Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It felt like they were burning from the inside out. Fire in the lungs, though they knew it was water. Was this better or worse than the sting of air against their skin as they dropped? Worse, probably, if they had to guess. 

Hands took firm hold of their shoulders and pulled them from wherever it was the waves had carried them. They broke the surface of the water, pulled into strong arms upon a boat, and water poured from between their lips. Tight against their chest was something rectangular and now soaked, though their fingers stayed buried in it as if their very life depended on that object.

“--careful, now, boy,” some gruff voice came, “she’s half-drowned. We’ll need to get the water out of her lungs. Steer us to shore, those guards’ll want to see ‘er.”

Their hands clutched tighter at the object they carried, though they weightlessly allowed whomever their savior was to press it down, towards their abdomen rather than their chest. His hands were polite but firm, pressing against her ribs and then down– once, twice, three times… it felt like foam had been freed from their lungs, suffocating and scorching… Their eyes peeled open to a pale haze coating their vision, salt and light alike burning through their sight…

Shore did not end up being so far away. Heavy, armored footsteps sank into wet sand– coarse, black sand, and the faint scent of sulfur in the air. And smoke.

The object was pried from their hands, though they felt their knuckles go white in the attempt to keep such a precious thing. The guards muttered at the sight of the book, with the three-headed dragon of their liege pressed into the cover, and looked between it and the wisp of a thing that washed upon their shore. They drank in sea air greedily, filling their chest with life instead of water, and their grey eyes focused intently upon the pale blue of an autumn sky. They could hardly focus on the ridged, floating shapes of wings among the clouds.

They were pulled to their feet gently, and allowed to lean upon one armored man as they stood. Someone’s cloak was wrapped around them, covering their sea-torn clothes and soaked form, and they were softly told to walk. They made it to the winding staircase before they were swept up off of unsteady feet and simply carried up towards the looming castle with its towers that seemed to be dragons borne from stone.

They were kind enough to place them within some room with a fireplace, which was promptly lit, and they were promptly set before. A soft word was given– there would be a “maester” sent in, soon, and their Lady would wish to speak to them… and they’d best find their words. 

Their Lady could talk all she wished— they would think, until she arrived. And bask in the warmth the crackling hearth offered on that blustery day.

Some man in a grey robe with a thick chain forged of various metals entered the room before long, kneeling to their height as he looked over them. “You are soaked,” he murmured, and they hummed in agreement. They certainly were. He took that for shock, and urged them to their feet.

I’m sure I have a name, they thought as he poked and prodded, pulling and tugging and eventually gently ushering them from their clothes. He frowned intensely at the style, the material— some sturdy textile of deep, dark indigo to make men’s breeches, and a loose, lightweight shirt made of some sheer material and trimmed with lace. No style he had ever seen, they were sure, though they could not say why. Is it… oh, ah, that sounds right… They pulled the white-cloak further around their nakedness and did not protest as the man examined them.

He tilted their head back just so, turned it to the side with careful fingers grasping their chin, brow furrowing as he caught sight of a nasty gash along the top of the head. Not so deep, and not so much blood, but still worrying. “Where did you come from?”

“I’m not sure,” they answered. “I think they grabbed me off the beach. Or from the sky.”

His lips pressed together in a thin, firm line, and he did not speak to them again. Instead, he moved to the door and commanded the guard to fetch him something. For the wound, or so he said.

They were joined soon by a woman, her presence radiant as a gilded page, or a glass full of perfect, pristine freshwater pearls. Her hair fell over her shoulder in a long braid woven from moonlight, her eyes of a similar shade to pale forget-me-nots, her figure thickened with the weight of children but no less beautiful. She did not smile, and her forehead creased with faint lines when she took in their state.

“Where are your clothes?” She demanded to know as the grey-robed man washed blood from their temple.

They pointed simply to the floor by the hearth, where the man had set them to dry. Their fingers buried themselves deeper within the soft white fabric that kept them covered. “He said I’d get sick.”

“Apologies, Princess,” the man murmured. “I did. I will send for some clothes if it please you, but I’m not keen on allowing sickness to take hold in the castle.”

“Do not worry, Gerardys– Ser Steffon’s sent his poor squire to do just that.” She drew around them like a predator sizing up its prey. The firelight flickered off of the golden embroidery upon the plum-colored velvet of her bodice. “Is the wound bad?”

“Not so, Princess, though I do worry she might have incurred some memory loss. She cannot answer where she is from.”

The princess hummed and watched “Gerardys” continue his work. Wiping the wound clean, he applied a near clear paste around its edge and sighed in relief. Not so severe as he’d thought, and not deep besides. Cleaned, now.

“Do you have a name, girl?” She was not unkind in her words, but firm, rather.

They glanced at the man— okay to move my head? At his assent, they nodded. “Taryn,” they offered. Their voice felt strange, somewhat dry despite the water they’d swallowed earlier. “I’m not a girl.”

Gerardys looked taken aback. He took the edge of the cloak and pulled it back for but a moment before his gaze returned to their face, and his head tilted slightly. “Forgive me, but… it did not seem as if you were a boy… ser?”

“Not a boy, either. Neither. And I’m grown.” A pause. A quirk of the brow, a focus of the eyes on one single point somewhere far off. “I’m… twenty, I think. Almost twenty-one. In December.”

Confusion painted the air. “December?”

“The twelfth one.”

“Ah…”

A knock came at the door, and Gerardys moved to answer, and his waiting arms took the pile of clothing from Ser Steffon’s flustered squire. The princess watched them carefully, periwinkle eyes narrowed as their head turned to watch the movement with the curiosity of some castle-cat. 

“Taryn is a name I’ve not heard. Ever. Where are you from?”

“I fell from the sky, if that’s what you’re asking. The man and the boy who pulled me out of the water probably saw. I don’t know if there’s a place before that.”

A startled, disbelieving laugh fell from her lips– soft, pale pink, unworried by teeth. “You speak as if you arrived upon my island, clutching my house’s sigil, by some accident of magic.”

Shifting, and pulling their cover closer around them, they finally met her eyes. She did not seem to be a stern sort, nor especially soft… but perhaps a touch afraid. Stressed, too. As if their arrival had simply pulled her from some other trouble. “Is magic not common, here?” They felt especially far away in the moment. “You who rides dragons… whose home was lost in fire, reforged on this little outpost? Was that home not soaked in it?” Is it that strange? That impossible? They could not say why her denial of such a possibility bothered them so.

“You speak of Valyria,” she accused softly, shoulders tensing. “It has been gone for many years.”

“The Freehold,” they corrected, though the name did not sound wrong. They could not say where such a name had been pulled from. Deep within the recesses of their mind, they imagined. A dream? In the waking world? “Your sigil…”

“The book. My men said you were holding it as if it were a lifeline. It is being dried, now, salvaged if it can be. You might not have it back. I’ll have no lies from you.”

That’s fine. They blinked. “I didn’t show up here because I wanted to, ma’am. Or because I wanted to lie to you.” 

The princess turned to Gerardys, a huff of frustration escaping her perfect lips. “Have her clothed. If any ask, she is from Essos– the green hair is evidence enough, I should think. We shall have her moved to a more secure room.” She is no enemy, her words said, yet. She stepped forward and towards the door, a hurried movement.

“‘M not a girl!” They called after her. “And it’s teal!”

The door shut firmly behind her. Gerardys turned back to them, hands still holding neatly folded clothing. He held them out to her. “You might dress yourself, before Ser Steffon’s squire’s face bursts.”

Hesitantly, they reached out and felt the fabric– soft, fine stuff, in a dark color that could be either black or deepest purple. Not so heavy as velvet, but not as thin as cotton could be. Not as silken as samite or proper silk. Comfortable. With laces in the back. “Thank you,” they said after a long moment, meeting blue eyes, fingers closing around the stack. There were underclothes beneath the top piece. “Am I a prisoner?”

“I do not know,” he answered honestly.

They pulled each piece free from the stack and stood, dropping the cloak and paying Gerardys no mind as he turned away politely. Soft fabric was pulled up their legs, fastened at their waist, and then the top piece– an undergown, bearing no sleeves nor ornament –was pulled over the top of it. They tugged it into place just beneath their breasts, shaking it just so everything might fall into place. They picked up the cloak just as the door opened again, tugging it more securely around them. By the look on the squire’s face, and the scolding look upon the knight’s, the boy had forgotten the overgown. Ah.

Three days and three knights had passed, and the information she’d pulled from that drenched pile of pages had proven worrying. 

Her sigil had been imprinted upon the cover, her house’s words inscribed as its title— Fire and Blood. Her family had been written of in detail within the pages that had survived the stranger’s dunk into the sea… and that had been confirmed by the fisher and his apprentice who had pulled them from the churning waters, and the guards on the shore who had witnessed it. They had fallen from the sky, like a bird with its wings plucked from its body.

Gods. Magic, indeed. They had murmured of magic, and she had been reluctant to agree, but that could be the only explanation for how they had appeared. 

Her ladies followed behind, Elinda Massey and Celia Strong, her closest and most trusted companions these days. The rooms she’d had the stranger moved to were modest— secure. Thin windows impossible to climb out from, though existent. They had a guard posted outside the door, though they’d never tried to escape. They’d asked for reading material instead of the material to embroider, claiming to be a poor artist with the cloth, and faithful Maester Gerardys had obliged them. He had not deigned to use the word “charming” to describe them, as he’d instead put them down as strange, reserved, and a touch restless… but clearly they were not without it. 

The guard stepped aside from their door without a word, and Rhaenyra pushed it open on her own. Her entrance startled the stranger, the flightless bird, from where they sat before the hearth with a blanket pulled tight around them. The book they’d been pouring through was pushed to the side, and they seemed eager at her presence. 

They were not filthy, per say, but they had not been permitted to wash since the day they’d been pulled from the sea, and Rhaenyra intended to rectify that. Her ladies moved to set the carton of oils to the side of the simple tub, and the two maids followed them in with pots of water to pour into the tub, with more on the way. “You will be bathed, as such filth is beneath the presence of your royal host,” she commanded the stranger, who stood and gave the faintest dip of their head in acknowledgement. No protests went up, and another maid moved to pull the laces of their overgown loose as the door shut behind them. “And no word that is spoken tonight shall leave these rooms.” The warning was clear, received by her companions.

The stranger– Taryn, they’d called themself –was disrobed and helped into the bath, where they flinched at how hot the water was before sinking in and slowly adjusting. Small amounts of oils were poured into the water, soft and fragrant, and cloths were pulled to help wash them. They seemed nothing short of flustered at the attention, especially when Rhaenyra sat upon a stool beside the tub, half leaning over the edge.

“Your book is incomplete,” she stated, eyes narrowed. “You know something.”

“Where did it end?” They sank further into the water, finally adjusted, the heat bringing a red flush to their pale skin. The steam seemed to cause the limp strands of their short-shorn hair to curve and curl ever-so-slightly, and Rhaenyra found the look suited them.

“A year from now. It says… impossible things. Things that have yet to happen.”

“Anything is possible,” they said, leaning forward to rest their chin on the edge of the tub. “I don’t think I ever read it, so I’m not… entirely sure what it says.”

“But you know something, don’t you?”

“I dream. And I think it comes true a lot of the time.” Hooded grey eyes set in their round face blinked up at her, like some prey animal trying to endear itself to a predator. “‘M sorry I can’t give you proof.”

“And what have you dreamed?”

“Lots of things. I’ve dreamt of pains and answers before they were given, and I’ve dreamt of ants and bodies… and I’ve dreamt of you, I think. And of dragons. And storms.” They practically purred, not unlike a cat, when Elinda drew a washcloth over their shoulders, dotted with faint freckles and no amount of real sun exposure. Embarrassed as they were, they did not mind the gentle touch. 

“You’re not from Essos, are you?” Her hand slipped forward and under their chin, tilting it up so their sleepy eyes met hers.

“I don’t think so. None of the names on the map looked familiar when Gerardys showed them to me.”

She hummed in disappointment, drew her thumb over the curve of their round face, and released them. “You don’t remember.”

“Not in the slightest.”

They were pulled back further into the tub once the water had cooled some, and the water was poured over their head, and they gasped as it was done once, twice, thrice— to make sure each strand was thoroughly soaked, and then soap was applied and scrubbed in with careful fingers. They sighed softly at the sensation, eyes shutting tightly to keep soap from them.

“It happens on a third day. Three-oh-three, I think. The, um. The storm. And it takes eight days.” They seemed almost bashful. Almost nervous, or shy. “And then the dragons dance, and no one survives it.”

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply. Her guest was an augury, then. Ill-tidings on the horizon. Her babes, her love, all dead. “And of course you don’t know the specifics.”

They shrugged somewhat awkwardly, allowing the soap to be rinsed from their hair after being worked through. Once, twice, thrice… the water was a faint blue color as their hair was rinsed, likely whatever dye was used for it. “I know there’s betrayal. A lot of it. And a lot of loss. Your crown will be paid for in fire and tears, and blood will spill blood until there’s nothing left but two little hatchlings.”

Gods above, this would be frustrating. But they could hardly be faulted for such a thing. Dreams were hardly specific, and dreamers had been instrumental in her family’s survival of the Doom of Valyria. And now she had her own… mayhaps.

“How do I know you weren’t sent by my stepmother or her cunt of a father?” She accused lightly, turning a ring upon her knuckle, an act of comfort as their words stirred unpleasantly in her belly. 

“I’d rather be dead than be Green.” Their eyes darkened as another, softer soap was worked into their hair, and they were far away again. Somewhere that couldn’t be followed. “You were chosen, and that’s all that matters in the end.”

It sounded like madness.

It sounded like usurpation. Like treason. Like war. And there was no war so terrible as a war between kin. But they will give up the right to that word when they betray me.

The book ended a year in the future. There was time yet.

“Do you believe it is set in stone?”

“I think the future is what we make of it,” they answered, leaning back against the side of the tub. “Am I your prisoner, ma’am?”

Elinda snorted softly, grabbing the washcloth again and dragging it over the side of their face where blue faintly stained it. “I’d hardly imagine so, my lady. She’s called a seamstress for measurements, you know.”

It was Rhaenyra’s turn to flush. Oh, she had… because how could she keep someone as a pet in ill-suited garments? A pet songbird who sang of ill-omens witnessed in sleep. And she had to show her sons that their new dreamer was not someone to fear. (Jace, three-and-ten and so very clever for his age, so responsible for his family and protective of them, had heard word of the stranger pulled from the sea. Had heard that Rhaenyra had them under guard, had questions for them. And he’d had questions for her as a result. He must be reassured)

“I might not ennoble you,” she began, clearing her throat and avoiding the grey gaze of her new dreamer, “but you will be given a place within my household. As important to its structure as my guard, or my maester. Should you cooperate, that is.”

They tilted their head and sat up properly. The faint click of their back popping with the movement startled her faintly, as did the raising of their hand to comb through their wet hair with their fingers. “I never had any intentions otherwise, Princess.”

Chapter Text

Life upon Dragonstone was easy enough to settle into… at least, once the shock from all parties passed.

The princess did not tell the majority of her staff, companions, and family of their purpose within her court— how could she, and who would truly believe her? Who could truly know the nature of magic, something that wise men knew existed but seemed so reluctant to truly accept? (They scoffed at the term— their princess, prince, and each of their children save Rhaena, Aegon, and Viserys rode dragons. That was proof enough of magic)

Rhaenyra had been truthful when she said she would not— could not —ennoble Taryn, but it wasn’t as if they minded much. She still had each member of her court treat them with no small amount of respect. “Lady Taryn” of Black Sands, she’d dubbed them, and so they’d been called. 

Oh, there was a cover story, of course. Some Essosi stranger, lost on a voyage and with their memory struck from their head by the accident. It explained the blue-green dye of their hair that grew fainter with every wash, and their difference in accent, and their general strange manner. Princess Rhaenyra was portrayed as merciful, kind, to take in some poor girl from the sea and to bring them into her household. Taryn would not refute such a claim— it made her look better, after all, and wasn’t it at least partially true?

The rooms they occupied were fine, comfortable things that allowed them a sight of the dragonmont, and the cool air from the autumn storms, and a nice hearth to warm their nights. The clothes the princess had commissioned for them were fine and soft, nothing rough on skin that seemed so sensitive to certain textures. The food supplied was nourishing and hearty, though they almost always dined alone. The shadows that draped the halls sank deep into their nights, and haunted their dreams of late. 

Dragonstone was a terribly lonely place. 

Oh, they could find themself within Gerardys’ chambers and its rookery, sometimes, and they were a welcome guest, but he rarely sought them out. The maids would shy away from their gaze, and whispered of the night terrors and the screaming that sometimes came from their rooms. They’d never dared approach the princess’ ladies, knowing instinctively that they would not be looked upon so fondly. They made “friends” of a sort with the many guards that roamed Dragonstone, but that, too, was a hollow feeling within their chest. 

Their constant companion was the books provided to them, the softness of their bed, and the sad, crooning songs they could feel from somewhere deep beneath the dragonmont. Something old and sleepy and very, very warm. 

The balcony was where they chose to haunt today, a pale ghost in deep purple silks. 

The sky was full of thin, lazy clouds that drifted over the sun and provided fine cover, which made it perfect for the men and squires to train in the yards below. They’d always been good at people-watching— or at least, they thought they might have been. Their head was still so fucking scrambled from whatever had dropped them here. 

Ser Steffon Darklyn, several men at arms, and the princess’ husband Prince Daemon— her uncle, which had been a shock to them —drove the princess’ boys hard, but not unkindly. The youngest of the dark haired youths used a wooden sword still, as did the eldest of the little silver haired boys. The elder two of Rhaenyra’s sons and Prince Daemon’s elder daughter Baela used blunted castle steel. 

Jacaerys swung viciously at his stepfather, though not with any sort of hatred— a desire to show off, rather. Baela and Lucerys whacked at each other under careful watch, and Aegon and Joffrey exchanged careful blows with wooden swords. Their eyes trailed each movement carefully, watching reaction and blow for blow. 

It was entertaining enough. A nice change of pace from wandering the ancient halls of the island citadel, or burying themself in their blankets and books. Faintly warm in the sun, with fresh air in their lungs… and eyes focused intently upon their back. 

“Are you fond of the sword, my lady?” The princess stepped into view beside them, leaning over the edge of the balcony and resting her arms against the railing. 

Shaking their head faintly, they swallowed some unsure breath. “I wouldn’t know,” they murmured, “I’ve never used one before.”

There was a faint hum in acknowledgement as a cloud drifted away from the sun. The light made Rhaenyra glow, luminous as the moon, and made her deep maroon gown glow a particular shade of ruby. “You could be taught. If you wish. It isn’t as if we don’t teach Baela.”

“You’re too kind, Princess.”

The idea was intriguing, certainly. A blade in hand could do many things— slay an enemy, intimidate others, alleviate boredom, if only for a short while. It wasn’t as if the skill was without its uses, either. There was a storm brewing, waiting upon the horizon to swallow them all whole. That included Taryn, too, now. 

The princess’ voice snapped them from their thoughts. “I do not see you much. You know you’ve full rights to wander where you please, do you not?” Concern glittered in those pale colored eyes. It was not hidden quickly enough to escape their notice. 

A low hum. A dip of the head forward. A soft swallow and a clearing of the throat. “I mean… I know I’m not welcome. Not really, anyways.”

Her hand twitched, as if it were going to attempt to reach for theirs. A ghost of a smile followed the faint twitch of the corner of their lips. God. She was nervous around them? 

“My lady, you’re quite mistaken. I’ve made it clear to all within my seat that you are… a guest of great honor.” A pet. It was a kind phrase, kinder than what Taryn was sure she referred to them as within her head. “If there are any who have led you to believe otherwise…”

“They haven’t. I just…” Oh, why did this feel so embarrassing? The memory lingered from a lifetime ago, they were sure— to a Before from long ago, a time preceding their drop into the sea. “I’m strange. I know this. And I’m not stupid. I can feel how they watch me. I’m an unknown to you and yours, and they don’t trust me. It’s reasonable. I don’t even know myself.” Fractured pieces of a life once lived swam in the toiling ocean within their mind, and in their autumn-cooled blood, but they never truly presented themselves to them. 

They did not turn to her. Grey irises focused intently on the glimmer of sun off of castle steel and dull chest plates. Their fingers drummed halfheartedly against the railing of the balcony. 

Silence reigned the two of them for a time, only broken by a clash of metal on metal and playful taunts. 

“Perhaps you might accompany me, then.”

“Where?” 

“Anywhere. Everywhere.” Rhaenyra stepped closer, her steps slow as if waiting for them to bolt. Do I really resemble a scared cat? “I hardly know you. I think I would like to. And I think you could use someone to talk to.” 

Maybe I could. 

The day ended on a cold and dry note. They retired to their rooms, supped alone, and read themself to sleep upon the floor by the hearth. They woke to early morning light and a knock upon the door, and steps within their chamber. 

A maid held a stack of clothing— soft underdress in white, plum colored skirts in something that shone in the light, and a darker purple overgown to be laced in the back, a rougher, sturdier material but not so uncomfortable. And boots.

Oh. 

Aegon’s Garden had a piney scent to it— almost unpleasant, but not overpowering, thankfully. It was saved by the scent of the last of the season’s roses, and water, and a multitude of other planted scents. Wild roses and thorned hedges lined paths, and there was a bog someways away that supposedly grew cranberries. A strange thing to call a garden, but they wouldn’t object. They were fond of plants, if they could recall. 

They matched Rhaenyra’s stride, words coming to life in their mind but dying in their throat. How was it that it was so difficult to speak? They had a great deal they wanted to say. Such as the sun makes you glow, and your gown fits you wonderfully, or you have wonderful fingers— that last one would absolutely be taken for creepy. It wasn’t as if they could help the admiration there. 

“You seem… both at ease and bizarrely tense,” she mused beside them, a touch of fondness in her tone. One pale brow rose above the other, and her lips twitched into a smile. 

“The plants are nice.” Shrugging, they swept their gaze over the expanse of green. “For a place called a garden, most of this seems… wild.” 

“Most of it is. It is not as if the Conqueror had time to garden, after all. Many say it is a miracle that anything grows on this side of the dragonmont at all.” 

The bridge of their nose scrunched at that, forehead forming its faint lines. “It’s really not. The dragonmont is a volcano, right? Ash is good for soil. ‘s rich in minerals like, um… phosphorus, I think? And it’s… well, it should be good at retaining water. Nothing special, but nothing horrible either.”

The look in her eyes said something like I will pretend to understand what you just said. “You like the gardens,” she summarized. 

“I like the gardens,” they confirmed. 

“What else are you fond of?”

Something churned in their belly, some sense of discomfort. This feels like an interrogation. “What are you fond of?”

A pause. A glint of suspicion flashed in her eyes, and her chin tipped forward just a little, and downwards, too. They felt very small suddenly. And particularly vulnerable.

But she bit. “Question for question, then? Very well.” A soft, low noise escaped her throat, one that made their face feel particularly warm. “Candied lemon slices. The ones they put on the top of lemon cakes.”

And so it began. Question for question, answer for answer. Rhaenyra liked candied lemon slices. (They weren’t too fond of lemons. Apples were better, but a bit more work to eat– they didn’t like the peel. They also liked pomegranate seeds, and thought the fruit itself was pretty) She had an enduring fondness for sea salt in the air, and stories from Old Valyria such as those her father loved, and for rich fabrics. (They didn’t care much for the beach… because of the sun, and the sand. History was always a favored subject, when taught right. They liked softer fabrics, gentle textures and things that would glide across their skin… and lace. Lace was lovely, and she agreed.) She loved flying on dragonback above most other things, save her children.

“More than Daemon?” The question was cheeky, a little smirk creeping on their face.

Narrow eyes and a flash of teeth met them, but it was in a smile. Rhaenyra answered, “Sometimes.” Barely held back laughter escaped the forced line of her lips. “It’s your turn, I believe.”

A sigh escaped their own lips. Their eyes drifted up to the pale sky, fluttering shut as they pulled from their frustratingly empty memory pool. “I like pearls. Their luster. But not the perfectly round ones— I like the misshapen ones best. A little vase full of them would be neat. And, um… I think silver looks nicer than gold. With my skintone, I mean, though rose gold isn’t bad.”

“Rose gold?”

“It’s… I think it’s gold melted with a little bit of copper, so it’s sort of pink colored…”

The acknowledgement came in an appreciative glance. “I’ll have to ask about that. See if it is something unique to Essos.” There was hesitation for a moment, but she persisted– and reached out to take Taryn’s arm on her own, loosely looping one through the other. “You don’t smile much.”

What does one say to that? Of course I don’t, it hurts my cheeks? There’s not much to smile about? Christ. Wasn’t that depressing? They settled instead for a neutral, “I don’t.”

There was silence, but for the noise of the insects and the far off sounds of the waves crashing against the shore and the dragons going about their days. It acted as an awkward blanket of sorts… something nearly suffocating. They’d ruined it, they were sure. Best try to salvage things.

“You… look radiant in the light, Princess.”

Even if they did not smile, she did, baffled as she was.

Chapter Text

Supper was less about eating that night, and more about organization. Planning. The day after that day in the garden had ended with a gift from the princess to her augury— a book, blank and bound with a rich black leather, its cover embossed with swirls of vines, the silhouette of a bird’s wings framing the corners. For their dreams, she had explained. She’d heard from the maids of their latest night terrors. Taryn had accepted the gift dutifully, and had written everything they could recall within its pages— even if the quill and ink irritated them beyond belief. (They had some memory of a thin metal tube filled with ink and a piece that could be clicked upon the top… to write with. Oh, how they missed that) 

The night was early, the sky still in orange and dusty purple hues, filtering in through the windows of the princess’ rooms. The table they sat at was not overly large, which… was not for the best. Gerardys had papers scattered across the stone top, and they had their own book splayed open atop it as well. Two servants had brought in a thin table, a runner of sorts, to sit to the side to hold actual food and drink. Taryn’s own cup was full of more water than wine, as the stuff was so heavy that it made their head pound thinking about it. God, had no one ever heard of distilled water here?

“Three-oh-three sounds like the third day of the third moon,” Gerardys said, interrupting their internal monologue. “Was there some other detail you can recall from that dream, my lady?”

Sipping slowly from the edge of their cup, they took their time to mull that dream over in their head. “It was cold. Very cold. I think winter started not long after. And they… there was rotting and festering for a week, I think.”

“Within the next year, then, I should say. Winter is not too far from us.” Gerardys nodded and wrote that down on a sheaf of parchment. 

The princess’ silver hair lay over her shoulder in a careful plait, still studded with pearls at each line. It glimmered in the light from the candles and the dying sun. She was the picture of elegance and grace as she held such a small council over supper. “There is mention of a… first casualty.” Her words were delicate, scared.

“A baby, I think. She was… she was tiny. Covered in scales. She might’ve had wings, and, um… a hole in her chest. Where her heart should be.” The thought of that scene was… thoroughly unpleasant. Had haunted their dreams for a fortnight. The image was still clear— Rhaenyra, in a bloodied shift, hair hanging around her in mussed waves, gently rocking the pitiful creature in her arms. A first ‘hello’ and a final ‘goodbye.’ The only comfort the already dead babe would ever receive. 

Some fretful, anxious look crossed Rhaenyra’s face. Oh? “That terrible storm is closer than we think, then. I am already with child.”

“How far along?” 

The ring upon her left index finger, a gold band studded with a chip of obsidian and some teal colored gem, was turned this way and that. A mark of her anxiety, they’d come to learn, and why she wore so many. Rhaenyra did not answer, her gaze fixing intently upon the table.

Gerardys gave the answer. “One moon, mayhaps two. Very early. What you described sounds like an early labor. If this… blackest treachery is to occur in a third moon, we might have… six months at best.” It was already the ninth moon of the 128th year since the Conquest. 129 would bring death and disaster. 

“We must go to King’s Landing, then. Make ourselves known. Stay, so they’ve no opportunity to seize the crown.” Rhaenyra’s words were firm, though terror lurked beneath.

Gerardys did not seem so sure. Taryn did not feel sure about that course of action at all. 

Shaking their head, they set their cup to the side and straightened their posture, rising to their meager five feet and four inches within their seat. “That might prove to end our struggle before it begins. They were already planning to have you killed— having you closer might only embolden them. It brings you closer to harm.”

“Then what would you have me do? We cannot sit idly by and simply… let this usurpation occur.” Her eyes were hard with a predicted grief, and the sight made something tighten in their chest.

“We won’t sit doing nothing. We’ll plan. Forge alliances, have help quicker and more… readily.” 

The maester tilted his head. “Are there alliances you recall, my lady?”

“You have a cousin in the Vale. She’ll support you anyways, but she’ll want a dragon rider. Sending her one now will have her ready to mobilize her men at a moment’s notice, and will have them here quicker.” They reached for the map spread across the table, brows furrowing as they looked over the edge of Dragonstone upon it, and the mouth of the Gullet. “When war starts, Lord Velaryon sends his ships here–” they pointed to the Blackwater, where it fed King’s Landing, “to begin a blockade. The Greens have no power at sea, but they’ll reach out to… I… some trio of sorts. They send ships to the Gullet to sack Driftmark and burn it, and to go break the blockade. They capture one of your silver princes, and a green dragon’s shot out of the sky…”

“Jace,” Gerardys murmured unhappily. “Or Baela.”

Rhaenyra had gone pale. “The Three Daughters.”

“The Three Daughters?” Taryn’s head tilted to the side, just so, lips parting and showing the barest flash of teeth. “The Three Daughters of…?”

“The Valyrian Freehold. Lys, Myr, and Tyrosh. They are little better than pirates and sellswords and brutes.” A knuckle brushed over her cheek, swiping away any trace of fear with it. “A Myrman slew my great uncle, Prince Aemon, with a bolt through his throat in ninety-two. Daemon and Lord Corlys waged war against them in the Stepstones little more than fifteen years ago, though it might as well have been a lifetime, now. They are scum, and far more difficult to root out than any man expects.” Reaching over the table, Rhaenyra pointed out each “kingdom” upon the map. 

Lips drawing back further, a touch more of their front teeth were exposed in a grimace. “Oh, gag,” they mumbled half under their breath.

“Of course they would contact enemies of the Crown to try and keep their ill-gotten seat.” Her teeth grit. Rhaenyra looked liable to spew fire of her own, now, more dragon than rider. The look became her, and imprinted itself upon their mind quite favorably. 

The maester drew them back to topic, thankfully. His brow furrowed as he jotted down the information given. “Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys will prove most insightful on this matter, I should think. And that fragile Kingdom of the Stepstones.”

Rhaenyra shook her head. “That collapsed and burned. Five other men wore the crown, but none had the strength or character to hold it… or the loyalty of their sellswords.”

Waving them off, Taryn’s eyes narrowed at the map as they tried to locate the Stepstones. If Lord Velaryon had waged war for them, they must be somewhat near… ah. There. A cluster of islands just southeast of the stormlands’ Estermont, and right beside Tyrosh and Myr. If… well, maybe…

“Does Daemon have friends in Essos?” They asked, voice suddenly soft, a hint of something hidden beneath. A brewing plot. An affirmative gave them pause, and they rightened their head. “You could have the Stepstones as a rally point for any extra ships. Any naval allies. They could act as a buffer between the Triarchy and… the Narrow Sea, slow them down if not outright stop them, and discourage them in a best case scenario. The Greens would have no naval support, then. No way to break the blockade, and no way into the Gullet.”

Though not one of them spoke for a long moment, their thoughts were loud. Rhaenyra’s gaze met Gerardys’, and his eyes locked intently upon the map. Taryn’s eyes darted between each figure, and something fluttery laid low within their belly. Something nervous and altogether unpleasant. 

“I will speak of it with Daemon,” Rhaenyra said at last.

The man’s hair was a colder shade than Rhaenyra’s, more silver or white than the luminous silver-gold she possessed. There were lines where age had made its marks upon his face, but he was no less handsome for it— nor for how pale and thin his eyebrows were. They loaned an unusual, almost ethereal look to his form, lithe and not so masculine as one might expect for a man as renowned for blood and might as he.

This was the first time Taryn had come face-to-face with Prince Daemon, and it was at a far later time of night than they would have expected.

Blinking owlishly at him, they drew their shawl further around them as a breeze kicked up. Had they not dreamt of simple, terrible things such as drowning in those churning black waters, they might have still been wrapped within the covers of their bed, coaxed into a deeper sleep by the warmth and softness. As it was, that was not what had happened, and here they stood. 

“Sir.”

He kept their gaze– his eyes were a deep lavender –and stood tall. Taller, perhaps, not quite towering over them, but certainly seeming larger than life in the moment. ““My prince” would be the proper way to address me, my lady.” Oh, but he smirked just enough to keep them at ease. No, he was not truly angry, even when they raised their chin to level a glance up at him. “It is quite late for one such as yourself to be out, is it not?”

“I’ve been told I am to wander where I please, sir . I am grown, after all.” Their tongue was sharp. They were not sure what drove them to be as bold as they were, especially with the longsword on his belt. 

The faintest bubble of laughter met their words. Bold? He liked bold, or so it seemed. “It is dangerous this time of night. Especially alone. Yet you seem at ease.”

“Have I a reason to fear you, my prince?”

“You might. I am a strange man, you… a defenseless bird, far from its nest.”

A coil snapped within them, somewhere deep within their chest. It was the object that held their nerve, they were sure, because they faltered then. Edged back ever-so-slightly. They were sure they’d never been the best at reading others, at least not in intention, but that felt like a threat. 

Or a poor phrasing of something. Hopefully.

“I am not interested in whatever it is you are suggesting, sir ,” they spat with sudden venom, though they were not sure where they drew it from. Some place of discomfort, they were sure. “The Princess has offered me her protection, and I believe her. She will have your head if you dishonor her.” Because Rhaenyra was that type of person. She did not take well to slights, and her temper was hard to cool. It was the fire in her blood, they were sure. 

His face fell. Brows rising, eyes widening, he understood their assumption in the instance. “Not— not like that, my lady,” he bit out, though whether out of fear or offense, they could not tell.

They recalled that he was a knight. Knights, in this place, were protectors of innocence and virtue, or so it went. They were not sure that they entirely believed that. A world that would see done the things they dreamt… did not seem a place capable of producing men sworn to such a thing. And Daemon did not seem the type. “The Rogue Prince” was not a title given to good, virtuous men. 

Pulling the soft plum-colored fabric closer around them, they fixed him with a wary glare. He could take offense to that if he liked— their safety was paramount in their mind at that moment, not his comfort.

“I came… to make an offer. To teach you.” He swallowed hard. Clearly, he was fighting to relax himself. His shoulders relaxed, and he seemed to shrink just a touch. A purposeful move on his part. “Rhaenyra said you showed interest in the sword.”

Oh. She recalled that?

“I might.”

Tension left him in waves as he seemed to deflate. “Tomorrow, then. We will find you some training leathers, and you will join myself and some of the men-at-arms in practice. We will show you the basics.”

The leathers were black, the undershirt an off-white and unlaced up besides. The blade they held in their hand was blunted steel, and they were especially glad for the padding of the clothes that had been procured for them. The whack of steel against their ribs would never be pleasant, no matter how blunt the object. The phrase “blunt force trauma” came to mind, though they could not say why or where it had come from.

“Come now, my lady,” Daemon called tauntingly as he shoved a man forward, giving him his turn to beat upon them. “You must make a move some time!”

“I am trying. ” They grit their words out as they ducked back unsteadily, narrowly avoiding the lazy swipe of this man’s blade. They’d each show them where to place their feet, how to hold the blade… but God, it was heavy, and they were sure they’d never been so steady on their feet, and they were being mocked, they just knew it. It clouded their mind unpleasantly. 

“You are terribly clever, but clearly unmatched. Should you not return to your books and scrolls?”

The man Daemon set against them drove forward, and it took far more effort to pull their blunted blade up to clumsily parry the blow. They stumbled back even still, nearly falling upon their ass. Managing to keep their grip upon the sword, however, they stayed upright and dug their heels into the ground. 

“Are you teaching them, or are you beating my honored guest senselessly, Uncle?” Rhaenyra called from where she strode from a dark stone doorway. Deep maroon riding leathers graced her form, pulled in at the waist and extending to her knees, with a pair of thick gloves and tall boots to match. 

To Syrax, then. It was not a terrible day for the activity. 

Daemon grinned no matter the stern look upon her face, the impassive press of her lips. “All great students must learn to take a loss, first. My grandsire’s kingsguard taught me as much when I was learning.”

The princess did not seem convinced as she swept around the group of assembled men. “They are not you , Daemon. Taryn is half the size of our men, and they have likely never held a sword that weight. Have you, sweetling?”

Feeling their eyes go huge and round at that endearing term, they shook their head. Their words failed them, and they wisely kept their mouth shut. 

She hummed in acknowledgement and returned to her chastisement. “They are not a child, so I will not have them instructed by Baela’s instructor. But you will teach them properly, as I have asked you to do, or I will find someone who will.” Turning to Taryn, she fixed her gaze upon them almost fondly. “Drop the steel, my lady. You’re to accompany me today.”

The sword dropped from their grasp immediately. Perhaps they should have been embarrassed by such a swift action, but they did not particularly enjoy the idea of another hour of beatings. To Rhaenyra’s side they ran, casting a look over their shoulder at the irritation present on Daemon’s face. 

As they drew further from the castle, their arm looped around Rhaenyra’s as if on instinct. The twitch of her arm almost made them release it, but the way she seemed to relax after made them decide it was a good thing. 

“My hero,” they murmured. “Does he always do that?”

“Do what?” 

“Have a dick-measuring contest with his students.” 

Blinking rapidly, Rhaenyra came to a sudden complete stop and turned to stare at them. Utter bewilderment painted her expression until a little light seemed to flick on in her eyes. “His— where in the seven hells did you find the word “dick”? ”

“It means the same thing as cock. Or penis.” Amusement should not have found them as easily as it did. They could not help the snort of laughter that escaped them. “Could’ve just said “pissing contest,” if it would make more sense to you.”

“Stop talking,” she insisted, doing her best to sound stern. Wide-stretched lips and pearly teeth said otherwise. 

The walk was lighthearted, and not altogether tiring, which was unexpected for them after the last two hours of practice, if one could call it that. They made their way into the dragonmont, still on Rhaenyra’s arm and pulled closer against her— for their protection, she said. The dragons would do no harm unless provoked to those of Valyrian blood and bonded with a dragon besides, but Taryn… was still an other. 

Further they crept in, past the mouths of various other caves and tunnels that made up the network and led further into the volcano. It was warm, though not unbearable. Somewhere deep within, dragons made their nests and filled them with their songs. Ancient and lonely creatures who crooned to the night. But none of them sounded like the song Taryn had heard the many nights before. 

Rhaenyra called to her dragon the further in they ventured, and Syrax answered with her careful, loving sounds. Her voice floods the caverns, and the sun leaking in through the tears in the side of her chosen cave. “My golden lady,” Rhaenyra said, her smile radiant. She was her own brand of sunlight in the moment. 

She took Taryn’s hand in her own as the pair approached, ignoring the startled noise they gave in protest. Their hand was pressed to the dragon’s yellow scales, and though the heat did not surprise them, the texture certainly did. It felt less like scales and more like leather, almost, or scales crafted out of leather… almost soft, and pleasantly warm from somewhere deep within.

Syrax growled faintly. The sound originated from somewhere within her throat, low and so, so very deep. It rattled their ribs and their heart within their chest. But she did not protest with Rhaenyra introducing the two. She held Taryn’s hand there for a long moment and spoke soft, soothing High Valyrian to her mount, the creature who had been with her since the cradle. Her words alone convinced Syrax, who ceased her growling and instead lowered her head… bumping her snout against Taryn’s body, nearly knocking them over.

“ Rytsas ,” Rhaenyra said, pointedly looking at them.

“Huh?” They blinked in bewilderment.

“Say it. Rytsas. Tell her ‘hello.’ ”

Fingers twitching and lips trembling, they silently sounded the word out. For a moment, fire coursed through their veins. They were as brave as any man before them had ever been. At last, they pressed their quivering fingers lightly against Syrax’s snout, and they leaned in to quietly greet her. “ Rytsas, Syrax. My name is…”

“ Ñuha brōzi Taryn issa ,” Rhaenyra supplied. The words rolled perfectly off of her tongue, like water over a cliffside. 

“N… nuha brōzi… Taryn, issa .”

Rhaenyra huffed her laughter, and Syrax breathed warm air over them. The scent was… not as terrible as it could have been, thankfully. “ Dohaerās , Syrax. Embrot !”

She knelt before the pair, her neck lowered and her wing splayed out. The saddle upon her back was revealed, and their breath caught within her throat.

Oh , they thought. Oh, Rhaenyra is going to take me for a ride.

Chapter Text

The two laid side by side, pleasantly warm from their coupling. The covers stayed pooled at their waists— the night was cold, yes, but their hearth was going, and their blood was warm. His thigh brushed against hers, and even without looking at him she knew his eyes were on her and were filled with no small amount of joy at the news she'd given him.

A sixth child for her, a fifth for him. Eight children total between the two of them. Their family grew ever larger.

The mood was dampened a touch as they were allowed to ruminate in their individual thoughts. He knew of their guest's dreams— she'd told him at once. There are very few things she kept from him, after all, her protector and her consort. But Rhaenyra had not told him… certain things from the dreams.

Had not told him of Visenya, for she knew without a doubt that would be the name of the first girl she had of her body.

Daemon was not a man who stood idly by, and she could not risk him lashing out in a moment of rage in order to protect her and their children. She had fostered a… decent relationship between the two, so far, once she had turned him away from beating their dreamer into the ground and actually teaching them. She would not risk him turning against their dreamer in some misguided place of blame. He was not a man who put much faith in dreams, after all. As he'd once told her father, dreams did not make us kings.

Oh, but dreams had saved them once before, hadn't they?

The topic came up again, because both could feel it hanging heavy within the air. "You trust your dreamer?"

"Our dreamer, Daemon. And yes, I do." It was foolish to place trust where it was not warranted— she knew this well, and had learned life's cruelest lesson with Criston Cole fifteen years earlier. But they were earnest. Her Lady of the Black Sands seemed eager to learn, to be known, and did not seem capable of such a deception, though it wasn't saying much. And it was not as if Rhaenyra did not have eyes on their every move.

Or as if Rhaenyra had not made the price of treason very clear to them. There was a reason she had introduced them to Syrax, after all. The threat was more effective when veiled, but understood.

A large hand finds hers, and their fingers intertwine as he squeezes tight. The callouses brush over her own, twin marks from gripping the reins of their dragons. They were twins in that manner, and just alike at the soul level— deeper than love, deeper than persona or ego. They were twin flames, born from the same spark and nurtured by the same kindling.

"They looked at me, today, when I said something. But… not truly at me. It was as if they saw through me, past me." His words were soft, spoken as if to a child. They did not tremble or quiver, but she could feel the fear on a base, instinctive level. "It's real, isn't it?"

"The threat?"

"Yes."

Humming, she nods. Her eyes shut tight and do not open as she tries to vanish to sequence of thoughts that brings. The unpleasant truths this dreamer had brought with them.

“I had a dream. The sun eclipsed the moon when the fires had chosen her. He wore steel and rubies instead of gold. Her children were born dead, their blood upon his hands when she delivered them, and all of their dragons were torn from the sky. The winter never ended, the spring never came, and the corpses who watched your crowning were frozen in the ice.”

Those were the first words she had received. She had since received more, but those first ones had shaken her terribly. She could imagine that the very idea of words such as that terrified Daemon.

"We're all to die if we don't do something about it."

"Yet you refuse to let us act first."

Sighing, she rolled onto her side, trapping an arm beneath her and using her free hand to cup his face. Her thumb brushed over the lines age had brought to his face. "I refuse to start a bloody war that has not yet begun. Should they steal my crown, we may act then— and not a moment before." That did not mean she would allow them to be senselessly slaughtered, of course. There were… steps that could be taken before the usurpation, to ease their path forward.

Did Daemon know this? She hoped he did. She hoped he was not terribly angry with her, did not believe her weak for such an action. They had the advantage with dragons— a higher number, and theirs had seen more battle than the Greens'. Vhagar was an outlier for them.

"Our dreamer wants us to take a hostage or two. To ensure no movement against us."

He gave a noise that was half a scoff, half a chuckle. "Who would they have us take as a hostage?"

"Daeron. Or one of Aegon and Helaena's sons. Or Helaena herself." It was not as if she did not see the point in such an action. It could be… very clever, if done right. The Greens were not fools, however. "The latter two would be the most advisable, but the more difficult to procure. If they've love for our brother that resides in Oldtown… well, I've never been made aware of it. I do not believe it love-enough to keep them from moving against us."

Taking babes and baby brothers as hostages. Gods above, what had they come to? Was a crown worth such as that?

It is not a crown, though, is it? It is survival, as they said.

A long, soft hum pulled her back from that ugly path of thoughts, and he shifted against her with an arm tucking across her chest to pull her closer. His nose pressed against the base of the back of her neck, nuzzling and nestling there as if he were a hatchling seeking out warmth. "Your "sweet sister" is still recovering from the strain of her latest babe, is she not?"

"She is." Rhaenyra confirmed with a nod.

"Did my grandmother, Queen Alysanne, not retire to Dragonstone to rest and recover after each of her pregnancies?"

Oh.

Turning within his grasp, Rhaenyra surprised herself when her lips found his in a quick and heated lock. It did not startle him, but it certainly did pull faint laughter from his chest. "You are a smarter man than any give you credit for."

Clouds were scarce that day, the sky a brilliant shade of blue, the sun giving the earth a faint warmth so it was not simply a terribly cold, blustery autumn day. That did not stop them from pulling the shawl they'd become more than partial to closer around them, however. Faintly warm and very sunny as it was… sometimes, they felt as if they were coldblooded.

Their companions that day were few— a guard keeping eye on the skies that early afternoon, watching as the princess' second and third sons flew atop their dragons in twisting, dance-like maneuvers… as well as Jacaerys and Rhaena, who sat a polite distance away as they watched the show in the aether above. Rhaena sat relaxed, a soft and sheer shawl in white and pink draped over her shoulders. Her silver hair had recently been pulled into long, slim braids that were allowed to curl naturally at the ends, with golden filigree beads securing the braids just above their curled tails. It was their great surprise that she had not brought her needlework out with her… but, no, that should not truly shock them. She likely did not want the wind blowing half of it away.

Jacaerys stood a few inches taller than her at thirteen, near fourteen, almost their own height. He leaned against the railing of the balcony as the wind blew his dark curls out of his face. A hand rested loosely against the pommel of the simple steel sword he had sheathed at his belt, and though he clearly attempted to look casual, they could still feel those dark amethyst eyes boring holes into the back of their skull when they looked away.

Violet Tyraxes tucked his wings in and dropped from his and Joffrey's high-point in the sky, wings unfolding at the last moment to catch a gust of wind to buffet the pair upwards. Rhaena gave a delighted cheer as Lucerys gave chase on pearl Arrax's back, and the two drakes make a long arc around the western side of the castle. A twitch of Taryn's lips set them to smiling as they listened to the shrieks and calls of the young boys' mounts.

Jacaerys did not seem so inclined to smile that day. It would have been puzzling any other time, as the boy was not one given to brooding, but they understood well enough why that was the case then. Joffrey was to be sent to the Vale to foster under Lady Jeyne Arryn, after all. Surely the boy was not so happy to see one of his younger siblings sent away… but what could be done with war brewing like a storm?

Pearlescent scales and violet wings flashed as the two drakes emerged from their rounding of the castle, joyful shrieks given as Tyraxes was pushed faster and harder, disappearing over the ridge of some cliff. Jacaerys stepped closer to Rhaena, dipping his head, and Taryn just barely caught the words he murmured to her. "Rhaena, will you find Baela with me? I'd like to spar soon."

Even they could tell that it was an excuse, which Rhaena surely knew as well. Her eyes, pale lavender of an almost crystalline shade, darted between her stepbrother and Taryn. She leaned in closer. "Are you sure? They…"

"I will be fine, Rhaena. Go."

Bold and brave, Jacaerys. Braver than they were at the moment.

Maybe it was because they knew he watched them with Rhaenyra, his mother. That he saw what many didn't— how they followed after her eagerly, how they clung to every scrap of kindness thrown their way like a stray mutt. Maybe it was just because children could be terribly mean… a lesson they knew they'd learned well in some life long ago. How terribly amusing it must be, a twenty-year-old tense and avoiding the gaze of their lady's thirteen year old son.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Thirty seconds or a minute or even two, they did not know. Taryn felt only a pull from something further away, and a desire to be anywhere but here.

"Joffrey leaving is your doing," Jacaerys spoke up, then, breaking the quiet atmosphere with narrowed eyes and grit teeth, "is it not?"

Could they take credit for the action? Or only the idea? Neither would please the boy, they knew well enough. "I… suppose it is." Taryn swallowed hard, grey irises glancing to the side to meet his as they sat near perfectly still.

Jacaerys' hands clenched into tight-balled fists at his side. Teeth gritting, he took breath in through his nose and barely allowed it to escape his mouth as a method to calm himself. They could not recall ever seeing him angry, let alone like this. "What reason do you have for taking my brother from me? First it is Joff, next it will be Luke, and then…"

"It's nothing personal." Lower lip was taken between the flat of their teeth and worried, the chapped skin slowly lifting from the rest. "It's… God, how do I…?"

He was not a child. Not really, at least, not in the sense that most people would call a child. A teenager, not terribly far from being considered a man. Though the memory escaped them, Taryn thought that he might not appreciate being treated as a child, especially in his position as his mother's heir. A delicate matter, as it was. Worse, still, he was not their child, and they hadn't a clue as to what was and wasn't appropriate to say to him.

Mmm. Well, there was no real easy way, was there?

They straightened, then, feeling their shoulders pop as they rolled them and turned their body to face Jacaerys fully. Their lips pressed into a thin line, and their thumbs rubbed small circles in the soft fabric of their plum shawl. "I don't… know how much I should say. You're not my kid, and I don't know if your mother… would appreciate what I could tell you. But you're not a child, and I don't think you want to be treated like one. Am I right?"

Confusion crossed his expression, and he shook his head.

Patting the spot on the bench next to them, they beckoned him closer and managed a smile that ended up as more of a grimace when he followed and sat.

"I… have been giving your mother counsel." That was… putting it mildly. It would serve its purpose. They did not meet his eyes as they figured out how to word it. "There are terrible, awful things to come. You're not blind, and you know how your mother's siblings… how your… God, do you call her your grandmother or step-grandmother?"

His face twisted with no small amount of disgust. "Eugh. Neither. She is… Alicent Hightower. Nothing more or less."

"I figured as much." It startled laughter from somewhere deep within their chest. "You know how they feel about her. Rhaenyra. You know that they don't like you. That they don't like the idea of a woman in power… or that they just want their blood upon the throne."

Jacaerys nodded, clearly meaning for them to continue.

Here went nothing.

"Do you believe in dreams?"

Murmuring her thanks to Celia, Rhaenyra pressed the soft pouch of coin into her hands and watched as she slipped through the doors from her solar. It was to be handed off to a variety of seamstress' down in the coastal village that lay beneath the Dragonmont, for a variety of custom pieces. An array of gowns to suit both Rhaena and Baela, as a gift for their upcoming nameday… thicker pieces for Joffrey, since he would be leaving for the Vale sooner than late, to foster with Jeyne… and, at her own deeper thoughts… a special piece for her dreamer.

A set of riding leathers, fit for dragonback. Something blue, to suit the grey of their eyes. Rhaenyra could already see other flights for her dreamer on Syrax's back, as her golden lady had taken well to Rhaenyra's… well, it would not be untrue to call them her favorite of late, something Daemon had been sure to pick at. In good humor, of course.

The door saw someone else slip in before it closed. The figure of her eldest, still growing ever-taller. He would soon outgrow even her, and she was not excited to see that happening. Now… he seemed hurried. Worried.

"Why wouldn't you tell me?" He asked, a certain hurt deep in his voice as soon as the door shut fully. His brows furrowed, and his chest heaved as if he'd run all the way there. Jacaerys was not distraught… but it was the closest she'd seen him to the feeling since he was very, very small.

The ledger for her household expenses was shut atop the table as she sat straighter, alarm flaring in her stomach as she turned to face him. "Tell you what?" Rhaenyra demanded, bracing a palm flat atop the table as she stood before him.

"The dreams! Their dreams!" Dark eyes welled with tears, and his nails dug into the skin of his palm as his jaw clenched tight. Jacaerys swallowed once, twice, chest heaving again more with emotion than exertion, and he found his mother stepping into his space and taking him within her arms. "Did you not trust me?" His voice broke on his last word, and he buried his face into the velvet shoulder of her gown as if he were a small child again, and it well and truly broke her heart.

Gods above. She was not sure if she should be angry with her dreamer, or impressed with her son. Of course he would figure out who the center of these latest developments was.

"It is not about trust," she promised him, resting her chin atop his head as she drew tight, sharp breaths, an attempt at avoiding panic. "Oh, my sweet boy, I did not want you or your brothers or sisters to fear."

His head turned, resting the side of his skull against her shoulder and exposing his mouth so he could mumble to her. Something damp and hot soaked into the fine fabric, but she could not find it within herself to care. "I'm your heir. I should fear. They're mine to protect too, aren't they?"

"Of course they are. But this… you are so young. I've never wanted to fill your head with thoughts of war and blood and death."

"Are we going to fight it?"

She could only nod as she drew her first, her brave, sweet boy, ever closer. "Of course. Of course. We already have plans. Joff's being sent to the Vale to secure my cousin, Lady Jeyne's, support. There are… betrothals to be arranged to secure others as well. And…"

A knock upon the door. A call from her guards, irritation evident in their voices. "Maester Gerardys, Princess!" So many in and out of her chambers as of late.

"Send him in," she called. Rhaenyra was reluctant to let go of Jace, so she would not. Gerardys would not mind, surely.

The older man made his way in, grey robes swishing around his ankles from the speed of his movements. The lines upon his face pulled into a plainly stressed expression, and he clutched a thin roll of paper tightly within his hand. "My apologies, Princess Rhaenyra," he began, his voice trembling, "but this requires your attention at once."

Jacaerys pulled from her arms at once to free her for whatever matters now awaited her, sniffling once more before lowering his head to attempt to collect himself. Rhaenyra took the opportunity to pull the tiny roll of paper from her maester's hand, noting the seal pried from it by Gerardys most like. Velaryon-Targaryen— Rhaenys.

Her eyes trailed over the elegant, flowing words, and she grit her teeth as she took them in. Of course. Of course. Nothing could go easy, now that she had an extra piece upon her board.

"Mother?" Jacaerys asked, voice small and soaked in hesitation. "What does it say?"

Laughter escaped her lips, drenched in bitter frustration. "Lord Corlys has been injured grievously. Queen Alicent and the Lord-Hand are hearing petitions on the succession of Driftmark, posed by Ser Vaemond Velaryon. They mean to depose your brother."

Chapter Text

Three winged shapes were outlined against the burning dawn, sharp imprints against the bank of incoming storm clouds. Syrax, her dusty golden scales bringing to mind heavenly light, bore Rhaenyra. Blood-red Caraxes and pearl-scaled Arrax bore Daemon and Lucerys respectively, calling to each other in reassurances as the three soared towards King's Landing across the bay. Upon each of the larger dragons, a single guard sat behind their respective dragon rider— extra protection for the viper's nest. This was not a threat to be taken lightly.

Taryn allowed breath to be taken in through their nose and pass through their body. Fingers clenched into tight fists at their side, and they wondered if in the life before, they'd been any sort of religious. They oft found themself thinking or speaking of a 'God,' but not in any sort of faithful, reverent mean, nor did the Seven of this land hold any comfort for them. A thrill of panic and a bolt of dread always shot through their chest whenever they saw those seven-pointed stars.

It didn't matter if they had or hadn't been religious in their before, they decided then. If praying would do any good for the Princess… they were more than fine with praying.

Upon their heel they turned, catching the eyes of the children left for them to watch over, on request of Rhaenyra herself. Jacaerys' face was a stone mask, though they knew well enough that he was brooding and fearful for his mother. All the specifics had not been given to him, but he'd been given the basics, and those had troubled him. He'd been reluctant to stay behind while Lucerys flew into King's Landing with their parents.

Joffrey's eyes were fixed upon the sky until the very last glimpse of the dragons disappeared, whereupon he turned his gaze to the ground and stepped closer to Rhaena, whose expression bore worry. His elder sister's arms wrapped carefully around him, even though he was almost as tall as she was— she and Baela were twelve, and Joffrey was almost that same age. Baela stood on her own in the midst of her siblings, her gaze cast somewhere far off. As if she herself were somewhere far away. Aegon and Viserys had been to bed just before, deemed too young to see their parents off.

The evening light painted the world in sunset hues, and turned the red gown Lady Elinda Massey wore into a brand of fire. She was the gentlest of Rhaenyra's ladies, and the youngest of the four that Rhaenyra possessed— Lady Celia Strong stood amongst them, to, beside Gerardys with her mid-brown curls plaited back carefully. The Princess had left the care of her children, those treasures closest to her heart, to her most trusted companions— Gerardys, Celia, Elinda… and Taryn, technically, though they would say the task they'd been given was to watch for trouble, and to help the rest get away should the worst happen.

The first to speak was Celia, who drew from Gerardys' side in a flash of deep blue silks that gave her the appearance of a river nymph. "Supper has been prepared, so we must not let it go to waste. Your mother and father will want you all eating even without them here, you know."

Joffrey perked up at that. "Can I see Tyraxes after?" He gave the biggest eyes he could muster, pale lavender gleaming in the low-light.

Lips pursing contemplatively, Celia seemed tempted to say 'yes,' but Taryn cut in quick. "It would be best if you stayed within the castle, I think. You may see him in the morning." They'd been young once, too, and could at least recall the longing feeling to follow.

The young prince pouted, but Jacaerys' eyes caught theirs, and they thought he might have seemed at least a touch appreciative of their denial. They would take what they could.

Rhaenyra had not slept within this bed since before she had wed Daemon… almost nine years ago, now. She'd been younger, thinner, had four children less than she did now… and she'd been less afraid, she thought. The three of them had been received coldly, by none but Lord Caswell, the castellan of the Red Keep, and they'd been surprised to see the changes her childhood home had gone through in their absence.

Gone were the carefully carved dragons, the Targaryen heraldry ingrained in the Keep itself… but, oh, what a shock it was to see that damned seven-pointed star in their places. Above the Iron Throne, even. The audacity of the green-clad bitch to bring that into her home…

It mattered not. Not truly, at least, not now. No, she had other things to think of as she secured her robe around her, such as which turn to take in the tunnels. It was easy enough to move the shelf to the side and slip into the passage behind it with a candle in hand.

Her father's chambers were open to her in that way, thankfully, where she would not need to beg entry from the guards Alicent had assigned to his doors. Eventually, she found the panel that led to his apartments, and she pressed in before stepping inside.

The air was warm. Pleasant. The hearth crackled low, and she could see her father's figure within his bed, sitting up and holding papers within his one hand. Gods above, she'd almost forgotten bringing Gerardys last year to remove the whole of it, to try and stop the rot from spreading. From the bandages that covered an eye and half his face… it had perhaps only slowed it.

"Father," she called, her voice faint and hardly audible.

He heard her nonetheless. "Rhaenyra!" He sounded elated. His mouth stretched into a wide grin, or as wide as he could manage, and she saw now that he was missing several teeth. Time and illness had stolen even her father's smile from her, it seemed. "I had heard that you arrived, but…"

"I have not been here long," she assured him, stepping closer and setting her candle down upon the table at his bedside. She sat herself on the edge of the bed, looking him over. He looked too old. Everything Taryn said rang true and hollow in her mind, then. He really would die soon, wouldn't he? "I had to come through the tunnels. Your Queen has ordered the guards to not let anyone inside."

"She is… protective."

Protective was not the word she would use.

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, and she collected herself. It would not do to explode at her father. For all she knew, this may be the last time she ever saw him this well. No. She needed his support, and she needed him to listen. "Father, are you aware of what is to happen on the morrow?"

When he said nothing, instead giving her some blank, lost expression, she steeled herself for the frustration and continued.

"Your Queen and your Hand are to hear petitions in the early light… on the succession of Driftmark. On Lucerys' inheritance."

He drew a slow, sharp breath. "That is Lord Corlys' to decide," he murmured, his one eye narrowing. The amethyst hues she knew in Jacaerys' eyes brought her close to tears.

"Lord Corlys has been injured in a bout while attempting to pass the Stepstones. He is… touch and go, I have heard. Vaemond Velaryon has pushed past Corlys' will to attempt to assert himself as the future Lord of the Tides." Swallowing hard, she continued. "You know how Otto and Alicent shall rule on this matter. I need you."

"Rhaenyra…"

"No! No…" Rhaenyra shook her head and reached to take her father's hand in her own, squeezing it as tight as she could without hurting him. Something pooled in the corners of her eyes, but she did not try to blink them away. That would make them real. Would make this real. "Things have changed, Father. I am in need of your support now more than ever."

"What has changed?" Viserys' head tilted ever-so-slightly to the side, not entirely unlike the way her dreamer did when something puzzled them.

She shut her eyes tight, tilting her head back and breathing in the incensed air. Lavender, so thick in the surrounding she could taste it. To bring her father some meager sort of comfort. "You once told me that you believed some of us were led by dreams. That there was great power in them, and choosing to listen to them. Do you still believe that?"

Prophecy drove Aegon to conquer seven kingdoms, to forge them into one. Prophecy guided House Targaryen from Valyria to survive the Doom, and made us the last Valyrian house with dragons. Prophecy has given me the greatest gift I could ask for, a boon in my defense. Please. Please.

"I did. I… do. Speak, child, and tell me what troubles you so." He squeezed her hand back, in a way he had not done since she was a child.

Her throat bobbed, and her eyes opened again. "I have come into possession of a dreamer of my own. A songbird and an augury in one, my Lady of the Black Sands. I think you would like them…"

And so she began, explaining the last two months to her father in a way that hopefully did not make her seem utterly mad. A person who dreamt, washed upon her shores, who had dreamt and dreamt and dreamt, who could remember naught but their name and their visions. A person she was now… for all intents and purposes, plotting with…

Viserys did not release her hand the entire time. His remaining teeth grit so hard within his skull that she was afraid they might crack from the force. "And she… has seen this?"

"They have, yes. I believe them— I am already with the child I am sure will be my last." She kept her gaze averted from her father's eyes, unwilling to see any trace of disappointment.

Finally, he released her hand and reached to the table at his bedside. It hesitated over the vial of poppy's milk, and again over the half-drunk goblet of wine, before seizing the sheaf of parchment, and nearly upturning the ink pot beside it. "You will write for me, Rhaenyra. This must be done at once."

"Yes, Father." She took the parchment from him, standing up and leaning over the table at his bedside so she might actually write. The quill rested easily enough in her right hand.

"I, Viserys of House Targaryen, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, do hereby decree that my succession remains unchanged. My eldest child, Princess Rhaenyra of Houses Targaryen and Arryn, shall succeed me upon the Iron Throne…"

"…and her eldest child Jacaerys Velaryon, of Houses Targaryen and Velaryon, shall follow after her, whereupon he shall take the name Targaryen.

Her line is proud and true, and her heirs are aplenty. My son Prince Aegon of Houses Targaryen and Hightower shall never have need to succeed me upon my throne, and those who claim otherwise shall be named traitors to the realm."

Ser Erryk Cargyll was summoned, the knight Rhaenyra felt could be most trusted within her father's household, and passed the letter so it might be taken to Orwyle and copied meticulously… where Erryk would not leave until it had been copied many a time, and sent out to the greatest houses of the seven kingdoms.

Viserys turned back to his daughter, his hand raising to cup her cheek, where her own rested above it. She was red in the face and near tears, but that did not matter so. "Ser Vaemond shall be dealt with on the morrow, your son's inheritance secured, and all waggling tongues silenced. My girl, is there anything else I can do for you, to ease your mind on this matter?"

Rhaenyra swallowed thickly, nodding to her father as she gathered her words and her courage. "I… would like Helaena to come to Dragonstone, with her children… to stay, and rest and recover from the strain of delivering Maelor."

His eye widened just barely, and she felt shame, hot and ugly, settle deep in her chest. Her teeth grit down. She regretted pulling her rings off.

"I would not have my sweet sister left to the machinations of her mother and grandfather." The shame did not leave her. She pressed onward. "And… I would have Daeron, as well, the boy closest in age to my own. A last attempt at reconciliation, and to pull him from those who would turn him against me."

His gaze was… assessing. He did not seem angry, necessarily, but did not seem all too pleased with her request. As if she had overreached.

She wished to scoff at that— how could she overreach, when his wife's children would soon seek blood from her and her children? When they would sooner see her dead than queen?

"I will grant you this, and one thing more, but you must do something for me and make me a promise, Rhaenyra," Viserys said at last, as firm as he could manage while still so frail.

"Name your price, Father," she said instead of cursing him. For all his faults… she still loved the man, even if the mess she was to sail into was one of his own making.

Viserys sighed in relief, and spoke again. "You will promise me that no harm shall come to your sister, or your brother, nor any of Helaena and Aegon's children under your care."

"I promise. They are innocent of any wrongdoing… or, they shall be, once I remove them from those who would cause them harm." An easy enough promise to make. "They shall have positions of honor amongst my court, as my siblings. Name your other request."

He smiled again, for her, though it was softer than the grin he'd given her earlier. She could have wept— there was her father, the man who had raised and loved her the entirety of her life.

"You'll present your dreamer to me, before I die. I should like to meet the one who has captivated my little girl so, the one who has made saving her… their… duty."

Rhaenyra found her face quite warm.

The ship and the letter arrived at the same time, carried by the same woman who captained the ship, the day before they were set to put Joffrey on a ship to sail to Gulltown. Taryn took charge at once, careful and cautious, remembering the face of some knightly twin who would be— might be —sent to slay those precious souls within the citadel. Jacaerys accompanied them, of course, as did a slew of guards who seemed as cautious as Taryn themself.

It was a trading cog, well taken care of and well loved, and the woman possessed a long brown braid, was slight of stature, and seemed so very sure of herself as she descended from the ship. "I come at the request of Princess Rhaenyra," she called, both hands held in the air, one clutching a piece of parchment. "Carrying precious cargo, to be received by… well, I assume you all will do."

Jacaerys nodded to the man closest to him, who pressed forward to take the parchment from him, which was then presented to Taryn.

The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snarled up at them from the wax seal, which Taryn broke with their nail to unscroll it. They glanced over it and frowned as they squinted to focus on Rhaenyra's small and careful script.

"Vaemond Velaryon is dead. As are three of his sons, come to proclaim my own bastards after their father. Lord Corlys may miss them as he pleases— they have learned the price of treason. Lucerys is secure as the future Lord of the Tides, and we shall be home sooner than late. Give Joffrey my love, for I shall not be there to send him off on his long journey. Ensure that he knows he is thought of always.

"King Viserys has sent two treasures ahead of us, for safe keeping. Do not let word of this slip from our household. You shall see for yourself. When we return, we shall be joined by Helaena and her children. See to it that they have rooms prepared… and prepare one more, for Daeron is being brought home by Daemon."

Oh, God, she'd done it. But what was the ship carrying…?

Two boys no older than Jacaerys, possessing silver hair, raced from somewhere further within the cog. Each carried a package wrapped in pale brown paper, tied with some loose string. One was quite longer than the other, the other a simple, padded square. The boy Taryn mentally deemed the elder carried the longer package, allowing his mother to place a kiss upon his forehead before he, too, descended and knelt before Prince Jacaerys after a moment's hesitation.

Jacaerys hesitated as well. His eyes flitted to Taryn's, seeking reassurance. They swallowed thickly around nothing before resting a hand upon his shoulder and nodding. "Go on, Jace," they murmured softly as who must have been the younger boy presented the square package to them… seeing as Jacaerys was occupied.

Rhaenyra's boy took the longer package in hand and peeled the brown paper back just enough to peek within. His eyes, dark amethyst made lighter by the sun, widened with shock, and he struggled not to drop the package which must have been heavy. A guard stepped forward to catch it and steady him, whereupon Jace shook his head and turned to them. "Open it," he demanded.

Taryn's brows drew closer, and their mouth fell back into that neutral frown they always maintained. Their fingers slipped into an open edge of the packaging and tore, and they imagined for a moment that they had never been so graceful about such things. They had to give credit where it was due to Jacaerys— they nearly dropped their package as well, but more so from a crippling amount of fear that sent their hands to shaking.

In their hands they held the Valyrian steel circlet of the Usurper-to-be, the square rubies embedded within glowing light fire-lit blood. The same one they'd seen within their dreams.

Chapter Text

Loose grains of fine black sand lay sprawled upon the stone floor of the 'sept,' something they felt inclined to call a chapel. It lay in a secluded cleft within the cliffs near the castle, no door fixed to it, open to all and sheltered just from the elements. It had been carved out to give it seven walls, where each bore a wooden statue of some deity of those Seven, each upon a raised lip to keep it separate from the rest of the floor.

They knelt before the feet of one, a wizened, wise looking woman whose eyes were two perfect pearls who shone different hues. The wood grain of her skin was aged and porous, and there was a bit of moss clinging to the sides of her carved lantern. The Crone, little Viserys had quietly told them when they entered the sept and found her gaze most compelling. They'd carried the littlest of Rhaenyra's brood in with them upon their hip, for he'd been clingy since they saw Joffrey off in the cold dark of that day's early morning. They did not mind him, truly— Viserys was clever and quiet, and did not mind their nonsense. Smarter than he should have been, they felt, for a boy only five years old. He quite reminded them of themself in some life long ago.

Candles of various shapes and sizes littered the lip that circled the room, glowing low and all in a multitude of color. It made the stark contrast to the candle Taryn had selected from Gerardys' primary chamber. They'd chosen a black candle, tall and only faintly melted that had clearly not seen use in some time. Those they'd passed on the way to the sept had narrowed their eyes as the sight of it, which had set them to worrying their lower lip with their teeth, half-stripping the chapped flesh from it.

They set it down in the foreground of the rows of candles that backed it, and God, they hadn't realized their hands had started shaking. Black is a good color. Color of soil. Means, um… protection, I think. They reached for the little piece of wood Viserys had offered earlier, stopping to ruffle his silver-gold hair fondly, which set him to smiling bright and boldly, and then used it to light their candle before snuffing the piece of wood out.

It felt strange. Claustrophobic, even. Wrong, almost. The eyes of the seven figures who lined the room stared too intently, too judgmentally… but for the eyes of the one standing above them, who only stared with a strange curiosity. Tightly, Taryn shut their eyes in an attempt to block out the feeling.

What are you even supposed to do? They wondered hopelessly, clawing desperately through old memories. The trembling in their hands grew worse, and their face grew warm. Shame bloomed low in their belly, and tears stung at the corner of storm cloud eyes. They drew one long, shaking breath… and felt a weight settle into their lap.

Oh. Viserys.

He pressed his back against their chest through the soft grey silks they wore, tilting his head back and smiling. "Need help?" He asked in that soft voice of his, sweet and almost comforting. He was a good kid, truly, just as all of Rhaenyra's brood were.

They could only nod, sniffling just a little as his little hands took theirs by the thumbs and brought them together in front of them.

"Sept'n Rael says you're supposed t' do it like this," Viserys began, sounding so very serious as he tried to force the palms of their hands to press together in a flat gesture. "But, um… hold them… Together."

Clasp them, he likely meant, and so they did, bringing their hands up a little bit closer to their chest… while still trying to avoid pressing them directly against Viserys' head.

The judgment was still there, the air still thick… but with Viserys' weight to ground them, it did not seem so intense. He prattled along further about what Septon Rael said to do, but they focused intently on a point somewhere in the ceiling, allowing their mind to drift somewhere far away. Being taught to pray by a babe, they wondered.

The book they'd read that gave them this insane idea had mentioned names. Names other than those Seven they were currently under the eyes of, older and far more ancient and blood-drenched than these idoled faces.

Balerion was the name that came to mind first, the same as the largest Targaryen dragon from the Conquest. So many of those names were shared by dragons, it almost seemed unreal. But the Targaryens were closer to gods than men, or so the saying went, so it only made sense that their dragons could be gods. Vermax… Vhagar… Syrax…

The other ones… the other ones…

Valyria had been ruled by forty-something dragon-lord families, the weakest at the end having been House Targaryen, and the Freehold had been a place of religious tolerance. The Valyrians believed themselves above normal men, and so did not bow to the gods, but some kept household gods, if the books had been correct. A thousand and one gods had roamed Valyria's magic-filled skies… a handful would do for Taryn. They didn't need the attention of all of them, merely for at least one to listen.

Caraxes… Meleys… Arrax… Tyraxes…?

They held like that, still and silent with hands clasped over Viserys' little face and their heart both, until they felt some sort of gaze upon them. Softer, sleepier than the seven within the room with them, blinking open and reminding them of Syrax's emerald eyes, the only dragon they'd seen up close. Older and wiser still, and unused to this attention.

They did not tremble. Could not, would not. They wanted to be listened to, to be respected enough for their words to have meaning, if the feeling was real and not just the mad hope of someone shaken to their core.

I want… to be useful. To hold my own weight, to not be a burden. I want to help her, to help protect her, because this is not a fight than can be fought or won alone. They shut their eyes so tightly they felt stars bloom beneath their eyelids, and allowed a warm breath to escape their nose as they took another one in. There's terrible things to happen in the future, those things you have shown me. I want…

Was it power they wanted?

The thought almost startled them out of their own mind. Power… was easily corrupting, but they were almost sure that they could handle some sort of power, without abusing it. And sure, they knew they had ambition of a sort, at least in the life before, but it wasn't as if they wanted it for those sorts of purposes.

Power… was not the word for it. Security… no. All the words they tried, none of them seemed to fit the way they really, truly wanted it to.

I want, they thought, to be able to fight. To be able to protect. They repeated it like a mantra in their mind, the only words that fit, over and over and over again until they felt physically sick of it. The dreams were not enough— not if this all went terribly wrong. If fire and blood still rained down upon them, if all the dragons died, if something other crept from the ice to steal the breath from their lungs and made from the north to the south…

They wanted to be a protector.

The wet slide that passed their cupid's bow and dripped further down alerted them, drawing them from the fervent daydream they'd lost themself in. More trickled, and they brought the back of their hand up to wipe at it, only to pull their hand back and discover a crimson smear along their thumb. Viserys looked up, then, startled by the sudden movement, and his dark amethyst eyes grew wide with no small amount of fear. "You're bleeding!"

He struggled in their grasp, and they stood to further secure him, tucking him atop their hip and with the crook of their elbow secure around his little waist. They softly shushed him, flicking the hand now coated in blood towards the ground and the candles, where droplets of it met the floor and the wax both. "It's nothing— just a nosebleed, sweet boy. See?" But, oh, there was more blood than what usually came with one of those, and they could feel it retreating from their nostrils now that they were pinching their nose closed, and they could taste the metallic slide of liquid iron down their throat.

Princelings are wont to do as they please, and Viserys' will was guided by his concern in that moment. He reached up to hold their nose for them as they managed a half-choked laugh, gently shaking their head as they strode from the cliff side sept to begin the trek down the beach and to the grand stone steps that led down to it. It was just blood, and nothing they hadn't felt before. The iron taste of blood from such as this was not unfamiliar.

Why, then, did it squeeze at their heart with firm, icy fingers?

The smallest of her children had yet to greet her, sequestered away somewhere, tucked against her dreamer's side, if Elinda's quiet telling could be believed… and Rhaenyra was inclined to say it could.

Still she was windswept by the cold breeze of the day, her leathers only now being shed in the privacy of her chambers. There had been many preparations made before they could leave King's Landing… securing Helaena and her little ones' things upon a ship, and organizing how to get the children home… seeing Daemon off to Oldtown to fetch Daemon with a decree from her father… watching how Alicent paled as she secured Jaehaera to Syrax's saddle at her front, so Helaena might hold the babe in his sling securely upon Dreamfyre's back… oh, how Rhaenyra would love to see the bolt of shock pierce Alicent's iris again, and how she wished to smile just as she had in the moment. Be wary, lady-stepmother. I've a new hand dealt, and mine shall be far more bountiful than yours.

Her mind was split between many a thought, in that moment— how pitiful Alicent had looked, the various locations of her children (Jacaerys and Baela sharing Vermax's saddle, Rhaena with her group of girlhood companions to work on their stitching, Aegon trailing after Lucerys through the halls… Viserys likely with Taryn…), the accommodations being made for her sister and her babes, and the thought of Joffrey upon that lonely ship headed towards the Vale. The final thought made it difficult to swallow or take in breath.

Joffrey had been the clingiest of her children, ever since birth. The one she held the closest, the one who clutched the tightest to her skirts. For a time, she had thought he would be her last child. That had been proven wrong, but his willingness to be beneath her feet and at her side had not. He was the boldest of her children, the most brash, the most like Daemon, even if Daemon had not sired him. That she had not even managed to see him off on the journey that would take him the furthest from her that he'd ever been… almost shattered the organ beating furiously within her chest.

I will visit him sooner than late, once he is within the Eyerie, she promised herself as she squeezed her eyes shut and rolled the deep mauve leathers off of her shoulders. They fell to the ground easily enough. A breath of relief escaped her lips, and she drew her hand over the barely noticeable swell of her belly through her underdress. A new set might need to be commissioned sooner than late, to accommodate for the growth of pregnancy.

The door opened without ceremony nor announcement, and the frazzled form of her dreamer slipped inside, only to press the door closed with their back. Their gaze was cast over their shoulder, a tiny roll of bandage scraps shoved up one nostril and… blood spotting the front of their silken grey skirts. "I'm so sorry, they just told me you were looking for Viserys, but I'd already left him with the nursemaids…"

Taryn's head turned, then, and their hooded eyes widened into an expression that almost made them look… fully awake, or less than sad for once. The faintest bit of color crossed the freckled porcelain of their face, and Gods above, if that wasn't a sweet sight.

"I'm so sorry," they breathed, face turning away at once as their hand scrambled for the door's handle. "I'll just— I'll come back—"

"No. No, you're fine… Are you bleeding?" She found herself moving forward, taking their hand in hers and nearly flinching from the icy feel of their fingers. It was not as if she were in the nude, and truly… what did it matter if she had been? She was reasonably sure that her lady had all the same parts as she herself had.

Fingers curling within Rhaenyra's gentle grip, Taryn's eyes found the ground as they drew a shaking breath. "Um… yes. Nosebleed. It's… fine, mostly. They happen sometimes."

The big splotches of crimson that had soaked into dove-grey silk looked a bit less than fine.

"You're cold." Rhaenyra did not care if she stated the obvious— only that her dreamer listened. "Sit by the hearth, and shed your overdress. I'll have a maid bring you another. It will not do to have you wandering about, blood-spattered as if you've been struck."

Their lips parted as if to protest, and then shut as their gaze hardened. Thinking better of it, then. A nod served as their answer, and they made their way to one of the seats before Rhaenyra's hearth. They did hesitate as their fingers itched towards the lacing upon the front of their bodice. "Are you… sure?"

Oh, how she wanted to scream. Was she sure? Well, Daemon surely knew that she was… but it would not serve to have them uncomfortable. "You do not have to, if you are truly so uncomfortable with the idea. But I would prefer to have you in clean clothes, so I might present you to my sweet sister."

Ah. That made their grey eyes light up, the realization that yes, Helaena was here dawning upon their face. They turned within the seat to fix her with a steady gaze as they pushed their fingers beneath the delicate knot that secured their lacings and tugged, pulling them loose and working them down. "King's Landing. You'll tell me everything— starting with the sword. How the hell did you manage that?"

Ah. There went all sense of manner. Rhaenyra could not claim to mind. "Well…"

Two weeks had gone by since Daemon had returned with Daeron in tow, and Dragonstone had become almost lively in the time since— livelier than usual, really, with the addition of the second eldest dragon currently living, and another dragon of a similar age to Jace and Lucerys'. The twin children of the Usurper-to-be had their hatchlings brought upon a ship as well… and the isle was alive with more bonded croons than it had heard in many a century. The books Taryn had been lent on the Valyrian Freehold had described such a thing… but it had done no justice.

The new additions to Rhaenyra's court were settling in well, even if their presence had disturbed the routine Taryn had become used to. Helaena was… decent company, when they found themself in the same room as her. She was a pleasant enough woman, and the same age as Taryn— a fact that perturbed them, given that her twins were almost six years old —but not so… well, she was not Rhaenyra. One could clearly tell they were sisters at first glance. Helaena's hair was more pale blonde than silver-gold, but they were of a similar shade, and her eyes were more purple than the periwinkle Rhaenyra possessed, but Helaena lacked the strong cheekbones Rhaenyra held high, and her nose was not so strong a profile as the elder princess'. Neither woman was thin, but that was not something Taryn would ever hold against anyone— both women had borne three or more children, and who could fault someone for something as trivial as weight gain in an age such as this? Indulgence meant wealth, and women who bore the signs of such were nothing short of beautiful and well taken care of.

The princess' younger sister could perhaps be taken for odd, but Taryn wasn't so sure of the word. They were almost certain that they could be described the same way, after all. Helaena was fond of bugs, and her embroidery, and held as strong a love for flying as she did for her children. Her children were sweet, though they concerned Taryn at times. Jaehaera, the girl, was smaller than her younger twin brother. She did not… emote much, though that wasn't what worried them so much. She didn't speak much, and Taryn wasn't so sure that they'd ever seen her carry a conversation, even with the other children close to her age. Her attention was spotty, she could not yet write her name, and she had not begun to lose any of her milk teeth, even though Jaehaerys had.

And Jaehaera had become another child who followed after their footsteps, just like Viserys had become of late.

There was a feeling in the back of their mind that buzzed with a certain discomfort, a certain feeling of being overwhelmed, that told them they were not very fond of children. It certainly did buzz in the back of their head when the little ones became too loud… but it was not all consuming like they felt it must have been at one point. They could not say they found overwhelming joy in having a small, ever-growing crowd of children cling to them… but they did not hate it all the time.

Daeron was uneasy, still, but steadily warming the longer he spent. He was a silver shadow that followed his raven-haired nephews around most times. Charming, with a soft voice made for song, and the perfect guest of his sister's. He even joined Taryn in the yards when Daemon decided training could resume, and perhaps it was nice to have someone to share in the misery of being taught the sword by the Rogue Prince.

Their life had become… not funny, not really. But beneath the everlasting dread and the panic that lingered from their shorter and shorter sleeps, it had become pleasant, faintly amusing, something they could exist in without some lingering desire to find the deepest, darkest hole to crawl into so they might disappear. They were not so loathed by those around them, at least, and it was all they could hope for.

That morning was cold and slow, and found them in Rhaenyra's solar, half-awake as she watched them sit and stand and turn this way and that for the seamstress and her apprentice that Rhaenyra favored. Measurements were being taken, and an early morning meal served and grazed upon by the maids in attendance. The room felt strangely small without Celia and Elinda there with the two of them, or Gerardys or Helaena or some of the children. They were growing used to the presence of others, never truly alone with Rhaenyra… but they would not complain. Her presence was warm as the sun, glowing and golden as she watched with steady eyes.

Her eyes made them feel as warm as the sun in that moment, with how intently they stared at Taryn's back. Fabric was draped across their form, this way and that, and they fought the urge to fidget and ask when it would be done. It was not as terrible as it could be, and they only half-minded all the eyes upon them.

The apprentice dug through the pack they'd brought with them, retrieving carefully hemmed squares of fabric in all different shades and textures. Rhaenyra had called a good gown "the height of luxury" once, and while they would never take it that far… well, they could agree to a certain extent. One swatch and then the next was held up to their chest, to their back, to their arms… They reached out to take the edge of one sample between forefinger and thumb to feel over it, and the edges of their lips quirked up in a half smile. "Is this velvet?"

"It is, my lady," the apprentice said, ducking his head, and his mentor smiled wider.

Rhaenyra gave a soft laugh, and brought her cup to her lips to sip slowly. "It's the kind that's made from silk. Finer than the gowns we had you fit in before— Ellyn works quickly and neatly, but the fabrics she uses are not as fine. Teora here uses only the best, and we shall pay her handsomely for it."

Once more they drew their thumb over the fabric, admiring the shine and the softness. It did not have that rough aftereffect that the velvet they'd worn before had, which was a relief. "Would it be possible…"

"Of course," the seamstress, Teora, replied before they could finish. With the pins in place for the panels of a skirt, she stood and dusted her own off before placing a hand against their waist and beckoning them to turn one way, to face the mirror. "You'll forgive my bluntness, I am sure, but I am certain you would not look good in something high collared. You've lovely collarbones— would you mind if we showed them?"

Taryn shook their head and looked over their reflection, tilting their head to the side as they took it in. The thin panels that had been pinned into place gave them an idea of some elements the older seamstress seemed to think right for them… a touch longer in the back, just short enough in the front to show the top of the boots they wore. The thought entered their head, and the sudden worry caused them to frown. God knew they were clumsy enough already, even without fabric trailing behind their feet. "Can we shorten the back of the skirt? I don't want to trip."

Another affirmative.

They watched Rhaenyra prop her head upon her palm, some fond expression crossing her face. "You're to wear them, you're more than allowed to make requests for what you like, my lady. Might I suggest something to show your shoulders?" Her gaze became sharper, finding theirs in the reflection and sending heat to their cheeks.

"Isn't it about to be winter?"

The questions, the responses, they came and went and were confirmed over and over, until Teora and her apprentice had packed back up and taken their leave, and Taryn was left to step down from the stool they'd been placed upon, and straighten the thinner skirts of the underdress they'd worn for the fitting. Taryn tugged at the bodice until everything felt in place before they took the seat next to Rhaenyra, reaching for the overgown and pulling it over their head. It would still need to be laced in the back, but it was the easiest of their wardrobe to pull on by themself, and had become a go-to.

Their head turned just to the side, and they caught a glimpse of a smile from the princess before she turned to face them.

She was growing steadily larger, four months along now, the babe in her womb in limbo. Reminded them of someone's cat— alive or dead, they wouldn't know until that day came to pass when the babe left her haven within her mother's body. They reached out a hand, nearing the swell of her stomach beneath her gown, but hesitation stayed their hand as their fingers shook from something other than nerves. Another twitch came when Rhaenyra's hand found theirs, caught by the wrist, and guided it to rest lightly against her stomach.

"You're trembling."

They shrugged it off and averted their eyes, lip taken between their teeth as they rubbed a half-circle into the top of her stomach. "It's nothing."

"I don't think it is." The back of her own hand was brought to the curve of their cheek, just barely touching and being drawn down in an act of comfort. "The bags beneath your eyes are larger than usual. You've not been sleeping, have you?"

If they suddenly felt smaller, more vulnerable, if their control on those awful thoughts slipped… well, surely they could not be faulted for it. They had kept busy, done everything to put it from their mind, and of course something else would take the brunt of that. Working harder with Daemon in the mornings at the sword, creeping through the castle late in the night, allowing the children to follow after them and allowing themself to fall into more conversation with the others of the household… and sleep had been fleeting, but that was likely for the better. There was less screaming to be heard in their waking hours.

"It's easier if I don't." Were they selfish for avoiding it, with so much hinged on their dreams? Taryn certainly felt it in that moment, even as they leaned in to the soft caress of their cheek. "I'm sorry." The corners of their eyes burned. From tiredness or tears, they couldn't tell.

Rhaenyra shushed them softly, hand slipping to the opposite cheek and pressing just enough to make them lean against her shoulder. "It is nothing to be sorry for. What worries you?"

"Nothing." They swallowed thickly around the lump in their throat. "Everything. I sleep and I dream and I can't even do that right. It's fucking… it's fucking ridiculous, I know, I just… I can't sleep for longer than an hour, maybe a little more, and suddenly someone's screaming me awake. When I can sleep, it's not any better. I don't think I've ever seen that many bodies, or eyes that blue… And it's stupid, but that crown freaks me out."

That was an understatement.

The sight of sunlight filtering through the rubies set into the band, turning them to pools of blood, had set their heart pounding against their chest, and the glint off of the Valyrian steel had winked at them from their dreams for many a night after. They avoided the dusty room in Sea Dragon Tower where it and the grand blade Blackfyre were kept like the plague. If they never saw it again, they'd count it a blessing. Before they'd taken it within their hands, they'd only seen it within their dreams, crowning the brow of the would-be Usurper, glinting atop his head in the firelight from his dragon's shining golden maw, pressing into his pale skin and leaving stigmata dripping from Rhaenyra's hairline. The blade, they could live with. The crown? They'd prefer Rhaenyra in the thin golden circlet of her father. It at least suited her face better.

Taryn squeezed their eyes shut tight until sparks bloomed beneath the thin skin of their eyelids, and still it did not send the images from their mind. Maybe if they clawed them from their skull those pictures would vanish, would learn they were unwanted and reviled by the dreaming mind they haunted. "I've been… trying. Everything I can. I even tried praying." To soothe the worry, that was. To reassure themself, to convince themself that maybe they could do something to avoid calamity. Something more than sleeping and dreaming away.

Soft. Softer than usual, at least, because Taryn wasn't sure they'd use that word to describe Rhaenyra in any other context than with her children, but what else would they call this? Rhaenyra's arm slid to secure itself around Taryn's waist, tugging her close as she guided their head to rest against the crook of her own neck. Jasmine and something warm surrounded them, sweet and comforting. filling their head. "I'll have Gerardys bring you something, to ensure a dreamless sleep for you," she promised.

Unable to even bring themself to nod, they just gave some small noise of agreement and allowed their head to lay fully against her shoulder. Oh, they thought, so this is what it is to be comforted.

Chapter Text

"What are you doing?" The firm voice of Baela startled them from their thoughts, almost causing them to jump out of their skin. Not a great thing to do with half of the length of their hair still actively being cut, hacked at with a pair of shears they'd stolen from somewhere else within the castle.

Ah, yes, the child. Baela was fine, usually, but they'd been in a jittery state all day. It was crazy what a week of sleeping through the night would do for someone. "Cutting my hair." It had begun to brush their shoulders, and the sensation was unpleasant on the best of days— not to mention that the blue in their hair had faded to green of a pale shade, and contrasted… well, it certainly contrasted with the darker brown roots.

"Would you cut mine as well?"

They stopped at the insistent hacking they'd been doing with their hair and turned to look at the girl, dead in her violet eyes.

Baela was Rhaena's twin in all except manner; each girl possessed rich umber colored skin, round violet eyes, and thick curls that gleamed more silver than gold. Rhaena was a softer, gentler force, more comfortable with needle and thread and prayer than with the sword or bow. Baela was the opposite, preferring to train in the yard and wrestle with squires, fond of hawking and sharp little blades. Where Rhaena kept her hair in a multitude of long and tiny braids, accentuated with little golden filigree cages, Baela's was kept in a simple two-pronged braid with curls spilling across her forehead, fastened back with glass beads in a multitude of colors.

Of course, they thought, Baela would prefer shorter hair. It matched well with the other things she enjoyed. But Rhaenyra and the maids were so very fond of it, and Taryn was not her mother, and, well… they did not feel so comfortable with the idea of cutting a twelve year old's hair in the same messy manner as their own.

They chuckled nervously under their breath, and gave her a response in, "Your parents would absolutely fucking kill me if I did that." It was probably the truth.

Lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout— they could tell at once that they were not the first person Baela had asked, and so inferring, they turned back to the mirror to make the last few cuts. It was not… terrible, but it was certainly not even, and the choppy length was a touch too long and did not suit their loose curls. Taryn ran a hand through their hair and grimaced as they watched small pieces fall away.

Baela peered over their shoulder. Her frown grew to match theirs. "That's…"

"It's fucked," Taryn agreed with a small nod. …well. They may just be stuck with the shittiest haircut they could manage.

She nodded back. Her gaze flitted to the side, where the doorway lay, and she inched backwards. "I think Helaena has a maid cutting the twins' hair. I could go ask for help?"

Curling a lock around one finger and glaring at their reflection, they pressed their lips into a thin line and hummed in no small amount of displeasure. "Might be for the best. I'll be complaining about this for days if it's not fixed."

"I'll return with help." Baela dipped her head once more, her braids bobbing with the movement as she spun on her heel and darted, as if the Stranger itself was chasing her. The pendant of braided gold around her neck was jostled with her speed, gleaming in the last light of the room as she sped off.

Oh, she had no clue their face could become so red. How delightful.

"Do not bully me, Princess," they grit out, cheeks flushing an even darker shade as they played with their sleeves. Their hair settled just beneath their ears and above their jaw, a lovely mess of loose curls with greenish ends. A good look for them, though not as long as she had grown used to.

Viserys clung to Taryn's leg, beaming up at them even as they seethed oh-so-gently. A low-burning flame, the last embers of a hearth, they were. His hair had been clipped short as well, likely in a spur-of-the-moment decision whilst Taryn's had been cut. Oh, Rhaenyra wished she could manage anger at the fact, silently mourning the long, silky-soft strands of silver hair her youngest possessed… but it was terribly cute all the same. Her littlest boy had chosen a favorite person, and had finally cut his hair short like each of his brothers before him.

Her sweet sister stood just beside the chair where Rhaenyra's dreamer sat, beaming like she had never seen before. Something like pride glowed in her teeth and lilac eyes. "Do you like it, Rhaenyra?"

Do you like it? Should she have been embarrassed at the fact that Helaena had noticed how deeply fond she was of her dreamer? Rhaenyra supposed she should, but delight tinted everything in a lovely rose color, in her mind at least. "It suits them," she said at last, hands clasped together as Taryn's face flushed a deeper shade of crimson.

"Can my hair be green, too?" Viserys asked softly, head tilted to the side.

Grey-eyes widened, and they turned to him with their hand coming to cup the back of his head. "I don't think your mom would like that. And it's wasn't green originally; it was teal."

So specific. Rhaenyra stepped closer, taking a curl between her forefinger and thumb and tugging just enough to watch it spring back when she released it. "If I'd have known you preferred it short, I'd have kept someone in my employ who could cut it for you." She could not help it when the urge struck again, pushing her fingers through soft curls, from brown roots to the pale green ends.

The way their teeth grit was almost amusing, jaw tensing as if they were attempting to keep themself from doing something. Be it stupid or fond, Rhaenyra could not know— picking their mind to try and assess their thoughts was futile, but oft enjoyable, and this certainly was not the place to do so.

"…didn't want to bother you with it." They averted their eyes and busied their hands with combing through Viserys' as he rested his head atop their knee.

Her smile felt especially fond in that moment. With a wave of a hand, two servants stepped forward with additional seats— one for Helaena, one for Viserys, though her boy did not see a point in leaving Taryn's knee. Rhaenyra took her own seat and leaned over just so, murmuring in the servant's ear, "Have some tea brought up, as well as a tray of cheeses, jams, and biscuits."

"Yes, my lady," he said back, dipping his head respectfully before hurrying away.

The air was calm, lightly scented with jasmine oils and the far off scent of a late autumn rain, cold and cleansing. A good day— Rhaenyra knew where each of the children were (Luke and Baela chasing Jace and Daeron with wooden swords as "practice," Rhaena within the library with Aegon accompanying her, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera being attended to by a nursemaid…) and knew where each piece upon the board lay. The latest of her guests upon Dragonstone had found no trouble with her, and were invaluable to her attempt to keep a war from breaking out. Her augury remained hers, a loyal and deeply entertaining servant of some higher power with a desire to see Rhaenyra upon her throne. And Visenya still grew within her, steady and strong and with no reason to fear.

It was good. Peaceful, even. Why, then, did something gnaw insistently at the back of her skull? Icy dread of some sort, the type that laced Taryn's sharp tongue as of late.

Soft lilac irises found their mark upon Taryn's passive face, and Helaena's lips stretched in a smile that was softer still. "My apologies if it's not exactly to your liking, my lady. I'm afraid Leona only knows short-cuts in men's styles."

With a wave of their hand, they dismissed it as they brought the other to play with the short shorn strands. "'s fine. I like it this way. Not too feminine like this."

And there it was.

Helaena's smile immediately became strained in a way Rhaenyra was familiar with by way of Alicent, the same smile the Queen gave when she clearly disapproved of something— low necklines, unbound hair on married women, the entire notion of Rhaenyra's position of heir… oh, Helaena, she mourned silently, you've more of your mother than I thought.

"But… you are a lady. Is the point not to be feminine?" Her eyes crinkled at the edges, and confusion painted her tongue and tainted her soft-spoken words.

And oh, how terrible it was to watch Taryn's face fall at that comment. They never insisted rudely, but it always seemed to upset them. "I'm not… well, 'm not really a lady. In that sense, you know?"

"No. I don't." The strained smile upon her sister's face became more of a grimace, really.

Ah. Joy.

Helaena's hand reached from her lap to take Taryn's skirts within, tugging it up slightly as her brow furrowed. "My lady, if you could show me what is beneath your skirts, we may have an answer to your dilemma…"

The motion was so fast that Rhaenyra almost didn't notice it at first. The noise was more immediate, the impact causing Helaena to shrink back with an affronted look upon her face. Viserys startled to attention, snapping to look at their face rather than where Helaena's hand had just been. And oh, Taryn's face was so very red, lips parted just so and nose crinkled to show their shock. "Don't— do not touch me."

Rhaenyra felt her own eyes widen at the sight, and she caught her youngest's eyes and quickly beckoned for him to join her; Viserys hurriedly scrambled across the floor to plant himself upon her lap, though he was becoming too large for such a feat. "Perhaps," she began, but did not get to finish.

"I'm sorry if I've given offense, but it isn't as if the world is ending." Helaena's protests died on the air as Taryn stood up, smoothing down the soft fabric of their overdress. Her face fell further as they turned away. "Aegon does it all the time with me and other women, and they do not truly mind…"

"You have issues other than what's between my legs, then," Taryn snapped irritably, quickly making their way from the room and shutting the door firmly behind them.

Revulsion roiled within Rhaenyra's stomach at the last of what Helaena said. I will castrate him myself, she promised, hating that it seemed those sordid rumors were true. When Helaena turned her big lavender eyes upon Rhaenyra, as if asking what she had done wrong, Rhaenyra only tilted her head. It was… not something she entirely understood, with Taryn. The issue of their sex.

They shied away from explaining it, as if they didn't truly understand themself. As if they didn't have the words for it. Rhaenyra simply did not question it— what did it matter to her what lay between their legs, but for those images that lay dormant in the back of her mind until she lay awake at night? Evidently, Helaena hadn't thought to ignore it like everyone else seemed to now.

It mattered not.

"You should apologize, when you next come across them." She did her best to keep an even tone, not wanting to scold. "Most people do not take kindly to being grabbed like that."

Her sweet sister swallowed hard and seemed to shrink, but nodded. "Ah. Perhaps I will."

The door opened and in stepped a servant with a tray of tea and cheeses…

The dreams had been different, lately.

Warmth and low, molten heat instead of ice and flesh torn from old bodies anew. Not unlike the warmth that lay low in their belly when they clung to Rhaenyra's back upon Syrax's saddle.

Often, they would push through a veil of soot and silk, into the image of a burning sunset with dark grey clouds, surrounded by the tallest, most elegant constructions they'd ever seen— dark stone towers, cliffs and holdings and halls, colored glass globes topping one building here and acting as part of a spire's decoration there, and dark wings high above them. It was what they imagined Valyria to have been like— pointed and strange and beautiful and bloody. And within those dreams, they found an assortment of pleasures.

The finest wines to stain their lips sanguine, the most exhilarating sounds of men chanting in what must have been High Valyrian, the brush of tiny wings against their cheeks from dragons fresh from the egg, the soft slide of a lover's hands between their legs. They were risen and worshiped by half a dozen dreams, and that night's seemed like yet another. A side effect of the dreamwine, they supposed.

The figure before them was slender and twisting, half-scaled and with old, golden eyes and a crown of horns upon her head. Her lip had been cut, and everywhere she dragged them across grew stained with her essence as she dragged her hands up from their ankles to their hips. She did not speak… exactly, but Taryn heard it all the same.

You called to me.

"You came," they replied in a soft, shaking voice. Their lips split apart in a wide, tired grin, as if they were embracing an old friend.

You prayed to us. Let us deliver you, Dreamer.

They weren't even sure if they were undressed or not, but it felt as if their skin touched hers, and that was all the confirmation they needed as they writhed under her gaze and touch. It was not so gentle as they hoped a lover's embrace would be, but they would bear it. There was purpose to be found— in the glide of skin across their own, in the nip of her teeth at their shoulder and the brush of fangs over their throat… purpose, still, when she sat up in some reverent fashion and brought her wrist to her mouth.

She bit deep into her wrist, rending the flesh and bringing forth blood— it must have been some artery, for all the crimson that came gushing forth from it, staining her mouth and dribbling down her arm. When the droplets met their lips, they obediently opened to receive the blessing she sought to give, and did not protest when she pressed the wound to their mouth. They drank their fill until the sky went black, and she had long since left, and they blinked into the waking world to find that the hearth had gone out, but they were still so very warm.

Sighing, Taryn let their head fall back upon the pillow, pulling the back of their hand up to shield their eyes from the low light of the room. Another dream, bloody as it was strange. They'd mention it to Gerardys in the morning.

Daemon's presence at the table within her solar was an unusual one. At this time of day, he was oft upon Caraxes' back, with Baela or Rhaena joining him upon the saddle. He was entirely too put-together for having come early from that, so he must not have even made the attempt to go riding. The lines age had put upon his forehead strained, his brows furrowed, trouble in his eyes.

Something has happened.

Gerardys' lips paused, his voice falling as he noticed Daemon's steps, and his fingers curled lightly upon the edge of the table. No small amount of fear filled his expression; he must have thought the worst had come to pass. But Taryn, to her maester's left on the far end of the table, held their expression still and unyielding. Confidence, she'd come to label that expression— or annoyance. She could not always tell with them.

Gripping the edge of the table, Rhaenyra rose from her seat and pressed her other hand against the underside of her belly. Five months along, but she was supposed to have more time. "Has he…?"

"No, Viserys still breathes," he said firmly, stopping at her side. He pressed his forehead to hers in a soft, quick nuzzle, the tip of his nose brushing down the bridge of her own before he pulled away. "I've received troubling information, however. Our source inside the city has discovered something."

"The White Wyrm," Taryn murmured, propping their chin upon their hand and gazing up impassively at Daemon.

One brow cocked up, he tilted his head to the side and looked at them strangely. "Worm," he corrected, but did not bother to ask how they knew who he spoke of.

They pressed their lips into a thin line. "Wingless dragon-like thing but not a snake. Wyrm," they insisted, and left that as that. "Join the lunch club, my prince, tell us what you know."

Rhaenyra was not going to ask what a club had to do with any of their lunch, but felt a pleasant thing within her head at the fact that they saw fit to joke, even in such a time. Irritation was not due, and it did no harm. She gestured to the empty seat at her table as she retook her own.

Daemon obeyed the prompting and sat, sitting tall and straight. "Otto Hightower has been sending ravens in some hurry, she tells me. She cannot find where they have gone, and the letters he has received of late have gone straight to the fires after being read. He is moving pieces upon the board where we cannot see."

"Has there been any word from my father? Any proclamations?" A sharp breath was taken, and she did not stop herself from turning the ring upon her finger in some self-soothing motion. Her father had been good about staying in contact as of late, but the worry still lingered. He could not write for himself most days, and letters could always be forged.

Her maester shook his head. "No, Princess. Nothing has come to us regarding announcements or decisions made on Otto Hightower."

"It's likely he has no inkling of the moves his Hand makes." Her prince's tone held no small amount of disdain, and Rhaenyra found she could not fault him, even as she wished to argue.

"He was lucid last time—"

"We will fly to King's Landing and sort the mess ourselves, then."

The gentle slam of hands against the tabletop startled the other three occupants of her solar. Taryn rose from their seat, shoulders squared and head held high, trying to command attention and respect in the same motion. Their knuckles had gone white from the tension in them, however, and it was evident that their nerves were frayed. "No."

"No?" Daemon's stance shifted from one leg to the other, palming the pommel of Dark Sister for comfort. Was he unnerved? She could not tell… and did not want to know.

The look in their eyes was intense, grey-blue hardening to steel in seconds. "King's Landing is unsafe, and still Green territory. And if the two of you fly there and leave me once again… the only dragons left on the island will be your sons', and Baela's, and they're hardly big enough to… deter."

Daemon tilted his head to the side, fixing his stare upon them. "We will send guards ahead by ship. No one will dare send assassins with us just across the Bay…"

"The dragons," they began, gritting their teeth as their words slipped from between the tiny gaps, "are already here."

Recognition, then. Rhaenyra shifted in her seat with no small amount of discomfort. She would let those two closest to her argue it out, would listen for the reasons beneath the fear and decide for herself the correct course of action.

There was a long, uncomfortable pause as Taryn tapped a finger upon the tabletop in an erratic rhythm that sounded like drumming. Daemon clearly fought for words, his jaw fixing here and there and lips moving but not allowing anything to escape. At last, he managed a strangled sentence. "You do not…"

"I don't fucking trust them," Taryn snapped, finishing his sentence for him. "Daeron is good but naive, easy to influence. Helaena is sweet on the surface, but who knows what poison her mother's dripped into her veins. If you leave, the island is undefended. I can keep the peace between kids, but I can't keep the peace between dragons."

Oh, Rhaenyra thought, fixing her gaze upon her dreamer. You worry for my children. For my home. How it had only just clicked, she could not say… but it was a warm and fuzzy feeling deep within her stomach, fluttering near where Visenya rested and grew. Even with the discomfort in the room, the worry, even with Taryn looking ready to wring Daemon's neck, and even with Daemon looking ready to slam the flat side of Dark Sister against the side of their head. The irritation was present, a rash in need of soothing. Rhaenyra could act as a balm, she decided.

The worry of the viper's nest was not unfounded, and the danger could not be ignored— both her husband and dreamer were correct on that front. Guards would indeed be sent ahead by ship, by a single day or two, for that express purpose. They would find their way across the bay in that time. As to the threat within her own home… a dragon, full grown, was necessary to deter any resistance. Rhaenyra had no doubt that her sweet sister at least knew she was a hostage in all but name, no matter how well she tried to treat her. But the answer…

Her first instinct was to send for Rhaenys, for surely the Red Queen was large and fierce enough to keep her sweet sister and good brother from coming up with any grand ideas such as flight and fury. To keep Daemon and Caraxes at her side, to ensure her protection, for Daemon would never allow any harm to befall her. But Rhaenys was required at Driftmark, to rule in Corlys' absence still. He was healing, certainly… but it would take time before he could rise to the task of governance. And Driftmark was an essential hold.

"Daemon," she began, voice soft as her periwinkle eyes found his, seeing fire within lilac depths and hoping to calm them. "You will stay upon the island, to guard our children and ensure no resistance comes from my siblings. Is this understood?"

There was always the option to stay upon Dragonstone herself, to send Daemon to King's Landing as her enforcer… but his temper was too abrasive to Viserys, and Rhaenyra could not stand anyone to think she was too weak to handle her own matters. With a ship full of her household swords and Syrax at her side, none would doubt her, even with the babe in her belly. Had Jaehaerys not dealt with such issues on his own? Do I wish to be a Queen like the Conciliator?

Daemon seethed for but a moment before his eyes shut and he dipped his head, and the fight drained from the set of his shoulders. Protective fury kindled anew, however, and his grip tightened unconsciously upon Dark Sister. "I understand," he murmured so low that only she could hear. The glint in his eyes spoke hundreds of words that needed no vocalization— Be careful.

She turned next to Taryn, where they still stood ready to lunge, it seemed. She met their eyes with ease and mimicked the way they tilted their head to the side. "Have you seen anything regarding this?" Her words were firm, leaving no room for questions.

They did not answer immediately, instead watching her carefully, like a predator would its prey. Intently might have been the better term. When they spoke, it was slowly, evenly, a single tone that made Rhaenyra's heart speed up. "When you leave the city, it will be the last time you see your father."

Thrumming in her chest, her heart clenched painfully, but she could only nod. She had known the day was coming, had known that her father was as mortal as any man, even before her dreamer had washed upon her shores. He'd been sick for years, after all, and it was only Gerardys taking fingers that saved him two years ago.

Nodding, Rhaenyra let the breath she had been holding escape her in some trembling fashion. "Very well. Daemon, select guards, and have Ser Erryk lead them." Swords for her protection… how terrifying. "Taryn… you will ride with me." For Viserys had asked to meet them, before he died.

When she looked back to Daemon for any hint of some betrayed feeling in his eyes, she found none… but found a peculiar sort of amusement there. She would not question it.

Taryn nodded silently, and stepped to the side of their chair. "I have something to do, I think," they murmured, taking their leave without dismissal.

Gerardys sat in silence, his only audible contribution the scratch of his quill against the parchment. The move was theirs to make.