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Rhaenyra created by hiiitsme (Guest) using AI

As soon as the heavy doors to her marriage chambers close behind the young princess and her new husband, Rhaenyra is already tearing at the blood-stained fabric of her once-ornate gown that had been forced to act as her wedding dress after the bloodshed that had interrupted their welcoming feast, rage twisting her beautiful face. Shame and fury burns, hot and heavy, between her breasts, like rolling magma and a rumbling volcano as the events of her rushed wedding and the horrid actions of her once-friends continued to haunt her like the sound of a man’s face being turned into a pulp of viscera.

How dare Criston –

How dare Alicent –

And even her own father –

“Curse them!” Rhaenyra hisses furiously, as the catching of a clasp on her pearled bodice magnifies her anger and the sound of glass beads falling to the floor fills her ears like screams and the pounding of feet fleeing from violence. She fights against the ruined gown, using all those colourful Valyrian words Daemon had taught her over the years to curse against Alicent’s bloodline and Criston’s very soul. “Curse them all! To the hell flames with them! And –“ she bites off a shriek, fumbling blindly with the clasps and ties, and failing miserably, “- curse this damned dress too!”

Gentle, if shaking, hands lined with calluses formed by a life of swords fighting and dragon riding take her own with a softness that had always come easy to their owner, and Rhaenyra tilts her head back to meet Laenor’s bloodshot sea-green eyes. “Let me,” he murmurs, voice rough from screaming sobs, and dried blood still encrusted around his nose and smeared across his lips from the blow Criston had landed on him in the chaos.

Bile swims in Rhaenyra’s throat at the reminder of what had happened to Laenor’s cheerful lover, but she allows her cousin to aide her in her battle against her dress. “Are you alright?” She asks, voice barely more than a whisper, and Laenor drops his gaze as he smiles bitterly.

“No,” he breathes, “I’m not.”

“He’ll die for it,” Rhaenyra vows, lilac eyes burning with her promise. “Say the word, and I’ll feed him to Syrax.”

“He’ll still be dead, and you’d just give Syrax indigestion,” Laenor sighs, helping Rhaenyra slide her gown off her body. “Cole’s death won’t bring him back.”

“It would be satisfying though,” Rhaenyra’s petulant reply makes Laenor laugh brokenly, ragged and torn around the edges, and her sweet cousin drops his head onto her shoulder, just holding her like she could keep him from falling apart.

Valyrians love fiercely. They burn with it like the Fourteen Flames they worship, possessive and forever hungry – and loosing Ser Joffrey Lonmouth, who Laenor took on flights on Seasmoke, the other half of his soul, is a crushing, smothering blow against Laenor’s inner blaze, and could just snuff out his life if Rhaenyra can’t keep those fires burning. It had driven more than one Targaryen to madness and death in history.

“We don’t have to do our duty tonight,” Rhaenyra assures him. “I won’t make you suffer anything else tonight.”

Laenor hums tiredly, wariness bone-deep. “Being with you is not what I would consider suffering, Nyra. You are… so much more than I could ever hope for.”

Rhaenyra smiles sadly, lifting her fingers to play with her cousin’s snowy locs, gently removing the silver clasps from his beautiful hair. “We can fake it.”

Laenor shakes his head, though doesn’t lift his face. “I made you a vow, Nyra, that I would do my duty to you. Joffrey –“ he chokes slightly, “- he helped me learn what I need to do, and how to make it pleasurable for you. You will be Queen, and I promised you heirs. I intend to keep my word.”

“I don’t expect you to, not in this state,” the princess tells him, and meets Laenor’s sad eyes through the curtain of his thick lashes.

“I saw the threat just as clearly as you did,” Laenor murmurs, lips pressing into a thin line, teal eyes starting to smoulder with a growing storm. He really is a dangerously beautiful man, highlighted by the blood on his lips and the fire of rage in his water coloured eyes; Velaryon, his colouring and temperament might be, but Laenor was still a Targaryen at heart, and the beautiful dragon that hatched for him at the age of six was proof enough of his heritage.

(The calmest waters always hid the most dangerous tempests, Laena had told her when they were young.)

Rhaenyra could grow to love him, she thinks, because it would be built on the love she already held for the boy she had grown up beside. There would likely never be the spark of lust between them, not like the blaze she felt for Daemon, but there didn’t need to be. Laenor was steady and calm, he offered a stability for her future rule that Rhaenyra had come to accept that her uncle would never be able to.

“His Grace may be happy to blind himself to the banner of war his wife wears, but I will not.” Laenor straightens, like a man walking into battle, preparing himself for what’s to come. “We need to play the game for now, look for openings we can exploit, and do our duty. That includes trueborn heirs whose bloodline can’t be doubted. If we can’t perform our martial duties, we will never be secure.”

“We’ll need at least three children,” Rhaenyra warns. “One to inherit the throne, one for Driftmark, and at least one spare. Can you do this?” She wants Laenor to consent to what they had to do, and not for him to just agree.

Fire in his eyes, Laenor says, voice firm, “I will do it. For you, and for Joffrey. Our children will be pure Valyrian heirs that not even the Highcunt can deny; purer than her whelps can ever hope to be.”

All of her half-siblings had been born with hair closer to Alicent’s honey blond than proper Valyrian silver, and both her young sons had eyes of green rather than the purple or blue. None of them had dragons, their eggs gone cold in the cradle as soon as they were placed there, and their skin blistered in heats that Targaryens were meant to find luke-warm. Even Helaena, the most Valyrian of her children, would forever be smothered by Andal culture. Rhaenyra’s children though, would be proper Valyrian dragonlords, with two dragon riding parents with powerful enough blood magicks to hatch their own cradle eggs and mount their draconic soul-siblings young.

“Criston will pay for what he did,” Rhaenyra swears to him, “whatever it takes.” She turns to press their lips together in a chaste, iron-tinted kiss. “Alicent can’t hide him behind her green skirts forever.”

“Good,” Laenor breathes, salt on his lips as he leans into it, hands falling to her slim hips.

“What do you need of me?” Rhaenyra asks of him, starting to strip him of his rich, blood-soaked layers as they shift towards the grand bed.

“Talk to me?” Laenor pleads.

“Of course,” Rhaenyra promises.

Later, after their coupling is done with, something tender and warm settles between them as they part, filled with such sympathetic understanding of their shared position, and hands linked like the children they had once been, when they’d fallen asleep hidden away in the corners of Visenya’s Library before the throne had forced their families apart.

“Well,” Laenor says into the silence, humour in his tired voice that allows relief to soften Rhaenyra’s heart, “I can promise you that you will never have to worry for my intentions towards your Ladies.”

She can’t help the bark of laughter that follows his words, reaching out to shove him fondly, teasing, “And what of your practice partners?”

Chuckling, Laenor rolls over to face her, light entering his haunted gaze, seeming to wash away the worst of his pain like gentle waves against the soft beaches of High Tide. “I’ll share if you do.”

“Hm,” Rhaenyra pretends to mull it over, tapping her chin playfully, “you drive a hard bargain, husband.”

“I had a good teacher,” Laenor responds, teasingly tugging at her white-gold hair like they were children wrestling in Rhaenys’ Gardens once more.

“Lord Corlys?”

“My mother, actually,” he laughs quietly.

Rhaenyra’s lips twitch in amusement, “Princess Rhaenys is a formidable force.”

Laenor hums in agreement, “She was raised rule – if you were to ask, I’m sure she would happily teach you what Grandfather taught her.”

“Another day, perhaps,” Rhaenyra allows, thoughtfully shelving the suggestions to be considered at another time. Her good-mother would be a powerful mentor to have on her side.

“Marilda and Thorn,” Laenor says suddenly, petting her sweaty curls from her face, and Rhaenyra leans into the affection with a hum. “Marilda was in Hull, and Thorn, Spicetown. Joffrey and I were discreet, and paid them handsomely for their time and silence.” He smirks at her, “Your turn.”

“You’ve heard those Hightower rumours, then?” Rhaenyra notes, tired and just a little annoyed by the reminder, then she sighs. “Despite what Otto fucking Hightower wants the Realm to believe, I never fucked my uncle. In fact, he fled and left me alone in a pleasure house after I kissed him.”

“Pity,” Laenor says, and Rhaenyra snort inelegantly in surprise. “Prince Daemon is very passionate, in bed, and in battle. He taught me a lot during the War.”

“You bitch,” Rhaenyra accuses fondly with an incredulous laugh, swatting at his cheeky grin and rolling her eyes.

Laenor laughs, catching her delicate hand to dramatically kiss her knuckles, teasing, “What an unkind wife.”

Rhaenyra laughs again, before sobering, and releasing another sigh. “Criston, he – was my first. I was drunk, and frustrated, and he was there and more than willing – I had seen the way he had looked at me over the years.” She chews on her lip, guilty and ashamed of her foolish behaviour. “I don’t have the clearest of memories of the act – too much cheap ale, and whatever herb it was that was burning in the pleasure den.”

“Most likely an aphrodisiac,” Laenor notes absently, “it’s rather common, and it… enhances certain impulses and desires.”

Rhaenyra hums. “He asked me to run away with him to Essos or Dorne and marry him, but I wasn’t going to give up my inheritance – give up everything – just to become his wife. I laughed at him, and – you’ve seen what happened next.”

“He wanted more than he could have,” Laenor says with a thoughtful frown. “The King would kill him, if he knew. Taking your maidenhead, especially as your sworn Kingsguard, is treason against the Crown.”

“Criston was my friend, at the time,” Rhaenyra murmurs. “And now, he could ruin me if he said anything in a trial. I can already imagine what those Green cunts will say about me.” She sighs heavily, then admits, “Besides, I was the one to tease him, it would be wrong of me to accuse him of inappropriate behaviour, and I doubt anyone will believe me after what happened with Uncle Daemon.”

Admitting so out loud feels so wrong; Rhaenyra is the Crown Princess, the Heir to the Iron Throne. Her word should have been enough to dispel those whispers, but instead of believing her, her own father had fed into those rumours by confronting Daemon and sending a whole parade of Maesters to her chambers with moon tea. Alicent had even confronted her out in the open where anyone could have heard, and she would have known what would happen, especially with the way she had stolen the crown she wore.

“Rhaenyra,” Laenor’s voice is gentle, but firm, and he tightens his hold on her hand. “He essentially forced himself on you, no matter you teasing him or not. You were drunk and drugged, and he made a vow to protect you – that includes your honour. It was his duty not to touch you, even if you demanded it of him. Had he had good intentions, he would have refused, or even had another knight come to relieve him. If it were Laena in your place, father and mother would have had the man who touched her executed the moment she told them, without a trial. He wouldn’t even be allowed to speak, as to not risk rumours being spread.” There’s fire in Laenor’s gaze, a protective rage, for Rhaenyra. The itch of tears burns in the princess’ eyes, thickening in her throat like cotton, and Rhaenyra sniffles delicately as Laenor, so damn gentle, wipes her face clean of the salty wetness.

No one person had ever actually – defended her, like this. Not even Daemon, who had been more than happy to sully her name even further by not denying the claim, to put her entire future and life in jeopardy to get what he wanted out of a bad situation. He would doubtlessly kill for her, Rhaenyra knows, but – Daemon had always been a prince and a man, able to do things that Rhaenyra will never be allowed to because of his cock, and he would never understand the unequal battles she, as a woman, had to fight.

At times, Rhaenyra wondered if he’d ever even try.

“Let’s get dressed,” Laenor murmurs, like he was rechannelling all his rage and pain of the events of the day into a single-minded determination to take justice, and Rhaenyra –

Well, had she not vowed to her sweet cousin to make Criston Cole pay in any way she could? Obviously, her father cared naught for the murder of a guest in cold blood under his own roof and the breaking of guest rights, but Rhaenyra? Rhaenyra was his daughter, his only living child from the wife he claimed so much to love, and even the Old King had killed for his daughter’s honour, even if he cared little for their happiness.

“Hand me my gown then, would you, husband?” Rhaenyra requests as she slides from their bed, and, after a moment’s hesitation, purposefully nicking her inner thigh with a comb to leave a smear of blood where she had once been laying with a sense of smug satisfaction.

If Alicent wanted to challenge her, then Rhaenyra would play her game, and ensure she could take control of the board.

“One in blue and white, if you would. Simple, not too opulent, and – yes, the silver shawl. It was my mother’s.” She forgoes stockings, grabbing instead some soft, delicate slippers that would make her appear smaller and younger. “Alicent isn’t the only one who can send a message with a dress.”

If Alicent wanted a war, then Rhaenyra would humour her, but she would be fighting to win, by any means necessary. She’d been letting the Hightowers choose their battlefields for years now, since she was naught but a heartbroken girl of eight who had lost her mother and brother in a single day. Whose trusted caretaker and handmaiden had seduced her way into her father’s bed before her mother’s ashes had even been interred in her tomb. She had been letting them make their moves without challenge, but no longer. One should never poke a passive dragon, no matter how docile or pretty it appeared, lest they be faced with fire and blood.

“Does it look like I’ve been crying?” Rhaenyra asks as she lets Laenor help her into a dress, a mirror of how he had aided her out of a gown stained with the blood of a murdered lover. In a way, she is a soldier putting on her armour before facing a foe.

“Heart wrenchingly so, dear wife,” Laenor replies, kissing her cheek.

“Leave your shift partially undone,” she instructs, “like you put it on in a hurry when your beautiful wife confided in you in tears of the heinous crime done against her person.” Humour shines in teal eyes as Laenor follows her orders with ease where most men would bristle at being commanded by a woman half their height, but Laenor Velaryon was of a rare sort. He had grown at the skirts of the Queen-Who-Never-Was, and carried a respect for women few men did – he would make a perfect King Consort if Rhaenyra could stop him from falling into despair.

Daemon had always been Rhaenyra’s dream, but Laenor would be her reality, and she finds that she is fine with what has become of her marriage. She looks forward to it, even, and can imagine the striking portrait of Valyrian power they will paint in royal regalia, for even dressed down as they are, they still turn heads in the quiet halls of Maegor’s Keep as they walk towards the King’s chambers, arm-in-arm, with two confused Velaryon guardsmen and a concerned Ser Steffon Darkling dogging their steps.

“The Crown Princess and I are here to speak to the King,” Laenor orders, the very image of a protective husband, “on a delicate matter regarding an attack against her person.”

Before them, wide-eyed, Ser Harrold turns immediately to announce them. He’d been Rhaenyra’s guard since her birth, and had often been more involved in her early life than her own father, dogged down he had been as first the Spring Prince’s heir, then after the official Crown Prince to the aged and nearly senile Old King. He’d witnessed both young dragon riders’ lives, a parental and gently fond figure, who still held a soft spot in his heart for them both, even as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

“My darling daughter,” her father greets joyfully upon their entrance, shooing out his servants and maids as he stands from his model of Old Valyria, looking like a memory captured of her childhood, before his illness had started to weaken him in these last few years as her mother’s death whittled away at his inner fire. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon on your wedding night!”

Laenor lays a protective hand against Rhaenyra’s elbow, “Your Grace –“

“None of that, Ser Laenor,” Viserys Targaryen waves off the formalities, “call me Good-Father, you are my beloved girl’s husband now, and that makes you family.”

“Good-Father,” Laenor corrects grimly, “unfortunately, Rhaenyra and I aren’t here for a social evening, but rather about a delicate matter.” He takes a slow, steadying breath, and Rhaenyra subtly leans into him to offer her support. “Ser Criston Cole – I demand his head for what he’s done.”

“Ser Laenor –“ her father sighs, but Rhaenyra cuts off his denials with a shaking voice, making her eyes water.

“Kepa,” she cries plaintively, “please. He – He –“ Rhaenyra bites off her own words with a sob, knowing that it would decimate any resistance her father would attempt to wield against them.

Gently, Laenor pulls her into his side, kissing the crown of her white-gold hair, and hiding her face in his chest. They’d played this game before, back when they were small children trying to escape punishment for their mischief. Viserys, even then, had never been able to see through their act, faced with Laenor’s cherubic, sweet face, and innocent voice, and Rhaenyra’s false tears, and wide lilac eyes.

“That… man grievously attacked her, Good-Father,” Laenor says. “Nyra entrusted these crimes to me, and spoke of how terrified she is of him. Seeing the murder of my trusted sworn-shield, and how he escaped his fair punishment through your Wife-Consort’s… gentle heart – she’s afraid of what he will do to her if given the chance.”

Rhaenyra watches her father from under her lashes as she makes her shoulders shake, her face strategically hidden in Laenor’s white shift; he swells up with rage, violet eyes darkening, and he looks, for once, like a man who had once bonded with the legendary Black Dread.

“Rhaenyra,” the King demands, “give me the truth of it, what did he do to you?”

“I –“ Rhaenyra sniffles, “- that night when Uncle Daemon took me into the city to celebrate my nameday at the festival – I – I had confided in him of my fear of the marriage bed, and he took me to a nearby pleasure house, so that I could witness the act without participating, and we drank.” She looks to her father tearfully as she weaves her tale, just truthful enough that it couldn’t be proven false, “He was pulled away by other duties, so Ser Harwin Strong brought me back to the Keep before returning to his rounds. When I saw Ser Criston in front of my door, I had hoped to tease him a little for not noticing I had snuck past him. I took his helm in jest, and retreated into my chambers, and –“ She makes herself burst into tears, using memories of the pain she had felt during her mother’s funeral to make it as real as possible.

“He forced himself on her, Your Grace,” Laenor finishes with a cold fury that bit like frost and dragon teeth, “while she was drunk, and likely under the influence of drugged pleasure incense.”

“I was so frightened afterwards,” she sobs, watching her father’s rage grow. “Everyone thought that Uncle Daemon and I had – done those acts in the pleasure house, and Ser Criston was always there.”

“Why did you never tell me?” Her father sounds heartbroken, and so angry, and for a moment, Rhaenyra feels guilty for her theatrics, but –

Alicent had declared war at Rhaenyra’s wedding feast, and Criston had ruined the celebrations by murdering a good man so publicly that her vows were forced to be made in a hurry, secretly, like she was some great shame and not the Heir to the Iron Throne and future Queen. Criston had chosen his side, and he knew far too much.

“I was scared you wouldn’t believe me, after those horrible rumours were spread by Ser Otto’s lack of subtly in handling his ill-gotten intelligence,” Rhaenyra tells him, hiding her face in her delicate hands, looking so small and scared before her father’s eyes, instead of the firey, willful young lady she had been these last ten years.

“My precious girl,” her father breathes mournfully, opening his arms, and Rhaenyra rushes into his embrace like she had as a small girl. “My sweet, little bird. I will have his head,” he vows to her, tucking her close, “and his name stricken from history for his crimes against you.”

“But what of perception?” Rhaenyra asks tearfully, and the King scowls.

“I am the King, and you are my heir. My only child and the last piece of my Aemma I have left,” he says firmly. “Perceptions will be what I make of them.”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra pregnant with Jace created by hiiitsme (Guest) using AI

When Alicent’s fourth pregnancy is announced to the Realm, it was during the month-long festival and tourney thrown to celebrate Rhaenyra and Laenors’ marriage, organized by the King in an apology to his daughter and good-son for their rushed, secretive vows, where they would be the ones to choose the knight who would fill the mysterious vacancy left behind by the common-born man from the Dornish Marches. The Queen had been openly hysterical when she new sworn-sword had been stricken from the White Book, demanding to know what had happened to Ser Criston Cole and where he had gone, but the King had rebuffed her in front of the entire Court filled with suspicious eyes.

The rumours spreading of the Hightower Queen’s reaction must have been what had inspired her decision to attempt to once again make Rhaenyra’s celebrations about her, much like she had done four years before when she had announced her pregnancy with Prince Aemond on the Crown Princess’ own nameday. Rhaenyra had been annoyed, in both instances, but where she had once been a petulant and angry girl of four-and-ten, she was now a woman grown of eight-and-ten, and married besides, so she’d pasted on the mask of the beautiful and gracious Realm’s Delight for the crowd, and had played the part of a kind and dutiful daughter, tending to her stepmother and openly gushing about her excitement for a new sibling. She openly congratulates her father and his wife, and the people spoke warmly of how polite and gentle she was as she took control of duties for the Queen as this new pregnancy took its toll on Alicent.

They told of how often the Crown Princess was seen in the company of her sweet little sister, the odd princess often clinging to the beautiful gowns her dutiful elder sister wore, a tiny, chubby mirror in dresses Rhaenyra had personally commissioned just for her in light golds and pinks and soft blues and purples, with the occasional red-and-black gowns emblazoned with the Targaryen heraldry, all made from the softest of fabrics that wouldn’t itch or scratch like the high-necked green gowns Alicent would force her daughter to wear. When Rhaenyra had seen Helaena’s love of insects, she’d even started having the dresses embroidered with shimmering butterflies and graceful dragonflies.

In the eyes of the Court, the Crown Princess has been softened by marriage, and her own upcoming adventures into motherhood as her own stomach swelled. She flourished in pregnancy where Alicent Hightower was left bedridden, skin yellow and bones too prominent in her wrists, and as the respect for the King’s admirable heiress grew, opinions of his wife soured as the portrait of a bitter stepmother resentful of the Realm’s Delight’s beauty was painted before their eyes.

“Isn’t it odd?” The people would whisper. “That Dornishman vanishes after the Queen so passionately made a case to save his life from the executioner’s blade.”

“He murdered a member of Prince Consort Laenor’s household, and the Queen rewarded him by taking him into her sole employ.” They would say.

“Those sons of hers – they look nothing like His Grace, while the little princess is the very mirror image of the Crown Princess.” The maids would titter privately.

“How can we be sure the princes are of the King’s seed, when the daughters are the only ones to look Targaryen?” Was murmured in the taverns over pints of ale raised in the name of the Realm’s Delight and her Sea Dragon.

“The Hightower boys are never in royal heraldry.” The seamstress’ apprentices would gossip to their mothers after another well-paid trip to the Keep for more dresses to add to the Princesses’ wardrobes as they grew.

Whispers and rumours spread on honeyed tongues in King’s Landing, as their lives are improved by Princess Rhaenyra’s charities and the Good Queen Aemma’s alms funds. Orphans are fed and housed, the poor are given positions in the royal household or offered a fresh start on the villages being built on Dragonstone, and the Step Stones. Even the crippled and the elderly are given wages as they’re situated in orphanages to care for the youngest members of society.

“How fortuitous of the former Hand that the King chose to wed his daughter, barely more than a maid with no prospects, when everyone knew that the Lady Laena Velaryon was the most obvious choice, making him the King’s good-father as he enriched himself with our blood.” Everyone would agree as Rhaenyra sipped prettily on her juices and sweet teas, and her own little spies reported on the unrest aimed towards anyone in the capital garbed in Hightower green.

“The Queen’s labours have begun,” Laenor tells her as he enters their chambers, nodding to where Ser Joffrey Arryn, Rhaenyra’s distant cousin and newest Kingsguard, stands near the doors, dismissing him and the maids from the room.

“My, how surprising,” the Princess Rhaenys hums drolly, not even bothering to look up from one of the many baby blankets she had taken to embroidering as the birth of her first grandchild grew closer, and all the Maesters and midwifes swore that the babe seemed to be growing healthy and unbothered. She does, however, tilt her cheek to accept the kiss her son offered as he walks past her.

The Crown Princess smiles, caressing her own growing babe. “Father hasn’t ordered the bells wrung,” Rhaenyra notes calmly, helping herself to another one of the delightful crab cakes her little dragon had been demanding of late. Luckily, Lord Corlys had been more than happy to send a small army of his own personal chefs from High Tide when Rhaenyra had, offhandedly, mentioned a craving for seafoods. He’d been crowing about the strength of Velaryon blood and salt ever since, according to Laena’s letters.

“He likely won’t until the babe comes,” Rhaenys hums, “given current… sentiments aimed at his consort, and not-so-hidden accusations of cuckholding.”

Rhaenyra’s smile becomes a smirk, shifting on her settee to allow Laenor to join her, his hands moving to the swell of their babe in fascination. “I hear from my maids that the laundry women were whispering about the lack of maidensblood on the night of my dear stepmother’s bedding ceremony, and how the former Hand ordered their silence.”

“Otto Hightower works hard,” Rhaenys chuckles, “but the castle staffs’ network works faster.”

“Thank you for the advice, muña,” Laenor laughs, bending to offer Rhaenyra a sweet kiss, “the tides are already turning in our favour. I heard the Queen’s maids saying that the last night that their mistress laid with the King was only the week before our wedding ceremony, and before that – it had been four moons. She wasn’t just carrying small, she’s barely into her eighth moon.”

“Many babes come early,” Rhaenyra reminds her gleeful husband, though she doesn’t fault him of his dark enjoyment of Alicent’s suffering. The whore had, after all, attempted to plant the seeds to claim their child as a bastard with some Faith-filled madness that men of Laenor’s proclivities were unable to sire children, but Laena’s sudden arrival some moons ago, seated atop the mighty Vhagar, had burned those perceptions like the Black Dread had once burned Harrenhal.

When the rumours had first begun to be spread on treasonous tongues, Laenor had confided in his elder sister of his escapades into Hull and Spicetown when his betrothal had been announced, giving her the names of the girls he had coupled with and Rhaenyra’s blessing to offer them housing and employment on Dragonstone and the growing settlement of Daenys’ Gift. Laena had, in turn, arrived with appropriately theatrical fanfare, and three infants; a girl with dark skin and darker hair, eyes a deep umber, and a set of twin boys, identical in every way and so obviously of Velaryon blood.

Laenor’s bastards, and living proof to disprove the Green’s unfounded claims against them.

“Addam and Alyn,” Laena had declared as Rhaenyra cooed over the babes in front of the entire court, “they look just like you, brother! Proper Valyrian names too. And look, Nettles has Mother’s hair, and Grandmother Bellemere’s eyes! She looks like a princess from the Summer Isles.”

“Nettles?” Rhaenyra had cried dramatically before their stunned audience, gathering the girl into her arms. “A whorehouse name? No stepdaughter of mine will have such a name!”

“Laenyra, then,” Laenor had settled on tenderly, cradling the twins to his breast, “after the three-most important women in my life. We can call her Netty, for short.”

Even now, as all three babes were tended to by a wetnurse hired from Flea Bottom in Rhaenyra’s personal wing in Maegor’s Keep, the court murmured in admiration of her grace and kindness, welcoming her husband’s bastards into her household, and had nothing but kind words to say of Laenor’s sense of duty and honour in claiming the three Waters, and personally financing their lives.

“But very few babes born early do so with this level of scrutiny hanging over their heads,” Rhaenys advises her now. “Should the child not bare obvious Targaryen traits, then her Grace’s dissenters will take advantage of it.”

Had Alicent not already tried to label Rhaenyra’s child a bastard, and bring into question her title of Crown Princess by doing so, then Rhaenyra might have felt bad for the newest Hightower whelp, but as it stands, she currently holds very little pity for those who share Alicent’s plain, Andal blood. She had no innate magicks like those of Valyrian, and even First Men, descent, and Rhaenyra had read plenty of Visenya’s journals on how incompatible Andal and Valyrian blood was.

If the Fourteen Flames didn’t burn away the taint, then the half-breed child would never be whole.

“What a shame,” Rhaenyra drawls, allowing her husband to hand-feed her little fruits sourced from Naath by her generous good-father.

By the time the babe arrives, it’s the next morning, and Rhaenyra is breaking her fast with her household, and accompanied by sweet Helaena, who was so often ignored by her minders for her oddness and lack of a cock. Her strange, fey-like sister mutters into her mashed sparrow eggs and spiced tubers, carefully sectioned away from each other as to avoid clashing tastes and textures, about dragons with dark crowns as Cousin Joffrey announces the birth of Prince Daeron Targaryen.

“A babe with dark hair, and brown eyes,” the Arryn knight reveals, dark amusement in his blue eyes.

No Valeman had any love for her father’s Hightower whore, and revelled in any hardship that came Alicent’s way. They would remember the insult dealt to their beloved Queen for generations, and Rhaenyra had no doubt that the feud would remain written in their blood.

“I suppose it’s time to meet my stepmother’s babe, then,” Rhaenyra announces to the room, and when she does introduce herself to the boy, she makes an innocent show of struggling to name a member of House Hightower with colourings so dark.

Dark hair is, after all, such a rarity in the Reach, where they tended to favour auburns and tawny.

“Oldtown is a port city,” she allows herself to be heard during the Ladies’ Court, as girls and women gossip, and enjoy cakes and entertainment Rhaenyra had organized. Usually, this duty fell to the Queen, but her father had been all too happy to hand it over to his heir when Rhaenyra had come to him clad in her mother’s old dress and expressed her desires to continue Queen Aemma’s charities. “Perhaps my Queenly stepmother has Dornish relations,” the Crown Princess adds, full of sweet, guileless innocence, blinking beautiful eyes up at the Court with a flutter of silvery lashes. “Father told me a story, once, of a golden mare he had as a boy that mated with a silver stallion. The foal was born with a coat as black as pitch!” Then, she smiles prettily to Lady Frey, and asks her to pass her that delicious looking Dornish orange cake next to her.

The whispers following Alicent Hightower’s pretty little steps only continue to grow, and Rhaenyra watches in pleasure.

Two moons later, it’s Rhaenyra’s turn to face the birthing bed, and as soon as her son is placed into her arms, squalling like a storm, Rhaenyra decides that it was worth it. She understands her mother now. All the pain, and the suffering, it had given her this beautiful baby boy with ten perfect little fingers, and ten perfect little toes.

Jacaerys Targaryen, she names him, after the founder of House Velaryon, rumoured to have been the son of a bastard Valyrian prince, and the great sea goddess of the coast, Nagga the Sea Dragon herself. He’s born perfect and healthy, the very spitting image of his father, and Princess Rhaenys nearly sheds a tear when she sees her grandson for the first time, delighting in the Baratheon black hair they both share.

Jacaerys’ Kingly Grandsire, on the other hand, does begin to weep when the newly-born babe is place into his arms, and he’s met with striking eyes of green-and-violet. “The eyes of my late mother,” he tells the Court happily, weaving tales of the unforgettable force of a woman that had been Princess Alyssa Targaryen, first rider of Meleys, and how she could defeat any knight placed before her on the training field even with a babe strapped to her chest. Alicent’s face is unforgettable in it’s own right as she stands to the side, ignored and unimportant as her husband sits the throne, his grandson on his lap. Her own son is carefully swaddled as to hide his dark hair while she tries to present him to the Lords and Ladies.

Lord Corlys arrives not long after aboard a mighty warship laden with treasures collected from across the known world, and a sword on his hip too small for a man’s grip. “A mighty galley built by Driftmark’s finest shipwrights and christened for her maiden with wine dated back to Old Valyria, and filled with treasures from my greatest adventures, and the battle against the Crabfeeder, for our future King!” Corlys declares grandly, and Rhaenyra is sure she catches sight of Ser Tyland Lannister fanning a faint-looking Lord Lyman when the many chariots filled with gold and jewels are wheeled into the throne room.

Alicent looks sick at the reminder of the wealth of Rhaenyra’s good-family, and turns red when people murmur about her own lack of a dowry as the poor daughter of a second son with nothing to his name.

“I myself named the ship Balerion, for Westeros’ first Valyrian King’s legendary mount! And, for my good-daughter, the fairest in the Realm,” Alicent Hightower is as green as her gown as Lord Corlys draws the beautiful blade with a flourish, the hilt carved of amethyst dragons, “and our future Queen, I return to her the sword Skyfyre, the very blade wielded by the warrior poet, Queen Rhaenys the First. Thought lost to the sands of Dorne, now to be wielded by her namesake, Rhaenyra the First of her Name!”

“Blackfyre may be the sword of Kings,” Rhaenys tells her later, “and Dark Sister that of their greatest protector, but Skyfyre is the blade of Queens.” She smirks then, leaning in close to share with her good-daughter in secret, “Aegon was not the shared sibling, little dragon; he may have been the figurehead, but Visenya had the power, and Rhaenys? She held the reigns of both her siblings. Queen Visenya, after all, had little regard for men and their cocks.”

It’s a moon after Corlys’ arrival and his return to the office of Master of Ships when the Lannister’s incompetence is revealed, that little Jacaerys’ cradle egg hatches. Vermax, named for the Valyrian god of language and travel, is a thing of beauty, with jewel-toned scales of emerald, horns carved from rubies, and eyes of molten amber, and the little drake’s appearance is what births the moniker bestowed upon Rhaenyra’s heir. The Emerald Prince, the people sing, named for Jacaerys’ beautiful soul-sibling, and his striking eyes. They care little for Alicent and her sons now, and when they speak of the colour green, they think not of the King’s plain, second wife and her dull sons, but of his eldest grandchild, more brilliant than any muted greens the Hightowers and their allies try to flaunt.

In the following moons as Rhaenyra and Laenor continue their slow conquest, the Court celebrates once more with the announcement of Rhaenyra’s second pregnancy, and the grand festival Lord Corlys throws in honour of his future heir outshines even those of King Viserys. And with the celebrations, brings the return of the Rogue Prince on a dragon’s wings.

The last year following Rhaenyra’s wedding had been oddly silent and free of her uncle’s exploits, as he’d retreated to the Step Stones with the King’s favour and blessings, and a beautiful young wife in Lady Laena Velaryon, now Princess Laena Targaryen of the Step Stones and the Narrow Sea. Last Rhaenyra had heard, the growing settlement Daemon had founded had been given the name Dragonsport, and her uncle’s red-stone keep, Seafort.

It was adorable, Rhaenyra thought, naming his new seat of power for his beloved dragon. Bloodstone, Dragonsport, Seafort – all chosen for the Blood Wyrm named for the Valyrian sea god.

“So this is my niece’s little emerald,” Daemon says as Laenor places the curly-haired babe in his arms, and Rhaenyra smiles, reclining in Laena’s embrace, breathing in her lovely cousin’s sea salt and sky scent as her delicate hand cradles her slim bump, and her good-sister speaks happily of the friendships their children would form. “A thing of beauty, just like his mother.” Then, her uncle’s head tilts playfully as he sweeps intentionally heated violet-and-green eyes over her husband, purring, “And his father too, I suppose.”

All three younger dragon riders laugh in the face of the Rogue Prince’s teasing, and Daemon only smiles, his entire countenance softening as Jacaerys reaches for his nose with a curious little hand. “Yes, Uncle Daemon does have a handsome fucking face, hasn’t he, little jewel?” Coos the fearsome Rogue Prince in High Valyrian, completely smitten as his great-nephew giggles.

“Is that what all the screaming at the sight of you means?” Laenor inquires innocently, smiling prettily at the glare leveled at him.

“I can still cut out your pretty tongue out even with my favourite nephew in my arms,” Daemon threatens without serious intent.

“I rather like his pretty tongue where it is, kepus,” Rhaenyra chimes in as a giggling Laena kisses along her jaw. “He’s quite adept with it.”

Daemon’s eyes darken with something hot and heavy, his grin full of teeth as he leers at the three mischievous young dragons, purring, “Is that so?”

After, when all four of them a suitably relaxed and loose limbed, Rhaenyra officially brings her uncle and good-sister into her household and their plots, and the both of them are all too happy to participate. They would see Rhaenyra and Laenor in crowns, even if they had to burn the Realm down around them to do so.

It’s Rhaenyra that politely reminds them that she has no desire to be Queen of the Ashes, and a pouting, playful Laenor asks, “Can we at least burn Oldtown?”

The day of the birth of her second child is heralded by a fierce summer storm that shakes Dragonstone like the eruption of a volcano, and the lashing rain of a typhoon as powerful as the down-strokes of a dragon’s wings. All of it breaks the moment her second son takes his first breath, golden light finally pushing back the darkness, sealing her choice of names.

Lucerys Velaryon is his mother’s sunlight. He’s Stormborn, and favoured by the gods, and Rhaenyra names him for the legendary Velaryon Pirate Prince who could conquer storms with naught but a shout the rent the heavens. Rhaenyra’s second son is born with Aemma Arryn’s angelic face, and eyes as blue as the clear sky of the Eyrie. His skin, the colour of freshly tilled earth, warm, and full of life, and his thick curls of white made even the purest of snowfalls look like mud in comparison.

“The Royal Pearl,” the people breath in the face of the babe’s beauty.

“My Aemma come again,” her father sobs the first time he sees his grandson’s smile.

When Lucerys’ egg hatches within moments of being placed in his cradle, there’s only one name Rhaenyra can give to the pearl-scaled dragon with gleaming golden horns, and eyes carved of rainbow moonstone.

“Arrax,” Laenor echoes as he and little Jace stare at the babe and his soul-sibling in awe.

“The King of the Gods,” Daemon breathes, and Laena laughs at his stupefied expression with a delight powerful enough that her own water breaks, and three hours later, Baela and Rhaena, identical in every way save for their temperaments, become the newest residents of the Royal Nursery.

The girls have none of Daemon in their sweet faces, little mirrors that they are of Laena, down even to their pretty periwinkle eyes, and it is Rhaenyra herself who gifts her nieces with a dragon egg each. Both are sourced from Syrax’s first clutch, the very same that birthed Arrax only hours before, and while neither egg, one the palest shade of jade and the other a shining rose-gold, hatches, neither do they turn cold.

Like Jacaerys and Lucerys, both girls would have dragons. They would be the new generation of dragonlords.

115AC also becomes the year to prove that Helaena’s dragon-blood had burned away the Andal taint that Alicent’s womb had cursed her with, as her strange little sister had wandered from her minder’s while they tended to Aegon’s tantrum, to resurface only the next day atop the fierce, nesting Dreamfyre. The blue-and-lilac toned she-dragon was a dangerous enemy to make, who refused all access to her newly claimed daughter-of-her-soul until Rhaenyra herself arrived.

“My Dream told me she was ready,” Helaena says in that light, musical voice of hers, only a girl of six, and yet so much older. “Muña promised that she would never let me fall again. The Song is being rewritten.” Then, the jeweled wings of a beetle pulls the little girl’s misty eyes away, her attention to her words taking flight as Rhaenyra guides her back to the Red Keep.

“I think she’s a Dreamer, Father,” Rhaenyra tells Viserys later as she pleads her case, “like Daenys. I want to bring her with me to Dragonstone, make her a part of my household and find her a Priestess to teach her of her Gift, like our ancestors did.”

“Helaena is still Alicent’s daughter, sweet girl –“

“I just worry for my darling sister, Father,” Rhaenyra pleads with sad lilac eyes, her lips quivering just so that never fails to make Viserys’ resistance crumble. “You and I both know what Alicent’s Faith says about the magicks in our blood, and now Hela has a dragon bond – I can teach her what she needs to know as a Targaryen princess, because no one else will ever understand, not like another dragon princess will.”

Her father gives in with a defeated sigh. “Only for the year as you organize governance of your Keep.”

Rhaenyra smiles sweetly at the aging man, throwing her arms around him, and kissing his cheek, “Oh, thank you, kepa!”

Alicent might share her father’s bed, but Rhaenyra would always hold the King’s heart, and she had a lifetime of experience in how to play him like a harp.

Check, and mate, stepmother.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra and Jeyne with Artys by hiiitsme (Guest) with AI

117AC brings news of the Crown Princess’ third pregnancy on ravens’ wings, the announcement reaching every corner of the Realm, bringing with it celebrations of the continuation of the royal bloodline, while in the Red Keep, word of the Queen Consort’s constant bloody miscarriages and failure to provide her husband with a proper Valyrian son were shared on honeyed tongues. Accompanying the announcement, came also the accounts from Dragonstone’s dragonkeepers of Moondancer, a lovely pale green she-dragon that gleamed silver in the light of the moon, hatching for the young Princess Baela Targaryen, first born child of Prince Daemon, adding yet another insurmountable obstacle to the Greens’ plots, as their Hightower princes continued to fail to hatch or bond to any drake in the Dragonpit.

With this momentous hatching, also came the official betrothal contract of future King Jacaerys Targaryen and his dragon-bonded cousin, as to keep their dragonblood within the Valyrian Houses and keep their blood magicks strong. Princess Rhaenys, now an official member of the Small Council as a royal advisor, could be heard speaking to the King of the new generation of Valyrian blood being blessed with so many babes to continue the Throne’s undiluted bloodline, as so many dragon riders in the sky could only be good fortune. Maids and servants did so love to whisper of the apoplectic rage that had coloured Queen Alicent’s covetous countenance when Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon’s glance swept over where the Consort’s three sons played at swords in the courtyard under Ser Gawain Hightower’s guidance, and King Viserys’ cheerful agreement only made the ugly colour spread.

The year of 117AC also brought reports of unrest in the Vale to Rhaenyra’s hands on Dragonstone as she read over the plans drawn up to expand the tiny village on her island into a proper port town, and the success of her exports of salt and dragonglass to the North that showed in lumber and hides for the building of ships. The letter Maester Gerardys handed her was penned in Jeyne Arryn’s delicate hand, and stamped with a wax falcon; Arnold Arryn, of the Gulltown Arryns, related distantly to Jeyne through Rodrick Arryn’s first wife, had apparently been a thorn in her cousin’s since her direct male relatives had been killed in battle against the mountain clans, and – if reports from Daemon’s system was to be believed – Ser Arnold had recently taken one Lady Morgyn Hightower, sister of Ormund Hightower, and niece of Otto, to wife. This influx of support through his wife’s dowry had been what had given the snivelling, grasping man the courage to declare himself the true Lord Paramount of the Vale and the Mountains over Lady Jeyne, who had held the position since she herself had been an infant.

“How fortuitous,” Laenor says dryly as he bounces Luce, all of two namedays, on his lap, all of them watching Jace’s training with Daemon and the hot-tempered Vermax.

Only three, their eldest’s soul-sibling was larger than average, requiring early training as to curb unnecessary violent habits that might crop up as a result. Daemon had shared his suspicions that Vermax might just be of Balerion’s own bloodline, and watching the young drake leads Rhaenyra to believe his theory to be correct.

“Cousin Jeyne’s thoughts exactly, dear husband,” Rhaenyra hums, leaning down to kiss her babe’s chubby cheek as he giggles sweetly. “It seems the Hightowers might just be getting desperate, being willing to unseat the ruling House of the Vale to install their own blood in Jeyne’s stead.”

“You’re going, then?” Laenor asks, and Rhaenyra nods.

“You can rule until I return,” she says with a warm smile. “The Mountains were my mother’s home, and Jeyne is kin. The Vale is hers, and is one of our greatest supporters, I wont let a Hightower puppet steal it from her.”

“You’ll be careful?” Laenor requests, laying a warm hand over her round stomach, and Rhaenyra kisses her sweet cousin softly.

“I swear it,” she vows to him. “Syrax will be with me, after all, and I’ll even bring Joffrey along as well. The Mountains are in my blood.”

Rhaenyra departs the next day, atop her beautiful soul-sister, their bond singing with delight as they sweep through the clouds, shining like gold, and even Ser Joffrey can’t hide his awe as they soar as dragons and falcons were made to. The sky is in their blood, and atop Syrax, she is free, untethered from her worldly problems; there is no politics among the clouds, no ever-present threat hanging above her and her children, and no Towers trying to reach her. This will be the kingdom her children will rule, hers, not Alicent’s.

It’s beautiful, and Syrax rumbles in agreement under her, their souls singing as one.

All too soon, however, she has to land, and Syrax roars as they part the clouds above the ancient port of Gulltown, sweeping over her cousin’s gleaming rows of knights in armour as they lay siege on the traitors hiding in their Keep. Gulltown is old and gray, with little riches as of late, as larger ports bring in more ships and merchants and gold, but House Arryn is still a great house, with ancient wealth to their name – Rhaenyra isn’t surprised that the Greens’ had decided to target her mother’s family, as the Vale was her own greatest supporter. House Arryn of Gulltown was many generations removed from the main line, but still had enough of the claim to the Eyrie that they had the confidence to challenge their Lady Paramount simply because she lacked a cock, and they could gain support from the Queen Consort’s family.

However, Rhaenyra’s mother was born an Arryn; she may have been married into House Targaryen at one and ten, but Queen Aemma was the jewel of the Vale. Her mother had been the reason why Jeyne’s heritage was not stolen from her, why Isembard Arryn and his slimy son Arnold had been denied their petitions to be granted custody of the Vale. When the Arryn Queen had been killed, cut open from sex to breasts for a son, the Vale had nearly revolted, and Jeyne, only three and ten then, had only agreed to peace terms with the Crown as long as Aemma Arryn’s daughter remained heir, not to be replaced by the child it was suspected the new Consort carried into her marriage.

The fact that Aegon was born just over a year from the marriage did nothing to stop the rumours that the King had remarried to his second wife from fear of a bastard being born of her womb. Only recently had tales of a miscarriage before Aegon’s birth begun to be shared, thanks to Rhaenyra’s own little birds digging into the layers of secrecy the Hightowers had spun around Alicent.

The Vale was loyal to Aemma Arryn’s blood because Jeyne shared it, but should Ser Arnold and his new Hightower wife be placed into the Paramount Lordship, then Rhaenyra had no doubt that they would declare for the Greens, who already had half of the Reach, the Faith of the Seven, and the Westerlands.

“Open the gates,” Rhaenyra orders of the terrified guards after Syrax alights on the ancient stones, sweeping her gaze disdainfully over their golden falcon iconography and well disguised green tokens. A few attempt to draw their weapons, but Syrax shrieks, great golden head swinging towards the men, hissing with sun-bright flames, and wildfire eyes narrowed.

The gates to Gulltown are opened without a fuss, then, and Rhaenyra calmly fingers Skyfyre as the populace drag their lords before her, her babe shifting in her womb and Syrax rumbling behind her protectively. She and her babe are vulnerable on the ground, and Syrax is protective in return; even with Ser Joffrey nearby, and Arryn knights sweeping through the port town, a hidden bowman could still do damage, as had been proven in the death of Prince Aemon so many years before.

“Isembard Arryn, Arnold Arryn, Morgyn Arryn,” she greets the three rebel leaders with cold lilac eyes as Joffrey forces them to their knees, “you stand guilty of high treason against your liege, and thus, you are guilty of treason against the Crown. The punishment for high treason is death, without a trial, and I, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Crown Princess, sentence you to die.” The three begin to plead, no longer arrogant and self-righteous as, with a signal, Rhaenyra’s people back away from the protesting accused, clearing the area around them.

The order is easy to give, and Rhaenyra doesn’t bother to watch the golden flames swallow them as she turns away with a grimace, hand falling to her rounded stomach, a familiar dropping sensation falling over her. It’s quick and painless for the traitors, but it sends a message, and when she’s presented with Arnold Arryn’s infant son, a tiny, wailing thing with honey blond hair and pink skin, she orders him and his wet nurse be transported to the Eyrie, his guardianship to be left to Lady Jeyne to be decided.

“You, Ser,” she calls to a nearby knight in Corbray heraldry as she hands the babe to one in Redfort colours, sweat beading her pale face and Syrax rumbling worriedly, “your name.”

“Ser Corwyn Corbray, Your Grace,” The knight bows, and Rhaenyra hums. The brother and heir of Lord Corbray, a loyal lord to her cause, will do.

“You are now the castellan of Gulltown, take what men you need to finish weeding out the remaining traitors, and have them transferred to the Gates of the Moon to face Lady Arryn’s justice. Collect their documents and records as well, I want everything investigated.” The young Valeman is excused with a wave of her hand, and she begins to mount Syrax gingerly. “Ser Joffrey,” she orders in a bark, “get on. We leave for the Eyrie.”

“Princess?” Joffrey scrambles to obey, and Rhaenyra grimaces.

“I do believe my waters just broke.”

She’s never seen a man in plate mail move so quickly.

Her third son is born too early and too small in the high altitude and thin air of the Eyrie’s ivory towers, perched in the clouds as if it was destined to be. For the longest of moments, he doesn’t make a sound, and Rhaenyra almost despairs, before, as delicate as the wings of a baby falcon, her babe begins to cry for his mother’s warmth.

“I just heard,” Jeyne states as she flounces into the rooms that had once belonged to Rhaenyra’s mother in her childhood, and had now been prepared for her, with her companion, Lady Jessamyn Redfort, on her arm. “Another boy, then? Was it terribly painful?”

At her disbelieving stare, Lady Jeyne just shrugs, amused.

“Artys,” Rhaenyra eventually settles on as she feeds her smallest babe, a delicate thing that looked as if the gods had bleached him of all colours, if not for the pink in his chubby cheeks and the palest brushes of lilac that dyed his eyes like watercolours. Prince Artys is born with skin as pale as mountain snow, and loose curls spun from the most beautiful of ivory, and Rhaenyra gifts him with a powerful name of Falcon Kings long past. Artys Arryn the First had been the half-Valyrian knight that had founded her mother’s great House and dynasty, wedding a Princess of the First Men and uniting the warring clans of the Vale, and now Artys Velaryon Targaryen would be Aemma Arryn’s third grandson, and continue her bloodline. “No matter how small, he holds the blood of Kings. A third son of three Great Houses.”

“I need an Heir,” Jeyne says one day while Rhaenyra recovers from Artys’ early birth, and her cousin has made the decision to read her reports next to her sick bed. “I’d sooner burn the Vale than turn the Eyrie to Arnold’s bloodline. Joffrey would have been my first choice,” the smile on Jeyne’s face highlights the same blue eyes she shared with the late Queen, and now Lucerys as well, and the slight upturn of her nose she and Rhaenyra both carried, pointedly signing her name with a flourish on the account of Gulltown’s finances, “but you stole him away from me.”

Rhaenyra laughs at her cousin’s teasing, gently petting Artys’ downy curls as he dozes against her bosom, “I will have you know, cousin, that he came to me.”

“He’d have to take the Arryn name, of course, once he comes of age, and I’d need to have him foster with me so that he can learn his role as a future Lord Paramount, but it’s a quick flight on dragon-back, if he ends up with a dragon as I suspect he will.” At Rhaenyra’s honest surprise, the Lady Arryn continues, “You are my closest living kin, Rhaenyra, and none of Arnold’s sympathizers that might support Eldric’s claim would dare argue against a family of dragon riders. Artys is a son with no inheritance to conflict with the role of a Lord Paramount; logically, it’s the smartest choice.”

So Rhaenyra leaves the Eyrie with a newly born son, and the knowledge that she’s miscalculated the amount of spare heirs she and Laenor would need, now that their sons had three inheritances between them.

“Well,” Laenor says in good humour as he places an egg of shimmering blue and white into Artys’ cradle, “no wonder Helaena insisted on this egg in particular.” It’s one from Meleys’ older clutches, though Rhaenyra had no clue as to the sire from the colouring alone – Rhaenyra can recognize it from the boilers of the Dragonpit, though she has no idea how Helaena could have transported it from the capital without Aemond, the envious little beast he was, trying to steal it.

Her second eldest half-brother had already proven his willingness to take what was not for him, as he’d already once attempted to steal a dragon hatchling from Rhaenyra’s son’s crib.

“I suppose you’ll have to suffer my company a little longer,” the Crown Princess teases, and Laenor laughs richly, so much more lively than he had been following their wedding. He had become an amazing husband and father, his grief over the love of his life’s untimely death turned instead to fulfilling his role as her consort. Their sons adored their father, sweet and gentle as he was with them, who always had the best stories to tell of his own life of sailing with Lord Corlys, and taught them to swim beginning from their swaddling.

Laenor truly came to embody the King he could have been, had Rhaenys won in the Council of 101AC, and her husband’s skills over socialization and his overwhelming charisma was one of Rhaenyra’s greatest boons. Even those lords who wished not to bow to a woman could be won over with Laenor at her side.

Her husband kisses her cheek, replying, “Any other blood kin we need to worry about trying to steal our children?”

“Lord Boremund already has two granddaughters and another on the way,” she huffs playfully, “if he’s so desperate to replace Borros, he can choose one of them.”

A loud stampede of little feet is the first sign that the children are out of their lessons before their tiny bodies are spilling into the nursery. Jacaerys comes first, followed by Alyn and Addam, then Netty, talking over each other rapidly, little faces beaming. Lucerys, Baela, and Rhaena, the youngest of the children on Dragonstone, bring up the rear.

“Mama!” Luce gasps, beaming up at her, his bright blue eyes wide and shining like the sky. “Baby?”

Rhaenyra laughs, opening her arms for her sweet boy, who doesn’t hesitate to plow into her chest, full of boundless energy. “Yes, this is the baby.” She lifts him to look as the other children gather around her to peer into the bassinet, “His name is Artys, and he’s your little brother.”

“He’s small, muña,” serious little Jace says, studious and dutiful even before his fourth nameday, and Rhaenyra gently pets their eldest’s black curls, toying just slightly with the patch of white-gold that had begun to grow at his temple.

“When can he play?” Luce asks, giggling as Artys cooes and Laenor lifts the small babe into his arms so the children can better see him.

“It will be a while yet,” Laenor chuckles fondly.

“He has very little in common with your other sons,” Alicent has the gall to say when they introduce their youngest son to the court some moons later, petty and envious as she’s once again pushed to the side in favour of another of Rhaenyra’s sons. “He has very little of you at all, Ser Laenor.”

“Nonsense, wife,” the King laughs as he takes his newest grandson into his arms, setting the babe on his knee so that the little white prince could look out over the court with big lilac eyes, chewing on his little hand toothlessly. “He has his father’s nose and hair, everything else just happens to be my darling daughter. Prince Artys Velaryon – it’s a stong name.”

Rhaenyra smiles sweetly, hands clasped in front of her sky blue skirts and white-gold hair loose to curl gently down her back, a pearl tiara atop her head. She knows the image she makes, the Realm’s Delight softened by motherhood, the very image of her own beautiful and gentle mother, with two strong, intelligent sons at her sides, and a supportive consort at her shoulder. “He came into this world in the Vale,” she demurs, “how could I not name him for my mother’s House?”

“Your mother would have loved all her grandchildren,” her father says, misty-eyed. “My Aemma had so much love to give, it made her an amazing Queen, even when she was bedbound.”

“The people of the Vale still toast to their lost Queen, and celebrate the continuation of her royal bloodline,” Rhaenyra shares innocently, just to watch the ugly flush that colours her stepmother’s wane cheeks, highlighting the unhealthy grey of her skin as yet another pregnancy saps her strength while Rhaenyra shines, healthy and glowing in motherhood.

Only two and ten, yet obviously drunk, long dirty gold hair unkempt and tangled, and green doublet a beacon of war, Aegon snorts at his mother’s expression, smirk just shy of cruel at her expense, while Daeron, four and too young to understand, yet wanting to mimic his eldest brother, giggles innocently. Alicent’s second son, obviously his mother’s favourite with glossy hair and a seven pointed star emblazoned on his own green doublet, little scars on his cheek from his ill thought attempt to steal Arrax from Luce’s crib, scowls enviously, green eyes glittering with hate.

The boy really should just be grateful it wasn’t ill-tempered and territorial Vermax he had stupidly tried to steal, otherwise he’d have likely lost the eye all together. Arrax, much like Lucerys himself, is a gentle soul with a sweet heart, and their bond is strong – the little pearlescent hatchling was much easier to calm and less likely to resort to violence, and Aemond truly was lucky that he had only gotten a warning for his actions.

It’s the fortnight before the tourney to celebrate Jacaerys’ fifth nameday that Artys’ egg hatches in the dead on night, birthing a hatchling that looked to mimic the sky on a sunny day. Scales of rich blue tipped in white gleam like sapphires, and bone white horns crown the she-dragon’s small head as she seems to watch them with intelligent golden eyes, tail curled peacefully around Artys’ tiny feet and chin resting in his colourless curls.

“Tyraxes,” Laenor and Rhaenyra both agree as the children gush and giggle with pride for their youngest brother, and, indeed, the name of the wise goddess of peace suits their son’s quiet little hatchling.

“So pretty,” sweet little Rhaena breathes with a shy little smile, periwinkle eyes wide.

“She’s going to be fast,” Baela gushes. “Like Moondancer.”

“She is one of Meleys’ clutches,” young Addam agrees, one of Daemon’s favourite dragonlore students already, even at five. Her husband’s bastard son was already shaping up to be a sharp potential dragon keeper and warrior, and Rhaenyra had even been considering having him and his brother legitimized and given a small holding of their own.

“Looks too pretty to fight good,” Netty pouts, huffing, six and ever under foot, boyish with her shortened curls, and the scar over her once-broken now crooked nose a reminder of Aegon’s growing cruelty when Rhaenyra’s half-brother had drunkenly struck the bastard girl with a training sword when she had snuck onto the training field. Alyn, already larger than his elder twin brother and likely to find a calling on the sea like his Velaryon kin, nods in agreement.

“Why does she gotta fight?” Luce warbles sadly, blue eyes big and sad, and Jace, his greatest defender, leaps to add;

“Yeah! Art’s our baby brother! Tyraxes doesn’t have’ta fight ‘cause we’ll protect them!”

“She’ll fly free as a falcon,” Helaena tells them sweetly in her corner in the nursery, embroidering little hawk moths on a blue doublet for her newest nephew as the other children bicker, twilight eyes misty, “and the sky prince will never fear falling again.”

The moniker of Sky Prince ends up remaining, in the end, when Jeyne officially declares Artys as her heir after his first nameday, much to the Hightowers’ horror, pushing their attempts to have their young kin Eldric Arryn to be named the next Lord Paramount further down the line of succession. As her third son grows, it also grows apparent that Artys’ eyes are weak, and his pale skin is delicate in the sun, but he’s just as energetic as his brothers as he follows them everywhere like a little white shadow, Tyraxes always by his side. He never seems overly bothered, in the end, even as his pale eyes struggle to focus.

When Alicent snidely makes a suggestive comment within the hearing of one of her spies, musing to her Ladies that the Crown Princess’ youngest son is a demon in human form, forever cursed by the Seven, Rhaenyra personally ensures that the news of the Whore Queen’s cruelty to an innocent child is spread to the smallfolk. The next time the Hightower Queen walks to the great Sept, she’s bombarded with all sorts of thrown insults and trash, and when the woman returns to the Keep, the glossy honeyed locks her former maid took so much pride in are covered in feces and even sharp smelling tonics. Alicent’s hair never recovers from whatever had been upended over her head, her once lovely curls turning limp and brittle, beginning to grey before it’s time, and the smirk on Laenor’s lips is enough to tell Rhaenyra that he had doubtlessly had some roll in it.

“Don’t worry, sister,” sweet Helaena assures her, gently entwining their hands, and the girl’s sweet face is kind, “Tyraxes shares her eyes with him. Artys will never not see what the world has to offer him. Though, perhaps he would appreciate a pet when Tyraxes grows too large for the castle.”

“Legends of the First Men tell of skinchangers,” Ser Harwin tells her one day on the training field, correcting her stance and grip on her training sword as an example for Helaena and her young Lady-in-Waiting, Alysanne Blackwood, to follow. “My mother was a Stark, and she spoke often of ancient Winter Kings who could see through the eyes of beasts.”

“My Old Nan says the same!” Wild little Black Aly chirps in agreement, a slip of a girl with thick black curls who had been the only of the young girls brought to Court to not flee from Helaena’s insect friends. “She told me about Wildlings who can become giant snow bears in battle!”

“They see through the Night,” Helaena murmurs absently, attention drifting to a caterpillar crawling across a straw dummy. “They sneak and scheme for when Winter comes, not willing to lose the Dawn.”

“The blood of the First Men runs thick in the mountains,” Ser Harwin says thoughtfully. “Lord Stark might have more information than just the children’s tales I was told.”

Under her breath, Helaena breathes, “The North remembers. The Ice has memories.”

Once the ravens are sent North, it doesn’t take long for Rhaenyra and Laenor’s household to expand. Sent to foster with the royal family, Cregan Stark, the eldest son and heir of Lord Rickon, and his sister, the newly legitimized Sara Stark, land on Dragonstone some moons later, both accompanied by a protective wolf hound each, grey eyes lit with interest at the world south of Winterfell.

“It’s bloody hot, Your Grace.” Cregan is the one to summarize succinctly when asked his thoughts on the isle, as blunt and rough as the North he hailed from, before blurting, upon being introduced to her sweet sister, “You have pretty eyes, Princess. Like the winter sky as the sun sets.”

Helaena’s pale cheeks tint pink as she murmurs shyly, “Thank you, Lord Cregan. You’re very kind.”

The heir to Winterfell is only a nameday Helaena’s senior, Rhaenyra remembers, and there was never a Stark that forgot an oath. Lord Rickon Stark had bent the knee to her, and continued to support her claim to the Throne, and it seemed his son would follow. Her sister was already loyal to her, and not even Alicent would be able to bring an argument against a betrothal to a future Lord Paramount if she believed that she could still control her only daughter.

“It’s a good idea,” Laenor hums when she shares the thought with him as she massages oils into his locs for him, the pair just enjoying each other’s company.

“I have no doubt the Hightowers will want to wed her to Aegon the moment she flowers,” Rhaenyra sniffs. “She would be miserable, being thrust back into Alicent’s sphere of influence after so long free of her. And, despite her disgust towards our queer customs, Alicent would very quickly drop her sense of piety should her father order it to strengthen Aegon’s claim. I refuse to allow Helaena to become a broodmare to that little monster.”

“He’s only three and ten and already they speak of him in the Street of Silk and Flea Bottom,” Laenor tells her. “I’ve some little birds following his trail, and they speak already of bastards and cruelty.”

“It would be a shame if the actions of a scion of a House like the Hightowers happened to get back to the High Septon,” the Crown Princess hums with a snide little smile. “No matter his cock, knowing of his deviance would be a hit against the pious image of a dutiful prince Otto and Alicent have attempted to craft, after all those rumours of Alicent’s own purity.”

“Like mother, like son,” Laenor chuckles meanly. “To think the Hightower whore would not teach her son to watch for who enters his bed. Given how she opened her legs for a crown, one might assume others might follow her example, if given the chance.”

“Despite her children, her position will never be secure while the people know that she owes her position to her cunt and my father’s weakness,” Rhaenyra agrees. “The Greens have been getting arrogant, even with their failure in the Vale. Mayhaps we should remind their queen of how fickle lust can be.”

“There’s a boy Lady Misery has brought to my attention,” Daemon reports later as he saunters from Maegor’s hidden passages to make himself comfortable in their sunroom, “of an age with the little pearl and our girls, born to a Lyseni whore. He’s the very image of the Spring Prince.”

“A bastard then?” Laena asks, helping herself to the little cakes Rhaenyra’s maid had fetched for them and sipping delicately on her wine.

“It’s what the boy’s mother claims,” Uncle Daemon says with a smirk. “It would be a blow against the Hightowers, should a bastard boy come to Court, looking so alike to the King, when their own little princes share nothing in common with their father.”

“The Queen might just choke on her seven-pointed star,” Laenor chuckles snidely.

“Your Grace!” Ser Joffrey calls as he opens the ornate doors, looking alarmed, and Rhaenyra frowns.

“Has something happened, Joffrey?”

“It’s Prince Aemond, Princess,” her sworn sword says, “there’s been an incident, in the Dragonpit. He tried to mount a dragon.”

Chapter Text

Aemond will live, they’re told by the Maester, but he will do so without his dominant arm and an eye. He had foolishly tried to mount an all-but-wild dragon that had never before been ridden, and had been rejected, violently. Sharp teeth had severed the arm at the elbow that had been used to grasp at the drake, and Maester Mellos had needed to remove even more of the limb to sew the stump closed; the boy’s eye had been lost in the ensuring chaos, a warning blast of dragonflame having clipped the young prince’s face, melting the skin around it like old wax when Aemond hadn’t backed away fast enough.

The little fool was lucky to be alive, believing he could just approach a dragon and expect it to obey even after the Dragonkeepers had warned him away many a time in the past. He was lucky it had been a relatively young dragon too, for any of the older drakes on Dragonstone would have reacted much more violently, had he tried such an act with them. Dreamfyre’s warning should have been enough to teach the arrogant boy the dangers, Arrax should have been a lesson learned, and now this.

Very few lived long enough to make the same mistake as many times as Aemond had.

“What dragon was it?” The King demands as his hysterical wife flutters around her second son, who, even high on milk of the poppy and horrifically lopsided, still manages to look spoilt and petulant. He had been brought before the Iron Throne the moment he had woken, brought to face the elder members of House Targaryen for his foolishness, to listen to the Dragonkeepers recount the harrowing tale.

“Why does it matter?” Alicent shrieks, clutching her son to her bosom as if he were a babe, and glaring at Rhaenyra as if she had been the one to personally order an ill-tempered and unclaimed dragon to use her son for a snack.

Really, Alicent must think so highly of her skills.

“The beast maimed your son, Viserys!” She continues. “Why interrogate him? That damned creature should be killed!”

Every single dragon rider summoned to the throne room bristles furiously, and it includes her father. To kill a dragon for any cause was rarely done so for a reason; their dragonbonds were a gods-given gift written into the magicks of their blood and soul, and there were so few of them left in the world. Valyrians so often intermarried fellow dragon-blooded kin for that very reason, to not thin the little amount of it to have survived the Doom. Only the Targaryens remained of the dragonlords of old, the dragons they rode a mere sliver of what had once flown the skies above the Valyrian Empire, descended from Balerion and Meraxes, and what few eggs their ancestors had happened to manage to transport to Dragonstone after Daenys’ Dream. Even then, Vhagar, the Queen of Dragons herself, had been the first dragon after the Doom to hatch, nestled safely in Visenya’s cradle, then it was Quicksilver and Dreamfyre, Vermithor and Silverwing, Meleys and Caraxes, Seasmoke and Syrax; hundreds of years, thousands of mating seasons, and so few living dragons to show for it.

Killing a dragon outside of battle was a crime against the Fourteen, and even then, doing so would require a priestess of Aegarax to cleanse the dragonrider afterwards. Maegor’s fate was proof enough of the way their magicks could turn against them for dragonslaying and kin-killing.

“I will not order the culling of the symbol of our House and heritage!” Father barks, looking the part of a Targaryen for once, and at her back, Daemon angrily taps Dark Sister’s sheath against his thigh, violet-and-green eyes narrow as Alicent gapes. “Leave us,” the King orders of Rhaenys and her children, as they glare at the Queen Consort with eyes made of fire, leaving only the immediate royal family members to watch the spectacle.

“It was the golden one, Father,” Aemond says with an irreverent roll of his remaining green eye, pouting. There’s something dark and greedy in his young face, full of jealousy and the belief that he was in the right as he complains, “I don’t understand why it didn’t work, I’m a Targaryen prince. The son of a King. I deserve a dragon – more than any unimportant Velaryon girl.”

He speaks of Baela and Moondancer, Rhaenyra realizes. Baela, and maybe even sweet Rhaena, who’s beautiful egg had begun so recently to show movement.

Daemon realizes it too, that the boy speaks of his beloved daughters. “Spoilt little cunt,” Daemon spits, looking ready to pull Dark Sister and wet her with his nephew’s blood, but Rhaenyra’s gentle hand steadies him. “My daughters are more Targaryen than you could ever hope to be, you little worm. Pure of blood and filled with dragonfire. You may be my brother’s son, but you are not owed a dragon. You aren’t even in the line of succession, nothing more than the spare of the spare of the spare – your egg went cold in your cradle, my daughters’ did not. You failed to bond with a dragon, and instead tried to cheat your way forward in life, and not even cleverly at that. Perhaps you should blame your plain blood for your inadequacy and learn of your true House, rather than live as a tower sheep masquerading as a dragon.”

“There is only one other golden dragon nesting in the Pit,” Rhaenyra states hotly, before Alicent could begin her screeching once more, clenching her delicate hands in her skirt, before twisting her rings around her fingers. “Syrax’s clutch-brother.”

Sunfyre, the very dragon that hatched for Rhaenyra’s elder brother, and her father’s true firstborn son. Jaehaerys, named for the Old King, had been born mere hours before Rhaenyra, large and robust and screaming his presence loudly. Twins, they had been, but Jaehaerys had been the healthier, had been stronger, and they had spent the first two years of their lives absolutely inseparable on Dragonstone before their family had relocated to the Red Keep, and a sudden fever had stricken her brother, and he had never recovered. Sunfyre had been inconsolable, refusing to be removed from Jaehaerys’ cradle for a moon before the Dragonkeepers had been able to move him to the Dragonpit. The ill-tempered dragon had even wounded Rhaenyra once, after the loss of his bond, and she liked not to remember those foggy memories.

The Dragonkeepers had only recently begun to report that Sunfyre might be agreeable to a new bond in the coming years, having to begun to calm now that he was so often surrounded by claimed dragons and their riders.

“Sunfyre?” King Viserys frowns heavily. “He is not a dragon fit for a child, Aemond.”

The boy gapes, before what is left of his face screws up with fury, “I’m a dragon prince! I may not be the elder brother, but I’m who studies histories and strategy, who excels at the sword and works hard and -”

“What you are is a boy not yet ten!” Their father replies firmly, slamming his cane pointedly. “Undisciplined and arrogant! You cannot make a dragon bow to you as you would a servant – when you come to understand that, then you might attempt to claim a dragon, Aemond. Rhaenyra, you will guide Sunfyre to roost on Dragonstone, and any other unclaimed hatchling in the rookery. When the time comes for your brothers to bond with a dragon, they will only do so with your guidance.”

“Of course, Father,” Rhaenyra demurs sweetly, and the victory tastes sweeter than any cake.

“I doubt the boy even has a drop of dragonblood in him worth of riding a dragon,” Daemon scoffs snidely. Bastard, he all but says with his gaze as he looks to his brother’s wife with dark, furious eyes, taunting the woman with the whispers that surrounded her sons.

“How dare you!” Alicent shrieks, and Rhaenyra sighs tiredly, reaching for a goblet of wine to soften the pounding of her aching ears so that she might enjoy the plum shade that colours her step-mother’s complexion. “Aemond is the son of the King! A dutiful, honourable prince – something you obviously can never hope to be!”

“He’s also twice attempted to steal his way forward, has he not?” Daemon sneers mockingly. “I find myself curious as to who he learned that from. What will he try next? Stealing from another babe? Or will he wait like a vulture for a royal funeral and act then?”

Alicent’s cheeks flush even darker, and while amused, Rhaenyra still has a game to play. “Aemond’s lost an arm and an eye doing something any Targaryen child should know not to do without the proper preparations. Something reckless and dangerous,” she says. “We were lucky that nothing bad happened when Helaena did so, but now a second child attempted it? Just who do you have minding my siblings, father?”

The King falters, glancing to his wife as if he had just realized this, and Alicent pales at the scrutiny, clasping her hands in her skirts as to not pick her nails bloody.

Rhaenyra puts her goblet down, very aware of the prying ears of servants and guards in the shadows. “Are you telling me, stepmother, that you don’t know where your children are and what they get up to? Enough so that they can so easily slip from the Keep and their guards to journey into the city? When will it be enough? Will it be Aegon next, in one of his many adventures, who will suffer next? Or sweet little Daeron? I can lead Sunfyre to the Dragonmont, but dragons are not the only dangers they might face. If motherhood has taught me anything, these last years, it is constant vigilance to the goings of little feet.”

“You marry this Andal beast to bring more Targaryens into this world, brother,” Daemon asks in their mother tongue, “and yet they have no respect for the blood they carry? Our House’s history and culture? If it was merely for companionship, you should have kept her as a lover and married a widow. You would have done better with Lord Celtigar’s sister, at least she has some drop of Valyrian blood – your spares would have known our ways.” His voice is insulted, disappointed, then he shakes his head, changing to Common, “Father and Grandfather would be ashamed. And poor mother – her own grandchildren, uneducated and non-Valyrian, and Targaryen in name only.”

“Aemond’s had a long, trying day, dearest stepmother,” Rhaenyra offers her former friend an innocently concerned smile, one mother to another, “perhaps he would feel more at ease in his own bed with his dutiful mother to tend to him. Mine own mother always had a gift when it came to soothing my pains, gods rest her sweet soul.”

“Of course,” her father agrees as he always does when reminded of Aemma Arryn. “Take the boy to bed, Alicent, we can continue this when he has healed some.” With no other choice, face still flushed and ugly, Alicent sweeps her son from the rooms in a flurry of green skirts.

“Kepa, it may be forward of me,” Rhaenyra says once her father’s whore is out of the throne room, “but my siblings need guidance.” She turns lilac eyes to the exhausted man at the foot of the Iron Throne. “I would offer to take my brothers into my care as I did Helaena, to give them what I have given her, but those boys need more time and attention than I can currently spare, with three young sons of my own.”

“I understand sweet girl,” Viserys says, rubbing his haggard face with his only remaining hand, “you already have so many young children in your Household. I regret now that I entrusted your siblings’ care only to Alicent, that I haven’t been able to give them the attention they must wish for. Between my illness and the crown, I had forgotten just how differently my wife was raised to those of Valyrian blood.”

“As a mother, I find that getting my children away from King’s Landing from time to time helps greatly,” Rhaenyra states, delicately taking her father’s gnarled hand as she stops before him, lilac eyes warm and concerned. “As it does me, as well. Perhaps, that might just be what my brothers need, to broaden their horizons.”

The King chuckles tiredly. “You’re not wrong, daughter, you never are,” the aging man sighs, looking so much older than his years. “You get that from your mother.”

And yet you had her killed, Rhaenyra doesn’t say, and instead, she plays at worry for her stepmother. “Alicent herself seems to be struggling as well. She wasn’t raised for this pressure, and now, with Aemond’s injury… maybe she might accompany him to Oldtown, to receive the best care as he heals, and perhaps we could even write to Uncle Vaegon to take my poor brother on as a student of Valyrian history.”

“Oh,” Viserys says with a wistful sigh, “I’m sure Aemond will enjoy learning more of our culture from such a renown scholar. But what of Aegon and Daeron?”

“I’ll take the youngest boy, brother,” Uncle Daemon says, coming to the King’s other side with such a softness that it doubtlessly reminds her father of the little boy his younger brother had been, following him into mischief with innocent devotion, because her father all-but melts. “I need a new page, and the boy is young enough to learn the creed of Baelon the Brave. Besides, the boy is my name sake, is he not?”

“And I have no doubt that Lord Bartimos would be more than honoured to take Aegon as a ward,” Rhaenyra continues the barrage. “The lack of pleasure houses would surely do him well, as will the occasional skirmish with pirates, and the Celtigars are of Valyrian blood – Lord Bartimos even has grandchildren not much younger than him, and Aegon is not yet too old as to not change his ways. I hear that his eldest granddaughter, Lady Minae, is old enough for a betrothal.”

“Did I not say you were approaching him wrong?” Rhaenyra teases her uncle later, when they’ve returned to the heir’s apartments where Laenor and Laena await their spouses, the children in bed and fast asleep with no awareness of what had happened.  “If you come in with fire, he’ll never agree to anything, you need to play on his emotions. Emotions other than anger.”

“I bow to your greater wisdom, little dragon,” Daemon chuckles with a handsome, roguish grin, mirth in his eyes.

Watching in amusement as she helps herself to breads and cheeses, Laena asks, “Dare I ask?”

“King’s Landing is, as of now, under our control,” she informs the Velaryon siblings. “I may not be a permanent solution, but we’ll be able to strengthen our position, without Alicent interfering; she and Aemond are being sent to Oldtown, under the guise of aiding in Aemond’s recovery.”

“And the Green’s chosen heir?” Laenor probes, gently pulling his wife in for a chaste kiss. “If we’re to send the Queen and her little Tower into Otto Hightower’s grasp, then we can’t allow them to influence the whoremonger.”

“Aegon will be sent to Claw Isle, to be fostered by the Celtigars, and with a tentative betrothal to Lord Bartimos’ granddaughter,” Rhaenyra hums, situating herself comfortably on her wonderful husband’s lap. “He’ll be close enough to Dragonstone for us to keep an eye on, with our loyalists watching him and no dragon to mount and escape on. The boy has the making of a monster, but he’s still of my blood, and I’d like to perhaps guide him away from the path he’s started on.”

“If need be, the boy can be removed by a well placed pirate attack,” Daemon chuckles, rubbing his wife’s neck sensually.

Laena rolls her eyes, “And leave them with the dragon thief as an heir? The boy is intelligent and dangerous. Too much a Hightower. No, better a lazy threat with no skills to speak of.”

Rhaenyra nods pointedly, earning her uncle’s pout and Laenor’s quiet laughter as her husband rests his chin on her shoulder. “And, of course, our Daemon has been granted fully custody of my youngest half-brother, and father’s bastard, as his squires.”

“I can already imagine the Highwhore’s face when she learns,” Laena laughs gleefully, sweet as birdsong and twice as beautiful, clapping her hands in delight. “It will be quite the sight.”

“Our good cousin, the Mistress Rogare, has a daughter of age with Daeron the Dark,” Daemon purrs, tugging Laena into his arms to nibble playfully on the shell of her ear. “She does so lament her husband’s idiocy, of which her daughters have not inherited, and with guardianship, comes the power to control my nephew’s betrothal. The least we can do for the half-breed is to flush the Andal taint from his blood with a proper Valyrian wife.”

“Larra’s a smart girl for her age,” Laena agrees. “One of Saera’s favoured granddaughters. She’d make a good match to strengthen the Targaryen branches.”

“I know of a few more ways we can strengthen our House,” Daemon croons heatedly, sweeping his gaze across the younger generation of dragonriders, then pointedly tilting his head towards the large bed of the heir’s chambers, a smooth curtain of silvery hair sliding sensually across his shoulder. “I do so enjoy watching my lovely dragons plot.”

Two moons later, the Realm celebrates the double pregnancies of the Princesses Rhaenyra and Laena, both beautiful and kind, the very symbols of the greatness of their Houses with their loving, loyal husbands at their sides, and their children gathered around them. They both purposefully choose to wait until the feast to bid Alicent and her eldest two sons safe travels, the preferred heir being sent into Rhaenyra’s sphere of control in the Narrow Sea, and Aemond the Dragon Thief far away to the Reach, where Maester Vaegon could monitor the younger prince’s education.

Surly and sour the aged man might be, but loyal to House Targaryen he remained, even in the viper’s den.

The False Queen’s face had been, indeed, quite the sight to behold in her apocalyptic fit of public rage and jealousy when she’d caught sight of Daeron among Daemon’s daughters, for once clad in Targaryen black and red, dark eyes wide with awe as he stares up at his uncle. It had been made even sweeter still when King Viserys the Peaceful had acknowledged his baseborn son out of a sense of duty. Compared to Alicent’s own sons, the lad, Trystane Waters, was visibly of Valyrian stock, very nearly the King’s mirror image, with hair only a shade closer to gold and the very same violet eyes, proving to all those who whisper that the King could, indeed, father Valyrian sons.

Just not with his second, grasping, wife it would seem.

“The Mad Queen,” the people say as the story spreads out from the Capital, “as green as her gowns.”

“His Grace must be tiring of her company,” some laugh.

“Sending her back to her family in shame – is she to be set aside?” Others wonder.

“That bastard boy looks more alike to a prince than her own plain sons,” whispered tales tell. “They were sent away to minor Houses. Perhaps the young Towers truly aren’t the King’s seed.”

Chapter Text

The early moons of 120AC dawn with the birth of two more Valyrian babes that only continue to feed into the rumours of King Viserys’ sons, perceptions continuing to shift in the favour of the Crown Princess. Princess Rhaenyra’s child comes first, another son, with loose ringlets of spun white-gold similar to those of the late Queen Aemma’s, an elegantly beautiful face that was all Targaryen, and creamy smooth skin he’d inherited from his mother. Some baring Green tokens would attempt to claim the shy a bastard, saying the newborn prince resembled his great uncle a great deal more than his apparent father, but with three elder brothers before him that continued to grow more and more alike to the Prince Consort, and the deep indigo eyes of the late King Jaehaerys the Consolidator, of Prince Baelon the Brave, the attempted slander was ignored.

Prince Aemon Targaryen, the Realm’s Delight names her newest son, after her much beloved mother, and the late Pale Prince, the father of the Queen-Who-Never-Was. The egg placed in his cradle is one of the darkest of silvers and steel, sourced from the most recent of Silverwing’s clutches, with it’s opposite, an egg of vivid cobalt and copper, to be given to Princess Laena’s babe.

Mere days later, as if fated by the gods, Prince Aemon is followed by little Princess Daenaera Targaryen, an enchanting babe with the sweetest of laughter and a smile that could warm even the coldest of hearts. The smallest princess is born with her father’s colouring, sleek ringlets of the palest of golds, and Velaryon sea-blue eyes. Already, many whisper of a likely betrothal between them, much like that of dutiful Prince Jacaerys and the bold Princess Baela, for the two babes are happiest together, little hands entwined as if birthed from the same womb.

“I’ll build them a great castle,” Daemon murmurs, watching his son and daughter slumber as Rhaenyra and Laena recline together by the great stained glass windows of Dragonstone, watching the prince watch their children fondly, their knees bumping under their silken gowns.

Sitting at Rhaenyra’s desk, shuffling through reports and trade contracts, his locs unbound and framing his handsome face, the gold and silver of his clasps glinting and telling the tales of his battles and victories, Laenor says, “Mayhaps we might conquer the Iron Islands and rid ourselves of these blasted reavers in their names, as Aegon and his Wives conquered Westeros.” His voice is scornful and annoyed, but only for their lost ships in the Summer Sea. “No doubt the rest of the Realm would thank us.”

“I knew I liked your pretty face for a reason,” Daemon agrees with fervour, looking ready to mount Caraxes himself and burn Pyke as Aegon the First once burned Harrenhall, violet-and-green eyes glinting with delight, matched by Laena’s own as Vhagar’s great growl rocks the island like thunder, just as eager.

Honestly, the two of them and their desire for chaos.

“Well,” Rhaenyra hums, she herself just as prone to restlessness, “I’m sure I can convince father of the need. The Ironborn have only grown bolder since the Stepstones were settled.”

The eggs of the newest prince and princess hatch in the dead of night within the following moons as the whole weight of the Seven Kingdoms officially fold the Iron Islands into the realm, and the Reaver Lords burn at the hands of their thralls. The hatching of their dragon eggs in the same night are a sign that cannot be ignored, a blessing from the gods; one, a hatchling of smokey grey scales that shift to a glittering silver and horns of obsidian, golden eyes like stars peeking through dark storm clouds, the other, a beautiful she-dragon painted with the brightest of cobalt and the purest copper, with a crown to match and eyes a striking blue.

Gaelithox the Storm Cloud, and Tessarion the Blue Queen the hatchlings are named, and, much like their human halves, they are happiest when coiled together.

The babes are two halves of the same fire, and the newly pronounced Prince Aemon Targaryen of the Summer Sea will be given Pyke itself as a seat, and a betrothal to Princess Daenaera is written into contract, promising their twin flames will burn together as rulers of the Iron Islands. For now, their cousins Malentine and Rhogar Velaryon will act as their castellans as the little prince and princess grow, officially tying up all loose threads in House Velaryon and ensuring their loyalty through their new grand titles and positions.

Like heralding a new dawn of Dragonriders, something about the hatching of Gaelithox and Tessarion brings about Princess Rhaena, the heiress to the Step Stones, announcing the cracking of her own dragon egg in the following weeks, and before long, Rhaenyra’s niece and daughter-of-her-heart has her own soul-sister proudly perched on her thin shoulder.

“And so the morning dawns early,” Helaena murmurs softly as she guides Artys through the breaking of his fast, to avoid the mess of oats and honey the babe would still manage to get into his cloud of white curls.

“Her name is Morning,” the girl of five says adoringly, periwinkle eyes shining as she feeds her hatchling, a lovely she-dragon in hues of a pink sunrise with horns of rose-gold and eyes of violet, pieces of her fish, “because she hatched in the morning.”

“And because she looks like the morning sky!” Luce chirps, beaming at his cousin with delight, and next to him, eyes wide with awe, little Trys nods, still unused to life in the Royal Household instead of the streets of Flea Bottom, and dark-haired Daeron giggles brightly.

“And Meraxes was taken,” Addam chimes in, looking up from his tome on dragon lore to look at his cousin’s new hatchling. Rhaenyra can see the childish desire in those dark eyes, innocent and without greed, and she considers her options. The boy calls her mother, as does Alyn and Netty, and, while young, all three adore their half-siblings and cousins; perhaps, if the loyalty remains when Rhaenyra becomes Queen, she could give them the opportunity to try bonding with a dragon, and have them found new Valyrian Houses. “It would be bad luck.”

“She’s beautiful, sweetling,” Laena tells her proudly, kissing her little cheeks, and Rhaenyra smiles.

“A beautiful dragon, for a beautiful girl,” Laenor laughs, ruffling his niece’s braids.

Rhaena blushes in delight, ducking her head shyly as Morning huffs and nuzzles, as sweet-tempered as her to-be rider, against her ear. “Thank you, Kepus.”

“She’ll be big enough to ride in no time,” sweet Jace tells his cousin with a smile, amusing quiet little Aemon with the fabric dragon toy gifted to the youngest prince by Princess Saera so that the babe would eat his mashed foods without complaint. Baela nods vigorously in agreement, stabbing at her fish in excitement, no doubt already picturing the races she and Moondancer will have with her twin once both she-dragons are large enough to ride.

“See, sweet dragon,” Daemon says to the younger of his twins, adjusting his hold on Daenaera to smile proudly at her, “did I not tell you that you would have a dragon?”

Rhaena giggles, “Yes, kepa.”

“Rhae,” Artys gasps brightly, the babe leaning closer to the table, Tyraxes, already the size of a hawk, perched on the back of his chair, watching them with intelligent eyes, frills rattling with interest. Soon the sky blue she-dragon would come to be too large to continue roaming the castle; perhaps, Rhaenyra muses, a pet was in order for her Sky Prince to warg into. “She’s pink!”

“She is!” Rhaena agrees happily, scratching under Morning’s chin. “I love her.”

Unfortunately, the simple happiness cannot last. The Hand of the King, Lord Lyonel Strong, returns to Harrenhall with his sons for a wedding that quickly turns to tragedy. A fire, the reports say, started in the Lord’s quarters, but Lord Strong’s son and heir, Harwin Strong, says otherwise.

“The chamber’s door was tampered with, Princess,” Harwin, burnt arm wrapped in fish skin and his betrothed, Lady Gwyn Beesbury, fussing over him, tells her. “I was escorting Gwyn back to her chambers when the blaze started, and had it not been for her, I likely would not be here.”

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Your Grace,” Gwyn says shakily. She’d been one of Rhaenyra’s Ladies before she’d introduced her to the Commander of the City Watch; small and plump and pleasant, with golden curls and honeyed eyes, Gwyn is a good and loyal woman, much like her grandsire, Lord Lyman, who had served on the King’s Council since before Rhaenyra had even been born.

Rhaenyra smiles sadly, patting Syrax’s side as her Golden Lady rumbles, surveying the partially melted castle in interest as she takes in the damage done over a hundred years before. “Lord Lyonel was a loyal servant to the Crown, the King personally asked me to fly ahead before he and the Court arrived.” Around them, the people of the Keep are still reeling as burnt wood and bodies continue to be removed from the rubble. Dozens of injured were being tended to by Maesters and acolytes from the surrounding Houses, most of the victims being servants and wedding guests.

It’s horrid to watch.

Almost everyone in Harrenhall had some kind of burn wound, from minor to severe, and moans of pain hover in the air of the great courtyard. House Strong had worked hard for many years to attempt to bring the massive Keep to a new age of glory, to better it’s image in the eyes of the Realm, but now the people are scared and miserable, the celebrations overshadowed by the losses; the Lord of the Keep, the Hand of the King, is dead, along with dozens of others, and they want someone to blame.

“My uncle and good-sister will be arriving shortly,” Rhaenyra assures her dear friends. “There is no one better to investigate the cause. We should begin preparing a list of who had access to the Lord’s quarters.”

“It was the Clubfoot,” Daemon states almost immediately after he and Laena arrive atop their fearsome mounts, sauntering into the chambers afforded to the Crown Princess’ stay, a splatter of blood on his handsome face and a wild look in his fierce eyes. “Honestly, if it weren’t for his loyalty to my good-sister’s cause, I’d respect the ambition. The man is a snake, and a sly one at that, but the prison guard he paid was all to happy to answer my questions when pressed.”

“The man’s used to being the smartest in the room,” Laena hums in agreement, dropping down to straddle Rhaenyra’s lap, red staining the hem of her teal gown and a smile full of teeth on her lovely face, as beautiful and as dangerous as the symbol of their House, and Rhaenyra pulls the other woman in for a passionate kiss full of fire.

“The Hand?” People say as the tale of the trial spreads. “Killed by his own son?”

“A cripple and a coward,” Rivermen spit in disgust over their ale after the execution. “A son of such an ancient bloodline, willing to burn his kin alive during a wedding, all for greed. A stain on House Strong, I say!”

“I heard he would visit the Queen’s chambers often,” maids would gossip amongst themselves.

“A punishment from the Seven,” lower level septas murmur, ashamed of the actions of their once-respected Hightower Queen, “entertaining lust from men not her husband – no wonder she has failed to birth a proper Prince after all these years.”

Your father’s wife is in contact with Cousin Boremund’s blout of a son, now with him taking ill. Maester Vaemond writes to his great-niece and her partners, Valyrian glyphs elegant in his practised hand. She courts his support for her son’s cause and claim, teasing the idea of making his young daughter Queen, even as her father curses Helaena’s betrothal to the North and Aegon’s in the Narrow Sea. He wishes to paint his grandchildren as the next Jaehaerys and Alysanne to your Maegor.

I have taken to speaking with my brother often, relaying your stories of young Jacaerys and his Baratheon hair, however Boremund in not a fool. Dowager Princess Jocelyn Baratheon Targaryen writes to Laenor some time later, replying to her grandson’s warnings of her nephew’s treason. He has not missed Borros’ ambitions, and is not blind to our shared blood. That fool boy has not been as quiet in his displeasure and treason as he had thought, and as his life comes to an end, Boremund knows he can no longer allow love to blind himself to the threat his son has become.

“Lord Borros Baratheon has sadly passed,” Maester Mellos reports at the next Small Council meeting, much to the astonishment of the other members and Rhaenyra’s lack of surprise, bar the Hand, as the position had yet to be filled. “Lady Jocelyn reports it as a hunting accident and a broken neck, and the Maesters agree.”

“Lord Boremund is ill,” Ser Tyland says grimly, now Master of Laws and likely hoping to be made Hand to the King, “and has no other sons, the lack of an heir to a Paramount Lordship could destabilize the entire Realm.”

Sitting as Master of Ships in place of Lord Corlys now, a symbol of his father’s pride, Laenor places his orb of polished sapphire and marble into the round table, brow rising, “Last I heard, my uncle has four heirs he could choose from.”

“Four young girls,” Lord Confessor Jasper Wylde says dispassionately. The man was on his fourth wife, and was a Stormlander himself; cold and calculated, he had no respect for any woman, much less any that held rank above him, but was subtle enough that nothing could be proven. Not even the suspicious deaths of his many wives could be linked to him. “The oldest of which is a mere ten namedays old.”

“My cousin Jeyne has ruled the Vale since she was an infant,” Rhaenyra speaks up, sitting in for her father and his ever-progressing illness, twisting her mother’s falcon ring around her finger. The King was dying, and they all knew it – the truth was as obvious as his missing arm, leaving most of the running of the Realm to Rhaenyra as his heir, but without giving her the power to make any official acts.

“Lady Arryn had a regent in her uncle, Lord Yorbert Royce, until she came of age,” Ser Tyland says, “and even then, her reign has been fraught in ways that could have been avoided.”

“A regent would be appointed,” Lord Lyman points out, “however, we must not forget that Lord Boremund still lives, as does the Dowager Princess Jocelyn.”

“Indeed,” Rhaenyra hums, “we must not get ahead of ourselves, as Lord Lyman says. Princess Rhaenys as already left for Storm’s End as a deterrent to any unrest that might be stirred up in the wake of Lord Borros’ passing.” She casts her gaze pointedly over the Council, bringing an end to any more talk of the issue of inheritance. “Now, is there anything else left to discuss?”

“The matter of the King’s lack of Hand still needs to be addressed,” Mellos says slowly. The old man seems nervous to mention it as Rhaenyra and Laenor both swing their dragonfire-gazes towards him, like two dragons pinning their prey in place with pure terror. He swallows, but manages to speak, “Perhaps – it would be best to summon someone with experience in these trying times?”

Of course; ever the Hightower dog, Mellos was trying to bring Otto Hightower back to King’s Landing.

“Ah,” Laenor says casually, an air of danger in his relaxed posture and sharp green-blue eyes, “let Ser Otto enjoy his retirement and his… hard-earned riches in peace. He’s not a young man anymore, after all.” His charismatic smile is a well-disguised threat, and Rhaenyra hums sweetly.

“My father and I have been discussing candidates to the position, but he still grieves Lord Lyonel, who was a dear friend,” she says calmly, “when he’s made the decision, you will all be the first to know. But until then, let us continue to uphold the peace of the Realm, yes?”

Chapter Text

Helaena Stark created by hiiitsme (Guest) using AI

Come the following years, the King’s health continues to decline, leaving the running of the Realm to his eldest child and heir, the much beloved Princess Rhaenyra, and his new Hand, one Lord Bartimos Celtigar of Claw Isle. The man had been Rhaenyra’s suggestion, a jolly and loyal man of a Valyrian House who had proven his loyalty to the Crown Princess’ claim over the years since her appointment as his liege lady. With his support, and without the Hightower agenda bogging her down, she’d been able to continue, unimpeded, with her plans and administrations, and King’s Landing had never been better for it. The people were fed and happy, the streets clean, and sparkling fountains lived every street, providing fresh water of all citizens. Everything screamed of the power of House Targaryen, of the care the Crown Princess held for her subjects, and they loved her for it.

For the past five years, Rhaenyra had been strengthening her position and support base, Laenor at her side, and Daemon and Laena at her back every step of the way, all of them preparing for the day King Viserys Targaryen, the First of His Name, passed the crown to his daughter. None of them had any doubt that the Hightowers wouldn’t declare war the moment the King was gone, that they wouldn’t step aside or put away their ambitions to place their own puppet King on the throne over Rhaenyra, no matter what she accomplished, but they could limit what support the Greens could court. If the people loved the Realm’s Delight and her children, then they wouldn’t stand a dragonless usurper.

She had gathered House Targaryen to her cause, uniting the House of the Dragon under her banner, because the only thing that could destroy their House, was itself. The elderly Septa Rhaella was her children’s tutor and minder, Maester Vaegon her eyes and ears in Oldtown, and she’d even brought the long-banished Princess Saera back to the shores of Westeros, where she had surprised them all by bonding with Vermithor, and gifting her great-aunt Ten Towers as her own Keep. Once the seat of House Harlaw, it would henceforth pass down through Saera Targaryen’s bloodline, through her grandson, Moredo Rogare, as House Rogare of Harlaw, and she had not hesitated to establish herself as Rhaenyra’s newest spymaster, disposing of the White Worm with ease and taking over the whore’s operations. With both Larra and Moredo, the favoured grandchildren of the prodigal princess, Rhaenyra had also gained the support and the gold of the Rogare Bank, filling the Crown’s coffers to the brim – she’d seen the Master of Coin shed tears of joy when he’d first been given the statements.

Her House was flourishing, her subjects were happy, and now, she just had to deal with the remaining Greens.

With her beloved cousin at her side, and their children gathered around them, Rhaenyra watches the Hightower procession enter the courtyard of the Red Keep. Jacaerys, now one and ten and such a good, intelligent lad, stands at attention to her left, dutiful in his role as Rhaenyra’s heir and the future King, side-by-side with sweet Luce, only a year his junior. Next to them is Artys, all of eight namedays, a parasol in hand to protect him from the glare of the summer sun and six namedays old Aemon’s hand in the other. The youngest of her children, twins of one, are held in their parent’s arms.

Viserys and Visenya Velaryon Targaryen had come as a surprise in the year 124AC, and the pregnancy had not been easy. Rhaenyra had already birthed four healthy sons before them, more than her mother ever had, and had been lucky in the birthing bed, but her darling twins had nearly killed her. After labouring for two days, her twins had come into the world with a struggle that had left Rhaenyra nearly bloodless and unconscious for a number of days. Together, they were like the sun and the moon, Viserys gold to Visenya’s silver, and Rhaenyra loved them desperately, but she had declared no more after their fifth and sixth child. She had once again been reminded of the blessing that is Laenor Velaryon when he’d agreed with an ease that no other man would have.

“I never even expected to have one child of my own blood before you,” Laenor had confided in her, taking in Viserys’ golden-brown skin and curls of pale gold as he held the indigo-eyed babe, and Rhaenyra cradled pale skinned, silver-haired, and lavender-eyed Visenya. “Thank you, Rhaenyra, truly.”

Now, a year later, with Helaena’s marriage to her Wolfblooded betrothed on the horizon, her father’s second wife and oldest sons are returning to the capital for the first time in five years, and Rhaenyra is determined to present a strong front. To remind her half-brothers and stepmother of who’s bloodline will control the Realm. A wedding had once hardened her resolve, and now, a wedding would show the fruits of her labours for the first time.

Alicent looks healthier than she had five years earlier, clad in a red gown much like those she had worn in the early years of her marriage, back when Rhaenyra, young and mourning, had once hoped that, mayhaps, she could bring herself to accept a family, even without her beloved mother. She had tried to keep her friendship with her former maid, lonely despite her hurt and feelings of betrayal, and had thought the young lady nothing more than Otto Hightower’s victim of ambitions, but when Aegon was born, that image had been shattered. She had learned the truth in the years between Aegon’s birth and her own wedding of the fate her mother had faced, of Alicent crawling into her father’s bed before her mother and brother were even settled into their tombs. Perhaps Alicent had started as naught but her father’s pawn, but she had become a player in her own right, seeking to place her own son on the throne. She wanted the power she, as a daughter of a second son with no land or keep or riches of her own, had never gotten before – as the mother of a King, she’d have that power, more than she could ever get even as a Consort to one.

Rhaenyra had loved this woman once, had loved the girl she had been, but Alicent was far from the girl who had once loved flowers and stories of knights, who would brush and braid the young princess’ hair and comfort her when her mother was ill and her father too busy.

“Welcome back to the Capital, stepmother,” Rhaenyra greets, her smile a well-practiced mask that she had long since perfected. Then, she looks to the tall young man who followed the Queen Consort, clad in all green, empty sleeve pinned to his shoulder and a sapphire-encrusted patch over his missing eye, his one remaining one remaining disdainful and cold until it lands on Helaena’s willowy frame, and it sparks with lust.

Her sweet sister had come so far from the pudgy, strange girl she had once been. She had blossomed on Dragonstone, her gifts mentored and nurtured by Septa Maegelle and the Valyrian priestesses, rather than smothered and ridiculed by the Hightowers’ faith. Now a young woman of six and ten, Helaena had grown beautiful in ways only a Targaryen could; her long silver-gold hair was loose, and braided away from her lovely face and doe-like blue eyes. Her sister had grown taller than Rhaenyra had been at her age, figure more womanly in ways Rhaenyra’s hadn’t been before Jacaerys’ birth, and while her beauty was not as ethereal as Rhaenyra’s own, no one could deny Helaena’s loveliness.

“My,” Rhaenyra says sweetly, “how you’ve grown Aemond, you look well.”

“Princess,” her second brother says dismissively, then he smiles at Helaena, an admittedly charming expression on his sharp features. “Helaena, you’re stunning, dear sister. The most beautiful in the Realm, I would say.”

“You’re too kind, brother,” sweet Helaena says kindly. “Truly, every lady must feel the loveliest in the Realm nearing their wedding. I thank you for joining Lord Cregan and I for the celebrations.” Her words are elegant and well-spoken, and Rhaenyra can’t quite hide her faint amusement at the shock in Alicent’s eyes at Helaena’s clear eyes and proud stature.

Honestly, had she truly believed her daughter to be simple or mad?

“Sweet girl,” Alicent simpers, stepping forward as if she was expecting Helaena to fall into her arms. “I’ve missed you. No mother should be separated from her beloved daughter; it’s been far too long.” Blind to the princess’ discomfort, she clasps her daughter’s hands in her own, playing the part of a loving mother, despite spending the past ten years ignoring the girl’s existence if it didn’t suit her whims.

“You look healthy, Your Grace,” Helaena replies woodenly, far too kind, “the Reach’s climate did you well.”

“Come,” Rhaenyra smiles pleasantly, “you’ve had a long journey, I will have servants help you to your chambers.”

“My daughter will help us, stepdaughter,” Alicent says coldly. “We have years to make up for; now that she’s to become a wedded woman, Helaena needs her mother’s guidance.”

Gently extracting her hands from Alicent’s grasp, before tucking them into her soft grey and purple skirts, Helaena replies, “Another time, perhaps, Your Grace.” Her words are polite, but forced, eyes starting to dart around now that she had been touched without her consent. “I have other duties to attend to before the ceremony. Alysanne and Sara are expecting me to join them shortly for my fitting.” With that, Helaena steps back from their father’s wife, curtsying gracefully before sweeping away in a sweep of her skirts.

“Well then,” Rhaenyra hums, amused in the face of the ugly embarrassment on the Hightower’s expression, and the cold calculation in Otto’s eyes. Gently, she passes Visenya to her wetnurse, kissing her brow fondly, and saying to her children, “Off you go, my darlings, back to your lessons. Your Kepus is expecting you in the training yard.”

“I see your marriage has proven fruitful, Princess,” Otto says stiffly as the children scatter once they’ve been dismissed and little Vis has also been passed to a wetnurse, Aemon and Artys trailing after the babes dutifully, leaving their parents with the Greens.

“I truly have been blessed,” Rhaenyra demurs, and Laenor chuckles, kissing her temple.

“The people call her the Mother reborn,” he brags slyly, offering her his arm dutifully as they lead the Hightowers into the Keep. “Six children in ten years of marriage, each with an egg hatched in the cradle – it’s a feet never before seen in Westeros’ history.” Laenor’s tone remains innocent, a proud and doting father sharing stories of his beloved children and wife. “Our Jace even mounted Vermax at seven – following in his mother’s footsteps, I say! He’ll be an amazing King one day! And Luce – he’s a natural mariner, and is already one of the best shots in King’s Landing! Artys is one of Daemon’s sharpest students at the sword, and Aemon is already sharper than a boy twice his age. I couldn’t be prouder.”

“They all have dragons?” Alicent asks sourly, her son green with envy at her side, and Laenor’s beautiful smile is a charismatic thing, mischief in his teal eyes.

“Indeed they do, as do all three of my nieces.”

“The twins’ eggs hatched just last moon,” Rhaenyra says proudly, not even needing to fake it while she studies their reactions. “Shrykos and Morghul.” Both hatchlings were beautiful little things, their eggs sourced from the Dragonmont. Shrykos, named for the goddess of beginnings and bound to Viserys, was a she-dragon with light cream scales and golden horns, her membranes and belly a light bronze and eyes like the sun. Visenya’s dragon, named Morghul for the god of endings, had scales and horns like dragonglass that gleamed in the sun, and helped the young drake disappear in the shadows, leaving eyes of piercing rubies the only sign of his presence.

“What of the unclaimed beasts?” Alicent demands distrustfully, hands like claws gripping the Dragon Thief’s remaining arm.

Making a show of soothing the mad woman for their audiences as they enter the guest tower where the Hightowers would remain during the wedding, afforded to them only as the bride’s family, while only Alicent and her son would be housed in the royal wing, Rhaenyra assures; “All unclaimed dragons have been moved to the Dragonmont, where they can have more spacious lairs, now that so many dragons stay in King’s Landing regularly.” Only bonded dragons and fossilized eggs remained in King’s Landing, a plan presented by Rhaenys as they prepared for the Queen’s return. They couldn’t, after all, risk the chance that any of Alicent’s sons claimed a mount that could be used against them.

Helaena’s loyalty was guaranteed already, while Daeron, of age with Jace, had not once seen his mother’s kin since he was a babe, but was still Alicent’s son. He hadn’t seen the woman since his fifth year, and barely remembered the woman who had birthed him, but he could still be used as a rallying cause to give legitimacy to the Greens. To the boy, Alicent Hightower being his mother was only a concept, because Laena had been the one to raise him amongst her own daughters, treating him and Trystane like they were her own, but they could not risk him gaining a dragon.

However, in the years since he’d been taken into their uncle’s care, and away from his mother, her youngest half-brother had grown almost unrecognizable to the babe he had once been.

“Why doesn’t the Queen like Larra, mandia?” Daeron asks some days later after Aegon had arrived and all four of Alicent’s children had been all-but forced to dine with the disgraced Queen, and Rhaenyra helps the boy care for his shoulder-length dark hair. Much like Jace’s, and Rhaenys’ before them, it had begun to grow in in patches of pale silver as he’s grown, surrounded by old Valyrian magic, but unlike her son’s Baratheon curls, which had recently turned completely white-gold, Daeron’s remained mostly brown.

It hadn’t stopped the whispers of his parentage in the eyes of the Realm, but it proved to Rhaenyra that, like Helaena, he wasn’t completely without Targaryen blood.

“Well,” Rhaenyra starts delicately, “my stepmother has always held disdain for Valyrian customs – any custom not of the Seven, to be frank, and Lady Larra is a Valyrian lady from Lys, and descended from a disgraced Princess.”

Daeron frowns thoughtfully, “But she’s my betrothed. Kepus says that we’ll have a keep in the Dornish Marches together.” Summerhall was an ambitious project Daemon had undertaken recently, planning to build a new seat near the border with Dorne to guard the Dornish Marches from future incursions, for not even the recent betrothal between Rhaena and the second child of Prince Qoren Martell could ease his suspicions of one of their greatest rivals. The future founding of House Nymeros of Bloodstone through Rhaena’s children may have been made to ease tensions with the Dornish, and young Qyle Martell’s betrothal to his daughter used to finalize their delicate alliance, but Daemon was not likely to trust future rulers of Dorne to respect that alliance.

Rhaenyra smiles gently as she sets aside the brush, Daeron’s Reachman-curls glossy, and she kisses the boy’s brow. “She’s always been the envious sort, wanting things not her own, but you have the blood of Old Valyria, pay her opinions no mind.”

Despite a few unsuccessful attempts to ruin it, Helaena’s wedding before the Heart Tree, following the traditions of the North, is beautiful, and ends with Helaena exchanging her Targaryen cloak of black and red for one of soft white fur, emblazoned not with a Stark direwolf, but a shimmering blue beaded dragon done in Dreamfyre’s likeness that, paired with the crown of winter roses nestled in her pale hair, makes her sweet sister look like a winter spirit, her expression the happiest Rhaenyra had ever seen. She’s proud of the girl she had raised, her sister in blood, but closer to her daughter in bond, and she knows that Cregan Stark will treat her like a queen, for already he has made plans for glass gardens to be erected to house Helaena’s collection of crawling bugs and jeweled butterflies, and a dragon pit for Dreamfyre to be built near steaming hot springs for comfort.

Not even Alicent’s pearl clutching about blasphemy, Aegon’s slack-jawed shock, or Aemond’s jealous fit could ruin it for the wedded couple as they retreat to their chambers. In the following weeks, they would mount Dreamfyre and fly to Winterfell to claim their seat from Cregan’s uncle with the full support of the Crown, but for now, they will enjoy their celebrations and the well wishes of the Realm. Rhaenyra is happy for her little sister, the only one of her siblings she had loved from the start; Court was never where Helaena would blossom, and in the North, with a loyal husband who loved her, Helaena would get to live her life to the fullest.

Helaena and Daeron were both innocent, and, perhaps, Aegon and Aemond had been once too, but before Rhaenyra had been too young and bitter to see that, to reach out to them that she knows now, as a mother herself, she should have, and now… they showed no signs of changing their ways. Aemond had grown at his mother’s skirts, the perfect little Hightower; green with envy and grasping for things not his own.

And Aegon?

Aegon had become a monster.

“My niece!” Ser Tyland Lannister shouts, face red in fury as the King weakly orders everyone out but the Royal Family and Aegon’s poor victim, and his wide-eyed betrothed. The girl is lovely, with golden curls and big green eyes, but her pretty face is bruised and her gold and red gown is torn as she sobs into her uncle’s hold. This isn’t a maid Alicent can silence, not a peasant that can be brushed under the rug. “My maiden niece – he ruined her!”

Aegon is drunk and half-dressed, being fussed over by his shrill mother, but doesn’t seem to care about the girl he forced himself upon, or the consequences of his actions. Minae Celtigar looks horrified and disgusted, backing away from the young prince she was set to marry and into her grandfather’s side. Rhaenyra will not force the fierce young lady to wed the monster her half-brother had become, not when she had hoped a second chance and firmer hand would curb Aegon’s worst impulses, and Aegon had only proven to her that he would not change.

“The girl lies!” Alicent shrieks accusingly, and young Cerelle Lannister, the eldest child of Lord Jason Lannister and Lady Johanna Westerling, only six and ten, shies away from the Queen. “My Aegon would never lower himself to such an act!” Her former maid is grasping desperately for allies in the room, frantic and hysterical for her son’s ruined image now that she can no longer hide it.

Ser Tyland looks about ready to spit fire, and Rhaenyra, standing at the foot of the Iron Throne as her ill father holds court, ever the rare occurrence, is admittedly impressed. She would have expected the Lannisters to do as the Hightowers had with Alicent, but the Master of Laws seems to be genuine as he defends his niece from the Queen Consort. “That – beast of yours attacked my brother’s daughter,” he snarls, and Alicent gasps.

“How dare you, Ser,” she sneers, looking down her nose at the man, “speak so poorly of the firstborn son of the King! I should have your tongue for this!”

“Alicent!” King Viserys’ cane snaps against the melted steel that made up their seat of power, but it saps his strength to do so, breath rattling weakly in his chest as he sags, trying to gather himself. “That’s enough. Let Ser Tyland present his case, and allow the girl to speak.”

“He’s my son,” Alicent pleads, obviously trying to stop the show this had become, “our son, Viserys.” Despite her words, the King ignores her, turning instead to the Lannister knight, and his tearful, frightened niece.

“Perhaps we might reach an agreement,” the ill man rasps after the story is told, a fraught thing from a shaken girl, of the prince cornering her in the gardens, heavily drunk, and forcing himself on her violently before her uncle had found them, and only the intervention of Ser Gwayne Hightower had allowed Aegon to keep his head. It makes Rhaenyra feel ill and pale to hear. Lord Jason had arrived part way through the tale, bringing with him Otto Hightower, the plotting cunt, and was now addressing the King himself.

“No House will accept her now,” the Lord Paramount of the West says tightly, the look in his green eyes accusing his daughter for the attack, while his pregnant wife glares at him from her good-brother’s side. “This will ruin her and any future alliance she might have gained our House.”

“Then Aegon will take responsibility for his actions,” her father declares, much to Rhaenyra’s horror and dismay for the poor girl, his gaze on his eldest son, disappointed, “he will take her to wife properly.”

“Father-”

“I accept your terms, Your Grace,” Lord Jason says proudly.

“Better than that fucking rock,” Aegon grumbles, swaying drunkenly as Alicent returns to fussing over him.

“A wise choice, Your Grace,” Ser Otto simpers, obviously pleased as the Lord of Casterly Rock agrees to a quick marriage with the ease that seemed to show that the two of them had planned for something like this happening, and, just like that, Rhaenyra knows she needs a new plan.

Chapter Text

The marriage of Prince Aegon Targaryen and Lady Cerelle Lannister is a quick, rushed affair, but it’s lavishly paid for by Lannister gold and Hightower silver, and despite the tears of the frightened bride, the High Septon blesses the union, and the bride’s father claims it a tale of two passionate lovers engaged in a speedy love affair similar to that of the Old King and the Good Queen.

She had gotten too complacent in the last years, too arrogant from her victories as her influence spread through the Realms and she strengthened her claim over that of the Hightowers. Rhaenyra would need to rewrite her plans now, with the Greens officially gaining the full power of the Westerlands through their chosen heir’s Lannister wife, taking advantage of Aegon’s monstrous actions and a terrified girl like they had years before, when they had sent Alicent to warm the widowed King’s bed.

“Kill him,” Daemon suggests blandly, sipping on his wine as Laenor lounges nearby, and Laena combs her thick curls, smiling in amusement in the gilded mirror.

Rhaenyra sighs, “We cannot solve every problem with murder, kepus.”

“It is a viable option,” Laena muses, her gaze mischievous, so Rhaenyra flicks a grape at the back of her head, enjoying her lover’s squawk of offense as it gets stuck in her mane of pale hair.

“Aegon is still kin, no matter his crimes,” she reminds the other three dragonriders, “and I would rather not become a kinslayer unless absolutely necessary.”

“Befriend your good-sister,” Laenor suggests, shifting into Daemon’s lap lazily, but his seaglass eyes are worried and sad. “She will likely not feel too generous towards her father, or her new husband, and the Queen did not make a good first impression. So we win her to our side, and should she birth a child, stop the Hightowers or Lannisters from laying claim it it.”

Rhaenyra smiles fondly, kissing her lovely husband quickly, saying, “And this is why you’re to be my King Consort, sweet cousin.” She looks pointedly to Daemon and Laena, the more bloodthirsty of their arrangement, and they both smile back, unrepentant and not even bothering to play innocent. “You two are menaces.”

“I never wanted this,” Cerelle sobs into her arms two moons later, her small body already beginning to swell with child, and she clings desperately to Rhaenyra’s black gown. Gently, Rhaenyra brushes her hands through the girl’s yellow hair, rocking her as she would her own children. “I hate them! I hate them all!”

Aegon, now that he’s been wed, is a permanent resident in the Red Keep once more, as is his mother, as Otto and Aemond had returned to Oldtown not long after, no doubt to continue Aemond’s education into becoming the next Otto Hightower. He’s already returned to his old ways, whoring himself around the Street of Silk, but his fighting pits are gone, the children with too-thin bodies and sharpened teeth he had once used for entertainment have been rescued and given new starts away from King’s Landing. The true depravity of his actions had disgusted Rhaenyra when Saera had discovered it, and had the boy not been of her blood, she would have killed him herself. Already, he ignores his young, sacrificial wife unless heavily drunk, and even then, Cerelle had begun to fight back viciously enough that he had chosen to spend his time elsewhere; her young good-sister is a fierce little lioness, who hates the Greens just as much as Rhaenyra herself.

“I know,” Rhaenyra soothes, kissing the crown of the girl’s head.

“It’s not fair,” the little Lannister says furiously as the months pass.

“It’s not,” the Crown Princess agrees.

“Never let this happen again, please,” Cerelle begs the closer she gets to the birthing bed and her strength wanes, bones visible and fragile in her thin wrists as she clings to her mother and good-sister. “Please.”

“I’ll make a new order of things,” Rhaenyra swears to her, as she once had said, full of youthful arrogance, to Princess Rhaenys when the older Targaryen had warned her of what men were capable of. Their world would always hurt little girls if it wasn’t stopped, there would always be another Aemma Arryn, wed too young and too fast, or another Cerelle Lannister, hurt and abused but forced to marry the monster who had done so to her. “When I am Queen, something like this will never be allowed to happen again.”

“Have him killed,” Princess Saera advises her bluntly when she arrives in King’s Landing for the first time since she herself was still half a child, this time atop her father’s fierce bronze dragon, now her own bonded mount, a familiar fury in her violet eyes. It’s the fury of a woman, one who had been raised to be quiet and pretty and nothing more than a body to provide heirs, for it was even the fate of Princesses of the Blood to be only a bartering chip for their fathers. She’d been sent away by the Old King when she’d gotten too spirited, too wild for him to control, locked away in a Sept where she was hurt and abused until she escaped to make her own way in the world, and now she is powerful and untouchable, with riches she had accumulated for herself, and the Bronze Fury defending her back. “I never liked those fucking Hightowers. All of them are the same.”

In the end, they don’t have to kill Aegon, because Cerelle Lannister does it for them, before throwing herself from the tallest tower in Maegor’s Holdfast, not wanting to die in the birthing bed and using the last of her strength to have her vengeance, leaving two silver-haired newborns completely orphaned and unnamed, still covered in birthing fluids.

“Cursed,” the people murmur when they think of Aegon the Monster of the Streets and the small babes of Targaryen colouring, drenched in the blood of both of their parents.

“Demons,” the Queen Consort is heard crying, when asked if she will hold her grandchildren, inconsolable after the bloody castration and murder of her firstborn son.

“Ill borne,” the High Septon claims, refusing to bless the royal orphans.

“Jaehaerys and Jaehaera,” Helaena breathes as she pleads her case, having flown all the way from Winterfell even before word had reached her, clutching both tiny babes to her chest. “Give them to me, and I shall call them my own. I will raise them to be loved and happy. They will fear not the beasts beneath the boards, and the only Blood they will know will be the words of our House.”

“I see not a reason to deny her,” Rhaenyra says to their grieving father, who had once again buried a child’s ashes before his own. “I think it would be good for them, to grow sheltered from the cruelty of court and the way they’re spoken of.”

“Aemond is quite possibly a greater threat than his brother,” Rhaenys warns after Helaena has returned to her snow capped North astride Dreamfyre, taking with her young Prince Jaehaerys and Princess Jaehaera Targaryen. “Aegon had no drive – he expected to be given what he wanted, as the firstborn son, but Aemond-” her good-mother sighs, kissing Visenya’s brow before waving her youngest granddaughter off to toddle back to her siblings and cousins. “He is more than willing to take what he wants. He’s smarter than his brother, the heir to Otto Hightower’s ambitions and cunning; Grandmother used to tell me of Maegor, stories she had been told of how he was before he went mad. Aemond could very well become Maegor the Second.”

“He’s also much more discreet than his brother,” Lord Corlys, fresh from his most recent journey and laden with rich gifts for his beloved grandchildren, agrees, peeling the rough-textured red shell from the fruits he had brought them from Yi-Ti. He’d always been an ambitious man, on par even with Otto Hightower, but the birth of his grandchildren had soften him, had smoothed out the sharp edges of expectation with every small babe placed in his scarred arms. Hands that had killed hundreds, that had ripped apart pirates and raiders and wielded great swords as he led men into battle for the glory of House Velaryon, now handled small bodies with care and softness, tender as he tended to scraped knees and excitable little dragonriders. “And with the whoremonger’s death, the Greens will be much more aware of possible assassination plots as they shift their plans to revolve around their new figurehead.”

“Ser Otto will be looking to establish a marriage alliance with his grandson,” Rhaenys hums thoughtfully. “Most likely, he’ll look to some of the richer Houses. The Redwyne fleet is the second-most powerful in the Realm, and the third most powerful House in the Reach after the Tyrells and the Hightowers themselves. And the Tyrells already have an alliance with our cause through Dowager Lady Elys.”

“Aemma’s sister,” Daemon hums absently as he sharpens Dark Sister.

“What of the Tullys?” Laenor asks, but Rhaenyra shakes her head.

“Lord Grover is a stubborn old lout,” she says, “but his heir is my Aunt Amanda’s son, and cousin Elmo’s wife is my former Lady-in-Waiting.”

Leanor’s head tilts thoughtfully, likely searching his memories of Rhaenyra’s former Ladies, all of whom had made advantageous matches through their service to the Crown Princess. “The Celtigar?” He ventures, likely remembering the flaxen haired young woman, “Dibella?”

“Prunella,” Laena corrects delicately, smiling fondly.

“Ser Clement’s sister!” Laenor finally places, grinning in remembrance of his one-time companion and the new Commander of the City Watch.

The Crown Princess nods, sipping her wine, “There are no Tully daughters of the correct age. Elmo has two sons of an age with Jace, and a daughter of five.”

“Future Lady for Senya,” Laenor notes thoughtfully, and Rhaenyra hums in agreement.

“Lord Redwyne has a daughter who’s recently flowered,” Laena shares. “I heard the Reach Ladies speaking of it during Helaena’s wedding.”

“I have no doubt news has reached Oldtown of it,” Rhaenys says simply.

The girl was only one and ten, the same age Rhaenyra’s own mother had been when she was wedded and bedded, and it had forever impacted her sweet mother’s health. She had little doubt, however, that the Hightowers would care that they’d likely be damning another child to a miserably short life, as long as they could get a broodmare out of it. Mayhaps Alicent would not have stood for it, when she had still been the shy girl Rhaenyra had known, but the years had changed her, and now she had lost her firstborn son to the girl who had been forced to marry him.

Cerelle had been a fierce girl in the short time Rhaenyra had gotten to know her for, full of bitterness and anger towards the men of the Realm. She had been raped and sold, reduced to nothing more than a tool for her father and the King, and Rhaenyra had pitied the girl. Now that she was dead, she also found herself respecting her good-sister and her choice to die on her own terms, taking what little control of her life back as she could, and thankful for the opportunity she had given her.

“Lord Jason Lannister is dead,” the Grand Maester reports to the Small Council moons later. “A burst belly, the Lady Lannister reports.”

“My condolences for yet another loss, so soon after your niece, Ser Tyland,” Rhaenyra says smoothly, without even a blink of her eyes that could have hinted to the Lords of her part in the Lord Paramount’s death. Never again, she had promised Cerelle, and Johanna had been so very interested when she’d heard Rhaenyra and Laena discussing the knowledge Lord Corlys had found in Yi-Ti on the usage of alchemy.

“I suppose you shall be returning to Casterly Rock, then,” Lord Jasper rasps, pale eyes glittering in his wane face, his body being ravaged by what the maesters could only describe as an incurable blood illness he had inherited from his ancestors. “You are now Lord Paramount of the West.”

Having replaced Mellos after the elderly man’s unexpected but unsurprising death in his sleep, Gerardys shakes his head. The man had been in service to House Targaryen since before Rhaenyra had been born, though he’d only been a young acolyte then, and Rhaenyra herself had been the one to convince her father to appoint him to the Small Council. He was kin, after all, though it wasn’t known outside of House Targaryen. Fathered by Jaehaerys on a maid during one of his separations from Queen Alysanne, Gerardys was of an age with King Viserys, though appeared much younger, his Valyrian colouring well-disguised on Dragonstone, and now in King’s Landing, his features, those of House Targaryen, were not spoken of. “The Lady Dowager has announced that, with no son, the title will pass to her husband’s eldest surviving child,” the maester corrects. “Lady Johanna will act as regent for her daughter, the Lady Tyshara Lannister, until she comes of age.”

Ser Tyland is stiff in his seat, green eyes bitter, but there were no laws he could call on to say he had a better claim to the Lordship than his brother’s eldest living daughter, not in front of Rhaenyra, the heir to the Iron Throne. Jason Lannister, young and virile with six trueborn daughters and thrice as many bastards, had never named his twin brother his heir, no doubt expecting to have a son eventually. He could, of course, petition the Crown to advance his claim, but Rhaenyra knew he was smarter than his fool of an elder brother. Now, with something as simple as an enraged mother and the hidden poison, the Greens had lost their greatest supporter as, without Lord Jason, House Lannister would not back the Hightowers, not after what happened to Cerelle, and not for their loosing cause.

A marriage and a murder – things truly had come around full circle. Now, all that was left was to remove Aemond, and leave Otto and Alicent without a puppet to rally their banners to.

Chapter Text

On Dragonstone, there are three well-known wild dragons that have never been tamed, and of them, only two might, someday, be ridden. Legends local to Cape Coral, the once-small fishing settlement and now teeming trading port, tell that the largest of them, called the Cannibal by the denizens of the island, had been nesting upon the eastern edge of the Dragonmont since before the Doom of Old Valyria and the Century of Blood, though it’s reported size begged to differ. Being closer in size to Vermithor, rather than the massive Vhagar, who had hatched in 29BC and was not yet the size Balerion had been when the ancient dragon, who had once lived in the ancient Empire, had died, had Dragonkeepers doubting the tales. Coal black and with eyes of wildfyre, few ever saw the cannibalistic dragon and lived to tell the tale of it, for it would eat anything, from men to fellow dragons, and any foolish would-be dragonlord that approached, would never return.

Unlike their darker counterpart, the remaining two wild dragons were less of a threat, and were rarely aggressive, though Sheepstealer, a drake with umber scales comparable in size to Caraxes, could be ill-tempered and vicious if it felt threatened. It preferred the taste of mutton, though had attacked the odd shepherd and their hounds when interrupted, and was easily frightened off if another drake approached.

Finally, was the dragon called the Grey Ghost, a small phantom that few ever saw, but was assumed to be younger than Syrax and Seasmoke, and older than Vermax, given it’s few sightings. Some claimed it to be the colour of mist at dawn, with flames that were near colourless, and it had never been reported to be aggressive to men. Instead, it was known to dive in the Blackwater and Narrow Sea, fishing for it’s meals of small sharks or dolphins, rarely ever interacting with either man or fellow dragon.

So, one could imagine her surprise when, after being alerted to a problem in the hatchery by a young acolyte, she had arrived to find one of her wards, all of six and ten, clinging, wide-eyed, to Grey Ghost’s deceptively delicate neck as the pale dragon curls protectively around little Shrykos and Morghul, staring back at her with wary carnelian eyes. There are two dead Dragonkeepers in the corner, throats slit, and a smoldering carcass in the center of the chamber, filling the space with the unpleasant scent of burning flesh.

“Addam, darling,” Rhaenyra calls, stepping warily into the warm volcanic chamber, “are you hurt?”

Locs falling around his face, dark indigo eyes dazed, Addam swallows. “N-no, Muña.” He looks to the dragon below him as it begins to relax, releasing her youngests’ hatchlings from under it’s glass-like wings slowly, as if unsure. “Grey Ghost – he saved me when the thief was going to kill me too – I left my sword in the training yard for my lessons with Master Daegon and-” her ward looks back to Rhaenyra, lovely brown skin paling in fright and realization. “Is the King going to kill me? I didn’t – I didn’t mean to bond with him – I just couldn’t let him steal Vis’ or Senya’s dragons. Or hurting them when they arrived for their lessons.”

“No, Addam,” Rhaenyra promises him calmly as her husband’s bastard slides from Grey Ghost’s back, careful of the delicate frills and fins, telling signs of an aquatic dragon. “You could have just saved his grandchildren. I promise you, Addam, he won’t, not when he hears what happened.”

“Rise, Ser Addam Belaerys,” King Viserys says before the Court days later, when tales of his bravery in protecting his half-siblings is shared. “Rise, Ser Addam the Valiant, and be welcome.”

“Why Belaerys?” Rhaenyra asks of Laenor as, reeling, the newly legitimized and knighted baseborn dragonseed bows to the ailing King as he’s draped in his new heraldry, a gray dragon in flight on a sea of teal.

“Daemon’s suggestion,” Laenor replies, clapping proudly, lips twitching with laughter. “Fit for an adventurer, he said.” He unrolls the royal writ, turning it so Rhaenyra can read it. “I didn’t expect him to legitimize all three of them though, and I doubt Addam would have either when he protected Shrykos and Morghul.”

“All three?” Rhaenyra echoes in surprise, tugging it closer to read the expensive sheet. “Laenyra Qoherys? Netty won’t be pleased that she’s legally a Lady now.”

Netty absolutely isn’t pleased with her new title.

“I won’t wear the fucking dress,” the girl refuses as she stands in her chambers, looking ready to spit fire, dark eyes burning and scarred, crooked nose wrinkling with her sneer. “If I gotta be a Lady, then I’ll do it in leather.”

“A long tunic, at least?” Rhaenyra pleads tiredly of the teenaged girl, wishing the wild girl were more like Helaena or Rhaena in that moment, just wanting this fitting to be over with.

Poor Rhaena looks ready to stab her cousin with a needle as she works with Rhaenyra’s youngest Lady-in-Waiting, Elinda Massey, to design the newly legitimized girl a new wardrobe in the colours of her new House – black, red and yellow, and silver. It had been decided that Netty’s new heraldry would echo those of the original House Qoherys, in honour of the extinct Valyrian House that had once served the Targaryens of Old as castellans, and followed them to Dragonstone when they had fled the Doom, save for the white skulls, replaced instead with silver tridents, Netty’s weapon of choice.

“You can wear your leather underneath, just like Baela does,” Rhaena scolds calmly, expression placid as a beautiful lake, periwinkle eyes sharp, and Laenyra quiets sheepishly as the younger girl points towards her with the needle, as if it were a sword she was wielding. “Muña and Muñus need us to present a strong front for One-Eye’s wedding, and that includes wearing a dress in your House colours. To send a message.”

“We already had to do that,” Netty complains under her breath, “and the funeral was barely six moons ago.”

Poor little Lady Patricia Redwyne had been wed to Aemond at two and ten, and by three and ten she was dead, her body too young and small to survive childbirth, still a child herself. Her babe had been born alive, but small and ill formed. A sickly boy without an arm, he had quickly contracted Grayscale from an infected wetnurse, but Gaemon Flowers, deemed a bastard for his deformities, had lived, despite the odds. Disfigured, but still breathing, in thanks to the constant care of Archmaester Vaegon and the immune Septa Maegelle, and, had it not been for his minor deformity and scars, Rhaenyra has no doubt that the Greens would be flaunting the babe for all to see his pale strawberry-gold hair, violet eyes, and sweet little freckles, declaring him Aemond’s much-awaited heir.

Now, a mere six moons after his young wife’s death, Aemond was remarrying, and Rhaenyra is adding another name to the long list of little girls who suffered for a man’s ambition.

Myrielle Peake is naught but a girl of ten, nervous but eager to please her cold father, and likely the only girl whose Lord Father would agree to wed to a landless prince of nine and ten who had already been the death of one wife. He had no riches or title to offer, and very little support to his claim to the Iron Throne compared to the King’s chosen heir, who had ruled the Realm in all but name for nearly ten years, and who had six healthy, dragon-riding heirs of her own.

“I cannot believe Alicent would agree to this,” Rhaenyra growls in disgust as Lord Unwin Peake hands his young daughter, who was clutching a doll to her chest for comfort, to the man who stood before the High Septon.

“There’s no law against it,” Jace says grimly at her side, gripping her arm. Five and ten and already so Kingly in how he holds himself, and Rhaenyra’s pride. He’d been the King’s cupbearer since he was eight namedays old, and had been learning in her shadow to rule ever since. Her Jacaerys was, much like his father, naturally charismatic, and the Lords all sang his praises. “There should be, but there isn’t. Lady Myrielle has flowered, and her father agreed.”

“Can’t Grandsire stop it?” Luce asks tearfully, and his betrothed, sweet Floris Baratheon, squeezes his hand in comfort. Her second born would always be small for his age, much like Rhaenyra herself, who had inherited it from her own mother, and was the most talented archer in the Realm. Only four and ten, he already had the making of an amazing naval commander, but remained a sensitive child, easy to upset but easier to smile. “He’s the King.”

“He’s too ill,” Artys huffs, a frown on his pale face, and soft white curls tumbling to his shoulders. The most physically delicate of her children, and shorter than even his immediate younger brother despite being two and ten to Aemon’s nine, he would always be that too-small babe she had birthed two moons early, but he was strong. Despite his weak eyesight, her little falcon prince was a natural with a sword, quick and sure-footed, with a beauty that could turn heads. His own betrothed, young Henrietta Woodhull, remained in the Vale, one of Jeyne’s wards and chosen specifically by her Arryn cousin for her charm.

Aemon, holding Viserys’ hand at one side, and Visenya’s in the other, hums. He had inherited Daemon’s stature, tall and willowy and likely to fill out with lean muscle, though he was less of a warrior than either of his fathers despite his physical similarities to his sire. Scholarly and often solemn, he was only a year younger than the young bride, but he was by far much more intelligent than his age betrayed, and acted much older. “He gave our Lady Step-Grandmother full control of Uncle Aemond’s marriage, and he is of age,” he points out seriously.

Young and bored, with a head of golden curls, Viserys sways in place, indigo eyes flitting. Only six, he cared naught for politics or ceremony, whereas his twin sister Visenya was the embodiment of a perfectly polite princess, though both twins had a tendency to bite and fight with the viciousness of little dragons. They would both have a lot of energy to burn off once they returned to the Keep, if their squirming meant anything.

“Father said it wouldn’t hurt,” Myrielle Peake confides in her when Rhaenyra approaches the young girl with an invitation for cake and juice weeks later when the Greens are no longer watching their new bride as closely. The girl-child’s freckled face is pale, her light brown hair messy, and dark eyes wet as she picks at her strawberry tart without enthusiasm. “Titus said this is what the Gods made women for. But it did hurt, a lot. I don’t want to do it again.” The little girl begins to cry, then, big fat tears running down her chubby cheeks, and Rhaenyra hurts for this too-young child, imaging her own mother in her place. She’d never been able to meet Patricia Redwyne when Aemond had wed her, and she wonders if the little red-haired Lady had felt the same, locked away in the High Tower, with no one to turn to.

“Aemond,” she orders briskly the moment she catches sight of him in the training yard, a book in hand as he watched Baela and Netty spar with Laenor, before he looks back at her with a cool gaze, but not before sweeping his remaining eye over the tops of her breasts where her red gown cut across her chest. “Walk with me.”

“Of course, sister,” her brother replies snidely, smirking. “I wouldn’t dare disobey a direct order.”

“Myrielle,” Rhaenyra states once they’re away from the crowd, Ser Joffrey at her side and Ser Gwayne behind his nephew. “You will not bed her again. She’s a child.”

Aemond chuckles, as if he found his child-bride’s suffering amusing. “Not according to the doctrine of the Seven, she’s not. Myrielle is my wife, you have no say in my marriage bed.” His head tilts just slightly, dirty blond hair hiding his melted, twisted ear, and smirk growing. “You don’t need to threaten me, sister, we are civilized, are we not? If you want me to give up my rights as a married man, then I want something in return.”

Rhaenyra’s eyes narrow slightly with her own desire to unsheathe Skyfyre and run him through with it, and Syrax’s roar from the Dragonpit is audible, and unvoiced threat, but she lets Aemond talk, lets him think he’s in control. Smarter than Aegon he may be, but arrogance is the folly of youth and man alike. He might grow to be the next Otto Hightower, but he wasn’t yet; right now, he was nothing more than a man-child wielding a delusion of grandeur fed by the people around him.

“I want a dragon,” he tells her arrogantly, “and an egg. Give me those, and you’ll have my word that I’ll find my pleasure with others, rather than my wife. I’ll even turn custody of her over to you, dear sister.”

“I have Blood and Cheese watching the One-Eye,” Daemon tells them later, “looking for an opening to remove him, but the cunt is more careful than his wastrel of a brother.”

“Mayhaps, if we’re lucky, a dragon will finally finish him off,” Laena says, cruel and bloodthirsty at the thought, and Rhaenyra doesn’t blame her cousin and lover for her amusement. Aemond had not been discreet with his leering or disgusting words when speaking over the Valyrian women and girls in the Keep.

“I don’t want to risk him getting to bond with a large dragon,” Rhaenyra sighs, twisting a ring around her finger thoughtfully.

Soft and soothing, Laenor takes her smaller hands into his own, rubbing the calluses she had gained over the years. Aunt Saera’s advice on how to shed the access weight she had gained after birthing six babes had done her well, helping her aching joints and swollen knuckles, and making it easier to continue riding her beloved Golden Lady, and wielding Skyfyre. She would never be as slim as she had been in her youth, but she remained healthy and active.

“The King has given you full control of who gets a dragon and when,” he says as the tension drains from his wife’s shoulders. “Addam and Grey Ghost have proven that we could allow Alyn, Netty, and Trystane to attempt to bond with what dragons are left.”

“We have two possible mounts, and three loyal dragonseeds,” Daemon muses thoughtfully. “After Silverwing and Sunfyre, there’s only really Sheepstealer and the Cannibal large enough to ride, and the few unclaimed hatchlings we have in the Dragonmont will not be able to hold the weight of a grown man for at least another ten years.”

“But the symbolism of the Greens having a dragon can’t be ignored,” the Crown Princess reminds them, and Laenor shrugs.

“You’re worrying too much, Nyra,” he soothes, leaning forward to kiss her knuckles. “A single dragon for the Greens? If one even bonds with him? We have ten dragons large enough to ride – only a fool would bet against the power you wield.”

“The Hightowers have no more support on the Small Council since we’ve rid ourselves of the Iron Rod, love,” Laena agrees, “and this newest stunt of theirs? Wedding their heir to a child? It shows how desperate they are now that the Redwyne’s have turned against them with Patricia’s death and the delegitimization of her son.”

Rhaenyra sighs tiredly, letting Laenor pull her down onto the settee, kissing her temple. “Aemond is only the face of the Hightower’s cause. He’s intelligent, but young and arrogant – the real threat is Otto and Ormund; without them, he’ll have nothing. Daemon, you’ll help the dragonseeds bond with dragons, if they can. Laena, I want you to continue leading the Ladies’ Court, see what you can learn there. Laenor, keep working the Lords, and follow up with the sailors – I want us to take the Greens out at the knees.”

Within the week, there are three more dragons claimed and saddled, Sheepstealer included. Apparently, Netty, the wild thing she was, had been working to tame him for a number of years in secret, bringing him mutton and familiarizing him with her presence until he was fond enough of her to allow her to mount him. With Vermithor once again being ridden, Silverwing had gotten restless once more, and, according to Daemon, had been happy to let Alyn approach her nest and take flight atop her back to join her bronze mate once more. Sunfyre had been the most unsure, the most uneasy, but the moment his new bond had been established with Trys, the golden drake had sung with joy. Even Daeron had been given a new egg as a sign of good will, and the lad was delighted with his second chance to have a dragon too.

“Draconys, really?” Rhaenyra asks of her uncle as she passes him Trystane’s writ of legitimacy and his new House’s heraldry, a golden dragon head on black.

Daemon merely grins. He likes the boy, cares for him as if he were his own, and Rhaenyra knows he’s pleased to be giving him a small Keep to rule on Torturer’s Deep.  “It’s a good name wasted on a ruin.”

By the time Rhaenyra had brought Aemond to the Dragonmont in the next moon, there are only a small handful of hatchlings left, but they all hiss and shy away before retreating further into their caves, which leaves him only with eggs. Her half-brother leaves, disappointed but with two eggs, one a shimmering amethyst and gold, and the other, a pale green and silver. With his disappointing bounty, Aemond retreats back to Oldtown to lick his wounded pride, leaving his young wife behind to happily take up the role of Lady-in-Waiting to young Princess Visenya Targaryen, eager to become her daughter’s playmate.

Chapter Text

The harvest of 129AC brings with it black news and dark tidings; Oldtown has been stricken with a plague of unknown origins, and it has decimated the population. Oddly, it seems to be spreading through the highborn citizens, as opposed to the poorer smallfolk who are often the victims of such things, and afflicting the Septons and Maesters called upon to tend to them. Rumours claim it had been started in the ports, when a strange ship had docked, it’s occupants, hidden under swaths of deep green fabrics, had been brought immediately to the High Tower for an audience with Lord Ormund.

The smallfolk spoke of curses, afflicting the ones who displeased the Gods. The Archmaesters labeled it merely a foreign disease that the highborn victims simply weren’t immune to because of their noble lives.

“What a shame,” Aunt Saera rasps knowingly when she hears of the tragic deaths of almost every member of House Hightower and so many Maesters and Septons in such a short time, cleaning the blood from her crystal bowl and cleansing her Valyrian steel dagger in the flames of her hearth. The purple flames of the glass candles surrounding her casts her elegantly aged features in contrast. “An ancient and proud House like the Hightowers, reduced to only two daughters to carry on their legacy. The Queen Consort and her son must grieve heavily for the loss of her father and kin.”

“Scorpions,” Maester Vaegon tells her in disgust when he arrives from the Citadel, the newly named Maester of Dragonstone, Septa Maegelle at his side, and little scarred Gaemon Flowers looking around in awe of Queen Visenya’s gardens and the crystalline waters of the newly erected ivory and coral Queen Aemma’s Fountains. “They were purchasing plans for dragon-killing weapons, of the kind that killed Meraxes and Queen Rhaenys.”

“The sellers?” Rhaenyra asks grimly.

“Dornish insurgents that were not pleased with the tentative peace we’ve made with House Martell. Meleys and Rhaenys took care of them.” Septa Rhaella, nearing her 90^th year and nearly blind but still sharp, shuffles into the gardens to join them, old bones creaking and being guided by Princess Saera. The oldest members of House Targaryen, the only living son and daughters of the Old King Jaehaerys, and the surviving daughter of Aegon the Uncrowned, together after so long apart.

“Otto is dead,” Rhaenyra tells her lovers proudly, “as are his nephews and sons. Bethany Hightower is the last of their line, and Aunt Amanda and I have organized for her to wed her grandson, Oscar, to found a new House. He’s chosen to revive the name of House Justman for our cause – House Hightower is no more.”

“All that remains are the Hightower Whore and her cripple son,” Daemon laughs, vicious and bloodthirsty. “What an inelegant end for a grasping House. Let them stand as warnings for all those who wish to wake the dragons.”

“Father and Titus are gone?” Myrielle asks softly when she’s told of the news, brown eyes wide, and fierce Senya gently takes her friend’s hand, squeezing it protectively.

“They won’t hurt you any more, Myri,” little Senya tells her companion, a proud mirror image of Rhaenyra herself at that age, the Realm’s Delight come again. It reminds the Crown Princess of ages past, when she had been the one to take Alicent’s bloody hands after an audience with the Hand, and sooth the bruise on her lady maid’s cheek, protective and furious but too young to be able to change the way of the world.

She wasn’t aware, then, sheltered as she had been, of the true cruelties of the world of men and the crimes that could be enacted upon daughters by their fathers, and wives by their husbands.

“I’m sorry for your loss, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra says to the tearful girl-child who was being forced to grow up far too small, because no matter Lord Peake’s crimes, or his heir’s disdain for her, Myrielle had still just lost her father and elder brother, after having already lost her mother and her many other siblings years before.

“But-” she stammers, unsure, and those sweet, doe-like eyes getting wider in her innocent face, “-what about House Peake? Now they don’t have a Lord. Does that mean it’s gone extinct?”

“They have you,” Rhaenyra reminds, petting Myrielle’s earthen-toned hair with a maternal smile. “Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove are yours, and your babe’s.” Sadly, she then places a hand on the too-young mother’s small stomach; it’s a horrible reminder that Rhaenyra hadn’t acted fast enough to save this child from her half-brother, and was the reason for the blood magic she had asked of Princess Saera and the ‘bandit attack’ she had organized to ambush Lord Unwin and his son during their hunt along the Mander.

House Hightower and the Peakes were simple enough to dispose of, but she wanted Aemond and Alicent to suffer for their roles. Their royal status might protect them now, but would not forever, which meant that Rhaenyra could make them regret what they had done as they suffered for their crimes. Aemond, who showed no regret, had already taken a new lover in Alys Rivers, Harwin’s bastard sister and a witch of the Old Religion, though he seemed to be feeling the pressure as he lost all backing for his claim, and the eggs he had been gifted stubbornly refused to hatch.

Alicent, however, was making it too easy, as paranoia and the death of her puppet master ate away at her sanity. She spent her days locked away in her chambers, hysterically crying about threats in the shadows, ruining her life and murdering her family. She wasn’t wrong, of course, but the Realm didn’t need to know that, and she lost more and more sympathy with every day that passed as she railed against the Realm’s Delight, her Consort, and her heirs, all dutiful and kind and loved by highborn and lowborn alike.

“They’re bastards!” The Mad Queen was heard shrieking. “He’s a blight against the Seven! And she’s a whore - Maegor with Teats! Oh my children! My sweet children! She’s killing them!”

“Her Monster’s death was his own doing,” maids whisper snidely, “and hopefully the Cripple follows soon.”

“Princess Helaena is in perfect health,” others scoff. “The Crown Princess has even announced the birth of her sister’s first child, a healthy son.”

“Prince Daeron is such a lively young man,” old spinsters tell. “A true testament to our Delight’s gift with children, rather than the unfortunateness of his breeding.”

“The fault of that Hightower Queen,” many agree when thinking of the Consort’s eldest sons, one dead and both cruel.

“Bedding a child,” Ladies say in disgust over tea, “after the fates of Lady Cerelle and Lady Patricia. That poor dear is far too young to become a mother – just look at Gentle Queen Aemma, we to the King at one and ten. The Little Lady Myrielle will be lucky if she survives, many don’t.”

“When we have a Queen ruling the Realm, we won’t have to,” frightened daughters and wives murmur amongst themselves when their fathers and husbands aren’t listening. “The Realm’s Delight and her Sea Dragon will protect us.”

“A healthy boy, sweet girl,” Rhaenyra tells Myrielle, an exhausted and terrified shell, as she wipes the sweat from the fragile, but still breathing, girl’s pale face. “Small, but he’s strong, just like you.”

“I don’t want it,” Myriella moans, only freshly one and ten, as she tries to turn away from the tiny bundle in the midwife’s arms, a babe with pale hair and delicate bones. “I don’t want to be a mother, I want to play with Senya and eat cake. Not take care of a baby.”

“I’ll take him,” Helaena assures Myrielle when she arrives, Jaehaerys and Jaehaera peering curiously around her soft gray skirts, and little black haired, blue eyed Rickon Stark in a sling against her chest. “I’ll raise him alongside my children, until you’re ready, and if you never are, then perhaps you can be his sister.”

“Prince Maelor will bare the name Targaryen until such a time when he will take the name Peake and inherit Lady Myrielle’s titles,” Rhaenyra informs the Small Council firmly, Helaena resolute at her side, every inch a Northern Lady now, her pale hair braided round her head like a crown, and a mantle of white fur resting on her slim shoulders, “and he will Foster at Winterfell with his kin.”

“Cregan sends his congratulations and regards, Uncle,” Helaena says to the Lord Confessor after the meeting. “Benjen’s upcoming marriage to House Baratheon is cause to celebrate.”

Lord Bennard Stark’s stern countenance softens in the face of his good-niece’s words and little Rickon’s happy babbling. He might have been slow to surrender the regency of the North to his nephew, but it was impossible to hold onto a grudge in the face of Helaena’s natural kindness.

Though Rhaenyra is sure the position on the Small Council hadn’t hurt either.

“I’m proud of him,” Lord Bennard rumbles gruffly. “He and Lady Cassandra seem happy together, and their firstborn will be the next Lord or Lady Paramount of the Stormlands.”

“Family is important,” Helaena hums musically, placing a gentle hand on Lord Bennard’s arm, violet-blue eyes sweet and warm, “and Cregan and I wish for our family to stand united. We’d like for Brandon and Elric to be provided for as well.”

Lord Bennard seems surprised by her sister’s words. The second and thirdborn sons of a second son were, after all, so rarely thought of or even wanted by the main branches of their Houses, left to make their own way in the world as landed knights, sell swords, or Maesters. Oft, they were left to live off of the charity of their kin, some given rolls in their cousin’s keeps, or, in the North, joining the Night’s Watch. “What would you be suggesting?” The Northern man says suspiciously.

“Inheritances for their own children,” Helaena shares. “The order of the world is changing, Uncle; daughters are looking for the support of consorts to protect their claims. Barba Bolton is her father’s sole surviving child, and he worries that, with his death, his uncle’s sons try to overthrow her. She’s of an age with Brandon, and a marriage between them would make him Lord Consort of the Dreadfort.”

“And for Eldric, Runestone,” Rhaenyra brings up next. “When Lady Rhea passed, she had named her baseborn daughter, Alyssa, as her heir. The Crown legitimized the girl, and she has been the ward of my cousin, Lady Jeyne. Alyssa’s cousin has been acting as regent, but he’s been… difficult now that she’s come of age, and challenges her every ruling. He would become Lord Royce, and protect Lady Alyssa’s seat.”

Left reeling, but with his loyalty ensured, the serious Northman agrees, returning to his apartments to speak with his wife, and Rhaenyra kisses her sister’s cheek proudly for her successful plan to route any potential threat Bennard Stark could have presented to her children. Next, she goes to Ser Tyland; the man had not fought to further his own claim against his good-sister and niece, and had been quite agreeable since Cerelle’s unfortunate passing.

Rhaenyra figures he deserves a reward for his good behaviour.

“Lady Alora is a childless widow with many childbearing years ahead of her still,” she informs the Lannister Master of Laws, making herself comfortable on the plush red and gold chair of his study. “With her brother’s death, she’s taken on the role of Lady Fell, and she has no other close relatives she can trust beyond Ser Willis, who cannot inherit. She asked for my help in finding herself an intelligent consort to strengthen her claim against her distant cousins.”

“You wish to match me with her?” Ser Tyland asks doubtfully as he pours spiced honey wine into two glasses and shoos his manservant from the chamber, and Rhaenyra smiles back at him, charming and every inch the Realm’s Delight.

“You’re a smart man, Ser Tyland,” she tells him, accepting the wine he’s offered, “and you care for your legacy. You’re quite ambitious, but any man willing to set that ambition aside to gift his niece a dagger, knowing full well that your brother sacrificed her for power, and she would not go quietly, is one that would be willing to become a consort if it meant that your children will have land and titles, even if they don’t have your name.”

Ser Tyland pauses, green eyes wary as the Crown Princess all-but confirms that she is fully aware of his role in the death of the King’s eldest son. It could have been a death sentence, and yet, Rhaenyra had said nothing in the last four years. “You claim to know a lot, Princess,” he murmurs.

Smirking, Rhaenyra leans back comfortably, fully in control of the room. “I’m to be the first ruling Queen in Westeros’ history, Lord Tyland,” she tells him calmly, sipping on her wine and enjoying the sweetness, “and I will be crowned sooner, rather than later, given my father’s poor health. I’ve been my father’s heir since my eighth nameday, and it has taught me to listen and watch to learn. And I’ve learned quite a lot.”

Respect glimmers in the knight’s gaze. “I’m impressed, Your Grace. You’ve peaked my interest, and you can inform Lady Fell as such.”

“I’m glad we could come to an agreement, my friend,” the Crown Princess says gracefully, and Ser Tyland dips his head respectfully. “And, may I say, this wine is delicious, give your winery my regards.”

“The High Septon has dissolved One-Eye’s marriage to his child-bride, and he’s quite displeased with the Crown’s denial of his claim to the lands and titles of House Peake,” Septa Maegelle, her Greyscale-scarred hands hidden under silken gloves, says as she combs Gaemon’s silvery strawberry hair, the babe her and Vaegon’s child in all but blood. “He’s taken his witch to wife, and is now courting the support of the Archeon of Tyrosh.”

“He’s gotten desperate with the loss of his grandsire, and the riches of House Hightower,” Rhaenys notes calmly. “And now, with his two eggs beginning to turn to stone? He’s destabilizing.”

Daemon frowns, “My brother likely won’t live to see the end of the year. The boy has no support in Westeros, so he turns to the Triarchy; if he had the gold to pay, it might be clever, but it won’t work. We are nearly twenty dragons strong, and the fool has no weapons to wield against them.”

“The Conquerors took Westeros with only three.” Laenor let out a sigh. “How can he not see that it’s futile? The Greens are gone, root and stem, and only he and his mother remain.”

“I’ll offer my terms to Alicent,” Rhaenyra decides as she sits next to her father’s sick bed, listening to each weak, rattling breath that passed through his chapped lips. She doesn’t know how she feels any more but tired. So many years of anger and hatred that could have been avoided had her father just been stronger. Her childhood had been stolen by this man she still loved desperately, even after her mother had been butchered on his order. “I hate you,” she admits into the stale air, and Rhaenyra wonders if he can hear the tears in her voice. “Your ambitions killed my mother, and I hated you for it. Now, I’m a mother myself, so much older than she will ever get to be, with children of my own, and I hate you even more. I would have happily given up my crown, if only I could have had her, but you stole that from me. You stole that from my children. All for a male heir, that, when you did get, you let turn into a monster.” Rhaenyra closes her eyes tightly, steadying her rolling emotions.

She hates this man. She hates what she had to become to survive because of him.

Her voice is shaky when she accuses; “You made me your heir, told me I would be Queen, but then left me to fight for my crown while everything in the Realm worked against me, including you.” She laughs tearfully, feeling every part the scared little girl she had been, instead of the Queen she had built herself to be. “I was set up to fail, but I’m still here, stronger than ever, and, despite you, I will be Queen. I hate you, and I hate that I still love you despite how you hurt me.”

Her father doesn’t answer, skeletal face never twitching, more corpse now than man, and Rhaenyra tightens her grip on the pillow she clutches.

“I’ve done terrible things to protect myself,” the grieving daughter tells the King, “to protect my children, and House Targaryen will be stronger for it. When that horrible future Aegon the Conqueror foresaw comes to the world of man, House Targaryen will be here to face it. From my blood, comes the heir that was promised.” She wipes away her tears, taking a shuddering breath to steady herself. “But by then, you and I will be together in the Fourteen Hells.” Gently, Rhaenyra leans over her dying father, and kisses his sunken cheek, murmuring, “Goodbye, Viserys the Kinslayer.”

The next morning, the great bells toll through the Red Keep, symbolizing the passing of a monarch, and Rhaenyra, clad in a grand black gown like it were armour, stands to greet a new era as dragons fill the sky with a dizzying array of jeweled colours and flames.

The Dragon Queen stands to greet her subjects.

Chapter Text

Alicent Hightower is a far cry from the pretty young maid Rhaenyra had once played with in the godswood under the shadow of the ancient weirwood tree, eating cake and weaving flower crowns as they giggled about courtesans and listen to bards play. She’d been Rhaenyra’s closest companion, second only to her Velaryon cousins, back then, but the woman she had become is unrecognizable to the girl who had once read Rheanyra tales of Queen Nymeria, and comforted her as she lost sibling after sibling. Once beautiful honeyed curls have become brittle and grey before their time, her girl-hood slimness turning to an unhealthy thinness as she tried to remain the pretty young companion who the King had married. The gentle hazel green eyes that had once been alight with a meek, shy warmth are now wild with madness and hatred.

They never had gotten to fly across the known world, or eat only cake, and Rhaenyra longs for those simpler days, but neither of them are the girls they had once been. There was too much between them now, too many years of bitterness and ambition.

“Alicent,” she greets solemnly as Ser Harrold admits her into the former Queen’s apartments. A couple maids laden with trays of tea and cakes follow her in silently, bustling about. “It’s been some time since we managed to just sit and talk.”

“You-” Alicent starts, but seems to have been taken by surprise by the uncrowned Queen’s lack of aggression. Her stance, still wary, relaxes only slightly. “Why are you here, stepdaughter?”

“Sit, please,” she responds, gesturing to the settees as she settles her black skirts around her, shoulders back and spine straight and regal. “I came only to talk, of the past, and the future.” They’d sat together so often, once, starting when Rhaenyra had just been young, small and lonely after the Velaryon’s had left court following her father’s rise to Crown Prince, and Alicent had been one of her mother’s maids, younger than the rest, with a sweet, musical voice fitting for all the best fairy tales. When the Old King had been bed bound, it was young Alicent who read to him every night, most likely another manipulation of Otto Hightower’s, but the girl had been a child still then, her lovely voice bringing comfort to an old man who had chased away his family for his Crown, and then, when Rhaenyra’s great-grandfather had passed, Queen Aemma Arryn had transferred Alicent Hightower to Rhaenyra’s miniscule household to be her caretaker.

Her mother must have been feeling the pressure already, back then, no longer just the wife of a Prince, and feeling the weight of expectations to deliver their family the next Targaryen King. She had birthed and miscarried many sons, and a number of daughters, in her short reign, never not swollen with her father’s ambition to see his bloodline and reign secured, and it had killed her. With only a single daughter, who had been born small and sickly but lived anyways, growing strong as the years passed, and a wild brother he couldn’t control, her father had taken away all the comforts Rhaenyra had had in one fell swoop; killing her mother, banishing her uncle, and stealing away her only friend.

Rhaenyra had hated Alicent for years for the betrayal, too young yet to understand that Alicent, only five and ten, was likely just as scared of the future as Rhaenyra had been, and that the root of her hatred was not anger, but hurt. Now, as a woman grown, she could see more clearly that Alicent’s actions had not started out of her own ambition, and she knew that there would likely be so much more she would never be privy to in the years that followed, but she could also see that Alicent had done just as much harm as she had been dealt, if not more, for the illusion of power and protection being Queen Mother would give her.

Perhaps there was more to it than that, but where once they could have told each other anything, years have built a thick, impenetrable fortress between them. They would never trust each other again, not with something as fragile as their deepest thoughts and fears.

Still hesitant, her father’s widow sits, not taking the offered tea until Rhaenura herself sips at hers. It’s a delightfully spiced blend produced on Dragonstone, and one of her island’s major exports after salt and dragonglass, made from the rare volcanic herbs that grew in the ash, and it does wonders for tense emotions and muscles.

“My father is dead,” Rhaenyra tells the former Queen without preamble, “and the Lords and Ladies of the Realm ride for King’s Landing to see me crowned Queen.” She studies the stiffening of Alicent’s bony shoulders, the angry glint in those green eyes, too cold to ever be Targaryen, despite the House she had married into.

She doubts Alicent had ever considered herself a member of their House. Likely, she’d never even thought of herself as Alicent Targaryen, but only ever as Alicent Hightower, just as the rest of the Realm did.

Calmly, Rhaenyra asks, “What do you plan to do now, Alicent?”

“Aemond is the rightful King,” her once-friend grits out, hands tightening on her delicate teacup. “The Realm will never bow to a usurper.”

“No, he’s not,” Rhaenyra says simply. “Aemond was never going to become King, and neither was Aegon. My father had twenty years to change the order of succession, but he never did.”

Alicent’s lips press into a thin, pale line as she tries to say, “By the laws of the Seven and the Realm, the inheritance goes to the eldest living son. Aemond is dutiful and pious, he will make a wonderful King, and bring peace to the Realm.”

The bitter laugh that brings forth is not one that Rhaenyra even bothers to bite off. “And that’s where you’re wrong, Ali,” the Queen informs the widowed Consort. “The Crown is the law, and by royal decree of King Viserys the First, the throne and all titles would be passed to his eldest living child, a daughter whose inheritance would be protected by Queen Alysanne’s Widows’ Law. Me.” Rhaenyra’s head tilts then, like a dragon studying its meal. “The Game is over, Alicent, and you were never more than a pawn. You have nothing left to play.”

“I am the Queen-!”

“You were the Queen Consort,” Rhaenyra interrupts, “but your crown was forfeit the moment my father passed. It’s only by my grace now that you are still here, and not being shipped off to a motherhouse or the Silent Sisters, your children declared bastards, and you my father’s whore.”

“I only ever did my duty!” Alicent cries out, the words spilling forth like she had waited years to scream them for the world to hear. “I did as my father bade me. I toiled and sacrificed for my House and my husband as the Gods declared, and bore him sons that he only ever treated as if they were nothing while you trampled upon honour and virtue and righteousness, treating it all as if it were nothing below your pretty slipper! Just like you always have!”

“You were five and ten, Alicent,” Rhaenyra acknowledges, “barely a woman and more a child. Your father should never have sent you to the King’s bed, just as my father shouldn’t have bed you. You should have been allowed to marry a handsome landed knight, one closer to your age, but our fathers used you and abused you, just as men have done for ages. But you’re not just their victim, not anymore, not with the choices you have made since then.”

“I have done nothing but my duty-”

“Dyana,” Rhaenyra speaks over her voice and objections, “Lily. Essie. Sylvana. Mara. Tyana. Willow. Annie and Hettie. And dozens more, I’ve kept an alphabetical list of when, where, and how many times, if you’d prefer proof. But, of course,” her voice turns mocking, “they were just common-born, right? Maids and whores and bastards, worth less because of their low blood. What of Cerelle Lannister, Patricia Redwyne, Myrielle Peake? You allowed for, and even participated in, the suffering of all these girls.” Alicent’s face goes paler with every name she lists, every accusation. Rhaenyra had found all of the poor girls Alicent had threatened into silence and sent away, and had given them new lives on Dragonstone, the Step Stones, and now the Iron Islands, where they could live in peace and pursue higher education than they had ever been offered before. “Did you know that Aegon had nearly twenty bastards in Flea Bottom? Most of them were never even named before they were sold to fighting pits or whorehouses so that their mothers’ could feed themselves. What of Jaehaera and Jaehaerys? Gaemon and Maelor? All of them your grandchildren, no matter the status of their mothers.” Every child that still lived, Rhaenyra had had saved from their miserable fates, for even diluted, Valyrian blood was rare, and they were her of her own blood. They would all be given a fair life, be given a chance to raise their statuses through apprenticeships and training. “Aegon and Aemond themselves, even, who you raised to be the monsters they became, hurting women, and children, because that is what you taught them, letting them escape without consequences they could have learned from. What of Helaena and Daeron? All of them born from your womb, and you treated them no better than your father treated you.”

“You turned them against me!” Alicent accuses weakly, and Rhaenyra hums.

“You’re right,” she says, unashamed of her dirty actions and manipulations, because Alicent would have done the same, “I did. But you did as well.”

“I love my children!”

“Then you didn’t love them enough,” Rhaenyra tells her bluntly. “You were a victim, yes, but you also became the victimizer, and all of it was for nothing but a fantasy. And now, you have nothing left.” Alicent stares at her, tears slipping down her sallow cheeks as she shakes with quiet sobs, years of delusions collapsing around her. “Tell Aemond to give up his pursuit of the crown, and you can save him from execution for his treason. He’ll never be King, but I’ll allow him to keep his head as a member of the Night’s Watch, where he never again will be permitted to hurt another little girl. His sons were removed from the line of succession through his own actions, but they’ll have a future without him, and his marriage to new wife dissolved. Alys Rivers will be given clemency to return to Harrenhall by her brother’s request, but the child she carries, should it live, will become a ward of the Crown. Tell your son to bend the knee, and I’ll let you live out the rest of your life in your beloved Starry Sept as Septa Alicent, instead of having your tongue removed for your treasonous whispers before shipping you off to become a Silent Sister.”

Every lie she told herself over the years burned in dragonfire, and defeated, Alicent bows her head tearfully, and nods. With nothing left but her life, Alicent Hightower goes quietly in the night, her jewels and titles stripped from her, no longer afforded all the luxuries her marriage had given to her, a poor second son’s daughter, when she crawled into the King’s bed. She’s set to live out the rest of her miserable days with only prayer and her crimes for company in her exile. The second wife of King Viserys the First will go unnamed in history, a faceless woman from an extinct House, while the King himself, a weak, fragile man is remembered as barely more than a footnote in comparison to his daughter, the first ruling Queen in Westeros, but far from the last.

Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Dragon Queen, the Realm’s Delight, and her King Consort, Laenor Velaryon, usher in an age of unprecedented economical growth to the Seven Kingdoms and its people. Remembered for her graciousness to the poor, the weary, and the orphaned, and her feats of immense power upon her golden mount when faced with adversity, she becomes a legend given flesh, a symbol of the strength every woman can be capable of, even when fighting to defend herself and her children, her claim and rights, from all fronts. She brings forth generations more of women who can rule themselves, and when she passes on, she’s surrounded by her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. King Jacaerys Targaryen, the Emerald King, and his wife, Queen Baela the Bold, succeed her many long years wearing the crown, following in their mother’s footsteps to stabilize the foundations Rhaenyra had left them, and continue the expansions and projects she started. Her beloved mount, Syrax the Gold Lady, will go on to bond with Crown Princess Laena Targaryen, the eldest of King Jacaerys and Queen Baelas’ six daughters.

The Sun Queen, Queen Laena the First of Her Name, and her consort, Prince Rhaegar Martell, son of Princess Aliandra and her dragon-riding husband, Lord Admiral Alyn Belaerys, bring about the unification of Westeros, finalizing the treated and binding it with blood with the wedding of her younger sister, Rhaenys, to King Consort Rhaegar’s elder twin brother, the future ruling Prince of Dorne, Prince Rhaegel.

Aemond the One-Eye is lost in the records of Westeros, his fate uncertain, and only three bastard sons, Gaemon Flowers, Maelor Waters, and Aegon Rivers to continue his bloodline, but every Targaryen is told the full tale. Of how, when being sent to the Wall, the disgraced Prince slipped away from his guards, purchasing a small fishing boat to take him, secretly, to the eastern coast of Dragonstone where, arrogant and fed by delusions of his own ascension as if he were the Conqueror come again, he would attempt to claim the fearsome wild dragon as the Cannibal, believing himself ordained by the Seven his mother had so dutifully preyed to. He would never be heard from again, eaten by the wild black drake, though his third wife, crowning herself the Witch Queen, would attempt to rally others to his cause in the name of his youngest bastard son, and fail. The Cannibal would, soon after, take flight towards the east, drawn away by some unknown instinct and never seen again, though some brave adventurers who pass by the ruined Valyrian coast tell of a shadow that blots out the sun in the shape of a large black dragon with wildfyre eyes.

“Are we really descended from the Green Consort?” Young Crown Prince Jaehaeron, his family’s serious little Jon, asks of his mother, the widow of Prince Rhaegar, the Princess Lyanna Stark, as she tucks him into bed after the child’s long day at the foot of the Iron Throne with his betrothed, Crown Princess Daenerys, dutifully studying as Queen Rhaella held Court.

Lyanna, the second wife of the Silver Prince, and mother of Rhaella’s only surviving grandchild, gently brushes back her son’s inky curls from his pale face, reminding herself that while her son is only six namedays, he was growing fast, just as his young hatchling, Viserion, is. “It’s true, yes, my little wolf. But you needn’t fear the Green Curse, for we are many generations removed from it, and the spirits of the Dragon Queen and her Sea Dragon protect you.”

“Like they protected you and Grandmother,” Jon says knowingly, far too perceptive for his age. “I heard Viserys talking about it in the training field with Allyria and Renly, about how his father used to hurt Grandmother, and how mine married you when you were too young. You almost died because of him. He said so – and that that’s why Rhaenys and Aegon died too, and why Muña is always so sad. Is it true?”

Lyanna sighs sadly, wishing she could keep her little boy young and innocent forever, safe from the cruelties of the past like she could weave happy endings into her stories. “Something like that, darling,” she tells him instead, promising, “I’ll tell you the full story when you’re older.”

Where other children would complain, Jon only sighs, an awfully big noise from such a little body. “If you say so, Mama.”

“I do,” Lyanna teases, bopping her finger on his little button nose. He looks so much like her, almost too pretty to be a boy, some have said, but she can see Rhaegar in his melancholy and long bouts of silence as he grapples with thoughts too deep for his little body to understand. He’s a wild thing too, his wolfblood running hot when he could be pried away from his studies to join his cousins on the training field under the Morning Star’s fond instructions. “Now then – it’s time for little pups to go to sleep, or you’ll be too tired to train with Viserion tomorrow, and Dany will be disappointed.”

Big gray-indigo eyes going even bigger at the mention of disappointing or upsetting his beloved aunt, Jon burrows deeper into his blankets and furs. Despite his intelligence, he’s still so young, and moments such as this prove such. “Don’t let her and Blackfyre start without me! I want to fly before her!”

Laughing at her son’s competitiveness, Lyanna adjusts his bedding and kisses his forehead, “I won’t. But only if you sleep.”

“Yes, Mama,” her babe says dutifully, and Lyanna smiles fondly as she stands, tucking away the book on Targaryen children’s tales she had been reading to Jaehaeron, gifted to her by Lord Velaryon, with the many others ranging across the Eight Kingdoms from the many branches of House Targaryen for their little Wolf Dragon. Her own Northern tales were passed down verbally through generations, a tradition started many generations ago by early Winter Kings who could not spare the kindling for their hearths.

Perhaps, Ned and Ben would help her gather the tales in their own tome, for Jon’s upcoming nameday, when they were next in the Capital with their families, Ned and Ashara from Moat Cailin, and Benjen and Dacey from Bear Island. Brandon likely wouldn’t wish to grace the Red Keep with his presence, not after how he nearly lost his life, and especially not where he would have to present the front of a responsible Lord when he wished for nothing more than to be hunting in the Wolfwoods.

“Goodnight, Mama,” Jaehaeron mumbles sleepily.

“Goodnight, little love,” Lyanna says warmly, blowing out the candle at his bedside.

Jon smiles softly, visible even in the dim light of the moon. “Goodnight, Muña.”

From the doors to their son’s sleeping chambers, Elia chuckles, handsome and as warm as the sun, “Goodnight, sweetling.” Lyanna joins her wife in the entry, both Princesses watching their little boy doze off, and nodding to Ser Jaime as he relieves Ser Barristan for the night’s watch.

“He’ll be asleep soon,” the She-Wolf says fondly, and Elia laughs softly, golden eyes meeting Lyanna’s blue.

“Without a doubt,” the older woman says, kissing her pale cheek, her own bronze skin a delightful contrast. “He is your son, after all, and you both do so love your sleep.”

“We can’t all rise with the sun. We save our energy,” Lyanna laughs, linking their arms together as the two princesses, brought together by the same man but held together by the love that had blossomed in the aftermath, stroll back towards their apartments. “For the hunt.”

At the start, burdened by grief over her dead babes, Elia had hated the woman-child her husband, their marriage begot by decades of alliances, had eloped with and impregnated in secret. She had been spirited away to the Capital by Ser Arthur, Ashara, and Ned to escape Robert Baratheon’s jealous rampage when he’d been told of their broken betrothal, only to find that Aerys, usurped and locked away in Maegor’s Holdfast many years ago by the wife her had once abused, had escaped his confinement, killing his only two grandchildren and nearly murdering Lyanna’s eldest brother, and forcing himself on the Queen. Elia herself, though sickly by nature, was still a warrior princess of Dorne, and had been the one to kill the madman in revenge for her little Rhaenys and Aegon, but it would never bring back what she had lost.

She had seen Lyanna as the reason for the chaos that had allowed for their good-father’s escape, the reason why the husband who, while she might not have loved, she had cared for had entered the duel with Robert that killed them both. Elia had held onto those feelings until Lyanna had entered the birthing bed. Only five and ten, and terrified, Lyanna had nearly died bringing Jaeheron Targaryen, her sweet Jon, into the world, and in that moment, Elia had arrived, an angel in orange silk, and had taken her hand, giving Lyanna the strength she needed to live.

In the future, their son would bare the weight of the crown upon his head and a prophesy on his shoulders, but now, he was barely more than a babe, soothed to sleep with tales of their history. One day, he would take flight upon the back of his cream and gold dragon, and lead the Realm against the threat his ancestors foresaw, but that would not come for years, as the words of his song were still being written.