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Rhaenyra

Rhaenyra Targaryen had never given much stock to the idea of her wedding, or what would come after. Oh she knew it would a grand affair befitting the daughter of the King, of the Realm’s Delight, but she knew her hand would not be given out of love, but duty. A duty of alliance, of children that she would love and guard and teach. She had imagined a grand wedding, full of joyous festivities and smiles, and a husband she could grow to love both in and outside the marriage bed. She had wanted her mother to stand beside her, pinning her hair with rubies and dragon-glass, with Alicent tittering behind her, and her father to have prideful smile.

When she was younger, she had once snuck into her mother’s bed after yet another miscarriage, mourning the loss of  another sibling that she would never hold, a child she would never teach to fly, a child she could never truly love in the way she wanted to. That had happened many times, until it ultimately claimed the life of her beloved mother, an act that single-handedly ruined everything.

Her mother had taken her close abck then, weak, trembling fingers smoothing the skewed silver-gold of her hair. Aemma Arryn was everything to Rhaenyra in those days, and even now she was always on her mind, her kind, gentle words, the love she radiated for not only her family, but those within the Keep. Rhaenyra didn’t need to speak in those times, because her mother knew. Her mother had always known. Rhaenyra wondered what her mother would say now as her hand cradled the barely there bump beneath the layers of ruby and onyx fabric. The warmth of Syrax’s breath still radiated beneath her hand and it was then, in the Dragon Pit, that Rhaenyra understood.

She had quickly returned to her rooms, fear quickening her heart. Laenor was in the training yards, her maids absent, and the single lady she had once possessed had become her step-mother. And so, she believed she was alone. But a dragon alone in the world was a terrible thing. Their magic needed another to bind them, to stop the fire in their veins from consuming them whole.

“Hello, little dragon. We are here now.”

Rhaenyra could see the ghostly facsimile of her mother’s smile, of the loving warmth in her eyes, silver hair loose and curled, and behind her she could hear the sound of a child’s cry. Rhaenyra could feel the heat of her lips against her forehead, the scent of lavender and lemon that surrounded them.

“I will watch you, my sweet. We will watch you.” And then there was nothing.

But her mother was not here, nor was Alicent, who dared claim the place of Queen Aemma, who claimed that the birthing bed was easy as she held her own son. Her wedding was conducted with blood-stained floors, and though she loved Laenor, she would never be in love with him, nor he her. Instead, she had been wed to a man a few paces from where his own love had been beaten to death by somebody she had once considered a friend.

It was only then that Rhaenyra felt the prickle of tears as she caressed the smooth fabric. Her child rested within her, a child of Old Valyria, the future of her house, the child that would one day take the throne after Rhaenyra had died, unless that too would be stolen from her. A sudden fear rose within her, not for herself, but of her unborn babe. She would not let the House of the Dragon falter, she would not let it tear itself apart for the ambitions of men. She would not.

To do so would forfeit the life that grew within her. 

“We are here, little dragon. We are fire and blood, we do not vanish in the dark.” It was her mother’s sweet voice once again. “You can stop this.”

A horrible, wet sound escaped her throat as a dozen violent images assaulted her mind and she wretched at the scent of burning flesh, the roaring screams as the dragons died, crushed beneath the stone of the Pit. Perhaps the most terrifying image that she caught a glimpse of was a silver-haired lady screaming above the headless body of her child. Rhaenyra bent forward, emptying her stomach into the stone floors as she sobbed and she prayed to the Gods of Valyria for the first time since they had taken her mother and brother.

“Please. Please do not let this be our future. Please. Mother please do not let this be my child’s fate. Please.”  Rhaenyra begged in High Valyrian. “Please. Show me the way and I will follow your path. I swear this to you, with fire and blood.”

“No longer, sweetling. No longer.”

“Princess?” Lord Commander Westerling stood at her doorway, no doubt summoned by her sobs of loss and anguish. “I’ve called a Maester, Your Highness. They will be here soon.”

Rhaenyra tried to smile at the man, but judging my his grimace it did little to assuage his fears. Her tears could not stop, her mind clouded by the sensation of a dragon maw around her neck, the scent of burned men and the cries of a mother, of a motherless child. A flock of maids swarmed her, cleaning the vomit and her face as they helped her into bed. Ser Harrold stood watch at the door, unmoving as his eyes followed everything in the room, as though he expected somebody to appear from beneath the Myrish rugs.

“My Lord husband as well, Ser. And my father if he is available. I know what news will be shared by the Maester.” Her words were ragged and rough as she spat bile into a brass pot on of the maids was holding.

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard understood at once, for of course he did, he was the Lord Commander, and his order was bound to the blood of Old Valyria. A smile tugged upon Ser Harrold's lips before he bowed. The maids seem to have caught on as well, and the oldest, a withered woman who had been looking after Rhaenyra since she could remember met her gaze.

“My congratulations, Princess. Now we know why you’ve been avoiding your eggs in the morning.”

Rhaenyra flushed a violent pink as the maids giggled beside her. It had been a scant three months since her wedding night, one she had spent in the passionate embrace of her uncle rather than her heartbroken husband. But then Daemon had abandoned her too, gone off to the far-flung corners of the Free Cities where he could drink and whore himself into oblivion. That was not to say Laenor was not the father. Their union had been awkward, full of unamused laughter, but they had fulfilled their duty, only to swear to never speak of it again.

That somehow made everything worse.

“Rhaenrya.” Laenor called, breath heavy as though he had run from the training yard. “What happened?”

“Our wedding night.” She replied dryly as the Grandmaester and her father entered.

“Truly?” Viserys stopped, eyes wide and shimmering. “You are with child?”

“I believe so father.” She looked to Mellos and bitter bile rose in her throat, but she was a dragon, she would not be cowed by fear. “I would have the Grandmaester confirm.”

Rhaenyra clasped Laenor’s hand in hers, fingers tightening in a silent plea to not be left alone. He understood her at once, pressing a chaste kiss to her hair as he settled by her side, eyes on Mellos. It was an uncomfortable moment as he concluded his examination but he turned to Laenor with a nod.

“The Princess is indeed with child. Three moons I believe. Congratulations Your Grace, Ser Laenor. The Gods have granted you a boon this day, a child so close to the wedding night is a gracious gift.”

Viserys swallowed, moving forward to hold his sobbing daughter in his arms. Laenor stayed by her side, humming in High Valyrian as the room emptied, Ser Harrold nodding as he took up guard on the other side of the door. The King felt a hand upon his shoulder and lips against his cheek, and in the distance, the dragons roared as one.

“Father, I saw mother. She was here, I…” Rhaenyra swallowed. “She showed me things father, of the Prince, of fire and blood and destruction.” She grasped her father’s arm, terror in her eyes. “Please father, keep my baby safe.”

“Hush my sweetling. I know. I know my darling girl. Everything will be well, I promise you.” He looked to Laenor. “I will call your family to court, so that they may enjoy this blessing.”

He would send one to Daemon, but his beloved brother had vanished before the wedding was even finalised. Viserys prayed that he would come home, hale and hearty. Perhaps he would give him his annulment. The house of the dragon had stood divided because of him, and Viserys would fix his mistakes. For his daughter. For his grandchild. For Aemma. But for now, he would hold his only child.

***

Laenor 

Later that evening Rhaenyra collapsed into her bed with a heaved sigh. Dinner with her father, Laenor, and Alicent had been painful, filled with false niceties and insincerity between the Queen and the Princess. The letters had been sent to Driftmark, and Rhaenyra welcomed the company that it may bring. The Red Keep was so lonely, a father who was slowly decaying, a Queen and her lapdog who hated the very ground upon which Rhaenyra walked, and three siblings she had never properly seen.

“The Queen did not seem pleased, dear wife.” Laenor grumbled, pouring a goblet of Arbour Gold. “Neither did that rabid beast.”

‘Rabid beast’ was what Laenor had taken to calling Ser Criston in private, and Rhaenyra was inclined to agree. He had changed, since that night so many months ago, since that day on the ship.

“He wished me to run away with him, to forsake everything my blood stands for in order to sell oranges and cinnamon.” Rhaenyra admitted.

Laenor froze, his eyes widening above the rim of the goblet as he coughed. He had known his wife had spent their wedding night with somebody, but he dared not hope that it was with that foul, loathsome, spiteful Cole. He had hoped it was Daemon, the idea which had led to their own coupling just a few short days later. It appeared Rhaenyra understood where his mind had went and she laughed.

“I swear to you, the child will be of pure Valyrian blood no matter who the father is.” She grimaced. “Ser Criston was simply available after the brothel escapade. I have not touched him since, nor would I.”

Laenor chugged the rest of the wine before he exhaled. That sentence meant one of three things: The child would be Laenor’s, or the child would be Daemon’s. Neither of those mattered much to Laenor, for he would love the child regardless and Daemon Targaryen was a very pretty man. The other thing though had him cackling.

“Please tell me you didn’t fuck my father.”

There was an outraged squawk from the bed as Rhaenyra threw a feather-down pillow at Laenor’s head, a crimson blush staining her cheeks. There was mirth dancing in her eyes, but there was a distasteful pull to her lips.

“I would rather not be fed to Meleys, thank you dear husband.” A sobering breath. “I suppose we won’t know until the birth.”

“Even then it may be difficult to tell, children are all the same. Wrinkled potatoes in my experience.” That got a feint huff as climbed upon the bed, grasping her hands. “It matters not, Nyra, the child you carry be still be of the skies and the sea, will be heir just as you are and House Velaryon will stand with you.”

“I’m so happy I married you, Laenor.”

“And I you, goose.” He kissed his fingers and lay them on her stomach. “And you, gosling.”

That night, they slept beside each other, Laenor whispering stories of the Stepstones in High Valyrian to both mother and unborn babe in order to try and ease the ache in his wife’s heart. He would never be able to fill the void left by Daemon’s absence, nor would he try to. The child would know Daemon, as both a protector and a father, just as Laenor himself would be.

***

Alicent 

Alicent stared at the nursery that held her children. Aegon and Helaena were asleep soundly, her eldest having grown out of his screaming fits sometime past his third year, while Helaena was sometimes still prone. She did not understand why her daughter would scream as though her flesh had been torn open and her heart ripped out, perhaps it was some sort of Targaryen queerness, or a godly punishment for the blood that ran in her children’s veins.

Aemond was by far her favourite, for he was a babe still himself and rarely made much noise. He was her precious little Hightower, a beacon swathed in green and gold, one that seemed to be untainted. She eyed the egg in his crib distastefully, the memory of dragon-scent and heat beneath the golden scales. Oh what her life would have been if she and Rhaenyra had flown away. But they were little more than the flightful fancy of a spoiled girl. Alicent had done her duty, had been passed from her father’s protection to that of the King. She wasn’t stupid, she knew her duty, to birth the future king yet Viserys held-true: Rhaenyra was still his heir.

Rhaenyra, who now found herself with child, further cementing her ascent to the Iron Throne upon the King’s death. Rhaenyra who married a man that lay with other men, a man the Seven said would never be able to reproduce because of his sins. That meant the child had to be a bastard, borne of lustful depravity to a Princess who trampled upon her duty. Alicent heeded her father’s words from a letter mere weeks ago.

‘So long as they live, they are a threat.’

Alicent had burned the letter after reading it, knowing the words her father had written were borderline treasonous. But Alicent would not let her children come to harm because of Rhaenyra’s bastard child. She would do her duty.

***

Rhaenys 

Rhaenys Velaryon sat in her chambers, the fire roaring to stave off the storm that grew beyond the keep. Meleys and Vhagar had nested within the overhanging caves, or rather, Vhagar tried. Her daughter's beast was as massive as she was ancient, and as such she simply didn’t fit. It seemed as though the dragon did not care, for she simply raised a wing to keep her head dry and slumbered. Both had behaved oddly the day before, taking to the skies with thunderous roars. Beyond them, even Dragonstone seemed to shake as it was circled by five beasts, two of whom had not been seen since the death of the Old King.

“A raven, from your cousin.” Corlys muttered as he entered, scroll in hand.

Rhaenys raised an eye at her husband's behaviour. He was a prideful man, and one that held onto grudges far longer than they were worth. Even after accepting his position again upon the Small Council, Corlys left Laenor to deal with it. She took the scroll, breaking through the vermillion wax as she read the message.

“Cousin, I would send this message to Lord Corlys but I fear he is burning my letters, or simply ignoring them as I have yet to receive a response to a single one.” At that, Rhaenys raised an eyebrow and her husband pointedly looked anywhere but her face. “Instead I write this to you. The union between our family grows yet again with the confirmation that my daughter, my beloved Rhaenyra, is pregnant. I wish for you, Corlys and Laena to join us in King’s Landing until such a time as the child is born, and for you to remain, so that we may mend this divide between our blood. I ask you this, not as your King, but as your kin, as the cousin who trailed after you within these halls. I ask you this, because there is nobody I would trust more to guide Rhaenyra through her darkest fear.”

There was a moment of silence between the pair before a large grin pulled upon Corlys’ lips. She had not seen that look since Laena had been placed into his arms straight from the birthing bed, still slick with blood and screaming. He had looked upon her as though she was the most precious thing in the world.

They of course, had known where Laenor’s true attraction lay. It had been Rhaenys and Rhaenyra who held her heartbroken, sobbing son beneath the guise of the bedding as he drank himself stupid. Theirs was not one of romantic love, but one of kinship, Rhaenys herself had heard both ‘goose and duck’ mentioned several times by a very drunk Laenor. But while Corlys cared only for names, not blood, he would love this child simply because he loved his son, if that were the case.

“We are sure the child will look Valyrian, yes? I saw how that Kingsguard looked at her.” Corlys grumbled.

“Yet you somehow managed to miss the fact that Daemon kissed her before Joffrey was murdered by said Kingsguard. He would be the only other she would have bedded, either way, it makes it easier.”

“Then it will be the only grandchild I shall have until he appears for a few days only to get himself exiled once again.” He poured them two goblets of wine. “At least we know the child will be pretty.”

At that, Rhaenys laughed. She knew her husband, son, and cousin had become close during the war in the Stepstones. She knew her son had harboured a crush upon him, after all, what man or maid would deny the beauty of Daemon Targaryen?

“It appears to me that you miss Daemon, my love. You spent much time with him, and you think him pretty, and war camps are a lonely place. Should I be concerned?” Rhaenys teased, taking a drink of the sweet wine.

“Incorrigible. You, my beloved, are the only one for me. After all, you both share the same eyes.”

Laughter echoed loudly through the stone walls of the keep, and even Meleys felt fond in their bond. There would be little to do until the storm passed, but Rhaenys would fly ahead upon her Red Queen while Laena rode Vhagar, and Corlys would follow with his ships.

That, however, meant leaving Driftmark to the care of Vaemond, which neither truly wanted to do.

***

Syrax, The Golden Lady 

She knew instantly. In fact, all of the dragons within the Pit knew of her rider’s pregnancy. The child within her glorious rider was strong, the magic in her blood calling out to the dragons even from the womb. Syrax looked at her rider, who was not wearing her leathers. Not that Syrax would ever risk the precious life within her.

“I know my beauty, I shall ride you tomorrow. I find myself alone within my own home. But you will always be there, won’t you, my love?’

The lyrical tone of her rider’s Valyrian was soothing, though the unfiltered loneliness aggrieved Syrax. Her rider was alone, so far from Syrax and the others that if somebody dared hurt the precious unhatched hatchling they would not be there. That, they would not stand.

As one, the dragons within the Pit roared, Dreamfyre lighting her cave awash in icy flames. The tiny Sunfyre trying to let loose his flames in celebration. Upon Dragonstone, Sheepstealer, Cannibal, Grey Ghost, Vermithor and Silverwing roared. Upon Driftmark, Meleys and Vhagar took to the skies in celebration. To the East, a very confused Daemon Targaryen petted an uncharacteristically maudlin Caraxes.

Syrax’s rider did not flinch as the dragon keepers moved toward her, bowing her head so her snout brushed over Rhaenyra’a stomach. A plume of hot air rose as Syrax nudged the fabric, scenting the unhatched hatchling. Golden eyes met glittering amethyst and Syrax watched as a hand came to settle on the still heated fabric.

“Oh.”

Syrax snorted at the silliness of humans. The bond that all dragons shared, the one of their home in the long extinguished fourteen fires called to their brethren, of the magic in their rider’s blood. To the unclaimed, the untamed and the unridden. And they would come. All except one.

Chapter Text

Laena

Never before had Laena seen so much vomit, nor had she learned to deal with the sound of violent retches that plagued her good-sister in the early mornings. Instead, she and her brother sat beside the Princess wiping her face of snot, vomit, and spit with cool, damp rags. Laena had been in her service for neigh on three moons, surely the sickness should have lessened? Would her sweet cousin be so violently ill up until the birth? Laena selfishly hoped that was not the case, for she saw how tired Rhaenyra was.

The skin beneath her blood-shot eyes was a dark plum colour, deep heavy-set circles stark against her pale skin. Angry splotches of red besieged Rhaenyra’s beautiful face, her cheeks sunken. Thankfully Laena knew her cousin had not lost much weight, for the violent waves of sickness seemed only to attack for the first hour or so after waking. Pregnancy is the oddest thing, Laena decided.

“Come cousin, let us get you cleaned up before we break our fast with your father, the Queen and the little ones.” Laena said.

Rhaenyra nodded her agreeance. Since the announcement of her pregnancy, the King had held a small gathering in the royal apartments bi-monthly. It was only for the family, no talk of politics, but rather stories of their shared blood, of Old Valyria, of the departed Queen who nearly everybody in attendance loved. (Laena did not count the children, because they didn’t understand what was happening. But the Queen did.)

“You’re glowering Laena.”

“Ah, apologies. I thought of something distasteful.”

“If the distaste was named Alicent Hightower I would ask you to let it rest. The blood between us will never be cleansed, nor the friendship repaired, but for the sake of my father, for my child, we must be civil.”

“Yes, Princess.” Laena ducked her head, blush pinking her cheeks while Laenor snorted from across the divide.

“Darling wife, why does it feel as though I am another of your Ladies?”

“You’re certainly pretty enough to fit the part. Perhaps we should lace you in ebony and ivory and wed again. I’m sure the Seven would have a fit.” Rhaenyra laughed, sipping a goblet of lemon water.

As they readied the obviously pregnant princess, swathing her in rich vermillion fabrics that Coryls had gifted her, beautiful black beadwork along the flared sleeves while the shoulders held the design of dragon scale. Around her throat sat an old necklace of corded onyx, with a snarling dragonhead beset in rubies. Her hair had been pulled into a series of braids, held in place with clips studded in dragon-glass. With the sickness of pregnancy receding as the morning passed, stomach soothed by lavender and orange tea, they set off toward the royal apartments.

Laena regarded her cousin with pride as Laenor clasped an arm through his wife’s. He was in Velaryon blue, his hair tied beneath a piece of black leather. The pair were resplendent in their finery as Laena walked half a step behind, eyes following the whispers of Court. Further behind them, Ser Steffon and Ser Erryk, who were both often guarding the Princess despite her insistence that she did not require two members of the Kingsgaurd to escort her, followed silently. Laena remembered that conversation well. It seemed the King had become as fierce as the dragon he once rode with news of the pregnancy. Not that Laena’s own Lord father was any better, the guard of the Red Keep bolstered with Velaryon forces.

“I believe father wants us to move, my dear.” Rhaenyra admitted as they climbed the steps. “He has been planning something with your mother, and I fear for us both.”

“Perhaps Dragonstone? Perhaps he wishes for the wild dragons to finally leave the city.” Leanor mused.

“Can they be called wild if they’re waiting in the Pit? Cannibal hasn’t even eaten any eggs since he arrived.” Laena pointed out.

“No, I fear the Pit will remain full until the babe is born.” Rhaenyra said with a glimmer of warmth. “Old Valyria has blessed us. Never before have the dragons roared as one, not since the Doom.”

Usually Laena was not one to follow superstitions, but even she could not deny the magic in their blood. She, a girl of three and ten had claimed the mount of Visenya Targaryen herself, the mighty Vhagar. The blood of Old Valyria had power, she had seen it on her father’s travels to the Free Cities, the worshippers of the Lord of Light, and the Warlocks of Qarth. The child, her niece or nephew, not yet even born, was capable of uniting not only the House of the Dragon, but also the dragons themselves.

“Princess, Ser Laenor, Lady Laena.” Ser Harrold murmured before he nodded to his white brothers. “His Grace has not yet arrived, but the Queen and the children are present.”

Laena perfected keeping her face blank as she followed her brother and good-sister into the open chambers. The children were there, tiny little Aemond gurgling as he sucked on the corner of his doll. Aegon was a beacon in green as he played with a carved dragon. It was Helaena who noticed them first, stumbling along to hug Rhaenyra’s legs.

“Hello, little dream. How are you?”

The girl babbled excitedly as she led them to the table, pointing for Rhaenyra to sit near the open brazier that was out of reach of the children.

“For the baby.”

“Thank you, sweet girl. Dragons do like to be warm, especially this one.” Rhaenyra offered with a small smile.

Laena watched as the Queen froze from where she was staring out the windows, her fingers twisting upon her emerald lap. She looked at Rhaenyra who pursed her lips at the habit before the door opened.

“His Grace, King Viserys, and the Princess Rhaenys of House Targaryen.” Ser Harrold announced.

***

Rhaenyra 

Her father’s arrival had prevented Rhaenyra from acting on old instincts to take Alicent’s hands in hers before she could rip them bloody. She watched as her father greeted the children with fond smiles and a kiss upon Helaena’s hair before he kissed her own cheek. He looked between his two daughters, and then to the fire.

“I see now you wished for a fire, my dear. Well done, Helaena. Aegon, come, eat something, Aemond will still be there once you’ve broken your fast.”

There was a lightness in her father’s tone that Rhaenyra had not heard since before that accursed day. She smiled at the sight of her father happy, not only with her, but also her siblings. If a tear slipped from her eye as she stared into the fire, no one by Helaena noticed, and the girl who was seated beside her squeezed her hand with chubby little fingers.

“How has the pregnancy been so far?” Alicent questioned, an almost hesitant look to her face.

“The mornings are worse, but the fires have helped. We are going to the Dragon Pit this afternoon, though Syrax will not let me ride, I miss her company.”

“Would that be wise? To be around the dragons in such a delicate condition.”

Though there was a reasonable amount of uncertainty and perhaps genuine worry to Alicent’s words, Rhaenyra remembered her voice, her tone and her distaste as she remarked on Targaryen customs. It was an insult to her house, her blood, and Rhaenyra would not settle for it.

“Nonsense, Your Grace. We Targaryens often spend time amongst the pit when with child. There is no need to fear, the dragons will not harm me, nor the child they seem to be waiting to greet.” She reached forward for a lemon cake and handed it to Helaena who couldn’t quite reach. “Our queer customs allow for it.”

Alicent flinched as her words were thrown back in her face. Rhaenyra knew that Aegon had claimed a hatchling some months before, a beautiful golden beast that yet remained unnamed. A travesty of the highest degree, to deny a Targaryen their dragon. She would rectify it at once. She looked to little Aemond, a year old and the dragon egg within his cradle as was tradition. Perhaps he was too young to bring to the Pit, but Aegon and Helaena weren’t.

“Even with the unridden, untamed dagons residing within the Pits, there have been no issues apart from Vermithor’s apparent loneliness due to Dreamfyre and Silverwing nesting together.” Rhaenys commented lightly. “Perhaps we can celebrate this glorious omen, cousin?”

“That is a wonderful idea, Rhaenys. Perhaps young Aegon can finally settle upon a name for his golden delight. Haelena’s egg has not yet hatched, nor do I believe it will, perhaps she will find a mount suitable for Targaryen princess.” A fond look passed over his face as he watched Aemond fuss within his crib, hand rubbing along the scales of the egg. “It is too soon yet to tell for Aemond, but we shall see.”

Rhaenyra looked at Alicent’s crestfallen face as she tore into her fingers with reckless abandon. That childhood hope of once having her greatest friend sit upon Syrax flashed in her mind. Alicent, Rhaenyra knew, had never been taken by the beauty of the dragons. She feared them despite having no reason to with Daemon out East with Caraxes. Alicent may be a Hightower but her children were the blood of the dragon, vestiges of Old Valyria. To deny them the magic in their blood would only lead to their ruination. It had nothing to do with the prickling feelings of warmth at Aegon’s toothy smiles, nor the way Helaena would whisper her name, or how Aemond would snooze within her arms. Not at all.

“Come with us, Alicent. I swear to you no harm will come to you or the children.” Her voice was low, soft only for the two of them though she caught her good-mother’s eyes on them. “Syrax would like to see you.”

She watched as Alicent warred with herself. Rhaenyra decided to extend her hand across the table, fingers extended. Alicent tentatively reached her own hand forward until her bloodied fingers were hidden beneath Rhaenyra’s.

“Okay. But you’re certain you won’t ride? I don’t think my heart could survive it.”

“I tried to mount Syrax a few weeks after we found out, and she refused to move. Seasmoke even stood in front of her in case my lovely girl decided to take flight. The Keepers have never seen anything like it before.” Rhaenyra admitted. “But father has been looking, he was always the historian.”

“Ahh.” Alicent grinned. “You are the reason he spends all night in dusty tomes. Has he found an answer yet?”

Rhaenyra shrugged before she took a sip of water, eyes darting to the conversation down the table. Her father and good-mother were deep in an old story, Laena was braiding Helaena’s hair as he regaled both Aegon and the little princess with stories of Seasmoke. She couldn’t help the smile, one true and happy, that pulled on her lips. There was a man missing from this idyllic picture as she stroked her bump, eyes falling to the babe beside her who bore his name. She missed Daemon, her heart would ache until he returned, but for now, she was surrounded by family.

Then a sharp sensation fluttered within her, more pronounced that the usual gentle movement she associated. Rhaenyra gasped as the babe kicked again and her eyes teared up for the second time. Alicent was beside her in a moment, concern shining upon every inch of her beautiful face.

“I’m fine. Just a strong kick, usually she’s much more gentle.” Rhaenyra admitted.

Beside them, Aemond gave a cry as the conversations died within the room. Alicent reached into the crib and plucked her yawning son toward her. She looked to Rhaenyra before she tilted her head in silent question and the princess nodded before her youngest brother was placed into her arms. Pale amethyst eyes so like her father’s stared back at her as she dragged a thumb down his cheek.

“Whenever you need me, I will be here. I swear it, on fire and blood.”

“She?” Alicent wondered.

“Ah, I don’t know why I said that.” Rhaenyra flushed. “It feels right.”

“I would say mother’s are always right, but I thought Aegon was a girl.” There was a squeaky protest from the child in question and Helaena giggled. “And you, Ser Laenor, any thoughts?”

“I’ve not much put thought into it, Your Grace. So long as the child is happy and well, there is nothing more I could want.” A devious grin lit up his handsome face as he turned to his wife. “And for her to have a glorious dragon that I can race, to once again prove Seasmoke is the second fastest after our beloved Red Queen.”

“Oh, by the Gods brother. Vhagar is ancient, asking her to perform those manoeuvres would be like asking mother to do the Lysene Tree Dance again.” Laena defended. “Poor girl probably thinks we’re to conquer Dorne still.”

Further up the table Viserys snorted on his wine as he looked at his dear cousin, an eyebrow raised. Rhaenys, to her credit did not look discomfited by her daughter’s admission as she stared down the King.

“What’s a Tree Dance?” Aegon asked.

“When you’re older sweet prince.” Laena mumbled under her mother’s withering glare.

Alicent looked to Rhaenyra confused, but the princess was unwilling to sully the mind of her chaste and pious childhood companion. She was sure Alicent would blush and splutter if she knew exactly what the Dance entailed.

“I shall tell you later, Alicent. It would not do well for the children to overhear, lest they repeat it amongst the court.”

Fire burned on Alicent’s face before she snorted, eyes alight with mirth. For the first time since she had become Queen, Alicent had everything she wanted: A family.

***

Viserys 

Viserys had not entered the Dragon Pit in sometime. He had claimed Balerion within the pit, had one flight upon his beloved dragon, the last tangible connection to Old Valyria. He had nearly been driven mad by the bond snapping, for it was unusual for a rider to outlive their mount. Viserys would not have survived those torturous months as his mind healed without his brother and cousin, and his father, without Caraxes and Meleys and Vhagar herslef.

He knew his wife was afraid of the dragons, he understood why, she did not have the magic in her blood that called to them. But their children did. Viserys had been remiss, ill as he had been since he chose to brutalise his beloved Aemma in the name of a son. Rhaenyra was theirs, the love he held for her was near unparalleled, for she was the last piece of his darling Aemma, his heir, the mother of his grandchild.

He had feared in the beginning that Rhaenyra resented her new siblings, for she had never spent any time with Aegon or Helaena when they had been but babes. It was then she had confessed that she was scared to be around them, to see the faces of her siblings who survived when she was haunted by those who didn’t. Viserys held her close that day, before the great skull of his beloved Balerion and begged for the forgiveness of the Fourteen Flames, for failing not only his eldest, but the children who came after her.

The Gods had granted his wish, for only a few weeks later Rhaenyra’s pregnancy became known, the dragons retuned to King’s Landing and his family began to heal. Even that morning he had seen the softness of his daughter as she spoke to her old friend, and Viserys felt a stab of guilt for stealing his daughter’s own companion. But Rhaenyra had tried, had tried since the very first dinner they all shared together.  The King understood his daughter was haunted by whatever the Gods had deigned to show her, for she had never revealed it, but her eyes would fog and hear breath would sharpen.

Viserys was many things, but he loved his daughter. He could see the effort she made to fix the ever-growing rift between herself and Alicent, between himself, Corlys and Rhaenys. She never did mention Daemon, which surprised him, but perhaps his daughter knew the issue was not one that could be rushed.

He loved his brother, the man who had raised an army and sworn his sword to forever defend Viserys and his kin. Otto had often murmured about Daemon’s ambition, of his interest in the Throne and how he would spill blood to gain it. Never, even in his brother’s worst moments, even after the incident in the brothel, did he think Daemon capable of harming himself, and he certainly wasn’t capable of harming Rhaenyra. That had been made certain on the steps of Dragonstone years earlier.

“You’ve been quiet father, are you well?”

His sweet Rhaenyra looked concerned in that moment, eyeing him for any signs of pain as they rolled to a stop before the pit. Truthfully, Viserys’ wounds still pained and required leeching and maggots, though they seemed to be more ineffective as time passed. His three fingers had been lost to rot. His chest often rattled if he breathed too deeply. But the Throne had yet to cut him since the pregnancy was announced.

“The Pit reminds of times long past, of nights spent by Balerion’s wing as I read stories of Old Valyria to Daemon. I miss those times.” Viserys admitted, stepping from the carriage.

“Could you claim another, father? We don’t get sick if we’re bonded, isn’t that what you used to say?”

There was a certain fragility in her tone, a whisper of the child she had not long ago been. A child who was afraid to be left alone in the world. Viserys wrapped an arm around her, pressing his lips to her temple.

“Perhaps. It has never been done before, but rarely has a rider outlived their dragon, and even then, the bonding sickness…” He trailed off, waiting for the rest of the family and the guard to join them.

At once, the very foundations of the stone shook. Aemond cried from where he was located in his mother’s arms, Helena covered her ears and bounced on her feet beside Rhaenyra, while little Aegon winced. He looked to his daughter, who seemed to glow with an ethereal starlight and the dragonkeepers bowed at once.

“Eh, Nyra.” Laenor started, pressing a hand into her shoulder as she hummed. “What’s happening?”

“The dragons, they’re happy.”

***

Alicent

Stepping into the dragon pit, Alicent was assaulted with a scent she could never forget. Dragons did not smell of fire, nor sulphur, theirs was a wholly unique, individualised musk that could never be replicated. It had always set her on edge. She held her son in her arms as Rhaenyra was descended upon with happy trills and growls, as though the three dragons that surrounded her were just overgrown kittens instead of man-eating beasts.

The Velaryons disappeared to their own mounts, while her husband took Aegon toward the smallest dragon with the most beautiful golden scales she had ever seen. The Kingsguard had stood back, Ser Harrold following the King, while neither Ser Steffon or one of the twins wanted to get close to the pile of purring dragons. She recognised Syrax, her own head cocking as she regarded Alicent. The other was a beautiful blue dragon, horns tipped in an iridescent white like the stories of unicorns from the East. The third was larger, with mercurial grey like quicksilver scales. Its eyes burned a bright, icy blue.

 Further beyond the space, three other dragons sat piled together. One grey and swift, the other was a dark brown the colour imported chocolates. The other stared at Alicent with poisonous green eyes, so like the beacon, like the colours she wore.

“Nyra, pretty. Can I ride?”

That was her daughter’s voice. Her daughter who was three, who seemed to be in the middle of a pile of dragons with her older sister. With Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra would not allow harm to come to any of the children, especially not Helaena who would never be a threat to her succession.

So long as they live, they are threats.

How easy would it be to blame a dragon for the death of her beloved daughter? Her daughter who was odd, touched by the blood in her veins, who mumbled about dances and eyes and falling.

“Rhaenyra. Please come out.” Alicent begged, not dare stepping to close to Syrax.

“It’s alright Alicent. I think Helaena had found her mount, though it will be many years before she can ride her alone.” Wings fluttered back and Helaena emerged, the happiest Alicent had ever seen her.

“Which?”

“Dreamfyre. Rather fitting, isn’t it little dream?” Alicent took a step back as the other dragon’s head slithered other her shoulder. “Silverwing. The mount of Queen Alysanne. And my daughter.”

“Mama, Nyra. Look. Sunfyre.” Aegon shrieked, the dragon riding on his shoulder, gold and pink wings flaring behind her son’s head.

“A beautiful dragon, I assure you, Egg. Now, you have to make sure you love them, because otherwise they won’t grow big and strong, and then he won’t be able to fly with you.”

“I’ll love him.” Aegon decree with all of the seriousness a four-year-old could muster.

Rhaenyra, who had bent down before speaking to him, pressed a kiss into his white-gold hair, before he turned to Helaena and introduced her sweet, shy daughter to his dragon.

“What of those three? The one with green eyes.” Alicent nodded her head toward the opposite side of the pit.

“The untamed of Dragonstone. Never ridden, Grey Ghost likes fish so he doesn’t bother people too much, Sheepstealer, the brown one, isn’t too fond of people, so best to keep your distance.” Despite those words, Rhaenyra led them closer. “The last one is Cannibal. Though he’s rather sweet, likes having his scales scratched around his horns.”

“Rhaenyra, you’re petting a dragon that’s literally called the Cannibal, my heart cannot take this.”

“You’ll be fine.” Rhaenyra flashed her a grin before the Cannibal pressed its snout into her swollen belly. “All of the dragons really like the baby. Even Vhagar and she’s a wicked old lady. She steals Syrax’s goats.”

Alicent Hightower may have known that Targaryens had strange customs when she married the King. She had once hoped that her pure, pious Hightower blood would save her children in the eyes of the Seven, who condemned incest and magic. But as she watched the joy on her children’s faces, the love and adoration Rhaenyra held for her family, which included Alicent and her siblings, and the King without pain, she found her heart becoming slightly less weary.

***

Kania, The Red Priestess 

Her robes were worth the sneers and notoriety that had garnered her as she stepped off the boat from Volantis. It docked in King’s Landing, the scent of the city revolting in the basking sun, but it was where her Lord has shown her to. To the Princess Rhaenyra and the child within. The one that had changed everything and nothing. Kania looked up as a roar echoed through the sky, followed by what sounded like claps of thunder. Dragons filled the skies, blurs of whites, reds, green and black. She felt the ruby pulsate upon her neck. Yes, her Lord was pleased.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra

She could not sleep. The warmth of the city drifted through the open windows, though thankfully her tower lay facing the soothing sight of the Blackwater and its breeze. She hefted herself from the bed, ignoring Laenor’s grunt as he shifted upon the chaise, his nose twitching into the silk of the pillows. He had not left her side, he had held her as she screamed and raged in High Valyrian, blaming both he and Daemon for leaving her in this state. He did not begrudge her the love she held for her uncle, he did not care that the child may be carrying might not be his. Laenor was the best friend she could ever ask for, and Rhaenyra had thanked the Gods he was her husband, Laena her good-sister, Rhaenys and Corlys, her family.

She had hoped that her relationship with Alicent would have improved from that day in the Dragon Pit months ago, but it had not. Especially since Otto would appear whenever he so chose, inserting himself in efforts to bridge the relationship between her and her siblings. That last time had been only a few weeks ago, and now, near the end of her pregnancy, Alicent’s warmth was lost to her yet again. Even the children seemed to be busy all the time, be it in lessons with Septas, Maesters or people shrouded in Oldtown green.

Furthermore, the divide that had once been healing reopened like painful scar tissue with the arrival of a Red Priestess. Kania had been watched like a hawk until her remedies cured the headaches that had plagued Rhaenyra, eased the coiling pain in her stomach each morning and allowed her to eat. No longer had she felt weak, the tonics she received once again revitalising her instead of leaving her drained. The Maesters were disgusted  by her presence, as was Alicent and other members of the Faith. Rhaenyra had to beg her father to allow the woman to stay.

He had only relented after witnessing the flame-red jewel upon the Priestess’ throat glow in the presence of a mixture from the Maester, filled with herbs that would have left Rhaenyra gasping for breath if she had ingested it. The reaction had been one she had in youth, a mere babe down with a fever, and ever since then it had been banned from any mixtures the Maesters would make. Perhaps most important, had been when Kania embedded a Valyrian Steel dagger in the neck of a man who had drunkenly attempted to kiss the Princess just a few weeks after she arrived. That had been all but sealed the lingering doubts of her presence from the majority of the Targaryen-Velaryon household.

Discomfort weighed in her lower back as Rhaenyra waddled across her rooms in pale silk, sweat beading on her forehead, hair curling along her nape. She was uncomfortably warm, though it was the slickness of her skin and the way the fabric stuck to her that was the true irritant. She pulled on a cloak to cover herself more, though she didn’t really care. Ser Steffon or Ser Erryk would be standing guard, and both of them had held Rhaenyra’s hair back as she emptied her stomach on the flagstones of the castle. They were two men she trusted with her life, with her child’s life.

“Mistress. You should be resting.” Kania said as Rhaenyra stepped out from her chambers.

“I wish to hear the sea, the babe is restless. Would you care to join me?”

“As you command, mistress.”

With a nod to the Kingsguard, Rhaenyra snuck her arm around the priestess’s, guiding the red-haired woman toward the spiral balcony at the end of the tower. In the distance seawater lapped against the sands, the night clear as the moon burned a bright silver. With Kania’s help she settled upon the cushioned chair and with a wave of her hand, two dragon sconces burned bright with flame.

“Do you intend to teach my child the ways of your God?” Rhaenyra asked after a peaceful silence.

“No, my Princess. I have seen the looks I have received simply because of the colour I wear, heard the mutters behind my back. I would not inflict that upon your daughter even if my Lord wished it to be.” Kania admitted.

“Would you teach her if she wished to learn? The ways of Old Valyria, blood magic, dragonsong?”

“If the little dragon wished to learn, then I would offer my services freely. She may have very well saved us from a fate worse than death. Of a cold that smothers all flame, even those of the dragons.”

Rhaenyra cocked her head to the side, turning to the woman who sat beside her, one hand upon her dagger, the other thumbing the ruby on her neck. That sounded like the prophecy upon her father’s dagger.

“From my blood comes the prince that was promised.”

“You know of the Azor Ahai. Spectacular.” There was a moment where Kania considered things. “Your daughter may not be the Prince, nor any other children your bear. But yes, from your blood, but not for many years to come, I should think.”

“Then why is she so special? To be granted a glimpse of my mother, visions of a world where she did not exist, the dragons, you. What is her purpose?”

“Tomorrow, all will become clear. Ask your father about Daenys, and to allow me to see his wounds. I cannot regrow fingers, but I can help.”

They lapsed into yet another comfortable silence as Rhaenyra stroked her kicking child. It seemed as though they were fed up, the Archmaester had confirmed as much. Soon she would be in the birthing bed, and she was terrified. Her mother and brother lost. Alicent wouldn’t even look at her with Kania’s presence, growing colder the longer her father had spent within the walls of the keep. She would have Laena, and Rhaenys, and if the Maester made move for a blade, Syrax would feast on grey rat.

“Laenor wishes to name the babe Jacereys, or Lucerys, if they are male.” Rhaenyra said after a moment.

“Fine names for strong boys. For a girl?”

“I do not know. This babe does not feel like a Visenya, nor an Alysanne.” She looked across the Blackwater, out to where she knew Dragonstone sat. “I do not know.”

“Yes you do, my Princess.” Kania replied, smiling kindly.

“Aemara.” Rhaenyra said. “For the Lady of Dragonflame, a God of Old Valyria.”

“A child born of flame and darkness, blood and salt. One who does not need to live up to the name bestowed upon her, but rather will be remembered as the first of her name.” Kania smiled, grasping her ruby with a reverential gleam as the fires grew larger. “The path will not be an easy one, my Princess. Blood will spill, smiles will turn bitter and hope will die.”

Rhaenyra swallowed. Her bond with Syrax hummed despite the distance and a sudden ache built upon her back from the way she had been sitting. She stood with a hiss, as did Kania who showed her back to her rooms before she crossed to her own. Ser Erryk nodded to her as she entered her rooms before she settled on the bed.

“Soon.” Rhaenyra murmured. “Soon zaldrītsos.”

***

Viserys 

He was sitting by the modal of Old Valyria when his daughter entered. She appeared tired, as Aemma often did, but it seemed the witch was helping Rhaenyra, who no longer looked as though a sea breeze would knock her over. He stood, helping her into the seat beside him, reaching for the pitcher of water. His eyes widened at the dagger sheathed in her hand.

“Should I fear for my life, my daughter?” Viserys teased.

“Kania said something, about  Daenys, and the actions of the dragons. That all would become clear tonight. She knew about the Great Cold, father.”

Viserys swallowed, his hand moving to where Aegon’s dagger sat upon himself. Only Aegon had known, passed from heir to heir. Aemma had not even known, and Viserys only told Daemon years after he became King. It was a necessity, he had told himself, breaking from a hundred years of tradition. Tradition he then broke again to name his daughter as heir.

“Is the child the one?”

“Mayhaps. From my blood will come the Prince, but not for many years yet, we hope. But my daughter’s life means something else, and I was hoping you had found something within the books.”

“Daenys, you say? History before the Doom is scarce, more myth and legend than truth, but I believe there was something. Stay there.”

Viserys rooted through the heavy tomes bound in dragon scales, the old stories that their family had managed to save. Beneath it was a collection of withered parchment, the ink such a dark red that Viserys suspected it truly was blood. It was written in Valyrian runes, similar to the makings upon his dagger. He held it triumphantly before he returned to his beloved child.

“Here.” He said, clearing his throat. “It is said that on the night of the Dream, a terrible darkness swallowed the light, shadowing the land in despair. Many believed it to be a blessing of the Fires, for the dragons roared as one and lit the sky with their flames, lighting the way. Daenys knew better. It was not a protection, but a warning. House Targaryen stood upon the precipice of destruction or salvation. It was that night she Dreamt, leading to the Targaryen’s move to Dragonstone.”

A heavy silence overcame the pair. It was only disturbed when Rhaenyra stood, pulling the dagger from its sheath before she lay it into the flames. She seemed haunted, Viserys realised, murmuring in rapid Valyrian. He clasped his hands upon her shoulders, directing her sight to him rather than the flames.

“We cannot know if this is a true omen, not until the child in born. I have lost myself to dreams and prophecy before, Rhaenyra, and it cost me your mother. Do not become me.”

“You don’t understand, father. The things I saw when I learned I was with child, they were us. A bleak future where dragons danced, our children lay dead, our house on the brink of extinction. This is our warning, destruction or salvation.” She stared into his eyes. “Ours is a duty far more important than a throne, how can we ready the Realm if we are fractured, if there are no more dragons? You said it yourself, father, the throne has not cut you since.”

And Viserys could not argue. His daughter was correct. Though his wounds had not healed there had been no more in months. His family was together, save for his errant, flighty little brother who was in Pentos. Perhaps the child was all that was required to bind the family together, after all, the only thing that could tear down the house of the dragon was the house itself.

“I understand. But remember that prophecy is a fickle thing by nature. Do not allow it to rule you, I beg this of you.”

“I swear it father. We have our warning, it is our duty now.” A pause and teary eyes found Viserys once again. “Please allow Kania to look at your wounds father. We are fire made flesh, perhaps her fire-god can help. I cannot lose you.”

“As you wish, sweetling. Does the dagger say anything?”

Rhaenyra pulled the warmed hilt from the fire, the usual red and black of the blade glowing orange as black symbols appeared. Neither Rhaenyra or Viserys could understand the message imparted upon the ancient blade, though they were certain it contained one. His daughter placed the dagger upon the table as she doubled over with a yell. Viserys gripped her arm to keep her upright.

The red woman pushed through the doors, reaching for her mistress and Viserys watched as she murmured gentle words of encouragement to his precious girl as water pooled beneath her feet.

“Get the Maesters. Ser Arryk, my cousin and her children to the birthing room and I want you and the Kingsguard outside.” He looked at the red-haired woman. “My Lady.”

“I understand, my King. No harm shall come to the Princess, nor the babe. I swear.”

“My King, allow me to carry the Princess.” Ser Harwin appeared with his father, the Lord Hand as the excited the chambers.

“My thanks, Ser. Lyonel, we must change the location of our meeting.”

Lyonel’s lips twitched before he nodded his head. “Your Grace.”

***

Rhaenys 

Labour was the single most beautiful and brutal thing Rhaenys had ever experienced. Her good-daughter had went into labour that afternoon, and since that time Rhaenyra’s screams echoed through the halls of the Red Keep.

Rhaenys has sat beside her, gripping her hand as the girl pleased for her mother, to the Gods, to the Fourteen Flames, for both she and her child to make it through. Laenor had also refused to vacate the room, much to the irritation of the septa and Maester, though the mid-wives didn’t seem to care. Rhaenys remembers them as the women who surrounded Aemma and her heart stuttered. Above them, Laena was wiping her face with a soothing hum.

On the far side of the room, her good-daughter’s Red Priestess was staring into the open flames of the brazier, and had been since night began to darken on the horizon.

“Princess, I must insist. The babe must come out.” The Maester called, voice heavy as he moved away from the end of the bed.

“What the fuck do you think I’m trying to do you stupid fucking cunt?” Rhaenyra screamed.

“You’ve been labouring for nearly twelve hours. Soon you will be too tired to push.” The man reminded.

“I swear if you come near me with a blade, with anything that is not your hands to guide this child out of my body, I will feed you and your precious Citadel to the horde of dragons that circle the Keep. Do you understand me?”

Rhaenys admired the fire within the young woman before she screamed again, another wave of contraction pain hitting her. Milk of the poppy did not seem to do much, and the Princess refused to allow her senses to be dulled. She had babbled and cried when the Maester had suggested it, swearing that she would not be like her mother.

“Rhaenyra, some more milk of the poppy, please. We cannot stand to see you in this agony. We will not let anybody hurt you, or the baby.” Laenor promised, wincing as she gripped his hand.

“You are never putting your cock anywhere near me again, do you understand? I should have you gelded for this.”

Rhaenys snorted as her son’s dark skin blanched, eyes unfocused. In the distance, the dragons roared, and the Red Priestess’s fires glowed an unnatural violet.

“They’re coming, Princess. The Night has arrived.”

The witch’s ominous words on High Valyrian came true a moment later as the sky blackened, as though all light was suffocated beneath a blanket of impenetrable darkness. Rhaenys could feel Meleys as though she was close, her darling Red Queen euphoric.

“Push Princess. Let her be born beneath flame and darkness, blood and salt. A child of Old Valyria come again.”

The sky was pieced by the colored streaks of dragonfire. Blues, red, green, bronze, silver, the fires lit the sky in a kaleidoscope of colours. The dragons flew around the keep, circling like sharks that had scented blood. Something in the air crackled, and the flames of the witch’s brazier burned gold. Rhaenyra’s screams and threats were drowned out by the cacophony of near a dozen dragon roars.

Then, with one final push, there was a deafening scream as the child cleared its lungs. Rhaenys looked to her son who was crying, tears of relief and joy streaming unashamedly down his face. Laena was whispering to Rhaenyra, whose pants were sharp and heavy as the unnatural blackness eased, showing a starry night.

“A girl your highness.”

“Aemara. Come, give her to me.”

The babe was cleaned before she was placed in her mother’s arms. Rhaenyra looked down at the tiny thing, violet eyes and hair the colour of quicksilver. Her skin was hot to the touch, dusted with a pattern of dark freckles along her collar. It looked like...

“Is that Daenys Mark?” Rhaenys questioned, seeing the inky black mark upon the babe's right shoulder.

“Yes.” Laenor breathed, eyes widening.

“Help me, I wish to introduce Aemara to the dragons.”

“Once you have delivered the after-birth. It is dangerous to ignore.” Rhaenys cautioned.

At that, a serving girl came into her birthing rooms. She looked apologetic as Rhaenyra’a face because tainted with discomfort as she delivered the afterbirth.

“Her Grace wishes to see the child.”

“Tell the Queen she may join us in the Courtyard as I present my daughter to the dragons that circle the Keep.”

“At once, Princess.”

Laena moved, and with quick movements she had Rhaenyra looking presentable. Laenor held onto his daughter, cooing at her while the witch plucked a blue bottle from the inside of her robes.

“To give you strength.” She said as she handed it to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenys’ good-daughter swallowed whatever elixir was in the small vial though her steps were still shaky.  Outside the room, Corlys, and Viserys were waiting, along with the Hand who bowed his head, both of whom broke out into blinding smiles as Rhaenyra followed them, clutching Laenor as she held the babe.

“May I introduce you to your grand-daughter Aemara Velaryon, of House Targaryen, daughter of Old Valyria and heir to the Iron Throne.”

“Tala.” Viserys breathed, eyes softening impossibly. “Your mother is proud of you, as I know I am.” He moved closer and Rhaenys though he would begin to cry. “You were right. Our salvation.”

Rhaenys did not understand the significance of the words spoken between father and daughter, but she knew it was not everyday that the dragons painted the sky with their flames, nor did they announce the birth of a child. To be dragonborn was the greatest of blessings in Old Valyria, and Rhaenys could not help but wonder what mayhem the child would cause in future.

They walked through the keep, Rhaenyra leaning further onto both Laenor and Rhaenys who were half a step behind as Viserys carried the child in his arms. Corlys and Laena were behind them, the witch off to the side, eyes dancing like flames for those who got too close. Perhaps Rhaenys had misjudged her after all. The Lord Hand stood with his son, swathed in the gold of the City Watch while the white of the Kingsguard cleared the way.

***

Laenor

He had been correct, the child looked like a wrinkled potato. However it was the most beautiful potato Laenor had ever seen. There was the issue that there was still no way to discern who the true father of the child actually was, but he didn’t care. Once her violet eyes had met his own pale lilac, Laenor knew he would die for the sweet child who was not even an hour old.

As the entered the courtyard, he could feel the bond he shared with his beloved Seasmoke dance with pride. Evidently his dragon loved the little bundle in the King’s arms as much as Laenor himself did. Three dragons descended from the sky, the others in an almost sort of holding position, Vhagar circling the keep, her fire lighting the darkness.

“Come Laenor.” Rhaenyra called, taking her daughter into her arms.

She walked toward the three dragons within an ounce of fear, Syrax’s amber eyes following her movements, while Seasmoke huffed. The third beast spread her great silver-blue wings as she dipped her head forward, sniffing.

“Yes, Silverwing. This is Aemara, our daughter. A vestige of Old Valyria. You must guard her, please. Keep her safe from those who would see her harmed.”

Another dragon landed in the darkness, poisonous green eyes leafing through the shadows. Leanor did not believe the three dragons would harm his daughter, but the Cannibal was an oddity. The oldest living dragon, one that was rumored to have been alive before the Doom, gave off a low, trilling sound.

The babe gave a coo as Silverwing blew a breath of warm air at the child and Laenor did not sign up for  this sort of Targaryen fuckery when he married Rhaenyra. Yet here was his wife, his dearest friend, extending their not even hour old baby toward a dragon that feasts upon its own kind. Hopefully he didn’t have a taste for human flesh.

Behind them there was no sound, though Laenor knew those watching questioned the saneness of the Princess. But they did not want to be the reason the child may have been swallowed whole. Seasmoke bumped him then, his own low purr.

It was then the Cannibal lay down, flapping a wing in the courtyard as the darkness receded. Silverwing huffed, as though she was put out as she curled around them, Syrax and Seasmoke standing guard.

“A chair, my King, the dragons will not leave this night. Perhaps some sheep, the green one is a bit too shifty looking to be trusted with a babe.” Laenor called.

“Clear the area. No one is to bother us. Ser Harrold, take your guard and stand at the permitter, Lyonel, Ser Harwin, I am not sure it would be best for you to stay. Perhaps you could fetch my wife and children?”

“I would be honoured. My congratulations to you, and to the Princess Rhaenyra on a most wonderous display.”

“Move over, brother. Vhagar will not fit here, so she will watch the skies with Vermithor.” Laena motioned, sitting upon the cloak Ser Harwin had gifted her to use as a blanket. She blushed, and Laenor wanted to cackle.

His sister was smitten.

Laenor found this his mother and father had the same idea, sitting atop cloaks and Ser Harrold brought a chair for the King so as to not aggrieve his wounds. A table was also brought, laden with wine, breads, cheeses. His wife’s red witch had appeared in the shadows, pushing another tonic toward Rhaenyra who drank it with a grimace. She made to move away, to allow family time to themselves amongst the trills and happy purrs of four grounded dragons, no, it appeared six were now within the courtyard, Sunfyre atop Dreamfyre. They were close enough that their warmth could be felt.

“Stay.” Laenor requested.

A small smile pulled upon the priestess’s lips as she bowed her head. Laena shuffling slightly to allow her to be opposite Rhaenyra and Aemara. His mother was resting her head against father’s shoulder, the King’s eyes were on his grandchild.

“What is the meaning of this?”

“Sunfyre.” Which was followed by a breathy. “Dreamfyre.”

And so it appeared Alicent had arrived. Laenor watched Ser Criston stand behind her, glowering upon the scene they made. He ducked close to Laena and whispered in her ear.

“Vhagar has a taste for Dornishmen, does she not?”

“Not that one.”

Laenor and Laena shared a titter before he leaned forward and kissed Rhaenyra’s cheek. His wife’s eyes were closed, a hum low in her throat as she swayed Aemara in her arms.

“The children cannot stay outside. Aemond has just past his first year.” Alicent stated, holding her son.

“And mine own daughter is not yet two hours, Alicent. The dragons will keep up warm, will keep us safe. This is what was done in Old Valyria, the first night was spent beneath the stars, surrounded by dragons in order to settle our blood.” Rhaenyra stated, tone warm. “You are welcome to stay, come, let our children meet.”

Laenor watched as Alicent faltered, watching the myriad of emotions dance upon her face before she landed upon Kania. It was there her face soured, but it softened as her eldest clambered amongst legs, Sunfyre whining as he looked upon the larger dragons. It was Dreamfyre that nudged him forward, spreading her icy wing to add yet another layer of protection.

“What’s her name?” Helaena asked, gazing up at her sister and niece.

A rogue Aegon appeared with a stumbling Aemond, who the King grabbed and settled him upon his lap.

“Aemara. A daughter of Old Valyria, just like you sweet sister.”

It would seem Alicent had finally decided to join the family upon the mountain of cloaks and furs that had found their way to them. He watched as Alicent tried to shy away from the dragons, save for Syrax who she appeared to be the most comfortable with. Not that it meant much.

Moments passed by the dragons began to tense, hissing as their eyes snapped up. They made not move, serpentine eyes following something in the distance. Ah yes, Laenor remembered, Ser Cole was still stood there.

“I would advise you move your sworn shield, my Queen. They will only tolerate one not of the blood, of the family for so long.” Laenor’s mother said.

“Vhagar has a taste for the Dornish.” Laena called. “She sometimes forgets her own size, and we wouldn’t want her to flatten the Keep.”

“Yet the Priestess can stay?” Alicent asked.

Kania didn’t seem to take offence as she turned to the Queen with a barely there head-tilt. Her smile was kind, just a tad bit sharper than would be acceptable but it was her eyes. Usually they were the colour of the sea, yet now it seemed as though fires danced within.

“Blood knows blood. Magic knows magic, and fire knows fire, my Queen. The dragons know I will never harm the Princess, either of them.” The cold, unasked Can you say the same was lost to all but Laenor.

“Very well. Ser Criston, return to your brothers.”

And then it was just the sons and daughters of Old Valyria beneath the stars, surrounded by dragon scale and warmth. A conscious space had been left beside the King, Laenor noted, no doubt for his younger brother, and it seems even the dragons, finally joined by Meleys to complete the set, left room for Caraxes.

***

Caraxes 

He felt the moment she had taken her first breath. He had roared, his whistle like sounds awing those around the manse. But his rider knew something had occurred. Caraxes hoped they could return home soon, even if the other dragons did not like him, he loved them. So like his rider in that way, wanting to be loved and accepted despite their faults, only to drive away those they care about most.

Daemon had forced the party goers from the manse, shooing them out the red door of the Bravossi house before he made his way to his beloved Blood Wyrm. Caraxes trilled sadly, whistling as his rider dropped his head against the red scales of his neck. He rider always smelled sad these days.

“I miss them too my boy, but there is nothing for there anymore. They are wed, and despite that I have had them both, my heart cannot stand to think of them together. They should be mine.”

Caraxes gave the draconic version of a huff before he lay down, curling around his rider with his beautiful deformity. Daemon chortled, so unlike his last rider. He had failed Aemon the Spring Prince, had gorged himself upon the sheep of Tarth as his rider choked upon his own blood. Never again would Caraxes fail a rider, he would not fail Daemon. He would stay beside him until his beautiful Rogue Prince understood that he was loved, until they would return to their kin. For a dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing.

Chapter Text

Alicent III

In the year since Aemara’s birth, Alicent was followed by the accursed whispers of the dead Queen Aemma. Even Viserys had cried upon the sight, just a few days ago, as the child lay peacefully in his arms. Alicent wanted to scream. He had never held Aegon or Helaena like that, nor had he had the same look of pure, unattainable love on his face for any of his children save for the precious Rhaenyra and her daughter.

Alicent was torn, while she could admit the child was beautiful, eyes the colour of the winter violets and hair of mercury, the child didn’t resemble her lord father. That had proven in Alicent’s mind that the child was indeed a bastard born of lust and sin. She could not allow her precious babes to be around the Princess, nor that red witch that followed her everywhere. What was worse was the fact her precious children seemed enraptured by the little beast, even Aemond who would just stand and watch her with solemnity. He was such an odd child.

When she entered her chambers, having left the children in the royal nursery with strict instructions that Rhaenyra’s bastard was not to be let near her precious children, Alicent froze. Viserys was laughing with the witch, who was washing her hands in a bowl of steaming water. His shirt was stripped, showing his healing sores and heat-pinked skin.

While Alicent was thankful he was no longer in as much pain, she couldn’t help the distaste at witchcraft being used to heal the King. It would only curse his soul more. Instead, she offered a tight-lipped smile as she stood by the door, unable to look upon the witch.

“Alicent.” Viserys greeted. “Just a moment then we shall be able to head to the throne room.”

“Whatever for, my king?” Alicent asked bewildered.

“Aemara is being presented to the court officially, having met twelve moons.  Gods, it seems like yesterday we were beneath dragon wing.” Viserys chuckled. “The maids have readied the children, yes? This is a show of house Targaryen. Our succession is guaranteed by both my daughter and my granddaughter.”

That was yet another thing Alicent found distasteful about the child. Viserys had named her as the heir’s heir, further removing her own son from the line of succession. Her father had been furious in his letters.

He had warned her about the child, he had called it unnatural with how the dragon’s seemed to bow to her. Her father had told her that the dragons around her children could never be trusted so long as the listened to Aemara. For her children were still in danger, and Alicent refused to marry either of her sons to a bastard.

She had barely been a week old when Rhaenyra had taken to the skies atop Syrax, the others following behind her in a sight the people still spoke of. It was almost as though everybody was bespelled to love the child. Alicent froze, her hands trembling. Yes. The red witch seemed to adore the beastly girl, who had bitten her darling Aegon once, and everybody seemed to adore her. They no longer paid attention to the heathen’s presence.

Alicent needed her father. And she needed Larys, her only true friend within the keep. And Criston, her closest confidante who shared her dislike of the child and its mother. They would help her keep her children safe.

***

Rhaenyra

She stood still as Kania draped her jewels across the hollow of her throat. The woman’s hands were smooth as they passed over the sensitive flesh of Rhaenyra’s neck. The red priestess watched her with knowing eyes as Laenor appeared with Aemara, a beacon of silver amidst ruby and obsidian.

“My congratulations, mistress. Do you intend to announce the information today?” Kania questioned.

“No. It is too soon.” Rhaenyra commented.

“I am glad the ritual took root. Fertility is a tricky thing, Though, if you wish I shall prepare the potions and remedies?”

Rhaenyra burned the colour of her dress, unable to meet Laenor’s eyes. He too was blushing. Even with the ritual their union was one best not spoken about, especially since both of them had imagined they were with the same man. A man that was out East, who Rhaenyra wrote countless letters to only to never send them. They sat within a box. She did not want to get her hopes up, and while there was a question as to who had fathered Aemara, none could be said for the babe that had taken root inside of her this time. That was Laenor’s.

“I would appreciate that, Kania. The Gods may not have spoken with this one, but we will love them regardless.” Rhaenyra said.

“Of course. All children are a blessing, especially those of Old Valyria. I shall focus on the remedies while you introduce the Princess.” Kania dropped her head.

“Oh no.” Laenor began. “You’re coming with us. You’re stuck as an official child-minder, my Lady. Though I would advise you to not stab the Lannisters. They will propose marriage on the spot.”

“Do you know Jason Lannister offered to build me a Dragon Pit if I became his wife?” Rhaenyra hummed as slipped in her earrings.

“He’d need to build one for Aemara. It seems as through the dragons are sticking around.” Laenor said, referring to the three untamed dragons. “Has your father considered taking another mount?”

“I asked him months ago. He’s afraid, I think. He suffered for months with the broken bond after one flight. There’s no reason for him to not try, especially if it will help him heal.”

“It will, the flames have shown me.” Kania stated. “But there is something wrong with his wounds. Even with the uselessness of leeching and maggots, there is no reason for his breathing to rattle as it does, why he appears as tired as his does. The Maesters refuse to tell me of his ailments, so I have started from the beginning.”

Rhaenyra chewed her lip, understanding the implications of the words clearly. She had not let a Maester near her daughter since she was born, save for the elderly man upon Dragonstone who had cried at the sight of Alyssa reborn. Perhaps she could get Uncle Vaegon to visit in the interest of dragon lore. She knew he had studied the history of the dragons and perhaps he would be the one to understand the actions of the dragons and how they were pulled toward her daughter.

“Come on. Otherwise Laena will moan that we made her late, despite the fact the only reason she’s in attendance is to speak to Harwin and steal the macaroons.” Laenor held out a hand.

“She’s worried your father will refuse a contract between them, I think he’d be foolish to do so. Harwin would stand by Laena no matter what, he does not want her because she rides Vhagar nor because of her Valyrian blood, unlike that Sealord. They make each other happy, they smile.” Rhaenyra stopped, and she looked at him. “Their children would be heirs to Harrenhal, and possibly Driftmark.”

“I told you, if you want Laena to inherit, you need to convince father. Vaemond will never agree to it.” Laenor reminded. “Besides, our future children stand to inherit.”

Rhaenyra looked at Laenor as though he was stupid, and the only reason she did not flick his mind into action was because he held Aemara close to his chest. He looked down at her, a soft smile at her reactive coos before his head shot up, gaze on Rhaenyra who simply raised an eyebrow.

“It’s good to see your brain still works, Laenor. We are in the midst of a game that will span decades. We do not know who are enemies are, only that they exist. If we have Harrenahal, and Driftmark behind us, I will feel better. Aemara will be Queen, we cannot move to match her when we do not know who will stab us in the back.”

“Like Hightower? Who glowers after you and our child as though you’re dirt upon the sole of her shoes? She who hides behind a cape soiled with the blood of an innocent man? Yes, Rhaenyra, she has stabbed you once, twice, third time and she may just aim for Aemara.”

Rhaenyra huffed, swallowing down the vicious retort that lingered upon her tongue. Alicent was many things, but capable of harming a child, Rhaenyra could not reconcile this Alicent with the one who had sat beside her in the Sept, who offered her company freely. How much of it had been a ploy, either by Alicent or her father.

“The daughter of a second son, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I wish I’d been late to Dragonstone all those years ago so Daemon would have taken his head.”

While Alicent was more likely to do the bidding of her father, she had probably been doing it since she read to Jaehaereys as he lay dying. Otto had been Hand of the King then, a position he retained until two years ago. Until her father had listened to her opinion for the first time, removing the poisonous green. And then his daughter had declared all but declared war at Rhaenyra’s wedding, and she was not without green, or dark blue, and her beloved seven pointed star since.

Alicent could wear what she liked, Rhaenyra thought bitterly, for she was a Hightower. But the children she birthed, with their purple eyes and silver hair were blood of the dragon. They would never bend to the whims of the Seven as men did, because, as Targaryens, they controlled the skies, the fires of the Fourteen. A thousand and one gods were worshipped in Old Valyria, yet none were feared. She would not fear the Seven, nor would she fear the pious words of her old friend.

They both took a breath as the waited for the doors to open and the herald to announce them. Aemara fussed slightly, reaching a chubby finger into the air to trace along the designs of Laenor’s doublet. He was dressed with his usual  blue and bronze, tiny little sea-horses embroidered in thick, golden thread. Rhaenyra meanwhile was a vision in ebony, her hair braided and loose, curled in ringlets. Dragonglass glittered in the light while rubies shone the colour blood. Perhaps the most eye-catching piece was Rhaenys’s diadem. A piece of Old Valyria, wrought in dragonflame, it stood out amongst the paleness of her hair, onyx against ivory with an old blood-opal beset in diamonds.

“Presenting Her Highness, Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, and her husband the Prince Consort, Laenor of House Velaryon, and their daughter, Aemara, of House Targaryen and Velaryon, future heir to the Iron Throne.”

Whatever tittering conversation ended once the three of them stepped through and into the throne room. Her father was not seated amongst the blades, instead he was beside Corlys, the Lord Hand and to her displeasure, Otto Hightower. To her surprise her brothers were in a suit of red and black, not a speck of green in sight, and Helaena glowed in a dress of pale pink and gold.

“It is not hard to spot the beacon, is it?” Laenor mumbled.

“That is the point, is it not? She makes it clear that she is not one of you. You Westerosi are so strange.”

“And how did you learn that, Kania?” Rhaenyra asked with a smile.

“The Princess Rhaenys saw it fit to ensure I was not the cause of an incident, I believe she just wanted to hold Aemara whilst you were stuck in the Council.”

“Sounds like mother.” Laenor admitted.

His mother loved them all so fiercely, she would ride Meleys into the jaws of death for them, but Gods no, she couldn’t make it obvious. Rhaenyra never doubted that Rhaenys cared for them, the business of the Great Council somehow now just an event in their past. So much had changed in the year since she had become pregnant, yet little else had. She was restless.

“Rhaenyra.” Her father called as ladies of the court cooed at Aemara.

“Father, Lord Hand, Ser Harwin. Corlys.” She looked at Otto Hightower and smiled. “Ser Otto. I thank you for traveling all the way from Oldtown to see the presentation of my daughter.”

“A most glorious occasion, Princess. She is beautiful.” There seemed to be a genuine softness upon his face as he peered at Aemara. It unnerved her. “It’s not everyday another Princess is born.”

“I must thank you again, father, Corlys, for agreeing to the feast and the festivities. You have both worked tirelessly to ensure the future queen is introduced to society in the proper fashion.”

“Only the best for my granddaughter.” Corlys chortled.

“I fear she will be spoiled between the King and the richest man in Westeros, father.” Laenor commented blithely.

***

Otto 

Otto had imagined Alicent’s anxieties had only grown in his absence. But now he saw the truth to it all. The babe a few paces from him was not of Laenor Velaryon’s loins, for not man who lay with another could birth a living babe. Not to mention the child was so obviously Targaryen that there was only one other option. The Princess had birthed a bastard, the sin of lust and depravity worsened by the act of incest. The child was cute, in the way that all babes were, pale skinned and violet eyes, it looked like a tiny god amongst the black and red. A true Targaryen with a smile that would drawn in the masses.

Even still, Otto was a Hightower, and his family had a duty to the Seven.

Alicent had told him how his own grandchildren fell beneath her sway, beneath the spell the red witch had cast upon all who came into contact with the Princess. Even now, the woman stood silently at the backs of Laenor and Rhaenyra, eyes watching for threats as though she was a sworn shield and not a godless heathen sent to destroy everything Otto had built over the last two kings, that the Maesters had been planning since the Conquest, that the Faith had wanted since Maegor. The usual robes of a red priest had been replaced by flowing dresses that looked Dornish, so unlike the styles of the court, though the colour remained the same. He must have been caught staring, for Viserys cleared his throat.

“My apologies, my King. I have never encountered a Red Priestess.” He eyed the dagger upon her hip. “I was not aware they were armed.”

“It is best to be armed amongst enemies, Ser.” Kania stated.

“And you are amongst enemies within the Red Keep?” Otto questioned.

“Faceless Men walk with falsehoods. The Warlocks of Qarth can bear a hate for all those of Old Valyria.” Unnerved, fire-filled eyes stared into Otto’s very soul. “All it takes is one malcontent to endanger my princesses.”

“Malcontents. You would be lucky that the Prince Daemon is not here then.” He misspoke, Otto knew the moment he misspoke because Viserys rounded on him with fury.

“Have care how you speak Otto, Daemon is a Prince of the Blood, my brother. You will not disparage him in my presence when you have not seen him in nearly two years. Some would think you obsessed.”

Otto felt his stomach roil at the insulation, and his cheeks burned at the Sea Snake’s laughter. The Red Priestess was still staring at him, as was Rhaenyra, and it was then Otto dipped his head and bit out an apology.

He needed to speak to Alicent. This could not stand.

***

Daemon 

The last two weeks were a painful blur. He had moved on from Braavos to an old friend in Pentos months ago, had been to a Dothraki wedding with more death than Rhaenyra’s, and had flown over the Great Grass Sea. Not that there was anything interesting. If he wanted to look at sheep he would have stayed in the fucking Vale with his ex-wife. He had the collection of letters he’d been sent over his exile, most from Viserys who wanted him home, who believed that Rhaenyra’s child was some sort of omen of family unification. He hadn’t replied to a single one. He never could. But he sent back gifts, something he had done since the first time he had vanished atop Caraxes.

But then the letter had arrived. A girl named Aemara, who was born beneath dragonflame and was bonded to Silverwing with Cannibal of all dragons, as a tagalong. He had drank himself stupid beside his Blood Wyrm, who whistled sadly whenever Daemon would begin to tear up at the memories of his past: his mother and father, his grandparents, Viserys, Aemma and Rhaenyra, Rhaenys. Laenor and Laena. Corlys. He missed them all, but he could not face them. He would not survive another exile, would not survive disappointing his family again.

He had never desired ruling, but rather he desired to keep his family ruling. He sat amongst the Small Council, only for his methods to be questioned, his aspirations dashed by Otto fucking Hightower. He was the People’s Prince, and his people suffered. Viserys too soft to do what was needed, unwilling to shed blood in the name of peace and freedom. He just wanted them safe and happy, to be the sword and shield for his brother, for his niece. (He didn’t like the others simply because they were related to Otto and his bitch daughter who betrayed his beloved Rhaenyra.)

Instead there was a Red Priestess who was successfully healing Viserys, who had not been cut by the throne in a year, who was perhaps acting as a worthy King for the first time since the crown was placed upon his stupid head. He would not return yet, not until his heart had healed, but he would write his brother a letter. But first he had to find a gift worthy of his niece.

Caraxes huffed, his whistle soft as he sniffed closer.

“Soon my beautiful boy. We will go home soon. But first, why don’t we go to the fighting pits?”

If a dragon would curse, Daemon was sure Caraxes had just insulted his mother and grandmother in a single look. He huffed, knocking his head into Daemon before he settled.

“Okay, okay. Nap first."

***

Aegon 

Aegon liked his family in the same way most children did. They gave him sweets, he was happy, they took his sweets, he’d bite them. Helaena had told him not to bite people, because they were dirty, but she was younger than him, so what did she know? And Aemond was about as useful as a fork with soup, his brother unable to do anything. He also didn’t have a dragon, which was strange, because even the baby had one, two if you counted the terrifying black one that seemed to follow her movements whenever Nyra brought them to the Pit.

He liked his sister too, Nyra, not Helaena. She was kind and soft, and very pretty, and she was always patient when he stumbled over words. She didn’t seem to think Helaena was strange for speaking in riddles and not liking to be touched, nor did she think Aemond less because he did not have dragon. Instead she would take them all to Syrax, offering them rides.

Mother had been infuriated when she found out and forbade it from occurring anymore. Forbade them all from having anything to do with Nyra or the baby. She blamed it on the witch that was always around, but she gave them cakes from Essos and stories from far away lands. She was nice. But mother hated her.

Mother had snapped about how she was doing this to keep them safe, and grandfather had looked on in pride as she grabbed Aegon’s jaw between tense fingers and begged him not to go near the witch, or the bastard (Aegon didn’t know what that meant, but he knew it couldn’t be good.) otherwise everybody would get hurt.

He did not cry until Helaena did, until Aemond screamed as though he could sense the tension in the room, until his mother grabbed his sweet, weird sister and shook her in an attempt to silence her. That was the first time Aegon bit his mother. It would also be the last. But it was the first time his mother had backhanded him, and the last time would not be for many years to come.

He thought, briefly, if Nyra, who had never hit him, yet was supposed to hurt him, and because of that was vile and mean and cruel, then what did that make mother?

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

She sat upon the Small Council meeting in her husband’s stead. Corlys had departed a few weeks ago in order to quell trouble in Stepstones yet again, this time a Dornish faction. She cursed the Stepstones, and the Dornish, for their ships were loaded with Scorpion bolts and her foolhardy daughter, and son, had followed her father into war.

The meeting was the final preparation for Aemara’s first name day celebration, which was frankly extravagant, especially when she wouldn’t remember it. But both Corlys and Viserys were attempting to outdo each other in order to be named as favourite by a child that could not even speak.

“The celebration will be remembered Your Grace. Perhaps we should have a hunt, the White Hart may appear.” Lord Strong suggested.

Lord Beesebery muttered about how expensive that would be and Rhaenys snorted. It wasn’t as though the Crown was funding the celebrations, or rather it wasn’t split evenly. She looked at her cousin who was staring out the window, down to the city below them.

“No. The White Hart will remain amongst the trees, where it belongs. Killing the beast means nothing, not when it had already bowed to its chosen.” Viserys replied.

“Who?” Lord Strong questioned.

“Rhaenyra, on the day of Aegon’s second name day, before she and Ser Cole returned to camp. She believed senseless slaughter of such a magnificent beast would taint the omen it represented, and I am inclined to agree.”

“The Gods bless our kin, cousin. Shall we call this meeting to an end?” Rhaenys propositioned.

Viserys waved them off, but Rhaenys didn’t leave. She stood beside her cousin whose eyes were now fixated upon the horizon. Ah, she realised, he had received another letter from Daemon.

“Is he well?”

“As well as Daemon can ever be by himself. He’s at the Stepstones.”

And that shocked her. To have her errant cousin so close made her smile, but the note of rejection hung in Viserys’ tone. She rested a hand on his shoulder, silently urging him to speak.

“He says he needs more time. I have offered him everything and yet he refuses. He will not come home.”

“Have you offered your love? Daemon simply wishes for you to care, Viserys. He does not want fancy positions or titles, he wants to stand by this family and defend us from threats. Threats that loom. Dorne mobilises, the Lords think you mad for naming a woman heir, especially when you have a perfectly healthy son, two of them in fact.”

Viserys looked ashamed. Of course he thought he would simply be able to hand out prizes and Daemon would return to him. That had always been the way between them, even as children. No matter the argument, a gift exchanged between the two of them would signify the end. It confused Rhaenys to no end, but that’s also because she held onto grudges.

“Show him that you want him here, not for his position or his skill, but because you miss him. Do not attempt to bribe him, for his pride will not allow it. He will come home.”

Viserys thanked her before he bid her goodbye. No doubt he would sequester himself with the memories of his brother a glass of wine before he returned to being the King. Rhaenys herself was heading toward Rhaenyra’s apartments, where she usually entertained the gaggle of children she had amassed, consisting of her own daughter and her own siblings, as well as the babe in her belly.

Thankfully this pregnancy did not seem as harsh as the one before, and the only omen they had received was Syrax, who laid a clutch of two eggs. Both were now tended to in the room, fires burning within the pots. Time would tell if those would hatch, or weather they would be like Aemond’s, lifeless and cold no matter how hot the fire was. But she did not pity the boy, for Laena’s egg did not hatch, nor had her own.

Despite her own musings, Rhaenys was not ignorant enough to miss the hushed whispers and eyes that followed her, from the men and women of court, to the knights and even the servants. Most odd. She shook her head before she entered Rhaenyra’s apartment, where she was sat atop a pile of pillows with little Helaena laying abreast whispering as the odd child was wont to do. Aegon held Aemara close on the lounge, Aemond watching with wide eyes as he fondled a wooden carving of a dragon, no doubt from Viserys, around her head, much to her delight.

“Why was I being stared at in the hallways?” Rhaenys questioned in Old Valyrian, knowing that the children would never understand.

“They think I’m pregnant with bastards because Ser Harwin has been accompanying me, what with my husband and his wife-to-be off fighting, we have found comfort in one another.”

“Wrong child to question the parentage of.” Kania pointed out as she emerged with a pile of sweetwater jelly and a drink from Volantis, lemonade. “Come on you little dragons, have some before your maid comes to steal you away.”

“You stole us first.” Helaena muttered, her words sleep heavy.

There was a sheepish look upon the two women’s faces as neither commented. True to form, one of the nannies came in a flourish to collect the children, as did Ser Crison who looked as though he had he was questioning every decision that led to that point.

“Did you fill them up on sugar just to punish Alicent?” Rhaenys wondered.

“In my defence, her maid said my children are bastards and a curse upon the Seven. She’s also tried to convince father that the children shouldn’t be with me, and by extension, Kania. She plays it off for concern with the pregnancy, but that’s as likely as the Wall melting.” Rhaenyra pointed out. "Less than two moons, with twins if Syrax is to be believed, and it is far easier than even a month of my first pregnancy. I am glad for it." 

“Politics will play that way, Nyra. There will be those who wish to crown Aegon upon your father’s death, having a good relationship with them is a start, and they idolise Aemara, but it will not be enough. The lords and ladies, the small folk, they will need to see you.”

“I understand, but I can hardly go on a royal tour eight months pregnant, with my husband off protecting our shipping lanes." She smoothed a hand over her barely visible bump “And they’re definitely Laenor’s.”

“Twins are common amongst all three families within the line, Targaryen, Baratheon and Velaryon, though I am unsure about the Arryns. They’re not too pleased with our Green Queen.” Rhaenys admitted.

“Not six months was mother dead before the wedding. They would not stand for the direspect, nor did the Tyrells, but as I recall only you attended, representing house Targaryen.” Rhaenyra sighed, reaching for the lemonade. It was so good.

“I believe Talia, your mother’s half-sister, married a Tyrell, and they are not fond of how the Hightowers overreach. A second son’s daughter as Queen, yet nowhere but Oldtown has reaped the rewards.” Rhaenys explained. “And your cousin rules the Eerie in the absence of a male heir. Perhaps you should reach out to them, remind them of the blood you share, of the blood they share with your child.”

Rhaenyra nodded. Green Queen suited Alicent, both in terms of her wardrobe and her naivety. She huffed, smoothing her stomach as twin flutters jabbed her spine. The silent war had begun.

***

Corlys 

He fucking hated the Stepstones. Hated the fucking beaches that still held the corpses of the dead Triarchy, hated the tunnels that shielded the Dornish. And he fucking hated the Dornish and their stupid scorpion bolts and the fact that even a hundred years later they did not cower before a dragon, nor two. Vhagar did not seem to care either way, lightning the sands with flames as she gave a war-roar. Seasmoke was the more agile of the two, weaving between arrows and bolts before ships were broken apart by the force of his fire.

In the distance a whistle sounded, a sound unforgettable to a man who had spent three years fighting together. Caraxes landed, almost tipping Daemon from his saddle. He had only been here a few weeks, two at most, and he had sent a single letter to the King to inform him. Corlys however, had two chests full of fabrics, jewels, trinkets and Gods know what else to ferry back to King’s Landing aboard his ship. Unless Laena convinced him to ride atop Vhagar, which he would never do. The Red Queen was bad enough.

“My Prince, how fares the Sunset Sea?” Corlys called.

“I see no ships leaving from the main ports. It appears they have given up their attempt to claim my kingdom.” Daemon shot back with a smirk.

“Did you not leave your crown to your brother?”

“Semantics. A crown in exchange for an annulment to the Bronze Bitch is one I’m ever-willing to make. How fairs my city?”

“You would know if you ever returned. The Princess’s first name day is soon upon us, perhaps you would join us?” Laenor stated, unimpressed as he folded his arms.

“Careful boy.” Daemon warned.

“I haven’t been scared of you for a very long time, Daemon Targaryen. Now, stop avoiding me. We, the two of us, have matters to discuss. Father, keep Laena busy, if we have not retuned by nightfall, inform Rhaenyra that we’re dead.”

“You think you could beat me?” Daemon snapped in Common, much to the confusion of the few men gathered around the planning tables.

“No. But if you killed me she wouldn’t exactly like you. Now come on, act like the man you are.”

Corlys watched as his son manhandled the Rogue Prince, shoving at his shoulders without a care in the world. Fucking Targaryens infected his family with their dysfunctional insanity. He’d blame his wife, but he didn’t wish to be banished to the sofa. He was growing older, after all.

***

Daemon 

He followed Laenor, colourful images of violent murder springing to mind as the boy kept a hand on his upper arm, fingers pressed into leather and cotton. He disliked it immensely, yet he made no move to remove it, for it was the first familiar contact in close to two years.

“Come to tell me how you fucked my sweet niece?” Daemon snapped, words bitter.

Laenor sighed beside him, before he sat on a patch of grass eyes roaming over the seas around them. He didn’t say anything, and for some reason Daemon found himself sitting beside him, thigh against thigh, close enough he could feel Laenor’s warmth and scent the sea-spray in his hair.

“We don’t know who fathered Aemara. It was either you, or me.” Laenor said after a prolonged silence.

“What?” What the actual fuck? “How can you not know?”

“Well the genepool is fairly fucking limited anyway, Daemon. The King says she has your ears, but I don’t fucking know.” A breath. “You spent the wedding night with her, I do not care. We very awkwardly did our duty once I recovered two days later. We do not know. And we do not care.”

And Daemon’s heart broke. There was a possibility he had a child, a child with his beloved Rhaenyra and they didn’t think it mattered. His child would grow up calling another man kepa. Bitter tears burned in his eyes, and he so wanted to run Laenor Velaryon through, to let Dark Sister feast upon his blood.

“Rhaenyra is muna, I am papa, and you are kepa. I swore to her that the child would know you as you truly are, and I will do the same for the ones in her belly now.” A hesitant hand came to Daemon’s knee. “Come home with us, see her, help us raise our fucked up family full of our children, a terrifying Red Priestess, your niece and nephews, and a bunch of wild, untamed dragons. Come home to help protect your blood. You are wanted Daemon, and you are loved by your family.”

And, that’s all Daemon wanted to hear. He didn’t need to be rewarded for inaction, he did not need fancy gifts. All he needed was love, to know it, to bask in it. He dipped forward, dropping his head on Laenor’s shoulder as calloused hands ran through his windswept hair. He’d only began to grow it out again.

“The Cunt? His daughter? Viserys’ children?”

“Otto comes and goes, or so he has been. Viserys entertains him, but he defended you in front of me, Nyra, Aemara, father and the Strongs. Reminded him that you were his blood, and he would not suffer insults to you.” A shaking laughter. “He may have also implied that Otto had a significant interest in you, to still be moaning about your existence.”

“I’d rather cut off my cock than touch that miserable old cunt. You said Strongs, Lyonel is Hand, I trained Harwin for the Watch, but what the fuck the Clubfoot doing there?”

“Daemon.” Laenor sounded pained. “His name is Larys.”

“I don’t give a fuck what his name is, he’s a creepy fuck.” Daemon defended.

“Because of his clubfoot?”

“No, because of his fucking smile. His eyes, they’re just dead inside.” Daemon thought for a moment. “He still spending all his time with women, listening to what they’re saying?”

“Worse. He and Criston Cole have become permanent fixtures with the Green Queen.” Laenor said breathlessly, still laughing. “They think the new kids are bastards. Apparently Nyra jumped into bed with Harwin because they missed me and Laena, nevermind we knew she was pregnant before we left. Fertility rituals make themselves known rather quickly when they are successful.”

“Fair play to the man, it takes a lot to satisfy her.” He felt Laenor freeze. “You’re not at fault, Laenor. You cannot help that your interests lay with me rather than Nyra.”

“I thought we agreed we’d never talk about that again.”

Daemon grinned, pressing his forehead to Laenor’s temple before he kissed his cheek.

“Yet we’re back here. And unless you’ve taken vows of chastity to raise our strange little omen baby, then we should make the most of it.” Daemon swallowed. “But I cannot go back to the city. Not yet. There are things I need to do, people I need to see. Another year, maximum.”

He sealed the promise with a kiss and when he pulled back he smirked at the pretty pink blush that spread upon Laenor’s cheeks.

“Our family will be there. I think mother had something planned.” Another kiss. “Write a letter to your beloved. To your brother. To our daughter. And if you wish, to the other collective children Rhaenyra has picked up.”

“It’s Rhaenys. Of course she does.” Another kiss. “Does that include the one you left within Rhaenyra?”

“I blame the Targaryen blood. You’re all fucking crazy, but Nyra is my best friend, and you’re kin. Plus, Kania helped.” A longer, teasing kiss. “Write to them. All of them, including our new children.”

***

Rhaenyra 

She was infuriated and it was only the babes in her belly and the confused glint in her daughter’s eyes that prevented her from flying after her idiotic, stupid uncle. He had abandoned her a night together, which may have resulted it the child sat before her, was gone for neigh on two years, and he sent a fucking letter. With Laenor. Who he had fucked on a beach. She blamed the hormones for her mad laughter and rivers of tears. Her poor daughter just looked upon her with, was that pity? From a child that couldn’t even say her own name.

“You fucked my uncle on a beach, while people in our home are whispering that I’m carrying bastards born of your sister’s soon to be husband.” A shuddering breath and Rhaenyra really wanted something stronger than watered down Arbour Gold. “And he does not care about the clearly fucked up way we’re raising our children, nor the fact the one we’ve already got is odd, she’s judging me right now.”

“And I cannot blame her. Don’t call children odd, Nyra. It’s mean.”

“I hate you. I hate all of you. Kania.” Rhaenyra called sharply and her red shadow appeared. “We’re leaving and going to Volantis.”

“I am not allowed within Volantis, Princess.” Kania replied automatically.

“Aren’t you from there?”

“I do not see that that has to do with anything, but yes.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Rhaenyra snarled, only comforted when her darling daughter giggled. “Our child also refuses to speak Common. Her first word was dracarys.”

“That’s terrifying.” Laenor admitted. "Do babes speak at thirteen moons?

“And do make sure that the Lannisters keep their grubby little paws off my little dragon. And make sure Lord Donndarrion doesn’t see her if he’s still alive, he’ll probably want to marry her. The Brackens probably haven’t forgiven me for causing the death of one of their sons on a quest to find a husband, and Lord Boremund might not be happy he had to wash the blood from his floors.” Teeth sunk into her lower lip. “But she could share blood with him, so he won’t harm her.”

Her statement was met with complete silence. Kania closed her eyes and thumbed the ruby around her neck, as she usually did when she was praying to the Lord of Light for guidance. Laenor just looked as though he regretted every life choice that led to that moment.

“Fucking Targaryens.” He breathed.

“I love you too, husband.”

***

Laenor

Somehow Laenor had been left to mind a cluster of royal children as his wife, mother and good-father swept through the gathered lords and ladies. Aegon was staring at him, eyes wide and buggy as he drank his juice from a metal goblet, for the child was terrible and had often forgot he was holding something breakable and just dropped them. Thankfully he hadn’t done that to any of the children. Yet. He had turned five a few months previous, yet he was still entertained with watching the children, in fact, all of them adored Aemara. He wondered what that would mean in the future, because with Targareyns it meant anything. Especially when it came to uncles and nieces. Surely Helaena would be the normal one. Yeah, that was never going to happen.

“Why doesn’t she speak normally?” Aegon asked rather suddenly. “Even Aemond can talk.”

The child in question pouted as Helaena patted his head as one would a disgruntled pup. So far, Laenor found that to be a true enough analogy. But how do you explain learning milestones and age differences to a child that probably couldn’t spell its own name?

“Her first word was in High Valyrian. She calls Rhaenyra muna, which means mother in this instance.” Laenor explained gently. All of them were sat at the table, Aemara asleep in his arms already.

“She’s strange. Like Helaena.” The girl in question didn’t seem to take offence.

“So you shall have to protect them both, my son.” The King said, appearing out of nowhere. Seriously, how the fuck did they do it? “And don’t call your sister strange.”

“It’s alright papa.”

And how could you argue with that. The King cleared his throat, eyes flicking from Laenor to the sleeping child and he held out his arms. Unable to deny his King, Leanor placed the child into his arms, only for Viserys to shuffle her so her soft, downy, mercury coloured hair was beneath his chin, his daughter’s face hidden in the King’s doublet. He looked down the banquet hall, Rhaenyra in conversation with a Tyrell, was that her mother’s half-sister? Judging by the soft look the child got, followed by a thorny glare to the King, the answer was yes.

“We have something we want to discuss with you, my King, perhaps after the feast?”

“Of course. It won’t be long now until the twins come, with three you’ll have your hands full.”

“Six your Grace, unless these little dragons intend on abandoning us?” Laenor teased.

“Green to black, black to violet. Webs of lies undone, webs of lies spun.” Helaena murmured, though it was lost as Aegon and Aemond in perfect sync went.

“Ours.” Was Aemond’s cry.

“Pretty.”  Came Aegon’s retort.

Laenor groaned and buried his head in his hands. He was so fucked.

***

Leanor was wrong. He did not have to be concerned about weird Targaryen rituals between uncles and nieces. No he had to be concerned about Arryn and Baratheon blood. 

“Why do your children look like my fiancé?” Laena asked with a cackle.

“I swear they’re not.” Rhaenyra choked, looking down at the slightly tanned babies with thick, dark hair upon their heads. At least the eyes were a pale amethyst on one twin, while the other was a darker lilac.

Small mercies, Laenor thought.

“The Queen will be insufferable.”

Once again, Alicent had summoned them to the King’s chambers, for this time the sky did not blacken and the dragons did not cry out, they just danced outside, so they had no reason not to go. That night they would go to the Pit and sleep amongst them, a new tradition for house Targaryen.

The King was watching as his daughter and son napped with his granddaughter between them, while he was showing Aegon some of the non-explicit artwork that had survived the Doom. No five year old needed to see dragons fucking.

“My king, your grandsons, Jacaerys and Lucerys Velaryon. Hale and hearty, and in possession of very good lungs.”

“Oh my.” Viserys exclaimed. “Identical to your mother. Baratheon blood holds strong.” He frowned. “As does Arryn. That one.” He pointed at Luke who was watched in blue silk, whereas Jace had red. “Has Aemma’s nose. Well done.”

The Queen’s face pinched at the mention of ‘Strong’ and Laenor had to bite his tongue so as to not laugh outright. The king seemed blissfully unaware, as he often was. But them the Queen was beside him, eyes the dark hair before she looked at both of the supposed parents, and then to their daughter. Neither Viserys nor Rhaenyra could rescue him from the poisonous green clutches of the Hightower Queen, too busy introducing Jace to the others.

“Do keep trying, Ser Laenor. Sooner or later, one will have your look.” The Queen smiled.

He decided in that moment he hated her.

Chapter Text

Kania

In the two years Kania had been in service to her young mistress and the Dragon-flame, she had learned to deal with the stares and the whispers. Her people were not well received in Westeros, she knew this, yet she had followed the path her Lord had set out for her. She didn’t care if a Lord or Lady sneered at her, or if a holy man blessed himself as she walked by, nor did she care for the Queen’s assumptions of her, or her God. Yes, R’hllor burned those in sacrifice, yes they used magic, they used blood rituals, yet the healed the sick, fed the poor and taught the young. What did the Seven do apart from persecute? To mutilate men who lay with other men? Who got fat and were draped in jewels as they watched poor starve and die of disease while they whored and drank their way through religious donations.

What Kania would not stand, however, were the vicious whispers which surrounded her mistress and her children, even the youngest two who were barely three months old. She even liked the other three, though the eldest boy seemed weary about her, no doubt hearing the venom his royal mother spewed.

See, Kania knew the twins were not bastards. Because she had done the ritual herself to ensure the Princess became pregnant so that sweet Laenor, who loved them all, even if he was slowly going mad because of them, would not have to be in such an uncomfortable position. He had explained to her one night, drunkenly and for fear she would decry his attraction, with a confusing metaphor using duck and goose. Kania didn’t care, for she found no interest in either duck or goose, nor had she ever. Laenor had looked at her then, with teary eyes, as had the Princess, as she bared her soul to them. Though she looked young, a few years older than the Princess, she was older, born during the first year of the Great King. Her Lord and her ruby gave her life, for this was her duty even if she did not understand it.

When her Lord had told her to journey to West, to find the Dragon-flame, Kania, who had never truly been a part of a family, did not expect to be welcomed openly by the Princess and her husband, by his kin, nor did she expect anything from the King after she healed his wounds. She still does not know what to make of the treatments the Maesters use, and she loathed to let them near those she has claimed as family. She does not trust them and their methods, nor their disgust for things they refuse to understand.

She hadn’t understood back then, yet now she did. Westeros was a land of magic, of the Old Gods, Weirwood trees and Children of the Forest. It was a starving land of fractured beliefs and greedy men who would harm her Princess, her charge, those she had grown to care for over months. Hers was not an easy task, but it was a simple one. Protect them. Teach her.

And Kania would do that.

***

Rhaenyra 

Whispers followed her and her children everywhere she went. The word ‘Strong’ was muttered like a curse. Alicent looked at her babes with thinly-veiled disgust when they had been presented to her. The only reason Rhaenyra was around her siblings was because her father blocked Alicent at every turn when she tried to outright forbid them. Now the only time Rhaenyra had with them was an afternoon a week, and their familial dinner. Aegon had watched her wearily at the last one when she pulled Aemond into a hug and pressed a kiss into Helaena’s hair. He would not look at her, would not speak to her. Thankfully he acknowledged Aemara, for Rhaenyra did not think her darling daughter, who still only spoke in High Valyrian save for calling Laenor papa, would handle it well. The four of them were bonded in a way Rhaenyra could not describe, and that only made what was to come much harder.

Before that could happen, they had Laena’s marriage to Harwin, which would take place in the Godswood, followed by a Valyrian blessing ceremony before the skull of Balerion. It would not be a tradition wedding, for Harwin was not the blood of Old Valyria, and so it was an approximate blessing of fire and blood. Those weddings, surrounded by blackened flames and tendrils of colours that bound souls were for blood and blood alone. They could not have outsider witnesses. There were some rituals that had to be protected.

Though they had planned upon a lengthy engagement, they had found themselves in quiet the predicament. Beneath her long, flowing robes, Laena hid a small baby bump, having confessed to Rhaenyra that she and Harwin had not been careful enough, and that they were not pure. Rhaenyra had laughed at that, reminding her sweet cousin just how close their rooms were. It was why the wedding would be private, and why they had sought her permission to join them on Dragonstone. She had readily agreed. Her lady-maid and sworn knight would be expected to follow her until they wished to depart for their own duties.

She entered Laena’s rooms just as Rhaenys smoothed down her dress. She was the only person beside Harwin and Laenor who knew about the child, though Rhaenyra suspected her red priestess knew.

“The children are well?” Leana questioned.

“All six are with Kania, she’s telling them stories of Essos.” At the raised eyebrows she clarified. “Edited. No ritualistic burnings, no other disgusting practices.”

“Alicent let her mind the children?” Rhaenys asked.

“Father didn’t give her a chance to argue. Besides, Ser Harrold is there, as is the other one. If he makes another comment about the appearance of my children, I’ll have him fed to Cannibal.”

Laena snorted. With Alicent’s protection, the Kingsguard had become near relentless with his snide remarks. Shaking the thoughts of Cole from her mind, she held her arm out to Laena, who clasped it. Corlys would be standing at the edge of the courtyard to guide her to the face of the tree, while both he and Laenor would lead her to Rhaenys, who was conducting the Valyrian ceremony. There was no Seven, unless you counted the septon who had to witness it to make the marriage legal in the eyes of men, and the children true-born. Rhaenyra found it ridiculous.

The three Strongs stood before the Weirwood, resplendent in their house colours. Rhaenyra felt uncomfortable as Larys’ gaze found hers as she broke away to join Laenor and her father, with Alicent standing as close as she could to the septon as those it would save her soul. They made a strange pair, an even stranger friendship and something about those eyes, that smile, made her blood run cold. He was a fox amongst the hens, despite his obvious affliction there was a hidden power beneath. Not his strength, for she remembered how he sat amongst the ladies at Aegon’s hunt, how he said nothing.

Webs of lies spun indeed sweet sister. Just as Daemon had his Lady Misery, Alicent had her own. The thought irritated her, for how far behind was she? What was the end goal, unless… Aegon. Oh she would not let that happen, her brother was a dragon, his flame would not burn green. He was hers.

She forgot her plotting for a moment once Laena walked beside her father, stopping before Harwin. Both of them overjoyed, so obviously in love with one another that it pained Rhaenyra to see. She missed Daemon, her heart aching with his absence. There was still time, waning though it was, before he broke his promise to Laenor, and while her uncle was many things, he was no oath-breaker.

“They’re so happy.” Laenor whispered as the couple exchanged vows and cloaks.

She squeezed her hand. Laenor deserved to be happy as well, more than anybody Rhaenyra knew. But he had not looked at anybody like he had looked upon Joffrey. She thought of Daemon, of the obvious affection it seemed they shared, after all, they’d fucked on a beach just months before. She could see them together, raising their hoard of children upon Dragonstone, wandering the halls of the Red Keep. She would sit the throne, Daemon her sword, Laenor her shield. For if a King could have two wives, could a Queen not possess two husbands? The Faith would attempt to argue, but the Doctrine of Exceptionalism was on their side, for Targaryens did not bow to Gods nor men. Laenor would not have to be convinced, Rhaenys and Corlys would perhaps see the merits, especially if they convinced the eternally proud Sea Snake to name his elder-born daughter as his successor, though with the whispers of her children’s apparent bastard status, they would appear to show a divide in a unified house. Her father would be the issue, but he had never been able to deny her long. Perhaps.

“What’re you plotting?” Laenor wondered, disguising his whispers by pressing a kiss to her hair.

“Your sister and their future children, heirs of Driftmark. Let the other have the warning of what a single dragon can do. We have several.” A pause as she made sure nobody was around. “A wedding. But I will need to speak to Rhaenys first. Targaryen to Targaryen. Then we shall move forward, to Dragonstone.”

“And your siblings?”

“We agreed to five years on Dragonstone, then the Royal Tour. Three generations of Targaryens, a host of dragons, and it will take another two years before we have truly completed it. We shall have the children with us, for father will only travel to Storm’s End, he and Alicent will return. Father understands that this is symbolic, that it shows our house is united.”

“And Daemon’s presence cements the fact he will follow your as heir. He never publicly swore loyalty did he?”

“No. He squatted in my castle with two-thousand gold cloaks and stole my brother’s dragon egg. Sometimes I wonder why I love him as I do.”

“Because he’s very, very pretty and an excellent lover.” Laenor reminded, only to receive a sharp look from his father as they turned down the corridor.

“I don’t want to know what you’re plotting. Please, just take your place.”

Rhaenyra watched the pair as they cut into their lips with dragon-glass, as their blood mingled with the wine in the ancient chalice. Their hands would wear the scares of their swearing as Corlys and Rhaenys did, with pride. Even her own father had borne his scars with a smile, and she would often find him dragging a thumb across the raised flesh. One day, in the future, when her children were old enough to remember the beauty of the ceremony, her hands would too bear the scars.

***

The following day Rhaenyra found herself before by Rhaenys and Corlys, while Laena and Harwin sat so they could all look towards each other. Laenor was fumbling with words as he poured each of them wine. The children were in the nursery, Kania’s lyrical tones soothing them from the far side of the chambers.

“I’m just going to say it first, I’m pregnant.” Laena announced eyes staring at her father as though she dared him to say anything.

“Laena. I know. I’ve probably known longer than you have. You never turn down salt-liquorice.” He looked at them. “Was that it?”

“Oh no. That was the easiest part of the news.” Laena shrugged, pointing at Rhaenyra. “She’s been plotting.”

“As you know, there’s been questions about the legitimacy of my claim, and my daughter’s by extension. It’s clear that upon my father’s death, Hightower will wish to install Aegon on the throne, he’s been pushing since he was born. He even wanted to marry us, me, to a babe. He would seek to pervert our house with the ways of the Faith, place a murmur king upon the conqueror’s throne. That can never happen.” Her father had warned her that the following information could never be taken back, but Rhaenyra continued. “Ours is a duty more important.”

“How so?” Rhaenys asked.

“Aegon conquered Westeros after a Dream. He saw a terrible winter that shrouded the land from the ever-distant North. The winds carried something dark, evil and cold that would destroy the world as we know it.” Rhaenyra said, ignoring their incredulous gazes. “It’s imprinted upon his dagger, and has been a secret passed from King to heir. But something of this magnitude cannot be left to chance. From my blood, will come the prince that was promised, who will bring the dawn. For the world of men to survive, the Targaryens must stand unified, our dragons must stand beside us.”

Complete silence reigned. Harwin seemed to struggle with the notion, for his face was twisted. He took a long drink of wine before he gripped his new wife’s hand.

“You speak of the Others, Princess. Men of ice who control the armies of the dead. They’re a tale of terror in the North, myth and legend to keep the children inside during the winter. Celia, her wet-nurse was from Wintertown, she’d tell us the stories.”

“And dragons are fire made flesh, we live a land where myth and legend hold true, who better to destroy men of ice?  The things I saw while pregnant, a world where our dragons danced, where our children died, where we all died. We fractured, and I doubt we would ever recover.” Rhaenyra admitted. “If that occurred, how would we hold the realm together in the face of monsters?”

“And is Aemara this Prince?” Corlys questioned.

“No, my Lord. The flames have showed me many things, but the threat is not to us yet. Things have changed, but not drastically enough that we bring forth the end-times.” Kania answered. "Yet. But the Great Other has not yet sensed the threat of flame and fire, his cold may seep slowly as it was meant to, or come with the fury of an avalanche."

“Hence your presence here.” Rhaenys stated before she turned back to Laenor. “I take it there is more?”

“I shall let Rhaenyra explain, she was up all night muttering and writing like a mad-woman.” Laenor grinned.

It had been true. There was no sure-fire way to quell the fires of burgeoning usurpation. She would not kin-slay, no at the moment those children were as innocent as her own, and she did not think herself capable of killing Alicent. And Otto, he was untouchable, holed up in his Hightower, surrounded by the Faith and the Citadel. Plus there was the issue with her sons’ appearances and the whispers that followed them.

“I had suggested that Laena be named as the Lady of Driftmark, but with the whispers about my children, Corlys passing them over would essentially be lightning a cask of wildfire. Instead, we propose a marriage when the children come of age: Aemara will have the throne, but Jace and Luke, there is no better match. Driftmark would be secured with  dragon riders, and away from Vaemond who just hates everybody.”

She waited, perhaps expecting Corlys pride to threaten his temper, the disgust of planning a marriage between a babe and one still in the womb. Instead, Rhaenys turned to her husband with a triumphant smirk. The Sea Snake just grumbled.

“I told you she would learn to play the game. Somebody had to, and it wasn’t going to be my cousin, and Daemon would just cut their heads off and be done with it.” Rhaenys pointed out.

“It is a fine move, but if the children are male?” Corlys wondered.

“Nothing is set in stone. That’s why we’re going to Dragonstone, we can begin our plans out of sight, out of the whispers of court. I will not have my children be subject the vicious rumours of a bitter queen, being named sins in the eyes of a religion I do not follow.” Rhaenyra said coldly.

“I assume nobody is to know, aside from those in this room?” Harwin asked. “About any of this?”

“None. Your father is a fine Hand, a fine man, but mine would rather live seeing the best in people than realise just how precarious my position. With the children he just keeps saying ‘Baratheon blood holds strong’ not that he realises.” She sucked her teeth. “And your brother spends too much time with Alicent and Cole.”

“And the others on the Small Council?” Laena asked.

“Beesbury will stand by me because it is my father’s wish. But he’s old. The others, we have to assume they would agree with Otto, he was Hand for over twenty years.” Rhaenyra sighed, sinking back into the cushions. “Some of them are surely feeding him information.”

“The Maesters.” Kania supplied. “They are funded by the Hightowers, are they not?”

“You would be correct.” Corlys nodded, looked pained. “The Faith, the Hightowers and the Citadel are all located in Oldtown. Before the Conquest it was centre of power.”

They all shared a look, and Rhaenyra’s mind came to a startling, infuriating conclusion. She cursed viciously before she pinched her nose, her nostrils flaring as she breathed.

“If my father lay upon his deathbed, if his wounds had festered and his bodies rotted, yet he still lived, no doubt fed milk of the poppy every moment, who would sit the throne?”

“You are heir, are you not?” Kania questioned, head tilted as she regarded her mistress.

“In Westeros, an heir can only ascend after the death or deposition of the previous monarch.” Rhaenys informed her, and it was suddenly made very clear to all in the room. “Otherwise, it would be the Hand.”

“We are in the middle of a conspiracy and we have no idea who outside this room is involved. We are alone against the very foundations of Westeros, the Maesters cannot be trusted, nor the Faith, yet we had family in their centres. All of them cannot be involved.”

“We must assume they are. Do not trust the Maesters, I will speak to Vaegon and I was always close with aunt Maegelle, she may be devout to the Faith, but she will not look down upon the customs of our blood.”

“My love, Maegelle died of Greyscale.” Corlys reminded.

“That’s what you all think.” Rhaenys said with a mysterious smile.

Laenor looked at Harwin who seemed to be out of his depth. He clapped the man around the shoulder with a wry grin. “Welcome to dealing with the Targaryens. The children are worse.”

***

Later that week, the family assembled on the private royal docks. The ships had already been loaded with their belongings, and the dragons that would return to the island, all of them save Vermithor, who seemed comfortable in the caves of the Pit. Rhaenyra believed it was because he was waiting for her father to claim him.

Helaena was crying, murmuring of fireflies and spiders, green and red, black and purple. Her usually pale dresses were a mourning black, though the flared collar was the colour of their house. Her little sister, five years of age, was making a statement, and how Rhaenyra wished she could spirit them away too. Dragonstone was not far from King’s Landing, especially when one had dragons. They would be safe there, Alicent couldn’t harm a fly let alone her own children.

“Shh, sweet sister. If you ever wish to see me, or the children, send me a raven and I shall mount Syrax at once. I promise.” She kissed her hair, kneeling to an equally upset Aegon and Aemond. “And we will be here for both your name days, and father has promised to take a trip for Aemara’s and twins when they pass.”

“Of course. She will not be gone forever, you will all be so busy with your studies, and your lessons that you’ll not even notice. Plus, any letters you wish to send, I will write them personally until you’ve learned your letters.” Her father promised them.

All three children embraced her, and Rhaenyra never imagined feeling this much love for Alicent Hightower’s spawn, even in the beginning. Yet as she held them close, she would let nothing harm them, not the ambition of their grandfather, nor the world at large. They were her brothers and sister, the siblings she had always wanted and it did not matter who their mother was, because they were her blood. Her father’s blood.

“I love you all.” Rhaenyra said for the first time.

“Love you too, Nyra.” Aegon whispered.

Aemond held on tighter, for even as a toddler he did not display much emotion due to the fear of receiving his mother’s ire. Helaena, who usually did not like touch, seemed to become one with Rhaenyra as she whispered.

“You look beautiful in ivory.”

“And you will be there, I promise.” She looked up to her father who also had tears in his eyes. Holding onto them for a few more moments, she addressed him in High Valyrian. “Love them as you would me father, as you love my children. Do not forget them. Mother would be proud.”

“Yes, she would.” Viserys echoed softly.

“If you claimed Vermithor you’d be able to spirit them away, father.” Rhaenyra reminded, much to Alicent’s apparent displeasure.

“We are not ready, but perhaps one day. Or maybe he and Silverwing are like my grandparents, fond of periods of separation.”

“Goodbye father. I love you.”

She kissed each head of silver-gold hair before they retreated to cuddle into their father’s legs, eyes still wide and teary. Her father looked stricken by her words, and she realised she had not said it since her mother had died.

“I love you too.”

Laenor came beside her, smiling down to the children, and above them the dragons gave an impatient screech. Corlys would stay in King’s Landing, while Rhaenys would move between Driftmark, Dragonstone and the Red Keep in order to impart her wisdom wherever it was needed.

With a look to Alicent, she nodded her head, blinking through the tears, but her former friend was a stone, unmoving, unwavering even at the sight of her three children crying, holding onto their father. They would be safe in King’s Landing, Rhaenyra reminded herself as she stepped onto the ship. It would be many years before she realised how wrong she was.

Chapter Text

Daemon

He circled around the city twice before he landed in the Pit. The keepers rushed forward, greeting him with a smile and a nod. It was surprisingly empty, only Dreamfyre and a golden beast who were beside one another, while Vermithor, the Bronze Fury, lazed about. Daemon had never seen the dragon outside its nest with Silverwing since his grandparents had died.

“Where is Syrax?” He questioned.

“The Princess and her family have journeyed to Dragonstone. The untamed followed the Dragon-flame, as did Silverwing, as her bonded rider. Vermithor has remained. The Princess Rhaenyra hoped that the King would claim him. But we have not seen him in six moons turned.” The keeper admitted, and okay, Daemon didn’t expect that.

“And how long has the Princess been gone?”

“The same time. The Princes and the Princess do not come more than once a week to bond with their dragon my Prince, the Queen does not understand why this is important.”

“What of the youngest, he is yet unbonded, is he not? Has he come to the eggs?”

Daemon cursed when the dragon-keeper shook his head. Of course, the Hightower Queen wouldn’t understand the importance of bonding with a dragon, of the time spent beneath their wings as you dozed. It had been his favourite thing to do when he was younger. With a passing pat and a kiss to the snout, Daemon left the Pit. His hair was obscured by the rough cotton of his hood as he snuck through the streets. He saw the Gold Cloaks, some of whom he had personally trained, march through the streets in a show of strength to the criminal elements of the city. Ser Harwin had done his job well.

Perhaps he would visit Mysaria, learn the changes that had been afoot for the three years of his absence, and then he would visit his brother. Then on to Dragonstone after Caraxes had a rest, after he convinced his brother to claim Vermithor.

***

Mysaria’s news had been irritating but not unexpected. There was another song-master in the city, and Daemon was sure it was Clubfoot. Which was made worse by the fact he was reportedly close to the Queen, and by association Otto. Otto, who was keeping tabs on the happening within the city, who would be informed of Daemon’s return and what that could possibly mean. Otto, who held no position yet lived at court.

He sighed as he slinked through the hidden-passages, knowing the ones in Viserys’ main chamber sat behind one of the tamer tapestries, he wondered how his brother would receive him. No doubt he would demand to know about the passages if he hadn’t found them in the years he was gone, and then he would interrogate Daemon before ordering his younger brother through the main door, purely because his brother found amusement in confusing the Kingsguard. Or Viserys would stab him. Their last confrontation had not ended well, and Daemon did not count the wedding where his brother just stared at him as he ate his chicken.

He heard the quiet crackling of the fire, and Viserys’ abysmal humming which meant he was by his model of Old Valyria. How many hours had he spent by his brother while he told Daemon stories in High Valyrian? How many hours did they spend by the fires, chess between them? How had it been Viserys who had held him close in his darkest days and whispered how much he was loved as he cleaned the infected scars upon Daemon's back that he could have none other touch? How did they lose it? When did they lose it?

(Daemon knew it was after he raised a fighting force and prepared to go to war for his brother, his King. He knew it was then, because that was when Otto Hightower saw just how far he was willing to go, and that made him a threat. He knew this, but he could not prove it.)

He pushed open the latch, stepping out from behind the tapestry, rather thankful he was not an assassin otherwise it would be terribly easy to murder his brother as he sat amusing himself.

“Hello brother.”

Viserys did not shriek, but a strange sound did leave his mouth as he stood, carving forgotten. He did not move, eyes studying Daemon as though to ensure it was really him, and that he possessed all his parts. His brother worried like that.

“If you were really here, I’d give you a hug.” Viserys whispered, rubbing at his eyes.

And what an odd thing to say. Especially when his brother followed it by throwing a wooden sphere at him. Only Deamon’s quick reflexes stopped him from being hit in the centre of the forehead.

“Oh.”

Slowly, as though Daemon might vanish like a particularly vivid daydream, or if he would bolt like an angry kitten starved of affection, Viserys moved toward him. His brother wrapped his arms around him, secure and warm for the first time since Daemon had returned from the Stepstones. The last time he had touched him, his brother had nearly broken his ribs with his kick. Still, he did not fear violence, so he sunk into the embrace, head bent against Viserys’ shoulder. His brother’s fingers, two of them, smoothed through his hair, scratching at the nape.

“I’ve missed you, Daemon.” Viserys murmured.

“I missed you too, brother.” He pulled back slightly. “I brought gifts.”

“Your presence is gift enough. Come, let’s get you some food while the maids ready you room. You’ll want to stay a few days, Rhaenyra is due to visit and the children will finally want to meet the famous uncle Daemon, though do not be alarmed if Rhaenyra and Aemara’s simple existence outweighs yours.” Viserys laughed.

“They are close then?”

“I tell you, Rhaenyra and her daughter will find none better to defend them than Aegon, Helaena and Aemond. Just as I had no one better to defend be, but I was too foolish to see it.” Viserys poured them some wine. “We have much to discuss brother.”

Yes, Daemon accepted, there was much to discuss but his beloved, foolish, idiotic brother still did not see the war beacon that was his wife. It wasn’t as though he could miss her. Though perhaps a second son, Otto was unable to provide for his daughter’s taste. He couldn’t wait to see Rhaenyra and Laenor, their children. Because he was back now, nothing but death would separate them, and if the Red Witch was able to perform the feats of her brothers and sisters, then even death would not stop him.

***

Alicent 

Daemon Targaryen had been to see her children. He had been in the room with them, while Viserys was also there, Alicent could not imagine he would be too much of an obstacle. There was a slight rattle to her husband’s chest, and often times he would find himself coughing through the night. Alicent thought with both guilt and mounting satisfaction that the witch who had treated her husband was nothing more than a fraud, that Viserys’ healing was little more than accursed magic.

Her father, who had also been staying in the castle after Alicent claimed her children missed having family around, had taken her aside. His warnings were stark and dire, for Alicent knew the depravity of the Rogue Prince, of his cruelty and his wanton bloodshed, his penchant for violence. And he was here, braiding her sweet, odd daughter’s hair as he told her sweet sons stories of Visenya and Dark Sister, the weapon along the table to the side. Viserys, who had been here, was not. How long had the Rogue Prince been alone with her children? What had he done to them?

“Your Grace.” He said blithely, not bothering to look up from Helaena’s braid. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

She wanted to scream at them, that they were her children, and they shouldn’t be near Daemon Targaryen lest he infect them with his wickedness. This man was the father of that bastard who had ensnared the hearts of her beautiful children, who was more beast than child. There was a vivid viciousness to the child, even when it had left a few months before, there was something it its eyes. She hated the child, its heathen maid, its whore mother who trampled upon her own duty, and she hated how her own children loved the child. They had hugged her, loved her, kissed them goodbye, as they had done with their half-sister. They did not do that to Alicent.

“I was simply wondering why my children had absconded from their lessons, and Aemond from the nursery. They are old enough  that they may begin to perform their duty to the realm.” Alicent said.

“Viserys excused them from the lessons for the day. Once I finish here, we are to go to the docks, Targaryen banners in the distance, you see, dragons flying. Surely you’ve seen them, Seasmoke, nor the beauty of the Golden Lady, can be missed.” Daemon hummed. “Nor Silverwing, or Cannibal.”

Alicent had not. She did not expect Rhaenyra and her hoard of bastards, her sinful husband and the godless witch, to reappear after a few short months. Everything was easier when she was away from the Keep, away from her children.

She also didn’t understand why the sought to have the beasts accompany them everywhere. After Rhaenyra’s last visit had even snapped at Helaena when the girl wanted to sleep in the Pit. It seemed nearly a year of infrequent visits, one for Helaena and Aemond’s nameday, followed by a trip to Dragonstone for the bastards, hadn’t lessoned the grip of the claws around her sweet children.

“Dragons?” Aemond asked.

“Yes. And you’ll finally get to meet Caraxes, the greedy thing is too stuffed to want to eat you now.”

Alicent was horrified. Her son, who had just turned three, and had a fascination with dragons that rivelled anything Alicent had even seen, did not seem to understand the underlying threat from the murderous mad-man patiently tying the ends of Helaena’s hair. Instead, he giggled. As though his deranged uncle had not mentioned his deranged dragon eating her precious baby boy. Her boy who was soleum, who always stood beside Helaena when Alicent and Aegon shouted at each other, unmoving, unyielding as though he was afraid his brother would turn on them next. It was the same with her own father, who despised the weak-willed, unruly child.

Hightower men do not act this way Alicent. I will not let him fail in his duty to realm. He is too soft. Too weak. Rhaenyra and her bastards will cut through him to steal what is his by right. He is no longer a babe, Alicent, he has seen six name days, his seventh is nearly upon us, he is the true successor to his father’s crown. Make him act like it, or I will.

“I believe that will not be possible, Prince Daemon. The children have been yet to produce satisfactory results in their studies, and as such, their free time is spent in preparing for their future service to the Realm.” Alicent stated.

“Banning a child from their bonded dragon is the same as ignoring a festering wound. Dangerous, deadly, and foolhardy.” Daemon fired back.

“The children are too young to be around such beasts, perhaps if the Princess had still been here, they Helaena and Aegon could have accompanied them.” She looked to her youngest who was staring down at his feet, and she felt a pang of sympathy. “And Aemond does not possess a dragon, so there is no reason for him to sulk around the pit like a thief in the night.”

Alicent did not speak High Valyrian, and neither did her children save for a few words they had picked up from Viserys, or Rhaenyra, but she understood the anger that burned in Daemon’s eyes as he stared at her. She did not care. He did not possess children; he did not get to question her methods to ensure her children survived in a world where bastards roamed as princesses and princes. He had no right to question her judgment, she was the Queen.

“I will speak to Rhaenys, I’m sure she’d love to introduce the children to Meleys.”

And with that, Daemon swept out of the apartments, attaching Dark Sister to his hip before he caught Aegon by the shoulder and Aemond by the hand, Helaena leading the strange pack. In the distance she heard the horns blow, signifying the royal arrival. With a grimace, Alicent headed towards the docks, Ser Criston dutifully following behind her, face blank as she muttered about Daemon Targaryen. She would need to speak to her father, and to Larys, for Daemon could not remain in the city, nor could Rhaenyra and her bastards. She would pray with her septa, and the High Septon who so resembled her late grandfather who she found to be pure and pious, everything a true man of the world should be.

***

Aegon 

Uncle Daemon was strange, Aegon realised. But he was nice, he did not get angry when he corrected them, he did not shout like the septons who monitored Aegon’s lessons. The grip on his shoulder was weighty and warm, never rough, never did his nails claw at his skin in the way mother’s did.

He wasn’t like father either. Father who was soft and gentle, and despite being King, despite the cough that settled and sometimes made him tired, still made time for his children. Who wrote their letters to Rhaenyra and his niece, and read the responses with a fond smile.

Aegon understood why mother hated Rhaenyra and his precious little Aemara, because she though they were born of sinful lust, that his big sister had trampled upon her duty and flaunted it.  While Aegon may have had difficulties understand the words on parchment, he was seven, not stupid. His mother did not have said the word to him, he had heard the way her voice turned vicious, tongue curled around the syllables when she spoke to grandfather, and Ser Criston, and even Larys.

Aegon was thankfully never around Larys for too long, for the man made him so uncomfortable that he cried upon seeing him. He looked at Aegon strangely, as though he wanted something from him. Aemond, who at three seemed to be the dutiful son and mother’s favourite, had acted like Aegon for once in his life and bit the man when he said something about sweet little Aemara. Their niece, so pretty and kind, even Helaena had stilled and glared at grandfather when he muttered something about her. That had been scary.

 And well, the less that was said about grandfather was better. Aegon’s arms ached from the punishment still. But Daemon was unlike them all, and while mother had warned them all that Daemon would not care if they got hurt, that he would hurt them, Aegon ignored her. They all did. Rhaenyra did not scream at them, did to smack them, nor did she look upon them with disgust. She didn’t care when Aegon had watched her wearily, or when Aemond spilled his juice on her. She was nice.

“Look up, nephew.” Uncle Daemon murmured.

As the sights of the formidable dragon banners came closer, so did the four dragons- Syrax, Seasmoke, Cannibal and Silverwing, shrieked through the skies. They were dancing, playing, Aegon realised, as they dove towards the water, spraying foam when their wings dipped into the waves. It made him ache for Sunfyre

“I wonder where Vhagar is.” Daemon mused.

As though his words had summoned the dragon, the mighty green beast descended from the clouds, her wings disbursing the clouds as though they were little more than whisps of smoke. There was an excited scream, distinctly human and then the four dragons still playing, followed Vhagar toward the pit upon Rhaenys’ Hill.

“Why does Aemara get two dragons?” Aemond asked as father and mother arrived. “And why does one of them eat other dragons?”

“Symbolism.” Father said unhelpfully.

“Viserys.” Daemon huffed. “The children do not need to see omens in everything from their tea-leaves to their dragons.”

“I’m just saying, brother, Cannibal has well, stopped cannibalising his kin, surely you can see it?” Father smiled. Aegon had never seen father smile like that before, even with Rhaenyra.

“But why?” Aemond asked again.  And oh, he was in that phase, questioning why. Aegon would have to make sure the septons were nicer to his brother than him.

“Spools of green and spools of black, dragons dance. Green to violet, dragons united.” Helaena muttered, though of course nobody seemed to hear her.

He suddenly felt very nervous as the plank was lowered. What if Nyra didn’t like him anymore? What if Aemara hated him? What if he dropped the twins? Then his sister would surely murder him like mother said she would.

However, he didn’t need to fear that, because as his sister and niece walked down the plank, the twins wrapped to Laenor’s chest like he was a mule, they were met with the brightest smiles and warm eyes. Warm as though Rhaenyra looked upon something precious, something she loved. She helped her daughter steady on the dock before she dropped to her knees and opened her arms.

Surprisingly it was Helaena who ran forward first, tucking her head into her sister’s neck as she cuddled her niece closer. Aemond and Aegon approached too, and they were met with shy smiles and a kiss on their cheeks.

“I have missed you all so.” Rhaenyra admitted. Aemara mumbled something and Rhaenyra laughed. “She missed you too. She doesn’t speak Common, but she’ll understand you. Mostly.”

And Aegon felt like nothing could harm him when he was in his sister’s embrace, her arms surrounding them like dragon wings, protecting them just as she would her own. It was then that Aegon spoke his first sentence in broken, grammatically incorrect High Valyrian but his sister understood. His smart niece, just a few months shy of three, understood. Rhaenyra looked upon him with delightful eyes that shone with tears.

“I love you too, little dragon.” A kiss on his growing hair. “And you, little dream.” She pressed her nose into Helaena’s hair. “And you, little flame.” She said to Aemond with another kiss.

***

Rhaenyra

Once they finally broke apart she looked up at her father, and her heart stopped. Daemon was stood beside him, smirk on his lips, his hair short as it had been when he returned from the Stepstones and his eyes, they were so bright with a myriad of emotions that she felt as though she would choke. She smiled at her father, dropped her head a fraction in acknowledgement of Alicent who was glaring at her. For once she was not in poisonous green, but a near-black blue, and the Seven pointed star was adorning her neck, her ears, and even the chain around her waist.

“Look, Aemara.” She said to her daughter, who still ignored the Common-Tongue, much to Harwin’s confusion, before she pointed to Daemon. “Do you know who that is?”

“Kepa.” Her daughter shrieked happily before she ran towards him.

Though her uncle’s eyes widened at the address, and her father let out a hearty laugh, Alicent looked as though she’d sucked a lemon. Huh, maybe she remembered what it meant. Still, it made no difference, because Daemon swept the child up and settled her in his arms. She felt Laenor beside her, smile upon his face as he watched the two of them.

“Still have no idea.” He admitted and Rhaenyra snorted.

“Does kepa not mean father?” Alicent questioned.

“High Valyrian, like Valyria itself, and indeed like us, has such queer customs Your Grace. The language is a reflection of our culture, and so, it simply means male relative of the mother. In common, that translates to father, uncle.” Rhaenyra informed, Alicent’s royal title dripping with derision. “Why my brothers could also be called that.”

“We’ve not started learning yet.” Helaena piped up. “How do you say sister?”

“Rhaenyra would be your mandia, your older sister.” Her father explained. “Aegon would be lekia, while Aemond would be valonqar.”

Rhaenyra smiled as they tested the words on their tongues, she gently corrected Helaena’s vowel sounds. When she looked up again, Daemon was still holding on to their (she says their because there were three parents, as there had always been, even if one of them had not been there for the first three years.) daughter, looking delighted. He walked towards her and Laenor, passing Aemara off to her father before he dipped his head against hers. Her breath hitched at having him so close, memories and heat warming her skin.

“You are late. Don’t leave us again.” She ordered tightly. “Uncle.”

He huffed against her head as he pressed a kiss to her hairline. He then moved toward Laenor and repeated the same greeting, much to Alicent’s confusion. Behind them, Harwin and Kania appeared, and the twins began to wake. Jace was always the louder of the two, but Luke always wanted more. Her greedy little baby.

“Come, we shall dine as a family once more, the blood of the dragon united for all to see.” Viserys called.

Alicent was the first to leave, her shoes snapping on the stones as the others meandered up the pathways. Harwin and Kania formed a guard as a gaggle of children followed Viserys towards the keep, leaving Rhaenyra stuck between Daemon and Laenor, a twin with each.

“You actually like them.” Daemon stated. “I had thought you only cared for them to secure your position, but you love them.”

“Somebody had to, uncle. They are the blood of the dragon, of Old Valyria, Targaryens, they are my blood, my kin. I will not allow that cunt to tear our house apart. I have seen what becomes of us.”

“A little seer.” Daemon teased. “Should I be worried as to why your mother and father have requested we three join them on the morrow?”

“Rhaenyra has become crazed in her plans. And we believe we’re in the middle of a conspiracy, and now we have entered the viper den.” Laenor sucked his teeth. “I wonder if Vhagar managed to lead the dragons to the Pit, wouldn’t want them nesting somewhere.”

“That dragon is a strange one.” Rhaenyra admitted.

“Like your daughter, who is bonded twice over, to the Cannibal no less?” Daemon asked, then frowned. “How likely am I to want to stab something?”

“Ah. Very.” Here Laenor winced. “Also, not call him Cannibal in her presence, she will bite you.” His eyes narrowed at Rhaenyra who chuckled. “It’s your brother’s doing. He was always muttering about biting people; he probably has the other two doing it now too.”

“Helaena would never.” Rhaenyra dismissed.

“We shall see.”

***

Dinner was being laid upon the tables, roasted lamb and creamy potatoes flavoured with herbs and brilliant green leaves and bright carrots. Rhaenyra had missed the cooks, having grown used to the fish that made up most of her diet on Dragonstone while she implemented glass houses and re-ordered the farms. It was expensive, tiring and all consuming, but it was important. If Dragonstone was truly self-sufficient, it would be the safest place in Westeros.

The children also seemed to enjoy the food, though all of them had their eyes on the magnificent spice-cake that lay untouched in the centre of the table. She could see Aegon trying to feed Aemara, while Helaena giggled and Aemond frowned, no doubt feeling left out of doting upon her darling daughter. But that was not an issue she was going to touch yet. Alicent would never agree to the idea of marriage between her sons and Aemara.

Conversation was in abundance, the seats of the heavy oak table full for the first time in years. Viserys sat in the middle, his brother on his left, with Rhaenys and Corlys beside Daemon, and Alicent and her father (who was invited because her father was too nice, and the fact that his grandchildren would also be in attendance. It had been civil, which was strange.) to his right. Children were spread between them, though as the night wore on, they began to yawn, forcing themselves to stay awake for the cake. Laenor was beside her, opposite her father so that they too were in the centre, Laena, so obviously pregnant and Harwin at one side, Lyonel and Larys upon the other.

It seemed as though her father also included the latter within his family due to Harwin’s obvious adoration of Laena, and the fact he had been his daughter’s sworn shield for neigh on four years, ever since Harwin had rescued her from the melee that was her wedding.

Lyonel was not bad dinner guest, he asked questions and genuinely seemed interested about her changes to Dragonstone, and Rhaenyra realised exactly how important he would be in the future. Larys even proved to be capable of having a witty conversation that did not include creepy smiles and dead eyes.

“My Lord Hand, I had wished to speak to you at a later time, but I suppose now is as good as any.” Rhaenyra said.

“My services are yours, Princess.” Lord Strong promised.

“As you know, I’ve sent father and the Council a list of several ladies I wish to bring into my service, to reward their families for their service to the Crown. You have been a faithful and stalwart supporter to both my father, and mine own position as heir. I wish to offer your daughter, Celia, a place when she reaches her majority. Harwin and Leana both speak so fondly of her from their visits to Harrenhal.” Rhaenyra said.

“You honour me and my house, Princess. I, when next I go to Harrenhal I shall speak to Celia, though I am certain should love to join you. She has missed her brother so, and is enamoured with the children. She would enjoy your priestess, I’m sure, she loves the histories.” Lyonel murmured, a feint blush upon his cheeks. “And her bow. I was afraid she would chafe against the order of court.”

“The offer is open, my Lord. Tomorrow I am to speak with the Council. My offers to house Celtigar, Stark, Baratheon and Westerling have been already been agreed to.” Rhaenyra admitted. “I fear with the children I have been remiss in my duties as heir.”

“Nonsense, your Highness. We have heard reports of Dragonstone in the months you’ve been residing there, and you have done well. Perhaps once you’ve returned, you could petition for your seat upon the Council, as is your right.” Lyonel paused as if to think. “What of house Arryn and Tyrell, you do share blood with them both from your mother.”

“I thank you for your confidence in me, my Lord. You have served my father faithfully, and your son is one of my greatest defenders. Knowing that house Strong stands behind me is a relief.” Rhaenyra pondered for a moment. “Aunt Talia was actually the one to suggest it, her niece, Rosalie and she should arrive by the moon’s turn. She found it strange I was bereft of ladies after my father’s wedding.”

The pinking blush burned a fiery red as the Hand of the King dipped his head in acknowledgment. Yes. House Strong would stand beside her, their children were kin. And those of the First Men did not forget their vows easily.

Across the table, unaware to the political manoeuvring Rhaenyra was employing, Daemon and Laenor were in deep conversation, no doubt recounting the war in the Stepstones. However, the jovial mood soon turned sour when Alicent remarked, with a biting tone and suspicious eyes.

“I must admit, I was unaware that you and Prince Daemon were well acquainted with one another, Ser Laenor. He has not been to court in such a long time, I find myself interested in your friendship.”

It was Daemon who laughed, full bellied and rough and Rhaenyra tightened her grip upon Laenor’s arm. Oh, Alicent, Rhaenyra though, if only you knew.

“Four years away from court is hardly a long time.” Daemon said. “Not since I spent years with my good cousin and her husband, when I watched over those two sea dragons, and held Laenor as he screeched the first time upon Caraxes when his own Seasmoke was too young to yet ride.”

“He is a terror. More spoiled that Syrax and more prideful than any dragon I have ever met.” Laenor reminded. “And because of our daughter, I believe I have met them all.”

“Now son.” Corlys interrupted with a smirk. “Your screams could be heard across Driftmark. Your mother and I thought you’d fallen into the sea.”

Laughter rang around the room, and Laenor pinched the bridge of his nose, blush staining his cheeks. Rhaenyra giggled into his shoulder, remembering her own first time upon Caraxes. She was sure Daemon did it on purpose.

“Nobody has even fallen from Caraxes that I did not want to fall.” Daemon announced. “Even then, after three years of war upon the Stepstones, our bonds were forged in fire and blood. Laenor is a good friend, and I wish him and my niece many happy years together, for the Realm will be well in their loving hands, of this I have no doubt.”

“To the future Queen, and her Prince-Consort.” And surprisingly it was Lord Strong who made the toast, raising his own glass of wine.

The sentiment echoed through the table, and even the children grinned at Laenor and Rhaenyra’s red faces. However, before they could move past it, Laenor, being the chaos magnet that he was, (He often liked to blame the Targaryens for the dysfunction that found his life, for the chaos that surrounded him, only to go silent when reminded that his own mother was a Targaryen, that he was half Targaryen.) spoke.

“You honour me and my wife, uncle. Your absence as weighed upon our kin, for the children who only know you as a figure from stories. We would be honoured to extend an invitation to Dragonstone, should you ever wish to reacquaint the hallowed halls that you once squatted in, though I doubt it is required if history is to tell us anything.”

“Taoba.” Daemon warned with a deadly grin. “I fear that Caraxes and the Cannibal may have gotten into a disagreement the last time I was there.”

They had warned him not to say that name. They had warned him, both of them. Aemara seemed to freeze, eyes narrowing as dangerously as a child of three was capable of before she was scrambling along the floor beneath the table. For all she did not speak the Common Tongue, she understood it, perhaps better than a child should. She understood everything better than she should. Daemon yelped a few seconds later.

“She bit me.”

“We warned you.” Rhaenyra said, before she turned to her daughter. “Tell them what name he has been gifted, zaldrītsos.”

Daemon, who was simultaneously rubbing the bite mark on his arm, glaring at his brother and cousin who found the entire situation hilarious, and holding the little biter on his lap, sighed. He pressed a kiss to her mercury hair, so unlike the colour of either supposed parent and Rhaenyra smiled. While she may not look like a typical Targaryen, or a Velaryon, she did look like a goddess of Old Valyria reborn. Perhaps she was, Rhaenyra mused.

However, her child chewed on her lip as she looked around. She went to open her mouth several times, no doubt struggling with trying to explain her thoughts in the Common Tongue, or to seek a translation.

“Does the not child speak?” Alicent asked, and even her father looked at her.

“She speaks High Valyrian, Your Grace. We decided to prioritise our culture, after all, most of us who reside on Dragonstone speak it, even my good brother has picked up a few terms.” Laenor defended, eyeing the Queen as though he expected a rebuttal. “The same can be said for our loyal Kingsguard. Kania has been helping them.”

“Go one, sweet dragon. I will translate.”  Daemon said.

“Wildfyre.” Aemara announced. “He’s green, and he was really sad, like them. He didn’t like his name, so I gave him a new one.”

Those who spoke the language of Valyria snorted. Even Rhaenyra’s father, who had been drinking his wine, choked as the child pointed to the only two people wearing green at the table.

“A beautiful name, Princess.” Larys spoke up, offering the child a soft smile.

Rhaenyra wanted to claw his dead eyes from his head, rip his lying, deceitful tongue out and watch him burn in Syrax’s bronze flames.

“She said he didn’t like his name.” Viserys added. “Our histories said that Can” He stopped at the glare he received from the child. “Wildfyre, was born just before the Doom. We do not know how long dragons live, my sweet Balerion had seen many a battle, both in the Century of Blood and during the conquest, had been bonded to Maegor and been wounded by the magic that curses Valyria to this day, before his death. Perhaps he, the Wildfyre, is our last link to our home.”

Once again, nobody heard Helaena’s murmurings of ‘Green to violet, dragons united. A Dance past, but war to come. Green to black, black to bronze, violet reigns and dragons dance.”

***

Laenor

The following morning saw them sat with his parents in their own rooms, wine ready. He knew what his mother wanted to speak of, yet it would not be something that could yet happen. There were too many eyes. Too many whispers that followed them within the keep that would one day be Laenor’s home, the home of his children. He frowned at the though.

It had taken a while to explain their thoughts, ideas, and reasonings to Daemon, who questioned everything. Everything from the prophecy, which he already knew of, having been heir for nine years, to the visions of Rhaenyra’s possible future without their darling daughter, to a possible marriage between one of the twins and Laena’s children. He felt guilty, wrong, for planning such a match when his own sons where still infants at the breast and his sister’s children not even born, but they were at a disadvantage. They would perhaps always find themselves at a disadvantage.

 Daemon had snorted upon realising his kin finally didn’t trust the Measters, or the grey rats as he called them, but he too raged at the implication their methods had been used in order target his brother, to lay the stewardship of the Crown to Otto’s grubby little fingers.

“You both want to marry me?” Daemon asked, incredulity on his face. “I know none of us know Aemara’s parentage, but is marriage necessary? Can I not just live with you, raise the children and bed you both without need to make it official?”

“No.” Laenor’s mother declared with a steely tone. “Your marriage, when it comes to pass, will be a political statement. The heirs are united, there are children to further the line, and any man that would dare stand against the Rogue Prince and the safety of his family, will meet Dark Sister.”

“At the moment, my father will never go for it. But we have time to spend together upon Dragonstone, we have the Royal tour. Four years before the tour, where we will gather support. Four years for you to prove that you care, that you’re willing to do what is needed to keep us safe.” Rhaenyra sighed. “If we were to ask him now, he would think he’s been made a fool of. And as soft as my father is, he knows we do not know who Aemara’s sire is, and he does not care. He knows it was either Laenor or Daemon, he knows this to be true even if he does not wish to, but he will not question it, because if he thought Daemon was doing it to get to the throne, he would lose part of himself. He will not risk his grandchildren, nor his children.”

“And the twins? Does he know Laenor and your witch fathered them?” Corlys questioned.

“Yes. And it is a conversation I never wish to have again.” Rhaenyra admitted. “He also said he didn’t care if they had of been bastards because they were still my children, that they would still be my heirs, which is nice I suppose.”

“Viserys has always been weak for his family. If he was hours from death, he would retch himself from his bed, body half-rotted to defend you and yours, Rhaenyra. No matter the accusation, the proof, he would stand by you.“ Rhaenys pointed out. “As will we.”

“I do not wish it to come to bloodshed. I do not wish for us to go to war, because when dragons take to the skies, everything burns. I do not wish for my sister and brothers to think me a danger to them, that I would see them dead. I could not, I will not.” Rhaenyra vowed. “They are my blood.”

“I’d suggest a marriage between Aemara and one of them.” Rhaenys stated. “The boys are besotted with her, as is Helaena. I have never seen her so freely give affection than to your daughter.”

“Alicent will never allow for it, and father promised her that she would have power during the suitor’s choice. Plus, her faith would never allow for Aemara and Helaena, even if one of the boys was to sire the children.” Rhaenyra stated.

“Fuck the Faith.” Daemon snarled. “The Doctrine is on our side. Maegor should have burned then all when he had the chance. Visenya should have let the pious cunts of Oldtown feel Vhagar’s flames. Their inability to accept what they do not deem as normal is a problem they themselves should shoulder. They would look down upon us, for those we love, because they do not support it. They curse our culture, our traditions.”

It was the most passionate Laenor had heard him. There was something there, hidden under the surface of anger and hate. Hurt. His mother leaned over and clasped her cousin’s hand tightly in hers, and Laenor shared a confused looked with Rhaenyra.

“Vaegon will research it. If there is precedent, the Faith cannot disallow it.” Laenor’s mother said softly. “What happened to you was wrong, Daemon. Grandfather’s refusal to go against the Faith did not mean you should suffer for his inaction.  Did you know Viserys was ready to storm the Sept, to paint the halls bloody? He begged grandfather to burn the Faith to the ground for daring to touch his beloved brother, and I stood beside him, as did your father. Grandmother too, and even aunt Maegelle, and she’s a septa. And no, she’s no more dead than Saera, who has extended and offer to see her in Lys.”

And Laenor felt as though he was missing something very important, and when he shared a look with his wife, he realised she felt the same. Her head was cocked to the side slightly, silver hair loose over her shoulder as she fingered her Valyrian steel ring.

“What happened?” Laenor questioned.

“A lot.” Daemon admitted bitterly. “It was years ago, it does not matter now. We will continue on as we are wont to do. Rhaenyra will continue to govern Dragonstone, and we will teach our children, we will guard them and guide them. What of the witch?”

“Kania is a loyal protector, uncle, and I will not have your disparage her, nor her faith in my presence. She has protected me and our children from the harm that could be wrought upon them simply because of the blood in their veins.” Rhaenyra snapped. “If Aemara so choses, Kania will teach her the magics of fire and blood, the flames of her god. Most importantly, she will defend her from the vipers that snap at our heels and declare Aemara Maegor reborn.”

“And what of the supposed weapons our child is to wield? Daggers of Valyrian steel, lost to salt and smoke? Does she always speak in riddles?”

“Yes.” All of them agreed at the same time.

“So.” Laenor’s father began. “You will continue to keep your siblings on side, tour the Seven Kingdoms with three generations of Targaryens and a horde of dragons, and you will marry as our ancestors did, all while trying to avoid Hightower poison, the zealots of the Faith, and the rampant misogyny of Westeros? Anything else I’ve missed?”.

“Raising a child that seems to be Valyria personified, our twins, the general chaos of the Targaryen bloodline, readying the realm for a war against creatures of ice and the dead, and Jason Lannister’s increasing proposals to marry our daughter.” Laenor supplied with a sardonic grin. “And you father, you just wanted your name to be upon the throne.”

“I’m aware Laenor.” His father grumbled. “I did not imagine this, I must admit.”

“Tis what happens when your family marry those who share their blood, dear husband.” Rhaenys said. “You don’t hear me complaining about your family, save Vaemond.”

“Fuck Veamond.” Corlys agreed.

***

Rhaenyra 

She sat through the inane drivel that seemed to make up the Small Council meetings these days. Somehow it was worse than when she was a cupbearer, and she did not have wine, following in Corlys’ practice, and she regretted it. Lord Beesbury was watching her, and although he was a fine supporter, he held a tight hand on the coin purse. She knew Corlys and Lord Strong would support her, but the others were unknown entities.

“I do believe that Princess Rhaenyra has some business to put forward.” Corlys announced, breaking Grandmaester Mellos’ asinine complaints. “If you are finished, Grandmeaster.”

“An excellent idea, Corlys.” Her father agreed. “Rhaenyra?”

“Thank you, my King. As you are aware, I have requested several ladies of the great houses in order to build my household. I have received confirmation from my aunt, Talia Tyrell, that her niece, Rosalie will join my service, as will the Ladies Vaelencia Celtigar, Bryna Stark and Ophelia Westerling. I have also offered a place to Lord Strong’s daughter when she comes of age.” Rhaenyra stated. “The Lord Hand, in his good counsel, also advised me to take an Arryn and Baratheon, whom both I and my children share blood with. My good-mother suggested the Lady Casana Baratheon, but there is none suitable from the Vale.”

“Do you not fear an excessive cost? You are in possession already of the Lady Kania and Lady Laena.” Lord Lyman reminded.

“Lady Laena is my kin, my Lord. Kania, like Ser Harwin, is a sworn-shield. The cost incurred is of no matter, their every need will be met by Dragonstone whilst we reside there, and here in the Keep once I return. Furthermore, their dowries will receive an extra two thousand gold dragons, befitting of the ladies who would serve their future Queen.”

“The idea is a good one, Princess. It will also improve your image.” Mellos admitted.

Rhaenyra’s lips thinned as her eyes flicked to the aged Grandmaester, who swallowed under her icy stare.

“I was unaware that my image required improvement.”

“I meant no disrespect, Princess. Just that there are no doubt those who see your ideas as fanciful.”

“Tell me, Grandmaester, would you question the charges I’ve brought to Dragonstone, and those I will endeavour to in the future, as fanciful if I was a man?” Rhaenyra questioned. “Have I not fulfilled my duty to the crown by furthering the royal line? Or do you hold issue in the fact that I have looked beyond the Citadel for the answers to my questions?”

She watched as the old man blustered, finding offence in her words. Rhaenyra suspected he found issue with all three but she didn’t care. She would not be made lesser due to the thoughts of men. Down the table she saw Corlys smirk and even her own father was impressed.

“No, Princess, forgive me, I misspoke.”

“I fear it happens to our elders.” Rhaenyra smiled. “No matter. The girls will be here before my family and I are to return to Dragonstone at the moon’s turn.”

“Excellent news, daughter. We shall have a feast before you depart, to celebrate your achievements on Dragonstone and to toast your future endeavours.” Her father announced with a smile. “Unless Lyman wishes to object?”

“Of course not my King.” Lyman grumbled.

***

Following the Small Council meeting, Rhaenyra meandered through the windings red-stone corridors of the keep. She dipped her head into the rooms where her siblings should have had their lessons, only to find it empty. The same thing was found when she searched out Aemara and the twins.

She returned to her apartments, thinking she would find both her children and her siblings hiding from their tutors. She expected noise, laughter, even the sounds of garbled nonsense. Instead the large chamber was darkened, only the soothing orange glow of the candles and fire, bathing the room in warmth and light. Rhaenyra frowned.

“Peace, mistress.” Kania whispered. “The Princess Rhaenys has taken the twins, the sight distressed them.”

“What happened? If somebody had touched my children, spoken ill of them, I will have their heads.” Rhaenyra hissed, though her voice was low as Kania led her closer to the fire.

“If murder was the solution, I would sacrifice the unworthy to remedy the situation, but all power comes with a cost. Such is the nature of balance.”

Her Red Priestess pointed to the collection of pillows, blankets and cushions on the rugs before the fire. Her daughter, her sweet daughter, was asleep between her uncles and aunt, between Rhaenyra’s sister and brothers. Aemara’s head was on Helaena’s shoulder, Aegon’s hand on her hair, while Aemond’s head was on her stomach. All of them were asleep.

Rhaenyra instantly knew what had occurred. Her daughter was not prone to debilitating headaches, but when they did occur they were nothing Rhaenyra had ever seen before. Aemara had once described it as though her head was being ripped apart, of wing-beat and war drums, the echo of rushing blood deafening. Rhaneyra hated it, for her daughter would either be so violently ill, like she had been during the pregnancy, or she would sit, unstaring, unmoving as salt and blood mixed on her face. Milk of the Poppy seemed to be the only thing besides the dragons that worked, but her sweet girl was so young.

“It started after we broke our fast, she was rubbing at her eyes, wincing at the noises. I thought she was just tired, Princess. I wouldn’t sent her to lessons had I known.” The regret was plain to see, etched into her beautiful face, and Rhaenyra cupped her face, smile soft. “It was your sister who found me. The woman teaching them refused to let me take her.”

“Yet here she is.” Rhaenyra hummed. “Did you thumb your pendent and look at the septa as though you were going be lightning her pyre in that very moment?”

“Perhaps.” Kania admitted, eyes drifting to the pile of children. “I returned, the other three and Ser Erryk behind me, it was quite the sight to see him holding the twins against his armour. Then the maester came.” Here, Rhaenyra noted, her voice became forlorn.

“What did he say to you Kania?”

“The usual, my Princess, his thoughts of my brothers and sisters are not new. But then he said I was planning to kill the dragon-flame, that I would corrupt the children to my ‘superstitious nonsense.’ Ser Erryk removed him before I could remove his heart.”

There was a quiet moment as Rhaenyra sucked her teeth in agitation, thoughts vicious and violent before a soft huff caught her attention. Aegon blinked slightly, staring up at Rhaenyra and Kania with wide, lilac eyes.

“Will she be okay?” He asked.

“Yes, little brother, she’ll be okay. Aemara just needs to rest some, can you help us some more?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“Anything.” Aegon promised. “Will we get in trouble for leaving our lessons?”

“How could you ever get in trouble for protecting your family, sweet brother? I will speak to your teachers, and to father to ensure he knows why you were not present.” Rhaenyra said. “Now rest, brother, we shall watch over you.”

Aegon mumbled something before he turned back into Aemara’s hair, and Rhaenyra smiled as he pressed a gentle kiss to her temple.

“How could Alicent believe I want to murder them?”

“The Queen is a cunt, my princess. Shall I bring the writing desk?”

Rhaenyra nodded her assent. She took a seat in one of the large chairs by the fire-side, kicked off her shoes and watched her daughter snore softly, Aemond’s hands fisting the blanket, and Helaena who had woken-up, stroked her brother’s hair, watching Rhaenyra.

“Thank you.”

Rhaenyra didn’t know what her sister was thanking her for, but she felt the gratitude on the whispered words and smiled at Helaena. She had many things to, reports to finalise, letters to write and notes to take, but she could do that beside the fire, watching over her daughter and her siblings. Perhaps in the future, Luke and Jace, the children that lay within Laena's womb and any other children her chaotic and dysfunctional family would be blessed with, would fill the space even more.

But for now, Rhaneyra turned her attention to her correspondence she had brought from Dragonstone, mind soothed by the rhythmic scratch of the quill on paper, while Kania stared into the flames.

Chapter Text

Rhaenys

She was sitting by the window that overlooked the gardens of the Keep, her hand clutched to a cup of tea as she watched the leaves swat in the slight breeze.  These had once been her childhood rooms, and if Rhaenys closed her eyes she could feel the bell-like laughter of her father, or Daemon’s incessant questions, and Viserys’ voice, high and not yet that of man, rambling about Old Valyria. Now her own grandchildren filled the room with the gentle coos of babes, Baela and Rhaena, as they slept beside their dragon eggs.

Motherhood had not lessened Laena’s adventurous spirit, it did not confine her to the shackles as it did most women, but then again, most women didn’t ride dragons. Rhaenys looked at her daughter, the warmth to her smile, the pride in her eyes, and the mass of thick, silver hair both babes possessed. Rhaenys had worried once, about Ser Harwin ‘Breakbones’ Strong, the son of the Hand, and his political aspirations. Women of Westeros had such limits to their choice is husband, especially her Laena, who claimed Vhagar and spent more time in the skies than on the land or seas. But Ser Harwin loved her daughter, truly loved her, not for what he could get from her, but what he could give her.

Much more than the Sealord of Braavos who so tragically fell into the seas he claimed to command. He wasn't a very good Sealord, now, was he?

She had pondered what would have happened if Viserys hadn’t been such an absentminded fool when the Small Council ordered him to remarry, wondered what would happen had her daughter been Queen. It was a fleeting thought, one she had tried to banish. Rhaenys loved both her houses, both blood and marital, so she did not dare think about what might have occurred after her cousin’s death. Would she and Corlys have sought to place their own blood upon the throne? Would they have conspired as the poisonous Hightowers had? (The answer is no. Rhaenys remembered the way her heart ached at the sight of Viserys upon Driftmark, older and more tired than he had any right to be, and lacking some fingers. She would not have stood by, not while her own blood withered.)

“You are deep in thought, mother. Is there something you wish to speak of?” Laena wondered, reaching for her own tea. “Is it about Laenor and Daemon?”

“No, dear daughter, they will find no objections from me so long as I do not have to witness their passions.” Rhaenys looked at her daughter. “Perhaps you and Ser Harwin would take note.”

Rhaenys laughed at the reddening blush that crawled up her daughter’s neck. It was true, though Dragonstone’s walls were thick, despite the winds that often curled around the towers, and the waves of the sea and the screeching of dragons, Rhaenys heard more than she ever wished to about her daughter’s marital bed.

“I doubt they’ve been stupid enough to do anything in the Keep mother, not with the way the Queen is watching Daemon as though he’d slit her children’s throats the moment he was unamused.” Laena reminded.

“One can never forget that the walls have eyes, Laena. Dragonstone, and Driftmark, are very different to the Red Keep.” Rhaenys warned. “Everybody here wants something, and they will find a way to take it.”

“That is why I’m worried about the Ladies, all it takes if for one of them to report to the Queen, and then what of our plans?”

“Oh my dear daughter, Rhaenyra is many things, but she would rather rule over ash and bone than allow harm to come to her kin. She had picked those who dislike the Queen, an Arryn, a Celtigar and a Tyrell, all who would rather chew off their own tongue.” Rhaenys pointed out. “The Starks have sworn their oaths, and uncle Boromund will support me.”

“And the Westerling girl? I do not understand why she would not choose a Lannister.” Laena admitted with a hushed voice, reaching out to rock Baela’s cradle.

“Tell me, daughter, who is the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard? The Lady Ophelia’s uncle, the only daughter of three sons and a sister. This ensures, if worst was to come, that he, and most of his brothers would side with Rhaenyra. There are many a man in the world who would rather see an incompetent King, rather than a powerful Queen, who think us weaker because our battle-field is the birthing bed.” Rhaenys drained the rest of her tea. “But these Ladies will tell their Lords, their families, of Rhaenyra’s nature, of her improvements and her wishes, and the idea they have of her will change.”

Silence reigned for a long moment as Laena contemplated her mother’s words. It was a cleaver little scheme, proximity to the future Queen, and her heirs, promised only the finest of marriage offers, in addition to the rather generous monthly expenditure Rhaenyra was giving them (especially considering there is nowhere to shop on Dragonstone, not truly.) and the increase of the dowry.

“And the Lannisters do not like Rhaenyra after she refused marriage, so the Westerlings, loyal to the King, and his future heir, will act as a pathway into the Westerlands.” Leana pursed her lips. “But why Celia Strong? Is there not a Tully?”

“Even if there were, Rhaenyra wanted Celia.” Here Rhaenys smiled. “Not to reward the Lord Hand, or to ensure his continued cooperation, but for you and Harwin. She wanted to thank you both for standing by her side, so Harwin could watch his sister grow alongside his own children.”

Rhaenys pondered for a moment when the prideful, arrogant girl who proclaimed she would create a new order disappeared to. Rhaenyra herself would not be the catalyst to change, they all knew this, but she was the foundation. If she failed, her daughter would never ascend the Iron Throne, and the Realm would be thrown into a war of succession that would pit brother against sister, and perhaps, once in the past, dragon against dragon. She shivered at the thought.

“What did you expect to happen?”  Laena questioned, High Valyrian flowing on her tongue. “Do you think his mother will convince him to set flame to the realm?

“When Aegon was born, I had my doubts. I was bitter, since the Great Council I have never imagined the possibility of a Queen, so I watched. Rhaenyra was young, rash, impulsive, all of Daemon’s worst qualities, though she lacked the penchant for blood-shed.” Rhaenys admitted, “I had expected for Aegon to be named heir, but Viserys held true, and Rhaenyra remained. When she married Laenor, I felt as though I was condemning them both to a life of survival, but they have proven me wrong at every turn. As for the Green Queen, she will try, her father will try, but they will not succeed. That boy, at the age of seven, would not turn on Rhaenyra, because it would mean turning on Aemara. The four of them are bound in a way long forgotten, a myth, a legend.”

“That is good, isn’t it? Who would they place atop the throne if not Aegon? He is the only one with any sort of power to challenge Rhaenyra’s claim.”

“Only time will tell, daughter. Ours is a long game, and at the moment we are isolated. Our future rests on the children, and children change.”

***

Ser Erryk 

Erryk snagged his brother with his sword, grinning as the sweat slipped down his neck. Arryk huffed, pouting as he always did when he lost a spar, only to pull Erryk beneath his arms.

“Dragonstone suits you brother, I had thought your skills would have suffered.” Arryk hummed.

“Nonsense, brother. I often train with our brothers, as well as Ser Harwin and Ser Laenor.” Erryk hesitated for a moment. “If you wish, I could ask the Princess, I’m sure Lorent or Steffon wouldn’t mind swapping out.”

“I will stay with the little Princes and Princess, brother, just as the Lord Commander will stay with the King.” There was a pause as they returned their weapons to the rack. “I would speak to you, about a concern I have brother. And the Princess, if she would be amenable?”

Erryk felt on edge immediately, his brother’s usual jovial tone lost in a case of seriousness. He nodded to his twin, clapping a hand on his shoulder before he led him towards the Princess’s apartments, with Ser Steffon guarding the entrance. He raised an eye at them both, unseemly states of dress to be meeting with the heir of the Seven Kingdoms, before he laughed at them.

“Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, Princess. Just from the training yard it seems.”

“Allow them in, Ser Steffon, so long as they do not traipse blood with them.” The Princess called.

Arryk seemed to still, eyes wide as he checked himself for any sign of blood. Erryk laughed at his younger brother before he led him into the Princess’s chambers. His year on Dragonstone had taught him much about the royal family he was sworn to protect, no longer did he view them as charges he would lay his life down for, he saw them as the people they truly were. The Princess made sure they received the finest of everything, that they were comfortable, happy, while Ser Laenor was always ready to challenge them. Even he and the red priestess had struck up what Steffon called the strangest friendship he had ever witnessed, and she was terrifying with a blade.

“How can I help you, my good Sers?” The Princess questioned, brushing through her daughter’s hair. “Kania is not here to heal training injuries.”

Erryk felt his cheeks heat at his Princess’s insinuation, shooting a look at his brother who raised an eyebrow. Erryk narrowed his eyes in retaliation, only to then realise that Prince Daemon and Ser Laenor were entertaining the twins on their laps. He knew the Prince would be retuning to Dragonstone with he and his brothers, but Erryk never imagined seeing the Rouge Prince, the one who wielded Dark Sister and rode the deformed dragon, Caraxes, bouncing a babe on his lap. It was unsettling, seeing the small smile of love on the Prince’s face, but who was Erryk to judge?

“I bring you my brother, your Highness, he has something he wishes to discuss.” Erryk announced.

“Speak plainly, Ser Arryk, and if I can offer assistance, it is yours.”

“It is your brothers, your highness. I have spoken to the Lord Commander, and he has spoken to the Queen.” Arryk admitted, and Erryk frowned. “Ser Criston has been put in charge of the Princes’ sword-training, but it is not training, Princess. It is torture.”

Erryk held his breath as the Princess shifted, eyes growing cold as she stared at his brother. The smile that had graced her face vanished, a blank look taking over her pretty features. She waved for her husband to remove the children before she poured five goblets of wine.

“Explain your reasoning, Ser.” The Princess ordered.

“He keeps them for hours, your Highness. If either boy displeases him, Ser Cole berates them, asking all manners of questions, alluding to the Princes’ inadequacies being the reason for any future misfortune that would fall upon the Queen, and the Princess. They are just children, Princess, neither boy should be attempting the moves Ser Cole is teaching.”

If possible, the temperature of the room dropped, and the Princess smiled bitterly. She said something in High Valyrian, something Erryk didn’t comprehend with his limited knowledge of the language. The Prince responded in kind, a silver eyebrow quirked.

“Has my father said anything about it?” The Princess questioned.

“I was ordered by the Queen to not bother the King, Princess, Her Grace is responsible for the children’s education.” There was shame in his brother’s tone, and Erryk wondered how long Arryk had been concerned about this.

“No matter, Ser Arryk. I appreciate you bringing forth your concern, I promise to be discrete in the matter. I shall also speak to the Lord Commander, my concerns of Ser Criston are not without fact, after all, he beat an innocent man to death at my wedding and was then rewarded for it.” The Princess remarked bitterly. “If you would like to come to Dragonstone, I’m sure one of your brothers would swap duties.”

“No, Princess.” Arryk said quickly, only to dip his head. “I would rather stay with the Princes, and the Princess, should the worst come to pass.”

“You think he would hurt them outside of training?” Prince Daemon questioned sharply.

“I cannot say, my Prince. Forgive me for saying this, but he hides behind the Queen’s skirts. He has spoken about the injustice that the Queen and her children were left with just three members of the Kingsguard while you, Princess, had three on Dragonstone.”

Erryk caught several colourful insults, and a threat of death to his sworn-brother. He looked to his brother, who was staring at the floor, shame colouring his face. The Princess seemed to sense his turbulent emotions and stood, moving swiftly to lay her hand on Arryk’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Ser Arryk Cargyll. I’m gladdened to know you are here to ensure the safety of my siblings.” Her words were full of serenity, though they turned cold quickly. “Now, if you excuse me, I have a step-mother to speak with, and ladies to settle.”

Erryk almost felt sorry for the Queen, he had seen the Princess Rhaenyra’s fiery temper in Dragonstone, but he had never witnessed her ice-cold rage. He resolved to never get on her bad side.

***

Rhaenyra

She had to constantly remind herself that she could not murder either Alicent Hightower or Criston Cole, no matter how much she wished to do so. If that sanctimonious cunt laid a hand upon her sweet siblings she would have his heart, his head and his hands before his body was thrown into the sea.  But she could not do that. Instead, she found her father. He would be able to dispense justice in a way that Rhaenyra could not. No matter how much she wanted, Rhaenyra could not intercede herself, in a few weeks she would be back on Dragonstone, and her brothers would be beneath Alicent and Cole, and if they found out her involvement she feared the repercussions.

“Rhaenyra, what is the matter?” Her father questioned, taking in her frantic state.

“Laenor and Daemon spotted Ser Criston Cole instructing the boys on their sword lessons.” Rhaenyra said. “Did you know his training methods were borderline sadistic?”

“What?” Viserys asked, confusion lacing his tone. “What has happened?”

“He tortures the poor boys, father. He said that if anything ever happened to Helaena or even Alicent, it would be their fault for not being good enough. A boy of seven, and another of four. What is Aemond even doing there?”

“Calm yourself Rhaenyra, and tell me what you know.”

And so she did, mixing truth and lies in order to protect Ser Arryk as much as she could. She watched as her father’s face twisted into fury, how the vein in his neck throbbed. He called Ser Harrold into the room, ordering the man to get both Alicent and Cole. Rhaenyra fiddled with her ring, eyes unfocused as she looked upon the Valyrian model.

“I should not be here, father. Ser Cole, he does not like me, has not since he killed a man at my wedding, and I fear Alicent’s reaction if she believed I was interfearing with how her children were raised.” She bit her lip. “I also have to welcome my ladies, they have all arrived, and I must prepare for our departure.”

“Go, my girl, you have your own duties to attend to.” Viserys sighed, shoulders sagging. “Welcome your ladies, and know that I am proud, both of what you have accomplished, and what you will.”

Emotions thickened in her throat at her father’s praise. She leaned forward to embrace him, as she often did when she was younger. Her father’s arms circled her, and he pressed a cheek to her hair.

“Your mother would be proud, and I know from where she and the rest of our kin are watching, they are too. Fire and blood do not so easily disappear in the shadows, Rhaenyra, remember that.”

The works he spoke were like an echo of that day, years ago, when she had learned she was pregnant. Even now, Rhaenyra found herself surrounded by lemon and lavender, the scent of her mother. Her father seemed to stiffen as he pulled away, eyeing the air around them. They shared a look, both bitter and fond through emotional eyes. Words didn’t have to be spoken between them, they knew their beloved Aemma was watching over them, that she was with them. And that was enough.

***

Rhaenyra knew the ladies she now had in her employ would report back to their Lords, which meant she, Daemon and Laenor would have to be careful, but Dragonstone had secrets, and it would keep theirs. The fortress was impregnable, built as the westernmost outpost of Valyria at the height of its power, it was thousands of years old, forged in fire and blood. If it came to war, Rhaenyra would ensure it could stand against any who would be foolish enough to invade, even if the men of Westeros laughed and belittled her. She did not dare think of the consequences if she failed, and her hand found her stomach, as it often did when she thought of her children.

“The ladies have been brought to our chambers. They seem to be getting along, Ophelia has been here the longest, but the Stark girl only arrived a few days passed. I think she might melt.” Laenor admitted with a grin. “How did your father take the news?”

“I don’t know.” She admitted. “There is nothing to stop it, not truly, instead of it occurring in the training years, it’ll be behind closed doors. I wish I could take them, Laenor. Remove them from this poisonous place, but it would never happen.”

Laenor was pensive for a moment before he took her in his arms, kissing her forehead. She sighed bitterly. It was a fanciful dream, the same way mounting Syrax and flying off with Alicent had been. But she wanted it.

“Do you think she’d hurt them? I mean, I’ve seen how she’s looked at us, at Daemon, at our children. Is it truly a leap to think she would use violence to achieve her ends?”

“I don’t know.” She repeated. “I once could never have imagined Alicent Hightower raising her hand to anybody, least of all her children. She loves them, I know this to be true, but I worry for what that love will drive her too. I’ve made it clear, I have vowed and sworn, that no harm would come to them when I ascend the throne, yet she does not believe. She never will, not as long as Otto Hightower continues to breathe.”

Laenor held her closer for a minute before the door opened with a creek, only for another body to join them. Here she was, surrounded by the two men she loved most in the world, albeit in very different ways. The fathers of her children, who would burn and salt those who would stand against them, that would seek to harm them. She let their words wash over her, basking in their warmth.

“I could stay a few weeks, Viserys wants me to go on a few patrols with the Gold Cloaks, help train some of the new recruits and touch base with the issues of the city.” Daemon said softly. “I can keep an eye on the little dragons and make sure the Hightower cunt doesn’t settle. I like to think I’d give him a heart attack if he found me with the children.”

“Would you?” Rhaenyra asked. “I didn’t think you liked them.”

“The dreamer is the best of them.” Daemon admitted. “If a little strange with her bugs, but who am I to judge? I kill people for fun, she plays with spiders.”

“Aegon and Aemond?” Laenor questioned, smirk on his lips.

Rhaenyra laughed at the pinched expression on Daemon’s face. Oh she knew why he seemed to dislike the boys, and it was a reason he shared with Laenor, though her husband found humour in the situation.

“They’re too interested in Aemara. Even with the apparent language barrier, the three of them, even Helaena, are always around her. Reading to her, trying to feed her cakes and cheese, they fought over who got to hug her first, only for Helaena to do it. I’ve rarely seen her touch somebody.”

“Are you jealous that another Targaryen uncle decided to follow in the apparent ritual of being weak in the knees for their niece?” Laenor asked, humour colouring his tone. “It’s hardly revolutionary that they like each other. It’s better than them clawing each other’s eyes out.”

“Taoba.” Daemon hissed. “Aegon said he would marry her, then gave her a peanut. A peanut. She deserves more than a peanut.”

“What did the other two give her?” Rhaenyra asked, unbothered by the situation. “If Aegon makes a marriage declaration, the other two follow, and then try to get her to pick.”

Daemon’s face contorted before he huffed, fingers flexing as though he was reminding himself she could not run through three children with Dark Sister. She shouldn’t encourage the teasing, but it was too easy.

“Helaena gave her the clip from her hair, a little butterfly.” Huh, Rhaenyra now knew where her daughter’s new favourite accessory came from. “The other one gave her his cloak. He even wrapped it around her shoulders like an actual marriage.”

“I had wondered where it came from.” Laenor mused. “Poor Aegon. He needs to get better at giving her things if he wants to marry her.”

“As if the Green Cunt and his bitch daughter would agree.” Daemon muttered. “She deserves better than them. They’re all terrible at giving gifts.”

“You know, uncle, I remember giving you a crystal flower when I was younger, then proclaimed I was going to marry you.” Rhaenyra smirked. “Now, I must go meet my ladies.”

As she left the room she heard Laenor’s exacerbated voice.

“Honestly, Daemon. It’s not the end of the world, it’s not even unusual for you lot.”

***

Aemond 

He sat alone in his room, eyes watching his dragon egg. It felt cold, lifeless, dull, everything a dragon egg that would hatch wasn’t. He bit his lip. He was only three, but it felt wrong. He knew he was meant to have a dragon. He was a Targaryen, no matter how much his mother wished he wasn’t. Her was her good son, words that made his heart freeze and his gut coil. He hated it.

He also hated that Rhaenyra was leaving. He wanted her to stay forever, but she never did. None of them ever did. He wanted to spend his days learning with Aemara, for her to teach him High Valyrian, and for him to teach her the Common Tongue, even though he was sure she understood it. There were many things he wanted, but Aemond doubted he would every them.

He rolled over onto his bed, face buried in the cushion in an effort to stifle the tears that burned along his lash-line. He choked a sob, only to freeze when his door opened. Mother hated it when he cried.

“Sweet dragon.” It was Rhaenyra’s voice, soft and warm. “Oh sweet boy.”

His sister sat on his bed and pulled Aemond close, her hand soothing through his hair. She kissed his head, humming in an effort to calm him. Her words were in High Valyrian, and even though he didn’t understand them, he knew it was filled with love.

“It hurts me to see you so, Aemond. Dragonstone is not so far away, our parting is not forever, little brother. I promise.”

“But, you’re leaving, and the dragons will be gone, and my egg is dead. What if Aemara comes back, and I have no dragon? How can I keep her safe? Or Luke. Or Jace. Or you.”

He sobbed, burying his face in her stomach. She held him as he cried, quiet words lost to the rushing of his ears. He didn’t know how long cried, but by the time his eyes had dried, his head throbbed. He whimpered, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Aemond, sweet child.” Rhaenyra whispered. “It is our job to protect you, and I will do everything in my power to keep you all safe, I swear it. You will have a dragon, one day a hatchling will be born, or one day a mount will need to be claimed.” His sister took a deep breath, though her hand never stopped in his hair. “My mother never had a dragon, and though she was born an Arryn, she was a Targaryen. The same with our uncle Vaegon, and aunts Maegelle and Saera. You are Aemond Targaryen, a son of Old Valyria, and one day you will take to the skies.”

“Really?”

“Yes, sweet boy.” Rhaenyra kissed his forehead, wiping away the last of his tears. “I know you will miss us, just as we will miss you. But every time you look at this, I want you to remember us.”

His sister reached to the end of his bed, pulling something towards them. She set it upon his lap. It was a dragon, weighty and warm, its plush fur black, but along the wings it was dusted a beautiful silver. He looked at his sister with wide eyes.

“What will you name him, valonqar?” Rhaenyra bit her lip, something he had seen her do when she was particularly nervous, or if she was trying not to smoother somebody in kisses. “I know you cannot take to the skies on him, but I can bring you and him upon Syrax so you can fly with your dragon.”

He hugged her, toy between them as he whispered his thanks into her neck. Rhaenyra’s arms tightened around him, and he felt her breath tickle his hair. He knew what to name it. Of who it reminded him of.

“Starfyre.” Aemond said softly. “I’ll name him Starfyre.”

“An excellent choice, brother. I’m sure he’ll get along well with Sunfyre and Dreamfyre, if you ever wanted to introduce them.”

“I don’t have to?” He tilted his head to the side.

“Not if you don’t want to, Aemond. Starfyre is yours, if you never wanted to show anybody, that’s okay. He could stay in your room, in the corner where you like to read, if that’s what you wanted.”

“Thank you, Nyra. Love you.”

She smiled at him again, so bright, so happy and so filled with love Aemond wanted to cry again.

“I love you too.”

Chapter Text

Aemara 

She stood upon the dark sands of Dragonstone’s beach, watching the waves crash against the rocks near the shore. She may only be six, but Aemara knew Dragonstone, knew the magic that had crafted it, the blood that had sealed the protections and the dragons that circled it. Her own beauty, Silverwing, lay across the beach, while Wildfyre snoozed upon the rocks with his brothers, Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer. She had attempted to rename the brown dragon, but his white eyes had narrowed at her, and she had felt the pride in his name. It was so unlike Wildfyre, who had hated the name bestowed upon him by the people of Dragonstone. Her sweet boy deserved better.

Aemara had grown on Dragonstone, beneath the wings of the dragons who had returned home, beneath her mother and fathers’ patient lessons of reading, writing and other things the heir to the Iron Throne deserved to know. She would learned from Kania, her protector, her friend, her teacher, to read the flames, to heal and see the future. To escape from the past that haunted her mind, that stole the innocence of her childhood. To manage the pain of the headaches that seemed to plague her. From Harwin, she trained her endurance so one day she would be ready to wield her weapons, from her aunt Leana, languages and customs from the far east. But perhaps her greatest lesson was from the dragons that surrounded her.

She had known she was different for all her life, but it was beside the dragons she truly understood how different. Her blood sang beside them, a soul-soothing song of war-drums and marches. They were her peace, her salvation, and her ruination all at once, and she knew nobody would ever understand. Her mother and fathers, her family on Dragonstone, and even those in the capital that wrote to her, her beloved grandsire, her protective, inquisitive uncles and her aunt Helaena, who despite being touched by the flames, would never understand. But they tried to, and that’s all that mattered to Aemara.

She sighed, reclining against Silverwing as lightning cracked upon the horizon, thunder rumbling. In the distance, Vhagar gave a grumble as she was disturbed. Silverwing did not move, the heat of her scales soothing the emptiness, the aching cold that seemed to claw at Aemara’s bones and claim her soul. She wondered what she would return to within King’s Landing, a den of vipers or a clutch of dragons? Her aunt and Aegon had their mounts, Dreamfyre and an egg from her clutch, Sunfyre, yet Aemond had no luck with his egg. Aemara knew he felt as though it was his fault. But it wasn’t.

The dragon he was meant to claim was a still ridden, and would be for many years to come. Somehow, Aemara knew that Aemond had convinced himself the only way to gain was to take, and she wondered what happened to her family in the capitol that had made them that way. The flames gave Kania a glimpse of Aegon, sullen and unhappy, sore, and sad at the age of eight, years ago now, while Helaena simply existed, trying her best to go unnoticed. Many thought her odd, but Aemara knew better. It was Aemond she worried for most, dejected, apart from his siblings as his mother held him close, reminding him that he did not need a dragon, that he did not need a tamed beast, because he was a Hightower. The flames had burned a hateful onyx when she heard those words, crackling and spitting within the brazier. She knew better than to deny a dragon.

She felt guilty, for they were always happier when all of them were together. Aemara didn’t want to be the cause of their upset.

“My sweet Silver, is it time?” Aemara asked.

The dragon gave a pained cry, so similar to that of Syrax when the Golden Lady had laid the clutch that hatched for Jace and Luke. She smiled to herself, she was the dragons, and the dragons were hers. Silverwing took flight, returning to the cave she had spent with her beloved Vermithor, who still resided in King’s Landing, waiting for her grandfather to claim him. She would convince them.

 At once, the magic in the fires beneath Dragonstone burned, and the flame-forged walls of the castle glowed, rivers of blood-like flame amongst obsidian.

Aemara sighed, flopping back against the sand before darkness swallowed the light above her. From the hum in her blood, thirsty for recognition and love, she knew it was Wildfyre. Her sweet boy, trilling gently as he curled around him, her hand pressing between his horns. He had grown larger with her presence, as had all of the dragons that called the volcanic flames of the Dragonmont home. A life free of chains, even Arrax and Vermax were larger, her brothers’ dragons free to nest amongst their kin, with Syrax who had laid their clutch.

“Your mother is looking for you.” Kepa announced, sliding close to Wildfyre who gave a huff. “Why is he so shifty looking?”

“I didn’t do it.” Aemara replied. “And he’s not shifty.”

“So it is not the dragon-flame’s fault that Silverwing is laying a clutch in the caves and Syrax is uneasy? Or that the castle is glowing?” Kepa questioned, pulling her close as he kissed her hair. “You know you are a child, yes? Your only duty is to be happy.”

Aemara laughed. She had not been a child since she understood exactly what the images in her mind show her. Of the future that would not come to pass, of the past that lingered in her blood. She saw Old Valyria as it was, it lived in her mind, her blood and heart and she could never forget it. Dragon-forged roads, towers of obsidian and blood-stone, of fires that lit the way. Westeros would be Valyria reborn one day.

“The egg, it’s for Aemond.”

“It’s unlikely at his age, tala.” Came Daemon’s soft voice. “You’re sure?”

“Have I ever been wrong?”

She hadn’t been. Not for the clutch laid by Syrax when she had been but a babe, nor for the eggs Vhagar had left upon the island for her cousins, Baela and Rhaena. She would not be wrong about the egg laid by Silverwing, no doubt fathered by the Bronze Fury in the intimate dance she had witnessed in the skies, nestled close to her mother’s breast upon Syrax when the Dragon Prince had last visited, following her grandfather and her kin.

The years had been long, and her soul, so ancient and twisted as it was, made her feel far older than six. She was not a child, nor had she ever truly been one. How could she be, when a thousand years of memories flowed in the fires of her blood? Glimpses of herself, older and smirking lazily with an odd looking sword upon her hip plagued her, walking along a land of endless white sands that she had never seen. 

Her kepa sighed before he kissed her hair, long and braided like her ancestors, before his arms curled around her. He did not say anything, but he didn’t need too. In fact, none of them did, the dragon-blood in their veins carried an everlasting fire, one she could read with ease. Blood knew blood, just as magic knew magic, and Aemara sighed contentedly, sinking into the embrace.

“Precious. Our darling princess. Rest now, for soon we shall return to the viper den, and we shall need our strength.”

***

It would be two days upon the seas, yet only a few short hours on dragonback. Aemara did not see why their transportation method was questioned. Even the dragons seemed confused from where they were piled together, Silverwing surrounded by her brethren. Aemara herself felt the pain of laying the clutch in her blood, an ache in her head and a dullness to her bones.

“We have too many children between us to just take the dragons.” Her mother argued, smoothing Luke’s hair.

“I can take Jace, Laenor can take Luke, you Aemara. Vhagar can easily transport Harwin and Laena as well as the twins. Silverwing and the others can carry our belongings.” Daemon pointed out.

“And Ser Steffon? Ser Lorant? Ser Erryk?” Mother questioned. “My poor ladies?”

“I can ride Silverwing.” Aemara said.

“Not until you’re older.” All three of her parents said at the same time.

She pouted. She knew Silverwing would never let anything happen to her, nor would Wildfyre despite the fact she had never sat upon his back. His untamed kin were the same, they listened to her, and she could feel them, she understood they would guard not only her but her blood. That was their purpose, to protect, like the Guardians of Old Valyria.

Aemara left her parents to figure out the travel arrangements as she walked through the soothing tranquillity of Dragonstone’s darkened walls. Despite its appearances, the castle would never be cold to them, for the walls still held the flames that constructed it, and as long as the blood of Old Valyria resided, and the dragons roamed, they would find solace in the obsidian fortress. She passed the guards with a smile, aware of the fact that Kania was following her, keeping close to the shadows to give Aemara the illusion of privacy. She was thankful for it.

She walked across the beach, toward the caves of the Dragonmont and she sighed at the infernal heat. It felt beautiful. Inside she could feel Silverwing tire, but her pride warmed the bond. Usually, dragons had clutches of two to four, it was ever so rare for a single egg to be laid. Aemara, who was born beneath an omen, saw it as a sign.

“Well done, my beauty.” She murmured as she entered the damp, stifling cave.

Silverwing preened with her rider’s praise as she nudged her egg towards Aemara. It was a solid black colour with veins of silver starlight. It was gorgeous, and the scales of the egg burned hot as Aemara clutched it close, finding solace in the fire, even though she was fire-made flesh, she only knew the insidious ice that flooded her veins, the numbness. She felt it pulsate as she laid her lips to the stone-like layer that protected the precious hatchling within. Yes, she decided, her uncle would have a glorious dragon. And she would be proud to gift it to him.

“Princess.” Rosalie Tyrell called. “Your mother wishes you to come inside, before the storm picks up.”

“Yes cousin.” Aemara replied, tucking the egg close to her. “I’ll need fire for the egg.”

“I’ll get the Lady Kania to set it, Princess. Are you excited to go back to King’s Landing?” Lady Ophelia wondered as she appeared. “Mayhaps uncle will help you with your weapons.”

“I’m looking forward to the feast. It’ll be the first one I can truly enjoy.” Aemara grinned. “I hope there’s spice cake.”

Ophelia, who had hair the colour of flaxen straw that was usually bound in rope-like braids, huffed, her emerald eyes glimmering. Roaslie looked like her own lady mother, dark hair that was loose and free, and eyes the colour of Silverwing’s scales. They along with the Lady Bryna Stark, were Aemara’s favourites of the ladies in her mother’s employ, for they would often sneak her, her brothers, and her cousins, sweet treats and tell them stories of their homes.

Aemara was happy on Dragonstone, surrounded by her family, by the ladies, by Kania, and even the Kingsguard who did not think she was strange for learning how to fight, and the dragons. She was never alone on the island, in the caves, or on the beaches, nor walking through the bay mother sometimes brought them too.

Dragonstone had given them much, an opportunity to learn and be free, to visit aunt Saera in the east, to fly over the Red Waste and the Dothraki Sea. One day she would convince Kania to bring her to the Red Temple in Volantis. She would see the darkest corners of the world, only to light it with everlasting flames, to ensure there was no place where the cold could take root.

That was her duty.

***

Aemond 

He was lonely. There was no other way to describe it. He loved his big brother, who at the age of ten danced around mother and grandfather, who seemed to do things to irritate them on purpose so they would heave he and Helaena alone. But that’s what family does, right? They grip your chin and shout in your face as their spit drips down your skin, mingling with the tears, only to apologise hours later. Grandfather was the worst, for while he never did to Aemond what he did to Aegon, his words were as sharp as Valyrian steel, his punishments for failure gruesome. It’s not Aegon’s fault the letters are jumbled when he reads, nor Helaena’s for writing with her left hand. He berated them when they cried, accosted Helaena for her interest in all things bug-related and had made a show of forcing the children into green and stars.

Aemond still did not possess a real dragon, despite what Rhaenyra had told him years ago. He was seven at week’s end, the same age his sister had been when she mounted Syrax for the first time. Even Aegon had sat upon Sunfyre’s back, sailing through the skies with joyous shrieks. Helaena still had not mounted Dreamfyre, but she would spend as much time as she could with the dragon. He knew his sister feared falling, but he did not know why.

He looked at Starfyre, nestled in the corner of his room by the window, piles of red, black and silver Myrish carpets and the finest silk pillows. His father had indulged him, and some were brought back from his sister’s trip to the Free Cities. She had smiled when he showed it to her, and so had Aemara when she, Aegon and Helaena had sat there for hours, dozing in the sun like lazy kittens. Mother hadn’t liked it, but mother didn’t seem to like much of anything anymore. He kept his egg, long dead and cold, on the shelf beside his books. Often times he would find himself just staring at the blue and green hues, wishing it to hatch. But it never did.

Mother had seemed pleased that it hadn’t hatched, mournfully telling him that it was unlikely to occur now. But Aemond knew the stories from father, who had not claimed Balerion until he was much older than Aemond, and of uncle Daemon who bonded to Caraxes at sixteen. His mother did not like it when he pointed that out to her, for she just sighed in the way she usually did when she was disappointed. She had taken him close, her head against her heart, her fingers in his hair and whispered.

You will always be my sweet son. Good and dutiful.

Aemond did not know why those words haunted him, nor did he want to think about it. Instead, he looked toward the ship docking in the harbour, and the dragons in the sky. There were so many of them, blurs of colour as the soared above the clouds. Happy. Free. So unlike Aemond.

“Come. Your father wants to receive them in the throne room. Stand beside your brother and make sure he behaves himself.” His mother said, leaving without looking behind her.

He sighed. He met his sister and brother at the stairs, their rooms close in the royal wing and they descended together. Mother and grandfather had tried to force them into poisonous green, but none of the children would bend. Helaena, who usually wore pale golds and dresses of pink-spun silk, wore a shade of red so dark it looked like the dried blood he had once spied upon Aegon’s split lip. He and his brother were the same, black upon black as though they were in mourning. Perhaps they were.

“Do you think they’ve missed us?” Aegon asked sullenly.

“They’ll have gifts.” Helaena shrugged. “And of course they will. We’re family.”

Oh his sweet sister, who so wanted to see the good in the world. Mother and grandfather are family, yet with a single look they set us on edge. Family doesn’t mean anything, not to them anyway.

“Mother told me that you must behave.” Aemond said instead.

“If she’s annoyed at me, she can’t hurt you or Helaena, and she cannot hurt our niece and nephews.” Aegon reminded.

Helaena froze, causing both boys to bump into her with a grunt. She turned to them, teary-eyed. “Nyra would never let that happen. Do not make me think about it, please Aegon. I don’t want to fall again. I don’t want to fall.”

“I’m sorry sweet sister. We won’t let you fall, will we Aemond?”

“Never.”

They entered the throne room, mother, and grandfather to the right, while Lord Strong to the left with Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys. Both of them were nice, Aemond decided, especially after the Princess smuggled him out of the Keep to pet the Red Queen. Mother had not been pleased.

Father smiled at them proudly, while grandfather eyed their clothes with distaste as he always did when they wore black and red. He wished his grandfather would return to Oldtown, never to be seen or heard from again, but Aemond Targaryen was not so lucky, and he would feel guilty of robbing his mother of her father.

They stood there for a few moments, light words spoken between those gathered to welcome their returning family, but Aemond felt nothing but Helaena’s hand in his, and the heat of grandfather’s gaze.

“Presenting her Royal Highness, Rhaenyra of house Targaryen, Princess of Dragonstone and heir to the Iron Throne, her husband, Prince-Consort Laenor, of house Velaryon, Prince Daemon of house Targaryen and their children, the Princess Aemara Velaryon of house Targaryen, and the Princes Jacereys and Lucerys Velaryon of house Targaryen, and their sworn protector, the Lady Kania of Volantis.” Ser Harrold announced.

Aemond didn’t understand why the announcement made his mother inhale sharply, nor why grandfather tightened his grip upon Aemond’s shoulder. The entered as once, Laenor, Rhaenyra and uncle Daemon with three children before them. The red woman stood to the side slightly, half a step behind his sister. His sister who grinned at them. She had changed, her soft, youthful features sharpened, but her eyes were so warm. So loving. Aemond found himself smiling too.

“And Harwin of house Strong and his wife, the Lady Laena of house Velaryon and their daughters, the Lady Baela and the Lady Rhaena of house Strong and House Velaryon.”

Though they were of separate houses, it was clear in the way they clustered together they were a family. Aemond found himself itching to move toward them. But Aegon did not have the same restraint once Rhaenyra opened her arms for them. Helaena followed half a step behind him, half dragging Aemond by their still clasped hands.

“I’ve missed you all, letters do not do you justice.”

And for the first time he had left Dragonstone eight months ago, Aemond felt safe. They hugged for a moment before father laughed as he descended from the throne, waving a hand as though to dispense with the formalities.

“My daughter how you’ve changed. Dragonstone suits you.” He hugged her before he moved to his brother. “Brother.”

Aemond did not expect his uncle to hug his father, nor for him to drop his silver head to father’s shoulder. He smiled at the huff from his father as he carded his fingers through the short locks of Daemon’s hair. It was then he noticed the box held between Laenor’s arms.

“Our gifts?” Helaena questioned.

Mother voiced her outrage at his sister’s apparent disrespect, but Rhaenyra just laughed.

“Nothing can be kept secret from you, can it, little dream?” Rhaenyra asked softly. “One for each of you, though I must be honest Aemara picked them. I do hope you don’t mind brother, it is your name-day after all.”

“Seeing you is the best present I could ask for, sister.” Aemond admitted.

“I wouldn’t be too sure about that, uncle.” Aemara smiled, and Aemond felt his breath leave him.

It was the red woman who moved forward first, kneeling before Helaena who looked upon her shyly. His sister was always that way with people, save for their sweet niece, but he noticed the woman did not attempt to reach out and touch his sister. She never had in all the times they had been in each other’s company.  He saw it then, a great length of fiery orange, a hard shell a burnt red and rows of short, tiny legs.

“I found it in Lys, aunt Saera said it was rare enough to see them, because they like to nest in the hot sands of the desert. It’s a fireworm.” His niece said, beside her mother, warm smile aimed directly at Helaena.

“A fireworm?” Father questioned, eyes widening.

“Not of Old Valyria, my King. It got its name from the colouring, and how it sleeps within desert sands, but ashes work well either.” The red lady said.

“And for uncle Aegon.” His niece spoke again, looking toward uncle Daemon who pulled out a small wooden box from his pocket with a put-upon huff. “It looks like Sunfyre.”

When Aegon opened the box, he saw just how true that was. It was a broach made of solid gold, shaped as a dragon with sprawling wings. Upon the edges there was a feint glittering. Aegon held it within his hands as though it was the most precious thing he had ever received, and Rhaenyra grinned.

“Shall we put it on, valonqar?”

Aegon nodded and his sister slipped the pin through the fabric of his doublet before it snicked closed. Aegon hugged their niece tightly, whispering his thanks.

“And for you, uncle Aemond.”

 She said, nodding to Laenor, who placed the box on the floor with a sigh. It did look very heavy. Aemara nodded to him, and Aemond opened the box. Sat amongst red silk, an onyx egg dusted with silver swirls stared back at him. He could feel the life within, his blood humming with the cadence of dragonsong. None of the other eggs had ever felt anything like it. He didn’t realise he had tears in his eyes until his niece hugged him tightly.

“It was laid by Silverwing just before we left, but you feel it, don’t you? The song.” She said.

“Thank you. Thank you.” Aemond whispered, hugging her closely as tears threatened to spill. “Thank you.”

“My sweet girl.” Rhaenyra said with pride before she too hugged Aemond. He hadn’t been hugged this much since the last time he saw them. “I told you little brother, that one day you would have a dragon, and this one will hatch, but you’ll need to bond with it first. But it’s a large egg, larger than any I’ve ever seen, so I have no doubt you’ll be upon its back, riding through the clouds.”  His sister seemed teary-eyed on his behalf before she looked at father.

“Like her grandmother.” Father said, staring at Aemara who blushed. “As the years grow I see more and more of her in you.”

 Aemond knew his mother would not be happy about that comparison. She seemed to hate the dead queen who was still spoken of with warm words and soft smiles.

But Aemond didn’t care what his mother would say because he had a dragon egg cradled to his chest. One whose song hummed in his blood, that lit the fire within him. His niece, his sweet Aemara, had done this for him, an egg from her own dragon’s clutch. He felt as though it was a sign. Aemond would spend the rest of his life thanking her for the greatest gift of all.

***

Aegon 

Grandfather punished him again. Aegon couldn’t help the fact he found it difficult to read with the way the words blended and danced on the page. He wouldn’t regret loving Rhaenyra and his niece, his little nephews. Mother had looked at him with pity, but she didn’t step in, she just stood there, watching him as he stared resolutely ahead, long-since numb to the pain. He thanked the wine he’d fervently drank until his head spun and the world dulled.

Grandfather has spit at him, twisted his shoulders behind his back before he was forced to stand, muscles pulling painfully. Grandfather had cursed him for ruining their plans, that a simpleton would never be King. Aegon would rather chew his arm off that sit on the Iron Throne. No, Aegon would be content without sitting upon a throne of swords that looked far too uncomfortable. But no matter how much he told mother and grandfather that he didn’t wish for it, his punishments were worse.

“This is your duty, Aegon. You are a fool to believe that Rhaenyra or her half-breed, bastard daughter would ever be accepted by the Lords of Westeros. You idiot boy, your life is naught to her, and she will put you to the sword, along with your brother, and if Helaena is lucky she will be spared a fate worse than death.” Grandfather snarled, spittle flying down Aegon’s teary cheeks.

“Rhaenyra would never touch us, unlike you.” Aegon hissed, anger boiling over at his grandfather’s words. “Do you enjoy it? Do you mother? Watching as your child is reduced to nothing, wishing for his own death? You are everything you claim Rhaenyra to be. One day, I will be proud to call her my Queen, and if the Gods prove true, Aemara after that.”

He had expected his grandfather to hit him, even if he was restrained due to his sister’s presence in the castle. Aegon did not expect his mother to backhand him, rings cutting through his cheek with ease as she pushed him into the wall. His shoulder flared with an agonising pain, and Aegon emptied his stomach when the pop echoed in the room. His throat burned, the wine flowing like darkened blood.

“You are the challenge, Aegon. By living and breathing you are a threat to her precarious claim, you are the rightful King in the eyes of the Seven and men.” Mother shouted, tears in her eyes. "You are the challenge and I will not let you die for some foolish notion of love. Not when there is duty, and sacrifice, not when it is your right."

Aegon responded by vomiting on her dress, red staining the green as though he had cut her. She made a face, retreating from him, nose wrinkled at the scent. It made Aegon’s stomach turn again. Grandfather undid the leather bounds and Aegon bit his lip to stifle his scream.

“Get Maester Golin. Make sure nobody sees him until the feast, say he is ill.” Grandfather ordered with a final tone. “You boy, will learn your duty as all Hightower men do. You will see the septon thrice a day, be fed a penitence diet once. You will see no one else, speak to no one else, and if I see your brother or sister, or Seven forbid Rhaenyra and the bastard you are all so attached to, you will bare it for the rest of you life. Because they will die, and it will be your fault.”

Aegon waited until his grandfather vanished through the door before he sobbed. His shoulder was aflame, the pain unlike anything he had ever experienced. He staggered to his bed, avoiding the pool of vomit on his floor as his head spun. The world blurred on the edges, darkness seeping in. He didn’t notice the door opening, he did not feel the cool hand on his forehead. But he did hear his brother’s voice, so small and quiet. It cut through Aegon like a Valyrian steel dagger.

“Go before they find you here, Aemond. Please.” Aegon begged weakly.

“They shouldn’t do this to you, Aegon. Why don’t we tell anybody? Father wouldn’t allow it. Rhaenyra wouldn’t allow it.”

“Grandfather would never be caught, brother. He said he has friends, friends that would kill us all.” Aegon heaved as he pulled Aemond closer to him, lips on his cheek. “I won’t let that happen. If they focus on me, you, Helaena, Aemara, you’re safe, and that’s all I want. If this is how I do it, then so be it.”

“How can you be okay with this? What if they kill you?” Aemond cried.

“They won’t. They can’t. If I die, all of their progress dies with me. I pushed too far today, I said some things that I shouldn’t have. It was my fault.” Aegon took his hand, hissing as his shoulder moved and he swallowed down the bile. “Please. Just keep Helaena and Aemara safe. I’m staying here until the feast. Tell everybody I’m sick, just do not come.”

“Aegon.”

“Please, brother. One day the situation will be righted, but today is not that day.” He breathed through his nose for a moment, eyes closed, unable to look at his brother’s anguished face. “Please, Aemond. Promise me you will not anger them, do not be me. In a few months, we’ll be on the Royal Tour, we’ll be safe then.”

“I love you.” Aemond whispered, tears staining his face. “I love you so much.”

“I know, little brother.” Aegon admitted with a huff. “I’ll see you for your birthday feast, I promise.”

He closed his eyes and willed his brother to leave before the Maester arrived. Aegon would die if that happened, but he did not fear for his own life, but that of his brother, his sisters, his nephews, his niece. He would endure. It was his duty.

***

Laenor 

He was reclining in the chair watching over Luke and Jace as they napped, Rhaenyra drinking silently as she contemplated something. Laenor knew he wouldn’t like it, not if the gleam in her eye was anything to go by.

“I’ve secured a meeting between my father, Alicent, the Lord Hand and ourselves later today.” Rhaenyra admitted.

“Should I run for the hills? Fake my death and run off to the Free Cities and find myself a new lover?” Laenor teased, smirk pulling on his lips.

“I want to propose marriage between Aegon and Aemara.”

Laenor froze and looped upon his wife with unhidden disbelief. All of the times it had been mentioned there had always been a jesting undertone, a maddening smirk to entice Daemon into glowering so they could kiss him. This, however, was serious.

“You know Alicent will never agree, Nyra. Why offer it now?”

“I know she will reject it.” Rhaenyra sighed. “But she has no reason to apart from her own distaste of our daughter, and even if father agreed, he gave her his word: She would decide upon their spouses.”

“So why bother?” Laenor questioned, a confused tilt to his head.

“If she denies Aemara, it will be because of their blood ties, which means she cannot marry Aegon and Helaena, which she would do out of spite simply to further Aegon’s claim.” Rhaenyra reminded as she rubbed her temples. “She still may do it, but anybody could see they’d be miserable together.”

“And you think she cares for her children’s happiness.” Laenor sighed deeply, frustration lacing his tone. “Nyra, she is not the same girl you grew up, who you loved. I’ve said before, she has turned against you, now she aims for our children,.She is the architect of the rumours that plague our family.”

“I know, Laenor.” Rhaenyra snapped, draining the last of her wine. “I know. I fear I never knew Alicent Hightower, and that makes her unpredictable. But Otto Hightower is here, he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to leave, and that is more dangerous than Alicent and her hatred of me. He will stop at nothing to get his blood on the throne so he may be the puppet master, and the only way to do that is to ensure our family, our children, are dead.”

Laenor understood her fear all too well. He too had them, but he was not as attached to Alicent Hightower as Rhaenyra was. He had no childhood memories that had become sullied by her perceived duty, nor the will of her over-reaching, ambitious father. No, Laenor held no love for the Green Queen, not when she had protected, rewarded, dear Joffrey’s callous, uncaring murderer. Not when she questioned his children, his wife, his own blood. Even if all of the children Rhaenyra had borne has been bastards, Laenor would fight for them, kill for them, die for them if need be. Such was the duty of a father.

“And in a few years when Helaena reaches maturity, and Alicent deicides to marry her and Aegon, what do we do? Laugh at her for being a sanctimonious, conniving, lying bitch?”

“Yes. A royal marriage requires two things, Laenor: The King’s approval, and the Hand’s. Lyonel is not going anywhere, Otto isn’t stupid enough to kill him only to reclaim his spot, and Alicent has no stomach for getting her hands dirty.” She poured two goblets of wine filled to the brim. “Now drink, we shall need it for her screeching.”

The drank in silence, soothing the occasional grumble from the still napping Jace while Luke just looked up through a head of thick, curly hair and grinned. His boys were big, a few months shy of their fourth name day, something which meant their time on Dragonstone would be at an end.

“Do you think Aegon would want to marry Aemara?” Rhaenyra asked suddenly. “Have you seen him in the past few days?”

“Aemond said he was ill, apparently Aegon discovered the joys of wine.” Laenor answered. “And mark my words, dear wife, if those children want it, they will find a way.”

“They are rather terrifying, are they not? Even the twins and.” She seemed to cluck her tongue before she shrugged. “the twins, do not have the same bond. And they’ve grown together.”

“She’s your daughter, raised by us, Daemon, spoiled by the King and the Sea Snake, and she has her uncles and aunt wrapped around her little finger.” Laenor huffed. “I heard her plotting you know.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra settled Luke on her lap, falling back asleep as she kissed his head.

“Helaena and her were in the gardens, there was a slight wind and Aemond wrapped her in his cloak. Helaena called one of the serving girls to bring them tea before they settled under the Weirwood.” He saw the way her jaw tightened. “They asked her what she wanted for her name day.”

“That’s not a plot, Laenor. That’s a normal conversation.” His wife huffed.

“She has sent the King and my father, on a quest to obtain Valyrian Steel, sweet wife. Apparently the King offered her Blackfyre when she was old enough to lift it. But she wanted something pretty, like the necklace Daemon gave you so ‘she could have a little piece of Valyria with her.'”

“She knows how difficult it is to find yes? I don’t want her to be disappointed.” Rhaenyra admitted. “I hope he doesn’t melt Blackfyre.”

“Father has commissioned all the Valyrian scraps he has acquired to be melted down. It’s enough for a hair-clip, I believe. Though he refuses to tell me how much it costs.”

Rhaenyra’s stare was incredulous before she laughed, startling Luke who hugged with such cute chubby cheeks. His sweet boys.

“Gods have mercy on the Realm because my father will be furious. He wanted to get her a pony from the Reach, but I reminded him she has two dragons. Watch her be presented with the crown jewels from the vault.” She chuckled again. “I think they forget she is a child.”

“Wait, the vault is real? The one that houses treasures of Valyria, tomes, scrolls and everything else you could imagine?” Laenor questioned.

“There are two, one in the Keep, and one lost to the caves on Dragonstone. Apparently Aegon gifted Rhaenys her diadem from it, but none have been able to find it since.”

Laenor rubbed his eyes, staving off the headache he was sure would build. Why were the Targaryens so mysterious? So chaotic?

***

Rhaenyra

Perhaps she should not have conducted the meeting after a few hours of drinking with Laenor, and then Daemon when he returned. He had also not liked her idea, simply because he believed their daughter deserved somebody better. But Rhaenyra knew, as she suspected most Targaryen mothers did, as her own mother had, that Targaryen blood sang. And somehow, in some strange gift, or curse, from the Fourteen Flames, her daughter’s blood sang for Aegon, Aemond and Helaena. But only time would tell the true nature.

She wasn’t nervous as she entered the Council chamber, her father seated in the middle, Alicent to his right and Lyonel to his left. She, Laenor and Daemon (who had not been invited but couldn’t miss an opportunity for chaos and had followed them.) sat.

“I was unaware Prince Daemon’s presence had been desired, step-daughter.”

Fury burned at the title, at the mockery it made of her sweet mother’s memory. It had only been uttered a few times, usually when Alicent was trying to remind the people of the power she held, like the wedding. Rhaenyra did not respond with anything other than a clearly fake, saccharine smile.

“Tis a family matter, you see.” Rhaenyra reminded. “The Princess Rhaenys would be here, but she is busy entertaining our children, they do miss Aegon’s presence. I hope he is well recovered for the feast tomorrow. We plan to bring them on dragonback in the morning.”

“Yes. Aegon should be suitably recovered.” Father admitted. “He has found the joy in wine, but youth has not taught him to watch his cups. Poor boy fell from the stairs, his shoulder...”

“Is it very painful? I took a lance to the shoulder once.” Laenor admitted, and Rhaenyra wanted to flick him. He’d said the same thing after each birth. “Twas dreadful.”

She felt a pang of sympathy for her younger brother. She had remembered the first time she had gotten drunk, she was slightly older than Aegon and was sick for days. Though there was something in Alicent’s face that set her on edge. She hadn’t liked when Rhaenyra did it either.

“You remember mine own experience? The headache alone is enough penitence.” Rhaenyra chuckled. “But it is he we wish to discuss, in fact.”

“How so, my daughter?” Viserys questioned, shoulders straightening.

“Has the boy done something? He often forgets his duty, Princess, there was no need to involve others. Nor a reason to seek punishment.” Alicent asked, tone growing more and more hysterical as she continued.

Punish him, Rhaneyra thought bitterly, does she truly think I wish to harm him? Have I not proven time and time again that I want nothing of the sort? She clucked her tongue before she turned to her father.

“In fact, Your Grace.” She saw Alicent freeze at the dismissal. “I wish to propose a union between Aegon and Aemara. We have all noticed how they are connected, all of them, including Helaena and Aemond, and you said so yourself, she would find no better protector, no better support when she comes to the throne.”

Silence reigned as she felt Daemon’s hand on her skirts while Laenor gripped her hand upon the table. Her father seemed pensive, but he was looking at Alicent, whose pretty features were twisted. Lyonel stared resolutely at the table, unwilling to be the one to light the Queen’s ire. Daemon had no such issues.

“It’s a fine idea brother. It’s clear to see how he adores her, and he’s of Old Valyria, and of a similar age, and as such it is much better than the suggested match once made for the boy.”

Rhaenyra wanted to roll her eyes at him for the last jab. She watched her father’s bitter smile, no doubt remembering that disastrous day. Alicent's face twisted into a scowl, something dark and hateful dancing in her eyes. Where had her sweet Ali gone?

“They are kin.” Alicent stared at Viserys. “Please, my love. My son, my sweet boy, he cannot. The rumours will destroy him, follow him.”

There was a hysterical note to Alicent’s voice that did something to Rhaenyra. It made her angry, furious even, that her daughter would be questioned in such a way. She knew that Alicent was responsible for the never-ending rumors, of the snide looks and the septas who scowled at the children as they walked through the halls. But to mention it so openly? Before the King no less, Alicent truly was a fool.

“You dare.” Laenor snapped with the might of his beloved Seasmoke. “You dare repeat those vile, treasonous accusations about my wife in mine own presence? Were you not the Queen I would cut you down where you stand for your slanderous words. Aemara is my daughter, the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, the Dragon-Flame.”

“I. I did not mean it that way Ser Laenor, I swear it. Only what the Lords would think, and the Faith, I had Aegon, Helaena and Aemond anointed by the birth oils, by the High Stepton himself.” Alicent stuttered, nails digging into her skin. "To do so would go against the light and love of the seven."

Rhaenyra didn’t even think of reaching forward to offer comfort. Her father’s face was thunderous as he stared at his wife, the wrinkles by his eyes more pronounced as the conversation continued.

“If I hear those words repeated from your mouth, Alicent, you will be sent back to Oldtown. I have made it known that any who delight in tarnishing my heir’s reputation are to have their tongue cut out.”

“I apologise, Princess, Ser Laenor. I did not mean what I said, I’m afraid the day has taken my senses. The thoughts of my first-born to be married.” She shook her hands. “I apologise.”

“Tis an auspicious thing to have a son as the future Prince-Consort.” Daemon said lightly, amusement lighting his tone.

“Might I speak to my husband for a moment?” Alicent requested.

“We shall await your summons.” Rhaenyra stated coldly as she exited.

She wanted to yell, to scream, to curse the Alicent Hightower she once knew, but she too had been disgusted by Targaryen inter-marriage. They would never understand.

“Pardon me, Princess.” Lyonel said, watching her approvingly. “You knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Of course not.” Rhaenyra remarked bitterly. “Even when we were younger she hated the very idea. When we go back in there, she will deny it. But she will learn my Lord Hand, that a dragon takes what it wants. And her children are dragons.”

***

Aemara 

She was excited. Not only for Aemond and his name day, not for Aegon who appeared, stiff and sore, but smiled when she hugged him, but because it was time. Her mother wouldn’t agree to it if Aemara told her, neither would papa or kepa, so she decided to tell them.

She, Helaena, Aegon and Aemond were in the same carriage as they headed to the pit, and the closer she came, she could sense her sweet Silver’s own excitement. Aemara, who was cuddled into Aegon’s shoulder as Aemond played with her hair, decided to tell them. It was Aemond’s name day, if he didn’t want her to do it, she wouldn’t. Grandfather Viserys was seated beside Helaena, his gaze tinged with something sad as he watched them all. One day she would convince him to ride Vermithor, to claim the dragon that trilled with loneliness and ached for a bond. Today was not that day.

“Aemond.” She said softly, turning to him. “You’re riding with mother today, aren’t you?”

He hummed, fingers scratching along her scalp and Aemara sighed as a tingle ran down her spine. It was always like that whenever anybody played with her hair, but with them, it felt the best.

“Your grandmother has agreed to take Helaena, as she does not feel comfortable riding Dreamfyre yet.” Grandfather said when it because apparent Aemond wasn’t. “You will be with your father and Aegon will be on Sunfyre, not tricks, your shoulder is still healing. The Lady Kania said she would watch the younger ones on the ground with Ser Erryk and Ser Harwin.”

“And you father, where will you be?” Helaena asked, although by the tone in her voice, Aemara knew Helaena didn’t need an answer.

“Daemon has convinced me to mount Caraxes.” He admitted. “I fear the beast will eat me.”

She knew he was joking, but Aemara frowned all the same. Caraxes had been one of the saddest dragons when she had met him, trilling softly with his whistle-like noise. She knew the other dragons, save Syrax, had not liked him. Had found him guilty of their most egregious crime: Not protecting their rider. But none had hated Caraxes more than Caraxes himself. But now he was happy, his whistle higher, no longer ignored by his kin. He and Syrax had even brought forth the clutch that lay with her brothers.

“He wouldn’t do that grandfather. He knows kepa loves you, and a dragon won’t hurt what’s theirs, or their riders.” She informed him, watching his awe-struck expression. “I wanted to ask Aemond if it was okay to ride Silverwing today.”

“Have you asked you mother and father?” Viserys wondered.

“No. Just Aemond because it’s his name day. If they knew, they’d try to stop me. I think muna just wants to stay as the youngest dragon-rider.”

Her grandfather laughed, but Aemara found herself watching Aemond. She could feel Helaena grinning across from her, and even Aegon twisted to kiss her hair in silent support. She was ready, she knew she was. From both Silverwing and Wildfyre. From the two parts of her soul that belonged to them, for the parts that belonged to the other dragons.

“Whatever you want in this world, is yours, sweet Princess.” Aemond declared. “It would be an honour.”

“Thank you.” She flopped her head into his shoulder, ignoring Aegon's whine. “Are you gonna tell my parents?”

“Will it make me your favourite grandsire?” Viserys asked with a chuckle. Aemara nodded eagerly. “You’re sure?”

“They won’t let anything happen to me. Any of them. Even Vhagar and she’s old.”

“Don’t tell your mother that I had any knowledge of this plot.”

Aemara giggled into Ameond’s shoulder before the carriage came to halt. The scent of dragon-spice hung thickly in the air as they stepped out, and she took off with her aunt and uncles. The dragons were already saddled as they sat amongst the open pit, her sweet Silver nestled by her love’s bronze wing, Wildfyre watching her with green eyes. He gave a low purr of irritation as his razor-like tail snapped along the ground.

“Saddle Silverwing, Drehos. At once. I shall fly today.” Aemara commanded, Valyrian flowing easily.

“As the Dragon-Flame wishes.”

She had long ago learned that dragon keepers were strange, just like she was. They could not ride the dragons they guarded, nor could they truly understand them as a rider did, but they had their own history. Their own stories. Never once did they refer to her as Princess. To them, she was simply ‘Dragon-Flame.’

“Come, say hi to my sweet boy. Don’t say his other name, or I might just bite you.” Aemara threatened, pulling Aemond towards Wildfyre. ‘He has bonded to the egg Silver laid. It’s his name day, a celebration of his life. May he pet you, sweet boy?”

Wildfyre looked at her for a moment before he opened his jaws, showing off rows of sharp, dagger like teeth. She felt his own amusement dance in their bond, delighting in the way Aemond didn’t even flinch. Her great beast huffed before something unknown burned in her blood. Something delightfully hot that warned off the insidious chill.

“Go on. By the tusks.” She instructed, only for Wildfyre to purr as she petted the protruding, ivory coloured curls. The noise, and movement, caused Vermithor to hiss, grumpy old man that he was. “None of that, sweet Prince. One day, both you and grandfather will be ready, and on that day, we will dance. Take to the skies with us today. With our sweet Silver.”

There was a huff from the Bronze Fury, but his eyes snapped open all the same. The idea of a flight enticed him, she knew, he had not been to the skies in months, since he and Silverwing had danced above Dragonstone.

“What do you say to them?” Aemond asked, still petting Wildfyre, a bitter expression on his face.

“Many things. Dragons are not what people think, they understand everything, they have their own rules, their own reasons. They are not ours to control, to command, to enslave.” Aemara admitted. “We cannot survive without each other. A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing, uncle.”

“You’ll never be alone, I promise. Us, me, you, Helaena, and Aegon I suppose, forever.” He looked at the dragons again. “One day.”

“You will have your dragon, Aemond. I know this, and I’ve never been wrong about them.” She could not explain to him what she knew, even if she didn’t understand it. “And one day, the four of us will take to the skies and we will fly, black and sliver, just like Starfyre.”

Aemond hugged her tightly, the contented purrs of the dragons drowning out Helaena’s nearby warning. “He’ll have to close an eye.” Aegon just regarded his weird sister with a questioning look, unaware of his brother and niece’s conversation.

“Aemara Targaryen.” Papa Laenor screeched.

“He knows. Grandfather's powerless in the face of muna.” She muttered, face heating. “See if he’s gonna be my favourite when this is over.”

Aemond laughed, full and heavy, resting his head on her shoulder. She huffed at him, turning to face Laenor, and glare at the King.

“I didn’t tell him. He knew.” The King defended.

“You knew?” Muna questioned, voice cold. Aemara smiled. “Did you at least ask Aemond? It’s his name day.”

“Of course I did, muna. I have manners.”

“And?” Muna pressed, looking at Aemond as Kepa came behind her.

“It would be honour, sister. I’ll have many more name days, but Aemara will only have one first time upon Silverwing.” Aemond admitted, blushing.

“Then you should ride with her, nephew.” Kepa announced.

“Daemon.” Was hissed by several different voices.

“It’s Silverwing, and the shifty looking one.” He pointed at Wildfyre and Aemara huffed. “Won’t let anything happen to them. They’ll be fine.”

“And Vermithor. He’s coming too.” Aemara announced.

Rhaenyra and Laenor shared a look, but Aemara knew she had already won when both she and Aemond looked at them with wide, pleading eyes.

“And this way Luke and Jace can come.” Aegon added, grinning at his brother and niece. “All of us, together. As Targaryens are meant to be, in the skies.”

“Fine.” Muna declared. “But do not do anything other than fly in a straight line. And stay away from the water.”

As one, Aemara and Aemond hugged her. Rhaenyra smiled down at them, kissing the tops of their heads.

Her parents made sure they were both secured before they mounted their own dragons. Aemara felt Silverwing’s joy, but it could not compare to her own, or Aemond’s. With a command, her sweet Silver took off, Wildfyre and Vermithor following. Wind rushed in their faces as leathery, mercury-coloured wings flapped.

Silverwing roared happily, gliding through the sky with her rider for the first time since her Good Queen had died. Her mate sailed below them, Wildfire behind them, but they shone in the morning light. As did her kin, sunlight glowing on Sunfyre’s golden scales, Caraxes’ cheerful whistle at having his rider and his brother atop his back. They were safe, they were one.

“Thank you.” Aemond whispered, but it wasn’t lost to the wind.

“Whatever you want, you shall have it.” Aemara promised, interlocking their fingers over her stomach as the wind rushed through their hair

Chapter Text

Laenor

They had settled upon Dragonstone with relative ease, or as much ease as a contingent that consisted of Daemon, Rhaenyra and Laenor, their three children who were growing quickly, Harwin and Laena, and their twin daughters, Baela and Rhaena, and a hoard of dragons, a red priestess, a gaggle of ladies from noble houses and three members of the Kingsguard, could. Plus, sometimes his mother would appear atop Meleys, or father would dock in the harbour bearing gifts. Not to mention the past visits of the royal family.

However, there was a freedom to the island that the family found, no matter how strange they were, one that could not be found in the poisonous den of the Red Keep. He liked it, the ability to walk across obsidian sand beaches, teaching the children how to swim and exploring the tunnels beneath the castle. He also liked how happy Rhaenyra and Daemon were, how they slowly fell to the song in their blood, not wanting to rush anything because they would never be separated by anything but death.

He was proud of his wife, who took to ruling the island and its people as a dragon took to the skies. She had implemented changes and after a few short weeks had decree that the ageing maester Gerardys, who had once been an attendant of the Good Queen, could be trusted. Daemon hadn’t been too sure, but Rhaenyra had held firm, pointing out the Valyrian steel link in his chains, the way he did not look upon Kania as though she was plague sent to destroy them all, and how he worked with then, how he melded the teaching of the Citadel and worldly experience. He helped the children, teaching Aemara her letters, not only for the Common Tongue, but also High Valyrian, while Jace and Luke learned their colours. He doted upon them, his words soft and calm, and he had not looked upon Laenor in a strange way when he admitted his own difficulties.

The ladies as well, though Laenor had been skeptical at the beginning, had taken to the harshness of the island with relative ease. He would often find the Lady Stark sat around the children whispering stories of her homeland, dragons made of ice and giants that once roamed below the Wall. Rhaenyra’s cousin, Roaslie Tyrell, had not wilted like a beautiful rose bereft of sunlight, and had become Kania’s closest companion apart from the Bryna Stark. The others had been wary about her, save the Lady Stark who thought it critical for her to judge somebody’s God when she herself did not keep the Seven.

He and Rhaenyra often walked around the harbour, the town built upon the bay full of five-thousand residents, most of whom were of Old Valyria. Dragonseeds, they had been called, yet they did not possess the necessary magics to bond, like the Celtigars and Laenor’s own father. Not all Valyrian blood was worth the same, he had learned. While it existed within old magic, their blood held the same power as a King’s, but not a dragon-rider or an old Winter King. The people had rejoiced upon seeing their future Queen walk amongst them, had blessed their silver beacon of hope and their beautiful boys. They had not hesitated with the changes Rhaenyra made, nor they did they question why Dragonstone was undergoing such a massive re-birth.

Healers were brought for the people, not from the Citadel, or the Faith, but from Essos, woodwitches from the West and the North. Crones gathered children beneath new roofs and by open fires, spinning tales and lessons as days and nights passed. The farms changed, owners paid handsomely for adapting their operations after hundreds of years, and glass houses were erected. Unlike the ones in the North, these were a vestige of Old Valyria, created from dragon-fire and dragon-glass. It had been Aemara who said it, an eerie tone of wistfulness in her voice at the tender age of four, just a few months after they arrived on the island. They now stood proudly; black beacons swirled with the coloured flame of their draconic creators.

Aemara was seven now, his daughter growing quickly, found often on Silverwing’s back, just as his five-year-old sons and four-year-old nieces grew with their own dragons, save Rhaena, whose egg had not yet hatched but still sang brightly. It was the beginning of something great, Laenor knew, brought forth by his wife and his daughter, who despite being fire-touched, was a sweet, vicious little thing so full of love for those she called kin. It was remarkable.

***

He had just finished training for the day, muscles hot and heavy as nodded to his opponent, Ser Erryk, who returned the gesture. They were in the circular pit before the great gates of Dragonstone when a shriek cut through the air. A dragon roared, and Caraxes appeared before the battlements, his rider flush-faced, short hair windswept and askew as he sat atop his beast. A second later, Syrax appeared, Rhaenyra’s laughter echoing through the air. Laenor shook his head, delighting in their infectious joy as Aemara, Jace and Luke came into sight, a huffing Kania behind them.

“Bathe before dinner.” Laenor shouted.

“Only is you join us.” Rhaenyra responded.

Kania, the treacherous little witch that she was, cackled beside him. He threw a rude gesture at the pair before they took off, no doubt to land their beloved dragons amongst the over-grown nest in the caves.

“I shall take the children for a few hours, my friend. Do you require oils?” Kenia teased with a grin.

“Dreadful, wicked woman.” Laenor huffed. He looked to Ser Erryk uncertainly, but the white-cloak just hummed.

“I’m here to protect the Princess and her family, Ser Laenor. What else occurs within these halls is no concern to me or my brothers. You have my word as a sworn-sword of the Crown, and a knight of the Kingsguard.”

Before Laenor could even contemplate a response, the knight had disappeared, whistling an old tune. He did catch Kania’s smile though, and he truly hated that nothing seemed to bother the woman.

“You could do worse, I suppose. It’s the hair, isn’t it?”

“You know those things do not interest me.” Kenia huffed. “We have spoken many times, and we are one in the same. Our duty to our future queen guides us. All of them, save one, will follow you.”

“Hell would freeze and the Wall fall before Criston Cole would serve Rhaenyra.” Laenor reminded.  “I wish I could kill him.”

“You may get your chance.” Kania hummed. “Go. Be happy Laenor. You deserve it.”

***

Daemon 

He groaned as he sunk into the scalding pool, water sluicing down his toned chest, the scent of sandalwood and smoke curled in the steam as he rolled his shoulders. The stone soaked in the heat and Daemon rolled his neck against the edge. It was deep enough, set in the ground so that you had to step down into it, though there were carved seats of insidious black rock that one could rest upon. Its architecture had been lost to the Doom, and Daemon doubted it would ever be remembered, for the piped water was heated by the volcano beneath the ground in a display of magic and masonry.

He closed his eyes, fingers rubbing along his pinkened skin as the water was displaced as another body joined him. He felt smaller hands trail along his face, down the ropey, corded muscle of his neck and down the length of his belly. Rhaenyra did not touch him properly though, deft fingers avoiding his slowly filling cock.

“Tease.” He murmured as she sat astride him.

“You have been looking too pleased with yourself, uncle. You had me twice this morning, and I was sure you’d have fucked me on dragonback if given the chance.”

“Hmm. Such beautiful ideas you have, my love. I cannot help myself, not when you were laid out so beautifully amongst our bed, grinding your pretty little cunt into my thigh.”

Rhaenyra cursed before she kissed him, teeth and tongue clashing as his hand cupped her breast, the other on her hip, keeping her flush with his lap. She tasted so sweet, lips against his before she broke away panting.

“Are you so intent on seeing me swollen with child?” She asked.

“I missed both, my love, and many a night I spent alone, with only the images of you begging above me, as I feasted on your glorious cunt. One day I will make that dream a reality, and you will scream my name, pretty tears of frustration upon pink cheeks, while Laenor sucks my cock like the good boy he is instead of just watching from the shadows.” Daemon stated, opening his eyes to meet Laenor’s heated gaze across the room.

“Your mouth is sinful, Daemon.” He whined, divesting himself with quick movements. “But beautiful.”

“Join us, husband, so I can watch as you take your pleasure.” Rhaenyra breathed, sliding from Daemon’s lap. “I have not gotten to enjoy the sight in some time.”

“It’s been two days, wife.” Laenor snorted, sinking into the water with a hiss.

He pressed a kiss into her hair. While they would never again have the misfortune of coupling, he loved her. He loved her in a way he could not describe, for he doubted a love like theirs existed to the rest of the world. He eyed Daemon, who had a hand wrapped around his own cock, thumbing along his head. He grinned wickedly.

“Our Queen demands a show, sweet sea dragon. Shall we give her one?” Daemon asked with a quirked eyebrow.

Laenor did not answer, choosing instead to cup Daemon’s sharp jaw before he drew him into a filthy kiss. To their side, Rhaenyra inhaled sharply at the sight, Daemon’s hand on Laenor’s neck. When they broke apart, Daemon’s pale thumb rubbed along Laenor’s kiss-bitten lips.

“Beautiful.” Daemon murmured. “My sweet boy.”

Laenor moaned as his cock was grasped in a calloused hand, his head bent against Daemon’s shoulder as Rhaenyra kissed him. Daemon himself felt euphoric, hand on cock and cunt alike, both of his sweets trying to find their pleasure.

“Ah.” Rhaenyra groaned. “I was promised a show, dear uncle. Take your pleasure and I shall find mine.” Laenor cursed and Daemon smirked. “If Laenor deserves it, that is.”

“Wicked, divine temptations the both of you.” Laenor panted. “How did I get so lucky?”

How indeed?

***

Criston 

Criston Cole was a proud man. He could not deny it. The day Princess Rhaenyra had bestowed a white cloak upon his shoulders had, as far as he remembered, been the best day of his life. But then he realised that had been the beginning of his corruption. He had guarded the Princess, as his vows demanded, growing close, the two sharing a quiet kinship. Then her psychotic uncle had arrived, and in his wake, he left a wanton whore. He had defiled her, ruined her. And in turn she had ruined Criston. They had lain together, the first and only time, and he knew he loved her. He had loved her before that. She was everything he could ever want, kind, sweet, intelligent. He had guarded her upon her tour to find suitors, and he had foolishly hoped she would see him, would want him. They did not dare to lay together during those times, for they were surrounded.

Then, in a moment of passion aboard their ship before they retuned to the capitol, he had told her of his desires. Of the both of them making their own way in the world, finding their pleasure and love in one another instead of duty. But she had rebuked him. And then Criston saw the Princess for what she was: A spoiled, wanton cunt. He had continued to guard her, even after she sullied him, destroyed the purity of his white cloak that he had been so proud of.

Then he beat a man to death at her wedding, her wedding to a sword-swallowing, pillow-biting cousin. He had been ready to his own life that night, to atone for his sins. But the Queen, a beacon in the green of the Seven, his hope and salvation, saved him. She did not think him less than for falling beneath the whore’s spell, instead she showed him the path to securing his soul. She had guided him through the teachings of the Seven, and had given his life a renewed purpose.

Sometime after he became her sworn shield, the Queen had admitted she feared for the lives of her children, especially after the whore Princess had birthed three bastard children that looked nothing like their supposed father. He had vowed to his Queen that he would see no harm come to her children, that he would train the boys to be the best swords the realm had seen so they would be protected when she came to collect their heads. The Queen had looked upon him with adoration, had cupped his cheek and professed her undying gratitude.

And Criston kept his promise. Whenever he could, he would prevent the children from being left alone with the spoiled cunt and her bastard, beastly children, her sinful husband and that godless witch from the East. Even now, he was protecting the future King, Aegon Second of his Name, from the spiteful, vicious, murderous Princess and her deranged uncle.

He did not blame the children from thinking that Rhaenyra cared for them, that her bastards cared for them. It was what she did. She would sooner see their heads atop the battlements than allow them to live, for she believed herself to be the rightful ruler. As if a woman could sit upon the Iron Throne. But he had learned, and was confused as to why, the two Princes did not listen to his words, and they had defended their half-sister, the same one that would see them dead.

Even sword training the future King was a hard-fought battle, for he did not seem truly interested in it. Four years of lessons, and the boy was mediocre, but the youngest, Aemond, at eight, showed a true skill. Criston was a harsh teacher, knowing that those boys and himself were all that stood between his Queen and Daemon Targayen’s blade, between her and those beasts. He worked them to the bone, left them bloodied and bruised, aching for days, and the Queen and her father had thanked him for protecting them.

His own brothers did not see why he worked the young Princes so hard, did not understand why he had been given the duty. He had noticed the Lord Commander watching him sometimes, a dark look akin to regret in his eyes. The King had inquired once, why his children were black and blue, why Aegon had a broken nose and Aemond coughed up blood. He had blamed it upon an accident, and then he knew he had to tread carefully, because the King was angry, refusing to accept harm as a motivation for teaching, and even if the Queen and her father saw no issue, the Lord Commander was watching.

He had not been allowed to train the boys for some time after that, with Ser Arryk taking over the post. His sworn-brother was soft, unwilling to push them, to cultivate a King and his sword. The Queen had suffered for it, her children growing unruly, especially the eldest who seemed to drink whenever he could. Criston had punished him the first time the Prince had shown up to their probate sessions, hidden behind thick doors and stone walls, drunk. The younger one had pulled his sword, ready to defend his brother, but he was no match for Criston. The Queen had thanked him again.

You will be the reason my children survive, Ser Criston. No matter what must be done to achieve it, they must survive and Aegon must be King.

 He was alone within the White Tower, no friends to be found amongst the near empty brotherhood, for three had been sent with the Whore of Dragonstone when she departed four years ago. She did not deserve a single one of them. 

But Criston’s loyalty was not to the Princess, or even to the King. No, he owed his life to the Good Queen Alicent Hightower, and he would gladly sacrifice it if it pleased her.

***

Helaena 

She missed her sister and her family. As the years grew, Aegon turned wild and unruly in the face of mother and grandfather. She knew why he did it, and she knew the path he would fall into, so like the one from the time that would never come, yet oh so different. She did not find solace unless she was sat beside her father’s model of Old Valyria as he told her of myths and legends, fire and blood. Helaena knew they were not just their house words, but rather a decree, a warning, their very essence.

Even seeing her sister periodically did not quell the loss in Helaena that only Dreamfyre could soothe. It was worse when Rhaenyra came to the Red Keep, for grandfather was always watching. Mother was always watching. But there was peace upon Dragonstone, peace by her sister’s side, peace by her niece and nephews.

Her niece, the beautiful Aemara, fire-touched, a true goddess of old Valyria, was her salvation. It was her niece who stopped the increasing dreams of Helaena falling, dreams that had plagued her as a child, the sensation of sharp spikes piercing her skin and the heat of her blood as an agonising death took her. The sensation of blood on her hands, of childish shrieks and mournful cries. But they had died when Aemara was born.

Helaena knew it would be a few weeks at least until her sister retuned home, and she looked forward to it. She hoped that with Rhaenyra and the others in her family so close, grandfather would not hurt them. Mother didn’t hurt her as she did her brothers, instead choosing to just look upon her daughter as though where was something wrong with her. But Helaena was not ill or mad, she was both blessed and cursed, flame-touched in a way so different than her niece. Her mother didn’t understand that. Nor would she ever.

Only a Valyrian could understand another Valyrian, and the Targaryens, as the last dragon riders, could only understand each other. Nobody else would understand their blood singing in the presence of their flock, they would not understand the near obsession to protect one another.

That obsession was what drove Aegon to do what he did, Helaena knew. A drive to protect his younger siblings even if he would never admit to caring for them. For this time, he truly did care. But it would not be enough. Aegon would have his trials, just as she and Aemond would. She mourned for the sibling that would never be born, and the nephew, the sons and daughter, but she rejoiced in knowing that death would not collect her entire family. That she would not fall.

Helaena Targaryen would never fall because Valyria itself would be there to catch her.

She had heard grandfather mention a proposal between Aegon and Aemara, but mother had screeched, saying that none of her children would ever marry a whore’s bastard. Hearing her sister and niece spoken like that made Helaena angry, tears had burned in her eyes as she sat outside her mother’s room. But a part of her was thankful. She did not want Aemara to marry Aegon, or Aemond for that matter. Her niece was hers. She was Helaena’s in a way nobody ever had been, in a way nobody ever would be. She had known it the first time she held Aemara, the way her blood burned, the way her bond with Dreamfyre tingled, the way she heard a melodic hum in the air. Both of them were fire-touched, flame-kissed, one of the future, and one of the past.

A balance for the wars to come.

***

Viserys 

The King sat amongst his Small Council as they ran through a plethora of issues. He paid them half a mind, focused on ways to ensure his daughter and grandchildren would stay within the Red Keep following the Royal Tour. Alicent had cried upon the news that she would be separated from the children for over a year, then she had raged, wishing for their children to be fostered with her family in Oldtown, he had bridged the gap by inviting her father to court to see his grandchildren raised. That had soothed some of her ire, but not all of it.

He understood the unease of being separated from his children, for he had missed Rhaenyra more than he could have ever described when she moved to Dragonstone. But she had taken to her duties well, and the volcanic island was thriving, the small folk were being educated in learning centres, and healers from Essos had opened halls to treat those who had no access to Maesters. The crop output of the island was the highest it had ever been, despite the livestock needed to keep several grown dragons, and three hatchlings fed. In four years the island had transformed beneath her governance and he was filled with pride.

She had even managed to convince aunt Saera to return to Westeros, though Viserys wasn’t sure if that should please him. His aunt was wild, or she had been, her three bastard sons had been present at the Great Council in an attempt to claim the throne. Saera herself had not pressed her own claim, saying her life was in Lys, in Essos. What had changed?

His daughter would be glorious once she sat upon the throne many years into the future, he did not fear this. His darling girl was Alysanne and Rhaenys reborn with her ability to mediate, with her plans to improve the lives of the small folk, allowing them better jobs which would increase the taxes reaped by the crown.

“The final preparations are being made for the Royal departure at moon’s turn, my King. The Stormlands, the Reach, the Westerlands, the Riverlands and the Vale look forward to hosting the royal procession. House Stark will host the royal company in Winterfell, where they will invite their own bannermen. They’ve had issues again with Ironborn reevers and the Free north of the Wall.” Lyonel commented.

“The Ironborn grow more daring.” Viserys mused. “We must watch them carefully, send an envoy to ensure they cease their reeving and raping.”

“My King?”

“There must not be dissent among my Kingdoms, especially when my family travel through the country. The dragons will be enough, after all, ships burn and the Ironborn would do well to remember that before they find themselves without their fleet.”

The meeting adjourned soon after and Viserys found himself wandering the halls of the Keep. His children were in lessons, or they should have been, so he was surprised to find Helaena sitting upon one of the benches.

“And where have you escaped from, Helaena?” Viserys questioned, taking a seat beside his youngest daughter.

“Dragons in the distance, rats and vipers make mixtures.” Okay, not what he was expecting but Helaena had always been a little strange, a seer cursed to riddles and confusion. “Beware the moss, father.”

“Of course, sweet girl.” Viserys placated, after all, what more could he do? “Are you excited to see your sister and the Kingdoms?”

“Oh very much so.” She nodded eagerly. “I don’t feel like falling anymore, the dragons catch me.”

“We are so few in this world, it is our duty to look after one another, to ensure Valyria is not lost to the sands of time. Now, why don’t we get some cake before your sister arrives?”

“Peach?” Helaena asked, perking up.

“If that is what you wish for, dear girl, then that is what you shall have.”

***

Daemon 

 Three days upon the rolling seas and he was ready to stand upon solid ground again, though he was not looking forward to the stench of the city. He walked the length of the ship once again, looking to the skies, spotting his beloved Caraxes with ease as he weaved between Syrax and Seasmoke. Further down, he could see Laena and Harwin, each with a child in their arms, the beautiful Baela and Rhaena, as they pointed to the city looming in the distance.

His daughter was sitting by one of the fire-pits, eyes focused on the flames as she hummed. Perhaps he should be concerned with his child’s obsession with fire (she had thankfully grown out of the biting) but how could he? She was a dragon, fire made flesh, a dragon in human skin. Aemara knew them, in a way that even a rider did not, it was a primal sort of sorcery, Daemon knew. She had known when Luke and Jace’s eggs would hatch, had even pointed to the eggs that had been placed in the girls’ cribs, one a pale green colour, the other a pretty lavender.

 Though Moondancer had hatched recently, she was not old enough to fly properly, the little green dragon attached to Vhagar in a strange basket carrier. Vermax and Arrax were also attached, one to Syrax, the other to Seasmoke, for Caraxes was terrified of the hatchlings. He believed his noodle-like neck would terrify the little dragons, and that his whistle-roar would be uncomfortable. Daemon had just petted his beautiful, malformed mount and kissed his snout.

“See anything interesting?” He asked.

“Fire.” She replied pointedly, glaring at him.

“You and Aemond can go flying together, I’ll bring you. It’s only been a few months, having an egg that sings that’s not cradle-bonded is unheard of, tala. I can’t remember it happening.”

“That’s because you’re old, kepa.”

He should have known it was coming, for any child that was raised by him, Laenor, and Rhaenyra, was just as likely to use words as they were to draw a sword. He leaned down and kissed her hair, a braided masterpiece that Kania and Rhaenyra spent hours on. He finally noticed Kania’s dagger in the flames.

“And how do you plan on getting the dagger out of the fire, dragon-flame?”

“With my hands.”

“At least tell me you’ll extinguish the flames first? Watching you reach into fire is not good for my heart.” Daemon pouted.

“Neither is your age.” Aemara grinned.

He chased her across the ship, grinning at her shrieks of happiness as she spun around the mast pole. Before he caught her though, she stood before her mother, who was resplendent in red, purple eyes glimmering with mischief. Laenor shook his head with a smile, hands upon little Luke and Jace as they giggled. Dragonstone had done all the children well, as had their adventure to Essos to see aunt Saera. She had taken one look at the children, at his daughter, and began to set her affairs in order. Though she was older, she was sharp and wicked, and it helped that she hated the minds of men who thought they were better than a woman because they had a cock. Her words, not Daemon’s.

“And what has our daughter done to warrant being hunted by the Rogue Prince?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“She called me old.”

Laenor coughed into his hand, pointedly turning to the waters in an attempt to hide his mirth. He failed miserably, but Daemon could not fault when Rhaenyra laughed, leaning upon him. He shook his head, short hair full of sea-spray before he kissed them both for what would be the final time without having to hide it.

Those years had been an act of balancing, the people of Dragonstone did not care who warmed which bed, not when their Princess had revolutionised the running of the island. They themselves were the descendants of those who came before the Doom, they did not follow the rules of the Seven. Even still, spiders often remained unobserved. And it’s not as though Laena and Harwin could comment when their passions could be heard through the castle walls, and well, nothing seem to faze Kania. And those of the Kingsguard, who guarded his family fiercely and told the children stories of their royal parents were loyal to their future Queen. The ladies were a different matter, but Daemon was sure Vaelencia Celtigar had figured it out, as had the Tyrell girl. The she-wolf surely had, Daemon thought, if her sly grins were anything to go by. Thankfully none of them were present on deck.

“Do you think Viserys will agree to the proposal?” Daemon asked, an irritating tone of uncertainty lacing his voice.

“He will, my love. We are going to tell him, and then he will have two years to wrap his head around it. Then we will have to get the Faith onside, and the tour will gather us support. The houses we share blood with will back us.” Rhaenyra said softly, cupping his cheek. “Though I do wish we could remain on Dragonstone until the children are grown.”

“It would be seen as hiding, Nyra. You’re going to take your place upon the Small Council, you’re going to make the men of the Realm listen to you, because you are going to be Queen.” Laenor reminded. “So long as the three of us work together, nothing can stop us. And if we must wait for a proper wedding, we are still one heart, one soul, one fire.”

“The three heads of the dragon to herald a new age.” Daemon echoed.

Rhaenyra hummed, eyes looking to where her daughter held her sons close, pointing to the dragons in the sky.

“We light the way, but they will bring the change.”

Daemon sighed, pressing a kiss to her temple before he extended his arm around so it was brushing Laenor. Above them Seasmoke, Caraxes and Syrax danced.

***

Aemara

Aemara felt Vermithor’s loneliness as they entered the harbour, the great Bronze Fury maudlin and tired. He lit up slightly when he felt the other dragons, she knew, especially for his beloved Silverwing. Aemara may only be seven, but she knew far more than a child should, but she did not know this loneliness. She knew coldness, insidious and bone-biting, she knew pain from the headaches that thundered in her skull. Aemara prayed she never knew loneliness. It seemed papa Laenor noticed her pensive mood and he knelt before her, eyes wide and kind.

“What plagues my sweetling?” He asked.

“Vermithor. I can feel him, papa. He’s so alone. Grandfather needs to bond, or it might be too late for them both.”

Laenor looked surprised, his eyes flicking over to muna and kepa who were frowning. She knew they had tried to convince them over the years, but she would not fail as they had. Her grandfather deserved to be bonded again, to have the companionship of a dragon for the rest of his days, to have the protection of dragon blood once again, just as Vermithor deserved to never be alone. Dragons and Targaryens were joined in a way man could never know, in a way that none of the surviving Valyrians could understand. They needed each other to survive, and Aemara had seen what happens when those with dragon blood lost their dragons. The fire consumed them, mind, body and spirit.

“Worry not, sweetling, one look at your pleading eyes and he’ll give you everything you want.” Laenor teased, kissing her head. “Like the crown jewels.”

“At least he didn’t reforge Blackfyre.” Kepa groaned. “He was going to, I’m sure of it.”

Aemara giggled. She doubted grandfather Viserys would have melted down their familial sword just to please her, but he had gifted her with several pieces that had once belonged to her grandmother. She had stared at him with teary eyes when he presented her the thin, teardrop chain that sat upon her neck, the ruby dark and near black. Grandfather Corlys had pouted, then presented her with a serpentine sea-dragon hair-clip made from scraps of Valyrian steel, with eyes the colour of the Velaryon banner, aquamarine and glimmering. She treasured it, keeping it secured in her braids to remind her that she was both Targaryen and Velaryon, and wholly of Valyria.

“We’re docking.” The captain called.

Aemara sighed but the excitement filled her at the thoughts of seeing her aunt and uncle. It had only been a few months, but it was too long. The cold was always worse when they were a part, soothed not even by her family, or her dragons. She reached for the ruby-red hilt of Kania’s dagger before she pulled it from the flames, eyes watching the glowing symbols. She clucked her tongue, a habit she had picked up from her mother, as she tried to decipher the meaning of the words, but like every other time she had tried, they didn’t make sense.

“One day the flames will show you the truth, but that day is not today.” Kania announced, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You are not ready, Princess.”

“I want to be.” She grumbled, frustrated.

“And you will be, in the future. When the past reveals the present, and the future shifts like a ripple in the pond, salt and smoke, fire and blood, will light the way.”

Aemara loved Kania, she truly did. The Red Priestess filled a strange void between aunt and older sister, protector and teacher, but by the Gods did Aemara hate the riddles. It seemed Kania knew, for she simply laughed and petted her head, taking her dagger as the ruby on her throat glowed brightly, and she disappeared in a swirl of red robes.

She followed her mother, her hands clutched close to Jace and Luke who grinned at her, and together they walked toward the Keep. Baela and Rhaena pointed out all the pretty flowers, no doubt not remembering their last visit to the castle. Murmuring words to her brothers who stared at her with wide, bright eyes, Aemara stilled when she heard a childish shriek. Baela, the more adventurous of her cousins darted forward with a speed Aemara had not seen.

“Grandmama.”

Princess Rhaenys stood at the end of the path, arms outstretched to catch her granddaughter and Aemara smiled. Her grandmother gave the best hugs, but she didn’t tell her mother that. She feared her muna would pout for days in mock betrayal. Aemara had seen it occur once before, between her and kepa and papa (who, even to an seven-year-old, were so obvious).

“Come, come. His Grace and the children are waiting, I barely managed to talk him out of a formal reception. Though be warned, there is to be a feast on the morrow, to celebrate your time on Dragonstone and the Royal Tour.”

“I fear my daughter has other plans, mother.” Laenor admitted. “She is going to convince the King to claim Vermithor. Today.”

“Is that so, dear heart?” Rhaenys’ thin lips twitched. “And how will you do this?”

She looked to her grandmother with a pleading expression, one that had gotten her out of trouble whenever she disappeared to Silverwing and the others when her headaches got too bad, or when she flew alone. Or when she vanished into the caves. Or when she ate the spice cakes before dinner. It worked every single time.

“He’s lonely grandfather, he wants a friend. You’ll be his friend, won’t you? Then you can come flying with us, and Caraxes won’t eat you. Please grandfather, can you help make him happy again?”

Her parents looked at her, both with varying degrees of pride and disbelief, she’d even managed to make her eyes water. Rhaenys laughed, joyful and bell-like before she placed a hand on her shoulder. Aunt Laena was grinning, and Ser Harwin looked as though he would do anything to fulfil her request. The trio of Kingsguard men shared looks of amused horror. She grinned.

“Excellent, my dear. The realm won’t know what hit it.”

Aemara followed her grandmother, Beala and Rhaena joining both Jace and Luke who seemed to be amazed. She heard Kania’s laughter, throaty and rough, though it didn’t cover her papa’s words.

“We are so fucked.”

“Laenor.” Muna hissed. “Not in front of the children.” She shifted to the ladies. “You are welcome to come with us, or you can seek out your kin in the castle, ladies. We will be heading to the pit afterwards, you are free to entertain yourselves. But please remember that King’s Landing is not Dragonstone, we are not amongst friends here.”

Aemara giggled to herself as she followed Rhaenys, Ser Erryk giving her a wink as they entered the throne room. Usually when grandfather greeted them it was on the docks, or in his apartments, only once before had he ever received them in the throne room and that had been months ago, when Aemara gifted Aemond his egg. She just hoped the entire court was not in session, because if they were, she would have to act like a proper little princess, instead of being able to run to her aunt and uncles. Her grandfathers.

She was rushed, arms flying everywhere, hands on her shoulders, wrists and even one in her hair. Aemara knew that hand anywhere. Aegon kissed her forehead. She giggled, eyes wandering to her the King who sat upon the throne with a familiar smile, warm and unguarded.

“Missed you, starlight.” That was Aemond, his High Valyrian harsher than the others.

“Muna said we could go to the Pit and fly. All of us.” Aemara whispered.

Helaena let out a wistful sigh. “The King and Prince will fly as one today, as shall Dreamfyre and I.”

“If you say sweet dream, then it shall be. Now, we just need to convince him.” Aemara reminded.

“You will have no issue there, sweet daughter. Just do as you did earlier, and you will have whatever you desire.” Laenor said as he appeared. “With the four of you working together, our dear old King will have no chance.”

Emboldened by her father’s words, Aemara took Aegon by the hand, Helaena joined to her right while Aemond was attached to his sister. She climbed the steps, wrapping her arms around Viserys’ neck.

“Hello grandfather.” Aemara said softly. “I have missed you so. I am glad to be home. Mother said we could go flying after some food. Would you join us?”

“And ride with you, sweet girl? Or shall my son leave me to sit atop Caraxes, or Syrax?”

“I’m sure Silverwing would like to have you ride with us, grandfather, but I think she’d prefer it if you mounted her beloved Vermithor.” Aemara admitted shyly.

“My girl…” Viserys sighed.

“He’s lonely grandfather, he wants a friend. You’ll be his friend, won’t you? Then you can come flying with us, and Caraxes won’t eat you. Please grandfather, can you help make him happy again?”

She heard kepa grumble about Caraxes eating people, but Aemara knew it was jest. All of them were looking upon the King, who was watching his granddaughter, and his sons and daughter, who painted a beautiful picture of pleading violet eyes and silver-spun hair.

“Okay. I shall attempt it.”

“About time. If all it took was her pleading eyes, we would have done it years ago.” Rhaenys called. “All of us? Corlys, you shall join me. Helaena, sweet girl, do you wish to mount Dreamfyre?”

“She had been calling me, aunt.” Helaena nodded.

“Perfection.” Rhaenyra called. “My Lord Hand, should you still find amusement in Harwin’s shrieks, he will be atop Vhagar.”

“I will?” Harwin questioned.

“Obviously, husband. I cannot hold both the children and ensure Vhagar doesn’t land atop the Keep. Silly old thing that she is.”

It was only then that Aemara noticed Otto Hightower and his daughter off to the side. His jaw clenched, it must have been uncomfortable she mused, and he took a step forward.

“My King, what would occur if you failed to bond with the beast?”

Aemara bristled at the final word, but she held her tongue. An outsider would never know, would never understand. She glared at him though, and he seemed taken about by the venomous gaze of a seven-year-old girl. Aemara smiled.

“Then I shall have to run quickly, Otto, or the Royal Tour will be Rhaenyra’s coronation. Besides, the feast two days hence could be used as my final honour, it would all be wrapped up quickly.” He spoke, words drier than the sands of the Red Waste.

The room went deathly silent for a moment, until Daemon doubled over, cackling so loudly Alicent made the sign of the Seven as though he was possessed.

“Oh, I have missed your humour, brother.” Daemon announced. “But food first, yes? I’ve eaten in a day.”

“You ate with us this morning, kepa.” Jace grumbled. “You stole my juice.”

Aemara smiled as they set off towards the King’s private rooms. She was surrounded by fire, by flame and heat, and for the first time in months, the ache in her bones receded. It was good to be home.

***

Vermithor 

He had slumbered for many a year after his rider died. But he, like all dragons, felt the call of the child, none more so than his beloved Silverwing. They had left their nest, and accompanied their three wild kin to their salvation. When the child left, Vermithor could not, for he felt the call of another. He knew it was not the small boy, no, his rider was one that had to know loss.

All of Balerion’s kin had felt his passing, and they would feel the agony his rider was in. Humans would never understand just how entwined the dragons themselves were, the bonds their shared. In the King’s final years, he had known love and peace after a lifetime of war and blood. He deserved his rest. But the dragons knew the danger of a broken bond. To lose a rider was hard enough, a tendril of their being lost each time, but for a rider to lose a mount was unshakable. The hole torn in their soul would never truly mend, they would be weaker, more susceptible to illness. It was hard for a dragon to get sick, and that protection extended to their riders. But when once lost their mount, they would never truly recover, even if they were to find another. It had not happened since the Doom, but dragon blood remembered dragon blood, the magic of the Fourteen Flames bound them.

He knew his new rider had not been ready. Vermithor himself was not ready, the loss of a rider bonded for so long had left him tired. His Silverwing was the same, but now she found joy amongst their kin once more, her rider oh so special for a reason the humans did not understand.

But the dragons did. After all, blood knew blood, and magic knew magic.

But he felt it when his new rider was ready. He could feel the excitement of a new hatchling. The joy of his brothers and sisters as they basked in the presence of their riders. Soon Vermithor would feel it again. He opened his eyes and stared upon Viserys Targaryen, the heir of his great rider and he sniffed. Rot had vanished, never to take root in this lifetime, and his blood, so precious as it was, sang to Vermithor. The Dragon-Flame heard his call, his plea, and like the blessing she was, she answered.

“Lykiri, Vermithor. Lykiri.” Viserys said, voice soft yet full of command. “Together we shall heal. Together we will protect the young. We will light the way to a better future. We need never be alone again, my friend.”

Vermithor rumbled. His rider would prove true to the moniker he had gained in a time not past. The Peaceful. He lowered himself to allow his new rider to sit upon his back. He did not have saddles like his kin, but rather a mechanism one would latch their legs into, and thick, lightweight chains that would secure his rider. Vermithor was not a war-mount like Vhagar, nor was he tragically deformed like Caraxes, he and his Silverwing were mounts of the worthy, the steady. The defenders.

With a roar, Vermithor took off, his wings flapping with purpose for the first time since he guarded the skies on the night the salvation was born. His rider leaned close, head bowed against the hard scales of his neck. He could sense the connection, tangible and growing with each passing second. He could not replace the King of Dragons, just as Viserys could never replace Jaehaerys. But they did not need to replace one another. No. They would heal and guard one another, and their kin, with the fury and fire of the Fourteen Flames from whence their kinship came.

Around him, his brothers and sisters danced with each other. His sweet Silverwing glided beside him, purring in contentment with their salvation and her song upon her back, as the errant Wildfyre, who still felt pride at being gifted a true name like his brethren, growled, a happy little sound lost to the wind.

They were one for the first time since Meraxes fell in the South. The fledglings were guided by the experienced, and the newest wonders, Vermax and Arrax, hatched only a few months before, wings flapping, little Moondancer upon Wildfyre’s back. Dreamfyre soared, the dreamer on her back no longer afraid of falling when she knew the dragons would catch her. Sunfyre, glittered in the golden rays of warmth that pushed through the clouds while Vhagar sailed through the air, joyful, alive, for the first time in decades.

He knew of the change, as all dragons did. Now they would not fight one another in a mockery of their nature, where they would tear one another apart with claw and flame. To kill a dragon was unthinkable, to force another dragon to kill one of their own… well there was a reason Maegor died upon the throne. For it was forged in dragonflame, bound in the blood of Old Valyria. To destroy it, to go against its very nature, was unfathomable. Ruination in the making. Vermithor knew this. All of the dragons knew this.

 Most importantly, Vermithor knew that this would be the true Dance of Dragons. And with a command, not one from his rider, nor any of the others, but a calling which echoed from the child that sat upon his beloved, they roared.

As one, their flames let loose in the skies in a warning to all who would see: Salvation is not without damnation.

Chapter Text

Aegon 

His father had done it. He’d claimed Vermithor so all to see. He was no longer Viserys Targaryen, the first dragonless King. Aegon knew his grandfather was annoyed, anybody with two working eyes, or even one, would have seen the irritating twitch to his lips, the way his eyes followed them all with a narrow gaze. Oh he hated it, but Aegon delighted in his grandfather’s misfortune.

Even now, hours after the fact, a whole day after the fact, grandfather glowered as the maids laid their outfits out. The feast would start later, followed by royal proclamations and dreadfully dull words of amazement, both for what Rhaenyra had done to Dragonstone which would be outweighed by his father claiming Vermithor, he knew it would be. They all did.

“I thought I was wearing my gold dress, mother.” Helaena said, fingers flexing as she stared at the green and gold dress on the table. “It feels wrong.”

Oh, Aegon knew this wouldn’t end well. His sister was very particular about anything that touched her skin, was particular that her food could not touch on the plate or she would refuse to eat it. She also hated pork, but that was okay, Aemond would just swap it around while Aegon distracted her. His sweet sister knew though, of course she did, it was Helaena, she knew everything and nothing. His sweet, strange sister.

“There’s gold on the dress, sweet one.” Mother dismissed. “And it’s silk. You like silk, don’t you? Your gold dress is silk. Why is this any different?”

“Because it feels wrong, mama.” Helaena sniffed. “I don’t want to wear it. Spools of green, spools of black, webs and venom, flame will end them.”

“Cease your drivel at once, girl.” Grandfather snapped. “We will never find you a husband if you continue to act the simpleton. Wear the dress, to match your brothers.”

“No.”

Oh sweet Helaena. Aegon looked at Aemond who was biting his lip, his own eyes on the green and gold doublet. Aegon sighed, reaching for the goblet, unfortunately it was only water. He’d like some wine.

“Have we turned into the Tyrells, grandfather?” Aegon questioned. “Green and gold for a wardenship that will never be yours? Even if it were, what tragic accident would befall your brother, his sons and grandsons?”

“Aegon.” Mother hissed. “You dare speak to your grandsire like that? Apologise this instant. Helaena, sweet girl, a dress is a dress.”

“I’ll never apologise for speaking the truth, mother. Now, if you would excuse me, my brother, sister and I, were invited to ready with our kin.”

He did not wait to hear their response, he did not wait for the force of a strike or for pain to bloom. Aegon steered Helaena without touching her, shushing her quietly as he took Aemond by the shoulder. A serving girl waltzed in, carrying a jug of wine. Aegon let out a sigh. They were safe.

“See that suitable clothes for two Targaryen Princes and my sister’s golden dress as delivered to Princess Rhaenyra’s rooms as soon as possible.”

“At once, my Prince.”

Aegon left quickly, eyes kept forward as they walked the twisted path to his sister’s apartments, but Aemond continually looked behind them as though he expected grandfather to appear from the shadows and cut them with acidic, visceral words. Aegon’s fingers tightened on his brother’s shoulder.

“You shouldn’t have done that, brother. Mother was right, it was just a dress. I was being silly.” Helaena murmured.

“You’re not at fault for your oddities, sister. You should be comfortable, and if mother doesn’t see to it, then I will.” Aegon replied, lips twitching. “And you don’t look well in green.”

“None of us do.” Aemond snorted. “Did Rhaenyra actually invite us?”

“Nope.” Aegon grinned. “It’s fine brother. You are far too serious for an nine-year-old, do you know that?”

Aemond grumbled but said nothing. It was true though, even if Aegon himself was not the paragon of sanity, his brother was a different level. Aemond would spend his days with a sword in his hand, only to then read ancient tomes in his little reading nook while his egg rested in the brazier. Such a strange brother, Aegon decided, but he did look rather cute curled around Starfyre, nose twitching like a little bunny. Not that Aegon would ever admit it.

“Ser Steffon.” Aegon greeted, trying for his best smile. “May we enter?”

“The little Princess mentioned you might be coming by.” Ser Steffon admitted, opening the door.

They were clustered near the fire, his sister, her husband, her ladies, and their uncle seated around the table. Aegon saw the Arbour Gold and smiled. Perhaps Rhaenyra would give him some. He watched them for a moment, the familiar warmth they shared, the quiet laughs and joyful stories. It wasn’t like the cold he found in their own rooms.

“Sister, brothers.” Rhaenyra called, blinding smile as she noticed them. “Come come. Aemara said you’d be coming.”

Aegon felt Aemond shift, as though his brother had come to the same conclusion that he himself had. Aemara could not know, she could never know, because if she knew, then she wouldn’t be safe. And they had to keep her safe.

“We had the servants arrange to bring our things here. Is that okay?” Aegon questioned.

“The serving girls move faster than you, little dragon, they’re already here. Come here, by the fire, are you cold? You’re shaking.”

Aegon didn’t know he was shaking. It usually happened after he spoke back to grandfather, when the thrill of it worse off. He could see his sister’s concern, and he smiled at Rhaenyra as she patted the spot beside her. The ladies cooed at him as he sunk into her side.

“Where’s Aemara?” Helaena wondered, looking around the room.

Rhaenyra’s smile turned slightly sad as she petted Aegon’s head. The Lady Tyrell, if her green and gold and roses (Is that what grandfather wanted us to look like, he thought. Horrible.) was anything to go by, glanced at the room at the end of the hallway.

“The Princess is resting, my Prince. Fret not, she has assured us that she will be attending the feast.” Lady Tyrell promised.

“Her head?” Aemond wondered, eyes flicking to the door. “Could we?”

Rhaenyra smiled, while uncle Daemon pouted, and Laenor laughed, sharing twin looks that confused Aegon. His sister kissed his head, and perhaps Aegon, who was nearly a man grown should deny himself the affection, but he couldn’t, it felt too nice.

“Go.” Rhaenyra nodded to the three of them. “Not for long, though. We must get ready soon, unless you want to miss the feast? They’re making lemon cakes.”

Aegon nodded. The three of them slipped into Aemara’s room, where Kania was sitting by the single burning candle, watching over her charge. Aegon thought the woman was strange, but no amount of warnings from his mother and grandfather, could ever make him, or his siblings, fear her.

“Is it a bad one?” Helaena whispered.

“No, Princess. She simply pushed herself too far in her quest for knowledge she cannot yet possess. Aemara will wake soon, join her until then, I know it makes her feel better to be surrounded by dragon-song.”

Aegon found the Red Priestess to be like Helaena, only Kania made sense in her complex riddles, while Helaena, no matter how hard she tried could never make sense. He didn’t care either way, sitting on the bed to brush her hair away from her face. His sister, who oh so usually despised touch, offered it freely to their niece as she sat beside her. Aemond just stared, obviously worried.

“Lost to salt and smoke, to be found by fire and blood. Beneath the mont sits a vault.” Helaena mumbled, but Aegon didn’t truly hear her.

They settled around her, only for Kania to whisper something in High Valyrian before she blew put the candle, throwing the room into darkness. Aegon sighed, nosing his niece’s cheek. He would watch her during the feast, they all would. That was their duty.

***

Daemon 

Viserys truly loved his feasts, Daemon knew. His brother had never been one to wage war in the name of peace, had never been truly skilled with a sword. His brother, his King, was soft, and kind and warm, ruling through love rather than fear. But nobody feared Viserys, and that was dangerous, because fear made people re-think their choices, their plots. If Viserys wouldn’t be feared, Daemon would. To protect his brother, his beloved Rhaenyra and his sweet Laenor, their children, the three little dragons that Hightower Cunt would destroy, and the rest of his kin.

He reached forward for his cup, they might not like the Dornish at the moment, what with their failed incursion of the Stepstones, their truly ridiculous exportation prices, and their skirmishes along the marches, but they could find something other than Arbour Gold. He liked his wines red, astringent, heady and smoky. Perhaps he could arrange for aunt Saera to bring some from the Free Cities.

“If you’re not gonna drink that, can I?” Ah, the older little Prince asked, eyeing the wine. “It’ll make you my favourite uncle.”

Daemon had to snort. It seemed Aegon had tried, and failed, to use Aemara’s method of getting whatever she wanted from Corlys or Viserys. One look to his sweet tala found her beside both men, who were watching her with delight. Corlys’ hair-pin was shining like a beacon in her silver hair, while Viserys’ gift, one of Aemma’s necklaces, sat proudly on her neck. She hid her pain well, better than any eight-year-old should, but she was happy. Daemon turned back to Aegon, who was also watching Aemara, now joined by Helaena, a silent, shadow-like Aemond observing them. How odd, Daemon thought, he’s too much like me. He frowned.

“I’m your only uncle, Aegon.” Daemon muttered.

The boy seemed perplexed, his head tilted to the side. It was quite cute, Daemon admitted, but not cute enough for his sweet girl.

“Mother has two brothers.” The child replied drily.

“Do they bring you flying on dragons, or even contemplate giving you wine?”

“I’ve met them once. At mother and father’s wedding anniversary.”

“So, I’m the favourite.” Daemon countered.

“If you give me the cup, then yes.” Aegon agreed.

Daemon huffed, before he drained half the wine in a long mouthful. Aegon looked despondent, but Daemon didn’t care. Rhaenyra liked the child, Aemara liked the child, (and not that he would ever admit it, Daemon also liked the child,) so he would not be responsible for getting the child drunk. He reached for the water decanter, eyed the wine cup before he drank some more. Satisfied that the child wouldn’t fall over legless, he handed it to Aegon.

“Don’t tell your sister.” Daemon muttered.

“Not my mother?” Aegon wondered.

“Oh, she can know.” Daemon smirked. “She doesn’t scare me, unlike Rhaenyra.”

Daemon knew the child agreed. Rhaenyra was downright terrifying when she wished to be, gone was the Realm’s Delight and in its wake was the wrath of the dragon. Aegon simply nodded before he disappeared back into the shadows. A few moments passed, and Laenor joined him.

“If you think about complaining about the wine, I will drown you in it.”

“I was simply going to ask if you wished to dance, sweet boy.” Daemon smirked. “To give the cunt a heart attack.”

“It is strange. He’s sitting at a table surrounded by the Faith, Ser Criston has not once left the Queen’s side as though he expects somebody to murder her, and the Clubfoot is not in attendance.”

“Yes he is, dear husband.” Rhaenyra said, appearing on is arm. “By Lady Redwyne and her deformed pup.”

“Rhaenyra.” Laenor choked. “By the Gods you’re all witches. How do you just appear and disappear? I hate it. Even the small ones do it.”

“You love us, sweet sea dragon. Now, why would he be with her and that peculiar looking beast.” Daemon squinted. “Is that a dog? At a fucking feast?”

“Yes. She goes nowhere without it. It was even present at Aegon’s nameday hunt, for the disaster it was. It’s an ugly little thing, I’ve never seen one like it, it’s face looks as though it was flattened by a cast iron skillet.”  Rhaenyra stated.

“I think it looks cute.” Laenor admitted in the Common Tongue. “But why is he with her?”

“Why do you think, Laenor? You’re much more than a pretty face, work it out.” Daemon said. “Would the future Queen honour me with a dance?”

“You just wish to cause a public spectacle, dear uncle.” Rhaenyra smirked as she stood, hand out in invitation. “Do not kiss me this time.”

“Sacrifices must be made. Laenor, make sure that any Lannister cunt stays away from Aemara yes? She’s likely to stab him herself, or get the boys to do it for her.”

“As my Prince commands. Enjoy my wife.”

They took to the dancefloor in a mockery of Rhaenyra and Laenor’s wedding, except this time when Daemon saw Viserys, his brother was not looking as though he wanted to skewer Daemon as he had his chicken. Instead he had Aemara and Helaena on either side of him, Aegon and Aemond beside them, while Corlys and Rhaenys spoke to Lyonel and Harwin, Laena seated by her brother. Viserys looked up, meeting his eyes, and there was something there, something dancing below the surface. His brother looked from Rhaenyra to Laenor, and then back to Daemon, then to Aemara. He quirked a brow, the lines by his eyes deepening as they always did when Viserys was in thought. Then he smiled.

“He knows.” Daemon whispered. “Viserys knows.”

“And you still have your head, I say that bodes well for us, does it not, uncle?”

“For now.”

***

Ser Erryk 

The missing weight of his armour, his protection, made Erryk feel naked. He and the Lord Commander had been given the night off their duties, a rarity that had never occurred and Erryk knew his Lord Commander had been forced to so he could spend time with his niece, but Erryk didn’t see why he deserved the privilege. The Princess, the younger one, had simply smiled at him and reminded Erryk that Kania would be in attendance. He had stuttered and looked at the Princess Rhaenyra who simply smiled, reminding him it was not against his vows to dance.

He liked Kania, he truly did, even if she was strange with her riddles, her prayer to her fire god, and her dry humour never failed to make him laugh. His brothers on Dragonstone had teased him, his blood brother had laughed outright, re-iterating that neither of them would break their vows because neither would marry, for both were married to their duty. Erryk had cuffed his brother’s head and told him to fuck off.

Even still, he had a single glass of wine at dinner, unwilling to dull his senses. He doubted it would end like the Princess’s wedding, but one could never be too sure. Chaos seemed to find the Targaryens.

He found Kania in the corner, surveying the room, eyes on both the Princess Rhaenyra and her daughter. Erryk would never understand the devotion she held for them, for it exceeded that of the Kingsguard which was a feat in itself.

“Would the lady care to dance?” Erryk questioned.

“You honour me, Ser. But I am afraid I do not dance in a Westerosi fashion. I wouldn’t want to be the reason for premature deaths of the elders in the room.” Kania quipped, a smile gracing her lips.

“Then, if the lady doesn’t protest, we can stay here and watch the party goers. Perhaps I can introduce you to the more notable members of the court?”

“You can start with the strange one, with the abysmally dressed woman and her equally hideous hound.”

He knew she spoke of the Lady Redwyne, and he searched her out. She was seated at a table with several ladies that Erryk knew she regularly held tea with. Larys Strong was there, silent and observing. He was always a bit strange, in Erryk’s opinion, perhaps due to his childhood deformity and his lack of apparent skills. That and his creepy smile.

“The youngest son of the Lord Hand, and Harwin’s brother. For as long as I could remember, he would find himself surrounded by the women of court. He is strange, but why the interest?” Erryk wondered.

“His eyes have not left Aemara or Prince Aegon whenever it would not draw attention to him. He unsettles me.” She admitted. “He is touched by something, something dark and twisted, of shadows and lies.”

Erryk frowned. Kania’s instincts, be they natural or supernatural, were rarely wrong. He looked back to the table, only to find Larys staring at the pair of them. He offered them a cold smile and dipped his head.

“The Clubfoot is harmless, Kania. The man cannot lift a sword, and he would be a fool to endanger his father’s position at court.” Erryk soothed.

“Men do not need weapons to destroy somebody, rumors and whispers do it well enough. Especially when it surrounds the heir to that hideous piece of metal you bow to.”

Erryk froze, and turned to her, giving Kania his full attention. She looked up at him, dark blue eyes tinged with an unearthly glow from the fire beside them. He had heard things he wasn’t supposed to, all members of the Brotherhood did. It was in their nature, to defend both lives and secrets. He understood the subtle implication. He had never questioned the validity of the Princess Rhaenyra’s claim, nor her children’s parentage. If the King did not care, they did not care. Something it seemed Cole had forgotten.

“You think him the orchestrator of the rumours that follow the young Princes?” Erryk whispered.

“Perhaps. If not his mouth they came from, it was somebody close to him.” Kania muttered something in High Valyrian and the fire flared slightly, as though had given her His blessing. “He is close to the one in white, is he not? And the Queen?”

The words she spoke were barely audible, but they were borderline treasonous. The Queen Consort was second only to the King, or she should have been. But Erryk knew most of his brothers, save Cole who idolised her, and the Lord Commander who was always a statue whenever the topic was brought up, while they would do their duty and give their lives in her protection, did not hold her in the same esteem as they did the heir. Kania knew that. They all knew that. But if she were correct, and Queen Alicent had been responsible for the rumours, or engaged with them, she was guilty of treason.

“Speak no more of this, Kania, I beg you. Whatever truth is there, do not seek it. I cannot break my vows, nor can I blame your assumptions, but please do not investigate it. Your life would be forfeit.”

Kania glanced away from his face and stared into the flames. She smoothed her fingers along her glowing ruby, as she often did for comfort, or to seek guidance. It took her a moment to respond, but when she did, Kania smiled, full and bright.

“You have a true heart, Ser Erryk Cargyll, I am proud to call you my friend.” But her tone changed then, something akin to regret in her sea-like eyes. “But our loyalty is the same, yet so different. You owe yours to all that share royal blood, to their spouses, I do not. My duty is my Princess, to the Dragon-Flame.”

He had heard her refer to the Princess Aemara as such many times before. Most of the Valyrians did, as did the dragon keepers the few times he had interacted them. He didn’t understand what it meant, but he understood the reverence in her tone, in their tone. Erryk nodded, reaching out to squeeze her arm, sheathed in blood-coloured silk.

“I understand. And should the day come, I will stand on the lawful side, to protect my charges. Just as you will.”

***

Aemara

“Aegon, where did you get the wine?” Grandfather questioned.

“Uncle Daemon gave it to me, but he watered it down first. Which was rude.” Aegon complained.

“No more. I already allowed you a cup at dinner.”

Her head ached with the tempo of the music that filled the hall. It echoed around her skull, the blood rushing in her ears, but she couldn’t find it in herself to leave. Not when she was surrounded by her family, who were joyful and carefree. Her muna danced with papa and kepa, had walked with her ladies and conversed with the nobles of court. Grandfather Corlys, who she had not seen in months, told her of his adventures on the sea, of Pentos and Qohor.

“Is it true they have mammoths?” Aemara questioned.

“Perhaps. Nobody truly knows what resides within the forest, just as we do not know what lies beyond the Wall.” Corlys admitted. “The trees are too thick, even for dragons.”

“Still, I would like to the see the world one day. They are remnants of our home, so unlike Westeros who had never experienced the might of Valyria.” Her words were odd, she knew, but truthful. "East, to Asshai, and beyond perhaps."

All that lay beyond that cursed place was the land of the dead, but shadowbinding and bloodbinding had been the foundations of Old Valyria, and Aemara did not fear it.

Westeros was the home of a different magic, one bound in earth and air, sand and ice. Bryna had told her many stories of the North, of their religion and legends. She did not know why, but they were important. But Aemara was not cursed to see glimpses of the future like Helaena, instead she was accompanied by her past, as though her blood was a history of the ages. It tormented her as much as it comforted her.

“It will be many years, sweet girl, before you are faced with the burden of ruling. I am well, your mother is young, Gods and Fourteen willing, it will remain that way for many years to come.” Viserys soothed. “I see much of Daemon in you, a wanderlust and drive that reminds me much of him. But then, you are Aemma’s blood, sweet girl, you will go far.”

She felt honoured at her grandfather’s words. Aemara also suspected that he may have finally realised the relationship between her parents, the questions of her parentage that she had overheard one night. It made no difference. She loved them all, they were her parents and nothing, no rumour, no vicious words or taunts, would ever stain the pride she felt.

“A Princess needs a protector.” Aegon announced. “Where she goes, I will go.”

“I’m better with a sword, Aegon. You’d have her dead in an hour.” Aemond reminded.

“A future Queen needs a lady to attend to her.” Helaena piped up.

Aemara giggled, looking up at her grandfathers. Corlys grinned, amusement dancing in his eyes as he drank from his goblet. Viserys however, seemed regretful, as though he was imagining something that would never come to pass.

“Two fine knights and a lady to guard your secrets, I must say, Princess, you seem to inspire loyalty wherever you go. Tis like the Good Queen come alive.” Otto Hightower announced. “My King. Grandsons, granddaughter. Lord Corlys.”

She didn’t like the way he said her title, or the way her looked at her, nor how Aegon grimaced as Otto laid a hand upon his shoulder. But she was her mother’s daughter, a daughter of Old Valyria. She did not care for the green beacon who stood before her. Aemara smiled, words perhaps more poised and venomous that a child’s should be. But Aemara was in pain, and she had not been a child since she was old enough to remember the songs in her blood.

“My thanks, Ser Otto, I simply wish to emulate my grandfather, and my grandmother, my family.” She said, staring at him, aware of Corlys’ and Rhaenys’ smirks. “However, I fear I am little like my great-great grandmother. I have far too much of an interest in swords and violence.”

Viserys laughed, gathering the attention of the court, who looked at him for a moment before they returned to their own conversations. Kepa watched them, eyes on Otto, but papa held him back with words whispered close. He smiled. Kepa was always so bright when he smiled. She liked it when he was happy.

“Pardon me, Your Grace, but is it wise to train a Princess of the Realm with swords?” Otto questioned.

“Visenya was a better fighter than Aegon.” The other Aegon said. “And they say she dabbled in magic.”

“Our sister should have named you Visenya.” Aemond hummed. “Perhaps one day you will wield Dark Sister, and Blackfyre. Like Maegor did.”

“Aemond.” Grandfather muttered. “That is not a good comparison.”

Aemond looked confused, and Aemara knew why. She had heard the whispers of a strange child, born beneath an even stranger omen. A young Maegor, dark and faithless. Odd.

“Then why do people say it, father? Like with uncle Daemon.” Helaena said.

“Maegor, for all of his short-comings and kin-slaying, saved our family. Saved everything Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys created, what she died for. He understood the importance of a powerful, united house of the dragon.” Her eyes bore into Otto Hightower’s and there was something reflected there. Something she enjoyed. “I will wear their insults as a badge of honour, for what does a dragon care for the opinion of man?”

“Even still, sweet girl, you are still that, a girl. Wagging tongues spew treasonous words, and they will be dealt with, Aemara, I promise you.” Viserys stated, eyeing the crowds.

An uncomfortable memory overtook Aemara, blood spoiled in her throat and it burned. Cursed is those who slay the bonds of kinship. Cursed is those who spill the blood of the dragon. Maegor had done both. She ignored the painful throbbing on the side of her head, and the pop in her nose.

“Thank you, my King.” Aemara responded, but her eyes were not on her grandfather, no they were on Otto. “For your faith in me.”

“Aemara.” Aemond whispered, eyes wide. “You’re bleeding.”

Instinctively her hand went to her nose, only for it to be coated with bright red blood. She sucked her teeth as Rhaenys passed her an embroidered piece of cloth.

“It’ll pass in a moment, though if I could be excused for a moment, grandfather? I think the slight reprieve would do me well.”

“Shall I get your mother? Or the Lady Kania?” Rhaenys questioned.

Aemara shook her head. It would pass in a few moment, as it often did in the waking world, and the thrum of her headache was like second nature at this stage. Aegon set his empty cup down and offered her his arm.

“Might I escort you, my Princess?”

“You may, my Prince.” Aemara said. “As may you, Prince Aemond, and Princess Helaena.”

Grandfather went to protest, a lack of guards for his children and granddaughter meant no protection, even if they were within the Keep. And with what he head just heard perhaps Viserys had realised how naïve he had been in thinking his own home safe.

“Fret not, my King.” Kania said, appearing in a flurry of red. “Ser Erryk and I will accompany them for a while.”

Viserys nodded at the pair, and Aemara linked her arms with Aegon and Aemond, while Helaena joined Aegon to the right. They wondered out the side door, passing Ser Arryk who frowned at them, no doubt concerned with the blood staining the young Princess’s face. Aemara simply smiled at him, and she felt more than saw his relief.

They headed toward the gardens, the cool breeze a soothing balm to the discomfort in her mind. Her nose had ceased bleeding, and she dipped the corner of the cloth into water to wipe away any lingering blood. Kania and Ser Erryk stood to the side, giving the quartet some semblance of privacy.

“Aegon, where did you get another cup of wine?” Aemond questioned.

“Snagged it on the way out. Thankfully this one isn’t watered down.” He said as he took a drink.

“Why are you drinking?” Aemara questioned.

“It tastes nice.” Aegon shrugged.

“Can I have some?” Aemara wondered.

Aegon looked at the wine, and then to his niece. He seemed to weigh up the options for a moment before he passed it to her. Helaena smacked his arm.

“She’s eight.” Aemond reminded. “And bleeding.”

“A little sip won’t kill her.” Aegon said simply. “Besides, neither of you can deny her anything.”

Neither tried to deny it. Aemara smiled as she took a drink, spicy notes of cinnamon and blackberry coating her tongue. It was nice. And warm, pooling in her stomach like fire to fight off the insidious chill that settled within her.

“It’s good.” Aemara admitted, taking another sip.

“That’s enough. Wouldn’t want you to make your headache worse.” Aemond decided, plucking the cup, only to take a drink. “Helaena?”

Her aunt sighed, reaching for the cup. Aegon muttered something unintelligible. When he got it back, there was naught but a swallow left.

“Thieves. You’re all thieves.” Aegon muttered.

“Yet you love us.” Aemara reminded, resting her head on his shoulder.

He kisses her forehead, unable to deny it yet again. Together, draped in finery and basking in the warmth that soaked through their skin, Aemara let out a pleased sigh as the dragon song in her blood hummed. For just a moment, everything was right in the world.

***

Viserys 

Aemond’s words had irritated him, though he could not blame the boy for them. Viserys was angry that he had apparently lost control of the rumours that lived within his own walls. He, of course, had heard the whispers of Jace and Luke’s parentage, especially when one compared them to Baela and Rhaena, but to hear his sweet granddaughter be compared to Maegor, he hated it. Viserys sighed, reaching for the wine once more as Corlys and Rhaenys took to the floor. Thankfully there was no Lysene Tree Dance afoot.

“Are you well, father?” Rhaenyra wondered. “Where are the children?”

“Lady Kania and Ser Erryk brought them for some fresh air. Aemara’s mind seemed to take leave of her for a moment, she implied Maegor saved the family, even if he was cursed by his acts.” Viserys admitted.

The King looked at his daughter, his sweet girl who had once been his last link to his beloved Aemma, his wife he swore to protect only to butcher her like a piece of meat. His stomach rolled in revulsion of the memories, but when Rhaenyra grabbed his gloved hand, she smiled.

“She will be okay father. Her words are often odd, and I fear the memory in our blood is not a kind one. I just wished she would not push herself so hard. She trains, she flies, she teaches Jace and Luke, reads to Baela and Rhaena. It is as though she is preparing for war.”

“War makes men desire a time of peace, and times of peace set the blood alight for the thrill of war.” Viserys mused.

“Still, she is a child. I want her to stay a child until the Realm rips it from her and replaces it with duty.” Rhaenyra huffed.

“She reminds me of Daemon, in a way. There are no stronger bonds that kinship reciprocated.” Viserys took silent delight in watching Rhaenyra’s eyes drift to Daemon and Laenor. Oh it had all become clear. How had he missed it before?

“Father?”

“Tomorrow, my dear girl. Let us enjoy the feast for what is left of it, and tomorrow we will lead.” Viserys said.

“As my King commands. We do have business to discuss, things to formalise before we head out on the Royal Tour.”

Viserys took his daughter’s hand and brought it to his lips. She was so like Aemma, from the silver of her straight hair, to the ethereal glow of her eyes. He smiled, offering a silent prayer to whoever would listen, that his family would find happiness.

He and Rhaenyra didn’t speak as they watched the crowds, Laena and Harwin dancing, while Daemon spun Rhaenys around. Viserys searched for his wife amongst the crowds, a beacon of green and gold as she sat amongst her father and the septons, and the High Septon himself.

“Do you think they share a resemblance?” Rhaenyra asked, noticing where his eyes had stopped. “Ser Otto and the High Septon.”

His daughter was correct, there was a resemblance between them, dark hair tinged with red, but the High Septon was older, his hair long and greying at the temples. He was wrapped in a seven-pointed crystalline necklace, so gaudy and ugly on his thin neck Viserys was surprised his head stayed up.

“Noble bastards are often forced to the Faith, Rhaenyra.” Viserys dismissed with a shrug. “Who may be in the Hightower lineage is no care of mine, nor should it be of yours.”

“Of course not father.” Rhaenyra pursed her lips. Viserys knew they would ever get along, that she and Alicent would never repair their friendship either. He would shoulder that guilt. “What is...?”

Aemara appeared at her mother’s side, nuzzling into her dress with a purr. Viserys eyed the goblet of wine, empty though it was, in Aegon’s hand. Viserys raised an eyebrow at his eldest son, who quickly hid the cup behind his back. He and Rhaenyra shared an amused smile. His daughter pressed a kiss to Aemara’s braided and bound hair, settling her chin where one day a crown would rest.

“Are you well, my sweet girl? Would you like to go to bed?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“No mama. The air did me well, and so did the songs.”

His daughter seemed to understand his granddaughter’s words, even if Viserys did not. What he did understand, however, was the fond look Rhaenyra shared with her siblings. Viserys Targaryen held three regrets in his life: Butchering Aemma, not protecting Daemon, and swearing to Alicent that she could decide who the children were to marry. He was no fool, he saw the way Aegon curled around Aemara, how Aemond followed her, how Helaena opened up in her presence. He didn’t understand it, but he knew one day he would.

Chapter Text

Corlys

It was not often that the Sea Snake could simply lounge in the presence of his beautiful grandchildren, for his duties as Master of Ships and his increasing voyages across the Narrow Sea had often left him bereft of the closeness. He blamed fucking Dorne and her ridiculous taxes. But it was nice, to be once again surrounded by the squeals of children and their awe filled looks of wonderment when he recounted tales of his early sea-faring days.

Life had changed in a way Corlys never could have imagined, and perhaps one day in the very distant future, his grandson and granddaughter would foster with him to learn the Tides as his father had taught him. The way he had taught Laena and Laenor. Even now, Aemara, as the eldest, led the two sets of twins in a coloured block game Corlys had found from a vendor in Tyrosh some months past. There was gentle enjoyment etched into the children’s face as she pointed to the colours, naming them in Common, and then High Valyrian, only for the Luke and Baela, Rhaena and Jace, to repeat them.

Corlys admitted there was something about his eldest grandchild that unsettled him, especially after how she spoke to Otto Hightower the night before, how visions of the past seemed to plague her. He had been shocked to hear the comparison to Maegor, and her rather strange defence of him, but she was a strange girl. An omen. The Velaryons may have been of sea-salt and the Targaryens of dragon-blood, but they were of Old Valyria and its magic could not, and would not, be questioned by lesser men. Which was why Corlys had spent hours with his beloved wife to ensure their plan was fool proof.

She wasn’t like his other granddaughters, who although younger, delighted in dolls and flowers. No Aemara was like Visenya of old, a warrior, a witch of fire and blood, salt and sea, a true union of the Targaryen and Velaryon blood in her veins, perhaps literally, but definitely symbolically. For all the fire that coursed through her body, Aemara was the sea: calm and inviting, only for dark depths to seize and storm when threatened, an abyss of chaotic calm.

Corlys loved her, he did, she was his first grandchild, she was sweet and kind, fierce, a sea-dragon, but when she would stare into the flames, when they would dance in her violet eyes, he worried. Not for himself, or his kin, but for Aemara herself. He had seen much in his travels, had known all sorts, he knew the true cost of power. He had seen men raised from death, had witnessed what that did to a person, how it changed them. He could not, and did not, want to imagine what seeing a history of fire and blood would do to a young mind.

“And what does my husband plot in the presence of children?” Rhaenys wondered, sitting beside him on the chaise.

Even after all of the years they were married, Corlys still had a twitch when his wife managed to appear out of thin air. All of the Targaryens could do it, though Daemon was by far the worst, his soon-to-be good son was an absolute menace. Corlys blinked, looking from the children, who were entertaining themselves across the room, Lady Stark watching them with a fond grin, while Celia Strong held Baela, to his wife. They were far enough away that they wouldn’t hear any conversation, not that they would fully understand it. Well, Aemara might, but she was strange.

“How does your family choose which relationship is more important? Daemon is to be your good son, but he is your cousin. The children are the King’s grandchildren, but also his nephews”.

Rhaenys looked at him, one perfectly silver eyebrow raised high and arched. Corlys shrugged, it was an honest question. It wasn’t his fault that dragon riders were weird.

“Why do you ask these things, husband? Why?” Rhaenys sighed, her thin lip twitching slightly. “The King awaits, as does his wife, apparently.”

Corlys frowned, Alicent was not supposed to be there. Technically, if Aemara was Daemon’s child, in the eyes of the law, she was a bastard, which would set her claim aside, even if her right of succession came from Rhaenyra. But the King, for all of his blinding love and bitter regret over what happened to Aemma, was no fool, well, not any more at least. He wondered what had happened, why now. But when he heard her, High Valyrian perfect and lyrical and he understood.

“Then let us go, my love.”

Despite the formal content of their discussion, or what they assumed would be discussed, Viserys decided to host the meeting in his own chambers. Rarely had Corlys ever been in the rooms, only ever to collect his wife, or grandchildren. It was strange. Dry-cured meats were cut thickly on the table, softened butter beside still warm bread, sweet pastries and fruit. Rhaenyra, Daemon and Laenor were already seated, his son squashed between the two in some sort of show that Corlys didn’t want to think about. Especially when the pastries looked as they did. Six goblets were laid out by pitchers of sweet-milk, and when Corlys looked around the room, he saw the hand-carved model of Valyria, usually white, glowed orange as it was bathed in fire-light.

“Please, sit down, eat something. I think father requested half the kitchen, he nibbles when he’s nervous.” Rhaenyra admitted, standing to greet them both with hugs. “Alicent will arrive later.”

It was clear Rhaenyra did not like that idea in the least, not that Corlys could blame her. The Queen was a strange entity, one wrapped in a cloak of war-green and righteous piety, who acted as though mere children were demons, who protected an innocent man’s murderer, who did not seem to like anything. But that was fine, Corlys didn’t like her either. Nor did he respect her.

Once they sat down, he reached for a piece of bread before he slathered the butter on it, followed by some sweet orange marmalade, only to top it with sharp cheese and a slice of salt-dried pork. He had not eaten since early morning, and looking after children was tiring.  He did not know how Rhaenyra had managed six, eight when she wrangled Baela and Rhaena.

“He knows Daemon may be Aemara’s father…” Laenor admitted aloud, causing Corlys to choke. “There is also a book he wants to give us.”

“One of those things is much more important that the other, Laenor.” Corlys reminded. “Why a book?”

Laenor shrugged as he snagged a pastry from the plate. There was an uncomfortable moment, well, Corlys didn’t mind as he ate. What could they do? If one was a stickler for the laws of men, they’d been committing light treason for near on a decade, longer if one was to count the unsanctioned war in the Stepstones. (Corlys was a firm believer that the action he and Daemon took in the Stepstones was the best course of action, no matter what the nattering imbeciles of court who got fat on cake and wine thought, especially when they had horrifically ugly dogs.)

“The children were well when you left them?” Rhaenyra questioned, sipping at her sweet-milk.

“Aemara was teaching them colours in High Valyrian. If she decided to forgo Queenship she would make an excellent tutor.”  Corlys admitted with a grin.

Rhaenyra huffed, silver hair tumbling as she shook her head. Corlys, who had never known Queen Aemma well despite the kinship their houses shared, could see in Rhaenyra as plain as day. Aemma did not need to raise her voice to command a room, nor did she need violence or hate, no the Queen’s greatest weapon was her ability to love, as was Rhaenyra’s. It was a startling juxtaposition, for she was like Daemon, hot and headstrong, the blood of the dragon thick and ever-burning. Corlys was just glad he was not their enemy, because when dragons went to war, everything burned.

“We have much to discuss.” The King announced, appearing from the corner of the room.

Daemon snorted, shoulders shaking with silent laughter as he looked to his brother, who simply smirked in response and raised an eyebrow. Corlys believed the interaction meant they were less likely to lose their heads, or be burned alive by Vermithor’s bronze-gold flame. Corlys would much rather feel the bite of Blackfyre, but well, he’d rather not die at all.

“Do refrain from giving Ser Harrold a heart attack, brother. He has dealt with enough in life.” Daemon muttered.

“Like the time you popped out from behind a tapestry and poor old Ser Kerin fell down the stairs and broke his leg in three places?” Rhaenys stated with a grin. “You were, nine I believe? Ten?”

“Lies and slander.” Daemon protested. “I was ten and one.”

“It was fine in the end, though Ser Harrold did hate being assigned to you for all those years, but we are not here to reminisce of days long passed.” Here the King’s voice grew softer. “Aemma was right, all those years ago. But I could never see it, or rather I was willfully ignorant to it because I was too prideful. For that I apologise.”

Corlys was shocked. He had expected something else. He had seen, and heard, what the King had done in the aftermath of the brothel incident (Honestly Daemon, bring the whores to you, do not have the future Queen traipsing through Flea Bottom.) How much had their lives truly changed since Aemara was born? What path had been completely abandoned, reforged in the salt and blood of the birthing bed, of fire and smoke as the dragons circled above them. What had been lost? What would be gained?

“Father, what?” Rhaenyra wondered. “What did mother say?”

Viserys looked stricken at the mention of his deceased wife. Corlys was under no illusions, his heart still belonged to the dead woman, that Alicent Hightower would never truly know a husband’s love. He almost pitied her. Almost.

“She told me once, that dragon blood sings, that we are either drawn or repulsed by it. We were like it. Mother and father were like it, and you and Daemon are the same.” He took a deep breath, and looked directly to Rhaenys. “I have an offer and a question, as well as an apology.”

His wife was a shrewd woman, as any powerful woman in the world needed to be, but for all that Viserys was King, Rhaenys was the eldest Targaryen in the room, the eldest child of the eldest child. This was not a matter between the crown and court, nor a King and subject, but one of blood and family. Corlys felt as though he was intruding as his wife looked from her cousin to their son, to Rhaenyra and Daemon. She nodded her assent, never once taking her eyes off him.

“While I am unfortunately aware of the ritual used to conceive the twins, and as such, no matter their appearance, I know they are Laenor’s trueborn children. Aemara, however, is a different story. Neither wholly Targaryen nor Velaryon, yet fully Valyrian, the question remains: Who is her sire?”

Corlys wanted to chuckle at Rhaenyra’s blush-stained cheeks, but the girl held firm, staring at her father with not an ounce of shame or regret. Laenor reached across and grabbed her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“We don’t know.” Rhaenyra stated.

“What?” Viserys stuttered. “But Laenor… he does not appreciate the female form?”

“Ah.” Laenor began with a shrug. “May I entertain Your Grace with a story?” He didn’t wait for a reply. “It all started when a sworn member your Kingsguard, Ser Criston Cole, murdered my lover at our wedding. After we were married, with my dear Joff’s blood still staining the floor and you collapsed, we retired to our chambers. I then got extremely drunk, cried upon my new wife’s lap, and my mother’s, as I grieved for my lost love. I then fell into a drunken sleep.” A breath, and Rhaenys looked as though she wanted to throttle her son, while Viserys began to regret asking. “It turned out Daemon had his way with her, and I shall not tell you the details, My King, for I believe no man needs to hear about their daughter’s marital bed. Anyway, I woke up two days later, and we did our duty. A month later, well, you know the rest. And to this day, we still do not know.”

Corlys would like to blame the Targaryen blood in his son’s veins for his… interesting delivery of their coupling, but it wasn’t. That was his grandmama reborn, and she was a terrifying lady, so Corlys decided to just reach for a biscuit. Daemon was laughing outright, purple eyes trained on Viserys’ creased forehead and opened mouth. It opened and closed a few times, eyes rather like a confused goat, so large and shiny. It was uncomfortable.

“I regret asking. It matters not, the three of you have been raising your children together for years, and you have done a fine job.” Viserys said after a few moments. “I apologise, Laenor. I had thought the rumours were simply because of your position, I am sorry for putting you through any sort of discomfort.”

“There is no reason to apologise, My King. I would not trade the life I have now for anything in the world, I am happy as I am, with the people I love, and our children.”

If the King had still been ill, Corlys was sure he would have collapsed, his heart burst and his brain mushy in his head. There was supposed to be subtly, so as to not aggravate the King, for they’d been lying to him for years, and nobody could be sure how Viserys would react to Daemon. He loved his little brother, yes, that was obvious even to a blind man, but that did not mean he always liked him. But something shifted on the King’s face, from resignation to happiness.

“You will not be seeking a break of the marriage, then?” Viserys sunk into the chair. “Thank the Gods, it would have been difficult with three children.”

“No brother, the annulment to the Bronze Bitch was enough. You’re lucky I hadn’t made my way to the Vale yet, otherwise she would have had a very unfortunate riding incident.” Daemon admitted with a shrug. “The three of us want to bind our blood, as Aegon did.”

Corlys wasn’t sure how much more the King could take, but Rhaenys was just staring at her cousin with unhidden amusement. Targaryens were so strange.

“A full Valyrian ceremony, a triad marriage, on Dragonstone.” Viserys surmised. “Fucking Hells, brother, can nothing be simple with you? The Faith alone will cause a plethora of issues, not to mention my Small Council.” The King looked to Corlys, and Rhaenys. “You both knew as well.”

“Why should we care about the opinions of the Faith when they won’t respect ours? When they’re nothing but seven-faced fuckers who take their pleasure when they want, from who they want. They have never respected our family, Viserys, nor will they, and if they do not respect us, they must fear us.”

“You sound like Maegor.” Viserys accused, looking stricken at his words, but he did not relent. “Not every member of the Faith is like the ones you encountered during your time there, brother. We have kin who have joined the order, would you cast them aside thus?”

Corlys felt as though he was missing something. As did Laenor and Rhaenyra. Rhaenys’ reaction was the strangest, for his wife just went still, eyes dark and dangerous. Daemon just looked tired, which was truly terrifying.

“I would if they had done it to me, as would you.” Daemon snapped. “Allow us to marry or not, I do not care. I will continue to raise our children, either here or Dragonstone, or Essos if you seek to banish me again, but I will never stop defending this family, our blood, our culture, our people.”

Silence reigned supreme, awkward and heavy. Nobody dared to move as the two brothers stared at each other. There was a moment where a burst of lavender and lemon thickened the air, and both Viserys and Rhaenyra froze. So odd.

“You will have to get at least seven great houses to support your petition to the Doctrine, and have proof that such a thing has occurred in the past. House Velaryon will not be allowed to stand, but there will be support from Lord Baratheon, and the Lady Arryn and Tyrell, all houses who you share blood with.” Viserys announced after a moment. “If this is what the three of you truly want, then this is what shall occur, I swear it.”

“We intend to use the Tour to garner support, as well as my ladies. House Stark will stand with us, as will Celtigar and Westerling. Would Lord Strong be allowed a vote?” Rhaenyra questioned.

Oh the clever woman, Corlys thought, she had planned this from the beginning. From the Ladies to the Kingsguard, to the Royal Tour and even ensuring the relationship between her siblings was sound. Corlys was a fool for having underestimated her.

“Let us not forget house Darklyn, Cargyll and Marbrand.” Daemon added. “But we have time, brother. We want to do this properly, otherwise it would have already been done.”

“Then done it shall be. Now, we must plan, there will be resistance, but we cannot allow for it.” The King looked to his brother, and Corlys was unsettled. “And dragons do not bow to gods or men.”

***

Alicent 

It was odd for Viserys to request her presence for matters of politics, even after all of these years together. Alicent was not a fool, she knew she would never love her husband, and that he would never love her, but they didn’t despise each other, which was nice. It was better that what could have been, a daughter of a second son, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, mother to the future King. Her children were the future of the realm, or they would be once that savage little beast was removed from the equation.

Aemara, the heir’s heir, the Silver Dragon, the Dragon-Flame, and the term Alicent hated most, the Dragon’s Daughter. How a child of barely seven name days could inspire such a visceral reaction that even the small-folk seemed to adore her confused Alicent to no end. She blamed the Red Witch that was always by the girl’s side, the heathen, dark and ritualistic magics that were being taught. Alicent also blamed Rhaenyra, for perhaps the child would not be as touched in the head if it was not a bastard, or if its supposed father did not enjoy the company of other men.

It did not help that since the girl’s conception she had stolen Alicent’s children. That Rhaenyra, who had once looked upon Alicent as though she hung the moon and the stars, who held her when her mother died, who loved her yet could now barely stand her, had stolen her children. Aegon was near a man grown, eleven years to his name and still he was too simple to see what the future held. He would either be King, or they would all die. She did not recognise them as her children. They were Targaryens in that moment, silver-haired and wrapped in red and black. She needed to get them back. To protect them. To ensure they fulfilled their true duty to the Realm. And if she could not get them back, then she would have to produce more, for that was the power she held in this world.

She had no friends at court, save for the septas she surrounded herself with, and Ser Criston who was so utterly devoted that Alicent never had to worry. He would keep her children alive, even if he had to break them in the process. Larys was also a decent companion, for all of his wit and dryness there was something else there, something Alicent did not dwell on. He was kind to her, listened to her. And she still had her father. Her father, the same man Rhaenyra had forced the King to banish for simply doing his duty. But what would a spoiled princess know of true duty?

Even the Lord Hand, who Alicent disliked because he had stolen the position from her father, seemed to be enthralled. She was sure it was because his son had not only fathered Rhaenyra’s twin bastards, but also the true-born children of Laena Velaryon. His judgement could no longer be suited to best support the Realm. She would have to convince Viserys to reinstate her father.

She would also try to convince him to bed her. Her only power in the world was her womb, which had birthed three healthy babes with relative ease. She had wondered why the previous Queen had suffered as she did, miscarriage after miscarriage, still birth and still birth. Her father blamed the Targaryen sins, their inter-marriage and the beasts they controlled, all of it unnatural in the eyes of the Seven, who then cursed them. He had done so with a smirk, as though he knew of something Alicent did not, but he had always known everything. There was no smarter man in the realm than her father. Perhaps with another child, one that would be raised and fostered in Oldtown, in the ways of piety and faith, one that would never be stolen by Rhaenyra, one that would never be bewitched, she would have a chance.

She entered her father’s chambers, small though they were and so unlike the ones he had lived when he resided in the Tower of the Hand, and he was sitting behind the desk. An empty wine glass sat before him.

“Sit down, Alicent.” She sat. “Where are your children?”

“They are in lessons with the girl, father. His Grace wished for them to learn together, with the witch and Lady Laena.” Alicent admitted.

“You seem to have lost your children, daughter, but have your senses abandoned you as well? The court can see the divide in the Royal family, you are an outsider. You must do something to bring the King to heel.” Otto growled. “Must you fail at everything?”

She burned with shame. Here she was, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, mother of the future King, and her father was speaking to her as though she was an unreasonable child.

“I plan to bed him, father. And to have the child raised in Oldtown, so he will follow the true path.” A breath and she steeled her nerves. “Perhaps if we were to remove one of the children, Rhaenyra will return to Dragonstone.” Her voice shook, and she begged the Gods to forgive her. “The beastly girl, she is a threat. She has done something to my children, corrupted them, twisted them.”

Her father stared at her; eyes wide. For a moment Alicent felt proud, despite the disgust that coiled in her stomach. Her father agreed with her. It shattered with the wine glass that was thrown across the room.

“You foolish, idiotic girl. To touch the girl would be to burn the realm to the ground at this very moment. They would burn every inch, every house, obliterate all of our plans in order to avenge her. She may be a beast, of sin and lust, magic and depravity, but she is untouchable. Your own children would cut you down where you stand for uttering those words.” Otto snapped, face reddening with temper. “Do not touch the girl, Alicent, or you will regret it. We all will.”

“Then what do you suggest father? My children are nearly lost to me. I have no allies at court, I have nothing to bargain with.” Her tone was hysterical, for she was near tears.

“Your plan to bed the King has merit, daughter. And we are not without allies. There are things at play that you do not understand, but rest assured the Faith will hold true. But so long as they control the dragons, we cannot make a move. Ours is a slow game, and if we are to win, we need more support.”

“And how do you suggest we kill the dragons, father? The only thing capable of killing a dragon, is another dragon, and they will not do that so long as that beastly bastard lives.” Alicent snapped.

Alicent remembered Aemara as she sat twirled a training blade in her hand, of the manic gleam as she stared into fire, her obsession with the dragons that bowed before her. A bastard having that much power was disgusting, and Rhaenyra had the gall to propose marriage between her precious first-born and the beast.

“The Dornish have slain a dragon before. They shall do so again. They’re also an expert in poisons.” Her father sighed, looking at her with a disappointed frown. “Do not think the dragons invulnerable. They are unnatural, but they are alive, they must eat and sleep, they can still die.”

She nodded at her father as he poured more wine, offering her a glass. They were both weary. Tired. The drank in silence.

“Go to the King, and ensure the children are properly punished by their teachers tomorrow, and that they are accompanying them on the royal tour.” A brief pause. “Once they come of age, marry Helaena to Aegon. If he were to have sons, the Lords of the Realm would look more favourably upon him.”

“We decry them for such disgusting practices and now you want my children to do the same?” Alicent hissed. "I have had them blessed."

“We are doing it to ensure the stability of the Realm you ignorant fool. So that we may live. If the children are lost to us, our lives are forfeit. Now go. I wish to be alone.”

Alicent nodded, standing quickly before she bowed her head to her father before she headed to the King’s rooms. The guard, Ser Erryk or Ser Arryk, for she could never tell the difference, announced her arrival.

Viserys was surrounded, his cousin and her husband seated together on a small lounge, while Laenor, Daemon and Rhaenyra were together, closer than was necessary. It seemed as though Rhaenyra was in the middle of a story about one of her children. But she stopped when she noticed Alicent at the door, only to turn away to continue. None of them stood when she entered, once again refusing to acknowledge the rules of court. She smiled before she took her seat beside Viserys, who just gave her a soft smile.

“Poor Luke thought that Arrax was dying. I’ve never heard a dragon scream as such, father, but it was just his first molting.” Rhaenyra said. “You can tell he came from Syrax.”

“Tis better than the Ghost though. He’s as swift and silent as Death, he just appears in the clouds while we ride.” Laenor added. “Somehow Aemara knows exactly where he is, she delights in it.”

“My granddaughter is more dragon than man, Laenor.” Viserys said with a chuckle. “A true Valyrian mage. It’s the book I wanted to give you, actually. I believe she will find it interesting.”

Alicent hated the book. It was insanely thick, and Viserys had taken it from the hidden vault that Alicent knew existed, but didn’t know where, and he had been transcribing and translating the ancient High Valyrian for months. It had put a horrific dampener on her attempts to seduce him into bed. He had also showed her some of the pictures in the ancient tome, things that had made Alicent pray to the Seven for her soul because of how wicked they were. It was a good thing that Valyria was dead and gone, sacrificed in the cleansing fires of righteousness for they were nothing more than a plague of depravity.

“Did much of your history survive the Doom, Corlys?” Viserys wondered. “Perhaps there is something about joining Velaryon and Targaryen blood, as it was for Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys?”

Alicent wanted to laugh. There was no way the bastard child had come from Laenor’s loins. But she had remembered the way the heir of Driftmark had defended his supposed children, how he would have cut through Alicent if she were not who she was. If she was not Queen.

“Tales of the Merling King, but we were never dragon-riders. We belong to the sea, to the salt-water in our blood.” Here the Sea Snake smirked. “I see she still wears her hair-pin. A lovely sea dragon.”

Viserys huffed. Alicent found the entire thing ridiculous. He had never spoiled their children as much as he did the bastard, or even her brothers. He had gifted her with the jewels once worn by the dead Queen, had clasped it around her neck with a declaration of how her grandmother would have loved her, and then sat with the child on his knee. He’d told her stories of his beloved wife, of her Arryn homeland, all while Alicent sat there. What was worse was the fact her own children also seemed to be enthralled by the tales.

“I fear we shall have to fend off suitors along the Royal Tour, cousin.” The Queen Who Never Was Spoke. “Not only is she a vision, but as future Queen, her hand is the most desirable prize. Even the Essosi will vie when the time comes.”

Alicent felt Viserys tense beside her. She knew he wished to marry Aegon, or Aemond, and once he had even mentioned both, which had led to Alicent screaming herself hoarse, to the girl. She would not allow it. The beast would die before that would happen. Alicent would die. But was it not a Queen’s duty to forward the matches for the Royal Family?

“I’m sure there will be many suitable men in the future, Princess, Lord Stark has a son Aemara’s age, does he not?”

Rhaenyra’s head snapped to Alicent, amethyst eyes glowing in the afternoon light. She was so beautiful, but the thought made Alicent want to scream. Rhaenyra held nothing but a blackened heart and sinful blood.

“My daughter will marry whomever she wishes, whenever she wishes, Your Grace.” Alicent’s title was heavy with venom and vitriol. “That is the way of the dragon, when we find something we want, we take.”

Then why didn’t you take me? Why didn’t you love me? Why do you hate me so? What have I ever done to deserve your scorn? I love you, I love you, I love you.

It grew awkward for a moment, for all present knew that Rhaenyra had desired a match, and that Alicent had refused it. The Targaryens knew that would not be the end of it, Corlys knew it. Alicent did not. Instead she sat back and watched, understanding as each moment passed that there was little to be done until she had conceived another babe. She would perhaps have to get the King drunk, for what drank man could deny the marital bed and its duty? Alicent must have zoned out, because a high, breathy laugh caught her attention. Rhaenyra.

“Do you remember the time Jace tried to follow Aemara into the water?” Laenor asked.

“Gods yes. He though after one lesson he would swim the seas.”

“Is he a strong swimmer?” Alicent asked, only to receive a booming laugh from Corlys.

“Of course he is. The seas are in his blood. You’ll never hear of a Velaryon drowning, much less the Lord of the Tides.”

“I pity Baela, she’ll have her hands full in the future.” Laenor muttered.

“They are to be wed?” Viserys asked with interest.

“That is the plan, cousin.” Rhaenys answered with a smile. “Though they are young yet, we have saw no need for a formal announcement.”

“Would it not be odd? They are being raised together as siblings.”

It was apparently the wrong thing to say and the room suddenly felt colder than ever before. Her husband turned to her, an eyebrow raised.

“Mine own parents were siblings and they loved each other more than anything apart from Daemon and myself, and sweet Aegon.”

“I meant no disrespect, my love. Targaryen customs are still confusing to me.” Alicent blushed.

“Tell me, my Queen.” The title dripped of venom on Rhaenyra’s lips. “In the years you’ve been a member of our house, have you ever tried to learn our customs? Our histories? Our culture? Our language?”

“Rhaenyra.” Viserys sighed.

“No father. I will not let it pass, especially since I’ve learned my brothers and sister are not being taught any of it.” Rhaenyra hissed. “Aegon is ten and one and he hasn’t been taught more than his dragon commands. He does not know anything of our home, our histories, nor our culture. Helaena the same. And Aemond only knows them because I taught him. The Queen herself admitted to Daemon that she permitted them to go to the Pit once a week to bond with their dragons, and that was years ago.”

“Is this true?”

“I did not know.” Alicent protested. “The Maester recommended he spend more time on his letters, he is struggling with them.”

“Why was I not informed that my own child was struggling with his studies? By you, by Aegon, by the Maesters?” Viserys demanded.

“He is sensitive about it, husband. He did not wish for anybody to think him simple.”

Laenor snorted, shaking his head with grim amusement on his face. Alicent wanted to curse him.

“The words, they are jumbled and letters appear differently, do they not? Especially ds and bs? It will take him time to read something, but read to him, he’d understand it?” Laenor questioned.

“You are correct.” Alicent admitted begrudgingly.

“I have the same issue. It doesn’t help that my writing looks like a toddler’s first attempt even after all these years.” He didn’t seem ashamed of it, which confused Alicent, but she worried about the implications. “Perhaps Maester Merrin could join us on the Royal tour? That way the Prince will have somebody to help him.”

“That is very kind of you, Laenor. Had I known about the issue I would have sought your assistance years ago so the poor boy didn’t have to suffer though falsehoods.”

Alicent realised she was having a terrible day. She would have to wait for her effort to bed the King, it seemed. No matter, theirs a was a righteous mission, and they would take their time.

***

Aemara 

Pain was a constant companion, one that fuelled her, warmed her even. Her mind was different, she knew, her blood carried the memories of those who came before, and fire and blood were more than just her family’s words. They were the Targaryen benediction and destruction rolled into one, their salvation and ruination, just like Aemara herself. She winced slightly as there was another wing-clap in her mind, but it was not painful like it usually was. No, it was worse.

She was in her rooms, Jace and Luke were with Baela and Rhaena in aunt Laena’s apartments, but that did not mean she was alone. Her aunt was beside her, reading a book on flowers from the West, while Aegon and Aemond were practicing their High Valyrian. They did not have the same fluency she did, but they did not have the advantage she had, the dreams she had. Helaena may see a twisted facsimile of the future, but Aemara re-lived the past as it occurred. She closed her eyes for a moment, taking in the sounds of pages turning, Helaena’s whispered reading, Aegon’s attempts of their mother tongue, and Aemond’s humming.

It was nice. Soothing, even. And then it vanished in an instant. Aegon hissed and slammed the book closed, and Aemara opened her eyes, glaring at him across the table.

“The book is an innocent bystander, uncle, what has it done to earn your ire?”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Aegon huffed. “I cannot translate it.”

Aemara frowned. There was a darkness in Aegon’s voice, a bitterness that spoke of repeated failure. She stood up, collected the book and sat beside her eldest uncle. Aemond watched them for a second, before turning his own attention back to his work. He had been irritated all day, snapping at the septon who came to their lessons, he had been short with Kania and Aemond, and had simply ignored Helaena. Aemara didn’t like it.

 “May I see?” Aemara asked. “Perhaps if we do it together, it will be easier. That’s what papa always says.”

“Fine.” Aegon grumbled, crossing his arms.

She worked through it slowly. In truth it was not difficult, and Aegon had no issue when she read it to him, and slowly she began to understand. They had never had proper lessons together before, and the letters Aegon had sent in the past were often dotted with mistakes, curved letters and misspellings. She had simply assumed he was excited. But no, he was like Laenor.

“Aegon?” She whispered softly. “Do the words look wrong to you? Twisted and pulled, like you’re looking through a glass?”

There was a sharp intake of breath, but Aemara did not know where it originated from. Aegon looked at her, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together thinly. It was not a kind look.

“What would you know of it? You’re the perfect little princess, you face no struggles in life, you have whatever you want. You have no right to judge me.”

“Aegon.” Helaena hissed.

Aemara sucked on her teeth as she stared at him, her face one of blank scorn. She refused to acknowledge that his words hurt, that the way he looked at her hurt. But pain was her constant companion, she was a daughter of Old Valyria, the Dragon-Flame, he could not hurt her unless she let him.

“I was simply going to inform you, Prince Aegon, that my father may have been able to assist you.” Aemara stated, her voice as cold as the insidious chill that screamed through her hollow bones. “Please vacate my rooms, I wish to visit the dragons.”

Aegon stared at her dumbfounded as she stood, stepping away from his hand that tried to circle her wrist. Aemond looked at her, frown heavy on his lips and Aemara simply raised an eyebrow at him, a challenge. He did not rise to it. She did not need to look at Helaena to know her aunt was staring at her book in an attempt to avoid the confrontation.

“Might I accompany you?”

Aemara would never deny Aemond a chance to surround himself with the dragons, not when she knew the thoughts that raced through his head. Not when she could hear the mournful, regretful cadence of the egg for not yet being ready. She did not smile, but she did nod. Aemara called for her guard, and for Kania who was following her daily meditation in her room.

“Princess?” Kania questioned, taking in the obvious tense atmosphere. “What do you require?”

“An escort to the Dragon Pit for myself, my aunt and uncle. You will come with us, yes? I doubt any of us will fly today, the clouds are thick and it’s meant to storm.” Aemara answered as Ser Erryk, who became her unofficial Kingsguard appeared. “And you, Ser?”

“A shall gather an escort, Princess. Do remind your mother this time, yes? I’d rather not be complicit in another one of your vanishing acts.” Ser Erryk huffed fondly.

Aemara smiled sheepishly at him, that had been a fun day. She had vanished from her rooms early in the morning during a great storm, only to take refuge amidst the Dragonmont. Muna had been furious, having searched the entire castle, only then to check Syrax, who had slept soundly despite her rider’s worry. She’d been banned from unsupervised dragon visits for weeks.

“I will, Ser. We shall meet you in the courtyard?”

The knight nodded his assent before he disappeared in a flurry of white and cream. Aemara looked down at her clothes, they were not her riding leathers, but they were also not courtly finery. They were what she would wear upon Dragonstone, comfortable, flexible, and as such, she did not need to change. Helaena looked at the book that she had her hands folded over, and Aemara shook her head with a fond smile.

“Bring it, just sit by Dreamfyre. I’m sure she’ll enjoy it.” An idea struck her, and her blood warmed significantly. “Aemond, bring your egg.”

Her uncle eyed her as though she had lost her mind, but it made sense, didn’t it? Only a dragon truly knows a dragon, only a dragon can soothe a dragon. Perhaps the egg wouldn’t be as sad if it was surrounded by its brethren. Aemond seemed to think for a moment and then he shrugged, turning on his heel, no doubt to collect the egg. He had never refused her a request, no matter how silly it sounded, and it appeared he would not start now.

“What is your plan with the egg?” Kania questioned. “Will it hatch?”

“No. But its song is sad, as though it is an outcast. With its brothers and sisters, perhaps…”

Kania hummed thoughtfully before she nodded. Helaena requested she fix her hair before they left, for the little hatchlings in the Pit had a habit of huffing hot air that caused it to puff and tangle. Especially little Moondancer. Aemara simply prayed to the Fourteen Flames that the dragons would ease the building pain in her head. With a sigh, she looked to Aegon, who was staring at the carvings on the table as though it was the most interesting thing in the world.

“Would you like to come with us?”

“No.”

Aemara swallowed, ignoring the flash of hurt that coiled in her gut. Leave Aegon to be prideful, to refuse an honest offer of help, and to his fictitious notions. She would find comfort with the dragons, and perhaps they would tell her what she needed to know. Or she would live a half-life, cursed by the past.

***

The storm had indeed descended upon the capitol, thunder cracking in the sky while shards of ice-white lightning cut through the darkness, illuminating the heavy rain. Aemara could not sleep, nor could she warm, and her head ached. She could feel the tears in her eyes, wet and hot, but they refused to fall. The fire in the hearth did not warm her, and Aemara was tempted to crawl into the flames. The dragons cried out in her bonds, Silverwing letting loose her mercury flame where she and Vermithor were nested with Wildfyre, Dreamfyre and Sunfyre, as though that would warm Aemara. It didn’t.

She fell back into the pillows and pulled the blankets high, biting into the thick fabric in an attempt to stifle her scream as a thunder-clap erupted in her head. Aemara closed her eyes and breathed in the way Kania had taught her for meditation, slow breaths held and exhaled in repetition until Aemara felt as though she was floating.

Images assaulted her mind as she unlocked the blood-based memories that plagued her, that had been hammering at her mind for days. No longer was she stuck in a child’s body, she was grown as she often was, a vision of her future in her past. Even with her opened eyes she did not see her room in the Red Keep, instead she was surrounded by sand, by towers and a choking, dry heat. A dragon was beneath her, not Silverwing or Wildfyre, for it was too large, too dark. It was only when a large bolt sailed through the air, Aemara understood.

I am Rhaenys. I am Meraxes. I am the blood of the dragon. I am going to die.

She could feel the bond between dragon and rider, completely open in a way so few achieved. They were one heart. One mind. One soul. Entangled in fire and blood. Meraxes banked left in an attempt to shield Rhaenys from the scorpion bolts, for the dragon knew her scales would protect her. But the dragon did not think a bolt would slam through its eye a mere second later.

It was an agonising, sickening sound and Aemara was powerless to do anything but watch. Meraxes did not die, and the great she-dragon tried with all of the life she had left to save her rider, to keep Rhaenys alive. Aemara tasted the acidic bitterness of bile in her throat as Meraxes destroyed Hellholt, plummeting into the fields. Rhaenys had survived, though her legs were broken. But as Meraxes took a final, shuddering breath and let loose a string of stuttering flame, Rhaenys Targaryen, wife of Visenya and Aegon, died. Her soul shattered as it lost half of itself, leaving behind nothing more than a beating heart and agonised screams.

Aemara cried as she crawled toward her kin, and she embraced the woman as she clawed at her skin. It did not help. It never did. She was nothing more than a phantom, never seen, never heard, and unable to do anything by watch. She watched as Rhaenys crawled to her mount, how she curled around the smoking blood as it burned her skin. Aemara knew she was cold too. There was nothing left of Rhaenys, her death was a slow and agonising one to witness, weeks of her skin burning and blistering in the cells as the dragon-fire in her veins consumed her.

Visenya and Aegon’s rage ignited something in Aemara, for she knew the histories said they did not like each other. Histories, she remembered, that were written by the Citadel. But that could not have been further from the truth. Their love was a different one, like her muna and papa, for Visenya was like Kania, but Rhaenys was their little sister, the third head of the dragon, a piece of their soul. They were bound, Aemara realised, by dragon song, like she was. But their love could not survive such a loss, and love and hate were two sides of the same coin. Was that what awaited her future? Loneliness? Bitterness? Heartbreak? Runation?

“Why show me this? Why do you torment me so? Has my family been cursed since we stepped upon this land? Are we to never know happiness?”

She screamed to the skies, as though it was answer her. As though the Parthenon of Valyria would give her a sign, as though the Fourteen Flames would burn again to answer her questions. She mourned with Visenya and Aegon, Balerion and Vhagar on Dragonstone as they lit fourteen candles around a crown and sword, a long, sharp tooth resting atop them.

“We are Valyria, and today Valyria has lost its jewel. We are the blood of the dragon, and today we have lost a dragon. We are one heart, one mind, one soul, and we have lost part of ourselves.”  Visenya began.

“One day, there will come another worthy of the gift of Aeraeys, and she will come from our blood, from Rhaenys’ gift, we have seen this. Let this be Valyria’s warning that salvation is not without loss, that our duty to the gods and the Fourteen Flames is not without sacrifice. Rhaenys knew of her sacrifice, and for her Dragon-Flame, she leaves these to you, for when you need them most.”  Aegon said, taking Visenya’s hands in his before he cut them both on his dagger.

Blood dripped over the sword, a hilt of onyx and rubies spread like dragon-wings, while the blade itself was the colour of fire and blood, and a short dagger of ivory and ebony lay across from it. The crown, thin veins encrusted with diamonds and rubies glittered, it too made of Valyrian steel and pointed like the tip of a sword, sat in the centre, with the dragon’s tooth completing the triangle. Ivory flames sprang to life, veined with violet and silver. The colours of Valyrian mourning and godhood.

“Dorne may be unbowed, unbent and unbroken, but fire and blood will reign, we swear it. Rhaenys and Meraxes will be avenged. From our blood, will come salvation.”  

Aegon and Visenya repeated it as one, and the two dragons roared, lightning up the skies with their powerful flames. Aemara awoke with a startled gasp, unsure of how long had passed, but it could not have been long for the fire still burned brightly. Only now its flames reflected those from the past, ivory and violet. She scrubbed at her eyes, her nose, which were covered in blood and tears. There was a knock at her door and Aemara jumped, she wiped away the mess on her face.

“Come in.” She called, voice hoarse and dry.

The door opened with a creek and three silver-haired heads stood there. She had expected Jace or Luke to be standing there, for they often clambered into her bed when storms rolled over Dragonstone. They had not tried it with their parents since they had walked in and promptly been traumatised.

But it was not her little brothers standing in her doorway. Somehow, her uncles and aunt had snuck through the castle, into their rooms, and then into her room specifically. She was glad they were not assassins.

 “Are you okay?”

“Helaena had a nightmare. So we went to stay with her, but then the storm started and we wanted to make sure you weren’t scared.” Aegon said, staring down at the ground.

“You don’t have to say yes.” Helaena added.

Aemond didn’t seem to care for social niceties as he placed his Starfyre on the bed. He then, without waiting for Aemara’s answer, got into bed. She shook her head, petted the pillow and watched as Aegon and Helaena squished themselves close.

Outside the windows, a vicious storm raged, raindrops sounding on the windows with harshness. However, it did not disturb the sleepy children who became one, legs and arms tangled in a tangible mess of limbs. It was peaceful. Warm. Safe. Helaena’s hair tickled her neck, Aegon’s freezing hands warmed against the sheer heat Aemara burned with, while Aemond huffed, already half-asleep.

“I’m sorry.” Aegon whispered. “I cannot stand you being angry with me.”

Aemara understood then, why she had been shown what she had been. Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys were bound by dragon-song, just as Aemara, Aegon, Helaena and Aemond were. It terrified her, to imagine what would occur if one was to be lost, but she would not dwell on the future when the past haunted her so. Instead she nosed into his neck and purred.

“There is nothing to forgive, uncle. Now sleep, we have a busy day tomorrow.”

That was how Rhaenyra and Laenor found them the following morning. Still piled together amongst furs and silks, the storm had abated but the fire had not. It glowed with the colours of Old Valyria, and in the sky outside, a violet light burned through the sky like the red comets of old. They shared a look. Everything was about to change, but it would take years for it to be noticed. But Daemon was not a fan of the picture he saw before him.

“We’re fucked.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenys  

When they had departed from the Red Keep a strange sense of nostalgia overcame Rhaenys. She had forgone riding Meleys, unlike Laena and Daemon who flew overheard, jets of flame curling prettily through the air. Her father’s dragon, and her uncle’s dragon, reunited once more. It warmed Rhaenys’ heart to see it. Her good-daughter had watched the road as the knights marched, Ser Steffon to her left, while Kania sat abreast a beautiful silver stallion to her right. There was something in Rhaenyra’s expression, something that reminded Rhaenys far too much of Aemma, for even now, over a decade later, it still pained her to think of her cousin. That fear, the terror, Rhaenys wasn’t sure how Rhaenyra could have forgiven her father, how Daemon, who loved Aemma like a sister, could forgive him.

“You seem distracted, Rhaenyra. Are you well?” Rhaenys questioned.

“I am.” Rhaenyra admitted, eyes flicking from the road to her good-mother. “How long do you think a road like this could last before it’s worn to nothing? Until it cracks and sinks into the earth?”

Rhaenys was flummoxed by the question. While in some places the road was weaved of brick and mud, in others it was nothing but a dirt track, muddied earth sunken by the wight of carts and horses. But a road was a road, it did its purpose. Rhaenys’ confusion must have shown on her face, or her disbelief, for Rhaenyra just chuckled at her. For a moment, Rhaenyra’s eyes flicked to the sky where the riderless dragons followed Vhagar and Caraxes, and it was easy enough to spot both Meleys and the bronze-gold of Syrax.

“The Ghiscari had roads of copper, we had roads of dragon-fire, of melted and shaped rocks that lasted generations. Look at the state this is in already.”

At that Rhaenys shook her head. What Rhaenyra was saying was true, but Westeros was not Ghis, which was built upon the bones of millions of slaves and thousands of years of ingenuity when Westeros was nothing but trees. Nor was it Valyria, where fire and blood magic were commonplace, where they were the foundations of everything that made Valyria what it was, besides the dragons. While it was true house Targaryen possessed the largest number of dragons it possibly ever had, they were no mages, no witches or builders. They were not even the conquerors they had once been.

“It is a pretty picture, Rhaenyra, but a fanciful one. While we have the dragons, we do not possess the magic.” Rhaenys frowned, looking toward those who marched alongside them. “Do you think the people would allow witchcraft to aid them? One led by a woman?”

Rhaenyra huffed and looked back to the rushing river of Wendwater. They were still a day or two away from Bronzegate where they would rest for a few days before they continued on to Storm’s End. Rhaenys knew the reception that waited them, her uncle would be welcoming, he would support whatever she supported, but his son and heir was a different story. She doubted young Casana could be used to sway her brother, but they would have to wait and see.

“Men have ruined the world for us, mother. The Realm will never choose us, so we must make sure not to leave them a choice. What army, what man, could stand against a united house of Old Valyria? Against dragons?”

The heir’s words were not wrong. The words Aemara had said weeks ago were not wrong. The women of Westeros did not know true power, and they never would. But Targaryens were not Westerosi. They were not beholden to their whims and faith and chains. Rhaenys may have lost the crown, but she would ensure Rhaenyra didn’t. That Aemara didn’t.

***

They journeyed well, sometimes raiding and other times flying just to break it up. Rhaenys had been in the air with Aemara and Aemond when Silverwing shrieked, a horrific, blood-curdling sound that shook in Rhaenys’ bones. The she-dragon swooped low, landing far off in the distance of Bronzegate. Rhaenys knew her family history and she knew the memories in Aemara’s blood. She did not think it would make for a good mix.

It took her a moment to sooth the Red Queen who followed Silverwing to the ground with a startling bust of speed that had Rhaenys’ own heart thumping over her worry. Aemond hugged his niece close, chin resting on her braided mercury-coloured hair as his fingers dragged along the leather of her clothes. She watched as Aemara stumbled on the dismount, kneeling into the grass, fingers splayed amongst the dew-slickened blades.

“What happened?” Rhaenys questioned, once she herself had dismounted and stood by the children. A moment later Saesmoke and Wildfyre landed with a thump. “Aemond?”

The child shook his head, whether he did not know the answer or in an attempt to clear the scene before them from it, Rhaenys could not be sure. Her granddaughter was muttering in rapid High Valyrian, a prayer, a promise and a curse all rolled into one. When Aemara looked up, her eyes were no longer the colour of Valyrian godhood, but dancing flames of fire and blood. If Rhaenys was a different person, she would have taken a step back.

“What did you see, sweetling?”

There was a startling clarity to the girl’s eyes as she breathed in deeply. The scent of dragon and air surrounded them, fresh and smoky as the sun reached its highest peak.

“When dragons go to war, everything burns. Men, horses, grass and castles, nothing can withstand our magic.” Aemara said clearly.

The words made Rhaenys uneasy. Her granddaughter spoke as though she was more dragon than man, more magic than not. Perhaps its was true, perhaps it was not. Viserys was the one who read into lore and myth, while Rhaenys preferred logic and understanding. But this she could not understand, and she doubted she ever would.

“This is where the Storm King died. I can feel Meraxes, hear her roars and smell her flame. It’s nothing like Dorne. It’s wet.”

There was a haunting confusion to those words, a horrible reminder. None had known what happened to Rhaenys’ namesake other than she and her bonded had died in Dorne, be it when Meraxes fell, or if others were to be believed, after many, many moons. If Aemara had seen that. Felt that. Rhaenys didn’t want to imagine it, how a child could be forced to experience that by her Gods’ blessing. It was a curse.

“What happened in the South?” Aemond asked quietly, as though he did not want to know. Rhaenys couldn’t blame him.

“They were one, Rhaenys and Meraxes, more than Visenya or Aegon ever were with their dragons.” Aemara admitted. “When we lose our mounts, the fire in our blood that binds us, burns through us, consumes us, curses us.”

Memories remind Rhaenys of Viserys, skin slicked with fever, his veins glowing red and black as Balerion’s flames had. She loathes to remember those days, those days when she was so close to losing her cousin who had once been more like a brother to her, when she remembers Daemon’s tear-stained eyes as he tried not to cry. Don’t worry big brother, you can rest now. I won’t let anything happen. Rhaenys is here too, and papa, and Aemma. And the dragons, and the blood of the dragon defends its own.

Rhaenys knelt down before her granddaughter and Viserys’ son, a child himself yet he held onto Aemara as though she would disappear to the sands of time if he let her go. As though she would be consumed by the memories, by the fire in her blood that burned so bright and hot it must have blinded the poor thing.

“Can I hug you, sweetling?”

Aemara didn’t respond. Instead, she reached forward and planted herself against Rhaenys with a shuddering sob that crackled wetly in her throat. The dragons keened high in their throats, advancing as though they could sooth her distress like a couple of soft kittens. Rhaenys wrapped her arm around Aemond as well, and in the distance, she could hear the riders approaching, the dragons snarling a vicious waring of bared fangs and glowing eyes. She held both of the children close to her, kissing Aemara’s hair as her fingers found the dip in Aemond’s skull.

She took a moment to breathe, and Rhaenys Velaryon of house Targaryen sent a silent prayer to the Fourteen that her granddaughter would be granted peace.

 It would not go unanswered, but peace and war are forever connected, entwined by time and fate. But the Gods did not seek to destroy the child’s mind simply because it amused them, for it didn’t. She was burdened with a glorious purpose, not of ice and fire, but fire and blood, salt and smoke. And the day would soon come where the past would alter the future.

***

Boremund 

He heard the shrieks of the dragons overhead before he could make out the sound of horse and men. Boremund did not find it surprising, for even having seen his niece’s beast up close, dragons always made him cautious. While he may not be as staunch in his followings in the Way of Valyria, he had its blood, and though his great ancestor, nor any Baratheon since, had claimed a dragon save for his niece, blood did not forget blood. It was something his heir seemed to forget.

He would not admit his surprise to anybody, but news of the Tour had intrigued him. For the first time since the Great Council the Targaryens were fully united, though if the whispers from court held true it seemed the Queen was not privy to such a thing. He would have to ask Casana further, for her letters were filled with wonder and excitement, but held little in politics. Not that he could blame the girl, he too would be filled with wonder if he resided with a dragon born princess who seemed to be the embodiment of her house words. He couldn’t wait to meet the little princess.

Boremund startled when the ground shook as the mighty Vhagar, who seemed to dwarf his keep in darkness, landed beyond the outer walls. He was grateful that the magnificent creature, ridden by his own blood, did not try to land on the keep. Beside him Borros swore with a yelp, and what father couldn’t find humour in that? His expression turned serious as he clapped his son on the shoulder.

“I have little care for your disregard of the future Queen, son, but if your tongue wags with drink, I will not prevent Prince Daemon from removing it. We share blood with the future rulers, twice over, Kinslaying shall never besmirch our name. Do you understand me?”

There were rules that governed the act of Kinslaying, ones that had long fallen out of common knowledge. If the bond was denied truly, by both parties, then the shared blood meant nothing. But it meant something to Boremund, to his niece, her children, her grandchildren despite what those fucking rumours would have him believe. He knew Prince Daemon, he knew Laenor, and even Rhaenys would not stand for insults. What he did not know, however, was the Crown Princess. He wondered how motherhood had changed her, how her governing of Dragonstone had changed her.

“I shall not speak a word of them inside my own halls, father.” Borros replied.

“My halls, son. I am not dead yet, you would do well to remember that.”

The assembled guards and men stood straight as the party was led into the keep. Black and red banners whipped in the growing wind, the blues of the Velaryon sigil so unlike the stony, stormy sky above. Boremund stepped forward as the Crown Princess Rhaenyra dismounted her horse. She had changed in the years since her own marriage tour, grown from a girl into a woman, her face sharpening and eyes more cunning as they glowed a deep indigo.

“Storm’s End is yours, Princess. We are honoured by your presence, and thus we honour you and yours: A grand feast on the morrow, to allow you to rest from your long journey.” Boremund announced with a low bow.

He was grateful that his son followed his movements, or else everything might have been fucked from the beginning.

“My thanks, Lord Baratheon, for welcoming us into your home, and for the feast you have prepared.” The Princess responded with a dip of her head. “I fear the weather was not kind, and the children are in need of rest, could you direct us to where we may keep our dragons?”

“The dragons are free to nest outside of the castle walls, Princess, shall I call my maester? Mayhaps the travel has been too much.”

There was a genuine concern to Boremund’s voice, and it seemed the Princess picked up on it, but there was something else. A distrust. She smiled at him, true and soft, and thanked him once again but denied his maester.

“I shall have baths prepared in your quarters. If I may, where is the Princess?”

“In the coach with Casana, my Lord, and the others. She would have greeted you at once, but I fear Aemara has fallen asleep upon her lap.”

Boremund huffed a funny sounding thing with the image of the future Queen of Westeros held to his daughter’s skirts. It was a kind image, one that boded well for the future of his house if only his idiot fucking son learned that he was just that: A fucking idiot.

“Tis all well, Princess. Come into the halls, I fear the weather will only worsen. I shall have the servants direct your belongings.” He turned to Rhaenys, who looked every inch the Targaryen Princess, as she had done since her first labour turned her hair white. “Niece.”

“Uncle.” She replied with a curve of her lips. “You have not changed much in the years we have been apart.”

Boremund may not have changed, but he knew the game had. And he couldn’t wait to see how it played out.

***

Before the feast the following evening, Boremund found himself sitting across from his niece in his study. Outside the castle’s thick wall, Shipbreaker’s Bay roared with howling winds and violent cracks of lightning followed by vicious thunder. Boremund was not a superstitious man but the weather outside reflected the turbulence within his keep. His son had attempted to flatter the Red Priestess, and when she rebuffed his efforts, nodding to his wife, Borros had grown irate. The Lord of Storm’s End wanted to clatter his son like the thunder outside.

“You have always supported me, uncle, in my failed bid for queenship, and in endeavours past. I would ask you to do so again.” Rhaenys requested.

“If I can grant your request, I will.” Boremund said sincerely.

“During their years on Dragonstone, Laenor, Rhaenyra and Daemon have grown close. Close enough that the three of them wish to bind their blood as the conquerors did.”

Boremund choked on his spittle. Whatever he had been expecting, that was not it. He caught sight of his niece’s amusement as she took a sip of her sweet wine. He of course knew why she was asking him, Laenor was his kin, would be the future Prince Consort, but more than that, the Faith would require assurances.

“You support this?” He questioned.

“I support prosperity and unity for the Realm, uncle.” Rhaenys answered. “And what mother does not what to see their child happy?”

“And the support of the other houses? You require seven, do you not?”

“House Arryn, Tyrell and Stark will support the motion, of this we are sure. House Lannister remains to be seen, for neither brother is particularly happy that Rhaenyra refused their hands, but Lannister’s are Lannister’s. They will not throw their lot in until they are sure of the outcome.”

Boremund conceded her point with a slight downturn of his lips. If the whispers from the Red Keep were true, he very much doubted that the Hightowers would support the union, for it would further strengthen Rhaenyra’s claim. After all, only a fool would stand against the Rouge Prince in an effort to harm his kin.

“And any children born of the union?” Boremund wondered.

Rhaenys sighed. She looked at him appraisingly for a moment, as if to judge where his intentions lay. Boremund did not blame her, he wanted to secure his house, and having kinship with the throne, one borne from blood and war a hundred years ago, solidified by marriage and children, was prosperous. Gods knew Borros hadn’t got a fucking clue.

“The succession will remain the same. Rhaenyra will be Queen, and Aemara after her, Gods willing.”

“Is the little Princess to be betrothed to her brother then?” Boremund asked.

“Jace and Luke will marry Baela and Rhaena when the time comes, as Lord and Lady of Driftmark and Harrenhal respectively. No such match has been made for Aemara.”

“The Prince?”

Here Rhaenys snorted, and Boremund knew he was missing something. Even in their short time within his home, he could see how the King’s sons and daughter followed after the young Princess. How they sought her out. Even he could sense there was something Other about the child, but he did not wish to dwell on it. He was not a man fool enough to trifle with the Gods, any of them.

“As I said, no match has been made. She is young yet, perhaps in time.”

That smirk was back again, the one Rhaenys always wore when she knew something somebody else didn’t. Boremund sighed. He nodded to the Queen Who Never Was, and raised his cup. She mirrored his actions.

“House Baratheon will stand with its kin, niece. I swear it.”

***

Rhaenyra 

Travelling was hectic at the best of times, Rhaenyra knew, but travelling with several children, and a horde of dragons really made her question her sanity. They had passed through the Stormland’s with relative peace, if one could ignore the incident at Bronzegate, and then Borros Baratheon’s wandering eye and hands. But they had secured the Storm Lord’s support for the blood-binding, and Casana had taken great joy in showing the children through her childhood home. Rhaenyra would not admit to how her heart thundered in her chest when she saw her sweet daughter gliding above Shipbreaker’s Bay on an unusually clear day. Though she would fondly remember Syrax sitting upon craggy rocks as Seasmoke and Caraxes brought her beautiful Golden Lady their sea-catch. Such a spoiled thing.

But the had since moved through to the Reach, passing through bountiful fields and villages, farmers and crafters who sold their wares. Rhaenyra had watched her children giggle and whisper, their faces sticky with spun sugar and ripe fruit-juice. She had seen Aegon and Aemond, Jace and Luke, spar beneath Harwin and Laenor, while Daemon instructed the girls. Unfortunately she also had to deal with Ser Criston’s hateful gaze, and his barked words that dripped venom disguised as praise. She wondered how easy it would be for him to just disappear into the maws of the mighty Vhagar. She’d just tell anybody who cared, not that there would be many, that he had ran away to sell oranges and cinnamon.

“Are you alright, muna?” Luke asked, his rounded cheeks tinged pink from the wind.

She held her sweet boy close and kissed the side of his head once, twice, and then a final time before she pulled back to look at him. As the years had passed, his hair had darkened, while his eyes lighted to a pale indigo. He was quiet, shy even, and stuck to Aemara like a barnacle when he could. Laenor had asked him once, and Luke’s reply was so simple, yet so warm-hearted and full of love that none could deny the truth to the then four-year old’s reasoning. Two simple words: She’s safe.

“Of course, my love. I’m just excited to see my aunt, it has been many years and I cannot wait for you to hear stories of your grandmother.” Rhaenyra said.

“When we grow up, will we not see each other?” Luke wondered, voice tinged with something small and frightful.

“Sweet boy, we have dragons. There is nowhere in the world we could be that would prevent us from seeing each other. Besides, it will not be for many years yet.” Rhaenyra thumbed his cheek, a grin pulled on her lips. “Unless you wish to leave us so soon? To spread your wings and search off ancient lands, to see the wonders of the world.”

“No.” The boy denied quickly. “Unless it’s with grandfather. I like the ships and seas.”

“Whatever you wish for in this life, my sweet son, you need only ask.” Rhaenyra said, mind wandering.

“Can I have another sugar stick?”

Rhaenyra huffed and kissed the side of his temple before she led Luke off to the gaggle of children around the campfire. She was sure if her father could see her, he’d laugh, for most nights were spent beneath dragon-wing, as it had been the night Aemara was born, when her sons were born, her nieces. There were guards milling about, the Kingsguard close, and Kania and Harwin were sat amongst the blankets while Laena braided Aemara’s hair. Gods only knew where Daemon and Laenor had vanished to, but she could easily imagine just what they were doing,

It was strange, Rhaenyra reflected as she grabbed a peach, how her family clung together. How one would seek out the others, how plates of food meant nothing and were shared freely. She wondered if that was her life would have been had her mother birthed her siblings, had survived. Gods how she missed her. Rhaenyra’s bond with Syrax pulsated uncomfortably, as though the she-dragon was also remembering Aemma Arryn and how she had fed her almond cakes whenever Rhaenyra could convince her to go to the pit.

Thinking of her mother made Rhaenyra think of her daughter, her sons, the life she has created. She wondered how her mother would slot into it, if she would teach Aemara how to sew and host, how to wheedle the information out of the ladies of court with nothing by a smile. She wonders if her mother would be proud of her children, of how they treat those around them, with care and compassion, regardless of who they are. Rhaenyra knows she would. But by the Gods, the Fourteen and everything holy in the world, she wanted nothing more than for her mother to be beside her.

She leans down to press a kiss to each of the children’s heads, her fingers lingering on Laena’s shoulder in silent thanks. Rhaenyra could not imagine her life within her good-sister, without her constant support and love, her loyalty and kinship. Sometimes she can not help but wonder what had occurred in the time that would not pass, that life where Aemara did not exist, and her life was nothing but her children.

She had her ladies now, her Kingsgaurd who so faithfully defended her, not only out of duty, but out of care and companionship. She had Kania, her wicked defender from the East who would peel the skin from those who stood against her, she had Laenor and Daemon, her children, her siblings, her father, Rhaenys and Corlys. She had her supports. She had her people.

(She may not have Alicent, but perhaps she never truly did. How much of their friendship, their innocent love, had been Otto Hightower’s manipulation? How much had been real and how could Rhaenyra ever look past the taint that stained it?)

And soon, Rhaenyra would be reunited with her mother’s half-sister. She did not wish to think of what Talia had uncovered, nor why she had wished for a private meeting once the convoy arrived in Highgarden. It wouldn’t do well to speculate, Rhaenyra knew, but it had to have been something important, something that would change the field of play. And yet, as she sat down upon the blankets, she found she could not care, not when her own blood sang in joy.

***

Later that night, beneath a full moon that glowed brightly and a sky that danced with a thousand glittering diamonds, Rhaenyra kissed her children’s heads as she wrapped the blankets around them. She had wondered if a life in the palace would make them discomfited to traveling, to the fresh air and insects of the country, but it had not. In fact, Helaena rejoiced, often spending her time amongst the grass and insects, pointing them out to a bemused Jace, all while Aemara stood, glowing as though to ward off those who would think her aunt lesser for her peculiar interests.

Rhaenyra found the entire thing adorable, and in the back of her mind she wondered about a match between the two if Jace had not already been betrothed, and if her daughter’s blood did not sing for Helaena. They would be beautiful together, she had mused.

 They loved Highgarden, had loved walking though the vast gardens and sitting under the trees as they practiced their lessons. It warmed her heart to see them all together, the twins, the other twins, her daughter and her siblings. The House of the Dragon was truly united, but bonds break and shatter. Rhaenyra knew that better than anybody.

As much as she herself wanted to crawl into bed and sleep away the aches of travel, her aunt had requested her presence. It was unusual for a meeting to be held late into the night, but Rhaenyra had a feeling it was important. Talia’s letters had been plentiful from a political standpoint, an arrangement of glass houses, fruits and grains that would grow on Dragonstone, and of course about Rosalyn. But there was nothing about the Maesters. Nothing of the Faith. It unnerved her, for how much could be hidden from the Wardens of the South? From their liege house?

“Rhaenyra.” Talia called, reaching to fill a goblet of wine, a straw-gold colour with the sweet scent of apple and peach. “I believe we will need it.”

“How bad is it?” Rhaenyra questioned as she took a seat. “My children?”

“I cannot attest to their safety as much as I would like to.” Talia admitted with a frown. “My news concerns your mother.”

Rhaenyra was thankful she had not yet taken a hold of the wine, for it would have fallen from her grasp. There was only one reason her mother would be mentioned with the Maesters, only one reason Talia would look so stricken. Fire roared inside of her, furious and defiant for its kin. Somewhere deep in the ether, in death, Valyria howled and Aemma Arryn held her lost sons and daughters close.

“They murdered her.” Rhaenyra stated voice deadly calm. “They butchered the sweetest woman to walk the earth since my great grandmother, for what? To allow Alicent Hightower to be Queen? To have their sons upon the throne of my ancestors?”

“The Hightowers are powerful, Rhaenyra. Not only through their gold, or their politics, but through their control of the people. The Faith governed us long before dragons left Valyria, the Citadel had taught the Lords and Ladies of Westeros for generations. Both decry magic, decry myth and legend. Would it be a stretch to believe them capable of this?” Talia questioned.

“Of course not.” Rhaenyra scoffed. “Otto Hightower is little more than a vulture perched upon my father’s shoulder, plucking away at his carcass until there is nothing left but bone and dust.”

There was little stopping her from mounting her dragon, from talking them all, and burning Oldtown to nothingness. To set their precious beacon alight with the colours of fire and blood. But she would not. She could not. Not if she was to make the realm listen to her.

“Aemma was always sickly, even in childhood, but to lose as many children as she did is questionable. You mentioned your father’s health improved when he stopped using the Maesters, and while I am no expert in foreign medicine, it seemed to work.”

“It has. The rot has vanished, my father is as he was when mother was still alive, minus a few fingers.” Rhaenyra remarked. “Kania investigated, but she was met with brick walls and sneers no matter where she turned.”

“Unsurprising. The Hightowers brought the Seven, and while I find no issue with the words, I find issue with the men who control the masses. We are kin, you and I, your children and I. My husband will support me in my support of you, I guarantee it.”

“Can you not decrease funding? Audit the Citadel, the Faith?” Rhaenyra wondered.

“The Citadel is funded by the Hightowers, and the Faith is the Faith. We cannot go against them, none of Westeros could, save the North. But you are not of Westeros, your children are not of Westeros, and neither are your siblings.” Talia reminded.

“By the time we return to the capitol, every living Targaryen will reside within the Red Keep, and they will be present for the most momentous occasion.” Rhaenyra admitted with a smirk.

“Oh?” Talia leaned forward. “Is the tour little more than a marriage tour, dear niece?”

Rhaenyra huffed a laugh. “It is, but not Aemara’s. Daemon, Laenor and I are to bind our blood, on Dragonstone, as our ancestors did.”

“And you wish to solidify support form the great houses.” Talia stated, an amused grin pulling at her thin lips. “Oh I wish to be there when the Faith find out.”

“You will support us, then?”

“I will, for Aemma. For you. For our kin. Without the Targaryens house Tyrell would not be what it is, and it’s about time somebody remind the green vipers where they belong.”

***

Alicent 

She found herself with little to do since her children had been taken from her, stolen by Rhaenyra’s promises of a grand adventure, stolen by that ghastly, beastly girl who grew more and more dangerous as the days went on. Ser Criston had informed Alicent of the events of Bronzegate, and for a moment the Queen could only smile as she imagined the child twisting through the air before she landed, her bones shattered and ground to powder. Perhaps those beasts that followed her would die with her. It would certainly make her plans run smoother.

It had been near on six months since her children had left, since Alicent had tried to take control in the one place where she could: Bearing royal children. But nothing had taken root, much to her humiliation. It was worse, for Alicent knew the King had no true desire for her, that their couplings were few and far between. Her father had scoffed at her, once again laying the blame at her feet, for how could a man not want to bed a beauty such as the Oldtown Queen? Alicent had not known it, but her father was mocking her, mocking her inability to the one thing she was born to do: Breed.

But it had not worked, for the King was too busy with matter of state, too busy with his stupid model of his decayed and ruined home, too busy reading through tomes with graphic pictures. She had spied the book once, and Alicent had flicked through the pages, the script unfamiliar, but she could not deny what she saw in those pictures, as beautiful as they had been. It was nothing but sheer debauchery, made worse by the incest, made worse by the dragon couplings. Alicent had prayed to the Seven to preserve her soul, taking refuge in her own rooms that held tapestries of her gods where she was protected from the horror that was Valyria. She was glad the land was naught but stone and ruin, a colony for those afflicted with Greyscale. A cursed land, from a cursed people, for a cursed people.

Even the few times she had managed to entice the King to bed, when he was well into his cups and saw her as nothing more than his dead wife, when he called her Aemma and whispered words he did not mean into her ears, nothing had taken root. It was her second greatest shame. She did not dare think on the first.

Alicent was alone, her father was more often than not in meetings that she was not privy too, and she would not admit how much it irked her. She was the Queen, why did her opinion not matter? She wanted to know what her father had planned, for she knew it concerned Aegon and his rightful Kingship, it concerned her children, her own future. Her life meant nothing if Rhaenyra or any of her bastard beasts came to the throne. Her children’s lives would mean nothing.

She found herself missing Criston and his quiet companionship. She had sent him along on the tour when Ser Arryk had been unfortunately injured, for she needed somebody she could trust to protect her children. To guide them in the ways of right and wrong as the Good Book warned. Her children would need their souls cleansed, exposed to the world with Rhaenyra and her brood of savages. Oh how she worried for her children. Her only real friend was Larys.

Larys, who was sitting across from her, hand on his cane with his head resting upon it. They were kindred spirits in a way, one forged by duty and the other by the Gods’ wishes. Alicent did not think less of him, for his defect was a punishment on his traitorous father who had stolen the office of Hand from her own father.

“You worry, my Queen. Is there anything I can do to ease your sufferings?”

He was so kind, Larys. He was always offering to assist her, whispered words in the ears of those who commented upon Aegon’s drinking habits, how he told her of Daemon’s visits to the brothels to see his White Wyrm whore from the east. She smiled at him, kind and genial as she was taught to do, even if there was little to smile about.

“Any mother would worry for their children when they are to be separated for so long.” Alicent admitted. “I feel as though I am missing their lives, Aegon had celebrated his nameday, yet I was not present. Helaena will be next. He will be a man grown by the time he is returned to me.”

“I understand, Your Grace. Especially if the rumours from the villages are true.” Larys said easily, smile never leaving his own lips. It was a twisted, vicious thing, not that Alicent noticed.

“Oh?”

She did not react in the way she wished. Alicent knew what the people of Westeros thought of Rhaenyra, of her savage daughter and those beastly bastards. They were fooled, tricked by the red haze of the heathen from Volantis. Rhaenyra was not kind. She was not gentle. She was not good. She was plague, a plague that wrapped around your heart and squeezed the love from it, who burrowed deep inside so that she would forever torment you.

“The small folk are enraptured by the presence of the Princess Rhaenyra and her sons, but there has been none who have met the little Princess who have not become enamoured on sight. They say where she goes, Princes Aegon and Aemond, and the Princess Helaena follow. She is never without the Red Woman, and Ser Erryk seems to her personal guard. They seem to believe she is some sort of Valyrian Goddess reborn.” He finished with a laugh, but Alicent could not find any humour in the situation. None at all.

It was her biggest fear come to life. The longer her children spent with the girl, the more lost to her and the righteous path they became. Up until now, she had heeded her father’s words, but no longer could she stand by while her children were twisted, used as pawns against her. She could not stand their lives being decided by a demon cloaked in human skin.

“And my children, they are well?”

“From reports, they are. But who knows what the Red Woman is feeding them, my Queen? It is not my place to judge her, but magic is myth, and I fear what it could do to impressionable minds.”

“And if I found a way to ease my worries?” Alicent asked, a slight tremor to her voice.

“It would be done.” Larys vowed.

She did not even take a second to think before she nodded her assent. Larys smiled, and it made Alicent uncomfortable, and perhaps later she would feel remorse, but what is the death of one heathen for the path of righteousness?

***

She found out by accident. Alicent knew she was never meant to hear the words until they were formally announced, and that irritated her. How could Viserys keep something like that from her? That Rhaenyra, Daemon and Laenor were to be wed, in accordance to the tradition of their blood. The very thought sickened her. No man should marry another man, let alone a woman married to two. The very thought made her stomach turn.

“I understand that it is different form your own faith, but we are not of the Seven. We are the last of Valyria, it is our duty to uphold our customs.” Viserys tried to soothe.

“You must understand how the people will see it. How the Faith will see it? They would trample upon every duty and custom of our religion.” Alicent hissed.

“Then the people will be reminded that I am their King.” Viserys replied coolly. “That they will have no place to refuse once we gain the required support, which we will. I leave on the morrow for Claw Island, to secure the support of our Valyrian brothers and sisters.”

Valyria is dead, Alicent wanted to scream, burned in the holy fires of righteousness to cleanse the magic and sin from its core. Oh how she wanted to scream and scream, but she could not. She was Queen, her son would be King. More than that, she was a Lady of Oldtown. She would not break in the face of such disgusting practices.

“Will you be gone long?” Alicent asked instead.

“Vermithor is large, I will be back by nightfall.” Viserys answered, that stupid gleam in his eye.

Her face must have shown her displeasure at the mention of the bronze beast, but Viserys just laughed. That dragon was also another reason why her plan for another child failed miserably.

“Don’t worry, he is well used to flight. And the skies are to be clear, and he would not threaten my life. We will stop at Dragonstone, to check on the free dragons.”

Free dragons, that was what Aemara called them. Alicent wanted to scoff, they were untamed beasts, even worse was that black one that followed her like an eldritch shadow in the skies. She hated them all, even those bonded to her children, because while that beastly girl lived, how could she not? They flocked around her as though she was their sun, their saviour. By the gods did Alicent hate her.

“Of course, husband.”

“Oh and Alicent? I trust you to keep news of the engagement a secret for the moment, I have a grand feast planned for when my family is finally reunited.”

Alicent smiled and nodded. She, of course, would mention it to her father when they ate together on the morrow, when the King was gone. It was what the Gods would want, after all, and who was she to deny them?

***

Criston

He thoroughly regretted agreeing to his Queen’s desperate pleas. He regretted every moment he was forced to endure a whore masquerading as a Princess, a pillow-biter playing the loving father, and Daemon Targaryen. He also despised dealing with the savage children his own charges seem to cluster around, despised the Red Woman and Ser Erryk as they trained the girls, while Daemon, Laenor and Ser Harwin aided the boys. Criston truly hated his life. Hated the royal tour. Hated them.

He had watched as Rhaenyra charmed lords and ladies, peasants and farmers, as she lived up to her title of Realm’s Delight. He had been forced to lay witness to her daughter’s poison that dripped from her lips like a red haze of compulsion and control. Wicked, sinful witchcraft was to blame, Criston had no doubt, especially when he saw the girl’s head in Aegon’s lap as he brushed his fingers through her hair. The Prince’s dragon had been about, as was the black beast. Criston had no doubt in his mind that either Erryk, or the Red Witch, were but a stone’s throw away.

Criston was not a stupid man, contrary to what many would believe. He knew Rhaenyra and her ways well; he had fallen prey to her insidious nature. It seemed as though unless Criston acted as the future King’s shield, he too would fall victim to the tainted blood of a whore’s daughter. It made sense, he realised. The Queen had forbidden any sort of engagement between the future King and the whore’s bastard, yet the girl did not seem to get the message. In a few years Criston was sure the girl would be nothing but a temptress.

Even know, he watched her distastefully from the side, with the elders flying racing their dragons through the skies, he had been tasked to look after them with Erryk and Ser Steffon. She did not train with a sword, but rather two odd-sized daggers, one long and one short, as though there was a weapon out there that would one day fall into her hands. Criston wanted to scoff as Aemara twirled the shorter blade in her hand, unknown words of High Valyrian passing through her lips. He was about to reprimand her for not paying attention when there was a sharp yelp. One of the Strong bastards had managed to get Aegon on the ground with a satisfied grin, though Criston knew the blonde-headed Prince could buck off the little runt. It was unfortunate that he held some sort of fondness from his nephews, and the beastly girl.

“Cast him aside, my Prince.” Criston called.

“He’s barely six.” Aegon pointed out, holding out his hand for his nephew with a smile. “Well done, Luke. Now, why don’t you and Jace try and get both me and Aemond down?”

The youngest bastard turned his wide, pleading eyes to the somewhat solemn silver-haired Prince. Aemond sighed, shoulders falling back before he shrugged. Criston wished there was no audience so he could remind the Prince just how unseemly such an action was. Instead, he watched as the two bastards scrapped while the Velaryon girls entertained the Princess Helaena with a small, green dragon. He lost sight of the little witch, but his sworn-brother didn’t seem to concerned, nor did he pay any attention to Criston other than to scowl.

Honestly, Criston thought, I was sure it was you I had pushed down the stairs. At least the bastard twins are not identical, that would make it much harder.

There was a sharp crack followed by a painful hiss as Lucerys slipped upon the grass, dragging Aegon down until the Prince was nothing but a sprawl of limbs. The bastard boy was bleeding, red staining the brown of his tunic. Criston didn’t care. He pushed the bastard to the side, and knelt beside his future King.

“It’s Luke who’s hurt.” Baela shouted, Moondancer squawking like an angry bird as it followed her.

“Are you alright, my Prince? Do you require a maester?”

Aegon groaned and ignored Criston as the beastly girl helped him up. For a child of eight she was unnaturally silent, unnaturally strong. Just unnatural really. Seeing that Aegon was indeed fine, he rounded on the sniffling little bastard who clung to his sister. She was whispering something, her fingers carding through thick, dark curls, but her eyes were on Criston.

“And what of my brother? A Prince of the Realm who is bleeding before your very eyes?” Aemara questioned. “Or do your eyes fail you as well as your senses?”

“He is a Strong boy, he will survive.”

The mercury-haired Targaryen, for in that moment it appeared as wild and destructive as the beasts she charmed. She took a step forward, releasing her brother who was pulled toward Aegon and the Velaryon girls, which would have been laughable, for she was little more than a girl, and Criston was a knight, a brother of the Kingsguard, and entirely in armour. But any humour in the situation died when a black beast with venomous green eyes landed with a hiss, its tongue lapping in the air to reveal dagger-sharp teeth. It reared up behind the girl, dwarfing her in shadows, but Aemara did not move, even when it snarled.

Instead it just smiled. For the thing before him could not be a child, not could it be human. It was something else. Something unholy that needed to be burned. There was a second hiss, and the silver-blue hue of another dragon extended its wings. Criston had nowhere to go if the beasts decided to let loose their flames.

“Learn your place, Ser Criston, or your only use to my family will be as dragon-feed.” It smiled again, and in its eyes, Criston saw nothing. “Come brother, we shall have you fixed up in no time, then perhaps we can fly, yes?”

Criston was left standing there as all of the children followed the demon that resided in human skin. The dragons continued to stare at him, before they gave a snap of vicious teeth which forced him back, wet warmth pooling in his small-clothes. They took to the skies with a roar, which seemed to be echoed. He needed to return to his tent, to write a letter to the Queen, to her Lord father and inform them that the beast’s powers seemed to be increasing.

It seemed that in his rush to remove his now uncomfortable clothing, and to craft his letters, he had forgotten that one other person had been in attendance to watch the children. And Ser Steffon would have his own letter to compose, one that would have far reaching consequences.

Chapter Text

Daemon

He would be lying if he said he enjoyed the tour. Daemon liked pomp and affair as much as the next person, especially when he could make a spectacle, but this was too important. Too important for his marriage. Too important for Rhaenyra’s future rule. Too important for the family he had sworn to protect. The company, for the most part, wasn’t insufferable, but Daemon disliked how close his nephews were with his daughter. Helaena was fine, because well, she was their very own little dragon dreamer, and she was Helaena.

Laenor had scoffed at Daemon’s harmless mutterings. The little shit had pointed out if was basically Targaryen custom at this point for nephews to be powerless in the face of their beloved nieces, who need only smile and have the world handed to them. Daemon hadn’t let him come that night, and so Laenor learned his lesson. Their time together, spent so close that one would never been seen alone, and if they were it was not for long. Aemara was constantly surrounded, sat by Laena so she could learn how to help her cousins with their hair, with the little miscreants and their extremely unorthodox lessons with Rhaenys and the other ladies. Jace and Luke clung to her often, especially after the incident with Cole.

Oh how Daemon would love to wet Dark Sister’s vengeful blade with the cunt’s worthless blood, but he could not. As much as they hated it, he was a member of the Kingsguard, and to act against a brother sworn to a white cloak was to go against the King. Not to mention his green protection, who would surely kick up an annoying fuss if her favourite little dog were to find itself without a head. The blade had all but begged for it, its song low and haunting, like the gait of an army thousands strong as they marched. Daemon loved it.

But his Queen had refused it. They could not act so openly, lest they be accused of trying to supplant Viserys, which was laughable really. If anybody was attempting to supplant anything, it was those green cunts and the grey rats. When Daemon had learned what had happened to Aemma, sweet, sweet Aemma, who even at his worse moments, had loved Daemon. Had held him in the wake of violence and pain-fuelled rages. Aemma, his sweet sister, whom he loved, who had been butchered on the orders of a man plagued by his own failure, only for it to be carried out with glee.

Daemon wanted them all to burn.

“Kepa.”

Daemon did not jump, for he was too proud for that. But it was well known that for all their dragons were unmissable, a Targaryen moved with near silent steps. Silent to those who were not blessed by the magic in their veins. And Daemon was sure his daughter was more magic than any Targaryen since Daenys. He turned to her, reaching out to pull her close. There was that haunted look in her eyes, the one that came after a particularly distressing memory.

“What did you see?”

Perhaps it was cruel to force her to relieve it, but there was a reason she always sought out Daemon after the worst of them. Daemon had seen war and violence, had seen the depravities of the world at its darkest. Rhaenyra would never truly understand, and he was glad for it, and Laenor… well, Laenor himself became distressed at what their child was cursed with, and Aemara knew it. For in these moments, it truly was a curse.

“You rode Caraxes to war, does the smell ever vanish?” She asked quietly.

“The stench of war is not one easily forgotten, tala.” Daemon admitted, crouching on his knees so he could get a better look at her. At her eyes. “It is worse when we ride our dragons.”

He saw no point in lying, his daughter may only be young still, her birthday having fallen while they travelled, but her mind was older. It would have to be, Daemon understood, for the things she saw, the things she remembered, did not allow for youth. It had robbed her of the childhood she so utterly deserved, but Daemon did not pity her, because Aemara proved stronger than Daemon had been at that age.

If I did not experience what I have, if I have not lived what our ancestors have, I would not be me. Forged in fire and blood, born of salt and smoke, ash and bone. They give me what I need, so I can be what they need. She had said that the night at Bronzegate. His daughter had more wisdom that most of the most revered men in Westeros.

“The Field of Fire.” Aemara whispered. “It was beautiful.”

Daemon wasn’t exactly sure how to react to that statement, after all, who could? He knew his daughter, his little Goddess of Valyria, had an unholy attraction to fire, but he did not think her lesser. After all, what dragon fears fire? And his girl was the truest dragon in centuries.

“Something is wrong.”

Daemon swallowed at the certainty of the words. The Field was the truest showcase of their power, a reminder of house easily united dragons could cripple a host with nothing but their flames. It was unlike any sort of combat dragonriders had seen since, for even the war in which his uncle died, had never truly reached its heights. Daemon knew it was because no one host had ever truly assembled, not one large enough. If it did… They would be met with fire and blood.

“Should that day come, remember it is us who will fight to keep you safe. There is nothing in this world, natural or supernatural, myth nor magic, that can harm you, little flame. I swear.”

The Valyrian seemed to soothe her somewhat, and Aemara hugged him. Daemon slid his arms around her, hand tightening slightly on the back of her neck as he pressed a kiss to her head. She relaxed, however minutely, if just for a moment.

Then there was an unmerciful roar, and his bond with Caraxes hissed with the unmistakable snarl of danger. Daemon plucked Aemara up, and he ran. The snarling hisses and growls of the dragons grew louder, Vhagar’s the mightiest of them all. He weaved out of the path of several arrows that came from nowhere, deep in the treeline of their camp. The guards were running, the Kingsguard surrounding his kin, there were pained grunts and the clash of steel. Dark Sister’s cadence grew, blade wet and sticky.

“Ser Erryk.” Daemon snarled, putting Aemara down. “Get the children out of here. Where the fuck is Rhaenyra? And Helaena, Rhaena?”

“They went for a walk, my Prince. Ser Harwin is with them and Lady Laena.” Erryk shouted. “Where are they coming from?”

“Onto the dragons. Now.” Laenor ordered. “Do not come down, do you understand me?”

The children were terrified, that much was clear to see. Aemara held Luke and Jace close to one side, Baela clutched to her other side. Aegon and Aemond looked ready to bolt in search of their sister, but with a single look his daughter had quelled them. There was nowhere for the dragons to land, and they could be utterly surrounded.

“Follow Dreamfyre, she’ll lead you to muna.” Aemara said.

The little dragons, Arrax, Vermax and Moondancer were the only ones able to land, but they were too small to yet carry their charges. They weren’t even saddled. But they had teeth and flame, and that would have to be enough. Saesmoke and Meleys flew as close as they could, while Sunfyre circled with Silverwing and Wildfyre.

“There is nowhere for them to mount, whoever picked this location is going to lose their fucking heads.” Daemon snapped. “You have direct sightline, this is the most defensible position we’ve got.”

“Go.” Rhaenys ordered. “We will be fine.”

Just as Daemon set off, he heard Ser Steffon’s hiss of “Where the fuck is Cole?”.

Where indeed?

He wanted to curse Rhaenyra. He truly did. But his heart was hammering in his chest. Harwin would not let anything happen to them, not without dying in the process, but how could his niece be so stupid? And where the fuck was Kania? The jets of flames light up the sky, blue and gold. Dreamfyre and Syrax. He followed them, cutting through any man that dared cross his path. An arrow whizzed past his head and Caraxes roared.

He found them quickly, three dead, Harwin unconscious with an arrow sticking out of his shoulder and blood on his head. Daemon could see his chest moving, but he did not stop. He had to find Rhaenyra.

When he did find her, there was a dagger clutched in her hand, one unfamiliar and unknown, and she was stained in blood. Her hair, her clothes, her face. But before her, there was a savaged man, more gore than corpse. There was a wild and wicked gleam in her eyes. Daemon loved it. Laena stood before the two children, sword raised and waiting.

“Where are my children?”

“As safe as they can be. We need to go, now. Harwin is injured.”

“Where the fuck are the Lannisters?”

There was a roar. And for a split-second Daemon could see through Caraxes. Galloping horses bearing red and gold were coming for them at a frightful pace. But would they be quick enough? Daemon would make sure they were.

They passed through the path Daemon had cleared, for whoever organised this, and it was indeed organised, did a shit fucking job of it. Laena kept the two children before her, and Rhaenyra, his sweet, stupid niece, was clutching both sword and dagger. Laena made a noise at the sight of her husband, whose eyes were fluttering.

“Excellent timing, Harwin.” Daemon barked. “Stand up, take the rear. Anything that doesn’t have silver hair, kill it”

Daemon did not care for Harwin’s obviously battered state. If he could wake, he could walk, and if he could walk, he could kill.

***

Rhaenyra

Somebody had threatened her children. Her kin. Her men lay dying. But they were not broken. They had fought with their last breath, in defence of her family. She would see them rewarded. But first she would seek vengeance.

It seemed, however, that they realised it was a battle unwinnable. They ran like the cowards they were. And when Rhaenyra saw her children, protected, untouched amidst blood and bile, she wanted to sob. She swept them all close to her, her own limbs shaking. She could have lost them. She would have lost them had they not been chased off by Lannister men. By Jason Lannister himself. By his brother. There was a debt to be paid, Rhaenyra knew.

“Princess. Please, take your dragons and fly for the Rock, we cannot be sure the roads will remain clear.” Lord Tyland had said, once they had regrouped.

Her ladies were safe, shaken and frightened, but safe and alive. Her children were safe, her siblings. Her family. Kania was not, unconscious with a blooded slash across her stomach. It was wound enough to kill, but her ruby, which glowed as bright as Rhaenyra had ever seen, seemed to be sustaining her.

“My ladies cannot ride upon the dragons, my lord. And I will not leave them after what they have just endured.”

It was Ophelia Westerling who had begged Rhaenyra, eyes tearful and her face streaked with the blood of a man she had tried to save. Bryna still stood with a bow in her hands, and Casana had a blooded dagger, Rosalie was with the children, held close and humming.

“You must protect your children, princess. We would rather die knowing they were safe, than die with them.”

“None of you will die.” Rhaenyra had snapped.

In the end, Rhaenys had all but forced her hand. Harwin needed medical attention, as did Kania, the children needed to be their priority. So Rhaenyra had relented. They had flown to the Rock with a letter written in Lord Jason’s hand to be delivered to the castellan. They had been shown to their rooms, baths brought and dream-wine poured A Maester had inspected them, declaring that Kania would somehow live, but he did not know what he could do to help.

That had been hours ago. And Rhaenyra had stayed with her family, bloodstained and vicious, until Daemon had forced her into a bath. Until he had washed the blood from her hair, until she had sobbed into his chest.

“When I find out who did this, uncle, they will die screaming.” She had vowed.

Now, she was sitting in her chambers. The children were asleep on the frankly ridiculously large bed. Her sons clinging to each other, Aemara sandwiched between Baela and Aegon, while Rhaena, Helaena and Aemond were curled close. She truly did not know where one child began and the other one ended. The dream-wine would see them sleep easily though the night, enough so that they would not wake unless forcefully. But she did not care. She would sit here through the night, Rhaenys, Laena, Daemon and Laenor around them, while Harwin and Kania were in an adjoining room, her ladies safely ensconced in another.

Erryk and Steffon were outside the door, bruised as they were, they would not move. Cole had perhaps been the worst injured, but not fatally so. Bruises, a few shallow cuts that would heal fine. Attacked while he pissed. Rhaenyra had hoped he would die. How easy would it be to smother him? She could almost feel the pillow in her hands.

“Princess. Lord Tyland wishes to speak with you.” Erryk said as he entered.

“Show him in. The children will not wake.” Rhaenyra dismissed.

Both Lannister brothers had begged for forgiveness already, though it was unneeded. This was not a simple case of bandits. No this was an assassination attempt on the Royal Family, and for all Rhaenyra disliked them, she could see them stooping so low to murder children.

“Princess.” Lord Tyland breathed, falling into a deep bow. He refused to look at her. “The Rock is yours for as long as you need it be, Your Highness. We of course, would understand, as would the other lords and ladies of the Realm, if you were to return to the Red Keep.”

Rhaenyra had pondered it for a moment. She knew her father would all but beg for it, but they could not. To run would show weakness. Show fear. And vultures would soar on their perceived win. Plus, she had business with her kin, and the North.

“An appreciated gesture, my Lord, but we will continue on as we have planned. We do not cower in the face of rats who would do us the discourtesy of an ambush.” Rhaenyra replied. “Though if you would allow us time to recover before the festivities I’m sure you and your brother have planned, we would be grateful.”

“Anything you require, Princess, and it will be yours. To know that this happened in our lands, we are shamed.” Tyland admitted.

“The Crown, nor I, believe you burden any of the blame, my Lord, nor your people.” Rhaenyra said. “Did you recover anything on the would-be assassins?”

“There was a note, Princess.” He answered, handing over the small square he held in his hand. “And none had their tongues.”

“So whoever wished to murder us feared disloyalty, unsurprising from cowardly cunts.” Laenor muttered.

Rhaenyra read the note and her blood ran cold. Nine simple words, each written by what seemed to be a different hand. She looked over to the bed in the further chamver, where her daughter was asleep, nestled between her kin. Aemara, her sweet, sweet girl, her mother’s gift to her, their family’s salvation.

The flame must be extinguished. It is an abomination.

“Who has seen this note, my Lord?” There was a finality to Rhaenyra’s tone that was rarely there. A hardness, despite how quiet her words were.

“The guard who delivered it me, Your Highness, and my brother. We have only just received it.” Tyland swallowed. “Shall I double the sentry?”

“That would be wise, my Lord, and some writing supplies. I must inform the King of this treason.”

“I shall have them sent for at once, Princess.”

Tyland bowed deeply and all but fled. Erryk remained however, and Rhaenyra knew why. There was a grim look as the note was passed around, and Daemon relaxed into his chair, thumb running over his finger. She had not seen him look like that before.

“Princess?” Erryk asked tentatively. “Might I be so bold to ask a question?”

“You wish to know what sort of conspiracy you’ve become wrapped up in? Call Ser Steffon in. We are going to need all the protection we can get.”

She trusted these two men implicitly. They had guarded her secrets on Dragonstone, in the Red Keep, and she knew their loyalty could not be questioned. Rhaenyra looked to Rhaenys, who was still clutching the note as the older knight entered the room. But when she met her good-mother’s eyes, Rhaenyra understood. This was a declaration of war. One that would be fought in the shadows until the true mastermind became apparent. And her daughter seemed to be the true target.

“Princess?” Ser Steffon questioned.

“I shall offer you the chance to step out of this room, so that you may be able to claim ignorance, Ser. But should you stay, know that you will be involved in a conspiracy the likes of which we have not seen.” Rhaenyra replied easily. “A conspiracy that threatened House Targaryen and my own right to rule.”

“I have vowed to serve your house, Princess. Every breath I take has been in service to Targaryen blood.”

“Targaryen blood, you say?” Laenor asked. “And the Queen?”

Rhaenyra was grateful that all of the children had taken their dream-wine, so there was no fear of them being conscious enough to understand the conversation that was occurring just feet from them. She did not feel bad about drugging the children at all.

“Is the King’s wife, and it is my duty to serve her so long as it is in the best interest of House Targaryen, as the White Book dictates.” Ser Steffon answered easily. “I would die to defend her, but she is not what our order stands to truly protect, for Her Grace is not Targaryen.”

And wasn’t that interesting? Rhaenyra knew that Visenya had created the Kingsguard, and Visenya was, to the Targaryens at least, the last true blood mage. Had she somehow bound their oaths to the bloodline? After all, there would have been no issue, what given her family’s incestuous history. But Andal blood was not Valyrian. It was not magical, so the bond did not reach out.

“So, Ser Steffon, shall you stay, or shall you leave?” Rhaenys questioned.

“I would like to know of the danger my charges face, that our future Queen faces.”

Rhaenyra smiled, twirling her mother’s ring. She could feel a hand on her shoulder, cold and ghostly, but lavender and lemon warmed her.

“Then air your question, Ser Erryk.” Rhaenyra ordered.

“Arryk should be standing here. My brother is many things, but a drunkard who breaks his leg falling down the stairs? Never that. The Lord Commander assigned us based upon our duties, Ser Steffon to yourself, Princess, mine your children, and Arryk to your siblings, for he is their guard.” His voice dropped, and his fingers flexed, joints cracking. “Yet somehow the Queen’s personal guard is here, sent on her order.”

She had always known this moment would come. Where lines would be drawn, and allegiances made clear, but never once had she Erryk coming to her. Of course, he’d spent the better part on seven years with them all, he knew them well, knew of the relationship hidden deep within the walls of Dragonstone. His loyalty could never be questioned, not to his King, to his heirs, to her.

But to think that Alicent would order her daughter’s death. Rhaenyra would burn Oldtown to ash, would force Alicent to watch as everything she loved was ripped from her. Because Rhaenyra knew, she knew the song well, the song in her siblings’ blood, in her daughter’s blood. Dragons did not abide by danger to what was theirs. And Alicent Hightower would learn that, or the Realm would burn. She would burn.

“Do you believe that had anything to do with the assassination attempt?” Daemon questioned.

“No, my Prince.” Erryk sounded sure. “But I think he was sent as a way to monitor the Princes. It is no secret Her Grace is less than fond of the relationship they have with their kin.”

Laena snorted. That was putting it lightly.

Rhaenyra remembered the conversation she had with Arryk and Erryk years ago. She held up a hand for a moment before she went to check on the children, all of whom were still sound asleep. Aemond’s dragon egg was in the brazier that provided a low, orange glow to the room. She took a moment. For all of the actions that would follow this decision, would be with one goal in mind: Protect them.

She returned to her assembled group, but she would not call it a council until Lord Corlys was seated beside his wife, until her aunt Talia was with her. She would have to wait for the Starks, but they had sworn to her, and no Stark had forgotten an oath. But the Baratheons could not truly be counted upon, nor could the Lannisters, or the Tullys. Rhaenyra sat, and all eyes fell to her.

“Shall we begin?”

***

Vizzy T

The Celitgars had been gracious hosts, and after a few hours of mindless chatter and showing Vermithor off, Viserys had gathered their support. In truth, he knew it was all but guaranteed. What had surprised him though, the vehemence with which they offered it. Though they were Valyrian, the Targaryens had not married them, they were not as entwined as they were with the Velaryons. But the Celtigars were loyal, not only to the throne, but to Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra, who during her time on Dragonstone had made a point of creating a profit that allowed the Celtigars to repair and improve their own port. Claw Island, from the one time Viserys had visited it nearly thirty years ago, had changed drastically. All because of his daughter. All because she had accepted Vaelencia Celtigar as her lady, thus ensuring an advantageous match for the young woman. Rhaenyra, who welcomed her with open arms, who brought her home to see her sickly grandmother. Rhaenyra, who held of all Aemma’s greatest qualities.

In the beginning, when Viserys was still getting used to being alone in the Keep, he often found himself turning to Rhaenyra for her views on the Realm’s dealings. Perhaps he had been a fool, all those years ago, simply to keep her as a cupbearer when her ideas had merit, when her plans worked. Then she had been married, and with child, and a new mother. Viserys had not expected her to continue as his cup bearer, but she had, but she did not speak during Small Council meetings. But she did speak to him after, where he listened to her input, pointed out places where her reasoning needed to be sounder.

Viserys knew he was a fool, he had wasted so much time in teaching Rhaenyra to be a great Queen because he wanted a son, and yet, she excelled. Rhaenys offered her guidance, toeing the line of what Aemma should have been teaching his daughter, had Viserys not cut her open for want of a son.

It is the only way, either you save one or lose both. It is the only way. It is the only way.

In the end he had lost both, and nearly lost his daughter, and then his other children. Viserys would not make that mistake again. Rhaenyra proved capable on Dragonstone, she could balance her duties between mother and ruler effectively, so none could question her on that accord.

None should be questioning her at all, Viserys. You named her heir, you are the King. The voice sounded suspiciously like Aemma, his sweet, beloved Aemma who hosted his most beautiful dreams and most horrific nightmares. His most beloved Aemma, who did not screech as Alicent did.

“You mean to offer my father the position of Master of Laws? The disrespect alone, Viserys. He was once your Hand, your grandfather’s Hand. This will be seen as nothing more than a slight.” Alicent protested.

“Your father’s interests did not best serve the realm towards the end of his tenure as my Hand. He sought to marry Rhaenyra to Aegon, when the boy was two. He had the heir to the crown followed without my leave. He overstepped.” Viserys reasoned. “I am allowing him a seat upon my council because since Lord Tarbeck died, we have not had a Master of Laws. Your father will be well suited to the role, and it allow him some of the privilege he was previously afforded.”

Viserys knew it would cause discontent among his family. But since Tarbeck had died balls deep in a whore, the Crown was without a Master of Laws and Otto was the best candidate he had. Corlys had called him a fool, and Viserys had accepted it with a grimace. But he could not deny his wife her father, not his children their grandparent. He wanted to unite his family, and that included Otto.

“So it is charity?” Alicent questioned.

“If that is what you wish to call it, then yes. If he is to be around the Keep, as he has been for years, he might as well prove useful.” Viserys muttered. “Now, if you’d excuse me, I have a Small Council meeting to attend.”

With that, Viserys walked the familiar path to the Council chambers. All members were present, and rose when he entered to take his seat. He waved them off before he steepled his fingers.

“I have come to the conclusion that I have been remiss in my duties as King to further prepare the Realm for my inevitable death.” Viserys began. “As such, upon her arrival home, Rhaenyra will be granted a seat at this table as my heir. And, once the time comes, Aemara will act as cupbearer.”

The rabble began immediately. Viserys was unsurprised to find that Mellos was the loudest voice. Gods how that man drained his will to live. He met Corlys’ gaze at the far end of the table, and the Sea Snake raised a frustratingly amused eyebrow.

“It is a good course of action, Your Grace. It will allow the Princess to implement some of her ideas, and after her success of revitalising Dragonstone, we would be fools not to listen to her.” Lyonel agreed.

Good old Lyonel, always ready to support Viserys. He was a better Hand that Otto every had been, Viserys knew. The same Otto that had not spoken from his seat, but was glaring at the ball before him. There was a subtle tick around his eye, one Viserys recognised as anger, but he did not seem surprised. Had Alicent told him?

What else has she made him aware of?

“But what of the coin?” Lord Lyman wondered.

Viserys wanted to cry.

***

The Red Keep had fallen into a lull with most of its inhabitants beyond its walls. However, that peace would soon die, Viserys knew, when there was a messenger at his door before he had even finished getting dressed.

“Apologies, My King. But there is a woman here, she demands she speaks with you. She says she is family.”

“It’s quite obvious I’m family, boy. Do you see anybody else apart from Targaryens who look like this? Perhaps you do, down in the Silk of Street? The girls from Lys are quite talented with their tongues.”

“Hello, aunt Saera.” Viserys announced. “Please do not cause the poor boy anymore trouble. Or the Court. It’s much too early.”

“Oh sweet King, how did you survive with your mother and father?”

That was not how Viserys envisioned his first meeting with his aunt to go since he had been a child. Not at all. But it made sense, really. Saera was what Daemon was, had he been less murderous, and born a woman.

“Mother and father did not discuss their bed before breakfast, which by the looks of you, you have not had. Come in.”

“My thanks, Your Grace. Perhaps we could talk about this pretty little building I fancy, and how I can get it, for the betterment of our illustrious house.”

Saera led herself into his chambers, and with a sigh, Viserys shared a look with Ser Harrold. Saera was no threat, the very fact she had returned home proved that. But Viserys did not know if he could survive her by himself.

By the Gods, he hoped she was never left alone with Alicent. His wife would flee, bathe herself in holy oils, and perhaps run off to the Silent Sisters. It would be worse once Maegelle and Vaegon arrived, he was sure.

“And this house?” Viserys asked dubiously.

“A brothel.” She replied with s shrug. “Come now, nephew. I came back because I knew it would be unstable, Westeros hates women, Targaryen women more so. Your daughter, and sweet Aemara, will need all the leverage they can get to make the Realm bend.”

So you want a brothel to learn the secrets f the powerful so you can blackmail them should they act untoward? Maybe Laenor was right, their family really was fucked up.

“How long have you been in the city?” Viserys asked instead.

“Three days. I wanted to see how much had changed, and how much remained the same. I see you’ve a new dragon, I am sorry about Balerion. It’s a marvel you survived the sickness.” There was sympathy in her tone, Viserys knew, but memories of Balerion still hurt. “I also gifts for you, books I have managed to gleam from the nobles of Essos. Valyrian texts.”

“And Rhaenyra told you that I enjoyed a historian’s pursuit?”

“Just because I have not been here, does not mean I do not know my family, Your Grace. Maegelle and I exchange letters, especially since you were all under the assumption she’d been dead. I have every letter mother ever sent me, that Baelon sent, that Rhaenys sent, and every letter I could never send. My issue was with father, with the way I was treated by the Faith for being who I am.” There was a bitterness to her tone. “From what I hear, we still make their favourite playthings.”

And Viserys did not know what to say to that. He had failed Daemon, but his grandfather had willingly handed Saera over. Had that been why Alysanne had reacted as she had? Why the Good Queen was irate in a way none had ever seen, even during his grandparents’ separations?

Well, there was no time like the present. Saera would be an asset in ensuring there was no dissident, that Targaryen rule would be solidified in the face of the Cold Winds.

“Were you ever told of Aegon’s dream?” Saera raised her eyebrow and sunk back into the cushions. “Well, let me tell you a story...”

Chapter Text

Kania

Leaving the warmth of shadow and flame never got any easier, it left her drained and her blood a touch too cold, but Kania would endure. Her God still had need of her, otherwise she would not have woken from what should have been a mortal wound. But she felt unworthy. She had failed R’hllor and her Princess, her Dragon-Flame.

Kania had been set upon by three men, three large, brutish men who had grinned at her with teethless gums and no tongues. She wouldn’t forget that fight, how even as she killed them, their blood soaking into the red of her robes, she prayed for charges’ safety. How she had begged that if she were to die, her life would ensure their survival.

Even now, even after waking, weeks after the incident, the attack, she could feel the bite of steel as it parted her flesh. She tired easily. She could not eat as she once could, and her mind ached as much as her body did. But Kania would endure. Her charges were safe, her family was safe. Well, as safe as they could be, surrounded by those of questionable loyalty, with a target on the Dragon-Flame’s back. Kania vowed never to leave her side, even if her God demanded it of her. But she knew in her heart, and in the flames she studied, that He would not.

Protect her. Guide her. When the echoes of the past lend basis to the songs of the future, you may rest, my child.

It was how she found herself trailing after the Princess and her cousins as they danced across the hall. Lord Jason had thrown several grandiose feasts since their arrival, but this was by far the fanciest. He was honouring the namedays of the royal children that had been missed as they travelled from keep to keep, as they embraced the nature of the lands they were responsible for. For it was not just the duty of a King or Queen, but a duty of all those of Targaryen blood, those with fire in their veins and dragons at their call, to fight the Cold Winds.

Westeros was a strange land, Kania knew it to be true, so unlike Essos with its rules and regulations. It seemed the people had forgotten the magic in the earth, that ebbed and flowed like water in a stream. It rippled, pooling in certain places, and it was so unlike the magic of flame and blood, but it did not reject her. Or Aemara. Yet none seemed to realise that their myth and legend were truth and fact.

“You should be resting.” Erryk murmured as he brushed his armoured shoulder against hers. “Are you well?”

“My Lord provides, He lends His strength, so I do not fail in my duty again.” Kania replied easily, smiling as Aemara twirled a giggling Baela. In truth, she was exhausted, and Erryk could tell, He could always tell.

“If you failed, then so did the rest of us. We were ambushed, attacked by cowards who sought to murder children. Though knowing what I do, I suspect it will not be the last attempt.”

She wanted to reach out and grip his hand, to promise him falsehoods that it would not happen again. But she did not. She would not so him the disservice of lying about what they all knew to be truth. Aemara was in danger, not for her status, but because of who she was. What she was. Kania did not know if it was the Warlocks, or some insidious plot by men who feared the power in the Princess’s blood. She was thankful it was not an act of the One With Many Faces. Either way, all those involved would meet their end with flame and steel.

“It will not.” Kania decided with finality, Laenor’s laugh echoing through the gilded room. “I fear they will never truly cease.”

“Such is why my Order exists.” Erryk reminded with a smile. “You have the support of my brothers of this I am certain.”

Kania raised a sardonic eyebrow, and then her gaze moved to Cole, who was watching as Aegon slung an arm around Aemara while Helaena tittered. He didn’t seem to find the display amusing. Beside her, Erryk huffed.

“None of us consider Cole to be a brother.” He admitted. “The Tower is odd with him residing in its walls.”

“Can you not remove him?”

Kania had heard of the unknown magic that bound the White Sword Tower and its charges, she had felt it, yet she was unable to understand it. But she knew the importance of its refuge, of its sanctity for those sworn to the Brotherhood.

“Murder is not always the solution, my dear.”

“But it is always an option.” Kania muttered, finding the lecherous gaze of a young knight. “I’d like to start with that one.”

It was true, the young knight, pretty enough with his flaxen hair and hazel eyes, had been nothing but a nuisance. He followed the movement of the girls, that familiar flicker gleaming. It was a look Kania knew well. It was one she hated. Even here, surrounded by guards, his liege Lord and his future Queens, he stared. Kania had heard his words, vile and tasteless, and she would not hear any woman spoken of in that way, but her charge was not a woman. She was a girl, all of them were girls.

“The look in his eye is one I am familiar with.” Erryk said, hand flexing as though he wished to reach for his blade. “Would he be so foolish to act?”

“Should he make any further attempt to speak of Aemara in that way, I shall have his tongue. If he continues to enjoy Princess Helaena with his eyes, I shall pluck them from his head.” Kania said softly, a smile tugging on her full lips. “He had been heard, and the Princess is aware.”

It would surely help the healing process, ease the ache that throbbed beneath the smoothness of her robes, and it would prevent him from harming the Princess. The Princess, who was now seated between Lord Jason and her mother, violet eyes trained on Lord Tyland as he danced with Vaelencia Celtigar. There was a knowing smile on Aemara’s face, and Kania wondered who’s memories she had lingered upon in order to manipulate grown men with naught but a smile.

“It will grant you strength, will it not? A life for life?” Erryk wondered.

He had learned much about her God in their years together, and while he found some of the practices made him uneasy, he had listened to her with unflinching curiosity. It was one of the things she admired the most about him.

“It would.” Kania agreed, turning her head so her lips brushed against his ear. “But that is not why I would do it.”

“Of course not.” Erryk smirked. “For the Princesses, though?”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do.” Kania said.

“Then it will be done.”

Then she moved, robes trailing after her as she headed toward the obviously drunk knight, who himself was advancing on Helaena. Kania looked up to Rhaenyra, who nodded and whispered something to Aemara, whose grip on her fork was so strong it shook. Erryk did not move from his station, though Kania could feel his eyes on her.

“Might I suggest the children retire, Lord Jason? Your festivities have surly tired them.” Rhaenyra announced, causing all eyes to fall to her. “Lady Kania and Ser Erryk will see they are taken care of, as will Lady Baratheon and Stark, so we may continue to enjoy this night.”

“Of course Princess.” Lord Jason dipped his head.

“Come, Princess, Lady Baela.” Kania smiled, before she met the eyes of the lecherous knight, her pendent glowed in warning and he took a step back. “Ser.”

***

Getting several children ready for bed was indeed a greater task than Kania assumed it could be, but Casana and Bryna made it seem so easy. They had washed up, the children were beneath silken sheets, and if any found it odd that the eight of them still clustered together, well, what did they care?

“I believe Vaelencia is smitten.” Casana whispered to Bryna.

“At least it is with the better brother.” Bryna giggled.

Kania shook her head, stepping into the room where the children were close together, Helaena braiding Aemara’s hair while Aemond spoke of dragons and knights to the younger four. Aegon was half-asleep, his eyes drooping as he watched his sister and niece.

“Are you going to kill him?” Aemara asked.

“Does he deserve to die?”

“He called Rhaena ‘exotic’. She is a child.”

“Must you always speak High Valyrian?” Aegon complained. “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

“I believe that’s the point, brother.” Helaena pointed out.

“Then we shall just have to practice more, uncle.” Aemara teased. “Wildfyre is hungry.”

“The tell him to find a sheep, or a whale.” Aegon huffed. “I doubt the Lannisters will care.”

Kania smiled as she stepped away, basking in the sweet cadence that seemed to lull in the crackling flames. Bryna and Casana were seated by the fire, their conversation quiet and gentle, as it often was between the two of them. The door opened to reveal Celia, her face wine-flushed and pink, along with Harwin.

“My sister has overindulged, my ladies, would you mind watching her?” He questioned.

“Of course not, my Lord. We will ensure she does not regret her fun in the morning.” Casana laughed. “Go and dance with my cousin, your sister will be fine.”

“My thanks. Celia, no more wine.” Harwin huffed as his sister made a garbled protest. “My ladies.”

Kania followed him out, and Erryk nodded to Harwin, who faltered for a moment.

“The knight?” He wondered.

“The knight.” Kania agreed.

“I shall stand watch until you return, he is loitering at the corridor’s end.”

Kania and Erryk nodded their thanks. The knight was not difficult to find, nor to lead astray in his drunken state. As they walked, Kania wished to cut his tongue out, for his words grew more disgusting and crass.

In the end, there would be nothing left of him, save for a patch of scorched earth, a happy dragon, and a blood rune burning on Kania’s stomach.

***

Tyland I

The Royal Family was not what Tyland had expected, especially in the wake of an attempt on their lives. He had heard whispers of how they were close, but to truly see it was another thing. They converged around the little Princess as though she was their beacon, always swathed in ebony and ruby, the colours of her maternal house, but Tyland saw the seahorse clip that glittered in her hair. Tyland was sure it was Valyrian steel, and he wouldn’t have expected anything less from the Sea Snake.

He had seen them at the feast held in their honour, where they were all the picture of perfection, the Velaryon girls in blue and gold, Princess Rhaenyra’s sons in red and blue, while the King’s children wore shades of black and red. It was Princess Aemara that stood out amongst the crowd, silver-white hair twisted in clips of onyx and ivory, her dress such a dark purple it appeared black. It was uncommon, yet it made the girl’s presence even more demanding. Everybody had their eyes on her, for it was impossible not to, but her uncles loomed over her for the entire night. It was strange. But Targaryens were strange by default.

What was even stranger, was the girl herself. Princess Aemara carried herself with an air that few could achieve, that few would even know existed. If Tyland were a believer of myth and legend, he would think she was some ancient deity come again. He knew some believed it, though they did not seem hopeful about it. His brother was all but terrified of the child, which was laughable, but Jason was only suited to fucking and fighting. Tyland was smarter. He understood the great game.

One: There had been a growing schism between the two branches of house Targaryen following the Great Council of 101. The family appeared divided. Daemon was heir, and few thought him capable. Then the family broke further when the King remarried, and had male heirs. It was only repaired when Ser Laenor wed Princess Rhaenyra, and their daughter was born.

Two: There had once been a division, what with Princess Rhaenyra named as heir over her brother. That division was solved by the unwavering support from the King, from the Velaryons, and from the Rogue Prince himself. It was further cemented by how Prince Aegon, as the only true threat to Rhaenyra’s legitimacy, did not seem inclined to the ways of a King, and was enraptured in the presence of his niece. Tyland assumed there would be a marriage announced sometime in the future.

Three: Reports from King’s Landing had alluded to yet another divide, but this time with the Queen. There were whispers, for there were always whispers, that none of the Princess’ children were trueborn, and thus Rhaenyra was unfit to rule. But any fool who could listen would understand that she had the capabilities, even if her attention was sometimes focused on her children.

Four: Tyland, who once would have readily thrown his support behind Aegon should the worst have come to pass, found himself in a predicament. He knew where the future lay, with Rhaenyra as Queen, and her daughter thereafter. Her daughter, who was unlike any child Tyland had ever met.

A child that seemed to control the dragons with nothing but a careful thought or a look. A child that had not cowered in the face of death, but instead held her kin close and was ready to tear apart those who came too close. A child, that one day, would rule the realm even if it would burn for it. Tyland did not know how to feel. He looked out to the sea, to where the dragons dove into the waves. It was unnerving to see such beasts, so magnificent and destructive, frolicking.

“Pardon me, my Lord, I did not know the balcony would be occupied. I do not mean to intrude.”  The Princess’ voice carried through the air, warm and lyrical.

Tyland turned to where the Princess stood, Ser Erryk behind her, his eyes focused on Tyland as though he expected an attack. Tyland could not blame him, nor did he find any fault in his actions. He had seen the note, he had heard that the Princess was called the Dragon-Flame, even Jason could have put it together.

“There is no intrusion, Princess. I find the sound of the sea helps me focus on the presence. Would you like to stay? I could have a chair called for.” Tyland offered.

“Your offer is appreciated, but I did not expect to find myself here. I felt the call, and it led me.” Aemara said. She looked out over the carved stone, her eyes fond as she watched the frolicking dragons soar through the sky. “They are beautiful, are they not?”

“I, like most outside of your family hold a healthy admiration of the dragons, Princess, but also a healthy fear. Yet the distance, yes, they are beautiful.” Tyland admitted.

“If you wished to meet a dragon, my Lord, I would suggest Silverwing.”

Tyland knew the implication, as did the Kingsguard who shifted implicitly closer to his young charge. He both wanted to refuse and accept, for who wouldn’t want to meet a dragon when it was unlikely to kill you? And he doubted the Princess before him was about to lure him to his death… he hoped.

“I would not be as so bold to take up your time, Your Highness.”

“We wouldn’t have to move, so no more of my time would be taken up. And I was released from my lessons, I am afraid your Maester could not provide an adequate challenge for my Valyrian.”

He knew the child did not mean it as a boast, but Tyland had heard her converse solely in the language with her parents, her uncle and grandmother, and the Red Witch. The same woman that had awoken from a wound that had killed men, who seemed to see everything. It was impressive. She was impressive. And Tyland just wanted glory for his house. And to not die.

“Then I would be honoured to meet the famed mount of the Good Queen, my Princess.” Tyland dipped his head.

The girl smiled, true and joyful. There was a happiness in her eyes, one that Tyland had seen present in other children, but never in hers over their few meetings. He found himself smiling in return. He did not realise he had walked directly into her web.

There was a roar, and a blur of silver-blue which caused Tyland to take an instinctive step back. The White Cloak did not even twitch. The Princess reached out and said something foreign, and soft whisps of smoke escaped from the dragon’s snout. The girl’s hand was practically dwarfed by the sheer size of the dragon’s head, but there was not an ounce of fear. There was nothing but pure love on the Princess’s face.

“Come, my Lord, a dragon knows not to snap at its friends.” The Princess smiled, and the dragon all but purred. “Those who would see harm to their rider however…”

The purr turned to a warning hiss, and milk-white eyes studied Tyland intensely. Were dragons like dogs? Could they sense his intentions when even he did not know them? Would they act without command?

Friends. It had been weeks, nearly two full moons since the family had arrived at the Rock, and soon they would be moving on, especially since all of the injuries were healed, but Tyland did not think they could be friends. Perhaps it was the youthful folly of a child. But if being friends with the future Queen would ensure he did not meet his death at dragon’s maw, well, Tyland could think of worse fates.

“She is beautiful, Princess.” Tyland whispered truthfully.

“Not many can claim to have touched a dragon up close, my Lord.” The Princess said. “But this is my thanks to you, for ensuring we have all be granted time to heal. House Targaryen is honoured by your continued loyalty, Lord Tyland, and that of the West.”

The dragon opened its mouth, its slobbering tongue quivering as a small hiss built in its throat. Tyland had realised that he had stepped into the web, that he was tangled, and he found it remarkable. The Princess simply smiled, her eyes burning with an ethereal violet delight. Tyland made his decision, and found no lie to his words.

“We are proud to serve, Your Highness.”

***

Tyland stormed into his brother’s solar, shooing out the squawking whore who was sucking his cock. Jason hissed, rushing to cover himself, only to swallow at the look upon Tyland’s face.

“We’re fucked.” Tyland said shortly.

“I was about to be.” Jason muttered. “Please do not tell me somebody has attempted to murder the Royal family again.”

“You cannot be so pig-headed and cunt-drunk to not see how your actions, and your actions alone, may have ruined the future of our house.” Tyland snapped. “Princess Aemara has had me at dragon’s maw and called me friend. I was outmanoeuvred by a child and did not realise it until I stood seconds from what could have been my death had she, or her dragon, found my loyalty dissatisfactory”

“And did she?”

“I’m still alive brother. I know you have listened to Otto Hightower, but this is not a course we can follow unless we wish to end up like House Gardener. You must see that.”

“How is it my fault? The Princess refused your proposal too.” Jason said. “And I had nothing to do with the assassination attempt.”

“At least my proposal included her actually being Queen, not the Lady of Casterly Rock. You might be the Lord of our house, brother, but you’re a fucking idiot.” Tyland reminded. “It has been ten years. You have no wife, no children, we cannot arrange a match with the royal family. We are in danger of being left behind.”

Jason, knowing that his brother was right, sighed. Tyland cursed as he sat down, poured to large goblets of wine, and drank it. His brother looked pensive, his teeth worrying his lip as he blinked slowly.

“Aegon is to be King, it is tradition, he is the first-born son of the King.” Jason reminded.

“And the King has has ten years to announce it, yet he has done nothing but support his daughter. Do you think Prince Aegon would stand against his sister? Against his niece?”

The answer was a resounding, obvious no. Tyland knew that. Jason would learn it. Would the Hightowers? Or was the Realm destined to burn?

“He would not, none of them would. They follow her like a moth to flame, or a lamb to slaughter. She is terrifying, but you cannot help but be pulled toward her.”

“Do not even attempt to propose a marriage brother.” Tyland ordered. “The ladies, they would make a good match.”

“I am not an idiot, Tyland, I’d have my cock cut off by her scary witch, her uncles, and her mother. You like the Celtigar girl, yes?” Jason asked, and Tyland was surprised. It must have shown, for his brother just snorted. “I’m not blind brother, you care for her, and she enjoyed your company. Speak to her and the Princess before they depart, you have my blessing to peruse the match.”

Huh, Tyland thought, perhaps his brother wasn’t as stupid as he appeared to be.

“Also, Ser Kerrigan hasn’t been seen since the feast three nights past. Do you think he fell into sea?” Jason asked.

Tyland was wrong. His brother was indeed, horrifically stupid.

Horror dawned on Tyland. Kerrigan had always had a mouth on him, and he liked pretty things. He had made comments on both Princess Rhaenyra and her daughter, comments that should never be repeated unless somebody wished to die. If any of the royal party had heard them, he was dead. He would never be recovered, Tyland doubted there was even a body left. Dragonfire could melt bone, and judging by the Princess’ earlier show, Tyland understood.

The Princess had made it clear. She had known that Kerrigan was dead, and that her dragon, no doubt the black, shifty one, had been the one to carry out the sentence. Just what was she?

“He was drunk.” Tyland agreed easily. “He would not be the first.”

“No matter, he was a useless cunt.”

***

Alicunt

The Red Keep was in uproar at the news of the attack upon the Royal Family. It was an unfathomable thing, to attempt to assassinate those of the blood, to attempt to harm the Realm’s Delight, their future Queen and her children. Alicent had barely heard them over the rushing in her own ears, because the plan had failed. The little beast was still alive, was still corrupting her beautiful children. 

Alicent wanted to rage and scream that her own son, their future King, the rightful heir to the throne, had also been endangered, but it seemed only Rhaenyra and her bastards mattered. Of course, the ladies of the court had offered her assurances that the Princess would never allow harm to come to her beloved siblings, but what did they know? They did not see the darkness that lay inside of Rhaenyra’s cold and blackened heart, nor did the know how the little savage and her pet witch had corrupted those around them.

 Only Alicent and her father understood, because the Seven protected them from the evil that sought to poison the Realm, as it did the holy men who she often found her father surrounded by. Larys had not visited her in days, and she was glad of it. How could he have failed? How hard was it to kill one girl? A child.

But she was not just a child, Alicent’s mind whispered, it is an unholy abomination. A curse upon the lands my son would one day rule. Criston had warned me.

“Your father wishes to see you in his rooms, Your Grace.” Her maid said gently when Alicent had not moved in some time.

She didn’t speak any further as she headed to her father’s rooms. There was no way he could know of her involvement, was there? He had warned her not to do anything, by Larys had promised her children’s lives were at risk just by their very proximity to the beast. She knew her father would be irate, but Alicent was Queen. She would stand her ground.

“Come daughter, have a drink with me.” Otto’s voice was soft, and that instantly made Alicent uneasy. “How are you?”

“I fear for my children, father. I wish for them to be returned home to me, so that they may be safe.” Alicent said, taking her seat.

“Ah, I see not all sense of sanity has fled your mind of late.” Her father remarked bitterly. “Remember the fear you feel in this moment, daughter, for if anybody learns of your part in this endeavour, this will seem a blessing.”

“Father?”

“Oh yes. Should Rhaenyra, or any Targaryen ever learn that you ordered the attempt on Princess Aemara’s life, the pain you will suffer before your death will be unimaginable.” Otto said calmly. “You utter fool.”

“I did what any mother would do to protect her children.” Alicent hissed.

“And that will be what Rhaenyra says as she twists the knife into your heart. You have disobeyed me at every turn, you have refused my counsel based upon your own pettiness.” Her father snapped, nostrils flaring in anger. “Should your children learn you attempted to have their beloved niece murdered well… Rhaenyra will not have to kill them, because they will side with her.”

“I am Queen, my son will be King, you have said so yourself. I have done my duty, far more than the Whore of Dragonstone, and far more than those vicious bastards that would steal away my children, my son’s birth right.”

Her father looked at her, anger and irritation colouring his face, but there was something else. Otto pinched the bridge of his nose before he drank his wine, then he looked toward the ceiling for guidance.

“I made you Queen to benefit something you will never understand, so that you could have the King’s ear. A man admits many things to his wife, things he would not share with others. You have failed.” Otto declared. “Your children are more Rhaenyra’s than yours, Alicent. You failed. It seems also your womb has failed you as well, daughter mine. Truly, how useful are you?”

“They are my children, my blood. Your blood.” Alicent cried. “She had poisoned them against me, with her magic and wickedness, father. They were good children before that beast was born.”

“Your hatred of a single girl is truly remarkable, Alicent. She is nothing more than an obstacle to my plans, yet you despise her so. If only you could push that passion into success, rather than letting it lead you to failure.” Otto scoffed. “This is why women should not rule, you are all too emotional.”

A long silence stretched, and Alicent found herself picking at her nails. Oh how she wished to weep, but her father was right, he was always right. She had failed in her duty, she had jeopardised her father’s Gods’ given plans.

“As Master of Laws, I will see if there are any legal loopholes that can exploited, but there is nothing to stop the King from creating new ones.” Otto muttered. “Drug him if you must, Alicent, but get another child inside of you before the tour is over. Now go, I must speak to the High Septon about this farce of a marriage.”

Alicent nodded in the face of the harsh dismissal, but she wanted to rage. Had her father thought her so dim-witted that she had not attempted to impregnate herself in such a way? She was young still, she had time to bear more children, ones with the Hightower values, children that Rhaenyra would never poison against her.

Somehow, she found herself at Viserys’ door, where there was booming laughter echoing outside of the chamber. It was most unusual, for Viserys didn’t have company, save for Lord Corlys, and their conversations were much quieter. Unless…

Alicent suddenly wanted to run, but Ser Arryk, who she didn’t care for, therefore did not mind that she had been the indirect cause of his injuries, pushed the door open. She grimaced.

“Her Grace, my King.”

“Oh, hello Alicent.” Viserys huffed, wiping away the tears of laughter at his eyes.

“My King, Lord Corlys, Lady Saera.” Alicent smiled falsely. Why did the literal whore have to be there?

As though she had heard Alicent’s innermost thoughts, Saera Targareyn turned on her like a hawk that had caught its prey. She was unnaturally beautiful, as all Targaryens were, her silver-gold hair curled and adorned with golden rings.

“I have been away from Court many years, Your Grace, but I am still the daughter of a King.” The whore said with a salacious grin. “Thus, I am a Princess, a title that garnered me quite a bit of coin, mind you.”

Alicent shivered. Every quality that woman held was the reason their blood was cursed. But Alicent was a Hightower Lady, a Queen.

“I apologise, Princess. Your flight from court has been retold with many endings, I was unsure as to whether your father had simply banished you, or denounced you completely.”

“Alicent.” Viserys said at once, his eyes narrowing. “She is my aunt, my parents’ sister, and a Princess of house Targaryen. You will afford her the same respect you would Princess Rhaenys.”

“Fear not, nephew, I believe I have been called far worse by much better people.” Corlys choked on his wine. “But to put rumours to rest, my father did neither. You’ve met Prince Daemon, you should know banishment never really lasts with our blood. When it calls, we answer.”

“And you were called?” Viserys asked interestedly.

“Your granddaughter is rather adept uniting the family it would seem. I’m just glad to have arrived before Vaegon, oh the look on his face will be priceless.” Saera smirked. “And Maester Gerardys, mother spoke so fondly of him in her letters.”

Alicent wants to cry again. Of course it was the bastard that convinced the whore to sully Alicent’s own home.

“Both are on their way, Saera, as is Maegelle.” Viserys promised.

Oh great, there were more of them?

Chapter Text

Helaena

It seemed after their stay in Casterly Rock, the tour through the Westerlands passed by in the blink of an eye. Helaena had perhaps enjoyed the Crag the most, for the people were much quieter in their welcome than the Lannisters were. She was sure arrogance was bred into them, but such thoughts were rude, so she kept them to herself.

The Riverlands were quieter so, however no matter where they were there was an ever-present sound of rushing water that soothed her nerves. Helaena was nearly eleven years old, and she knew her mother would soon be looking for eligible men to marry Helaena to. But Helaena did not wish to marry any of them, least of all Aegon, who she knew would be her husband in this life as he would have been in the life not passed. At least this time he was not the monster he could have been.

Helaena grimaced, feeling the phantom pressure of spikes in her stomach, as she often did when she thought of what could have been. What, thankfully, would never be. She took a breath as the scent of rushing water surrounded her, mingling with the heat of dragon, while she wriggled her hands in the soft earth. Helaena reclined against Dreamfyre, who gave a little huff from where her head was curled close to Helaena, her breath dry and warm. There was an unknown warmth in Helaena’s heart, but it made her feel happy. Safe.

(It was peace, not that she knew it at the time, but it would be something that became a mainstay in her life. Eventually)

The dragon didn’t react as a branch crackled, and Helaena knew of only one person who would never be a threat. A soft smile played on her lips before Aemara appeared, cheeks flushed and hair free from her simple braid. Helaena looked skyward, to where the other dragons were racing, and to the guard that surrounded those upon the ground. Helaena thought of Aemond, who still had to endure. Who still had to lose an eye.

“Did you get tired of losing?” Helaena wondered, patting the cushions Lord Tully had provided for her. She thought his son and grandson had strange names, more like those bestowed upon a pet than a child.

“None can best the Red Queen in flight.” Aemara huffed. “Well, I think Grey Ghost could, perhaps we shall see when we return to Dragonstone. Maybe, one day, we will race. You know I’d never let you fall.”

Helaena, who was in the process of sitting so she undo the mangled mess of Aemara’s braid, seemed to stop for a moment. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Once the tour was completed they would all return to the Red Keep, together, as they were supposed to be. Helaena wasn’t sure she could survive. What Aemara said was true, she would never let Helaena fall, and if it were to occur, her sweet niece would catch her.

Suddenly, Helaena remembered Rhaenyra in ivory and red, an obsidian chalice in her hand and blood on her lips. She breathed out a smile, and in an uncharacteristic display of affection, kissed the side of Aemara’s head. Perhaps, one day, their blood would truly be bound too.

“The wedding.” Helaena whispered.

“Of course you’d know.” Aemara giggled. “Nothing can be hidden from you, can it, sweet dream?”

The words were affectionate, and they made an unfamiliar warmth coil in Helaena’s stomach. She liked it very much. Behind her, Dreamfyre huffed a hot breath and purred lowly, as though she too felt it. She probably did, Helaena thought, for all of the dragon-rider bonds seemed to be stronger when Aemara was around. Wildfyre sniffed closer to the pair, his eyes so unlike the poisonous green her mother wore. They were the colour of his name-sake, of destruction. But what, Helaena thought mercurially, is peace without destruction?

“I like it out here.” Helaena admitted, suddenly feeling silly.

“I like it out here too.” Aemara declared. “It reminds me of Dragonstone. Free.”

“Some of my fondest memories are on Dragonstone.” Helaena acknowledged.

And it was true, she realised, as she remembered their visits to the volcanic island. How Dreamfyre circled the mont, the carefree, joyous laughter of her family as they were together. How the people of the island looked at Rhaenyra and her children, at Helaena and her brothers, and did not see them as pawns, or as a way to further their own ambition. Dragonstone was simple, soothing, and perhaps most importantly, it was home when they were all gathered there.

“Do you remember that time we went looking for the Vault?” Aemara asked suddenly.

Helaena hummed. It was hard to forget. Aegon had complained the entire time because the heat made his hair sticky, but his complaints were simply a way to combat the oppressive silence of the foreboding caverns, and tight caves. Helaena hadn’t minded it, there were some strange coloured spiders, and an even stranger looking lizard. Aemond though, he had hated it, constantly watching the shadows as though something arcane and demonic was to jump out at them.

“I felt something down there. There was a song in my mind, unlike anything I’d ever heard before. Every time I go back, there is nothing but silence.”

Helaena didn’t remember a song, but it didn’t surprise her. Aemara was more in-tune to the magic of the castle, with the liquid fire that boiled beneath its surface. It made sense. Dragonstone was the last of Valyria, and no matter what Helaena’s mother thought, Aemara’s gift was not a curse bestowed upon a bastard by the Gods. It was a blessing.

All touched by us are born, perfect for either ruination or salvation. The choice is theirs, for we cannot strip it of them.

Those words had been whispered in Helaena’s ears since she was old enough to understand, yet she did not understand. What had required such drastic action? Why was it her niece’s burden to bear?

“Do you think you’ll bind your blood in the future?” Helaena wondered, hoping the question would settle the insidious gnawing in her stomach.

Aemara seemed puzzled by the question. No, not puzzled, hesitant, and Helaena’s niece never hesitated in anything she did. Silverwing gave a slight coo as she maneuvered her massive head so Aemara could stroke her.

“I doubt it, whatever husband I may be bound to will not be Valyrian, and cannot know of our traditions. I think those of the Seven would balk and name it witchcraft.”

“There are those of Valyrian blood.” Helaena reminded.

“Can you keep a secret?” Aemara asked, turning to face her. Helaena nodded at once. “Mother proposed marriage to Aegon, but the Queen refused. I heard muna and kepa arguing about it.”

“Mother was foolish.” Helaena insisted, somewhat surprised by herself. She never directly spoke against her mother, knowing that nothing good would ever come of it. “Perhaps in a few years, she will reconsider.”

Helaena wished for that to be true, but deep in her heart and in her dreams she knew it would not be. Part of her was secretly glad though, for then there would be no need for strife between them all. She would marry Aegon, she knew this, but she did not dare to say it. Not when her niece looked as she did, her lips turned down and her eyes, so usually bright and gleaming like the finest jewels, were downcast.

“I know she is your mother, Hela, but she hates the very ground I stand upon, and the air I breathe.”

Helaena could not refute the claim. Not when she had heard her mother’s tirades, nor seen the scornful looks whenever the four of them were together. Helaena wished she could end it, to show her mother what others saw in the Princess before her.

“We do not.” Helaena promised. “To us, you are our sweet niece, as you will always be. Mother’s opinion of you will not change ours, and we love you.”

Aemara sighed, her shoulders relaxing as Helaena ran deft fingers through her hair. They did not speak anymore, simply basking in the sound of their dragons, and the humming of their blood. Until Aegon appeared, several wildflowers of beautiful shades of blueish purple, red and snow-white. Helaena giggled as she recognised one of the plants. Of course they would choose one of the deadliest plants that grew in the Riverlands. Aemond appeared a moment later, huffing.

“You told me we’d do it together.” Aemond complained.

“Shush. I cannot help that you have short legs, brother.” Aegon dismissed him, before he knelt to ground. “Sister, I have a request if you would hear it.”

Amused, Helaena nodded. “Yes, brother?”

“On my.” Here Aemond interrupted “Our.”  “Travels, we have picked the prettiest flowers for our dearest Princess. Would you do us the honour of completing the gift, by braiding them into her hair?”

It was unusual to see Aegon like this, but Helaena treasured the moments when her brother truly acted as he was: Mischievous, kind, loving. The freedom of the tour had done him well, the absence of their mother and grandfather had suited them all, but none more so than Aegon, who was flourishing. Though he was still disinterested in his lessons, he did not struggle as much with his new Maester, who had taught Ser Laenor in his youth, who did not think Aegon stupid for his hardship.

“Only if we all have a flower.” Aemara decided. “When we go North, we shall have to find some Winter Roses. Grandmother told me they are the most beautiful flower in all of Westeros.”

Aegon let out an all-suffering sigh as Aemara shared a look with Aemond, who grinned. Helaena’s youngest brother didn’t need to be asked, for he simply sat before Aemara, who plucked one of her own ribbons from a small pocket of her riding leathers and began to smooth his hair out. Aemond released a pleased sigh while Aegon pouted.

“And which flower do you desire, little light?” Aegon wondered.

Aemara looked at the bunches collected, and she recognised one instantly. Helaena had also, for it had been in the book she was reading on the plants of Westeros. It was beautiful, with violet buds and a dark green stem, and Helaena wondered if the colour would stain her niece’s unusual mercury-coloured hair. The flower was like Aemara, beautiful, unassuming, yet entirely deadly.

“The blue one, I think.”

And so, the four of them spent their afternoon surrounded by Silverwing and Dreamfyre (and Sunfyre when Aegon’s beauty got a little grouchy at being left out of the fun) braiding flowers of varying colours into their silver-white hair.

Later, when Rhaenyra and Rhaenys would appear in order to return them to the flock, the women would share looks not observed by any of the children. The dragons, however, noticed, for a dragon always knows the heart of its rider, and they gave out soft trills before they curled closer together, intent on making that spot their nest for the night.

***

Laenor

Riding through the Mountain pass had not been something Laenor had enjoyed. He was on edge, his daughter had been targeted, his kin targeted, and that was by those who followed the King’s law. Who was to say a rouge Mountain Clan would not wish to adorn their neck with Valyrian ears. He did, however think it was better than the creepy, burned out walls of Harrenhal. Oh how he pitied his good-brother for living its walls. Daemon had decree it was why Larys was so fucking dead inside. Rhaenyra had tugged on his hair in sharp reprimand, but she couldn’t fault his logic.

However, he could admit that the Eyrie was beautiful, especially with the glorious sight of dragons circling it. His daughter was up in the skies, circling the towers as Daemon and Rhaenys instructed her and Aegon on some different tricks. Helaena was simply sailing through the air, her brother behind her, while Laena had Baela and Rhaena on Vhagar, little Moondancer resting upon her rider’s shoulder.

He and Rhaenyra were with Lady Jayne, as they often were, sometimes with the children, other times without. It was nice, Laenor thought, to hear more of Aemma’s childhood home, and he knew how much it meant to Rhaenyra that her own children got to walk between the mountains. Daemon, however, was not, simply because he hated the Vale, hated the rocks and hated the fact his grandfather had married him off without anything to show for it. No alliance, no army, no coin. Laenor had gathered it had been a reactive action from his great-grandfather following the debacle with the Faith than none, especially Daemon, would speak of.

(The more Laenor learned about Jaehaerys, the less he liked him. He understood why mother had always seemed uncomfortable in his presence, and why she preferred to spend her time with grandmother Alysanne.)

“You had wish to speak to me, Princess?” Jayne questioned.

They had a few more days within the Vale before they began the journey North to Winterfell, and further beyond that if the children got their way. Apparently his little (large, there was like, eight of them) flock didn’t understand that the North was cold, and got colder the further you went. But apparently seeing a wall of ice was interesting. (And the alleged Ice Dragon, but Laenor could hardly believe there was a dragon who breathed snow. That image made him snort, and Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes at him.)

“Laenor, Daemon and I wish to challenge the Doctrine of Exceptionalism so that we three may bind our blood as our ancestors did.” Rhaenyra stated calmly.

Laenor wanted to laugh. Each time the words were said, Rhaenyra had lost her care for subtlety. Even her lady maids had laughed, each of those from agreeing families carried sealed letters written in the hand of their lords, granting both their permission to speak, and to accept. Support or no, they would marry, and they would deal with the Faith if they ever raised their seven-pointed heads too far. After all, what mortal man would dare reach for the skies when dragons roamed?

“I see.” Lady Jayne blinked, once, then twice. “We are kin, and we are both ruling women, I see no reason why I should not support this endeavour. I shall draft a letter to His Grace, so that he may know your mother’s homeland stands true.”

Ah, Laenor thought, it seemed the Vale was still angered by Viserys’ choice to remarry so soon after his good-mother’s death. Good for them.

“We have garnered much support, from our kin, and some leal lords and ladies, but knowing that my mother’s home stands with me and my children is a great relief.” Rhaenyra admitted. “She always wanted to bring me here, I understand why she spoke so fondly of her home.”

“I will admit, Princess, I did not know your mother well, but the Vale mourned her as one. Not because she was our Queen, but because she was good and honest and kind.”

Laenor felt Rhaenyra grip his arm beneath the table as she swallowed. His wife nodded her silent thanks, but Laenor knew those dark thoughts that swirled in her head. He had heard them often enough, alone at first, and the with Daemon by their side.

Rhaenyra feared that her mother had been murdered in the very walls she called home, she feared for the lives of their children, two named bastards because of their looks, and even if that had been the case, Laenor would not have cared. They were his sons. His sweet boys. But he knew, that while the fear she held for Jace and Luke left her awake at night, the fear she had for Aemara, especially after the incident in the Westerlands, left her positively terrified.

And terrified dragons knew how to do two things: Snap and kill. And Laenor knew that fire and blood would reign, for the salt and sea in his own blood stormed.

“She was the best mother one could ever hope for, but I’m sure most children say that.” Rhaenyra huffed sadly. “I like to think she would be proud of our children.”

“I have no doubt of that, Princess. If you are proud of them, Aemma would be too. Father always said she was the kindest soul he’d met.” Jayne flinched as a dragon roared in delight, passing by the windows in a flurry of silver-blue. “I will never grow used to that.”

“It is worse when they are children, but a dragon would rather lay down its life than see harm come to its rider, my lady. They are perfectly safe.” Laenor soothed. “And if they were to fall, somebody would catch them,”

“That I somehow doubt.” Jayne smiled. “I hear the people have given your daughter a new title, to match your own as the Realm’s Delight.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra intoned, as she shared a look with Laenor as if to say 'Let’s hope this one is better than Little Maegor', which had long been whispered arounf the halls of the Red Keep.

“Guiding Light.” Jayne said with a small smile. “Apparently it’s due to her leading the dragons in flight.”

Yes, Laenor decided, it was a much more fitting name for their strange little omen baby. She was their light, their salvation, but most importantly, Aemara was their daughter, the light and joy of eternal love.

“A name fit for a Queen, wouldn’t you agree, dear wife?” Laenor wondered with a lazy smirk.

 “Yes, husband, I do believe it is.”

Later that evening, Daemon would cackle so loudly it would echo through the mountains, and little children would fear the coming of old wives tales.

***

Saera

Life around the Red Keep had changed somewhat since Saera was last within its red walls, but it was no less enjoyable. Viserys had warned her that she was not to draw grandiose amounts of attention, and while it irritated her, Saera understood why. With the three-way blood-binding to occur in the future, it would be best not to further irritate or alienate the Faith, lest they rise up.

Saera believed they would rise up eventually anyway, for her father had been too soft on them in the face of Maegor’s wanton violence. Viserys had simply continued on the tradition of deference, until it came to his own children. Corlys had told Saera, once when they were deep in their cups, that Viserys had snapped when he learned that his newest children had been anointed by holy oils, and that the Queen had implied Aemara was a bastard before her kin. Saera had simply lamented that she missed what would have surely been righteous indignation on the Hightower whelp’s face.

Fucking Hightowers, she thought bitterly. But they are oh so fun to play with. And to bed.

She spent most of her time in her newly acquired brothel, having… liberated it from an overzealous, frankly terrible business man. Daemon’s little Wyrm proved fruitful, and upon their first meeting, Saera decided she liked the girl. She had ideas, yet none of the power to do it. Saera would see to that, because if the small folk were content, they would not rise.

Lords and Ladies could call upon their banners to march against the Crown whenever they chose, but what many failed to realise was the threat that surrounded them. The commoners were indirectly controlled by Oldtown, they would follow the messages slipped into public readings, into their nonsensical shows of humility and charity. Saera had seen enough of it when she was at the Starry Sept. She knew Maegelle had too. Saera knew they would one day be a threat, that they would act as the Faith Militant had, if given the cause. She would ensure they were not.

And so, she had essentially stripped her brothel, had turned it from a dark, uncomfortable place to an actual den of pleasure. She had seen much in Lys, some things she would not abide, some things that would make her kill a man simply for requesting it. She had done so before, and she would do so again. To her, the girls were no different than those in the keep, or those who sold bread on the streets. They were workers, workers with needs, and in some cases, children to feed, and thus were forced into the skin-trade. But Saera would find positions for those who did not wish for the life they had been forced into. 

And who sees but goes unseen?

Viserys blinked rapidly when she had led several girls, none older than their sixteenth year, into the castle. Why he was wondering the halls, Saera did not know, but her family was well used to their oddities. Unfortunately, Otto Hightower was also by his side, as was the daughter. Saera would not think of her as Queen, her muna had been Queen, and Daella’s daughter had been Queen, and in the future Rhaenyra would sit atop that iron monstrosity, followed by her own daughter. 

Alicent Hightower was nothing but her father’s pawn, and a Queen Consort. It would do the girl well to learn the difference. There was not an ounce of fire-touched blood in her veins, and as such, she could never truly be counted as Queen.

“And who might these be?” Viserys wondered, smiling upon the obviously terrified girls. Those in the trade never did well with nobility, who often thought they could do what they wished with no fear of repercussion. Saera would be the repercussions now.

“I was thinking, dear nephew, that the organisation of the Keep has fallen into disrepair since my sweet niece passed.” Saera said. “I have few duties to attend, so I thought it prudent, as the eldest Targaryen present, to take charge. I am sure Rhaenys would have, had she not been sitting upon the Small Council in her husband’s stead.”

“This is the Queen’s purview.” Otto reminded. “She is the one over the household.”

“As I said, Targaryen.” Saera dismissed. “Perhaps if she had done her duty, we would know of the deficiencies within the Keep.”

“Deficiencies?” Alicent parroted, her face screwed up in confusion.

“Several of the cooks are old, we do not have enough maids to service the rooms, nor do we have enough menders or tailors.” Saera shrugged. “And you can never have too many maids. Plus, with what occurred in the West, guard patrols are severely lacking in certain areas of the Keep.”

“And you know all of this, how, might I ask, Princess?” Otto questioned.

“I spoke to them, as Rhaenyra requested. She understood what can happen when I get bored, ser.” Saera smiled blithely. “She will make an excellent Queen some day, nephew. Maester Gerardys has nothing but praise for the fine work she did upon Dragonstone. And to think, the idea of using the dragons to bind the glass-houses came from our sweet Aemara.”

It was laughable, really, how easy it was to provoke the Hightowers simply by mentioning either Targaryen, by mentioning the magic that dwelled in their blood. It was also pathetic, but Saera enjoyed it all the more because of it.

Viserys, blind and oblivious fool that he was, beamed proudly, the skin at the corner of his lips crinkling in the way Baelon’s had. For Alyssa’s son, he did not inherit her cunningness. No matter, I have enough for the both of us.

“I see, and where did you find these girls?”

“My brothel.” Otto choked. “They have no want for the life, or are far too young to be involved. The younger ones can shadow the regulars, learn the trade as such.” Saera said, eyes directly upon Viserys.

Do you see? Nobody pays attention the workers, they see things, they hear things, they will provide me with what I need.

“Is it wise to have whores paraded around the castle as staff, Your Grace?” Otto asked.

“Whores have to eat as well, Ser Otto. You would not expect your good and gracious King to force those into a role they have no want for, would you?”

Like your grandson, who I have never met, yet know he has no desire to be King. Viserys is the only person to be blinded by your falsehoods.

“Of course not.” Viserys cleared his throat. “Princess.”

“Why not send them to the Septs?” Alicent questioned.

“Forgive me for shattering your illusions of your faith, but it’s best not to work with the very people you have been forced to service.” Saera responded with a raised brow. "Pious men are no so pious in silk sheets and warm mouths, Queen Alicent."

“You have my leave, Saera, though I suspect you would have done this without it. I shall send Ser Harrold to discuss guard rotations with you. Please do not seduce him.” Viserys said quickly, no doubt noticing the sheer horror upon Alicent’s pretty face. Best not to have the ‘Queen’ have a breakdown because her precious septons fuck whores.

“Because he is a Kingsguard?”

“Because he is a friend.”

“As you wish, My King.” Saera smiled. “I shall finally use those skills muna taught me, oh father would be horrified. Come now, ducklings, let us find you some food.”

***

Saera was not nervous to come face to face with her brother, in fact, she was excited, for Vaegon was so easy to rile. It was Maegelle that was the issue, her sweet sister who had sat by mother as she lay dying, who had sent letter after letter, begging Saera to see mother one final time. That it was her final wish. All had gone unanswered, but never unread.

Honestly, only fools would think that a true Targaryen would die of Greyscale, after all, what sort of idiot creates a disease that they themselves could fall victim to? Her family was many things: Hedonistic, hubristic, arrogant, powerful, but they were no idiots. If they had of been, they would have burned in the flames along with the rest of Valyria. They were saved for a single purpose, to ensure that fire still burned when the Cold Winds rose, so that they, and they alone, would light the darkness with dragonflame. That was their purpose, their fate.

When Viserys had told her of the dream, she had wanted to laugh, and perhaps she would have, if her family did not bond with creatures of fire-made flesh, if their daughters and sons could not see the future, if they could not bind blood and fire to their very being. For all that the Citadel and Faith believed magic to be an abomination, nothing more than trickery and an affront to their Seven Gods, Saera knew better.

Dragons were fire-made flesh. Targaryens were magic ensconced in human skin. And for that, they both revered and reviled.

“You will not antagonise Vaegon too much, I presume?” Viserys asked.

They were standing together before the Keep, the Queen to his left, Saera to his right. There was no need for a large gathering, for both Maegelle and Vaegon would hate so much attention being placed on them. It was something Saera would never understand.

“He is much more fun when he is not sullen, nephew.”

“For you, perhaps.” Viserys replied with a huff. “I am very excited to finally speak to him. Vaegon’s interest in dragons is unrivalled, save for Aemara perhaps.”

“The poor girl. Once my brother gets a hold of her, he will seek an answer to a thousand questions, while thinking of a thousand more.”

“And she will sit there, and answer them all, and if she does not know the answer, she will find them.”  Viserys swallowed, and glanced toward Alicent, who was firmly looking ahead, as she often did when they spoke their mother tongue. “Are you well, my dear?”

“I am fine husband, just in more discomfort than usual.” The Queen replied, and shared a look with Saera. Ah.

“I have some tea that may help, Your Grace, though I have no need of it any more, I still find myself reaching for a cup when my stomach is in upheaval.” Saera offered.

“That is a kind offer, Princess.”

One which would never be accepted, Saera knew. Still, no harm in offering tea. Or maybe the Queen didn’t like tea? Or perhaps she feared Saera would perform some black magic and curse her? Either way, Saera didn’t care.

“Your wife does not like me, nephew.”

“She simply misses her children, in the time they’ve been gone she has withdrawn. I am hoping Maegelle can help her, from one follower of the Seven to another.”

“Maegelle will try, but you cannot help somebody who does not see that they require it, nephew. Nor can you save somebody when they do not want to be saved.”

“And who saved you?”

Saera inhaled sharply, looking at her nephew, her King, with irritated purple eyes. Why did even the stupidest members of her family have to be so intelligent? Damn dragon blood. Deciding to level him with a sharp look as the carriage pulled in, adorned with the symbols of the Faith and the Citadel, she simply said.

“Ask Daemon.”

Viserys blinked several times, swallowing down what Saera knew to be nauseous guilt. It was not his fault, no it had all been her father’s, but he was dead and gone, burned by Vermithor’s bronze flame. He may have been a great King, but he was not a good father. He had not been a good man.

Her venomous thoughts died as Vaegon stepped out of the carriage first, his robes grey and his maester chains thick with silver, gold and iron, and there, gleaming proudly, was a link forged of Valyrian Steel. He was as round-shouldered and thin as Saera remembered, his lips permanently pinched as though he was sucking on a lemon. He held out a hand for a woman shrouded in white, a gauzy piece of fabric over her face, and Saera smiled.

“Her robes are those of Valyrian mourning.” Viserys said softly. “We thought she died before grandmother.”

“We are Targaryens, my King, we do like our secrecy.” Maegelle called, removing her veil, revealing a rounded face and lilac eyes. “We have no need to mourn the past in order look to the future, nor to enjoy the present.”

“Yes yes, this is lovely. Can we go inside? I would rather like some food.”  Vaegon announced. “Sister, nephew.”

“Uncle.” Viserys smirked. “I shall have to show you the library later, so.”

Saera huffed out a laugh as Vaegon grumbled.

“Knowledge awaits nobody, my King.”

Saera watched as they were led away, before an arm laced with hers. Maegelle looked up at her, eyes kind and warm, and oh so like their mother’s. Saera swallowed.

“It is good to have you home, sweet sister.” Maegelle said softly.

Saera didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to. That thrumming in her blood, the one that had grown dormant in the East, but awoken when she had laid her eyes on Aemara, hummed like one of mother’s old lullabies. It seemed Maegelle felt it too, for if it possible, her eyes grew even softer.

(Deep in the abyss, the Gods of Ice and Fire, and a Parthenon of deities, shared grim looks. The precipice was close, the ripples of the ever-flowing river dependent upon one moment north, amidst blood and bone, ice and fire. For even the Gods were powerless in the face of the Long Night.)

Chapter Text

Aemara

She has this vision in her head of the North, of the Starks and their land. Aemara doesn’t know why, but they are important, both now and in the future. Perhaps it is because they are the anthesis of her blood, Targaryens have fire in their blood, whereas Starks have ice. She had caught a glimpse of Torrhen Stark in her dreams once, the Last Winter King, the King Who Knelt. He was more than that, she was sure, for he was a man who understood. A man who believed. But believed in what?

Aemara knew from her lessons that Starks rarely wondered South of the Neck, that their loyalty was unquestionable, and no Stark broke and oath and lived. She knew the last one with an otherworldly conviction, and yet she did not know why. There were many things she did not yet understand, and that frustrated her to no end.

When they had passed the Neck, left grass embankments for snow drifts and blackened ice, she felt it. It unsettled the dragons, and anything that unsettled the dragons unsettled her. Silverwing was the worst, her trepidation heavy in their bond like soured milk. It was a vague sense of danger, of wrongness, of the same insidious cold that leached the fire from Aemara’s bones. None of them had liked it. But the Starks were not a threat.

Bryna had told them once, curled around the fire as a summer storm raged upon the seas, the tales of the Children. Of their earth-bound magic, of their power despite their small stature, of the Weirwood trees and their sanctity to the people of the North. Aemara remembered the presence of the scared tree in the Red Keep, its presence soothing and oh so alive. She wondered what one of the North, one surrounded by its power would feel like.

The Starks had met them upon the Neck, save for Lady Gilliane, intent on seeing them through the autumn snow that appeared just as quickly as it disappeared. They were a loud bunch, joyous and merry. Aemara had smiled upon their wonderous faces when they saw the dragons flying overhead, or how little Moondancer (who could not be described as little anymore, and much to Baela’s annoyance, could not ride upon her shoulder) squawked in the snow.

 Jace had taken an immediate like to Cregan, who was amused by her brother’s incessant questions as to why it was cold. He was a few years older, closer to Aegon’s age of fourteen than Jace’s seven, with a thick head of curling, dark hair. Aemara thought he looked quite handsome, especially with the dark bearskin furs that were wrapped around his neck.

In the back of her mind, Silverwing gave a huff, while poor Wildfyre was flicked with a pile of snow by some of the errant fledglings as they made rest a few leagues west, while the other dragons circled overhead. Aemara snorted, cursing the waspish, icy winds that prevented her from flying over what she imagined would be a beautiful expanse of glittering white snow.

“Are you not cold, my Lady?” Rickard Stark, Cregan’s older cousin by a half decade, wondered as they rode.

Kania gave a tittering laugh and an indulging smile. “My Lord provides.”

“And you, Princess? Surely you feel the chill.” Rickard turned his head slightly, bemused by Kania’s cryptic words.

“The dragons provide.” Aemara replied.

“For you maybe, sweet niece. You’re their favourite.” Aegon huffed, burrowing further until he was nothing but a mouth, nose and eyes. “Bryna never said it was this cold.”

“I’m afraid, my Prince, it is just going to get colder.” Rickard admitted.

“Winter is coming.” Aemara murmured. “The air, it is too cold to be anything but.”

“No ravens have come from the Citadel.” Rhaenyra reminded gently. “Gods willing we will have a few more years, there’s not been a Winter in my lifetime.”

“Forgive me, Your Highness, but the Princess is right. It will be a no more than two moons before they announce autumn, and we think it will be a short one.” Rickard admitted.

“If anybody knows how to tell the seasons best, it would be those of the North.” Rhaenyra acquiesced. “Is there much left to the ride?”

“We will be within Winterfell by sun-fall, Princess. If there is anything you require, I can send word forth.”

“There’s no need, Rickard, I’m simply concerned my brother might freeze.” Rhaenyra laughed, riding closer so she could fix the front of Aegon’s furs.

Aemara barked out a harsh laugh at Aegon’s petulant whine of ‘Nyra’ and she grinned with her mother. She looked skyward to the dragons, warmth flooding her blood and she muttered a silent prayer in thanks. If she could not be on their backs, she would simply see through their eyes. She sighed, relaxing as fiery heat licked through her, and settled in for the last of the ride.

***

Winterfell was not built for looks, that much is clear, yet it was beautiful in its own right. Large, towering walls, a deep, dark moat the hid the horrors of spikes beneath its stillness. It is rather like Dragonstone in a sense, its functionality more important than its outward aesthetics. The hot springs, much like the Dragon Mont, provide heat and hot water, while Winterfell ensures its residents do not freeze, Dragonstone ensures a safe-haven for all those with fire in their blood. Despite its similarities, the essence that is deep in the walls echoes a different song, one of crunching snow and howling wolves. It is different, yet it was the most peace Aemara has felt since she stepped North of the Neck.

There is something else within the castle, something that called to her, in the same way Dark Sister and Blackfyre did. In the same way Kania’s dagger, and that of the Conqueror, did. Aemara knew house Stark was in possession of Valyrian Steel, a two-handed sword aptly named Ice. She was standing by her mother, Lord Rickon, and her newest shadow, Rickard, on one of the wooden walkways as they watched Laenor, Harwin and Daemon run through training drills. Aemara had been forbidden to join on account of an irritating headache that seemed to fester within her.

Even now, with the sun hidden behind greying clouds, everything seemed a bit too much. The clash of blunted training swords echoed in her ears, and her eyes dried now matter how she blinked. She was just thankful her stomach had stilled since breakfast.

“Are you alright, tala?” Rhaenyra asked, a hand on her shoulder. “Perhaps we should return to your aunt.” She meant Laena, but Helaena was there too, embroidering what would inevitably be another spider. “Or some rest?”

“I’m fine, muna. It is just… it feels strange here, no offence meant, my Lord.” Aemara hastened. “The dragons do not like it.”

“Dragons don’t do well in the cold, Princess." Lord Rickon smiled. “Perhaps we can retire to my solar, I’m sure there is much to discuss.”

“And you would have no objections to my daughter joining us?” Rhaenyra questioned.

“I do not mean politics Your Highness, but rather how Bryna has been. My daughter speaks fondly of your entire family, but you two especially. I’m gladdened to see my worries of her wilting away in a Southron Court did not come to pass.”

“Uncle.” Rickard exclaimed, blush staining his cheeks. “My apologies.”

Rickon regarded Rickard fondly and cuffed his shoulder. Aemara liked the North, liked the Starks, for there was little pomp and ostentatious showings. They gave affection freely, words of encouragement and praise flowed as easily as heatless jibes and jests. It reminded her of her own family, though they did enjoy their lavishness.

“There is no need to apologise, Rickard, it may have only been a ten-day, but I have grown used to, and thankful, for Northern bluntness.” Her mother smiled, that pretty, true smile. “Lead the way, my Lord.”

It had been the first time Aemara was in a solar that was not her mother’s, but it held much of the same. Thick tomes of income and expenditures, correspondence from leal houses, trade agreements. What interested Aemara the most however, was the sword resting above the mantle, a grey wolf pelt sheathing the blade. The fur was too large to be that of a regular wolf. Her eyes did not move from it, even as her mother cleared her throat, eyebrow raised.

“What have we said about staring?”

“That it’s rude.” Aemara replied dutifully. “The sheath, is it a dire-wolf pelt?”

Lord Rickon huffed an amused sound. “It is, Princess. I admit, I did not think Valyrian Steel would hold your interest, would you like to see it?”

“I would not be so presumptuous, my Lord.” Aemara responded. "Some things are not meant to be shared with outsiders."

"I would not say those of Valyria are an outsider to its magic, Princess."

Lord Rickon smiled again. Aemara knew he liked her, he liked them all, for the Starks were like their dire-wolf counterpart: Pack orientated, honour and family above all else. Perhaps that was why she enjoyed the North so much. They were similar yet different, but closer than any would realise. Valyria and the First Men and the Children, steeped in magic and tradition known only to them.

The blade sang as Rickon unsheathed it, a flurry of winter snow and cracking ice. Its very essence held the blood of the Starks, of the Winter Kings and the Wardens of the North. It thrummed with duty and conviction, and Aemara found herself enraptured.

“You blood the blade, my Lord?” Aemara questioned in a whisper.

If the Stark Lord was confused by her question, he did not show it. Not that Aemara could see it. He took a moment to consider, but as he did, his thumb stroked the milky-white hilt.

“Every Lord of Winterfell had bled upon the blade, aye, Princess. Is there a consequence?”

“It’s Valyrian Steel, forged in fire and blood. Blood knows blood.” Aemara replied easily, but they were not her words. “Magic knows magic.”

And then, all she knew was the searing pain in her head, and the darkness that accompanied it. It did not last long, but it never truly did. For a moment she could see them clearly, and the pain was similar to that of Silverwing when she laid Aemond’s egg.

A gift, to the faithful. GO.

That sense of wrongness didn’t leave her completely, yet it did ease significantly. There was a piercing shriek in the distance, and Aemara tried to soothe the dragons as best she could. These were not a gift to her.

It took her a moment to reorientate herself. She blinked rapidly, vision cleaning until she was looking at the concerned face of her mother. Her head was willowed in large hands, the scent of leather and fur, crisp snow and ice, thick.

“Forgive me, Princess. I did not mean…”

“You make a good pillow.” Aemara huffed. “I am fine mother. Lord Stark, you don’t happen to have any direwolves roaming?”

“They’ve not been spotted South of the Wall in decades. Princess, are you sure you’re well?”

“Honestly my Lord, there is much I could tell you about my daughter, and I’m not sure how much you’d think is fact or fiction.” Rhaenyra commented lightly, but there was concern in her eyes. “Perhaps later?”

“Your Highness, I would be honoured. Because what I just witnessed, that is what we call Skinchanging. It is an honoured gift of the North.”

“Some dragon-riders have the ability to see through their mounts in moments of extreme danger. I have never experienced it, but Prince Daemon has, as well as the Lady Laena.” Rhaenyra stated. “We did not know others could so something similar.”

“The last true skin-changer was my grandfather. Though Bryna and I have the dreams.” Rickon admitted.

“That’s not true, uncle.” Rickard added, and his uncle raised an eyebrow as if to say Are you sure?  “I can do it too.”

Huh, Aemara thought, comfortable from where she lay, that made sense. But still, the pups. Had the drawing of icy, northern magic been the source of her constant unease?

“The direwolf is out there, my Lord, and in labour. A sign from the Gods, perhaps?”

Aemara knew she had won him over. Northerners were superstitious at the best of times, and well, the Gods had whispered it to her. There was only her word, but that was all that mattered for her mother, for her family who knew of the oddities in her blood. It seemed, also, however, that the Starks had the occasional oddity.

“They are not pets, Princess.” Lord Rickon reminded softly.

“Neither are dragons, my Lord.” Aemara said.

***

It connected her to the birthing mother like a string. It was easy to follow it, harsher to navigate the falling snow, but Silverwing knew. Her sweet girl always knew. Her dragon circled over an area of the Wolfs Wood, and Aemara simply followed her mount’s wish.

Convincing both her mother, and Lord Rickon, had been tough, and they had only relented when Rickard and Kania both agreed to not let Aemara out of their sight. That, unfortunately meant she had to deal with Ser Criston as they rode to where her dragon was circling. The Kingsguard rode ahead, while Kania rode off to the side, a knowing look burning in her eyes.

“Is he always like that?” Rickard questioned.

“I would not know, I spend as much time away form him as is possible. Kania is my guardian, as is Ser Erryk.” Aemara explained.

“What mischief does the Princess find herself in that she requires two guards?” Rickard asked with a grin.

“It finds me.” Aemara hummed. “What is it like, being a skin-changer?”

“What is it like, flying a dragon?”

“Indescribable.” Aemara said pointedly.

“My own answer is the same, Princess. I terrified me at first, I thought I had lost my senses.” Rickard admitted.

Aemara was stopped from replying by a screaming howl followed by a thunderous roar. She spurred her horse on, a beautiful mare the colour of the snow that surrounded them. She ignored the shouts, and ignored the notion that her mother would accost her later. But this was more important.

The dire-wolf was massive, despite being curled in on itself. Its fur was the colour of darkened autumn leaves, and Aemara stood still at the sight of its eyes. They were the colour of liquid gold, of Sunfyre’s beautiful scales. The great beast whimpered.

“Princess, do not get any closer.” Rickard shouted as he dismounted, but Aemara paid him no mind.

The Gods would not harm her. Not when she was Their vessel, when she was Their will. And it seemed, for once, and perhaps the only time, that the Gods of Valyria and the North were in agreement.

“Settle my beauty. I have no wish to harm you or your pups.” Aemara cooed gently. “You are here for a reason, just as I. Let me help you.”

Rickard approached, and the dire-wolf gnashed its teeth violently. Silverwing, sensing the animal’s intention, gave a shriek, and landed with bared fang and claw.

“He is a friend, sweet one, he will harm you no more than I. Let us help.” Aemara knelt closer. “He is a Stark, meant for your children just as we are meant for the dragons. Ice and fire.”

Ice and Fire. Ice and Fire. A shred of hope against the Night.

The wolf settled, keening low as blood pooled in the snow, its heat causing steam to rise in the frigid cold.

“Approach slowly, Rickard. Let her get your scent. But the pups, they’re coming now, and she is bleeding.”

“It’s alright, Princess. I’ve seen enough pups whelped, how different can a wolf be?” Rickard said, but there was a slight tremor to his voice. “Please don’t bite me.”

“Are you speaking to me or the wolf?” Aemara asked.

He shot her an unimpressed look, but knelt in the bloodied snow. The dire-wolf did not snarl, but instead stood. She was near his shoulder in height. Silverwing tensed, moving forward, but Aemara reassured her beloved mount with a soothing hum.

"Are you prone to biting, Princess?"

"Only when irritated, my Lord."

Though she had seen the violent beauty of birth in her dreams, she had never experienced it in life. When dragons hatched there was no scream of pain, no blood soaking through layers of fabric. She didn’t like it. But three pups were brought forth, one a dusky brown with the same golden eyes of its mother, the second the colour of the scared painted faces upon the Weirwoods. It was the third, however, that was the most peculiar, for its fur, slick with birthing fluid and blood, was the same black shade of Wildfyre’s scales. And its eyes, Aemara found, reflected the quicksilver blue that Silverwing, who just a few feet away, shone with in the descending sunlight.

“That’s a good girl. A sweet puppy, that’s it.” Aemara whispered, holding her hand out to the whimpering wolf. “You did so well.”

The wolf leaned forward and licked Aemara’s face with a rough tongue before she turned her attention to her new pups. She licked at them, sniffing the air before she howled. Silverwing joined her, their sounds entwined. And for a moment, things felt… sacred.

The dire-wolf nosed forward, picking its put up by the scruff of the neck with the gentlest of care that Aemara had witnessed. The wolf huffed before she dropped her pup at Rickard.

“Congratulations, you’ve been chosen.” Aemara huffed, then there was the sound of an unsheathed sword. “Put the blade away, Ser Criston. We are in no danger.”

“I see a girl surrounded by beasts.” Criston said. "And a child that does not know her place."

“Is that how you speak to your Princess?” Rickard scoffed. “Her Highness gave you a command.”

“I am a Knight of the Kingsguard, boy.” Criston snapped, but then he looked at Aemara. She hated the feel of his gaze on her.

“And you are in the presence of the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, ser. Perhaps you would do well to remember that.” Aemara replied blithely. “We have been here before, have we not? Though this time it appears your britches are still dry.”

Silverwing let loose a jet of curling flame into the sky, while the dire-wolf bared its teeth. Rickard’s hand went to his sword instinctively. Aemara smirked as Kania appeared behind the knight, but her protector held a thin finger to her painted ruby lips.

“So like your mother.” Criston spat. “Thinking that we are yours to command, to control. We are not your beasts, Princess.”

“You are correct, Ser Criston, for I care about the dragons. You are little more than a speck of dirt I am forced to endure. You may be protected in the South, Ser, but we are not in the South.” Aemara reminded. “Rickard, is it common for men to be lost to snow and ice?”

“Aye, Princess. Especially upon the ponds where the ice shatters. They’re usually found during the Spring thaw.”

“Isn’t it most fortuitous then, that we live in a land where Summer spans decades, but Winter can last a lifetime? It would be a shame, I think, for a renowned member of the court to meet such an unflattering end, don’t you?”

“It’s true. No songs would be sung about it, Princess.” Rickard commented, standing half a step behind her, pup cradled close. “Lady Kania, perhaps you could help us transport the mother?”

“I would be honoured, fire-bound.” Kania announced. “Ser Criston, still harassing children I see. I’m sure Princess Rhaenyra will have a few words to say to you.”

Ah yes. Aemara knew she was forgetting something.

“Speak of my mother again, Criston Cole, and I will have your life. In fact, if you speak in my presence again, I think I shall take your tongue. The Gods know you have nothing useful to say.”

She watched as Crison’s jaw set, as the muscles in his cheek twitched. His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, and for a moment, Aemara wished he would attack her. But it seemed, unfortunately, that he still possessed a few crumbs of rational thought.

What a pity.

***

Aegon

Aegon Targaryen was drunk. Not an obnoxious drunk, he was not falling around as he was wont to do. No, he was seated firmly upon the platform, beside his brother and sister, and away from his precious Princess. His Aemara who was being honoured because of the wolf-pups that were residing with their mother in the crypts of Winterfell, apaprently at the feet of the last Winter King. His Aemara who was surrounded by Starks at the other end of the feast table.

“If you keep glowering at Lord Stark and his kin, I will remove your mead, sweet brother.” Rhaenyra whispered with a grin. “It tastes better than the ale, does it not?”

“Ale tastes like bread.” Aegon whined. “Will it always be like this?”

“The ale, or you being forced to watch as Aemara entertains others?” Laenor asked from the other side of his wife.

Aegon shrugged. How did he explain to his sister that he felt as though his sweet niece had grown distant? That she was too busy entertaining the Stark boy, who was as equally glued to her. He just wanted to sit beside her, to play with her hair and hear her go on and on about the history of their great house.

 Instead he was entertaining Jace and Luke. Which wasn’t unpleasant, but they weren’t Aemara.

“Aemara is the future Queen, it good that she gets know those she will one day rule over.” Aemond said easily. Little shit.

“And that day shall not be very far into the future, Aemond. Unless you think Aemara would usurp our sister’s throne?” Aegon wondered, his eyes narrowed at his brother.

“Is it technically usurpation if she’s the heir? I think it would just be murder.” Laenor mused.

“Why are you all so strange?” Harwin asked, slightly horrified.

“Consanguinity.” Daemon supplied helpfully.

What the actual fuck did that mean? Aegon decided he didn’t care nearly enough, unlike Aemond, the little bookworm, who seemed to be delighted with a new word. He reached forward for the rest of his mead, grateful of the fact it did not taste like bread. Whoever made alcohol that tasted like bread was a fool.

Aemond reached over and pinched him. Aegon narrowed his eyes yet again. It seemed his little brother forgot that little brothers could only get away with bring annoying for so long, and Aemond has passed that point. Ah, Aegon lamented, I miss the days where he’d believe anything I told him. When he was cute and had chubby cheeks.

“Do you think he’s going to be a problem?” Aemond whispered.

‘He’ was obviously the Stark cousin. Not even the Lord or the heir, but a cousin. His niece deserved better, deserved nothing less than a Prince. (Here, Aegon remembered that Aemond was also a Prince and thus amended ‘Deserved nothing less than the first-born son of the current King.’) Oh what he wouldn’t give, to one day in the future, be able to just, take Sunfyre and Aemara off to parts unknown, so she wouldn’t be married to somebody who wasn’t him.

“If he is, he shall fall down the stairs.” Aegon grumbled, stabbing at his salted deer meat. “Or Sunfyre could use a little snack.”

“You cannot feed everything that irritates you to Sunfyre, brother.” Aemond reminded. “It would give her indigestion.”

“I’m aware, Aemond. You’ve not been eaten yet, have you?” There was a flash of silver-gold hair. Helaena the traitor. “It seems our sister has joined the other team.”

“You are not feeding Helaena to Sunfyre.” Aemond hissed.

Aegon waved him off with a shrug. What kind of monster would he have to be to feed his sister to his Golden Beauty?

***

Rhaenyra

She was standing in Lord Rickon’s solar, her eyes perched out the window as she and the older man shared some tea. Her children were all in eyesight as they trained with their swords, while Rhaenys entertained the Helaena and Rhaena off to the side. Baela, it seemed, had picked up her mother’s skill of archery. Rickon was also interested in the training session it seemed, but as he poured the tea, he cleared his throat.

“Bryna has spoken to me, Princess. She is quite enamoured with your family, and your work upon Dragonstone has been noted throughout the Realm, however I cannot help but wonder why she told me half-truths.”

“The fault lies with me, my Lord. I had asked all of my ladies to be careful with their words, but I did not mean to cause strife within families. Things can be complex within the Red Keep.” Rhaenyra admitted.

“Such as your relationship with your uncle?” Rickon mused. “There is no need to deny it, Princess.”

“I would not do such a thing when we are to be married.” Rhaenyra stated easily. “Should we have the support to challenge the Doctrine.”

“And the tour, I assume, is a way to find those in favour and those against?” Rickon enquired.

“It is a secondary benefit, but I wished for my children to see the Realm that they are to serve. To know the Lords and Ladies that will support them, to walk amongst the small-folk that they are to protect.” She reached forward, taking the cup in her hands, delighting in its warmth. The North was so cold to her. “But House Stark have been of particular interest to me and my family.”

“Oh?”

“Tell me, my Lord, what records do your family keep as to why Torrhen Stark knelt?”

“That he did so to spare his host from the wrath of the dragons.”

“So there was no mention of a threat further North? Of Cold Winds and Long Nights?”

The old Lord sucked in a breath and Rhaenyra smiled. She never doubted that Northerners, so steeped in their own histories, would have turned a blind eye to myth. Why their very ancestor had created the Wall, the first line of defence should a threat arise.

“The Tale of the Long Night is not well known to those in the South, Princess. To find somebody who has heard it, much less believes it to be a warning is a surprise.” Rickon admitted. "Even in the North it is thought to be naught but a story. But we Starks, we know. It was our founder, after all, who erected the Wall, who built these very walls with the magic of the earth and ice."

Rhaenyra chuckled. “You’ve met my daughter, my Lord. Born beneath an omen of Old Valyria, the very same one that led my family to safety while the rest of Valyria was consumed by flames. It makes sense that for a family such as yours, one blessed by your Gods, would have its own secrets.”

“So you think the Others may yet rise?” Rickon asked, slightly sceptical.

“Be in a decade or two hundred years, it matters not. The Realm would never be ready for such a threat, not unless we make it so. The Wall is the first line of defence, but should it fall, House Stark will be our greatest ally.” Rhaenyra stated. “I would have you nominate a member of your house, or a trusted Lord, to come to King’s Landing so that the North may be heard.”

“We do not care for Southron politics, they are, fickle.” Rickon noted with a wry smile.

“Indeed they are. But if we are to survive what may be our end, we must do things we do not care for.” Rhaenyra paused. “It is, after all, why Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys sought to conquer Westeros. For the world of men to survive, a Targaryen must be seated upon the Iron Throne.”

“Because your dragons would turn the tide of warfare in an instant.” Rickon breathed. “Of course. The journal, it was incomplete, like a puzzle. A Song of Ice and Fire.”

“Journal?”

“It is a family heirloom. When one is declared Lord of Winterfell, they enter the Godswood with naught but the journal and Ice. It is there, the blade is blooded before the Weirwood, and we pray for guidance. Each Lord adds to the diary what they have seen. Torrhen spoke of a song, a union, but the page was torn.”

Rhaenyra suddenly felt cold. Aemara had long since mentioned a journal that she had seen in her dreams. Visenya had been in possession of it, her daughter had seen the Warrior Queen’s final days, where sat and read from it. Where she remembered her life. Rhaenyra had Dragonstone searched, and no journal had been found. But Kania had just smiled, that secretive smile and said:

When the past reveals the present, and the future shifts like a ripple in the pond, salt and smoke, fire and blood, will light the way.

“Perhaps, one day in the future, the past will become clear to us, my Lord.” Rhaenyra said. “Things are already changing.”

“Indeed they are. You have my honour as a Stark, and my vow, that we shall stand behind you when the time comes.” Rickon decreed.

“Beside us.” Rhaenyra corrected. “It is why I wanted a Northman among my advisors, so that I could bring forth issues. My ladies, they hear grievances their family, and I in turn, plan to bring them to the Small Council when I take my seat.”

“Then I would ask you take Rickard, so that he may fulfil such a role, and so he may fulfil his purpose.” Rickon requested.

“His purpose?” Rhaenyra quired, eyes focused upon the training yard once again. She smiled at the sight, her daughter dual-wielding both sword and dagger, Aegon and Aemond roughhousing, while Jace laughed with Baela.

“My nephew has become attached, Princess. He came to me, last night, and told me of a dream he had in the Godswood. A guardian, he said, of Ice and Fire for the Guiding Light.”

Rhaenyra inhaled. She could sense no falsehoods in the man’s tone, and Syrax, deep in the recesses of her mind, crooned softly. A burst of lavender and lemon wafted through the air. Lord Rickon’s face scrunched in confusion, but Rhaenyra knew.

Ruination or salvation. Ruination or salvation. Trust him.

“We would be honoured, My Lord.” Rhaenyra said, blood humming with the cadence of a thousand hymns. “I’m sure the court will be delighted at having two Starks present, with their direwolves no less.”

“You would allow them?” Rickon asked with a tilt.

“We know better than to separate those who have bonded, my Lord. To do so leads only to agony.”

***

Criston was irritating her again. Perhaps she should have smothered him when she had the chance. Rhaenyra sat in her rooms, Daemon and Laenor perched behind her chair like beautiful attack dogs.

“Can we kill him and be done with it?” Daemon complained.

“No.” Rhaenyra declared. “Only father has that power, and while that coward clings to Alicent’s skirts like a babe, he will not do anything. Besides, I hear his life in the White-Sword Tower will be… interesting.”

“Ah, does hat have anything to do with Ser Steffon’s letters that he sends?” Laenor wondered. "He thinks we don't know."

“Apparently, Ser Steffon has been keeping a track of all of Cole’s misdeeds upon the tour, at the behest of the Lord Commander. I’m sure suitable punishment will await him upon our return.”

“Yes, do tell me again why we’re also bringing the Stark boy with us? If you mean to marry our daughter off to a cousin….” Daemon muttered.

“Now you sound like Aegon.” Laenor teased. “There will only be one marriage in our daughter’s future, the pathway to the alter is what will be entertaining.”

Rhaenyra rolled her eyes. Honestly, why were men so strange? She relaxed into the chair, waiting for the knock that would announce Erryk and Cole’s arrival. Erryk, as prompt and perfect as ever, entered the room when Rhaenyra called him forth. There was a haggard looking Cole, eyes furious and jaw clenched, and stinking of dragon-dung.

“Why you ever fucked him…” Daemon sorted in High Valyrian.

“I do believe it was your fault, uncle.” Rhaenyra reminded. “Have you learned your lesson, Ser Criston?”

“I do not see why I was in need of a lesson, Princess.”

“Ser Erryk, please inform Cole of the duties of the Kingsguard. It seems he has forgotten them.” Rhaenyra ordered.

There was a satisfied mirth in Erryk’s tone as he spoke. He was enjoying this. Perhaps, Rhaenyra mused, he spent a little too much time with Kania, and Aemara. Then she remembered how he had been beside her beloved protector when she drained a man’s life to heal herself. He had been a cunt, but still, it spoke of unwavering loyalty.

Was the Targaryen madness catching?

“So you see, Ser Criston, nowhere in our duties does it include accosting the future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, nor a highborn Lord.” Erryk concluded.

“The Princess and the boy threatened to murder me.” Criston declared.

“If Aemara wanted him dead, he would be.” Laenor announced.

“A true dragon, our girl, likes to play with her food.” Daemon replied proudly.

“So now you would stand here and accuse the Princess, a girl of ten, of planning your death? Remember your words, Ser, and to whom you speak.” Erryk snapped.

 Rhaenyra smiled, all fang and venom. “Perhaps the Northern air as left you confused. My daughter has much better things to be doing than planning something as insignificant as your death.”

“Oh I cannot wait to hear the Green Queen’s shrieks when he tells her.” Daemon added.

Criston seemed to think for a moment, his upper lip twitching violently as though he wanted to scream. He took a breath, and in a show of obviously forced deference, dropped his head.

“I shall apologise to the Princess immediately, Your Highness. I fear you are correct, the North does not suit me.” Criston bit out.

“I believe she said if you spoke in her presence again you would lose your tongue, did she not?” Laenor commented. “Perhaps if you are sincere with your words, she would let you keep it.”

“Can I? Nyra please?” Daemon begged. Rhaenyra nodded, smirk pulling at her lips. “Yes. Our daughter can be quite forgiving.”

Criston’s eyes widened and he had to brace himself. Rhaenyra’s mind delighted. Yes, this is exactly what they wanted. Let him know, let him hear, and must importantly, let him tell Alicent. They had their support, they had their supporters. Let the Faith concoct their plan, only so Rhaenyra could set it ablaze.

“Your daughter, Prince Daemon?” Criston croaked.

“Ah, ah, I said ‘our’.” Daemon gestured to the three of them. “Why, we are to be married of course. You do not think me a man who would not love the children of my wife and husband to be?”

Criston fell with a dead faint. Erryk’s hand went to his mouth, but he could not contain his laughs. Neither could Daemon. Laenor peered at the body, his shoulders slumping in disappointment when he saw the cunt’s chest rise and fall.

“I had hoped that would kill him.” He pouted.

“We know, dear husband. Daemon, be a dear and fetch the water, I do not want his presence lingering in our rooms longer than is necessary.” Rhaenyra said. “Erryk, double the guard on the children, all of them. Oh and speak to Rickard, would you? The poor boy probably doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”

“I can assure you, Princess, he does not.” Erryk promised with a chuckle. Daemon dumped the water on Crison. “Up you get, you lazy fuck. Never in my life have I seen a member of the Kingsguard faint over news of a marriage.”

“And to think the sole reason he’d been chosen was because of his battle experience.” Rhaenyra hummed. “Fucking cunt.”

“Shall we drag him into the halls?” Laenor asked. “He does stink.”

“And you want to touch him?” Daemon retorted. “We just need more water.”

“Oh, Princess.” Erryk started. “Ser Steffon wished for me to inform you that he has written his letter to the Lord Commander. I believe that makes the eleventh?”

“Are the still strongly worded?” Rhaenyra didn’t know what that actually entailed, but Ser Steffon had been oh so serious when he had uttered that line to her.

“He writes the same way he speaks, direct, dry and scathing.” Erryk promised.

“Good, Ser Harrold should find some entertainment in them, so.”

Rhaenyra also knew that the letters, which were sealed with white wax, held a plethora of curses that were used to describe Criston Cole. Her favourite, however, had to be the simple yet resounding:

He’s a fucking cunt, Lord Commander, but the little Princess makes his suffering our entertainment.

***

Otto

They were returning. Within the moon, the royal family would be back, and the time for planning would be over. It was bad enough with that Viserys the fool supported it. Honestly, why couldn’t the idiot have just agreed to marry Rhaenyra and Aegon? It would have solved so many problems. Instead, Otto was trying to find ways to destroy the marriage before it even begun.

Problems like is errant daughter trying to murder the most untouchable girl in the entire Realm. Somehow the child breed complete loyalty and devotion from everybody who came close to her. She had even ensnared his grandchildren, had taken them from the path Otto had planned for them. Prior to Aemara’s birth, and subsequent life, Rhaenyra let no Maester near her precious babes, derailing all of his plans. Only the Red Witch could attend their wounds, or the spindly Maester Gerardys who did nought but sprout the eternal brilliance of Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her strange brood she called family.

Perhaps he held some blame for the way Alicent turned out. He had given her delusions that she was worth more than she was. After all, what woman was worth anything other than her ability to bear good, healthy sons? His sons knew their place, but his daughter did not. She had break weak, ill-tempered children who were a shame to the Hightower blood in their veins, far too dragon-like. Alicent could not be faulted for it all, however. Rhaenyra held some blame, for she fell victim to the same weakness of all women: Children. Otto honestly believed the children saw her more as parent than a sister, the Princess of Dragonstone showering them in red and black.

She was mocking him, Otto knew, as she had upon Aemara’s presentation feast. His grandchildren were no longer his pawns, but nor were their Rhaenyra’s. No. They were bound to that beast shrouded in human skin. That fool Criston had written about the girl, how she accosted him, how he was treated by his so called white-brothers, how the Whore of Dragonstone (And really Alicent, could you not have thought of a better name? A treason a little less obvious, perhaps?) had left her mark upon the girl. Did he truly believe that the girl, barely ten, was seducing the Lords of the Realm?

Honestly, why am I surrounded by such idiots?

But even Otto was not too proud to admit that the otherworldly power in the child worried him. Her control over the dragons terrified him, how she had managed to tame the wild Cannibal beast with nothing but her presence. The Targaryens saw it as a sign, Otto saw an omen of destruction. They would cannibalise the Realm, turn it into some twisted facsimile of Valyria with its heathen sorcery and peculiar obsession with fire and blood. Their disgusting practice of inter-marriage. He’d seen it in the girl’s eyes. That capacity for destruction. That want for violence. The girl would be no better than Maegor with Teats.

A true dragon indeed.

So far, his Maesters were no closer to testing a poison that would suitably kill a dragon, and with none in residence, and none willing to go near the Bronze Fury, they had little opportunity to test their products. They would have to focus on the smallest ones, those tied to the bastard children, and the eggs. They would need to find a way to destroy the eggs, to once and for all end the Targaryen domination. To remove their greatest strength. If Dorne had managed it once, they could do so again.

But the Prince would never agree, for he was quite happy to sit and play with taxes and irritating raids along the Marches. Viserys had, in a fit of unequivocal power, demanded that the garrisons be better guarded, their provisions increased, and security tightened. He would not have war, but he would have battle. And if need be, he would mount his dragon as a show of power.

What a fool.

Otto knew that his actions upon Queen Aemma’s birthing bed had the potential to plunge the Realm to war, that by installing his daughter as Queen, his daughter who would do her duty and father Princes and Kings, would be the end of the Targaryen line. His grandchildren were supposed to despise the beasts they bonded too, were supposed to fear them, fear Rhaenyra and what she would do should that fanciful wish of a Targaryen Queen ever come to pass.

It was all part of the Grand Plan that every suitable Hightower had known. It was their duty to the light and love of the Seven to cleanse the world of the lingering darkness that clung to the last vestiges of Old Valyria.

He wonders what would have been, had he been able to slip the same tincture to Aemara Targaryen, a child of ten who seemed to be his greatest threat, as he had done to her uncle, the tiny babe, Baelon. He wonders what could have been had Viserys been a man and taken his brother’s head for defiling his daughter, the very same pair he was about to marry in a blatant mockery to the Seven.

But most of all, he wonders what would have happened if poor Prince Baelon, the Spring Prince and Hand of the King, had not died of a rather unfortunate burst belly. Thankfully the poison Hobert had sourced worked well, though it was expensive.

Otto hoped he could find more.

Chapter Text

Viserys

He stood tall and proud as the carriages stopped inside his walls. Saera, Vaegon and Maegelle were surrounding him and Alicent, while Corlys stood at the end of their procession. Viserys had waited for this moment for two long years, he had missed his children and grandchildren so, had missed his brother and his cousin. He wanted his house united under one roof, together in a way that they had not been since before the Great Council. He just wished Aemma had been beside him.

He felt guilty of course, for if his beloved wife was beside him, his three youngest children would not exist as they were. He loved them all, loved Aegon’s mischief, Helaena’s strange, wonderful ramblings and Aemond’s passion. Viserys had been blind years ago, had been blind to Otto’s tactic to install his daughter as Queen, and as much as Viserys regretted the strife it caused between Alicent and Rhaenyra, it had given him three beautiful, wonderful children.

Viserys also knew that Alicent desired more children, but Viserys dared not hope for another. His dreams had taken a dark and twisted turn, of a lone dragon, isolated and bathed in blue and black. A warning of unhatched eggs and wildfire burning his kin, only for a son to be born amidst the carnage. Viserys would not have another child, for he could not, and would not, lose his family. They were his, and he, the rider of Balerion and Vermithor, mounts of two great Kings, would not allow his family to fall.

It was strange, Viserys had found, in those first few weeks. Vermithor did not fill the void let by Balerion’s loss, but rather encompassed it with an all-searing fire that brought life back to his bones. His new mount had taken that infected, festering piece of Viserys’ soul and shrouded it in fire and blood, in protection and love, and in return, Viserys honoured the great Bronze Fury. His dragon was lonely, Viserys knew, just as he himself was, but his family was home now.

Had that babe, the one he had seen so long ago wearing the crown of the Conqueror been his granddaughter? Had it been her all along? It had been Aemara, after all, that united the fracturing house of the dragon, that saw their histories and was bound to the dragons in a way no man could explain. Had it always been her?

Valyria reborn. Salt and smoke, blood and bone, ice and fire.

“Stark guards.”  Vaegon commented at the sight of the grey sigil. “Strange.”

“I believe Aemara was taken with Lord Rickon’s nephew, Rickard. Laenor agreed to see him to Knighthood.” Viserys informed.

It had shocked him somewhat, when he had read the letter. The Starks were known for not leaving the North, and Rhaenyra already had one in her retinue. Perhaps a match could have been arranged between Aemara and the Stark boy, but Viserys did not wish it. He hoped some day he could convince Alicent to allow the union between either Aemond or Aegon (He dared not broach the topic of Helaena and Aemara, for he knew the Faith’s views, his wife’s views, and there was the issue of succession to contend with) and his dearest granddaughter.

“And their wolves?” Saera wondered.

“Rhaenyra assured me the bond is similar to that of a dragon rider and their mount. They will not act without cause, and from what I have read, they are more ally than enemy.”

“Leave it to Aemara to find an omen of the North.” Corlys huffed in Common. “Our granddaughter is a menace. I wonder how they will grow; stories say they were once the size of horses.”

“I’m sure it will depend on a multitude of factors. Our dragons were smaller than the ones of Valyria prior to the Doom, but since they’ve been unchained in the Pit, since the Princess’ birth, they have only grown. The hatchlings are an unprecedented size.” Vaegon commented. "Mayhaps they will grow to dwarf even Balerion."

Viserys theorised that dragons never truly stopped growing, not when they had the magic and bond to sustain them. His Balerion had been the first dragon to die of old age that they had known of, and he had seen much. Aeara's return had scarred him, and the wounds had taken years upon years to heal. Wildfyre had no determinate age, but he was thought to be the oldest living dragon after Vhagar, but he was not near her size. Yet.

He wondered if dragons suffered from broken bonds.

“And here they are.” Lyonel commented from behind him, clustered with the rest of the Small Council.

“Join us, Lyonel, you too are seeing your kin for the first time in two years.”

Lyonel dipped his head in silent thanks as he stepped forward, taking a place beside Saera who grinned wickedly. Lyonel blushed, as he often did when Saera looked at him, and Viserys, in an effort to keep his breakfast settled, did not think about it.

Viserys found his heart stopping for a second as Rhaenyra, dressed in blue and gold, in colours Aemma had frequented, stepped out of the carriage. His daughter, his sweet girl, was beautiful and elegant, and when she saw him, a wide smile broke upon her face. Viserys was sure that image would be seared into his mind until he returned to Aemma’s embrace.

They had all grown in their time away, Aegon, now four and ten, had sharper features and his silver-white hair was curled and free, much like his son. Aemond’s face still held the last vestige of childhood fat, but Viserys knew his son would grow into a tall, striking warrior. Perhaps one worthy of Dark Sister, if Daemon thought so. Viserys would have to ask.

Jace and Luke, Baela and Rhaena were clustered together, and Viserys was reminded of times long passed, when that was he and Rhaenys, Daemon between them and Aemma the voice of reason. It reminded the King of his age, yet he did not feel old. Had not felt old since his first grandchild had been born. The girls were the striking image of their mother, beautiful white hair coiled in tight ringlets, whereas his own grandsons resembled their grandparents.

But in all the years away none had changed as much as his granddaughter. Even amongst the cluster of silver-blond hair, Viserys spied her easily. Mercury braids were piled atop her head, identical to the illustrations of ancient tomes of Valyrian history that had survived. She had grown taller, a true Targaryen Princess with sharpening features and strong shoulders. There was a presence, an ethereal starlight glow to Aemara’s skin that made Viserys fell as though he was in the presence of a God rather than a child.

Helaena clung to her arm, smiling wildly as Aemara’s lips moved, but Viserys could not hear it. He was too enraptured by the scene, Aegon and Aemond having joined them. His breath caught for a moment, and Viserys knew. He knew. He had never listened to Aemma regarding the songs in their blood, had ignored it in Daemon and Rhaenyra. He would not ignore this. Not when everything in the world felt right, when peace settled and the crackling embers of his blood roared to life. Judging by the intake of breath beside him, from those of Valyrian blood, they felt it too.

Yes. This is the way. Salvation or ruination.

“Welcome home.” Viserys announced, stepping forward to gather Rhaenyra close. “I have missed you all so.”

***

Whilst his family settled after their time away, Viserys found his way to Alicent’s chambers. He worried for her in truth, for Alicent seemed to have little by the way of friends amongst court. She rarely took tea with the other ladies, instead she chose to spend her time with her septas and whatever it was one does with their septas. He knew she had struggled being separated from her children, but she had not wished to journey with them, and Viserys had not forced her. As it was, Alicent did not have much in the way of choice.

In the days since Rhaenyra’s return Alicent had barely let the children from her sight, despite their protests. She had cried upon seeing them, lamenting their changes and their absence, but that was it. When they all dined together, Alicent would pointedly look anywhere but his granddaughter, who was often surrounded by his own sons and daughter. Viserys hoped that meant she would reconsider the marriage proposal sometime in the future.

He would not lie and say he loved his new wife, for he did not. She was companionable, had brought him three wonderful children, but sometimes Viserys could scarcely look upon her without his own stomach recoiling in guilt. He had not lain with her in months, the dreams, a possibility of a future seen yet unseen, had soured any relations. Viserys had been selfish in choosing his own wants before, and that had nearly torn his family apart. He would not do so again.

Rhaenyra had reminded him that theirs was a duty that transcended governance and ruling. It was their gift from the Gods, that they, the Targaryens, had been the only ones deemed worthy enough to survive the Doom. Their line was destined for greatness, but greatness inspired envy. Viserys could see it clearly, the whispered derision of his daughter being named heir, how her dark-haired sons were bastards, and how beautiful, sweet Aemara was Maegor reborn.

“Oh, hello my love, are you well?” Alicent wondered.

“I simply wondered if you would like to take a walk in the gardens? I fear I have been remiss.”

“Nonsense, Viserys. You have been busy with Dorne, and the arrival of our children.” Alicent swallowed. “It seems our sons have grown close to Rhaenyra’s daughter.”

“It is our way.” Viserys said easily. “Targaryens are meant to be together, dragons do not do well alone."

"But she is different than a normal Targaryen, is she not? She has two dragons, four if you include those who loiter upon Dragonstone.”

“Aemara is simply Aemara, Alicent. She is a girl, my granddaughter, a future Queen of Westeros and a daughter of Old Valyria.” Viserys reminded. “And she would have no greater protection in this world than our sons, no greater confidante than our daughter.”

“So that is the life you would have for the sons of a King?” Alicent asked sharply. “To serve as common knights and a maid?”

Viserys inhaled at his wife’s sharp tone. She did not understand. None truly did unless they had the blood of Old Valyria, unless they had the fire-flames of dragon-breath coursing through their veins. Viserys feared if Alicent did not know by now, she never would.

“That will be their duty, yes. They could have been Kings, but you have refused to even consider a possible match. I understand that such a thing may go against your own Faith, but it is not ours. The magic in our blood calls to one another, it is the Way of Valyria.”

“I cannot break my faith, Viserys, and you cannot force me. You swore, you swore than I would decide. Would you break that promise, husband? Would you snatch my children from me, marry them off to your granddaughter without thought for what they may wish?”

“You know I would not, Alicent.” Viserys shook his head, a weary sigh escaping him. “But I will not deny them their happiness, either. Should they ask, I will not deny their request.”

“They are still young, I would not seem them confuse childhood happiness for that of their duty to the Realm.”

Viserys sighed. He knew Alicent would never understand. A dragon took what it wanted, when it wanted.

***

Rhaenys

The House of the Dragon had not been united as it was since the days of the Conquerors, since before Rhaenys’ namesake fell to the South, consumed by the dragon-flame in her blood. Perhaps it was their own hubris that had led to the situation they found themselves in, spun in a web of insidious plots and ancient, mythical creatures. Targaryens, after all, were closer to Gods than men, but it seemed the family had forgotten that men were just as dangerous.

It was how they found themselves, all of them, minus the children, and Viserys for obvious reasons, clustered around a table in Rhaenyra’s apartments. The Princess of Dragonstone was flanked, Laenor to her right, and Daemon to her left, as regal and poised as she always appeared. Rhaenys would never say it aloud, but she was proud of the woman Aemma’s daughter had grown into, of the mother and wife she was, of the ruler she would one day become.

Laena was sitting beside Saera, somewhat protecting Harwin, who the infamous Targaryen Princess was eying with appreciation, much to Laena’s amusement. Vaegon and Maegelle were close to the end, while Corlys and Rhaenys herself sat together. Ser Erryk stood behind Rhaenyra’s seat at the centre of the table, a loyal and dutiful shield.

But a sword could not fight whispers, nor could it shield against them.

“So.” Laena began. “The Hightowers will obviously be an issue that we must contend with.”

“You are correct, sister.” Rhaenyra acknowledged. “But I believe it would be best to ensure that each person here understands the intricacies of what we know so far.”

“The Faith will also contest the marriage strongly.” Maegelle announced. “And they will use the people to do so.”

“We suspected as much.” Rhaenyra sighed. “Tell me, what do you know of the High Septon?”

Rhaenys raised an eyebrow as she sank back into her chair. That was an interesting line of thought, what that hadn’t occurred to her. If the High Stepton couldn’t be made to see the future for what it would be, and wished to be remembered as a relic of the past… well there are an abundance of holy men who would enjoy some rewards for their loyalty.

Maegelle took a moment to think upon it though, her teeth worrying at her lip. She seemed to forget she no longer held the protection of her morning veil, and a pretty pink blush spread upon her rounded cheeks.

“I know he is a man who enjoys the station his position grants him, but he is not what I would call devout.” Maegelle answered. “You would be surprised with the number of septons who walk the path in order to seen, to be praised.”

“He bears a striking resemblance to Otto, does he not?” Rhaenyra said.

Rhaenys had never really looked at the High Septon, for the seven-pointed crystal he wore gave her a headache with its absurdity. But she could admit there were similarities, that same red-brown hair shared by all Hightowers, his closeness with Alicent.

“You think he’s a bastard Hightower?” Harwin questioned. “Surely it would be known?”

“Not necessarily.” Maegelle said. “High Septons are to shed their entire identity, to speak their name, or even to seek it out, is considered a slight upon the Seven. There is a record, of course, but it is only for the High Septons. Similar to the White Book, I believe.”

“But unlikely to be bound in the same magic, Princess.” Erryk reminded. “Whatever sorcery Her Grace, Queen Visenya, used to tie the Kingsguard to the throne is unknown, but I cannot see the Faith allowing anything similar.”

“Magic?” Vaegon questioned. “The vow is modelled off of the Night’s Watch vow, Ser.”

“Yes. And from what we learned in the North, that oath is binding in some form. The Wall is protection from whatever dwells in the Land of Always Winter.” Laenor reminded. “Father, you sailed North, what say you?”

“I sailed as far as Hardhome, son. It is nowhere near true North. I am surprised you did not take your dragons and attempt to fly over it.” Corlys stated.

“They wouldn’t go. They were unsettled in the North, they sensed a danger that we could not see. I would wager it is whatever magic was used in the Wall.” Rhaenys told her husband. “Aemara was particularly afflicted.”

And it was true. Her granddaughter tried to hide it, and had in fact hidden it well. Perhaps they would have missed it had they not been waiting for it, had the dragons not told them. Why Aemara felt the need to hide her suffering, none of them knew, and for a girl of ten she had spectacular evasion skills. Rhaenys blamed the hardships in their blood.

“I would expect nothing less from a Daughter of Aeraeys.” Vaegon muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Oh, you do not know? The mark upon her shoulder.”

“Is Daenys’ mark.” Daemon said flatly, eyeing his uncle as though he had lost his senses.

Vaegon huffed. “Perhaps because she was the last to possess it, but there are legends. I’m trying to find the book in the library, but Viserys had the entire thing reorganised. It’s abysmal really.”

“And dear brother, do you know anything about it?” Saera questioned.

“It is an omen, of salvation or ruination. It is the mark of the Fourteen, of the Parthenon, meant for those who are Gods-blessed. If the legend is true, she will become something Other. The Guiding Light-Flame.” Vaegon waved a hand. “I am still searching.”

Rhaenyra stiffened in her seat, all trace of wonder gone. Rhaenys understood it all too well, that fear a mother held for her children. But they could not control the will of the Gods, nor their plans. They could only support Their chosen. They had known even before she was born that Aemara wasn’t a typical Targaryen babe, and as she grew that become more evident. Rhaenyra sighed, her knuckles cracking in the uncomfortable silence of the room. Daemon had laid a hand on her wrist, his own jaw tense.

But what were the chances the people would just choose that title for her? They called ger the Guiding Light, for she was forever leading the dragons soaring in the skin. But what if it was more?

“Even if she were a God reborn, she is our daughter first.” Laenor decree with finality. “She is a child still, and she will remain so for years to come. This does not define who she is., it is simply a part of who she is.”

Rhaenys was proud of her son’s words. They were the words of a father who would lay down their lives, and the lives of hundreds, to protect their kin, to ensure the safety of their loved ones. But it stuck her, deep in her heart, and for the first time in decades, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen was afraid.

But she did not know why. Until Daemon spoke again.

“I say we kill the Hightower cunt and his spawn.”

“I will not steal the life of my siblings’ mother, Daemon.” Rhaenyra hissed.

“Even though her cunt of a father stole yours?”

Rhaenys inhaled sharply, and suddenly she felt the danger prickle along her neck. Rhaenyra’s head snapped toward Daemon, a venomous gleam to her eyes.

“Alicent will pay for her own misdeeds, but I will not hold her accountable for her father’s actions, which at this point, are little more than conjecture. We need proof, evidence and facts that father cannot refute, you know this.”

“Then let us find proof.” Laena interceded softly. “In the meantime, we will have to lessen the blow the wedding will incur.”

“And how shall we do that, sister?” Laenor questioned.

It was Saera who laughed, chiming like gentle bells. “How else? We make their lives worth living, ensure they don’t starve. Let them see the Prince of Flea-Bottom, banish the worst of the lawlessness to easily contained centres. Centres that we control, and eradicate.”

Rhaenys sunk into the peace of Meleys’ bond. It was easy to speak of, to plot and plan, but to do was more difficult. The Queen Who Never Was shared a knowing look with her husband. It said a thousand things, yet only one of them mattered.

The Great Game was afoot.

***

They were seated around the fire, just the six of them. Laenor, Rhaenyra and Daemon were close, her good-daughter anxiously twisting her rings. Rhaenys could not blame the trepidation, for she herself felt it. It was the day before the announcement to the Realm, but it was more than that. It was a show to those who would seek to harm them, destroy them.

Salvation or ruination. That phrase had plagued Rhaenys and she did not know why. She heard it wherever she went, saw it in the eyes of the court and even her own kin.

“Saera and Vaegon have organised the documents to prove that such a union was common-place within Valyria.” Viserys commented. “I will give it to the High Septon following the announcement.”

“And should they refuse? If they rise against us? Daemon was named Maegor, and now my daughter shares the same fate.” Rhaenyra reminded. “They will not allow it without some sort of reprisal father. They do not respect our customs.”

“Have no fear, my girl. You have the support of the houses, even if the Faith wish to argue, my mind will not be swayed. You will marry, on the sands of Dragonstone, surrounded by our kin and our dragons, as it was meant to be.”

“They will question the issue of succession should any children be born to the union.” Corlys pointed out. “The whispers may also become louder, about the children.”

“The succession remains the same.” Laenor decree. “And any question surrounding the legitimacy of my children’s claims will be met with steel. History doesn’t remember blood, it remembers names, and we are family no matter who sired who.”

Rhaenys was proud of her son’s attitude. There was just one little issue… Alicent Hightower. She would not care, and Laenor could not be protected from murdering the Queen Consort. None of them could.

“You speak true, Laenor.” Viserys agreed. “Any that challenge the legitimacy of my grandchildren shall be shown the wroth of the dragon.”

This was the Viserys that Rhaenys remembered. This was the rider of Balerion, of Vermithor. A man who was tempered and kind, until his kin was threatened. Then the fires of Valyria burned, bright and hot, chaotic and beautiful, and he would defend. She never thought he would re-emerge from that broken shell that was left in the wake of still-birth and miscarriage, in the wake of Aemma’s death and all that followed.

“What say you, cousin?” Viserys asked, breaking Rhaenys from her reverie. “Ten days of celebration upon Dragonstone, with the wedding on the night of the full moon.”

Rhaenys, as the eldest child of the eldest child, was by Targaryen customs, the head of the house. However, upon Aemara’s maturation, she, due to the sacred mark upon her shoulder, would take Rhaenys’ place. Rhaenys would have to ready her for that, for it was different.

“And the festivities for when we return?” Rhaenys asked with a knowing look.

“Seven days of feasts, jousts and tournies.” Viserys smiled shyly. “To give our children the proper wedding festivities.”

Daemon cleared his throat, eyebrow raised, and arms crossed.

“Ah, I meant our kin, brother.” Viserys murmured, placating Daemon who broke into a broad smile.

“See, how do you decide which relation is more important? He’s your brother, but also your bound-son. The children are your niece and nephews, and your grandchildren.” Corlys said.

Again with this question.

“I suppose it’s whichever you’ve known for longer. Daemon is my brother; he shall remain so. They are my grandchildren, for their mother is my daughter. Corlys, we’ve been over this.” Viserys hummed.

Laenor snorted. “It matters not. The festivities will be grand, I’m sure of it. Perhaps the grandest the Realm will see until Aemara’s maturation celebrations.”

“Oh, we’ve already started planning that.” Corlys waved. “It will take time to get the elephants. Twenty-two moons they are pregnant for, could you imagine?”

The what? Rhaenys scrubbed a hand over her face. It truly was a terrible idea allowing the two of them to be left without supervision for so long. She should have known better.

“Let us hope Criston Cole does not see fit to sully this wedding with the blood of an innocent man.” Laenor remarked bitterly.

“Yes. He will be dealt with, Lord Commander Westerling has brought me some letters, written by Ser Steffon I believe. I hope he isn’t as dry in his writing as he is in life.”

He was, but none of them saw fit to tell Viserys that. The topic of the strongly worded letters was a humorous one, a bastion of amusement in the darkness of the assassination attempt.

***

Daemon

It was a rare for the entire court to be summoned before the Throne, and as such distinct murmurs were present. Viserys preferred to let them mingle, move about and have tea parties, but for what they were about to do, he needed to be the King. He needed to be a Targaryen. A dragon.

Daemon, Rhaenyra and Laenor stood before the steps, while his brother was perched on his throne as thought it was a pillow. Daemon knew Viserys had not been cut in years, but to see him there, like he belonged, Daemon had never been prouder. Their children stood off to the side, bracketed by Corlys and Rhaenys, Kania and the Stark boy who was always with one of them. He’d adjusted well.

“You have come to request something of your King?” Viserys questioned clearly, his voice silencing the whispers.

“We have, Your Grace. We wish to seek your blessing to bind our blood, the three of us, in the way of our ancestors.” Rhaenyra announced. “We have raised our children together for nearly a decade, and there exists no other with whom I would entrust their care.”

The outcry was instant. Voices were raised, none louder than the High Septon and his pet dog. Daemon stared, a feeling of vicious fury rising in his blood as he recognised the grotesque, balding man. Septon Uln, the man who had overseen Daemon’s delightful stay with the Faith so many years ago. He had hoped the cunt was dead.

“The Doctrine of Exceptionalism must be supported, Your Grace.” The High Septon interceded.

“And who here supports this union?” Viserys asked, and Daemon smirked. The letters felt light in his hand.

“House Baratheon stands with its kin.” Casana announced proudly.

“House Stark supports the union.” Rickard called.

“House Tyrell stands with our cousin, Princess Rhaenyra, in the memory of Queen Aemma.” Rosalie decree.

“House Celtigar offers a blessing to our Valyrian kin.” Vaelencia stated.

“House Strong is in support of the union, my King.” Lyonel offered.

“House Westerling stands with our future Queen.” Ophelia added.

“House Lannister supports the union.” Tyland announced, offering a letter. “Written in my brother’s own hand.”

If Viserys was surprised that the Lannisters of all people were in support, he didn’t show in. Instead he waved Tyland forward, took the letter and broke the seal with a snap.

“Lady Arryn and Lord Tully have both written letters to support the union, Your Grace.” Rhaenyra pointed out before she turned back to the blustering High Septon. “I believe that is more than enough support.”

There were murmurings and mutterings but Daemon didn’t care. Ser Harrold took the letters from his hand, and it immediately found Rhaenyra’s. She gave a him a sweet smile, her fingers tightening around Daemon’s as she looked over to their children.

“I am glad we did this the right way.” Rhaenyra admitted. “It shows our enemies that we are not alone. Not like I could have been.”

“We will not let that happen, Rhaenyra.  I would not leave you to face the vipers alone.” Daemon promised.

“Nor would I.” Laenor agreed, sharing a look with Daemon over Rhaenyra’s head.

“Silence.” Viserys commanded. “The wedding shall take place three moons past from now, upon Dragonstone where only those of Valyrian blood may be present. Following our return, we shall feast for a week.”

The crowds applauded, cheering for such a spectacle. Daemon shook his head, it seems he would never be able to pry Viserys from his feasts. His brother was a good man, a sweet man, and Daemon loved him.

But then the moment was ruined.

“This union is an affront to the glory and light of the Seven. Men shall not lay with man as their do their wives, for to do so is to forsake the Mother.” Uln snarled. “I would expect nothing less from the depraved Rogue Prince.”

Surprisingly, it was Maegelle who stepped forward. She was shrouded in her septa robes, her silver-hair braided beneath a gauzy sky-blue veil.

“You should know, Septon Uln, that those accusations levied against Prince Daemon were discarded by the High Septon of that time.” Her voice brokered no argument. “Furthermore, my kin do not subscribe to the belief of the Seven, and as such, are not beholden to their laws. The Faith no longer govern Westeros, House Targaryen does.”

“You should be dead.” Uln took a step back. “You are all the same. Accursed. Tainted. Deviants.”

“As if greyscale could kill a Targaryen.” Maegelle scoffed. “You dare speak of deviancy? You who has been moved from sept to sept for your heinous actions, you who have taken your pleasure from those who wish to follow the path, you who hide behind the warmth of Seven? May they strike you down for your actions.”

“I have done what was commanded of me. Your kind have no place amongst the world, you are cursed blood.” Uln snapped, his fat neck reddening.

“We are the blood of Old Valyria.” Aemara hissed. “The chosen of the Fourteen. You are nothing in the face of dragon-fire.”

“That beast is the worst of you. She will grow to be worse than Maegor.” Uln shouted. “A product of sin, a bastard.”

Several blades were unsheathed at once, and the crowd screamed. Daemon spied Aegon and Aemond’s hands on Aemara’s shoulder, restraining her. His daughter stared on with incandescent fury. Her raged burned like a falling star as Ser Erryk stepped in front of her. Around them all, the fires burned taller, and in the distance, there was a single, rapturous roar.

“Treason.” Rhaenyra hissed. “As heir to the Iron Throne I accuse you, here and now, of questioning the legitimacy of my daughter’s birth.”

Viserys moved slowly, his hand upon Blackfyre at his hip. He did not hesitate as he pulled the blade free. In the distance, the dragons screamed yet it felt as though they were there.

“Do you have any final words, Septon Uln? For I, King Viserys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, find you guilty.”

This was a side of his brother Daemon had never seen before. Had this been what he was like, while Daemon lay languishing in icy cells, in thread-bare clothes, covered in welts and bruises and things he would rather not think of?

“The Seven will reward my faith.” Uln said.

“You shall never meet them, for you will languish in the depths of the Seven hells.”

Viserys hefted the blade, and then all that sounded was the wet thud as Uln’s head hit the stones. Daemon’s eyes flicked to Alicent Hightower, surrounded by her father and the High Septon, on the opposite side of the room to her children, clad in Hightower green whereas they were dressed in the colours of fire and blood.

It was a message. A declaration. The Queen Consort was not a Targaryen.

“Have his head mounted upon the spikes.” Viserys said with disdain. “Let that be a warning those who dare question the legitimacy of my chosen heir’s children. Treason will be met with fire and blood.”

Daemon looked towards Aemara, who stared at the blood pool, at the severed head, as though she was entranced. He felt a shiver run down his spine as he eyed the look upon her face, a mask of passive beauty and disinterest. It was her eyes, though, that held her secrets.

They danced like flames.

Chapter Text

Aemara

It was strange, Aemara found, to be within the Red Keep once again. Her grandfather had kept their rooms exactly as they’d been before they had departed for Dragonstone all those years ago. The only difference was a larger bed for her muna, papa and kepa, but Aemara did not want to think about that. At all.

The Keep, while infused with Targaryen magic and blood, did not hold the same presence of her ancestral home. There was something else lingering within the walls too, a thread of freshness, of dew-soaked grass and the hum of loyalty, but she couldn’t discern exactly what it was. It confused her as much as it comforted her.

She knew that Kania was not far away, but her sword shield hung to the shadows to give Aemara some sense of privacy as she wandered the halls, conversing with Lord Casewell. He spoke of his own new-born son, a child with shocking black hair. She thought he must be awfully lonely with his family so far from the Keep. So she did not mind his natterings. But then she saw Lord Tyland, standing on the balcony overlooking the training yards.

“Excuse me, my lord.” Aemara said when he finally stopped for a breath. “I’m afraid I’m late for my lessons with uncle Vaegon, and he does hate tardiness.”

“My apologies, Princess.” The man bowed deeply, deepr than was necessary but Aemara found she did not mind.

She understood the message. She was ten years, but she had a thousand years of memories in her blood. She was not a fool. Lines were being drawn, allies gathered along with the vicious vipers that snapped at her family’s heels daily. Aemara smiled at him, inclining her head in silent thanks and watched the man’s retreating form.

She looked back to Kania, who raised a perfectly arched and elegant brow. Aemara shook her head fondly. Her guardian should not have expected any less from Aemara, for it was Kania who had instructed her as such. They were similar, burdened with a glorious purpose, and soon, Aemara would learn.

“Lord Tyland.” She greeted as she stepped onto the balcony. “Good afternoon.”

“Princess.” He turned, inclining his head, though not as deeply as Lord Casewell. Given the history between their families, Aemara was surprised there was such an open show. Lannisters were tricky at the best of times, never mind with the current state of things. “I’m surprised you are not in the yards.”

Aemara peered down into the yards, at Ser Harwin and Rickard as the sparred, both flush and grinning with the thrill of a good fight. Kepa was off to the side, instructing Aegon, while Laena and papa were teaching her brothers and cousins how to use a bow. Aemond was nowhere to be seen, and Aemara frowned. It was unlike him.

“Uncle Vaegon doesn’t like it when I return to the library, he believes it to be a place of peace.” Aemara admitted with a huff. “Do you partake?”

“No, no. I leave the fighting to Jason, he is much more suited to it than I. Like Maester Vaegon, I find myself more at home with economics and laws.”

And wasn’t that interesting? There had not been a Lannister on the Small Council for a long while, Aemara knew. The issue, however, lay with Ser Otto’s appointment as Master of Laws. What her grandfather had been thinking, Aemara did not know. But she had heard muna and kepa lament the man’s position.

“Then perhaps you could assist me in a matter, my Lord, if you would be willing of course.”

Got you. Tyland turned to give Aemara his full attention intrigue written across his face.

“My knowledge is yours, Princess. What is the matter?”

“A gift, to honour the memory of my grandmother, and Queen Alysanne.” Aemara announced with a proud smile. “I understand that we cannot fix the issues of the city in a day, or even a year, but I have heard things. Dreadful things of babes who waste away, of mothers who smoother them to ensure they do not suffer such an agonising, long death.”

Tyland’s breath hitched at her spoken words. “You wish to do something? Would it not be better to speak to the Small Council Princess? They have a greater jurisdiction over such matters.”

“I do not wish for the fanfare that would bring. I simply want to see my people fed, especially with the arrival of the White Ravens from the Citadel, for I know it is what my grandmother would want.” Aemara admitted.

It was a half-truth. Nobody knew about her plan, save for Corlys, Saera and Rhaenys, and she did not want it attached to the crown. Let that news filter out afterwards, to prove to the people that it was no simply an attempt to feign interest. After all, was it not the duty of the strong to protect the weak? The powerful to correct injustice?

“Such an undertaking would need allowances from the Crown, to install food centres, employ cooks and guards.” Tyland said after a moment.

“I have the finances, my Lord. Both my own, and Lord Corlys’ support. I think just one or two, for the sick, the old. And then, should it prove successful, the Crown would sponsor more. Similar to what my mother has implemented upon Dragonstone.”

She watched Lord Tyland consider the proposal, delighting in the way his mind raced. It was easy, whatever this was. But she also had one final piece to sway him, one she knew he could not deny.

“I’m going to enlist the help of Lady Tyrell and Lady Celtigar, as well, my Lord. My cousin’s assistance would aid us with getting the food from the Reach, and Lady Celtigar is quite excellent at economics.”

There.

“I would be honoured assist you in such a noble cause, Princess. I had thought nothing of the name gifted to you by the people, but you truly are a Guiding Light.” Lord Tyland remarked. “I shall write to my brother, to bolster the funds in future once it proves to be a success.”

“My thanks, Lord Tyland. You are a true friend of House Targaryen, to me. I had feared if I had approached another, they would have laughed. After all, how many believe that we are unfit to form our own thoughts simply because of our sex?”

Tyland choked, hand moving the base of his throat, but Aemara simply smiled. She could taste Kania’s humour as her Red Priestess settled a hand on her shoulder.

“Pardon, my Lord. Maester Vaegon is searching for you, Princess. He would also like to remind you that daggers are not allowed within the library.”

“I stabbed one book.” Aemara muttered, handing over the black scabbard that was hidden beneath her cloak, well it had originally been Aemond’s. “My apologies, Lord Tyland. I will send Vaelencia to speak with you, if that is acceptable?”

“Of course, Princess.” His eyes were wide, focused on the dagger. Why did this child terrify and intrigue him so?

***

Her muscles ached pleasantly as she twirled her twin blades, one a thin short-sword modelled after Dark Sister, the other a thicker dagger. She grinned at kepa as strands of her hair stuck to her sweat-damp skin. She felt alive, the echoes of a thousand marching men humming in her blood, dragon roars in her ears. This is what she was meant for. Violence in the name of protection.

The Sword of Valyria.

“You should have been named Visenya, dear niece.” Aegon commented. “Or Alyssa, father says she was an expert with a blade.”

“Oh she was.” Kepa agreed, his hand squeezing her shoulder in silent praise. “Let us hope the path reveals itself, for soon you will have outgrown such steel.”

“Or you could just admit you’re old and pass Dark Sister on.” Aemara reminded, side-stepping the attempt to swat the side of her head. “See, old.”

Kepa grunted out an amused sound and shook his head. “The youth of today, no respect for their elders.”

Aegon came to stop beside her, and pulled her closer, eyeing Daemon with a wicked gleam. “So you admit you’re old.”

There was look of such outrage upon Daemon’s face that Aemara could not help but laugh. Rickard, who had been sparring with Ser Erryk, turned at the sound. He hadn’t quite yet gotten use to the dynamic of the Targaryen household, but he did enjoy the openness the family had. It reminded him of home.

“Be gone, little dragons. Bathe before Rhaenyra finds you or she’ll have my hide.”

“Muna much prefers silk, kepa, you should remember that for when you inevitably antagonise her.” She turned to Aegon. “Shall we visit Balerion?”

“You are aware he’s dead, yes?” Aegon asked dryly. Aemara smacked his arm. “If that is what you wish, dear Princess.”

Aemara spied Daemon’s eyes narrowing at them. He held up a hand, halting their exit and called Rickard and Ser Erryk over. Both men appeared in an instant, faces flush alongside the redding marks of a decent melee. Winter, Rickard’s direwolf pup, although now it was the size of fully grown hound, padded along with a lolling tongue. It was with him constantly, as was Bryna’s Dusk.

“Escort these two to Balerion’s alter, and do not cause another incident.” Daemon said seriously. “I cannot listen to that woman again.”

“Lady Redwayne should learn how to control her mutt then.” Aegon muttered. “If we can manage dragons, and the Starks can manage their wolves, she should able to manage that mangy thing.”

“Now uncle, it’s hardly the dog’s fault stupidity is catching.” Aemara replied breezily. “And it tried to bite Luke. Isn’t that technically treason?”

“Can animals be charged with treason?” Aegon wondered seriously.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re second in line to the throne and you don’t know what constitutes as treason?” Aegon teased.

“I’m ten.” Aemara reminded. “Perhaps grandfather would know.”

“Do not pester Viserys with hypothetical treasonous scenarios, I fear he has only just recovered from you asking how we bonded with the dragons.” Daemon interrupted. That had been an experience.

“She knows, and she won’t tell us.” Aegon whined, pouting.

“Whining is unbecoming of a Prince of the Realm.” Aemara grinned.

Daemon pinched the bridge of his nose as he sighed. The two of them together was a nightmare, for neither of them possessed a shred of impulse impulse control. It was like they fed off of each other’s insanity. It irritated Daemon, because it meant their bond was true, and Aegon was still shit at giving gifts. His daughter deserved the world, an empire carved in her name that would immortalise her in songs and stories, not a fucking last slice of spice-cake.

“Go please, before I throw myself from Caraxes.” Eager eyes turned to him, their bickering forgotten. “I will take you after noon-meal, if you do not cause any trouble.”

“We won’t allow anything to happen, my Prince.” Erryk stated seriously, but his lip was twitching.

“I once would have believed that, Erryk, but the children have corrupted you. Or was it your brother who hefted the furniture so that Maester Orwyle took a tumble?”

“Lead the way, Princess.” Erryk said, though the flush on his cheeks was no longer from exertion.

Aemara huffed. She had not corrupted Ser Erryk, that was entirely Kania’s doing. She did not say anything though. Kepa pressed a kiss to her head, and Aemara found she delighted in finally getting to acknowledge him as one of her parents.

She knew it put her own existence in position of intense scrutiny, but she didn’t care. Anybody who uttered a breath about her, or her brothers, and the legitimacy of their birth would find themselves bereft of life.

They wandered through the corridors of the Keep, stopping along the way when passing Lords and Ladies spied Aemara. Ageon gave a huff at all the attention received, but she knew her unless didn’t really care. He was happy to love his life as a Prince, and not have to do any of the work that came along with it.

Sometimes she envied him.

She felt uncomfortable, however, when Lord Larys stopped them with a smile. There was something about the way he looked at her, at the way he looked at Aegon that made Aemara’s skin crawl. There was nothing in his eyes, cold and devoid of life, as he dipped his head. He also had no reason to be there, for the single corridor led to Balerion’s alter.

“My Prince, Princess. It is not often we see you without your companions.” Lord Larys smiled.

“We have come from the training yards.” Aemara stated, and while she loved Harwin for being the father of her beloved cousins, she hated his brother. He would find no warmth from her.

“Ah.” Larys hummed. “I shall not take up any more of your time then. My Prince, Princess.”

“I dare say you are the most popular of us all, sweet niece.” Aegon hummed as they descended the steps to Balerion’s alter.

“Not with everybody.” Aemara replied, referring to Aemond’s odd behaviour. He had been ignoring her since the events of the throne room. He would not speak to her. Would not look at her.  “I would also suffer through embroidery before I found enjoyment in conversing with him.”

Had she disgusted him when she spoke in defence of her kepa, of their traditions? Had she sullied their relationship as the septon’s blood had sullied the floors?

“Aemond is a melancholic one, you know how his moods take him.” Aegon soothed, ignoring the jibe about his mother’s friend. “He is just at that age.”

“I am aware, Aegon. I had to sit through muna’s lessons on the topic.” Aemara grimaced slightly, remembering her mother's words. “They make the headaches worse.”

Aegon froze. He grabbed Aemara’s shoulders with a gentle ease that he did not use with anybody else. He looked at her deeply, concern etched in his features. Ser Erryk and Rickard were at the door, far enough away so they could not hear the words spoken in their mother tongue.

“Has Rhaenyra said anything about marriage?”

“I’d like to remind you, uncle, that I am ten.” Aemara huffed. “I will not marry for many years to come. Mother would not do that to me. Not with what happened to grandmother.”

It had been Kania that gently suggested the truth of the matter. Queen Aemma had been wed and bed young, too young some would say. But King Jaehaerys had decree that the union was to be consummated. Aemara wondered how many of her mother’s siblings the wants and wishes of a single old man had cost.

More than she knew. But Jaehaerys was not the only old man who was covered in the blood of innocent babes. In the blood of Targaryen mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, brothers and sisters.

“Mother said that once Helaena has bloomed, she is to be wed.” Aegon admitted in the Common Tongue. “She does not know I heard her and grandfather. Please do not say anything.”

Aemara’s blood ran cold. Her aunt was two years older than her. Soon it would be the case that Helaena had grown from girl to woman. But the thoughts of her aunt, her precious dreamer being married off to somebody who wasn’t Aemara hurt.

Her dislike of Alicent Hightower grew.

“Our mothers are two very different people.” Aemara reminded, rather sharply. “Helaena cannot be married off. She is a Princess of House Targaryen, she is my aunt.”

“I know, sweet Princess.” Aegon soothed, his hand running down the loose curls of Aemara’s hair. “I know.”

“I do not wish for us to be separated, Aegon.” She admitted, her eyes focused on the black-bone of Balerion’s massive skull. “We are the blood of Old Valyria, the Children of the Fourteen. We are meant to be together.”

Aegon pressed his lips to Aemara’s forehead with a fond huff. “As you command, Princess. Naught but death call part us, I swear it.”

The price of the path is paid with blood, daughter of Valyria. When the time comes, you must choose your path.

The voice was distorted, more like the quite whisper of wind through the leaves on Dragonstone than a being. Aegon turned sharply, hand moving to the small dagger that sat on his hip as though was expecting a threat. He frowned when he saw nothing.

“Did you hear?” He trailed off, looking back to Aemara.

Her eyes were fixed on the dancing flames below Balerion’s skull. She could not feel his hand on her shoulder, nor could she feel his warmth. Ice flooded her veins, and deep in the recesses of her mind, Silverwing roared.

In fact, the entirety of King’s Landing shook with the echoes and power of her kin’s roars. Aemara turned back to Aegon, who swallowed down a sound of shock when he saw the look in her eyes.

Flames, the colour of starlight against the furious gemstone violet, stared back at him. Perhaps his mother had been right, Aegon thought, she will be my ruin, but to bask in her presence is payment enough.

***

Alicent:

Viserys’ rooms were a mess of half-scrbbled notes, sketches and missives. He and Lord Corlys were planning exuberant festivities for the aftermath of the faithless wedding in an attempt to ease the disgust it would certainly be the cause of.

“What do you mean I cannot attend the wedding?” Alicent questioned. “What rumours will this be the cause of, Viserys. Your own Queen absent from the Princess’ second wedding.”

“It is not Rhaenyra’s second wedding.” Viserys stated, dragging his thumb along that forsaken model of Valyria that he held so dear. Alicent wanted to crush it. “It is the renewal of her vows with Laenor, while also adding Daemon into the mix, something that would not have been possible with the existing union.”

“You say it is not a second wedding yet you have planned ever greater celebrations than the ones for the original marriage.” Alicent pointed out. “Yet I am unable to accompany my own children to see their sister wed?”

And how she loathed to say that sentence. Rhaenyra was not her children’s sister, she would be their downfall. Their ruination. Rhaenyra would rather see her sweet babes butchered and burnt so she could sit on a throne that was rightfully Aegon’s. The Rhaenyra that had once been Alicent’s friend, had been Alicent’s everything, had died the day she allowed her own uncle to defile her in a whorehouse.

“Need I remind you, Alicent, that it was your sworn shield who ruined the Crown Princess’s, my daughter’s, original festivities? He beat a man to death with naught but his fists.”

“Ser Criston is a good and loyal man, Viserys.” Alicent said sharply. “He did what any decent member of the Kingsgaurd would do and protected their Queen.”

Viserys shook his head. He was tired of this ever-lingering argument between the two of them, she knew. But she didn’t care. Criston had simply done his duty to his Queen and the Seven by ridding the Realm of another pillow-biter. The King went to respond, but then the doors of the chamber were opened, revealing Princess Saera Targaryen.

“You’re Queen Consort, my dear.” Saera reminded with a gentle smile that was all teeth and humour. “Viserys, I fear allowing Vaegon and Aemara and dragons together was a recipe for disaster.”

“Is she hurt?” Viserys questioned.

Alicent wanted to snort. It seemed nothing could hurt the little beast. Not the dragons, not that monstrous wolf that followed the Stark boy, who trailed after the bastard like a lost pup, nor even an assassination attempt. The savage girl, if Alicent could even call her a girl, even had her own children doing her bidding, had bested them in the yards, and treated Lord Tyland as though he was a friend.

But it seemed Aemond had seen the warmth and light of the Seven. He had been horrified to see the beastly girl smile in delight when the good Septon had his head removed. Alicent felt her gut toil in remembrance. A man of the Gods, a good man, cut down by her own husband for simply doing as the Gods willed.

His head still rotted atop Maegor’s spikes.

“She is fine, she suffered from one of her headaches. Lady Kania is with her now, as is Princess Helaena.” Saera informed. “She asked that I not disturb Rhaenyra and her ladies while they were at tea, but she found something for the ceremony.”

“Such a stubborn girl, so like her grandmother. She wants not for the worry.” Viserys sounded proud. “What did she find?”

“The original binding chalice used by Visenya, Aegon and Rhaenys. We’ve apparently been storing quills in it. Vaegon was most displeased.” Saera answered.

The girl is mad. The curse of their horrible practices, their sins, given flesh. She was an abomination.

Viserys was proud of everything the beast did. Alicent was sure he was even proud that she remembered to breathe. Understanding that she would get nowhere with her husband, she took her leave. Neither Targaryen paid much attention to her as she left, Ser Criston, who had been standing guard with Lord Commander Westerling, a half step behind her.

They meandered through the corridors, for Alicent felt suffocated in the Red Keep. Everywhere she looked, there was a mention of Rhaenyra, or Aemara and those bastards, or a Targaryen/Velaryon. Worse still was when the beastly girl would be compared to the dead Queen Aemma.

She failed to do her duty, and the Mother punished her for it. I have bore three healthy children, two boys, a King to be. Yet my husband dismisses me. My father spits upon me. My children and lost to the thrall of a demon made of flesh.

“What is it about that girl, Ser Criston, that makes people lose their senses?” She questioned.

“I do not know, my Queen.” Ser Criston replied dutifully. “I do not believe she is human. There is a darkness to it, a taint. I believe she was sent by the Seven as a test, one which it seems only we have passed.”

“She corrupts my children daily. Helaena is not without her, even when the beast takes to the training yard.” Alicent grumbled. “Aegon as well. He does not realise the threat she poses.”

“A girl has no place in the yards, Your Grace. They are little more than a distraction, and a distraction in battle is often fatal.” Ser Criston hummed.

Alicent was glad he was with her, that there was somebody else in the castle who saw Rhaenyra’s daughter and her bastard boys as the devil in disguise. Criston’s idea held merit, Alicent thought, perhaps the girl was a demon sent from the darkest pits of the Seven Hells to temp the faith of the people.

Many, it seemed, including Alicent’s own children, fell victim.

Alicent would not. She was a Hightower of Oldtown, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

“She will be the cause of my children’s demise.” Alicent whispered, horror seeping into her words. “We cannot allow that.”

“I will not allow harm to befall your blood, my Queen. I swear it on the Stranger, so that should I fail, he may claim me.” Ser Criston vowed. Alicent was sure if he could have, he would have dropped to his knee. “Neither the beast, the bastards, nor the whore will take your children from you. The spoiled cunt has taken enough.”

Alicent saw the flash of Valyrian steel as it cleaning severed Septon Uln’s neck. The thought of the same fate finding Criston worried her, for he was the only one who would see her children safe. Would see Aegon as King, as was the right of the first-born son.

“Have a care, Ser Criston.” Alicent warned, and she did not know where the anger in her tone came from. “She is still the King’s daughter.”

Criston ducked his head quickly, a blush staining his tanned cheeks. Alicent supposed he had a right to be angry at Rhaenyra, she had stolen his virtue, had stolen his innocence. Yet Alicent didn’t care, not when Rhaenyra’s folly had led Criston to her side.

“Tell me more of the Stark boy.” Alicent commanded suddenly. “I see him following her everywhere, like a stupid little pup. Dragons and direwolves, what is the world coming to?”

Ser Criston cleared his throat and Alicent smiled. Starks were loyal, they had sworn to Rhaenyra without a second thought. If their honour was to be tarnished by Princess Aemara, if the Princess was to be tarnished by a Stark, well…

Nobody could hide that.

***

Aemond

Aemond stared at the dragon egg that had been his constant companion. Dragons had hatched since his Aemara had gifted it him, his nephews’, his cousins’. Even his own father had done the impossible and claimed a second dragon. Yet Aemond still did not posses a single one. Had he not been worthy of the blood in his veins? Was he not to be a dragon-lord of Old Valyria come again?

His eyes found Starfyre in that moment, as they often did when he contemplated his lack of a dragon. Rhaenyra had promised him that day, years ago, that he would have a dragon, and his sister never lied to him.

With a sigh, he stood from his bed and tried to ignore his mother’s whispered words. Aemond had not been treated differently because he lacked a dragon, nor had Rhaena. Aemara had assured them both that their eggs would hatch, that so long as their song hummed, the tiny hatchling ensconced in stone would be there for them.

It would just take time.

But Aemond did not have time. He had seen the way the Septon had snapped and snarled, he had seen the look on his grandfather’s face. The threat was ever-present, especially with the blood-binding looming.

How would he protect Aemara, his sweet niece, his starlight, without a dragon?

None of the others could, for Aemond beat them in training with ease. Aegon never had any interest in the sword, and his nephews were young still, small and thin. Aemond imagined their arms, especially Luke’s, would snap if they tried to raise an actual steel blade.

Why do you spend your time with them, my son? They do not care for you, they simply pity you.

Why do you care for her, my darling boy? What has she done for you.

You are a warrior, my son. A Hightower son. My son. You are better than those bastards and their beasts.

You are pure, Aemond. You are good.

His mother’s words hurt more than Aemond could even understand. He remembered how pleased she had been when none of his eggs had hatched, when none of the un-claimed dragons had bonded with him. His mother held him close, his head tickled by her perfumed hair, her hands gentle unlike when she gripped Aegon’s chin.

It had confused him.

His mother confused him.

As he turned, Aemond caught sight of his rock collection shimmering on the shelf in the high-noon light. Most of them had been gifts: Fire opals from the Stepstones, fossalised dragon scales from Dragonstone, dragon-fire obsidian that held the colours of the flames that had reshaped them. He had two favourites though: a piece of sapphire, and a strange stone of violet and ivory. The second one was the one he cherished most, was the one he held when he missed his niece.

It was the colour of Valyrian godhood. It was the colour of Aemara’s eyes.

Aemara, his sweet starlight, who he had been ignoring because he was not worthy of her. Because he could protect her. She knew it too, otherwise she would not have the Stark boy and his pup following her every move. She would not have Lady Kania shadowing her every move, nor Ser Erryk dutifully guarding her.

His niece was in danger and Aemond the Dragonless was useless to defend her. To be her sword and shield. He failed in the vow he made when he was old enough to understand the words that plagued his mind.

Aemond’s thoughts turned vicious as he headed to the training yards. He had always heard the whispers that his nephews were not true born for they did not appear to be Valyrian in the way Aemara was. Aemond had never cared, because they were his blood, his sister’s children. Aemara’s brothers.

But his future Queen, his starlight, could not be protected by bastards unless he made them better. Until he had removed the softness from their bodies as Ser Criston and grandfather had done to him. Aemond would make them better, stronger.

He would protect Aemara.

“Uncle.” Luke called out joyfully, his voice high-pitched and excited. “Have you come to train with us today? We have missed you so.”

They do not love you, Aemond. Not like I do. They pity you. There is a difference, and you are soon to be a man, so you must learn it. A boy cannot protect, it is why the Warrior is a man.

They take what is yours, by right. You are my grandson, and you are young. I would not lead you astray.

Aemond, if they cared for you, do you think they would laugh at you? They think you less, for you do not possess a dragon, but it they who are lesser than you. The rumors of their birth sully them, my darling boy. They are dirty, vile savages.

“The two of you, against me.” Aemond announced.

“An excellent choice, my Prince.” Ser Criston called. “Though I doubt your nephew’s will pose a true challenge.”

“Of course they won’t, they’re children.” Aemond huffed. “But it is alright, I will make them better.”

Jace and Luke exchanged a confused look, but Aemond didn’t care. Nor did he care for Ser Criston’s distasteful sneer as he eyed his nephews. Aemond did not care about anything but ensuring the safety of his niece.

If he had to reforge his nephews in blood and steel, then so be it.

Aemond lost himself to the vicious voice in his head that sounded like his mother and Ser Criston. The weight on his shoulder that felt like his grandfather. Lost himself to the movements as he parried and stuck, as he moved and side-stepped his nephews.

Who can protect us, my sweet son, if not for you? Would you be able to live with yourself if you failed? If you had to live knowing any harm that befell us was because of you?

“Aemond, Aemond stop.” Luke screamed. “You’re hurting him, please. Uncle please.”

“Pain only makes us stronger, nephew.” Aemond said sinply. “Come on, attack me. Fight for your brother. For your sister.”

Prove to me that you are worthy to protect her. That you are worthy to have what I do not.

“Come on, be strong boys.” Aemond taunted.

Luke rushed at him, but he was simply swept to the side when Aemond backhanded him. His youngest nephew fell to the ground with a cry, blood freely flowing from his nose.

He is not strong enough.

“Aemara will hate you.” Jace spat.

Aemond hissed at the thought. His sweet niece would understand that he was doing it for her protection. That he was doing it for her.

“You’re weak, beating us does not mean you are strong.” Jace snarled, struggling out of Aemond’s hold, his teeth gnashing.

All bastards are weak, Aemond. Born of lust and sin they cannot be trusted. Those boys are savages.

“You’d know all about being Strong, wouldn’t you, bastard?”

He wanted them to hurt, to hurt as he did.

Aemond, so filled with the rage of a dragon he did not posses, curled his fingers around the rock in the sand. Jace wriggled and squirmed, but the Strong boy was not so strong in that moment.

Chapter Text

Aemara

It was one of those rare few times where Aemara found herself truly alone within the Red Keep’s thrumming walls. While Kania may have had the added assistance of her fire god, she didn’t possess the same ability as Aemara: She could not feel the echoes of familial bloodbonds, she could not follow them, retracing the steps Aemara’s ancestors had once followed.

But Aemara could, and so she did.

It was easy enough to meander through Maegor’s hidden passages, through the lesser-used corridors that the staff frequented. Aemara knew that Saera had bolstered the workers of the keep with her own little spies, for nobody ever thought twice when they came face to face with a girl carrying a sack of linen.

Girls, were after all, the largest commodity produced in the world. While some were of a higher quality due to their breeding, their names, or their looks, that simply meant they would fetch a higher price.

Like aunt Helaena.

The Dragon-Flame did not have time to dwell on her rather dark thoughts, on the insidious ideas that curled around her mind like thickened smoke in a burning room. There was a change in the air, a threat to those of Targaryen blood.

Aemara ran.

She did not know where she was going, but she allowed the echoes to guide her, that invisible tether that connected all in possession of dragon-blood, dragged her toward the training yard.

To the training yard, where her uncle Aemond held a rock above her sweet brother’s head, his hand crushing Jace’s throat. Luke was screaming at the side, blood thickly running down his tear-stained cheeks. 

“Uncle. Please stop.” Luke begged, cradling his arm.

It was broken. Aemond had broken her baby brother’s arm.

Fury welled inside of Aemara, a rapturous sight of gleaming silver and bloodied violet. She snarled, a sound so reminiscent of her Wildfyre that Luke turned to her, teary-eyed and panting.

“Get mother.” Aemara ordered. “Aemond. Let my brother go now.”

“The little bastard doesn’t deserve to live. He is weak. Born of sin, lust and depravity.”

Aemara did not know what possessed her to unsheathe the dagger on her hip. She did not know where the strength came from to throw her uncle from her brother. She did not know why he said those things, why he had listened to those vicious rumours and why he had snapped.

But she knew vengeance. Aemara had vowed to protect her kin, and that meant protecting them from each other. It meant punishing. If it meant spilling their blood.

“Go, Jace.” Aemara snapped as Aemond hissed like a feral kitten, pinning her to the ground.

“But…” Jace faltered.

“Now, little brother.”

There was a harsh command to her Valyrian as she headbutted Aemond. She’d seen kepa do it, so how hard could it be? She didn’t expect for there to be a burst of pain behind her eye, nor did she expect her nose to bleed.

The pain angered her. Aemond angered her. Everything angered her until there was nothing left but that cold, lifeless void that sunk in her bones. Until there was nothing left of her the warmth in her heart, and the love in her veins.

There was nothing.

Aemond fell back with an agonised scream, and Aemara felt nothing. Nothing as her uncle flopped around in the sand like a fish out of water, as their blood mingled on her lips, the taste of home and fire.

Her blade had cut cleanly through his eye, parting the flesh and muscle in a weeping river of red. There was no horror for what she had done. No remorse. Only irritation that it had been Aemond.

Her Aemond, her beloved uncle, a piece of her soul.

“What have you done you wretched girl?” Ser Criston Cole screamed. “My Prince. My Prince, can you hear me?”

The creature that lived inside of Aemara, the one made of tendrils of fire and destruction, shadow and bone, came to life with a mocking laugh.

“I am sure even the dead can here you, Cole.” The cracking rasp that tore its way from her throat did not sound anything like Aemara. “Perhaps if you had done what is required of your order, and not tainted the bonds of fire and blood, we would not be here.”

Let me out. Let me out. Aemond needs our help.

But Aemara did not get the chance. Ser Erryk and Lord Commander Westerling ran, their sounds heavy in their armour, and Aemara felt that thing recede with an ominous promise.

You have passed the test, Daughter of Aeraeys.

Aemara through herself to Aemond’s side, shushing him gently. Around them the unknown song screamed. Her fingers caught in his hair, brushing it away from the mutilated eye.

The eye she had mutilated.

“Aemond. My sweet uncle, what have we done?”

“Get away from the Prince, you have done enough.” Cole snapped.

He went to touch her, to pull her away. He dared to lay a hand on a Daughter of Old Valyria when he had proved himself unworthy.

Aemara snarled as she turned her head, eyes alight with the fire of her dragon-kin. Her teeth dug into Cole’s hand, the disgusting taste of sweat and metal growing on her tongue before it was replaced by a wave of sweet blood.

“She bit me.” Cole shouted.

“Shut up, Criston.” Ser Erryk snapped. “Princess, we need to get your uncle to a maester. You must let us tend to him.”

Ser Harrold stepped forward, and Aemara found herself uncomfortable under his knowing gaze. “Please.”

Aemara went to speak, to say something. To move. To do anything.

Then Aemond looked up at her, his one eye clear amethyst. Gone was the trace of madness, that horrific, noxious film.

“Starlight, what…”

What have I done?

***

She was not present as she stood in the throne room, her mother, kepa and papa around her. Luke and Jace were huddled close to Baela and Rhaena, by Harwin and Laena. Aemara felt like she was not there, like a twisted shadow had grown crawled from the depths of the darkness and taken root in her mind.

The pain was unimaginable, a thousand tiny teeth gnawing along her nerves. She was sure the only thing that kept her upright was her mother’s hand on her shoulder, and the ever soothing, mournful presence of Silverwing in the back of her mind.

“The eye is lost, Your Grace.” The Grandmaster announced.

How is it my duty to maim my family? Where is the lesson in that?

“What could cause a transgression such as this?” Viserys questioned. “Aemond, my son, do you wish to begin?”

There was a look of unholy panic etched into Aemond’s face. Aemara wanted to walk to him, to stand by him, to steal the pain that burned through his blood. The pain she had caused.

Ser Harrold was watching her closely, as though he feared she keel over at any moment, and that her blood would stain the stones of the throne room in the same way Aemond’s had. Helaena, however, simply smiled, eyes glimmering like the saddest of indigo sunsets.

There will come a time, when one must close an eye.

But why Aemond?

“Jacaerys.” Viserys called. “What led to your sister attacking Aemond?”

“We were sparring, and Aemond joined us, but he was angry, grandfather. He kept repeating that he would make us better, that he would fix us. He broke Luke’s arm when he cast him aside, and he pinned me to the ground.” Jace was staring at Aemond now, swallowing down his thick voice. “Then I said he was a coward, and that Aemara would hate him. He grabbed a rock, and….”

“And where was your Kingsguard? You know none of you are to be alone in the training yard.” Rhaenyra asked. “Who was posted?”

“Ser Criston Cole was, Princess.” Lord Harrold announced. “It seems yet again he was in dereliction of his vows as a member of the Kingsguard. I will see to his punishment.”

“Why should Ser Criston face punishment? My son was attacked, has been irrevocably maimed by a savage beast masquerading as a Princess of the Realm. The same Princess that had bitten Ser Criston when he attempted to pull her away.” Alicent snapped. “He is my sword shield, I will do with him as I please. He is entitled to as much justice here as Aemond is.”

“Justice?” Viserys parroted. “Alicent, it was an accident.”

“It was treason.” Alicent cried, pointed at Aemond’s face. “She attacked the son of the king. Your son, Viserys. He is your blood, and yet you will do nothing to see this ‘accident’ rightened.”

Aemond saw that wild look in his mother’s eyes, and both Aegon and Helaena, who was had hovering half-way between himself and Aemara, seemed to freeze. It was a tone they knew all too well. His mother knew nothing but rage and hate, and it would be focused on his sweet Aemara. His niece. His Starlight.

Their blood was bound now, by a twisted facsimile of Valyrian tradition. And Aemond would never let her go.

“Shall we try all the children for treason when they have an argument, Alicent?” Viserys was tired. He wanted answers. Wanted to know why his granddaughter would maim his son. They were pieces of a puzzle, it made no sense. “Aemara, sweetling, come forward. Stand beside Aemond, see the damage you have caused.”

There was an air to the child as she walked forward, Viserys noted. Despite the blood and sand that clung to her like a second skin, unlike the violence that danced in her eyes, reflecting the flickering flames of the candles, there was a gentleness. She studied Aemond’s face, wet from tears and blood, puffy and splotched from the milk of the poppy, and finally turned to Viserys, but her blood-stained hand did not leave Aemond’s, for their fingers were entwined like twin snakes strangling the life out of one another.

“What is the punishment for treason?” Aemara questioned.

“Death.” Alicent sounded relieved, which was rather strange. “So you admit it then?”

Aemara took a second to look around the room. The entirety of the Kingsguard were present, every scion of Valyria left in the world, was present. Queen Alicent, her maesters and her father, were all present. The foundations of a war yet to come, all staring at her, waiting for her to speak.

Aemond gripped her hand tighter, and Aemara felt her own nerves tingle with the pain as the cuts on their palms met with a matching, throbbing cadence.

“I admit nothing more than I did what was asked of me. I defended my family, my brothers, as I have sworn to do, as I will continue to do.” Aemara reminded. “If I am to die for my ‘treason’, then should Aemond not too?”

“Speak plainly, Aemara.” Rhaenyra ordered. “Now.”

“Aemond called my brothers bastards. Is that not treason? Do I not have the right to claim my own justice?”

“Where did you hear such vile rumours, Aemond?” Viserys questioned sharply. “Who dares repeat them?”

“The septas, the septons.” Aemond admitted quietly, looking up at his father.

A moment passed. None dared to move, nor speak. Aemara squeezed Aemond’s hand once, looked to where Luke and Jace were ensconced between their grandparents and aunt Laena. They were bloodied and bruised, and no doubt terrified, but they would be okay.

“You feel entitled to my son’s eye over some words? Over the mutterings of a nameless, faceless few? Where is justice in this? He is your kin and you defiled him, ruined him.” Alicent snapped.

“Be grateful I settled for payment in blood, if it had been anybody else they would have lost their lives instead of an eye.”

“You feel nothing. No remorse. No guilt.” Alicent stated, her moth falling open in horror. “You cling to my son as though you have not destroyed his life. What will you do, Viserys? Where is the justice for your son?”

“There will be no justice, Alicent. I will  see to this matter as their sire and grandsire. I will speak with them both separately, and decide upon their punishment. Is that clear?”

Viserys was speaking to Alicent, but to Rhaenyra as well. Rhaenyra who was staring at her daughter and her brother, who was hurt that Aemond would ever speak such words to her beloved sons. But mainly, Rhaenyra wanted to cling to her brother, to have Kania tend to his wounds, to brush his hair back and tell him that it would all be okay.

“If the King will not grant justice, then the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Aemara Targaryen.” Alicent ordered.

“Stay your hand, Cole.” Lord Commander Westerling snapped, drawing his own steel. “Your loyalty to the King, first and foremost.”

“He is sworn to me.” Alicent all but screamed.

Ser Criston looked at the child, at his Queen, and at the future King who was edging closer to the beastly bastard. He took a breath.

“To defend you, Your Grace.”

“Then the Queen shall have to take her own justice.”

Alicent moved quickly, swiping Aegon’s dagger from Viserys’ belt. She advanced on Aemara, eyes wild and untamed, a righteous gleam in her soul. She deserved this, she was doing what was best for her kin, for her sons, to show them that the beast in human skin did not care for them.

But Rhaenyra moved quicker, twisting like shadows as she gripped Alicent’s arm. It had been the first time she had touched her former friend since that fateful day in the Dragon-Pit all those years ago. Yet this time there was no soft caress, only the indomitable strength of an enraged dragon, nails as sharp as clawns seping deep into pale skin.

“You have gone too far.” Rhaenyra warned. “Take another step against my children and you will burn.”

“I have done what is expected of me, for my entire life. I have done my duty, I have watched as you have flouted yours, as you seek to steal my children from me.” Alicent cried. “What would you know of love, and duty, and sacrifice?”

“Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath a cloak of your own righteousness and piety.” Rhaenyra’s voice was low, an unnaturally soft cadence to her words. “Now they see you as you are. Look.”

Alicent’s eyes flicked to her children. Her children who were staring at her in horror as they guarded that savage bastard who had been the cause of it all. The Kingsguard did not rush her, not because Alicent was their Queen, but rather because it could have harmed Rhaenyra. She did not listen to her father’s calls for her to drop the blade, nor Viserys’ shouts, or Criston’s body falling to the floor as Laenor Velaryon knocked him unconscious. All because of one worthless bastard.

Should you ever lay a hand on Aemara Targaryen, Alicent your own children would strike you down. She is an aberration, but an untouchable one. 

Fury was all Rhaenyra knew. Fury that the person she had once loved most in the world, who had been her sister in all but blood, hissed. In the back of her mind Syrax roared, her beautiful dragon trying to sooth the hurt that was about to come. The rippled steel of the blade burned brightly as it parted Rhaenyra’s flesh, her blood flowing freely like the twisted roots of a tree. Corlys stopped her from falling backward as she stared at Alicent.

“Muna.” Her sweet children cried.

“Sister.” Her beloved siblings shouted.

They had joined her, spreading out like dragon wings, her family behind her. On the other side stood Alicent, Otto, the Maester and one of the septas. Cole was unconscious, and Lord Lyonel stood in the middle with Ser Harrold, the conscious members of the White Order behind their Lord Commander.

So this is how it is to be. The first blood spilled between the blacks and the greens, is to be our own. Oh Alicent, where did it all go wrong?

“My blood as payment for my daughter’s actions, and let the matter be done with.” Rhaenyra decree with the finality of the Queen she would one day be. "Let that be the end of it."

There was a deafening screech in the castle, and Aemara smiled despite the icy flood of pain that consumed her. Those of Old Valyria shared an astounded look.

Another dragon had been born.

“Blood knows blood, magic knows magic, life knows death.” She gripped Aemond's hand. "It had to be this way."

Aegon caught Aemara as she sagged, cursing viciously as blood flowed steadily from her nose, her eyes, and her ears. Terror enveloped the throne room at Helaena’s quiet cries, Laena and Laenor shielded their children from the horrifying sight, as Rhaenyra dropped to her knees beside her convulsing daughter, a metaphysical warmth on her shoulder.

This is not her end, sweetling. This is only the beginning.

Chapter Text

Aemara

There was nothingness as she woke. No pain, no warmth, no insidious iciness clawing at her bones. There was only a milky-white haze for as far as her eyes could see, small puddles of sapphire clear water amongst the pale, drifting sands. It reminded her of Driftmark in a way, but it lacked what both Driftmark and Dragonstone shared: The ever present sound of the sea, of beating winds and thunderous roars of excitement.

Here, wherever here was, silence reigned.

As Aemara walked, aimless and driftless, she noticed she was wrong. She was taller, her form leaner, stronger than the body she had inhabited when she had carved her beloved uncle’s eye out in defence of her brothers. She was as she had appeared in her dreams of the past, in those times where she relieved the memories that were carried in her blood.

“Hello, sweetling.” Aemma Targaryen greeted, her smile soft and fond, but there was a sadness to her tone that made Aemara nervous.

Nervous, because she had never been able to communicate, had never been able to do anything in those memories that both blessed and cursed her. Fearful, because if her grandmother, who had been dead for longer than Aemara had even been alive, was here, was speaking to her, touching her, there was only one thing it could mean.

I am dead. But what of the others? My sweet brothers, my mother and fathers, my grandparents and cousins. Kania and Harwin, my uncles and aunt. My family. My dragons.

“Fear not, little flame.” Aemma soothed, her hand smoothing through the free, mercury waves of Aemara’s hair. “They are well. And you are not long for this realm.”

This realm.

Aemara did not care for the unanswered questions that floated around her mind. She did not care for what her grandmother’s words could mean, the price of life they might have held. Nothing could compare to the wonderment, the gratefulness in her heart, to finally see Aemma Targaryen in the flesh.

To be held in her grandmother’s warm embrace. To feel the gentle patter of her heart as it beat in her chest. To inhale the earthly scent of lemon and lavender.

“Mama.”

“Shhh, my sweet.” Aemma whispered, thumbing away the tears that slide down Aemara’s cheeks like diamonds. “We can do nothing in the face of Death when They wish for us to return. The only thing we are guaranteed in this life, is our end.”

“I love you, mama. We all miss you.”

“I know my sweet, there is not a minute of my existence that I do not watch over you all. We are dragons, we do not cower in the shadows of death, for we are light eternal.”

Aemma Targaryen ran a hand over her granddaughter’s face. She would grow into a beautiful woman, a true Targaryen beauty, Aemma knew. The same way Rhaenyra had grown, her beloved daughter’s transformation from girl to mother, Princess to Queen to Be, a melancholic joy for Aemma to witness.

Aemma would tell Aemara all of it. While they were forbidden from speaking what may come, the past had settled, its roots had spread in the soil, anchoring it in the wake of a terrible storm. Nothing would change it.

Just like nothing would change the fact Aemara would not remember her time here. Not truly.

“Feel the flames, sweet love, they will always be your salvation.”

An echoing, choking sob tore its way from Aemara’s throat as he rested her head upon her grandmother’s shoulder. There was a roaring screech across the skies, followed my several thunderous booms, and darkness engulfed them all.

Ebony and vermillion flames lit the way forward, the sands melting to a great and glorious palace built upon a rolling sea of magma. Turrets stretched, piercing the powder-blue, fire-forged towers of glimmering glass reflected against twin suns. Dozens of dragons danced across the skies, and there was no mistaking the silver-milk scales of Meraxes, or the sun-swallowing might of Balerion. But even he was dwarfed by the other dragons that tore through the skies in blurs of pinks and blues, orangish gold and amethyst, onyx and ivory. There was another amongst the trio, slight and little more than a blur that reminded Aemara of Grey Ghost.

It must be Quicksilver. There must be no hard feelings between them.

“Forgive Aegon, he has been waiting for this day.” Aemma giggled. “We all have, we just wish it had not been so soon, little flame.”

“Because if I am here, it means I am dancing upon the cusp of life and death?” Aemara questioned, and even her voice had changed, deeper and rougher to fit her adult appearance. “This is strange.”

“You are both alive and not, my little love.” Aemma admitted. “As you will be until you are to return to us.”

“Like how R’hllor can bring people back to life?”

“Not quite. The Fourteen and the Parthenon are different, yet Their wants and wishes are the same. Fire and life cannot thrive in the face of eternal darkness and living death.”

Why is everybody in my life and apparent half-death, so cryptic?

“The Cold Ones. From Aegon’s Dream.” Aemara surmised. “We have already made preparations.”

“Oh, we know that little flame.” A woman announced, stepping into the courtyard, her hair bound and braided with chips of dragon-glass and Valyrian Steel. “We may be dead, but even the dead require entertainment.”

“Visenya.” Aemara dipped her head, recognising her from that night upon Dragonstone.

“Everybody is always so interested in you, sister.” A shorter, softer woman announced, draping herself around Visenya. “I assume I need no introduction, my daughter?”

“Come now, Rhae, you’ve never needed an introduction.”  Visenya grinned, sharp and shark-like. “Follow me, little flame, we have two more to collect.”

“Only two?” Aemara wondered, confused as to how they decided who she got to meet in her state of quasi-death. “Was there a lottery?”

Visenya and Rhaenys shared a look of fond amusement before the younger sister shook her head with a bell-like giggle. Aemara bit her lip, but her grandmother simply looped their arms together as they followed two of the three conquerors.

The place seemed to be a never-ending made of marble, gilded walls and fire-forged, blood-bound creations of Valyrian Steel, liquid dragon-flame and obsidian. They passed rooms filled with art work, of tiny hatchlings and babes who would never grow from the cradle, to old men holding on to their loves who had left them too soon. Part of Aemara wished to sit, to stay.

It was Valyria, as it had been to the Targaryens for thousands of years. It was their home, right and burning. Alive in the place of Death.

“We cannot linger for long, my daughter.” Rhaenys said sadly. “One day, blessed be far into the future, you will have your home amongst us. But today is not that day.”

“Yet here I am.” Aemara muttered. “Why are you not old?”

“Most remain as they were in life upon their death, but for those of us who dabble with the arts, who are vessels for the Will of the Fourteen and the Parthenon, we can adapt.” Visenya answered. “But as you know, many of our blood have been struck down young. Of those who were born after the Doom, I am the one who lived the longest.”

“So the stories are true then? You dabbled with the Arts.”

“Oh my sweet dragon.” Visenya laughed, honey-warm and rough. “I mastered them. But there is a price, fire and blood are not just our words, they are our creed. For without them, there is no life.”

Please. I pray that you are all not this cryptic.

“So you didn’t poison Aeneys?”

“I did not.” Visenya huffed. “As though I would murder the last piece of Rhae I had left. My tinctures were all that gave Aeneys life near the end, little flame. Life enough to tell me what he wanted. I’m sure you’ll see it, but that is not why you are here today.”

“Then why am I?” Aemara asked, frustration leaking into her tone. She had so many questions, but she knew she would get no answers here.

“Because you are the only hope our family has, my love.” Aemma admitted. “Time is fluid, as are the journeys of life. There was no path of peace following my death, so we made one.”

“Now, Aemma.” There were two men seated by the oblong table carved from obsidian. Like the Painted Table of her home, it glowed brightly, echoing the swirling flames beneath it. “Let my granddaughter sit.”

“I think the girl should stand, Baelon.”

She knew that voice. “I feel as though it should be you standing, Maegor. The last chair you sat upon clawed out your heart and parted your throat.”

Maegor the Cruel, the man her kepa had often been compared to, the man she had been compared to by septas and septons alike, watched her. He mimicked his mother in the harshness of his features, and despite the softness of the clothes he wore, Aemara had no doubt he could snap her in two with the strength he possessed. He was like one of those bears that Rickard had told her about, pelted in snow-coloured fur and as vicious as a winter blizzard.

She couldn’t die in the land of the dead, could she?

Her grandfather, Baelon Targaryen, stood from his own chair, his footsteps silent along the thick, plush rugs beneath their feet. His beard was thick and silver, neatly shorn into his strong jaw. There was easy comfort around the man, his presence suffused with a peace Aemara had only known in her grandfather’s room at the Red Keep, surrounded by stories of their home, of the man that now stood in from of her.

“Shall we begin?” Rhaenys questioned, waving her hand to the table. Goblets of blood wine appeared, and Aemara’s eyes widened in surprise. “Where is the fun in being dead if your every wish is not catered to?”

Aemara sat between her Aemma and Baelon, which put her directly opposite Maegor. He was staring at her intensely, as though she was little more than a rabbit caught in the jaws of a dragon.

“What do you remember?” Visenya asked after a moment of tense silence.

“Everything and nothing.” Aemara admitted. “I can feel Aemond’s blood on my hands, I can feel that beast inside of me, speaking through me, but there was nothing else. No remorse. No guilt. Just irritation that he had been foolish enough to mutter treason in my presence.”

“That beast, you speak of, little flame.” Rhaenys said softly. “Is your fire. Your purpose. It is the part of you that you will grow to be, that part of our souls that hold who we are. They are our essence, the piece that calls out for completion.”

“So I am cursed to be a dragon of stone and ice rather than fire and blood.” Aemara swallowed. “That doesn’t sound like salvation.”

“Because you ever never meant to exist.” Maegor pointed out with a shrug. “The Sword of Valyria is not a person, nor a title. It is a being of promise. Whether it is destruction or creation, well, that depends on the person.”

“How did you convince Daenys to let you in here?” Visenya muttered.

“Don’t be rude mother.” Maegor snorted. “You know my favourite hobby is tormenting the Faith of the Seven.”

You were never meant to exist. You were never meant to exist.

“Aemara.” Baelon said. “Do you understand why it has to be you?”

No. No I do not. Nothing about this situation is understandable. None of this makes sense. The only thing that is not strange to me, is being surrounded by dead people. The only thing that is normal, is the fact our family's dysfunction pierces the veil of death.

“As I said earlier.” Aemma’s hand curled around Aemara’s wrist. “There was no path forward from my death that led to salvation, there was no way for us to survive the Cold Ones.”

“Only you could change it, because you were not beholden to the binding powers of Fate.” Rhaenys added. “You have escaped Its grasp, every choice you make is of your own volition, and the journey you are on, is one of your own making.”

“You have done much already, Aemara.” Visenya said. “You have shown yourself true, that you will do what is necessary, you will spill Valyrian blood in the defence of the Blood of Old Valyria. The past revealed the present, and the future has shifted like a ripple in the pond, salt and smoke, fire and blood, will show you the way.”

“You have what you need, to take what you want, little Princess.” Maegor said gruffly. “Or you will soon enough. But will it be enough? Will the choices you make be enough to protect our blood? Or whenever you die, shall you walk back amongst these halls a failure?”

“I cannot believe I defended you.” Aemara muttered. “You’re such a cunt.”

“Definitely Daemon’s doing.” Baelon sniggered. “Maegor is simply Maegor, he likes the fight. And I fear fighting is all you will know in the future.”

“Baelon.” Visenya warned. “We cannot tell her of what is to come, you know this.”

“Perhaps not.” Baelon agreed. “But we can tell her of what has passed. Tell me, my dear granddaughter, what do you know of my death?”

***

Laenor

“Please wake up, sister.” Luke sniffled as he lay beside Aemara, tears staining his chubby cheeks. “I miss you so.”

“We all miss you, Mara.” Jace added, though he didn’t dare touch her. Laenor knew his son felt as though some of this was his fault, no matter how they had tried to convince him it wasn’t. “Please, sister. Please come back to us.”

“Shh, my sweet boys.” Rhaenyra whispered, kissing them on the head. “Your aunt has come to take you to the dragons. Baela and Rhaena are waiting outside.”

“Can you and papa come, muna?” Luke asked. “I'm sure Syrax and Saesmoke miss you. They might be scared, what if they think something happened?”

“Then we will have to reassure them, little love.” Rhaenyra smiled, and Gods, Laenor did not know how she managed to smile. How she managed to feel anything other than hopeless. “Give myself and your father a moment, please?”

“Yes mother.” Jace said, leaning to press a kiss to Aemara’s still, pale forehead. “I will look after Silverwing and Wildfyre sister.”

“And I’ll help.” Luke added. “I love you, Aemara.”

There was no response, but then again corpses could not respond, and Laenor’s daughter was little more than a barely breathing corpse at the moment. As his sons passed him, Jace burrowed into his chest while Luke crowded behind him. They had gown so much, Jace was leaner, longer, whereas Luke was softer, sweeter.

Laenor would kill for his sons, would set the realm ablaze to see them smile, to bring their sister back to them, but he could not. For fire and blood, the salt and sea, were useless. Death was the unconquerable entity.

“Just a minute, boys.” Laenor said, a hand on each of their cheeks. “Perhaps Laena will employ your aid to clean Vhagar’s scales.”

His sons knew Laenor was not fully present, knew that there was something wrong with him, that a sickness had clouded his mind. They may not have understood it, but they understood sadness. And his boys were good boys, they were kind and sweet. He watched them go, the quiet word of Ser Harrold and Erryk, the contented huff of the Stark boy’s direwolf.

They did not deserve to watch their sister wither before their childish eyes.

His sweet girl lay there, nestled in thin silk sheets despite the roaring fires that burned in Aemara’s chambers. She had not moved in the days since she had collapsed, but Laenor had seen men waste away in bed, had watched as their skin grew grey, as it shrunk and was pulled taut over weakened bones.

And now he was watching Aemara succumb to the same fate.

“Laenor.” Rhaenyra pleaded, a hand on his shoulder. “Come with us. I cannot watch you both wither away to nothingness before my eyes.”

“I should have been there.”

“There is no blame to be had.” Rhaenyra insisted, sitting beside him. “There is no blame to be had, Laenor. And if blame must be levied, lay it Alicent Hightower’s feet.”

“She is so small, Nyra.” Laenor whispered, voice dry and eyes wet. “Do you remember when we formally announced her? How she was in our arms, how you were trying to keep the Lannisters as far from her as you could?”

“That was one of the best days of my life. I had our daughter in my arms, our sons in my belly.” Rhaenyra smiled, hand on her stomach as it often was when she thought of her children. “Though it seems I’ve failed to keep the Lannisters away.”

“Tyland is the better one.” Laenor agreed, though his tone was flat. Dead. “He is far too terrified to try and propose, not to mention he and Vaelencia will be asking your permission to marry within the season.”

“Such an eye for these things, my husband.” Rhaenyra kissed his temple. “I cannot convince you to leave, can I?”

“I cannot.”

“Laenor.” Daemon said softly from where he was leaning against the door. His hand was bloodied and bruised, as it often was these days. “You must.”

“If I cannot see her.” Laenor admitted. “All I know is the feel of her body as it shook. All I can feel, is the weak, dying beat of her heart. I cannot bear to leave her, because what if we are too late?”

Laenor rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. He could not bear to remember the terror that had coursed through his blood when Aemara had lay there, still and lifeless as her blood painted the cobblestones of the throne room. Every time he shut his eyes, he can hear Rhaenyra’s screams as their daughter is torn from them, his own begging and Daemon’s anger.

He can hear his sons, his sweet boys, crying for their sister, their protector, their constant. He cannot escape Baela and Rhaena’s cries, nor Helaena’s. He cannot escape the terror of his mind, the worry in his blood, and the fear, sour and acidic in his throat.

“I will not let anything happen, Laenor.” Daemon promised. “And Harrold is outside these doors with half the Kingsguard. Vaegon is searching the library with Kania, we have no fear of mortal men in this room.”

It is not mortal man I fear, Nothing good from being blessed by the Gods. By having their favour. My sweet girl deserves the world, and none of the hardships she has endured.

“Come, my love, we shall go together.” Rhaenyra said softly. “Luke wants to hug the dragons, because he knows they’re worried.”

It was true. There was not a single dragon in the Pit, including Grey Ghost and Sheepstealer who had arrived mere hours after the initial incident, that were not struck by a wisping, darkened depression.

None had been effected as much as Silverwing, who would not rouse from her nest even for Vermithor. Instead, she had taken Wildfyre, Dreamfyre and Sunfyre to her wing, similar to how the children had surrounded Rhaenyra that day, and whistled a damning song. Syrax mourned as a mother would, and had taken her own hatchlings close, Saesmoke beside her, Caraxes deformed neck coiled around them like blanket of protection. Even the mighty Vhagar, nested alone due to her sheer size, had found a companion in Moondancer and Meleys.

A song unheard to all but those who held the blood of the dragon. It was a haunting, chilling song. Laenor could not stand it.

“And your arm?” Laenor asked, eyes dropping to the stiches.

Rhaenyra regarded it for a second. “A reminder to all that I will spill my blood in defence of my children. All of them.”

All of them. Laenor knew Rhaenyra included her brothers and sister in that, for she had seen them grow from babes to children, had taught them their culture and history. Laenor had done so too, he adored them all as though they were his own.

Perhaps that was why it hurt so much.

“Viserys should have taken her head.” Daemon muttered. “Attacking not one, but two heirs.”

“Death.” Rhaenyra said coldly, and there was a desperate rage that only a mother could know, simmering and contained. “Is too kind for Alicent Hightower. I will see her alone, reviled and destroyed. I will watch madness claim her mind until there is nothing left, and then I will rejoice.”

***

Viserys:

Viserys would never have believed that the Gods would be cruel enough to punish his beloved granddaughter so. Ever since she had collapsed, since his own son had lost an eye, Viserys had spent his time lamenting his own inaction. He had believed that his family was strong, was united in the face of whatever threats grew in the shadows, but he had been wrong.

They were fracturing, splintering. His sons did not eat, his eldest daughter was crumbling, his sweet Helaena had not stopped crying. His grandsons were fearful, fearful that Aemond would once again snap, and they did not have Aemara there to defend them. His brother was little more than a ghost, haunting the training yards, vicious and brutal with a quick tongue poised to strike any who irritated him.

Rhaenys seemed unflappable, but Viserys had watched the way in which her eyes lingered upon Aemara as she lay in the bed. It was the same way Rhaenys had looked when Viserys himself had lain in the cusp of death all those years ago. Corlys and Laena had saw to them all, ensuring that they ate, the children huddled together in the name of security and comfort.

And Alicent… Well Alicent was confined to her chambers, her septas removed from the castle on account of their vile treasons. She had no visitors save for her father, the High Septon, and Maegelle. None of the children had wanted to see her, and Viserys remembered the way they had stood between their mother and their beloved niece.

They will marry, and there is nothing Alicent can do.

Ser Criston had been abed, but his punishment had been overseen by Harrold, Viserys knew. The Lord Commander had just shaken his head, and had all but stationed himself outside of Aemara’s chambers along with Ser Erryk. Viserys got the feeling his sworn sword was never going to spill the secrets of what bound the Order to Aemara, but Viserys did not need to know.

“Your Grace.” Lyonel dipped his head as he caught up to Viserys. “Has there been any word?”

“None.” Viserys admitted. “Have you ever heard of somebody surviving a bed for near two weeks without food or water?”

“I have not, my King. But I am not a healer.” Lyonel said softly. “I can conduct today’s meeting with the Small Council, Your Grace. There is little of import, it does not require your attention.”

Perhaps once, Viserys might bristle at the insinuation. But Lyonel was not Otto. Lyonel had not manipulated and twisted the truth to further his own ambition. Lyonel had been as Viserys had mistakenly declared Otto to be: A loyal and unwavering friend.

“My uncle and aunts are still in the library, are they not?” Viserys wondered.

“As is Maester Gerardys and Lady Kania, Your Grace.”

“Then I shall go to them. If an urgent matter arises that requires my attention, send for me immediately, Lyonel.”

“Your Grace.”

Viserys watched as Lyonel went. Wherever he went, the inhabitants of the Red Keep wished Aemara well. It reminded Viserys viscerally of the days and weeks following Aemma’s death. It was that same miasma of loss and confusion that had suffocated them now.

Somehow this was worse. Worse, because this time there was no plot to further ambition, no chance of an elevated station. There was nothing but the crippling loss, as though the Red Keep had been starved of silver sunlight and whatever otherness was his granddaughter.

“Oh, hello father.” Helaena said sadly. “The dragons weep.”

“We all weep, little dreamer.” Viserys admitted. “Would you like a hug, my girl?”

“Yes please.”

It was rare enough for Helaena to want affection, rarer still for it to be from anybody but Aemara, but Viserys had become the substitute if Rhaenyra was not present. His daughter was a sweet oddity, a dragon dreamer, something to be celebrated, not forced to conform.

It was yet another thing Alicent did not understand.

“Would you like us to visit the dragons, my sweet?” Viserys wondered, carding a gloved hand over her hair. “Perhaps we can convince Aemond to introduce Gaelithox to the others.”

Aemond’s hatchling, born in those terrifying few moments of blood and death, was a beauty to behold. It reminded Viserys of the stuffed toy Rhaenyra had gifted him all those years ago, glittering black scales framed by silver starlight. It was larger than any known hatchling Viserys had ever known, already the size of a hound despite it being less than two weeks old.

“Aemond is sad, father.” Helaena said simply. “He blames himself. Do you know he has not been to see Aemara, he thinks Rhaenyra would turn him away.”

“Grief can make fools of us all, my sweet.” Viserys murmured. “Come, let us find your brothers and visit Aemara. She always did feel better when the four of your were together.”

“The song is sweeter that way.”

It cemented everything Viserys needed to know about his children and his granddaughter. He could not wed them, he would not take that choice from them. But he would not stop them when that day came, when they understood what it meant.

Only a fool would deny a dragon, for they take what they want.

“I am sure it is beautiful, Helaena. Do you know where your brothers are?”

“Aegon is drinking in our chambers, he has been sick twice today.” Helaena answered. “Aemond is in his room. He doesn’t like the way people look at him.”

Viserys sighed. The altercation had been kept between family, so naturally, the entire castle knew that Aemara had been the one to cut Aemond’s eye from his head. But Viserys did not blame his son, he could not fault a boy going through the changes his passion and anger, but he would not excuse them either.

But Viserys did not punish Aemond for Aemara’s ailments, for it was not his fault. It was magic that kept his granddaughter suspended on the cusp of death, it had been Kania who had dragged her back when Aemara’s heart had stopped in the throne room.

He owed his own health to Kania, but that paled in comparison to what their family owed her.

“Aemond is hurting, Helaena. And I shall speak to Aegon, I do not wish for his over-indulgence to cause issues in the future.”

Helaena made a happy little noise as she entwined their arms, leading Viserys towards their rooms. They were a floor away from his own chambers as King, closer still to Alicent’s rooms that he had not been to in moons, despite her efforts.

That dream still haunted Viserys. Many things haunted Viserys.

“Have you seen your mother?”

“I do not wish to.” Helaena said, and that was perhaps the coldest Viserys had ever heard her.

He decided he did not want to push it any further.

***

Aegon stunk worse than a spoiled wine-keg. His room was a mess of empty cups, red and white wines, arbour golds, meads. His eldest son had collected, and drained them all. Aegon was hanging limply over the bed, and Viserys had this brutal image of his son falling off.

He’d have to bet him a bigger bed. Especially for the future, for he knew his children often ended up together when they needed comfort. And comfort was what was needed in this trying time.

“Aegon.” Viserys jabbed him in the ribs, unwilling to shake him lest he vomit. “Wake up, son.”

“Aemara?” Came Aegon’s dry, sour response. "Is she alive?"

My son. My sweet son. 

“We are going to see her. And later on, we are going to talk about this. You may thing it’s helping, but I assure you, it is not.”

“It makes it hurt less.”

“It only seems that way, little sun.” Viserys murmured, working his hand through Aegon’s sweety hair. “It is a falsehood, one that is not worth the pain.”

“But what if she dies, father?” Aegon whispered. “I would rather know nothing than the pain of it all.”

Viserys wanted to promise his sone that would not happen. But he could not. Aegon was young, growing from boy to man, but he would not lie to him. Not about this.

“Should that day come, and by the fury of the Fourteen, soon, then we will endure, my son. Aemara would not want for us to live a half-life, a cursed life, for her absence, she would want us to celebrate. Death is only the beginning for our people, Aegon.” Viserys sighed. “Perhaps once we have seen Aemara, you can go to the Pit with Jace and Luke. You know they adore you, and it would do you all well.”

“What if they hate us? Hate me, because of what has happened?” Glimmering tears collected along Aegon’s purple eyes. “I’m scared, father. I'm so scared.”

Viserys pulled his son closer, feeling his own lashes burn in response to Aegon’s utter sadness. He knew Jace and Luke were still scared of Aemond, but that fear, that distrust, did not extend to Aegon, nor to Helaena. Viserys understood that he had spent to long trying to hold himself together, that he had forgotten his duty as a father and grandsire.

His family was more important than the Realm at large, and it would be well taken care of in Lyonel’s hands.

“I know, Aegon.” Viserys whispered, pressing a kiss to his son’s hair. “We all are, but Aemara’s survival in not in the hands of mortal men. Only the Gods can decide.”

Aegon hitched out a broken sob, burrowing closer to his father than he had in years. Viserys shushed his son softly, breathing through his own nose in an effort to prevent his own sadness from leaking through.

He had to be strong for his sons, for his daughters, his grandchildren. For Daemon and Rhaenys. For the Realm.

That was his duty. One that was shouldered by himself alone, and his bond with Vermithor. But even the dragons mourned. And mournful dragons were violent beasts of chaos and destruction. Viserys would know, for he had raged enough in the privacy of his own chambers.

“I shall get Aemond, and once you  feel ready, we can go.” Viserys promised.

“Thank you, father.”

Viserys did not have the words to describe it in that moment. He kissed Aegon’s head once more before he moved to stand. Aegon would no doubt prove to be the easier son to soothe, and Aemond reminded Viserys far too much of Daemon in those days when they had all failed him.

Viserys would not fail his son as he had failed his brother.

Aemond was seated upon his bed when Viserys entered, his son’s face still puffy from the Milk he drank to ease his pain. There was a rock in his hand, a smooth, shining chip that was the most unnatural thing Viserys had ever seen: Ivory and amethyst bound together in a twisted sense of Valyria.

Aemara had gifted it to Aemond, Viserys knew.

“My son.”

“Father.”

“How do you feel today?” Viserys asked gently.

“Like I am missing a piece of my soul.” Aemond replied, and Viserys knew he did not mean his eye. “It is no less than I deserve.”

Viserys sighed. He sat on the edge of his son’s neatly made bed. This was not something that could be rushed, but Viserys knew his son. Knew that Aemond only wanted somebody to sit beside him until he was ready to speak his truth.

Viserys had time. And if he did not, he would make time.

“Did she ever tell you where she found that rock?” Viserys wondered.

“It was in one of the caves on Dragonstone. 'Nyra had told her she couldn’t explore them by herself, but when has Aemara ever listened to anything anybody had ever said?”

“Oh she listens.” Viserys smiled. “And then she finds a loophole, and then there is nothing you can do, because she had bested you in a game you didn’t even know you were playing.”

“It will be my fault if she doesn’t wake up.” Aemond said. “I nearly killed Jace, and I might still be the cause of Aemara’s death. My nephews cannot stand to look at me, father. Nor can Aegon, and Helaena is always sad, and Rhaenyra keeps crying and it’s all my fault. All of this is my fault, yet I don't know why.”

For the first time in years, Viserys Targaryen cradled his youngest son as he cried. He could not imagine the pain it caused Aemond, nor could he truly fathom how much his son hated himself in that moment, how much he had despised himself since the incident.

No longer would he suffer alone.

“We are going to see Aemara.” Viserys said after a while, his voice soft and gentle. “You, Aegon, Helaena and I. Then we are going to the Pit, do you think Aemara would stand for your mistreating your dragon?”

“No.” Aemond whispered, clutching the rock in his hand as though it was giving him the energy to speak. “No she wouldn’t.” Then there was a much quieter, broken sound. “Will I be allowed to see her?”

“It was an accident.” Viserys reminded. “There are none in the world that could believe you intended to harm Aemara, Aemond, and none blame you.”

“Jace and Luke are terrified of me.”

“They are scared.” Viserys corrected. “They believe they have done something to earn your ire, that you believe those vile, baseless accusations.”

“I don’t.” Aemond protested. “I don’t, father.”

“I know. But you must understand, Aemond, that the trust that existed has been fractures. It must be remoulded, made stronger, lest it shatter completely. You will have to work to rebuild it.”

“I will.” Aemond promised. “I will do whatever I have to.”

I know you will, my son. You are far too like Daemon for it to be any different.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra

The days were long, and no matter how much she prayed, she begged and pleaded, her beloved daughter did not wake up. Rhaenyra watched, and waited, she tended to her sweet boys, she held them close, soothed their hair as they cried into her chest.

She watched as Daemon fell back into himself, violent and vicious with all who dare approach him. She listened to his cutting vitriol when Alicent Hightower spoke of ‘Mother’s Mercy’ once she had been released from her confinement. Rhaenyra knew there was no mercy in a mother’s heart, there is none in hers. She knew that if her daughter did not wake, is she does not come back to them, the Realm would burn.

Laenor was little more than a walking corpse. He sat silently, staring at Aemara as she lay still, wrapped in shimmering silks, Starfyre, the toy Rhaenyra had gifted Aemond so long ago, guarding her. Her smile tastes bitter as she pressed a kiss to Laenor’s braided locs.

He did not speak. But he rarely does. And as the days passed, Rhaenyra feared she would lose not only her daughter, but also her best friend. She would endure, she would survive, if only for her sweet sons.

She cannot stomach looking at Aemara like that. It was too easy to see her mother, silver-haired and pale, the flush of warm, lifeblood replaced by the ice of certain death. It was too easy to see Syrax descending from the cliff, bathing the pyre in golden-bronze flames.

Treacherous darkness whispered in her mind, plans for what if. No mother should outlive their child, but Rhaenyra could not stop her mind from drifting as she walked along the halls to the Council chamber, to sit amongst the mundane reports from men who see her fail, who whisper and plot in the shadows like the cowardly rats they are.

If they had anything to do with this, they will pay in fire and blood. Their houses will be nought but embers and ashes, the land salted with rivers of tears to ensure they never take root again. I swear this, my sweet daughter. I swear it.

She took a moment outside of the chambers, Ser Steffon regarding her with a sense of loss they all felt. Especially those who had watched Aemara grow from babe to Princess. Kania was phantom, haunting either the library or bleeding herself dry to provide for Aemara. Ser Erryk and Harrold did not venture far, nor do Rhaenyra’s ladies. Rickard stood in the shadows, his glorious beast of

Rhaenys took her sons, her brothers and sister, her nieces, to the dragons so that Rhaenyra could feel. Laena was with her then, holding her close as Rhaenyra raged and screamed and cut open the wound that marred her skin. It was Laena who watched on in those moments, as Rhaenyra begged in sibilant, reverential and desperate High Valyrian, offering her blood, her life so that her daughter would be returned to her.

Laena had watched, with teary eyes, had pleaded with Rhaenyra to not harm herself. It was Laena, Rhaenyra would later remember, that pulled her from the murky depths of the single truth of Valyrian blood magic.

Only death could pay for life.

Ravens had come from far and wide, well wishes, offers of services from Essosi healers on Dragonstone, Westerland Woodwitches and even the Dornish. Rhaenyra knew it would not help, that her daughter’s life rested in the ethereal flames of Old Valyria.

But what if it was not enough?

Rhaenyra exhaled, long and slow as she forced her shoulders back. A practiced, false smile graced her lips, but she knows it is little more than a grimace. She was tired.

 Her hair was settled into curling, loose braids, and nestled along the crown of her head is Aemara’s favoured clip. It was a coiling piece of silver dotted with chips of rubies and pale, milk-drop pearls. Rhaenyra was sure it had once belonged to her own mother. She, like Helaena,  had not worn anything but gowns of red so dark it appeared black. Her dresses pooled around her like twisted rivers of cursed blood.

A declaration. A promise. Mourning time as she mourned her daughter.

“Princess Rhaenyra.” Lord Lyonel bowed his head deeply as Rhaenyra reached for her marble by the door.

With a sharp, bitter thought, Rhaenyra noted that Lyonel and Lyman Beesbury were the only ones of the already gathered Lords that acknowledged her. The Grandmaester regarded her shrewdly, as he often did, and Rhaenyra knew his thoughts upon her ascension.

The Faith. The Citadel. The Hightowers. Oldtown.

“Is there any news on Princess Aemara, Your Highness?” Lyman wondered.

“There has been no change.” Rhaenyra admitted, swallowing the sharp bile that burned her throat. “But Aemara is strong and she is fierce, so long her fire burns, we have hope.”

The old man looked at her with sadness. Rhaenyra remembered that look quite a bit from her own girlhood, remembered it directed at her mother after another loss. It was different to the one she had been afforded when Aemma had been taken from her, butchered on the order of her father to have the son he oh so craved.

(She would forever be bitter that her mother was stolen from her. Stolen from her by the schemes of worthless men, but they would pay, all who stood against the House of the Dragon would burn.)

“We continue to pray for the Princess’ health, step-daughter.” Alicent announced as she entered the room.

It irked Rhaenyra to see Alicent seated beside the Grandmaester, beside Otto. Her confinement had ended just days prior, but it had been pointless. Alicent was as she always was, as she always would be.

Rhaenyra was sure it wouldn’t be long before they would try and weasel a seat for the Faith at the Council table. But they did not know of her plans, the ones she had written and re-written at her daughter’s bedside.

They would find out soon enough.

Rhaenyra could not help but curse her father’s stupidity, his misguided sense of ‘family’, when he appointed Otto Hightower as Master of Laws. She took a moment to regard the Council that was gathered, all were present save for her father and good-father.

Lyonel was true, and through Harwin and the fact their children were to be married, she knew he would never stand against her house. He was a good Hand, loyal to the Crown and its needs rather than whoever sat upon the throne. He did not seek to further his own ambition. He would not be her Hand, however.

She could not wait for the day she could pluck the dead eyes from his youngest son, however.

Lyman was a good supporter, he was the longest serving-member of the Council and was devoted to House Targaryen. He was old. He had seen nearly seventy years, and with her father’s rot cleared and his bond with Vermithor breathing new life to fire in his hearth, Rhaenyra knew he would never see her reign. Not unless there was even more treason afoot than usual. Perhaps Lord Caswell would be a suitable replacement, the man needed to be rewarded for his faith.

“We are all here, good, good.” Viserys said as he entered, Corlys trailing behind him. “What is on the agenda?”

“The plans for a clean water supply into Flea Bottom.” Rhaenyra said, somewhat eased by the topic. It was one she knew well. “I do believe it was a project Prince Daemon started, before your previous Hand cast it aside as ‘too presumptuous.’”

She took delight in the way Otto’s jaw clenched at the mention of his former position. Daemon had spent many hours complaining over the years, about how Otto had always prevented him from doing. There was, after all, a reason her uncle was known as The People’s Prince. He cared, not for any sense of goodness, but Daemon knew what Rhaenyra was learning, what Saera was preparing for.

Happy and content small-folk would not rise, and they would not answer the call to fight against a Throne that provided for them. Better to let them have food and water, medicine, and education, all things that would ensure a more viable economy that would reap more taxes.

“Should be not prepare for Winter rather than waste time upon endeavours such as this?” Alicent pointed out.

“Had Her Grace asked the staff, she would be aware that the Red Keep’s larders are full.” Rhaenyra bit out. “Princess Saera has done a commendable job revitalising the household, My King. None in the Keep shall starve, but the same cannot be said for our people. The least we can do is give them a source of clean water.”

“Actually.” Corlys rolled his marble before he learned forward. “Aemara had a plan, she was working with Lord Tyland Lannister. Since the incident, I have been working with him and Saera to see it come to fruition, even if she cannot.”

What had my sweet dragon-flame done now? And with a Lannister no less. Rhaenyra smiled, a small, private little thing that was little more than a twitch of her lips. So that was where Aemara and Vaelencia had disappeared to.

“And what is it that the Princess had proposed?” Viserys asked, a gentle warmth to his voice as he spoke. Rhaenyra had not heard it in days. “And why the need for secrecy?”

“It was supposed to be a gift, to her parents for their wedding.” Corlys nodded in Rhaenyra’s direction. They did not speak of the blood-binding that was to occur. It would wait. “And in memory of the late Queen Aemma. Aemara had, for moons, been plotting this with the assistance of Lord Tyland, and Lady Tyrell. I believe, Princess, all of your Ladies have been drawn into it.”

“Where has the Princess gotten the funding?” Lord Lyman questioned, always concerned about the funding. “Do you have the plans?”

“Aemara had provided the funding herself, in addition to myself and a rather sizable donation from Lord Jason Lannister. The Reach had provided the grains, wheats and barley, while Lord Boremund was all too happy to provide salters and curers to ensure the meat lasts well. Ser Harwin has provided a squad of gold-cloaks, and Princess Saera has already found two suitable locations.”

“This is marvellous.” Viserys breathed as he read over the plans, over the annotations made in several different hands. “We shall see to it that it is implanted prior to Winter. This, in conjunction with the revitalisation of Daemon’s water plan will see to it that the most vulnerable may have a chance once the snows set in.”

Please, Gods be good, do not let this be in memory of my daughter as it is to my mother.

***

Rhaenyra did not find it odd to see Ser Harrold hazing upon her daughter as he stood in the doorway of her room. She was sure the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard held many secrets, secrets she would not dare question. He was leal, had once been her own sworn shield, and then her father’s. She knew if he had a choice, he himself would guard her darling daughter, but such was the duty of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard: Guard the King.

However, what puzzled her was the lack of Laenor, and the addition of Aemond. A tiny sliver of guilt clawed at her heart like a vicious rat. She had not sought her brother out after the incident, not out of anger, but rather fear. She had remembered the beginning, when her own stomach had first began to swell for the first time, how Alicent had clung to her son, and swathed him in glowing green.

But that had changed. Everything had changed.

“Brother.” Rhaenyra called, hoping the tremor in her voice would not be noticed. “Are you well?”

A foolish question, no doubt, considering her daughter had bisected the boy’s eye just weeks prior. The sight was clean, no longer weeping blood and pus as it once had when Rhaenyra had caught sight of it. She remembered Kania creating a cleansing tonic, one that worked much better than whatever the Maesters had provided.

She also remembered Kania disappearing with Erryk at night, her eyes heavy and golden skin grey and sallow. They would return, and Kania would once again be herself. Rhaenyra did not ask, nor would she ever. Kania would die a thousand deaths in order to keep Aemara safe, to keep her safe. Besides, one less monster in Flea Bottom would not be missed, and through their unwilling sacrifice, their lives might actually be worth something.

“Sister.” Aemond sounded fearful, and Rhaenyra swallowed that bitter guilt. “I thought you would be in Council.”

“I was, but we finished early. I believe father and Lord Beesbury are going over the legers in an attempt to secure funding for the water system in Flea Bottom.” Rhaenyra admitted. “You need not fear me, Aemond. I do not blame you. None of us blame you, I swear it.”

“How?” He asked, voice deathly quiet. “How can you not blame me, when I blame myself? I hit her head, and I’ve read so much. It is my fault.”

“It is not.” Rhaenyra protested, moving to stand by her seated brother. She pressed a kiss to his temple. “And she would not want you to blame yourself.”

“Father said the same thing.” Aemond admitted, eyes upon Starfyre. “But people lie to make you feel better.”

“Look at me, Aemond.” Rhaenyra commanded softly. He turned, his one good eye glimmering with tears. Absently, she wondered how painful crying was for her youngest brother. “Have I ever lied to you? Have I ever given you cause not to trust the words I speak?”

“Never.”

“Then believe me when I say I do not blame you for this. Your actions that day, your treatment of my sons, the words you spoke, they are yours. They are yours to own up to, yours to apologise for. But this, this my sweet brother, is the will of the Gods. We must simply wait.”

“And if she does not wake?” Aemond asked, voice so desperately broken, his pain, his guilt, so sour and painful. “What do we do them?”

Flashes of dragon fire fill Rhaenyra’s mind. Gold, from Syrax, a milky white curled with seafoam green from Seasmoke, a deep vermillion from Caraxes. There are hues of poisonous green veined black, silver and cornflower blue. She knew, deep in her soul, that they were the colours that would be present upon her daughter’s funeral pyre.

She cannot help the memories of the scent of burning flesh, of her mother’s burning flesh as the heat of dragon fire melted her bones to nought but ash. She could still smell the sulphur of Syrax’s flames, could hear the crackling wood and her own, shaking voice. It was all too easy to imagine.

Would she give the command?

“When that day comes, my sweet little flame.” Rhaenyra whispered; her voice thick with emotion. “We will do what we must. We will grieve, we will love, and most importantly, we will remember. So long as we live, those we love, will never leave us.”

There was a hitched, broken sob, and Rhaenyra was not sure who it originated from. She buried her nose in her brother’s hair, inhaling the sweet scent of jasmine as he eyes closed. Aemond found her hand, and his fingers curled around hers almost painfully.

Pain, was after all, a promise to the blood of Old Valyria. It was something thy knew as intimately as power, as love.

“Let it out little brother. Let it out.” Rhaenyra sat beside him, pulled him close. “Shall I tell you what Aemara has done in secret? How she intends to help our people?”

***

Saera:

The three eldest members of House Targaryen had taken to haunting the library as though they were ghouls. None dared enter, and none dared disturb them. As the only ones trusted enough to research what ailed Princess Aemara, as the only ones that understood the magic in their blood, they were left alone. Occasionally Viserys would enter, tired and hopeful, or Rhaenyra, held together only by the love she felt for her children.

Both were given the same answers. They did not know, but they would find it. They would not let their precious Dragon-Flame linger. They would either bring her back, as whole as they could, or they would end the suffering of their kin.

Their salvation.

It wasn’t without its difficulties. The three of them had never exactly gotten along, even in childhood. And if there was one thing a Targaryen knew, it was to hold a grudge. They did, after all, hate as fiercely as they loved, and oftentimes they forgot the lines where love became hate, and hate became love.

“You refused to see mother on her death bed.” Maegelle snapped. “She died calling for you.”

“And Vaegon’s suggestion stole Aemon’s daughter of her Crown. What care do we have of gender? We are Valyrians, not Westerosi. Father forgot that.” Saera hissed.

“You let us all believe you were dead, sister.” Vaegon pointed out mildly. “I will not hold your belief against your, nor your wish to heal, but the Faith have nearly broken our family. Saera, Daemon, and now they come for little Aemara.” Vaegon looked dejected, sullen and defeated as he had since he was a child. “As does the Citadel.”

“A dragon alone in the world is a terrible thing.” Saera had said, remembering the utters from Pentos. “And while we are united, we are the last of Valyria. We are alone.”

Yet they had been united in the singular goal. Occasionally Kania would join them, and Saera knew the power the Red Priestess held. She had witnessed it enough in Essos, their ability to bring men back from death, to heal even the most mortal of wounds.

Saera also knew that Kania had tried. That she had disappeared into the depths of Flea Bottom where nobody went if they wished to walk away. She knew the poor girl had tried, that her blood magic was staving off the waste that threatened Aemara each day.

But the Red God could only bring back those who had died, and even then, there was a price to be paid. The Targaryens of old, the Valyrians of old, had known there was a price, but they were too arrogant to pay it. In the end, it had been their destruction, and fire and blood had reclaimed the debt that was owed.

Aemara would not want that. But Saera, Saera was unwilling to believe that the gods would not have granted them their beloved Princess, only to steal her away in such a manner. Gods knew that Targaryens had often spilled their kin’s blood in the name of honour and power, but it had never been like that.

Visenya had spilled Aegon’s blood to prove his was vulnerable. Now the Kingsguard was bound by blood oath and vengeance.

Between researching dusty tomes, comparing them to the rather extensive collection she had brought with her, there seemed to be nothing concrete, Saera found time to listen to her little lambs. Her girls, intelligent as they were, brought her whispers from the Lords and Ladies who inhabited the Keep. They had told her how they prayed for Aemara, had told her how even those of the Faith had been concerned.

Not out of love for Aemara, but rather how easily Viserys had cleaved the heads off those who spoke treason. How easily Daemon had wetted Dark’s Sister’s vengeful steel with treacherous blood. They were not concerned for the Princess, but rather for their own position. After all, their heads continued to rot along Maegor’s holdfast just as Septon Uln’s head did.

Father was a fool to pander to the whims of those idiots, Saera thought bitterly as she entered her brothel. Her workers nodded to her, but none dared to stop her as she climbed the stairs towards her office. Jeyra, one of the girls who possessed no family save for those in the brothel, yet did not wish to continue in the skin-trade, had become somewhat of an assistant to Saera, was leaving a pile of documents upon the cedarwood desk.

“My Lady.” She bowed her head. “You will want to see this.”

Saera took the scroll, an amused smirk dancing upon her lips when she saw the pure white wax that sealed it. In the centre, a wriggling worm was suspended. It had been a while since she had spoken to the Lady Misery, but the woman understood the magnitude of the situation at hand.

Beware the Mercy of the Mother. Guard the girl.

Saera did not dare to breath as her eyes followed over the curling words. Surely there would be none so foolish to attempt to assassinate the future Queen of the Iron Throne while she was surrounded by guards, nestled in her chambers of the Red Keep. Surely.

They had tried it once before. Saera remembered the fear that had encompassed the Keep then, even when it was clear the attack had failed. She remembered Viserys’ wish to mount Vermithor and fly to Casterly Rock, but he had refrained. Barely.

She knew, however, if something were to happen to Aemara, if she were to fall because of a mortal rather than the will of the Gods, there would be nothing left. Nothing would survive the wrath of the dragon, nor the wrath of a grieving family.

“When did this arrive?” Saera questioned.

“Not long ago, my Lady. One of the children delivered it.” Jeryra admitted. “Is something the matter?”

Yes, little lamb. It seems my kin is truly cursed.

***

Otto

Otto Hightower was a proud, faithful man. Yet even he was not immune to the sheer heat that encompassed the Red Keep. It was as though the stone walls exuded fire, dry and stifling like the Dornish desert. It unnerved him, for he was one of the few who felt it. He dared not to dwell upon it, not when the plan of his ancestors was slowly coming to fruition.

House Targaryen would fall. And with it, their unnatural stain would be forever washed away. Just as they had intended all those years ago.

He had several letters, each written in a code known only to a few form Oldtown, the place that had once been the centre of power before those fantastical beasts descended from the sky. It would, Otto hoped, once be the true capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Oldtown was not a rat-infested cesspool of depravity and gluttony, but rather the home to the glory of the Seven on earth, home to the magnificence of the Citadel.

Home to the Hightower, Otto’s own home, with its brilliant beacon that would one day soon call its leal and faithful to battle against the forces of repugnant darkness that dwelled in the veins of those sinful dragon-riders. His own grandchildren were tainted by the sin in their blood, but if they followed the true path, understood that their beasts were just that, and slayed them, perhaps there was redemption.

Or he would simply remove them, once Alicent had done her duty and born another son to be raised in the holy light of the Seven. When he had seen her during her confinement, when he and the High Septon had visited her those scant three times, he had seen a change in her.

He hoped she finally understood where her place lay. That her hatred of a single girl could perhaps ruin the plans that Oldtown had been solidifying since the heathen lands of Valyria burned. His sons, or most of them barring the degenerate Armitage, also knew their place.

Hoebert had too. But his brother was weakening by the day, and soon, it would be up to Otto to ensure that Ormund continued their work, that his own sons were informed. Such was the duty of the Hightowers, to ensure that the light of the Seven remained true.

They, after all, were lightning the way to salvation.

With renewed energy, energy that the vile magic which sustained the girl seemed to leach from his very bones, he pulled out his favoured quill.

‘My dear brother,

I hope I may get to see you one final time before your join Mother and Father in eternal rest…’

***

“Poison, Alicent.” Otto snapped. “You wish to poison the girl? Has your confinement addled your brains?”

“The girl must die, she had stolen my sons. She had maimed my darling boy and none seem to care.” Alicent protested. “They will not see me, they will not even speak to me. Even my sweet, odd Helaena will not look at me. She simply holds on to that wretched creature the savage gifted her. Aegon just drinks and drinks, he brings shame upon me.”

“Is it possible for you to achieve a single task I give you?” Otto muttered. “You continue to disappoint me, daughter. After all I have given you, what have I gotten in return save for heartache?”

“After all you have given me?” Alicent hissed. “It was not you who took a man covered in putrid sores to bed to further your own ambition. It was not you who has had their children stolen from their breast by a beast wearing the skin of a mortal. It was not, father, who lost their only friend in the quest for power.”

Stupid, foolish girl. How are you so blind? I have killed babes still in their cursed mother’s womb, I have murdered Princes, poisoned Queens, all to ensure that you birthed the next King. That was your only duty. That has been your only use to me, and yet you still cling to Rhaenyra Targaryen’s unrequited love like a babe clings to its mother’s breast.

Oh how Otto wished he could tell his daughter exactly what he had done to get them their position. The daughter of a second son, Queen, a mother to a King. Every move since birth had been carefully planned, each thought curated, each whisper dipped in venom to ensure the downfall of House Targaryen, and the restoration of the rightful ruling family. Restoration of its rightful capitol.

The Hightowers. Oldtown.

“You think the Red Witch will not know the girl was poisoned? You think any assassin will get passed the girl’s door? Half the Kingsguard stands watch, the Stark boy and his beast, the witch. The daughters of all the great houses are present, would you kill them too?”

“I, I…” Alicent stammered, Otto reached out and smacked her, his ring cutting her lip.

“Cease your stammering you simpleton. Perhaps you are to blame for Aegon’s stupidity.”

Alicent swallowed down a cry of terror. It had been a long time since her father had struck her, longer still since she had faced his cold temper. He had not wanted to mark her, in case Viserys had questioned where the marks came from.

But she was alone now. She had only her father, Criston, and Larys. Larys, who was in Harrenhal, who had been the one to spark the idea.

The girl deserves a Mother’s Mercy.

“Larys assured me that all would be well. The Long Goodbye is painless, bloody yes, but painless.”

“Strong forgets himself.” Otto hissed. “The Long Goodbye has always been favoured by the Dornish, if you were to do it, you would be inciting open war you idiot girl.”

Otto watched as Alicent fell backwards. The true magnitude of the situation apparent. Dorne and the rest of the Kingdoms had a tentative peace, if one was to discount the economic warfare, which Otto did.

“It is too late, father. It has been arranged, I do not know who Larys had employed, I cannot stop it.”

“You best hope the girl does not die, Alicent. Or you have condemned us all, your children included, to a fate worse than death.”

And you may have robbed me of my chance to finally find a way to end those infernal beasts.

“You wish to see her dead as much as I.” Alicent scoffed.

“I wish to see a threat to the Realm removed, I wish to purify our people of the darkness that clings to the Targaryens.” Otto reminded. “But I do not condone actions taken in haste, just as I did not condone you trying to remove her eye. She is something entirely other, Alicent. She had meddled with powers far beyond our understanding, dark and twisted though they are, we must be patient.”

“I am tired of waiting. My children are lost to me, Viserys will not lay with me so that I may procure another, and I will not be a hypocrite and birth a bastard.”

I should not have left you with Septas. They truly have twisted your mind.

“Then pretend to be a good mother. Go to your children, apologise to them, confide in them, give them gifts. Play it as hysteria, you are a woman after all, you are inherently delicate. Lie if you must, about the loss of a babe in your womb, I care not what falsehoods you speak so long as their further our progress. Speak to Viserys as you did in the beginning.” Otto couldn’t believe he had to walk her through what was so obvious. “But if you fail me gain, daughter, I will not be pleased.”

“Understood, father.”

***

Kania

As Kania drank the wine from her chalice, her blood dripping onto the hissing flames of the brazier, her heart stopped. The cup fell from her hands, shattering upon the stone as the wine spread in a twisted facsimile of blood as it pooled.

“My love.” Erryk’s concerned voice sounded, his fingers grabbing at her arms. “What did you See.”

“I know what needs to be done.” Kania gasped, tears springing to her eyes. “Salvation or ruination.”

“Speak plainly.” Erryk pleaded, as Ser Harold joined him, eyes focused on the still unmoving Princess.

“Please, Erryk.” Kania wiped the dripping blood from her nose. “Get them. All of them. I know what to do.”

Chapter Text

Daemon

It was startlingly easy to fall back into old habits, Daemon found. It was easier to fight and bleed than it was to feel and wait. It was easier to imagine his own death than it was to envision giving the order.

Who would do it, when that day inevitably came? Would it be Syrax, as she had burned Aemma? Would it be Silverwing and Wildfyre, for their bonded? Seasmoke, for their daughter was of the skies and seas? Would Viserys do what he had failed to do so many years ago, and allow Vermithor the honour? Would the wild and free, breathe as one for their little Princess? Or would it be Dreamfyre, Sunfyre and Gaelithox for their own bonded’s beloved? Or would it be his sons and their mounts, Vermax and Arrax that would send their sweet sister off to the next life?

Or would it be all the dragons? Vhagar and Meleys alongside Moondancer, would they all roar as one, as Viserys had admitted he had seen in a dream? Would the dragons join together to bathe his sweet daughter’s pyre in the curling echoes of Valyria that lived in her veins? Would their fire consume her body as their history had consumed her mind?

“Kepa, can I have another spice-cake?”

“Kepa, do you think Aemond will mind if I do not give this back to him? It’s far too soft.”

“Aunt Laena, can you teach me how to braid? I want to surprise papa for his nameday. Look, I have this band for him, it matches the clip grandfather Corlys gave me.”

“Shh, my sweet brothers. The storms cannot hurt us here, nothing can hurt you while I am here.”

“Rickard, have you ever hand lemonade? Kania taught me how to make it, and it helps with my headaches.”

It was startling how empty their lives were without Aemara gliding through the shadows. There were no frankly ridiculous conversations with Aegon that would have turned Daemon’s silver hair grey long ago, nor were there any gentle giggles as Helaena and Aemara, Baela and Rhaena, sat ensconced with Rhaenyra’s ladies in a sweet tea party. Daemon no longer found his daughter asleep, a book on her pillow, and her head using Aemond as pillow as he stroked through her hair. He no longer found her whispering to Jace and Luke in High Valyrian, twisting her fingers through their thick, dark hair as she hummed songs of dragonlore and magic that died long ago.

He missed her so much, missed her silver beacon more than he thought possible. If she were to never wake, Daemon doubted her would ever forgive himself. Had he not been a coward for years, had he not fled because of the loss that had once burned through his veins, he would not have missed those first few years of her life.

Her birth.

Her first tooth.

Her first word.

Her first steps.

He wished for nothing more than to miss her death.

Daemon emptied his cups, all three of them, and he eyed the young man across from him. Rickard Stark was a confusing fellow, so brutally blunt in the way that all northern folk were, and that wolf of his, growing larger and larger as they days passed, who Daemon had seen bite clean through bone as though it was nothing, gave a pathetic little whimper.

Daemon had never liked dogs, or cats, after all, what sort of companionship could they offer him when he had his precious Blood Wyrm coiled around his mind, protecting his heart. But he had seen the look in the boy’s eye as he watched his wolf, and Daemon would know that gleam anywhere.

It was the same one that any Targaryen possessed when they thought of their dragons. Perhaps, Daemon mused, somewhat drunk, that it made sense. Ice and fire were bound in the metaphysical, in the realms of Gods, not men.

Lore and history had often reminded his of Viserys’ softness. After all, it was his brother who would read him the stories of their lost home beneath the last dragon to have ever witnessed Valyria’s glory. It reminded Daemon of a time before, before the hurt and pain, before their family had nearly torn itself apart.

But his daughter had proven him wrong. His daughter who was fire made flesh, who was the Daughter of the Aeraeys.

(His daughter who was dying and Daemon could do nothing.)

“Dreams didn’t make us kings, my daughter.” Daemon had told Aemara one night, curled around one another as a vengeful storm howled outside, and she had burrowed closer, as though she was trying to steal the heat from his bones. “Dragons did. Dreams cannot hurt us.”

She had looked at him, her eyes a tad bit too bright, and far too knowing for a child. Her eyes had slipped closed, as though she was mulling over his words, and when she exhaled, the sound of thunder was deafened by a flurry of dragon-fire. That had, perhaps, been the first time Daemon understood how deep their bond went, how his sweet Princess was something other.

Or he thought he had.

“Without dreams, kepa.” Aemara had said, playing with the ring on his finger. “We would have burned with our home. We are neither gods nor men, we are the last of Old Valyria, and when fires speak, we should listen.”

The only thing Daemon heard when he stared into the fires was Rhaenyra’s hitched sobs as she tried to hold them in, no matter how he wished she would not. He heard Jace’s quiet promises to Luke that Mara will wake, brother, she is strong. He had wanted to laugh at that, at the words the supposed Strong Boys had uttered, but he could not. He had not laughed, he had not smiled, he had done nothing by drink and fight and destroy.

His own anguish has long turned to anger, to hate and violence. He wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around the Green Queen’s throat and delight in her struggles as her nails scratched at his skin. He wanted to wet Dark Sister with the underserving blood of a worthless second son who was little more than a vulture plucking at a ravaged, spoiled corpse for a tiny speck of attention. They were so swathed in green, echoing the sentiment of their banners with glimmering flames, noxious and venomous.

Didn’t she know that dragons had talons that could part blood and bone? Did they not know that dragons are both the light and the dark, that it was their flames that would burn forevermore?

“My Prince.”

Daemon’s hand found the hilt of his dagger, and he unsheathed it with ease. He expected something behind him, or beside him, for he was sure Rickard had not moved.

“A messenger, my Prince.” Apparently Rickard had moved, for he was now standing by the door. “Lady Kania has news. She wishes to see you in the Princess’ rooms.”

Dagger forgotten, Daemon stood, reaching for Dark Sister, all threads of drunken haze burned from his mind. He ran, ran faster than he had since he ended the Crabfeeder, and though this time Daemon was not dodging arrows and blades, he rather wished he was.

War and death were easy. Violence was easy.

This, whatever this was, was anything but. It was a slow, seeping rot that stole the joy from his family, that left unchecked would steal his beloved daughter, that would ruin them.

“You want to what?” Rhaenyra’s voice carried through the otherwise silent corridors, and Ser Harrold looked grim as he dipped his head as Daemon came to a stop.

“What you speak of amounts to treason.” Vaegon muttered. “To murder.”

What? Who are we murdering? With a quick glance in the corner, where a rather stricken Alicent Hightower was cornered, he rather sadly, realised they did not mean her.

One day.

“Kania.” It was Rhaenys who spoke, clear and slow. “We are dragon riders, yes. We can tolerate more heat than most, yes. But we are not flame-proof. What you are suggesting, it will kill Aemara.”

“And if we do nothing, mother, she will die anyway.” Laenor snapped. “It has been near a month. If our daughter is to die, Aemara deserves a dragonrider’s death.”

“All of you, shut up.” Dameon hissed. “Explain to me, what has brought this on.”

“The flames, My Prince.” Kania admitted. “I was attending to the usual ritual, to lend my strength to the Princess and the fires, they spoke. It was different, it was not just a feeling, or flashes of images, it was words. It was her voice.”

Her voice. Aemara’s voice. Daemon could imagine it, so high and refined, with a natural inflection of High Valyrian that curled around each word, something she would perhaps grow out of.

If she had time to grow. If she lived.

“And?”

“She told me that the answer lay with His Grace, his vision.” Kania admitted.

All eyes fell to Viserys, and at any other time Daemon might find humour in his brother’s incredulous gaze, but he could not. Not now.

“And all the dragons roared as one.” Rhaenyra uttered. “As they did for her birth.”

“That, that is not what I saw.” Viserys said weakly. “There was no death, just a babe of silver hair, the Conqueror’s crown, tiny though it was, on its head. I thought it was a boy, for fuck’s sake, do not take my vision as a reason to burn Aemara.”

“A babe with a crown, My King.” Kania offered. “Prince is not gendered in High Valyrian, and there is little else to try. I fear that whatever is sustaining her will not last much longer, nor will her bond with Silverwing.”

“You want to burn Aemara with dragon fire?” Daemon asked, tone unbelievable.

“I wish to cleanse her. They are of the one hearth.” Kania looked down at Aemara in the bed. “I would not suggest it, if I did not have faith.”

“In your God?” The Green Queen questioned, as though she had any right.

Daemon had to remind himself that he could not stab her, not even a tiny bit. But he could glare.

“In Princess Aemara.” Kania replied icily. “Please, Princess. You know I would do anything to see her well, and healthy, and whole. This is not an exchange, it is a renewal. Something insidious, cold, has strangled her fire, we all heard it in the throne room.”

Daemon could see Rhaenyra’s resolve crumbling. He could see her fingers twisting around Aemma’s pearl ring. Her eyes, so dim and tired were eternally red-rimmed these days as she knelt beside the bed. Her and found Aemara’s and she brought it to her lips.

When the flames speak, we should listen.

“I trust Kania.” Daemon said. “And I trust Aemara.”

“So you’re going to do it?” Laena asked, and wow, they really had gathered the entire family, minus the children, who would probably be scarred by such conversations. “How does one even make that choice?”

Laenor, Rhaenyra and Daemon shared a look.

“Yes.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Corlys asked softly.

“Then she will be granted the death she deserves rather than lingering as she does.” Rhaenyra said, her voice surprisingly steady. “And we will mourn.”

“What is the process?” Viserys questioned.

“A ritual, blood sigils and dragon-fire.” Kania replied.

“I’ll do it.” Daemon offered.

“It is a rebirth, my Prince, it is the mother’s blood required.”

Rhaenyra scoffed, her eyes on Alicent as she spoke. “It seems my blood is a common currency these days, at least this is worth it.”

***

Daemon dipped his head against Laenor’s shoulder as he closed his eyes. The thick plumes of spice scented steam rose from the crack of the door, from where Aemara was being cleaned by Rhaenyra and Kania.

“Why did you agree?” Laenor asked, and Daemon found there was more life in his voice than there had been in weeks. “I thought you of us all, would be sceptical.”

Daemon didn’t speak for a moment, not when Laenor’s fingers curled through the growing locks of his hair, his blunt nails scratching along the sensitive skin of his scalp. He took a moment, perhaps the first he had taken since Aemara’s seizure in the Throne Room, and let himself be held. His own hands found Laenor’s waist and Daemon squeezed.

“Do you remember the Summer Storms on Dragonstone? You and Rhaenyra had flown to Driftmark, and you were stuck there for three days, and I was wrangling several children by myself?”

“With the ladies, the knights, Kania, my sister and her husband.” Laenor teased. “But yes, you were alone. Did she know this was going to happen?”

“No.” Daemon said quickly. “She would have said something, if only to spare Aemond. But she did have a dream, and she told me that when the flames speak, we should listen.” Daemon raised his head. “We cannot hear them, not like she can, like Kania can, or even Helaena, but we should listen to those who do.”

“When did you get so wise?” Laenor wondered. “I fear I will lose myself should she not wake. I have decided that it must, and  I do not know what to do if it does not.”

“We will lose a part of ourselves, my sweet sea dragon.” Daemon sighed, pressing a kiss to Laenor’s dark temple. “But we will not lose ourselves. Not when we have our boys, and so long as her memory lives on, she will live on.”

Viserys:

“I do not care, Alicent.” Viserys dismissed with ease. “The children wish to accompany us, as is their right. They are her blood, should this fail, they deserve to say goodbye to their beloved niece.”

“So you would force them to watch as she burns alive?” Alicent asked aghast. “With ritual blood magic from a Essosi heathen? It barbaric, savage.”

“Have a care with your words, Queen Consort.” Saera snapped. “You would do well to remember that the children you bore have blood magic in their veins. Would you call them savage? Barbaric?”

Viserys squeezed the bridge of his nose, attempting to soothe his irritation. The two of them would never get on, they would never find common ground, and a part of Viserys did not care. He cared for Alicent, but not in the way he perhaps should have.

It had not helped that Saera continued to remind Alicent of her place as Queen Consort. Viserys was sure there was some sort of protocol he had missed, something he would look into further when his mind no longer replaced Aemma’s pyre with Aemara’s.

Oh my sweet love, if she is to join you and our son, and the children we did not get to name, please let her rest. Let her enjoy death with a peace she would not find in life. And if you are not to walk her to our kin, I beg you to protect her.

“My children do not partake in such acts.” Alicent replied, but there was something wrong with her tone. It was not the usual derision that Viserys had expected from a woman of the Faith, but rather uncomfortably, concern. “I remember Rhaenyra, in the days after…”

Perhaps if Viserys had been alone, that would have been enough as comfort him, but Saera did not care for social niceties. She did not care for niceties at all. Saera and Daemon, Viserys reflected with a twisted sense of humour, were too alike: Failed by Jaehaerys, scorned by the Faith for being who they were. It was a discomfort, Viserys realised, that he had once taken the same view.

If I had been born a man, I could father a dozen bastards and none would blink an eye.

But you were born a woman.