the tallest horse, joined by a younger man who looked almost exactly like him: same steely blue eyes, same long, narrow face. Both men cautiously glanced at the large dragon now on their lands before turning their attention down to their guests.

“Lord Cregan, Princess Aelora,” Artos said. “I thank you again for making the journey, especially so soon after the end of the feast.”

“Of course, Artos,” Cregan responded. “I will do all that I can to put your mind at ease regarding the Skagosi.”

Artos nodded. “Princess, this is my eldest son Arthor.”

“It is an honor to meet you, Princess Aelora.”

Aly gave Arthor a courteous smile. “The honor is mine.”

“I am sure you are both tired after your journey and in need of rest,” Artos said before inhaling deeply. “And perhaps a bath. I brought my two best coursers.”

After expressing their thanks, Aly and Cregan mounted the black coursers and followed Artos and Arthor to Karhold Keep. The horses did not like the lingering smell of dragon clinging to their fur cloaks, but Aly and Cregan managed to calm them down and trot towards the keep without issue.

Aly took in her own deep inhale as they rode.The salt of the sea air, the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs and the gulls flying through the air. It filled her with a nostalgia so deep it made her heartsick.

Karhold Keep appeared even more modest than it had from the sky. Around the two towers, one which housed the bedchambers and the other housing the great hall, library, and the apartments of the few household guards, stood multiple smaller buildings. Artos and Arthor told her the purpose of each one as they passed through on their way to the stables at the opposite end of the main gate. One was where the blacksmith and tanner worked, another the kennels, the kitchens stood closest to the tower of the great hall. And in the back left corner stood a small godswood.

They were met in the courtyard by Artos’s wife Lyanna, Arthor’s wife Gilliane, and their three young children, Elric, Lysa, and Brandon. After polite introductions and promises to meet in the great hall for supper, Artos left Aly and Cregan in the care of his wife, who guided them up the spindly staircase.

“I am afraid our household is too small to offer you your own ladies maid,” Lyanna told Aly apologetically. “Willa, who serves me, will be at your disposal. I have told her to prioritize anything you ask of her.”

“Thank you,” Aly said. “I don’t imagine I will need her beyond help in the mornings and evenings.”

“Still, do not be afraid to call on her whenever you do need her.”

They walked all the way up to the top floor and down the corridor before Lyanna stopped in front of a polished dark oak door.

“I had Willa bring up hot water for your bath, Princess Aelora, as soon as you arrived.” She looked up at Cregan. “It’ll only take her a half hour to bring in more hot water for you.”

Aly’s brows furrowed as Lyanna opened the door to the guest chambers, but she quickly smoothed them in realization. She hesitated before stepping through the threshold, her feet feeling as if they were made of iron, but she forced herself forward. She and Cregan would be sharing the chambers during their stay.

We are man and wife.

She had half a mind to ask for separate chambers, as she knew there were at least a handful of empty rooms Lyanna could offer her, but she remained silent. How would that appear? A southron princess making demands of her hostess. It would make her seem ungrateful, though that was potentially the least of it. She could not afford the northerners’ opinions of her to sour. Not now.

It is only for a few nights.

Perhaps the gods were laughing at her. She had vowed to herself that she would attempt to start anew with her husband, that she would attempt to accept her need to let Aegon go, and now she was being forced to share a bed with Cregan.

The chambers were small, cramped even, the bedchamber just large enough for a featherbed, wardrobe, and vanity. She suspected the privy was small as well. The window at least helped make the space not feel so confining, the sunlight streaming in and allowing the sea air to permeate every corner and crawl into every crevice.

“The rooms are lovely,” Aly lightly fibbed.

Lyanna’s smile betrayed a hint of embarrassment. “I know it’s not as grand as Winterfell, but—”

“They’re perfect,” Cregan interrupted. “My wife and I both appreciate your hospitality.”

His compliment made Lyanna’s eyes shine and her smile grow.

A short, older woman with a large figure covered by a simple cream colored lambswool gown quietly stepped out behind the door presumably leading to the privy. Her once-dark hair was more grey than brown, and it was tied up behind her and covered with a blue kerchief. Lines circled her eyes and mouth, indicating she smiled often.

“Willa, you remember Lord Cregan from his previous visit,” Lyanna said as she gestured to her guests. “This is his wife, Princess Aelora.”

“M’lord, Princess.”

“Well, I will leave you all to it, then. I will come fetch you for supper.”

And with that, Lynanna Karstark left Aly and Cregan in their temporarily shared quarters.

By the time both Aly and Cregan bathed and redressed, it was late afternoon. Willa had already put their clothes away in the wardrobe and excused herself with another promise to return if either of them asked for anything. Aly sat at the small vanity, drumming her fingers along the surface, whilst Cregan sat on the side of the bed he claimed as his own.

“Lyanna said you’d visited here before,” Aly said softly, breaking the silence.

He hummed in affirmation. “Arra and I made a progress shortly after I claimed the lordship for myself. My uncle rarely left Winterfell, and I wanted all the lords and masters and keepers to know me.”

Aly smiled. That explained, at least in part, why the northerners were all so loyal to Cregan. He showed how seriously he took his duties, and his care for his people, from the very beginning. It was admirable. And, from all she had heard, a great contrast to his uncle Bennard.

In the daylight, sharing chambers did not seem so daunting. It was only once they returned from a quiet supper in the great hall with the Karstarks, a supper in which there was very little talk of the Skagosi so as to not frighten the children, that awkwardness set in anew. Aly’s stomach churned and her throat dried with each button of her gown that Willa unfastened. When she emerged from the small privy, her dressing gown tied tightly around her, she found Cregan already undressed and sitting up against the headboard beneath the quilts.

“Thank you, Willa,” Aly said, hoping her voice did not reveal her nerves. “I will see you in the morning.”

“Of course.” She dipped her chin to both Aly and Cregan and then left. The door clicking shut echoing in Aly’s ears.

“I’m going to read for a bit,” she said. Not looking at him, focusing only on retrieving the book she placed on the table next to her side of the bed and then walking over to the vanity.

“You can read in bed,” he told her gently once she cracked open the spine.

“I don’t want to disrupt you as you attempt to fall asleep.”

“You won’t.”

Aly dared a glance up and saw Cregan holding a book of his own open across his lap. She swallowed. Thinking. But after several moments she realized she could not come up with an adequate excuse. She could not very well say I don’t want to get into bed until you fall asleep. Well, she could say that, but not to him. Not without sounding completely silly. And it wasn’t as if she worried Cregan would pin her down as soon as her backside touched the featherbed and force himself upon her. She just…hadn’t shared a bed with a man since Aegon. At least not for the entire night.

The thought of sleeping beside someone else frightened her.

We are man and wife. And I wanted to start anew.

“All right.”

Her legs trembled during the short trek from the vanity to the bed, her gaze remaining steadfast on the pillow upon which she would rest her head. Refusing to look at Cregan. She turned her back to him as she removed her dressing gown and kept her back to him as she sat down on the edge of the bed. It was only once she settled against the headboard next to him, his shoulder brushing against hers, that she glanced at him. But he was paying her no mind, lost in his own book.

Aly felt as if she had experienced this a thousand times before. Felt as if she had never experienced this before. So many nights she sat up in Aegon’s bed—their bed—and read while he scratched out a reply to one of Daeron’s letters or he sat beside her drinking from his goblet of Arbor red. Or whispered dirty things in her ear as he caressed her to see how quickly he could convince her to slam her book shut. Yet he had never sat beside her with his own book, as Cregan did now. It was slightly strange. It was slightly comforting, too. In so many ways Cregan was so different from Aegon. Perhaps the lack of similarities, the lack of reminders of her uncle, was what made it easy to like him.

Despite her best efforts, Aly found herself too attuned to Cregan beside her. Every shift, every tap along the spine of his book, every turning of the page, every breath. It made it impossible for her to concentrate on the history of the changing seasons and the possible explanations for their unpredictable lengths. But she had inadvertently called his attention to her desire to read, so she forced herself to pretend to absorb the words on the pages for what she felt was a believable amount of time before closing her book, returning it to the table, and laying on her side with her back to him.

I am acting as if a maiden, Aly chided herself.

When sleep did finally come for her, it was only after Cregan ceased his own reading, extinguished all the candles in their chambers, and laid down next to her.

Chapter Text

Twilight met Aly when she opened her eyes, the dark blue of the early morning casting a soft glow into the chambers. She remained perfectly still for several moments. Listening. Cregan’s slow breathing indicated that he still slumbered. After laying in bed for several more moments, she slowly climbed out from under the coverlets and quilts, listening intently for any sound or movement from Cregan. Aly could not explain why she was trying so hard to not awaken him. Mayhaps she was just not ready to face him yet.

She softly padded her way to the door, opened it, and whispered to the guard stationed in the corridor that she requested Willa’s presence as soon as she was able. She then quietly closed the door before turning on the balls of her feet, intent on making as little noise as possible, and crept back towards the featherbed to retrieve her dressing gown. Aly could not help but study Cregan in his slumber as she tied the dressing gown’s belt tightly around her, his normally stoic face appearing soft as he dreamt. Did Arra visit him in his dreams, as Aegon sometimes still visited hers? Did he dream of the nights he spent with his first wife at Karstark Keep during his progress not long after he took his lordship from his uncle?

Aly startled at the sound of a soft knock, the room so quiet that the knock may as well have been that of a beating drum echoing in her ears. Though it was not so loud as to awaken Cregan, the fur bedding continued to rise and fall in time with his breaths and his eyes remained closed.

“Cregan is still asleep,” Aly whispered to Willa as she opened the door and moved to let the maid inside. “So we will need to keep quiet.”

Willa nodded and the pair crept over towards the wardrobe. After grabbing a chemise, kirtle, pair of stockings, and a simple dark purple lambswool gown, the two silently stalked to the privy. After she discarded her dressing robe and nightgown, Aly slipped the chemise over her head and then maneuvered so Willa could help her with the white kirtle. In the south she did not have to wear so many layers, but as the days and nights grew colder she found herself increasingly wearing a kirtle under her thick gowns. She could not exactly wear a fur cloak all the time, so a kirtle became a necessity. Especially for someone so unused to the biting cold.

“How are you wanting your hair to be done, Princess?” Willa asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“A plait is fine,” Aly answered.

“A good choice,” Willa said. “It is quite windy here on the Cliffs.” She laughed lightly. “Little Lysa still sometimes fights so fiercely against having her hair tied back, and every time she returns to the keep after playing with her brothers you’d think she tussled with a bear.”

Aly smiled wistfully as she stepped into her purple gown and turned toward the candelabra so Willa could better see the back to fasten. There was something liberating about feeling the wind in your hair, allowing it to blow around and tangle and whip in the wind and across your face. It reminded her of her girlhood. Of going to the beach on Dragonstone with her brothers. With her father.

“Are you all right, Princess?”

Aly cleared her throat and blinked back the growing tears in her eyes. Blinked back the memories that made her heart ache.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Oh,” Willa said in dismay. “I don’t have a ribbon for your hair.”

“It’s all right,” Aly assured her. “I will go and grab one.”

She slowly cracked open the door, not wanting to disturb Cregan. Her brows furrowed when she saw the bed empty, the bedding on his side tangled and a divot in the pillow on which he had laid his head. Knowing he was awake, and that there was no longer any need to move so quietly, Aly opened the door wide and stepped through it. Cregan stood in front of the opened wardrobe, already dressed in dark woolen trousers and a grey tunic.

“Good morning,” she said quietly as she rested her hand atop her collarbones.

He ceased rifling through the wardrobe and turned to look at her. And smiled. “Good morning. Did you sleep all right?”

“Yes.”

“You weren’t too cold? We can ask for more furs if you—”

“I wasn’t,” she interrupted. “Too cold, I mean. I slept comfortably.”

Your body heat kept me warm.

“Good,” Cregan said with a satisfied nod.

“Did you sleep all right?” she asked, shifting her shoulders.

“I did,” he answered.

“I’m glad,” she told him with a soft smile.

The pair continued looking at one another, neither saying anything. Their conversation was stilted in a way it hadn’t been in a long time. Seeing him in the light of the early morning, in chambers they shared, made her feel awkward. Unsure. Aly attempted to think of something to say, but her mind only drew a blank. They had never truly spoken of nothing, she realized. Their conversations always had a purpose, whether that was getting to know one another better, speaking about the running of the household, or discussing the war. Idle chatter was not something they had ever indulged in together.

She turned her gaze away from him, her eyes landing on the small vanity and on a piece of ribbon.

“Willa still needs to style my hair,” she told him before turning towards the open privy door. “Willa, you may come out.”

The older woman did as directed, Aly’s discarded nightgown and dressing gown folded over her arms, and a deferential expression upon her face.

“Lord Stark,” Willa said with her eyes downcast.

Cregan briefly acknowledged her before he bent down to pick up his boots and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. Aly watched him in the vanity mirror while Willa plaited her hair and roughly pinned pieces into place to prevent any errant strands from escaping. She watched the way his back remained straight even as he bent to tie his boot laces. The way his fingers moved deftly as he tied said laces. Even when doing something as mundane as putting his boots on his training in swordsmanship was obvious. She could not help but compare him to Aegon. The ways in which their stances and movements differed. Aegon was passionate and unrestrained. Cregan was composed and disciplined.

They were so different. Like fire and ice.

Aly looked away once he finished with his boots, not wanting him to catch her staring.

“I suspect Artos is awake and waiting for us,” Cregan said as he stood from the bed.

Aly stood as well and, once he opened the door to their chambers, followed him out into the corridor and turned towards the keep’s dining hall. Cregan’s hand gently wrapping around her forearm stopped her.

“The solar is this way,” he told her, tilting his head in the opposite direction.

The solar was just another guest bedchamber, larger than the one in which Cregan and Aly stayed but a room designed to be a bedchamber nonetheless. The window faced east, allowing the rising morning sun to shine its bright rays into the room and bathe everything in white. The polished pine desk and table, the sunbursts on the faded black cushions, and the tapestries depicting snowy scenes made the solar appear even brighter, which Aly imagined made the room seem less gloomy once the sun moved overhead and was no longer shining directly through the window.

Artos sat at the table with his son Arthor, platters of plums, hard bread, fried ham steaks, and eggs cooked with peppers and cheese in front of them. The shoulder-length hair of both men was tied back, and they both wore thick tunics of black wool. Artos’s tunic was rather plain, embellished with nothing other than spherical buttons. Arthor’s tunic, while still simple, was comparatively more flashy with sunbursts embroidered along the chest and sleeves. Upon their guests’ entrance, father and son stood and greeted them.

“I trust that your accommodations were satisfactory,” Arthor said as he pulled out a chair for Aly.

“Yes, thank you.”

“I received a raven from Lord Umber this morning,” Artos said, the gruffness of his voice indicating he had not been awake for very long.

While Aly had not spent too much time with Artos prior to his leaving the feast, it was apparent from the time she did spend with him that he did not engage in polite conversation if something were on his mind. He always spoke directly rather than talking around a subject.

“He wrote that he heard from a brother of the Night’s Watch that they’re keeping an eye on some wilding called Sylas,” Artos continued. “Says he’s making allies amongst the different clans north of the wall.”

“I am aware,” Cregan said. “Lord Commander Mollen has written to me about it.”

It wasn’t obvious from Cregan’s even tone, but Aly knew from her conversations with him that the prospect of the wildlings allying together worried him. It had been ages since the wildlings last attempted to breach the wall en masse, in large part due to the fact that the clans were so different that it was difficult for any one man to lead them. But if someone managed to succeed, and the Night’s Watch overwhelmed, raiders would make their way further south. Pillaging, killing, raping.

Artos shook his head in disgust. “First the Skagosi, now the wildlings.” He briefly glanced at Aly. “Do you think they know war is brewing? Trying to take advantage of our impending absence?”

Cregan opened his mouth to respond, but Aly beat him to it.

“How would they know?” she could not help but ask. From Artos’s very first letter to Cregan regarding his worries over the Skagosi he had made his assumption clear that it was all related to her mother’s attempt to take the Iron Throne, but Aly found that explanation difficult to accept given their isolation. And the same was true of the wildlings.

“The Skagosi still trade with people,” Artos explained, a bit of an edge to his voice. “The Lorathi especially. And all of Essos knows of the war due to the blockade.”

Aly could not argue with that. At least not about the possibility of the Skagosi knowing about the war, though she did not see how they would know of the northmen taking part. She doubted the Essosi knew the specifics of the war, let alone which regions were sending hosts towards King’s Landing. And it wasn’t as if the Skagosi would glean the northmen were sending men south from the position of their boats, even if they were studying the comings and goings of the shore, which she was not convinced they were.

“The Lord Commander does not consider Sylas a threat,” Cregan said. “At least not yet. As for the Skagosi, it is still possible they are just sailing further from their shores for better fishing.”

Artos gave his lord a deeply skeptical glance, and Aly knew the only thing stopping him from scoffing was the respect he held for Cregan.

“And risk the treacherous currents just for some fish? When they have richer fishing closer to their shores?” It was Arthor who spoke, his disbelief and incredulity clear.

“It is unusual,” Cregan conceded, “Perhaps the men you see have been prohibited from fishing nearby. Discord among the clans.”

Arthor was confident when he said, “Not these men.”

“King Brandon had it right all those years ago. Destroying their ships and forbidding them from navigating the seas ever again,” Artos grumbled.

More than a century before the Conquest, the King in the North, Brandon IX, put an end to Skagosi raids on the mainland by doing just as Artos said. The Skagosi continued building ships in secret, though, venturing northward to fish as they knew the Karstarks and the Umbers kept an eye along their shorelines for even a hint of the Skagosi breaking Brandon’s decree. It wasn’t until King Jonos, father of Lord Torrhen, that the Skagosi were formally allowed to build ships again, and only then because the Night’s Watch needed more men and lamented the fact that Skagosi were unable to send recruits to the Wall.

“You’ll see for yourselves once we finish our meal,” Artos told them.

As they walked towards the cliff’s edge a half hour later, Aly’s heart grew heavier and heavier with nostalgia and longing. Were it not for the snow on the ground and the cold air swirling around her she could have sworn she was back on Dragonstone. When she closed her eyes ever so briefly she could pretend that she was. The sound of the crashing waves roared in her ears, the call of the gulls flying overhead, the salt in the air so thick she could practically taste it.

Artos and Arthor, confident in their steps in light of having spent their entire lives running up and down the clifftops, stopped right along the edge. Aly and Cregan, less confident, remained a few paces back. Aly felt she was likely more surefooted than her husband, having spent many years of her girlhood traversing the terrain of a mountainous island, but she did not know these cliffs. As she briefly glanced at Cregan, it struck her that he not only barely knew the cliffs but probably barely knew the ocean. Winterfell was too far inland from either coast of the north, the land too vast for him to have spent much time near the water even on his progress and visits to his leal lords. Her father had instilled in her such a love of the water that Aly suddenly felt sorry for Cregan for having never experienced the same.

“They’re out there,” Artos proclaimed, pointing his chin towards the bay.

They all needed Artos’s Myrish eye to see them, but just as Artos said, once Aly pressed the cool metal instrument against her face and looked in the correct direction she saw four boats full of four men each. Even in the distance the men looked large. Tall with strong muscles. They looked mean, too, their expressions hard as they focused on their fishing nets.

“They used to only bring one boat out,” Artos told them as Cregan looked through the Myrish eye. “Now there’s four. The captain of my household guard, Jory, reported upon my return that their number grew gradually in my absence.”

“They’re dressed too well to be wayward men or exiled,” Cregan mused aloud, the detail contradicting his earlier theory that the men were fishing so far from the shores of Skagos due to either interclan or intraclan disputes.

Were they? Sealskin cloaks and fur pelts tied around their waists. That did not seem particularly well dressed to Aly.

“Their cloaks,” Cregan supplied, as if reading her mind. “Their condition is too good for them to be men cast off by their families. If a Skagosi is banished, he forfeits all items of clothing made for him by anyone in the clan. The cloaks around these men’s shoulders were made by skilled hands, not those of hunters.”

That’s a bit barbaric, Aly thought as she continued looking out into the sea. Without the Myrish eye the men were but a small blip in the distance, so far that she did not think they posed much harm. When she looked through the lens the men in the boats were merely fishing, not paying the direction of the shoreline any mind.

“They are planning something,” Arthor practically spit out.

Cregan finally removed the Myrish eye from his own, his fingers remaining clasped around it as his hand fell to his side. Turning to look at him, Aly saw that he, too, appeared hesitant to believe the men were planning something. But in his grey eyes were etched the first inklings of worry.

“I would like to come out to the cliffs every morning and afternoon,” he said at last. “To see if anything changes throughout the course of our stay — the number of boats, number of men, what they’re doing on the boats.”

Artos nodded. “Of course, my lord.”

“Do you think the Skagosi are indeed planning a raid?” Aly asked him later that evening in their shared chambers.

She did not want to appear so obviously doubtful in front of the Karstarks, she knew how poorly that would be received, so she kept her skepticism to herself while they all stood along the clifftops and vowed to speak with Cregan about it once they were alone. But as soon as they returned to the keep after their jaunt to the Grey Cliffs, Lyanna and Gilliane whisked Aly away to the music room—a room that, like Artos’s solar, was a repurposed guest chamber—so she could hear young Lysa playing the bells. The girl was still only a child, but Aly thought she could readily compete with Barbrey’s playing of the high harp as to who made their preferred instrument sound worse. Once Lysa finished unknowingly terrorizing Aly’s ears it was time for their midday meal and wouldn’t Aly like to join them, and then it was time for afternoon tea and of course Aly must allow them to host her.

It was only after supper, while she sat at the vanity waiting for Willa to come and help her undress and he sat on the edge of the bed, that she could finally ask him about his thoughts regarding the Skagosi boats.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It is…unusual for the Skagosi to fish so far from their shores.”

Aly nodded, her brows furrowing as she thought over what she had seen that morning. “You went to the cliffs again after midday. Had anything changed?”

“No. The same four boats, and it looked like all the same men.”

“Do you believe Artos?” Aly inquired. “That the Skagosi have heard of the war and the northerners’ plans to march south.”

He could only shrug. Without a friend or ally amongst the Skagosi it was impossible to know what they knew or thought or planned.

“I’ll continue to monitor from afar,” he said after a few moments. “It will still be a while yet before the second host marches south, and I am certain Artos will continue to keep an eye on everything.” He looked at her intently. “Should something change before I march south I will have to shift my focus to the Skagosi.”

“I know,” she told him quietly. Her mother would certainly be unhappy should it interfere with Cregan’s initial plans to march south, but other than quietly rage against Cregan and call him a feckless friend, there was nothing that would change Cregan’s mind should the Skagosi need to be dealt with.

“I am surprised Artos has not asked me to fly Lyrax along the cliffs,” Aly said. “I suppose I thought he would want me to in order to frighten the Skagosi.”

Cregan’s lips quirked up. “He may have mentioned something along those lines this afternoon. Says most men would question if facing a dragon is worth whatever riches they would gain from a raid.” His lips morphed into an unquestionable smile. “I certainly would.”

Aly breathed out a laugh.

“Still,” he continued, “I told him I do not think it has come to that quite yet.”

Aly nodded as a soft knock sounded upon their door.

“I agree with you,” she said as she rose to answer the door. “There is no way to know what is in their minds, but there is no sense in antagonizing them if all they are doing is fishing far from their shores.”

Expecting to see Willa, Aly frowned when a member of the household guard she only half-recognized stood on the other side of the threshold.

“Is everything all right?” she asked the man.

“Willa sends her apologies, Princess, but her stomach ails her, and Gilliane’s maid, Gilly, also serves the children. She is working with haste, Princess, but it will be a half hour or so.”

“And there isn’t anyone else that could help me?”

The man hesitantly shook his head. “We’re a small household, Princess, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. The other female servants are too busy with their assigned duties. Gilly will tend to you as soon as the children are abed.”

Aly did her best to hide her frustration as she gave the guard her thanks and shut the door. Once the wood separated her and the messenger, she let out a huff. The children needed to be settled first, she understood that, but she had stupidly gone ahead and asked for hot water for her bath when she called for Willa. Hot water that had been brought up and grew colder by the minute.

“I will help you, if you wish.”

It took Aly a few moments to understand Cregan’s meaning. For realization to dawn on her. He meant to help her undress. Her throat suddenly went dry and her heartrate picked up.

The only man who had ever helped her undress was Aegon.

“What do you know of undressing a woman?” tumbled out of her mouth before she could think through her words. Too keen to turn down his offer, to tell him that he could not help her. Because she knew she could not use propriety as a shield. Not when he had seen her as naked as her name day, when he had been inside her, spilled his seed inside her.

He could have mocked her. Scoffed that he had been married and had likely undressed Arra hundreds of times. But he didn’t. Merely looked at her hesitantly. Cautiously. As if she were a frightened animal. The same way he had looked at her on their wedding night, she recalled.

“The back is fastened with buttons, yes?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” she answered slowly.

They stared at one another for several moments. Aly felt trapped, cornered, though she reasoned that had not been his intention. Two options presented themselves before her. Either she could allow him to unbutton her gown, thereby making herself uncomfortable, or she could wait for Gilly and allow her bath to become cold. Which meant the servants would have to drain the tub and bring up hot water again. A grueling and time-consuming task. Time that she did not want to spend waiting around in awkward silence with Cregan after refusing him.

We are man and wife, and I vowed to attempt to begin anew.

Aly brought her hand up to her collarbones, the weight of her diamond and amethyst bracelet providing her a sense of groundedness, and turned around.

As Cregan worked the buttons along her back, the memory of the very first time Aegon helped her undress floated to the forefront of her mind. She had gone to his chambers one evening after supper, desperate to spend as much time in his company as he allowed, and demanded he take her to Flea Bottom after his revelation of often sneaking out of the Red Keep. Her uncle gave her one of his tunics and a pair of trousers to wear, knowing her gown would only draw attention, and Aly quickly found she needed Aegon’s help with the laces of her bodice. She could still perfectly recall how exhilarated she felt the entire time, how her pulse raced and her face flushed. Could still perfectly recall the feeling of Aegon’s breath on her neck and his hand on her bare back once he finished.

Just as now, every nerve ending had been alight. On edge. Yet where she craved the touch of her uncle she feared the touch of her husband.

Once the bodice was loose and her kirtle—which thankfully had buttons along the side seams—exposed, Aly swallowed as she turned back around. Towards the privy. Towards Cregan. And when she met his eyes she saw the same intensity in his grey irises that she often found in Aegon’s indigo whenever her uncle looked at her.

“My bath is getting cold,” she said tersely before walking past him and into the safety of the privy.

Aly had already scrubbed herself pink with the pine-scented soap the Karstarks provided her by the time Gilly finally arrived full of apologies. Once dried with a clean cloth and dressed in her nightgown, Aly dismissed her borrowed handmaid and stepped back into the bedchamber. And noted with irritation that Cregan was already undressed and in bed. Reading his book. Acting as if…well, acting as he always did. As if the incident hadn’t affected him. She wanted to huff as she threw back the coverlets on her side of the bed, but kept her silence so he would not ask her about her distress. Aly turned onto her side, foregoing her book as she did not want to spend yet another night pretending to read while she instead, unwillingly, focused on Cregan’s every move. She shut her eyes tight and did her best to ignore him beside her as she waited for sleep to take her.

Over the course of the next few days their routine more or less remained the same. Aly and Cregan broke their fast with Artos and Arthor every morning, occasionally joined by Lyanna, Gilliane, and the children, and afterwards Aly walked with the men to the clifftops to look at the Skagosi through the Myrish eye. Once they all returned to the keep, Aly and Cregan spent their days apart until the household ate supper together. The nights, to Aly’s relief, slowly became less awkward. Willa’s ailment only lasted the one evening, so thankfully Aly did not require Cregan’s help undressing again. She became used to his presence, allowing her to concentrate on her book before they extinguished the candles.

And Aly could admit, if only to herself, that she had begun to not dread evenfall reaching Karstark Keep. That it was nice having someone next to her. That she had not realized just how lonely nights had become since she left King’s Landing.

“Princess Aelora, I wonder if I could ask you to ride your dragon,” Arthor said to her on the fourth morning of her and Cregan’s stay as they returned to Karstark Keep from the cliffs. “My children have expressed a great interest in seeing your beast in the sky.”

“And I presume you wish me to fly near the clifftops,” Aly responded. “So the Skagosi will catch sight of her.”

Arthor appeared neither bashful nor surprised. He merely shrugged as he said, “It would certainly not be a bad thing, would it? Satisfying my children’s sense of awe and protecting my father’s lands all in one stroke.”

“We still do not yet know if the Skagosi are indeed planning anything,” Aly argued, glancing at Artos and watching his expression turn from hopeful to peeved as she spoke.

“We’re not asking you to attack them,” Artos countered. “Just…let them know of your presence.”

“And if they take it as a sign of aggression?” she could not help but ask.

“Then they’d be fools to think they can fight a dragon.”

Aly audibly exhaled.

“The Skagosi are subject to me as their lord,” Cregan interjected. “I won’t do anything to cause them to think I have betrayed their rights.”

“And when they betray you?” Artos asked.

“We don’t know they are thinking anything of the sort,” Cregan reminded him, though doubt began to creep into his voice. “They are certainly acting strange, that I will grant you, Artos, but four boats that refuse to come any closer to the mainland than they already are does not necessarily mean they are planning a raid. I have not seen anything that I think warrants action.”

Two days later, Cregan did see something.

Grey clouds covered the sky, and thin snow flakes danced down towards the ground as he and Aly traversed the now-familiar path to the clifftops with Artos and Arthor after breaking their fast on winter plums, fried bread, and ham steaks. Aly took in a deep breath, savoring the salty air. Earlier that morning she and Cregan discussed possibly leaving the next afternoon to return to Winterfell, and though she agreed with him that they had not seen anything with the Skagosi that called for their continued presence, an unexpected sense of sorrow burrowed itself inside her as she took in the one part of the north that reminded her so much of her home.

Once they reached the tops of the Grey Cliffs, she knew something was wrong as soon as Cregan looked through the Myrish eye. His body stiffened, his jaw tensed, and his brows furrowed deeper than Aly had ever seen.

“What is it?” she asked softly.

Rather than answering, Cregan silently held out the metal instrument for her to look for herself. Dread pooled in her stomach as she brought the lens up to her right eye. Even from the cliff tops she could see the same four boats in the distance as always, but the Myrish eye revealed an additional three boats hiding behind the usual four. Three boats of four men each. Three boats of men not even pretending to fish, instead looking through their own rudimentary lens tubes.

The men could have been scouting the shores, a potential spot to sail their boats. Or they could be attempting to better see the fish in the murky water. Fishermen without nets often used a Myrish eye in salt water to aid them, especially in water as deep as the bay.

“Aly will fly Lyrax over the cliffs after midday,” Cregan told Artos, not bothering to ask her permission.

Once they returned to the castle and found themselves alone, Aly said to her husband, “Those men could have been using the lens tube for fishing.”

“But you know they weren’t,” Cregan responded.

Aly chewed on her lip. She barely knew anything for certain. She did know that Artos was convinced the Skagosi were planning an attack, though she had not seen anything to indicate his fears held any weight. Lining up their boats in such a way to hide their true number seemed suspicious, and the instruments were pointed in such a way that they could have been scouting the shores for vulnerabilities, places where their landing would go undetected until it was too late. And they were closer to the mainland than they had been previously, perhaps to better allow their potential scouts to see through the rudimentary instrument. Could have. Perhaps. Seemed. Nothing assured. Nothing to justify aggression. Which a dragon surely was.

“My flying Lyrax over the cliffs was not your decision to make,” Aly said, blurting out what was truly bothering her.

Cregan had no right to offer it without her express permission. She had agreed to fly to Karstark Keep, agreed to allow the Skagosi to see Lyrax on land to assuage Artos’s anxiety, but that was all she had offered. Lyrax was her dragon, not something for her husband to offer to his leal lords to use as an attack dog. It was her decision alone. At least it should have been.

His face softened at her words. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

“Just…they could have been merely fishing,” she more or less repeated quietly. Unsure how to react to his quick capitulation. She had expected more of an argument, similar to whenever she and Aegon quarrelled.

“Their boats were too close to our shore for my comfort,” he explained. “And the fact that there are now seven boats rather than four, the men in those boats using lens tubes. I think Artos’s fears are correct. I don’t think they are planning an imminent attack, but I do think they are planning one. In truth, I have worried about it since we arrived, but I did not see anything that could not be explained away. But now I have, and if Artos is right about the Skagosi having heard of the war and intending to raid when most of the men have marched south, I cannot lead the second host worried that my people are being attacked.”

“I will be here,” she told him. Promised him. “With Lyrax should anything happen.”

“By the time word reached you the Skagosi would have already reached Karhold and Last Hearth. Deaths we can prevent right now. And burning the north would kill the raiders, true, but it would devastate the land for generations.”

Dragons only bring death and destruction. Had she not thought or said those very words countless times since her uncle stole her mother’s throne? The only way to prevent a Skagosi raid, if they indeed intended to carry one out, was here and now.

So three hours after midday Aly rode to the snow-covered field where Lyrax made her temporary home. The twilight blue beast was surrounded by small fires that she had set, piles of leaves and logs serving as kindling to keep her warm. As did the burnt sheep and cattle bones nearby. Despite the cold, Lyrax seemed happier in the Grey Cliffs than she did in the wolfswood. The sea air perked her up just as it had Aly over the past sennight.

Her dragon practically chirped once her orange eyes landed on her rider, and once Aly reached her, she bent her neck so their faces were more or less level.

“We’re going for a ride,” Aly told Lyrax with a smile. “Over the cliffs. Won’t that be nice? Flying over the water again?”

She gave her dragon a quick, affectionate pat along her jaw at Lyrax’s pleased sound before climbing up her side to the saddle. Once buckled in, Aly directed Lyrax to ascend. Though the nearest trees were nearly a league away, Lyrax’s wingspan was so great that her ascension caused their bare limbs to rustle. They made their way towards the Grey Cliffs from the southeast, Lyrax barely needing guidance due to her keen senses. And though Aly could neither see nor hear them, she could imagine Arthor’s children looking on in both awe and slight terror from one of the keep’s balconies or windows.

Tears welled in Aly’s eyes once they reached the edge of the cliffs. Flying over water again, seeing the sun reflected down upon the waves that crested and troughed along the shores, filled her with an almost overwhelming nostalgia. Lyrax, attuned to her rider’s feelings—or perhaps feeling her own longing for their former home—dipped down towards the water, her wings beating so close to the surface that salt water sprayed upon Aly’s face. Forcing a large smile and a gleeful laugh from her.

Her mouth returned to a straight line, however, when the Skagosi boats came into her field of vision. Aly did not command Lyrax any closer to them than they already were. She did not want them to view her flight as an attack, merely a reminder that a dragon could be called upon should the northerners need a reason for it. The Skagosi were too far away for her to see or hear their reactions to the sight of her, but she could easily imagine it. Men frozen from fear, their limbs too heavy to begin rowing back towards safety as their hearts dropped to their stomachs and their bowels turned to liquid.

Her own stomach felt tight as the thought that they were indeed just fishing wormed its way to the front of her mind.

This is the only way. Let them see what dragons can do.

“Dracarys,” she yelled, her voice carrying over the wind.

Lyrax opened her wide gullet and roared, the noise rumbled through her entire body and traveled all the way up Aly’s body and rattled her bones. Her flames spewed out into a seemingly never ending line of bright orange surrounded by thick black smoke before eventually dissolving in the air with nothing to catch on. That was when Aly heard it. The sound of two dozen men shouting words she could not make out, the horror and panic clear even from such a distance. The oarsmen got to work, rowing so hurriedly she thought it a wonder none of the boats crashed into each other. Rowing back to Skagos. Perhaps for good. Perhaps to tell their brethren of what they had witnessed.

Despite her misgivings, a new feeling crept up Aly’s spine and settled into her chest. She had never before used Lyrax as a means of attack. But she had this time. Had flown to show a possible enemy that they were not welcome. To make them see that an attack would be met with fire and blood.

It made her feel powerful.

“How did you feel when you rode with me on Lyrax?” Aly asked Cregan later that night after supper.

She sat at the vanity, removing her bracelet and hairpins to avoid Willa’s rather rough handling of them, while Cregan sat not even a foot away from her on the corner of the bed removing his boots. They were both exhausted from the celebratory supper that Artos insisted upon; the mood in the dining hall had been livelier than ever now that the looming threat of the Skagosi was seemingly removed. Six courses had been served, drinks flowed freely, musicians played loudly, and Arthor and Gilliane’s children breathlessly recounted what they had seen and endlessly peppered Aly with questions. After three hours, Aly and Cregan had only been able to make their polite exit when Arthor and Gilliane retired to their chambers.

Cregan looked up at her question, their eyes meeting in the mirror. The slight rise of his brows did not surprise her. She had not asked him about their ride at all since their arrival, seemingly uncaring that he had experienced something hardly anyone else ever had in the history of Westeros. In truth, Aly had been too selfish to ask, not wanting to think about their ride, about how close he had been to her on the saddle, how his hands felt on her waist. And now she was being selfish again. She wanted to talk about what had happened with the Skagosi, about how good it made her feel despite her continued mixed emotions, and she knew Cregan was the only person in the keep that could even somewhat understand.

“I felt sick to my stomach,” he answered honestly.

She whirled around to face him straight on rather than continue to look at him in the mirror. “What?”

“Being so high off the ground,” Cregan explained, giving her a self-deprecating smile. “The highest I’ve ever been off the ground is standing on a turret or sitting on horseback. But once I didn’t feel so green, and my stomach settled, I felt…” He trailed off, his brows furrowing as he tried to find the right words.

Aly understood his long pause. Riding a dragon was unlike any other feeling in the world. It was truly ineffable.

“I felt like I had when I imprisoned my uncle Bennard. Powerful. Free. Is that how it feels every time?”

“Yes,” she said quietly, her heart hammering as she recalled her flight over the cliff tops. “It’s how I felt today when I flew over the Grey Cliffs.” Aly began wringing her hands, casting her eyes downward as her hands moved back and forth across one another. “I’ve never done that before. Use Lyrax as a warning. Not seriously, anyway. I may have threatened to feed courtiers I disliked to her as a child, and some may have believed me, but—”

She stopped when she felt his hand on hers, and turned to look at him leaning over to reach her, their eyes meeting.

“Scaring them off may have saved hundreds of lives,” he told her. “And feeling good about that isn’t a bad thing.”

Aly nodded, which made Cregan give her an encouraging smile. One she did her best to mirror. She froze when his gaze briefly left hers and flickered down to her lips. He wanted to kiss her.

He is my husband.

So when he slowly brought his face closer to hers, she did not stop him. And when she tasted the wine still on his lips from supper, it reminded her so much of Aegon’s kiss that she opened her mouth to him on instinct. Cregan’s kiss was nothing like those of her uncle. Aegon was rough, claiming. Cregan was soft and searching. Gentle. Aly still minded the difference, but, with a slightly heavy heart, she realized she did not mind as much as she did on their wedding night.

I promised myself I would try. My life is with Cregan now.

Chapter Text

Aly lay on her side as the slowly rising sun filtered through the window. Cregan was on his back next to her, his face smooth in his slumber. Her eyes traced over his profile. Studying it. His was a handsome face. She had thought so even on their wedding night. A face any maiden would be thrilled to know belonged to her husband. High cheekbones, a sharp jaw, full lips. Lips that she had touched with her own every morning and night the past three days with a kiss so different than that of her uncle.

A mixture of anger and guilt and sorrow bubbled up inside of her whenever she thought of Aegon. Whenever she thought of Cregan. She wasn’t who her husband thought she was. She was a liar. A liar who had fucked her aunt’s husband and a liar who allowed her husband to believe he was the first man to spill his seed inside of her for the sake of her own reputation and the northern alliance with her mother.

He deserves a better wife than me.

Yet she was the wife he had. And he was the husband she had despite her still-lingering affection for another. A still-lingering love that made her loathe herself for possessing.

When they returned to Winterfell she would allow Cregan to bed her. He had been patient with her, more patient than any other man would have been, but he would not remain so forever. Aly could tell by the way his kisses grew hungrier with each night they remained at Karstark Keep. Kisses she had come to like. Or at least not mind.

Memories of their wedding night, of the morning after, made their way to the front of her mind. Of how she hadn’t truly wanted to go to his chambers, of how she’d had to. Of how gentle Cregan had been with her. Of how his touch felt. Of the pleasure he had given her. Of how red her skin looked after she nearly scrubbed it raw in the bath the next morning.

Next time would be different.

Cregan’s brows slightly furrowed and his eyes fluttered open. He let out a sigh before turning towards her, his lips turning up into a soft smile upon his still slightly unfocused eyes seeing her already awake.

“Good morning,” he said, his words stretched out by a yawn.

“Good morning.”

“Did you sleep all right?”

“Yes. Did you?”

“Mhm.” He exhaled another sigh. “I am looking forward to returning home, though. Sleeping in my own bed.”

His tone held a sense of expectancy, a slight questioning, and Aly knew what he was thinking. He wondered if she would join him in his bedchamber at Winterfell. Share his bed as they had done at Karstark Keep for over a sennight. Or if they would remain in separate quarters. If he would leave her rooms each night as if she were a mere guest and not his wife.

Her heartbeat pounded loudly in her ears as she said, “That sounds nice.” Hoping he understood her meaning. Hoping she would not have to say the words aloud, for she knew despite her surety that they would remain stuck in her throat. As her wanting to ask him to stay in her chambers had remained stuck in her throat each night of the autumn feast.

Aly knew the moment he did understand. His eyes alighted and his back seemed to straighten. Aegon always did the same whenever she signaled to him that she wanted him. And when Cregan leaned over to kiss her, his embrace seemed hungrier than ever before in anticipation. In promise. Just like Aegon. Perhaps the two men did have some similarities.

She tried to not allow her nerves to get the better of her as she thought of the night to come.

He watched her as she shifted to stand from the bed, and his eyes followed her as she wrapped her dressing gown around her shoulders and then padded to the door to ask for Willa. The beginnings of desire obvious in his grey eyes, causing goosebumps to erupt over her skin.

“Good morning, Princess. Lord Stark,” Willa greeted with a dip of her chin once she appeared in the threshold.

“Good morning,” Aly repeated as Cregan acknowledged the servant with a nod while he moved to sit up against the headboard.

“Lady Lyanna asked that I extend an invitation to break your fast with her once you are finished packing your belongings.”

That was something she and Cregan should have done the night before, but Artos had been so thrilled with the continued lack of Skagosi in the bay that he feted them with a multicourse feast once more. By the time Aly and Cregan returned to their chambers it was nearly the hour of the eel, and neither had the energy to remain awake for the servants to gather their belongings.

“Of course,” Aly accepted courteously. “Once I dress you may let her know.”

Dressing took a bit longer than usual due to Aly and Willa having to sort through the wardrobe before making their way to the privy. While she only brought enough clothes for a sennight, separating the items that she intended to wear that morning from the items to be placed in her bag required some back and forth. Only once the clothing had all been sorted properly did Aly and her borrowed handmaid go into the privy so Aly could step into her chemise, stockings, kirtle, and dark blue gown. When they returned to the bedchamber so Willa could plait Aly’s hair they found Cregan already dressed and two servants fluttering around where he sat at the corner of the bed tying his boots, the servants going between the wardrobe and their respective bags to delicately place their belongings inside.

“I will let Lady Lyanna know to expect you soon,” Willa said once she secured Aly’s hair with a white ribbon.

No sooner had Aly extended her thanks did the two servants practically swarm her to place the items on the vanity into her bag. She had to hastily snatch her diamond and amethyst bracelet to prevent them from packing it, wanting it safely around her wrist. Once everything was packed and ready for their eventual departure that afternoon, Aly and Cregan left their guest chambers and went their separate ways at the end of the corridor. Aly to Lyanna’s chambers and Cregan to Artos’s makeshift solar. But not before Cregan lightly placed his hand along her shoulder and let it slide down her back as he walked further away from her.

They did not see one another again until two hours after midday when they bid the Karstarks of Karstark Keep farewell and accepted their gratitude for ridding them of the Skagosi one last time before riding to the clearing where Lyrax made her temporary home. The twilight blue beast greeted Aly with a chirp upon seeing her, her focus remaining solely on her rider. Aly considered that a good sign—after accepting Cregan on her saddle, she no longer considered him a potential threat. At least not when he stood next to Aly.

“We’re going back to Winterfell,” Aly told Lyrax in High Valyrian when she stood close enough to her dragon to touch. “I know,” she consoled upon her dragon’s melancholic wail. “I am sorry to say goodbye to the sea, as well.”

But we will return to the south one day. Not forever, just for an extended visit once the war has ended, but one day.

She turned to look at Cregan. “All set?”

At his nod, Aly ascended the rope ladder that rested along Lyrax’s side, Cregan following close behind. She buckled herself into the saddle as he climbed into the rudimentary seat behind her. Aly grabbed the reins in order to give herself something to do while she waited for him to fasten his makeshift buckle and signal his readiness, which he did by gripping her waist in anticipation of needing to steady himself during the course of their flight. Her pulse lightly picked up at his touch, the inadvertent reminder of how the night would go.

This time it will be different.

“I’ll try not to get sick to my stomach,” he whispered into her ear in a self-deprecating jest, his breath tickling her neck, a recall of how he answered when she asked him how he felt during their flight to Karstark Keep.

Aly hoped her laugh sounded genuine rather than nervous.

When they landed at the clearing at the edge of the wolfswood near Winterfell the sun hung low in the sky. Evenfall would greet them in two hours at most. The surrounding land was still until faint hoof sounds met Aly’s ears as she descended down Lyrax’s side. Benjicot Branch and Hallis Holt galloped up to the tree line, their horses halting at the sight of the twilight blue dragon. Not only did the two men have their own horses to contend with but Cregan’s mount Beacon and Aly’s usual courser Obsidian as well, all four neighing and braying in hesitation and fear at the foreign beast they could see and smell.

“I know there are a few nice bears in these woods for you,” Aly told Lyrax with a smile once her boots were firmly on the snow-covered ground. “Surely that will tide you over until your return to the southern edge of the wolfswood on the morrow.”

Her dragon’s eager chirp made her chuckle.

“Welcome back, my lord. Princess,” Benjicot greeted once Aly and Cregan reached them.

“It is good to be back.”

“How fares Karstark Keep?” The castle steward inquired once they were all on horseback and trotting their way back to the castle.

“It fares well,” Cregan answered. “Artos and his family are all healthy and happy.”

“And the Skagosi?” Benjicot asked, his tone barely concealing his eagerness to hear more about the reason his liege lord and his wife left Winterfell in the first place.

“Frightened off,” Cregan said wryly. “The sight of Aly’s beast seemed to scare them.”

“They are smart men, then,” Benjicot said with the faintest hint of a smile.

“Aye. Men that will cause no problems for a good while.”

Benjicot turned to look at Aly, his smile still in place. “I’d wager they kicked up their oars something fierce.”

“Yes.”

Pride crept up her spine and settled into her chest, thrumming throughout her body as she recalled how powerful she felt at dealing with a potential threat using her great dragon. Recalled the imagined fear in the Skagosi’s eyes when they envisioned being met with fire and blood should they attack the mainland.

The older man let out a deep guffaw. “I wish I had been there to witness it.”

“It was certainly a sight to behold,” Cregan said with unmistakable delight.

Aly could not stop the wide smile from forming onto her lips.

Sara greeted them in the main entryway of the Great Keep with a grin and an embrace.

“I am happy to have you both back,” she said.

“We’re happy to be back,” Cregan told her.

“I’ve already told the kitchens to begin preparing supper. It should be ready by the time you both finish bathing.”

“You dislike the smell of dragon?” Cregan jested, though he walked with Sara and Aly up the stairs towards the bedchambers all the same.

“It is certainly not one of my favorite scents,” Sara laughed lightly before her face became serious. “Did you see the Skagosi?”

“We did,” her brother confirmed. “They will not bother us, if they ever truly intended to.”

“Good.” Sara turned to Aly “You received quite a few ravens while you were away. Myra placed them all on your writing desk.”

Yet Sara’s warning still did not adequately prepare Aly for the amount of scrolls on her desk that greeted her upon walking into her chambers. A pile so tall and wide that Aly doubted she would be able to see the top of it when she sat at the desk. A cursory glance revealed only wax seals depicting the sigils of northern houses—no doubt letters of gratitude from all the lords and ladies for hosting the autumn feast and perhaps several invitations to visit their castles and keeps once spring arrived. A standard courtesy, but one that was expected of them. As was her response to each one.

A task for tomorrow.

Myra appeared in her chambers shortly after Aly sent word to her three ladies that she would need their help with her correspondence the next day. Servants carrying still-steaming water for her bath followed closely on her handmaid’s heels. Once the stink of dragon no longer clung to her skin, replaced by the scent of apples, and she redressed in a burgundy lambswool gown, Aly made her way to the Great Hall for supper. Cregan and Sara sat in front of the crackling fireplace waiting for her, platters of venison steaks, baked carrots, green beans, and soft bread untouched atop the table.

“I was telling Sara of our time at Karstark Keep,” Cregan said once Aly took her place beside him.

“I wish I could have seen it,” Sara half-bemoaned. “The looks of terror on the Skagosi’s faces when they saw Lyrax. I imagine they did not look so fierce then.”

“No, they didn’t,” Aly confirmed.

Sara hummed as she helped herself to a second piece of soft bread. “Do you think what Artos said is true? That they’ve heard of the war and planned to attack once the men all left?”

“I don’t know,” Aly said. “But as Cregan said earlier, if that was their plan, they certainly won’t see it through now.”

“Not with a dragon so close,” Sara smirked. “And hopefully more soon, though none of the eggs have a crack in them.”

Aly’s shoulders deflated a bit at that news. She tasked Sara with checking on the dragon eggs submerged in the hot spring while she and Cregan were away. Hoping that she would return and find that at least one showed a sign of a hatchling ready to spring forth. But the eggs remained as unblemished as the day Lyrax laid them. Some eggs took longer to break open, she knew that, but a growing part of her began to fear that Shrykos would be the only dragon to come from Lyrax. There would be no more dragon eggs, and if the three in the hot spring never hatched then none of her children would be dragonriders. At least not until her death. And how would her children feel about that? When their cousins rode dragons yet they did not. A difficult fate to bear.

The eggs will hatch. It will just take more time.

“Rena said Rickon was ill while we were away,” Cregan said after a few moments.

“It was only minor chest congestion, nothing more,” Sara assured him. “The biggest difficulty he faced was boredom in the nursery.”

Cregan opened his mouth to respond but was interrupted by Benjicot rushing into the hall.

“My lord,” the steward huffed out, catching his breath. “Bartimus has been injured.”

Bartimus served as the castle blacksmith and had since the days of Cregan’s grandfather Benjen. It was perhaps a bit uncharitable, but Aly’s first thought upon hearing Benjicot’s news was that Bartimus had injured himself. The elderly man’s sight had been growing worse and worse, to the point that Cregan needed to relieve him of his duty. But her husband refused. As the northerners were loyal to their lord, so was he loyal to them.

Cregan stood at once. “He’s been taken to Maester Uthor’s chambers?”

“Yes.”

He followed his steward out of the Great Hall, his hand lightly touching Aly’s shoulder as he passed her. A subtle reminder, this one intentional, of the night to come. One that made her stomach flip.

Her stomach remained unsettled as she and Sara finished their supper and then when she returned to her chambers. Her entire body shook with nerves as Myra helped her undress. Her legs felt wobbly as she slipped her nightgown over her head, and her heart beat so quickly that she barely heard her door click shut when her handmaid left her. Left her alone to wait for Cregan. For him to call for her. Aly tapped her thumb along her collarbone as she paced the length of her rooms. Listening for the sound of footsteps, or any movement, outside of her door.

We are man and wife.

I promised to begin anew.

My life is here, with him.

I’ve enjoyed his kisses.

This time will be different.

Just when Aly feared her nerves would conquer her and not the other way around, and force her supper to make its way back up her throat, the muffled sound of boots made its way to her ears. Each step counting down the seconds until the messenger reached her door to tell her that his lord wished to see her.

Thud thud thud

Tap tap tap

Her throat as dry as Dorne, Aly squared her shoulders before opening her door.She worked to keep the surprise off her face when her eyes landed on Cregan standing in the corridor. Her husband, not a servant sent to fetch her. Without taking her eyes off of him, Aly moved to the side to allow him to enter into her chambers and softly closed the door once he did.

“How is Bartimus?” she asked. Ignoring the slight shakiness of her voice. Hoping it was not obvious.

“He’ll be fine. Just some broken bones.”

“What happened?”

Cregan sighed. “He did not like the way Jon had forged a breastplate, so he decided to make another one himself. The forge is dark, and he hit his hand with his anvil rather than the steel.”

Aly wanted to wince. “Perhaps it is time for him to hang up his leather apron,” she told him gently. And not for the first time.

But unlike every other time, Cregan responded with, “I fear that you’re right.”

“Jon is quite skilled,” she said as she walked towards the table in her sitting area to pour him a goblet of wine. “He’s been with Bartimus since he was an apprentice, has he not?”

Cregan nodded, accepting the goblet she offered him. “He has. Longer than anyone else under Bartimus. He will make a fine replacement.”

“And Bartimus has a son and gooddaughter in the winter town,” Aly reminded him. “They will take care of him. I am sure their children will be glad to have their grandfather live with them.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

“I am more often than not,” she could not help but jest.

Cregan breathed out a laugh. Their eyes remained locked as he brought the edge of his goblet to his lips, and Aly knew all conversation regarding Bartimus or Jon or the household had reached its end. She swallowed hard as the tension between them grew and grew the longer they stared at one another. Making her feel light-headed and her pulse race.

She had spent the entire day knowing how it would end, yet she still found herself taken aback by the sudden intensity of it all.

“Can I tell you something?” Cregan asked her lowly as he reached around her to return the goblet onto her table.

“Yes,” Aly said, her voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes bore into hers. “I’ve been waiting for evenfall since this morning.”

“Oh,” she murmured.

Cregan stepped flush against her, forcing Aly to tilt her chin upwards to keep their eyes on one another. It was only when his warm hand cupped her face that he moved his eyes downward to her lips. She parted them without thinking, and Cregan leaned down and caught them in a gentle kiss she had begun to know well.

But his gentleness turned bruising the longer their lips brushed against one another. His fingertips curled in her hair at the nape of her neck, and he squeezed her waist with his other hand before sliding it to splay against her lower back.

“I have desired you since you returned to Winterfell many moons ago,” he panted when he broke away from her. Resting his forehead against hers.

Aly nodded. Unable to say the same. So instead she brought his lips back to hers, sliding her tongue into his mouth in a desperate attempt to taste the Arbor red he sipped just before kissing her. The taste of comfort and familiarity. At least to her. Cregan enjoyed her efforts, groaning and pushing her more firmly against her. Allowing her to feel his hardening length.

She pulled at his tunic, and he responded by taking a half step back from her. Keeping his molten grey eyes locked onto hers as he began untucking his tunic from his trousers. They both undressed quickly, Aly glad to be rid of her cotton nightgown that normally kept her comfortable warm but now made her skin feel unbearably hot.

The last time she and her husband had seen each other like this had been their wedding night. Aly could not even remember how closely Cregan looked at her then, though she certainly recalled how much effort she had made to not look at him. Uninterested in his body. Knowing from what little she had touched him how different his physique was to her uncle. But now she did look. Seeing the differences for herself. His body was lean, his muscles firm. The body of a swordsman. A warrior.

“You’re beautiful,” he told her huskily. “Perfect.”

She let out a shaky breath. “So are you,” she half-lied.

The skin of his calloused palms felt scalding as he gently wrapped them around her hips. Pulling her flush against him once more, his hard cock resting against her belly, before bringing his lips down for a searing kiss. A kiss that remained unbroken as he gingerly walked her backwards towards her featherbed. Only when the backs of her knees hit the bed did they break apart, Aly sitting on the bed and Cregan following after her.

He peppered her neck with wet kisses as he moved on top of her, Aly spreading her legs to accommodate him. She let out a quiet moan when he brought his hand between them, coating his finger with her slick and coating her bundle of nerves with it. And then she cried out when his cock entered her. Slowly. Going deeper with every few rolls of his hips. Her husband thinking it was just the second time a man had been inside her.

“Aly,” he practically grunted into her ear.

“Call me Muña,” she breathed out without thinking.

Cregan completely butchered the pronunciation when he repeated it back to her. But thankfully he did not ask her what it meant, perhaps thinking it a general term of affection in High Valyrian. And as he groaned and husked the word into her ear, Aly snapped her hips up against his and curled her fingers into his back for purchase. Her body begging for more.

“Fuck,” she exhaled sharply when he brought his hand between her legs and rubbed firm circles over her bundle of nerves.

Aly’s breath came out in pants as she continued moving her hips. Chasing the pleasure he gave her. Her entire body felt as if it was on fire, her muscles tightened and her skin feeling sticky as he worked her over and brought her closer and closer to the precipice.

A deep huff of “Muña” against her neck sent her over the edge. Just as it had countless times before.

Cregan stopped his movements to allow her to catch her breath. Peppering light kisses along her face. It was only once the rises and falls of her chest became even again that he brought his lips to hers again in a deep kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth. Swallowing her pleased sigh. And when he began thrusting his hips once more, his pace quick as he chased his own pleasure now that he had made her come, he kept his lips just above hers. The two of them breathing in each other’s air, his coming out in grunts and pants and hers in sharp exhales from the force of his thrusts.

As she rolled her hips and traced nondescript patterns along the nape of Cregan’s neck in an effort to help him reach his peak, Aly felt…different than she had the last time they coupled. Her husband was not as attuned to her body as her uncle had been, never reaching that spot inside her that made her toes curl and forced a sharp cry from her lips, but he had still made her feel satisfied. The gods may not have molded her and Cregan for each other, but that did not mean she would find no joy in their marriagebed. And she felt less troubled over it than she had the last time. Less guilty at the pleasure he had given her.

She did not yet feel love for Cregan, but that would come in time. And she need not feel guilty for that, either.

He is my husband.

A crisp pink sky greeted Aly when she fluttered her eyes open. As she blinked herself alert, she became cognizant of Cregan beside her. He lay on his stomach, his soft snores muffled by the pillow in which he buried his face, his arm sprawled out so his hand rested on her stomach. Aly did not feel as euphoric as she always had awakening in Aegon’s arms, but she did not feel as empty as she had the morning after her wedding, either. She felt…nothing. And that, she supposed, signaled some progress.

One of Cregan’s fingers twitched against her skin, indicating that he had reached the first stages of awakening.

“Good morning,” she greeted him, her voice throaty due to the morning hour, once he turned to face her.

“Good morning,” he said with a yawn.

She gave him a small smile. A small smile that he returned before giving her a sweet kiss.

“Tonight I ask that you come to my chambers,” he told her once he rested his head on the pillow beside her again. “Yours are too warm.”

“Yours are too cold,” she responded. Remembering the chill in the air on their wedding night, how it made her tremble. And that was many moons prior, and it had only gotten colder.

“I’ll keep you warm,” he said, amusement dancing in his grey eyes.

“All right.”

He kissed her again. A kiss full of hope. Hope that, after so much time, their marriage was becoming a true one.

“Sara and I are taking some of the household guards for a hunt in the wolfswood,” he told her once they stood from her bed, her to tie her dressing gown tightly around her and him to dress in the previous night’s clothing before he left her. “How will you spend your day?”

Instead of answering him with words, she tilted her head towards her writing desk. Towards the massive pile of letters still needing to be opened, read, and responded to.

He hummed. “You should see the pile in my solar.”

“And you’re going hunting?” she laughed in slight disbelief.

“The letters will keep for one day,” he answered. “Adding more to our stores for winter is more important.”

He left not long after that.

As she sat in her steaming bath a half hour later, Aly recalled once more how furiously she scrubbed her skin the morning after her wedding, desperate to wash Cregan off of her. To wash off her own feelings of guilt and betrayal. Her mind then turned to Aegon. Her uncle who had betrayed her first by taking her love and throwing it all away when he stole her mother’s throne. Her uncle who she may never see again, though deep in her heart of hearts she wished she would. To ask him why he had done it, why their love for one another was not enough for him. Why, after agreeing to come with her to Winterfell, he spurned her.

She hated herself for knowing that, if ever given the chance, she would ask her mother to spare his life.

She would never forgive him, but that did not negate the love that had bloomed in King’s Landing and wrapped itself around her so tightly she still wore it as a second skin.

A love so passionate Aly did not think she would ever feel the same towards Cregan. Her husband was her uncle’s opposite in several respects. Aly had spent so long telling herself that was a mark against her husband, but time had made her realize it wasn’t. If anything it made it easier to enjoy his company, the lack of reminders. She cared for him, and she knew that she would come to love him, but it would never burn as brightly as it did with Aegon.

Perhaps that was not necessarily a bad thing.

By the time she finished bathing, dressed in a grey lambswool gown, and Myra finished plaiting her damp hair, it was nearly time for her morning meal, and her ladies, to arrive. The food arrived first, to Aly’s relief—eating provided such a good way to fill long stretches of silence in conversation—followed by her three companions, all three ladies wearing thick wool gowns of dark colors.

“Good morning,” Aly greeted them as she gestured to the food sitting upon the table.

All three repeated the greeting with a smile.

While they broke their fast on quail eggs, bacon, and soft bread, Aly explained how she wanted their help with her letters. She would need them to sort her responses geographically and by prestige and nobility of the house so that letters to lordly houses were sent out first and then the masterly houses. A task that Aly was perfectly capable of doing all herself, but helping her with her official correspondence was part of their duties.

After their food had been cleared away and Aly sat herself at her writing desk, she grabbed the first scroll within reach, sealed with the pine tree of House Mollen, and unfurled it. The letter expressed Lady Mollen’s gratitude and appreciation for the autumn feast, how happy she was to make Aly’s acquaintance, and how her keep was always available to host them should Aly and Cregan find themselves nearby. Aly grabbed a blank piece of parchment, dipped her pen in her inkwell, and responded in kind. Though she had barely said more than the standard courtesies to anyone in House Mollen throughout the feast, Aly wrote how much she enjoyed Lady Mollen’s presence during her afternoon teas with all the northern ladies, how glad she and Cregan were that their family attended the feast, and how, should they travel to the western edge of the wolfswood once winter ended, they would be most grateful to visit the Mollen castle. Aly lifted the parchment after signing her name to blow the ink dry before rolling it up, sealing it with grey wax and an iron direwolf stamp, and handing the letter to Jonelle.

That was how the rest of her morning and afternoon went, reading letters and then responding to them. They only took a break when Aly could no longer ignore her stomach audibly announcing her hunger and her wrist was in dire need of rotating to help work out the soreness. And even then, she spent their entire midday meal hesitantly eying the pile of unanswered letters atop her desk. Wishing there was a quicker way to go through them all. Knowing that there wasn’t.

Her persistence yielded results, however. By the late afternoon she only had about ten letters remaining - nine of which were from northern houses and the tenth a scroll she had purposefully set aside to answer last. A letter sealed with the seahorse of House Velaryon. A letter that had to have been sent from her grandfather, perhaps relaying that he received word from one of the warships he sent as an escort for Aegon and Viserys’s journey across the Narrow Sea regarding their arrival in Pentos.

A knock upon her door forced her to cease scratching out her reply to Berena Glover.

“Lord Cregan has returned from his hunt,” Myra said as she stepped into Aly’s chambers after being told to enter. “It appears to have been a successful one.”

Aly saw that her handmaid told it true when she stepped into the main courtyard to greet her husband and goodsister, their cheeks tinged pink from the cold and the tops of their heads dusted with snow. The hunting party pulled several wagons behind them full of game. From where she stood Aly counted four elk, seven deer, and three boar. Enough that each member of the party could claim at least one kill.

“I killed the largest elk of the bunch,” Sara boasted with a cheeky smile once she and Cregan stood just before Aly.

“Impressive.”

“We’ll feast on it in a few days,” Cregan promised with a hint of pride for his sister glinting in his eye.

“Which animal did you slaughter?” Aly inquired. Attempting to take an interest.

“One of the elk, a deer, and two boar,” Cregan answered. He said it so matter-of-factly. Not at all gloating the way so many other men would. The mark of true confidence, Aly knew. Her time at court had taught her that only insecure men spoke loudly of their achievements.

“Shall I tell the kitchens to prepare one of the boar that you killed for our supper tonight?”

Amusement danced in his grey eyes. “If it pleases you.”

Aly smiled as she nodded, the pair staring at each other for a few moments before following the rest of the hunting party into the Great Keep.

To celebrate the successful hunt, the entire hunting party as well as Aly’s ladies joined her, Cregan, and Sara in the Great Hall for supper. They dined on peppered boar, green beans, pickled vegetables, and baked peaches. The men and Sara recounted in breathless detail the day’s hunt, Cregan occasionally interjecting when he felt their stories leaned a bit too on the dramatic side. Aly did her best to appear engrossed, though by the look on her husband’s face she was unsure if she was successful or not. Unsure if his small smirk was due to his pride at how interested she was in his hunt or his amusement at her failed attempts to pretend. No one else at the table seemed to think twice about it, so she chose to believe it was the former.

“How was your day?” he asked her after supper.

They walked together in the quiet corridors towards Rickon’s nursery, the luminance from the candles casting their shadows in yellow light.

“Not as eventful as yours,” she said with a wry smile. “But I did almost finish going through all my letters. I should be done before midday tomorrow.”

“Did you find your ladies helpful?”

“I did.”

“And how are you liking them?” he asked, studying her.

“I do not dislike any of them, but… They are strangers to me still.”

“So were I and Sara to you once.”

You became my husband within a few days of my arrival here. And then Sara my goodsister.

But she conceded his point. Within a few moons she would know Branda, Jonelle, and Marna much better than she currently did. Would know their likes and dislikes, a bit more of their personalities. It was always awkward at the beginning. They were learning her tendencies and oddities just as she was learning theirs.

The nursery was filled with Rickon’s toys, books, and games, the shelves practically overflowing with entertainments. His crib stood against the eastern wall surrounded by tapestries depicting the godswood with a bright-leafed heart tree, Bran the Builder drawing up his plans for the Wall, and a rather grotesque image of the Battle for the Dawn that Aly would demand taken down before she brought any child of hers into the nursery lest it generate nightmares.

Rickon stood in his crib upon hearing them. The babe squealed upon seeing them, or rather seeing his father, and shot his little arms straight up as he said, “Hold.”

“Yes, I’ll hold you,” Cregan laughed.

It was their nighttime ritual, Cregan coming to the nursery after Rickon had been bathed to help settle his son into his crib before the babe drifted off to sleep. A ritual Aly had not been privy to very often. A ritual perhaps Cregan wanted her to take part in now that they were sharing a bed as a true man and wife. Or perhaps, as the time drew closer for him to march south, he wanted to know his wife would follow through on the ritual in his absence.

As she watched her husband hold his son in his arms, the pair sharing smiles and laughs, Aly could not help but envision him doing the same with another babe in the future. Their babe. What would that babe look like, she wondered. The child would have dark hair, that was almost certain, but would the babe have its father’s long face and grey eyes? Or would the child resemble its mother, their features revealing its Targaryen blood?

Or would the babe instead take after the members of House Strong? Would Aly see Harwin Strong every time she looked at her child?

The only thing that prevented her mind from wandering further down that path was the look in Cregan’s eyes when their gazes locked. The look that told her that his mind too was full of thoughts centering around a babe yet to be born.

He will want to put a babe in my belly before he marches south. For his pride. For his house’s security. He is soon to leave for war and his sole heir is a babe who just saw his first name day.

Rickon’s eyes slowly began to become droopy as he fought off sleep in the company of his father. It was only once Cregan hushed him and gently placed him in his crib that the boy allowed sleep to overtake him.

Aly quietly followed her husband out of the nursery and into the corridor, closing the door behind her. When she turned she found her vision of the stone walls and wax candles blocked by the fur cloak of her husband. Cregan stood just a hairsbreadth away from her, his grey eyes looking down to meet hers.

He briefly glanced down at her lips before leaning down to kiss her. The kiss began chaste, as it always did with Cregan, before turning hungry. He brought one hand up to softly cup her cheek and the other to grip her waist. To ensure she did not move away from him.

It felt strange to kiss a man in the open corridor, Aly thought as she deepened the kiss. Desperate to taste the Arbor red she knew Cregan had consumed during supper. With Aegon it was always in secret and shadow. Their love had been something to hide. Something that only belonged to them.

She gasped when she felt him harden against her. And instead of using her open mouth to slip his tongue against hers, Cregan broke the kiss and commanded her gaze. His eyes full of fire.

“Let’s go to bed, Muña.”

Aly swallowed thickly as she nodded. Heat snaked its way across her back as she took his hand and let him guide her to his chambers, not caring that he terribly mispronounced the High Valyrian word she had asked him to call her.

His rooms were colder than she would have preferred, but, just as Cregan promised that morning, he kept her warm through the night.

Chapter Text

The solid grey wax took on a silvery tinge as it melted in the small steel pot. Aly held on to the carved handle as she moved the vessel over the candle in slow circles to get an even melt. She did not wish for any burning or charring, as that would mean beginning the entire process again. She was nearly finished with all of her responses to the northern ladies, and this last bit of wax would be just enough to seal the last of her letters.

Once the wax appeared nice and molten, she poured a decent amount onto the letter meant for Lady Harclay, stamped it with the Stark direwolf, and handed the scroll to Branda. Her ladies, who found watching her write her responses equally as boring as Aly found writing them, entertained themselves by chattering about gossip they’d picked up from the household or the winter town. Even Jonelle spoke up occasionally, which Aly took to be a good sign. Mayhaps there was hope for her yet.

The four of them sat in her chambers, the large fire in the hearth crackling and popping. Whenever Aly glanced at her belongings, all of her personal knicknacks and small accoutrements, she attempted to envision them in Cregan’s chambers. He hinted his desire for her to permanently move into his bedchamber that morning. As she wrapped his too-large dressing gown around her before she returned to her own rooms to dress for the day he told her how much he enjoyed her beside him in the night. Aly would not necessarily mind, exactly, but it was nice to have a space of one’s own. A place she could spend the day with her ladies, or even be alone, though she supposed if she moved into Cregan’s bedchamber that place would become her solar. The solar that had once been used by Arra, and which still carried her personal touch. Perhaps placing Aly’s own things in the room would make it feel more like hers. And less like she was an intruder, even more than a year after Arra’s death.

She would broach the subject with him while they ate their midday meal together.

The last letter from the northerners was written by Leona Tallhart, who left Winterfell with her husband Eddard still cross that Aly expressed no sympathy at his clear distress over Lyrax making her home in the southern edge of the wolfswood near his castle. Leona’s letter was courteous but not warm, thanking her for her hospitality and making a point to mention that Lyrax’s temporary reprieve from their lands allowed their smallfolk to hunt to abundance. Aly ignored the barb and responded only that enjoyed meeting the Tallharts at the feast.

“That is all of them,” Aly announced to her ladies with obvious relief once her reply was sealed. “Take these to the rookery and then you can eat your midday meal.”

“Yes, Aelora,” Marna said as she took the letter to Leona Tallhart out of Aly’s outstretched hand.

When the door clicked shut behind them Aly stood from her writing desk and smoothed down the creases along the front of her burgundy skirts that sitting all morning had created. Once satisfied with her appearance, she left her chambers and made the short trek to Cregan’s solar. She found her husband in a similar position to the one she occupied the day prior and that morning, sitting at his table surrounded by scrolls both unfurled and still sealed. His pen scratched along the piece of parchment in front of him, his brows furrowed in concentration. It was only once he signed his name that he looked up and met her gaze.

“Midday already?” he asked.

Aly smiled. “Yes.”

He told her about the letters he’d received while they waited for servants to bring up food from the kitchens. Nothing especially notable, just the lords or their sons and brothers expressing their gratitude for the feast and reporting that all seemed well upon their return. A few noted their belief their stores were filled enough for the winter, but even more made it clear they still needed time before they marched south.

“And how long will that be, do you suspect?” she asked. Thinking of her mother, who would no doubt write to Cregan soon asking the same. The host led by Lord Dustin should have reached the Neck by now, and Cregan had said he wanted to give the first host time to meet with the riverlands army before he led the larger second host south to reinforce the men.

“A few more months,” he answered.

Her mother would not like that answer. With the crownlands split, the riverlands and the north were the largest armies that supported her mother. And with the majority of northerners still in their castles, she knew her mother would worry that the strength of the westerlands and the stormlands united would be able to crush the riverlands. And if that happened, or even appeared a realistic possibility, Aly knew her mother would turn to her dragons.

Dragons would secure the throne, but they would burn the surrounding lands to ashes.

“My mother will not accept that answer when she writes to you.”

“Lord Roderick leads two thousand northerners to battle,” Cregan said evenly. “The rest are readying for the winter. I promised your mother my support, and I’ve begun upholding my part. The rest will follow. I will not ask men to march and potentially never return unless they are confident of their families’ survival.”

Their marriage secured his support, but her mother would accuse him of fickleness. Of promising a host to guarantee the betrothal and then reneging once wedded. But Cregan was steadfast in his decision, and there was nothing she could do or say to force him to march sooner.

“I need you to talk to Sara,” he told her after their food arrived and their plates had been filled. “Jory found her with Seren in the stables.”

Seren was a handsome youth around Sara’s age that worked in the kennels. Handsome but possessed little in the way of personality. Just a few moons prior Sara believed the boy to be sweet on her friend Yana, but that fancy had obviously passed.

“Did anything happen between them?” Aly asked carefully.

“Jory walked in on the pair kissing. Sara denied anything else happened, but—”

“Lots of girls and boys sneak kisses with one another. If you don’t believe anything happened to compromise—”

“Would you say the same if she was Sara Stark rather than Sara Snow?” he asked a bit brusquely.

“Yes,” she told him firmly.

Aly was a hypocrite. Of that she was well aware. Had Sara given her maidenhead to the boy she would have lectured her goodsister on the importance of keeping her virtue before marriage. Never mind that Aly herself had not entered into her marriage bed a maid. Sara may have been a bastard, but she was Lord Stark’s acknowledged sister. A sister with whom he was very close. And she knew Cregan hoped to marry her to a third son of a well-regarded yet lowly house—perhaps a Whitehill or an Overton—so that her sons would have names. He did not want anything to compromise that. Especially not a youthful indiscretion.

“Very few girls receive their first kiss on their wedding day. In fact, I’d wager none do. I will talk to her as you request, remind her of the importance of keeping her maidenhead and the appearance of propriety, but I will not scold her for kissing Seren.”

“She’s too good for the likes of him,” Cregan huffed out.

Aly swallowed her laugh. “She’s not asking to marry him. She just…finds him attractive and wanted to kiss him. Sara is still young and occasionally acts without thought to the consequences.”

“Did you go around kissing the boys who worked in the kennels when you were younger?”

“The nearest thing to a boy in the kennels on Dragonstone when I was a girl was Gerrick, and he was old enough to be my grandfather.”

“What about King’s Landing?”

I only kissed Aegon in King’s Landing.

“I played kissing games with my companions,” she told him. Offering him something to satisfy his curiosity. “And you? I am sure you kissed many maidens before you married Arra.”

“There may have been one or two,” he admitted.

She smiled. “It is all perfectly innocent, though I will remind her that it needs to remain innocent.”

Lest she end up like me. Giving her maidenhead to someone she loves, someone that she knows she’ll never marry. Someone that will tear her heart into pieces.

“Thank you.”

She nodded. “I’ll speak to her before supper.” She paused while she chewed a bite of roasted fowl. “Perhaps while Myra and Fran move my things into your bedchamber?”

Aly watched as Cregan processed what she was asking. Offering to change his bedchamber into their bedchamber. His grey eyes sparkled with delight.

“Yes, I think that is all right.”

She smiled at him, a smile which he returned. “Good.”

“And after supper you can teach me one of these kissing games you used to play as a girl.”

Aly laughed. “Perhaps.”

After they finished their meal, she left him to return to her rooms. She found her chambers empty, her companions not yet returned from their own midday meals. That suited Aly just fine, as she wanted the privacy to read her grandfather’s letter. The one she purposefully put off opening until she had responded to all her other letters.

Seeing just the one letter atop her writing desk felt so different from the vision over the past day. It felt…almost relaxing. Much better than the anxiety of knowing a large pile of letters awaited her. Letters from women she barely knew, writing little beyond standard courtesies. Letters she would be responding to as Lord Stark’s wife rather than Aly. The anticipation alone of seeing her grandfather’s familiar hand provided such a comfort to her as she planted herself back at her writing desk and broke the sea green wax seal.

But the comfort did not last long.

Aly,

I think of you often. How are your days in Winterfell? Is it as cold as they say? As harsh? I worry for you being so far from the sea.

I am afraid I must be the bearer of dreadful news. News which in truth I do not know how to properly begin expressing, so I ask that you forgive my bluntness.

Jace, Aegon, and Viserys are dead. Just writing the words makes me feel sick. But your mother is too beside herself to write to you, so I must be the one to shoulder the responsibility. Baela left with Aegon and Viserys a few days before the start of the new year, flying along with the warships I sent to escort them as they sailed on the Gay Abandon to Pentos. Unfortunately they did not make it far before Baela returned on Moondancer, her dragon unharmed but Baela injured by arrows and scorpion bolts.

She told of an attack. The Triarchy has entered into the war on the side of your uncle and, on their path to break the blockade, they encountered the ships bound for Pentos. Baela was on one of my warships, giving Moondancer a chance to hunt freely, when the attack began. Her dragon found her as soon as she sensed the danger, and Baela flew back to Dragonstone immediately - though not before the Triarchy attempted to bring down her dragon and kill her.

As soon as she relayed that your youngest brothers were in danger, Jace called all of the new dragonriders and commanded them to meet the Triarchy. I will spare you the details, as they are too gruesome to recount, but know that your brother fought bravely and valiantly. He fought like a true prince. He showed the Triarchy what the wrath of the seven hells looks like. And in the chaos of the battle, the ship carrying your youngest brothers was sunk.

The Velaryon fleet held strong in the end, though at great cost. The Triarchy was smart to avoid Dragonstone once it sailed through the Gullet, but it focused instead on Driftmark. They sacked Spicetown and burned High Tide, cowardly butchering the smallfolk as they attempted to flee. Under my command my fleet forced the Triarchy to return to Essos. Some would call that a victory, though if that be a victory I pray to never win another.

Aly, your mother needs you now. I know that the two of you quarreled before you left Dragonstone, but I can say with confidence that, after all that has happened, she no longer gives it any importance. You and Joffrey are all she has left, and Joffrey is both too far away to help and too young to understand. You must return to Dragonstone.

All my love,
Grandfather

It took Aly several moments before she felt like she could breathe again. Her blood roiled in her ears, her heart beating so fast she could practically hear it. And her vision grew blurrier with each passing second. The tears that formed in her eyes fell down her cheeks and blotted her grandfather’s signature once she finished reading the letter.

Reading but not comprehending.

Aegon and Viserys weren’t dead. They couldn’t be dead. They were too young. They were sailing to safety. The Prince of Pentos had promised they would be safe.

And Jace…

Her little brother. The brother she had found extremely aggravating as a child. The brother who followed her around, wanting to be a part of everything she was involved in. You are his entire world. The brother she relied on as she grew older. The one person she could always turn to, the one who comforted her as she comforted him. The brother she always felt closest to. Felt a kinship with. The brother she once thought she would marry one day.

No. He couldn’t be dead. She refused to believe it.

Then why did the tears refuse to stop falling and the place where her heart was supposed to be felt as if someone had broken open her chest and ripped it out?

You must return to Dragonstone.

Your mother needs you now.

That was always the way things transpired. The family faced a tragedy, and Aly was the one who had to help her mother pick up the pieces. But her grandfather was right. She had to return to Dragonstone. She could no longer sit here in Winterfell, receiving news from afar. She had to go back to Dragonstone. She had to bury her brother. She had to hold tight to the family that remained to her. She had to help her mother find her strength again. Because she was the rightful queen, and that was Aly’s duty.

Resolved in what she must do, Aly wiped away her tears and left her chambers. Not acknowledging anyone in the corridors as she walked out into the courtyard, out through the Hunter’s Gate, and out towards the wolfswood. Not caring that she did not have her fur cloak wrapped around her shoulders. Not caring that her boots were not made for more than a few inches of snow, the wetness seeping through her stockings.

Lyrax would know to meet her. She was sure of it.

“Aly!” The trees seemed to whisper.

They did it thrice more, the sentinels and the hawthorn trees. When she walked past a thicket of oak trees, the whisper grew into a shout.

“ALY!”

It was only when a hand grabbed her forearm, forcibly stopping her in her tracks, that Aly realized it had been Cregan calling out to her. Chasing after her.

The deep and genuine concern on his face caused fresh tears to prick her eyes once more.

“I have to go,” she told him weakly. “My brothers are…” she swallowed. Attempting to push down the bile rising to her throat. Giving herself time before she had to choke out the words. Because saying it made it so. “My brothers are dead.”

His shock and disbelief was nearly palpable when he asked, “What?”

“They’re dead.”

Her voice sounded so strange to her own ears. As if it was someone else saying it. But it wasn’t. She was the one saying it. Saying it because it was true.

“There was a battle…the Triarchy. They killed my brothers. I have to go. Return to Dragonstone.”

“You can’t.”

“Can’t?” she repeated with a sneer. Surprising even herself with the fierceness of her response. Yet Cregan allowed it to wash over him. Keeping his face smooth. “I am not your ward or your hostage.”

“You’re my wife,” he said gently. “It isn’t safe for you in the south. Less so now than when you first arrived.”

“I’m all my mother has left. Me and Joffrey.”

“Which is exactly why you should remain here. You’re safer here in Winterfell.”

“I can no longer remain so far away from my family. Not now. My mother needs me.”

“So do I,” he argued softly.

His care for her only forced the sobs she tried so hard to push down to rack her body. He held her to him in the snow-covered wolfswood, allowed her to cry into his fur cloak—absolutely drenching it with her tears—until she could cry no more. Telling her everything was going to be all right as he rubbed circles around the middle of her back.

“I have to be there for her,” Aly said once she could cry no more. “Just for a while. Just until I know she will be all right.”

“And who will ensure that you are all right?”

“You. When I return.”

“Leaving now is foolhardy. As the eldest you will have a target upon your chest.”

“Dragonstone is impenetrable to dragonfire,” she reminded him. “I will be safe there.”

He let out an exhale. “At least wait until the morrow. So you can gather a few things. Such as a cloak.”

“Tomorrow then.”

They spent the remainder of the day and night in his chambers, Cregan refusing to allow her out of his sight. He held her as she cried, listened to her when she felt the need to talk about her brothers, and filled the silence when she did neither. He told her about his own brother, the one who had died as a boy. How grief had wrapped itself around the entire castle, how his mother barely left her room afterwards. And how Cregan had spent his days with her attempting to make her feel joy again.

Her husband understood the weight of the burden upon her shoulders. Understood it better than anyone. And she appreciated him all the more for it.

Aly and Cregan stood in the clearing at the edge of the thicket, Lyrax just a few yards away. The sun still hung low in the sky due to the early hour, and the snow on the ground glittered like diamonds in the distance.

“Do you have everything?”

“Yes.”

She left his chambers at dawn to pack. Only a few items, as most of her gowns were too thick for the south even in the deep throes of autumn. But she made sure to take her jewelry, the items Aegon had given her. She could not explain why, precisely, but the thought of leaving them in Winterfell, of not having them with her, made her uneasy. Three other items she made sure to pack were Lyrax’s dragon eggs. All three appeared just as smooth and pristine as they had the day Aly arrived with them, and she hoped time in the Dragonmont would encourage a hatchling to spring forth. For any future children she and Cregan would have.

“I shan’t be gone long,” Aly told him. “Two moons at most. Well before you march south.”

He nodded in understanding, though his expression was forlorn. “You’ll write to me? So I know that you’re safe?”

“Yes,” she promised.

The wind knocked a few loose strands of his dark hair from the leather strap tying it back as his grey eyes flickered across her face. Perhaps committing it to memory. “I love you.”

Her lips parted in slight surprise. Not expecting to hear the words.

Say it back. I don’t have to mean it.

But the phrase remained stuck in her throat. So she did what she knew she could. She kissed him. Poured all the emotions she did feel for him into it. It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was something rather close.

“I’ll return as soon as I can,” she assured him.

He leaned down and stole one more kiss from her. As the pair exchanged melancholy smiles, Cregan reached out and grabbed her glove-covered hand. Squeezing it just before he let her go. A lump formed in Aly’s throat as she looked at him, taking him in. Winterfell had slowly begun to feel something like home to her. It wasn’t Dragonstone, nor was it the Red Keep. It was cold and harsh. But the household had welcomed their lord’s southron wife, albeit after a bit of a rocky beginning. Cregan had welcomed her. Allowed her time to adjust to everything. Listened to her advice and guided her on how to rule the north in his absence without once coming across as patronizing. Had been nothing but wonderful.

Aly was sorry to leave him even if only for a little while.

“Goodbye,” she told him softly as she turned away from him. Unable to look upon the sorrow and compassion and love in his eyes any longer lest she change her mind and remain.

Lyrax’s mood brightened as soon as Aly told her they were returning to Dragonstone, the great beast pretending to be oblivious to her rider’s storm of emotions since she was getting what she wanted. What Aly had secretly longed for since her arrival. To return home. Where the air was warmer and thick with the salt of the sea, where the gulls sang all day, and where the sound of the waves crashing along the shore was inescapable.

Aly thought of her family the entire flight. She thought of Jace, tears pooling in her eyes as she remembered his laugh, his smile, the way he tried to look out for her even though she was his elder sister. She thought of Aegon and Viserys. They were just babes, full of nothing but sweetness and light. She wondered how her mother fared. Rhaenyra birthed seven children and now only two remained to her. Did she shutter herself in her chambers? Or did she let her fury fuel her? Was she sitting at the high seat of the Painted Table swearing to meet Aegon with fire and blood? Was Baela at her right hand side, calling for the same after she had lost not only her cousin but also her betrothed? Lost the boy she thought she would spend the rest of her days with. Lost the boy she loved.

Her thoughts turned to Joffrey and Rhaena as she flew over the Vale. Was Jeyne Arryn good to them? Did she gently break the news of the battle to her wards? Did Joffrey and Rhaena cry day and night in their grief over the boys’ deaths? Did Lady Jeyne soothe them in their distress? Did she tell Joffrey all the responsibility he now held?

With Jace dead, Joffrey was heir now. A boy who had not even seen his tenth name day. Did he understand what that meant? That they were in the midst of war. Could he carry on his mother’s claim, should anything happen to her? Would the lords follow him? Or would they turn cloak and support Aegon, a man grown?

Why did your mother never name you heir?

Aly pushed away the memory of Cregan posing the question to her as soon as it flashed to the front of her mind. Knowing that its appearance was rooted in sorrow and anger and ugliness.

The air grew warmer as they journeyed south, and Aly was glad she wore one of her thinner wool gowns. Still, she knew that by the time she reached Dragonstone a healthy flush would appear on her cheeks and her back would feel the beginnings of perspiration. And when Lyrax finally flew over Cracklaw Point, the deep blue of the Blackwater shining in the distance, anticipation and relief and anxiety mixed with her deep anguish. She was nearly home.

Where once she found the black stone of the ancestral castle of House Targaryen dark and dim, its dragons built into the architecture at nearly every opportunity, Aly now could not help but find it welcoming in its familiarity as Lyrax descended towards the entrance of the Dragonmont. It had been so long since she had last seen the castle, but the stone dragons seemed to hail her with their open wings. Happily receiving her upon her return.

The smell of ash, dragonfire, and dirt greeted Aly immediately upon Lyrax swooping into the Dragonmont. Scents she had not inhaled in such a strong potency in a long time. Scents that wrapped themselves around her in a warm embrace.

Acolytes wearing cream colored robes and deep red belts tied around their waists made their way towards her once Lyrax’s claws dug deep into the soft dirt. They flanked Orwello, one of the Dragonkeepers, his shiny black armor reflecting the torches buried into the ground. .

“Princess Aelora,” Orwello addressed her in High Valyrian as she climbed down from the saddle. “Lord Corlys told us to expect you.”

“I would have come sooner,” Aly said once her boots were firmly on the ground.

He hummed, and Aly watched his eyes travel upwards and then pause once they landed on the wooden box tied to Lyrax’s back. Recognition glinted within them.

“You have returned with Lyrax’s eggs.”

“Cregan devised a way to keep them submerged, just as you suggested, but they are still as free of cracks as the day Lyrax laid them. I hoped the Dragonmont would encourage a hatchling springing forth.”

She swallowed when he hummed again, attempting to decipher if he believed her efforts were in vain or if he thought it a good idea. Whatever he thought of her bringing the eggs back to Dragonstone he kept to himself.

“I am sorry about your brothers,” Orwello said softly. “They were all too young to die.”

Tears formed in the corners of her eyes, but Aly blinked them away. Refusing to break down in the Dragonmont before even seeing her family. But Orwello’s sentiments were genuine, she could see the hurt in his eyes. When they first moved to Dragonstone Jace had yet to mount Vermax, which meant Orwello spent quite a lot of time with her brother in the Dragonmont. Picking up where Collio left off in his lessons. Ensuring he was prepared for his first flight.

Her voice was thick when she thanked him for his sentiments. The pair exchanged sad smiles before Aly left to make her way towards the castle. The cavernous volcano feeling too confining as the memories of her spending time there with Jace filled every crevice and nook.

Ser Robert Quince met her in the main entrance hall, his armor so newly polished it looked as if the oil had not yet dried. He wore his usual affable smile, though it, too, was dampened by the sorrow that permeated the entire castle.

“Princess Aelora, I wish to extend my deepest sympathies. Prince Jacaerys had all the makings of a great king. And your youngest brothers. Just babes barely weaned—”

“I wish to see my mother.”

An awkward expression formed upon Ser Robert’s face as he hesitated. “The queen isn’t here.”

She has left for the capital.

Ser Robert did not need to say it for Aly to know it to be true. Jace’s letters before his death made it clear that was always her mother’s eventual plan. That was why they had allowed the smallfolk to claim their dragons in the first place. And with her children all either away from Dragonstone or were dead and gone, her mother turned to vengeance, turned to her dragons rather than her armies, as soon as she could. Aly wondered how soon after finding out about her sons’ death Rhaenyra flew to King’s Landing.

If her mother had attacked the capital, what had become of the city? Of Helaena and the children?

What had become of Aegon?

“I’ll take you to Lady Baela.”

Baela’s chambers on the third floor of the Stone Drum looked almost exactly the same as the last time Aly stepped foot in them. While the typical disarray was nowhere to be found, there was still a bit of forgivable clutter along the flat surfaces. The dagger Daemon gifted her for her name day sat upon her vanity surrounded by discarded letters and errant game pieces, and the polished wood surface of her writing desk was barely visible underneath her pens and inkwells and maps of Westeros and Essos. Planning her route to Pentos, Aly supposed. A route that she did not need to memorize afterall.

Her cousin sat up in her canopy bed, her red and black silk coverlets catching the morning light. She looked terrible. Her shoulder-length hair looked flat and lifeless, her face weighed down by the strength of her emotions so clearly written upon it. Guilt, anger, heartache, agony. Her shoulders sagged as if the weight of the entire realm rested upon her.

“Baela.”

When Baela responded her voice sounded far away. “Aly. You’re here.”

“Of course I am.”

Her eyes flickered down to the bandages wrapped around Baela’s arms, blood seeping through them indicated they needed to be changed and dressed soon. Her cousin caught the direction of her gaze. The air between them suddenly felt heavy with all of Aly’s unanswered questions regarding the battle. Her cousin’s injuries. Her brothers’ deaths.

“I’m sorry,” Baela said just before her face crumpled..

Aly reached her in just a few strides. Sitting in the high-backed chair Grand Maester Gerardys no doubt scooted across the stone floor to the edge of her bedside.

“It’s not your fault,” Aly assured her cousin.

“I shouldn’t have left the ships,” Baela said between sniffles. “When I saw the Triarchy. I should have remained and reigned down dragonfire.”

“Then you would be dead,” Aly said, recalling her grandfather’s letter mentioning arrows and scorpion bolts. The Triarchy sailed from Essos prepared to fight bigger dragons than Moondancer. Jace’s death was proof of that.

“But Jace may still be alive. And Aegon and Viserys.”

“You don’t know that,” Aly said quickly.

“It’s what everyone thinks,” Baela snapped.

Her bitterness, her guilt, permeated her tone. She had been driving herself mad, Aly realized. Going over her actions without resting. Wondering what might have been if she had done one thing differently. Or two things or three.

Aly would have done anything to take away her cousin’s pain. She knew better than anyone how guilt and self-loathing could twist itself so tight it became suffocating.

“No one thinks that.”

“They do,” Baela argued. “If I hadn’t fled, Moondancer would have defeated the Triarchy—”

“From what Grandfather wrote to me, it took five dragons and the Velaryon fleet to defeat the Triarchy. You could not have faced it all on your own. Returning to Dragonstone not only saved your life but you were able to warn everyone of the Triarchy’s attempts to break the blockade. If you had not done that, even more people would have been lost.”

Baela hunched over and began sobbing. Covering her face with her hands. Aly placed a hand on her cousin’s back and ran it back and forth in an attempt to soothe her.

“It’s not your fault,” she repeated once Baela ceased her crying. “The Triarchy—”

“Aegon,” her cousin hissed. “He made a deal with the Triarchy to break the blockade and bring down our dragons.”

Aly did not know how to respond to either Baela’s words or the vehement hatred in her tone. And was the hatred not justified? The Triarchy killed Jace. Killed Aegon and Viserys, who were just babes. Like Jaehaerys.

The price of war seemed to only be paid by the innocent.

Aly remained in Baela’s chambers, sitting silently next to the edge of the bed, until her cousin expressed her exhaustion and asked Aly to leave her. She stood in the corridor for several moments, unsure where to go from there. Her chambers to bathe or in search of the Grand Maester for answers? Ser Robert brought her to Baela in the hopes that her cousin would explain all that had happened since she left for Winterfell several moons prior, but he underestimated the power of Baela’s grief and guilt and enmity. Did not understand that it consumed everything.

The sound of soft footsteps approaching caused her to turn, and she saw the Grand Maester walking towards her. Gerardys looked older than he did the last time she saw him, the lines around his face deeper. The responsibility of being her mother’s Grand Maester visible on his brow and around his lips. His chain, the very same one that Grand Maester Orwyle wore until Rhaenyra snatched it from him, seemed heavy around his neck.

“Ser Robert told me of your arrival,” he said in lieu of a formal greeting.

“I came as soon as I could. I was away from Winterfell when Grandfather’s raven arrived.”

He nodded gravely. “Lady Baela told you what all has happened?”

“She could barely say anything through her sobs, and when she was not crying she did not wish to speak of it.”

The Grand Maester’s expression quickly morphed from troubled to compassionate. “She has taken the deaths of your brothers very hard. We all have, but… You have seen that she blames herself.”

Aly moved to rest her hand along her collarbones. Wishing she could take her cousin’s pain away. Wishing someone would take her own pain away. That the hole in her chest where her heart had been would become full once more. That her brothers would be returned to her.

But nothing in the world could bring them back.

“Did my mother leave for the capital?”

Gerardys’s brows furrowed. “You haven’t heard? I suppose news always reaches the north last. Yes, she left Dragonstone a few days ago. Your mother has successfully taken the capital and now sits the Iron Throne.”

Aly knew it as soon as Ser Robert told her that her mother was not in the castle, but hearing it said aloud still stole the breath from her lungs. Rhaenyra had taken her dragons and set her sights on the capital. Captured the Red Keep. Was there a battle in the sky for the fate of the realm? Was it bloody? Were her uncles all dead? Was Helaena? Helaena’s children?

Now that her mother sat the Iron Throne, did that mean the war was over?

Was it worth the price?

“Tell me everything,” she demanded, her voice barely above a whisper.

“After the new dragonriders returned, bruised and broken, without Prince Jacaerys after the battle, your mother vowed vengeance. She vowed to bring an end to the usurper once and for all. But she did not wish for battle, did not want to have to burn the capital to take it, so she and Prince Daemon devised a plan. A clever one, mind you. For Prince Daemon knew that Prince Aemond was leading an army to the riverlands with the intention of facing Prince Daemon. So while Aemond marched west, your stepfather flew east. With Vhagar away, the only dragon to protect the capital was Dreamfyre. And with Princess Helaena…unable to fight, your mother led her dragonriders and met Prince Daemon above the city. They took the city in less than a day.”

“Is Aegon dead?”

Aly hated that that was the first question out of her mouth. But the answer held so much weight. For the realm. For her mother. For her.

“I do not know,” the Grand Maester admitted. “The last letter your mother wrote to me simply said she had taken the capital and that she was dealing with the traitors that resided within. She did not give specifics.”

“Oh.”

“What of Helaena? And the children?”

But the Grand Maester merely shook his head.

“Your mother needs you,” Gerardys told her. Unbeknownst to him repeating the very words her grandfather wrote to her. “Prince Jacaerys’s death, as well as that of the young princes, has filled her with hatred. Your presence will melt away the fire of her anger, and she will need a cool head in the days to come.”

“I will go to the capital,” Aly promised. “Tomorrow.”

“Very good. I will tell Ser Robert that you will only be staying tonight. Your mother named him castellan before she left.”

That surprised her. Ser Alfred Broome was the more senior of the castle knights. He should have been chosen as castellan over Ser Robert, though she supposed his constant surlyness did not help his cause. The household would have followed him as castellan, but they would not have done so gladly. Ser Robert, though not quite as competent as Ser Alfred, was at least amiable in character.

“Around midday I usually go down into the village,” he said. “The healers and midwives have erected tents for the men wounded from the battle. It would mean a lot to the men if you came with me. If you have time, Your Grace.”

“Of course. Give me time to bathe and change into a lighter gown.”

He bowed his head and shuffled down the corridor. Silently agreeing to meet her once she was ready.

A strange wave of emotion hit her as soon as she stepped into her chambers. Her old chambers now, she supposed. The windows were open, and though her quarters were on the fifth floor of the Stone Drum, when she truly concentrated she could still hear the faint waves of the Blackwater lapping at the shores. The sun shone brightly into every corner of the rooms, illuminating the furniture and the silk coverlets and the few trinkets she had left behind. She brought most of her belongings with her to Winterfell, leaving only gowns too thin for the north and little items that held no sentimental value. But now the lack of a personal touch made the chambers seem bare. Lifeless.

As if the occupant had long moved on. Which, in truth, Aly had.

“Princess Aelora.”

Her handmaid Harra stood in the threshold. Her hair had more streaks of grey than Aly remembered, but otherwise she looked exactly the same.

“Harra,” she smiled. “It is good to see you.”

“Thank you, Princess. It is good to have you back.” She smoothed down the front of her apron. “How are they treating you in Winterfell?”

“Very well,” Aly answered honestly before her smile turned secretive. “Though my handmaid there is not nearly as good as you are.”

That was not true, as Myra was a perfectly fine handmaid. Aly had no complaints about her work. But the lie seemed to please Harra, who always prided herself on being the handmaid to the Princess of Dragonstone’s eldest daughter. And, for most of Aly’s years on Dragonstone, the woman Harra believed would be her queen one day.

But that was not to be. Nor would it be for Baela unless she was betrothed to Joffrey.

Our future king, Aly could not help but think a bit drolly as she imagined her brother playing with his toys. But all kings were boys once, she reminded herself.

A half hour later, as she sat in the bath scrubbing the stink of dragon off of her using her favorite apple-scented soap, Aly’s stomach could not help but twist as she thought of the morrow. Of entering the capital for the first time in nearly a year. Of what she would find there.

Would she find Aegon’s head on a spike? Or would he be sitting in the dungeons, her mother refusing to allow him to spend his confinement in large chambers as befitted his station.

And what of Helaena? And Jaehaera and Maelor? They were just children, but she feared that, in her mother’s grief-fueled vengeance, she would only see them as Aegon’s children. The children of the brother who usurped her.

Perhaps it is not too late.

Aly did not know how she would go about it, but she swore to every god that existed that she would convince her mother to spare the lives of Helaena and her children. She could not save Aegon, she saw that now. Saw it on Baela’s face shortly after she arrived. But she could save her aunt, allow her to keep the two children that remained to her.

She had betrayed Helaena when she lived in King’s Landing, betrayed her every night when she went to Aegon’s bed, and she had a chance now to set things right. To finally pay her debt.

Chapter Text

The stench of sick, blood, and burning flesh was inescapable. Aly did her best to appear as if it did not bother her.

The healers pinned open the tent flap in an effort to allow the air to circulate, but the heavy wool fabric prevented much air from entering into the space. The healers apologized to Aly for the pervasiveness of the foul odor the previous day during her visit with the Grand Maester, but they refused to roll up the walls. For their privacy and dignity, one healer told her. An explanation for which Aly understood as soon as she stepped inside.

The survivors of the Battle of the Gullet incurred wounds varying from arrow and scorpion piercings to burns. Some men had fevers, others pus oozing from their injuries. The unlucky ones dealt with both. The truly unlucky ones were burned so badly that all they could do was scream for milk of the poppy during their few waking moments. The healers quietly confided to Aly that those men were not long for the world. They would meet the Father Above for judgement sooner rather than later, and may the Warrior commend their courage and battle prowess.

They were all men who had fought valiantly for their queen, had risked their lives to fight the Triarchy, and they deserved knowing their efforts were not in vain in the eyes of Queen Rhaenyra. Or Princess Aelora, as the case may be. But many of the men were bitter. Angry. Hopeless. Aly could see it in their faces, in their eyes. Their queen had successfully taken the capital, sat the Iron Throne, yet that did not come without the sacrifice of others. A sacrifice that, as they laid in a lumpy bed in a tent along the beach on Dragonstone while healers tended to their wounds and made their last moments as comfortable as possible, some men wondered was worth it.

Aly felt the same undercurrent of rancor in the village the previous day. Everywhere she went she felt as if the smallfolk stared at her. And not as they once had, with humor or happiness in their eyes. Instead she saw the pangs of grief and resentment. Their sons, husbands, cousins, and friends either fought in the battle or attempted to claim one of the riderless dragons in the Dragonmont. Regardless of where their efforts lay, it all amounted to injury or death or the feeling of hauntedness that came from surviving.

The mood was bad on the island. While she felt it as she walked with Gerardys to the care tents on the beach, it was cemented when she visited the tavern afterwards, needing a drink to chase away the grim reality of the survivors’ tent. She went to the same tavern she always did, the one that she and Baela had visited hundreds of times. The one where she always exchanged a quick jest with several of the patrons or Poppy the waitress. Instead of being met with a few smiles and happy gestures, the entire place filled with silence as soon as she opened the door. Eyes watching her as she walked from the entrance to the bar. Knowing that she grieved her brothers, but that they grieved too. That so many loved ones had been killed or injured in the name of her mother. They returned to their conversations once she ordered a goblet of wine, albeit in whispers, but no one made an effort to speak to her. They only gave her sidelong glances.

Though one had outright stared at her. Or at least she believed so. She could not see his face, as he covered it with the hood of his cloak and sat in a corner covered in shadows, but his face was angled directly towards her. Unmoving but still seeing. When Aly’s gaze caught sight of him, goosebumps erupted down her arms. She felt as if he looked through her, though she could not explain why. Aly quickly turned away, but she could feel his eyes on her until she left the tavern. Following her every movement.

“Princess?”

The voice forced her thoughts into the present rather than dwelling on the hooded man from the previous day. It belonged to a lad named Pate, a boy so fresh faced that Aly could barely believe him old enough to serve on her grandfather’s fleet. He was one of the few residing in the tent that was actually in good spirits as the injuries he incurred were relatively minor. He would return to Driftmark as soon as the scorpion piercing along his ribs healed.

“Forgive me, Pate, I—”

He waved her apology away. “I don’t blame ya. Listenin’ ‘bout my father’s tannery in Spicetown isn’t rivetin’ stuff.”

“I know he will be happy to see you again,” she smiled. “And that will be soon from what the healers tell me.”

“So they tell me too. I’ll stay with him a bit and then return to the fleet.”

What was left of the Velaryon fleet currently anchored in Blackwater Bay, keeping an eye out for any potential threats to King’s Landing now that Rhaenyra sat the throne. With the Triarchy defeated and the capital in her hands, there was no longer a need for the blockade. So instead she used the Velaryon fleet as her royal fleet, not trusting the few captains that remained in the city previously under the command of Ser Tyland Lannister.

“Perhaps we will see one another in King’s Landing should you come ashore.”

“Aye, that’d be nice. Yer a vision, Princess, if I may say.”

Aly gave a light laugh. His comment was bold considering his station, but Aly knew his youth and that he hadn’t seen a woman who wasn’t a healer in many moons explained his audacity.

“You may say,” she said with a secret smile as she stood. “But only this once.”

She strode to the tent flaps where one of the healers, Mylla, folded scraps of clean fabric to use as bandages. Her simple linen dress was already stained with blood and pus despite her only having begun work an hour ago. By the time she left for the day Aly doubted there would be a clean spot anywhere on the fabric. The bed of her nails was dirtied with dried blood, the viscous liquid not coming off as well with a scrub as other bodily fluids did. It was hard work. Dirty work. Work that Aly suspected gave the healers nightmares. She had been plagued with them the previous night herself, tossing and turning as she imagined her brothers screaming in agony as the dragonfire, scorpions, and arrows swirled around them from above while the deep dark water of the Gullet swirled below.

“It means a lot to the men,” Mylla said as Aly approached her. “You coming here.”

“Of course. They need to know that their queen appreciates their sacrifice.”

Mylla hummed, and Aly shifted her shoulders. Other than her, the Grand Maester was the only person from the castle to visit the wounded since the battle. Baela was still nursing her own injuries, and Rhaenyra was grieving three sons, but what did that matter to the smallfolk who grieved their own sons and husbands and fathers and brothers?

“Should you need anything, anything at all, send word to the castle. The Grand Maester will see to it.”

As Aly returned to the castle she vowed to speak to her mother about the plight of the smallfolk on the island. Her mother needed to understand the necessity of a gesture, something that would make them see how much she valued their contributions to the war. Perhaps Aly could convince her mother to open the Wyndwyrm to the wounded. The tower was certainly large enough, and it might help the men’s recovery to sleep in a room with stone walls rather than wool. Less at the mercy of the elements. And no one lived in the tower, not since her father’s death, so their arrival would not displace anyone.

Yes, that was what she would do. Mayhaps that would remind the smallfolk that their queen would take care of them.

After the hour she spent in the tent, Aly never felt more grateful to be greeted by the incense of the small castle sept. The smell of cinnamon and lemon was faint, it had been hours since the septon who resided in the village had thrown about his thurible during the morning prayer he led for the castle servants, but it provided her the same comfort it always did. And comfort she needed. She stood in the entrance for a few moments allowing her eyes to adjust leaving the brightness of the morning for the comparative darkness of the sept. Once they did adjust to the candlelight and the faint rays of sunshine shining through the stained glass, Aly walked to the altar of the Father and knelt.

The prayers she said for the injured as she lit a candle were clumsy, as her prayers always felt. During her visit to the sept the previous afternoon, her first time in a sept in many moons, she found the acts of kneeling and praying and providing an offering of candlelight both familiar and awkward. But reassuring above all.

Next she kneeled in front of the Stranger. The one face of the Seven that rarely invited votives, but in the aftermath of the battle his altar was nearly covered in lit candles and small trinkets. Offerings by the castle servants to ask that the face of death care for their loved ones on their crossings, that he guide them to the seven heavens. The same request that Aly intended to make now, repeating her prayers from yesterday.

“Look after my brothers,” she whispered as she lit one of the few unlit candles at the Stranger’s altar. “Aegon and Viserys are young, and Jace…” She inhaled deeply in an effort to prevent the gathering tears from falling. “I know not how long their crossing will take. If you have already seen them to the seven heavens and they are with Luke and Visenya, or if they still have a long journey ahead of them. But look after them. Care for them.”

Aly’s lips began to quiver. She tightened her hands into fists but she could not fight it. There in front of the altar of the Stranger she cried for her brothers, the hooded figure looking down on her. Whether he looked on in contempt or sympathy she did not know. She did not care. Not as the sobs forced her to hunch over and cover her face as her grief manifested. Grief for everyone she had lost. For everything she had lost. For the path that lay before her now.

Your mother is not how she was. Your brothers’ deaths have affected her greatly. It’s best you prepare yourself now.

Grand Maester Gerardys’s last words to Aly before she left Dragonstone played in her mind constantly during her flight to the capital. She knew, of course, that her mother grieved her sons deeply. That she would not be the same as she had once been. But the Grand Maester’s warning made her nerves flare and her stomach churn as she drew closer and closer to the capital, Lyrax’s wings flapping in the late morning sky. Unsure exactly what would greet her upon landing.

She steeled herself to face whatever had become of Aegon, whether her mother had killed him or kept him in the dungeons. Publicly she would appear as if his fate did not bother her. Privately she would be free to weep and mourn the man she loved as she already had countless times before. She also readied herself to argue with her mother if necessary when it came to Helaena and the children, refusing to back down. Determined to set things right where she could. Aly would see to it that her aunt and Jaehaera and Maelor remained alive and together.

Just as when she flew towards Dragonstone for the first time in several moons, strong emotions hit her upon seeing King’s Landing below. The sloped roofs of the stone and wooden buildings. The hills of Rhaenys and Visenya. The Red Keep in the distance, its tall stone towers and keeps looming over the city. So many memories hit her all at once. Going to the Slippery Eel with Aegon, dancing with him and playing dice games. Sitting with Helaena and her ladies while they embroidered and gossiped. Chuckling with Alarra over Barbrey’s poor playing of the high harp. Dancing and drinking at the feasts her grandfather held. Pacing Aegon’s chambers in agony while he visited Helaena to conceive Maelor. Disagreeing with him over petty matters. Quarreling with her uncle just before she left the Red Keep and then attempting to reconcile before they did not see each other again for quite a while.

All the laughter and tears.

She had been happy in the city. Perhaps the happiest she would ever be. But that may as well have been a lifetime ago.

The Dragonpit sat atop the Hill of Rhaenys, its curved gilded dome standing out among the shanties of Flea Bottom on the east side of the hill and the nicer buildings of Ironview on the downward slope of the hill. Lyrax swiftly descended down towards it, gracefully angling her body in the direction of one of the openings underneath the dome without Aly having to command her. The ten moons since the she-dragon left King’s Landing not at all affecting her memory. Lyrax grew from a hatchling to a drake to an adult dragon in the Dragonpit, and just like her rider, the memories ran deep.

Two Dragonkeepers slowly approached once Lyrax landed in the pit, their black steel armor gleaming in the low torchlight. Aly recognized them as soon as she climbed down from her saddle: Collio, the Dragonkeeper Elder, and Lysandra, who served as an acolyte in Aly’s youth to then become Collio’s most trusted Dragonkeeper.

“Princess Aelora,” Collio greeted in High Valyrian as soon as Aly’s boots hit the soft ground. “Your mother told us to expect you. Welcome back.”

“Thank you.”

Happy to have returned to the Dragonpit, Lyrax stalked off towards the cave she always called her own without needing to be prompted by either Aly or the Dragonkeepers’ long staffs. Aly could not help but feel sorry for the beast as she watched her go. Her mate would not be waiting for her. While Baela battled her guilt over the battle in the Gullet, too full of grief to answer the many questions Aly had going back several moons, the Grand Maester had no such qualms. While Gerardys did not know too many specifics on account of the different rumors and reports that reached Dragonstone, he did confirm a few things that Aly already knew from Jace’s earlier letters (namely Aegon’s injury incurred at the Battle of Rook’s Rest) and told her several things that she did not. Such as the fate of Aegon’s dragon Sunfyre. The great golden dragon’s wing was nearly half torn off from his skirmish with Meleys, and he could not fly back to King’s Landing.

Could Lyrax sense that her mate was not there? Or did she still possess hope that they would see each other again?

Facing similar prospects in regards to Aegon, Aly did not know which was worse.

“She hunted her own food in the wolfswood,” Aly told the Dragonkeepers, her eyes still looking in the direction of the tunnel down which Lyrax had gone. Listening for a melancholic call upon realizing Sunfyre could not be found. “She’ll need to keep doing so here. I don’t want her to become lazy, she’ll need to keep hunting once we return north.”

“Of course,” Lysandra said. “The kingswood has plenty of game to choose from, especially now with Vhagar—”

The abruptness with which she stopped speaking caused Aly to turn. The Dragonkeeper looked uncharacteristically embarrassed, almost afraid. Worried she had said the wrong thing by merely acknowledging her uncle’s dragon now that Rhaenyra held the city.

“Yes, I imagine Vhagar’s absence has made quite a difference in the game population.”

Lysandra’s shoulders untensed, and relief washed over her face. “Yes, it has. Lyrax will have as much or as little variety in her diet as she wishes.”

“Good.”

It was only once Aly made her way out of the Dragonpit that the cry she had been listening for reached her ears. Lyrax had realized Sunfyre was nowhere to be found. But that did not stop her from calling out. Hoping her mate would hear her and return. Deep sorrow filled Aly’s chest as she forced herself forward. Wanting to go to her dragon to soothe her but knowing that she couldn’t. At least not yet. Not when her mother expected her.

The massive bronze and iron doors of the main gate slowly swung open as she approached. Ten gold cloaks emerged from the other side of the doors, pushing to open them, and revealed a large oak wheelhouse surrounded by two Queensguard. Aly could not identify the knights as their visors covered their faces, and she slowly realized that she may not be familiar with them at all. Her mother had only had two Queensguard when Aly left for Winterfell, and Ser Steffon had since died. Had her mother filled the vacancies with knights who had come from the crownlands? Or were they men who had remained in the city after Viserys’s death but proved their loyalty to Rhaenyra upon her taking the capital?

Her gaze tore away from the Queensguards’ white armor and white cloaks when the wheelhouse door sprang open. Her grandfather, Lord Corlys, emerged and descended the small step stool. Aly took him in as they walked towards one another. He wore tall leather boots, dark trousers, a sea green doublet, and the dark metal pin in the shape of a hand that signified his office as Hand of the Queen. The very same pin Otto Hightower once wore. Her grandfather stood tall, as he always did, but Aly could see the toll that the war, and everything he had lost, was taking on him. Could see the way his stride no longer contained as much swagger as usual, the way his face belied the tension he felt.

“Aly,” he said in happiness, in relief, as they embraced when they reached each other. Wrapping his arms around her tighter than she could ever remember. “My eyes are glad to behold you.”

She hoped to have cried her last tears of the day earlier that morning in the sept, but in the arms of her grandfather, the deep wound of her grief ripped open once more. Corlys squeezed her even tighter as the sobs racked her body, the pressure reminding her of his presence. Of his care and love for her.

“I flew south as soon as I read your letter,” she sniffled when her tears subsided. “Cregan and I were away when your raven arrived.”

“You’re here now. That is all that matters.”

Aly did her best to give him a smile, but she doubted her red cheeks and still-watery eyes instilled confidence.

“You’ve been on my mind constantly since the battle.” His eyes misted, and Aly had to look away to prevent tears from forming again in her own. “Your brothers were…Jace was…I miss them terribly. As I know you do, too.”

“The world hardly seems the same without them.”

Never again would she coo over her youngest brothers, hear their laughter, read to them in their nursery. Would never see them grow older. See how their personalities took shape. Perhaps they would have become knights and married women they loved. Perhaps they would have joined the Kingsguard to protect their eldest brother once he ascended the throne. And Jace…she would never again receive his advice, never find brotherly comfort with him or jest with him. She would never get to see him become the man she knew he could be.

Her brothers would never become anything, and it tore her heart into a million pieces. Made the sun appear not as bright, her food taste not as sweet.

“Come,” Corlys said after a beat. “Your mother is expecting you.”

As she climbed into the carriage, her grandfather said behind her, “At my signal, Ser Lyonel.”

“Ser Lyonel?” Aly inquired once Corlys sat opposite her on the red velvet bench cushion. She could not recall a knight with that name at the court in King’s Landing, and she knew for certain he was not a part of her mother’s household.

“One of Lord Commander Marbrand’s recruits,” he practically grumbled as he tapped the door. Giving the signal for the carriage to begin moving. “Green boys but those whose loyalty is without question.”

Aly looked out the windows as the carriage made its way down the Street of the Sisters. Taking the city in after her time away. While the wheelhouse only traveled through the very fringes of Flea Bottom on its way towards Central Square, the shoddy buildings and houses leaning over the narrow alleys was unmistakable. Between the wooden frame structures she saw residents of the slum going about their day, the men and women moving hurriedly as the children ran underfoot. Aly did her best not to wrinkle her nose. She managed to evade the scent while in the sky, but on the ground the smell of shit was unavoidable.

“How is Baela?” Corlys inquired, forcing Aly to tear herself away from looking out the window and look upon him. And see the concern written all over his face as he thought of his other granddaughter.

“She blames herself,” she answered honestly. “She thinks that if she had attacked the Triarchy herself that Jace would still be alive.”

His voice was thick when he said, “If she had done that her body would be at the bottom of the Blackwater alongside him.”

“That’s what I told her. But guilt has a strange way of twisting one’s mind.”

He breathed out a humorless laugh. “That I know all too well.”

“Is High Tide truly gone?” Aly asked after a few moments of contemplative silence.

The question almost felt silly in light of all that had happened. All that the Triarchy had taken from her. But High Tide had been such an integral part of her childhood, holding memories both good and bad. Sitting on the arm of the Driftwood Throne in the Hall of Nine as she hung on her grandfather’s every word as he regaled her with stories of his past voyages. Splashing her brothers and father when they visited the beach. Feeling as if the entire world burned around her after hearing that her father had died. Practically seeing him around every corner every time she visited her grandparents in the years following, walking the same steps he once had. Feeling her heart ache at the emptiness of his absence.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “Burned to ash. As was most of Spicetown.”

The village, too, held bittersweet memories for Aly. She loved going into the town as a girl to buy cheap trinkets and seashell jewelry. And that was where, the night before Laena’s funeral, she sneaked into a tavern with Aegon and drank too much wine. Where he saw her interest in a silver mermaid with blue topaz eyes and returned later to buy her the necklace. But the village was also where Qarl murdered her father. Left him for dead after stabbing him and escaped, never to be seen again. And every time Aly visited Spicetown afterwards, she wondered if the spot upon which her eyes landed was where her father had laid in his own blood until the household guards found him.

“When the war is over I will build a new seat. One even grander than High Tide.”

Corlys’s words were full of promise, but his tone did not carry much gravitas.

“The Grand Maester said Mother took the city in less than a day,” Aly prompted once the wheelhouse turned onto the King’s Way. Hoping to gain a better understanding of the current state of things in the castle and the city as a whole.

Her grandfather nodded gravely. “Daemon still has friends in the City Watch from his time as Commander. They opened the gates for our army.”

Our army. That had surprised her the previous night when she accosted Grand Maester Gerardys with all her questions. The last Aly had heard, Aegon controlled Rook’s Rest, Rosby, Stokeworth, and the town of Duskendale despite Lady Meredyth refusing to yield the castle even after her husband was beheaded. Which meant their hosts could not be relied upon to assault the city, leaving the closest armies of the crownlands not at her mother’s disposal. But the men of Massey’s Hook marched to King’s Landing from the south, and the hosts belonging to Lords Bar Emmon and Celtigar sailed with the Velaryon Fleet. And what few men there were on Dragonstone did the same, coming up to the city gates after the fleet docked.

It was all very complicated, and it made Aly realize just how little of the minutiae of the war Jace had shared with her in his letters. And how quickly things could turn.

Her mouth and throat felt dry as she asked, “And Aegon? What’s become of him?”

Corlys sighed, and Aly straightened her shoulders. Preparing to school her expression to hide her emotions as he told her whatever fate had befallen her uncle.

“He is gone. Escaped the city.”

Aly’s brows rose and her lips formed into an “oh,” not bothering to hide her surprise. She expected to hear of his execution or his imprisonment. Expected to force back tears as she continued to sit in the wheelhouse pretending she did not care. Pretending as if her uncle meant nothing to her, had never meant anything to her. As if she had not loved him once. As if she did not love him still.

The last thing she expected to hear was that her uncle was seemingly alive and safe and away from her mother’s grasp.

“Escaped?” she could not help but repeat in bewilderment.

“Fled,” Corlys amended. “Alicent yielded the castle peacefully, and when your mother entered she found no trace of him. Him, his children, or Lord Larys.”

Jaehaera and Maelor were whisked away.

The thought comforted her, that they had not been killed or sent to the Wall and the Silent Sisters. It comforted her for all of one moment before her mind caught up with all the grim possibilities. If they were found, some hedge knight or sellsword would want to curry favor by returning them to the queen. Alive or dead. Most likely dead.

I will not let that happen. By all the gods that exist.

She could not help but think of Aegon as well. Of what would happen to him once he was found. He would be killed instantly, no doubt, if he was discovered by anyone but the most loyal supporter. The image of coming to court one morning and hearing her mother happily proclaim she had been gifted Aegon’s head made her chest tighten.

“What of Helaena?” she asked barely above a whisper.

“She is…in the castle. A prisoner but one provided every comfort. No one believes she knows where her husband and children are.”

Since she was left behind, no one told her their destination. For her own safety.

It made Aly’s heart sink. Her aunt had already lost one son, and now she did not know where her other two children were. Had no way to reach them, to know if they were safe. Her sweet and kind aunt, who had not done anything wrong, separated from everyone she loved except her own mother.

“Where do you think they are? Aegon and the children?”

He gave a small shrug. “Somewhere far from here, living well if I had to wager. He took the treasury with him.”

“All of it?” she asked, her brows furrowing deeply. That seemed…far fetched considering how rich she knew the crown to be.

Yet Corlys nodded. “There was not a single coin to be found inside the vaults.”

“How is that possible? The treasury cannot just be sneaked out of the Red Keep under everyone’s noses.”

“But somehow Aegon managed it.”

That same sense of unease that Aly felt on Dragonstone crept up her spine. Her mother sat the Iron Throne, but Aegon had escaped and the crown had no money. Not to mention the fact that Aemond, who rode the largest dragon in the world, was but a flight away from attacking the Red Keep with the armies of the westerlands and some of the Reach behind him. Did her mother’s armies in the city number enough men to best Aemond should it come to it? If they didn’t, should her uncle attack they would all have to flee the city on dragonback. Which would leave the throne empty for Aegon to potentially return.

Despite her victory, Rhaenyra’s position was precarious. And from the look on her grandfather’s face, she knew he realized it, too.

The sound of the castle gates opening drew Aly’s attention back to the window. And she gasped at the sight before her. Numerous heads decorated the spikes, drops of dried blood congealing around them. Flies swarmed the mottled and rotting flesh, muscles and sinew visible both from natural decay and the crows pecking on the parts of the corpses left for them to feast upon. Yet despite the mutilation she recognized the heads. The men whom the heads had once belonged. Lord Wylde, who served her grandfather as master of laws. Ser Otto Hightower, the former Hand of the King who never mistreated Aly but somehow always managed to unnerve her. Lords Rosby and Stokeworth, lords who supported Rhaenyra but bent the knee for Aegon due to their presence in King’s Landing. Aly could still recall Alarra’s distress seeping through her letter as she relayed her former goodfather’s actions. Begging for Rhaenyra’s mercy by proxy. Mercy that, in the end, she refused to give.

Your mother is not how she was. Your brothers’ deaths have affected her greatly. It’s best you prepare yourself now.

“They were faithless friends,” her grandfather told her, referring to Lords Rosby and Stokeworth. Parroting his queen’s words but his expression betrayed his doubt.

The last time Aly had been so close to death was the day Daemon slew Vaemond Velaryon in the throne room. Vaemond’s death happened so quickly that his head still looked as it had on his neck, his skin lively and his eyes open. But these men…their skin was misshapen and discolored. They looked as if they were made of wax. And Aly knew these men. Had smiled at Lord Wylde in the corridors. Ate supper with Ser Otto, conversed with him because he was part of her grandfather’s family. Part of Aegon’s family. She had taken part in one of the happiest days of Lord Rosby’s life when she attended the wedding of his son Raymun to Alarra. She had danced with Lord Stokeworth’s son Gyles at court feasts and shared courtesies with the lord himself. They were men who, for all their faults, had once been flesh and blood and full of life.

But Lord Wylde and Otto were traitors. Schemers who somehow manipulated her uncle into taking the throne. Because Aly knew Aegon better than anyone, and she knew stealing the throne was not his idea. She had to believe it. Because the alternative, that he himself had been considering it the entire time they were together, was too horrendous a prospect to face.

The Red Keep seemed eerily vacant as Aly followed yet another knight of the Queensguard she did not know towards her mother’s new solar. Servants kept their heads down as they scurried to and fro, not speaking to one another. The few courtiers they passed nodded their heads in greeting but no one called out to her or even smiled. This is a court of war, Aly reminded herself. While some of the nobles within the castle only arrived after her mother did, more still resided in the Red Keep when Aegon sat the throne. The fact that they were not imprisoned in their chambers or the dungeons meant they had bent the knee, but they recognized their delicate situation. Saw it every day decorating the spikes on the keep’s main gates.

Though the corridors held few people, they were not completely bereft of life. For every courtier they passed Aly spied at least two cats. Long-haired and short-haired of nearly every color and pattern. Mewling and howling and purring. She wondered when, and why, they had been allowed residence in the castle. Had Aegon brought them in? Her mother? Either answer perplexed her, as neither seemed particularly fond of cats. Or likely to bring so many into the Red Keep.

“You should join us tomorrow at the small council meeting,” her grandfather said once they reached the appropriate door in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Aly swallowed. Once his invitation would have made her balk. She joined her mother’s council on Dragonstone, but she never felt particularly useful. Never felt what advice she did offer was seriously considered. But her time in Winterfell, and Cregan’s designs to ensure she not only made decisions that aligned with his but that she felt confident ruling in his name once he marched south, made her realize that her council was measured and valued. Council that she knew her mother could use.

“All right,” she agreed just as Ser Marbrand—nay, Lord Commander Marbrand—opened the door to allow her entrance.

The queen’s solar looked quite different from when Aly knew it as the king’s solar. Her mother already redecorated it to suit her own tastes, pulling furniture from other unused rooms in the castle to recreate her solar on Dragonstone. The room now held furniture made of wood so dark it almost looked black. Where her grandfather’s sheer white curtains allowed the sunlight to brighten the room in a natural hue, her mother had ordered sheer red curtains placed in front of the westward-facing windows—the fabric making the light appear as if a distorted sunset. Even the tapestries were different, the solar walls valorizing the various exploits of Queen Visenya: setting the roofs of Castle Stokeworth ablaze during the Conquest, setting Dorne on fire in the First Dornish War, and the moment she cut Aegon’s cheek to prove his personal guard were too lazy and slow to protect him.

Her mother stood from one of the high-backed chairs as soon as Aly stepped through threshold. The sight of her nearly made Aly falter. She looked but a shell of herself in her black mourning gown. Her cheeks held no color, her hair, while styled well, seemed more dull than Aly remembered, and her expression appeared haunted. But her eyes, which always held a sharpness to them, now held a fire that Aly knew was fueled by grief and bitterness and hatred.

“Aly,” her mother said while moving to meet her daughter where she stood. Embracing her. Holding her even tighter than Corlys had. “I was so relieved when I received your letter.” She let go of Aly but kept her hands on Aly’s shoulders. As if needing the connection of touch to prove that her daughter truly stood in front of her.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Rhaenyra admitted after she properly took Aly in, her eyes roaming over every inch of her face.

Her grandfather had told it true in the letter he sent her. Aly and Rhaenyra had last left things on tense and uneasy terms—having fought over her marriage to Cregan, Jaehaerys’s death, Rhaenyra’s refusal to speak against the murder of a child, and Aly’s own feelings of being used by her mother to further her own ends—but devastation had a way of temporarily covering all wounds. And, no matter how angry she felt with her mother, Rhaenyra was still her mother. The same mother who had brushed her hair when she was a girl, who once looked at with so much adoration. The mother who comforted her when she was upset, cradled her in her tears. And Aly had always done the same for her. Helped her pick up the shattered pieces after a tragedy.

“I thought you might need me,” Aly said quietly.

Rhaenyra’s expression crumpled as she nodded, and her eyes soon turned watery. Allowing herself the private release of her grief as she stood with her daughter. Grief that caused Aly’s own eyes to tear up yet again. The two women embraced once more, clinging to each other as they cried for the boys they had both lost.

“I’ve missed you dearly,” her mother said a few minutes later as she wiped away the lingering wetness on her cheeks. “And I know your brothers did, too. Jace hoped to see you again as soon as we took the capital. He thought…hoped…”

Rhaenyra trailed off, unable to bring herself to talk further about the beloved son she had lost. The hurt still too great.

“Tell me about Winterfell. About your husband,” she said after she composed herself.

Aly could tell that she tried to keep her voice neutral, but her mother’s inflection over the word husband belied her continued irritation over their marriage. Mayhaps made worse by the fact that the larger, second host had yet to march. Lord Stark gained a princess for a wife without having to do anything to support his queen.

“I have learned to like Winterfell. It is very different from King’s Landing or Dragonstone, but it possesses its own beauty. And Cregan is a very caring husband. He has been kind to me.”

Kinder than I deserve.

“You deserve nothing less.” Her mother’s slight smile faded just before she asked, “And his host? The one he will lead?”

Aly reached up and rested her hand along her collarbones. “I wager it will number at least ten thousand, though their march will have to wait until—”

“I need him to march soon,” Rhaenyra interrupted. “Aemond is currently at Harrenhal, and I will need Cregan’s men should Aemond turn Vhagar on the riverlands armies.”

“The first host of northerners should reach the riverlands within a matter of days,” Aly defended, feeling her annoyance rise despite herself. Realizing that their shared grief was not enough to smooth over their disagreements, after all.

Rhaenyra merely hummed, which made Aly purse her lips in irritation. As she explained the cause of the second host’s delay—that the northmen were still readying for winter, that many men knew they would not return home, that they wanted to ensure their families could survive the winter without them—she tapped her thumb along her collarbone and did her best to keep her tone even.

But she must have been unsuccessful, as her mother sighed and said, “Must we quarrel so soon after your arrival? Please, Aly.”

“I simply want you to see that Cregan is not being fickle. He supports your claim, and is prepared to prove it with his armies, but he won’t move unless he knows his people won’t starve to death. Autumn will not last forever.”

“And hoarding grain is more important than answering his queen’s call?”

“The first host is marching as we speak,” Aly repeated, her voice rising slightly in frustration. “At least Cregan is sending men. I have not heard word of the Valemen crossing the Mountain Road.”

Rhaenyra’s jaw tightened, and Aly tilted her chin upwards. She knew her mother lashed out from fear and anxiety, but Aly refused to let her hold on to her vexation with Cregan. Especially since Aly suspected, in light of the Valemen not having marched either, the root cause lay with her. She had married Cregan despite her mother’s wish to only agree to a betrothal, and she believed, deep down, that it made her mother realize that she could no longer use her as a bargaining chip.

“The Vale armies have not marched, you are correct. They were not prepared for war, and it will take them time before they are. They need coin and supplies.”

And their liege lord did not marry my daughter without giving anything but his so far empty promise.

Though her mother did not say it, Aly knew it was exactly what she was thinking.

“The northerners need time as well,” she said crisply.

Her mother opened her mouth to respond, but Aly cut her off before she could. Completely changing the topic of conversation. Leaving her word on Cregan and the northerners as the last word.

“Grandfather said Aegon was missing when you took the castle, as were Jaehaera and Maelor.”

“Fucking Lord Larys,” Rhaenyra muttered, her anger now focused on the Lord of Harrenhal and the brother that eluded her. “I don’t know how he accomplished it, but he did. I sent men to search every corner of the city yet they all returned empty handed.”

“Do you think they escaped the city? Before you realized they were gone?”

“I don’t know.” The desperate fire in her mother’s eyes returned. “But I have put a generous bounty on each of them.”

It was just as Aly feared. The children’s lives were at risk despite their distance from the Red Keep. An overzealous hedge knight or smallfolk might see them and apprehend them for the coin. And if they thought their deaths would lead to an even greater purse for killing the queen’s rival claimants…

“Jaehaera and Maelor are just babes. Defenseless and innocent! What if they are killed in an attempt to capture them? Brutally savaged from someone attempting to curry favor from you? Or harmed by greedy sellswords competing with one another for the coin?”

Her mother’s silence was answer enough.

The image of Helaena weeping over her child’s corpse made bile rise into Aly’s throat. Aly could not save everyone, gods did she know that, but she could save Jaehaera and Maelor. To make amends in the only manner available to her.

“Demand the children be brought to you alive or there will be no reward,” Aly pleaded. “Too many children have already died. Don’t be responsible for their deaths, too.”

“Their father refused your brothers the mercy for which you now beg,” Rhaenyra practically spat.

“Then kill Aegon,” Aly forced out. Feeling sick as she said the words. “Don’t punish the babes for their father’s deeds. Prove that you are more worthy of the throne.”

Each second waiting for Rhaenyra’s response was agony. But in the end, and after too many beats of silence, her mother agreed to it. That was enough of a victory for now. Once the children were found alive, if they ever were, Aly would work to convince her mother to allow them to remain with Helaena. Lock them in one of the towers if need be, as long as they were not separated. Helaena did not deserve that. Not after everything that had happened.

“I am meeting Lord Celtigar soon,” Rhaenyra said. Dismissing her.

As she walked the corridors of the Red Keep, Aly found herself plagued with memories in a way she never had been before. Memories of her childhood that flooded her mind with each hall passed. Her childhood with Jace. The pair racing down the corridor to see who bested whom. Jace hiding behind a corner to jump out and frighten her. Aly shoving him because he kept following her and she was desperate to be rid of him. The two of them playing some made up game, Aly constantly changing the rules to ensure she won. Aly comforting him after he fell and skinned his knee. Jace putting his hand on her shoulder as she complained that Grand Maester Mellos favored her uncles in their lessons.

She gave no thought as to where her steps led her until she found herself standing in front of a familiar door. Unconsciously seeking the comfort she always found within. But the chambers felt cold as she stepped through them. She wrapped her arms around herself hoping to recreate even a sliver of the warmth the rooms once provided her. The featherbed had been stripped bare of all but its pillows, the furniture covered with sheets to prevent the building up of dust. These rooms, which had been occupied for just over twenty years, were no longer intended for use. The only thing she recognized that remained and was still uncovered was the tapestry near the bed depicting Aegon the Conqueror’s coronation at the Starry Sept.

Even in the current state of the chambers, memories rushed through her. Playing cyvasse, drinking in front of the hearth, dancing to a tune only she heard in her own head. Smiling. Laughing. Holding one another through the night.

As she stood in the middle of the rooms alone, Aly pretended she could still feel Aegon’s warmth and smell his sandalwood soap. Pretended she could hear him tell her that everything would be all right.

Chapter Text

The sound of the door closing behind Aly echoed in the corridor. The torches flickering in their sconces provided the only source of sound as she stood alone in the hall. Almost alone, she thought as her gaze shifted to her left towards the door in front of which two guards silently stood not paying her any mind. She barely noticed them earlier when she walked in a daze to Aegon’s old rooms subconsciously seeking out the comfort he once provided her. But now, her head throbbing from all the tears she had shed since the sun rose that morning and her eyes feeling heavy and raw, the guards captured her attention. Or rather, the door they guarded. The door that opened into Helaena’s chambers.

As she studied the guards’ cheap chainmail and woolen cloaks freshly dyed gold Aly realized that her aunt still resided within. Even after Aegon called himself king, Helaena his supposed queen, she remained within her childhood bedchamber. The quarters which held so many happy memories. The rooms where she and Aly practiced their dancing as children. Where the pair shared jests and promises and their hopes for their future. Where they sat with Helaena’s ladies all day smiling and embroidering. The rooms where her children were brought into the world by Grand Maester Orwyle as Helaena lay on her back and tightly gripped the hands of Alicent and Aly. Where the children played and laughed.

The rooms where Helaena no doubt retreated after hearing of Jaehaerys’s murder, feeling as if her heart had been ripped open and torn asunder.

How would her aunt greet her upon walking through the threshold? Would she yell at her to leave, throwing insults at her all the while? Or would she merely stare at her, her fury and pain from the loss of her son everpresent in her eyes, until Aly left of her own accord? Or would the pair embrace, tears falling down both of their faces, as the two women comforted each other in their shared grief? Did any love for her niece still remain? Or had her grief and anger superseded all feelings of warmth?

Aly desperately desired to know. Desperately wanted to walk away. To leave the corridor without facing her aunt. Without facing the possibility that someone she had held so dear to her for her entire life now hated her.

But I can be brave.

She owed it to Helaena to be brave. To not shy away from her, no matter what happened afterwards.

Her first step towards the door was timid. Then, feeling ashamed, her next step held more purpose. As did the next. And the next and the next until she was just three steps away from standing directly in front of the guards.

“Princess Aelora.”

“What is it?” she asked snappishly as she turned to face the knight whose call to her stopped her in her tracks. His silver armor needed a polish, but she figured he would not bother as it would soon be replaced by pieces as white as the cloak he wore at his back.

“Queen Rhaenyra sent me to show you to your chambers.”

Chambers that were not located down the same hall in which one of her mother’s prisoners resided. Did her mother even know Aly had made her room at the end of that corridor during her previous time in King’s Landing? Had loved those chambers? Would she have cared?

Aly briefly considered telling the unknown Queensguard to wait, that she needed to speak with her aunt, but instead she resigned herself to following him. The last thing she needed was an earnest new member of the Queensguard twisting her command as a refusal to obey her mother and queen. His gratefulness at being elevated to the Queensguard no doubt still meant blind loyalty to his queen alone over practicing discretion when it came to the other members of the family.

I will return. Soon, Aly silently promised her aunt as she eyed the door leading to her chambers one last time before moving to follow the knight.

“What is your name, Ser?” she inquired once she walked in step with him.

“Ser Loreth Landsdale, Your Grace.”

That was certainly not a name she expected to hear. House Landsdale were landed knights with a humble keep on meagre holdings in the southwest of the crownlands located just twenty leagues from Tumbleton and the northeastern border of the Reach. A house more renowned for their sheep farming than skills with a sword. Though perhaps Ser Lorenth always aspired to something greater, always pushed his master-at-arms as a boy in the hopes of one day becoming a knight and serving his queen.

Her grandfather’s words from earlier echoed in her mind. One of Lord Commander Marbrand’s recruits. Green boys but those whose loyalty is without question.

While she found his blind loyalty a tad inconvenient at the moment, loyalty, above all else, was what her mother needed most.

Aly walked with Ser Loreth to the end of the corridor and then to the main staircase. They remained within Maegor’s Holdfast, but her new rooms were located four floors above her old chambers. The wing of the Holdfast in which they walked had, during her grandfather’s lifetime, been used to accommodate visiting kin. Ormund Hightower, during his visit to the capital shortly after his betrothal to SamanthaTarly, stayed in quarters nearby. Even though just four floors separated her new chambers from her old ones, the distance felt immeasurable. As if she was residing in a completely different part of the Red Keep.

But there was little about which to complain regarding the chambers. Her new rooms were spacious, just a little larger than the rooms she called her own when she lived in King’s Landing when she served as a companion to Helaena. To Aly’s relief, just as her old chambers, her window faced north onto the Blackwater. Though her quarters were too high to hear the waves crashing or smell the salt in the air, the mere fact that she could see the water at any time provided a great comfort to her. The sitting area contained two high-backed settees with black velvet cushions and a low circular polished oak table. A few feet away stood a matching table with taller legs surrounded by four cushioned chairs. A red quilt covered the large featherbed, and a tapestry depicting Septon Oswyck marrying Jaehaerys and Alysanne in secret on Dragonstone hung above it. A vanity made of oak to match her tables stood just a yard away from the door leading to the privy, essential items such as brushes and ribbons already resting upon its surface.

And standing just to the left of the vanity was Cass. The copper-haired handmaid who served her during her previous time in the Red Keep. Aly smiled as she took in a familiar face, her maid’s simple blue dress and hair half covered with a kerchief, though her smile faded once Aly finished properly taking her in. Though she attempted to hide it, Cass looked aggrieved. Her face and shoulders were tense and her own smile tight but courteous.

“Thank you, Ser Loreth,” Aly said, dismissing the knight. When he did not immediately leave, not understanding her prompting, she told him, “That will be all.”

“Aelora,” Cass greeted with a slight dip of her chin once Ser Loreth left them.

“It is good to see you again,” Aly told her honestly. The mood of the court was so full of uncertainty, but at least in her chambers she would be in the company of someone she knew and trusted. A true kindness of her mother to insist that Hildy and Pia, the women who were in charge of the servants—at least they had been when Viserys ruled—assign Cass to her.

“Thank you. It is good to see you, as well. It has been quite some time.”

And everything is so different now.

That was obvious from the slight discomfort that had yet to leave her handmaid.

“We put away the gowns and other items that you left in the Red Keep when you returned to Dragonstone,” Cass told her. “I’ve instructed some of the servants to bring them up.”

“Thank you.”

The silence that stretched on for a few moments felt awkward, which only increased Aly’s growing feeling of anxiety. She had known the copper-haired handmaid for years. She had smiled and occasionally jested with her, had stood as naked as her name day in front of her as she dressed, had believed the maid kept her best interest in mind. She had even once considered bringing her to Dragonstone to keep her on as a handmaid. Yet the moons apart nearly made Aly feel as if they were meeting for the first time. Aly lived away from the capital the entire war up until that morning, Cass hadn’t. She resided in the castle when Aegon took the throne, when Luke’s death had been announced, when Jaehaerys had been murdered. When Rhaenyra claimed the city and killed those who turned cloak. Some nobles believed their servants cared not for politics, went about their days thinking only of the lords and ladies they served and not matters of the realm. But war brought fear and uncertainty and death. And it was clear from Cass’s face that the castle servants felt every bit as uneasy as the courtiers. Feared for their positions and perhaps their lives if they had served a traitor.

“How is your husband? And your little girl?” Aly asked, hoping to bring levity to the conversation. Hoping the relay to Cass that she was safe. That Aly cared for her, even if she could not recall the name of either her handmaid’s husband or their child.

Cass’s nostrils flared. The act was miniscule, over quickly before her mask of neutrality returned. But Aly saw it all the same.

“They are fine.”

The butcher shop in Central Square, Aly remembered suddenly. She saw Cass’s husband once in the city, one of the few times she openly ventured out into King’s Landing with Aegon. She primarily recalled thinking him handsome. Tall with dark hair and muscular.

“Does he still work with his father in Central Square?”

“Gerren runs the butcher shop himself now.”

Aly merely nodded, unsure how to respond. Thankfully, three servants entering into her rooms carrying buckets of steaming hot water saved her from needing to.

She quickly undressed and got to work scrubbing the stink of dragon off of her skin with the apple-scented soap and hair oil Cass provided her. But Aly continued to sit in the hot soapy water even once clean. Thinking. Of her mother. Of her brothers. Of Helaena. Of the children. Of Aegon. Of how quickly everything seemed to have fallen apart. Of how the last time she resided in the Red Keep she felt so elated, a girlish and naive happiness she now realized. Believing that sorrow would never touch her again. That she would marry Cregan and convince him to allow Aegon and Helaena to live in Winterfell. That she and her uncle would build a life there together. That they would remain together for the rest of their days. Happy and content.

But life was not a song. It was full of grief and heartbreak and tragedy, the moments of joy fleeting. As difficult to capture as a wave.

It was only once the water turned cold and Aly began to shiver that she emerged from the copper tub. The servants that Cass called to bring up her gowns, the ones Aly asked Alicent to order for her shortly after her arrival in the capital, had already come and gone. High-necked gowns of various colors, shifts, chemises, stockings, and even a few nightgowns filled nearly the entire oak wardrobe. It felt strange stepping into the dark purple gown again, the samite material sitting uncomfortably against her throat. Every swallow, every breath, felt constricted. Her fingers itched to pull it away from her. But it would only be for a little while.

Aly wanted to badger Cass with questions as the maid gently ran a comb through her damp curls before beginning a simple plait. Wanted to ask about everything that had happened since she first left the city, wanted to ask about Helaena and Aegon and the children and the war, to receive the perspective of someone who lived in the castle when it all occurred. But she kept silent, doubtful that Cass would provide honest answers. She did not want to put her maid in the position of feeling as if her inquiries were an examination, one that, should Cass answer incorrectly, could send her to the dungeons. But Aly did not wish to sit in silence, either, as the current one still felt heavy rather than easy.

“I’ve spent the last several moons in Winterfell,” she told her handmaid after several moments of racking her brain in an attempt to think of a suitable topic of conversation. “I do not know if you heard of my marriage to Cregan Stark.”

“Aye, the news made its way this far south.”

“The north is…very different than King’s Landing. I don’t know if you would enjoy it. But it possesses its own beauty. Snow and hills and mountains and large forests.”

“It sounds nice,” Cass said courteously.

“And Cregan is a good man. He is very kind.” She swallowed. “He cares for me a great deal.”

“You deserve that in a husband, Aelora.”

Aly’s eyes briefly caught those of her handmaid in the mirror, but she turned away quickly. Afraid that if she held Cass’s gaze for too long she would inadvertently reveal that she was not quite sure she agreed. Not after everything she had done.

“I suppose I only wish for us to be as happy as you are with Gerren,” Aly said after a moment. “You mentioned that he runs the butcher shop himself now. I suppose that means he no longer works in the castle kitchens.”

Cass stuttered in her movements, pulling the right strand of her hair over the middle instead of the left. “No, he no longer works in the kitchens,” she responded as she corrected the plait.

That must make things difficult for them, Aly thought as Cass secured her hair with a black ribbon. She wondered how often the pair saw one another. A few precious moments each evening and morning before separating for the day? Gerren’s father must either be ill or have died; smallfolk worked until they were unable to do so any longer.

Aly regretted asking about it as soon as the question left her mouth.

“My goodfather and goodmother were killed in the riots,” Cass said. It was obvious from her tone that she was attempting to keep her voice even.

“Riots?” Aly repeated. Her grandfather had not mentioned riots in the city during his brief recounting of her mother taking control of the city.

Her ignorance caused Cass to bristle, though again she attempted to hide it. Knowing her place as a servant did not allow her to show anger towards the princess she served.

“The riot that broke out in the city when the princ— when the queen’s dragons appeared in the sky.”

“Oh,” Aly murmured, ignoring Cass’s near mistake regarding her mother’s title. Calling Rhaenyra the queen aloud was still a new privilege; the servants would have never dared when Aegon resided in the castle.

Cass proceeded to explain how the sight of several dragons in the sky caused panic, and the Kingslanders rushed towards the city gates for fear that they would be closed. For fear that a sack of the city was imminent, and with it would come executions and rapes and pillaging. So they pushed and stepped all over their fellow city dwellers. Some pushing so hard it caused an old man and woman to crack their skulls on the jagged street and bleed out.

“Gerren found them laying in front of the butcher shop the next morning,” Cass finished shakily. “Their heads were caved in from how many people stepped on them in their haste to leave the city.”

“That’s horrible,” Aly said aghast. “I’m sorry.”

She feared her words came across as hollow. She had not known Gerren’s parents. Had never met Gerren. And it was her own mother’s arrival to the city that had caused their deaths. And the deaths of countless others, leaving a trail of resentment amongst the survivors who loved them.

“I will pray to the Stranger for them,” Aly assured her handmaid. Uncertain what else to say.

“Thank you, Aelora. That is most kind.” Her words were courteous, but her tone carried an undercurrent of sharpness to it.

“I am quite tired,” Aly told her. “I will call for you when I need you.”

Her eyes followed her handmaid as she left the chambers, and her gaze remained on the door once Cass closed it behind her. Her words digging a spot inside her mind and burrowing in. Cementing that the mood in the capital was just as bad as on Dragonstone. And not just among the courtiers who remained from Viserys’s reign, those who initially bent the knee to Aegon and now professed loyalty to Rhaenyra, but the smallfolk, too. Bitterness and resentment was beginning to spread, and it needed to be rooted out before it festered.

Her mother was too busy ruling the realm from the small council chambers and the Iron Throne to make overtures to the smallfolk. She did not think her mother would request it of her, but Aly recognized that it needed to be done. Which meant that responsibility now seemingly sat upon her shoulders. Let the smallfolk see that their queen cared for their wellbeing the same way Alicent had done during Viserys’s reign. Her grandfather’s queen had been so good about conducting charity in the city, visiting orphanages and widows’ homes and motherhouses with Helaena. Earning the love of the people they ruled over. A love that now Aly would need to earn back for her mother, once hailed as the Realm’s Delight.

As she considered how best to strategize conducting the charity work she decided to undertake, her mind could not help but turn towards her aunt again and again. Picturing the closed door leading to her chambers, her prison, with two guards standing on either side of the threshold.

Aly wrung her hands as she stepped towards her door. Her chest tightened and her stomach churned with each step. Steps that sounded loudly in her ears as she passed so few courtiers and servants in the corridors. When she turned the corner she remembered how anxious she felt walking the very same path just a few years prior when she returned to the capital with Jace to attend Aegon and Helaena’s wedding. Worried that her aunt did not wish to see her. And how Aly had scolded herself for it, convinced herself she was being silly—which proved correct when she stepped into her aunt’s chambers to be met with a soft smile.

Yet now, after everything, she did not know if her worry was misplaced.

She cleared her throat once she stood in front of the gold cloaks so her voice would sound strong when she said, “I am here to see Princess Helaena.”

“No visitors. By orders of the queen,” one of the gold cloaks said. He was the taller of the two and older, his face grizzled and beard flecked with more grey than brown. His voice was rough and gritty. Mean.

“And the queen’s eldest daughter is commanding to be allowed entrance. I am hardly here to engage in deception or trickery against my mother.”

“Queen Rhaenyra commanded no one is allowed to see her, Princess Aelora,” the other gold cloak told her. His tone was kinder than that of his comrade, though it still held a firmness that indicated he would be unmoved by mere sentiment.

“Queen Rhaenyra is who sent me,” Aly lied. Recognizing that nothing else would persuade them. “The princess and I were close once. She trusts me above all others. I am to see if she knows where Aegon is. Or, if she does not, who would be privy to where he hides in fear.”

The guards glanced at each other, and Aly practically saw the wheels in their minds turning in tandem. The official word was that the queen believed her half-sister had no knowledge of her husband’s whereabouts. Which meant she would have no reason to send her daughter to probe Helaena for information. But, while trusted enough to guard such a highly valuable hostage, they were not highly ranked enough to be part of Rhaenyra’s inner circle. Not highly ranked enough to question orders supposedly handed down from her. Or tell the queen herself what Aly had done.

With a gruff exhale and a peeved expression, the older member of the City Watch opened the door for her. Aly muttered a quick thank you before pushing the door open further and gingerly walking through the threshold and into her aunt’s rooms.

Her mouth went slack in surprise at the sight before her. The chambers were uncharacteristically disheveled and the air stale despite the open window. A light coating of dust sat upon every surface. The servants still cleaned the rooms, though clearly not as often as they did before Helaena was considered a prisoner. A plate with a morning meal of berries, bread, quail eggs, and fried ham sat untouched on the table. Her aunt’s personal items and knicknacks lay strewn about on the various surfaces, some laying sideways and others carelessly placed. Heaps of clothing were bunched on the floor in various piles, and all items that belonged to the children had been put away. Yet the rooms themselves paled in comparison to seeing Helaena for the first time in nearly a year. She sat on the settee nearest her window, looking out into the almost mockingly bright day. Her normally glossy platinum hair hung limply down her back, all its shine gone. Her visage was so melancholic Aly had to force herself to not look away, Helaena’s cheeks red and splotchy from tears, her shoulders curled inward as if to protect herself, and her nightgown and dressing gown wrinkled.

“Helaena,” Aly called out, her voice barely above a whisper. She repeated her aunt’s name a bit louder when she did not turn to look at her, but her aunt remained entrapped by the view out of her window. Or, more likely, she was simply too weighed down by grief to engage in conversation.

“It’s Aly,” she said needlessly as she sat down beside her aunt. Foolishly hoping that hearing her niece’s name would stir a reaction.

“I am—”

I am sorry.

But those three words seemed humorously few to properly describe the extraordinary emotions Aly felt. She was so full of regret and anger and remorse and bitterness and sorrow. How did she convey that? And would it even matter to Helaena? Helaena who had done nothing wrong yet buried one son and did not know the location of her other children. Whose entire future was uncertain. How did you express sympathy to someone you loved for losing everything at the hands of someone else you loved?

It was unfair. Everything. All of it. Going back and back. Back to their childhoods. If only Jace and Viserys and Aegon had not been killed. Or Rhaenys had not died. Jaehaerys had not been slaughtered. Aemond had not murdered Luke. Aegon had not stolen Rhaenyra’s throne. If only Aly had married Jace and lived on Dragonstone with Aegon as they planned. If only Aly had not fucked Aegon, had not fallen in love with him. Or her mother had not accepted Helaena’s invitation for Aly to move to King’s Landing, or the invitation to attend her wedding to Aegon. If only Luke had not sliced out Aemond’s eye. Or Rhaenyra’s offer to betroth Aly to Aegon had been accepted. If her mother had made more of an effort to get along with her siblings or even Alicent. If only her grandfather had not been so indecisive about every little thing.

If only if only if only

Not for the first time that day, and mayhaps not for the last time, the heaviness of it all fell upon her in a rush. Her throat felt thick and her eyes filled with tears. And as she cried while sitting on Helaena’s settee, she reached out and grabbed her aunt’s hand. Just to feel the touch, the comfort, of someone she loved. Of someone that she hoped loved her still.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed. Knowing it wasn’t enough. Knowing all other words failed her.

When her tears finally subsided, her heart full with emotions but no longer overflowing, she looked at her aunt once more. Helaena still remained focused on the window. Did she find Aly’s cries tedious? Selfish? Frustrating in her need for absolution? Or did she even hear them, her grief so thick it blocked out anything else?

“I promise Jaehaera and Maelor will remain safe,” Aly vowed. Needing Helaena to know it. To know that someone in the castle still cared for the children. That someone in Rhaenyra’s ear was protecting them. That someone wanted to put an end to the deaths of all the innocents. That the way to avenge the deaths of Luke, Jace, Aegon, and Viserys was not the killing of equally innocent babes.

“They will be returned to you unharmed, and the three of you will live out the rest of your long lives together.”

Aly had not yet worked out the solution she would bring to her mother, other than that they would not be held prisoners forever nor would they be sent to the Wall or the Silent Sisters, but she intended for them to remain free. She knew, deep down, her hope was naive. That her mother would not want to allow any of Aegon’s children true freedom. But Aly would find a way. By all the gods in existence she would find a way. Even if it meant hiding them in the north in defiance of Cregan.

She almost startled when Helaena squeezed her hand and turned to look at her. Her lilac eyes once so full of warmth now held only deep anguish. Looking at her directly, Aly noticed the dark circles under her eyes and how dry her lips were. She wondered how long it had been since Helaena spoke to anyone. Certainly not since Rhaenyra took control of the city. And from her grandfather’s veiled comment regarding her state of mind, Aly guessed her aunt had had few visitors even before that. Alicent, certainly. Her ladies and Aemond, perhaps. Aegon, less likely even before his injury.

Neither spoke, and the longer the silence stretched on the more difficult it became to break it. So neither did. Instead they remained seated beside one another in complete quiet, their hands still clasped together. As the moments passed and the time Aly stayed in her aunt’s chambers increased the more she realized they did not need to speak. They understood one another. Shared each other’s pain as only kinfolk could. They were blood, and that bond ran deeper than any other.

Eventually Aly gave Helaena’s hand a squeeze and stood to leave. The sun hung high in the sky, and she suspected someone would eventually come looking for her. Her mother or her grandfather. Or even Daemon, though that seemed doubtful.

“I know about you and Aegon.”

Aly froze, but her mind whirled. She could play the fool, could pretend as if she had no idea as to what her aunt referred. But she owed it to Helaena to not insult her intelligence. So when she turned on her heel to face Helaena once more, her expression was neither confused nor apologetic.

“How long have you known?”

She expected her aunt to answer that she only found out once Viserys died. That Aegon confessed all to his wife once he claimed the throne, knowing he and Aly would never see each other again. So when Helaena did answer she felt as if all the air in her lungs had been forced out.

“I began to suspect when you were away on Dragonstone shortly after Alarra’s wedding, but I knew it to be true when he came to my rooms when we agreed to conceive Maelor. He cried afterwards. Every time we coupled.”

Aly’s brows furrowed in disbelief. In irritation. Helaena began to suspect after Alarra’s wedding. The beginning of it all. It was at Rosby that she and Aegon first confessed their love for one another, that they allowed their shared passion to overtake them in a dark corridor. And in all the days and nights that followed, guilt gnawed at her. Hinged its jaw around her and gripped so tight that she felt as if her very bones boasted teeth marks. Made her feel as if she was the worst person in the entire world for betraying her aunt. An aunt that, unbeknownst to her, suspected and then knew but remained silent.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she grit out.

“Would you have stopped? If I did?”

Aly swallowed instead of answering. Because she did not know. Her and Aegon’s love had been all-consuming. Powerful. The kind of love singers wrote songs about. The kind of love in which whatever obstacles lay before them did not hinder them, only made their shared bond stronger.

No, she did know. She would have not stopped even if Helaena broached the subject. Would not have been capable of stopping. Their love and passion burned too hot.

The irritation she felt bubbling within her left her now that her darkest secret laid open before her. Spoken aloud. All the shame and contrition and desire for penitence finally began to lift. She had carried her guilt with her as if it was a second skin. It had become so ingrained to her very being that it would never completely leave her. But perhaps in time it would lessen such that it no longer felt as heavy as an anchor.

Once, years ago, Aly hoped she and her aunt could have an honest conversation about their lives as women grown. She had not been expecting it, but it seemed that time had now come.

“I didn’t wish to hurt you,” Aly said as she returned to the settee. Knowing her words were contradictory to her actions. “It wasn’t…I didn’t…I loved him.”

“And you knew I didn’t.”

She did. That was how she had justified it to herself so many times. Aegon and I love each other. Aegon and Helaena don’t. Not the way a husband and wife should. Not the way I do. A lesser woman would have apologized, but Aly did not wish to lie. She wasn’t sorry. Even after all that had happened, she wasn’t sorry for the time she spent with Aegon.

“I never intended for anything to happen,” Aly said honestly. “I would have carried how I felt with me in silence until the end of my life, but…”

But she and Aegon always found their way to each other. And before she had known it, she was in too deep to claw her way back up. So she had gripped Aegon tight and allowed the current to guide them. Aegon once told her the gods had molded them for each other, and though he said it as he fucked her he did not mean just physically. Their hearts, their souls, were drawn to one another. Perhaps always destined to find one another. The bond they shared, the blood they shared. They saw each other in a way no one else ever had. The way no one else ever would again.

And then Aegon threw it all away. Threw her away.

“What will you do if they find him?” her aunt inquired softly.

“Beg my mother for his life.”

The words came out quickly. Without her thinking them through. But it was the truth. Even after all that had happened, she did not wish him dead.

“You know that will never happen,” Helaena murmured.

Tears pricked her eyes. Because she did know. Aegon had signed his own order of execution the moment he accepted the crown. Taking the black would not pay his debt.

“He loves you still.”

Aly wanted to laugh. If he truly loved her, Aegon would not have stolen her mother’s throne. Would have waited for her and moved Helaena and the children to Winterfell to be with her. Just as he promised.

What does the future look like? For us?

We’ll remain together, in whatever form that takes.

“Aegon loves himself more,” she said after a few beats.

Fury roared in her chest as her uncle flooded her thoughts. His selfishness. His greed. How he had left her. How he had left Helaena. Took their children and left his wife as a hostage.

“Why do you not feel any anger towards him?” Aly demanded. “He abandoned you. Always treated you poorly. Inconsiderately. And me? I fucked your husband, shared his bed each night and then came to your chambers every morning and pretended nothing had happened.”

“I should hate you,” Helaena conceded. “But I can’t. You never embarrassed me. Never flaunted it the way other courtiers might.”

“But—”

“I don’t care enough about Aegon as my husband to hate you. I never wanted to marry him, either,” she confessed. Saying it aloud for perhaps the first time. “There was nothing that he could have done differently to make me love him the way a wife should love her husband.”

“You deserve more from a husband than one who does not embarrass you.”

Tears began to pool in her aunt’s eyes, but Helaena blinked them back before they fell. “That is not my fate, I am afraid.”

Aly wanted to cry for the woman sitting beside her. At how cruel the gods could be. Helaena was sweet and gentle and kind yet she would never know the security and warmth and fire that came from feeling true love and passion. Aly was a liar and a betrayer yet she had felt such all-consuming passion with Aegon and pleasure with Cregan. Two men who treated her with kindness while Helaena never truly had one. And she did not feel bitter or resentful towards Aly. Or even towards Aegon.

She is a better person than I am. I am unworthy of her love. As is Aegon.

It was a tragedy. All of it. How duty and love so rarely seemed to coincide. And Helaena, like Aly, had always done her duty. She had married her brother, whom she loved only as a brother, because it was what her parents wanted for her. Just like Aly would have married Jace, as she did marry Cregan despite her mother’s current lingering irritation over it.

“But I love our children,” Helaena said. “And I grieve for Jaehaerys. I never knew it possible to feel so…empty. To feel as if I will never be warm again.”

“What happened to Jaehaerys was vile,” Aly said thickly. “It was unconscionable.”

Tears returned to Helaena’s eyes and this time she allowed them to fall. Aly wrapped her arms around her aunt, and, to her slight surprise, Helaena deepened the embrace. Allowing her niece to hold her, to gently rub her back as she cried for her eldest son.

“Nothing will happen to Jaehaera or Maelor,” Aly promised again. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Helaena nodded. Trusting her word. Which only strengthened Aly’s resolve.

As she held her aunt Aly’s thoughts remained on the children. Remained on Aegon. Were they in the Reach, hidden in the Hightower? Taking refuge in the Starry Sept under the shield of the old and decrepit High Septon? Had they sailed to Essos?

Wherever they all were, Aly hoped they were safe. That someone looked out for them. That they knew how loved they were. That the children knew how much their mother missed them.

That Aegon knew that, deep down, she still loved him. That she hated him. But she loved him too.