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From a very young age, so young she didn’t even remember a time before, she had been raised to be charming. Beautiful, charming, kind, and whatever else her family needed her to be. All so she could marry the most powerful man they could find for her, and make her family stronger. She had never had time to stop and think about what she might want.

Her brothers went off to squire, to become knights. One of them, the oldest, sought glory on a tourney field much too young and was crippled. The second one found a wife he loved. She was happy about that. The youngest fell in love with another man. That was problematic, she knew, but only if people found out. Secrets were good, her grandmother said.

The youngest brother and his lover, they were ambitious. And their ambitions met those of her grandmother, and suddenly, Margaery was to become queen. That King Robert was already married wasn’t really thought of as a problem, though no one told her what they were planning to do. They just gave her more lessons, more rules. She was dutiful and she loved her family, so she obeyed.

She learned to enjoy the power being beautiful and charming gave her, trying it out on the young knights and squires at Highgarden. It took a smile, a half-promise, never spoken out loud, maybe a chaste kiss, and the young men (even some of the older) did whatever she asked. Her grandmother critiqued her, told her how to improve.

Then the King died, before she had even been brought to King’s Landing. She was a bit ashamed to be relieved by that. She hadn’t liked the thought of marrying an old, fat man, even if it would have helped her family. Instead, they married her to her brother’s lover, and made her queen when he rose in rebellion against the incest-born bastard the Lannisters claimed to be King.

Renly was kind, charming, intelligent. Everything she would have wanted, had she been asked what she wanted. He was also utterly uninterested in her. She went from being the Rose of Highgarden to being the golden Rose on Renly Baratheon’s arm. His queen who brought the armies and wealth of the Reach, to be combined with the might of the Stormlords. Stannis Baratheon had been missing for months, ever since the Bastard of Driftmark had taken control of Dragonstone. Renly fretted over it in secret, where only she and Loras could see him. He worried endlessly that his older brother was hidden somewhere and would attack them.

Renly built his army and his court of young, brave men. They all loved him, most of them loved her too. Two beautiful, charming nobles, come together to build a court of chivalry and honour, and take down a false king and his traitor mother who had betrayed her husband with her own brother. It was all out of a bard’s tale. Margaery was wary of bard’s tales. Her grandmother had warned her plenty that those fine words hid more blood and treason than she could ever guess.

They were all blindsided by the threat coming down from the North. A boy known as the young wolf, the executed Ned Stark’s son, blazing down, winning everything in his way. Only to abruptly stop in Riverrun, and just sit there. With, according to rumour, a captured Jaime Lannister in the dungeons.

The letter from Riverrun took them all by surprise. An invitation to speak, to treat, with the Northmen, that's what they thought. Renly had been very pleased by it. Until the letter was opened. The seal had been plain, giving away nothing. But the letter was signed Daemon Targaryen, and Margaery had had a good enough education to know the last Targaryen named Daemon had been during the Dance of Dragons. After that, all Daemons from that line had been Blackfyres. Also, the Targaryens were gone, and so much of her family’s honour and standing had gone with them. But it was an invitation to treat with the leaders of a large army, one that could cause them great harm, should they decide to get involved in the battle for the Iron Throne. Before Margaery had been able to send for her grandmother, or even her father, they were moving towards Riverrun.

It wasn’t an easy journey. Travelling with an army took so much time, and Renly insisted on bringing with them all the splendour suited to the real King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. His Rainbow guard constantly surrounded them, most nights they fought display duels to show off their skills and to keep those skills up to par. That was what Loras and Renly told her, at least, and they knew more of war than she did.

What she did know was that a king needed an heir, and her husband showed no interest in helping her to give him one. She tried all the tricks her grandmother had taught her, but Renly just looked at her with sad eyes, and told her she was beautiful and perfect, but he was not for her. Then, her husband sent for her brother, and she would leave to sleep alone. She smiled and flirted with his lords and knights instead, and they all reacted just like the ones back home in Highgarden had. Her husband’s rejection still hurt her, and scared her. A wife without children was easily removed, and she knew she carried her entire family on her small shoulders. Without her as queen, they would keep slipping down, down, down. Loras would perhaps keep the king’s affection, but she could tell that her brother’s loyalty was more for Renly than for his own family.

They stopped just a short distance from Riverrun to prepare. All the carefully packed finery, crowns, cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver, jewels, was brought out. The knights put on newly shined armour, and the Rainbow guard wore their colourful cloaks. After only minutes, Margaery’s neck and shoulders ached from the weight of her crown, the jewels pinned to her hair and ears, and from the elaborate gown. She was grateful she would not need to ride the last way to Riverrun, even though the wheelhouse was uncomfortable enough she had ridden most of the way until now.

No lords greeted them in the courtyard, just a steward. The banners hanging from the walls were Tully, Stark, and a single three-headed dragon of the Targaryen. The steward brought them into the hall. The Rainbow guard entered first, then she followed, her hand lightly placed on her husband’s arm. She kept her face soft, smiling confidently. She concentrated with all her might on not tripping, not allowing anyone to see how difficult it was to balance the crown on her head. On the dais sat a young man, around her own age. He was dressed all in black, crowned in steel and sapphire. Next to him, a girl who could only be the daughter of the Mad King. A man behind them, silver-haired as only the Targaryen were. A scraping sound, unfamiliar, made her focus her eyes behind the stonefaced trio. There was a creature out of tales and legends, and it was looking straight at her. She had been prepared for direwolves. Not for a green dragon.

Margaery could only assume her training had kicked in, and she had returned the polite greeting from lord Edmure Tully. But truly, she could not remember anything beyond the dragon. She knew she had attended a welcoming feast, was told she had been sparkling and that all eyes had been on her. She privately doubted it, but was glad her cousins tried to cheer her up. It took her a long time to fall asleep, and when she slept, she dreamed of the cold, reptilian eyes of the dragon.

The next day, the treating started. The Starks and Tullys were there along with the boy they called their king, and Oberyn Martell. That stung, she knew Willas thought of the Viper as a good friend. They claimed the boy was a trueborn Targaryen, showed them papers that certainly looked real enough. They never said who the older man was, apart from introducing him as Prince Daemon Targaryen. He did a lot of the speaking, but also seemed to be very impatient with the whole thing.

The whole day ended in nothing at all. No understanding, not even an approach. And she was scared. The cold eyes of the dragon yesterday, the wolves today. The confidence of these strangers who had turned all she knew of the political landscape of Westeros on its head.

Her grandmother had always said that men never solved any problems, except those that could be solved by hitting them with a sword, and so it would be up to her to make sure her husband didn’t make more of a fool of himself than necessary. And this, this was a problem that would not be solved with swords, or so Margaery hoped. She knew who had the power in the Targaryen-Stark alliance. The Kingmaker, not the King.

He came, when she sent for him. A part of her, the largest part, if she was honest with herself, had hoped he wouldn’t. He unsettled her, this stranger who had come from nowhere. Both he and Daenerys did, if she was even more honest. And they were striking, pale skin, hair, and those eyes. She had always been told they were beautiful, the Targaryens. She hadn’t been told they were scary. She had been told about their pale hair, but had thought it to be like the white of old men, or the pale blond some of the westerlanders had. She hadn’t been told it was silver with gold threaded through it. She had thought the purple eyes would be blue, leaning into purple, not the lavender or lilac she had seen now. They were beautiful, but it was a beauty that cut, she thought. The beauty of a blade, a shard of glass. Not that of a flower, or a bird in motion. She took a deep breath, and steeled herself to be charming, to entice him and make him want to help her, keep her and her family alive should they win.

He came in, sat. Watched her with calm, cold eyes, like the dragon's. Purple eyes. And she did her best. She smiled, touched. Did everything that had always before made men do what she wanted, while she pleaded for him to understand her position, to help her.

He put his hand over hers, and for a moment she thought she had done it. Then he offered her the same terms as before. Surrender or die. Abandon her husband, her brother, and she could live but only if she gave up the crown her family so desperately wanted.

Then, as he stood and she, manners so deeply ingrained to have become instinct, stood with him. The light eyes darkened, and he moved, fast. Gripped her, kissed her. She had never been kissed without consent before. During the short seconds, when he held her like she was prey, helpless and terrified, she remembered that the man he claimed to be had arranged for the murder of small children. She had time to know she was helpless, and he could and would do whatever he wanted.

Then he let her go, stepped away, as unmoved as when he had come into her room. He left her with a warning that felt like a scolding.

He was right, she knew. Daemon Targaryen, because she would no longer, not ever again dispute his right to claim to be whomever he wanted, had outplayed her and he had not even had to make an effort.

She sent a message home the next day. The time had come to pull back. If they fought, they would die, she knew that. The Targaryen Kingmaker would show no mercy, not to them. Their hope now was the mercy of a boy who had gone from bastard to King. And she would grovel on her knees if that’s what it took to save her brothers, her nieces and nephews, her cousins.

Margaery approached Daenerys, the daughter of the Mad King, the one who would become queen. No one had said anything, but she could see the genuine affection between the King and his aunt. The Targaryen girl was sweet, kind, but when she looked at Margaery, she felt as if she was naked. She still soldiered on, asked about the King. Her family needed to know how to act around the man. She also tried to make Daenerys a friend, but not as hard as she should have.

Loras was furious with her, for changing sides, for pulling their family over to what he called Blackfyres and mad bastards. She tried to explain, but he would not hear her, would only insist she was Renly’s wife, and they owed him their loyalty. She thought that loyalty was very nice, but being alive was better.

On her mother’s request, she had one of her cousins tell the Kingmaker Prince that she was still a maid, so they would know she could be a bride in their alliance. Margaery knew they would not take the offer, she would not be Jon Targaryen’s queen. She was grateful. The thought of living under the cold, purple eyes of Daemon made her want to crawl under a rock and hide. She could still feel his fingers holding her, see his eyes as he contemplated if she was worth the effort.

Renly was even more angry than Loras when he found out the Tyrells had abandoned him. He stormed off to confront the Targaryens, and she followed, hoping to keep him from destroying everything. She hadn’t even known Oberyn Martell had been speaking with Renly, not until he announced that he had arranged for this all to be resolved with a duel.

It was set for the next day, so much faster than she had thought. Loras wanted to fight, begged to fight. Maragery held her breath, hoped desperately that Renly loved her brother enough not to allow him to doom them. If Loras fought and lost, her family would be torn apart between those who would want revenge and those who would want to honour the new alliance. If he fought and won, she feared dragonfire would rain over them all, because while Ned Stark had been an honourable man, who knew how a boy raised as a bastard (maybe was a bastard) would react? Even worse, Daenerys was the daughter of the Mad King, and he had certainly liked to burn people. Whispers were that Stannis had died from fire as well.

Renly did love Loras, though. And refused him. He also refused the woman, Brienne. She also begged to fight for him, but he said no. He had too much honour to cheapen this fight by forcing the other side to do the dishonourable thing and fight a woman. Instead, the remaining men of the rainbow guard cast lots for the honour of fighting, and maybe dying, for their king.

Maragrey didn’t sleep that night. Her fate, her family’s fate, would be decided by two men with swords.

When they came down to the arena, Daemon was waiting. He looked almost asleep where he stood, a small smile playing on his face beneath the dragoncrested helmet. The duel was fast, and brutal. Loras, next to her, told her Daemon fought almost as well as Jaime Lannister. All Margaery knew was that she was relieved it wasn’t Loras who died in that yard.

She forced herself to watch as the Targaryen king took her husband’s head. Watched as Daemon picked it up after, tossed it to a guard with orders to put it on a spike. Heard him suggest giving the body to the dragons, then laughing when the King objected. It had just been a joke.

To come home was a relief, even though she had had to leave Loras behind. Even though she knew that soon enough she would have to see the Targaryens again, when Willas married Sansa Stark. For now, she could breathe freely. Her grandmother was angry with her for failing to capture the king, or if not him, then the cousin, Robb, lord paramount of the North. Or even the man who called himself Daemon Targaryen. Margaery flinched back when Olenna brought him up. His eyes and his bloodstained hands were in her nightmares. Her grandmother saw, and finally listened. Margaery couldn’t tell her all she wanted to know, but she could tell about a King who would be as fair as he could, the aunt he would marry who knew things she couldn’t know (the whispers about Daenerys Targaryen being a Dreamer had spread through Riverrun, and Margaery believed them), and the man the king called his uncle. The Kingmaker. The most dangerous one.

The war raged around them. Targaryen and Lannister at each other's throats. Soon, there were reports of dragonfire in battle, and Margaery joined her mother in the sept to give thanks that they had fallen in line with the dragons. A raven came and told about the King having married Daenerys. The men left Highgarden and the Reach to join the war in the Westerlands.

Oberyn Martell died, and Willas mourned him. Margaery had never really understood that friendship, but it had made her brother happy, so she mourned with him. Then the Targaryens asked for them to come to Dragonstone, and seal their alliance with a wedding. They would not be allowed to even host the wedding of the future lord of Highgarden.

Margaery watched from a distance as her grandmother shared a table with Daemon Targaryen. She couldn’t hear what was said, but was grateful Willas was at the same table. He would keep the peace. The only thing Olenna would say about the conversation she had had with Daemon was that he was an impossible man. But Margaery could tell Olenna was also unsettled by him, and she had known Targaryens before.

Sansa Stark was a sweet girl. She had also been hurt by her time in King's Landing. Margaery made sure to take the time to slowly get to know her brother’s new wife, and found they had many things in common. Sometimes, Sansa would look away, startle at sudden sounds, and Margaery learnt that meant she remembered what they had done to her at court. Willas was also kind to her, gentle like he was with his horses and hounds, and Sansa eventually started to shed the polite mask.

Lannisport fell, to dragonfire and ships of Dragonstone. The reports were detailed up until the dragon landed. Then all anyone would tell Margaery was that the screaming had started. She could guess what that meant. Garlan, her warrior brother, told her she couldn’t, not really. She didn’t ask him to explain.

Then Tywin Lannister fell on a battlefield, to the sword of the new Targaryen king. Soon after, Margaery left Highgarden together with her mother and grandmother to travel to King’s Landing. It would have fallen before they got there, Olenna had said. She was right, as she usually were.

The city was remarkably untouched. It had not been given over to swords and flames. They were told, in whispers, that Jaime Lannister had killed his sister and then opened the gates to the dragons, buying his own life. The Targaryens had made him pay with the hand he had used to kill first a king, then his own kin, and then let him go.

Margaery stood in the crowd of noblemen and ladies, high lords and maesters, septons and servants, when the new King, already looking older than he had at Riverrun, held a trial for Joffrey Waters. Sansa gripped her hand, hard, when the death sentence was pronounced.

Rumours were that the Queen had wanted to give Joffrey to the dragons, but the King had said no. Other rumours claimed the exact opposite. Margaery didn’t know, and didn’t want to know, which was true, but when he died, Joffrey Waters lost his head the same way Renly had.

Once the Vale had opened its gates again, after the King had flown his dragon to the Eyrie, Margaery was sent there, to marry the sickly Robin Arryn. She didn’t particularly enjoy it. The boy was young, spoiled, and difficult, but she had spent her life learning how to manage difficult men. The Vale calmed down, once lord Baelish went back to King’s Landing, and stopped pulling Lysa Arryn’s strings.

When word came that Daemon Targaryen had died on Dragonstone, only a week after he had seen Queen Daenerys twins, Margaery finally felt like the war was over. She still had nightmares about him, grabbing her face and holding her still as blood dripped from his hands and his purple eyes froze her like a rabbit.

She spent the next few years manoeuvring around her mother-by-marriage,until Lysa Arryn passed from a cold. After that, her life became calmer. She did more of the ruling than people knew, until Robin’s poor health took over, and he passed a few years after his mother. And Margaery's life was once again uncertain. She and her husband had had no children who lived long enough to be born, and the next in line was already married. The new Lady of the Eyrie had no desire to see the old one, especially not since the new Lord of the Vale was known for a wandering eye and Margaery was still very beautiful. She was ordered to leave.

On her way back to Highgarden, she stopped in King’s Landing. The King was holding one of his Grand Councils, where he had summoned all the major lords of the Seven Kingdoms, and Margaery thought she might as well wait for her family to come to her instead of risking them passing each other by on the road.

She never did return to Highgarden from King’s Landing. At court, she met a man she had only met a few times before, almost ten years in the past. He was widowed now as well, having lost his wife to childbed fever, but he had heirs enough that her childlessness was of no concern.

She had been married twice, widowed twice. Neither time had been of her own choosing, neither man had been to her taste. The third husband was her choice, and for the first time, she was her husband’s choice in return.

Robb Stark held her hand under the table at their wedding feast, when the King congratulated her, and the Queen smiled with her lilac eyes. When Daenerys leaned in to kiss her cheek, she whispered in Margaery’s ear that this time, it would last and she would be happy.

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“Do you want to wake the dragon?” he shouted, and she flinched back. As usual, his rage made her cower and fear.

“Yes. Do you know where I might find any?” the silky voice of a stranger replied.

The stranger let the tent flaps fall closed behind him. He was tall, and silver-haired, dressed in supple leather and armour both marked from battle. And he looked both bored and annoyed in the silence that followed. He looked around the tent slowly, then moved past the still-frozen siblings to the brazier where Dany had just placed her dragon eggs before Viserys had come in, upset over something.

The stranger placed a hand on the white egg.

“They’re just stone,” Dany said softly.

The man scoffed.

“Nonsense. Dragons don’t turn to stone; they’re not gargoyles. But cooking them will do you no good.”

“Excuse me,” came the strained voice of Jorah Mormont. “But who are you?”

The stranger didn’t look away from the egg he now held in his hands.

“Daemon,” he said. “Targaryen, obviously. And tell me, why is a Northman and two members of my family living in a tent on the Dothraki Sea?”

Viserys was still to stunned to even speak, so it fell to Ser Jorah to explain about Dany’s marriage. And was then prompted to explain about the Rebellion, which Daemon clearly had never heard of.

“But what of the dragons?” Ha asked.

“There are no dragons left,” Dany said. “They all died after the Dance.”

The stranger stilled at that. “The Dance?”

“Yes. When Rhaenyra and Aegon II fought for the throne.” Ser Jorah didn’t quite manage to keep his irritation out of his voice.

“I see,” Daemon said slowly. “Do you mind telling me if we won? I was rather rudely dumped into the God’s Eye and when I came up I found myself here.”

“You claim to be the Rogue Prince?” Viserys demanded.

“Claim? I claim nothing. I am telling you who I am. And now I wish to know, in no particular order, what happened to my war, my wife, and my sword? I already know my Caraxes didn’t live.”

He took the telling rather well, Dany thought. She certainly wouldn’t have been so calm when told her spouse was eaten by a dragon, but this man seemed almost … proud by how his wife had ended her days. His niece as well, she remembered.

After the telling, he remained seated, still cradling the egg in large hands.

“Who else is there?” he asked, eventually. “There must be more of the blood of Valyria still living? Not just a man out of his time, and two children.”

“No one else,” Ser Jorah said. “Rhaegar was killed at the end of the rebellion, King Aerys when they took King’s Landing, same as Rhaegar’s children. Queen Rhaella died in childbirth. There was no more. Except possibly a maester on the Wall, but I don’t know if he still lives. He must be ancient, if so. ”

Daemon nodded.

“And all you two have done is travel with a bunch of barbarians?” he asked.

“The Khal will give me an army,” Viserys announced. “And I will sweep over the Narrow sea and overthrow the Usurper.”

“We are not given armies. We take what is our due,” Daemon snapped. “What do you need of barbarians and horse lords, to soil the blood of the dragons? Hatch the eggs, then take back what is ours.”

“They are stone, “ Dany repeated. Daemon glared at her.

“Of course they are. That’s why we need to wake them. Have you forgotten everything?”

“What do I need to do?” she asked, breathlessly.

“Here? You can do nothing. We go home to Dragonstone, and I will hatch your eggs. Then we fight this Usurper. And go to the Wall and see if this maester is still alive.”

After that, matters moved surprisingly fast. The newcomer seemed to have a talent for bullying his way through every possible obstacle thrown up in front of him. A Dothraki Khal who would not like his wife leaving? Sneak off in the cover of darkness, kill anyone who tried to stop them. Cross the Dothraki Sea? Take horses and orient after the stars. Pay for fare across the Narrow Sea? Pah, find a Velaryon ship and remind them of their family ties (Dany was most surprised that worked so easily). Enter Dragonstone? Well, who said anything about entering the keep itself? It was the volcano Daemon wanted, and besides he had lived there for a good many years. Wake the eggs? “Blood and fire, my dear niece” he told her. “Blood and fire of the dragon would be best, but just the one will do in a pinch.” And on his clothes from when he had fallen through time, was the lifeblood of Caraxes.

He wrapped the eggs, gently, gently, in the shirt he had worn, soaked with blood from both Caraxes and Vhagar, and lowered them into the heart of the mountain, using a pulley system he had unearthed by a wall. When the eggs were brought up again, they glowed.

“Now, we wait,” he said. “They should hatch in a day or two.”

And hatch they did.

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He left Dragonstone when the sun rose. The white dragon flew slowly, leisurely. No one on the island would react, he knew. They were used to it, already. Less than half a year had he been living there, and already the people had grown used to the dragons.

They meandered through the skies, but he made sure they went west. The sun rose behind them as they left the sea and moved in over land. He kept his mind clear and still as they flew, enjoyed the bite of cool air against exposed skin, the heat of the dragon beneath him. This, this was how it should be. The only thing missing was a second dragon next to him, but one could never have everything, life had taught him that. Still, he was pleased with what he had accomplished. His family was back on the Throne, dragons soared through the skies. There was even a new generation, born just a few weeks ago. It amused him that his niece, Dreamer that she was, had missed the simple fact she carried twins. Just because she had dreamed one baby in her arms. That the second one could be in the arms of her husband had not occurred to her.

A new generation. A new chance. One named for him, one named for Rhaenyra. He had not asked which baby was the oldest, and Jon and Daenerys apparently knew him well enough not to volunteer the information. He didn’t want to know if he would be pleased or disappointed, didn’t want to be forced to know what he had hoped for. If he had hoped for either.

They landed by the western shore of the God’s Eye. He stretched out in the grass, next to the warm dragon. Watched the clouds. Enjoyed the breeze.

Then, when he was content, he mounted the dragon again, and they flew out over the lake. Circled, dipped and dove. Played, really. He detached the saddlechains. Ran a hand over the warm scales. Then he let himself tip over to one side, fall from the saddle. He didn’t know if he was far enough from the surface for the fall to kill him. It didn’t matter. If not the fall, then the water.

He had fallen here once before. He had entered the fight not expecting to live. He didn’t intend to walk away again. It was time. He had done what he set out to do, and if any gods wanted him to do more, then that was their own problem. He was done. He wanted rest, he wanted his wife, his children. His dragon.

White Periax called out above him, a final farewell.

He hit the surface of the lake.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t easy to have a mother who dreamt true dreams. She always knew when they did something they shouldn’t. Or thought about it. Sometimes she even seemed to get mad about things they might have done, but decided against. Overall, it wasn’t fair, and none of their friends or cousins ever had to deal with it.

Before their own eggs were laid and hatched, both Daemon and Rhaenyra took their refuge with the riderless white she-dragon, Periax, and whispered their complaints about all-knowing mothers into her warm scales. Then their father showed up, more often than not led by his white wolf, and brought them back inside the keep, back to lessons they had escaped and annoyed maesters and septas.

When Periax’ eggs hatched and they each claimed a hatchling, they still went to Periax, but less often to complain and seek compassion and more to show off how the little dragons grew. She only showed polite, distant interest. Their mother told them dragons weren’t very fond parents, unlike their human counterparts.

Their father still fetched them back. He took responsibility and duty very seriously, their father the King. Their mother teased him about it when she thought no one heard her.