Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

27th day of the 8th moon of 107 AC

Daemon smiled as his eldest son spoke enthusiastically while they travelled on Caraxes. The rogue prince had had a terrible night spent in calming his wife’s rage, after she learnt of Viserys’s stupid annulment plan. Rhea had spewed venomous words and curses; ones Daemon had never expected to hear from her lips. He knew his wife despised his brother and that if it were not for him and Aemma, Rhea would have killed Viserys in the most brutal manner long ago. “Kepa, are you listening to me?!” Gaemon’s annoyed voice brought Daemon back from his thoughts.

“Of course I am, my fierce dragon. Yes, Dorne is still not considered part of the Seven Kingdoms,” the rogue prince said with a chuckle.

The two finally arrived in Sunspear after four and a half days of flight—with overnight rests—just before lunchtime. Daemon landed Caraxes near the coast, closest as possible to the Old Palace. The princes were soon joined by two Dornish warriors, each sat atop a horse with a spear in hand and two extra horses with them. The Dornishmen gazed stoically at the Targaryens and only a nod in greeting. “Prince Daemon Targaryen, please come with us.”

Daemon and his son took a horse each and rode with the Dornish warriors toward the Old Palace. “Has Corlys arrived?” The rogue prince asked one of the Dornishmen.

The man with long braided hair and golden earrings, turned his gaze toward the prince and nodded. “The Sea Snake arrived this morning and joined Princess Diana and Prince Qoren,” he replied. Daemon nodded and refocused on the ride whilst keeping an eye on his son. It did not take longer than a few minutes to reach the gates of the Old Palace where their horses were taken and they were guided to a lavish garden area.

There, Daemon and Gaemon were greeted by the sight of Princess Diana Martell and her son and heir Prince Qoren Martell. Sat with them were Lord Corlys and to Daemon’s amusement, Laena. Daemon wondered if the Sea Snake wished to propose a match between the Martell heir and his daughter which would not be too surprising. “Ah, Princes Daemon and Gaemon, I believe,” Qoren Martell greeted with a cocky smile and stood.

“Prince Qoren, Princess Diana,” Daemon replied with a polite nod to each. It did not please him to be kind to these people but he knew better than to ruin a potential alliance. Oh, the Dornish would not join the Seven Kingdoms yet but this was a start.

“Prince Qoren, Princess Diana,” Gaemon mimicked his father, though with a deeper nod.

“Please, come sit with us. Lunch shall be served soon,” Princess Diana gestured to the seats. She was an older woman, closer to Baelon in age. She had likely had Qoren in her late twenties to early thirties, which did not surprise Daemon as the Dornish did not wed hastily. If he remembered correctly, Qoren himself had originally wed at age three-and-twenty and had Aliandra at five-and-twenty.

“Shall we begin discussing the important matters or should we wait till after lunch?” Asked Corlys. Gaemon and Daemon moved to sit with Gaemon being encouraged to sit beside Laena. Corlys frowned at his daughter’s enthusiasm to see her cousin, while Daemon smiled at seeing the strong bond between the children. Like the rest of the younglings of the family, Gaemon and Laena were close. Although having nearly six years between them, they still cherished each other and got along well.

“Perhaps we should wait. Fuller stomachs make minds clearer and demeanours calmer,” stated Princess Diana.

“I agree,” said Daemon.

“Then maybe we can talk a little about your families? I heard you have quite the brood, Prince Daemon,” Qoren said jovially.

Daemon chuckled, “I have three sons and two daughters.”

“I heard. I also believe that Prince Gaemon has a twin sister, is this true?” Qoren gazed at Gaemon in question.

The boy smiled politely, “Yes, I do. Alyssa and I are the eldest of our parents’ children.” Qoren hummed with interest.

“Does she share more of your colouring or more of your father’s Valyrian colouring?”

Gaemon furrowed his brows at the random question, “She is a mixture of both. She has two different eye colours and two strands of silver hair among her brown locks,” said the young prince.

Qoren smiled, “I am sure you will both grow into great beauties, just like your father and cousin here,” the Martell man eyed Daemon, who returned the gaze with a raised eyebrow. Qoren’s gaze then turned to Laena, who pursed her lips at the compliment.

“My Laena is amongst the greatest Valyrian beauties you shall have the pleasure of meeting, Prince Qoren,” Corlys chimed in with a proud smile. Daemon winced at the clear advertisement of Laena, and not for the first time the prince rebuked Corlys in his head, for his lack of subtlety and disregard of his children’s autonomy. While Daemon knew first hand that marriage alliances were a constant necessity in the world, the way many lords approach them aggrieved him.

Unfortunately for Laena, who shifted in her seat uncomfortably at the reminder of the motive for her presence, Prince Qoren’s and Princess Diana’s eyes sparked with interest. It was obvious to all why Corlys brought Laena to this negotiation. “Her beauty is certainly eye-catching. Though she still has two more years of growth I can see,” Diana stated and reached with a hand to gently caress Laena’s cheek. The five-and-ten girl sat rigidly in her seat, allowing the older woman to inspect her.

“I heard her mother is quite the accomplished woman,” added Qoren. He was two years older than Laena and Daemon could see the match working for them, even if Laena would be reluctant. Dorne would allow Laena more freedom than any other part of the realm and she would be considered a hero for establishing the foundation of kinship between the Martells and the Targaryens.

“My wife was Aemon Targaryen’s daughter, she is a clever woman and a fierce dragon rider,” Corlys replied with a smile.

“She sounds like Princess Nymeria and Queen Visenya,” Diana commented with a chuckle.

“What about Princess Alyssa? I know she is still young but I heard her mother is also an accomplished woman.”

Daemon tensed and his fists clenched at Qoren’s inquiry. “My sister is the best horse rider in our family, though she much prefers the feminine arts of embroidery and dancing. She also enjoys helping our mother with the establishments in Runestone,” Gaemon spoke enthusiastically much to his father’s exasperation.

“My daughter is but nine namedays, she has yet to even flower, so there is not much to note for her,” the rogue prince added with a warning tone. Much to his chagrin, this did not deter Prince Qoren’s interest, who continued to throw a few questions here and there regarding Alyssa even with Corlys’s efforts to push Laena into the conversation and Daemon’s clipped responses.

A few hours later, Daemon found himself strolling the gardens with only Qoren for company. The younger man admirably held himself up with conviction, his back straight and gaze high. “May I be blunt with you, my prince,” said the young man, his tone serious yet light.

“Go on,” the rogue prince replied tersely with narrowed eyes.

“You know, I am of similar age to Drakenzo Rogare and our families have had quite the alliance over the past ten years…” Qoren trailed off and his lips quirked upward into a devious grin. Daemon halted in his step and stared at the younger man, registering his statement and the implication behind it. They should have expected this. Dorne and Lys were the closest to each other and linked through the Stepstones. Of course they would have an alliance.

The rogue prince remained silent for a moment, before he spoke stoically. “What is it you want?”

The Martell’s grin widened, “You know we wish for a Targaryen bride in exchange for your terms. But I specifically want one from you and your wife.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched, “I will have to speak to my wife about it.”

“Of course,” Qoren replied joyfully.

30th day of the 8th moon of 107 AC

Rhea could not believe her eyes which were glued to the words laid out on the missive that her hands held in a deathly grip. Why? How? After everything she worked hard for! “No, there must be a mistake,” she stuttered out to Orys, who had given her the missive.

“What is it, your grace?” The older man asked worriedly, seeing his lady’s shaking figure and paling face.

Rhea opened and closed her mouth a few times, attempting to relay the words written but struggling to speak them. She could not accept them so she could not repeat them. Orys stood there patiently waiting for her to speak. Finally, after a few failed attempts and feeling her chest constricting and her breath shallowing, Rhea handed him the missive. Orys’s eyes skimmed over the words and as soon as he read the letter, he inhaled sharply and his eyes widened.

My dearest friend,

It is with my greatest regret and absolute heartbreak, that I inform you that Aemma was found the morning of the 27th, laid on the courtyard beneath her chamber window. She had been found with several broken bones with no heartbeat and no breathing. It was concluded that she was thrown from her chamber window.  

We have begun an investigation into the Red Keep’s inhabitants but we all lay the blame on Viserys, even if her death was self-inflicted. I am so sorry to be telling you this through a missive rather than in person but I could not leave the children alone. I would appreciate it if you and your children would visit us to grieve together.

Yours,

Gael

“My lady…” Orys whispered breathlessly, knowing his cousin was close to Aemma and was no doubt heartbroken. The maester pursed his lips and gazed sympathetically at the disbelief and anguish expressed in Rhea’s countenance. It took the lady a few moments of silence spent hyperventilating and staring ahead, with no focus, before she lifted her gaze to meet Orys’s eyes once again. The man’s frown deepened as Rhea’s eyes filled with tears and her face showed her helplessness.

“What…What do I…? How….?”

“Cousin, shall I ask the servants to prepare the children for travel?” Orys suggested gently. Rhea could do nothing else but nod. The man excused himself, realising that his lady needed time alone to process and accept the sudden death of her childhood friend and pseudo-sister. As soon as she was alone, Rhea broke down, tears freely slipped from her eyes, soaking her cheeks and ugly sobs of grief echoed in her solar.

The maester informed his father and cousins of the loss, along with Rhea’s trusted servants, before he headed to the nursery to request the nursemaid prepare the youngest princess for travel. Orys then went to Alyssa, telling her to ask the servants to prepare her and the rest of her brothers for travel to Kings Landing. “Has something happened, maester? Why the sudden need to travel there?” Asked the clever princess.

Orys sighed, “I am afraid something terrible has happened, my princess. However, it is up to your mother to tell you. Although, I do not advise that you seek her out, wait for her to come to you instead.” Alyssa frowned and her eyes sparkled in worry but she was a clever and polite lady, so she accepted the maester’s words with a nod.

“Very well, I shall have the servants prepare us for travel,” Alyssa replied, and easily took to her task.

Within two days the Targaryen-Royces set sail to Kings Landing. The journey would take a week to ten days, depending on the winds. This gave Rhea time to compose herself. The lady’s mind was whirling with the possible culprits behind Aemma’s death. Rhea knew her pseudo-sister had been struggling with her mental health since Jaevon’s birth. His sudden death certainly did not help her state of mind either. All this followed by Viserys’s desires for an annulment, would have destroyed the sanest of people.

However, there were two factors that would have prevented Aemma from self-sacrificing; her daughters for one. The second reason, was the discovery of Jaehaerys’s decree. Rhea had no doubt that her friend would have had questions, mainly for her and Daemon. Aemma would have raged at them for omitting such important information, even if it were to protect her sanity. She would have demanded explanations and scolded each of them for treating her as a child. Therefore, Rhea confidently believed that there was no way Aemma would have jumped before asking those questions.

On the second day of travel, Alyssa tentatively approached her mother. Rhea had yet to tell her children the reason for their sudden departure for Kings Landing. Alyssa had patiently waited for the past four days, respecting Orys’s advice, however, there was a limit to the child’s patience. “Muna, will you tell me what has happened?” The girl asked softly. Her and Rhea were stood on the ship’s deck, gazing into the sea. Alyssa knew her mother greatly disliked sailing and it showed in Rhea’s disgruntled expression.

The lady of Runestone turned to gaze at her daughter, eyes filled with sorrow. “Your aunt Aemma had an unfortunate accident…she is no longer with us,” whispered Rhea. Alyssa’s eyes widened as she tried to register the words.

“What…how?”

“She has fallen from a window and the resulting injuries were too severe,” Rhea replied and pulled her daughter into her chest. Alyssa instinctively wrapped her arms around her mother and snuggled into her embrace. “You must be strong, for your cousins. Rhaenyra and Daella will need you now more than ever.” Alyssa stiffened, her mind accepting the duty laid on her by her mother.

“I will be, mother. I will look after them,” she replied.

Rhea inhaled shakily and tightened her arms around her daughter. “My strong girl. I know it is a burden, but that is what family is for. We must stand together, supporting each other, especially during our most difficult times.” The daughter nodded in understanding and looked into her mother’s eyes, both sets filled with tears. Alyssa considered Aemma a second mother figure even if they did not spend a lot of time together. Knowing her aunt was no longer around hurt her immensely.

Three days following Rhea and the children’s departed from Runestone, a raven arrived in Sunspear addressed to Daemon. The prince was breaking his fast with his son, their hosts, as well as Lord Corlys and Laena. A woman came into the dining hall with the missive in hand. “Prince Daemon, this has arrived from Kings Landing,” the woman said and handed the envelope to the rogue prince.

Daemon calmly unsealed the letter, expecting it to be some instructions from his father, or perhaps a letter from his wife, inquiring about his and Gaemon’s health. Unfortunately, upon reading the letter, Daemon stood abruptly from his seat, causing his chair to fall which startled the others. “My prince?” Came Corlys’s tentative voice.

The rogue prince did not respond, instead, he glanced at his son and spoke with urgency, “We are leaving!” The young prince was alarmed by his father’s sudden shift in attitude and it worried him, so he nodded in understanding.

“My prince?” This time it was Qoren’s voice that called to the rogue prince.

“Forgive us for this abrupt departure but there has been a family situation,” Daemon explained while glancing apologetically to each person.

“Daemon, what happened?” The Sea Snake asked in High Valyrian.

The rogue prince fought hard to maintain his composure as he replied to his relative. “Aemma had an accident and…she did not survive,” ending the sentence in a whisper. The Sea Snake stood from his seat, in a similar fashion to Daemon, with wide eyes and an open mouth. Laena and Gaemon, both of whom understood the language, gasped in horror at the news. Laena also covered her mouth with her hand and gazed wide-eyed at her older cousin.

“Are you serious?” Corlys spoke breathlessly.

Daemon nodded before turning to their hosts. “Please ask for two horses, as my son and I need to travel back home.” Qoren, who was frowning deeply at the transpiring events, gestured for one of the servants to do as told. The man bowed deeply to his prince and rushed out to call for the horses. “I apologise again for this and I hope you would continue the negotiations with Lord Corlys,” stated the rogue prince. “I trust him implicitly and he understands our wishes for this alliance.” The Sea Snake straightened his back and nodded respectfully at his prince.

Shortly after, the servant returned to inform Daemon that the horses were ready. The Targaryen princes did not waste time as they bid their hosts and family farewell, thanking them for their hospitality, then hastily riding to Caraxes who was prepared for his rider. The flight from Sunspear to Kings Landing took three days—Caraxes unable to fly swifter, with two riders on his back. During the travel, Gaemon learnt the full story of his aunt’s accident and that his mother and siblings were likely on their way to the capital too.

When the father and son duo arrived in the Red Keep, after landing Caraxes in the Dragonpit, they were greeted by Rhaenyra, who was awaiting their arrival with her sworn shield ser Corwyn Arryn. The girl rushed to her uncle and cousin and practically crashed into Gaemon’s arms. The boy had expected her embrace but not the force and he stumbled back a little. However, the boy did not care, as he listened to his cousin’s pained sobs. “Muna! My muna is gone, Gaemon, she is gone. The Stranger took my muna!”

The younger prince tightened his grip on his cousin while his father looked away with his jaw and fists clenched. Rhaenyra’s sobs only subsided after a while and they only calmed into sniffles. Gaemon managed to guide her whilst she clung to him, as they walked to the heir’s wing where the rest of the children were being guarded. Meanwhile, Daemon headed to the king’s solar where the rest of the family sat.

As soon as he walked in he glared openly at his older brother, who had a pale complexion. “What the fuck?” The rogue prince hissed and he walked in with a predatory posture. Viserys flinched at the tone and leaned further back into the wall, as if he wished to be swallowed by it.

Baelon still held an enraged expression on his face, unable to calm his emotions even after a few days. “We believe we have caught the culprit.”

Daemon blinked in shock, not expecting the investigation to yield results so quickly. “We believe it was Runciter, getting revenge for Aemma dismissing him and humiliating him,” Gael explained with disgust.

“How the fuck would he get in her room in the first place?” The rogue prince inquired angrily.

It was Vaegon’s turn to respond, “We discovered that the stupid guard was busy groping a maid that night. Something he has apparently been doing for over a moon,” the archmaester spoke with a tone matching his sister’s. The words angered Daemon further and he demanded the name of the guard.

“He and Runciter are already in the Black Cells. They are all yours,” said Baelon, his tone menacing. Daemon did not need to be told twice and he excused himself from his father’s solar, so he could release some of his frustration and anger on the two prisoners.

As Daemon headed to the Black Cells, Gaemon sat with his cousins, youngest aunt and youngest uncle. Rhaella was sat on the floor, playing with her dolls, while Daella sat beside her, eyes puffy and red from all the crying. While Daella did not understand her mother’s loss as profoundly as Rhaenyra, she still knew that her mother was not around anymore. This led to bouts of tears where she demanded for her mother to return.

As for Rhaenyra, she was sat on a sofa beside Gaemon, head resting on his shoulder and hands gripping his own. The eldest girl was glad to have one of her cousins by her side. The adults had been busy with the safety measures and the investigation. And the younger children were too young to understand Rhaenyra’s pain. But with Gaemon’s presence and soon Alyssa’s, Rhaenyra felt that she would no longer be so overwhelmed by the sense of grief. Although, the princess also knew that her life would never be the same.

Chapter Text

“Maester Runciter, for the crime of treason against House Targaryen, you are hereby sentenced to death,” King Baelon’s voice carried across the throne room. The maester in question was shaking on the floor. His face was covered in filth and his hair greasy, due to spending ten days in the Black cells. What the court could not see, while covered by his maester robes, were the whip marks on Runciter’s back, his bleeding nail beds and his beaten cock, all curtesy of the rogue prince’s interrogations. “First, you will be presented to the smallfolk so they may know the identity of the man who killed their beloved princess,” continued Baelon.

Runciter’s face went paler, if possible, and the courtiers’s eyes gleamed with malice, as they all knew how much the smallfolk favoured Aemma. She and Gael were likely the most beloved Targaryens, even more than the king himself and Prince Daemon, who was affectionately labelled Lord of Flea Bottom. “Guards, please escort Maester Runciter to the centre of the city. I believe Prince Daemon is already waiting for us there with the smallfolk,” commanded the king. The guards did not hesitate to perform the task and Runciter sobbed while being dragged outside, followed by the court and the royal family.

Sure enough, Daemon and his Gold cloaks had gathered the smallfolk, who were all screaming obscenities at the maester, demanding justice for their beloved princess. “FILTHY MONGREL!” “MONSTER!” “HEARTLESS BASTARD!” “TRAITOR!” Were among the words spewing from the people’s tongues. King Baelon lifted a hand and the smallfolk fell silent. “People of Kings Landing, we are here today, to see justice be dealt to this traitor, who saw himself above the law and claimed the life of a member of House Targaryen!” The smallfolk screamed in glee, “Prince Daemon, please deal out the king’s justice.”

Daemon approached Runciter, who’s head was placed on the chopping block, eyes closed as he prayed for mercy. “In the name of King Baelon Targaryen, King of the Andals, The Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I Prince Daemon Targaryen, sentence you to death!” With the final word, Dark Sister went down and cleanly decapitated the maester’s head. The smallfolk cheered with some of the nobility at the death of the traitor. Not far from the action, Rhea stood watching, eyes unblinking and expression neutral. On the inside, she was still seething, finding the punishment insufficient for the crime.

Two days back, Daemon had completed his investigation on Runciter, and ser Howland Stone. While the knight’s crime could be overlooked or punished lightly, as had been done when Howland was stripped from his position and sent back to the Vale in shame, the deposed grandmaester’s crimes, were too severe. Unbeknownst to the courtiers, the smallfolk and even Viserys, Daemon had managed to break Runciter thoroughly, getting him to confess to many more crimes.

The Targaryens including Rhea, had been horrified to learn that Runciter had been the reason for Jaevon’s death. The grandmaester and some of his acolytes had administered poison to Jaevon’s nursemaid, and though it did not affect her, her breastmilk was slowly killing Jaevon. Furthermore, Runciter admitted that Prince Aerion’s death, Aemma’s and Viserys’s firstborn, had also been their doing. The prince was born premature due to Aemma’s weak body yet with the egg placed in his cradle, the boy seemed to gain strength rather than losing it. Therefore, the late Grandmaester Allar, had administered a small dose of sweetsleep, which was enough to kill the babe.

The discovery or rather confirmation of the maester conspiracy against the Targaryens, lead the royal family to re-evaluate their safety. They also needed to maintain the secrecy of their newfound knowledge. This was the main reason they only announced Runciter’s crimes against Aemma and labelled them as vengeance for losing his position. Although, the family wasn’t naïve as to believe the Citadel would not suspect the revelation of their conspiracy and would now likely work more subtly, to achieve their goal of eliminating the Targaryens or diluting their blood enough to prevent more dragons from hatching.

This turn of events made Rhea more determined to end the Citadel and perhaps the Faith as well, who were likely in on the conspiracy, as they disliked the Targaryens’ gain of power in the Seven Kingdoms. The plans to end House Hightower and the Citadel, had to be implemented earlier than Rhea hoped for. Her first victims would be none other than Lady Alicent Hightower, and her cousin Ormund Hightower. When she had told Daemon of her plans for the Hightowers, the rogue prince had been ecstatic and his eyes had sparked with malice.

“My devious wife, how lucky I am to have you by my side,” he had said to her, before kissing her hungrily. Rhea had been satisfied with her husband’s support for her plans, even though they were borderline evil.

Unsurprisingly, Rhea and Daemon hadn’t been the only ones plotting to protect the Targaryen family. Gael, Baelon and Vaegon, all agreed that measurements to protect the family and their dragons had to be taken. So, a day following Runciter’s execution, Baelon gathered the small council to make an important announcement. “Princesses Rhaenyra and Daella have gone through a traumatic event. To aid their healing, they shall be sent to foster in the Eyrie till their twelfth namedays.”

The council members’ eyes all widened at the king’s announcement. “Father!” Viserys cried indignantly.

Baelon simply glared at his eldest son, “My decision is final. You may be their father, Viserys, but you have failed your duty to them more than once. They deserve better.” The heir flinched at the words and though he wished to argue more against his father’s decision, he knew there would be no use.

After the council meeting, more protective actions were taken by the king and the queen. First, all dragon eggs, including the ones recently laid by Dreamfyre, were sent to Dragonstone. Second, the chains in the Dragonpit were completely removed, while the hatch was kept open, allowing the dragons freedom in case they needed to escape from someone attempting to harm them. Third, was that all the cattle sent to the dragons were now directly supplied from the Vale and vetted by Rhea, to decrease chances of harming the dragons by poison. To put it simply, the Targaryens were no longer taking any chances by trusting outsiders with their family and legacy.

The moons passed, with Amanda, Jeyne, Rhea and Daemon, working tirelessly to assimilate Rhaenyra and Daella into their new norms. The girls were miserable without their mother, even while being surrounded by family. No one blamed the girls, as they all felt the loss of Aemma deeply and could only imagin what it was like to lose her as a mother. In some ways, the loss was worse for Rhaenyra, as she recalled her mother more clearly than her sister, who although remembered Aemma, was less attached to her than Rhaenyra was. Daella was just over five when Aemma died, while Rhaenyra was over ten. Therefore, Daella assimilated to the loss more quickly, especially with Rhea and Amanda’s presences.

Meanwhile, two moons after Aemma’s passing, Viserys approached his father, once again requesting permission to remarry. This time, the king could not refuse his son, lest he appear as a dictator or unreasonable to the rest of the realm. However, the king stipulated to his son that he should wait a year on Dragonstone before making a hasty decision. Viserys was unhappy with the request yet it gave him hope that his father would eventually relent and allow him to remarry. He already had a bride in mind and he did not hesitate to begin corresponding with her and her father.

What Viserys did not anticipate, was that a few moons into his isolation on Dragonstone, a certain Sea Snake would come to visit with his eligible daughter. The Lady Laena had blossomed into a beautiful young woman. Her grandsire Aemon’s beauty combined with her father’s colouring made her one of the most beautiful women in the realm, maybe even the Known World. To Viserys, she was perhaps the most advantageous match he could make and one that may even please his family. However, due to his shameful actions with Alicent, the heir could not think of any other woman to wed.

Therefore, when the year of his isolation ended, Viserys made his choice of bride known to his father. Instead of scolding him or refusing him, Baelon had sat him down to discuss the matter at length. “I know that you had been improper with the lady and I agree with your wish to right the wrongs,” the king spoke with a resigned tone. “However, I will give you a choice…” Viserys stiffened, wondering what his father would propose. “Wed the Lady Alicent, have children with her but renounce your right to the throne and claim Summerhall instead. Or, wed Laena Velaryon and your children shall inherit the throne.”

Viserys’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened at his father’s proposal. “Wha…How could you ask me this?” He spoke breathlessly, not believing his ears.

Baelon’s expression remained neutral, “Would you like to be remembered as Maegor come again? With a dead wife and a Hightower wife? We do not even know if Alicent can birth you children!” The prince felt bile rising in his throat, as he pictured the court whispering behind his and Alicent’s backs. He recalled the many tales on Maegor ‘The Cruel’, who’s first wife, a Hightower, could not birth children and that only monsters were brought forth from his loins.

Viserys shook his head, “I am not Maegor! I am no kinslayer!” He argued heatedly, feeling offended that his father would compare him to the madman who nearly destroyed their family.

Baelon scoffed, “Then who shall I compare you to? Aenys The Weak? Or do you fancy yourself Aegon The Conqueror, who brought Westeros to heel, and who had two sister-wives?” Baelon’s tone was mocking, twisting the knife deeper into his son’s heart.

“Father…” Viserys trailed off, unable to speak out against the words thrown at him. He felt humiliated and was grateful that they were sat alone.

The king shook his head, his eyes finally revealing his disappointment. “I have tried, Viserys...we all had. Aemma has tried birthing you sons even when you disregarded her health. Daemon tried to protect you from yourself and I had tried to guide you the best I can,” Baelon’s voice cracked and his gaze fell to the table they were sat at. Viserys’s shoulders sagged as he listened to his father’s words. “We tried our best, but you are stubborn and refuse to see reason.”

“Father…” Viserys tried to speak but Baelon stopped him.

“I fear what you might do if you sat the throne,” the king continued. “Lady Alicent and her father are ambitious people. No different from any other noble. If she became queen, I do not know which one of you would rule.” The prince’s breath caught in his throat as he tried to process the words.  Did his father truly see him so weak as to allow his wife to rule in his stead? “You are too soft hearted to her, and a little too arrogant to see that she is able to manipulate you.”

Viserys scowled, “How can you say that?! I am no half-wit!”

Baelon glowered in response, “Truly? Your actions throughout the past decade say otherwise!”

Viserys flinched again at being confronted with his shortcomings. “I was a child…” he whispered in embarrassment.

“Jaehaerys, who you admire so much, was younger than you yet he knew better than to bed his wife of three-and-ten!” Baelon hissed and smacked his palm on the table in anger. Viserys startled at the noise and his eyes closed while his fists clenched as he felt defeated by the argument.

“And what of Lady Laena? Do you believe she would not be as ambitious or as manipulative as Alicent?” The prince whispered, while averting his gaze from his father’s, knowing his argument was both feeble and proved his dimwittedness.

The king chuckled coldly, “At least Laena would right the wrongs done to Rhaenys and she is kin. No matter if she is ambitious, as she is still part Targaryen. Her house is still ours and she will guarantee you a dragon-riding heir.” The prince already knew this, so remained quiet as his father spoke. Finally, Baelon smiled cruelly, “I will give you four moons to decide. Either it is Alicent and abdication or Laena and you begin acting like the heir you are meant to be.” With that, the king stood and retreated from the room, leaving his son alone to consider his proposal.

Viserys remained sat there for a long time, unsure of what to do. He loved Alicent; she brought him back to life after he lost his love for Aemma. However, Laena would provide him the throne and as his father had pointed out, pure Valyrian children who were more likely to claim dragons than half Hightower children who were not guaranteed to survive past birth, if Maegor’s experience was anything to go by. Then, there was their age. While Laena was turning six-and-ten by the end of the next year, when the mourning period was over, Alicent would be closer to one-and-twenty. While this made both ladies of eligible age, after what occurred with Aemma, Viserys did not wish to take any more risks. Regardless of the painful confrontation, Viserys was glad his father gave him a few moons to make a decision.

Alicent Hightower returned to court on the 11th day of the 9th moon of 108 AC with her father. The lady held her head high, as she entered the Red Keep where her uncle served as Master of Coin. For the past year, she had been carefully corresponding with Prince Viserys, doing her best to lure him further into her arms. The lady thought that as soon as Aemma Arryn died, Viserys would call on her to wed as he promised her during Jaevon’s mourning period. However, when the letter came informing her that Viserys would be spending a year on Dragonstone, with no visitors other than family to fully mourn his wife, Alicent felt slighted.

She knew it was the king and queen’s doing, as both had expressed their dislike of her during her previous tenure at court. Alicent bristled at recalling the way Gael humiliated her by insinuating that she was expecting a bastard, in front of all the ladies of court. Percival had sent her away due to the whispers and it was only her father’s insistence to keep her unwed to prove her purity, that eventually silenced the gossips. During her stay in Oldtown, Alicent vowed to make Gael pay for the way she treated her.

After all, who did the little queen think she was compared to Alicent? Just because she possessed the Valyrian colouring and had a dragon, did not mean she was superior to Alicent. Alicent was a Hightower; a family of Old Kings, who’s lineage far preceded that of the Targaryens. Hells, the Hightowers were kings before the Targaryens even learned to read and write, having come from shepherding ancestry. Targaryens were arrogant people, who’s only distinction was the magic in their blood that allowed them to connect to their dragons.

Once Alicent weds Viserys, their children would possess that same blood and become dragon-riders. She would triumph where Ceryse failed. The Hightowers would become dragon-riders and with a bit of aid from the Faith and Citadel, the Targaryen family would wane until only Targaryen-Hightowers remained. With their newfound control over the dragons, the Hightowers would manage what the Andals could not originally do. They would conquer the North and Dorne, bringing the barbarians to heel and declare Westeros home of the Andals. The Northerners and Dornish would be forced to wed Andals until their blood was completely eradicated along with their religions.

The Hightowers would become kings of Westeros, as they should have always been. Their family had been in Westeros far longer than any other human race, fighting against the Children of the Forest for territory. Now that the disgusting Children of the Forest were gone, it was only fair that the Hightowers claim the lands as their own. And while the Hightowers, Faith and Citadel, each wished to control Westeros for a different purpose, the three entities found common ground. House Hightower would represent the three, as the most devout, the most knowledgeable and as the oldest Westerosi house.

This meant that when Alicent arrived back in the Red Keep, her first move was to go pray in the sept to reinforce her image of piety to the court. The septons and septas welcomed her with bright smiles and open arms. Along with building a certain image, Alicent needed to outperform her predecessor, Princess Aemma Arryn, who was also a devout follower of the Seven. “Oh merciful Father, thank you for guiding us into the light. Oh kind Mother, thank you for welcoming us into your warm embrace. Oh Protective Warrior, thank you for shielding us from danger…” the lady continued whispering, or rather pretending to whisper, as she prayed to the statues.

Some ladies of court were present at the sept too and smiled kindly at her, no doubt admiring her devotion and wishing their daughters followed her example. Alicent couldn’t wait to host court as Prince Viserys’s wife. She would gain the admiration of all the women of court and soon after, no one would even remember Aemma’s name. The dead woman’s useless daughters were already away in the Vale, making it easier for Alicent’s future son to secure the court’s support, further endearing Alicent to them.

Unfortunately, there were a few small thorns in the plan, one being Queen Gael. Not only was the queen beloved by the smallfolk but the women of court admired her immensely. She was a pious woman, who successfully gave birth to two children in the span of three years. She gave the king, a man already in his older age, another son and a daughter to wed off. Moreover, as Queen, Gael would hold more power at court than Alicent. While the heir outranked a Queen-consort, the heir’s consort held no such leverage. Therefore, the Hightower lady would have to fight harder to gain the court’s unwavering loyalty.

Then there was the Prince Daemon to account for. When she was younger, Alicent daydreamed of marrying the rogue prince. He was known to be a loving husband, a dedicated father and a ruthless warrior. Daemon was every maiden’s dream, including Alicent’s. However, after their last meeting, when he mentioned Ceryse’s fate to her and basically threatened her, Alicent became bitter. He was clearly cuntstruck by his wife, who was likely a witch who cursed him into loving her. While Alicent and the Hightowers possessed beauty comparable to the Valyrians, with their platinum-blonde hair, their bright coloured eyes and elegant features, there was nothing special about Rhea Royce, not even her beauty. So, it made no sense that Prince Daemon, someone known to value his Valyrian heritage, to be so loyal to his wife of First Men blood, someone who was practically a Wildling.

Nevertheless, no matter what obstacles came in her way, Alicent knew she would triumph. She had the support of the three most influential entities in Westeros. The best maesters would be at her service, the best septons and septas, along with her house’s vast wealth. The Lannisters and Velaryons may claim to be the wealthiest houses in the Seven Kingdoms but House Hightower had treasures of priceless worth. No amount of gold or jewels could buy them. Alicent flaunted that wealth by dressing in the most extravagant gowns and having a full household of maids. Her father may be a second son but since she was the only woman of Hightower blood, all the luxuries bestowed on the daughters of House Hightower were at her disposal. This included a substantial dowry that would be complimented by her connection to the Faith and the Citadel. She was ready to place her blood on the throne.

Chapter Text

Daemon scowled as he slit the throat of yet another acolyte, one that had been sent to Runestone. Over the past year, he and his family members had been working tirelessly to defend themselves against the maesters involved in the conspiracy. There had also been a few septons and septas, along with very few low-born knights, who were also swiftly disposed of. Rhea had dubbed their efforts as ‘operation armadillo’, in order to confuse any spies listening to their discussions. She had also placed code names to everything. Maesters were called ants, the septons and septas were called caths, while the Hightowers were labelled greens.

Surprisingly, Dragonstone and Runestone did not initially have any meddling individuals. However, over the past twelve moons a few new recruits joined both Keeps and it did not take much effort to expose their duplicity. A few moons after Runciter’s sentence, two acolytes sought out Gerardys under the pretence of learning from his healing expertise. It did not take long to discover that they had been planted on Dragonstone to poison the loyal man, no doubt to replace him with a traitor.

Then, a moon ago, a maester arrived in Runestone to work in the small healing centre of the town. He had been recently exposed as a spy, by one of the Braavosi matrons hired as a midwife for the smallfolk. Daemon and Rhea interrogated him thoroughly and after ten days, the man admitted to being planted in Runestone to learn of the new teaching centre, that had been slowly gaining recognition in the Vale. After getting him to write to the Citadel that the school was ‘a low budget nursery with no merit’, Daemon was allowed to kill him.

The rogue prince sighed as he sheathed Dark Sister and he gestured to one of the knights to discard of the dead-maester’s body. Ser Manfred nodded respectfully at his lord, before carelessly carrying the body to throw into the sea. Daemon made his way out of the Keep’s cells and headed to the dining hall, where his family was gathering for their dinner. Today they were joined by Rhaenyra and Daella, who would visit for a week each moon. Amanda had insisted that she be the one to foster them, as Aemma’s older sister and as Jeyne’s regent. She and Rhea had gotten into an argument but Rhea had eventually relented and allowed Amanda to be their nieces’ main guardian.

When Daemon arrived in the dining room, he found his three sons already sitting in their assigned chairs, conversing calmly. At his entrance, the three shifted their gazes to him and all gave him polite nods and gentle smiles. “Good evening, kepa. Are you done with your duties for today?” Inquired Daeron.

The rogue prince smiled, “I am, my sweet boy.” He made his way to his sons and placed a kiss to each of their heads. Gaemon rolled his eyes at the show of affection, while Rhaegar preened under it. Only Daeron stiffened, much to Daemon’s exasperation. His second son had recently become too formal, even with his parents. Daeron was dutiful and almost too eager to please, which made Rhea worried that he may develop a people-pleasing complex, as she called it.

Daemon had reassured her that Daeron was simply a second son, eager to make a name for himself outside his brother’s temporary heir and was only doing it the best way he knew how. Daeron may be young but he already understood how the world worked, and similar to his father and many other second sons, Daeron was feeling pressure from many sides. As the heir, Gaemon was pressured to excel in his post, while Alyssa was pressured to be an example for her younger siblings as the eldest girl, especially now that she had Viserra looking up to her.

Meanwhile, Daeron was currently his brother’s heir apparent, until Gaemon married and had children who would push Daeron out of the line of succession. Until then, Daeron had to operate as both, his brother’s protector, and as his heir, in case Gaemon had no children, causing Daeron to step in as Lord of Runestone. While he did this, people would be looking down on him, already preparing for Gaemon’s children to exist and writing off Daeron as a temporary heir. This would cause him to have to be even better in everything, in order to be respected as a person.

This was the main reason Daemon wished to control the Stepstones. It was to give his children opportunities outside of Runestone. Until then, he and Rhea tried their best to reassure all their children, that they could act according to their age and that there was no need for any of them to grow up too hastily and act as adults before their time. Daemon would do his part, by taking his children individually on flights, and allowing them to have a semblance of freedom in the sky. As for Rhea, she suggested they spend one night every moon or so, creating a fort in the nursery and sleeping all together as a family.

Both parents just wished that their children were happy and they worked hard every day to ensure this happiness the best way they could. This also extended to Rhaenyra and Daella, who to Rhea and Daemon, were equal in priority to their cousins. The couple vowed that both girls would grow up to have a fate better than their mother’s and certainly one better than what Daemon experienced in his first life. There was no way Rhea and Daemon were allowing another Dance to occur and if by some nightmare it did, they were more than ready to handle it.

Gael placed down her quill so she could stretch her arms above her head. The queen had been signing a few documents, ranging from marriage contracts for some of her ladies-in-waiting, to calculations on harvests for Kings Landing and some other documents on taxes. She sighed as her eyes landed on the last document of the day. She still had much work to do but knew that she could not concentrate any more after this late hour. The sun was beginning to set and her concentration was terrible at night. It wouldn’t do to make mistakes with such sensitive work, especially as the queen.

Gael lifted the parchment from the pile and started reading it. Her brows furrowed and she hummed at the words. It was a letter from Lord Rickon Stark, Warden of the North. The lord was announcing that his wife had given birth to a son, Cregan Stark. More interestingly, he was requesting to officially bestow Moat Cailin to his younger brother Lord Bennard Stark and his wife Lady Margret Karstark. This was along with bestowing four other Keeps of smaller significance, to other Northern Lords. Moat Cailin and the other Keeps had been completely renovated, however, due to Jaevon’s passing, followed by Aemma’s just as the mourning period ended, Rickon had no chance to announce this to the crown.

Gael took the parchment and stood from her seat before exiting her solar, accompanied by ser Steffon Darklyn, ser Laedon Celtigar, and Rebecca Snow, who was a maiden warrior. The queen made her way to her husband’s solar, all the while greeting servants as she went. Upon arriving at the closed door guarded by ser Harrold Westerling and a Cargyll twin, she nodded for them to announce her. Ser Harrold bowed to her, before knocking on the door and when the king gave permission to enter, the knight poked his head inside to inform Baelon of his wife’s presence. “Let her in,” the king commanded and the knight opened the door for her.

Gael walked inside, greeted by Baelon’s tired smile. The sound of the door closing was ignored by the couple, who were glad to be in each other’s calming presence. “How are you fairing, husband?” The queen asked as she made her way around the table, to reach him.

Baelon sighed as he pulled Gael to him, hugging her torso, while she held onto his head, giving him comfort and helping him release some of the tension, just through her embrace. “I am alright, no more exhausted than usual,” he whispered in response. Gael leaned down to place a chaste kiss on his lips. “Not to sound ungrateful, but what has brought you to my prison?” Baelon inquired with a teasing smile. Gael rolled her eyes at the description but instead of saying anything, she handed Rickon’s request to her husband.

The king’s eyes skimmed over the parchment and soon, his face expressed his interest, similar to his queen’s. “Do you think it is their idea?” He asked while meeting her gaze.

The queen shrugged, “Would it matter if Daemon and Rhea were involved?”

Baelon shook his head, “Not at all. It is quite a good thing but why did you feel the need to bring this forth to me? It does not appear too strange.”

“It is just…I recall from a history lesson that Moat Cailin was mostly used for defence against intruders. After everything that has happened, it sparked a worry in me.”

Baelon hummed, “I do not believe there is anything to worry about. The North has been making quite the profit, and renovating Keeps, villages and roads, is the smartest way to spend this money,” he explained nonchalantly and Gael nodded in understanding. “Not to mention, they will no longer be paying for the road reconstruction.”

This surprised Gael, who tilted her head and furrowed her brows in confusion. “Apparently, our agreement has offended some of the other Lords Paramount, as it insinuated that they could not afford to renovate their own roads.” Gael snorted at the easily bruised ego of the Lords Paramount. “So, as of next year, Lords Lannister, Tyrell and Baratheon, shall be paying for the road resurfacing and extension in each of their realms. As for the Tullys, they will be repaying the North for their coin with the extra harvest of the upcoming two years.”

“That ironically seems even more favourable for the North,” Gael commented with a chuckle. “They will have more coin now that they do not need to pay annual instalments for our project.”

Baelon smirked at her clever observation, “That is true . I wonder if this was Daemon’s idea all along.”

Gael hummed, “Could be.”

Suddenly, Baelon’s eyes darkened, and his smirk turned flirtatious, “Shall we join our children in their nursery or should we enjoy more of this private moment?”  His husky voice sent shivers down his wife’s spine and she gasped at the large hands that kneaded her rear. Gael leaned down again to capture his lips, this time in a more heated kiss. One of her hands tangled in his hair, while the other caressed his bearded jaw.

Just as the queen was about to lift her skirts to sit on her husband’s lap, a loud knock interrupted them. Baelon groaned but pulled away, “What is it?” He grumbled while glaring at the door.

“Archmaester Vaegon, your grace,” Harrold’s voice came from the still closed entry.

“Let him in,” Gael called. The door was tentatively opened, revealing a disgruntled looking Vaegon. The archmaester entered with a huff and Harrold once again closed the door, allowing the Targaryens their privacy.

“You do know this space is designated for working, not fucking!”

“Whatever brings you here, dearest valonqor?” Baelon asked with a knowing smile.

Vaegon narrowed his eyes, not appreciating his brother’s teasing tone. “Alicent Hightower and Otto Hightower have arrived in Kings Landing.”

The king and queen stiffened and Baelon’s jaw clenched. “Very well. We shall welcome them with open arms,” he hissed with a predatory glint in his eyes.

The next day, the Small Council gathered for their weekly meeting, just after breakfast. The members all took their seats and pulled out their work scrolls. Each member had a report ready for the council and some members had complaints to pass to them. Once the king sat down and gestured for the cupbearer to serve the wine, the council members each took their turn to speak. First, it was Lord Beesbury as Hand of the king. He was reporting the continued rising tensions between Houses Blackwood and Bracken.

“Lord Grover Tully has tried several methods to calm them but it seems both are adamant on fighting,” explained Beesbury.

“Perhaps it is time to send a dragon rider to them,” Daemon suggested with a neutral tone.

“I agree, your grace. This has gone long enough. They have disrespected their liege lord, so a stronger show of force may be necessary,” said the Sea Snake.

Baelon contemplated the words, while some other council members, including Percival Hightower and Grandmaester Mellos, cautioned against such a blunt threat. “Send me instead,” Gael’s voice startled the men and her husband glanced at her wide eyed. “If you send Daemon, it will appear as a threat and may cause unrest. But if you send me and Dreamfyre, under the guise of finding new ladies-in-waiting, then it will act as both a reminder of our dragons and a show of diplomacy.”

The king pursed his lips, unsure of what to do. “I believe the queen’s idea is wisest in this situation, your grace,” Vaegon commented with a sure nod to his brother and king. The majority of the council nodded their heads as well, when the king’s eyes made contact with them.

Baelon finally agreed with a nod and a soft-spoken, “Very well.” The council then moved to Viserys as heir, and he informed the rest that there was no news from Pentos, regarding their reaction to Westeros’s garrisoning of the Stepstones.

“They may plan an invasion of the islands in the future, your grace,” Viserys warily informed his father.

“If our agreement with Dorne and Lys is complete by next year, they will find it near impossible to do so,” Corlys said with a scoff.

“It would still serve us better to be cautious, Lord Corlys,” argued Percival.

“Perhaps we should begin early patrol of the islands with the aid of the dragons,” suggested Beesbury.

Daemon shook his head, “Meleys and Caraxes are the only suitable dragons for this task, as Seasmoke is too young and small, and he could be easily injured. While Dreamfyre and Vhagar belong to their graces, who cannot afford to patrol such dangerous lands. This would make the task burdensome for Rhaenys and I.”

“We should wait another week, mayhap the response is simply taking long,” said Mellos. Daemon and Baelon hummed. Though neither wished to agree with the rat, they felt it the best course of action.

“Wait another week, then we may reopen this discussion,” the king affirmed. The council meeting continued, with Corlys reporting an increase in trade, thanks to the liberation of the Stepstones. Daemon reported the smallfolks’ appreciation for the sewage system, public bathhouses and general cleanliness of the city, over the past year. Then, there was maester Mellos’s report, which complimented Daemon’s, with mentions of decrease in general illness in the city of Kings Landing. There were also a few announcements of noble births and marriages from Gael.

Once the meeting was concluded, the king headed toward the throne room with some of the council members to hear petitions. Daemon opted out of the petitions this day and went to the training yard instead. There, he found his young squires who were quickly gaining respectable skill in battle. So far, Joffrey Lonmouth displayed the most notable skill, though he was a few years older than Laenor and Brandon, giving him an advantage. At seeing him, the three young squires bowed, “Your grace,” they greeted respectfully.

“Are you ready for today’s training?” Daemon asked them with a predatory smile. The boys straightened their backs and gave him determined expressions. “Very well, let us start with a few laps around the yard, to help you warm up.” The boys immediately went into a sprint.

Just as the third lap was ending, a shrill voice caught Daemon’s attention, “LEKIA!” The rogue prince faced the sound, and chuckled at seeing his little brother toddling toward him. Aemond lifted his hands up as he reached his brother and Daemon knelt down to lift the boy into his arms. “Lekia, lekia, lekia…!” The young boy babbled as he bounced in his brother’s arms, causing Daemon to chuckle again.

“Is that the only Valyrian word you know, valonqor?”

“NO!” Aemond squeaked, much to the detriment of Daemon’s ears. The rogue prince snorted as his brother continued to babble whatever Valyrian words he knew but mostly sticking to lekia and no. Internally, the rogue prince was remembering his wife’s words of how he might learn to love this Aemond, more than he despised his nephew and he found himself agreeing to them, as his heart fluttered at Aemond’s unconditional love for him. Daemon hoped that just like Aemond, their family would continue to prosper and stick together.

Unfortunately, known and unknown forces alike were working against that dream, as a week later, when the crescent moon shone in the sky and the majority of the inhabitants of Kings Landing were laying in their beds, all the way in Maegor’s Holdfast, the Lady Alicent got lost as she travelled across the huge Keep. Eventually, she would reach a chamber guarded by ser Willis Fell of the Kingsguard and ser Marcellus Dondarrion. The lady would politely greet the guards and in a sweet voice she would proclaim, “Prince Viserys is expecting me.”

One of the knights would knock on the door and their ward would grant entry to the lady. Once inside, the lady would put on a show, claiming to have missed his grace and asking if she had done something wrong, for he had been ignoring her for the entire week. “My love, I am so sorry I made you feel that way, please forgive me,” Prince Viserys would say desperately and cover his paramour’s hands with his.

Alicent would look at him from under her eyelashes, blushing at his tender touch but still sniffling. “I thought you no longer loved me. I prayed to the Gods that I did not displease you.”

“Never! You can never displease me!” The prince would argue heatedly. The lady would lean in and kiss him firmly.

When she pulls away, she would find an expression of shock on her lover’s face. This would make her smile shyly and pull further from the touch, “Forgive me. I missed you so…I should go…” her words would get interrupted, as her lips would be captured in a hungry kiss. The lady would moan at the pleasant feeling and not long after, her dress would fall to the floor of the chambers and her back would find the mattress of the prince’s bed. Soon after, her head would fall back and her mouth would open widely to release moans of pleasure.

Viserys opened his eyes to the sight of a wonderfully decorated sept. He recognised the seating arrangement and structure belonging to the sept of Kings Landing. There were flower bouquets on each bench and the ceiling was adorned with a canopy of silk fabric, the colour of the pearls. The large windows had welcomed the sun’s bright rays, which created an even warmer atmosphere in the building. The prince looked down, only to find himself dressed in a formal doublet, bedecked with gemstones and intricate embroidery.

His legs began moving on their own, carrying him down the aisle toward the front, where the statue of the Father was placed. Once he reached there, he turned to face the entrance from whence he came, and found a lady dressed in a breathtaking gown of emerald, walking down the aisle toward him.

The scene suddenly shifted and Viserys found himself sitting on a comfortable chair, in what appeared to be a solar. “Kepa! Kepa!” Two voices caught his attention and he turned to see a pair of young boys walking in, their heads crowned with his silver-blonde hair and their eyes as bright as topaz. Viserys smiled widely at them and welcomed them into his open arms. “Kepa, tell us the story of the Prince Who Was Promised!” The older looking boy requested, as he sat on Viserys’s lap.

“Of course, my beloved Aegon…”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra scowled at her father. She could not believe this was the reason she and Daella were brought on dragonback from the Vale to Kings Landing. Her father had just announced that he shall wed the Lady Alicent Hightower and it had just been over thirteen moons since her mother’s death. The princess subtly glanced at Alicent, who smiled demurely, acting as the perfect lady by feigning innocence and gratitude. Rhaenyra knew better though, as she had been taught to observe the people around her and to discern when someone faked an emotion. There was something in a person’s eyes, that revealed their true nature. Alicent Hightower could play innocent all she wanted but Rhaenyra saw the confidence and triumph in her shimmering blue eyes.

“Congratulations, Lady Alicent. We will be happy to welcome you to the family,” Aunt Gael spoke with faux-happiness and a smile that did not reach her eyes.

“Thank you, your grace. I am honoured to be wed into your great house,” Lady Alicent spoke with as much falseness as Gael, and the two women tensely kissed each other’s cheeks. “I will also be honoured to care for the princesses.” Rhaenyra stiffened and her gaze turned cold, as her eyes met the older woman’s. Alicent furrowed her brows at the younger’s coldness, but she did not comment on it. On the other hand, Daella appeared confused by the woman declaring herself as their caretaker. They already had Aunt Amanda and Aunt Rhea for that, and Daella was uninterested in a woman, who wished to replace her late mother.

“Thank you for your kindness, Lady Alicent. Though you need not worry, for our aunts already care for us. I am sure you will be busy with your own children soon,” Rhaenyra replied cordially. The princess noticed how the lady’s smile thinned, and her left eye twitched slightly at the words.

“Now, now, Rhaenyra. Alicent will be your stepmother and she has a big heart that is eager to love you,” her father said with a large smile.

“I meant no harm, father. I was simply stating the truth,” replied Rhaenyra. The nearly twelve-nameday princess badly wished to yell at her father for being so happy, while her mother was rendered to ashes on the ground. How was it fair, that after all her mother’s struggles she is the one to be dead, while her father was free to remarry? The princess fully understood the difficult life of nobility, however, it still felt like a slap in the face for her father to move on so quickly.

Grandsire Baelon remained unwed for two decades, after Grandmother Alyssa passed. And Rhaenyra was sure that if, Gods forbid, her Aunt Rhea died, that Uncle Daemon would follow his father’s footsteps and not wed again, unless forced to do so. Therefore, for her father, a man she grew up seeing doting on her mother, to be so elated for remarriage, angered her deeply. Worse, was that Rhaenyra suspected that without her grandsire’s demands for her father, to take a full year to mourn, that he would have remarried just as the six moons of the usual mourning period ended.

Even his current decision was probably delayed by her grandsire, who was currently gazing at his eldest son with little emotion on his face. Rhaenyra was sure, that her grandsire was disappointed in her father and she could not help but agree with him. Although she loved her father greatly, his attitude made it difficult to like him. Aunt Rhea always told her; it was alright to love someone while not liking them, for those were two separate emotions related to different things.

“There is no need to push them, my prince. I know how it feels to lose a mother, and it cannot be easy to accept another woman as your father’s wife,” Lady Alicent spoke coyly, much to Rhaenyra’s chagrin.  How dare she attempt to endear herself so falsely to them?  She was the reason their father was remarrying so soon and who knows what underhanded tactics she used, to get him to do so. Rhaenyra was suddenly reminded of her father’s strange shift in attitude after Jaevon’s and Aemond’s tourney. He appeared much calmer and happier, even when Aemma was still bedridden. Could it be? Could her father have possibly betrayed her mother, while she still breathed? Didn’t her father get exiled to Dragonstone during Jaevon’s mourning period, coincidentally followed by Lady Alicent’s dismissal from court?

This made anger bubble in the princess’s gut but she knew she could not express it now. She had to ask her Aunt Gael on it or Uncle Daemon. Both were always honest with her, explaining to her the dangers of court and why she should not trust people so quickly, not without testing them first. She was a princess of the blood and many did not like that. They would rather see her buried next to her mother than even married off to some lord or another. Her blood would produce dragon-riders and though Westeros has accepted her family as their leaders, it did not mean they appreciated them and certainly not their dragons.

“Now that you mention it, I believe it will be more appropriate to court the Lady Alicent publicly before your betrothal is announced,” Grandsire’s voice brought Rhaenyra back to the discussion at hand.

“But father!” Her father tried to argue but Lady Alicent placed a calming hand on his shoulder and smiled gently at him.

“That would be an excellent idea, your grace,” said Lady Alicent, with her smile still in place. “After all, some noble ladies may feel slighted, for not knowing the prince wished to remarry.”

“I am glad you see the wisdom in this decision, Lady Alicent,” replied the king. “Therefore, I suggest the wedding occur at the start of the fourth lunar cycle of the next sunturn. Giving you six moons of public courtship.” Father appeared disappointed by the resolution, causing Rhaenyra to clench her fists, and grit her teeth, to prevent herself from lashing out at him. From the corner of her eyes she also observed the Lady Alicent looking a little disheartened, even after pretending to accept the king’s words. And one look at Gael told Rhaenyra that her step-grandmother had also noticed the duplicitous lady’s reaction.

For the next three moons, King Baelon and his eldest son spent much of their free time together, discussing the previous stipulations set on the prince’s remarriage. Viserys desperately wished to heed the will of the Gods, so he tried his best to renegotiate with his father but Baelon was firm in his decision. The king went as far as threatening his son that if he did anything that fought his disinheritance, he would lose Summerhall and be designated as just another landless prince. Meanwhile, on the side, Daemon, Vaegon and Gael, were all speaking to Viserys in an attempt to change his mind on Alicent and convince him of marrying Laena instead, with none knowing the true consequences behind each choice.

Eventually, Viserys relented to his father’s demands when the new year arrived. However, it was not due to his father’s stubbornness nor his family’s words. No. True to his nature, the young prince put his confidence in his dreams and after another dream claiming his son to be the Prince-Who-Was-Promised, Viserys came to a realisation that satisfied his prophecy obsessed mind and went along with his father’s decision to disinherit him. After that, the prince appeared content with everything and when anyone inquired about his change in demeanour, he would simply reply that everything was falling into place.

During that time, the rest of the world, mainly Rhea, was busy with more important matters. Because the lady had successfully began administering the impotency serum to her brother-by-law, over a year ago, and had her plans set for Lady Alicent, she was not too concerned over their marriage. Instead, she was more focused on her projects, which continued to thrive even with the occasional hiccup. Most important in her current projects; were the pearls production and the forceps distribution, which had begun ten moons prior. Qora had even sent seven forceps to Runestone and Rhea had distributed them to her allies in Westeros, including the Velaryons and the Martells, with scrolls that detailed their function.

When Daemon first brought forth Prince Qoren’s request for Alyssa’s hand, it had Rhea nearly fainting. She and Daemon got into the worst fight of their lives, as she stubbornly refused to hand over their daughter to a man eight years her elder, to live in a land known for its assassins and grudge against her husband’s house. However, Daemon managed to calm her by ensuring her that Alyssa would only go to Dorne after her sixteenth nameday, to meet and be courted by Prince Qoren. Then, if, and it was a big if, they got along, the wedding would only occur after Alyssa’s seven-and-ten nameday.

Daemon also mentioned the many merits of wedding into House Martell. This included their more liberal culture, which would allow Alyssa more freedom than in any other lord’s Keep across Westeros. The Martells were also in tandem with the Rogares and creating a three-way alliance with all their families could be the smartest political move since their relationship with House Stark. Furthermore, with the Martells to the West of the Stepstones and the Rogares to the East, it would be the strongest hold anyone would have on the desolate islands. Rhea finally relented, knowing her husband was right. Though she still felt afraid that Alyssa may suffer some hostility from the Dornish due to her Targaryen blood.

Regardless, the moons passed into the year of 109 AC and they saw the secretly deposed heir focusing on his courtship of the Lady Alicent, who was now confidently welcoming his affections in front of the entire court. The lady was also seen, and heard, flaunting her relationship to the supposed heir of the Iron Throne. Their betrothal was made official at the start of the year, to no one’s surprise, though as Alicent had predicted, many noble women were quite disappointed for being passed over, for a daughter of a second son no less. Though Alicent was a Hightower, with a great reputation and a substantial dowry, there were daughters related to lords paramount that felt more deserving of the post.

Then, two moons before the wedding, King Baelon requested that Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Alyssa and Prince Gaemon, visit Dragonstone. The king claimed that all three were at a suitable age to learn more on their Valyrian heritage. So, as a nameday gift for each, they would live on Dragonstone for four weeks and get to explore the island that held the last true remnants of the Valyrian culture. Added to that, the king himself would be accompanying them for their first week there. Afterward, they would be left in the company of a Valyrian priest, who had dedicated his life to studying the Valyrian tombs brought by Aenar Targaryen.

The children were excited to go, though Rhea, Daemon and Viserys, were each confused by the king’s sudden desire for their children to be connected to their Valyrian heritage. None argued however, as the request seemed inconsequential to the parents. That’s how Rhaenyra and her cousins found themselves on Dragonstone a moon prior to her nameday, on the 5th day of the second lunar cycle of the year. They would only leave the island a week prior to Prince Viserys’s wedding, to be present for the event.

While the children were busy on Dragonstone doing who knows what, as their missives to their parents were filled with vague excitement, Rhea and her retinue arrived in Kings Landing five weeks prior to the wedding. Rhea worked on aiding the queen and the other ladies, with the wedding preparations. She also brought Daella with her as a reminder of Aemma. But her most prominent reason for being there so early was to begin administering merrytea to the Lady Alicent. Rhea spoke to Gael on it beforehand and the queen subtly requested it from the cook. The queen had tea with the ladies daily and the change in the beverage went unnoticed, much to Rhea’s delight. Her second step for Alicent’s punishment was complete.

The wedding day finally arrived, on the first day of the fourth lunar cycle of the year 109 AC. The nobles of Westeros had gathered once again in Kings Landing, eager to participate in the celebrations of House Targaryen. Most had arrived in Kings Landing a week prior to be ready for the event. Some had come begrudgingly as their disapproval of the bride was evident. This included the Arryns and House Tyrell, though each had their own reasons for disapproval. Others were simply there to enjoy the festivities and frivolities that the event would present. However, little did anyone know that from the break of dawn, the expectedly happy day was steeped in misfortune.

With the gentle urging of his steward, Prince Viserys opened his eyes slowly only to groan at the sense of a crippling headache and the discomfort of nausea. “Your grace, are you alright?” Martyn asked worriedly, seeing his prince look dishevelled even before anything occurred. The young steward hesitantly approached the bed only to jump back when Viserys emptied his stomach on the duvet. For a moment, Martyn stood beside the bed with his jaw hung open in surprise. When he finally gathered himself again, he called out to the Kingsguard stationed outside. “Ser Fell!”

The knight rushed inside at the call from the steward and his eyes widened at the sight that met him. Prince Viserys looked worse for wear, with extremely pale skin, a wobbly figure and the remaining sick clinging to his lips. “I need to call for a maester!” Martyn told the knight, who nodded absentmindedly, still focused on his ill-looking charge.

Two hours later, Lady Alicent found herself in a chamber filled with the ladies of her paternal and maternal houses, as well as the queen and princess Rhea. Also present were three handmaidens and the seamstress, who all worked on helping the young lady into her bridal gown that had been in the works for the past eight weeks. The gown of cream and silver was large and puffy, consuming Alicent, who was small in stature. She had initially rejected the style as she knew it would not suit her but at her aunt’s insistence that she promote styles of the Reach to court, Alicent relented.

Now, the young woman of one-and-twenty was regretting that decision, as she felt unseen in the gown that made her look even smaller than usual. It got worse when the seamstress pulled the dress up and guided Alicent’s arms into the sleeves, only for the bodice to sag on her. There was a clear space where her chest was meant to fill the gown. Her eyes widened along with the seamstress’s, who turned to face the other ladies of the room with panic in her eyes. The women in the room exchanged glances, some looking unsure while others glared at the poor seamstress, who began to fidget.

“Just stuff it with fabric. It is perfectly normal for a bride’s weight to fluctuate before her wedding, as it can be a nerve-wracking occasion,” Princess Rhea spoke nonchalantly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. Her reaction made the other ladies relax, however, Alicent felt her face flush as it felt like a backhanded comment that blamed her for the dress not fitting. She barely contained a glare at the older woman, who sat comfortably on a sofa with her hand gently caressing her prominent belly.

Alicent could not believe the audacity of the woman. She was not stupid and perfectly understood how court games were played, especially between women. Rhea was flaunting her fertility in her face, displaying her pregnancy as a challenge to Alicent’s future son. Rhea already had three sons and two daughters, yet her husband seemed determined to follow King Jaehaerys’s footsteps and chose to once again fill his wife with child. Annoyingly too was that Rhea claimed to be in her sixth moon, yet her stomach seemed ready to pop, attracting a lot of attention that should be solely on the bride.

“Oh yes, this is more common than you think, dearest Alicent. There is no need to worry,” her aunt, Felicity Florent, said with an encouraging smile, redirecting her attention. Alicent chose to listen to her aunt and nodded tensely at the handmaidens, who scrambled to stuff her dress with the extra fabric, making up for the difference in the bodice area. Though Alicent managed to get her gown fixed and Prince Viserys got a nausea tonic from the grandmaester, the couple’s joy was hindered by the previous inconveniences.

Things did not get better for the bride specifically, as during her carriage ride to the city’s sept, the tires of her carriage broke and she had to be switched into a less comfortable carriage that caused her gown to crinkle and some of its gemstones to become loose. Nevertheless, the wedding party managed to eventually arrive at the sept and everyone uniformly headed inside with little issue, and took their seats. Just as things appeared to fall in order, the absence of Princess Rhaenyra and her cousin, Prince Gaemon, became known to some people.

Prince Viserys, who was waiting for his bride to walk down the aisle toward him, glanced nervously at the front bench which sat his direct family members, including his father the king, his stepmother and aunt, as well as his youngest daughter. However, Rhaenyra could not be found. Looking behind the front bench to where his brother and good-sister were sat, he also noticed Rhea glancing backward toward the entry, searching for his daughter and her son. Viserys swallowed the bile rising in his throat, not wishing to ruin the day further with another bout of sickness, and chose to concentrate on the ceremony he had fervently wished for.

It was at that moment that Alicent began walking down the aisle in a gorgeous gown of cream and silver. She was stunning to say the least, though the dress appeared large on her small frame and it was not the green he had envisioned. Not caring for the small details and feeling his heart fluttering at getting to unite with the woman he loved, Viserys did not pay much attention to the rest of the ceremony, having his focus stolen by Alicent’s beauty. Nothing mattered at that moment, not his dreams, not his disinheritance, not the odd absence of his daughter at this special moment.

Nothing mattered but the love he felt for this woman and the knowledge that the gods would bless them with an Aegon. To say that at that moment Viserys was blinded would be an understatement. This wilful ignorance would be the source of his downfall but he did not know it.

Somewhere In The Known World

Confusion marred his face as he watched his little puppet king get married. Something was off; he could sense it. Things looked perfect on the surface, with his puppet king and his green queen finally united. However, there were things he was still ignorant to. The king was awfully comfortable after refusing this union a year ago. Sure, the little Arryn was gone, but to allow Viserys this marriage seemed out of character.

He felt agitated that he could not see what occurred on Dragonstone and even more frustrated when it became harder and harder to view things on Runestone. He should have always had access to the latter, yet something began blocking his vision two years prior. Something that was certainly interfering with his plans. It did not matter however, as he would soon come to find out everything. Nothing ever escaped his eyes.

Chapter Text

Alicent barely contained her satisfaction as Viserys twirled her on the ballroom. It was done, they were finally wed and short of the king annulling the marriage himself, no one could stand in her way. Her father and uncle had also reassured her that King Baelon’s days were numbered, being in his older age, and sooner than later she would be named queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Her son would bring a new age to the Targaryen family and she would be hailed as the good-queen come again. She will ensure that all of Princess Aemma’s projects would stop and only the projects in her name worked.

Her day dreaming was halted when the king called for the room’s attention, and Viserys stopped their dance to glance at his father. As a respectable lady she too looked toward the king with a polite smile on her face. When their monarch gestured at the entrance, the lady followed the rest of the people’s eyes, in turning to look at the door and the herald standing just outside its threshold. Alicent could see the old man’s eyes flitting to the side of the hallway leading into the ballroom, indicating the presence of someone wishing to enter. The bride frowned at the rude interruption of her celebration, however, she worked on maintaining a demure attitude.

“ANNOUNCING, PRINCESS RHAENYRA OF HOUSE TARGARYEN, RIDER OF SILVERWING…” the herald’s voice carried across the ballroom. Before Alicent had time to react, the herald continued, “AND HER BETROTHED, PRINCE GAEMON OF HOUSE TARGARYEN, RIDER OF VERMITHOR!” The lady’s eyes widened as she watched the two children entering arm in arm, with their heads held high and their eyes shimmering with confidence. She could not believe her ears. What was happening? She thought furiously.

Alicent could not believe that the little cretin, the useless Aemma’s daughter, had disrespected her so blatantly and on her wedding day no less. When had the wretched girl even claimed the dragon and why wasn’t this known to her? Alicent’s mind was so preoccupied with Rhaenyra’s claim of Silverwing and her dramatic entry, that it took her a moment longer to notice the princess’s attire. Once she realised how Rhaenyra was dressed and how her betrothed, the rider of fucking Vermithor for Seven’s sake, was dressed, the Hightower woman nearly lost her mind. How dare they? Who allowed for this to happen?

It had to be that whore, Rhea Royce. She must have put them up to this. However, when Alicent glared back at the older woman she found her to be just as shocked as everyone else. The Royce woman’s eyes were blown wide and her mouth hung open slightly, with her hand clinging onto her husband’s arm, who appeared just as bewildered as her. This confused the new bride for a moment, but then her good-father spoke and things worsened. “My lords and ladies, I King Baelon, first of my name, have an important announcement to make on this fine day,” the king’s voice broke through the deafening silence in the hall. “As you well know, my son Prince Viserys, has just wed his second wife. What many of you do not know, is that he has been battling with an issue for a long time now.”

Alicent hesitantly gazed at her groom, in an attempt to predict what the king was announcing. Her body stiffened when Viserys’s hand tightened around her wrist and his face paled. She knew instantly that whatever the king would say, would not be good. “The issue is my son has never desired to rule and feels it an immense burden.” Alicent nearly lurched forward at the words and she felt her chest tighten as the king continued. “As such, and after many conversations, I have granted my son the privilege to step down from the line of succession.”

No, no, no, no! What was happening? Why was this happening? She must be dreaming! It could not be! The lady began to feel feint as she tried to process the events that had transpired. She barely held herself together as she squeezed her husband’s hand, in hopes of attracting his attention. Viserys looked at her with discomfort, causing her to inhale sharply at the realisation that her husband was aware of his disinheritance yet never once deemed it worth mentioning to her. How dare he? How dare those inbred abominations steal her crown?

Alicent’s ears began ringing, and she barely heard Lord Lyonel Strong questioning the king on the succession. She finally felt her legs go weak, when Baelon further humiliated her by raising his cup to toast Viserys’s disinheritance, and official removal from House Targaryen. The small compensation of granting them a new Keep by the title of Summerhall, and allowing them to open a new Valyrian house with the name Belaerys, made things more insulting. For what was anything in comparison to the Iron Throne and the crown of the Seven Kingdoms?

“Now for my succession, I have chosen to still honour my eldest son as well as my late niece, Aemma.” If not for her rigorous training by the septas, Alicent would have exploded on Baelon and hurled all types of insults at him and his family. “My lords and ladies, I invite you to swear fealty to your future queen, my heir, the Princess Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, and her future prince-consort, Prince Gaemon of House Targaryen!”

There was a moment of complete silence that followed Baelon’s proclamation, before chaos erupted in the hall. The Kingsguard and the Gold Cloaks had to bang their swords in unison on the floor, to disrupt the outburst from the guests. The combined growls of Vhagar, Dreamfyre, Caraxes, Vermithor and Silverwing also helped in startling the nobles into shutting up. Once the ballroom was silent again, the king looked indifferently at his guests and gestured for one of the lords to speak. Lord Tymond Lannister stepped forth with a confused expression on his face. “Your grace, I probably speak on behalf of most here, when I ask with utmost respect for you, if you are sure of this decision?”

Baelon hummed, “While this decision may seem abrupt for you. It has been in the works for the past six moons,” the king explained with a nod to his Hand, Lord Lyman Beesbury, and to his Master of Laws, the Archmaester Vaegon. Both council members nodded back at the king, denoting their foreknowledge of the announcement.

“Your grace, if I may. Why not choose Prince Daemon? There has been a precedent set by King Jaehaerys,” said a daring Grover Tully. Some nobles displayed their agreement with the question but the king appeared unfazed.

“The precedent set by King Jaehaerys is that a king chooses his heir, Lord Grover. My father’s reservations on women bear no precedent, for they were tainted by secondary issues,” Baelon’s voice was unwavering yet calm.

“What issues would those be, your grace?” The voice of Alicent’s father, piped up from the crowd.

The king glared at the question, “They are personal issues of my house, that no one should involve themselves with.”

After another moment of silence which the nobles used to contemplate the king’s words and to work hard on processing them, a few lords and ladies began to show signs of acceptance. It was then that Prince Daemon glanced at his men and made a hand gesture, which led them into organising the nobles into a line. The lords and ladies followed the knights of the City Watch, still unsure of what was happening. Once the nobles including Alicent and her cowardly husband, who just kept his gaze down, were organised into a line facing the High Table, Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Gaemon were guided to stand before them with the King.

Prince Daemon and his wife stepped forward first, and the rogue prince unsheathed his infamous sword before bending the knee. His heavily pregnant wife simply bowed her head and both swore fealty to the future monarchs. They were followed directly by Alicent and Viserys. The bride was fuming on the inside, at the multiple insults dealt to her on what was meant to be her special day but held herself together, just long enough to give a shallow curtesy to her stepdaughter. Rhaenyra’s triumphant lilac eyes added salt to Alicent’s bruised pride, causing the lady to swear to the Seven that she would have her revenge. For now, she will swallow her pride until she reconvened with her family to amend their plans.

The next morning, Prince Viserys sat on his bed while the grandmaester and his acolytes tended to him. He still could not believe what had occurred on his long-awaited wedding to Alicent. From start to finish, the day was laced with hurdles only to end in the worst way possible. Not only had his father publicly disinherited him and claimed that it was due to his own wishes, but after everyone swore fealty to Rhaenyra, and the newly weds were allowed to begin the bedding, Viserys’s illness returned full force and he emptied his stomach on Alicent’s beautiful gown.

Now, the prince was contemplating if it was all worth it. To be seen bowing to his own daughter of barely twelve namedays, was perhaps the most humiliating situation to be in. The only thing coming close to it in humiliation, was his first ever defeat at the hands of his brother Daemon, when they were six-and-ten and two-and-ten respectively. Viserys still remembered that day on the training yard. It had not been three moons since his marriage to Aemma, when he decided to join Daemon in training to release some steam, after his child-bride kept her flat belly yet another moon. Daemon had already shown talent with the sword but Viserys could not have imagined that his younger brother by four sunturns, could so easily throw him to the ground.

Nevertheless, the officially deposed heir felt a mix of relief and despair for the previous night’s events. On the one hand, he was finally wed to the woman he loved, his disinheritance was announced without his involvement and it was Rhaenyra that was named heir instead of Daemon or Gaemon. On the other hand, he could not even bed his wife due to his sudden onset illness, he was disinherited on what was meant to be the happiest day of his life, in front of the entire nobility no less, and he was made to bow to his daughter. It was no wonder his emotions were such a jumbled mess.

“Your grace, I suggest you have some light broths for the next few days,” Grandmaester Mellos’s voice echoed in the bedchamber. Viserys looked at the older man and nodded in acknowledgement. The maester bowed shallowly before departing from the chambers with the rest of his acolytes.

“Your grace, the Lady Alicent is here to see you,” ser Dondarrion called from the doorway. Another change was the removal of the Kingsguard from his door. They were now guarding Rhaenyra instead.

“Let her in,” he replied. Alicent walked into the room with a gentle smile on her face. Her gown was of the most beautiful red he had seen, with intricate embroidery and a mature cut. She was also adorned with jewellery befitting a married woman. Viserys’s breath hitched at the sight of her and her smile widened, as she seemed to understand the effect she had on him.

“Does my dress please you, husband?” The words were like music to his ears and he felt the hot flash of arousal taking over him. In a few seconds, the duvet was thrown to the floor as Viserys leapt from his bed and all but attacked Alicent with his eager lips. The lady allowed him to guide her back to the bed as his hands fumbled with the dress’s lacing.

Just as her husband managed to pull down the bodice of the dress, along with the upper part of her chemise, revealing her chest to him, Alicent pulled away with a gasp. “Wait, my love! You are still ill!” She tried to argue but Viserys was relentless.

“I am fine! I only care to see you pregnant with our Aegon as soon as possible!” Something indiscernible flashed in Alicent’s eyes for a quick moment, before her gaze turned sultry.

“Oh my love, I wish for nothing more either.” That was all the man needed to hear, to fulfil the duty he failed the night prior.

A few minutes later, found the couple laying on the bed together, still panting from their activity. “Viserys, why did you not tell me of your wishes to step down?” The question made him tense but Viserys knew the conversation was inevitable, as he owed Alicent an explanation.

“I am sorry, my love. My father forbad me from telling anyone, claiming he needed to do it himself. I did not expect him to announce it during our celebration,” he whispered in contempt.

He knew Alicent was frowning from the way she tensed on his chest, “But why did you not wish to rule?”

Viserys sighed, “My father and I did not see eye to eye, and eventually, it became bad enough that he gave me a near impossible choice.” At that, his wife lifted her head from where it lay on his chest, so her eyes could meet his.

“Wait, are you saying that you did not wish to step down but were forced to do so?” The man nodded and his wife’s eyes widened. “What was the choice?” She gasped out.

The Targaryen took a moment to contemplate whether to tell her or not. But he eventually said, “It was either you, or the throne.”

Alicent’s eyes watered and her lips wobbled, “And you chose me…”

Viserys took her face into his palms and kissed her softly, “How could I not? Besides, now that it is Rhaenyra who is heir, I am more certain that this is all temporary.” This caught his wife’s attention and she tilted her head questioningly at him. The deposed prince sighed, “I hate to say it…but Rhaenyra is her mother’s daughter.” Alicent’s lips thinned and her confusion increased. Viserys took another moment before he continued, “The gods wish for our son to rule, Alicent. I know it. Even if he was a consort to Rhaenyra’s daughter.”

If not for her pregnant belly and exhaustion, Baelon was sure that his good-daughter would be strangling him by now. Her hazel eyes were glaring at him with an intensity only a disapproving mother could produce. Even at the age of two-and-fifty, he could not deny the odd nervousness that crept up inside him, at being stared at like that. He felt as if he were ten again, and his mother was preparing to scold him for something or another. The Targaryen family had been sat in his solar for close to five minutes now, with none saying anything in anticipation for Rhea and Daemon’s outburst.

They were the only two of the family, besides Viserys and the younger children, who were kept in the dark regarding Rhaenyra’s elevated station and her official betrothal to her cousin. “ Daemon, Rhea, please say something…”  Gael whispered pleadingly.

Vaegon rolled his eyes, “Considering you outperformed the married couple last night, in the bedding duties, I do not see why you are pretending to be upset.” That was true. Rhea and Daemon had apparently chosen to outshine the bride and groom, even in their bedding ceremony, by coupling in the chamber close to the ballroom, hoarding the entire perverted nobility’s ears. With Viserys falling ill, Rhea and Daemon’s actions added to his embarrassment.

However, now Rhea and Daemon were showing another side to them. “That was done to further humiliate the Hightower chit. It has nothing to do with what you pulled last night,” Daemon growled, finally letting out his anger. “How could you do this without consulting us?”

Baelon bristled, “Careful Daemon, I am still your father and your king!”

“And Gaemon is OUR son!” Rhea hissed in response. The king sighed, unable to argue with her words.

“Rhea, please. You know it was for the best. This way, Rhaenyra will keep her Targaryen name and have the protection of her cousin,” Gael pleaded again.

Her good-daughter frowned, still displeased with how things were handled. However, Gael’s words rang true and in accordance with Rhea and Daemon’s initial agreement, a child of Aemma would be sitting the throne. It seemed the gods were determined to have Rhaenyra be known as the first female queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Either that, or she was going to be used as a cautionary tale against female rulers. None of the Targaryens was naïve enough to believe Rhaenyra would ascend the throne with no resistance. They knew it would be an uphill battle and will likely not end until Rhaenyra’s death. Be it of natural circumstances or otherwise.

Daemon sighed, “While that may be true, I still do not understand why you hid this from us.”

“For your reaction,” Baelon immediately responded. The couple’s faces contorted in confusion. “I did not wish for the Hightowers or the Velaryons to assume you had been influencing us to further your station.”

The couple let out noises of understanding, but Rhea frowned again not a second later. “But Rhaenyra is your heir, not Daemon or Gaemon…”

“Still. Gaemon is her consort and until we prove that she is indeed the one who will be ruling, they may still see Gaemon as her puppet master.”

“I did not know you were the strategist, kepa,” Daemon said cheekily with a smirk.

Vaegon snorted, “He is not. Your dumb kepa wished to announce Viserys’s disinheritance with his betrothal to Alicent. I was the one to convince him to wait until the wedding. And Gael had him betroth Rhaenyra and Gaemon, to leave no room for the Velaryons to interfere.”

“Mind you, neither of us were told of this until four moons ago, just before the betrothal announcement. Baelon did think of disinheriting Viserys on his own,” Gael added hastily, her tone bright and proud. The king blushed lightly at his wife’s clear admiration of his cleverness.

“The Velaryons might still feel slighted,” whispered Rhea.

“Corlys will never be satisfied until his blood sits the throne,” Baelon repeated the words Daemon once spoke to him. The rogue prince stared at his father in recognition and he nodded in agreement.

“So, what will we do?” Asked Rhea.

“You will probably dislike it, but I was thinking of betrothing Alyssa to Laenor, and have Laena marry Qoren Martell.”

Rhea and Daemon exchanged glances before turning to the king, “We can think about it.”

Baelon sighed in relief at their response. “Good. Because Alyssa has claimed Sheepstealer and I am sure Corlys will see the boon in adding another dragon to his house. Even if it bothers me.”

The parents’ jaws dropped, though Daemon’s eyes did spark with pride at knowing another of his children had successfully claimed a dragon. Then Rhea said, ”I am surprised you allowed Alyssa to claim a dragon in the first place.”

Baelon hummed, “I did it out of a sense of protection, since she is more or less still betrothed to the Martell. I did hope she would bond with a male dragon to avoid any egg situation.” The others hummed in understanding.

“Well, is there anything else we should discuss, or shall we face the first wave of rebellion?” Inquired Vaegon.

“I doubt anyone will be rebelling anytime soon. They will still be reeling from the situation and will not likely process it fully until they are back in their Keeps,” Gael replied with a hum.

“That is very likely, yes. As for other things to discuss, there is simply one more thing I will declare by the end of this week,” said Baelon and his family looked at him in curiosity. “I shall be dismissing Percival Hightower as Master of Coin, under the pretence that I cannot show favouritism to their house, more than I already do through Alicent. Lord Lyonel Strong will replace him.”

“You keep surprising me with your intelligence, kepa. Both choices are very sound,” Daemon replied playfully. Baelon glared at him half-heartedly, knowing his son only meant to tease him.

“I too am taken aback by your initiatives, dearest lekia,” Vaegon said with as much playfulness as his nephew, surprising the family. This time Baelon did glare at his brother, who only gazed back at him with mock innocence.

“My, uncle! The world must be coming to an end, for you seem to have developed a sense of humour.” It was Vaegon’s turn to glare at Daemon, but the rogue prince remained unfazed and displaying his dazzling smile to them. None of the men noticed the two women exchanging giggles, finding a small sense of happiness before what will no doubt be a long road from then on.

Chapter Text

Over the past four years of his employment to the City Watch, Criston Cole bore witness to many things. Some explainable and entertaining, others, not so much of either. When he had come to Kings Landing for Princess Rhaella’s first nameday celebration, back in 105 AC, his ultimate ambition was to join the Kingsguard. If not, he would have been very pleased as just another knight of the Red Keep. So, when Ser Ryam Redwyne passed and a white cloak became available, Criston took this as a sign from the Seven to apply for the position.

To his disappointment, Prince Daemon Targaryen passed him over for a northerner, just for his longer experience in battle. Criston had had his own battle experience in the Dornish Marches, fighting against those traitorous Dornishmen. However, it seemed the rogue prince did not see Cole’s expertise as significant enough, at least that was what the knight thought. It was a day after the selection of the Kingsguard that Prince Daemon personally approached Criston with a gold cloak, and a knowing smirk. “I know it may not be what you hoped for but I believe you will fit my men far better than my father’s,” the commander had said to him.

“Your grace, I do not understand?”

Daemon had rolled his eyes, “You and Ser Manderly both have been in true battle but your opponents differed,” the prince had explained. “You have fought traitors and sneaky fighters, while he has fought brutes.” Criston had opened his mouth to argue that the Dornish were just as brutish but the prince interrupted him. “It may seem to you that the Wildlings and the Dornish are one in the same but there are minute differences that make you and Ser Manderly, uniquely qualified for the positions I give you.”

“You believe I am qualified to join your City Watch, my prince?” Criston had glanced down at the gold cloak and nervously reached for it. In truth, he was very honoured to be under the prince’s employment. Prince Daemon’s Gold Cloaks were renowned all over the Seven Kingdoms and many young men, noble and peasant alike, dreamed of joining them, for it became an honour that carried your name and elevated your station in society. The pay was healthy too, granting even the most lowborn men the ability to live comfortably and support their families.

Daemon had smiled at his hesitation, “You will be protecting the city from thieves, liars and abusers, people who wish to cause chaos in the city, just for the hell of it. Does that sound familiar?” The prince’s words had made his ears perk up and Criston could only nod and smile proudly.

“I shall wear this cloak with honour, your grace, I swear it by the Seven Who Are One.” Now, Criston could admit to himself that the prince had made the right choice. For while the Kingsguards were held in the highest honour, they rarely got to interact with the court or even fight, unless someone was stupid enough to try attacking the royal family. Therefore, the job was mostly spent as shadowing the royal family and listening to gossip. Neither appealed to Criston, especially after his experience with his City Watch brothers.

Prince Daemon was generous, treating his men more like friends than his employees. He was still strict with their training and patrols but it was for good reason. Criston also enjoyed the company of his brothers and all the luxuries bestowed upon him as a City Watch member. The smallfolk often greeted him with smiles, merchants would hand him free things, women threw themselves at him and there were no oaths preventing him from entertaining their company. To say he was living the good life, would be an understatement and he owed it all to his commander.

Therefore, whenever Prince Daemon was slighted or disrespected, like every one of the Gold Cloaks, Criston’s hackles would rise. That was why he felt a deep satisfaction when he watched Prince Viserys and his Hightower whore be humiliated at their wedding. The knight had heard through the grape vine, how the couple sometimes insulted Prince Daemon, and his family, on their walks, and it took all of Criston’s honour not to attack either of them. So, to see Viserys and Alicent exposed to all manners of misfortune on their supposedly happy day, was pleasing.

First, word had reached the Gold Cloaks that Prince Viserys had taken ill on the morning of his wedding and they all shared curious looks, at the odd timing of the illness. Then, when the bride’s carriage broke, Criston and some of his brothers, who were assigned to the whore’s carriage, were the first to witness Alicent’s ruined gown. The lady had to leave the comfortable carriage and stand on the unpaved ground of Kings Landing. Due to its colour, the bottom of Lady Alicent’s gown was easily dirtied.

Afterward, when Criston and Tyrion aided her into the new carriage, both knights spotted the stuffed bodice. Cole had been shocked into silence at seeing how the gown was poorly fitting on the lady and wondered how it had been allowed. “I did not know Prince Viserys desired boys,” Tyrion whispered mockingly. The younger man had to cover his mouth with the back of his hand, to prevent a snort at his companion’s jape and his eyes narrowed glaringly at Tyrion. The older knight kept his smirk, a habit he gained from Prince Daemon. “Perhaps Lady Alicent is actually Lord Alistair.” This time, Cole had to cough to hide his laughter.

By the time the noble retinue returned to the Red Keep after the ceremony in the city’s sept, Cole and the other City Watch members were growing a little bored from the festivities, only for the king to shock everyone present with his declaration of Prince Viserys’s disinheritance, and Princess Rhaenyra’s elevated station. Criston felt a mixture of satisfaction and disappointment at the king’s announcement. He was glad to see Prince Viserys be knocked down from his high horse and his whore losing the position of potential queen. However, he was aggrieved for his commander and his son, for losing out on being named heirs to the Iron Throne.

To Criston and others in the City Watch, no one deserved the Iron Throne more than Prince Daemon and his protégée, Prince Gaemon. Nevertheless, Prince Gaemon still gained the position of future prince-consort and Cole somewhat understood Princess Rhaenyra’s heirship, as both an homage to her mother and compensation for her father’s lost station. In the long run, it was none of his business who sat the throne, as long as they were competent and maintained the City Watch.

Lyonel Strong felt his hands sweating as he took his seat in the Small Council chamber. He was the first to arrive, feeling the need to prepare himself for his first ever meeting, in order to make a good impression. This council had already gained recognition across the Seven Kingdoms and beyond, for all the work they had accomplished in their brief time as figureheads of the realm. The roads reconstruction, the White Leaves, the printing press and the war for the Stepstones, each had a notable impact on Westeros.

Now, Lyonel was named to the council without much experience, as a replacement for Lord Percival Hightower. It had not even been a week since the wedding between Prince Viserys and Lady Alicent, and to be added to the council after such a massive event was nerve-wracking to say the least. Lyonel was not truly affected by the king’s decision to name Princess Rhaenyra heir, however, he was neither stupid nor naïve, as to believe there would be no push back. This council meeting will no doubt be filled with talks on this exact topic and as Master of Coin, Lyonel had his work cut out for him.

He had already prepared some suggestions to mitigate the possible ramifications of the change in succession. He suspected that some lords will rebel through fraudulent reports on their income, thus avoiding paying the crown the taxation it was owed. He also suspected that Lady Alicent may request further compensation from the crown, through coin or jewels. Although House Hightower was the richest house in the Reach, it did not mean they were interested in funding the establishment of a new house for one of their daughters. That kind of money would be better spent opening a cadet house for second sons, rather than for a daughter of a second son.

“Ah, Lord Strong,” the man startled at the sound of Prince Daemon’s voice. He quickly made to stand up, in order to bow, but the prince waved him off. “No, no. Don’t bother. I have no need for such courtesies from a man such as yourself.” Lyonel frowned at the comment but remained seated as he watched the prince pull out a chair to sit on. Daemon turned to gaze at him with his amethyst eyes, and Lyonel was reminded of the Valyrian beauty the royal family held. Even as a man, he could understand the appeal of the rogue prince, especially when he smirked like that. “How is Harwin?”

Lyonel blinked before a smile broke out on his face, “If I did not know any better, your grace, I would say that my son is infatuated with you.”

The Commander of the City Watch cackled, “Ah, yes. It is my ultimate goal to have my men falling in love with me. It would guarantee their loyalty more than the coin I give them. Don’t you think?” The older lord chuckled at the prince’s words, though he did not argue with them. “You have three daughters as well, don’t you?”

At the mention of his girls, Lyonel’s face lit up considerably. The Strong knew if his sons were here, they would be teasing him about his clear favouritism of his daughters. Larys always said that Lyonel would not have minded siring only daughters, for he appeared like the richest man in the world, whenever one of the girls embraced him or spoke to him. “I do, your grace. My eldest two, Annara and Dacey will be remaining in Kings Landing with me and Harwin. While my youngest Layla will be heading back to Harrenhal with my second son Larys.”

Daemon hummed with a strange sparkle in his eyes, “Your daughters are close to my niece in age, are they not?” Lyonel nodded hesitantly, earning a predatory smirk from the prince. “Perhaps they can join her ladies-in-waiting with my daughter and Lady Laena.”

The Master of Coin’s eyes widened and he sputtered at the offer, “Your grace, it will be an honour!” The prince nodded and reached forward to pat the older man on the shoulder. Before they continued, the door to the council chamber opened, leading both men to turn their heads at the door, to see the newcomer. Apparently, the rest of the council chose to appear together, as they all filed inside the room. Archmaester Vaegon stepped inside first, followed by the rest, ending with Ser Harrold Westerling who followed closely behind the king and queen, with a hand on the hilt of his sword.

The council members exchanged quick pleasantries before the king gestured for them to sit. “Firstly, I would like to welcome our newest member, Lord Lyonel Strong,” the lords and queen nodded at the man, who shallowly bowed his head in acknowledgment. “Secondly, I would like to inform you that my heir shall join us from the next session.” The room went silent, as most of its members were surprised by the addition of the princess.

“Your grace, is the princess not too young?” Lord Beesbury was maybe the only non-Targaryen member who could question the king so blatantly on his decision.

Baelon did not flinch when he replied, “She is twelve namedays, suitable enough to join. However, she shall be an observer and my personal assistant till she comes of age in four years’ time.”

“How will the princess be assisting you, your grace?” Grandmaester Mellos inquired with a false smile. Lyonel did not like the man from his own days in the Citadel. They were not in the same branch of study but they had interacted sparingly, and Mellos was very arrogant throughout all their conversations.

“The princess will be noting down what occurs in the council, for me to review whenever I wish. She will also be writing down her personal thoughts on the topics we discuss, so she may share them with me in private, until she fully joins the council,” the king explained smoothly, clearly having prepared for these questions. The councilmen all hummed in understanding and even Mellos resignedly leaned back in his chair.

Rhea panted as she walked across the Red Keep toward the gardens, with three guards flanking her. While she loved her children and could claim that her pregnancies were considered smooth, the woman still struggled in her later moons. Rhea knew that predicting how far along she was, without an ultrasound, was difficult but this pregnancy seemed to progress very quickly and suddenly. She had discovered it just after Daella’s nameday celebration, five moons prior to Viserys and Alicent’s wedding.

While the news did not come as a surprise, seeing as she and Daemon had been actively attempting to have their final babe, and were more determined than ever after Viserys declared his intention of courting Alicent, the way the pregnancy developed, had been a little unsettling. Only three moons in, Rhea’s belly swelled to double the size it was meant to be, worrying her that the count was wrong. Due to this, Yelena and Orys agreed that she was either further along than they initially suspected, or more likely that she was pregnant with twins again.

When told she might be carrying another set of twins, Rhea growled in exasperation at her husband. Daemon for his part beamed at the news and was extra affectionate. His only mistake was making a comment about how disappointing it would be, not to even out their family. “Maybe it is the Gods’ way of telling us to have more children?” He had japed, but when Rhea threatened to have him castrated and thrown to the mountain clans; if he tried to get her pregnant after this one, the rogue prince relented. Though he maintained his satisfaction over the knowledge that they may have another set of twins.

Now, Rhea was barely able to walk around with the melon sized belly, however, it was worth it to join the ladies’ court, for Alicent’s first presence as a married woman. As etiquette dictated, the married couple spent the first seven days together, to enjoy each other’s company and to work on making their heir. Therefore, Alicent could not join the women of court for their usual gathering and Gael had purposefully held off on the court for the entire week, so that the women could only get their fill of gossiping on the newly weds in Alicent’s presence.

“Rhea, you made it!” The queen greeted her good-daughter with a bright smile, and Rhea returned it with a tired one. Gael and two other ladies helped the pregnant woman sit comfortably on one of the cushioned garden chairs, before a servant came to serve her tea.

“Apologies, my ladies, the babe has been a little fussy,” Rhea said with a caress to her belly. Predictably, all the women fawned over her, with some giving her sympathetic smiles.

“Prince Daemon must really love children, your grace,” Lady Amanda Arryn stated with a smirk.

Rhea snorted at her, “He does enjoy the act of making them,” she whispered with a wink, earning giggles from the women.

Suddenly, the laughter stopped and some eyes flitted toward the side. Rhea’s eyes followed the gazes and she barely withheld a smirk, at the sight of Alicent Hightower…Belaerys?

“Lady Alicent, how wonderful of you to join us,” the queen greeted with a polite smile.

The new bride curtsied before coming closer, “Thank you, your grace. My husband has seen it fit to allow me to rejoin the court,” the young woman whispered with a blush. If Rhea did not know any better, she would have believed the innocent act. However, she was not born yesterday and Alicent was not as good of an actress as she hoped. Her eyes still held that spark of arrogance and triumph.

“How kind of him. We were just talking about Prince Daemon’s…enthusiasm to have children. I assume Prince Viserys is no different?” Lady Serena Tyrell said with a playful smirk.

Alicent took her seat and looked at the older woman, “Yes…my husband is…eager to see me with child,” she stuttered out.

“I am sure he is. I remember he did not allow Princess Aemma much respite. I do hope you give him plenty of children, dear Alicent. After all, to start a new house you need plenty of heirs,” Gael spoke nonchalantly, though her tone was sharp.

The Hightower girl stiffened at the mention of her husband’s late wife but she maintained her composure. The girl was well trained, Rhea had to give her that, though it was fun to see her squirm. “The Hightowers and Florents are a fertile brood, your grace. Our daughter will fulfil her duty very well,” Lady Felicity said with as much sharpness as the queen.

The Royce woman raised a brow at that, “Most of our families are fertile, my lady. However, I must remind you that the Targaryen blood did not mesh well with certain…families,” she replied.

“What do you mean, your grace?” Lady Pyrcella Frey questioned with curiosity. She was still very young, compared to most of the married women of court, yet her father had unfortunately seen it fit, to wed her to Lord Jasper Bracken a year after she flowered. Her question highlighted her youth and naivety to court games, and Rhea felt bad for her.

“There has been a history of…pregnancy issues, when a Targaryen wed outside of our house. Princess Daella passed from her pregnancy with Princess Aemma, although both were perfectly healthy…” Gael paused, both to appear hesitant and for dramatic affect. Rhea was very proud. “And then there were…Lady Ceryse’s struggles.”

The ladies went silent for a moment, with Alicent’s familial women bristling at the mention of Maegor’s wife. “Your grace, to compare Alicent to…...to that man’s poor wife…” Lady Catelyn Hightower, wife of Percival Hightower, stuttered with disgust.

“There is no comparison here, Lady Catelyn. I am sure the queen is simply worried for her new good-daughter. Though I am sure Alicent will fulfil her duty proficiently,” Rhea said smoothly with a falsely kind smile. Then, she reached to lay a hand over the bride’s arm and looked directly into her eyes. “I know you will have no issues, my dear. The Gods will bless you with child soon.”

Alicent appeared frightful of her but kept her gaze on Rhea’s, “My husband said the Gods will bless us with an Aegon…” the young girl whispered, no doubt hoping the words would give her confidence.

“Oh, how wonderful! I did not know Viserys wished to honour his brother!” Gael said excitedly. The ladies all murmured delightedly, copying the queen’s energy, and feeling as if the tension was dissolving.

Rhea chose to lean back in her chair, and Alicent’s eyes turned to the queen. “I…yes, your grace. He wishes to honour his brother and the conqueror…”

“I see. Aegon is indeed a strong name. Rhea, how come you never used it?” Gael asked her friend out of genuine curiosity. Some other ladies also glanced at the pregnant woman with a similar question on their minds.

Rhea hummed but internally smirked, “Oh, I do not think it is wise to say…”

“Oh, come now, why would the rogue prince not wish to name a son of his after his brother and the conqueror?” Lady Felicity took the bait, desperate to find a chip in Rhea and Daemon’s marriage.

The Royce woman sighed, “It is due to the luck following the name.” When the women stared at her with confusion in their eyes, the lady continued. “Aegon the uncrowned, King Jaehaerys’s deceased Aegon and King Baelon’s own deceased Aegon. Once is an accident, a second is a coincidence, but third…third is a pattern. My husband and I did not wish to burden our child with such a name.”

The words quickly shifted the atmosphere into something grim and to capitalise on the damage, Rhea once again met Alicent’s gaze and gave her a false smile. “But I am sure your son will break the pattern, dearest Alicent.” Rhea immediately saw the moment the threat registered in Alicent’s eyes, and the younger woman swallowed fearfully. She did look pretty when afraid like that, and Rhea had just gotten started.

Chapter Text

Orys glanced uncomfortably between the two women, who were in a heated staring contest. The maester cleared his throat awkwardly, “I shall leave you be, your graces,” he said and hastily exited his lady’s solar. Rhea remained seated at her desk while staring into the sharp lilac eyes, of one Princess Rhaenys. The older woman had come unannounced to Runestone. Rhea had only returned to her Keep, two days ago, after remaining in Kings Landing an extra week, following the encounter with Alicent at the ladies’ court.

“What can I do for you, princess?” The Royce woman asked in a monotone voice.

Rhaenys scowled, “You know exactly why I am here, Rhea. Do not play dumb with me!”

The younger woman continued to stare nonchalantly at her unexpected guest, “I do. Though I am uncertain of your…standing on the situation. Which is why I am asking.”

“How dare you steal away my son’s birthright? Have we not had this discussion before?”

Rhea bristled, “I stole nothing, Rhaenys. It was Baelon who made this decision. So, if you have any qualms about it, go to him!”

The older woman scoffed, “Do you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with it? That this hadn’t been your wish all along, since Gaemon’s birth and Jaehaerys’s decree?”

Rhea did not wish to argue with Rhaenys. She respected the older and considered her family, however, in her current condition and with Rhaenys’s stubbornness, the Royce could not hold her tongue and she banged her palm on the desk. “You have no right to assume these things. I have never done anything for you to speak with me this way!”

The Queen-Who-Never-Was, proud as ever, refused to back down, sneering at her relative through marriage. “Do not treat me as an idiot! I have already been insulted thrice now, by my own kinsmen.”

The younger furrowed her brows, “Exactly! Your strife is not with me, it is with your late grandsire and uncle!”

“My grandsire may have disinherited me and my uncle usurped me, but you are the one stealing what is meant to be my children’s,” Rhaenys panted from her anger. “My daughter was meant to be queen and my son a king. Now they are delegated to mere lordship!”

Rhea gazed at the older woman for a moment. “Once again, I am stealing nothing. I was unaware of this decision!”

“Come now, Rhea. Let us not pretend you are not like every other ambitious noble, desiring the throne. If my daughter could not wed the heir to the throne and be his queen, then the least that could be offered is the heiress’s hand to my son!” Rhaenys hissed aggressively.

“Rhaenyra’s hand is not a prize to be passed around!”

Rhaenys gritted her teeth, “Do not misconstrued my words to justify your betrayal of me and mine. I trusted you and Daemon.”

“There was no betrayal, Rhaenys. You act as if Daemon and I have no right to the throne and I am tired of talking in circles with you,” Rhea hissed defensively.

Rhaenys smirked triumphantly, her teeth bare, “There it is. So you admit you feel entitled to the throne.” Rhea wanted to roll her eyes at the stubbornness of the other woman but then, Rhaenys made a dangerous comment. “I wonder what Aemma would say, if she can see how you will puppeteer her beloved daughter.”

The younger woman glared, “Careful with your words Rhaenys, I will not tolerate a mention of Aemma.”

The older woman scoffed, “You cannot hide the truth forever, Rhea. We both know Laenor is more deserving of Rhaenyra’s hand.”

“I am hiding nothing and there are reasons why Gaemon was chosen over your son. You are the one acting as if my child is unworthy of his position!”

“No reason is enough to pick your son over mine. Laenor, has everything your son has and more,” Rhaenys argued vehemently.

Rhea tensed and her eyes widened, “If you truly believe that, then perhaps Jaehaerys was right in his stance.”

The older’s eyes widened as well, “YOU DARE?!”

Rhea held her ground, “I do dare. For all of Jaehaerys’s faults, I do think he had his reasons for disinheriting you, though most correlate to your gender, they were good reasons nevertheless.”

Rhaenys’s eyes twitched and she smiled mockingly, “Oh? And what would those be?”

“You were the only daughter of the eldest son, yet you had an uncle in his prime. If I am not mistaken, wasn’t it in similar circumstances that Jaehaerys gained his crown? Wouldn’t naming you heir, directly discredit his rule?”

Rhaenys stepped back in shock and she blinked at Rhea, clearly having never thought on this issue before. Another weakness to having strong pride. Never reassessing situations to learn from them or to try making sense of them. Holding a grudge for a slight without inquiring about its reasons. Rhea sighed, “Then there was your marriage.”

The older furrowed her brows and turned her nose up, “My grandsire was happy with my marriage.”

Rhea chuckled bitterly, “Because you probably proved him right in his bigoted mentality.” When Rhaenys stared at her in confusion, Rhea continued. “Lady Velaryon, often women in Westeros take their husband’s name after marriage and their children take the husband’s name as well. While in many circumstances, a woman inherits her family’s Keep, she usually marries a second son with nothing to his name, who is happy to have a standing through his wife, in exchange for taking her name and his children taking her name.”

Rhaenys swallowed, “I would have assumed my Targaryen name once I ascended the throne and Laena, who would rule after me will also take the Targaryen name.”

Rhea’s gaze turned dark, “I thought you were not a fool, Rhaenys. This is the Iron Throne we are talking about and the Sea Snake, maybe the most ambitious man in Westeros since Aegon the Conqueror himself.” The younger paused, allowing her words to sink in and to give Rhaenys the chance to come to the conclusion herself. However, the older woman remained wilful in her ignorance. “Come now, Rhaenys. Look me in the eye and tell me your husband would not have grown power-hungry when so close to the throne. Tell me he would not have found a way to leave you bed-bound so he may rule in your stead.”

Rhaenys shook her head, “He…Corlys would do no such thing. And if my grandsire thought this was true, why agree to wed me to him?”

“I did not say Jaehaerys expected Corlys to harm you or attempt to rule in your stead. More that a man like Corlys would have no qualms causing strife, so that his name passes to the future king and queen, instead of the Targaryen name,” Rhea explained nonchalantly. In truth, she indeed believed that a man like Corlys Velaryon would always wish and strive for more. Men like him when given an inch, would ask for a mile. “And no respectable lord, let alone one who wears a crown, that of the Iron Throne no less, would allow his family name to be erased for another. All for a woman to sit the throne when another, more desirable candidate, sits close by.”

Rhaenys stumbled back, looking as if she were slapped. She shook her head, refusing to accept Rhea’s logical words and the idea that her grandsire may have had good reasons for disinheriting her. “Once again I ask you. If what you say is true, then why let me marry him?”

Rhea looked at her desk, “It is mostly speculation on my part, but perhaps he thought that maybe, just maybe, this girl who was clever, so diligent in her studies and who reminded him of his daughter Alyssa, is unlike other women and who is capable of ruling.” She lifted her gaze to meet the lilac one’s of her guest. Rhaenys appeared rightfully sceptical of where she was going. “Perhaps he took you on the progress to see if you could charm the lords of the realm and gain their loyalty. To see if you would make wise decisions.”

“And Corlys was not a wise decision, due to his ambition?”

Rhea smiled bitterly, “The Targaryens wed brother to sister, uncle to niece and aunt to nephew, your own father married his aunt. So tell me, Lady Velaryon, why wed the Sea Snake when you had a perfect consort candidate in your cousin Viserys?” There it was, Rhea’s true thoughts on how this entire debacle should have been handled. Rhaenys should have always chosen Viserys in her opinion.

Rhaenys was taken aback, blinking and looking unsure of what to say. “Viserys was a child…”

“Who would have come of age three years later. Who would have maintained your Targaryen name.” With each words spoken, Rhaenys’s eyes watered and developed a redness to them.  “Who would have guaranteed you, dragon-riding children and who would have been obedient to your whims. A true consort to a monarch. Yet, just like any simple-minded maiden, like Jaehaerys predicted, you chose to fall for sweet words and sparkling gems. Choosing your happiness over the realm.”

A sudden knock on the door interrupted the rant. Daemon walked in unannounced and glanced between his cousin and his wife. “Apologies, cousin. I did not expect to see you here.”

“Never mind that, I was just leaving,” the older woman replied and hastily left the chambers without allowing a response.

Daemon turned to his wife in concern, who glanced unaffectedly at the entry, “Let her be. I may have opened her eyes to a bitter reality and she may need to reassess what she used to believe.”

She was definitely castrating him. He will never touch her again and neither will he have a cock after she was done with him. “Time to push the second one, your grace,” Yelena spoke softly. Rhea let out a horrible cry as she pushed on her next contraction. It had happened so egregiously slowly. Two moons after Rhaenys’s visit, Rhea felt the discomfort of labour starting. What was expected to be a smooth birth, considering it was her fifth pregnancy, turned into the worst twenty-eight hours of the woman’s life. She had spent all of the initial 24 hours suffering through contractions. The attempts of soothing the pain, through chewing on willow bark, weirwood leaves, walking and even bathing in lukewarm water, had little effect.

She knew this pregnancy had taken its toll on her, however, she had hoped the birth would be easier. Unfortunately, even when it was her fifth time going through this, it seemed these babes were making it their mission, to ensure she never wished for another babe. Their entry into the world was certainly becoming a spectacle. “I see it, it is feet first, your grace. Would you like to try pushing or should we use the forceps?” Maester Orys inquired calmly.

Rhea took a deep breath between her contractions, to try making a decision. She then shook her head, “Use the forceps, my energy is not enough.” Daemon reached to hold her cheeks and whispered encouraging words to her. Maybe she will let him keep his cock after all, she thought deliriously. She knew her cheeks were flushed a deep red and her face was covered in sweat, yet her husband still looked at her with unconditional love in his eyes.

“Take steady breaths, your grace, and push gently,” the maester instructed and Rhea focused hard to avoid flinching at the sensation of the forceps. She was glad that she had had them made, a while back, so that the healing guild had plenty of time to study them and test them. The lady pushed and felt the sensation of the babe being gently guided out of her. With a few more contractions and a bit more coaxing with the forceps, the second babe was out.

“Well done, your grace. Your babes are here,” Yelena said excitedly.

“They are very small. So, we should try using the new incubator for them,” added the maester. The idea for the incubator had occurred to Rhea a year ago, and she made sketches of it to her maester and glass blower. It did not take much effort to make one, considering its common items. The incubator was made of glass and insulated with wool. There was a tray below it with adjustable height, for a fire to be lit, so the incubator could be warmed.

Rhea sighed and nodded in understanding. She felt relief that the birth was over and she was only waiting for the afterbirth to come. Suddenly, as she was squatting to sit on the floor, another powerful contraction took her. She let out a new scream, causing panic across the room. The inhabitants exchanged terrified glances, before Yelena yelped, “There is another one!” Orys let out a very unmanly squeak, as he caught the babe that all but fell out. The mother panted as she felt dizziness and nausea overwhelm her. The last thing she remembered was a worried Daemon calling her name, before she passed out.

The next time Rhea opened her eyes, she whimpered at the headache and body ache. “Rhea? My love, can you hear me?” The lady groaned in response to her husband, who she surmised was sitting on her bedside. “I will call Orys. You have been asleep for more than four days. You scared us, my love.” The lady remained delirious for a while, though she could hear shuffling and muffled voices around her. She was given some light broth to drink and a serum to strengthen her body.

It took two hours after Rhea’s initial rousing, for her to become fully conscious. The lady was gently guided to sit on the bed and she whimpered again at the pain in her sex and the back of her head. Her vision had barely adjusted to the light and her emotions were heightened from the labour. “The babes,” she whispered with a sniffle.

“Alive and kept in the incubator. Orys said it was a miracle they were born this strong and able to swallow, otherwise, they would have not made it through the first night,” Daemon whispered back. Rhea let out a sob of relief and her husband held her to his chest, providing much needed comfort. “You must focus on your health, my love. This has taken a great toll on your body and we were lucky you did not suffer through a strong birthing fever.”

“The protocol…”

“Being followed to the letter, please do not worry. Once you are stronger, we will give you the babes to hold,” Daemon replied swiftly. The lady nodded and allowed herself to be held more.

The protocol was nothing special, with simple instructions on how the incubator would be used and how the babes would be handled, through clean clothes, masks, gloves, and hair covers. The babes were touched only by the nursemaids feeding them, the maester who checked on them periodically and Daemon who would provide them with some familial skin contact. The three babes were in the same incubator to encourage their growth together and were kept warm through the fire. Each babe had two nursemaids assigned to them, each known to have a heavy supply of milk, and were fed every hour in rotation.

Three days after Rhea’s waking, she was finally able to hold them and feed them directly, giving an extra form of nutrition and connection. This vigilance was maintained for four whole weeks, that were eventful to say the least. One of the babes developed a coughing fit at some point but thankfully recovered and the other two were not affected. Another babe cried a lot through the night, requiring much of Rhea’s attention but also calmed eventually. The third babe was easier than the others, though being the smallest in size brought its own concerns.

Once the first four weeks of high monitoring were over, the family breathed a sigh of relief. The feeding schedule and hygiene requirements were continued, however, there was a ray of hope that the babes may survive their infancy. The news of their birth was not shared throughout that time, as to not invite enemy attention on them. In fact, the birth of Princess Saera Targaryen Royce, Princess Sansa Targaryen Royce and Prince Yorbert Targaryen Royce, was not announced to the kingdom until the three completed their eighth week and their family was finally allowed to interact with them as normal babes.

Alicent scowled at the sight of the blood covering her undergarments and the sense of failure fluttered once more in her chest. It had been over six moons since her marriage to Viserys, yet she had nothing to show for it in terms of pregnancy. Her moonblood came on time for every moon, with not the slightest hint of disruption. Added to that, the whore of Runestone just had to give birth to triplets. Fucking triplets and one just had to be a boy. That made four boys for Prince Daemon.

The only sliver of appeasement from the births, was the boy’s looks. Apparently, the Royce woman grew tired of birthing Valyrian-looking babes and had given birth to two babes who were a replica of her. This included the boy, Yorbert. Even his name was not Valyrian. Alicent had wished to spread rumours of bastardy for the boy, however, his eldest triplet was pure Valyrian. According to her father Prince Daemon, Princess Saera had the Valyrian silver locks and her eyes were developing the bright green hue, inherited from the late Princess Alyssa.

To say that Alicent was frustrated, would be an understatement. After the disinheritance of her husband, she had reconvened with her family and all agreed that she needed to bide her time. Once she birthed a son for Viserys, they could begin gathering allies and diminishing Rhaenyra’s. The girl was still very young, with no heirs of her own, in addition to the disadvantages of her gender. No respectable lord would favour a daughter over a son, especially following Jaehaerys’s legacy. The man had bypassed his own older sister and nieces, all for the fact he was a man.

Regardless of some lords not caring enough for the succession, as long as it maintained peace, there were enough willing to plunge the realm into war, to maintain the status quo of the male prerogative across Westerosi nobility. Alicent cared little for that particular objective, but she would support it to be crowned queen and her son the future king of the Seven Kingdoms. Her name would go down in history, as the Hightower queen who guided her family into the light of glory and her children would bring a new age to Westeros, as the first in a long line of Hightower kings.

For now however, her position was dubious without a son. At this point, just the news of a pregnancy was helpful, yet her body was betraying her by not conceiving as quickly as the rest of the women in her family. Her mother had gotten pregnant with her eldest brother Oswick on her wedding night and her aunt Felicity got pregnant two moons after her marriage to Rohan Redwyne. Both birthed boys on their first pregnancy, so it was natural for Alicent to expect a son as well, for her first pregnancy. The maesters reassured her she had no afflictions and her body was primal for birthing sons. Maester Mellos had gone as far as telling her she was unlikely to birth daughters.

The lady sighed as she left her chambers to head to the ladies’ court. This was another place she seemed to fail at. Queen Gael had a firm grip on the noblewomen and her ladies-in-waiting were diligent in preserving her rule in her rare absences. While this prevented Alicent from having any control over the women of court, it was not the most humiliating aspect of her position. No, the fact that she was expected to curtesy and kneel before her young stepdaughter was the worst part of it.

The little cretin had also grown bolder in the past few moons, thanks to Alicent’s lack of pregnancy and the attendance of Small Council meetings. The indulgence of the king and queen had also encouraged Rhaenyra to believe she held power in court and that her status as heir, protected her from scrutiny and allowed her to command the other noblewomen. Never mind the fact she was still in her minority, not yet flowered. Alicent had tried influencing the little princess, hoping to counsel her into obedience and to take control over her upbringing, however, Gael had taken over that too. With the claim that Alicent had no knowledge on how an heiress of house Targaryen should be raised.

Speaking of which, “Ah, Lady Alicent. How has your day been?” The queen greeted her with a fake smile. Per usual, the Targaryen woman was surrounded by the women of court in the gardens.

“I have been well, your grace,” she replied curtly as she took her seat next to Gael. Alicent was still the second highest ranking woman at court, at least in the absence of Princesses Rhaenys and Rhea. Another insult to her was the lack of elevated title. How was it fair, that the Wildling whore received the title of Princess upon marrying Prince Daemon, a second son who stood to inherit nothing, while Alicent received no such curtesy?

“Your grace, when will Princess Rhea present her babes to court?” Asked Lady Pyrcella, eager as always to hear of news on her favourite lady.

The queen chuckled, “Rhea will present them after their first nameday. They are still quite fragile and she wishes to ensure their strength for the journey.”

“It is a miracle the three have lasted all four moons so far,” Felicity said provokingly.

Gael narrowed her eyes at that, “The Gods have been most merciful to Rhea. I received a letter this morning, informing me that she has finally recovered from the labour. She is certainly favoured by the Gods.” Alicent gritted her teeth at that. No, she was the one favoured by the gods. Her Aegon will be born soon, she knew it. All she had to do was be a little patient.

“What about you, Lady Alicent? Shall we be expecting a new Targaryen soon?” Asked Lady Redwyne.

“I…”

“Belaerys, Lady Redwyne. Alicent and Viserys are starting their new house and they shall fill it with heirs,” the queen intervened with a smile. Alicent clenched her fists under the table and barely managed to contain a scowl. Yet another antagonistic reminder of her husband’s disinheritance and the slight against her son.

Instead of allowing the older woman’s words to affect her, Alicent put on her best demure act. “Viserys and I will be welcoming a child soon, I assure you, Lady Redwyne, your grace. House Belaerys shall be blessed with as many children as the good queen and old king were.” Gael’s eyebrows raised into her forehead, causing Alicent to smirk internally. She was no pitiful girl, she was Alicent Hightower. No matter how much the little queen tried to disregard hers and Viserys’s connection to the throne, she will be there to flip the narrative.

Chapter Text

“Many would argue that the decisions made throughout the years of 109 AC – 111 AC, had added coal to the fire simmering between the then Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and her father Viserys Belaerys ‘the kinless’. It was no secret that Viserys’s second wife Lady Alicent, had had conflicts with her eldest stepdaughter. But what many had not expected, was House Velaryon’s reaction to the Princess’s elevated station and subsequent betrothal to her consort Prince Gaemon Targaryen Royce.

The Velaryons had already perceived King Baelon I’s ascension to the Iron Throne, as a usurpation of his niece the Princess Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon. However, they would swallow their pride by holding out hope of uniting the family through marriage, only to be thoroughly rejected by both, Viserys Targaryen and his daughter. Though Viserys Targaryen had lost his inheritance to the Iron Throne, after his second marriage, this provided little consolidation to the Velaryons, who demanded Princess Rhaenyra’s hand as compensation, just to be refused once again.

More factors would add to the Velaryons’ frustration and bruised pride, leading them to make specific decisions in the subsequent years. Decisions that not only contributed to the outcome of the Dance but also abetted in its development….”

-Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

Qoren sneered at the man who dramatically stormed out of his solar with some thinly veiled insults. The Prince of Dorne massaged the bridge of his nose, where a dull pain was growing. He truly disfavoured Corlys Velaryon. The man was as arrogant as they come and while he may have good reason for his self-confidence, it did not mean flaunting it was appreciated. The Sea Snake may have rebuilt his family’s wealth through his great expeditions across the Narrow Sea, however, it did not make him worthy of everything he desired. His feats may be admirable but his constant mention of them and self-important attitude, made him dislikable to many.

This was the main reason Qoren rejected King Baelon’s offer, to renegotiate the terms of their peace agreement by replacing Princess Alyssa’s hand-in-marriage with Lady Laena’s. While Qoren found the Velaryon-woman gorgeous and interesting, there was simply too much of her parents in her, to favour her as a future Princess of Dorne, in place of Alyssa. Lady Laena had her mother’s simmering temper hidden beneath a calm demeanour. Her beautiful lilac eyes sparked with her father’s ambition and self-importance.

While these traits were very seductive on the surface, they just would not suit her position as the first Valyrian to wed an heir of House Martell. There was still too much blood between Dorne and the Targaryens, and with this treaty’s final objective being Dorne’s eventual integration into the Seven Kingdoms, Laena simply could not fulfil the required means to achieve this. Comparatively, Alyssa was near perfect for the position.

Alyssa may not be from the wealthiest house in Westeros but she had everything else Laena had and more. Her father was the son of the king and the rider of the Blood Wyrm. Her eldest brother was the future prince-consort to the Iron Throne, making them closer than Laena to the Iron monstrosity. Her mother’s house was older than Qoren’s house, with incredible inventions and growing influence on both sides of the Narrow Sea. Alyssa herself was also confirmed to have claimed a dragon. Combined with the family’s reputation among the smallfolk, choosing Alyssa to be his future wife and mother to his children, required no reflection for the Prince of Dorne.

For the Sea Snake to feel insulted by his rejection was understandable but Qoren would not budge on his decision. He had even sent his mother to Runestone to meet Princess Rhea and Alyssa, so they could form an early connection between their families. Princess Diana had already sent her son a missive, detailing how Alyssa was a bright young lady, who inherited her mother’s brilliant mind and determination to better the lives of the smallfolk. Qoren was also informed of more projects hidden in Runestone, that incredibly benefited the people.

This lent further credence to Qoren’s decision. There would be little reason now for him to desire anyone but Alyssa to be his wife. In fact, to Qoren, the only thing that measured up to the benefits of marrying Alyssa, was wedding the heiress to the Iron Throne. Little did the Prince of Dorne realise that his decision would lead to stronger repercussions than what was expected. After all, for the Sea Snake to be rejected by the Iron Throne was one thing, to be disregarded by some Dornish prince, was an entirely different thing.

Rhaenyra sighed as she embraced the younger girl, “Welcome back to Hell’s Landing, dear cousin.” Alyssa snorted at the words and the girls linked their arms as they walked into the Red Keep.

“Thank you for welcoming me, Nyra,” the younger princess replied. That day marked Alyssa’s official employ into her cousin’s household as a Lady-in-waiting, and her brother Gaemon’s squiring under Lord Harrold Westerling. The twins had turned twelve a few days back, making them of age to join the court. “I am guessing things have not gotten better with your stepmother?”

Rhaenyra’s pretty face contorted into a scowl at the mention of her father’s wife. “She insists on interfering with matters that do not concern her,” she spoke in annoyance. “Yesterday, she tried scolding me for refusing to have her septa teach me my wifely duties.”

Alyssa grimaced and she shook her head with a sigh, “She certainly sounds exasperating.”

“I can not imagine what will happen once she births a son. I have no doubt she will flaunt him in a way that undermines me as heir.”

“I am sure you are right. Ignoring that issue, how are the other ladies of your household?” Alyssa swiftly changed the topic of conversation, upon them entering a more populated area of the castle. While many struggled with High Valyrian, the nobles did learn its basics and many servants, who spent the majority of their lives in service of the Targaryens, had picked up on many of the words. This made regular conversation in the language understandable to many who weren’t of the Targaryen family.

“They are fantastic. Uncle Daemon and Aunt Gael chose them well,” Rhaenyra said with a smile, forgetting all about her nagging stepmother. “I never expected to enjoy the company of so many ladies. There are eight without you, you know. Can you believe it?”

Alyssa’s eyes widened at the number. She herself had had four companions in Runestone, all of whom were from the Vale, as a way to strengthen the bond between the families. However, choosing ladies-in-waiting for the heir of the Iron Throne, was a far more delicate process. Her father and the queen must have spent weeks, determining which ladies to invite and which to reject.

“Have you begun training them for your household?” She inquired.

Rhaenyra nodded in confirmation, “Yes, I have. The Strong girls will be caring for my schedules, Elinda Massey will be handling my missives, Hanna Tyrell shall be working on my finances…” the princess continued to list more ladies and their duties in her household. “Leaving you to be my Head lady-in-waiting,” Rhaenyra finished with a grin to her cousin. Alyssa nodded in acknowledgement, already having prepared for the role. She was warned by her mother that the court would be scrutinising everything Rhaenyra did and it was her ladies-in-waiting’s jobs to ensure her reputation and rule were maintained.

“Alright, what is our first course of action, your grace?” Alyssa spoke half-teasingly.

The older princess hummed, “Bathe and change for lunch. We will be dining with the family, which unfortunately includes my father and stepmother.” Alyssa nodded once again and the two girls separated to prepare for the meal.

An hour later, found Alyssa walking with her sworn shield Ser Harwin Strong, toward the dining hall. “Princess Alyssa,” the herald announced her as she entered. The twelve-nameday girl smiled politely at the faces of her eldest uncle and his second wife. It was just her luck to be alone in their presence.

“Lysa, how are you my dear?” Viserys asked with a smile of his own. Thankfully, one thing the man did not change after his marriage, was his attitude toward his niece. Perhaps it was her lack of power and station compared to Rhaenyra or Gaemon but Viserys treated Alyssa well.

“I am well, uncle. How have you been?” The girl replied and took a seat at the table.

“Good, good. I am well too. How are your younger siblings?”

“Daeron is taking his role as the new heir to Runestone very seriously, per usual. While Rhaegar is looking into which knight he would like to squire under,” Alyssa replied fondly. “The others are still too young but finding their footing. Viserra has been climbing everything in her chambers, so that is a new development for her,” she continued with a giggle at recalling her sister’s mischief.

Viserys’s smile softened, “Yes, that age is indeed precious. I remember…”

“Have you prepared for your role under Rhaenyra’s household?” Alicent interrupted her husband with an analytical gaze on Alyssa.

“I have, Lady Alicent. I am to be her Head lady and I must be up to the challenge after all,” the younger replied smoothly.

Alicent’s face twitched, “You are quite young. Wouldn’t Rhaenyra prefer a more experienced lady to handle the job?”

“I had been under my mother’s tutelage since I could speak, making me familiar with all the projects Rhaenyra wishes to take on,” once again Alyssa’s response was swift. “Queen Gael has also assigned Lady Maryna Peake, daughter of the late Lady Prunella Celtigar, to be our advisor.”

Alicent opened her mouth to ask another question but the herald’s announcement of the rest of the family, interrupted her. The king and queen entered together, followed by Vaegon, with all three of them conversing casually about their day. Then, Rhaenyra and Gaemon walked in together, chatting as well. While Alyssa smiled at the sight of her family, Alicent frowned at seeing Rhaenyra and Gaemon being so close. The boy had even pulled out his cousin’s chair before sitting on his own and neither acknowledged the others in the room.

However, the lady made no mention of it as the king invited his family to dig into their food. Then, just as the room settled into a comfortable silence, with only the utensils’ sounds being heard, Rhaenyra let out an unladylike snort. “Stepdaughter, that is unbecoming! Whatever made you release such a noise?” Scolded Alicent. The room went still with several pairs of violet eyes turning to the woman, gazing at her disapprovingly.

“Alicent, there is no need to be so hostile,” Gael’s tone was calm, yet it sent shivers down Alyssa’s back. She had never seen her sweet aunt look so menacing.

Rhaenyra too had a cold expression on her face, “I am among family, Lady Alicent. If I cannot be relaxed and happy here, then when can I enjoy myself?”

“That may be true, stepdaughter. But it does not take away from the fact you are a lady and laughing that way is inappropriate. No matter how…” Alicent’s eyes turned to look at Gaemon with a glower, “funny, your betrothed may be.”

Gaemon smiled innocently at the older woman, “I was telling Nyra of how Vermithor bullies Caraxes…” he trailed off for a moment, letting his words sink in and some chuckled at his comment. Alyssa was one of them, recalling how Vermithor had all but moved Caraxes from his napping spot, so he may take it instead. “ Kepa  is never amused by it,” continued Gaemon. Rhaenyra giggled once more at the jest, imagining her uncle’s unimpressed face and folded arms.

“I can see why you found it funny, my darling granddaughter. There was no need for such a reaction, Alicent. It is all in good nature. Do not be so dramatic,” Baelon spoke nonchalantly yet everyone understood the embarrassment they caused Alicent, who’s cheeks flushed a deep red and who turned her scowl at her plate. Alyssa winced internally and knew her time in Kings Landing would not get any better.

Three moons later, the realm was gathered in Kings Landing to celebrate the Targaryen-Royce triplets’ first nameday. The king had called for a feast in their honour and invited whoever wished to come. Many had chosen to attend, finding no reason to reject their monarch’s invitation to indulge in food and drink. “If I may, your grace? I have some wonderful news to share, during this wonderful celebration!” Alicent stood from her seat near the High Table, gathering the nobles’ attentions, including the royal family’s. “My husband and I are expecting our first son,” the lady announced proudly, with a caress to her small bump, hidden beneath the layers of her skirts.

The guests froze at the news, with some finding it rather rude to announce it, during the celebration of another. Then again, the king had done the same to the lady, during her wedding no less. Though he was the king. Nevertheless, to avoid causing issues, most nobles turned to the High Table to follow the royal family’s reaction. Only the Hightowers lifted their cups without waiting and Percival went as far as standing up, to make a toast to his niece and her husband, when Princess Rhea stood from the High Table, interrupting him.

The Royce woman lifted her own cup and grinned at Alicent predatorily, “Congratulations to House Belaerys. We have been waiting a year for this delightful news.” The woman’s gaze then turned to meet each of the attendees’s eyes. “Please raise a cup with me, to Lord and Lady Belaerys! May the Gods protect their future Aegon and may he break the cycle of misfortune on the name!” Many of the nobles cheered, clapped at the news and toasted to the health of House Belaerys, while many others sat tensely in their seats, having read between the lines of Rhea’s words.

Alicent’s smile dropped and she sat back down gently. She knew Rhea would retaliate to her announcement but to make another mention of the tragedies surrounding the name Aegon, was a direct invitation for misfortune to befall Alicent and her unborn son. It was unbecoming and even cruel, to say such words to a pregnant woman. “My love, are you well?” Viserys whispered and gazed at her sympathetically. He reached a hand to hold Alicent’s trembling one and she could not help but lean into his touch.

While Alicent bore no love for her husband, throughout the past year of their marriage, she learned to appreciate and care for him. Viserys was no talented knight or cunning lord, however, he was ambitious enough and desired the throne nearly as much as her, to make him tolerable and useful. It helped that he was attentive and a flatterer. He always had a nice compliment for Alicent and went out of his way to shower her with gifts. From jewels to rare fabrics and even promising her control over their Keep’s interior design.

Not to forget, he possessed a dragon-rider’s blood and to Alicent this was the most important aspect of her husband. She needed dragon-riders to fight Prince Daemon and his family. Once Rhaenyra lost her most powerful allies, she would turn back to her father, with her tail tucked between her legs, like a good little lady. Little did the Hightower-woman know, that no amount of her husband’s blood would protect her from what was to come.

Later that evening, Rhea and her husband would retire to their bedchamber, after getting all their children to bed and ensuring they are guarded well. Once alone, the two would turn to each other with huge grins on their faces. “Such wonderful news indeed. I do hope Lady Alicent has a smooth pregnancy and birth,” Daemon whispered with a smirk.

Rhea hummed, “I know. Pregnancies are very difficult for some women. Some even struggle with basic comprehension during and after it.”

“I heard. Paranoia too,” the prince replied with false worry.

“I do hope Alicent can handle the pregnancy. Her sensibilities are quite delicate.”

The rogue prince chuckled, “She does have a history of…being dramatic.”

Rhea nodded, “I also heard the Green heir has certain interests?” The lady gave her husband a pointed look.

Daemon hummed, “The White Worm says he enjoys silver mares. I think I will grant him one from across the Narrow Sea.”

“My, he must be careful. Silver mares can make the mind go hazy.”

The rogue prince pulled his wife to him and gazed lustfully at her, “What was the saying again? When a Hightower is born, the gods flip a coin…”

Chapter Text

Rhea sighed, feeling warm lips trailing kisses down her neck and a calloused palm rubbing her torso. She turned to face the owner of the two and smiled at the sight of her husband’s fond expression. His amethyst eyes sparkled with an all too familiar desire and his lips were eager, as they captured her own in a hungry kiss. Rhea groaned and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer to her naked body and wrapping her legs around his back. Daemon smirked delightedly at her reaction and thrust his hips into hers, showing her his excitement.

When they pulled away from the kiss, Rhea reached her hand out and gently guided her husband to lay down so she could be on top. Both enjoyed accommodating each other with whichever position the other was in the mood for. So long as they got to explore each other’s bodies and bring each other pleasure, it mattered little where they were and how they did it. Rhea began to lay kisses down her husband’s chest and used her hands to massage his stiff thighs. Daemon groaned at the stimulation and one of his hands went to tangle in his wife’s hair.

When she reached the area between his thighs and abdomen, Rhea bit down gently, earning a gasp from the prince. She continued till she reached his manhood and worked on teasing him further with her mouth. Daemon panted at her expert ministrations. By now, both had memorised the things that brought pleasure to the other. As soon as he neared his climax, the prince pulled his wife away, so he did not finish before they were both satisfied. Daemon pulled Rhea to him and switched their positions, so he could enter her gently.

They had not had this much freedom since the triplets’ births and both wanted it to last for as long as possible. Daemon thrusted as slowly as his control allowed him and Rhea hummed in pleasure, before capturing his lips in another kiss, this one more loving than the other. They kept at it till Daemon felt his control slipping and his thrusts grew more erratic. Rhea encouraged him too, matching his thrusts and the couple panted in pleasure until their bodies tensed and reached their ends together.

The prince slumped on top of his wife as he panted from the activity. His lips quirked upward at hearing Rhea’s sweet giggle. “What an interesting way to wake me, husband.”

The man pressed a soft kiss to her neck, “I could not help myself, sweet wife. You were laying there so available and pretty,” he teased, earning another giggle. Due to the summer weather, even the coldest parts of Westeros had higher temperatures than usual. This led many people in the Southern part of the realm, including Runestone, to sleep in the nude for a more comfortable rest. The sheets were also changed from the usual warm wools, to cold silks and cottons.

“What are we up to today?” Rhea inquired as Daemon pulled back to rest next to her.

The prince hummed in thought, “Aren’t we expecting Rickon and his son? Also, I believe Rhaegar will finally be declaring his mentor-knight.”

Rhea sat up with her back supported by the headboard, “Do you have any idea who he chose?”

Her husband shook his head, “I swear that boy only ever discusses things with Gaemon. Remember the tantrum he threw, when he learnt ‘Mon and Lysa would be living in Kings Landing without him?” The woman groaned at recalling her third son’s terrible wails, as he demanded to go live with his lekia in Kings Landing.

“I do not know what Gaemon did or said to him, to have him so attached,” she whispered in frustration. Her husband chuckled and gave her a pointed look, which quickly turned melancholy. Rhea smiled sympathetically at him and placed a kiss to his cheek. “Gaemon will never forsake his brother, we will make sure of it.” Daemon gave her a grateful smile and leaned into her embrace.

The couple sat there for a few more moments of peace, before a gentle knock came from their door. Rhea called for whomever to enter and her handmaidens made their way inside, along with Daemon’s stewards. The pair were separated to different parts of the chambers, as they were bathed and dressed for the day. Once ready, the couple thanked their attendants and exited the chambers, for them to be cleaned. The pair greeted their guards, who bowed curtly at them as they left the chambers, and made their way down the hall toward the dining room.

There, the family was united, apart from the twins in Kings Landing and the triplets who were still too young to be at breakfast. “Good morning, mother, father,” Daeron greeted formally, ever the dutiful boy.

“Morning,” Rhaegar spoke far more casually than his older brother, his mind more occupied with the food laid out, than greeting his parents.

“MUNA, KEPA,” Viserra screeched at the top of her lungs, making most of the room’s inhabitants and even the guards outside, flinch slightly at the pitch. The little princess was bouncing in her chair, excited as always to start the day. If there ever was a member of the family who enjoyed mornings, it was Viserra.

“Good morning, my sweet dragons,” Daemon greeted and went around the table to kiss each of his children on the cheek. Rhaegar and Viserra welcomed the affection and Viserra also slobbered a kiss of her own to her father’s cheek. Only Daeron grumbled at the kiss, though did not physically pull away from it. Rhea chuckled and followed her husband’s lead, giving each of her children a kiss and a warm embrace. This time, Daeron relaxed into the touch, more accepting of his mother’s maternal affection. The boy’s father pouted at this but did not comment.

This had always been the case with Daeron, more so now that he became heir. While the boy saw Rhea’s love as maternal instinct and thus acceptable, he saw Daemon’s affections as doting, thus unsuitable for a growing man who needed to earn his knights’ respect. No matter how many times the parents tried reassuring Daeron, that it was more than alright to welcome his father’s doting and it did not make him any less of a warrior or a man, the boy just could not accept it. They simply came to an agreement that Daemon could kiss Daeron and shower him with affection in private but there would be no such attention in public.

After breaking their fast and washing from the meal, Rhea and Daeron headed to the Keep’s main hall, so they could listen to petitions together. The boy would only observe as his mother and her advisors solved their subjects’ concerns. The lady and her heir spent three hours, listening to the plights presented by their town’s people, before they departed to ready themselves for the Stark retinue. Lord Rickon and his wife, with their young son of two namedays and a few of their bannermen, arrived in Runestone a few minutes after midday.

Lord Rickon had a huge grin on his face as he greeted the Lady and Lord of Runestone, before jovially introducing his wife and his son to them. “Your graces, this is my lovely wife, Lady Gilliane Glover and our son, Cregan.” Gilliane’s looks would be considered common in the South, with her light-brown hair, her honey-coloured eyes and small features. She was average in stature and her eyes held a gentle nature. As for her son, Cregan was no doubt a Stark, with a long face and grey eyes, though his hair was closer to his mother’s. The boy of two namedays gazed in fascination at Daemon and his children, clearly mesmerised by their unique colouring and features.

“Welcome to Runestone, Lord and Lady Stark. We are glad to have you here,” Rhea replied with a kind smile.

“Welcome to Runestone, my lord, my lady, please let me look after your bannermen,” said Daeron, and he stepped forward from beside his mother. His bronze doublet, embroidered with black dragons and red shields, made him more imposing than his young body allowed.

“That is very kind of you, my prince,” Lady Gilliane said with a motherly smile. Daeron straightened his back and went to greet the Northern men and guide them to their wing, where baths and comfortable beds awaited them. Meanwhile, Rhea and Daemon guided the Warden of the North and his family to another part of the Keep, where noble guests were hosted. Similarly, baths were presented to the lord and lady, to provide cleansing and comfort from the long travel.

After another hour, the hosts and guests reconvened in the gardens of Runestone, with refreshments and lunch served to them. “Were you pleased with your new vessels?” Daemon asked Rickon. Drakenzo Rogare and Lord Manderly had been working tirelessly over the past thirty moons, investing in the construction for a Northern fleet. Some vessels were finally ready for use and Rickon’s trip to Runestone was the first time they were officially tried.

The Stark lord grinned proudly at the prince, “I am very satisfied with them, your grace. Drakenzo and Lord Manderly have been exceptional in their efforts. If things go according to plan, in five to seven years, the North will have a fleet rivalling the Redwynes’.”

“Oh? Would you not wish to make it bigger, perhaps closer to the Lannisters’?” Inquired Daemon.

Rickon shook his head, “The North has a bad history with a fleet. I do not wish to tempt fate and prefer to mainly keep our shores protected from the Ironborn and raiders,” the young man explained with a wary expression. “If the fleet provides a means of transportation and trade, then that is just an added benefit.” Daemon nodded in understanding, recalling history talks with Rhea, on Brandon ‘the Shipwright’ and his son, Brandon ‘the burner’.

While the men continued to converse on the more pragmatic front of things, the ladies were more interested in discussing everyday topics. “Cregan is a wonderful boy. Would you be willing to send him here to foster with my youngest son?” Rhea asked with a sip of her juice.

Gilliane’s eyes flitted to her son, who was running around with Viserra and the triplets, playing with toys. “I think Rickon would be open to it. It will build a stronger connection between our families and mayhap…we may share an even deeper bond through our children.”

Rhea partly wished to roll her eyes and partly snort at Gilliane’s lack of subtlety. She and Daemon had already discussed the possibility of wedding one of their girls to Cregan, to create a connection, no matter how distant, between the Targaryen family and the Starks. Rhea had emphasised to Daemon how important it was to expand the Targaryen gene pool, to avoid struggles of finding spouses for the family in the future. While wedding brother to sister, aunt/uncle to nephew/niece, is a strong way to maintain the blood purity, diversity every once in a while, was necessary. To make it more acceptable and less diluted, it was better to have Targaryen marriages outside the family now, while they had the numbers.

Rhea always recalled the marriages between the Targaryens and the Valyrians of Essos and how in all cases, it seemed there were no Targaryen or Velaryon women available for the heirs. Now with her own children, who she prayed had long lives with prospering families of their own, and with Daella, Aemond and Rhaella, the Targaryen family had the potential to expand and create cadet houses or add their blood to other houses, enough to protect their future lineages. Moreover, for Cregan’s particular case, the Starks having already made familial ties with the Targaryens, may aid the future Prince Who Was Promised, be it Daenerys, Jon Snow, both or neither.

“My husband and I, also hope our children grow up to cherish and expand our connection,” Rhea finally replied to Gilliane, with a knowing glint in her eyes. The younger woman’s grin widened and she turned to look at the children playing once more.

The maid flinched as a vase went past her, shattering as it connected with the wall behind her. “WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU ABOUT MY BATH?” Lady Alicent screeched at the top of her lungs. For the past six moons, since the lady announced her pregnancy to court, she had become more and more agitated. The littlest of things would set her off, leading to the servants suffering her unexplainable wrath. Even Prince Viserys seemed at a loss to his wife’s sudden switch in personality, and no matter what any of them tried, Lady Alicent would simply not get any better.

It had gotten to the point where the lady was confined to her chambers most days, only visited by her husband and family. The confinement was declared essential, after the woman lost her temper at her stepdaughter the heir and her cousin Alyssa. The girls were only laughing as they walked the gardens but their little titters had gotten on Alicent’s nerves, and she exploded in anger at them. After that, there was no excuse for her and the queen personally ordered her confinement.

Now, Anna was being scolded for using anise and lavender in the lady’s bath, rather than coconut oil and lilies. “My lady, please forgive me. I will do better next time!” The young maid fell to her knees and pleaded. While the handmaid did not enjoy bowing to the woman, she did empathise with her condition. No one knew, but Anna had accidentally heard Alicent, when confiding in her aunt Felicity, that she thought she saw a glimpse of Aemma Arryn’s ghost, moving about the Red Keep. It was clear that the pregnancy had affected Lady Alicent’s sensibilities, making her lose control of herself.

Thankfully, the pregnancy was in its last weeks and Grandmaester Mellos had been administering calming draughts to Alicent, decreasing her outbursts. Anna and the other servants of the Red Keep were praying that this would all end once the lady gave birth. However, whispers were still exchanged on why Alicent was suffering through mental breakdowns. This had never happened with the other Targaryen wives, not even Princess Aemma who had suffered the most during her pregnancies.

Many had even begun mentioning Maegor’s first wife and how this may be a result of breeding between Targaryens and Hightowers. The only times where the pregnancies were difficult for Targaryen babes, were when Maegor married his wives. Since Prince Viserys had already sired more than three healthy babes, even if only two had survived past infancy, blame lay on the Hightower blood. Especially when Rhea Royce had produced eight strong children, some with complete Targaryen colouring and the ability to claim dragons. Nevertheless, tension in the Red Keep had reached a boiling point due to the lady’s delicate condition and all were praying for it to end, sooner rather than later.

These prayers were finally answered when a week into the twelfth lunar cycle, Lady Alicent woke the entire East wing of Maegor’s Holdfast, screaming that her son was coming. Grandmaester Mellos was quickly called to attend the lady, with one of his acolytes and four handmaidens. Prince Viserys was also kicked out of the chambers, with the excuse of maintaining his wife’s propriety. The labours continued for an entire day and a half, with Lady Alicent’s screams echoing through the halls leading to her chambers. Throughout that time, her husband paced outside helplessly, continuously refused entry into the chambers.

Eventually, upon the 38th hour of labour, the woman’s screams ebbed, just for a babe’s cries to take their place. The inhabitants of the chambers could breathe a sigh of relief, at the strong lungs of the babe and at the end of Lady Alicent’s pains, giving her leave to rest. Mellos would cut the umbilical cord and hand the babe to be cleaned by the handmaidens, then he would make a final inspection of the new mother, ensuring she no longer needed his assistance, before he would retreat from the chambers to inform Prince Viserys of his new babe, and allow the prince to see his wife and child.

Prince Viserys entered the chambers tentatively, knowing Alicent was resting from the excruciating labour. He could not understand why this had happened. It was meant to be different with Alicent. She was older than Aemma was, when she got pregnant. Hells, they had to wait eleven moons for her womb to quicken with his seed. He had heard the rumours of it being the result of Hightower blood mixing with the Targaryen, and how it may not be wise to have marriages between these families again, now that a second marriage between the bloodlines was producing difficult pregnancies.

The prince refused to listen to these gossips, especially when they reflected what his father had been warning him about and what Rhea and Daemon had hinted at. Viserys could not accept that the Gods had led him astray, when they showed him his children with Alicent. No, the Gods had shown him his two beautiful boys from Alicent and he was going to fulfil the prophecy. His Aegon was the Prince-Who-Was-Promised and he would prove his family wrong.

If anything, the fact that Alicent struggled so much like his father told him she might, made the deposed heir suspicious of fowl play. After all, none of his family liked Alicent and more often than not, they used every opportunity to humiliate and undermine her. While Viserys did not like the idea that his family may be this cruel, he could not completely disregard the thought either. His family still shared blood with Maegor, so, what if their ambition and arrogance, led them to following in his footsteps with the excuse of avenging Aemma?

The prince shook his head as he reached the nursemaid that was feeding his babe. At least his child was strong. The babe’s cries and eagerness to feed from the nursemaid’s breasts were great signs. Ola the nursemaid, smiled at the prince and once the babe was done, she carefully manoeuvred the bundle into the father’s arms. “Congratulations, your grace…”

“…the birth of Prince Viserys’s and Lady Alicent’s first child was a rather disorderly affair. The lady had experienced rage episodes, throughout her later stages of pregnancy. Grandmaester Mellos had suspected that it was due to the stress of expectation. The lady had flaunted the idea that her family was fertile, and that she would be the Good Queen come again, however, it became clear that she lacked the fertility and mental capacity for it. After all, she was labelled Alicent ‘the Mad’ for a reason…”

-Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

Chapter Text

Rhea sat at her desk, face stoic, while Daemon stood beside her with a sadistic smirk, as they listened to their spy recount what had happened throughout the moons of Alicent’s pregnancy and recent labour. The woman, Ayala, was a Lyseni whore, one who possessed strong Valyrian blood. Her hair was a beautiful silver that shone in the light and her eyes were a bright, almost unnatural blue. Most notably though, were her beautiful features that held an eery resemblance to Aemma’s features.

Ayala had been working under Rhea for nearly four years, and she was known to be discreet yet devious. A while back, Rhea had approached the younger woman with a very important mission, and the Lyseni whore responded enthusiastically to it. That was how for the past moons, the whore found herself dressed in a style reminiscent of Aemma’s and led through the secret passages of Maegor’s Holdfast, to make brief appearances in Alicent’s vicinity. Since Alicent was mostly alone during her confinement, it was easy for Ayala to terrify her and make her feel as if she were going mad. The tea from Norvos was of great help too, as it influenced the mind, creating anxiety and paranoia, the more it was consumed.

“Now, she refuses to feed her babe, claiming it is unbecoming for a noblewoman to do so,” continued Ayala.

“Thank you for the report. You have done wonderfully,” Rhea praised with a smile.

“What would you like as your reward?” asked Daemon. They had given her a list of rewards she could choose from and Ayala was all too eager to receive one of them.

The whore grinned triumphantly, “I wish to own my own pleasure house in the Westerlands, as you promised me.”

“Very well. Here are fifty gold dragons. You may also take two women from our own brothel to start your business with,” Rhea replied and handed the younger a sack of coins.

“Thank you, your graces!” The young woman curtsied before taking her leave from the solar.

Once they were alone, Daemon leaned over the table to capture his wife’s lips in a hungry kiss. “Soon, it will be Ormund Hightower’s turn.”

Rhea smirked at him, “How is his betrothed fairing?”

The rogue prince smirked, “She is excited to be wed into a noble Westerosi house and be free from her father.” His wife raised her eyebrow at his comment. “The Valyrian Volantenes are no better than other noblemen. Their daughters are as good as their cattle, wed for a price and power.”

A shiver went down Rhea’s spine at the comparison and once again, she was reminded to be thankful to the power that sent her to Westeros. Rhea was blessed for being the Head of her house, raised by a kind father and wed to a supportive husband. Not many in the Known World could claim to have what she has. Most women in her position would be fighting rebellions. She was grateful for her men’s loyalty and her husband’s strong backing. The fact she birthed eight healthy children was also a miracle in and of itself.

“I can understand where she comes from. But aren’t we doing the same to her?” Rhea whispered guiltily.

Daemon frowned and reached a hand to caress his wife’s cheek. “Vaella knows what she is signing up for. She has chosen to help us,” he reassured.

“And she is fully onboard to give Ormund Hightower a babe?”

The rogue prince nodded, “Do not worry for her, my love. She is very cunning; Saera chose her well. I am certain my aunt is also using this as a way to take revenge on the Hightowers and Starry Sept for her punishment there.” Rhea winced at the reminder of the Targaryen woman’s history, though she really believed Saera was partially responsible for her own predicament.

Nevertheless, this reassured Rhea that the people involved in her plans were committed enough. The plan had come to her after Aemma’s passing. She had initially just wished to send Alicent away from Kings Landing, but after Aemma was murdered, and it was confirmed that Oldtown had a conspiracy against the Targaryens, Rhea could no longer hold her malice. She wanted to destroy each of the entities controlling Oldtown and to teach the noblemen of Westeros a lesson. She wanted to avenge Aemma and every other innocent that paid the price of greed.

So, she explained to Daemon her plan and he was more than ecstatic to perform it. His predatory smile didn’t leave his face for days, and he continuously praised her for her blood thirst. Rhea wasn’t proud of what she had become but knew this was not the modern world. This world required blood shed and extreme measures for the results she desired to achieve. The first part of her plan was simple; make Viserys impotent, to destroy his power as a man. Though the serum would take years, it was the best way to reduce Viserys’s offspring.

The second part of her plan involved reducing the Citadel’s power. Her school had already completed its sixth year, and the project was permitted to expand to other parts of Westeros, though still discreetly. There was another school being built in the Vale, one on Dragonstone, one in Kings Landing and another in Dorne, following Princess Diana’s visit to Runestone. The printing press was also encouraging maesters to spread their knowledge by publishing it in the paper, leading the Citadel to lose the ironclad grip it once held over its own knowledge.

The third part centred on destroying House Hightower. Initially, Rhea was only going to humiliate them but once she was informed that Alicent was insulting Aemma, mercy went out the window. Rhea told Daemon that in the future, a saying would be spread about the Targaryens. That every time a Targaryen was born, the Gods flipped a coin and the world awaited with bated breath, to see if the coin landed on the side of greatness or madness. So, she asked him, “Why can’t that saying be used for the Hightowers?” Thus, her plan to make the Hightowers mad was created.

In order to make it believable, they started with Alicent. Many women suffered mentally throughout pregnancy, which made it a great excuse as a trigger for the madness. Delaying the pregnancy was just a way to further humiliate the insufferable woman and Viserys. Once Alicent announced that she was expecting, a loyal servant of Aemma’s began to sneak a tea that would inhibit the woman’s mind. The tea was consumed daily and after the second week, agitation, paranoia and other symptoms were present. The addition of Ayala was Daemon’s touch to the plan, hoping to hammer the point home that Alicent was unwell.

Then there was Ormund. Vaella was chosen by Saera from the Volantene Valyrian families, at the request of Daemon. She travelled all the way to Kings Landing and presented herself to the Hightower heir, on the day of his cousin’s wedding. The young man of one-and-twenty was immediately awed by the Volantene’s beauty. The small samples of aphrodisiac slipped into his drink, only made him more pliable in her hands. After the wedding, Vaella went to Oldtown and she was secretly meeting with Ormund, luring him further into her embrace. Rhea and Daemon were sure it will not be long before the heir of the Hightower, ran off to wed his beloved.

This left the fourth part of Rhea’s plan, which dealt with the Starry Sept. As a religion, the Seven-Who-Are-One posed no threat or malicious intent. It was a religion as any other. Some things it considered blasphemous were considered acceptable in other religions, while some things it considered acceptable were considered blasphemous by other religions. It mattered not if people followed the Faith, the Old Gods or whomever. What mattered were the representatives of the religion, wishing to control people through their beliefs and profiting from it. To expose the Starry Sept’s nature, trusted people needed to spread the truth. That was the most difficult part of Rhea’s plan.

It would still take years for everything to bear fruit, however, for now, things were progressing nicely.

Viserys’s eyes remained cold as he looked down at the crib that held his newest babe. Why? Why have the Gods lied to him? Alicent and the maesters had promised him this would be his long awaited Aegon, so, why was it another girl? When the nursemaid handed him the babe, she had been all smiles, congratulating him as if it were a great occurrence. His hopes were high and his heart had fluttered in his chest, when the bundle was placed in his arms. The babe’s face was typical of any other infant’s, hiding the gender. This led to him posing the question, just to hear the dreaded words, “It is a girl, your grace.” The nursemaid had been none the wiser about the turmoil her words had caused.

Worse, was a day later when Alicent rose from her long slumber. His wife was checked by the maesters, before she quickly requested for their babe. “Aegon. Bring me my Aegon, bring me our heir!” Her tone had been demanding and excited altogether, causing her attendants to hesitate in bringing the newborn to her. When the girl was given to her mother, Alicent did not notice the gender then. “Oh! He is perfect. Look at him Viserys, he is so handsome. He has my blonde hair and your nose!”

“My lady…your daughter is very beautiful,” one brave nursemaid had said, startling Alicent out of her musings.

His wife had looked incredulously at the woman who spoke, before her mind registered the words and her eyes flitted back to their babe. Alicent had hastily removed the cloth covering their newborn, checking the gender for herself and inhaling sharply at the sight of female genitalia. It was then that chaos erupted. Alicent had shaken her head and pushed the babe back into the nursemaid’s arms, almost throwing her. “No, no, no! This is not my babe! It is not my Aegon! Someone stole him from me! Someone stole my Aegon!”

“Alicent, calm yourself. It is our babe,” Viserys had tried to calm her but her frantic gaze met his and her eyes filled with fear.

“Viserys! Viserys! She stole our babe! It must be her! That Wildling Whore! Rhea Royce took our son!” It took a lot of effort to ease Alicent’s mind, mostly with the help of Milk of the poppy, which was administered by maester Mellos upon her outburst. Viserys still cringed every time he remembered the incident. It did not help that news of his wife’s reaction to their newborn, spread across the Red Keep like Wildfire. The comment regarding Rhea made the whispers all the more degrading. The nobility already knew of the hostility between Alicent and Rhea, and to make such a comment just put coal on the fire.

Viserys sighed as he gently ran a finger down the babe’s cheek. Helaena. After a few days of silence and refusal to speak of their babe, Alicent finally came out of her dissociative state, after her father went to speak to her, and she came to Viserys and told him of her wish to name the babe after her mother, though with the Valyrian spelling. The prince was all too happy to grant his wife the small request, wishing more than anything to return her to her previous happy self. He loved Alicent as she shared much of his dreams and supported him steadily. While Helaena’s birth may have placed a delay to their dreams, she was still proof of Alicent’s ability to have children.

Now, the couple focused on making an appearance at court, to present the week-old babe. They were more than prepared for the looks and the whispers and assured each other that no matter what anyone said, they would be a united front. Otto’s presence was a great source of support too. He had been in Kings Landing for Alicent’s last moon of pregnancy and was speaking to Viserys on becoming Summerhall’s steward once it was completed, in four years’ time.

The deposed prince sighed as he reached for his third daughter and held her to his hip, so he may carry her to the throne room. Helaena was wrapped in a swaddle in their house colours. House Belaerys’s sigil was announced to court a few weeks after Viserys and Alicent’s marriage. It was a golden tower, with a black dragon that resembled Balerion coiling around it, on a field of green. Viserys for his part, was dressed in a dark green doublet, embroidered with gold dragons and black towers. Alicent meanwhile, wore an emerald gown with intricate golden embroidery and gemstones, one that strikingly resembled the gown he dreamt of.

Regardless, Viserys carried Helaena on his hip and made his way outside to join his wife and their household. His wife had insisted on having four ladies of her own, even when she held no position at court. They also employed two new knights, one being Gwayne Hightower, Alicent’s brother.

The group walked across the halls of the Keep, ignoring the staring eyes of the servants, though Alicent had mentally noted the faces of those who snickered, so she may punish them later. She may not hold power at court yet but she was still a noble lady and she will be respected. Thankfully, her agitation and paranoia had decreased mildly and she stopped seeing Aemma’s shadow everywhere she went. However, the maester insisted she maintain a strict diet and to avoid tiring herself too much, lest she falls into that state once more.

It was mortifying and humiliating to have no control over herself, jumping at shadows and losing her temper in an unladylike manner. Scarier was the feeling of not belonging in her own skin, like she was someone else and her life did not belong to her. Her mind had certainly felt the weight of those emotions, spiralling and seeing danger everywhere. Mellos had told her that the stress of expectation, combined with her pregnancy, took a toll on her and made her afraid for her babe. That it was motherly instinct working to protect the babe in her womb, by identifying and removing whatever it conceived to be a threat.

His explanation did not make her feel any better and the memories of her treatment of the servants and the healer, no matter how foggy they were, made her entire body flush in shame. There were many maids whom she considered loyal and quite pleasant, that she pushed away in her paranoia. Then there was the memory of yelling at her stepdaughter, which made tears well up in her eyes, and she did not know whether she felt like apologising to the girl or yelling more at her, to prove a point.

It was true that Rhaenyra and Alyssa did nothing wrong in those gardens. They were strolling arm in arm, dressed in luxurious gowns fit for their stations. Their heads were close together, as they spoke in hushed tones, no doubt gossiping over one thing or another, as all little girls did. Their faces still held the traits of childhood, even when both had flowered that year. For some reason, their little laughs lit a fire beneath Alicent’s skin and she had exploded on them. “STEPDAUGHTER, NIECE! WHATEVER IS THE MATTER WITH BOTH OF YOU? YOUR RUDENESS KNOWS NO BOUNDS! I SHALL HAVE THE SEPTA DISCIPLINE YOU THOROUGHLY FOR YOUR INAPPROPRIATE BEHAVIOUR!”

Alicent’s screams had shocked the ladies around them and the queen had stood abruptly, her face frightfully resembling a dragon’s maw as she berated Alicent for her behaviour. “Lady Alicent! It is you who has overstepped. Lady Felicity, take your niece to her chambers. Maester Mellos shall be with you shortly to provide Lady Alicent with dreamwine!” Afterward, Gael had announced that she would be confined to her chambers until she gave birth. To say Alicent felt like a failure, would be an understatement.

“Announcing, Lord Viserys, Lady Alicent, and their daughter the Lady Helaena, of House Belaerys…” Alicent straightened her back, ignoring the ache between her legs from her still healing nethers. The Herald continued to announce their household before they were permitted entry into the throne room. Inside, the court’s noble’s gazed at them with eager eyes, wishing to look upon the failure and to laugh at Alicent and her husband for it. The couple did not pay the nobles much attention, walking slowly toward the throne.

Once they reached the threshold, they bowed, with Alicent curtsying shallowly. The Lady’s eyes met the Targaryens’ and when she met her stepdaughter’s lilac ones, her heart jumped in her throat. How could she have felt sorry for yelling at that wretched girl? Rhaenyra’s expression was that of triumph and satisfaction, as she smiled at Alicent and her daughter.

Rhaenyra felt her hand cramp as she jotted down the words spoken by the Small Council members. Her grandsire had requested she record each Small Council meeting and to place her own notes on the side, so they could discuss them later in the day. Ever since she became heir, her duties had become endless and it exhausted her. From dawn till sundown, she was busy attending meetings, listening to petitions, going to lessons, working on projects, holding ladies’ court or discussing topics with a council member.

Her only solace was getting to fly on Silverwing every three days, to clear her mind and to get a moment to herself. While she enjoyed the company of her ladies and members of her family, it was easy to get socially overwhelmed with her daily schedule and responsibilities. She even had to go into Kings Landing twice a moon, to meet the smallfolk and see her projects. And while she received a lot of support and help from Gael and her ladies, the work was no less taxing.

“Laena Velaryon is betrothed to the Prince of Elyria,” Gael announced to the Small Council, causing the members to freeze.

All eyes turned to the queen, with concern flashing in each colourful pair. “Truly? Has Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys really chosen someone so far away?” Questioned Ser Tyland Lannister. He was added to the council after Corlys’s not so subtle departure, once Dorne and the crown rejected each of his children.

“Your grace, if this is true, then do we allow it?” Maester Mellos turned to the king with worry in his grey eyes.

Baelon sighed and looked at his intwined fingers on the table, “Unfortunately, there is nothing we can do. Lord Corlys is within his right to seek the most advantageous match for his children.”

“Pardon me, your grace, but allowing them to marry into an Essosi house, one with ties to Slaver’s Bay and Old Valyria, may cause future problems,” said Lord Lyonel. Rhaenyra looked at each council member and though she did not fully understand the concern over Laena’s betrothal, she understood the wary expressions of the council members.

“What could they possibly want with Elyria though? Why not Braavos or Pentos?” Daemon posed the question.

There was a moment of silence as the inhabitants of the chambers contemplated the rogue prince's words. Then, Vaegon spoke, “They are the richest house in Westeros. They have enough coin to become rulers in their own right and Elyria once belonged to the Valyrian Freehold.”

“Maester, are you saying that House Velaryon wishes to establish its own kingdom?” Gasped Mellos. With those simple words, the tension in the chamber increased tenfold.

“Your grace, Slaver’s Bay and Volantis would welcome Old Valyria blood, especially if they possessed dragons. Which may I remind you, Princess Rhaenys and Ser Laenor currently do!” Ser Tyland said warningly. Rhaenyra turned her eyes to her grandsire, who sat at the head of the table. His face was pale, and his brows furrowed. It was clear this was no laughing matter.

“With marriage to the Prince of Elyria, Lady Laena could open trade routes with Slaver’s Bay and Volantis for House Velaryon!” Added Vaegon with a tone similar to Tyland’s. “They could easily migrate to Essos with their coin, losing us a powerful house and resources. Not to mention if Meleys lays eggs for Laena’s children, the next generation of Velaryons could pose a threat to House Targaryen.”

“Your grace, this is teetering on the edge of treason! I understand the insults House Velaryon feels but we cannot allow this!” Grandmaester Mellos’s tone was growing furious.

“If I may, your grace? Perhaps we might reconsider a marriage between Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Laenor!” Proposed Ser Tyland, making the hairs on the back of Rhaenyra’s head stand and her stomach to twist.

“No! If we do that now, we will appear desperate, and it will negate the points we made of why Rhaenyra will wed Gaemon.” The Princess in question internally sighed in relief at her grandsire’s response to the Lannister’s suggestion.

“Then what shall we do, your grace?” Archmaester Vaegon whispered in question.

Baelon shook his head, “I do not know. We will adjourn for now and will discuss the matter tomorrow, with fresh minds.” The council members hesitated at the order but nodded in acknowledgement at the king.

Rhaenyra stood with the rest of the council and exited alongside them. She felt her heart flutter in relief at the sight of Gaemon and Lady Tyshara Reyne. The heir to the Iron Throne smiled weakly at her betrothed and lady-in-waiting. Tyshara curtsied shallowly and Gaemon extended his arm. “Your grace, please allow me to escort you to luncheon,” the young Prince requested. Rhaenyra gladly took his arm and allowed him to guide her away from the suffocating council chambers. Some council members were looking at the young couple and smiling at their innocent courting.

“How was your council meeting, cousin?” Gaemon asked as they walked across the Keep, with Tyshara a mere step behind.

Rhaenyra sighed and leaned her body on his arm for comfort, “Exhausting. The Velaryons are causing unrest,” she switched to High Valyrian to avoid the sensitive information spreading through servants.

Gaemon frowned and reached with his free hand to squeeze her palm, “I am sure the council can handle them.” Rhaenyra nodded, hoping his words were true.

At the sight of them reaching the small dining room, where the princess’s other ladies were waiting, said ladies stood to formally greet their princess. “Your graces,” greeted Lady Dacey Strong.

“I shall leave you now, my princess. I hope you enjoy your luncheon and look forward to our flight this evening,” Gaemon said to Rhaenyra with a bow and pulled her palm to his lips, so he could lay a kiss there. Rhaenyra blushed at the action, while her ladies swooned at the chivalry of the prince. Gaemon left a moment later, allowing the young ladies their privacy for luncheon.

“Prince Gaemon is so gallant!” Lady Hanna Tyrell squealed.

“He just copies whatever my father does,” Alyssa replied with a roll of her eyes. Rhaenyra blushed deeper at hearing her ladies discuss her betrothed. She was reaching the age of recognising and appreciating Gaemon’s knightly gestures and with everything that had occurred in her short life and what was to come, these small gestures were like a salve to her aching heart. She was glad to have her ladies too, who provided much needed companionship, and aid in fulfilling her duty. Being heir was truly draining.

Chapter Text

Gaemon panted heavily as he dodged yet another strike from Ser Erryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard. The boy of nearly three-and-ten found an opening in his opponent but as soon as he went to strike, Ser Erryk kicked his feet, causing him to fall on the ground. “Yield!” The knight commanded with his sword pointed at Gaemon’s throat. The prince gritted his teeth at yet another loss. While some may attribute his loss to the difference in age between him and his opponent, the prince still felt bothered by it.

“Well done, my prince. You are improving remarkably,” Ser Harrold complimented with a fatherly smile. Gaemon blushed in equal parts of embarrassment and pride. His mentor was a very patient man and had helped him improve immensely in a short period of time.

“I expected nothing less from the Rogue prince’s son, Lord Commander,” Ser Erryk replied with a smile of his own. Ser Westerling nodded at the younger Kingsguard, who sheathed his sword before extending a hand to help Gaemon stand.

“I believe that is enough for the day, your grace. After all, Princess Rhaenyra would not accept her betrothed to be smelly for her nameday feast.” Gaemon snorted at Harrold’s teasing comment but did not argue as he handed his sword to a nearby squire, so he could leave to bathe and dress for the feast.

The young prince departed from the training yard a few moments later. As he strolled across the Keep, his eyes caught hints of servants working on the decorations and preparations for the celebration. The feast was only for the occupants of the court, as it was not a significant nameday. Rhaenyra was turning four-and-ten, making her two years away from majority. To say the princess was blossoming into a beautiful woman would be a disservice. Rhaenyra was becoming more and more alluring as the days passed, and Gaemon noticed how the men around them would eye her hungrily.

The prince was warned by his parents that with Rhaenyra’s elevated station and beauty, some men would attempt to ruin her reputation, to strong-arm the king into disinheriting her or marrying her off to them. This led Gaemon into becoming more vigilant in his courting of his cousin, never allowing another man near her without his presence, or the presence of his twin. Alyssa was a great support in this endeavour and her closeness and familial ties to Rhaenyra, provided the perfect excuse for the girls to be inseparable. While Rhaenyra had other ladies and knights shielding her, they could never be as trustworthy as family.

Regardless, once in his private chambers, the prince began readying himself for the feast with the aid of two stewards, who brought a bath for him and laid out his attire for the night. The outfit was a doublet of maroon and bronze, embroidered with black shields and dragons, and trousers of black velvet, embroidered on the side with bronze thread. Gaemon sighed as he entered the bath, allowing the hot water to ease his aching muscles and the scented soaps to calm his mind. Oliver, the younger of the stewards, massaged the soap into his prince’s scalp, careful not to be too harsh with his wavy strands.

“Oh, you’re getting ready.” The three boys startled at the sound of Princess Alyssa’s voice.

The princess was standing near the threshold leading into the section of the chambers where the bathtub was laid out. “Sister, do you not know how to knock?” Prince Gaemon inquired with a soft glare at his twin. Oliver and Pipper looked awkwardly between the two royal children, unsure if they should continue with bathing the prince or not.

“Do not mind us,” Princess Alyssa said to them, when she spotted their hesitation. The two stewards bowed their heads and returned to their tasks, though with a hint of stiffness in their touch. “I did knock, but you did not hear it. Besides, where is your guard?”

Gaemon sighed, “He fell ill this morn. I did not wish to bother kepa, especially when he is busy with the celebration.”

Alyssa crossed her arms in a manner resembling their mother, whenever she disapproved of something they did. “That is not a good enough excuse. You should always have a guard!”

The boy pulled his head back with a groan, “Why are you here, Lysa?”

His sister pursed her lips, unhappy with his disregard of her remark. However, there was little time left before the feast and Alyssa had to get ready too. “Nyra wishes you to wear this with your doublet.” The princess handed him a brooch in the shape of Vermithor and Silverwing, one dragon made of bronze, the other of silver, with their eyes encrusted with obsidian and ruby, respectively. Gaemon hummed and nodded in response, while his eyes inspected the piece. Once done with her task, Alyssa departed from her brother’s chambers to head to her own, so she may ready herself for the feast.

Two hours later, Gaemon walked toward the chambers of his betrothed, where he found her and her household awaiting him. Rhaenyra was dressed in an elegant gown of deep maroon, embroidered with gold and encrusted with many jewels. Her hair was braided in an up do, with a large clip that mirrored the brooch Gaemon was given to wear. “My princess,” the young prince greeted with a shallow bow, before extending his arm to Rhaenyra, who took it without hesitation.

“Cousin,” the crown-princess greeted. “Did you like the brooch?” She asked as they began their walk to the ballroom. Her lilac eyes fell on said brooch, which was firmly clipped above Gaemon’s left breast.

The prince smiled and gazed at her with soft amethyst eyes, causing her to blush. “It was a wonderful gift, Nyra. Though I must remind you that it is I, who should be presenting you with gifts.” His tone was teasing and Rhaenyra felt her cheeks heat up further but rolled her eyes at his playfulness.

“I am the heir to the Iron Throne. You shall be my consort, so I am allowed to gift you these things.”

Gaemon chuckled. “I look forward to more gifts then. May I request Valyrian steel next time, your grace?” He said with a wink.

Rhaenyra faked a scoff, “Already so greedy, my betrothed. Whatever shall I gift you after marriage if you already crave for Valyrian steel?”

Gaemon’s eyes glinted mischievously, “I think four children would do.” The princess’s eyes widened and the blush returned to her cheeks, as she tried to muster a glare at him.

“We will see,” whispered Rhaenyra.

Rhea sighed into her cup of Arbor Gold. She was growing too old for these types of festivities. It mattered not if they were organised by her or the queen, and if they were for her children or someone else’s. Catering to the snobbish nobility took a lot of patience and energy, things she was running low on. “Princess, I was wondering. Now with the birth of Lady Helaena, will we be hearing of a betrothal between her and Prince Yorbert?” Rhea nearly spat her drink out at the question posed by the newly wedded Jocelyn Tully of House Mooton. A quick glance at Alicent, who was standing at her ten o’clock, showed that the younger woman was just as shocked by the question, as Rhea was.

The Royce lady cleared her throat, “No, my lady. Yorbert will not be betrothed to Lady Helaena, or anyone for that matter,” she replied.

The other standing women stared at her in confusion. “How come, your grace?” Inquired Lady Edna Dondarrion.

“My husband has wished for one of our boys to join the Kingsguard, especially with Gaemon’s betrothal to Rhaenyra,” Rhea replied with a polite smile. The expressions of surprise returned to the ladies’ faces, and Rhea fought back a chuckle at that.

“But would you not wish to keep your spare heir available?” Lady Felicity inquired with a scrutinising gaze. Rhea tilted her head slightly to the side in wonder at the other woman’s question. “I mean, Princes Gaemon, Daeron and Rhaegar, each have an inheritance of sorts now, so would it not be safer to keep prince Yorbert as a spare?” The lady had a point, as even Rhaegar had an inheritance in the Stepstones now.

The Royce woman smirked, “My sons already have spares in their sisters, Lady Felicity. Not all of us are desperate for a boy to inherit our lands.” The words hit the air like a whip and the surrounding ladies stiffened awkwardly at the veiled insult. It was more awkward when Rhea’s hazel-eyes directly landed on Alicent, who clenched her jaw.

“What of Prince Daeron then, your grace? I heard he is to be betrothed to Princess Daella,” asked Lady Pyrcella, breaking the awkward atmosphere with her eager and innocent tone.

The Royce lady smiled at the younger woman, who had recently announced her first pregnancy, and was sporting a young belly. “The rumour mill is truly interesting. No, my dear, they will not be betrothed. Not to each other at least.”

“Do you mind us asking the reason, your grace?” Lady Felicity inquired with curious eyes and a sip of her wine.

Rhea nodded, “Not at all. It is simple really,” she replied nonchalantly. “Daella is currently Lady Jeyne Arryn’s heir, as her closest relative apart from her aunts and Rhaenyra, and another granddaughter of the late Lord Rodrik, so she cannot wed another heir until Jeyne has a child of her own. As for Daeron, his betrothed will be selected from the North.”

“The North?” Pyrcella gasped with interest. Rhea chuckled at her and nodded again.

“Forgive me, your grace, but why the North? Would it not be more…lucrative, to wed Prince Daeron to a Valyrian bride?” Alicent asked with narrowed eyes, her curiosity as peaked as the other ladies’.

Rhea’s eyes glinted with smugness as she replied, “No, it won’t. Because Daeron is the heir to House Royce and must adhere to our traditions.”

“Which traditions, your grace?” Lady Felicity asked with a raised eyebrow. She no doubt caught the veiled provocation, laced in Rhea’s words.

“As you well know, my ladies, House Royce is a proud First Men house. Thus, we have created a tradition for whenever an heir, weds outside that blood,” she replied firmly, displaying pride for her house's heritage and customs. “Since I wed from House Targaryen, my heir needs to return to our routes, by marrying from a First Men house.”

The ladies listened intently to her explanation, with some appearing fascinated by the tradition, and others feeling a little confused by it. Only Alicent rolled her eyes in exasperation. Rhea did not blame her, since House Hightower never cared much for purity of blood, other than it being of their house. She had to admire their adaptability, though when combined with their ambition, it did leave much to be desired. “Your grace, if I may, why not follow Targaryen tradition of wedding brother to sister, to gain the best of both?”

Rhea looked at Lady Edna with understanding, “It did cross my mind, especially when the Old Gods do not abhor incest as much as the Faith does, but in the end, my husband and I decided against it. After all, Gaemon and Rhaenyra are betrothed, and House Targaryen has been blessed with many members as of late, so there will not be a shortage of such unions.”

“I see. I did hear that the king and queen wish to betroth their youngest two,” replied Edna.

“I did as well. It would make sense for Princess Rhaella and Prince Aemond to wed, since Princes Viserys and Daemon had no sisters to follow their house’s tradition.” Alicent tensed at Lady Tully’s words and pursed her lips.

“I believe it was the Gods’ will for them to wed outside their house,” the Hightower woman replied defensively, much to Rhea’s entertainment. It seemed that with her failure to immediately produce Viserys’s long-awaited son and her struggle with pregnancy, Alicent was feeling more protective of her position as Viserys’s chosen, second bride.

In response to her comment, Lady Jocelyn blinked in confusion, “That is a given, Lady Alicent. No one here doubts it was the Gods’ will. I am merely saying that it was predictable for King Baelon to betroth his youngest two, considering his own choices in brides.”

“Not to mention Prince Viserys’s choice to wed you, my lady. Many had expected Prince Viserys to choose the Lady Laena, who was the eldest available Valyrian woman, at the time.” Lady Pyrcella’s tone was innocent yet her eyes gleamed with a hint of accusation, shocking Rhea. Pyrcella was still the youngest married woman of court, however, it appeared that her tenure at the Red Keep was teaching her the gritty inner workings of court quickly.

Alicent’s face flushed in indignation, not pleased with the younger lady’s audacious insinuation. “Well, my lady, Lady Laena was considered too young by my husband, who had already experienced the disappointment of wedding a woman, who was too young to carry a child.” Rhea’s eyes widened at the venomous tone and words, spewed so bluntly by Alicent. She knew the tea from Norvos was still in effect, even after stopping its administration, but was this Alicent losing her temper through the tea, or was she truly this comfortable with insulting Aemma in front of other women?

“Be that as it may, dear Alicent, it had been a long-standing tradition for the heir of House Targaryen to wed a Valyrian bride,” Rhea replied with a fake joyful tone. “Then again, Viserys has stepped down from the line of succession, due to his…inability to handle the responsibility.”

Alicent gritted her teeth in response and opened her mouth to no doubt retaliate, however, before she could speak, Lady Tully cut in, “Speaking of carrying children. It has been two moons since Lady Helaena was born. I hope Prince Viserys is not pressuring you to have a son too soon, my lady. I hear it was one of the reasons Princess Aemma struggled.” Rhea wanted to cackle at Alicent’s red face of embarrassment. Perhaps being at such festivities was worth it after all, if the women of court were just as against the Hightower, as she was.

“No…no, my lady. I reassure you that my husband was pleased with our daughter and is in no hurry to produce our Aegon,” Alicent stuttered out. “If you will excuse me,” the young lady said, before fluttering away from the group with her aunt Felicity following closely behind.

“Strange. Was she not the one who declared it to all, that she shall birth her husband the Aegon he so desired?” Rhea said mockingly.

“Indeed, your grace. Then again, perhaps the prince is wary of filling her with child again, after her…special experience,” Lady Edna replied with a smooth expression. Rhea smiled as she took another sip of her wine. In the end, attending the feast was worth it.

The vessel rocked gently on the water, with its sails taut from the blowing winds. Viserys reached out to wrap his arms around his wife from behind, both with their eyes stationed on the disappearing structure of the Red Keep. A week after Rhaenyra’s nameday celebration, Alicent demanded they leave for Oldtown, so she may have peace to recover. The pregnancy and labour had sapped her strength and with the continued scrutinisation from the court nobles, Alicent had little respite to recover properly.

It did not help that Helaena was a fussy babe too, only suckling from Ola’s breast, refusing any other nursemaid, and crying whenever someone tried holding her. At only 10 weeks, his youngest daughter proved to be the most difficult babe he ever had. Not even the premature babes he lost with Aemma, had been this fussy. Alicent struggled the most with their daughter, unable to bear the sound of Helaena’s cries or rejection to her touch. More than once, Alicent would fall into his arms, sobbing, asking him if she were a terrible mother.

Viserys was not the best at handling such odd situations, having never experienced them before or even seen them around him. He too felt drained from all that had occurred and hoped that their stay at Oldtown would rejuvenate them both, as well as restart the flames of their love. He had missed his lovely wife, who would spend hours talking nothing but history and culture with him. Who shared the same dreams as him and who had the brightest eyes whenever they kissed and laid with each other.

“Pardon me, your grace, would you mind if we speak?” Viserys and Alicent turned to face Otto Hightower, who was gazing at the couple with a polite smile on his face.

The prince sighed when releasing his wife, “Of course, my friend.” The two men walked away from the edge of the deck, leaving Alicent standing with her sworn shield, Ser Gwayne Hightower.

“I had not had time to tell you, but Maester Mellos has told me of some intriguing news,” Ser Otto stated as they stood beside one of the masts. “Did you know that Lady Laena is set to wed the Prince of Elyria in two moons’ time?”

Viserys’s eyes widened at the sentence, and he shook his head. “No, I have not. Last I heard was that your nephew, Ser Ormund, and Lord Jason Lannister, were presenting for her hand.”

Otto nodded absentmindedly, “Yes. Percival had been encouraging Ormund to present himself to her, as he is of similar age and it would be a boon to both houses to unite. I assume the same thoughts are running through Lord Jason’s mind, for his case.”

“Then why would Lord Corlys pick someone so far away, and from a land that boasts no wealth?”

The older man’s expression turned grim and he leaned a little closer to Viserys, before whispering his next words. “It is speculated that Lord Corlys and Princess Rhaenys wish to establish their own kingdom in Essos, after the rejections they received.” The prince’s eyes bulged from their sockets and his face paled, while his mouth hung open. “Your grace, the Velaryons have two dragons, one of which can lay eggs. Forgive me for saying it, but the king seems uncaring of the dangers this poses.”

Viserys barely contained himself. He swallowed then asked, “Do you believe the Velaryons would dare rebel against our house?” Otto nodded firmly, causing the prince to inhale sharply. Viserys closed his eyes and sighed defeatedly. “My father will not listen to my advice. What do you think should be done, my friend?”

“Your grace, if the king refuses to wed Princess Rhaenyra to Ser Laenor, then you must mitigate the damage,” Otto replied eagerly. “I suggest either betrothing Princess Daella to Ser Laenor, or opening communication with Lord Corlys, for a proposal between Prin-Lady Helaena and Lady Laena’s firstborn son.”

“Do you think Lord Corlys would be interested?”

The older man nodded, “Of course, your grace. You are still of Targaryen blood, which is the key to bonding with dragons. Your family used incest to maintain that magic,” Otto spoke confidently. “And I am sure Lord Corlys would be more than eager, to have another Targaryen marry into his family. Especially if they were a consort rather than an heir, who could undermine him.”

Viserys listened thoughtfully to his friend’s advice and he could see the merit to his suggestions. Daella’s marriage was a little tricky to handle as she was currently both, her cousin’s and sister’s heir. His father and Gael could easily disregard his word on her marriage but Helaena was a different situation. While too young to wed Laenor, the current heir to Driftmark, the idea of wedding her to Laena’s future son was sound.

“You are truly a great advisor, my friend. Once we arrive at Oldtown I will begin correspondence with my cousin. I also believe that if we were successful in this, Helaena may gain a dragon,” Viserys replied with a pat to Otto’s shoulder. The older man bowed and the two separated. Viserys did not see the look of ambition and delight, that had taken over Otto’s face, after he left him to go back to Alicent.

Somewhere in the Known World

Human ambition was a wondrous thing, equally responsible for creating dynasties and destroying them. It was the way the ambition was steered that led to one of those outcomes. His puppet king, green queen and their supporters were so very easy to steer. They may have faced hurdles and lost their main source of power but with the Velaryons feeling so insulted, there was yet hope for the war to be spectacular. Ten…the blood of ten dragon riders would do. However, he was certain there would be much, much more.

The blood of those First Men Dragons would be the most fragrant of all. And with how much the Blood Wyrm and the Bronze Shield messed with his original plans, he could not wait to see them suffer. Their first loss would come sooner than later, he was sure. Sending their pretty little Lysa right into the viper’s nest. He would make sure that one of the snakes would grant her a bite, one way or another.

Chapter Text

“111 AC was mostly marked by the wedding of Lady Laena Velaryon to the then Prince of Elyria Tallio Martys. The couple would welcome twins the following year, by the names of Illyrio and Aemon Martys, who would later lose their lives during the Dance of the Dragons. In total, they would welcome five children, three boys and two girls.

The union was known to be a ploy by Lord Corlys ‘the Sea Snake’ Velaryon, in an attempt to create a kingdom for his house. Lord Corlys and his wife, the Princess Rhaenys ‘the Queen-Who-Never-Was’ Targaryen, had felt insulted for the many rejections they faced at the hands of their kin and otherwise. Therefore, they sought to prove their superiority by migrating to Elyria, a once owned land of the Valyrian Freehold. However, such endeavour proved dangerous in the long run, as neither the Free Cities nor Slaver’s Bay were eager to welcome an ambitious Lord of Westeros, who’s presence threatened the delicate politics of Essos…”

-Archmaester Gyldayn

“…The time spent in Oldtown proved fruitful for Lady Alicent, who’s health was recovered in a short six moons in the city. Unfortunately, the Hightower House would soon fall into scandal, as at the start of 112 AC, Lord Ormund Hightower, heir to House Hightower, brought forth a Volantene woman by the name of Vaella, presenting her as his wife and mother of his future child. It was said that Lord Percival had fainted upon hearing his son’s declaration and even threatened his son with disinheritance.

However, Lord Ormund was adamant that Lady Vaella was the woman for him and that she was clever and capable to be the Lady Hightower. Fortunately for Ormund, his persistence eventually wore his father down, who after three moons of rejecting and constantly arguing against the match, begrudgingly allowed the union to continue. Though the lady Vaella’s growing belly was no doubt a good motivator for the old lord. Only Lady Catelyn Hightower remained against the match, even on her deathbed….

…To the delight of Prince Viserys, his wife announced her second pregnancy to him at the end of 112 AC but the couple would maintain secrecy on the news, until after Princess Rhaenyra’s sixteenth nameday in 113 AC…”

-Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

Rhaenyra smiled brightly as she shifted from right to left, carefully observing herself in the mirror. She was dressed in a gown of black Naathi silk, brought to her as a gift from Gaemon two moons back. The silk shimmered on its own, though the rubies, gold and diamonds, added more glamour to the already dazzling fabric. The gown hugged Rhaenyra delicately, accentuating her curves and highlighting her figure, especially with the lower cut of the collar. The addition of the maroon cape of dragon-scale texture, made Rhaenyra’s slim shoulders appear wider and more prominent, essentially creating the illusion of wings on the princess. Lastly, her hair was styled in elaborate spiral braids on either side of her head, in imitation of Queen Visenya’s infamous war braids.

Today marked the third most important day in the young princess’s life. Today, she turned six-and-ten. Today, she reached majority and was officially granted the seat of Dragonstone. Today, all the lords would see her as their future queen. Today, the nobles would renew their oaths to her. The banquet and joust in honour of the occasion were organised personally by her and her ladies and were taking place on her seat of Dragonstone. The nobility was gathered in the Targaryen’s ancestral seat to attend the banquet and joust.

Rhaenyra sighed once more, before turning to the ladies sat around in her chambers. Her ladies-in-waiting were gazing at her in awe and respect, emotions the princess was taught to nurture and reward. Only her cousin, who stood a few feet away from her, gave her an encouraging look, knowing Rhaenyra needed her support. “You look magnificent, your grace,” Joanna Westerling whispered breathlessly. Joanna was the third eldest of Rhaenyra’s ladies, reaching eight-and-ten in a few moons. The young woman was currently betrothed to Ser Harwin Strong, and though both were of age to wed, they had delayed their union till after Rhaenyra and Gaemon’s own wedding, which was not for another year.

“Thank you, my lady,” Rhaenyra replied with a soft smile.

“If you were not betrothed, your grace, the noblemen would lay at your feet begging for your hand,” Hanna Tyrell commented with a giggle. The princess rolled her eyes at the lady, having grown used to Hanna’s antics and interest in romance.

“We should finish, so that we are not late,” Alyssa called out.

“Or…we could make an entrance by being fashionably late,” Rebecca Connington suggested with a mischievous smirk. Rhaenyra grinned at the younger’s cunning. Rebecca always knew how to make an entrance.

Alyssa on the other hand, rolled her eyes at the other girl’s dramatics. “This is no simple banquet, Lady Rebecca. It is her grace’s official instatement as heir.”

“Which is the more reason for her to make such an entrance,” Rebecca argued.

“It will only make her appear as tardy and us as inefficient!” Alyssa argued back.

“Ladies, please calm down,” Dacey broke up the discussion, with her firm yet calm voice. The Strong girl took after her father, not needing much to take control of a situation. “Princess, what do you wish?”

Rhaenyra hummed in thought, understanding both Alyssa and Rebecca’s points on the matter. The princess took a moment to decide, and gave Rebecca an apologetic smile before voicing her opinion. “Sorry, ‘Becca. But I think for today I must follow Alyssa’s advice.” With that, the ladies proceeded with placing the last touches to the princess’s look.

Just as Tyshara handed Rhaenyra her last ring, a soft knock came from the chamber door. “Your grace, Prince Gaemon is here,” Ser Alan Corbray called from behind the door.

“We are coming, ser,” replied the princess.

The ladies exited the chambers to the sight of Prince Gaemon, Ser Harwin Strong and Artys Oakheart. Artys and Annara Strong had wed a few moons ago, and were set to leave Rhaenyra’s household when Annara confirms her first pregnancy. While Annara took her husband’s offered arm, Rhaenyra and Joanna did the same with their betrotheds’. The group was shadowed by Ser Arryk of the Kingsguard and Ser Alan, who had recently voiced his wishes to wed Lady Olenna Fell, Rhaenyra’s eldest lady. Olenna was turning two-and-twenty this year and rumours of her standoffish nature were plenty. People did not know that Olenna’s mother had suffered from pregnancy and that the lady was simply afraid of the birthing bed, just like Rhaenyra. Though it seemed this fear was waning slowly for Olenna, with Alan’s courting.

When the group reached the banquet hall, the herald announced them to the room and the large doors opened for them. Rhaenyra tightened her grip on Gaemon’s arm and steeled herself for the court. The princess and her betrothed walked steadily toward the High Table, receiving bows as they passed the nobles present. Rhaenyra tensed when she spotted her father and stepmother, sat near the High Table with her cousin Jeyne and aunt Amanda. Thankfully, Gaemon noticed his betrothed’s discomfort and whispered soothing words to her. “Don’t mind them, cousin. Today is all about you.”

The princess sighed internally and felt the tension in her shoulders ebbing; at the words and the sight of her sister Daella at the High Table. In contrast to Rhaenyra’s striking black and maroon silks, Daella was dressed in soft blue silk, adorned in the sigil of House Arryn. “You look wonderful, mandia,” the younger girl whispered, once Rhaenyra took her seat.

“Thank you, haedar,” replied the older princess.

“Their graces, King Baelon Targaryen, First of His Name, and Queen Gael Targaryen…” the herald’s voice interrupted any further talk, and the rest of the Targaryen family walked into the room. The night continued with Rhaenyra receiving the renewed oaths of the lords, including an oath from her father and Stepmother. Though the princess did not enjoy their presence, she was distracted by her ladies and Gaemon, who coaxed her into dancing all night. Then, the official declaration of her being the lady of Dragonstone took place at the end of the night, and the King had promised her a great gift on the island.

While the feast held its fair share of important moments, the joust on the following day held more interesting events. The day started normally, with the nobles preparing for the entertainment, with some placing bets on who would win. The excitement carried on throughout the trip to the field, where the nobles each took their assigned seat with fervour. Per usual, the Targaryen family was placed in the three royal boxes, at the best angles of the field view. Princess Rhaenyra was sat beside King Baelon, however, the seat beside Queen Gael, assigned for Prince Gaemon, lay empty. The prince had apparently taken ill and could not be present.

Regardless, the joust began with Ser Alan Beesbury stepping forth on his horse and extending his lance to his family’s box, to ask for his wife’s favour. Lady Marina Beesbury smiled at her husband as she tied her embroidered handkerchief on his lance. Next came Ser Beesbury’s opponent, who was none other than Ser Arryk Cargyll of the Kingsguard, who confidently asked for the Queen’s favour. Gael gently placed her token on the Kingsguard’s lance, while whispering her encouragement. Once they finished receiving their desired favours, the knights moved on either side of the field, before Ser Manderly gestured for the joust to begin.

Ser Alan and Ser Arryk rode their horses expertly and at the last second, prepared their lances. The two weapons met with a crushing sound but neither knight was unhorsed, as they rode past each other. The crowd gasped and booed at the lack of winner, but the two opponents paid the audience no mind, as they prepared for another run. This time, Ser Arryk cleverly moved sideways on his horse, just as Ser Alan’s lance came near him, and with a swift move, poked the younger knight on his shoulder, causing him to lose balance and topple from his horse. The crowd cheered, and Gael smiled when Ser Arryk approached the box with a bow of his head.

Three more rounds went by, with Ser Criston Cole unhorsing Ser Borros Baratheon, Ser Harwin unhorsing Ser Gwayne Hightower, and Ser Banefort unhorsing Ser Celtigar. The fourth round was when the atmosphere shifted, as Ser Dondarrion rode on his horse and asked for his wife’s favour, only to be followed by a mystery knight. The knight shocked most by approaching the royal box and without any words, extending his lance to Princess Rhaenyra. The heir to the Iron Throne could not refuse the request and though conflicted, showed no sign of hesitation when she placed her favour on the lance. “May the Gods steady you, ser,” she whispered.

The masked man bowed his head before riding to his position. The presence of a mysterious knight intrigued the audience, who held their breath as the next round started. To the shock and delight of many, Ser Dondarrion was met by the masked man’s lance and lost his hold on his horse, falling clumsily and with a strong thud on the field. In response, the crowd cheered in excitement, feeling more invested in the mystery knight after his first win. Rhaenyra inhaled sharply, as she spotted the knight gazing at her and nodding his head. The princess was glad Gaemon was not there, lest he felt insulted by the knight.

The joust continued, with the participants decreasing quickly. Ser Arryk unhorsed Ser Manfred, before getting unhorsed by Ser Criston. Ser Banefort also won his second round, only to lose to Ser Harwin. The mystery knight won two more consecutive rounds, one against Ser Torrhen Redfort, the other against Oswick Crakehall. Ser Jaime Crane also swept through three of his opponents, two of them being hedge knights. Eventually, this left four participants facing each other.

The joust between Ser Criston and Ser Harwin was brutal, both having trained under Prince Daemon Targaryen and possessed great talent. In the end however, Ser Criston’s tenacity proved more successful, as he roughly unhorsed Ser Harwin, who fell to the ground with a powerful thud and a loud groan. Joanna leapt out of her seat at the sight of her partner on the floor and she held onto the railing in fear. “Harwin!” She cried desperately, while maesters and squires surrounded the fallen knight. Ser Criston for his part, had dismounted from his horse and taken off his helmet unceremoniously, so he could hurry to his friend’s side.

“He will be alright, my lady. I did not mean to hurt him so,” Criston called to Joanna with an apologetic tone. “Come now, Breakbones. You don’t want to be named Broken Bones on my account,” the older man jested.

“Fuck you,” Harwin replied playfully, just to groan in pain. Criston grinned, knowing his City Watch brother would recover sooner than later.

“Come now, let me help you carry this oaf to his tent. I do not want his lady to scratch my eyes out,” Cole told the squires, and proceeded to aid them in hauling Harwin from the floor and toward the tents. Seeing her betrothed getting carried away, Joanna took leave from the princess to go and check on him.

“Go, I am sure he will appreciate your presence,” Rhaenyra told the older lady, who curtsied before hurrying out of the box. Moving on from the incident, the field was cleared once more for the next round, for Jaime Crane and the mystery knight. The joust was exciting, though not as intense as the one prior. It ended when Jaime tried a dangerous manoeuvre, just for his opponent to see through it and ignore the trap. The mystery knight’s lance made direct contact with Jaime’s helmet, causing him to fall on his back, as his horse ran without him. The man groaned, though no significant damage had been done to him. Once again, the mystery knight proved to be a worthy participant.

Afterward, a short break was taken before the final round. Rhaenyra was served some wine and finger foods, as she listened to the murmurs of her ladies. “No, it will definitely be Ser Criston. He unhorsed Ser Harwin!” Hanna whispered eagerly.

“But the mystery knight hasn’t lost a round and he is more agile than Ser Harwin!” Rebecca argued with a shake of her head.

“Ser Criston has a lot of experience in battle against the Dornish, the mystery knight wont trick him,” Dacey commented. Rebecca remained stubborn in her defence of the mystery knight and Rhaenyra giggled when she heard Olenna teasing the young girl.

“Perhaps Lady Rebecca would’ve liked for the knight to ask for her favour?” Rebecca blushed at the comment and glanced at Rhaenyra, who grinned mischievously at her.

“I did not say that…I just think it will be more exciting if he wins,” the Connington girl defended shyly. The conversation ended soon after, when the remaining two participants approached the field on their respective horses. Ser Criston, who had asked for Princess Rhea Royce’s favour, was eager to win the joust, so he could ask for a place in Princess Alyssa’s household, when she leaves for Dorne the following year. Cole believed he was the most suitable man to be the Princess’s protector, in the foreign land known for its assassins. After all, he had faced them in battle enough times to know how to protect his charge.

Therefore, when Ser Manderly signalled for the round to start, Criston was merciless with his assault against his opponent. Unfortunately, the first contact was cleverly dodged by the mystery knight. The second run was a lot more tricky, as both men managed to hit their opponent, but neither was unhorsed. As Lady Rebecca had predicted, the mystery knight was slick, able to dodge the most dangerous attacks, all while managing to counterattack. However, Ser Criston was indeed the more experienced of the two, as on the third run, Cole moved his lance sideways, all but sweeping his opponent from his saddle.

As a result, the mystery knight rolled over on the floor and groaned in pain. The crowd cheered at the winner, though some were disappointed for the loss of the fallen knight. The mystery man remained on the floor and held onto his ankle, which was likely sprained from the awkward fall. Some audience members proceeded to speak some encouraging words to the young man and giving him their condolences, as the maester and squires went to check on him.

Maester Mellos was gently checking on the injured man’s ankle, when said man reached for his helmet, patiently taking it off. The eyes on the field were met by the sight of bronze locks, which some may mistook for common. However, Prince Rhaegar’s yell from the royal box, proved otherwise. “LEKIA!” The young prince’s scream rippled throughout the field, stunning the occupants into silence.

Everyone’s eyes widened at the sight of Prince Gaemon on the ground, breathing deeply to control the pain. Mellos for his part stammered at the sight of the prince, while Criston Cole paled significantly. Then there was Princess Rhea, who barely contained her scream at seeing her son’s pained face. And when she turned to her husband for comfort, she only saw the rogue prince calmly standing from his seat and heading out of the box. Meanwhile, Rhaenyra felt faint at the sight of her betrothed on the field, unsure of how she felt regarding his hare-brained endeavour.

Back down, the maester and Ser Criston, who had just managed to collect their wits, were fussing over the injured prince, only to be waved off by him. “It is but a sprain. No need to worry so.”

“Your grace, why would you be so reckless?!” Cole inquired desperately.

“I wished to gift Rhaenyra with the title of Queen of Love and Beauty for the celebration. It is in her honour,” Gaemon replied haughtily, feeling frustrated at his loss.

“That was stupid but I cannot reprimand you for it,” Prince Daemon’s voice caught his son’s and knight’s attention. Criston bowed deeply to his commander and opened his mouth to apologise, but the rogue prince interrupted him, “You did not know, ser. I do not fault you.” Then, the prince turned to his son, who was helped to his feet by a squire. “You, on the other hand…Kneel.”

Gaemon’s eyes widened, though he carefully obeyed, settling on his uninjured leg. The audience held their breath, while Prince Daemon unsheathed his sword. Gaemon stiffened and his mouth fell open, as his father tapped his shoulders with Dark Sister. “Prince Gaemon, do you swear to protect the realm and the royal family?”

“I do,” he replied shakily.

“Do you swear to uphold Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen’s claim to the Iron Throne?”

“I do.”

“Then, in the name of King Baelon Targaryen, king of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, I Prince Daemon Targaryen, name you a protector of the realm and a knight in the eyes of the Old Gods and the New.” Gaemon lifted his gaze to his father’s, feeling his entire body shake with anticipation and bewilderment. The crowd was still too shocked to speak or react, but Daemon was not quite done. The rogue prince sheathed his sword, just to unstrap it from his belt. The following surprise was unlike any other, as Daemon presented Dark Sister with both hands to his eldest son. “Blackfyre is the sword of the monarch, Dark Sister is the sword of the protector.”

Gaemon shakily reached for the sword and once he felt its weight in his hand, a shiver ran down his spine. “Father, are you sure?” He whispered.

“You have made me proud and proved yourself capable of competing with the most seasoned of knights. Rhaenyra cannot ask for a better protector,” Daemon answered resolutely.

The brown-haired prince swallowed the lump in his throat, before gesturing for the squire to aid him in standing. The younger boy scrambled to pull the prince to his feet, and helped him walk all the way to the royal box. Gaemon then released the squire, carefully balancing on his uninjured leg. The prince unsheathed Dark Sister and held it out to his betrothed. “I swear that I shall protect you from all harm and that I will uphold your claim till my dying breath.” Rhaenyra felt tears prickling her eyes and her heart fluttering in her chest.

Chapter Text

Throughout his childhood, Daemon always dreamt of the man he would become and what he would accomplish in his life. Being the second son of a second son, meant that the world did not expect much of him. However, the young Daemon cared little for others’ opinions, knowing he was the blood of the dragon and destined for great things. Many second sons already carved their own way into the world but unlike most of them, Daemon possessed Targaryen blood, which made his expectations higher.

Then, things slowly began to shift when his uncle Aemon died and his father became Jaehaerys’s heir. Suddenly, Daemon was no mere second son but the son of the future king and only brother to another king. Predictably, the rogue prince saw this responsibility as an honour and worked tirelessly to be his father and brother’s sword -this was amplified by Rhaenyra’s birth and Aemma’s struggles with pregnancy-. To be worthy of being called their protector, Daemon had even considered a position in the Kingsguard at some point, though he realised it was unlikely with their dwindling family members.

Things went well for four years after, especially on his fifteenth nameday when he received Dark Sister, then again on his sixteenth nameday when he was allowed to claim Caraxes. After his claiming of the Blood Wyrm, it seemed natural to the then young prince, to expect a marriage to his aunt Gael, who was the remaining Targaryen woman of suitable age and standing. Therefore, when the late Queen Alysanne made the shocking announcement of his betrothal to Rhea Royce, a Valemen of no Valyrian blood and with no ties to the family, Daemon felt a sense of betrayal and utter confusion.

The sixteen-namedays prince could not understand why his grandmother and father were sending him so far away and to a woman he had no connection to. It became more unacceptable to him when his grandsire, the man who was adamant that the dragons remained within the direct Targaryen family, was willing for him to take Caraxes to the Vale. It was years later, when Daemon had daughters of his own, that the prince came to realise why Alysanne made such a proposal in the first place. Gael was Alysanne’s last daughter, who was not shunned or dead, so she was unwilling to risk Gael’s life in the childbed or otherwise. This made Gael’s ending all the more tragic in Daemon’s opinion, if a little ironic. Perhaps the princess could have survived for longer if she had been wed to him.

Nevertheless, his forced marriage to Rhea Royce had marked the beginning of Daemon’s isolation from his family and induced misery. The other blows came with Otto Hightower’s appointment as Hand, and Viserys’s subsequent change in behaviour. Where once upon a time Viserys was compassionate to his brother’s plights, and understanding of his desires, he began looking at Daemon as a misbehaving and ungrateful child, who was a whoremonger and troublemaker. No matter what Daemon tried to do, Otto would find fault in his conduct and as a result Viserys would find him lacking too.

The metaphorical final straw came with Daemon’s humiliating disinheritance. It mattered little that not even four years prior, the Great Council had disregarded Rhaenys as even a candidate to the Iron Throne, or how Viserys had spent over a decade pressuring Aemma for a son. So long as Daemon did not sit the throne after his brother, Viserys and his council were satisfied. Once he lost his inheritance and following years of being discarded, the rogue prince had developed a taste for vengeance. Unfortunately, this was released on his niece, who had been an innocent fourteen-namedays girl. Daemon could now admit to himself that if it weren’t for his marriage to Laena, he may have continued on the path of using Rhaenyra for his own gains, before discarding her.

This made it ironic that he was chosen from amongst all his family members to be allowed a second chance at life. This life, this second chance…what can he say about it? It was nothing like he expected, it was everything he dreamt of, it was annoyingly mundane…it was perfect. Never in his youth would Daemon Targaryen have believed that he would find happiness with a life not of his choosing. Yet here he was, with a wife he did not choose, with children he had not thought of having and with contributions to the realm he had not planned for.

Rhea, Melissa as she called her previous self, was not what he dreamt of in a bride. When it came to duty, Rhea was overly pragmatic, unapologetically blunt and generally efficient. But in daily life, she was oddly sensitive, easily amused and quick to fluster. She was more interested in numbers and art than in swords and dragons. She respected his space and did not push him to do things he did not want, and whenever an argument escalated, she was more than willing to apologise if she was wrong. She was certainly no Targaryen woman.

For as long as Daemon remembered, the women in his family were stubborn, hot-tempered, passionate beyond reason and very competitive. That was the kind of woman he believed he would marry. He had even lived with such with both Laena and Rhaenyra and admittedly experienced an interesting partnership with both. So, to be fulfilled with a woman who was arguably the opposite of them, felt unfathomable. Yet here he was with Rhea; happier and more content than he imagined to be possible.

Then there were his children. Daemon would not lie that he had always wished for a protégée to raise in his image. In his previous life, the closest he came to this was Baela, who was more dragon than girl. She shared his passion for the sword, his stubbornness, his fire. It was no surprise seeing her mother was none other than Laena. Baela was everything Daemon wanted in his child, and every time he remembered her, his heart would clench in pain at the thought of never being able to see her grow into the woman she became, let alone meet her again. This did not mean he loved his other girl any less. No, his sweet Rhaena was no less loved than her sister. His dutiful, clever Rhaena, who made him understand what it meant to be a father. His little Rhaena who snuggled to him whenever she saw him tired, who demanded gifts whenever he went to the city, who twirled in her pretty dresses and asked him if he liked them. His little lady.

Then there were his boys, both the Strong and his trueborn boys. Dutiful Jacaerys, loyal Lucerys, brave Joffrey, mischievous Aegon and clever Viserys. Whenever he thought of them, tears would build in his eyes and his chest would constrict as if he could not breathe. The boys that were taken from him before their time. The gods were cruel to take him from them but they had given him a chance to live right. Now, he would see remnants of his previous children in his current. He saw Baela in Gaemon when he trained hard. He saw Rhaena when Alyssa asked about his health. He saw Jacaerys in the way Daeron held himself. He heard Lucerys’s infectious laugh when Rhaegar chortled. He recently saw Aegon in his little Viserra and even Viserys in little Saera. Only Yorbert and Sansa had been a blank slate, though they would likely remind him of their no-longer-existing siblings as they get older.

Daemon thanked the Gods for this chance and he swore to do right by his family. That was why when the mystery knight entered the joust of Rhaenyra’s nameday, and once Daemon realised it was Gaemon after his match with Ser Dondarrion, the rogue prince made up his mind to finally depart with Dark Sister. The sword he believed he would gift Baela upon her marriage to Jacaerys, could only be bestowed on the person who most resembled her. Gaemon proved himself to be a worthy successor and Daemon could not be prouder. He knew Baela would approve of his decision too, which made him more resolute when he handed the legendary sword to its new owner.

The nobles were still reeling from the events of the joust, discussing them fervently amongst each other as they sipped the wine served to them at the consecutive feast. “Did you see the way Prince Gaemon declared fealty for Princess Rhaenyra?” Lady Peake said with a vigorous wave of her fan, as she recalled the way the prince presented his new sword to his betrothed. Such devotion from a man to a woman was rare, usually only talked about in stories.

“I know. My daughter told me the prince was loyal to the princess but I did not expect the length of his devotion,” Lady Tyrell replied in a whisper.

“I heard Lord Manfred’s second son tried to approach the princess alone once, and when Prince Gaemon was informed, he demanded for the man’s eyes,” said Lord Rosby.

“Oh my. I actually heard the prince made him choose between his right leg or right hand,” Ser Hayford replied with a sparkle of fascination in his eyes. The nobles continued to converse eagerly about the relationship between the prince and princess, each telling a story that sounded more outlandish than the last.

Alicent gritted her teeth as she listened to the admiration laced in the people’s voices. It had not been a week since she returned to court, and already her stepdaughter got on her nerves. While Alicent had known the celebration would centre on the spoiled brat, seeing that it was her sixteenth nameday, the stunt Prince Gaemon pulled had catapulted the attention skyward. Worse for her, was that the stunt had hindered her plans of stealing the attention from the princess with the reveal of her new pregnancy.

Alicent had been planning the moment meticulously, having learnt from her first announcement. She had patiently waited for the right moment to steer the attention toward herself, rather than on Rhaenyra. Her pregnancy announcement needed to be bold and flawless. It needed to be presented as the challenge it was meant to be. No matter what King Baelon said, the nobility would not settle for a woman, when a man was available to fill her place. Alicent’s son was simply ordained to be the future lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and no amount of denial by the Targaryens will stop his ascent.

Annoyingly, Alicent could no longer announce the pregnancy at the celebration. If she were to draw attention to herself now, the nobles would only see it as an act of pettiness, rather than the message of power it was meant to convey. Still, the young woman was not deterred by such minor inconveniences. She was still pregnant and her son will be born sooner than later. Her Aegon would bless the court with his presence and outshine all other Targaryen children.

“Lady Alicent, I hear congratulations are in order,” the voice of Lady Fossoway cut through Alicent’s musings. It took a moment for the words to register for the younger lady, who felt a surge of panic at them, fearing her pregnancy was discovered. Sensing the confusion of the Hightower girl, Lady Fossoway spoke hurriedly to clarify. “I just heard Prince Viserys, saying that Summerhall is complete.”

Relief washed over the younger lady and she swiftly replaced her expression with a proud smile. “Oh, yes. Thank you. We are so excited to host the nobility at the new Keep.”

“Many will be delighted to attend, I am sure,” the older woman replied with a kind smile.

Though distant relatives, the Fossoways were steady supporters of the Hightowers and Alicent knew she could count on Lady Fossoway’s backing at court or in the near future. “My husband and I are currently in talks of hosting a seven-day tourney, in honour of the Seven-Who-Are-One.”

“Splendid idea, my lady,” the voice of Lady Samantha Bracken interrupted the pair. In response, Alicent and Lady Fossoway turned to the other woman and gave her a polite smile. “I must say, it is quite the relief to see you here…after all that has happened.”

The barbed comment sent a surge of anger through Alicent and she wrung her fingers together. “Yes. Helaena’s pregnancy took a toll on my body, so I decided to go directly to the Citadel to be healed there. Besides, it seemed Princess Rhaenyra was…finding it difficult to acclimate with a new mother figure.”

“Oh, I have heard. It is difficult to accept another woman as a mother, especially one so…strict..as you are,” Lady Bracken replied with a malicious smile, no doubt hinting at Alicent’s outburst in the garden, during her pregnancy. Over two years later and the women still talked about the way Lady Belaerys had screamed at her stepdaughter for daring to walk the gardens with her cousin, in the Lady’s presence. There were even some theatrical plays depicting an evil stepmother who makes the princess kneel in front of her, while mocking the princess’s dead mother.

“The princess is young and has been given more responsibility than any other woman before her. It is natural for her to need a firm hand,” Lady Fossoway’s defense was swift, making Alicent’s shoulders slump in relief. She still had some unwavering allies.

“That is correct,” the young woman decided to use the opportunity presented, to shine a new perspective on herself. “The loss of her mother had made Princess Rhaenyra quite defiant to her father, so I sought to correct her behaviour, as the Seven instruct.”

“How…noble of you, my lady. I am sure the princess will remember your lessons fondly, once she becomes queen,” said Lady Bracken, still smiling maliciously. “I did wish to ask. Shall we be hearing of a new Belaerys member soon? Lady Helaena will no doubt appreciate having another sis-erm-sibling…”

Alicent pursed her lips at the audacity of the other woman. Lady Bracken’s words were as venomous as her smile and if they had not been in a public place, Alicent would have demanded an apology. Nevertheless, she composed herself enough to give a fake smile of her own. “Not to worry, my lady. Helaena shall be blessed with a brother soon. If you will excuse me.” Once she ended the conversation, Alicent turned on her heel and walked briskly out of the hall and to the nearest chamberpot room. She could feel the sense of fury burning within her veins and the upcoming outburst as a result.

This had been a secret she kept from Viserys, who had been worried that she may experience the same emotional breakdowns as with her first pregnancy. Alicent did not wish to disappoint him further by admitting that she was indeed struggling once again. While it was not as bad as with Helaena or quite so uncontrollable, the woman still felt the sense of rage simmering beneath her skin. Whenever someone annoyed her, she felt herself losing control, wishing to attack them. So far, there had not been a worthwhile incident but she remained diligent in reducing her interactions with people, to avoid any witnesses to her fraying sanity. Only her father, her brother Gwayne, two maids and her personal maesters were aware of her condition.

Her Aegon’s birth needed to be as perfect as ever, to compensate for her failure with Helaena.

Daeron felt his hands sweating as he clutched them behind his back in a posture of confidence. Today he was meeting his betrothed, the young Jorelle Reed. It was his twelfth nameday in a few days and his mother deemed it a suitable time to introduce him to his future bride. Though his mother insisted it was his choice whether he agreed to the betrothal or not, Daeron did not make it a habit of contradicting her. His Lady mother knew what was best for him and their land and he trusted her implicitly. If she saw this girl as fit for the future Lord of Runestone, then who was Daeron to argue.

Besides, the boy knew from his uncles, cousins and tutors that political marriages were common amongst the nobility, and that just because he and his bride were not in love, did not mean they could not be content in their marriage or find pleasure outside of it. His father had been the one to talk to him regarding the matter of his marital duty and how it was possible to enjoy others even when wedded. Paramours were acceptable so long as his wife remained his First Lady and most respected woman in his household. Although, Daeron doubted he would be interested in such.

“Do not look so stiff, brother. You might scare the lady,” Rhaegar commented with a smirk, already getting on his brother’s nerves. Rhaegar had started becoming more and more like their father in his youth. Many had compared the two, especially when it came to their sense of humour and nonchalance. While most found it endearing, Daeron found it exasperating.

“Do shut up. I do not need her believing we have half-wits in the family,” responded the older boy. Rhaegar was unaffected by the jab as he moved to lace his hands over his head, while bouncing on his heals. “Stop that. You look undignified,” Daeron hissed with a scowl.

“Boys … ” Rhea drawled from beside her second eldest son, her eyes staring sharply at the two. The pair of boys had the insight to appear apologetic to their mother, though neither truly felt sorry for the bickering.

“Muna, the Reeds rule Greywatch castle, right?” Viserra’s voice piped up, attracting her family’s attention. The little princess of six namedays had begun her studies and in honour of their guests, her tutors had introduced her to House Reed’s history.

“That is right, my clever girl,” Rhea said to her daughter. Viserra smiled in turn, basking in the praise and feeling pride for her correct knowledge.

“Is it true they have greenseers?” Asked Rhaegar.

“It is rumoured, yes.”

Daeron shifted on his feet at the information, “Is this why you chose her, muna?”

“It was one of the reasons, yes,” Rhea replied with ease. Daeron hummed in response, more determined now to ensure his mother’s wishes were fulfilled.

Just as the family settled, the carriages carrying the Reed family from the harbour arrived. There were two carriages total, surrounded by fifteen men on horses. The hosting family straightened their backs and gave polite smiles on their faces, in welcome of the guests. Daeron held his breath as the carriages halted and the doors opened for the occupants to exit. First, Lord Eddard Reed stepped out, his frame much smaller than expected. It was more noticeable when he stood in front of Prince Daemon, who seemed over a head taller. The man had light-brown, thin hair, which was cut much shorter than usual. His beard was thick, hiding his frown.

Following the dour-faced man was his wife. She was a plump woman, also short of stature, with a head of unruly auburn hair and freckles covering her small face. Then, two young girls stepped out from the second carriage, each with a mop of auburn hair, freckles and shy smiles. Daeron felt his heart flutter nervously at the sight of his betrothed, who was the older of the two girls. Jorelle was two sunturns older than him and it showed in the more refined features of her face, that had lost most of its childish structure.

“Lord and Lady Reed, welcome to Runestone,” his mother greeted using her formal voice, and gestured for the salt and bread to be presented.

The guests reached for a small piece of bread each and dipped it in salt before eating it. “Thank you, your graces. It is an honour to be here,” Lord Reed replied, in a gruff voice that did not quite fit him.

“Please, you must be exhausted from the travel,” the rogue prince stated stoically.

This was Daeron’s cue to perform his assigned task, “Lord and Lady Reed, please allow me to look after your bannermen,” he said. His words had caught the guests’ attention, including his betrothed and her sister.

Daeron could feel Lord Reed’s eyes studying him for a moment before the man nodded. “That would be kind of you, my prince.” The twelve namedays boy inhaled a sigh of relief as he went to the bannermen to guide them to their accommodations. He felt grateful for the short hour he had, before he and his family dined with the guests.

At the dinner, Daeron was sat in front of Jorelle, who was seated between her mother and sister. For the first twenty minutes, the two families dined silently on the served roasted lamb, stuffed peppers and fish stew. That was until Lord Reed decided it was time to open the conversation. “Your grace, you know we are not quite as fond of pleasantries as the South, so shall we get to the essence of this meeting?”

Rhea hummed softly, while placing down her cutlery. “I had hoped you would give us more time but I suppose the matter is too important to delay.”

“Forgive my husband’s impatience, your grace. But you must understand our apprehension to this betrothal. After all, House Royce has been elevated to a much higher station than before,” Lady Reed explained with a more polite tone than her husband.

“House Royce is from the age of Old Kings. I do not see the difference in their station now,” Daemon commented with a scoff.

“While that may be true, my prince. The circumstances are incomparable,” said Lord Reed.

“We simply do not wish to…offend our liege lord,” Lady Reed trailed off in a whisper, and things began to register for the Royce-Targaryens. It was understandable for a sworn lord to not antagonise his liege lord. The Reeds marrying into the Targaryen family prior to the Starks, no matter how distantly, may be seen as a slight.

“Oh…” Rhea could say nothing else as she and the family sat there in awkward silence.

“We know your alliance with Lord Stark is firm, however, we do not wish to be in the middle in the case of future conflicts,” Lady Reed continued with a nervous expression.

“That is understandable, my lady. Though I wish to reassure you that Lord Stark has been informed of my wish for Daeron to marry North and of my choosing of your daughter,” Rhea responded in a soft voice.

“Besides, the marriage won't happen for another four sunturns. By then, Cregan Stark should begin his fostering with us,” Daemon continued for his wife.

“I see…would it be possible to push the betrothal for six years instead?” Inquired Lord Reed.

“We can temporarily have an indefinite betrothal and see what happens after the four years have passed. It will also allow the children to be certain of this union,” Rhea suggested instead. The adults exchanged glances for a few moments, before Lord and Lady Reed agreed to the terms.

Chapter Text

Across the world, those with status and coin, always move about with a distinguishable presence. Their steps heavy and assured, their clothing eye-catching with its fabric and detail. Their voices often boisterous and tones haughty. They were noticeable to say the least. On the other end of the spectrum, are the servants working under those high status individuals. A servant’s clothing often makes them blend into the background, or is so pale they become specks of light in the corner of the eyes, rather than figures of human beings. Many forget the existence of their staff, knowing those of the lower status have little to gain from interfering in matters that do not affect them. So much so, that kings could fall and wives get replaced, without the staff blinking once at the change.

However, in the rare cases where the employers pay attention and are kind to their employees, a connection may form that shifts the dynamic. This had been the case for one Brie Stone. Brie had been born to a hedge knight of the Vale, and once she became of age to work, her father would send her to work in the kitchens of their liege lord. Fortunately, not only was Brie welcomed into the Arryn household, but she had also been placed in their youngest daughter’s service, instead of at the kitchens. Lady Aemma Arryn had been Brie’s age, leading the two to become easy friends. The young lady had been so sweet, often sneaking all manner of treats to her friend.

Their relationship would become strong enough to allow Brie to travel with her lady to Kings Landing, once Aemma was called to wed Prince Viserys. The wedding had been so beautiful and Aemma had looked radiant in her gown of white and gold. Brie had tears in her eyes when she had witnessed her lady dancing with the prince. Initially, both Brie and her lady were more than excited for this new chapter in their lives. Unfortunately, things would sour ever so quickly. Aemma had been bedded before she was flowered, against the maesters’ advice. Thankfully, four moons after her eleventh nameday and six moons after her wedding, Aemma would bleed for the first time. Only, this news did not please the maesters and some handmaidens, who had claimed it a result of the early bedding.

On the other hand, Prince Viserys had seen it as a sign from the Gods that he would be blessed with a son soon. Sure enough, three moons later, Aemma would be confirmed to be with child, just to go into early labour by the end of the year. Her son Aerion would survive for a fortnight before the Stranger claimed him. The loss had been devastating for Aemma, though not as significantly as the pregnancy. Brie had witnessed firsthand, how the pregnancy wrecked her dearest friend’s body. Brie had been the one to hold Aemma’s thinning hair when she threw up in the chamberpot. She had been the one to notice the yellowish tint to Aemma’s skin. The one who had felt how Aemma’s muscles weakened with each passing moon, while her belly refused to grow the way it was meant to.

Aerion had been the first of only five pregnancies, but Brie did not need to be a maester to know the effects he had on his mother’s body. Aemma’s body was nearly ruined, all due to Viserys’s impatience and selfishness. Brie had not hated the prince immediately, having believed him to be naïve and eager to please. However, her opinion had shifted swiftly, when he returned to Aemma’s bed only six weeks after the loss of Aerion, demanding they try again for a child. Brie had tried convincing Aemma to refuse and to request aid from Queen Alysanne or anyone for that matter, but Aemma, dutiful, selfless and sweet Aemma, claimed that it was her duty to give her husband an heir.

Thus, the second pregnancy would be announced a mere five moons after Aerion’s passing. Predictably, the lady would suffer a miscarriage just three moons after the announcement, but not before the second babe drained more of her life. That time, it had not been the physical weakness that had broken Brie’s heart. No, it had been the guilt her friend had developed. Aemma had always been a religious lady, faithful to the Seven, so to her, those losses had been ordained by the Gods. Brie had to beg her friend, who, with her sickly, pale, swaying form, wished to kneel before the statue of the Mother, in the sept of Kings Landing, to pray and beg for the Goddess’s mercy.

Worse, was Viserys’s unwavering desire for a son and insistence upon forcing Aemma to beget with the child, as soon as possible. In the days the prince would visit her lady, Brie would fantasise about hurting him or helping Aemma do so. Then, the unexpected happened…the birth of Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra had been a source of light after the storm. Aemma’s radiant smile, despite her frailty, had returned at the moment Rhaenyra was placed in her arms. The babe, a healthy girl, was a miracle in the eyes of everyone who had witnessed Aemma’s suffering. For a brief moment, there was a sense of hope in the air. Perhaps the Gods had not turned their backs on her, after all. Aemma, though exhausted, had looked at Rhaenyra with the glimmer of a future brighter than the past.

Still, Brie was not blind. She could see the look in Viserys’s eyes. The same hunger for an heir, the same relentless ambition/desperation that had caused Aemma so much pain. Brie knew this blissful feeling would not last. She prayed, that if the Gods indeed stood by her lady, that they would not subject her to Viserys’s ignorant cruelty again. It was then that Rhea Royce had come to them. The only other person who cherished Aemma the way Brie did. And Rhea knew it too. It was the reason Brie had been the one entrusted to learn how to brew the merrytea. A brew that would ease Aemma’s suffering in a way that would go unnoticed by the maesters, allowing her a chance to heal.

The first time she had given it to her lady, Brie had hesitated, watching Aemma’s face for any signs of doubt. But there was none. Aemma had swallowed the tea with a grateful smile, reassuring Brie of her trust in the plan. The tea would prove effective, when each moon passed without a sign of pregnancy, regardless of how much Viserys tried. However, against Brie’s advice, Aemma would choose to stop the tea after Rhaenyra’s third nameday, claiming to be ready for another babe. Little Daella would follow over a year later, the perfect image of her mother…but yet another girl. Another disappointment for Viserys.

Rhaenyra’s birth may have been a miracle, but Daella’s was a reminder of the lack of male heirs, and evidence that Aemma could carry another babe. The tea had to be implemented again, following Daella’s birth, especially with the sharp glint of frustration in Viserys’s eyes. The pregnancy with Daella had not been as terrible as the ones before, yet the midwife sent by Lady Rhea had vehemently warned against another. However, Aemma would still relent to her husband’s wishes, merely four years later. Shockingly, this time it seemed that Brie could have a sigh of relief, as the babe, Jaevon, had been born a boy. However, when Brie realised that Aemma had all but lost the heart to live, due to the complications of the birth, she wished she had stopped Viserys in his tracks.

Then, just as life was being reintroduced to Aemma, the Gods would decide to enact another of their cruelties. The Stranger would claim Jaevon only six moons after his birth, and that was just the first blow. Maester Runciter killing Aemma, was what truly broke Brie. No one could have blamed the once-hopeful maid for the molten rage in her veins, that roared with a thirst for vengeance. The execution of Runciter was not enough, the main culprit was still free. Prince Viserys needed to pay and pay he would.

The payment would come in the form of one wrathful Rhea Royce. The moment Rhea had set foot in Kings Landing to attend Aemma’s funeral, she had called to Brie to speak on the matter. In two short sentences, the Bronze Lady would give her the tool to enact her desired vengeance. They would take what Viserys desired most, they would destroy his dreams and ensure he never had a moment of peace…they would take his fertility away.

Brie still remembered the first time she slipped the serum into the prince’s wine. The vial had felt heavier than it should have; its glass cool against her skin as she uncorked it. The bitter scent curled into her nostrils as she poured the concoction into the flagon of Dornish wine. For a single heartbeat, her hands hovered above the table, a flicker of hesitation gripping her chest. The image of Aemma’s face had flashed in Brie’s mind. Her kind smile, her sweet laugh…the ever proud stance of an Arryn, who knew her duty. Suddenly, the question of, “Would she want this?” was whispered in the back of Brie’s mind. Though, it had been swiftly overpowered by a more sinister reply, “She is no longer here to disprove of it. Her life had been destroyed by that man and justice had not been dealt by the Gods, so I shall deal it out myself.”

The plan was not flawless by any means, proven by the birth of Helaena. Nevertheless, Brie had been unrelenting in her task. She had succeeded in poisoning Viserys for three consecutive sunturns, from 107 AC to 110 AC. Although her task would be interrupted by the prince and his wretched second wife remaining at Oldtown for nearly two years, Brie was undeterred, confident that sooner rather than later, Viserys would lose the ability to fulfil his dreams of having a son. Brie will ensure it no matter what, and at any cost.

“On the seventh day of the seventh moon of 113 AC, five moons after Princess Rhaenyra’s sixteenth nameday celebration, her father and stepmother would welcome their second babe. The son Prince Viserys had been yearning for…his Aegon. Unfortunately, tragedy would strike but a single week later….”

-Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

Viserys felt his throat burn, as the liquid streamed down with each large gulp he took. The bitter-sweet taste excited his tongue while the effects of the drink lulled his senses. He was drinking the wine straight from the flagon, like some hungry peasant who’d never tasted such a delight. Or more accurately, like a man who had nothing to lose and everything to gain, from drowning himself in the rich, sweet, red liquid known as Dornish wine.  For what else is a man to do, when the Gods forsake him after granting him their favour?

Six years he now had spent in pursuit of what the Gods had shown him. Six years of struggling to bring forth the Prince That Was Promised. Six years of dedicating himself to the mission.  So, why? Why had the Gods forsaken him? Had it all been a cruel jest? Showing him his future sons with Alicent, showing that Aegon was the saviour of their world, just to deny him? A week. Aegon had breathed for but a week. He was born on the most blessed day. On the seventh day of the seventh moon. The High Septon himself had been present for the birth, blessing Aegon with holy oil and proclaiming him the long awaited prince of the kingdom.

They were in Summerhall, surrounded by their most loyal and devout supporters. Everyone present knew of the future Aegon held in his tiny fist. His birth on the blessed day had been additional proof of his divine destiny. He was chosen by the Gods (and men, according to Otto and Alicent) to be the future king of the Seven Kingdoms. Viserys may have been apprehensive to the thought of going against his family, but the birth of Aegon had solidified his beliefs. Rhaenyra was not chosen by the Gods. She would struggle as her mother did, leaving the throne for Aegon to claim.

Viserys’s grip tightened around the flagon as the memory of Aegon’s first cry echoed in his mind. That sound…so piercing, so alive. The maester’s awed expression when he placed the babe in his arms. Hands trembling as if he were carrying a treasure. Voice so breathless when he announced, “A son, my prince. You have finally been blessed with your son.” Viserys’s eyes had welled up in tears then, his head dizzy from the intoxicating emotion of vindication. For a fleeting week, he had felt the certainty of his vision solidify. The boy’s tiny hand had grasped Viserys’s finger with a strength that defied his size, as if Aegon, even then, was prepared for the burdens of his future.

Viserys closed his eyes, as the image of the child’s pale, lifeless body invaded his thoughts. Alicent’s broken wails as she clutched the wrapped babe to her chest, too echoed in the back of his mind. How could this have happened, no one knew. One moment the child was breathing, the next he was not. How could it be? The child had been perfect. Blessed. How could the Gods create something so perfect only to snatch it away?

A part of Viserys still believed it to be a terrible nightmare. Unreal. He still awaited the moment he would open his eyes to find himself on his bed, Alicent sleeping beside him, her beautiful face unmarred by the exhaustion of her pregnancy or the devastation of Aegon’s death. He would slip out of the bed slowly, careful not to disturb his sweet wife. His feet would meet the cold floor as his legs move to carry him to the nursery. There, he would find Aegon, his perfect Aegon, sleeping peacefully in his cradle, swaddled by a cloth of their house colours. But it was not to be. The grief was all too real.

The only other person to feel the loss more profoundly than him, was Alicent. Viserys did not wish to be reminded of how broken his wife had become. She was no longer the woman he fell in love with. She was no longer the kind, sweet, patient and clever woman he met in the gardens seven years ago. Her mind was fractured like a shattered mirror on the floor. Her descent into that state was not unprecedented yet still unnerving. She had been suffering since her pregnancy with Helaena, her moods ever changing, her paranoia heightened. However, their time in Oldtown had given them a sense of peace and refreshed their souls.

So, when the pregnancy with Aegon started out well, Viserys was more hopeful than ever. Unfortunately, he soon discovered that Alicent had been hiding her struggles from him, afraid of disappointing him. She was as uncomfortable as she had been when expecting Helaena. In her sixth moon, she began to see enemies within the shadows, crying at them to leave her be. The maester had tried everything he could to comfort her, giving her draughts and instructing her maids on how to prepare soothing baths. But nothing had been truly effective. When the labours began, Alicent had to be given a diluted dose of milk of the poppy, to ensure she was calm enough to push. Surprisingly, the birth had been quick, with Aegon coming into the world six hours in. At the time, everyone believed it to be the Gods’ mercy.

However, Aegon died just as fast as he came. The resulting effect on Alicent was unlike anything Viserys could imagine. When the maester confirmed Aegon’s passing, Alicent had shrieked at the top of her lungs, and lunged at the poor healer. Her thin hands had taken ahold of the man’s wrinkled neck and squeezed with a vice grip. It had taken two knights and Viserys to pry her off of the man, only to be on the receiving end of her wrathful despair. She had hurled curses at all around her, thrashing and kicking. She screamed that they killed her son, that they all betrayed her and that she will make them pay. Even now, two days after Aegon’s passing, Alicent had to be kept under the influence of milk of the poppy, lest she attack another person in her grief.

Viserys turned his gaze to the sky, finding the stars brightly shining through the darkness, mocking him for his loss. Suddenly, his grief began to seep into a new emotion other than despair. Anger. He was becoming angry. Why? What had been the point in all of this? Why show him the vision if they did not wish it to be fulfilled? Was he merely a pawn in their game? Were the Gods truly this cruel? The Prince threw the flagon of wine on the floor, before he clumsily stood on his feet. He lifted his fists to the sky and held his head high, before letting out a scream of frustration and grief. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?”

Somewhere in the Known World

He could not understand how it all led to this. It was annoying perhaps, but useful all the same. His green queen may not be his champion of chaos any longer but his puppet king will be as good of a replacement as any. Grief, frustration and anger did not mix well. Now to direct it the way he wished it to go.

Rhea frowned as she read the missive from Brie, informing her of the unexpected passing of Aegon. The maid swore on the Old Gods and the New that she had no hand in the infant’s death but did not deny her satisfaction at the incident. Rhea clenched her jaw, the parchment crumpling slightly in her grasp. She was unsure of how to feel. Her initial plan had been so uncomplicated: with Brie’s vigilance, Viserys would have lost his fertility by now, preventing any more children from suffering under his care. But Alicent’s unexpected retreat to Oldtown had disrupted everything, leaving Brie unable to continue administering the serum. It had been a minor setback, or so Rhea believed at the time.

To prevent further complications, she had enlisted Vaella to intervene, tasking the Volantene with finding someone loyal enough to administer merrytea while Alicent resided in Oldtown. However, Vaella had failed to secure a reliable hand in time. Not only had Alicent succeeded in conceiving a second time, but also managed to hide the pregnancy till it was too late to act. The announcement had reached Runestone two weeks after Rhaenyra’s sixteenth nameday, and Rhea had been irritated. For moons, she had comforted herself with the thought that the serum would eventually take effect. That Alicent’s second child would be her last. But this?

Aegon dying a mere seven days after his birth?  Not in a million years would Rhea have wished the death of an infant, no matter how useful it might be to her plans. The thought turned her stomach. There was no joy in this, no satisfaction. Aegon had been an innocent, born into a world unfair to the weakest. Rhea’s grip tightened on the missive. It was not supposed to happen this way. Brie’s flippant satisfaction at the turn of events did little to soothe her unease. For the first time, Rhea wondered if her ally’s ambition might have outweighed her moral compass; a dangerous notion in such a scheme. She would need to keep a closer eye on the maid from now on.

A knock on the door interrupted Rhea’s thoughts and she took a deep breath to calm herself, before she called for the person to enter. Orys entered with a flustered look upon his face, his cheeks flushed a bright red and sweat building on his brows. His voice wavered slightly as he blurted out, “Your grace, the Lady Jeyne requests aid. The mountain clans have been reported near the Eyrie’s borders, and their numbers appear to be compiling.”

Rhea shot to her feet, her heart quickening at the news. “The mountain clans?” she repeated sharply. “This close to the Eyrie?” Her thoughts turned immediately to the safety of her two nieces. Jeyne may be nine-and-ten but Rhea still viewed her as young. Then there was Daella, barely two-and-ten. The crumpled missive from Brie released from her hand onto the desk, as her focus turned entirely on the urgent matter at hand. “Call for Gunthor and Gerold immediately,” she commanded Orys, her tone firm. “Summon them to the war room. And write a reply to Lady Jeyne. Assure her that aid is on the way, and that I will march the army myself.”

“Yes, your Grace,” Orys said with a quick nod, already beginning to turn on his heel.

“One more thing,” Rhea added, halting him in his tracks. “Send for Daeron. I will need to speak with him at once.”

Orys hesitated, his expression betraying a flicker of worry, but he quickly bowed. “Of course, your Grace.” Rhea exhaled deeply as she watched Orys’s retreating back. Then, she began pacing, her mind racing. She trusted Daeron; her second son and heir had proven himself a competent young man, though he still had much to learn. The decision to leave him in charge of Runestone was a necessary one, but it filled her with a mixture of pride and anxiety. This was a critical moment for his development and whatever decisions he made would teach him a lesson for his future as the Lord of Runestone.

Rhea reached for a cup of water on her desk, as she contemplated her next course of action. Daemon would be returning to Runestone in a few hours. His presence would bring much-needed strength to their efforts. If she knew her husband, he would waste no time flying Caraxes to the Eyrie to support Jeyne directly, while her army prepared to march. A faint smile touched her lips. Daemon was never one to back away from a fight, and this time, his hotheadedness would work to their advantage. There was something that worried her though, how had the clans reached this close to the Eyrie with no prior warning? Something did not smell right.

Her thoughts were halted once again, when Daeron walked through the open door of her solar. He looked every bit the part of a young lord, his Valyrian locks adding to his elegant features. But his eyes were the most striking, with their deep walnut colour, marking him as her son, as Yorbert Royce’s grandchild. The heir to Runestone. He bowed respectfully. “Mother, you sent for me?”

Rhea straightened, meeting his gaze with a calm yet commanding expression. “Yes. News has come from the Eyrie. Lady Jeyne requires our aid. Mountain clans are pressing against her borders. And I will be riding with the army to assist her.”

Daeron blinked in surprise but quickly composed himself. “And what would you have me do, Mother?”

“You will remain here and take command of Runestone in my absence,” she said firmly. “I have full confidence in your ability to manage affairs. You are my heir, and it is in times like these that your duty calls.”

Daeron’s brows furrowed, a mixture of determination and nervousness crossing his face. “I understand, Mother. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I know you wont.” Rhea stepped forward and held his face with her palms, her eyes softening. “You are my pride, my sweet boy. Always so dutiful that I am afraid you will forget to enjoy life. Do not feel afraid of asking for advice from those around you. Orys will be here with you,” she said comfortingly.

Daeron blinked and his shoulders slumped. “I know,  muna .” Rhea smiled and nodded in satisfaction. She dismissed him after that, refocusing on the organisation of her departure with the army, while still maintaining Runestone’s safety in her absence.

Chapter Text

“In mid-113 AC, missives flew from the Eyrie at the behest of Lady Jeyne Arryn, Lady Paramount of the Vale, requesting aid from the houses of the Vale, including House Royce, and from the crown directly. Mountain clans had been spotted mere days from the Bloody Gate, advancing with alarming ease and without prior warning to the Protector of the Vale

Thankfully, the conflict would be resolved rather swiftly, with the presence of not only Prince Daemon and his Blood Wyrm, but also those of Princess Rhaenyra and her betrothed, Prince Gaemon. Though the Vale did suffer some losses. Those of note were Lord Donnel Arryn, father of the notable Kingsguard, Ser Joffrey Arryn. Lord Marcus Redfort, who had no heirs and thus succeeded by his sister, Lady Jocelyn Redfort. And Lord Harrold Belmore, who would be succeeded by his son of six namedays, Lord Duncan Belmore.

However, perhaps the most alarming blow of all was not a death, but an injury—that of Princess Rhea Royce …”

-Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

Daemon scowled and his fists clenched tightly, as he listened to Orys relay the news from the Eyrie. The rogue prince had arrived at Runestone not ten minutes ago. He had landed Caraxes a short distance from the Keep, as he always did. He was excited as always to see his family welcoming him home, dissipating all his worries with their warm smiles and gentle embraces. However, when a knight came with his usual horse, the prince immediately took note of the younger man’s tense posture. But, instead of questioning the knight, he opted to wait until he met Rhea, hoping it was merely the knight’s issue and not something bigger.

Unfortunately for him, it was worse than he hoped for. Daemon had noticed the first sign of unease, the moment his horse passed through the gate of the Keep. Runestone had always felt alive upon his return. Rhea and the children usually met him at the gate, their presence the first warmth he felt after an exhausting day of handling affairs in Kings Landing. His children would rush forward, eager to speak of their latest lessons, while Rhea stood tall beside them, offering him a knowing smirk as if amused by his predictable relief at seeing them all safe. But this time…no one came.

The castle gates stood open, yet empty. No Rhea. No Daeron. Not even his ever-eager Viserra, who always insisted on seeing her father first, even when it meant appearing unladylike in front of their household.

Daemon’s grip on the reins tightened as a slow unease crept into his gut. The second sign came as he rode into the yard. Usually, the sound of his arrival would send servants into motion; stable hands ready to tend to his horse, knights and servants alike bowing in greeting. Yet today, the keep felt… subdued. The handful of knights present were gathered in small clusters, speaking in hushed tones. Their eyes flickered toward him as he dismounted, they bowed low in greeting, but none approached. He would have demanded an answer then and there if not for the third sign…the halls.

As Loras led him inside, the silence was deafening. The keep was never silent. Even on quiet days, the sound of movement filled its stone walls. Maids chattering, the occasional laugh from the kitchens, the echo of boots against the floors. But now, only a few servants moved through the corridors, their heads lowered, their steps quick.  Something was wrong.

By the time Loras stopped in front of the war room doors, Daemon had already drawn his conclusions. He had spent enough time in war councils to know when men were bracing for battle. And judging by the grim set of Loras’s jaw as he opened the door, this was no minor disturbance. Inside, the air was thick with tension. Rhea stood at the head of the table, her posture rigid, her expression unreadable save for the sharp glint in her eyes. Beside her stood Gunthor and Gerold, their faces contorted into scowls. And at the far end stood Orys, his usual scholarly calm strained by the weight of whatever was happening.

Daemon’s gaze flickered over each of them before settling on his wife. “Tell me,” he spoke firmly, his voice low but edged with fire.

Rhea took a deep breath through her nose, her hazel eyes meeting his, a small spark of relief flashing through them. Though it was not her whom explained the situation but Orys. “Your Grace, the mountain clans have managed to trek the treacherous roads to the Eyrie. They are now gathering near the Bloody Gate, preparing to strike.”

Daemon’s skin prickled, the hair at the back of his neck rising in alarm. He scowled and his fists clenched tightly. A deep, slow breath pushed through his nose as his warrior instincts reared through. His gaze darkened, sweeping across the faces of those gathered in the room. His wife. His generals. His maester. All waiting, all tense. He strode toward the table, his movements smooth yet charged, each step carrying the weight of barely contained fury. He was the most seasoned warrior at this table, having fought in more wars than any of those present. He knew his expertise were eagerly welcomed in this room.

His fingers pressed against the table’s rough wood; his stance unmistakably predatory. “How did they get so close without warning?” His voice was thick and sharp like a blade.

“We are unsure, your grace. Lady Jeyne has not made a mention in her missive,” Orys said, his voice tight with unease.

He met Rhea’s gaze once again, wordlessly inquiring if her thoughts matched his. Her steady gaze gave him the answer he needed. Though now was not the time to discuss such matters, not with such a dangerous enemy lurking near their nieces’ land. “Have you begun planning or have I arrived on time?” Said Daemon.

Rhea hummed, her eyes darting to the table, where a map of the Vale lay with small wooden-carved pieces that represented their forces. She was already thinking three moves ahead, and he knew it. “For now, we prepare,” she stated firmly. “The Royce army must be gathered, their provisions secured, their weapons accounted for. We cannot afford to march in haste.” Daemon nodded, his gaze steady, approving of his wife’s caution. “Our best course of action is to flank them,” Rhea explained, shifting a carved wooden marker across the war table. “You take Caraxes and position yourself at the Eyrie. The sight of a dragon alone should halt their advance and send them scattering. Meanwhile, we march from the rear and cut off their retreat, trapping them between fire and steel.”

Gunthor grunted in agreement, crossing his arms. “If all goes well, we’ll crush them with minimal losses. More importantly, we capture their leaders and learn who emboldened them to move against the Eyrie.”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, dragging his fingers along the edge of the table in thought. “And if they do not scatter?” he challenged.

Rhea exhaled sharply. “Then we serve them with Fire and Blood.”

At those words, a slow smirk ghosted across Daemon’s lips, “Good.”

Jeyne closed her eyes, as the pain between her brows intensified, no doubt a result of all the frowning she had done over the past six days. Her generals were sat around her war council, their loud voices overlapping with each other, as they fervently discussed the situation. Jeyne was no warrior, let alone a general. She had little experience in terms of war. However, she remained their ruler. She was the Lady Paramount and Protector of the Vale.  If she could not lead them through war, how could she expect them to follow her in peace?

She kneaded the centre of her brows in slow, deliberate motions, hoping to abate the tension there. The voices of Ser Eldric and Lord Morris barely registered in her exhausted mind, as they bickered over which action was wiser to take. Ser Eldric wished to ensure their provisions were accounted for prior to sending their knights to battle. While Lord Morris wished to arm the knights and guard the gate. Meanwhile, Lord Jorah leaned back in his chair, eyes surveying the other men, stoically assessing each argument.

Jeyne took a breath, willing herself to focus. It was time to assert herself. She lowered her hand from her brow and straightened in her seat. “We cannot continue this way,” she said, raising her voice just enough to cut through the ruckus. “The clansmen have managed to reach this far without warning—”

“And what would you suggest, my lady?” Arnold Arryn’s voice cut through hers with ease, smooth but edged with condescension. Jeyne’s jaw tightened as all eyes shifted to him.

Out of all her generals, Arnold was the most combative, never missing an opportunity to challenge her authority. He disguised his defiance with the veneer of politeness, but she saw through it. He dismissed her too often, spoke over her too quickly. It grated at her nerves, but more than that, it worried her. He was her closest male kin, one of the most powerful men in the Vale, and if he did not respect her rule,  how could she expect others to do so?

Jeyne levelled him with a measured look. “I suggest we first determine how they managed to get so close undetected. If there’s a weakness in our defences, we need to identify it before committing our forces to battle.”

Arnold let out a quiet scoff, shaking his head. “This is no time for hesitation, my lady. We should act before we find ourselves besieged. If you are concerned about defensive weaknesses, then the answer is simple; we reinforce yours and Princess Daella’s guard. No use wasting further time on speculations, when the enemy is at our doorstep.”

Jeyne’s fingers curled into the armrest of her chair. “And if we are ambushed in our own home?” she countered. “This is not a simple raid, Arnold. They have traveled farther than ever before and with little resistance. That is not the work of undisciplined tribesmen. It suggests coordination.”

Arnold’s lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze narrowing slightly. “We are giving these vermin too much credit. They are not an organised army. A show of force is all that is needed to drive them back.”

Before Jeyne could respond, a sharp knock at the chamber doors drew all attention. Once granted entry by the lady, the heavy wooden doors creaked open, revealing a page boy standing anxiously at the threshold, his cheeks flushed as if he had run the entire length of the Eyrie. The young boy bowed hastily, “Forgive the interruption, my lady, my lords, but Prince Daemon Targaryen has arrived.”

At his announcement, the war council fell silent. Jeyne released a slow breath, steadying herself. Whatever tension lay between her and Arnold would have to wait. “See him in,” she ordered, already feeling a sense of security at the presence of an experienced dragon-rider.

Prince Daemon strolled inside, his usual cocky demeanour displaced for a more stern posture. The man who walked into Jeyne’s counsel was not her playful uncle but the battle-hardened rider of the Blood Wyrm. “Lady Jeyne, my good sers,” the rogue prince greeted, his tone heavy and stern. The lords bowed respectfully to him in greeting, while Jeyne straightened in her seat and nodded at him.

“Prince Daemon, thank you for the hasty arrival,” said the young woman.

“Of course, my lady. My dragon is at your command.” Jeyne let out a sigh, the security of having the Daemon Targaryen as a protector, granting her more confidence in herself.

“We are discussing the best course of action, with how sudden this threat has been.”

“The enemy has positioned themselves along the high passes leading to the Bloody Gate,” Ser Eldric continued for his lady. “Their numbers are still uncertain, however, they move with more cohesion than any mountain clan we have faced before.”

Lord Morris nodded grimly. “Scouts report that they are well-supplied, which suggests a carefully planned attack. They do not simply raid and retreat like they once did. They are prepared for prolonged conflict.”

Daemon’s fingers tapped idly against the war table as he absorbed their words. “How long until they reach the Gate?”

“A few days at most,” Jeyne replied. “Their pace is slower than expected, likely due to their provisions and numbers.”

Daemon hummed in thought, glancing over the map. “Then we reinforce the Gate,” his voice carried the certainty of a man who had stood on the frontlines of war. “We do not waste our forces engaging them in open battle—not yet. The walls of the Bloody Gate were made to withstand armies. We bid our time till our reinforcements from other Vale houses arrive, all while exhausting their supplies.”

Arnold Arryn scoffed, “And if they do not exhaust themselves, Prince Daemon? If they breach the walls?”

Daemon’s gaze flickered toward him, “Then we make sure they do not.”

Arnold did not seem satisfied, leaning back in his chair with an air of skepticism. “So, we wait behind walls like cowards?”

Jeyne bristled, “We hold our position and conserve our strength for when the time is right.”

Arnold’s lips curved into something resembling a smirk, “A bold strategy, my lady.” His tone was light, almost amused, yet the condescension was unmistakable. Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly at the younger man. His suspicions regarding Arnold’s betrayal were gaining merit with every word the other uttered. “I assume, Prince Daemon,” Arnold continued, turning his gaze back to him, “that you have a more active role in mind for yourself? A dragon-rider is wasted behind stone walls.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly and his lips twitched into a cold smile. “Perhaps,” he spoke slowly as if Arnold was a half-wit who required effort to understand things. “Or, perhaps I shall allow Caraxes to patrol while I weed out any possible traitors.”

The tension in the room thickened and for the first time, Arnold hesitated. Jeyne seized this opportunity to steer the conversation back to strategising. “Prince Daemon’s presence at the Eyrie ensures the clans do not grow bold enough to look beyond the Gate. Meanwhile, our loyal vassals should arrive within a fortnight.”

Ser Eldric nodded. “A sound strategy. The Bloody Gate has never fallen to an enemy. It will not start now.” Arnold said nothing, but Jeyne could see the way his jaw tensed.

Daemon leaned back, tapping the table once more, “Then it’s settled.”

Once the strategy was finalised, the members dispersed to attend to their assigned tasks. As Jeyne was exiting the chambers, Daemon patted her shoulder, halting her departure. The young woman turned, her head tilted upward for her eyes to meet his. “You handled yourself well,” he told her.

Jeyne felt her shoulders sag at the praise and a deep breath released through her nose. “You mean I did not fall for Arnold’s provocations,” she replied, frustration laced in her voice.

Daemon’s face twitched in irritation at the mention of the man. “He is too bold.”

Jeyne sighed and shook her head. “He has always been…opinionated. However, this is the first time he has been so disrespectful,” she explained. Her eyes glimmered with her exhaustion, Arnold’s attitude having added an extra toll on her.

“You must snuff out any argumentative persons. You cannot afford a chip in your authority at such time.”

“You do not believe he may cause unrest, do you uncle?” Jeyne asked tiredly.

Daemon opened his mouth to respond, however, a yell from outside disrupted him. A young knight, who was rushing toward the chambers, called to them. “My lady! Your grace! Silverwing! The Princess Rhaenyra is here!”

A cold, refreshing breeze flew inside the chambers, carrying with it the scent of rain and fallen leaves. The firm texture of the parchment tickled his fingertips as his blue-orbs flitted over the ink. His jaw was set tightly and his heartbeat accelerated in his chest. The confirmation that the mountain clans had successfully reached the Bloody Gate of the Eyrie, was a drop of good-news in an otherwise bleak situation. Otto gently set down the missive, personally sent by his accomplice. The plan to cause chaos in the Vale had come to him a few moons ago, a way to undermine the ruling Lady of the Vale, thus reinforcing the belief that women were not effective rulers.

However, there was little point in all this effort, when their champion did not exist.

Otto rested his chin on his hand, his fingers pressing idly against the edge of his jaw as his eyes drifted out of focus. The missive lay untouched on the table before him, but his mind had already moved beyond it. Everything he and his family had worked for—everything they had sacrificed—was at risk of slipping through their fingers. They had built this path for Alicent. Moulded her into the perfect queen, the perfect vessel, the key to securing their family’s power. And she had played her role excellently in the beginning. Graceful, coy and clever, slipping seamlessly into Viserys’s feeble heart. It took her only two moons to consume the prince’s mind.

As Otto sat alone in his chambers, he found himself recalling those early days—the hushed meetings in darkened corridors, the secret missives between himself, Grand Maester Runciter and a select few others who had seen the opportunity before them. Aemma Arryn had been failing for years, her body weak, her womb cursed. It had been clear to those who understood court politics that the time would come when Viserys would need another wife.

The birth of Prince Jaevon was of no consequence, for babes died easily with the littlest interference. Aemma had been declared barren and Viserys was willing to annul his marriage with her. The only obstacle was the king. Baelon was against the idea. But no matter, Aemma’s death was orchestrated without much effort. The pieces were in place, all they needed was Viserys’s determination to wed Alicent. It took a year but it happened. Alicent became the wife of Prince Viserys and future queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

However, Baelon’s decision had been an unexpected blow. Disinheriting Viserys had threatened everything they had set in motion. At first, Otto had feared it would all be for nothing. But with a simple reassurance from his brother, the plan persevered. And when Viserys admitted his desire for his son to reclaim his birthright, it had seemed as though the Gods had corrected the course of history in their favour.

Yet, fate had tested them again, when Alicent took nearly a year to conceive -time they could not afford to waste. Her struggles during the pregnancy had only added to the discontent. Moreover, when she finally bore her anticipated first child, it had not been the son they needed, but a girl. A delicate, slow thing who could never sit the Iron Throne. Even then, Otto had swallowed his disappointment, convincing himself that it was only a matter of time before the true heir was born.

Then came Aegon. Their triumph. Their champion.

And now he was dead.

Otto’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist against the table. Another failure to add to their shelf. Another setback to their plan. Yet they could not despair. They could not afford to sit idle in their chambers while Rhaenyra strengthened her claim. No, Alicent had a duty. A responsibility to fulfil her part in the scheme, no matter what it cost. Even if it ended her.

He stood abruptly, straightening his robes with a measured breath before leaving his chambers. There was no time to waste. He moved from behind his desk, his legs taking long strides as he crossed the halls of Summerhall Keep.

In a few short moments, he arrived at the door of his daughter’s chambers. He stoically greeted his son Gwayne, who was guarding the entry, before stepping inside unannounced. His eyes immediately darted to the right side of the room, where he found Alicent laying still in her bed, her back resting against the carved headboard, eyes unfocused as she stared ahead. The sunlight highlighted her pallid skin, accentuating the hollowness of her cheeks. She looked fragile…frailer than he had ever seen her.

However, Otto barely spared the sight a second thought. He closed the door behind him with a quiet click before proceeding further into the chamber, and settling onto the chair beside her bed. His movements were deliberate, his posture stiff as he clasped his hands together. “We must speak,” he said simply. Alicent blinked slowly, as though only just noticing his presence. "The issue at hand is your failure,” Otto continued, his voice calm yet cold. “There is no prince. No heir to strengthen our cause. Your duty is not yet done, Alicent.”

For the first time in days, her gaze sharpened, and she turned her head slightly to look at him. Her green eyes, once filled with warmth, now simmered with something darker. “I had a son,” she said, her voice quiet but laced with venom. “And Rhea Royce killed him.”

Otto exhaled sharply through his nose, his patience thinning. “That again.”

Alicent’s grip on the blankets tightened. “You don’t believe me.”

“I believe that grief clouds judgment,” Otto said, his tone clipped. “The maesters reassured us of no foul play. It was nothing but the will of the Gods.”

A flicker of rage twisted her features. “The maesters' words mean nothing, when heretic magic is involved.”

Otto pressed lips together, his eyes shining with poorly concealed anger. “You must cease this nonsense at once. Rhea Royce did not use magic to kill your child. Do you truly believe her so stupid as to harm your child when she would be the first suspect?”

“Yes!” Alicent’s voice rose, her breath coming faster now. “Yes, because she wants her son to sit the throne! She wants Gaemon to be king and my children threaten that!”

Otto’s expression did not change. “Gaemon will be a consort not a king, but even if what you say is true, then you understand you must act.” Alicent’s breath hitched, knowing exactly what he would say. “You must do your duty, Alicent,” he whispered, his words pressing into her like a blade. “You must give Viserys another son. A true heir. Once you do, we will ensure he survives to claim the throne.”

Alicent stared at him, her lips parting slightly. Then, she laughed. It was not the soft, polite laugh of a queen, nor the girlish giggle of a lady. It was something raw, something hollow—something mad. Otto did not flinch.

Then, Alicent’s laughter died as suddenly as it had begun, her expression twisting into something cruel. “Then so be it,” she murmured. “I will give him a son. A son who will destroy Rhea Royce. A son who will end her spawn.” She exhaled shakily, her gaze burning with an eerie, feverish determination. “He will destroy Rhaenyra. He will destroy Daella.”

Otto watched her for a moment, his face unreadable. Then, with the faintest nod, he rose to his feet. “I am glad you understand."

Chapter Text

The subtle wind carried within it the sharp bite of the crisp air —the temperatures in the mountains far cooler than any winters felt in the sunny streets of Kings Landing. Rhaenyra shivered as her riding leathers struggled to maintain her warmth. She had not felt the change in temperature when atop her dragon —Silverwing’s molten heat protecting her rider from the harshness of the air. Now, stepping away from the heat radiating from her companion’s body, allowed the princess to experience the atmosphere in the courtyard she landed in.

Poetically, Rhaenyra could not help but relate the coolness of the Eyrie to its current predicament. The sense of foreboding emanated in the biting breeze, reminding all, of what lay outside their protective walls. The princess felt a deep wariness in her soul. This was no mere invasion to a lord of Westeros, but a direct threat to the power of House Targaryen, and more unnervingly, a direct challenge to her station as heir. House Arryn was her maternal house and led by a woman no less. If there was ever a time Rhaenyra’s heirship would be placed into scrutiny, it was here and now.

A small crowd was gathering around, curious to see her. However, the princess paid them no mind as she walked to one of the elder knights, who bowed deeply in greeting. “Your grace, welcome to the Eyrie,” the old man said gruffly.

Rhaenyra nodded indifferently at him, “Is Lady Jeyne with her council?”

“Yes, your grace. And Prince Daemon had joined a short while ago,” the knight responded seriously.

“Very well, please take me to them.” Without another word, she and the knight walked briskly across the halls of the Keep.

However, before she reached the hall to the war council chambers, she was met by Jeyne and Daemon, who had no doubt been informed of her arrival. “Lady Jeyne, uncle,” Rhaenyra greeted formally, a sentiment to the tumultuous times they were in.

“Princess.” “Niece.” The two greeted back.

“Shall we speak over some tea?” Jeyne suggested with a serious countenance. Rhaenyra nodded in agreement, and Daemon silently followed.

Within moments, they were seated in the warmth of a cabinet chamber, the chill of the courtyard replaced by the comforting crackle of the hearth. There were three sofas made of willow —their cushions of light blue fabric embroidered with silver— aligned in front of the hearth. The walls were adorned with many paintings belonging to members of House Arryn, including those of the late Lord Rodrik and his sons. There was also a harp on the side of the room. The windows were large, welcoming the dim light of the sun.

Rhaenyra sighed at the warmer temperature inside the chamber. Soon, a few servants arrived with the tea and some pastries.

“So,” the princess began with a sip of her tea.

“I am glad you are here, cousin. Having a second dragon-rider here will surely bolster morale,” Jeyne commented with a tired expression.

“Then you will be most pleased to know that Gaemon will be joining us with the Royce army too.”

Daemon’s lips twitched into a proud smile, his posture relaxing for the first time since Rhaenyra’s arrival. “Good. Let our enemies be reminded of the strength of House Targaryen.”

Jeyne leaned back slightly, her shoulders loosening. “It would certainly be a boon.”

As Rhaenyra opened her mouth to inquire of the plans discussed prior to her arrival, the door of the chambers opened without warning. The three occupants turned their heads at the entry, to find Daella stepping inside. She was in a mulberry dress made of expensive Tyroshi linen. Her silvery-blonde hair half loose, half braided. And it was clear that with each day that passed, the princess resembled her mother more and more. At the sight of her, Jeyne’s eyes sparked with fondness, and even Daemon felt some of the tension ebbing from his shoulders —a flicker of happiness building in his chest at seeing his younger niece. Daella’s appearance had shifted the mood in the chambers —an era of tranquility spreading through her presence.

When Daella’s lilac eyes found her sister’s, the princesses smiled fondly at one another. “Mandia, good to have you here.” The younger said, as she approached the sofa her sister occupied.

Rhaenyra’s smile widened and she reached for her sister’s hands when she sat beside her. “I missed you, dearest haedar.”

Daella’s gaze turned a little sorrowful, “Unfortunate for us to see each other in such circumstances.”

The older sighed and pulled her sister into a short embrace. “It is the burden of our stations.”

“I can fly you to Runestone on the morrow, Daella,”  Daemon’s voice disrupted the warm reunion, causing the two young women to turn to face their uncle. “Safer there than here.”

Daella’s reply was firm, “I will not run away, uncle.” She straightened her back, “What would it say if I, the heir to House Arryn, flee at the sight of mountain clans?” The rogue prince’s lips twitched in a smile of approval, having made the suggestion out of curtesy rather than endorsement.

Jeyne, seated across from them, watched the exchange with a faint smile, though it did not reach her tired eyes. “A true daughter of House Arryn and Targaryen,” she said softly. Daella smiled at her. But Jeyne did not dwell any longer on the peace brought by the younger, they still had an enemy to face. The three Valyrians noticed the change in her expression, and the tension in the chambers grew once again.

Rhaenyra cleared her throat and nodded at her cousin to explain the situation in full.

Jeyne wasted no time to speak. “We believe the mountain clans are preparing to test the Bloody Gate,” she said, her tone cool. “However, with the strength of its walls, combined with Prince Daemon and Caraxes…and now your Silverwing, they shall be disappointed.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward, her gaze sharpening. “And the reinforcements from the other houses?”

“They will flank the clans from the rear,” Daemon explained, his fingers brushing the armrest of the sofa. “We intend to trap them between the walls of the Gate and our forces. It will leave them no choice but to surrender—or burn.”

Daella frowned slightly, her body shifting in her seat. “What of the smaller villages in the foothills? Have they been evacuated?”

Jeyne nodded. “Most have already been moved to the safety of the Eyrie or nearby Keeps. Any remaining will be escorted out within the next two days.” The lady sighed, her shoulders sagging slightly. “This is not the first time the clans have tested our defences, but their numbers are far greater this time. And their coordination… it is unlike anything we have seen before.” Daemon’s eyes flickered briefly toward her at that last remark, but he said nothing.

“We will do what is necessary to protect the Vale,” Rhaenyra said, her voice steady. “Together.” At that, Jeyne offered a faint smile of gratitude.

The discussion eventually drew to a close, the sisters excusing themselves to speak privately in Jeyne’s solar. Though Daemon lingered behind —his violet gaze fixed on Rhaenyra as she made to leave. “Niece,” he called quietly, halting her steps. Rhaenyra turned to him, one brow arched in silent question. “Walk with me,” her uncle said, his tone leaving little room for argument.

The two exited the chamber, the cool mountain air meeting them once again, as they strolled along the stone walkway overlooking the valley below. For a moment, neither spoke, the only sound between them the soft hum of the wind. “You are quiet, uncle,” Rhaenyra finally remarked, glancing at him.

Daemon’s expression was unreadable, however,  his voice carried a faint edge when he spoke. “Jeyne is handling the situation as well as anyone could expect,” he began. “But there is one matter that troubles me.”

The princess frowned. “What is it?”

Her uncle paused, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “Arnold Arryn.” At her puzzled expression, he elaborated. “He challenges Jeyne’s authority at every turn, undermining her in her own council. And this attack…” He exhaled slowly. “It is too calculated. Too well-funded for mere clansmen. Someone is giving them aid.”

The princess’s lips pressed into a thin line at his suspicions. “You think it is Arnold?”

“I do,” Daemon replied bluntly. “He has much to gain from Jeyne’s failure —and from apprehending Daella. It will ease the way for him to claim the seat of House Arryn.”

Rhaenyra’s stomach churned uneasily. “If he is working with the clans…”

“It will be treason,” the rogue prince finished. His tone was quiet yet dangerous, the weight of the word hanging between them.

“What will you do?” Rhaenyra asked.

Daemon glanced at her, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “For now, nothing. There is no proof, only suspicion. But I will be watching him closely. And if I am right…” His eyes gleamed with a cold fire. “He will answer for it.”

Rhaenyra nodded, though unease still lingered in her chest. Daemon’s suspicions had merit, but the implications were grave. The Targaryens had come to protect the Vale, but the true threat might lie within its own walls. “I shall keep my eyes open,” she replied in support.

Daeron felt his skin prickling with nerves and his foot tapping restlessly beneath the desk. The weight of his mother’s absence pressed heavily on his shoulders, as the young heir of Runestone began to feel the true pressure of serving as regent while she marched to war. It had only been two days since her departure —accompanied by Gaemon, who had arrived beforehand to scout for the journey— and already, Daeron was overwhelmed. Merchants and common folk had approached him in droves, their worry etched into their faces as they inquired about the war. Even minor lords had travelled to Runestone, pressing him with questions he did not know how to answer.

While he had spent the past four years training under his mother, Daeron now fully understood the extent of how different watching and ruling were. Listening to petitions about grain distribution, mediating disputes over perceived insults, and observing how his mother negotiated with their sworn lords had all seemed manageable when she was the one in charge. But now, with the smallfolk and nobility alike staring at him for answers he did not possess, Daeron felt woefully unprepared. He lacked the experience to calm a panicked horde or reassure his subjects that all would be well. And worst of all, he did not know the full protocol for a siege, should an enemy use the opportunity of his parents’ absence to march against Runestone.

The young boy of two-and-ten released a heavy sigh, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The weight of the past two days pressed down on him, tightening his chest. Suddenly, he stood from his seat, the chair screeching as it slid back. He strode past his desk and out of his mother’s solar, hoping the change in scenery might steady his racing thoughts.

Though, as he walked through the familiar halls of his home, the subtle changes in its atmosphere did little to calm him. The usually chatty servants moved silently, their eyes downcast and their lips pursed into tight frowns. Even here, far from the Eyrie, the weight of war was felt by all. Daeron swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing himself to ignore the worry etched into their expressions. They looked to him for reassurance, yet he had none to give.

At last, he reached his destination—the maester’s quarters, where Orys and his two acolytes resided. For a brief moment, Daeron hesitated, his hand hovering over the door. Would his concerns seem foolish? But then, the memory of his mother’s words vibrated in his ears. She had told him to be unafraid when seeking guidance and to look to Orys for support. With his discomfort gone, the boy placed three knocks on the door. And after a few seconds, his relative’s familiar voice beckoned him inside.

Upon stepping inside the chambers, Daeron was met by the sight of Orys hunkered over his work desk. The older man’s hands moved deftly, sorting through parchment and jotting notes with quick, precise strokes. The room smelled faintly of parchment and dried herbs, the shelves lined with jars, scrolls, and ancient tomes that seemed to overflow into every corner.

Daeron lingered at the threshold, his gaze drifting across the room before settling on Orys. The maester lifted his head from his work, his sharp grey eyes blinking curiously. “Your grace, what can I do for you?” he asked, his tone warm and inviting.

The prince cleared his throat and stepped closer, unsure of where to begin. Thankfully, Orys was patient, remaining silent as the boy organised his thoughts. Finally, Daeron straightened his shoulders as the words formed in his head. “Are the arrangements complete for my siblings’ contingency evacuation?”

Orys straightened, his expression turning pensive. “They are, your grace,” he said firmly, his tone both practical and reassuring. “We have received a response from Lord Grafton. He has readied a ship should, Gods forbid, we need to transport your siblings to Kings Landing.”

Daeron nodded in acknowledgment, though Orys’s sharp eyes caught the subtle tension in his posture —the uneven breaths, the storm brewing behind his deep brown eyes. The maester studied the young lord for a moment longer before stepping away from his desk to stand beside him. “Would you mind walking with me, your grace?” Orys asked, his voice gentle. “My old bones benefit from the movement.”

Daeron blinked, as if shaken from a trance, before nodding again. “Of course,” he said.

The two stepped outside the chambers and into the hallway. The maesters’ quarters, along with the midwives’, were at the North tower of the Keep, where the structure had large openings that overlooked the gardens. Orys smiled at the sight of the trees and grass outside, their auburn colouration evidence of the changing season. As with most of the Vale, Runestone was colder than many other regions, especially during Autumns and Winters. The maester hoped that the cold breeze, would provide Daeron some refreshment.

The two walked side by side in companionable silence, their footsteps echoing faintly against the stone floors. Daeron’s gaze flickered toward the gardens outside, the vibrant auburn hues of the leaves offering a fleeting moment of distraction. Orys’s own gaze lingered on the scene, his expression thoughtful.

After a moment, the maester broke the silence. “Are you familiar with the story of Harren the Warden?” he asked, his tone conversational but carrying an undercurrent of intention.

Daeron blinked, his brow furrowing slightly at the unexpected question. “I… think so,” he replied hesitantly. “He was a Royce ancestor, wasn’t he? A Warden of the Vale during the Long Night.”

Orys nodded, his lips curling into a faint smile. “Indeed. Harren was said to have kept the boarders of the Vale secure for over thirty years. He had a reputation for vigilance and unwavering resolve—a quality that earned him both admiration and fear. But what many overlook is that his success was not born of strength alone.” The older man paused, his gaze shifting to Daeron as they continued their walk. “Harren’s greatest triumphs came not from battle, but from preparation. He understood the value of foresight, of ensuring his people were ready for anything. That was what made him such a remarkable leader.”

Daeron glanced at Orys, a faint crease forming between his brows. “Preparation…” he echoed softly. “But what if… what if the unexpected happens? What if preparation isn’t enough?”

Orys regarded Daeron carefully, his steps slowing as they neared one of the large, arched openings overlooking the gardens. The maester clasped his hands behind his back, the autumn breeze stirring the edges of his robes. “Ah, but that is where true leadership lies,” he said, his tone both thoughtful and instructive. “Harren once said that preparation is not simply about predicting every outcome—it is about fortifying yourself and your people to endure the unexpected.” He then turned to face Daeron fully, his grey eyes sharp despite his kindly expression. “And you are stronger than you realise. Strength is not always measured in boldness or physical might. Strength is the ability to listen, to learn, and to care for those under your charge. You have all of these, your grace. That is why Rhea trusts you even at such a young age.”

Daeron felt his breath hitch at the complimentary words, his cheeks flushing lightly. The young lord fidgeted a little, uncomfortable as always with such praise. Orys noticed the change in the boy’s demeanour and he smiled kindly at him. To break the atmosphere further, the maester stretched his back with a groan before his eyes sparked with mirth. “And speaking of fortifying oneself, did you know it was Harren who first owned our infamous shield?”

Daeron’s eyes widened, knowing full well which shield Orys was referring to. While house Royce possessed a few ancient shields inscribed with protective runes… only one was the ancient shield of House Royce. The one worn by generations of Royce kings and queens. Some rumours claimed that Robar II Royce had lost his life to Artys Arryn because he had left the shield with his heir, Yorn Royce, who was deemed too young to join the battle of the Seven Stars. The runes were said to have lost their effect after the defeat dealt by the Andals but some say they had never been effective. Either way, the shield still intrigued Daeron, more than it did to any other member of his family. To him, the shield represented the strength and resilience of his ancestors—qualities he felt were just beyond his reach but desperately wished to emulate.

The spark in the boy’s eyes at the mention of the armour made Orys chuckle. “Come, I have an old tome that mentions Harren and how the shield came to be. Perhaps you will find it enlightening.”

The might of the wind shook the frail fabric of the tents —the rustling sound raising the hairs at the back of the neck. The coolness penetrated the skin and seeped into the bones —the insulation from the wool doing little to resist. For an overcrowded camp the lack of noise was unsettling. Numerous feet were shuffling on the icy ground, their owners’ faces set into determined frowns, gazes as steady as the mountains of their domain. Not far away from the camp sounds of clanking steel could be heard, members of the clans sharpening their resolves.

Amidst the subtle chaos, one figure remained still. Bera, the Lion Hunter, sat on a cracked stone, the firelight illuminating her hardened features and illustrating the shadow behind her. Near her, even the restless shuffling and muted clang of steel seemed to fade, as if the mountain winds themselves dared not disturb the space she claimed. She stared into the flames, their erratic flickers a mirror of her own thoughts—wild, untamed, and full of doubt.

For a mountain clan leader, doubt was a luxury rarely afforded, yet it clung to Bera like a second skin. While the other leaders huddled around maps or boasted of their impending glory, Bera remained skeptical. A mere five moons had passed since the ‘Black Falcon’ had appeared with promises of victory and freedom. His words had been as smooth as a river stone, his plan intricate and tempting; strike at the Bloody Gate, claim the Eyrie, and wrest the Vale from Arryn control. For the clans, long deprived of power and recognition, it was a dream rekindled.

At first, Bera and many others had been wary of this benefactor’s motives. Outsiders were rarely kind to their kin, and the gifts he brought —the weapons, armour, and maps detailing the weaknesses of their foes— were received with suspicion. Yet as the supplies continued to arrive, the initial scepticism began to dwindle. Strong steel to replace their brittle weapons, thick leather and chainmail to shield against the enemy’s blades, maps revealing guard rotations at nearby villages. It was certainly enough to sway even the hardest doubters. But not Bera.

Her sharp eyes lingered on the flames, unblinking. Something about the Falcon’s words had never sat right with her. The promises had come too easily, too perfectly tailored to their desires. He had known exactly what to say to ignite the fire in their hearts, to bind their scattered clans together under a single cause. And yet, despite her unease, here she was, leading her people to war.

Bera’s fingers curled into fists as her mind turned to the red beast—Caraxes. While the other leaders scoffed at the idea of a dragon being their downfall, insisting the rocky terrain of the mountains would shield them, Bera was not so easily reassured. She had heard the stories of dragonfire, how it turned stone to molten slag and reduced armies to ash. She knew the Arryns had called for aid from the Targaryens, and if the ‘Black Falcon’ could arm them, surely the Arryns had their own allies to call upon.

Her gaze flicked to the edge of the camp, where her clansmen sharpened their steel and whispered of the Bloody Gate. Their final post was a day’s ride away, the supplies provided by the Falcon ample and reassuring. The warriors spoke of swift victory, of how the Falcon’s plan guaranteed the gate would fall within hours. Yet Bera’s stomach churned. Victory seemed too easily promised.

She exhaled sharply, rising from her seat and brushing ash from her worn leathers. The cool night air pressed against her skin as she moved through the camp, her steps steady despite the storm within her. She passed clusters of warriors, their faces alight with anticipation and greed. They believed the Eyrie would be theirs within days, that they would feast in the halls of the castle before the next moon turned.

It was a seductive thought, but Bera knew better than to surrender to dreams. The mountain clans had bled for centuries, their lands stolen, their people forced into the shadows. The Arryns may have ruled the Vale for generations, but the blood of the First Men still pulsed in the veins of the clans. They were the rightful heirs of this land.

As she reached her tent, Bera paused, her gaze sweeping over the camp one final time. The wind carried whispers of determination and the faint clang of steel against stone. Her doubts still lingered, but a deeper resolve began to take root. Whatever lay ahead, the mountain clans would not kneel. The Vale was theirs before it belonged to the Andal invaders, and they would remind the Arryns of that truth.

With that thought hardening her resolve, Bera stepped into her tent, the flap closing behind her and muting the sounds of the camp. Tomorrow would bring them closer to their destiny —for better or for worse.

Chapter Text

Daemon released slow breaths through his nose, the warmth trapped by the scarf wrapped securely around his neck and face. His amethyst eyes meticulously scanned the darkness below for any sign of movement. He was on patrol just beyond the Bloody Gate, anticipating the enemy’s arrival. Scouts had confirmed that the mountain clans’ retinue was less than a day’s ride away.

The rogue prince’s brows shot up as he spotted what appeared to be rocks shifting subtly in the moonlight. Wagons and bundles slowly dragged behind, cleverly concealed beneath woollen covers that matched the mountain terrain. Had it not been for his experience in the Stepstones—battling cunning foes from the Triarchy—he might have missed their camouflaged approach entirely. After all, the night offered ample cover, and Daemon could hardly fault anyone else for overlooking such subtle details.

The prince’s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned forward, whispering softly, “Caraxes, dracarys.” The Blood Wyrm eagerly unleashed a torrent of flames into the darkness—a vivid warning and a brutal display of dominance meant to intimidate the clans below. Daemon noticed all movement abruptly cease beneath him. Yet, a sharp yelp of alarm from one corner betrayed their carefully arranged concealment.

Daemon’s smirk widened, and he patted Caraxes’s neck approvingly. “Let us head back, my friend. We have a report to deliver.” The man then guided his dragon back towards the Eyrie, the fiery embers from the dragon’s breath still lingering in the night air behind them.

As the Blood Wyrm descended gracefully into the godswood, the leaves rustled beneath the gusts from his massive wings, scattering with whispers that disturbed the quietness of the courtyard.

“Kepa?” came Rhaenyra’s voice, drawing his gaze downward to where she stood beside Daella, both girls gazing upward in wonder at the dragon’s landing.

He smoothly dismounted and removed the scarf covering his mouth, inhaling deeply the crisp air of the mountain gardens. He regarded the two girls with warmth, briefly softening his typically stern expression. “What are you two doing here at this hour?”

“We needed fresh air,” Daella replied gently, eyes wide and curious. “We didn’t expect to see you return tonight.”

Daemon chuckled softly, before his eyes flicked toward a nearby servant, who hovered anxiously by the garden’s edge. “You there! Gather the commanders immediately. Inform them that I will meet them in the war council chamber.” The servant bowed hastily in response and retreated swiftly toward the castle halls. Then, the prince turned back to his younger niece, his eyes hardening with sternness. “Daella, fetch your cousin Jeyne as well. Her presence is needed at the council. Quickly now.”

“Yes, uncle,” the princess responded obediently, hurrying off into the shadowy corridors.

Rhaenyra lingered, watching Daemon with inquisitive eyes. Her uncle reached out to gently squeeze her shoulder in reassurance, “Come, I will explain in the council chambers.” The princess stiffened under his gaze, her mind understanding the possible dangers her uncle had seen.

The two walked silently side by side, their steps hasty. Once they arrived to their destination, they found the commanders and advisers already assembled, murmuring quietly among themselves. Arnold Arryn was among the first present, his expression notably tense.

Moments later, Jeyne Arryn arrived alongside Daella, looking determined and alert. “Prince Daemon,” she acknowledged with a nod, as she took her seat at the head of the table. “What news from outside the Bloody Gate?”

Daemon placed his palms firmly on the table, leaning forward as he addressed the council. “The Mountain Clans have reached our boarders—their camp right outside our walls. Their arrival has been concealed through clever camouflage, using woollen covers painted to match the mountain terrain. It explains their ability to move so silently and unseen thus far.”

A tense silence filled the chamber, broken only by Jeyne’s contemplative voice. “That indeed explains their approach, but there must be more to their strategy,” she pointed out discontentedly. “The clans have already breached the moon gates and scaled the mountainside unnoticed, lingering far too close for weeks now. Simple camouflage alone cannot justify such undetectable approach.”

Arnold shifted uneasily in his seat at Jeyne’s comment, eyes darting briefly downward. “Perhaps we should focus on strengthening our defences,” he interjected quickly, voice brittle. “Theories will get us nowhere. We must ensure our immediate safety.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed slightly, noticing Arnold’s anxiety. Suspicion stirred within him, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. “You are correct, Ser. Defence is critical. Yet understanding their methods is crucial to our survival.” The rest of the council murmured in agreement, some looking uncertainly between Daemon and Arnold.

In the end, the council spent a while longer going over their defensive plans once more, refining strategy and reinforcing orders to the watchmen. When Jeyne finally dismissed them, Daemon walked passed everyone, wishing to find some privacy while his mind spun with revelations. Arnold’s reactions were certainly suspicious, but he would need evidence if he wished to expose the truth behind his anxiety, lest he cause panic and cast doubt during such delicate times. The discovery of the mountain clans’ approach had come very late, reducing the time for planning, preparation and reinforcement.

As the prince rounded a corner lost in thought, a small figure collided sharply with his leg. Daemon looked down, meeting the startled gaze of a seven-namedays Joffrey Arryn, whose eyes widened in nervous recognition. Daemon sighed in mild annoyance, prompting a flinch from the boy. However, the rogue prince’s irritation abruptly faded into cunning consideration.

“Ah, Joffrey,” he said softly, kneeling to be at the boy’s level. “Just the young lord I wished to see.”

Joffrey’s expression brightened, curiosity overtaking his fear. “You needed me, your grace?”

The rogue prince chuckled at the child’s eagerness—both endearing and exceedingly useful. “Indeed. I seek my next squire, and Daella has spoken highly of you.” Joffrey practically vibrated with excitement, his breathing rapid and his heels bouncing restlessly on the stone floor.

“I will be a great squire, your grace. I swear it!” he declared boldly.

Daemon chuckled again, leaning closer and lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But first, I must test you. Do you accept the challenge?” Joffrey nodded eagerly, blond locks bouncing around his flushed face. “You know your cousin, Arnold?” Another enthusiastic nod. “Well, he has been behaving… poorly. Displeasing Lady Jeyne. Your challenge is to follow him quietly, and report to me if he does or says anything suspicious or naughty.”

Joffrey tilted his head thoughtfully, processing the task with surprising seriousness. After a silent moment, he straightened his posture resolutely. “I will let you know if he is naughty, my prince,” the boy promised solemnly, in the gravest tone a seven-namedays boy could muster.

Daemon’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he stood and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Good lad.”

As the hour of ghosts settled over the Vale—the crescent moon barely illuminating the blinding darkness—the whispering breeze yielded slowly to hushed murmurs and shuffling feet. On either side of the Bloody Gate, armies stirred, quietly gathering strength for the battles yet to come. Both sides were determined, each resolved to emerge victorious, though only one could be claimed as such.

For centuries, the mountain clans had awaited such an opportunity. Patiently they had endured, clawing at survival in harsh peaks and barren valleys, awaiting the day when vengeance could finally be theirs. Their perseverance had at last been rewarded; through the generosity of a mysterious benefactor who deemed their cause righteous and worthy. He had armed their warriors with gleaming steel, fortified their bodies with sturdy armour, and whispered strategies that would grant them victory over the proud Andals who oppressed them.

Old rivalries were cast aside, replaced by a unity forged in hatred. The clans joined forces, bravely undertaking a treacherous journey towards their enemy’s greatest stronghold.

Each hidden step forward, unnoticed by their foes, was considered a divine blessing from their Gods—a sign that their conquest was destined to succeed.

Now, their enemies’ castle loomed directly above them, their goal nearly within reach. There was no room for failure, no thought given to retreat. Those who faltered or voiced fear at the presence of dragons had been swiftly silenced, slain by their own brethren for cowardice and disgrace.

As their strategy unfolded beneath the pale crescent moon, the clans’ eyes blazed with conviction. The Black Falcon had proven a cunning ally—a shadowy figure whose whispers guided them beyond mere vengeance and towards genuine conquest. He provided more than mere weapons and armour. He had given them something invaluable; knowledge of their enemy. Maps of hidden passages, schedules of guard rotations, and whispered names of discontented knights within the Eyrie, had all found their way into the clansmen’s eager hands.

And perhaps most beneficial of all, was the reassurance that dragons could not unleash fires onto them; if they were so entwined with the enemy’s own.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the Bloody Gate, behind the great stone walls of the Eyrie, tension spread like wildfire. Knights and squires moved swiftly, working tirelessly under torchlight. Archers lined the balistrarias and crenelles, their arrows freshly fletched, their bows tightly strung. The Arryn knights, renowned for their pride and unyielding loyalty, now whispered uneasily as they fortified gates and barricaded passages. Their castle, once an impregnable fortress and a source of pride, now felt vulnerable, almost claustrophobic. Trust among the soldiers became strained, each suspicious glance weighing heavily upon their camaraderie.

Arnold Arryn paced restlessly along the battlements, anxiously glancing down into the darkness as though expecting to spot ghosts rising from below. His discomfort went unnoticed by most, though a few watchful eyes—Daemon’s in particular—saw clearly the threads of guilt that twisted the knight’s features into strained lines.

Unknown to those within the walls, the mountain clans’ plan had already been set into motion. Several clansmen, their faces and armour carefully disguised in the garb of Arryn knights, slipped silently through the shadowy corridors of the castle. They moved with a purpose guided by intimate knowledge only someone within the walls could have granted. Their footsteps were quiet, disciplined, and certain—like wraiths within their enemy’s sanctum.

Within the Eyrie’s walls, in the quiet solitude of the sept, Princess Daella knelt in silent prayer, the flickering candlelight casting elongated shadows across the stone walls. Her whispered pleas were gentle, earnest requests for guidance and protection in these uncertain times.

The peaceful stillness around her was disturbed only by the soft creak of heavy wooden doors behind her. Daella turned slowly, assuming it might be her sister or perhaps one of her cousins. Instead, she saw only the familiar, solemn figure of the septon, his face calm yet distant. Behind him stood two knights, their faces obscured beneath their helms.

“My child,” the septon spoke gently, extending a reassuring hand towards her. “You must come with us. It is no longer safe here. Lady Jeyne wishes for your protection.”

Confused, yet trusting in his familiar voice, Daella rose carefully from her place of prayer. She hesitated slightly, uncertainty tugging at her instinct, but she chose to approach without protest. “Has something happened?”

“Not yet,” the septon replied vaguely, avoiding her gaze. “But we cannot wait for it to happen.” She nodded reluctantly and allowed herself to be guided away from the comforting glow of the sept.

They moved swiftly through dimly lit corridors, climbing stairs she had rarely travelled. As the familiar halls gradually gave way to darker, narrower passages, unease prickled at Daella’s senses. “Septon… where exactly are we going?” she asked softly, a tremor betraying her nervousness.

The man did not answer and quickened their pace instead. At that, fear blossomed fully within Daella’s chest, and she slowed instinctively, pulling away from his guiding hand. But before she could retreat or call out, the two knights stepped forward swiftly, their gauntleted hands gripping her arms tightly.

“Stop!” she gasped, panic seizing her as she struggled against their strength. “Let me go! Release me!”

Her protests were met only with silence as they forced her further upward, navigating steep, narrow staircases until she could no longer recognise her surroundings. Finally, they reached the highest chamber—a dark, abandoned room that felt heavy with isolation and despair.

Daella was pushed gently yet firmly inside, the door slamming shut behind her. The sound of a heavy lock sliding into place echoed ominously through the darkness, leaving her trapped, frightened, and utterly alone.

His breathing came in shallow gasps, and his hands trembled as his eyes scanned the ink-stained parchment once more. The words blurred for a moment, yet their meaning remained unchanged.

The mountain clans had reached the Eyrie.

A suffocating ember of fear ignited within his chest, spreading like wildfire through his veins. For all his misgivings with Rhaenyra, for all the distance that had grown between him and Daella, Viserys had never wished harm upon his daughters. His choices, his grief, his desperation for a son—they had driven a wedge between them, but they were still his blood. His children.

He clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on the letter until the parchment crumpled between his fingers. He knew the Gods had willed his son to inherit the throne—he had believed it with every fibre of his being. But if his daughters were to die like this, far from his reach, torn apart by wildlings in the mountains…how could he live with himself? How could he fulfil the prophecy if all that was left of his line was dust and regret?

A flicker of anger surged beneath his fear. His father had allowed Rhaenyra—a girl of only six-and-ten, with no experience in battle—to fly into a war zone atop Silverwing. The thought grated against his very being. She should have been safe. Protected. Not thrown into the chaos of battle as though she were a knight, as though she were not his daughter.

Viserys exhaled sharply, his helplessness settling like a weight upon his shoulders. He had no dragon of his own, no means to fly to the Eyrie and rip his daughters from danger. If he had, he would have taken them himself, carried them away from this madness, from war, from the foolish ambitions of those who believed this was their fight to win.

Instead, he was left with nothing but parchment and dread.

Otto had delivered the news with his usual measured tone, though his words carried the weight of cold steel. This was the first missive informing them of the situation. The first Viserys had received.

And yet… it was not the first written.

Otto had cautioned him that the king—his own father—might have deliberately withheld the information until it was too late for Viserys to intervene. The thought alone sent a fresh wave of fury surging through him. His fingers curled tightly around the parchment, the ink smudging beneath the pressure of his grip.

How dare Baelon keep this from him? How dare he risk his daughters?

Had he always meant for Viserys to remain in the dark, caged away in Summerhall like some discarded relic? A king once promised, now reduced to a powerless observer? He may no longer have been heir, but he remained Baelon’s eldest son. His blood was in that castle. His daughters—whether they hated him or not—were at risk, and he had not been granted even the smallest opportunity to act.

Would they only have told him once it was over? Once Rhaenyra and Daella were nothing but broken corpses left to rot in the mountains? Would he have woken to a missive stained with a stranger’s condolences, informing him of their deaths in the same breath as an order to remain where he was?

His stomach twisted violently at the thought, bile burning at the back of his throat. This was his punishment, wasn’t it?

The Gods had given him the prophecy, had whispered their will into his dreams, yet he had failed to bring the son they had promised him. He had failed Aemma. Failed Rhaenyra. He had failed them all, and now the world was punishing him for it.

The thought of losing his daughters—of losing Daella, who still bore Aemma’s soft, solemn eyes, or Rhaenyra, with her mother’s defiant fire—threatened to tear something raw and ugly from his chest. A sharp breath rattled through him, his vision blurred with rage, with helplessness, with bitter self-loathing—

But then, the door creaked open, and the rustle of skirts broke through his spiralling thoughts.

Alicent.

Viserys’s head snapped up at the intrusion, but the rebuke that had been rising on his tongue fell away the moment he laid eyes upon her.

She was still pale.  Too  pale. The maesters had deemed her recovered weeks ago, yet her skin remained ghostly, her frame thinner than it had been before. The last remnants of her recent loss clung to her like a shadow, hollowing her cheeks and deepening the tired lines beneath her eyes.

Aegon’s passing had settled an undeniable distance between them. Where once he might have found solace in her touch, and her presence, there now existed an insecurity in their company, an invisible wall neither had dared to cross since. They spoke, they shared meals, but neither sought comfort from the other as they once had, nor did they lay in the same bed since that night.

Still, as she approached him now, concern etched across her delicate features, there was something familiar in the softness of her gaze.“Viserys?” she murmured, voice laced with gentle worry. “What troubles you?”

He exhaled slowly, glancing once more at the crumpled parchment in his hands. “The Eyrie is under attack.”

Alicent stilled for a brief moment before her expression folded into one of sympathy. “Oh, my love,” she whispered, stepping closer. “Your daughters…” She moved further inside the room, until she reached the table laden with the pitcher of wine, right beside him. Her small hands clasped onto the handle, and they moved elegantly to pour him a generous goblet. The ruby liquid sloshed softly against the sides as she pressed it into his trembling hands. “Drink,” she urged, her voice warm and soothing. “You must steady yourself.”

Viserys hesitated only briefly before taking a slow sip, the weight of the wine settling heavily on his tongue. Alicent eased down beside him, her touch featherlight as she rubbed slow, circular patterns along his back. “You mustn’t let fear consume you,” she murmured, her hand sliding down to lace her fingers with his. “Rhaenyra is strong, and Daella… she is protected. They will endure this, as Targaryens always do.”

Viserys wanted to believe her. He wanted to let her words wrap around him like a shield, to surrender to the comfort of her touch, to accept that all would be well. But a gnawing sense of doubt lingered, sinking its teeth into the very marrow of his bones.

Still, he did not pull away. Alicent pressed a lingering kiss to his temple, her lips cool against his fevered skin. “You are not alone in this,” she promised. “I am here, always.”

Viserys swallowed, allowing himself—just for a moment—to lean into her warmth.

From beyond the chamber doors, Otto Hightower folded his hands behind his back, his expression impassive as he listened to the murmurs of his daughter’s reassurances.

A sense of ease filled his chest, as his daughter easily slipped into the role of the doting wife once more. Not that it had ever been in doubt. Alicent had always known how to play her part when necessary.

His gaze flickered downward, to the faint traces of ash still clinging to his fingertips. The missive from Rhaenyra had burnt quickly, its fragile parchment offering no resistance against the fires that consumed it. Such a shame. Had Viserys read it, had he known that his daughter had written to him personally, informing him of the Eyrie’s plight and her intention to go to war to protect her sister, he might have fought harder to reach them. He might have acted.

He might have had a chance to reconcile with Aemma’s daughters.

Otto inhaled deeply, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as he stepped away from the door, his mind already shifting toward greater concerns. The Black Falcon was playing his hand well. The mountain clans had been given the tools they needed to strike with force, but they were nothing more than pawns on the board. A distraction. A smokescreen.

The real purpose of this war was something far greater. No matter which way the battle turned, no matter who bled, no matter who claimed victory in the end—the Black Falcon would have his prize. And Otto would make certain that when the dust settled, it was their cause that bore the fruits of the victory.

Chapter Text

Jeyne’s jaw tightened as she felt Jessamyn’s palms trembling beneath her own. The two women sat side by side on Jeyne’s bed, leaning into each other for warmth their thin nightgowns could not provide. Though the hearth crackled with a healthy fire, it did little to chase away the bone-deep chill of fear.

The Lady of the Vale did not begrudge her love for being afraid. In truth, if she could afford to, she would allow herself to tremble too. The very idea of the mountain clans gathering at the foot of the Eyrie, their bloodthirsty forces panting in anticipation, threatening the peaceful lives they had taken for granted, was unthinkable.

Had she been another woman, Jeyne might have broken down under the weight of it. But she was no mere noblewoman. She was the head of House Arryn, the Lady of the Eyrie, and she could not—would not—allow herself to falter. Not when so many looked to her for guidance. Not when men were about to lay down their lives for the Vale’s safety.

Outside the comfort of her chambers, the castle was stirring, a quiet tension threading through its halls. Servants moved in haste, hands full of supplies, while knights checked their weapons with grim determination. The atmosphere was not yet one of battle, but of the last moments before it.

Knowing it was time, Jeyne rose from the bed, untangling herself from Jessamyn’s warmth. “I must go,” she said, voice strained from the weight of the situation.

But Jessamyn reached for her hand, fingers curling around her wrist. “You should stay here,” she murmured, voice unsteady. “The knights can handle this. You are safer in your chambers.”

Jeyne sighed, brushing her free hand over her lover’s knuckles in quiet reassurance. “I cannot lead from the shadows, Jessamyn,” she said gently, though her resolve did not waver. The younger woman’s lips pressed into a thin line, though she said nothing more as Jeyne crossed the room.

A maid had already been waiting in the dressing area, to help Jeyne into the attire of battle. First, she was fitted into a padded gambeson, then a breastplate engraved with the falcon of House Arryn on top. The weight of the armour was unfamiliar yet grounding. And the moment it settled against her shoulders, Jeyne straightened, pushing her fears aside. Her long hair was also twisted into a tight braid, and a blue cloak lined with white fur was fastened at her throat. When the lady was fully dressed, she turned to her reflection, taking in the image of a woman who had no choice but to be strong, to be as High as Honour.

Then, without another word, she strode out of the chamber, ready to meet her men.

The great courtyard was already filled with men—knights tightening straps on their armour, squires moving between them with sharpened blades and filled waterskins. There was a tense hush in the air, though noise from movement was plenty. A weight in the air that only war could bring.

As Jeyne stepped outside and toward the raised platform, heads turned. The tension shifted ever so slightly, an unspoken acknowledgement of her presence. Lord Belmore approached, bowing his head. “My lady,” he greeted, voice low but steady.

Jeyne returned the nod, her gaze sweeping over her assembled forces. Some of these men were battle-hardened, their faces unreadable beneath years of service. Others were younger, untested. She could see it in the stiffness of their postures, in the way their hands twitched near their sword hilts.

The lady took a breath, strengthening her resolve. She needed to speak not just as their lady, but as their leader. “The mountain clans have gathered at our gates,” she began, her voice carrying across the courtyard despite its size. “They come in numbers we have not seen in centuries, armed with steel they should not possess.” She let her gaze settle on them, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “But they have made a mistake. For you are the knights of House Arryn, the most formidable across the Seven Kingdoms. We have protected our home for centuries and we shall do so once more.”

At her last words, cheers of approval rippled through the knights, a current of resolve strengthening in their hearts.

Jeyne allowed the moment to extend for a bit, before she turned to Ser Gareth, a grizzled knight who had served her father. “Ensure the cauldrons are filled and heated. If they attempt to scale the walls, we shall stop them in their tracks”

In response, Gareth placed a fist over his chest and nodded. “I’ll see to it personally, my lady.”

Next, Jeyne’s gaze flickered to the archers gathered at the right side of the courtyard. “Take positions along the battlements,” she ordered. “Hold your fire until I give the command. We must make every arrow count.” A few of the archers straightened at the command, exchanging glances before bowing their heads.

Finally, she turned toward Daemon, who had stood beside her quietly throughout her speech, his right hand gently laid on the hilt of his sword—one commissioned by Rhea—and though it was not made of Valyrian steel, its quality did not diminish the rogue prince’s intimidating presence. The man’s gaze was unreadable, but his silence alone was reassuring. “Prince Daemon will lead the ground forces,” she said. “His command is as good as my own, and you will follow it.” Daemon continued to say nothing, opting to only tilt his head in response, a simple sign of his approval.

Satisfied, Jeyne took another breath. “Reinforcements from our allies are on their way,” she reminded them. “We only need to hold until they arrive.”

Before anyone could respond, a horn split through the air. The courtyard fell silent. Then, the distant echoes of movement began to rise from the valley below.

Daemon exhaled sharply. “It’s time.”

Jeyne’s skin prickled as the dawn breeze brushed against the exposed flesh, turning the tips of her ears and nose red and her lips a paler shade than usual. Her boots held her feet as they carried her up the steps toward the battlements, the sounds of clinking armour ringing in her ears. Daemon walked beside her, his posture rigid and jaw tightly clenched.

Once atop the battlements, they allowed their eyes to scan the valley below. From this height, she could see the torches moving like a living thing—a great serpent of fire weaving through the dark. The mountain clans had come.

They were not an unruly mob—not this time. Their movements were coordinated, their ranks formed with intent. As if they had been trained.

Jeyne’s fingers tightened around the edge of the stone wall. Suddenly, above them, a shadow swept across the sky. Silverwing. The great silver-white dragon passed overhead, the force of her wings sending loose snow scattering into the wind. Jeyne turned her gaze upward, watching as Rhaenyra guided the beast in a slow, predatory circle. From above, the princess had a full view of the battlefield, able to see beyond what those on the walls could.

“She wants to burn them,” Jeyne murmured, more to herself than to Daemon.

Beside her, the rogue prince’s expression hardened. “She won’t.” Yet, Jeyne was unsure. From above, Rhaenyra had the power to end this battle before it began. One word—one command—and dragonfire would consume them all. But dragonfire did not discriminate. It would not spare their own men.

Jeyne’s grip on the stone tightened further. Then, before she could call out—A second horn blasted. The lady barely had time to react before a terrible sound echoed through the courtyard. A groan of iron…followed by the clank of heavy chains.

She stiffened, eyes widening. Meanwhile, Daemon turned sharply, his brows furrowing and eyes sparking with perturbed realisation. “No,” he muttered.

The gates of the Eyrie were opening.

A shock of confusion spread among the knights stationed below. They had received no such order. And yet, the massive iron gates were being lowered from within—by their own men.

The mountain clans did not hesitate. They surged forward, slipping through the opening like a flood. Shouts of alarm rose from the defenders.

Daemon snarled, drawing his sword. “Traitors!”

Jeyne’s breath caught in her throat. This wasn’t a battle anymore. It was a slaughter waiting to happen. Before she could gather her wits, the prince was at her side, grabbing her arm. “Lord Belmore,” he snapped, his voice sharp as a blade. “Take her. Get her to safety.” Belmore didn’t hesitate. He gripped Jeyne’s wrist, pulling her toward the stairs leading to the keep, even as the first wave of mountain clans flooded into the courtyard.

“Daemon—”

“Go,” Daemon ordered. “Now.”

Jeyne wanted to fight, wanted to stand with her men. But there was no time.

As swords swung and battle cries filled the air, Lord Belmore dragged her away, the sight of her men clashing with the enemy ensnaring her eyes.

The courtyard of the Eyrie had quickly become a bloodbath.

Arryn knights struggled to push back the enemy, their once-organised formations fractured by confusion and mistrust. With each clash of steel, it became evident that many mountain clan warriors were disguised in Arryn armour, making it near impossible to tell friend from foe. Knights hesitated, uncertain if the man beside them was an ally or an infiltrator, and that single moment of doubt often led to death.

The mountain clans were relentless, but so were the Valemen. The cries of battle filled the courtyard, mingling with the harsh clinking of armour, the clash of blades, and the guttural screams of the dying.

Daemon pressed forward, cutting his way through the fray. His amethyst eyes swept over the battle, his heart pounding with each step as his sword carved through flesh and bone. He could see it—the enemy was still pouring in, flooding the courtyard like a river of steel and blood.  If the gates were not closed, the Eyrie would be lost.

He gritted his teeth, fighting toward the portcullis, intent on trapping the enemy already inside and preventing more from entering. He knew that if he could just separate them, if he could force them into smaller pockets of resistance, the knights of the Vale could crush them piece by piece.  Yet, something was off.  Despite the ferocity of the mountain clans, there was a strange, fractured coordination in the defenders’ movements. Some knights reacted too slowly, others seemed to be leading their comrades into exposed positions, forcing them into brutal disadvantages.  It was too precise to be mere disorder.

Daemon’s grip tightened around his sword, realisation settling in his gut like a stone. There were more traitors among them. The thought made his blood boil, but there was no time to root them out—not yet.

Just then, a sharp whistle pierced the air. Caraxes. The Blood Wyrm swept down into the courtyard, his scarlet wings sending gusts of wind that knocked men off their feet. The dragon needed no spoken command, and with his distinct, primal whistle, he unleashed a blast of fire into the sky, illuminating the battlefield in a fiery warning.

The effect was instantaneous. Men—both ally and enemy—staggered back, some in awe, others in terror. Daemon used the momentary distraction, breaking free from the melee and rushing toward the gate’s mechanism.

With a heave, he grabbed hold of the chains and began forcing the portcullis down. A few warriors noticed his intention, moving toward him, but Caraxes’s let piercing shriek, forced them into retreat. And soon, the groaning of iron filled the courtyard—signalling the descent of the gate.

At seeing this, the mountain clans surged forward with renewed fury. They did not fight to escape—they fought to push further inside. To them, victory was within reach. Daemon Targaryen may still be alive, but if he fell, the Vale knights would drop fast—the loss of their most powerful weapon destroying their resolve—and the Eyrie would be theirs. And if they claimed the castle, there would be no need to fear the other dragons.

On the other hand, the Arryn knights, believing the tide was turning in their favour, fought fiercely. However, they were outnumbered in the courtyard, their formations broken.

Amidst the renewed chaos, one clansman—a brute of a man clad in stolen steel—let out a bellowing war cry and leapt toward the mechanism of the gate. He would hold the gate open himself if he had to.

But, the rogue prince spotted him, and with agility expected of experienced knight, he spun on his heel, his blade flashing in a downward arc. The clansman let out a gurgling cry, collapsing as blood poured from his opened throat.

Not a moment later, another mountain clansman lunged at Daemon’s back, an axe swinging for his head. The prince managed to duck at the last second, before whirling around to bury his sword into the man’s gut, then shoved him back into the fray.

Still, the mountain clans pressed harder, their desperation turning frenzied. Some warriors tried to slip beneath the descending portcullis, willing to risk being crushed if it meant forcing their way inside. A few made it through, but then, Caraxes shrieked. The Blood Wyrm swivelled his long neck between the crowd of fighters—his teeth on display. The distraction was enough.

As the iron gate finally slammed shut, Daemon exhaled, wiping the sweat and blood from his brow. His relief was fleeting. The battle was far from over—if anything, it had only just begun. Now, they were trapped with the enemy inside.

Above, Rhaenyra hovered on Silverwing, her eyes wide with horror. She had never seen true battle before. From the sky, it was worse than she had imagined—a brutal, chaotic mess of bodies and blood. The courtyard below was painted in death, the smell of it thick even at this height.

Her hands trembled against the reins. For the first time, she did not know what to do. Her instincts screamed at her. Burn them. End this. One word, and Silverwing will purge the enemy. But there was no clear target. Her own men were scattered among the enemy. If she commanded dracarys, she could just as easily kill the knights of the Vale as she would the mountain clans. Her mind reeled, torn between action and inaction.

Then, movement in the halls caught her eye. Her gaze flickered toward the upper levels of the Eyrie, where she noticed figures slipping back inside—not knights, but squires. This oddity refocused her attention, and a frown formed on her lips. Squires should be assisting the knights—fetching weapons, reinforcing supply lines. Not retreating.

Something was wrong, her gut told her. But, before she could think on it further, Caraxes’s whistle snapped her thoughts back to the battlefield. Her uncle could only hold the courtyard for so long, she thought.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to her. They needed to cut off the clansmen’s reinforcements. At this, her grip tightened on the reins, jaw clenching. “Let us block the entry,” she commanded determinedly. Silverwing immediately obeyed, tilting into a sharp descent.

The dragoness crashed down upon the mountain road, sending clansmen scattering in terror. Her massive weight crushed half a dozen warriors instantly, yet Rhaenyra felt no pity. “Dracarys!” Flames erupted from Silverwing’s maw, turning the path behind her into a wall of fire, and instantly screams of burning men filled the air.

Yet, when the dust settled, and the princess inhaled the scent of burnt flesh, something gnawed at her mind.

Something about the numbers was wrong. The mountain clans were fewer than expected. They had accounted for more than this—Daemon had prepared for a larger force. Yet, it seemed she had only burnt close to a hundred men, and the ones battling inside the courtyard did not add up.

The calculations made her uneasy. Something was amiss. This was far from over.

The hoofbeats of warhorses echoed across the rocky trail, a steady rhythm against the silence of the march. The men rode in grim determination, their faces shadowed by the cold light of dawn. There was no jesting, no idle conversation—only the quiet weight of purpose pressing down upon them.

At the forefront rode four lords, their expressions carved from stone, each a guardian of the oath they had sworn to their liege. At the centre of them, Rhea Royce of House Targaryen sat atop her bronze-and-white destrier, her posture unwavering. Her armour, the ancient bronze of House Royce, gleamed with runic etchings, whispers of a time when men believed steel alone was not enough to guard against their enemies.

To her right, Lord Redfort and Lord Waxley rode with equal resolve, their banners fluttering in the breeze. To her left, Lord Waynwood, his grey eyes scanning the terrain ahead. These men had answered Lady Jeyne’s call without hesitation, gathering their banners along the march toward the Gates of the Moon, rallying the knights and sworn swords of the Vale for what was meant to be a swift reinforcement of the Eyrie.

Above them, the greatest symbol of their strength soared in slow, watchful circles—Prince Gaemon Targaryen and his dragon, Vermithor. The Bronze Fury glided just beneath the clouds, his massive form casting shadows upon the riders below. He was not merely a warning to the enemy but a promise.

Behind the vanguard, hundreds of knights and warriors rode in silence. Their armour gleamed in the dim morning light, their grips tightened on swords and lances. Some men murmured prayers to the Warrior, others simply focused on the road ahead. They knew what was coming. None doubted the resolve of the Vale, but whispers had spread among them—doubts seeded by the strangeness of this war. The mountain clans should have never reached the Eyrie, yet they had.

And the question no one dared to voice, lingered in the air: “How?”

The massive silhouette of the Gates of the Moon came into view as the column approached. The castle stood proud and unyielding against the encroaching mountains, its battlements silent, its banners hanging still. It was too still.

Gaemon’s dragon let out a low growl from above, and the prince, sensing something amiss, urged Vermithor downward. The massive beast descended with a gust of wind, dust and loose pebbles scattering beneath his landing. The prince dismounted swiftly, his face set in deep contemplation. The moment his boots hit the ground, all eyes turned to him.

Rhea pulled her horse beside him, eyes narrowing. “What did you see?”

The prince’s gaze flickered toward the walls before settling on his mother and the lords. “Men in Arryn colours,” he answered. “Too many…” he trailed off.

A murmur ran through the gathered knights. Waxley frowned, exchanging glances with Waynwood. “We were told through Lady Jeyne’s letters that the mountain clans were days away from the Eyrie,” he said slowly. “They should have passed through the Gates of the Moon, so why are there Arryn troops left?”

“Unless,” Rhea’s voice cut through the tension, her tone measured yet sharp, “these are mountain clans dressed in stolen armour.” Her words hung in the air, and the lords turned to her, their expressions dark with realisation. “Whether they took the armour before or after attacking the gate is unknown,” she continued. “But if it was before…”

Redfort’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “Then a traitor is helping them from our line.”

Rhea nodded grimly and her confirmation sent a ripple of tension through the men. If the mountain clans were shrouded in Arryn colours, then how could the protectors of the Eyrie discern friend from foe? This was no longer a reinforcement operation, but a a delicate extraction mission.

“What do we do?” Lord Waynwood asked, his brows furrowed.

The lords exchanged glances, each contemplating the best course of action. A moment of silence passed over, until Lord Redfort made his suggestion. “We send envoys—men who can test the waters without raising alarm.”

Rhea frowned, thinking over his strategy. “We are far enough that they would not have seen us. The envoys could pretend to be riding ahead as scouts.”

“But Vermithor would have been visible, your grace,” Lord Waxley pointed out, with a nod to the large dragon.

Gaemon frowned, knowing the words were true. However, Lord Redfort was undeterred, “Even then, it will not be too suspicious. If this is truly a trap, then our men could observe it.”

“But who to send?” Lord Waynwood asked.

After a short deliberation, three warriors, one from each house apart from Waxley, was chosen. Ser Horas Redfort, Martyn Royce and Ser Harris Waynwood—each a seasoned warrior with experience guiding their minds. They would approach the gate to test the men inside, and confirm whether Rhea’s suspicions were true or not.

The rest of the knights watched in still silence as the three riders set off, the sound of their horses’ hooves fading into the air. None spoke. None needed to. They all knew what was at stake.

The three envoys rode in silence toward the Gates of the Moon, their postures rigid with awareness. The wind carried the faint scent of cold steel and damp stone, and the castle ahead loomed, its gates shut but guarded by men in Arryn colours.

From the battlements, a few figures stirred, watching their approach. The knights at the gate shifted slightly but did not immediately raise their weapons. The tension in the air was palpable.

Ser Horas Redfort spoke first, his voice low but firm. “Keep your eyes sharp,” he muttered. “Something isn’t right.”

Martyn Royce kept his gaze forward, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword. “They see us,” he noted. “But they’re not reacting as expected.”

The men on the wall did not call out a greeting, nor did they raise an alarm. Instead, a few turned their heads, whispering amongst themselves as if uncertain of what to do.

Then, at last, a knight stepped forward from the group, his armour gleaming beneath the cold morning light. His surcoat bore the falcon of House Arryn, though his stance was not quite that of a man at ease. “You ride under whose orders?” the knight called out. His tone was firm, but there was something off about it—a hesitation, a forced confidence that did not quite sit right.

Ser Horas Redfort eyed him warily. “We are envoys from Lady Jeyne Arryn and Princess Rhea Royce,” he answered. “We received word of an attack on the Eyrie. We come to reinforce the castle.”

There was a pause.Then, the knight on the battlements shifted slightly before calling back, “You were misinformed.”

The envoys exchanged glances. Ser Harris Waynwood frowned. “Mis…informed?” he repeated slowly.

The knight nodded. “There has been no attack on the Eyrie. Whoever sent those missives was mistaken.”

Silence. A chill settled over the riders, and Ser Martyn Royce’s grip on his sword tightened. The story made no sense. The Eyrie’s missives had been sent to too many lords to be considered an accident. They were filled with detailed reports on the mountain clans’ approach—calling for reinforcements with urgency.

Horas Redfort kept his expression unreadable, but his voice darkened. “You are sure of this?”

The knight hesitated, and his fingers twitched slightly on his sword belt. “As you can see, no one has passed through our defences” he replied, though his tone had lost its edge of control.

The envoys gazed upon the knights in front, unconvinced by the words they spoke. Yet, Ser Harris nodded to the other two, signalling for them to back away. “Very well. We shall…inform our lords of what you say,” he spoke coldly.

However, as they made to turn on their horse, an arrow flew from behind them. It struck Ser Harris Waynwood in the throat, and he tumbled from his horse with a choked gasp.

Then, came the flurry of arrows accompanied by battle cries. The gates burst open, and the false Arryn knights rushed forward, swords drawn, closing the distance in an instant.

Ser Horas Redfort managed to parry the first strike, his horse rearing back as he tried to wheel around, but another enemy came from his side, plunging a blade between the gaps in his armour. Martyn Royce swung desperately, his sword clashing with the nearest clansman, but they were surrounded. It was over in moments. The last thing Martyn saw was the blue sky above him before a sword slashed across his vision, and everything faded to black.

High above, Vermithor circled the fortress, his massive golden wings barely making a sound against the wind. Gaemon had kept his distance at first, watching from the clouds, but the moment he saw the knights below draw their swords, he angled his descent sharply.

The sound of battle rang out, brief but decisive. Then the envoys were dead, their bodies crumpling onto the dirt.

Gaemon’s jaw clenched as he guided Vermithor lower, careful to avoid detection. From above, he saw the false Arryn knights moving quickly, dragging the bodies away, as if trying to erase evidence of their crime.  That confirmed it. It was a trap.  Turning sharply, Gaemon guided Vermithor away from the castle, ascending rapidly before they could spot him, having no need to see anymore.

The Vale lords were stood in tense silence as the prince landed once more before them, his expression grim. Rhea’s eyes narrowed as she rode toward him, “What happened?”

The prince met her eyes with a steeling gaze. “The envoys are dead,” he stated plainly, his voice tight with restrained anger. “They were executed the moment they attempted to return.”

A wave of anger rippled through the gathered knights. Waynwood’s face darkened, his fists clenching. “Those traitorous cowards,” he bit out.

Redfort’s expression was pure steel. “Then we have no choice,” he said. “We take back the Gates by force.”

Gaemon nodded, his gaze flickering toward Vermithor. “They will have no chance of escape.”

Rhea turned to the knights and warriors behind her, their ears and bodies ready to receive the command. Her voice rang clear and sharp, cutting through the rising anger like a blade. “Ready yourselves. We march.”

Chapter Text

The clang of steel against steel rang out like thunder, echoing off the mountain walls and through the ancient stones of the Gates of the Moon. Gaemon pulled his sword free of a fallen clansman’s gut with a sharp jerk, his heart pounding against the cage of his ribs. Around him, the courtyard was a storm of motion—Valemen, and mountain clans dressed in stolen Arryn armour, meshed together in an indistinguishable formation. Sounds of pained groans, screams of death and the thuds of fallen bodies filled the battlefield.

The young prince’s bronze curls clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and blood. He turned, parried a blow, and drove his boot into the man’s knee, sending him sprawling into the mud. Another came at him—axe raised high—but before Gaemon could move, a flash of bronze intercepted the strike.

Rhea. Though his mother possessed no true talent for the sword, she fought with the ferocity of a Royce—unyielding and steady, her blade carving a path through the enemy ranks. Her runic armour gleamed under the pale light, a beacon for those still holding the line.

For a heartbeat, Gaemon allowed himself a flicker of pride. But in war, there could be no time for such musings. The clansman Rhea had downed with her first strike lunged from the ground—hidden dagger in hand—and before Gaemon could cry out a warning, the blade found purchase. A vicious thrust into Rhea’s side, just beneath her ribs.

“Mother!” Gaemon roared, his voice cracking in fear. Time slowed as the prince watched his mother stagger, her sword clattering against a fallen shield. Blood blossomed against the bronze of her armour, dark and fast. With a snarl of pure rage, he drove his sword into the attacker’s throat, shoving him back with such force that the man’s body folded unnaturally onto itself. Rhea, meanwhile, dropped to one knee, her face pale and her breaths shallow.

Gaemon was at her side in an instant, catching her before she could collapse fully to the ground. “Stay with me,” he whispered, panic rising like bile in his throat. She tried to answer—he saw her lips move—but no sound came out, only a pained grimace.

The world around him blurred into unintelligible noise. The shouts of the knights, the screams of the dying—all faded beneath the hammering in his ears.

Then, something primal surged through him. Gaemon’s grip tightened around Rhea’s blood-slicked armour before he rose to his feet, rage and fear intertwining in his chest like twin dragons. His eyes darted to where Vermithor circled above, the Bronze Fury’s great wings casting long shadows across the battlefield.

He would not let her die here. Not surrounded by the enemy. Not unprotected.

“Go!” Suddenly, the voice of his great-uncle Gerold broke him out of his daze. The older man held onto Rhea, his sword next to him. “I will shield her. Go win us the battle.”

Gaemon gritted his teeth and nodded. Still clutching the hilt of his sword, the prince sprinted across the bloodied stones, dodging a thrown spear and vaulting over a fallen body. He whistled sharply—a practiced sound, more command than call—and Vermithor heard. The great dragon’s roar split the sky.

Vermithor plummeted, landing with a ground-shaking crash just beyond the gates, scattering mountain clansmen like sand grains in a storm. The prince didn’t hesitate, mounting the dragon with the ease born of years of training, feeling the familiar heat radiating off of the creature, and the vibrations from his rumbles. With a pull on the reins, the dragon kicked his enormous feet off the ground and flapped his heavy wings—causing many men to collapse from the air waves they created— and took to the sky once again.

Gaemon’s violet eyes turned to the Gates of the Moon, the stronghold now overrunning with mountain clansmen—with the enemy. There was no time left to waste, no sense in mercy. With a determined face, the prince roared to his dragon. “Vermithor, dracarys!”

In seconds, the giant creature opened his maw, and from it emerged bright yellow flames, powerful enough to engulf a major part of the holding. The Bronze Fury’s flames did not discriminate between flesh, stone or steel. All melted underneath the heat.

Horrifying cries of pain travelled from the walls of the Gates to the battlegrounds, allowing all to witness the true devastation dealt by the fires of a dragon.

Many Valemen and clansmen halted mid-fight, their eyes darting to the burning—melting—ruin that had once been the Gates of the Moon.

Lord Waxley’s hand shot instinctively to the seven-pointed star at his throat, his fingers clutching the symbol tightly. “Seven protect us,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the roaring flame, his complexion pale yet his expression showing reverent grimness.

Then, Gaemon turned Vermithor away from the Gates and toward the battleground. The dragon roared loudly at the men around. Most yelped in fear and dropped their weapons, some remained frozen, as piss trickled down their legs. Few held a onto delusional bravery, their weapons raised against the Bronze Fury. But Gaemon cared little for them. What mattered was his mother, injured and unable to protect herself.

The prince guided his dragon to the general area where his mother was placed, with Gerold still vigilantly guarding her. The dragon landed with a heavy thud on the ground close by, and Gaemon dismounted swiftly.

The prince moved sharply, his boots splashing through the blood-slicked stones, his face set in grim determination. Vermithor crouched behind him, wings half-unfurled, snarling low at anyone who dared to approach too closely.

“Lord Waxley! Lord Waynwood!” the prince called, his voice cutting through the thick, acrid air.

The two lords, faces streaked with soot and sweat, hastened to his side. They were bloodied but standing—leaders still, even amidst the wreckage. Waxley clutched his sword tightly, while Waynwood’s battered shield bore deep gashes from the clash.

Gaemon wasted no breath on pleasantries. “My mother has been wounded,” he said, his tone brooking no argument. “I must take her to the Eyrie, where the maester can tend to her.” His violet eyes bored into them, hard and demanding. “Can you finish this without me?”

For a moment, neither spoke. Waxley’s gaze flickered to the burning ruin of the Gates, then to the scattered remnants of the mountain clans, many of whom now fled in terror or huddled in groups to surrender. Meanwhile, Waynwood’s face tightened with thought.

Finally, Lord Waynwood gave a curt nod. “We can. The tide has turned, my prince.”

“Aye,” Waxley agreed, though his voice was rough. He placed a hand briefly over the seven-pointed star at his throat once more, a quiet gesture of strength. “Go. We will see it done.”

Gaemon allowed himself a brief nod of gratitude—nothing more. There was no time.

He turned back to Vermithor, where Gerold Royce still knelt beside Rhea’s prone form, guarding her as if she were the heart of the realm itself. The prince crossed the ground swiftly, kneeling to lift his mother into his arms with all the care of a knight cradling a wounded queen. Rhea stirred faintly against his chest, her breath hitching in pain, but she did not wake fully.

“Hold fast, mother,” Gaemon murmured against her hair.

With practiced ease, he mounted Vermithor once more, securing Rhea before him on the broad saddle. He tightened the straps around them both with precision, ensuring she would not fall even if she lost consciousness.

Then, drawing in a breath that burned from the smoke and the weight of what was yet to come, Gaemon whispered to his dragon, “quickly my friend. Take us to the Eyrie.”

With a roar that shook the very mountains, Vermithor launched into the sky, his massive wings sending a gale through the battlefield below. Gaemon did not look back. His eyes remained fixed on the white spires of the Eyrie—his only thought now to get Rhea to safety.

The battle would continue without him. But his war was for her life now.

The clang of steel had faded, but the stench of death lingered heavily in the courtyard of the Eyrie. Rhaenyra straightened her back, her hands laced tightly behind her, her posture rigid as a blade. The battle was won—at least in body, if not yet in spirit—but the price of it was evident. Blood soaked the stones, bodies lay scattered like broken dolls, and the foul scent of disembowelled corpses hung thick in the air. Even the bravest knights struggled not to gag against it.

After the gates were secured, and the last of the mountain clansmen outside slain by her dragon’s fire, Rhaenyra and Daemon had taken to the skies once more. From the backs of their dragons, they rained down not death, but fear.

A single command from Daemon had echoed across the courtyard, as Caraxes’s wings beat storms into the air, “Separate, or I will burn you all!”

While the mountain clans roared in stubborn defiance—eager to drag as many foes to the Stranger’s halls with them—the Arryn knights hesitated. Their will to live, sharpened by the terror of dragons, broke the last threads of their unity with the clansmen. It had taken time, and the Blood Wyrm’s devouring of a stubborn clansman, before order was wrestled back into being.

Now, two groups stood divided—clansmen to the left, battered Arryn knights to the right. Tension still bristled in the air, a sword-edge away from shattering again.

Rhaenyra stood silent atop the battlements, her sharp gaze sweeping the blood-soaked scene below. Beside her, Daemon sat astride Caraxes, the dragon’s long neck twisting slowly as he watched the separated groups with unhidden disdain. Her uncle’s amethyst eyes flicked between them, calculating, weighing. Wondering who among them would be spared, and who would soon meet the flame.

He opened his mouth—whether to pass judgment or give order, Rhaenyra did not know. But the words never came.

Instead, a sound tore through the heavy air, sharp and rumbling—the deep, ancient roar of a dragon. Vermithor.

At once, the stillness broke. Men flinched, some nearly dropping their weapons in fear. Heads twisted toward the skies, searching, faces blanching with horror at the thought of a third dragon joining the fray. A low murmur spread like fire across the ranks—questions whispered, prayers uttered.

Then confusion. The Bronze Fury did not come diving down in an attack. Instead, Vermithor circled once, then descended toward the battlements with slow, heavy strokes of his wings. Dust and broken stone scattered in every direction as his great feet touched down.

Gaemon swung down from the saddle with practiced ease, cradling something—someone—close to his chest. A limp figure wrapped in torn bronze and crimson.

For a moment, no one moved. Even Daemon, battle-hardened and bloody, sat frozen upon Caraxes’s back, his eyes wide, his body rigid.

Rhaenyra’s throat closed. She knew before Gaemon even reached them.

It was Rhea.

Her hair was matted to her brow, her runic armour cracked bloodied around her ribs. Her face, usually so strong and proud, was ashen. The sight of her struck harder than any blade.

Daemon dismounted in a frantic motion, stumbling the last few steps to his son. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged—only the widening horror in his eyes.

“She’s alive,” Gaemon said quickly, voice tight, as if he too feared the silence might kill her. “She was stabbed. She needs a maester. Quickly.”

The words snapped through Daemon like a whip, but still, he stood stricken, like a man gutted.

Seeing her uncle’s overwhelmed expression, Rhaenyra stepped forward and took charge. “Uncle,” she said, firm but not unkind. “We will take her. You must stay. Finish this.”

Daemon’s jaw clenched. His hands, bloody and trembling, hovered uselessly at his sides. But after a moment of agonised hesitation, he gave a single, grim nod. Anger—the pure, righteous anger of the Targaryen blood—lit his face anew, burning away the terror.

Knowing her uncle had reclaimed his wits, Rhaenyra turned to Gaemon. “Come, quickly.”

Between them, they lifted Rhea carefully, Gaemon bearing most of her weight, and made their way across the charred courtyard. Silverwing, sensing her rider’s urgency, swept down to the lower yard and waited.

Together, princess and prince carried the weight of their beloved maternal figure into the castle.

The halls of the Eyrie were eerily still. The scent of burning wood and old blood clung to the stone, but no fighting remained within. Here, in the upper levels, the staff and noblewomen had been gathered under guard—protected in what small ways the defenders could manage.

Gaemon led the way, his steps longer and quicker despite the weight of his mother in his arms. Rhaenyra strode beside him, glancing at every corner they passed, half-expecting another assassin to leap from the shadows.

They reached the Lady’s Wing—a guarded hall under the watch of two battered knights—a detail that alarmed the prince and princess—loyal to House Arryn. One of them opened the door hastily when he saw what lay in Gaemon’s arms, the figure clearly in need of a maester.

Instead of finding comfort and support inside, Gaemon and Rhaenyra’s eyes were met by the sight of chaos.

Lord Belmore’s body lay sprawled upon the floor, his chest dark with blood. Two other corpses, dressed in servant garments, lay nearby—their faces twisted in death.

Jeyne Arryn stood by the bed, her face pale but composed, with Jessamyn clinging to her side. A shaken handmaiden crouched by the wall, her skirts stained with blood and soot.

The maester and his acolyte were already inside, tending to the terrorised women. Upon seeing Rhea’s body, the maester in charge ordered for the bed to be readied for Rhea’s body, so they may tend to her.

As the maester worked, Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to Jeyne. “What happened here?” she spoke, her breath cutting through the haze of shock and tension.

Jeyne exhaled, voice hoarse. “They attacked us. Belmore died defending me. One of them—I killed. The other…” she looked toward the trembling handmaiden, “…she finished him.”

Rhaenyra’s heart hammered against her ribs. Betrayal. Even within the supposed safety of the Eyrie’s heart. Beside her, Gaemon said nothing, his jaw locked, his violet eyes burning.

There would be reckoning—of that, Rhaenyra was certain. And it would start tonight.

Gaemon’s steps were heavy as he stalked down the winding halls of the Eyrie, each one reverberating with the unspent rage and helplessness boiling in his chest. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, his nails digging crescent moons into the flesh of his palms. Every breath he drew tasted of smoke and blood. His body still thrummed with battle fever, but it was the memory of Rhea—pale, bleeding, and so vulnerable—that truly fanned the fire raging behind his violet eyes.

When he emerged once more into the courtyard, the sight that met him struck another blow to his already battered heart.

The remnants of battle were still scattered across the stones, but there was now a grim order to the chaos. Men clad in Arryn armour stood stripped to their tunics, their helms and breastplates tossed into disordered piles. The true knights of the Vale stood apart from them—faces bared, postures rigid with anger and shame. Gaemon’s sharp gaze swept across the assembly, noting grimly that many more than ten men stood bound or guarded. Far too many.

The young prince’s gut twisted.  How many had been among them before the battle even began? How deep had the rot run?  And worse still—he could not shake the image of the dead men in Jeyne Arryn’s chambers.  Had others disguised themselves as servants too? Was the castle still bleeding from within?

Daemon stood at the heart of the courtyard, his silver hair a pale flame against the darkened skies. His sword rested against his thigh, but his eyes—those sharp, knowing eyes—watched every movement, every breath of the traitorous men.

Gaemon crossed the blood-slick stones, his boots grinding against gravel and ash. As he neared, Daemon’s gaze flicked toward him, keen and questioning.

“They managed to infiltrate the Eyrie too,” Gaemon said, his voice low, tight.

Daemon’s brows furrowed sharply, his posture stiffening. “What do you mean?”

“We were ambushed at the Gates of the Moon,” Gaemon explained, the words tasting of iron on his tongue. “Men dressed in Arryn colours. They pretended to be ours until the first blade struck.”

The rogue prince went utterly still. His jaw tensed, and he muttered something in High Valyrian—a sharp, bitter whisper Gaemon caught, nonetheless. “Just how planned was this attack?”

The son nodded grimly, a silent acknowledgment that the threat they faced was not mere indulgence, but something far more orchestrated. Far more insidious.

However, Daemon, ever the warrior, shelved the thought for now. His eyes darkened with another, more immediate fear. “How is your mother?” he asked, voice rougher than Gaemon had ever heard it.

“The maester believes the blade missed anything vital,” Gaemon answered, his throat tight. “But the risk is still not over. She lost much blood.”

Daemon’s nostrils flared, his hand tightening around his sword hilt—but before he could speak further, a harsh bark of laughter cut through the tense air. One of the mountain clansmen—bound and kneeling with others—grinned through broken teeth and spat in the dirt. He muttered something in the guttural Old Tongue; his voice laced with venom.

Gaemon stiffened. He recognised the insult even before it was translated by one of the nearby knights. “Serves the bitch right.”

The prince’s blood turned to molten fire. His jaw locked, and for a heartbeat, all the noise of the courtyard seemed to fade, leaving only the pounding of his own heart in his ears. Slowly, deliberately, Gaemon turned to the prisoner. His voice, when it came, was a low, vicious snarl—in the Old Tongue, spoken with perfect, bone-chilling clarity. “Shut your filthy mouth, mongrel. Or I shall feed you to my dragon.”

The clansman’s smirk faltered, shock flaring in his dark eyes. Several of the surrounding men flinched, uneasy at the realisation that the Targaryen prince spoke the presumed-barbaric tongue of the hills as fluently as any of their own.

Gaemon took a single step forward, his boots grinding against bloodied stone. “You claim to be the pure blood of the First Men, yet you commemorate the spillage of Royce blood,” he continued in the Old Tongue. “Your arrogance will be repaid with Fire and Blood.”

Daemon’s lips curved into a faint smirk—grim approval flickering in his gaze. The boy had learned well. At his father’s nod, Gaemon turned sharply to the Vale knights. “Strip the rest of them,” he ordered, his voice commanding. “All who cannot be vouched for—bind them. We will separate true men from traitors here and now.”

There was no hesitation. Knights moved swiftly, yanking helms from heads, demanding oaths, and forcing the Arryn men to vouch for one another. Those left unclaimed by comrades’ words were dragged aside—more infiltrators unmasked, more faces twisted in shame or stubborn defiance.

By the end of it, nearly two dozen men knelt in the mud, stripped of their stolen armour, bloodied and glaring. Ten were singled out and hauled roughly to their feet.

“They will be questioned further,” Daemon declared coldly. “Perhaps there is still more they can tell us.” The rest—unneeded and burdensome to the cells of the Eyrie and its exhausted men—were put to the sword.

By the time the courtyard finally fell into a grim silence, Dark Sister was slicked with the blood of the mountain clans. Gaemon stood with his hands clenched on the ancient Valyrian sword. Daemon came from behind him and clapped a hand onto his son’s shoulder. “You did well,” he said gruffly.

Gaemon nodded once, but the rage and worry in his heart had not abated. There were still questions to answer. Still serpents lurking in the grass.

And some of them wore the colours of House Arryn.

The battle was done.

The courtyard reeked of ash, blood, and the copper tang of fear, but the fighting was over. Daemon ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, his mind already shifting from battlefield to family. He turned sharply toward Gaemon, who stood stiff and resolute by the bound prisoners.

“Escort the surviving traitors to the cells,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for question. “Interrogate them later. I’ll hear what they know when the maesters have done their work.”

Gaemon gave a sharp nod and barked orders to the remaining knights. Daemon did not wait to see it carried out. His boots echoed against the blood-smeared stones as he strode toward the inner keep, his hand never straying far from his sword hilt, though the real enemy now was uncertainty, not steel.

He climbed the stone stairs two at a time, ignoring the sting of reopened cuts across his arms and back. His mind was fixed elsewhere—on the wounded woman who should never have set foot on a battlefield. His wife. His Rhea.

As he reached the Lady’s Wing, he was greeted by the battered knights, who stood sentinel outside—their mail bloodstained but their backs straight. They bowed low as he approached, a flicker of relief crossing one man’s grimy face at the sight of the prince alive and seemingly well.

Daemon said nothing. He lifted a hand and rapped his knuckles twice against the heavy oaken door. A moment of silence passed. Then came a cautious voice from within. “Who is it?” Rhaenyra’s voice came faintly.

“It’s kepa,” he answered, pitching his tone low, but firm enough to carry through the thick door.

He heard a scuffle—scraping and screeching—as something heavy was dragged aside. A table or a chest, perhaps. He smirked despite himself. Good. Someone had the sense to bar the door properly.

Eventually, the barrier shifted fully, and the door cracked open, revealing Rhaenyra’s wary face. Relief flooded her features when she saw him whole and upright. She stepped back quickly to let him in.

Daemon entered, his gaze sweeping the chamber instinctively, assessing the room. The maester hovered near the bed, bent low over a pale figure wrapped in linen and bandages—Rhea. Jessamyn and Jeyne perched anxiously on a stool nearby, their hands twisted together. The handmaiden who had slain one of the traitors stood stiffly by the far wall, her dress still speckled with old blood.

Safe—for now.

He moved to step toward his wife, but before he could, Rhaenyra caught his arm, her fingers digging into the scorched fabric of his sleeve. “ Kepa ,” she whispered urgently. “Daella is missing.”

The words hit him harder than any blow on the battlefield. He turned to face her fully, searching her face, looking for any sign he had misheard.

“She was meant to be here,” Rhaenyra continued, her voice taut, fighting to keep steady. “When the attack started—we gathered everyone—but when we counted again after the fighting, she was nowhere.”

Daemon’s heart twisted painfully. His mind raced. Daella. His sweet, stubborn little niece, lost in a Keep full of blood and betrayal. Without another word, he tore free from Rhaenyra’s grasp and stormed toward the door, already barking over his shoulder, “Seal the corridors! Search every damned chamber!”

Somewhere deep in his chest, the old fire kindled to life once more—not the clean, burning rage of battle—but a darker thing. If anyone had harmed her…He would reclaim the moniker of his first life—Maegor come again.

Time dragged onward, each heartbeat stretched thin with panic and dread. The once proud halls of the Eyrie, so steeped in ancient honour, now pulsed with a low, frantic energy as knights, squires, and servants scoured every chamber and corridor.

Daemon prowled the corridors like a storm barely held in check, his blackened armour streaked with blood and soot. His mind raced in circles, accusations biting at his thoughts. Arnold, he snarled inwardly. It has to be him. This reeks of ambition and cowardice.

Worse though, was a fear he dared not give voice to, that gnawed at him. That Daella—sweet, brave Daella—might already be gone. Smuggled out of the Eyrie while battle and chaos masked the traitors’ steps. If that were true… if she had been spirited away to the clans or worse…

He ground his teeth until his jaw ached, fists clenching so hard that the leather of his gloves creaked. He would burn the Bloody Gate and the Eyrie itself stone by stone if it meant dragging her back.

By Daemon’s orders, the entirety of the staff and the Arryn knights—those who had survived the dawn—were herded into the courtyard under heavy guard. It served two purposes, to prevent further meddling from any hidden traitors and to allow interrogations to begin in earnest. The mountain clansmen who remained in the dungeons would soon have their tongues loosened as well, one way or another.

Soon the sun climbed higher, bleeding into its peak position overhead. Over two hours had passed since the alarm had been raised, but for Daemon, it might as well have been a lifetime.

Then, as he strode back into the courtyard, the murmuring of the gathered men shifted. Heads turned, and a path parted through the crowd. Two figures emerged—Arnold Arryn, his face carefully composed into a grim mask, and Lord Donnel Arryn, the boy Joffrey’s father, looking equally grave.

Between them—

Daemon’s breath hitched—was Daella. Her hair was mussed, her cheeks streaked with dirt and tear-tracks, but she was alive.

The moment her wide violet eyes found him, she tore herself free of her minders’ hands and bolted across the courtyard. “Kepa!” she cried out, her voice raw with fear.

Daemon dropped to one knee and caught her against his chest with a force that nearly knocked him back. He cradled her tightly, his gauntlets falling away so he could press his bare hand against her hair, her back, to feel her living warmth. She sobbed into his shoulder—loud, broken, trembling sobs—and Daemon closed his eyes for a brief moment, willing his hammering heart to steady.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured, low and fierce. “No one will touch you again.”

When at last he looked up, Daella clinging to him like a drowning girl, his gaze found Arnold Arryn’s. The false lordling stood stiff, one hand folded behind his back, his mouth a grim line. “She says,” Arnold intoned, “that the septon and two knights placed her in the abandoned chambers of the Northern Tower.”

Daemon’s stare sharpened to a knife’s edge. He did not trust a single word from Arnold’s mouth. Not now. Perhaps not ever. But Daella was trembling against him, still whimpering quietly, and for now, her safety mattered above all else.

He rose, lifting Daella easily in his arms, and without waiting for further explanation, carried her toward the inner keep. Upon their arrival at Jeyne’s chambers, Rhaenyra forward, her arms outstretched, tears brimming in her bright eyes. The two princesses clung to each other, sobbing lowly at knowing the other was safe and sound.

A few guards watched silently from their posts, and though Daemon gave no outward show, inwardly he allowed himself the smallest breath of relief. For now, his blood was safe. The family was whole. 

The battle was won. The traitors unmasked, the enemy cowed. The soldiers who yet lived exchanged wary glances, suspicion coiling between them like smoke, their loyalty sharpened now by fear and shame. Few would dare to move against them again. Not with dragons above their heads, and dragonfire still blackening the stones.

The evening-sun bathed the stone corridors in molten gold, the long shadows creeping along the walls like silent sentinels. Daemon sat at Rhea’s bedside, one hand absently covering her smaller, bandaged one. Her breathing was steadier now, though pale and shallow. The maester’s poultices had stemmed the bleeding, but the rogue prince would not be at peace until her eyes opened.

A soft knock at the chamber door drew his attention. His body tensed immediately—too many nights in this war had taught him to mistrust quiet things. Carefully, he disentangled his fingers from Rhea’s and rose.

The door creaked open a sliver, revealing the freckled, pinched face of young Joffrey Arryn. The boy stood stiffly, his hands wringing at the hem of his tunic. His blue eyes darted into the chamber before settling on Daemon, wide and fearful.

“What is it, boy?” Daemon asked, keeping his voice low for Rhea’s sake.

Joffrey stepped inside, closing the door softly behind him. He hesitated—gathering his courage like a knight mustering for a charge—before he spoke.

“My prince…” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. “I—I heard something. Something you should know.”

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. He crossed the chamber in two strides, reaching Joffrey and crouching before him, lowering himself to the boy’s height so their eyes were level. “Speak plainly,” he commanded, though he kept his tone steady, willing not to frighten the lad more than he already was.

Joffrey’s hands twisted harder at his tunic. “It was Lord Arnold… and another man. I—I do not know who he was, but he wore Arryn colours. They were speaking in the empty solar. I was not meant to hear it—I was hiding when the fighting broke out.”

“What did you hear?” Daemon pressed, his voice dropping lower.

Joffrey licked his lips nervously, then whispered, “Lord Arnold said the plan worked perfectly. That now, no one could argue against him marrying Princess Daella…and claiming the Eyrie through her.”

Silence fell between them, so heavy Daemon could feel the weight of it in his chest.

The boy’s breathing quickened. “He said… he said with him rescuing Princess Daella, while the other knights were made fools of by the traitors, everyone would see him as the only one strong enough to protect her.”

Daemon closed his eyes briefly. Rage clawed at the edges of his mind, but he forced it down. It was not the time for fury. Not yet.

“And you’re sure of what you heard?” he asked finally, his voice cold and sharp as a drawn blade.

Joffrey nodded fiercely. “Yes, my prince. I swear it.”

Daemon placed a hand on the boy’s trembling shoulder, firm and steady. “You did well to come to me.” His lips curved in a grim shadow of a smile. “You’ve more honour in you than half the knights of this castle.” Joffrey’s cheeks coloured slightly, pride warring with fear. “Go back to your chambers now,” Daemon ordered gently. “Say nothing. To anyone, not even your own kin. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my prince,” the boy whispered, and then he was gone, slipping out the door like a wisp of mist.

Daemon straightened slowly, turning back toward Rhea’s still form. He stood there for a moment, letting the revelation sink deep into his bones. Arnold Arryn. The name curdled like spoiled milk on his tongue. Not only a traitor to his kin, but a coward who would endanger a child to grasp at power. Daemon’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Soon, he thought darkly. Soon, he would learn that reaching for the Eyrie’s heights without wings would only send a man crashing into the stones below. And Daemon Targaryen would be there to push him over the edge.

Chapter Text

“Day, when are muna and kepa coming back?” Viserra’s voice was small, but insistent—each syllable soaked in a kind of worry that no child should carry. Her large amethyst eyes locked onto her older brother’s, wide with innocent desperation. She had been asking the same question every other night now, and Daeron could see the cracks forming in her calm.

“Soon, Visa,” he replied quietly, though the words felt hollow even to him. He didn’t look at her, occupying himself with the meal in front of him. In truth, he didn’t know. It had been over two weeks since their mother set out for the Eyrie, and she should have reached the Gates of the Moon by now. Their father had flown off not long before, and apart from the two ravens he received—letting him know of Daemon’s safe arrival in the Eyrie, and Rhaenyra’s appearance—nothing came.

The absence of their parents was felt by all the children, the pain of it worsening with each passing day. Sansa and Yorbert had been fussy, bursting into tears whenever it came time for bed or meals. Only Saera, always the oddest of the triplets, had remained strangely serene—watchful and silent. Viserra, the eldest of the younger children, tried her best to be brave. But her patience was thinning.

Later that night, Daeron found himself sitting alone in his mother’s solar. Around him, the chamber was dimly lit by the soft flicker of a lone candle. The hall beyond had long gone quiet, the children tucked away into their chambers. Or, more accurately, placed there—sleep had not come easily to any of them since their parents’ departure.

Daeron sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his silver hair. Gods help me, he thought bitterly. He missed Rhaegar. The arrogant little sod had followed Gaemon to King’s Landing, hoping to make a name for himself as Tyland Lannister’s squire. A clever enough choice, Daeron had to admit—Tyland was no Corlys Velaryon, but the Lannister was cunning and seaworthy, a solid match for the boy meant to rule half the Stepstones.

But still, Rhaegar had always been better at this—at soothing their siblings, at making them laugh. At carrying the weight of being the eldest when the adults were away. That weight now sat squarely on Daeron’s own shoulders, and it was growing heavier by the hour.

To distract himself, he’d thrown his efforts into study. The ancient tome given to him by Orys sat open before him, its pages worn and fragile with age. Across the yellowed parchment, sketches of runes and half-deciphered glyphs danced in black ink—each one belonging to a different artefact of House Royce. But it was the shield that captured him most.

It rested across from him now, propped against a chair, its surface gleaming dimly in the candlelight. The ancient heirloom of House Royce. Forged in the days when the First Men still ruled the Vale. No one alive could remember the last time it had been wielded in war, and yet it had endured—untarnished by time, untouched by rust or rot. The shield was forged of a strange metal, lighter than any shield Daeron had held, yet able to absorb the blow of a mace without cracking.

It was beautiful.

Sometimes, Daeron caught himself just staring at it. The runes etched along its rim seemed to whisper when the wind passed through the open window. Orys said they were ceremonial— decorative. Superstitious relics from a superstitious age, he’d said with a shrug. Daeron hadn’t challenged him, not openly. But something in the shield made his pulse quicken every time he laid eyes on it.

Tonight was no different. He sat before it again, the tome spread before him, trying to match the etched runes to the written translations in the book.

“Endurance. Protection. Flame. Foresight…”

The candle flickered slightly, casting dancing shadows across the rune-inscribed surface. He reached out, tracing one symbol with his finger. It was shaped like a sideways shield with a diagonal mark across it…. Deflection?

His finger slipped slightly as he traced the sharp edge. The boy hissed in response, at the bright sting that bloomed at his thumb. He looked down at it—blood welled up, just a bead—but enough to smear against the metal as he instinctively brushed it aside.

The effect was instant.

The rune beneath his thumb flared gold—hot and sudden like a spark on dry parchment. It pulsed once with light, then faded, returning to its dull bronze.

Daeron froze. For a long moment, he didn’t breathe. Then, slowly, disbelieving, he touched the next rune with the same bleeding thumb.

Another flash—sharper this time, as if the rune had sung to the touch.

He drew back with a shudder. The room was silent save for his breathing. “…What in the hells was that?” The words in the Old Tongue slipped his mouth instinctively.

Before he knew it, his body was acting. His injured thumb traced a third rune, then a fourth, then a fifth. His deep-brown eyes widened and shone with the light illuminated from the reacting runes. His mouth opened as if to release laughter, but no sounds escaped his throat, only the heavy breaths of excitement.

Yet, when the last rune dimmed and the shield returned to silence, something gnawed at Daeron’s certainty. The glow—so vivid, so undeniably real—faded without a trace. He frowned and shifted his grip, the cut on his thumb still weeping faintly as he brought it back to the first rune. He pressed it again—slowly, deliberately—repeating the same motion that had stirred it before.

Nothing.

He tried the next one, and the next. Even those he had seen burn brightest. One by one, he retraced the runes, his thumb still damp with blood—but the metal remained cold, inert. As if whatever power had stirred was spent.

Or had never been there at all.

A strange chill crept over the boy. Slowly, he let the shield slip from his lap. It landed against the stone floor with a muffled clunk. The silence that followed was deafening.

Am I dreaming? Daeron blinked hard, but the pain in his thumb was real. The scent of metal, the flickering candlelight, the sound of his own breath—real. Yet the runes no longer glowed. No shimmer, no spark. Just empty bronze.

He stared at it for a long time, unease curling deep in his gut. Had he imagined it? Had exhaustion twisted his senses? His mind conjured Orys’s voice—practical, logical, unimpressed. The mind sees what it wants when it’s half-asleep, my prince.

But Daeron was sure he wasn’t imagining things. He knew what he saw and no matter how hard he tried to rationalise it, a quiet truth settled into his bones.

The shield had responded to him.

It was the blood—it had to be. Something in the blood had woken it.

By the time the candle burnt low, Daeron was pacing. He wanted to tell someone—to wake Orys, but his guardian was a maester, trained by the Citadel. The prince knew what they thought of magic—at best, it was dismissed, and at worst, condemned. He will think me mad, Daeron thought bitterly. Or worse—lying.

So, he said nothing. He closed the book and washed the blood from his hand. Then, he gave the shield one last glance before heading out, wondering if whatever he’d seen… had been real, and if it was meant for his eyes alone.

The sun had barely crested the hills when Otto Hightower descended into the steward’s wing of Summerhall, his mood as ever unpleasant these past moons. His agitation had not dulled since Aegon’s passing, if anything, it had simmered to the top. Too many loose threads have threatened to destroy the carefully woven tapestry sewn by his house and their allies.

After Aegon’s passing and with Arnold’s movement in the Vale, Otto felt idle. So, he set his sights on Summerhall’s household staff, wishing to reinforce loyalty. If there were spies or traitors, he wanted them rooted out before a new grandson was brought into the world.

The servant girl he had hired for the task stood just beyond the threshold of his solar, fidgeting with the hem of her apron. A plain thing named Emlyn—sharp-eyed, cautious, and greedy. She had been quietly reporting to him for years now, embedded among the cleaning women and scullery maids.

Otto waved her inside. When they entered the solar, the man took his seat at his desk—filled with unopened scrolls, layered parchment and dry quills. The girl placed herself in front of the desk, her eyes raised to meet his gaze and her lips pursed in uncertainty.

“What have you got for me?” Otto prompted, his voice clipped.

Emlyn gave a quick curtsy, then stepped forward with a neatly folded parchment. “Found in Brie’s trunk, my lord. Hidden under the false bottom. I didn’t touch anything beyond that.”

Of all the household staff, Brie and a steward named Robar were the only ones Viserys retained from his household with Aemma Arryn. If any servant had split loyalties, it was them. Emlyn was tasked to follow them around, and to search their quarters carefully—whenever she had the chance.

Otto’s eyes narrowed. “You’re certain she hasn’t noticed?”

“She was out in the lower stables, tending the hounds. She won’t be done for some time.”

Otto dismissed the girl with a nod, then turned his gaze to the letter. The paper was coarse, the ink faded—but the phrasing struck him instantly. It was odd… Rambling, almost poetic.

Then he saw the line.

—I think the seed is dry now. There will be no more fruits of green and gold.

He read it again. And again. Something in the phrasing clawed at the edge of his mind. Green and gold. There were few fruits of such colouring, though many flowers bore such colours. But, if this were worded in code, then green and gold could easily symbolise a house… House Belaerys’s colours were green and gold.

There was one way to clarify this, Otto thought bitterly. He rang the bell at his desk. Moments later, guards arrived at his door. “Bring Brie to me,” he ordered coldly. “Now.”

Within the hour, the young woman was brought to his solar, wringing her hands. She appeared in her mid-thirties, brown-haired and broad in the shoulder, though short in stature. She wore a calm expression, yet Otto could distinguish the air of nervousness in the way her lips pressed together, and the rapid blinking of her eyes.

“My lord,” one of the guards bowed shallowly in greeting and presented the woman.

“My lord, you called for me?” Brie greeted with a curtesy.

“You wrote this,” Otto said, laying the letter flat on the desk. “To a woman named Melissa.” Brie instantly flinched at the name. “I want to know what it means.”

“It is as it says, my lord. We had an issue with Goldleaf apples in the gardens. I know a matron in the Vale who dealt with them, so I wrote to her.”

Otto leaned back in his chair, analysing the woman before him. If this was a planned ruse, then it was well-thought out. Goldleaf apples grew in the Westerlands, nestled in between rocks close to the sea. While scarce in the Westerlands, the plant had become uncontrollable once it was brought to the Reach—a present brought when Lord Tybolt’s daughter, Myrcella, wed Lord Tyrell. The plant had to be removed from Highgarden, but it was stubborn, finding home in many places in the Reach.

If seen in any garden now, it was promptly dealt with, lest it cause issues.

“I see,” the man replied carefully. “Tell me then, Brie. Was it you or the gardeners who administered the… solution?”

Brie shifted on her feet. “I gave them the serum, my lord. And the gardeners applied it.”

“Very good,” Otto said, still sceptical of the woman. He turned to face the guard still inside the solar. “Bring me the head gardener.” The Hightower fought back a sneer, as he noticed Brie’s shaking figure.

Surprisingly, Brie stayed silent, as both she and Otto waited for the guard to bring the head gardener. The guard soon came back with an elderly man, bold and grumbling.

“M’lord,” the gardener greeted gruffly.

“Edgar, yes?” The elderly man nodded. “This young woman here claims to have given you a serum for the Goldleaf apples we had an issue with, is that true?”

Edgar examined Brie, scratching the back of his head. “I… I think so. Can’t really tell m’lord, all the maids look the same. One did give me a concoction. Ginger, salt, and coal. Said it would clear it right up, but I ain’t use it yet.”

Brie’s eyes widened and Otto suppressed a smirk. A truly genius ruse indeed, but one depending on too many uncontrollable variables.

“Are you telling me we still have Goldleaf apples in the gardens?” He asked, his eyes refocusing on the shaking maid.

“Yes m’lord. We were not sure where they came from, ‘cause they weren’t there when we first came. We had to be certain we got all of em before we removed em,” Edgar replied with an exasperated tone.

Otto nodded at him. “That is all. You are dismissed.” Edgar bowed and took his leave. That was when the Hightower fully turned his attention to Brie, who was as pale as snow, her eyes refusing to meet his. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way,” Otto told her nonchalantly, as if he were speaking of the weather. “Who is Melissa, and what is this dried seed?” He already knew what the dried seed meant. There was only one explanation. Viserys was poisoned, prevented from siring children.

“I—I do not know…”

Otto’s fist struck the desk. “Do not lie! Either you tell me, girl, or I will send you to the cells and have you stripped and raped by every knight, servant and pig in this gods’ forsaken Keep!” To Otto’s utter dismay and shock, the woman kept silent. Instead of fear etched in her face, the shakiness was replaced by a hardened resolve. Her chin raised, her gaze sharpened and her hands steadied. “I hear your choice,” the man said through gritted teeth. “Take her to the cells. I will give her the mercy of one night. Let us hope she comes to her senses.”

The guard did not hesitate, grabbing Brie’s arm harshly and dragging her out of the solar.

But Brie, it would seem, was truly unwilling to cooperate. By dusk, she was found dead in her cell. She had taken poison—cleverly sewn into the inner bodice of her kirtle, folded beneath the lining where only she would reach it. No screams had echoed through the hall, no final pleas for mercy. Just silence.

Otto stood over the cold body, his face unreadable. His heart thundered with bitter dread. If what Brie wrote was really true, then their work with Viserys had all been for nothing. If the man could not sire an heir on Alicent, then how could they push their claim to the throne? What guarantees them that Viserys’s ambitions of reclaiming his birthright from Rhaenyra would remain without his prophesied son?

Otto could not let this be the end.

Daemon stretched his left arm, rotating at the shoulder, while his right hand massaged the tense junction between neck and collarbone. The ache had settled in deep after the battle, a dull throb that no maester’s balm could ease—not when the strain came from weariness of spirit as much as body.

The wind was sharp that morning, colder than it had been, as if the weather itself felt the sharp ramifications of war. The rogue prince inhaled slowly, nostrils flaring against the chill, before casting his gaze across the courtyard of the Eyrie.

The courtyard still bore the aftermath of war. Though much of the blood had been washed away by the morning rains, the scent lingered—iron and smoke, and something fouler still. Men moved with care among the stones, gathering what remained of the dead. The majority of the bodies had already been reduced to ash beneath Caraxes’s fire, but many were spread. Those known by the surviving Arryn knights, were to be properly buried and given to their families.

Amidst it all, Gaemon and Rhaenyra stood. They were near the far edge of the inner yard, their dragons crouched in patient readiness behind them. Silverwing and Vermithor loomed like sentinels of old, eyes half-lidded and smoke curling faintly from their nostrils. Rhaenyra and Gaemon, deep in quiet discussion, moved with purpose as they checked saddles and harnesses—preparing for a long journey ahead.

They would ride first to meet the remainder of the Vale host stationed beyond the Gates of the Moon, then continue to Runestone to inform Daeron and the rest of the Royce household of all that had occurred. Only then would they return to King’s Landing—to report to the crown, and to the Small Council, what had been uncovered in the mountains.

Daemon approached with measured steps, feeling each one in his knees. “Are you done?” he asked, voice roughened by sleeplessness and smoke.

The pair turned at once, breaking from their murmurings.

“We are,” they said together, Rhaenyra nodding as Gaemon fastened the final strap at Vermithor’s side.

“Good,” Daemon replied, his tone clipped. “If there’s trouble at the gates, I expect one of you to return. Do not try to handle it alone.” Both inclined their heads in agreement, and Daemon gave a curt nod in return. “Then I will not keep you longer. You have too long of a journey ahead of you, to waste anymore sun.”

Gaemon smiled at his father and embraced him briefly but firmly, armour clinking dully between them. Then came Rhaenyra, who buried herself into her uncle’s chest, letting his strong arms wrap protectively around her. When they separated the rogue prince looked at his son. “I do not need to remind you to keep her safe,” he said and gestured at Rhaenyra, who rolled her eyes at his protectiveness.

Gaemon nodded. “Of course not.”

Daemon watched them mount and take flight—first Rhaenyra on Silverwing, rising with the grace of a true Targaryen Queen; then Gaemon on Vermithor, thundering upward in a rush of wings and heat. The wind stirred his cloak as they vanished into the clouds, leaving only silence behind.

He remained in place a moment longer before turning on his heel and heading back inside.

As he left the courtyard Daemon sighed, reminded by what awaited him still. The ten prisoners still awaited his interrogation. The prince had no illusions; he knew these men would be stubborn and it would take no less than a week of pure agony to make them talk. But he was determined to see this to the end. And if fortune favoured him, they would provide the last stones needed to bury Arnold Arryn alive.

As the sun set that day, the Great Hall of the Eyrie was transformed, however briefly, from war-room to feast-hall. Jeyne Arryn had insisted on hosting a small gathering for the surviving defenders and their highborn allies. Not a celebration—not truly—but a respite. A show of strength and unity, meant to bolster those still nursing wounds.

The hall buzzed low with cautious laughter, metal cups clinking, trenchers being passed between men still half-armoured. Daemon entered at the head of the hall, and all eyes turned to him—some nodding, some murmuring his name with a mixture of fear and admiration.

He took his place beside Jeyne, who sat in a high-backed chair draped in Arryn blue. The Lady of the Vale looked thinner than when he had first arrived, but her chin was held high, and her eyes had lost none of their iron.

For what felt like hours, the feast droned on. With each moment of relief that passed, with each cup drunk, the men grew louder—more boisterous and jollier. Toasts were made to the Lady Jeyne, to Daemon, to Gaemon, Rhaenyra and even Rhea.

And then, he stood—Arnold Arryn.

The young man rose from his place among the knights with all the smooth pride of a man rehearsed. He lifted his goblet first in toast, then cleared his throat. “My lords, my ladies,” he began, his voice polished, the perfect mix of feigned humility and ambition. “In light of recent events—and with gratitude to the gods for sparing us—I wish to make an earnest proposal.” All fell still. Daemon’s fingers curled around the hilt of his goblet, his eyes narrowing at the traitor. Arnold smiled faintly, none the wiser, and continued. “I wish to ask formally for the hand of Princess Daella Targaryen.”

A murmur rippled through the hall—some surprised, others expectant… and a few whispered approvals.

Jeyne’s eyes widened, as did Daella’s—who was sitting on the other side of her cousin—and both women turned to Daemon for guidance. The rogue prince calmly set his goblet down before he stood from his seat. His gaze hardened on Arnold. “That will not happen, Arnold. There will be no proposals accepted from you.”

Arnold blinked. “My prince?”

Daemon stepped from the table and toward the younger man. “A clever move, I must admit, but rejected all the same. For we cannot reward traitors.” The hall stilled at the words, confused and tense. Jeyne stood from her seat, her chair screeching as it slid behind her. While Daella tensed and pressed herself to the back of her chair.

“What are you implying?” Arnold demanded, still composed but clearly rattled.

Daemon turned to Donnel Arryn. “Bring me your boy.”

Donnel hesitated a moment, before he ushered Joffrey Arryn forward—nervous, pale, but courageous as ever.

The rogue prince turned back to the hall, his stare scrutinising all around him. “We found a letter in the septon’s chambers. One referring to a ‘Black Falcon’—a scheme that sought to entrap Princess Daella, to use her as leverage for the Eyrie. It names no man directly. But Joffrey here…” he rested a hand lightly on the boy’s shoulder. “He overheard a conversation.” Daemon looked to the boy, voice gentler now. “Tell them what you heard.”

Joffrey glanced around, his father giving him an encouraging nod. “I heard Ser Arnold,” the boy began, voice young yet strong, “speak to a man in one of the empty solars. He said… he said the plan worked. That now no one could deny him Princess Daella, and that through her… the Eyrie would be his.”

Gasps rippled from the attendants—some indignant, others silent.

Arnold’s face flushed with outrage. “Lies! The boy is confused—he knows not what he heard!”

“I trust his word. He may be young, but he is true,” Daemon defended swiftly. “Your actions are what gave you away, Ser Arnold. Perhaps if you had not been so combative to your liege lady’s command, I would be more inclined to believe you.”

Arnold’s jaw clenched. “I did what I thought was essential. With all due respect to Lady Jeyne, she has no experience in battle.”

“Then you speak to me and explain it to me. What you had done was undermine me. And I may not know battle, but I know the first rule is not to undermine and weaken your leader’s position,” Jeyne argued, her voice growing heated—reminded of her cousin’s insubordination.

By now, the hall was very tense. The lords had sobered up and their bodies were once more in fighting mindsets.

Daemon turned to Jeyne, his eyes softening for his niece. “Give me an hour, my lady. Let us search Arnold’s quarters and let me bring you proof.”

Before Jeyne could agree, Arnold interrupted. “What is the point? You have already condemned me,” he said indignantly—as if he had any right to be. “Let us end this here and now. I demand a trial by combat!”

Daemon smirked. He made to step forward, but before he could offer his sword, Donnel Arryn spoke. “Then I will be your opponent.” Jeyne and Daemon whipped their heads to the man, and Joffrey’s eyes widened at his father. Donnel did not care, bowing to Jeyne. “My lady, it is my son’s words that have condemned Ser Arnold. I must be the man to face the consequences, whatever they may be.”

Jeyne glanced at Daemon and nodded. “Very well,” the rogue prince said, stepping aside and gesturing to the centre of the hall. “Clear the floor.”

Instantly, chairs scraped against stone and tables were pulled back. What moments ago had been a feast, now transformed into a field of judgement.

Arnold stripped off his surcoat and sword belt with sharp, controlled movements. Donnel, older and broader, removed only his fine doublet, standing in a simple tunic, his greying hair falling about his face. Daemon stepped forward between them.

“This trial is called,” the prince said, voice carrying through the chamber. “Arnold Arryn has been accused of treachery. He claims innocence, and seeks the gods’ judgment.” He turned to the accused first. “Do you understand the charge against you?”

Arnold nodded. “I do.”

“And do you accept Lord Donnel as your opponent?”

“I do.”

Daemon then turned to Donnel. “You fight for truth, not vengeance. You understand this?”

“I do.”

“Then may the gods favour the just.” Daemon stepped back. The crowd hushed.

The clash began in a single breath. Arnold struck first, sword flashing in an arc meant to overwhelm quickly. Donnel caught the blow on his blade with a grunt, his stance unrefined but grounded. What he lacked in talent, he compensated with patience—he did not charge, did not allow pride to rule his blade.

But Arnold was younger, faster. He feinted low and stabbed Donnel in the shoulder. The older man cried in pain. Blood welled quickly. Joffrey gasped at the sight.

Still, Donnel did not fall. He shifted his grip, parried another blow, and drew back. His breaths came heavy, but he did not retreat.

Arnold pressed harder. A swing to the side—blocked. A downward strike—slashed his opponent’s chest. Then, a kick to Donnel’s thigh sent the older man stumbling. Arnold raised his sword for the final blow.

But Donnel pivoted—not back, but forward—shouldering into Arnold’s exposed chest. The younger man crashed to the ground, momentarily dazed. Donnel did not hesitate. He brought his sword down. Steel met flesh.

Arnold screamed as the blade buried deep in his gut.

The hall exploded in noise, and all watched as Donnel finished the job, relieving Arnold of his head. Then, the victorious man, sword slick, body exerted and heavily injured, looked to Jeyne. “The gods have judged,” he said.

Chapter Text

Thump.

…Thump.

Thump.

The rhythmic sound of her heartbeat pulsed from her chest to her limbs, like a bell rousing her from a long slumber. It was a comfort—until the pain hit.

At first, it felt like a pinch, subtle and irritating. Then it sharpened, spreading from beneath her ribs to the back of her neck with a cold, precise fury. She whimpered and twitched only for another pain to bloom behind her eyes, a dull pounding in her skull.

Her eyes struggled to open—the ceiling above her blurry and twisted. There were sounds of shuffling nearby, but they passed by like waves—muffled and indistinguishable. Her throat was dry. Her limbs ached. Breathing through the pain helped her focus. Slowly, she began to make sense of her surroundings.

She was in a bed. A proper bed. Her body was cocooned in a thin duvet, her head nestled into a soft pillow. She wore only a tunic and sleeping trousers, and her abdomen was tightly wrapped.

Her wound.

Images and sounds flashed in her mind, memories of the last things she could recall. She was stabbed in the battle at the Gates of the Moon and Gaemon had panicked.

If she was on a soft bed, then it was likely her son had flown her to the Eyrie to be tended to. Or her forces had managed to reclaim the Gates of the Moon and tended to her inside the Keep. Either way, she seemed safe.

She blinked again, forcing her eyes to adjust. The room came into view in slow pieces. The bed’s canopy, the soft silk curtains, the floral embroidery along the tapestries. Too fine for a healer’s chamber. She was in a guest suite. No—judging by the detailing on the crest above the hearth—one of the Lady’s chambers at the Eyrie.

“My lady, you’re awake!”

Rhea’s gaze snapped right. A young maid stood there, eyes wide with awe and concern, a washcloth and bucket of water still in her hands.

Rhea opened her mouth to speak, but only a dry rasp came out.

“I’ll fetch the maester!” the maid said quickly, abandoning her tools and disappearing through the door before Rhea could raise a hand.

Alone again, Rhea let her head sink deeper into the pillow. Every breath was a quiet agony, but it was lessening by the moment. Her limbs no longer felt like they belonged to someone else. Her mind, though dulled, was hers again.

She had survived.

Moments later, the door opened once more, and the old maester entered with the maid close behind. His stooped back and round spectacles gave him the look of a squirrel, but his gait was steady and focused. Relief passed over his features as soon as he saw her.

“Your Grace, it is good to see you awake.” He bowed shallowly before moving to the side of the bed.

“Water…” Rhea croaked.

The maid moved quickly, pouring from a pitcher on the side table. The maester supported Rhea’s shoulders as the cup was brought to her lips. She winced at the coldness of the water, but it tasted like heaven on her dry, cracked tongue.

“Please excuse me while I examine you,” the maester said gently as she finished the drink. At her nod, he raised the hem of her tunic and carefully unwrapped the bandages at her side. He hummed to himself as he checked the stitching, cleaned the area, and began rewrapping it.

“All seems to be in order,” he said at last. “You’ve passed through the worst of it, I believe.”

Rhea nodded, though her head still throbbed. “How long?”

“Eight days,” the maester replied. “The first five, you were kept under milk of the poppy. You stirred from time to time, but never for long. These past three, you’ve been drifting in and out—enough to take food and water, though I doubt you remember.”

Eight days. She blinked at the number. The war could have changed shape three times over in that span. “What now?”

“Now we keep a close watch,” the maester replied, discarding the old wrappings into a basin. “No travel for at least a fortnight, I’d say. Perhaps longer. The wound is deep but clean—luck, more than anything. No sign of infection.”

Rhea let out a slow breath. “Thank the gods.”

“My lady,” the maid said softly. “Shall I fetch your husband? He’s been awfully worried for you these past few days.” Rhea gave the barest nod, and the girl bowed quickly before hurrying from the room.

The door creaked again some moments later, and a familiar silhouette filled the entry. Daemon entered without a word, his armour stripped down to a thick black tunic and leather belt, his sword conspicuously absent. In his arms he cradled a sleeping boy, curled against his chest like a kitten, his blonde curls the only distinguishable feature.

Rhea blinked at the sight, surprised.

Daemon crossed the room in silence and knelt by her bedside, lowering the boy into one of the padded chairs before brushing a hand through the child’s hair. Then, he turned to her. “You’re awake,” he said, as though he hadn’t dared to believe it.

“I am,” she replied hoarsely. “Though it seems I’ve missed quite a bit.”

Daemon gave a mirthless smile as he settled beside her, his hand reaching out to take hers with a gentleness few had ever seen from the Rogue Prince. “That you have.” His thumb stroked over her knuckles slowly, grounding himself as much as her. “The Mountain clansmen were more coordinated than we anticipated. They made it through the Bloody Gates—pretending to be Arryn knights. Gaemon told me you faced the same at the Gates of the Moon.” Rhea closed her eyes, nodding faintly. “Daella was also taken. Hidden in one of the old towers. We searched for hours.” His voice tightened. “We nearly lost her.”

Rhea’s eyes widened in horror, her hands trembled over the covers of the bed. “Who?” She said, voice tight.

Daemon didn’t flinch. “Arnold. He orchestrated it or was deeply involved. We do not know how far the plan extended, but it started with him. He played the hero after the fighting—acted like he saved Daella. Then had the gall to ask for her hand at the feast.”

Rhea blinked in disbelief. “He—”

“He thought he could snatch her hand and with it, the Eyrie,” Daemon cut in, his tone colder now, laced with contempt. “But Joffrey—” he nodded toward the sleeping boy, “—heard him. Overheard him gloating to one of your cousin Gerold’s sons.”

Her face twisted, a flash of grief and anger darkening her expression. “Garmund…” she whispered.

Daemon nodded grimly. “Seems the poison in the blood runs deeper than we’d hoped.”

Rhea turned away, her hand rising to her brow as tears welled in her eyes. “Daella could have died.”

“And it would’ve been on Arnold’s head,” Daemon said firmly. “Not yours. Not Jeyne’s. Not anyone’s but his and those who helped him.”

His voice softened slightly, a hand lifting to brush her temple. “You have always blamed yourself when things go wrong, Rhea. Do not do that now.”

She did not speak for a long moment, staring past him, her breaths shallow. Then, her eyes flicked to Joffrey. “What… what happens to him now?”

Daemon followed her gaze. “He’s with us,” he said simply. “Donnel fought in my stead. Won, but his wounds were too deep. He passed the very next day.”

Rhea’s eyes closed, and her lips parted in a soft, pained breath. “Poor boy.”

“I did not know what else to do,” Daemon admitted, his voice quiet. “I did not want him left in Jeyne’s care. Not after everything she has endured. And… I owed both Joffrey and Donnel that much. I promised Joffrey squireship if he spied on Arnold for me, and it led to his father’s death.”

The grim weight of it everything settled between them—loss, betrayal, and duty converging in the still air of the sickroom.

To ease the tension, Rhea opened her mouth, “At least he is near Cregan’s and Yorbet’s age. He won't be lonely.”

Daemon chuckled, though dryly, “I forgot about the Stark boy.”

“What do you say husband, shall we begin collecting strays? You do love children,” Rhea said with a smile.

At this, Daemon’s mood shifted into seriousness once more. He leaned back slightly, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. Rhea noted the change and pursed her lips, waiting for him to say his piece. “My love, I… I have come to a decision.”

She turned toward him again, wary. “What decision?”

“I am stepping down from the City Watch,” he said. Rhea blinked, not sure she’d heard him right. “I am tired, Rhea,” he continued. “I did not know it till now—till I was faced with losing you. The frenzy, the waiting, the tension, the betrayal… the blood. It has all become too much for me. I am too old and already lost too much.”

Rhea’s eyes softened and reached out to caress his cheek. Daemon leaned into her touch, and released a sigh so heavy, it was as if he had been holding his breath for an eternity.

“I just want to spend time with you and our children. I want to constantly hear you and Daeron talk over Runestone’s ruling. I want to teach Viserra how to wield her sword. I want to play with our young ones without being interrupted.”

“Me and the children would love nothing more,” Rhea replied and brought him in for a gentle kiss.

The snows came late to Runestone that year, drifting softly against the stone keep like a sigh of peace after war. The children raced through the bailey, wooden swords clacking against each other while Daemon watched from a bench near the stables, a fur-lined cloak drawn around his shoulders. Saera sat beside him with her usual quietness, a book on birds open on her lap, while Viserra barked instructions at the other children—now joined by Joffrey Arryn—and charged forward like a little dragon in her own right, with Sansa doing her best to emulate her older sister.

Rhea observed from the solar window, a faint smile on her lips. It had been five weeks since her recovery, and though her wound still ached, the warmth of home dulled the sting. Daemon, true to his word, had stepped away from the City Watch. He rose each morning with the younger children, trained them in the afternoons, and listened to Daeron’s endless updates on Runestone’s management by nightfall.

Peace, it seemed, had finally found the Rogue Prince.

Meanwhile, far to the south in Summerhall, Otto Hightower stared into the firelight of his study, his expression unreadable. He had told no one of Brie’s actions—least of all Alicent. If Viserys truly could no longer sire children, the blow would be unbearable. His daughter was fragile as is, and Viserys was unpredictable. Therefore, Otto waited. He gave them six moons, telling himself it was a kindness. If Alicent bore no fruit by then… only then would he act.

Things would be difficult but there was no shortage of solutions to their predicament.

In the North, Lord Rickon Stark stood atop the tower of Last Hearth, the wind howling around him as he looked to the distant roads stretching out into the snow-capped horizon. He could hardly believe it—years of labour, of careful investment and hard choices, had paid off. By 114 AC, the last stone of the North’s expanded roads would be laid. The digging, construction and paving of the roads had begun ten years ago, and the impact of it had been monumental. The Kingsroad refurbishment from Winterfell to the Neck and from the Neck to the Twins was the first to be complete. It had taken two years but was worth every gold dragon and silver stag.

Already, the North’s connections were strengthened and the support of the Lords extended from Bear Island to White Harbour, and from Cape Kraken to Last Hearth.

Most renovation of Keeps had been finished last year, with only Winterfell’s needing another year and Moat Cailin’s difficult reconstruction needing a few more years to complete. And with the final shipwrights working along the White Knife, the Northern Fleet—150 war galleys and 100 trade vessels—would be ready come the spring of 117 AC.

It was the bicycles and wheelchairs that had made it all possible. Elegant contraptions, gifted by Rhea Royce, and their coin had built the North anew. Even as the income had tapered off after a decade, the prosperity left in its wake was undeniable. Especially between the years of 108 AC - now, where the work was heaviest with multiple projects happening simultaneously. Rickon had never forgotten that debt.

It was an addition to the debt of saving his wife’s life. The speculum and forceps sent by Rhea with the Braavosi healer had proven their worth, when Gillian laboured with Jorah two years ago. The labour was difficult as the babe was breech. If it were not for the forceps and the expert healer, Rickon was sure he would have lost his beloved wife.

It was no exaggeration to claim the North was where it was at, thanks to Rhea Royce. The North was strong—stronger than it had been since before the Andals came, before kings bent their knees to Targaryen rule.

Only one weakness remained: food. The long winters could not be changed, and the ground could not be turned fertile on a man’s command. But the Kings of Winter knew from the first Long Night, how to survive and prepare. And with Alyssa Royce betrothed to the Dornish Prince, new possibilities bloomed. Dorne’s sands could feed the North’s hunger—if the ties held.

Rickon smiled at the thought, already drafting letters in his mind.

Back in King’s Landing, the capital brimmed with anticipation. Courtiers flitted through the Red Keep with barely contained glee—after years of murmurs and announcements, the long-anticipated wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Prince Gaemon Targaryen was at last upon them. The union promised not only spectacle, but a return to order, after the chaos and bloodshed that had scarred the Vale.

Whispers filled every gallery and garden. Seamstresses worked through the night on gowns of Valyrian silver and twilight blue, while dragon keepers polished saddles for the ceremonial flight. Even the smallfolk were caught in the tide of joy, for a royal wedding meant feasts, pardons, and coin tossed in the streets.

Rhaenyra and Gaemon, however, scarcely had time to breathe. Between their royal duties and the demands of wedding preparation, they were run ragged. Maids hemmed, brushed, and pinned until Rhaenyra snapped and fled to the godswood more than once. Gaemon fared little better, constantly summoned for fittings, dances, and sword choreography. Through it all, they clung to each other in stolen moments—laughing, teasing, and already whispering plans for their shared rule.

Princess Daella had arrived from the Vale to help her sister, bringing with her an entourage of retainers and the latest gossip from the Eyrie. The sisters worked side-by-side most mornings, and though their tastes differed, their bond had only deepened after recent trials.

Yet not all talk was joyful. Rumours of cold glances between Rhaenyra and her father still lingered, as did quiet mockery of Alicent Hightower’s continued failure to produce a male heir—four years married and not a son to show for it. Some wondered aloud how long Viserys’s pride would allow the insult to stand.

Nevertheless, the wedding approached like the rising sun—inevitable, brilliant, and full of promise.

Chapter Text

The image of the silver-haired woman burned in his mind. Her body was covered in soot from the fire she had walked into—bravely, willingly. Cradled on her bosom was not one, not two, but three beautiful dragons. Hatched through flame and the magic in her blood—after so many decades without such magnificent beasts.

Daemon’s mind was whirling with the meaning behind such a vision, but only one explanation felt satisfying. The prophecy told to him by Rhaenyra—the one Aegon the conqueror had apparently been shown—was to be fulfilled by that girl. It was never meant to be a Prince That Was Promised, it had always been a Princess…no, not a Princess, an heir—a Queen.

The rogue prince’s heart clenched as his body floated weightless in the surrounding abyss. The darkness gave him much space to think and reminisce, his mind viewing things from angles he had never given a second thought to.

And one thing became clearer than ever. For all his faults, Viserys had done one thing right in his life. Daemon could now see that it was not Viserys, and not even him. It was Rhaenyra. It was her blood that was meant to carry the future of House Targaryen.

Before the prince-consort could fully grasp this revelation, the world around him tilted. A sharp light took over the darkness and Daemon had closed his eyes to protect his vision.

Then, he felt it. The ground beneath him turned solid. The air around him thickened with the scent of orchids and tulips—expensive fragrances reserved for special occasions. Daemon opened his eyes slowly and found a chamber supported by large pillars. The ceiling high and domed, with enormous windows framing either side, welcoming the bright rays of the sun. There was something familiar about the structure—adorned in a canopy of Targaryen black, embroidered with the red, three-headed dragon of the house. The banners of the House Targaryen draped between each window.

Daemon finally recognised the place—from the few times he was forced to be in it. The Sept of Kings Landing.

Though golden light spilled in through the great windows, illuminating every polished tile and silken drape, the atmosphere felt… suspended. As if the air itself held its breath. Daemon remained rooted where he stood, trying to determine whether this was a memory from long ago or a vision yet to come. The architecture, the smells, the heat of the sunlight—it all felt tangible. But the faces of the gathered nobility lining the pews, even the figures closest to him, were oddly blurred, as though viewed through thick, warped glass. They moved and whispered, but their features melted at the edges, indistinct and unrecognisable.

Then, his gaze fell forward to the frontmost row. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened. There, seated tall with his hands folded across his lap, dressed in a dark maroon doublet trimmed with black and gold, was a man Daemon believed he would never set his sights upon ever again.

Baelon. His father, the Spring Prince, Baelon the Brave, and the once rider of the mighty Vhagar. His hair was cut short, but the strong lines of his jaw, the proud set of his shoulders—there was no mistaking him.

Daemon’s lips parted, but no sound came. He stepped forward instinctively, unable to stop himself, drawn like a child to its mother. His mind struggled to process the sight. It was impossible. Baelon had died before ever being crowned, before he could prove anything more than a prince who lived in his brother’s shadow.

And yet… here he sat. As if he had never left.

Daemon’s heart clenched. He didn’t even realise he was shaking until he tried to take another step. Grief, long buried beneath layers of time and anger, rose like a tide.

Then, another figure shifted beside Baelon—drawing Daemon’s eyes.

A woman, cloaked in soft silver and lavender, sat with a hand lightly resting on Baelon’s arm. Her features, too, were clear now. Pale-haired and smiling gently, her presence calm and certain. Gael. His aunt.

Older than he remembered, yet glowing with a health and serenity Daemon had never associated with her. There were no dark circles beneath her eyes, no tremor in her smile. She looked—lived. As if she had never met the sharp edge of despair that haunted her name in his timeline.

And beside her sat two children.

A girl, perhaps ten, with silver hair falling in loose curls down her back, and a boy a year or two younger with hair nearly white as snow, both dressed in regal finery. Their eyes—one pair dark purple, the other soft lilac—watched the aisle with innocent curiosity. The girl whispered something to her mother, prompting Gael to lean over and whisper back with a warm smile.

Daemon could not hear the words, but he didn’t need to. He knew. He didn’t understand how—but he knew. Those were Gael’s children—his father’s children. His half-siblings.

He could not tear his eyes away from them—from the family he had not known or experienced.

The weight of it pressed against his ribs, leaving him breathless, suspended between wonderment and disbelief. His father was alive, his aunt was well, and they had children seated beside them, as symbols that this world—whatever it was—had taken a different path to his own.

Daemon’s thoughts whirled like smoke on the wind, too fast and too fragile to grasp.

Then, the music in the room shifted. A slow rise of harp and horn drifted through the sept, and instinctively, every face—blurred or clear—turned toward the great entrance. Daemon followed their gaze, and what he saw next struck him harder than any blade.

Rhaenyra.

She stepped into the light as though born from it. Her silver-gold hair threaded into intricate braids, a testimony to her grand position as a royal. Her face was youthful and unlined, but there was no trace of girlishness—only the strength of a young woman stepping into her destiny. Though the rogue prince presumed her age instantly—seven or eight-and-ten. The same age she had been when she married Laenor in his own life. Yet, she looked nothing like the weary, quietly bitter bride she had once been. There was no faltering in her steps, no downward tilt of her gaze. Her chin was high, her eyes unshaken, as she walked proudly down the aisle.

Her gown shimmered beneath the sunlight—an elegant masterpiece dyed in Arryn blue and threaded with silver, bedecked with pearls and diamonds that caught the light with every breath she took. Draped over her shoulders was a maiden’s cloak, rich Targaryen red, embroidered with silver dragons entwined with silver falcons, their wings stretched wide in a dance of kinship.

She was a vision of unity—of fire and sky, of her mother’s legacy and her birthright combined. And in that moment, Daemon could not help but feel as though he were witnessing something sacred.

Before the rogue prince could ground himself in the overwhelming vision, the scene twisted again. The golden light of the sept dimmed until darkness reclaimed his sight—but not for long. Within moments, a new glow began to rise. The square chamber gave way to an elongated ballroom, the six pillars stretching to ten, crowned by high arched ceilings that shimmered beneath grand chandeliers. Music filled the air—lilting, elegant—and the ballroom teemed with blurred figures, swaying in pairs or drifting at the periphery of his vision.

Then, his eyes settled on the centre of the room. Rhaenyra stood beneath a cascade of light, resplendent in a gown of deep cochineal silk, which shimmered like flame under the chandeliers. Adorning her were Targaryen jewels—rings and bracelets catching the candlelight, a thick gold choker bedazzled with rubies and diamonds—and most striking of all, the tiara of Queen Rhaenys, nestled among her silver-gold waves.

Beside her stood a young man. His doublet matched Rhaenyra’s gown in shade, though where hers bore golden thread, his was embroidered in bronze. He was tall, though not as tall as Daemon, and broad across the shoulders. His bronze curls were neatly swept back, framing a strong face—sharp-jawed, fine-nosed. But it was his eyes that caught Daemon’s attention. Deep amethyst. Familiar, yet not.

The watching prince did not recognise the boy. But from the way he stood beside Rhaenyra, from the quiet ease between them, the shared colours in their clothes and the way the light clung to them—there could be no doubt. This was her husband. The one chosen for her in this world, instead of Laenor. Instead of him.

Before Daemon could study the pair for much longer, another figure approached—this one a young girl just on the cusp of womanhood, clad in a gown of ivory and blue, her silver-gold hair braided delicately to her age, and framed with a circlet of pearls. Though it wasn’t her attire that made Daemon stiffen. It was her face. Her eyes, her chin, the gentle curve of her mouth—it was Aemma.

No, not Aemma. But the resemblance was staggering. So much so, that Daemon momentarily forgot how to breathe.

The girl beamed as she neared Rhaenyra, slipping her hand into the princess’s with ease. The two embraced briefly, their smiles warm and genuine. “She should be here,” the younger one said softly, and though her voice was quiet, the rogue prince heard it as if it were whispered directly into his ear. “Mother should be here to see you.”

Rhaenyra’s smile faltered, but only for a heartbeat. “She’s with us,” the princess replied, resting her forehead briefly against the girl’s. “Always.”

Daemon stared, and his lips parted. He’d known Rhaenyra to be an only child for much of her life. There had been no younger sister—there had only been loss. The Aemma he remembered had died without a proper goodbye or comfort to her only daughter. But here… here she had two.

His eyes darted between the girls again. The younger one—a mirror of Aemma—and Rhaenyra, standing tall in her rubied gown, seemingly whole in a way she had never been in his world. He didn’t understand what he was seeing. Though it was becoming increasingly clear—this was not the future, nor was it the past. This was something else entirely.

Something that was just out grasp for the people he knew.

As the younger princess curtsied and turned to speak with another guest, Daemon’s gaze lingered on her retreating form, still struggling to piece together her place in this strange tableau.

Yet before he could make sense of her, another movement drew his eye. A group of children began to gather around Rhaenyra and the bronze-haired young man—seven in total, their presence impossible to ignore.

The first was a girl of similar age to the couple, with thick bronze curls cascading down her back. But it was the two silver strands framing her face—distinct against the rest of her hair—that made her stand out. Her eyes, too, were mismatched: one hazel, the other lilac. She moved with easy confidence, though her gaze lingered a touch longer on the young man beside Rhaenyra. A protective sister, perhaps.

Beside her stood a tall boy with straight silver hair tide behind his back, his eyes a deep, earthy brown. His posture was calm, watchful, hands loosely clasped behind his back. He looked a tad younger than the other three, though a quiet strength surrounded him.

Then came a boy with pure Valyrian colouring—silver hair and sharp amethyst eyes. He bore a crooked smirk that reminded Daemon all too well of the face he wore in his youth. The same lean features, the same glint of mischief behind his confidence. That one made the rogue prince’s brows draw together in suspicion. There was something undeniably familial there.

The three were followed by a younger girl—perhaps seven—with hair pale as snow and a rowdy bounce to her step. She elbowed the boy beside her, laughing under her breath at something only they shared. She was beautiful already, a reincarnation of his most beautiful aunt, Viserra.

Next came a trio of children, no older than five by the looks of them. The first girl also possessed Valyrian colouring—but with a flash of green in her eyes, brighter than any emerald. She looked delicate, more reserved than the others, yet her gaze darted about the room with hawkish focus, catching every movement.

But the other two beside her—a girl and a boy—both had dark, wavy brown hair and eyes as deep and rich as earth. First Men through and through, yet their features carried a faint hint of Valyrian refinement around the cheekbones and brows.

Daemon stared, bewildered. Seven children—no, eight, for Rhaenyra’s husband clearly belonged to the brood—all varying in appearance, in age and bearing, but they were all of Valyrian descent. Sharing blood of his ancestors. Still, he recognised none of them.

One by one, the children greeted Rhaenyra, offering kisses to her cheek or brief bows, before turning to the young man beside her. Eventually, the two elder boys ushered the younger four away from the couple—leaving them in the sole company of the girl with the striking mismatched eyes.

The three continued to converse, though none of it registered in Daemon’s ear, until— “Qoren Martell wants to be officially introduced to you,” the bronze-haired boy said to whom Daemon surmised was his twin.

The rogue prince’s ears caught the words like a hawk snatching prey.

Qoren Martell. He remembered the Dornish prince well—ambitious, clever, and ever interested in making life harder for the Targaryens. But the way his name was spoken by the young man, the way the girl blushed lightly at the words, something felt off.

Then, the three young Valyrians moved, and Daemon found his body floating behind them. They crossed the ballroom, until they found a young man in his early twenties. He possessed clear Dornish features, with his deep olive skin, his thick brown hair, cut shorter than the usual Westerosi style, and honey-coloured eyes. His left ear adorned with a golden, dangle earring. His doublet was of gold, threaded with red and brown.

Upon seeing Rhaenyra and other two, the Dornishman’s face lit up with a bright smile. His eyes observed each one, and he nodded his head in greeting.

“Prince Qoren,” Rhaenyra’s husband greeted with a warm yet formal tone, “it is good to see you again.”

“It is good to see you too, dear Gaemon. And as I thought, you have grown into a handsome man,” Qoren’s voice lilted in Daemon’s ear. The Dornishman’s eyes sparkled with a hint of lust, but he quickly turned his eyes to Rhaenyra and gave her a second nod. “Congratulations on your wedding, princess. It was a beautiful ceremony, though not quite as fun as our Dornish ones.”

Rhaenyra chuckled and gave a nod of her own. “Thank you, my prince. We hear plenty of stories of Dornish weddings, and I must say, I am very interested in seeing one.”

“Oh, I assure you, you will enjoy it,” Qoren replied playfully. His gaze then turned to the other girl, and this time his eyes softened, and his smile turned gentler. “Princess Alyssa,” he said, his voice dipping into a whisper, “it is an honour to finally meet my betrothed.”

Daemon stiffened as he saw the Martell Prince take Alyssa’s hand to place a kiss to the back of her palm.

“The honour is mine, Prince Qoren,” Alyssa replied formally, her face not giving away any emotion.

“Might I have the honour of a dance?” Qoren asked, and Alyssa agreed.

The music shifted to a softer rhythm, strings and flute entwining in a most pleasing tune. Qoren led Alyssa onto the dance floor with fluid confidence, his hand resting gently at her waist, the other guiding hers with courteous grace. They moved in time with the music, spinning beneath the chandeliers like a pair from some maiden’s knightly stories.

Daemon’s eyes followed them. Alyssa moved with ease—her posture graceful yet alert. Though her face remained composed, there was something in her gaze that told him she was watching Qoren just as closely as he watched her. She did not giggle or shy away. She danced as a daughter of House Targaryen—proudly, precisely, and without apology.

The rogue prince might have been content to watch them a moment longer, had the ground beneath him not changed. Not physically—but something in the fabric of the dream twisted. His place in the room altered without his consent, his body drifting like smoke until he found himself at the far edge of the ballroom, though still with a clear view of Alyssa and Qoren as they danced.

Then came a voice—cool, amused, and altogether too familiar. “If you stare any harder, steam will be coming out of your ears.”

Daemon blinked. Slowly, he turned his head to the side. There stood… himself.

Younger by a few years, though no less sharp. His hair was bound at the nape, a few silver strands brushing the sides of his face. His posture was relaxed but not idle, and his amethyst gaze—sharp and narrowed—remained fixed on the dancers.

Before the watching Daemon could process that thought fully, another figure stepped beside the other him. A woman with long bronze hair, dressed in black and bronze—her bodice embroidered with runes in red thread, and the fine trim of red silk marking her sleeves. She had the bearing of a mountain-born noblewoman but carried herself with the elegance of a queen. She smiled gently at the other him, her tone familiar and playful.

“You cannot blame me,” the other him murmured. “That cunning bastard is dancing with our daughter.” His tone was clipped, yet lacked venom, though it was full of wariness, and irritation—the kind only a father might wear.

Daemon’s breath hitched. He looked at the woman again, more closely now. Her features were not completely those of the Rhea Royce he had known in his world. This Rhea was still proud, composed, with steel in her gaze, but there was warmth beneath it all. She spoke not like a wife ignored, but like a partner.

“I know,” she muttered to her husband, and her hand went to wrap around his. “But you must trust in our daughter.

A faint smile touched his other self’s lips, even as his eyes continued to track Alyssa. “I trust her. I just don’t trust the Martells.”

“You don’t trust anyone,” Rhea quipped gently.

“Exactly,” he said, though the edge in his voice had dulled.

Daemon—the one watching, the one from another time, another place—felt something strange stir in his chest. Confusion and mayhap—jealousy?

This version of himself had not only stayed with Rhea Royce—he had built a life with her. A daughter...no, a family—ten strong, with eight bloody children. A partnership seemingly born not of duty or bitterness, but of shared understanding.

The bronze-haired woman gently tugged on her husband’s arm. “Come,” she said. “You’ll stare holes through the man at this rate.”

With a last reluctant glance toward the dancers, the younger Daemon let himself be pulled away, and the pair glided from the edge of the ballroom. Daemon watched them go—this version of himself, and the woman he had never truly known—feeling the weight of this vision settle heavier than anything he had witnessed before.

And still, the dream had not ended.

As Rhea and the other Daemon moved through the crowd, their steps slowed near the marble arch that led toward the outer halls. A familiar voice rose—low, tired, and unmistakably strained. “Daemon.”

Both husband and wife turned as one, their faces settling into polite but tight-lipped neutrality. Just a few paces ahead stood Viserys—watching Daemon’s breath caught once more at the sight of him.

This version of his brother was still in his mid-thirties. Still broad in the waist, with tired lines drawn beneath his eyes and heavy pouches that spoke of long nights and heavy burdens. His silver hair was worn short, combed neatly back, and his face boasted of a thick moustache. Yet there was no rot—no lesions, no half-missing digits, no sickly pallor of festering decay. This Viserys, while aged, was not dying. Not yet.

However, even with all the great differences between this world and his, this Viserys was also accompanied by Alicent Hightower. Daemon’s eyes narrowed. She looked nothing like the fresh-faced girl who had once been shoved into a queen’s gown far too soon. This Alicent appeared matured, her cheeks sunken beneath layers of careful rouge, and even her expensive gown couldn’t hide the sharp lines in her neck. Her eyes—rimmed in dark circles, hollow despite their painted lids—glared openly at Rhea.

She stood snobbishly beside Viserys, her arm looped through his. Whatever this world was, they were still married. Aemma still died.

The silence stretched a beat too long before Daemon—this world’s Daemon—inclined his head stiffly. “Viserys.” His voice held no warmth, no invitation for further words. It was cool, almost brittle.

Viserys cleared his throat, clearly unsettled. “A… fine ceremony. Your children looked well.”

Rhea offered a shallow smile. “As did yours.”

A faint twitch crossed Alicent’s face, though he could not discern if it was out of discomfort, or anger. Her fingers curled tightly against her husband’s sleeve, knuckles paling with tension.

The dreaming Daemon could feel the weight of the discomfort pressing against them all. It radiated from the brittle civility in their voices, the way none of them quite made eye contact for more than a moment. This was no warm family meeting. It was the shell of something long fractured.

Finally, Alicent turned her nose up. “We will not keep you,” she gritted out, her voice filled with hollow courtesy. “Enjoy the celebration.”

Without waiting for a reply, she tugged Viserys away, and the man allowed himself to be led, casting only one brief glance over his shoulder.

When the pair disappeared down the corridor, Rhea released a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Pretending civility should be an artform,” she muttered under her breath.

“Mm,” Daemon hummed. “They’ve had years of practice.”

They continued walking, arm in arm, but the watching Daemon paid them no mind as the echoes of the encounter rippled across his thoughts. Whatever differences had shaped this world, the wounds between him and his brother remained.

The view changed again, this time, only illuminated by the faint brightness of the moon. Daemon watched the other version of himself and Rhea walking toward the Hearttree in the godswood of the Red Keep, clearly having arrived from the wedding banquet. Rhea lowered herself gracefully on a large tree trunk, and the younger Daemon followed his wife’s lead. They sat in silence for a long moment, the quiet between them full of ease rather than awkwardness.

Then, Rhea spoke. “I wish she were here.” The words were whispered but there was only one she that could be so important. Her husband sighed and placed his hand on hers. “I have not felt like such a failure more than today…”

Daemon’s brow furrowed as he heard the words. What did Rhea mean she failed?

“You tried everything you could,” the other Daemon said, his tone comforting.

Rhea shook her head. “Whenever my mind goes to her, I think of the many actions I should have taken. I should have been searching for the merrytea earlier, snuck it to her without her knowledge. Or at the very least, tried encouraging her—so she could refuse the early marriage from her father and the queen,” The woman rambled, and Daemon’s eyes widened.

Did this Rhea know what was to come? Had she foreseen Aemma’s fate, and tried in vain to change it?

The other Daemon sighed. “You cannot control everything, my love. What you are suggesting would have never worked.”

Rhea took in a shaky breath and leaned into her husband’s chest. “I just…I just wish she could have lived long enough to see her daughters wed.”

“I know. And I wish things were different too. It seems that no matter how hard we have tried over the past seventeen years, things continue to slip out of our grasp,” the other Daemon whispered.

The one watching felt his chest constrict. They knew. Both of them knew. Somehow, someway, they knew. They had been working to prevent the war.

“I fear what Viserys is becoming. He and Alicent—they are desperate,” Rhea whispered.

“We will do everything in our power to prevent the war from happening. Even if it takes another seventeen years from us,” her husband answered.

Too suddenly, the moonlight dimmed, and the trees bled into mist. The voices of the other Daemon and Rhea faded as if muffled by closed walls, and the sound of the leaves stilled as if the world itself held its breath. The watching Daemon reached for them—his feet moving, his chest tightening—but the space unravelled like sand slipping through his fingers.

“No,” he breathed. “No—wait—”

But the world would not wait. The air turned cold and weightless again, and Daemon was pulled backward—violently, mercilessly—into the abyss from which the vision had first begun. He struggled. His arms thrashed, his breath grew ragged, but there was nothing to grasp. Only that same, endless dark.

He had seen too much—and yet not enough. His mind reeled with the images. A father still living. A family built on understanding, not betrayal. A Rhea whom he cherished. A Rhaenyra who was proud, not broken. Children he’d never fathered, and children he might have lost.

And yet, for all its peace… the vision unsettled him. He did not belong to that world, and it did not belong to him. Still, something within him clawed to return.

Then came the light. Not bright or overwhelming, but steady and gentle—illuminating the surroundings with a calm glow. Daemon hovered in the centre, his breathing sharp in the silence. And then she was there—Rhea.

Not the bitter wife he had mocked and avoided. Not the proud Lady of Runestone from his own shattered past. But the woman from the vision—the bronze-haired figure who had stood beside him in another life. Her eyes were warm, and her smile carried a sadness that felt as ancient as time itself.

He stared at her, throat tight. “Is this real?” he asked.

“It does not matter,” she replied softly.

“I suppose not,” he replied, his voice equally soft.

Rhea chuckled, the sound like a gentle melody in his ear. But it swiftly vanished, replaced with a solemn expression. “The world is full of choices, Daemon. Some lead us to ruin. Others to love. But you… you now have the most important choice of all.”

His brows drew together. “What choice?”

“You know.” Her voice echoed in the whiteness, not unkind, but firm. Daemon closed his eyes—and he did know. He knew exactly what she meant. The war, and the girl he left behind. The queen—his queen. Rhaenyra.

She was still waiting for him, still bearing the weight of everything alone, while he buried himself in visions and ghosts.

Rhea stepped closer. Her hands rose, cradling his face with all the tenderness of a wife he’d never known, yet somehow always carried in his bones. “I am not yours,” she said gently. “But she is.”

Then, before he could move, her lips brushed his forehead. A kiss—not of love, but of farewell. Daemon stiffened, torn between recoil and acceptance. But it passed too quickly for him to decide. Her warmth vanished, her touch faded, and she was gone.

He was alone once more. Though lost no longer.

The white space around him began to collapse inward, folding into itself like paper in flame. And this time, he did not resist. He let the vision take him, let the truth settle deep in his chest like a final breath drawn before war.

There was no use in mourning what never was. Not when he still had something worth fighting for. Rhaenyra. His wife. His queen. The one he had left to mourn alone. He would not leave her again. He would win her this war. He would bring her the usurper’s head.

When Daemon Targaryen opened his eyes, the moon hung high above Harrenhal. The branches of the hearttree swayed gently overhead, red leaves whispering like old ghosts.

And this time, the rogue prince thanked them for their wisdom.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the thick glass of the guest chambers in the Red Keep, casting a soft glow across the stone walls and floors. Sat by the window, fingers clenched around the withered leather of her prayer book, unmoving, was Alicent Belaerys. Outside, the sounds of celebration crept in—bells ringing for the royal wedding, voices echoing with laughter, light… and full of joy.

An emotion Alicent no longer possessed.

The entire atmosphere felt like a mockery to the lady. Another day where her losses were forgotten. Another day surrounded by people who mocked her for her failures, in a castle that had once seemed destined to be hers.

She looked to the courtyard below, decorated with ribbons of red and gold. Flowers hung from balconies. Squires and servants bustled about, arranging carriages and equipping the procession guards.

And two floors up, in the heir’s wing, Rhaenyra Targaryen was being dressed like a queen in all but name. A girl barely a woman, with everything that should have been Alicent’s.

The woman’s hands trembled—they often did now. There was a time she believed in destiny. In duty. In the gods… in herself. That time had died with her son. Aegon had taken his first breath with a wail, his presence undeniable. Only to pass quietly, with no struggle or warning.

“Sudden cradle death,” the maester had told Alicent and Viserys.

As if the gods had merely changed their minds. As if Aegon’s desire for life was simply denied. As if the strong, hale babe, was nothing more than illusion.

But Alicent could not accept that. She knew better.

She sensed it deep in her bones, whenever her eyes landed on that vile Wildling. Rhea Royce. The ever poise, ever calm, ever untouchable Rhea. The woman had bled in the Vale, yet the Stranger would not take her. Like a curse upon Alicent’s life, stubbornly fixated on mocking her and everything she dreamt of.

It was not fair. Rhea Royce did not deserve the life she had. She stole what was meant to be Alicent’s. It was Alicent who was meant to marry a handsome, competent, Targaryen prince. It was Alicent who was meant to bear the next generation of dragon riding, silver-haired Targaryens. It was Alicent who was meant to be praised and loved. Yet the Royce woman was the one who stood beside the rogue prince—the rider of the Blood Wyrm—who bore eight Valyrian children and became the renowned ruler of Runestone.

And now, Rhea’s son would marry the princess. Prince consort today… King tomorrow. No matter what title they dress him in, Alicent knew what the Royce woman planned for her son. People praised Rhea for her wisdom, for her political mind. All of it Alicent knew, was witchcraft and heresy. Rhea had bewitched the realm, and no one was stopping her.

The Hightower woman pressed the prayer book to her chest, whispering hollow words. Father above, grant me justice. But even as she spoke, she knew the gods did not listen to those who had been cast aside.

She was no queen, nor wife or even mother to the heir. Just a guest in a palace where imposters wore her crown and held the power meant for her.

Meanwhile, in the heir’s wing…

“Stop fidgeting,” Daella giggled, swatting her sister’s hand away from the pearl clasp on her sleeve. “You’re going to wrinkle it!”

Rhaenyra smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes. The gown shimmered with azure-blue silk and silver thread—a tribute to her mother—embroidered with dragons coiled around the bodice, their wings flaring over her shoulders like guardians.

“I cannot help it,” she murmured. “It does not feel real.”

“You have been preparing for this wedding for five years,” Daella said cheerfully. “You picked the flowers for the ceremony three moons ago.”

“I know.” Rhaenyra turned to the looking glass, smoothing her hands over the fabric. Her hair had been braided and twisted with diamonds and pearls. She looked the part. Regal, composed… joyful.

And yet, beneath the surface, her chest was tight.

She loved Gaemon—or rather, she cared for him deeply. He was kind, clever and made her laugh. But there was a certain distance between them. Rhaenyra knew it was her doing and not his. She could not help it. The emotion many define as love, had become something distant to her. Love was a child’s dream, bled out of her the day she saw her mother weep quietly while her father smiled and called it affection. Love was a mask men wore when taking what they wanted.

Gaemon would never be like Viserys—Rhaenyra was sure of that—but something inside her had closed long ago. And she didn’t know how to open it again.

“Daella,” she said softly. “Do you think I will be a good wife?”

Her sister blinked, surprised by the question. But then, she took Rhaenyra’s face into her delicate palms. “Rhae, you are an incredible dragonrider, a capable princess heir, and the most beautiful bride the realm has ever seen. You will be amazing.”

Rhaenyra smiled again. This time, it lingered a little longer.

While Rhaenyra was basking in the comfort of her sister, her soon-to-be husband was finished dressing.

“You’re grinning like a fool,” Daeron muttered, tightening the clasp on Gaemon’s cloak. “Try not to look so eager. You will embarrass the rest of us.”

“Leave him be,” said Rhaegar with a smirk. “He is about to bed the realm’s most eligible maiden. I would be grinning too.”

Gaemon rolled his eyes, but the grin stayed. He could not help it. Today felt like the beginning of something—not just duty or alliance, but something they had built together. Rhaenyra had never been a stranger. She was his match in mind, in spirit. She challenged him and trusted him. She let him see her fears, and he guarded them like treasure.

He fastened the ruby clasp on his tunic, admiring the reflection of his brothers behind him—Daeron sleek and sharp, Rhaegar bright-eyed and laughing. The three of them, once boys chasing one another through the halls of Runestone, were now turning into men grown, preparing to take their places in the world.

“I still can’t believe our brother’s getting married,” Rhaegar said, throwing an arm around Gaemon’s shoulders.

“You’re just upset you’re not the center of attention,” Gaemon teased.

“True. But I will survive. Just do not name your firstborn after me. It will ruin my reputation.”

The three burst into laughter. It felt easy—familiar. Gaemon looked at his brothers—his family—and thought, not matter what happens, I know I will always have them.

And in that moment, with his brothers at his side and laughter still in the air, Gaemon found the courage to walk into the life waiting for him—with Rhaenyra.

The bells of King’s Landing tolled across the city, their deep, resonant chimes echoing through alley and hall. In the sept of the city, light spilled through stained-glass windows, washing the white marble floors in hues of crimson and sapphire. The air was thick with incense and anticipation. The nobility of Westeros stood clothed in their finest silks and satins, their whispers trailing in the vaulted space, like gusts of wind.

The great dome above soared into the heavens, and before the altar, beneath the towering statue of the Father—justice incarnate—stood Gaemon Targaryen.

Clad in a black doublet embroidered with the Royce runes in bronze, and a cloak lined in deep Targaryen red, Gaemon was still and calm, his face lit by the sun rays bathing the hall in its bright light. At his side stood the High Septon, resplendent in white and gold, and his father Daemon—dressed in a doublet of maroon, embroidered with black shields. Lords’ and ladies’ eyes fixed upon the bridegroom, breaths held for the monumental union.

Then came the soft toll of the wedding bell. The doors at the end of the sept groaned open, and a hush fell across the congregation like a held breath.

Rhaenyra Targaryen stepped into the light, guided by her father.

She was a vision of regal beauty and sacred strength. Her gown—a masterwork of azure-blue silk—shimmered with a subtle silver sheen, catching the light with every step. Intricate embroidery traced across the bodice and skirts—sweeping patterns of flame and flight, winding vines and dragon wings, each design encrusted with diamonds and seed pearls. The neckline framed her shoulders like a crown of frost, and the sleeves flared like banners, embroidered to their very edge.

Over her shoulders flowed the maiden cloak—maroon silk as deep as spilled wine, weighty with silver thread. Falcons soared alongside dragons in the embroidery, stitched in fierce symmetry, while rubies—deep and blood-bright—were set like stars across the velvet folds. The cloak trailed behind her, a storm of power and regality.

Every step echoed through the sept. The nobility watched in silence—some in awe, some in envy, all bearing witness to the union of fire and stone.

Gaemon inhaled sharply as his bride approached. His hands, clasped before him, tightened slightly—but when their eyes met, he smiled. Not a political smile. Not the smile of a prince. But a young man seeing his future walk toward him. When Rhaenyra reached him, she lowered her gaze and bowed her head just slightly.

The High Septon raised his hands, and the ceremony began. His voice, deep and measured, carried effortlessly through the stillness of the Sept.

“We are gathered here today, to witness the union of this man and this woman under the holy light of the Seven.” The hall was silent as the man’s voice echoed through its walls. “Before gods and men, before noble blood and humble birth alike, we sanctify this bond, that it may endure through peace and strife, in strength and in sorrow.”

Rhea, sat beside Daeron, in the frontmost row on Gaemon’s side, squeezed her second son’s hand—her emotions flicking between pride and solemnity. Her eldest was getting wed to her niece, still too young to bear such responsibilities—in her opinion. Yet their world demanded such of the young.

“Let the Father grant them justice. Let the Mother bless them with mercy. Let the Warrior lend them courage. Let the Smith strengthen their bond, the Maiden keep it pure, the Crone grant them wisdom, and the Stranger guard them from the darkness of loss.” The Septon continued uninterrupted, voice steady and reverent.

He then turned, his gaze falling first upon Gaemon. “Prince Gaemon Targaryen, do you come here freely, without coercion or command?”

“I do,” Gaemon replied, his voice steady and clear.

Then the septon’s gaze shifted to Rhaenyra. “Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, do you come here freely, without coercion or command?”

“I do,” she said softly.

The holy man gave them an approving nod. “Then let us proceed with the cloaking, as is the old way—when man and woman become one.”

Viserys stepped forward, unclasping the maroon maiden cloak from Rhaenyra’s shoulders. He handed it with care to one of her ladies. While Gaemon turned to his own father, accepting the bridal cloak from him. The new cloak was heavier, made of black velvet lined with red silk, the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen embroidered in red thread across the back—a true homage to House Targaryen’s banner. With reverence, Gaemon draped it over Rhaenyra’s shoulders, the cloak settling like armour around her.

“By this cloak, I take you under my protection,” he said, his hands lingering at her shoulders.

Rhaenyra lifted her eyes to meet his. “And by accepting it, I pledge myself to you.”

Their hands met and held.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady wife,” Gaemon said.

“With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord husband,” Rhaenyra answered.

Their kiss was soft and brief, a single, binding breath between them. The sept held its silence until the High Septon raised his hands once more.

“By the laws of gods and men, I proclaim you husband and wife. One flesh, one heart, now and forever. Let no man tear asunder what the Seven have bound.”

The bells tolled once more, louder this time, as applause swept through the Sept. The roar of it rose to the vaulted ceilings as the nobility stood, clapping and cheering, some with smiles, others with carefully schooled expressions. Gaemon and Rhaenyra turned to face the realm, joined at last—not just in title, but in fate.

A grand carriage awaited outside the sept, pulled by six white horses, the Targaryen sigil etched in gold across its sides. The newlyweds sat within, side by side, their hands discreetly intertwined beneath Rhaenyra’s train. Crowds lined the cobbled streets of King’s Landing, smallfolk pressed shoulder to shoulder behind city guards.

“Look at them!”

“Princess Rhaenyra, may the Mother bless you!”

“Prince Gaemon, Prince Gaemon!”

The smallfolk shouted blessings, threw petals and coins, and some even wept at the sight. The carriage moved slowly, reverently, through the city’s veins. Children climbed onto barrels and ledges to glimpse the royal pair. Banners flew from every balcony—Targaryen red and gold from the citadel spires, Royce bronze and black trailing behind.

Inside the carriage, Rhaenyra exhaled quietly. “They look at me as if I were already queen.”

“You are,” Gaemon said simply. “Not by title—but by bearing.”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “And what does that make you?”

He smiled. “Fortunate.”

Rhaenyra looked away, biting back a laugh, and pressed her fingers more tightly around his.

That evening, the Red Keep blazed with life. The Great Hall had been transformed—columns swathed in silks, a thousand candles flickering in golden sconces, tables weighed with fruit, meats, and wines from Dorne to the Arbor. Harpists and singers played soft melodies as nobles danced and drank, their joy as theatrical as their jewels.

When the royal couple entered, the entire hall rose.

Rhaenyra and Gaemon walked together—attires switched to an elegant display of unity—hand in hand, heads held high. No longer girl and boy. Heir and consort. Dragon and shield.

Their first dance began without a word. A slow, sweeping motion across the floor, each movement practiced and precise. The musicians swelled behind them, lilting strings rising into a tapestry of sound. Rhaenyra’s skirts flowed like water. Gaemon’s boots struck the marble with the agility of a knight.

They moved as one—each step the mirror of the other, the world melting away until only the rhythm remained.

At the edges of the hall, lords and ladies whispered.

“She truly is the Realm’s Delight.”

“They say Prince Gaemon commissioned a Valyrian-steel crown for her.”

“A matched pair, those two.”

“Or a dangerous one.”

From the dais, King Baelon and Queen Gael watched with contented smiles. Daemon and Rhea sat on the right of their Graces, their eyes were fixed on the couple.

Across the hall, unnoticed and uninvited to the center, Alicent Belaerys sat in the shadow, with her deposed husband. A chalice of wine untouched before her, her face expressionless. The candlelight did not reach her eyes.

Soon, the music shifted, and the newly wed couple ended their dance—though they did not separate.

The nobility took this as cue to approach the two. Honeyed words of congratulations flowed with practiced ease from lords’ and ladies’ lips. Though some, to be sure, were genuine.

It was not long before Princess Daella went to her sister, breaking the suffocating crowd around her. The noblewomen took the hint, when the Aemma-look-alike eyed them cautiously and cleared her throat. In a few moments, Rhaenyra and Gaemon were released from the overenthusiastic bunch.

“You would think they had never seen a Targaryen wedding before,” Rhaenyra whispered to her sister and husband.

“It’s because you’re the heir,” Gaemon whispered back with a light squeeze to her hand.

“Be patient, dearest mandia. You are to rule them in the future,” Daella added with a teasing smile.

Rhaenyra huffed. “Hopefully in a very distant future, when better decorum is practiced.” Both Daella and Gaemon snorted—with the lady covering the sound behind her delicate hands.

As silence settled between them, the younger princess stepped closer to her sister. She took Rhaenyra’s hands in hers and the two pairs of violet eyes met in a warm gaze.

“Mother would have been proud of you.”

Rhaenyra smiled solemnly and took another step closer to her sister. “She would be proud of both of us.”

“Have you spoken to father yet?”

The question made Rhaenyra’s shoulders tense, and her expression hardened. “I have not,” she replied—tone soft yet resentful.

Daella sighed and nodded. “Speak to him, Rhae. It is better to start your marriage with no burdens.”

Rhaenyra fought back a scoff, not wishing to dismiss her sister’s suggestion. After her letters went unanswered during the mountain clan attack, the Targaryen heir grew ever more distant with her father, and ever more resentful.

“I will try…”

Daella nodded once more, knowing she would not get a better response from her sister. For her part, the younger princess was never emotionally attached to their father. In fact, the man barely crossed her mind once in a Blue Moon. And Viserys seemed to be of a similar mind to his second daughter, rarely writing to her or acknowledging her. Jeyne had told her that it was her appearance—her likeness to her mother haunted her father.

As the soft hum of the string ensemble resumed, Princess Daella gave her sister’s hand a gentle squeeze and slipped away, weaving through nobles and courtiers with the effortless poise of one born to a throne. She made her way toward the dais, where Queen Gael stood speaking with Lord Lyman Beesbury. The queen’s expression brightened the moment she noticed her young niece approaching.

Meanwhile, Gaemon’s siblings began to converge upon the couple. First came the youngest four—Viserra, Saera, Sansa, and Yorbert—each dressed in formal silks stitched with hues matching their eldest brother and his new bride. The older boys arrived next—Daeron and Rhaegar—with Alyssa trailing just behind, a proud smile gracing her lips.

Viserra twirled, her gown of soft bronze mimicking the dragon embroidery on Rhaenyra’s skirt. “You look like Valyrian Goddess,” she declared, beaming up at Rhaenyra.

“And you, my sweet, look like a sun blessed princess,” Rhaenyra replied, crouching slightly to press a kiss to the girl’s brow.

Sansa nodded solemnly. “You look like a dragon queen, mandia.”

Rhaenyra smiled at the compliment, brushing her wild earthy-brown waves affectionately. “And what are you, little lady? A dragon in disguise?”

“I’m a knight!” Sansa declared proudly, puffing out her chest.

Before Rhaenyra could reply, Yorbert flung his arms around his brother’s leg, burying his face into Gaemon’s tunic. “I missed you, lekia,” he whispered.

“I was gone only a few hours,” he chuckled, scooping him up effortlessly.

“But you were busy with grown-up things,” Yorbert pouted.

“You two made quite the picture,” Rhaegar said with a grin, before elbowing his brother lightly. “Though I think you forgot how to blink out there.”

“I was concentrating, something you know very little of,” Gaemon quipped back, nudging his shoulder into Rhaegar’s.

Rhaenyra chuckled at their banter.

“Congratulation, Your Grace,” Daeron’s voice intercepted her thoughts, and she turned to look at the serious boy. Though four years younger than her, Daeron always carried himself with the air of a man grown. More-so after his official appointment as Runestone’s heir.

“Thank you, valonqor,” she replied. She knew Daeron preferred formality in such events but she could not help but return it with warmth. This was her family and after all she had been through, she did not wish them to be distant with her.

For a moment, with the Royce children surrounding her, and her sister not far away, the hall melted into the comfort of home.

But soon enough, Daeron and Rhaegar took it upon themselves to escort their younger siblings out of the Hall. “Come, hatchlings. Time to get you to bed before you start crashing into dancers,” Rhaegar told them.

With a chorus of groans and sleepy protests, the younger children were shepherded away under the watch of their elder brothers. Alyssa on the other hand, remained, arms loosely folded, her sharp eyes following their departure.

“Stubborn as ever,” she murmured, drawing a laugh from Rhaenyra.

“They are easily excitable,” Gaemon said, his tone warm.

“Runs in the family,” Alyssa teased, then turned as Gaemon gently touched her arm.

“Prince Qoren Martell mentioned wanting a word with you. He didn’t get the chance during the week’s madness.”

Alyssa blinked, then straightened. “Of course. Shall we?”

The three began moving through the hall, weaving between dancers, courtiers, and noblewomen sharing half-whispered gossip behind jewelled fans. At last, they reached the southwestern alcove of the hall, where Prince Qoren Martell stood with a goblet of arbor gold in hand.

He wore a gold Dornish-style doublet, open at the throat and embroidered with red and silver thread. A ruby winked from his dangling earring, and his smirk was sharp enough to cut silk.

When his eyes landed on the trio, they warmed instantly.

“Prince Gaemon,” Qoren drawled with casual delight. “It is good to see you again. And as I predicted, you have truly grown into a handsome young man.” His tone was languid—dripping with the subtle promise of fire.

Gaemon’s smile tilted, the flicker of challenge in his eyes unmistakable. “It is good to see you as well, Prince Qoren. Maturity suits you too… still too pretty for your own good.”

Qoren chuckled, then turned to Rhaenyra with a gracious bow. “Princess Rhaenyra, my deepest congratulations. The ceremony was exquisite—but forgive me for saying, Dornish weddings are better.”

Rhaenyra arched a brow, but smiled politely. “I look forward to the comparison. Perhaps soon, I will have the pleasure of attending one.”

At the hint, Qoren’s eyes flicked to Alyssa, and his smile grew softer, more respectful. “Princess Alyssa,” he said smoothly, taking her hand and brushing a kiss across her knuckles. “You are more beautiful than my mother described. Would you grant me the honour of a dance?”

“Thank you, my prince. I would be delighted,” she answered with a small, knowing smile.

As the two stepped onto the dance floor, the music shifted to a lively, Dornish-inspired tune. Qoren’s hand settled gently at her waist as they began to move.

“We have been exchanging letters for over a year, and yet this still feels new,” he said with a faint smile.

“Because written words are safer,” Alyssa replied. “Now, we must learn to trust the spoken ones.”

“Spoken words… and steps,” he said, guiding her into a turn. “Allow me to speak what I have written then. This marriage may be political—but I would like us to find more than politics in each other.”

“As would I.”

Their eyes met—no grand declarations, just quiet understanding.

As the night neared its end, Gaemon and Qoren found themselves standing side by side once more, their respective partners now dancing with other nobles. They sipped their wine, the air thick with music and incense.

It was then, that Qoren broke the silence, his voice low, just for Gaemon’s ears. “I hope you and Princess Rhaenyra choose to stay with us in Dorne a little, once your sister and I wed.”

Gaemon tilted his head, raising a brow with a faint, knowing smile. “Rhaenyra and I do wish for a chance to… explore Dorne.” The prince’s voice dripped with insinuation, his eyes trailing over his companion's lean figure.

Qoren’s smirk returned, slow and wry. “But of course. It would be… my pleasure to show you around.”

Gaemon leaned in, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “Careful, Prince Qoren. It is not easy being around three dragons.” He paused, voice dropping into a whisper. “You might get burnt.”

Qoren leaned even closer, his lips brushing Gaemon’s ear. “I like the heat.”

Rhaenyra's gown and cloak

Chapter Text

The morning of the royal wedding dawned too quickly.

Viserys sat unmoving at the edge of his chamber’s hearth, still in his nightwear, silver hair unbraided, dishevelled from a terrible night’s sleep. The ceremonial doublet of green velvet and gold satin remained untouched where it hung, adorned with House Belaerys’s coiled dragon and tower, its thread worn but gleaming in the firelight.

“Your Grace,” muttered the maid softly, “Shall I summon Ilyn?”

Viserys did not respond.

He was thinking of Rhaenyra as a child—rosy-cheeked and wide-eyed, always reaching up for him with outstretched arms and dragonbone toys clutched in her fists. She had once clung to his leg on his way to a council meeting, refusing to let go until she was granted her own seat in his lap. His father had allowed it—Baelon as unable to refuse Rhaenyra as Viserys was.

That girl was long gone.

He rose slowly, joints aching with more than age. Grief lived in his knees now. In his spine. In the soft heaviness beneath his eyes.

Ilyn entered without waiting to be called, taking one look at his lord and beginning the silent routine.

First, the steward washed Viserys in the prepared bath. The warm water and scented soap lathering his pale skin and replacing the night sweat with a clean smell. Next, Viserys stood as Ilyn guided his limbs through the trousers, tunic, doublet and finally the boots. Once dressed, the deposed prince sat at his vanity, with his steward brushing his hair—short as it was—and his moustache.

Viserys was pliant throughout it all—mind too occupied.

Today, he would walk his daughter down the aisle. Not to give her away as a loving father, but as a guardian freeing her from his custody—at least that was her view. Rhaenyra had long forgotten he was her father, treating him and communicating with him as if he were distant kin. She had instead chosen to honour the love of his brother and his family. The love of Baelon and Gael. The love of Jeyne and Daella—though he could not begrudge her the latter.

He was there now only because duty demanded it. He was still her father in name but not in anything that mattered.

A few hours later, the sept of Kings Landing gleamed like polished bone in the morning sun. Its tall windows bathed the marble floors in crimson and sapphire, and the air was thick with incense, flower petals, and the weight of witnessing.

They waited in silence behind the carved oak doors of the Sept’s western antechamber, where only the faintest notes of harp music reached them—muffled and distant. Sunlight spilled in from the narrow-arched windows, striking the flagstones in soft gold. A pair of septas murmured near the arch, adjusting the train of Rhaenyra’s cloak, their hands careful, reverent.

Viserys stood apart, near the window, his hands clasped behind his back. He had said nothing since arriving.

Rhaenyra was a vision. The gown shimmered like ocean foam, blue silk rippling with every breath she took. Silver embroidery chased itself over her bodice and sleeves—dragons mid-flight, woven flame and wings and vines glinting with diamonds and pearls. The maroon maiden cloak—its weight steeped in blood and memory—was fastened at her collar with a brooch shaped like a falcon in flight.

She looked like Aemma had, once. At her own wedding.

It made his chest ache.

Rhaenyra adjusted the hem of her sleeve without looking at him. The septas finished their final touches and retreated without a word, bowing before slipping through a side alcove. Only she and Viserys remained now.

He cleared his throat softly. “You look… radiant.”

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice was courteous. Cool. Not unkind, but distant—like a maester reciting history not her own.

Silence bloomed again.

She had not asked for him to walk her. Not directly. A steward had delivered the detail a fortnight prior, with the wedding itinerary. She had offered no words beyond what duty dictated. And he had known she would not.

Still, some foolish part of him had hoped.

“I remember Aemma in blue,” he said, trying for gentleness. “It suited her.”

Rhaenyra gave a small nod. “That’s why I chose it.”

He studied her face then—how carefully it was arranged, how deliberately guarded. He had worn that same expression at her age, when his uncle died and the weight of heirship was thrust into his hands. He wondered if Rhaenyra saw herself already wearing the crown. Or if she dreaded the day Baelon would die and the responsibility it would bring her. Viserys struggled with the image of his daughter sitting the throne and wearing the crown meant for him.

Yet this wall between them was suffocating.

“Rhaenyra…”

She looked at him. Not fully—just enough to acknowledge his voice. He hesitated. There were so many things he wanted to say. That he missed her. That he was sorry. That he had made choices out of pain, not malice. That her silence cut deeper than any rebellion ever could. But the words twisted in his throat like thorns.

Before he could speak again, the chamber doors creaked open.

A steward stepped inside and bowed. “It is time, Your Grace. Princess.”

Viserys turned and found Rhaenyra already moving. She stepped beside him with the poise of royalty—chin high, shoulders square. She took his arm without resistance, but without warmth. Her fingers curled around the fabric of his sleeve as if claiming what was owed.

No more. No less.

They emerged into the grand hall, music swelling as the great doors opened before them. The nobility rose to their feet, gowns rustling like leaves in the wind. The light of the stained glass flooded the aisle in hues of gold and red.

And still, Rhaenyra did not look at him.

He guided her slowly down the aisle. His stride measured. Her steps effortless.

The ceremony unfolded in solemn tones. The High Septon’s voice filled the Sept like the bell of judgment:

“We are gathered here today, to witness the union of this man and this woman under the holy light of the Seven…”

Viserys did not hear the rest.

He was thinking about his own wedding day. About Aemma’s demure smile. About the way she had squeezed his hand behind the altar when the septon had proclaimed them husband and wife. About the spark in her eyes that dimmed in the latter years of their marriage. About the scorn and disgust that replaced the love and affection in her beautiful eyes.

All because of his choices.

The feast was a blur of colour and movement—gilded goblets, dancers, roasted quail, laughter too loud to be sincere.

Viserys and house Belaerys was delegated at the nearest table to the High table. The man could see his original family presenting a united front on the High table. His father Baelon with Gael on the right of him. Rhaenyra and Gaemon on the king’s left. And Rhea and Daemon beside the queen. The Targaryens drank and chatted comfortably, no edge of distance or discomfort in any of their features.

Meanwhile he sat with Alicent beside him, her face set in an emotionless expression. She had been like this since Aegon’s death—withdrawn, gray, cold. He had tried, at first, to comfort her. But she had turned to prayer, not to him. Now, nearly a sunturn later, her belly remained flat, her eyes dull, and the warmth that had once made her so beguiling had gone dry.

And their daughter…

Helaena sat beside her septa, clutching a velvet dragon toy and humming softly to herself. Her eyes never left the corner of the hall. She flinched when the musicians struck a sharp chord. Her shoulders tensed whenever anyone raised their voice.

She did not speak. Not clearly. And she did not meet his gaze.

“She will come around,” the maesters had said at first. “Some children take longer.”

But she had passed three namedays and still, she refused to be touched. Still, she covered her ears when bells rang. Still, she whimpered when given certain foods.

They were beginning to say things now, behind closed doors. That she might never speak properly. That she might never learn to be a proper highborn lady. That perhaps—quietly—she should be sent to the Faith, raised in the quiet of a sept, far from the eyes of court and forgotten by the masses.

Viserys did not say it aloud, but sometimes… he wondered if that would not be kinder.

The ache in his chest bloomed again. Aegon was dead. Helaena was— wrong . And Alicent’s womb remained silent.

The prophecy.

It haunted him more than ever now. The dream he had had, his son sat upon the throne, the crown of the conqueror decorating his silver-blonde locks, his voice resonating in the throne room: “I am Azor Ahai, I am the Prince that was Promised, my Song is of Ice and Fire.” He had believed so fully that his blood would shape the realm. That his heirs would lead it into safety.

But now?

His heirship taken from him. His eldest daughters barely spoke to him. His wife would not look at him. His father and brother barely acknowledged him. His younger children either dead or broken.

Where had it all gone wrong? Was this the price of the prophecy?

Or worse—did the Gods deem him unworthy?

Viserys looked across the hall, where Rhaenyra laughed quietly beside Gaemon, their heads close, hands still joined. Daemon sat just behind them, eyes watchful. Rhea, regal in bronze and wine-dark silk, raised her goblet to a passing noble.

They were a family. Tied not just by blood—but by purpose.

He was not part of it.

The music swelled again. Rhaenyra rose to dance once more, spinning with her sister Daella at her side. The younger girl beamed, cheeks flushed with joy. Gaemon stood nearby, speaking to Prince Qoren Martell, their smiles easy and warm.

Viserys turned away.

Even at his daughter’s wedding, he felt like a guest in someone else’s hall.

The music had softened to a gentle hum, a background tapestry woven of harp strings and murmured laughter. The scent of sweetwine and roasted duck clung to the air, mingling with the floral perfume from Queen Gael’s sleeves as she stood regally beside her with Rhea, her composure untouched by the revelry around her.

Jeyne Arryn did not drink.

She never would—not on such occasions at least. A clear mind was a shield sharper than any steel, and tonight, amidst dancers and vipers wrapped in silk and ambition, she would not lower her guard. Especially not when her bloodline hung in a delicate balance.

She stood beside the dais, near enough to speak without drawing too many ears, her gloved hands resting lightly against her goblet. Queen Gael turned toward her with a polite smile, and beside her, Rhea Royce raised a brow in that quietly knowing way of hers.

“I suppose it is a small miracle that none of the vassal lords have set themselves aflame in protest,” Jeyne said dryly, her voice pitched low.

Rhea chuckled. “Perhaps they learnt from Arnold’s foolishness, if not his failure.”

Jeyne’s eyes flicked to her cousin across the hall. Daella danced in a circle of young ladies, her laughter soft, almost shy. Her gown of sky-blue silk fluttered with each step, the sapphire chain around her neck glinting like captured stars. She looked radiant. Untouched, delicate and all too vulnerable.

“I have begun searching for suitors,” Jeyne said, her tone even but purposeful. “Discreetly, for now.”

Gael inclined her head, her expression unreadable. “And what are you hoping to find, my lady?”

“A man with no delusions of grandeur,” Jeyne replied. “And no ambitions that stretch beyond the borders of his own hall. One with enough name to satisfy the lords of the Vale, but not so much that he believes he can rule the Eyrie through her.”

Rhea exhaled through her nose, a quiet hum of agreement. “A narrow road to walk.”

“Narrower still after Arnold’s betrayal,” Jeyne said. “The lords watch Daella with calculating eyes now. They smile at her grace and whisper of her future, but I know the truth of it. The moment I name a match, half will be offended it was not their kin, and the other half will see it as an opportunity to install their influence.”

“Have you considered outside the Vale?” Gael asked, careful not to make it a suggestion.

“I have. And that path is even steeper,” Jeyne answered. “To wed her beyond our borders may be seen as an insult by the vassal lords. They are already nervous—Arnold’s treason showed them how fragile the Eyrie’s succession could be. If Daella marries a Riverlord or a Westerlander, they will cry that the Vale will be ruled by outsiders in a generation.”

“They would cry no matter whom she wed,” Rhea said softly. “If she marries within the Vale, her husband may believe the lords will stand behind him, not her. If she marries beyond, they will believe themselves abandoned. In either case, they will not serve Daella for who she is, but for what they fear.”

Jeyne’s eyes hardened, her jaw set. “And that is why I must be cautious. There are few who could carry the blood of Rodrik Arryn forward. If she falters, if she is betrayed… the Eyrie falls to vultures.”

Queen Gael placed her hand gently on Jeyne’s arm, a rare gesture of softness. “She will not falter. She has you to guide her, and a great mind for governance. And she has House Targaryen’s might behind her. The realm will remember that if it dares forget.”

Jeyne gave the queen a small nod—though more resolute than grateful.

“Have you told her yet?” Rhea asked, tone sympathetic. Jeyne shook her head. “She is still so young,” she continued, and glanced once more at Daella. “Let her dance tonight. Let her be a girl, just a while longer.”

Jeyne allowed herself a breath. “Just a while longer.”

And in that moment, even as the music swelled and laughter rose like birds into the rafters, she knew that the weight of bloodlines was never truly lifted. Not even for a wedding.

As the hour of the owl approached and the nobles lost their senses to wine and melody, Prince Gaemon and Princess Rhaenyra were escorted from the feast with due ceremony. At their sides walked Princess Alyssa and Prince Daeron, with Septa Marlow and Septon Eustace trailing a respectful pace behind—formal witnesses to the royal bedding.

King Baelon had made his stance unmistakably clear: no man was to lay a hand on Rhaenyra but her husband. It was a break from tradition, but a deliberate one. Queen Gael had counselled him to act so, and Baelon, with little need for convincing, had agreed. No drunken lords would carry away silks tonight. No crude jests or groping hands. Rhaenyra would not be humiliated for the sake of spectacle. The Realm’s Delight would not be diminished before the eyes of the court.

The newlyweds reached their chamber, candlelit and filled with the scent of red myrrh and Dornish rosewater. Alyssa and Daeron offered quiet smiles before departing, while the septa and septon stationed themselves outside—hands folded and expressions fixed in serene vigilance.

As soon as the doors closed, Rhaenyra exhaled sharply through her nose. “Finally,” she muttered, shoulders loosening beneath her cloak.

Gaemon chuckled softly and walked toward the bed, falling onto it with the weight of a man released from months of ceremony and anticipation. He landed on his back, his legs still dangling off the edge, arms splayed wide as if embracing the quiet.

Rhaenyra lifted her cochineal skirts, a glimmer of relief sparking in her eyes. She crossed the room in smooth, confident strides and climbed onto the bed, straddling his thighs with the ease of an experienced rider. Her bodice brushed his chest as she leaned over him, bracing her hands beside his shoulders.

Their eyes met—violet locked with violet—and for a moment, nothing moved but their breath. Noses brushed. Mouths hovered close. Gaemon’s left hand rose to cradle her cheek, his thumb tracing the edge of her jaw, while the other held her firmly by the waist.

This was not their first time like this.

Their closeness had begun after the battle in the Vale.

After screams had echoed through the mountain passes, and the stench of blood lingered even in their dreams. They had returned to Dragonstone to recover, to mend their wounds—physical and otherwise—but neither found rest in its shadowed halls.

They spent those days moving like ghosts; eating only when prompted, speaking only when duty demanded. Their hands trembled without reason and their eyes glazed at laughter of those surrounding them. The faces of the dead followed them—burnt knights slumped in melted armour, boys no older than squires split open like butchered animals, the people Rhaenyra had ridden down on Silverwing, whose screams still echoed at night.

Some mornings, they would wake soaked in sweat, the memory of fire or steel still burning behind their eyelids.

They hadn’t spoken of it—at first. Perhaps they feared confirming it aloud. That something inside them had broken.

Gaemon had wondered if he was weak. Too sensitive. Perhaps the sons of Daemon Targaryen were not meant to flinch at corpses. Rhaenyra had wondered if she was unworthy of the being future Queen Regnant. Would her mother have held her composure? Did Queen Visenya and Rhaenys feel the way she felt?

Neither of them knew what healing looked like.

But one night—when the moon hung low over Dragonstone and the keep was silent—neither could sleep. Rhaenyra snuck past her guard, wandered the halls—barefoot and restless, the silk of her robe clinging to her skin. Her steps took her below, into the great stone belly of the mountain where the dragons slept.

There, in the lair, Silverwing and Vermithor dozed in tangled coils, the firelight casting their scales in silver and gold. Rhaenyra sat against a column, arms wrapped around her knees, her hair damp from sea air and sweat.

Gaemon found her there.

He said nothing at first. Simply sat beside her, close enough to feel her warmth. The silence was not awkward—it was shared. Familiar.

They remained that way for a long while. Just breathing. Just being.

Then, slowly, Gaemon reached for her hand. His fingers curled around hers, tentative but steady. Rhaenyra did not flinch. Instead, she leaned her head onto his shoulder.

And he kissed her.

Not out of lust or ceremony—but out of need. It was the kind of kiss that tried to make something broken whole.

It was not Gaemon’s first kiss though—not of that kind anyway.

On his fifteenth nameday, the squires and gold cloaks had taken him to a brothel near the Street of Silk. He had protested, half-heartedly, but in the end, curiosity won out. The girl was beautiful—dark-haired and womanly, no older than eight-and-ten. She was a Stormlander by birth, she had said, and still pure when she took him to her room.

She had been kind. Soft-spoken and gentle.

And he found himself going back three weeks later, coins in hand and her name on his tongue. But when he was led to her assigned chamber, she was not alone. Another whore was with her—a young man with olive skin and striking blue eyes, whose voice was silk and whose laughter came like water from a deep spring.

Gaemon had never before that day, found himself so interested in another man. His had member stirred at the sight of them, sitting on the cushioned settee. Their shear-silk dresses leaving nothing to the imagination.

The girl had smiled and said, “He’s kind. Stay, if you like.”

And Gaemon had stayed. And he found himself returning to them, maybe once a moon.

There was no shame in it, not in his heart—only wonder. Wonder at what desire truly was. That it could be fluid. That it could come in forms he had not thought himself experiencing.

But then, the night he kissed Rhaenyra changed everything.

Because it had meant something. That kiss was not of base lust. It was not of simple comfort. It was a connection.

That night, Gaemon had climbed into bed with no desire to sleep. Only to hold her. And she let him. He had whispered that he would never dishonour her. That whatever they had would belong to them alone.

And it had.

Over the moons that followed, they shared more of each other. Gentle explorations, lingering touches, mouths trailing skin. Never too far—never beyond what could be undone. But they had learnt what the other liked. Where breath hitched. Where pleasure began. And always, Alyssa was within reach—never questioning and never judging—ensuring discretion, ensuring no scandal would be whispered in court.

But now… there was no need for hiding. No more stolen touches behind warded doors or in shadowed towers. They were husband and wife. Wedded before gods and men. Tonight, they were free.

Gaemon’s fingers brushed Rhaenyra’s hip, the curve familiar now, though still thrilling.

“Are you nervous?” he asked, voice husky.

Rhaenyra tilted her head. “Should I be?”

He smirked. “No. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

She leaned closer, her lips brushing his. “I’m not.”

Then she kissed him—slow, purposeful, with the weight of all the moments they had not been allowed to kiss in public. His hands slid from her waist to her back, pressing her into him as her body settled flush against his.

There was no urgency. No frenzy. Only heat, and the certainty that they had always been meant to arrive here.

Chapter Text

Union

“It is widely accepted that the wedding of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen and Prince Gaemon Targaryen Royce marked the beginning of what historians now refer to as the Silver Age—a period of relative peace, administrative reform, and economic expansion that followed the Bronze Age heralded by Kings Jaehaerys I Targaryen and Baelon I Targaryen.

The match between the heir to the Iron Throne and her cousin, the son of Prince Daemon Targaryen and Lady Rhea Royce, was one born not only of blood, but of strategy. With Rhaenyra’s claim declared in 109 AC, her union with Gaemon served to bolster her legitimacy among the Crownlands and the Vale alike. It also deepened the already formidable alliance between House Targaryen and House Royce, whose loyalty during the Mountain Rebellion of 113 AC had earned them renewed influence.

Their wedding took place on the 17th day of the 3rd moon, 114 AC, at the Sept of Kings Landing, attended by the full court and a contingent of nobles from all seven kingdoms. Though Prince Gaemon bore no claim of his own, his ascent as Prince-Consort would later prove instrumental. Contemporary records and later accounts agree that he was a steady and trusted confidant to the Queen, a loyal councillor throughout her heirship and her reign, and a decisive presence during the Second Succession War—known by many as the Dance of Dragons.

His death in 127 AC, while slaying Viserys ‘the Kinless’ and his monstrous mount Cannibal above the ruins of Oxcross, remains among the most storied acts of sacrifice in the Targaryen line. The loss of both Gaemon and Vermithor on the same day is often marked by historians as the moment the tide of the war turned irrevocably in the Queen’s favour, even as it left her widowed and the realm bloodied.

It is said that the Queen and her good-mother both collapsed upon receiving the news. Later, Queen Rhaenyra would refuse to remarry, stating that she would have no children from a man other than Prince Gaemon. That she would mourn him for the rest of her life.

And she had indeed not remarried nor bore anymore children besides the three children she and Prince Gaemon were blessed with…”

-Excerpts from A Century and a Half of Targaryen rule, by Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

“It was said by some at court that the union of Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Gaemon was a blessed one, though one must not dismiss righteousness for affection. While the match was sanctioned by King Baelon and received the blessings of the Seven, its fruits did not always bloom in piety. The royal wedding was splendid, but there were those who whispered that the ceremony lacked true reverence. The Princess, though radiant, bore herself with the haughty pride of her lineage, and the Prince—though dutiful—did not linger long enough in prayer before the altar.

Worse still, it was revealed scarcely a moon after their wedding that the couple had also exchanged vows in the fashion of the Old Gods beneath a heart tree transplanted to the gardens of Dragonstone—without consultation of a septon or audience with any men of the cloth. And if that were not enough to shame the faithful, the crown soon confirmed that a third ceremony had been conducted: one steeped in the rites of Old Valyria, performed before flame and blood, with oaths spoken in the High Tongue and witnessed only by the royal family.

Such blasphemies might have been whispered in shame in any devout household, but at court, they were called inclusive. Princes and lords who once bowed before the Seven excused it as a gesture of unity, a sign of progress. But to many in the Starry Sept, it was an affront—an open insult to the gods who had watched over the realm since Aegon’s landing. The Faith had been patient through the days of Prince Daemon’s wildness, and even through King Baelon’s quiet dismissal of septon counsel. But now, with the Heir to the Throne and her consort openly flouting doctrine, the Seven Kingdoms began to whisper: if the royals do not honour the gods, why should the gods honour them?

Princess Rhaenyra’s reign is now remembered by some as a golden time but let no man forget that it began with the casting aside of sacred tradition. Those who forget the gods, too often find themselves forgotten in turn….”

-Excerpts from The Following of Men Over Gods: The Repudiation of the Seven by the Targaryens, by Septon Eustace

“Though it is fashionable among lesser chroniclers to dwell on scandal and innuendo, the role of Prince Gaemon in the reign of Queen Rhaenyra cannot be overstated. Their marriage, solemnised in the third moon of 114 AC, was not merely a union of kin, but a foundation of one of the most stable royal partnerships in Targaryen history. From the first days of their heirship, the Princess and her consort ruled in tandem—with Prince Gaemon often acting as intermediary between noble houses and the Crown, easing tensions where Queen Rhaenyra’s strength of will may have otherwise provoked resistance.

Their union was more than political—it was symbolic. For in it were bound the three greatest bloodlines of Westeros: the First Men through the ancient House Royce of Runestone, the Valyrian dragonlords of old through House Targaryen, and the Andals through the Arryns of Eyrie and the legacy of the Crown’s loyalists. It was said by Lord Tully at the time that never before had Westeros seen such a perfect marriage of its history. And in truth, the people believed it.

It is true that the wedding was later revealed to have been performed in three distinct traditions—the Faith of the Seven, the Old Gods of the North, and the rites of Valyria. Some cried heresy. Others called it ambition. But the Queen and her consort understood what so many lords and septons could not: the realm was not one people. It was many peoples, many faiths, and only by honouring all of them could a monarch hope to rule them.

Where others feared division, they embraced unity. And from that unity came strength—at least, for a time….”

-Excerpts from The Silver Age: The Reign of Queen Rhaenyra I, by Maester Orwyle of the Citadel

“Though the court scribes of Oldtown and King’s Landing wrote often of the political convenience of Princess Rhaenyra’s marriage to Prince Gaemon, few outside Dorne understood how warmly the pair were received in the south. During their first progress in 115 AC, the Prince and Princess spent twenty days in Sunspear following the wedding celebrations for Prince Qoren Martell and Princess Alyssa Martell’s wedding.

In that time, they dined beneath the moon, walked the Water Gardens with the children of nobles and commoners alike, and listened attentively to the petitions of Dornish lords. To the smallfolk, they were not symbols of Targaryen dominance, but of curiosity, reform, and shared blood. It is no accident that many reforms under Queen Rhaenyra’s later reign—including those that allowed for the founding of universities beyond the Reach—found eager allies first in Dorne.

Where others saw the Silver Age as forged by fire, we saw its shape first in sunlit laughter and quiet conversations held beneath orange trees…”

-Excerpt from Sun and Flame: The Spear and the Dragon, by Maester Lloren of Dorne

Progress

“Six moons following their wedding, Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Gaemon embarked on what would become known as the First Progress of the Dragon Heir. The journey—spanning the length and breadth of Westeros—was without precedent in royal custom and largely credited to Queen Gael’s counsel and Rhea Royce’s political foresight. The progress began with a ten-day visit to the Eyrie, followed by extended stays at Winterfell and Riverrun. The pair then returned briefly to King’s Landing before attending the wedding of Princess Alyssa Targaryen Royce and Prince Qoren Martell in Sunspear in the sixth moon of 115 AC. There, they remained for twenty days before continuing westward to Casterly Rock, then south to Highgarden, and finally east to Storm’s End before returning to Dragonstone to rest.

It was after this progress that Princess Rhaenyra announced her first pregnancy. Rumours surrounded the timing, as is often the case with royal conceptions, but official records from the Grand Maester’s journal confirm that the formal announcement was made one moon after their return from Storm’s End. Then, in what many deemed divine symmetry, Lady Alicent Belaerys—wife to Viserys Belaerys—announced her own pregnancy less than a week later. The twin declarations, while publicly met with celebration, quietly reignited the political tensions that had only barely cooled following Aegon Belaerys’s death two years prior.

Over the next ten years, two political camps emerged at court and across the realm. Rhaenyra’s supporters—soon dubbed the Reds—were advocates for progress and innovation, drawing power from the Crownlands, Riverlands, Vale, North, and increasingly from Dorne. Viserys’s faction—the Greens—emphasised traditional rights of male inheritance and conservative governance, drawing strength from the Stormlands, Reach, Westerlands, and notably from the then main branch of House Velaryon, whose influence in Driftmark had flourished under Lord Corlys, and whose alliance with Salver’s Bay brought greater riches into the Velaryon coffers—no matter how controversial their origins were.

That these factions grew not from open civil war, but from the slow, inexorable pull of ideology and legacy, remains one of the greatest tragedies that preceded the Silver Age. For even in peace, seeds of fire were sown….”

-Excerpts from A Century and a Half of Targaryen rule, by Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

“Six moons after the wedding, the newlyweds departed on a grand progress. They visited each of the great houses, speaking of reform, harmony, and the glory of Dragonstone. Some in the Faith viewed this as prideful display—vanity draped in silk, accompanied by retinues large enough to empty the coffers of any modest lord. Yet, none dared speak against it openly, for the favour of the King was still with her then.

It was upon their return from the second leg of the progress that Princess Rhaenyra announced her first pregnancy. The timing was… convenient. For less than a week later, Lady Alicent Belaerys, the true and pious wife of Prince Viserys, declared her own expectancy. The realm rejoiced, but in truth, a division grew—between those who served the rightful traditions of inheritance and the new breed of courtiers who favoured progress over prayer, and innovation over order.

It must be noted that though many believed Rhaenyra was the head of her faction, it is widely accepted amongst us clergy and scholars that it had been her husband, Prince Gaemon, pushing her to go against the will of her father, in hopes of claiming the throne belonging to Prince Viserys, for his own children.

It is true that Queen Rhaenyra is believed to have ushered the Silver Age but once again, it is more than likely her uncle Prince Daemon Targaryen who is responsible for the accomplishments.

I do not dispute that the realm knew peace for a time. But peace without sanctity is a fragile thing. And those who build kingdoms without humility often learn too late what they have sown….”

-Excerpts from The Following of Men Over Gods: The Repudiation of the Seven by the Targaryens, by Septon Eustace

“I was there the night Princess Rhaenyra truly became a woman, and let no maester or septon tell you otherwise. They say the bedding of her and Prince Gaemon was a private affair, guarded by septa and septon, all proper and sweet. But the real heat came a sunturn moons later, in the sultry depths of Sunspear, after Princess Alyssa wed Prince Qoren Martell. Now that was a feast to remember. Wines from the Arbor, sweet smoke from the Summer Isles, and more silk on the floor than on the guests.

That night, I found myself in a secluded suite of the Old Palace—having crept in for wine or mischief, I do not recall—and who do I see but Princess Rhaenyra, already half out of her gown, perched beside Alyssa on a bed strewn with pillows. Prince Gaemon was there too, shirt open and flushed with drink, and Qoren Martell was in nothing but gold-threaded breeches and a grin. The laughter was loud, the kisses louder.

They welcomed me having heard of my great bedding prowess. There were five of us, and the gods only know whose limbs were whose by the end of it. I, of course, performed admirably—as any reader of my previous escapades will know—and let it be recorded that I, Mushroom, stood shoulder to shoulder with princes of blood that night.

Four moons after the revels at Sunspear, the Princess announced her first pregnancy. And less than a week later, Lady Alicent claimed she too was with child—though hers was as pale and sour as her prayers. Rhaenyra’s babe was strong, beautiful, and very much a dragon. Valyrian of feature, silver of hair, violet of eye.

Still, no one could say for certain which of us three virile men sired him. Gaemon claimed him, of course—what choice did he have? But those of us who were there know better. It might have been Gaemon. It might have been Qoren. And just maybe… it might have been myself.

The colouring saved him. Without the silver hair and purple eyes, the scandal might have burned the realm down. But fire runs strong in Targaryen veins, even when mixed with jesters and Dornish wine….”

-Collected Tales and Recollections of Mushroom the Fool

“Much has been written of their first progress following the wedding. The journey itself—stretching from the Eyrie to Winterfell, Riverrun to Sunspear, and later west to Casterly Rock, Highgarden, and Storm’s End—was unprecedented in both scale and ambition. It was during this time that the Princess cemented ties with five of the Seven Kingdoms, bonds which would prove essential in the turbulent decades to come. Her ability to meet with lords on their own soil, to speak of reform and cooperation, revealed a shrewdness often overlooked by her detractors.

“We are honoured to carry the banners of the Prince and Princess across land and sea. Let all who doubt the strength of House Velaryon remember: when the dragons flew north, it was Velaryon ships that bore them.”

—Statement attributed to Lord Vaemond Velaryon, upon arrival in the Vale.

It is widely recorded that Lord Vaemond and his sons accompanied the royal couple for much of the progress, serving as both honour guard and emissaries of Driftmark’s support. Their presence was particularly noted in the Riverlands and the North, where Velaryon fleets had seen little reach prior.

“It is a testament to the wisdom of a monarch to visit their most powerful vassals and interact with the commoners. And a great show of humility to listen to their plights and advise.”

—From a letter by Lord Rickon Stark to Lord Cregan, his heir, dated 115 AC.

Stark hospitality during the progress was praised in the royal journals, and Maester Gerold of Winterfell noted that Rhaenyra and Gaemon spent three full days hearing grievances from bannermen and stewards.

“I let the lad win. It is poor form to bruise a prince in front of his wife.”

—Lord Jason Lannister, after suffering a humiliating loss to Prince Gaemon during a training bout.

While Lord Jason bore the defeat with forced humor, his brother Tyland was observed to be far more cordial. Tyland Lannister took frequent walks with the royal couple through the garden terraces of Casterly Rock, reportedly discussing trade routes and tariffs—a rapport that bred friction between the twins.

“The storm does not forget. The crown may favour one niece, but the other bore dragons all the same.”

—Overheard remark from Lord Boremund Baratheon during the feast at Storm’s End.

Though his words remained veiled, Lord Boremund’s coolness toward the royal guests was noted by several present. His support of Princess Rhaenys Velaryon, passed over in 92 AC, had never softened. More so when the Princess’s children were disregarded in favour of Lady Alicent Hightower for Prince Viserys, and Prince Gaemon Targaryen Royce for Princess Rhaenyra. Nor had his views of succession skewed.

It was after the visit to Sunspear, during the celebrated wedding of Princess Alyssa Targaryen Royce and Prince Qoren Martell, that Princess Rhaenyra conceived her first child. Rumours, as they are to do, quickly took root—some whispering that the child was conceived not by the Princess’s husband but by the Dornish Prince. Others went further, naming even the court fool in their salacious speculation. I was an acolyte at the time and had not examined the Princess myself, but my colleague maester Gerardys had confirmed there was no indication of impropriety, nor any sign that her consort questioned the child’s legitimacy.

The child, when born, bore all the hallmarks of pure Valyrian heritage—silver hair, violet eyes, strong lungs. Such traits cannot be feigned nor forged. Prince Gaemon accepted the boy as his without hesitation, and no record exists of any formal challenge or inquiry.

Let it be said plainly: the marriage between Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Gaemon gave the realm ten years of stability. Whatever else may be whispered in alehouses and brothels, the truth written in ink and blood is this—he was her ally, her protector, and her equal, until his final breath….”

-Excerpts from The Silver Age: The Reign of Queen Rhaenyra I, by Maester Orwyle of the Citadel

“Though the accounts of this period vary wildly—ranging from Mushroom’s bawdy exaggerations to Septon Eustace’s sanctimonious concerns—there is one matter on which all agree: the union of Princess Rhaenyra and Prince Gaemon, whether born of blood, strategy, or necessity, shaped the course of the realm. What began as a union of convenience and blood unity transformed into one of true companionship and legend.

In their time, they were often the subject of debate. In history, they remain the fulcrum upon which peace briefly balanced, before fire took hold once more….”

-Excerpts from A Century and a half of Targaryen rule, by Archmaester Saera Targaryen Royce of the Vale

Chapter Text

84 AC - 91AC

• 10th moon 84 AC Rhea suffers a fever. She wakes up gaining memories of a past life

• 1st moon 85 AC Rhea becomes more involved in her studies and the workings of the Keep (she was already considered clever and devoted, so not much change to her personality)

• 86 AC Rhea meets Aemma during a House Arryn celebration at Gates of the Moon

• 88 AC Rhea makes two requests from her father at her nameday celebration: 

1. She wants to learn how to use a sword and not just war tactics.
2. She wants Aemma to foster at Runestone

• 7th moon 90 AC, Rhaenys weds Corlys

• 11th moon 90 AC, after Aemma’s 8th nameday, she begins to foster at Runestone

92 AC - 96 AC

• 9th day 3rd moon of 92 AC Aemon Targaryen dies protecting Lord Tarly from Myrish pirates

• 25th day 3rd moon of 92 AC King Jaehaerys declares Baelon heir to the Iron Throne over Rhaenys

• 2nd moon 93 AC Gael bleeds, Alysanne panics

• 3rd moon 93 AC Aemma called to Kings Landing to prepare for her wedding to Viserys

• Rhea is unhappy but she has no power to stop the marriage. Reasoning with Aemma to request a postponement to her wedding until 16 or at least the bedding until 16 falls on deaf ears. Even after fostering with Rhea for two years, Aemma is still too ingrained in the Faith and being a dutiful girl

• Rhea realises she can draw designs of modern medical equipment to at least do something. She creates blueprints of speculum and forceps as well as written extensive instructions on how to clean and prepare them for use

• 10th moon 93 AC Aemma weds Viserys at Oldtown

• Rhea uses opportunity to hire a child anonymously to send the blueprints of the speculum and forceps to her cousin Orys at the Citadel

• When Rhea returns from the wedding she seriously thinks about the future and what to do

• 94 AC Rhea begins building a spy network using a prostitute in Runestone

• 95 AC Rhea’s network is established so she moves to next phase; contact Saera Targaryen in Lys

• 2nd moon 95 AC Aemma bleeds for the first time

• Against maesters and everyone’s advice, Viserys beds Aemma right as she finishes bleeding

• 5th moon 95 AC Aemma falls pregnant

• 11th moon 95 AC Aemma gives birth prematurely; baby dies a few nights later due to weak body

• Viserys only waits until Aemma stops bleeding to bed her again

• 1st moon 96 AC Aemma falls pregnant again

• 3rd moon 96 AC Aemma miscarries

• 96 AC Rhea gets in contact with Rogares and makes a deal

• 96 AC Rhea is betrothed to Oscar Belmore (born 82 AC—younger to avoid early marriage for Rhea)

• 7th moon 96 AC Aemma falls pregnant again

97 AC

• 21st day 2nd moon 97 AC Daemon’s sixteenth nameday. He claims Caraxes. That night and for the next 14 days he has terrible dreams of the future

• 25th day 2nd moon 97 AC Rhea receives request to come tend Aemma during her last moon of pregnancy at Dragonstone

• 27th day 2nd moon 97 AC Rhea uses a ship to travel but the weather isn’t kind and she gets delayed

• 5th day 3rd moon 97 AC Aemma goes into labour at 36 weeks but the birth is smooth and Rhaenyra is born

• 8th day 3rd moon 97 AC Rhea arrives at Dragonstone. She is escorted to Aemma’s bedchamber, only to find all the Targs there

• Alysanne, who had been preparing Daemon’s wedding from the year prior—to avoid him marrying Gael—sees Rhea and immediately feels she is the one for her grandson. Alysanne had learnt of Rhea from Lord Yorbert when he attended Daemon’s 15th nameday celebration the year prior. And had been exchanging missives with him. Alysanne sends a missive to Yorbert the next morning: inviting him to Dragonstone to discuss betrothal between Rhea and Daemon.

• Meanwhile, Rhea informs Aemma of a tea that works as a contraceptive. If taken for an entire moon cycle, it prevents women from falling pregnant for four moons—give or take a moon. It’s not foolproof but Saera Targaryen had personally suggested it. Aemma thinks on it

• 19th day 3rd moon 97 AC, Yorbert arrives on Dragonstone

• Rhea is shocked and a little appalled her father was doing things behind her back

• Yorbert too stubborn and orders Rhea to do her duty, citing “You won’t get a better match, daughter. You’re cleverer than to reject such a powerful betrothal!”

• Rhea begrudgingly agrees and moves to her contingency plans. Daemon on the other hand seems far calmer than expected

• During one of her strolls with Daemon she slips a letter to him

• A few days pass without a reaction from him. But on the third day, while Rhea is reading before bed, Daemon enters her chamber. Rhea is shocked as Yohan wouldn’t allow anyone in without permission but Daemon had drugged him with sweetsleep to gain access. Daemon asks Rhea about her letter and once he fully understands, he reveals that he also knows the future and knows Rhea isn’t the same as the OG. They exchange info and come to an agreement that they want the same thing, so there isn’t an issue in their marriage. Because it will make their partnership easier

• 17th day 6th moon 97 AC, Rhea and Daemon wed in Kings Landing. Not an extravagant affair but most of the Vale, Crownlands, and some Reach, Riverland and Stormland houses show up

• 3 day celebration ensues

• At the end of celebration Aemma agrees with Rhea to take contraceptive tea

• 1st day 7th moon 97 AC Rhea and Daemon take a ship from Kings Landing to head to Essos. They had discussed their wishes with their families prior to the wedding

• 10th day 7th moon 97 AC Daemon and Rhea land in Pentos. Rhea is horrified to find Pentos is still a slaver city. She had mentally prepared for Lys and Volantis but Pentos never occurred to her. She hadn’t read all of the ASOIAF books and didn’t realise Pentos was still decades away from freeing its slaves. The stay lasts 5 days, because Rhea cannot stomach to stay long without reason

• 16th day 7th moon 97 AC they depart Pentos

• Rhea falls pregnant 21st day 7th moon 97 AC

• 28th day 7th moon 97 AC they arrive in Lys

• They meet the Rogares. Rhea introduces bicycles and wheelchairs to Rogares and makes a deal to have 10% of profit once they begin to sell

• Later, Daemon, Rhea and Rogares discuss the future of the Triarchy

• Then, during one night when Rogares bring a seer and a follower of R’hllor for entertainment, Rhea gets an odd prophecy from the seer, while Daemon receives an unsettling vision from the follower of R’hllor

• After 10 days of stay, on the 8th day of the 8th moon 97 AC, Rhea and her retinue depart Lys

• 15th day 8th moon 97 AC, retinue arrives in Volantis and is greeted by Saera and her children

• During the stay, Daemon and Rhea are introduced to more followers of R’hllor. Healers this time. And they gain a companion from one of them

• Rhea also hands Saera blueprints of the speculum and forceps

• During the last days Daemon takes Rhea to Mantarys and Elyria

• After 16 days, 1st day 9th moon they depart from Volantis

• 24th day 9th moon they arrive in Qohor

• They meet a 14 flames priestess who informs Daemon that Rhea is pregnant. Daemon is shocked and asks Rhea about it. She confirms. He is confused why she hadn’t told him. She explains her worry of his rejection and the dangers of miscarriage during the first term. Daemon reassures and comforts her

• The priestess of the 14 is taken as a second companion

• After 10 days in Qohor, on the 5th day of the 10th moon they depart for Norvos

• 17th day 10th moon they arrive in Norvos

• After 7 days, 25th day 10th moon they depart for Lorath

• 14th day 11th moon they arrive in Lorath

• They stay for 10 days there enjoying the calm atmosphere and allowing Rhea to have a longer period of rest

• During the stay Rhea comes across a fiery old midwife and offers her a job. The midwife accepts the generous offer

• 25th day 11th moon they depart Lorath, Daemon takes Rhea by dragon back to have better control and faster travel method.

• Rhea also send the Healing Guild of Braavos blueprints for the speculum and forceps in the hands of her cousins, who will travel by ship

• 6th day 12th moon, Rhea and Daemon arrive back to Runestone

98 AC

• 19th day 3rd moon 98 AC Rhea gives birth at 36 weeks to twins, Gaemon and Alyssa

• Due to early labour Rhea waits two weeks before ravens are sent to announce the births to the Targaryens

• Once they receive the news, Baelon and Gael visit Runestone

• Baelon privately reveals to Daemon and Rhea that their son is in line for the throne, under Jaehaerys’s decree that titles their children Targaryen Princes and Princesses

• A week later Viserys and Aemma also show up

• Aemma reveals she is glad she took the contraceptive tea because Viserys was already talking about another child. But she still felt drained

• Before everyone goes back to Kings Landing, Rhea suggests Daemon apply for the City Watch command and to suggest a sewage system for Kings Landing

• After reassurance and coaxing, Daemon agrees

• King Jaehaerys and Prince Baelon accept Daemon’s requests. They immediately begin looking at a budget for the sewage system (the treasury is full so there wasn’t much concern)

99 AC

• 99 AC, during twins first nameday celebration at Kings Landing, Aemma reveals to Rhea she will try for another child after Rhaenyra’s 3rd nameday

• A moon after the celebration Rhea heads to Winterfell

• Rhea introduces the bicycle and wheelchair to Benjen Stark and accepts 10% cut from profit.

100 AC

• Start of 100 AC work on sewage system begins in Kings Landing

• 4th moon 100 AC Aemma falls pregnant (faster than she expected but goes with it)

• 7th moon 100 AC Rhea also falls pregnant

• After receiving news of Rhea’s pregnancy Aemma convinces Viserys to stay on Runestone to share the experience with Rhea

101 AC

• Start of 101 AC North begins selling bicycles and wheelchairs

• 25th day 1st moon 101 AC Daella Targaryen born. The labour is short but intense, Aemma bleeds A LOT!!

• After the birth, the midwives and healers inform Viserys that his actions of bedding Aemma too early and her going through birth twice in the span of two years (first child and Rhaenyra) had caused damage to her womb and it’s extremely dangerous for her to have another child

• 4th moon 101 AC Baelon comes to visit

• Vaegon Targaryen is also secretly invited by Rhea and Daemon

• Vaegon and Baelon reunite. They are introduced by Daemon and Rhea to the concept of a school. A system that teaches the young children from ages 4-12 how to read, write, count, history, geography and later on train them for careers, to help give them the skills to survive earlier

• 3rd day of his stay, Baelon falls ill

• After days using tonics by the healers, Rhea goes to check on Baelon only to find the priestess of the 14 holding a blade to his throat. A confrontation ensues but Baelon and Rhea overpower the priestess

• Rhea’s water breaks due to the stress

• 22nd day 4th moon 101 AC Daeron Targaryen born

• 11 days later, while Baelon and Rhea are still recovering, a raven arrives informing Baelon that Jaehaerys died in his sleep and he needs to be in Kings Landing to be crowned King

• Baelon and Vaegon head to Kings Landing to handle the mess

• Baelon appoints new council as King: Hand Beesbury, Master of Coin Percival Hightower, Master of Laws Vaegon, Master of Ships Corlys Velaryon

• After Jaehaerys’s death Alysanne’s health deteriorates and she ends up passing only 6 months later

• 12th moon Rhea accidentally falls pregnant

102 AC

• Work on sewage system is smooth

• Winterfell’s business becomes known by all Westeros and demand for wheelchairs skyrocket (bicycles are still a commodity and not popular). Benjen Stark had also cleverly charged for the items based on a person’s wealth. That way the common folk will still be able to buy them, while the rich pay for the difference in price (the items for the rich are still more extravagant with carvings and such to make up for it)

• 9th moon Rhaegar is born to Rhea

• End of 102 AC Gael makes impression on Baelon when she suggests paying for the common folk’s supplies for the start of the next year as a gift. The smallfolk cheers her as the Queen

• Gael panics but is actually interested

• 11th moon 102 AC Aemma suffers sudden miscarriage (no one knew she was pregnant). She had continued taking the contraception tea but it failed

103 AC

• 1st moon Baelon and Gael agree to marry

• 7th moon 103 AC Baelon weds Gael

• Gael joins the council as Queen and as Master of Relations (her job is to ensure the smallfolk and the nobility are satisfied with the crown, she basically takes over part of the petitions sent to the King and keeps record of things done)

• 8th moon Gael falls pregnant

104 AC

• Business is going smoothly, Rhea’s school opens on the 1st day of the 1st moon

• Discussions about the Triarchy begins

• Gael gives birth to Rhaella 5th moon 104 AC

105 AC

• 2nd moon 105 AC, Rhea and Gael fall pregnant

• 5th moon 105 AC war on the Stepstones starts

• 11th moon Rhea and Gael give birth on the same day to Viserra and Aemond

• Viserys grows more and more frustrated that even his father has had yet another son while he is left with two daughters.

• Aemma sees the glint of jealousy and anger in him and chooses to fall pregnant again. It had been 2 years since her miscarriage and she knows she’ll suffer. But she rather sacrifice herself than have her husband hate her daughters and invite the scorn of the nobility on her baby girls

• Meanwhile up North, Drakenzo Rogare has made acquaintances with Lord Manderly and Stark. He suggests rebuilding the Northern fleet with his sponsorship (Drakenzo wants to establish himself outside his brother’s power)

• 12th moon Aemma falls pregnant

106 AC

• War on the Stepstones is still going but Westeros is winning

• The Sewage system construction is in its final stages

• 9th moon 106 AC Aemma gives birth to Jaevon. The labour is intense once again and she loses even more blood than with Daella

• Aemma develops a fever but Viserys is finally satisfied

• Once Aemma wakes, she doesn’t connect with the baby

• After six weeks Viserys orders a feast on Dragonstone to celebrate his son’s seventh week of life

• Aemma remains abed during the celebration but Rhea visits to comfort her

• Viserys meets Otto and Alicent Hightower at the end of the celebration

• Viserys suggests to Aemma that she visits the Vale while she heals (hinted that it was not actually his idea). Aemma not thinking on it agrees. Aemma and her daughters depart with Rhea back to Runestone

• Viserys requests Otto remain in Dragonstone and gives him position of steward

107 AC

• Aemma is healing nicely and returns to Kings Landing 1st moon

• Start of 2nd moon, Jaevon falls ill

• Aemma and Viserys distraught and Aemma threatens Runciter

• While the family, including Rhea who was flown by Gael to Kings Landing, are busy reassuring and comforting Aemma, Alicent—who had just arrived in court—comforts Viserys

• 10 days later Jaevon passes

• Aemma is extremely distraught and has a mental breakdown

• Secretly Runciter uses this opportunity. And the night after Jaevon’s funeral, he drugs Aemma and throws her off the window to try framing it as a suicide

• Rhea refuses to believe it’s suicide. Rhea convinces Baelon to investigate and Runciter being arrogant, had not completely erased his traces and with the testimony of the guards that he visited Aemma with tea and took a long time there, as well as correspondence with an anonymous person that Aemma is not fit to be future queen, Runciter is interrogated and killed

• The maester conspiracy or more accurately Oldtown’s conspiracy is revealed after interrogating Runciter

• Baelon and Vaegon are furious but they have little proof of the treason because it’s only based on Runciter’s words. To avoid retaliation, they keep it secret but take precautions

• Dragonpit’s hatch is destroyed, leaving it forever open for the dragons to fly

• There are no more chains on dragons

• And the eggs are moved to Dragonstone

• Viserys is NOT made aware of the conspiracy because he has left for Dragonstone with his children right after Aemma’s funeral

• Baelon thinks Viserys is weak and won’t believe the conspiracy so he keeps him in the dark

• Little does Baelon and others know; Alicent had travelled with Viserys to Dragonstone under the guise of seeing her father, who had become steward of Dragonstone, and to comfort Viserys

• 3rd moon 107 AC Sewage system construction complete

• Time passes and everyone becomes busy with life again.

• 7th moon on Dragonstone Viserys sleeps with Alicent

• 8th moon Viserys returns to Kings Landing and announces he wishes to wed Alicent Hightower in front of the council

• Baelon is furious this wasn’t discussed beforehand

• He and Viserys have a fight afterward in private. Viserys mentions he already slept with her and promised to wed her

• Baelon is even more disappointed and he realises his eldest son has no mind for politics or leadership. Viserys will do whatever he wants and expect others to fall in line

• Baelon gives his son an impasse. If he marries Alicent, then he will denounce his claim to the throne. But if he picks a suitable match, preferably Laena Velaryon, then he can keep his inheritance.

• Viserys is sent back to Dragonstone to lament his choices

• Viserys is frustrated but has dreams that delude him into believing his and Alicent’s marriage is the future and that his father will either change his mind once their son is born, or the gods will interfere and his son will rise to become King one way or another.

• 8th moon 107 AC Daemon returns from war, he is informed of Viserys’s blunder by Baelon. Daemon informs Rhea and she is vengeful. She and Daemon agree to make Viserys impotent to avoid future children threatening Aemma’s girls

• Rhea and Daemon also try for another child to rub it in Alicent’s face

• 9th moon Viserys returns once the allocated time for him to think ends. He still chooses Alicent

• Baelon is disappointed but accepts

• Gael suggests a courting period since it hasn’t been a year since Aemma died

• It is agreed the wedding will occur 4th moon 108 AC

• 11th moon 107 AC Rhea falls pregnant

108 AC

• 1st moon 108 AC dosing Viserys with impotency tonic starts (takes 2-3 years to complete its effect)

• 3rd moon 108 AC Baelon takes the Targaryen children to Dragonstone under the guise of celebrating Rhaenyra, Gaemon and Alyssa's namedays. The family suspects he is introducing them to the dragons or even giving them eggs. Little does anyone know

• 3rd moon 108 AC Rhea arrives in Kings Landing to ‘help’ with wedding prep but is actually planning to dose Alicent with contraceptive tea

• 4th moon Viserys weds Alicent. Wedding has a lot of issues and Alicent is frustrated that Rhea is clearly pregnant and showing off. During the feast, Rhaenyra and Gaemon make a daring entrance as they are announced as the riders of Silverwing and Vermithor respectively

• Baelon makes announcement that Viserys wishes to step down from line of succession and is taking the name Belaerys and a new Keep called Summerhall near the Dornish Marches

• But to honour Viserys and Aemma, Rhaenyra is chosen as the next heir to the Iron Throne. The decision makes many uncomfortable, but since Baelon had a lot of power and was respected, they accepted to kneel for the time being. It helped that Rhaenyra was now betrothed to Gaemon, who would be supported by the Royces and Daemon (Caraxes) and the two had claimed the old king and queen’s dragons

• Three weeks after the wedding Rhea is confronted by Rhaenys. Rhea retaliates by shedding a new, harsh perspective on Rhaenys’s situation and disinheritance

• 5th moon 108 AC Daemon and Corlys head to Dorne to make deal with the Martells, to avoid them sparking a war for the Stepstones now that the islands were in Targaryen control

• During visit, Qoren is presented with Laena as a potential bride

• Qoren discusses his options and asks about Alyssa as well. Corlys is offended. He is already on the verge of rebellion due to his daughter and then son getting snubbed by Viserys and Rhaenyra

• Qoren notices this and also notes how Laena is also very offended and as proud as her father. Laena had also been denied a dragon. Qoren realises that the Velaryons were too dangerous to consolidate with. They were too ambitious and since this match would create a bond between the Dornish and Westeros, it needed to be founded on a peaceful and grounded relationship. Not on ambition. Qoren disliked the Targs, but he wasn’t stupid. Jaehaerys had managed to withstand two Dornish wars and Baelon and Daemon were two formidable dragon riders with more willingness for war. If Qoren were to provoke them, even if accidentally through Corlys, Dorne would face another war and this one might be deadly

• Qoren secretly makes up his mind to reject the match with Laena and request Alyssa’s hand instead

• 7th moon 108 AC Rhea goes into early labour at 34 weeks. She delivers Saera, Sansa and Yorbert Targaryen

• 8th moon 108 AC Alicent falls pregnant after Rhea stops supplying contraceptive tea. This is because Rhea and Daemon want to turn Alicent mad under the guise of pregnancy brain, to humiliate and punish House Hightower

109 AC

• Daella sent to the Eyrie to begin studying as Jeyne Arryn’s heir

• Alyssa officially becomes Qoren’s betrothed but they won’t meet until she turns 16

• Velaryons are insulted at the rejection but Corlys already had a contingency plan

• Life goes on, the North’s expanded fleet is announced to the crown. The North plans to expand from 60 ships (26 war galleys and 34 trading ships) to 250 ships (150 war galleys and 100 trading ships). This endeavour, along with reconstructing the North’s port cities (White Harbour, Deepwood Mott and Widow’s Watch) is predicted to take until 114 AC

• Meanwhile, Daemon and Rhea present the idea of renovating and expanding the roads of the Vale. They also suggest doing the same to the Crownlands and the Riverlands happen to be planning the same after they’re notified of the Vale’s plans

• 5th moon Helaena is born. Labour is fraught with issues due to  Alicent deteriorated mental state thanx to the poisoning by Rhea and Daemon. Alicent is disgusted at birthing a daughter and Viserys is disappointed

• Otto, seeing this, suggests that once Alicent heals, the couple go to Oldtown to get some space from the nobility

• Viserys agrees and 7th moon they travel to Oldtown

110 AC

• 3rd moon Gaemon and Alyssa move to Kings Landing. Gaemon to squire under the Kingsguard and Alyssa to be a lady-in-waiting to Rhaenyra

• During the year the road reconstruction in the Vale, Crownlands and Riverlands starts

• Laena marries Prince of Elyria

• 10th moon Alicent falls pregnant. Due to their household not coming with them to Oldtown, Brie isn’t able to continue poisoning Viserys with impotency serum for the time being nor give Alicent contraceptive tea

111 AC

• Continuation of road construction

• 3rd moon Alicent and Viserys return to Red Keep, and Alicent makes a show of her pregnancy to court during Rhaenyra’s nameday

• Laena gives birth to Princes Illyrio and Aemon of Elyria

• 7th day 7th moon Aegon is born to Viserys and Alicent. The couple makes a fuss and have the Septon come bless the child

• But only a week later on the 14th day of the 7th moon, Aegon dies from SIDs (Sudden Infantile Syndrome)

• Alicent has a mental breakdown and throws public accusations on Rhea who’s not even in Kings Landing

• Baelon and Gael rage at her but after begging from Otto, dismiss her mental state on her grief. But they demand that once Alicent heals, she and Viserys move to Summerhall (mostly done by then but needs another 2 years for outward structure to finish)

• Viserys and Alicent move to Summerhall by the end of the year

112 AC

• North begins reconstruction, expansion and renovation of their roads and keeps. Starting from the southern keeps 

• Otto discovers Brie had succeeded in rendering Viserys impotent

• Otto reconfigures his plans with this hurdle

• Otto had already been planning to raid the Eyrie with the help of Arnold Arryn since 109 AC after Daella was chosen as heir for Jeyne Arryn

• Otto decides to move the plan forward by a year (initially he planned to raid it while everyone was busy with Rhaenyra and Gaemon’s wedding in 114 AC)

113 AC

• Reach, Westerlands and Stormlands start reconstruction and expansion of their roads

• Crownlands and Riverlands roads complete

• Rhaenyra turns 16 and assumes full control of Dragonstone as her seat

• 9th moon the Eyrie is raided

• Rhaenyra and Gaemon participate in the war

• It takes two weeks for the war to end, and Arnold’s involvement is discovered by Joffrey Arryn

• Joffrey’s father fights Arnold and wins but loses his life to the injuries of the duel

• Daemon takes Joffrey in as a ward

• While everyone was busy in the war Otto managed to hire Ulf White, 22 years old, to perform as Alicent’s paramour behind Viserys’s back

• Laena gives birth to Prince Lucerys of Elyria

114 AC

• 5th moon Rhaenyra and Gaemon wed

• As an added gift, Gael announces the opening of Rhaenyra’s school on Visenya’s Hill

• 12th moon Alicent births a Jaehaerys Belaerys, a bastard from Ulf White

• Since Rhea and Daemon are unaware of Ulf’s involvement, and they know of Brie’s death, they think it might have been a blunder and Viserys’s seed still managed to impregnate Alicent

• 10th moon 114 AC Gaemon and Rhaenyra go on a progress; Vale, Riverlands, Westerlands, Iron Islands, North and then to Dorne—just before Alyssa and Qoren’s wedding

115 AC

• 7th moon Alyssa and Qoren’s wedding

Chapter Text

84 AC

The clouds above the Atlantic churned in shades of grey—vast, unending, and ominous. Melissa Stone sat hunched by the window of a half-empty aircraft, her hands wrapped loosely around a paper cup of lukewarm airline coffee. The sky outside was beginning to shift, turning restless as turbulence began to whisper its warnings. The overhead sign blinked to life again. Fasten seatbelts. The stewardess, face taut with an urgency she was trying to mask, moved briskly down the aisle.

It was Melissa’s first flight in over a year. Spain had been peaceful—sun-warmed afternoons and long walks during the quiet aftermath of lockdowns—but now, at last, she was heading home to Edinburgh, or at least what was left of a life waiting for her there.

Then came the shudder.

A low groan passed through the cabin, deep as a growl. The fuselage jolted, pitching downward hard enough to send trays flying and cups spilling scalding drinks into laps. Screams rose in scattered bursts. Melissa gripped the seat in front of her with white-knuckled desperation, heart thudding in her chest like a war drum. Another lurch followed—worse than the first—and then a silence so sharp it cut. No lights. No screaming. Just the darkness.

When she woke again, it wasn’t to beeping machines or the sterile air of a hospital ward. It was to cold linens and the dim glow of candlelight flickering across stone walls. Her skull pounded. Her skin was damp with sweat. She sucked in a sharp breath and found the air thick with wax, ash, and damp earth. She blinked rapidly and tried to sit up. Her limbs… they weren’t right. Too small. Her hands—soft, uncalloused, unfamiliar—trembled as she held them in front of her.

Somewhere nearby, someone sobbed. Another voice murmured prayers in a tongue half-familiar and half-forgotten.

“She’s burning, gods save her.”

“Will she die?”

“Quiet, Gerold. Let the maester work.”

A rough male voice snapped from across the chamber. Melissa—no, not Melissa anymore—felt the world pitch again, this time not with motion, but with the cruel clarity of memory. Or perhaps premonition. A name was whispered, laced with dread.

“Rhea…”

Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone, daughter of Lord Yorbert Royce, was in her sickbed on the sixth day of her fever, slipping ever closer to death. Four years old. Too young. Too loved. The maesters whispered prayers behind closed doors while her father kept vigil at her bedside, unwilling to accept that his long-awaited heir might slip away before she’d even grown into her name.

And then—she opened her eyes.

It was not a gentle return. Her body jerked upright, gasping, hands flailing as if breaking the surface of a cold lake. The chamber exploded with movement. The maester barked commands. Maids shrieked. And Lord Yorbert himself, broad-shouldered and bleary-eyed, charged in moments later and dropped to his knees beside her bed.

“My girl,” he breathed, clutching her close. “My precious girl.”

But something had changed.

Rhea Royce did not speak for a day. When she finally did, her voice was slow, deliberate, shaped by enunciation that no child her age should command. Her vocabulary stretched too far. Her questions were too sharp. Her eyes—those solemn, distant eyes—studied everything as if seeing it for the first time through a lens no one else could understand.

In the days that followed, her transformation became the whispered concern of every servant in Runestone. The little lady no longer played in the courtyard. She no longer chased birds or cried when scraped. Instead, she sat for hours in the solar, pouring over maps of Westeros she should barely be able to lift, lips pursed as she traced borders with inky fingers. She read tomes too advanced for squires, recited family lineages as if she’d memorised them before birth.

Melissa Stone had died somewhere over the Atlantic, of that she was sure. And yet, here she was. Reborn into a body too small, a name not her own, and a family who would one day sentence her to death for being a hindrance to a prince’s ambition.

But not this time. That fate would not be hers to suffer.

87 AC – 90 AC

She was nearly seven when she first met Aemma Arryn.

The Vale Lords had gathered for one of their biannual councils, this time at the Bloody Gate. Lord Yorbert had brought her along to observe—to learn. It was a rare opportunity, and Rhea dressed the part: wool and fur in proper Runestone colours, her posture prim and eyes alert.

Aemma was five. Pale, waif-like, and painfully shy. She clung to her nursemaid’s skirts, her voice a whisper even when prompted to speak. She could barely meet Rhea’s gaze.

But Rhea saw her.

Not as a child, but as a girl destined for the lion’s den. A chess piece the world would carve up and wear down. In that moment, Rhea decided she wouldn’t let it happen. Not again. She had watched the story unfold once—Aemma bleeding on the birthing bed, broken by a marriage she hadn’t chosen.

This time, she would have a friend. A shield.

That night, alone in her chamber with a single taper flickering beside her, Rhea crafted her first true strategy.

Aemma will not be shattered by this world.

The vow carried into her eighth nameday when she made a request that stunned her father and startled the court.

“I want to train with a sword,” she said.

Lord Yorbert arched a brow, his expression unreadable. “You are my heir, but a girl still. Why?”

“I must protect what is mine. And if I am ever left to defend it alone, I won’t rely on men who falter.”

He studied her for a long while. Then nodded.

“So be it.”

She bowed. “There is one more thing…”

Summer of 90 AC, Rhea travelled with her family to Oldtown for the wedding of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen to Lord Corlys Velaryon—a match of wealth, power, and quiet misery. Rhea did not wish to attend. Oldtown unsettled her: the Faith, the Citadel, the whispers of ambitions centuries in the making. She watched the dragons from afar, noting each face—Alysanne, frail but sharp-eyed; Viserys, soft and social; Daemon, still a boy but already sparking with mischief.

Regardless, that evening, cloaked in shadow behind one of Oldtown’s rose-marble colonnades, Rhea overheard a conversation that turned her stomach to ice.

“Ser Otto has concluded his studies at the Citadel,” said a portly man in Florent blue. “The betrothal to my niece Celyse has been confirmed.”

Celyse Florent.

Rhea’s mind raced. If Otto is not yet married, if Alicent is yet to be born…then this timeline…

It did not align. Not with Fire & Blood, at least.

But it did with House of the Dragon.

The implications settled over her like an avalanche.

Daemon would be worse here. And her own end—more brutal.

Rhea’s fingers clenched around the edge of her cloak.

No.

This would not be her ending.

By the end of 90 AC, with the first flakes of snow dusting Runestone’s peaks, Aemma Arryn stood beside Rhea in the training yard, bundled in furs.

“Must I learn the sword too?” she asked softly.

“Not if you don’t wish to,” Rhea replied.

Aemma smiled with relief. Rhea smiled back.

The game had already begun.

92 AC

In the early moons of 92 AC, news reached the Vale in the form of a raven. Prince Aemon Targaryen, eldest son of King Jaehaerys and heir apparent to the Iron Throne, had perished. He died as a dragonrider should, they said—valiant, defending Lord Tarth from a Myrish arrow. His dragon, Caraxes, had burned the enemy fleet into splinters, but fire could not bring back a son.

The realm mourned, or at least it tried. In truth, it reeled. Aemon was not only the king’s firstborn and heir; he had been the most stable Targaryen in the line—dutiful, even-tempered, and seasoned in court diplomacy. His death left a heavy void in the succession, and in the quiet corners of noble halls, lords and ladies began to whisper. They whispered of curses, of the Targaryens’ dwindling numbers, of the many deaths and scandals that had thinned their line over the last decade. Some called it ill fortune. Others called it the gods’ will. But all agreed: this would change everything.

And it did.

For in the days that followed, while King Jaehaerys drowned in his grief and Queen Alysanne withdrew into her solitude, a decision was made that would ignite a slow, smouldering fire across Westeros. The king named a new heir—Baelon, his second son and Aemon’s younger brother. Not Rhaenys, Aemon’s only child. Not the daughter of the dead Crown Prince, not the blood of his blood.

Baelon. A second son. A brother before a daughter.

The edict was delivered from the Iron Throne with a voice as cold as stone, a statement wrapped in pomp but hollow with betrayal. Jaehaerys declared it the will of the realm, the wisdom of tradition. A woman, he claimed, could not endure the burdens of rule. The Iron Throne required strength, clarity, masculine resolve. A daughter, he said, would fracture the kingdom.

In the eyes of many, it was a return to stability. The laws of inheritance had favoured men for generations untold—none spoke of the tradition naming daughters before uncles. For those who saw opportunity, this was a welcome precedent. But for others, especially in the courts and keeps that understood gender did not dictate capability, it was a blunder. Rhaenys had not only the blood, but the bearing. She was clever, composed, strong. And her snubbing, so blatant and so public, became a wound not easily bound.

In Runestone, Rhea Royce read the missive twice, once in disbelief and once in fury. She crumpled the parchment in her hand and flung it into the hearth, where it caught flame instantly. The fire spat and crackled, devouring the king’s seal like a beast. Rhea did not watch it burn. She turned away.

“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath. “Short-sighted, sanctimonious idiot.”

She paced the length of her bedchamber, the stone floor cold beneath her slippers. Her hands trembled, not with fear, but with the kind of fury that had no name. Jaehaerys the Wise, they called him. The Conciliator. The king who built roads, who unified laws, who strengthened the realm. But Rhea saw none of that now. She saw a man too weak to break a pattern, too arrogant to admit that the world had changed.

He’d rather polish his legacy with cobblestones and parchment than ensure his family didn’t rip itself apart from within.

“Build your roads,” she snapped aloud, though no one was in the room with her. “Stack your stone bridges. Let the women of your line rot so long as your court praises your foresight. Fool.”

She sat at the edge of the hearth, staring into the flames. Her fury was not just for Rhaenys, though she had grown to respect the Targaryen princess in spite of her disdain for dragons and crowns. It was for the precedent this set—for what it would mean in the years to come. If Jaehaerys could pass over a daughter so easily, what hope was there for any woman with a claim?

And then, there was Aemma.

Aemma Arryn, quiet and watchful, now eleven, still as gentle as ever but no longer quite so small. She had grown taller, more graceful. Her voice had begun to steady, and her smile came more easily than it once had. She prayed every morning and watched Rhea train in the yard, and though she did cower behind her septa, Rhea knew the court would find its way to her all the same.

Aemon’s death changed everything. With Baelon now heir and Viserys his eldest son, Rhea knew what would come next. Jaehaerys would look to solidify the line. Baelon was unlikely to remarry—his devotion to Alyssa was known. And so Viserys, second in line, would be pressed to marry. The moment the court remembered Aemma, they would descend like hawks.

Rhea rubbed her temple, her fingers pressing hard against her brow. Alysanne, ever the strategist, would suggest the match. It made sense—Viserys and Aemma were cousins, and Aemma was Arryn, pure and pliant. It would spare her youngest daughter Gael, who was two years older but seen as too fragile in both mind and body to weather the court. Alysanne would think it protection. But it would be a death sentence all the same.

Viserys, even as a boy, had shown signs of indulgence. He lacked vision. He preferred pleasures to policy. He had no real passion for rule, only for comfort. Rhea had watched him closely at court gatherings—he listened only to those who flattered him, smiled when praised, and sulked when corrected. He was not cruel, but he would never be strong. And he would never defend Aemma when the knives came out.

She would be alone. Vulnerable. And worst of all, bound.

Rhea clenched her jaw. There was no stopping the Targaryens from moving when they had made up their minds. Alysanne’s will was quiet, but unyielding. The queen would spin the betrothal as affection, as family unity, as stability in an uncertain time. And if Aemma resisted, she would be pressured—gently at first, and then not at all.

All Rhea could do was prepare her.

She found Aemma that evening in the library, poring over a volume of First Men history. The girl looked up when Rhea entered, her eyes bright with curiosity.

“Your line descended from Harren the Wardan, didn’t it?” Aemma asked softly.

Rhea nodded, her throat tightening. “Yes.”

Aemma’s fingers brushed over an illustration of a giant man with a bronze shield. “Some believe the First Men possess gifts like the Valyrians.”

Rhea moved closer, gently shutting the book. “Gifts or mayhap curses.”

Aemma tilted her head. “Is something wrong?”

“Not yet,” Rhea answered. “But I need you to listen. Carefully.”

The young girl straightened, eyes wide now. Rhea knelt beside her, took her hand.

“There will come a day when you are asked to do something you do not want to do. You will be told it is your duty. That it is for peace. That it is the right thing. And you must look at those words carefully—turn them over in your mind. Because not all duty is righteous. And not all peace is good.”

Aemma said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly: “You mean my marriage.”

Rhea’s lips thinned. “You do not have to say yes to the first man they propose.”

Aemma smiled gently, “Rhea, you are my dearest friend. But we have known our worldviews differed from the start.”

“Your mother and many women suffer from the birthing bed.”

”It is the Gods will. They choose to bless us or take from us,” Aemma replied without hesitation.

Rhea pursed her lips. She knew it was too difficult to convince Aemma otherwise.

93 AC

By 93 AC, the inevitable had arrived. The court’s mourning veil for Prince Aemon had long since been lifted, and now the realm turned its gaze toward legacy. With Baelon confirmed as the new Prince of Dragonstone, the succession seemed solid enough for now—but to the dragons of King’s Landing, it was never enough to name an heir. An heir needed an heir. And Viserys, eldest son of Baelon, was ripe for marriage. Six-and-ten, healthy, biddable, and Targaryen through and through. It was time.

The summons came in the third moon of the year. Word arrived at Runestone sealed with the Queen’s sigil, but Rhea did not need to read the parchment to know its contents. She had known this day would come from the moment Aemon died, but foreknowledge did little to dull the sting.

Aemma Arryn was to be escorted to the capital to be courted by Prince Viserys. The wedding would take place in Oldtown, seven moons hence—just one moon after Aemma’s eleventh nameday.

Rhea stared at the letter until the ink blurred. The words weren’t cruel, not in tone. There was no command, no threats. Only soft phrases: “It is hoped the Lady Aemma might find joy at court…” and “the Crown would be most honoured…” and “a union between two branches of the blood will bring great harmony…”

Harmony. There was no harmony in binding a child to a man.

When Yorbert brought the letter to Aemma in sitting room, the girl smiled obediently and glanced at Rhea with triumph.

“I am honoured,” Aemma said happily.

“You don’t have to,” Rhea interrupted, her voice too sharp. “Gods, you’re not even—” She stopped herself, biting down on her tongue so hard it nearly bled. Yorbert glared at his daughter’s discourtesy.

“I am one-and-ten.” Aemma spoke as if addressing a child. “Many are betrothed at my age. The marriage is simply a formality.”

In truth, Rhea already knew she could not stop the wedding. If Queen Alysanne had made up her mind, then not even Jaehaerys would object, and Baelon certainly wouldn’t. There was too much Targaryen pride at stake now, and no one wanted to look back to Rhaenys’s snubbing and see weakness. They would bind Aemma and Viserys quickly, publicly, and with all the pomp necessary to hide what it truly was: convenience.

But if Rhea could not stop it, perhaps she could soften it. Just enough.

That night, she stayed up long after Aemma had gone to bed. The fire in their chamber was low, but the coals still glowed, and she sat beside them with charcoal-stained fingers, sketching by candlelight. She’d always been a talented artist—Melissa had loved to draw growing up, and though she’d chosen science over fine arts, her father’s teachings lingered. Her mind conjured steel instruments she’d seen him handle. She did not know their exact weight or metallic makeup, but she remembered their form and function. And images from her medical books provided enough context.

She drew carefully, slowly, checking every angle twice. A speculum first—its curved, scissorlike arms, the widening hinge. Then a pair of forceps, rounded at the ends to grip a newborn’s skull without crushing it. On the back of each parchment, she wrote detailed instructions—hygiene, use, storage, purpose.

It would not be a revolution. The maesters of Westeros would not bow to knowledge sketched by a child. But she didn’t need all of them. She needed just one. One curious mind in the Citadel willing to test and adapt. One link in the chain to take this seed and see it grow.

She folded the pages tightly, sealed them with plain wax, and wrapped them in wool.

She had not signed the parchments. She hadn’t dared. A girl claiming knowledge above a maester’s would be called a witch, a liar, or worse. Even her own name—Royce—would not shield her from the Crown’s suspicion if they learnt what she had done. But if her cousin, Orys, read them carefully… if he understood their use… perhaps when the time came, Aemma’s labours would not end in agony. Perhaps she would live.

That hope had to be enough.

By the tenth moon of 93 AC, the bells of Oldtown tolled again, and the people gathered beneath the Hightower to witness a royal union.

Prince Viserys Targaryen, in gold-threaded velvet, stood tall and flushed with pride. His bride barely reached his shoulder. She wore a pale gown of Arryn blue, her hair braided back with white winter roses, and her smile shone brighter than a summer’s sky.

She had not flowered. Her body was still girlish, slender, and unformed. And yet she was called wife.

The court praised the match—two Valyrian lines reunited, the future of the Crown secured. There were feasts and songs, acrobats and fountains of sweetwine. The Hightowers spared no expense.

Rhea stood in the crowd, cloaked and silent, watching the procession with hollow eyes. She had not been given a place in the royal party—Runestone was a proud but modest house, and Rhea was still seen as little more than a clever girl from the Vale. But she watched, nonetheless.

She watched as Aemma’s hand was placed in Viserys’s.

She watched as the vows were spoken, as the Septon droned on about duty and unity and the will of the Seven.

She watched as Aemma naively basked in the revelry and praise.

And in her pocket, Rhea clenched her gloves so tightly her fingers ached.

When it was done, and the dancing began, she slipped away from the crowd and walked alone along the outer wall of the Hightower. The stars were beginning to emerge—pale, distant, cold.

She wondered if Orys had received the package.

She wondered if he had understood.

She wondered if it would be enough.

94 AC – 95 AC

Back in Runestone, with the firelit halls restored to their quiet rhythm, Rhea began to think. Not with grief. Not with rage. With purpose.

She could no longer rely on simple acts of goodwill, nor merely prepare her friend for the cruelty of a future that had already begun to unfold. The game had moved beyond protection and into position. She had no illusions about what the years ahead would bring. If the Dance was inevitable—and she had yet to find evidence it was not—then neutrality would only spell death. Survival required leverage. Leverage required knowledge. And knowledge in Westeros was currency bought not with coin, but whispers.

It began as a question she posed to herself nightly: How do I keep my life from becoming his to take? She knew Daemon Targaryen was watching the world already. He was still a boy, but boys became men too quickly in the Red Keep, and Daemon, unlike his brother, did not idle. He would soon hunger for more than tournaments and dragonflame. And when that time came, Runestone—her lands, her name, her person—would be placed before him like meat before a hound. A Targaryen prince with no trueborn match? What better than a Royce, proud and old, with a wide swath of mountain territory and a reputation for stubborn honour?

She could not refuse the marriage without cause. But she could prepare for it. Or perhaps even twist it to her advantage.

So, in 94 AC, Rhea Royce began planning for the day her name might be traded like coin. Not to avoid the marriage, necessarily—though every fibre of her being recoiled from the thought—but to ensure that if it happened, she would not go into it blind. If she were to become a prince’s wife, then let her be the one holding the knife beneath the table.

The question, then, was how to build a network of her own—something not so grand as Varys would one day command, but sturdy enough to support her when the tide turned. She remembered enough from her old life—Melissa had read the books a few times, and Littlefinger had exploited a predictable truth: men talked when they were buried in vice. Sex, drink, and false confidence loosened lips better than coin ever could.

But whores were not loyal. Not in the way knights and maids could be. They sold to the highest bidder, and often to multiple bidders at once. Rhea would need to be precise. Choose carefully. Pay well. Never show her full hand.

And so she began.

By the end of 94 AC, Rhea had quietly identified a handful of names—mostly commonfolk in unfavourable circumstances. A young whore at the city’s renowned brothel. One orphan boy who worked in the rookery stables. A washerwoman who came from Pentos. She sent them coin through intermediaries and offered simple tasks.

She asked for little, but she paid in silver and insurance. And in return, she built something that might, one day, be worth calling a network.

It was not enough. But it was a beginning.

Then came 95 AC.

At the end of the first moon Rhea received a letter from Aemma. The handwriting was careful as always—Aemma took her correspondence seriously, having always viewed written words as something sacred—but the contents made Rhea’s stomach twist.

She had flowered.

Rhea read the line three times. Aemma had written it plainly, even with a strange sense of pride, as if she hoped Rhea might be pleased. But all Rhea could feel was dread. Viserys would not wait. No matter how many maesters or septas urged him to give his young wife time to mature, he would see only a door now opened.

And, just as Rhea feared, the next letter confirmed it. He had bedded her.

There was no cruelty in the missive, no bruises or bloody confessionals. Aemma never lied, but she softened things, dulled the edges. “He was kind,” she wrote. “It hurt, but he said I was brave.” Rhea pressed the parchment to her chest and closed her eyes, breathing through her fury.

Brave.

Two-and-ten, and she was already being praised for enduring pain in silence.

Rhea sat in her study that night long after the candles burnt low. She wrote nothing. She only stared at the fire and thought of everything she could not undo.

But she was not without weapons. And if she could not pull Aemma from the fire, she could still send water to the flames.

Toward the end of that year, with her quiet channels through the Vale finally beginning to function, Rhea made her boldest move yet. She penned a letter on dark parchment with no seal, no name, and only the thinnest veil of suggestion.

It was to Lys.

Or rather, to a particular Targaryen in exile there.

Saera.

The disgraced daughter of Jaehaerys. Cast out, discarded, and forgotten. But not stupid. Not broken.

In her old life, Melissa had hated Saera’s fate—banished for acting as many young men at court did with impunity, disowned for defying a patriarchal script. But here, now, Rhea saw opportunity. If Saera responded—and that was a great if—there was no telling what might come of it. Allies in exile were the most dangerous kind, because they had nothing left to lose.

The letter made no mention of dragons, or blood, or court. Only a simple note about shared interests, shared enemies, and a question: “What would you do, if they hadn’t told you who to be?”

Alana, her whore associate, sent it with a shipmaster bound for Lys, slipped it into the bottom of a spice crate. It would take weeks, moons even. But if Saera answered… the game would shift.

In the eleventh moon of 95 AC, word arrived from King’s Landing. Aemma had gone into labour early. Too early.

Rhea’s heart seized as she read the letter—not from Aemma this time, but from one of her paid eyes near the Red Keep. The birth had come fast and painful. The child, a boy, had not lived through the night.

Aemma’s body had survived. Her spirit had not.

Rhea rode to the cliffs alone that evening and screamed into the sea. Not out of helplessness—she had long learnt to swallow that—but from the pure injustice of it. Aemma was still a child herself. She had no business burying her own son. No business carrying such a weight. The girl who had once flinched at loud voices now sat in the shadows of the royal court, bleeding and alone.

Rhea wrote to her the next morning. She didn’t speak of the babe, or of Viserys, or of grief. She simply wrote, “You are allowed to rest. You are allowed to stop pretending you are not in pain. You are allowed to be more than what they make of you.”

She folded the parchment and sent it through the rookery with her own seal.

She knew Viserys wouldn’t wait. The moment Aemma’s bleeding stopped, he’d come to her again.

But Rhea still held out hope that maybe, just maybe, Aemma would choose to argue with him.

96 AC

In the first moons of 96 AC, Aemma’s letters came with less frequency and more hesitation. The tone was flat. The words measured. It wasn’t until the third moon that Rhea was made aware as to why; Aemma had fallen pregnant again.

It had happened swiftly—only two moons since her loss, and already the Viserys demanded another. Rhea read the parchment in silence, her fingers white against the edge. There was no need for guesses this time. Only a few weeks in and the bleeding happened. The pregnancy ended on its own. Aemma had signed the letter simply: “It was not meant to be.”

Rhea burnt the letter after reading it twice. Then she returned to her solar and began a new one—not to Aemma, but to Lys.

In the months that followed, her correspondence with Saera Targaryen deepened beyond coy phrases and anonymous ink. At first, Saera had tested her. The letters came back with riddles and insults, laced with flirtation and veiled threat. But Rhea had replied in kind, never offended, always careful. She knew how to speak to the fallen daughter of a great house. Saera wanted recognition. Rhea offered it. She wanted attention, admiration, validation—Rhea provided each in measured doses. And when the moment felt right, she mentioned the Rogares.

A powerful family in Lys. Bankers and merchants, yes—but more than that. They had ships. They had reach. And they had daughters.

Saera took the bait.

By the ninth moon of the year, Aemma confirmed yet another pregnancy. And for the first time, she asked for something that startled Rhea:

“Come to Dragonstone.”

The letter was longer than most. Aemma spoke of the move—Viserys had agreed to relocate at the urging of Queen Alysanne and Septon Barth, who both believed that space from the capital might provide the peace Aemma needed to conceive a healthy babe. “The air is quieter here,” she wrote. “The stones warmer. I can breathe again.” But still, she was afraid. Her last child had died before they could even become. She did not want to be alone, not again. She wanted her friend.

Rhea read the letter once, then again. She folded it neatly, placed it beside her tea, and stared at the flame dancing in her hearth. For the first time in years, she hesitated.

It wasn’t Aemma’s condition that gave her pause—it was who she would find waiting. Baelon, Viserys, and worst of all… Alysanne.

She had kept herself to the edges of court for a reason. As long as her face was just a name in a marriage contract, she could manoeuvre. But once they met—once Alysanne laid eyes on her—it would begin. The betrothal. The binding.

But Aemma had asked.

And Rhea could never refuse her, not for this.

A week later, after packing what she could and saying goodbye to her father her, she boarded a ship bound for Dragonstone.

The voyage took eight days. The wind was sharp, the skies heavy with storms, and by the time the black silhouette of the island rose from the horizon, Rhea was half-sick with anticipation and salt. Dragonstone was no paradise. The sand was dark, almost ash-like, and the air carried the smell of sulphur.

It was certainly no Hawaii.

Rhea was escorted to the keep by a silent guard. The halls were warm, built with that same curious Valyrian stone that held heat without fire. The dragon motifs—always so large, so arrogant—lined every wall. As she was led to Aemma’s chambers, her heart began to hammer, though she kept her face composed.

And then the door opened.

Aemma sat by the window, wrapped in layers of soft blue silk, her belly only just beginning to round. She looked up, and her smile was instant and radiant.

“Rhea,” she breathed.

But Rhea barely heard her. Because beside her stood Queen Alysanne, serene and sharp-eyed, Viserys leaning too comfortably against the wall, and beside him, Princess Gael, all quiet nerves and curiosity.

So much for a private reunion.

Rhea curtsied low, keeping her eyes down. “Your Graces.”

Aemma rose and crossed the room, pulling her into a soft embrace. Her skin was cold. Not simply from the sea air, but deeper—something inside her was no longer burning as it should. When Rhea pulled back, she took in her friend fully and felt her stomach twist.

Aemma’s skin had taken on an unnatural pallor, and her hair—though braided and perfumed—looked limp. Her face was thinner, cheekbones too prominent, and her eyes…

They were sunken. Tired. Hollow.

Viserys looked her over as one might assess a hound, and Rhea felt her hands curl into fists.

They made small conversation for a time. Alysanne asked her age—sixteen soon—and inquired about her prospects. Rhea gave the answer that had been prepared long ago.

“I am betrothed, Your Grace. The match is set for the coming year.”

The Queen only nodded, but her expression lingered too long.

But in that instance, seeing Aemma’s state, Rhea found herself uncaring.

Three weeks passed.

Rhea stayed in Dragonstone, offering Aemma every kindness she could. She brushed her hair. She read to her. She kept her warm when the sea winds turned bitter. She never mentioned the dead child, nor the bleeding, nor Viserys.

But on the twenty-fifth day, everything shifted.

Lord Yorbert Royce arrived, announced with fanfare and a letter clasped in his hand. Alysanne had summoned him. Of that, Rhea had no doubt. She confronted her father privately, but Yorbert stood firm.

“You are still my charge, Rhea. And don’t act like this. You know you will not find a better match than a prince.”

Her fury boiled, but she said nothing.

Instead, she prepared her contingency.

Three days later, Daemon Targaryen arrived on dragonback.

He was taller than she remembered. Sharper. His eyes held a shadow that no boy should carry, and when he looked at her across the hall for the first time, she knew. Something was different.

They were made to walk together, with Viserys and Gael trailing behind as chaperones. On one such walk, while Gael chatted idly and Viserys stared off toward the cliffs, Rhea slipped a small piece of parchment into Daemon’s hand.

He took it without blinking.

But, for three days, nothing changed.

Then, on the fourth night, her door creaked open.

She looked up from her book, startled. “You—?”

“Your guard is asleep,” Daemon said coolly. “Sweetsleep in his wine.”

Rhea stood slowly. “You drugged him?”

“I had questions.”

He held the letter in his hand.

She didn’t deny it. Instead, she gestured to the sofa. “Sit.”

He did.

When she spoke, it was in High Valyrian.

That made him blink. Then grin.

They talked. Rhea explained the letter—that their marriage need not be a prison. That she knew of a Valyrian woman in Lys. That she had no desire to shackle him, nor any illusions about romance.

He listened. Then asked, “And what of you? Would your bed remain empty while mine is filled?”

She gave him a tight smile. “If you wish to not be my partner, then Valyrian men are plenty in Essos.”

Daemon’s eyes widened and gleamed with a dangerous spark. Then, he burst into loud, wicked laughter. “You’re not how I remember my Bronze Bitch.”

She froze. “What did you say?”

He didn’t hesitate. “You’re different. She would never have said any of this.”

Rhea swallowed. Fear rising in her chest. “You...? You remember?”

“Ah. My Bronze Bitch was a shackle I had to break. The sound of her skull cracking had brought me so much delight.” He said it like a fact, not a threat. Serving to only make him scarier.

Rhea felt petrified. Unsure of how to respond.

Daemon didn’t seem to care as he continued. “A few weeks back, I believe when Aemma conceived Rhaenyra, memories began to surge through my dreams.”

This snapped her back. Her brows furrowed. “I got my memories at age four. After suffering a fever.”

He raised a brow. “But you are not Rhea. At least not the wife I knew.”

“Yes. I was born generations after you.” Rhea knew this was the most she could say.

Thankfully, Daemon didn’t press. That alone told her he believed her.

They spoke until dawn.

Of Aemma. Of Rhaenyra. Of Baelon.

They both agreed: the war must be avoided. Aemma’s blood must rule. Baelon must live.

For the first time, Rhea felt less alone.

And when Daemon stood to leave, he said, “We’ll do it together.”

And she believed him.

97 AC

In 97 AC, on the twenty-fifth day of the second moon, the capital once more roared with celebration. King’s Landing had hosted many grand events in the long reign of Jaehaerys the Conciliator, but this one—though smaller in scale—was still loud, glittering, and suffocating.

Rhea Royce wed Prince Daemon Targaryen.

The match had not drawn the same awe as Aemma’s union with Viserys. Daemon, after all, was only a second son. A known troublemaker. A boy with fire behind his eyes and ambition barely disguised. So while the lords of the Crownlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands answered the call, the Stormlords and Westerlands sent only a token few. The Reach abstained apart from those already present at court, and the North did not even acknowledge the summons.

It did not matter. The capital dressed in crimson and gold regardless, and for three days the city belonged to music and revelry. Jugglers and fire-breathers stalked the squares, and dancers from across Essos wove their hips to the beat of hammered drums. The wedding feast spilled from the Red Keep into the lower city. There were no fewer than two hundred guests, though only a few dozen ever looked at the bride.

Rhea wore bronze and black, her gown embroidered with the runes of House Royce and lined with pale gold that caught the light like stars. She stood beside her new husband, smiling when necessary, dancing once, drinking little.

Daemon played his part with boyish arrogance, full of swagger and sly smiles. He toasted his new bride with words sharp enough to raise brows—“To my lady of stone, who did not crumble”—and Rhea raised her goblet with equal ease, replying, “To my lord of fire, may he not burn too hot for his own good.”

They did not touch more than necessary. Nor did they retire to a marriage bed.

Behind closed doors, Daemon reminded her of their agreement.

“If we can save my father,” her said quietly, “perhaps he will reward us. Perhaps this marriage need not be our cage.”

Rhea nodded. “And if we save Gael, in time you’ll have a Valyrian bride.”

Daemon’s gaze turned melancholic. He had come to terms that his previous choices—his previous children—would not exist.

Rhea noticed but did not push.

By the fourth day, the city returned to its usual unrest, and the newlyweds boarded a ship back to Dragonstone. Aemma’s pregnancy had reached its final weeks, and though the maesters whispered optimism, Rhea trusted her own eyes far more than their words.

On the night of the fifth day of the third moon, Aemma Arryn went into labour.

It began at sunrise—soft moans that turned into sharp, breathless cries. Rhea was in her own bedchamber, preparing for the day, when the first scream echoed through the keep. She did not wait for a summons. She threw on a cloak and made her way to Aemma’s chamber with calm steps and a clenched jaw.

The labour lasted seven hours.

Rhea never left her side. She bathed Aemma’s brow, held her hand, whispered old prayers in the girl’s ear. Maester Gerardys presided with practiced hands, and three midwives did their part, but it was Rhea who kept Aemma breathing.

When the babe finally emerged—a girl, flushed and wailing and red with new life—Rhea stood in stunned silence.

Rhaenyra.

The name hadn’t been spoken yet, but she knew. She knew.

Aemma sobbed quietly as the babe was placed in her arms, too exhausted to do more than smile weakly. Her body trembled beneath the sweat-soaked sheets. She had lost too much blood. Her skin had gone pale again, lips dry and eyes glassy.

Rhea took one look at her and felt fury bloom like fire beneath her ribs.

Three days later, when Aemma had regained enough strength to sit up and sip broth, Rhea confronted her.

She shut the door to the chamber and sat at the edge of the bed.

“You’re killing yourself,” she said plainly.

Aemma blinked at her. “I’m recovering.”

“No,” Rhea said, sharp now. “You’re surviving. That’s different. You bleed and break and tell yourself it’s your duty, and then you do it again.”

Aemma’s face fell, eyes wet with hurt.

“Hope is not a virtue when it makes you a martyr,” Rhea continued, softer now. “You want to give Viserys a son. Fine. But not like this. Not when your body is wasting. If you want a child, give yourself a chance to carry it properly. Rest. Recover. Live.”

Silence fell between them.

Then Aemma whispered, “I thought… if I didn’t try, I’d be failing.”

“Death is failure,” Rhea said grimly. “A strong babe needs a strong mother.”

She left the room without another word.

Two weeks passed.

Then one morning, Aemma called for her.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, eyes clear for the first time in moons. “And Brie—she spoke sense too. What you said. You were right.”

Rhea said nothing—only waited.

Aemma hesitated. “Do you still have that tea?”

Rhea nodded once. “Always.”

This time, Aemma drank it.

Eight weeks after Rhaenyra’s birth, with Aemma resting and Viserys preoccupied with his new daughter, Rhea and Daemon departed on what was officially described as a diplomatic tour of the Free Cities.

They took three Royce knights for protection, two maids, and very little ceremony.

Their true aim was more ambitious.

The journey took nearly a year.

They visited Myr, where the streets gleamed with coloured glass and the whispers of war stirred along the docks. In Tyrosh, Daemon fought a duel over an insult made to Rhea’s house—though she later learned he had provoked it on purpose, hoping to test a new blade. In Lys, they dined with three Rogare cousins, and Rhea met Lothora at last—eighteen, beautiful, bored, and entirely too clever. She made no secret of her interest in Daemon. Nor her awareness of Rhea’s role.

The journey was not without horror. Slavery was everywhere—chained children, branded men, auction blocks disguised as markets. Even Pentos, which still clung to its independence, had its share of the trade. Rhea kept her fury behind a mask, but every step through those cities reminded her of what Westeros had been and what world she could have been born to.

And yet, they found what they sought.

In Volantis, they met a priestess of the Fourteen Flames—an older woman with flame-kissed eyes and tattoos down her arms. She looked at Daemon and Rhea and smiled.

“You walk strange paths,” she said. “But you walk them together.”

She spoke of visions—Baelon surviving, a girl with the blood of flame rising above them all, a firestorm diverted by a woman with runes on her heart. She agreed to travel west with them, to aid in the coming trial.

And in Norvos, hidden among the hills, they found a midwife with hands gentler than air. She knew how to turn a breech child, to calm a womb, to slow bleeding without bloodletting. She asked no questions. Only nodded when Rhea paid her weight in silver.

By the time they returned to Westeros, the war had not yet begun. But the board had changed.

The pieces were moving.

And Rhea Royce was ready.

98 AC – 100 AC

In the spring of 98 AC, Daemon Targaryen stood in the shadow of the Red Keep and made an unusual request.

He wanted command of the City Watch.

The idea was met with scepticism by some—after all, the prince was known for his fire, not his discipline. But Jaehaerys, ever practical, remembered how Aemon had once spoken of Daemon’s cunning, and Baelon, surprisingly, offered his support. “Let him try,” the heir said. “Let him do something other than pace the court like a bored cat.”

Permission was granted.

And within a moon, Daemon had begun reshaping the Watch in his own image.

He trained them in new tactics, introduced harsher patrol routes, demanded uniform weapons and gifted them gold cloaks. What had once been a loose band of lazy sentries became something closer to a standing force. Crime didn’t disappear—King’s Landing was too wild for that—but it grew quieter. More cautious.

In private, Daemon moved on another front.

One evening, he found Gael Targaryen alone in the gardens, her embroidery in her lap, half-finished.

She looked up nervously, but Daemon only smiled. “You’re not married yet.”

Gael flushed. “Mother says I must wait.”

“She says many things,” Daemon replied, voice light. “But she won’t live forever.” Gael’s eyes widened, and he softened his tone. “You are young. You’ll still have your children. Just wait. Be patient. The gods haven’t forgotten you.”

She nodded slowly, clutching her thread.

It wasn’t much. But it was more kindness than anyone else had given her.

Later that year, Daemon raised a new idea before the Small Council. A sewage system for King’s Landing.

He described it plainly—underground tunnels, drainage lines, waste channels directed to the Blackwater Rush. No more excrement on the cobbles. No more pestilence. The council blinked. The King sat up. Even Baelon tilted his head.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” Jaehaerys asked.

Daemon shrugged. “Since I began walking the alleys.”

The proposal stirred debate. But with the royal coffers full, and the stench of the city reaching even the throne room, the King gave his assent.

“Draw the plans,” Jaehaerys said. “We’ll see what the city can become.”

By the dawn of 99 AC, architectural sketches for the sewage system had begun circulating among the guilds of King’s Landing. Rhea received a copy through one of her spies in the city—a crude but earnest start. She kept the drawing in her study at Runestone, smiling slightly at the prince’s acquiescence to her suggestion.

Though her thoughts soon shifted elsewhere.

Letters from Dragonstone had grown more anxious. Viserys had begun to wonder aloud why Aemma wasn’t pregnant. He had, in his generosity, given her over a year of peace after Rhaenyra’s birth. But now he asked questions in bed. His smiles were thinner. His hands more insistent.

Aemma, for her part, continued to drink the contraceptive tea. She said nothing to her husband. But in her letters to Rhea, she admitted she had no regrets.

“I’m only just beginning to feel alive again,” she wrote. “My skin warms in the sun. My knees no longer tremble when I rise. I had forgotten what strength felt like.”

The priestess of the Fourteen Flames, still residing in a quiet chamber near the sea tower, had proven invaluable. Her tonics were bitter but effective. Her massages soothed the muscles torn by childbirth. She spoke in riddles, but her gaze was clear. Aemma, once sceptical, had grown fond of her.

“She says the body remembers pain,” Aemma wrote. “But it also remembers how to heal. I believe her.”

Work on the sewage system began in the early moons of 100 AC.

It was slow—stonecutters and planners argued constantly—but it had begun.

Daemon thrived in his role. He patrolled in person, reprimanded lazy guards, introduced coded whistles between night patrols. His methods were harsh, but no one could deny their results. He was promoted to Vice-Captain by midyear.

Meanwhile, in Runestone, Rhea continued her duties as Lady. Her court was orderly, her decisions sharp. But behind the walls, her councillors whispered.

No child. No heir. And her husband—though he visited for one week every moon—left no trace of intimacy.

Yorbert Royce said nothing aloud, but Rhea could see the disapproval in his eyes. She said nothing in return.

She had chosen this path. Let them whisper.

Along with the sewage system, a news arrived from Dragonstone.

Aemma was pregnant.

Thankfully, the pregnancy was smoother than the last. The priestess brewed new tonics. The midwife—brought in secret by Rhea from Norvos—stayed close at hand, posing as a chambermaid. Aemma still tired easily, but her colour held. Her appetite returned.

Rhea stayed for the duration.

She didn’t trust Viserys to care for her friend. And Aemma, by now, no longer questioned Rhea’s authority in her chamber.

Then, on the eighth moon of 100 AC, the labour began.

This time, it did not drag.

In five hours, Aemma Arryn gave birth to a healthy, squalling son.

He was red and loud and perfect.

They named him Daelyn, after Aemma’s mother, Princess Daella—sweet and soft-spoken, who had died too young.

Aemma wept with joy. Not the quiet, grateful sobs of survival, but the full, body-shaking tears of someone who had finally been allowed to win.

Queen Alysanne, old now and walking with aid, kissed the babe’s head and declared him blessed. Word was sent to the capital at once.

When the news reached the Red Keep, Jaehaerys was deeply relieved. Baelon even smiled. In what felt like decades, the Targaryen line appeared to strengthen once again.

And in the quiet corner of the chamber, Rhea Royce sat with a hand on Aemma’s knee and a steady gaze on the babe.

She felt relief. Yes. But not joy.

When Viserys arrived later that evening, puffed up with pride and blinded by triumph, Rhea said nothing.

She only reminded Aemma, once the room had cleared, that strength was not permanent. “You’ve won this round,” she said gently. “But don’t let that man make you forget what it cost.”

Aemma looked down at her son, then nodded. “I won’t,” she whispered. “I promise.”

101 AC

101 AC dawned bright and unassuming, yet the year would mark a turning point in the fate of the realm.

The royal family gathered for a hunt in the Kingswood to celebrate the naming of Baelon as Hand. Lush tents were raised, silver platters gleamed, and the laughter of lords echoed through the trees. From the Vale came Rhea and Daemon, dressed in quiet elegance, their dynamic well-practiced now: cooperative, cordial, polished.

Unseen, the priestess of the Fourteen Fires moved silently through the festivities. She had been part of Aemma’s household since 98 AC and was now accepted as a distant Essosi lady-in-waiting with peculiar habits. Her knowledge of herbs and healing had earned her grudging respect from maesters, though her presence still unnerved the pious.

While the lords drank and the children played, Daemon slipped a small vial from his sleeve into his father’s goblet.

The liquid was clear, odorless, and quickly forgotten.

At the end of the hunt, Baelon Targaryen, the Spring Prince, began to falter. His steps slowed. His face flushed with fever. His hand trembled as he reached for the reins of his horse. By the time they returned to the Red Keep, he could no longer walk unaided.

Maesters crowded his chambers. By the next day, they diagnosed him with inflamed belly. An illness that could result in a burst belly. A fatal injury.

Daemon remained by his father’s side.

So did the priestess.

Unseen by the royal physicians, Daemon slipped the first of the priestess’s tonics into Baelon’s broth that very night. She had requested a sacrifice at Runestone weeks prior—a horse, strong and spirited, whose life force would empower the healing. The magic she used was subtle, nothing flashy or flame-wreathed, but drawn from ancient rites passed down through her temple.

For three days, Baelon declined. His breath rasped. His skin turned a sickly yellow.

Even Jaehaerys feared the end had come.

But on the fourth day, the fever broke.

And on the fifth, Baelon opened his eyes and asked for water.

It took another ten days for him to regain full strength, but the court’s grief turned to astonishment. Maesters whispered of miracles. Jaehaerys wept openly at his son’s bedside. Alysanne clutched her husband’s hand for the first time in years.

Only Daemon and Rhea understood the cost of that miracle.

And in the giddy haze of triumph, Daemon found himself unable to hold back.

He went to Rhea that night, still flushed with the victory of cheating death. Rhea welcomed him with a gentle smile and understanding eyes. They said nothing for a while—the faint spring-wind flowing from the window the only sound in the chamber. And then, as if pulled by some invisible tether, Daemon moved toward her.

His kiss was not tender.

It was desperate. Fierce. Full of relief.

They did not speak of their arrangement. Or of annulments. Or of duty.

They simply gave in to something raw.

The next morning, Rhea avoided him.

Daemon, for his part, was too absorbed in his father’s recovery to notice—or pretended not to. By the time she returned to Runestone and he to the barracks, his mind was occupied entirely elsewhere.

He drafted a proposal for permanent command of the City Watch. Within days, the King approved it. Vice-Captain no longer—Daemon Targaryen was now Commander.

Two moons passed

In Runestone, Rhea gazed blankly at her closest handmaid, Emilie. Her courses had not come. Not last moon. Not this one. Emily had said.

Rhea tried denying it. Prayed. Rechecked her calculations. Tried to blame stress…The travel.

But the truth settled in her gut like stone.

She was pregnant.

The fear came slowly, not in a single wave but in creeping fingers—fear of failure, of pain, of dying as Aemma nearly had. Fear that Daemon would see her condition as a trap. That he would demand annulment again. Or worse—regret what they had shared.

Sadly, there was little leeway around it. After three days of silent panic, Rhea finally sent the raven.

Five days later, Daemon arrived on dragonback, descending into Runestone like a storm.

Rhea met him beneath the heart tree, where no servant dared follow.

She didn’t waste time. “I’ve missed my courses. Twice.”

Daemon’s eyes widened.

Then—shockingly—he smiled. Broad and full of teeth.

“Well,” he said, stepping forward, “I always knew my seed was strong.”

Rhea let out a disbelieving huff. “You smug bastard.”

She smacked his chest, but he only laughed—and pulled her into an embrace.

Then she looked up at him, serious now.

“Are you truly alright with this?” she asked quietly. “You know we can’t undo it. No annulment now.”

Daemon’s smile softened.

“I haven’t thought about annulment in moons,” he said. “You’re not the Rhea I remember. And I’ve had my Valyrian wives already. Maybe… I want something else this time.”

Rhea’s heart jumped—once.

“I’m afraid,” she admitted. “Of childbirth. Of not surviving.”

Daemon brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then I’ll stay. I won’t leave your side. And if it comes to it—I won’t choose the babe over you.”

It was the best promise he could give.

At sixteen weeks, the pregnancy could no longer be hidden. Rhea’s maids began whispering. Her gowns were let out. Her appetite increased.

Ravens were sent to Kings Landing and Dragonstone.

Aemma and Viserys arrived two weeks later, with a small retinue and their two children.

They made a show of offering support—Rhea’s help in both of Aemma’s pregnancies had not been forgotten. The official story was that Rhea and Daemon had chosen to wait until she was older and more prepared before conceiving. The reality was more complicated. But the nobles of Runestone accepted it. Even Yorbert seemed pleased.

Aemma, though happy for her friend, could not hide the twinge of bitterness that rose when she saw Rhea’s glow.

“You waited,” she murmured one night, as they sat together with tea. “You had time. And he waited for you.”

Rhea reached over and took her hand. “And now you have two children,” she said gently. “You survived. That’s what matters.”

Aemma smiled. “Yes… but it still hurts sometimes.”

Rhea nodded. “I know.”

On the fourteenth day of the first moon of 102 AC, after eleven hours of labor, Rhea Royce gave birth to a healthy son.

He came into the world with brown curls, wide lungs, and a grip that made the maester chuckle.

Daemon wept when he held the babe.

Aemma, sitting in the corner with Daelyn in her arms, was radiant with joy—and something else. A quiet, aching pride. Rhea had carried her through much pain. And now she had returned the favour.

The babe was named Gaemon Royce Targaryen.

103 AC

The year began in mourning.

On the seventeenth day of the first moon, King Jaehaerys Targaryen, the Conciliator, drew his final breath in his sleep. He had ruled for fifty-five years, longer than any before him, and with his passing, an era ended. The bells of King’s Landing tolled for three days, and in the halls of the Red Keep, his children and grandchildren gathered to mourn the old king whose wisdom had built a realm, even as his family quietly crumbled around him.

Baelon was crowned without dispute. A true coronation in the throne room—with a feast and cheers befitting the King of the Seven Kingdoms. The now King took the seat meant for his late brother, and the crown rested lightly on a brow that hadn’t wished for it. The Iron Throne welcomed him with cold seating and pinching sides. His voice rang steady as he swore his oaths, and when he turned to the crowd, his eyes found his sons first.

Rhea and Daemon did not linger in the capital. They stood among the lords for the ceremony, watched the court shift on its axis, and then returned to Runestone with Gaemon in tow. The boy, just turned one, had grown quickly, his brown curls tousled by the wind, his limbs sturdy, his energy unmatched. Rhea gazed at him with a heart full of love and pride. While Daemon smirked in satisfaction and smugness.

As Baelon began his rule, the small council was reshaped into his image. Lyman Beesbury, elderly but precise, was named Hand. Lyonel Strong took on the law. Tymond Lannister, with his lions and his gold, stepped in to oversee the coin. And when Ser Ryam Redwyne finally laid down his sword, it was Ser Harrold Westerling who took up the command of the White Cloaks. Daemon, already settled in his gold cloak and command of the City Watch, was given a permanent seat at the table, a prince in all but title. Viserys was brought in as heir and advisor, ever eager to serve and please.

Rhea read the raven bearing the news of the appointments and folded it slowly. Change was the way of things, but there was something disquieting about how fast the tides turned.

It wasn’t long before sorrow struck again.

In the fourth moon, Queen Alysanne’s health declined sharply. Her appetite faded. Her eyes dulled. Without Jaehaerys beside her, her strength seemed to wither with each passing day. She had ruled beside her husband for half a century. Without him, there was no purpose left.

She passed in her chambers during the night, her hand held by her daughter and watched by her silent guards. The realm mourned again, though not as deeply. There was reverence, of course, and tears, but Alysanne had been fading for years, and few were surprised.

Rhea did not attend the funeral. Instead, she stood by the sea, Gaemon on her hip, and whispered a prayer for the queen who had been equal parts wise and foolish—driving some of her family members to their deaths with her actions. She did not feel grief, for Alysanne’s death created a space for change from the rigid rule.

With the queen dead, Gael was no longer hidden away.

She was still soft-spoken and strange to those who did not know her, but to Daemon, she was just Aunt Gael. He began gently pressing his father on her behalf. She had never been allowed to marry. She had never been courted or celebrated. She was three-and-twenty now, no longer a girl, and Daemon refused to let her be discarded.

“There are good men in the Vale,” he said to Baelon one evening. “Or the North. Knights who’d treat her kindly if you gave them reason. Don’t let her rot in that tower like a ghost.”

Baelon didn’t argue. He didn’t promise anything either. But he listened.

Meanwhile, on Dragonstone, Viserys turned his eye back to his wife.

Aemma had given him two children, a daughter and a son. Daelyn had passed his third nameday, and Rhaenyra was growing into a spirited girl with silver-gold curls and her mother’s elegant grace. But Viserys, never content, wanted more.

“We should try for a spare,” he said one night as they dined alone. “It’s time.”

Aemma set down her cup.

Three years ago, the thought of another pregnancy would have made her chest tighten with panic. But she had healed since then—truly healed. The priestess of the fourteen had worked wonders. Her body had regained strength, her cycles had evened out, her body felt whole again. She had taken her tea faithfully and given herself the time her first pregnancies had stolen from her.

Now, for the first time in years, the excitement of another babe returned to her.

“All right,” she said softly. “But we shall remain on Dragonstone. And if something wrong happens, we must wait until I heal before we try again.”

Viserys blinked, caught off guard, but nodded.

By the eleventh moon, Aemma began to feel the signs: the fluttering in her belly, the shift in her appetite, the morning weariness that clung to her like sea mist.

She did not need a maester to tell her.

Aemma smiled faintly, one hand on her belly. Another child.

104 AC

Spring arrived in King’s Landing with a cascade of Sweet Chestnut leaves falling through the breezes of the Red Keep’s inner gardens, but not all was soft and bright. There were matters of legacy to consider, and the burden of time pressed heavy on the shoulders of King Baelon.

The lords came with their best sons, cousins, nephews—even grandsons in some cases—draped in fine cloaks and smiles too polished to be real. One by one, they were presented to Gael Targaryen, the forgotten princess now brought to court with new dignity and purpose. The youngest daughter of Jaehaerys, once hidden from the eyes of Westeros, now stood serene in her silken gowns, her lilac eyes watching her suitors with gentle amusement.

Some were too old, some too young. One stuttered so violently Gael could barely understand him. Another claimed descent from a bastard of Aenys and then asked if Gael’s dowry would cover his debts. There were more—dozens of them—but none truly worthy of her.

Baelon watched in silence. He had never desired to wed again, not since Alyssa. But he was a king now, and the weight of the realm did not allow for sentiment. His sons were strong, but too few. His grandchildren too young. He needed someone who would not divide the crown, or shift its balance toward another house. He needed a queen whose loyalty was unquestioned. And when he turned to Gael, seated beside him during one of the longer court dinners, her laughter soft and her bearing calm, the answer became clear.

She was a Targaryen.

She was the last of Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s blood, the only living sister to the King. The realm might whisper, but they always whispered. Baelon would not wed for alliances. He would wed to preserve his line. Though he would not do so without her consent.

The talk between them happened in the gardens, beneath the shade of a carved cherry blossom tree that Alysanne had once loved. Baelon asked plainly, without ceremony. Gael paused, the wind tugging at her pale hair. Then she smiled.

“I would be honoured, brother,” she said. “It is my duty. And my choice.”

The court was told first. Rhaenyra was delighted by the idea of another wedding. Gaemon asked if he’d get two lemon cakes or three. Viserys raised his goblet and toasted to the match, while Aemma kissed her aunt on both cheeks and whispered her joy.

Daemon said nothing, but later that evening found Gael walking the castle paths and matched her stride with his.

“You should take a dragon,” he said casually, as if discussing the weather.

Gael blinked. “I’ve never thought myself meant for one.”

“You’re a Targaryen,” he shrugged. “It’s time you remembered that.”

He brought the idea to Aemma as well. She, too, had never ridden. Too late, she had once said, or too fragile. But Daemon insisted. There were still dragons without riders. They should not go to waste.

Especially since Rhaenyra, who’d just turned seven, became the youngest dragon rider of the family when she rode her cradle-hatchling, Syrax, on her nameday.

Within a fortnight, the women stood before their chosen beasts.

Gael approached Silverwing, the old she-dragon who had once belonged to their mother, Queen Alysanne. The great silver-scaled beast sniffed her fingers, eyes narrowing. Then she lowered her head. Not submissive—but accepting. Gael climbed into the saddle with trembling fingers and rode above the sea, her hair flying free behind her.

Aemma chose Dreamfyre, once ridden by Princess Rhaena. The dragon was temperamental, but a kindred spirit—chained to the Dragonpit for decades. It took effort, coaxing, and no small amount of fire, but the bond was made.

Viserys was encouraged to follow, but he refused. His loyalty to Balerion had never quite healed. The Black Dread had died beneath him, and he carried that grief still.

By the third moon of the year, Baelon and Gael’s betrothal was announced to the realm.

The lords grumbled behind their cups, of course. Many had hoped to tie themselves to the throne. A son here, a brother there—any match would have done. But none dared protest openly. The match was logical. Sound. Royal blood preserved with royal blood.

In the streets, the smallfolk cheered for the couple. The last child of the Old King and Queen—ever kind and pious—marrying the son who now wore the crown.

At the same time, Aemma watched the wedding preparations with tired eyes and a hand on her swollen belly. The babe inside her stirred often now, eager to greet the world. Rhea stayed by her side, ever steady, with a cup of honeyed milk and words of calm.

“You’re healthier than before,” she comforted her. “You’ll survive.”

Aemma nodded, smiling faintly. “It never gets less terrifying.”

“It never should.”

In the fifth moon of the year, Aemma gave birth to a daughter. The babe was healthy, her cries strong, her hair already a pale gold. They named her Elaena.

Aemma wept with joy. Viserys held his daughter and kissed Aemma’s brow, too overwhelmed to speak.

Two moons later, in the Vale, Rhea too went into labour beneath the moonlight, with Daemon pacing the corridors outside her chamber like a restless hound. It was her second child, and though the pregnancy had been steady, she had kept her fears hidden in the quiet of her prayers.

She gave birth to a girl with pale silver hair and eyes green as emeralds. They named her Viserra, after the beautiful Targaryen who passed too young.

Daemon held his daughter gently, more tender than any had ever seen him. He whispered something to her—High Valyrian, Rhea guessed—and kissed her brow.

“You’re getting sentimental,” Rhea teased from her bed, sweat on her brow.

“I’m getting old,” he muttered.

“You’re four-and-twenty.”

“I feel closer to sixty,” he said, with a conspiratorial look in his eyes.

By later half of the year, King Baelon wed his sister Gael in the Sept of King’s Landing. The realm celebrated for a week. Doves were released, and Silverwing flew overhead, her great shadow washing over the city like a wave of silver flame. Rhaenyra danced in circles until she was dizzy, Gaemon and Daelyn toddled behind the Kingsgaurd, while Elaena wailed every time a harp string was plucked.

It was chaos. It was joy. It was a new chapter for the House of the Dragon.

105 AC – 107 AC

The years passed in peace, the kind so rare that few in the Targaryen family dared speak of it aloud, lest the gods see it as arrogance.

At the start of 105 AC, as the last leaves fell in the Crownlands, a cry went up from Dragonstone’s rookery.

The egg placed in Prince Daelyn’s cradle five years ago had begun to stir. By the third day, it cracked. By the fifth, it hatched.

A beautiful, golden-scaled dragon emerged—his eyes sharp, his body sleek, his tail long and agile.

Viserys named him Sunfyre. He declared it a sign of prosperity to come.

Aemma watched as her son held the hatchling close, not yet riding, not yet bonded fully, but already drawn to the fire in its blood.

And Rhea, standing beside her, felt something warm flicker in her chest. They were building a future—a hope away from what might have been a realm painted in blood.

In the seventh moon of 105 AC, Runestone was awash in gold and bronze in celebration of Lady Viserra’s nameday. Rhea Royce had insisted on a quiet affair, but Daemon had done the opposite, commissioning bards, fire-eaters, and a menagerie of birds to be released in the gardens. Viserys and Aemma were present with their children, the young cousins enjoying the festivities more than everyone else.

The nameday ended with more gifts than Viserra could carry and the whole of Runestone buzzing with talk of her beauty and her father’s open adoration. Unbeknownst to them, when  evening came, Gael went into labour.

The Queen bore her pain with a grace that startled even the midwives, and after six steady hours, she delivered a healthy boy. His hair was pale gold, his lungs strong, and his eyes a brilliant lilac from the moment they opened. Baelon wept when he first held him.

They named the child Aemond.

The court saw it as a sign. The Targaryens were thriving. The blood of old Valyria ran rich and full again.

By 106 AC, the sense of prosperity deepened. Daelyn and Gaemon were of age to begin formal lessons with knights and maesters, both had proven intelligent and eager to learn.

And during the tenth moon of that year, Rhea went into labour again. It was not a difficult pregnancy, but it had left her more exhausted than the ones before. Her body had changed in ways she couldn’t ignore, her limbs heavier, her back aching more often. Even Daemon noticed, and for once in his life, became gentle without being asked.

The birthing took longer than expected, and when it ended, it was not with one child, but two.

A boy and a girl—Rhaegar and Alyssa.

Rhea was too tired to process the news at first. It was Daemon who sat beside her, one babe in each arm, speaking softly in Valyrian as though they would understand. When Rhea finally gathered enough strength to sit upright, she found him dozing in the chair, both infants curled into his chest.

She said nothing, only smiled and reached for her daughter’s hand.

The news of the twins spread quickly, and Runestone erupted in celebration. The Royces were proud. Their lady had given them four strong heirs. There were whispers that Daemon had truly mellowed—though anyone who knew the prince understood he was simply more focused now.

Then came 107 AC, and with it, the slow unraveling of the final threads left from Jaehaerys’s reign.

That year, after years of planning and construction, the great sewage system of King’s Landing was completed. The streets ran clearer. The air grew lighter. Disease began to decline. Baelon named it “the most important legacy I’ve yet begun,” and Daemon took pride in the enforcement of sanitation through the City Watch. It was a mundane victory by the standards of kings, but one that would feed and protect thousands for generations.

But the year would bring more than clean water and fresh streets.

In the ninth moon, Aemma once more took to the birthing bed. After three calm hours, a son was born, squalling and strong, with a lock of soft silver hair curling on his head.

They named him Daeron.

The family gathered once again in Dragonstone’s solar—children tumbling at their feet, wine in their cups, dragons sunbathing on the cliffs. It was a rare picture of unity. Even the maesters remarked upon it.

Aemma rested with her newborn swaddled to her chest, her other children curled beside her. Rhea sat beside her with Alyssa in her lap, watching Elaena scold Gaemon over a stolen pastry. Daemon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, listening more than speaking.

They were not just surviving anymore.

They were thriving.

108 AC – 112 AC

The air in King’s Landing had grown sweeter by the time Baelon reached his fifth year upon the throne. Spring brought an early bloom that year, and in its warmth, the king hosted a royal hunt to mark the occasion. Lords from every corner of the realm arrived with banners flying, hounds barking, and children peering curiously from behind their mothers’ skirts. It was said that no gathering since the coronation had drawn such numbers.

In the midst of this celebration, Gael gave birth to her second child, a daughter born on the first moon of 108 AC. She was delivered in the morning, as the bells from the Sept still rang from the king’s anniversary feast the night before. The babe was quiet, her cry no louder than a bird’s chirp, but her grip—when Baelon offered his finger—was fierce.

They named her Rhaella, a name whispered with reverence throughout the Red Keep. Maesters took note of her strong heartbeat, her full lungs, and the steady gaze she gave the world within days of her birth. Another strong Targaryen child. Another promise for the future.

The following years unfolded like honey: slow, golden, and sweet. The children of the royal family grew under the loving gaze of a realm at peace. Rhaenyra was flourishing in court, already commanding attention with her presence alone. Gaemon had taken well to his studies and, under his mother’s keen guidance, was showing an aptitude for politics and languages. Viserra spent her time on horseback more than in the solar, much to Rhea’s quiet concern and Daemon’s hidden amusement. Daelyn had begun his swordplay lessons and declared himself knight-to-be of the realm by his tenth nameday, boasting that he’d have his dragon flying over Harrenhal before his next nameday.

His tenth nameday was cause for a grand feast in the Red Keep, and it was there, in the final hours of wine and song, that Lord Corlys Velaryon and Princess Rhaenys approached Viserys and Aemma.

Their request was simple in its wording, but heavy with implication: a betrothal between Daelyn and Laena Velaryon. Rhaenys presented the matter delicately, her voice even and calm, but there was steel in her eyes. She wanted her blood on the throne, and this was the clearest path forward.

Viserys did not object. He understood the necessity of keeping peace, especially with a house as powerful—and prideful—as the Velaryons. Aemma, ever thoughtful, took a breath before speaking. She proposed that Laena come to King’s Landing not as a bride-to-be, but as a lady-in-waiting to Rhaenyra. Let the girls grow close, let the match feel like fate and not transaction.

Rhaenys agreed at once, and Corlys, though slower, accepted too. “Let the roots grow,” he said. “So the bloom may last.”

Later, in the stillness of their chambers, Viserys brought up another matter. Rhaenyra had reached her thirteenth nameday and still refused to speak of marriage. He suggested they allow her to choose her own husband, within reason. And Aemma understood—there were too few suitable Valyrian matches. Gaemon was too young. And Laenor, though the most realistic choice, was unwise. Both Velaryon children to the Targaryens would tip the scales too far.

They agreed. Neither wished to see their daughter bartered like livestock. Let Rhaenyra have her will—at least for now.

In the meantime, Aemma presented a proposal of her own. “Let Elaena be betrothed to Gaemon,” she said softly. “They are of age within a few years. It will tie our lines, bind Daemon and Rhea’s house to ours more closely.”

Viserys, pleased with the logic and with the simplicity of it, agreed at once.

But Aemma added one final condition. “We will wait. Rhea does not like to burden her children with these things too soon. When Gaemon is twelve, I will speak with her.”

In 111 AC, Laena Velaryon arrived in King’s Landing. She was tall for her age, with deep violet eyes and soft silver curls that framed her face like mist. At twelve, she already carried herself like a young lady, though she smiled easily and laughed often. She joined Rhaenyra’s household, which had become a court within the court.

The princess’s ladies were a diverse and carefully selected group: Lady Johanna Westerling, strong and stoic; Lady Alana Tyrell, bright-eyed and full of court gossip; Lady Samantha Strong, younger but cunning beyond her years; Lady Olenna Redfort, who rarely spoke but saw everything; Lady Jenna Lonmouth, ever bold and brash; and Lady Cerelle Manderly, the quietest but most devout.

They were protected by two knights—Ser Joffrey Reyne and Ser Wyman Crane—and a pair of northern shieldmaidens, Hanna Stone and Sybil Snow, whose presence was both scandal and fascination to court.

Rhaenyra took to the arrangement well enough, though she often teased her ladies more than she heeded them. But with Laena, there was genuine warmth. The two bonded quickly, tied by dragon dreams and a shared sense of being born for more than just marriage.

It was a quiet time.

Until 112 AC.

The Sea Snake had grown restless. The Triarchy, the alliance of the Free Cities, had taken firm control of the Stepstones—a chokehold on Westerosi trade. Pirates were paid off, taxes enforced at sea, and merchants from Driftmark and the Stormlands found their ships seized or burnt.

Corlys came to court again, joined this time by several lords of the Stormlands, and demanded action. “The crown sits idle while our fleets burn,” he said. “If the Triarchy takes the Stepstones fully, they will next move to the Narrow Sea. Then it will not be trade routes they control, but access to Westeros itself.”

Baelon listened. His council debated. For weeks they argued—some fearing war, others fearing inaction even more.

At last, the King gave his blessing.

Prince Daemon, eager for glory, was named commander of the royal expedition. Lord Corlys would provide the fleet. Lord Boremund Baratheon pledged his banners. Together, they would ride and sail under the banner of the crown to reclaim the Stepstones.

On the day Daemon departed, Rhea stood beside him on the docks. Gaemon, now eleven, stood with his back straight, while Viserra, only eight, clung to her mother’s hand. The twins, Alyssa and Rhaegar, stared uncertain as their father made promises of returning with gifts.

“I except you back swiftly,” Rhea told Daemon as he kissed her knuckles.

“I’ll be back before you blink,” he replied with a grin.

Rhea sighed. “Do not underestimate the enemy just because you faced it once.”

Interlude

The dragons flew high in the skies, but in the oldest city in Westeros, fires burnt low and deep—hidden in cellars, whispered in cloisters, and plotted behind stone walls built when the world was young.

Oldtown, the cradle of faith, knowledge, and order. It had endured the fall of the First Men, the rise of the Andals, and the soft corruption of Valyrian conquest. While the Targaryens claimed they had united the Seven Kingdoms, in truth, they had only painted dragon wings over a foundation far older and far prouder.

The three pillars of Oldtown had long stood in alignment, their bonds sealed by blood, ideology, and ambition: House Hightower, the ruling power cloaked in piety and pride; the Faith of the Seven, the unbending spine of Westerosi culture and moral law; and the Citadel, a maze of scholars, sceptics, and quiet coordinators—who claimed to serve knowledge but, in truth, served order.

Together, these three forces had watched the Targaryen interlopers descend from Dragonstone, black-winged beasts and all, and had tolerated them—but only just.

From the moment of Aegon’s landing, Oldtown had quietly begun resisting. Not in open arms, no. The High Septon had bowed, and the Hightowers had knelt. But behind every smile, there had been a plan. The goal was not to burn dragons. It was to inherit them.

House Hightower did not intend to oppose the Targaryens with swords. They intended to become them—and then outlast them.

They had tried, once, to challenge the dragons directly.

The Faith Militant uprising during Maegor’s reign had ended in catastrophe: corpses, fire, and shame. Hundreds of poor fellows and warrior’s sons died screaming under dragonflame. Maegor the Cruel had bathed the Starry Sept in blood. The Faith lost prestige. The Hightowers lost position. The Citadel lost many of its more vocal scholars.

So they pivoted.

Jaehaerys and Alysanne’s union had been unexpected but ideal. They were docile, polite, eager to please, and most importantly: open to influence. Alysanne had nearly died after her first birth at the hands of rogue septas, yes, but she had not turned against the Faith. She had doubled her piety. The Faith healed its wounds, slowly. The Citadel regained quiet access to the court.

And Oldtown waited.

The Hightowers understood that patience was power. If they could not replace the dragons, they would become their blood. They would marry into House Targaryen and, through carefully planted matches, inherit the power without bearing the stigma.

Dragons might be tamed, after all. And magic, like rot, could be contained… if culled slowly enough.

But there were missteps. Prince Aemon married his aunt, Jocelyn, beyond Oldtown’s influence. Fortunately, the gods did not bless them with anything other than a wild girl. Yet, Prince Baelon, the second son, still married his younger sister, Alyssa—a rogue who played with steel rather than embroidery.

The Citadel and Faith quietly agreed: delay the growth of House Targaryen. Suppress its fertility. Poison subtly, not to kill, but to wear down the womb. Interfere in small ways. Let dragons dwindle through bloodlines instead of blades.

Thankfully, his son, Viserys, was better—soft of will, generous with coin, and starved for approval.

So the trap was set.

When Viserys was wed to Aemma Arryn—a frail and quiet girl—they pushed the prince to bed her too young, sabotaged her early pregnancies, even slipped tonics to subtly wound her from within.

And when the time came, offer up their own blood. Otto Hightower had a daughter. Otto was brilliant, cold, and deeply ambitious. He would do what had to be done.

But the gods did not cooperate.

Despite their efforts, Rhaenyra was born. And when she survived long enough for her egg to hatch—Syrax—Oldtown grew alarmed.

Worse, when the maesters hinted at a need for a male heir to push the Prince into bedding Aemma too early, the girl’s womb grew stubborn.

Until Daelyn. Another defiance against the plan. Another healthy child, a son, with Viserys and Aemma’s blood.

The dragons were still thriving.

So, their poisoners turned to Prince Baelon, aiming to weaken him with belly-bursting tonics that imitated natural illness. The plan was to kill the Spring Prince and elevate Viserys—inexperienced, foolish, pliable. And it seemed to work.

Until it didn’t.

Baelon’s fever broke. His strength returned.

The maesters were baffled, someone—something—had intervened.

The Citadel sent whispers; “something unnatural had taken place”. There were rumours of strange herbs brought from Essos. A Valyrian woman, a bloodmage, perhaps. There were reports of midwives skilled beyond their station and letters between the prince and his rogue brother, Daemon, who had vanished to the Free Cities with his Royce bride for over a year.

Rhea Royce.

They knew little of her. A standoffish young woman of the Vale, not born of Valyrian blood, betrothed to Daemon by royal command. She should have been a dead end. A woman to curb the rogue prince. To turn him powerless. Without heirs.

Instead, as Baelon healed, she birthed her first child—Gaemon Royce Targaryen—strong, healthy, and very much alive.

Even worse, she kept the maesters out of her birthing chamber. No men. Only her own chosen midwives. Rhea Royce had a shielded household, tight-lipped, fiercely loyal. Oldtown could not get informants inside Runestone. Thus, the Royce woman remained an enigma.

By the time her third pregnancy produced twins, and Aemma and Gael were having healthy babe after healthy babe, the Citadel admitted what none wished to say aloud—Rhea Royce may have interfered in their plans.

They feared she had uncovered their conspiracy against the Targaryens—and worked to surround her by-law family with trustworthy staff.

One archmaester even whispered of ancient First Men sorcery.

Still, Otto Hightower persevered.

He offered his service to Viserys and was elevated to steward of Dragonstone. Close enough to whisper. Close enough to shape. Viserys craved praise and saw in Otto a reflection of Jaehaerys’s wisdom.

Alicent, Otto’s daughter, was groomed for queenship. Pretty, poised, pious. She greatly resembled Aemma Arryn. Oldtown’s new plan was simple; if not Viserys for Alicent, then Prince Daelyn. The boy was four years younger than her, which made him easier to fool and control.

So, Otto worked on including her in the Princess Rhaenyra’s household.

But Aemma rejected her.

The lady was polite, yet cool and distant—keeping Alicent away from her children. More annoying, Rhea Royce visited often—and always watched Otto as if she smelled rot beneath his robes.

That woman unnerved him.

He could not prove it, but he was certain, Rhea Royce was the one turning Aemma against him.

Oldtown’s strategy, so long built on patience, was beginning to falter.

Otto still held court with Viserys. Alicent still curtsied and smiled. But Rhea Royce’s children grew. Gael’s children grew. Aemma’s children grew, and, against all expectation, bore another son—Daeron—strong and vigorous.

It was only 107 AC, and the dragons were winning.

Even the smallfolk were becoming more loyal—the foodbanks and sewage system giving them better lives. The Faith couldn’t challenge this—not without appearing greedy. The Citadel couldn’t advise against—not without suspicion.

And the worst was yet to come.

Whispers reached the Citadel in early 111 AC that Viserys and Corlys Velaryon were considering grooming their son and daughter into a new generation of betrothals. The marriage would soothe hurts and unite bloodlines.

Oldtown’s plans continued to fail.

113 AC – 116 AC

Princess Rhaenyra’s sixteenth nameday arrived beneath skies of silk-blue, the sun warm upon the Red Keep’s marbled terraces. Music carried through the halls, lyres and pipes winding through courtyards as noble guests poured in from across the realm. The feast was as grand as any the capital had seen in years, a declaration of her maturity, her future, her place in the Targaryen family. But no one could have anticipated what would follow.

As the first course was being cleared and fresh wine poured, Lady Jeyne Arryn, Maiden of the Vale, rose from her seat. She did not wait for ceremony nor did she temper her voice. In a tone steady and unshakably firm, she declared that her cousin, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, would inherit the Eyrie after her. Gasps echoed down the length of the high table, rippling out among the lesser nobility like wind scattering leaves.

It was unprecedented. For an heir to be declared from the family with no chance for one to be born to the ruler, it was practically unheard of. The Lords of the Vale, many of whom had long fought one another in petitions for Jeyne’s attention, had no choice but to bow their heads.

Lady Jeyne was not without conditions, however. Rhaenyra was to marry a Valelord, to ensure the blood of the Mountains remained tied to its seat. A clever requirement, one that kept the old blood proud and the Vale represented.

The floodgates broke open within the moon. Suitors who had bided their time since Rhaenyra’s twelfth nameday, now pressed their claims with renewed fervour. Proposals arrived by raven and rider, some bearing gold-chased gifts, others letters of devotion, others still boasting of their ancient bloodlines. A few young lords even dared appear uninvited at the Keep in hopes of glimpsing the princess and earning her favour.

But Rhaenyra, like many Targaryens, had always been stubborn in her preferences.

114 AC war in the Stepstones ended. The banners of the Triarchy were scorched and scattered. Prince Daemon had led with relentless precision, and Lord Corlys’s fleets cut through pirate routes like scythes through grain. The realm had long spoken of a final victory. When the dust settled on the war, whispered erupted that the Sea Snake and the Rogue Prince had carved out a lasting dominion of peace in the southern waters.

In King’s Landing, Rhaenyra made her choice.

Lord Corwyn Corbray had been a quiet contender for years. A second son of a noble house, he had neither vast lands nor great riches to offer. But his reputation as a knight was unmatched in the Vale, and more importantly, he had never once sought her hand with bombast or flattery. He had treated her with respect, not worship. When she questioned him, he answered. When she challenged, he listened. And when she fought, he pushed back—never cruel, but never cowardly.

That alone set him apart.

Viserys and Aemma were delighted. Though they had no illusions of grandeur in the match, they saw what it meant to their daughter: a husband of her choosing, a man of courage and honour, not one foisted upon her by politics.

The wedding was set for 115 AC, soon after Rhaenyra’s eighteenth nameday. The preparations began at once.

That same year, a great feast was held in the royal gardens to honour Prince Daelyn’s nameday. And it was during this celebration, his betrothal to Lady Laena Velaryon was made official. The guests clapped with polite enthusiasm. Everyone had expected it—the match was too clean, too well-aligned to be anything but inevitable—but the sight of the young prince, tall and assured beside the silver-haired Laena, inspired sincere hope in even the most cynical of lords.

Meanwhile, in the private wings of the palace, Aemma and Rhea moved with the care of needle and thread. A marriage pact of their own, more personal, more sacred was woven. Their hearts were not for alliance or advantage, but for blood and affection. They worked gently, slowly, to draw the ties between their children, Elaena and Gaemon, until even Daemon remarked, with amused approval, that his eldest and Viserys’s second daughter had already begun forming a fond friendship.

“They’ll be thick as thieves before the match is ever inked,” he muttered, lounging in Rhea’s solar.

“As they should be,” Rhea replied, not looking up from her book. “Let the realm see what love between pure relation looks like. Not bloodless duty, but genuine bond.”

During the fourth moon of 115 AC, Rhaenyra’s wedding ceremony was held beneath a canopy of silken banners in the Eyrie, transformed with blue and silver garlands and the glow of a thousand candles. Corwyn Corbray waited at the altar in armour chased with moonstone, and Rhaenyra walked with her head high, her gown a river of deep red. Her brothers and cousins flanked her in support. When she spoke her vows, it was with the certainty of a woman who had chosen her fate—and would defend it like a dragon.

The realm rejoiced. The now Lady Rhaenyra Arryn, future Lady of the Eyrie, was the future of the Vale.

Less than ten moons later, Rhaenyra bore her first child—a girl, born in the second moon—it was beneath open windows and sunlit skies. They named her Aelora, a name from Targaryen histories.

She was a bright babe, blonde-haired like her father but with the unmistakable purple eyes of Old Valyria. It was said she smiled before she cried, and Aemma joked that the girl was too stubborn to wail, even in birth.

The family gathered around her cradle that evening—Daemon and Gaemon on one side, Rhea with Viserra and the twins on the other, while Viserys and Aemma looked on with pride. Even Gael, regal and ever-serene, kissed the babe’s brow and whispered something in High Valyrian.

It was a peaceful year. A golden year.

But peace in Westeros was never more than a breath held too long.

117 AC – 120 AC

The spring air had passed early, giving way to a scorching sun in the seventh moon. The Red Keep was dressed in gold and crimson once again, its towers streaming with pennants bearing the sigils of House Targaryen and House Velaryon. The air smelled of lemon cakes and sweetbreads, of roasted boar and the sharp sting of Dornish wine. Even the cobbled streets of King’s Landing covered in flower petals and adorned with ribbons.

It was the wedding of Prince Daelyn Targaryen and Lady Laena Velaryon, and all the realm had come to witness it.

The tourney began on the fourteenth day of the seventh moon, with lords and knights descending upon the capital to test their mettle in the name of the young couple. The contests lasted seven days, each more spectacular than the last. On the final day, beneath a setting sun, Daelyn crowned Laena as Queen of Love and Beauty before all gathered. And that night, they were wed in the great hall of the Red Keep, before a Septon and the gods.

And in the revelry and wine, all agreed; it was a perfect match. A union forged in peace, bound by blood and loyalty, and sealed with joy.

Later in the night, when the bride and groom were sent to consummate their wedding, Rhea and Daemon retired to their assigned chambers, warmth filling their hearts. They shared looks of satisfaction, a sense of vindication.

“We have achieved so much,” Rhea said softly, raising her goblet. “And all it took was a bit of patience.”

“I could not have done it without you,” Daemon replied, eyes glinting with affection. “I may not believe in the gods, but I am thankful to them all the same. For sending you to me.”

She smirked back. “You’re welcome.”

They drank in silence. But beneath that triumph, a thin thread of guilt tugged, buried where words wouldn’t reach. It had not been Rhaenyra who inherited the throne. She was chosen for the Vale instead of the throne. Yet neither could truly regret it. Aemma’s blood still sat the throne, and the family was stable.

Four moons after the wedding, Laena’s pregnancy was confirmed. King Baelon declared a feast, and the Red Keep rang with celebration once more.

Later that same year, Rhaenyra gave birth to her second daughter, a girl she named Laena, in honour of her good-sister. The two women had grown close since the betrothal had been arranged, and the name brought tears to the elder Laena’s eyes when she first held the babe.

As the year drew to a close, there was a sense that everything was falling into place.

That could not be the furthest from the truth.

Fifth moon of 118 AC was when it all shattered.

It happened on Dragonstone, in the dead of night.

Laena Velaryon, nearing the end of her pregnancy, was walking the halls with her handmaids when shouts echoed from the eastern wing. Guards sprinted past, blades drawn. The crash of steel rang against stone. Screams followed.

By the time Daelyn reached the scene, two assassins lay dead, and two more had been captured, bloodied and bound. The prince had barely unsheathed his blade before the cries from Laena echoed against the stone walls—the Lady had gone into labour.

Rhaenys, who had come to Dragonstone three days earlier, helped usher her inside. Midwives scrambled. The chamber was hot, full of noise, and heavy with dread.

The labour was harrowingly long. Three days.

The babe was breech.

It took two attempts to turn the child, the second nearly causing Laena to faint from pain. The screams echoed down the stone halls. When at last the babe crowned, it came in a rush of blood. A girl, healthy and crying.

They named her Daenerys, but the joy did not last.

By the following morning, Laena burnt with fever. Her skin flushed, her body trembling. Daelyn, sleep-deprived and haunted, stood at her bedside while sending ravens and commanding investigations. The steward, Ser Robert Quince, arrived with grim news: Maester Gerardys had been found dead in town, his throat slit.

The castle locked down. Interrogations began. The two surviving assassins were tortured for information. What Daelyn uncovered made his blood run cold—links to Oldtown, buried beneath layers of coin and silence.

But by then, it was too late.

Laena died four days after the birth, her fever having consumed her.

Daelyn knew not what he should do.

It was who Rhaenys flew to King’s Landing, carrying the news and evidence with herself. Baelon and Gael launched their own inquiry. They uncovered more: coin trails, coded letters, and—most damning of all—Grand Maester Mellos’s signature.

Laena’s funeral was a week later, held beside the sea, her body returned to the waves in the Velaryon tradition. Daelyn stood stone-faced, holding Daenerys in his arms as the tides claimed his wife.

Targaryens did not wait.

Baelon summoned his family to the Red Keep. Rhaenyra, Corwyn, Rhaenys, Daemon and Rhea, Viserys and Aemma—all of them were there. The evidence was laid bare, scroll after scroll, bloodied tokens, intercepted missives, poisoned tinctures.

The plot had been long in motion. The Hightowers, through the Faith and the Citadel, had hoped to render Laena infertile, kill her child, and eventually present Lady Alicent Hightower—now one-and-twenty and still unwed—as a new match for Daelyn.

They had failed. But not before taking a life.

The family deliberated for days. Some wanted quiet vengeance. Rhea, surprisingly, was one of the loudest voices for exposure.

“If we let them be,” she said, “then they will try again. Oldtown has repeatedly threatened and attacked Targaryens. It must end here.”

Daemon agreed. So did Rhaenys.

One week later, Baelon stood before the court and made the accusation public. Ravens were sent to Oldtown, calling upon the Hightowers to answer for their crimes.

The reply came in fire.

The Hightowers renounced the crown, declaring House Targaryen unfit to rule. The High Septon himself spoke against them, naming the royal family heathens and blasphemers, practitioners of incest and sorcery.

The realm fractured.

The Reach turned against the crown, along with much of the Westerlands. Dorne, though traditionally neutral, aligned with Oldtown in secret—an alliance brokered through coin and mutual hatred. The Triarchy, still licking its wounds from the Stepstones, saw an opportunity for revenge and joined the cause.

The War of the Faithful had begun.

From mid-118 AC till beginning of 120 AC war raged across Westeros and beyond.

Dragons burnt the sky above Oldtown. Daemon, mounted on Caraxes, led assault after assault alongside his sons and brothers. Aemond and Viserra, now thirteen, were sent to the Vale with the younger children as guardians.

The war was bloody, and loss was plenty on both sides.

Scorpions, newly designed and hidden in city towers, took down Laenor first. Then Rhaenys, caught in a surprise ambush above Lannisport.

Prince Daeron, Aemma’s youngest, was kidnapped during a ride with his guards—and his body was found days later, his throat slit and left on the road.

The Targaryens fought with fury and vengeance. Baelon led his army from the front lines, refusing to stay safe behind the walls of the capital. But courage could not stop poison. He fell in the ninth moon of 119 AC, drinking from a cup he had not seen poured.

His funeral was held in the Dragonpit.

In the aftermath, the family regrouped. Viserys, ever the peacemaker in his youth, now stood bloodied by war and loss. He hungered for the annihilation of his house's enemies. The people, devastated by the war’s toll, longed for a ruler to end the bloodshed.

Viserys Targaryen was crowned King of Westeros.

With Baelon’s death, the Targaryens doubled their assaults, and the war was ended just five moons later.

The realm mourned the cost of peace.

Oldtown and Lannisport had been razed, their wealth and pride reduced to ash. The Citadel’s main tower collapsed, and many maesters fled to the East. The Triarchy’s leadership was destroyed, Myr and Tyrosh set aflame by the dragons. The Hightowers, once lords of the oldest city in the realm, were extinguished in name and blood.

The royal family had lost many precious members, and yet, their dragons still flew.

Their fire had not been extinguished.

121 AC – 132 AC

The war was over, but peace did not return all at once.

What had been lost could not be replaced—cities, dragons, children. The ruins of Oldtown smouldered long after the last Targaryen banner was raised above the broken towers of the Starry Sept. The Citadel’s books were seized before its halls were rendered to ashes. The Hightower, once a symbol of status was melted more than Harrenhal.

But Westeros was not a corpse—it was a wounded beast. And slowly, it began to heal.

Under King Viserys I, a new age was declared. The Red Keep welcomed survivors from the war—maesters, artisans, orphans, and former allies of the Faith who pledged loyalty in exchange for amnesty.

The Stoney Sept, once modest and plain, was raised anew, crowned in white marble and stained glass. With the Starry Sept and its High Septon reduced to dust, the Stoney Sept became the spiritual heart of Westeros—albeit with a far gentler hand. The Seven were worshipped still, but fire had purified much of its dogma. The new septons were taught alongside maesters in the schools rising on Visenya’s Hill, where the foundations of a new Citadel were laid in stone and steel. Its architects were former students of Oldtown who had survived the flames and fled to the Crown’s mercy.

To ensure no such rebellion would ever rise again, Viserys also restructured the kingdom’s power. The wealth of Casterly Rock—which had funded much of the Reach’s war effort—was seized by royal decree. With the Lannisters either slain, imprisoned, or exiled, their gold was given to Prince Aemond, who by now renamed himself with the Valyrian honorific of Belaerys, both as a tribute to his power and a warning to others. House Lannister, once proud and golden, was no more.

House Beesbury—who had remained loyal—was elevated, granted stewardship of the lands once held by the Hightowers. The Hightower name became an unspoken curse. Their banners burnt in silence.

Amidst the building, another form of healing occurred. Prince Daelyn and Princess Rhaenyra, both now widowed, found themselves walking the path of duty once more. Their shared grief was not loud nor openly displayed, but it lingered in the quiet moments between council sessions and in the shadows of the great halls where their spouses once stood.

The war had changed much, but above all, it had made clear how fragile peace could be—and how quickly it could unravel. With the deaths of Princess Laena Velaryon and Lord Corwyn Corbray, both Daelyn and Rhaenyra bore not only the weight of their own losses but the burden of securing a realm still reeling.

Their daughters, Princess Daenerys and Princess Aelora, stood as heirs to their respective lines. To ensure their positions could not be challenged in the future—and to present a united front in both blood and rule—Daelyn and Rhaenyra reached a decision borne not of romance, but of reason.

Together, they announced to the realm their intent to wed.

There was no grand tourney nor prolonged courtship. The union was swift, solemn, and performed in the old Valyrian rites on Dragonstone. Only close family were present, and no songs were sung beyond the ancient hymns of their house. It was a political marriage, plain in its purpose and dignified in its execution.

More importantly, it was made clear from the outset that no heirs would come from this union. Both Daelyn and Rhaenyra wished to protect the birthrights of their daughters—Daenerys as Daelyn’s only child, and Aelora as Rhaenyra’s firstborn. There would be no confusion of succession, no sons born from duty who might be used to fracture the peace they had fought so bitterly to preserve.

In time, history would remember their marriage as a necessary bond—a sacrifice of pride for the sake of unity. It did not light the songs of poets, but it gave the realm an example to follow.

Life moved forward, albeit slowly. In the third moon of 122 AC, the court gathered to witness the wedding of Prince Gaemon Royce Targaryen to Princess Elaena Targaryen, daughter of King Viserys and Queen Aemma. The feast was lavish, coloured in bronze, red, and blue, and the Red Keep had not been so loud with laughter since before the war.

Daemon looked on with pride as his son stood beside the Targaryen princess, his purple eyes calm but gleaming with relief. Rhea, ever the doting mother, smiled widely—though her heart ached at seeing her children growing so quickly.

And yet, even joy found a way to court scandal.

The first whispers came from the kitchens, where a maid was said to have walked into a side tower only to flee red-faced. The rumours swirled with lightning speed, growing with every retelling—until finally, it was Gael and Daemon themselves who found the truth.

Hidden in the shadowed alcoves of Maegor’s Holdfast, they discovered Viserra and Aemond entangled with one another in the young man’s bedchamber.

Rhea would scold her daughter for her lack of subtlety, but Daemon was more furious with his half-brother. It was rumoured that the rogue prince had unsheathed Dark Sister and chased his brother—promising to render him cockless.

As for Dowager Queen Gael, she was beyond pleased—and mildly amused.

And once the storm passed, the two young Targaryens made a quiet confession: they had been sharing each other’s bed since Aemond’s sixteenth nameday, a full year past. They wished to marry.

Viserys, once informed, laughed heartily. “At least she didn’t run off with a bard.” He was heard teasing his brother—who was still seething.

Within the moon, the betrothal was formalised.

Their wedding took place in the twelfth moon of 122 AC, beneath banners of red and black. Daemon and Rhea watched from the front rows as their daughter wed her uncle, seemingly more joyful than ever.

It was a pairing of passion and politics—two fireborn scions, both dangerous, both bold. Rhea, for all her pragmatism, could only hope their ambition would not consume them.

A few moons later, Gaemon and Elaena welcomed their first children. Twins, strong and healthy. One was a boy, whom they named Baelon, in honour of the fallen king. The other, a boy as well—though dark of hair like his father’s side—was named Yorbert, after Rhea’s late father.

Years passed.

The realm stabilised. The roads once again buzzed with trade. The wounds of war, though never forgotten, began to scar over.

Lannisport was rebuilt. New stone towers rose where old ones had crumbled. The Velaryons, though reduced in numbers, were honoured with lands and titles. In 128 AC, Corlys Velaryon, grey but not yet withered, formally named his nephew Daeron as heir to Driftmark. The young man, known for his seafaring prowess, was wed to Lady Alyssa Royce, second daughter of Daemon and Rhea, binding house Royce, Targaryen and Velaryon even further.

Politics moved on, as it always did.

At last, with the memory of war dimming, Princess Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of Laena and Daelyn, grew into marriageable age. Though only fifteen, she had shown herself bold and bright, fiercely loyal to her dragon, Vermax, and already a skilled rider.

Her betrothal was announced to her cousin, Prince Baelon, son of Gaemon and Elaena. The two shared the blood of the dragon, and though there was a five-year gap between them, they had been raised in close proximity—and Baelon’s blood ensured Daenerys’s name remained Targaryen and further protected her.

To the court, it was a masterstroke. Two branches united. Fire married to fire.

Then, just as the Targaryens felt whole again, another loss hit them. On the third day of the third moon of 132 AC the King Viserys I Targaryen passed. He had ruled with calm hands and measured mercy, healing a kingdom that once bled freely. His death came in the night, quiet and without pain, and his funeral was the largest since King Jaehaerys.

But what came after was unlike anything Westeros had ever seen.

The Dragonpit filled with banners. Lords, knights, and smallfolk gathered to witness what no realm had seen in its long and bloodied history.

For the first time, Westeros crowned a King and Queen together.

Side by side, Daelyn Targaryen, First of His Name, and his elder sister, Rhaenyra Targaryen, now co-rulers of the Seven Kingdoms, took the crowns of their ancestors.

One forged in fire. One born of flame.

The dragons bowed. The people roared.

And the next chapter began.

132 AC +

The reign of King Daelyn I Targaryen began with thunderous applause, but fate had no intention of letting it unfold in peace. The dragons still flew, and the blood of old Valyria still ran through the royal veins—but even fire could not banish all shadows.

It took less than two years for the first of many trials to strike.

134 AC ushered in a brutal and unrelenting winter, the likes of which had not been seen in a generation. Snow blanketed the Neck by the second moon, and by the third, the harvests in the Riverlands and Reach were already failing. Ships from Essos were frozen in harbour, and the King’s Roads became rivers of ice.

In the North, entire villages vanished beneath the white. Lord Cregan Stark—then nearing twenty—declared a state of emergency and rode from White Harbor to personally coordinate food deliveries to the inland keeps. Even the crypts beneath Winterfell were opened to house the living.

In the Vale, Lady Jeyne Arryn, by then ailing but proud, led her people from the Eyrie to the Bloody Gates to take shelter from the frost. Only to pass a year later in 135 AC from the shivers. With her passing, Queen Rhaenyra’s eldest daughter, Aelora, took the mantle of Lady of the Vale—ushering a second generation of female leadership in the Vale.

In Driftmark, the Sea Snake passed quietly in his sleep during a rare snowstorm that reached the island’s coast. Lord Corlys Velaryon, who had once ruled the seas and fought in four great wars, was laid to rest at sea in a dragonstone casket.

Even the Red Keep knew sorrow. Within the first two years of winter, Dowager Queen Gael, worn from the grief of war and the strain of age, succumbed to a wasting illness. And not long after, the court wore mourning once more as Queen Mother Aemma Arryn passed away in her sleep. Rhea had sailed to King’s Landing with her eldest children at once, the entire family gathering to watch as the King lit his mother’s pyre.

By the end of the fourth year, tens of thousands had perished.

And yet, even amid such devastation, King Daelyn ruled with poise and determination. Grain stores were redistributed. The dragonriders flew relief missions to the farthest keeps. Temples opened their doors to the sick and hungry. And it was whispered across the realm that, had it not been for the peace brought by the War of 118 AC, Westeros would have fallen to ruin.

Still, when the spring finally broke in 138 AC, it was with a hollow kind of joy. Too many empty chairs. Too many names etched into stone.

But peace would not last. Not for a Targaryen king.

In his fifteenth year of rule, King Daelyn I turned his eyes south.

For decades, Dorne had remained a contentious stain upon the map—separate, proud, and often disruptive. The Martells had played both sides during the War of 118 AC, feigning neutrality while harbouring assassins and sending supplies to the Reach. In the years since, their defiance grew more brazen. Boarder raids, harbour blockades, whispered alliances with Volantis and the remnants of the Triarchy.

Enough was enough.

With the full backing of the royal council—and more crucially, his dragons—King Daelyn Targaryen declared war on Dorne.

The Dornish Campaign would last four years.

It was a vicious, punishing war fought not just on the sands, but in the skies. The Dornish had no dragons, but they had mountains, spears, and poison. The Targaryens had fire, and they used it. Slowly, relentlessly, the resistance was broken. Key keeps fell one by one. Sunspear was surrounded, then razed, its towers crumbling beneath Daelyn’s dragon in a blaze that turned the sky black for days.

The Princess of Dorne, Aliandra Martell, was captured but not executed. Instead, Daelyn offered her clemency—for her children’s sake. She bent the knee, and Dorne was finally brought under the Iron Throne.

It was a historic victory, one that not even Jaehaerys the Wise had managed. Daelyn returned to King’s Landing to a hero’s welcome. A new crown was forged for him, set with garnets and shaped like a dragon’s wings.

But his triumph would be short-lived.

Barely a year later, in 152 AC, King Daelyn I was assassinated.

The details were murky. A poisoned arrow, some said. Others whispered of a Lyseni poison in Dornish wine. The culprits were never caught, and the court mourned for months.

The realm wept. He had brought unity. He had survived war and winter. He had conquered Dorne. And now, his dragon’s flame was snuffed out too soon.

But the fire was not yet gone.

The crown passed to his daughter.

Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, ascended the Iron Throne at the age of four-and-thirty. The first Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. And by her side stood her husband, Prince Baelon, now the first Prince Consort of Westeros.

Daenerys, born in war but raised in peace, ruled not as a warrior—but as a healer.

Her first act was diplomatic. To solidify her father’s Dornish conquest, she betrothed her eldest son and heir, Prince Viserys, to Princess Kiera Martell, the second-born daughter of Aliandra. Kiera had been only a child during the war, but the marriage served its purpose. The Dornish held their tongues, and their blades.

Then came her reforms.

Healing Houses, once temporary shelters during the War of 118 AC and the Great Winter, were expanded and permanently funded. One was raised in every major holdfast, and those trained in their halls became known as flamebearers—a new order of healers and herbalists, often guided by maesters but not restricted to them. Women, especially, found welcome in their ranks.

Learning Centres were founded across the realm. These were not as grand as the Citadel, but offered basic education, healing, and recordkeeping. For the first time, smallfolk children in towns and even some villages could learn to read.

In the North, Lord Cregan Stark—still hail in his older age—travelled to King’s Landing to personally petition the Queen for the return of the New Gift. Daenerys, with quiet respect for the sacrifices the North had made during the winter and wars, granted his request. The Night’s Watch would be funded from the Crownlands instead, and the land was restored to Stark control.

To the surprise of many, Daenerys also turned her attention south.

The Stepstones, long a thorn in the crown’s side, were granted to the Iron Islands.

Or more precisely, to its smallfolk and fisher families, who had long lived under the yoke of raiding lords and salt-kissed tyrants. The Queen ordered that the warlike nobles of the Iron Islands be given the chance to garrison and govern the Stepstones, in exchange for peace along Westeros’s coasts. Those who refused were stripped of title and ship alike. It was a bold move—but it worked.

The realm grew quieter.

The dragons still flew. And while some were lost to war and age, others still hatched.

The royal court, once haunted by war and grief, began to echo again with laughter, music, and revelry.

Years passed. Then decades.

Daenerys was never known for wild passions or fiery decrees. She was, as the smallfolk called her, the Quiet Flame. Steady. Gentle. In control.

Her children grew. Her grandchildren were born.

Her husband, Prince Baelon, died at four-and-seventy. Yet the Queen did not weaken.

In time, her hair turned white as snow. Her back bent. Her voice became soft as silk.

And still, she ruled.

By the time she passed, in the final moon of 213 AC, Queen Daenerys Targaryen had ruled Westeros for sixty-one years.

She was two-and-ninety, the longest-reigning Targaryen monarch in the history of the dynasty.