Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra listened with a polite but distant smile as Lady Anella recounted the preparations for her impending wedding under the Faith of the Seven. The other lady's enthusiasm was almost endearing, her voice rising with every detail as if she spoke of her own nuptials.

“A full week of celebration, Your Grace. The first day’s feast shall be hosted by Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys, as a most gracious gesture of their esteem and goodwill. Then, the tourney begins—four days of jousting and melee for the realm’s most gallant knights to showcase their skill. Invitations have already been sent to the lords of every corner of the realm, though most are already here to enjoy the sights of the capital.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze wandered to the softly flickering light of the candles, her attention only half-captured by Lady Anella’s words. It was not that she cared so little for the proceedings, but rather that they felt empty, performative. She had agreed to a wedding under the Seven to soothe the ruffled feathers of the pious and the traditional. To remind the lords and ladies of the realm that their future queen had not entirely abandoned their ways, despite what the Faith’s more zealous devotees might whisper.

“Four days of knights knocking one another off horses,” Rhaenyra remarked with a wry smile. “I imagine the maesters will be kept busier than the revelers.”

Lady Selene let out a breathy laugh. “Perhaps, Your Grace. But the feasts shall be grand, and the gifts have already begun arriving in droves. My good-father, the Lord of the Reach himself has sent a shipment of his finest wines, along with silks from Lys and Myr, spices from the Summer Isles…”

“Generous of him.” Rhaenyra’s tone was dry, her amusement genuine for a fleeting moment.

“But what the ladies are most anticipating is the Garden Party you will host the day before the ceremony. I have heard of no less than seven women commissioning entirely new wardrobes for the occasion. And the flowers! Oh, Your Grace, the arrangements will be divine.”

““Your Grace,” Lady Nila began, her voice laden with anticipation, “Lady Blackwood wished me to inquire if you intend to host the ladies’ tea in the new garden that Prince Daemon had so thoughtfully prepared for you.”

Rhaenyra’s laugh came easily, her eyes sparkling with genuine mirth. “The play garden? It is hardly grand enough to host a gathering of such scale. I fear it would be rather uncomfortable to try and squeeze so many ladies amongst ropes and climbing frames meant for children’s delight.”

Lady Elinda snorted, her dark eyes gleaming with sardonic humor. “They only wish to step foot within the Holdfast, Your Grace. All this talk of garden parties is little more than a flimsy pretense for prying eyes. The old crones are beside themselves with curiosity. No one outside the royal family has been granted entry to the Holdfast in years, and now that they've glimpsed what you've done for the Keep, they’re positively desperate to see what marvels lie within the Holdfast.”

“Indeed,” Lady Anella chimed in with a wry smile. “They’ve been grumbling like crows on a withered branch. And yet their curiosity persists. The moment Lady Nila and I so much as crossed their path, they set upon us with questions most invasive.”

Lady Nila nodded, her expression exasperated yet amused. “I simply spoke of the numerous paintings and beautiful tapestries you have commissioned, the jeweled furniture that gleams like the very stars, and the embroidery fit to rival the riches of Lys. Nothing more.”

“That will only inflame their curiosity,” Lady Selene remarked dryly, her fingers idly toying with the delicate lace of her sleeve. “You might as well have handed them an invitation.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a delicate snort, the sound startlingly unladylike yet entirely endearing to her companions. “The Holdfast is my children’s sanctuary. Only those I trust most shall be permitted within these walls. I care little for the vain ambitions of courtiers wishing to boast of having glimpsed the heart of my family’s world.”

Her ladies straightened at those words, their postures blooming with pride. The quiet devotion in their gazes was unmistakable, and Rhaenyra took a certain satisfaction in knowing she had surrounded herself with those she could rely upon.

“Besides,” she continued lightly, her tone laced with wicked amusement, “why would I invite those who would spend their time more fixated upon my furnishings than my company?”

They all laughed then, the sound bright and unrestrained, rolling through the room like sweet music. And if the old crones were determined to scheme their way into the Holdfast’s sanctity, Rhaenyra would be all too pleased to disappoint them.

Rhaenyra’s smile lingered as she reached for her cup of spiced wine, its warmth a pleasant comfort against the coolness of the afternoon. “The gardens have undergone many changes as well,” she noted casually, though her gaze danced with delight. “Daemon has seen to that. He’s taken it upon himself to make this little sanctuary not only safe but beautiful.”

Lady Selene’s eyes gleamed with open admiration. “The new pond is a marvel, Your Grace. I dare say I spent far too long admiring it this morning. The water is so clear, it resembles polished glass. And the lilies! Their blossoms are more vivid than any I have seen, their petals like painted silk.”

“Oh, and the fish!” Lady Elinda sighed dreamily, clasping her hands together as though recalling a precious memory. “Such delicate, graceful creatures. The orange ones are particularly captivating. They glimmer beneath the surface like molten gold. And the children adore them so much.”

Rhaenyra chuckled. “Indeed, Luke and Rhaena has already named half of them.”

“The ladies will swoon over the new gardens,” Lady Anella chimed in with a conspiratorial smile. “They’ll coo over the charming little stream Prince Daemon has so miraculously placed there. It’s as if he’s plucked some fairytale wood from the stories of old and nestled it within the Red Keep.”

“Miraculously, indeed,” Rhaenyra replied with a note of amusement. “Though I suspect more sweat and shouting were involved than he’d like to admit. The builders were half-mad with his constant instructions, but the results speak for themselves.”

“The sound of the water trickling over the stones,” Lady Selene added wistfully, “it is so soothing. One could spend hours there and feel all their worries melt away.”

“That is precisely Daemon’s intention, I suspect,” Rhaenyra mused. “He swears he made the gardens for the children and I, yet I have caught him there more than once simply staring at the water as if lost in his own thoughts.”

“That, my princess, is the very height of romantic devotion.” Lady Anella teased, earning herself a ripple of laughter from the assembled ladies.

Rhaenyra’s lips quirked into a smile, one both playful and fond. “If the old crones wish to bicker about what I have done with the Holdfast, let them. They would hardly know what to make of Daemon’s creations even if they were invited to see them.”

“Oh, they’d take one look at the climbing nets and swaying ropes and faint dead away,” Lady Elinda snickered.

“And not even the promise of orange fish could lure them back.” Lady Selene added with a wicked grin.

Their shared laughter filled the room once more, a warm, glittering thing that chased away the last chill of the day.

Then a deep knock upon the door echoed through the chamber, followed by the unmistakable voice of Ser Steffon Darklyn. “Your Grace, a messenger from the King.”

Rhaenyra’s head lifted, her gaze flickering briefly to the painted screen positioned deliberately between the door and the sitting area. It was a beautiful thing, depicting a dragon in flight above a sea of silver and jade, but its purpose was not solely decorative. Behind its shielding presence, she and her ladies could sit in their lighter garments — loose inner dresses of fine linen, their hair unbound and left to tumble over their shoulders in informal elegance — without fear of prying eyes.

“Enter,” she called, her tone cool yet inviting.

The doors creaked open, and Ser Steffon stepped aside to admit a young page, breathless and red-cheeked from haste. Though he could not see her directly, the boy’s nervousness was palpable in his stammering words.

“Princess, His Grace requests your presence in the Small Council chamber,” the boy stammered. “You are to attend him at once.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “An emergency meeting of the Council?”

The boy swallowed and shook his head. “No, Princess. Only the Hand, the King, the Queen, and Prince Daemon are there. I—I do not know anything else.” His voice dropped to a fretful murmur. “But I was told to tell you to hurry. The King is in a mood.”

An exasperated sigh slipped from Rhaenyra’s lips as she rose to her feet, her silk skirts rustling like whispered secrets. Lady Anella and Lady Selene surged to her side, quick as sparrows, draping a heavy black overdress over her shoulders. The weight of it settled about her like a storm cloud.

“Come, then,” she said with measured calm. “Let us see what tempest awaits.”

Together, they made their way through the corridors, their passage marked by the soft patter of slippered feet upon stone. As they approached the arched windows overlooking the play garden, Rhaenyra’s gaze softened.

Below, Joffrey and Luke were nothing but bright, wriggling creatures tangled among the wooden bars and ropes Daemon had insisted upon erecting. Luke perched proudly at the very top of the wooden tower, his little chest puffed out like a lord of old.

“Sweetlings, please retreat to the shade if it becomes too hot.” She called to them.

“I do not get hot! I am a dragon!” Luke bellowed, his voice thick with childish conviction.

“Dagon!” Joffrey agreed with a fierce clap of his hands, his smile as brilliant as sunlight.

Rhaenyra’s laughter burst free, the absurdity of their boastfulness a delightful balm against whatever worries lay ahead. She lifted her hand and called down to them, “Get inside once it grows too hot, my little dragons.”

Joffrey paid her no mind, busying himself with climbing higher, while Luke shouted something entirely unintelligible about fire not feeling heat.

Rhaena, however, was the very picture of decadence and grace. Reclined upon a great swing beneath the fire tree, she lay as if upon a chaise meant for queens. The swing itself was lavishly wide, wrapped in sheer white drapes that shimmered gently with the breeze. Beside her, tables held pitchers of cool Lysene honeyfruit wine and delicate cakes, which she sampled at her leisure.

The pond sanctuary sprawled beneath the fire tree’s sheltering branches, its cool stones and gentle water casting a dreamlike glow upon the scene. In its midst stood a serene statue of Queen Aemma Arryn, cradling her babe with a tenderness immortalized in marble. Her expression was serene, watching over the shimmering pond teeming with golden and silver fish that moved like spun coin beneath the dappled light.

Curled possessively around the base of the statue lay Tyraxes, his long tail dipped languidly into the water. Every so often, he flicked it with idle amusement, sending cool droplets splashing toward Luke and Joffrey’s exuberant games, earning their shrieks of delight.

Rhaenyra shook her head fondly. “How you manage to doze amid all that ruckus, I shall never understand,” she called down to Rhaena.

Rhaena only waved her hand with lazy elegance, the servant fanning her from a respectful distance. “The noise is a lullaby to me, princess.”

Air kisses were exchanged with her ladies before Rhaenyra resumed her march toward the Small Council chamber with only Lady Selene and lady Anella as company, her footsteps heavy with the knowledge that whatever awaited her would be nothing as charming or uncomplicated as the world she had just left behind.

The air in the Small Council chamber was stifling, heavy with an unspoken tension that coiled itself around Rhaenyra’s lungs, making each breath feel like a laborious task. The murmur of Lord Lyonel Strong’s voice reading from some grim report only seemed to amplify the cloying silence, his measured tone serving as a cruel prelude to something yet unsaid.

Alicent was already seated beside her father, her green silk gown clinging to her like ivy, her expression one of calculated pity. But the faintly smug glint in her eyes made Rhaenyra’s stomach curdle. Alicent’s lips pressed into something resembling concern, but the mask was a poor one. Whatever the Queen felt, sympathy was hardly at the root of it.

The King looked weary and worn, his skin stretched taut over bones that appeared more brittle by the day. And yet when his gaze fell upon her, his arms opened as if she were still his little girl, and not a woman grown with children of her own. Rhaenyra crossed the floor, her skirts sweeping over the stone, and sank into his embrace.

“Father,” she whispered, her voice trembling despite herself. His arms enveloped her, strong but with an undeniable desperation. The way he clung to her spoke of heartbreak and grief, of some dreadful anticipation she was not privy to.

“What is happening?” she asked, her voice sharper now, laced with unease. His hands moved to cradle her face, the coolness of his skin against her own making her shiver.

“Let us wait for Daemon.” Viserys murmured, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks.

Her stomach twisted in a knot so fierce it nearly stole her breath. She had not seen Jace and Baela since the morning, and her mind filled with nightmarish possibilities. Her pulse beat like war drums within her chest.

“Where are Jace and Baela?” she demanded, her voice ragged and frantic. “Are they safe?”

Viserys shook his head and forced a weak smile, though it trembled at the edges. “I am sure the children are well guarded by their minders, sweet girl. We are not here about them.”

Relief flooded her senses, leaving her light-headed. But even as she exhaled, anger followed swiftly behind, its flame scorching her veins. How dare he frighten her so? To make her think her babes were in danger while he spoke in such cryptic riddles. She nearly wanted to claw his eyes out for it.

“Then why are we here?” she snapped, her composure cracking beneath the weight of her roiling emotions.

Alicent’s eyes flicked toward her then, the false concern curdling into something altogether condescending. “It is better if Prince Daemon is here before we discuss... the matter,” the Queen replied, her voice too airy, her smile too delicate. She would not speak of it again, her attention pointedly shifting away as if Rhaenyra were little more than a troublesome child.

Moments later, the doors opened with a hasty creak, and Daemon strode in, his gaze a stormy blend of irritation and impatience.

“I was in a meeting with the Gold Cloaks,” he declared, each word clipped and edged with a sharpness meant to sever whatever nonsense was about to be thrust upon them. “To ensure that the security for the wedding is adequate.”

Viserys reddened at that, his face blotching with a rage that made him look more alive than he had in moons. “And where was this meeting held, brother? In the brothels you seem so fond of frequenting?”

Daemon’s head snapped toward the King, his eyes alight with incredulity. “What are you on about?”

“You were to be preparing for your wedding!” Viserys roared, his hands slamming down on the table. “Not parading through the streets of King’s Landing like some common libertine! I should never have agreed to this marriage. Never.”

Daemon’s gaze darkened, his jaw clenching. “I was not at the brothels, Viserys. I was speaking with the Gold Cloaks, your City’s Watch, whose loyalty you would do well to keep strong before half of your bannermen arrive for a week of revelry. I was doing what you could not—ensuring order.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze darted between the two brothers, her bewilderment tightening around her chest like iron bands. The accusations hurled between them were venomous, poisoned words aimed to cut deep and leave scars. What was happening? Why had she been summoned here only to be assaulted with such madness?

“What is going on?” she demanded, her voice strung tight with the kind of tension that made her fingers tremble.

Viserys reached for her hand, his own rough and too cold against her skin. Instinctively, she wished to wrench her fingers free of his grasp, but something in the fragile desperation of his touch held her captive. Instead of pulling away, she gripped his hand as if to anchor herself to the shifting ground.

“This,” her father said heavily, his voice raw and broken, “this is why I was so against your marriage to Daemon. He will never be truly loyal to you, Rhaenyra. Even now, while you are not yet wed, he is already being unfaithful to you.”

Daemon laughed then, a low and dangerous sound that echoed off the chamber’s high stone walls. His eyes glittered with dark amusement, his mouth curved into a smirk that dared anyone to question him.

“Unfaithful?” he echoed, the word leaving his lips with an incredulity that bordered on scorn. “I was never unfaithful to Laena, and I would never dishonor Rhaenyra in such a way. Whatever you’ve been told is naught but the shrieking of gossips.”

“It seems you forget, Prince Daemon,” Alicent interjected smoothly, her voice laced with the kind of sweetness that leaves a bitter taste, “how you paraded one whore after another when you were wed to Lady Rhea Royce.”

Daemon’s laughter swelled again, richer and more mocking than before. “Rhea Royce?” he scoffed. “You would have me acknowledge a marriage that was a farce from the very beginning? My Bronze Bitch whom I never even bedded, nor even recited the vows to. If you wish to be precise, it was your own Good Queen Alysanne who married Rhea Royce—she was the one who spoke the vows. Now isn’t that very progressive of the Faith?”

Viserys’s knuckles went white where they gripped the arms of his chair, his face nearly the shade of boiled crab. “You dare mock your own marriage? You are a disgrace, brother. Always”

Daemon’s gaze did not falter. If anything, it hardened. “There was no love lost between Rhea and me, and we both knew it well,” he said coolly. “But you? You spout devotion to your wives while bedding other whores on the sides, hiding your appetites beneath a mask of duty.” His eyes slid pointedly to Alicent, lingering just long enough to make his meaning clear. “At least I do not pretend to be something I am not.”

Alicent’s face blazed red, her composure cracking ever so slightly at the harshness of his words. Yet she collected herself with a shaky breath and tilted her chin high. “The King received reliable reports that you have been shaming your betrothed nightly in the brothels. That is the truth of it, and you will not talk your way out of it this time.”

Daemon’s smirk melted into something colder, something feral. “And I deny these charges with every ounce of truth within me. Bring forth these so-called informants of yours, Viserys. Let them accuse me to my face if they dare.”

The King’s fury seemed to diminish, replaced by a hesitant uncertainty that had him glancing toward Alicent. But the Queen’s gaze was suddenly fixed upon her own lap, the green of her gown swaying as if even her resolve had been shaken.

“They would find themselves without a head if I were to drag them before you, Daemon,” Viserys confessed, his voice hoarse and uneven.

Daemon’s laugh was dark and sardonic. “No, Viserys. You will not do this to me again. You had me spied upon once before—ten years ago, if you recall. You hurtled accusations based solely on the poisonous words of your viper Hand. And now you expect me to endure the same again? No. You will produce these witnesses now, or we will end this madness here.”

Viserys cast a wary glance at Alicent, her eyes downcast and her lips pinched together with the effort of maintaining her composure. Then, after a pause that seemed to stretch into eternity, he inclined his head toward Ser Harrold, who stood vigilant by the closed doors.

“Ser Harrold,” Viserys commanded, his voice thick with resignation. “Fetch them. Now.”

Daemon’s eyes burned with victory even as his expression remained cool. “And bring Ser Largent as well,” he ordered. “I would have him here to confirm my whereabouts.”

The Kingsguard bowed deeply, his expression blank but his urgency clear. He slipped from the chamber like a shadow, leaving behind a tension so heavy it might have crushed bone.

Rhaenyra met Daemon’s gaze, her own eyes smoldering with something akin to fury and confusion. Why had her father dragged them all here when—by the gods—Daemon was not even truly hers yet?

They were not married, and whatever appetites her uncle might indulge, they were his own to manage. She would not fault him for that. Certainly not when she was more than familiar with how voracious his desires could be.

The entire confrontation reeked of desperation. Alicent’s doing, no doubt, a desperate attempt to drive a wedge between her and Daemon. Another feeble ploy to fracture House Targaryen.

Daemon settled beside her with the sort of intensity that felt as though it should have singed her skin. His fury was a palpable thing, radiating from him like the heat of dragonfire, his jaw clenched so tight that she swore she could hear his teeth grinding. And though he said nothing, she could feel his rage twisting and writhing between them, waiting to explode.

Rhaenyra folded her arms over her chest in an uncharacteristically petulant display. Her frustration churned within her like a stormy sea, its waves crashing against the jagged cliffs of her patience. How exhausting it was to always find herself caught between them. Her father and her uncle. Always at odds, forever locked in a battle of pride and pettiness.

The King disinherited Daemon, and her uncle retaliated by stealing her brother’s egg—a crime which demanded her intervention to prevent bloodshed. Daemon’s own ambitions led him to parade her through the filth of the Street of Silk, dragging her into his schemes and leaving her reputation tarnished as a result.

Gods be good, she was so tired of the pair of them fucking everything around her. Mayhaps it would be simpler to just kill them both now and be done with it.

The thought was fleeting but uncomfortably tempting.

The doors creaked open, and Rhaenyra’s attention snapped forward as Ser Harrold returned, his expression taut with unease. Trailing behind him was Ser Largent, his broad shoulders a shield of grim severity, but what seized her attention most was the boy who stumbled into the chamber. Small, scrawny, and shaking so terribly he might have been caught in the grip of some fevered nightmare.

The child couldn’t have been more than ten years old.

Rhaenyra’s gaze shifted to her father, noting the glimmer of surprise in his eyes. It seemed even Viserys had not anticipated this.

“Speak, boy,” Lord Strong prompted with as much gentleness as a man of his stature could muster. “What is it you have to say regarding Prince Daemon?”

The boy looked as though he might be sick where he stood, his trembling fingers twisted in the coarse fabric of his shirt. “Th-the Prince, milord. He’s often in the brothels, he is. Street o’ Silk. With the Gold Cloaks, he is. They all meet there, they do.”

“For how long?” Lord Strong pressed, his voice steady but firm.

“L-long into the night, milord,” the boy stammered, his grammar crumbling with every terrified syllable. “But… but I don’ know what they talk ‘bout. Ain’t listenin’ or nothin’. Just see ‘im there, is all.”

Daemon’s gaze snapped to the boy, his expression as merciless as the edge of Dark Sister. “Why were you following me, boy?”

The child’s breathing quickened, his eyes wide as saucers as he looked from Daemon to the King, his shoulders curling inward as though he might make himself small enough to disappear. “I-I-I just… I just follows ‘cause you’s the prince, milord. I didn’ mean no harm. I swear! I jus’ follows you ‘cause you’s important, an’ I thought… I thought… I don’ know!” His words dissolved into blubbering, the tears spilling down his dirty cheeks.

“Do you know that spying on the royals is considered treason?” Daemon’s voice was cold, sharp, and merciless.

“Daemon!” Viserys snapped, his fury flaring anew. “Do not terrify the child! What sort of monster are you to hound a boy so?”

The boy was nearly sobbing by now, his words a garbled, choking mess. “I-I didn’t mean it, milord. I’m sorry. I-I don’t know what I did. Jus’—jus’ saw you there an’—an’ I’m sorry. Please.”

“Why, Prince Daemon,” Lord Strong interjected, his tone as calm as the eye of a storm, “does this meeting of yours require the brothels as a location?”

“Who the fuck cares?” Daemon spat, throwing his hands in the air. “Am I not allowed to speak with the Gold Cloaks wherever I damn well please? Am I not their commander? It is their preferred place of respite, and I have every right to meet them where I wish.”

“Uncle,” Rhaenyra hissed, her eyes blazing with irritation and—heaven help her—worry. “Stop antagonizing everyone and just tell the truth. If you have nothing to hide, then cease acting like a petulant child.”

Daemon turned to her, his expression marred by the frustration clawing beneath his skin. “It does not matter what I say, Rhaenyra. Your father has already made up his mind about me. He will never believe me.”

“Well, his opinion does not matter,” she snapped, the words spilling from her before she could think better of them. “Only mine does.”

He stared at her then, truly stared. As if the world had suddenly narrowed to the space between them, and the only thing keeping him anchored was the intensity of her gaze. Through the tempest of his rage, she glimpsed something raw and painfully vulnerable—a flicker of fear buried beneath the weight of his defiance.

Fear of rejection.

Rhaenyra’s fingers slid beneath the table, searching for the warmth of Daemon’s hand. When she found it, she squeezed gently, her touch a silent reassurance. For a moment, he simply stared at her, eyes blinking as though he could scarcely believe she was real. But then his grip tightened, doubly so, as if he feared that the moment he let go, she would simply vanish.

She met his gaze and offered him a firm, encouraging nod, her hand never leaving his. Whatever storm raged within him, she would see him through it. She would stand beside him, no matter the chaos they found themselves ensnared within.

Daemon glanced at Ser Largent, who gave a slight, deferential bow. “The lad does not need to hear what I am about to say.” His voice was rough, words falling from his lips like unpolished stones.

Ser Harrold hesitated but then jerked his chin toward the door. “Boy, leave us. Go on, now.”

The boy needed no further encouragement. He fled the chamber like a hound set loose from its leash, his feet scurrying across the polished stone without daring to look back.

Only once the door creaked shut did Ser Largent speak again, his voice low and heavy with the weight of his revelation. “We’ve been going to the brothel, Your Grace, because the owner is said to be the keeper of a secret underground fighting ring. We’ve been attempting to gain an invitation so we can raid it.”

Rhaenyra saw the look that passed between Daemon and Ser Largent—an understanding forged through nights of treacherous investigation.

“If this investigation goes south, if the weeks of effort we’ve poured into this are compromised…” Daemon’s eyes burned with fury as they settled upon his brother. “It will be your fault, Viserys.”

The King’s brows knitted in confusion, his lips parted as if the words were caught in his throat. “What investigation? What fighting pits?”

“There have always been illegal fights in King’s Landing,” Daemon replied curtly. “Men betting on men. Dogs ripping each other apart for coin. But now…”

His voice faltered, the words lingering like a shadow, dark and terrible.

“Now, they use children.”

The room turned deathly silent, so complete that the faintest scratch of quill on parchment would have been deafening. A pin might have clattered against the stone, but it would have been swallowed by the stunned silence that followed.

Lord Strong was the first to find his voice. “Children, my prince?” He spoke the words with the cautiousness of a man treading upon broken glass.

“Just as I said,” Daemon ground out, his hand still locked within Rhaenyra’s, his grip like iron. “There have been multiple reports of children being forced to fight in those pits. They starve them, file their teeth to sharpen them, then throw them into the ring and let them tear at each other for a loaf of bread.”

The King’s face went deathly pale, his features slackening in horror. Beside him, Alicent clamped a trembling hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and glistening with shock.

“How long has this been happening?” Viserys asked, his voice little more than a croak.

Daemon released a weary sigh, his eyes narrowing as though the effort to explain himself was a greater burden than any sword fight. “Years probably. We’ve been tracking them for weeks. But every time we draw near, they simply move the location. Just as they did last time.”

He cast a scathing glare at both the King and Queen, his eyes cold and unrelenting. “Now, if there are no further accusations, I would like to return to where I left off with the Gold Cloaks. I have real work to do.”

Viserys’s lips parted, his expression crumbling into something like regret. “Daemon… I—”

“Save your hollow apology and shove it up your arse.” Daemon spat with venom that could have curdled wine.

“Brother, please—”

“Brother?” Daemon’s laugh was bitter, jagged, his words laced with a resentment that years of neglect had only festered. “You haven’t been a brother to me for a long time now, Viserys. Keep your apologies. Keep everything. Just stay the fuck out of my life.”

With that, he rose and stormed out of the chamber, the door slamming behind him with such force that even Ser Largent flinched, his shoulders twitching in startled surprise before he hurried after the Prince.

Rhaenyra took a steadying breath before rising to her feet. Her gaze swept over her father and Alicent, both of whom looked as though they’d been slapped across the face by something far more solid than mere words.

“I understand that your marriage is a miserable one,” she began, her tone cool and unyielding. “But I would appreciate it if you would keep your frustrations from spilling into my life. Or Daemon’s.”

She turned to Alicent, the woman’s cheeks still crimson from shame and her lips quivering with the urge to protest. “And you, my step mother, your obsession with who shares my bed has reached its zenith. If you are so terribly frustrated, perhaps you ought to find a lover of your own and cease fretting over mine.”

Alicent’s face bloomed a furious red, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, while Viserys sputtered as if the very air had betrayed him.

Rhaenyra merely dropped into a graceful curtsy before her father and Lord Strong, her gaze never straying to the stunned and mortified Queen. And then, with the elegance of one whose will could not be swayed, she swept out of the chamber, her head held high.

The late morning sun poured through the tall, narrow windows of the Red Keep, its golden rays gleaming upon stone and metal alike. The warmth did little to ease Rhaenyra’s simmering temper, however. Her steps were quick and sharp, her gown whispering furiously about her legs as she stormed down the corridor.

Ahead of her, she saw him—Larys Strong, moving at his usual snail’s pace, his cane tapping against the stone with maddening serenity. His hunched figure crept along as if he had all the time in the world, as if he were not the very creature that had fed Alicent’s delusions against Daemon.

With a sudden burst of determination, she lengthened her stride until she was right beside him. And then, with all the force of her frustration, she kicked his cane out from under his hand.

The polished wood clattered against the floor. Larys’s arms flailed as he lost balance, his bad leg crumpling beneath him. He tumbled forward with a graceless thud, his breath knocked out of him in a pathetic wheeze. His face contorted with pain, but it was his eyes—those glittering, calculating eyes—that truly caught her attention. They gleamed with amusement. As if this was all some twisted game, and she had just played her part perfectly.

“Princess—” Ser Steffon’s voice came from just behind her, tense and alarmed. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword, his body coiled with readiness as he glared at the man now writhing on the ground.

Larys looked up from his undignified sprawl, his expression strained but somehow still delighted. The man seemed to relish her fury, as if her temper itself were a gift he had been anticipating.

“You continue to amuse me whenever Aegon beats you,” she said, her voice smooth and cool, yet underpinned by a scathing edge. “But do not test my patience, Larys. I can have your weedy little neck snapped whenever I wish.”

His lips trembled into something that was almost a smile. “Princess, I assure you, I meant no—”

“Silence.” She snapped the word like a whip. And with another vicious flick of her foot, she kicked his cane further down the hall, the sound of it scraping against the stone bringing her a fleeting satisfaction.

Larys’ mouth opened, his tongue fumbling for apologies that would fall on deaf ears. His fingers clawed at the floor as he struggled to push himself up, his movements slow and tremulous. But Rhaenyra was already turning away, her skirts flaring elegantly as she dismissed him from her sight.

“Come along, Ser Steffon.” she commanded, not bothering to look back at the twitchy man she had left to scramble for his crutch.

As she strode down the corridor, her gown flowing around her like molten shadow, she caught sight of Black Trombo standing sentinel just beyond the council’s reach, his bulk formidable even at rest.

“Did you have the child followed?” she asked without preamble, her voice low and sharp.

Black Trombo huffed, his scowl deepening as if insulted by the very question. “Of course I did, Your Grace. Would’ve had the whelp’s shadow pinned to the floor if you’d asked it.”

“Make sure you catch every single one of them,” Rhaenyra commanded, her eyes like embers in the dim torchlight. She would leave nothing to chance. Not now. Not when the stakes were higher than ever.

He gave a curt nod, the sort of acknowledgment only a man accustomed to dirty work could offer. “Aye. I’ll see to it.” Without another word, Black Trombo parted from them, his heavy footfalls already fading into the depths of the Keep as he moved to carry out her bidding.

Rhaenyra did not turn her feet toward the holdfast just yet. Instead, she veered in the direction of the training yard, her pace quickening as the distant clamor of steel against steel reached her ears. Luke, she knew, was still coddled by the master-at-arms at her own request. He’s not yet required to spend hours in the yard. He was so very young, his cheeks still plump with childhood’s softness. But Jace, oh, her boy adored the training yard. Or rather, he adored the company it provided — the riotous companionship of Cregan and Joffrey, whose merry presence brightened the grim castle halls.

Once Cregan and Joffrey returned to their own castles, she would make arrangements for Lord Caswell and Lord Celtigar to send their grandchildren. And as Oscar Tully and Benjicot Blackwood were near Luke’s age, she was certain her little boy would be pleased to have someone of his own age about. Baela, for her part, had shown a certain fondness for the Blackwood girl, their easy camaraderie a pleasure to behold. Perhaps she would ask Lady Selene to urge her husband to choose a niece to be sent to court, a gentle companion for Rhaena.

The training yard came into view, and Rhaenyra felt a wave of relief wash over her, a soothing balm upon her nerves. There, beneath the sun’s gentle glow, was Jace, sparring in earnest with Cregan and Joffrey. Their forms were sharp and swift, wooden blades clashing in that beautiful rhythm of youth’s exuberance. Nearby, Baela was being coached on the use of a curious new crossbow, its craftsmanship so exquisite it could only have come from Yiti.

Yes, her children were well. Whole. And that was all she required to take herself back to the Holdfast.

She thought of the Play Garden’s elevated pool where her children often found joy. It was one of Daemon’s many extravagant gifts, built to bring the children delight and laughter. And it had succeeded, gloriously so.

The pool sat nestled upon a rise where the builders had carved three graceful steps out of the ground, their curves softened by careful hands. A low stone fence encircled the pool, its uneven surface arranged so artfully one might think it formed by nature’s own touch. Above the stone rose iron bars taller than Daemon himself, their tips sharpened to a point. The gates were always locked unless the nurses permitted the children entry, and Rhaenyra would have it no other way.

It was a marvel of design, the pool divided into two sections. The smaller basin held shallow waters that reached only to Luke’s waist, a perfect playground for Joffrey and, in time, for little Aegon, Viserys, and Visenya. Beyond it, the higher pool gleamed with deeper waters, the farthest edge plunging to the depth of Daemon’s height. Yet even there, clever steps had been carved along the sides, allowing children and adults alike to perch at their leisure.

A delicate waterfall trickled down from above, a gentle cascade of water that shimmered like crystal in the sunlight. It fed the pool with a steady flow, its soft babble blending harmoniously with the children’s laughter. Daemon had spoken of pipes and pulleys, of ingenious mechanisms drawing water from a source she could scarcely recall. Rhaenyra had only paid half an ear to his descriptions, her interest far more piqued by the delight such a creation would bring. And bring it did. The pool had become the very heart of her children’s joy.

Just below the smaller pool stood the pavilion, an elegant structure that had been there long before the pool’s construction. There, she and her ladies could sit in shaded comfort, their needlework or idle chatter punctuated by the sound of splashing water and delighted shrieks.

This was the place her children played most often. In the mornings, they clambered over the bars and nets with the unbridled energy of youth, their games only ceasing when the sun rose high and drove them to the cool embrace of the pool. The sight of them, joyous and carefree, brought her a measure of peace she could find nowhere else.

Yes, her children were safe, happy. And with that certainty warming her heart, Rhaenyra could at last bring herself to turn toward the holdfast.

Rhaenyra quickened her pace as she stepped through the entrance of the holdfast, her skirts rustling with her hurried movement. She turned sharply toward her wing, where the air was thick with industry and the fragrant warmth of hearth and bread. Maids bustled about with linens folded neatly over their arms, their voices a cheerful hum beneath the clatter of pots and the sizzle of roasting meats. Servants hefted bolts of fabric and trays of sweets, their faces pink from the kitchen’s heat.

The first level of her wing was ever teeming with life. The kitchens sprawled with clattering utensils and bubbling pots, the scents of herbs and spices mingling with the earthy tang of newly washed garments. Here too, she suspected, was where the seamstresses and weavers plied their crafts, though she had never ventured beyond those doors. They were always crowded, always brimming with hands set to work.

She passed the staircase that will lead her to the second level— the domain of formal kitchens, where dishes were plated with painstaking elegance for state dinners and lavish feasts. It was also where the many sitting rooms, meeting chambers, and sun-dappled solars sprawled, an array of stately chambers meant to impress and entertain.

The third level a maze of ladies’ rooms, airy parlors, and countless empty bedchambers awaiting future guests or the whims of her expanding household. That is where the Ladies Hall was Located. And then the fourth level, where her personal gallery stretched far, a marvel of stone and glass meant to display her most cherished pieces.

The painters had been slow but diligent, their brushstrokes steadily filling the gallery with portraits of regal ancestors and scenes of storied battles. Tapestries adorned the walls, some of them treasures predating the Conquest itself. But she had no interest in lingering here today. Not when her children’s laughter beckoned her like a siren’s call.

Her steps carried her out into the garden, where the air was cooler and sweet with the scent of blossoms and freshly cut grass. The first thing she saw was the elevated pool, its high stone fence encircling it like a guardian’s arms. Even from her vantage point, she could see Luke and Joffrey huddled around something, their heads bent close together with that solemn curiosity only young boys could conjure.

Both were stripped of their tunics, their bare chests gleaming in the sunlight, and clad only in loose breeches cut at the knees. Lord Corlys was there as well, perched upon a low stone with his legs stretched out before him. He too had forgone all pretense of lordly decorum, dressed down to his tunic and breeches as he laughed at some jest Luke had made.

The pavilion stood empty, a graceful structure draped with airy fabric that fluttered gently in the breeze. It was positioned so she and her ladies could always watch the children at play, their antics a welcome distraction from the quiet cruelties of court life.

Her mother’s statue rose solemnly by the fountain, cool marble shaped into Aemma’s likeness with haunting precision. Its gaze was soft, serene, as though the sculptor had captured a kindness meant only for Rhaenyra’s eyes. Not far from the statue, Rhaena lay curled on the swing beneath the fire tree, her chest rising and falling in the rhythm of deep, innocent sleep. Another servant stood beside her, fanning her gently to chase away the afternoon’s heat.

And there, toward the center of the garden was a simple yet cleverly designed plank balanced over a smooth, rounded log. It allowed them to tilt up and down with delightful, giggling abandon, their laughter rising like songbirds. Carved dragon heads adorned each end, their fearsome faces meant to keep the little ones from sliding off as they took turns pushing against the earth to lift the other higher

Before it was a small ship with ropes stretched between sturdy posts and wooden frames, daring children to climb and swing with wild abandon. The small ship towered above them, its deck high enough that even Daemon would have to look up to see his children scrambling over its sides. Nets and climbing ladders fashioned from thick rope hung down like ship rigging, swaying gently in the breeze. Wooden planks had been incorporated to mimic the deck, and the children delighted in the challenge of clambering upward.

Luke, Baela, and Jace were particularly fond of racing each other to the fluttering flag perched at the top of the deck, their laughter echoing across the garden. The ship’s weathered wood was cool beneath their hands, and their eager cries of victory and protest alike filled the air as they played their endless game of conquest and adventure.

But Rhaena wanted nothing to do with climbing ropes. She had made her displeasure known with a pout that would have charmed the Mother herself. Instead, she had taken to pestering Daemon with dreams of a house built high in the branches of a tree. A proper house, she insisted, with a roof and real stairs, not mere ladders to scramble up like common apes.

Beyond the ship’s masts and swinging ropes lay the bars. Smooth iron rods arranged to allow the children to swing back and forth, their laughter echoing with each daring leap to the other side. Cregan and Joffrey were particularly fond of that contraption, their delight in the game’s challenge rivaled only by their determination to best each other.

It was a world unto itself, one crafted by Daemon’s restless ingenuity and her own desire to see her children thrive in joy.

Rhaenyra walked slowly looking through the metal bars, she did not call out immediately, though the temptation was there. Instead, she observed for a moment longer, watching the way Luke and Joff huddled together, their heads bent in deep concentration. The sun dappled their bare shoulders, their loose breeches clinging damply to their legs as they knelt before a wooden basin filled with water. Even Lord Corlys, usually so regal and composed, sat at their level upon a low stone, stripped to his tunic, his silver hair catching the afternoon light.

At last, she spoke, her voice warm with amusement. “And what, may I ask, has captured your attention so completely?”

Joffrey’s head snapped up at the sound of her voice, his bright eyes widening in delighted surprise. For a moment, she expected him to rush to her as he always did, his small arms flung around her knees, his voice a cheerful babble of news and excitement. But today, he did not move. Instead, he merely screeched in that high, exuberant way of his and beckoned her forward with an insistent wave of his hand.

Rhaenyra sighed, already resigned to whatever mischief lay before her. Carefully, she lifted the edges of her skirts, mindful of the puddles that glistened across the stone path. The task was not an easy one, for the ground was slick with moisture, and the air itself was thick with the scent of warm stone and sun-dried linen. Above them, colorful sheets of cloth stretched over the pool, their vibrant hues casting shifting patterns of red, blue, and gold across the water. The nurses had insisted that the servants hang cloths above the pools so the children would not be burned by the midday sun while they played.

When she finally reached them, she peered over Joffrey’s shoulder and blinked. There, floating lazily in the wooden basin, was a small turtle, its tiny limbs paddling through the water with unhurried ease.

Joffrey beamed up at her, his face alight with pride. “Tull-Tull!” he announced triumphantly.

Rhaenyra raised a brow. “Oh… you have a pet now, do you?”

She tried to keep the wariness from her tone, though she suspected the glint in her son’s eye meant this was not merely a passing fancy. Joffrey nodded eagerly, his laughter bubbling forth as he plucked a few leaves and offered them to the creature, which nibbled contentedly.

Luke, ever the scholar, launched into an immediate tirade. “We were thinking of calling him something grand, perhaps Aegon—”

“No!” Joffrey protested, his small face scrunching with displeasure. “Tull-Tull!”

“Or Maegor,” Luke continued undeterred. “Or even Jaehaerys, since he’s so calm—”

“Tull-Tull!” Joffrey insisted again, stamping his foot for emphasis.

Rhaenyra pressed her lips together to suppress a laugh before turning to Lord Corlys with a questioning look. “It does not bite, does it?”

The old man barely spared her a glance, his attention still fixed on the boys. “Their bites are not that hard,” he murmured dismissively. “It is the ironjaw turtle you need to be wary of.”

Rhaenyra stared at him incredulously. “Not that hard?” she echoed. That was hardly reassuring.

Already, her mind was spinning with possible solutions. Perhaps, if she acted swiftly, she could rid them of the creature before the children grew too attached. A tragic accident, perhaps. A misstep, a lost grip, an unfortunate fall into the depths of the pool where Tyraxes could “accidentally” bathe it in dragonflame. She could almost hear Daemon’s laughter at the thought.

But for now, she held her tongue, shifting the conversation to safer ground. “And how do you find your new post, my lord?”

That, at last, made Corlys look up. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “Trade,” he mused, “is a far smoother sea than warships and storms—gold flows easier than blood, and I find I prefer it that way.”

Rhaenyra inclined her head slightly. “I imagine it was a great change from the Stepstones.”

He chuckled, nodding. “A welcome one, I assure you.” Then, with an appraising look, he added, “I must thank you for securing the position of Master of Trades for me. I am sure it was no easy task to convince the King to create such a role solely for my benefit.”

Rhaenyra exhaled, her gaze sweeping over her good-father, taking in the way his hands rested easily upon his knees, the familiar glint of ambition ever present in his eyes. She had known he would not stay idle forever. And if she could not keep him here with sentiment alone, she would do so with purpose.

“Trade is a realm long neglected,” she said smoothly. “With the previous Hand brokering deals without censure or oversight, the Seven Kingdoms have suffered for it. But in your hands, my lord, all will have the chance to flourish.” She allowed a pointed pause before adding with the faintest hint of amusement, “And Lord Beesbury will no doubt be pleased to have help in his endless quest to find more coin for the Crown.”

Corlys laughed at that, shaking his head. “The man could count coin in his sleep, I am certain.”

Rhaenyra allowed herself a small smile, but her thoughts remained firm. She did not want Corlys returning to war. She would not see him lost to the Stepstones again, nor would she risk Luke and Rhaena’s inheritance on another campaign waged in blood and salt. No, this was the better path—for him, for Velaryon legacy, and for the realm itself.

If there was one thing Lord Corlys Velaryon knew better than ships, it was how to fill his coffers with gold through trade. Now, it would not only be High Tide that flourished, but all of the Seven Kingdoms.

The peace did not last long.

The gentle hum of contentment—the children's laughter, the lapping of water against smooth stones—was swiftly interrupted by the arrival of the nurses. They came with determined steps, ready to collect their charges, and were immediately met with cries of protest.

“But we haven’t even swum yet!” Luke complained, his voice high with indignation.

“’Tis not my fault. You were the one who chose to play with the turtle first, my Prince.” Daisy, his head nurse, declared with a pointed look, 

Luke huffed, arms crossed, but before he could summon another argument, Joffrey joined in, his lower lip jutting forward. “We swim, we swim!”

Their distress might have softened a less experienced nurse, but Daisy merely sighed, exasperated yet indulgent. “Very well,” she relented. “A quick bath, then.”

It was not a true swim, but the children made do. Kneeling by the edge of the small pool, they scooped water into cups, pouring it over each other’s heads with delighted squeals. The simple pleasure of cool water trickling down their skin seemed to satisfy them, at least for the moment. Soon enough, they were scooped up in thick, fluffy towels, carried off in the capable arms of their nurses.

Rhaenyra followed at a more languid pace, stepping carefully across the damp stone as they made their way to the pavilion where their midday meal had been laid out. By the time she arrived, the children were already settled, their damp curls drying in the warm air, their small hands reaching eagerly for sweet honeyed bread and chilled fruit.

Rhaena, still drowsy from her nap, stirred at the sound of approaching footsteps. She blinked sleepily, her dark lashes fluttering, before breaking into a bright, delighted smile. “Muna!”

Rhaenyra bent to kiss her brow, brushing a stray curl away from her daughter’s cheek. “Did you rest well, my love?”

Rhaena nodded but was swiftly distracted as Luke, ever eager, leaned close and whispered conspiratorially about the turtle. Her eyes widened in fascination, and though she pouted at having missed it, the promise of visiting later seemed to console her.

Lord Corlys retreated on the pavilion as well, seated in a padded rocking chair, his feet propped up on a low stool. He listened to the hum of the children’s chatter, his expression thoughtful yet soft, as though the echoes of his own children’s laughter lingered somewhere in the corners of his mind.

Rhaenyra, weary now, settled herself upon the daybed, where Joffrey immediately wriggled into her side. He was warm from the sun, his belly full, his small body pliant with contentment. He let out a satisfied sigh, nuzzling against her, and she wrapped an arm around him, pressing a kiss into his damp curls.

She must have dozed off, for when she opened her eyes again, the world had shifted. Joffrey was no longer curled beside her but being carried away in his nurse’s arms, his small fingers loosely grasping the edge of her sleeve before slipping away entirely. Luke and Rhaena were gone as well, no doubt already led away to their afternoon lessons or play.

Lord Corlys’s chair now stood empty. Instead, Lady Nila sat beside her, an embroidery hoop resting in her lap, her needle moving with quiet precision. At Rhaenyra’s feet, Lady Elinda perched upon a stool, her book open, though whether she was reading or merely enjoying the serenity of the afternoon was uncertain.

For a moment, Rhaenyra simply lay there, listening. The sound of water cascaded over smooth stones, trickling down into the small pond below. Occasionally, she heard the soft splash of a fish breaking the surface, its brief moment in the air ending with a gentle plop as it returned to the water.

She had not expected this.

When Daemon had declared that he would court her, she had expected gifts—flowers, jewelry, rich fabrics, finely wrought vases, all the luxuries befitting a princess. And indeed, he had gifted her those things, in abundance. But more than that, he had given her this—something more, something lasting.

The play garden had been the first. A gift unveiled in the very first month of their courtship, a place where their children might run free, where laughter might echo against the castle walls.

And then, in the third month, he had outdone himself once more.

A grand hedge maze, sprawling across a secluded courtyard of the Red Keep. Towering myrtle and yew, carefully trimmed into winding, twisting paths. At its heart, a statue of Balerion the Black Dread, his wings unfurled in eternal dominance, a stone bench resting at his feet for those who might seek solace in his shadow.

The maze was designed with cunning turns and clever dead ends. Some archways were lined with climbing roses, their scent sweet and heady, while others were shadowed by tall cypress trees. Hidden alcoves invited stolen whispers, while narrow passageways led to small, hidden pools where silver fish darted beneath floating lily pads.

At twilight, lanterns flickered within the hedges, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow, making the labyrinth feel alive.

It had been a place for games, for whispered secrets, for those who wished to lose themselves—if only for a little while.

The children had, of course, done precisely that.

They had run into the maze shrieking, eager to chase one another through its winding paths. What had been intended as an afternoon of play had swiftly turned into a full-day adventure, their laughter and calls for one another echoing through the hedges as they disappeared deeper and deeper into its embrace.

For hours, the castle had been filled with their delighted shouts, their triumphant cheers as one found the other, only to dart away once more. And by the time they had emerged—flushed, panting, their clothes streaked with grass stains and dust—they had declared it the second best place in all of the Red Keep.

Rhaenyra smiled to herself, the memory warming her.

By the fourth month of their courtship, Daemon had unveiled yet another wonder within the Red Keep. It was not merely a garden—it was an orchard. A lush and fragrant expanse filled with rare and exotic fruit trees, their branches heavy with offerings from distant lands. There were plump persimmons from Yi Ti, their orange-gold skins glowing beneath the dappled sunlight. Sweet golden peaches from the Reach, so ripe that they burst open at the slightest pressure. Black cherries, dark as spilled ink, whispered to have once grown in the orchards of lost Valyria.

Vines, thick and winding, curled around white trellises, their clusters of deep purple grapes dangling like jewels waiting to be plucked. The scent of ripening fruit hung heavy in the air, mingling with the bright perfume of nearby lemon blossoms. It was a place of shade and quietude, cool and inviting even beneath the unrelenting heat of King’s Landing—a respite, a refuge, a paradise carved from stone and soil.

And then, just last moon, he had created something smaller but no less wondrous.

It was the most intimate of his creations, a secret garden of riotous color where lavender and golden marigolds swayed in the breeze, their petals shifting like silken skirts. Clusters of milkweed bloomed in wild abundance, their fragrance drawing swarms of delicate, jewel-toned butterflies.

A shallow stream, sun-dappled and clear, wound through the space, its waters lined with smooth stones where the butterflies rested, their iridescent wings trembling as they drank. But the heart of this haven lay within an enclosed sanctuary—a grand structure of wrought iron and glass, warm even when autumn’s chill began to creep through the castle walls.

Inside, plush sofas and padded chairs offered comfort, positioned so that visitors might lounge in leisure as the butterflies flitted around them, catching the light like living jewels.

Helaena loved it most of all.

Rhaenyra had not expected that, but in truth, she was glad. Her sister, shackled to one of the most abhorrent men in the Seven Kingdoms, had found some semblance of peace here. And though Daemon had built the garden for her, it pleased Rhaenyra to see Helaena at ease, to watch her sit among the fluttering wings, smiling softly as though, for a moment, she could forget the world outside.

Every time Daemon unveiled a new garden, he did so with a feast.

It had become something of a tradition. Lords and ladies would gather, eager to witness the latest marvel carved from the Red Keep’s stone. Servants flitted about with silver trays, offering honeyed almonds and chilled summerwine, while the nobility murmured their admiration, voices thick with wonder—and, in some cases, envy.

Daemon would take her hand, guiding her through the paths with that familiar, rakish grin. He named each tree and vine, recounting their origins, the stories behind their arrival in Westeros. He traced the intricate carvings upon the statues, as though he had chiseled them himself. And the benches—each one bore a name, a tribute to the children they had brought into the world

“This,” he had said once, as he led her to a stone bench shaded by the wide leaves of a persimmon tree, “is for Joff. Small but sturdy, carved from the strongest rock I could find.”

She had laughed, but when she ran her fingers over the name etched into the stone, she had felt something deep and warm settle in her chest.

The ladies of court had showered her with praises, their voices thick with admiration.

“You are the most fortunate of women, Princess.”

“How devoted he is, to shape the world so beautifully for you.”

And yet beneath their words, she saw the truth in their eyes. Envy.

Not for her jewels, nor her crown. Not even for her claim.

No, what they envied was this—the devotion of a man who did not merely offer gifts but crafted something lasting, something alive. A man who did not just love her in word, but in action, in creation, in the very foundations of the world around her.

Her father had been no exception to the wonder.

The King had been delighted with every garden he visited. She could still hear the warmth in his voice, the joy in his laughter as he marveled at what Daemon had wrought.

“The Red Keep,” he had said, “finally looks like a true Targaryen stronghold.” And then he had turned to her, his eyes softer than they had been in years. “My daughter, my grandchildren… they are owed all the good things in life.”

And for once, she had not doubted it.

Daemon had not merely courted her with words or gifts. He had shaped the world around her, transformed the castle into something that felt theirs. He had given her more than fleeting treasures—he had given her spaces to fill with love, with laughter, with memories that would last far beyond them.

It was laughable—truly laughable—that Alicent thought her trust in Daemon could be shaken by the mere whisper of him visiting a brothel.

As if such a thing could ever unsettle her.

In her time, she had not merely allowed it—she had walked beside him through those crimson-curtained halls, had basked in the warm glow of lantern light, had let silk and shadow dance across her skin. He had been there when she had her first taste of a woman’s kiss, the softness of it, the thrill. He had been there, watching, smirking, indulgent as ever.

They had shared lovers, tangled in sheets perfumed with myrrh and desire, had reveled in pleasure untethered by shame.

And that, that, was something Alicent Hightower could not even begin to fathom.

The children were already drowsy with sleep when Rhaenyra kissed them each in turn. Jace first, then Luke—pressing her lips to their curls, lingering just a little longer as if to seal the warmth of their embrace against her own skin. Baela grinned sleepily at her, murmuring something about her crossbow lessons, while Rhaena clung to her waist, her arms tight and warm.

It was long past supper, and Daemon had yet to make an appearance—not that it was surprising. As Grand Marshall, he had far too much to occupy his time. Between his endless conversations with the Gold Cloaks, the investigation into the recent raids, and ensuring the security of both the Red Keep and the city itself, his burdens were many. And after the poorly staged attempt at sabotage orchestrated by Alicent and the King that morning, his mood had no doubt soured beyond measure.

Those two deserve to be miserable together, she thought with wry amusement.

Joff was only a year old, but he had the stubbornness of a dragon hatchling refusing to leave the warmth of its egg. His tiny fists clung to Rhaenyra’s gown, his face buried against her, his muffled cries trembling against her skin.

“Sweetling,” she murmured, pressing soft kisses to his silver curls. “You must go with your nurses now.”

Joff only shook his head, his grip tightening as if he feared she might disappear the moment he let go. His little sobs hitched in his throat, making his breaths uneven, and for a moment, Rhaenyra was tempted to indulge him—to keep him in her arms for just a little while longer.

But sleep would claim him soon, and he would be miserable without it. So she whispered promises against his brow, warm and soothing. “Tomorrow, there will be candied apples,” she told him. “And a whole day in the play garden. But only if you go now, my love.”

Joff hiccupped, his wet lashes fluttering as he peered up at her. “Pwomise?” he asked in a thick, sleepy voice.

Rhaenyra touched her lips and then his tiny nose. “I promise.”

It still took gentle prying to loosen his fists, but at last, he allowed the nurses to lift him away. His little arms reached for her once more as he was carried through the nursery doors, his whimpering fading as they disappeared inside.

She had just begun to settle into the quiet of the evening when Ser Steffon entered, his expression carefully neutral. Behind him, Black Trombo loomed, his presence as heavy as the news he brought.

“We found the boy,” Trombo said gruffly.

Rhaenyra exhaled. “And?”

“The brothel,” he answered, voice clipped. “The boy was employed by a woman they call the White Worm.”

Her fingers stilled where they had been smoothing the folds of her gown.

Mysaria.

She had known of course—how could she not? Mysaria of Lys, once Daemon’s paramour, had woven herself into the very fabric of King’s Landing, a whisper merchant whose reach extended far beyond the silken walls of her brothel. Rhaenyra herself had made use of her services in the past.

Daemon had said she was the one who hired Blood and Cheese to avenge Luke. She had not agreed to it, not then, not now. But in this moment, she could not bring herself to fault her husband either. Why should it just be them who mourned a son?

What a change.

When it had first happened, when word of Helaena’s boy’s death had reached her ears, she had been furious. Not for the child, not for the grief of a woman she did not—could not—pity, but for how the Greens had twisted it. How they had wielded that night like a blade against her, sharpening every edge to carve her name into infamy.

Daemon should never have wasted his wrath on a useless boy. He should have aimed for Aegon. Or Aemond. Then, at least, the blood spilled would have meant something.

It was also Mysaria who had whispered to her about Nettles, slipping venom into her ear, feeding her paranoia until it had festered into something irreparable.

Rhaenyra felt cold.

She played me, she realized, the weight of it like ice in her chest. She wanted me to drive Daemon away.

Her hands curled into fists, barely registering Trombo’s next words.

“We’ve closed the brothel while awaiting your instruction.”

She snapped her gaze back to him. “Are all of her spies within the brothel?”

Trombo hesitated before shaking his head. “We cannot be sure. She has so many that there is not a soul in this city who has not given her one whisper or another.”

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply through her nose.

Rhaenyra rose to her feet, smoothing her skirts with steady hands before turning to one of the waiting servants. “Is Prince Daemon back in the Keep?” she asked, her voice even, though a thread of something unreadable lingered beneath it.

Marya, ever attentive, inclined her head. “Yes, Princess. He returned some time ago… but he’s had some drink.”

Of course, he had. Rhaenyra exhaled slowly, pressing her lips into a thin line before nodding. “Thank you, Marya.” She dismissed all the servants Marya reluctantly leaving before she turned back to Black Trombo, ““We are going to this brothel.”

Ser Steffon was upon her in an instant, his face contorted with alarm. “Princess, leaving the Keep at this hour is dangerous. A brothel is even more so—”

“The least dangerous thing I will do tonight,” Rhaenyra cut in smoothly, “is leave this Keep.”

Steffon looked as if he wished to argue further, but she had already turned away, sweeping into her chambers.

She needed to change.

Stripping swiftly from the more elaborate gown she had worn for supper, Rhaenyra reached for something simpler—a plain woolen dress in a soft shade of beige. Lady Selene had ordered it solely for use when she played with the children, favoring its ease of wear, with laces at the front instead of the back. A high-necked tunic went beneath it, offering a modest layer of warmth against the cool night air.

Then—her hat.

She turned to her dressing room, eyes sweeping over the orderly rows of neatly folded garments and stacked boxes.

Where…

She moved quickly, lifting lids, displacing silks and velvets, more dresses tumbling to the floor in her haste. Marya and Myrna must have stored it somewhere…

Finally, her fingers found it.

A wide-brimmed hat, unassuming in its elegance—save for the delicate veil of sheer fabric draped over the brim, obscuring the features of the wearer while allowing them to see through.

Rhaenyra set it atop her head, adjusting it carefully. She stepped into the corridor, her strides sure and steady despite the weight of the evening pressing upon her. The flickering torchlight cast shifting shadows upon the stone, and as she turned, she was met with a sudden, sharp burst of laughter.

The Myrish man caught himself almost at once, cutting off his amusement with a poorly concealed cough.

She swiped at the sheer veil where it overlapped, pulling it aside just enough to narrow her gaze at him. “Something amusing?”

Trombo pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking slightly before he relented. “If you wish to be conspicuous, princess, you may wish to lose the ridiculous hat.”

Rhaenyra let the veil fall once more, her voice as smooth as silk when she answered, “Who says I wished to hide?”

That sobered him.

She stepped past him without another word, the soft swish of her skirts the only sound as she moved through the dimly lit corridors. She nodded at Kofi, stationed outside the nursery, and at Lady Norrey, standing vigilant before the twins’ doors. The latter gave her a look of mild astonishment—though not nearly as surprised as Black Trombo had been.

Ser Steffon was the one who rapped his knuckles against the heavy bronze door.

Daemon’s door.

The only bronze door in the entire royal holdfast, for it had once belonged to Maegor himself. It had been barred before, sealed away at the old king’s command, but Daemon had insisted upon claiming it as his own. And even without the king’s permission, Prince Baelon had made it happen for him. It was the first time Jaehaerys had shown open aversion toward his youngest grandson—but it would not be the last.

Daemon said, the first hidden door he had ever found led him straight to this very chamber. He had been but eight years old, and the discovery had thrilled him—the door itself was impressive, solid bronze and unlike any other in the Keep. So he had wanted the room, and what Daemon wanted, he took.

The knock was met with silence.

A long silence.

Then, at last, the door creaked open.

The hinges, well-oiled and silent, betrayed no protest—but the door itself was weighty, its movement deliberate. Rhaenyra caught a glimpse of silver hair, a shirt slightly askew, and then—Daemon.

There was a smirk already forming on his lips, something sardonic and sharp, but it faltered the moment he caught sight of her. Or rather, of the hat.

Rhaenyra lifted her chin. “What?”

Daemon blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.

Without giving him the chance to conjure one of his infamous quips, she stepped forward and snugged her arm through his, tilting her head up at him with practiced nonchalance. “We should go for a walk.”

He arched a brow.

She looked over her shoulder. “Trombo, fetch Daemon’s cloak.”

Daemon’s bemusement only deepened, but he allowed himself to be led forward, still eyeing her as if she had gone mad.

Black Trombo bowed and strode off to fulfill her request. He even helped the Rogue Prince fasten it on his back.

As they walked, Rhaenyra murmured instructions under her breath. “Go ahead. Make sure your men are in position.”

Trombo gave a single nod before disappearing into the shadows.

She led Daemon down a lesser-used corridor, her steps purposeful.

“Where exactly are we going?” he drawled.

She merely smiled.

Daemon’s eyes flickered toward the walls, realization dawning. “Ah.”

There was a hidden door in the small hall. She had known of it, of course, but it was Daemon who took the lead once they slipped inside. The air grew cooler in the narrow passageway, the walls pressing close, the scent of old stone and damp lingering in the air.

Ser Steffon, ever the dutiful knight, was muttering his disapproval even as they moved forward.

“This is a terrible idea,” he grumbled. “The princess should not be skulking about the city like a common thief—”

Daemon exhaled a long-suffering sigh.

Without breaking stride, he leaned toward Rhaenyra and whispered, “I could knock him out and just leave him here.”

Rhaenyra let out a giggle, light and sudden, before slapping him playfully on the chest.

“Daemon,” she chided.

He smirked. “What? He would be safer here than following us into whatever madness you have planned.”

Rhaenyra only shook her head, the sheer veil of her ridiculous hat swaying slightly with the movement.

And with that, they vanished deeper into the passages, the city of King’s Landing waiting for them beyond.

The only light guiding them was the single torch clutched in Daemon’s hand, its flickering glow casting long, wavering shadows along the narrow stone walls. The passage was cramped, barely wide enough for two people to walk abreast, and Rhaenyra clung to Daemon’s arm with both of hers, pressing close as they moved forward.

The air was thick—stale and heavy with the scent of damp stone, old dust, and something else she did not wish to name. At times, the ceiling dipped so low that she had no choice but to crawl, the rough floor scraping against her palms as she maneuvered through. She could hear Ser Steffon’s grumbling behind her, punctuated by the occasional clang of his armor against the narrow walls.

She was sorely tempted to order him to remove the blasted thing—it was clearly hindering him, judging by his grunts and the way he cursed under his breath at every tight turn. But before she could voice the thought, the passage came to an abrupt end.

A dead end.

Rhaenyra’s patience wavered. Perhaps they ought to turn back—

But Daemon stepped forward without hesitation, brushing his fingers over the seemingly solid stone. With practiced ease, he found the hidden mechanism she had ordered to be installed at every entrance, pressing it just so the wall shifted. A thin sliver of light appeared, followed by the groan of old stone grinding against stone. A cool gust of air filtered in, bringing with it the unmistakable scent of the city beyond.

Rhaenyra stepped forward and gulped greedily at the fresh air, drawing deep, desperate breaths to rid herself of the moldy staleness of the passages. It was then that she reached up, fingers fumbling with the wide-brimmed hat still perched atop her head. She yanked it off—only to recoil at the sight of it.

It was covered in cobwebs. And dust. And other unimaginable things she did not dare inspect too closely.

She made a sound of deep dismay, shaking it out with quick, forceful swipes. “Oh, foul,” she muttered, voice laced with pure horror. At least—at least—her face and hair had been spared such a fate. Small mercies.

Daemon only shook his head at her before plucking the hat from her grasp. Without a word, he settled it back atop her head, ensuring the sheer veil concealed her face all the way down to her chest.

Rhaenyra sighed, but she did not protest.

Only then did she take stock of their surroundings.

They were just beyond the Dragonpit. The hulking, skeletal remains of its grand dome loomed above them, casting jagged shadows in the moonlight. The woods surrounding it rustled faintly with the night breeze, though the peace of it was ruined by the unmistakable stench wafting from the slums below.

Flea Bottom.

It was worse than she had imagined.

As they descended into the warren of narrow streets, the foul air thickened, thick with rot, decay—something dying. Rhaenyra pressed her lips together, willing herself not to react.

Daemon pulled the hood of his cloak over his silver hair, obscuring his features in shadow. Behind them, Ser Steffon grumbled but did the same—though his cloak was stolen off a washing line as they passed. Rhaenyra did not ask questions. She merely stepped over whatever filth littered the ground and followed where Daemon led.

And where he led them—

It was not long before the putrid scent of Flea Bottom began to fade, replaced instead by something cloying, heavy. The air grew thick with the perfume of roses, lavender, and jasmine, so strong it was nearly dizzying.

They had reached the Street of Silk.

Daemon veered toward its more upscale avenues, where the filth was less apparent, the brothels more finely kept, their painted doors gleaming beneath the glow of lanterns.

From an alleyway, Black Trombo emerged.

With a brief nod, he led them further inward, down winding paths until they arrived at a quiet, unassuming structure. Rhaenyra stepped inside and immediately took in her surroundings.

The scent of myrrh and jasmine clung to the air, thick and heady, as Rhaenyra stepped into the grand chamber, its silken drapes still swaying as if disturbed only moments ago. Low-burning lanterns cast pools of golden light upon plush cushions and lacquered screens, their intricate carvings depicting lovers entwined in sensual splendor. A goblet of wine lay spilled across a polished table, staining the velvet runner like a bloom of freshly spilled blood—whoever had been here had fled in haste, but the echoes of whispered indulgences still lingered

The climb was slow, each flight of stairs narrower than the last, the air growing heavier with the scent of spiced wine and lingering perfume. The third level was dimly lit, its corridors lined with countless doors—some ajar, most barred. As they passed, Rhaenyra caught the sound of hushed whispers from behind them, hurried and frantic, as if those within had only just realized they were no longer alone.

Then, a sharp cry.

"Why are we locked in?" a voice shouted from within, punctuated by the thud of a fist against wood.

One of Trombo’s men reacted instantly, striking the door with the hilt of his sword. The noise ceased at once, replaced by tense silence.

Rhaenyra said nothing as they continued forward, following Black Trombo into an empty parlor. It was a large space, furnished with plush seating, its most striking feature the grand balcony that stretched across its length. Beyond it, the streets of the Street of Silk lay sprawled below, their lanterns casting a golden glow upon the neighboring brothels and buildings.

Black Trombo gestured across the street. “The building before you belongs to the White Worm.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze followed his, her eyes narrowing as she took in the structure. It was barred—windows darkened, entrances secured.

“All the servants and patrons still inside,” Trombo continued, voice impassive.

She turned to him. “Anyone important?”

The man shrugged. “Only a landed knight from Oldtown.”

Rhaenyra huffed, exasperation curling at the edges of her breath. It would have been better if all of Alicent’s green knights had been here—her brother, Gwayne, or some such fool, would have been best. But her spies would do.

With that, she turned to Daemon, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes.

“Your beloved paramour,” she drawled, “was the one spying on you.”

Daemon looked at her, his expression unreadable at first—then confusion flickered across his features, his mind clearly racing to place the woman in question.

And that pleased her most of all.

Because it meant she had not been so special after all. Not even worth remembering.

A movement from the balcony across the street caught her attention.

Figures emerged—pushed into view.

The boy, thin and wide-eyed, the same one Ser Harrold dragged to the Small Council Chambers. And beside him, a woman in a white gown, elegant yet daring in its cut.

But this was not the Mysaria Rhaenyra remembered.

She looks so different, like so many others of this time. In her time, Mysaria had been milk-pale, her hair a cascade of silver as fine as any Lyseni’s. But the woman before her was golden-skinned, her hair black as velvet, spilling over bare shoulders—a stranger wearing the name of someone she once knew.

Still, the moment she was shoved forward, her fury was unmistakable.

Rhaenyra saw it in the flash of her eyes, in the way she stiffened against the hand that had manhandled her into the open.

But then—

Then she saw Daemon.

And in an instant, her anger shifted—first to shock, then to fear, before settling into something almost defiant.

Slowly, with deliberate arrogance, the woman lifted her chin, her dark eyes glinting as if taunting him even now.

Rhaenyra’s lips curled.

How bold.

How foolish.

“The Hightowers have been paying her to spy on you for years now,” she murmured, her voice soft, almost indulgent. “Perhaps since the moment you met her.”

The reaction was instant.

Daemon stiffened at her side, nostrils flaring. A growl built low in his throat, a sound of pure, simmering rage.

Rhaenyra tightened her hold on his arm, her fingers pressing against the cool fabric of his sleeve. “There is no loyalty to be found in whores, Uncle,” she whispered, her voice laced with something dangerously close to amusement. “You must let her go.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, his eyes dark, stormy—filled with some inner turmoil she would not name.

Then, without looking at her, his gaze flicked past her shoulder.

“Trombo,” he said, his voice quiet, but heavy with command. “Burn it down.”

A stunned silence followed.

Black Trombo stared, momentarily caught in sheer surprise. Even he had not expected that.

Rhaenyra did not so much as flinch. Instead, she turned, her expression impassive as she regarded the Myrishman.

“You heard your prince.” Her voice was velvet, smooth, and merciless. “Burn it to the ground.”

Trombo hesitated only a breath longer—then, with a swift bow, he turned and strode away.

Rhaenyra watched as Trombo's men stormed the room, shoving its occupants back with rough hands and drawn steel. Cries filled the air, a man hurled a torch onto the heavy velvet drapes, and within moments, others followed, the flames licking hungrily up the fabric, casting wild shadows over the chaos as screams rose to the rafters

The fire caught swiftly, devouring the silken hangings, crawling up the walls, turning the dim glow into a ravenous blaze.

Then—chaos.

Shouts rang through the night, desperate and raw. Some pleaded, others screamed, their voices breaking with panic as they realized what was to come. There was even praying—hurried, frantic, the kind uttered by men who knew they would not live to see their prayers answered.

Rhaenyra’s heart caught in her throat as the boy flung himself from the balcony, his arms outstretched as if he might grasp hold of the wind itself. He hit the street with a sickening thud—but before he could even cry out, Trombo’s men were upon him. Spears jabbed at his frail body, not to kill, but to drive him back, herding him like cattle toward the inferno. He wailed, scrambling against the rough stone, his fingers clawing for purchase, but the soldiers were merciless. With a final thrust, they forced him past the threshold, the fire swallowing him whole. Rhaenyra clenched her jaw, her vision blurred with unshed tears. He was only a child, not much older than Jace. A helpless, desperate thing.

He was only a child.

A child who had likely not understood the worth of the information he had given, who had perhaps wanted nothing more than a few coppers for what he had seen. And yet—

He had nearly cost her Daemon today.

Her vision blurred, silent tears slipping down her cheeks, though she did not move to wipe them away. Her heart ached for the innocents within those walls—the nameless servants, the hapless patrons, those who had perhaps never even spoken to the White Worm, who now screamed for mercy that would not come.

But she could not afford to be merciful.

Not now. Not ever.

Mercy had killed her children the first time.

She should have burned the Red Keep the moment she lost Visenya. The Greens' dragons had been locked within the Dragonpit—it would have taken them at least an hour to reach it, perhaps longer. And Vhagar had been further still, waiting outside the city. Her Dragons only needs moments to dive from high above.

She should have burned everything.

Even Vermax and Arrax could have reduced the Tower of the Hand to cinders in moments. Rhaenys and Daemon could have taken the Red Keep—turned it into a pyre before the Greens ever knew what had befallen them.

Had she done so, perhaps her sons would still be alive.

Perhaps she would not stand here now, watching fire consume another building, another collection of people, sacrificing them all on the altar of vengeance.

Her fingers trembled, but she did not look away.

Daemon stood beside her, silent and unmoving, his face bathed in the golden glow of the flames.

She did not know if he grieved the betrayal or relished the retribution.

Perhaps it did not matter.

They could not afford to be merciful.