Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

To Prince Daemon Targaryen, 

By the hand of Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, and sealed with the royal sigil of House Targaryen,

Brother,  

It has been too long since the halls of the Red Keep have echoed with your laughter, or the skies above King’s Landing have darkened beneath the shadow of Caraxes. The realm murmurs in your absence — some in relief, most in awe — but your king and brother has felt it keenly. War is a beast that demands its due, and you have fed it well, yet even the blood of dragons must remember the call of home.  

I write to you now not only as your sovereign but as kin, to bid you return to the seat of our House for a celebration long overdue. On the seventh moon’s turn, I shall take Alicent Hightower to wife in the light of the Seven, and the realm shall bear witness to the union of fire and faith. The court will gather, the lords will kneel, and the dragons will roar — but the occasion will lack its full glory if the fiercest of our blood is not at my side.  

Come, Daemon. Let the Stepstones smolder in your wake for a time. Let the Triarchy remember that the Dragon does not tire — he merely turns his gaze elsewhere. There will be battles enough in the days to come, but a king’s wedding comes but once (or so the singers say). I would have you stand as my brother, not as my rival, when the vows are spoken.  

Bring your victories, your scars, and that insolent charm of yours. Let the realm see that House Targaryen stands united. And if you must grumble at the thought of Otto’s daughter as queen, do so over a cup of good Dornish red in my chambers, as we did in the days when the world was simpler.  

I command your presence, but I ask for your heart. Do not deny me either.  

Viserys Targaryen,  

First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm  

P.S. Should you refuse, I shall have no choice but to send the princess Rhaenyra to fetch you — and we both know how dearly you cherish that humiliation.

Snarling, Daemon grabbed the first thing within reach — the steel gauntlet of his armor. Crushing the letter in his fist, he lunged toward the boy.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Daemon! Unbecoming of a prince to take it out on a bloody messenger!” Corlys called out, less out of pity for the lad and more from knowing the depths of Daemon’s rage.  

Daemon froze mid-motion, looming over the cowering boy. And indeed… Why waste his fury on some useless whelp when there was far richer prey to be had? Caraxes would never trade a goat for a cow.

The prince exhaled through his nose like an angered bull, his fingers flexing around the crumpled parchment. “Viserys weds Otto Hightower’s daughter,” he spat, as if the words were poison. “That simpering, green-clad cunt has sunk her claws in deep. And my brother — my king — invites me to watch him kneel before the Seven like a pious fool.”

Corlys leaned against the war table, arms crossed. “Alicent Hightower is no more a cunt than you are a septa, Daemon. She’s a pawn. Otto’s pawn. And now the Hightowers will have a queen’s ear, a king’s bed, and in time… a half-Hightower heir.” He said with a disgusted grimace. “That’s the real insult. Not the wedding — the aftermath.”

Daemon huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then why in the seven hells should I attend? To toast their ambition? To watch the Hightowers drape my house in their stinking green banners?”

“You should not. Ignore it,” Corlys said. “Let the Hightowers have their day. Let them preen and strut in your absence. What does it gain you to stand there, watching that girl play queen?”

The prince stiffened at Corlys’ bluntness, then let out a derisive snort. “Gain me? It gains me the satisfaction of seeing their faces when I remind them who truly holds my brother’s ear.”

Corlys scoffed. “Do you? If you did, Viserys would not be wedding Otto’s daughter in the first place.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial growl. “Every lord in the realm will be there, crawling over themselves to kiss Hightower rings. But you? You are conquering while they feast, you are winning a war.”

Daemon’s jaw tightened. “And let them think I flee from their politics?”  

“Let them think you are above their politics,” Corlys countered. “The Stepstones will be yours — not by petition, not by marriage, but by blood and fire. What is a wedding feast compared to that?”  

A slow, dangerous smirk curled Daemon’s lips. “You would have me spit in my brother’s face without even the courtesy of doing it in person.”

Corlys shrugged. “I would have you choose the battlefield that suits you best. And this one?” He gestured to the crumpled letter. “This is their game. Play yours.”  

For a long moment, Daemon was silent. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he tossed the invitation into the nearest brazier. The parchment blackened, the royal seal melting into ash.  

Corlys’ gaze hardened, as he spoke his next words. “Viserys had another choice. A better one. My daughter, Laena — pure Valyrian blood, future dragonrider, a match worthy of the Conqueror’s line. And yet he picks a Hightower girl, bred in the shadow of the Starry Sept.”

Daemon stilled, his anger cooling into something sharper. “Laena Velaryon,” he mused, as if testing the name. “Twelve years old, isn’t she?”

Corlys’ smile was thin. “Old enough to wed in a year or two. Young enough to mold into a queen. But Viserys would rather kneel to the Faith than honor the blood of the dragon.” He stepped closer,  his eyes locking onto Daemon’s. “Tell me, cousin — do you think the future of House Targaryen should be tied to Oldtown... or to the tides of history?”  

“Careful, Lord Corlys. That almost sounds like treason.” Daemon warned.

Corlys shrugged. “I speak only of legacy. Yours. Mine. Ours.” He nodded toward the smoking brazier where Viserys’ letter had burned. “Ignore the king’s summons. Just as we ignored his command not to wage war against the Triarchy.”

The easiest thing would be to ignore. To turn away, bury his head in the sand — just as Daemon always did when faced with wounds that cut too deep. It would have been simple... if not for one thing.  

Rhaenyra.

The name burned in his mind like dragonfire. If memory served, Alicent had been one of her ladies-in-waiting — almost a friend. And now? Now she would be her stepmother? Her queen? She would whelp half-siblings by the dozen, brothers who would one day dare to challenge Rhaenyra’s claim — the very claim that had been stolen from him first!

His fingers twitched toward Dark Sister.  

No. This was not some petty slight to be brushed aside. This was an open wound, festering with the stink of Hightower ambition. They had taken his birthright, and now they meant to take hers.  

A slow, venomous smile curled his lips.

Let them try.

The wedding itself was beyond his power to stop — but he could make it unforgettable. For everyone. Especially for Viserys. Especially for Alicent.  

Daemon snatched up his cloak in one swift motion, storming out of the tent before Corlys could utter another word. The campfires blurred past him as he strode toward the blood-red beast coiled in the darkness. Caraxes raised his serpentine head, eyes glowing in the night. The dragon sensed his rider’s fury — the hot, restless energy that thrummed between them.  

“Dohaerās.” Daemon hissed, gripping one of the spines along his mount’s back. 

Caraxes unfolded like a living storm, wings casting a monstrous shadow over the island, making the men below scramble back. Full of resolve, Daemon climbed into the saddle.  

“Where do you think you’re going?” Corlys called after him. “We agreed to ignore the king’s every move until we crushed the Triarchy. And those bastards are about to send reinforcements!”  

“I’ll be back,” Daemon tossed over his shoulder. “Can’t miss a royal wedding, can I?”

“With that Hightower girl?” Corlys scoffed. “After he slighted my own daughter? I thought we agreed—”

“Exactly.” Daemon grinned. “And you think I’d let it go smoothly? When the ashes of my dear cousin are barely cold?”  

“Oh, gods be good — I see it now.” Corlys pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t do anything stupid. I need you here. Unless you want the king to throw you in black cells for your theatrics?”  

“He won’t.” Daemon adjusted his grip on the reins. “I just want to deliver… a gift.”

Caraxes roared beneath him impatiently, wings unfurling. Corlys stepped back, shaking his head. “Seven hells save us all.”  

Hours later Daemon landed on Dragonstone like a storm.

No fanfare. No welcome. Just the crunch of his boots on volcanic stone and Caraxes’ echoing scream. He strode through the halls — his halls, no matter what Viserys decrees. The king had never officially granted Dragonstone to him, not even when he was heir. Yet Daemon had always lingered here, among its smoking halls and salt-stained towers, as if the island itself recognized his claim when his brother did not.  

And now, in the dim light of his old chambers, he found the object he’d hidden away months ago — wrapped carefully, waiting for the right moment.  

Or the worst one.

His fingers traced velvet of the cover, the memories sharp:  

Aemma’s laughter in these very corridors, bright as dragonfire...  

Viserys’ hollow promises to name him the prince of Dragonstone, as brittle as eggshell...  

Rhaenyra’s bewildered grief, a girl forced to mourn alone while her father sought comfort in a Hightower girl’s arms…

His jaw clenched as he took the bundle and pressed it to his chest.

Enough.

If Viserys would not honor the dead, Daemon would make sure the living remembered. It was time to unleash chaos — and no one did it better than him.

Chapter Text

The Red Keep was indeed a place of splendour. And if in the days of King Jaehaerys’ reign there had also been roads built, laws drafted and passed, alliances forged — well, in these latter years, under his grandson’s rule, it was the people who had changed far more than the stones. The same halls that had once echoed with the measured steps of statesmen now thrummed with the whispers of courtiers, the rustle of silk, and the clink of golden goblets raised in hollow toasts.  

Viserys kept the peace, yes, but peace was not the same as prosperity. The realm had grown fat on his goodwill, soft in its comforts, while the king himself wore his crown like a man trying to remember its weight. The dragons still roosted in the Dragonpit, but when was the last time fire had darkened the skies? When had the lords of Westeros last trembled at the beating of wings?…  

“Ah! My beloved brother!” exclaimed Viserys, striding toward Daemon with the light, eager steps of a young groom. Yet no one could mistake the king for a youth any longer — not with the fine wrinkles framing his eyes, nor the softness that had settled around his middle.  

With exaggerated courtesy, Daemon sank to one knee and drew his brother’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the royal signet. A performative gesture — one they both saw through.

Viserys frowned. Such formality sat ill with him. He hauled Daemon up by the shoulders and crushed him in an embrace, gripping him tight as if to squeeze the defiance from his bones.  

Will he be so gracious when he sees my gift? Daemon wondered, smothering a smirk in the folds of the king’s doublet.

“Our hero of the Stepstones,” Otto drawled, materializing like a shadow at Viserys’ back. “Pity the rocks and ragged pirates still refuse to kneel.”  

The king’s face twitched as if struck by a toothache. No surprise — the subject festered in him like an open wound. He had avoided it like a coward eyes a blade, even as Daemon rode to war without leave. And then pretended “the crown did not wage war” — a convenient stance for a man who feasted while others bled.

“Patience, Lord Otto,” Viserys said, rolling his eyes skyward as he clapped Daemon’s shoulder. “The hour nears when our brother will reap glory — and his skin, scars.”  

Otto answered with a thin smile, but Daemon was already sharpening his tongue:

“At least I didn’t earn my knighthood when they could no longer delay it — like some spinster wed to the first beggar who’d have her.”

Now it was Otto’s turn to scowl, his proud nose dipping ever so slightly. How the mighty Hand shrinks when pricked, Daemon mused.  

“Why so dour, Lord Otto?” He jabbed a finger into the man’s bony ribs. “We’re kin now. Shall I speak plain to my brother’s father-in-law?”

“Do,” Otto gritted out. “But—”

“Ah! Our dear lady Alicent!” Viserys cut in loudly, staring at the approaching girl as if she were the Maiden herself. The last thing he wanted was to settle another squabble between his brother and his Hand.

Alicent Hightower glided into the gallery, her fingers laced demurely before her, auburn hair falling on her shoulders. The “future queen” had arrived — precisely on time.

“Your Grace,” she murmured to Viserys, curtsying low. “My lords.” Her gaze flickered to Daemon, then away — a moth avoiding flame.

Viserys’ face softened at once. “Alicent! Come, my dear—” He extended a hand, eager for the distraction.  

“Ah, the realm’s comfort,” Daemon drawled, eyeing Alicent’s Hightower. “How fortunate we are to have such a gentle hand to soothe the king’s troubles.”

Alicent’s smile did not waver, but her knuckles whitened where they clasped together. “My prince is too kind,” she replied, her voice smooth as honeyed milk. “I serve as best I can.”

“And serve you do,” Daemon purred, “Tell me, when you kneel before the statues of the Seven, are you as devout as when you kneel before the king, facing his—” Daemon trailed off with deliberate suggestiveness, leaving the vulgar implication hanging in the air.  

Alicent’s cheeks burned scarlet at the crude jape, and of course, the surrounding courtiers and servants had heard every word. Perfect. Let them all know their future queen was little more than a pretender — no better than a whore. 

Viserys blinked, his face a mask of bewildered innocence. “What’s this now? Kneeling before the Seven is a sacred act — why, I do it myself every morning!” He chuckled, clapping Daemon on the back as if they were sharing a jape between brothers. “Come now, let’s not sully piety with... whatever this is.”  

His tone was light, but his grip on Daemon’s shoulder was tight — a silent warning beneath the feigned ignorance.  

Otto, meanwhile, looked as if he had swallowed poison. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice trembled slightly.  

“Your Grace,” he said, stepping forward, “Prince Daemon’s humour has a way of... straying into profanity. Perhaps Her Grace should not be subjected to such vulgarities in her own future halls.” 

The Hand’s implication was clear — thus he reminded the court that Alicent was the future, while Daemon was an intruder on it. A thin smile coiled across Otto’s lips as he delighted in his petty triumph.  

Or so he believed.

Alicent, still an amateur in political games, stood paralyzed, the heat of humiliation creeping up her neck. Though her lips remained sealed, her fingers worried at the emerald silk of her gown — the desperate, wordless prayer of a girl begging for the floor to swallow her whole.

Daemon merely grinned, savouring the chaos.

“My apologies, good-sister,” he said, sketching a mocking bow. “I forgot how tender the ears of the devout can be.”  

Viserys exhaled sharply, his bejeweled fingers fumbling at the high collar of his doublet. The garnet rings — Aemma’s favorite — clicked against the gold embroidery with each restless movement. 

“Daemon, please,” the king said, “Not every jest needs an audience — least of all one so eager to misinterpret you.” His gaze flickered toward Otto, just briefly, before returning to his brother. 

Otto seized upon the faintest flicker of the king’s displeasure. “Indeed. Let us pray the gods grant you wisdom — or at least restraint.”

“Restraint?” the prince tilted his head, the picture of false innocence. “Ah, but Lord Hand, I have been restraining myself. After all, if I spoke truly of what I think of your pious little schemes, we’d be here until the Stranger came calling.”

A beat. Then, with a flourish:  

“But fear not — I’ll save my wisdom for the battlefield. It’s the only place in this realm where men still speak plainly... and blood washes away hypocrisy.”  

“Quite right,” Otto replied, his voice dripping with condescension. “The battlefield and the royal court are not one and the same. In truth,” Otto stepped closer to his daughter. “The Queen is too kind to entertain such crude jests.”

“Queen?” Daemon feigned surprise. He turned to Alicent with a sharp grin, his voice ringing out like a herald’s proclamation — deliberately loud, deliberately carrying to every shadowed corner of the gallery.  

“Ah! But let us not forget — we already had a queen!” he declared, spreading his hands as if addressing a crowd. “And now here you stand, my lady, so dutiful, so modest... ready to occupy the space left behind.” A pause, just long enough to let the poison settle. “For that is your fate, is it not? To fill a role, not claim it. After all, the next true queen will be the one who follows our beloved King Viserys — may the gods grant him many more years of reign!”

His tone was all false cheer, his words a masterstroke of humiliation. Not an outright insult — oh no, far more elegant than that. He had painted her as a placeholder, a temporary figure propped up by Hightower ambition, while the court’s imagination raced to the next queen — Rhaenyra, the rightful heir.

Alicent’s composure flickered. The flush on her cheeks was no longer just embarrassment — it was rage, helpless and seething.

Otto’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling as if around an invisible throat. Every word was a barb, and Daemon had made sure the entire court felt them.

Viserys, ever the peacemaker, sighed heavily. “Daemon, must you turn every welcome into a spectacle?” But even his weariness couldn’t undo the damage.  

The prince bowed with a triumphant smirk. “I merely celebrate the... transitional nature of our court, brother. History remembers blood and names,” he mused, tilting his head as if studying some fascinating specimen — Alicent, Otto, the whole gilded farce of their ambitions. “But for some? Ah, well... they must content themselves with being mere footnotes — shadows scribbled into the margins by bored maesters.”

Otto stood as if carved from marble — his face unreadable, but his eyes, cold as ice, betrayed his fury.  

He understood the game perfectly. Every word from Daemon was a blade disguised as jest. If he snapped, he’d validate the insinuation. If he stayed silent, he’d let the poison spread.  

“Your Grace,” Otto said, turning to Viserys with measured calm, “perhaps we might proceed with the day’s matters? The realm’s business does not pause for... clever wordplay.” Thus he refused to acknowledge the insult, yet framed Daemon’s taunts as frivolous distractions — beneath the dignity of the Hand.  

Viserys, grateful for the escape, nodded hastily. “Yes, quite right. Let us—”

But Daemon, seeing through his maneuver, ‘tsked’ softly. “How dutiful, Lord Hand. Tell me, does such devotion to paperwork ease your conscience, or simply spare you the effort of wit?”

The court stifled their laughter. Though nobles and servants pretended absorption in their own conversations and tasks, every eye flickered toward the royals, every ear strained to catch each barbed word.

Then came the princess…

No sooner had Rhaenyra’s maid whispered of Caraxes’ descent upon the Dragonpit than she was rushing to the gallery, eager to meet her uncle.

Her arrival did little to mend the rift — but at least it shifted the tension. 

Rhaenyra had grown noticeably since their last meeting — grief had sharpened her features, stolen the last of her girlish softness. They said sorrow aged a person faster than time, and it showed. Yet despite the court’s stifling propriety, she barely contained her delight at the sight of her uncle. Her smile flickered, bright and unguarded — as if she’d never truly believed he would come.

This wedding was agony for her — and Daemon was the only one who truly understood why.

She approached, offering the prince a warm smile and her father a graceful curtsy — but her gaze never once strayed to Alicent.

“Rhaenyra!” Viserys exclaimed, beaming between his daughter and his bride, his expression almost hopeful. Did he expect them to clasp hands like childhood playmates? To spin together in the gardens as they once had?

But no.  

An invisible wall — thick as the one in the North — had risen between former childhood friends.

Seeing Rhaenyra’s confusion, Daemon quickly intervened. “Dear niece! The true blood of the dragon — not even hardships could steal your beauty! No wonder the beauty of the Valyrians is sung by poets. The Andals, alas, are no match — not even those who strive to climb above their station.” A fleeting glance toward Alicent lent the words the sting of a slap.

“Thank you, uncle,” Rhaenyra replied with a smile. “Your compliments have always been the most... sincere.”

Viserys loved his daughter — to him, she was the very image of Aemma, so he let the biting remark slide, paying no heed to Otto’s angry huffing beside him. In that moment, the Hand became utterly convinced that inviting Daemon back to the capital had been a mistake. Let him wage his wars on the Stepstones, Otto thought bitterly. They should have held Alicent’s wedding with all due solemnity instead. Once again, Otto silently chastised himself for failing to dissuade Viserys — or at least ensuring the invitation letter was “lost”.

But Daemon was here, and nothing good would come of it…

And so Viserys rejoiced in this gathering of kin. In his mind, he had bestowed upon Rhaenyra the greatest of honours by declaring her heir; Alicent, once her closest companion, would now counsel her as a mother ought; Otto had ever been his steadfast Hand; and Daemon, his blood, would share in his happiness. Truly… what folly could arise from such harmony?

“Well then!” Daemon clapped his hands together and turned to Viserys. “I cannot wait for the royal wedding and do hope you will surprise me. I didn’t abandon Corlys to fight the Triarchy’s pirates for nothing.”

Otto rolled his eyes wearily, Alicent pressed her lips into a thin line, and Viserys beamed — relieved the tension had been (seemingly) defused.  

“In turn, I shall have a surprise for you,” Daemon murmured, smiling as if sharing a secret. The Hightowers recoiled — not from the words, but from the promise masked beneath them. Even Viserys’ smile faltered, though he waved it off as another of his brother’s japes. 

***

Daemon swirled the wine in his cup, his lips curling in a smirk that didn’t reach his cold violet eyes. “Tell me, niece — did our king’s newfound piety extend only to his vows, or did the gods also bless him with a sudden aversion to Velaryon brides?”

Rhaenyra’s fingers tightened around her own goblet. “He was courting Laena. He swore to me it was only a formality — that his heart still belonged to my mother’s memory.” Her voice cracked, raw with betrayal. “And then Alicent…”  

Clearly, Viserys’ decision had shocked her as much as Daemon’s sudden invitation to the royal wedding.  

“Ser Otto slipped Alicent into Father’s bed, and she— she never even hinted that she’d been visiting his chambers for half a year! All while dragging me to the sept, preaching about the frailty of mortal life.” The princess’s silver brows knitted in furious disbelief.  

A flicker of disgust passed over Daemon’s. “Otto’s daughter spent six months playing septa in your father’s bed, whispering psalms to his ‘lonely heart’ — while preaching chastity to you in the very same robes.” He rolled the words like sour wine on his tongue. “The Hightowers want a queen.”

Rhaenyra flinched, but her spine straightened. “She will never be my mother’s equal.”

“No,” Daemon agreed, “but she’ll whelp sons who will be raised to steal your throne. Hightowers are grasping toads,” he spat. “They’ll try to displace you at the first opportunity.” With that his control shattered. The goblet left his hand in a flash of silver, exploding against the stone wall in a burst of wine like blood spatter. “Over my fucking corpse! I was heir once, but Viserys denied me that right. Now I’ll be damned if I let him replace you in that role — not with Hightower bastards, not with anyone.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught — not at the shattering goblet, but at the fire in Daemon’s words. For the first time since her father’s betrayal, the vice around her ribs loosened. Someone saw the threat. Someone would fight for her. Fingers twitched toward his sleeve — then curled into her palm, as if clutching the unspoken plea between them. “I am glad you are here, uncle.” Her voice was softer than she intended. “Glad you haven’t abandoned me.”  

Daemon’s laugh was all teeth. “Abandoned you to those cunts? I’d sooner toss them screaming to Caraxes — starting with the pious bitch playing queen.”

Yet despite Daemon’s bold words, a hollowness ached in Rhaenyra’s chest, sudden and sharp. “But what can we do? Father is so blinded by ‘love’ that he would disregard my mother’s memory, while Otto tightens his grip — on both the realm and the court.”

Daemon’s smirk vanished. He caught her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Then we’ll remind them what happens when dragons stop playing tame.”

Rhaenyra’s body relaxed slightly, her shoulders dropping as the tension left them. Her hands, which had been clenched at her sides, opened slowly. When Daemon took her chin, she didn't pull away. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, but she held his gaze.

“Who is handling the wedding preparations?” Daemon asked abruptly.  

“Lady Redwyne. Father entrusted her as Alicent’s kinswoman — knows her tastes. He ordered no expense be spared.”

“Naturally. The royal coffers are bottomless,” Daemon sneered.  

“She keeps lists — decorations, guest rolls, Alicent’s every whim. Father wanted me to oversee it. I refused.” Rhaenyra looked away. “He thought it would please me, but it’s an insult. I’m no servant to cater to my former—” she trailed off, revolted by the idea of a princess’s handmaid becoming queen.  

“So our gracious king decrees a celebration worthy of a queen,” Daemon concluded, his voice dripping with mock reverence.

“As if replacing my mother were a cause for celebration.” Rhaenyra countered.

Daemon’s laugh cut through the chamber — not the polished chuckle of court, but a ragged, roaring sound. “Then we shall give them a celebration they will never forget.” He captured her hand, his lips brushing her knuckles in a gesture that was both oath and provocation. “But before — bring me everything — the guest lists, the wine selections, menus, every gilded detail of Otto’s mumme’s farce. Can you do this for me?”

Rhaenyra nodded hesitantly, then her eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Alicent Hightower will learn that a crown is not won with simpering piety,” he purred. “Her wedding will be remembered — not for its splendour, but as the night the realm saw her for what she is: a second son’s daughter who stood to inherit nothing, dwarfed by Aemma’s ghost. By the end, no one will see her as queen consort. There will only be two queens in their minds: the late Aemma Arryn… and the future Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

At the mention of her mother, Rhaenyra’s eyes welled with tears she’d suppressed for months.  

“How?” The word slipped out barely louder than a breath.  

“I’ll amend Lady Redwyne’s lists.”

“Amend them? It’s too late — there’s no time! The ceremony is in five days!”

Daemon smirked. “You think the Stepstones cost me all my allies? The Red Keep crawls with my men. As does Kings Landing. Or have you forgotten that I bear moniker Prince of the City? Now — tell me: do you still have your mother’s gowns and jewels?”

The question made her flinch. “Yes. When Father announced the betrothal, Ser Otto tried to claim them ‘for the new queen.’ I refused. I told him he’d need to pry them from my dead hands.”

“Good.” Daemon cupped her face, his thumb smearing away her tear. “Wear them to the wedding. Let every lord see the true queen’s daughter — and the whore who dares stand in her place. We’ll honor Aemma’s memory… and leave your former friend a mere shadow clinging to the throne.” he promised, while Rhaenyra’s eyes ignited with the same fire that burned in Daemon’s. “And I, in turn, have prepared a gift for the ‘happy couple’. Forgive me if it stings — but the game demands its sacrifices.”

Chapter Text

“What do you mean, gone?” Viserys’ voice was a strangled thing, high and tight with a horror that drained the color from his face. His knuckles, white where they gripped the edge of the table, were a stark contrast to the dark wood.

The king’s steward offered only a helpless, trembling shrug, a silent chorus of misery from the other servants echoing the gesture. Viserys stared, his mind refusing to take the absurdity of it. His disbelieving gaze then travelled across the room to where Daemon stood with an air of feigned sympathy.

“How in the Seven Hells does a royal cloak simply vanish? This is not some forgotten trinket! It is our House’ history!”The King’s protest was thick with panic he could not afford to show the realm.

“Come now, brother,” Daemon interjected smoothly. “These things happen. It’s been years since your wedding to Aemma — it could have been misplaced. And you!” He snapped the word at the servants, the kindness vanishing from his tone. “Must I light a fire under you? Stop gawking like fishwives and turn this keep inside out! Or do you expect your King to present his bride with empty hands?” They scattered like startled birds. Daemon closed the distance, his hand coming to rest on Viserys’ shoulder in a gesture of comfort. “You will just have to use your usual cloak, tradition be damned. The gods will understand.”

As a flock of servants returned, bearing the king’s ceremonial attire — a magnificent doublet of black and crimson, stitched with gold — Daemon’s eyes lingered on the intricate needlework. He wondered if the queen’s own seamstress, that sweet-faced girl whose loyalty he had purchased with promises far greater than her queen’s, did as he asked. The stitching at the back and shoulders was meant to be loose, and with one wrong move… the gown falls, letting the future queen reveal her true nature — that of a whore.

As for the wedding cloak… The theft itself had been a triviality. A few whispered words, the heavy, mute persuasion of gold coins in specific palms, and the cloak — the very one Jaehaerys the Conciliator had held, that his sons Aemon and Baelon had used, that Viserys himself had draped over Aemma — was now folded beneath soiled rags in the darkest corner of Daemon’s own chambers.

“We can’t halt the wedding over a cloak, for fuck’s sake, even ceremonial one!” Daemon said, putting on his most convincing tone. To any observer, he would seem the eager supporter of this union. “Please tell me at least the rings are secure?”

Viserys gave a weary shake of his head and waved a dismissive hand toward a small velvet box resting on a table. On his smallest finger, another ring caught the light — a delicate band of gold set with a carved falcon, meant for a woman’s slender hand. Aemma’s ring . The sight of it, this sacred token of his dead wife upon the hand he would use to wed another, curdled something in Daemon. Their father, Baelon, had worn his grief for Alyssa like armor, never again taking a wife. His firstborn son had inherited the crown but none of the spine.

As the servants began dressing the king, fussing with his doublet, Daemon produced his solution — cloak of fine black velvet, embroidered with a rampant crimson dragon. Rich, regal… and utterly wrong. A pretender’s copy. Viserys wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sight, a silent protest dying on his lips. What choice remained? To announce to every lord in Westeros that he had lost the wedding cloak of his own house? No. Better to let them whisper that this was his choice.

A king’s displeasure, however, could not summon the lost cloak from the air. With a heavy sigh, Viserys subjected his reflection in the tall polished mirror to a critical glare and commanded his carriage be made ready for the Great Sept.

“Let this be the only mishap of this long day.” Viserys murmured.

Daemon raised his hands to the heavens in a pious gesture and nodded his agreement, the picture of fraternal solidarity.

Meanwhile, in the chambers of the future queen, affairs were scarcely better. Always blessed with robust health, Alicent had managed to catch a common cold on the eve of the most important day of her life. Her nose was red and streaming; her eyes, swollen-lidded, spilled a constant stream of tears. A relentless, tickling urge to sneeze refused to leave her.

Lady Redwyne, who had taken the young queen under her wing, was beside herself with fury. The blame, she was certain, lay with the recent move. Shortly before the wedding, Alicent had been relocated from her modest room in Princess Rhaenyra’s wing to the spacious, drafty chambers in the king’s own wing. And through the servants’ neglect, the hearths had been lit too late and kept too low in the days before the ceremony, leaving the rooms damp and chill. Alicent had been so consumed with anxiety over the impending event that she only noticed something was amiss when her feet turned to ice under the blankets and an unpleasant tickle began to scratch at the back of her throat.

“Thank the gods you have no fever, my dear,” clucked Lady Redwyne, fussing with the ruffles on Alicent’s wedding gown.

“Aaaachoo!” came the wet, inelegant reply, followed by a loud, desperate sniffle.

“I can dull Her Grace’s symptoms, but I cannot erase them completely,” Grand Maester Mellos announced, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture. He had been summoned to the chambers the moment the queen’s malaise was discovered.

“Aaaanything!” Alicent responded in a thick, nasal voice. “I can’t very well sneeze all over His Grace’s ceremonial doublet. And I fear the wedding kiss will be... less than pleasant for him.”

Lady Redwyne’s frown deepened. With renewed fervour, she began to harry the serving girls, demanding they bring the jewels faster and work more deftly on the future queen’s hair.

Mellos offered a small vial of murky liquid. Alicent drank it with a profound grimace, sincerely hoping the bitter concoction would grant her at least a few hours of reprieve.

“And remember, my dear,” Lady Redwyne continued her cooing advice as maid dabbed scented oils behind Alicent’s ears, “when the time comes for the bedding ceremony, you must act surprised and slightly frightened, even if it all seems familiar to you.”

Alicent nodded obediently, absorbing this cynical counsel. She resolved to do just that. No one must ever know that she was already intimately acquainted with the act itself, just as she was already familiar with the king’s body and his habits.

Later, a maid, the same who had carried the scented oils, reported to Prince Daemon that Alicent Hightower was sniffling and sneezing like a beggar wench from Flea Bottom. For this news, she received a golden coin. For her earlier role in ensuring the new Queen’s chambers were never properly warmed, she was given two. A cruel smile touched Daemon’s lips. The pieces of his plan were falling into place perfectly.

***

The gilded royal carriage rolled slowly through the streets of the capital. Inside the air was heavy with the scent of polished wood, fine leather, and the faint, sweet perfume of the oils used to treat the royal garments.

King Viserys, resplendent in his black-and-crimson doublet, managed a fragile smile. His fingers traced the edge of the substitute wedding cloak beside him — a fleeting disappointment overshadowed by a nervous, hopeful energy. He was a man willing himself into happiness, choosing to see the sun through the clouds.

“Look at them all, Rhaenyra,” he said, his voice warm but slightly too loud, too eager. He gestured toward the blur of cheering faces outside. “The entire city shares in our joy today. A truly remarkable thing.”

Opposite him, Princess Rhaenyra was far from being happy. Her gaze was fixed unseeingly on the procession outside, jaw set in a hard, unforgiving line. To everyone else, it was a celebration; to her, it was a profound and personal betrayal, played out before the entire city. Her only comfort, a dark and desperate one, was the promise she clutched onto: that Daemon would make good on his word and tear this carefully constructed wedding farce into utter chaos.

The three councillors — Lords Strong, Lord Beesbury and Grand Maester Mellos — sat in uncomfortable silence, caught between the king’s forced happiness and the princess’s palpable wrath.

Good old Lord Beesbury seized on the king’s tone. “Indeed, Your Grace! A day that will be written in histories. The realm celebrates the strength and continuity of your reign.”

As if to brutally contradict him, a cry, sharp and clear, sliced through the general murmur. “Aemma! Queen Aemma, have the gods’ peace!”

Viserys flinched. Rhaenyra’s head turned slowly from the window, her eyes, cold and sharp as two amethysts, settling on her father. The unspoken accusation in them was more devastating than any shout. Viserys’ smile didn’t vanish, but it faltered, becoming strained at the edges. A shadow flickered in his eyes. He looked down at his hands, at the falcon ring on his smallest finger, and gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh.

Lord Lyonel Strong, seeking to build a dam against the rising tide of emotions, leaned forward. “The smallfolk mean no disrespect your choice of bride, Your Grace. They cling to the past because it is known. Today, you give them a new future. Their cries are a tribute to the memory you honour even now.” He dared a glance at Rhaenyra, his meaning clear: See? He does not forget her.

Another voice, this one an old woman’s, carried on the air. “Blessings on Queen Aemma! True and gentle!”

“For the Queen who bore the heir!” another voice screamed from a second-story window.

A bitter, almost imperceptible sound escaped Rhaenyra’s lips. It wasn’t a laugh, but a scoff of pure contempt. Viserys’ eyes flickered to her, pained.

Grand Maester Mellos, observing the King’s pallor, nodded his head. “Lord Strong speaks true. It is a natural sentiment, Your Grace. Think of it as a final farewell, a blessing to see you happily onward. You must not let it weigh upon your spirit. The realm needs its king to be strong today.”

Viserys found his voice, though it was thick with an old grief. “They… they loved her truly,” he said, the words meant for his daughter. He looked at Rhaenyra, his eyes pleading for an understanding he knew he did not deserve. “This does not erase that. This… this is duty. For the future. For our house.”

Outside, astride his horse, Daemon watched it all — his brother’s torment, the way each cry of the dead queen’s name made the King shrink into himself; the devastating effect of Rhaenyra’s fury, and the eventual return of shame. A slow, satisfied smirk touched his lips. The play was unfolding perfectly.

***

Inside the cool, incense-heavy sept, under the gaze of the stone-faced Seven, Ser Otto waited. And he was pleased. Deeply, utterly pleased. This was his greatest triumph, the fruit of a long and patient game. A daughter in exchange for a kingdom. Only a true strategist could appreciate the elegant simplicity of that exchange. His blood would now forever mingle with that of the dragon. His grandsons would sit the Iron Throne. History would remember his name.

Beside him, Alicent stifled a sharp, wet sneeze into the sleeve of her pristine white gown, then sniffled hopelessly. Mellos’ concoction had taken the edge off her malady, turning the fiery ache in her head into a dull, tolerable throb and the waterfall from her nose into a nagging, but manageable, trickle. She was pale, but no longer deathly so.

“Soon you will be Queen,” Otto whispered to her, and in his hushed tone rang impatience and triumph. He stood as if this were not his daughter’s wedding day, but the day of his own coronation.

Alicent attempted to force a tired, strained smile in return, but her lips trembled.

When the royal party arrived, walking though the grand doors of the Sept, Otto with a deep, almost reverent bow that perfectly masked the triumph in his eyes, placed his daughter’s trembling hand into the King’s waiting grasp. His duty as her father was now fulfilled; his ambition, however, was just taking flight.

Viserys Targaryen led his bride toward the altar, ready to recite wedding vows. His voice was clear, if only slightly thick with emotions, yet when Alicent’s turn came…

The High Septon’s voice filled the sept, poised to receive the bride’s final consent. “My lady, do you—”

“Aaaachoooo!”

Alicent’s sneeze was not merely loud; it was a violent, convulsive explosion of sound that shattered the solemn silence. It echoed off the marble pillars, a profoundly undignified sound that left her shuddering and breathless.

The High Septon recoiled as if struck, his holy recitation utterly broken. With a look of pure distaste, he wiped a spatter of moisture from his cheek with the sleeve of his ornate robe. A wave of muted gasps and stifled, uncharitable laughter rustled through the assembled lords.

“Ah, my dear,” Viserys murmured, his voice a strained mixture of pity and profound embarrassment. He fumbled in the cuff of his embroidered sleeve, producing a clean white silk handkerchief. Alicent accepted it with a look of desperate gratitude, dabbing at her reddened, streaming nose and eyes, her entire frame trembling with humiliation.

The king offered the High Septon a tight, apologetic nod, asking to proceed. The elderly septon composed himself with visible effort, his lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. He drew a deep breath and began again.

“Alicent of House Hightower, do you swear by the Maiden to be his light? By the Crone, to be his counsel? By the Smith, to build a house that endures….”

When the words were said Otto solemnly removed his daughter’s cloak from her shoulders, waiting for the other one to be draped.

But then… Otto Hightower’s certainty fractured. He blinked, his mind refusing to reconcile what his eyes now saw.

The bridal cloak that Prince Daemon passed to the King was wrong. It was not the ancient, storied heirloom Otto had personally ensured would be presented. It was not the same cloak that had draped the shoulders of Aemon’s and Baelon’s brides. The nobles who recalled those ceremonies — the older lords of the realm — stirred in their seats, their low murmurs forming a current of confusion beneath the High Septon’s words.

This cloak was… merely fine. A piece of rich velvet, expertly stitched with a rampant dragon, but undeniably new. A replica, but not a true history. It held none of the weight, the solemnity, the authority of the true Targaryen bridal cloak.

Ser Otto’s head snapped toward the king, his gaze filled with fury and disbelief. Every cord in his neck stood taut, his eyes screaming the question his lips could not form: What is this folly?!

Viserys, with that calm bestowed by years upon the throne, met his gaze with a soft, yet unshakable, certainty. Act as if it is planned, but not because I lost the wedding cloak , the king thought. His movements were slow and deliberate as he draped the shoulders Alicent not with the ancestral cloak, but with a simple black mantle.

The symbolism of the sacred act — of taking the bride under the groom’s house and protection — was gutted, reduced to thinly veiled humiliation. Otto knew, with a cold and sudden clarity, that for the rest of his days, every lord who had witnessed this would remember it. This slight would be used as a weapon against him and legitimacy of his grandchildren.

The Hand’s gaze traveled from the King to Prince Daemon, and found there the source of the insult: the prince’s face was a mask of smug triumph, his eyes fixed not on the bride, but on Princess Rhaenyra.

The doors of the sept opened once more, this time releasing not a betrothed couple, but a husband and wife. The building was surrounded by crowds of smallfolk who had come to catch a glimpse of the king and his new queen. They roared and waved their hands, greeting the newlyweds.

But here too, before all the people, the royal couple were met with an unpleasant surprise: a shadow fell over them, not from the sky above, but from a swarm of beating wings and sharp beaks. A flock of ravens, their black eyes glittering with a covetous hunger, descended upon the shimmering jewels adorning the King’s crown and the Queen’s gown. Viserys and Alicent flailed, arms waving to fend off the startling assault. The Kingsguard’s hands flew to their sword hilts, yet they froze, fearful of striking their sovereigns instead of the birds. A wave of reactions swept the crowd: some stared in dumbstruck silence, others pointed and roared with laughter, while the more superstitious among them began to mutter of ill omens and a cursed union.

High on a nearby roof, a dirty-faced boy watched the chaos unfold, a grin splitting his features. The moment the doors of the sept had opened, he had lifted the latch on a large wicker cage. He had spent the previous day patiently luring the clever birds with trails of breadcrumbs, earning their trust for a single, chaotic flight. Prince Daemon had known the urchin for years, and for a heavy purse of gold and a whispered promise to see his ailing mother and sister cared for, the boy was more than willing to do such an amusing task.

When the ravens finally scattered, a thoroughly exhausted Alicent collapsed into Viserys’ arms. He caught her, his own body still trembling from the ordeal. At first cries from the crowd, which had  praised the late Aemma, and now this… All of it only pushed the joy further from his heart, replacing it with something grim and hollow.

***

Connections, and the deft skill to wield them, had ever been among Prince Daemon’s chief strengths. And so it was, on the day King Viserys Targaryen wed Lady Alicent Hightower, that long vertical banners hung throughout the throne room, unfurled by servants for the occasion. Upon a field of sky blue, the silver falcon of Arryn gazed proudly down upon the court. Opposite, the red three-headed dragon of House Targaryen snarled from black silk. But of the white tower crowned with flame — the sigil of House Hightower — there was no sign to be seen.

A murmur, subtle as a rustle of silk, passed through the assembled lords at the notable absence of the Hightower banner. Yet, no lord dared voice the observation aloud. The falcon of Arryn, after all, was the sigil of the King’s first and beloved queen. It stood as a tribute to the past, a poignant honour to the mother of his designated heir. But it was also a herald of the future, for the blood of Aemma Arryn ran true in Princess Rhaenyra, the next ruler to sit the Iron Throne. Thus, the banner’s presence was unimpeachable, a shield of sentiment and succession that rendered any complaint about the absent Hightower tower both tactless and treasonous.

Otto Hightower’s face was a mask of solemn courtesy, but beneath it, a cold disappointment settled deep within his bones. His house’s moment of supreme triumph was, in this small but significant way, publicly diminished. Very well, he thought, taking control over his feelings. Let the falcon have its day. A grandson of my blood will one day sit the Iron Throne, and then the Tower will stand proudly beside it.

Meanwhile, Daemon rubbed his hands together, a faint, sharp smile playing upon his lips. The anticipation of what was to come coursed through him. This spectacle, he mused, was in its own way no less entertaining than the battle surely now raging upon the Stepstones. Politics was but war waged with whispers and symbols, and today, the symbols had spoken with a clarity any swordsman would envy.

According to Lady Redwyne’s seating chart, members of House Hightower were to be seated near the high table where the King, his new queen, and the princes and princesses of the blood held court. Daemon, however, had taken it upon himself to make certain… revisions.

Thus, Lord Hobert and Ser Ormund Hightower, along with all their kin, found themselves placed at a considerable remove from the high table, wedged inconveniently behind House Fossoway. Their coveted seats were now occupied by the Arryns of the Vale.

The young Lady Jeyne Arryn herself had initially refused to attend the wedding outright, deeming the King’s hasty remarriage an insult to her house and a slight upon the memory of Queen Aemma Arryn. Yet, after extensive persuasion and not a little coaxing, the Lady of the Eyrie had finally consented to mount Caraxes, and fly to court with Prince Daemon.

Lord Otto using his authority as the Hand of the king, moved to rectify the slight and correct the seating. But the Blackwoods and Brackens, famously bitter rivals, now found themselves united in their refusal to surrender their new, prestigious seats. To move one would mean blood, and the other would surely follow. King Viserys gave a weary wave of his hand. “Let it be, Otto,” he murmured. His gaze drifted down the long table to where Ser Ormund sat, a proud lord made small by the distance, and the King offered a silent, apologetic look that changed nothing at all.

The time came for the bridal dance. Viserys stepped forward with confidence — what could possibly go wrong? Though no great dancer, he had practiced the steps with Alicent for weeks, and despite the heaviness that had settled on him with age, he moved with what he believed — and many agreed — was a refined and rhythmic grace. Proudly offering his hand to his new queen, he led her to the center of the hall.

King and queen began to whirl through the dance, a performance meant to impress the guests with its turns, small leaps, and lifts. But the queen’s gown, upon which Daemon’s personal seamstress had “labored,” was not made for such vigorous movement. During a sudden spin, the loosened stitches at her shoulders and back gave way. The heavy brocade dress slid downward, exposing her bare shoulders and revealing a glimpse of her bosom.

“A whore remains a whore,” a voice muttered from the crowd. And because the stunned musicians had faltered into silence, the words carried clearly throughout the hall.

Gasping, the queen crossed her arms over her chest, covering her exposed curves. Ser Otto, witnessing yet another humiliation for his daughter, frantically waved to Ser Gwayne, who rushed to his sister and draped his short cloak over her.

A wave of merciful activity swept through the Queen’s retinue. As Alicent swayed, her face pale with a mixture of fever and utter humiliation, her ladies-in-waiting converged upon her like a flock of protective doves. With a chorus of concerned murmurs and deft hands, they formed a shield around her, obscuring her from the leering and pitying eyes of the court.

“Her Grace is overcome,” one announced, her voice cutting through the murmurs with practiced authority. “The day’s exertions… she must retire for a moment.”

Rhaenyra, meanwhile, struggled not to laugh aloud — there was a bitter amusement in seeing her former friend, who had so insistently lectured her on propriety and moral virtue, now displaying her charms to the entire court. Daemon caught her eye and gave a mischievous wink, nearly sending her into another fit of laughter.

“When you said half the Red Keep was in your debt, you failed to mention a seamstress was among them,” she whispered.

“The seamstress, the cooks, and more,” Daemon replied with a satisfied smirk. “Otto was mistaken to think my influence in the Red Keep faded while I was on the Stepstones.”

His words made Rhaenyra’s heart flutter. It meant that even when her uncle was away, she would not be left entirely alone.

“Gods be good,” came Viserys’ voice as he grimaced, swallowing a mouthful of roast boar with difficulty. “What is this?”

“Is something amiss, brother?” Daemon inquired, plucking a grape from a gilded bowl with feigned nonchalance.

“It’s all… oversalted,” the King muttered, his brow furrowed in displeasure. “Remind me to have the master cook flogged on the morrow.”

“I would not be so quick to blame the cook,” Daemon replied, a thin, sharp smile playing on his lips. “Salt creates a powerful thirst. It makes the wine flow more freely.”

“Let us hope it does not flow so freely that half the court is snoring beneath the tables before the bedding ceremony,” Viserys grumbled, yet he drained his own cup all the same.

The combination of salt and strongwine worked its intended magic. It was Lord Borros Baratheon who rose first, unsteady on his feet, his great voice slurred but booming. “A toast!” he roared, raising his cup high. “To the memory of our beloved Queen Aemma!”

A stunned silence fell for a heartbeat, broken only by the clatter of a dropped spoon. Then, whether from drunken confusion, genuine sentiment, or sheer mischief, other lords took up the cry. “To Queen Aemma!” “The true queen!” Cups were raised throughout the hall in honor of the dead Arryn queen.

Viserys went pale. It was as if all the air had been forced from his lungs. He could see Otto Hightower’s face darken with thunderous fury, but the King, a prisoner of his own grief and the spectacle, could do nothing. Mechanically, he raised his own goblet, his hand trembling. Large, silent tears began to trace paths through his cheeks, dripping into his wine.

The toast to Aemma, however, hung in the air. For a moment, there was only the heavy silence, broken by the king’s quiet weeping. Then, a chair scraped violently against the stone floor.

Ser Otto Hightower rose, his face a mask of cold fury. “You forget yourselves, my lords!” he thundered, his voice cutting through the haze of wine. “You toast a ghost while a living queen sits beside you! You insult your king and his lady wife!”

Borros Baratheon, his face flushed with drink and indignation, lumbered to his feet. “I’ll toast who I damn well please, Hightower! Or have you forgotten the Queen who gave us our Princess? This one…” he jabbed a thick finger vaguely toward the distraught Alicent, “…this one is just a girl you planted in the King’s be—”

That was all it took. A Hightower knight, loyal to his liege lord, surged forward with a curse, shoving Baratheon. The Baratheon retaliated not with a shove, but with a wild, clumsy punch that caught the knight on the ear.

The hall erupted.

It was not a battle, but a brief, brutal, and undignified brawl. A flurry of punches were thrown, mostly missing their marks. A tablecloth was yanked, sending a cascade of silver plates and roasted fowl crashing to the floor. Two old lords, too deep in their cups to know who they fought for, simply began wrestling on a bench until it splintered under them, depositing them in a heap of velvet and curses.

The Kingsguard moved in, not with drawn swords, but only hauling men apart. Ser Harrold Westerling took a stray elbow to the jaw for his troubles, his helmet ringing from the impact.

Through it all, Viserys sat frozen on his grand chair, his tears still flowing, a portrait of utter powerlessness. The joyous celebration of his union had dissolved into a drunken melee fought over the ghost of his first wife. Daemon, meanwhile, watched from his seat, sipping his wine. The chaos was a perfect, beautiful symphony. The stage was set. His final gift, delivered at the height of this public humiliation, would shatter the last of Viserys’ resolve and sear into him the profound wrongness of this marriage. The true performance was about to begin…

“So,” the prince purred, the chaos of the scuffle still settling around them. He had found his moment, slipping close to Rhaenyra’s side. “What do you think?”

Her eyes glittered with a fierce, wicked light. “Tell me truly. Was all of this… your doing?”

“I told you,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “I have many useful friends throughout the castle and this city.”

Rhaenyra looked at him with pure, admiration. “Alicent is a pitiful sight. And my father… well, he has gotten precisely what he deserved.”

For a moment, her jaw tightened and her gaze fell. The endless invocations of her mother were a double-edged blade. Each one was a fresh cut, a reminder of the ghost of Aemma Arryn that now hung over the living, a presence more felt than the new queen. Yet, the pain was laced with a bitter sweetness — a profound comfort in knowing her mother was not forgotten, that she herself would be her mother’s continuation, her true legacy.

“Come now,” Daemon said softly, seeing the shadow cross her face. He lifted her chin with a gentle finger just as the musicians struck up a new, lively tune. “Shall we dance?”

His hand found hers, and he led her onto the floor that had just moments before been a stage for Alicent’s humiliation.

And as they spun across the floor, a whirl of red and black amidst the lingering disorder, a measure of the weight lifted from Rhaenyra’s heart. She moved with him, light and sure, and for those few moments, the world narrowed to the music and his lead. But one thought burned brightly in her mind: what gift could her uncle possibly have left to give?

Soon enough lords great and small began laying their tributes at the foot of the dais: a dagger with a hilt of carved dragonbone and blood-red rubies; a golden goblet so heavy with gems it seemed a weapon; silks from the East so fine they were like woven air; rare books bound in wyrmhide; silver combs fit for a Valyrian goddess. King Viserys and Queen Alicent, their composure a fragile shell over the day’s humiliations, accepted each offering with benevolent courtesy. The king would handle an object for a moment, his smile distant, before passing it to his steward to be locked away in a velvet-lined chest, out of sight.

The ritual was nearly complete when a sharp voice cut through the murmur of the court:

“Your Grace!”

Prince Daemon approached the royal couple with a bow that was just a hair too deep to be entirely respectful.

“My brother. I pray you accept my humble gift.” A smirk played on his lips. “In honesty, it was intended for another. But the gods, in their wisdom, have redirected it. It speaks of lineage. Of memory. Of the blood of the dragon we are sworn to protect. May it grant you strength and preserve what must not be forgotten.”

At his signal, servants struggled forward with a burden draped in silk. With a flourish, the covering was pulled away.

A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. It was a tapestry, vast enough to dominate a great hall’s wall, mounted on a frame of gilded wood. The work was Myrish, beyond doubt; the artisans had worked miracles with silk thread, creating an image of terrifying vitality — it seemed a window into the past. There, larger than life, was Queen Aemma Arryn.

Viserys’ hand flew to his heart, a tremulous, shaking movement. “Aemma…” he whispered, the name a choked breath as he sank back into his chair, staring in stunned horror at the woven portrait of his late wife. She was rendered in all her beauty: the sky-blue Arryn eyes held a warmth that seemed to look directly into Viserys’s soul; the silver Targaryen hair cascaded over slender shoulders. Every jewel on her gown sparkled with such tempting brilliance and deceptive realism one felt the urge to touch it. Her expression was one of gentle grace, but in the set of her mouth and the fire in those sapphire eyes, one could see the steel of the dragonlord. And nestled by her side, holding her hand, was a little girl — a perfect miniature copy of herself with the same silver hair and a gaze that held less patience and more defiant spark.

“Well?” Daemon inquired, a single eyebrow arched in expectation. “What say you, Your Grace? Does my gift please you?”

Viserys opened his mouth, but overcome by the spectacle — no, the ghost resurrected before his eyes — he could only manage an incoherent rasp. Alicent, beside him, seemed to turn a sickly green with fury, a stark and comical contrast to her red, swollen nose.

Otto could bear the insult no longer. He drew a full breath and stepped forward, not yet knowing what he would say but determined to rebuke the arrogant prince and his tactless offering.

“I remember when the artist drew this sketch.” Rhaenyra’s voice, slightly trembling, halted the Hand before he could unleash his displeasure. Her eyes were locked on the image of her smaller self, safe under her mother’s protection. “I did not want to stand still and pose for so long. I never dreamed it would be woven into such beauty.”

Daemon offered a self-satisfied smile. “In my travels, I have encountered many remarkable artisans.” Then, his eyes darted cunningly to the king and queen. “Well then. I am glad the tapestry is to your liking. I do hope a worthy place will be found for it.”

With a final bow, he retreated, making way for other guests who crowded around to study the magnificent work, their voices hushed with admiration.

The feast stumbled on, a grotesque parody of merriment fueled by salty food and strongwine. The guests were deep in their cups, their laughter too loud, their dancing unsteady. Queen Alicent, truly feverish now, was led away, and a relieved Viserys hastily declared the bedding ceremony waived.

Later, the king found his brother, his movements heavy with wine and despair. He collapsed into a chair, scrubbing his flushed face with trembling hands, as if he could wipe away the humiliation, the whispers, the ghost of Aemma’s memory that hung thicker than incense in the air.

“This day…” Viserys slurred, “it feels as if the gods themselves were shaping it, showing me my folly. I was wrong, Daemon. Why did I do it? I love Aemma. Only her. Alicent… she was just a distraction. Like strong wine to numb the pain.”

“Then let her be your distraction,” Daemon said, clapping his brother on the shoulder and steadying him as Viserys swayed. “You are the king. You are entitled to your diversions — amuse yourself, Your Grace! Your duty — an heir — is already done.” With that, he melted back into the crowd, his design complete. Let Viserys blame the gods; his blindness had always been his greatest flaw.

“Your Grace?” The steward’s voice was hesitant. “The tapestry… what is your will?”

Viserys blinked, foggy and confused.

The man leaned closer, whispering conspiratorially. “Ser Otto has already given orders to have it rolled and taken to the vaults.”

The words struck Viserys like lightning. The vaults? Dark, damp, and forgotten? To consign Aemma’s face to rot alongside forgotten tax records and broken furniture?

“No!” Viserys’s roar was sudden, fueled by wine and a surge of possessiveness. “You will not!”

But his certainty faded as quickly as it came. Where could he put it? Giving it to Rhaenyra was unthinkable — it was a wedding gift, a permanent reminder of this awful day. Daemon, as ever, had trapped him beautifully.

Helpless, defeated, the king looked around the ravaged hall. There was only one answer, a solution that solved nothing.

“Take it…” he mumbled, the fight gone from him. “Take it to my chambers. Hang it… above the bed.”

The steward’s eyes widened in pure shock. The King’s chambers were now also the Queen’s. To force Alicent to sleep each night beneath the serene, all-seeing gaze of the woman she had replaced was a special kind of torment. But Viserys had already shut down, retreating from the consequences as he always did. Tomorrow would bring a solution. It always did. For now, the ghost would preside over the marriage bed.

Chapter Text

Daemon returned to King’s Landing from the War on the Stepstones victorious. He had traded the crown placed upon his head by Corlys Velaryon for the hand of Princess Rhaenyra. King Viserys raised no objection. How could he? He, who had wed for duty and learned to love, then taken a young bride for comfort and convenience, held no moral high ground from which to deny his daughter a match born of both affection and advantage. Rhaenyra’s position as a woman and heir was precarious; she needed not just a consort, but a shield. And if that shield took the form of her formidable, dragon-riding uncle, so be it.

When the time came for Rhaenyra to deliver heirs, the brothers stood together outside her chambers — Daemon rigid with fear, Viserys leaning heavily on a carved stone balustrade, both bound by shared memory and dread. They had lost too much already to the childbed. After two healthy silver-haired princes and a little princess were born, the King and Prince alike agreed — no more. The risk was too great.

Queen Alicent, throughout her years at Viserys’ side, never truly ascended in the eyes of the court. Many still called her “Lady Alicent” in careless moments or murmured conversations. Neither her father’s authority as Hand nor her own strained attempts at command could erase the memories of her wedding day: lords and smallfolk alike praising the late Queen Aemma; the plain black wedding cloak — not the Targaryen heirloom — placed upon her shoulders; a flock of ravens descending on the jewels adorning Alicent’s hair and gown; the humiliating slip of her gown during a dance, baring her shoulders and breast before the entire royal court; how her relatives and kin had been mocked, seated at the far end of the table among minor lords; how she had sniffled and coughed pitifully all day, dabbing at her tomato-red nose with a handkerchief. And worst of all, her wedding gift — a portrait of Aemma Arryn, the “Queen Who Gave Us an Heir.”

The longed-for grandsons Ser Otto had dreamed of seating on the Iron Throne never came. Throughout all the years of His Grace King Viserys Targaryen’s marriage to Lady Alicent Hightower, only one weak and plain-looking girl was born, named Princess Velaena Targaryen.

Ser Otto’s despair knew no bounds — in exchange for his daughter, he had received no kingdom. Instead, he faced mockery and disdain at every turn, so severe that he was forced to resign as Hand and return to Oldtown.

“Do not leave me here alone, Father,” Alicent pleaded as his escort made ready.

He turned toward her, his gaze not that of a father to a daughter, but of a merchant regarding flawed goods.

“And what could possibly happen to you?” the former Hand snorted contemptuously in reply. “Danger comes to influential people, to those who wield power. Those like you… are of no consequence to anyone.”

The Queen stood motionless long after his party had ridden from sight, the wind carrying dust where their horses had passed. She blinked her large brown eyes trying to grasp the meaning of her father’s words. And when it finally sank in, she shuddered at how cheaply she had sold herself.

***

“Her Grace Queen Alicent and Princess Velaena, Your Grace,” the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard announced, swinging the doors to the royal apartments wide.

Viserys grunted with satisfaction, pushing aside the half-eaten pheasant on his plate and extending his hands for a servant to wipe the grease from his fingers with a damp silk cloth. The years had not been kind to the king’s waistline. Though his face retained the handsome Targaryen beauty, he bore no resemblance to the shining knights in song who had once captured young Alicent’s heart.

Alicent appeared in the doorway, armoured in the green of her house as if it were a shield against the court’s mockery. Beside her stood a slight, fair-haired girl.

“Come here, my joy,” Viserys boomed, opening his arms. The slender girl pressed herself against the soft velvet of his doublet. “Why are you so thin? Do they not feed you at all?” He held her at arm’s length, his gaze anxious as he looked her over.

Princess Velaena was small for her age, with a narrow waist, slim hips, and thin arms that stuck out awkwardly from the sleeves of her pearl-encrusted gown. Her eyes were a pale, almost translucent lilac, framed by silver lashes, and her hair fell in fine, wavy strands to her shoulders. There was none of the Targaryen strength or stature in her; only the colouring spoke of her blood.

Viserys sat her down and pushed a plate of sweets toward her. The princess shook her head softly in refusal.

“How was your day, my treasure?” the king inquired warmly.

“It was well, Your Grace… I mean, Father,” the girl whispered, not raising her pale lilac eyes. “I prayed in the sept, then read in the royal garden. Maester Alizar kept me company and told me long tales of our ancestors.”

“Splendid, splendid,” the king rumbled. “And whom did you speak with? Did you join your sister’s or your mother’s ladies? I heard they hosted a small gathering today with music, treats, and suitors.”

“No, Father. I… I prefer the company of books to that of courtiers.”

Hearing this, Viserys sighed heavily and looked at Alicent. She stood stiffly, lips pressed thin, her gaze darting nervously between father and daughter.

“Well… I am glad you are content,” Viserys said finally, drawing his daughter close once more and kissing her forehead. “You may go now. Your mother and I have matters to discuss.”

With a shallow curtsy, the girl withdrew. The king scratched his plump, stubbled cheek and looked thoughtfully at Alicent.

“Our girl is growing. Soon her flower will bloom. We must decide her fate.”

A wave of anticipation swept through Alicent. Yes, she had failed to give the king a son and heir — but who could have, with his dead wife staring down from the tapestry every night? Those bold blue eyes seemed to follow Alicent’s every move, and the lips twisted into a vile smile whenever Viserys, in the throes of passion, cried out his first queen’s name instead of hers.

And that was not the worst of it. Often, under Aemma Arryn’s woven gaze, Alicent would tense so much the king could not enter her. Other times, a strange weakness would take him, and he would clutch the silk blankets to his chest and weep softly into the dark.

It felt as if the tapestry was cursed. Alicent had begged the Seven for protection, but nothing helped.

Still, she had given him one daughter. And if managed wisely, Velaena’s future could mean much for House Hightower. She would not wed her to one of Rhaenyra’s plain-looking sons, king or not. But Velaena could marry a lord of a great house, and perhaps even claim a grown dragon on Dragonstone. She could found a new branch of Targaryens — Targaryens of Hightower — and who knew which line the tides of history might eventually favour?

“Upon her eleventh nameday,” the king declared, leaning back in his chair, “we shall send Velaena to Oldtown. She will take vows and become a septa. Devote her life to learning and service to the Seven.”

Alicent felt as if struck by lightning. The last time she had felt such cold dread was on the eve of her wedding, when Prince Daemon had returned from the Stepstones at the king’s invitation. She had known then that nothing good would come of it. Now that same chill seized her fingertips as her last hope crumbled.

“Do you agree with this decision?” The king’s voice pulled her from the dark turn of her thoughts.

“I… had hoped for a brighter future for the king’s daughter,” Alicent murmured.

“Brighter?” the king gasped. “Look at her, Alicent! She wilts when spoken to, blushes when knights and young lords pay their compliments. She would have to be wed, woman! Think on it! The marriage bed alone would frighten her to death. Or leave her broken for life.”

The queen lowered her eyes. His words held truth, but how she hated this pale, dead-end future for her only child. Her father would not be pleased either — his line ending with Velaena.

“Continuity of generations has always been valued in royal houses,” Viserys continued. “My aunt Maegelle was a septa. A woman of gentle heart, wise and godly.”

And one of the twelve children of the Old King , Alicent thought bitterly. But there was nothing to be done. She sank into a low curtsy and pressed her lips to the signet ring on her husband’s finger.

“Your Grace is most generous,” she said softly.

Viserys smiled widely, his face like that of a well-fed white cat.

Alicent gathered herself to leave, to retreat to her chambers and pray for her soul, her father’s, and Velaena’s — but the king was not yet finished.

He had plans for her, as well.

“And you, Alicent, shall go to Hayford Keep. You will be its lady. Rhaenyra is gradually assuming her duties. Remaining on Dragonstone is no longer feasible — she must attend Small Council meetings and partake in ruling the realm. And the Red Keep cannot hold two queens,” he chuckled, as if it were a fine jape.

The queen could not believe her ears.

“You… you are exiling me?”

“Exiling? What nonsense, my dear!” Viserys straightened in his chair, which groaned under his weight. “I am not exiling you — I am rewarding you. Granting you a secure keep with all its attendant lands. You will be your own mistress there, may keep all your ladies, and of course visit court whenever you wish.”

Alicent felt something tighten deep within her, stealing her breath.

“As I said, two queens cannot live in one castle. And I… I have grown weak for the pleasures of the flesh. The maesters advise more rest, for both body and spirit.”

The queen looked with bitterness at the man who was to have raised her above all the living in the Seven Kingdoms. But not even a crown could lift her above the dead. Aemma Arryn, “The Queen Who Gave an Heir,” she thought bitterly. And what am I? A queen for amusement? A bed warmer? Her spiteful gaze flickered to the tapestry above the royal bed. She… that woman was present at every intimate night, looming over them, never letting her relax, never letting it end.

And Viserys merely watched her with a benign, oblivious expression. He truly believed he had been kind, made her happy and wisely settled Velaena’s future.

A cold fury settled in Alicent’s heart, sharp and clear. He had not just ended her daughter’s future; he had ended hers. He had buried Otto Hightower’s ambition in a silent sept and a minor keep.

Curse you , she thought, her gaze locked on the woven smile of Aemma Arryn. Curse you, and curse your daughter, and curse the rogue prince who made this possible.

***

Years later…

Lying in the vast royal bed, Rhaenyra nestled closer to Daemon, drawing warmth and comfort from his familiar form. As queen, she had inherited not only her father’s throne, but his chambers. From above, the sapphire eyes of her mother still watched, just as they had all those years ago.

“I feel as though she’s watching us,” she whispered into her husband’s shoulder.

“She is,” king-consort Daemon replied, a familiar, sly smirk gracing his lips. “Just as she watched from the day your father married Alicent Hightower. She watched them, too. The servants who prepared the king and queen for bed reported that Viserys would stand in his nightshirt, weeping each night, pressing the falcon ring to his lips. And Alicent would shrink into herself, quivering with a mix of rage and fear. The Grand Maester claimed such distress was ill for the queen’s womb — the reason she could not conceive. But Viserys refused outright to have the tapestry removed. And all Alicent could ever produce was that weak girl — your sister, my niece.”

Rhaenyra gave a sad, soft laugh.

“Well, at least in this, Father remained faithful to my mother.”

“Oh, yes. All it took was a reminder of her existence, cleverly disguised as the will of the gods.”

“Your wedding gift became a true torment for him and Alicent.”

“An inconvenient gift,”  Daemon smiled, meeting Aemma’s gaze one last time before pulling the blankets higher, intent on engaging his wife in more pleasant and interesting pursuits — without any additional spectators.