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Chapter Text

When her father, King Viserys I Targaryen, shocks the court by announcing his intention to marry her best friend, Alicent Hightower, Rhaenyra, Princess of Dragonstone, his only daughter and living child, is devastated.

She knew it was likely her father would remarry, her being named heir was to stall Daemon’s potential ascension to the Iron Throne, it was not a permanent solution. Sons come first according to the edict of the Great Council of 101, and she is decidedly female.

The fact that he chose her closest companion as his second wife stings, especially when she learns that Alicent has been having private meetings with her father for years, starting after the devastating death of her mother, Queen Aemma Arryn.

If Rhaenyra could only view the marriage as a match put forward by his scheming Hand, Ser Otto as a way to avoid marrying Laena Velaryon, she could reluctantly accept it, but this announcement rings with more than duty, and the better option. Her father is looking for his long awaited son.

Rhaenyra rages at Alicent and her father in private, when she isn’t flying on Syrax to hide her onslaught of tears, but she unwilling acquiesces to his decision when she realizes that he won’t change his mind. Lord Corlys and his wife, her father’s first cousin the Princess Rhaenys, are also furious at the announcement, leaving King’s Landing without a goodbye.

Rhaenyra isn’t surprised by this, or the fact that Corlys openly sailed to fight with her Uncle Daemon in the Stepstones upon departure, a war Viserys wants no part in. Rhaenys continues to make her own anger clear by not attending the royal nuptials.

Rhaenyra wishes she could do the same.

As heir, she must show a united front with her father, no matter how torn she is on the dreaded wedding day. She helps lace Alicent into her white dragon scale wedding dress, a thin crown of rubies that belonged to Queen Rhaenys in her hair.

Rhaenyra herself subtly outshines the bride. A gown of black velvet hugs her growing body, and rubies drip down her train, reminiscent of bloody tears. A matching choker is placed around her neck, dangling earrings in her ears. Atop her braided coronet is a black round headdress, also studded with the red gems.

The marriage vows pass by in a blur, the Princess desperate to keep herself together, to not show her grief publicly. She feels abandoned, no one standing by her save her sworn shield Ser Criston Cole. Her allies, Alicent, Daemon, and Aemma are gone, one to a backstabbing marriage, the other gone for a chance at glory, and the last taken in the birthing bed by the Stranger.

Rhaenyra’s stomach clenches whenever she thinks of childbirth. Her mother was split open in the quest for a male heir, and there’s no way that Alicent won’t be pushed to birth a son. Then Rhaenyra will be stripped of her title, relegated to a future as the wife of some Lord, where her only duty is to birth him squalling babes at risk to herself.

Overwhelmed by the festivities of the day, Rhaenyra sulks on a raised dais while the new Queen dances with her uncle Hobert, Lord Hightower, a stolen goblet of Arbor Gold in her hand. Her father, the King, is standing off to the side conversing with his master of laws, Lyonel Strong, Lord of Harrenhal, and his two sons, Ser Harwin, and Larys.

Her father gestures for Lord Lyonel to follow him back to the dais, his sons returning to their table while Lyonel pays the Princess his respects.

“My Lord Strong,” Rhaenyra acknowledges him, biting back a drunken hiccup.

“Your Highness, may I say you look every inch the Princess of Dragonstone,” Lyonel states flatteringly. Unlike the other sycophants at court, his words ring true, though that may be the wine talking.

“And you look every inch the Lord of Harrenhal,” she returns the compliment.

“I was speaking with Lord Strong about the vacancy in your household,” Viserys speaks, his words nearly making Rhaenyra flinch. Everyone knows why there’s a vacancy in her household, her closest companion is now her stepmother. “Lord Strong’s two daughters are of an age with you, I believe they would be good fit.”

She is aware that this isn’t a suggestion, that the matter has been decided, but she nods as if approving the idea. “That sounds wonderful. I’ve met your daughters before, Lord Strong, I’m sure they will serve me well.”

The Lord of Harrenhal smiles, glancing back to where his two daughters are tugging at Ser Harwin, both giggling as they try to convince him to dance. “I’m glad to hear that, Your Highness.”

Rhaenyra is soon helped back to her chambers by Ser Criston, wine and exhaustion taking hold of her. She’s stripped of her jewels and clothes, hair loosened from its thick braid, and put into a simple one. Her face is washed with rose water, her hands cleaned of tiny wine stains.

When she falls onto her featherbed, restless sleep drags her down quickly. She spends the night tormented with dreams of a brother who steals her throne, and her life.

It doesn’t take long for Alicent to fall pregnant, much to Rhaenyra’s distaste, and Otto’s joy. The young Queen’s bump is constantly showcased in flattering red and maroon gowns, her hair often up in a beaded hairnet.

Her belly sticks out on her small frame. Whenever Rhaenyra is forced to share dinner with her father and former friend, Alicent often spends her time trying to get comfortable, while gulping down copious amounts of food. Her ankles also swell, and her breasts ache, though Rhaenyra learned those facts from gossiping servants.

She doesn’t like looking at a pregnant Alicent, it’s an unflinching reminder of her mother’s lost pregnancies, and brutal death. It’s also prompts questions in the Realm of what if this babe is a boy, and when will Rhaenyra marry and beget heirs.

If she is gifted a sister that survives the cradle, she’ll still need to birth her own heirs. If she has a brother that lives, the issue of her marriage won’t be as paramount, but it will happen, unless she becomes a Septa or Silent Sister.

Too few dragons are as big a risk as too many.

When Alicent goes into labour, Rhaenyra is abed, her dreams filled with dim memories of her grandfather Baelon. It isn’t until she’s roused to break her fast that she learns her new sibling is on its way.

She can hardly eat her meal, too filled with conflicting emotions. She doesn’t wish harm to the child or Alicent, her heart isn’t that cold or cruel, but this will changes everything, whether all goes well, or horribly wrong.

When a maid informs her that her sibling was born healthy, and her father is requesting her presence, Rhaenyra swallows down the lump in her throat. She strides to Alicent’s chambers, refusing to let anyone see her turmoil, slippered feet slapping against stone.

When she enters the bedchamber, Alicent is surrounded by a mountain of pillows, her servants taking away her dirtied sheets. At her bedside is Viserys, holding a squirming black bundle. Her father grins broadly when his eldest approaches. “Come Rhaenyra, meet your new sister, Alyssa.”

Half of the weight that’s been sitting in her heart fades away at the news of a sister, and she smiles a real smile as she joins the King. “I thought I told you my sister would be named Visenya,” Rhaenyra teases her father as he runs a hand over the swaddled babe.

“Save that name for your own daughter.” Viserys looks at his eldest with open affection, and Rhaenyra’s grin widens as Alicent sinks into her bed of pillows, not speaking at all.

The newest Princess is quickly anointed with the seven oils, and named in a Sept in King’s Landing, wrapped in the Targaryen colours. Rhaenyra wears a fetching gown of deep purple and Myrish lace, while Alicent sports a dress of maroon velvet.

Her Uncle Daemon joins the festivities, back briefly from the Stepstones to congratulate his brother on the new babe. Throughout the ceremony he openly smirks at Otto, knowing he wanted a grandson to supplant Rhaenyra.

Rhaenyra finds his behaviour amusing, but she tries to not let it show, lest she upset her father. Instead, she spends her time making faces at the baby, making Alyssa’s violet eyes shine.

Alicent quickly gravitates to her father and the other Hightowers present, leaving her child to her nursemaids after she starts to fuss, no longer content in her father’s arms.

Rhaenyra says goodbye to a weepy Alyssa before she’s whisked away, placing a delicate kiss on her round cheek. To her surprise, she’s in love with her new sister already. She’s been so wrapped up in the chaos caused by her father’s remarriage, that she had forgotten how much she wanted to be a big sister.

Her uncle saddles up to her side, roguish in a well cut red and black doublet, his long hair braided away from his face. “The grasping Hand isn’t happy,” he speaks in High Valyrian, that way they cannot be overheard.

Rhaenyra holds back a snort. “I’m sure he’s not. Everyone but my father knows his plan was to have a grandson to sit on the throne, Alyssa’s birth has stalled that plan, though I’m sure he’ll have his daughter try again.”

“He’ll have her breeding until she gets it right, unless my brother steps in.” Daemon tsks, almost to himself. “Otto has always been conniving. He snatched the position of Hand during my grandfather’s reign through manipulation. Jaehaerys was wise politically, but in his last years his mind was clouded by age and grief, Otto took over instantly. He’ll do the same if my brother is ever rendered incompetent. You need to have him replaced by someone who won’t turn on you.”

“And how do you suggest I do that?”

Rhaenyra would love to see Otto gone, she has never cared for him. A man who actually puts the Seven Kingdoms first should be at her father’s side. Uncle Daemon would be loyal if granted the position, but that day will never come.

“He’ll slip up eventually, he isn’t infallible. When he does, you strike.”

As Alyssa grows older, Rhaenyra spends even more time with her sister on her own, when she isn’t attending to her duties as heir and royal cupbearer. She is present when Alyssa first crawls, walks, and talks.

They travel to the Dragonpit to visit Syrax often, and she rejoices when the egg she placed in her sister’s cradle hatches. They’re often in the Godswood, Alyssa toddling behind her as they play hide and seek with her ladies, Ser Criston on guard.

Alicent does her duties as mother and Queen, but she doesn’t send for Alyssa unless it is expected. Alyssa is found of tantrums, and her young mother doesn’t know how to handle her. Rhaenyra simply lets her scream herself horse until she tries out, then puts her down for a nap.

When the news comes that Alicent is expecting for the second time, Rhaenyra is hit with the same feelings she harboured during the first pregnancy. Anxiety rockets through her, she fears the birth of a brother to replace her.

Once again her fears don’t come true, and she is gifted with another chubby cheeked sister named Helaena. Rhaenyra quickly spoils her rotten, closer to her than she is with Alyssa, who has become more unruly and demanding.

Still, she tries to make time for both of them, Helaena in her lap as Alyssa chases after Ser Steffon Darklyn in the Godswood, the hem of her dress smudged with dirt. Alicent openly grimaces whenever she sees her eldest post playtime. She even tries to lecture Rhaenyra about it one day, but the Princess shoots her down, unwilling to hear it.

Alicent falling pregnant for the third time before Helaena is even a year old, shocks no one. Otto is desperate for a grandson, and everyone but Viserys can see it. Rhaenyra has had enough of his desperate grasping, and goes out of her way to shower favour on his rival, Lord Lyonel.

Her father, oblivious or purposefully ignoring the growing tension between his heir and Hand, declares a grand hunt will be hosted to celebrate the announcement of the pregnancy coinciding with Rhaenyra’s nameday, a rare white hare having been spotted in the Kingswood.

Nobles flock from all over to attend, the last great event hosted by the King having been his second wedding. The nobility preen and fawn over the Targaryens, hoping to snag a royal bride for their family.

Rhaenyra sits at her father’s side in his sprawling blood red tent, Alicent sequestered with wives and daughters alongside Larys Strong, as noble after noble puts forward a son, nephew, cousin, or grandson, for Rhaenyra or Helaena. Alyssa is all but betrothed to Alicent’s cousin, Ormund, the Hightower heir, a blatant solidifying of power in their family that the Princess doesn’t like.

Rhaenyra hates the peacocking of men trying to snatch the title of her future Prince Consort. To them she is only a stepping stone to something greater, and she has no desire to be a broodmare while men rule in her name, or if Alicent finally births a son, a Princess at their side to make them look powerful.

When Lord Lyonel approaches to pay his respects late in the evening, song and wine openly flowing while dinner is served, Viserys openly snorts, his tongue loosened from drink.

“Are you here to try and marry one of my daughters, Lord Strong? You are thrice widowed after all.”

Rhaenyra shoots her father a look of concern. He is drunk, his words probably hold no weight, but she has no desire to marry Lord Strong, anymore than she desires to marry anyone else that’s been put forward. She hopes her blatant show of favouritism to the master of laws hasn’t given him or her father the wrong idea.

Lyonel openly chuckles. “Those days are long behind me Your Grace, I have no desire to pledge myself beneath a Weirwood again. If you were open to it, would you wish to hear my opinion on the matter?”

Viserys sighs into his cup, and gestures for him to continue. “Then you must believe that your own heir, Breakbones, the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, is the best match for Rhaenyra, or if that will not do, the young Helaena. Am I right?”

Rhaenyra has never considered Ser Harwin as a potential spouse, but now that she considers it, he wouldn’t be so bad, though she still desires to pick her own husband. Harwin appears to actually live by the codes of chivalry that should be honoured by knights, and his sisters sing his praises, when they’re not mad at him for teasing them.

“You flatter me, Your Grace, but no. It would seem to me the best match for our Princess of Dragonstone is the son of the Sea Snake, Ser Laenor. Some years ago, I counselled you to take his sister to wife. My reasoning remains the same. Laenor is of pure Valyrian descent. He is the great grandson of the late king Jaehaerys, and the heir to the wealthiest house in the Realm.”

Rhaenyra is the one to snort this time. She enjoys the company of her cousins Laena and Laenor, and she has glad that there’s been enough easing of tension that they attended the hunt today, but she has no desire to marry Laenor. “Ser Laenor would be more inclined to marry my uncle than me.”

“Rhaenyra!” Viserys chides her before looking back to Lord Lyonel. “My girl is a heedless contrarian. If I forbade her to wed a Velaryon, she would run off with Ser Laenor out of spite.”

The next day they ride out early in search of the white hare, Laenor and Laena placed on either side of her. Rhaenyra looks to her father and rolls her eyes, unamused by his blatant moving of cyvasse pieces. He simply smiles back, then kicks his horse into a trot as nobles stream along behind them.

All of the great and noble houses have a man or woman riding in the hunt. Rhaenyra recognizes many faces present, several had pledged allegiance to her as heir years ago.

Her maternal cousin, Jeyne Arryn, the Maiden of the Vale, rides astride alongside Elmo Tully and Lord Boremund Baratheon. Behind them is Lord Hobert, Otto’s brother, with Lord Jason Lannister, and his twin Tyland, trotting with the rest of his Hightower kin.

The white hart isn’t found, but her father gains a buck, slaying him with the aide of his Kingsguard and Ser Harwin, who teaches Rhaenyra how to catch several small animals.

When they return to camp, her father tired by the day’s excursion, Rhaenyra gravitates to Ser Harwin and the Strong tent, Ser Criston on her heels.

“Princess.” Harwin bows his head in respect while he grins, and she can’t help but smile back.

“I thought that if I’ve learned how to catch animals, I should learn how to prepare them too. As you said in the woods, I may not always have a bevy of food on hand.” Her tone is slightly flirtatious.

Harwin is young and spry after all, a great catch. She should be allowed to flirt with a handsome knight without repercussions.

“Of course Princess, I’ll teach you. I’m about to skin a rabbit, but we can start with something small like a squirrel, if you’d prefer that.”

Rhaenyra takes a seat behind the wooden table covered with the dead rabbit, and the necessary tools. She pushes up her leather sleeves to her elbows, and tugs her braid out of the way. “I do adore Northern rabbit and potato stew, Ser Harwin.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t gain a betrothal from the hunt, though rumours swirl that she’ll marry Ser Laenor, but baby Helaena does. Her father attaches her to Tyland Lannister, a man of age with Rhaenyra, at the urging of Alicent and Otto.

If Lord Jason wasn’t in need of heirs, he would’ve snatched up the little Princess, as Rhaenyra has made it blatantly clear she’ll never consider him for a spouse, and he craves a royal bride.

The gossip about her potential marriage is forgotten when her uncle returns from the Stepstones victorious, and proclaimed King of the Narrow Seas.

Viserys welcomes his brother back in the throne room with the members of his family. Daemon goes to one knee, offering up his crown, and pledging his allegiance. Her father accepts the crown with a smile, and the two brothers embrace.

A feast is held that evening, Daemon the belle of the ball with maidens and mothers fawning over him. He may still be married to Lady Rhea Royce, but everyone knows he’ll set aside that marriage if he can. If his potential spouse is of a high enough rank, some believe that Viserys will finally allow the annulment, unlike when Daemon tried to take his mistress Mysaria, as his second wife.

Her uncle dances with a variety of women as Alicent watches from a raised dais, uncomfortable again due to her pregnancy. Rhaenyra is Daemon’s third partner of the night, after he dances two dances with Lady Laena, and one with a Hightower cousin to annoy Otto.

While her uncle whisks her around the room, he begins to speak. “You are to be wed I hear.”

Rhaenyra lets out a half hearted laugh. “To whom hasn’t been decided. Many are hedging their bets to see if we’ll have a Prince, as you know the third times a charm. If my father has his way, I’ll marry Ser Laenor.”

“Or you could marry me. I won’t be disappointed by your lack of cock, unlike him.” Her uncle grins roguishly, and this time her laugh is genuine.

“Your wife might have something to say about that.”

“I stopped listening to my Bronze Bitch years ago. Once you’re shackled into marriage, you’ll be tied to the birthing bed. Tonight, go to the painting of Meraxes in your chambers after the feast ends, if you wish to see the world outside the Keep. Behind the artwork is a secret door that’ll take you into Maegor’s tunnels. From there I’ll show you why I was coined Lord Flea Bottom.”

Rhaenyra is well aware that she shouldn’t take him up of his offer, and instead tattle on him to her father, but if she were male no one would bat an eye about her sneaking out.

“You know how to entice a lady,” she jokes as the music changes, and they switch dance partners.

There is a secret door behind the Meraxes painting like Daemon said there would be, and waiting for her is a change of clothes. She throws her red and gold gown into her wardrobe, then slides into a pair of trousers, a loose white shirt, and tugs on a gray knitted cap.

She follows the path before her as it twists and turns through Maegor’s Holdfast, until she finds the city open before her, Daemon waiting for her in a nondescript cloak.

Rhaenyra eagerly moves through the city at her uncle’s side, taking in the sights of Flea Bottom. Jugglers toss spiked balls high in the air, while several men breath fire through masks resembling the dragons of the Conquest. Trapeze artists and acrobats dance above them on silken rope, and a travelling troupe perform a farce mocking Otto for marrying his daughter to the King.

They drink mead and eat candied applies, viewing the wares of several low ranking merchants and jewellers. She follows Daemon’s lead every step of the way. She has never been free to roam the city before, she wants to see everything she can.

They end up on the Street of Silk, Rhaenyra looking around curiously at the writhing bodies around her. Several people are coupling out in the open, while two whores pour wine down the front of a delighted sailor.

A woman approaches them with a swish of white skirts, her hair held up by enamelled pins. The light is low inside the brothel, but Rhaenyra recognizes her as Mysaria, Daemon’s paramour that she meant years ago, when she flew to Dragonstone to reclaim her brother’s egg.

Daemon embraces Mysaria, and she sinks her fingers into his silver hair as he tugs her into a kiss. When they pull apart, he grins at his niece. “We have a private room waiting.”

Rhaenyra is certain she should turn back now, return to the Red Keep, but her interest is piqued, and she’s nothing if not too curious for her own good.

They pass by more enamoured couples, moans and groans ringing around them as women flutter to and fro, claiming new patrons whenever one leaves. They walk through a doorway covered with thick Myrish carpets, finding several whores dancing for a group of Gold Cloaks, who feast on platters of meat and cheese.

The men all recognize Daemon, and bow in respect, even the ones with a woman in their lap. Mysaria chuckles when one of the girls suddenly falls to the floor, her patron having shoved her away in his urgency to stand.

Daemon gestures for the men to sit back down, then drops onto a plush purple couch. Rhaenyra takes a seat beside him, while Mysaria makes a home in his lap. “My Lady Mysaria owns this fine establishment now, amongst other ventures,” he informs his niece as he plays with his paramour’s hair.

“That is a great responsibility,” Rhaenyra is unsure of what else to say, but both appear pleased by her response.

“It is. If it wasn’t for our Prince bringing me from Lys, I’d would’ve never had the chance to be free and own property, let alone a business where I don’t have to deal in flesh myself.” Mysaria looks at Daemon with open affection, and he squeezes her thigh.

More wine and food is passed around, and soon sleep starts to tug at Rhaenyra. She leans her head against Daemon’s shoulder while he mouths at Mysaria’s neck, her head slipping forward slightly. The knit cap tumbles from her lopsided head, revealing her gleaming silver locks.

Several Gold Cloaks sit up in interest, realizing who she is, and the panic that hits her shocks her awake. She shoots from her seat to shove her hair back into the hat, but the damage is down.

She mumbles her goodbyes to Daemon before she’s racing from the brothel, and out into the night, booted feet hitting hard against the cobblestones. She darts into an alley, thinking that she might’ve come this way with her uncle, and crashes hard into an armoured chest.

The Gold Cloak she had the misfortune to run into snags her arm, not allowing her to slip past him. “And who might you be running from?”

Her eyes widen as she recognizes the voice and face of the City Watchmen. “Ser Harwin!” Rhaenyra audibly gulps as Harwin must realize who she is, but his expression doesn’t change.

“Princess.” He inclines his head ever so slightly as another Gold Cloak enters the alleyway.

“Don’t, please.” Her words are harshly whispered. She can’t be caught here by anyone else.

He hums low in his throat, then releases her arm. “You take care, boy. Next time you might not be so lucky.”

She’s so relieved that she wants to kiss him, the blood in her body warm from the brothel, but instead she runs back to the Red Keep.

She sneaks inside through a servant’s door, but there’s no way for her to enter her chambers without being seen, as Ser Criston guards her doorway, and she doesn’t know how to reenter Maegor’s tunnels.

When Criston notices her approaching dressed as a boy, his mouth slackens in shock. “Princess, how?”

Rhaenyra doesn’t answer, instead she snatches Criston’s helmet from his hands, and darts inside her room. The White Cloak sighs as he follows her. “May I have that back?”

She turns as if to dash away with it again, but instead she returns it to his hands. As he goes to put it back on, she leans forward and steals a kiss. She is lonely and desperate for love, needing affection if only for a night, her blood hot from the brothel.

Criston whispers a quiet rebuttal, but allows her to kiss him again as she reaches for the clasps of his cloak. Together, between kisses, she shreds him of armour, and he frees Rhaenyra of her disguise.

They slowly walk towards her bed, than tumble into it together. They share pecks as his hands find purchase on her body, and than he is inside her. At first it is uncomfortable as he takes her maidenhead, but soon her sworn shield is moving, and she loses herself to bliss before roughly tumbling over the edge.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra awakes the next morning to Criston gone, her bedroom windows wide open from the night before. She slips into a simple gown, and heads for the Godswood, wanting reprieve for her headache before she’s to break her fast with her father and little sisters.

As she’s plunking down between the roots of a tree, Alicent appears suddenly, determinedly striding her way. Rhaenyra rises again to her feet, unsure of what would’ve put her in such a mood.

Intense emotions flash in Alicent’s eyes as they meet face to face. “I have heard an unsettling rumour, about you and Prince Daemon.”

The Gold Cloaks who recognized her must’ve blabbed, or perhaps Ser Harwin, but she doesn't believe it was him, he let her go without a fuss. “And what does this rumour suggest?”

“That you have,” Alicent breathes in sharply, “lain with your uncle in a brothel.”

Rhaenyra’s spine straightens with indignation. She might have lost her maidenhead last night, but it wasn’t to her uncle, who she did have a crush on in her younger years. “This is a vile accusation, I have done no such thing. And to question my virtue is an act of treason.”

“You cannot blame me for asking, you Targaryens have queer customs after all.”

Rhaenyra bites back a scoff at Alicent’s blatant judgement. She knew when she married into their family that they keep the ways of Old Valyria, brother married to sister, niece to uncle, and aunt to nephew. She shouldn’t be surprised if Rhaenyra did hold a tendre for Daemon.

“I swear, on my mother’s grave, that I have not lain with Daemon,” she speaks her words with true conviction, leaving out the fact that she found comfort in Ser Criston’s arms instead.

Rhaenyra is called to her father’s chambers soon after, which she enters with a pit in her stomach. If Alicent and Otto both speak vitriol into her father’s ears, everything could crash down around her.

Her father is sitting by his model of Old Valyria when she arrives, and he gestures for her to take a seat across from him, looking bone tired and furious. “I want you to tell me what happened last night, Rhaenyra.”

Rhaenyra takes a deep breath, praying she can quell the damage done. “Daemon and I drank in a tavern, several taverns. It was getting late, and I asked to go home, but Daemon wished to continue. As he was my escort, I had no real choice but to stay, and that’s when he took me to a brothel. I was only a spectator, I didn't do anything, I swear. Soon Daemon sank into his cups, and abandoned me for some whore. I should’ve known better than to go with him, but I wanted to see the city.”

Viserys’s fingers flex over the ceremonial dagger that’s always on his hip. “This dagger once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror, and his father Aenar before him. Prior to that, well, it is difficult to know. Before Aegon’s death, the last of the Valyrian pyromancers hid his song in this steel. From my blood comes the Prince That Was Promised, and his will be the Song of Ice and Fire. The responsibility I have handed to you, the burden of this knowledge, is larger than the throne. It is larger than you and your desires. Jaehaerys would’ve disinherited you in an instant for such a stunt, my aunt Viserra was punished for much less.”

“But it was a lie! I did not do what I am accused of!”

“The truth of last night does not matter, Rhaenyra. Only perception. You have exposed yourself, and now we must both suffer the consequences.”

“Were I born a man, I could bed whomever I wanted. I could father a dozen bastards, and no one in your court would blink an eye!”

Daily she bemoans the pitfalls of her gender. Being a woman strips her of freedoms that men take for granted. If she was the Prince of Dragonstone, instead of the Princess, she could live a life of debauchery if she so chose, and no one would care unless it affected her ability to rule.

“Yes, that is true, but you were born a woman.”

Rhaenyra gulps, her first real spike of fear hitting her since she was informed of the rumours. He wouldn’t disinherit her, would he? Daemon would take her place, and he would not be easily accepted as king.

“What do you mean?”

“You shall marry Ser Laenor, and you will do so without protest.”

“You want me to marry a man who would prefer my uncle over me, as a remedy for your political headaches.” She resist the urge to scoff. If she’s to marry and birth the heirs her father so desires, Ser Laenor isn’t the man for the job, as much as she loves her cousin.

“You are my political headaches!” Viserys rubs at his temples, visibly frustrated. “Your wedding to Ser Laenor Velaryon will unite the two most powerful houses in the realm. With the combined strength of our shared dragons and naval fleets, no one would dare stand against us. The House of the Dragon will stand as one for a further generation.”

Her father may be angry with her, but Rhaenyra spots an opening to say what she has long desired. What will he do in retaliation, become even more angry? It appears that he’s hit the limit of his rage already.

“And what will you do about the vulture who perches upon your throne?”

Viserys is visibly perplexed at her words. “What vulture?”

“Your Hand. I know it was him who told you of the rumours, you needn’t confirm it. And I’m sure that he was more than happy to do so. If I was disgraced, disinherited, and sent to a Motherhouse like they tried to do with Princess Saera, his granddaughter is next in line. You speak of The Conqueror’s vision, the need for strength and unity across the Realm. But how can that be accomplished when your most trusted adviser is so self serving?”

Viserys looks even more exasperated, but he doesn’t tell her to be quiet. “Ser Otto took up the mantle of the Hand after my father died suddenly, and served my grandfather faithfully. Every lord and lady that calls for an audience with me, every man on my small council, and all councils past, have been self-interested. If Otto wants to further his family, that’s no surprise.”

“Not every lord is that way. Lord Lyonel put Ser Laenor forward as my consort to further protect the Realm, instead of suggesting that I wed either of his sons. Otto would never do such a thing, and he didn’t. I’m well aware that he put forward a Hightower for my husband privately.”

“What would you have me do Rhaenyra?” Her father runs a hand over his face. In that moment he appears years older than he is.

“I will do my duty as heir and wed Ser Laenor, but you must first do yours as king, and find another Hand.”

Her father keeps his promise, and Otto leaves later that day, sent from King’s Landing in disgrace. Rhaenyra watches from a parapet as he says goodbye to his weeping daughter in the rain, his words drowned out by the deluge.

When he is gone, Alicent turns to head back inside, and catches the eye of Rhaenyra. The Princess has never seen her former companion’s eyes so cold and flinty.

That night, after her servants have left, and she’s about to climb into bed, the door to her chambers creaks open, Criston slipping inside.

“I needed to see you, Princess.”

She gestures for him to come in further, and he shuts the door tight behind him. “I had a similar desire, I must confess.”

Though she doesn’t believe herself in love with Ser Criston by any means, she knows her marriage with Ser Laenor will leave her lonely, no matter how well they get along.

“You have confided in me over the years of our acquaintance. I feel, forgive me, that I know you a bit.” The great knight looks close to wringing his hands like a worried fishwife.

Rhaenyra chuckles. “I’d say that’s true.”

Criston flushes at her insinuation. “I've heard you say so many times how you loathe the lot of your position, that you are to be married off at your father's whim with no thought given to the yearning of your own heart, and now that day comes. Ser Laenor is a good and decent man, but you did not choose him. He was chosen for you.”

“That is true.” She isn’t sure what he’s getting at.

“I have deep knowledge of the port at Sunspear, where I’ve seen the ships of Essos setting sail with their hulls full of oranges and cinnamon. I’ve always wished to see where they went.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen in surprise at what he’s implying. She cannot forgo her position, and flee across the Narrow Sea like Princess Saera. She’s the heir.

“I am the crown, Ser Criston. Or I will be. I may chafe at my duties, but do you think I would choose infamy in exchange for a bushel of oranges or a ship to Asshai? It is my duty to marry a nobleman from a great house, and Ser Laenor will make a fine husband. But my marriage does not have to be the end for us.”

She had planned to discuss her idea with Laenor before she approached Ser Criston, but it appears that the moment to act has been thrust upon her.

The knight’s gaze hardens.“You want me to be your whore.” His words are clipped but filled with anger, which surprises her. She’s never seen him like this.

“I want us to continue as we began, with you as my sworn protector, my white knight.”

Criston’s fingers tighten on the helmet in his hands, the same one she stole the night before. “I took an oath as a knight of the Kingsguard. An oath of chastity that I broke it for you.”

“I won’t tell anyone what happened.”

He keeps talking as if she didn’t speak. “I’ve soiled my white cloak, the only thing I have to my fսcking name! I thought if we were married, I might be able to restore my honour.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes widen at his outburst. There’s been many a knight that’s broken their vows as a member of the Kingsguard, she is certain of it. Ser Lucamore Strong was simply the one caught. Men are weak and vain, prone to large egos and lust for what they cannot have. As long as the truth doesn’t get out like it did with Ser Lucamore, a sovereign can turn a blind eye.

“The Iron Throne looms larger than me, larger than anyone in my family. Aegon the Conqueror united the Seven Kingdoms and put them on a path-“ she cuts herself off, not wanting to giveaway the secret prophecy. “What I mean to say is that I cannot run away with you, that I cannot marry you.”

The knight grinds his teeth, his jaw cracking as he strides from the room without another word, the door slamming shut loudly behind him.

The marriage between her and Ser Laenor is quickly arranged, and Rhaenyra distracts herself with her sisters, when she isn’t helping prepare the seven days of celebration leading up to her nuptials.

The Velaryons arrive to help as well, and she often flies with Laena and Laenor on dragonback whenever she can shrink her duties. As they travel to and from the Dragonpit, they’re always accompanied by guards and Gold Cloaks. Rhaenyra finds herself often chatting with Ser Harwin, as he’s frequently apart of the men assembled.

Ser Criston is still sworn to her side, but they never speak unless they must. The tension between them could be easily sliced by a knife.

On the first night of her wedding festivities there is to be a grand feast, and with the dying down of the salacious rumours, her uncle is invited to attend, though only to show that Viserys finds no credence in the gossip.

Rhaenyra is dressed in a gown of black silk, her hair piled high on her head in complicated Valyrian braids, rubies strategically placed between strands. The red gemstones also sit around her neck, wrists, and dangle from her ears.

Laenor sports an outfit of turquoise silk and cloth of gold, the colours of House Velaryon, with an enamel seahorse pinned to his lapel. Hanging from the tops of his boots are golden tassels, and a gold ribbon holds back his hair.

Her father is the first to enter the feast, Jaehaerys’s crown atop his brow, and his second wife nowhere to be seen. Rhaenyra glances around for her, but she doesn’t see Alicent anywhere. It’s possible that sickness caused by her third child might’ve kept her away, but it’s strange that she didn’t send a missive pleading forgiveness for her absence.

She and Laenor enter next, arms interlinked as guests bow and cheer. Laenor preens under the attention as Rhaenyra grins widely, every inch the Realm’s Delight.

The remainder of their families trail in behind them, Rhaenys and Corlys leading the van beside Prince Daemon. When they’ve all arrived at the great table drowning in rich foods, they take their seats.

Bards sing songs while Mushroom the Fool tells bawdy jokes, after the king has given a speech toasting the upcoming union. Moments before the dancing is about to begin, the doors suddenly swing open, and Alicent appears in a gown of emerald green, a colour Rhaenyra hasn’t seen her wear since before her marriage.

Guests move out of the way as she enters, a golden circlet in her hair, and maids trailing behind her. Viserys looks as confused as Rhaenyra feels by the sudden dramatic appearance, but he welcomes his wife with a kiss on the hand, and gestures for her to join him.

Once she is seated, Rhaenyra senses waves of anger rolling off her former friend. By the time she is called to share her first dance with Laenor, she’s eager to get away from the hostile Alicent.

The betrothed couple take their places, then begin to dance to the beating of a drum. They pirouette and spin around each other, arms flung out to resemble the wings of a dragon in flight. There’s an open smile on her father’s face as she twirls, and she wishes for his sake that this marriage will closely turn out how he intended.

After their first dance ends, Laenor returns to their table while other people join her on the floor. Her uncle Daemon takes the hand of Lady Laena, while Rhaenyra is approached by Ser Harwin.

“May I have this dance, Princess?”

The deepness of his voice makes her warm all over. Though she should know better than to tie herself to a knight she cannot have, she smiles broadly. “Of course.”

They dance together often that night, in between Rhaenyra dancing with other lords. She enjoys herself for most of the evening, though her mood sours when Alicent abruptly leaves, citing nausea, and Ser Criston follows suit as if he’s her sworn shield, not Rhaenyra’s.

It turns out that this is the case. Alicent has petitioned her father to have the White Cloak watch her back, instead of Rhaenyra’s.

“But why has she asked for him?” Rhaenyra pesters her father as he reluctantly informs her of the change later that night, when she’s back at the feast table in need of a drink.

“She says that with your marriage, you need a new beginning, a new sworn shield for this new step.” Her tired father doesn’t seem to believe the words he’s saying, but he has no way to refute them.

Rhaenyra nearly snorts in derision. Criston must’ve fled to Alicent because of his falling out with Rhaenyra, and based on whatever he said, Alicent has grown ornery as she stitched him to her side.

“If that’s the case, than I want Ser Harwin.”

The idea to claim Breakbones as her sworn sword is rash, but he isn’t called Breakbones for nothing.

Viserys blinks in surprise. “Ser Harwin? He isn’t a member of the Kingsguard.”

“No, he isn’t, but he is the strongest man in the Seven Kingdoms, and the son of your new Hand. Also, it wouldn’t be the first time a member of the royal family had a non White Cloak as their sworn shield.”

“If that is what you want, I’ll speak to Lord Lyonel and arrange it.”

Rhaenyra kisses her father’s cheek in thanks before returning to the dance floor, whisked away by Ser Harwin once more.

When she emerges the following morning for the next day of celebration, the Gold Cloak is on guard outside her door, dressed in all the trimmings of a City Watchmen.

That day, and than the next, Alicent wears Hightower green, and Rhaenyra sports Targaryen black, leading to their emerging personal factions at court being coined the Greens and the Blacks.

The remaining festivities pass by in a blur until the tourney hosted a day before her nuptials. Rhaenyra is front and center in the Targaryen box with Laenor, her father and Alicent behind them on a raised dais. Rhaenys, Corlys, Laena, Lord Lyonel, and her two young sisters, sit to their left and right, Daemon having gone again. He had only be invited to one event, for her father remains angry with him.

As her future husband isn’t participating in the tourney, Rhaenyra gifts her favour to Ser Harwin, who has turned from an acquaintance to fast friend these last several days. Laenor, in a fit of humour, gives his favour to Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, his secret paramour.

Rhaenyra has promised to accept Joffrey as long as Laenor is discreet.

Alicent makes a face at Laenor’s blatant show of affection, before gifting her favour to Ser Criston as Rhaenyra rolls her eyes at the display.  Alicent practically falls over herself to shower her new sworn shield with praise, as if she hadn’t decried him for being Dornish upon their first meeting.

Though Harwin wins most of the tourney, he is unseated in the joust by Ser Criston, badly breaking his collarbone and shoulders. Rhaenyra is hit with a rush of worry as he crashes to the ground, and agony stirs in her belly when he’s whisked away half conscious by Maesters.

She leaves the Targaryen box with Lord Lyonel, babbling an excuse to her father in her desperate need to see the state of Harwin for herself. When they arrive, the great knight is slowly sipping Milk of the Poppy from a goblet, while a Maester sets his collarbone and shoulders, another wrapping a bandage around his elbow.

“Will he be alright?” Lord Lyonel asks, openly worried.

The Maester with the bandages responds. “If he has the utmost rest, he main regain his full strength, but it will be a lengthy process.”

Rhaenyra breathes an audible sigh of relief as Lord Lyonel glances at her. “You should go back to the tourney, you’ll be missed, Princess. I’m sure his sisters will be here any moment to help tend him.”

Rhaenyra hesitates before ultimately nodding. She knows her open distress might not be received well in the wake of her upcoming marriage. “I am glad that you weren’t hurt further, Ser Harwin, I’ll pray for a good recovery.”

Harwin looks at her glassy eyed, his eyelids dropping. “Thank you Princess.” His voice is lower and more gravelled than normal. She delights in the sound of it.

When Rhaenyra returns to the tourney, Criston is facing off against his final jouster, Ser Joffrey. Cole unseats the knight, but does not harm him until they face off in a melee to decide the tourney’s winner. He smashes his Morningstar against Joffrey’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground, blood spurting through the gaps in his helm. Laenor cries out in anguish as the crowd gasps in horror.

She clutches his hand as the Stormlander knight is rushed away for treatment. Like her with Ser Harwin, Laenor rushes to be at Joffrey’s side, staying with him all day and night until he’s drug away to dress for their wedding.

Rhaenyra is laced into a black silk wedding gown with a red underskirt, and flowing bell sleeves. Rubies stud the bodice in the shape of a three headed dragon, while others outline the collar and hem of her dress. A necklace heavy with more rubies is placed around her nape, dripping over the bodice of her dress, the last gem dangling above her naval.

Earrings in the shape of gold dragons wrap around the helix of her ears, and atop her braided coronet is a gleaming band of gold, wrought with dragons twisting mid flight.

When her father enters her chambers to find her in her finery, he sheds a single tear. “My eldest daughter is to be wed.” He kisses her cheek as Alyssa and Helaena peek around his legs in matching gowns. “Your sisters wanted to wish you good luck, Alicent is waiting at the Sept.”

Rhaenyra crouches down to her sisters’ eye level, careful not to ruin her gown as Helaena makes grabby hands at her necklace. “Do you like my necklace?”

Both princesses nod as Rhaenyra gives them each a kiss, before rising to back her feet to have the Targaryen wedding cloak draped over her shoulders.

The girls are returned to their nurses before Viserys guides his eldest to the Sept, nodding to everyone that waves and cheers as they past through the city. The large doors of the Sept swing open upon their arrival, and as they enter she spots Laenor standing with the High Septon, his skin visibly puffy and red from crying.

They slowly glide across the aisle to her future husband, her father lagging beside her, visibly tired even though the day is young. When they reach the Velaryon heir, her father places her ringed hand in Laenor’s.

They recite their vows like they practiced, their hands bound together after Laenor switches her Targaryen maidencloak for a Velaryon one. The guests cheer as they share quick a kiss, before they depart the Sept for the grand final feast.

Throughout the festivity Laenor is fidgety and distracted, worried about Joffrey, who hasn’t woken up yet. When they’re driven to their chambers to consummate their marriage, stripped down to their small clothes by raucous guests, he climbs into the bed beside her, and weeps into her lap.

“You can go,” Rhaenyra whispers into the dark, careful that no one standing outside will overhear. “There’s secret tunnels all over thanks to Maegor. I’ve been exploring them, and I know which one will lead you to Ser Joffrey. You’re too upset to try and bed me tonight.”

Laenor looks up to her, wet eyes shining with the glow of the candlelight. “Do you mean it?”

“Yes, I do. As long as you’re back by the time the maids arrive, it’s alright.”

Laenor kisses her cheek in thanks, then slips away in search of his clothes. After he’s dressed, he returns to the bed where Rhaenyra remains, grabbing the dagger attached to his hip.

“Let me give you a gift in thanks for this favour.” He rolls up his sleeve, and cuts a quick slice into his forearm, letting the blood drip onto the sheets between her bare legs.

Rhaenyra audible sighs in relief. She has no maidenhead to shed, even if they had coupled, she needs bloody sheets to parade around as a sign of her virtue.

Eight days later, Ser Joffrey succumbs to his injuries, never waking once. Laenor continues to weep into her lap each night, until they summon the courage to consummate their marriage. Though they try multiple times, they’re unable to complete the act, and she’s left with an empty womb.

By the time Ser Harwin is well enough to return to her side, Alicent has birthed a daughter that her father names Alysanne. Rhaenyra thanks the Gods for the third time when she’s told the news.

She feels inadequate at times for not yet fulfilling her duty to bare children, but at least she is free of a brother to usurp her.

She spends most of her days with her sisters and Ser Harwin, heart filled with love for the little girls. Though the thought of childbirth continues to frightens her, she must do her duty to further the Targaryen line. Thankfully, she does adore children.

Laenor picks up on her melancholy whenever they play cyvasse. They’ve both reluctantly acknowledged that they won’t be able to conceive a child together, but they want to keep up the pretext of trying by having him in her rooms often.

 “Ser Harwin has been a good sworn sword, hasn’t he? Much better than that Ser Crispin,” Laenor comments as he snags her elephant.

Rhaenyra snorts at his purposeful butchering of Criston’s name. “Yes, he has been a most welcome addition to my household, now that he is healed.”

Laenor openly hesitates, staring at the cyvasse board intently. “Rhaenyra, I don’t know how to put this,” Laenor sighs, putting down his lion piece. “I remember our past conversation about roast duck and goose. I’m well aware that you've been scared off of duck, but I believe you should be able to dine wherever you see fight, as you have allowed me to.”

Though Laenor still mourns the death of Ser Joffrey, he has several new companions who he takes much comfort in.

Rhaenyra’s fingers flex at his words. “What are you suggesting Laenor?”

“Ser Harwin is clearly taken by you, has been for years according to Laena. You deserve happiness Nyra.”

“You have no way of knowing such a thing about Ser Harwin, and you’re well aware of what happened last time I put my desires first. Ser Criston turned on me, swearing himself to Alicent in my stead, telling her who knows what. She’s been cold to me ever since before our wedding, and he’s to blame, I’m sure of it.”

Laenor takes a sip of Arbor Gold as he adjusts in his chair. “Ser Harwin lacks the nasty arrogance and pride of his predecessor, but if he isn’t to your taste, you may feast on any roasted duck with my blessing.”

Rhaenyra laughs out loud this time, ignoring the lustful thoughts brought on by the idea of taking Harwin to bed.

Chapter Text

Laenor heads for Driftmark a few days later with Laena, leaving Rhaenyra alone. She tries to pass the time riding in the Kingswood with Alyssa and Helaena, or tickling the tummy of Alysanne in the nursery, but all the sight of her sisters does is remind her that her womb remains empty.

Harwin has been one of her only friends in these long days as gossip spreads about her, Laenor, and the nature of their marriage. Her father turns a blind eye to these rumours, but Rhaenyra is aware that if she remains without child for long, he could become very unhappy.

She needs an heir, and fast. Laenor’s suggestion of taking Harwin as her paramour haunts her, even more so when she is in the presence of Breakbones himself. He is handsome and clever, always attentive and attuned to her needs.

She must confess that she desires him greatly.

But Rhaenyra has been burned badly by Ser Criston Cole, and she has no intention of making the same mistake twice, as much as she is tempted too.

She misses her mother the most at times like these, when she has no one to turn to for advice. Aemma Arryn might not have been happy to hear that her daughter dreams of a man she cannot have, but she would’ve understood, and counselled her on what to do.

When Laenor returns to King’s Landing, he finds Rhaenyra in the Godswood, sitting beneath the great heart tree, Helaena in her lap scrounging for bugs in the dirt. Alyssa is nearby, chasing around a jovial Ser Harwin with a wooden sword, Alysanne down for a nap.

“Ah, the picture of sisterhood.” Laenor smiles at his wife, and she grins back, patting her hand on the ground to suggest he join her.

He takes the hint, plunking down on a root. His eyes track Ser Harwin for a moment, before he tickles Helaena under her chin. “Ser Harwin is good with children, I see.”

Rhaenyra flushes at his words, she’s noticed that very thing herself. She doesn’t dare admit how much she enjoys watching him with her sisters. He’d be a great father, she can tell.

“Yes, I’d say so. Alyssa likes that he’ll let her chase him around. He evens pretends to perish if she gets him with her sword.”

At that very moment Ser Harwin falls into a heap, armour clunking as he feigns death. Alyssa laughs uproariously as Helaena scrambles from Rhaenyra’s lap, wanting to join in on the fun. Harwin chuckles as the two princesses land on his stomach, squealing with laughter, legs kicking.

That evening Laenor invites the knight to join them for dinner in her chambers, without asking Rhaenyra first. She would like nothing more than to dine with Ser Harwin, but Laenor did it behind her back, hoping to push the two of them together.

What a life she leads. She, the Princess of Dragonstone, is being convinced by her husband to take her sworn shield to bed.

Wine and conversation flows easily between the trio, all enjoying a dinner of roast duck at Laenor’s request. Rhaenyra cannot help but laugh at their meal, then kick Laenor under the table in retaliation. Her husband winks wolfishly in response.

Harwin raises an eyebrow at her laughter, the blues and greens of his doublet making his eyes pop. “What’s so amusing, Princess?”

“Oh it’s nothing, the duck brought up old memories.” She stifles the rest of her laughter into a handkerchief, while pretending to wipe away a drop of wine.

After their meal is finished, the plates cleared away, Harwin and Laenor play cyvasse, Rhaenyra curled by them in an old chair, munching on candied lemons.

When Laenor wins the game, he stands as if receiving applause from a crowd, and Rhaenyra affectionally rolls her eyes. “Well played husband.”

“Thank you wife.” Laenor bows to her with a flourish. She reaches forward to swat at his arm, which he darts away from. “I’m going to enjoy my victory with a nice long sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow Nyra.”

He kisses her cheek as she fakes a smile. She doesn’t want Harwin to notice her irritation. “I know what you’re doing,” she grumbles quietly.

“Then take advantage of it,” Laenor whispers back, before gesturing for Ser Harwin to stay put as he goes to rise from his chair. “You needn’t leave Ser Harwin, enjoy more of that Arbor Gold with the Princess. I had an early day today, I need to rest, but you must stay and enjoy yourself.”

Harwin’s eyes dart between the two of them, sensing something is up, but unsure what it is. “If that’s what my Princess desires.”

Rhaenyra doesn’t have it in her to send him away, which Laenor is well aware of it. “You may stay, if you wish,” her words come out softer than she intended, making the knight relax.

They sit for a moment in silence after Laenor has gone, enjoying the quiet of night, and the cool wind blowing into her room. He’s still standing when Rhaenyra climbs from her seat, and approaches the table. She internally wars with herself as she hesitantly takes a step closer to him, testing the waters. He doesn’t move an inch, pupils suddenly blown wide.

She takes another step, her chest almost touching his, and looks up at him. Firelight flickers across both of their faces as she slowly reaches for him, and Harwin allows her to cup his cheek. He breathes deeply through his mouth, then he gently reaches forward to swipe a finger across the back of her hand.

Something snaps within her, and she surges upward, dragging him into a kiss that he returns hungrily, fingers cradling her skull as he tugs her snug to his hard chest.

Rhaenyra mewls when her hardened nipples brush against him. He groans against her mouth at the noise, releasing her head to grab her by the waist, lifting her up into his arms. Her legs instantly tangle around him as he guides them to her bed, laying her down without breaking the kiss.

Her tongue dives into his mouth as he flips up her crimson skirt, and runs a hand up her stockinged leg, making her shiver. Her fingers tugs at his dark curls when Harwin finally breaks the kiss, and plants his lips on her neck, sucking at the skin there.

“Harwin, fuck,” she moans as his fingers find perch between her thighs, teasing her wet slit.

He grunts in satisfaction against her throat as he slides a digit inside, finding her warm and welcoming.

Rhaenyra lays her head back as her hips thrust upwards, taken over by the pleasure when another finger enters her as he pumps in and out. Her hands cling to his doublet as he uses his other hand to tug her breasts free from her gown. He then attaches his hot mouth to one round dusky nipple, suckling on it like a babe.

He sends her tumbling over the edge of oblivion with a slight bite of teeth, and the curling of a single finger. She bites back a whine as she comes the hardest she ever has, her body jerking with the aftershocks.

After she has floated down from her high, Harwin grins at her lazily as she initiates another kiss. It isn’t as frenzied as before, but it remains filled with longing and lust. Harwin takes this as permission to slot himself between her legs, and play with her nipples.

Between kisses Rhaenyra tugs at his doublet, which he allows her to remove, but when she reaches for the strings of his trousers, he breaks the kiss.

“Are you sure Princess?” He seems genuinely interested in her answer. She cannot help but kiss him again.

“I’m very certain Ser, but you must know this is all we can have, do not ask more of me.”

Memories of Criston’s proposal and harsh anger hit her in flashes. She cannot allow such a thing to happen again.

“I would never dare to ask for more, Princess.”

He drags her into a sweet kiss as he frees himself of his remaining clothes, and positions his hard cock at her cunt. Rhaenyra nods when he hesitates, looking for one more reassurance before he enters her slowly, her eyes rolling back with pleasure.

They interlock their fingers as he slides in further, snapping his hips as hungry kisses are exchanged between each thrust. Pleasure quickly builds within her again, her tongue in his mouth as she cries, coming hard around him.

He follows suit moments later, his own shout of pleasure muffled against her lips.

They are ravenous for each other in the time that follows, fucking where and whenever they can. It’s no surprise that Rhaenyra quickly falls pregnant, but that doesn’t stop her from fretting about pregnancy and childbirth, the fragility of her future infant child.

Her father is ecstatic when he learns the news, ordering rare wine from the Arbor to celebrate, and the commissioning of a new cradle for his future grandchild. He shows more joy at Rhaenyra’s pregnancy than he did at the birth of Rhaenyra’s sisters, and every one notices, Alicent most of all.

Ever since Otto was dismissed as Hand, any potential repairing of their friendship has been abandoned, the Queen openly cold whenever she can get away with it.

As Rhaenyra’s belly grows, she makes an extra effort to spend even more time with her sisters, especially Helaena and Alysanne. Alyssa has started acting cold towards her due to jealousy over Viserys’s picky affections, which Rhaenyra cannot blame her for.

Rhaenyra is hoping to potentially shed her fears about childbirth with their sweet aid. She’s accepted that she’ll be a mother, but the thought of the birthing bed scares her witless, which she has confided in Harwin, Laenor, and Laena.

Laenor and Laena give her various assurances, and talk of their strong Valyrian blood, but it’s Harwin’s answer that reassures her most of all, after she speaks to him of her mother’s death.

“If a Maester tries to cut you open, I’ll split him from nose to navel.”

It doesn’t come to that when Rhaenyra births her eldest child, the labour surprisingly easy for a first time mother. The Maesters and midwives commend her on how well she’s doing as she brings forth her own heir.

When the babe is born, its lusty cries fill the room, but instead of congratulating her, everyone present freezes when they see her child.

“It’s a boy, Princess,” one midwife states quietly, Rhaenyra’s son’s dark curls shining with the early morning light.

Her eyes dart around the chamber as she panics. She never considered her babe would take after Harwin, she thought the Valyrian blood would win. All of her sisters take after their father, and their mother is decidedly not the stuff of Old Valyria.

“Give him to me,” she commands, lip wobbling. The robust baby is placed in her arms, a single tear slipping down her cheek as he blinks up at her with blue eyes.

His looks are a disaster, but she cannot help but love him instantly. He is hers to protect, hers to cherish and care for.

When Laenor shows up to meet the baby, accompanied by a dragon egg taken from a clutch of Syrax, all the servants gawk, waiting for his reaction. His eyes widen slightly when he sees the colouring of the infant, but he quickly schools his expression as he takes the baby into his own arms.

“The Baratheon blood wins out.” Laenor chuckles falsely. “He has my mother’s hair.”

Rhaenyra internally breathes a sigh of relief, and slumps against her pillows. He’s saved her for now, but her father is the true test.

When the King and Queen arrive to meet the new Prince, Alicent’s gaze hardens when she takes in the baby’s looks, her lips curling into a blatant frown. She even has the audacity to keep Alyssa and Helaena back from the baby, as if Rhaenyra’s son is cursed.

Her husband, the weakening King, has a much different reaction, happily whisking the boy into his arms. “Behold your future king.” Viserys beams at his grandson.

Harwin doesn’t have the chance to hold the baby until late that night, when mother and son have been left alone to sleep. Her baby is mouthing at her pointer finger as he dozes off, eyelids drooping.

“Come,” Rhaenyra speaks quietly when Harwin arrives through a secret door. He hasn’t seen the baby at all since his birth, word quickly reaching Harwin about her son’s appearance. He wisely avoided showing any interest in the babe, and stayed far away.

Harwin takes a seat beside her on the bed, careful not to jostle them. He doesn’t reach for his first born, but he does lean in for a closer look. “I thought they were exaggerating, but he truly lacks the look of Old Valyria.”

Rhaenyra groans quietly. “I’m well aware. I was certain he’d at least have my hair, all my sisters do, but it was not to be.”

“He is still beautiful, a fine future king I’m sure.”

Rhaenyra’s heart warms at his words. “Kiss me,” she says softly, desperate for his affection.

Harwin listens without hesitation, gently kissing her on the mouth as their son drifts to asleep upon her chest.

Rhaenyra’s first born and heir is named Jacaerys Velaryon, at the insistence of Lord Corlys. Laenor had wanted to name him for Ser Joffrey, but his father wouldn’t hear of it, and Rhaenyra didn’t wish to rock the boat by insisting on her husband’s behalf.

Things were already uncertain since Jace was born with the look of the First Men, unlike his supposed Valyrian parents, and now there’s clamouring to have Rhaenyra ousted as Princess of Dragonstone in favour of her infant son.

It infuriates her that the lords of the Realm would rather have an infant possibly succeed her father, than her, a woman grown who has been groomed for the position. Her father ignores this chatter, Lord Lyonel assuring him that he is wise to keep his daughter as first in line.

Rhaenyra takes heart in this until Alicent falls pregnant again, and she’s once more stricken with the fear of a brother. She may have her own son, but a brother takes precedence over a sister in Westeros, and a baby brother could oust her, unlike Jace.

This news revs up the courtly speculation, but all talk of succession screeches to halt when word comes from Driftmark that Prince Dameon has slain Lady Laena’s betrothed, and taken her to wife, fleeing to Pentos with her on dragonback.

Laenor is as shocked as anyone when the news arrives. “Daemon marrying my sister, I cannot believe it.”

Jace is milk drunk in Rhaenyra’s arms as she rocks him after dinner. “Neither can I. When he didn’t remarry quickly after Lady Rhea’s death, I thought he was up to something, but I did not imagine it was Laena’s hand he desired. I knew they were flirtatious, but my uncle is like that with most women.”

When she was younger she fancied her uncle Florian the Fool, and her Jonquil, but those feelings have mostly receded with time, replaced with a burning love for Harwin.

Harwin is seated at their dinner table tonight. He has taken to dining with them whenever Laenor is in the Red Keep, that way they can spend more time together without raising suspicion.

“I was aware that he was sulking about Driftmark, but I thought it was because he was aimless following the war in the Stepstones. Instead it appears he was biding his time until he could wed Laena.”

Rhaenyra shakes her head, unsurprised. “That sounds like him.”  Jace makes a yawning noise as his little nose scrunches, and Rhaenyra giggles. “Yes, that sounds like Uncle Daemon, doesn’t it?” She beams at her baby, and Harwin grins.

“He’s as smart as a whip already, I’m certain he’ll be harrying Maesters by his second nameday.”

Rhaenyra laughs again. “And mastering the blade by four.”

“Cheers to the future king!” Laenor raises his cup for a toast, clinking it with Harwin’s as Rhaenyra rolls her eyes affectionally.

Rhaenyra and Harwin tumble back into bed together as soon as the Maesters say she can. This is why when she learns she’s with child again before Jace’s first nameday, she is unsurprised.

As Jace is beginning to crawl, to the pleasure of all but the Greens, Rhaenyra is often forced to take to her bed, her second pregnancy harsher than the previous one.

In this time Alicent gives birth for the fourth and final time, her body unable to take another pregnancy. It is one last girl, to the Princess of Dragonstone’s relief, a daughter named Daena. Her father betroths his youngest to Jace in the cradle, to the displeasure of Rhaenyra and Alicent.

Rhaenyra had plans to wed Jace to Laena and Daemon’s daughter, though her cousin has yet to birth one, and Alicent abhors the Valyrian practice of incest.

Laena writes from Pentos that she and Daemon don’t feel slighted by the betrothal, knowing it was done at Viserys’s insistence. Rhaenyra is pregnant again after all, and Laena hopes to be so soon. Another match can be arranged.

Jace and her sisters keep her company once she is prescribed permanent bed rest, Harwin constantly standing guard in the corner of her chambers. Rhaenyra didn’t want Ser Criston nearby under the guise of watching the other princesses.

Jace’s egg has hatched by then, and the young Targaryens all take great delight in watching the hatchling curl around its future rider, olive green scales shimmering as it trots across the ground.

Alysanne and Helaena still lack mounts, to Alicent’s chagrin, but Alyssa has Sunfyre the Golden, and Daena is too young for the matter to have been decided yet. Her egg may hatch too.

When Rhaenyra births her second child, another son, it makes Jace’s delivery feel like a dream. She labours for two days, her womb burning like it’s on fire as her baby refuses to come forth. Things turn dire on the second day, and the Maesters all but pronounce her dead by allowing Laenor, and to her shock, Harwin, into her chambers to be by her side.

When the baby is finally born, Rhaenyra spots blood pooled between her legs as her overly robust son is placed in her arms. This time she is too weak to panic at how Strong he looks, simply kissing his little nose before passing out.

When her strength has returned, her second child, Lucerys, is formally presented to the King and Queen, a babbling Jace in Rhaenyra’s arms, Vermax curled around his shoulders.

When Laenor takes Luke back from his goodfather, Alicent makes a show of looking over the dark haired babe in his arms. “Do keep trying Ser Laenor, you may get one that looks like you yet.”

With a swish of emerald green skirts, Alicent takes the hand of Alysanne, and leads her own children from the room, though Helaena lingers to see the baby.

Rhaenyra wants to rage at her former companion for the insult, but instead she bites her tongue, and passes Jace to her father at his request. Viserys takes his seat on the Iron Throne with the toddler in his lap, letting him play with his fingers before all the court.

“This will be your seat one day, lad, after your mother is gone,” he speaks loudly, wanting to be overheard. He refuses to supplant Rhaenyra with her son, and this blatant show of support makes her heart lighter than it has been in ages.

When a raven arrives with the news of Laena and Daemon’s twin daughters, Rhaenyra sends them an enthusiastic congratulations on the birth, and suggests a match between Luke and Baela, which they accept.

Rhaena’s marriage remains undecided, as Rhaenyra doesn’t wish to fall pregnant again for some time. Luke’s birth scared her witless, she’ll need time to recover before she’s ready face the birthing bed again.

She also suggests her uncle reach out to Viserys. His anger over the unapproved marriage has cooled considerably since he learned of his nieces, and she’s certain he’ll accept his brother back to court.

Rhaenyra’s politicking clearly scares Alicent. She expedites Alyssa’s marriage to her cousin Ormund, drapes the eight year old bride in Hightower green, then moves her into a joint suit with her husband, though the marriage won’t be consummated.

The wave of gossip after Jace’s birth is nothing compared to the onslaught she receives after Luke’s. He looks even more like Harwin than Jace, and he is big like him too, Jace taking more after the Targaryens with his body type.

Eventually the whispers and judging eyes become too much, and Rhaenyra decides she’ll finally make her home on Dragonstone, creating her own court with Laenor and Harwin at her side.

Viserys is sad to see her go, but he understands, and gives his blessing by gifting her an old miniature of her mother that he’s kept all these years, as one of her going away presents.

She makes a show of kissing it before putting it on, and flying away on Syrax, Velaryon boats and Seasmoke trailing in her wake.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra tries to keep her ear to the ground in King’s Landing in the years after her departure, but she finds it hard to find anyone reliable, save Daemon’s old mistress Mysaria. Anyone else willing to report to her soon disappears, and she knows someone is making that happen, very likely a Green.

To further secure her power in King’s Landing, Alicent weds Helaena, aged eight, to Tyland, now master of ships, and betroths Alysanne to Kermit Tully, great grandson of the ruling Lord Grover.

Rhaenyra does not attend the wedding, sending a raven instead to inform them that she is with child, and cannot travel. It took her a great deal of time to come around to the idea of falling pregnant again, mental and physical scares long haunting her from Luke’s birth.

Harwin had been most understanding at her hesitance, as had Laenor, both assuring her that she needn’t have another child if she didn’t want to. She has her heir and spare.

Still, she began to crave another baby after realizing how big her sons have grown. They’re three and two already, often busy galloping around Dragonstone with a constant thirst for knowledge and fun.

Her third child must sense her fears of a repeat of Luke’s birth, for he comes forth as easily as Jacaerys, looking every inch a Strong. He is named Joffrey at Laenor’s insistence, he is finally able to use the name of his late knight.

An egg of Syrax’s is placed in the baby’s cradle, Rhaenyra praying it will hatch another healthy hatchling. Her elder sons both boast dragons, as does Lucerys’s betrothed Baela. The Blacks have seven dragons at their disposal, including the grown Meleys, Caraxes, Vhagar, and Seasmoke, if the tension between the two factions overflows, and they need to be weaponized, though Gods willing that day won’t ever come.

Rhaenyra and her court return to King’s Landing to formally present her son to his grandsire, and Viserys demands a family dinner that night, none having been held since after Luke’s birth.

The Greens and the Blacks flank a long table overflowing with food. Rhaenyra wears the pendant of a Godswood leaf around her neck, a gift from Ser Harwin, which matches the red and gold of her dress. Her sons are all dressed in black and gold, even baby Joffrey, but Ser Laenor sports the colours of House Velaryon, and a seahorse pendant.

Alicent’s children are in Hightower green alongside their mother, a small Seven Pointed Star secure around the Queen’s neck.

Lord Lyonel is not present at the dinner, as he dines with his own family, including Ser Harwin, in the Tower of the Hand. Instead, they are joined by Ormund and Tyland, who sit beside their young wives.

Rhaenyra makes easy chatter with her father, discussing the running of Dragonstone, and the growing of her boys alongside their dragons. A few times, Jacaerys or Lucerys mention Ser Harwin, but Viserys and Rhaenyra both ignore it. She can’t have it widely known that her sons have a special bond with her sworn sword. The Greens would quickly use that information to smear the name of her and her sons further.

Even missing a hand, Viserys swings Lucerys into his lap, and lets the boy eat from his plate, while Jacaerys excitedly tells Helaena of the latest visit of Daemon and his family. Helaena listens as she fiddles with the edge of her napkin, eyes constantly straying to a butterfly cocoon hanging outside a nearby window.

Laenor drinks the last of the dregs in his goblet, before he and Rhaenyra wrangle her tired rowdy boys to bed, Viserys beginning to doze in his chair.

When Lady Laena dies three years later after delivering a stillborn son, Rhaenyra and Laenor are devastated at the news. She then wearily returns to King’s Landing ahead of attending the funeral with her father and his family, at the King’s insistence.

As Rhaenyra is beading the tunic she’s to gift Joffrey for his nameday, Elinda Massey, her lady in waiting, rushes into her chambers, openly anxious. “Princess, there’s been an incident.”

She learns that in the castle courtyard, where Alicent’s daughters and Rhaenyra’s sons had congregated together, Ser Criston Cole taunted Breakbones while he trained Lucerys, saying he gave the Prince the devotion of a father.

Harwin beat him badly in retribution for his comment, before four knights managed to pull him off the White Cloak. 

Rhaenyra races through the tunnels of Maegor’s Holdfast, desperate to find Harwin and plan what to do. Her father wishes to speak with her right away about the incident, but she needs to see her lover first.

When she arrives at the secret door that’ll let her into the Tower of the Hand, she hears the raised voice of the normally unruffled Hand of the King, and freezes.

“Your actions fill me with unrelenting shame.” Lyonel is releasing all the pent up rage and worry he’s felt over the years due to her and Harwin’s relationship, his cup finally runneth over.

“So that’s what this is about then? Your shame?” Harwin’s voice is mainly even keel, but he’s tired of having to defend every move he makes in regards to Rhaenyra and the boys.

“Our shame, Harwin! Shame on the whole of House Strong!” Lyonel will not let his son divert the crux of the issue.

“Because I laid my hands on that insufferable Cole, the son of a steward?”

“He is a Knight of the Kingsguard now, a defender of the crown.”

“He insulted the sons of the Princess, such a thing could not stand.” The slightest hint of anger rises in Harwin’s tone, but there’s no sounds of shuffling boots, or the clinking of armour. He hasn’t made a move to leave.

“Your actions today have laid us open to accusations of an uglier treachery.”

“And what treachery is that?”

Lyonel’s voice booms, Rhaenyra having never heard him so loud, he rarely lets his anger get the best of him. “Don't play the fool with me, boy! Your intimacy with the Princess Rhaenyra is an offence that would mean exile and death for you, for her, for the children! Those poor innocent boys.”

“That is rumor only spun by the Princess’s rivals,” Harwin repeats the lie they have said too often this last decade.

“People have eyes, boy. Yet His Grace the King, it seems, will not accept what his eyes see. This flimsy shield alone stands between you and the headsman. The willful blindness of a father towards his child.”

“I wish my father affected a similar blindness.” Harwin’s voice has lost any of its earlier flash of anger, he is soft spoken once more, almost melancholic.

Lyonel scoffs at his son’s blatant disregard for the danger he has landed in. “Have I not these many years? And yet today, you publicly assaulted a knight of the Kingsguard in the... in the defence of your-” the Hand cuts himself off, but his unsaid words dangle between father and son like a spiked pendulum.

“You have your honour, and I have mine.”

The slamming of the door announces that Lord Lyonel has stormed out, and Rhaenyra emerges from her hiding spot, racing to Harwin. He wraps her in his arms, and kisses her crown as she clutches his doublet, clinging to him.

“The nerve of Ser Criston,” she whispers against his chest. “To publicly taunt you, and insult the boys, heirs to the throne.”

“I let my temper get the best of me today, and I shouldn’t have. Now I’ll face the consequences.”

“My father’s anger will cool, we’ll wait this out. I’m to see him shortly, I’ll come to your defence.”

Harwin cradles her head in his heads. “Do not do anything to incriminate yourself. I’ll take my punishment, whatever it may be. I've gone too far.”

When Rhaenyra joins her father in his solar, Viserys is sat, like often, beside his replica of Old Valyria, his remaining hand fiddling with a statue of a dragon. She takes the chair across from him, and folds her hands in her lap, fighting the urge to anxiously twist her rings.

“Father,” she begins to speak, but Viserys cuts her off with a tired wave of his hand.

“What Ser Harwin did was inexcusable, and reflects badly on the crown as your sworn shield, he must be dismissed.”

Rhaenyra shoots from her chair in indignation. “You cannot do that!”

“I can Rhaenyra, and I must. He attacked one of my Kingsguard.”

“After Ser Criston goaded him with those vile rumours. Is he to be dismissed too? Where is his punishment?”

Viserys pinches the bridge of his nose. “Ser Criston has been reprimanded, but Ser Harwin will not keep his position. Ser Erryk will be your sworn shield, and Ser Harwin will return to Harrenhal to take his place as heir. It’s been decided.”

“Who reprimanded Cole? Alicent? Did she thank him for his loyal service, and the goading of my sworn shield?”

“Rhaenyra! Enough! It has been decided! Ser Harwin is leaving!”

Rhaenyra fights back the stinging of tears, knowing this battle is lost for now, and flees from the room, badly hiding her devastation.

No matter how hard she tries to change Viserys’s mind, the next day Ser Harwin is forced to take his leave, the Hand accompanying him to their ancestral seat.

It is early when Harwin is set to depart, the morning light streaming into her chambers softly. He comes to say goodbye in his riding leathers, unspoken emotion swimming in his eyes.

They had spent the night together saying their own personal loving farewell, where Rhaenyra vowed to bring him back into her service one day. He simply kissed her in response, wanting to savour her taste.

“Be good to your mother, lads. I’ll visit when I can, but that may be some time.” The great knight’s voice is deeper than normal, he’s trying not to let his own anguish show.

Jace won’t look Harwin in the eye, while Joffrey clutches Rhaenyra’s skirts, and Luke plays with wooden soldiers on a settee.

Rhaenyra cannot speak any words herself, tears lodged in her throat as Harwin continues to talk.

“I will return, I promise.” Harwin hesitantly reaches down to ruffle Joffrey’s hair, the toddler sucking on his own thumb. “I’ll likely be a stranger when we meet again,” he says the last words quietly, almost as if to himself.

When he strides from the room, taking his leave, Jace gives chase with Rhaenyra behind him, watching Breakbones walk away. When the knight is gone from sight, her son turns to face her, dark hair almost black in the low light.

Joffrey is gone from her side to play with Luke, leaving her alone with Jace as she runs a hand through his hair, fighting back her own tears. “We will exchange letters by raven. Won’t that be fun?”

Jace meets her gaze, his young face severe. “Is Harwin Strong my father? Am I a bastard?”

Her stomach bottoms out, and she freezes, eyes slightly widening before she schools her expression. Silence rules the day for a moment, before she carefully chooses her next words. “You are a Targaryen. That’s all that matters.”

When they arrive at Driftmark, Laena’s family is in full mourning, Laenor seeking his weeping mother for comfort as Laena is given to the waves. Corlys is solemn as he holds Rhaena close, while Baela stands with her father, who keeps his head down.

Vaemond, Corlys’s younger brother, gives Laena’s eulogy, and as he prattles on, Rhaenyra and Jacaerys stiffen at his words, while a previously bored Alyssa raises an eyebrow in interest. Vaemond’s speech is nasty and uninspired, speaking of the purity of Velaryon blood, and how it must never thin, his eyes pointedly straying to Rhaenyra’s sons.

Daemon abruptly chuckles to himself halfway through the eulogy, cutting Vaemond off before Vhagar roars from above.

The funeral reception is set on a terrace overlooking the sea, Vhagar making a roost nearby in the sand. Sunfyre and Dreamfyre perch above them, while Syrax flies over the water with Caraxes.

When it is time to go inside, Viserys bids Alicent goodnight, but calls her Aemma. Everyone present becomes as still as statues at his words, including Rhaenyra, and Ser Harrold quietly corrects the King. 

Though she tries to hide it, it’s obvious that Alicent is utterly humiliated, and Rhaenyra cannot help a tiny twinge of sympathy.

That night, as Rhaenyra restlessly turns in her bed, kept awake by the roaring of many dragons, she hears a series of hurried armoured footsteps racing her way, before her door is flung open by Ser Steffon Darklyn. “There’s been an incident Princess.”

Rhaenyra rushes to High Tide’s solar in her maroon nightgown, her hair in a braid down her back. When she enters the room, she finds a Maester tending to the slashed eye of Alysanne, while her three bloodied sons huddle by the King, though they run to their mother upon her arrival.

She looks them over worriedly, checking how severe their wounds are. Luke’s is the worst, his nose broken and bloody, while Joffrey has a few scratches from when Alysanne pushed him out of the way.

Rhaenys and Corlys, along with Laenor, and Daemon, arrive from various corners of High Tide, having been alerted to what has occurred. Daemon inspects Baela and Rhaena thoroughly, before tucking them between him and Rhaenys.

“How did this happened?” Viserys demands, looking to Ser Harrold.

“The children were all supposed to be abed, Your Grace,” the head of the Kingsguard responds, openly ashamed at what has transpired.

“Who had the watch?”

“Ser Criston, your Grace.”

Criston casts a a badly hidden guilty glance at Alicent, making Rhaenyra’s neck hairs rise. What was he doing when he should’ve been on watch? “We’ve never had to protect an aunt from her nephews before.”

The Maester steps back from tending Alysanne. “I’m sorry my Queen, but her eye cannot be saved. The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost.”

Alicent whirls on Alyssa, looking for someone to blame. “Where were you? Her room is beside yours, you would’ve heard her go!”

“Ormund was abed, why didn’t he hear her?” Alyssa retorts, and Alicent hits her in the arm. “Ow,” she cries, clutching her bicep.

“That is half the torment your sister suffered, while you were out galavanting.”

Viserys cuts in, bone tired but also furious. “The children claim different stories, but Jacaerys says you called them bastards, is this true Alysanne?”

Rhaenyra’s stare cuts to Alysanne, and her sister peers back, no love in her one eyed gaze. Their relationship has much diminished since Rhaenyra made her home on Dragonstone, likely do to Alicent’s interference, and now only Helaena writes to her.

Alysanne works her jaw, but nods, knowing Rhaena and Baela will corroborate their cousins’ stories.

“Tell me all of it, Alysanne. Now!”

“Why does it matter what was said, my daughter has lost an eye!” Alicent cuts in, appearing half crazed

“It was an accident!” Lucerys cries, hidden in his mother’s skirts.

“Accident! You brought a knife to an ambush!” Alicent snaps angrily.

“It was an accident Alicent, you know this to be true,” Rhaenyra retorts. “And Alysanne must be questioned sharply for where she heard such vile slanders. My sons are in line to inherit the throne, to question their legitimacy is an act of treason.”

They all know where Alysanne would’ve heard such slanders, and the source bristles at Rhaenyra’s words. “My daughter lost an eye over an insult!”

Viserys sighs loudly, cutting off his wife. “Where did you hear this Alysanne?”

Alysanne stares directly at Alicent. “Alyssa.”

Alyssa squeaks as Viserys wheels on his daughter, crowding her. “And where did you hear this? Answer me!”

Alyssa eyes dart around as Viserys demands again that she answer him, and the Princess reluctantly responds. “Everyone knows, look at them.”

Viserys turns to the group gathered. “If I hear another word of my grandsons being bastards, the one who speaks the slander, will lose their tongue. That is a royal decree, am I clear?”

They all nod, and Rhaenyra gives her father her heartfelt thanks, but Alicent isn’t satisfied. “That is insufficient. Alysanne has lost an eye, and Lucerys is hale.”

“I know this, my lady wife, but I cannot give her back her eye.”

“No, because it was taken.”

Viserys clutches the ceremonial Valyrian dagger at his side, hand twitching. “What would you have me do then?”

“Alysanne is due a debt. Lucerys shall lose an eye too. He can pick which one, an option he didn’t give my daughter.”

“Enough Alicent!” Viserys yells as Rhaenyra holds onto Luke more tightly, clutching him to her side protectively.

“She is your daughter, just as much as Rhaenyra is! You would burn the world for her, but Alysanne has an eye stolen, and she’s to move on as if naught is amiss! No, I will not have it!” Alicent whirls to face Ser Criston. “If the King will not seek justice, the Queen will. Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.”

“You will do no such thing!” Viserys growls, and Criston stays put. Rhaenyra shoves her sons behind her as Alicent snaps. She springs forward, stealing the Valyrian dagger at her husband’s side, and surges towards Lucerys. Rhaenyra rushes to meet her, holding her raised hand back as screams and chaos fill the room.

“You’ve gone too far Alicent,” Rhaenyra hisses, and Alicent bares her teeth.

“What have I done, but what was expected of me? Forever upholding the kingdom, the family, the law. While you flout all to do as you please.”

Viserys demands she let Rhaenyra go, but Alicent doesn’t listen, “Where is duty? Where is sacrifice? It is trampled under your pretty slippered foot again. And now your son takes my daughter’s eye, and to even that, you feel entitled.”

Rhaenyra holds her former companion steady, not letting her gain any ground. “Exhausting, wasn’t it? Hiding beneath the cloak of your own righteousness,” the Princess lowers her voice to a whisper. “But now they see you as you are.”

Alicent jerks the blade with a cry, and Rhaenyra hisses when it makes contact with her skin, bringing forth blood. Alicent drops the dagger when she sees the bloodshed, taking a horrified step back.

Rhaenyra learns that Alicent spent the rest of her time on Driftmark repenting at a Sept, but she never apologized for her actions, making the chasm between the two former friends grow further.

It’s a few days later when Rhaenyra is told the horrible news of Harrenhal. She’s back on Dragonstone, huddled in her solar with her ladies when Ser Erryk enters, a message clutched in his fist. “For you, Princess.”

She takes it from him, reading it over quickly. A sudden sob catches in her throat, and tears unwillingly streak down her cheeks. Ser Harwin and Lord Lyonel are dead, killed in a fire at Harrenhal.

She shoves a hand over her face to hide her devastation, but it’s too late. Everyone saw her fall apart. She jerkily shoves the letter at one of Harwin’s sisters, unable to hold it a moment longer, and his sister too cries out in anguish when she reads it contents.

Later, as Rhaenyra tucks her boys in bed after telling them the awful news, Jace blinks up at the ceiling with teary eyes, and a stubborn set to his mouth. “We should be at Harrenhal, mourning Lord Lyonel, and Ser Harwin.”

“It would not be appropriate. Many are our kin to mourn, but the Strongs are not. Look at me Jace. Do you understand?”

Jace nods reluctantly, and Rhaenyra sighs, kissing his cheek. He needs time to grieve his first lost.

To make matters worse, Alicent convinces Viserys to reinstate Otto as Hand in wake of Lyonel’s death. Rhaenyra sends a raven, informing her father that she believes that a grave mistake, but he doesn’t listen, sending back platitudes to try and ease her anger.

The next several months are filled with suppressed grief and hidden anger. Then, when she thinks things are about to ease up, she’s woken in the night by a harried Ser Erryk. She quickly follows him to the Stone Drum where Laenor’s cooling and freshly cleaned body has been laid out, Silent Sisters already standing in vigil.

“What happened?” Rhaenyra takes Laenor’s gloved hand in hers, a fresh rush of grief clotting in her chest. Will she lose everyone she holds dear before the year’s end?

Ser Erryk, alongside Elinda Massey and the Strong sisters, are at her side, her sons still in bed. She doesn’t want her boys to see Laenor like this, but she’ll soon wake them to share the horrible news.

Grand Maester Gerardys clears his throat as a sheet is lifted back over Laenor’s face. “Ser Laenor had been spending the day in Spicetown with Ser Qarl Corey, when a verbal fight broke out between the two men, according to fellow tavern patrons. They left the tavern quarrelling, and then minutes later Ser Laenor’s body was found, Ser Qarl long gone.”

“I want Ser Qarl found. He cannot get away with this.” Rhaenyra rubs at her temples, a piercing headache pounding between her eyes. “Have you informed the Velaryons?”

“Yes, they were told as soon as he was found. Princess Rhaenys and Lord Corlys will accompany the body back to High Tide.”

“Why didn’t they take him there immediately, since he was found in Spicetown?”

Bringing him from the island of Driftmark, to Dragonstone, and than back again is unnecessary, but he is her husband, and she is the Princess of Dragonstone.

“They believed you’d wish to have him seen to at Dragonstone.”

“Ah, I see.”

At the funeral for Ser Laenor, Vaemond isn’t gifted the task of the eulogy, Lord Corlys unhappy with how he acted during Laena’s. Lord Corlys gives the eulogy himself, dressed in his finest while Rhaenys silently cries, clutching all her grandchildren close.

The Greens use the news of Alyssa’s newly announced pregnancy to sequester themselves away from most of the Blacks, but Alysanne constantly watches a solemn Lucerys from a distance, her black eye patch stark against her pale skin, and silver hair.

Daemon is at Rhaenyra’s side throughout the day, offering her comfort in her constant grief. He knows how she feels, his own love and constant companion having been ripped away suddenly. They’re both unmoored, their children the only thing keeping them sane.

After the funeral, Viserys calls his family together in the Velaryon solar, where months before Alicent tried to take Lucerys’s eye. The gathering is tense, each faction standing on either ends of the chamber.

Viserys, tired from the day, plunks down in a large chair, and calls the room to attention. “None of us have forgotten what has transpired here prior, and I seek to mend the rift. When the Princess Rhaenyra returns to Dragonstone, Princess Daena will accompany them as a foster, and Prince Jacaerys’s betrothed.”

“You cannot not be serious, she is too young!” Alicent cuts in, flabbergasted, but Rhaenyra isn’t surprised. Her father told her of this plan earlier, and his reasoning is sound. Daena and Jace need to get to know one another better, so that one day they can have a fruitful marriage.

“She is old enough, Aemma!” Viserys slaps his remaining hand down, and Alicent inhales sharply while everyone stiffens at the slip up. This is the third time that he has called her Aemma publicly. “Daena will go to Dragonstone, and Alysanne will be fostered at Riverrun as well, in preparation for her own marriage.”

“You take away my daughters! What’s next, Alyssa to Oldtown, Helaena to Casterly Rock? They do not deserve exile for the crimes of Lucerys Velaryon!”

“Enough, my word is final! Be happy neither marriage will take place for many years, and that both may fly to visit you in time. Take comfort in that.”

Daemon and his daughters accompany Rhaenyra, Daena, and her sons to Dragonstone. Uncle and niece continue to take comfort in each other once there, eventually becoming lovers, though neither are in love.

When Rhaenyra finds out she is with child again, her mind scrambles until Daemon offers to marry her. “Those that believe only a man should sit the throne, see me as the rightful heir, by the precedent set at the Great Council, but I have no intention of usurping you. If we marry, you permanently solidify your position, and squash me as a threat.”

Rhaenyra sees the wisdom in his words, and she agrees to the marriage, not wanting to rid herself of her child, or a political alliance.

They marry on Dragonstone in an Old Valyrian ceremony, their children as witnesses. Daena is present too, but only because they know she won’t be able to tell her mother of the marriage without them being aware of it. All her letters are read over before they are sent by raven.

When Alyssa births a healthy son she names, Uthor, for King Uthor of the High Tower, a legendary figure of the Dawn Age, Rhaenyra decides it’s time to tell her father her own news.

The way in which she does it is colder than it should’ve been, but she is angered that Viserys has put a potential dragon in the hands of the Hightowers, by placing an egg in Uthor’s cradle. They do not need or deserve access to such a weapon.

Her father is angry with her in turn when he learns of her second marriage and pregnancy, but after Rhaenyra births her fourth son, Aegon, all is forgiven, at least for Rhaenyra, and she’s welcomed to King’s Landing with pomp and splendour.

For Daemon it takes longer for him to regain his brother’s favour, but he succeeds by the time his second son, Viserys, is born.

Baby Viserys is publicly acknowledged by the King, and is introduced to the rest of his family, including Alysanne, who has flown back for the celebrations. Instead of her eyepatch, she wears a sapphire in place of her lost eye, and dresses in Tully blue to match it.

She openly glares at Lucerys with contempt, while ignoring the rest of the Blacks. Instead she sits with Helaena, who appears to be mostly ignored by Tyland. She is a child after all, and won’t be of use to him for several more years.

Chapter Text

As the years go on, Viserys weakens further, and Rhaenyra learns that Otto has taken the lead in ruling the Realm, while Alicent is fully in charge of running the Red Keep.

Alyssa births another son, Garmund, in between wild rumours of her getting drunk and sneaking off, while Helaena brings forth twin girls, Lanna, and Lynora, who are all infuriatingly gifted eggs in the cradle. Alysanne marries Kermit Tully circa 125 in King’s Landing with all the royal family present, while preparations have begun for Daena to wed Jacaerys.

Originally, the wedding was to be held on Dragonstone, Rhaenyra playing host, but Viserys is too weak to travel the distance, and Alicent demanded that her youngest return home before she’s wed.

When word of Lord Corlys Velaryon being struck with a deadly fever reaches Rhaenyra, she’s also informed that his brother, Ser Vaemond, has put forth his claim to Driftmark, to her utmost ire. Lucerys is the heir now that Laenor is gone, that’s what Laenor wanted.

Vaemond is nothing more than a scheming upstart unhappy with his lot in life. When she hears that Alicent and Otto plan to actually consider his petition, she is absolutely furious. She travels to King’s Landing ahead of when she was supposed to arrive, in an attempt to squash this blatant scheme quick, get a step ahead.

When her family and retinue enter the Red Keep, no one comes out to meet the Princess of Dragonstone, save guards, in a blatant show of pettiness by the Greens. Rhaenyra doesn’t say anything, knowing it would pointless if her words were not said directly to her father, but she’s so angry she could spew fire alongside Syrax.

Her entourage quickly heads for Viserys’s chambers, all wanting to see him desperately. When they reach his room, her father is rousing from a nap, a few attendants at his side.

As they approach the servants fall away. Rhaenyra steps up to the bed with Aegon in her arms, putting him on display. “Father, it’s me Rhaenyra. Daena is here too, alongside Daemon and your grandsons. We arrived early.”

When his eyes focus on her, Viserys smiles weakly. “Help me up.” Daemon rushes to his brother’s side as her sons and Daena approach, Baela and Rhaena hanging back due to the space around the bed being crowded.

“Brother, Lord Corlys has taken sick with a fever. There is a petition to decide upon the succession of Driftmark, and the heir to the Driftwood Throne, before the wedding. Listen to me, you are to affirm Lucerys as Corlys Velaryon’s successor.” Daemon is reluctantly stern with his brother, needing to get his point across.

Viserys blinks in confusion as Aegon and Viserys the Younger crawl over his feet. “Give me my tea, my head hurts, I don’t understand.”

Daemon snatches the requested teacup sat beside the bed, and sniffs it suspiciously. As he’s taking a tentative sip of the liquid inside, Alicent arrives.

They all turn to face her, Daena dutifully curtsying and hugging her mother. She’s sprouted up in the years since moving to Dragonstone, becoming a fine dragonrider, and a fast friend to her nephews and the twins. They all enjoy frolicking in the sand, and racing on dragonback.

“How are you, Daena?” Alicent cups her youngest’s face tenderly.

“I am well, lady mother.”

“Alicent,” Viserys croaks her name. “Look who is here.”

“Yes, I see husband.” She strides over to dutifully rearrange his pillows. “The wedding is soon, and they have come early.”

“Yes, the wedding, I had forgotten.” He grins weakly at Rhaenyra. “Your first baby is getting married.”

“Yes, father.” Rhaenyra smiles softly in return. “As is your youngest daughter.”

Viserys is visibly confused for a moment, but then he nods. “Ah yes, Daena. It had slipped my mind.”

The next day, Rhaenyra’s three elders boys and Daemon file into the throne room, Vaemond with his family across the room. In the night, Princess Rhaenys had arrived on Meleys, and her two granddaughters stand by her, having missed her. Otto holds court in front of the Iron Throne, commanding attention, while Alicent is off to the side with Helaena, Alyssa, and Daena.

“We have gathered here today to hear the petitions of Ser Vaemond Velaryon, and Prince Lucerys Velaryon, regarding the succession of Driftmark, though we hope Lord Corlys may survive. As Hand, I speak with the King’s voice on this and all other matters. Ser Vaemond, you may go first.” Otto takes a seat on the Iron Throne like it belongs to him, and Rhaenyra works her jaw, fury licking up her spine.

Vaemond bows to the Hand and the Queen, ignoring the Princess of Dragonstone. “The history of our noble houses extends beyond the Seven Kingdoms, to the days of Old Valyria. For as long as House Targaryen has ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses, along with the Celtigars, became the last of their kind. Our forebearers came to this new land, knowing that if they were to fail, it would mean the end to their bloodlines, and their name. I have spent my entire life on Driftmark defending my brother’s seat. I am Lord Corlys’s closest male kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon, runs through my veins.”

Rhaenyra interrupts, unwilling to hear more, “As it does in my three sons, the offspring of Ser Laenor, whom he loved. If you cared so much about your House’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be so bold as to supplant its rightful heir. No, you only speak for your own ambition.”

Otto lifts a hand. “You will have a chance to speak after Ser Vaemond, Princess.”

Rhaenyra scoffs, but forces herself to quiet as Vaemond faces her. “What do you know of Velaryon blood, Princess? The little that comes to you from Queen Alyssa, is nothing more than a speck in your boys. I could cut my veins, and show you true Velaryon blood, and you still wouldn’t recognize it. This is about the future and survival of my House, not yours. My Queen, my Lord Hand, this is a matter of blood, not ambition. I place the survival of my House and line above all. I humbly put myself before you as my brother’s successor.”

Rhaenyra takes her place before the court, angrier with each passing second. “If I am to grace this farce with some answer, I will start by reminding the court that nearly twenty years ago-“

She’s cut off by the booming voice of Ser Harrold Westerling, “King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of His Name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm.”

Though he is weakened from his bouts of illness, Viserys walks to the Iron Throne with the use of a cane, Jaehaerys’s crown atop his brow. Daemon instinctively follows his brother, concerned that he may topple.

When the coveted crown falls off of Viserys, Daemon returns it to his brother’s head without a word, and the King murmurs a quiet thank you, before acknowledging the gathered crowd. “I must admit my confusion. I do not understand why petitions are being heard over a settled succession. The only one present who might offer keener insight into Lord Corlys’s wishes, is the Princess Rhaenys.”

At her cousin’s summons, Rhaenys steps forward in blue and black, her hair in a thick braid down her back. “Yes, Your Grace. It is Lord Corlys’s wish that Driftmark pass to the heir of our son Ser Laenor, Prince Lucerys. He never changed his mind on this matter.”

“Then it is settled. Prince Lucerys Velaryon remains heir to Driftmark, and the future Lord of the Tides.”

Fury takes Vaemond unlike Rhaenyra has ever seen before. He’s more the type to snipe behind your back, not rage in your face. “You break law, centuries of tradition, to install your daughter as heir! Yet you dare tell me who deserves to inherit the name Velaryon! No! I will not allow it!” He whirls on Lucerys, who flinches at his venomous anger, and pointed finger. “That is no true Velaryon, and certainly no nephew of mine!”

“Enough!” Viserys slams down his cane. “Lucerys is my trueborn grandson. And you are no more than the second son of Driftmark.”

“You may run your House as you see fit, but you will not decide the future of mine. My House survived the Doom, and a thousand tribulations. And Gods be damned, I will not see it ended on the account of this-“ Vaemond cuts himself off, but Daemon leans forward menacingly.

“Say it,” he goads him, and Vaemond falls into the awaiting trap with ease.

“She is a whore, and her children bastards!”

“I will have your tongue for that!” Viserys yells hoarsely as Daemon cuts off Vaemond’s head with a single swipe.

Screams fill the room as blood spurts from the wound, and Vaemond’s body collapses. Alicent clutches Daena to her, though the young Princess isn’t surprised.

Anyone that knows Prince Daemon is well aware that he'll only allow such a threat to exist for so long, before he snuffs it out permanently. The House of the Dragon cannot allow poison to seep into fresh water, fouling their hold on the land.

“He can keep his tongue.” Daemon does not bother to wipe the blood from his blade as his rejoins Rhaenyra.

Though the court is still reeling from Vaemond’s beheading, the royal family gathers for dinner at Viserys’s request. Before they join the King, Rhaenyra feeds Vaemond’s body to Syrax at Rhaenys’s allowance. The Queen Who Never Was held no love for her conniving goodbrother, and he brought upon his own death through hubris.

Viserys is better than he’s been in months, happily grinning as he keeps up a full conversation. When Daena and Jacaerys’s wedding day comes two weeks later, he’s almost himself again, no longer needing Milk of the Poppy at all. In fact, he rarely consumes it.

This visibly upsets Otto. With the King indisposed, he’s allowed to make any move he wishes without fear of retribution. The hearing about the heir to Driftmark has gained him no favours, especially since Lord Corlys has recovered, and denounced his brother.

Five cousins of Lord Corlys furious about Vaemond’s death, tried to beseech the King for justice a few days past, but they didn’t keep their anger in check, calling Rhaenyra a whore. This had them sent back to Driftmark tongueless.

On her wedding day Daena is draped in red and black, a small Seven Pointed Star around her neck, a gift from her mother. A round headband sits atop her head, a sheer veil attached to the back, her hair running it beneath like a silver river.

Jace wears the colours of House Velaryon, onyxes sowed on as his buttons. On his hip sits Blackfyre, a wedding gift from Viserys to further cement Jacaerys as third in line to the throne.

Lord Corlys is recovered enough to attend the nuptials, Rhaenys at his side. They attend with Rhaenyra and her family, Prince Viserys in his mother’s arms, Aegon in his father’s.

Vuserys manages to walk Daena down the aisle, though it takes time, and give her away to Jacaerys. Vows are said, hands are tied together, and Daena’s Targaryen cloak is exchanged for a Velaryon one.

A feast is held, a tourney to follow the next day. At the King’s table sits his daughters and their husbands, Daena and Jacaerys on his left, Rhaenyra and Daemon at his right.

Kermit is perched beside Alysanne, who pays him no mind, while Tyland ignores Helaena’s quiet ramblings. Alyssa constantly tops her goblet, quickly finding oblivion in drink.

Jacaerys and Daena lead the first dance, before changing partners throughout the night. He dances with Rhaenyra, Helaena, and a variety of different ladies, while Daena is twirled by Daemon, and a bunch of little lordlings.

Rhaenyra and her kin remain in King’s Landing for another month, before returning to Dragonstone. Tessarion has become large enough to fly, and Daena rides beside Jacaerys as they take their leave.

Their wedding gifts will follow them on a boat carrying Rhaenyra’s younger sons and Rhaena. Alicent gifted them a gilded The Seven Pointed Star, while Viserys, along with bestowing Blackfyre on Jacaerys, gave him several jewels that had belonged to Prince Baelon.

Daena was handed a circlet of rubies that were Queen Rhaena’s, and Prince Daemon and Rhaenyra gave the couple matching dragon saddles, alongside fresh riding leathers.

Helaena made several insect embroidered pillows, and Alyssa sent a handcrafted cyvasse set, at Ormund’s advice. Kermit had a fresh Weirwood bow made for Jace, while Alysanne presented her sister with a dragon tooth necklace.

In 128, Alysanne births a son she names Robin, and sets an egg from Dreamfyre in his cradle. The egg hatches, gifting four of Alicent’s grandchildren dragons, to the fury of the Blacks.

Dragons outside of Valyrian, Targaryen, hands can bring disaster.

That next year the King takes another sudden burst of better health, and he sends for Rhaenyra and her family. It’s the first time they’ve been in King’s Landing since the wedding of Jace and Daena.

Neither Daemon or Rhaenyra are happy to find that green, and the Faith, have completely taken over the castle décor. Only the King’s model of Old Valyria, now maintained by hired artisans, and his chambers, remain untouched. Around his neck he wears the miniature of Aemma that he once gifted Rhaenyra, bandages covering the left side of his face.

This time when Alicent finds the Princess of Dragonstone and her spouse at the King’s bedside, they’re helping him sit up. He allows Aegon and Viserys to sit beside him, while Daena and the twins stand with the elder princes at the foot of the bed. Like Rhaenyra, she boasts a pregnant belly, though she isn’t as far along.

“Alicent,” the King greets his wife when he notices her.

“My King.”

Daemon openly glares at the Queen, but she ignores him, instead taking Daena’s hand, who allows it, albeit reluctantly. Daena has learned of her mother’s past and present misdeeds via servant gossip, and the whispers of Mysaria.

“We are to dine tonight with our family, to celebrate my renewed health.”

“Yes, I am aware, Your Grace, my father has arranged it. Alysanne is to arrive sometime today to join us, but Young Robin is to remain behind.”

The King furrows his brow for a moment. “Young Robin?”

“Alysanne’s babe, she brought him here for your blessing a few months past.”

The King’s memory has gotten worst and worst, everyone is well aware of that, but it must sting Alicent that he forgot their grandson in front of Rhaenyra, whose children he embraces without issue.

“Ah yes, Sweetrobin. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

They leave Viserys to his grandchildren, while Daemon and Rhaenyra pull Alicent aside, and take a seat. Rhaenyra puts her hand in Daemon’s, while he glares at Alicent.

Aliicent begins the pleasantries. “It has been so long since we were granted the joy of your presence.”

“Though not long enough to merit a greeting upon our arrival,” Daemon snipes. “This is the second time this has happened, isn’t that true, my love?”

“Yes, we had a similar welcome when I came to reaffirm Lucerys’s claim, but I’m sure the Queen had pressing business.”

“Yes, ruling must tire her.” Daemon openly glares at his goodsister.

Alicent clears her throat. “I do not rule, as you well know. My father and I are mere stewards of the King's will and wisdom.”

“And how exactly is that wisdom expressed... hm? In blinks and wheezes? This is the healthiest he’s been in ages, or so I’ve been told. I'd be surprised if he remembered his own name.”

Alicent comes to her own defence. “King Viserys’s condition has worsened since you saw him last.” Daemon snorts, but she ignores him. “It subjects him to considerable pain. On the advice of the Maesters-”

Daemon cuts in snidely, “yes, the Maesters, bred in the heart of Hightower power. It is they who keep him addled on Milk of the Poppy, while your father warms his throne.”

“This miracle of healing is unbelievable, he hasn’t been like you see today for ages. His pain is intolerable most days, he needs it.”

Rhaenyra looks at her with a mixture of distrust, and belief. Though she hasn’t been given full reports on the King’s condition from his Maesters, he has been unwell for years, his health already declining by the time she married Laenor.

Rhaenyra bites back a rude retort, not wanting to openly quarrel with her father nearby. “I have no doubt it was an act of the purest mercy, but tell me, for the King’s suffering, did the Maesters also prescribe the complete removal of Targaryen heraldry, and the installation in its stead of various statues and stars? If I had not known better, I would’ve thought I was in Oldtown.”

Alicent does not look away, taking their ire head on. “The emblems of the Seven serve only to guide us on an uncertain path, and comfort us in our time of need.”

Alysanne arrives on Vhagar hours later, just in time for dinner. King Viserys’s family, minus the little children, take their seats at a great table, and the King is carried in by his Kingsguard in a gilded chair.

They all bow before him as he is placed by the center of the table, that way they’ll surround him.

“How good it is to see you all tonight, together.” Viserys smiles, though the left side of his face is obscured by a golden mask. “Congratulations are in order, for my grandson Jacaerys expects his first child, and his brother Lucerys is set to marry his cousin Baela, further uniting our Houses. A toast to the young Princes.”

Hear hear is called out, and they clink their goblets. Alyssa leans in to speak to Jace, overflowing cup in hand. Based on her son’s unimpressed expression, Alyssa’s words are rude and likely uncouth, but Rhaenyra is uncertain of what she said exactly.

As the evening progresses, merriment continues, and the King beams frequently, unshed tears in his visible eye. He forces himself to stand, grabbing their attention once again as the music winds down. “It both gladdens my heart, and fills me with sorrow, to see these faces around the table. The faces most dear to me in all the world, yet grown so distant from each other in the years past.”

Viserys removes the gold mask, revealing his scarred face, and missing eye. “My own face is no longer a handsome one, if indeed it ever was. But tonight, I wish you to see me as I am. Not just your King, but your father, brother, husband, and grandsire. Let us no longer hold ill feelings. The crown cannot stand strong if the House of the Dragon remains divided. Set aside your grievances, if not for the sake of the crown, then for the sake of this old man who loves you all so dearly.”

He takes his seat again, and Rhaenyra kisses his hand. He smiles fondly at his eldest daughter as Rhaenyra stands, knowing what her father needs to hear. “I wish to raise my cup to Her Grace, the Queen. I love my father, but I must admit that no one has stood more loyally by his side than his wife. She has tended to him with unfailing devotion, love, and honor. And for that, she has my gratitude.”

Alicent, aware of what is expected of her as well, rises too. “Your graciousness moves me deeply, Princess. We have more in common than we sometimes allow, and you have raised my Daena well. I raise my cup to you, and to your House. You will make a fine queen.”

The Greens shoot each other unreadable glances as Jace gives a toast of his own, before Helaena stands. “I would like to toast to Baela. She’ll be married soon. It isn’t so bad. Mostly he just ignores you, except sometimes when he’s drunk.”

Tyland works his jaw and looks away, while Alyssa badly hides a snicker.

Sensing his aunt’s unhappiness, Jacaerys asks Helaena to dance a Northern reel as the band strikes up another tune, and fresh food is served. The two factions dine and chat, the night passing by speedily, until Viserys falls asleep in his chair, and is carried out.

A roasted pig, the night’s final meal, is served, and Lucerys snorts when he sees Alysanne’s face as she glares at it. Alyssa once told Alysanne that she had found her a dragon, and brought out a pig instead. This lead to a blow out with her nephews as well, as young Jace and Luke were in on the trick, much to Rhaenyra’s displeasure.

Alysanne snatches a goblet, raising it high as she abruptly stands. “Final tribute. To the health of my nephews, Jace, Luke, and Joffrey. Each of them handsome, wise... hm... strong.”

“Alysanne,” Alicent cuts in, her tone filled with warning.

“Come, let us drain our cups to these three... Strong boys.”

Jace shoots to his feet. There is no greater insult to him than being called a bastard, even though he’s aware of the truth of his parentage, unlike his brothers, who are simply suspicious. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Why? 'Twas only a compliment. Do you not think yourself Strong?” Alysanne is openly hostile, badly hiding a smirk.

Jace lunges for his aunt, knowing she has secretly studied the blade, but Tyland gets in the way, pushing the Prince. Luke tries to join in, but Ormund intrudes as guards pull the Princes away, and Rhaena holds an angered Baela back.

Alysanne goes to approach Jace again, but Daemon steps forwards, and she instinctively moves back towards Alicent. A pounding headache hits Rhaenyra’s temples as everyone leaves the room, all fresh goodwill destroyed.

Dark wings, dark words, Harwin always said, and nothing is more true than when the news arrives that her father has been dead a week. His body had been left to rot and bloat as they crowned her sister’s son in her place, loyalists to Rhaenyra in the city arrested or killed.

The horrid news was sent by Mysaria, a lock of her hair tied to the letter to give it authenticity. She had witnessed the coronation of Uthor, and via her various spies throughout the city, she spirited a message away.

The death and betrayal shakes Rhaenyra to her core, bringing on her contractions too soon. She labours long into the night, crying and screaming as blood trickles down her legs, hallucinations of her dead love ones swimming before her eyes.

When the deed is done, her sixth child, her only daughter, is born dead with dragon-like birth defects. Visenya has small bat like wings on her back, a hole in her chest where her heart should have been, and a stubby, scaled tail.

The Greens try to use the tragedy of Visenya to smear Rhaenyra’s name, claiming it punishment from the Seven for her misdeeds, but her allies ignore this, flocking to Dragonstone to support her in her time of need. Those who cannot make it send messages of fidelity and support, swearing her their swords, if need be.

She is crowned with Jaehaerys’s crown before her loyalists, the coveted object snuck to her by Ser Steffon Darklyn, stolen by his hand from the Red Keep. Daemon is the one to place the crown on her head and declare her Queen, everyone present bowing in deference.

Her first act after her coronation is to turn away the Greens’ recently arrived peace envoys, and declare the Greens traitors and rebels. For her sisters and their children, she is much kinder.

They have been led astray by the counsel of evil men. If they come to Dragonstone, bend the knee, and ask for forgiveness, she’ll gladly spare their lives. She has no wish to be a kinslayer.

The Greens and her sisters spurn her kindness, but they don’t have support that they hoped for, their spies have reported, many Lords viewing them as grasping. They have the Lannisters because of Tyland, and the Hightowers, but they do not have the Tullys, who they had relied on for support. Lord Grover is still their ally, but he is too weak to assert his will, and his grandson, Elmo, has declared for Rhaenyra.

As the Blacks are planning on how to take the city with as little bloodshed as possible, another raven arrives from Mysaria, Daemon’s long time on and off mistress. The majority of the Kingsguard have revolted, believing Uthor’s crowning a blatant usurpation. They’ve arrested Alicent and her allies, locking them in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Ser Criston was slain fighting a sworn brother, while Alysanne escaped with Helaena and their children on dragonback, leaving Uthor, Garmund, and a drunk Alyssa behind. The Kingsguard had rounded them up before the coup began, knowing their escape would bring disaster.

Daemon’s loyal Gold Cloaks quickly seize the city for the Blacks, and Ser Harrold, who had resigned his post following the usurpation of Rhaenyra, returns to personally open the gates for the still recovering Queen, her eldest sons, Baela, and Daemon.

Daena, Rhaena, and the younger children have remained behind on Dragonstone for safety, Rhaenys watching over them with Meleys.

The Gold Cloaks round up the remaining traitors in the city, none of them escaping due to the Kingsguard having the forethought to block off the tunnels in Maegor’s Holdfast.

Rhaenyra ascends the Iron Throne for the first time dressed in gleaming armour, her body still tired and sore from the lost of Visenya. She accepts pleas of forgiveness and loyalty from those in the Red Keep all day and night, save for Otto and his co conspirators on the council, who she deems unrepentant traitors.

Otto, along with Ormund, Tyland, Jasper Wylde, and Larys Strong, are brought before her to hear their sentences as the moon crests. None of them beg for forgiveness, or plead their innocence. In fact, Larys makes a snide and cruel comment about Harwin’s death before he’s drug away by guards, eyes flashing strangely in the low light.

A defeated Alicent, bound in golden fetters, is spared for the love Viserys had for her, and for their former friendship. She also doesn’t beg for forgiveness or show remorse, instead she yells at Rhaenyra between sobs, her frustration and fury at losing plainly visible.

The traitorous men of the small council are beheaded at daybreak, their heads lining the walls of the city. Larys asks for his headless body to be placed before the horrible heart tree at Harrenhal, which Rhaenyra reluctantly obliges, while his fellow schemers are tended to by Silent Sisters.

Uthor and Garmund are made cupbearers to the Queen and Prince Daemon, on account of their age, as well as Rhaenyra wanting a firm hand on their young dragons. Alyssa escapes the chopping block, but is imprisoned in the Red Keep alongside her mother.

Daena and the younger princes are brought to King’s Landing, after the dust has settled, but Alicent’s youngest daughter will not speak to her, refusing to visit her mother in her chambers, where she’s sequestered herself.

News arrives that Alysanne has been force to flee the Seven Kingdoms, after Lord Jason Lannister, who she took sanctuary with, reluctantly accepted Rhaenyra’s terms. Helaena returns to King’s Landing of her own free will, alongside her daughters, and little Robin, who she refused to allow Alysanne to flee with.

Alicent tells everyone that will listen that Alysanne hasn’t truly left the Realm, that she’s planning to liberate the city from Rhaenyra, but Vhagar and her rider never come. Instead word reaches them that Alysanne burned Riverrun on her flight to freedom, killing Lord Grover, his grandson Elmo, and badly burning Lord Kermit.

A bounty is put on the Princess’s head, and sellswords dog her heels in Essos. Robin is given back into the custody of his father until he’s old enough to be fostered by the new Queen, and their marriage is dissolved, so Kermit may remarry.

Daena, now Princess of Dragonstone, goes into an early labour, and Alicent is allowed to leave her rooms to tend her. The babe is a small dark haired boy, named in honour of the Conciliator, but unlike his poor aunt Visenya, he is born healthy and hale.

Alicent returns to her chambers after the birth, where she remains trapped, due to her hostile refusal to be reconciled with any Black.

Alyssa and Helaena are eventually allowed to move freely through the Keep, and ride their dragons, though Daena accompanies them to report on their movements. The two widows do not remarry, as though they’ve been forgiven, Rhaenyra doesn’t want an ambitious husband stoking the flames of another rebellion.

Lanna Lannister is betrothed to Prince Jaehaerys, while Uthor and Garmund remain in King’s Landing even after they’re pledged to the Seven, stripping them of their claim to Oldtown, which passes to a cousin. Lynora is also given to the Faith, and sent to a nearby Motherhouse, her dragon kept alongside her cousins’ in the Dragonpit.

There are rumblings of discontent in King’s Landing, but things are smoothed over when Helaena reveals where Tyland stashed the royal treasury, and Rhaenyra remains Queen for nearly thirty years, before Jacaerys ascends the throne as Jacaerys I Targaryen, her youngest sister at his side.

Alicent does not live to see the ascension of her daughter as Queen, passing in 133 of the Winter Fever. She had been in a self imposed exile during the year before she passed, only seeing her Septa, serving girls, guards, and Helaena.

Her body is burned in the Targaryen tradition, Rhaenyra allowing her bones to be placed with King Viserys’s. Alysanne, the last person to truly rally for the Greens, dies in the year that follows, felled in a tavern by a sellsword.

Vhagar passes in the next decade, dying on the coast of Dragonstone. With the death of the great she dragon, the last dangerous remnant of the Green Rebellion fades into memory, while the line of the Blacks flourish.

When Rhaenyra dies many years later, she is surrounded by her children and grandchildren, her love ones openly weeping in her crowded bedroom. The first Queen of Westeros greets the Stranger much loved and revered, the non violent conquest of Dorne her greatest achievement.