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Chapter Text

"They didn't just break my heart- They taught it how to doubt its own beat."

"You can't expunge painful or unpleasant memories and events; you must overcome them. But I knew I wasn't strong enough to overcome them. I am tired of fighting a battle I know I will always lose."

“From that dream, I got to learn to expect that even people you trust might be holding a knife in their hand, ready to stab you in the back. You can’t expect that everyone will always be loyal.”

- Rhaenyra Targaryen Arryn

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra's POV

108 AC

Six months had passed after her father disinherited her, removing her name from the list of inheritance and giving her rights to Aegon. She thought that once her father saw the future that awaited her, he would make the right decision and find a way to deal with her opposition but it seemed she was putting her hopes in the wrong place. She should have known her father would never support her, even in the dreams she had seen him do nothing to strengthen her claim.

The Alicent in her dream was also not someone she knew, there was so much hatred, and the centre of that hatred was her. Had Alicent been such a person all along? Was her kindness all along just a ploy to achieve her goals?

She felt sick and vomited for days every time she passed Alicent and Aegon. It was not because her rights were taken away but seeing how the people she loved and trusted either left her to rot alone or died for her. Her children with Harwin, the bastards of Velaryon. All three were brave and full of promise but none of them made it to the ages of six and ten, and there was no body for a proper burial.

Being in the place where she was born and raised no longer made her safe after having that dream, every time she walked down the corridors that should be familiar felt unfamiliar to the point of suffocation. Not to mention the whispering voices that were with her every step of the way. She recognized the gaze and tone of voice, the gaze and tone of voice she saw and heard in her dreams. The look of pity and the tone of voice when she still failed to have a child in the first year of her marriage with Laenor.

Wasn't it really unfair? Her life was filled with nothing but tragedy. Had she not suffered enough now for the gods to show her her suffering in the future. Shouldn't her father have done something to protect her instead of giving his back to her. The injustice she endured so many times made her unable to bear being in the Red Keep and decided to go to the Vale, her mother's birthplace.

The letter from Vale questioning the King's decision arrived 2 weeks after her disinheritance. The people of the Vale dubbed her father as a ‘kinslayer’ and ‘oath-breaker.’ Letters to her from relatives she had never met also arrived, offering words of comfort and invitations to stay. It was from there that she made her decision. Unable to bear being in the Red Keep, with the memory of the dream haunting her every corridor made her ask her father to allow her to stay with her family. At first her father tried to hold her back. Arguing that she was still the King's daughter and was needed in the Red Keep.

"I had no use and no value before mother and Baelon died, and no use again after Your Highness gave my title to your son. I will only dry up and suffer here, or is my suffering an entertainment you look forward too every day? Considering that every decision you make only leads to suffering for me."

And here she was, in the Vale surrounded by her mother's family. Before leaving the Red Keep, she had taken all the jewellery and belongings of her mother and grandmother, princesses Daella and Alysaa. She was unwilling to see them merely touched by Alicent and her offspring. She also obtained a contract in which her father gave her full power over herself, where she could make her own choices without being bound by anyone, and also a contract that Syrax and her eggs would only belong to her and her descendants. She was given 10,000 gold coins every month and 3,500,000 gold coins left by her mother. She was also allowed to bring a member of the kingsguard to be her guard but she refused. Not wanting to be further tied to his father. She decided to use the reaty to change her surname to ‘Arryn’ and no longer ‘Targaryen’.

Initially, the Eyrie and Vale were to be passed on to Jeyne, as her aunt was childless and there were no descendants of Rodrick Arryn left other than herself at the time who was still a crown princess. But after her inheritance rights were taken away and she changed her name to ‘Arryn,’ her aunt decided to make her her heir.

She brought with her a trusted handmaiden, Elinda Massey, who in her dreams was someone who could be trusted and faithful to her side until the end. Then she also brought two dragon keepers who had been looking after Syrax since syrax was a hatchling. She also came with her two ships ‘the realms delight’ and ‘the Queen Aemma’.

After 2 months of living in the Vale of Arryn, Syrax was able to adapt well, she found a cave in the mountain located just behind the Eyrie fortress. And she let the dragon loose from its chains, giving it the freedom that she couldn't give it in her previous life. After making her the heiress of Arryn, aunt Amanda gave her the education of being the Arryn heiress and future lord paramount. Something her father had never done in her dreams.

'If just being lord paramount requires this much study why didn't father give me a similar education when he made me heir? Why didn't he prepare me? Is that why I failed? Is it because of my lack of preparation that the Green Party was formed? Is that why Alicent turned away? Did father see something in that dream that is why he now chooses Aegon?'

The self-doubting questions kept swirling in her head and being there brought her close to her younger cousins, Jeyne and Joffery. The two people she knew would still fight for her even after she was gone.

She stayed in the room that belonged to her mother when she was a ‘lady’ and not a ‘princess’ or a ‘queen’. There was something calming about being in the Eyrie, whether it was because there were no eyes following her wherever she went or it was simply because she was closer to what was left of her mother. Ever since her mother died and her father married Alicent, the Red Keep no longer felt like home. Even more so after she had that nightmare.

She was strolling in the garden when she heard the familiar roar, and when she looked up at the sky she saw the familiar red silhouette.  

"Daemon" she whispered. Feeling happy she walked back into the Eyrie with a smile. When she arrived at the main hall. Her uncle Daemon was standing there, talking to Aunt Amanda, from his expression the man looked very upset. "Kepus" she addressed him. When the man turned around, the frown on his forehead changed and the annoyed expression that originally coloured his face turned soft. "Princess."

She took her uncle to her chamber, accompanied only by her handmaiden, Elinda. She and Daemon chatted there.

"Why did you give up so easily? It's your right" he said passionately. It was hard to look at her uncle, the one who was always at the forefront when it came to her or her father. But in the end he too turned away and left and never came back. I guess even you in the future finally saw a lot of flaws in me that's why you left.She saw Daemon kneeling before her, clasping her hands. How the man tried to convince her to reclaim what was hers. Saying he would provide an army for her. ‘Oh uncle.. my uncle who is so loyal..’ 

"Rhaenyra I will fight for you... I will raise an army for you... I will make you queen..." he said again. She can't count how many times he said the same thing. She smiled wryly "And father? If you were alive I would be considered a traitor" she asked calmly.

"Fuck Visery... we don't need to care what he wants" he said making her chuckle. she caressed her uncle's hand. "Uncle we both know how much you love and care about what father thinks... aren't all your deeds centred around him?" She said and when she saw Daemon open his mouth to argue she placed her hand on the man's lips, silencing him.

She leaned forwards, making their foreheads meet. "Uncle I'm fine... it was suffocating at first... but I'm fine... you've gone to so many battles for father, always on the doorstep of life and death for father" she said as she looked at the wound on the man's shoulder, the one he got when he was at the Stepstones. "I don't want to be the one to cause you to have to fight and risk your life... let alone fight against your own brother... I'm fine uncle... after all that chair looks very uncomfortable to sit on doesn't it?"

Hearing her say that Daemon laughed softly. Either her words were amusing or he was laughing out of pity. Daemon brought her hand to his lips, pecking it. "Since when did you change like this, hm? Are you really my niece Rhaenyra?" Daemon said as he held her face, tilting it left and right to examine it, as if he would find something there.

"Hm... still the same beauty as the last time I saw you... ah I know what's different about you.... your cheeks are getting wider... it looks like you eat more sheep here than Syrax, niece." Hearing his uncle's joke she gently smacked him on his shoulder. "I could banish you from the Vale for your insolence Prince Daemon... in case you forgot I am now the future lady paramount of the Vale... I am an important person here" she said.

Daemon placed his hand on his chest, acting dramatically "Ah.. am I now being threatened? I can't believe my sweet niece can now threaten her weak and homeless uncle... do you want to make me homeless sweetie?" his uncle's words made her raise her eyebrows

"Uncle of course you have a home... Red Keep is your home" she said as she grasped her uncle's hand. "Kepus..." she exclaimed again.

"The Red Keep hasn't been my home since Otto Hightower set foot there." her uncle gripped her hand firmly when she mentioned the name “Otto.” If she recalled her dream she thought her uncle was right, Otto Hightower did destroy her family's life, and her father... her father let him. Even after he got the vision his father still let Otto be beside him and let him keep whispering in his ear.

"Your father he... he listened more and believed that leech" her uncle said. She looked at her uncle, although he often acted arbitrarily and was never predictable, the only thing predictable about him was his love for her father. His brother. Silence filled the room and he could see his uncle's sadness as he hugged him.

"Uncle you can stay here, with me.." at that Daemon gave a small smile. "I have always been curious about the garden that is said to be the most beautiful in Westeros perhaps lady Arryn would like to give this old man a little tour" his uncle joked.

"Uncle I mean it... I would be very happy if you decided to stay here" she said again as they walked through the garden. Daemon then brought her hand towards the man's lips, pecking them. "If you allow it, it will be nice."

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra's POV

She was in the center of Gulltown watching the installation of the waterworks and sewage system brought in by workers sent by Prince Reggio, her uncle's friend. Since her uncle had been living in the Eyrie, she had always invited him to join her and Aunt Amanda for their meetings to prevent him from going to Runestone and causing trouble there. She realized that if her uncle was given a chance and if someone listened carefully to what he had to say, he had many brilliant ideas. She wondered for a while why her uncle had never voiced his bright ideas at the small council. If her father knew how genius her uncle was, there was no way her father could remove him from the succession. Yet again, she recalled who stood beside her father and whispered in the man's ear. If Daemon, who had a brilliant idea and a man, could be removed so easily, let alone her. A woman.

She dismissed those bad thoughts, and while her uncle inspected and talked to the workers, she went to the small stalls and some of the smallfolk to ask about their needs and concerns. It was true that smallfolk could go to the Eyrie to lodge their grievances, but the Eyrie was far, even by horse, and it took days to get there. She and her uncle alone used Syrax and Caraxes to get to Gulltown more swiftly.

Looking at her surroundings, her gaze was drawn to the ocean. In her dream, three of her children were lost at sea. She could see the scene clearly. How her son was turned into dragon food and pieces of his flesh fell into the sea during a storm, she could hear the voice of her son trying to calm his young dragon, could hear the fear in that voice. She saw her two youngest sons faced with swords at their necks, how her son tried to climb onto his young dragon trying to get help. How her eldest son gallantly tried to save his younger siblings, how he tried so hard not to lose any more siblings but ended up losing himself in the middle of the sea.

She looked at her figure, who continued to lose her children one by one, her figure looked like her mother when she once again had to see her child devoured by the funeral flames. Would her destiny change now? She is no longer the heir to the throne. Does she have to keep feeling the loss like in that dream? She closed her eyes, trying to calm her trembling hands. Her heart began to beat rapidly, and the voices of children calling for help did not stop, it was difficult to breathe.

“Rhaenyra,” Daemon called out. When she opened her eyes, her uncle was in front of her, clutching her hand with a panicked look on his face. She looked around and saw the folk looking at her with worried expressions, some walking over to give her some water wine to drink. She drank the wine, saying thank you, but her hands were still trembling. Her uncle, who saw that, did not stop to rub her hands to calm her down.

“What's wrong?” her uncle whispered, stepping closer and reducing the distance between them. She shook her head and tried to smile at her uncle. “Nothing. Just a bit tired,” she replied. She and Daemon continued their inspection, looking at the residential areas of the harbor and listening to the sailors' concerns. After taking note of what was needed, the two returned to the Eyrie using Caraxes and Syrax. The two dragons are now living together in the cave that Syrax found. According to her uncle, one can expect Syrax's first egg soon.

Arriving at the Eyrie, Aunt Amanda called her uncle to speak to him. “What is it?” she asked Elinda, who greeted her and informed her that her warm water for the bath had been prepared. As her maids helped scrub her body and hair, Elinda and the other maids told her what they knew.

According to Elinda and her two maids, when she and her uncle went to Gulltown, a messenger from King’s Landing came to meet her uncle. But since her uncle was elsewhere, the messenger was invited to rest while waiting for her and her uncle to return. And now her uncle was talking to the messenger. Did her father know that she was now living with him? Would he call him back? The questions kept running through her mind.

When she opened the common room door, she could see the messenger sitting fearfully across from her aunt, who was eating her apple pie nonchalantly, and her uncle was busy reading the letter in his hand.

“Aunty, what's wrong?” she asked. Tension graced the room. Her aunt paused in eating her pie, patting the empty spot beside her. “Sit here, my delight,” her aunt said. She occasionally stole a glance at her uncle, who was still focused on reading the letter, how his brow kept furrowing. When she wanted to call her uncle to ask him a question, her aunt gave her a plate of lemon cake to eat. After some time, his uncle stopped reading the letter.

“Tell my brother I am very thankful that he has agreed to my annulment, but I will stay here. Doesn't he like sending me here? I'm just following his desires,” her uncle said as he threw the letter into the hearth flame. The messenger looked scared to look into her uncle's eyes, but with the remaining courage, the messenger continued to plead for her uncle to listen to him.

“Prince Daemon, the king asks you to just look at the dragons..” said the messenger, but before the messenger could finish talking, his uncle stopped him by grabbing the messenger by the collar “Then tell him to seek help from the Velaryons. Rhaenys is there... ah, right, he can't because all his choices are insulting to both Corlys and Rhaenys” his uncle taunted.

“Tell him I'm no longer someone who can be used and discarded according to his and his dog Otto Hightower's whims,” his uncle added. The messenger trembled before Daemon. Who wouldn't, he was Daemon Targaryen, the youngest man to earn his knighthood, always win his battles, and settle matters at the Stepstones much faster when he heard his dear niece was disinherited.

She stood up and walked over to her uncle, rubbing his arm, trying to calm his anger. “Uncle, I think the messenger would like to rest now as he will be heading straight back to King's Landing tomorrow morning,” she said, trying to calm him down. When he saw from the corner of his eye that the messenger wanted to argue, he glared at the man, daring him with his gaze to open his mouth when his uncle's hand was already on the Dark Sister's hilt.

It was only when the messenger was ushered into the guest room by the servants, leaving the room with only her, her uncle, and her aunt, that her uncle told them the contents of the letter. Apparently, the dragons in King's Landing and Dragonstone had been slumbering since her departure 8 months ago, from the adults to the hatchlings. It was also said that the eggs became cold, and the eggs that were prepared for Alicent's children, not yet even taken to the Red Keep, turned cold. No one knew the cause of this. That's why her father agreed to her uncle's annulment in the hope of calling him back to check what was happening.

“I think our king is quite distraught that he calls his discarded dog,” said his aunt as she sipped her wine. Hearing her aunt refer to him as ‘dog,’ her uncle's anger returned, this time directed at her aunt. “Aunty,” she scolded, not wanting her aunt to face her uncle's temper, which could result in her uncle being expelled from the Vale.

“I expect you to keep your word and not go to King's Landing... that is if you have any pride left in you,” her aunt added, not caring that her uncle's face had turned red, holding back his anger.

“I'm not Visery's dog,” he replied through gritted teeth.

“Then start act like it. All across Westeros, know that you're your brother's dog. The story of the rogue prince who allowed himself to be thrown out of his own house by his brother is well known, especially in Runestone,” his aunt retorted caustically. She could see her uncle's face turn sad. Many said that it was hard to read and know what her uncle was thinking, she didn't think so, you just needed to know him well enough to know how he felt.

She held her uncle's chin, making him look down at her. Her thumb stroked the man's chin. “although it hurts, Aunt Amanda is right, uncle... and I think it's time for you and me to find our worth without father's shadow.. how about that?” she said softly. “Besides, if you leave, who will help me prepare Gulltown when the Pentos employees come?” she added. She saw how her uncle leaned into her touch, closed his eyes, sighed, and nodded his head.

Seeing that his uncle had calmed down a bit, she smiled as she rubbed his arm. “how about a warm bath before dinner? You went straight to the messenger and haven't had a chance to bathe yet... you need it, uncle.” at that, his uncle smiled a little and kissed her hand before leaving her and her aunt to his chambers.

“You can control him... that's good... a wife who can control her husband lasts longer,” her aunt said as her uncle walked out. She turned to look at her aunt and shook her head "I have no intention of controlling Daemon or marrying him," she replied. Her cheeks suddenly felt hot, and given her skin, she was sure her aunt could see her cheeks turning reddish.

Her aunt just looked at her and raised an eyebrow before smiling. “as the head of the family and your only living female relative, I will prepare your maiden cloak,” she said as she stood up and walked towards the door. When her aunt left, she quickly sat down and fanned her flushed cheeks that had grown hot from her aunt's words.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elinda sitting beside her, offering her a glass of wine, which she drank swiftly. “I think it's romantic,” her friend said all of a sudden while fiddling with the ring on her finger, hearing that, she turned to stare at her friend. Waiting for her friend to further explain what she meant.

“You and Prince Daemon... it's been two months since the prince lived here, and you're just glowing... and the way Prince Daemon treats you... even couples in love don't go that far,” she explained. Hearing that, she suddenly recalled how, in the first week of her uncle's stay in the Vale, he had returned to King's Landing only to take all the treasury he got after every war, almost emptying the royal treasury.

“If I am not needed here, then neither is the fortune I have made,” her uncle told the entire council. He also took all the jewelry belonging to the previous Targaryen princesses and queens, saying that only the true Targaryen princesses could use it and Alicent and her daughter Helaena had inferior blood that could spoil the quality of the jewels. Her uncle did love to make people around him angry, but she thought this time he was fed up with how he insulted her father in public. Normally, even if her father banished him many times, her uncle would never humiliate her father, she guessed not anymore.

Thinking about him unconsciously made her smile. She kept thinking about her uncle before Elinda continued to say, “I think you became the best version of yourself when you were with Prince Daemon princess... maybe it's not my place to say this, but my mother once said that having a partner who makes you want to be better means that person is the right one” Elinda added.

Hearing Elinda's words made her rethink her dream. Daemon had always been by her side, and with Daemon, her days had been the happiest. But she also remembered the three brown-haired children, if she was with Daemon, then those three children would never have been born. Didn't those children deserve a chance to be happy? They fought for her, died for her. Didn't they deserve happiness the most?

She was unable to respond to Elinda's words and just smiled and told the girl that she wanted to rest for a while before dinner. As she lay on her bed, her thoughts kept going to the three brunettes. She could see clearly what was going on with the three children but could not see their faces. What did their faces look like? Do their eyes look like her or Ser Harwin’s, do they have noses like Ser Harwin’s? She kept thinking about it until she fell asleep When she opened her eyes, she was not in her chamber, and three curly brown locks were swarming around her, six brown eyes looking at her with devotion and love. A cute-looking pug nose with rosy chubby cheeks. She tried to grab those cheeks.

“Muna”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra' POV

When she woke up, she was not in her chamber but in a white-shaded room with three familiar boys sitting around her. Her hands unconsciously stroked their cheeks, watching their faces closely as if looking for something there. The boy she was holding her cheek, who she believed to be the second eldest judging by his height, smiled.

“Muna always does this,” the boy said as he touched her hand.

“Muna?” she asked, to which the youngest replied with a nod. “Mum always strokes our faces. Especially Luke because he's mum's favorite,” she explained.

“I'm not Muna’s favorite,” shrugged the boy called Luke.

“Yes, you are... Mum always sneaks a piece of lemon cake for you before bed even though we have already brushed our teeth”

“You two are so loud,” said the eldest, and when he flicked his finger, the two children disappeared. “They were very loud, weren't they, muna? I'm sorry, they were so excited for today,” said the boy, he scratched the back of his neck and looked at her again with that familiar look of love and devotion. “Would you like to go for a walk with me?” he asked, extending his hand. There was no hesitation as she took the boy's hand. The boy's hand was warm. The two of them walked through the white room to a door that opened to reveal Rhaenys' garden on Dragonstone.

“Lucerys and Joffery,” the boy said, making her look at him. Questioning ‘Who are they?’ with her gaze. “Those two boys. Their names are Lucerys and Joffery,” he explained, making her nod her head. Repeating the names over and over in her head so that she would remember them when she woke up.

“And you? What's your name?” she asked.

“Jace. Jacaerys Velaryon. The eldest son of Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen and Prince Consort Laenor Velaryon,” he said proudly. There was no doubt there; she knew that a child with brown hair from silver-haired parents would have a hard life. They were living a life that no child should live because of her carelessness. She unconsciously searched for a ring on her finger to fiddle with, but the warm hand held her hand again.

“You always do that whenever you feel anxious,” he said.

“Sorry. I'm sorry” were the only words she could utter. Tears were already welling up in her eyes, but she dared not let them out because she felt ashamed. Those children had a hard life because of her carelessness and died before reaching adulthood for her sake. She was so ashamed that she could not look at the owner of the hand that was faithfully caressing her worries.

“I hated you at first. I hated you for making me different. But I guess hating you is the easy thing to do, isn't it? And you already have a lot of people who made that choice,” he said as he reached out his hand and touched the tree in front of us.

“Muna, there's no need to apologize and have doubts. This time, the gods have looked upon you,” he said without removing his eyes from the sea. But she could see it, the tears that were also welling up in the boy's eyes. Rhaenyra reached out to take the boy into her arms, and the boy, Jace, hugged her tightly as if it were a goodbye.

“I'm sorry, muna... I'm sorry for giving the idea to use the dragonseed; I'm sorry for disobeying your orders and going to save Visery... I'm sorry, muna, for not being there to save you and Joffery.” She could hear his cries, the same cries she heard when he tried to save his brother from the triarchy and ended up getting killed.

“Mum... mum... I'm scared... I'm sorry,” he said with a sob. She tried to calm him down by doing what her mother used to do for her. Rubbing his back and kissing the top of the boy's head. “It's okay, Jace, it's not your fault. You're so brave,” she said, trying to calm Jacaerys, who continued to cry.

They stayed in that position for some time. Before the two sat under the crooked tree, Jace told her about his life with his brothers and the war from his perception. But not once did the boy blame her. Blamed her for being weak, blamed her for her every decision. Not once. Only words of adoration came from his lips.

The two were caressing each other's hands when the boy's hand began to fade. “Muna. Never trust the Hightowers, Lannisters, Baratheons, Wyldes, and... Larys Strong. They are all evil, muna. Although you can't see it now, they are the ones who want your downfall the most. Please don't trust them,” he said calmly. Seeing his body slowly disappear made her unconsciously hold the boy's hand tighter, not wanting to let go a second time.

“Jace,” she called.

“I'll be back again. Maybe with different hair and eyes... but I'll be back. I'll be back for you, Muna,” he replied quietly. Jace then stood up and knelt in front of her “Can you sing me the lullaby that Grandma Aemma used to sing to you? I miss it,” he asked. She nodded and sang the song in high Valryian while gently stroking his hair.

I experience a blessing,

The great fourteen flames bless me,

You give me a miracle,

New life, a new son,

Great joy in my heart,

I give thanks for the new lights in my life,

I give thanks for the blessing in my life,

My gods, my gods

Welcome, my Jacearys.

I brought you to my family,

I experience a light.

A miracle arrives: an unexpected birth,

Great joy in my heart,

I give thanks for the new lights in my life,

I give thanks for the blessing in my life.

Jacearys, my great joy

She sang while stroking the boy's hair. She sang while closing her eyes, unable to look at him. After singing the last verse, she felt her cheek being kissed, and when she opened her eyes, the boy's brown hair turned to platinum, and the boy's eyes turned purple. The boy's shirt that was originally white was now Arryn blue.

"We'll meet again, mum," he said before disappearing and waking herself from sleep. A knock on her bedroom door woke her up. "Princess dinner is ready, Lady Amanda and Prince Daemon are waiting for you," said the maid from the sitting area of her chamber. She stepped up to the mirror and brushed her hair, preparing for dinner. All the way to the dining room, she kept mentioning her children's names with glee. Although her meeting with the eldest, Jacaerys, was brief, she would love to see them again. And this time, she vowed to protect them better. She, her aunt, and her uncle ate together, and the atmosphere at dinner was quite tense, considering the argument between her uncle and her aunt earlier.

“Velaryon ship spotted heading towards the port,” her aunt said, breaking the silence. One of her uncle's eyebrows rose. “According to rumors, it wasn't just the dragons in King's Landing and Dragonstone that suddenly fell asleep but also the dragons in the Driftmark. Even Vhagar, the ancient dragon, finally fell asleep... it's rumored your cousin Laena only flew the dragon once before it fell asleep,” her aunt added as she cut the duck meat on her plate.

“And they think we have all the answers to their problems?” her uncle asked indifferently.

“They likely want to see with their own two eyes if it's true that your dragons aren't afflicted with the same sleeping affliction, and again, don't you have a lot of knowledge about dragons? Isn't that why Visery is looking for you?” her aunt replied, making her uncle silent.

Dinner that night was dominated by silence and each other's thoughts. She wondered what was going on with the dragons. Although she did not want to meet her father or even have any kind of relationship with him, she cared about the dragons. She had spent her entire life with the dragons. She was curious about what happened, and she knew her uncle felt the same way.

After dinner, she went back to her chamber and changed into her nightgown, before she could fall asleep, a knock on her chamber door made her abandon her intention to sleep early that night. When she opened the door, it was her uncle, who had yet to get dressed. She invited him in, and the two talked on the balcony of her chamber.

“What do you think is going on,” her uncle asked.

“I don't know either,” she replied

“If you ask me, I'd say it's a punishment from the gods for all Visery's stupid decisions,” he said nonchalantly. Just as she was about to answer her uncle, a familiar dragon song rang from the sky. In the sky, Syrax and Caraxes flew, circling each other. She saw her uncle smiling at the sight, and she unconsciously smiled, too. She remembered the dream, the dream about her in the future. Many misfortunes happened, but her days with Daemon and their children were her happiest, and she wanted to feel that happiness again.

She walked closer to her uncle and touched the man's arm. “Only a Targaryen can love a Targaryen kepus. You and I have always been meant to burn together. All these years, only the word yearning came to my mind when I thought about you, and even that didn't do it justice. The simple essence of your soul is stained in my memory. To be in a world where you exist and I cannot have you is torture,” she whispered.

“I've never loved before and didn't know how”

“We'll learn together... don't abandon me again”

Hearing that, her uncle smiled and turned round, facing her. The man's warm hand touched her face, caressed it, and made its way to her lips. Her uncle's eyes shone so brightly that night, brighter than any star she had ever seen. “Oh, Rhaenyra... In the garden of existence, your beauty blooms. A radiant star that lights the darkest room. With grace-like whispers in a gentle breeze. Each petal of your essence unfolds like dawn,” he said while brushing her lips. Her uncle's face came closer, and she could feel the heat of his breath.

“Your laughter dances like sunlight on the sea, a symphony of warmth that wraps around me. In the tapestry of life, you weave pure delight. With every glance, you captivate my soul.  You... Rhaenyra is the melody that lingers in the air. A timeless serenade, both tender and rare. In the vastness of existence, you stand apart. A living poem, forever I would love to cherish in my heart. If you let me,” he added. Hearing her uncle's declaration of love made her heart beat wildly, and the blood flowing in her body boiled. No words could describe her happiness, and she could only nod. Daemon's face kept getting closer, and she finally felt her uncle's lips for the first time. And she prayed to the gods that this would not be the last time she would taste those lips.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra's POV

That morning, over breakfast, Daemon voiced his intention to court her to Aunt Amanda, the matriarch of House Arryn and her sole surviving female relative. While Rhaenys was also a kin, the aftermath of the Great Council of 101 had left her more like another noblewoman than family. As expected, Aunt Amanda gave her approval without hesitation. When she inquired whether it would be proper to inform her father of her impending marriage to Daemon, both her aunt and uncle dismissed the notion outright. Uncle suggested, with no small measure of irony, that if her father could wed Alicent without heed to the thoughts of his kin, she and Daemon were surely afforded the same liberty.

Aunt Amanda also advised her to expand the number of her handmaidens. She selected daughters, sisters, and cousins of minor houses from the Vale, adding them to Elinda’s company, and bringing her attendants to a total of five. The chosen houses were Corbray, Redfort, and Waynwood.

Catherine Corbray was the second daughter of House Corbray, a maiden of fifteen years with a talent for sewing and fabric selection. She had striking ginger hair, a smattering of freckles on pale cheeks, and green eyes like polished emeralds. Aunt Amanda chose Catherine for her keen eye for fabrics, particularly as wedding preparations loomed. Catherine was also to assist Elinda, her chief handmaiden, in organizing her growing collection of jewels. Cheerful by nature, Catherine brought gossip aplenty wherever she went, her laughter a melody that filled the halls.

Sillas Redfort, the younger daughter of Lord Garmund Redfort, was a maiden of sixteen years with a mind sharp for numbers and ledgers. Her hair was black as ink, her eyes as the deep blue of the Summer Sea. Aunt Amanda chose Sillas for her skills in accounting, and perhaps, to lend aid to House Redfort’s struggles. Sillas’s father had perished when she was young, leaving her mother to be regent until her brother came of age. During those years, the family fortunes had faltered. Alongside Sillas came her brother, Oswell Redfort, the second son of Lord Garmund. A knight of twenty-one years, Oswell had earned his knighthood at nineteen and was to serve as her sworn shield. Sillas was quiet and reserved, but her wisdom was an unexpected gift, teaching her lessons no tutor could.

Then there were the Waynwood sisters, Jasmine and Layla. Jasmine, the elder at sixteen, and Layla, fifteen, shared a gift for organizing events and arranging invitations. Jasmine, the eldest daughter of Lord Waynwood, had light brown hair and stormy gray eyes. Aunt Amanda chose her for her talents in managing households and events. Jasmine had overseen the Waynwood household from the tender age of eight after her mother’s passing, only relinquishing the role when her father remarried when she was thirteen.

Layla Waynwood, though younger by a year, possessed a sharp wit and a talent for detail that complemented her sister’s broader organizational skills. Her hair, a richer shade of chestnut than her elder sister’s, framed a face of warmth, her dark brown eyes carrying a depth of thought beyond her years, she brought a quiet grace to their work. Aunt Amanda believed Layla’s keen eye would be invaluable in the finer touches of courtly matters, from preparing correspondence to arranging the subtleties of feast seating. Together, the Waynwood sisters were a seamless pair, with both possessing a sunny disposition and an ease in forging connections with others.

At her aunt’s insistence, she had also extended an invitation to Adrian Massey, elder brother of Elinda, to serve as her sworn shield. Adrian bore a striking resemblance to his sister, not only in their shared smile but in demeanor. Both siblings exuded a quiet warmth and unwavering loyalty, qualities that endeared them to her almost immediately. With her handmaidens chosen, her entourage now reflected the strength and diversity of the Vale. Aunt Amanda had been careful in her selection, ensuring each of the young women would serve not only as attendants but as extensions of her influence. The Arryns knew well the value of allies forged in youth.

Her new handmaidens arrived two days before the Velaryons, and in that short time, she had grown unexpectedly close to the girls. It was a connection she had never felt in the company of Alicent. Perhaps it was because these young women stood by her side as equals, each striving together, rather than as septa who sought to govern her every step, as Alicent once had. Or perhaps it was the foundation of their friendship—a bond unmarred by the deceptions that had plagued her relationship with Alicent, who was now both her father’s wife and the mother of her half-brother, of the would-be king.

She tried not to think of Alicent, but comparisons crept in, unbidden and unwelcome, like whispers on the wind. For all her lofty promises of preserving their friendship, Alicent had not sent so much as a single letter since her departure from the Red Keep. Not that it mattered, she told herself, though the words rang hollow. Whatever affection she had once felt for Alicent lay buried beneath the weight of shattered dreams—dreams crushed by Jace’s soft-spoken revelations. Yet, in moments of solitude, she could not help but grieve for what had been lost. Alicent had been a constant, her shadow a familiar comfort through the dim halls of mourning, standing steadfast beside her amidst the funerals and the unending ache of siblings lost to the caprices of cruel fate.

But the sentiment was a luxury she could ill afford. Whatever bond they once shared was gone, and she would do well to bury it deep, for the sake of her survival and the future of her children.

That morning, she sat beneath the airy confines of the gazebo, savoring honey cakes with Catherine and Sillas, when Jasmine and Layla approached.

The Waynwood sisters, ever efficient, brought news that the Velaryons had reached the Bloody Gate and would arrive at the Eyrie within the hour. She rose, her handmaidens falling into step behind her, their skirts whispering against the flagstones. When she reached the grand doors of the Eyrie, her aunt and uncle were already waiting, their expressions solemn yet welcoming as they prepared to greet the Velaryon family. As Corlys and Rhaenys conversed with her uncle in the common room, she gave Laenor and Laena a brief tour of the Eyrie’s grounds.

“I haven’t yet congratulated you on claiming Vhagar,” she said to Laena as they reached the garden, her voice carrying a note of careful sympathy. As she spoke, she saw the spark that had once danced so brightly in her cousin’s eyes flicker and die at the mere mention of the great dragon's name. The joy that had accompanied Laena’s triumph seemed to drain away. 

“All the dragons of Driftmark asleep... no, all the dragons of Westeros asleep, except…” She didn’t need to finish her sentence, for she saw the way Laena’s gaze lingered on the sky, where Syrax and Caraxes soared. Laena and Laenor explained what had transpired. Exactly seven days after she had left King’s Landing, Dreamfyre had been the first to fall into a long sleep. Then, the eggs in the dragonpit slowly grew cold, one by one. It wasn’t just King’s Landing, but even the dragons at Dragonstone shared the same fate. At Driftmark, Vhagar had been the first to slumber, though they had assumed it was just the usual sleep of an aging dragon. But when Seasmoke suddenly fell mid-flight with Laenor, they realized that the strange slumber afflicting the dragons in King’s Landing and Dragonstone had reached Driftmark as well.

Laenor had nearly lost his life when Seasmoke fell from the sky, but fortunately, they had been flying over the waters of Driftmark, and Laenor had managed to swim to safety. Meleys, too, had begun to succumb to the long sleep. After hearing that neither Syrax nor Caraxeshad shown any signs of the same affliction, they had decided to travel to the Vale to investigate further. Laena also mentioned that her mother, Princess Rhaenys, intended to speak to her uncle about the matter. Everyone in Westeros knew how much her uncle revered the history of their family, especially when it came to the dragons.

As they walked through the eastern garden, Catherine approached her and whispered that there was a growing disagreement between her uncle and Princess Rhaenys. Catherine confided that their voices had grown so loud that they could be heard echoing down the corridor, and the servants had begun to grow uneasy. Upon hearing this, she urged her cousins to return to their family. By the time she reached the door to the common room, she could already hear the heated debate inside.

“Do you think I am the answer to all your problems? I don’t have all the answers you seek, Rhaenys,” her uncle barked.

“You know more about dragons than anyone, Daemon. Do you think I would have come all this way if I were not desperate?” replied Princess Rhaenys. She could hear her uncle’s scorn, especially when Rhaenys began to speak of how family should help one another. The words made her blood boil with anger. Family? How dare that woman speak of family, especially when she recalled the way the woman had behaved in the past, with her airs and her dreams.

In her dreams, after her marriage to Laenor, the woman never once came to visit them. She had left them alone, stranded in the serpent's den. Worse still, after her children were born, the woman—bastard or not—should have known the consequences of handing her child who could not bed a woman to her. Did she think one side alone could create a child?

"It seems ‘family’ has become nothing more than a convenient excuse to manipulate others," she muttered as she walked into the room. She turned her gaze upon Princess Rhaenys. "You speak endlessly of family, and expect much, yet not once have you done what you would ask of others. Am I not your kin, Princess Rhaenys? Am I not your niece? When my mother, your only living cousin, passed, you did not seek to comfort me. No, you were too absorbed in preparing your daughter to fill the place she left behind. In truth, you are no different than Otto Hightower," she spat, the words hanging in the air like a poisoned dagger. All eyes turned upon her, and for a brief, fleeting moment, she saw guilt flicker in Princess Rhaenys’s gaze. Without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and left the room, her handmaidens following in her wake.

"I want to be alone," she said to them once they reached the main balcony of the Eyrie. After some time in solitude, she heard footsteps approaching from behind.

"When your father became king, I never once blamed you or Aemma. And when Viserys made you his heir... I suppose I grew angry because no one supported me in claiming my rights then," Princess Rhaenys said, stepping closer.

Before Princess Rhaenys could draw close, she turned to face the woman, her words sharp as steel. "And is that my doing? Did my mother or I whisper into King Jaehaerys's ear, advising him not to name you his heir? I think you’re directing your ire at the wrong target, Princess Rhaenys. And, if I may be so bold, you seemed rather... satisfied at my mother's funeral. Tell me, why is that? Did you see an opportunity for your blood to finally sit on that cursed throne? You complain endlessly about how men treat you, yet you treat the women around you with no better hand. Why? Is it easier to loathe me and my mother than to confront the men who wronged you?" She cut her off before Princess Rhaenys could utter a word, her voice like a whip cracking in the silence.

"My mother and I needed you. You know you were the only family close to us. The Arryns are far away in the Vale, and Uncle Daemon is more often exiled than living at the Red Keep. You were the only one left. But where were you? Too busy complaining about something that happened over ten years ago? You speak of family, but where were you when we needed you? I suppose we only matter to you when we serve your interests," she added, her pent-up disappointment finally spilling out.

She still remembered how her mother had often spoken of Princess Rhaenys, the dragonrider, something her mother had always longed to be but never could. How her mother had wished, time and again, that she might grow to be as wise, as strong as the woman. She could still see the way her mother’s gaze would soften with longing whenever she looked upon Rhaenys after the Great Council, only to be met with cold indifference. Perhaps that was the seed of her bitterness—seeing her mother’s hope, only to be rejected time and again by the woman she so admired. Perhaps that was why she felt such disappointment towards Princess Rhaenys. Seeing how passionate she was about having Laena fill her mother's place—it felt like a betrayal, a wound that would not heal. That, she realized, was why she could never think of Rhaenys as family. Not after the way she had treated her children. Not after the coldness she had shown when her mother had needed her most. Her heart had hardened against Rhaenys long ago, buried beneath the weight of old betrayals.

"Rhaenyra," Princess Rhaenys said softly. The woman embraced her, repeating "I’m sorry" over and over again. She sighed and returned the hug, feeling a pang of guilt. It felt wrong to lay all the blame at the woman’s feet. After all, it was her father who had driven her mother to misery. Though they were family, the woman had no duty to save her or her mother—that had been her father’s responsibility. And even though a part of her still yearned to blame Rhaenys, she knew it would only keep her chained to the past. She had no time for that. To stay trapped in old hurts was to let them consume her. She had to think of the future, of a life worth living for her children. She had no time to mourn the past. She had to focus on ensuring the horrible future she had glimpsed from ever coming to pass.

They exchanged tales of her mother, their voices hushed with the weight of cherished memories. Aunt Rhaenys spoke of how her mother when the painters came to capture her image, wore the stiffest smile, though it was only a mask. When she was truly happy, her smile had been the most radiant thing Aunt Rhaenys had ever seen. She also shared how her mother’s hair, like Rhaenys’s, had once been not entirely silver. But where Aunt Rhaenys’s hair was mostly dark and little silver, her mother’s had always leaned more silver than brown. After giving birth to her, her mother’s hair had turned completely silver, as if marking the moment she entered the world.

Her aunt spoke of her mother’s love for the color blue—not just because it was the color of House Arryn, but because it symbolized freedom. Her mother had once told her aunt that wearing blue made her feel close to the sky. To her, blue was the color of the vast skies she longed to soar through, a reflection of the freedom that came with riding a dragon, flying above the world, and touching the heavens. As her aunt spoke of these memories, she saw tears gathering in her eyes, a reflection of the deep bond her aunt once had with her mother.

"There has not been a single day that I haven’t blamed myself for not being able to help your mother, Rhaenyra," she said, her voice heavy with grief.

After speaking with her aunt, her relationship with Princess Rhaenys improved. It remained awkward, but at least her heart did not weigh so heavily when she looked at the woman now. Her uncle had agreed to fly to Driftmark to inspect the state of the dragons there. Lord Corlys, Laena, Laenor, and Princess Rhaenys would remain for a few days before returning to Driftmark with her uncle in tow. Before their departure, she made sure to extend an invitation for her upcoming wedding to Daemon, which would take place in eight moons. They agreed to keep the engagement a secret for the time being.

"I'll return before Reggio and Empress Yi Ti arrive," his voice barely a whisper as he mounted his dragon. Caraxes followed closely behind, heading towards the Velaryon fleet. While her uncle was away, she, her aunt, her handmaidens, and the servants at the Eyrie worked diligently to prepare the keep for the arrival of the nobility from Pentos and Yi Ti. In addition to the construction of sewage and water systems, a project made possible by her uncle's influence with the Prince of Pentos, her uncle had invited the Yi Ti aristocracy to assess the Vale’s land. Plans were in motion to plant various crops native to Yi Ti that could endure the harsh winters.

She wandered through the castle, ensuring that the preparations for the Pentos and Yi Ti nobility’s welcoming feast were progressing smoothly. After all, this was her first official reception as an Arryn and heir to the Vale. It had to be flawless. She observed Jasmine and Sillas directing the servants as they arranged decorations in the main hall and calculated the costs of their embellishments. Once she was satisfied that they were on track, she made her way to the kitchens to check on Elinda, who was overseeing the supplies and menu for the feast in seven days' time.

She also checked on Layla, who was sending out invitations via raven to the noble families of the Vale, summoning them to the forthcoming feast, while also broaching matters of business and the Vale’s future expansion. When she returned to her chambers, Catherine was already there, carefully laying out a selection of dresses—each more opulent than the last—fit for the occasion that loomed ahead.

“Marta, please summon Elinda, Jasmine, Layla, and Silas,” she instructed her maid. When the others arrived, they helped her choose a dress and jewelry for the upcoming feast. Afterward, she turned to her handmaidens, who were busy admiring the collection of fine jewels laid before them.

"Each of you choose one that you like, and wear it to the feast," she said, surprising the five women. After all, these jewels were of the finest quality, gifts from her father. But she found that she no longer cared whether they had been given to her by her father or not.

"Your Highness, these are too expensive."

"We cannot possibly wear such fine jewels."

"These jewels were a gift from the King, Princess."

At first, they resisted, but with gentle coaxing, one by one, they chose the jewelry they liked. Elinda selected a necklace made of the finest pearls, Catherine chose a golden bracelet adorned with exquisite sapphire stones, while Silas picked a silver necklace with intricate engravings and a sparkling opal. Jasmine and Layla, meanwhile, each took a pair of earrings, one made of pearls and the other of sapphire.

“Thank you, Princess,” they said, their eyes alight as they admired the gleaming pieces in their hands.

“You are not merely my handmaidens,” she said softly, her gaze dropping to the floor, “but also my valued companions. I hope these jewels show the seriousness with which I regard you. May we all learn and grow better together.” She had never spoken such words to Alicent. Their relationship had been defined by argument, each of them too occupied with their own opinions to truly understand the other. Alicent had been intent on shaping her into the image of a lady, while she had been too wrapped in her own pride to listen. Perhaps, had she been more silent, more willing to hear Alicent’s words, she might have come to understand the woman better—and maybe, just maybe, she would not feel so betrayed.

She spent the afternoon in the garden with her companions, discussing the upcoming feast and sharing the burdens and troubles of their families.

“I pray the crops the Yi Ti bring will endure the harshness of the winter,” Catherine murmured, a hint of worry in her voice, and all present gave a somber nod in reply.

“Prince Daemon knows what he’s about,” Jasmine said with a trace of confidence. “Look at the new sewage system the Pentos workers have put in place under his guidance. The stench that once choked the cities is already beginning to fade.”

Elinda, her expression thoughtful, gave a small nod. “My family is thankful for the prince’s vision. Sharp Point is cleaner now, the foul stench that plagued it gone at last.”

"The same cannot be said for King's Landing,” Catherine remarked with a hint of mockery, earning a small smile from her, which she quickly hid behind her wine glass. Word from her uncle’s informants painted a grim picture—each day, the stench in the capital worsened. To make matters worse, Alicent had closed down her mother’s charity and the late Queen Alysanne's, reallocating its funds to the Faith, though none of it was properly distributed, worsening the situation even further. She could not fathom how Alicent had not learned even a fraction of wisdom in her time as a lady-in-waiting, watching her mother’s every move. Shaking her head, she suppressed any sympathy for the traitor. It was no longer her concern what transpired in King’s Landing.

“No one ever said Consort Alicent was known for her intellect,” Sillas chimed in with a biting tone. “She’s known for marrying the king in the mourning period, and her piety to the Faith,” she added. It was no secret that the nobility still struggled to accept her father’s decision to marry Alicent. Many saw it as a grave insult—a marriage to a woman who brought nothing to the union but her womb, the daughter of a second son who had little to offer. It was seen as a slight to the very crown.

For the nobility of the Vale, especially the Arryns, it wasn’t just an insult—it was a betrayal. What makes matters even worse is her being disinherited and her right-handed over to the son of a woman they despised. The disinherited only fueled their anger, igniting a resentment that burned deeper with each passing day. Truly, her father was a fool. Not only had he insulted the Velaryons, who believed the crown owed them much, but he had also insulted the Arryns with every foolish decision he had made. And yet, she was not surprised. Nothing her father possessed had ever been earned through his own effort. His mind, such as it was, had never been put to good use. 

He had earned the crown solely because he had been born with a cock, and because Daemon, her uncle, and her mother had rallied forces behind him. All the problems her father faced were solved by her uncle or his council. Her father never had to use his mind for anything—perhaps that was why he was so easily manipulated by Otto Hightower.

"We cannot entirely blame Alicent, given the background of her family," she said, her voice sweet with a false kindness that earned her a round of chuckles from her companions. The words slipped from her lips like honey, coated with a venom she would never let them see. "Let us change the subject. It’s not good to speak ill of someone in their time of hardship." Her eyes flickered to the others, a subtle warning not to press the matter further. They, of course, obeyed, as always, shifting the conversation to something lighter. The girls offered their ideas, each one more excited than the last as they shared their dreams of what the wedding would look like.

“Surely, the princess’s dress will be a marvel to behold,” Layla said, her voice laced with admiration. “Already, Your Grace has set a new fashion across the Vale. It won’t be long before this style spreads to every corner of Westeros.”

“The princess has achieved what many seamstresses could only dream of. You’ve managed to create a dress that is light and airy for the summer, yet still elegant. You could even turn a pair of gloves, which would usually seem better suited for men, into something graceful," Jasmine added, her gaze resting on the gown they all wore. It was a creation of hers, and they wore it proudly. Summer had arrived, and though the Vale was cooler than much of the realm, the movement still brought the heat. The dress, with its low neckline, short voluminous sleeves, and long skirt adorned with lace, embroidery, and ribbons, kept them comfortable while maintaining an air of grace.

The dress became popular among the women of the Vale. Its accessibility—crafted from simple, easily acquired materials—had made it a garment not just for the nobility, but for all. The trend was spreading quickly.

"My mother took great pleasure in the dress you designed, Princess," Catherine said, her voice warm with genuine praise. "All of us in Heart's Home wear it now. My sister and cousin, are especially fond of it, though they would add pearls, I think."

"As for me, I’d rather see it adorned with lace," Jasmine remarked, a faraway look in her eyes. "Myrish lace, if you can find it. Nothing quite compares."

"I’d choose ribbons," Sillas said with a grin, glancing toward her. "The same as the ones you wear."

Elinda, eager with excitement, leaned forward. "Do you have more dress ideas, Princess?"

She smiled at their eager faces, amused by their enthusiasm. "I do," she said with a light chuckle, "but I shall save it for my wedding day. We cannot spoil the surprise, now, can we?"

Chapter Text

Catherine Corbay

Sillas Redfort

Jasmine & Layla Waynwood

Elinda Massey

Oswel Redfort

Adrian Massey

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra's POV

Catherine and Jasmine worked deftly, their fingers nimble as they fastened the fine fabric of her dress, while Elinda combed through her hair, weaving it into a crown of intricate braids. Layla and Sillas hovered nearby, carefully laying out the jewelry—a glint of gold here, a flash of gemstone there. The chamber buzzed with quiet industry, the soft rustle of silks and murmured instructions a counterpoint to the cool mountain air drifting through the open windows.

The lords and ladies of the Vale had arrived the day prior, greeted with a modest feast to tide them over until the grand banquet tonight. From lands more distant came the envoys of Yi Ti and Pentos, their banners unfamiliar against the gray skies of the Eyrie. Escorted to the Eyrie by her uncle, who had waited at the harbor for two days to greet them with proper honor.

The heavy oaken door creaked open, and in swept Jeyne, her young cousin swept inside like a summer breeze.

“Sister Nyra, you must see my dress!” she cried, spinning before the assembled ladies. The dress was a delicate blue, like the pale sky before dawn, trimmed with white lace at the collar. Fine embroidery adorned it—flowers and creeping vines in soft silver thread, catching the light with each movement. She twirled again, and the fabric flared, swirling about her ankles like rippling water.

“Am I not beautiful?” Jeyne asked, tilting her head in a way that made the women smile, their faces softening at the sight.

The girl had known tragedy early, losing both her parents while still too young to grasp the weight of such loss. Jeyne reminds her of her children Aegon and Visery, too young to lose a parent's embrace, just like Jeyne. It was their aunt Amandla who had raised her in their stead, though the girl's days were often marked by loneliness, her only company the servants who saw to her needs. When she first arrived at the Eyrie, shy and unsure, the bond between them had been tentative. Yet time, like a gentle stream carving through stone, had softened those barriers. To Rhaenyra, Jeyne was more than a cousin—she was a sister.

"But of course, not as beautiful as you, dear Rhaenyra," Jeyne teased as she stepped closer, wrapping her arms around her in a warm embrace.

Rhaenyra chuckled softly, running her fingers through the girl’s fine hair. “Flatterer. But something is missing…”

She turned toward her chest of jewels, lifting its heavy lid to reveal treasures that shimmered in the dim light. After a moment's pause, she selected a pair of earrings—small diamonds set in gold, simple yet exquisite. She returned to Jeyne and knelt, studying her as one might a portrait in need of its final stroke.

“These will do,” Rhaenyra murmured, fastening the earrings to Jeyne’s ears with delicate care. The diamonds caught the light as they settled, gleaming like stars in a winter sky.

“There,” she said, her voice soft. “Now you are perfect, my dear Jeyne.”

Jeyne smiled, her fingers brushing against the earrings as though to ensure they were real. “I love you, cousin,” she said, her voice as tender as a whispered prayer.

“And I, you,” Rhaenyra replied, standing to kiss the girl’s forehead. “Now run along before the others begin to wonder where you are. Let them see you shine.”

After readying herself, she and her aunt awaited at the grand doors of the Eyrie to welcome the envoys from Yi Ti and Pentos.

The delegation from Yi Ti was led by Dowager Empress Han, a woman of sixty-eight years whose hair had turned a regal shade of silver with age. Her locks were swept into an elaborate bun, secured with delicate YiTish hairpins shaped like blooming lotuses. She wore a flowing dress gown of fine silk, its wide sleeves and long hem embroidered with intricate golden patterns of cranes and clouds. Beneath the skirts, a glimpse of high-heeled boots bespoke a practicality that belied her grace. The air around her was one of quiet authority and wisdom, earned over decades of rule and survival.

Her retinue was formidable: thirty knights clad in lacquered armor, twenty servants, and seven handmaidens, their presence alone a testament to her power. Behind them, carts carried chests filled with seeds—gifts intended to help the Vale’s barren lands bloom anew.

Trailing the Yi Ti envoy came the carriages of Pentos, led by Prince Reggio himself. The man, aged thirty-two, stepped down from his gilded carriage with the ease of one accustomed to wealth and power. His dark brown hair and beard were immaculately groomed, and he wore a loose-fitting golden-yellow tunic of many layers, its brocade shimmering like sunlight on water. Around him moved a retinue of fifteen guards, three concubines dressed in Pentoshi silks, and ten servants. His gifts were no less generous: crates of supplies for the water channels and panes of glass meant for the construction of greenhouses.

She and her aunt inclined their heads deeply as they greeted Dowager Empress Han. “Dowager Empress, we are honored by your presence,” her aunt said warmly. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

The empress smiled faintly, her sharp eyes gleaming as though measuring their worth. Before she could reply, Prince Reggio’s voice rang out, loud and unceremonious.

“There’s no need for all this fuss over an old woman,” he teased, stepping to the empress’s side. “She’s still as lively as ever.”

She observed the exchange with quiet curiosity. Prince Reggio’s casual familiarity with the empress was surprising, though not unwelcome. She had heard the stories from her uncle: years ago, Reggio had saved the life of Han Xì, the empress’s son and now King of Yi Ti, during an ambush in Pentos. Back then, Reggio had been little more than a minor noble, but the favor he had earned from Yi Ti had elevated him to the title of Prince of Pentos.

Her motives, however, were far removed from their histories or ambitions. She had no intention of leveraging these alliances to reclaim a throne. She had seen too clearly how that chair of swords had devoured her husband and her children, one by one, leaving nothing but ash and grief. This was not about power, not in the way the crown might see it. This was about survival, about ensuring that the Vale could stand on its own, untethered from the whims of Kings Landing. The seeds from Yi Ti, the tools from Pentos—they were not symbols of submission or ambition but of resilience.

She had learned, painfully, that relying on others led only to disappointment. And disappointment was a luxury she could no longer afford.

“Reggio remains as insolent as ever,” Dowager Empress Han remarked, seizing the man’s ear between her fingers with a firm yet amused tug. The prince merely chuckled, entirely unbothered, before wrapping the empress in an affectionate embrace.

“Forgive this boy’s lack of manners,” the old woman said with a wry smile, her gaze shifting to meet hers.

“I’ve always wondered about the sort of woman who could persuade a miserly prince to part with thousands of gold dragons,” the empress continued, her voice warm and edged with playful curiosity as she stepped closer. “Beautiful. You have an eye for choosing a fine bride, Daemon,” she added with a teasing glint in her eyes.

“You’re only just now realizing?” her uncle quipped as he dismounted his horse.

“I pity you, truly,” the empress said, turning her focus back to Rhaenyra. “A woman as lovely as you, doomed to spend her days shackled to such a scoundrel. I’ve a son your age, if you’re looking to trade up,” she added, entirely ignoring the sharp look Daemon shot in her direction.

Rhaenyra stifled a laugh, finding herself unexpectedly entertained by the exchange. “I’m deeply flattered, Dowager Empress Han,” she replied smoothly, “but I fear it’s far too late to annul the betrothal now.” Her tone carried a hint of jest, earning her a knowing smile from the older woman.

Daemon, ever unamused by such jests at his expense, stepped to her side and gave her a light pinch on the cheek. “Careful,” he murmured with a pointed look, though his lips twitched in something that might have been amusement.

“You’ll need to teach that man some manners,” the empress said, directing an exaggeratedly disapproving glance at Daemon. “He’s as uncouth as his companion, Reggio.”

Daemon merely rolled his eyes at the remark, though Rhaenyra caught the faintest twitch of a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

When the formalities of greeting were complete, Rhaenyra took on the role of introducing Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio to the gathered nobility of the Vale. The welcoming celebrations began in earnest.

The festivities opened with a theatrical performance recounting the storied history of the Vale, followed by music and dances that set the hall alive with color and sound. On the second day, a grand hunt was arranged, where hawks soared and hounds raced across the lush hills. The final day culminated in a splendid feast and a lively ball, the kind where alliances were forged over cups of wine and whispered words.

From her seat of honor, she observed the revelry. The lords and ladies of the Vale mingled with their guests from distant lands, while Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the music, the rich fare, and the entertainment laid before them. She noted with satisfaction that the empress, sharp-eyed and slow to praise, seemed genuinely impressed by the Vale’s offerings. For now, at least, everything was proceeding as planned.

Daemon rose from his seat with an air of practiced ease, as if the weight of the hall’s attention was no more than a feather on his shoulders. His steps were deliberate, his gaze fixed on her with a mix of mischief and purpose. When he reached her, he extended his hand, the corners of his mouth curving into a smirk that hinted at both charm and trouble. “Betrothed,” he said softly, his voice carrying the kind of confidence that could both comfort and unsettle, as he pressed her hand to his lips in a fleeting gesture.

Before she could respond, his hand found its way to her waist, drawing her into the dance with a commanding surety. The music shifted, a lilting melody weaving through the hall as the assembled nobles watched the two of them with wide eyes.

“I didn’t know you could dance so well, Uncle,” she teased, her tone light and playful.

“There’s much you don’t know about me, betrothed,” Daemon replied, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I can hardly wait to uncover it all,” she said, leaning into the game as they moved in perfect rhythm.

Daemon’s grip tightened ever so slightly, pulling her closer. The air between them seemed to hum with unspoken words, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might kiss her again, as he had that night beneath the stars. But instead, his lips brushed the shell of her ear, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“We have a lifetime to learn each other’s secrets,” he murmured, his gaze locking with hers as their foreheads touched, a gesture as intimate as it was unorthodox.

“A lifetime,” she repeated softly, her breath mingling with his.

“Until the end of our story, Rhaenyra,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with a promise that was as intoxicating as it was unyielding. It was neither question nor plea but a declaration, binding as any oath sworn before gods or men.

The festivities continued well into the night, with the Vale’s lords and ladies singing praises of the feast. It was said, in hushed tones of admiration, that no celebration in recent memory could compare to the one hosted by her, Rhaenyra Targaryen.

As the meeting progressed, her resolve deepened. She was not rebuilding the Vale for conquest or ambition. She had seen what the Iron Throne could do, how it devoured her father, her husband, and her children. No, her purpose was simpler but no less powerful: to create something enduring, something unyielding to the whims of kings and crowns. She would make the Vale a realm that could stand alone, where disappointment had no place, and where every seed sown was a promise of a brighter future.

Dowager Empress Han also brought with her several fruit seeds, including melon and watermelon. Prince Reggio explained the use and construction of water pipes, which not only provided clean drinking water but also served for cooking, bathing, and various other needs. He also elaborated on the use of glass, which he had brought for the construction of greenhouses.

In the span of three moons that Prince Reggio and Dowager Empress Han resided in the Vale, remarkable changes took root. The construction of a grand glasshouse was undertaken, and, owing to a wealth of laborers, the structure was completed in less than a moon’s turn. The soil across the Vale was tested for cultivation, and after extensive trials, rice was successfully planted in the vast fields that stretched across nearly every region. Alongside the rice, seeds for melons and watermelons were also planted. By the time Prince Reggio and Dowager Empress Han returned to their lands, the harvest had already begun—rice, watermelon, and melon were ready to be reaped.

The harvested rice was turned into stored grains, carefully preserved in warehouses throughout the Vale in preparation for the coming winter. The irrigation system functioned perfectly, and, at Prince Reggio’s suggestion, Her aunt took action to build two public bathhouses in each of the Vale’s regions. This move, inspired by the Prince's counsel, was aimed at improving hygiene, as it was believed that many of the common folk suffered from illness due to poor sanitation.

It was Dowager Empress Han who introduced the Vale to a strange object called ‘soap.’ In her distant land of Yi Ti, both nobles and common folk used it when they bathed, unlike the oils or milk favored by the Westerosi nobility. The empress explained with authority that while oils and milk merely perfumed the skin, soap cleansed it.

When she used the soap herself, it foamed and bubbled, covering her skin in a fragrant lather. As the maids rinsed her, she noted how her flesh felt lighter, less burdened by the stickiness of oils. The scent lingered, fresh and clean. Word of this curious invention spread quickly among both the lords and smallfolk of the Vale. Soon, soap was distributed widely, and sold at modest prices so even the poorest could afford it. Its popularity spurred the opening of new trades, and four types of labor were introduced across the Vale.

The first was farming. With the discovery that rice could flourish in the Vale’s soil, the Lady opened the lands to cultivation. Thousands of smallfolk, many who had once roamed the roads as beggars or vagrants, flocked to the fields. For these workers, small homes were erected near the paddies, granting them shelter and proximity to their labors. The farmers were paid sixty silver coins and fifteen bronze each moon—a fair wage for honest work.

The second job sector created was for bathhouse attendants and cleaners. Each region now boasted two bathhouses: one for men and one for women and children. These bathhouses were designed with three floors. The first and second floors were dedicated to the bathing rooms, each with seven separate stalls. The top floor was reserved for the workers' quarters. Many widows with children sought work at the women's bathhouse, while orphaned boys, too old to remain in the orphanages, filled the ranks of the men’s bathhouse. The workers were paid fifty silver coins and eight bronze coins for each moon of service.

At Daemon's suggestion, a new labor sector was established for the collection and disposal of waste. The waste depot was conveniently situated near the farmlands. According to Dowager Empress Han, household waste, which was often foul-smelling and considered worthless, could be transformed into something called 'manure,' a substance that enriched the soil and made plants grow all the more fertile. Daemon, who had traveled far and wide, had seen many lands, but he praised Yi Ti for its rich vegetation, placing it high on his esteem—though not as high as the history of his own family, it was still a place of great reverence. At each waste collection post, five open carts made of Redwood were stationed. These carts were used to transport refuse from the homes to the depot, where it was converted into manure. The workers were paid forty silver coins and twenty bronze coins for each moon of labor.

The third labor sector was the guardianship and distribution of rice. The warehouse, located in the heart of each region, was known as ‘The Mother Provides.’ The structure itself housed thirty workers, a mix of orphaned girls who could no longer stay in the orphanages, and elderly people without homes, tasked with sewing the rice storage sacks. Street children, desperate for work, were employed to transport the rice to shops, the Sept, and the orphanages. The beggars who wandered the streets, having no place in the fields, were put to work in the warehouse. The workers were paid forty silver coins and ten bronze coins each moon.

The final sector of work was the soapmaking trade. This was her idea. The soap production building was located beside the bathhouse, and the two buildings were even connected. She and her aunt had decided to name the buildings after the gods of the Faith of the Seven. The bathhouse was dubbed ‘The Maiden’s Bath House,’ the soapmaking building was named ‘The Fragrance of the Maiden,’ and the warehouse was named 'The Mother Provides."  All the buildings were blessed and consecrated by the Septon. At first, she and Daemon were opposed to this—neither of them had any desire to appear as though they were pandering to the Faith—but after a lengthy conversation with dowager empress Han, she changed her mind and agreed to the consecration.

It was the last day Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio would spend in the Vale. The construction of the bathhouses, soap-making houses, homes for the farmers, and storage warehouses had begun in earnest. She and Dowager Empress Han sat together in the garden, a faint autumn breeze stirring the leaves around them.

"Do you ever think about taking the throne back?" the Empress asked bluntly, her sharp eyes never leaving her face. "I hear your dragon and Daemon's is the only one still awake. You could take it back if you truly wanted."

She took a slow sip of her tea, her gaze distant, the weight of the question hanging between them like a cloud. "Westeros isn’t ready for a queen," she said flatly. "They’d burn me alive before I ever set foot on that throne."

The woman considered her for a moment, the silence heavy with thought. "When your uncle sent word, I thought he sought soldiers for a war to reclaim your crown. You have my word, I would have given them to him—Daemon is family. But when I heard what kind of alliance you were proposing, I was… surprised." She paused, her eyes narrowing as she studied her. "But I think it was the right choice. Keep building your power, Princess. Let them see what they’ve turned their backs on. The throne will come to you in time—if you still want it."

She set her teacup down with a soft clink. Her eyes, as cold and sharp as Valyrian steel, fixed on the Empress. "I fear the nobility of Westeros will never change. Even if I show them my strength, my wit, and my will if I don’t have a cock between my legs, it will all count for nothing," she said, her voice low but filled with bitterness.

Dowager Empress Han smiled faintly, her eyes dark with the wisdom of years lived in the shadows of power. "The thoughts of lords and ladies are often veiled in shadow, their intentions a maze near impossible to navigate. But the hearts of the common folk are no such riddle. Give them a crust of bread when their bellies ache with hunger, and they will look upon you as a savior. Show them virtue, and they will see you as a god. If you seek true strength, do not place all your faith in the alliances of the nobility. Instead, make yourself a god in the eyes of the smallfolk. For before the swords of the lords can reach your neck, the people will rise, and they will tear your enemies apart in your name."

Her words hung in the air like a silent command, and Rhaenyra listened intently, her expression unreadable.

The stories of how Dowager Empress Han had fought to preserve her throne after the death of her husband—and protect young King Han Xì—were well known, etched into the annals of history. They spoke of a day when the streets of Yi Ti ran red with the blood of nobles and knights. Not at the hands of soldiers or swords, but from the fists of the smallfolk. It began at dawn when the bells did not toll for prayer but for warning. The Dowager Empress, radiant and just, had been betrayed. The very guards who had sworn to protect her had conspired to deliver her into the hands of her enemies. Armed men had stormed the palace, dragging her from her throne, shackled as an example to all who dared challenge their power.

The news spread like wildfire—that she would be taken—and the smallfolk rose as one. The bakers abandoned their ovens, the butchers left their stalls, and the blacksmiths halted their hammers. From the docks came fishermen, armed with nothing but sticks and clubs, and from the alleys emerged beggars wielding knives. They poured into the streets like a flood, a river of anger and devotion.

The knights arrived in gleaming armor, their banners high, their arrogance even higher. They believed they could quell the tide of rage with the flash of steel and the thundering of hooves. But the people did not falter. They surged forward, overwhelming the first ranks of the soldiers with sheer numbers. The knights, masters of their craft, could not match the fury of the men and women who fought not for coin, not for creed, but for love.

They dragged the knights from their saddles, trampling them underfoot. A baker crushed a helm with his bare hands; a seamstress drove her shears into the throat of a woman who had once been a noble. The cobblestone streets ran slick with the blood of the aristocracy, yet still, the people cheered her name, their voices a chorus of defiance.

When the battle ended, the streets were littered with the corpses of her enemies, their banners torn and trampled beneath the feet of the people. The smallfolk carried their Empress back to the palace. She had won, not by the swords of nobles, but by the hands of the lowborn.

“Princess, you are a dragon, and dragons inspire awe. But fear alone will not win you the throne. Power rooted solely in fear will crumble, like a castle built on sand. You must be more than just a queen to these people. You must become their goddess,” the woman spoke again.

She raised an eyebrow, her violet eyes reflecting the flickering light of the fire. “A goddess? The common folk in the Vale worship the Septon and their Faith. What use am I to them?”

The Dowager Empress smiled a patient and understanding smile. “The gods of old are silent, child. The people pray, but it is your hands that can lift them from despair. A goddess is not born from temples or texts. She is forged in the hearts of her people. You must make them see you not as a woman, not as a highborn lady, but as something eternal, untouchable. But, for precaution, you should also create an image in the eyes of the Faith.”

“The Faith, Dowager Empress Han?” she asked, confused.

“Faith with too much power is like a sword with two edges—one side can cleave through your enemies, but the other will wound you just as deeply if your hand falters. A wise person knows it is better to make the Faith believe they stand with you than to risk standing as their enemy. Let them spread your name in their septs, let them see your deeds as blessings from the Seven, and they will fight for you. Faith is a weapon of belief, not steel, and those who wield it must understand: faith strikes hardest when it believes it acts in service, not in defiance,” she said.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra's POV

Three moons had passed since the return of Dowager Empress Han and Prince Reggio to their lands. The water pipes, long-awaited, had been set into place and were now fully functional. The buildings that had been planned, from the smallest huts to grander halls, were at last complete, the work fast-tracked by the tireless labor of so many hands. Rhaenyra now walked through the bustling streets of Gulltown with Daemon, her handmaidens Jeyne, Catherine, Elinda, Layla, Jasmine, and Sillas, and Oswel at her side. They were there for more than the simple enjoyment of time spent together, for the ordering of wedding preparations. It was a rare moment for her to take stock of the city’s state, for it had been decided that she and Daemon would venture into Gulltown twice a week, no longer content to remain distant from the pulse of her people.

For nearly six moons, she had been embroiled in the constant and often tedious task of overseeing the city’s construction, ensuring that the workmen and laborers were kept in line. But now, as her feet carried her through the cobbled streets, she felt a satisfaction like no other. The city, once thick with beggars and stray children, had thinned, the wretchedness that had once clung to the air dissipating into the fresh scent of prosperity. The foul stench of decay, long associated with the slums, was gone. What had once been a city on the edge of ruin now felt like a place of rebirth, and Rhaenyra felt a swelling pride within her chest. All her hard work, her sleepless nights spent toiling over plans and paperwork, had borne fruit.

Once, she had paid little heed to the lives of her people, seeing them as little more than pawns to be managed. But the visions—those nightmares that had plagued her—had changed that. She had seen how the common folk, in their desperation and hunger, had turned on her. She had seen how they had killed her “golden lady,” and her son, and though she had sometimes wished for the death of those people, she knew it was wrong of her to let her hatred blind her. So she works hard, to get not just fear but love of her people. For what is better than the people had turned from the sword to the plow, from the grip of poverty to the arms of progress? And in that, perhaps, there was justice—there was vengeance. For who better to protect you than the very ones who had once sought to harm you? Those who should have driven the blade into your heart now stood by you with swords drawn to defend.

After their walk, she and her party found themselves seated at a simple merchant’s table, the hum of the street outside mingling with the clinking of utensils. They had just passed through the market and admired the decorations being prepared for the wedding feast. In two moons, her marriage would be upon them. Invitations had already been sent out, stretching far and wide—across the Vale, to the Velaryons, to the noble houses of Pentos, and even Yi Ti. Her wedding would span three days. The first would be held in the Sept, according to the Faith of the Seven. The second, a ceremony rooted in ancient Valyrian tradition would mark her union with Daemon. And the third—an open feast for the common folk, a grand celebration in the vast fields near the Eyrie, where the people might join in the joy of the occasion.

This feast would not merely be a celebration of her marriage, it would be a celebration of something greater. It was a declaration to the people of the Vale that a new dawn had arrived with her as their Lady, to take her aunt’s place. Her aunt, still strong in health, had shown no sign of relinquishing her title. Yet her aunt had expressed the desire to step down, to spend her remaining years with her family, particularly with her future grandchildren. She prayed the Fourteen Flames would hold her aunt’s life in their hands for a while longer, that her time might not come too soon.

As they lingered over their meal, her thoughts drifted, only to be interrupted by Jeyne, her young cousin, who sat across from her, nestled between Catherine and Sillas.

"Sister, may I ask you something?" Jeyne’s voice was soft, her eyes curious, her question lingering in the air. She inclined her head, her gaze steady as she waited for the question to come.

"Why did you choose that fabric for your wedding dress?" she asked, taking a bite of the apple pie before her. Her gaze swept across the table, and all eyes followed her, their curiosity piqued by her choice. It was no secret that she had a penchant for beautiful things, that she preferred maroon and purple gowns, and since her move to the Vale, her wardrobe had often leaned toward blue.

"Indeed, my lady," Catherine joined in. "I did not expect you to choose such a fabric. Why not light blue, or pale red?" In truth, she should have pale red, for red is the color of the Targaryens, a hue tied to her and Daemon's bloodline. But in this case, it was Daemon who would be joining the family and not the other way around. So, it was her choice to don something blue for her wedding, but still, she had not chosen either of those colors.

"I will wear both of them on the second and third days of our wedding," she explained, her voice calm yet leaving her friends and her sister even more intrigued.

At that moment, Daemon and Oswell approached the table, bringing with them the dishes they had ordered.

"Oh, this is the rice harvested two months ago," Layla said, her eyes glimmering as she examined the dish before her. The aroma of the rice was a symphony, rich with savory spices and the scent of oils dancing through the air like a ballad. Each grain of rice gleamed with a golden sheen, kissed by the heat of the skillet and the touch of skilled hands. Amidst the rice lay slices of eggs, vibrant vegetables in green, orange, and white; tender cuts of meat, perfectly browned, their edges crisp and succulent. The fragrance of onions and garlic beckoned, sharp yet sweet, mingling with a delicate undertone that clung to the dish.

"Oh, this is my favorite," Elinda remarked, her eyes bright with delight as Oswell placed a bowl of rice pudding in front of her. The dish was thick and creamy, its surface dotted with specks of cinnamon and nutmeg, as though soft autumn leaves had been scattered across freshly fallen snow. The grains of rice, tender and chewy, swam in a gentle embrace of milk and cream, their pale hue catching the faint golden light from the candles. A drizzle of honey, gleaming like liquid amber, pooled around the edges, while a sprinkling of raisins and roasted almonds crowned the dish—a tribute to the hands that had crafted it with such care. The scent was warm and inviting, sweet whispers of vanilla and spices wrapping the dish in a familiar, comforting cloak.

The rice that had been harvested turned out to be the foundation for many kinds of dishes. Dowager Empress Han had sent a book containing various ways to prepare rice, and the book was copied and distributed for the use of all the people of the Vale. Dowager Empress Han, her family, and Prince Reggio would arrive a week before the wedding. After they finished their meal, each of them went off to buy the things they needed before returning to the Eyrie later in the afternoon. Catherine and Elinda went to the jewelry shop, while Sillas, Layla, Jasmine, and Oswell headed to the soap factory to collect their order.

"They seem excited," Daemon remarked, taking a seat beside her. He gazed at her with soft eyes before his fingers brushed gently over her cheek. "Have you seen the fabric for our wedding dress?" he asked, to which she nodded in response.

"You will look beautiful," he whispered. They remained in the shop, content to wait for the others to finish their errands.

"Daemon, I cannot thank you enough," she said, breaking the silence between them.

"Thank me for what?" he asked, his voice soft, full of curiosity.

"For everything. For helping me raise the Vale, for standing by my side, for trusting me. For all of it, Daemon," she replied. Her thoughts wandered to the dreams she had once had, to the moments when her life had been filled with happiness, all because Daemon had been there. Even when she had pushed him away, when her harsh words had wounded him, and when her doubts had caused him pain, he had never wavered nor turned his back on her. He had even sacrificed his own life. She owed him more than she could ever repay, but she would spend her days trying.

"Avy jorrāelan kepus," she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

"Issa jorrāelagon," he replied, his hand tenderly caressing hers, sealing the promise between them with those words—a vow that no one else could ever break.

When they returned to the Eyrie, she made her way directly to her aunt's chambers to report on the state of the common folk and the preparations for her wedding. As she reached the door, she found it slightly ajar. Inside, her aunt sat by the window, her hands busy with needlework. She was sewing a cloak—one she recognized at once. It was the very cloak her mother had worn on her wedding day. She had seen it countless times in the wedding portraits of her parents, hung proudly in the halls of the Red Keep.

“Aunt,” she whispered softly, the words catching in her throat. The sight of the cloak, so familiar, so steeped in memory, threatened to break her composure. She could not hold back the tears. In her dreams, when she had wed Laenor, she had only worn a simple maiden cloak, plain and unadorned. There had been no female relatives to share the moment, no bond with Rhaenys, no connection with her mother's kin. But this time, things were different.

“Sit, child,” her aunt called, her voice soothing yet filled with a quiet, aching wisdom. She obeyed, pulling a small chair closer and sinking into it, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like a shroud.

“This cloak belonged to your mother,” her aunt said, her fingers brushing the fabric with reverence. “I brought it home after her funeral. I believe it will bring you a sense of her presence at your wedding.”

Her breath caught in her throat. She looked at the cloak, now in her aunt's hands, and the tears she had held back now flowed freely, a torrent she could no longer contain. Her heart ached, but there was a strange comfort in knowing that her mother would somehow be with her on this day.

“Thank you, Aunt… thank you for everything,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she reached out to embrace her aunt, pulling her into a tight hug. Her aunt, ever the steady presence, held her close, and Rhaenyra could feel the warmth of her love, mingling with the lingering sorrow of all that had been lost.

Two moons later,

NO ONE POV

The morning of the wedding dawned crisp and clear, the chill mountain air of the Vale carrying with it the scent of pine and fresh dew. The sun crept over the jagged peaks surrounding the Eyrie, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold. As its light spilled into the high towers and winding halls, the castle stirred to life in a quiet flurry of anticipation.

Servants bustled about the corridors, their soft footfalls muffled by the thick tapestries lining the walls. Trays laden with freshly baked bread, honeyed fruits, and spiced tea were carried to chambers, while others tended to the final touches of decoration in the great hall and gardens. Garlands of blue and purple flowers had been strung along banisters, their vibrant colors gleaming like jewels in the morning light, a striking contrast to the somber stone that had stood for centuries.

In her chamber, Rhaenyra stood before a tall mirror, the silvered glass reflecting the woman she had become. Her handmaids fluttered around her like delicate butterflies, their motions graceful and purposeful. Catherine, her ever-loyal friend, gently fastened a fine silver clasp in Rhaenyra’s hair, weaving her golden tresses into an intricate braid crowned with a floral adornment, each petal carved with care. Sillas adjusted the fall of her gown, ensuring the shimmering fabric cascaded to the floor in perfect harmony with her movements. Elinda whispered words of encouragement, her fingers cold as she placed a necklace—a relic of Rhaenyra's late mother—around her neck. The gold and sapphire matched the earrings and hairpins she wore, a delicate nod to her mother's memory. The chill of the gems was stark against the warmth of her skin, but it did little to quell the nerves bubbling beneath her calm exterior.

Her handmaids, all clothed in shades of purple, the color she favored above all others, moved around her with silent precision. The Vale nobility and guests had donned blue garments to honor Rhaenyra, a sign of her new station as the Lady of the Vale. Corlys and Laenor had already gone ahead with Daemon to the Sept of Kind Daella, located not far from the Eyrie. The noble guests were waiting there for the arrival of the bride, their murmurs rising like a distant storm on the horizon. The door to Rhaenyra’s chamber opened once more and in stepped Lady Amanda, Princess Rhaenys, Jeyne, and Laena. Their eyes were fixed upon Rhaenyra, unable to look away.

“Aemma,” Princess Rhaenys whispered, a name spoken without thought as she gazed upon her niece. The words, though soft, carried the weight of a memory long buried. Lady Amanda could only smile faintly, her eyes reflecting the same sorrow and pride that had marked her sister's life. In this moment, she saw Rhaenyra not as her niece, but as the very image of her sister, the one lost to time.

“You are very beautiful, cousin,” Laena praised, her voice a soft melody that matched the grace of her words. Once ready, Rhaenyra and her company departed for the Sept of Kind Daella.

The bells of the sept tolled, their tones clear and sweet, their sound echoing across the stone peaks of the Vale. The sept, though modest in size compared to the grand cathedrals of King's Landing, possessed its own quiet majesty. White stone walls rose elegantly, crowned by a spire that seemed to stretch toward the heavens themselves. Within, the first light of the morning poured through stained-glass windows, casting hues of gold, blue, and crimson upon the stone floor. The air was thick with the mingling scents of incense and mountain flowers, a humble offering to the Seven, and perhaps, a prayer for the future.

Daemon Targaryen stood at the altar, clad in robes of deep crimson and black, his silver hair catching the sunlight like a crown of old. His posture was relaxed, almost casual, though his violet eyes flickered with a deeper emotion—a longing, perhaps, or an anticipation that even the gods could not predict. His gaze was fixed upon the great doors, waiting, hoping. The septon and septa, robed in the finest ceremonial garb, stood with heads bowed, murmuring prayers to the Seven, their voices a gentle hum that filled the air. The congregation, noble and humble alike, had fallen into a heavy silence, their eyes drawn to the doors at the far end of the sept, as if the very fate of the Vale would enter with the bride.

When the great doors swung open, a collective gasp rippled through the crowd, like the sound of a storm breaking. First came Jeyne, Rhaenyra's young cousin, a vision in light purple silk, a child caught between innocence and duty. She walked with a candle in her hands, its wax carved in the likeness of the Mother, each step careful, measured, as though the weight of the world rested upon her small frame. Behind her followed the handmaidens—Catherine, Sillas, Layla, Elinda, and Jasmine—each bearing a candle carved to honor the other aspects of the Seven: the Father, the Warrior, the Crone, the Smith, and the Maiden. The flames flickered in the sunlight, steady and resolute despite the faint mountain breeze that whispered through the sept’s high stone arches. The women moved in perfect harmony, each footfall a prayer, each movement an offering.

Laena Velaryon came last among the attendants, her dress the color of pale lavender, almost ghostly in its beauty. She bore the final candle, honoring the Stranger, its carved visage both solemn and enigmatic. Together, the women moved with a grace that seemed beyond mortal reach, their procession a delicate dance of light and devotion. As they approached the altar, the congregation held its collective breath, their eyes wide with awe, as though they feared to blink, lest they miss something sacred.

And then she came.

Rhaenyra Arryn, Lady of the Vale and scion of dragonlords, stepped through the doors, her presence so powerful it seemed to still the very air. She was flanked by her aunts Amanda and Rhaenys, both of them as steady as mountains, yet it was Rhaenyra who shone like a sun on a winter's morning. The maiden’s cloak of House Arryn, pale blue with gold falcons embroidered along the hem, rested lightly on her shoulders, secured by a brooch of sapphires and diamonds that caught the light with every movement. But it was her gown that stole the breath from every throat.

She wore white. Not the brilliant white of Valyrian silk, but a softer shade, like the pale glow of fresh-fallen snow or the delicate petals of a mountain bloom kissed by frost. The fabric, plain in color yet masterfully cut, flowed around her like a river of light, its simplicity betraying the elegance of its design. The edges were embroidered with patterns of stars and falcons, the silver thread catching the light with every step she took, as though the gown itself had been spun by the gods.

The room seemed to hold its breath as Rhaenyra advanced, her chin lifted, her silver-gold hair cascading like a waterfall of light. The choice of white—the color of the smallfolk, of purity and humility—was a shock to all who looked upon her. Whispers, like the fluttering of wings, rippled through the sept. Even the Septon faltered, his voice trembling for the briefest moment as if the very sight of her had interrupted the sacred flow of prayer.

Her dress shimmered like frost on winter’s first dawn, the lace overlay delicate as a dream, its petals embroidered with a precision that spoke of skill and love. The high neckline and full sleeves spoke of modesty, but there was an elegance in the way the gown hugged her form, every curve a testament to the woman she had become. A veil, soft and ethereal, crowned her head, embroidered with intricate white patterns that seemed to float and shimmer as she moved, like the first snowflakes of a new season.

Rhaenys and Amanda flanked her like sentinels, their fine garments pale beside her brilliance. Step by step, Rhaenyra approached the altar, her violet eyes fixed on Daemon, the only man who might dare to challenge her quiet strength. A faint smile played on her lips, regal and enigmatic as if she alone understood the secret of their joining.

When she reached the altar, the congregation exhaled as one, a collective sigh that filled the sept like the release of a thousand held breaths. The septon cleared his throat, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he raised them to begin the rites. But even as his voice filled the air, the memory of Rhaenyra’s entrance lingered in the minds of all present—a vision of beauty and power, humility and majesty, a woman forged from the fires of her past and risen anew, not from dragons, but from the heart of the people.

Outside, in the Eyrie’s courtyard, the common folk had gathered in droves, their breath rising in misty puffs, their faces eager and expectant in the crisp mountain air.

“She wears white,” someone whispered in awe, their voice full of wonder. “Like one of us.”

“She looks like a goddess,” another murmured, reverence threading their words. “No queen in silks and jewels could rival her.”

“She turned what’s plain into something divine,” an old woman said, her voice trembling with emotion. “That’s no princess—she is the Maiden come again.”

To see Rhaenyra in such simple colors, unadorned by the heavy, ostentatious gowns of royalty, was to see a woman who had bridged the gap between the highborn and the humble. The fabric might have been simple, but on Rhaenyra, it was transformed, just as she had transformed their hearts. She seemed, at that moment, to be one of them—not the unreachable dragon of her youth, but a woman who understood the weight of exile, the sting of rejection, the struggle for survival.

As she smiled softly, her head tilting slightly, acknowledging the people who had come to witness this moment, the crowd erupted in cheers. It was not a cheer born of obligation, but of love—love for a woman who had walked through fire and returned, not as a conqueror, but as one of their own. For a fleeting moment, they did not see a princess or a noblewoman. They saw hope, embodied in the form of a woman draped not in gold and jewels, but in the quiet strength of the common people. In Rhaenyra, they saw a goddess, not of stone and myth, but of flesh and blood, ready to rise again—not by the might of dragons, but by the will of the people.

Chapter Text

Daemon

Lady Amanda & Jeyne

Elinda

Catherine

Sillas

Jasmine & Layla

Laena

Rhaenys

Corlys & Laenor

Chapter Text

No One POV

The hall of the Eyrie was alive with a cacophony of sound: goblets clinking, voices murmuring, and the low hum of conversation rebounding off the cold stone walls. The feast had begun in earnest, and the Vale’s lords and ladies gathered in clusters, their voices hushed but their eyes sharp, each glance betraying admiration, curiosity, or envy. At one table, Septon Garred and Septa Elenna sat among the nobility, their faces composed in the solemn mask of piety, though their bright eyes flickered with unspoken thoughts.

“It was a marvel,” Lady Marilda of Gulltown declared, dabbing at her lips with a napkin finer than her peers could afford. “Never have I seen such a procession—candles carved in the likeness of the Seven! My heart nearly stopped when I beheld the child carrying the Mother’s likeness.”

“Indeed,” Lord Yohn Royce agreed, his voice heavy with reverence. “The maids bore their candles as if guided by divine hands. The very gods seemed to walk among us.” He leaned forward, his weathered face creased with thought. “Mark my words, this will not end here. By year’s end, every sept in the Vale will echo this custom. It will spread like wildfire.”

Lady Anya Waynwood nodded thoughtfully. “A new tradition, birthed by Princess Rhaenyra’s wisdom,” she mused. “Even the Reach, with its pride in its elegance, may seek to mimic such radiance. They’re quick to follow anything that glitters brighter than their gold.”

Septon Garred Garred, his chin stroked in contemplation, added, “Not only the candles, my lady. Her choice of dress—a simple white, plain in fabric yet rich in meaning. A maiden’s white, pure, and unspoiled, but adorned with symbols of her house and her faith. She speaks as clearly as if she stood at the pulpit: a bride should be as untarnished as snow freshly fallen on the mountains.”

Lady Marilda’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “A bold statement. Some might take offense. How many brides, I wonder, would dare don white now without fear of whispered scorn?”

“Let them whisper,” Lord Belmore barked, laughing, his goblet sloshing wine onto the table. “The truth is a blade, my lady. It cuts as it pleases. If the princess’s example shames them, then it is their shame to bear, not hers.”

Thus, the custom of maiden-white dresses and candle-lit ceremonies began its journey across the Vale, and in time, it reached every corner of Westeros.

On the second day, at the hour of the bat, under the cover of twilight, Rhaenyra and Daemon wed in the Valyrian tradition. Only their family and closest confidants bore witness, a sacred gathering where fire and blood entwined beneath the dying light of the sun.

The priests of the Fourteen Flames stood in a half-circle beneath a gazebo draped in silk. Their robes shimmered with the colors of molten fire, and each held a torch that burned with hues of dragonflame—blue, green, and gold, casting strange, flickering shadows on the ground. Their song, a haunting melody sung in High Valyrian, rose into the evening air. It spoke of love, duty, and the eternal bond of fire that bound their ancient bloodline.

Rhaenyra entered the garden on the arm of Lord Corlys Velaryon, his sea-weathered face alight with pride. Her gown was a masterpiece of Valyrian craftsmanship—cream and red silk that caught the firelight, shimmering like molten silver. Dragons embroidered in gold and ruby thread danced across the train, their wings outstretched as if to lift her into the skies. Upon her brow rested a circlet of Valyrian steel, studded with amethysts that captured and refracted the fading sunlight.

Daemon waited beneath the gazebo, his pale hair flowing like a river of silver. His robe mirrored hers, though darker, its crimson embroidery gleaming in the firelight. A brooch of a snarling dragon clasped his cloak, its ruby eyes smoldering with an inner fire. His smirk was faint but undeniable as his violet gaze locked onto hers, a silent promise exchanged between them. When she reached him, Corlys placed her hand in Daemon’s with a solemn nod, a blessing from the Sea Snake.

The High Priest of the Fourteen Flames stepped forward, presenting Daemon with a Valyrian steel blade, its edge dark and gleaming. He took the knife and drew it gently across Rhaenyra’s lower lip, his thumb brushing away the bead of blood that welled there. With reverence, he pressed the crimson streak to her forehead, a blessing in blood. Rhaenyra mirrored the act, her hands steady, her eyes locked with Daemon’s as she anointed him with her blood.

Their palms were cut next, deep enough to spill but not harm, and they clasped hands tightly, mingling their blood. The drops were caught in a goblet of dragonglass, the dark liquid swirling with shades of red and black. They drank deeply, their eyes never wavering from one another, as the priests recited the ancient vows in voices that echoed like thunder.

“Blood of two joined as one.

Ghostly flame and song of shadows

Two hearts as embers forged in fourteen fires

A future promised in glass

The stars stand witness.

The vows are spoken through time of darkness and light"

When their lips met, the sky itself seemed to hold its breath, only to be broken by the echoing roars of Caraxes and Syrax. High above, the two dragons wove a fiery dance through the heavens, their shadowy forms gliding against the dawn’s light, bearing witness to the sacred union of their riders.

“You and I are fire,” Rhaenyra whispered, her voice low but firm, “We were always meant to burn together, until the end of our story.”

Their foreheads rested against one another, breaths mingling in the crisp air, a rhythm that mirrored the serpentine dance of their dragons above.

“Avy jorrāelan ābrazÿrys,” Daemon murmured against her lips, his violet eyes smoldering with an intensity that spoke of vows far deeper than words. Hearing his words, Rhaenyra claimed his lips again, sealing the promise they had just exchanged with blood and fire.

At the hour of the bat, under the pale light of the rising sun, the second day of their marriage began with a grand feast in the Eyrie’s great hall. Tables groaned under the weight of fine dishes—roast game, baked pears in honey, fresh trout from the mountain streams, and exotic spices carried across the Narrow Sea. Entertainers from Yi Ti brought at great expense, performed a dramatic play to the delight of the gathered nobles. Among their gifts, Dowager Empress Han presented jewels of jade, turquoise, and pearl, as well as fine silks woven in the traditional style of Yi Ti—each a testament to the East’s splendor.

Rhaenyra’s POV

“I am pleased to see my gift suits you,” Prince Reggio murmured, his dark eyes glinting with amusement as they fell upon her gown.

After the solemn Valyrian ceremony at dawn, she had changed into a dress of Pentoshi silk gifted by the prince. The deep maroon gown, accented with delicate golden brocade, was loose enough to adhere to Vale customs yet tailored to flatter her figure with understated elegance. Around her waist, a thin golden belt shaped like a dragon’s wings cinched the gown, adding a touch of Targaryen flair.

“Of course,” she replied with a faint smile. “Were I not to wear your gift, dear prince, I would be a most ungrateful little sister.”

“Little sister?” Daemon echoed dryly, rolling his eyes in theatrical disdain.

Reggio laughed, clapping Daemon on the shoulder with a hearty slap that drew glances from nearby guests. “Brother-in-law, then,” he said with a grin. “Though it seems you are as jealous as ever, my friend.”

“Keep your dignity, Reggio,” a sharp voice interrupted. Emperor Han Qì, his expression stern, regarded Reggio with thinly veiled exasperation. “This is not Pentos.” Despite the emperor’s chiding, Rhaenyra caught the glimmer of amusement in his eyes. The emperor had come accompanied by his wife, their three children, and the Dowager Empress herself—a family with a regal presence that seemed to add to the splendor of the occasion.

Reggio leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Tell me,” he said, “what of your mines?”

“Mines?” Daemon’s brow furrowed, his tone tinged with suspicion.

“The mountains your dragons roost in,” Reggio explained, as though speaking to a dullard. “Do they not contain gold, jewels, or some other treasure? Wherever dragons choose to rest, there is always something worth guarding. Your Dragonmont holds dragonglass, does it not?” She exchanged a glance with Daemon, realization flickering between them. Reggio pressed on, his voice brimming with certainty. “Every time your dragon was in Pentos, he refused to rest anywhere but certain caves. We explored them after you left and found them brimming with gold.”

Even Emperor Han nodded in agreement. “When your dragon rested in Yi Ti, he chose caves rich with jade. It is no coincidence.”

Rhaenyra could see the spark of intrigue in Daemon’s eyes. If such riches truly lay hidden in the Vale’s mountains, it could mean untold prosperity.

“You should investigate,” Reggio urged. “Imagine the wealth it would bring. The Vale could craft its own jewels, a mark of its power and independence.”

Daemon’s slight smirk betrayed his thoughts. He would explore the mountains, of that she was sure. The prospect of enriching the Vale aligned with her plans to fortify its defenses. Gulltown, the beating heart of the Vale’s trade, was her priority. A walled city would ensure that no triarchy or pirate could threaten its prosperity. She had witnessed the devastation such groups could bring, both in her visions and through Daemon’s campaigns. She would not see the Vale suffer the same fate.

“You have laid the first stones of what could be a formidable foundation,” the Dowager Empress said, her keen gaze slicing through her like a blade through silk.“I have heard nothing but praise for you since yesterday.”

“Do you think so?” She replied with a measured smile, tilting her head.

The empress raised her glass, the corner of her lips curving upward. “Without a doubt. To use the silk of common folk and candles carved in the likeness of their gods? Brilliant. Blind them with your piety, smother them with your grace, and they will not see the storm you bring until it is too late.”

Their goblets clinked softly, a silent accord passing between them. She smiled, but her eyes gleamed with fire.

No One’s POV

The third day of the wedding celebration dawned warm and golden, with the summer sunbathing in the field near the Eyrie in a gentle glow. The air was rich with the scent of pine, and wildflowers, and the faint brine of the sea carried on the breeze. Stalls lined the wide paths crisscrossing the field, each manned by cooks and merchants offering everything from honey cakes to roasted chestnuts. Blue and silver banners swayed gently, their hues blending with the vivid greens of the grass and the bright azure of the sky.

Wreaths of mountain flowers—wild heather, bluebells, and pale white edelweiss—were strung between tall wooden poles, their delicate petals glowing under the clear sunlight. Garlands of evergreen boughs adorned the paths, softened further by clusters of wildflowers gathered from the hills. Lanterns crafted from painted glass caught the sunlight, scattering prisms of color over the throng. The smallfolk, dressed in simple, modest attire, mingled freely, their heads bare as a mark of humility and unity—a tradition Rhaenyra herself had decreed for the occasion.

At the center of the celebration stood a long, great feast table, piled high with roasted fowl, fresh-baked breads, and ripe summer fruits. The aroma of spiced wine and honey mead mingled with the savory scents of the food, making even the most disciplined stomachs rumble. Musicians wove through the crowd, their lutes, pipes, and drums creating a lively melody that kept feet tapping and spirits high.

In a corner shaded by a cluster of trees, children squealed with delight at a puppet show, the brightly painted figures enacting tales of dragons and knights. Older folk sat on benches fashioned from sturdy mountain cherrywood, sharing stories over mugs of ale and keeping a watchful eye on the young ones.

At the feast table, Rhaenyra Arryn sat with a serene grace, the warmth of the day reflected in her radiant demeanor. Her hair, soft as spun silver, was swept into a sleek low bun parted cleanly at the center, held in place by an intricate jade hairpin that gleamed like green fire. Her skin was pale and smooth, the kind poets might liken to moonlight on fresh-fallen snow, and her eyes, those deep purple orbs, shone with a quiet intensity that could pierce through even the heaviest of shadows. She wore a dress of her own design, crafted to honor the traditions of Yi Ti and pay tribute to their arrival. A Dress of shimmering navy blue, loose and flowing as though spun from the midnight sky itself, its long, billowing sleeves rippling with her slightest movement. Beneath the dress's generous skirts peeked a pair of high-heeled clogs, richly embroidered in gold thread, glinting with every step she took. Around her neck lay a two-tiered necklace of jade and gold, the precious stones resting against her collarbones with an understated elegance. Matching earrings, delicate and intricate, swayed lightly as she moved, catching the light in fleeting flashes that drew the eye.

Beside her, Daemon leaned back in his chair, his sharp features softened by a rare smile as he indulged in a hearty plate of roasted quail and bread. Though his presence radiated the intensity for which he was known, there was a quiet ease in him—a contentment that was unmistakable.

Lady Amanda and young Jeyne Arryn moved effortlessly among the smallfolk, their pale blue gowns blending with the decorations yet marking them as nobility. Their laughter rang out as they joined a group of children weaving flower crowns. Corlys Velaryon and Rhaenys Targaryen lingered near the table, their rich garments catching the sunlight as they shared lighthearted banter with a group of Vale lords.

Rhaenyra’s handmaidens—Catherine, Sillas, Layla, Elinda, and Jasmine—flitted between duties and the revelry, their laughter mingling with the hum of the crowd. They handed out flowers, helped serve food, and joined in impromptu dances with the smallfolk. Rhaenyra had insisted on their full participation in the festivities, their presence adding warmth and familiarity to the gathering.

As the sun began its slow descent, casting the field in a golden light, Rhaenyra rose from her seat, a goblet of summer wine in hand. The crowd quieted as her voice, steady and clear, carried over the gathering.

“This celebration is not for me alone, but for all of us,” she began, her purple eyes shining in the sunlight. “The bond between nobles and their people, between highborn and smallfolk, is a union as sacred as any marriage. Today, we honor not just my union with Daemon but the strength and unity of the Vale. Let us feast, dance, and remember—together, we are stronger than the winds that howl through these peaks.”

The crowd erupted in cheers, the sound echoing against the mountains. Musicians struck up a lively tune, and the revelry resumed with renewed vigor. Daemon leaned toward her, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Well said, my love,” he murmured, raising his goblet to hers.

As the evening deepened and the stars began to pierce the summer sky, the faint cries of dragons echoed overhead. Caraxes and Syrax circled high, their shadows sweeping over the celebration. The smallfolk and nobility alike looked up in awe, pride mingling with wonder. The field, alive with laughter, music, and the soft glow of lanterns, was a testament to unity and joy—a moment of peace and celebration etched into the hearts of all who attended.

The festivities stretched long into the night, with the sun surrendering its reign to a silver-streaked moon that bathed the Vale in a serene glow. As the stars emerged to join the celebration, some guests retreated to the Eyrie to rest their weary feet while many of the smallfolk returned to the makeshift tents pitched near the festival grounds. Daemon, ever watchful, had taken it upon himself to escort Rhaenyra back to the Eyrie. The faint blush on her cheeks and the laughter that spilled more freely than usual betrayed the indulgence of too much summer wine. Though her steps faltered, his steady hand on her waist ensured she remained upright, his presence as unyielding as the mountains themselves.

The chamber was warm with the golden glow of candlelight, the faint scent of mountain flowers lingering in the air. The faint music of the feast below reached them even here, but it was distant, a world apart from the intimacy of the room. Rhaenyra sat on the edge of the bed, her gown cascading around her like a river of silk. Her cheeks were flushed from wine and laughter, her lips curved in a small, teasing smile as she looked at her husband. Daemon stood near the hearth, his silver hair catching the light like molten starlight. His violet eyes roved over her, lingering in a way that made her heart quicken. There was something dangerous in that gaze, as there always was, but tonight, it was softened by something tender, something deeper.

"Will you simply stand there, admiring me like a portrait?" she teased, tilting her head. "Or have you forgotten how to act?"

Daemon's lips curved into a sly smile, his voice low and rich as he stepped toward her. "I’m savoring the moment, my love. A man should take his time when faced with such beauty. Would you fault me for that?"

Her laughter was soft, but it caught in her throat when he knelt before her, his hands sliding up the fabric of her gown, his fingers deftly finding the laces at her side. She felt the brush of his knuckles against her skin as he worked, his touch deliberate, almost reverent. "You speak as if I am something rare," she whispered.

Daemon looked up at her, his violet eyes dark with intent. "You are. You’ve always been."

His fingers brushed her cheek, trailed down her neck, and finally reached the ties of her gown, which was reverent and deliberate. He undid the knots with ease, his touch igniting her skin wherever he lingered. When the fabric slipped from her shoulders, pooling at her feet, he paused, drinking in the sight of her bare form with something akin to awe.

“Rhaenyra,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “You are more radiant than any queen crowned in gold and rubies.”

She reached for him, her fingers deftly unfastening his tunic, sliding the fabric away to reveal the hard planes of his chest. His skin was warm beneath her touch, the muscles taut as her hands roved over him. She leaned in, pressing her lips to his collarbone, his throat, savoring the taste of salt and heat.

When he lifted her, cradling her as though she weighed no more than a feather, she laughed softly, her arms winding around his neck. He laid her on the bed, the petals of wildflowers crushed beneath her, releasing their fragrance into the air. His body followed hers, pressing her into the softness of the sheets, the weight of him grounding her, anchoring her in the moment.

His kisses were searing, leaving trails of heat as they descended her neck, her collarbone, and lower still. His hands moved with purpose, roughened palms sliding over her thighs, her hips, her belly, as though committing every inch of her to memory. She gasped as his mouth replaced his hands, the sensation igniting something deep and primal within her.

“Daemon,” she whispered, her voice trembling, a plea and a command all at once.

He rose above her, his violet eyes meeting hers, blazing with a hunger that mirrored her own. He kissed her deeply, his hands cradling her face, and when he entered her, it was with a slow, deliberate thrust that stole the breath from her lungs. She arched beneath him, her nails digging into his back as they moved together, a rhythm as ancient as the mountains and the sea.

Their coupling was fierce and tender, a clash of fire and shadow. His whispered words in High Valyrian, promises of devotion and desire, mingled with her soft cries, their voices harmonizing in a symphony only they could hear. He held her as though she were the very breath in his lungs, his movements growing more urgent, more frantic until they reached the precipice together, their cries echoing in the quiet chamber.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, their bodies slick with sweat, their breaths uneven. Daemon’s arm draped possessively over her waist as he drew her closer, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to her brow.

“You are mine,” he murmured, his voice a rough whisper, and yet there was a tenderness in his tone that made her heart ache.

“And you are mine,” she replied, her fingers tracing lazy patterns across his chest. “Until the end of our stories.”

Outside, the summer night was alive with the hum of crickets and the distant songs of revelers, but here, at this moment, the world belonged to them alone.

Chapter Text

109 AC, Six moons after Daemon and Rhaenyra's wedding, four moons into Rhaenyra's pregnancy.

Lyman Beesbury’s POV

Since King Viserys had disinherited Princess Rhaenyra, the dragons of King’s Landing had grown quiet, their fire seemingly extinguished. It was not a sight to be ignored—those beasts were the living symbols of Targaryen supremacy. If anyone dared to ask his opinion, he would say it plainly: the eldest son of Prince Baelon was a fool, blind enough to let the magic that gave the Targaryens their might slip from his grasp.

He was no maester, nor did he claim to understand the mysteries of dragons, yet he remembered well the days of Rhaenyra’s youth. When the princess was born, and as she grew, it was as if the dragons themselves thrived in her presence. Dormant eggs hatched, the skies above the Red Keep were filled with wings and flame, and their roars echoed throughout the capital. Now, with her gone, it was as though the fire in their blood had turned to ash.

To let her go was yet another folly of Viserys’s reign. As Master of Coin, he knew better than most the dire consequences of losing both Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon. Queen Aemma had left Rhaenyra a dowry of three million gold dragons—an astronomical sum capable of raising armies or building fleets. That wealth, coupled with the Rogue Prince’s unending flow of gold and treasures, had once filled the Red Keep’s coffers to bursting. For nearly two decades, Daemon had lavished his niece with riches: gold, jewels, and gifts too numerous to count.

Daemon’s impetuousness had often been a thorn in Lyman’s side, but even he could not deny the truth—Daemon Targaryen had sustained the Red Keep. The feasts, tourneys, and revelries King Viserys so adored were funded not by the crown’s treasury, but by the spoils of Daemon’s wars. Yet, the king spent his days preoccupied with trivialities, oblivious to the source of his comforts.

He bore a certain fondness for Viserys, who was, after all, the son of an old friend. But sentiment could not blind him to the truth: Viserys was a fool, plain and simple. To favor flatterers and sycophants over his own kin? To alienate the very families who had secured his claim to the throne at the Great Council of 101 AC? To spurn House Velaryon, masters of the seas and keepers of the largest dragon alive? The man seemed determined to court disaster. Wisdom might follow the king, but Viserys fled too swiftly for it to catch him.

He still chuckled bitterly at the memory of Daemon’s departure. When the Rogue Prince had come to reclaim what he deemed his due—gold, jewels, and treasures—Otto Hightower had dared to oppose him. Daemon’s voice had rung like thunder through the Great Hall: “What aid did you offer when fire burned and wolves howled? What steel did you bear when my hands were red with blood and victory? Keep your hand from my gold, or I shall remind you what these hands can still do.” Otto had flushed as red as a Targaryen banner, while Lyman had laughed until his ribs ached.

Yet the memory soured quickly. Daemon had taken more than seventy-five million gold dragons, a fortune that had once kept the Red Keep alive. What had surprised Lyman most was not Daemon’s audacity, but the king’s inaction. Viserys had let it happen, as though the treasures meant nothing. And while Queen Alicent’s covetous eyes had lingered on the royal jewels Daemon carried away, she had said nothing either.

The Vale, it seemed, was flourishing under Rhaenyra and Daemon’s stewardship. He had heard whispers of their achievements: crops that resisted spoilage and thrived even in winter, innovative systems for waste and water, and even soap, which had become a luxury sought by every lord and lady. The princess’s fashions had grown famous, and trade agreements ensured that their wares could not be copied without incurring severe penalties.

The Master of Coin could only marvel at the brilliance of it all. Vale’s economy had surged, with demand for its goods outpacing supply. It was said that merchants clamored to buy contracts with the Vale, as those who did were guaranteed fortunes.

In stark contrast, King’s Landing was drowning. The treasury dwindled, and the survival of the Red Keep now depended entirely on the taxes from the realm’s regions. Were it not for his own deft management, the crown might already be in debt. The king wasted funds on frivolous feasts, while the queen poured gold into building her precious Sept.

He could only shake his head at the irony. Rhaenyra and Daemon, the exiles, had transformed the Vale into a thriving jewel of the realm. Meanwhile, King Viserys clung to his throne, blind to the ruin creeping ever closer, with Queen Alicent by his side, praying to gods who had long since turned their faces away.

A devout man himself, Lyman could not fathom the queen’s urgency. Faith was for the soul, but gold was the blood of a kingdom. To spend it so recklessly was to drain the veins dry. Who would pray in a gleaming sept when the city starved for lack of bread? Faith might warm the spirit, but it did not fill the belly. And what of Alicent Hightower herself? She called herself a queen, but what wisdom had she brought to the throne? A queen ought to govern with prudence and forethought, yet she spent gold as if it were water, pouring it into stone walls and septons’ coffers. Her talents, Lyman thought bitterly, seemed limited to bearing children and draining the royal purse.

A queen should be raised in wisdom and dignity, not plucked from the table of a second son like a serving wench sent to fetch wine. What could the daughter of a minor lord know of governance? She was fit to comb hair and fetch chamber pots, not to rule. A kingdom needed a queen, not a servant playing at greatness. If she continued thus, he thought darkly, it would not be long before her eldest son brought his body back to Honeyholt for burial. 

Lyonel Strong’s POV

He sat by the narrow window of his chamber, the winter sunlight streaming pale and thin through the frosted glass. Outside, Queen Alicent dismissed yet another servant with a sharp wave of her hand, her expression cold and imperious. He sighed, a soft sound swallowed by the weight of the Red Keep’s silence. It was a scene he had witnessed countless times since Princess Rhaenyra’s departure.

It seemed the queen had found her courage only in the absence of the king’s estranged heir. Before, Alicent had hardly dared to voice an opinion, let alone make any alterations to the governance of the realm. Now, with Rhaenyra gone, the queen had begun to reveal her true self. The Red Keep itself bore witness to her transformation—gone were the grand heraldic tapestries of House Targaryen, the three-headed dragon banished to the dust and darkness of the storerooms. In their place, symbols of the Faith of the Seven flourished like creeping ivy: paintings of the Crone, tapestries of the Warrior, and statues of the Mother. Even the servants’ livery had been changed. The crimson and black of Targaryen pride was abandoned for green—the green of House Hightower, the green of war.

He grimaced at the thought. Green, the color flown by the Hightowers when they raised their banners in defiance. But who, he wondered bitterly, was Queen Alicent at war with? Princess Rhaenyra, who had not so much as glanced toward King’s Landing since her departure? A foolish waste of gold and effort, he thought, all for servants’ uniforms and vanity. His sigh deepened as he turned from the window. The halls of the Red Keep had grown colder than the winds of winter. They had always been chill in spirit, but now… now they felt like a mausoleum.

(Flashback: Two Moons Earlier)

The Small Council chamber was cloaked in the damp chill of winter. Frost rimmed the tall windows, and the hearth roared with crackling logs, though the fire offered little warmth. King Viserys sat at the table’s head, his frail body draped in heavy furs. His face was pale, marked by lines of worry, his eyes sunken with weariness. Around him, the council convened: Otto Hightower, the king’s Hand, ever composed with his calculating gaze; Queen Alicent, quiet and proper, her hands folded demurely; Lyonel Strong, ever the listener; Tyland Lannister, sharp of tongue and golden of hair; and Grand Maester Mellos, dour and gray.

The doors swung open with a low creak, and Lord Corlys Velaryon, the Sea Snake, strode in. His entrance carried the weight of the sea’s tides, his cloak shimmering with the colors of Driftmark—sea green and silver. The scent of salt and wind clung to him, and his years of triumph were etched in his proud bearing.

“Lord Corlys,” King Viserys greeted, his voice thin but cordial. “Your presence honors us.”

“Your Grace,” Corlys replied with a deep bow, though there was a chill to his tone. “You summoned me, and so I have come. Though I confess, I wonder what aid the Sea Snake might bring to such frozen waters.” His smile was thin, his eyes gleaming with unspoken mirth.

Viserys shifted in his seat, discomfort flashing briefly in his gaze. “Winter presses hard upon us all. Our fields yield little, and our stores dwindle. Your ships bring wealth from distant shores—perhaps the crown might benefit from your aid in these times.”

Corlys inclined his head. “Winter spares no one, it is true. Yet some thrive even now. The Vale, for instance, flourishes under the stewardship of Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon. They have brought prosperity to barren lands, introduced new crops, and even built bathhouses to keep sickness at bay.” He paused, letting his words linger. “A remarkable feat for such a young pair.”

At the mention of Rhaenyra’s name, the room tensed. Otto’s jaw tightened; Alicent’s fingers gripped her goblet with white-knuckled intensity. Tyland raised a curious brow, while Viserys frowned, unease flickering in his eyes.

“Rhaenyra… and Daemon?” the king murmured, the words heavy on his tongue.

“Ah, yes,” Corlys said, his tone casual but laced with purpose. “They wed some months ago, in the Vale. A small ceremony, but no less joyous for its simplicity. I had the honor of walking the princess down the aisle myself.” His gaze flicked to Viserys, a spark of satisfaction in his smile. “A pity you could not attend, Your Grace. I imagine the invitation must have… gone astray.”

(End Flashback)

Since that day, Otto Hightower had scarcely gone a council meeting without raising the same refrain: “Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra must answer for their crimes and face punishment.”

Crimes, he thought with a scoff. What crimes? A man may marry as he pleases, and the king himself had granted Rhaenyra full autonomy over her choices. She could wed a Flea Bottom beggar if she wished, and neither the crown nor her father could say otherwise.

He chuckled darkly. Otto’s desperation was almost amusing if it were not so transparently dangerous. The man sought to rid himself of Rhaenyra and Daemon, the last true dragonriders. Twelve dragon eggs had cooled in recent years, their flames snuffed out in the cradles of royal children. The keepers whispered of the wasted treasures, and he had overheard one lament the futility of hatching eggs for “half-bloods.”

The list of goods destined for the Vale lay before him. His eyes lingered on the last line: the Targaryen heraldry, long relegated to the storerooms, to be shipped eastward at Viserys’s decree. A wise decision, he thought. For when the king drew his last breath, the Red Keep would not fly the black-and-red banners of House Targaryen. No, it would bear the white and green of House Hightower. Already, Alicent was unashamed in her efforts to erase her husband’s legacy.

For a woman who preached duty and piety, Alicent Hightower was no true servant of the Faith. If she were, she would honor her husband, not bury his house in storerooms. With a sigh, he summoned his pageboy. “Deliver this to Lord Caswell,” he instructed. The boy darted off, leaving him to his thoughts. Perhaps it was time to prepare for retirement. He could no longer stomach the sight of Otto Hightower playing king while Viserys drifted between dreams and reality.

Alicent’s POV

No matter how many silks she wore, how many jewels she adorned herself with, or how many prayers she offered in that false sept of hers, Rhaenyra could never escape what she was. A whore cloaked in a princess’s trappings. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she stared at the portrait—a gift to her husband as if Viserys needed more reminders of his errant daughter. There Rhaenyra stood, immortalized in brush and color, wearing white of all things. White! The symbol of purity, sullied by the very sight of her. A cruel mockery of the virtues she so flagrantly spat upon.

At first, she had dared to hope. When word reached her that Rhaenyra had taken to praying in the Vale’s septs, she thought perhaps the girl had seen the light. 'A broken woman finally learning her place,' she had mused, almost satisfied. But she should have known better. A Targaryen knows no humility, no shame. Rhaenyra’s prayers were no more sincere than the soft lies she whispered to sway the Vale’s lords. Even the holy were not spared her deceptions, for the septons and septas of the Vale had been utterly beguiled, singing praises of her so-called virtue. Virtue? A Targaryen? The very idea was blasphemy.

Her candles—yes, even Alicent had to admit they were lovely. But beauty made by sinful hands was cursed. No blessing would ever come from such works. And the white gowns? A shameless ploy, another of Rhaenyra’s endless schemes to feign modesty and humility. 'She plays at being a commoner now? A champion of the people?' she scoffed aloud. 'The princess of privilege wearing the color of beggars. How fitting. She always was a liar.'

Her thoughts turned bitterly to Viserys. Weak, indulgent Viserys, who had coddled Rhaenyra since the moment of her birth. 'This is what comes of spoiling a child,' she thought darkly. 'You breed entitlement. You breed rebellion. You breed ruin.' It would not be so with her children. Her Helaena would never become a spoiled, vain thing like Rhaenyra. No, Helaena would be the queen this realm deserved—pure, pious, and obedient. She suppressed a shudder at the thought of the Targaryens’ incestuous traditions, but she could not deny their necessity. No match was more fitting for Aegon than his own sister.

She turned sharply as a servant entered, carrying yet another painting. Rhaenyra again. Her nostrils flared as she eyed the new portrait. This time, Rhaenyra wore red—a harlot’s color. The gown clung scandalously to her form, its cut obscene, its design more suited to a brothel than a castle. 'The whore of the Vale,' she thought venomously. 'She has no shame, just like her mother, just like her whore-grandmother before her. All cursed, all damned. And the realm still sings their praises. The realm is blind.'

Her gaze drifted to the wall, where the portraits of Targaryen princes and princesses loomed. Rhaenyra dominated the space, her likeness larger than life. Even Aegon, the true heir, had no such tribute. Her fingers tightened on the fabric of her skirts. 'No matter,' she told herself. 'Aegon’s portrait will hang in every hall. A king’s portrait. A righteous portrait.' And when Aegon ruled, she would see to it that the portraits of sinners were torn down and replaced with the faces of the faithful.

She inhaled sharply, her thoughts veering toward the dragons. They slumbered now, but their awakening would mark the dawn of a new age—a holy age. She was certain of it. It was not Rhaenyra’s dragons that would herald this rebirth but those claimed by her own children, rightful rulers, blessed by the gods themselves. Her eyes gleamed with zeal. 'The dragons will rise for us. For the faithful. The gods will see to it.'

Her father worried endlessly over Daemon and his monstrous mount, but she saw no threat. Daemon was a dog, snarling and posturing, but leashed all the same. And Rhaenyra? She was nothing. A petty pretender playing at power. The Vale’s lords and ladies might fawn over her now, but they would forget her soon enough. Trends faded. Pretty words were forgotten. Rhaenyra would fade too, like a flame snuffed out.

Her gaze returned to the painting. How Viserys could fawn over such a creature was beyond her comprehension. A daughter who had betrayed him, defied him, shamed him. But Viserys had always been blind to Rhaenyra’s faults. Her lips curled into a cruel smile. 'He will see the truth soon enough,' she thought. 'When Aegon grows, Viserys will see the son who was always meant to rule. And when that day comes, Rhaenyra’s name will be erased, her legacy trampled beneath the feet of my children. The children of House Hightower. The children of the Faith.'

She closed her eyes, a prayer forming on her lips. “Guide us, O Seven. Guide us to salvation. Through Aegon, through Helaena, through the blood of the faithful, let us cleanse this realm of sin. Let us triumph over the cursed, the damned, and the unworthy. For we are the light in the darkness. We are the righteous.”

When she opened her eyes, they burned with conviction. The portrait of Rhaenyra seemed to mock her, but she no longer saw it. She saw only the future—a future where her children ruled, where the dragons of the faithful soared, and where House Hightower stood triumphant.

“It is the will of the gods,” she whispered. “And I am their chosen hand.”

Viserys Targaryen's POV

He sat alone in the warmth of his chambers, the crackling hearth casting flickering shadows against the stone walls. A goblet of wine rested untouched at his side, and in his lap lay the dream journal—its pages creased with wear, its ink smudged from his restless hands. He traced the Valyrian glyphs of his ancestor's prophecy, the words that had bound his life to the weight of the throne, and now, to a decision that haunted him.

The eve of Aegon’s second name day still lingered like a wound unhealed. That night, the gods had reached into his slumber, piercing it with visions so vivid they burned into his waking mind. He saw dragons tearing at each other’s throats, fire engulfing the Red Keep, and blood running like rivers through the halls of his ancestors. But what shook him most was not the carnage. It was the face of Rhaenyra, pale and broken, her silver hair streaked with crimson. She screamed his name, reaching for him as shadowy figures dragged her into the flames.

He had awoken drenched in sweat, clutching at the sheets like a drowning man. Beside him, Alicent stirred but did not wake. For a fleeting moment, he had considered telling her. Alicent had always been a steady voice, her faith and certainty grounding him when his own doubts threatened to drown him. But that night, he held his tongue. This was not a vision to be shared; it was a curse to be carried.

He had spent the next day in the throne room, the weight of the crown pressing heavier than usual as courtiers droned on about trivialities. Every glance at Rhaenyra—seated proudly at his side, radiant and unyielding—brought the dream crashing back. He saw the blood on her face, the despair in her eyes, and he knew. He knew that as long as she remained his heir, she was doomed.

The dreams continued in the nights that followed, each more harrowing than the last. They whispered of a future where her claim to the throne would ignite a war that would consume them all. The lords of the realm, divided between her and Aegon, would wield steel and flame, and Westeros itself would splinter under the weight of their conflict. And in the end, Rhaenyra would stand alone, a queen atop a throne of ash, her children—his grandchildren—reduced to corpses.

He could not bear it. To save her, he had to destroy her.

But love, he learned, was a fragile shield against regret.

When the decision was made, it was done in the privacy of his study, with only Alicent as witness. She had pressed his hand as he spoke the words aloud, her brown eyes glistening with what he took to be understanding. “You are doing what is right,” she had said. “For the realm. For her.” Her voice had been steady, but there was a fervor beneath it, a righteousness that unnerved him. Yet he clung to her assurance, desperate for someone to tell him he was not a monster.

The announcement was met with shock, as he had known it would be. Rhaenyra’s face had remained impassive as he proclaimed Aegon his heir, but he saw the fire in her eyes—the same fire that had burned in Aemma’s when she’d begged him to spare her one more birth. When the hall erupted in whispers, she had risen from her seat without a word, her chin held high, and walked out. It was the last time he saw her as his daughter.

The first moon after her departure was a blur of letters. Each word was chosen with care, each line an attempt to convey what his voice could not, pouring his heart onto the parchment. “This is not a punishment,” he wrote in the first. “It is a father’s attempt to shield his child from a storm she cannot weather.” The second had been more pleading: “Come back to me, Rhaenyra. Let us speak as father and daughter. Let me explain.” By the third, his words had grown desperate: “I cannot undo what is done, but I beg you to forgive me.” He had told himself it was for the best. She would be safer there, far from the venomous whispers of court and the machinations of those who would use her as a pawn. But the silence that followed was a torment he had not anticipated. Every unopened letter felt like a blade twisting in his heart.

And then came Corlys Velaryon with news that shattered what fragile solace he had built around himself.

“They are wed,” Corlys had said, his tone betraying neither approval nor disdain. “Daemon and Rhaenyra. She carries his child.”

He had not replied immediately, too stunned to speak. In his dreams, he had seen Daemon leave her, abandoning her in her darkest hour. The rogue prince had always been a tempest—fierce, unpredictable, and destructive. He loved his brother, but he had never trusted him. And now Daemon had bound himself to Rhaenyra, dragging her into the storm of his making.

Was this his punishment? Was the gods’ justice not the carnage he had dreamed of, but this slow, unyielding unraveling of his family? He had tried to save her, and in doing so, he had pushed her into the arms of the one man he feared would ruin her. The dreams had grown quieter since Rhaenyra’s departure, but their absence was not a comfort. The dragons had begun to slumber, their eggs cold and lifeless, as though they too mourned her exile. Even now, as he sat in his chambers with the flickering fire and the wine he could not bring himself to drink, the silence of the castle felt oppressive.

The Red Keep had become a hollow shell, a mausoleum for a family that was fracturing before his eyes. Alicent spoke often of the Faith, of the “righteous path” they were forging for the realm. She filled the halls with septons and imagery of the Seven, their prayers echoing through corridors once alive with dragon song. But for all her words of salvation, Viserys felt only the cold grip of despair. He turned back to the journal, running a hand over its worn pages. He had made his choice. He had disinherited his daughter, banished her in all but name, and entrusted the realm to a child still learning to walk.

And yet, in the quiet of his heart, he could not silence the thought that he had damned them all.

Chapter Text

NO ONE POV

The chambers of the Eyrie were quiet save for the soft crackle of the hearth and the faint whistling of wind that wove through the high towers. Rhaenyra Arryn sat by the balcony, her chair drawn close to the open doors that framed a view of the snow-dusted mountains beyond. The first snow of the season had come unbidden that morning, a light dusting that now thickened into a gentle fall. She watched the flakes tumble through the air, their descent unhurried, as though they knew they were meant to linger.

Her hands worked steadily, needles clicking softly as she knitted. The shawl she was crafting was a blue, the color of the Arryn banners. It was lined with a thread of pale red, a subtle nod to her Targaryen heritage. Her belly, swollen with the child she carried, made her posture slightly stiff, but there was a grace to her stillness. She had reached seven moons along now, and each movement of the child within her felt like a promise.

The sound of the door opening behind her did not startle her. It was Lady Amanda Arryn, her aunt and the former Lady of the Vale. Amanda’s footsteps were light, yet they carried a weight of authority born of years spent ruling this high seat.

“You should rest more,” Amanda chided gently as she approached. “The air is colder today, and you’re not as hearty as you pretend to be.”

Rhaenyra smiled faintly, though her eyes remained fixed on the snow. “The child seems to like it. He stirs more when I sit here,” she said softly, one hand resting on her belly. “Perhaps he feels the snow, or perhaps he hears the wind.”

Amanda took the seat beside her, pulling her own shawl tighter. She studied her niece with a careful eye. “You’ve taken well to life here,” Amanda remarked. “The mountains suit you better than the Red Keep ever did.”

“There is peace here,” Rhaenyra admitted. “A peace I did not think I would ever know.”

“You’ve built it yourself,” Amanda said firmly. “And you’ve brought life back to this seat in more ways than one.”

Before Rhaenyra could respond, the door opened again, this time admitting her younger cousin Jeyne. The girl, still on the cusp of womanhood, carried a tray with steaming cups of tea. “It’s jasmine today,” Jeyne said brightly as she set the tray on a nearby table. “I thought you might like it, sister.”

“Thank you, Jeyne,” Rhaenyra said, setting aside her knitting to take a cup. The warmth of the tea seeped into her hands as she cradled it. “You are always so thoughtful.”

Jeyne beamed at the praise before seating herself on a cushion by Rhaenyra’s feet. “Will you tell me what you plan to name him?” she asked, her eyes alight with curiosity. “The child, I mean. Have you decided?”

Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened briefly around the cup. She took a sip before answering, her voice sure. “Jacaerys,” she said, her tone confident as though she had known this all along.

Jeyne nodded solemnly, as though this made perfect sense.

The door opened once more, admitting a small group of women—Rhaenyra’s handmaidens, Catherine, Jasmine, Layla, and Elinda. They carried baskets of thread and fabric, their chatter filling the chamber with warmth.

“Snow already,” Layla said as she set her basket down. “Winter comes early this year.”

“It’s not truly winter yet,” Jasmine countered, peering out the balcony. “This is merely the mountains reminding us who rules them.”

The women laughed softly at that, their voices mingling like a melody. Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair, allowing their presence to wash over her. They had become more than attendants; they were companions, sisters in all but blood.

“Have you felt the child move today?” Catherine asked, her gaze flicking to Rhaenyra’s belly.

Rhaenyra nodded. “He’s restless. Perhaps he senses the snow as I do.”

“Restless is a good sign,” Elinda said wisely. “A restless babe is a strong one.”

“Then he shall be strong indeed,” Amanda said, her tone both amused and approving. “With parents such as his, I would expect no less.”

The mention of Daemon brought a flicker of warmth to Rhaenyra’s eyes. He was away, as he often was, tending to the needs of the Vale. But his absence did not weigh heavily; she knew he would return, and his letters reached her with unwavering regularity.

As the women settled into their tasks, the room grew cozy with their shared company. Rhaenyra returned to her knitting, her fingers moving deftly despite the weight of her thoughts. The snow outside continued to fall, a gentle reminder of the passage of time. In the quiet moments between laughter and conversation, she allowed herself to imagine the child growing within her.

He would be loved, she promised herself. He would be protected. And he would never know the loneliness that had once haunted her. In the Vale, surrounded by her chosen family and the peace she had forged, Rhaenyra felt the stirrings of hope. It was fragile, like the snowflakes that drifted beyond the balcony, but it was hers.

Daemon’s POV

The smell of sawdust filled the air, mingling with the faint tang of salt that wafted in from Gulltown's harbor. He stood just inside the carpenter’s shop, watching as a burly man worked a chisel along a piece of finely grained wood. The rhythmic scraping and the soft tap of a mallet were strangely soothing. Sunlight poured in through the open shutters, casting long beams across the shop floor, illuminating the faint shimmer of wood shavings and the tools hung neatly on the walls.

“Ah, my lord,” the carpenter said, pausing in his work and wiping his brow with a cloth tucked into his belt. He was a man of middling years, his hair streaked with gray and his hands worn smooth from decades of labor. “I wasn’t expecting you for another few days.”

He offered a half-smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “A prince waits on no man’s schedule, Derran. Least of all when the matter is… delicate.” His voice, low and smooth, carried just a hint of amusement.

The carpenter chuckled, bowing his head slightly. “Aye, delicate work indeed. Come, let me show you how it fares.”

Derran led him to the far corner of the shop, where the cradle stood waiting. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, simple in shape but rich in detail. The wood, dark and polished to a warm sheen, seemed to glow faintly in the afternoon light. The sides of the cradle bore intricate carvings—a falcon in flight on one side, its wings outstretched as if to shield a nest, and on the other, a dragon coiled protectively around its clutch of eggs.

He reached out, running his fingers along the smooth edge of the cradle. The wood was cool to the touch, its surface unmarred and perfect. His thumb traced the curve of the dragon’s neck, the delicate lines of its scales. The falcon’s wings seemed to ripple with motion, as though it might take flight at any moment.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” He said, his tone softer now, almost reverent.

Derran’s chest swelled with pride. “I wanted it to be worthy of your House, my lord. The falcon for the Vale, and the dragon for… well, for you and the lady, of course.”

He nodded, his gaze lingering on the cradle. “She’ll like it,” he said, more to himself than to Derran. “And if she doesn’t, the babe will.”

The carpenter chuckled again, a low, warm sound. “The little one will rest easy in this, my lord. I’ve made sure of it.”

His lips curved into a genuine smile, rare as it was. “Good. It’s a gift. A surprise.”

Derran raised a brow, but he said nothing, sensing the prince’s desire for quiet. Instead, he picked up the chisel again and returned to his work, smoothing the edges of the dragon’s wings.

He lingered a moment longer, watching the craftsman’s hands move with practiced precision. His thoughts wandered to Rhaenyra, to the way she had laughed that morning when he’d promised her he would return before the stars came out. She would be resting now, he hoped, her hand on her swollen belly, the soft weight of her unborn child stirring beneath her fingers.

“It’s sturdy?” He asked suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Sturdy as the Eyrie itself,” Derran replied without looking up. “It’ll hold the babe through their earliest days, and then some. And when they’ve outgrown it, well… the carvings will last forever. A keepsake, for the next generation.”

He tilted his head, considering the words. He had little patience for sentiment, but there was something about the idea of this cradle, this small, perfect thing, outlasting him that struck a chord deep within. “Good,” he said finally. “It will serve.”

The chisel paused again, and Derran glanced up. “If I may ask, my lord… is it a prince or a princess you’re expecting?”

He smirked, his eyes glinting with the faintest hint of mischief. “A dragon, Master Derran. That’s all that matters.”

The carpenter grinned, and for a moment, the shop was filled with the quiet camaraderie of shared purpose. He stayed a little longer, watching as the final touches were added to the cradle, before turning to leave.

Chapter Text

NO ONE POV

A moon before Lady Rhaenyra Arryn gave birth to Jacaerys Arryn

The morning sun broke over the Vale, casting long shadows over the dragonpit where Daemon Targaryen strode with purpose. Clad in a dark leather jerkin lined with crimson, his silver hair catching the early light, he approached the clearing where Caraxes often awaited him. The Blood Wyrm was a creature of habit, eager for the skies and the thrill of flight. Yet, this morning, no sharp roar greeted Daemon, nor the telltale rustle of wings stretching in anticipation.

Instead, he found Caraxes curled up on the rocky ground near the mouth of the cave behind the Eyrie, a place the dragons had claimed as their own. At first glance, the scene startled Daemon. For nestled against Caraxes, unmistakable even at a distance, was Syrax, her golden scales shimmering faintly in the pale dawn. The two dragons, locked in a shared slumber, formed an unbroken circle, their breathing synchronized, their tails entwined.

Daemon’s brow furrowed as he approached. “Caraxes,” he called, his voice firm yet edged with curiosity. The Blood Wyrm stirred, lifting his serpentine head to regard his rider with a deep rumble. But when Daemon stepped closer, Syrax’s head rose sharply, her golden eyes narrowing. She hissed a low and warning sound that froze Daemon in his tracks.

“Oh?” Daemon murmured, his lips curving into a faint smirk. It was rare for Syrax to show such defiance, and rarer still for Caraxes to remain so still under her influence. His smirk faded, however, when his gaze fell upon what the two dragons guarded.

Beneath their vast forms, nestled in the warm embrace of their coils, lay three dragon eggs. They glistened like precious gems, catching the morning light with an otherworldly glow. The first was olive green, its surface marbled with streaks of orange that shimmered like veins of molten ore. The second was pearly white, so luminous it seemed almost translucent as if hiding a secret deep within. The third was dark purple, its shell smooth and rich, marked by faint swirls of midnight blue.

He stepped closer, cautiously now, his movements reverent. Syrax’s hiss softened, though her gaze remained watchful. Caraxes merely blinked, his long tongue flicking out briefly before resting his head back down. Kneeling beside the dragons, Daemon reached out, his hands trembling ever so slightly as they hovered above the eggs. The warmth radiating from them was palpable, a gentle heat that spoke of life yet to come. He did not touch them immediately, instead studying their forms with a reverence few would ever associate with the infamous prince.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. He glanced at Caraxes, who rumbled in reply, and then at Syrax, whose golden gaze met his own. “You’ve outdone yourselves, haven’t you? Thank you both of you”

With the care of a man handling the most delicate treasures, Daemon lifted the eggs one by one. Their weight was surprising, each bearing the unmistakable promise of what they could become. Cradling them close, he stood, his heart pounding with excitement and pride, and walk back to the Eyrie.

Present time

The air in the chamber was thick with the lingering scent of sweat and blood, but the mood was one of triumph. The cries of the newborn prince had stilled, replaced by the soft murmur of the midwife tending to him. Rhaenyra reclined against a mound of pillows, her face pale and damp but radiant with the glow of new motherhood. Her loose, sweat-soaked hair clung to her face, and her hands trembled faintly from exertion. She had handed the babe back to the midwife to be cleaned, though her violet eyes followed every movement.

Daemon knelt beside her bed, his face shadowed with worry, his silver hair falling loose around his shoulders. In his hands, he held a damp cloth, dabbing gently at her brow. His touch, so often sharp and commanding, was tender now, the weight of concern dulling his usual edge.

“You’re still flushed,” he murmured, his eyes searching her face. “Do you feel faint?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. “You fret like an old crone, husband,” she teased, though her voice was thin with exhaustion. “I am well. A little rest is all I need.”

Amanda Arryn stood on the other side of the bed, her demeanor brisk as she adjusted the blankets around Rhaenyra. “Rest, yes, and food. You’ve lost blood, Rhaenyra, and your strength will not return on willpower alone,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. Her sharp grey eyes swept over Rhaenyra, missing nothing. “You mustn’t let pride rob you of sense.”

“I’ve no pride left after this ordeal, Aunt,” Rhaenyra replied dryly, though there was warmth in her voice. Her gaze flickered to the midwife, who held her son in a cloth near the hearth. “How is he?”

“Strong lungs, this one,” the midwife said, glancing back with a smile. “He’s a dragon, through and through.”

Before Rhaenyra could reply, the door creaked open, and a flurry of women entered. Catherine led the way, her sharp features alight with excitement, followed by Sillas, Jasmine, Layla, Elinda, and little Jeyne Arryn. Their footsteps were quick, and their voices hushed, though their eager expressions betrayed their awe.

“My lady!” Catherine exclaimed, stopping short as her eyes landed on the newborn. “Seven save us, he’s perfect.”

“He has your eyes, Princess,” Sillas added, stepping closer to the hearth for a better look. “Look at him! Such a fierce little face.”

“Fierce?” Jasmine giggled, her curls bouncing as she leaned over to peer at the babe. “He’s hardly more than a loaf of bread! But handsome, I’ll grant.”

“Handsome,” Layla echoed, her voice soft with reverence. “He’ll grow to be a heartbreaker, just you wait.”

Elinda, ever practical, turned her attention to Rhaenyra. “And you, Princess? Are you well? You’ve been through much.”

“She is fine,” Amanda interjected sharply, her gaze narrowing. “But she won’t stay so if you all clamor like hens in a pen.”

Jeyne, the youngest, hung back near the doorway, her wide eyes darting between Rhaenyra and the baby. “Little Jace?” she asked quietly, her small voice cutting through the chatter.

“Little Jace,” Rhaenyra said with a nod, her lips curving into a smile. 

Jeyne, small and wide-eyed, edged closer to the cradle where the midwife placed the swaddled babe. “He’s so little,” she said, her voice trembling with wonder. “Is it true he’ll ride a dragon someday?”

“Of course he will,” Jasmine replied with a grin. “The blood of Old Valyria runs strong in him.”

The door opened, and the murmurs hushed as the dragonkeepers entered. The leader approached with a velvet bundle held with the reverence one might grant a holy relic. The midwife stepped aside, and the dragon egg, gleaming olive green with veins of orange, was unveiled and placed in the cradle beside Jacaerys.

All of them drew in sharp breaths. Even Amanda, who rarely betrayed emotion, glanced at the egg.

Daemon stepped closer to the cradle, his hand resting lightly on the wooden edge. His eyes lingered on the egg, and the tension in his posture was unmistakable. The room quieted, all eyes on him as he spoke.

“Do you think…” He hesitated, his voice faltering as if the words themselves pained him. “Do you think it will hatch?”

The uncertainty in his tone was raw, laced with something deeper—an ache that hung in the air. His hand tightened briefly, the faintest tremor betraying his composure.

Rhaenyra’s brows furrowed, her heart twisting at the sorrow in his question. She reached for him, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist. “It will,” she said firmly, her voice carrying the weight of unshakable conviction.

Daemon shook his head slightly, his gaze fixed on the egg. “The eggs in King’s Landing… in Dragonstone… They’ve turned cold,” he said, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper. “Even those meant for my own cradle never hatched. I waited years for Caraxes to find me. Years of believing I wasn’t… enough.”

The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the hearth. The handmaidens exchanged uneasy glances, their excitement now tinged with solemnity.

Rhaenyra’s grip on Daemon’s wrist tightened. “You are not the boy you were,” she said gently. “You are Daemon Targaryen—rider of Caraxes, wielder of Dark Sister. The blood of the dragon flows through you as it flows through our son. Jacaerys is of our blood. The egg will answer him, Daemon. It will.”

Daemon turned his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “And if it doesn’t?” he asked, the question barely audible, as if voicing it might shatter him.

Rhaenyra sat up slightly, her eyes fierce despite her exhaustion. “It will,” she repeated, her voice as sharp as Valyrian steel. “Because it must. Our line is fire and blood, Daemon. The fire has not died, not in me, not in you, and not in our son.”

Daemon exhaled shakily, his fingers brushing against the cradle. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of his doubts and memories pulling at him. Then he straightened, his shoulders square but his eyes still shadowed.

The chamber was awash with sunlight, a rare crispness to the air as the winds of the Vale whispered through the open windows. Rhaenyra sat near the hearth, Jacaerys cradled in her arms, his little hand clutching at the lace of her sleeve. The babe cooed, oblivious to the commotion around him, while the room swelled with the presence of servants and handmaidens sorting through the latest arrivals.

Three months had passed since Jacaerys’s birth, and the news had swept across the Seven Kingdoms like wildfire. Nobles from the Vale, House Velaryon, and even distant lands sent their congratulations wrapped in silks and finery. From the capital, gifts had come as well, though they arrived under the shadow of strained silence, no letters accompanying them.

Daemon stood near the door, arms crossed, his expression carved in stone. His sharp eyes followed every movement of the attendants as they unwrapped parcels and displayed their contents. “Send it back,” he said flatly, his voice cutting through the gentle hum of conversation.

Rhaenyra lifted her gaze, her brow arching slightly. “Send it back?”

Daemon gestured toward the pile of packages wrapped in crimson ribbons and adorned with sigils of the crown. “King’s Landing has no business in this chamber. Gifts from him should not sully my son's crib.”

Amanda Arryn, seated across the room, paused in her stitching to glance between them. “The gifts bear no malice, Daemon,” she said evenly. “A babe cannot discern politics from cloth.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his displeasure palpable.

Rhaenyra, however, was already motioning for one of the handmaidens to bring her the nearest package. The servant placed it on the table before her, and Rhaenyra set Jacaerys gently in Amanda’s arms before beginning to unwrap the parcel.

Inside lay a collection of baby clothes, blankets, and small wooden toys, carved with intricate detail. Rhaenyra’s breath hitched as her fingers brushed over the fabric—a gown so delicate it seemed spun from starlight, and a blanket embroidered with tiny dragons. Her hand lingered on the toys, their designs painfully familiar.

“These…” Her voice faltered, the weight of recognition stealing her words. “These were my mother’s. She prepared these for me and… and my siblings who never lived long enough to wear them.”

Daemon stepped closer, his frown softening as he caught the tremor in her voice. “You’re certain?”

Rhaenyra nodded, her hand closing over a small wooden dragon, its paint faded but lovingly preserved. “I remember them. My mother gave me one just like this before her passing.” She looked up at him, her violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “I cannot send these back, Daemon. They are… hers.”

The room grew quiet, even the attendants pausing in their work. Daemon knelt beside her, his hand brushing hers as it rested on the blanket. For a long moment, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then he exhaled a low and weary sound.

“If they mean something to you, they stay,” he murmured.

“They do,” Rhaenyra said softly. She glanced at the crib where Jacaerys now rested, Amanda, watching over him with a protective eye. “They were meant for her children. Let them now be for mine.”

Amanda gave a small, approving nod, while the handmaidens murmured among themselves, touched by the sentiment. Daemon rose, his hand lingering on Rhaenyra’s shoulder. “As you wish,” he said, his tone quieter now, devoid of the earlier sharpness. But as he turned away, his jaw remained clenched, and his gaze flickered toward the remaining gifts from King’s Landing.

The hour of the wolf had settled over the Eyrie, the world outside cloaked in shadow and stillness. Within their chamber, the warmth of the hearth bathed the stone walls in flickering amber light. Rhaenyra slept soundly, her breathing soft and steady, a rare moment of peace after moons of caring for their newborn son. Beside her, Daemon rested on his back, one arm draped loosely over his wife’s waist, and his face turned to the ceiling. The quiet was absolute—until a tiny cooing sound pierced the silence.

Jacaerys stirred in his crib, nestled close to Daemon’s side of the bed. The sound was not a cry of discomfort but a delighted murmur, as if the babe had found something to amuse him in his dreams. Daemon’s eyes cracked open, his instincts sharp even in sleep. He pushed the blanket aside and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, padding softly to the crib. Jace’s tiny arms waved in the air, his dark eyes wide and glimmering in the dim light. But it was not the babe that held Daemon’s gaze.

The olive-green egg, nestled snugly in its bed of velvet within the crib, was moving. Faint cracks webbed its surface, a soft clicking sound emanating from within. For a moment, Daemon simply stared, disbelief tightening his chest. Then he turned sharply toward the bed.

“Rhaenyra,” he called, his voice low but urgent. “Wake up.”

She stirred, blinking against the haze of sleep. “Daemon?”

“The egg,” he said, his tone enough to dispel the last remnants of her dreams.

Rhaenyra sat up swiftly, her hair tumbling around her shoulders. She followed his gaze to the crib, her breath catching as she saw the egg shuddering, the cracks widening. A pale orange glow seeped through the fissures, casting an otherworldly light.

Daemon reached into the crib and lifted the egg carefully, holding it as though it might shatter in his hands. The babe cooed again, his tiny fists clenching in excitement as if sensing the momentous event unfolding beside him.

Rhaenyra slid out of bed, gathering Jace in her arms as she moved closer to Daemon. Together, they watched as the egg broke apart in his hands, the pieces falling away to reveal a creature unlike anything Jace’s parents had seen in years.

The hatchling unfurled from its confinement, small and sinewy, its olive-green scales gleaming in the firelight. Its eyes, a piercing orange, blinked as it adjusted to the world. Tiny frills of the same vibrant hue framed its narrow head, fluttering like delicate fans. It let out a weak chirp, its voice soft but insistent, and stretched its wings, the thin membranes shimmering like molten gold.

The hatchling turned its bright eyes toward Jace, tilting its head as if studying the babe. It took an unsteady step forward, its claws scratching faintly against Daemon’s hands. Rhaenyra held Jace closer, the babe’s gaze fixed on the hatchling, his tiny mouth open in a soundless expression of wonder.

For a long moment, the three of them stood in silence, the crackling fire and the faint chirps of the dragon the only sounds in the room.

Daemon’s voice was low when he spoke again, almost reverent. “It hatched.”

Rhaenyra looked at him, her violet eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “It hatched,” she repeated. She glanced down at Jace, who was still captivated by the hatchling, his little hand reaching out as if to touch it. “He has a dragon.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened, his emotions warring beneath the surface. He thought of the cold eggs in King’s Landing, the silence of the Dragonpit. He thought of his own long years without a bond, the emptiness that had gnawed at him before Caraxes. But now, in this moment, hope burned anew.

Rhaenyra reached out, her hand resting on his. “This is the beginning,” she said softly, her gaze shifting to the dragon. “For him. For us.”

The soft glow of the morning sun bathed Rhaenyra’s chambers in pale light. The room was still, save for the occasional crackle of the fire in the hearth and the soft breaths of Jacaerys sleeping in his crib. Curled beside him, nestled among the folds of his blanket, was the dragonling, its olive-green scales shimmering faintly and its orange eyes half-lidded in slumber. Its tiny wings, too small to shield anything of substance, lay draped protectively over the babe’s fragile form as if it alone could keep the world at bay.

The door creaked open, and Amanda entered first, her sharp gaze softening as it fell on the crib. Behind her came little Jeyne, practically bouncing with excitement, followed by the handmaidens—Catherine, Sillas, Jasmine, Layla, and Elinda—each one wide-eyed with wonder.

“Careful,” Amanda murmured, raising a hand to still them. “Let the princess rest.”

But Rhaenyra was already awake, sitting up in bed with Daemon at her side. Her silver-gold hair tumbled over her shoulders, and though her face bore the weariness of childbirth, her eyes were serene. She glanced at the group, a faint smile gracing her lips.

“Come,” she said softly, her voice carrying a warmth that drew them closer.

Amanda approached the crib first, her breath catching as she peered inside. Her hand flew to her chest, and for a moment, the sharp-tongued lady seemed at a loss for words.

“It’s real,” she murmured, her voice trembling. “A hatchling dragon. In the Vale.”

Little Jeyne edged closer, her face alight with unrestrained wonder. “It’s so small,” she whispered, leaning on her tiptoes to get a better look. The dragon shifted slightly, its frills twitching, and Jeyne gasped. “It moved! Oh, it’s beautiful!”

Catherine pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes brimming with emotion. “The gods have blessed you, Princess. The bond between dragon and rider… it’s as though history itself has come alive.”

Jasmine, bold as ever, leaned in beside Jeyne. “I’ve heard dragons are fierce even as hatchlings,” she said, though her voice was softer than usual. “But look at it. It’s… guarding him.”

The others crowded closer, their whispers a gentle hum in the quiet room. Layla’s gaze lingered on the tiny wing draped over Jace. “It’s trying to shield him,” she said softly, her voice tinged with awe. “As if it already knows its purpose.”

Rhaenyra’s smile grew, though her hand clutched Daemon’s tightly. “Dragons are not mere beasts,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “They are fire and blood, bound to us in ways the world may never truly understand.”

Amanda’s sharp eyes flicked to Rhaenyra. “There has never been a dragon hatched here,” she said, her voice measured but tinged with reverence. “And now, to see this…” She shook her head, her stern mask slipping for a moment. “It is a wonder.”

Jeyne reached out tentatively, though her hand stopped short of touching the dragon. “Will it always stay this small?” she asked, her voice filled with childlike curiosity.

Daemon chuckled softly, his hand resting on the edge of the crib. “Not for long,” he said, his voice carrying both pride and a touch of caution. “Soon enough, it will grow to fill the skies. But for now…” He glanced at the dragonling, its tiny tail curled around Jace’s blanket. “For now, it is Jace's little protector.”

The room fell silent at that, the weight of Daemon’s words settling over them. Yet, as if to defy the gravity of the moment, Jace let out a soft coo, his tiny fingers curling against the dragon’s wing. The hatchling stirred, lifting its head briefly before settling back down, its warmth radiating against the babe’s side.

Seven days after, High Tide, Driftmark.

The solar of High Tide was dimly lit, its thick stone walls muting the light of the setting sun. Corlys Velaryon stood near the hearth, a goblet in hand, his sea-worn face carved into a deep frown. The Lord of the Tides stared at the raven with Arryn’s sigil in front of him. The faint crackling of the fire was the only sound until Rhaenys Targaryen swept into the room, her crimson cloak billowing like a banner behind her.

"You summoned me, husband?" she asked, her voice carrying a natural authority.

Corlys turned, his expression softening at the sight of her. "A raven arrived from the Vale."

Her brows arched. "From Rhaenyra? What news?"

He picked up the letter, the wax of House Arryn’s seal broken. "It seems that Rhaenyra and Daemon’s son, Jacaerys, had his egg hatch. Not just hatch, but thrive."

Rhaenys paused, the words settling heavily in the air between them. "Hatch? And thrive?"

Corlys nodded, his lips thinning. "You’ve seen what’s happened in King’s Landing. At Dragonstone. For more than two years, the eggs have been cold, and the dragons are asleep. Even Seasmoke has not stirred."

Rhaenys took a slow step closer to the table, her violet eyes narrowing. "Yet Syrax and Caraxes remain awake, and now this..." She exhaled sharply, her mind working through the implications. "Tell me, Corlys. What do you think it means?"

"I don’t know what to think," he admitted, setting the goblet down. "Perhaps it’s a coincidence. Perhaps the warmth of the Vale’s mountains, or the care of their keepers—"

"Coincidence?" Rhaenys cut him off, her voice firm. "We are not speaking of chickens or hawks. These are dragons, Corlys. They are fire-made flesh, bound to our blood."

He frowned. "Aye, and I know well the bloodline we share, but the idea that Rhaenyra or her children—"

"Do you not remember," she interrupted again, stepping closer, "how the skies came alive with dragons after Rhaenyra was born? Eggs that had been stone for decades hatched, and the hatchlings grew strong. It was as if her very presence stirred the magic in them."

Corlys shook his head slightly, unconvinced. "That’s a fanciful notion, my love."

"Fanciful?" she repeated, her voice tinged with frustration. "You forget yourself, Corlys Velaryon. We are of Valyria, descended from those who forged their empire through fire and sorcery. Each Targaryen carries some spark of that magic, and some are stronger than others. It cannot be denied."

He crossed his arms, leaning back against the table. "And you believe Rhaenyra is one such? That her blood is stronger, that her children have inherited it?"

Rhaenys nodded slowly. "I do. Think about it: why else would her dragons remain awake while the others slumber? Why else would her son’s egg hatch when so many others have failed? The pattern is too clear to ignore."

Corlys was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable as he mulled over her words. Finally, he sighed, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You make a compelling argument, as ever."

She smirked faintly. "I’m glad you’re beginning to see sense."

Rhaenys moved to the writing desk, taking up a quill and parchment. Corlys watched her, his curiosity piqued. "What are you doing?"

"Writing to Rhaenyra and Daemon," she replied without looking up. "To congratulate them, of course. And to suggest that perhaps Meleys might join them in the Vale for a time. The pit beneath High Tide is under construction, and she’s restless. A change of scenery would do her good."

Corlys raised a brow. "You want to test your theory."

She dipped the quill into the inkpot, a sly smile curving her lips. "I’ve always been fond of experiments. If Meleys thrives in the Vale as Syrax and Caraxes have, we will have our answer."

"And if she awake?" he asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Then we’ll know the issue is not the dragons, but the dragonlords," Rhaenys said simply. "And that would make Rhaenyra—and her bloodline—more important than ever."

Corlys studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. Let us see what the Queen Who Never Was can discover."

Rhaenys shot him a sharp look, but there was no malice in it. "Careful, husband. It is a dangerous thing to tease a dragon."

He chuckled softly. "So I’ve learned."

She turned back to the letter, the scratching of the quill filling the room. Rhaenys’s expression grew pensive as she wrote, the weight of what her words could mean settling over her. If Rhaenyra truly was the key to rekindling the fire of House Targaryen, the stakes were higher than ever.

When the letter was finished, Rhaenys sealed it with the Velaryon sigil and handed it to a waiting page. As the boy left the solar, Corlys approached her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"Whatever comes of this," he said softly, "we’ll face it together."

Red Keep, King’s Landing

The small council chamber was thick with tension, the air heavy with the weight of decisions yet to be made. King Viserys sat at the head of the table, his weary eyes fixed on the councilors gathered before him. Otto Hightower, ever vigilant, leaned forward with an almost predatory gleam in his eyes. Master of Coins Beesbury, his face full of concern, was murmuring to himself, scribbling in his ledger, while Lyonel Strong, Master of Laws, remained quiet, his brow furrowed as he listened intently to the others. Grand Maester Mellos sat, hands folded before him, his expression unreadable, while Ser Harrold Westerling, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, stood by the door, his posture stiff.

The topic at hand was dire—food stores across the Reach had gone to waste during the brutal winter that had gripped the land. Though the cold season had passed three moons ago, its lingering impact was still being felt across the kingdom. There was little to nothing left to sustain the people, and with spring’s warmth still slow to take hold, starvation seemed an ever-present threat.

“It is the lack of food storage that concerns me most,” grand maester Mellos said, his voice heavy with concern. “The Reach, once the breadbasket of Westeros, is now struggling to feed its people. The Velaryons, who have had ample time to send aid, have sent nothing. And the Vale... no word from them either.”

Tyland Lannister shifted uneasily in his seat. “I understand the Vale’s situation, grand maester. The winter was harsh in the mountains. The roads were impassable. But the Velaryons? They are a coastal power. They could have sent ships—ships loaded with grain and salted meats—but they did nothing.”

Otto Hightower’s eyes narrowed, his voice cold with suspicion. “And that, my lords, is the problem. The Velaryons are not the only ones to blame. The Arryns of the Vale have been just as negligent. The harsh winter may have made travel difficult, but they had months to send something—anything. And yet, nothing came.”

His tone grew sharper like a blade being drawn. “We cannot sit idly by while our people starve. We must demand answers from both Velaryon and Arryn. The Vale’s mountains are no excuse for not sending aid. Princess Rhaenyra’s silence is a betrayal, just as much as Corlys Velaryon’s refusal to send his ships. These are not matters to be ignored any longer.”

Viserys, who had been listening quietly, his face clouded with a quiet sorrow, shifted in his chair. He sighed deeply, weary beyond words. “We are all suffering, Otto. The Velaryons and the Vale—yes, they should have done more, but the winter has been unkind to us all. I cannot bring myself to condemn them without understanding their hardships.”

Otto’s gaze sharpened, his voice becoming more insistent. “Your Grace, if we do not act now, there will be nothing left to save. If we allow Rhaenyra and the Vale to continue like this—isolated, withdrawn from their duties—then what will happen to the crown? What will happen to the realm?”

“Lord Hand, enough,” Lyonel Strong’s voice was calm but firm. “You are quick to blame, but there are many factors at play here. The Vale is difficult to reach. The roads are treacherous, especially after such a harsh winter. And the Velaryons... their resources are not limitless. They too have suffered the cold, and I would not be so quick to dismiss their plight.”

The argument hung in the air for a moment, and Viserys, exhausted by the bickering, rubbed his temples. He knew the weight of his crown had only grown heavier in recent moons, but the ache in his chest—the loss of his children, his estrangement from Rhaenyra—was harder to bear. His eyes flicked toward the door as Ser Harrold Hightower moved to open it.

The door creaked on its hinges, and the pageboy entered, holding a letter in his trembling hands. The sigil of House Arryn was unmistakable.

Viserys straightened, his heart leaping in his chest as if all the burdens of the past two years—his estrangement from his daughter, the loss of her wedding, the birth of her children—might finally be mended. “A letter from the Vale,” he murmured, his voice almost hopeful. “At last.”

He motioned for Ser Harrold to take the letter and read its contents aloud, his eyes shining with faint expectation.

Ser Harrold unfolded the parchment, his eyes scanning the words with a neutral expression. The chamber fell silent as all eyes turned to him.

“Your Grace,” he began, his voice steady, “this letter is from Lady Rhaenyra Arryn and Lord Daemon Arryn. It reads:

'To His Grace, Viserys Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Protector of the Realm,

We write to share joyous tidings. Three moons passed, and we welcomed the birth of a son, Jacaerys Arryn. He is strong and healthy. A week ago, a dragon egg placed in his cradle hatched, and the hatchling, named Vermax, now bonds with the boy.

Rhaenyra Arryn
Daemon Arryn'

The room was silent, save for the sound of Viserys’ slow exhale. His face was a mask of disbelief, mixed with sadness. It was not just the news of a child—another heir born in silence, another dragon hatched when all others had turned cold—it was the signature at the end. “Daemon Arryn...” Viserys’ voice cracked as he spoke. “Not Targaryen... Arryn.”

The room was silent, save for the sound of Viserys’ slow exhale. His face was a mask of disbelief, mixed with sadness. It was not just the news of a child—another heir born in silence, another dragon hatched when all others had turned cold—it was the signature at the end.

“Daemon Arryn...” Viserys’ voice cracked as he spoke. “Not Targaryen... Arryn.”

Otto Hightower leaned forward, his expression a mixture of incredulity and disdain. “Daemon Arryn,” he repeated, his tone laced with mockery. “It is the natural order of things that a wife might take her husband’s name, but this... this is an abomination! A husband taking the name of his wife’s family? It is blasphemy against our traditions and a mockery of House Targaryen itself.”

He stood abruptly, his sharp eyes scanning the room. “Rhaenyra and Daemon have cast aside their Targaryen names. By doing so, they have cast aside the legacy and the duty that comes with it. And yet, they keep their dragons—dragons born of Valyria, dragons that belong to the blood of Targaryen kings! If they wish to wear the name Arryn, then let them reside in the Vale and abandon what is your children by right.”

Viserys raised a hand weakly, but Otto pressed on. “It is not only the insult of their actions but the danger they pose. Syrax and Caraxes remain awake and active, while all other dragons sleep. And now, they hatch another dragon—a Vermax. How long before they use these beasts to defy you outright, Your Grace? How long before they aim them at King’s Landing?”

Grand Maester Mellos gave a small nod of agreement, his soft voice carrying a weight of caution. “The Hand speaks wisely, Your Grace. The dragons are a gift of House Targaryen, not House Arryn. Their claim to these creatures is contingent upon their loyalty to this house and its king. By taking another name, they have renounced that loyalty. Their silence, their distance, their disregard—it speaks volumes. This cannot be allowed to fester.”

Viserys slumped in his chair, a shadow of his former self. His gaze lingered on the parchment, his heart heavy with the realization that Rhaenyra and Daemon had truly distanced themselves from him and all that he had built. The ache of their absence, of missed milestones—the wedding he had not seen, the son he had not held—pressed against his chest like a stone.

“Enough,” he murmured weakly, though his voice barely carried over the growing tension. He clenched the arms of his chair, his voice rising slightly. “I will not hear talk of dragons or treason—not today.”

Otto’s jaw tightened, but he held his tongue, while Mellos inclined his head respectfully, though his expression betrayed his disagreement. The rest of the council exchanged uneasy glances, the atmosphere thick with unspoken words and heavy implications.

The Queen Chamber, Red Keep, King’s Landing

The Queen’s chambers bore little trace of Targaryen heritage. Gone were the tapestries of dragons in flight or the sigils of Old Valyria. Instead, the room was draped in the austere grandeur of the Faith of the Seven. A seven-pointed star of silver hung prominently on the wall behind her chair, flanked by the soft glow of prayer candles. The air was heavy with the scent of incense, and every surface seemed adorned with symbols of piety and Hightower pride. Even the cushions on the divan bore the sigil of her house rather than that of her husband’s.

Otto Hightower entered without preamble, his boots clicking against the polished stone floor. His daughter sat at her writing desk, meticulously copying a passage from The Seven-Pointed Star. Her quill stilled as she looked up, her serene expression faltering when she saw the grim urgency on her father’s face.

“Father,” Alicent began, setting the quill aside. “What troubles you so?”

Otto shut the door firmly, glancing at the septa stationed in the corner. “Leave us,” he ordered, his tone brooking no argument. The septa curtsied and departed swiftly.

As the door clicked shut, Otto turned back to Alicent, his voice low but charged with urgency. “News has come from the Vale. Rhaenyra has birthed a son.”

Alicent stiffened, her lips thinning. “A bastard,” she said coldly, her voice dripping with disdain. “Is that all?”

“No,” Otto replied, stepping closer. “An egg placed in the boy’s cradle has hatched. A dragon. Vermax, they have named it.”

The serene façade Alicent wore shattered. Her hands clenched the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. “A dragon?” she repeated, her voice rising in pitch. “No. That cannot be. The eggs placed in my children’s cradles have grown cold—lifeless. And now, this... abomination brings forth a dragon? She must use some king of sorcery”

“It is true,” Otto said gravely. 

Alicent surged to her feet, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. Her face twisted with rage, and her voice trembled with righteous fury. “This is blasphemy,” she spat. “A bastard-born child cannot be the will of the gods. It is an affront to the Seven. Dragons born of sin and treachery—this is no miracle, Father. It is a curse upon us all!”

“She mocks me!” Alicent cried, sweeping her arm across the desk. The inkpot shattered against the floor, black rivulets staining the pristine white of her embroidered carpets. “She mocks the Seven! She mocks the crown!”

Her chest heaved with each breath, her eyes wild with fury. “While my children—pure, trueborn heirs—sleep beneath eggs that will not stir, her bastard offspring brings forth fire and life? No. No! This cannot be the will of the gods!”

Otto placed a steadying hand on her arm, his voice low and venomous. “It is not, Alicent. It is a mockery of their will. And it is a threat to the realm. If Rhaenyra’s bastards can command dragons while ours slumber, what does that say to the lords of Westeros? What does that say of the crown’s strength?”

“She must be punished,” Alicent hissed, her voice trembling with malice. “Her dragons must be taken, her power broken. She dares to flaunt her sin while cloaking herself in the legacy of her mother’s house. It is heresy. It is treason. It is...” She trailed off, her hands trembling as she clenched them into fists.

A nearby vase, painted with the likeness of the Seven, caught her eye. She seized it and hurled it against the wall with a scream, the sound of shattering ceramic echoing through the chamber.

“She is a whore,” Alicent spat, her voice venomous. “A whore who births dragons from her filth. And the lords of Westeros will look upon her with awe, while my children—the true heirs—are forgotten!”

Otto stepped back, watching the storm he had unleashed with quiet satisfaction. “Then you must act, my daughter,” he said, his voice soothing, almost tender. “You are the queen, chosen by the gods to guide this realm. You must ensure that the Faith’s light shines brighter than any dragon’s fire.”

Alicent’s face was a mask of fury and determination, her tears now dried. “She will not win,” she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute. “The gods will not allow it. I will not allow it.”

Otto nodded approvingly. “Good,” he said softly. “Good.”

Chapter Text

NO ONE POV

The gardens of the Eyrie stretched open beneath the morning sun, a quiet haven perched high above the world. The scent of pine and mountain heather clung to the breeze, carrying with it the distant cries of falcons wheeling in the blue expanse overhead. A fine Myrish carpet had been spread upon the grass, thick and soft beneath their touch, embroidered with threads of gold and sapphire—colors befitting a house of kings, or a house of falcons.

At its center sat Jacaerys Arryn, a prince of dragons born to the mountain stronghold of his mother’s kin. Seven moons old, his silver curls caught the light with every turn of his small head, the brightness of his hair a stark contrast to the purple of his eyes. He sat with his legs planted firm, chubby fingers grasping at a wooden toy box, his tiny face creased with concentration as he struggled to pry it open.

“He has the Arryn strength,” Catherine mused, watching the boy’s fierce grip. “See how he fights with it? He does not yield.”

“He has his father’s stubbornness, more like,” Layla countered, a sly grin playing at her lips. “The Rogue Prince’s blood runs true.”

Jace let out a huff, his small arms straining as he yanked at the lid. When it gave, wooden carvings tumbled onto the carpet—tiny creatures of pine and oak, each finely shaped: a falcon with wings spread wide, a rearing horse, a hound mid-snarl. But it was the dragon that Jace reached for first, his tiny fingers wrapped tight around its curved wings.

“A dragon for a dragon prince,” Jasmine said softly, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. “Or is he a falcon first?”

“He is both,” Rhaenyra answered, her voice light, but there was a quiet pride beneath it.

She sat amongst them, regal even in ease, her dress a light purple that shimmered where sunlight met the golden ribbon stitched upon its chest. Her hair was loose, bound with gold that caught in the breeze as she watched her son.

“He favors you,” Catherine said, eyes flicking between mother and child. “The same eyes, the same sharpness of face.”

“He has Prince Daemon’s mouth tho,” Layla noted. “And that look—when he sets his mind to something, nothing else in the world matters.”

Jace, oblivious to their words, had begun gnawing on the dragon’s tail. A sharp hiss broke through the air, and all turned to see Vermax coiled upon the edge of the carpet, watching with wary, slitted eyes. The young dragon’s hide was still soft, his wings too large for his body, his flames yet too weak to be anything more than a puff of smoke. But he had his instincts, and he did not like to see his boy lifted and carried about.

“Vermax,” Rhaenyra’s voice turned sharp, her Valyrian lilting and firm, the tongue of Old Valyria rolling off her lips like steel wrapped in silk. “Nyke gōntan ao sagon sȳz. Issa mēre tubis.” 

Vermax blinked at her, exhaling another tiny stream of white smoke, but he curled back down, grumbling as he tucked his wings in close.

Jasmine let out a soft laugh. “Even another dragon bends to your word.”

“As he should,” Rhaenyra said smoothly, adjusting the clasp of her golden necklace. “He is not yet large enough to do as he pleases.”

“Neither is Jace,” Catherine teased, watching as Layla lifted the boy into her arms, making him giggle with delight. “But already he rules us all.”

“He is Arryn by name, but a dragon still,” Rhaenyra murmured, tilting her head. “And soon, the world will know it.”

Rhaenyra’s POV

Her gaze drifted toward Daemon, who was crouched beside Oswell and Adrian, his hands deftly fastening the wooden frame of the swing they were assembling. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the morning light catching the silver of his hair as he worked, his fingers moving with a careful precision that belied his usual restlessness.

The sight of him so utterly focused stirred something within her—a memory, unbidden yet vivid. The cradle. The one he had brought to her a moon before Jace’s birth, carved with dragons and falcons, a gift wrought not of gold or jewels but of love, of intent.

(Flashback on)

The chamber was bathed in the warm glow of late afternoon, the fire in the hearth crackling gently, its embers casting soft shadows upon the stone walls. The scent of parchment and lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the faint, comforting aroma of dragonhide and cedar oil.

She reclined upon the cushioned chaise, a book resting open upon her lap, though her eyes had long since drifted from the words upon the page. The weight of her child pressed gently against her ribs, a quiet reminder of life yet to come.

The door creaked open, and she turned her head, expecting one of her ladies—but it was Daemon who stepped inside, his pale hair tousled by the wind, his eyes alight with something unreadable. Behind him followed Oswell Redfort and Adrian Massey, each carrying between them a weight that did not go unnoticed.

It was a cradle.

A masterpiece of craftsmanship, simple in shape but rich in detail. The wood, dark and polished to a warm sheen, seemed to glow faintly beneath the fire’s light. Along its sides, the carvings told their tale—a falcon in flight upon one, its wings spread wide as if to shield a nest, and upon the other, a dragon, coiled protectively around a clutch of eggs, its wings curved in quiet defense. A house of the Vale. A house of dragons.

Her breath caught.

Oswell and Adrian set it down with reverence, nodding their heads in silent acknowledgment before bowing low and taking their leave, the heavy door thudding shut behind them.

She let her fingers trace the gilded edges of her book, but she did not turn the page. Instead, she looked at Daemon, watching him as he lingered near the cradle, his fingers brushing absently over the carved falcon.

“You seem surprised,” he mused.

“I am,” she admitted. “I did not expect—”

Her words trailed off as she sat up, the book slipping from her lap. Daemon glanced at her, something hesitant in the way he stood, as if uncertain what to do now that the cradle was before her.

“I’ve been thinking of this since you told me you were with child,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “Thinking of what I could give you. What I could give them.”

His hand came to rest upon the dragon, his thumb tracing the curve of its wing.

“I am a second son, Rhaenyra. I have no land to pass down, no birthright to promise. All that I have, all that I am—I built with my own hands, won with my own sword.” He exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “I cannot give them a kingdom, nor a castle with high walls, but this—” His hand curled against the wood, the weight of his words pressing against the air between them. “This, at least, is something that is mine to give. And if the gods are good, it will outlast us both. It will hold them, and the children that come after, and perhaps even theirs, long after we are gone.”

She rose, slow and careful, one hand pressed lightly to the curve of her belly. She crossed the space between them, reaching out to lay her hand over his where it rested upon the dragon’s back.

“You are more than a second son, Daemon,” she murmured. “You are my husband, my prince, the father of this child.” Her fingers curled gently around his wrist, warmth seeping through her skin into his. “What you have built, what you have given me—it is worth more than any crown, more than land or castles. You have given me a home. A family.”

Daemon swallowed, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words came.

She smiled, reaching up to cup his face, her thumb tracing the faint lines at the corner of his mouth. “This cradle is not all you have to give, my love,” she whispered. “You will give them your love. Your stories. Your fire. And they will be richer for it.”

For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, his hands found her waist, pulling her close, his forehead coming to rest against hers. His breath was warm against her skin, his arms steady as they encircled her.

The fire crackled softly, the chamber filled with nothing but the steady rhythm of their breathing.

“I love you,” he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper.

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“And I you.”

(Flashback end)

A smile ghosted her lips as she rose from where she sat, leaving Jace in the care of Jasmine and Layla, who cooed and laughed as they entertained the babe. Her steps were measured, unhurried, yet purposeful as she crossed the garden toward her husband.

Adrian was the first to notice, nudging Oswell as she neared. A look passed between them—wordless understanding—before both men took a step back, bowing their heads and murmuring their excuses.

She watched him for a moment, amusement flickering in her eyes. "I never took you for a carpenter, husband." Her voice was warm with mirth, lilting just enough to break his concentration.

Daemon huffed, shaking his head as he finally turned to look at her. "A man finds new talents when his wife insists on filling his days with children," he quipped, though there was no real bite to the words.

She smirked. "And here I thought you preferred filling my nights."

Daemon let out a low chuckle at that, his smirk half-hidden by the tilt of his head. But then, his gaze shifted past her, softening as it landed on Jace, who was nestled between Jasmine and Layla. The boy was shrieking with delight as Layla dangled a carved falcon above him, his tiny hands grasping at the air.

Daemon exhaled, slow and deep. "I want to do something for him," he said at last.

She arched a brow. "You are. This is sweet. I shall expect a rocking horse next."

His lips twitched, but the humor did not reach his eyes. "Not just this," he murmured. "I want to make something that will last. Something he can look back on when he's grown. Something to remember me by."

She frowned. "He will remember you."

Daemon’s jaw tensed, his fingers pressing against the wood. "Will he?" His voice was quiet, but there was something raw in it, something bitter. "I barely remember my own father."

Her brows drew together. “Grandfather died when you were twenty.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted. "And yet I have few memories of him. Fewer still that are worth keeping." He let out a breath, shaking his head. “He was always with Viserys. Preparing him, guiding him. I was left to my own devices more often than not. Oh, he acknowledged me, trained me, but…” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “When I think of him, I remember duty. Expectation. Distance.”

She reached out, placing a hand over his. “And you fear Jace will think the same of you.”

Daemon’s fingers curled beneath hers. "I don't want him to know me only through stories told by others, through words in some maester’s tome. I don’t want him to struggle to find a memory of his father, to wonder if he was ever truly seen.” His gaze flickered to Jace again, watching the way his son’s silver hair gleamed beneath the morning sun. “I want to be more to him than a name.”

She squeezed his hand. "You already are."

He turned to look at her, his expression unguarded in a way few had ever seen. "And if I fail?"

"You won't." Her voice was steady, unwavering. "You are not your father, Daemon. You are here. You see him." She smiled something soft and knowing. "And he sees you." Daemon let out a slow breath, some of the weight in his shoulders easing. He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against her palm. 

She let her fingers linger against his cheek, tracing the sharp lines of his face as Daemon held her hand to his lips. For a moment, neither of them spoke, only the rustling of leaves and the distant laughter of their son filling the space between them.

“I’ve been thinking, wife,” he drawled, his voice laced with mischief.

She arched a brow. “A rare and terrible thing.”

Daemon chuckled, though there was a glint in his eyes as he leaned in, voice dropping to a teasing murmur. “We are Targaryens, are we not?” Her brow arched at the question.

“And yet,” he went on, tilting his head, “we reside in the Vale, under an Arryn roof. You, yourself, became the Lady of Arryn.” His smirk widened as he gestured toward where Jace still played, his tiny hands wrapped around the carved falcon Layla had given him. “And now our son, an Arryn by birth, bears a Velaryon name.”

She merely smiled.

Daemon gave a slow shake of his head. “Tell me, wife—is this some grand scheme of yours? Have you already arranged our son’s betrothal to Corlys’ phantom granddaughter?”

She let out a soft laugh, stepping back just enough to meet his gaze. “A wise woman always thinks ahead.”

Daemon scoffed. “Seven hells, you truly have lost your wits.” He clicked his tongue. “What next? Shall we dress the boy in sea-green and pearls? Have him claim Driftmark before he’s grown his first tooth?”

She smirked. “Would that trouble you, husband?”

Daemon eyed her with mock suspicion. “More than a little.”

“Perhaps I simply liked the name.”

His fingers brushed over her waist, voice dipping low. “Or perhaps you’re keeping secrets from me.”

Her smile did not waver. “Would you like me less if I were?”

Daemon studied her, searching for something she would not give. After a moment, he let out a huff, pressing his lips to the corner of her mouth.

“If the boy grows webbed feet, I will hold you responsible.”

She laughed, warm and bright, the sound carrying on the wind as Daemon pulled her closer.

The laughter had barely faded when the sound of approaching footsteps drew their attention. Aunt Amanda swept into the garden with her usual effortless grace, her grey hair pinned back with a veil of fine blue silk. Beside her, little Jeyne all but bounced on her feet, her cheeks flushed from the morning air.

Jeyne, ever the lively child, wasted no time in settling next to Jace, who was happily gnawing on one of his wooden toys. She pulled out a small collection of intricately crafted dolls from the bag at her side, each one lovingly dressed in fine silks and velvet. Her soft voice bubbled as she spoke to Jace, showing him the dolls as though they were some rare treasure. "Look, Jace, these are my favorite," she cooed, holding up a doll with a bright blue dress. But instead of the admiration Jeyne had hoped for, Jace only gave it a slobbery tug, gnawing on the doll’s dress.

"Ugh, Jace, you're a bad baby," Jeyne huffed, pouting as she looked up at her with a dramatic sigh.

The group chuckled, the sound light and full of warmth. Daemon, unable to hold back his amusement, walked toward them, his gaze falling on the little boy as he held the doll in his mouth. He scooped Jace up effortlessly, the baby giggling in his arms.

"Now, now," Daemon teased, his voice playful as he addressed the baby. "Don’t bully your little aunt, Jace. She’s far more frightening when she’s angry than Vermax could ever be." He lifted Jace to his face, making a face that was as menacing as he could muster for the child, his silver hair falling over his brow.

The baby, oblivious to the jest, gurgled happily, his tiny hands reaching for his father’s face. Rhaenyra smiled at the sight, her heart warmed by the simple joy of the moment.

In the midst of it all, Aunt Amanda smiled, her gaze gentle as she watched the family before her. "Such a dear little boy," she murmured, brushing a lock of hair from Jeyne's face as the girl stood beside Jace, trying to reclaim her dolls.

She watched them all for a moment, her heart swelling with a tenderness she hadn’t felt in years. It was hard to believe that just four years ago, after the death of her mother, and her father’s marriage to Alicent, she had felt so alone, adrift in a sea of expectations and bitter memories. The warmth that filled her now—surrounded by Daemon, Jace, Aunt Amanda, Jeyne, and even the presence of her trusted friends—was something she had not imagined possible.

She whispered a silent prayer to the Fourteen Flames, the gods who had given her the dream that had guided her to this peace. She was grateful. So grateful. For this family, for the love they had built, and for the laughter that now filled the garden of the Eyrie.

Chapter Text

NO ONE POV

The Sept of Kind Daella, Vale

The candles burned low in the Sept of the Eyrie, their wax pooling in shallow dishes of polished bronze. The evening prayers had ended, and the murmurs of devotion had faded into the hush of the mountain night. In the dim glow of the seven-pointed star above the altar, the gathered septons and septas lingered, their voices hushed, their eyes alight with wonder and unease.

“The dragon awoke,” said Septon Meryn, a man of middling years with a tonsured head and lined face. His fingers traced the outline of the Father’s sigil on his robes as if seeking wisdom in its touch. “Not at the call of its rider, nor from hunger or battle—but at the presence of Her Grace.”

Septa Elenya, a woman who had served the Faith in the Vale since girlhood, bowed her head. “A sign,” she whispered. “A true sign. The gods speak in ways beyond our understanding, but this… this is their will made manifest.”

The others shifted, glancing toward one another. The news had spread swiftly, even to the sept, carried on the lips of knights and stewards, maids and merchants alike. Meleys, the Red Queen, had slumbered through storms and steel, her eyes shut to the world. The dragons of King’s Landing, Dragonstone, and even Driftmark had turned cold and silent, their fires dimming, their wings heavy with torpor. And yet here, in the Vale, in the shadow of the mountains, one had stirred—because of her.

“Princess Rhaenyra has come to the sept more often in these past moons,” mused Septon Oswin, the eldest among them, his voice rasping like dried parchment. “She kneels before the Seven, she lights the Father’s candle, and bows before the Mother’s altar. Perhaps this is why the gods have chosen to bless her.”

“More than a blessing,” Septa Maris murmured. “The dragons of her kin sleep, yet hers wake. Meleys could have risen for Rhaenys, yet she did not. She could have stirred at the command of the Velaryons, yet she did not. It was Her Grace’s presence alone.” Silence settled, heavy and reverent. The wind howled beyond the sept’s thick stone walls, rattling the iron-bound doors.

“Should we send word?” asked Septon Meryn, his voice low. “The High Septon in Oldtown must hear of this.”

“Aye,” said Oswin, stroking his beard. “The Seven work in ways unknown to us, but we must not be blind to their will. A woman set aside, a crown denied, yet the divine light still falls upon her.” He let out a breath as if awed by his own words. “Perhaps she is not cast aside. Perhaps she is chosen.” The decision was made. Before the dawn’s light touched the mountaintops, a raven would fly south, bearing tidings of the dragon’s awakening, of the princess who walked in the Seven’s grace.

Chapter Text

Winterfell, North

NO ONE POV

Rickon Stark sat in the great hall of Winterfell, his fingers drumming against the thick wooden armrest of his chair. The fire in the hearth burned low, its warmth barely enough to keep the chill of the encroaching winter at bay. Outside, the winds howled through the ancient stones of the castle, a mournful sound that seemed to echo his own growing desperation.

"No response?" His voice was low, but there was an edge to it, like the sharpened steel of a longsword.

Lord Simon, his steward and closest advisor, stood before him, his hands clasped behind his back. The older man hesitated before shaking his head. "None, my lord."

Rickon's jaw tightened. "It has been five months, Simon. Five months since I sent my letter to the Crown, pleading for aid. Do they mean to let the North starve?"

Simon exhaled through his nose, his expression grim. "It would seem so."

The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken truths. Rickon leaned forward, rubbing a weary hand over his face. The weight of leadership had never felt heavier upon his shoulders.

"How much food remains in the stores?"

Simon pursed his lips before answering. "Less than we had hoped, my lord. The harvest was meager this year, and the early snows have made hunting near impossible. We've already begun rationing, but even so... if the winter worsens, we will not last until spring."

Rickon slammed his fist against the armrest, the sudden noise startling the few servants lingering in the hall. "And the people?"

"Many have already begun to feel the bite of hunger. Some have taken to eating what little scraps they can find—roots, bark, even carrion. If no aid arrives soon..." Simon trailed off, the unspoken words hanging between them like a specter.

Rickon stood, pacing the length of the hall. "And yet we are expected to remain loyal to a king who will not even grant us the courtesy of a reply?"

Simon sighed. "Aye, my lord."

Rickon ran a hand through his thick hair, frustration curling in his gut like a coiled viper. "The North has always been left to fend for itself, but I had thought, perhaps, this time would be different."

"Hope is a dangerous thing," Simon murmured. "And often a fool's burden."

Rickon turned to face him, his grey eyes burning with resolve. "Then we shall not rely on hope. If the Crown will not aid us, we must look elsewhere."

Simon hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. "There is another option, my lord. The Vale."

Rickon frowned. "The Vale?"

Simon nodded. "Princess Rhaenyra—"

Rickon’s brow furrowed deeper. "Rhaenyra? The princess who was disinherited by Viserys?"

Simon scoffed, his voice sharpening. "Not anymore. She is no longer Rhaenyra Targaryen. She is Rhaenyra Arryn, Mistress of the Vale, and she holds more power now than she ever did as the King’s heir. The Vale prospers under her rule. She has secured grain and foodstuffs that can withstand the harshest winters—so much so that it is said she shares her surplus with House Velaryon. If we were to send a request for aid, she might be willing to help us."

Rickon studied Simon, his mind turning over the possibility. He remembered whispers he had heard—how the princess was fond of pretty things, of fine silks and delicate jewels. The North had no such luxuries to offer, but they had furs, thick and warm, prized by those in the South. And lumber—strong and sturdy from the Wolfswood, sought after for ships and keeps alike. Perhaps, if the Vale had food, they could offer something in return.

He exhaled slowly. "Send a raven to the Eyrie. Tell Rhaenyra Arryn that the North seeks her aid. Offer lumber and furs in exchange for food."

Chapter Text

Hello, as promised, I will answer some of your questions from previous comments.

Q: Why did Viserys choose Aegon as his heir and still treat Alicent well even after having the dream?
A: Because Viserys’ dream was incomplete. Unlike Rhaenyra, who dreamed of the entire future, Viserys’ vision only began with Blood and Cheese killing Helaena’s son and ended when the Dance was over. He did not see how Alicent treated Rhaenyra and her children. Since his dream started with Blood and Cheese, Viserys was unaware of the exact number of Rhaenyra’s children and did not know that she had already lost two children (Visenya and Luke) before that tragedy.

Seeing the realm torn in two, Viserys decided to name Aegon as his heir instead of Rhaenyra. Why? Because it was the easiest choice for him. Throughout his life, he never achieved anything through his own efforts. He took the throne simply because he was born male, and his marriage to Aemma secured him an army that supported his claim (not to mention the forces Daemon raised for him). When it came to the kingdom’s more ‘unsavory’ affairs, Daemon always handled them. In many ways, Viserys’ good reputation existed because Daemon played the role of the enforcer. Compared to Daemon, Viserys seemed like the better man—just as Jaehaerys was seen as a ‘good’ and ‘peaceful’ king because he was compared to Maegor, who ruled with an iron fist.

As for why he remained with Alicent, it was not a decision he could make lightly. Alicent had the support of House Hightower and the Faith of the Seven, and she had given the king multiple heirs. This made things complicated. It wasn’t impossible to set her aside, but Viserys was too weak-willed to do so. In the end, he simply chose the easier path. And it’s important to remember that Alicent has still been acting ‘kind’ toward Rhaenyra all this time (since, according to the show, her behavior only changed after the brothel incident). Because of this, Viserys still believes that Alicent is good. In his dream, he thinks Alicent becomes the way she is because of the losses she suffers due to the war—at least, that’s what he assumes. But we (and Rhaenyra), of course, know that’s not really the case.

Q: Why was Viserys only given half of the vision, while Rhaenyra saw the full future?
A: The answer is a spoiler and tied to the plot, but it is related to the Fourteen Flames’ plans concerning the Faith of the Seven. That’s all I can say for now.

Q: Did Viserys exile Rhaenyra to the Vale?
A: No (as seen in Chapter 1). Rhaenyra chose to go to the Vale herself and make ‘Arryn’ her last name. This was possible because Viserys granted Rhaenyra "full rights over herself," effectively giving her complete freedom. He believed (based on his dream) that Rhaenyra suffered more when he named her heir, so he thought he was sparing her from that fate. However, Viserys did not realize that Rhaenyra had been unhappy and suffering long before the Dance ever began. But again, his vision was incomplete.

Q: Is Lucerys a girl in this story?
A: Yes! If you look at the previous chapters, Lucerys was initially referred to as “he,” but later, it changed to “she” and “her.” Why? Honestly, because I wanted to, and I always saw Lucerys as ‘graceful’ and ‘gentle.’ That’s not to say a man can’t be gentle, but I felt it would be better if Luke were a girl in this story. I’ve thought about this decision carefully. Her name will stay the same because I believe “Lucerys” can work for both boys and girls—it depends on the nickname. The “-rys” ending is used for both male and female Targaryens, and in this case, her nickname is “Lucy.”

Q: Will Baela and Rhaena appear in the story?
A: Yes, but you will know them by different names!

Q: Will Meleys fall back into slumber when she returns to Driftmark? How does the ‘sleeping curse’ affecting the dragons work?
A: The dragons fall asleep because Rhaenyra is not near them or they cannot “smell” her blood. This idea was inspired by Vermithor and Silverwing, who remained dormant until Daemon “woke” them, as well as how Vermithor came to Rhaenyra without the need for Dragonkeepers to summon him or sing to him. Dragons have sharp senses, including scent. So, when Rhaenyra is in Driftmark, the dragons there (and in Dragonstone) will awaken because they can sense her presence in those waters (Dragonstone is closer to Driftmark than King’s Landing). Technically, Meleys should fall back into slumber when Rhaenyra returns to the Vale. However, a special “situation” will keep her awake, and because of this event, a dragon egg will hatch—this will be a major spoiler. When that chapter is uploaded, it will mark the true beginning of the story’s core conflict.

Q: Will Rhaenyra’s children have the same names?
A: Yes, their names will remain the same, including little Viserys. Later in the story, when Rhaenyra names Viserys, her reasoning will be: "If my father, Viserys, disappointed me, then this Viserys will fill the emptiness he left behind." Like it or not, Rhaenyra still loves Viserys. Is she disappointed? Absolutely. But does she hate him? Not really. Her feelings are complicated—she wants to hate him, yet Viserys was still the only parent who watched her grow and stayed by her side, even when she made mistakes. But don’t worry—just because Rhaenyra doesn’t hate Viserys doesn’t mean she will bow to him. Keep in mind that Rhaenyra has a strong ego. In CANON, even though Viserys exiled her, she could have returned to the Red Keep anytime, and Viserys likely wouldn’t have objected (just like how Daemon, despite being exiled multiple times, was always welcomed back). So why didn’t she return to King’s Landing after Driftmark and her marriage to Daemon? Simply because she didn’t want to. That’s the key point: Rhaenyra’s own will.

Chapter Text

The Queen’s Chamber, Red Keep, King’s Landing

Alicent’s POV

The fire burned low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows against the stone walls of her chambers. She stood by the window, her fingers curled tightly around the silk of her sleeve, her gaze fixed upon the Sept in the distance. How spoiled Rhaenyra was, even now, even after her inheritance had been stripped from her. She had been cast aside, sent away like an errant child, yet still, she carried herself with that same insufferable hauteur, her chin raised as if the world had not turned against her.

She should have been broken by now, bent beneath the weight of her disgrace. But no, she had scurried off to the Vale, found solace in her uncle’s arms, and now she swelled once more with his seed. A child not yet a year old, and already she was round with another—desperate, shameless, like a dog in heat. But what could one expect from the daughter of an adulterous family? Rhaenyra was born of sin, raised in sin, and now bred in it, carrying on the wretched customs of her house as though they were her right.

Viserys had allowed it. Weak, feeble, blinded by his love for a daughter who had never once loved him in return. Had he any spine, any true strength, he would have done as a king ought and cut out the rot before it spread. But he had faltered, as he always did, and so it fell to her to correct his mistakes, to bring order where he had sown chaos. How could she force Rhaenyra back to King’s Landing? Viserys would never issue such a decree while his daughter carried a child—no, but there were other ways. Rhaenyra could be made to return, one way or another. And once she did, the game would change.

A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. She exhaled sharply, composing herself. "Enter."

The door swung open, revealing a guard in the corridor beyond. He dipped his head respectfully. "Lord Larys Strong has arrived, Your Grace, as per your summons."

She straightened. "Send him in."

Larys moved with that quiet, measured gait of his, his limp barely noticeable in the dim candlelight. He gave a slow, knowing smile as he bowed. "Your Grace."

"You have news?" she asked without preamble, watching him closely.

Larys’s smile widened, his head tilting slightly. "I do. But information, as ever, is a costly thing."

Her brow furrowed. "I am the Queen. You would do well to remember your place. You are but a second son, Lord Larys. I could unmake you as easily as you were made."

Her lips curled in disgust even as she spoke, her mind recoiling at the sight of him. A misshapen, conniving wretch, crawling through the filth of whispers and schemes like the rat he was. Second sons were dangerous things—grasping, desperate, and full of bitter ambition. Men without inheritance had nothing to lose, and it made them bold in the worst ways. She should have had him cast from court long ago, but he had his uses, and use was a dangerous thing to discard.

Larys only chuckled, his fingers folding together. "A second son, indeed. And yet, Your Grace, your father was once a second son, and look where he stands now."

She stiffened, her nails digging into her palms. Larys took a slow step forward. "It is true, you are the Queen, and I am just a second son," he continued, voice soft and measured. “And yet, Your Grace, the court still thought you should never rise beyond your station. A daughter of a second son, nothing more—yet somehow, you found yourself wed to the king, and seven moons into your marriage, a hale and robust babe was born. A miracle, your Hightower called it. Others… whispered.” His gaze flickered, sharp as a blade. "Tell me, Your Grace, whose word do you think they will believe? Me, a poor, crippled man… or  you, a woman whose first child arrived far too soon, yet was strong as any full-term babe?"

Her breath hitched. He was threatening her. Openly. Her hands trembled at her sides, though she willed them still. "You would not dare."

Larys only smiled. "Your position, your power—it is not as untouchable as you believe. And should rumors arise that your true intent in summoning the Princess is not to reconcile but to… remove her?" His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Well, that would be most unfortunate." She felt the blood drain from her face. He knew. He knew. For a moment, her mind reeled, her heart hammering against her ribs. But she had no choice. Not now. Wordlessly, she moved to the chair by the hearth, lowering herself into it. Her fingers went to the laces of her stockings, undoing them with practiced ease. She peeled the silk down her calf, then placed her foot upon the low table between them.

Larys’s gaze dropped at once, his breath deepening. She loathed him. A wretched, despicable creature born of a tree-worshiping family, unfit to serve a true king. When Aegon ascended, she would see him destroyed, and she would enjoy it. But for now, she endured. Larys exhaled slowly, one hand disappearing into his robes. "Laena Velaryon is to wed in ten moons' time. And given the closeness between the Velaryons and the Princess, it is all but certain that she will attend."

Her brow furrowed. "And?"

Larys's fingers twitched. "If, during the celebrations, Your Grace were to extend a public invitation—one issued before the court—would the Princess have any choice but to comply?" He smiled, his gaze flicking up to hers. "Once she is in your grasp… well. That is for you to decide." Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her mind worked quickly, the pieces falling into place. Perhaps there was another way, after all. She only needed to be patient.

The halls of Maegor’s Holdfast were dark at this hour, the torches burning low, casting wavering shadows upon the stone. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone, parchment, and the faintest trace of sickness. She walked with purpose, her slippered feet near-silent against the floor, her grip firm—too firm—on her son’s small, delicate hand.

Aegon whined softly at her side, shifting, trying to loosen her fingers. She did not relent.

"You will do as I say," she murmured, voice quiet but sharp enough to slice through the stillness. "When we reach your father’s chambers, you will tell him you wish to see your family. That you long for them."

Her son’s lips trembled, the words catching in his throat, but he nodded all the same. He always did. He had learned early that disobedience was a painful thing. She glanced down at his hand, pale knuckles pressed white beneath her grip, the imprint of her fingers already blooming red upon his soft, unblemished skin. She did not loosen her hold.

A child’s pain was fleeting. A mother’s was eternal.

As they neared the royal chambers, the guards wordlessly stepped aside. Inside, the room was warm, the hearth stoked high, but the air stank of old sweat and medicinal balms, of sickness clinging to the very walls. And there, hunched in his chair, Viserys sat. His breath wheezed through his lips, his skin waxy, but his mind—his mind was elsewhere. She followed his gaze, and her lips curled with distaste.

The painting.

One of many Rhaenyra’s wedding paintings.

A grand thing, stretching across the chamber wall, a portrait of celebration—her celebration. Rhaenyra, standing proud, draped in black and red, with Daemon at her side, his hand upon her waist, their smiles wretched in their triumph. Even now, years later, Rhaenyra’s eyes in the painting gleamed with something Alicent loathed. Not love. Not joy.

Victory.

The artist had been too kind. Too blinded by devotion to capture the filth in her soul. She inhaled sharply. One day, she thought, I will see that painting burned. Torn from its frame and cast into the muck where it belongs. Like her. Aegon, sensing his moment, broke free of her grip and dashed forward, his small feet pattering against the floor. "Father!" he called, bright and eager.

Viserys turned, his tired eyes landing upon his son. Aegon climbed onto his lap without waiting for permission, his chubby hands pressing against his father’s chest as he peered up at him. She watched closely.

Viserys did not embrace the boy.

His hands lingered at his sides, his fingers curling, uncertain. His lips parted as though he meant to speak, but no words came. And his eyes—his tired, clouded eyes—studied Aegon with something she could not name.

A hesitation. A reluctance.

Her stomach twisted. No. She would not allow doubt to creep in.

Aegon, sweet, simple Aegon, filled the silence as children do. He chattered about his lessons, his playthings, of the new horse in the stables that he wished to ride. Slowly, Viserys’s hands moved, resting upon the boy’s shoulders, a ghost of affection. She smiled. She stepped forward then, gliding with the grace of a dutiful wife, and pressed a kiss to Viserys’s cheek. His skin was cool, papery beneath her lips. She did not linger.

"My love," she murmured, "I have heard that Laena Velaryon is to be wed. A fine match, I am sure. Would it not be a grand thing to attend? A joyous occasion for the family to reunite."

Viserys blinked, sluggish, as though shaking off the weight of his thoughts. "Has the Crown received an invitation?"

Her smile did not waver. "They would not refuse their King."

His brow furrowed. "Still… we cannot simply go uninvited. Corlys is a proud man."

She reached for his hand then, taking it gently, working her fingers into his palm, massaging the stiff joints as the maesters had instructed her. A careful touch, soft and soothing, drawing his mind from doubt. "Corlys is proud, yes. And what greater honor could he receive than his King gracing his daughter’s wedding?" Her voice was a purr, warm as honey. "He will be flattered, I am sure."

Viserys’s expression wavered. She leaned in closer.

"We are family, after all. It is only right that we attend."

Aegon, still perched upon his father’s lap, turned his wide, guileless eyes to Viserys. "I want to see my family!" he chirped. "It will be fun!"

She stroked her husband’s hand, slow and measured.

Viserys exhaled, the last of his hesitation crumbling beneath the weight of her sweet words and their son’s innocent plea. "Very well," he murmured at last.

Her grip tightened.

She had won.

Her lips curved, and she lowered her gaze, schooling her features into something soft, something pleased. But inside, inside she burned with triumph. Viserys were so easy. So weak. It took nothing—nothing—to bend him, to mold him, to shape him as she pleased. And soon, very soon, Rhaenyra would learn where she truly belonged.

Not upon a throne.

Not in power.

Not above her.

Chapter Text

Actually, I didn’t want to talk about this, but since there’s an anomaly commenting on this topic, I might as well show proof that I AM THE ONE WHO WRITES MY STORY. I only use ChatGPT to translate my story from Indonesian to English because Deepl has a usage limit and cannot be used for free. YES YOU IM TALKING ABOUT YOU!

FUCKING PROOF:

Chapter Text

The Eyrie, Vale

Hana’s POV

The grand ballroom of the Eyrie was awash in golden light, the glow of countless candles reflecting off polished stone and gleaming banners. She ran her hands over the fine linen covering the long tables, smoothing out an imperfection that only she could see. Everything had to be perfect. For Prince Jacaerys, no less would do. As she moved through the chamber, she took in the final touches. Wreaths of blue and white flowers, gathered from the Vale’s high meadows, adorned the pillars. The little prince was not yet a year old, but the celebration promised to be grand enough to honor a king. She let out a slow breath, taking a step back to admire their work. The other maids bustled about, fixing ribbons, setting goblets, ensuring that the night would unfold without flaw. It was a great honor to serve in the Eyrie, to be a part of something grander than oneself. But it was more than duty that drove Hana now. It was loyalty.

Little Prince Jacaerys was the heart of this household. A bright, cheerful child, he rarely cried, unlike most babes his age. He was quick to smile, quicker to laugh, and had an uncanny way of making everyone around him feel lighter, as if his mere presence scattered the shadows of the world. She had seen many noble children—some spoiled, some distant, some sweet—but none quite like Prince Jacarys. He had a warmth about him, a kindness that seemed to shine even at so tender an age. She thought back to the moment he had taken his first steps, a memory etched into her mind as clearly as if it had happened yesterday.

(Flashback, 2 moons ago)

The gardens were alive with laughter that day. The sun had graced them with its presence, shining bright over the lush greenery and the carpets of Pentoshi silk laid out for the afternoon’s leisure. Lady Rhaenys, Lady Laena, Lady Amanda, and Princess Rhaenyra were seated in a circle, their silken gowns flowing over the fine tapestries, their goblets filled with sweet wine. In their midst, the little prince played, chubby hands grasping at his mother jewerly, wooden dragons and painted knights, babbling in his own secret tongue.

She had been nearby, watching from a respectful distance, as had the other servants tending to the picnic. It had been a rare moment of peace, one filled with easy conversation and soft laughter. The ladies, though burdened with the weight of their legacies, seemed almost like ordinary women in that moment—sisters, friends, mothers. Then came Nenna, the oldest of the servants, her face creased with worry. The woman had served the Arryns longer than most had been alive, her hands worn from years of labor, her heart heavy with devotion to the house. She approached the noblewomen hesitantly, her aged knees bending as she knelt before Princess Rhaenyra.

“Your Grace,” Nenna said, her voice shaking with something more than age. “Forgive me, but I must beg a boon.”

She had stiffened at those words. Nobles did not grant boons freely, not to servants, not unless they expected something in return. She had seen it before—a plea for kindness met with empty words, or worse, with scorn. But Princess Rhaenyra was different. That much she had learned in the years since the princess had come to the Vale. Princess Rhaenyra had risen from her seat, a frown creasing her brow. She extended a hand, helping Nenna to her feet as if she were a lady of standing. “What troubles you, Nenna?” she asked gently.

“My granddaughter, Your Grace,” Nenna whispered. “She is sick. The Maester in the village—he asks for more coins than we have. I do not know what to do.” A hush fell over the garden. She held her breath, waiting. Would the Princess turn her away? Would she promise help and then forget, as so many highborns did?

But before the princess could speak, a tiny voice let out a delighted squeal. Prince Jacaerys, barely steady on his little feet, had pulled himself upright, his small hands grasping at the air. The women gasped as he wobbled forward, his legs trembling with the effort. Step by step, he made his way toward Nenna, his face filled with fierce determination. And in his tiny hand, he clutched something—his mother’s pearl jewelry, the one she often wore around her wrist.

He reached Nenna at last, grasping at her skirts for balance before looking up at her with wide, solemn eyes. Then, with all the gravity a babe could muster, he held out the pearl to her as if offering a king’s ransom. The silence stretched, heavy with wonder. Then the Princess laughed, her voice warm as summer. “It seems my son has decided, Nenna. He wishes you to have it.”

Nenna gasped, her hands trembling as she took the pearl from his tiny fingers. “Oh, Your Grace,” she whispered, tears spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. She knelt once more, this time not in supplication but in gratitude, holding Prince Jacaerys’s little hand between her own, pressing it to her forehead. “Thank you. Thank you.”

The moment had been small, fleeting, yet she had never seen anything so profound. It was not charity nor obligation—it was pure, unthinking kindness. The kind only a child could give, and the kind that marked the little prince as different from the rest.

(flashback end)

Now, as she stood in the grand ballroom, her hands resting on the ribbons she had tied so carefully, Hana let the memory warm her. Tomorrow, the noble lords and ladies would gather, the hall would be filled with music and laughter, and the little prince would be celebrated. But to her, he had already proven himself worthy of love a hundred times over.

“You’re lost in thought, Hana.”

She turned to see one of the younger maids grinning at her, hands full of blue roses meant for the high table.

“Just thinking about the prince,” Hana admitted with a small smile.

The girl’s expression softened. “He’s a special one, isn’t he?”

“He is,” Hana murmured. “And that’s why everything must be perfect.”

With renewed determination, she picked up a candle, adjusting its placement until the flame cast just the right glow. The celebration would be grand, but for her, it was more than a feast. It was a tribute—to a boy who had given without thinking, to a kindness that had touched the hearts of even the lowliest among them.

Tomorrow, the world would see the prince for the bright star he was. But tonight, in the quiet hum of the ballroom, she already knew. And in her heart, she made a silent vow—to serve him, to protect him, and to ensure that, no matter what may come, there would always be hands willing to catch him should he ever fall.

No One POV

The sky was still cloaked in the deep indigo of early dawn when the warmth of the hearth crackled softly within the stone walls of their chambers. Shadows danced upon the polished floor, cast by the dim glow of flickering candlelight. Daemon sat upon the great seat before the fire, clad in nothing but loose linens, his silver hair unbound, flowing freely past his shoulders. In his arms, cradled with the careful strength of a warrior tempered by fatherhood, slept Jacaerys. The boy’s tiny fingers curled against his chest, his breaths slow and steady, lost in the peaceful slumber of a babe unaware of the weight of the world he would one day inherit.

Rhaenyra sat beside them, her legs tucked beneath her as she watched them both, a small, wistful smile curving her lips. The fire cast a golden hue upon her face, illuminating the tenderness in her gaze. Her hand rested upon Daemon’s forearm, her thumb tracing idle circles upon his skin, a grounding touch.

“He is a year old today,” Daemon murmured, his voice low and warm with disbelief. His violet eyes, so often alight with amusement or fury, softened as they traced the delicate features of his firstborn son. “It does not feel so long ago that he was but a babe in your arms.”

Rhaenyra exhaled a quiet laugh. “Time moves swiftly. Vermax is now the size of a calf. He has grown too large to remain at the Eyrie.”

Daemon smirked. “Has he now? And where is the great beast?”

“With Syrax and Caraxes. They keep to their cave when not roaming the skies.” She tilted her head, her expression contemplative. “Soon, Jace will fly upon his back.”

Daemon let out a hum, brushing his fingers over Jace’s silver curls. “So soon,” he echoed, though his voice carried something else—something heavy, something fragile. Rhaenyra caught it at once. “What is it?” For a long moment, Daemon simply looked at her. The storm in his gaze wavered, something unspoken caught between his teeth, before finally, he released a slow breath. “I did not think I would ever have this,” he confessed. “A son. A family. A place where I belong.”

She said nothing, waiting for him to go on. And he did.

“It is because of you, Nyra.” His voice turned softer, reverent. “Everything I am, everything I have—I owe to you.” He shifted, pressing a lingering kiss to her temple, his lips ghosting over her skin. “You are my beginning, and you will be my end.” The words were not merely a confession; they were a vow. Before she could reply, a knock at the door broke the stillness.

Lady Amanda Arryn stood on the threshold, her features unreadable beneath the soft shadows. “Come with me,” she said, her voice quiet yet firm. “Bring the boy.”

As they followed Amanda through the winding halls of the Eyrie, an eerie stillness settled around them. The torches along the walls flickered in a ghostly dance, casting elongated shadows that seemed to stretch toward them, whispering secrets of old. The further they went, the more the air thickened, heavy with something unspoken—a presence, an ancient knowing that prickled the skin and sent a shiver down Rhaenyra’s spine.

The stone beneath their feet grew colder, the warmth of the upper halls fading as they descended into the belly of the mountain. The walls, carved smooth by centuries of careful hands, bore inscriptions—Valyrian glyphs and dragon sigils, barely visible beneath the wear of time. The further they walked, the deeper the silence became, save for the rhythmic sound of their footsteps echoing like a heartbeat in the dark. A strange sensation unfurled within Rhaenyra. It was as if she were walking into the past, stepping into something untouched by the passage of years. A feeling of reverence, of something beyond mere mortal understanding, curled around her soul.

Daemon, too, seemed affected. His grip on Jace tightened, his gaze sharp as he took in their surroundings. He had walked through ruins of Old Valyria before, had seen remnants of their people’s lost glory, but this—this was different. This was not ruin; it was preservation, a hidden piece of their ancestry carved into the heart of the Vale.

At last, they reached the lowest level of the Eyrie, the most secluded part of the stronghold.  Oswell and Adrian stood by a set of imposing doors—blackened iron. At a nod from Amanda, they pushed them open. The doors groaned like waking beasts, revealing a chamber vast and timeless. The moment Rhaenyra stepped inside, her breath caught in her throat. A cavernous hall stretched before them, its ceiling lost to the darkness above. The scent of burning oils and incense filled the air, thick and intoxicating. Rows of flickering candles lined the carved stone path, their golden glow illuminating the sacred space. The very walls seemed to breathe, alive with ancient power, whispers of Valyrian tongues curling in the shadows.

Towering statues loomed in the dim light—fourteen figures of obsidian and dragonbone, each representing a god of the Fourteen Flames. Their features were carved with impossible detail, their expressions fierce and knowing, as if their hollow eyes saw straight into the souls of those who stood before them. The chamber was not merely old; it was eternal, untouched by time, a relic of a world lost to the Doom.

Daemon stiffened beside her. He recognized them at once—the Fourteen Flames. At the far end of the chamber stood an altar, its base framed by two massive dragon skulls—Balerion’s and Meraxes’. Their hollow sockets seemed to watch over the space, guardians of the ceremony about to unfold.Gathered within were the Velaryons—Corlys, Rhaenys, Laena, and Laenor—along with Rhaenyra’s handmaidens and maester Gerardys. A priest stood before the altar, clad in flowing robes of crimson and gold, his presence commanding as if he had stepped from the very pages of Valyria’s forgotten history. Amanda turned to them, her face unreadable. "I know you do not believe in the Faith of the Seven, no matter how well you pretend. But because you have shown respect to our beliefs, I have ensured that you may worship freely here, without judgment or whispers."

She held out two ceremonial robes of black and red. "Come. Tonight, Jacaerys will be blessed in the faith of his forebears." She held out two robes. Valyrian robes. The weight of the moment pressed upon them, heavy and inescapable. Rhaenyra and Daemon donned the robes, their fingers lingering over the rich fabric. Together, they stepped toward the altar, where Jace was gently laid within the circle of fourteen candles, each carved with the sigil of a god long forgotten.

The priest began the ritual, his voice a hymn in High Valyrian, each syllable a song of devotion. Fourteen figures encircled Jace—Daemon, Rhaenyra, Lady Amanda, maester Gerardys, Corlys, Rhaenys, Laena, Laenor, Catherine, Sillas, Layla, Jasmine, Elinda, and the priest. The firelight cast an ethereal glow upon their faces, shadows dancing like wraiths upon the walls.

“Hen Valyria tolī va sȳrī issa.”

“Hen hen Uēpa Perzys iksis īlvon.”

“Hen Zaldrīzes iksos īlvon.”

He then turned, presenting ceremonial daggers to Daemon, Rhaenyra, Laenor, and Laena. One by one, they pressed the edge to their thumbs, crimson droplets welling against the black stone. With sacred solemnity, they anointed Jace’s brow, sealing him in blood, in faith, in the fire of Valyria’s lost gods.

The priest’s voice rose, calling forth the blessings of the Fourteen Flames, beseeching them to guard the child, to grant him wisdom, strength, and the fire of his ancestors. The air grew thick with the weight of it, an energy unseen yet undeniably felt. The hymn built, a crescendo of voices joining in, reverberating off the chamber walls like the roar of a dragon’s call. As the final note rang through the chamber, the temperature rose sharply, the air thick with an unseen force. A shiver ran through those gathered as the flames atop the candles flared higher, burning with a golden intensity before, one by one, shifting to an eerie blue. The chamber seemed to pulse, the ancient power within stirring as though awakening after centuries of slumber.

For a moment, time stood still. The scent of wax and blood, the solemn faces of those gathered—this was something ancient, something sacred. The breath caught in Rhaenyra’s throat, her fingers tightening over Daemon’s hand. Then, as suddenly as it came, the heat ebbed, and the flames returned to their normal hue. A hush settled over them all, profound in its depth. Daemon exhaled, his grip tightening on Rhaenyra’s. “He is ours,” he murmured.

Chapter Text

Alicent’s POV

The room was silent, save for the soft crackling of the candle flame. Shadows danced along the gilded edges of the chamber, casting shapes upon the walls—shapes that looked almost like figures, creeping, whispering, watching. She turned a page of the Faith’s teachings with slow precision, the parchment-thin beneath her fingers. The words were meant to be comforting, a balm for the weary and the faithful, but she found no solace in them. They had never comforted her before.

Her mind wandered. Back, always back, to Oldtown.

She had not been a child there, not truly. Childhood was a luxury afforded to those born under the right stars, to girls with brothers who would inherit, and to daughters who were not bargaining chips to be traded for power. Bethany had been a child—her cousin, the daughter of her father’s elder brother. Bethany, who had soft hands and golden ribbons and laughter that rang like the bells of the Starry Sept. Bethany, who had been taught to read before she bled, while Alicent had been taught to serve.

She could still remember the rough weave of the woolen dress that marked her station in that household. She had been of blood but not of favor. A lesser daughter of a lesser branch. A girl meant to stand behind, to obey. She had poured Bethany’s tea, laced up Bethany’s gowns, and stood quietly as Bethany whispered cruel things into her ear, knowing she could not answer back.

Obedience was learned young. Silence was learned younger.

But she had never forgotten. She had listened. She had watched. She had learned. Even as her knees pressed into the cold stone floors of the Sept, hands folded in false prayer, she had been calculating, always calculating. They had called her a devout girl, but her faith had never been in the gods. It had been in herself.

Then came the summons to King’s Landing.

A new role, a new dress to wear. The daughter of the Hand, sent to a lonely king’s chamber, to comfort him with her soft voice and softer hands. She had learned to walk the halls like a shadow, learned the places where she could be seen and those where she could not. Learned how to smile and speak in sweet, measured tones that made men think she was nothing more than a gentle thing, a thing to be protected.

And Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra, the girl born with everything she had been denied. Rhaenyra, wild and laughing, heedless of duty, unburdened by the chains that bound other women. She had watched her, and oh, how she had hated her.

She had hidden it well, of course. She had played the role of the loyal friend, the doting sister-figure, the quiet handmaiden to the realm’s beloved princess. But in the silence of her mind, the resentment had festered. Why should Rhaenyra have been given so much? Why should she, a mere girl, be named heir, when She had spent her life bending, yielding, and pleasing, only to be cast aside?

She had done everything right. She had prayed. She had followed the rules. She had been pious, demure, and dutiful. And still, it had not been enough. So she had taken her fate into her own hands.

The king had been easy. A man lost in his grief, in his sickness, in his weakness. It had taken little more than soft words and softer touches to make him see her, to make him need her. And when he had wed her, when the crown had settled upon her head, she had thought—perhaps—at last. At last, she had won. The gods had seen her patience. They had seen her suffering. And they had rewarded her.

Had they not placed a crown upon her head? Had they not given her a son to supplant the girl who had everything? Just as the gods had lifted her father, raising him from a lesser son to the right hand of a king, so too had they lifted her. Her suffering had been her trial, her patience had been her test, and her reward was the power she had long been denied.

But even as queen, she had been lacking.

The court still whispered of Rhaenyra, always Rhaenyra. They spoke of her beauty, her fire, her dragon, and now about her capability of ruling. They did not whisper of her. She was the mother of the king’s sons and heir, and still be the quiet shadow behind the throne. She had played by the rules, and still, she was not enough.

She thought back to that night, the night of Queen Aemma’s funeral. The girl she had once called a friend had wept for her mother, blind to the world around her, and she had walked to the king’s chambers. Had it been sinful? Perhaps. But had the gods not rewarded her for it? Would a sinner be given a crown, a husband, or an heir? No. No, she had been righteous. She had done what was necessary.

And now, as she sat in her chamber, the book of the Faith open before her, she saw the truth for what it was. The gods did not reward the pious. They did not uplift the dutiful. They did not crown the meek.

Power was taken, not given.

Bethany had been a child. Rhaenyra had been a child. But her? she had never been a child. She had been a survivor, a schemer, a woman who had learned to carve her way forward with nothing but patience and a well-placed smile. She thought of Rhaenyra again, of the way the girl had flouted propriety, had taken her pleasures and spoken her mind, and still expected the realm to love her for it. She had waited. She had watched. And when the time had come, she had struck.

She thought of the king, fading before her eyes, and the son she had borne him, his heir. She thought of the power she had clawed for and the power that still eluded her. It was not enough. Aegon would sit on the Iron Throne. She would see it done, no matter the cost.

And Driftmark was only the beginning.

Her gaze drifted toward the gown laid out for her, the newest creation of the seamstresses, resting in the corner of her chamber like a specter of what was to come.

This gown would mark the start of something new. For nearly two years now, she had worn green. At first, it had been a declaration—an open defiance against the red and black of House Targaryen, the colors that had come to sicken her. White, the shade of purity and piety, the color of Oldtown and the High Tower, should have been hers to wield, should have been the symbol of her son’s sanctified bloodline. Yet Rhaenyra had stolen even that, draping herself in white at her wedding, as if to claim the virtue and holiness of the Faith for herself. Did the whore truly think she was as righteous as a daughter of Hightower? The thought made her lip curl.

The Vale adored her. Even the poor, foolish septons and septas had fallen into her web, caught like flies in a widow’s snare. Like Ser Criston. Poor Ser Criston, plucked from obscurity, raised to prominence, only to be discarded like a broken sword once he had outlived his usefulness. How naïve men were. It made her want to laugh, truly. Did he think himself worthy to stand beside royalty? She, the daughter of a second son, knew better than to entertain such absurd fancies. But let him dream. Let him hope. When the illusions shattered at Driftmark, when he saw Rhaenyra wrapped in Daemon’s arms not out of coercion, but desire, then he would be hers. Hers to shape, hers to wield.

That was the folly of men. They mistook the extra scrap of flesh between their legs for wisdom. They wielded it like a sword, and let it guide them like a rudder, as if such a thing could grant them power. No, power belonged to those who knew how to wield them. Control the sword, control the man.

Even her father. Oh, Otto Hightower was clever, she would grant him that. He understood the importance of dragons, understood their worth. While her uncle spoke often of their danger, their unbridled destruction, and she did not disagree. The High Septon had murmured of their unnaturalness, their affront to the Faith, and she had nodded along. Yes, dragons were dangerous, yes, they were unnatural. But only certain dragons. The ones beyond her reach. If the beasts belonged to her children, to their children after them, then she saw no harm in letting them live. After all, no matter how wild they were, no matter how untamed, they were still weapons to be wielded. And every weapon had a master.

She rose from her chair, her fingers trailing along the silken fabric of her gown. Such finery had once been beyond her when she was nothing more than a lady without prospects, draped in wool like a common merchant’s wife. But no longer. Her children would never know that indignity. This gown would be the beginning. She knew what Rhaenyra was doing in the Vale. Knew that she was whispering in the ears of lords, sowing alliances, laying the foundation of her power. And with Daemon at her side, breathing his poison into her ear like a serpent coiled around her throat, Alicent knew Rhaenyra was biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

She would not allow it.

This gown would be a declaration. The realm would see—she would see—that the true heir of Viserys had strength of his own, and that he did not stand alone. This would be the moment that Rhaenyra understood that she was no longer facing the meek, silent girl she once scorned. No longer the dutiful daughter content to bow before a usurper.

No, she would bow to no one.

When this war was over, when victory was clenched in her grasp like a golden crown, her children would no longer live in the shadow of another. Not Aegon. Not Helaena. And certainly not Aemond.

Aemond.

A pang of something sharp curled in her chest. She despised every moment she spent beneath Viserys, loathed the feel of his hands, his breath, the weight of him pressing her into the bed. It sickened her and sent revulsion slithering through her veins like poison. But sacrifices had to be made. Aegon needed another brother, another dragonrider to defend his claim. She would not let Daemon fill Rhaenyra’s belly with sons, would not let them grow into a brood of dragonriders that would one day challenge her own. She would match them, beat them at their own game, and carve out a kingdom where her blood ruled unchallenged.

Driftmark would be the beginning.

She had no faith in sorcery, had no love for the whispers of magic. But that did not mean she denied its existence. It was there, lurking in the shadows, thrumming in the veins of Rhaenyra Targaryen. That girl had never been natural. Not even as a child.

Blood or something else—she did not know.

But she would find out at Driftmark.

Once Aegon and Aemond and even Helaena had dragons of their own, once Aegon sat on the throne, she would give Aemond his due. He would not scrape and beg like her father once did before his brother. No, her son would have lands, titles, a castle of his own. And she knew precisely which land would suit him best.

Driftmark

Rhaenys’s POV

It had been a long time since she had known peace—true peace, not the fleeting, hollow kind that comes with distraction or resignation. When her birthright was taken, she had thought she would never find contentment again. Days filled with regret and nights tormented by stolen dreams had followed her like a shadow, but the winds of the Vale had swept them away when she set foot upon its mountains.

Watching Rhaenyra carve a life for herself in the Vale had opened her eyes in ways she had never expected. She had spent too long drowning in the past, so consumed by what-ifs and whys that she had cast aside all that was dear to her. Her love for Aemma. Her bond with Rhaenyra. She had thrown them away, believing them mere relics of a life lost. Foolish. Oh, Aemma… gentle, bright Aemma. She had loved her so, yet grief had made her bitter, not better. And now, as the years passed, she could see Aemma in Rhaenyra—so clearly it pained her. If you live long enough, you begin to see the same eyes in different people.

And just as Aemma lived on in Rhaenyra, she could see her father’s ghost in Jacaerys Arryn. The same fire, the same eyes—sharp, bright, full of purpose. The same eyes she had longed to see again. She would not make the same mistake. Not again.

She would not let the past steal her happiness.

When she first heard that Viserys had named Aegon heir, a part of her had reveled in it. It was petty, perhaps, but she had known what it felt like to have a dream crushed beneath the weight of expectation. And Rhaenyra… Rhaenyra had been so certain, so arrogant in her place. She had believed in Viserys and had trusted in his love. And now she knew better. That knowledge should have broken her. It would have broken anyone else.

But it hadn't.

Rhaenyra had healed.

Not in the way she herself had pretended to heal, with feigned smiles and empty courtesies since the Great Council of 101 AC. No, Rhaenyra had truly moved forward. She had found joy—not the fleeting, brittle kind, but something real. She had made a life in the Vale, and what a life it was. Strong, thriving, full of promise. The lords there adored her. She should have been broken, and ruined, but instead… she flourished.

It made her ashamed.

If Rhaenyra—the named heir, the one who had been publicly raised high only to be cast aside by the very father who had sworn to protect her—could rise from the ashes of betrayal, what excuse did she have? She, who had always known the men in power would fail her? She, who had never been promised a crown, only to have it wrenched away?

For years, she had let herself wallow in old wounds. She had clung to them as if they were all she had left, had let them shape her. But now, after watching Rhaenyra, she understood—you can't expunge painful or unpleasant memories and events; you must overcome them.

And she would.

She would not allow herself to remain shackled to the past. Not anymore.

And here she stood, wrapped in a rare moment of peace. One more moon and Laena would be wed. The preparations for her union with Clement Celtigar were nearly complete—the great pavilion had been raised, the lists of dishes and entertainments finalized, and even Laena’s wedding gown had been stitched to perfection. She would be a vision on her wedding day, of that there was no doubt. Her gaze drifted skyward, where Laena and Laenor soared upon their dragons, free and untamed. It was a sight she had thought lost to her four years past.

But all had changed because of Rhaenyra.

Even now, it was difficult to believe. Meleys had stirred from her slumber the moment she was in Rhaenyra’s presence. At first, she had doubted, dismissing it as coincidence. Yet when Meleys fell dormant again upon their return to Driftmark, the truth became undeniable—Rhaenyra had woken the Red Queen.

Had Viserys not heard of this? And if he had, did he still persist in naming that half-Hightower boy his heir? Was he truly that blind? Did he mean to see their legacy wither and die? Rhaenyra might have taken the name Arryn, but she had never turned her back on her Targaryen blood. But what of her children? What of their children? If her suspicions were correct if only those of Rhaenyra’s line could rouse the dragons… if Jacaerys’ egg had hatched when so many others had grown cold… what then? Would the Arryns, not the Targaryens, become the new masters of dragons? Gods save them all, Viserys was a fool.

Even now, the dragons of Driftmark stirred in Rhaenyra’s wake, just as they had at Dragonstone. But not in King’s Landing. Was it the distance? That seemed a plausible enough answer—Rhaenyra, even at Driftmark, had not woken the dragons in the capital. And yet, when she had lived in King’s Landing, the dragons at Driftmark and Dragonstone had been restless, awake, alive. The questions gnawed at her, but no answer came.

One thing, however, was certain.

Rhaenyra was blessed.

She thought back to the day Rhaenyra had arrived, one moon passed.

It had been a calm day, the wind gentle, the sea lapping lazily at the shore. She, Corlys, Laena, Laenor, and the Celtigars had been inspecting the beach near Driftmark’s harbor, the chosen site of Laena and Clement’s nuptials. Then, from the distance, the sky had split with the cries of two familiar dragons, and three ships had sailed into view, their banners bearing the falcon and the moon of House Arryn. Rhaenyra had come.

They had ridden swiftly to the docks to greet her. The first to disembark had been a nursemaid, cradling little Jacaerys in her arms. But the boy, but a year and four moons old, had wriggled free, stumbling—not walking, but running—toward them, Vermax not far behind.

“Nana Lys!” he had cried before flinging himself into her embrace.

“Jace, my sweet boy,” she had murmured, lifting him into her arms.

He had babbled eagerly about his voyage, words tumbling from his lips in half-formed sentences, as was fitting for one so young. Yet even at his tender age, he was sharp, observant, and quick to learn. And more than that—he was kind. Empathetic. A boy of good breeding, with none of the worst traits of his father. Her eyes had lifted to the ship’s gangplank, where Daemon stood, offering Rhaenyra his hand. Her belly had grown since last they met. Jace had climbed onto Laenor’s shoulders as they stepped forward to greet Rhaenyra and Daemon.

And then—

As Rhaenyra’s foot touched Driftmark’s soil, the earth trembled beneath them. No—Driftmark itself trembled.

Daemon had grasped Rhaenyra’s arm, steadying her as she staggered. And then the cry had rung out:

“The dragons! The dragons are waking!”

A fisherman had shouted from the cliffs near Vhagar’s roost. And as the ground shuddered beneath them, she knew it was no quake that had shaken Driftmark.

It was them.

Meleys, Seasmoke, Vhagar—one by one, the great beasts took to the sky, their mighty wings churning the air as they circled overhead. She had seen Meleys rise before, in the Vale, yet the sight still stole the breath from her lungs. From the castle windows of High Tide, from the balconies, from the village below, men and women had gathered, staring skyward, murmuring prayers and curses in equal measure. And she, Rhaenys Targaryen, the Queen Who Never Was, had thought:

This should not be possible.

And yet, it was.

And here she stood, beside Rhaenyra and Lady Celtigar, watching as Daemon busied himself with Jacaerys, shaping castles from the sand.

Further down the shore, Corlys, Lord Celtigar, and young Clement inspected the great wooden pillars that would support the wedding tents. The craftsmen had woven wonders with their hands—canopies of deep red, rich as wine, embroidered with golden crabs and seahorses entwined in a dance of sea and tide, a tribute to House Celtigar. The chairs, carved from mahogany purchased from the Vale, had taken three moons to fashion, their surfaces polished to a gleaming perfection. Even the sculptors had been brought from the Vale—recommended by none other than Daemon himself.

Never had she thought to hear her cousin speak well of any man, much less an Andal. Yet it seemed she had never truly known Daemon or Rhaenyra, not as they were now. Perhaps the winds of the Vale had changed them.

It was not only the chairs; the tables too bore exquisite carvings, testaments to fine craftsmanship. Rhaenyra’s touch was evident in all things, for the girl was a cunning mind, a merchant’s mind—though perhaps it should not have surprised her. Wherever Rhaenyra walked, trends followed. Across Westeros, she had heard whispers of noble brides draped in white on their wedding day, a symbol of maidenhood now held in fashion. And those candles—ornately carved, coveted by ladies and septons alike—had become a mark of luxury, sought after from Dorne to the Riverlands. House Waxley had flourished beneath Rhaenyra’s guidance, transformed into the beating heart of candle-making, its wares spreading far and wide.

It was not only the Vale that prospered. House Massey, once unremarkable, now controlled the arteries of trade flowing from the Vale to the Crownlands. Their ships carried not only candles but rice, soap, fine gowns, and fertilizers, all bearing Rhaenyra’s influence. House Redfort, once teetering on the brink of ruin, had been restored when Rhaenyra took two of its scions into her household. More than that, she had granted them a future. The red clay of Redfort’s lands, once thought useless for farming, had proven ideal for brick-making. The bricks were cheap, yet sturdy as oak, and now common folk and lords alike clamored for them—so much so that even the North had taken notice.

At first, she had not understood why Rhaenyra would bother with the North. She was no longer the crown princess, and even Viserys, a crowned king, had never troubled himself with those frozen lands. The Vale had no want for timber or pelts; what need had they for Northern trade? But Rhaenyra had seen further than them all. If hardship ever came to the Vale, she had said, the North would remember. And there was potential there, buried beneath the ice and snow, waiting for a careful hand to unearth it. Corlys had questioned her and asked why she would throw her gold into the cold winds of the North before proof of its worth had even surfaced.

Her answer would haunt her for the rest of her days. "You speak foolishness, my lord, though I shall grant you mean well," Rhaenyra had said, her voice a blade of silk and steel. "A true merchant—nay, a wise man—does not linger, waiting for proof to reveal itself. They are the one who shapes it, who makes it so. We shall not sit idle, waiting for the North to rise. No, we shall be the ones to raise it."

Her husband, Corlys Velaryon had seen wealth in his lifetime—gold enough to drown a man, jewels fit to crown a queen, ships laden with silver and spice. The wealth of the Lannisters was famed, their gold mines deeper than the roots of Casterly Rock, and the Hightowers had held dominion over Oldtown for centuries, their coffers ever-brimming with coin. Yet, if there was one house that might surpass them all, it was the Arryns of the Vale.

Unlike the lions of the west or the watchmen of the south, the Arryns did not flaunt their riches. They built no golden towers, no marble halls to proclaim their affluence. Their prosperity was quiet, steady, unshaken by the tides of war and famine. And much of that, Corlys knew, was due to Rhaenyra Targaryen.

“My wife claims I have a keen eye for trade,” her husband had once told Daemon. “Yet, I swear on the Seven, I have never seen a mind for a coin like hers, not in all my fifty years.”

That such a woman was no more than a Paramount Lady seemed almost an insult to the gods themselves. Westeros under her rule… She allowed herself to imagine it for but a moment. A kingdom flourishing, gold flowing as freely as wine, smallfolk fed and warm in their homes, the seas ruled by Velaryon ships and the skies by Targaryen dragons. What a realm it would be. But such dreams belonged to another world, and her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Lady Celtigar’s voice.

"Princess, I have heard this entire celebration is of your own design. How magnificent!" The older woman clapped her hands together, her rings catching the light. "I daresay no one has ever witnessed a wedding such as this.”

Her praise was effusive, perhaps even cloying, but she could not deny the truth in her words. The decorations, the festivities, and the very rhythm of the wedding had been orchestrated by Rhaenyra’s hand. She did not answer, only smiled, her gaze lingering upon her husband and son.

Then she stiffened. A sharp, strangled sound left her lips.

"Rhaenyra?" she turned to her at once, concern flaring in her chest.

Her face had gone taut with pain, her hands pressing against her belly.

"The babe—" she managed.

Daemon’s name had barely left her lips before the prince was already there, moving with the swiftness of a man who had known battle all his life. He scooped Rhaenyra into his arms, his grip firm yet careful. Corlys seized Jacaerys and followed. The birthing chamber was filled with the sounds of labor—cries sharp as the clash of steel, raw as any battlefield wound. She had heard such screams before, in the same halls of Driftmark, as she fought her own battles to bring forth life. She was not a man easily shaken.

But Rhaenyra... She was drenched in sweat, her silver hair plastered to her brow, her breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. She clenched her teeth against the pain, knuckles white as she clutched Daemon’s hand. Her cousin had tried to remain outside at first, as custom dictated, but the moment it became clear this labor was longer, harder than the last, he stormed into the chamber, heedless of protests.

“A man who has seen his wife bare in bed,” he had said coolly, “should not flinch to see her in childbirth.”

And that was the end of that.

Now, he knelt at her side, his free hand brushing sweat from her brow, murmuring words of love and encouragement.

"Push, princess! Push now!" the midwife commanded.

Rhaenyra’s cry tore through the chamber. Her fingers dug into Daemon’s skin, and he did not so much as flinch. Her whole body trembled with effort, violet eyes glassy with exhaustion. The scent of blood and sweat thickened the air.

"She is weakening," muttered Maester Gerardys, his fingers toying anxiously with the chain at his throat. "If she cannot—"

"She will," she cut him off, his voice like cold steel. Her gaze never wavered. "She is not some fragile girl to be coddled. She will finish what she has begun."

And so she did.

With one last, hoarse scream, Rhaenyra gave the final push. A wet, writhing thing slid into the midwife’s waiting hands, a tiny creature slick with blood, her cries piercing as dragonfire.

“A girl,” the midwife declared, triumphant. "A strong, healthy girl."

Rhaenyra barely had the strength to lift her head, but when the babe was placed in her arms, something shifted in her gaze—something she had seen before. She had seen it in Aemma Arryn, the first time she held her daughter. She had seen it in herself, cradling Laena and Laenor. She had seen it in Rhaenyra herself, the day Jacaerys was born.

A mother’s love. A love that burned fierce as dragonflame.

She traced a trembling finger across the child’s damp forehead, her touch featherlight, reverent.

“Lucrezia,” she whispered. The name was soft, yet sure. She pressed a kiss to the babe’s brow.

Daemon’s voice joined hers. “Lucrezia,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to Rhaenyra’s temple. His voice was rough with emotion. “She’s perfect, Rhaenyra. You’ve given me the world.”

Rhaenyra only smiled, cradling their daughter close, as if she had known all along.

No One’s POV

One Moon Later

The guests had begun arriving a full week before the wedding of Laena Velaryon and Clement Celtigar. Those invited were among the noble houses of the Crownlands, their ties bound either to the Velaryons or the Celtigars: the Bar Emmons, the Baratheons, the Brunes, the Rosbys, the Masseys, the Darklyns, the Largents, the Stauntons, and the Sunglasses. But there were others as well,—Lady Amanda Arryn, Jeyne Arryn, and the household of Rhaenyra Arryn.

The hall of High Tide shimmered with candlelight, the long feast tables laden with silver platters of spiced crabs, glistening roast boar drizzled with honey, and bowls brimming with blackberries and cream. The banners of noble houses swayed with the warm draft of the hearth, their sigils catching the flickering light—the crowned stag of Baratheon, the blue swordfish of Bar Emmon, the triple spiral of Massey, the red crab of Celtigar. The lords and ladies murmured amongst themselves, their voices weaving through the crackling logs and the distant roar of the waves beyond the castle walls.

It had been years since Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Daemon had set foot in the Crownlands. Four years since the rightful heir to the Iron Throne had been disinherited, stripped of her name, and withdrawn into the Vale, far from whispering tongues and watchful eyes. In their absence, they had become legends, their names spoken in hushed voices over goblets of wine and behind chamber doors. No one had seen them, nor their children, save through the tales of wandering merchants and traveling maesters.

And yet, here they were.

The great doors of the hall groaned open, and silence swept across the gathered nobility as the princess and her husband stepped inside.

Rhaenyra Arryn moved with the grace of a woman well accustomed to both scrutiny and command, her silver hair gleaming beneath the deep blue of her gown. In her arms, wrapped in fine wool embroidered with tiny falcons, lay a child with silver curls and drowsy, heavy lids—Lucrezia Arryn, her daughter, whose birth had been whispered of but never witnessed beyond the shores of Driftmark.

At her side, Daemon Targaryen—no, Daemon Arryn—stood tall, his violet gaze sweeping the hall with a quiet challenge. In his arms, their eldest son clung to his father’s neck with the unshaken trust of a boy who had never known fear. His cloak was the color of storm-tossed seas, the steel of Old Valyria woven into its dark fabric, and on his shoulder gleamed a blackened silver falcon in mid-flight. He bore the air of a man who had not been summoned but had chosen to come, and for that reason alone, all in attendance should have felt honored.

For a moment, none of the assembled lords and ladies spoke. They stared, uncertain, glancing at one another as if to confirm that they were all witnessing the same apparition, that the exiled princess and her prince consort had indeed stepped from myth and shadow into the light of the hall. It was Lord Staunton who rose first, his weathered face betraying his astonishment. “Princess,” he said, inclining his head in deference. “Prince Daemon. You honor us with your presence.”

Rhaenyra dipped her head, her expression warm yet measured. “It has been some years, my lord. I trust time has treated you well.”

The others followed in swift succession, rising one by one to greet them. Lord Bar Emmon, a lean man with a beard grizzled by age, pressed a hand to his chest in solemn greeting. Lady Rosby, whose house had sworn loyalty to Rhaenyra even after she had been cast aside, bent her knee. The Baratheons—bold and proud, their black hair thick as their voices—watched with keen, assessing eyes, until Lord Boremund’s wife finally smiled.

“You have been sorely missed, Princess,” she said. “The Crownlands are lesser for your absence.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curved into something that was neither quite a smile nor a frown. “A kind sentiment, my lady. Though I suspect the realm has done well enough without me.”

Daemon chuckled beside her. “Not for lack of trying, I’d wager.”

A ripple of uneasy laughter spread through the hall. The guests were uncertain how much of his jest was truth veiled in mockery.

Together, Rhaenyra and Daemon moved toward the high table, where Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys awaited them with knowing eyes. They sat as kin—Daemon settling Jacaerys upon his lap, Rhaenyra cradling Lucrezia as a servant filled her goblet with dark Arbor wine. For a long moment, silence reigned, the weight of their presence lingering like the final note of a song. Then, as if a spell had broken, conversation resumed—softer at first, cautious, but gradually warming, growing more familiar.

Lord Boremund leaned forward, studying Jacaerys with an appraising eye. “Gods be good, the boy is the very image of the late Prince Aemon,” he mused, glancing toward Rhaenys. “No wonder you dote on him so, niece.”

“A strong lad,” agreed Lord Sunglass. “And the little one?” He gestured toward the infant in Rhaenyra’s arms. “A daughter, is she not?”

“She is,” Rhaenyra confirmed, her fingers idly combing through Lucrezia’s soft silver curls. “And a princess in her own right, or so her father insists.”

Daemon chuckled, pressing a kiss to Jacaerys’s silver head. “A father knows his children best, does he not?” A murmur of agreement swept through the gathered lords, and slowly, the tension within the hall ebbed into something warmer, something real.

The festivities lasted two days, but they were nothing compared to the grand celebration that awaited—the wedding of Laena Velaryon and Clement Celtigar, to be held in five days' time. A week after the guests' arrival, and five days after the feast in their honor, the day of the wedding finally dawned. The ceremony was to take place upon the shores of Driftmark, near the great Velaryon harbor.

The sea was calm, its waves lapping gently at the sand as if the gods themselves held their breath in reverence. The sands of Driftmark were cool beneath bare feet, and above, the sky was painted in hues of pink and gold as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Silk-draped pillars, adorned with seashells, lined the shore, while fragrant garlands of deep crimson and ivory blossoms hung from their carved peaks. Scarlet-dyed pavilions stretched across the docks, their canopies billowing in the salt-kissed breeze, shading long tables heavy with a feast fit for the blood of Valyria.

The night was a night for celebration, a night for the union.

As the sun sank low upon the horizon, the wedding of Laena Velaryon and Clement Celtigar was solemnized upon the sea, following the ancient rites of House Velaryon. A grand barge, anchored just beyond the shore, bore witness to their vows. The waters shimmered with the dying light of day, the sky awash in hues of gold and violet.

Before Laena took her final steps toward her betrothed, the procession began. Three of her cousins—Daena Velaryon, Valaena Velaryon, and Rhaenyra Arryn—walked ahead, scattering pale moonblooms in her path. Their petals, white as pearl, drifted like snowflakes upon the deck, a tribute to Laena’s favored flower. Behind them, the formidable Rhaenys Velaryon and Lady Celtigar followed, bearing offerings in shell-shaped bowls brimming with gold, pearls, and jewels that glimmered like the sea at sunrise—symbols of prosperity, of wealth, and of a union as unyielding as the tides. And at last, Lord Corlys Velaryon himself, solemn yet proud, took his daughter’s hand and led her across the plank to the waiting boat, where Clement stood beneath the watchful gaze of the priest of the Merlin King.

The ceremony was steeped in tradition, an intertwining of the old ways and the blessings of the divine. The priest, clad in robes the color of foam-capped waves, lifted his hands and called upon the sea to bear witness. “By the tides that guide us, by the waters that sustain us, by the depths that keep the secrets of our ancestors, I bind these two as one. May their love be steadfast as the currents, fierce as the storm, and boundless as the endless reach of the ocean.”

From a conch shell, he poured saltwater over their joined hands, the droplets gleaming like liquid pearls against their skin. Clement, steady as the sea in a lull, held Laena’s gaze as the priest intoned, “No wave shall part you, no storm shall sunder you. You are bound, now and forever.”

And as the last words were spoken, the sea itself seemed to answer. A breath of wind stirred the sails, the waves rose in gentle accord as if bestowing their own benediction upon the match. The marriage was sealed with a kiss—soft, salt-touched, yet carrying the weight of a vow unbroken. The lords and ladies, gathered upon the shore and in boats that ringed the barge, erupted into cheers, their voices rising like gulls upon the wind. The call of trumpeted seashells rang across the waters, and as the sun dipped beneath the waves, it bathed the world in the dying embers of its light.

Once the couple returned to the shore, the revelry began in earnest. Beneath crimson-draped pavilions, long tables groaned beneath a feast fit for lords and kings—spiced crab and honeyed boar, oysters glistening like wet coins, summer greens drizzled with citrus, and great steaming bowls of saffron-laced fish stew. At the center stood a vast bowl of jewel-bright fruits, their colors as vibrant as the laughter that filled the air. Torches flickered along the shore, their golden glow casting long shadows over the sand, reflecting in the eyes of the gathered nobility. Round tables were laid out upon the beach, their cloths embroidered with scarlet crabs and proud seahorses, a silent tribute to the houses now bound by blood.

Minstrels plucked at harps, their voices entwining in a melody both sweet and sorrowful, filling the night with song. Guests donned the colors of the honored houses—deep reds for Celtigar, sea-green for Velaryon. Lord Corlys, regal in velvet, stood watching with quiet pride as Laena danced, her silver hair glinting beneath the lantern light. Nearby, Rhaenyra and Daemon swayed in time with the music, the silk of their garments catching the fire’s glow like waves kissed by the sun.

Little Jacaerys, eyes bright with wonder, clapped in delight at the dancers who spun and twirled, their laughter rising like the tide. And as the night deepened, when the stars began to burn like scattered diamonds upon black velvet, the final act of the first night’s wedding rites began.

Lanterns, brought from the far-off lands of Yi Ti, were carried forth—delicate paper shells as fine as a maiden’s sigh, each painted with the sigils of the newly bound houses. A crimson crab for Celtigar, a proud silver seahorse for Velaryon.

Laena and Clement stood at the water’s edge, hand in hand, their first act as husband and wife. Together, they lit their lantern and let it rise, its soft glow drifting skyward, carried aloft by the breath of the sea. One by one, the guests followed, releasing their own, until the heavens were filled with floating lights, winking like dreams caught in the wind.

Laena turned to Clement, her voice as soft as the waves. “May our light never fade.”

“And may it guide us,” Clement murmured, fingers tightening around hers, “even in the darkest of nights.”

And if one listened closely, past the crackle of the flames and the laughter of the revelers, past the whisper of silk and the rustle of banners in the wind, they might swear they heard the sea itself carry their vows upon the tide, sending them forth to distant shores.

Second Day of The Wedding

Laenor Velaryon’s POV

Before the grand celebrations reached their peak, the noble guests and our kin gathered in the great hall for the morning feast. The revelry of the previous night still lingered in the air like the scent of spiced wine, and he could see its effects. There was a warmth among the lords and ladies, an ease between men who, under different circumstances, might have regarded one another with suspicion. He could have sworn he saw Lord Brune and Lord Staunton—who were rumored to be locked in a bitter feud over land—laughing over some jest, their quarrel forgotten, if only for a time. Wine and merriment had a way of dulling old grudges, smoothing the sharp edges of conflict into something softer, more bearable.

His gaze drifted across the hall, settling upon his sister and her husband, then shifting to Daemon and Rhaenyra. They, too, were caught in a moment of quiet joy.

Rhaenyra and Daemon sat side by side, close enough that when she turned to speak, her golden hair brushed against the deep crimson of his sleeve. There was no hesitation in their touch, no careful glance over the shoulder, no fear. Rhaenyra, so bold, so certain, laughed at something her husband said, and Daemon turned to her with a knowing smile, eyes gleaming in that way that spoke of shared history and quiet understanding. Across the table, Laena leaned into her husband’s side, her head resting lightly against his shoulder as they murmured together. Even father and mother, after all these years, shared an unspoken language in the way they looked at each other, in the simple ease of their companionship.

His fingers curled into his palm beneath the table. He should have been pleased; it was a day of celebration, of feasting, of life. But he could not quell the ache that curled in his chest, a cold, unyielding weight that pressed heavier with each glance cast upon the lovers before him.

To love so freely, to claim the one who held your heart without shame or fear—that was the truest luxury of all. And it was one he would never know.

His eyes flickered across the room, searching, though he already knew where to find him. Joffrey sat at the far end, his laughter bright and easy as he jested with a knight from House Darklyn, his red curls gleaming like the sun upon the sea. How Laenor longed to cross the room, to press his hand to Joffrey’s, to pull him into the dance when the music began, to revel in his love in the light instead of the shadows. But that was not his right. Not in this world, not in this hall, not in this life.

A husband, but not in truth. A lover, but only in secret.

Laenor had long since learned that love was a battle, but not the kind that could be won with steel and flame. His was a war fought in silence, in stolen moments, in glances that could not linger too long. The hall was filled with the sound of clinking goblets and hushed whispers of affection, yet all of it seemed distant, as though he were watching from behind a veil, a ghost among the living. They would never know this grief, this yearning that had no place in their world. The ache of it nearly drove him mad.

How cruel it was, to live in a time where love could flourish for so many, yet wilt for him before it ever bloomed.

Perhaps, in another life, things would be different. In another world, he might have led Joffrey by the hand onto the dance floor, twirling him beneath the glow of candlelight, unafraid of watchful eyes. He might have pressed a kiss to his lips in the open air, with no need to part before dawn’s first light. He might have had what Rhaenyra had, what Laena had, what all of them had.

But not here. Not now.

Chapter Text

LAENA VELARYON

RHAENYS TARGARYEN

CORLYS & LAENOR VELARYON

CLEMENT CELTIGAR

RHAENYRA ARRYN

DAEMON ARRYN

LADY CELTIGAR

ALICENT HIGHTOWER

HELAENA TARGARYEN

AEGON II TARGARYEN

Chapter Text

NO ONE POV

The hour was late, and the chamber stank of tallow and lavender, though neither scent could mask the damp rot seeping through the old stones of the Red Keep. A single candle burned between them, its flickering glow casting shadows that stretched long and twisted across the chamber walls, like grasping fingers reaching from the dark. Alicent sat rigid, her fingers tight upon the arms of her chair, while Otto stood behind her, his expression unreadable. His right hand—the hand that once commanded armies, brokered alliances and guided a realm—was now a memory, lost to fire and the maester's blade.

Opposite them, lounging as though they sat in a mere council meeting and not in the midst of something fouler, was Larys Strong. His head tilted ever so slightly, his fingers draped over the handle of the cane he did not need. Between them stood the crone.

She was hunched, draped in rags that reeked of damp straw and something worse, something rotten. Her grey hair was a tangled mass, her eyes a milky white, unfocused yet searching. A thin scar ran from her forehead to her cheek, a cruel mark from some long-forgotten wound. Shackles had once bound her wrists—that much was clear from the deep bruising that lingered, like a brand that never truly fades. But her hands were free now. They twitched as she lifted them, feeling at the air like a blind rat sniffing for scraps.

Alicent did not speak. Her mouth was set in a thin, bloodless line, her gaze shifting from Larys to her father. It was Larys who finally broke the silence.

“I have brought what the Hand requested,” he murmured, his voice smooth as ever, his eyes—too clever, too knowing—dipping downward, toward the hem of Alicent’s gown. “I trust the Hand and the Queen are those who know gratitude.”

Alicent stiffened. With a small, deliberate movement, she adjusted her skirts, concealing her feet from view. Otto saw the movement, and though his face betrayed nothing, she knew he had taken note.

Otto exhaled sharply. "Very well. It is granted."

Larys reached into his sleeve and drew forth a bundle of cloth, pressed tight to his palm. Otto and Alicent’s noses wrinkled in distaste, for even before he unwrapped it, they could smell the iron tang of old blood. Their revulsion deepened as the fabric was unfurled—bloodied linen, still damp in some places. A second bundle lay beside it, this one older, its stains rusted brown with time.

“The bloodied linens of the birthing bed,” Larys said, glancing at Alicent. “Belongs to Princess Rhaenyra.”

The crone moved then, with a sudden, jerking eagerness, her gnarled fingers darting forward to snatch the fabric. She pressed it to her face, inhaling deeply. A shudder wracked her frail frame. Then, slowly, she spread the cloths upon the table, stroking the dried stains with reverence. The candle guttered, though no wind had stirred. “Strong,” the old woman muttered. Her head tilted slightly toward Alicent, as though she could see her through the blindness. “Very strong. It hums like the old songs. Blood calls to blood, but just this… this is not enough. The thread is too thin, too frayed. You seek to bind the young Nāghā—” she did not speak Aegon’s name, nor did she need to, “—with the fire of old. But the blood is too little. Too weak. It cannot wake what sleeps.”

Alicent inhaled sharply, her shoulders drawing tight. "Then what can be done?"

The crone’s lips pulled back, revealing teeth blackened and broken, like rotted pearls. “A bond, perhaps. With a hatchling, fresh from the shell. That much, the blood will allow. But to wake the stone?” Her fingers pressed into the cloth, and for the briefest of moments, it seemed as though the stains bled anew beneath her touch. “That would take… more than this.”

Otto’s throat bobbed. “How much more?”

The woman’s sightless eyes turned toward him, milky orbs glistening in the dim light.

“Blood on the altar,” she rasped. “For one egg to waken, fourteen white strands must be paid.”

A shiver passed through the room, though no one spoke.

“If the offering is made,” the crone continued, her voice weaving through the silence like a thread through a needle, “bind the young Nāghā’s blood with mother’s woe, a cradle of ash where embers grow. The young one shall meet the gilded son, and fate shall forge what was undone.”

She fell silent, but then, after a pause, her head cocked ever so slightly, as if listening to something only she could hear. A breath of laughter escaped her lips, a rasping chuckle that sent a ripple of unease through the chamber.

“But beware, Nāghā Vala,” she whispered, voice thin as a blade’s edge. “For dragons are born from death’s cruel decree.”

One Year Later

Rhaenyra’s POV

The chamber smelled of jasmine and parchment, the scent of her cooling tea mingling with the crisp salt air that seeped through the wooden shutters. Rhaenyra sat in a modest inn in Gulltown, the flickering candlelight casting a golden hue over the pages before her. Stacks of documents lay at her side, each bearing the sigils of Vale’s noble houses—reports on trade, missives of inquiry, and, most importantly, updates on the great wall’s construction.

She and Daemon had spent the past moons overseeing the early stages of the fortification that would stretch across the Vale, a shield of stone and timber to guard its borders. Soon, they would set out to visit each noble house, ensuring their lords upheld their part of the endeavor. At each meeting point where the wall would rise, a representative from the ruling family would be appointed as its deputy warden, tasked with its protection and maintenance.

The foundation had begun with asalt and tuff from Dragonstone, while timber from the North would serve as the wall’s backbone. Harder than common stone, fire-forged in the heart of the earth, it would make for defenses that neither time nor siege could easily wear away. And then there was dragonglass—hers to wield now. The acquisition had not come easily, but they had claimed it, and she would see to it that it was put to use.

The wall had first been planned with brick and wood, sturdy but not indomitable. But then came a letter from Lord Beesbury, a missive of unexpected weight. And with it, everything changed.

Six moons earlier

The raven arrived in the evening, its black wings stark against the reddening sky. Rhaenyra stood upon the balcony of her chambers in the Eyrie, the wind crisp against her skin as the Vale stretched below in mist-clad majesty. The peaks loomed like silent sentinels, their shadows long in the fading light. It was Layla Waynwood who brought her the missive, the parchment sealed in wax, its edges slightly smudged from the journey. "From the capital, my lady," she murmured, offering the letter with a slight bow.

She unfurled it, her eyes sweeping swiftly over the lines. As she had expected, Lord Beesbury had chosen his words with care—courteous, measured, yet the urgency bled through his ink like water seeping through old stone. He spoke of provisions, of dwindling stores in the capital, of winter’s approach, and the waste that gnawed at their reserves. The Crown sought aid, a transaction to secure food for King’s Landing before the cold tightened its grip. She sighed, folding the parchment between her fingers. She had no desire to entangle herself any more than necessary with the capital. Her duty began and ended with the taxes and reports she sent; that should have been enough. But a bargain could be struck—one that served her interests as well. After all, what was mere coal compared to the basalt of Dragonstone?

"The old man sees clearer than most," she murmured, thoughtful. "At least some in the capital still understand prudence."

"Will you answer him?" Layla asked.

"With generosity," she replied, though her mind turned the matter over. If she agreed to a meeting, it would be held in King’s Landing or the Eyrie—neither of which suited her. She would not have her children set eyes upon Alicent or her ilk, not yet. Not until she was ready. And she had no desire to suffer Otto Hightower stepping foot into her halls, scheming behind his measured words and calculating gaze. With careful deliberation, she set quill to parchment.

To the Esteemed Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin of the Seven Kingdoms,

Your concerns, as always, are wise and well-founded. The prosperity of the realm is no small matter, and it pleases me to know that one as learned as yourself tends to it with such diligence. You are right to seek provisions for the capital, for winter does not wait upon kings or councils, and foresight is a gift too few possess.

As for the meeting you propose, I find it a most agreeable course. The Vale is well-positioned to assist in this matter, yet travel to the Eyrie is arduous, and it would be unwise to impose such a strain upon my father, King Viserys, whose health, I hear, remains fragile. Therefore, Gulltown shall serve as our place of discourse. The port is well-suited for matters of trade, and I shall ensure you find it most accommodating.

As this concerns coin and law, the presence of the King, yourself as Master of Coin, and Lord Lyonel Strong as Master of Laws will suffice. Lord Otto Hightower, for all his wisdom, is no merchant, and his presence is not necessary in this matter—especially given his… condition.

I trust you will see the prudence in my request and abide by these terms so that our cooperation may proceed without delay or complication. I await your arrival in Gulltown. Matters of the realm must always be tended with care.

Rhaenyra of House Arryn

flashback end

She did not know how Lord Beesbury had managed it, but the meeting had been held in Gulltown, as she had wished. Only her father, Lord Lyonel Strong, and Beesbury himself had been in attendance—no Otto Hightower, no serpents in green. Yet it was not only them she had found waiting. There were familiar faces among the retinue, men she had known in another life. And there, standing among them, was Harwin Strong.

The sight of him struck her like a blow, sudden and unexpected. Harwin Strong. Four years had passed since she had last laid eyes upon him, yet he stood as if not a day had gone by. Perhaps broader now, the weight of years and battle settled upon his frame, but still the same beneath it all. The same strong jaw, the same deep-set eyes that had once laughed so easily, the same unruly curls that fell over his brow. He had always been large, but now he seemed carved from stone, weathered by time, his presence no longer merely that of a knight, but of a man who had seen much and endured more. His gaze met hers, steady as ever, but distant in a way it had never been before. He looked at her and saw a princess. A Targaryen—or an Arryn now—the wife of his prince. Nothing more.

She ought to feel nothing. That, at least, was what she told herself. Harwin had been a fixture in her life once, but only in the periphery. A loyal knight, a presence that had always stood at her back yet never in her path. He had been Daemon’s man as much as hers, a sword among many. She had never truly looked at him. Not in the way her dream-self had. The dream still haunted her. A dream of another life, a bitter glimpse into a world where she had remained in King’s Landing, shackled to a crumbling throne built on falsehoods and empty vows. She had seen herself there, surrounded by whispering courtiers and green-clad vipers, trapped in a cage of duty and expectation. And beside her—not Daemon, but Harwin. His had been the only face that had not shifted, the only touch that had not burned. A steady hand at her back, a warmth in the cold. She had borne his children in that life. Loved him, perhaps.

But that was not this life.

The weight of that other world pressed against her ribs like a phantom pain, a ghost of a life never lived. He did not know the things she had seen. He had not held her as she wept, had not whispered soft words in her ear, had not been the man she turned to in her darkest nights. That had been another Harwin, belonging to another Rhaenyra. This Harwin was a stranger to her, and she to him. And yet, the sight of him stirred something deep within her, something buried beneath four years of distance and duty. The dream had lied, had spun a tale of love and devotion where none had truly taken root. And still, she could not look at him without feeling its echoes. It was not love, not truly. But it was something.

Perhaps guilt.

After all, the moment he had reached out to aid her, his fate had been sealed. His life, once his own, had been set upon a path not of his choosing, entangled with hers in ways he had never intended. And for that, she owed him. She would see to it that he lived the life that had been stolen from him. Her thoughts scattered as Daemon approached, his presence as steady and inescapable as the tide. He gestured toward the balcony, where the sea stretched endless beneath the moon’s glow, waves crashing against the cliffs below.

“I did not think you would allow Lorent, Steffon, and Harwin to remain here,” he said, his gaze fixed on the dark horizon.

“I thought Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent were your companions?” she replied, arching a brow. “As I recall, you were quite close. As you were with Harwin.”

Daemon turned to face her then, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Harwin?” he echoed. “You call Lorent and Steffon ‘Ser,’ yet you name Strong so casually? I had no idea you were so familiar with him.” His eyes gleamed with amusement, but he was watching her too closely, waiting, reading her. She had come to know him well enough to understand that Daemon never let a thing go until he had his answer.

“In my dream,” she admitted at last, voice quiet but steady. “Harwin was one of the few who made the Red Keep bearable.”

Daemon studied her for a long moment. He could read men as easily as one read a map, and tonight, she was the one he sought to decipher. “Did he make you happy?” The words were spoken lightly, but she knew him too well to mistake them for idle curiosity. He already understood what Harwin had been to her in that other life, even without her saying it outright.

She answered with a single nod.

“I owe him much,” she said, turning to fully face him. “And I mean to see that he does not die in vain this time.”

Daemon gave a slow nod in return, his expression unreadable. Silence stretched between them until she broke it with a question of her own. “I thought you would be pleased. Are they not your friends?”

Daemon laughed softly. “Men I can trust? Perhaps.” He paused, glancing down at the stone beneath his feet. “But friends?” He exhaled, almost to himself.

“Viserys was a friend,” he murmured, the words quiet as if he needed to say them aloud to believe them.

“It was always just us. When Mother died, it was just us. When Father fell, it was just us. Targaryens do not belong to the world as other men do. They belong to each other. And I belonged to him, as he belonged to me. I saw how our father was with his brother—Baelon and Aemon, one heart in two bodies, bound by love and duty. They were sword and shield, truest friends, each half of the other’s soul. That is what it meant to be a brother. That is what I thought we were.”

"Daemon," she whispered, reaching for his hand. She had seen him on restless nights, when he believed her to be asleep, poring over the letters their father had sent, letters that gathered dust but never left his sight. It was only natural, she thought, that he still loved his father.

"I fought for him. I bled for him," Daemon murmured, his voice raw with something brittle and aching. "I built his City Watch, filled his streets with gold, and made his rule feel strong even as it crumbled beneath him. I cut down his enemies, married for his cause, and went into exile like a dutiful dog when he commanded it of me. And yet, when he looked at me, all he saw was Maegor."

The name lingered between them, a shadow cast long and deep.

"I followed him. I trusted him. And what did it bring me? When I reached for him, I grasped only air. When I spoke, my words fell on deaf ears. I had no place at his side, no voice in his council, no home in his heart."

"You are not Maegor," she whispered, bringing his hand to her lips, pressing a kiss to his fingers as he had done for her in her own moments of doubt. "You will never be Maegor."

His breath hitched a quiet, wounded sound. "How can you be so certain?" he rasped. "Viserys has known me since the moment I drew breath, and yet when he looks at me, all he sees is Maegor reborn. How can you be so certain?"

It was the first time she had seen him like this, laid bare before her, raw and unguarded. She did the only thing she could—she pulled him into her arms, her fingers tracing slow, soothing circles along his back. She leaned in, her lips at his ear, and whispered, "Ñuha jorrāelagon." 

"Because my father was a fool," she said softly, the words unkind but no less true. "A kind fool, but a fool nonetheless. You were his brother—his truest ally, his fiercest protector—and still, he feared you. Not because you were Maegor, but because he was no Aemon." Her hand came to his face then, cradling it as she took him in, every line, every scar, every piece of him that had been shaped by love and grief alike. "I see you, Daemon," she whispered. "If my father failed to see you as you are if he could not understand you, then let that failure rest on his shoulders. But do not let him take more from you. He has taken enough already." She felt the way his hands trembled, the way his breath hitched with the weight of years spent longing for something that never was. So she only held him tighter, pressing her forehead to his.

"My father may have forsaken you," she murmured, voice a vow, a promise forged in fire and love, "but I will not."

Not this time.

Not ever.

She saw the way his throat bobbed, the way his eyes searched hers, and then—finally—Daemon inclined his head.

"You… you are not to turn your back on me. Do you understand?" Daemon’s voice was quiet, but there was a weight to it, a plea hidden beneath the command.

"Is that an order?" she teased, the amusement flickering in her eyes. Daemon answered her with a kiss.

"Aye," he murmured against her lips. "It is an order." They lingered there for a moment, laughter passing between them like the brief warmth of a hearth before the fire wanes. But soon, Daemon’s expression darkened, his thoughts drifting elsewhere, burdened by something unsaid.

"What is it?" she asked, taking his hand in hers. He hesitated before the smirk she knew so well returned, but there was an edge to it as if it did not quite reach his eyes.

"I thought when you agreed to work with the Crown, you would bleed them for gold. I never imagined you would have them pay you in dragonglass, basalt, tuff, and pumice," he said, studying her.

She did not look at him but instead cast her gaze forward, steady as stone. "They do not know the worth of such things. Not truly. But we do. Basalt and tuff will raise walls that will not crumble, and dragonglass…" She exhaled. "Dragonglass has power in it, though they are too blind to see it."

Daemon chuckled at that, shaking his head. "I had thought you did it out of some great concern for the smallfolk of King’s Landing," he said, mocking.

She scoffed, turning her eyes to him now, her lips curling—not in amusement, but something sharper, something colder.

"The smallfolk?" she echoed, her voice a blade honed not for war but for scorn. "Do you ask if I care for them? If I shed tears for the wretches in the streets, for the beggars and the butchers, the mongers and the whores? If I weep for the rats that gnaw at the bones of this dying kingdom?" Her lips curled, though not in mirth. 

Daemon said nothing, only watching her.

"Tell me, why should I? Why should I spare a thought for the ones who made my mother’s agony their jape, who turned her screams into the price of a loaf? Why should I grieve for the hands that wrenched my Syrax from the sky, tore her flesh, feasted on her like carrion birds, all while howling for the death of her rider?" Her voice did not shake, did not break. It was steel.

"They did not weep for Joffrey."

A shadow passed over Daemon’s face.

"They did not weep for my son. Not one among them paused to look upon him and see a boy, my boy, thrown from a dragon like a broken doll. No, they picked at him like vultures, ripped the cloak from his back, the boots from his feet, the rings from his fingers—tokens of a dead prince, bartered away for bread that would not last them three days." Her nails dug into her palms, the sting grounding her. 

"They cry for kings and cheer for queens, but theirs is a love bought with coin and fear, as fleeting as the wind. The moment it shifts, they will howl for the next fool to take the throne and spill the blood of the last."

She met Daemon’s eyes then, her gaze unwavering. "So, no. I do not love them. I do not care for them. They are naught but a tide, and I am done drowning in their fickle favor." Daemon did not speak, but she saw it in his eyes—the knowing, the understanding. Since she had told him of the visions, of the children lost in fire and war, she had found him lingering at their children’s cribs in the dead of night, silent, watching. She never asked what prayers he whispered, or what ghosts haunted him. But she knew.

Perhaps he thought she had named their children after the ones in her dreams as a tribute, a mourning. But she knew better. The souls within them were the same. It was not remembrance—it was reclamation.

But that was a truth for another time.

Daemon exhaled, shaking his head. "For someone who claims not to care, you play the part well enough in the Vale. They worship you, you know. I half think you could walk through Gulltown without a guard, and not a soul would dare harm you. They love you too much for that."

She smirked, though there was no joy in it. "I must care for the people here because I refuse to be the kind of parent who leaves their children to inherit their burdens. My father—" she scoffed, the sound bitter on her tongue, "—in my dream, he was a man who chose blindness, who thought his silence would make the troubles of the realm disappear. But troubles do not vanish when ignored; they fester, and they pass to the next in line."

Her voice was like ice now. "He left them to me. And they drained me until I was nothing but dust and ash, a corpse burned in dragonfire by the son of a whore."

Daemon’s jaw tightened, but he did not interrupt.

"I will not be my father," she said, her voice firm as steel. "And I will not let Jacaerys—or any of our children—inherit my burdens. They will rule the Vale free of my ghosts. If I can settle my debts before my time is done, then I shall. And I will do it with stone, with steel, and with fire if need be." She would make the Vale fertile and prosperous, a land of plenty for her children and her children’s children. She would see it flourish, not merely as a stronghold but as a kingdom in its own right—one that could birth new domains for Lucrezia, for Joffrey, for Aegon, Viserys and Visenya, so that they would never know want, never be forced to beg at another man’s table or scrape and claw like the Hightowers, grasping with greedy hands for what was not theirs to take. She would build walls high enough to keep her children safe, strong enough to withstand even the cruelest storm.

She would do this.

And when it was done—when the Vale stood unshaken, when her children had the future they deserved—then she would turn her gaze to the root of all her troubles, and she would rip them apart, burn them to cinders, and salt the ashes.

Chapter Text

Red Keep, King's Landing

NO ONE POV

The torches lining the halls of Maegor’s Holdfast flickered low, their feeble glow barely cutting through the thick shadows. The woman walked with slow, measured steps, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long shadows over her green-clad form. A firefly brooch clung to the fabric above her breast, catching the light like an omen. She moved like a wraith through the halls of the Red Keep, her gaze sharp, her purpose fixed. The scent of roasted meat and freshly baked bread drifted from the royal kitchens ahead, where the cooks and maids toiled in preparation for the next day’s royal feast.

Her eyes swept the room, gliding over sweating men and women working over boiling pots and slabs of meat, until she found the girl.

The child was small, and slight, with silver hair matted from neglect, clinging in damp strands to her pale, freckled skin. No more than fourteen, perhaps younger. She was peeling onions, her fingers trembling from exhaustion, her cheeks red from the sting of vapors. She did not look up when the woman approached.

"The Hand of the King has summoned you," the woman said, voice smooth as milk and honey. "He wishes to be served by you tonight." The girl turned, startled, her wide lilac eyes searching the woman’s face. Confusion, fear. A second too late, she shook her head.

"I—I have work—"

The slap came sudden, sharp, and the kitchen fell silent. The cooks and other maids pretended not to hear, heads ducked, eyes fixed on their tasks. The woman leaned down, close enough for the girl to smell the perfumed oil in her dark curls. "You will come," she murmured. "Now."

With hesitant steps, the girl followed her out of the kitchen, hands wringing the stained fabric of her apron. The woman led her up a winding stairwell, then through a corridor lit by flickering sconces. At the far end, two figures loomed in the dim torchlight. One of them, the girl recognized—a man she had seen in the city, a criminal with rotten teeth and yellow eyes. The other was taller, his face hidden beneath a hood, but she could feel the wrongness radiating off him like heat from a brazier.

She turned to flee. A hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream.

Chapter Text

Common Hall, the Eyrie, Vale

NO ONE POV

The Common Hall of the Eyrie hummed with the murmur of voices, the low crackle of the hearth, the clinking of goblets meeting lips. Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table, regal even in repose, yet her gaze strayed toward the man who lingered near the entrance, a shadow from another time.

Vaegon Targaryen.

Her great-uncle.

His presence was an unwelcome ripple in the calm surface of her carefully ordered world. His face was gaunt, his expression unreadable, yet something restless lurked in the way his pale lilac eyes flitted about the room, never settling for long. Daemon, ever at ease even when confronted with ghosts, strode forward with that careless grace of his, seizing the older man’s arm in a firm clasp. “You look half a corpse, uncle. Has the Citadel been so cruel to you?” He smirked, though there was a sharp glint in his eye. “Come, let me introduce you to my prūmia.”

Jacaerys and Harion stepped forward, the boys stiff with well-practiced decorum, yet curiosity flickered in their eyes. Vaegon studied them but briefly, before his gaze shifted—to Lucrezia, who stood half-hidden beside her father, her small fingers curled into the wool of Daemon’s tunic. He stared too long, long enough that Rhaenyra felt the weight of it, something uneasy settling in her gut. Grief, perhaps. Or something darker still.

Before she could dwell on it, movement caught her eye. Harwin and Catherine. They had been silent until now, but she saw the tension in Harwin’s broad frame, the nervous flicker in Catherine’s gaze. They moved toward her with the bearing of those who carried troubling news.

“My lady,” Catherine murmured, voice low as she and Harwin ushered her toward the corner of the hall. Away from Daemon. Away from Vaegon.

It was Harwin who spoke first. “We found him wandering near the Wall of the Vale, at the borderlands between the Riverlands and the mountains.”

“Trying to pass through,” Catherine added. “The guards denied him entry—he had no sigil, no token of identification. He was near collapse.”

Harwin’s jaw tightened. The flickering torchlight cast deep shadows across his face. “I remembered him from the Great Council when I was just a boy. He was there, though he spoke little. When I saw him again, I knew.”

Rhaenyra frowned. “Why was he at the border? What was he doing?”

“He was in poor shape when we found him,” Catherine said, voice softer now. “His robes were torn, his body bruised. Someone had set upon him—robbers, I would wager. He had nothing. No silver, no horse…” She hesitated. “Not even his maester’s chain.”

Rhaenyra stilled.

Vaegon Targaryen, Archmaester of the Citadel, a man who had devoted his life to wisdom and knowledge, now stood before her stripped of his station. No chain hung from his neck, no robes of his order draped his shoulders. Instead, he was clad in an ill-fitting tunic that had once belonged to Harwin Strong. It swallowed him whole, the fabric loose upon a frame thinned by hardship and time.

“We cleaned him up,” Catherine said. “Fed him. He would say little, only that he sought you.”

Rhaenyra inhaled slowly, pressing a hand to her abdomen as if to steady herself. “Thank you,” she said at last, her voice measured as she met their gazes. “Both of you.”

Harwin and Catherine inclined their heads, though their eyes lingered, questioning. She did not answer them. Instead, her gaze drifted back to Vaegon, who had yet to look away from Lucrezia. His pale lilac eyes held something unreadable—solemn, searching.

She exhaled.

“Jace, Harion,” she called, summoning her sons. “Why don’t you show Ser Harwin and Edmure what you have learned in your swordplay?”

Jace’s face lit up, eager as ever to prove himself. Harion followed without complaint.

“And you, my love,” Rhaenyra said, tilting her chin toward Catherine and her daughters. “Why don’t you show Lady Catherine and your friends your new embroidery?”

Lucrezia hesitated, but at her mother’s nod, she went, leading the other girls with her.

Soon, only three remained.

Rhaenyra. Daemon. Vaegon.

The warmth in Rhaenyra’s smile faded, leaving only something sharp in its place, something cold. She lowered herself into her seat, her posture composed, her chin lifted ever so slightly, regal as ever.

Her voice, when it came, was cool as winter’s breath.

“For what purpose have you sought me, archmaester Vaegon?”

Rhaenyra's POV

The Common Hall of the Eyrie had fallen into stillness, save for the distant echoes of laughter drifting through the stone corridors, and the sounds of children at play. But here, within these walls, silence hung thick as smoke, heavy with things left unsaid. It coiled between them, unseen but suffocating, winding like a viper between the woman seated at the high table and the man who faced her.

Vaegon Targaryen—or what little remained of him—sat stiff-backed, his hands curled around a worn leather book, fingers pressing into the binding as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered. She studied him, her face unreadable.

He had changed.

The last time she had laid eyes upon her great-uncle, she had been but a child, standing in the shadow of the Great Council of 101 AC. Then, he had been cloaked in the dignified grey of the Citadel, his maester’s chain heavy upon his shoulders, links of many metals glinting in the torchlight—a symbol of his chosen path. Now, he wore only a simple tunic, loose at the shoulders, rough in the weave. Harwin’s, she realized. A borrowed thing. Given in pity.

Pity.

She felt none.

She had seen men like Vaegon before. Men who turned their backs when duty and blood warred within them, who wielded detachment like a blade and left their kin to whatever fate the Stranger saw fit. Men who watched from afar as the storm raged, safe in their distant towers, content to let ruin come so long as it did not touch them. But storms shift. Winds change. And now one such man sat before her, empty-handed, hollow-eyed, asking for the very thing none of them had granted her.

“I seek shelter,” Vaegon said at last, his voice rasping like dry parchment. “I have nowhere else to turn.”

Shelter.

Her lips curled, though it was not in a smile.

Of course, he had.

She had dreamt of this, in a way. Not of Vaegon himself, but of the truth he now embodied—the cold reality of kin who stood by in quiet judgment, who let her bleed and made no move to staunch the wound. And now, with his own comforts stripped from him, with nowhere left to run, he came to her. She leaned back, fingers tapping idly against the arm of her chair. “Shelter?” she echoed, tilting her head slightly as if the word itself were foreign to her tongue. “Strange. I thought you had already found your comforts in Oldtown, amongst your books and vows of service.”

Vaegon flinched, though he did not look away.

“I cannot return there,” he admitted. “Not to the Citadel. Not to the Faith.”

A bitter laugh escaped her, dry as autumn leaves, devoid of mirth. “Oh, but surely you must have heard,” she drawled, feigning innocence, her tone a blade wrapped in silk. “I am quite the pious woman these days. A friend of the Faith.” She let the words linger, watching the way his shoulders stiffened, how unease flickered in his lilac eyes. A lie, of course. Or perhaps not entirely. The Faith adored her, in their own way—worshiping the image she had so carefully built, the devotion they imagined in her. A game, and one she played well.

She watched as his fingers curled tighter around the book, his knuckles whitening. He did not answer.

Leaning forward, she lowered her voice, though it lost none of its sharpness. “You cast aside your name when you took your vows, did you not? You made your choice, Vaegon.” Her gaze roamed over him, taking in the hollows of his cheeks, the bruises that lingered beneath his skin, the weariness carved into every line of his face. “So why come to me? I am no Targaryen. I am an Arryn.”

His lips parted, but no words came. Only silence. Only guilt.

For a moment, something coiled tight in her chest—triumph, perhaps. She had struck where it hurt. And yet, there was no satisfaction in it. Only weariness. Only the dull ache of old wounds, torn open anew by the sight of a man who had once been family, now nothing more than a stranger in borrowed clothes. A sigh, quiet but heavy, broke through the silence.

Daemon.

He had been watching all the while, his keen eyes tracing the edges of their exchange, weighing each word unspoken. And now, at last, he moved—crossing the space between them with the ease of a man who knew her moods as well as his own. He knelt at her side, pressing a kiss to her temple, his touch steady, grounding. His hand found hers, his thumb sweeping slow circles against her knuckles. A reminder. A tether.

She closed her eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled.

When she opened them, Vaegon was still there—small, weary, out of place.

And in that moment, she thought of her father.

Not the man he had been in the height of his reign, but the man in her dreams. Sickly. Wasted. Untended. Seven hells, did the Faith despise her blood so deeply that they would let her uncle wither like this? She sighed once more.

“You should rest, uncle,” she said at last. “You look tired. We will speak again after supper.”

Vaegon lifted his head, and in his eyes, she glimpsed something she had not expected. Hope.

“Hana,” she called, without taking her gaze from him, “see my uncle to the guest chambers in the family wing. Make certain he has what he needs.”

He hesitated, as if uncertain he had truly heard her, then bowed his head. As he turned to go, she heard him murmur, soft as a prayer—“Thank you.”

Silence settled over the hall once more, broken only when she felt Daemon’s fingers brush her arm, his hand finding hers once more. He laced their fingers together, then rested his head against her shoulder. “Was that not a bit cruel, my love?” he murmured. She turned her head at that, one brow arched as she studied her husband. Daemon chuckled at her expression, low and amused.

“You ought to try not to be so hard on our dear uncle,” he said. “If you were the child of Alysanne and Jaehaerys, would you wish to have any ties to them?”

His words gave her pause. Alysanne and Jaehaerys—were they not good people? Good rulers, beloved by the realm? Why would Daemon say such a thing?

He must have seen the confusion written across her face, for before she could even ask, he spoke again.

“Our grandsire and granddam were great rulers—none can deny that. They built roads, filled the realm’s coffers, and brought peace where once there was only strife. But being a good ruler does not make one a good person... or a good parent.”

He rose then, moving to pour wine into two cups. Handing her one, he drank deep from the other.

He scoffed. “Grandfather played favorites. If you were Uncle Aemon or father, you could do no wrong. If you were anyone else, you were a disappointment. And grandmother… well, she wept when she lost your grandmother, Aunt Daella, yet she turned around and sealed Aunt Viserra’s fate so cruelly that the girl would rather die than live with it. And Aunt Gael—poor, sweet Aunt Gael. She called her ‘the joy of her old age,’ yet abandoned her to grief so deep it drowned her. It is true that grandmother mourned her lost children, yet still made choices that took more of them away.” He met her gaze then, his eyes sharp as Valyrian steel.

“So yes, they were good rulers. But in the end, they were bad parents. And the folly of bad parents is paid in blood—just not their own.” He poured himself another cup, downing it with an ease that spoke of long practice. “Where do you think your father got his overconfidence and stubbornness, if not from them?” Daemon went on, his tone laced with mockery. “He spent his whole life looking to them as his role models. So don’t be surprised that he copied their worst traits as well.”

She sighed, tilting her head back as she weighed his words. What was she to do with Uncle Vaegon?

“Do not make me regret considering this,” she murmured at last.

Daemon only pressed a kiss to her brow in reply.

She stared into her cup, watching the dark swirl of wine. “What do you think he wants?”

Daemon merely shrugged. “I suppose we’ll find out after supper.”

NO ONE POV

The halls of the Eyrie lay hushed at this hour, the only sound the whisper of Hana’s slippers against cold stone. The serving woman moved with the ease of long familiarity, hands folded before her, her steps light but certain. “This will be your chamber, my lord,” she said as they halted before a thick oaken door, its iron hinges dark with age but well cared for. “I trust you will find it comfortable. These rooms are reserved for kin and honored guests.”

She pushed the door open and stepped aside, bidding him enter with a tilt of her head.

Vaegon stepped through, his gaze sweeping over the chamber, slow and deliberate. It was not merely a guest room. The ceiling arched high, its beams pale and smooth as bleached bone—were they weirwood? The walls were draped in rich tapestries, their threads weaving images of the Vale’s rolling hills and snow-capped peaks. A hearth sat cold in the corner, though fresh kindling had been laid within, the scent of pine and cedar still lingering in the air. The bed was a grand thing, its canopy deep blue, embroidered in silver, a thick quilt spread across it, stitched with the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn. Near the window stood a writing desk, its surface bare but for a single unlit candle.

“The chamber has been prepared with care,” Hana said, smoothing the folds of her apron. “The study is just down the corridor, should you require books or parchment. And at the end of the hall, beyond the double doors, lies the lady’s solar. Her Grace often takes her afternoons there.”

She turned, nodding toward the far end of the passage. “Prince Daemon and Princess Rhaenyra’s chambers are there, connected to the lady’s solar. The young lords and Lady Lucy have their rooms just beyond, past the stairwell. Should you need anything, my lord, ring the bell, and I shall come."

Vaegon gave a curt nod, his gaze dismissing her with the faintest flicker of indifference. The door creaked softly as it closed behind her, leaving him alone in the quiet of the chamber. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself, before stepping toward the window. The glass was clean, its surface unmarred, offering an unobstructed view of the gardens below. The air was sharp and crisp, the sky a pale canvas stretching above. Below, in the well-maintained expanse of Daella’s garden, the children played, their laughter carried faintly on the breeze.

Three figures, their eyes violet as the dusk sky, stood apart from the rest—a trio set against the world in their own quiet defiance. Jacaerys, tall and lithe for his years, his posture as proud as a knight’s; Harion, younger, yet holding himself with a rigid dignity that seemed older than his age, his wooden sword an extension of his will; and Lucrezia, her laughter light as she darted between them, her skirts catching the wind, billowing like sails upon the sea.

They were not alone, though. With them were three others, the children of Lord Strong. The eldest boy, Edmure, if memory served, stood with Jacaerys, their heads bent in whispered conversation. A slender girl, dark-haired and small, lingered by the side. And the last, a girl no older than Lucrezia, sat in the grass, her hands busy as she wove a crown of flowers, their bright colors mingling with the green. Vaegon did not bother to name them; he knew them only as Strong’s brood.

His gaze lingered longest on the girl in lavender silk. Lucrezia moved with ease, a fluid grace, her laughter ringing through the air, unburdened by the weight of the world. There was something in her, something that twisted in his chest like a knife, a twinge of familiarity that he could not escape. His eyes closed, his breath hitching in a way he would not allow himself to name. For a fleeting moment, the past pressed close, and a ghost came to haunt him. The regret settled upon him, cold and unyielding as the mountain winds, biting deep.

When he opened his eyes once more, she was still there, laughing in the sunlight, untouched by the shadows that clung to him. And with a quiet exhale, Vaegon turned away.

The dining hall of the Eyrie was warm with candlelight, the flames flickering in their silver sconces, casting long shadows against the high stone walls. The table stretched beneath a vaulted ceiling of pale weirwood beams, polished smooth with age. Moon-and-falcon banners hung in quiet pride, their silken threads shifting in the evening breeze that whispered through the narrow windows.

Rhaenyra Arryn sat at the head of the table, regal in her stillness, her silver hair gleaming beneath the light. To her right sat her heir, Jacaerys Arryn, his back straight, his expression composed, the weight of expectation settling upon his shoulders like a familiar cloak. Beside him was Lucrezia, her lilac eyes glimmering with quiet amusement as she listened to the murmured conversations around her. Harion sat next, though his lips were pursed in a thoughtful frown, his gaze darting toward the opposite end of the table.

To Harion’s left, Daemon lounged in his seat, one arm resting lazily along the back of his chair, a smirk playing upon his lips as he studied his youngest son’s expression. Beyond him sat Vaegon, his presence a colder thing, measured and distant, his gaze assessing as he observed the family gathered before him.

Across from Daemon, seated on Rhaenyra’s left, were Amanda Arryn and Jeyne Arryn, the former cutting into her meal with slow deliberation, the latter turning toward Rhaenyra with a question poised upon her lips.

“Will Catherine, Harwin, and their children not be joining us this evening?” Jeyne asked, her tone polite, but curious.

Rhaenyra did not pause in cutting her meat. “They will join us on the morrow,” she said smoothly, her voice even, unhurried. “Tonight, they wished for a private supper with their family.” There was nothing in her tone to invite further inquiry, though Jeyne studied her for a moment longer before simply nodding and returning to her meal.

The air was rich with the scent of roasted meats and spiced apples, a feast laid out before them in abundance. A thick venison stew, dark and hearty, steamed in deep-bellied bowls. Roast duck, its skin crisp and glistening with honeyed cloves, was carved into thick slices. Platters of herbed bread, warm and crusty, sat beside buttered greens and steamed root vegetables, their colors bright against the dark wood of the table. At the center of it all was a great silver bowl of saffron rice, its golden grains adorned with slivers of toasted almonds and crisp-fried onions.

“I want to sit with Nanna Amanda,” Harion declared, folding his arms and have a petulant frown on his face, his lower lip jutting out in defiance.

Daemon smirked, setting his goblet down with a soft clink. “And why is that, azantitos? Is it because your nanna lets you ignore your greens” he asked, his voice rich with amusement.

The boy turned his head sharply, eyes narrowing in mild betrayal. “That’s not—”

“Oh, it is,” Daemon drawled, smirking as he swirled the wine in his goblet. “And if I recall, she’s also rather generous with her honeycakes.”

Amanda Arryn chuckled from across the table, shaking her head as she dabbed at the corner of her lips with her napkin. “What a cunning little princeling you are, Harion,” she mused, her blue eyes twinkling.

Harion, scowling, turned his attention back to his plate, stabbing a fork into his roasted carrots with great indignation. “They taste like dirt,” he muttered under his breath.

“Then it’s a wonder you haven’t turned into a rabbit,” Lucrezia murmured, barely suppressing a laugh. Jacaerys coughed to mask his own amusement, while Daemon chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. It was then that Amanda Arryn’s gaze drifted toward Vaegon, her expression contemplative. She reached for her goblet, her movements deliberate, unhurried.

“I cannot recall the last time I laid eyes upon you Prince Vaegon,” she mused, her voice carrying through the hall with the ease of someone who had lived long enough to know the weight of names. “The last I saw of you, I believe, was at the Great Council of 101.” She took a slow sip of wine, yet her eyes did not linger on Vaegon for long. Instead, they flicked toward Rhaenyra, sharp as a falcon’s, watching, weighing.

“I would hope your presence here brings good tidings.”

A silence settled over the table, thin as a blade’s edge.

Vaegon, ever composed, did not immediately answer. Rhaenyra did not look up. She did not acknowledge Amanda’s words, nor the silent scrutiny that passed between them. Instead, she simply cut another piece of venison, lifted it to her lips, and took a slow, measured bite. The scrape of her knife against the plate was the only sound in the hall.

The dinner passed in tense silence, the weight of unspoken words hanging over the table like a dark cloud. The only sound to break the stillness was Harion’s animated retelling of his grievance with Maester Gerardys, who he believed had unfairly judged his performance in the exam earlier that day. His voice, though youthful, carried the indignation of someone wronged.

When the meal was done, Rhaenyra glanced briefly at her aunt, her eyes speaking volumes, a silent communication that only they seemed to understand. Amanda Arryn, without a word, stood and gathered the children—Jeyne included—to accompany her to visit the Strong family in the Guest's Wing, where their chambers were, before settling for the night.

As the five of them left, Rhaenyra rose from her seat, her gaze lingering on Vaegon. “Come,” she said, her tone calm but with an undercurrent of something more. “I would speak with you in my solar.”

Vaegon, however, shook his head gently. “I will fetch my book first,” he replied, his voice measured.

The chamber was quiet when he returned, save for the faint crackling of the hearthfire, its warmth casting flickering shadows upon the stone walls. Vaegon sat by the desk, a thick tome resting on his lap. The book was ancient, its leather binding cracked and worn with time. The pages were yellowed and curling at the edges. His fingers trembled as they traced the sigil pressed into the cover—a seven-pointed star, the mark of the Citadel.

Rhaenyra stood a few paces away, her arms folded across her chest. Her gaze was unwavering, yet filled with quiet expectation.

“So,” she said, her voice soft yet commanding. “What brings you to the Vale, Uncle?”

Vaegon did not answer immediately. He lifted his head slowly, his pale lilac eyes gleaming in the dim light. A single tear slipped down his cheek, catching in the grooves of his lined face. His fingers trembled as they hovered over the worn pages of the book, though whether from age or the weight of his memories, Rhaenyra could not say. His gaze was distant, as though he were looking beyond the parchment, through time itself.

"Daella was the gentlest of us," he murmured, his voice rough with an unspoken grief. "Too gentle for this world, too kind for a house like ours. She was soft, but not foolish. Fragile, yet not weak. She had a heart that should have been cherished, and yet..." He paused, his throat tight as he struggled to find the words. "I was cruel to her once."

The confession was quiet, bitter, carried on a breath that seemed to weigh more than it should. "Not in the way Saera was, or even Alyssa. I did not raise my voice, did not seek to wound her deeply—but I dismissed her, her fears, her worries. I told her she was foolish for crying, that she ought to steel herself, and that the world had no place for a girl who flinched at shadows. I thought I was doing her a kindness. I thought she needed to hear it."

Vaegon closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a slow, measured breath. "But she never changed, not truly. Even after all my sharp words, she remained kind—to me, to everyone. She still smiled at me the same way she always had, as if she had already forgiven me for things I hadn’t even done yet."

When he opened his eyes again, there was something raw in them, something aged, weary, and broken. "I never apologized. I thought there would be time. And then one day, there wasn’t." His fingers tightened around the edges of the book, his grip nearly bruising before he forced himself to release it. With deliberate, reverent movements, he pushed the tome toward her.

Rhaenyra hesitated, the weight of the book pressing against her chest before she took it, her fingers curling around the worn cover. It was heavier than she expected, the leather smooth but weathered, as though it had been carefully preserved by hands that knew its value. She flipped it open to the marked page, her breath catching in her throat. As she read, her fingers tightened over the fragile parchment. Inside, there were notes from letters sent to the Citadel by various maesters.

Grand Maester Benifer, 51 AC

‘The wise king and the good queen have brought forth their first dragonling, yet though two dragons have bent to the true light, there is still a price to be paid by the beasts for allowing the Slayer of Holy Men to slay the defenders of righteousness. The first dragonling is the price of the dragon family's sin—three drops of Tears of Lys, the last breath drawn on the seventh day of birth. A sign that the Seven have accepted the sacrifice of the righteous and the cleansing of sin’

Grand Maester Benifer, 60 AC

‘The wise king and the good queen began to stray from the righteous path when they named their heir, even after sons had been born to them. The Crowned Lily was never meant to take root, for by the teachings of truth, no woman should sit upon a throne that was forged for men. The Crowned Lily needed to be lulled into a deep sleep. A drop of Tears of Lys for every cup of wine she drank, for the princess who was never meant to bear a crown. She breathed her last on the sixth autumn since her birth, and fortune smiled upon the wise king and good queen, for by then, they already had a son.’

Grand Maester Benifer, 72 AC

‘Once more, the Gods have shown their will, guiding the king and queen back to the righteous path by taking their dragonling from them. Where they ought to have instilled virtue in their offspring, warning them that marriage of blood to blood is a sin, they instead swelled with pride—boasting that their spare and the wild dragon were but reflections of their younger selves. Such arrogance. Perhaps that is why the Higher Powers saw fit to punish them, without need for the hand of we who walk the path of truth. And is it not telling that the king and queen grew insatiable in their lust, drowning in desire with each new child they bore? They have forgotten the sacred purpose of union, and lost themselves to carnal sin, much like their forebears before them. And the child, the one they named Gaemon, did not live long enough to know his own name.’

Grand Maester Benifer, 72 AC

‘The news has arrived that the gentle dove has returned to the Mother's embrace. A pity, for she was a dutiful child who knew her place in the world. A shame, too, that she should depart before fulfilling her true purpose—giving Lord Falcon a son. Instead, she bore him a daughter, though we can only pray the girl will inherit her mother's piety, for by the gods, it seems the women of the dragon’s blood are little better than wild savages, unmoored from decency and the natural order. Her passing is a sorrow, and the Good Queen is said to be most grievously stricken. But what can be said? We suppose the Gods were not yet sated with taking Gaemon from the Good Queen’s arms. And who are we to question or thwart the will of the divine?’

Maester Matias, 73 AC

‘It would seem that, after the loss of yet another child, the king and queen finally remembered where their prayers must be offered, and to whom they must bow. And once more, they proved their devotion, surrendering one of their own to the righteous and the seekers of truth. Septa Maegelle, like her parents before her, and like her cousin Septa Rhaella, was a dragon spared from the flames. She alone knew the path of righteousness.’

Maester Matias, 78 AC

‘Like his sister, Prince Vaegon too proved himself steadfast and true. He dedicated his life to the pursuit of knowledge among the righteous in the Citadel, choosing a life of simplicity—a testament that we, the keepers of truth, have carried the light even into the depths of the dragon’s lair. Alas, of all the wise king and good queen’s many children, only two were spared, and only two beheld the path of righteousness.’

Grand Maester Benifer, 78 AC

‘Once more, the king and queen surrendered to their base lust, and once more, they brought forth a dragonling into the world in the year 77 AC. It seems that with each passing year, virtue and wisdom fled further from them, leaving them to wallow in their earthly desires. Some say that each time a child is born to House Targaryen, a new flame is kindled. How unfortunate, then, that this flame was but a flickering light, dimmed before dawn. At first, we—the righteous—placed our faith in the babe, believing he would walk the path of his elder brother, the pious and true Vaegon. But as the days passed, the fire in him revealed a different truth. His face—his cursed face—began to take shape, and we saw the shadow of another within it. The Slayer of Holy Men. And if the child bore his face, what else might he inherit? Were we, the faithful, to take such a risk? To wait and watch, hoping the flame would not grow into an inferno that would consume the righteous? No. Such folly could not be permitted. The decision was made. Three drops of basilisk’s breath—just three—were all it took to snuff out the flame before it could rise before it could spread before it could set the city alight in ruin.’

Grand Maester Benifer, 84 AC

‘The wild dragon had served her purpose. She had given the spare two sons. Were we not merciful, we who walk the path of righteousness? We let the wild dragon and the spare breed, though they strayed into the same folly as those who came before them—the followers of the false god. Blasphemer. But at last, her task was done. Had we allowed her to linger, she might have birthed another rogue prince. Her second child was a dragon in human skin, willful even at three years of age. We should have ended the wild dragon when she carried him, but the deed was left too long, and it is a sin to slay the innocent. A basilisk’s breath was gentler. Seven drops sufficed, and at last, the wild dragon was caged in death, and with her, her last son followed’

Grand Maester Benifer, 85 AC

‘It is a mystery, is it not? How such a wretched woman could be born from the womb of a good and pious queen like the Good Queen Alysanne? But then, what more could be expected of a child of a sinner’s blood? To rid oneself of one’s base instincts is no small feat, especially for those who come from such a line. Had we known that this sinner would prove to be even worse than the wild one, we might have acted sooner—rooting out the filth before it had the chance to spread. But alas, we were too late. Poison would have been a kindness, but even that proved useless, for the woman sullied herself too often with the swill of taverns and the filth of brothels. Perhaps it was divine wisdom that guided the king’s hand, that in his righteousness he cast her out, delivering her into our care. And yet, we—the righteous—could not help but feel insulted. How could such a wretch be permitted to set foot upon hallowed ground? But it seems that a beast will always be a beast. The woman did as animals do, following the call of her instincts and fleeing from the righteous to embrace her true wanton nature. The last we heard, she was in Lys, running a brothel, wallowing in sin as was ever her fate. It is a curse upon Targaryen women, it seems—this insatiable lust, this corrupting presence. A test of faith, placed upon the righteous by the gods themselves, to try our resolve and devotion. The High Septon spoke truly: such creatures must be eradicated, lest they spread like vermin and consume the world in their filth.’

Grand Maester Benifer, 85 AC

‘Prince Viserys was their path to salvation. He was pliant, far more so than his younger brother or the warrior prince’s daughter. It was imperative that he take the throne, for only then could the grand design be fulfilled—the salvation they had prepared for all the realm. Prince Viserys—no, our puppet—was wed to his cousin, the sole daughter of the gentle dove. Another union of blood, but at the very least, like the gentle dove and Good Queen Alysanne before her, the puppet’s wife, the gentle falcon, was a woman who followed the true faith. Perhaps, in time, she too might be molded, as easily as her husband, into a proper vessel for our design’

Grand Maester Elysar, 87 AC

‘The Gods has once more revealed Their justice through the fate of the Poisonous Flower. Like her brother before her, she was steeped in sin, filled with lust, and willful in her defiance of the true teachings, refusing to know her place as a woman. It was regrettable that the wise queen saw fit to give the girl’s hand to the followers of the tree, but the Gods made Their displeasure known—striking the Poisonous Flower down on the eve of her departure. If any were to ask, he would say it was justice, divine retribution for the arrogance of both the girl who did not know her station and the queen who presumed too much. Perhaps the queen must be reminded once more where her true allegiance should lie.’

Rhaenyra’s pulse roared in her ears, drowning out all else. Her hands trembled as she turned the page, the crackling of the fire in the hearth a distant sound compared to the rush of blood that filled her head. There, in precise, measured script lay a list of poisons—each name, each substance, carefully recorded as though this were some innocent academic exercise. Her vision blurred as she skimmed further, her breath shallow, quickening with every line she read. The names—so familiar, so intimately tied to her past—intertwined with dosages and outcomes. The cold, meticulous calculations of murder disguised as scholarly detachment. It was as though they were all laid bare before her, the quiet symphony of death made manifest in ink. Her fingers trembled as they traced the ink, and she felt as though touching the words would bring the dead back to life, would awaken the ghosts that had haunted her for so long. The air grew thick, suffocating. Her heart pounded in her chest, the weight of what she was reading sinking deep, like the blade of a dagger pressing into her ribs. And then, there it was again. Her mother’s name. Her mother’s fate. Rhaenyra’s throat constricted, a knot of grief and rage tightening within her.

Grand Maester Elysar, 87 AC

‘The Puppet and the Gentle Falcon have lost their first dragonling. If one were to ask his opinion, he would say that even without the intervention of the righteous, the babe was doomed from the start. After all, the Puppet—driven by base lust—had taken the Gentle Falcon to his bed when she was yet too young. The Gentle Falcon, like her mother before her, was a woman of virtue, one who knew her place and accepted the duties expected of her. And yet, she had been too young still. Her womb was too small to bear life, too fragile to nurture a babe to term.’

Grand Maester Elysar, 89 AC 

‘The letter from Lord Hobert was clear: a new flower has bloomed in the Reach. A daughter of the righteous has been born, and Lord Hobert has named her Bethany. The gentle falcon is a good woman, yes—but none could be as good as one whose family has devoted their lives to the truth. The High Septon’s decree was unambiguous: the next queen of Westeros must be of the righteous, and it must be from her womb that the future king is born. Yet Queen Bethany is but an infant, and so the gentle falcon cannot yet be cast aside. That does not mean she must be allowed to hinder the path of salvation with her own womb. She was wed and bedded young and has already suffered one miscarriage—no one would question it if she were to suffer another. At least, not until Queen Bethany is of age and can take the place that is rightfully hers.’

Grand Maester Elysar, 89 AC 

‘The second dragonling of the puppet and the gentle falcon was a girl, and the flower of the Reach had passed the age of peril. She had proven strong enough to endure, to grow, to claim her place as queen—the true queen, the one who would lead the righteous to their destined purpose. Yet even so, the faithful could not suffer chance, not when the path before them was laid by the will of the Most High. A mere two drops of tansy in the gentle falcon’s tea set her womb to trembling, loosening the babe within before its time—a clean and certain remedy, swift in its purpose, yet measured enough to spare the mother harm. Only three doses were needed before the work was done’

Grand Maester Elysar, 91 AC

‘The third dragonling—stillborn. Three drops of tansy, and the babe perished in the womb ere its mother reached her thirtieth week.’

Grand Maester Elysar, 92 AC

‘A pity that the warrior prince flew too far and was struck from the sky. There was promise in him, much like the wise king before him. Yet perhaps it was the will of the Lord Above. After all, the warrior prince had only daughters and refused to take a true heir from the she-stag. Worse, he heeded his wife's counsel too well. Had he been allowed to take the Iron Throne, he might have become the she-stag's puppet. A great loss, perhaps, but not an irreparable one. He had brothers, and his brother had sons.’

Grand Maester Runciter, 93 AC

‘We have failed… Gods forgive your humble servants, for we have disappointed You. The Gentle Falcon’s fourth dragonling survived. She bore a daughter in the year 92 AC, a wretched thing they named Rhaenyra. At the urging of the Rogue Prince, she spent her pregnancy and the child’s first year upon Dragonstone—beyond our reach, beyond our influence. And when at last she returned, we found the girl had been gifted a dragon, one that hatched in her cradle. What an abomination. The golden beast never strays far from her, making it nearly impossible to deliver the girl unto the Stranger. Worse still, the Rogue Prince hovers at her side like a shadow. Does he suspect? Has he uncovered something? We must tread carefully…’

Maester Osmund, 93 AC

‘One of the dragons who embraced the truth has returned to the Mother’s embrace. Septa Rhaella was a faithful servant.’

Grand Maester Runciter, 99 AC 

‘It seems that one who appears pious is not always innocent. They say she perished from the summer fever, but she knew the truth well enough. The last daughter of the king and queen was no devout maid, no pure and gentle soul—she was no more than a chaste briar, thorned beneath her delicate facade. She played the part of the dutiful daughter, ever clinging to her mother’s skirts, yet behind closed doors, she beguiled innocent men with her beauty and bore a bastard for her sins. And for those sins, the Gods saw fit to punish her, striking down the fruit of her lust. Yet rather than repent, she took her own life instead. The king and queen would have the world believe she was but a sweet girl, cut down by the fever, but I, a man of truth, shall speak it plainly once they are gone. After all, is it not known that the women of the dragon’s blood are born seducers? There would be little difference if the truth were brought to light.’

Grand Maester Runciter, 101 AC

‘The Spare is much like his wife—wild, unruly, beyond our control. He could never be king in place of the Wise King. If he were to rise, our great work would be undone. So we removed him—earlier than planned, but necessarily so. Had we allowed him to take the office of Hand, he would have stood in our way. And who, I ask, is more suited to serve as the king’s right hand than the son of Oldtown? Otto Hightower, a man of proven piety, whose devotion has led even Viserys—their puppet—into his grasp. Who better to guide the king than he? A single drop of sweetcane rot, for five days. Just enough. The symptoms are cruel—agonizing cramps, the slow ruin of the intestines, hemorrhaging that cannot be undone. And at last, the body betrays itself, the belly swells, and then… it bursts. None will question it. None will know.’

Grand Maester Runciter, 101 AC

‘Our plans nearly faltered when the Wise Old King lingered, his mind clouded with the weight of his years. In his dotage, his love for tradition wavered. Had it not been for the voice of Vaegon, we might have found ourselves on our knees before the filthy cunt of a woman, forced to call her queen. But perhaps this is the true path laid by the gods themselves—had they not sent Vaegon into our embrace, into the arms of those who serve the truth, if not to join our ranks and fight for the cause of salvation, the Walk of Truth? At the counsel of our brother Vaegon, in his final days, the Wise King convened the Great Council. And as it was meant to be, as the Almighty had designed, our puppet, Prince Viserys, emerged victorious. And with that, our plan stands on the brink of success.

Grand Maester Runciter, 101 AC

‘The fifth dragonling—stillborn. Three drops of tansy, and the babe perished in the womb ere its mother reached her thirty-second week.’

Grand Maester Runciter, 103 AC

‘The sixth dragonling—stillborn. Three drops of tansy, and the babe perished in the womb ere its mother reached her twenty-eighth week.’

Grand Maester Mellos, 105

'The time has come. The flower of the Reach has bloomed, ripe to take her rightful place. And was it not a sign of the gods' favor that the gentle falcon carried again soon after and the child turned within the womb, making his birth an impossibility? It would be an easy thing to see her undone, to let nature take its course and lay the blame at the feet of the birthing bed. But none had foreseen that it would be the puppet himself who struck the final blow. He claimed to love the gentle falcon, yet his love was not so great as his hunger for a son. Such is the nature of men. The gentle falcon should have known and should have seen the truth after losing her babe for the fourth time. Love was but a mirage, a fleeting illusion, ever conditional. By his own decree, the falcon’s belly was split open to bring forth the child. And lo, it was a son. But the High Septon had spoken—the puppet’s only heir must come from the flower of the Reach. This babe, this unwanted obstacle, could not be suffered to grow and stand in defiance of the grand design. So, while all eyes were fixed upon the gentle falcon, watching her slow descent into the Stranger’s embrace, a mere pinch of powdered milk of the poppy was all it took. A few moments more, and the boy followed his mother into the darkness.’

Grand Maester Mellos, 105 AC

‘At the counsel of our beacon of hope, Otto Hightower, the puppet king named the golden princess as his heir. At first, he resisted, for it went against all that had been taught, against the will of the divine—no woman should ever be heir, let alone queen. Such is a man’s duty. But our beacon of hope laid out the design, and he saw the wisdom in it. After all, it is far easier to unseat a princess than a prince. Safer, too, to name the golden princess as a mere placeholder, a seat warmer for the true heir to come—rather than risk the rogue prince.’

Grand Maester Mellos, 105 AC

‘It was not the flower of the Reach who took the crown, as was first intended, but rather the little innocent, Alicent. At first, it was unexpected, but in time, it made sense. The puppet king must have seen the virtue, the purity, in their innocent tower. And in the end, the daughter of the Reach would still be queen, and her son would still be king in time. Perhaps their innocent tower was, in truth, the better choice—more pious, more dutiful than the flower of the Reach. Being a secondborn’s daughter, she understood her place. The plan had taken root. Now, all that remained was to rid themselves of the golden princess.’

The book slipped from her grasp, fluttering to the floor in slow, mocking silence. It should have made a sound upon landing—some small noise to mark the weight of its horror, the gravity of the truth it carried—but there was nothing. Just silence. Just stillness. Just the unbearable, crushing weight of what she had read. A breath—sharp, ragged, then another. It stuck in her throat, burning, clawing its way up like a blade slicing through tender flesh. Her lungs refused to work. The world blurred and swayed, as though it, too, recoiled from what had just been revealed. Then came the sound—wretched, broken, a keening gasp that barely escaped her lips before it grew into something monstrous.

Her knees gave out. She crashed to the floor, her body folding in on itself, curling around the pain like it could shield her from the ruin clawing through her chest. But there was no escape. There was no shield. Only grief—vast, endless, a gaping abyss swallowing her whole. A sob tore free, raw and violent, splitting through the quiet like the scream of a dying beast. It did not stop. She could not stop. The sound came again, louder, rising in a crescendo of pure anguish, shaking her shoulders, wracking her frame. Daemon was there. He caught her before she could collapse fully, his hands firm, steady—but what was steadiness to a woman whose world had been wrenched apart? She hardly felt him, hardly knew him in that moment. He was warmth, solidity, something to anchor herself to—but even the strongest anchor could not hold against a storm this fierce.

She clutched at her chest, fingers digging into silk and skin alike, tearing at the fabric of her dress, as though she could rip open her own ribs, reach inside, and pull the agony free. Her nails raked down her arms, over her throat—desperate to feel something, anything but this searing, all-consuming torment. Her breath came in shattered gasps, each one more desperate than the last. Her vision darkened, blurred by hot, unrelenting tears. Rhaenyra could hear Daemon’s voice, calling her name, and the worried tones of Vaegon, faintly, as well as the indistinct voices of her children from beyond the door, before darkness claimed her entirely.

The corridor outside Rhaenyra’s chambers was thick with a heavy, suffocating silence—except for the sound of her anguish. It filled every stone and shadow, a wail so raw, so terrible, that it seemed to shake the very foundation of the castle. It was not the cry of a grieving woman. It was the keening of something deeper, something primal, something that had been shattered beyond repair. A sound not meant to be heard in the waking world, a sound that belonged to mourning gods and vengeful spirits. Beyond the door, Rhaenyra wailed, a sound that clawed into the marrow of those who heard it.

Jacaerys stood frozen, his hands clenched into tight fists. Harion sobbed beside him, his small body trembling as he tried to push forward. He was too young to understand the depth of what had happened but old enough to know that something had torn their mother apart. And she was in there, suffering, just beyond that door. He needed to go to her.

“Let me go! Mother—Mother!” Harion cried, struggling against the knight’s grip. His small hands reached out desperately, his feet kicking as if he could will himself closer to the door.

“Harion—” Lucrezia caught him, wrapping her arms tightly around her younger brother’s small frame, pressing his face into Harion’s brown curls. “You can’t—” her voice broke as she swallowed down her own tears. “They told us not to go in.”

“I don’t care! I don’t care! Mommy needs me—” Harion sobbed, clawing at Lucrezia’s sleeves.

Harwin was there before the boy could break free. He scooped Harion up in strong arms, his expression tight, sorrow heavy in his gaze. “Come now lad,” he murmured, rocking him gently, his voice low and soothing. “Let’s go.”

Harion screamed in protest, his tiny fists beating against Harwin’s shoulder, but he did not fight him long. His sobs wracked his small frame, his breath hitching. Harwin tightened his hold, his large hand rubbing soothing circles against Harion’s back as he turned away.

Jeyne and Lady Amanda followed, their faces pale, their hands wrung tight together in their skirts. Amanda reached out, brushing a soothing hand over Harion’s damp curls as she walked beside them, whispering soft reassurances that he could not hear over his own grief. Catherine lingered, watching as Harion was carried away, her expression sorrowful. She turned to Lucrezia, her fingers gentle as they wrapped around her.

“Perhaps you and Jace should come with us,” she said softly. “You’ll be safe in our rooms.”

Lucrezia hesitated, looking toward Jacaerys. Her older brother remained unmoving, his gaze locked on the heavy wooden door. Jace’s jaw was tight, his throat bobbing as if swallowing down something bitter.

“I’ll stay,” Jace finally said, his voice hoarse. “Just for a little while.”

Catherine studied him for a moment, then squeezed Lucrezia’s hand. “Come,” she murmured. “Let your brother have his moment.” Lucrezia cast one last glance at Jace before nodding, her hand tightening around Catherine’s as she led her away. The corridor grew emptier and quieter, but the wailing still filled every crevice. Jacaerys stood there for what felt like an eternity, his breath uneven. He waited. He listened. Slowly, painfully, the cries within the chamber dulled, the agonized wails fading into silence, and he could hear his father’s panicked voice. His own breath hitched as he ran a shaking hand through his tunic, gripping it like his anchor. He exhaled, trying to calm himself, before focusing his gaze on his mother’s solar door, waiting for it to open.

Then, a movement caught his eye.

His great-great-uncle, Vaegon, emerged from his mother’s solar, the old man’s sharp eyes clouded with something unreadable. Jacaerys moved before he could stop himself. His feet carried him forward, his voice breaking the silence. “What happened to my mother?” His voice was sharp, and firm, but beneath it was something desperate. “Tell me.”

Vaegon stopped, his pale gaze settling on Jacaerys with a flicker of something like pity. “Go back to your chambers, boy.”

“No.” Jace’s shoulders squared, his blood roaring in his ears. “You will tell me what happened to my mother. You’ve been in my house, and since you came, my mother has become more tense and restless. I am not just her son. I am also her heir. If something has happened, I have the right to know.” His voice was unwavering. Vaegon only stared at him, offering no comment, just a look of longing—as if seeing someone he hadn’t seen in a long time, not Jacaerys. But before Vaegon could respond, another voice cut through the dimly lit corridor.

“Jacaerys.”

The weight of his father’s voice wrapped around him like a chain. Daemon’s presence was undeniable, his stance imposing as he stepped into the flickering torchlight. His silver hair gleamed, his purple eyes sharp as they settled on his son. Jacaerys swallowed hard, turning to face him. The grief in his father’s eyes was hidden well, buried beneath a mask of hardened steel, but Jace could see it—deep in the lines of his face, in the set of his jaw. Daemon tilted his head slightly, studying his son. “Come,” he said, his voice low. “We have much to discuss.” Jace hesitated only for a moment, then squared his shoulders and followed his father into his parents’ room.

Rhaenyra's POV

When she awoke, she was already in her bed, her clothes changed into a more comfortable nightdress, and judging by the color of the nightdress, she was certain Daemon had been the one to change her. Only her husband knew that when she was sad or in need of comfort, she would seek out something close to her mother’s—either the color blue or her mother's jewelry. Her head still ached, but she set the pain aside as she noticed that her husband was not lying beside her. It seemed Daemon had woken before her. She stood and walked toward the window. The sun was just beginning to rise, though the sky had not yet brightened.

Her mind wandered back to the book Vaegon had brought, the one filled with writings and letters of betrayal, a book that was evidence of mankind playing God, and of her family, her mother, and siblings, being victims of that game. Their deaths had come unfairly. Her chest ached as if someone were squeezing her heart. But beneath it all, beyond the grief, beyond the raw, aching void left gaping inside her, came something darker. Something hotter. Rage. It crackled through her veins like wildfire, searing through the sorrow, turning her bones to molten iron. It was not the kind of anger that burned bright and brief before fading. No, this was deeper. This was fury rooted in loss, in love, in grief so absolute that it could only be repaid with blood.

They took. They took and they took, and the Gods let them. The Gods watched, silent and still, as the righteous were devoured, as innocence was strangled in its cradle. Her body trembled. A breath. Another. A decision made in the marrow of her bones. If the gods were deaf to her cries, if they would not see justice done, then let them turn away. She would not wait upon their mercy, nor beg for their judgment. She would take justice into her own hands. She would repay them a thousand times over for what they had done.

The room was silent, save for the faint crackling of the hearth. Its warmth did little to chase away the chill that clung to her skin. Her breath came slow and steady, her eyes distant, unseeing. She had not heard the door creak open, nor the sound of boots upon the stone floor. She did not stir as Daemon crossed the chamber, nor when he stood before her, his hands finding her clenched fists. Only when she felt the slow, deliberate press of his fingers against hers did she blink, her gaze lowering to see the crescent-shaped wounds her nails had dug into her palm. His thumb traced the broken skin, a silent reprimand, a gentleness that belied the calluses of his warrior’s hands.

She looked at him then, truly looked at him—the tousled silver hair, windswept and tangled, the dirt upon his riding leathers, the faint scent of ash and dragon lingering upon him. “You’ve been flying,” she murmured.

“Aye,” Daemon said, his voice low, as if reluctant to break the quiet between them. “Caraxes and I took to the skies. Syrax came as well… and Vermax, Arrax, Tyraxes. They were restless.”

Silence settled between them, not uneasy but weighted, thick with words unsaid. Then, slowly, Daemon leaned into her, his forehead coming to rest upon her shoulder. For a moment, she merely breathed, her fingers hovering near his back before she felt it—the shudder that ran through him, the tremor in his shoulders, the damp warmth against her skin.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, her husband, was weeping.

His voice, when it came, was barely a breath, as if the words had to be willed into existence. “They wanted that child so badly,” he murmured, his voice rough, like stone dragged through water. “Mother thought, perhaps this time... she would have a daughter. But she was still happy, still content, when she learned she had born another son.” He paused, fingers twisting the fabric of her sleeve. “My mother... she and my father— they waited. They hoped. They spoke of him, of the boy he would be before he was even born, the man he would become. And then... nothing. Just nothing.” His eyes darkened, a shadow crossing them. “My father was never the same after that. He loved me and Viserys, we both know that. But after mother’s death... he was hollow, as though something had been torn from him and left a gaping wound that could not be healed. He used to smile. Before. He used to laugh.”

She said nothing, her hand moving slowly along his back, fingers tracing the hard planes of his body with deliberation, not speaking of the loss that clung to them both, not of grief or the wounds that had never healed. He knew that pain as well as she did. In the silence between them, they spoke only with the weight of shared suffering, of understanding that needed no words. The minutes stretched, the air between them thick, until Daemon’s breath evened, his grip upon her softening. He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his purple eyes searching, dark with something that might have been understanding or perhaps something darker. “And you?” he asked, his voice still rasping, hoarse. “You collapsed.”

“I am well,” she said, her voice steady, though the lie of it hung between them, too loud to ignore.

Another silence passed, thick with things left unsaid. Then he asked, “What now?”

She knew the question he was asking. What would she do now, what would she have him do? Daemon Targaryen, her sword and her shield, ever ready to fight on her behalf, to draw his blade at her command. But this vengeance, this reckoning, was not only his. It was hers, as much as it was his.

Her gaze did not falter, eyes as cold as the void between the stars. “I want them to pay.”

Daemon did not need to ask who she meant. The Hightowers. The Citadel. The Faith. The hands that had pulled strings in the shadows, that had let rot fester and spread within the realm, that had whispered of honor and duty while poisoning her family from within.

“I want them to suffer,” she said again, her voice sharp, colder now, as if all warmth had been bled from her. “Every single one of them.”

After a long moment, she leaned closer and whispered in Daemon’s ear, her words like steel. He met her gaze, nodded once, and pressed a kiss to her forehead before rising to leave the room. Through the window, she saw him then, a streak of red cutting across the pale morning sky, a beast and its rider soaring into the east.

East. Toward Yi Ti.

The water had long gone tepid, but she remained in the bath, her mind adrift in the tide of her thoughts. The flickering candlelight cast golden ripples across the surface, the scent of lavender and myrrh thick in the chamber. She exhaled slowly, sinking deeper, letting the warmth envelop her like a distant memory. The door creaked open, breaking the stillness. A soft patter of feet followed, then a plaintive voice. "Mommy," whined Harion, her youngest, his little feet padding hurriedly across the stone floor. Behind him, Jacaerys and Lucrezia followed at a more measured pace. Her eldest halted a respectable distance away, his back turned in practiced propriety, a sign of the man he was growing into. She smiled at that, though her attention soon drifted to Lucrezia, who was gently restraining Harion’s eager hands from splashing in the bathwater.

Harion’s lower lip trembled, another whimper threatening to escape him. Before he could work himself into another fit, she smoothed his unruly hair with a gentle hand, quieting him. He looked up at her with wide, searching eyes. "Are you well, Mother?" he asked, small fingers clutching at hers as if to tether her in place. "Why did you not kiss me goodnight yesterday?"

A pang struck her heart, dull and aching. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his brow, inhaling the scent of sleep and innocence. "Forgive me, sweetling."

"Are you still unwell? I heard you crying last night, but the guards would not let me in." He asked again, his voice quieter now

A pause. A breath. She had wept, but what comfort was there in telling him so? She mustered a smile, brushing a hand over his cheek. "I am well, sweet one. There is nothing to fear ñuha jorrāelagon."

Harion frowned, unconvinced, but she did not let him linger on it. "Now… don’t you have morning lessons with Maester Gerardys? You mustn’t neglect your studies."

At this, Harion’s face twisted into a scowl. He nodded begrudgingly. "But I want to stay here. I want to protect you so you don’t cry again."

"Do you now?" she murmured, amused by his sincerity. "And you are certain this is not an excuse to avoid your morning lessons with Maester Gerardys?" Harion’s lips parted, but no swift denial came. Instead, he pouted, his little face a storm of reluctance. Lucrezia stifled a laugh beside him.

She chuckled, running a hand through his curls. "If you are a good boy today and study well, I shall take you flying," she promised, her voice lilting with mischief. "And I shall bring you an extra treat, as well."

Harion hesitated for only a moment before seizing his sister’s wrist, tugging her towards the door with newfound urgency. "Come, Lucy, we must go!" His sister barely had time to turn back, pressing a kiss to her cheek before following after him. The chamber door shut behind them, and the quiet settled once more, save for the gentle lapping of water against the tub. The chamber fell into quiet once more, but not entirely.

Jacaerys, her eldest had not moved from his place.

She tilted her head. "Jace."

At the sound of his name, her son hesitated, then turned and stepped toward her. His stride was careful, and deliberate until he reached the chair near the tub and sat. His gaze, however, remained fixed on the stone floor, as though the mere sight of her bare shoulders would be an affront to his honor.

"Are you truly well?" he asked at last.

She opened her mouth to reassure him, but Jace cut her off, his voice steady, edged with something more than concern—conviction. "Do not tell me you are fine," he said. "I am no six-year-old fool like Harion who cannot see. Every time their names are spoken—the King, his consort, or their children—anyone who carries the name Targaryen, even an uncle we have never met—you grow uneasy. I see it, Mother. I know it weighs on you. And I want to know why." His jaw was set in defiance, the stubborn pride of a boy who would one day be a man.

"You told me that family is our fortress," he went on, voice unwavering. "But why do you bear this burden alone? Am i not your son? Your heir?"

She stilled. For so long, she had seen Daemon in Jacaerys—the fire in his eyes, the way he carried himself, bold and unyielding. But now, as she looked at him, she saw herself. The child who had once sought so desperately to prove herself worthy of her father’s love, of his crown. The weight of expectation had been hers to carry, and now, she saw it reflected in her son’s gaze. A soft, wry smile touched her lips as she reached out, cupping his cheek. Jace tensed at the touch, then, slowly, his rigid frame relaxed beneath her palm.

"I know I am young," he murmured. "And perhaps there is little I can do. But was it not you who taught me that even the smallest flame can set a forest ablaze?" Pride swelled in her chest. She traced her thumb across his cheek before withdrawing her hand.

"Indeed, I did."

And so, she told him everything. Of her dreams—the visions that haunted her waking and sleeping hours alike. Even the dream of meeting him, before he was born, when he was still safe within her womb. Jace did not interrupt her. He simply held her hand, grounding her in place, as if sensing how easily she might slip away into the depths of her own mind. She spoke of Vaegon, of what he had brought, of why she had wept the night before. She did not speak to burden him—no, she had carried enough weight for them both—but because he was her eldest. He deserved to know. Jacaerys was silent when she finished. His face was unreadable, and she wondered, for a fleeting moment, what thoughts turned within his mind. But before she could ask, he spoke.

"Are you truly well?" he asked again.

Oh, her sweet boy. Even after all she had told him, even after she had laid bare the pain of another life, his concern remained with her. Even when she told him of his fate in another world, a cruel, lonely fate, of a crown that had cost him everything, even his life—his first thought was of her. For the first time in many years, she saw not just the boy she had raised, but the man he would become. A man of duty, of loyalty, of fierce and unrelenting love.

"I am well," she said, her voice softer this time, more honest. "Truly."

Jace gave a slow nod, though it was clear he was not entirely convinced. "Then… what will you do now?"

She hesitated, brushing her fingers along his cheek once more. "May I not answer that just yet?"

He frowned, deep in thought. But before he could respond, she took his hand once more, squeezing it tight. "I promise you this, Jace. You, Lucy, and Harion—you will live long, happy lives before the Stranger ever comes for you. That, I swear."

Jacaerys shook his head. "You and Father must be there, too. You must be happy with us. Can you promise me that too?" Her throat tightened. For a long moment, she said nothing, only looked into the eyes of her son. The boy who would one day be a king.

Chapter Text

AEGON

DAENERYS

AEMON

BAELON

ALYSSA

MAEGELLE

DAELLA

SAERA

VISERRA

GAEMON

VALERION

GAEL

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s POV

Uncle Vaegon said nothing for a long while. His silence was not empty, nor idle — it was the kind that carried weight. His brow furrowed faintly, and behind his eyes, one could almost hear the storm of thoughts gathering like thunder behind high mountain clouds. She did not press him. She knew better than to disturb a man when grief was carving its path through old scars. At last, in a voice quiet as falling ash, he spoke. “But what would he want from Maegelle?” There it was — the name spoken, and with it came sorrow, unguarded and raw. Regret clung to his words like dust upon a tomb, and the light in his eyes flickered with a pain that did not ask to be seen.

She looked at him then — truly looked. Vaegon, her uncle, who had grown up beside those long-dead siblings she had only known from crumbling letters and faded murals. If reading the fates of her own siblings — sisters never held, brothers never embraced—had crushed her like the weight of a falling keep, what then of him? Of Uncle Vaegon, who had known their laughter, who had walked the halls with them, only to grow old surrounded by those who had hastened their end?

“I do not know,” she whispered truthfully, shaking her head. She cannot say what Otto Hightower seeks in Maegelle now. When she was heir, his intentions were easy to read — power, position, proximity. But now he has already got what he wants, he already holds the crown. What more could he want? Especially with a septa, save to silence her. She might have said more, but Vaegon reached out and laid a gentle hand upon hers, drawing her from thought. “When will you show this book to your father?” he asked.

“I won’t,” she had told her uncle, her voice as firm as the stones beneath their feet. “Not yet. Perhaps not at all.” There was something wounded in the way he looked at her — not judgment, not anger. Only sadness. And then, softly: “You mean to take vengeance, then? But what use is vengeance, child? The dead are gone. They cannot be brought back.”

She felt her blood stir — not with fury, but with something older, colder, harder.

Vengeance meant nothing?

Tell that to her mother—to Queen Aemma, who had died not in a blaze of glory or battlefield song, but slowly, quietly, beneath the weight of her own womb. A woman raised to be fertile and beautiful, a blossom meant to adorn another’s garden, only to be left to wither in the shadows so another flower might bloom.

“You are mistaken, Uncle,” she said, voice quiet but firm, the way a blade speaks when it finds the gap in a man’s armor. “Vengeance is not for the dead. The dead are past caring.” She looked him squarely in the eye. “Vengeance is for the living. For those they left behind. It is not a balm. It is not peace. It is a purpose — a reason to rise each morning and put one foot before the other. It is how the broken keep moving.”

“Rhaenyra—”

She had cut him off with steel in her tone. “And what do you suppose would happen if I gave this book to my father now? When the Faith is woven like rot through the roots of Westeros? When the Hightowers grow fat and bold, cloaked in sanctimony, confident that no justice will reach them? You know what he is. My father—he’s weak. And you know they know it. The Faith will not fear retribution while Otto Hightower whispers poison into his ear.” Her words had been cold, precise.

“If you want justice, Uncle, you must strike at the right time. And this is not the time.” She had seen doubt flicker across his features like stormlight behind a curtain. She had sighed. “You may remain here as long as you wish, Uncle. And I will not stop you should you choose to take that book to King’s Landing. But know this—if you take it now, it will mean nothing.” She had left him then, her cloak trailing like a shadow behind her. As the door shut, she drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Her feet took her down the stone corridors, past guards who dipped their heads, past cold banners and flickering sconces. The steps turned, and she found herself before the library.

Within her children.

Lucrezia sat with little Harion, patiently explaining a page he struggled to read, her voice soft and melodic. Across the table, Jacaerys was bent beside Maester Gerardys, reciting passages and nodding in comprehension.

Her heart swelled. Oh, her treasures. Her beloveds.

Nine years, she had built this life, this haven. Stone by stone, coin by coin, whisper by whisper—she had built her fortress. Not only in the Vale's high passes or the marble of the Eyrie, but in hearts, in loyalties carefully nurtured, in debts owed and alliances forged not with crowns, but with kindness. She had planted herself in the soil of the Vale and made it bloom anew.

Not for glory. Never for glory.

She gathered grain not for the feast, but for famine. Gold is not for luxury, but for escape routes no one else saw. Steel not for banners, but for shadows. Every step she took had been deliberate—quiet moves on a gameboard soaked in blood. The laughter in her halls, the songs in her courts, the velvet and pearls draped over her children’s shoulders—none of it was the stuff of innocence. It was armor. Polished and perfumed. She had made the Vale love her. Truly, wholly. The smallfolk called her the mother reborn, kissed her hem when she passed. The lords called her Crownless Queen, and they meant it. They wrote songs about her. Some wept when they saw her, convinced she was something more than mortal. Perhaps she was. She did not need their love. But her children did.

Jacaerys. Lucrezia. Harion.

She did not care if they ever ruled. She only cared that they lived. That they would not, one day, stand stripped and spat upon before the howling of a mob. That they would never feel the burn of fire meant to cleanse, or the sting of chains meant to humble. That no lord or holy man or maester with ink-stained hands would ever again write bastard beside their names. She had not built a home. She had built a sanctuary.

And still, it was not enough.

Because evil does not sleep. It festers, and watches, and waits. The book her uncle brought had reminded her of that. Proof that the rot she once left behind still lingered in the roots of the realm—growing, creeping, hungering. She exhaled softly, gaze lingering on her children, for in them she saw echoes of her mother.

Oh, her precious mother—too good for the world she was given.

Her mother’s shadow always lingered.

Queen Aemma. Her mother.

Not the crowned consort in portraits or ballads, but the quiet wraith that haunted silken halls and fire-warmed beds. The woman whose smile had grown thin as paper. Whose joy faded like ink washed by rain. She had been eight the first time she learned the true cost of womanhood. Not from her septa’s careful words or the dainty bloodstains on her own linens, but from the silence behind closed doors. From the choked sobs that trembled through stone walls. The cloying scent of lavender was meant to mask the iron tang of blood. She remembered creeping toward her mother’s chambers, barefoot and breathless. Remembered the hush of voices—midwives murmuring prayers, maesters muttering false reassurances. And beneath it all, the sound she could never forget: her mother’s muffled weeping, buried in pillows so no one would hear.

But she always heard.

The baths would be stained pink. The bed sheets were stripped in the dead of night. And then, for days, the palace would grow still. Her father would vanish into his books. The court would speak softer. And her mother would sit by the window, unmoving, hands folded over a belly that no longer swelled. She remembered her mother’s eyes most of all—how they glimmered like starfire whenever she reached the thirtieth week. And every time she made it past that dreadful mark, her mother would whisper as if she were bargaining with the gods themselves: “Almost there, little one. Almost.” As if daring to hope.

The maesters would smile and nod, their hands slick with lies. The wet nurses would ready linens and lullabies. And yet… the cradle always stayed empty.

Some babes were lost in silence, devoured by blood and shadow before they even cried. Others were born too soon—shaking, twisted things whose screams faded before morning. But the worst were the ones born whole. Tiny. Beautiful. Still. Cold as marble in her arms. And after each, her mother withered. Not in flesh, but in spirit. The woman who once danced with her in moonlit corridors, who once braided her hair and once chased her through the halls, laughing as Syrax flapped above, became a ghost who could no longer rise from bed. In her place came a woman of hushed steps and vacant eyes. A woman who could not rise without aid. Who whispered names no one else remembered.

'A mother should not outlive her children,' she once murmured, her voice barely more than breath. And yet her mother had—again and again. Wrapped in black, standing vigil at pyres that burned too hot for skin so soft, too small for caskets. She never screamed. She never sobbed. Not in front of others. To remember her now was to bleed. To recall how the realm had kept her mother alive not out of love, but out of use—preserved just long enough to wither in silence, so that a younger flower might bloom in her place—was a wound that never scabbed. A sorrow that carved itself into the marrow of her bones. And yet her uncle, bold in his blindness, had dared to say vengeance was beneath her.

As though justice for a woman discarded were vanity.
As though a mother’s agony was something to be forgotten, swept away like ash.
As if. She would not forget. And she would never forgive.

Every soul who had ever played a part—be it through sharpened word or daggered smile, be it cruelty, cowardice, or mere silence—would know pain. Real pain. The kind that crawled beneath the skin and made prayer useless. They would weep, as her mother had once wept—quietly, behind drawn curtains, so as not to offend the ears of kings. They would bleed, as her mother had bled—month after month, child after child, until even the gods turned their faces away. She would avenge her children, too—before the realm could taint them, before the same rot that devoured her mother reached for them with greedy hands. For every insult, every whisper, every lash of scorn that touched their name, she would strike back sevenfold. Until the gods themselves turned their eyes in shame. Until her enemies begged the Stranger to take them.

But death would not come gently.
It would not come as a mercy.
Not for them. Not for any of them.

“Mommy!” cried Harion with delight, his voice echoing through the stone corridor as he broke into a run. His little feet padded swiftly over marble, his cheeks flushed with warmth as he reached her and flung his arms around her waist. “Have you come to fetch me? Are we going to fly now—on Syrax and Tyraxes?” he asked, excitement tumbling from his lips like a springtime brook. She looked down at her son—her sweet, purple-eyed boy—and smiled softly. So young. So eager. So full of life yet untouched by its cruelties.

She nodded. “Yes, sweetling. We will fly.”

Behind her, the wind stirred in the high halls of the Eyrie as she turned and called for her elder children. “Jace. Lucy. Come. Your lessons are done for the day. Let us spend the rest of it together.” Not long after, the three children stood before her, their eyes bright, the sky calling to them as it had once called to her when she was still their age. As they made their way to the courtyard, she let her fingers trail through Harion’s curls, and when they stood beneath the sky, she turned to all of them, her voice low but steady, solemn as a prayer.

NO ONE POV

“Breathe,” Rhaenyra said gently, her voice softer than the wind. “Feel the blood that sings inside you. It is not only yours—it is theirs, too. The bond is not a chain. It is a thread, spun from fire and soul.” The children obeyed, each of them pressing a hand over their heart. Rhaenyra watched as the Vale—so vast, so high above the realm—seemed to hush in reverence.

Then—low and distant—a roar. It rolled like thunder across the mountains.

And then she came.

Syrax .

Her shadow cut across the courtyard long before her body did. She swept over the Eyrie like a storm given flesh—vast, terrible, and glorious. The years had made her mighty. In the Vale, she had grown, no longer docile nor kept on chains. She hunted her own prey now—elk, diregoats, wild sheep that grazed along the cliffs. Her belly had thickened with muscle, her wings stretched wider than any sail on Driftmark, and her eyes glowed with intelligence, old and deep. Gold as the sun, she descended with a scream that sent birds scattering from their nests.

She landed in the courtyard, stones cracking beneath her weight. And in her presence, the very air seemed to change.

Then came Vermax, flying low and fast. The green dragon was no hatchling—Jacaerys had trained him with patience and freedom, and it showed. Broad-winged and sinewy, his scales glistened like wet jade. He circled once, triumphant, before settling beside Syrax, who offered a low growl of approval. Moments later, Arrax dove from the sky, pale and quick, darting in Vermax’s wake, followed closely by Tyraxes, who shrieked and tumbled in joy, flapping clumsily before finding his footing.

Rhaenyra’s children broke into smiles that warmed the mountain air.

Jacaerys moved to Vermax with purpose, his stride sure. The green dragon lowered his head and allowed the boy to place a hand against his snout. Vermax’s wing stretched out, brushing Jace’s shoulder as if to pull him closer, protectively.

“You’ve grown faster than I have,” Jace said under his breath, awe in his tone.

Lucrezia approached Arrax, who let out a soft, trilling noise—almost a purr—and nudged her with his snout. She giggled and rested her forehead against him, fingers brushing over the delicate scales beneath his eye.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered.

Tyraxes, ever impatient, bounded forward, letting out an excited screech as he spotted Harion. The little boy gave a delighted cry and opened his arms wide. Tyraxes tackled him into the snow-dusted grass with affectionate enthusiasm, nuzzling his face and sniffing at his hair. “Down, down, you oaf!” Harion laughed, squirming beneath the young dragon’s warm weight. “You’re not a dog!”

Rhaenyra watched them all—her children and their dragons—as something bloomed within her chest. Not pride. No, something older, softer. A kind of holy reverence. She turned to Syrax at last. The great she-dragon lowered her head, and Rhaenyra stepped forward to place a hand against her snout. Syrax exhaled, a breath of heat and smoke, and leaned into her touch. “My girl,” she wishper. Rhaenyra pressed her forehead to the beast's brow and breathed deeply.

Then she turned.

“Lucrezia. Harion. With me,” she called gently.

They came at once, climbing the carved wooden steps to Syrax’s side. Harion sat before her, small hands gripping the front saddle, and Lucrezia behind, arms wrapped loosely around her mother’s waist. Jace was already astride Vermax, his posture upright, steady, proud.

With a gesture, Rhaenyra gave the signal.

And the dragons rose.

Syrax launched with a powerful thrust, the wind screaming past them as they soared into the skies. Vermax followed in her wake, his wings slicing air. Arrax and Tyraxes shrieked in joy as they ascended together, smaller but quick, flying like darting shadows beside their older kin. They flew above the Eyrie, high over Vale valleys still shrouded in morning mist. The wind kissed their faces. Below them, the world looked soft, distant, dreamlike.

“Children,” she began, “remember this always: the notion that we control the dragons… is an illusion. They are not beasts of burden, not mindless creatures bred for war and fire. They are ancient. They are wise. They are to be respected.” Her gaze passed and settled on Harion, whose hands were still gripping the front saddle.

“You may only ever form one bond in your lifetime—just one. That bond is sacred. If the dragon has chosen another, or if you already have one bound to your soul, you must not try to ride a second. No matter how familiar they seem. No matter how much you love them.” She let her fingers trail through Harion’s curls.

“To do so can end in death,” she whispered, and her tone darkened with memory.

In her dreams, it had not only been the hands of a riotous mob that had torn her son from the world. It had a misunderstanding. In the dream, Harion had tried to ride Syrax, believing that love and familiarity were enough. But love was not bond. And the bond could not be faked nor forced.

Rhaenyra would not let that future take root.

Not this time.

“You are dragonlords, yes—but that does not make you masters,” she said, and her voice carried the weight of years, of loss, of truths carved from blood. “You are partners. One soul to another. Equal in power, equal in choice.” She pressed a kiss to the top of Harrion’s head, holding him close for a moment longer than she needed to. “Do you understand?” Harion, still struggling to grasp the weight of something older, deeper, and far greater than himself, gave only a quiet nod. There was solemnity in his eyes, but also wonder, as if he had glimpsed the edge of some ancient truth not yet meant for his years.

Afterward, with the wind still clinging to their cloaks and the scent of sky in their hair, Rhaenyra and her children turned their dragons homeward, soaring once more toward the jagged peaks and wind-carved halls of the Eyrie.

Vaegon’s POV

The corridor stretched before him like the spine of some ancient beast, long and narrow, lined with faded tapestries whose colors had long since fled the sun. The silence clung to the stones, thick and old, broken only by the soft scrape of his boots against the cold floor. Each step was hesitant, heavy with thought, as if the weight of knowledge bore chains around his ankles. All the lore he had gleaned within the walls of the Citadel, all the parchments studied and scrolls devoured, seemed now a hollow thing—useless in the face of what had passed between them. His conversation with Rhaenyra lingered like smoke in his lungs. He could not cough it out. Could not breathe around it. Justice or vengeance? The question clung to his every breath like a phantom he could not banish. After all these years, he had thought the choice clear. He had told himself that what he sought was justice—measured, righteous, noble. But after speaking with Rhaenyra, his niece, the very blood of the dragon, he wasn’t so sure anymore. There had been something in her voice when she spoke of fire and retribution, something hollow and full all at once. Not justice, no. Vengeance. And worse—longing.

Was that what he carried, too?

He had buried too many. His brother, his sister, his nieces and nephews. Burned, butchered, betrayed. Their names echoed in his skull like a prayer gone sour. But what good would it do to answer one murder with another? What peace would it bring to spill blood atop blood, to drown the world in a crimson tide just to say the scales were balanced? He had seen what vengeance did. It did not end with the guilty. It swallowed the innocent. It reached for sons not yet born, for daughters still in swaddling cloths. It made monsters of men who once prayed for peace. Was that what Rhaenyra would become? Or had she already become it?

And what of him?

He stopped walking. The silence of the hall seemed to close around him like the sea, deep and choking. He did not know. And gods, how it frightened him to not know. Then, from beyond the curve of the corridor, came a sound—a voice. Not speech, but a gentle hum, light as wind through leaves. Familiar. Almost sacred.

“Golden blooms in summer’s kiss,
A dream of sun, a lover’s bliss...”

His breath caught.

That song. That damned song.

It was Daella’s favorite. She used to sing it while brushing her hair, while feeding the birds in the garden, while tending to her lemon tree on the balcony. “Golden Blooms,” a sweet old melody from the Reach, half-forgotten by most, but not by her. Never by her. He turned, heart pounding against his ribs, and saw a flash of silver hair, caught in the golden light from the stained-glass window. A girl was running down the corridor, humming, the hem of her gown whispering against the stone. She moved with that same lightness, that same careless joy that Daella had once carried, as if the world had never hurt her.

He called her name before he could stop himself. “Daella?”

The girl did not turn. She vanished past a corner.

He followed.

His legs moved before thought returned. He ran, near frantic, chasing the echo of a memory—desperate, foolish, unbelieving. It could not be. He knew it could not be.

Daella was dead.

Long dead.

He had wept when the letter came, sobbed like a child beneath his station. He had drunk himself senseless for the first time in decades, hoping the wine would drown her shadow. It never had.

And yet.

Yet.

Perhaps, he thought wildly, the Eyrie was like Harrenhal—cursed to cradle the souls of the dead, clinging to ghosts with unfinished tales. If the haunted ruins of Harrenhal could hold spirits in its burned bones and blasted halls, then perhaps the Eyrie, proud and sky-bound, could do the same.

And if it did… then perhaps he might see her again.

Even if only a ghost, it would be enough.

He wanted to beg forgiveness.

He turned the corner—and froze.

Not Daella.

Lucrezia .

She was standing at the end of the hall now, brushing dust from her skirt, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her silver hair gleamed like moonlight, her cheeks flushed from the run, her lips still moving to the tune of the song. His breath came shallow. She looked so much like Daella, it hurt. The same height. The same slim frame. The same tilt of the head when she listened to music that only she could hear. Even her manner—that lightness of being, like a bird who had never known a cage. He had not realized how much he missed it.

How much he missed her.

His chest ached. Not like a wound, not like a knife, but like something hollowed out and never filled. Gods, had it been that long? Had he forgotten her voice, only to find it again in another’s?

How cruel time is, he thought. Not for making us forget. But for letting us remember only when it is far too late.

He stepped forward, quiet now. He watched her as one watches a ghost, unsure if reaching would banish the vision. But Lucrezia turned then, sensing his presence. Her eyes met his, and she smiled.

That smile—

Seven save him, it was the same.

It reached her eyes. It bloomed like dawn.

She tilted her head, and with the gentlest curiosity asked, “Grandfather?” He swallowed. Words eluded him. The resemblance struck deeper than bone. It was not just her face or voice—it was the way she made the hall feel lighter just by standing in it. As Daella once had. As no one else ever had since.

“Where are you going?” he managed, voice low, hoarse from memory.

She raised a small bundle of wildflowers in her hands, carefully tied with a silk ribbon. “To visit grandmother.”

His brows drew together. “Lady Amanda?”

Lucrezia shook her head.

“No,” she said softly, with a smile as bright as spring. “Grandmother Aemma and Daella.”

Time stilled.

He could not speak. Could not breathe.

Something inside him cracked, like thin ice beneath a heavy foot. He stared at her, at the flowers, at the warmth in her voice when she spoke that name, and felt the years collapse in on him. He was no longer a prince, no longer an archmaester, no longer a man grown with scars and doubts and a heart heavy with war. He was a brother again. A boy who remembered the scent of lemon blossoms and songs hummed beneath the sun.

“D… Daella?” he asked, breathless, voice cracking on the name he had not dared to speak in years. The girl—no, the child—turned to him and nodded. Her features were impossibly familiar: the soft curve of her cheek, the gentle mouth, the depth in her eyes. Daella’s face, reborn.

“Nanna Manda said that when Grandmother Daella died, Queen Alysanne had her cremated, and her ashes were taken to Dragonstone,” the girl said, her voice clear and full of the solemn pride children often wear when telling a tale passed down to them. “But because Grandfather Rodrik missed her so dearly, he built a little sept in the garden. Daella’s garden, he named it, because she spent most of her time there.” She walked as she spoke, and he followed without thought, carried on her words like a leaf on the wind.

“He built it so Grandmother could be closer to the Seven,” she said. “Nanna Manda said she was the most devout woman she’d ever known.”

So Rodrik had honored her, then. Had loved her.

At least you were treated well, Daella. At least your final days were spent in peace and sunshine, among flowers and prayer, not tears and cruel words. He watched the girl closely. Her steps were light, but each word landed heavy upon his heart.

“And the flowers?” he asked softly, his voice gentling in spite of himself. How could he speak harshly to a child with Daella’s smile? Gods, let her smile again.

She did.

And then she hugged the bundle of flowers tightly to her chest, as if cradling memory itself. “They’re for Grandmother Daella and Grandmother Aemma,” she said. “Kepa—like Grandfather Rodrik—made a resting place for Grandmother Aemma inside Grandmother Daella’s sept. Because Mother missed her so much.” Her voice slowed, as if carefully weaving reverence into each word.

“Mother goes there often. Especially after the ashes were brought here from Dragonstone. They’re both laid to rest there now.” She turned, lifting her eyes to him with such hope and innocence that he thought his heart might split. “Would Grandfather like to come with me? To pray? We can scatter the flowers together.”

He could only nod.

How could he say no? Hadn’t he said no far too many times already? No to Daella’s wishes. No to her voice. No to her dreams. No, no, no—until there was no more time left to say yes. But not now,

Not to her grandchild. Not to this girl who wore her face and smile.

This time, he would walk beside her.

This time, he would listen.

This time, he would be the man he had once promised to be.

For Daella. And for the little girl with her eyes.

Lucrezia turned then, walking toward the courtyard beyond, barefoot now, silver hair swaying like a banner in the wind. And he followed.

Silently. As one might follow a prayer.

The sept was smaller than any he had ever known, yet it seemed vast beneath the weight of memory. The air was cool and fragrant, scented with roses, lavender, and some sweet blue bloom he could not name. A scent from another life. From a time before sorrow had taken up residence in his chest. Petals littered the stone floor, scattered as though by unseen hands, or perhaps by time itself. They crunched faintly beneath his boots, like whispers of all the things he never said. The pillars rose high, regal and quiet, encircling the heart of the chamber.

And at the center—her.

The statue was not large, nor ostentatious. It was simple, serene. A woman seated, hands folded gently in her lap, her face carved with such grace and sorrow that he thought it must have been shaped by the gods themselves. Her hair curled over her shoulders like the river’s fall. Her gaze cast downward—not proud, not triumphant, but soft. Gentle. Forgiving. His breath caught in his throat.

Daella.

It was her.

Or it might as well have been. A likeness wrought in marble, yes, but more than that—a spirit captured. She was not looking at him, and yet somehow, she saw him. Saw through him. And worse—she forgave him. That, more than anything, undid him.

How long had it been since he had looked upon her face and not seen disappointment there?

“She was buried here,” Lucrezia said, stepping to the statue’s side, cradling the flowers like a sacred offering. Her voice was soft, respectful—not solemn like a court lady, but reverent in the way children sometimes are, when they understand more than they should. “After the ashes were brought home. Mother said it was only right, for this was where she was happiest. In her garden. Among the flowers. With the Seven.” She knelt before the statue, placing blooms at its base with careful fingers. Peony and primrose, maiden’s lace and duskrose. A child’s bouquet—but made with love.

“These are for Grandmother Daella. And these—” she separated two pale lilies, “—for Grandmother Aemma.” He followed suit, falling to his knees with a stiffness earned by age and regret. He had once knelt as a proud and unbending man. Now, he bowed as a man broken.

“She would have liked that,” he whispered, barely knowing he had spoken.

Lucrezia looked up. “Would she?”

He nodded, but his throat clenched around the words.

“She loved flowers. She once told me… she wished she had been born a gardener rather than a lady.” His voice cracked at the end, raw and aching. “She said she would have been happier.”

Lucrezia tilted her head, her brow drawn in thought. Then, with all the bright, terrible honesty of the young, she said, “Maybe she’s a gardener now. In the Seven’s gardens.” He let out a sound—half-choke, half-laugh—and bowed his head low. It hurt, somehow, to hear it. Because it was too kind. Because it was too good for him.

“I was not kind to her,” he said. Not to the girl—no, to the marble. To the memory. To the soul that might be listening. “I told myself I was teaching her strength. Teaching her duty. But it was cruelty, dressed in fine armor. It was fear. Fear that the world would break her… so I broke her first.” The girl’s hand hovered near his, small and unsure. Then she set it gently atop his own. She did not speak of forgiveness. She did not tell him it wasn’t his fault. She simply said:

“But you’re here now. That must count for something.”

He could not answer that. Not yet. The ache was still too large, and his throat too thick with all the years between then and now.

They prayed together then, not with the words of any septon, but in the hush of their hearts. And when at last he opened his eyes and turned to look upon Lucrezia, kneeling beside him with her hands folded and her brow furrowed in solemn concentration, he saw her again.

Daella.

Gods be good… Daella.

The sight of the girl was enough to unmake him. The way her small nose scrunched in focus, the gentle rise and fall of her breath, the tilt of her head—it was all Daella. A ghost given shape again through blood and time. And then the tears came. Quiet at first, a single trail down his cheek, but then the weight of memory broke loose, and he wept. The sound of his sobbing echoed too loudly in that small sept, for Lucrezia ceased her prayer and turned to him in alarm.

“Grandfather?” she whispered, her voice tight with worry. “Are you hurt? Should I fetch someone? One of the servants?” He only shook his head and reached for her hand, clutching the small fingers as if they were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I only miss her, sweetling,” he rasped. “Nothing more.”

Lucrezia looked upon him with soft pity and wrapped her arms around him. “It’s all right,” she said, gently rubbing his back. “I’m sure Grandmother is watching you from the heavens. I’m sure she sees you.” Oh, Daella, he thought. If only you could see your granddaughter now. You’d weep, as I do. She has your kindness. Your heart.

She held him a moment longer, until the storm passed, and when his breathing steadied, she drew back and offered him a small handkerchief, delicate and embroidered with flowers. He took it with thanks and wiped his face, shame prickling at the edges of his grief. They sat together in silence for a time, surrounded by fallen petals and the scent of old stone and sweeter memories.

“You know,” he began at length, his voice thin as parchment, “when a man enters the Citadel to become a maester, he is made to surrender all that he has. Not only his lands and coin, but his name, his house, his past. He is meant to belong to no one, to serve all. That is the vow.”

He stared at the floor, fingers folded tight. “But there was one thing I kept. One thing I never let go.”

With careful hands, he reached beneath the heavy folds of his robes. For years, it had lain hidden, beneath wool and chain, tucked close to his heart like a secret sin. Now, slowly, he undid the clasp and drew it forth—a necklace, its chain dulled by time, its pendant small but still gleaming faintly in the golden light of the sept. “This belonged to your grandmother,” he said. “To Daella. I… I took it from her chambers in the Red Keep after she died. I suppose you could say I stole it.” He gave a brittle laugh, one that held no real joy, only the hollow echo of days long past.

With trembling fingers, he opened the locket. Inside, worn but still intact, was a tiny painted portrait. Daella, as she had once been—eyes gentle, smile shy, framed in soft curls. He touched the image as if it might vanish under his hand. The colors had begun to fade. His own sight was dimming with the years. Soon, he feared, even this would be lost to him.

And what then?

What was he to do when he could no longer remember the curve of her cheek or the color of her eyes? When even her voice became a whisper, he could not recall? He glanced at Lucrezia, so much like her, but not her. She is not Daella. She will never be Daella. Lucrezia is herself. He exhaled slowly, as though trying to breathe out all the ache in his chest, but the pain lingered still.

“What is it, Grandfather?” she asked softly, her small hand curling around his own. He said nothing at first. He only gave a slow shake of his head, a breath catching faintly in his throat.

“It’s nothing,” he murmured after a moment. “Only that this painting has grown old… and it fades.” His voice was low, threaded with something quieter than sorrow—resignation, perhaps. A kind of mourning worn thin with the years. Lucrezia looked up at him, her eyes shining with something more than mere sympathy. She didn’t speak at first. Instead, she took his hand, small and warm against his gnarled, cold fingers—and gave it a gentle tug.

“Come, Grandfather,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

He allowed her to lead him, slow and creaking as he was. Down the hallway they went, past flickering candles and ancient stone, until they reached a narrow door tucked behind one of the alcoves. He paused.

“Here,” she said simply.

He hesitated. “What is this room?”

“It’s called the Lady’s Room,” Lucrezia replied. “My grandfather also built it after Grandma Daella passed. No one goes in without a reason. I think you have one.”

She pushed the heavy door open.

She pushed the door open with effort, and the soft groan of its hinges gave way to a hush even deeper than before. The room beyond was bathed in muted light, filtered through another great stained glass window—but this one, unlike the others, bore not the likeness of a saint or divine maiden.

It was Daella.

Rendered in hues of pale blue and soft silver, she stood in the center of the glass, Daella, immortalized with hands folded in quiet prayer, her face turned just slightly toward the heavens. Her silver hair was haloed in light, her gown softly flowing as if caught in an eternal breeze. There was no crown, no emblem of status—only her name, inscribed at the base of the window in High Valyrian.

He took a step forward. His throat tightened.

The walls of the room were draped with tapestries, each one painstakingly crafted. Her stitches, delicate and steady, ran through scenes of Vale forests in autumn, snow-dusted eyries, the crescent moon rising over a silver sea. Her initials were stitched into the corner of each one, so small they might’ve gone unnoticed—if one hadn’t been looking. He reached out, brushing his fingers over the edge of the nearest tapestry. The threads were old, but well-kept. Not a speck of dust touched them.

“Grandfather Rodrik made this place,” Lucrezia said, her voice soft as morning mist. She stood beside him now, her hand in his, small and warm. “He gathered all of grandmother’s works and placed them here, so that she might never be forgotten. And Nanna Manda tends to it still, to keep it cared for, just as he would have wished.” He said nothing. He only watched her face as she looked upon the room with reverence. There was something in her eyes—too knowing for a girl so young, too much like Daella’s.

“Mother added the stained glass three years ago,” Lucrezia went on, nodding toward the great window, where the light bathed the marble floor in hues of sapphire and violet. “It’s grandmother Daella, as she looked in her youth. Mother said her children, and their children after them, should know from whence their Arryn blood came.” The light from the window shimmered across Lucrezia’s pale hair like starlight across snow.

“She even made a second room like this one. For grandmother Aemma,” the girl added. “She said… she believed if grandfather Rodrik had still been alive, he would’ve done the same, when he heard his daughter had died, and because mother also miss grandmother Aemma.”A long silence followed.

“This was a secret place,” Lucrezia whispered. “Mine and Mother’s. But I think… we can share it with you too, grandfather.” Her gaze found him again, calm but earnest. “After all,” she said with a small smile, “I think grandmother Daella would be happy to receive a visit from her beloved brother.”

After that, he and Lucrezia spent the day together, lingering into the afternoon sunlit and mild, even taking their midday meal in Daella’s garden, where the air was sweet with jasmine and the hum of bees. It was there, beneath the dappled light and whispering leaves, that Vaegon began to understand the full measure of Rhaenyra’s strength.

From the mouths of children came truths sharper than any blade. Lucrezia spoke without guile, without bitterness—only quiet admiration. She told him how her mother had built all of this: not from gold, but from ash and sorrow, stone and steel. She spoke of how Rhaenyra had fallen, and how she rose again, each time more determined, more cunning, more certain of herself.

And as He listened, the threads began to knot together in his mind.

If even a woman as sharp as Rhaenyra—cunning, calculating, and deeply protective of her children—had chosen the path of vengeance, then perhaps vengeance truly was the only road left to tread. She would never endanger her sons without thought. She would never walk into fire unless she was certain it would burn her enemies more than it burned her. And after hearing, at last, of how Viserys’s Hightower consort and her family had treated Rhaenyra and her family—how they had cast her aside, ridiculed her children, silenced her voice—He felt no confusion. Only clarity.

Her choice was reasoned. Her fury, earned.

And he, he would stand with her.

Rhaenyra’s POV

After the warmth of a bath and the comfort of clean clothes, she sat before her mirror as Elinda worked through her damp hair with practiced ease. Her friend’s fingers moved deftly, untangling each strand before beginning the long braid that would crown her head. “You know the maids can do this, don’t you?” She asked, watching Elinda’s reflection through the mirror’s glass.

Elinda only smiled, not missing a beat. “And yet, even now, though I stand as your right hand, I am still your handmaiden, my princess. Besides,” she added, eyes twinkling as she wove the braid tighter, “who else can tame this mane as well as I?” She couldn’t help the small, amused smile that crept onto her lips. She said nothing more—there were some bonds so old, so true, they needed no reaffirming.

Once her hair was set, Elinda busied herself selecting jewelry to match her gown. They were so engrossed in their preparations that neither woman noticed the door open behind them.

“Muna… Aunt Elinda,” came a soft, familiar voice. She turned, and there stood Lucrezia, already walking toward them, her steps light as air.

“I seem to recall you were wearing sea-green this morning,” she said with mock suspicion, eyeing her daughter’s attire with a raised brow. “Did you change again?”

The girl gave a breathless laugh and twirled, letting the skirts of her gown catch the light. It was a lovely thing—a dress of soft white silk that shimmered like Arrax’s pale scales in the sun. Subtle silver embroidery curled along its sleeves and hem, like wind across fresh snow, and crimson ribbons tied at her shoulders recalled the delicate red of Arrax’s wing-membranes.

“Aunt Catherine gave it to me,” Lucrezia explained, her smile radiant. “Elia said she was going to wear the same today, so I thought… I’d match her.” She stepped forward, arms opening, and wrapped them around her waist.

“Lucy?” She asked gently, stroking her daughter’s cheek. “What’s the matter?”

But Lucrezia only shook her head, pressing her face briefly into her mother’s side. “Nothing,” she whispered. “I just wanted to hug you.” She held her a little tighter. After a while, Lucrezia pulled back, her gaze lifting. “Everyone’s already waiting in Rodrik’s Wood. Aunt Catherine said she’s brought snacks for all of us.” Then, in a softer voice, “Can we bring Grandpa Vaegon? I don’t want him to be alone.”

The question struck her still. Grandpa Vaegon? Since when had her daughter grown so close to her estranged uncle—close enough to call him that? It had only been two days since his arrival in the Vale. But the question never reached her lips. She only nodded, a slow, tender motion. “Of course,” she said.

The road beyond the Bloody Gate wound like a silver ribbon through the mountains, and when it spilled out into the forest that bore Lord Rodrik’s name, the air grew sweeter, tinged with pine and wild blossoms. The forest of Rodrik was not vast nor untamed, but it had a gentleness to it that Rhaenyra had come to cherish—green canopies that filtered the sunlight into gold, soft moss beneath the trees, and the ever-present hush of leaves that swayed like lullabies. It was the sort of place where children’s laughter didn’t echo so much as settle, like petals on still water.

In the carriage, she sat nestled between Elinda and Lucrezia, the motion of the wheels a soft hum beneath them. Barden was humming a song with no tune, his boots too big for his feet, and Vaegon sat across from them all, quiet and observant, eyes tracing the trees as they passed.

“I’m going to catch the biggest butterfly in the Vale today,” Lucrezia announced with solemn importance, her small hands folded over her lap. “Ser Steffon promised to help. The blue-winged ones come when the sun touches the bluebells, and I saw three yesterday.”

Rhaenyra smiled, brushing a strand of silver-dark hair from her daughter’s brow. “Perhaps Arrax will be jealous, hearing you’ve found a winged creature more beautiful than him.”

Lucrezia giggled. "Arrax is a prince of dragons. The butterflies will be his little courtiers.”

Barden, not to be outdone, piped up next. “I’m going to catch a fish with my bare hands! Jace and Harion, and Edmure said they’d teach me. They said the water’s cold but the trout are lazy from the sun.” Elinda chuckled softly, her hand brushing her son’s shoulder. Rhaenyra caught her friend’s eye and smiled. There was something sacred in that glance—a quiet knowing that only mothers shared.

They were well-guarded, their escort swift and alert. Ser Steffon rode ahead with Ser Oswell beside him, and the Falcon Guard followed close behind—eight knights in pale blue cloaks, with eyes ever-watchful, though the peace of the glade made their swords feel like distant things.

When the carriage slowed and stopped beneath the soft shade of Rodrik’s Forest, Rhaenyra stepped out and breathed deeply. The scent of pine, of river mist, of grass warmed by the sun. The wind stirred her skirts and whispered at her ears, but it did not speak of kings or crowns or dragons—it spoke only of home.

And there they were. Her boys.

Jace was the first she saw, boots off, trouser legs rolled, standing knee-deep in the river near the falls, laughing with Harion, who had just splashed Edmure so hard he slipped. Harwin stood nearby, arms crossed, pretending to scowl, though the crinkle of his eyes gave him away. Barden gave a shout and darted from the carriage, tossing off his boots before sprinting to the water with all the reckless joy of boyhood.

Rhaenyra placed a hand over her heart.

“My children,” she whispered.

“Your legacy, my lady,” Elinda replied, standing beside her.

They made their way to the picnic cloths laid across the grass—a soft sprawl of color beneath the shade. Aunt Amanda was already seated, regal even amongst dandelions, with Jeyne at her side, slicing plums and cheese. Catherine bustled with gentle command, placing dishes of bread and roast chicken with help from Elia, who stole olives when her mother wasn’t looking. Little Genna clapped when Lucrezia arrived, and the girls embraced like flowers finding their sun.

“Come, come, sit,” Aunt Amanda called. “There’s elderflower wine and sweetbread enough to make even a Targaryen forget her troubles.” They laughed, and she laughed with them. Uncle Vaegon sat beside her, close enough that she could feel his quiet. Elinda leaned back on her hands and tilted her face to the sun. Lucrezia plucked a blossom from the grass and tucked it behind Elia’s ear. The river sang. The breeze played in the trees. Jace's shout echoed from the falls, followed by the sound of Edmure whooping in triumph.

While the rest busied themselves with chatter and quiet joy—children laughing by the river, women passing bread and olives beneath the trees—She caught the faintest whisper of a voice, like a breeze stirring the grass. “I will help you,” came her uncle's words, scarcely louder than the wind. His eyes, however, remained fixed on Lucrezia, who darted across the meadow in pursuit of butterflies, her little hands cradling a jar as though it held the summer itself. “Whatever it is—vengeance, justice… I will help you. Only… let me stay. Let me stay here.”

There was something in his gaze that clung to the girl, soft and sorrowful. A longing that could not be hidden. Regret etched into every line of his face. She said nothing at first. She exhaled slowly and deeply, her fingers curling around the stem of her goblet. The wine was dark, rich, clinging to the cup like old blood. “I thought this was already your home, uncle,” she said at last, lightness in her tone though not in her heart. “Are we not kin?” She drank, eyes forward, never turning to meet his. Behind her, she heard him whisper his thanks, quiet, uncertain, as if afraid the words might shatter.

It was just as she reached for a honeyed fig—sticky and golden in the sun—that she heard the unmistakable sound of small feet padding through grass. Not hurried. Not loud. But sure, with a sense of purpose only a child on a mission could have. She looked up to find Harion approaching, his cheeks pink from the sun, dark curls clinging to his forehead, and his tunic wrinkled and a little damp like he’d run through a stream just to save time. There was something in his eyes—shining, secretive, excited—but serious, too.

“Mommy,” he said, a little breathless, tugging gently at her sleeve. “Come. Please. I found something. You have to see.”

She raised an eyebrow, but he was already walking ahead, barefoot and muddy, his tunic askew, as if he had dressed in a hurry or wrestled with a particularly unruly trout. Curiosity piqued, she followed, stepping past clusters of sun-dappled ferns until the trees grew close again, moss carpeting the stones in a hush. There, beneath a natural outcropping near the river’s bend, nestled in a shallow hollow of rock and leaf, lay the source of Harion’s excitement.

Shadowcats—so small they looked like fuzzy buttons sewn into the earth.

One was coal-black with stripes like whispers of smoke. Another was the color of toasted oats, with little tufts at her ears that made her look very serious and wise, even though she promptly tripped over her own paw. The third was storm-gray and already swatting at a falling leaf with the determination of a warrior ten times its size.

“I found them just there,” Harion whispered, crouching low as if not to startle them. “By the water. I waited, like you always say to do. No mother came. They didn’t cry… they just looked at me. Like they knew me.”

She knelt beside him, her skirts trailing through the moss. The kittens blinked up at her with round, wondering eyes. They didn’t hiss or hide. One of them yawned. Another gave the softest little prrt and curled against its sibling.

“They’re only babies,” Harion murmured. “They’re so little. They shouldn’t be alone.”

“Shadowcats are wild, sweetling,” she said gently. “They grow fierce. Wild. They belong to the mountains, not to castles and gardens.”

“But they’re babies and they can die without us,” he insisted, voice low but insistent. “Beside, we live with dragons. Dragons, mother. They’re fiercer than any cat, but we bond with them. We love them. What if these bond too?”

She smiled faintly, brushing her fingers over the smoky one’s tiny head. It pressed into her touch, a soft, uncertain motion. “And if they don’t? What if they grow and bite and scratch and kill?”

“You let Lucrezia keep her goats,” he said quickly, “even when they got loose in the solar and stained the curtains. You said they were hers to care for. And Barden brought home a weasel once!”

“It was a vole,” Rhaenyra corrected.

“Whatever it was, it bit Jace, and you still let him keep it for a week!”

“And it ended up in the soup pot.”

Harion’s face crumpled. “Mother!”

She sighed and glanced toward the glade where Lucrezia and Elia were now weaving garlands from wildflowers. Elinda met her gaze and smiled faintly, as if to say We have survived dragons; we can survive this.

He moved closer to her now, hands clasped, his eyes earnest. “Please. I’ll feed them, train them. I’ll clean up everything. I’ll ask the maester, I’ll even share with Lucy. Or Jace. Or—well… someone. Please.”

“And what will you name them?” she teased, already knowing she’d say yes.

“I don’t know yet,” he whispered, eyes still on them. “I think they’ll tell me. When they’re ready.”

Just then, the gray one crawled into his lap and promptly fell asleep, a soft ball of purring fluff nestled against his muddy knees. Rhaenyra laughed under her breath and touched his hair, tucking a damp curl behind his ear.

“Very well. But they’re your responsibility. But you’ll need help—“

Before she could finish, Harion let out a victorious whoop and bolted back toward the meadow, barefoot and beaming. “Nanna!” he shouted, arms waving. “Nanna, I need help! I found shadowcats and Mother said yes and they’re the size of cabbages and so soft—can we give them my milk?”

Amanda, sipping wine under the parasol, blinked once. “A what now?”

“Shadowcat”

“You’ve brought me wild beasts now?” she called, half amused, half exasperated. “Has my life not already been adventurous enough?”

Harion skidded to her side, grabbing her hand with both of his. “Please, please, please help me raise them. They’re little! They don’t even hiss. I’ll clean their mess, I promise! And I think the gray one likes me already.”

She watched as her aunt gave a long-suffering sigh, the kind that carried more fondness than frustration, and allowed Harion to gently deposit the three shadowcats into her lap. The boy did so with reverence, as though presenting an offering to the gods themselves. With calm hands and a patience honed by years of care and quiet strength, her aunt began to examine each tiny creature. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, checking their bellies and limbs for any sign of injury, smoothing down their wild fur. 

Her aunt had brought warm milk with her, meant for Harion after his misadventures in the river, but without hesitation, she poured it into a small dish, placing it within reach of the kittens. They stumbled toward it on unsteady legs, lapping with pink tongues, their eyes blinking slowly and sleepy.

Truthfully, she thought, even if she hadn’t granted Harion permission to bring them home, her aunt would have done so regardless. Of all her children, her aunt’s heart was softest when it came to her youngest. Whenever Harion had escaped his lessons—and he did so often—there was no need to search long. He would be found curled beneath his aunt’s writing desk or asleep atop the cushions in her solar, a book clutched to his chest and his boots left in the corridor.

Now the other children, drawn like moths to fire, abandoned their games and gathered around her. They sat cross-legged in the grass, clustering close to see the shadowcats better. There were murmured gasps and soft laughter, and then, inevitably, the debates began—what names were worthy of such small, wild cats?

In the end, it was decided.

The coal-black one, striped with faint wisps of silver like smoke drifting through the dark, would be named Balerion, after the Black Dread himself. A mighty name for so small a beast, but perhaps the creature would grow into it. The tawny kitten, whose coat was the color of toasted oats with soft silver at the tips of its ears, was named Mithor—a child’s echo of Vermithor, whose hues were said to shimmer like bronze in sunlight. And the last, they called Meraxes. Once the kittens had drunk their fill and fallen asleep in a curled tangle of fur and warmth, the boys—Jace, Harion, Barden, and Edmure—leapt to their feet with a whoop, charging off to find Harwin, who was roasting the day’s catch over an open flame. Uncle Vaegon trailed behind them, slower but no less curious.

She remained behind with her aunt, Jeyne, Elinda, Catherine, Lucy, Elia, and little Genna, who sat in a ring around her as the sun dipped low in the sky. Their needles danced through fabric, their laughter soft and bubbling, and the scent of pine and fish smoke lingered on the wind.

She was in the midst of showing her embroidery to little Lucrezia, holding up the needlework for the girl’s wide-eyed approval, when Catherine’s voice stilled her hand.

“My lady…” Catherine began, and there was a strange uncertainty in her voice. “We did not come to the Eyrie only to celebrate Prince Jacaerys’ name day.” She looked up slowly. Catherine's eyes shifted, unsure, as though she regretted speaking at all.

“What is it, Catherine?” she asked, her voice soft, inviting. “You know you may speak freely with me.” She already knew. She had known the moment Catherine hesitated, the way her tongue faltered, and her eyes searched for permission.

The wedding. Aegon and Helaena.

If her dreams still held true, now would be the time. In the world her dreams had painted for her—so vivid, so cruel—they had wed after Laena’s death. But here, in this changed life, Laena had never died. She had not even conceived a third child. Instead, Laena and Clement had only been blessed with twins a year after their marriage—a boy and a girl. Aemon, the son, bore his father's golden curls and his mother's eyes. Rhaena, the daughter, was Laena's child in form and coloring, but her eyes—gods, her eyes—held the same shade of deep brown almost black as her great-grandmother Lady Jocelyn Baratheon .

If the dreams still followed their course, Laena should have quickened again soon after Harion’s third nameday. But that path had not unfolded. Perhaps it was her own doing.

She remembered—Harion had been just two, still soft with baby fat and clumsy with wonder—when Laena had come to visit. She had taken her cousin aside, trembling, half-mad with fear and dreams, and begged her not to bear another child. She had thought Laena would recoil, mock her, look at her as if she were mad. But instead, there had been quiet understanding in Laena’s gaze. As if she saw the weight of knowledge, she dared not speak aloud. As if she believed her.

Laena had asked no questions. She had only embraced her and said she was content. “Two is enough,” she had whispered. “More than enough, for me.”

Catherine’s voice brought her back.

“It’s…” she hesitated again. “The King. He bade me say, if it would please you, that perhaps you might consider attending the wedding of the Crown Prince and Princess Helaena. It will be held nine moons from now. He does not demand it, of course. But… I believe he truly hopes you will come. He misses you deeply.”

Catherine's tone was cautious, tender in a way the handmaiden rarely allowed herself to be. All her ladies knew of the tension between her and the King. But Catherine, whose sharp tongue could always be relied upon to mock Alicent or speak cruel truths about the court, would not have said it so unless it were real. Unless the longing were sincere.

And if she thought back to that last meeting, to her father’s worn and withered face, she could believe it. The sickness that had clung to him then had surely deepened. And if the maesters were as false as she suspected—if men like Mellos had allowed Aemma to waste away under their care—then she had little faith they would lift a finger to ease Viserys’ decline. Especially not now. Not when their ends had been achieved. Not when they had no further use for the King.

“I understand, Catherine. And please—when you return to King’s Landing, tell my father that I, and my family, will come,” she said calmly. The words hung in the air, still and heavy. Her aunt stared at her, eyes wide. Even Elinda and Jeyne paused mid-stitch, glancing toward her in quiet disbelief. For all these years, she had kept herself away—far from her father’s new family, far from the halls that had once been hers and were now filled with strangers and smiling traitors. She had offered them no kindness, no words, no visits.

But how could one give a gift to the guilty without descending to the pit where they danced?

And she wanted to see them. With her own eyes. She wanted to be seated in the front row to witness their suffering. There was a dark satisfaction in it, the cold flame of anticipation she did not name. None of them asked her why she had changed her mind. They simply returned to their needlework, each absorbed in thread and pattern, as though her words had been nothing more than idle talk. She bent over her embroidery again, lost in thought, until Elia’s voice, soft and unguarded, drew her attention.

“Mother,” said the girl, glancing up from her work with earnest eyes, “do you think Uncle Larys will like the handkerchief I made for him? I added fireflies—he likes those, doesn’t he?”

“Fireflies,” Rhaenyra echoed softly, her eyes no longer on her embroidery, but drawn instead to the little girl seated beside her mother.

Elia nodded, holding up the delicate square of cloth she had been stitching with all the pride of a child eager for praise. Tiny golden fireflies dotted the edges, their thread gleaming like trapped sparks. “They’re pretty, aren’t they, Aunt Nyra? I thought they’d make him smile.” There was an innocence in her voice that made something twist deep in Rhaenyra’s chest.

Catherine, brushing back a strand of her daughter’s hair, smiled fondly. “He’ll love it, sweetling. Truly. Your uncle’s always had a fondness for fireflies. He adds them to everything—his walking cane, his seals, even the brooches he gives his servants.”

“Why fireflies?” She asked, her tone carefully measured, though the air about her had shifted. A chill beneath the warmth.

Catherine blinked, unaware of the storm she’d stirred. “Oh, I’ve never thought to ask. He once said they were lights in the dark. That even in blackest shadow, fireflies still dare to shine. I suppose he sees something poetic in it.” She chuckled softly. “He even had one carved into the silver tip of his cane, and his steward wears a pin shaped like one. A little odd, perhaps, but harmless.”

She did not respond. Her fingers had gone still, silk thread dangling forgotten from her needle.

Harmless.

That was always the word, was it not? Harmless. A word whispered for the quiet ones, the limping ones, the men who lingered in shadows, who smiled with their mouths but not their eyes, who spoke seldom yet remembered too much. Harmless, they said of Larys Strong. Until he was not.

She had often wondered when Larys had turned his cloak, and what had bent his loyalties. Was it truly the flames that had taken Harwin and Lord Lyonel? Or had his heart always beat green beneath a black and gold surcoat? Once, she had believed him true—he was Harwin’s brother, was he not? Lord Lyonel’s son. And the blood of a loyal man must surely carry loyalty, must it not? Yet now... she was not so sure. If what Catherine claimed held any truth—if Larys had his men wear firefly brooches—perhaps the bandits who had taken septa Maegelle were no common brigands, but his. His creatures. His tools. But why? What did Larys gain by such an act? If he had thrown in with the greens, it may well have been at Otto Hightower’s bidding. Yet what coin was promised for this cruelty? What power?

She would know more when Daemon returned from Yi Ti. Two weeks, he had said.

She drew a slow breath, quieting the storm behind her eyes. Elia was speaking again, pointing out her needlework to Lucrezia, who clapped her hands and giggled in delight. “I think your embroidery is beautiful,” Rhaenyra said at last, her voice as soft as a kiss of silk.

Elia beamed, pleased by the praise.

But her eyes remained cold, and her thoughts, darker still.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s POV

Ever since she learned of Larys Strong’s connection to the fireflies, she hadn’t known peace. The thought festered like rot beneath the skin, whispering endless possibilities. If Larys had already pledged himself to Alicent before the Greens dared seize the throne, then was it not possible—no, likely—that he had a hand in Harwin’s death? And Lord Lyonel’s as well? Gods, no… it couldn’t be. Not him. In her dreams, in those soft nights she once spent tangled in Harwin’s arms, he often spoke of Larys with fondness, as if the limp-footed brother was nothing more than a clever, quiet shadow. But shadows have teeth too, don’t they? If Larys had dared to abduct Septa Maegelle on Otto’s command, then it wasn’t a leap to imagine he’d dared worse.

Harwin died. Lyonel died. And what rose from their ashes? Larys, crowned Lord of Harrenhal. Otto, back to his perch as Hand. Coincidence? Only fools believe in such things. And the Greens have never lacked for schemers with itching palms and empty hearts—men and women who take what isn’t theirs and call it justice. So yes, it made perfect sense. Larys Strong, the second son, the twisted-foot spider who never hunted, never fought, who preferred to lurk among the women like a sly old maid—he, of course, would choose the dirtiest paths to reach power.

If he did kill Harwin and Lyonel, then, of course, he would be Alicent’s creature. That woman—smiling with her lips while her heart curdled black—had shielded Criston Cole, a murderer, elevating him beyond his station. She saw no sin in blood, so long as it served her will. And men like Larys… slim, soft-spoken, smelling always of secrets… they knew how to survive. So long as he performed their filthy work, Otto and Alicent would keep him close. Perhaps they already had. She had seen Larys’s shadow lurking behind Alicent long before her father named Aegon his heir.

Thank the Seven, the deaths of Harwin and Lyonel had not yet come to pass. Seven Hells, she was sure—if left unchecked, Larys would butcher Catherine and her children next. They were, after all, the remaining heirs to House Strong, and in this game of wolves, heirs were meat. Catherine, thank the gods, had stayed within the Red Keep. Harwin had insisted on that. It offered them some protection... for now. But for how long? Catherine claimed the Red Keep had become a nest of vipers. She wasn’t wrong. She had heard it from Ser Lorent and Steffon, since three years past, Alicent and her father had dismissed many of the old Kingsguard, replacing them with men loyal to Oldtown or bound to Hightower coin. Loyalty, she had learned, doesn’t come from honor. It comes with a purse.

But what did Otto and Larys want with Septa Maegelle? If they only sought to silence her, why not do it sooner? And how did they know that Uncle Vaegon and the septa had uncovered the truth? The proof of all their sins? If Oldtown was the source—if the Citadel or the Faith or the Hightowers themselves had send a word—then why not strike there, in their own den, where no eyes would question a disappearance? And why abduct at all? According to Uncle Vaegon, the bandits tried to take them alive. Why not kill them cleanly, quietly? Why the risk? Why the noise? Rhaenyra’s gut twisted. There was something more. Something they wanted.

She drew a long breath and made her way to the balcony beyond her chamber, the sound of her steps soft upon the stone.

Then came the sound, unmistakable and fierce—a long, rumbling cry that seemed to scrape the very air, like the scream of some ancient beast waking from a long slumber. It was Caraxes, his roar cutting through the silence of the Vale. Daemon had come home. Her lips curved. Before the warmth of it reached her eyes, her feet were already moving. Down the corridor, past startled guards and watchful ladies, her crimson skirts billowed like banners in the wind. She threw open the doors of the courtyard just as the dragon’s shadow swept over the towers.

And there he was.

Daemon slid from Caraxes' back with the grace of a man who belonged to the sky more than the earth. His armor gleamed in the pale light, his silver hair tousled by wind and speed, and when he saw her, a grin—boyish, irreverent, wholly his—split his face. She barely had time to speak before his arms were around her.

“I came back,” he murmured, burying his face into her neck.

She let her arms tighten around him, fingers fisting in the fabric of his cloak. “You came early.”

“What can I say, I missed my wife,” he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Also, because Caraxes hasn't stopped grumbling since we passed Gulltown. He grumbled like an old man with a sore back. The moment we turned west, he started flying faster than he had in weeks. I suspect your golden girl’s been haunting his dreams like you do mine.”

She tilted her head and chuckled. “Truly? Then shall we not keep him waiting?”

Before he could respond, she turned, closed her eyes for but a moment. She did not speak. She did not need to. The bond between dragon and rider was no simple tether—it was blood, soul, and breath. Words were wind. What mattered passed through fire and feeling. She called for Syrax not with voice, but with memory—of warm scales beneath her palm, of the smell of sulfur and the weightless joy of flight, of nights curled in the saddle beneath a silvered sky. She sent it all forth like a flare in the dark: Come.

The answer came before she finished the thought.

At first, there was only the silence—pregnant and vast.

Then the earth stirred.

A distant roar split the high clouds, sharp and triumphant. Birds scattered from the trees in a burst of panicked wings. Somewhere beyond the vale’s jagged ridge, something ancient and golden was moving fast—faster than wind, faster than thought. Caraxes reared his head and snarled, though it was not a sound of threat—it was yearning, a kind of joy only dragons knew. His tail thrashed against the flagstones, carving deep lines into the stone. She stepped back just in time as he let loose a cry that shook snow from the castle roofs. 

And then she came.

Syrax descended like the sun made flesh, her wings wide as sails and bright as hammered gold. She circled once above the keep, her cry a clarion call—answering, recognizing. Wind rushed down in great gusts as she landed in the courtyard, talons striking stone, wings folding like the closing of some holy tome. When she saw Caraxes, she growled, a low sound that rumbled deep in her chest. He answered, slithering forward on all fours, neck dipping low in deference and desire. Their noses touched, then their sides, tails coiling. There was nothing gentle in their reunion—it was heat and hunger and old, wild magic. The kind of love only beasts remembered.

“They missed each other,” Daemon murmured, not looking at her.

Her gaze remained fixed on the dragons. “As did we.”

Daemon said nothing, but his gloved fingers brushed hers.

Syrax turned her head toward her then—eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, as if tasting her scent on the wind. Her wings rustled slightly, but she did not step forward. She waited. She stepped to her, slow and reverent. She reached out, laying her hand against the dragon’s warm snout. Syrax chuffed softly, pressing into the touch.

Then she turned her gaze to her husband, the fire of mischief flickering in her eyes. “Come, rogue. Let’s see if Caraxes has softened from all that longing.”

Daemon smirked, mounting in one smooth motion. “You tempt a dragon’s pride, wife.”

“I tempt yours.” She said, already climbing into Syrax’s saddle. “First to the river bend, where the mists rise over the pine.”

He was already moving. “You’re a fool if you think Caraxes would let her outfly him.”

They rose together, wings cracking the silence like thunder. The sky swallowed them whole. Below, the Vale stretched out in shadow and silver—pine forests cloaked in mist, rivers winding like serpents through the stone. Above, the stars wheeled in silence. The night wind roared in their ears, tasting of frost and smoke. Syrax flew like a prayer loosed to the gods—swift, sinuous, gold against black. Caraxes answered in blood and fire, his wings hewing the air with violent grace.

They raced—upward, downward, between crag and cloud, over ridges and sharp cliffs where even the eagles dared not nest. The world below flickered by in dark greens and steel blues. Sometimes Syrax pulled ahead, a comet’s flash; sometimes Caraxes surged forward like a spear loosed in fury.

“You’re falling behind, Daemon!” She cried, her laughter lost to the wind.

“I’m letting you win!” he bellowed back. “For now!”

Then—just before the riverbend, where the mists rose thick and ghost-pale, Caraxes climbed higher and curved inward, drawing level with Syrax. His wings beat in slow, mighty rhythm. Syrax snarled at his closeness, but did not swerve. She turned to Him.

The moon was behind him, haloing his silhouette. His hair whipped across his face, and his eyes—those strange, storm-silver eyes—met hers across the wind and distance. There were no words spoken. There was no need. The sky was vast, but not empty. She reached out, her hand slipping free of the reins. Daemon did the same. Their fingers met in the air between dragons—not tightly, not with urgency, but with a gentleness that belied everything else about them. A quiet, fleeting touch.

When at last the flight waned and the stars dipped lower on the horizon, the dragons began their descent. Caraxes circled once like a red storm above the Eyrie, and Syrax followed close behind, her golden wings catching the wind with a grace no lesser than fire given form. Together, they wheeled once above the high towers, their roars echoing through the stony peaks, then descended upon the wide terrace that opened from their bedchamber.

A warm glow poured from the chamber beyond, torches flickering golden against the cold stone. Inside, servants had made haste. The scent of steamed herbs and perfumed oils hung in the air, clinging to the marble walls like the breath of summer. At the room’s center stood a deep tub carved of black stone, already filled with water hot enough to veil the surface in mist, heated with stones from the kitchens. Elinda, ever watchful, had known the routine well enough that she always bathed after the flight.

She unpinned her mantle, and the silk slid from her shoulders like a petal caught in the wind. But before she could unlace her bodice, Daemon came to her—a shadow in scarlet, eyes pale as moonlight. He said nothing as he stepped behind her. His hands were deft, practiced. He tugged loose the knot at her waist, then the silken ties at her back, slow and unhurried, until the fabric surrendered and her gown slid down her arms, baring her shoulders to the flame-lit dark.

She exhaled, slow, as the garment fell away. Beneath her skin was flushed from cold and flight, streaked with soot and salt. She did not look at him, but she felt his eyes. His lips followed. A kiss upon her left shoulder, then another—warm, almost reverent. His breath tickled her skin as his hands roamed lower, tracing the lines of her spine, the swell of her hip. When the last of her clothing fell away, she turned to him, her hair a pale tangle about her breasts, her cheeks flushed from cold and flight and something deeper still.

He stripped as easily as shedding skin, tossing his tunic aside, then breeches, until he stood bare and unmarred before her. His body was taut with lean muscle and old scars—flesh shaped by war, will, and want. She followed, the stone smooth beneath her feet, the water licking up her calves, her thighs, her stomach.

She sighed as she sank beside him. She sank into the tub until only her collarbones breached the surface.  The heat stole her breath. Her muscles loosened. And in that warmth, something inside her did too. Daemon reached for the soap with a mint scent. He worked it to a lather between his hands, then turned her gently. She offered her back to him, unthinking, trusting. His hands traced the ridge of her spine, pressing small circles into her flesh. He scrubbed her slowly, thoroughly, almost reverently. When he reached her shoulders, he leaned forward and kissed her nape, breath warm against wet skin.

Daemon’s hand found hers beneath the water, fingers tangling. “I brought what you asked for,” he said. “The old woman had it prepared long ago. She was only waiting—for the day you were ready to ask.” His voice was even, but there was something cold beneath it. Her fingers stilled where they had been gliding over his ribs. She turned her head slightly, enough to see his face in shadow.

“And the rest?” she asked.

“In one moon’s time,” he said. “When they come to celebrate Jace’s name day. They will bring the rest—quietly.”

She nodded once, slowly. She leaned into his chest, skin to skin, and let her head rest there, listening to the beat of his heart—a sound older than crowns and older than kings.

For a time, the only sound was water and breath.

Then Daemon spoke, voice soft as a whisper on dragon wings. “Are you certain about this?”

She did not answer at once. Instead, she stared past the edge of the tub, where the steam curled upward like the breath of a sleeping dragon. Her thoughts strayed to a tomb of gray stone and white marble. “I will not stand before mother’s ashes,” she said at last, “until justice has been carved from the bones of liars and traitors.” Her voice was quiet. But there was iron in it, and fire.

Daemon said nothing. But his hand tightened around hers, and his breath stirred her hair—warm, as it had always been. “Then so be it,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to her shoulder. “I will be with you—every step you take.”

When they had finished bathing and slipped into their nightclothes, she seated herself by the hearth, the fire casting flickers of gold upon her skin as she drew a comb through her damp hair. The crackling of the flames was the only sound between them for a time, until she looked toward Daemon, who sat across from her, turning a small bottle between his fingers—a gift brought from the far reaches of Yi Ti. "I know your heart is set on this path," he said quietly, his gaze resting on the dark glass glinting in his hand, "but are you truly going there?"

She did not answer at once. Instead, she smiled—slight, sharp, and without warmth.

"Where is the pleasure," she said, almost idly, "if I do not see their faces twist with suffering myself?"

The fire popped. Daemon’s eyes lingered on her, and after a moment, he asked, "And what reason shall you offer for your presence?"

She resumed her combing, each stroke smooth, deliberate, as if brushing away doubt itself. “In nine moons, that woman’s boy and girl are to be wed,” she said. Her voice was calm, her face unreadable. Then she turned her head, slowly, and met his gaze with one of her own—cold and steady as winter glass. “What better time to return?” she asked. “When all the realm gathers to celebrate, what sweeter moment to deliver disgrace? To see them humbled—truly—with the eyes of Westeros upon them.”

His silence stretched again. The bottle stilled in his hand. "Is that why you asked Grandmother Han for the ànwèi?" She did not answer. She did not need to. Silence, in this room, had learned to speak. "You’ve thought this through,” he murmured. There was no accusation in his tone. Only awe. And perhaps a measure of fear.

She fell silent then.

The silence lingered like mist upon a moor, thick with things unspoken. Her eyes did not meet his, not yet. Instead, they lingered on the embers in the hearth, as if some answer might rise from the ashes. The firelight danced across her face, casting long shadows beneath her cheekbones, the ghost of a frown caught at the corners of her lips.

Then, at last, she spoke.

"I want to bring the children with us."

The words were quiet—no louder than a whisper shared between ghosts. But they hung heavy in the room, heavier than steel. Daemon did not move. He only watched her, as though trying to glimpse the storm behind her eyes. “Why?” he asked, but gently, with none of the sharpness he might use in council or battle. For he knew this was neither.

She hesitated. Her hand drifted to her lap, fingers curling in on themselves. "Because I do not know when we will ever return there," she said, the words brittle as old parchment. "And because I would grant that man... a kindness. One last look at his grandchildren—before the Stranger embraces him." She swallowed once. Her lashes fluttered, but she did not blink. "It is a small mercy. And it will be the last."

She looked into the fire then, and he saw it—something tender, flickering deep behind her steel. A daughter’s grief. A mother’s resolve. A daughter’s vengeance. He rose and crossed to her side, crouching before her like a knight to his liege. His hand, warm and calloused, closed over hers.

“Then we go,” he said. “All of us.”

When she woke with the morning light spilling through the curtains like pale gold, her hand reached instinctively for the space beside her. It was cold, empty, and long abandoned. She blinked away sleep and rose, drawing the blanket to her chest, the silk sheets slipping down her bare skin like whispered memory. For a moment, she sat there, half-shrouded in linen and silence, listening for the soft rustle of movement that might betray his presence.

And then she saw him.

Not ten paces away, seated in the chamber’s antechamber beneath a lattice of morning shadow, Daemon bent over a cluttered table strewn with parchment and ink pots. His silver-gilt hair caught the light like threads of fire, though the rest of him was draped in the stillness of deep concentration.

She stood, wrapping one of the heavier woolen throws about her body, and padded across the floor, the stones cool against her feet. As she neared, she glimpsed the object of his attention—a book, bound in cracked leather and etched with glyphs she could not name.

“Another book?” she teased, voice soft with sleep and affection. Her lips curled with amusement.

Those who truly knew her husband understood: Daemon Targaryen, Prince of the City and Rogue of the Realm, bore a hunger not just for battle and fire but for knowledge, particularly anything that spoke of Valyria and its vanquished glory.

He glanced up, the corner of his mouth quirking into a smile that was softer than the rest of him. Without a word, he reached for her hand and drew her into his lap, her legs folding against his as if they had done this a hundred times before.

“It’s a gift,” he murmured, his voice low, as though the very walls might be listening. “From Han Qí. He claims it was taken from the ruins of Valyria, pried from the clutch of grave robbers who did not know what they held.”

His head found its place upon her breast, where his crown of silver tangled in the curve of her collarbone. She could feel the warmth of his breath even through the cloth. Her eyes drifted to the chaos of parchment that lay across the table like a battlefield of ink and forgotten tongues. The script was jagged, ancient, crawling across the vellum like spiderlegs. She lifted a brow and pointed to one of the pages. “And these? What are you doing with them?”

Daemon exhaled through his nose, the sound something between a sigh and a growl. “I can’t read it,” he admitted, his voice a rasp in the still air. “The words within—none of it makes sense.” And that, more than anything, startled her. Daemon, who had recited stanzas of The Fires of Fourteen Flames as lullabies, who could trace their lineage through both blood and prophecy, who spoke High Valyrian as if it were his mother tongue—Daemon could not read it. Not this. 

She studied his face, the furrow between his brows, the way his fingers clenched around the pages. “It frightens you,” she said quietly. Not a question.

“No,” he replied, too quickly. Then, after a breath, softer, “It... troubles me. There are words here that burn when I look too long. Symbols I’ve never seen, even in the black scrolls or the old tongues kept by the Citadel.”

She pressed her lips to his temple, her kiss lingering, tasting the salt of his skin and the heat that radiated from his body. The touch was tender, but it carried with it something darker, a quiet plea she dared not speak aloud. “Then perhaps,” she whispered, her voice a breath against his ear, “you are searching for answers in the wrong place.” Her words hung in the air, the weight of them settling between them like a stone.

Daemon stiffened, his head turning slightly as her words cut through the quiet. “The wrong place?” he asked, his voice thick with confusion, his gaze searching her face as if she might hold the key to some long-forgotten riddle. She met his gaze and nodded slowly, as if confirming a truth he had yet to see. Her eyes were steady, but there was something in the way she spoke, something that made the blood in his veins turn cold.

“What if you were to ask the ones who dwell beneath the stones?” Her words were soft, but they carried an eerie weight, as if they spoke of something far older, far darker, than either of them could truly comprehend. For a long moment, Daemon was silent, his mind racing to catch up with what she had said. The words didn’t make sense at first, like pieces of a broken puzzle scattered in the dark. But then, just as the faintest hint of realization began to creep into his thoughts, his expression shifted. His brow furrowed in understanding, his lips parting as if the words had already been spoken by another voice.

And then, like a shadow falling across him, he muttered, almost to himself, “The priest.”

NO ONE POV

After breaking their fast with the children, Rhaenyra and Daemon descended to the lowest levels of the Eyrie—the ancient and silent depths where the old priest of the Fourteen Flames made his dwelling.

Though she and her kin paid lip service to the Faith of the Seven, attending its septs and reciting the sacred prayers like dutiful nobles, there were truths older than the Seven, and gods more ancient than the Crone or the Stranger. Their souls, their blood, belonged elsewhere—to the fire, to ash, to the inferno that birthed their House. And so, once every fourteen days, when the torches had dimmed and servants were deep in sleep, they would steal away to the dark beneath the mountain, to kneel, to burn incense, and to whisper offerings to the gods of flame, the gods of Valyria.

In the beginning, they had offered the priest chambers in the upper halls, perhaps even a modest sanctuary in the wooded reaches of the Eyrie’s slopes—but he had refused. “Stone remembers,” the old man had said. “And secrets grow best in shadow.” It was Aunt Amanda who had hollowed out a quiet temple in the roots of the fortress, draped in crimson and obsidian tapestries, where no curious eye might peer, and no whisper reach ears not meant to hear.

When they arrived that day, they brought with them the strange book gifted to Daemon by Emperor Han of Yi Ti—a tome drawn from the shattered bones of old Valyria, smuggled out by grave-robbers bold enough to steal from the dead. Daemon had confessed, with rare humility, that even he could not read it, though he had been raised with Valyrian in his mouth and fire in his soul.

The priest stepped forward, robes rustling like dry leaves, and took the book from Daemon’s hand. He turned the brittle pages with reverence and silence, and at last murmured, “They write in the old way.”

“The old way?” Rhaenyra asked, sharing a glance with her husband, whose brows had furrowed.

The priest gave a slow nod. He tore a page from the book—Daemon’s mouth opened in protest, but the priest paid it no mind—and held it above a candle’s flame. The fire licked at the parchment… but it did not burn. Not even the edges curled.

“True Valyrian relics resist flame,” the priest said, his voice like gravel stirred in coals. “And if even the blood of the dragon cannot read these words, then they were never meant to be seen in the light. The truth was meant to be hidden, veiled in ash.” As they watched, faint glowing letters began to rise upon the page, like embers called forth by breath. The symbols melted into High Valyrian—legible now, familiar.

The priest took the other pages one by one, passing each through fire until they too surrendered their secrets. His eyes scanned them, widening as he read. Rhaenyra could see the tremor in his hand, the way his lips parted in disbelief. At last, he looked up, and his voice, though steady, carried the weight of omen. “My prince. My princess. Sit. You will want to be seated for this.”

They did as bid, heartbeats loud in the quiet. The fire flickered red upon the stone, and shadows danced across the priest’s face as he began to read. His voice was rough, like cooled obsidian dragged over granite. “In the beginning, before the rise of Valyria, before dragons kissed the sky, before the Doom cracked the world in twain—there were not fourteen flames... but fifteen.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught in her throat. Across from her, Daemon’s face had gone still, carved of stone.

“Fifteen?” she echoed, brows drawn.

The priest inclined his head, solemn as a tomb. “Aye, my princess. If this book speaks true... one was lost. One fell. Forgotten by history. Buried by fire.”

I

Āeksia gevives īlūvī

(The Gods Walked Among Us)

In the elder days, before the long night, when the bones of the world still steamed from creation, the gods of flame—those whom we now call the Fourteen—were fifteen. They were not distant then. They walked among mortals, unseen by most, but always present. Where they trod, the land blossomed with strange fire, and the sky wept silver rain. Their temples were not built by mortal hand, but shaped from molten stone that cooled at their feet. They spoke through the wind, the embers, the dreams of poets and kings. Mortals lived in awe and reverence, for the gods had not yet learned to hide.

Each god, when they walked the world, left behind gifts. Tessarion, goddess of music and knowledge, scattered melodies and poems like seeds, gave mortals the lyre and the quill, and taught them to name the stars. Vermithor left behind sparks of creation—metalwork, stonecraft, artistry in fire and forge. He gave mankind the hammer and flame, and showed them how to shape mountains into crowns. Tyraxes whispered wisdom and warfare into the ears of generals and kings, taught them to read the movements of birds and smoke, and laid the bones of strategy at their feet. From these gifts rose the first kingdoms and the first dreams of empire.

But one god gave more than a gift. He gave his heart.

Aegarax, god of all living creatures, he who shaped the dragons from mountain fire and sky wind, fell in love with a mortal woman. Not just any woman, but the Amethyst Empress herself, the ruler of the Great Empire of the Dawn. At times, the queen’s own handmaidens—aye, even the palace servants and passersby—would catch glimpses of the two lovers wrapped in each other’s arms, whiling away the day watching the waters of the river Sarion flow by.

Knights spoke in hushed voices of how they saw the pair stealing into the gardens under cover of night, laughing as they slipped past the moonlit pavilions, always returning before the cock’s first crow. They loved each other deeply—the god, and the queen, no less. And through that love, the Empress saw beyond the veil, understood the true nature of the strangers who left wonders in their wake, and the man she loved. Where others feared or flattered, she looked into their eyes and saw the cosmos staring back. She named them gods and began to spread their gospel—not with swords but with stories, carvings, and songs.

The other deities came to cherish her for this. Through her voice, their names echoed through marble halls and temples lit by flame. Praise, worship, remembrance—these were their strength. For though gods may not love themselves, the love of mortals lifts them ever higher. Each offering laid at their feet, each prayer murmured in the dark, became a thread in the golden net that bound heaven to earth. And the Empress—beloved by gods and mortals alike—was the weaver of that net.
There was none so pious as the Amethyst Empress.

But love bore fruit. The Amethyst Empress grew round with child, and the child was not wholly mortal. The gods rejoiced, for this was something new: not simply worship, not mere sacrifice, but true communion. A bridge between realms. A living soul that bound the mortal and divine.  They crowned her with light and swore to protect the child. Yet joy is not shared by all, and not all hearts rejoiced at the birth of the demigod.

One did not rejoice. One God. They called him, Vharador.

II

Āeksio Qeldrot, Vharador

(The Betrayer, Vharador)

Vharador, the Fifteenth Flame, twin to Vhagar, was the god of human desire. He looked deep into men’s hearts and beheld longing, hunger, envy, lust, and pride. Of all the gods, Vharador understood mortal want the most—and the more he understood, the more he came to resemble those he studied. In time, desire and ambition kindled within him. What Aegarax and the Amethyst Empress had done ran counter to all he sought and all he believed. What he saw revolted him. Love between god and mortal, to Vharador, was corruption. The divine must remain pure, untouched. Aegarax, he thought, had stained them all.

And so Vharador descended to the ground. There he whispered to the Bloodstone Emperor, brother to the Amethyst Empress, whose heart was black as onyx, and whose greed knew no end.

"Kill her," Vharador urged, "and I shall make you a god among mortals."

And so it came to pass. The Empress was slain upon her birthing bed, cruelly and without mercy, her screams smothered by treacherous handmaidens bought with silver and fear. From that day on, all women would know suffering in childbirth, cursed with pain and dread—a shadow of the Empress’s torment.

But before the babe could be slain, Aegarax descended in wrath and flame and bore the child away. He knelt before Arrax, Lord of the Gods, and cried for justice. And Arrax, remembering the Empress’s piety and grace, gave his judgment. Vharador was cast down, stripped of his divinity—not only for his hand in the Empress’s death, but for the truth that he had already been lost, consumed by mortal hunger and desire. And so he was hurled into the world of men.

But Vharador did not die. He wandered, vowing vengeance against the Fourteen Flames and descendant dari Aegarax. He fled westward—to Westeros.

III

Sīkuda: Āeksia hen Daor

(The Seven: Gods of Sin)

In the twilight shadow of weirwood and stone, far from the warmth of the East, Vharador began to weave a new faith—a faith not wrought of flame, but illusion. Broken by his fall, he shrouded himself in falsehoods, and from the shards of his sundered essence, he wrought seven masks. Each one a mockery of divinity, shaped not by grace, but sin. He named them the Seven—avatars not of virtue, but vice, born of the desires he once buried deep. The Father, carved in solemn stone, bore the crown of pride. He cloaked his vanity in the guise of judgment, speaking of justice only to place his will above all. The Mother, soft of face, whispered mercy laced with envy. She longed for creation, yet loathed each child not born of her own womb.
The Warrior wore wrath like armor, his sword ever thirsty—not for justice, but for blood. He called it valor, and the people believed him. The Maiden stood veiled in innocence, yet lust burned beneath her skin. She promised purity with lips that trembled with longing. The Smith, ever bent to forge, did not toil from duty but from greed. His hands were built not for need but dominion—his empire hammered in gold. The Crone, cloaked in age and stillness, called herself wise, yet hers was the idleness of cowards, the inaction of those too afraid to choose. And the Stranger—faceless, formless—devoured all. His was not the hunger of flesh, but of meaning, of hope, of soul. Where he passed, the world dimmed. These Seven, born of vengeance and decay, he offered to mortals as gods. And Vharador, who knew the hunger of man better than any, turned lies to truth. To the desperate, he gave hope. To the fearful, he offered safety. To the starving, he served dreams sweeter than bread. And they listened. And they believed. And they prayed. And with every whispered devotion, Vharador grew strong again.

IV

Valyrio Lentor

(The Birth of Valyria)

To shield the child of the Amethyst Empress, the Fourteen Flames forged a new land in secret—a kingdom veiled in smoke and flame, cradled deep within the mountains where the world still burned. They called it Valyria. But this time, they did not crown the child. They hid her bloodline amongst lesser family, unmarked and unheralded, for power, they had learned, draws envy as carrion draws crows—and envy breeds betrayal.

It was said that every child of Valyria bore some faint likeness to one of the Fourteen Flames—reflections of the gods etched lightly into mortal flesh, as if the divine had once brushed their cheeks in passing. But none bore that resemblance with such uncanny perfection, such unearthly grace, as the children born of the union between Aegarax and his mortal queen. Their features were not echoes, but living mirrors—faces carved in the very image of the divine, eyes that seemed to hold ancient flame. In them, the gods had not merely left a trace, but made themselves manifest.

From the shattered pieces of Aegarax’s heart—broken in mourning—were born the dragon eggs: fragments of flame, hardened into shell. They were not mere beasts' seeds, but relics of grief, vessels of memory, living cinders of a god’s love. Each one pulsed with the essence of his sorrow and longing, his rage and hope. The dragons that stirred within were no animals, but echoes of the divine—spirits born to bind with the blood that remembered him. To fly beside a dragon was once to commune with the divine, to feel the echo of love forged in fire and loss.

But time wears down wonder.

Mortals, ever blind to what they hold, began to see dragons not as sacred kin, but as tools. They yoked them to conquest, bred them for war, bartered their eggs like coin. They forgot that the eggs were born of a god’s grief, and the flame within—a fragment of his soul—was never meant for dominion.

They twisted love into might, faith into fear.

The dragons became weapons—fire made flesh, unleashed not in devotion but in wrath. The bond, once sacred, turned to chains. The skies that had once been sanctified were blackened by ambition. And in every hatchling that soared above a razed city, the gods saw not triumph, but tragedy. Not power, but grief.

Still, men reached higher.

Drunk on dragonflame and dreams of empire, the ruling houses of Valyria raised towers of madness, spires of stone and sorcery meant to pierce the sky. In their arrogance, they forgot the gods who had given them fire.

V

Perzys se Ojes

(The Doom and the Dream)

The Fourteen, who watched from beyond flame and sky, beheld the world they had shaped turning against them. They saw temples grown cold, echoing with silence where once songs of worship had been sung. They saw prayers die beneath the weight of golden crowns, and dragons—those sacred children of sky and fire—bred not as companions, but as beasts of war, yoked to mortal ambition. The world born of divine love had soured with arrogance, betrayal, and the endless hunger of men. And so, in grief, the gods turned their eyes away. The fires of Valyria began to dim. Dragon eggs cooled in their cradles. One by one, the great wyrms fell into slumber.

Save for one family.

Among all the dragonlords, only one bloodline still carried the ember of Aegarax and the Amethyst Empress. In their veins ran the blood of gods, and the dragon eggs they touched remained warm. Their dragons did not sleep. For within their hearts lived a shard of that sacred fire—the soul that once birthed the world. The other Valyrian houses, ravenous with envy and fear, began to hunt them.

They whispered of dark rites: that the offering of fourteen lives from the god's bloodline would coax the eggs to hatch. That feasting upon the hearts of the divine-born would stir dragons from their age-long slumber. One by one, the children of Aegarax were hunted, until flame and ash trailed their every step. Aegarax, wrathful beyond measure, beheld the works of his own hands rise against the line he had guarded, and swore vengeance upon Valyria.

Yet before he could unmake all he had built, he turned to Tessarion, keeper of memory and vision. And he bade her send a warning—a final mercy. In the mind of a child, she planted the dream. A girl, silver hair and purple-eyed, descended from the hidden line of the Amethyst Empress. Her name was Daenys Targaryen.

She dreamed of fire devouring the land, of towers falling into the sea, of dragons screaming into an ashen sky… and of things not born of flame, but risen from the deep earth, tearing Valyria stone from stone. Her family fled. Behind them, the Doom came

And Valyria died.

Rhaenyra’s POV

The priest’s voice had faltered as he read, and even he seemed disturbed by the words written before him. She and Daemon exchanged glances—both stunned, both rendered speechless. A stillness fell over the chamber, heavy and unmoving. It was as though the very walls were holding their breath, straining to listen. Then, a flicker of memory stirred in her. Septa Maegelle. The missing folk of King’s Landing. Something ancient and dreadful clicked into place in her mind. She turned to the priest, her voice soft but firm. “Zellarys,” she said, “might we ask for a moment alone?”

The priest bowed his head and withdrew without protest, crossing to a narrow door that led, she guessed, to his personal quarters. The latch clicked behind him, and silence returned.

She reached for Daemon’s hand, her fingers trembling faintly. “Daemon,” she whispered, drawing his eyes to her. At first, he seemed confused, but then, as he studied her face, a smile began to spread slowly across his lips, proud and amused, as though he believed she was about to say something triumphant. “We are descended from gods, Rhaenyra,” he said softly. “Does this not prove the strength of our bloodline?”

But his words barely registered. They fluttered against her thoughts like wind-blown leaves, failing to take hold. Her mind was racing, filled with connections, implications, and terrible truths. “Daemon, listen to me,” she said, firmer now, tightening her grip on his hand until he winced. His brows drew together in confusion, but he said nothing.

“Uncle Vaegon once told me he was meant to travel to the Eyrie with his sister, Septa Maegelle,” she said. “But only he arrived. Their purpose—whatever it was—was never fulfilled. He said they were stopped by bandits on the road. But those bandits… they didn’t take gold. They didn’t take horses. They didn’t even take lives. Only Maegelle.”

Daemon blinked, slowly, his expression darkening.

“And that’s not all,” she pressed on, voice tightening with urgency. “Do you remember the missing folk in King’s Landing? Three years ago, when Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent came to us, stripped of their white cloaks? Otto Hightower claimed it was because they failed to find the missing. But it wasn’t just common folk, Daemon. Harwin told me he couldn’t even sharpen his sword properly, because the best smith in King’s Landing had vanished. That smith was Hugh… Saera’s son.”

She paused, watching as Daemon’s eyes widened, the name striking something within him.

“In my dream, Daemon—one of the dragonseeds who turned against us was named Hugh. He was a smith. He’s the same one Harwin spoke of. And Ser Steffon once said one of the missing was a serving girl from the Red Keep. He said she had hair like ours, only duller. All of them, Daemon… all the missing—they were of Targaryen blood. Bastards or not, they bore the dragon’s seed.” There was silence then, a long one. And in it, she watched as her husband’s features slowly shifted—from confusion, to dawning horror, and then to grim understanding. “It was never random,” she whispered, her voice barely audible now. “Not theft. Not banditry. It was a harvest to wake the dragon’s egg.”

Chapter Text

I will post new chapter on 8/9 May, so stay tune 🩵

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s POV

She and Daemon had returned to their chambers, the door closed softly behind them as though to shield the world from what they now knew. Daemon had barely spoken since, too stunned to offer more than silence. He sat brooding on the edge of the settee, shadows pooling beneath his eyes like ink spilled upon parchment.

She, however, sought answers.

Among the cluttered shelves and drawers, she found the stack of letters Catherine had sent through the years—frayed, ink-faded, yet kept with the reverence of holy scripture. One by one, she opened them, reading in silence. And when she was certain of what she had seen, she crossed the chamber and placed a small pile of them before her husband.

“Look at this,” she said, offering him the parchment. “Catherine wrote this eight years ago—around the time the first servants began to vanish. She said Lord Lyonel began hiring more knights to guard her and the children after Lord Caswell reported two of his own retainers missing. And here, at the end of the letter, she notes that Aegon’s egg—which had been cold as stone—had begun to warm.”

She handed him another letter. “Aemond’s egg and Daeron’s, too,” she added. “Each had lain dormant for years, but Catherine writes that they, too, began to warm in the same moons when disappearances in King’s Landing grew more frequent. And when Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent came to us—do you remember how many missing souls they counted by then?”

Daemon’s face darkened, his voice like ice. “Twenty-eight.”

She nodded, drawing out another letter. “And with that, Aemond’s egg hatched.”

She fell silent for a moment. Eight years past, she had dared to hope that the curse—the slow death that had settled over the dragons—was lifting. Rhaenys had written that the beasts on Driftmark were still stirring, and Catherine’s letters had spoken of Aegon’s egg warming. But now… now she questioned it all.

“What if the curse never left?” she said softly. “We do not know if the dragons on Dragonstone slumber or stir. The dragonkeepers there speak only to the Crown. And Dreamfyre… Catherine cannot even step into the Dragonpit. If she tried, she might not return.”

“The curse remains,” Daemon said grimly. “Only now, the bastards use black sorcery to wake dragons for their chosen heirs.” She nodded slowly, but saw the frown forming on her husband's brow. “But there are not that many bastards in King’s Landing with Targaryen blood, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

“I thought the same,” she said, passing him another letter—this one dated two years past. “At first, I paid it no mind. But after what we’ve learned of blood magic…”

She trailed off before continuing. “Catherine wrote that some years back, there was a stir in the Red Keep. Alicent had taken in a number of children—rumored to be Aegon’s bastards. She told the court she meant to send them to Oldtown or the Great Sept, to give them proper lives. And the people… the people who once scorned her began to praise her. They called her a mother taking responsibility for her son’s sins.”

She watched Daemon’s expression as he read. “But Alicent? She would sooner call a bastard filth than raise one as her own. And the High Septon—he sees Targaryens as little more than beasts in human skin. He would never take in the fruit of their sin.”

Daemon's voice cut through the silence, low and edged with worry. “If they are bold enough for this… are you certain of your plan?” he asked. “Especially with the children. You mean to bring Jace, Lucrezia, and Harion into that den of vipers?”

There was no accusation in his tone, only the quiet tremor of a man who had seen too much blood spilled by ambition. She heard the question, and beneath it, the fear he would never speak aloud. But she had no room for fear. Not now. She had spent years preparing. She had learned to doubt, to measure twice before each step. She was not the girl she had once been—the one who had loved too freely, trusted too swiftly, and died screaming in her dreams.

She drew a breath, slow and steady, then poured herself a cup of wine. The taste was bitter on her tongue, but she drank all the same. When she met Daemon’s gaze again, her eyes were steel. “They are bold, yes,” she said. “But not stupid. Alicent, perhaps. But Otto? Larys? Never.”

Daemon frowned, puzzled. “Larys?”

“Yes. That twisted-footed spider. It was his men who took Septa Maegelle. And if we are right, he’s behind the others who vanished—taken to feed their cursed rites. Otto never dirties his own hands. He uses others, and when the tide turns, he severs their strings and walks away clean.”

Her voice dropped, sharp and cold. “And look at who they’ve taken. The forgotten. The lowborn. People no one would come searching for. They're careful. Daring, yes—but not mad enough to touch our children. And if they ever tried… the ānwēji would paint the stones with their blood.”

Daemon’s face shifted—fury, then understanding, then something close to relief. His shoulders dropped.

“You’ve thought it all through,” he said quietly. “That’s why you asked for the ānwēji.”

She said nothing. Her silence was answer enough. A moment passed before he spoke again. “What of Rhaenys and Laena? Should we warn them? Place guards with them as well?”

She considered his words. “No,” she said at last.

He turned to her sharply, confusion flickering across his face.

Before he could protest, she held up a hand. “Read the letters. All the ones taken were from King’s Landing—except Septa Maegelle. Even she was seized while traveling here. To reach the Eyrie, they had to pass through Riverrun, through Harenhall—lands Larys knows as well as the back of his hand. If they had truly meant to strike at House Velaryon or Celtigar, they wouldn’t have needed to cloak their actions under the banners of Hightower or the Faith of the Seven. Who would dare question a deed done in the name of charity and piety? The people would believe those children were granted better lives, safer futures. Hightower is wealthy, the Faith revered. Their names carry the weight of virtue, leaving no room for suspicion.”

She paused, her eyes sharp, before adding, "Still, we shall place ānwēji with Rhaenys, Laenor, Laena, and their children. No need to raise alarms just yet. But we will be ready. Let Otto think his rats still scurry unseen beneath our floorboards."

NO ONE POV

It had been Rhaenyra’s idea, the masquerade ball. A touch of whimsy wrapped in silk and shadow, meant to dazzle and to unsettle, to show Westeros that the blood of Old Valyria still burned hot and bright in the Vale. Two moons before the day, she sent out invitations written in her own hand—each sealed in blue wax with Arryn’s sigil impressed upon it. Within them, she had penned a simple decree: come not as yourself, but as beast or legend, history or myth. Masks were not only encouraged, but required.

And so they came.

The courtyard had been transformed into a dream of marble, glass, and gilded illusions. Once a place of quiet reflection and trickling fountains, it now bore the grandeur of a high festival: chandeliers hung like stars from vaulted archways, their crystals catching the flame of countless lanterns and scattering it into a thousand diamonds across the polished blue-and-white floor. Pale columns twined with ivy and hanging roses ringed the ballroom, sheltering banquet tables draped in deep blue cloth and set with golden cakes, sugared figs, and roasted swan stuffed with orange and cloves.

Beyond the archways, the garden loomed dark and lush, fireflies blinking in the foliage like wayward spirits. The scent of lemon blossoms mixed with spiced wine and the rich smoke of roast duck. Music floated like silk from unseen minstrels: soft, eerie melodies played on high harps and narrow flutes, their notes laced with mystery.

The nobility of the Vale were in attendance, resplendent in masks and flowing silks. The Strong and Beesbury clans mingled with the Celtigars, Masseys, and Velaryons. Envoys from Pentos, draped in jewel-toned robes, bowed beside emissaries of the Golden Empire of Yi Ti, whose long-sleeved gowns shimmered like oil upon water.

Some nobles chose to become beasts: a lady of House Corbray wore the plumage of a raven, her mask carved from obsidian; a Elinda Massey’s father arrived cloaked in silver-scaled cloth, posing as a sea serpent. Others embodied legend: one man came as Garth Greenhand, bedecked in leaves and amber; a Laena Celtigar’s daughter, Rhaena Celtigar, flitted through the crowd like Nymeria reborn, her veil stitched with tiny ships.

Laena Velaryon Celtigar had braided her silver curls high and wore black leathers laced with rubies, mimicking Visenya Targaryen. She had no sword, but she had the dragon—Vhagar, the eldest of them all, once ridden by Visenya herself. It was this legacy Laena invoked, and with it, a queen's aura. Her look drew more than passing stares; many guests bowed to her as they would to a queen of old.

Laughter rippled through the air as guests tried to guess one another’s guises. “Is that a lion or a manticore?” one lady whispered to her husband. “I believe it’s supposed to be Lann the Clever,” he replied, peering beneath the golden mask. Children darted about, capes fluttering, as their nurses tried in vain to keep track of them.

Then the herald’s horn rang out—a clear, silver call that cut through the revelry. “The House of Arryn!” he bellowed. Heads turned as the great doors swung open. Every noble of the Vale, from bannermen to their children, bowed their heads in unison. A hush fell over the ballroom, as if the very walls recognized the blood that ruled these mountains.

Lady Amanda Arryn entered first, regal in a sweeping gown trimmed with falcon feathers, her silver mask gleaming with etched detail. Her presence commanded silence, then admiration. Beside her walked Jeyne, younger and lighter on her feet, her gown a marvel of design—long, airy sleeves spread like butterfly wings, painted with soft blues and greens. Her mask was adorned with crystal butterflies that caught the light with every step.

Vaegon followed, robed in deep bronze and green, dressed in the likeness of King Jaehaerys, down to the antique fastenings on his cloak. And then came the head of Arryn family, Rhaenyra Arryn and her brood, each a dragon in their own right.

Rhaenyra’s gown glimmered with scales of golden silk, a likeness of Syrax. Her mask, green like her dragon’s eyes, hid none of her power. Daemon, her shadow and flame, wore carmine and ash, a fearsome echo of Caraxes with crimson-tinted horns rising from his helm. Jacaerys was clad in deep sapphire and silvered black, his cape fanned like wings—Vermax incarnate. Lucrezia’s silken dress bore pale lilac and frost-white scales, evoking Arrax in flight. Young Harion toddled in golden-brown robes, embroidered with curling lines like Tyraxes’ tail.

The children had their own corner—a puppet stage stood beneath a tree strung with glowing lanterns, where laughing boys and girls watched tales of knights and dragons unfold. Cries of delight echoed from there, mixing with the grown-up laughter and clinking cups.

“What say you take your cousin for a dance, lad?” Daemon said at last, his voice a low purr, smooth as velvet but with an edge to it. He did not quite smile, though the glint in his eye came close. Jace nodded, ever so slightly, toward the long table where House Velaryon and Celtigar were seated, laughter rising over cups of wine. Laena sat between her husband, Ser Clement Celtigar, and their daughter—eight-year-old Rhaena. Her silver hair had been braided in twin coils, held with little garnet pins shaped like her grandfather, Lord Corlys Velaryon’s Sea-snake ship.

Jace followed Daemon’s gaze and smiled, shy but resolute.

He rose from the high table and descended the steps, and as he did, the room shifted Dancers slowed mid-step, the music dipped into a murmur, and voices faltered into quiet. Even the torches seemed to flicker lower, casting longer shadows. Something in the air changed—not tense, but expectant. The revelers didn’t know why they stilled, only that they were witnessing a pause between heartbeats, a thread of silence stretched thin.

Jace reached the Velaryon-Celtigar table and bowed first to Laena and Clement.
“My lord, my lady,” he said with measured courtesy, “may I ask permission to dance with your daughter?”

Laena’s smile was slow, almost amused, but warm. Clement inclined his head in silent approval.

Then Jace turned to Rhaena, and with the poise of a boy raised in courts, he offered a small bow and extended his hand.
“Would you do me the honor, cousin?”

Rhaena hesitated for a breath, then slipped her hand into his.

The musicians struck up a livelier tune—The Maiden’s Mirth, a Riverlands reel meant for nimble feet and youthful joy. The rhythm was steady, the melody bright, laced with laughter and memory.

Together, they stepped into the center of the floor.

Their movements weren’t the slow, sweeping glides of courtly lovers, but the bright, skipping turns of childhood: a clasp of hands, a mirrored twirl, a playful swing and catch. Rhaena’s veil fluttered like sails in a summer wind, her feet as light as seafoam. Jace’s cape flared with each turn, his boots striking the floor in a dragon-wing rhythm. As the music swelled, Rhaena looked up at Jace with wide, curious eyes behind her veil.

“My grandsire and granddam,” she said, her voice light and clear, “they said I’m to marry you one day.”

Jace blinked behind his dragon mask, but did not falter. “Did they?” he asked.

She nodded. “They said it’s what’s expected. That it’s my duty.”

He turned her gently beneath his arm, the movement careful, protective. “Do you want to?”

Rhaena hesitated. “I don’t know. I suppose I should.”

“You don’t need to think about that now,” he said, voice low beneath the strings and drums. “Not yet. You’re still little.”

“I’m eight,” she said, chin lifted.

He smiled. “And wise you are. But for a long while yet, I won’t be your betrothed—not truly. What I can be is your friend. Your cousin. Your big brother—if you’ll let me.” He took her hand once more as the tempo quickened, guiding her into a more intricate step. His touch was steady, his palm warm against hers. “When you’re older,” he said, “and if you still want to marry me—if you’re certain—I’ll be here. I’ll wait. I’ll stand where you can always find me.”

Her face softened. “Do you promise?”

“I swear it,” Jace replied solemnly. “By the name of my mother.”

Then, as the music began to fade into silence, Prince Reggio of Pentos strode to the center of the dance floor, drawing the gaze of all from the Arryn heir and the Sea Snake’s granddaughter to himself. "A gift for the heir," he proclaimed, his voice thick with the weight of his Pentoshi accent, yet clear enough to be understood by all. At his words, the nobles who had once filled the floor with their light steps and fluttering gowns slowly retreated, clearing the space as though it were a stage set for the performance the Prince of Pentos had prepared. He clapped his hands once, and at the signal, dancers spilled onto the floor, their movements quick and practiced, as if they had awaited this moment for hours.

Masked and barefoot, the dancers moved in unison to a strange, pulsing rhythm—arms rising like fire, voices chanting in a cadence that stirred the soul. The tale was that of Daemon Targaryen, but told not in words—in motion, in flame, in breath.

First came the drums, deep and foreboding, as dancers in crimson whirled and struck the floor with the heels of their feet, embodying the bloodshed of the Stepstones. Their masks were fierce—painted with snarling mouths and jagged lines like old scars. They spun and clashed like warriors locked in battle, then melted into a serpent-like flow.

Next came veiled figures in silver and midnight blue, weaving around the crimson dancers in a ritual of pact and union—Velaryon sails rising behind them, their masks shaped like waves, their arms forming a bridge. Then, suddenly, a figure in deepest red burst into the scene, his movements sharp and serpentine. Caraxes.

With arms undulating like wings and his voice hissing through clenched teeth, the dragon danced alone and then with his rider. Daemon's spirit, masked in black and scarlet with a crown of flame, leapt into the fray. Their steps merged—man and dragon bound in rhythm. The fire rose higher.

The entire stage flared as if consumed by invisible heat. The final movement was a whirlwind: dancers forming rings of flame, gods with antlered masks, lovers with silver eyes, monsters with twisted horns. All collided and fell away until only Caraxes and Daemon remained, back-to-back, surrounded by a halo of red light.

Then stillness.

The silence that followed felt holy.

And then came the applause—roaring, endless, like a storm loosed across the ballroom.

“A fine gift,” muttered Lord Corlys. “Reggio has outdone himself again.”

“It makes me wonder what Yi Ti will offer,” said a his wife, Rhaenys Targaryen.

They did not wait long.

Dowager Empress Han, resplendent in her many-layered silks and a golden mask shaped like a phoenix, stood and raised a single hand. “Look to the skies,” she said, and her voice carried despite its softness. At first, there was nothing. The guests tilted their heads, blinking toward the stars.

Then came the sound—a crack like thunder. Gasps followed as bursts of red, blue, and silver fire bloomed above the courtyard, streaking across the night in shimmering arcs. Fireworks exploded one after another, painting the heavens with dragons, flowers, and spirals that burst and bled into each other.

Children shrieked with delight as golden sparks painted the sky. Lords leaned in to murmur their awe, and even the stoic knights—men carved from duty and silence—allowed themselves a smile. Above them, the night bloomed in fire and color, a thousand stars dancing to the music of drums and flutes.

“She has brought the very stars down to us,” whispered a boy dressed in a makeshift suit of mail, his helm fashioned from painted wood.

“How did she do it?” asked another child, her eyes wide with wonder.

As the final firework burst high above, casting the courtyard in a brilliant shade of blue, silence fell like a soft snowfall over the revelers. All heads turned toward the heart of the celebration, where young Jacaerys Arryn stood at the edge of the dancers, caught between boyhood and the heavy shadow of the future.

He looked small then, for all his noble blood—a boy flushed with excitement, his silver curls tousled by the wind, his velvet mask slightly askew. But there was a fire in his eyes, bright and earnest, and a hush of anticipation as he stepped forward.

Lady Amanda gave him a subtle nod, and Jace drew a steadying breath.

In his hand, he held a small silver goblet. It trembled, though not from fear—only the weight of knowing eyes. His cloak, olive green trimmed with red, shimmered as he raised the cup.

“Um… thank you. Everyone. For coming,” he said, voice high and clear, if a touch uncertain.

A few gentle chuckles stirred among the crowd—warm, indulgent, the laughter of kin watching a child grow before their eyes.

“I want to thank Uncle—uh, Prince Reggio,” Jace continued, catching himself with a sheepish grin, “and the royal House of Han for the gift. I’ve never seen anything like it,” he added, wonder creeping into his voice. “Not in the Eyrie… not even in the books Maester Gerardys makes me read.”

Laughter rippled louder then, and even Daemon let slip a rare smile.

Jace laughed with them, but when he spoke again, his tone had changed—more solemn now, more certain. He stood a little straighter.

“My mother taught me that the strength of a realm lies not in stone walls or steel blades, but in its people. I believe that if we set aside our quarrels and stand as one, we will be as unshakable as the mountains that cradle our Vale.”

He glanced toward his mother, whose proud smile was radiant beneath the torchlight.

“And just like tonight,” Jace went on, “when laughter rings louder than titles, and all arms are open—may that feeling endure, even after you return to your own lands. Let it linger, let it grow. Let us live in harmony, in prosperity, and together, may we strengthen the Vale.”

He lifted his goblet higher, and a hundred others followed.

“So I want to give a toast,” he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard. “Not just to me, but to all of us here tonight. To the Vale.”

“To the Vale,” the crowd echoed, voices ringing beneath the stars.

The next day,

Rhaenyra sat beneath the gazebo, steam curling from her cup, the warmth of the tea a small defiance against the bitter breath of winter. The garden lay still, save for the whisper of wind through frostbitten branches. After the feast for Jace’s nameday, her personal maid, Hana, had informed her that several lords were preparing their return. They waited only for the year’s final audience, to speak their reports and seek her judgment before retreating to their holds.

House Sunderland, she knew, would press the matter of the new isolation prison rising on Longsister. A cold place for cold men—murderers, rapists, and reavers now caged apart from petty thieves and starving pickpockets. Too often, the wolves devoured the lambs. It had been her and Daemon’s decision, born not of cruelty but of bitter wisdom. Isolation, she had come to learn, could unmake a man faster than any blade.

She knew it well—from her dreams, and from waking life. In the silent years after her father wed Alicent, isolation had clawed at her like a shadow. And in those fever-born visions of a future torn by fire and betrayal, it was not war that broke her—it was the silence. The walls. The absence.

A sigh slipped from her lips, carried on mist. Revenge, always revenge. She had foreseen it. Yet what if her foresight failed her? Mistakes were a luxury she could no longer afford. Ever since learning of the blood rituals, her thoughts had become a storm, every moment another path unraveled, another threat imagined.

Then came the voice—firm, clear—Ser Lorent’s call from the archway.

“The Dowager Empress Han, Your Grace.”

She arrived cloaked in winter silk, her footsteps soft, but the presence unmistakable. Behind her trailed silent attendants bearing the familiar lacquered box. “I sought you in your chambers,” Dowager Empress Han said, lowering herself across from her. “Your guard said you’d chosen the snow instead.”

She offered the old woman a faint smile, her gaze drifting to the lacquered box cradled in the Empress’s hands. “Xiangqi?” she asked, amusement flickering at the corners of her mouth.

The Dowager Empress gave no answer, but her eyes glimmered with quiet mischief. With delicate fingers, she set the box on the low table between them and undid the clasp. It clicked open with a sound like distant thunder—soft, solemn, final. The box creaked as she opened it, not from age or disuse, but from the weight of craftsmanship too fine to yield easily. She lifted the lid as one might a coffin’s cover: reverent, careful, and with just enough disdain to show it wasn’t the first she’d buried. Inside, the pieces lay cradled in folds of padded silk, each carved to perfection, each in its place—waiting.

She took out the board first, unfolding it with a sharp snap. The center seam flattened under her palm, squares of worn cream and polished black glinting in the winter light. She rotated it twice, aligning it so the light square fell at her right hand—just as she had been taught long ago in her youth.

Then came the pawns.

Rhaenyra leaned forward, eyes narrowing. These were not the same pieces she remembered from her time in Yi Ti. The pawns were different—subtly, purposefully. The shape, the hue, the feel of them was unfamiliar. Stranger still was the way they stood: proud, purposeful, as if they had not been born to die for others.

“New one?” she asked, voice low with curiosity.

Dowager Empress Han said nothing, only smiled and began to set the pieces in their ranks. One by one, she placed them with the care of a general preparing for war. When she finished, Rhaenyra looked again. And frowned.

The queens caught her eye first—twin towers crowned in silver filigree. One gleamed white, the other a deep, uncanny jade green.

Towers.

Hightower.

Recognition struck her like cold water. She studied the board anew, heart tightening in her chest. Each piece… each shape… they were not abstract. They were not meant to be. These were representations—of enemies, of threats yet to come. And curiously, glaringly, none bore resemblance to her or those sworn to her cause.

No dragons. No crabs. No ship. No black.

Only those who sworn to Aegon’s cause.

Her gaze lifted toward the Dowager Empress, but before she could ask, the first move was made. The Empress placed a pawn in silence. No words passed between them for a while. None were needed. The board had begun to speak.

They played in silence, every move slow, deliberate, laden with meaning.

A jade rook slid into place, closing a file and trapping a black bishop in its shadow. A jet queen stormed the ranks in answer, tearing through two pawns before falling back to the safety of its king. The knights danced, ever sidestepping, never direct—like secrets whispered in court, or blades drawn just out of sight.

They played in silence—each move slow, deliberate, and filled with unspoken weight.

A jade rook slid down the file, pinning a black bishop between its square and doom. In answer, a jet-black queen surged forward, carving through two pawns before retreating into the dark. The knights wove between lines like dancers with daggers, strange in their sidesteps, always arcing where others struck straight. Each time Rhaenyra gained ground, the Dowager Empress Han reshaped the board—not through brute force, but with the patience of one who had buried a hundred empires. She gave Rhaenyra space to strike, to reach too far, to falter. And while her attention was drawn to queens and towers, the pawns crept forward. One square at a time. Always overlooked. Always dismissed. Until they were not.

“You press hard through the center,” Dowager Empress Han said at last, her jade fingers settling a pawn two spaces ahead. “Yet the strongest gates are not always taken by force. Sometimes… they open from within.”

The queen withdrew. The rook struck sideways, a cold, clean kill. Another knight was lost in a corner skirmish—sacrificed, but not without drawing blood. Then came the moment. Dowager Empress Han reached down with a still hand and picked up a simple jade pawn, plain and unadorned, and sent it cutting diagonally.

The jet bishop vanished.

Rhaenyra froze—not from the loss, but from the realization.

The trap had closed.

Dowager Empress Han advanced the pawn again. Then another. Her rook followed next, slipping silently to seal the flank.

And Rhaenyra’s king stood cornered.

She breathed out slowly. Her fingers hovered over her queen, seeking a path, a line, an escape—but there was none. The board had gone quiet. Her king stood still. And just beside him, rested the pawn. Waiting. Dowager Empress Han did not smile, but her voice was soft—soft, and cold as winter rain.

“They say pawns are the least of our pieces,” she murmured, eyes never leaving the board. “Silent. Small. Meant only to die so others may rule.” Her fingers brushed the piece forward, one final step. “Yet in war, as in Xiangqi, true intent is not shouted. It is whispered. A feint here. A sacrifice there. Not to dazzle—but to deceive.” Her hand lingered on the pawn.

“Even the lowliest may cross the board and rise. With care… with patience… even they may strike at kings. Or queens.”

And in that moment, Rhaenyra understood. She saw why there were two queens shaped as towers. Why the lion and deer bore no matching colors. Why one of the green pawns had been carved like a miniature Hightower, flecked with white. She understood the message. The warning. The lesson. She looked across the board at the old woman. Her voice was steady, cool.

“They cannot checkmate alone.”

The wind stirred the Dowager Empress Han’s silk sleeve as she gazed upward, her voice soft as snowfall yet edged like steel. “No. But they rarely move alone. And in the right hands, even a pawn may become the blade that ends the game.” She bent then, fingers deftly restoring the pieces to their place. “Daemon has told me everything,” she said. “The truth of it, the heart of it. And I believe you chose well.”

Her eyes lingered on the board, a quiet storm behind them. “Remember today’s match. Remember this; Every pawn dreams of becoming more. All it takes is a nudge, a whisper, a little chaos. And suddenly, the loyal pawn forgets it was ever chained at all—only that its teeth are sharp, and the master bleeds.” With that, she rose from her seat, regal and deliberate.

“Yi Ti and Pentos stand with you,” she said, and her departure was as silent as falling ash.

Rhaenyra remained, seated still as stone—but within her, the storm had shifted. The doubts she had harbored—about vengeance, about the wisdom of patience, about whether to strike or to wait—vanished like snowflakes in the wind, melted by a fire newly kindled.

Four moons later, and two weeks before journey to King’s Landing.

Rhaenyra’s POV

Sleep had fled her. It clung to Daemon still, heavy as fog on Blackwater Bay, but for her, the night yielded no peace. Rhaenyra stirred beneath the coverlets, the linen tangled around her legs like seaweed, sweat damp on her collar. The air was cool in the chamber, yet she burned within. She turned her head. Daemon lay beside her, bare-chested, face slack in dreamless rest. His hand twitched once beneath the furs, but he did not wake.

She slipped from the bed in silence, feet finding the cold stones as she reached for her night-robe draped across the arm of a carved chair. The silk whispered against her skin as she wrapped it tight, hiding the thinness of her nightgown. A chill ran through her bones—though whether it came from the Eyrie’s high winds or from within her heart, she could not say. The hall outside was dim, lit only by a single torch set in the wall. Two knights stood posted at her door, unmoving—Ser Lorent Marbrand and Ser Oswell Redfort. She saw their backs straighten as the door opened with a soft groan.

“Your Grace?” Ser Oswell asked, his voice low.

“I wish to walk,” Rhaenyra said. “Alone.”

Ser Oswell exchanged a glance with Ser Lorent. “Shall I follow at a distance, my lady?”

She shook her head. “No. I only mean to pray. Let the gods be my guards tonight.”

The knight’s mouth tightened, but he dipped his head in assent. “Very well, Your Grace.”

She lit her own candle from the torch before turning away, the flame flickering as she moved through the stone corridors of the Eyrie. The silence here was heavier at night, broken only by the sound of wind clawing at the mountain walls and her own soft steps echoing against old stone.

The path to the garden tonight feels like a memory—familiar yet distant. Through the quiet courtyard, she found the small sept nestled in the heart of the garden, a modest building of pale stone and ivy-clung walls. The door creaked faintly as she pushed it open. Within, shadows danced. Cold and still, the air tasted of old incense and ash. The scent clung to the timbers, to the altar stones, to the memory of those who once breathed here.

Her candle cast its light upon the first figure she saw—a likeness of her grandmother, Princess Daella, wrought in marble, pale and sweet-faced. At the base of the statue sat an urn, its surface worn smooth with time. The candles about it had long since guttered out, their wicks drowned in hardened wax. She bent to them in silence. One by one, she lit them anew—seven flames to honor the Seven, though it was not them she had come to speak with. She watched the flames take hold, each wick flaring bright, their soft light catching the carved curves of her grandmother’s gentle smile.

But she had no words for her grandmother. Not tonight.

She turned and passed deeper into the chamber, toward the second alcove, where the statue of her mother stood.

Her mother, Queen Aemma’s likeness was sterner than her grandmother’s—older, wiser, her brow lined with wear, her hands folded over her belly. At her feet lay the urn, carved with the sigil of House Arryn. The sight of it, even now, drew the breath from her lungs.

She stood still a long while, the candle trembling faintly in her grasp.

She drew closer to the statue then, until she stood near enough to trace the cold contours of her mother’s stone gaze. The sculptor had captured her mother’s eyes with startling care—wide and wise, though weary, as if even in death she had borne too much. She stared into them as if they might blink, might answer, might see her.

Her voice was barely more than a breath.

“Hello, Mother.” She lowered the candle to the floor, the flame casting flickering shadows across the folds of the stone gown that draped the statue like frozen silk.

She began to clear the dry flowers that circled the urn. As her hands moved—gently, reverently—she spoke, whether to the urn or the statue or the chill Vale wind, she could not say. She simply spoke, as though speech might lighten the weight that would not let her sleep. “Daemon says Jace is progressing well with his training. He’s already had a sword forged for him.” A faint, wistful smile ghosted across her lips. “He’s clever. Obedient. Responsible. It confuses me sometimes, truly, because I know neither I nor Daemon were like that at his age.”
She plucked a few fresher flowers from the offerings and placed them at the statue’s feet.
“Daemon says Jace takes after you. I think he’s right. You were always the one who did what was expected of you, weren’t you, Mother?”

A quiet breeze stirred her hair, and she closed her eyes for a moment before continuing.
“Lucrezia... she's a sweet child. Obedient, too. Aunt Amanda says Lucy reminds her of Grandmother Daella. She’s pious and soft-spoken.” A soft chuckle escaped her lips. “Daemon dotes on her. You were right, Mother. Daemon was made to father a daughter.” She laughed lightly then, pausing as if expecting someone to join her. But only silence answered.
“Lucy’s read the whole of The Seven-Pointed Star holy book now. All seven prayers, she knows them by heart. Isn’t that something?” Her voice grew softer. “She prays each evening before the sun dips behind the mountains, just like you used to. I remember.”

Her fingers drifted over the urn. “Harion…” she said with a small shake of her head. “That one is mine. Daemon says he’s like him too, when he was a boy. Wild and stubborn.” Her voice warmed. “But he’s kind, Mother. Did you know that whenever we eat lemon cakes, he gives me the sugared lemon topping from his slice?” She laughed again, more fully this time, a sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. “Of course, he takes a bite from my cake in return. Calls it fair trade.” Her gaze lifted to the statue’s face, carved and unmoving, yet somehow still watching.

A long breath slipped from her lips. Her hand trembled as she placed the candle down.

“Mother... I’m going to King’s Landing,” she whispered.

Her fingers fidgeted with the ring on her hand, twisting it, loosening it, tightening it again. Her voice dropped to a fragile murmur. “How did you do it? How did you survive it all?”

“How did you forgive him?” Her voice trembled now. “How did you draw him into your arms again and again, even after seeing the disappointment in his eyes carved itself deeper with each moon? Even when he looked at you and saw only what you could not give him?”

She swallowed. The air tasted of dust and long-dead flowers.

“He wanted a son,” she said, her voice sharp with old wounds. “And now he has them—three, even. Yet I hear he scarcely spares them a thought.” Her lips curled, bitter as ash. “Strange, isn’t it? That after all those years, after all your pain, after all the times he made you try again and again, made you bear the weight of his hopes and your grief like a yoke—he finally have his sons, and still feel nothing.”

Her breath caught. Her voice was barely more than a whisper now.

“I hated that most of all,” she said. “The way he never saw you. Not truly. Not the way you faded. Not how the joy drained out of your eyes and your smile grew thinner with each passing moon. He looked past you. He looked through you.”

She stepped closer, one hand rising toward the statue’s face but stopping short of touch.

“Why did you love him still?”

The silence after the question was heavy. The candle sputtered, then stilled. her throat ached.

“You should have hated him,” she whispered, her voice raw, trembling like a half-broken reed in the wind. “Only a fool would still love a man like Father.”

The silence of the sept pressed in around her, thick and unmoved, as if even the stone itself was too ashamed to answer. Her gaze lingered on the likeness of her mother—carved in pale marble, serene and soft-eyed, as if she had known no pain, no betrayal. “He killed you with his hopes." She said, her voice breaking like a snapped string. "Hollowed you out with it, year after year, planting dreams in your womb and cursing you when they came out wrong. He buried you beneath the weight of sons that never were.” She clenched her jaw, as though trying to hold back the sob crawling up her throat.

“So why,” she choked, “why is it I carry the anger? Why am I the one left to curse him, when you were the one he broke?”

Her knees gave way, and she collapsed to the foot of the statue, the stone as cold as the void blooming inside her. Her hand found the marble hem of her mother’s likeness, and she clung to it like a drowning girl clutches driftwood.

“You should be here,” she whispered, “alive and bitter and furious, spitting his name like poison with me.” Her tears came then, slow at first, then relentless—like the storm she had held back for years.

“And Mother…” Her voice cracked, barely more than a breath against the mountain wind. “I think I still… I still love him.” The words fell like stones, hard and unforgiving, and once spoken, she could not call them back. Her knees buckled, and she sank to the statue’s feet, one trembling hand pressed to the cold marble as though her mother's strength might pass into her through stone.

“Does that make me a fool?” she whispered, her face tilting up toward the serene, unchanging face above. “Is that what I am now, Mother? A fool who still loves the man who broke every promise he ever made to her?”

Her breath hitched, tears slipping freely now, unbidden and unashamed.
“He swore,” she choked out. “He placed his hands in mine, and he swore. That I was his heir, his blood, his pride. He looked me in the eye and told me that I could be a great ruling queen. But now…” Her fingers curled into the folds of her gown, clenching as the storm within her rose.

“Now he’s named her son in my place. The son of that woman.” The bitterness in her voice did not mask the pain beneath. “And still… still I find it in my heart to forgive him.” Her shoulders trembled with each word.

“Because in the dream, Mother… in that awful dream, where I lost everything and the world turned against me… he didn’t. He didn’t.” Her tears fell faster. “Even when I had earned only scorn, even when the blade should’ve taken my head, he stood beside me. He shielded me. He used the last of his strength—his last breath—to defend me.” A sound escaped her, low and raw, halfway between a sob and a prayer. She bowed her head and pressed her brow to the stone, the cold biting into her skin.

“What do I do?” she wept. “Tell me. Tell me how to let go of a father who chose another, yet still lives in the corners of my heart. Tell me how to stop forgiving someone who stopped loving me first.” The Vale winds howled through the high peaks, carrying her sorrow out into the night, but offering no answer. Only silence. Only stone.

She did not know how long she had wept there, only that her sobs had faded when she felt arms close around her. Startled, she lifted her head—and found herself in her aunt’s embrace. At the sight of her, the tears returned with greater force, and she broke again, clutching her aunt’s cloak in trembling hands, burying her face against her shoulder.

“Why did she have to leave me?” she cried. “Why would the gods be so cruel?”

Her aunt held her without words, firm and warm as the mountain wind that wrapped the Vale. she wept until her voice cracked and her tears ran dry. And when at last her breathing calmed, she began to speak. Everything tumbled out of her—the dreams, the book Uncle Vaegon had brought from faraway lands, her reason for agreeing to attend Aegon’s wedding, and her longing to repay what had been done to her with fire and vengeance.

Her aunt said nothing. Her face shifted, grief and sorrow flickering across her features like the light of the candle between them, but she made no sound, only listened—silent, patient, enduring. And when she had poured out the last of her burdens, her aunt wiped the salt from her cheeks and kissed her brow, gentle and soft, just as her mother used to do. Just as she now did for her own children. They sat for a while without speaking, as still and quiet as the statues around them. She sighed, long and low, her voice rough with all she had endured.

“I… I am ready, Aunt. I’ve prepared everything. But Father… what am I to do with him?” she asked, covering her face with her hands. She had tried—gods knew she had tried—to hate him. But she could not. Even in the stillness of solitude, when no eyes watched and no voices whispered, she had come to see it plainly: she had forgiven him. She did not know when it happened. Perhaps it had always been so. And the thought terrified her.

What would she do when she stood before him again?

Letters from Catherine had painted a grim picture, and her aunt, Rhaenys had whispered of worse. The King, her father was dying, they said—wasting away. Her dream had shown her the same: not a death swift and sudden, but long and cruel, a slow dance with pain that stole the breath and broke the bones. And yet even then, in her dream, even as agony bent him near to the grave, he had stood for her. Again and again, he had stood for her.

“I’ve forgiven him,” she whispered, “but I do not know if I still love him.”

Her voice was small now, thin as the Vale wind in the dark.

“Do you think I do, Aunt? Do you think… that I still love him?”

Aunt Amanda did not answer at once. Instead, she reached out and touched her niece’s face, gently turning it toward her own. Their eyes met, and in her aunt’s gaze, she saw no judgment—only understanding.

"Do you know," she asked, voice no louder than the wind through dying leaves, "what the purest shape of love is?" She did not wait for an answer. Her gaze was far away—beyond the stone walls, beyond the years. "Forgiveness," she said.

“Not the kind of love that is asked for, or earned, or spoken aloud,” her aunt said softly, stroking her hand with the gentlest touch. “No… the kind that aches to give. The kind that hollows you out. Because to forgive—truly forgive—is to carry the burden they should have borne. And still, we do it. We carry it. Because we loved them. And… some small, aching part of us still does.” Her words cut with quiet truth, like a blade dulled not by rust, but sorrow.

“You asked whether you still love your father,” she said, her voice as soft as snowfall. “Sweetheart, you’ve already answered. You forgave him—even after all he did, even when your heart broke for it. That is love. Not because he earned it. Not because he deserves it. But because once, you loved him. And love, real love, remembers.”

She smiled faintly, though her eyes glistened. “Forgiveness is not weakness, child. It is the cruelest kind of strength.”

Aunt Amanda’s hand cupped her cheek now, warm and grounding.

“And if you ask what you must do with him… I think you already know,” she said, guiding her to her feet with a quiet grace. “It cannot be me. And it cannot be Aemma, not anymore. It must be you. You alone may decide what is to be done with that man.”

Her smile tilted, almost mischievous now, like spring sunlight breaking through grey cloud. “Now come. Let’s go inside. I’ll have the cook prepare you something warm. Perhaps a bit of broth to soothe your throat—and after that, we might speak of your vengeance, if it pleases you.”

She gave a small nod. The turmoil that had gripped her heart like a vice seemed looser now, the cold in her chest giving way to something warmer. Steadier. Before they left the tomb, she paused and turned, her eyes lingering on the stone effigy of her mother—still, serene, and etched forever in silence.

“Avy jorrāelan naejot rūklon zirȳ,”she whispered. Then she turned, and followed her aunt into the light.

One moon later, two moons before the marriage of Crown Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena.

The Red Keep, King’s Landing

Ser Harrold Westerling’s POV

The Red Keep was a hive of activity, its ancient stone corridors alive with the rustle of silk and the murmur of hurried footsteps. Servants moved with purpose, arms laden with bolts of fabric and baskets of fresh blooms, their faces flushed with the exertion of preparing for the impending nuptials. Banners bearing the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen and the moon-falcon of House Arryn were being unfurled, their vibrant colors catching the light streaming through the high windows.

He stood sentinel near the King’s Tower, his white cloak billowing gently in the breeze. His gaze swept over the courtyard below, where the preparations were in full swing. Yet, his thoughts were elsewhere, drawn inexorably to the name that had stirred something deep within him,

Princess Rhaenyra.

He remembered her as a child, a whirlwind of silver hair and infectious laughter, darting through the halls in gowns too fine for such antics. She had never shown an interest in swordplay, preferring the elegance of courtly life—the shimmer of jewels, the rustle of silks, the intricate dance of politics. Yet, there was a steel beneath her finery, a sharpness of mind and will that belied her youthful exuberance.

He recalled a day in the courtyard when the boys of the court were being put through their drills. Princess Rhaenyra, no more than ten, sat in the gallery with her septa and Lady Laena beside her, picking at sugared dates from a tray. When a squire from Redwyne made some jest—crude, stupid, about ladies playing at queenship—Princess Rhaenyra had not even looked up from her sweet.

She didn’t even blink. She set her sweet down, smiled sweetly, and said, “One of us will inherit the realm. The other will spend their life polishing someone else’s boots. Shall we compare worth again, ser?”

The laughter that followed had been cruel. Merciless, in truth. The boy, red-faced and floundering, had been undone by nothing more than a sentence. She had felled him without so much as rising from her seat—no blade drawn, no bruises traded in the yard, only words, honed sharp as any sword. From that day forth, the lords grew wary of their tongues in her presence. No one wished to be shamed in the sight of their peers. And should they be, who among them could punish the princess? None dared. Not when her uncle might feed them to his dragon for the insult.

At the thought of Prince Daemon, he could only sigh. When news first reached his ears of the prince and princess wed, doubt had taken root. He had known how deeply the prince adored his niece, yes, but that was when she was only that—his niece, not his wife. Love, after all, was a different beast when shackled to duty. And Prince Daemon’s cruelties toward his first wife, Lady Rhea Royce, were no secret in the court. Who would shield the princess then, especially after she left the Red Keep behind and made her home in the Eyrie?

But those doubts had withered nine years past.

He had stood beside the king during the wedding of Lady Laena, daughter to Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys, and again during a royal visit to Gulltown. It was there he saw the truth of it. The princess glowed—no, shone—with happiness, as if some long-extinguished flame had rekindled itself in her chest. A light he had believed snuffed out the day Queen Aemma died.

And the source of that light was Daemon.

Prince Daemon did not merely love her—he protected her.

Princess Rhaenyra was no fool, no innocent maiden to be led astray by a charming whisper. She was clever, sharp as dragonsteel. If she had chosen Prince Daemon, it was not by manipulation or force of will—it was because she knew what she wanted, and what she needed. He knew his princess was clever—cleverer than most—and the tales of her triumphs only proved it true. Word of how she had brought prosperity to the Vale through wit and will reached even the Red Keep, whispered from merchant to maester, sung in quiet halls. Brilliant ideas made flesh, her vision turning barren hills into fertile holdings.

It was a joy to serve as the king’s sworn shield—not for rank, nor for the weight of the cloak he wore—but because his post brought with it the one reward he cherished most: news of her. Of his princess. Each day, some fresh report—of grain doubled, or wells dug, or a new market risen where once there was stone and silence.

And now she was coming. She would return, and with her, she would bring her three children.

He had glimpsed the older two nine years past, on Driftmark, if only for a short while. The youngest, he had yet to meet, though he had studied the portraits sent by the Vale’s finest painters—commissioned and hung at the king’s own request. Nearly every wall in the Hall of Nine bore their likenesses now: the princess, the prince, and their children. Their faces adorned the gallery in numbers that eclipsed even those of the king and his new queen—and more still than the great portraits of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne with their noble brood.

The more fiercely Queen Alicent sought to erase all traces of the princess, the more fiercely the king seemed determined to remind his second wife just who the true mistress of the Red Keep had once been. Not with words—the King had long grown weary of argument—but through quiet acts, subtle choices, and stubborn memorials that stood like sentinels of the past. For a woman who had once called the princess her friend, Queen Alicent spent her days with remarkable devotion trying to tarnish her memory.

And truth be told, he could not fathom why. What had driven such venom from one who once laughed beside the princess in gardens and corridors? Was her present station not more than what any daughter of a second son could dream of? Had she not been raised to queen by the kindness of the very man whose daughter she now labored to destroy? Her sons stood in the line of succession. The princess had stepped aside without raising sword or voice—though she had dragons enough to darken the sky and loyal men enough to set the realm ablaze. Yet she had chosen silence. She had chosen peace.

So why such hatred?

Was it the incident with young Princess Lucrezia’s dragon, when the beast wounded both the Hand and Prince Aegon? But what fault lay with the girl, or the beast, when the prince and his grandsire crept like thieves into chambers not their own? What had Queen Alicent expected—that a Targaryen would slay her own dragon, a creature bound to her soul and blood?

One would think that after years of friendship with the princess, and as wife to the king himself, the queen might have gained some understanding of House Targaryen. But no. She remained willfully blind. As ever.

Well, what else could one expect from a woman so eager to scrub away all memory of her husband’s family—audacious, as ever, like her father before her.

He closed his eyes, willing himself not to dwell upon the queen’s manner, though his thoughts betrayed him, drawing him back to the day the tidings of his princess’s return reached the Red Keep. It had been four moons past, when Ser Harwin Strong, eldest son of Lord Lyonel, returned to court with his lady wife and their child, having spent nearly four months in the Vale.

The lady, before her marriage, had been a daughter of House Corbray, and once served as one of Princess Rhaenyra’s handmaidens. He had taken a liking to the girl—perhaps because each time she spoke of the princess, her words were steeped in respect and quiet admiration. No spite, no envy—only loyalty. Even the king had come to cherish her presence. Most afternoons, His Grace would summon her for tea, eager for her to recount a tale—just one more—of his daughter.

It was through her kin that the king came to possess the finest portraits of the princess and her household—paintings of such craftsmanship they seemed to breathe. The walls of his solar bore them proudly, as did the corridors of the Red Keep itself, where her likeness—often with her children or consort—watched over the stone halls like silent witnesses to a forgotten warmth. And it was in those simple moments of tea and soft recollection with Lord Strong’s good-daughter that he had seen the king smile again—an expression now as rare as starlight at dawn.

Four moons past, the woman had returned to the Red Keep, bearing word that the princess had agreed to attend the wedding feast of Prince Aegon and Princess Helaena. When the king learned that Lady Catherine and Ser Harwin Strong would soon depart to celebrate the nameday of his grandson, Jacaerys, he dared to hope once more.

Since their meeting nine years ago in Gulltown, the king had not laid eyes upon his daughter. The pact had been signed, the matter settled, and no official reason remained to justify a royal visit. Nor would the king impose himself upon her. He had seen the towers she raised in the Vale—high and proud—and the guards stationed with unwavering vigilance. He understood the message. He was not welcome. And he honored that.

Yet still, the King hoped.

Perhaps that was why the king cherished Lady Catherine so dearly. Through her tales, he could glimpse the life of his daughter—if only from behind the high walls she had built around the Vale... and around her heart. The King, long bent by the weight of his illness, seemed for a brief moment to shrug off the years. His back straightened, and his eyes—once dulled by pain and poppy—shone with a light that had not been seen in many a moon. He had clutched Lady Catherine’s hands with trembling fingers and, voice hoarse with hope, asked only one thing—"was it true, that my daughter had agreed to come?” The King's reaction had been one of unbridled joy, his eyes alight with a youthful gleam that had long been absent when the lady said ‘yes’

In contrast, Queen Alicent's smile had been tight, her posture rigid. The undercurrents of tension were palpable, a silent battle waged through glances and forced pleasantries. That evening, stationed outside the King's chambers, He had heard the muffled sounds of a heated argument.

"She is not Targaryen anymore! She is Arryn now. You mean to spend the realm’s coin to honor a woman who abandoned her title? This is Aegon’s wedding, not hers."

And the King answered with thunder. "And if she called herself Waters, she would still wear the blood of the dragon more truly than any in this keep. She is my daughter! And she will be received as such."

Silence fell. Then came the slam of the door. Queen Alicent had stormed past him, her face pale, tight with fury. Behind her came Ser Criston Cole, his steps too close, too practiced. He said nothing. But he saw. Perhaps it had all begun with the wedding of Lady Laena Velaryon. That, at least, was the moment he first noticed the change.

Queen Alicent had grown closer to Ser Criston Cole, far closer than a royal should ever grow to a Kingsguard sworn to celibacy. Their newfound intimacy stirred something cold in hid belly, for it reminded him too much of the days when Cole had stood at Princess Rhaenyra’s side— before the princess had departed King’s Landing and left Cole behind. What had begun as a formality—a knight walking five paces behind his queen—had evolved into something else entirely. Now they strolled shoulder to shoulder through the gardens, pausing often to share quiet words and conspiratorial laughter. What passed between their lips Harrold could not say, but what passed from them into the court, he knew too well. Whispers, half-truths, and venom in silken wrappings, carried to every ear with a hint of green in their garments.

And at the heart of it all, Princess Rhaenyra and her brood.

The tales were always the same, reshaped to suit the audience: her defiance of her father's will, her flight from the Red Keep, her bold adoption of the name Arryn in the Vale, and her marriage to Prince Daemon, the rogue prince himself. Then came the jests about how he had taken her name—a prince no more, but consort to a woman whose star seemed ever to rise. Her triumphs were spoken of with acid tongues. But the tale that endured the longest, like rot beneath a painted floor, was the one questioning the legitimacy of her youngest son, Prince Harion.

The boy had been born with a shock of soft, curling brown hair, unlike the silver-gold of his siblings. That alone was enough to fan the flames of courtly gossip. The child, it was whispered, was not Prince Daemon's but a bastard begotten in sin—a stain upon the princess’s honor. Though some said his eyes mirrored Rhaenyra’s own, others swore he bore little resemblance to her or her husband. And the queen—gods help her—had made a game of it, weaving the tale into every garden gathering, smiling sweetly as her ladies-in-waiting passed the scandal from mouth to mouth like wine at a feast.

He knew the man accused. Ser Harwin Strong. And by Seven, how absurd it was.

He could not, for all the gods old and new, fathom how Her Grace had come to such a cruel and baseless conclusion. Ser Harwin Strong was many things—a man of great strength, blunt speech, and an occasional temper that flared like wildfire—but he was not disloyal. He had been born to a house that understood the weight of duty and had carried that burden upon his broad shoulders with unflinching resolve. If he had ever faltered, Harrold Westerling had never seen it. And he had watched. One did not rise to the Lord Commander’s station without learning to see past smiles and silences alike. Harwin's affection for his lady wife, the gentle and dignified Lady Catherine, had never struck Harrold as feigned or forced. There was a comfort between them, a kind of steadiness that lesser men might call dull but which, to Harrold, had always spoken of something far rarer—trust. The quiet sort, forged over years rather than moons. A love that did not burn like wildfire but glowed like a hearth in winter.

And then there was the princess.

The friendship between the Realm’s Delight and Lady Catherine was no idle courtly thing. It was too easy, too sincere. Harrold had seen it—the way they laughed together, shoulder to shoulder like sisters of the blood. Would a woman truly smile like that, warm and unburdened, at the mother of her husband’s bastard? Would she let her children play side by side with those born of her dishonor?

Harrold thought not.

And there was yet another truth, colder and more certain than all the rest. Ser Harwin Strong would be dead, long buried and likely burnt, if Prince Daemon—the Rogue Prince, with his dragon's wrath and his unrelenting pride—had ever suspected the man of harboring unclean thoughts about his wife. Even a whisper of such desire, and Harwin’s bones would’ve fed Caraxes. The prince was many things—restless, cunning, dangerous—but blind he was not. And when it came to Rhaenyra Targaryen, he saw everything. No, Harwin may have held many secrets, but the crime the queen whispered of was not one of them.

And besides, Harwin and his family had only arrived in the Vale two moons before the first snows. Prince Harion had come into the world scarcely five months later—healthy, hale, and strong. No child born of premature scandal, but of a long-standing union.

Yet Queen Alicent’s behavior grew stranger still. Even as she fanned the flames of the rumor with one hand, she extended the other toward Lady Catherine, offering her smiles and invitations. She summoned her to luncheons, reached for her arm during strolls, and even spoke, in the presence of others, of her desire to grow closer to the lady of House Strong. What the queen hoped to gain by this two-faced game, he could not say.

Lady Catherine, for her part, responded with her usual warmth—a bright smile, a kind word, and laughter that rang like wind chimes in spring. Yet for all her cheer, she danced lightly around the queen’s overtures, never letting them land. There was a keen mind behind her mirth, and she wore her charm like armor. It was at the celebration of the royal wedding anniversary that Lady Catherine let her laughter speak sharper truths than silence ever could.

The three paintings were presented amidst the revelry of the royal wedding anniversary—gifts from Lady Catherine, unveiled not in some quiet gallery, but before the eyes of all gathered. There, beneath the high vaulted ceilings of the throne room adorned in banners and the sigils of both Targaryen and Hightower, the crowd had come to celebrate a union forged fourteen years past. But what had begun as a feast in honor of the royal wedding anniversary would, by the hour’s end, be remembered for something else entirely.

The first showed Prince Baelon and Princess Alyssa, seated with their two sons—young King Viserys at six, and rogue Prince Daemon, a wild-eyed boy of three. The second depicted Lord Rodrik Arryn and Queen Aemma in her girlhood, her hair still streaked with the soft brown of youth, not yet the pure silver of her lineage. And the final painting… it was Princess Rhaenyra, radiant, beside her prince-husband the Rogue Prince Daemon. With them stood their three children: Prince Jacaerys, solemn and sharp at eight, sweet Princess Lucrezia at seven, and little Harion at four, a mop of brown curls and eyes bright with mirth.

It was in this final portrait that truth made itself known—unspoken but undeniable. Harion's smile bore the same tilt, the same light, that once belonged to Prince Baelon, long dead but never forgotten. And in the line of his nose, the firm set of his chin, there echoed Lord Rodrik Arryn, the late Queen’s father, reborn in flesh. Blood speaks, the old men said, and here it did—louder than tongues, clearer than ink.

At first, the hall had buzzed with laughter and praise, the courtiers flitting about the queen like moths to her fire, offering blandishments in celebration of her wedding anniversary. But all that changed when King Viserys himself rose from his seat at the high table. With eyes glistening and steps slow from age and ailment, he crossed the floor in silence, stopping before the painting of his daughter and her brood. A hush fell over the room. He reached out with trembling hands and touched the face of little Harion. "By the gods," he whispered, voice thick with memory and tears, "I see my father’s smile in this boy."

The court shifted with him. Heads turned. Gazes left the queen and found the canvas. Whispers rose like wind before a storm. And from that moment forth, the day no longer belonged to Queen Alicent and her golden celebration. It belonged to the paintings Lady Catherine had brought, and to the family of Rhaenyra, though she herself was far away.

The remainder of the feast was marked not by toasts to the queen, but by hushed murmurs before the portraits—of the brave prince, the lost queen, the children of dragonseed. Courtiers studied Harion’s face more than they tasted their wine. Even the whispers of bastardy, once fanned by the queen’s allies, grew quiet that day, as if shamed into silence by a painted smile. And Queen Alicent, long fond of needling Lady Catherine with jests and subtle barbs, offered no words at all. From that day forward, no one dared question the boy’s blood—not in the king’s hearing. And Lady Catherine, ever watchful and serene, was left in peace.

He drew in a slow breath, the weight of all that had transpired in the Red Keep since Princess Rhaenyra's departure pressing down upon him. Yet, truly, it was not just after her leaving that the rot had set in; it had begun the day Queen Aemma died. His gaze shifted, turning toward the window.Down in the courtyard, the castle pulsed with life. The kitchens worked in fevered haste, the air thick with the smell of spiced wine and the rich scent of roasting meats. New rushes had been spread across the Great Hall, their fresh green color a stark contrast to the old stone. Garlands of evergreen and holly were being braided for the godswood feast, their dark green and crimson hues already beginning to fill the air with the promise of the coming celebration.

The Queen had protested, naturally. But Lord Caswell, soft-spoken and slippery as a silk ribbon, had outmaneuvered her in plain sight.

"His Grace wished it," he'd said with a half-bow. "And I am sworn to serve his Grace."

His reverie was interrupted by the approach of Lord Caswell, the Master of Revels, whose face bore a look of both excitement and concern.

"Ser Harrold," Lord Caswell greeted, inclining his head. "The preparations are proceeding apace, though I fear the Queen is less than pleased with the extravagance."

He nodded, his expression neutral. "Her Majesty's concerns are noted, but the King's wishes are clear."

Lord Caswell exhaled heavily, the breath slipping from his lips like a man unburdening himself of a truth too long held. He cast a wary glance about the corridor, eyes flicking from shadow to sconce to servant, ensuring no curious ears lingered where whispers could be turned into weapons. “Indeed,” he said at last, his voice low. “The princess’s arrival has stirred old tensions. The Queen fears her presence may cast a long shadow over the wedding.”

At that, his gaze sharpened. His tone was calm, yet there was iron beneath it, thinly veiled. “The Princess is the King’s oldest daughter,” he said, “Her presence is both appropriate and necessary.”

And so it was. No matter what the Queen whispered behind closed doors or how tightly her hand closed around the court in the king’s waning days, the truth stood firm as stone: while Viserys yet drew breath, the Red Keep would never bar its gates to Princess Rhaenyra. No queen, no council, no sermon could change that.

Still, a disquiet stirred beneath his breastplate. He had seen how bold the Queen had grown of late—bolder now than she had ever dared be in years past. With each moon’s turn, her confidence swelled like a tide encroaching upon the shore, certain that one day the sea would swallow all. Yet the King lived. And while the old king’s body may have withered, his will had not vanished entirely. So long as his heart still beat, his word was law. And now, by that law, the princess would return. Her steps would echo once more in these halls, and he would be waiting.

NO ONE POV

It was a day like any other in the capital.

The streets of King’s Landing bustled with life. Fishmongers shouted their wares by the Mud Gate, their voices rising above the clamor of cartwheels and clopping hooves. Gold cloaks marched through the alleys of Flea Bottom, sun gleaming off their mail, while septas in pale robes offered blessings by the gates of the Great Sept. In the Red Keep, servants scurried through the halls with trays of fruit and inkpots and sealed letters, while noble ladies paced gardens with parasols, murmuring gossip between sips of sweetwine. Maids scrubbed, stewards barked orders, and the great castle thrummed with the rhythm of duty and routine.

Until the rhythm broke.

It began as a rumble—low, distant, like thunder rolling over Blackwater Bay. Heads turned. Hands stilled. Then came the cry, unmistakable and terrible: a dragon’s roar, splitting the sky like a war horn. And then another, more piercing, more primal. A girl screamed. A horse reared in the street, flinging its rider into a barrel of onions.

Up above, the sky darkened—not with stormclouds, but with wings.

Syrax came first, her golden scales catching the morning sun like molten coin, her wings wide enough to cast shadow over the cobbled lanes. Behind her soared Caraxes, long and lean and blood-red, his cry a serpent’s snarl turned to thunder. The people of King’s Landing froze, breath caught in their throats. Old men crossed themselves. Children cheered. Bakers and blacksmiths abandoned their stalls to watch, awe and fear etched upon their faces. After all, it had been more than ten years since a dragon’s shadow last darkened the skies above King’s Landing.

And then, trailing the great beasts, came the younger ones—Vermax, swift and eager, green wings flashing; Arrax, his pale hide shimmering like pearl; and Tyraxes, smaller, still clumsy in flight, but proud as a prince. They flew not as wild things, but as heralds.

Five dragons circled above the Red Keep.

Inside the castle, word spread like wildfire. Servants abandoned their chores, guards turned their faces skyward, and the ladies of court forgot their embroidery frames. In the Tower of the Hand, the lords of the Small Council had been deep in deliberation—some matter of coin, grain, or border quarrels. Grand Maester Mellos had just begun a long-winded argument about provisioning when the sound came through the thick glass panes.

The King stood before the others did.

King Viserys rose from his chair with a sharpness that belied his age and ailment. For a heartbeat, he looked ten years younger. “Open the windows,” he commanded, his voice hoarse but filled with life. No one questioned. Lord Lyonel Strong threw the shutters wide, and the lords filed out onto the balcony that overlooked the city.

And there they saw them.

The dragons wheeled over the rooftops like gods descended from the sky. The sun caught on Syrax’s wings, and her golden shimmer crowned the sky above Maegor’s Holdfast. Caraxes roared once more, defiant, domineering, his sinuous body slicing the air as if daring the Red Keep itself to remember who ruled the skies. The younger dragons followed in a wide arc, their wings beating in time, trailing firelight and shadow.

A slow smile crept across the king’s face. His fingers clenched tight around the cane that held him upright, knuckles white with the strain, yet his eyes shone with quiet pride—not for the dragons alone, but for the bold souls astride their backs. Most of all, for the rider upon the yellow-scaled beast.

“Rhaenyra” he whispered, though none heard him over the wind.

With surprising haste for a man of his years, King Viserys turned on his heel, his royal cloak sweeping behind him like the wings of a dragon in flight. His breath caught—whether from the exertion or anticipation, none could say—as he strode down the hallway and out toward the grand courtyard of the Red Keep. Behind him came the full weight of the court: Lord Otto Hightower, ever dutiful and sharp-eyed; Ser Tyland Lannister and Lord Jasper Wylde in muted conversation; Grand Maester Mellos hurrying to keep up, robes flapping like startled gulls. Even Lord Lyman Beesbury, stooped with age, followed with surprising eagerness.

Awaiting them in the courtyard were Queen Alicent and the royal children: Crown Prince Aegon, sixteen and brooding, with his jaw set in restless agitation; Princess Helaena, fourteen and staring distantly at the sky as if in quiet commune with things unseen; Prince Aemond, a boy of ten, already a blade waiting to be drawn; and young Prince Daeron, nine, clinging to discipline with all the weight of a fourth son's insecurities. They stood resplendent beneath the crimson battlements of the Red Keep, its massive towers casting long shadows as the afternoon sun dipped westward.

The court had gathered, though not all openly. Lords and ladies, minor nobility, chamberlains, pages, and sworn swords peered from arched windows and high balconies, eager to glimpse the long-absent princess. Servants halted mid-task, guards shifted ranks, and stablehands abandoned their posts. The air was thick with expectation, ripe with rumors.

Before the expected caravan arrived, three riders thundered through the gates, their cloaks billowing behind them like banners of alarm. They wore the black-and-scarlet of the Dragonkeepers, and their mounts foamed at the mouth from the ride. The leader—a grizzled man with burn-scars over one cheek—dismounted swiftly, falling to one knee.

"Your Grace," he said breathlessly, his head bowed, "Dreamfyre has awakened. The she-dragon clawed through her sleep with a roar that shook the Dragonpit. And the eggs… the eggs beneath her—once cold as marble—have begun to warm."

A murmur swept the courtyard like wind rustling dry leaves. Queen Alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line as she exchanged a glance with her father. Lord Lyman Beesbury spoke aloud what many only dared whisper. “They say the princess wakes dragons merely by her presence… and now, even flying above the city, she’s roused the old blood. Perhaps the rumors are true.”

Viserys allowed himself a smile—thin, but real. The ache in his bones lightened for a heartbeat. He said nothing, but the look in his eyes was pride—and vindication.

Then, the sound came: the thunder of hooves, the rhythmic drum of approaching might. The great gates of the Red Keep opened to reveal ten carriages, each cloaked in the blue and silver of House Arryn, escorted by two hundred mounted knights whose polished helms gleamed in the sun. Their cloaks rippled like banners, each bearing the moon-and-falcon sigil upon their breastplates. They moved with precision and discipline, each motion practiced and proud, until the courtyard was filled from wall to wall with Vale steel and Arryn honor.

The knights dismounted in unison, a coordinated cascade of movement that sent the sound of booted heels striking cobblestone echoing across the courtyard like the rolling thunder of a distant drum. Cloaks of Arryn blue rippled in the breeze, embroidered falcons catching the light with each step. Behind them, the carriages groaned as their doors creaked open, and from within spilled a tide of servants—more than sixty souls—clad in fine-woven wool and linen, each one bearing the sky-and-mountain sigil of the Vale.

The courtyard fell silent.

Even the horses seemed to quiet, their breath misting in the cool air. The murmurs of courtiers behind window shutters died upon their lips, and the clinking armor of the gold cloaks at their posts stilled into a hush. Every eye turned as one of the Arryn knights stepped forward, silvered mail glinting beneath his cloak, and with both reverence and precision, unlatched the door of the central carriage.

The moment the door opened, the air itself seemed to draw in breath.

Those who bore the falcon upon their chest—knights, squires, footmen, and servants alike—bowed their heads low, not to the king, nor the court, but to those within the carriage, to the family of the Vale. Not a word was spoken, yet the deference in their posture spoke volumes. The first to emerge was the youngest of their brood, Harion Arryn, a boy of six years. He wore a doublet of deep sapphire velvet. He walked alone, with the quiet composure of a child raised amongst stone halls and high wind, his steps measured, his chin lifted in a way that belied his age. At his side moved two great shadowcats—one coal-black as a moonless night, the other the pale gray of a thunderhead. They did not slink or prowl, but marched with him, silent and sure, like guards that needed no command.

Murmurs stirred the quiet like ripples in a still pond. Shadowcats, beasts of the Vale, fierce and wild, said to be more difficult to tame than a lion grown full. And yet these two, lean and muscled with fangs like daggers, moved beside the boy as if leashed by nothing but his presence. Ready to strike, ready to kill, at the flick of a finger.

Then came the second child, and the only daughter—Lucrezia Arryn. Her beauty, it was said, could still the breath in a man’s throat. She wore a gown of sky blue silk, the sleeves long and trailing, the fabric cinched at the waist with a silver girdle studded with amethysts. A white fur cloak, soft as snowdrift, hung from her narrow shoulders, and a delicate tiara crowned her hair. Her purple eyes—so calm, so knowing—unsettled more than one lord in the crowd. There was grace in every step, and something colder too. Distant. Watchful. Like the embodiment of an old bard’s tale—too perfect to be real, too regal to be mortal.

Even before she stepped onto the stone, tales of her beauty had crossed the Narrow Sea. Portraits of the princess, painted since she was but eight years old, had sold for weight in silver, so often copied that no merchant’s hall in Braavos or Lys lacked a likeness of “the Gem of the Mountains.” Lords and merchant princes alike paid handsomely to gaze upon her painted visage, and many swore her beauty conquered the hearts of men—and boys—before her voice ever reached them.

Among those hearts, one beat louder than most. Prince Aemond Targaryen’s eyes had latched upon her likeness the moment her portrait was hung in the Red Keep’s gallery. Servants whispered that the prince would visit that hall in quiet hours, again and again, staring at the painting in silence, as though by sheer will he might draw her from the canvas. Some said he had fallen in love with his niece the moment he saw her, though he had never once heard her speak.

Then came the eldest, the heir—Jacaerys Arryn. He stood tall for his eleven years, shoulders squared beneath a doublet of deep blue velvet trimmed with silver threading. His boots struck stone with purpose. He did not glance to his kin, nor to the whispering crowd, but held their gaze as one might hold the reins of a restive steed—with patience, with strength, with certainty. His was the look of a boy born to command, honed not in courts of silk but on the cold ledges of the Vale.

After him came Prince Daemon Targaryen Arryn, clad in a darker hue than his children, though no less regal. His cloak, lined in thick white fur, bore the same rich sapphire accents. His chin held the same defiant tilt that had once driven kings mad. His silver hair, longer than his son's, spilled over his shoulders like moonlight on steel. He descended slowly, deliberately—then extended his hand.

And from the carriage stepped the last: Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, once heir to the Iron Throne. She placed her hand in her husband’s, and the world seemed to still.

She was the very image of regality, a vision carved of high birth and old blood. Her gown was a masterwork in the hue of Arryn blue, rich and lustrous as a summer lake beneath clear skies, the bodice pulled tight with silver thread that shimmered with every breath she took. At her throat rested a brooch of violet gemstone, so dark it seemed to drink in the light, pulsing faintly like a star caught in amethyst. Draped across her shoulders was a cloak of white fox fur, soft as snowdrift and trailing behind her like a winter tide, pooling at her feet in quiet reverence.

The wind, cold and clean, danced about her, lifting strands of her silver-gold hair as though the gods themselves sought to touch her. Her face, untouched by time’s cruelty, shone with a soft radiance, not the sweetness of a girl, but the austere, refined beauty of a woman shaped by fire and frost. She was mother, princess, the blood of the dragon and the mountain, and in her poise was all the majesty of old—paramount, untouchable, and wrath reborn.

Even those who watched from high-set windows could not hide their awe. The princess’s beauty had not dimmed with the passing years— it had only deepened, like a blade refined with time. Though her hips had broadened since the days of her maidenhood, there was no mistaking the truth of it. No one—save for the princess’s own daughter—could rival her beauty, not even the young maidens in the flush of youth, nor the fairest ladies of the court.

Even Crown Prince Aegon, for all his idle lust and wayward thoughts, could not look away. His eyes roamed her form with the greedy fascination of a boy who knew nothing of restraint, lingering in places that would earn his mother’s scorn and his grandsire’s shame, had either seen him staring.

The hush that had blanketed the court did not lift as the Arryn procession moved forward. If anything, the silence deepened, as though the walls of the Red Keep themselves held their breath. Beneath the banners of House Targaryen and the Seven, the Vale delegation advanced—heads high, cloaks trailing behind them like banners on a still day.

Then the Lady of the Vale emerged, with her household at her back. Rhaenyra Arryn, once the realm’s delight, now she was the woman who had raised the Vale from greatness to splendor. Her steps were unhurried, her gaze steady. Though she walked beside her husband, Prince Daemon, none mistook who led the house.

She bore no crown, yet the air shifted with her passage, as though the wind itself remembered the girl who once stood beside her father before the court. Ten years had passed since last she walked these stones, yet it was as if the stones had waited. Behind her came her sons and daughter. They walked as a single body, through the stone passage and into the heart of the courtyard, where the royal family and the king’s council stood waiting beneath a raised canopy of green and gold. There were murmurs from the gathered lords, the creak of leather as men leaned for a better look, but no one spoke aloud.

Before the king, they halted.

And then, with practiced grace, the House of Arryn bowed their heads.

“Your Grace,” Rhaenyra said, her voice smooth as the Vale’s rivers. “We bring you the greetings of the Eyrie, and peace upon your hall from the mountain winds.”

The formality hung heavy between them. The king did not answer at once.

King Viserys Targaryen stood beneath the Red Keep's towering arch, his body bowed not in deference, but by time and torment. A cane of dark weirwood bore much of his weight, gripped tightly in a trembling hand mottled with age and pain. The sun struck the silver of his crown, setting it glimmering like a relic from another age—but his face beneath it was drawn and pale, the flesh sunken about his cheeks, his eyes rheumy and tired. One shoulder sagged lower than the other, and every breath seemed measured, deliberate, as though taken from a dwindling store. Yet still, he stood.

He stared at her.

Not at Daemon. Not at the children.

Only her.

His mouth moved before he realized he was speaking.

“…my only child…”

A breath, barely more than a murmur, but his wife, Queen Consort Alicent Hightower, who stood close beside him, heard. Her eyes flicked to the king, her lips tightening. She did not speak, but her spine stiffened and her fingers curled into the folds of her green skirts.

The King lifted a hand—as if to reach for her, as he once might have done when she was young and soft-cheeked, full of questions about dragons. But the hand trembled in the air, uncertain, and fell again.

The daughter he had disinherited stood a pace away.

And then, to the quiet surprise of all, the Princess moved first.

She stepped forward and took his hand—gently, as one might take the hand of a sick child. Her fingers closed over his thin ones, thumb brushing across the papery skin with a motion that was not courtly, but familial. She looked down at him, her expression unreadable beneath the sun, and her voice came soft.

“Hello, Father.”

Those two words did more than any royal decree might have. Viserys blinked, as if struck by them. The hand in hers trembled.

Around them, no one moved.

And then, a tear—slow, silent—slid down the gaunt cheek of Viserys Targaryen.

He had not wept in many years, not since the fires of grief first scorched his heart, not since the warmth between them had turned to cold stone. But the feel of her lips brushing his cheek—light as a sigh, fleeting as summer rain—shook something loose in him. It was the kiss of his daughter, the kind she used to give him when her legs were still too short to climb the steps of the throne, when she ran to him in the dusk and called him father with joy in her voice. It was a gesture he had thought lost to time and memory. One he never thought to feel again until the Stranger came to claim him.

His hand, gnarled and uncertain, twitched at his side. Then, slowly—as though waking from a dream—it rose, trembling, until it found her shoulder. A breath caught in his throat. And he drew her into his arms.

There, in the cold stone courtyard beneath the fading banners of House Targaryen, king and princess stood together once more. Not as ruler and lady, not as wounded father and estranged child—but simply as blood.

For a long moment, nothing moved. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Then Visery spoke, his voice rough as gravel, yet warm with something long buried.

“Come inside,” he said. “You’ve been away too long.”

Rhaenyra’s POV

After they arrived at the Red Keep—its red stone walls familiar yet strangely colder than she remembered—they were led through its echoing corridors to the Throne Room. There, before the eyes of lords, ladies, and courtiers draped in silks and secrets, her father rose to stand beside the Iron Throne. With all the solemnity of a king delivering judgment, he introduced her children to the court. He named them prince and princess, their new titles echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling like the toll of a bell. To celebrate the occasion, he declared a luncheon to be held in the Godswood beneath the watchful eyes of the old gods, as though sacred trees might bless what men had orchestrated.

And now, following that formal introduction, she found herself back in her chambers, preparing to attend the luncheon arranged in her honor.

She turned her gaze to the mirror, where her reflection stared back at her, half-dressed and pale in the morning light. Hana and Miriam, ever diligent, worked to fasten her gown, their hands gentle but swift. In the polished glass, she could see Elinda—no longer merely a handmaid, but her most trusted companion, the keeper of her tempers and her secrets—engaged in yet another debate with her husband. This time, the quarrel was over which set of jewels best suited her gown. A sigh escaped her lips unbidden. She had learned not to intervene in such spats; they ended quicker when she let them burn out on their own.

It amused her, how easily Elinda had become part of her family. After so many days spent under one roof, Daemon had begun treating Elinda as if she were kin. There was warmth in it, though neither would admit to it aloud. More than once, she had walked in on the two of them arguing, and it never failed to end with Daemon chuckling and Elinda glaring.

She remembered one particular day, high summer during the harvest festival, when Elinda had taken great care with her hair—twisting it into a clever braid to keep her neck cool. It lasted until Daemon’s hand, ever teasing, ran through it and loosened the strands. On the second day, when his hand reached out to repeat the offense, Elinda’s reflex was sharp and swift. She slapped his hand away and leveled a daring stare at the prince, silent challenge glinting in her eyes.

Daemon had only laughed, eyes bright with delight. “Your friend,” he had murmured to her afterward, the scent of wine still on his breath, “has taken on the insolence of her husband.”

She had smiled at that memory. It was rare that Daemon smiled without menace—rarer still that she did.

Seeing that neither of them would yield an inch, she sighed and stepped toward the bickering pair. To end it, she reached for the necklace both had stubbornly insisted upon. “My neck can wear more than one necklace,” she quipped dryly, her voice light as silk but edged with steel.

“Elinda, Hana, Miriam—would you see if my children are ready for the celebration?” she asked, her tone warm but firm. The three women bowed their heads in unison before leaving her chambers, the door clicking softly shut behind them. Silence fell in their wake, the hush of a room now holding only two—herself and Daemon.

Their chambers had been prepared not far from her father’s wing, a clear political gesture masked as hospitality. Her own room lay between those of her children, with connecting doors fashioned cleverly so she might slip in and out without passing through the corridors. It gave her the comfort of proximity, and the illusion of control.

“The ānwēji are all in position,” Daemon murmured into her ear as he slipped behind her, his arms encircling her waist and his lips brushing the curve of her neck.

She let out a low hum of amusement and leaned back against him. “If you ruin my appearance now, I suspect not only Elinda but Hana and Miriam will join forces to see you eliminated,” she teased. Daemon laughed, a true laugh, rare and rough with fondness.

Then silence again—comfortable, heavy—and he rested his chin upon her shoulder, catching her gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “What will you do now?” he asked, voice hushed but not hesitant.

She trailed her fingers gently across his hand, her touch soft as a whisper. “Not much,” she replied, her lips curving into a slow smile. “Just… a little nudge. Enough for the pawns to bite the hand that feeds them.”

The Godswood had been transformed.

Where once stood quiet groves and solemn oaks, now there were silken banners rustling in the wind, long tables groaning under the weight of roasted game and honeyed fruits, nobles in bright garments strolling beneath the weirwood’s watchful red eyes. Laughter rang like the distant tolling of a bell—pleasant to those not listening too closely. Her father sat at the head of the high table beneath a shade of white silk, Alicent at his side, smiling with lips that never quite reached her eyes. 

There were colors that caught her eye—not red and black, but green. Subtle at first: a thread at a lady’s sleeve, a brooch shaped like a seven-pointed star studded with emeralds, a sash tied in a courtier’s hair. But the pattern was too precise to be coincidence. The wearers were all those faces she had glimpsed before… in dreams more bitter than sweet, dreams soaked in blood and smoke. They were the same men and women who had stood with the Greens in the shadow of her downfall—lords who turned cloaks before the fire had cooled on their hearths. She knew them. She had seen them kneel.

It had taken her longer than she cared to admit to teach herself not to flinch at the sight of green. A foolish thing, perhaps. Just a color. But some wounds ran too deep, and dreams—especially nightmares—tended to linger. She remembered, all too well, how sick she'd felt ten years ago at Laena’s wedding, when since Alicent Hightower had stepped into the hall in her infamous green gown. bold and brazen. She had not been able to hide her distaste then, and it had cost her more than pride.

But not today.

No, today she would not give them the satisfaction.

She moved through the godswood slowly, her pace unhurried, measured, regal. The high branches whispered overhead, the wind catching among red leaves and casting dappled shadows across the long feast tables. Nobles were already seated, many draped in velvets and silks, jewels flashing in the light that filtered down through the ancient trees. Food had been laid out in abundance, and servants moved like ghosts between guests, pouring wine and offering platters heavy with roast meats and sweet fruits.

Then she saw her father.

Her father raised a hand—frail, trembling—and at once his personal steward broke from the royal table and strode toward her. With a bow low and courteous, the man relayed the king’s wish: that she and her family join him at the high table.

She nodded once.

As she and her family made their approach, her eyes caught the edge of a quarrel. Her father and Alicent. His words were sharp, hers sharper still, but softer, too, cloaked in the pious silk she wore like a second skin. The queen rose from her chair stiffly, turned on her heel, and swept away toward the table where the Hightowers were seated, her four children trailing behind her like ducklings.

She saw the lines on Alicent’s face. Saw the contempt barely hidden in her eyes. That gaze found her—cutting, cruel, bitter—and she held it for a moment, then looked away, unmoved. When they reached the table, her father gestured to a seat—the one the queen had just vacated. “Come, Rhaenyra,” he said, voice worn thin by age and illness, yet still bearing the weight of kingship. “Sit with me.”

Then, patting the chair beside his own, he added, “Young Jace shall sit at my left hand.” Her son’s eyes widened slightly, but he obeyed without hesitation.

Ah.

So that’s the cause of Alicent’s scowl. Father had bid Alicent to leave not only her seat—but her children’s as well—for her and her family. She gave no thought to what the queen might desire. Let her stew in her jealousy. After today, the woman would be too busy hiding behind septas and shadows to spit her venom so freely. Daemon, her ever-attentive husband, drew her chair with an easy grace, and as he did, Jace mirrored the motion for his sister Lucrezia. Little Harion, still with a touch of baby roundness to his cheeks, offered his arm to Aunt Amanda.

“A true gentleman, and so young yet,” remarked Lord Beesbury, his voice gentle with age. “Such fine manners are rare in boys thrice his age.” Lords and ladies took note. Some seated nearby, others drifting closer with goblets in hand, like moths drawn to firelight. Compliments came next—soft as down but laden with calculation—and questions disguised as idle curiosity.

After all, it was the first time she had brought her children into the lion’s den of court.

A knight of House Bywater inquired about Jace’s sword forms. A bright-eyed lady of Costayne lineage asked about his reading, and smiled with delight when Rhaenyra told her he had finished The Seven-Pointed Star and begun The History of the Andal Kings.

Another turned her questions to Lucrezia, asking whether the girl favored music or history, and what she thought of her dragon, Arrax. Rhaenyra watched her daughter respond with the calm poise of a born lady. Each answer was carefully chosen, like the placing of stones in a zen garden—precise, quiet, and beautiful.

Then came the question that truly piqued the wolves.

“Is it true, Princess,” asked a Westerlands lord with a cup of Arbor gold in hand, “that you’ve found yet another gemstone mine in the Vale?”

That drew more than polite interest. Heads turned. Eyes sharpened.

It had been five years since the discovery of gold and gems in the Vale’s stony veins—enough that the region now supplied the lion’s share of Westeros’s jewels. Their quality was unmatched. So rich were the veins, she could pay the realm’s taxes for seven years over from her own coffers without ever lifting a toll from the smallfolk.

“It is true,” she replied, lips barely lifted in a smile.

Noble eyes glittered like the gems she spoke of.

She touched the stone at her throat. “This is one of the newer finds,” she said, letting her voice play coy.

The lords began to clamor again—questions stacking upon questions—until silence fell like a blade through butter.

Alicent’s voice cut through the godswood.

“No wonder you’ve brought so many guards with you, Princess Rhaenyra.”

All eyes turned.

Alicent regarded her from her seat at the Hightower table, just a few paces from the high table, her chin lifted with an air of regal superiority. Her voice was smooth, but beneath the courtesy, it was laced with contempt. “One would think,” she said, “that the Lady of the Vale had long since learned the etiquette of a guest. Yet she arrives with an escort large enough to eclipse those of every great house here.” She then smiled thinly, all silk and steel.
“I only worry there may not be room enough left for the guards of others.”

The jab was elegant, barbed with courtesy. The gathered nobles exchanged cautious glances, sensing the shift in the air.

“Is that so?” Her voice was pleasant—warm, even—but it carried through the godswood like a bell tolling before a storm. “I confess, it had not occurred to me how small the Red Keep must have grown in my absence. Yet you need not fret, Your Grace. My guards are well-trained. They know how to make themselves scarce to all but those who pose a threat.”

She felt their eyes upon her—lords and ladies, knights and squires. Even the weirwood seemed to lean in closer, its red leaves whispering with the wind. “But of course, Your Grace,” she added, and though the title passed her lips, it tasted like ash. “I am but a mother and a wife, tending to her duty. It is no secret that King’s Landing is not the safest of cities. Children vanish. Men disappear. Bodies pile like kindling in the alleys, and no one dares speak the names of the missing. Would you have me, or my children, walk those streets with only hope and prayer for company?”

A murmur passed among the guests. Somewhere, a lord smothered a laugh behind his goblet. But the queen did not laugh.

She saw Alicent’s lips twitched, a flicker of false sweetness before the venom. “If that were true, Princess, then perhaps you might choose better guards.” Her gaze drifted, pointed as a blade, to the two knights who stood behind Rhaenyra—Ser Steffon Darklyn and Ser Lorent Marbrand. Their dismissal from the Kingsguard was no secret, branded by Otto Hightower himself: unworthy, incompetent, disloyal.

The insult fell heavy, ripe and rotting in the air.

House Darklyn and House Marbrand heard it well enough. Their lords stiffened where they sat, shoulders tensing beneath their silks, hands tightening around their cups. They said nothing, but their silence was thunderous. And they were not alone. She saw other men from the Crownlands shift in discomfort, their sons too having been quietly pushed aside, deemed insufficient by the Lord Hand.

Her gaze flicked backward—where her knights stood watchful and proud, though pride had faltered just a moment past. She saw Ser Steffon’s jaw clench, his eyes drop for a breath before rising again with silent defiance. Ser Lorent shifted, his face pale, his anger held behind gritted teeth. Her daughter, Lucrezia, wide-eyed and solemn, looked between them. Her brow was drawn in worry, silent and pleading.

And she would. She must. She had seen it in dreams, and she saw it now—these men were true. And she would not let Alicent’s poison take root in her people.

She turned her gaze upon Alicent, her voice soft as snowfall—but cold, so cold. “And what great accomplishments, I wonder, have your knights claimed, Your Grace? Those you and your father deemed worthy?” She let the words linger, sharpen. “Have the lost been found? Have the missing returned to their homes? Or do the shadows still claim them, one by one, while your brave men in green cloaks strut through the city and fail to win so much as a tilting match?”

A flicker passed over Alicent’s face—barely there, but real. A chink in her armor.

Silence settled over the godswood like fresh snow. Only the rustle of red leaves bore witness.

She drank then, unhurried, as though her words had not scorched the air. Otto’s face flushed redder still. Alicent sat rigid, her courtly poise turned brittle as spun glass. Behind her, Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent straightened. Their backs, bowed under the weight of shame, rose. The eyes of their houses found hers, and in them she read gratitude. And something more.

Loyalty. Hard-earned, not given.

She set her goblet down, her fingers resting lightly upon the stem, and lifted her eyes again to the woman across from her. “And if I may offer a word of counsel,” she said gently, her tone a lullaby with thorns beneath the silk, “before one spends so much time peering into the houses of others… one might first see to their own.”

A flick of her wrist—not rude, not overt, but precise—and her cup gestured ever so slightly toward the high table.

There sat Aegon, sprawled like a bloated leech in silk. His cheeks were red with wine, his lips glistening, teeth stained purple. He laughed at nothing, head thrown back, and beside him, a serving girl—no older than Lucrezia—bent to offer him a tray of stuffed capons.

The girl did not cry out when his hand clamped hard upon her hip. She could not. The pinch was bold, obscene, and far too practiced to be a first offense. His fingers roamed with the confidence of a prince who had never known consequence.

The queen said nothing. Her jaw clenched, knuckles white upon her sleeve, but her lips still wore that brittle smile. And now, the lords began to whisper. Their eyes turned to Aegon. Otto’s gaze snapped to Ser Criston Cole, a silent command passed between them. At once, Cole strode toward the table, seized Aegon’s hand, and barked at the serving girl to leave—as if she were the offender.

Of course, she thought bitterly. Alicent and her likeness always see themselves as the wounded. As victims of the very mess they’ve made with their sins buried in the names of others.

Aegon snarled at Cole, drunkenly yanking his arm free. His voice rose above the murmurs, foul with wine and fury. “Touch me again, and I’ll piss down your throat, you pompous cunt! I’m your prince—your future king! You’ll lick my boots before I let a whore-boy like you drag me off like some common leper!”

The godswood fell silent—shocked. Even the wind through the red leaves seemed to hesitate.

Alicent’s face paled. Her lips parted, but no words came. Otto Hightower, red to the ears, rose from his seat, fury etched deep in every line of his face. The court around them shifted like leaves before a storm—lords and ladies frozen between disbelief and dismay.

Then came the laugh from beside her.

Low at first, almost pleasant—until one recognized the edge beneath it.

Daemon.

He rose with the slow, sinuous ease of a cat by the hearth, his cup still in hand.
“All this time,” he said, his voice cracking through the trees like a whip, “I took your son for merely shameless. But it seems he lack wits as well.” She watched her husband lift his goblet in mocking salute, a smile on his lips as sharp as any blade. “If depravity were a gift, your boy would be the most blessed wretch in the realm. A foul miracle, born of piety and pride.” He turned his gaze to Alicent, his eyes alight with cruel amusement. “A toast, good sister. To your masterwork.”

Before any could act, a sudden scream cut through the silence, sharp as a blade and louder than the music. Heads turned as one toward the long table of House Hightower.

There stood Bethany Hightower, her face pale with horror, pointing at the body convulsing on the floor. “Father!” she cried. Her voice cracked like glass beneath the weight of fear. Lord Hobert Hightower, her sire, lay sprawled upon the stone tiles beneath his high-backed chair, his limbs jerking madly, foam pooling at the corners of his lips. His eyes, once keen and hawk-bright, now rolled back white as bone.

A hush fell over the godswood.

Time seemed to halt. Not one soul dared move, as though the very air had thickened into pitch. She was the first to break the stillness. She whirled toward the Grand Maester. “What are you doing? Help him! Help the poor lord!”she screamed, pointing her finger at Mellos, who sat frozen in place, his cup still raised, his face gone slack with fear and foolishness.

Only then did the Grand Maester stir, pushing himself upright with a groan. But before he could cross the space between tables, another gasp rippled through the crowd.

Prince Aegon had fallen.

The boy hit the ground hard, thrashing, his limbs jerking with the same unnatural spasms that plagued Lord Hobert. Wine spilled from his goblet, staining the stone like blood. Mellos turned toward him instinctively—then hesitated, caught between two failing men, his mouth working soundlessly.

Alicent did not hesitate.

She seized the old maester’s wrist, her nails digging into his flesh with the force of a vice, and yanked him back. “Leave him,” she commanded, her voice as sharp and cold as the Heart Tree’s bark. “Tend to Aegon first.”

Bethany stepped forward, fury flashing in her eyes. “He’s dying!” she cried, her fingers grasping at Mellos’s sleeve. “You would leave my father to convulse like a dog for the sake of your wretched son?”

Alicent’s gaze narrowed, the disdain in her eyes as cold as her words. “Mind your place, Bethany,” she said, her voice icily measured. “Your father is just a lord — nothing more. Aegon is the Crown Prince, heir to the Iron Throne. One man’s death is a tragedy. The other’s would be a war.”

Bethany’s face went pale, her hands trembling with the force of her anger, but she could not speak for a moment. The words stung, a deep betrayal in the pit of her stomach, a reminder that her family — her blood — meant nothing to Alicent in the face of the Crown.

Bethany stared at Alicent, aghast, her face twisted with disbelief and fury. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as she tried to summon the words, but they faltered in her throat. “You vile—” she started, but the words died on her lips, strangled by the cold venom of her cousin’s gaze. Alicent’s expression was one of icy disdain, as though Bethany’s words were nothing more than the buzzing of an irritating fly.

The two women stood toe to toe beneath the Heart Tree’s great, gnarled boughs, the leaves swaying above them as if whispering in the wind. The tension between them was thick enough to strangle, palpable and bitter, an old wound reopened. Their fury stood naked for all to see, an undeniable clash of power and blood. But none dared intervene. The lords and ladies who surrounded them held their breath, too afraid to move or speak, as though the very gods themselves had stilled the air.

Mellos, however, had already broken free from their grasp. His aged hands trembling, he shuffled hurriedly after Alicent, who turned her back on Bethany with a flick of her hand. Ser Criston, ever loyal, was at her side, lifting the Prince between them, his body limp in their arms. They carried him toward the Red Keep, leaving Lord Hobert still writhing upon the cold stones of the godswood.

Bethany trembled in place, her entire body a taut string ready to snap. Her mother and younger brother wept beside her father, the Lord of Hightower, who lay twitching and convulsing on the ground. Each spasm that gripped him seemed to tear at Bethany’s insides, a cruel reminder of her powerlessness. She then stepped down at last, her expression grave, her eyes sweeping over the chaotic scene. The gathered nobility parted for her, instinctively sensing her authority, though the air still crackled with the unsaid words hanging between the Hightower kin. She halted before Lady Lynesse, who knelt beside her husband’s failing form, her face stricken with fear.

“I brought healers from Yi Ti. Let me help,” she said, her voice calm but firm, as though the entire godswood held its breath in anticipation. Lady Lynesse hesitated for a long moment, her eyes clouded with doubt, torn between pride and the desperation of a wife who saw her husband slipping away. Her gaze sharpened, her voice hardening like the edge of a blade. “Will you let your husband die, then?” she demanded. “Look at him — he needs aid, not prayers.”

Lady Lynesse, defeated by the raw reality of her husband's condition, gave a frantic nod, the last threads of her composure unraveling. “Please,” she repeated, her voice breaking.

She turned toward the shadows where her guards and attendants stood. With a curt nod, she summoned them forward. Two women emerged from the dark, their robes of pale silks a stark contrast to the shadowed wood. They moved with a quiet grace that seemed to slow the chaos around them. Jian Ye and Xia Bu, the healers from Yi Ti, were as calm as still water, their faces betraying no hint of the pressure that weighed on them.

Jian Ye knelt beside Lord Hobert’s prone form, her fingers nimble and sure as they sought the pulse behind his ear. She turned his head gently, her fingers pressing against the fragile skin, and found the spot where the veins pulsed erratically beneath it. With a deft movement, she drove the first needle into the flesh. There was no resistance — the needle slid in as smooth as a whisper, and Lord Hobert’s neck twitched in response.

Another needle followed, just below the hollow of his throat, and then another, at the wrist, at the inner fold of his elbow, at the sole of his foot. Each puncture was deliberate, precise. With every needle placed, the lord’s spasms grew slower, as if each insertion sapped the storm from his body, bit by bit, like a tempest losing strength. The violent jerking that had wracked his body softened, its intensity dulled with each gentle puncture.

Jian Ye moved with the practiced hand of someone who had done this a thousand times before. Her calm, steady gaze never wavered as she placed each needle. At last, she parted Lord Hobert’s hair with hands as delicate as a midwife’s and drove the final needle into the crown of his skull. The air in the room seemed to tighten, the flames of the brazier flaring, crackling in response. The very stones beneath them seemed to tremble.

Lord Hobert gave one final, violent shudder, his body convulsing once more before falling utterly still. His jaw unclenched, and his hands fell limp at his sides. His chest rose once, then fell with a long, wet rattle, the breath escaping him like the last gasp of a dying man. The godswood held its breath.

For a moment, there was silence. All eyes turned to the healers, to the needles, to the strange, foreign art that had stilled a dying man. There was awe in their gazes, and fear too, for they had witnessed something they could not understand, something beyond their ken.

Jian Ye rose, wiping her hands clean with vinegar and linen, her expression impassive. “He will sleep now,” she said. Her voice was steady, like the calm after a storm. “It would be best if he were moved to his chambers. He will rest more comfortably there.”

“Is he healed?” Lady Bethany’s voice was trembling, unsure, the uncertainty creeping into her words as the lingering terror tightened her chest.

Xia Bu stepped forward and bowed her head, her movements slow but deliberate. “Not fully,” she said, her Westerosi still thick with her accent. “But if my lady permits, I can prepare medicine to strengthen his breath and blood. He will mend, in time.”

Lady Lynesse nodded at once, her face a picture of desperation and hope mingled together. She clung to the words as though they were the last thread keeping her from drowning. At her command, her Hightower kin carefully lifted her husband and bore him toward the Red Keep, the sounds of their footsteps reverberating in the silence.

The godswood seemed to exhale a collective sigh, but the tension in the air remained. She turned and gave quiet instructions to Jian Ye and Xia Bu, sending them off to prepare the medicine that would help the lord on his road to recovery. Around her, the nobles stirred, whispers traveling from one to the other, their unease palpable. The very air seemed to vibrate with the knowledge of what had just transpired, and the uncertainty of what would come next. She turned toward her father, who sat pale and panting in his seat, his breathing labored. Concern flickered across her face for the briefest moment.

She bowed her head slightly, her voice softer, yet carrying a note of regret. “Forgive us,” she said to the gathered lords and ladies. “You came to celebrate, not to witness such chaos.” She signaled to Ser Harrold, who stepped forward to help the king to his feet. “Please, see His Grace to his chambers,” she added, her tone gentle, but firm.

As the old king was helped away, the lords and ladies of court, their faces still strained, began to rise one by one. They filed out quietly, their whispers fading as they retreated into the shadows of the godswood. The sacred grove was left to the silence and the rustling of leaves, the air heavy with the weight of what had just occurred.

After ensuring that her children were safely settled in their rooms for their afternoon rest. She entered her own chamber, only to find Daemon already asleep in their bed. A soft smile curved her lips at the sight of him, his face serene in slumber. She moved toward him quietly, adjusting the covers over his shoulders, a tender gesture that seemed almost foreign after the weight of the day’s events. She lingered a moment, gazing at him, before turning to change into something more comfortable—a loose gown, soft and warm, meant for rest. But as she reached for the fabric, a sharp knock echoed from the door, followed by the familiar voice of Oswell.

“Princess, my apologies for disturbing your rest, but a servant from House Hightower has arrived with a message,” Oswell called from the other side of the door.

She sighed softly, reluctant to be drawn from the brief peace she’d found. She pulled her nightgown around her and wrapped her robe tightly before crossing the room. She opened the door to find a servant standing there, a pin of House Hightower gleaming on his chest, his eyes lowered in respect. He was the same servant she’d seen trailing Bethany earlier.

“Princess, forgive me for intruding,” the servant began, his voice low and deferential. “But Lady Lynesse and Lady Bethany wish to invite you to join them for tea this afternoon, as a token of their gratitude for Lord Hobert’s recovery.”

Her gaze softened at the mention of Lord Hobert’s condition, her heart relieved that he had survived the worst of it. “Please tell Lady Lynesse and Lady Bethany that I am glad to hear Lord Hobert is stable,” she replied, her voice steady but laced with a quiet warmth. “I would be honored to join them for tea this afternoon.”

The servant nodded in acknowledgment before turning to leave. As he walked away, Rhaenyra closed the door behind her, the quiet of the room returning like a heavy cloak. Her soft gaze hardened, becoming colder, more calculating. But when she turned, she found Daemon awake, watching her with a knowing smile—half-amused, half-amused. His eyes gleamed with that sharp, dark humor she knew so well.

“You wicked thing.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra’s POV

"I do not know what you mean," she said lightly, though her steps were slow and deliberate as she moved toward the bed. The weight of the evening still clung to her shoulders—those green silks, those sharpened smiles, those cold eyes watching her every move like a vulture circling the sky. But here, in this room, in this hour, she allowed herself to breathe.

She climbed into their bed without another word and leaned back, nestling herself against the body she knew as well as her own. Her back met Daemon’s chest with practiced ease, the warmth of him familiar, grounding. He was sitting upright, his bare back resting against the tall, carved headboard. Without being asked, his fingers found her hair and began toying with it absently, as he had done since the early days of their marriage. It was a small thing—a tender ritual neither of them ever named.

He chuckled softly above her, a sound that rumbled through her spine.

"The way you acted just then," he murmured, lazily twining a curl between his fingers, "makes me fear that should I ever fall ill—drop dead even—none would suspect you. Not with how convincingly you feigned civility. You might poison me and wear a smile through the funeral." It was a jest, of course. Daemon rarely missed the chance for one, especially when her mood ran cold. Yet something in her stirred—a spark that flared hotter than humor.

She turned slowly, shifting until she straddled his lap, silk sliding against bare skin. Her hands rose to his face, and she stroked his cheek gently, almost reverently. He closed his eyes for a moment and leaned into her touch, smiling in that way he did when he forgot to guard himself. And then—swift as a whip—her fingers curled around his chin in a grip that made his eyes snap open in surprise.

"If you so much as glance at another woman," she said, voice soft but steely, "or allow your thoughts to linger where they should not, I swear on fire and blood—you will find yourself in a fate far worse than Hobert Hightower found today." Daemon’s laugh came quick and unbothered, but it only made her fingers tighten, just enough to make him still.

"I am not jesting," she said, her voice colder now, slower, as if every word were being forged in her mouth like Valyrian steel. “If you betray me, even in death, you will not escape me. I would chase you through the seven hells, drag you back from the Balerion’s arms with my bare hands, only to kill you again—slowly, and with care."

The silence that followed was thick, heavy with meaning. The fire in the hearth cracked and popped. Outside, the wind rustled through the trees of the godswood, whispering secrets to no one. But Daemon—Daemon did not flinch. He did not laugh again, nor brush her off with some clever quip. Instead, his violet gaze searched her face, unblinking. There was no mockery in his eyes, no disbelief. Only… something warmer. Something deeper.

Amusement lingered at the corners of his mouth, but there was reverence in his hands as he reached up to touch her cheek. He gently lowered her fingers from his chin, kissed the back of her hand with a care he rarely afforded anyone, and held it there, over his heart.

"If I ever turned from you," he said, "then I would have surely gone mad. Nothing else would explain it." There was no jest in his tone now. No shadow of doubt. He said it like a vow, quiet and firm, the way knights spoke their oaths on the eve of battle.

A decade ago, she would not have believed him. That girl would have laughed bitterly at such a vow. She would have called him a liar. She would have said, In my dreams, you leave me. You run off with another. You do not stay.

But the man before her now was not the phantom of those dreams. This Daemon stayed. Day by day, year by year, he stayed. He did not run. He did not vanish. He stood by her when the court spat at her name and the dragons turned cold. He stayed for her. And for their children.

A quiet passed between them, the kind that needed no words.

Then he tilted his head and smirked, voice curling like wine poured from a chalice. “So… what will you do about your new friend?” he asked, pressing kisses to her neck, light as shadows. She let her eyes close for a moment, enjoying the press of his lips, the whisper of his breath against her skin.

“Well… it would be terribly rude to reject a token of gratitude, wouldn’t it?” she replied in jest, her tone laced with mischief. “Besides, I’ve always been rather open to—gifts.”

Daemon groaned playfully, shaking his head, amused and exasperated in equal measure. “Gods help me,” he muttered, before flipping her beneath him in one swift, possessive motion, like a storm reclaiming the sea. She gasped, not from fear but exhilaration. He hovered over her now, silver hair falling like a curtain between them and the world.

“Then I suppose,” he whispered into her ear, his lips brushing the curve of it, “I shall lend you some of my strength to deal with the snakes.” His mouth traveled lower, trailing fire down her throat, past the rise of her collarbone. She arched beneath him as his lips continued their descent, and the midday sun poured through the high windows of the Red Keep, catching on the fine silk of her gown as his hand slipped beneath it—slow, deliberate—parting fabric like a secret. The air grew thick with heat, rich with the scent of longing and linen, and the quiet creak of the bed was the only sound bold enough to break the hush. They moved with a slow, aching purpose, as if their bodies spoke a language the world had long forgotten. Outside, courtiers whispered and ravens wheeled above the towers, but within these walls, time faltered—held in thrall by the rhythm of breath and touch. And when at last he laid her bare, not with haste but with reverence, she met him without fear—only fire—and the light that bathed them seemed almost to burn, too bright, too watchful, as if even the gods dared not look away.

She awoke to the soft knock at her door. Oswell’s voice came through, calm and steady. “My lady, Elinda and the servants have arrived to prepare you for your meeting with Lady Lynesse and Lady Bethany.” She gave the word to admit them, and the small chamber soon filled with quiet movement. The servants set about drawing her bath while Elinda laid out the garments she was to wear. When Hana announced that the water was ready, she slipped from the thin blanket that barely shielded her and stepped into the steaming tub.

“My lady,” Miriam offered gently, holding two bars of soap between slender fingers. “Would you prefer the lavender-scented, or the mint?”

She glanced toward Daemon, who sat nearby, a glass of wine resting in his hand but his eyes fixed on her. “What say you? Lavender or mint?” she asked, seeking his counsel.

Daemon paused a moment, swirling the wine before taking a slow sip. Then, with a faint smile, he raised his glass toward the mint. “Mint. The sun beats hard today. Mint will refresh you better.”

She nodded, and with patient care, Hana and Miriam washed her hair and body, their hands sure and practiced. Meanwhile, Elinda busied herself selecting jewelry to match the gown soon to be draped upon her.

A sudden thought struck her, and she turned to Elinda. “Elinda dearest, please prepare six chests of the gifts I had sent ahead. I will take them with me.”

Elinda inclined her head and paused, casting a glance at the boxes filled with trinkets and treasures brought from the Vale. Finding the ones she sought, Elinda arranged them neatly upon the table. From the corner of her eye, she saw Daemon rise and adjust his clothes. “Where are you going?” she asked, reaching out to grasp his tunic.

Daemon’s lips curved into a soft smile. He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “I’ll check on the children. Their rooms are too quiet for my liking—especially with Balerion and Meraxes in their care.”

“Do you doubt Harion’s control over them?” she asked.

Daemon chuckled and shook his head. “You speak as if you do not know our children. I wouldn’t be surprised if those shadowcats are the ones trying to control them, and not the other way around.”

Elinda and the servants laughed quietly at the jest. She smiled, waving him away with a graceful hand, granting him leave. Daemon bent to press a kiss to her brow before stepping through the door that linked their chamber to the one where Jace and Harion slept.

“Prince Daemon speaks true, my lady. It’s something of a miracle that Ser Lorent has yet to come hither and report on the Prince Harion’s latest exploits,” Hana said with a soft chuckle, rubbing the back of her neck. A smile tugged at her lips as she caught the quiet laughter from the other servants and Elinda nearby.

“To be honest, my princess,” Elinda added with a knowing look, “when the Consort dared to speak such nonsense at the luncheon earlier, I half expected Prince Harion to make some sort of trouble.”

And, in truth, Elinda was not wrong. Of all her children, Harion was most like Daemon. While Jace bore the same expressions and mannerisms of his father, Harion carried his father’s temperament: the sharp tongue, the impatience that flared like wildfire. And the same protective streak.

“Considering what the young Prince Harion did to Lord Arnold’s son, I would wager trouble was sure to follow,” Miriam said, her mind drifting back two winters past.

As was tradition, nobles and kin had gathered to celebrate Jace’s nameday and to hold the year’s final council. The hall was filled with music and laughter until a sudden cry shattered the revelry. Harion, only five years old at the time, was perched atop the stomach and arms of Eldric Arryn, the eldest son of Lord Arnold. Eldric, ten years of age, struggled to move his arms as Harion’s grip tightened, his small fists striking the boy’s face.

When they were finally separated, Harion, stubborn as his sire, initially refused to say what had provoked his blows.

Harion might be mischievous, but his pranks were the sort common to boys of his age—skipping lessons, stealing sweets. Something must have provoked him to such an unusual fury.

Only after Daemon had spoken privately with the boy did Harion confess his reason for striking young Eldric: the ten-year-old had insulted House Arryn, a house led for two generations by women—by her and Aunt Amanda. When Harion demanded an apology, the other boy retorted by mocking her little cousin, Jeyne, then nineteen and still unwed.

The end of that exchange was a broken nose and bruises for Eldric.

For that offense, she docked Lord Arnold’s pay and stripped him of rank. She did not wish to punish harshly—Eldric was, after all, just a boy. But the venomous words could only have been taught by someone, and it was Arnold and his wife’s duty to instill better manners.

She was careful not to sow seeds of rebellion, meting out only the punishment that fit. Arnold was lucky Harion had been the one to strike first. Had Daemon heard those insults, the boy might have lost more than just a broken nose—his very head might have parted from his shoulders. Her thoughts were broken by Hana’s gentle voice. “My lady, I am ready to help you dry off.”

Rising from the steaming bath, she wrapped herself in a towel, the warmth clinging to her skin. With practiced hands, the servants dried her hair and helped her dress. Once clad, she made her way to Lucrezia’s chamber, where she found Lucrezia spending time with her brothers, Aunt Amanda, and Daemon. Satisfied that all was well, she and her attendants made their way to the garden, the morning sun casting pale light over the blossoming greenery.

NO ONE POV

The garden was still, save for the soft sighing of the wind as it stirred the lemon trees, their golden fruit swaying gently like pendants on a queen's diadem. Sunlight slanted through the high arches, casting dappled shadows across pale stone and flowering vines. The voices of noblewomen drifted like silken ribbons on the air—gentle, musical, and steeped in the idle ease of highborn company. At the heart of the garden sat a round marble table, its surface cool and gleaming in the afternoon light. Upon it lay silver dishes of honeyed figs, sugared dates, and delicate lemon cakes so fine they could have been shaped by the Maiden herself. A silver pot steamed faintly in the center, surrounded by cups of fine Vale porcelain, white as moonmilk and thin as petals.

Six women reclined in a graceful semi-circle upon carved chairs of weirwood and velvet. Their gowns were a garden unto themselves—blush rose, seafoam green, gold spun like sunlight, and Tarly red. Lady Lynesse Hightower sat closest to the archway, fanning herself lazily with a swan-feather fan while murmuring some idle jest to Lady Jehanne Redwyne, who raised her cup with practiced poise, lips barely touching the rim. Nearby, Lady Bethany, pale of face but kind in her eyes, spoke softly with her good-sister, Lady Samantha Tarly. Now and again, Bethany’s gaze drifted toward her daughter perched on the edge of her seat—Sibylla Redwyne. Septa Maris was seated there as well. A gaunt, pale woman in grey and white. She had come to the Vale in the summer past, in the company of the High Septon and Septon Eustace. Three moons ago, she had been named the head septa in service to Lady Bethany—a position of no small influence, cloaked in silks and prayers.

It was then the sound came—a quiet, steady clack of heels on stone. Each step echoed lightly down the marble stair, rhythmic and measured like a metronome to the heart. The conversation ceased at once. Teacups were lowered, glances exchanged.

She had come.

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen Arryn descended the white marble steps like a storm cloaked in sapphire. Her gown was a deep, rich blue, the color of the Summer Sea at dusk, and caught the sun with its sheen of fine Myrish silk. Silver embroidery curled like waves along the hem, and her sleeves billowed with soft, cloud-like layers of pale silver. A girdle of sapphires and moonstones girded her waist, matched by a pendant that rested above her breast, glinting like a drop of starfire. Her silver hair was swept into a braided crown, studded with small blue gems, and behind her came three handmaidens dressed in matching blue-and-white livery, each carrying a carved wooden chest

The knights of House Arryn followed at a respectful distance, cloaked in sky-blue and steel, silent as the shadow of the Eyrie. Their polished helms caught the sunlight, their hands never far from their sword hilts. As she reached the garden floor, Rhaenyra moved like a woman wholly at ease, regal in bearing yet smiling faintly, the curve of her lips a carefully crafted thing. She did not rush. The air changed when she entered. A hush fell like fresh snow. The ladies rose, their silks rustling as they dipped into curtsies.

“Your Grace,” Lady Lynesse intoned, her words swift and sweet as honey. The others echoed her, all eyes upon the sapphire storm that had descended into their midst.

“My ladies. Septa Maris,” Rhaenyra answered, her voice low and smooth, the tone of a woman long accustomed to reverence, yet untouched by arrogance. “I hope I have not kept you waiting.” She placed one hand upon the back of the chair, lingering just so, fingers resting with the practiced stillness of one accustomed to scrutiny. Then, with the grace of water pouring from a silver ewer, she lowered herself into the seat. 

“Of course not, Princess,” said Lady Bethany at last, her voice calm, tempered with both respect and something quieter—something almost like awe. She sank into her own seat again, smoothing her skirts with careful hands. Beside her, young Sibylla Hightower, barely flowered, continued to stare, mouth parted slightly as if she beheld some creature from a tale spun by wet nurses and wandering singers. A maiden from a dream. A queen from a song.

Rhaenyra met the girl’s gaze and offered a smile—not wide, not proud, but warm enough to thaw, gentle enough not to frighten. A smile for a girl who still believed in beauty and miracles. Then her eyes returned to Bethany’s, the severity within them softening like snow in spring. “I pray Lord Hobert’s health improves,” she said.

Bethany’s face shifted—something melted there, some hardness or hurt undone. Her features, usually so schooled, grew softer, and the gratitude that showed in her eyes was unfeigned. Even Lady Lynesse, ever watchful and wary, let the corners of her mouth turn upward in a flicker of warmth.

“If not for your help, Princess,” Bethany said, voice thick with feeling, “my father would be in far graver condition. Me My family and”—she added with a faint curve of amusement—“are deeply grateful.” She reached forward then, slowly, like a woman unsure if her gesture might be rebuked. Her hands were pale, well-kept, but calloused at the joints. They clasped Rhaenyra’s between them, cool to the touch but sincere in the pressure they offered.

“No thanks are needed, Lady Bethany,” Rhaenyra said, her voice soft as she placed her free hand atop Bethany’s. “Are we not all sisters in the eyes of the Seven? And should not sisters help one another?”

The words hung like incense, soft and clinging. They wove between the women in the garden like invisible silk, touching each one in turn. For a heartbeat, a breath, it was as though the breeze itself had stilled to listen. Lady Samantha smiled, serene. Even Lady Redwyne, who once spoke Rhaenyra’s name like a curse—still bitter from that old quarrel at Prince Aegon’s second name day—allowed herself a quiet nod, her expression unreadable but not unkind. And Septa Maris, stoic as stone, bowed her head by the barest fraction.

Then, as if stirred by some invisible current, Rhaenyra lifted her chin, and a light gleamed in her eyes. A glint of mischief, yes—but more than that. Purpose. Intention.

“Ah,” she said, almost lightly, “to draw our sisterhood closer still…”

At her signal, her handmaidens moved forward, graceful as shadows, each bearing a carved wooden chests tied with a ribbon of Vale-blue silk. The lids were adorned with delicate carvings—pinecones, snowdrops, and mountain flowers native to the Vale. Not gaudy, but fine. Thoughtful. “From me,” Rhaenyra said simply, and though the words were few, they fell with weight. “A few small gifts. Tokens of friendship… and my thanks for welcoming me to your table.”

Rhaenyra’s POV

She had prepared for this moment long before her feet ever touched the stone paths of the Red Keep’s garden. Days, weeks—perhaps even moons—she had pondered, alone and in counsel, wondering what token might speak louder than words ever could. What offering might bridge the chasm carved not by open enmity, but by silence, suspicion, and years of carefully measured distance. She had known gifts would be expected—small gestures, a show of courtesy, the language of ladies and highborn houses. But she did not wish merely to fulfill expectation.

She wanted them to see her as one of their own. Not above them, nor apart—only a woman among women. And what better way to speak such truth than through gifts of finest make, each one wrought with care, as if for a king himself? And now, here it was—the moment when thought met action. They took the bait beautifully.

One by one, the women opened their boxes, and the room shifted. It was not the wind that stirred, nor the rustle of silks, but something else—an unseen thread pulled taut. There it was: the soft flutter of gasps, the half-hidden glances, the trembling fingers touching velvet and gold as if they’d never seen such wealth up close, though most of them had been born into it.

Foremost among them was a string of prayer beads—pearls smooth as river stones, joined by links of fine-spun gold. At its end hung a pendant of stained glass, no larger than a lady’s thumb, held within a golden frame chased with sapphires and small green garnets. The image within was of the Mother, serene and sorrowful, her hands outstretched in blessing or farewell, her face a mosaic of pale blues and gentle pinks that seemed to glow of their own accord. It was not some common septa’s trinket. No, this was a thing of reverence and high birth.

Beside it rested a brooch shaped like a sunburst, its center a royal purple stone the size of a thumbnail, circled by smaller gems—rubies, emeralds, pale diamonds—each set in golden filigree fine as spider’s silk. A single pearl hung beneath, like the moon caught in a web of fire.

The third piece was nestled in a folded square of lace—delicate Myrish work, perhaps, or lace from the Fingers—was a bracelet, or armlet, thin as a maiden’s wrist yet heavy with meaning. Pearls and gold chased one another in intricate loops, and three emeralds watched like ancient eyes. A teardrop-shaped gem, clear and glistening, hung at its center, quiet and solemn as the Stranger’s promise.

She watched them with the face she had crafted—a soft, patient smile, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes shining with feigned anticipation. It was almost too easy. She had not needed to speak a word, and yet the gifts had spoken volumes for her.

Lady Lynesse was the first to falter. Her lips parted in awe, brows arching high as though the sight before her were some divine vision. “Gods preserve us,” she whispered, voice thinned by disbelief. Her hands, adorned with delicate rings of silver and moonstone, trembled as she lifted the strand of creamy pearls from the velvet-lined box. “Are you certain this is meant for us, Princess?” she said, her voice barely above a breath, fingers curling protectively around the gift as if fearing it might dissolve into mist.

She watched her with a smile soft as summer rain, her chin tilted in gentle modesty, her bearing composed yet inviting. “They’re nothing,” she said aloud, her voice warm as honeyed wine poured into a golden cup. “Only small tokens. I thought... perhaps you might find some joy in them.” She kept her tone light, gracious, but her eyes were sharp as a falcon’s. She saw every flicker across Lynesse’s face—gratitude, confusion, a flicker of guilt that passed as quickly as lightning. Good. Let her feel them all.

Lady Jehanne said nothing at first. Of course, she wouldn’t—not until she had tasted every angle of suspicion. She held the brooch aloft between thumb and forefinger, the way a jeweler might appraise a flawed stone. “My lord husband gifted me a brooch on our wedding day,” she said after a long silence, her voice cool as sea glass. “But this…” Her thumb grazed the ruby, catching a glint of fire within. “This is a queen’s jewel.” Her gaze rose slowly, deliberately, piercing. “Are you sure this is meant for built friendship, Princess? Or is it a bribe, dressed in piety?” The words came like a blade wrapped in velvet.

The room stilled. Even Lady Lynesse, who had been fastening her new brooch to her bodice, withdrew her hands and returned the gift to its box, cheeks flushed. A silence settled like frost.

Ah, but this was precisely what she had expected from Lady Jehanne—sharp-tongued, proud, incapable of holding back her thoughts even when doing so might win her favor. The type of woman who believed herself unbending and righteous. But the princess had lived beneath roofs with women far worse than Jehanne Redwyne. Ten years under the same sun as Aunt Amanda had forged her patience into steel. Compared to Amanda, Jehanne was a fluttering bird easily caught.

She only smiled and took a delicate sip of her tea before meeting Jehanne’s gaze. “Perhaps it is both?” she offered mildly. “But do not misunderstand me, my lady. If it is a bribe, then let it be a bribe of apology. One meant especially for you, Lady Redwyne.”

The confession landed like a stone dropped in still water, ripples of surprise stirring through the room. Even Jehanne seemed taken aback. So did the others. The princess allowed herself a small pause before continuing, her voice smooth and clear.

“Ten years ago, at my brother Aegon’s name day feast, I spoke to you in a manner most unbecoming. And long before that, I conducted myself with arrogance, as if I stood above reproach.” She reached for a small slice of cake and cut it neatly, her motion calm, her poise unshaken. “In truth, these gifts were already prepared, and I had intended to send them even had Lady Bethany and Lady Lynesse not extended their gracious invitation to this gathering. Their kindness merely gave me the opportunity to present them in person.”

She turned her gaze back to Jehanne, eyes wide with practiced humility. “I have spent much time reflecting during my stay in the Vale. Reflection, I find, is a cruel but necessary tutor. And I saw in myself a girl of pride, not a maiden of faith. These gifts, then, are not merely tokens of friendship but offerings of contrition. I hope you can understand, Lady Jehanne.”

It was, of course, a lie.

Why should she beg forgiveness from a woman who had once sneered at her grief and whispered petty words into courtiers’ ears? But Rhaenyra had learned something valuable in the Vale: when dealing with vipers in silk gowns, one must play their game. Let them think they’ve won. Let them believe they hold the higher ground, so they never notice the sand shifting beneath their feet.

And as she expected, Jehanne did not lay the gift aside again. Instead, she touched the brooch to her collarbone, trying it against her gown. “You were young then,” she said softly, a rare gentleness in her tone. “You had just lost your mother, the late Queen Aemma. I understand, and I commend you for the maturity it takes to offer such a sincere apology, Princess.”

The tension that had coiled through the room seemed to unwind, as if a cold wind had stilled.

Sibylla, Bethany’s sprightly daughter of thirteen summers, clutched her small prize with eyes round as coins. “May I wear it to the feast, my lady?” she asked, practically bouncing with excitement. “Please?”

“You may wear it wherever you please,” she replied, brushing a loose curl behind the girl’s ear. “It is yours now, and you need no one’s leave—not even mine.”

The girl’s face lit like dawn. Bethany smiled, a mother’s pride evident in her gaze, and the princess turned her attention to the last of them—Septa Maris.

The septa had not reached for the box at first. Instead, she had stared at it with thinly veiled suspicion, as if it might spring open and bite. But once Lady Jehanne began to fawn, so too did the old crow relent. She unfolded the cloth slowly, reverently, revealing a strand of pale prayer beads strung around a gleaming centerpiece. Her eyes narrowed—not in protest, but consideration. And when she took the strand in her hands, she did not bless it. She did not reject it. She simply held it. Turned it. Admired it.

So much for humility.

She suppressed a scoff and said gently, “I hope the prayer beads please you, Septa Maris.”

“Prayer beads?” Septa Maris asked, her expression puzzled. “These are not meant as a bracelet, Princess?” she asked again. Judging by the expressions of the other ladies, she could conclude they thought the same.

“Ah, of course. Forgive me—I should have explained,” she said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with her napkin. "These are a new product we’ve begun producing in the Vale. We worked closely with septons and septas to create them. Each pearl represents a verse from one of the Seven’s principal prayers. There are six verses per prayer, seven prayers in all—hence forty-two beads. The pendant at the center is meant to remind us that beauty may be found in prayer. And all profits from their sale are returned to the Septs of the Vale, to support the faithful and their flocks.”

A hush followed, like the quiet after snowfall—soft, reverent, waiting.

There was a hush after she spoke, the kind that follows a sermon or a snowfall—soft, weighty, expectant. Septa Maris was the first to respond.  “Truly, Your Grace, the Mother must have worked through you.”

She inclined her head demurely, lips curled in a gentle smile. “I am only Her humble servant,” she said, voice smooth as cream. But within, her thoughts were sharper than any dagger. Worked through me? Foolish old crow. She wanted to scream that the god they worship and use as a shield to protect their evil is actually false and nothing more than a castoff of the fourteen flames. But she held her tongue.

“Truly admirable, Princess. If I may, how did you come up with such an idea?” asked Bethany. Of course, Bethany would be charmed. She was a woman cut from the same cloth as Alicent—fond of holy trinkets and polished piety, always eager to display her devotion like a badge. It was exactly why she had chosen Bethany. After all, there is a saying: a family’s foundation lies in its unity. When those who should stand together turn on one another, the entire house crumbles.

“I was first struck by the notion when my youngest, Harion, kept losing track of which verse he was on mid-prayer,” she said calmly, slicing into her cake with the same grace she wielded words. “Daemon and I make it a point to teach our children to recite the seven high prayers. It serves as both devotion and discipline, for memorizing each prayer helps fix them in the mind.”

That much was true, at least. She and Daemon had seen to it that their sons could name each line and saintly aspect with a septa’s precision, though neither of them held faith in such trappings. But one must wear the lie like a cloak—embroidered, perfumed, and well-fitted—until even the gods might believe it.

“And so, I crafted the prayer beads for Harion,” she went on. “When one of the septas in my household glimpsed them, she was intrigued. Each strand now is made by the hands of the faithful—septa and septon alike, and orphaned children as well. All proceeds are returned to the Sept, to feed their work and warm their halls."

There was a murmur then, soft and reverent as wind through chimes. Lady Lynesse clasped her hands before her, as though to pray then and there. Lady Bethany looked half-ready to commission a dozen for her nephew.

Then it was Septa Maris who spoke first, her voice quivering with something close to awe. “You have done more than most highborns ever would, princess.” She leaned forward slightly, the folds of her modest grey robe rustling with the motion. “To raise your children in the ways of the Seven, to teach them reverence for each verse, each blessing—this is no small feat. But to give the smallfolk purpose through such work, to see their hands shape something holy, something beautiful…” Her voice trembled further, eyes shining not just with tears, but with revelation. “These are not the labors of the proud, but of the faithful. The Crone lights such paths, and few follow them.” She clasped her hands, her knuckles white from pressure. “May the Mother bless your gentleness, and the Crone keep her lantern ever bright at your feet, Pricess.”

Lady Lynesse, ever delicate and easy with flattery, gave a wistful sigh and reached once more for the prayer beads. “They're lovely,” she murmured. “So much more meaningful now that I know what they represent. I thought them pretty before, but now… they feel sacred.” She pressed them softly against her lips, as if in kiss or a prayer, and cast her a look heavy with admiration.

She watched Bethany nod thoughtfully. “The Faith could use more royal patrons who give with such care. I daresay even the High Septon himself would be pleased, should word of this reach his holiness.” Bethany turned to Septa Maris and asked softly, “Is that not so, Septa Maris?” The septa answered with a slow, solemn nod.

The conversation flowed more easily afterward. She could see it in the way Lady Jehanne’s shoulders no longer sat so rigidly beneath her shawl, and in the manner Lady Lynesse poured the tea—less precise, more relaxed. They no longer saw her as a threat, or at least not so plainly. And that was enough.

Once she was certain their guard had lowered, she began to unfurl the threads of her plan, soft and silken. Turning toward Lady Lynesse with a smile as sweet as honeyed milk, she said, “Lady Lynesse, I could not help but notice that every member of House Hightower today wears green. And unless my memory deceives me, your house dons that color only in times of war. Has some new conflict come to Oldtown’s gates?”

She saw it at once—the ripple of tension across the garden table. A glance was traded between Lady Lynesse and her daughter Bethany, sharp and silent. It was Bethany who moved first, gently asking her mother-in-law, Lady Jehanne, to escort her child back into the Red Keep. The older woman complied without question, rising with the little girl in tow. Lady Samantha followed close behind, leaving only herself, Bethany, Lynesse, and Septa Maris beneath the arbor’s shade.

Lady Lynesse cleared her throat delicately before replying, “The Hightowers are at peace, Princess. There is no war, nor quarrel, that I know of.”

She inclined her head in a gesture of courtly grace, her gaze never once wavering. “Oh,” she murmured, tone light as air, “then I must have misunderstood. Forgive me. It’s simply so rare to see a great house so thoroughly coordinated without cause. Green is a bold choice, after all—and history has long tied it to your banners in times of strife.”

Lady Lynesse said nothing. Her silence was careful, deliberate. Bethany, however, was less skilled in her masks; her smile had tightened into something brittle.

She almost laughed.

How like Alicent they were. Ever eager to cast the first stone and then feign innocence, as if their hands had never been raised. So like her—creatures of shadows and half-truths, thriving in the dark until dragged into light. And when confronted? They scurried like mice. She should not have been surprised. They were of the same root and rot.

“I suppose,” she said, voice soft as down, “that you all wear green out of fondness—for the Queen.” She lifted her eyes, feigning surprise. “It must be her favorite color, is it not?”

The silence that followed was telling. The ladies exchanged another glance, slower this time, more cautious.

“I remember thinking it strange, once,” she went on, her tone drifting into idle recollection. “When I first heard the Queen had taken to wearing green so often. I wondered if it was meant to signify something… perhaps the rallying of her house to a private cause.” She let her words hang, light and effortless. “Especially when I saw, not an hour past, every Hightower at the luncheon clad in the very same shade.”

She turned back to them then, eyes wide with mock innocence, like a maiden at her first feast. “But if there is no war, no quarrel, then it must be a gesture of reverence. A sweet one, truly. A family united in loyalty and admiration for their Queen. Blood binds tighter than oaths, does it not?” Lady Lynesse offered only a tight-lipped smile. Bethany scoffed, the sound sharp and unguarded—more a sneer than laughter. Ah, so there it was.

She had struck something raw.

Of course, Bethany would bristle at any suggestion of admiration toward Alicent. Not after Alicent refused to lift a finger to help Lord Hobert, dismissing his life as nothing in front of a hall of lords? No one likes to be told they adore a woman who once served them as a maid before creeping into a king’s bed and taking his crown. Bethany was offended, no doubt. Offended — and bitter.

“And you, Princess?” Bethany said, voice tight as a bowstring. “Bringing so many guards with you — one might think you came to wage war, not attend your kin’s wedding.” So that was the wound. A mere mention of Alicent, and Bethany turned as bitter as wormwood.

Lady Lynesse made to chide her daughter, but she raised her hand gently to forestall the lady. “It’s quite all right, Lady Lynesse,” she said calmly. “Her concern is not unfounded. Anyone would be wary when the former heir arrives at the heir’s wedding flanked by swords and dragons.” She sipped her tea. “But I swear, I brought my escort only to ensure my family’s safety. All here know how dangerous King’s Landing has become — thieves and kidnappers roam freely, and no justice to be found. It would be remiss of me not to take precautions, more so after what recently befell my family.”

The septa leaned in, brows knitting. “Incident, Princess?”

She nodded at the question, her expression calm and composed as a mask. “Surely Septa Maris remembers my uncle, Archmaester Vaegon, and my aunt, Septa Maegelle?” she asked the elderly septa, voice as smooth as silk drawn over steel.

“Of course, Princess. Who in the Faith does not know Archmaester Vaegon and sweet Septa Maegelle? They were both devoted servants of the Seven,” replied Septa Maris, a touch of fondness in her voice.

She inclined her head again. “A year passed, the High Septon—may the gods bless his heart—granted them leave to dwell in the Eyrie, with my mother’s kin.” Her voice caught in her throat. “Only my uncle arrived.” Tears slipped silently down her cheeks, glistening like dew on cold marble. The three women surrounding her gasped, startled by the sudden show of grief. Lady Bethany, quick to act, offered her a handkerchief—embroidered with green thread, of course. She took it with a nod, dabbing at her eyes with deliberate grace.

“Only Archmaester Vaegon?” Septa Maris asked, her voice tinged with unease. “What of Septa Maegelle?”

“There lies the sorrow, good Septa.” Her voice trembled, breaking just enough to carry the weight of loss. “On their journey to the Vale, they were set upon by brigands. My aunt was taken.” Her breath hitched. “By some twist of mercy, Ser Harwin and his kin happened upon them and recognized my uncle. Had they not, my uncle’s bones would be rotting by some nameless road, and there’d be no one to give him a proper pyre.”

She sobbed then, racking, guttural, like grief clawing its way up from a hollow well. It was not wholly false; she did grieve for her aunt and uncle. But not so deeply that tears would come of their own accord. No, for that, she had to recall darker visions: the corpse of her mother, the cold silence of her unborn daughter, the charred faces of her sons in dreams she could not banish. It was those phantoms she summoned now, for she had learned well: tears were the strongest kind of truth in the court of women. Stronger than oaths. Stronger than steel.

The women before her fell into stunned silence, even the Hightower handmaid behind them looked pale at her tale.

“To harm a servant of the gods...” Septa Maris whispered, scandalized.

“Oh, Princess,” murmured Lady Lynesse. “It is clearer now why you came with such a formidable escort. That ordeal must have... taken a toll.” She could see it then—the shift. Bethany’s stern mask softened, eyes brimming with guilt. Perhaps for her earlier accusations. Perhaps simply because she, like the rest of them, wanted to believe in the best of those who wept.

Daemon had been right. She really could have made a fine mummer.

When they tried to soothe her with gentle hands and cooing voices, she let them—for a time. Once her composure had returned and her breath no longer trembled, Bethany offered an apology. “Forgive me, Princess,” the lady said in a quiet tone. “But surely you understand our fears... You arrived with such force, and your dragons...”

She nodded, wiping away the final trace of tears. “It’s quite all right, Lady Bethany. Your caution is not misplaced. Truthfully, though, my kin and I have long ceased to care for the Iron Throne.”

“Even your husband?” Lady Lynesse’s voice cracked like a whip, the question escaping her before her sense could catch it. The lady paled immediately, as though realizing too late that she’d overstepped.

Ah, but how could these women understand?

Daemon had never hungered for the throne, not truly. What he craved was simpler and infinitely harder to gain: her father’s regard. His pride. His love. The Iron Throne, with its jagged iron teeth and cursed legacy, had always been incidental—a prize Daemon might claim, not the purpose he lived for. That was something only she understood. And it was something the Greens never could.

“Even Daemon,” she said softly, smiling as if the thought amused her. “My husband does not care whose backside warms the Iron Throne. If he did, he would have claimed it long ago. He had a dragon. He had swords sworn to him. Yet he let my father—who had none—keep his crown, and he stood guard over it.”

She saw something flicker in the women’s faces then—recognition, or the beginning of it.

“It is true he has no love for the Lord Hand. But rest easy, my ladies—Daemon bears no grudge against House Hightower. Only the man who sought to poison a man in the eyes of his brother. Tell me, if all you had was one person in the world, would you not resent the man who tried to take even that?” Her voice grew firmer now, no longer trembling, no longer tear-soaked. Iron under velvet.

“People tend to imagine terrible things about Daemon and me—cruel little fancies born of fear and gossip. If we were as cruel and ambitious as they whisper, why haven’t we taken the throne already? We are the only ones whose dragons have not fallen to sleep, and yet we have not stirred them to war.” She let that sink in, her gaze sharp as a blade. “Daemon and I have found our calm, our contentment. We do not mean to shatter that calm for a seat that’s never brought comfort to anyone who sat upon it.”

Their heads bowed—Lady Bethany, Lady Lynesse, even old Septa Maris. Shame clung to them like a cloak.

She sighed and rose to her feet. That, at least, stirred them to rise as well. “Let us end our tea here,” she said, glancing at the now-cool cup. “The hour grows late, and supper approaches.”

As she turned to leave, she sensed them shift—whether to stop her, to plead, or to soothe their guilt, she did not know. Nor did she care. But before she left, she paused and turned back, fixing them with a look that had turned colder than moonlight on snow. “If I may offer one counsel, my ladies—” Her tone was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “You fret over my husband’s intentions. Perhaps it would serve you better to look nearer to home.”

Their brows knit in confusion. She let the silence hang a heartbeat longer.

“Has Maester Mellos or any of his acolytes visited Lord Hobert since his ailment? Even now, when Prince Aegon’s health is stable?” Her smile did not reach her eyes. “Has Lord Hobert’s own brother, the Lord Hand, paid him a visit?”

Lady Bethany flinched. Lynesse went pale.

“If I were you,” she said, her voice quiet and cruel, “I’d be more worried about the brother who barely glanced at his own when he lay dying on the floor, Lady Lynesse.” Then she turned, skirts sweeping like the wings of a dragon, and left the garden behind.

The next day,

She had just finished her morning meal, the last taste of honeyed bread still lingering on her tongue, when the knock came. She had been content, seated in the solar with her children nearby, their laughter echoing in the warm chamber as they spoke to her husband and her aunt. The sunlight filtered through the high windows like gold poured from the heavens, casting her family in a glow so soft and fleeting it almost made her believe peace could last.

Then came the rap of knuckles against wood and the voice of Ser Lorent beyond the door. “Princess, Lady Bethany seeks audience.”

She met Daemon’s eyes first—those familiar, smirking eyes that saw more than they ever said—then glanced toward her aunt. Neither spoke, but she saw the shared thought between them. With a breath she did not realize she held, she rose.

“Lady Bethany,” she greeted coolly, her voice clipped and measured.

She saw the woman flinch. Just barely—a twitch at the corner of her mouth, a tightening of her shoulders. But she saw it. She saw everything. Good, she thought. After yesterday's unpleasant encounter, discomfort was the least she and her mother deserved. And perhaps that discomfort had only grown overnight—gnawing at them—when they saw that she, despite the insult, still sent her healer to tend to Lord Hobert. Such courtesy, she suspected, wounded their pride more than any rebuke might have.

Bethany hesitated on the threshold, her hands clasped in front of her, eyes darting like a deer sniffing for wolves.“Princess… I came here… to…”

The words stumbled on her tongue like a child caught in a lie. Ah, she mused, so stubborn a thing runs in the blood. A Hightower would sooner choke than admit fault. She said nothing, only watched her, calm and patient as a still flame, waiting to see if Bethany could summon enough spine to finish what she’d begun. But no apology came. Not yet. Of course not. Expecting grace from that family has ever been a fool’s hope.

But after a moment, she offered a breath and softened her tone just enough to be civil. “My daughter, my aunt, my ladies, and I intend to visit the sept this morning. To pray… and distribute bread to the orphaned children. Would you care to join us?”

Bethany looked up at that, eyes widening as if she’d been offered a lifeline rather than a simple invitation. She nodded too eagerly, and then, as if some old scrap of courage returned to her, she reached forward and said, “My mother and I… we are truly sorry for yesterday, Princess. We never meant to give offense.”

She regarded her in silence, then gave her a smile, soft yet distant. So easy, she thought. So eager to believe a smile means forgiveness. So naïve. She turned without another word, allowing Bethany to follow behind her like a shadow.

“Is Princess Lucrezia and Lady Amanda not joining us?” Bethany asked as she trailed her steps.

“They will follow shortly,” She answered without slowing. “I wished to see the bread myself before we set out.”

Bethany blinked. “The bread, Princess?” she repeated. “You mean… you’re giving new loaves to the smallfolk?”

Of course. Of course, she would ask that.

Once, long ago, she, herself might have asked the same question. Once, she had been no different from Bethany—fed on the sweetmeats of court, taught to smile at the poor while feeding them scraps too stale for her dogs. She remembered the feasts in the Red Keep, how the leftovers would be thrown into baskets and called charity. Bits of meat, half-eaten, bread gnawed at the corners, things touched by a hundred fingers. And yet they called it kindness.

She stopped at the threshold of the kitchens, her voice low but steady, “In the Seven-Pointed Star holy book, there is a passage that reads, ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ When I read that, I understood it to mean this: treat others as you would wish to be treated. For love is shown not in fine speeches, but in how you behave when no one watches.” Her voice was soft, but each word cut like glass. “And I, Lady Bethany, would not wish to eat the chewed remains of another’s table.”

She caught the flicker that passed across Bethany’s face—a spark of understanding, perhaps, or the sting of shame. It was difficult to say which. But the girl said nothing more, only lowered her eyes and followed in silence into the warmth of the kitchens.

There, too, she was met with stares—furtive glances from the servants, their hands stilled mid-task. A few exchanged hurried whispers, lips brushing ears, their curiosity poorly masked. No doubt they had overheard her words to Bethany. Good. Let them gossip. Let them carry tales of her kindness the way they once whispered slander. Let her name move through the halls not cloaked in scandal, but in grace.

Bethany said little after that, though she still followed close, asking in halting tones what other verses she favored, what lessons she gleaned from the Seven’s teachings. And she answered them, patiently, like a teacher guiding a child through their first prayer.

She wondered, not for the first time, how the Faith held so many in its grip when so few understood its teachings. How easily they forgot the verses that demanded humility, charity, kindness, and how eagerly they clung to those that justified cruelty and judgment. They quoted the Mother and the Father, but they worshipped power. They bowed to the Seven, but they served themselves.

When the bread was loaded into the carriage, she and Bethany made their way to the courtyard. The morning sun was soft, filtered through clouds. The air smelled of frost and old stone.

“Princess…” Bethany spoke again, haltingly. “My mother, my daughter, and I—this afternoon we plan to visit a weaver, to look at cloth for new gowns. Would you care to join us? Perhaps Princess Lucrezia would enjoy meeting Sibylla. My daughter Sibylla she’s… a good girl. Devout.”

She stopped walking and turned her head slightly, “Of course, Lady Bethany,” she said sweetly, then paused for a moment, her gaze softening. “Your daughter, Sibylla… she struck me as remarkably gentle. There’s a kindness in her eyes that cannot be taught, only nurtured. It speaks well of her upbringing—and of you.”

Bethany blinked, as if unsure whether she had heard genuine praise or merely courtesy dressed in silk. She offered her a quiet smile and continued, “I believe my daughter, Lucrezia, would be fortunate to know her.” For a heartbeat, Bethany seemed stunned. Then her features brightened with unfeigned gratitude, her lips parting in a soft exhale. She stepped closer, her eyes gleaming, as if now they were friends, and walked beside her to the carriage.

The Sept, King's Landing.

When their prayers had been said, she rose first, smoothing the folds of her gown with deliberate grace. She had meant to act upon her plan here and now, but the glances thrown her way by the septons and septas made her still her hand. In the brief time she'd spent observing, it was plain to see—save for Septon Eustace, the holy men and women within this sept had already bent the knee, not to the Seven, but to Otto Hightower.

And if her suspicions held true, then the only reason Otto and Alicent no longer collected Aegon's bastards so openly was due to Eustace himself. The man was many things—rigid, unyielding, a touch too fond of his sermons—but he would not dare to sell the name of the Faith to veil the vileness of Otto’s schemes. Especially not if he knew the truth—that those missing children were not taken for mercy or purpose, but to be sacrificed, offered so that the eggs of creatures the Faith deemed unholy might quicken in fire and blood.

And from the glint of trinkets hidden beneath the robes of the other septons and septas, her guess seemed more and more correct. Were Otto and Alicent still so bold as to act beneath Septon Eustace's watch, they would find no absolution from him. The same could not be said for the others. No, for her plan to succeed, she would need to draw Eustace away from this place. As the thought passed her mind, he appeared, striding toward her party with measured steps. “Princess Rhaenyra. Princess Lucrezia. My ladies,” Septon Eustace greeted, voice low and grave, thick with the weight of the Faith he served. His robes whispered against the cold stone floor as he drew near.

She inclined her head in practiced courtesy, the barest curve of her lips hinting at a smile—not joy, but calculation, a secret folded behind her eyes. Around her, Lucrezia and the other ladies offered graceful curtsies, a rustle of silk, and the faint scent of lavender perfuming the air. Their reverence was precise, a quiet ballet of etiquette and loyalty.

“It heartens me to see such piety in noble blood,” said Eustace, folding his hands across his middle. His eyes drifted over the group, resting longest on her and her daughter, then sweeping past the ladies beside them, especially Bethany. He returned his gaze to her and Lucy. “Since the service in the Vale, I have not been able to forget Princess Lucrezia’s lovely performance upon the lyre-harp. Might I expect such a blessing again, at the service two days hence?”

So, they meant to turn her daughter into their minstrel, their evening’s delight. Her first instinct was to refuse, but Lucrezia’s radiant face made her pause. It was true—unlike herself, unlike Daemon or even her sons, Lucrezia had taken a fondness to the Faith. And she could not yet bring herself to tell the girl that the god she prayed to was false. One day, perhaps. But not today. Today, she would let her daughter find joy where she could.

“Of course, Septon Eustace,” she replied, smoothing her daughter’s hair. “Lucy has brought her harp with her.” The girl beamed, tugging at her mother’s sleeve with bright, eager eyes. She had something to say—something she wished to share. “Septon Eustace, as it happens, Lucy has brought something for you,” She added.

The Septon’s eyes lit with surprise and mild delight. She gave her daughter a gentle nudge, and Lucrezia stepped forward shyly. She reached into her satchel, withdrawing a small box, and offered it with both hands.

“I wove the lace myself,” she said quietly, “and picked the beads for your prayer strand.”

Eustace opened the box and smiled—genuinely. “A thoughtful gift. I shall treasure it until the end of my days, Princess Lucrezia,” he said, laying a fatherly hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

She scanned the room—soft voices, no signs of tension. Good. The moment was ripe. Her voice gentle, she spoke again, this time with the air of one suggesting something casual. “Septon Eustace, the ladies and I plan to visit the orphanage near Cobbler’s Square after this. To bring warm bread to the children there. Would you not care to join us?” She watched him closely. His face, ever solemn, seemed to soften, the lines of duty giving way to something tender.

“I thought it might be good,” she continued, warm and almost playful now, “a blessing to have you come with us. Wouldn’t you agree, ladies?”

Septa Maryam was first to speak. “A wise idea, my lady.”

“I think it would be most fitting,” added Bethany, smiling sweetly. “In Oldtown, the High Septon would visit the orphanages often. It would be lovely to bring that custom here as well.”

She hid her satisfaction. That was why she had brought Bethany. Septon Eustace might well resist her request, but how could he refuse Bethany Hightower—the only daughter of Hobert Hightower, raised in piety, praised as the very image of virtue since the day she drew breath? He could not. He would not.

And so, his hesitance gave way to understanding, and at last, acceptance.

From the corner of her eye, she caught the stiffening of other septons and septas farther down the hall, their unease plain as day. Of course, they were uneasy. With Eustace gone, their lies would be laid bare.

She paid them no mind.

Together, they stepped beyond the hallowed stone of the sept, cloaks trailing behind them, and climbed into the waiting carriages. They would go to the orphanage. And there, her plan would begin in earnest.

The orphanage, King's Landing

The orphanage was no palace. Its stones bore the pockmarks of wind and rain, and what once might have been a garden had grown wild, choked with weeds and bramble. Yet to the children gathered in its yard—barefoot, thin-limbed, and wide-eyed—it was a kingdom all their own. They stood in crooked lines, hands clasped tight, not from discipline but desperation. Their faces bore not only the hollows of hunger, but the deeper wound, the one that never healed—healed-the ache of being overlooked, unwanted, left behind.

She knew that ache. Gods, she knew it well.

She bent low, the heavy velvet of her skirts fanning around her like spilled ink. She did not look upon them as a princess above her subjects, but as a woman who remembered what it meant to be small, to feel forgotten. Her gaze met theirs, one by one, and in those eyes she saw ghosts—not of strangers, but of children who bore her blood in dreams she dared not speak of. Hair of chestnut and coal, eyes wide with hope and hunger... so very like her own.

Elinda lifted the first basket, and at once the scent of warm bread rose into the air—honeyed, soft, golden-crusted. It was the sort of bread baked in castle kitchens, served with stews rich in meat and spice... not handed to orphans with dust on their cheeks. One boy stared so long at his loaf, she feared he’d forgotten what bread was meant for.

“You must try it,” she said softly, her voice a balm. A smile touched her lips, not practiced, not princely—real.

The boy blinked, as if waking from a spell. “It smells... like it’s magic.”

Her heart ached at the words. She reached out, brushing a lock of hair from his brow with gentle fingers. “Eat slowly,” she whispered. “Savor it. It was made for you.”

She had always despised the people of King’s Landing. But how could she hate these children? These small, quiet souls with eyes that mirrored those in her visions—the same eyes her sons had once turned upon the world, only to be met with cruelty and scorn for the blood in their veins, for the hair on their heads, for the shape of their smiles. Shame had been laid upon them like a cloak they could never shed. The memory bit deep, and she fought to keep her tears from spilling, swallowing them down as she looked about.

The children clutched the bread as if it were treasure, gazing at it in wonder—as if they held a miracle.

“I’ve never had bread that was still warm,” a little girl murmured, cradling her loaf as if it might vanish.

“It smells like the festival days,” another whispered, pressing it close to her face, eyes shining.

Behind her, the rustle of cloth broke her reverie. Lucrezia’s basket was brought forth by gentle Hana. Her daughter’s fingers, graceful as a harpist’s, undid the knot, revealing more wonders still: wooden soldiers carved with care, painted deer and lions, cloth dolls stitched with uneven but loving hands, spinning tops and dragons both fierce and friendly.

Gasps rose from the children like birds startled into flight.

“They are mine,” said Lucrezia, simply. “I brought them for you.”

Septon Eustace, who had just finished recounting the tale of the Seven to the older children, blinked once and stepped nearer. “All of them?” he asked, his voice low, uncertain. “You gave them all away, princess?”

Lucrezia looked up at him, her gaze unflinching, calm, and clear as polished glass. “I was born to a mother and father who love me, in a house where nothing is wanting. If I desired it, I could have a hundred more toys made just the same. But these children…” She turned her head slightly, watching the orphans gathered nearby. “They may never hold even one.”

The septon found no reply to that.

She watched as her daughter’s small hands reached out to a girl younger still, and into the child’s arms she placed a faded doll whose yarn hair had long since lost its curl. “Her name is Lady Lavender,” Lucrezia whispered. “She doesn’t like to sleep alone.”

The little girl clutched the doll as if it were treasure—just as her own children had, when they found Syrax’s clutch of eggs nestled warm in straw and steam. Then, suddenly as a summer storm, she flung her arms around Lucrezia’s waist and held fast.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Steffon shift, one hand flying to the hilt of his sword. The Arryn guards beside him did the same, steps forward stilled only by the warning lift of her fingers. The orphanage workers froze, breath caught in their throats, and even the townsfolk outside—those who had paused in their passing, drawn by curiosity—watched with widening eyes and worry writ plain upon their faces. For in Westeros, it was no small thing for any commonborn to lay hands upon a highborn. To touch nobility unbidden—even in innocence—was a trespass. And to embrace a daughter of dragon’s blood? That could see a hand taken, or a life.

But Lucrezia did not pull away.

No, her sweet girl, her Lucy, returned the embrace without fear, her arms encircling the smaller form with quiet warmth.

She felt no surprise. Lucy had always been thus—gentle-hearted and bold in her kindness. Even in the Vale, when they had walked among the destitute and the broken, Lucy had never shrunk from the dirt beneath her silks, never flinched from the grime on a stranger’s hand. She had crouched to tend, to carry, to soothe. Her goodness was not woven of courtly speeches or empty gestures, but of deeds—small, unspoken, and true.

She stood silent, letting the stillness settle around her like mist. She saw her aunt behind the veil, smiling soft as spring rain. Septa Maryam’s eyes shone, full of quiet feeling. Catherine and Elinda gave solemn nods, approval writ in their stillness. Bethany stood with lips parted, as if she’d forgotten what it was to speak. And Septon Eustace… his gaze now held a quiet warmth, She saw, too, how the workers and passersby standing not far off now looked upon her daughter with awe, with warmth, with no small measure of wonder. Some among them, she noted, had their gazes fixed not upon Lucrezia, but upon the loaves in the hands of the children. And in that moment, she understood. These were not simply smallfolk drawn by curiosity—they were the destitute, the unwashed, the hungry souls who lived by the charity of septs and the mercy of strangers.

She did not know when her fingers had found the rings upon her hand—silver, gold, a ruby set in a dragon’s claw—but she felt herself twisting them, one by one, as if each turn might anchor her to the present. The weight of them felt heavier than it had before, as though her sorrow had seeped into the metal, burdening it. Her heart pounded faster, louder, until its beat thundered in her ears like the drums of battle, drowning out the voices around her. Her hand shook. She made a fist, but could not still it.

The faces—gods, the faces—were what undid her. Hollow-eyed and dirt-streaked, lips cracked from thirst and sun, their expressions begged for pity, for alms. Yet in them, she saw the mob from her dreams—the horde that had torn her helpless Joffrey limb from limb, that had dragged sweet Syrax from the sky and rejoiced in the blood that followed. It was a dream, no more, not real—not yet, mayhaps never—but the memory of it raked across her thoughts with cruel claws. She saw teeth and nails, wild eyes and hungering glee.

Her fingers turned the rings faster, faster still, until a familiar hand stilled them. “Breathe,” said her aunt, soft and steady. And she did. Air returned to her lungs, and her trembling ceased.

Yes, she hated them. She loathed them with every fiber of her being, but she needed them all the same—for her cause, her future. So she gathered herself like a woman donning armor and stepped forward toward the beggars. Oswell moved with her, as did Ser Lorent and two of the Arryn guards, keeping close behind, eyes sharp for any sudden movement. She could feel the crowd’s attention shift, following her now. Their stares clung to her like cobwebs.

“The bread,” she said coolly, “was meant for the children. But I can give you this.”

Her hand slipped into the pouch at her waist, drawing forth a handful of silver stags. Slowly, deliberately, she placed two coins into the hand of each vagrant who lingered near.

“Thank you, Princess Rhaenyra,” said one.
“Long live the princess,” came another.
And another. And another.

Each time the words were spoken, her revulsion rose like bile in her throat. So this was their loyalty—bought and sold for two thin discs of silver. Gods, how cheap their pride was. How foul it felt to touch their hands, their grime-slicked palms, to meet their gaze as if they were equals. She longed to bathe, to scrub herself clean of their touch.

But she held her tongue. She bore it. She would do what she must.

When at last she felt the last coin leave her pouch, she opened her mouth to speak, to tell the beggars that there would be no more silver. But before the words could pass her lips, another hand replaced her own. Her daughter’s hand.

“Father gave me some coins for sweets,” Lucrezia said, her voice soft but sure as she knelt to offer her own silver to the hungry.

Catherine followed suit, then Elinda, both moving with quiet grace as they reached into their cloaks and emptied what they carried. Whether out of shame, pride, or some sudden stirring of conscience, Bethany and Septon Eustace each drew forth their own silver as well.

“Seven bless you, good Septon.”

“Long life to Lady Bethany.”

“Praise be for Princess Lucrezia!”

The cries came thick and fast, a flood of gratitude from mouths worn thin by hunger. Bethany’s face lit with something close to radiance. The Septon glowed like a priest receiving divine vision. Whether they were glad to have helped or drunk on the sound of praise—well, she thought she knew the answer to that. As she watched them bask in the worship of the crowd, her eyes narrowed.

Good. Now we begin.

She cleared her throat, loud enough to draw attention, and raised her voice so all could hear. “Since Lady Bethany and Septon Eustace are here,” she said, turning to fix them both with a gentle smile, “perhaps they might share word of the children taken into their care. The ones sent to Oldtown under the Crown’s mercy.”

Both Bethany and the Septon blinked, confused. Their brows drew together in quiet panic. Of course they had no answer—those children were taken by Otto and Alicent, their names sold to cover shame. Catherine stepped forward before the silence could stretch too long.

“Quite right,” she said, loud and bright. “There’s not a soul in King’s Landing who hasn’t heard of Queen Alicent’s boundless compassion. The noble Hightowers, and the holy Faith of Oldtown—so willing to shelter the bastards of Prince Aegon.”

Ah, Catherine. She could always be counted on to fan the flames.

Murmurs rose among the crowd, low at first, then louder. A few turned to one another, questions already forming on their tongues. One woman rushed forward, fell to her knees before Bethany, and kissed the hem of her cloak, weeping thanks into the stone. Bethany recoiled as if slapped. She looked around, startled, before taking a hasty step back. “I... I must go,” Bethany said, turning toward her. “Princess, might I borrow one of your carriages?”

“Of course,” she replied sweetly, gesturing toward the wagon that had brought the bread. “Take two of the Arryn guards with you. Just in case.” She watched Bethany climb into the carriage, lips tight with strain, and hid her smile behind the veil of her hair. No, you do not die today, dear Bethany. I still have need of you.

With Bethany gone, the questions meant for her swiftly turned to Septon Eustace.

She cast a glance at Ser Steffon and gave a small nod. The knight understood at once, guiding young Lucrezia and her aunt into the carriage. Better to be cautious. The mood was shifting. What began as humble inquiry had turned to sharp demand. The crowd was beginning to press forward, their voices louder now, more insistent.

Poor Septon, she thought, watching the old man sweat beneath the weight of their pleas. How does it feel, to be cornered by the very faithful you so proudly shepherd?

Do not fear, dear Septon. Soon enough, you will not be the only one. She meant to see Alicent and Otto feel that same noose tighten.

The crowd swelled. The guards from House Arryn stepped in, arms outstretched to keep them at bay. Still, it would not do to let the scene spiral beyond her grasp. She stepped forward, voice steady and strong, yet touched with sympathy. “I understand your pain,” she said. “I am a mother myself. To be left in the dark about the fate of your children—it would shatter me. But how can Septon Eustace speak or offer comfort when he is not even given a chance to draw breath?”

Her words, cool and composed, softened the rising tide. Slowly, the crowd hushed.

Now she turned, fixing her eyes upon the Septon. “You should speak of the children, good Septon,” she said, her voice pitched just right, threaded with worry and staged concern. “These poor parents deserve to know.” She reached out and placed a hand on the old man’s arm. Whether it was her touch or the silence pressing in, something shifted in him. The trembling ceased. His gaze, which had flitted like a cornered rabbit’s, now met hers with grim resolve.

“I... I cannot answer your questions,” Septon Eustace said at last, turning to face the crowd.

A gasp swept through them.

The woman who had kissed Bethany’s feet now threw herself at the Septon’s own, clutching his robes with shaking hands. “What do you mean?” she cried. “We were promised—Queen Alicent swore it—Lord Hand said our children would be safe in Oldtown!”

Ah, there it is, she thought, watching as the names spilled freely from trembling lips. Alicent. Otto. Say them again. Say them louder.

She ought to have pitied the woman. Of course she did, in some part of her. What mother would not weep, to have her child ripped from her arms and given over to the mercy of strangers? To death itself, more like. But her satisfaction outweighed her sorrow. Let the names be spoken. Let them burn.

Septon Eustace seemed to grasp, at last, where this storm had blown from. And who had stirred the winds. His voice trembled as he spoke again, louder this time. “There was never any arrangement between the Crown and the High Septon concerning the sheltering of these children. They were never received in Oldtown.”

The silence that followed cracked like ice beneath a heavy step.

The woman screamed. Others joined her, wails rising up like smoke from a pyre. Some tore at their tunics, rending cloth and skin alike. The horror in their eyes was a mirror of her own memories—the terror of imagining your child vanished into nothing, into some pit of lies dressed in silks and holy words. Of course they assumed the worst. What else could they do? They had believed sweet promises, fed to them by septons and septas who wore the Faith like armor but had long since sold their souls to Otto and Alicent. Now the truth came not from whispers or rumor, but from the mouth of an Oldtown Septon. A man trusted by the High Septon himself.

And with that truth came ruin.

The Red Keep, King’s Landing

Bethany Hightower’s POV

What did they mean, Aegon’s bastards were with her family? Did her mother and father know of this lie? Fear and fury clutched at her heart as she swept through the stone corridors of the Red Keep, past Septas and stewards who dared not meet her eye. Her steps rang like the tolling of a bell, urgent and unrelenting. She did not pause until she reached the guest wing where the Hightowers had been lodged—gracious quarters, yet far from the heart of court. Without waiting for a herald or servant to announce her, she threw open the door to her parents’ chamber.

Her father was awake, propped against a mound of pillows, a bowl of steaming broth in hand. Her mother sat at his side, with her brother Ormund perched close, whispering low. They looked up as she entered, but Bethany gave them no time for pleasantries.

“Did you know?” she asked sharply. “Did either of you know?”

Confusion passed between them like a gust of wind through dying leaves.

“What are you talking about, Bethany?” her father rasped, his voice still raw from sickness. Ormund frowned at her, as if she’d sprouted a second head.

“Aegon’s bastards,” she hissed. “The ones Alicent and Uncle Otto took from the streets. The ones they promised to send to Oldtown.” Her voice trembled now—not with weakness, but with rage. A silence fell. Her words hung heavy in the air, leaden with implication. Her parents exchanged glances, and even Ormund’s face shifted from confusion to unease.

“If the mob believes those children are with us,” she continued, voice rising, “and they find out they are not—gods, they will tear us limb from limb before we can flee this cursed city.”

“Bastards? Sent to Oldtown? Bethany, what nonsense is this?” her mother snapped. But there was fear beneath the anger, plain and sharp. The same fear had crept onto her father’s face, and Ormund’s as well. They were beginning to understand. The weight of her words was not lost on them.

“I went to the orphanage,” she said, her voice thick with anger. “There were smallfolk there—men, women—asking after their children. It seems Alicent and Uncle Otto have been peddling a lie, telling them Aegon’s get would be brought to Oldtown, raised in comfort. They used our name to give their falsehood weight. Our name, Mother. Our name, Father. Alicent has sold it to cover her son’s filth.”

Princess Rhaenyra had been right. They should have worried less about dragons and more about vipers in the grass. She should have seen it sooner—seen it when Alicent refused to send Mellos, or even one of his acolytes, to tend to her father’s illness. Refused, even when he was her own uncle, the very man who gave her roof and protection in her girlhood? Alicent—that whore—had repaid them with betrayal.

And if she dared use their name so boldly now, what else might she do next?

Now the truth cut through her like a Valyrian blade. Alicent had never seen them as kin. She’d used them. Sold them. And now, if the smallfolk learned that the children were never in Oldtown—never safe, never accounted for—it would not be Alicent or Otto whose blood they demanded. It would be theirs.

“Did they plan it all?” she whispered. “Was it their intent from the start—to use our name, so that if the truth came out, we would burn while they stood clear of the fire?”

She looked from her father to her mother, then to Ormund. “Tell me—who stands to gain should you die, Father? You, Ormund, and your sons. Who benefits most if your line is ended, root and branch?” She gave them no time to answer. “Uncle Otto has ever been the second son—a man with no lands, no titles worth the naming, no inheritance save for what he might seize with cunning and ambition. And he—Uncle Otto—would raise his sons higher, aye, even if it meant wading through our blood to do it. As he did before… to Queen Aemma, may the Mother keep her, to Princess Rhaenyra, the rightful heir denied. What he once wrought upon House Targaryen, he now turns upon us.”

She turned to her mother, voice low and bitter. “We were fools. I was a fool.”

“Bethany,” her father began weakly. “I—”

“Green.” She cut him off, her voice sharp. “That’s why she wore green, Mother.”

Her mother stiffened. “Bethany, you know why she wore that gown. It was for—”

“For Princess Rhaenyra?” she interrupted again. “Yes, I know. That’s what she said. But do you truly believe it? Princess Rhaenyra has not been heir for years. She and her family dwell in the Vale, far from the court. If Alicent wore green, it was not for the princess.”

Her voice was rising now. “Even when the princess is gone, she wears green still. She wears it for us. That was never a signal to the princess. It was a signal against us.”

“Bethany—”

“Think, Mother. Think, Father. Remember how she spoke of your illness as though it were nothing but a passing tragedy. Remember how she refused to send a healer. Remember how she spurned the match between Aegon and Sibylla, and would not even consider wedding Helaena to one of Ormund’s sons. She would not even take Sibylla as a lady-in-waiting for her daughter. And now we learn she has used our name, sold our house to the smallfolk, so that her son’s sins might go unpunished.”

She stepped forward, her face flushed with wrath.

“When the truth comes out—and it will—whose heads do you think the mob will come for? Alicent’s? Uncle’s? Or ours?” There was silence. Then, slowly, understanding dawned on her parents’ faces. Even Ormund looked pale.

Yes. They had been blind. But not anymore.

If Alicent had chosen war—if she wore green and meant it as a declaration—then she, Bethany Hightower would answer in kind.

Chapter Text

𝔟𝔢𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔶 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔞𝔩𝔦𝔠𝔢𝔫𝔱

Bethany Hightower’s POV

“Bethany, all you speak is madness. There’s no way Alicent and Uncle—” her brother began, but she cut him off before he could finish.

“Has Alicent—or at the very least—our dear uncle, ever once suggested your children become companions to Aegon, Aemond, or Daeron?” Her voice cracked with growing anger. “No, they haven’t. And they never will.” The longer she spoke, the more the fury simmered beneath her skin. How could her family be so blind? The truth lay before them like an open wound, festering and raw, yet they refused to see. It made her want to shake them, drag them out of their delusion by force if she had to.

“How is it, father—mother—you too, Ormund.. how can you all remain so willfully ignorant?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “By all gods, they’re leech. Just as Prince Daemon said—they’re leeches. They come only when they hunger, and they drain us dry before moving on, just as they’ve done to King Visery—"

Her father’s voice thundered over hers.

“Enough, Bethany! You’ve clearly let Princess Rhaenyra’s sweet words turn your head,” he snapped. “Listen to me, child. Otto and Alicent are our kin. Blood of our blood. They would never betray this family. There must be a reason behind all this—”

“Then why does it feel like you're trying to convince yourself, Father?” she asked bitterly.

Was he always this blind? Had he always been so willfully foolish? Perhaps that was why Otto and Alicent dared drag the Hightower name through mud—It was no wonder, truly, if her father swallowed every lie they fed him like a starving man begging for crusts. Seven hells.

“No, you are the one who must listen to me,” she lashed out. “Do you truly believe we can return to Oldtown and not be spat on by crowds who believe us complicit in the disappearance of their children? You think the mob will welcome us back with open arms and clear the road for our safe passage? Are you a fool?”

Her father flinched at her words. Harsh, yes, but what gentler phrase could she possibly use that would not be a lie?

She inhaled slowly, fighting to steady herself. “Think, Father. The smallfolk believe we’re hiding their children. Do you truly think they care for our explanations? Even if we bare our souls in honesty, do you believe those simple, frightened fools will listen?” Her voice lowered to a grim whisper. “Do you think Alicent or Uncle Otto would leave the comfort of the Red Keep just to stand with us when the mob tears us limb from limb?” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a tone she might use to explain right from wrong to a stubborn child.

“And tell me, Father,” she continued, “what has Uncle Otto ever done to earn your loyalty, aside from being your brother? Has he once shown that he stands for you, not merely beside you? If he truly cared, truly valued you, then I would be Queen Consort now, not Alicent. But instead, it is she who sits beside the king—a girl who once had nothing, who breathes only by the grace and charity of our House.” She stepped closer to her father, her voice quieter now, but no less fierce. She took his hand gently, almost tenderly.

“If Uncle Otto were truly on our side, would our standing at court not be unassailable? And yet, what is the truth? He sends letters only when the crown is near empty, begging for coin. He writes again when he wishes to pawn Grandmother’s jewels—the jewels that should have passed to me—to give them to Alicent, to uphold her fragile little image, because the royal family's treasure went to Princess Rhaenyra instead.”

She looked down at his hand in hers, then back up at his eyes.

“They only write when they need us, Father. And once they’ve gotten what they want, they turn their backs. Sibylla was cast aside, denied a place among Helaena’s ladies. Ormund’s sons—their own cousins—shunned, left to loiter while Aegon and Aemond played with Stormlander and Westerlander whelps. Does that look like loyalty to you?”

She saw his expression falter—soften. Her mother, even Ormund, wore faces painted with sorrow, shame, and a bitter understanding. But why? Why should they pity Alicent? Why mourn for Otto? They should be furious, not heartbroken.

“Father...” she said softly, brushing her thumb along his knuckles. “Whether you honor Uncle Otto or love him, I do not know. And to be honest, I no longer care. But please—see that they do not love us. They use us. We have been here for two moons now, and they have not so much as spared a glance. They're too busy licking the boots of Baratheons and Lannisters.”

She paused, her voice catching.

“And yesterday, when you nearly died... what did Alicent say? That your life held no worth. Even now, not one of them has come to visit you. Is that what you call family?”

She could scarcely believe it.

Foolish, she had thought, that King Viserys would place such blind trust in two vipers. But now—now it seemed her father was no wiser. Was that how Princess Rhaenyra saw them all? Her and her kin? As simpletons, blind and deaf to the coils of treachery that wound so easily around their throats?

Then it struck her — Princess Rhaenyra. Gods, the princess. How could she have forgotten? The woman was still at the orphanage along with her daughter and other ladies. Alone. Exposed.

Panic took hold of her then, sharp as a dagger beneath the ribs. Her blood ran cold at the thought. Without another word, she turned on her heel and fled the chamber, not hearing her mother’s protests nor her father’s calls. Not even Ormund’s voice could pierce the fog of fear clouding her mind.

Only one thing mattered now—finding Prince Daemon.

Warning him.

Somewhere along the corridor, her stride broke into a run. She could not say when. Her feet moved on their own, swift and unrelenting, until she reached the Arryn wing of the keep. Two guards flanked the door to the prince and princess’s chambers, but before either could raise a question, she was already upon them, banging her fists against the door, heedless of decorum or station.

“Prince Daemon!” she shouted, again and again. The guards were quick to seize her by the wrists, to drag her away, but she twisted in their grip, half-mad with urgency.

The door creaked open.

And there he stood.

Daemon Targaryen, the Rogue Prince, in all his cold fury and silent judgment. She did not wait for pleasantries. Her hand shot out, fingers curling tight around his arm.

“Prince Daemon—you must come at once. The princess—she is at the orphanage—she’s—”

But before she could finish, he wrenched his arm free of her grasp with such force she nearly stumbled backward. He looked at her then, not with concern but with ice in his gaze. As if he had not heard her. As if the name of his wife meant nothing.

Was the man deaf? Or merely heartless?

But before she could demand his attention again, a voice called out from within the chamber. A voice she knew.

“Skoros issa ñuha jorrāelagon?”

Her breath caught. She had not realized she’d been holding it.

Daemon turned his head toward the voice, his stance shifting ever so slightly. The coldness that had hardened his features seemed to thaw, if only a touch. A few low words passed between them, spoken in the tongue of dragons—soft, swift, and sibilant, like flame given voice. Then, without further word or gesture, the prince stepped aside and drew the door open wider, granting her passage into the room. She stepped in, breath shallow, heart still pounding.

The chamber was awash with sunlight, golden rays slanting through high windows and pooling across the stone floor. A gentle warmth clung to the air, steeped in the scent of spiced wine and lavender. And there, before the hearth—sat Princess Rhaenyra. Her back was to the door. One of her maids was tending to her, hands moving gently over the princess’s bare shoulders. Her robe, a deep shade of plum, hung loose around her, revealing the smooth lines of her neck and collarbone.

The room was still.

And in that moment, only one word took form in her mind.

Beautiful.

Of course, this was not the first time she had set eyes upon the princess. Had they not just that very morning walked side by side through the Sept and the orphanage? She knew well how oft the name the realm’s delight was spoken in hushed admiration, passed between maidens and matrons, knights and crones alike. She had once thought it no more than courtly flattery—pretty lies spun by lickspittles and singers, bootlickers who made a feast of noble praise. A name made more of sweet airs than of solid truth—courtly nonsense meant to polish a princess until she gleamed beneath the eyes of men too eager to kneel. After all, it was Prince Daemon—her uncle, her own blood—who first bestowed the name upon her. And kin were always swift with praise, were they not? Surely, she had thought, no woman could be so resplendent, so rare, that even the bards would let their harps go silent in awe.

She had always known the princess was beautiful—how could she not? But then, all highborn ladies were fair to look upon. Silk and sapphires could flatter any face, and a lady adorned in the finest velvets, her skin powdered, her hair brushed to a sheen, could easily pass for lovely. What was beauty, after all, but a trick of candlelight and coin?

Did not every noble girl possess the same trappings?

What, then, made Princess Rhaenyra so different?

Her father had once said that the women of House Targaryen were all beautiful, yes—but not the sort of beauty that carved itself into memory. Lovely in the way a garden is lovely at dusk—quiet, expected, easy to overlook once night fell. Save for Princess Vissera, perhaps, whom he claimed was the only one whose beauty had ever stirred the court to silence. Bethany had seen Princess Rhaenys with her own eyes, and Queen Aemma before her death, and while both bore the elegance expected of their station, their beauty was of the ordinary sort—the kind that earned polite praise but left no songs behind.

And Princess Rhaenyra… Princess Rhaenyra, she’d always assumed, was much the same.

Graceful, yes—but so were they all. Well-mannered. Poised. Taught from the cradle to walk as if their feet did not touch the ground, to speak in music, to smile only when it pleased. The title realm’s delight, she’d once thought, was courtly nonsense. A bard’s invention. An embellishment. A name and nothing more.

Now she knew.

Gods, now she knew.

Princess Rhaenyra hadn’t even turned, yet she felt as if the world itself had stilled around her.

She could not tear her eyes away. How could she? When she sat before her?

How could any living creature be so beautiful?

Her hair, that strange and silvered Valyrian shade, was gathered loosely atop her head, though a few strands had escaped and slipped free, brushing against the pale slope of her neck with a grace that seemed deliberate, though she suspected it was not. Her skin was soft and luminous, pale not like illness, but like moonlight caught in flesh. It glowed, as though something divine had touched her once and never let go.

Her lashes were long and as pale as her hair. Her lips were soft and full and pink, curved in a smile that seemed effortless, unknowing, and wholly cruel for its ease, because it did not need to try. Because it simply was.

And her voice… gods, her voice.

She had heard her speak since yesterday—cold words, sharp as broken glass—but even those had struck her as beautiful. The sound of them lingered. Like harp strings thrummed by gentle fingers, even when the tune was one of scorn. There was a rhythm to her speech, a careful grace in every syllable, as though her tongue knew how to dress each word in velvet and silk before it ever left her lips. Soft, and yet threaded through with fire. A quiet kind of command that made you lean closer without meaning to.

She hated how much she noticed. The small mole at the hollow of her collarbone. The line of her neck. The way her gown clung just enough to hint at shape, and yet remained untouched, pristine, almost holy in its restraint.

There was no flaw to be found. Not a hair out of place. Not a blemish. Not even a freckle. No break in poise or tone or grace. She seemed crafted, not born. Forged by gods who had grown weary of mortal beauty and longed to make something… perfect.

It was not fair. It was not natural.

And yet there she was.

Only now did she understand. The songs. The sonnets. The dozen ballads written in her name. The bards who sang of her with tears in their eyes. The knights who fought duels for a glimpse. The reason why Prince Daemon looked to no other—why he never would.

And gods be good, for it seemed she could not look away either.

Rhaenyra’s POV.

Why was Bethany staring?

The woman’s gaze clung to her like mist on a moor, heavy and unblinking. There was a wildness in it—something between awe and confusion—that made Rhaenyra’s skin prickle. She had been looked at this way before, often by men who fancied they saw a dragon in the shape of a girl. But seldom by women. And never by one so… bedraggled.

Mud still clung to the hem of Bethany’s gown like a second shadow, dark and crusted, the sort one gathers walking the city’s filth-ridden streets. Had she not the wits to change before presenting herself? Bethany had left the orphanage earlier—surely with enough time to bathe or change her garments, or at the very least wash the soot and sweat from her face.Yet she stood there, breathless and pink-cheeked, as if she'd run all the way from Flea Bottom without once stopping. Did Bethany no sense? No decorum? A lady ought to know better than to drag filth into another woman’s solar, let alone stand there glistening with perspiration, cheeks blotched and brow damp like a scullion girl hauled up from the cellars. Her hair clung to her temples in damp little strands, and there was something almost frantic in the look in her eyes. And still she stared—mute, unmoving, as if words had fled her entirely.

“Lady Bethany?” she called again. It was not the first time she had said it. The fourth, in fact. Her earlier calls had gone unanswered, scattered like whispers against stone. But this time, Bethany jerked as though waking from a dream, blinking rapidly, her mouth falling open. She gave a small sigh and gestured toward the cushioned bench. “Sit.”

With a nod to Hana, her handmaiden swiftly returned bearing a damp cloth and a fan. These she offered to Bethany without a word. Meanwhile, she reached for the decanter of Arbor red and poured a modest measure into a goblet before offering it to the flustered lady. “Drink,” she said. “You look… quite undone.”

Bethany accepted the wine with both hands and drank, not deeply, but enough to steady herself. When she looked up again, her eyes were clearer, though tinged with the same urgency that had brought her here. “Forgive my state, princess,” she said, catching her breath. “I came in haste. I wish to find Prince Daemon, to tell him that you and Princess Lucrezia were still at the orphanage.”

Ah.

So that was the reason for Bethany’s state. A small thing. A loyal thing. Perhaps even a thoughtful thing. It might have softened her heart—once. Perhaps it did still, if only a little. The gesture flickered like a candle in the wind—warm, wavering. Almost enough.

Almost.

But then came the memory. The dreams.

The sound of her children screaming, echoing through her nights like wolves howling across the hills. Lucerys—her sweet boy—torn from the sky, his voice swallowed by storm. Joffrey, small and pale, screamed for help as the mob tore his limbs apart. Their cries clung to her soul like cobwebs. And behind them all, always, was her mother’s face, hollow-eyed and bloodstained, her hands trembling over yet another child that had not drawn breath.

No. A kind gesture could not wash away that kind of pain.

And Bethany… she might be earnest. She might be innocent. But how was one to tell a viper from a maiden until the bite came?

She had once thought Alicent Hightower no serpent. Even after Alicent had slithered into her father’s chambers with pious words and dewy lashes, even after she'd donned the crown and replaced her mother’s place in less than four moons after her mother’s death, she had tried to believe in their girlhood bond. In those early days, she had understood. In a realm ruled by men, even highborn women held little choice in their hands. She had tried to understand Alicent’s plight. Tried to believe that Alicent, too, was a prisoner of duty, a girl wed to a dying king because her father had commanded it.

But time had taught her. Dreams had shown her.

And beneath it, she saw the fangs. Alicent’s sweetness had been a lie. Her soft words, her gentleness—masks worn by a woman bred to deceive. Otto had raised her well. And Otto was a serpent through and through. Was it any wonder his daughter bore the same scales?

And Bethany? Bethany bore their name.

She had trusted a Hightower once. She would not do so again.

Not even if the woman was breathless with concern, not even if her skirts were stained with honest dust and her hands trembled with sincerity. She had been fooled before. She would not be fooled twice.

She drew in a long breath, one slow and deliberate, letting it fill her lungs like armor before a battle. The smile she summoned to her lips was a delicate lie—finely crafted, as any courtly deception must be. It was not warmth, but polish. Not truth, but performance. Then, with all the softness of a mother brushing back a child’s hair, she reached for Bethany’s hand and ran her thumb along the girl’s knuckles. The skin was cold and taut.

“Thank you for your concern, Lady Bethany,” she said, her voice even and measured, though it carried the faintest whisper of steel beneath its silk. “But I am quite well, truly. And you—how fare you? Are you unharmed? You seemed rather… stricken, earlier.” Her tone was gentle, but her eyes, sharp and searching, missed nothing.

Of course, Bethany was stricken. How could she not be?

To have your family’s name bartered like coin in a brothel—to have your family’s honor shackled to the sins of another, knowing that those sins were not petty whispers but crimes weighty enough to see her head, and her family's as well, sent rolling. She noted how Bethany’s entire body stiffened, how the girl’s hand gripped her dress with white-knuckled fury.

Ah. Judging from that reaction, Bethany had likely come here straight from her parents’ chambers and had already recounted what had occurred at the orphanage. Whatever reply her parents had offered must not have pleased her. She wagered that both of Bethany’s parents—Lord Hobert in particular—were as foolish as her own father had once been, still clinging to faith in Otto Hightower.

“I am fine, Princess…” Bethany’s voice was low, hoarse, like bark stripped raw by winter winds. There was more she wanted to say—she could see it in her eyes, swimming there like fish beneath a frozen pond—but she did not dare speak them aloud.

Not here. Not with ears lurking in every shadow.

Bethany’s gaze flitted nervously across the room, toward the handmaids who busied themselves with silks and pins, then to where Daemon sat, his fingers drumming idly on the arm of a chair. Her lips parted, closed again.

She understood. She always did.

She turned her eyes to her husband and gave him a look—nothing more than a small tilt of her head, a flicker in her brow. And Daemon, as ever attuned to her unspoken will, rose wordlessly and slipped from the room. She turned next to the maids, fixing them each with a calm but commanding gaze. She asked them to take their leave as well, saying she would call them back shortly. One by one, they filed out. Only once the room was empty but for herself and Bethany did the woman finally part her lips and speak.

“Forgive me, Princess,” she whispered, her voice thick with guilt. “Surely you understand why I dared not speak with so many ears listening.”

How curious, she thought, how absurdly ironic. Of all people, it was Bethany who said such words.

She nearly laughed.

Bethany, whose tongue was looser than any in the capital, perhaps in all of Westeros. A woman who flung words like stones and never once minded where they landed or what ruin they caused. She remembered the dream—no, the vision—too clearly. Bethany and Alicent, cloistered with their favorite ladies, whispering behind scented fans as they mocked her womb. Barren, they called her, useless, as if her worth could be measured only in sons. And when her children were born—strong, whole, and beautiful—it had become their sacred duty to slander them. Bastards, they said, as if it were some holy rite.

And now here she sat, wide-eyed and trembling, speaking of discretion.

She poured a fresh cup of Arbor red and offered it to her with a steady hand.

“But of course I understand, Lady Bethany,” she said sweetly, her voice smooth as velvet drawn over steel. “And you needn’t worry once you return to the Red Keep. Septon Eustace has calmed the smallfolk for now. He’s promised to uncover the truth. Still, if I may offer a word of advice—you would do well to seek out answers yourself. From what I’ve seen, the air beyond the walls is… less than kind. The smallfolk seem to believe it was your family that had a hand in the disappearances.”

Bethany flinched. Her fingers seized upon her hand, squeezing it with a desperation that was almost childlike. “You must believe me, Princess,” she rasped. “My family had no part in the missing children of King’s Landing.” Tears welled in her eyes, clinging to the lashes like dew before the storm breaks. And gods help her—she wanted to laugh again.

Was this how Alicent and her ladies had felt? That flicker of wicked satisfaction when their venom brought her to tears in those early years, when the gossips and whispers had driven her to silence and shame? No wonder they seemed to savor it. Perhaps she, too, would grow accustomed to the taste. But she bit back the laughter and schooled her features into something softer. She laid a hand on Bethany’s arm, brushing gently, as if to soothe. “Of course I believe you, Lady Bethany,” she murmured, the words floating from her lips like perfume—pleasant, intoxicating, and just a touch too sweet.

She leaned back into her cushioned seat, the bones of her spine curving with feline ease as she unfolded her fan with a soft snap. A gentle flick of her wrist sent a whisper of air to her cheek, but her eyes—sharp and molten—remained fixed upon the woman across from her.

“It is a curious thing, though,” she mused, her voice light as snowmelt, “how often people borrow the names of those they rarely call upon in truth. Like cloaks taken from a lord’s wardrobe—draped over deeds that ought not see the sun.”

Bethany’s brow creased. “What do you mean, princess?”

“Oh, nothing,” she said, her fan stilling. “Only that I was not surprised to hear that your name and your House have found themselves... entangled with Aegon’s missteps. When cobwebs are spun in a hall, it is always the tallest pillars that catch the most silk. Strange, though, is it not? That it is always your name, and never theirs, that echoes in the court of whispers.”

Bethany frowned, lips parting in confusion. She smiled, as if amused by a child’s wonder.

“It reminded me,” she said, voice softening to something almost wistful, “of when Alicent was but a girl in green, a shadow trailing behind me, all wide eyes and folded hands. She spoke of you more than once, you know. Never cruelly, no—Alicent was never cruel. Merely... observant.”

A pause.

“She would remark upon your gowns. How they shimmered too brightly. Your jewels—too large, too frequent. A different brooch every feast. A new silk every moon. One might almost believe she thought such a display unbecoming. But I always found that curious.”

Her eyes flicked to Bethany’s necklace—pearls set in gold. Then, back to her face.

“After all, is it not the right of a beloved daughter to be adorned? A lord’s jewel deserves the finest setting. I rather thought we were alike in that. You and I.”

Bethany’s mouth twitched. “She said those things?”

She tilted her head. “Not in so many words, of course. But it was enough to make me curious. Curious enough that I once asked my father if you might join my household. I thought your eye for dress would bring refinement, that your grace would add to my circle. Yet the answer was no.”

Bethany blinked. “Why?”

She smiled faintly. “He said I needed no more ladies. One was enough. That I was too young, too distracted. Imagine that.” She looked to the ceiling, letting the silence grow roots before lowering her gaze again. “I later learned it was your uncle, Ser Otto, who gave him that counsel.”

She let the name hang like a stain between them. “I suppose,” she said, “some gates are closed not by the hands of strangers... but by the ones who should be holding them open.”

A silence. Bethany’s fingers had curled around the edge of her chair.

Her fan fluttered once more before folding shut with a quiet snap. “Still, I thought perhaps there would be another door. When my mother passed and whispers of a new queen began... well.” She laughed, soft and bitter. “A foolish girl’s fancy. I imagined it would be you.”

Bethany turned sharply toward her. “Me?”

“Why not?” Her voice was syrup-slow. “You were of age. Noble. Lovely. And your uncle had the king’s ear. It seemed only natural.” Her tone shifted—mockery wrapped in velvet. “Laena was too young. And Alicent... well, she was never meant to be more than a companion. Was she?” The look on Bethany’s face was unreadable—somewhere between realization and something colder.

“But the gods do love their jests, don’t they?” she said with a sigh, soft as silk and twice as cutting. “Alicent became a queen… and you, the wife of Lord Redwyne’s heir. The future lady of Arbor.” She rose from her chair then, a slow, graceful motion, and drifted to Bethany’s side like a shadow drawn by candlelight.

“I think often of my half-brother Daeron,” she murmured, as though changing the subject. “The youngest of my father’s sons. The quiet one. You know, there are vines that still bear fruit even when the tree is rotting from within. Strange, don’t you think?”

Bethany’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t follow.”

“No?” She leaned close, her breath warm against Bethany’s ear. “My father was already... diminished. Withered by grief, by rot. And yet, a babe bloomed. After an heir and a spare had already been made.” She paused. “One might wonder what garden such seed was truly planted in.”

Bethany turned her head, uncertain.

She smiled again—soft, sorrowful, poisoned. “But that’s idle talk. Silly, really. People will believe what they wish to believe. And if the smallfolk decide your House was the hand behind the vanished children… well. They are not known for their mercy.” She drew back, slowly, and looked Bethany in the eyes. “If Lord Hobert were... swept away in such a tide,” she whispered, “I wonder which branch the storm would lift in his place.”

Bethany met her gaze, wide-eyed and pale, her lips trembling with unsaid thoughts.

And she saw it—the moment the hook sank deep.

She was halfway into her gown when Daemon entered the chamber without so much as a knock, his eyes sweeping the room before offering the handmaids a single sharp nod. That was all it took—like leaves scattered by wind, they vanished. “I need them to dress, you know,” she said, catching his gaze through the looking glass.

He wore that smirk she had come to know far too well—lazy, wicked, and full of promise. He crossed the room with unhurried steps and came to a halt behind her, his hands finding her back like they had a thousand times before. Fingers—calloused, clever—danced along the lacings of her gown. “I can dress you,” he murmured against her shoulder, brushing his lips there like a whisper. “My fingers are rather skilled, you might recall.”

A quiet laugh slipped from her lips. “I always thought your fingers were only skilled at undressing me, ñuha jorrāelagon.”

Daemon chuckled, low and deep in his throat, and gave the laces a sharp tug, drawing them tight. “You wound me, sweet wife,” he whispered, his mouth near her ear. “Have you so easily forgotten who dressed you before every stolen night in Rodrik’s Wood?”

His breath was warm, full of memories and mischief. She turned her head slightly, drawn to him as if by instinct, her eyes fluttering shut as she waited for the press of his lips—

“Ew… Nanna Amanda, they’re doing it again!”

The voice came sharp and clear from the corner of the room.

Her eyes snapped open. She turned, and there stood Harion, their youngest, grimacing with the same look of mock horror he always wore whenever she and Daemon so much as looked at one another too long. Beside him stood Lucrezia, cheeks flushed red as ripe berries, a hand clamped over her eyes.

Daemon rolled his eyes at his youngest’s dramatic scowl and strode across the chamber with the easy gait of a man half his age. "You're far too impish for your own good," he said, stooping slightly to pinch Harion’s cheek. “One wonders where you learned such mischief.”

“From you, kepa,” Harion declared, grinning wide enough to split his little face in two. “Nanna Amanda and Grandma Rhaenys said you were the naughtiest boy in the realm.”

At that, she let out a laugh—bright and sudden, spilling into the room like sunlight. Daemon’s brows rose, startled and indignant in equal measure, but the corners of his mouth twitched, threatening to betray him. All three of them turned to look at her, drawn to the warmth in her voice. Harion’s grin grew impossibly wider, and with a quick swat of his father’s hand, he broke free and sprinted across the room. He flung himself at her, burying his face in the folds of her skirts as though he might vanish into the scent and safety of her.

“Muna.. My beautiful muna,” he murmured into the fabric, his voice muffled but tender.

“Let’s eat lunch together,” he added, tilting his head up just enough for his eyes to meet hers, large and full of hope.

She knelt slightly to be closer to his height, her hands cupping his soft, round cheeks as she stroked them with her thumbs. “I will join you soon, sweetling,” she said gently. “Once I’m done dressing, I’ll come. That I promise.”

Her fingers slid into the curls at the nape of his neck, and her touch lingered there, twining locks between her fingers. There were butterflies in her belly, delicate and trembling—she felt them every time she touched the hair of her children, as though the gods themselves had made something too precious for the world. Was this the same happiness she had felt in her dream, before the tide of tragedy swept it all away? She could scarcely imagine the ruin of her soul, should her children be torn from her arms.

She bent lower and drew him into a proper embrace, holding him close, fiercely and quietly, as if she could will the world to leave him untouched. Harion, sensing something unspoken, rested his head against her shoulder and wrapped his small arms around her.

“Mother?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t answer. Only shook her head, lips trembling into a smile. She pulled back just enough to see his face again—those bright eyes, that perfect little nose, those cheeks that flushed pink when he was shy. And she kissed him. His brow first, then each closed eyelid. His nose. And finally, both of his warm, rosy cheeks, as though she were trying to memorize the feel of him, preserve it in her bones.

When she had finished kissing Harion’s face—her youngest did the same in turn, pressing his lips to her skin with the solemnity of a knight’s vow. “My muna is the fairest of all,” he whispered, and wrapped his small arms around her once more.

In time, the servants returned to her chamber, quiet and efficient as shadows, to help her dress. Daemon had gone ahead to see the table set for the noon meal, likely ordering the dishes himself with that peculiar blend of charm and command only he possessed. And so, clothed in silk and gentleness, she rose to meet the day, the warmth of her son’s embrace still clinging to her like a second skin.

NO ONE POV

The midday sun filtered gently through the arched windows of Rhaenyra’s solar, spilling gold upon the polished stone and the long oak table laid out for the noontide meal. The scent of roasted duck with honey glaze hung in the air, mingling with the subtler perfume of elderflower syrup and stewed pears. There were loaves of warm brown bread, steaming still from the ovens, wheels of goat cheese wrapped in fig leaves, and a large bowl of river clams simmered in white wine, leeks, and garlic—Daemon’s favorite, prepared just as he liked, with pepper enough to bite the tongue.

Rhaenyra sat at the head of the table. At her left was Daemon, his arm draped lazily over the back of her chair, a wolfish grin tugging at his lips as he watched their children squabble over the crispiest skin from the duck. At Daemon's left sat Aunt Amanda, her ever-perceptive eyes sharp even as she sipped from her goblet, content to play the quiet specter of amusement at the family’s chatter.

As they ate, Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered toward her husband, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her goblet. “Daemon.. what will you and the children do after our meal?” she asked, her voice light with curiosity, though her eyes held something more.

Daemon swallowed a bite of meat and leaned closer, wiping his mouth with a square of linen before glancing at their sons seated across the table. “We thought to ride into the Kingswood,” he said, his voice casual but edged with a glint of excitement. “Your boys have been pestering me all morning to visit the dragons.”

Harion, cheeks stuffed round with a pear, nearly bounced where he sat. “They’ve made a cave near the hot springs, muna!” he declared proudly, bits of fruit sticking to his lower lip. “Kepa says it’s the warmest place in the whole forest.”

That earned a laugh from all at the table—Aunt Amanda covered her mouth with a silken sleeve, while Lucy giggled into her goblet and Jace gave his little brother a mock solemn nod as if he were a maester confirming a grand truth. The children fell quickly into talk of their dragons—what Syrax and Caraxes might be doing, whether Vermax had finally stopped snapping at Arrax, and if Tyraxes would ever learn to sleep with his wings folded.

Amid the din of cheerful chatter, Daemon leaned in, his voice lowering to a hush, lips brushing close to Rhaenyra’s ear. “Afterwards,” he said, his breath warm against her skin, “I’ll stop by the Dragonpit. To look in on… that matter.”

Her brow arched faintly, but she gave only the smallest nod, reaching for her cup with a studied ease. Before the silence between them could settle too long, it was broken—of course—by Harion.

Ever watchful, for all his six name days, he stabbed a finger—spoon and all—across the table. “What about you, muna? What will you do?”

Rhaenyra set her cup back down, and with a soft cluck of her tongue, reached over to gently lower his hand. “No pointing with cutlery, sweetling,” she said. Her smile lingered as she added, “I’ve a promise to keep with Lady Bethany. We’re to look at new fabrics for her gown.” She let her eyes slide—just briefly—to Daemon on her left and Amanda seated beside him. As one, both reached for their goblets, hiding shared smirks behind the rims of polished silver.

Harion squinted at her, unconvinced. “I want to come.”

“Oh?” She tilted her head. “And I thought you missed Tyraxes.”

“I do,” he said with a frown, pushing his lower lip forward, “but someone has to protect you. In case you meet that mean lady in green.”

“Lady in green?” Rhaenyra asked, her smile faltering, eyes narrowing slightly. “And who might that be?”

Harion nodded with the earnest conviction of a knight on vigil. “The one who says mean things about Ser Steffon and Ser Lorent,” he explained solemnly.

The pieces fell into place at once—and at that, Rhaenyra let out a laugh, soft and sudden. She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the top of her son’s head, her hand resting amid his dark curls. “Then I suppose I shall count myself blessed,” she said, “to have a brave knight by my side.”

Common Hall, Red Keep, King’s Landing

The common hall was abuzz with life when they entered—a tapestry of sound and color unfurling in all directions. Silks rustled, laughter sparkled like poured wine, and candlelight shimmered across gilt circlets and polished wood. Perfumed ladies leaned close to one another, their painted mouths trading secrets over bolts of Myrish lace and polished trays of jewels. Music played softly somewhere—a lilting harp tune that had begun to fade into background hum.

Then, without fanfare, the air changed.

A breath held.

One by one, heads turned. The chatter softened to a hush like snow falling. A ripple of motion moved through the room as traders dipped low and noblewomen curtsied with varying grace—not from command, but instinct. For the woman crossing the threshold did not demand attention; she simply wore it, like one might wear light.

Rhaenyra of House Arryn, Paramount of the Vale, firstborn of King Viserys, stepped forward in sapphire-blue velvet that shimmered like starlight caught on deep water. The firelight kissed the soft folds of her gown, and her presence—calm, certain, regal—gathered the room around her like a hearth draws warmth.

At her side walked Lady Bethany, resplendent in autumn amber and deep green, her chin tilted in quiet amusement. Just behind her, Elinda and Catherine trailed like shadows, laughing softly over some private jest. And there, flitting around them like a golden bird, was Prince Harion. His curly brown hair gleamed in the lamplight, and his quick hands had already found a lapis-bead necklace from one of the nearer stalls. His eyes, wide with wonder, danced from bauble to bauble, catching everything.

Rhaenyra slowed as she passed one of the merchant tables, her fingers brushing the edge of a folded bolt of YiTish silk as delicately as if she were stroking the spine of an old book. The fabric gleamed under her touch. Jewels flashed at her fingers—sapphires, moonstones, a fire-opal the color of sunset—and at her waist, a beautiful gold with gemstones chain waist swung gently with each step, catching the light like a promise.

The gown she wore was not so different from the rest—square of neck, cinched at the waist, sleeves draping soft as streamers—but on her, it became something else entirely. Sky blue chased with gold, the color of the Vale’s sky in high spring, clung to her like a lover’s touch. It shaped her—fuller now than she had been in years past, but fuller like a harvest, not a burden. Her hips swayed with the natural rhythm of a woman certain of herself, and her rounded belly, did not seem to weigh her but anchor her—earthly, commanding, and utterly radiant.

Her hair caught the candlelight in shades of silver, the kind of shimmer that made lesser women hide their own with powder and ribbons. The strands were pinned half-up with combs of lapis and gold, each piece so finely worked it whispered of coin, taste, and old blood. The rest of her hair fell down her back in soft, rippling waves—unapologetically long, and impossibly clean.

At the table nearest the bolt of Myrish silk, three ladies leaned together beneath the weight of it all.

“She’s grown heavier,” one of the younger ladies whispered, not with cruelty but confusion, eyes fixed on the swell of Rhaenyra’s hips beneath that sapphire velvet gown.

“Aye, but why does it look so… good on her?” another muttered back, leaning in. “On me, I gain a single stone, and I look like I’ve been stuffed into my gown like sausage. But her? She’s glowing.”

“She looks better than she did fifteen summer ago,” the third murmured, lips parting slightly. “How does someone gain weight and end up looking like that?”

All three watched as Rhaenyra leaned in to laugh with her companions, her hand resting casually on the table. The low cut of her bodice revealed a soft swell of cleavage, set with a necklace that gleamed like captured starlight. She didn’t hunch or cover herself. She didn’t adjust her sleeves or smooth her skirts. She simply existed, and the room bent around her.

“Do you see the brooch?” the third asked, her voice sharp with something that wasn’t quite envy. “That’s Pentoshi glasswork. One of the old styles. Rare.”

“And those combs,” the second added. “They say only four of that kind were ever made. Hers has lapis.”

The first woman shifted, suddenly self-conscious in her own dress. “I wore that same cut last spring,” she said quietly. “I thought it suited me. But now…”

“It is the same cut,” the second confirmed, brows raised. “Only… it doesn’t look the same, does it?”

“No,” said the first lady, her voice touched with quiet sorrow. “On me it clings. On her, it moves.” She exhaled softly, eyes still fixed on the distant figure of Rhaenyra Arryn. “I bought those combs because I’d heard they looked beautiful in her hair.” Her fingers rose to the pins at her temple, then fell, limp and resigned. “But there’s no use mimicking what Princess Rhaenyra wears. The dresses, the jewels—they lose all their grace on us.”

The two others nodded slowly, their hands drifting down to brush at their own gowns as if to smooth some invisible flaw. Their gazes lingered on the lady of the Vale, standing some distance off with her companions, aglow as if the firelight loved her best.

A bright, clear voice startled them from their reverie.

“I think you're beautiful, too,” it piped.

All three women turned, blinking down in surprise. There, standing with the solemn dignity of a child trying to be very grown, was young Prince Harion. In his hands, he held a pair of fine golden earrings, polished bright as sunrise.

“These are warm,” he said, lifting them toward one of the women, his tone earnest. “Like your hair. You should wear them so everyone sees your sunshine.”

Bethany Hightower’s POV

She ran her fingers across the bolts of fabric, her eyes sharp, her thoughts sharper. Silks of dusk-rose, deep plum, and moonlight blue spilled across the merchant's table like rivers of color, but she barely saw them.

Since her conversation with Princess Rhaenyra earlier that day, the veil had lifted from her eyes—torn clean away, like a rotten curtain too long allowed to hang. At last, she saw. Gods be good, she saw. The depth of Alicent’s treachery and her uncle’s schemes. The lies, the manipulations, the twisting of truths so expertly done that even she—she, a Hightower of Oldtown, had been made a fool. Her whole family had.

When she repeated Rhaenyra’s words to her parents, she had seen the flicker of realization bloom across her mother’s face like the first blush of dawn. Even Ormund had grown still, his brow furrowed not with scorn but with thought. Perhaps, she dared to hope, her words had struck true. Her father had yet to speak against his brother, not truly—not yet—but neither did he leap to defend him now, nor silence her when she spoke Alicent’s name with disdain. That, at least, was progress.

She would never wear green again.

Never again would she don the color of shame, the color that Alicent had taken for herself and wielded like a sword against their own blood. What kind of woman declares war wearing her house’s pride like armor, only to use it to wound her kin? A woman without shame. A woman who belonged more in the Street of Silk than in a sept. Her stomach turned at the memory. Let Alicent keep her greens—she would dress herself and her household anew. In colors of her choosing. Not those of a whore-queen.

Beside her, Princess Rhaenyra was studying bolts of patterned cloth with a serene eye and a faint, discerning smile. Lady Elinda and Lady Catherine flanked them, their voices low and polite. She could not help but marvel. There was something about Princess Rhaenyra—a grace, a quiet brilliance, like sunlight caught on water. Whatever she touched, she made beautiful. Even now, with her figure fuller than before, she wore her weight like a queen wears her crown—without apology, without shame. Lady Johanna Lannister, Lady Alya Doggett, and Lady Seren Plumm had whispered as much behind them, though they’d meant it as gossip.

“Strange,” Lady Alya had murmured, “how even when she grows thick, she still looks finer than us all.”

Princess Rhaenyra had surely heard them. Bethany was certain of it. Yet the princess had not so much as flinched. She had stood as if she were carved from marble, regal and aloof, her chin lifted just so. Grace, she thought. Real grace.

Then, from behind Lady Johanna Lannister, Lady Alya Doggett, and Lady Seren Plumm, came a voice. A boy’s voice, warm and clear.

“I think you're beautiful, too.”

Prince Harion. He couldn’t be more than six, yet he spoke with the conviction of a bard twice his age. She turned just in time to see him lift a pair of golden earrings in small, careful hands. “These are warm,” he said, eyes locked on Lady Johanna, “like your hair. You should wear them, so everyone sees your sunshine.”

The ladies beamed as if the sun had risen only for them. Of course they did. Praise from a child is rare and sweet, untainted by flattery or motive. And this was no ordinary child. This was the son of Prince Daemon—Daemon, who had once scoffed that no woman outside Valyrian was fit to look upon, that even a Dornish ewe had more charm than half the court. That his son could find beauty in them—well, it must have struck like honeyed wine in the blood.

She watched as young Prince Harion examined the jewels and fabrics laid out upon the table with all the solemnity of a septon poring over scripture. Carefully, almost ceremoniously, he selected pieces he deemed best suited for each of the ladies, offering them one by one—first to Lady Johanna, then to Lady Seren. He was thorough and earnest, and charming in the way that only a child could be, unburdened by guile yet gifted with a silver tongue.

When he reached Lady Alya, who seldom smiled at all, Bethany saw the faintest blush rise in her cheeks. The boy handed her a necklace strung with pale pearls and said—with utmost sincerity—that it would suit her well, for she had “hands as soft and fair as pearls.”

Lady Elinda leaned close and whispered behind her hand, a smirk playing at her lips. “He may have Prince Daemon’s mischief in him, but look at that—he’s inherited his taste as well.”

Lady Catherine laughed, bright and easy. “Taste? That comes from the princess, surely. The prince has the eye of a jeweler’s apprentice and flatters like a bard drunk on praise.”

Princess Rhaenyra chuckled, her lips curved in quiet amusement, though her eyes remained thoughtful. In time, she drifted toward her son, engaging the ladies with warm words, offering advice as they chose their adornments. She had a knack for it—Princess Rhaenyra could look at a woman once and know what suited her skin, her bearing, her shape. The pieces chosen truly flattered them.

She thought they might have shone brighter still upon the princess herself, but that was no insult. The sun lends its light to many, though none may outshine it.

The chamber had been warm with chatter and laughter, the soft rustle of silk, until Lady Alya, ever a blunt instrument in a world of fine lace, asked, quite without malice, how the princess remained so beautiful despite the weight she’d gained after childbearing.

The words fell like a stone dropped into a still pond. Silence followed, deep and sudden. Lady Alya’s eyes widened in the moment after, and her apology was swift and loud.

She did not believe the slight had been intentional. Lady Alya had spoken without thinking, as she often did. And yet… the question was not without root. Lady Alya herself had grown fuller since her last confinement, though in her case the effect was less like Rhaenyra’s glowing softness and more akin to a goose fattened for harvest than a rose in bloom.

No wonder, she thought, that lady Alya had grown so thin-skinned. Her flesh had grown thick, yes, but her pride had grown brittle, ever since Lord Doggett's jests turned from cruel to common. Even now, Lady Alya’s gaze flitted about like a sparrow seeking escape, waiting for laughter that never quite felt friendly.

She turned to the princess then, curious to see if the words had pricked her. Yet Princess Rhaenyra was unmoved—or rather, not angered. She only smiled, gently, wistfully, a thing full of sorrow and grace. “My mother once told me,” the princess said, her voice soft as falling ash, “that childbearing is a woman’s battlefield.”

At once, a hush came over them.

“I did not understand her then,” she went on, eyes fixed not on the tapestries or the braziers, but on some distant memory only she could see. “But I do now. Men win their glory with swords and steel. They ride to war beneath banners, wrapped in iron and blood. And for their killing, they are knighted, sung of in every hall, carved into statues of honor.” She reached for Lady Alya’s hand then—a slow, soothing touch that made the woman flinch before she softened. The princess stroked it gently, as a mother might comfort a frightened child.

“But we…” the princess said, “we fight in silence. In sweat and agony, in blood that no one ever sings of. We carry life. We tear. We bleed. We face death with every breath, and when we live, there is no coronation. No lord kneels. No bards remember our names.” Her gaze lifted at last, calm, steady, fierce in its quiet.

“But we are not unchanged. We are more. What we carry after is not shame—it is proof. These lines upon us, this weight… they are the scars we bear, same as knights bear theirs. They mark that we endured. That we survived.” Her eyes followed Prince Harion then, who had dashed off toward a merchant to paw through bolts of dyed silk with the earnestness of a child let loose in a summer fair. Princess Rhaenyra’s face softened at the sight, her expression so full of love that Bethany felt the words before they were even spoken.

“From my battle, I was given something no sword could ever grant—a child. A soul to love, without end. If this body remembers that gift, I wear the memory proudly.” The princess said it simply, gently, with no trace of judgment.

Lady Alya’s lip quivered. Tears sprang to her eyes, unbidden, and when she looked away, the princess reached up and brushed them away with the same lightness she’d offered her words.

“You are beautiful, Lady Alya,” Princess Rhaenyra said kindly. “I think, with a warmer tone to your lips and a fabric that suits your skin—something soft, like peach or rose—you would shine all the brighter. Come. Let me help you choose.” Lady Alya gave a watery laugh, her mouth curling into the first real smile she had seen from her in a long while.

How does Princess Rhaenyra do it? She wondered. How could so few words mend wounds left open and weeping? Lady Alya, once withdrawn and quick to bristle, now stood with eyes shining and hands relaxed. And it was no act—the warmth in her gaze, the tenderness in her voice, were things no mummer could conjure. She had watched Princess Rhaenyra closely for days now, and she knew—this wasn’t some courtly trick, no performance. The princess was genuine.

And gods help her, good.

Too good.

And it wasn’t just the princess. Her children were the same. She had seen how Princess Lucrezia spoke with the stewards, how Prince Harion bowed his head to even the humblest of maids. She had not yet met the eldest, Prince Jacaerys, but if he was anything like his siblings, then he too bore that same gentle strength.

The High Septon himself had praised them when he visited the Vale, calling them the very image of virtue. Even Septon Eustace had softened toward them—and Septa Maris, that crone with a spine of stone, had called them “a blessing upon their mother.”

How strange that a family so powerful could be so kind.

Perhaps that was why Prince Daemon guarded them like a blade guards a heart. He was cold, yes, but of course he must be. Someone had to be the shield. If he were soft too, the world would devour them. She understood him, then. Ice for fire, steel for silk. No other way.

And perhaps that was why her cousin had come to hate the princess so deeply. That snake. That whore in queen’s dress.

Oh, but she saw it now. Saw it with a clarity that bit deeper than frost. That was the root of it, wasn’t it?

Her cousin knew.

Alicent, for all her silken prayers and soft-spoken piety, had always known. Known, down to the marrow of her painted bones, that beside Princess Rhaenyra, she was but dust. A pale thing propped up by her father’s scheming and her husband's fading crown. A brittle woman of borrowed power and brittle pride, cloaked in the trappings of virtue to conceal the rot of envy that festered beneath her skin.

She had known it the moment King Viserys spoke Rhaenyra’s name and called her heir. She had known it then, and she knew it still—knew it even now, when the court no longer whispered Princess Rhaenyra’s titles and the Iron Throne bore another name. Even disinherited, even cast aside, the princess had carved a legacy greater than anything that whore’s sons would ever touch.

Even now, Princess Rhaenyra was building something that would endure.

And what had her cousin wrought? What of her children, the so-called hope of House Targaryen?

The one they called heir was a drunkard in a prince’s clothes, a baseborn soul with a crown pressed upon his head like a jest. The girl—Alicent’s precious daughter—was a wisp of a thing, strange and soft, her beauty paling beside even minor noble girls. And the others? One could not control his rage, the other was so unremarkable she often forgot he existed.

And Princess Rhaenyra’s children—ah, her children were nothing like them.

It must sear Alicent like wildfire, that knowledge. That her sons would never inspire loyalty the way Princess Rhaenyra’s did. That her own bloodline, so carefully laid like kindling, would never catch flame.

She almost laughed. And Gods, was it not laughable? That her cousin—her cousin!—had ever dared to match herself against Rhaenyra Targaryen.

What arrogance. What pride so foolish it bordered on madness.

A queen consort by marriage only, clinging to a borrowed throne, daring to believe she could stand equal to a trueborn Targaryen—one not only of royal blood but of dragonfire. Princess Rhaenyra was not merely a princess; she was a power. She had tamed the Vale not with steel, but with vision and kindness. She had filled the coffers of men who once doubted her, restored lands that had fallen fallow, and spun trade from silk and spice and steel. Lords who had once muttered of her sex now bent the knee not because they must, but because they wanted to. She had earned their respect in coin and prosperity. What care had they for what did or did not hang between her thighs, when her hand brought them wealth?

And that—oh yes, that—was the true blade twisting in her cousin’s heart.

It was not crowns that Alicent envied, nor titles. It was worth. Princess Rhaenyra had built hers. And no septon, no ceremony, no prayer whispered in the sept would ever give Alicent the same.

She had just begun to step toward where Rhaenyra and other ladies stood, when the herald’s cry cut through the warm air like a blade,

“Queen Alicent Hightower, Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms! Princess Helaena of House Targaryen!”

The words sliced the air like a whetted blade.

She halted mid-step.

Her breath caught sharp in her throat, like a splinter gone too deep to pull free. The warmth of the moment bled from the world around her, and in its place came the chill—the shadow that always followed her cousin's presence.

The day, which moments ago had seemed golden, now dimmed as if a cloud had passed before the sun.

Rhaenyra’s POV

She did not quite remember how she came to be in the godswood—only that she was there now, surrounded by Harion, Bethany, Elinda, Catherine, Lady Johanna, Lady Alya, Lady Serene… and the Alicent, with Helaena at her side. 

“H-how is Grandfather Hobert, Aunt Bethany?” Helaena asked gently, eyes soft as a doe’s. The girl was a sweet thing, soft-spoken, too fragile for the court’s cruel games. Her voice, tremulous as it was, might have stirred sympathy—if only her mother had not, weeks before and before half the court, declared that the life of Lord Hobert Hightower meant less than that of her precious Aegon. It was true, of course. A prince's life held more weight than a lord’s. But some truths should not be spoken aloud and certainly not in front of grieving kin.

“My father is stable, Princess Helaena,” Bethany answered with practiced calm. “Thanks to the healer Princess Rhaenyra sent, he is well tended.” Bethany’s voice was even, but she saw it—the tightness at the corners of Bethany’s mouth, the way her fingers curled around the folds of her gown. Bethany Hightower had always been a master of civility, even when scorn simmered beneath her skin. She held herself with poise, even now, when surely her blood burned.

It was then that Alicent chose to speak, her tone all innocence laced with judgment. “Speaking of healers, I admit I do not understand why you saw fit to bring your own, Rhaenyra. The Red Keep has no shortage of skilled maesters.” At that, she almost rolled her eyes. Gods, did the woman forget her own words spoken but a day past?

She kept her composure, as a lady must, even when the urge to scoff nearly rose in her throat. Instead, she offered a serene nod, her words honeyed with diplomacy.  “There are, indeed, many skilled maesters within these walls,” she replied, each syllable poised and pleasant. “And I hold their service in the highest regard. Yet, I have found it prudent to ensure my household is tended without undue delay—particularly in times when the maesters’ attentions are, understandably, drawn elsewhere.”

A smile touched her lips then. It was a gentle thing, demure even, but sharp as broken glass beneath the surface. “It would be selfish, after all, to expect them to divide their efforts when greater needs demand their focus. Your words have made clear, Your Grace, where the realm’s priorities must lie. I merely seek to ease their burden. As she spoke, her eyes flicked—just briefly—toward Lady Bethany. The older woman blinked once, slowly, the corners of her mouth tight. She understood well what had been said, and more importantly, what had not. That in Alicent’s eyes—her cousin’s eyes—there was only one family worth saving. That even should others perish, so long as her children survived, Alicent Hightower would not lose sleep.

Alicent, it seemed, was not so blind as to miss the barb. Her smile trembled for half a heartbeat before she turned toward her cousin. Her hand, smooth and pale, reached for Bethany’s and took it gently, the picture of maternal tenderness. “But of course, dear cousin,” she said, her voice softer now, more laden with sentiment. “You understand. As a mother, there is no greater terror than seeing your child laid low, helpless, and hurting.”

It was a fine performance, one worthy of the mummers, but the halls of court held sharper eyes than any stage.

Whether it had been her own realization or whispered warning from her father, Ser Otto, she could not say—but it was plain now that Alicent had remembered who she was. That crown on her brow may glitter, but it did not change her blood. They were of the second branch, however far they climbed. They held influence, aye, but little of their own strength to wield—not in steel, nor in fire. And Alicent’s dragonspawn were yet too green to ride, let alone to lead into war.

They needed the Hightowers still.

She did not care when that realization had come—only that it had come too late. Bethany’s heart had already turned cold to them both. It would take but one more push to close that door for good. And as fortune—or folly—would have it, Alicent herself offered that final push.

Whether it was boldness, ignorance, or the shamelessness that often came with a crown, Alicent chose to speak of matters no lady of breeding would utter aloud, least of all in such company. “I grieve for your troubles, Lady Johanna,” Alicent said with mock sympathy, her voice honeyed but hollow, her eyes fixed on the golden-haired lady seated by the arbor.

Lady Johanna, who had moments before been smiling at one of Harion’s tales, turned her head slowly. Not only she, but all the ladies gathered—their laughter, their idle chatter—fell into silence. A hush rippled through the garden like a chill wind. All eyes turned to Alicent.

“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” said Lady Johanna, her brows drawn, confusion plain upon her face.

“Your lord husband,” Alicent replied, with the sort of sweetness one used to mask poison. “I’ve heard whispers that Lord Jason has taken it upon himself to… elevate his mistress. That he intends to wed her, or so it is said.”

It was a strike meant to look like concern, but it landed like a blade. She could see the stiffness take hold of Lady Johanna’s frame, the tension in her throat as she swallowed. Lady Alya and Lady Serene, both daughters of the Westerlands and fast friends of Johanna’s since girlhood, sat in mortified silence. Their hands clenched in their laps, their eyes cast down. Of course, they were uncomfortable. To have such an indignity aired so publicly, and by the queen consort no less—it was beyond cruel. It was calculated.

Lady Johanna, to her credit, did not rise, nor did she break. “Ah… yes. I thank you for your concern, Queen Alicent,” she said quietly, each word measured, like stepping over broken glass. The silence dragged.

She let her gaze drift to Elinda, seated quietly at her right. A single glance passed between them. Elinda understood. Without a word, Elinda rose and offered her hand to Harion. “Come, sweetling,” she said gently. “Let’s walk a little, yes?” The boy blinked, then nodded, placing his small fingers in hers. Together, they stepped away from the table, disappearing down a shaded path between the trees. Whatever venom Alicent had left to spill, it was no fit thing for her child to hear.

Alicent leaned forward then, pity painting her features as she reached across the table to clasp Lady Johanna’s hand. “But what else can we expect?” she said with a soft sigh, her voice laced with a false gentleness that rang louder than any cruelty.

Alicent’s eyes shifted, landing on her with the deliberate weight of a drawn blade. “Lord Jason’s mistress has given him a son, has she not? And a lord of such stature—why, it is only natural that he should require a male heir to carry on his name. A pity, truly, that you were only able to give him daughters, Lady Johanna. Shame.. Had you borne him a son, there would have been no need to replace you.”

Ah. So that was the game.

This was never about Lady Johanna. No, Alicent’s aim had always been her. The message beneath those honeyed words was meant for her alone: that her mother had deserved to be cast aside for her failure to bear sons. That a woman’s worth, in Alicent’s eyes, began and ended in the cradle of her womb.

How proud she must be of herself—this pious, perfumed queen who had gifted Viserys three sons, none of whom were worth the silver in their hair. Three boys born of ambition and fear, each more disappointing than the last. Did she truly think her womb’s yield made her superior?

And worse still—was she so blind as not to see the blow she had just dealt her own kin?

Bethany sat but a few chairs down, and she too had yet to produce a son for her lord husband. Only daughters. Only girls. Had the Alicent forgotten so quickly the apology she had offered Bethany not an hour past? Or did she think her cousin too soft to recognize the slight for what it was?

Foolish.

She wanted to be angry. Gods, she did. The gall of the woman—to speak so carelessly of her mother’s suffering, to reduce a her mother’s torment to little more than a footnote in her smug sermon on wombs and heirs. As if it were her mother’s fault the babes had not lived. As if she had chosen to die in her birthing bed, torn open and emptied for the promise of a son that never drew breath.

But then her eyes slid sideways—just a flicker, no more—and found Bethany.

The look burning in that woman’s gaze was enough to still her tongue. Anger, raw and unmasked. But not at her. No—Bethany’s loathing was for Alicent. There it was, plain upon her face, unguarded and pure: betrayal. Hurt. Rage.

Sbe lifted her cup and drank slowly, hiding the faint twitch of a smile behind the rim. Let Alicent believe her silence was surrender. Let her mistake quiet for grace. But silence was never meant to last.

Alicent’s voice rang out once more—bright, honeyed, insincere. “And what say you, Rhaenyra?” she asked, all sweetness, as if the venom she’d spilled were nothing but idle talk over supper.

She lowered her cup like falling snow. Her eyes met Alicent’s. She did not raise her voice—there was no need—but her words rang clear, each one deliberate, and no less sharp for being soft.

“While I found little to agree with in your speech, Your Grace,” she said, lifting her gaze to meet Alicent’s, “what I deemed most outrageous was the implication that it is the woman who ought to bear shame when her husband casts her aside for want of sons.”

She let that hang in the air, like the edge of a sword just before the swing.

“What shame is hers, when it is the husband who strays? What guilt must she carry for failing to grant him the shape of heir he desires, when such things lie beyond the dominion of any woman’s will?” Her eyes gleamed, unblinking. “If there is disgrace in a union, it does not stem from the wife who fulfilled her vows, but from the man who broke them.” From the corner of her eye, she glimpsed Lady Johanna’s astonished gaze—the flush of shame that had colored her cheeks now fading, replaced by a look of quiet wonder, as though she had plucked the moon from the sky and held it aloft for Lady Johanna alone.

“A man who takes a mistress and raises her up beside his lawful wife commits not simply betrayal, but bigamy—a crime, last I recall, under the laws of my great-grandfather, the late King Jaehaerys, who deemed even the false claiming of coin to warrant punishment, let alone the false claiming of a woman.”

She paused to let that settle. “No man who holds his good-father in esteem would dare take his daughter under false pretenses. No man of honor would dress such treachery in the guise of duty, nor speak of heirs to justify his betrayal.”

A breath, quiet and cold.

“It is not the faithful wife who ought to hang her head. Nor the daughters born of her womb. The shame belongs to those who betray, and to those who excuse betrayal beneath a veil of piety or politics.”

She rose then, not wishing to suffer whatever nonsense Alicent might offer in return—some false kindness, or a sanctimonious plea wrapped in prayer and silk. But before she took her leave, she turned her gaze toward the queen and said, coolly:

“So I beg you, Your Grace… speak not of a woman’s shame in such a cheap and careless way. Not when you, yourself, are a woman—and not while you have daughters of your own.”

Her eyes drifted to Helaena, who sat in silence, head bowed, unable—or unwilling—to meet her gaze.

The door closed behind her with a soft thud, muffled by heavy wood and stone. She stood there for a breath, her back to it, exhaling slowly through her nose.

Gods.

Speaking to Alicent Hightower left her weary in ways battle never had. A duel of words, veiled barbs dressed in silks and smiles—yet each exchange left a bruise. There was something about Alicent’s voice, the syrupy lilt and the pious tilt of her head, that grated against her bones. Talking to her was like drinking honeyed milk gone sour. 

She crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. The fire had been stoked in her absence—her maids were ever diligent—but even the warmth of it did little to drive out the chill that clung to her after supper. She sank onto the edge of the bed, back straight, fingers moving to unlace her bodice, as if shedding the day's garments might peel the weight of it from her shoulders.

At last, she lay back among the pillows, her hair spilling around her like dark silk, limbs heavy with the kind of exhaustion no sleep could cure.

And then—

A faint creak.

Her gaze slid toward the small, adjoining door near the hearth—left unlocked, as it always was. The latch shifted, and the door opened by an inch, then two. A tousled head of brown curls peeked through the gap.

Harion .

Before she could speak, the door pushed wider, and the boy darted in on bare feet, silent as a shadow. In a blink, he was beside her, scrambling onto the bed and wriggling beneath the covers, pressing close until he lay with his cheek against her shoulder, arms wrapped tight around her middle.

“You sent me away,” he said, voice small and warm against her gown. “Why?”

Her hand moved of its own accord, finding the boy’s hair and stroking through it gently, fingers curling around the thick locks as if they were threads of peace. “I did,” she murmured, her voice softer now, threaded with guilt she would not name aloud.

He waited for her answer, patient in the way only children and saints could be.

She sighed, letting her fingers play through his curls. “Because the mean lady in green said things,” she said at last, “that good boys like you ought not hear.”

Harion nodded against her. She felt it—a small, serious movement—and it tugged something loose in her chest. “She’s always mean,” he said, his voice muffled. “She looks like she smells bad.”

A small, startled laugh escaped her before she could swallow it, and she kissed the top of his head to hide it. “Hush, little dragon,” she said. “That’s not very princely.”

“But it’s true,” he replied, a yawn stretching the end of his words.

She smiled softly, her hand lingering in the dark strands of his hair, stroking with the gentlest touch. She tried to lull the boy to sleep, but before his eyes could close and surrender to slumber, sleep seemed to take him by force. Harion’s gaze met hers once more, wide and searching.
“Mommy.. I saw a man today,” he said quietly. “A mean man.”

A mean man? Who could he mean? Otto? No, Otto was too clever to show his true feelings in public. So, who then? The question answered itself when Harion said the man was a knight, clad in white, with hair as dark as midnight.

Ah.

Criston.

“What did this mean man do, my love?” she asked, her voice low, steady but tight with something she dared not name.

Harion frowned, brows knitting. “Not much. When he passed by me, he said something… something like ‘bastard.’ But I forgot the rest.” The word struck her like a cold blade. Her body tensed beneath the weight of it. She sat upright in the bed, eyes locking onto her youngest son’s innocent face. But the boy was too weary to notice the storm gathering behind her calm mask.

“What else did he say?” she pressed, voice sharper now, every syllable a quiet demand.

Harion shook his head slowly. “Nothing more, Mother. Aunt Elinda took me to my room right after. Uncle Oswell looked angry, but Aunt Elinda held him back.” She watched the boy close his eyes at last, surrendering to sleep’s embrace. 

She closed her eyes, not for rest, but to still the fury rising like fire in her chest. To breathe, to keep the storm contained. She could not afford to wake the boy again.

How dare he.

The nerve. The audacity of that mongrel. That stray dog, biting the very hand that lifted him from the gutters he once called home.

Criston Cole.

The name tasted of ash in her mouth. The memory of him—still haunting, still festering. He, who dared name her a whore before the court and the gods. He, who bore a hand in the suffering of her sons, their pain a weight he helped forge with every whispered lie. He, whose tongue wagged looser than any fishwife’s, spilling venom cloaked in piety. He, who wore honor like a borrowed cloak—fine to look upon, yes, but never his to claim. It hung ill-fitted on his shoulders, reeking of borrowed valor and a coward’s pride.

He had no place speaking of virtue, no right to speak her name. But speak it he did—again and again—until the realm echoed with filth.

Once, she had pitied him. Once, she thought him loyal. But even dogs knew better than to turn on their master.

Slowly, carefully, she rose from the bed, moving with the silence of a shadow so Harion did not stir from his sleep. She crossed the chamber, every step purposeful, and opened a small, locked cupboard tucked beneath her personal shrine. Within, nestled behind bolts of silk and dried herbs, sat a slender bottle — dark green glass, stoppered tight. A gift from Dowager Empress Han, brought all the way from Yi Ti. She had not touched it since it arrived.

She turned the bottle in her hand, the liquid within catching the candlelight like old blood. Perhaps it was time. Time to silence the mutt before he turned rabid. Before he sank his teeth into something she still loved. Cole had lived too long already.

And mercy had never suited her.

Lucrezia’s POV

She had returned to the Red Keep ahead of her father and Jace. The plan, as she understood it, was for her father to introduce Jacaerys to a few of his friends among the Gold Cloaks. A terrible idea, she thought, and surely one Mother would never have allowed if she had known. Even she could guess that Father meant to show Jace Flea Bottom by torchlight—and no good ever came of that.

But she hadn’t come back just to avoid trouble. She wanted a bath. Her hair was full of wind and dragon smoke, and her cheeks still prickled with heat from the flight. Arrax was the best dragon in the world, but even she had to admit he left her smelling like singed wool and charcoal. She liked to be clean. She liked to be pretty.

So she walked the long stone corridors of the Red Keep with Ser Steffon a few paces behind, her hair unbraided and her cheeks still warm from the wind. That was when she saw him.

A boy, kneeling beneath the heart tree.

She slowed, curious. “What are you doing?” she asked, taking a step closer.

He did not answer. White smoke curled in the air about him, pale against the dark red of the weirwood’s leaves. Was he burning the tree? Was he mad? But no—he was not harming it. As she drew near, she saw that he was whispering, lips moving in prayer. Before him, at the foot of the tree, a small fire burned, and a few grains had been cast into the flames.

His eyes opened—and widened at the sight of her kneeling beside him. His face flushed, ears and cheeks turning pink as blooming roses. She thought—though she could not be sure—that she heard him whisper her name. She cleared her throat, suddenly aware of how close they were, and that made her blush, too. “I’m Lucrezia,” she said quickly, hoping the words might carry away the heat in her face. “What’s your name?”

“Benji,” he said, so softly she could barely hear it. Without thinking, she leaned in, just a little, to catch the sound of his voice. His cheeks turned redder still, and he tumbled back awkwardly, trying to put space between them.

She stood at once, flustered. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to— It’s only, your voice is very quiet, and I—sorry.”

“No, n-no, it’s my fault, princess,” the boy stammered, bowing low. “M-my name is Benji. Benjicot Blackwood.”

When he raised his head, she saw his face clearly for the first time.

His face was… nice.

No—not just nice. Pretty. 

No—handsome. Like a painting.

Not like the knights in tapestries with long noses and stiff armor. No, more like the ones in those little storybooks Septa Marla always said were “unsuitable.” The ones with floppy curls and kind eyes and sad smiles. Benji had hair that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be—straight or curly, proper or wild. And his eyes weren’t just brown—they were soft. She thought maybe they looked like tea with honey in it.

He had a little mole near his mouth. She liked that. She wanted to touch it. That was probably strange.

She wondered what he smelled like. Maybe books. Or beeswax. Or lavender. Maybe all three.

And without thinking—just to check—she leaned in and sniffed.

He smelled... like a boy.
Not like Harion, who always came in reeking of dirt and dragon and whatever muck he’d rolled in chasing shadowcats with Tyraxes.
Not like Jace either, who smelled sharp and strange, like ink and peppermint.

Benji’s scent was different. He smelled like summer wind and old tree bark, like candlewax still warm from a feast table, and something else too—something soft and toasty, like oats roasting on a hearth.

It was a good smell. A nice smell.

She was jolted back to herself when Ser Steffon cleared his throat behind her.

She spun about too quickly, nearly catching her toe on the hem of her skirts, and stumbled. Her cheeks flared hot, hotter than dragonfire licking against stone. “Stupid,” she muttered beneath her breath. “You’re acting stupid, Lucrezia.”

She wanted to flee—to run and hide in the library, or behind Arrax's wings, or under her bed, where no one could ever look at her like she’d just sniffed a boy on purpose. But before she could move, her eyes were drawn again to the tiny fire at the base of the weirwood tree.

She cleared her throat and tried to press her shame down into her shoes. Her voice wobbled when she asked, “What… what were you doing, just now?” Her fingers pointed toward the fire, where a few grains were still glowing in the low flame.

The boy—Benji—followed her gesture and smiled, a shy, soft thing, like a secret being told. Then he spoke.

“I was making an offering. To the weirwood… and to the wisps.”

“The wisps?” Lucrezia tilted her head. “What are those?” She’d read a few things about the Old Gods—enough to remember the faces in the trees and the silence of the North—but never once had she read of wisps.

Benji nodded, his brown eyes shining in the dim red light. “The wisps are the spirits of the faithful dead,” he said, no longer stammering. “When followers of the Old Gods die, we bury them in the soil—deep in the earth. That way, even in death, they stay close to the roots of the weirwoods.”

He glanced at her, perhaps seeing confusion on her face, and continued with more care than before. “We believe that when we die and are buried beneath the trees, we return to the mortal world as wisps. If the gods will it, we become their messengers. Wisps guide the living… toward their fate. Or their destiny.”

His voice had changed—steadier now, as though speaking of the wisps steadied him. Each word came smoother, each breath less shy. There was a glow in his cheeks, and not from embarrassment this time.

It struck her how gentle his excitement was. Not like Harion, whose joy burned as hot and loud as wildfire, or Jace, who grew cold and clever when he was thrilled, the way a sword grows cold before a duel.

Benji’s excitement was warm. Kind. Like her father’s, when he spoke of Caraxes or the old tales of Valyria. It was the sort of warmth that wrapped around you and made you feel safe, like thick wool on a snowy day.

“I’ve read a book about the history of the Old Gods once,” she said, her brow furrowed. “There was nothing in it about wisps.”

“That’s because the books you’ve read came from the Citadel,” said Benji, his tone calm, almost knowing. “They speak of the Old Gods, aye, but they are written by men of the south—men of the Faith. Maesters who bend their knees to the Seven. Their knowledge of the old ways is… shallow. Scratched only on the surface. But if you’d like, I can lend you a true tome—one passed down in my family, about the Old Gods.”

She nodded before her mind caught up with her mouth.

It wasn’t until Benji had turned to fetch the book that the weight of her agreement settled like snow atop her shoulders.

What have I done? she thought. Studying the Old Gods? That wasn’t her faith. She was a follower of the Seven. And sometimes, though she never said it aloud, she whispered to the Fourteen Flames too, when the moons were high and her dreams turned Valyrian. If Septa Maryam were to find out… she’d be scolded for certain.

But—wait. Septa Maryam always said a lady should seek knowledge from every corner of the realm. And how could she do that without reading from every page?

Yes. She would only borrow the book. Just to read. Just to learn more.

…And maybe, just maybe, so she’d have a reason to speak to that boy again.

Chapter Text

Lucrezia’s POV

As she walked the winding halls toward the wing her family now occupied, Ser Steffon, who would often exchange pleasantries or jest with her, held his tongue. The silence between them was awkward, brittle as thin ice.

She stole a glance up at him. His face was unreadable as ever, but his jaw ticked once—tight. He’d seen. Of course, he had. He always did. Her cheeks burned all over again. She cleared her throat, then tried to sound casual. “Ser Steffon,” she said lightly, a little too lightly, like trying to hold a snowflake without melting it, “we are friends, aren’t we?”

He blinked, not looking at her. Just ahead. When he didn’t reply at once, her hands fidgeted with the rings of her sleeves. She went on, hurriedly, before she could lose her nerve.

“You’re always there,” she murmured, eyes ahead too now, “when I need you. And you know the little things I whisper to Elia and Alora—the stories I tell, the things I say when I think no one listens.”

A beat.

“…So, that must make us friends. And friends—” she took a breath, “—must know how to keep secrets.”

Now she looked up at him fully, her voice softer, steadier. “You didn’t see or hear anything in Kingswood. Did you?”

For the first time, Ser Steffon’s expression shifted. Not quite a smile—just the ghost of one, tugging faintly at the corner of his mouth. His sigh came deep and quiet, like he was setting down something heavy he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. He glanced at her, then looked away just as quickly.

“I remember when you were still small enough to fit in the crook of your father’s arm,” he muttered. “And now you’re asking me not to have seen a thing.”

Her heart skipped. Her hands stilled.

He didn’t sound angry. Just… older, maybe. Wiser. Sad, in the way people were when they realized time only ever moved in one direction. “From Kingswood,” he said at last, voice a little rough, “we walked straight to the wing your family resides in. We saw no one. Nothing happened. Right, Princess?”

Her lips parted. She could feel the words pressing against her teeth. But all she said was, “Right.” He gave a faint grunt, something like approval. Maybe surrender.

And that was that.

When at last she returned to her chambers, she found Alba and Tilda already within. A bath had been drawn, the steam rising in pale clouds that smelled of lavender and rosewater. Alba undressed her gently, helping her out of her dusty riding clothes and into the warmth of the tub. The water lapped at her skin, hot but pleasant, and Alba scrubbed her back with slow, practiced strokes, humming a soft lullaby that she half-remembered from when she was very small.

Tilda stood nearby, as she always did, sorting through silks and ribbons with furrowed brow. “What of this one, Princess?” she asked, lifting a gown of honey-yellow silk that shimmered like sun on dragon-scale. It was the color of her lady mother’s dragon—Syrax. It was lovely, surely. But… not lovely enough.

She was to see Benji again, and that meant something now. He was her friend—her new friend—and hadn’t Mother once said it was bad manners to meet a friend while looking a mess?

“I… I would like the purple one,” she said, eyes drifting to the little cedar box where the gown lay folded and waiting. Her cheeks turned warm. The purple gown always made her feel special. Her father had said it brought out her eyes. So had Grandmother Manda. And they never lied—not to her.

After she was sure her skin smelled only faintly of lavender and not of bath-sweat, Lucrezia stepped from the tub. Alba dried her with the usual soft-cloth and patted her shoulders like she was a kitten instead of a princess. She liked that. She liked not being rushed. Dressed in her shift and gown, she sat down at the mirror, her feet swinging just barely above the floor. Alba took the brush and began her gentle work.

“How shall we do your hair today, Princess?” Alba asked as she gently tugged the comb through her hair.

At Alba’s question, she bit the inside of her cheek.

She usually asked for a proper braid. A princess’s braid. The kind her mother wore when receiving lords or sitting in court—neat and noble, tight enough not to fall loose, but never so tight it hurt. It kept her cool and tidy, and it made her look just as a lady ought to look. Not wild. Not childish. Just right.

But she remembered how her mother looked when Father was near. How the braids softened. How sometimes they vanished altogether, replaced by long, loose waves and little hidden twists that seemed to appear only when he was close enough to notice them. Her mother looked different then. Like someone younger, freer. Happier. Maybe even a little wild.

She liked her like that.

Maybe Father liked it too, the way his fingers curled in Mother's hair sometimes, slow and careful. It always made Mother go still and quiet, like she was listening to music no one else could hear.

Would Benji touch her hair like that?

Her ears burned. The thought had crept in like a mouse under a door.

She didn’t want him to, exactly—not like in a kissing way. Not like that. But she thought—maybe—it would be nice if he ran his fingers through her hair the way Father did with Mother. Or the way Grandmother Manda did when she read her stories. Or when Mother brushed her own fingers through her curls after a nightmare.

It was nice when people touched your hair. It meant they were thinking about you.

And Benji had soft-looking hands. Careful hands. The kind of hands that would ask before touching.

She liked that about him.

“I want it down,” she whispered. “Mostly down. But with… a few braids. Just a little. Like Mother’s.”

Alba didn’t ask why, only nodded and got to work. When she was done, a golden circlet was set upon her brow, nestled against her silver locks, and the braid framed her face just so. “You look very pretty, Princess,” said Tilda, placing the wooden jewelry box before her.

She blinked at the glittering pieces inside. So many choices. Rubies? No, too red. Pearls? Too wedding-y. She didn’t want to look too grown. But she did want to be beautiful. Beautiful enough for—

“Lucy…” came her mother’s voice.

She hadn’t heard the door open. When she looked up, her mother was already walking across the room, her long skirts rustling softly.

“Where are your father and your brother?” Mother asked, pausing just behind her. “ I went to your brother’s chambers, but he was not there.”

She turned in her chair to look up at her mother. “Father said he wanted to take him walking in the city… and to meet his goldcloak friends.” She tried to sound casual. Like she wasn’t hiding anything.

Her mother exhaled through her nose and gave that little head shake that meant something like they didn’t ask permission, but I’ll let it be. She stepped closer and touched Lucrezia’s hair, just where the braid met her temple.

“You’re wearing your favorite gown,” Mother said, not quite asking, but knowing all the same.

She ducked her head. She didn’t know what to say. Mother always knew when she was hiding something. Before she could reply, a knock sounded at the chamber door. Firm. Familiar.

“Princess Lucrezia,” came Ser Steffon’s voice from beyond. “The book you asked for has arrived.”

Book?

Oh! The book Benji promised—the one about the Old Gods.

Had he sent it with a servant? But Ser Steffon hadn’t said. If he didn’t say who waited at the door… then surely… surely it was Benji himself. Her heart leapt. She rose at once, smoothing the skirts of her gown with both hands. What if it had creased? She reached for the first piece of jewelry that glimmered gold and fastened it on with trembling fingers. Then, without a second thought, she made for the door, her slippers whispering against the stone.

When she opened the door, she saw Benji already there, waiting, a book in his hands—the one about the Old Gods. It wasn’t a particularly large book, not like the holy tomes of the Faith of the Seven. This one was smaller, thinner, but neat. It looked rather new at first glance. But she remembered—Benji had said it was an heirloom, passed down from his family. That meant it was old. Very old, perhaps. And yet it looked so clean, so well-kept. That must mean Benji took great care of his things.

She liked that. She liked it when people were responsible with their belongings, especially their books. Her father was like that, too. He always treated his books gently, and even the oldest of them still looked as if they’d only just been bound. Perhaps Benji was the same. That made her feel a little warmer inside.

She stepped toward him slowly, careful not to seem too eager. He had changed clothes, she noticed. And he must have bathed, too. His tunic was not the same one he wore earlier, and now he smelled faintly of pine and mint—fresh and calm, like the forest after rain.

Benji bowed his head politely and greeted her.
“Princess,” he said softly, “this is the book I mentioned.”
He held it out to her.

Their fingers brushed when she reached out to take it, just barely. As she had guessed, his hands were soft. She dared to look up at him, just a little. He was already watching her, waiting for her to say something. Anything.

“Thank you, Benji,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “I’ll take good care of it and return it as soon as I finish.”

He nodded in reply, solemn as ever.

For a moment, they stood in silence, both of them holding their tongues, waiting for the other to speak again. She wanted to say more—she wanted to ask him questions, to get to know him better. But would that be strange? Would it be too much for someone she had only just met?

She was still turning over words in her head, trying to find just one that wouldn’t sound silly, something that would keep him there a little longer, when Benji suddenly lowered his head again, deeper this time, more formal.

It wasn’t for her.

Only then did she feel the change in the air behind her, the quiet weight of another presence. A soft rustle of skirts. The scent of rosewater.

Her heart skipped a beat.

And when she turned, her mother was already standing there. Still as a statue, with that smile. That smile. Not a warm one. Not the kind that meant she was pleased or proud. No, this was the smile that came when she wanted answers… or when something displeased her eyes.

She knew the difference. And she prayed—quietly, quickly—that it was the first.

Please, she begged in her head. Please don't let her hate Benji.

"Lucrezia," her mother said, and oh, that made her chest clench. Mother never used her full name unless something was wrong. She always called her Lucy. Only Lucrezia when there was trouble.

"Who is this?" Her mother's voice was soft, but her gaze was sharp as a blade, traveling from Benji’s curls to the tips of his worn boots.
Benji stiffened like a hunted deer, fingers clutching the edge of his tunic.

Then, slowly, with a tremble in his voice but a brave look in his eyes, he answered. "I… I am Benjicot Blackwood of House Blackwood, Princess."

She held her breath as the words left him. He didn’t look away, not even once. And something strange happened then—her mother’s cold smile melted into something softer. The kind she gave Aunt Elinda, or Aunt Jeyne, when they came to take tea. Her spine eased, her posture looser, gentler.

Maybe it was the eye contact? Mother always said it was rude not to meet someone’s gaze when you spoke. It is a grave discourtesy not to meet one’s eyes when spoken to. Look away, and you invite insult—or worse, show yourself unworthy of regard.

Benji had looked her in the eye. So maybe… maybe she wouldn’t be too hard on him?

"Benjicot of House Blackwood, is it?" her mother said, tilting her head. Her tone was curious now, not scolding. She gestured down the stone corridor behind them. "And how did you lose your way, I wonder? Last I recall, the Blackwood family was given rooms in the East Wing."

Her mother’s voice was gentle—gentle enough that hope sparked in her chest like the first flame of a hearth fire. She turned around quickly, almost tripping over her own feet, and thrust the book out in both hands like a knight offering up a sword.

“Look, muna!” she said all in a rush. “Benji lent me his family’s book—it’s an heirloom—all about the Old Gods. Isn’t that kind of him?”

Mother raised a brow. That was all. No smile. No frown. Just one brow, arched like a question mark carved from dragonbone.

She lowered her head. Was she in trouble?

Mother had warned her—warned her clearly—not to trust anyone in King’s Landing. Especially not those who wore green with pride. But Benji didn’t wear green. Benji wore grey and red. Her fingers twitched at the ring on her fingers, a nervous habit she hadn’t broken even after a dozen lessons on courtly grace. Maybe Benji noticed, because his hand moved gently to hers, stilling it. He didn’t squeeze. Just held it—like a book he didn’t want to ruin.

Then Benji turned to face her mother, calm as anything, like he hadn’t just stepped into a dragon’s den wearing a smile. His voice was steady, polite, careful, the kind of careful that made Lucrezia want to cover her eyes. “I came to deliver a book the Princess wished to read, my lady,” he said, chin lifted just enough to look brave. “We met in the godswood, and Princess Lucrezia expressed interest in the history of my faith. It only seemed proper that I bring it to her myself.”

Her breath caught.

Oh no. He told her mother how they met. What if he said more? What if he told her about the sniffing? She blurted it out before she could stop herself, cheeks already going red.

“I didn’t try to sniff him!” she exclaimed.

The corridor fell into a hush so loud it might as well have roared. Benji’s cheeks turned the same shade as hers. Ser Steffon closed his eyes like he wished he could vanish into the stone. Ser Lorent bit his lip, and Uncle Oswell’s mustache twitched with barely-hidden laughter.

And her mother…

Oh, her mother wore the same expression she’d worn when she caught Harion hiding under Nanna Amanda’s bed to avoid his lessons—legs too long to be properly hidden, and guilt written plain on his face. That look that said: You’re lucky you’re amusing, child, or I’d tan your hide.

Did that mean muna liked Benji?

Did that mean Benji could be her friend?

She wanted him to be. She really, really did.

He could be her first proper boy-friend. Not like Rhaegar, who was still a baby and mostly Harion’s shadow. Not like Aemon, who was her cousin and didn’t count. And certainly not like Edmure, Barden Emmon, Humfrey, or even Cregan—Jace’s friends, all of them. They sometimes let her join their games, but the games were always about swords or mud or loud things. She hated all that. They didn’t even read.

But Benji was different.

Benji read.

Benji had brought her a book—not just any book, but a precious one, a family heirloom. That meant he trusted her. And when he spoke of the Old Gods and the wisps in the Godswood, his eyes had lit up the same way hers did when she found a new scroll in the library. Maybe—just maybe—he liked music too. Who could say? What she knew for certain was this:

Benji was not like the others.

Her Benji is different.

Rhaenyra’s POV

Gods, how she wished Daemon were here to see this.

The look on her daughter’s face—flushed red to the ears—nearly made her laugh. She had waited long for this day to come. Little Lucrezia, ever so composed, ever so careful, was undone by the presence of a boy.

She recalled how Laena used to speak of Rhaena’s shy stammering whenever Jace so much as looked her way, and how Catherine once confessed that her daughter Elia had begged her to send letters to Layla, all for the sake of asking after Layla’s boy—Emmon. Those tales had amused her once—her friends whispering of their daughters falling helpless into the throes of sweet, youthful fancy. And now the gods had granted her a tale of her own.

She had always wondered what it might feel like—to watch one’s child fall into the tender clutches of affection. She had long suspected Jace harbored a quiet fondness for Rhaena. He never said a word of it, of course—Jace was always careful, guarded—but there was something in the way he yielded to her, something soft in the way he bent. Still, Jace was Jace. Too composed by half. She had never once managed to tease it out of him.

But Lucrezia was different. Her sweet girl, her ever-perfect lady—so prim, so poised—had turned scarlet. And what had she said just now? That she sniffed the boy?

She bit her tongue to keep from laughing aloud.

She would need to ask Ser Steffon for the full tale. No doubt the knight had kept it from her out of loyalty. Gods, that man was steadfast—especially when it came to Lucrezia. Even in her dreams, Ser Steffon was always by Luke’s side, ever watchful. Some things never changed. And it was that loyalty—quiet, unyielding, honorable—that had earned him the place as her daughter’s sworn shield. Not like that treacherous dog, Cole, who had once worn her favor only to bare his teeth at her back.

She shook her head, casting off the memory like an old cloak and turning her gaze again to her daughter.

The boy still held her hand.

That simple gesture—so small, so gentle—stirred something deep within her, something warm and aching. For a moment, she saw herself in her daughter’s place. Daemon, ever so bold, ever so certain, had always taken her hand when her nerves betrayed her. A touch meant to still the storm. And now, Lucrezia had found her own Daemon.

The smile that curved her lips was slow, almost wistful. A mother’s pride, yes—but something more than that, too. “Well then,” she said, her voice silk over steel, “perhaps you might share those tales of the Old Gods with me as well? I confess, my curiosity has been stirred.”

She turned, the silks of her gown whispering along the stone floor, and led them both down the corridor toward her solar—an airy chamber just beyond her daughter’s own, where sunlight poured in like honey through mullioned glass and the scent of burning myrrh clung to the tapestries.

The children slipped inside with innocent ease. She lingered at the threshold, fingers brushing the edge of the door—

—and then she saw her.

At the end of the hall, where shadows hung thick and silent, stood a crone. Cloaked in smoke-colored wool and veiled to the eyes, she leaned upon a staff gnarled as a tree root. She had never seen her before— not from her years within the Red Keep, not in her dreams, not even in Catherine’s detailed letters that accounted for every soul of note.

Yet the woman stared, still as stone, as if she had been waiting.
No servant's deference. No recognition. Just… watching.

A ripple of unease threaded its way down her spine.

She turned slightly, just enough for one of her ānwēji, cloaked as a lady’s maid, to catch her eye. A subtle flick of the fingers. The shadow moved without a sound, slipping after the old woman like mist chasing smoke.

Only then did she step into her chambers and close the heavy oak door behind her, sealing the silence with a soft click.

Daemon’s POV

They stood amidst the bustle of the Street of Silk, where silks gleamed and gemstones sparkled in the sun, though the riches on display could not outshine the boy at his side. Jace was studying the trinkets at one of the stalls, eyes narrowed in thought, lips pressed in silent contemplation. His fingers brushed over brooches and pendants, turning them one by one beneath the morning light.

They had come from the Kingswood after checking on Caraxes, Syrax, Vermax, Arrax, and little Tyraxes. A brief flight followed to loosen the wings. Afterward, Daemon had taken Jace into the city—ostensibly to walk its streets, meet a few trusted Goldcloaks, and perhaps, for once, breathe without the stench of courtly rot in his nose.

Yet the unease clung to him like smoke.

He could not rid himself of the foul taste left by the dragonkeepers, especially where the dragons born of sacrifice were concerned. They lied, though they did not speak; they hid, though they dared not flee. That much he could see. The dragonkeepers flinched at his gaze, sidestepped his questions, and when he sought to see those beasts himself, they denied him. Denied him.

Something was being kept from him.

In the old scrolls and fragmented writings, little was written about dragons birthed in blood. Only whispers remained, half-truths and broken lines. But if blood birthed them, what temper did they inherit? What shape? What soul? Were they beasts of rage and shadow, more creature than dragon?

If they kept them secret, it must be for a reason. Some deformity, perhaps—some twisted fire in their belly that could not be tamed. Were they more monstrous than Caraxes? Caraxes, the bloody wyrm, fierce and loyal—his only constant, save for his Rhaenyra.

Even when Viserys had abandoned him, turned from him like a child discarding a broken toy, Caraxes had not. The dragon was always there. Always his.

"Father..." The boy’s voice pulled him from the coil of his thoughts. "I think Mother would look beautiful in this."

He turned. Jace stood with a necklace in his hand, the sunlight catching on its golden chain. The boy was wholly absorbed, holding the piece up toward the light, turning it this way and that with studious care, inspecting every curve and stone.

He had seen that look before—the quiet, furrowed focus in Jace’s eyes. It was not a child’s idle stare but something older, steadier. The same gaze the boy wore when he pored over the ledgers in the rookery, lips moving in silent arithmetic… when he stood beside Rhaenyra in council, a silent shadow learning to weigh words like coin… when he listened to the grievances of Vale lords as if they were tales carved in stone.

And now, that same gaze… over a necklace.

Such a simple thing, a gift, yet Jace’s brow was knit like a master jeweler’s. That was the boy he had raised—no, the boy the gods had shaped. His eldest. His first.

Jace had always been like this. Diligent in every step, thoughtful in every glance. He sometimes wondered where the boy had gotten it from. He adored his wife, but Rhaenyra as a girl had been as much a storm as a sunbeam. A little terror, no matter how he loved her. And himself? Well… the gods knew he’d never been patient or polite, not by birthright or by nature.

Rhaenys once said Jace reminded her of her father—uncle Aemon the Pale Prince. And now, thinking on it, he could only agree. No man had ever spoken of Uncle Aemon without reverence. The perfect prince. The realm’s sword and shield. The heir who never faltered—until the day he died.

And Jace…

His Jace was the same.

His Jace is perfect.

When Rhaenyra first told him she was with child, a cold fear took root in him—deep and gnawing. Not the fear of battle, nor blood, nor even of death. He had known all those, danced with them half his life. No, this was something else. A quieter dread. The fear that he would not be enough.

Not enough of a father. Not enough of a man.

He had been called many things in his life, and most not kindly. Too much, always too much. Too much fire in the blood, too much temper on the tongue. Too proud, too arrogant. Too reckless with blade and word alike, too restless to stay where he was needed. But never too much to be loved.

All of them said so—his brother, his kin, the court—save for his Rhaenyra.

Yet even her love could not quiet the voice that whispered in him when he lay awake at night, staring at ceilings vaulted with cold white stone. He feared his children would grow to look upon him and see only what the world saw. A brute. A rogue. A failure. Worse, he feared they would inherit the same wild streak that ran through his own blood, and that the world would turn its back on them as it had on him.

Who would understand them then? Who would love them, if he and Rhaenyra were gone?

But the gods, it seemed, had been kinder to his sons and daughter than they ever were to him. For his children... they were good.

They were kind.

His Jace—his firstborn—even without a crown, the boy bore the weight of rule on his shoulders, and he bore it well. Dutiful even before duty called. He never shirked his burdens—in truth, he often picked up those not his to carry. He was earnest and diplomatic in a way that did not come from mimicry, but from the marrow.

Jace bowed just so, not stiffly, not showily. He remembered names—of stable boys, of guards, of the baker’s lame son. He asked after people’s mothers, their old hounds, their broken knees, not to flatter, but because he cared. When a servant spilled wine, Jace was the first to kneel with a cloth. When the cook erred in seasoning, he ate every bite without complaint, saying only that "the cook has worked hard, and age makes hands unsteady."

His son brought flowers to old maids—tiny, drooping stems wrapped in linen so their hands would not scratch. He offered his cloak without being asked. He whispered kind words to frightened hounds and shy children. And though his younger brother and sister often followed in his steps, Daemon knew the path had never been shown to Jace. No one had to teach him kindness. It had lived in him since the womb.

He also saw in Jace all he had once hoped to find in Viserys. The care. The strength. The loyalty that did not vanish when tested. Viserys had been his brother in name and blood, but in truth, there had always been a distance—a coldness veiled in indulgent smiles. Viserys, who spoke of love yet never saw him. Not truly. Not for the man he was, nor the boy he had been, aching for a brother's hand to steady him. Trust was a coin Viserys never offered, not even when he bled and burned for the crown, not even when he asked for nothing but a place at his side.

For that, he could only give thanks—endlessly, silently—to whatever gods or nameless powers might be listening. For Jace’s love, pure and without condition, flowed freely to his brother and sister. There was no envy in him, no prideful hunger for more than his due. Perhaps that gentleness came from his mother. Rhaenyra, for all her fire, had always been so full of love. If she could look upon him—Daemon, rogue and ruin—and find something worth loving, then surely the children born of her womb would be good, and kind, and better than he had ever been.

“I have no doubt your mother would be pleased,” he murmured, clapping a hand upon his eldest son’s shoulder, the gesture rough, but the affection behind it deep and steady.

Jace smiled at that—small and earnest—and turned back to the array of trinkets before them. His fingers, careful and deliberate, reached for a pearl necklace strung with a tiny bird-shaped pendant.

“This one suits Lucy,” he said, voice soft with certainty. He studied the charm a moment longer before adding, “Doesn’t it look like her little sparrow, Father?”

He nodded at the boy’s words. Aye, the pendant did resemble the sparrow Lucy had brought home three moons past. A tiny thing, all feathers and frailty, plucked from the dirt beneath its shattered nest, its wing crooked and trembling. She had claimed it needed her care. She always did. If he had a gold dragon for every time his daughter used that excuse to smuggle a creature into their halls, he might've lined her cradle with diamonds.

Were he a man less aware, he might think the eastern wing of the Eyrie a menagerie by now, such was the number of beasts Lucy had taken in—kittens with missing tails, pups with limps, owlets too small for flight. And gods forbid he ever deny her. When refused, she would pout, lips trembling, cheeks and ears flushed red from holding back tears she would never unleash in rage.

No, Lucy cried. She cried easily and often, but not without cause. She cried for beggars in the snow, for orphans in thin shoes, for wounded birds and broken things. She cried when angry, but never shouted; she held her tongue for fear that sharp words might wound. Her tears were not tantrums. Her empathy did not speak in hollow phrases—it moved her to act, to shelter, to mend. Just like her mother.

Whenever his little girl pouted, he saw Rhaenyra again—small and imperious, face twisted with that same stubborn scowl when the world dared deny her. But where Lucy’s defiance came soft and wet-cheeked, Rhaenyra’s had come loud and storming. Her tantrums were thunderclaps—shouted demands and flung words like daggers. Not that it happened often. Viserys and Aemma, and yes, he himself, had often bent to her whims before they ever tested her patience.

But he remembered one such time too well. Rhaenyra, all of seven, had been told she was too small to ride Syrax. She had thrown herself to the floor, fists and heels hammering stone, shrieking until her throat turned raw. The next morning, panic swept the Red Keep when she could not be found, only to be spotted high in the skies, clutching tight to Syrax’s saddle, triumphant.

Truth be told, there were times he wished his little girl would throw a proper tantrum—kick her heels, shout her wants to the rafters the way Rhaenyra once had. But Lucy was far too proper for such things. The girl had a certain dignity about her, even at her tender age. She disliked dirtying her gowns, loathed it, in fact, and so she took great care in separating them—some she deemed fit for the garden, some for the hall, and others not to be touched unless the sun shone bright and the path was dry.

That was not like her mother. Rhaenyra had never cared for soiled hems or torn lace; more often than not, she welcomed the ruin of a dress, for it meant she could claim another. He’d always suspected she did it on purpose—dragging silk through the stables just to smile sweetly at the seamstress come morning.

Still, it could not be denied—Lucy was her mother’s daughter. She had Rhaenyra’s fondness for beautiful things, for soft velvets and shimmering silks. She had an eye, too, as sharp as any court jeweler’s, and a talent for choosing the one gem in a pile that cost thrice the others. Not that he complained. Gods knew he delighted in spoiling his wife and his only daughter both.

The thought of them curled warm in his chest, tugging a smile to his lips. His girls—his light and fire. His gaze dropped once more to the necklace Jace held out. A simple thing, yes, but lovely all the same.

Aye, he thought. She’ll adore it.

“And this one, Father?” Jace asked again, though this time there was no warmth in his voice, no gentle smile on his lips. Only a cold look and the glint of disdain in his eyes as he held up another necklace—this one hung with a pendant shaped like a seven-pointed star, the symbol of the Faith of the Seven.

He said nothing, but his eyes followed the pendant with a quiet, smoldering contempt.

Ever since Rhaenyra had told Jace of what the Faith had done to their family, their firstborn son—who once held the gods in cautious regard—had grown colder than winter stone. Colder than the winds that swept the Wall, colder than stone. 

Their firstborn had never placed his faith in gods, old or new, nor in the flickering truths of the Red Temple’s flame. Perhaps he gave a sliver of belief to the Fourteen Flames—if only because dragons had risen from their shadow. But even that was measured, careful. In Jace’s eyes, truth was a blade that changed shape depending on who held the hilt. Books were inked by men, and men were creatures of preferences and bent. What gods came from such hands?

Even dreams, Jace approached with a measured hand—much like him. To Jace, dreams were no more than blossoms of sleep, lovely but light, capable of swaying men to folly if clung to too tightly. Yet even so, Jace believed in his mother. Not in her gods, not in her dreams, but in her. Jace trusted Rhaenyra the way a knight trusts his blade. If she believed, then so would he. That was his faith.

When he thought on it, none in his household could truly be called devout followers of the Faith. Jace placed little trust in gods—new or old—but he honored the Fourteen Flames, if only for the sake of Rhaenyra and the blood in his veins. Harion, ever his brother’s shadow, followed suit without question.

None—save, perhaps, his daughter.

Lucrezia had been close to her grandmother from the cradle, and her grandmother had seen fit to place a septa at her side before she’d even weaned. The girl had grown with prayers on her tongue and virtue stitched into her gowns. Thinking of her and her fondness for the Faith was enough to bring on a pounding in his skull. Yet whenever he saw her little face light with pride after reciting a passage or offering a flawless prayer, he bit back his groans. At least her piety was honest, unmarred by rot.

She was no false believer like so many who claimed to serve the Seven—those who shouted of righteousness yet whose actions whispered treachery. He'd sooner fling himself from the Moon Door than see his daughter grow up as hollow as that.

After procuring a handful of finery for his wife and little girl—gems to match their laughter, gold to catch in their hair—Daemon and Jace took to the Street of Steel. The air there stank of soot and molten metal, the song of hammers louder than the bells of any sept. They came in search of a dagger, a nameday gift for Harion, youngest of his blood and fiercest of them all.

Since the day he'd placed a blade into Jacearys' hands, Harion had begged for one of his own, whining and wheedling in that stubborn way he knew so well. Daemon had no quarrel with granting the boy what he asked—steel was a birthright, not a reward. But Harion… Harion was him, through and through. Even the worst parts. Especially the worst parts.

At his age, the boy's swordarm was stronger than Jace’s had ever been, his footwork quicker, his strikes more certain. Where Jace sought to reason, to mend with words, Harion struck with fists first, and rarely apologized after.

‘Every man should know his place,’ the boy had said, bloodied knuckles cradled in his palm. ‘Violence may not solve everything—but most things, it does.’ The dragonfire in his veins burned hot—too hot, perhaps, too much like his own. And sometimes, in the quiet hours when the moon hung low over the Vale, Daemon wondered what might come of that blaze when Harion was grown. Would the world would shun him, twist him, cast him aside the way it once had Daemon himself. That the boy would walk alone, unloved and misunderstood, as he once had.

But such fears passed swiftly as breath. How could he fear for Harion, when he had Jace and Lucy beside him? Jace, steady as stone. Lucy, warm as sunlight on spring snow. They loved Harion without measure, without term or tally.

He often forgot that Harion had not only inherited his fire, but his mother’s as well. Charisma ran strong in his blood. Like his mother, Harion could charm a room before his second breath. And gods forgive him, he knew it was not fitting for a husband or father to say—but his son was as dangerous with a smile as his mother was with a whispered word. The boy played people like pieces on a cyvasse board, and if he ever lost, it was only to learn. He spent long hours in the company of his grandmother, and from her, it seemed, he had inherited not only sharp wit but a tongue that could cut deeper than any dagger and a mind that always seemed to be watching, weighing, waiting. 

Harion was a good boy. All his children were good. But—like their mother—Harion’s goodness was not always easily seen. One had to look hard, to wonder whether it was born of mercy or motive.

Well, at the very least, Harion would guard his elder siblings with all the fierceness of a hound at the gate, warding off those cloaked in honeyed words and hidden knives—the same sort of men who had ever sought to twist and use Viserys. But where his brother had scorned Daemon’s counsel, had seen every warning as cruelty, every defense as rebellion, Jace and Lucy would not. He knew they would see the truth of it. They would value Harion’s judgment, listen when he spoke, and more than that, they would stand beside him, unflinching, fingers locked tight around his when the wind turned cold.

He and Jace had been haggling over the details of Harion’s dagger—custom-forged, well-balanced—when the clamor rose not far from the smith’s stall. A low rumble at first, like distant thunder rolling down the mountain’s spine, then sharper sounds—shouts, the pound of boots, steel half-drawn. Smallfolk scattered like leaves before the wind, and the gold of cloaks flashed amid the crowd, running toward the noise rather than from it.

He felt the unease before he saw it. Something was coming. Something ugly.

Without pause, he jerked his chin at his son. “To the horse. Now.”

Jace obeyed without question, vaulting into the saddle with the ease of a knight born. Daemon turned, catching a golden cloak by the arm as the man surged past. The guard spun, hand halfway to his sword, face twisted in anger—until he saw who held him. His eyes went wide with recognition. He dropped to one knee so fast he nearly stumbled.

“My prince—” the man gasped, “Forgive my discourtesy.”

He might’ve flayed him with words another day, but he had no taste for wasting breath.

“What’s happened?” he asked, tipping his head toward the growing din.

The guard hesitated. Nervous sweat beaded his brow.

“A procession, my prince,” he said quickly. “A band of septons and septas have been taken in irons—for the missing children, or so the word goes. They’re being marched to the Red Keep for judgment. The crowds are riled… many do not agree. The rest of us are deployed to keep them from turning riotous. I would advise your grace to return to the castle at once, before the mob spills this way.”

That was all he needed.

He swung into the saddle behind Jace, wrapped the reins around his fist, and dug in his heels. The horse bolted through the streets, hooves striking sparks on cobblestone.

So—his wife’s seeds had begun to sprout.

Then he would see himself and his son out of this before the sprouting turned to wildfire. He had seen what mobs could do when set ablaze by faith and fury alike. Reason meant nothing to the righteously wrathful. They would tear flesh from bone if it bore the wrong crest.

And he would not offer them his son to chew on.

NO ONE POV.

Down the cobbled street they came—four of them, bound wrist to wrist with coarse rope, their tattered septon’s and septa’s robes smeared with dust and dried blood. Two men, two women, once shepherds of the Faith, now paraded like beasts before the butcher’s block. One septon walked with a limp, his lip split and swelling. His fellow kept his chin high, though a half-eaten apple struck him square in the temple. One septa’s veil was half-torn, her hair matted with refuse. The younger one trembled, wide-eyed, but still clung to her dignity with clenched jaw and silent prayer.

The crowd had come early. They lined the avenue like wolves scenting blood. Smallfolk, mostly—muck-stained, rag-cloaked, half-starved, their cheeks hollowed by hunger and rage. Some hissed, others spat, and more still hurled insults like stones.

“You stole our sons!” a woman wailed, voice cracked from grief.
“False shepherds! Burn them!” screamed a man whose daughter had vanished last winter.
“Let the Seven judge you now!”
“Burn the whores and their butcher-priests!”

Rotten turnips splattered on the paving stones, foul-smelling cabbages flew like missiles, and one overripe melon burst against the septon’s shoulder, drenching him in pulp and bile. The septa beside him did not flinch. Her face was pale as milk, mouth drawn tight as a shuttered window. The guards tightened their formation, shields raised now to form a wall of steel. Yet even their presence could not stem the tide of fury. The mob pressed forward in waves, shrieking like crows at a corpse. Some bore clubs and cudgels, others pitchforks, broken chairs, or butcher’s knives dulled with age.

“Thieves! You fattened on our coin and called it piety!”
“Liars! You preach virtue and cover for monsters!”

A boy no older than twelve darted forward and lobbed a stone. It struck the septon’s temple, drawing blood. The man staggered, then righted himself. Another stone followed. And another. Soon, the guards had to beat the crowd back with the flats of their blades. Blood slicked the cobbles now, mingled with the pulp of discarded fruit and dung. The smell turned foul and sharp, like iron and rot and old wine spilled too long under the sun. Still, the procession inched forward, forced on by the guards who snarled commands through their visors.

The Red Keep loomed ahead, its high walls swathed in shadow, but it might as well have been leagues away.

“Strip them! Let’s see what shame hides beneath those robes!”

A cheer rose, cruel and cold. The chain between the prisoners jerked taut as one of the younger acolytes tripped and fell. A man surged from the throng and had his hand on the girl’s hair before a spear butt cracked against his collarbone, sending him screaming to the dirt.

“Enough!” bellowed a captain of the guard, voice hoarse with command.

But it wasn’t. Not yet.

The storm had been fed for too long. It had been building through whispers in taverns and prayers laced with bitterness. Every stolen tithe, every child beaten in silence, every girl scolded or worse for the crime of being born. They remembered. The Faith had preached mercy. Now they would beg for it. From windows and alleys, they came. Farmers, fishmongers, and bakers with flour still on their hands. And though none knew the names of the four bound figures, all knew what they stood for. Or what they had allowed. Or what they had ignored. The Faith had carved gods from stone. The smallfolk had carved their justice from fire and hate.

And the street ran red before the gates of the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra’s POV

She had been sharing a quiet moment with her daughter and the young Lord Benjicot—sweet almond pastries and candied fruits between them, laughter soft as silk—when the chamber doors swung open with a clatter. Catherine stumbled in, breathless, her cheeks flushed and curls damp with sweat. She had run—she could tell that at once—from wherever she had been, and she came bearing worry like a second cloak.

“Catherine?” she asked, frowning. “What has happened?”

Her friend swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the children. “My princess… You must come.” Her voice faltered, hovering between resolve and dread. “There is something… You ought to see.” Her eyes flicked to Lucy, then to little Benjicot seated beside her on the cushioned settee near the hearth. The glance was brief, but it was enough.

Her eyes narrowed. Whatever it was, it would not be good. She followed Catherine’s gaze and weighed her choices quickly. If unrest stirred within the throne room, it would be folly to bring Lucy into it. Yet neither could she leave her daughter unattended. Her eyes slid to the bed tucked against the far wall, where Harion lay curled beneath the quilts, lips parted in sleep, breath soft as featherfall.

No. Not alone.

She turned, made her way to the door that connected her chamber to the one beyond, the private quarters shared by her eldest and youngest sons. The hinge creaked faintly as she slipped through. Her gaze turned toward the pair of shadowcats drowsing near the stone-banked hearth, stretched long and languid. At her sharp clicking tongue, both beasts lifted their heads at once—slitted eyes gleaming, ears pricked. They rose with the slow grace of stalking predators, padding across the chamber toward her.

Little Benjicot shrank slightly into the cushions at their approach, instinct warring with pride. But Lucy reached for him, as she always did—her little hand wrapping around his wrist, grounding him. Her touch calmed him more than any word could.

She allowed herself the briefest smile at the sight.

She turned to the cats and whispered in High Valyrian, “Jagon ao perzys.” Guard them.

It had been Daemon’s doing, that. He had trained the three shadowcats to heed only commands in the old tongue. “Better that only blood can wield them,” he had said. They were no common pets. Like the dragons, they obeyed none but their own.

She watched Balerion slink to the foot of Harion’s bed, folding himself there like a silent warden. Meraxes settled by Lucy’s feet, her eyes never leaving the girl. That would suffice. She let out a slow breath and turned her gaze upon her daughter. “Stay here,” she said, her voice low, firm as steel drawn in quiet halls. “And open the door for no one but me. No one, do you understand?” Her eyes slid to the boy beside her. “That goes for you as well, young lord Blackwood.”

She laid a hand on his small shoulder—light but steady. Little lord Benjicot nodded. She could feel his spine stiffen beneath her palm, as if summoning the courage of men twice his age.

Only then did she cross the room, brushing past Catherine with her jaw set. But before they left the family’s wing, she turned down the small corridor and knocked softly at Aunt Amanda’s chamber door. She spoke to her aunt in hushed tones, bidding her to keep close watch, and gave strict orders to the guards posted outside—no one in, no one out.

Only then did she allow Catherine to lead her onward, toward the throne room, where something dark awaited.

She and Catherine moved swiftly through the halls toward the gallery above the throne room. With each step, the noise grew louder—the roar of a restless crowd, the clangor of boots, the mutter of lords and ladies craning their necks. By the time they reached the archway overlooking the throne, the gallery was thick with courtiers, their faces drawn long with tension and curiosity.

Below, four figures knelt at the foot of the Iron Throne, bound and beaten, cloaked in disgrace. Nobles gathered in half-circles, pressing in like vultures circling carrion, whispering, gawking, judging. And beyond the open gates of the hall, the rumble of the mob could be heard pressing closer still.

When she turned her eyes upward toward the gallery’s edge, she saw them—Daemon and Jace had arrived before her and stood watching in silence, shadows cloaking their expressions.

“Daemon... Jace,” she called, her voice soft but steady.

Jace turned at once. “Mother,” he said, relief plain on his face as he made his way toward her. Daemon followed, his eyes sharp as ever, his mouth a grim line.

“When did you return to the Red Keep? What in the Seven Hells is happening?” she asked, her gaze flicking from son to husband.

“Just before the mob might’ve swallowed us whole,” Daemon said with a snort, tilting his head toward the throne room doors. Down below, the guards were struggling to hold back a flood of smallfolk. The crowd surged like a tide, boiling with rage, with grief, with fire. Goldcloaks braced their spears. Kingsguard shouted orders. But still, the mass pushed forward, wild and furious.

The nobles closest to the gates were already withdrawing, slinking back like rats from a rising flood—whether from fear or distaste, she could not tell. Likely both.

“You’re not hurt?” She asked quickly, turning to her son first. Her hands found Jace’s face, searching, feeling. Her palms moved to his chest, his shoulders, as if to assure herself no hidden wound had been suffered on the way. Then Daemon—her fingers brushed his jaw, his arm, the quiet desperation in her touch betraying what her voice did not.

“We’re unharmed, Mother,” Jace said firmly. “We came back before the crowd turned fully mad.”

He sounded certain—but she knew what hands like those could do. She had seen them. In the dark depths of sleep, in the cursed truth of her dreams. She had watched as those same calloused hands tore skin from flesh and bone from limb, guided not by reason but by blind rage. Her own hands began to tremble, the tremor creeping in like frostbite—but they were stilled. Daemon’s hand covered hers, firm as forged steel, and Jace’s fingers curled around her wrist on the other side. They held her steady. They kept her upright.

“I wonder who those four are,” Catherine said softly beside her, the question snapping her from her thoughts. Her gaze returned to the figures kneeling before the Iron Throne—four of them, shackled and silent, heads bowed as if awaiting judgment from gods carved in cold metal.

She had seen him not hours before, lurking in the shadows of the Sept as she spoke with Septon Eustace. One of Otto's eyes, she had thought then. And now he knelt like a lamb awaiting the butcher’s blade. How had he ended up here so swiftly?

The questions twisted through her mind like ivy on stone, until Daemon’s voice cut through the din.

“They say they've been brought for judgment,” he said, low and grim, “for the bastards sired by Viserys’s half-breed. The ones meant for Oldtown, but who vanished instead.”

His eyes met hers then. The look they shared needed no words. The seeds she had sown in whispers that morning—of doubt, of buried truths—had begun to take root.

But how had it spread so fast? How had Septon Eustace unearthed anything of substance in so short a time? She knew too well the cunning of Otto Hightower. That man left no trail unless he wished to be followed, and if these four had been seized while he remained free, then the purpose was plain.

He was cutting the root before it reached the root. Loose ends, severed clean.

And her suspicions proved true when the press of smallfolk by the throne room doors was pushed back more tightly by the gold cloaks, parting just enough to reveal the path from the door to the Iron Throne. Through that narrow corridor strode Otto Hightower and Alicent, their chins held high—too high, as if neither carried the stench of guilt upon their hands.

Behind them followed the members of the small council, their silks trailing solemnly, and Septon Eustace, robes swaying with each careful step. So it would not be her father who passed judgment on the septons and septas. No—given her father’s condition, that much was expected. And Otto, ever the serpent draped in velvet, would no doubt seize this trial for his own ends. He would leave no room for defense, no breath for truth, no thread to unravel the fine-spun lies he wove.

Of course, he would sit in judgment. It was safer that way. Justice was far easier to control when one held the scales and the sword.

NO ONE POV

The great hall of the Red Keep had grown heavy with breath and silence, the sort of silence that quivers before a storm. Smoke from the braziers clung to the high-vaulted ceiling. Below, four figures knelt before the Iron Throne, wrists bound, heads bowed—two men, two women, draped in sullied robes once white and grey. Now they looked more like gravecloths.

Upon the black blades of the Iron Throne, Otto Hightower sat in the king’s stead, his face carved from marble and pride. Queen Alicent stood to the right of the dais, veiled in green and pearls, with Septon Eustace on the left. The small council had gathered, a semicircle of grim faces: Lord Beesbury, Ser Tyland Lannister, Maester Mellos, and Lord Lyonel Strong, who stood with arms crossed, jaw tight.

Otto Hightower stood. His voice rang clear, seasoned in honey and steel.

“You see them here,” he began, gesturing to the prisoners. “Septon Marran, Septon Loras, Septa Lenne, and Septa Wylla. Once shepherds of the faithful. Trusted. Appointed. And now accused.”

A murmur rose from the crowd—nobles and smallfolk packed tight, like dried reeds before a fire. The gold cloaks formed a shaky wall at the back of the chamber, holding the tide at bay.

“We all remember the good queen Alicent,” Otto went on, his voice heavy with feigned sorrow. “How tenderly she took in the lost children of King’s Landing—the orphans, the gutter-born, the babes left to die in brothels and dung-heaps. With mercy in her heart, she entrusted them to these four, to carry them to Oldtown, to safety, to care.”

His voice dropped low. “But the children never reached Oldtown.”

Gasps rippled like arrows loosed from drawn bows. Someone sobbed. A man cursed aloud.

“The letters—sealed by Her Grace’s own hand—meant for the High Septon… never arrived. They vanished,” Otto said, and raised a gloved hand.

From the shadowed edge of the chamber, a green-cloaked guard stepped forth, the sigil of House Hightower gleaming on his chest. In his hands, a bundle of parchments. Otto took them and raised them high for all to see. The wax seals remained unbroken, the queen’s mark still upon them.

“Found beneath the beds of the accused. Hidden like secrets, they prayed would rot in shadow. Is this not betrayal?”

The outrage grew—a hiss of disbelief, a storm swelling behind a dam.

“Burn them!” someone screamed.

Lord Lyonel Strong stirred, stepping forward. “My lord Hand,” he said carefully, “these are serious charges. As Master of Laws, I must insist that the accused be granted leave to speak.”

Otto did not turn. “And what would they say, Lord Strong? They speak already. In silence. A silence loud with guilt.”

“A silence of shame,” Alicent added, her voice sharp as frost. “They know the weight of their sin. Let us not cloak it with needless words.”

Strong looked as if he might speak again, but Otto raised a hand.

“If you would have proof, Lord Strong, I shall give you more than proof.”

Another guard stepped forward now, bearing a heavy velvet pouch. Otto took it and, with a flourish, spilled its contents upon the floor. Gold coins, rubies, rings of silver, and jet. A glinting mountain of guilt.

“Coin,” Otto said. “Gems. Trinkets. Wealth is no servant of the Faith should hold. This was found alongside the letters. Bribes, perhaps? Wages for silence? Payment for stolen children?”

Cries erupted. “Monsters!” a woman wailed. “They sold our sons!”

“The law is clear,” Otto finished, voice like iron dragged across stone. “For betrayal so vile, there is only one punishment. Let them hang. Let their bodies sway before the gods they have defiled.”

The gold cloaks moved at once. With a rattle of chain and the scrape of boot on stone, the prisoners were dragged upright. The elder septon stumbled. The younger septa wept quietly, though her eyes never rose from the ground. None spoke. They were hauled like broken cattle toward the doors, and the mob surged. Rotten fruit flew first—mushy pears, a cabbage gone sour. Then stones. A jagged rock caught the younger septon’s cheek, splitting skin. Blood ran freely.

“Murderers!” came a cry.

“Thieves of babes!”

“To the gallows!”

The guards fought to contain the fury, but rage moved faster than steel. A baker flung a hot poker, still smoking. A child hurled a chicken bone. Spittle rained like ash.

Out the gates they went, down the hill, into the city.

The sky had turned the color of old bruises, heavy with dusk. The bells of Sept tolled slowly and low, as if mourning what had not yet passed.

The square was ready. The ropes were tied.

And when the nooses drew tight and four bodies danced on air, the crowd did not fall silent.
They screamed and screamed, until their throats were raw and justice tasted like blood and rot.

But one by one, the shrieks dwindled.

The bodies swayed in the wind—four broken figures silhouetted against the bleached glare of an afternoon sky. The sun stood high and unflinching above them, casting no mercy, only light sharp as a blade. Their faces had begun to turn, not blue or purple as in the cold, but a sickly grey-green, mottled and bloated with the swell of death beneath the sun’s burning gaze. Their tongues lolled from slackened mouths, fat and dry as leather.

The wind tugged at their robes—no longer symbols of faith, but rags clinging to corpses. The cloth flapped listlessly, like tattered banners marking the ruin of something once revered.

Below, the square stank.

Rotten fruit had burst beneath trampling feet. Cabbages, onions, and old meat lay mashed with dung and blood into a foul paste that baked in the cobbles. The air shimmered with heat, thick with flies. Some clung to the mouths of the dead. Others buzzed around the ropes, the gallows beam, the gutters overflowing with refuse.

Then came the silence.

The kind that creeps. That settles like ash after a fire. That weighs on the bones.

Children stopped their weeping. The curses faded from the women’s mouths. Even the dogs, fierce only moments before, slunk into the shadows with ears pinned back and tails curled low. The smallfolk, who had crushed forward with such heat, now stood still—some with faces pale, others blinking as if waking from a fever-dream. What had once burned bright with fury now simmered—bitter and thick as old stew.

And then the first vulture came.

Its wings beat black against the bruised sky. A second followed, then a third, circling above the gallows with patient hunger. Below, no one spoke. A man crossed himself and muttered a prayer. A woman spat and turned away, the fire gone from her eyes. And so, they began to leave—quietly, in twos and threes, slipping away down alleys and along crooked streets. The square that had moments before been deafened by cries now emptied slowly, silence trickling in like dusk. The gallows stood alone.

The guards remained, grim as tombstones, their faces unreadable beneath their helms. And the crows, always the last to go, perched along the stone balustrades like black-souled witnesses. The bodies still hung there, turning slowly in the evening breeze, flesh paling to corpse-white, lips blue with death. Dried blood flaked from their feet and fingers. Eyes bulged toward nothing.

And high above, the vultures circled lower and lower.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

Flashback, two hours past, ere the trial.

Alicent’s POV

Truly, Rhaenyra lacked all courtesy.

She sipped her tea, sweetened with honey and disdain, as she watched Rhaenyra rise and depart the gathering without so much as a curtsy. Not a glance, not a word of farewell. Just the swish of velvet skirts and that ever-present air of Targaryen superiority trailing behind her like smoke.

Entitled, spoiled, arrogant—like all those silver-haired sirens before her. They walk through the world as if untouched by dirt or grief, thinking themselves divine simply because their hair glints like moonlight and their eyes gleam like amethysts. If one asked her, that hair looked more like the grey of old crones than anything special. Let them all age a little, and we’ll see how proud they are of those strands when time turns them brittle and white.

"Do forgive Princess Rhaenyra's impudence," she said aloud, voice light with laughter. "It seems her years spent in the mountains have dulled her memory of courtly manners."

The ladies surrounding her tittered politely. She looked toward Lady Johanna Lannister, Lady Alya Doggett, and Lady Seren Plumm—women who were usually swift to echo her opinions. But none spoke. Their eyes flicked away, their smiles thin. Curious. Perhaps the display of dragons yesterday had cowed them, but what of it? Her sons’ dragons would eclipse them soon enough. When Aegon takes to the skies, they will remember who truly holds the blood of kings.

"I believe what Princess Rhaenyra said was right," came Bethany’s voice, clear and cold.

Her cup halted midair. Her eyes narrowed. Right? Since when did her cousin refer to Rhaenyra by her proper title? "What do you mean, cousin?" she asked, lips barely moving, the words dragged through her teeth.

Bethany did not flinch. Her gaze rose from her tea to meet hers, one brow lifted, the picture of calm insolence. She hated that look. It reminded her too much of childhood, when she had been a guest—no, a burden—in her uncle’s house, made to curtsey beside the golden girl who could do no wrong. How dare she? Did Bethany think they stood as equals? That her marriage to some lord placed her on the same tier as the queen of the realm? She must have forgotten. Or perhaps she simply grew too bold.

If not for Aegon’s need for Hightower swords, she would’ve seen her banished the moment she dared suggest Lord Hobert’s life was worth more than her son’s.

Bethany did not blink. Instead, she sneered. "I mean," she said coolly, "why is it always the woman’s fault when she cannot give her lord husband a son? Why must we carry the shame of a man’s wandering prick as if we were the one who strayed? Are we gods, to shape the babe in our bellies?"

The garden fell quiet save for the clink of porcelain.

Bethany pressed on. "It’s easy for you to speak in sympathy and piety, Your Grace—you who gave King Viserys three healthy sons. But I wonder: would you preach the same sermon if Prince Aegon treated Princess Helaena the way lord Jason treated Lady Johanna? No need to wonder, I suppose. Prince Aegon has already proven he can’t keep his cock in his breeches, hasn’t he? Judging by the bastards he’s left across King’s Landing."

The world went still. Her ears rang.

Her hand moved before her mind caught up.

The slap cracked through the room like a whip.

Bethany’s head snapped to the side, her cheek flushed red. Around them, the gathered ladies gasped, eyes wide as saucers, teacups forgotten mid-lift. The silence that followed was not of shock alone, but something colder. Deeper. The kind of silence that spreads when decorum falters and something primal takes its place.

She stared at her own hand, trembling.

“Cousin, forgive me... that was beneath me,” she said quickly, the words spilling from her lips like wine from an overfilled cup. She reached for Bethany’s hand, the gesture soft, practiced—an apology draped in silk and venom.

But Bethany recoiled, swift as a striking cat, slipping her hand out of reach—only to seize her wrist instead.

And seven hells, what a grip.

It was not the delicate touch of a lady, but the iron clamp itself. She winced, breath hitching, pain flashing across her face. Nearby, Ser Rickard’s hand went to the hilt of his sword, his knuckles pale upon the pommel.

Bethany leaned in close, her voice low and thick with contempt, her breath warm against Alicent’s cheek. “Tell me, dear cousin,” she murmured, “was I wrong?”

She tried to pull away, but Bethany’s hand tightened, digging into flesh like a gaoler’s chain.

“All of Westeros knows how your firstborn son squanders his hours—in brothels, in back alleys, fathering bastards before he’s old enough to lift a sword in his father’s name. He learned where to bury his cock long before he learned where his own House buried its dead.”

Her eyes widened. Her throat worked, but no words would come.

“Am I lying?” Bethany hissed, voice now like a lash. “Was it not you who promised those pale-haired babes would be sent to Oldtown for a pious life? Children born of lust and shame—swaddled in silence and sealed with your grace’s wax?” She paused, lips curled like a blade unsheathed. “Yet none of them ever arrived. Did they?”

That struck deep.

She stiffened. Ice pooled in her belly.

She knows. Bethany knows.

And if Bethany knew—truly knew—then how long until the rest followed? Uncle Hobert would shout it from his halls, and the High Septon would thunder it from the pulpit. And once the Faith caught scent of what she had done… not what she meant, not what she prayed for, but what necessity demanded—then all of it would crumble.

The Faith Militant would rise again.

And this time, they would not raise their swords for Targaryen and Rhaenyra’s sinful spawn. No, this time they would come for her children—for Aegon, for Aemond, for little Daeron. They would not see her pious boys. They would see threats. They would see beasts raised in golden cradles. They would see monsters—and they would come with blades.

And if the Seven turned against them, what defense would remain? If the Faith stripped them of the dragons, what would stand between her sons and the knives of her enemies?

And what then, if Rhaenyra tried to reach for his son’s throne? Who would stop her, once her sons were shackled by piety and robbed of the strength the gods themselves had given them?

She must end this now. Before the rot spread.

She had given too much. Yielded her youth, her body, her peace. Smiled through every slight, swallowed every insult, prayed through every pain. She had worn the crown of duty while others wore silk and scandal. Her children were meant to rule—not because of dragons or prophecy—but because it was right. Because it was deserved. Because she had earned it.

No self-important cousin with a sour tongue would ruin that. No bastard child would unravel the order she bled to preserve.

With a violent wrench, she tore her wrist from Bethany’s grip. Pain flared sharply beneath her sleeve, but she did not wince. She did not look back. Let them all sit and stare. Let them whisper once she was gone. Let them. She turned on her heel, green skirts flaring like righteous flame, and swept from the garden with the precision of a blade leaving its scabbard.

She needed her father.

Now.

The Tower of the Hand, Red Keep

By the time she reached her father’s chambers, Larys was already there—along with the old witch.

The woman stood at the far end of the room, hunched over the Lord Hand’s worktable, grinding some vile concoction with her crooked hands. Her back was turned to the two men in conversation, but her presence was not quiet. Her being there meant trouble—real trouble. Trouble bad enough that her father thought magic was the solution.

Her eyes drifted to her father’s face. One look was enough. Larys was delivering ill news. Then again, when had that vulture-footed freak ever brought good tidings?

“Alicent, what—”

She cut him off before he could finish. “Bethany knows.”

She said it plainly, looking him dead in the eyes. She expected him to react—to stiffen, to pale, to curse—but her father only gave her a flat, tired look. As though she were a child who’d spilled ink on her dress.

Did he not hear her?

“Bethany knows about the bastards, Father,” she said again, sharper this time. “She knows we promised to send them to Oldtown.”

He sighed, a long, patient sound, and reached for his wine.

“It was bound to happen, Alicent,” he said, pouring himself a cup. “Sooner or later, Bethany and your uncle would learn the truth. We didn’t exactly hide the matter. It was all done in full display. Did you truly think a show of shipping off the baseborn would go unnoticed forever?”

He sipped. Calm. Unmoved. 

He drank. A slow, savoring sip. As if tasting the wine mattered more than her words.

“And even if they know,” he added, setting down the cup, “what of it? Highborns don't lose sleep over vanished bastards. To men like us, one less baseborn is one less stain. One less claim. One less future thorn. If they pretend to care, it is only for appearances. Now tell me—did you care? Even once? Did you mourn a single one?”

He raised a brow. Mocking. Patient. Like a maester quizzing a child too proud to admit her sums were wrong.

She said nothing.

Because no—of course, she hadn’t. They weren’t hers. They weren’t people. They were problems. Mistakes. 

Still... Bethany’s eyes earlier. That look. It made her skin crawl. And knowing her cousin—spoiled, haughty Bethany—she wouldn’t keep it to herself. She would use it. She would use it against her.

She poured herself a drink, hands a touch unsteady. Her father’s voice cut through the room again—quieter now, but colder.

“There’s no danger in the lords knowing,” he said. “But if the smallfolk learn first… that is a different kind of fire.”

A pause. A weight behind the words.

“If they find out,” he said, “they will not posture. They will not whisper behind goblets or feign pity at court. They will burn. Because the children were theirs. Their sons. Their daughters. Blood of their blood. And when commoners burn, they don’t ask who’s guilty. They only want someone to burn with them.”

She scoffed and slammed her cup down. “And what can they do?” she snapped. “They have no swords. No banners. No names. They’re filth in the gutters. Rats in rags.”

Her father’s mouth opened—but before he could speak, a new voice cut through the chamber. Low, rasping, and drenched in dark amusement. “Does Her Grace believe her walls will shield her, should the city name her a butcher?”

The old witch hadn’t moved, yet her voice filled the chamber like a cold wind. Still hunched over her mixture. Still facing away. “Or does the queen believe her sons' dragons will shield her from the wrath of ten thousand men?”

She said nothing.

The witch laughed, soft and cruel.

“Tell me, Your Grace,” she went on, voice sharpening, “what roads must your princelings walk to reach the Dragonpit? What alleys must they ride through when it is time to take wing? And when the smallfolk cry for vengeance, will they part like courtiers? Or will they swarm like fire ants and pull your sons from their saddles?”

The scraping of the pestle against the stone slowed.

“There are many knights in King’s Landing, aye. But are they more than the mouths to feed in Flea Bottom? More than the hands that have lost their own blood? When the people cry for justice, will you stand ready to face the knives they carry?”

The witch finally turned.

Ten years had passed, and still, Alicent had not grown used to the sight of her. That face—it froze the blood in her veins, as it had the first time they met. Time had not softened the woman, only sharpened her edges. Her eyes glinted like stones dredged from the bottom of the Blackwater, her mouth a hard line carved by loss and loathing.

With steady steps, the crone crossed the room and handed a small, dark vial to Larys Strong. It glowed faintly beneath the candlelight, whatever foul brew she had been grinding now corked and still in his palm.

“I trust the Hand has arranged a worthy payment,” he rasped, his voice all smoke and salt, before turning to go. As he passed, Alicent caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye—Larys giving her one of his sideways glances, his gaze trailing down her figure before he licked his lips like a man sizing up a meal.

Disgust rippled through her. Filth. Gods, how he made her skin crawl.

She waited until the witch’s robes had disappeared beyond the door before she dared to speak.

“What is truly happening?” she asked, her voice low but tight. “Why are you so calm, after you yourself said that if word of the bastards reached the ears of the smallfolk, it would be dangerous?”

Her father didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached again for his wine, fingers steady, movements elegant in their unbothered certainty. “When you were busy playing queen,” he said at last, “Larys brought word that Princess Rhaenyra took your dear cousin Bethany on a little visit to the orphanage.”

That made her blink.

“Before a crowd,” her father continued, “the princess asked about Aegon’s bastards. Publicly. Plainly. Like some heroine of the people.” He chuckled into his goblet. “Now isn’t that odd, Alicent? Since when has that pampered, silk-swaddled child ever spared a thought for the lowborn? If you ask me, it reeks of theater. Clever theater, I’ll grant her that.”

Alicent let out a bitter snort. “Rhaenyra? Clever? Please, father. Don’t make me laugh. That girl’s never made a decision without someone else pulling the strings. She doesn’t think—she obeys. I’d wager this is the work of that wretched rogue prince. Isn’t he called the Lord of Flea Bottom? This has his stink all over it.”

Her father gave her a long, measured look. She hated that look—like he was the only one who truly knew the game, and she was just a pretty piece on the board.

“You truly believe she rebuilt the Vale with nothing but sweet smiles and dainty words?” he said coolly. “Like it or not, Alicent, the girl has grown sharper. This wasn’t the same girl Viserys cast aside in a fit of fear and prophecy. She’s learned. And I, for one, do not believe it was a coincidence that your uncle fell ill the very same day Princess Rhaenyra arrived.”

The words struck her like a slap.

“You’re saying... she meant to kill him?” She whispered, voice cracking. Rhaenyra? The spoiled, soft girl who’d once blushed at crude jests and cried when scolded? No. Rhaenyra is vain, yes. Reckless. But cruel? No. If Rhaenyra were cruel, she’d be long dead. Her children, too.

“To kill?” her father repeated, almost idly, as though the word were as harmless as a prayer. “No. She doesn’t have the stomach for that.”

Relief had barely touched her lungs before he continued, voice dry as old parchment.

“But to draw your cousin close? To make her feel seen, safe, and important? That—that is very possible.” He didn’t look up as he said it. He merely poured another cup of wine, calm and precise, as if he were discussing the ripening of fruit, not the gutting of their family’s future. “Which is why tonight we dine with your uncle and Bethany. We’ll discuss Sybilla’s betrothal to Daeron.”

The words hung in the air like smoke from a battlefield.

She blinked. Daeron? Her Daeron?

“She’s five years older than Daeron,” she said stiffly, like the fact alone should unmake the proposal. “It’s absurd.”

Her father looked at her then, the way one might look at a dog barking too loudly. Mild annoyance, barely concealed disappointment. As if her protest was a pebble in the road of his grand design.

Perhaps it was.

But still, she couldn’t help herself. She didn’t want Daeron bound to a girl like Sybilla—not that hollow thing in pearls who thought herself a lady just because she’d learned to walk without tripping on her own skirts. Her Daeron was gentle, golden, good. He deserved more.

A Lannister daughter, perhaps. Or Baratheon. A name with weight. A crown fit for his brow.

Her father saw the thought, plain as day. He always did.

“Much like Lord Borros’s lady wife,” he said flatly, “your cousin has yet to give her husband a son. If Daeron weds Sybilla, he gains the Redwyne fleet, a foothold in the Arbor, and lands that will be his by right. As for Aemond…” He paused to sip his wine. “He’ll take the eldest Baratheon girl. Storm’s End will follow. 

He said it with such confidence, such cold certainty, that for a moment it didn’t even sound mad.

The plan was brilliant. Her sons becoming lords of Arbor and Storm’s End? The very thought of it warmed her. They were born for more than court shadows. More than whispers and warnings. They were meant to rule.

But,

“But what if Bethany bears an heir?” she asked, quieter now. The ambition in her heart warred with something colder, tighter. “Or Lady Baratheon? What happens to your plan then?” She already knew.

Her father smiled then. A thin, pitiless thing.

“Then we remove them.”

Flashback end.

Rhaenyra’s POV

She had to admit—Otto Hightower had a talent for escaping the very fires he lit. For a man who, in her dream, turned her father’s dying breath into an excuse to put her son on trial, all to question Lucerys’s claim, it was no surprise he might twist this scandal into another ladder. He was a leech—and leeches always found a way to feed.

But to sacrifice his own kind? That surprised her.

Briefly.

She ought to have known better.

Otto had never known loyalty—not in his long, pitiful life. If he had, he would have honored her father’s will and not knelt before the trembling shell of a man who groped servant girls and could scarcely string a sentence together without drooling on his own tunic.

She let out a quiet breath, her eyes drifting downward. Bethany stood near the foot of the Iron Throne, surrounded by scattered jewels and coins that had fallen like the remnants of a broken illusion. Had she seen the trial unfold?

Would she still stand beside Alicent after this?

She doubted it. Bethany was vain, but not blind. She had too much wit for that. Anyone with half a brain could see that the trial had been a parade of masks—a polished lie wrapped in ceremony and cloaked in the gods’ name. But even so, she would rather be certain.

She descended from the gallery, skirt whispering behind her like the breath of a dragon through stone halls. Catherine had already gone ahead to find Harwin, and Daemon and Jace had returned to their quarters to wash the dragon’s smell from their skin and change their silks.

Only she remained.

And Bethany.

When she reached the base of the steps, her voice was cool, measured.

“At last, your family’s name is cleared, Lady Bethany,” she said, the words offered like bait on a silver hook. She watched closely, waiting to see whether Bethany would take it—or bite.

Bethany did not answer.
She only laughed.
But there was no joy in the sound—no lightness, no breath. Just a bitter, empty rasp that scraped from her throat like rust peeling from old iron.

Then she knelt, slowly, and picked something from the floor—a silver bracelet. At first glance, it seemed plain enough. Nothing of note, save for the fine engraving; oak leaves, delicate and precise, curling around tiny gemstones like secrets wrapped in vines.

“This belonged to my grandmother,” Bethany said softly, but her voice trembled with something far sharper than grief. “I saved every coin my father gave me each moon’s turn—hoarded them in secret for a year, just to buy her this for her fortieth name day.” She turned the bracelet in her hand, and her jaw clenched.

“She died ten years past. All her jewelry was meant to be mine. All of it. And yet…” Her voice cracked, raw with disbelief. “Alicent took them. Every ring. Every clasp. Even this. And now… now this is here. Here, not in her chambers. Not locked away in some box of keepsakes. But scattered on the floor like some... likes some..” Bethany didn’t finish the thought. She didn’t have to.

She understood.

Oh.
Oh, Otto.
You blundering fool.

She almost wanted to laugh. It seemed the old man had forgotten that even the plainest baubles worn by his daughter once belonged to someone. That the treasures Alicent draped herself in—so modest, so unassuming—were Hightower heirlooms, and heirlooms had memory. And kin who remembered. He must’ve chosen that bracelet thinking it dull, unremarkable. A piece no one would miss. No one would question.

Bethany rose, her fingers clenched tight around the silver bracelet.

“It seems I won’t have time to chat after all, Princess,” she said, voice clipped but controlled. “I must see my family. There’s… quite a lot I need to tell them.” And with that, she turned and swept from the hall, her cloak catching a gust of wind behind her like a banner of war. The doors shut with a soft thud.

And the moment they did, she let the laughter spill from her lips.

It came in waves—sharp, sudden, unrestrained. She laughed until her ribs ached, until her eyes stung and tears slipped free. She pressed a hand to her mouth, breathless, not out of decorum, but delight.

Seven hells… the day just kept getting better.

Oh, she had to tell Daemon. And Aunt Amanda—gods, Aunt Amanda would weep from the scandal of it all.

—Wait.

Her smile faltered.

Lucy and Benji. She’d left them in her solar.

And Daemon…

Oh.

Her husband, storm-tempered and sharp-eyed, was likely walking into that room right now. And if Daemon found a strange boy alone in the company of his daughter…

Well.

That wouldn’t end quietly.

She turned swiftly on her heel and made her way from the throne room, her steps quick, her mind still reeling from what the day had become.

By the time she reached the corridor to their family’s wing, there he was—her husband, still clad in the same tunic and boots as earlier, pacing like a caged cat before the door to their chambers, grumbling under his breath.

Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon stood nearby, desperately trying to hide their amusement. One coughed into his fist, the other kept his eyes fixed firmly on a tapestry, though the twitch at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. Clearly, Daemon had been cast out—whether by their daughter or by Aunt Amanda, it was hard to say.

She paused a few steps away, arms crossed, her brow lifted in gentle amusement.“Kepus, what are you doing sulking in the hallway like a scolded squire?”

Daemon spun toward her at once, his dark brows drawn low and his lips twisted in a familiar pout. “Dārilaros,” he began, tone full of righteous offense, “you will not believe what your dear aunt has done. She allowed a thief—a thief, mind you—to roam freely near our daughter. Can you believe it?”

She nearly laughed then and there. So, he’d met little Benjicot.

She only shook her head, approaching slowly.

“Are you quite sure, my heart?” she asked, her voice honeyed with teasing. “How could such a thief slip past our well-trained guards and all the watchful eyes in this keep?” Her fingers found his jaw and traced along it, soft and deliberate, before brushing over the edge of his lower lip.

Daemon gave a gruff little huff, ever so put-upon. “They were bewitched,” he grumbled. “All of them. By the thief’s round brown eyes. Even your aunt and our daughter—completely enchanted. All of them taken in by that little criminal.”

She let out a soft laugh, light as a breeze. “You sound like my father,” she teased.

Daemon drew in a sharp gasp and clutched at his chest with a dramatic flourish, as though she’d stabbed him clean through. “What a vile accusation,” he said with mock horror.

The sound of her laughter was quiet but real. She stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. That made him smile, small and boyish.

But of course, he wasn’t done. “But truly, love,” he sighed with exaggerated woe. “That boy is a thief. Our daughter didn’t even look at me. Not a glance. She was too busy fawning over him. My Lucy. Can you imagine?”

She could only roll her eyes at that, brushing past her grumbling husband and making her way toward their chambers.

When she pushed open the door, a soft clatter met her ears—inside, their sons sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking wooden blocks with young Benjicot Blackwood beside them. If she had to guess, they were preparing to demonstrate one of their elaborate dragon-rider tricks they’d been teaching Meraxes and Balerion.

In the corner, Aunt Amanda sipped her tea with queenly poise, seated beside Lucy on the velvet-cushioned bench. But the little princess did not glance away from Benjicot even once—her eyes followed the boy like stars trailing a comet.

The moment she stepped inside, the Blackwood boy scrambled upright, nearly toppling the tower they’d built. He bowed stiffly, clearly unsure of what to do with his hands or his feet.

A smile touched her lips.

"You don't need to be so formal, little lord Blackwood,” she said gently.

For a moment, he smiled up at her, his face full of earnestness—but then his eyes darted away, down to the floor, as if something had stolen the breath from him. She didn’t need to ask what caused his sudden nervousness.

"Father, you're making Benji uncomfortable again," Lucy’s voice rang out before anyone else could speak, sharp with indignation as she marched toward them.

"Princess, your father did nothing, I’ll have you know," Daemon declared, lifting both hands in mock surrender. But their daughter wasn’t convinced. With all the strength her small arms could muster, she began to push him—her own father, Prince Daemon Targaryen—toward the door.

"Out. You stay outside," she commanded.

It was hard not to laugh.

Yet her rogue of a husband, ever contrary, did not heed their daughter’s command. Instead, Daemon looked down at their daughter with that crooked, impish grin she knew all too well—the very same grin that had heralded most of his worst—and most ridiculous—choices. There was a gleam in his eye then, sharp as Valyrian steel and twice as troublesome, a boy’s mischief trapped in a man grown far too old for it. And in that instant, she knew—whatever he was about to do, it would be nothing short of undignified.

“No—” Lucy warned, stepping back in alarm.

But her husband was already moving.

With the grace of a man half his age and none of his restraint, her husband let himself fall—backward, slow and exaggerated, like a knight struck by a child’s wooden sword in some play. One leg kicked up slightly, arms thrown with dramatic flair as if the gods themselves had felled him. He crashed into her with all the force of a feathered anvil, dragging his daughter down with him.

They landed on the stone floor in a chaotic sprawl—her skirts tangled, her hair askew, his long limbs draped over her like a lion lounging across its cub. She let out a startled yelp that quickly turned into a giggle, muffled beneath the half weight of her father pressing her into the rushes.

“Kepa…” she groaned, her small fists thumping uselessly at his shoulder, though she was laughing now, too. “Unfair, underhanded, utterly dishonorable,” she accused between breathless squeaks.

From the corner, Aunt Amanda cleared her throat, lifting her teacup with exaggerated poise. “Honestly, Daemon, you're worse than both your sons combined.”

Jace and Harion erupted in laughter while little Benjicot, wide-eyed and blushing furiously, looked like he might faint.

Still flat on the floor, Lucy huffed as she tried to push her father off. “Get up! You’re heavy!”

Her husband shifted just enough to let their daughter wiggle free, though he didn’t rise. Instead, he propped himself up on an elbow, looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had just fake-fallen on their daughter like a sack of flour.

“You wound me, sweet daughter…” Daemon declared with theatrical sorrow, clutching his chest as though pierced by some unseen blade. “And to think—it was but a few short weeks ago you swore I was the only man in your life. Now, you meet one boy, one little lord with big eyes, and I’m cast aside like an old cloak.” His voice broke on the last word as he turned from her, pretending to weep into his hands.

She watched him, equal parts exasperated and amused. Seven save her, her husband ought to have been a mummer. He could win hearts on the stage in Lys if ever he tired of dragons and daggers.

And yet, as always, his antics worked. Their daughter—sweet, soft-spoken Lucy, who had moments ago looked ready to scold her father for teasing her gown—was now wearing a face full of worry. With a small gasp, she rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“Don’t cry, Papa,” she whispered, her voice earnest and full of childlike conviction. “You’ll always be number one in Lucy’s heart.”

From behind his fingers, Daemon peeked—just a quick, sly glance toward the small boy near the hearth. And gods help her, he smirked. A gleeful, triumphant, utterly childish smirk shot in Benjicot’s direction like an arrow loosed from a bow.

Truly, he was the most undignified man in the realm.

She stifled her laughter behind a sigh, though affection warmed every syllable. “You are impossible,” she murmured, stepping close to ruffle her daughter’s silken hair before leaning in to press a soft kiss to her husband’s temple.

Then, low enough for only him to hear, she whispered, “If you keep on like this, I doubt our daughter will ever be wed. I daresay you'll be the reason she becomes a spinster princess in the tower.”

Daemon gasped, hand once again pressed to his chest as though her words had struck true. “A vile accusation,” he muttered gravely—though the sparkle in his eye and the upward twitch of his lips betrayed him entirely.

She smiled at him, soft and fond, as one might regard a particularly dramatic child or a beloved fool. But then her gaze slid toward the small boy standing near the toy-strewn rug—Benjicot Blackwood, blushing to the roots of his dark hair, eyes downcast only moments before. Now he was staring at them—or no, not them.

At her.

And Gods help her, she knew that look. She had seen it before in mirrors, in moonlit windows, in stolen glances across dragonbone tables. Her own eyes had worn that same gaze once, long before the Vale, before Daemon, before becoming a mother and the Warden of the East.

Oh, Fourteen Flames save her.

But before she could say a word, her youngest son—sweet, innocent Harion—piped up, cheerful as a cat at cream.

“Big brother Benji is fun to play with,” he chirped, “but the only one allowed to marry big sister Lucy is someone who can fight like Father. Father can kill with his bare hands! Right, Father?”

Daemon, grinning like a wolf among sheep, gave a proud nod.

Lucy turned crimson, Aunt Amanda scolded Harion with a sharp “Hush, boy,” and Jace gave a long-suffering sigh. But little Benjicot, to his credit, did not flinch. He only laughed, soft and awkward, and said;

“Oh... I..I’ve been trained to kill since birth.”

A hush fell then. Even the hearthfire seemed to be still.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Harion’s mouth twitch open again—no doubt readying another inquiry too honest for the moment. But Jace, ever her careful one, ever his brother’s balance, clamped a hand over his younger brother’s mouth and gave a firm shake of his head. Thank the Fourteen Flames for that boy.

And in that quiet, she saw it.

Little Benjicot’s hands fidgeted with the hem of his tunic, twisting the fabric between his fingers. His eyes darted toward the door, his posture uncertain. The silence had settled around him too thick, too long. He wanted to leave, that much was clear, but the boy hadn’t yet figured out how to rise without seeming rude.

Her husband, gods bless him, when he was paying attention, stepped in with surprising gentleness. “The sun’s near set,” Daemon said, voice softer now, stripped of all his earlier theatrics. “Best head back to your wing, boy. Your kin will be looking for you.”

Little Benjicot gave a small nod and turned toward the door just as Jace spoke again.

“Benji,” he said, with a smile, “it’s been fun having you. On the morrow, I’ll be sparring with Father and Harion. Come join us, if you’d like.”

The boy’s eyes lit up—shy but sincere—and he nodded again, more sure of himself this time. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll walk you,” she offered. Her tone was calm, almost offhanded, but her eyes were steady on him.

The little boy looked up at her, blinking in surprise.

“I’ve business near your family’s quarters anyway,” she added gently, as she moved toward the door and pulled it open for him.

She didn’t—but that wasn’t the point.

Sometimes, a boy needs a path to walk and a hand to steady his back, even if he never quite knows why.

They walked side by side in silence, and in that silence she saw the sorrow that clung to him like mist to the moors.

She had been fourteen when her mother died—a girl still half-made—but at least she had those fourteen years, brief as they were. This boy had none. From the moment he drew breath, the world had not seen a child, only an heir—heir to Raventree Hall, heir to old blood and old burdens.

How terribly sad it was, she thought, for a boy to be born into duty before he could even speak.

He had never known the warmth of a mother’s touch, never heard a lullaby sung soft into his dreams. His mother had died bearing him into the world, and if her memory served her right, Lord Blackwood had never taken another wife since. Perhaps out of grief. Or guilt. Or both.

And since her passing… the ties between House Blackwood and House Darry had frayed near to breaking. It was said that Lord Darry had never forgiven Lord Blackwood for the death of his only daughter. Grief makes monsters of men, she knew. When sorrow claws too deep, even the innocent may be made to bear its fangs.

She had seen it herself—if not in waking life, then in dreams. In those twisted shadows that came in sleep, she had watched her own hands lash out, blaming ghosts, gods, and those who did not deserve it, if only to ease the ache in her chest.

She reached out gently and ran her fingers through the boy’s hair, a slow, soothing motion that made him stiffen at first in surprise. Then her voice, soft and low, broke the hush between them.

"You know," she said, "there is no path for women to carve out glory—not as the world sees it. No coin to be earned with honest work that isn’t first weighed and measured by men. We are not taught the trades, nor trained for war. And even if we do manage to gather gold in our palms, it becomes our husband’s the moment we’re wed."

The boy looked up at her, eyes wide and solemn. There was concern in them—and pity too, though he did not yet have the words to name it.

They watched each other for a breath, and then she smiled, turning her gaze to the garden path ahead.

"But do you know what is ours?" she continued. "Our children."

"A man may forget the name of the wife he buried, but he will not forget whose mother bore his heir. For sixteen years, before the realm comes to claim them, a child belongs to their mother—heart and soul. That is our triumph, our legacy. In a world that gives us nothing, they are ours. Entirely."

She fell quiet for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice had changed—low, steady, and heavy with memory.

"That is why we bear the burden with pride, though we know it will break our bodies. That is why we smile through the pain, though we know it may kill us in the end. For nine moons we carry them, and we do not flinch. We lie down upon the birthing bed knowing it may be our grave, and still—we do it gladly. Because for a little while, they are ours."

She turned back to him then, and her gaze was fierce, bright with something raw and real.

"Your mother loved you, Lord Blackwood. The very fact that you are here—breathing, standing—is proof enough. She did not yield. Do not let anyone, not lords or maesters or even your own grief, make you doubt that love. I speak this to you as a mother who has bled three times to bring life into this world… and as a daughter who watched her own mother smile even as she bled out her life to bring another into this world."

With those final words, the grief the boy had kept caged behind his ribs broke free at last, spilling out in quiet, heart-wrung sobs.

She said nothing—there were no more words left to mend him—only opened her arms and drew him close, folding him into the shelter of her embrace. One hand rose, slow and steady, to stroke the back of his head in soft circles.

As her fingers moved, she remembered how her own mother once soothed her just so, when she was no older than he—how those same motions had quieted her weeping heart beneath a weeping sky.

And she had done the same for her own children, all three of them, when their small worlds had shattered—over scraped knees, broken toys, or cruel words too sharp for soft souls.

Grief was a thing that crossed bloodlines. But so, too, was comfort.

When the boy’s tears had dried and his breath no longer trembled, they resumed their walk in companionable silence toward the guest wing where the Blackwoods had been housed.

Courtiers, guards, and servants parted for her as she passed, heads bowing with varying degrees of haste. Some murmured their courtesies, others only stared—bold as cats—letting their eyes flick between her and the solemn boy by her side. She could all but hear the whispers forming behind her back, tongues wet with speculation.

But she paid them no mind. These people did not feed her children, nor did they shelter her through winter storms. Why then should their opinions weigh upon her soul? Let them choke on their curiosity for all she cares.

When at last they reached the Blackwood quarters, the guards standing post stiffened at once, spines straight as spears. The moment her shadow touched the stone threshold, the one nearest the door barked a clipped announcement, and a moment later, the chamber doors opened to reveal Lord Samwell Blackwood himself.

Surprise rippled across his face like wind on water, quickly chased by confusion. His eyes darted to the boy at her side, and though his lips formed a greeting, his gaze plainly asked what in the seven hells are you doing at her side, my son?

“P—Princess Rhaenyra,” he stammered, dipping into a deep bow. “An unexpected honor.”

“It’s been some time, Lord Samwell,” she returned smoothly, nodding in kind before resting a gentle hand on Benjicot’s back. “I was merely seeing a dear friend of my children returned safely to his family.”

Her words struck like a bell in a quiet hall. Lord Samwell’s brows shot up, and for good reason. He, like many in the court, knew well how fiercely guarded her children were—how the young princes and princess had grown wary of courtly games dressed as friendships.

Most lords and ladies sought to place their offspring near her brood, hoping to secure favor or alliance. But her sons, polite though they were, treated such advances as they would a passing breeze—acknowledged, and then forgotten.

So for her to speak aloud, here and now, of friendship—for her to personally escort the boy—was not mere courtesy. It was a declaration.

And as always, declarations from her—Rhaenyra Targaryen—were never given lightly.

“I… I beg your pardon, Princess?” Lord Samwell asked, his voice uneven with disbelief.

She offered him nothing but a slight nod, her face composed, and dipped into a curtsey more graceful than ceremonial. Then she turned, her silken skirts whispering along the stone floor as she made to return to her own wing.

But before she could take more than a few steps, a small voice called out behind her, halting her mid-stride.

“May I truly join Prince Jace and Prince Harion in training tomorrow?” asked young Benjicot, his words hopeful but uncertain.

She glanced over her shoulder, catching the look in his eyes—too full of doubt for someone so young. Perhaps he feared it had been kindness spoken in passing, something offered and soon forgotten.

Before she could reply, Lord Samwell hastily stepped forward, placing a firm hand over his son’s mouth as if to silence a crime before it could be committed.

“Forgive him, Princess, for his lack of decorum,” the lord said quickly, a touch of panic in his voice, like a man trying to mend a cracked dam with bare hands.

Her lips curled into a small smile—not cold, but not soft either. It was the smile of a woman who remembered far too well what it felt like to be dismissed, and how much a single word could mean to a child.

“There is no offense,” she said, her voice calm, almost melodic. “You are most welcome, little lord. You are welcome in the training yard… and even more so in the Arryn’s wing. The blood of the Vale holds fast to loyalty and friendship. Those who come in good faith will never find the door closed.” With that, she turned once more and walked away, leaving behind only the quiet click of her heels and a silence far too heavy for a hallway filled with lords.

She was nearly at the corridor that led to her family’s chambers when she caught sight of her—Šen, slipping from the shadows with the silent step. She bowed low before speaking, his voice hushed and apologetic.

“My lady… forgive me, but the old woman is gone. She vanished. I followed her as far as the outer galleries, but then she slipped away. I searched the hidden ways you and Prince Daemon revealed to me, but she left no sign. It was as if the shadows swallowed her whole.”

She slowed her steps. For a moment, she said nothing.

She had not expected much. From the moment she’d laid eyes on that crone, something had itched beneath her skin. She was no common beggar, no nursemaid or septa past her prime. There was a weight to her presence, an unnatural stillness that lingered long after she had gone.

Still, hearing that Šen had returned empty-handed left a small, bitter taste on her tongue.

“You did what you could,” she said at last, and though her tone was mild, her gaze searched him closely—as a healer might inspect a wound for signs of rot. “I’m glad you returned in one piece.”

Šen inclined her head again, wordless.

She exhaled quietly. The ānwēji were not hers to waste. Dowager Empress Han had lent them freely, even kindly, but she knew too well the weight of gifts cloaked in silk and grace. These were no mere spies or guards. They were a message—and a promise. To let them come to harm would be an insult not easily mended.

“Thank you, Šen,” she said again, her voice low and even.

But she did not yet turn to leave. Her eyes lingered, sharp and searching, for she could sense the woman’s hesitation—a silence that hung in the air like a breath held too long.

“Is there more?” She asked quietly, one brow arched in expectation.

The ānwēji dipped her head once more, lips pressing together before she spoke. “According to the scullery girls, my lady, the moss-eaters are to dine together tonight… by command of the gilded thorn.”

Ah.

Now that was interesting.

So the Hightowers, serpents all, would be feasting together in the wake of humiliation and fractured loyalties. She wondered idly what wine could wash down such bitterness… what meat could fill a belly knotted by greed and fear.

And Bethany. Seven hell, if the girl’s face at the end of the trial was anything to go by, she would not be the least bit surprised if, come morning, the kitchens whispered of a woman leaping across the table to stab the dowager queen with a silver fork.

She gave a faint smile. A dangerous thing—slow and amused.

“Well then…” she murmured, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her eyes, dark as storm-swept skies, met Šen’s again. “Can I count on you for tonight?”

She already knew the answer.

Without a word, Šen bowed—low and sure—and disappeared once more into shadow, soundless as falling ash.

She watched her go, the corridor now quiet, the air cooler somehow.

A dinner of liars and vipers, under candlelight and pretense. It would be interesting to witness—if only to see which smiles cracked first, and whose mask slipped before the wine ran dry.

Alicent’s POV

Her family looked… strange.

Not her father, nor her children—no, not the core of them. It was her uncle’s brood that seemed brittle and cold, as if something had quietly cracked beneath their polished courtesies.

The chill in the air was not imagined. It clung to them like mist, and though no words had been spoken, she could feel it in every glance that lingered too long, every silence that stretched a heartbeat too far.

Bethany, at least, she could forgive—or rather, excuse. The girl had taken to loitering near Rhaenyra like a moth drawn to a poisoned flame. Perhaps she had absorbed some of the princess’s shamelessness, that bold, insolent way of walking into rooms as if they were hers by birthright. It had only served to worsen the girl's already unruly demeanor.

But her aunt and uncle? There was no excuse there. Even Ormund, who had always carried himself with the entitled air of a man born to rule Oldtown, now looked at her—and at her father—as if they were lesser things. That arrogance was nothing new, of course. Ormund had ever been proud, swollen with self-importance. But never had he been so openly discourteous, so willing to bear his disdain like a blade at a feast.

Something had shifted.

And she could feel it. Like a storm behind the eyes, like a whisper behind every word.

“Brother,” her father began, voice smooth as polished glass, “thank you for accepting our invitation to dine with us tonight. It’s been far too long, hasn’t it?” The words were courteous enough, dressed in the garments of familial warmth. But her uncle was a man who had grown wary of fine silks and finer lies.

Hobert Hightower did not smile.

“Quite surprising, truly,” he replied, his tone cold as winter rain. “We’ve been lodged in this keep for three moons now, and not once have we been asked to break bread with our own kin.”

Her father faltered for half a breath—just enough for the chill in the room to settle.

Then Uncle Hobert continued, his words sharp as whetted steel.“Tell me, brother—what has changed? Grown tired of playing family with the lions and stags? Or do you now require Hightower coin once more… or another necklace for your daughter’s pretty throat?”

Her uncle lowered himself into one of the empty seats without waiting to be offered, the scrape of the chair against the stone floor echoing like a challenge thrown.

“What do you mean by that? Hobert—” her father began, a flicker of irritation breaking through the mask of hostly grace.

But Uncle Hobert Hightower raised a hand—calm, deliberate—and silenced him without a word more. “I suggest we begin the meal,” he said coolly. “The sun is setting, and I must take my rest early. You know I’ve not been well.”

“Of course,” her father replied through clenched teeth. Even a fool could hear the strain in his voice. It was plain to see he was seething beneath his carefully arranged smile.

“Do you?” Hobert said, leaning back with weary disinterest. “Forgive me. I had assumed otherwise, since you never came to visit. One might even think you were glad to see your brother laid low and bedridden.”

The words were spoken softly, lazily almost, but they struck like a whip. Her father’s face turned crimson with fury, and she herself felt a rush of bitter anger at the old man’s insolence.

Had the Hightowers not been so vital to their cause— had the Faith’s favor not been so precariously balanced—this uncle who forgot his station would have long been cast from the Red Keep, sent back to Oldtown with his robes and his relics.

Did the old man truly think he held any sway here, as he had beneath the Starry Sept? Did he not see the dragon banners hanging from every hall? This was not Oldtown. This was King’s Landing, the seat of the realm, the home of dragons, hers—and he had forgotten whose roof he sat beneath.

She bit her tongue before anger could find its voice and loose words that could not be unsaid. Instead, she turned her face toward Bethany and clung to civility as though it were a shield. "Cousin," she began, smiling through clenched teeth, "though Sibylla has yet to see her first blood, would it not be wise to start seeking a proper match for her now? A betrothal suited to her station, of course."

Bethany's smile was the sort that cut sharper than daggers. "Sibylla is still but a child," she replied smoothly. "Besides, Alaric and I are neither so desperate nor so impoverished that we must pawn off our daughter before her time—to some unsuitable match." Her gaze lingered on her as she spoke, then drifted, with thinly veiled meaning, toward Helaena.

She recognized that look. Seven saved her, she knew it too well.

It was the same look Bethany had given her in Oldtown, when she lived beneath her uncle’s roof, wearing castoffs and silks with the sheen worn off. The look that stripped her of pride and reminded her, again and again, that she was not one of them. Bethany had treated her not as kin but as a servant dressed in the garments of charity—hand-me-downs folded with disdain and handed off with false grace, as if tossing scraps to a dog beneath the high table.

She loathed that look.
She loathed Bethany.

Still, she held her tongue. Words once spoken could not be unsaid, and in this game, silence could cut deeper than steel. Let Bethany speak freely, let her loose tongue wind its own noose. In the end, it would not be her own dignity that suffered for it. Besides, what kindness could she truly expect from a cousin so haughty and self-sure?

With a smile that was all teeth and no warmth, she answered, “You are right, of course. Sibylla is still young.” Her tone was pleasant, even soothing, like cool wine on a hot day. “But would it not be wiser to begin seeking a match early? If Sibylla were to wed my son, Prince Daeron, she would earn the title of princess—a daughter of the royal house.”

From the corner of her eye, she saw her father incline his head in approval. A small gesture, but telling. She had spoken wisely, with poise, with care. The offer was sound—too sound to be dismissed by any woman with sense. Let Bethany twist herself up in envy if she must. A match with Prince Daeron, a son of royal blood, should have been more than enough for a daughter of a mere lord.

But Bethany only laughed. That sound—shrill, full of scorn—grated like sand against polished glass. Not just her, either. She caught the smirks from Ormund, from Alaric, from Uncle Hobert, and his simpering wife. The gall of them.

Bethany turned to Uncle Hobert with a smirk, then back again with that same venom that danced behind her teeth. "Did I not say so, Father? This dinner was naught but a farce—to butter us up and take what they want," she said, as if speaking of beggars at the gate.

Then she looked directly at her again, eyes gleaming with the triumph of someone who thought herself clever.

“And what, pray, does Sibylla gain from marrying your youngest son, cousin?” Bethany went on, false sweetness wrapped around barbed words. “Aside from an empty title?” She sneered.

Her fingers tightened around the goblet in her hand. Empty? Did this fool not know how many lords across the realm would grovel for such an alliance? How many great houses would line their daughters like painted dolls before her sons, praying to be chosen?

“Bethany—” her father began, tone weary.

But Bethany raised a hand, silencing him.

“Do not mistake me, Uncle. Daeron is not without charm,” she said, drawing out the words like honeyed venom. “But charm does not put food on a table or jewels on a neck. Or would you have my daughter married off to a prince who lives on the mercy of his brother’s favor? A wife scraping by, ever dependent, ever waiting?”

Her gaze flicked to her father as she spoke, and she saw it then—clear as moonlight through stained glass. A wound reopened, a slight remembered. A reminder of their past poverty, of the days before Viserys raised them from the mire.

“Your words are unseemly, cousin,” she said, her voice low and clipped, shaped by gritted teeth and noble breeding.

Let the court whisper if they must. Let them call her sharp-tongued or cold. She had bent her back for courtesy long enough, and Bethany was the one who had forgotten her place.

“Is that so?” Bethany tilted her head, her voice thick with mockery. “Then tell me this—if Sibylla were to wed Daeron, where would they live? At the Red Keep?” Her eyes, dark as bitter wine, gleamed with cruel amusement. “And if one day Aegon tires of the sight of his brother—just as King Viserys once wearied of Prince Daemon—what then? Where will your youngest son take my daughter? Where will their babes be raised? Don’t you dare say they’d return to the Arbor, unless you mean to suggest my Sibylla live out her days under her sibling’s charity, as your own father once did.”

A barb, that last part. A deliberate one, twisted and sharpened. Her father flinched. She saw it. So did Bethany. That was her aim, clearly—to wound, to shame, to remind the table that the Hightowers once bowed their heads in the shadow of their kin’s grace, instead of standing beside them.

But then she faltered, just for a breath. A single beat in the rhythm of her tirade.

Sibling… Sibylla’s sibling?

Her gaze dropped, unbidden, to her cousin’s belly. It was not round, no, but there was a softness there that had not been before. A fullness, subtle but telling. Her mouth turned dry.

No. It cannot be…

But what if it was true? What if Bethany were already carrying a child?

Gods be good, she thought, if the Arbor passes to a son born of Bethany, then what future remains for Daeron?

Thoughts warred and clawed within her mind, each louder than the last, so much so that she did not hear the courtesies and pleasantries exchanged with her cousin. They were empty words anyway, and she had no patience left for civility. But her ears sharpened once more when Bethany, ever bold, ever insolent, spoke again.

“At the very least,” Bethany said, her tone thick with scorn masked behind a smile, “if you intend to make such a shameless proposal, you ought to ensure your youngest son has lands, a keep, and wealth of his own. Like Prince Harion, for instance.”

Like who?

Her breath caught for a moment, though she did not let her face betray it.

Prince Harion? That brown-haired whelp of Rhaenyra’s? The one she was convinced was no true son of the prince, but some bastard dressed in velvets and dragonpin? Her cousin must be jesting, or madder than she had feared.

To compare Daeron—her Daeron, a trueborn son of House Targaryen, raised under the eyes of maesters and septons, devout and golden as the dawn—to him?

“Prince Harion,” she said coldly, “is not Rhaenyra’s eldest son either. He, too, shall live under the roof and mercy of his elder brother. Do not speak to me of keep and coin as if he is the Lord of anything. I think, dear cousin, you place far too much hope in the children of your newest friends.” The last words were laced with iron, a blade beneath silk. Her lips curved in a smile that did not reach her eyes.

How far Bethany had fallen—idolizing the seed of a harlot and a warmonger.

And yet, rather than admit fault or retreat with grace, Bethany sneered. “Have I said anything untrue?” she asked, lips curled like a cat with blood on its tongue. “Is it not true that Princess Rhaenyra has already raised three keeps upon the empty lands of the Vale, each gifted to one of her children so they might hold land and rule in their own right? I should think you’d know, considering how often you busy yourself with the affairs of Princess Rhaenyra and her household instead of tending to your own brood. No wonder your children lack so much.”

Then she cast a glance—mocking and deliberate—toward Aegon, who sat hunched and hollow-eyed, his fingers limp around a half-emptied cup, as if even wine had grown weary of him.

“Mind your tongue, Bethany,” she snapped, her voice laced with frost and fury. “Do not mistake my grace for silence, nor confuse your bitterness for truth.”

Righteous anger flared beneath her ribs. Rhaenyra again. Always Rhaenyra, being raised as a model of motherhood, a builder of castles, a sovereign of hearth and home. As if bearing bastards in fine silk made her more noble.

As if she had not bled and toiled, prayed and wept, for the future of her children—trueborn children. As if she had not offered her very soul for their salvation. And still the realm whispered her name with reverence, while hers was followed by sighs.

No, she would not shame her in her own hall. 

Before her father could stop her, she rose to her feet, her children following suit like loyal shadows. She would not sit a moment longer to be humiliated by a mere lady. She was the Queen Consort. Bethany ought to remember her place—and that place was beneath her.

She no longer cared for alliances or reconciliations with her uncle’s house. Let them keep their pride and petty insults. She had other paths. She had the Baratheons through Aemond's future marriage, and she could secure a greater advantage still if Daeron were wed to a Lannister girl.

Besides, Sybilla was not even that beautiful.

Pretty, perhaps, in the way many girls were. Blonde hair, pale skin, blue eyes—the sort of look that could be found in every other noble house from the Westerlands to the Reach. There was nothing of old blood in her, nothing of fire or distinction. She looked like a daughter of any minor lord, not the bride of a prince.

Her Helaena, on the other hand—Helaena was a true beauty. Her silvery hair shimmered like moonlight, and her violet eyes, so striking, marked her as a daughter of Valyria. There was grace in her awkwardness, innocence in her thoughts. A rare, gentle beauty that most would never understand.

No, Sybilla would never compare. Not in looks, not in breeding, and certainly not in worth.

Just before she reached the threshold of the dining hall, she turned, her eyes cold and full of quiet warning as they landed on Bethany. “You will come to regret rejecting my offer, cousin,” she said smoothly, then swept from the room, her chin held high.

Let her father rage if he must. Let the servants whisper behind. She would not be shamed—not by that woman, not in front of her children, and not in her house.

NO ONE POV

The Red Keep woke quietly under a shroud of mist, the first light of dawn bleeding through the veil of clouds like pale gold across a grey canvas. Dew clung to the cobbled stones of the castle courtyard, glistening like tiny glass pearls, and the distant mountains stood still and watchful beneath a sky slowly brightening with the promise of sun. The castle stirred slowly—maids began kindling fires, stablehands whispered soft commands to restless horses, and the kitchens filled with the scent of warm bread and stewing fruit.

In the great solar, silverware clinked gently against porcelain. The low murmur of conversation filled the chamber where Princess Rhaenyra and her family had gathered for their morning meal. It was peaceful, almost ordinary—a rare quiet in a life too often touched by storms.

But peace is a fragile thing.

A knock came—firm, hurried, too sharp for comfort. The door opened before permission was granted, and Septa Maris, pale and wide-eyed, stepped inside. Her voice trembled, her hands stained with something dark.

“My lady… It’s Lady Bethany. She’s—she’s asking for you. Please… please come quickly,” said the old septa, her voice brittle with urgency as she lingered in the doorway but a breath longer before disappearing down the corridor.

Rhaenyra turned her gaze from the steaming bread on her plate toward her husband and her aunt. The look they exchanged was wordless but clear—they, too, had heard the fear in the woman’s voice, and seen it written in the lines of her weathered face. Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

She rose from her seat, her silk skirts whispering against the stone floor. At that moment, Princess Rhaenyra’s youngest son, Prince Harion, set down his spoon and half-stood from his chair, brows furrowed with concern.

“Mother, I want to come with you,” he said. “I want to see what’s happened.”

But before he could rise fully, it was Prince Daemon who laid a hand upon the boy’s shoulder, firm but not unkind. “No lad,” he said. “You’ve swords to dance with after breakfast. Best let your mother attend to whatever grief this is.”

There was no need to name the dread. It hung in the air like stormclouds before a summer rain—heavy, dark, and full of things that could not be unsaid once spoken. Rhaenyra gave her son a final glance—fond, but distant—as if she already knew the sight she would soon behold would make her heart too raw to hold anything else.

Rhaenyra offered a look to her maid—a flick of the eyes, a sharp tilt of her chin. “Fetch the healers. All of them. Now. Tell them to come armed for blood.”

She did not wait for the girl’s reply. Her feet were already moving, skirts whispering like breathless warnings as she swept through the stone corridors of the eastern wing—the chambers granted to the Hightower-Redwyne brood.

She heard it before she saw the door.
A scream. Not a maiden’s cry or a child’s wail, but something deeper. Raw. Primal. A sound that stripped the marrow from the bones.

Bethany.

Another scream, shriller now, cracking at the end. A sound like something inside her had torn loose.

The hallway was chaos—maids pressed against walls, a pair of young squires paling behind their helms, a knight hammering uselessly at a bolted door, as if steel alone could still the tide of agony spilling from the room.

“Princess Rhaenyra!”

Hobert Hightower surged forward, jostling bodies aside, his fine doublet half-askew and sweat soaking the edges. He dropped to a bow, too fast, too low, as if he could drown in his own desperation. Behind him, the others followed like sheep scenting wolves.

He caught her hand.

The Arryn guards stiffened. One stepped forward, hand brushing the pommel of his sword, but Rhaenyra stilled him with a glance. Her eyes said what her mouth did not: Not here. Not now.

Hobert clutched her fingers as if he feared she might vanish into mist.
“Princess… gods be good, something is wrong with her. With the child,” he choked out, his voice thick with terror. “It’s coming—but too fast, or the wrong way, I don’t know. She's… she’s screaming blood.”

He looked shattered. A man carved hollow by helplessness. The rings on his fingers shook. His mouth opened to speak again, but another cry from beyond the door silenced them all.

Bethany screamed again, louder this time—no longer just pain, but panic. A howl of life slipping between her legs, or death clawing its way out.

One of the healer-women came running, skirts hitched high, hands already stained with someone else’s blood. Rhaenyra didn’t wait.

She brushed past Ser Hobert without a word, her silks whispering in her wake.

Then, from behind her, came the sound of boots—many of them. She turned to find Maester Mellos striding toward her, his chain clinking with each heavy step. Two acolytes followed close behind, pale and sweating, clutching their satchels of tools and tinctures like priests gripping prayer books in a storm.

“Do not let them through,” Rhaenyra commanded, her voice like drawn steel. At once, the knights of House Arryn stepped forward, forming a wall of shields and mail between the maester and the door.

“This is madness,” Mellos barked, his tone sharp with wounded pride. “We came to aid her—Lady Bethany needs us!”

But the princess did not look at him. Her eyes had already found Ser Hobert and Alaric Redwyne, both standing stricken in the chaos. “If you would not see Bethany sliced open like a pig on a butcher’s block,” Rhaenyra said coldly, “keep that old man away from her.”

With that, she stepped through the door, disappearing into the chamber where Bethany screamed, and the scent of blood hung heavy in the air.

The door slammed shut behind them.

The chamber was thick with the stench of blood and something worse—sweet, cloying, unnatural. The air hung heavy, fetid, damp with fever-sweat and rot. Sheets soaked in crimson lay twisted on the floor like shed skins. Bethany writhed atop the mattress, her shift hitched to her hips, soaked through from navel to thigh. Between her legs: a pool of gore and shredded clots, steaming in the morning chill.

“Gods,” whispered one of the younger healers, her voice breaking.

Lady Lynesse clutched her daughter’s hand, weeping openly. Lady Redwyne stood near the bedpost, rigid and pale, mouthing prayers under her breath. Bethany’s head lolled back, teeth bared in pain, and from her throat came a sound more animal than human.

“Water, boil it now!” barked the lead healer, an older woman with a jaw like stone. “And fetch the womb hooks. If the rest of it is still inside her, it must come out before the fever does.”

Two maids scrambled to obey. Another knelt beside the bed, pressing linen to Bethany’s thighs, but it was no use—the blood kept coming. Thicker now. Clotting. Ropy bits of tissue slipping from her body in wet spurts.

“She’s septic,” muttered the second healer grimly. She pressed her fingers against the girl’s belly and winced. “Smell that? Rot. The womb’s turned foul. Gods help her.”

“What caused it?” Rhaenyra asked quietly, her voice taut, eyes locked on Bethany’s pallid face.

The healer pulled back, soaked to the wrist. “She should not have bled like this. Not like this. This isn't nature's work—it's been… hurried. Forced.”

There was a pause. The sound of Bethany’s moans filled the silence.

“She was given something,” the older healer said flatly. “Too much of something. Pennyroyal. Or—” She sniffed the bloodied cloth, nostrils flaring. “Tansy. Seven save us, that reeks of it.”

Lady Redwyne stiffened. “That cannot be. Bethany would never…”

“She may not have known,” Rhaenyra said darkly.

“A dose large enough to thin the womb wall,” the healer continued. “Makes it shed. But the babe doesn't come whole. It tears apart. That’s what you’re seeing.”

Lady Lynesse let out a strangled sob.

Bethany screamed then—a high, keening sound—and arched off the bed. More blood poured out of her. The healers descended like vultures, one pinning her shoulders, another pressing down on her abdomen, the third reaching between her legs with long silver instruments that glinted in the candlelight.

“Hold her still!” the old healer snapped. “We must take what’s left before it poisons her.”

Rhaenyra moved to Bethany’s side, crouching low, brushing sweat-matted hair from her brow. Her voice was low, soothing, utterly unlike the violence spilling below. “You’re not alone, Bethany. Breathe with me. Look at me. You will be fine.”

Bethany whimpered, her eyes glassy with pain.

Behind them, the healer pulled a sliver of bone from the ruin of the womb—tiny, malformed, no larger than a quill-tip. It fell to the basin with a sickening splash.

“The babe’s gone,” the younger healer whispered.

Slowly, Rhaenyra drew Bethany’s trembling form into her arms, mindful not to jostle what little strength remained in her frail limbs. Her skin was cold and clammy, her lips pale and cracking, but Rhaenyra held her as a mother might cradle a dying child.

“I am sorry, dear friend,” she whispered into the girl’s dark hair, her voice soft as wind through graveyard stone. “This was unfortunate.”

Bethany did not answer at once. Her gaze, once dazed from pain and loss, drifted toward the door. Something shifted in her eyes then—something cold and clear and sharp as broken glass.

“This was no miscarriage,” she rasped, voice like rust scraping on iron. “Was no unfortunate.”
Her fingers dug into the mattress, clawing at the soaked linens.
“This was murder.”

The words dropped into the chamber like a blade to flesh.

For a heartbeat, all was still.

The sobs of Lady Lynesse caught in her throat. Lady Redwyne’s hand froze mid-prayer. Even the women bent over bloodied cloths and crimson basins ceased their labor.

No one dared speak.

And while their eyes were fixed on Bethany—on her pain, her rage, her blood—none saw the quiet curl of Rhaenyra’s lips. Faint, fleeting, like a secret kissed into the shadows.

Chapter Text

Two days later

 NO ONE POV

The Sept glowed with solemn light, golden shafts of morning sun breaking through the high stained-glass windows, casting fractured hues upon the floor of polished stone. A hush of incense and candle smoke hung thick in the air, fragrant with myrrh and burning lavender. The great dome above echoed faint murmurs of nobles in fine velvets and embroidered cloaks, most bearing the seven-pointed star somewhere upon their person.

Septon Eustace stood near the altar, murmuring with Lord Hobert Hightower and his kin beneath the flickering light of the candles. At the lord’s side stood Lady Lynesse, his wife, clad in mourning black from throat to hem. The folds of her cloak pooled at her feet like shadow.

Not far from them stood Ser Ormund Hightower, heir to Oldtown, tall and grave, his face unreadable. At his side was his younger sister, Lady Bethany, whom he steadied with one arm. She looked pale as milkglass—whether from exhaustion or the quiet ache of mourning for the babe she had carried, who had not taken shape and was lost before it ever drew breath, none could say for certain.

"Your health is improving, I hope, Lady Bethany?" Septon Eustace asked gently, placing a kindly hand over hers.

Bethany made no reply. She only stared ahead, hollow-eyed and still, as if the weight of her silence had become too great to lift. The septon looked on her with fresh pity. It was Lady Lynesse who spoke in her daughter’s stead. "Bethany’s strength returns, thanks to the healer sent by Princess Rhaenyra," she said. “But... as Your Holiness sees, the sorrow still lingers.”

Septon Eustace inclined his head. “The healer the princess brought—yes, I have heard they are most skilled. It was they who tended Lord Hobert when he fell ill four days past, was it not?”

“Aye,” Lord Hobert said with a nod. “Twice now the princess has saved us.”

“The healers... they were women, were they not?” Septon Eustace asked again, his tone mild.

Lord Hobert gave a short nod in reply.

The septon hummed softly, almost to himself. “First the princess... now these women healers. So much potential, wasted in a woman,” he said, more to the still air than to the Lord of Oldtown, his words drifting like incense smoke—meant to vanish, not be challenged.

They were still exchanging pleasantries with the lords of the Reach—trading idle words with Septon Eustace, offering stiff condolences to Lady Bethany and Lord Alaric—when the great doors swung open. A cold draft seemed to follow, though the day was warm. The Arryns entered, clad head to heel in the somber black of mourning. Their presence drew every gaze in the sept, like a hawk’s shadow falling over a meadow.

“I suppose the rumors of Prince Daemon have at last found a light to burn in are true,” Lord Costayne murmured to Lord Cuy, his voice pitched low but not so low as to hide the relish in it. He cast a glance over his shoulder, eyes glinting as they tracked the Arryns’ slow advance—straight toward the knot of Hightowers and Redwynes standing near the front, close by the pulpit where the septon would speak.

“But why wear black?” murmured Lady Tarly to Lady Tyrell, her fan half-raised to hide the movement of her lips. “They are Arryns now, are they not?”

Their question found its answer soon enough.

Princess Rhaenyra crossed the sept with measured steps, the murmur of the crowd dimming in her wake. She came to stand before Lady Bethany Redwyne, whose face was still drawn and pale, the fragile cast of grief clinging to her like a shroud. The woman’s hands trembled faintly in the princess’s grasp, her body weakened by loss as much as by sorrow.

The Princess bowed her head, her voice low but carrying in the hush between the pillars. “My condolences,” she said, for the life that had been lost two days past—the unborn heir to the Arbor, gone before it had even drawn breath.

Around them, the air seemed to still. A few ladies pressed their lips together, the soft rustle of silks and lace replacing speech, while the men shifted uneasily, their eyes sliding toward the black-clad Arryns who stood nearby. The moment lingered in the air like a held breath—until Prince Harion stepped forward.

The boy carried in his small hands a bundle of white chrysanthemums, their pale heads nodding gently as though bowing in grief. He halted before Lady Bethany, looking up at her with the frankness only a child could possess.

“Lady Bethany,” he began, his voice high and earnest, “Mother said you’re sad ’cause the baby in your belly went up to the skies.”

The hush deepened into true silence. Every pair of eyes in the sept turned openly now, where before they had only stolen glances. Even Bethany Redwyne, dulled and listless in her sorrow, blinked in surprise at the boy’s words. Slowly, almost reluctantly, her pale hands reached out and accepted the flowers.

Seeing his gift taken, Harion’s face lit for a heartbeat. “Me and my siblings picked them,” he went on, glancing back as if to be sure his words were right. “Jace said they mean… um… honoring the hurt and keepin’ on going. I know you’re sad the baby’s gone, but… I hope you can be like the flowers. Still standin’. Still pretty.”

At the boy’s words, Bethany’s fingers tightened around the stems, clutching them as though the blossoms might anchor her against the tide rising in her chest. The tears she had dammed since the day she lost her babe broke free at last. A shudder ran through her slender frame as she bent to gather the small prince into her arms.

“Thank you, Prince Harion,” she whispered, her voice shaking, breath warm against his ear. “You are… very kind.” Her embrace tightened, as though she feared he might slip away like all else she had lost.

The little prince, with all the solemnity a six-year-old could muster, patted her back in small, awkward strokes meant to soothe. Over her shoulder, his round violet eyes lifted to his mother, standing close at Bethany Redwyne’s side. Those wide, round, violet eyes sought Princess Rhaenyra’s as if speaking without words, a silent message carried in the space between their glances—one that only mother and son could understand.

Rhaenyra’s POV

It seemed her husband had spoken true—her youngest son bore a talent for mummery much like her own, a gift for slipping into roles and wearing them as easily as a second skin. The look he turned upon her now, all wide-eyed innocence and deliberate intent, 

Flashback.

The crack of wood striking wood rang in the courtyard, sharp as a raven’s cry. Morning mist still clung to the stones, dampening the air with the smell of wet earth and oiled leather.

She stood upon the balcony with Lucy, Lord Samwell Blackwood, and his little niece, Alysanne Blackwood, watching the morning’s training of their children under her husband’s stern eye. Her gaze drifted to her right—toward where her daughter stood beside young Alysanne.

It seemed the children of House Blackwood possessed some quiet charm, for her own younglings were drawn to them as moths to flame. Yet she found no fault in it; House Blackwood was an ancient and loyal house, their roots as deep as the heart of the Trident. From what she had seen, their offspring were well-mannered and true. Indeed, her oldest—who could read the hearts of men as others might read a book—and her youngest, ever so fastidious in his choice of companions, had both allowed young Benjicot to linger near their sister far more than courtesy strictly required. And Lucrezia too seemed to take a liking to Lord Samwell’s young niece, as if some quiet kinship had bloomed between them in the morning light.

“Learning under Prince Daemon—who would have thought? As Benjicot’s father, I am deeply honored, Princess,” said Lord Samwell, his gaze drifting downward. Instinctively, she followed his eyes.

“Jace. Benjicot.” Daemon’s voice cut across the morning air, calm yet sharp as a drawn blade. “You’re old enough to stop playing at swords. A wooden blade teaches you stance and strike, aye—but it lies to your arms. Steel is another beast. Its weight drags at you, its bite pulls you forward, it punishes the careless.”

He gave a nod, and a waiting squire stepped forth, bearing two blunted blades of true steel. Their edges were dulled, but their heft was honest. The light caught along their length, glinting pale in the morning sun.

“From this day, you’ll wield these,” Daemon said. “Learn their weight. Let them become an extension of your arm. A swordsman who has never felt the drag of steel is no more than a mummer prancing with a stick.”

She told herself she ought not to fret. Her firstborn had been introduced to steel before—on his name day, Daemon and she had placed a sword of his own into his hands, its hilt wrapped in black leather, its pommel chased in silver. Yet then, his sparring had been with seasoned men who knew how to pull their blows, not with boys still finding their balance.

A mother’s worry crept in, unbidden. Steel, even dulled, could break bones, could blood a face. But her husband stood but a few paces away, his pale gaze sharp and watchful. So long as Daemon was there, nothing ill would befall their son.

The boys were at their drills, wooden swords clacking against one another, when her gaze wandered to the youngest. Harion had been wholly intent on battering his poor, long-suffering training dummy only moments ago, but now he stood before his father, chin lifted in defiance.

“I want steel too. I can do it,” the boy declared, stamping his small foot for emphasis, cheeks flushed a bright pink. “I’m strong! Stronger than Benjicot!”

From where she stood, she heard Alysanne lean toward her daughter, whose eyes had yet to leave young Benjicot’s steady form in the yard. “Is your little brother well, princess?”

Her daughter gave a small, knowing smile. “Do not fret. Harion is always like that when he doesn’t get his way. He’ll tire himself out soon enough.”

That, as it turned out, was wishful thinking.

A moment later, her youngest son cast himself upon the ground in a most tragic display, fists and heels drumming the dirt as though he meant to beat it into submission. “Father, I want to train with a real sword! I want to!” he wailed, the sound half battle cry, half wounded pup. She hid her smile behind her hand, though her eyes shone with mirth.

“It would seem,” Lord Samwell began, wearing the sort of polite smile one offers when treading on delicate ground, “that Prince Harion… carries the spirit of Prince Daemon.”

Spirit—a courteous word indeed, she thought, for what might also be called her youngest son’s mischief, which was cut from the very same cloth as his father’s. The likeness between the two was so uncanny that she sometimes wondered if the gods had simply made the boy a smaller, louder copy of Daemon, only wrapped in smaller limbs and softer curls, and sent him back into her arms to vex her anew.

A soft laugh escaped her lips. “What can I say, Lord Samwell? My youngest boy is every inch his father—you see it plainly.” She gave her head a small shake, her gaze drifting downward to where Daemon had set about enforcing discipline. Her youngest stood with his nose nearly brushing the wall, arms folded in stubborn protest. It seemed the punishment was working, for the boy’s grumbles had dwindled to sulky silence, and now and again he dared a glance over his shoulder, casting his father the most pitiful look a six-year-old prince could muster.

As she had suspected, the pleading eyes of her youngest worked their magic swiftly. It was never long before Daemon’s sternness gave way to a sigh. He strode to the boy, his hand sinking into the tumble of soft, dark curls, ruffling them with a casual affection.

“You’ll have your turn, pup,” he said, voice steady as stone. “For now, you keep the wood. Your arms are not yet ready for the weight.”

Harion’s chin lifted, stubborn as any dragonlord’s. “But I am ready!” The boy’s voice trembled between defiance and plea. “I can hold it! I’m strong!”

Daemon bent low until their eyes were level. “Aye, you’re strong,” he allowed. “But strength without patience is a sword without a hilt—it cuts the one who holds it. Your day will come, Harion, and when it does, I’ll be the one to place the steel in your hand.”

The boy scowled, lip thrust forward in wounded pride, but his father only ruffled his hair again, a rare smile tugging at his mouth—the kind of smile Daemon showed only to her and their children. “Now—show me your guard,” he said, a sly glint in his eye. “If it’s good enough, perhaps I’ll let you hack at your brother’s ankles.”

That earned a reluctant laugh from Harion, though his glare still clung like burrs. Jace, for his part, smirked despite himself as he and Benjicot shifted into place, steel blades catching the pale light of morning.

“Good,” Daemon said, stepping back, arms folded. “Now—begin again. Feet steady, eyes sharp. A sword is no toy, and every blow you strike must be worth the breath you spend on it.”

“I never would have thought that Prince Daemon is a devoted father,” said Lord Samwell, causing her to shift her gaze from her youngest child and her husband toward the man, waiting for him to continue.

“I don’t mean any disrespect, Princess. It’s just… hard to imagine someone nicknamed ‘the Rogue’ being a good father. Even a great one,” he said slowly and carefully. It was clear he meant no offense, and there was no malice behind his words.

She smiled and replied, “You don’t have to feel you’ve been disrespectful, Lord Samwell… it’s true that my husband’s reputation is rather…” — she paused briefly, her tone laced with sarcasm for the word “bad” — before smiling again and lowering her gaze, this time focusing on her husband, adding, “However, if you’ve only heard news from the mouths of those who dislike my husband, then of course whatever comes out of their mouths will still be nothing but bad. No matter how good my husband is.”

She didn’t need to say who she meant. Both she and Lord Samwell knew exactly whom she was talking about. Who else, if not Otto Hightower? It was no secret that the man despised her husband. Even before her father became king, that insect already disliked him. Whether it was truly because of her husband’s attitude, or because that insect felt himself superior for having the ear not only of her father but also of her grandfather before him.

She took the wine the servants had set before her. Thinking on those crawling insects was enough to sour her wine. Yet she had not expected the nest of snakes to splinter so quickly. Oh, she had known they were greedy—every last one of them, from the brooding patriarch in his tower to the simpering daughters he sent forth like painted whores to snare power. Never satisfied, never full. But she had thought the unraveling would take longer. She had Alicent and Otto to thank for that. Their vanity was a gift, a shining crack in their armor. They were so swollen with their own self-importance that they never noticed the blade slipping between their ribs.

She could still see it—Bethany, pale and weak from having just disgorged another insect from her womb, yet still mustering herself to rise, only to slap that pious mask from Alicent’s face. The look on the queen consort’s lips—caught between outrage and false concern—was almost enough to make her laugh aloud. Alicent, the fool, had forgotten her own words at that supper, the threat she had let drip from her tongue like rancid oil. Now everyone saw her for what she was, and Bethany’s hand had made it plain.

How sweet it had been to watch them scratch and claw at one another, two hens in the muck. Sweeter still to know that the tansy she carried—the same poison that had stilled her own brothers and sisters in her mother’s womb—had found a new and worthy purpose. It had been meant for another, but fate, it seemed, was a generous ally. And now, with the funeral behind them—one neither Alicent nor her whelps nor even Otto himself dared attend—the strings binding Oldtown to her enemies lay cut. Lord Hobert would not soon forget the insult, nor forgive it.

And as for the babe… she almost pitied it. Almost.
Best you thank me, little one, she thought, with a curl of her lip, for I have spared you the shame of drawing breath in a nest of carrion-eaters. Better the peace of the grave than the stench of your mother’s house. Had you lived, they would have fattened you on lies, dressed you in borrowed finery, paraded you as another pawn in their game. Now you are free of them forever. You should be grateful.

She sipped her wine and let the thought warm her. Mercy, she supposed, took many forms. Hers just happened to taste of tansy and reek of Hightower blood.

Beside her, Lord Samwell took up his own cup and drank, though not deeply, as if the wine might loosen his tongue more than he wished. His eyes found hers at last, hesitant.

“The Red Keep feels… quieter since yesterday, princess,” he said, voice tentative, like a man inching onto thin ice. There was more he wished to say—she could see it in the way his jaw shifted, in the way his gaze slipped from her face to his cup and back again—but he seemed at a loss for how to begin.

The sight of him fumbling so reminded her of little Benjicot—earnest, hesitant, tongue-tied. Perhaps it was something bred into the Blackwood men, this halting manner, as if their words must fight to free themselves from their throats.

Yet words without deeds were wind, and the Blackwoods had never been a house of wind. Their oaths had teeth; their loyalty was not some fickle thing to be traded like coin. For that, she could afford to meet him halfway.

She let her fingers coil around the stem of her goblet, the silver cool against her skin. Slowly, she lifted it, letting the red catch the torchlight before taking a measured sip. Then, lowering her gaze for a heartbeat—just long enough to seem thoughtful, almost somber—she spoke.

“House Hightower has long been close to the crown,” she said softly, as if confiding a sorrow. “With both the queen and the crown prince bearing their blood, it is no surprise the Red Keep should wear mourning when one of that brood is lost… even if the lost one was yet unborn.”

Her tone was slow, deliberate, a mourner’s cadence. One hand idly traced the rim of her cup as her eyes wandered—not to Lord Samwell but to the view beyond, where the city stretched out in a haze of smoke and sun—as though her mind lingered on the memory of poor Bethany.

“And to think,” she went on, almost in a murmur, “how the little thing met its end… no breath drawn, no cry made. There is a cruelty in that, Lord Samwell.”

Lord Samwell regarded her in silence for a moment before clearing his throat.
“I had not thought you so close to Lady Bethany, princess. It seems the tales of your friendship are not mere courtly whispers after all.”

There it was—that flicker of doubt, thinly veiled behind courtesy. Of course, there would be doubt. Only a fool would accept at face value the notion that she and Bethany—Bethany, of all people—were bound by some tender sisterhood. Bethany, born of the same bloodline that had taken not only her mother’s place, but her own. No… no one with half a wit would think such ties came without thorns.

Still, let them doubt. Let them gnaw upon their suspicions in private halls while she smiled sweetly in public. So long as Bethany and her kin swallowed whole the performance of closeness she served them, the rest of the realm’s opinions mattered as little as the buzzing of flies.

“We are not so close as the gossip would claim,” she said, her voice velvet over steel. “But as a mother… and as one who has lost a sibling in the very same manner, how could I not feel for her? Only the unfeeling, the small of heart, could find joy in the suffering of Lady Bethany, Lord Samwell.”

Her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer than was polite, a silent challenge, a quiet weighing. Was he one of those unfeeling souls? Or would he rush to assure her otherwise, eager to stand apart from the monsters she had so deftly conjured in his mind? Either way, she had planted the seed. Seeds always grow, given time and the right soil. The seed seem had taken root swiftly, and now it bloomed for all to see. She could read it plainly in the flush that crept up Lord Samwell’s cheeks, in the way his eyes darted like a boy caught stealing, and in how quickly the apology tumbled from his lips.

“Forgive my impertinence, princess. I did not mean—” He bowed his head low, the words trailing off like smoke in the wind.

Below, the clatter of wooden swords still rang in the yard, yet Lucy and young Alysanne had turned from the sparring to glance curiously at the exchange. She let the silence stretch just long enough to tighten the knot in the lord’s stomach. Then she sighed, soft as a mother chiding a fretful child, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. “No feelings have been wounded, Lord Samwell,” she said, her voice all silk and balm. “Be at ease. After all, your words carried no malice… did they?”

A flicker of doubt passed over his features before he forced the answer. “Of course not, princess,” he murmured.

She smiled, warm and forgiving, though in truth it was the smile of a cat that has found the mouse already limping. Guilt was a fine bridle, and Lord Samwell had slipped it on himself. 

That morning’s training lasted until the sun was high in the sky. Lord Samwell expressed his gratitude to her husband for training his son, and her sons quickly told him that Benjicot could come and train with them anytime — even going so far as to invite the boy to visit them in the Vale.

Her daughter, meanwhile, had grown close to Lord Samwell’s niece and invited the girl to join her and the Strong sisters in making flower crowns for the tourney that would be held in two weeks’ time.

When at last the training ground was emptied of all save her family, she turned to her boys. She reached out and caught her youngest by the cheeks, pinching the soft flesh until it puffed beneath her fingers.

“You truly are—” she began, the words half a scold, half a laugh.

“Mother, it hurts,” Harion protested, though the wide, gap-toothed grin never left his face. That smile, so guileless and full of mischief, drew a sigh from her. She released him only to smooth a hand over the warm curve of his cheek, as if to erase the pinch with a caress.

“I have told you before, sweetling,” she said gently, brushing her fingers through his soft brown curls, “you are not to throw yourself upon the ground like some market urchin whenever your will is thwarted.”

Rather than confess his fault, her youngest only jutted his lower lip in that practiced pout of his, and flung his small arms tight about her waist. “It is because father is unfair, mother,” he declared, stabbing a finger toward his father in childish accusation.

She sighed, smoothing the boy’s dark hair with her hand, and gently lowered the accusing finger. “I have told you before, sweetling, it ill becomes you to point at others so. It is not courteous, dārilaros,” she chided softly, her voice more tender than stern.

Harion’s lip trembled all the more, his pout deepening like a storm cloud, but after a moment, he whispered a halting, “I am sorry.”

She could only shake her head and press a kiss to his brow. The boy’s pout melted at once into a broad smile, as if the soft brush of her lips had banished all guilt and forgiven every mischief. Harion, her youngest, ever quick to seize a victory, wasted no time in turning the moment into charm.

“My muña is so very fair. Where are you going, mommy?” he asked, his grin wide as the skies.

From behind him came the whisper of his elder brothers, Jace and Lucy, in perfect unison. “Spoiled brat,” they muttered, though there was no venom in it, only the rough teasing of siblings bound in blood and laughter.

“Let me be,” Harion shot back, sticking out his tongue, earning an exaggerated roll of the eyes from Jace and Lucy alike. She and Daemon shared a small laugh at their children’s play, the sound of it warming the stone hall better than any fire.

Her hand moved of its own accord, brushing the dust from her sons’ tunics, one after the other, as she had done since they were small. Gods, they grow so swiftly, she thought, and yet in such small gestures they were still her little boys. “I am bound for the gardens,” she told Harion, “to gather flowers with your sister, that we might bring them as a gift.”

“Flowers? For whom? For Benji, perhaps?” the boy asked, his innocence cutting through the air like a bell. At once, her elder children fell silent, brows arched in wonder at the question. Harion, realizing the weight of their gazes, only laughed and added, “Well, if Lucy goes with you, then surely the flowers must be for Benji, since she likes him so.”

Lucy’s cheeks flushed as she snapped, her voice thin with embarrassment.
“I hold no such feelings for Benjicot,” she declared, the words firmer than the pink in her face betrayed. “And stop calling him Benji. His name is Benjicot.”

But the protest only roused her youngest to mischief. The boy grinned, wicked as only a brother could be, and pressed on. “Benjicot, eh?” he drawled, mimicking her. “Strange then, for I’ve heard you chirping ‘Benji, Benji’ since yestermorn. You sound just like Father begging Mother for a kiss.”

The child puckered his lips with an exaggerated smacking sound, arms wrapping about his own shoulders as he rocked back and forth like two lovers locked in tender embrace. 

Lucy’s blush deepened, pink fading into a furious red, bright as the fruit that hung in Highgarden’s orchards. She stammered, caught between indignation and shame, her hands clenched at her skirts. She could see how her husband struggled to stifle his laughter, while her eldest merely grinned, unwilling to wound his sister’s pride—or add to her blush—by joining in the mirth. “You—!” was all her daughter managed, her tongue tied by the weight of her own humiliation. Unable to endure her younger brother’s antics any longer, Lucy turned to her.

“Muña… tell Harion to stop.”

Seeing the tears that began to well in her daughter’s eyes, she let out a weary sigh and seized her youngest by his ear.
“Ow, Mother, that hurts!” Harion protested, wriggling against her fingers.

“What you have just done is most improper,” she scolded, sharper now than before. “And how many times have I told you not to jest so cruelly?”

Her tone held no malice, only the firmness of a mother who wished to be heeded. She wanted her youngest to understand the fault in his actions, and she wanted all her children to see that her love and discipline fell upon them equally—no more to one, no less to another.

She would not allow bitterness to take root between them. She longed for their bond to be stronger than the brittle ties that had marred both her father and her husband. One day, she and Daemon would draw their last breath, and when that day came, she did not want her children turning their backs upon one another. She knew too well what it was to stand alone in the world. Daemon knew it too. A Targaryen alone is a terrible thing, and she would not—must not—let her children suffer the same fate.

Harion, seeing the sternness in her face and the firmness in her voice, turned his gaze toward his sister. When he finally realized his jest had gone too far, he lowered his eyes and whispered, “Forgive me, Lucy. I did not mean it.” His voice was small, trembling, and at last tears spilled down his cheeks.

The anger that had burned so hotly in her daughter’s face faded in an instant, replaced by panic. Without hesitation, she went to him, gathering her younger brother in her arms. She held him close, letting the boy weep against her chest. His sobs came sharp and broken, his apologies spilling out again and again, until Lucy at last soothed him into calm.

Seeing her children make peace, she decided to invite Jace and Harion to join her, Lucy, and their little adventure. After all, just like Lucy, it was the first time her two sons had seen the garden where she had grown up. She wanted to show them her favorite spots from childhood—the hidden corners she had cherished, and the place where she used to spend hours with their grandmother, back when her mother still lived. Judging by the expression on her husband’s face, it seemed Daemon, too, wished to follow along.

They walked hand in hand, Daemon leading with Lucy and Jace beside him, while she trailed just behind with Harion at her side. “Mommy… I’m truly sorry. I never meant to be a naughty child,” he whispered softly, his small fingers nervously toying with the hem of his tunic.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she whispered, halting her steps. She lowered herself until her eyes met his, kneeling so that the world shrank to just the two of them. There was something he held back, some shadow flitting behind those tearful eyes. Harion was ever a mischievous child, ever quick with pranks and jests, yet today there was a sharpness to it, something ill-fitted, something that rang false. Even his tantrum earlier had carried a weight unlike his usual mischief.

She reached for him, gently brushing her hand along his small fingers, still busy with the hem of his tunic. With soft insistence, she stilled them, drew his hand to her lips, and kissed each little finger as though by touch she might soothe what ailed him. “What is it, hm? Tell Mother what troubles you.”

At her words, his lips trembled. His small chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, and tears welled again until they spilled down his flushed cheeks. He swallowed, his voice breaking as though the words themselves pained him.

“I did not mean to be a bad boy,” he sobbed. “I swear it. I only… I only felt Father does not love me, and that is why—”

Her heart broke with the sound of it. “Oh, sweet boy… why would you think such a thing?” She brushed away the wetness of his tears with her thumb, her own eyes glistening now. His words rang false to every truth she knew. Daemon loved their children—fiercely, wholly. Of them all, it was Harion he guarded most, for in him Daemon saw too much of himself: the temper, the spark, the restless spirit.

Yet she knew to deny his fear outright would do no good. To merely say it is not so would leave the wound festering, unseen, untended. Better to draw the poison to the surface, to uncover where such a cruel thought had taken root. Only then could it be cleansed.

So she held him closer, kissed his damp cheeks, and waited, heart steady, voice soft as she coaxed him toward the truth he had buried.

“Well… isn’t it clear, Father doesn’t love me the way he does Jace and Lucy, because my hair is brown?” Harion’s words fell softly, yet to Rhaenyra they struck like a blade.

Her heart lurched, thundering against her ribs, and with it came the shadows she thought long buried. The dream she had not suffered in moons clawed its way back—their screams, her children’s screams. In an instant, the gentle sounds of the garden vanished: the rustle of leaves, the chirping of sparrows, even Harion’s voice faded into nothing. All that remained was the echo of agony, the wailing of children torn from her arms, the shrieks of little ones in torment.

Jace and Visery’s voices, crying for her. Little Aegon weeping. Joff, crushed, called her name. Luke’s scream, torn away on the wind.

Her breath came shallow and ragged. The walls seemed to close in, the air thick, suffocating. She clawed at her own chest as though she might tear the pain out, but it only tightened, coiled, squeezing her ribs like a serpent.

Not real. Not real. They are here. They are safe. They are alive.

Yet the screams drowned every thought, each louder than the last, until it was all she knew.

Her knees weakened, her body trembling. She wanted to speak, but her tongue was stone, her lips would not form the words.

And then—warmth. Arms about her. Harion’s.

She felt him press close, small and desperate, holding her as though he might anchor her back to the waking world. Slowly, through the veil of terror, the screams receded, replaced by the boy’s heartbeat drumming against her.

“Mommy…” Harion’s voice was but a whisper, trembling like a leaf in the wind. She could feel the quickened breath against her chest, the small hands clutching at her gown, shaking. Gently, she returned his embrace, holding him close.

Beyond her son’s head, she glimpsed Daemon’s face, pale with worry, and the two elder children hurrying toward her with fear in their eyes. A small motion of her hand—raised, palm outward—stayed them where they stood.

“I am well, Harion. Truly, I am,” she murmured, her lips brushing his hair with a kiss. The scent of sun and grass lingered there, sweet and alive. The dream is not the truth, she told herself, firm as steel. The future has changed. Whatever horrors haunted her sleep belonged to another world, another time. Here her children lived, breathing, growing, safe in her arms—and so it would remain, so long as she still drew breath.

She drew back enough to look upon him, her violet eyes meeting the boy’s own, so like her own reflection. “Harion… both your father and I love you dearly,” she said, her voice steady now. “It does not matter if your hair is brown or silver.” She kissed the crown of his head. “It does not matter if your eyes are brown or purple.” She kissed each eyelid in turn. “Nor does the color of your skin matter.” She pressed her lips against his small hand. “You are ours, and you are loved, always. Your father forbids you steel not because he withholds from you, but because he fears for you, fears that harm might come to the boy he cherishes.”

She saw then the flicker of understanding dawn across her son’s tear-stained face, softening his fear. So she leaned close, her lips near his ear, her voice but a secret between the two of them. “Yet I will tell you something, a secret for you alone. Your father has already had a dagger forged of steel for you. He means to gift it to you on your nameday.”

Harion’s eyes widened, wet with wonder, and his mouth curved into the brightest of smiles. “Truly?”

“Truly,” she whispered, nodding with a smile of her own.

She rose then, gathering Harion’s small hand into her own, and together they walked slowly across the garden paths toward Daemon and her other children who waited beneath the boughs of an old elm. The boy’s fingers were warm in her grasp, yet he glanced back at her again and again, worry flickering like a shadow across his face. When his gaze shifted toward Jace and Lucy, it softened, though there lingered a melancholy there—drawn by the silver hair that crowned his brother and sister.

“And what is the difference, truly, between silver hair and brown, my sweet?” she asked him gently. “You and your siblings are alike in the only way that matters—you are each precious to your father and me.”

For a time, he said nothing, and the sound of the leaves stirring filled the quiet between them. At last his voice came, soft and halting. “Because… all the heroes in the histories have hair like Jace and Lucy. But none of them look like me.”

Ah, she thought, her heart tightening. So there lies the root of it.

“Is that so?” she said, tilting her head with a small chuckle, hoping to lift his spirits. “Well, your mother has read of many heroes with hair like yours, my love.”

He gave a little shake of his head, his mouth turned down. “Aye, but they were only common men, easy to forget. They were not Targaryens. They were not heroes with dragons. All the dragonlords had hair like Jace and Lucy. I am glad my hair is like Nanna Manda’s, truly I am. But… but—”

He did not need to finish. She heard the hurt that lingered in the silence, and it pierced her deeper than any blade. She looked at him then, truly looked, her little Harion with his wide, earnest eyes. Her precious son, who only wished to be remembered, to be seen, to be counted a hero in his own right.

For a moment, she could only hold his hand in silence before she bent close to whisper, “Do you know, my love… your mother once knew of a Targaryen hero who had hair like yours.”

Harion’s head snapped toward her, his eyes glimmering bright as amethysts. “Truly? Tell me! Who was he?” The sorrow on his face was already beginning to fade, replaced by the spark of hope.

She nodded, stroking a stray lock of his brown hair between her fingers. “Truly. His hair was just like yours, and he was bound to a young dragon, as you are with Tyraxes.”

“What did he do, Mother?” the boy asked eagerly. “Was he a conqueror, like King Aegon? Or a wise king, like Jaehaerys? Or… cruel, like Maegor?”

She gazed at him, her sweet brown-haired boy, and for an instant, Harion was gone. In his place, she saw another—a child of eleven, bold beyond his years, reckless in his courage, ready to throw his life away for some hollow proof no one had asked of him. She saw Joffrey.

Her lips curved into a smile that trembled at its edges, and she reached up to toy with the softness of Harion’s hair, as if by touch she might anchor herself to the present. “He was the bravest of them all,” she whispered, “for he faced wicked men who sought to slay the dragons.”

At once, Harion’s eyes lit bright as polished amethysts. “Truly? Who was he? Tell me his name!”

“His name,” she said, voice low and almost breaking, “was Joffrey.”

“Joffrey? Like Ser Lonmouth?” Harion asked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

She gave a small nod.

“A queer name for a Targaryen,” the boy mused, and the innocence in his tone made her laugh despite the ache in her chest.

“Aye,” she said softly, shaking her head. “I thought the same. Yet Joffrey was a true hero. When he heard of danger, he rushed to meet it—even knowing his strength was small, even knowing the odds were cruelly stacked against him.” The words came slower now, thick with memory, her voice a prayer and a lament both.

“And did he win, Mother?” Harion pressed, eager still, his small hand tightening around hers. “Did he defeat the wicked men?”

Her steps faltered. The garden seemed to darken about her, the laughter of the elder children ahead fading into silence. She turned to look upon Harion’s eager face—and saw not her son, but another. A pale boy slipping from Syrax’s back, his body broken and torn by a ravenous mob, his eyes wide and glassy as the last breath left him.

She forced her lips into a smile, though her voice trembled when she whispered, “He won, and he came back to his mother’s arms.” The words made little Harion’s face shine brighter, his eyes alight as if touched by some secret flame.

“Then I wish to be like Joffrey too,” he declared, chest swelling with a boy’s pride. “I will be brave, just as he was. I will prove it, Mother.”

Her throat closed, a fist tightening around her words. She longed to forbid him, to clutch him close and bind him to her side where no sword nor spear could reach. But when she looked into that eager face, so open, so certain, her tongue betrayed her. Only a nod came, small and frail, as though her body itself had surrendered.

At last, she found her voice, softer now, a plea woven into gentleness. “Then, my little hero… before you prove yourself to the world, might you help your mother first, hm?”

The boy’s laughter rang like bells in the garden, unburdened by the shadows that clung to her heart. He nodded with eager vigor, as if he had already conquered a kingdom. And she, watching him, felt her soul split in two—one half yearning to believe in his bright dreams, the other drowning in the dread that all her children’s dreams would end in ashes.

Flashback end.

After Harion placed the flowers in Bethany’s hands, the boy looked up at her, his violet eyes bright with anticipation. She could read his thoughts as plainly as if he had spoken them aloud—Did I do well? Did I complete my mission as you wished, Mother? A smile touched her lips, and she gave him the faintest of nods. That was enough for the boy; his shoulders straightened, pride blooming in him like the very blossoms he had delivered.

The worship passed as worship always did. Septon Eustace stood tall in his white robes, droning on about love and mercy, about piety and the Seven’s boundless grace. Words, nothing more. Words she had heard a hundred times before, and each time they rang more hollow. Love, he spoke of, yet he would walk past a beggar child with eyes of hunger. Mercy, he preached, yet his hands were never stained with the blood of the innocent he had condemned with a nod. His voice was steady, his manner righteous, yet every syllable stank of hypocrisy. Listening to him made her gut twist, bile rising sharp in her throat. She longed to spit, to laugh, to rise and denounce him before all.

But she did not. She endured. She had endured far worse. If she could keep her hands still and her tongue quiet for more than ten long years whilst Otto Hightower and his ilk lived on in their treachery, then surely she could suffer the droning sermon of a false septon for less than an hour.

When the last prayer was mumbled, the hall dissolved into its customary hum of voices. Nobles drifted into their little clusters, gossiping and smiling as if nothing in the world were amiss. She saw Daemon speaking with their sons, Jace and Harion, Lord Bessbury at his side, his brood gathered about him. Lucy had gone to her aunt, and the pair were surrounded by eager septons and septas praising her daughter’s harp-playing during the sermon.

Only she remained seated in her place, the candles guttering low before her. Only she and Bethany.

“Are you certain you are well?” She asked, her voice low, careful. There was no one close enough to hear, no hungry ears within reach; She had chosen their place wisely, far to the front of the sept. Still, the question came soft, as one might speak to a bird perched warily on one’s hand.

Bethany did not answer at once. She turned the flowers Harion had given her between her fingers, the white blooms bending beneath her touch. When at last she spoke, her voice was scarcely more than a breath. “They say I will bear no more children.” A pause, a faint, bitter smile tugging at her lips. “They said a piece of my womb was torn away that day. That it came out of me along with the babe.” Her laugh was dry and brittle as old parchment, a sound without joy.

Her fingers tightened around the stems until they bit into her skin. And she saw the tremor in Bethany’s hand, saw the bloom crushed between her fingers. A bead of scarlet welled up on the white petal where the thorn cut her flesh. Red upon white, a stain that spread slowly, inexorably.

Swiftly, she caught her hand, wrapping it in the square of linen he carried, as though to bind her sorrow. “Even in your despair, even when death’s whisper seems the kinder path, you must not falter,” she murmured, low and earnest. “Sibylla still needs you. You and I both know too well what fate awaits daughters in this world. A girl bereft of her mother seldom lingers long before cruel hands find her.”

Her words were balm and barb alike. Bethany must not break—her strength, her anger, were the very fire she needed stoked. She clasped her hand more tightly, forcing Bethany’s eyes to hers.

“If they dared to do this to you—a Redwyne, a Hightower, a woman with kin and banners at her back—think, Bethany… think of what they would do to your daughter, a girl, who has no such shield. You must find your strength again. If not for yourself, then for Sibylla. For the child they stole from you.”

Bethany’s weary gaze hardened, grief cooling into something colder, sharper.
“For Sibylla,” she whispered, voice trembling.

“For Sibylla,” she echoed, as though sealing a vow—though in truth it was her own designs that glimmered behind the comfort of her smile.

Larys’s POV

When he opened his eyes, there was nothing. Only darkness, thick and absolute. His wrists were bound behind his back, the ropes drawn so tight he felt the flesh swell against them. His ankles too—crossed cruelly, lashed until the blood within them slowed to a dull throb. A cloth covered more than his eyes; it gagged his mouth as well. The rag scraped at his lips until they were raw. It reeked of old sweat, of grease and spit, as if pressed upon a dozen mouths before his own.

If he must name it, he would call it what it was—abduction. But by whose hand? If he were to wager, he would put his coin upon the lord hand and the queen consort. He knew too much of them both. Too many whispered secrets, too many small betrayals.

Fool.

He should have known they would move against him sooner or later. He had not thought it would be now. Not this swiftly.

Footfalls came to him by degrees, like rain far off, then nearer—the soft slap of leather on stone, the murmur of voices slipping around the edges of his hearing. He strained for words, for names, for any thread he might seize and pull, but another sound smothered all the rest; the slow rasp of steel upon stone.

Whet…draw…whet…draw.

Patient, unhurried, merciless. Each stroke set his teeth to aching beneath the gag. He tasted old cloth and copper, and felt his heart beating against the ropes as if it meant to saw itself free.

He held himself still. He must. Panic skittered up his ribs like rats, claws clicking, but he caged it with breath that came thin and careful through his nose. Think. Think. Find where you are.

And he knew.

He knew by the taste of the air—stale, close, heavy with damp. All hidden places smelled so. He had learned that long ago in Harrenhal, when the fires blackened the stones and left only wet tunnels to creep through beneath the ruin. And later in the Red Keep, where he walked the secret ways like a lord in his own hall.

This place…yes, he knew it well.

Beneath the keep. Deep, where no sun could ever reach, where a man’s bones would never find warmth.

Curses. If he were truly here, then it could mean only one thing: the Hand of the King and the queen consort had contrived his capture. Who else but those two wretches—and himself, and the old witch—knew of these passages? Seven hells. And if it was indeed the lord Hand and his pious whore of a queen who had dragged him here, then the game was lost. Negotiation would buy him nothing. Their purpose would be plain as day: to still his tongue, and forever.

Would they set the witch upon him, to work his foul arts and end him, as he had ended Aegon’s mongrel spawn before? Would his flesh blister and melt in the dark, nameless and forgotten?

Seven hells. Seven bloody hells.

If he had known death waited so near, he might have demanded more than a glimpse of that cow’s feet. Her cunt, perhaps. Yet what use was there in gazing on a cunt long plundered by an old man, stretched to ruin by four whelps clawing their way from her belly? Loose as any whore’s in the stews, no doubt. Not fit for a lord’s eye, let alone his seed. He swore then—swore that if he somehow crawled from this black pit alive, he would—

The thought unraveled when fingers found his jaw, hard and sudden.

And the gag tore free.

Air scoured his lips. He sucked it greedily, rasping, though some dim corner of his cunning hissed at him to be still. To wait. To listen.
But rage welled hotter than reason.
“Lord hand,” he spat hoarsely, voice raw. “Lord Otto—I swear, I have ever been your man, and yet you dare betray—”

The rest choked in his throat—
For in that instant, he realized whose hand held him fast.

The hand that clamped his jaw was not the hand of an old man. Fingers pressed cruelly into his cheeks, prying his mouth wide, nails slicing cruel crescents into his flesh. They were too small, too slender—sharp as talons, the nails blackened, ridged like the claws of some carrion bird. No man’s hand had ever felt thus.

A woman’s.

The queen consort? For a heartbeat, he dared to think it— No. No, impossible. Alicent Hightower—that righteous whore who cloaked herself in piety—would never stoop so low. She loathed him too deeply to lay a finger upon him. Her hands were for prayer, for parading her virtue, not for blood nor filth. Not for him. She fancied herself too pure, too untouchable, to ever sully those holy fingers with the flesh of the men she despised.

He knew the touch of her hand, the soft curve of her palm, the faint perfume of her skin. He had kissed that hand before, bent his neck to it.

This was not hers.

This hand stank of something else. Not roses, nor septa’s oils, but mint, and a sweetness that has gone sour. He did not know the scent, yet some part of him recoiled in recognition, as if his flesh remembered what his mind could not.

Familiar, but,

Who?

The silence of the figure before him was no mercy. It pressed down heavier than words, heavier than the hand at his throat. His lips trembled, torn and raw, struggling to form speech. Pain lanced through him each time he forced them apart, yet still he tried—desperate, pleading, half-choked.

But before sound could escape, a liquid forced its way past his teeth. Bitter. Metallic. A reek of rust and rot, of grave soil long turned. It spilled hot into his mouth, thick and vile. He gagged, tried to spit, but a rag bound tight over his lips smothered the attempt, pressing the foulness deeper. He had no choice but to swallow.

Poison. His mind screamed it, as certain as a man seeing his own doom. Poison, and he would die here on the floor, nameless and forgotten.

Yet no sweet black of death came to claim him. Instead, his tongue curdled thick and sluggish, each muscle seizing, refusing to shape a sound. His body dulled, as if flesh and bone had turned to stone. A cruel weight pressed down from within, an iron hold that shackled every limb.

Yes, his wrists and ankles had been bound from the start, rope biting skin, but this was worse—far worse. This was not a restraint of rope. This was a command of flesh itself, his own body betraying him, refusing him. He strained, willed his fingers to twitch, his legs to kick, his chest to heave, but nothing. His limbs lay dead upon the floor, while his heart hammered faster, faster, trapped in its cage of bone.

He still fought to move, to stir even a finger, though his body betrayed him at every command. Then the figure before him spoke at last.

“There is no use writhing like a worm in the dirt. Your body will heed you again only when the willowshade has run its course.”

He knew the voice at once. There was no mistaking that tone, that lofty disdain—sharp as a blade, and twice as cruel. And when the cloth was torn from his eyes, she was there, seated before him, calm as if she presided over some private court.

Princess Rhaenyra.

He had scarcely gathered his wits, scarcely stitched together thought from the black tangle of fear, when she spoke again. Her voice was soft, too soft, like silk wound tight around a strangling cord.

“Do you like my little surprise?” she asked, smiling as if they were old friends at supper. “I chose this place with care… for I knew you were familiar with it.” Her hands unfurled, pale as snow in winter, gesturing to the narrow halls about them. Passages black as pitch, secret ways that had once been his refuge, his hidden kingdom. Now they seemed to mock him, closing in like the ribs of some great beast, eager to swallow him whole.

The weight of the dark pressed on his chest. He felt the walls leaning closer, stone breathing like a living thing.

Only that sound would crawl from his throat, a wet and broken groan, as if his tongue had turned to lead. Words, once his sharpest weapon, lay useless in his mouth, dulled and deadened by whatever poison she had slipped into him.

He tried to form a plea, a bargain, anything—but only those low, pitiful moans betrayed him.

What sin had warranted this? Truly? He had watched her, aye, spied upon her, whispered of her bastard whelp to those who paid for such whispers… but was that not his trade? He served the Hand, the queen consort; he merely bent his ear to their command. Was that enough to damn him? To strip him of breath and blood?

Seven hells, if only he could speak—if only his tongue would obey—perhaps he might make her hear. He had turned men before, swayed them, coiled lies into truths until they believed. Yet now, bound and gagged, his throat clogged with mewling sounds fit only for a dying beast, he could do naught but choke on despair.

She must have read it in his eyes, his silent begging, for after a time, the princess reached forward and pulled the cloth from his mouth. Relief rushed hot in his chest, yet when he sought to shape a word, his tongue still lagged, thick and useless. All that came were more groans, slurred and shameful.

Still, he clung to hope. Rhaenyra, the merciful. Rhaenyra, the kind. The tales told as much, and if tales held any truth, perhaps—

But hope is a cruel jape. It came quick and left quicker, for she leaned down, so near he could taste the warmth of her breath, and whispered, soft as silk:

“Do not mistake me, Lord Larys. I keep you breathing only because I like the sound you make. The helpless ones, the broken ones… their whimpers are sweet to me. Like music.”

And she smiled. Gods, how she smiled.

It was then he saw. 

He had thought her soft. A woman, gilded and perfumed, smiling too sweetly with lips that promised honey and never steel. For years, he told himself so—he wanted to believe it. Safer that way. A harmless creature, weighed down by silks and jewels, not claws and fangs.

But when her eyes found him in that choking dark, he saw. Seven save him, he saw.

The smile on her lips was not kindness—it was the curve of a blade catching lamplight. And in that instant, he knew: he was no spider here, no whisperer pulling strings in shadow. He was a fly, legs trembling, caught fast in her web.

How had he missed it? The way she watched him—not like a woman studies a man, but the way a falcon studies a hare, the way a dragon studies ash and bone before it breathes. All these years, he had thought himself clever, thought himself the hunter moving unseen. But her gaze stripped him bare, flayed him, showed him what he truly was.

Prey.

The air thickened in his lungs, heavy as grave soil. She smiled still, that gentle smile, but now he could see it for what it was—the smile of a beast before it fed.

From behind the Princess came a man. Not Prince Daemon—he knew the prince’s step, his scent, his shadow. This one was no dragonlord, but something baser. The man bore a knife, long and heavy, the kind butchers used in the Shambles when they carved swine. The sight of it struck him colder than the damp stone at his back. So this, then. This was the blade he had heard singing on the whetstone, the rasp that had gnawed at his teeth.

Would they use it to take his life? End it here, in the dark, with swine’s steel meant for slop and entrails?

The answer came cruelly soon.

The knife kissed his leg—not the twisted clubfoot, but the other, the good one, the limb that had carried him all his life when the other faltered. The touch was almost gentle at first, a pressing cold along his shin. But then the weight bore down, and the steel bit. His scream died in his throat, strangled into a wet croak, while pain lit him like fire.

The stiffness the poison had left in his body began to melt, but not into freedom. Into agony.

The butcher’s strokes were steady, practiced, each drag of the knife deliberate as though he were carving meat for a feast. Flesh parted beneath the steel, trembling against the pull. The sound was the worst of it—wet and fibrous, each saw of the blade not unlike the tearing of cooked mutton from the bone. His ears rang with it. The world was the sound.

Every shift of the knife sent jolts of raw lightning coursing up his body. It gnawed at him, bit into him, chewed him like some great dog worrying a bone. His throat convulsed with broken sounds, sobs too cracked to be called words, pitiful groans fit only for beasts in snares.

And gods help him—he saw. He saw his own flesh give way, saw the red gape where skin and sinew came apart, saw the white splinter of bone glisten wetly in the torchlight. His own body, unmade before his eyes.

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision. Two more men approached, each bearing irons glowing the color of sunset. Red-hot, hissing, alive with heat. His heart battered itself against his ribs, desperate to flee, but his body betrayed him, stone-still save for the trembling in his jaw.

No, he tried to say, but what spilled past his lips was only a broken wail.

The irons came down, hissing as they kissed the open wound. The stench hit him first—burnt flesh, his flesh, a smell thick and greasy, clinging to the throat. Then the pain struck, far beyond the knife, far beyond any torment he had known. It was as though his very marrow screamed, the fire sinking deep into places steel could never reach.

The world went black at the edges, merciful, beckoning. He prayed for it—Seven, let me sink, let me be gone.

But before the dark could take him, she leaned close. The princess. Rhaenyra. Her voice came soft as a lullaby, sweet as milk… and crueler than any blade. “Do not fear, Larys,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear. “I will not let you die. We would not want House Strong to grieve the loss of their so precious son.”

When his eyes fluttered open, the world swam in shadow and smoke. He was no longer bound, no iron biting into his wrists, no ropes digging into his ankles. His body answered his call—slowly, sluggishly, like some half-dead beast dragged from the mud. Pain lived in every fiber of him, a dull ache thrumming beneath his skin, yet there was movement, however small.

For a moment, hope kindled. But when true clarity came, it turned to ash.

He lowered his gaze.

What he saw was not a whole body. His leg—gone. His hands—gone. Carved away as if by some butcher’s cleaver.

A wheeze crawled up his throat, a sickly rattle. He would have prayed it was some fever-dream, but the sight that awaited him was crueler than any dream. Where flesh had been severed, there was no bleeding stump, no gaping maw of torn muscle and vein. Instead, the wounds were sealed, cauterized by fire and iron.

The skin was blackened, cracked, and oozing with fat that had boiled beneath. The stench was thick—burnt pork, foul and sweet, clinging to his nostrils until he gagged on it. He could see where the hot iron had kissed him; the edges of the wounds were ridged and puckered, curling inward like the skin of an overcooked roast. Each seam gleamed wet, slick with pus and blood that had wept but could not flow.

He tried to flex what was no longer there. His thoughts reached for fingers, for toes, for the phantom memory of a grip, and instead he felt nothing but hollow absence. 

He had not expected tears. Hot and shameful, they slipped down his cheeks unbidden, dripping into the dirt. A broken sob escaped his lips, low at first, then rising into a pitiful keening he could not master. He wept like a beaten child, choking on his own misery, until the sound of laughter cut him sharper than any blade.

A laugh—low, cruel, mirthless.

When he raised his head, she was still there. The whore. The Harlot of Vale. No, worse—Rhaenyra Targaryen, dragonspawn and wanton, her eyes bright with mockery. She was watching him unravel, savoring every moment, her smile curving like a knife drawn slowly across tender flesh. Gods, why would she not leave? Why did she linger only to see him broken?

She drifted closer, her steps soft as a cat’s, deliberate, savoring his humiliation. When she stopped, it was beside his malformed right leg. Her shadow fell over him as she looked down, her gaze lingering on the twisted limb that had been his curse since birth.

“Do not be so dramatic,” she murmured, her voice dripping with derision. “You should manage well enough. After all… You were born with a limb already lost, were you not? Losing a few more will not be much trouble.”

Her words were a blade thrust into the hollow of his soul. He felt them pierce, twist, and linger. His malformed leg—the mockery of gods, the burden he had carried since the moment of his first breath—was reduced now to her jest.

He wanted to scream at her, to curse her, to spit his venom into her face, but the words clotted in his throat. Instead, he lay there, shaking, the stink of his charred flesh rising into his nostrils, bitter as ashes. The pain in his leg roared like wildfire, yet deeper still was the pain her words had woken.

“Please…” At last, his tongue loosened, thick and clumsy, but able to form words. “Please, kill me. I cannot live like this. I cannot look upon myself like this.” The words fell from him in a broken whisper, ragged with despair.

Summoning the last dregs of his strength, he writhed across the floor, dragging his mutilated body like some half-crushed worm. Every movement tore fire through him. When he pulled, the raw stumps shrieked against the cold stone, and pain flared so sharp it stole the breath from his lungs. It was not merely ache—it was a thousand knives digging at once, the ghost of his missing limbs clawing at him. His burned flesh, seared shut by hot iron, scraped and snagged with each drag, sticky and wet, as though he left behind not steps, but smears of himself. 

Inch by inch, he drew closer to her feet, his breath hitching, his tears streaking down his filth-caked cheeks. He pressed his ruined body nearer, as if the touch of her shadow alone might grant him mercy. Perhaps pity would stir in her black heart. Perhaps she would grant him the gift of a swift death. Better the grave than this. Better the Stranger’s hand than a life lived in shame, deeper still.

For a moment, he thought he saw it—a flicker, a change in her face. Did his plea strike true? Would she end it? Would she give him peace? His heart thundered, wild with the desperate hope of release. If she killed him, he swore by every god and every hell he would wait for her in the shadows of the afterlife. He would find her, even in the blackest pit of the Seven Hells, and sink his teeth into her soul as she had sunk hers into his flesh.

“You do not wish to see yourself like this?” she asked at last. Her tone was solemn, but he saw the curl at the corner of her lips, the faint, cruel glimmer in her eyes. To her, his begging was not a tragedy but a sport. A crippled spider reduced to whimpering, a spectacle to be savored.

Shame seared through him, hotter than the iron that had charred his stumps, yet he swallowed it down. He had no dignity left to protect. Pride was a luxury of the whole. “Yes,” he croaked. He nodded, pitiful. Better to die than to crawl. One malformed foot had been cursed enough, a lifetime of mockery and whispered laughter. But now? Now, with his hands and legs butchered away? What was left of him? Better death, sweeter death, than this.

Her eyes lingered on him a heartbeat longer, then she gave a soft sigh. “Very well. I shall grant your wish.”

And then—darkness.

NO ONE POV

The morning crept slowly into The Arryn's chambers, sunlight spilling pale and golden across tangled sheets. Daemon lay half-propped upon one elbow, his silver hair tousled, his eyes fixed with wolfish devotion upon the woman beside him.

“You are unfair, wife,” he murmured, voice low and amused.

Rhaenyra’s lids were heavy with sleep, her hair a silken storm about her face. “Unfair?” she echoed, smiling faintly as she pulled the furs higher.

“Mm,” Daemon traced the curve of her jaw with idle fingers. “To look thus — flushed, drowsy, wholly unguarded — and still be lovelier than all the painted maidens of the realm. Even in sleep, you contrive to shame them.”

Her laugh was soft, muffled against his shoulder. “Your tongue is as silver as your hair.”

Between them, the weight of children pressed close, three bodies curled in dreams. Jace lay nearest Daemon, his silver head upon his arm, while Lucy’s breath came soft and even at Rhaenyra's side. And Harion nestled between, tiny fingers tangled in the blankets. For a moment, the world seemed narrowed to this bed, this family, the quiet rhythm of their lives.

The spell was broken by a sudden rap upon the chamber door.

“My prince, my princess,” called Ser Lorent Marbrand, his voice muffled but firm, “a matter most urgent. A maid of the Red Keep bears a message.”

Daemon’s mouth twisted in irritation. “At this hour? The Keep has lost its sense of decency.”

Rhaenyra pressed a finger to his lips before he could rise, gathering the coverlet higher across her chest, before bidding, “Send her in.”

The door creaked open. A young maid slipped inside, cheeks pale, eyes darting as though she feared shadows at her back. She curtsied hastily, clutching her skirts. “My Princess, my Prince,” she stammered, “His Grace the King… requires your presence at once.”

Daemon sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Why?”

The maid swallowed, fingers twisting nervously. “Last night… Lord Lyonel’s second son was found near dead in the yard. His hands and feet hacked away, his tongue cut, his eyes put out. His Grace bids Prince Daemon to investigate the deed.”

A silence hung, heavy and sour. Yet the maid lingered, her lips pressed thin, her body trembling as though the worst was not yet spoken.

Rhaenyra softened her voice, coaxing as one would a frightened child. “Speak on, girl. You will come to no harm here.” The maid glanced down, shame or fear written plain upon her face. At last, she forced the words out, halting, uncertain.

“And.. This morning, my lady… the Queen Consort was discovered abed with Ser Criston Cole. The Small Council is convened even now. His Grace has asked that you be present.”

Chapter Text

✨ DROP YOUR QUESTIONS HERE for the second Chapter Q&A! ✨

I’ll be updating the next chapter of The Sea Knows Their Name after I upload the newest chapter of The Song Beneath the Skin (probably around mid-September). Sorry, but from now on I won’t be able to do two updates in one month anymore—only once a month (for both stories). Like I mentioned before, my beloved 😫 proposed to me and according to my tradition, we have to hold both the engagement celebration and the wedding fairly soon (we’re not supposed to drag it out—one year max). So yes, I’m basically drowning in preparations on top of work.

Still, I’ll be more than happy to answer your questions! Ask away—if it’s spoiler-y, I might answer… or I might just evil-smile and keep quiet 😏. But try anyway, hehe.

Honestly, I’m doing this as a little escape to keep my sanity and give my brain something fun to chew on instead of being completely consumed by wedding chaos and job stress. So yeah… this means kinda a lot to me. 🖤

(PS: Send questions fast (jk) before I get buried under invitation samples and catering menus. If I disappear, assume the wedding planners won.)

Chapter Text

⭑.ᐟ Hello, as promised, I will answer some of your questions from previous comments ⋆˚꩜｡

Q: Will we see a situation where Aegon and Jacaerys are in the same scene and the nobles compare them both?

A: Yes!!! And very soon, because Aegon and Helaena’s wedding is right around the corner. Honestly, the comparisons will start in the Alicent–Cole punishment chapter, but they were more like whispers between lords trying not to get caught gossiping. At the wedding, though? Oh, they won’t bother whispering anymore. It’ll be louder than a tavern brawl.

Q: Is Benji going to be the one to cut out Aemond’s eye, or will it be Lucy?

A: Nope. But Benji will be around when Aemond loses his eye 👀. I can’t reveal who cuts Aemond’s eye, but I can tell you it won’t go down the same way as canon. After all, Aemond already has his dragon—so expect some changes.

Q: How did Alicent and Cole get caught?

A: Let’s just say Bethany had a hand in their downfall. Never underestimate a woman with brains and receipts.

Q: Does that mean Aegon (Rhaenyra’s son)—though I really hope he won’t be called Aegon anymore, and please not Viserys either (hate that man)—will still marry Daenaera? And what about Viserys and Visenya?

A: I’m still debating whether to change the names of Rhaenyra’s last three children. (Yes, the Targaryens really needed a baby name book.) But Aegon will still end up with Daenaera. As for Viserys and Visenya… can’t say much yet, but I do already have plans for them.

Q: What happens to the Eyrie once Rhaenyra becomes queen? Does it go to Lucy or Harion? I’m guessing Lucy, since Harion’s probably marrying Aliandra Martell and becoming Prince Consort of Dorne.

A: I can’t give a full answer, but I can tell you Harion’s bride isn’t Aliandra—it’s Anansa. She’s a widow, a mom, and eight years older than him. (So, yes, Harion’s love life is basically a Daemon cosplay.) Out of all six of Rhaenyra’s kids, Harion’s romance will be the spiciest and the most chaotic. Mini-Daemon indeed.

Q: Will Helaena also die?

A: Spoilers! But let’s just say Helaena will not be having a good time. Out of Alicent’s four kids, she suffers the most and for the longest.

Q: Will there be a climax or something unpredictable from Rhaenyra’s POV? Because so far her plans have all been working too well—I need some adrenaline.

A: Of course! A story without bumps is just a nap. The whole septon and septa situation was one of those “rocks in the road.” Rhaenyra knew Otto wasn’t loyal, but she didn’t expect him to throw away septons and septas like spare chess pieces (especially since Alicent worships them like pop stars). If Bethany hadn’t found her grandmother’s bracelet, Rhaenyra’s plan to drive a wedge between Hobert’s family and Alicent–Otto would have collapsed. That little trinket basically blew the whole scheme wide open.

Q: Will we see Velaryons and Rhaenys later on? I really like Laenor, both book and show. Honestly, if he were straight, I’d marry him—he’s rich, kind, handsome, a dragonrider, and a war hero. Please bring him back happy.

A: Yes, the Velaryons will return! They’ll reappear in two chapters (during Aegon and Helaena’s wedding) and keep showing up here and there afterward. Don’t worry—Laenor’s not vanishing into the mist.