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Chapter Text

Redamancy

1

104 After Aegon’s Conquest, Maidenpool — great tourney for the ascension of king Visery I

The pink stones of the keep’s walls shone as if made of liquid water bathed in the warmth of the setting sun. Lovely ladies partook in strolls between the pools and the gardens, whispering softly between themselves, as maidservants and valets scurried to their bidding as everything was prepared for the great tourney to honor the new king. 

The young king with his even younger wife had reached Maidenpool with their following, with the banners of House Targaryen and House Arryn raised high in the sky — the dragon and the falcon married in the sky as much as on land — to celebrate the ascension after the period of mourning of king Jaehaerys was done. 

But, with the mourning of a king so bloomed hope anew for the future of House Targaryen, as the queen Aemma was heavy with babe, so much that old women and ladies had commented on how she should not have joined the journey at all. Still, she was forever fawned upon by her ladies in waiting and her husband both, as the king had declared to have dreamed of his son’s ascension to the Iron throne. 

“Perhaps now the Gods will let them keep one,” Otto Hightower said to his brother, as they welcomed the king and queen with their retinue in Maidenpool with the court. The Hand of the King held out on hope that such would happen, for a king without a heir was as bad as no king at all. As much as a king with too many heirs, “Gods willing,” the Lord of Oldtown commented in reply, “the king needs a heir,”

“The king has a heir,” lady Alicent Hightower, aged six and ten, commented from besides her uncle and Lord Father, her brother Gwayne standing stiffly next to her, and her littlest sister, Amynta in her arms, a few moons shy of her first nameday, giggling and chirping happily at every butterfly and shining light she saw. Her lord father sent her a stern, cold look. 

“Do not speak of matters you know nothing of, daughter” he commanded, his tone dark and brokering no reply. Lady Alicent shifted her weight from one foot from the other adjusting her hold on her sister. She was a sweet lady, who had been a favorite of the late queen, and had offer the comfort of a gentle voice and ancient stories to the dying king. 

“Temper your ire, brother,” the lord of Oldtown said, his voice steady as his hand clasped around the Hand of the King’s shoulder, “your daughter spoke out of turn but told the truth, the king does indeed have a heir,” 

Otto shuddered at the mere thought of the king’s current heir, his younger brother, prince Daemon Targaryen, as crass as he was handsome. As mercurial as Maegor the Cruel and twice as annoying, the permanent torn in his side, a warmonger at best and a beast without control at his worst; as temperamental as that dragon of his.

If king Viserys had inherited all the temperance and good will of late king Jaehaerys, prince Daemon had inherited the dragon blood and the wilfulness of his forebears. If he had been a woman, Otto would not be surprised if he would dabble in the dark arts as queen Visenya had.

As if evoked by mere thought, the dragon prince pranced inside the courtyard, on his black stallion, his black armour polished and his plum feathered helmet nestled on the crown of his head, the visor lowered down; a prince made of onyx and shadow. Some maid besides them swooned as he all but jumped off the stallion’s back in an agile stunt of eagerness, eliciting the amusement of the king, ever fond, and of the princess.

Princess Rhaenyra was but seven years of age and had inherited the features of House Targaryen despite her mother’s Arryn’ features. She wore a pink dress with the bodice covered in pearls and a coronet with seven spikes and seven pink jades nestled into the golden rim. A gift for her latest nameday from her uncle, the prince Daemon, brought from some far off place he had visited during his endless journeys. 

If only he was to never return, Otto’s life would be easier. 

Her uncle grabbed her below the arms and twirled her around, making her giggle some more to the delight of the whole court whom loved dearly the darling princess. Alicent was fond of her as well, saying she was a wilful child but a sweet one nonetheless. 

“Amy is easier to deal with,” she had admitted though once, “I hope she remains the same, the princess can be a bit troublesome when she thinks she’s been slighted”

Young lady Alicent had always been fond of children and the old king had liked in his last months to spend many hours with princess Rhaenyra, whom at times he mistook for princes Daenerys, poor child; so she was quite familiar with the princess and her flights of fancy. 

The lord and the lady of the keep were the first to welcome the new king and queen to their abode, but soon after — princess Rhaenys and lord Corlys greeted as well, if coldly — the Hand of the King approached the royal family. 

“Your Grace,” he saluted, “my queen, we’re happy to see you well after such a long journey” 

The queen did not look well at all, she might be beautiful but it was quite clear that the pregnancy was taking a heavy toll on her, but the king seemed ignorant of the fact, or perhaps wilfully blind now that the prospect of a heir, so close to his ascension could only mean good tidings for the Realm. 

“Your Grace,” the lady Alicent, ver attentive curtsied, “if you wish there are refreshments ready for you and the princess,” she spoke.

The young lady had been spurned when they had denied her a place in the queen’s entourage, though all positions were already taken and word had been made of a position opening soon for princess’ Rhaenyra’s entourage; yet the lady did not take it heart, and had done her best to ensure the queen could have a warm welcome and that she could rest her legs and back after such a long voyage. 

It was but an injustice that she was to be considered but the mere daughter of the Hand of the King, when she had the potential to be the lady of a great House with the protection of the queen. 

“Lady Alicent,” queen Aemma greeted, “you are a Gods’ sent,” she spoke, “I am quite famished, and so is the princess”

Princess Rhaenyra in a bout of confidence stepped forth, leaving the protection of her uncle’s side to proclaim “I wish for violet cakes!,” which elicited a ripple of laughter across the royal family. 

Lady Alicent bent down enough to be face to face with the princess, “we did hear they were your favourites princess,” she offered, “would you like to come and see if the cooks had prepared some?,” she asked, proffering her hand for the taking. Dark purple eyes fixed on her youthful appearance and soft, sweet smile, befalling on the seven pointed star embroidered on her high collared green gown, as the princess skipped in excitement before grabbing her hand and all but tugging her toward the pavilion.

Her brother, young lord Gwayne meanwhile had delivered small lady Amynta to the cares of her wetnurse, Queen Aemma smiled happily, all fatigue gone from her lips as she witness her daughter’s childish excitement, “She’s so full of life,” she commented, but her husband was engrossed in political talks with his Lord Hand, though her goodbrother seemed disinterested in such talks, or perhaps in the Lord Hand. He too was staring at Rhaenyra’ as she all but dragged poor lady Alicent along. 

“Sister,” Daemon’s voice surprised her, as her goodbrother offered her his arm to escort her, “I too am in need of refreshments” he spoke, with a low, dark tone of velvet and Aemma stiffened.

She was aware of tales of her good brother’s appetites, there were not many who were unaware and he was most fond of all girls he could corrupt some way. Lady Alicent had been a permanent fixture at court for he latter years of the old king’s reign, as far as she knew her path had never crossed the prince of the city, but that only meant that Daemon might find her more alluring, especially considering who her father was. 

He’d probably deflower her only for the kick of having ruined the reputation of Otto’s daughter. 

Yet, Aemma took his arm and accepted his help in walking, she could not stop Daemon, but better she could control him and his interaction with the lady as long as possible to avoid he soiled her and the little fool befell for it. 

2

They fell in step easily, and Daemon escorted her to where the lady and her servants had set out a feat for a pregnant woman in the privacy of a shaded pavilion; the lady of the keep boasted the idea whole, but seeing on how all her favourites, and her husband’s and her daughter’s were present to the small feast she knew lady Alicent was the mind behind it all. 

Her smile as the queen took in the feast gave it away as well, though her attention was soon grabbed back by young Rhaenyra, who demanded her full attention. Aemma, confident that with so many maidservants — some even pleasant to look upon, — fawning over the prince and the queen let go of her goodbrother’s arm as she sat down. 

But the cruel prince was not easily deterred from his purpose. 

His dark purple gaze followed the lady, ever patient, as she indulged the young princess, listening to her stories and putting together a plate for herself as the princess happily munched to the violet-petal cakes that the kitchens had mustered. Today she wore a high collared gown of velvet, dark green, the bodice was modest if not for the seven pointed star embroidered in finer, lighter green thread across her bosom and the silken belt wrapped in a ribbon around her waist and the leather overlapping one, fashioning the fall of the flowing skirts so that they did not drag mud along. Her bright hair caught the light of the setting sun, sparkling of several earthly colors, as if hiding beneath embers lived. 

Usually Andal women were not of his taste, Mysaria ensured that her brothel was packed with young lysenesi girls with the Valyrian features, as that was his preference. He had met the lady Alicent briefly when the old king was yet alive and she was his favored companion, spending endless afternoons reading to him the tales of Old Valyria, butchering with her pronunciation the ancient, noble Valyrian language. He had found her comely, but plain featured. She had been but a maid of four and ten, skinny and full-checked, with a haunted look for the death of her lady mother and for the cold bond with her father’s new wife. 

Daemon had rejoiced in knowing that Otto’s new wife was all but wreaking havoc in his household; she was a beautiful maiden with ringlets of ink black hair and big does eyes, just a few years older than the lady Alicent, with a crooked nose and far-parted front teeth. She was wilful and stubborn and anything but pious and she had found endless reasons to make tease of her pious step daughter and her frigid demeanor with her cousins that had followed her as a part of retinue. 

Lady Alicent had suffered her presence and snipes in silence, with grace, something Daemon could not quite wrap his head about; for he would have raged and snapped back as most of the blood of the dragon would, save the weaklings. The lady Alicent had found her respite by reciting ancient poetry to an almost equally as ancient dying king, and in her prayers. 

That had made her such an easy target that, when bored or otherwise bothered, like a green boy he had sought her out, to jape at her expanses and see her demurely accept the snipes and offering the other cheek instead of seeking her own revenge. It was a case study, he had wished to see how much she could take before she snapped. 

She never had. 

She had called him “my prince” and had offered nothing more that polite replies, to the point that the one frustrated was him, though he had sought her out to relieve himself of his own tension. 

Once he had believed to have made progress. Her lady stepmother was heavy with babe, her brother was fostering in Oldtown and she was but alone at court, companion to an old king or playmate for the toddler princess; she had bid her farewell hastily and Daemon had believed his japes had finally reached their mark. 

He had accepted his grand sire chastitation, but had then ran after her. Interested in see how she would fall apart; he had searched for her, even inquired about her whereabouts when he did not find her in the sept, where he had assumed she would be, and had at last found her in the gardens between the roots of the Heart Tree, barefooted, the veil she had been wearing around her head lowered around her shoulders and her hair unbound as the gentle rain had showered over her. 

Daemon had been ready to jape at her and calling her a witch, saying her dance barefooted in the mud, hair unbound, moving at the beat of thunder long away and with wind caressing her cheeks, but then she had turned around and her plain features had been relaxed in such a serene smile that he had stopped in his tracks, astounded. He had believed he would find her crying and raging, desperate and humiliated perhaps, instead it was as if his japes had not even touched her, as if they slid down her body as the rain did, leaving no trace. 

He was not poet and no painter, but if he had a way with a brush as he did with Dark Sister he would have painted her likeness to depict the old, slipper cunt that was happiness. 

He had but avoided her for the rest of his stay in Kings Landing after that time, and had sought refuge in his whores — in the warm hands of his Mysaria, between milky tights and silver haired mounds — trying to burn away from his mind that he had found her lovely, despite her blood and her comely at best visage. 

He had almost forgotten. 

And here she was. Her lady stepmother had later died giving birth to her latest sister, lady Amynta, and the lord Hand had refused to marry again, lady Alicent had taken leave from court to care for her infant sister who had been born preterm spending endless nights praying for her health and recovery. 

She had caught him returning after one of his trips to the Street of Silk, on her way to visit the sept. She had looked different, no longer full cheeked, with nailbeds bloody and hair enclosed in a stiff updo, a ghost of the girl that he had seen dancing in the rain, and he had convinced himself he must have imagined it all. 

“My prince,” she had saluted him, “you look…”

“Satiated,” he had japed at her, “vigorous? Handsome?…”

“In need of a bath,” she had interjected instead, “you stink of exotic perfumes and  bad wine,” a polite way to tell him it was quite blatant where he had been but a moment before. 

“Right back at you,” he had said, colder than expected, “you stink of incense and old flesh,” and he had walked away. 

It had been a few days before the old king had finally hit the bucket and died. 

Daemon had searched for her face in the crowd during the crowning ceremony, but she had been missing. He later learned that Rhaenyra was abed with a light fever and as lady Alicent had cared for the sick king, Aemma had let her care for his niece. 

3

Once again his niece was stealing her from him. 

“Princess,” he chastised, “calm your fervent tongue, you’re making the poor lady’s ears bleed,” he added, offering a caress of the crown of her silver head, to soften the blow to her pride — evident in her flushed cheeks and alight in her violet eyes — he leaned down a press a kiss to her forehead, “go to your mother, zaldrītsos”

When he straightened, with Rhaenyra skipping back to her mother, he turned his gaze to the refreshments on the table. Ever attentive and polite she had ensured that all of the queen and princess’ favourites were present, “There was no need…” lady Alicent started, but he waved a hand dismissively and took the plate she had hanging almost lip over her palm and found his lips distend in a smile noticing most of his favorites were packed there.

“You can say ‘thank you, my prince’ and be done with it, lady Alicent,” he interjected “I know how tiring she can be, and you are still caring for your infant half-sister, are you not?”

“As his my duty as her oldest sister,” she nodded, “and the princess is lively and sweet. She was no bother,” she let the plate go as if it was always meant to be his, or perhaps she was too polite to point out the opposite, the prince honestly did not care. 

“She was bothering me,” he said, “thus I have resolved the issue, you may be grateful to your heart’s content in the privacy of your thoughts if you’d not dare to speak the words out loud,” 

“Gwayne was the same when my lady stepmother was pregnant with Amy,” she replied in stead, “I kind of miss those days, they were easier. Princess Rhaenyra’ constant chatter reminded me of that, that’s why it was no bother,” 

The prince of the city looked taken aback by her consideration,  for she somehow never spoke the words he assumed she would utter. What a disgrace. 

“Well,” he commented, as ungracious as he could get, “it was bothering me, you both were bothering me”

“My apologies, prince Daemon,” she offered in reply, Daemon did not dignify that with an answer and walked away, returning to his good sister’s side, who offered him a self assured smile.

“She’s not an easy prey as you thought, is she?,” she commented as she braided Rhaenyra’s hair.

He had straightened his back and refused to look back at her as her brother, Gwayne, with the same hair and eyes and same demeanor too, bent to whisper something in her ear. Lady Alicent listened raptly and then promptly offered her counsel, then she dismissed her brother with a wave and came to bid her excuses and leave to the queen. 

“I must beg your forgiveness, Your Grace,” she said, “but my brother and sister are in need of my presence, I trust this small welcome was to your taste, I will pray for you and the babe after my evening meal,”

“Our forgiveness is not granted,” he spat, before he could think better of it, the words slipping through bared teeth as his good sister’s offered him a surprised and fondly annoyed look, the lady’s eyes flashed on him for a moment and the lady Alicent seemed to think over what she could reply.

“Beg your pardon, my prince. I shall go without your forgiveness,” she said, “I shall pray the Gods will gentle your mind and steer you to forgiveness, but go I still must”

“Pār jikagon, ao jenigon,” he replied stiffly, knowing her knowledge of the language, albeit rusty and incomplete at best, would be enough that she would know what he meant to convey. 

“The prince is tired after the long voyage,” the queen Aemma smoothed over, “you will forgive him, my lady, I hope. You are free to go,” 

The lady curtsied and bid her farewell, joining her brother to then leave the shaded pavilion, her long hair bouncing down her back, unbound save for the frontal tresses which were held back by a hairpin shaped as a seven pointed star. 

“Will the lady Alicent play with me again, tonight, Muña?” Rhaenyra asked from where she was still eating some violet petal cakes. Queen Aemma caressed her cheek. 

“If her duty permits, my sweet” she offered.

“I want to have her meet Syrax” Rhaenyra proclaimed, “she’s too small to carry two, but maybe one day she could, and I could bring her to explore the world”

Queen Aemma chuckled, “Would you like that, sweet one?”

“I would, mother, could I?,” she asked, “lady Alicent is always sweet and kind, and she has a nice singing voice,” she added. 

He knew Rhaenyra had all but begged for lady Alicent to become one of her ladies in waiting, one of her companions, but neither Viserys nor Aemma had accepted, mostly because the lady was busy with her infant sister and secondly because her father had asked for her to join the queen’s retinue. She liked the girl, and made no mystery of it. 

“If the lady permits,” queen Aemma replied, “you see, lady Alicent is not of Valyrian descent, she might be scared by Syrax,” she explained. Rhaenyra seemed to mull over her words.

“Syrax would not harm her,” she proclaimed.

“Dragons are not like humans, zaldrītsos” the prince of the city pointed out, “you may like the lady Alicent, but Syrax might not like her as well,” 

Rhaenyra scrunched her face in displeasure, “Syrax is kind,” she said, “not like Caraxes, she will not hurt lady Alicent” she proclaimed once again, a testament to her naivité as well as her stubbornness. 

The prince of the city shrugged, Caraxes had been his uncle’s dragon and later he became his, but the first dragon he had attempted to claim was Meleys, his mother’s. The red queen had not as much let him come near her, though he was Alyssa’s flesh and blood, favoring his cousin over him. If his father had not been there to save him the dragoness might have burned him to crisp. 

Rhaenyra would not understand, not until she herself saw firsthand how difficult dragons could be, unless calmed by their riders. 

During the great tourney of Maidenpool, in 104 the king Viserys announced that the babe his wife the queen was carrying would be his promised prince and that he would inherit the Iron throne, going even as far as to promise a betrothal between the lady Laena Velaryon and his son to smooth over the tension left by the Great Council that had spurned lord Laenor’ right to the throne through his mother, princess Rhaenys. 

Prince Daemon Targaryen ever despondent joined the tourney, only to be unseated by sir Criston Cole, whom proclaimed the young princess Rhaenyra as queen of love and beauty. On the royal stands beside the king and the queen, sat princess Rhaenys — whose favor went to her Baratheon kin, whom perhaps inappropriately named her ‘the Queen who never was’ — with her husband and true born offspring. Princess Rhaenyra had at length begged the lady Alicent Hightower to join her as well, and she had, together with her brother Gwayne.

 Some claim that the prince wore the lady Alicent’s favor to spurn her father the Lord Hand of the king, to the joy of the king himself. But if he had done so to spurn lord Otto Hightower, he was indeed spurned, for, after wearing her favor he was unseated by sir Criston Cole. 

Later, after the celebratory conclusion of the tourney princess Rhaenyra claimed her dragon Syrax; some rumours want that tragedy was almost consumed, but in the end the young princess managed to claim her yellow beast and that was cause of great joy and pride across the Seven Kingdoms. 

4

The lady Alicent followed the princess as she bid, though worried for her purpose she stopped a maidservant halfway through the curtyard, asking that she may alert the king of his daughter’s whereabouts, without worrying the queen who was pregnant with babe and should not be weighted down by needless worries. 

“Princess, perhaps we ought to return,” she tried to reason, the princess had snuck in her chambers late after the evening meal, the lady Alicent had been rocking little Amynta in her arms to get her to sleep, and the princess had pointed out how big the babe was, making her feel like a child holding another child. Then she had all but whisked her away from the nursery speaking of great feats.

“I have been named queen of love and beauty,” she gushed, “sir Criston unseated by own uncle to manage the feat, the least I can do is doing something equally as dashing to deserve the title” she offered, with the kind of logic that only children could apply to life. 

Lady Alicent grabbed her hand in an attempt to soothe her dragon purpose, her purple eyes alight with excitement and the kind of stubbornness that came from her dragon blood. As prince Daemon was wont to remind anyone who’d care to listen, Targaryen were different, closer to Gods than men, and could not be easily swayed away from their purpose once they set their a sight on it. 

Lady Alicent could not simply educate the princess and bring her back to her chambers, for she did not hold the authority of it, the best she could was buying time, trying to distract her, long enough for the dashing king to come to their rescue. The king had claimed Balerion for one last flight when he had been but an adolescent, perhaps he could talk his daughter out of the purpose or guide her through it.

Mostly she hoped he would free her of any kind of involvement in the matter, though princess Rhaenyra seemed oddly persistent and insistent that she needed to be present. “Syrax will not harm you, fear not” she had promised, voice filled with childish wonderment, “she’s kind and gentle, and she likes all pretty things, and you are pretty”

Not pretty enough to eat, I hope, the lady found herself wishing, as she followed the little princess along, in hope that the maidservant had grasped the urgency of the matter and had already reached the king.  

The dragons were slumbering in a valley near the pools, their immense, scaled bodies curled around themselves. Syrax was the smallest between them, hatched from her egg when princess Rhaenyra had been yet a toddler, the princess had learned to walk running after the hatchling around the floors of her nursery, and her own nurse had to learn how not to incur in the ire of the small beast. 

A dragon as big as a cat was still as dangerous as a full grown dragon, especially since Syrax had learned almost immediately to sprout fire. Princess Rhaenyra had once walked around the Red Keep putting afire any of the tapestries she disliked, it had been then that the then prince Viserys had saw fit to join the dragoness in the dragonpit with the other lizards, to the comfort of all servants and lords and ladies. Amynta had just been born then, and lady Alicent had thankfully never met the little beast, perhaps it would have been better than to met her now that she was as big as a small horse, big enough to be claimed and to offer quite the danger. 

She wished she could beg her forgiveness and leave, but, even though the princess was a Targaryen she could not abandon her to her fate in case the dragon was of ill mood and decided to make a skewer of her. 

5

“Princess,” she reasoned, “perhaps it would be better to try again with first light…” she tried, but the princess let go of her hand, stepping closer to the dragoness. 

“Syrax loves the night,” she gushed, “there are all the pretty stars in the sky, we could catch some, if she flies” she added thoughtfully, then speaking lowly to the dragoness in an high Valyrian so low lady Alicent did not manage to catch it. 

She does not mean for me to join her, does she?, Syrax is not big enough for two. 

“Mother have mercy,” she exclaimed as princess Rhaenyra skipped closer to the dragoness only to almost step on her tail, making her recoil and snap her faucets to the small princess and perhaps even more stupidly she stepped closer to grab the princess and shove her away from danger even though she merely giggled at the dragoness fury — as white smoke rose from the draconian nostrils — as she did though, she realised the magnitude of her misstep. 

If before Syrax had been annoyed but not threatening, the moment her hand wrapped around the princess’ elbow, the dragoness stood on her hind legs and waved her wings threateningly toward her, roaring in her face with her breath of burned bone and characoal. The lady Alicent was terrified, her heartbeat drumming in her ears, as princess Rhaenyra let out a shriek of fear for the first time, both lady Alicent and the princess fell on the ground, the princess nestled between the lady’s legs, clutching at her middle as tears streamed down her face, suddenly horrified. She gasped and attempted to hail the princess further away from danger, trying to manoeuvre to be behind her, some kind of ancient instinct taking ahold of her as the small girl cried for her mother. 

She clutched the princess close to her, reverently whispering prayers to the Mother, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone… wishing they would protect them from fire made flesh, tears streaming down her cheeks and evaporating as soon as they hit the air heated by the presence, dangerously looming and threateningly of the dragon.

“…please,” she begged the Gods, hoping they would listen, as they didn’t when they took her mother from her. Her mind went to her brother and her little sister, they needed her yet, and her father too, needed her more than ever now that he was alone.

For a moment she truly believed she would die, then a shadow wrapped around them, just as a sprout of fire left Syrax’ faucets, yet, though the warmth was there, there wasn’t the scorching of her flesh. She opened her eyes only to see the world through blood red membrane, her eyes fixing on the silhouette standing before them and the dragoness. Prince Daemon’s hair, long and silver gold were half burned by the fire, but he seemed otherwise unharmed, his back covered in black leather and the red tunic made him look like a dark flame dancing before them.

He did not move an inch.

Caraxes was behind her, she could feel the warmth of his scaled belly across her back and that made her both flinch and stiffen, as relief flooded her with the knowledge that an expert dragon lord was now present and would not let anything befall his niece. He might hate her father’s guts, but she believed he would not let be harmed only to get back at him. 

Prince Daemon breathed out, shoulders tense and stiff as Syrax’ fire died out and Caraxes sneered at the younger dragon, then without turning he spoke to his niece in high Valyrian, and though Alicent knew enough of the language, the panic still residing in her mind made it impossible for her to grasp at the meaning of the words, but so was not for the princess.

Tears now dried from her cheeks, she replied in terrified protest to what her uncle had spoken, so he turned just enough to look at her with his deep purple eyes, “You brought this on yourself, Rhaenyra,” he stated, this time in westeron, “now you must owe up to it, bring her to heel” he added, gentler but not less stiff.

Lady Alicent gently cupped the back of her princess’ head, “I believe in you, princess, you can do it. Syrax is gentle, is she not? She was just protecting you,” she spoke, without actual knowledge of what had happened, but once their hound had attacked Gwayne. They had been but children, and they had been playing perhaps a bit roughly and Gwayne and taken ahold of her braids tugging hard enough to make her weep, the hound had attacked blindly, she had not cared that Gwayne was her brother, she had just defended Alicent.

Her lord father had explained later to Gwayne that Alicent had gained the hound’s loyalty and that he ought to be gentler with his sister. He still had put the old hound down, explaining that he could not forget that she had attacked the hand that fed her, and perhaps the same principle did not apply to dragons, but lady Alicent did not know what best to say to comfort the small child. 

Prince Daemon helped princess Rhaenyra up, and guided her before himself, commanding Caraxes, whose wings had closed around them like a curtain to keep them safe from the fire, to let her pass, he followed her out, then the wings closed again behind him. Lady Alicent could not see clearly what was happening beyond if not through the filter of the red membrane, but she heard princess Rhaenyra’ small but decise voice, “Syrax, lykiri,” her hand raised, “dohaeras” 

Several beats passed, then suddenly the silhouette of Syrax took flight, and prince Daemon turned, facing once again the wings of his own dragon. 

6

Lady Alicent wondered if she would remain forever there, and the prince commented something in his deep voice, high Valyrian slipping through his lips in annoyance to the dragon, who did not budge to open the wings, the prince was forced to force them open by hand. 

“Old cunt,” he spoke of the dragon, as he finally managed to peek inside, “on your feet, lady Alicent,” he commanded, and only then did Alicent notice that she was still on the ground, she shook off the remnants of panic as she slowly stood up on shaking legs, “Sȳz riña, now walk to me” 

Lady Alicent obeyed, following his command she tip-toed across the small distance and slipped through the opening he was forcing with his hands, lady Alicent had to bend some to pass through the wings, and straightened once outside, the ground charred and burned and the smell of burned grass permeating her nostrils and knocking the breath out of her lungs. As she straightened the wings closed with a snap once again and the red dragon sneered in annoyance, as the little excited voice of princess Rhaenyra rang from the skies. No longer afraid, thank the Gods. She almost recoiled to his sudden closeness, his purple eyes fixed on her face. 

“Are you unharmed?,” he asked, his gaze studying her face. 

Lady Alicent took count of her limbs, all there — though she could feel her back and arms stiff, and her legs still shook — her hammering heart was also a comforting drum across her ribcage and ears, she nodded, “I think so, yes, thank you my prince” 

Prince Daemon though did not seem particularly convinced, he raised a hand and the lady Alicent did not even have strength enough to move away from his touch as he dragged his thumb across her cheek, “soot,” he spoke, as if it explained his sudden closeness and touch. 

Lady Alicent bowed her head and brought her hand to her cheekbone to clean at it, and it was then that she noticed that her palms were burning, scraped as the knees of a child, bruising purple. Her breath itched in her throat and that alerted the prince, whose gaze narrowed on her hands. 

“You are hurt,” 

“Not as bad as it could’ve been,” lady Alicent replied, “surviving an encounter with a dragon so close with but bruised palms is… fortunate” 

“What was fortunate was that I was here,” the prince snapped suddenly irritated and cold, “if that servant had not seen fit to warn me…”

Lady Alicent shifted her weight from one foot to the other, “Thank the Gods she moved quickly,” she said “I was afraid she would dally along and we would both be dead now, though I told her to call the king”

Prince Daemon studied her for a moment, “You told her to warn my brother?”

“Ay,” she said “I thought it best not to worry the queen in her delicate condition,” she explained, the justification rolling off her tongue easily. 

The ire seemed to evaporate from the prince, as he stared at her. Lady Alicent shuffled her foot for a moment, finding ever more difficult to remain collected and standing with the memory of panic settling in her bones and under his scrutiny.

His hand slid to her shoulder, grasping her bone there.

“You did good,” he told her at last, “your quick thinking kept you alive, lady Alicent” he said, “a spurned dragon is a bad enemy to make”

“I wish to have no enemies, at all, my prince” lady Alicent replied, “and I certainly did not mean to make an enemy of a dragon” 

He huffed out a laugh, a dark chuckle thundering through his broad chest, so close to her that she could feel both its warmth and vibration, “My word, my lady” he said “I think Caraxes has taken quite a fancy to you,” he jested and waved a hand toward the dragon, whose gaze was fixed on them, despondent, “he did not wish to let you go” the prince added, and lady Alicent shuddered at the mere thought, “I doubt he would let your enemies get to you”

Lady Alicent did not quite know what to say that would not sound rude or disrespecting of the bond the Valyrian shared with those winged beasts, “That’s comforting,” was all she could muster. 

7

The prince hummed, “Indeed,” he said, “now I feel it’s better I escort you back to your chambers, my lady, and that we call for a Maester, perhaps you’d need some sleeping drought” 

Lady Alicent shivered, she did not know if for the cold or the fear, “What about the princess?”

“Sir Crispin is here with me,” the prince said, his tone neutral and apparently unbothered, “he knows better than to come close to the dragons but will be here when she’ll land,” he commented, “plus, by now the whole keep will have been alerted, I fear my niece shall be grounded until she’s thirty is my goodsister temper is anything as it was when she was last pregnant. She’ll be safe,” he added, “you on the other hand…” 

He did not finish his thought because lady Alicent shivered again, he sighed and unclasped his cloak from his shoulders wrapping it around her narrow, shivering shoulders, he adjusted it across her neck and clasping the latch firmly at her collarbones, the lady wrapped the fabric closer to her body and almost lost a step as she made to walk back.

The prince of the city grabbed her around the waist on instinct to avoid she befell to the ground again, her knees weak, “My apologies,” the lady muttered, “I must be more affected than I…” her voice broke and was soon replaced by a surprised whelp. The prince of the city had bent down and whisked her one armed beneath her knees and had hoisted her up, close to his chest. 

The lady Alicent instinctively wrapped her arms around his neck, and the prince grabbed with his free hand her right elbow hosting it higher, so that she might clutch firmer on him, “You’re as light as a feather, my lady” he offered courtly, unlike his usual sneer, “don’t they feed you enough in your House?”

“I have little appetite, lately” she murmured, though her cheeks flushed either if for the whole ordeal of for his closeness, “there is no need for you to carry me, my prince. People will talk”

The prince shrugged, his hand coming now to cup the small of her back, as the other remained snug beneath her knees, “they will speak anyway,” he offered. 

“You just wish to use this occasion to spurn my Lord father,” she replied, perhaps in jest perhaps in truth. The prince stopped in his tracks.

“So you know,” he offered, resuming walking.

“That you japed at my expanses in an attempt to get my to act out of turn and thus spurning my lord father?,” she asked, “I am smarter than you think” she offered.

“Not smart enough to not go close to an untrained dragon,” he countered, the banter flowing easily between them, in a rare show of vulnerability and sincerity that would perhaps prove to be a once-in-a-life occasion.

“Smart enough to try and buy time whilst servants alerted the proper people,” she commented, and though the lady had protested on him carrying her, her hold on him did not seem to grow lax in any way or form, “I think that, given the circumstances I did my best” she offered. 

He hummed, “Perhaps, or perhaps you were just lucky”

“I shall thank the Gods more profoundly for warding me from this madness,” she offered, “and for having sent you”

“No God sent me, ao jenigon”

“If I am such a bother,” she said “you may leave me to my devices,” 

He did not let her go.

“I would not be able to get at your father if did, would I?,” he offered. The lady fell silent at that, and soon enough he had carried her through the curtyard — now alive with all eyes cast to the sky and to the form of the dragon and princess sharing in their first flight — inside the damp corridors and to her apartments, where her brother and father both were anxiously awaiting her return. 

He helped her back to her feet, his hands grazing across her shoulder blades before falling to his sides, as her lord father — though with cold gaze on him — stepped closer to her, grabbed her cheeks in his hands and then crushed her against his chest. The lady Alicent melt in his hold, the prince’s cloak still wrapped snugly around her narrow shoulders, as her brother took gingerly her cold hand in his warm one, and her lord father looked up from her and to the prince.

“Thank you, prince Daemon,” he said “I owe you a debt that I cannot easily repay” he offered. 

The prince scoffed, “I did not do it so you were in debt, old cunt,” the lady Alicent sobbed, six and ten, across her father’s chest at that cussing on the prince’s part, though young lord Gwayne sniggered, “you ought to keep a better look after your daughter,” he added, “she dances with the dragons and she may end up burned”

Her lord father flinched, may be ready to protest, but the lady Alicent gently put her hand across his arm, ever polite, “He saved me, Father” she offered, then she turned around and fixed her dark, molten eyes on the prince of the city “thank you, prince Daemon” 

The prancing prince seemed to deflate at that, some sort of understanding coming alive between them, then “You are most welcome, lady Alicent,” he offered, then he stiffly nodded “Lord Hand, I’ll leave you to your family” and excused himself from the chamber.

After the king’s tourney in Maidenpool life resumed with the joy of the bright future the queen’s pregnancy and the princess’ bravery promised. Princess Rhaenyra became the youngest dragonrider to claim her dragon, after the great celebrations, to the endless pride of the royal family. 

The princess demanded that the lady Alicent, that had retired from court to care for her infant sister, became a member of her household and the lord Hand could very well not refuse such a request. “I will make a match worthy of your daughter for her,” the queen promised the lord Hand, and the lady Alicent was thus the first lady in waiting for the princess, returning to court with her. 

Before the queen entered her labour, though, tensions ran high once again especially as prince Daemon Targaryen was dismissed as Master of Laws — on behest of the lord Hand many suspect — and instead installed as Lord Commander of the City’s Watch to his great chagrin. As lord commander though the prince proved efficient and after a bloodbath at the beginning of his tenure as lord commander, the capital became one of the safest cities of the Seven Kingdoms. He was ruthless and proficient in his new commanding office, and that gave him great authority inside the Small Council. 

To resolve the tension between the prince of the city and the lord Hand, the king — who the prince had at length pleaded with for the annulment of his marriage to the lady Rhea Royce — waited but the time of mourning to be over to propose a match meant to ensure peace and less friction inside the Small Council chamber. 

Thus it was that but two moons shy of the queen’s labour, prince Daemon Targaryen married in a grand ceremony on the seventh day of the seventh month of the year 104 — at which he arrived drunk and in disarray — the lady Alicent of House Targaryen, taking to squire his wife’s brother and as a ward the young lady Amynta of House Hightower. 

Many noted the young wife’ dignity and piety as she cared for her ill-willing and despondent husband, and it was perhaps then, at the lady’s wedding to the prince that first mention was made of the princess’ party and the lady’s, as the princess Rhaenyra seemed to be, for a girl so young, clearly disappointed and upset over the wedding. 

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Chapter Text

1

Kings Landing, first moon of year 105

“Some more blueberries, princess Alicent?,” the maid offered, proffering the plate to the young woman, in an attempt to get her to eat some. The lady had consumed a meagre fast in the privacy of her apartments, but had not partaken of the midday meal. The keep was yet in mourning for the death of queen Aemma Arryn, and the princess had taken upon herself the load of duties that would belong to the late queen as princess Rhaenyra, now eight years of age was not yet ready to shoulder. 

The king was ever grateful for it, and had praised her publicly for it, commenting on how the late queen had oft addressed the lady Alicent as God’s send and that her words had proven prophetic. 

The maids spoke of it, in hushed tones, the lady Alicent had been present during queen Aemma hard labour. No one knew what had transpired within the closed doors, but whatever had been the lady had appeared suddenly cold and quiet when approached by the king. Reserved where before she had been as a good as a true sister to him, even though she never let forsook her duties. 

She seemed… faded from how she had been before and certainly it was no help her new husband, who, though he may be a handsome Targaryen prince, would rather the company of whores than his own wife. 

Prince Daemon’ visits to the brothels of the Street of Silk had not ended with his new vows to his new wife; instead he frequented them more oft than before, gaining the name of Lord Fleabottom, to the chagrin of his goodfather the Hand of the King and his new wife. 

Lady Alicent on her part did not show how the matter weighted on her heart, she continued her duties assiduously — even suffering the, at times, cruel japes of Princess Rhaenyra, who was too young to know how displeasing she was being — gaining the respect of the court as well as of House Velaryon. 

The Princess Rhaenys was in fact now dining with the lady Alicent — now her cousin through marriage — as her husband, lord Corlys and the king were otherwise occupied. She had brought from Driftmark a chest full of wonders from across all the lands the Sea Snake had visited. 

“I was sorely remiss in your gift, cousin” Princess Rhaenys had proclaimed “allow me to rectify my mistake,” 

The lady Alicent had proven mellow and grateful of the princess and had accepted the gift with steady hands, inviting the princess for a private meal together. 

The princess Rhaenys as well, was staring purposefully to the kind lady, as she observed the plate proffered, “No thank you, Alys, I am quite full” 

“You barely ate” Princess Rhaenys pointed out, “you look as thin as a stick” 

It could have been cruel, but the tone behind it was almost motherly, after all the Princess’ daughter, lady Laena Velaryon was just a few years younger than the lady. 

“I’ve been having a small appetite lately,” the lady offered softly “I find I can hold the food better if I eat often and few during the day,” she said. 

The princess seemed concerned but otherwise remained silent, “Your marriage to my cousin is not treating you well, is it?” 

“The prince is most kind,” lady Alicent offered as reply, and though the maidservants did not speak the stiffness in their bones and their fleeting glances spoke of how little truth was in the words of the lady.

“That doesn’t mean he’s a good husband,” Princess Rhaenys said.

“He isn’t ungentle,” the lady replied “this match was not of his liking,” she added, “and he has made his displeasure in it known, but he hasn’t been unkind”

Princess Rhaenys sighed “you are a new wife yet you speak as a widow,” she offered “hearing you speak one would think my cousin to be already dead,”

There was a moment of tense silence between the princess and the lady, then Princess Rhaenys, black hair stricken with silver tresses and purple eyes alive with mirth leaned forward, “Would that he was,” she said “at least he would be good for something, you’d look the proper Targaryen in black” 

Lady Alicent, taken aback by the comment remained silent for another beat of moment then she let out a breathy sigh, “I will not take the mourning before my husband is dead,” she commented “but, it would compliment my hair” she offered. 

Princess Rhaenys threw her head back and let out a thunderous laugh, “who knows,” she offered, “perhaps you’ll have him wear green” she added “he’s already green with envy, might as well suit his temperament better”

“Maybe we’ll find it was his color all along” lady Alicent teased, and the maidservants seemed to relax seeing their lady’ demeanor shift in a more playful one. She’d been serious and grim since Queen Aemma’s death, and it was a sullen, haunted look on one so young, as if her death had taken a greater toll on her than it did on the king and princess. 

2

As if evoked by mere mention of him, Prince Daemon strut inside the apartments, sweat coating his brow, dirt on his tunic and cheeks and silver-gold hair, now cut shorter than he had sported them in several years — courtesy of the dragon fire that had almost claimed the lives of his new wife and niece — purple eyes fixing, tired and yet wilful on the table where his new wife and cousin were partaking in some kind of meal. 

He had returned drunk and had slept in the hay next to his horse that night and when he had woken he had immediately went to the training yard — clothes rumpled and face lifeless — to train out the wine and the rage. 

He could not be held accountable of what he would have said, or done, had he seen his wife first thing after waking from his drunken stupor. 

His wife. 

And her stupid big, sad doe eyes. And her stupid lips, always speaking courtesies as if she was living in some kind of fantasy land. 

She had become grim and sullen since Aemma’s death, as if that wasn’t, always, the risk of bearing children. Why, his own mother, Princess Alyssa, had suffered the same fate, and their father had been heartbroken over her death. 

It was but the way of life. 

She was no longer a child, she was a wedded and bedded woman, she needed to face the truth of her duty. 

Though she hadn’t made mention of children, and though Daemon’ last marriage had been all but a sham; with his bronze bitch he had but laid once and never again, and she had died without giving him sheep-sons or daughters to claim. 

He had laid with Alicent, lady Alicent. If he had to marry outraged Otto’s daughter, he would at least ensure he deflowered her for all that she was worth, but then… then he had been wont to join her bed again. 

He would take his victories were he could. 

He had preferred instead the frequent visits to the Street of Silk, and they had quenched his hunger for flesh, some. 

“Husband,” her stupid, little, soft voice broke him from his thoughts and the lord Fleabottom found himself at loss, hands hanging limply at his sides, standing still as a rock in the middle of the chamber. She had even stood up to welcome him. 

The little fool. 

“Wife,” he drawled, “I wasn’t aware we had guests,”

It was somewhat better than ‘Alicent’, better than the intimacy of calling her by her given name. 

It was a stark reminder the prince gave his wife. You are but my warm hole, you aren’t a person in my eyes, and the lady seemed to understand it perfectly for she remained cold and distant, if ever courteous. 

“I wasn’t aware you would grace our apartments with your most esteemed presence,” was her pert reply, “had I known I would have entertained the princess elsewhere, as not to disturb your peace with our presence,”

A little fool with a pungent tongue. 

Pungent and yet more lively than he had seen her in the last weeks, even her eyes — doe like and sad — looked more lively than they had in moons. 

It was a welcome sight, though her plate looked bare on the table, and her hands were too bony, the fingers rimmed with red after she had tortured her nails. 

Rhaenys, princess of the crown, and perennial thorn in the prince’s side chuckled lowly. 

Yet the lady’s small act of defiance seemed to breath new life in his breast, if for a moment, so the prince spoke not but instead of retiring to his chamber, he abandoned Dark Sister against the furniture and pranced, for lack of better term, further inside the apartments, falling seated at the table with a bump, but not before he had pressed an ever chaste but unfamiliar kiss upon his wife’s cheek, mostly to irritate her with his sweat and the embarrassment of the sudden intimacy. 

The lady Alicent, in fact, stiffened at her husband sudden surge of unexpected affection, hands clasped demurely but white-knuckled. 

She frowned though when he waved to the maidservant to provide a plate for him, the lady Alicent twisted to look at him and prince Daemon, ever overbearing, offered her a smirk as he patted with his free hand the chair besides him that she had but just vacated, a smirk placed upon his lips. 

Lady Alicent, too proud to make a spectacle out of their marriage before the princess, silently occupied once again the chair, though under the guise of adjusting her skirt she inched it away from her husband’s enough to keep a clear head. 

The prince of the city, though was not so easily spurned in his own home, in front of his cousin and eyed his lady wife up and down with a long, hard stare and when she did not as much as deign him of a look he leaned back across the chair, one arm draped over the table and other resting on his thigh as he stared openly and silently, purposefully to his wife under the watchful and amused gaze of his cousin. 

The maidservants fawned around — especially at his lady wife and it seemed to the prince as if they were bothering to judge him, as if sheep could judge a dragon — and proffered a plate full before him on the table, though he ignored it in favor of staring at his wife. 

“Lord husband,” lady Alicent said through gritted teeth “won’t you eat?” 

He arched a silver gold brow, silver eyelashes fluttering close for a moment as he inhaled deeply and then stared right back at her unflinching. 

In reply to her query he all but leaned sideways toward her, shifted her skirts around and grabbed her edge of her seat, dragging it with one swift movement across the marble floor and so close against him that his lady wife was all but snuggled across his lap. 

The lady Alicent let out a squeak that was as unladylike as it could come to the endless amusement of her husband, “I will eat if you eat,” he said “I won’t have said you are starving yourself to death to escape me” 

“I am not starving,” the lady Alicent protested.

“Then you won’t begrudge me to share this plate, I think I drank too much yesterday” 

Her glare told him all, you ought not to have drunk then, but she did not speak and took but a small bite from his plate, though she had little appetite, as the conversation — stale that it had become — resumed around the table. 

3

Princess Rhaenys observed her husband from under her thick black lashes, purple eyes meeting lilac as he stared back at her. 

“It is done,” he said, tone grave and eyes downtrodden “the prince Baelon will marry our daughter,” he added, “she will become queen of the Seven Kingdoms” 

The Sea Snake took his wife’s hand in his own and pressed a kiss atop her knuckles, “Our blood shall sit the Iron throne, as it was always meant to be,” 

Princess Rhaenys hummed, “And how is the prince?” she asked, “he was born small I heard and he claimed his mother’s life” 

The Sea Snake stiffened at that, and the princess’ eyes narrowed on her husband — coal skin a deep contrast with the alabaster flesh of her hand in his — “Did you see the prince?” she demanded, voice low but with the promise of the fire burning beneath her flesh alive in the bite of her voice. 

He made to let go of her hand, but the princess did not relent her grip, “Did you?” she demanded, her voice raising to a boom, making the chambermaid scurry to leave them to their privacy. 

“I did,” he admitted when finally they were alone, and though his wife the princess looked no less worried than before, “…and?” she demanded. 

“And he is… small,” he said “with a dragon mark all over his face and chest,” 

Princess Rhaenys inhaled sharply, “…his breathing…”

“Did you finalize the betrothal of our only daughter to a sickly infant?” she demanded, her voice raised and her fist clenched. 

“That sickly infant is the heir to the Iron throne,” lord Corlys pointed out, “and had you inherited your daughter would have inherited after you, she will still be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and… if the child is sickly, then he will depend more on our daughter to rule,” 

“But you’ll have her shackled to a boy who may not reach his twentieth nameday” she hissed. 

“And then she would rule, as Queen regent” 

“Not if he doesn’t manage to give her sons!” Princess Rhaenys snapped, coiling like a snake, like the Red Queen slumbering in the darkest corners of the Dragonpit, “then Daemon of all people would inherit! And your daughter would be left with nothing!”

“And what would you have me do?” the Sea Snake hissed back, back straight and chest broad, eyes of dark plumb meeting his wife’s “Daemon is already married,” he said “and I don’t fancy putting my daughter in his clutches, not even if he weren’t”

The Princess seemed to deflate at that, “there is time yet,” her husband pressed gently, kissing her temple “and our daughter will be raised to rule kings and kingdoms,” he added “we’ll pray to Baelon’s health,”

“We better,” Princess Rhaenys muttered “or we’ll see powerless the get of the Hightower lamb sit the Iron throne” she mused, “and right now I don’t think she would whelp out other lambs” 

4

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen watched fervently in silence her brother in his crib. Baelon must have torn their mother in his way to the world and he looked the part. 

Although small, he looked frail and he had a dragon mark all over his face and chest, his breathing was also wrong. It sounded fatigued and difficult and his breath was heated as well. 

The Maesters had said that there was too much of the dragon blood in him, that he ran an higher temperature than other human beings but that being a Targaryen he would settle fine. 

Perhaps Aerea Targaryen had looked such when she had returned from her ill fated voyage to Old Valyria. Baelon was also bony in a way Rhaenyra had never seen small babes. 

Why, little lady Amynta Hightower had been born earlier than anticipated yet she had always looked strong and vigorous, at times so big that she seemed to make the lady Alicent shrink behind her. 

Thought of lady Alicent filled her with dread and petulance then. 

The lady Alicent seemed to be the perfect sister, the perfect lady, the perfect wife. She liked lady Alicent, she really did, but she hated how the people spoke of her. 

She was kind.

She was pious.

She knew always what to say and when. 

She paid respect to the Gods and her father the King couldn’t seem to stop talking about how perfect the lady Alicent was. 

And her uncle as well, Rhaenyra thought with a shudder, he too seemed wrapped around her little finger. 

He ought to be as any lord husband with his lady wife. All husbands needed to love and respect their wives. And even her uncle who had loved her best than anyone since her mother had died, now was hers. 

Even her mother’s last words were hers, she thought with hands fisting at her sides and eyes filled with tears; and if she lived, Baelon would have further stolen her from Rhaenyra. She had prayed that his egg may not hatch, and she had felt so very sorry for it for the split of a moment, but then she had walked past the queen’s chambers, empty and cold and had heard word that as acting queen consort, soon the king would ask the lady Alicent to occupy the chambers with her husband the prince. 

And she had felt so angry that she had been sorry that uncle Daemon had stopped Syrax from eating the lady Alicent, could she turn back in time she would mount Syrax herself and command her to eat the traitorous lady. 

Perhaps if she had… perhaps none of this would have happened. 

Viserys of House Targaryen, second of his name, king of the Andals and First Men, lord of the Six Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, born in 77 AC to prince Baelon and princess Alyssa, silver of hair, purple of eye. 

To him, was born one firstborn son, who died in the cradle, ten days after his birth. 

A daughter, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, born in 97 AC silver of hair and purple of eye. Survived infanthood.

A son, Baelon of House Targaryen, heir to the Iron throne, born in 104 AC. Died one month after his birth in 105 AC, silver of hair, unknown eye color, with a dragon mark over most of his body.  

It is said that when prince Baelon died in the cradle, the Maesters were all fearing for their lives as they could not offer better explanation to his death that he was burned from the fire within. The Realm wore the mourning for six moons and soon lords and small folk alike urged the king to take a new wife who could provide him with a heir. 

In the midst of this terrible news the royal family crowded around the mourning king, even his kin the Velaryons departed from Driftmark to offer their condolescences to the king and to ensure that the Realm had clear in mind that the lady Laena had also lost her betrothed. 

The choice befell on thirteen years old Laena Velaryon as new bride to the king, though it was agreed by the king and the family of the wife that no bedding was to take place before the girl had reached the age of fifteen, as such, despite no formal naming, prince Daemon Targaryen remained de facto the king’s heir and the unofficial prince of Dragonstone, where he meant to settle with his new wife, the lady Alicent if, — as the prince himself eloquently put once at court — she could be dissuaded from her designs upon ruling as fake queen before the new queen wa crowned. 

Lords and ladies of the court were bereft and outraged at the prince’s comportament in regards of his young wife, whom had started to grow rounder within the moons, though no official announcement had been yet made. The king reprimanded his brother the prince officially and publicly causing a rift that would not soon be mended, which sent the prince scurrying away from court and into the arms of his whores in the Street of Silk. 

Later on, the prince was heard hailing to the dead prince as ‘heir for a moon’ and news of it was reported to the grieving king who confronted his brother in a heated discussion that spiralled in a bodily fight, — though no official record was left of that — which ended with the proclamation by king Viserys’ that he would unseat his ungrateful brother as heir and instead name in a lavish ceremony his daughter, Rhaenyra for heir to the Iron throne. The hope of the Council was to keep the prince, Rogue as he had been dubbed, from the Iron throne in time enough to have the king wed the new queen and put a babe in her, a son; and not even the prince’s good brother, the Lord Hand, spoke against the motion letting the events unfurl without his response. 

In response to the king’s new heir, prince Daemon Targaryen left the capital in all haste, stealing the dragon egg that had been supposed to be prince Baelon’s, refusing to bend the knee to his niece as heir to the Iron throne, flying on the Bloody Wyrm to Dragonstone. He left behind his legitimate wife — who later that year announced her pregnancy — and brought with him his paramour Mysaria of Lys, to the further outrage of the court whole. 

Many were but waiting for House Hightower to press for an annulment — and some even rumored that the king might conced it and marry the sweet lady himself, for he seemed to have developed a soft spot for her amidst the grief and loss — but once it grew clear that the lady was with child such did not happen again, though the lord Hand resigned from his position and demanded as a slighted father that his goodson was to be returned to his lawful wife and child.

5

The prince of the city barged inside the apartments shouldering the doors open, through the screams of the horrified maids. The lady Alicent, who had been brushing her hair, alerted by the sudden noise as her husband shoved inside their apartments to fall on the floor with a groan, twisted on the vanity’s chair, brandishing the brush as she would have a weapon, eyes alight with alarm. 

It took but several moments for her to realise that the heap of legs and limbs on the floor, dripping blood on the carpet was her husband, enough that he himself managed to see her reaction to his arrival and sputter out a grim laugh and some more more. One of his eyes was bruised purple and his lip was bustled as well as his nose bleeding, and his knuckles were bruised and bloody. The lady let out a shriek of surprise and abandoned the brush to run to his side.

“Daemon,” she uttered, softly for the first time, as she knelt by him and pushed away from his forehead his matted silver-gold hair, “good Gods, what has happened to you?”

“No God, that’s what” he hissed in reply, groaning as she helped him raise to a sitting position, “and my brother happened to me, woman” he said, though it lacked the usual bite, and offered instead an unknown bitterness. 

The lady Alicent seemed quite surprised at that, “You and the king threw hands?,” she questioned disbelieving. The prince of the city chuckled, “Indeed, and would you believe it?, he threw the first punch” he said, his tongue lapping at his busted lip as his lady wife gently patted at his bloody nose, “but I drew first blood… ouch! Mad woman!” 

“Ush now,” the lady Alicent commanded, she had interrupted his mispleaced gloating, by grabbing firmly at his broken nose, making him flinch, but her hold firm enough that he did not dare to move away, “it’s broken,” she muttered more to herself, before moving her probing fingers and setting it back with a snap. 

Lord Fleabottom cussed loudly, so loud that the princess’ septa started to pray just as loudly, “Apologies,” the lady Alicent spoke, “but if I did not set it right away it might have hurt more”

“I know, bloody mad woman,” the prince replied, “It’s not the first time I break my nose,” he snapped.

She patted the blood away from his face, “Then you won’t whine about it,” she replied with some sort of eery calm, “Gwayne,” she commanded of her brother, “go summon a Maester so that he may look after the prince,” 

“No need,” the prince protested as he waved a hand dismissively, “nothing a good night of rest won’t fix” he added, standing up on wobbly legs, accepting his lady wife’s help but for a moment and later letting go of her as if burned, “keep that thing away from my door,” he commanded pointing his accusing finger toward her septa “or I may send her to meet with her Gods” 

Which elicited the woman’s sudden protesting sound, but the lady Alicent waved her off, “Thank you, septa Marla, you may retire, I will say my prayers in privacy” the woman seemed as eager to leave the chamber as she was rue to bend her head to the prince, whom watched her go in satisfaction.

“I would feel better if you were seen by the Maester…” the lady Alicent attempted to reason with her lord husband again, but he dismissed her with a cold “I know my body, woman. I said no”

And then proceeded to walk, slow and pained, to his private chamber, barring the door after one last look to the lady Alicent and her belongings now scattered as those of a girl who did not know better and one last humourless chuckle aimed to humiliate the lady. 

The lady prayed for his fast recovery that night, her brother next her, disbelieving and protesting both, “I don’t understand why you use him such a kindness,” lord Gwayne seethed, angered by the behaviour the prince had with his sister. 

“He’s my husband, it is my duty to obey him and be kind to him is my mandate,” she reminded him gently, citing for the religious texts as if by heart, “it is duty to every wife to find beauty in their husband even though no beauty others may find”

The lord Gwayne seemed even more grim after that, and ended up trying to convince his lord father to beg the king for an annulment, for the happiness of his sister who deserved more. And the Lord Hand had to powerlessly comment “if I had the power your sister would not have been given to him to wife either,” he had said “and the king will not relinquish the only hold he has on his brother through Alicent”

The lord did not understand and neither did he wish to, vowing to never forgive his good brother for the tears and the hurt he was causing his sister, not even if the sky fell over him. 

6

“Father,” princess Rhaenyra exclaimed, joyful that her father had chosen to summon her to dine together, so that they both may take their minds off Baelon’s death. She felt sorry to have prayed that her brother’s egg did not hatch. She had even sent a prayer to the Gods the lady Alicent so much loved, that they may know that she had not meant for them to take her brother too, “…father, what happened to you?” 

Her father the king had a bruised cheek and black eye as well as his mustache stained with blood and the Maester was binding his wrist, and he looked at her from beneath his good eye — the other one so puffy he needed to retire from court for a whole sennight to not feed rumors — as Rhaenyra approached in all haste. 

“Nothing that can be undone, child” the king whispered back to his daughter as she took his free hand in hers and pressed a kiss to it as the queen Aemma had used to when she had been still alive.

“You tell me who it was, Father,” she begged as she knelt to the ground before him, her lilac and ivory dress bending under her knees and tugging uncomfortably at her back, but she did not let it distract her from her purpose, “you may not have a dragon, but you have us. Send me, I will bring your their ashes,”

The king laughed heartedly at his daughter’ readiness, and kissed both her hands, “There is no need for further violence, tonight, my dear child” he offered, “though there may be violence up ahead…”

“Whoever you need fought, Father,” she said “Syrax is small but she’s fierce, and so am I” she professed, tears welling in her eyes, “I may not be a son, but I will fight like one” 

This seemed to disquieten the king who studied his daughter’ eager stare for a long moment and then “I don’t need you to fight like one,” he said “I need you to rule like one, can you promise to do that, child?,” he asked. 

And though the Maester attempted to intervene, the king dismissed him but with one look and princess Rhaenyra albeit hesitant, — looked at the Lord Hand, pale in the face and grim on the lips — and then looked back to her father nodding, “I can, Father,” she promised. 

The king then dismissed the Lord Hand, and despite his quiet demeanor spoke of protest, he went without uttering word and the princess found it strange, because the lord Hand always seemed to have an opinion on everything. “Father..?” 

Her father the king motioned for her to help him up and the princess did, now eight years of age and his cupbearer for a few moons, she had started to understand the world of the adults better, and knew that though her father would not further explain, he must have need to show her something, and she was rewarded for her patience when he unsheathed his dagger, cut his own palm and then thrust the blade into the fire. 

Rhaenyra stiffened, but a princess of her caliber, now the king’s only surviving child until the lady Laena was old enough to carry some, could not show fear, and watched as her father studied the flames, “Do you know why Aegon the Dragon launched his Conquest of the Seven Kingdoms?” 

Princess Rhaenyra had heard the story enough times that she could recite it by heart, “Because he dreamed of the Iron throne,” she said “and he knew the Seven Kingdoms would not know peace until a Targaryen ruled them”

“Not quite,” her father corrected her with a gentle shrug and a pained gasp when he twisted his bind wrist the wrong way, “he dreamt… but not of power, he dreamt of a threat,” he explained, “a doom coming from the North with the cold winds, and he saw… he saw that we would fall when that enemy would come,” he said, “unless a Targaryen king or a Targaryen queen sat the Iron throne,” 

Rhaenyra perked up at the mention of queens, queen Viserys had at length been an hero of hers, with her pride and her strength and her violence too, “Do you understand what I am telling you, child?,” he asked “he foresaw the prince that was promised banishing this enemy and doom from our steps, and every heir since the time of Aenys has known this is our duty… and I am asking you now, child, are you willing to make this duty yours?” 

Princess Rhaenyra blinked unsure of what her father was asking, then the king retrieved the dagger from the fires and showed her the blade, “What do you see here?,” and the princess squinted her eyes to catch the drifting letters of fire placed of sudden atop the blade, “from my blood comes the prince that was promised, and his is the song of ice and fire” she recited, looking up at her father for the praise of having translated old Valyrian correctly.

“What are we?,” the king asked, “when you look in the flames what do you see?”

“Us,” she replied without hesitation, “I see us, we are the dragon lords of Old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. People say we are closer to Gods than Men, because we command the dragons,”

The king chuckled, entrusting the blade in her hand for a moment as he sat again, “The idea that we command the dragons,” he said “is an illusion, taken away the dragons, what are we?”

“Like everyone else,” the princess muttered. 

“Wrong,” the king corrected her, “duty. Duty is what remains us, this duty that Aegon the Dragon had forseen and chose to take upon our line,” 

The king stared at her through his good purple eye and the princess’ breath itched, “Are you ready to shoulder this burden, child?,” he asked “are you willing?”

The princess clenched and unclenched her fists, “I am, Father,” she spoke at last, and the king nodded solemnly, then he outstretched his hand for hers and took the blade back, then without preamble he cut at her palm as well, making her whimper of surprise and pain and though not much blood was drawn, as the blade was still fuming he said, “So it is. I name you heir to the Iron throne,” he said, turning then to the Maester, “have it written and announced to the Realm, in three moons time, the princess Rhaenyra will be named heir to the Iron throne and all the lords of the Realm are summoned to come and bend the knee”

“As you command, Your Grace”

7

Lord Fleabottom received word of the naming of the princess Rhaenyra as heir to the Iron throne from the whores of the Street of Silk. The White Worm herself brought to him the news that the king had announced to his Council that the Iron throne would pass off his daughter the princess Rhaenyra as long as he had no other heir, dishintering the prince and announcing that Dragonstone would become the princess’ seat as soon as she would be of age.

“He has summoned all the lords of the Realm to bend the knee,” Mysaria told him, as his hand wrapped around her throat and he slammed her bare body across the chamber and against the wall, breaking her breath, “all of them, to the new heir of the Iron throne, the princess”

“You lie” the prince drawled, eyes alight with madness, grief and hurt alike, “you lie”

Mysaria was becoming livid in the face and yet she did not flinch, “I am not. The king named her unofficial with a blood ceremony in his chambers,” she reported, “and now he bids the Realm to do the same” 

“Naejot se perzyssy lēda zirȳla!,” he cursed in high Valyrian, letting go of her, eyes mad with anger and fury, as the Bloody Wyrm hissed in the dragon pit strong enough that the windows almost shook, “he will rue this!,” the prince of the city vowed. Then he grabbed his tunic and his breeches and dressed quickly, then he grabbed Mysaria by the hand.

“You are coming with me,” he commanded. 

“I am,” she replied without a care in the world and the prince of the city pressed a fervent kiss across her thin lips, grabbing her hips with a bruising grip, red marks already forming across her milk throat, “wherever you go I shall follow” she promised. 

A vow so warm that seemed to settle the Rogue prince. 

Then he grabbed her by the hand and dragged her along, half naked and guided her through the streets and into the secret passages that led to Maegor’s Holdfast, stopping only to claim a dragon egg. 

It had been, the White Worm, would later muse, almost an afterthought that had hit him full force halfway through the passageways, and he had veered else wise from his first destination, guiding her through the underground corridors, slamming one of the dragon tamers to the ground to nothing short of steal one dragon egg, without offering any kind of reasoning.

Not that the woman bothered to ask. Targaryen were another breed for mortal men, mortal that they might still be, they lived as Gods did, without seeking permission and without asking forgiveness. So she followed him, as silent as a pale shadow, as he finally pushed open one hidden passage and they found themselves into his private chambers. 

He hissed something in Valyrian, low and hard and then flinched when of sudden the door to his chamber was slammed open, and a small figure — lithe and tiny — appeared in the door frame. The prince stiffened for a moment but seemed to calm when he saw it was but his wife. 

The Lady Misery had never quite seen the lady Alicent from up close, she was tiny of frame, with a mane of soft waves of earthly colors that veered to an almost copper color and big, soft doe-like eyes with thick lashes and pink lips. The prince had described her as plain of features and soft of wit, perhaps too pious for his tastes and too accommodating. Though the small woman lady Misery stood before now looked anything but accommodating, especially as she noticed her presence. 

The lady Misery had laid with many men, most of them married, and had never once looked in guilt upon the faces of their women. After all it was not her sin, but their husband’s. Yet something in the unraveling sadness and wounded pride in the young woman made her stiff and lower her gaze.

“You’re here,” the prince said, apparently blissfully unaware of the stare of doom his wife had just bestowed on her, with a gentleness that surprised her “good. We’re leaving,” he informed her, with the kind of surety that spoke of how certain he was she would follow him. 

“Pardon me?,” she asked, suddenly distracted from her presence.

“You heard me, ao jenigon” he commanded, his tone suddenly commanding as if he was bringing to heel a thousand dragons and not a mere Andal woman. The woman became as stiff as a board, and as thin as she was, Lady Misery’ eye caught easily the odd roundness firm and still hidden, but clear to her eyes.

The lady’s eyes fixed in a glare upon her husband and then on her and the lady Misery found herself looking away once again, “I go nowhere,” she protested.

“You are my wife, and you will do as I bid!,” he demanded, letting go of the few items he had been collecting to bring with himself, he pointed an accusing finger to her, “or so help me one of your Gods, I will drag you kicking and trashing!”

They were as close as a breath away from each other and the prince was a fearsome man, the lady Misery was no fearful of him — she yearned for the freedom he offered more than she feared him — but it surprised her how the lady albeit scared did not flinch, “I will go nowhere!,” she repeated, “not with her,” she added, nudging her chin toward her, “I will not suffer this insult too!”

“She goes where I go” he hissed, echoing her previous statement, and the lady Misery wondered how those same words had so easily won her a treasured spot in his heart that she would not have occupied else wise. And the lady’s face became of stone then.

“Then I suppose you shall gone alone,” she said, “for I shall not follow”

The prince seethed clearly both hurt and angered by her refusal and stepped back, “Have it your way, then” he said “you shall enjoy no longer the burden of my company” he added, turning away, and the lady Misery saw the cold calculation in his gaze as he moved slowly.

“You’d dare to leave me here?,” the lady fell in his well laid trap, “your lawful wife, alone and scared as she carries your child?,” she questioned.

There was no surprise in lord Fleabottom’s eyes — you knew, the White Worm mused, the egg’s presence now suddenly clearer in her mind — he twisted around “Which is why I am asking her to come with me” he said, even going as far as to offer her his hand. 

She watched it then looked up at Mysaria, “I won’t go” she protested, “I won’t,” she repeated “I shall not suffer the sight of you and your paramour as I carry your child, I refuse it” and then she turned around in a heap of skirts and walked out of the room, leaving though the door open.

An invite. 

An offer. 

And olive branch. 

The prince snarled, grabbed his things, and dragged her away back from whence they had come. They left on Caraxes for Dragonstone, and he never once turned to look back, though lady Misery was sure she heard the lady sob.