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Chapter Text

Her knees gave out and hit the cobblestones before she was even halfway to the city gate. She should have expected it: her own weakness and ill fate. Dying on the same streets she lived and worked on, the same streets where she learned and first found her purpose, had to be poetic.

She merely hoped that her queen had returned to Dragonstone, so that one day she might avenge her death and reclaim what was rightfully hers. Mysaria wanted to live but no longer had the energy to fight. There were people around her—crowds screaming, cheering. Men, women, children. So many faces, some familiar, all destined to see her end.

A part of her knew, the moment her body betrayed her and slowly slumped down on the road, that reality was much harsher. The gods were cruel, and Rhaenyra might be suffering right now, too. She could not verify the safety of Dragonstone. She should have verified it. She should have made sure before sending her queen, potentially, to her death. Not that it mattered much. Rhaenyra she knew died piece by piece with every child she lost.

She laid her face in the small puddle of rainwater and mud, no longer registering the angry shouts from the smallfolk, the roaring of soldiers, or lewd comments. The many eyes wandering her naked body no longer bothered her. Loose strands of hair were scattered around, absorbing the filth from the ground. She was born in the slums, and she would die here, blending in with the scum and forgotten.

There was a growing ringing in her ears, but it could not fully block the aggressive ‘crack’ of the whip behind her back. She closed her eyes, sagging deeper into the ground and breathed in sharply, inhaling the filthy water and small lumps of dirt.

The putrid smell that was once familiar woke her up what seemed like a moment later. The smell of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and excrement, all freely found on the streets of King’s Landing. She sat up slowly, clutching the bedstead. A violent cough ripped from her mouth from the little movement she did, dirt splattering onto her fingers as she tried to stifle it.

Dirt.

The gray droplets felt sandy on her fingers, with what looked like red clay. Or maybe, they were specks of blood—she could not be sure.

Mysaria stood up and rushed to the window. The street was quiet and peaceful below. Ladies of the silk walked around, murmuring to the passersby, beguiling them with their soft velvet voices and slender alabaster bodies. The customers were scarce, mostly the girls left free for the night hoping to catch some unlucky soul who had roused early this morning. The few men walked around heavily, looking lost and getting easily entangled in the webs of this place. Far to the right, she could see the keep—whole, peaceful, majestic in the morning light that made it look almost blood-red.

What a fitting color it is for the family that rules these lands.

Mysaria took one more deep breath, filling her lungs with the rancid smells of the city and finding it oddly comforting in its own twisted way. The fishing ships were leaving the harbor far ahead, birds circling them already, despite there being nothing to feast on yet.

There were many papers and scrolls on the table when Mysaria finally decided to check them. On top of one of them, thankfully, a date was written in rough cursive: 6’2’, 6th day of the 2nd moon. It was definitely no longer 133 AC, that Mysaria knew for sure, she just needed to figure out when exactly.

“Madame! Madame!” A girl hurried in, clutching her brown skirts and panting heavily.

“Gilla,” Mysaria whispered, eyes still somewhat hazed and unbelieving, “What… What happened?”

“The man. The one who is unwelcome on the silk. I think he is here.”

Mysaria’s breath hitched, and her experience took over, demanding she deal with the situation and push everything else aside. It was rare for a paying customer to be ‘unwelcome’ in the establishment. It usually meant that he either had perverted desires or had angered another madam by spoiling one of her girls, whether it meant permanent damage or death.

“We think it is the one Lady Lysa was talking about. He was asking about the youngest one we have.”

Gilla was 12 and terrified. She was not a whore, but a servant, and she would remain as such for as long as she wished, if Mysaria had any say in it. But in these types of situations, even she could not guarantee safety for her girls.

As she fluttered around her room, quickly putting on her dress and arranging her hair, she was trying to find a solution. Gilla had to stay here for her own safety. Probably also call little Mirri up, under the guise of cleaning up. Send Jessa to get one of the Gold Cloaks, if she could find any. Perhaps get one of the trustworthy Smiths from a few streets over to throw the guy out for a little coin.

As she finished up and slipped on her worn boots, it finally clicked. For a second, the world stilled around her and all sound was gone. She stared at the dust flying in the air for what felt like an eternity, flooded with the newfound understanding.

A man—Old Butcher Sam—came to her establishment, caused great uproar, and had to be dealt with in 122 AC. Six moons before Prince Joffrey’s birth. Six years before King Viserys became bedridden. Eight years before the war.

Mysaria laughed joyously, startling the poor girl trying to blend with the shadows.

"Go call Mirri up here and stay here with her. On your way tell Jess to get a sturdy Smith here for help and a coin. She shouldn't bother with the Gold Cloaks, she won't find any. I will be down in a second." Gilla picked up her skirts and scurried away, only looking back once to check up on her Madame, before turning and running down the stairs.

122 AC. Now this she could work with.

She opened her eyes and immediately felt much lighter. Her lungs were clear; she could breathe without pain once again. The wind fluttered the curtains and revealed the familiar sights of King’s Landing every now and then.

She wanted to lie down for a little longer. Just not be there. Just for one more moment. It’s not like she had anywhere to go but this room.

“Mother!”

She sat up abruptly, momentarily surprised by her speed and the health required for such a maneuver. For a second, she had to just sit there, clutching her throat and breathing deeply to calm her racing heart.

“Good morrow, Lady Mother!”

The boy was young. Too young. Impossibly young. Her mind, almost atrophied from disuse and grief—from staring at the walls and crying for days on end—sluggishly pushed the thoughts around. None of this made sense. Was this a cruel dream or a punishment from the gods?

“Are you well?”

He looked up at her with those innocent eyes, full of concern and the sort of admiration young children tend to have toward their parents. Patiently, he waited by the foot of her bed, though he looked more and more confused by the second. She felt her face become a mask of hatred. Felt the hot, white fury ignite somewhere deep in her chest and consume her. For a split second, it took all her strength not to grab him by his hair and bash that little head into the wall.

The child that would burn entire cities. The child that would order entire bloodlines eradicated - every man woman, even infants. The child that would destroy his siblings.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the fury was gone, replaced by guilt and self-loathing. It felt like opening a festering wound and digging around. She fisted her hair in her hands to keep them occupied.

The child tried to reach his hand to touch hers, and she flinched away as if she’d been burnt.

“Get out!”

“Mother!”

“Get out NOW!”

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra awoke to a soft knock on the door of her bedchamber.

"My Princess, it is time to wake."

"Yes, Elinda, thank you. Let me gather my thoughts, and I will call on you shortly."

There was a shuffle of steps as the girl left. Rhaenyra was beginning to like Elinda.

Two of her ladies-in-waiting had recently secured good matches and requested leave to attend to their new keeps and build families, opening up space for new additions. Rhaenyra, of course, agreed, after extracting a promise to visit as often as they were able.

Lady Melorie Darry had married into House Roote, having fallen in love with the dashing young heir during her trip back home to Harroway. Rhaenyra had witnessed the poor lad coming to King’s Landing to formally propose and had overseen the proposal. The man tripped while staring at Melorie in her dashing red dress and presented her with numerous gifts, including a terrifyingly large collection of herbology books, based on a rumor he had heard of Melorie’s interests. Rest assured, Rhaenyra had approved immediately before the boy even stuttered out his proposal.

Lady Lyarra Beesburry, the granddaughter of the master of coin, married into House Stauton. She looked very pleased with her match, despite its political nature. Rhaenyra suspected that her betrothed being built like a warlord but behaving like a kind puppy had something to do with it. She understood that wholeheartedly. She had one of those.

Elinda Massey had only recently joined her ladies-in-waiting and was rather young. Her house had been loyal to House Targaryen for a very long time, providing exceptional service since the Conquest as knights, attendants, and small council members. They had been raided before the war on the Stepstones started, and emptied out their coffers significantly to help fund the campaign. Add to that a couple of unfortunate years in terms of crops, and you have a recipe for disaster.

Lord Massey had three sons—23, 20, and 13 years old—and two daughters aged 13 and 8. When Rhaenyra caught wind of the rumors of hardships experienced by House Massey, she set Lord Beesburry to the task of quietly helping them without alerting the rest of the realm. The twins, Elinda and Elrod, were offered places in the Red Keep and given a high stipend, albeit unofficially, to serve as a lady-in-waiting and squire respectively. So far, both had done splendidly.

She blinked slowly and sat up slightly. The bed was so warm and comforting she truly did not want to leave it, even with the sun shining right in her face.

That last part could be fixed rather quickly.

She fell back into her pillows again, then rolled to the side, burying her face in the strong chest beside her. The arms wrapped around her upper body instantly, and she sagged, humming contentedly. Harwin started rubbing circles into her shoulder sluggishly, still chasing away his own sleep.

“Your men won’t miss you this morning? I did not expect you to stay.” Rhaenyra’s words were muffled as she pressed her face closer, scenting and nuzzling into Harwin in a way that always reminded him of Syrax.

“I have a day off. And I am not here, I am currently on the Street of Silk, spending all of my hard-earned money. Ser Harrold is guarding your chambers, and from the look on his face, he seems rather determined to not let anyone disturb his favorite princess.” Harwin’s lips curled into a mischievous smile.

“Hmm. And how is your supposed ‘silk’ experience?”

“I can barely move my limbs, and I think I will never look at hair ribbons the same way again. But I have the most gorgeous woman in the entire world currently running her hands over m— Oi! Wait! Hands off! Things need to get done this morning.”

Rhaenyra definitely did not pout at that and retreated her grabby hands from where they had made it halfway down her man’s muscular abdomen. Harwin slowly moved one of his hands to her stomach with a gentleness she never would have imagined anyone capable of. Even through the nightgown, she could feel the heat radiating from his hand, more hovering over the fabric than actually touching. She rolled onto her back to give him better access and pressed his hand to her belly herself. She had only recently started showing, and it was still easy to hide it under her gowns. Here, however, on her back and in only a thin nightgown, it was clearly visible. The babe. Their babe.

“You will not feel anything for at least another two moons,” whispered Rhaenyra. Harwin was staring intensely at her belly, as if trying to imprint it into his memory. She felt her cheeks heat up when he finally looked up and into her eyes. There was so much love, adoration, and reverence in his gaze. He looked at her as if she were the most perfect being in all creation, and he was lucky to breathe the same air. She found her hand reaching up to caress his cheek as he continued to gently pat their unborn child.

“I know,” he whispered, “but I want to be here for my daughter as much as I can.” He nuzzled into her hand and kissed her palm.

“It may be a boy, you silly man. You cannot know for sure until the babe is out and screaming for all to hear.”

Honestly, this man and his obsession with finally gifting me a daughter to name Visenya.

Harwin ducked away from her hand to press kisses into her stomach. Her own hands wandered to his curls, as she tugged at them playfully and relished the familiar soft texture. She closed her eyes for a moment and sighed, basking in the affection she was shown.

“... muna ... we will ... same side ...” There was soft murmuring coming from her belly.

“Harwin?” The murmuring stopped, but the hand never stilled, now gently rubbing her stomach in large circles.

“Yes?” he whispered.

“Are you trying to conspire with my unborn child?” Rhaenyra could not stifle a little giggle and opened her eyes to give him a playful glare. “You know a cock will not just dissolve if the babe has already grown one?”

“Well, not exactly … I am trying to conspire with our unborn child. And… miracles happen?”

Rhaenyra ended up throwing a pillow at his head.

“I know you have younger. I saw a wench running up the stairs. She clean? I can pay double, hm?”

Old Sam was … old. Those on the Street of Silk often wondered how he still managed to get his appendage to even harden, never mind spill. Yet, he was here every week like clockwork, looking for girls younger and younger to sully with his hands.

Mysaria could hardly bear standing in the same room as him, so strong was the stench of blood and death rolling off him. It was expected from a butcher, in a way, but in his case, it was aggravated by the unwashed, stained shirt he wore. His breeches were black, making it hard to see if there was any blood on them, but she expected there to be.

“I am afraid all of our younger girls are occupied at the moment. Perhaps if you we—” The man cut her off roughly, shaking his head so vigorously that some of his meager gray hairs fell off his head.

“I just saw one! Looked to be around nine, eh? I pay triple, last offer.”

Mysaria was growing increasingly annoyed with the situation. She ought to be planning how to get to Rhaenyra, not quarreling with a man determined to get his hands on what he was not allowed.

“Do not let her appearance deceive you, good man. She is a dwarf, not a child. And she is quite ugly, regardless—she only cleans around here.” Mysaria hoped her impatience did not show. She wanted this to be over.

“You think me a fool?” the old man roared. He was now standing in front of Mysaria, close enough for her to smell his rotting teeth and the remnants of food.

“Of course not, I—”

“Get me good ones. I am paying, so get me good ones!” The two girls who were not sleeping or occupied, Lora and Hylda, moved from the corners of the room closer to Mysaria, despite her motioning for them to keep away.

“We do not—”

The slap that followed was strong enough to knock her down and echoed in the room. She should have ducked or blocked his hand, but she was still somewhat disoriented from everything that had happened. Her girls tried to step up in front of her immediately, but she would not allow it, gripping their hands and pushing them back once again.

“Just do as told, whore!”

Mysaria guessed that conflict was inevitable, and she did not have time for a true fight. By now, Jessa should be on her way back with someone capable of throwing that hulk of a man out.

“Of course. Please let me escort you to one of the rooms where you can wait while I gather your new options.”

They had time to get the man situated in the room and pour him a jug of ale before Jessa appeared with a smith. The Street of Steel was very close, so her delay could only mean that the smithies were mostly empty. The man did not need anything explained. He glanced at her burning red cheek once, nodded, and moved to the room they pointed him to, entering and closing the door behind him.

Mysaria hoped that all the furniture would be intact by the end of that particular conversation, but it was probably futile. Hugh Hammer was a man who rather liked his fistfights and used the muscles he developed in the smithy quite well. And, according to her memory, his daughter had been recently born. She would be surprised if he took kindly to a man walking around requesting little girls.

Rhaenyra was on her way to the family sitting room, anticipating a nice meal in the presence of her boys. Laenor usually joined them, but he was gifted new wines yesterday and would undoubtedly be slumbering somewhere in Quarl’s embrace.

She ordered Ser Harrold to get some rest as soon as she stepped out of her chambers, now escorted by one of the Cargyll twins. Her sworn shield was supposed to return to his duties at midday, and she was eagerly awaiting him, especially considering she could still scent him on her skin.

She moved swiftly through the corridor, her gown becoming increasingly uncomfortable against her growing stomach. She should commission new gowns with a looser fit to both make the babe less obvious and ease the discomfort.

Aemond appeared seemingly out of nowhere, a blur from behind the corner that crashed into her and nearly toppled her over. She was saved by the arms that gripped her midsection from behind. Her hands instinctively flew up to protect her stomach, and it took her a second to get ahold of herself. She turned slightly to look behind her.

“Thank you, ser…” It was slightly embarrassing, but Rhaenyra never knew how to tell the twins apart. She should work on that.

“Erryk, my princess.” The knight flashed her an amused smile and returned his outstretched hands to loosely rest on the hilt of his sword, seemingly satisfied with her balance.

“Thank you, Ser Erryk.”

Rhaenyra was ready to scold the child for running in the halls without a guard present, but his appearance registered before the words left her mouth. Aemond wasn’t just crying; he was hysterical. Standing half-hunched in front of her, he whimpered quietly like a wounded animal, clutching at his hair in a manner that was undoubtedly painful. He did not sob, but tears rolled down his cheeks without restraint.

She had never seen anything like it before, not even with her own children when they threw tantrums or got hurt. She had never seen this kind of raw pain in a child.

“Aemond?” The boy didn’t look at her, but he seemed to register her presence as the whimpering stopped.

“Brother?” He flinched at the word, almost losing his balance, and finally looked up into her eyes. Behind her, she heard Ser Erryk shuffling farther away to give the frightened child the illusion of privacy.

When Aemond next spoke, he sounded broken and lost, as if he were unsure of his surroundings or what was expected of him. “I… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t looking. I… It won’t happen again. I promise. Please believe me.”

He started rambling, and with every word, Rhaenyra’s frown deepened. Something was wrong, and the child was becoming more and more distressed by the second. His hands migrated to his chest, where he began clawing at his doublet as if it were constricting his breathing.

The sudden need to protect and comfort the boy was undoubtedly a result of the pregnancy, or so Rhaenyra tried to convince herself. She went down to her knees and gripped Aemond’s hands, looking up at his face. The tears were still streaming down, but the action caused him to stop talking. Automatically, her thumbs began rubbing soothing circles into his wrists.

She looked back briefly at Ser Erryk and nodded toward the approaching group of maids. Understanding immediately, the knight stepped away to intercept them and shoo people from the corridor.

Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the boy, who was slightly trembling in her hands.

“You are okay, Aemond. Look at me. You are okay. I am not angry, and I believe you. I was only going to say that you should be more careful running through the halls,” she said firmly, holding his gaze. He continued silently crying, so she moved her hands to grip his shoulders. It was her attempt at grounding him, but the boy slumped against her, clutching at her as if she were the only safe thing in the world. He buried his face in her shoulder and finally started sobbing. At least now he sounded like a sad child, not an animal.

Rhaenyra wasn’t entirely sure what to say, but she knew what to do. She shifted herself to sit on the floor, the stones cold and rather uncomfortable. Rocking back to cross her legs, she caused Aemond to lose footing and fall into her lap. Her arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.

She wasn’t entirely sure how long it took, but eventually, the stream of tears lessened, the sobbing turned into quiet sniffles, and finally into heavy breathing. At some point, Aemond uncurled from her, and now he just looked at her with a conflicted expression. She gave him a minute until his face finally settled somewhere between confusion and horror.

The little prince took care to move slowly off her lap, as if he wanted to quietly disappear into the shadows. He stood and suddenly bowed low at the waist.

“Thank you, princess. Please forgive me for my conduct.”

The words sounded mechanical and somehow wrong. Rhaenyra attempted to stand immediately, almost falling over when she realized her legs were numb. Aemond caught her by the arms, and she took the opportunity to hold him in place once again. He looked ready to run at any second, and that wouldn’t do.

“Why were you crying, brother?” Rhaenyra cocked her head to the side, once again searching him for any visible injuries. “You were running like the entirety of the Seven Hells were chasing you. Who frightened you so?”

“No one frightened me,” Aemond whispered. He looked away and chewed his lip, thinking of what to say next. “I was just upset I cannot break my fast with Mother today. She is… occupied.”

Rhaenyra frowned at that. The Queen took pride in her image as the mother of the kingdom and a devout woman. Rhaenyra may not have had much opportunity to interact with her siblings, but she assumed the Queen’s family was very similar to her own. Perhaps Alicent had broken some promise that made the boy upset, or forbade him from participating in something fun? Quite frankly, she could not imagine a scenario in which a simple refusal to break a fast with the child would lead him to this state. She decided not to overthink it too much—maybe the boy was fond of routines and took changes harder than other children. However, she should also keep an eye on him in the future.

“You can come with me. Luke and Jace will be delighted to see you.” Before the thought in her head was fully formed, the words were out of her mouth. Aemond’s face looked hopeful for just a second before he grimaced.

“You need not jest with me. I apolog—”

“I do not jest,” Rhaenyra cut him off quickly. “I truly do not. You are their favorite uncle, and boys are oft more interested in having someone to talk to about swords rather than their table manners and studies.”

“Favorite… uncle?” Aemond took a moment to think, scrunching up his nose in the process. “It’s not like there’s much choice left between the three of us. Daeron can barely talk, and Aegon is an insufferable twat. Yes, that’s right. I must be their favorite uncle.”

A laugh bubbled in Rhaenyra’s throat at how serious and calculating the child sounded and looked, but she smothered it down. Instead, she let go of one of his hands, still holding the other and led him to where her children awaited, with Ser Erryk dutifully trailing behind.

Once Sam was no longer a problem, Mysaria allowed herself a minute to breathe. The girls, some of whom woke up from the commotion and came to see what was happening, were currently entertaining Hugh. Well, "entertaining" was a rather drastic word in this case. They were trying to lure him in to “thank him,” while the man tried to disappear into the shadows. Upon hearing him plead to be left alone for the third time in a row, now mentioning that he needed to go home to help with the babe, Mysaria stepped in.

“Girls, let the man go. If you feel the need to express your gratitude, you should allow him to honor his wife by staying loyal.”

Her girls shuffled away from him quietly, and with flushed cheeks, murmuring their thanks and apologizing under their breaths. Mirri ran down the stairs and gave the huge man a firm hug, thanking him for ‘saving her’. The man looked ready to melt right there and then. Cheeky little hellion she was, but she might have just earned them a good and devout protector. Not that they needed such services very often; most customers knew the rules in her house.

With a move of her hand, she shooed the girls back into their rooms and reached into her pocket for some coin. She pulled out a couple of copper stars and extended her hand. Hugh crossed the room almost fearfully, despite looking somewhat relieved.

“Thank you for your help today. I hope it was not too much of a hindrance. And forgive my girls, they are rather used to expressing their gratitude in a certain way.” The man pocketed the coins and stepped back to what he probably thought was a respectful distance.

“It was no hindrance, I assure you. Those of us listening well enough know of your reputation. I was glad to be of help. If the need arises, Jessa knows where to find me now, and I have trustworthy friends.”

“How is your trade right now?” Her words made him pause as he was already heading towards the door. “Babes are a costly thing. I would understand if a man with a new family took an interest in earning some extra coin.”

There was a moment of silence in the room, as Hammer clearly tried to decipher the meaning of her words and his own response.

“You wish me to work here permanently?” he said, slightly baffled.

“No.” Mysaria paused, slowly turning to stare him in the eyes. “I wish to know if you can be loyal.”

Alicent did not know how long she stayed in her room. She requested that all her appointments be canceled and to be left alone. The fact that she was listened to without question and respected only reaffirmed the idea that she was somehow in the past. She realized with sudden clarity that while she was no longer confined to her room, she felt imprisoned all the same.

She did not feel relieved, or happy, only trapped. She was, no doubt, forced to relive the same nightmare again, as a punishment for her mistakes. Given hope even as she knew she teetered on the edge of destruction and even worse horrors than those that had befallen her before.

What would happen if her father were to know what was to come? Would he agree that Aegon is unsuited for the throne? Would he try to raise him differently? Would he spare Helaena from the same fate of being unloved and forgotten, or force her to embrace her “womanly duties” once again?

She feared that if he were to know what was to come, more rash and bloody decisions might be made. Especially once the protection that King Viserys’s health afforded all of them ended. This time around, father might go ahead with his initial plans of executing Rhaenyra, no doubt under the guise of preserving her and her children. It could turn into a bloody massacre, with throats being cut and babes being smothered in their very beds.

Or would her father perhaps agree that peace was the best option? That the unwavering decision of her husband deserves to be honored and Rhaenyra should ascend the throne. That an agreement could be made to ensure the safety of her children.

“You’d be glad to return to more… domestic pursuits.”
“If we raised up a woman of our own.”
“No Queen has ever ruled the Seven Kingdoms.”
“I will never be a son.”
“It would not matter if she were Jaehaerys himself born again, Rhaenyra is a woman.”

It was never about her worth. Never about whether Rhaenyra was capable, or just, or honorable. Never about her safety, or even her children’s. Not even her father considered what would be better for the realm, despite what he may otherwise claim. Rhaenyra was a woman, and therefore, in his eyes and many others, unworthy of the power any highborn man would be freely given. She could be the most capable person in the room, and still, the contents of her breeches would matter most.

There was a time in Alicent’s life when she truly thought her friend would make a great queen and, inadvertently, raise up other women. Did she even notice when she stopped dreaming of power and freedom and accepted the harsh reality of being a woman?

No, not just accepted. Embraced.

"We do not rule, but we may guide the men that do."

Her father would never agree to stepping aside, or even striking up a deal to ensure the safety of her children. He would rather see the Realm burn and half her children dead than accept Rhaenyra on the throne.

The main question was – did she trust Rhaenyra?

I must protect my children.

Aegon was not yet too far gone, but the path he is walking now leads him to the destruction she wished to avert. Helaena is not yet chained to a violent drunk of a husband. Aemond… she would need to learn to look at Aemond the same way again. Her boy, who grew to dismiss her callously and allowed his temper to flare more often than not. The boy who would go on to burn innocents and turn agains his own family. The things the war had turned him and the sweet young Daeron into may yet be averted.

“It was you.” The mocking whisper she started hearing after Jaehaera died returned once again. The voice that kept her awake at night and caused her to claw at her skin in the locked and lonely room. “It was your upbringing. You did this.” Alicent pressed her hands firmly into her ears. She willed her thoughts to stop. “YOU are the one who raised monsters.”

Tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the canopy above and took shallow breaths. On the far end of the room, Helaena slowly closed the door behind her as she left. Mother was indisposed at the moment.

The boys were delighted to have Aemond join them, just as she had assured him they would be. They spent their time talking about sword fighting, new squires that were a little too clumsy and the latest book on Valyrian histories that Aemond was so fond of.

Lucerys was still complaining about having to have Arrax resettled into the Dragonpit. The juvenile dragon was now the size of a pony and could not safely cohabit his chambers, much to Luke’s dismay. They had already let him stay longer than dragons normally would, so there was nothing to be done.

The boys left swiftly after finishing their food, Jace and Luke running out with a quick goodbye and Aemond with a too-respectful bow. All that was left for Rhaenyra to do was return to her chambers to look at Lord Beesbury’s reports one last time before attending the small council. Lord Lyman’s indiscernible scribble was occupying her mind when a door creaked behind her—the hidden one Harwin so frequently used.

She turned around slowly, expecting to see her love.

A woman she did not know stood there, a single red chrysanthemum in her hands.

Chapter Text

There was no guard on the other side of those heavy wooden doors. In retrospect, sending Ser Erryk to accompany the children and keep an eye on Aemond had been a bad idea. She should have at least found another guard. It was foolish to believe the keep and her rooms impenetrable when she herself used the tunnels whenever the occasion presented itself.

“Your favorite flowers are chrysanthemums,” the woman declared hurriedly, likely sensing the tension. “I know that because I know you. I mean no harm and hope you will allow me to explain before asking for my head.”

What?

Rhaenyra stared at the woman, her expression flickering between wariness, disbelief, and curiosity. It wasn’t as if her favorite flower was a secret, but it was a detail not many would know or suspect. Many servants knew how, following her mother’s funeral, she had ordered all her garments embroidered with chrysanthemums to be burned in a fit of rage. Everyone in the keep knew she rarely visited the pristine white chrysanthemum field that was Aemma’s Gardens. The Lords and Ladies still remembered her slapping a young Redwyne lordling years ago for offering her a bouquet. Never mind being correct about that—how was she so confident in being correct?

The stranger’s black hair was gathered in a neat, albeit simple, bun at the nape of her neck. Her deep brown eyes searched Rhaenyra’s for something, and the hope in them faded with every second Rhaenyra took to respond. The dark gray, almost black gown was a stark contrast to the red flower still in her fingers. There was a stitching on the side, and Rhaenyra instantly recognized it as a compartment sewn in. A pocket? Or a slit to draw the dagger possibly resting against her hip?

Evidently, the woman saw Rhaenyra’s eyes flicker to it. She slowly moved her pale hand inside, produced a small dagger, and tossed it in her direction. It landed next to the table with a clank.

Rhaenyra followed the steel with her eyes before straightening up and motioning for the woman to approach.

The woman’s expression was neutral, and she moved cautiously. Her hesitancy was undeniable, evident in her unbalanced steps, flickering eyes, and the irregular soft rattle of the stones attached to a wide necklace. This woman moved as if approaching a rabid animal. Or a wounded one.

“I am not going to run, my lady,” smirked Rhaenyra, eliciting a soft laugh. She picked up the masterfully crafted blade from next to her feet and began twisting it in her hands.

“You are more of a biting type, my princess,” the woman said as she settled across from Rhaenyra, not even sparing a glance at the documents and reports strewn between them on the low table, and extending the flower instead.

“Oh?” Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows. “Sounds like you do know me after all.” She reached out and took the flower, inhaling the familiar scent. She did not feel like letting go of the dagger just yet.

“It was Queen Aemma’s favorite too. She made sure to embroider a white chrysanthemum, even if just a small and hurried one, on all your garments as a charm for good health of sorts. She would embroider baby blankets during each of her pregnancies too—always with chrysanthemums. Most of them she had to burn.”

A smile left Rhaenyra’s face, but she listened intently. Her eyes glazed over a little at the mention of her mother, but there was no weeping, as many would have expected. The woman took this as a sign to continue.

“After her funeral, everything was covered in chrysanthemums. Every servant had a flower pinned to their robes in remembrance of the Queen. Every hall and ballroom, even personal quarters, were decorated with the horrid white things. You despised it. So much so, that your blanket for Jacaerys did not contain a single bloom.” Rhaenyra left the dagger on the cushion next to her, clutched the flower in both hands, and leaned forward as if trying to absorb every syllable.

“You found your own blanket somewhere in the family storage when the first prince was still a newborn. You let yourself grieve—weep and wail—for the first time. As for the flower, you started regarding it as a cherished memory and a remnant of what once was. Prince Lucerys—” she was cut off by the princess raising her hand, and she obediently stopped.

They stared at each other for a long time. Rhaenyra’s eyes wandered as she attempted to take in every single detail of her current companion. The woman’s hair was slightly disheveled, as if she had rushed to get here. One of her cheeks was still redder than the other, undoubtedly a small bruise yet to form. Rhaenyra suppressed a frown at the thought of violence that may have taken place earlier. An edge of a scar peeked from behind the collar necklace, old and clearly wished to be hidden.

In the dead silence, one could faintly hear the servants rushing somewhere in the corridor just behind the door. Rhaenyra thought the woman looked familiar, but she had a hard time pinpointing where from.

“I know you,” she whispered finally, dropping the flower on the table and leaning in almost inappropriately close. “You were on Dragonstone with Daemon.”

“I had the displeasure of being dragged into that mess, yes. My name is Mysaria,” she said confidently.

“Mysaria,” Rhaenyra repeated softly. Then, noticing the positions they were in, she rocked back hastily and folded her hands on her lap. Mysaria, similarly bent forward, had to quickly mirror the action.

“This is a little too in-depth of knowledge for someone I’ve met only once and very briefly,” Rhaenyra said, cocking her head ever so slightly.

“We meet again. In 130 AC. Eight years from now,” elaborated Mysaria, holding Rhaenyra’s gaze and searching for any signs of discomfort. Rhaenyra remained calm, so she continued firmly, “I die a year later in King’s Landing, towards the end of the war. I woke up here this morning.”

Another stretch of silence. The words did not truly register at first, their significance muddled and ambiguous. The moment an inference was made in her mind, Rhaenyra let out a horrified gasp. The ball of anxiety coiled in her stomach before spreading out and writhing under her skin. She stood up, following some instinctive desire to be ready for an attack that was not yet there. Mysaria remained sitting and raised her hands in a pacifying motion.

“Rh—My princess, you need to remain calm. Please, stay calm. Your condition—” she tried to reassure softly.

“You know about that too?” Rhaenyra flinched away, her hands cradling her stomach.

“Yes, and I assure you everything will be alright. But right now, you need to be calm.” Evidently seeing little response in all the muttering and pacing, Mysaria reached for a small pillow and pushed it into the anxious woman’s hands. “Squeeze it. Squeeze it hard and breathe.”

After a dozen shaky breaths, Rhaenyra finally sat back down, still with the pillow in her hands.

“Should I be surprised you knew what would help?” she murmured, staring at the floor.

“It always helped you… after. When unusually distressed, you took to sleeping with one, clutching it to your chest,” Mysaria replied softly while cautiously standing up. She crossed the distance between them and sat down softly next to her princess, giving plenty of time to shoo her away if needed and looking as if she expected a reprimand.

Rhaenyra could not say for sure what their relationship had been before, and she might never know exactly, but when she looked back up at Mysaria’s face, she saw it. Her eyes, flooded with affection and longing. Her face, soft with the same appreciation and devotion that Rhaenyra so frequently saw in Harwin. It was unexpected and irrational, but somehow felt perfectly right. It gave her a clue as to who they might have been in another time, a certain level of trust despite how nonsensical the story sounded.

The woman received no displeasure or rebuke. Instead, the princess slumped further into herself, curling around her swell unconsciously, and hesitantly moved her hand closer to where Mysaria’s rested. The touch was hesitant at first and slow. It did not feel like the hands of Lords and Lordlings whose dry fingers creep along her skin and squeeze her soft flesh so frequently. No. It was soft. It was gentle. It was warm and comforting in a way that made Rhaenyra’s eyes water. The pregnancy humors hit again, she assured herself, even as she struggled to keep her emotions at bay.

“What do we do now?” she mumbled as she squeezed firmly.

“Now you go to the small council meeting and continue as normal. There is a long discussion to be had, but I would prefer for most of it to happen with Ser Harwin present.”

Rhaenyra barely had time to form the question before the answer came.

“For your comfort and to keep you relaxed,” Mysaria elaborated, her eyes briefly flashing back at the swell beneath the dress. “I will come again tonight if that would please you, my princess. For now, it is best to act as normally as possible, or you will soon be running late.”

Rhaenyra did not bother trying to hide a fond smile as she nodded and finally took a deep breath. Perhaps everything would be alright.

“It would please me very much, Lady Mysaria.”

“But surely, if the Valyrians wanted to, they would have found Braavos?” inquired Lucerys. “They had so many dragons; why not just fly and search along the coastline?” He walked ahead of them all to the training yard at a leisurely pace.

“We do not know if they ever tried. Regardless, was there really much value in a settlement of escaped slaves? Enough to send highborn riders across the entire continent to prowl the jungles for weeks?” replied Aemond, tugging at his hair a little in thought.

“I would expect the slaves to be bitter and unhappy. I would fear retaliation,” Jacaerys pointed out immediately.

“Who would retaliate against the giant slaving empire with the dragons?” Aemond sighed.

“They could,” Jacaerys scoffed. “They could, and that is the problem. It would be easier to destroy any potential for rebellion, even in the far future. Also, there are conspiracies that suggest possible involvement of Braavosi assassins in the Doom.”

Now it was Aemond’s turn to scoff. “Conspiracies. Of course.”

“But they would have had to kill innocents for that,” Lucerys pointed out, horrified. “By the time the city became known, generations had lived there. The Valyrians barely remembered losing those ships, and the Braavosi were only the descendants of the original settlers.”

“You are probably right,” Jacaerys thought things over. “It was too late to take any action at that point, and there was no other reason to search for Braavos.” Jacaerys mumbled softly and ruffled Luke’s hair.

The change in attitude was apparent. With Aemond, Jace was friendly but somewhat detached and quick to anger; with Luke, he was only ever patient and loving. Which was understandable—it was hard not to like Luke. As much as he willed himself to, and as much as he suspected they would one day become enemies, Luke was way too sweet. Aemond tugged unconsciously at his forest green jerkin.

Aemond knew he was not the favorite child. That was Daeron, because he was small and chubby and all cute-looking. He was neither a girl like Helaena nor the potential King like Aegon. His only value was in the skills he had acquired to be used by Aegon. In being Aegon’s shield and sword. He tried. He tried very, very hard. To please Mother, to please Grandsire, to please his brother. It was never enough.

Otto was cold and cruel. Aegon was a selfish twat. Helaena and Daeron had more interest in the tapestries than him. Mother was different. Mother tolerated him. She was pleased whenever he excelled in training or studies, respectful and firm when he did not. She was there for him, and she talked to him. Until this morning.

He wanted to wake her up. He often did, trying to coax her into breaking fast together and failing miserably. The Queen believed such things to be a waste of time and mentioned as much to Aemond every time he asked. The corners of her mouth would curl down in a displeased frown, and she would tell him to get back to his duties.

Today she did not look annoyed but outright hateful. He thought it over again and again in his mind and still could not find a single reason for his mother to look down on him so. To sneer at him as if he were one of the Asshai monstrosities or a Basilisk Isle pirate. He had done no wrong. He was trying to be good.

It broke something deep inside him he did not know he still had. Something cracked and crumbled down into the pit of his stomach, burning and cutting his insides. He could not even remember fleeing the room or blindly dashing through the halls. Nothing until he bumped into his half-sister.

The woman he had never had a full conversation with. The woman he was told would put him to the sword for the challenge his gender posed. The woman who held him close, for longer than his mother ever had, murmured soothing words, and called him brother.

Aemond wondered if there was something wrong with him. Once the princess spent more time with him and found out who he was, would she turn cold too? Ahead, Jacaerys and Lucerys were walking hand in hand and whispering between themselves. He had never had this kind of closeness with his siblings, and part of him yearned for it.

Once the novelty of his presence passed, Jacaerys would go back to his usual self. Soon enough, he would be shoving him at the training yard.

“Aemond?” Lucerys turned to face him and started walking backward. “What do you think?”

“Hmm?” Aemond blinked. “Forgive me, I was not listening.”

“The God on Earth legend,” Lucerys pressed, eyes wide with wonder. “I have only just started reading it. Can someone even live that long?”

“I think the implication is that he was not human, Lucerys,” Aemond replied, wondering how the topics managed to change so fast.

“Clearly,” Luke rolled his eyes. “Still, does that mean gods can come down to earth? Why have they stopped?”

“I think if they—Luke!”

Luke would have been on the floor if not for Aemond stopping mid-sentence to grab his jerkin. The servant continued down the hall. Aemond bit back a rebuke—wherever the girl was scurrying to, she was clearly distressed.

“What is going on?” Jacaerys exclaimed, patting Luke on the shoulder briefly before turning back to Ser Erryk. “Do you know her, Ser?”

“No, my Prince,” replied Ser Erryk.

Before anything else could be said, another couple of serving girls ran in the same direction, with similarly distressed faces. With a quick glance at each other, the boys took off after them, the knight hot on their heels.

That was how they ended up in the godswood with a giant weirwood tree in the middle. Some people were pacing around, some whispering softly to each other in small groups. Close to fifteen men and women in different robes—servants, attendants, lords, and ladies alike—kneeled all around, muttering prayers.

Luke took the two other boys’ hands and led them slowly to stand in front of the tree. The eerie face looked the same, as did the trunk and leaves—they were not what spooked everyone here. It was the sap. There were no usual red tracks; the tree was weeping an inky black liquid instead.

Small Council meetings were usually rather dull, so Rhaenyra did not expect much going there. She had to admit, however, that today was proving rather entertaining.

The cupbearer, young Lady Lysa Farman, stumbled and poured wine all over Lord Wylde, causing him to retreat to his chambers. Rhaenyra had to hide a snicker, lest her distaste for the man become known. The servants were all aflutter, running around and talking about the Godswood, which she had yet to see. Ser Harold stood behind the King, clearly suppressing a smile as he watched Viserys try to decipher Lord Beesbury’s scrawl.

Alicent was absent, which was slightly unusual but not alarming. So far, they had discussed some border skirmishes, gossiped about happenings in Essos, and reviewed the harvest prognosis for the year.

“So you think it would be beneficial despite all the resources we would need to pour into the negotiations?” Viserys finally asked. It was clear he did not truly understand the report but got the general idea.

“Yes, Your Grace. There are many resources that would be easier to import from Dorne rather than Essos. Aside from the benefits of trade, it would strengthen our bonds, cease territory encroachments, and open opportunities for more communication in the future.” Lord Beesbury stated confidently without glancing at the notes next to him.

“We cannot underestimate the value of Dorne, yes.” Mellos pointed out somewhat loudly. “However, we must consider that such a close connection could also disrupt the order of things and the cultural balance we currently have.”

“And what cultural balance threat are we talking about here, Grand Maester?” Lyonel spoke up, his cup getting refilled by Lysa—properly, this time. “I am having a hard time understanding your point.”

“Their culture has rather unique views on religion,” Mellos took a breath before continuing a little quieter, “as well as bastardy and inheritance.”

“Inheritance is hardly the issue.” Harwin spoke up this time. “They have absolute primogeniture laws, if I recall correctly. The Iron Throne has a female heir, as do some other houses, and one of the Paramount seats is held by a woman. If anything, that would look rather favorable.” He did not look at her, but she felt the ferocity in his voice all the same. “As for what is probably your primary concern, the Faith of the Seven should not be affected by the religious freedoms of Dorne. If anything, the opposite might happen.”

“Many ancient houses do not practice the Faith of the Seven,” Lyonel agreed. “And while the Throne promised to protect the Faith after the uprising, it does not dictate how the Seven-Pointed Star should be interpreted. Dornish are of the Seven, and their customs should matter little to us.”

“I think I have heard enough,” the King finally spoke up. “You all are making interesting points, but from what I see, the benefits would be vast.” He turned his head to Lyonel. “Please see to it that Dornish representatives are notified of our decisions and invited for the final negotiation of the terms.”

“Yes, Your Grace. I will send the swiftest raven.” Lord Hand inclined his head respectfully.

“Now!” Viserys tapped the table with his fingers. “Ought we worry about the weirwood trees?”

“I do not believe so, Your Grace,” reassured Mellos, even as he gripped the chains in his hand. “There must be an explanation for this phenomenon, and we will work on finding it.”

Lyonel and Harwin both looked like they wanted to say something but held their tongues. Which was well enough. Rhaenyra was not particularly keen on having another faith debate so soon after the last one. Having two members of the council worship the Old Gods, another two the Valyrian gods, and at least three fanatically devoted to the Seven was a recipe for disaster. At least Ironrod and the Queen were absent; otherwise, they would have had a lot to say about the blasphemy of the Dornish, the weirwood trees, and rumors spreading through the keep.

“There is something else, Your Grace.”

“What is it, Tyland?” Everyone’s attention snapped to the master of ships.

“There are stirrings on both the East and West coasts,” he hesitantly mumbled. “It may be worth looking into.” His eyes flickered to the girl with the goblet at the edge of the room. “The Greyjoys are amassing quite a fleet. Lord Farman fears they will be targeted, and their own fleet has not fully recovered from when they lent ships for the Stepstones.” He opened his mouth to say something else but could not.

“We live in a peaceful time.” The King dismissed hastily. “Is there truly such reason for concern? I do not wish to act on baseless fears and sour our relationships with the Greyjoys.” He waved his hand as if batting the notion away.

“There is no relationship with the Greyjoys,” she spoke up finally. “They are as wild and unpredictable as they were before joining the Seven Kingdoms, just learned to hide it better.” Lannister glanced at her gratefully, and she loathed the feeling of being on the same side as him.

“Rhaenyra.” Father reached out to pat her hand. “We have no reason for concern other than a Great House solidifying its own power.” He turned to look at the slouching Lord Lannister. “For all we know, they could be preparing to sail to the Basilisk Isles and sack the pirates.”

“Of course, Your Grace. But there is also the matter of the Stepstones—”

“The land is barren and useless, Tyland. Even more so now that the dragons have decimated it. I doubt the Triarchy will try to fight for it anytime this century.” He stood up, causing everyone to rise and bow.

“I will take my leave; we seem to have discussed everything of importance.” With that, he left the chambers, leaning heavily on his cane, Ser Harrold trailing behind.

Rhaenyra huffed in frustration and turned to look at Lord Strong.

“Is there anything else on the agenda today?”

“We should review the funding petition received from the Night’s Watch.” His eyes flickered to the door as some loud maids passed by. “But that can wait until the Keep is a little less... in disarray.”

“Good,” she said, turning on her heel and leaving. Her sworn shield, the Lord Commander, followed her like a shadow, quiet and powerful.

Ser Criston was not there to train them today, which was great, in Aemond's opinion. Luke and Jace might even agree with him on that. A gold cloak captain, Jafer Rowan, took charge of their training, with Ser Erryk joining a few spars and offering advice from time to time. The new squire of Captain Rowan sulked in the corner at being left out.

Not that Aemond disliked Ser Criston's instruction; the man was a renowned swordsman and a great teacher. But his presence always brought tension. He would be rough and neglectful toward the princess’s children, and they—mostly Jacaerys—would be rough and rude to Aemond.

Aegon found it all amusing, and the King could not find it in himself to care. If anything, he was delighted at how strong his grandchildren were growing. Aegon was not here today, however, and Father was not watching them from a balcony, despite the Small Council meeting likely nearing its end by now.

Aemond took another sip from the cup the maids brought them during the break and let himself sag against the stone wall for a moment. Jace and Luke were unusually quiet as well, sitting close, ser Erryk leaning against the same wall on his other side.

“Is that Daeron?” Luke exclaimed, pointing up to the parapet, where a nurse was holding the silver-haired toddler so he could see over the half wall.

“Yes, it is,” Aemond confirmed. He could hear the faint, nonsensical strings of words that his little brother was now so fond of making.

“He looks like a happy babe,” Jacaerys pointed out, something sour flickering on his face for barely a moment.

“He’s still in the nursery; that is to be expected,” Aemond sighed. “Once he starts his lessons, he will be as miserable as the rest of us.”

“Were we all so chubby and smiley?” Lucerys exclaimed, looking up at Ser Erryk as if he would have an answer, before turning to Aemond. “I cannot imagine Aemond ever smiling like that.” He scrunched up his face in thought.

“I bet he was just as grumpy and boring as he is now,” Jacaerys laughed, clearly finding his own joke amusing.

Today was a bad, bad, very not good day. Usually, such a little jab would do nothing, but today was different, and Aemond had to fight the desire to flinch. Something must have shown on his face, because Jace’s expression shifted from a smug smile to one of surprise.

“Jace! That’s not nice!” Lucerys shook his head. “Aemond is not always boring,” he added, as if that made it better.

Aemond scowled and picked up his wooden sword, standing up to get back to practice. Ser Jafer looked at him with approval and nodded toward the mannequin.

It was at least another ten minutes before Ser Jafer interrupted again, calling the princes over. “I think it will soon be time for you to head to your lessons with your maesters, my Princes. I propose a spar before you leave. It is up to you which opponents you choose—each other, one of us, or brooding Elrod over there.”

Aemond barely had time to size up the squire before Jace spoke up.

“I want to spar with Aemond.”

Of course.

Ser Jafer cast him a questioning look, to which Aemond nodded. Daeron was still on the parapet, and Rhaenyra appeared nearby at some point. He was not surprised she was drawn to babes, not when he was fairly certain he felt the swell of her stomach earlier in the morning. The maid holding the youngest prince looked nervous and tried to angle herself in a way that would cover the him, so there was little Rhaenyra could actually do aside from offer a greeting.

Ser Harwin was making his way down to the field, likely to observe their spar.

His sons’ training, he thought bitterly—his beloved boys.

He gripped his sword tighter as they began advancing on each other. The fight started slowly, with standard swings and defenses. Aemond managed to dodge every attack, and so did Jacaerys. At some point, it felt like he might lose his footing, but his recovery was swift. As much as Aemond knew himself to be agile and resilient, his opponent was strong and methodic. If they ever fought side by side, they could complement each other well. Alas, that was an impossibility.

Once it became clear that they were evenly matched in skills, it turned into a test of endurance—who could hold their focus the longest, lift their sword, and strike consistently. Soon enough, during one of Jace’s swings, Aemond’s sword managed to hit him in the leg, and Jace flopped into the dirt. At Ser Erryk’s call to end the spar, Aemond threw his sword aside and tried to catch his breath.

Any other day he might have checked on Jace, but today Jacaerys was being particularly annoying, so he did not want to. Besides, Ser Harwin had already gone over to check on his son. He caught his half-sister’s eyes for a moment but saw no strong emotion—merely curiosity. She must have seen men training often enough not to be overly concerned about some bruises.

Jace stood up and walked past without saying much, only an annoyed huff.

She held the parchment as long as she could, until the fire began licking at her bloodied fingers, its warmth searing into her skin. It fell into the cold hearth, disappearing into the coals and ashes.

I must protect my children.

It had been a long time since she last thought of politics, even longer since those politics involved negotiations and court intrigues. Alicent had never been particularly adept at such matters, often relying on her father. Old habits die hard, though, and writing down her thoughts and plans made them feel more possible, more tangible. It made Alicent feel accomplished and orderly.

But such things could not be discovered. Parchment could be used against her, but ashes could not. If the gods granted her a chance to change something, she would take it. She clutched her seven-pointed star and thanked the Stranger once again for allowing her to escape his grasp.

Whatever it takes. They must live.

She dressed quickly, throwing on a simple gown of dark turquoise. It was one of the few in her wardrobe not outrageously green, with only a faint undertone. It was also the only one with ties at the front, allowing her to dress without assistance. She would rather burn her entire wardrobe than touch any of the green rags again, just as she did after the war ended with everyone dead.

Rolling up the remaining two parchments on her table, she carefully sealed them. She needed to be cautious not to stain anything with the blood still leaking from her fingers and the scratches on her arms. She used her personal seal—the one she had commissioned long ago, before her marriage to the king, before the endless pregnancies and court intrigues. A fox stared back at her, once a tribute to her mother, now a symbol of a new beginning.

Outside her door was Ser Criston. Of course. She suppressed her initial desire to frown, instead curling her lips into a pleasant smile.

“Good day, Ser Criston. May I ask a favor of you?” He immediately bowed and turned to face her.

“Good day, your Grace. I am always at your service.” Without further talk, she pushed the missives into his hands. He took them, barely glancing at the papers, focused on her instructions.

Always at my service. Oh, how flowery your words are.

“Make sure the missives reach their destinations.” The smile slid off her face as she fought the urge to turn and walk away, watching him consider the order.

“Should I—” She raised her hand to stop what would undoubtedly be a request to find her a different guard first.

“I am going to see Helaena. You can join me there once you have settled this matter.” She noted his hesitance to leave his post, evident in the way he glanced around and dripped his sword.

Any other person might see it as a dismissal, but Criston was already bold enough to speak his mind. She would deal with that later; for now, she would use whatever power over him remained.

“I hope you understand, Ser, that there is no one else I could trust with such an important matter,” she half-whispered, feigning an aborted movement to touch his cheek. The man bowed low, a self-satisfied smile on his face. He turned on his heel, self-importance radiating from him as she watched.

It was genuinely fascinating how easily this man was swayed by a hint of affection, led by his lust and desires. He, who prided himself on his white cloak, was blind to the filth clinging to him. The man who would one day become another Larys Strong—using her to gain power through her body and mind but refusing her any power in return. Alas, she needed him. For now.

The walk to Helaena’s chambers was long. Alicent stiffened internally as she passed the corridor leading to Rhaenyra’s chambers. There was no guard at Helaena’s door. She never had a sworn shield or even a simple guard. Neither Viserys nor Aegon had seen fit to appoint her one, despite having seven Kingsguard and hundreds of trusted gold cloaks. Alicent would have to see to finding one.

Helaena bade her come in immediately after the first knock. She sat embroidering on a large pillow, her back leaning against the window frame. The golden light of the setting sun enveloped her in a way Alicent had seen before. The sight nearly killed her. It may not be the same window she would jump from, but it had the same shutters, dragons, and flowers carved into the surface. Her heartbeat quickened, chest constricting with the effort to keep back a sob. Throwing her face up and focusing on the ceiling, she forced the tears to stay at bay.

Once confident in her self-control, she snatched another pillow from a settee and settled beside her daughter. Helaena had only just started to embroider her own designs. Her work was mediocre at best—techniques unsteady, stitching slightly crooked. Nothing compared to what she would make in the future. Not at all like the stitching on the shrouds of her children. Alicent refrained from touching her, instead enjoying the sound of her breathing.

Helaena muttered softly as she worked, grounding Alicent in this familiar sound. It was a habit her daughter would outgrow by the time she birthed the twins. Helaena was young and healthy, with a long life ahead of her. Alicent leaned her head back to rest against the frame, soaking in the warmth of Helaena’s presence until she was ready to talk.

“May I ask what you are making, sweet girl?” Helaena did not look up, but her lips curled into a pleased smile.

“Bloodflies. They don’t live here.” Helaena’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet soft as she continued making slow, unsteady stitches. “There is not enough shadow for them, I think.”

“Your work is wonderful.” The fly was indeed quite beautiful as far as flies went—mostly black, with grayish-white wings and thin red lines curving and weaving themselves all over its body. It looked ethereal. “Is it not rare for insects to have such bright colors?”

“It is rare. They are none of these colors.” Helaena sounded dismayed but continued guiding the green thread through the fabric with determination. “Someone mixed up all the threads.” The silence stretched until Helaena finished, cutting the thread and having added a green dot to the insect’s back.

In a sudden, jerky movement, Helaena raised her head to meet her mother’s eyes. Alicent felt chills running up her back from the intensity of the gaze. When Helaena spoke, it was loud and clear, like a bucket of ice water.

“You are not supposed to be here.” Her words echoed in the room.

Almost instantly, as if nothing had happened, Helaena looked back down. She gently cradled her finished embroidery piece and stood, smoothing her skirts with her free hand.

“I believed you to be taking tea with Lady Redwyne, Mother.”

Helaena walked over to her table, where the threads and fabrics were thrown in a large heap. She put away her work in a small treasure chest and began gathering threads for her next design. Alicent stood on wobbly feet and finally drew her eyes away from Helaena.

“You are right,” she whispered, heading for the door. “I will see you soon, my girl.”

She slipped out quietly, and Helaena watched her leave, fingers running gently over the threads.

Ser Criston was efficient when he wanted to be and was already waiting for her outside the doors. Alicent felt the sorrow that flooded her when she saw Helaena bubble up and turn into steaming anger again. She pushed it down, using one of the rare skills women were encouraged to learn—suppression. With a quick nod, she turned on her heel and marched through the winding corridors of Maegor’s Holdfast to her husband’s chambers.

Viserys had stopped calling on her at night about a year after Daeron was born. The King no longer desired her flesh—whether due to his weakness or lack of interest, she did not pretend to know. Any affection he once held for her as a human being and friend had disappeared even earlier. It waned slowly as he grappled with the grief of Aemma’s death—her ears and compliance were no longer required. And so she was cast aside.

She could not remember the last time she had come to his chambers of her own volition, nor did she wish to. Walking these halls again brought forth unwanted memories—of Viserys and his callings upon her, and of Aegon’s rage and sickness. Her steps grew more stilted as she neared the door, until she stopped completely a few paces before Ser Harrold.

Ser Harrold had died by Cole’s hand. His loyalty got him killed, she thought bitterly, and the grimace she fought to hide finally showed on her face.

“I wish to see the King,” she announced coldly.

Ser Harrold knocked and announced her swiftly. Soon enough, the door opened before her. She forced herself to move, stepping into her husband’s space. As the door closed behind her, she felt her feelings and thoughts freeze, giving way to icy determination.

“I have come with a request, husband.” Viserys motioned her to sit after a cursory glance, but his attention returned to his model by the time she took her seat.

In the past, she would have tried to talk over his apparent lack of attention, pleading for him to hear her, to consider her words. She had tried, even when he disregarded her presence, her thoughts, and when annoyance marked his features. Not anymore. Not again. She waited in silence, her eyes fixed on his forehead as he carved another figurine.

Finally, he looked up at her with a bland, unreadable expression. He couldn’t even grace me with a smile. Or any emotion, at this point. Regardless, she had his attention.

“I want to have full authority over my children’s betrothals and contracts,” she declared firmly. Before he could even open his mouth to reply, she leaned closer and reiterated. “I would like you to indulge me the way you did Rhaenyra. And I want it in writing. With your seal. Now.”

“Alicent.” He reached out to stroke her cheek. “I understand you must be overwhelmed now that our children are coming of age, but why all of a sudden? I will see to their futures.”

He continued stroking her cheek and looking at her with a softness rarely seen. Except he was not being kind or considerate. She could recognize that now. Condescending. That’s what he was. Treating her as a foolish girl fretting over dresses and jewels, not as the Queen who sits on his council.

“Children are precious, but them growing up makes us parents feel all kinds of conflicting emotions,” he continued with a chuckle, laying back and turning his attention once more to his model of Valyria, seemingly dismissing the topic and her altogether.

“And yet,” she said slowly, accentuating every word, “you allowed Rhaenyra to have full authority over her children to ensure their safety and happiness. Not Laenor. Not the council. Not even you. Rhaenyra.”

“Alicent,” he said more firmly, eyes flashing with annoyance. “Rhaenyra will be Queen one day. She will be the head of this house, and if anyone should have the authority over the marriages, it. Is. Her.” He clenched his fist at the table. “Why do you desire this so much? Is it some sort of superiority idea? Do you not trust me to make good choices for the children?”

“No, I do not,” she said calmly, running her fingers over the nearest carving of a dragon. Viserys stilled, eyes wide in surprise. “I do not think you would care enough to steer your council in this matter.”

“Alicent!” he hissed as he stood up. “I did not expect this level of—”

“They will use them for their own gain,” she interrupted softly. “Aegon is the firstborn son—”

“He is not the heir,” he snapped, stalking toward the chair with the intent to loom over her.

“I know!” she bit out, standing up as well. Taking a shaky breath, she calmed and switched to a soft whisper. “You have made this very clear, and yet you do not protect him from the reality of his station.” She looked him in the eye, their faces almost touching. “He will be used. In the wrong match, he may be pushed onto your throne in opposition to Rhaenyra. And you, my kind husband, do not know the trickery and depravity of men well enough to prevent this.”

Viserys looked stunned, but Alicent continued pressing. Whatever she had to say or do, she would, if it meant securing that parchment. Demure and worried wife was working well at this point.

“Don’t you see, husband?” She moved her hand to cup his cheek this time, brushing her fingers tenderly over the stubble. “I want to ensure my children’s happiness. I just want to make sure that no fool on the small council shackles them into a miserable existence. Or worse…”

“I would see to their happiness too,” he said, sounding tired and deflated. “Rhaenyra—”

“The betrothals I secure will not be made to undermine her or her children’s claims,” she shushed him. “I swear on the Seven, on the memory of my mother, on whatever you wish me to swear upon. I only wish to ensure the safety and well-being of our babes.” She sighed heavily, moving her hands to rest on his chest. “I wish to be able to help my children without that table of crows dictating my every move and feasting on our bones. You have enough worries as it is. Grant me the same gift Rhaenyra and Queen Alyssane received. Please, Viserys. Please.”

He said nothing more as he stepped away, searching her face for any hint of deception. The silence stretched until he was finally satisfied with what he saw and walked to his table. It took no longer than five minutes for him to write a new directive in his elegant, sweeping handwriting. No more than five minutes to change her children’s fates. When he presented it to her, the seal at the bottom was slightly uneven—his ring must have been askew—but it was there. The children were hers.

“Ser Criston!” she called out.

The knight rushed in and bowed low.

“Your Grace.”

“Take this to Lord Wylde and tell him to notify the small council members regarding the new will of the King.” Criston hurried across the room to collect the parchment and left with another bow.

“I will retire to my chambers now, husband,” she said as she turned to follow Ser Criston.

“No,” he exclaimed, taking her hand. “Stay.”

He stepped closer, wrapping around her from behind like creeping vines of poison ivy. She could feel his hot, wet breath on the back of her head, his hands beginning to wander. So he did have desires in him then. Or did she stroke them accidentally? She felt him attempt to turn her, her body becoming soft and pliant—an ingrained behavior by now.

“Do you have any affection for me?” Her words rang clear in the room. She completed the turn to face him once more.

“Of course, I value you,” Viserys replied, confused.

“Do you? Beyond my womb and the ability to populate the royal line? Me, as a person. As a part of your household, your family. Was there ever a moment you liked me for who I was?” Alicent felt embers in her chest ignite again, threatening to break her careful control.

“Of course,” he said confidently. Yet, they both heard it as the lie it was.

“Then why are you trying to kill me?” she whispered, gripping his hands still resting on her waist. She gripped so hard her knuckles turned white as her eyes bore deep into Viserys’ skull.

“What are you talking about?” he asked incredulously.

“I almost died birthing Daeron. For two weeks, I lay bleeding on the bed, maesters clucking around and discussing my ‘waning’ health. And yet, not even a month later, once I was able to stand on my own two feet, you called upon me again. And now, even as you know my next pregnancy may be disastrous, you are…” She let the silence stretch, accentuating their current position. With his hands holding her close, their bodies flush against each other to the point she felt his flesh through the fabric.

He let go and stared, something in him seeming to crumble at the implication of killing the second wife as he had the first. Alicent had died in this city, in her bed, once. Not again.

She did not wait for a reply. She stormed out of the room.

“Thank you, Victaria, Elinda.” Rhaenyra nodded gratefully, settling on one of the couches in front of the hearth. A tray of cakes and a jug of sweet wine sat on the small table next to her. She picked up a book and pretended to search for a mark. “Please make sure I am not disturbed.”

The ladies curtsied and left the room, Ser Lorent closing the door behind them.

Mysaria watched all of this from the shadows behind one of the tapestries. If there was one thing she did well, it was blend in and stay unnoticed. The moment the door closed, however, Rhaenyra looked up at her with a mischievous smirk, and Mysaria felt her legs move.

There was something thrilling in having to earn this woman’s affection once again. Something alluring in her mischievous smiles and unbothered expression. She had never seen Rhaenyra before Prince Lucerys died. The woman before her was lighter and happier than ever. She was also more naïve, to be sure, but it was endearing.

And yet, fire was lurking in her dragon’s eyes. She saw it every time her Rhae returned from battle, rebuked her lords, or pressed Mysaria up against the wall. It should have been hard to reconcile with the idea that her Rhaenyra was either dead or lost to another time. It would have been, was it not for the fact that her Queen slowly died as every month of the war passed by. By her own end, she was simply staring at the husk of the woman that once was and clinging onto her memories.

The princess in front of her was alive. She was so deliciously content, confident, and healthy that it made Mysaria’s heart clench.

“You have been looking at me for quite some time, my lady,” the princess chuckled, her cheeks turning slightly rosy. She then reached for another goblet hidden out of sight of her ladies and filled it. “Please, sit.”

“My apologies, my princess. You look different from what I remember.” Mysaria accepted the goblet and settled down.

Rhaenyra hummed in agreement, taking a second to look at the fire. “I could not imagine.”

“I assume Ser Harwin is away on duty as Lord Commander?”

“You assume, or you know?” grinned Rhaenyra, already knowing the answer and receiving a mirthful smile in return. “He will be able to sneak away for an undisturbed extended meeting in three days’ time.” Her smile faded. “I presume you will want to wait with the details of the future until then?”

“Yes, my princess. The upsetting parts would best be left out until then,” Mysaria nodded. “For now, I wanted to make sure you trust and believe me fully.”

“And how would you go about dissipating any lingering... distrust?” Rhaenyra looked her over with a sharp gaze.

“There was a scuffle on the Wall. Two days ago, if I remember the days correctly. The news is not supposed to reach King’s Landing for some time, perhaps two weeks.” She swirled the wine in her glass and lowered her voice a little. “With the distance so great and the North so secluded, there is no way for me to know of the state of the Wall in just two days. Unless, of course, I was there when the news spread last time.” Mysaria finished quietly, extending a folded parchment, which Rhaenyra took.

“What are these names?” the princess asked, looking at the thin, spidery handwriting briefly.

“Names that I remembered of people who were killed by the Wildlings. Others were likely common-born and criminals, but these two stood out for their noble birth, so they were reported.” Rhaenyra hid the parchment in her belt after a quick nod. “I hope this will be enough.”

“I cannot imagine anyone having enough power to assassinate two highborn members of the Night’s Watch during a Wildling attack, so yes, it will be,” agreed Rhaenyra, taking her own goblet. “Is there anything that needs immediate attention?”

“I would try to utilize the things that are already meant to happen as much as possible to get rid of some... obstacles... without being too obvious.” Rhaenyra looked attentively, encouraging her to continue. “In two days’ time, there will be a brawl in one of the popular drinking establishments on the Hook. A lavish and well-liked one, frequented by the Gold Cloaks and Kingsguard. It will escalate to the point of several people being trampled or beaten to death.”

“You think to get rid of someone unpleasant by sending them there. Who?” Rhaenyra deduced quickly.

“Criston Cole,” Mysaria replied, turning her head to stare at the city bright and loud outside the latticed window. “He is not exactly our biggest threat, merely a piece on the board, but he is too close for comfort.” She took a sip before continuing. “If someone wanted to take more drastic measures in response to ours solidifying power, Cole is a good tool and has shown disregard for his oaths repeatedly. Most importantly, he is the easiest to lure into the tavern for a drink in such a short amount of time.”

Mysaria let Rhaenyra think the matter over, plucking a lemon cake from the tray, taking the lemon off, and extending it to the princess habitually. She startled a little but accepted the lemon, nibbling at it as she hid a self-satisfied smile. Something must have flashed across Mysaria’s face, as Rhaenyra suddenly became very focused on the fire dancing in the hearth.

“I suppose I could suggest to Ser Harrold a day off for some Kingsguard. If I were to leave with my children for a brief trip, there would be fewer people to guard.” She finally contemplated, unsure.

“You may not have to go as far as taking a trip. Just mention that Cole is being snappy and overworked. It would be best if Ser Harrold himself mentions or recommends the tavern. Maybe he would go there with another Kingsguard he tolerates?” Mysaria suggested, after repeating the action with the second lemon cake, now eliciting a blush.

“He does not tolerate anyone,” the princess shook her head. “Except... perhaps, Ser Arryk?”

“One of the twins would be perfect.” Mysaria eagerly accepted. “Unfortunately, I do not know the workings of the keep and do not have enough influence over the Kingsguard to do anything beyond suggest this plan.”

“It is too many variables,” Rhaenyra frowned. “It is unlikely they will have a free day at the same time, agree to go, or that I will succeed in not raising too much suspicion with Ser Harrold.”

“The man died for you,” Mysaria interjected. “He is terribly loyal to you, and even if he has suspicions, he would never voice them. If you cannot get it to happen, there will be other opportunities. However, this cannot be traced to us even if they tried, because it is meant to happen and will happen regardless.” She sighed. “Try to get them there, and I will handle the rest.”

Rhaenyra nodded, clearly digesting new information. Mysaria hoped this was not too much too soon, but there was nothing she could do about the timing of the brawl. The opportunity presented was simply too great to ignore.

“What else?” Rhaenyra inquired, chewing on the lemon in her hand.

“A lot of politics, several serious moves I am not prepared to mention without Ser Harwin, choosing more Ladies-in-Waiting in a strategic way, and other things. Everything can wait until a little later,” Mysaria replied, warmed by the fact that her princess was comfortable around her already.

Fire crackled softly, and the wine made her feel all kinds of soft and hazy. The wine or Rhaenyra, she could not say for sure.

“We will have to meddle with Northern affairs a little. There will be a civil war soon. It will not affect the Seven Kingdoms as a whole, but it would weaken the North and therefore your future army.” Mysaria frowned, swirling her wine in the goblet. “I can't say I'm looking forward to that.”

“Is that what you’re most afraid of? We just talked about possible assassinations and a load of politicking. Yet you worry most about meddling with the staunchly Black North?” Rhaenyra let her head fall back to look at the ceiling. She felt the headache coming. “Is there a possibility of them turning against us?”

“I would say no.” Mysaria took a long sip as she thought. “However, it would be best if our meddling could not be investigated and traced back to us, which is a possibility given the large distance and lack of my people in the North.”

“That is true enough. Why not start acting right away, then?”

A conflicted look crossed Mysaria’s face as she put her goblet on the table. The princess quickly mirrored her action and turned to lean closer. The lady reached out hesitantly and, upon seeing no displeasure, took the other woman’s hands.

“What if someone else returned?” she asked tensely.

“What?” gasped Rhaenyra. “Why would you think of that?”

“It would be foolish to believe myself special, handpicked by the gods to be spared and given a second chance. Foolish and arrogant. It would, of course, be so much easier if I were the only one to return. But why?”

Rhaenyra did not answer, but her face turned contemplative.

“I would like to check. If anyone else returned, there is a high chance they will start acting immediately, and acting hastily,” she spoke resolutely. “I do not claim to know much about how time works, but knowing things is my trade. If there is a change significant enough, I will know. We should lay low for the next two days, and limit our interference for a while after too.”

Recognition flashed in the princess’s face then. “The changes will be like ripples in the water. It should be relatively easy to pinpoint the source if it is close enough.” She blurted out, “At least narrow it down to a certain family.”

“Exactly. We have one problem—the changes already happened. Big ones. The weirwood trees,” Mysaria pointed out as she let go and folded her hands in her lap. “It was never supposed to happen. And I find it a funny coincidence that it happened the same day I returned.”

Rhaenyra startled at that, still sitting half-turned to Mysaria’s chair. “You think the literal gods intervened?”

“I am not an avid reader of mythical texts, Rh- my princess, so I cannot be sure. Either they did, or something else. Someone else. I am not sure I want to know who or what it was.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “Common folk are a superstitious kind. I fear if we do not assign a meaning to this, they will. And we might not like it. I will think of something, spread the rumors of this being a sign of the gods favoring your faction or something like that.”

“What does it matter what superstitions people hold?” the princess asked, confused. “And call me Rhaenyra; you keep stumbling over my name, so might as well use it.”

“You underestimate them, Rhaenyra, just as you did before. And you will see why you should fear their superstitions shortly. For now, trust me when I tell you they are yet to be useful to us.”

Her princess nodded and leaned back in her seat. There was a very long week ahead of them.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra woke up with a yelp, already half-sitting, but couldn’t figure out why. The haze of sleep receded instantly, taking with it the alarm and dread that had startled her awake. Confused, she looked around, saw nothing out of order, and buried her face in her hands.

“My princess? May I come in?” Elinda’s voice sounded after a brisk knock.

“Come in.”

The girl scurried in, looking worried despite the pleasant smile curling her lips. She stopped in the archway separating the princess’s bedchamber from the study, curtsied, and began wringing her hands.

“This is the third time you’ve woken up like that tonight, my princess. May I help you? Perhaps bring a calming tea?” the girl offered, unsure.

Rhaenyra noted that Elinda still wore her day gown—a deep red, made from velvety thick fabric. She was clearly trying to emulate Victaria and Bethany in the style of her gowns, to emphasize her position and allegiance to the crown princess. It was still dark outside, despite Rhaenyra feeling suddenly awake and compelled to do something—anything—with the time, so the girl must not have retired to sleep at all.

“You haven’t slept?” Rhaenyra inquired, the girl nodding quickly. “Elinda, little dove, you don’t have to be up at ungodly hours of the night to be a good lady-in-waiting. You’re not a servant, and I don’t expect you to behave as such.”

Elinda quickly shook her head in a jerky, half-frightened motion. “Of course, my princess, we know you would never ask that of us. It’s just that you’ve been having very troubled sleep these past few nights. We wanted to make sure you had an attendant nearby if need be.”

Lady Massey was not wrong. The past couple of nights, Rhaenyra’s sleep had been elusive at best. She kept waking up all night, sometimes for seemingly no reason at all, sometimes alarmed or even screaming, but any thoughts leading to those reactions faded with whatever dreams she’d been having the moment she woke up.

“I’m not sure what would help,” Rhaenyra admitted finally. “I’m just… restless for some reason. Must be all the small council hassle.”

She had taken tea with her ladies just the day before, where she had shared some of the burdens that plagued her. Nothing about the mysterious new lady Mysaria, of course, but the difficulties of the Dorne negotiations were discussed in detail. Elinda was still young, so she mainly listened and learned, while Victaria and Bethany provided relatively good advice regarding trade agreements and travel limitations.

Bethany Strong had married the Caswell heir some years ago and stayed by Rhaenyra’s side since she became the heir to the throne. The woman was on her fourth pregnancy now and had been able to recognize Rhaenyra’s condition earlier than anyone. Victaria had yet to find a match, and Rhaenyra selfishly hoped it would be made in King’s Landing, allowing her lady to stay close.

“I could read to you, perhaps? Or we could talk about something before you feel ready to sleep again. The offer of tea still stands; I could raise a maester to brew some.”

Rhaenyra cringed internally, her dislike for maesters momentarily bringing back the alarmed thrum in her head. The fears she had flared up whenever she was with child. Instead of focusing on that, she motioned for the girl to sit on the edge of the bed, carefully moving herself into a sitting position.

“I think the latest round of court gossip would calm me in no time.”

“I can provide you with that.” The lady’s face lit up with childish glee, making her look her age. “The boys from House Orme were seen on the Street of Silk the other day. Not scandalous, I know. But! They are said to have attended Madame Gayla’s establishment.”

“No way,” Rhaenyra gasped, her hand flying to her face. “What kind of indulgence could they possibly be craving, to attend the one brothel with no rules?”

“That’s what everyone is trying to figure out,” Elinda nodded excitedly. “If anyone has a hint, it would be their sister, but she is a potential new lady for the Queen and has been behaving rather isolated for now.”

Rhaenyra remembered that Alicent was supposed to be getting some new ladies-in-waiting. The Fossoways had left the court, and with them two ladies who had been by the Queen’s side for the past three years. From what Rhaenyra could recall, a couple of Reach houses had been invited to present their daughters, both to the Queen and as a possible companion for Helaena.

“Right,” the princess mused. “Houses Orme, Serry, Footly, and Blackbar arrived. Has any decision been made?”

“I heard House Footly is preparing to leave the capital—something happened during their audience with the Queen yesterday.” Elinda shrugged. “No one knows for sure what happened. A daughter of the family was proposed as a companion for the little princess, and the vacancy will now remain open.”

House Footly was a Reach house one would prefer on their side. Their seat in Tumbleton was close enough to King’s Landing to be strategically essential in wartime, and their smallfolk and trade thrived under excellent leadership in a way many a lord remarked on. Rhaenyra always saw Alicent as a thoughtful woman, calculating and cunning in ways she could never be. Back when she was newly made heir, Rhaenyra truly believed Alicent would make an excellent Hand of the Queen. Why the woman would waste an opportunity to create an essential alliance was beyond her understanding.

“I suppose it would be prudent for us to ensure House Footly does not leave the Keep in a foul mood,” Rhaenyra remarked, satisfied to see instant understanding in Elinda’s eyes.

“I will try to arrange a tea for you in the afternoon, if you would like that.”

“Thank you, Elinda.” Rhaenyra nodded. “You’re still attending your classes, aren’t you?”

“Yes, my princess. The septas are satisfied with my progress.”

“Are you interested in learning more?” The princess reached out to take her hand and squeezed it. “You have a very quick mind, little dove, and you should use it. Septas are good for raising future wives, yes, but you have the intelligence to be so much more. You should take some time to visit the library.”

“Oh, how could I? The maesters would never allow a woman in the main library.” The girl sounded horrified.

“The one in the Holdfast. You can use it. If anyone questions it, tell them you have my permission. Victaria and Bethany make use of it from time to time.” She leaned closer to the little lady. “I know Princess Helaena is quite fond of the books on insects, in the natural philosophy corner on the right.”

In truth, Rhaenyra didn’t much care for giving her sister a playmate. If anything, Helaena seemed quite content just as she was, in the company of her bugs and siblings, and her new guard. She merely thought it would be wise to keep an eye on her siblings until she knew what to do about their probable future betrayal. It also gave Elinda a reason to frequent the library—whether she spent that time learning or reading for leisure, she should learn to behave more as a lady of her station.

“I... Of course!” The girl nodded furiously and lightly squeezed Rhaenyra’s hand back.

“Go to sleep, Elinda, and tell Victaria to stop this too, for I’m quite certain she’s in on your little night’s watch plan.” Rhaenyra reached out to ruffle the girl’s hair. “I will be quite all right.”

Nothing else needed to be said, as the girl stood up, curtsied low, and left the room with soft wishes for a good night’s sleep. Rhaenyra clutched the small pillow to her chest and closed her eyes. Gods, she hoped to have some normal sleep.

“You didn’t come to break fast with us. Today or yesterday.” The accusing voice sounded from the doorway.

“I told you, I like to eat alone.” Aemond didn’t bother turning around, instead continuing to copy information from the book onto his parchment.

“You told us that the Queen and your siblings are busy in the mornings. Not that you enjoy eating alone.” Jace dismissed the excuse, walking closer to the table.

There was nothing Aemond could say that wouldn’t ring false, so he stayed silent and turned the page. Jacaerys slumped into a chair beside him.

“You can’t say that Sothoryos is uninhabited; that’s stupid,” Jace scoffed after glancing at Aemond’s notes.

“The Maesters would disagree with you, dear nephew. They claim it’s uninhabited.”

“The Maesters also write that Brindled Men and Lizard Men live there and that they’re capable of trading with passing ships. Why would it be uninhabited then?” the first prince inquired, fingers tracing the edge of a stack of books.

“They must not consider them human,” Aemond replied, still unsure.

“Why do they get to decide who is human and who isn’t? Because they can write books? I say they’re human.” Jacaerys wiped the dust off the manuscripts with his finger, pulling a face at the dirt.

“That’s exactly why. And I say you’re an idiot,” the words left Aemond’s mouth before he truly thought about them, but Jace merely laughed.

“I want to take Vermax to Sothoryos one day. See the ruins of Yeen and Gogossos,” Jacaerys noted smugly. “If anyone can find out what happened, it has to be me.” Aemond couldn’t help but scoff at his nephew’s confidence.

Maester Orwylle oversaw his and his brothers’ education, and every week he would give them a task to complete on their own. Not that Aegon ever did any of it. In contrast, Aemond was quite fond of these tasks and enjoyed poring over the historical tomes most of all. This time, he was to briefly report on the known map and had been thoroughly enjoying it until his nephew barged into the library, shattering the peaceful ambiance.

“Mayhaps you’ll vanish overnight like the Rhoynar. In that case, no one will bother me about breaking fast together ever again.”

Aemond meant it as a joke, but he shuddered upon hearing himself. He suddenly thought of how Jace might feel. It hurt a lot when Mother sent him away every time he asked to spend time together. It felt like Aemond’s very presence was disgusting to her, or at the very least, a nuisance. Despite Jacaerys being an exasperating lout, he didn’t deserve to feel like that. Aemond didn’t want to make anyone feel like that, ever. A quick look at his nephew’s face showed that he was pleased, if anything, so Aemond supposed he hadn’t done anything wrong this time.

“I’m not bothering you; I’m asking you. There’s no one else at the table I can talk history with,” Jace said, poking the parchment in a move that Aemond thought was entirely cat-like. “By talk, I mean correct your foolish beliefs and lack of knowledge in certain areas.”

“You’re the foolish one!” Aemond exploded. “You tried to convince me that Dothraki turn into horses like wargs. Just the other day!”

Jacaerys smiled broadly, vibrating with satisfaction, and stood, heading to the door. He stopped in the doorway for a brief second, hurriedly declaring, “I’ll be waiting on the morrow. You make for interesting company.”

“I thought you called me boring just a couple of days ago!” Aemond shouted after him, though the other boy was already halfway down the hall and didn’t reply.

Focusing on the book and parchment became much harder as some unknown feeling bubbled up in his chest.

Gods, the city was truly foul, Mysaria thought as she sidestepped yet another pile of dung. Catalin followed lightly behind her, seemingly unperturbed by any of it. Beggars sat on the edges of Muddy Way, the street living up to its name. Children screeched, men hollered, and women shuffled about.

The commotion only intensified as they entered the Hook. Gold cloaks ensured there were no beggars here, and the road was paved with actual stone, but the crowds were much larger. Merchants moved about, carts and carriages rattled by, and lords and ladies in their expensive garments intermingled with the lowborn in simple fabrics, with dirty children darting underfoot.

The “Three Sisters” was a massive tavern, visible from a distance and always attracting a crowd of wealthy patrons. The serving girls were all strikingly pretty and unfailingly polite, the food simple but flavorful, and the drinks strong, exotic, and abundant.

Mysaria stopped a few strides before the entrance, turning to face Catalin just as a group of Gold Cloaks passed by. They stood there for at least twenty minutes, seemingly engaged in inconsequential chatter, until the men finally appeared.

“They're about to pass us. One looks Dornish, the other has a beard,” Mysaria whispered, leaning close.

Catalin responded with a hearty laugh, as if a lewd jest had just been shared between the two women. As the men passed by, entering Catalin’s field of view, she cast a thorough glance at them, still smiling brightly. “Wearing white shirts. Neither has their swords, only what looks like a dagger on one of them,” she whispered.

“Those are the ones,” Mysaria confirmed with a quick nod, patting the girl’s shoulder.

They continued their conversation for another ten minutes, sharing laughs and cheery smiles, blending into the background as the Gold Cloaks patrolled the streets and people rushed about.

“You know what to do?” Mysaria whispered, leaning close under the guise of straightening the thin blue fabric on Catalin’s shoulders.

“Make sure the signal is seen and understood, linger a little longer, leave at the first sign of trouble,” the girl confirmed, pulling her bodice further down to expose her chest.

“If you’re suspected of anything?”

“I won’t be,” she replied stubbornly. “But if someone’s displeased with my presence, I leave quietly.”

“Good. Now go.”

Catalin headed into the tavern with confidence and grace. Mysaria noticed a few other girls from the Street of Silk similarly loitering about, looking for a wealthy patron to drag away for the night. Catalin’s presence would be nothing out of the ordinary—at least, that was what Mysaria hoped for as she smoothly stepped into the shadows, marveling at the web she was weaving.

In one of the more secluded alleyways, she crept past a group of well-dressed men. Hugh Hammer gave her an almost imperceptible nod as he continued on his way.

Mysaria hoped to place a trusted servant within Rhaenyra’s household and close circle. While many of Mysaria’s girls were considered, along with some existing keep servants and daughters of lesser nobles, only two truly stood out.

Gilla and Mirri had both been raised by Mysaria, rescued from the streets years ago and given food and shelter. Their loyalty was unmatched, and through Mysaria, it extended to Rhaenyra. Their youth made them invisible to others, inconsequential, and thus perfect spies and messengers.

Rhaenyra was set on giving one of them a position as a lady-in-waiting. She had nobles fiercely loyal to her, including several houses currently residing at court—Fell, Caswell, and Merryweather among them. It wouldn't take much to convince them to accept a girl into their household, passed off as a distant cousin or the daughter of a fourth son, set to inherit nothing and holding little worth beyond her name.

Mysaria pointed out that the girl would draw more attention as a lady than as a simple servant. If they were to use her as a messenger in an emergency, a lady visiting the Street of Silk would attract onlookers and spark rumors, while a young servant could move freely, her presence easily explained as a visit to a relative. A servant, therefore, seemed the better option.

After a somewhat heated argument about the benefits of one position over the other, a compromise was reached. The older girl, Gilla, would become a servant. The younger girl, Mirri, would enter House Fell for a short time to learn the ways of a young lady, returning to court as soon as she was able.

Convincing Lady Fell was not difficult. The woman was cunning, some years younger than Rhaenyra herself, and served as a regent for her young son, only five namedays old.

“You wish me to foster a girl and present her to court whenever I feel she has been sufficiently prepared,” the woman surmised, despite Rhaenyra dancing around the topic.

Mirri was to be presented to Lady Fell as a poor Targaryen bastard, a half-sister to Rhaenyra herself. Recently found, the crown princess had taken pity on the girl and wished to place her in a noble House to live out her life in comfort. Lady Fell looked amused at the crooked explanation but nodded and asked no further questions.

“Of course, such a service would be rewarded in a way you prefer, and the girl would be given a place of high honor as my lady-in-waiting,” Rhaenyra assured.

“That will not be necessary,” Lady Fell dismissed. “Such a position should be given to someone capable of a quick and strategic match to strengthen the position of the crown princess.” She leaned back, impassive. “My new little relative is good friends with my son, you see, and if the young Lord Fell were to become the prince's playmate…”

She did not finish, and she did not need to. In truth, such an arrangement would provide all the benefits of having Mirri close while keeping a strategic position at Rhaenyra’s side open to more powerful families. Both women left the solar very satisfied, with Lady Mirri expected at Fellwood within a fortnight. Arranging for a carriage and other essentials to be sent to Mysaria’s residence was but a simple task, thanks to Victaria and Ser Jafer.

With that, Rhaenyra set off to show Gilla around the Keep. It was not entirely usual for royalty to show a servant the palace, but Rhaenyra felt uneasy. She hoped anyone watching would merely see a servant receiving instructions, escorting her mistress to her destination.

A little over an hour ago, Rhaenyra had noticed Ser Arryk and Ser Criston leaving the White Sword Tower and heading into the city. Part of her hoped the plan would fail. Part of her hoped the brawl would not happen. Part of her knew that if it did, it would set everything in motion, bringing the horrors of war closer, making them more real. Alas, she could only wait to see the outcome.

Rhaenyra turned her attention back to Gilla, the girl following her with downcast eyes, folded hands, and the perfect posture of a well-honed maid. Gilla was an oddly serious and intelligent young lady, a stark contrast to Prince Aegon, who was two moons her senior. She followed Rhaenyra like a shadow, listening to instructions silently, soaking in every last drop of information, and asking incisive questions.

Rhaenyra made sure to show her all the rooms she might need to locate—personal chambers, solars, studies, ballrooms, and servants' quarters. Maegor’s tunnels were shown briefly, with the expectation that Gilla would explore and learn them better on her own. They finished their tour in Aemma’s Garden.

“If I am not in my solar, chambers, or attending to my duties, you will likely find me here,” the princess said, stopping and turning on her heel to face the girl. “Do you have any other questions?”

“Thank you for showing me around, my princess. I hope to be of service.”

“Gilla, tell me the truth: do you feel overwhelmed by all this? Perhaps Mysaria’s offer was made in haste, and you prefer to return to your old life? I would not begrudge you; you are young and have arduous tasks ahead of you here.”

“No, my princess,” the girl shook her head. “I apologize, but you misunderstand. I am honored to serve you. If I were to stay on the Silk, sooner or later some man would take note of me. I would become a whore and live my whole life as one.” She then curtsied low. “Thank you, your highness, for giving me this opportunity.”

“Rise, Gilla, and look at me.” The girl obeyed quickly and without question. The red hair and freckles reminded Rhaenyra much of the loud Redwyne offspring. The expression on the young face, however, was too solemn for her comfort. “You may officially be a servant,” Rhaenyra whispered, “but to us, you are endlessly more valuable. I want you to know that. Do what is asked of you, do it well, and I will make sure to fulfill whatever dreams you may have for your future.”

The girl tensed, eyes shining with determination. She gave a stiff nod and opened her mouth to reply before suddenly turning to stare at the entrance to the garden. Rhaenyra followed her gaze and found Aegon, of all people, stumbling in.

“Go home and say goodbye to Mirri; she will be leaving on the morrow,” Rhaenyra ordered sharply. “You may report back here tomorrow.”

Gilla curtsied and scurried away, her light steps fading as Rhaenyra’s eyes remained fixed on Aegon.

The boy was drunk, that much was obvious. He stumbled in, clearly not seeing anything or anyone, mumbling under his breath. Rhaenyra sighed deeply. She could handle sad children; she could handle angry children. Handling drunk children was something she had never had to do before. By the time she closed the distance between them, Aegon was half-sitting on the walkway, breathing heavily.

“Is this the first time you’ve drunk, brother?”

“Uhmmm… Very… Very… Nice?” the prince muttered as he finally sat down fully and somewhat regained his balance.

“Are you asking me or telling me?” she chuckled. “Because I have never in my life been so swine drunk.”

There was no reply.

“Gods, must I find all my brothers unresponsive and on the floor? What is next? Daeron escaping his nurse to somersault into my solar?”

Still, no reply.

“Aegon, you are a prince—” she began, only to be interrupted.

“I know! I know! I know! I know!” Aegon took a deep, wheezing breath. “Leave me alone, I want… I… Leave me the fuck alone!”

The ensuing silence was icy, almost palpable in how heavily it hung over their heads. Aegon must have sobered a little, as he now looked up at her with wide eyes.

“It is getting dark… Can you walk?” Rhaenyra asked calmly, receiving a shaky nod in return. “Good. I am walking you to your chambers, and you can be alone there, and without any wine, you hear me?”

The boy nodded, using her as support to stand up. They walked slowly and silently toward his chambers. Twice he almost fell over, only to be held up by his sister as he slumped into her. Twice she helped him right himself and focus on the path ahead.

Neither said anything as they reached his room. Neither said anything as Rhaenyra opened the door to Aegon’s chambers and led him to his bed. Neither said anything as she tucked him into the nest of blankets and pillows. Before the door closed behind her, Rhaenyra heard a soft “thank you” from the room.

Mysaria chose her observation spot carefully. The alleyway was directly perpendicular to the Hook and provided her with a clear view of the tavern and, more importantly, its entrance. It was narrow and shadowy, distant enough that, sitting covered with rough, half-torn brown cloth, she blended into the background. To anyone passing by, she would appear as a beggar curling up to sleep.

Unfortunately, that also meant the distance was too great to truly identify everyone who entered and left. Catalin, with her golden hair and in a bright blue gown, was rather hard to miss, thankfully. She practically flowed out of the doors, stopping to greet and caress several men in her way, as any other Lady of the Silk would. A young lad dressed in rich red robes spun Catalin around in a mock dance before following her in the direction of the Silk.

The cacophony of screams started less than ten minutes later. Those on the street stood around, confused, some even trying to enter the establishment out of curiosity. The wave of people running out the doors swept them clean off their feet. Panic spread like wildfire, shrieks of terrified smallfolk mingling with the muffled screams from beneath a growing pile of bodies that formed at the doors. That was when everyone finally took to running in different directions, pushing, pulling, and clawing their way through the crowd. Several men ran into the alleyway and past Mysaria, eyes wide and bloodshot. A woman limping past her mere seconds later had a chunk of her dress torn off.

It took the Gold Cloaks a surprisingly long time to actually do anything, most of them looking rather shocked, with all their jerky movements, flailing limbs, and high-pitched voices. They conversed among themselves, adding to the clamor, swords still sheathed at their sides.

One of the taller Cloaks pushed through the crowd and started barking orders, prompting everyone to act and attempt to enter the tavern. The task was proving rather difficult with scores of people piled in the entryway, groaning, crushed, while others climbed over them in their mad dash to freedom.

Only a handful of cloaks managed to enter the building before it flashed with a furious blaze. It was sudden and rattled Mysaria to her bones. This was so much worse than last time, undoubtedly due to their meddling. The fire was not supposed to happen, but it did. She could not even confirm whether her men made it out alive; the building was burning so intensely now that no one inside could possibly still draw breath.

She waited a little longer, regardless, watching the tavern turn to embers. Someone started pulling the injured further away from the building. The smallfolk returned with water in whatever containers they could find to try and save the nearby buildings. The Hook was not a very dense street, so the actual risk of the fire spreading was low.

Mysaria stood up and discarded the rags by the time the fire died down a little. She contemplated leaving when someone grabbed her from behind, dragging her deeper into the intricate labyrinth of alleys. Panic flashed in her mind as she struggled and fought against the grasp, her startled screams drowned out by the commotion all around. The second she tried to stall with her heels, the man easily lifted her and continued moving.

The acrid scent of smoke from the hand now clamped over her mouth burned her nostrils. It was a result of overconfidence and foolishness. She should have relied on the news carried by word of mouth instead of sitting here in plain view. She should have stayed far away so that not a soul could even think of her involvement. Her curiosity may have just destroyed all their plans.

Mysaria had to fight the urge to cough, instead gathering her strength and biting down on the hand against her mouth. The man groaned and snatched his hand away, effortlessly turning Mysaria around and pushing her against the wall to stop her terrified wriggling.

“You were here before the brawl broke out, and you are here, watching, after. Who are you? What are you doing here?” he demanded.

Brown curls peeking from under the helmet were the first thing she truly saw. Jacaerys truly got his father’s hair—both the texture and the color. With recognition setting in, she stopped struggling and went pliant.

“I...” she stammered, caught off guard and genuinely unsure what to do. The fear subsided, giving way to confusion.

“I saw you escorting one of the girls in and leaving, just to return and sit here in the shadows as the tavern burned.”

She noticed, absently, that his hands did not wander over her body, did not force her down on her knees, and did not twist her into any kind of painful or humiliating position.

He did not know her. She could be hostile and armed, and he had reasons to believe she was just involved in a massive fire. Any other person in this situation would take advantage of the power they wielded. A lord carrying a sword had every right to be rough with the common-born woman suspected of a crime. He had every right to do as he wished and grope her flesh under the guise of searching for a weapon. And yet, Harwin’s hands did not move to draw his sword, explore her tender flesh, or do anything at all she could perceive as a true threat.

He was holding her against the wall, gripping her bare shoulders with his large, calloused hands, but not nearly strong enough to be uncomfortable, let alone leave bruises. His fingers curled at her back, gauging the distance between her body and the wall, the pressure he applied. Whether he did it consciously or not, she did not presume to know, but he avoided pressing on her in a way that could cause an injury.

Harwin may have tried to appear threatening, but Mysaria could not see him as such from the moment she identified him. She knew threatening. She knew it from her father, her clients, even Daemon Targaryen himself. The man may be towering over her, rugged and unrelenting, yet his current actions could only be described as considerate.

“Answer the question!” he shook her, one hand moving behind her head.

Once again, it was not a violent shake she knew for sure he was capable of. It did not make her head whip from side to side, did not make her lose her balance, or hit the wall. Harwin clearly worried about some of that happening, seeing as his palm was now behind her head, ready to soften any possible blow. Instead of trembling in fear, Mysaria felt something flutter deep in her stomach, heat creeping up her cheeks.

“Lady, I imp…” he started.

“We were supposed to be introduced tomorrow night, Ser Harwin,” she interrupted, letting her head fall back into his palm, slowly drowning in his eyes.

“You are the one toying with the princess,” he guessed, his voice edged with suspicion as he took a couple of steps back. Something wild and ruthless finally shone in his eyes, making her shiver from head to toe. Mysaria glanced around before turning back to him.

“You mean Rhae? That is what you always call her when you two are alone.” His stern expression did not change. “I could share many more very intimate details I heard from Rhaenyra’s own lips over the past two years—my past two years. I believe, however, that my lord would prefer it done in a less public space.”

He stared at her for what felt like hours, with the same piercing gaze his sons would grow up to have. She similarly appraised him. Calling Harwin large would be an understatement. If she stepped forward, her nose would press into his chest. The loose golden cloak draped over his shoulders made his already massive frame even more imposing. Yet, despite the bear-like bulk, his movements were fluid and lethal, almost feline in their nature.

His gaze lingered longest on the mostly faded bruise on her cheek, and he flexed his hands a little before finally looking away.

“I should escort you to your residence, Lady Mysaria,” he suggested, the tone making it sound more like an order. “The hour is late, and the streets may not be safe.”

“That will not be necessary,” Mysaria replied firmly, turning around. “I am eager to properly meet you, Ser, but it would be best if the commander did not disappear from his post to escort some lowborn scum.”

She ended the conversation by disappearing into the shadows of an adjacent alleyway, walking to the Hook to mingle with the panicked people there. Harwin did not follow her, taking the refusal in stride, though an intrigued smile did curl his lips.

Chapter Text

The air felt damp on his skin. Not in the comforting way of a gentle spring mist, but with the unbearable itch of midsummer humidity. It felt like being bathed in oil and set outside to walk under the scorching sun. Despite that, cool darkness surrounded him, covering every inch of his being in a suffocating embrace. There wasn’t a hint of light anywhere, yet he could see himself and feel the darkness dancing around him—alive, expectant, juddering.

The sounds didn’t echo, not in this place. His raspy breaths, the soft footsteps, even the rustle of his shirt were swallowed by the endless void.

Daemon was no stranger to the dark, heat, or unbearable conditions. And yet, everything felt deeply wrong—so wrong that every hair on his body was standing up.

Something howled right behind his ear every now and then, the sound sharp and close. It could have been the wind, or an animal—he didn’t want to know. There was something primal in it, unsettling. However, the silence that followed him around was much more oppressive—heavy and unnatural.

In his long life, Daemon had come to associate such silence with danger—with beasts lurking in the dark forest, when everything alive holds its breath and dares not move. When foxes hide in their lairs, insects freeze, and birds bury themselves in their nests. The howls made him flinch, but the silence... there was something hiding in it, something that caused cold sweat to bead on his skin, muscles clenching instinctively. It was the silence that made him look around obsessively, hoping to see anyone, anything, in the unforgiving black abyss.

Daemon was no stranger to the dark. And yet, this darkness was like nothing he had seen before. It licked at his skin, whispered to him, dragged him into the depths of whatever this place was.

He didn’t know how long he had wandered here, but it felt simultaneously like years and seconds. Everything was distorted, his own body looking different and grotesquely disproportionate every time he glanced at it, until he decided to only look straight ahead.

A gentle chime to his left felt oddly real, partly because it was one of the few sounds he could place directionally and walk towards. If direction even existed in this place, that is.

There was a door, one of thick oak, carved with volcanoes, dragons, women in long dresses—shadowy, deformed, half-human figures crawling beneath them. He gripped the door; the handle was oily under his trembling white hands, and he opened it before he could see the carvings dance on the wood. Reach out to him.

The room was endlessly large and hilariously small. Like an oasis in the Dornish deserts, its edges shimmered and moved whenever he so much as bent toward them. There were columns of glistening black stone, tall enough to disappear into the darkness above. Torches were lit on each one, the fire burning bright green, the color so vivid it made his eyes burn.

“Uncle?”

Rhaenyra stood before him on the pedestal, just as he remembered her from ten years ago. Not a strand of her unbound hair was ruffled, not a wrinkle on her exquisite dress of red Myrish lace and ebony silk. She didn’t walk toward him, but she swayed side to side, as if lulling a nonexistent child in her arms. She extended one hand.

“I trust you, Uncle.”

Rhaenyra.

His Rhaenyra. If he could get ahold of her, he would never be able to leave—never be able to let her go.

And so, he walked. It felt like the shadows themselves held him in place, the floors sticky when he took the first steps. It got easier with every step, something letting him do as he wished, and after a while, he sped up. Rhaenyra wasn’t getting any closer, so he ran and ran, mustering all his strength.

Until he realized she was changing. With every minute he spent running, she shed some of her skirts, loosened some of her corset. By the time he was forced to walk again, sheer exhaustion weighing down on his shoulders, there wasn’t a thread left on her. Rhaenyra looked like the model of Valyrian beauty—a goddess.

Her hips and breasts had the perfect curves of a woman, the most delicious dips on her collarbones, and a small layer of fat protecting the belly designed to house his heirs. Their heirs. He clenched his fists tighter as he walked, panting and whimpering, toward her, reaching out in a desperate attempt to grab at the mirage of the woman he burned for.

There was a brief flash of green overwhelming his senses, causing him to blink furiously until it was no longer the Rhaenyra he knew and remembered, no longer a young woman of eight-and-ten he had left standing in front of him. It was a child, a girl his own daughters’ age, staring up at him with wide, trusting eyes. Her head was tilted back slightly, a frown growing at his hesitance to move forward. She slowly wrapped her hands around herself in a self-soothing hug, covering her cold, shivering body.

Daemon recoiled from the pure disgust that flooded his system, shaking his head furiously. He took a step back to fix it, to see his Rhaenyra again, but his heel bumped into something soft.

The torches suddenly burned brighter. Child-Rhaenyra started crying, large tears streaming down her face to drip on the stone floors and sizzle.

He swore he felt a warm breath hit the back of his neck.

He whipped his head around so fast he could have broken his neck if any of this was real. There, under his feet, was a body—Rhea Royce, the bronze bitch, lay with her skull broken and blood pooling around her in a sticky mess. The brown eyes stared right back at him, her face locked in an eternal scowl of disgust.

He sat down to examine her closer, to feel her body and determine its reality. Except the moment he pinched the soft flesh of the woman’s thigh, it was no longer Rhea. It was Laena.

His breath hitched as the putrid, coppery stench of old blood and rotten flesh assaulted his senses. Laena’s eyes stared right into his soul, with even more intensity than Rhea’s. They weren’t glazed over, as he was accustomed to in dead bodies. They were alive, wide, unblinking. The blood kept flowing, unchecked, her silver curls easily stained. It kept claiming more territory until he was standing in the middle of it, until everything he could see around him shone a deep red.

When he hung his head lower, the dead eyes followed his movement, but the betrayed and accusing grimace stayed, forever frozen in a dead mask. There was biting cold spreading outward, radiating from the pale rigid skin, claiming every last bit of warmth from the surroundings.

Stop this!

He got up only to notice another body in the corner of his vision. This was a man, wearing a golden cloak, strands of curly brown hair scattered amongst the pieces of bone and brain tissue, in what used to be his head. His body was crushed and burned in places, limbs twisting at unnatural angles to make a grotesque doll, black and charred. The neck and face really were the only parts untouched by fire, unrecognizable still in the mess of shattered bone and pulp like a porcelain vase thrown at the wall.

Ser Harwin?

There were children appearing around, rising from the bloodied stone, endless bodies of babes with no faces, just a pristine flat skin atop their skulls adorned with silver hair. Some had their heads chopped off, some impaled on the spikes growing from the ground, some torn to pieces.

There was a piece of little hand, bone sticking out at the end, right next to his foot. A head now sitting neatly, next to Laena’s legs. They kept soming and coming, until there was a layer of them, until Daemon could no longer see the blood-stained stone below, only the skin, the hair, and the limbs, reaching for him weakly, twitching.

Men and women, heads covered with rough brown bags, appeared from the void above, hanging by the noose around their necks. Ladies in their richly embroidered and bloodied skirts, Lords in bright custom-made jerkins, beggars in their rags, common women clutching at the remains of the baby blankets or holding a piece of a tiny hand even in death.

At least they had no eyes that could stare at him accusingly, he thought, even as his hands shook, and knees weakened.

The Gold Cloak had two bodies with faces next to him now. The little boys’ eyes followed his every move, alive despite it being impossible. Despite one being pierced with a dozen crossbow bolts, looking more a hedgehog than a boy with his curly brown hair and wooden spikes. Despite the other bitten in half, missing everything below his navel and having his intestines spread around under him like a grotesque octopus.

“Uncle?”

He turned around slowly, and the child Rhaenyra continued staring at him, tears still rolling down her emotionless face, hands still clasped around the naked body.

“Come here, uncle. I trust you. I know you want me. You can still have me.”

No

No

No

He suddenly found himself holding a dagger of Valyrian steel, hands covered in warm sticky blood. It was dripping off the end of the blade, off his fingers. He shut his eyes.

I don’t want to see.

Someone was touching his ankle, gripping it weakly through the leather boot.

“Father”

He opened his eyes to see the girls lay between him and Rhaenyra, dagger dropping from his hand.

Rhaena lay with her wrists slit open, the white nightgown he dressed her in just the day before slowly losing its color. Her face was barely touching the toe box of his blood-stained boots. Light was slowly leaving her eyes as she blinked slowly, and bright red liquid gushed out of her in pulses of weakening heartbeat. There was a blank and detached sort of look on her face, eyes almost calculating in how they searched for something, anything, in her own father.

Baela was gripping at his leg, fingers smearing blood all over his boot and breeches where she could reach. She mouthed something, kept repeating the same thing over and over again, but all Damon could hear was a mumble. She was not bloodied at all; in fact, she looked almost healthy, but for the pale skin. The roaring in his ears got louder as a rattle in her lungs became more prominent than anything she tried to say, as her breathing got weaker. He felt, rather than heard, when it stopped altogether.

He finally opened his mouth to wail and rage, but no sound came out, only a frosty cloud as the temperature dropped below freezing. Nothing could be heard but Baela’s unintelligible whispers echoing in his head. Rhaena stopped blinking.

“Uncle. I can be your wife now.”

Damon looked up, tears freezing on his face, to stare into the face of his niece, tears rolling down her own cheeks to sizzle beneath her feet. She held a babe in her arms, a girl with twisted body, tiny leathery wings, scales, and a little stump of a tail. The babe had long curved teeth and was gnawing at the unformed breasts. Blood gushed down Rheanyra’s tiny body, flowing down her belly and thin naked things to add to the pool spreading form his daughters, his wife, from everyone else. The babe made gulping sound as she suckled on what Rhaenyra could give her, as Rhaenyra got paler and paler.

“I gave you an heir, uncle.”

No.

He squeezed his eyes and stood there until the metallic scent disappeared, until the slippery feeling of blood under his feet became a distant memory. When he dared open his eyes, he was in front of the door once again. Someone was watching him, he could feel it with every fiber of his being, could see the silver hair in the very corner of his vision that disappear the moment he turned his head.

He would return to the door again. And again. And again.

Until he woke up in the pool of blood.

“Where is Aegon?” Harwin inquired sharply, still fastening his vambraces.

Jace and Luke were still getting ready, exchanging gentle touches as they helped each other secure their training armor.

Aemond was already at the dummy, happy to engage in a familiar task when the question was asked. The warm contentment from his earlier banter with his nephews quickly drained away. The smile he once couldn’t suppress became a distant memory, replaced by a scowl and a flash of anger he had to push down.

The question was directed at all of them, but he already knew Aegon was his responsibility. Aegon’s education, training, and setting him on the right path had fallen to Aemond.

He longed to remain in the blissful, harmless fun he’d been having with his nephews, to play at family a little longer. Aegon’s very existence shattered that possibility, reminding Aemond of the burden he carried: supporting his brother on his path to becoming King. He cringed internally as he glanced at the other two boys, happy in their ignorance.

“I don’t know,” he finally replied, keeping his voice carefully level.

Aemond truly had no idea. He rarely saw his brother as it was, but since their mother had stopped visiting to nag about studies, duty, and succession, Aegon had disappeared entirely. The prince was supposed to be here, but he wasn’t. Grandsire would have Aemond’s head for not knowing where his brother was, for failing to force him to attend lessons, for bonding with the bastards.

“You don’t?” Harwin asked again, his voice genuinely confused. “Did he say anything in class this morning?”

The thrum of irritation grew louder in Aemond’s head.

“He was absent.” Aemond shook his head and struck the dummy harder, watching as bits of hay fell from the torn fabric. He tried to regain control.

Harwin observed him, likely noticing the way Aemond’s jaw clenched and his hands trembled from the strength of his grip. The knight’s eyes narrowed, but he had no chance to say more.

“You!” Aemond called sharply to a young serving girl standing at the edge of the yard, holding a jug of lemon water for them. “Come here!”

The girl flew to them, dropping the jug on the nearest table and almost tripping over her skirts in her haste. Harwin watched intently as she lowered herself into a stiff curtsy, standing ready for a command.

“Ask her, Ser Harwin,” Aemond spat, his voice full of disdain. “You’d have a better chance with a stupid serving wench. She might become a little less useless.”

The girl flinched, and Harwin pursed his lips. Before Aemond could react, he was suddenly hauled away from the dummy by the back of his armor. He let out a yelp, furiously kicking his legs, but was lifted entirely off the ground.

“Let me down!” he screamed.

Harwin set him back down, still gripping the armor and preventing the prince from moving away. The knight’s expression was blank, nothing but a slight pinch of his eyebrows suggesting displeasure.

Aemond braced himself for a reprimand, but the silence stretched on. Jace and Luke went quiet behind them, and Harwin simply held him in place—calm, unyielding, stern. Aemond tugged sharply, using his full weight to press against his breastplate, but the man didn’t let go. So the prince crossed his arms and stood, still confused.

With each angry breath, his fury began to fade into the heat of embarrassment, and the world around him became clearer. Most of the servants and spectators went on with their tasks. Jace and Luke resumed their soft chatter behind him, and Harwin continued to keep him rooted in place.

Aemond glanced at the girl, realizing she hadn’t moved from her spot. She stood trembling, pale, and confused, at his mercy entirely. She was barely a woman, likely still in training and recently accepted into service. Her stiff, uncomfortable posture and terror made something deep in Aemond’s gut twist.

“Did you feel the need to express your anger on those beneath your station?” Harwin finally spoke.

“What?”

“She’s a human, Prince Aemond. Not a dog to be summoned and berated for doing her duties. She is a person,” he barked. “Act like it!”

He gave Aemond a slight shake, almost imperceptible to anyone looking, but Aemond felt it. The boy’s cheeks flushed. He was starting to behave like Aegon, and he wanted to be different. He wanted to be better. He turned to Harwin, finally released from his grip.

“My apologies for my conduct. My language and behavior were unbefitting of a prince,” he conceded, bowing his head slightly.

“I’m not the one you should apologize to, my prince.” Harwin shook his head sadly. Aemond turned toward the girl.

“My apologies—” he began, cutting off with a questioning raise of his eyebrow.

“Dyana, my prince,” the girl replied hurriedly.

“My apologies, Dyana,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

“Please forgive me too. I hope I can be of better service next time.” She curtsied and hurried away the moment Aemond gave a nod.

Harwin mumbled something under his breath about Aemond being a good lad and gave the boy a gentle pat on the head—the same one he so frequently gave his own sons, filled with affection and pride. Aemond stepped away, bringing his hand up to fix his hair, trying to catch the remnants of the man’s warm, fatherly touch.

Ser Jafer came forward, his squire following him around like a dog, and started discussing the training for the day. The boys shuffled close in anticipation, as such discussions usually resulted in fascinating exercises—like that one time they had to sneak around a blindfolded Ser Harwin, or when they were split into two teams and had to either free or keep the hostage. The hostage, Daeron, had been snatched from his maid. The babe was just happy to receive so much attention from the older boys and ended up toddling out of his camp to fall asleep on Ser Harwin.

Ser Jafer had just entered the yard from his duty in the City and still wore all the formal artifacts of a Gold Cloak, including the weapons men carried ith them. Aemond grinned.

“Please teach us to use dirk and cudgel,” he asked, the other boys picking up on the plan.

“There’s not much teaching necessary for a cudgel,” Ser Jafer shrugged. “It’s just a stick—you bash people with it. Very. Very. Very hard.”

Lucerys giggled, jumping up and down in glee. “Can we? Can we bash things with sticks?”

Ser Harwin sighed, covering his eyes for a moment, fond amusement hiding in his rough features. Everyone turned to him, even Elrod the squire, to await his decision. Lucerys let out what sounded like a low whine.

“All right, lads, but only at the end, after you’ve practiced your sword sufficiently,” he said. “And the dirk will wait until next time.”

Aemond had to suppress a happy squeal, something Luke and Jace didn’t bother to do as they grabbed at their uncle, praising his idea.

The boys started conspiring again around halfway through the training session, standing close with their heads bent together during a short water break. Every once in a while, they would look up at Ser Harwin and Ser Jafer, giggle, and continue talking. Even Elrod was included in the circle, whispering rather loudly about it being a great idea. Finally, Jacaerys was the one to approach Harwin.

“We want to fight you!” he exclaimed, pointing his finger at Harwin.

“You?”

“All of us,” the prince motioned to the small group they had created, “against one of you.”

Aemond nodded. “Until the opponent is on his back, or you are ‘wounded.’”

Harwin contemplated for a moment. “I take it if you win, you want the cudgel now?” The boys all nodded furiously. “And if I win, you run in circles for an hour after the training. Deal, boys?”

They hated running, but the deal was made, Ser Harwin smiling smugly and flexing his hands.

“We won’t lose!” Lucerys promised.

Ser Jafer coughed, clearly trying—and failing—to conceal his laugh. The boy whipped his head around to stare at him.

“What, Ser? You don’t think us capable?”

“I would join you, my princes, and still, I doubt Breakbones here would break a sweat.”

The sudden wave of admiration Harwin received was almost palpable, all four boys now staring at him in absolute awe, Lucerys with his mouth hanging open.

“I will forego the sword, to make it easier for you lads,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “I hope you’re not afraid of ending up in the dirt.”

“I’m ready!” yelled Jace, lifting his sword.

However, it was not him who tried the first blow; it was Elrod. The squire was well instructed, from the looks of it. His movements were steady and swift, his technique advanced, though Aemond could see a slight problem in defending his left shoulder.

Harwin spun out of his way as the princes started circling him. It seemed he had decided to get it over with quickly. The knight grabbed Elrod’s arm during one of his swings, getting him off balance and kicking his feet from under him in one brutal movement.

Lucerys rushed in, likely thinking Ser Harwin was distracted, but the man just moved out of his way and gave the prince a boost to his back, sending him onto the ground.

“Putting you face-first in the dirt also counts, eh?” he said smugly, as Elrod crawled toward Ser Jafer and Lucerys groaned, defeated, on his stomach.

Aemond half-wondered what would happen if Ser Harwin were allowed anything but his bare hands. Part of him burned to see the man in action out there on the streets.

They attacked together—Jace from one side, Aemond from the other. Ser Harwin used his vambrace to block Aemond head-on, pushing him back and sending the prince staggering. He kicked Jace’s sword out of his hands with a swift punch of his other hand. Jace groaned, confused at what had happened, before landing on his back from the same move that had earlier felled Elrod.

Aemond regained his composure and started circling the knight. The man was a beast, that much was certain. His fearsome reputation preceded him, and while there were no more violent raids on criminals in King’s Landing as Prince Daemon had once led, no criminal dared slither out of their hole while Ser Harwin Strong commanded the Cloaks.

Ser Harwin didn’t move, and Aemond realized with sudden clarity that not only did he not have a weapon, but none of them had forced him to take more than a step from his original spot. The man had beaten them all into the dirt without leaving his place.

Aemond lunged again and again, never managing to land a hit. In a desperate, angry attempt to finish this, he started running toward the knight from farther away, with a ferocious scream. Aemond dropped his sword by Harwin’s feet and maneuvered his body to collide with the wide chest with full force.

Ser Harwin fell on his butt with a groan, eyes bewildered, hands instinctively cradling the child on top of him. A second later, thunderous laughter filled the yard. Harwin’s chest vibrated against Aemond’s cheek as the boy used the opportunity to lean into the accidental embrace. Ser Jafer positively howled with laughter, his squire rolling on the ground. Aemond couldn’t see his nephews, but he could hear them echoing the sentiment well enough.

The man was warm as he fell onto his back, dragging Aemond on top. He smelled of sandalwood, musk, and a hint of smoke. He smelled like safety, and family, and warmth. Aemond shuffled off him, but only because he would look weak and foolish if he stayed like that any longer.

“You win,” Harwin forced out, motioning to Ser Jafer. “Bring the boys some cudgels.”

Harwin did not think of the Queen’s boys often. They were not his charges; they were Criston’s. Aemond progressed well enough, as did Aegon whenever he decided to grace them with his presence. Now Criston was gone, crippled. Even if he recovered, he would not be able to continue with his duties as a Kingsguard. The Queen requested this morning that Ser Harwin and Ser Jafer continue with Aemond and Aegon as they did with Lucerys and Jacaerys.

It was a rather unexpected request, in Harwin’s opinion. Ser Criston fostered enmity between the boys, likely at the Queen’s behest. Then again, Alicent Hightower was a cunning woman, so there could be a plot brewing that Harwin could not yet see. Either way, the boys' training and upbringing were now for Harwin to worry about—and worry he did. Even if it was not his official duty, Rhae had asked him to keep an eye on her brothers, and he honored the promises made to his woman.

Harwin sighed heavily, sitting down as Jafer looked after the boys to allow him some rest. This entire mess was proving a rather daunting task. Aegon had not shown up for the past week, ever since his last session with Ser Criston ended with the knight loudly berating the boy about him being a prince and having to act accordingly. Aemond was often irritated, quick to anger, and picking up bad habits from those around him. At the same time, he was starved for affection; that, Harwin recognized well enough.

He accepted a cup of water offered by Dyana, gratitude still shining in her eyes, and took a swig. Something bugged him about Aemond. The boy obviously enjoyed Jace’s and Luke’s company, but he had rather violent fights with them, Jace especially, every once in a while. The boy craved affection, something ugly twisting in his face every time he saw it given to Harwin’s boys, but shied away when it was offered to him. The boy loved his brother Daeron, cradling him gently every chance he got, but blew up in fury every time Aegon was mentioned.

Aemond reminded him of Larys—of what Larys used to be: bullied, alone, overlooked. There was something dangerous in Aemond, in his strength and intelligence, just as there was in Larys. Some part of Harwin feared his own brother—what he became, what he possibly is. He wondered what Aemond could turn into, with all that, and a dragon.

Harwin watched as the boys set their cudgels down. Ser Harrold came to escort Jacaerys and Lucerys to the Dragonpit. Aemond said goodbye, staying behind with a barely concealed frown. Once Harwin was spotted, the boy headed toward him and settled down with a groan.

“I hurt everywhere,” he declared immediately.

“I would expect so,” chuckled Harwin, ruffling the prince’s hair. “You did well, my prince.”

“Are you not displeased?” The prince blushed but did not attempt to remove the hand. “I did not win fairly against you.”

“I do not remember saying that headbutting an opponent was not allowed,” Harwin remarked. “I was more displeased with your earlier display.”

The prince ducked his head low and blushed. It looked like the irritation had died down enough for him to think through his actions. Harwin half-turned to face the boy, beckoning him to do the same.

“I understand it is hard to control yourself when you are young, but you need to learn before you hurt someone,” he started sternly, motioning to the space around them. “The training yard is an effective place to blow off some of the anger—use it. And if you are feeling as if you might explode, you should tell someone, so people know not to approach you.”

The boy blushed even harder, hands coming up to fidget with his collar.

“It is not embarrassing to feel things or to deal with those feelings however you think best. What you are not allowed to do is turn your anger onto innocents. Look at me, Aemond.”

The boy reluctantly looked up, settling his gaze somewhere on the bridge of Harwin’s nose.

“It is easy to harm the weak when your true enemies are out of reach. It makes you feel seen, in control, more powerful. Despite what you may be feeling, you do not truly become any of those things. Quite the opposite—you tell everyone around you what you are lacking.” Harwin held the boy’s chin when his gaze started to drop again, making their eyes meet. “If there is one thing you need to learn in this life, it is this: cruelty stems from weakness, and weakness only.”

The boy searched Harwin’s eyes for a moment, nodding seriously when he found what he was looking for. Harwin let go.

“I will remember,” the prince whispered. A soft silence stretched between them. Servants hurried around, cleaning up the yard.

Aemond then turned to look at Harwin again, a gleeful smile spreading across his face. “Is that why you are always in the training yard, Ser Harwin? Are you always angry?”

Harwin feigned extreme offense as he pushed the laughing boy off the bench and onto the ground. “That’s it, run away before I get my cudgel.”

The boy stood up, smiling broadly, and suddenly bowed low at the waist. “Thank you, Ser. Truly, for your guidance.”

Before another word could be said, he scurried away, leaving Harwin alone. Warm contentment spread through his chest—Aemond was a wonderful pupil and satisfying to teach. Harwin ought to seek out Aegon on the morrow and drag him to the yard, not that he had free reign over the princes.

A maid with black hair passed by, instantly shifting Harwin’s thoughts to the Lady Mysaria, whom he had met the day before and was about to meet again today. Knowing so many intimate details of both him and Rhaenyra—it was hard to deny her story, at least the barebones version he got from Rhae. The brawl was a stroke of genius, if he was right to assume she used an event already doomed to happen. So far, the investigation showed a normal pattern of people getting rowdy and starting a fight, with no indication whatsoever of foul play. If only Rhae had warned him beforehand, he could have avoided his rather dishonorable conduct with the lady.

He sighed as he stood up to head to his rooms. He needed a bath and a nice doublet to wear.

Unlike Aegon, Criston screamed when the maesters peeled the remaining fabric from his burned flesh. He screamed so loud it made Alicent’s ears ring. He screamed with so much anguish that it managed to extinguish some of the fire devouring her insides.

“My Queen,” Mellos approached her as she stood in the doorway, “We will do our best to ensure he lives. Meanwhile, perhaps you should like to—”

“I think I should like to stay,” Alicent cut him off. “You may return to your duties, maester.”

And so, she was left alone to relish in his screams. To listen to her future lover’s agony. To listen to the pathetic whimpers of the man for whom she would only ever be a sexual object.

Alicent grew up dreaming of gallant knights, of marrying a strong young lord and giving him healthy children. Bringing happiness into some small keep, managing its affairs, and spending most of her time in idle gossip and embroidery.

Even back then, she knew somewhere deep inside that such a lifestyle would not quite scratch an itch she had within. An itch to learn, to become someone, to have her name be more than a sidenote in the family records of some lord. Fate works in devious ways. She died after a bloody war, likely earning herself enough fame to last hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Just as she wished.

Criston Cole had been her chance at having it all. A gallant knight willing to break his vows for her, protect her, and fulfill her desires in a way her husband never bothered to. He was merging the dreams of her youth with the reality. For some time, she had both—a lover of her dreams and power. And then it was all blown away like ash in the wind.

Power was a fickle thing. Criston was happy to fulfill his carnal desires with her body, but supporting her in the quest for recognition was beyond his capabilities. He would have her in his shadow, or he would not have her at all. If the opportunity had presented itself earlier, would he have stripped her of her speech then? To make her into a mindless object once again?

Confinement after the war was long. She stared at her canopy for hours, watching the light move across the fabric as the sun rose and set. So much time to think. So much time to draw connections. At the end of the day, Criston Cole likely tried to mold her into his own old dreams of a wife—obedient, meek, desirable, and loyal. She did not catch it until it was too late. Until her belly swelled with his child, she was spurned from the council table and silenced.

A fresh round of screams brought her out of her thoughts, and she had to suppress a sly smile pulling at her lips. Part of her relished in the idea of causing his death like that. Accidentally. She suspected her small actions would cause enormous consequences, but she truly did not expect this. Was he truly so tired from all the running around he had done for her lately that Ser Harrold gave him a free day? She supposed it was a possibility.

An anxious thrum in the back of her head told her something was not right. That perhaps, it was someone else’s doing. Or that perhaps, it was a punishment from the gods, slowly taking away all those close to her.

She was not inclined to believe the first—after all, she was still alive and saw no one trying to cut her throat in the middle of the night. The second, however, was a possibility.

The Seven had returned her here, the old gods wept black on the day she came back, so she had no doubt of divine intervention. Whether this was a punishment or an opportunity was still not clear.

She sighed deeply and turned to leave, satisfaction from the sight and sound of Cole’s suffering quickly replaced by the familiar exhaustion weighing down her bones. Ser Rickard Thorne followed in her wake, a better Kingsguard than Cole could ever claim to be. The man who would spend days in the world with her without so much as an inappropriate glance. The man who would one day die protecting her grandson with every last bit of strength. The man she trusted.

“Ser Rickard,” Alicent stopped suddenly in the middle of the corridor. Her body felt heavy, but she suppressed the urge to lean against the wall so as not to worry the guard.

“My Queen?” He caught up to stand closer, head bowed slightly.

“If I were to ask my husband to name you my new sworn protector, would that be acceptable?” she inquired quickly, before the last bits of her energy were gone.

“It would be an honor, My Queen,” he bowed.

She turned around and continued walking with the intention of briefly checking on Helaena and her daughter’s new sworn shield before a midday nap in her rooms. She had asked Criston to find a good one, a man he knew would be capable of protecting the princess from her enemies.

She heard the telltale taps of his cane before she saw the man slither out of the shadows. The hairs stood up on her arms as the predator approached.

“My Queen,” he bowed before her, a repulsively sweet smile forming on his lips. “If I may have a minute of your attention, there is a matter I need to discuss with you.”

She itched to leave, to get away from this man, but he might yet be valuable. As much as he was untrustworthy, and only ever sought power, he also saw the green faction as the stronger party, therefore technically landing on her side. She motioned for Ser Rickard to stay behind as she stepped onto the balcony, leaning heavily against the balustrade.

“Interesting whispers are going around, my Queen. About the clouds of ravens you have been sending out all around the realm. With your recent gaining full control over your children’s betrothals… interesting.”

“I merely decided to connect with my brother and a few other relatives. Nothing of much importance,” she assured, receiving a thoughtful hum in return.

“I just thought you might like to discuss more… in detail. Such an abundance of tasks alone could be… overwhelming,” he pressed, moving closer into her space.

For a brief moment, she could not hide the disgusted scowl on her face. She had allowed herself to forget about him for the past days, to live in the blissful state of avoidance. But now he was back, and he wanted to enter her chambers to discuss the tasks at hand. Now, he stood before her.

A miserable crooked man in search of a more miserable creature to use. Since he could not find one, he decided to create it. His help was invaluable, and for that, Alicent was willing to give much—her coin, her strength, her company, her trust. Except Larys could not be satisfied with any of that; he could not stand the idea of leaving her with anything. Not even with a scrap of dignity or self-worth. He clung to the woman he himself helped break, for it made him feel more complete, accomplished, good.

She was his salvation. He was her nightmare.

Leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone.

She was not sure she had enough of herself left to go through this again, and yet she was not sure she could fully succeed without his support. She was cornered between her own mind and political gain.

Alicent sighed.

There comes a day when you realize you have spent so much energy digging in search of gold, you have none left to crawl out of the hole you created. As you lie in the dirt, staring up into the sky, the weight of your reward becomes negligible in your hands. The flesh slowly rots on you, leaving a dirty and putrid pile of rot and bones—unmoving, forgotten, forgiven.

When Alicent was brought back, lifted from the hole onto solid ground, the gods did not bother to regrow the rotten flesh. And now, she limped from room to room as a shadow of herself, clinging to the threads of power she once wielded, once again digging a hole.

This time, she was no longer digging for the gold of royal crowns; she was digging for the iron of impenetrable shields. This time, she knew how this would end, and she would happily rot away once the job was finished. Alicent was dead, out of time and out of place in these windy corridors.

Except Larys Strong was threatening the order she had decided upon. He was here to drain her of everything she had left, to gut her and relish in the sight. How could she dig deeper if she fell apart? If Larys Strong was the very thing that made her fall apart?

If she looked as ugly as she felt, would Larys pity her? Would he leave her alone or relish in her suffering?

“I would not,” she exclaimed, perhaps a little louder than she should have.

“Betrothals are intricate and precarious. If we were to discuss in private the ways Aegon’s claim can be—”

Blood roared in her ears, memories flooding every crevice of her being. She could no longer hear what he was saying, his lips twisting and curving around the poison he spewed. Plans to use and discard her own children.

Helaena.

“I was happier before I was Queen.”

“It isn’t so bad, mostly he just ignores you.”

Aegon.

“Lord Strong is to be executed on the morrow, for poisoning the King.”

The slap was strong enough to echo in the small courtyard below and the hallway behind them. Larys’s head whipped to the side, and for a second she thought he would fall over. There was a clank of armor as Ser Rickard moved to stand at Alicent’s

Larys righted himself, eyes shining with indignation and confusion, hands shaking as he cradled his reddening cheek. He looked as if he wanted to approach again, to take a step and start whispering sweet, soothing words into her ear, but a single glare from her guard stopped him.

“Watch yourself,” she hissed. “Your company is not welcome for the evening. I should not have to repeat myself.” She turned to leave, throwing over her shoulder bitterly, “I am still the Queen.”

Alicent was exhausted. She needed some rest. Her body had never belonged to her; it belonged to her father, her husband, and later her sons—a commodity to be used or sold to the highest bidder. She accepted the cruel reality of life, but she would be loath to let herself belong to Larys Strong again. She would rip his feeble neck with her own teeth and gnaw at his spine before she allowed her children and their futures to fall into his grasp in any way.

The solar was always inviting, always bright and sunny. It reminded Rhaenyra of reading on the loveseat, with her mother embroidering nearby, of the warm sun heating her skin and illuminating the intricate writing on the page. Every now and then, as she turned the page, she would hear the soft whisper of thread passing through the cloth.

She enjoyed reading here, looking through the missives, getting her fingers stained with ink as she outlined ideas on a piece of paper. This place was idyllic, and it was hers. Everyone in the keep knew she had claimed this little cramped room for herself and could always be found here. The peace would not often be interrupted by a knock, but Rhaenyra quickly invited whoever it was.

Her eyebrows rose to her hairline when she saw her brother slowly enter, only to stumble at the doorstep and land on his ass. The boy looked around, still getting his bearings after a rather impressive half-roll, and she could not hold herself any longer. She clapped.

“Ughhhh” sounded from Aegon

“That is… very informative,” Rhaenyra inclined her head. “Why are you here, brother?”

“Hmnh.”

“You are drunk once again. Who gave you wine?” Rhaenyra stood up to approach the boy.

“A maid.” He shrugged, rubbing his eyes.

“Obviously,” Rhaenyra gave him a flat look. “Should you not be at the training yard right now?”

“'Ts boring,” he explained. “Wanted to… sit.”

She was not sure why he decided to come here specifically, but it could just be him getting to the closest family member before he collapsed. The boy slumped against her when she guided him to the nearby sofa, proceeding to drop him into the cushions. If he minded the rough handling, he gave no sign of it and buried his face in the smooth fabric.

“I think aloud often,” Rhaenyra mused, walking back to her desk. “You can sit here and listen to me think out loud, or I can get someone to drag you back to your chambers. Which do you prefer, brother dearest?”

He gave a muffled hum without lifting his head, and it sounded close enough to “stay here” that she let him be. For a little while, Rhaenyra worked in silence, mindful of how Aegon preferred quiet, despite the unspoken agreement. At least, from what meager experience she had with her own brother, he seemed to prefer quiet.

The boy proved her wrong when he lifted his head, his expression twisted into a confused frown as he looked expectantly. She did not understand until he started mouthing hushed words she could not truly decipher.

“You want me to talk?” The boy nodded, still looking expectantly. “To you?” He shook his head vigorously.

That was fine with Rhaenyra, so she settled back into her work a moment later, getting comfortable in her seat as the boy curled deeper into himself on the sofa. She began narrating the latest news from the realm—nothing of interest to her and a suspicious silence from the Northern houses. The monologue tapered off into musings about the latest court gossip, about the problems and conflicts of families in the realm. She explicitly avoided anything of real importance and made a conscious effort to suppress any thought of Mysaria and Harwin, mentioning instead the horses Ser Laenor recently bought and how he took the boys to see the races.

She talked of Aemond, of how the little boy appeared every morning to eat with them, stiff and polite as he sat next to Jace. They would discuss a great deal of myths, legends, and histories, with Jacaerys frequently goading Aemond by proposing foolish explanations for the simplest of events. She wondered, briefly, why her little brother was cowering away from her and refusing any touch, gentle or playful.

Aegon commented on nothing, pushing himself up to rest his head on his pale, veiny hands and stare at Rhaenyra somewhere in the middle of this… conversation.

By the time Rhaenyra had to leave, the boy was fighting his sleep, his eyes snapping shut and his head falling sideways every now and then before he forced himself back to attention. He looked like what Rhaenyra once imagined her siblings to be. Like how Baelon would have grown up to be if the gods had been merciful.

The golden glow from the setting sun softened his cheekbones and chin, making him look even younger. His hair had a distinct golden undertone, the same one her mother had, from the Arryns. Aegon must have gotten it from Alicent. Aegon got his entire face from Alicent, Rhaenyra decided upon closer inspection. Same nose, same lips, same eye shape.

She stood up softly, but the boy startled awake once more. His eyes immediately fixed on his sister, muscles tightening visibly under his thin tunic despite his impassive face. Rhaenyra grabbed a knitted blanket from the nearby chair, relishing its softness—it was a gift from Lady Melissa Massey—and glided over to the boy.

He relaxed when she spread the blanket over him and crouched so their eyes were level. The crystalline purple eyes—the exact same shade as hers, the one thing they had in common. The old wound left from Baelon’s death seemed to reopen, flooding her with grief and fear.

“I should have probably gotten you a blanket sooner,” Rhaenyra said. “I need to go now. If you want, you can stay here, and I will notify the guards and maids where you are so Father and Alicent do not worry overmuch.”

The boy yawned, turning away. “No need, Rhaenyra.”

Mysaria crept into the room, leaving the safety of the shadows after ensuring that only Rhaenyra and Gilla were present, conversing softly in the sitting area next to the fireplace. She took a moment to admire how the fire illuminated Rhaenyra’s porcelain skin and loose hair, and how it reflected in the eyes now turned to her.

Gilla turned around to follow the princess’s gaze and jumped off the couch, giving an awkward and stiff curtsy in greeting. She was learning, and the softness seen in other serving girls would come with experience and better control of her lanky limbs. Mysaria quickly crossed the room to pat the girl on the head and flick her freckly nose, now scrunched in satisfaction.

“Did I interrupt?” she asked.

“We were just finishing up,” Rhaenyra said as she smoothed her hands along her skirts and sat up straighter. “I assured Gilla that she would see Mirri again once she returns to King’s Landing.”

“My apologies, Madame. It’s not that I don’t believe you, I just—” the girl trailed off, unable to articulate what was on her mind.

“I understand,” Mysaria assured. “No need to worry.”

“I will be outside if you need anything.” She gave another curtsy to the princess, a more confident one this time, and rushed outside.

They both waited until the door snapped shut to fully relax. Gilla would ensure no one came close enough to even suspect the princess was doing anything but spending her time with Ser Laenor. The prince consort himself likely slipped out of the room mere moments after publicly entering to perform his duties.

Mysaria sat and took her time to get comfortable under Rhaenyra’s expectant gaze.

“Despite the best efforts of our healers, he will survive,” she finally said, resting her hands in her lap.

“Despite?” Rhaenyra’s eyebrows rose.

“Some of the healers who helped at the site may have been in my employ,” Mysaria replied simply, reaching for the fire and delighting in its warmth.

“Ah,” recognition flashed in the princess’s eyes, followed by a content curl of her lips. “I heard the same from Maesters. He will be a cripple either way, so we should decide on the next Kingsguard. I hope you will recognize some of the candidates.”

Mysaria hummed her assent as Harwin entered. It was done far less gracefully than she assessed her own appearance to be. The door clicked as it shut, and the tapestry bulged, the space behind too small to conceal the man’s figure fully. He stilled, remembering which direction he should go—left to the bedchamber or right to the privy chamber. In that moment, he resembled a child hiding under a blanket, and Mysaria snorted.

Harwin was startled by the sound and went still, attempting to stay unnoticed while pressing himself against the wall in an awkward, starfish-like pose.

Mysaria had to clamp her mouth to prevent laughing out loud as Rhaenyra shot her a playful glare.

“Privy chamber, Harwin.”

There was a shuffle, a crinkle, and at last, the knight emerged, holding two exquisite bouquets—white chrysanthemums and spider lilies. He flashed a warm smile at Rhaenyra and gave a respectful nod to Mysaria. He looked suspicious, but less so than yesterday. There was caution in how he assessed her, as if he could not fully trust her.

He gave her the flowers as Rhaenyra poured tea into the three teacups, holding the scalding porcelain with ease. Mysaria had never received flowers before—never once in her entire life. The men never bothered to, and Rhaenyra was rather fond of lavishing her with jewelry, dresses, and affection. Her breath hitched for just a moment as she sniffed the very real flowers gifted to her.

She grabbed a teacup to wash down the onslaught of emotion and sipped at the tea, watching Rhaenyra do the same. Harwin approached the cup suspiciously and did not attempt to move it to his mouth after gauging the temperature through the porcelain.

“Part of me thought only Rhae is capable of drinking near-boiling liquid, but I now see this is a problem with the two of you,” came a defeated admission from the man.

“It is not ‘near boiling,’ it is pleasantly warm,” Rhaenyra rolled her eyes.

Mysaria carefully laid the flowers on the table and pulled a thick journal from her cloak, dropping it between them. “I wrote down everything I remember,” she started, her mood souring immediately. “Every event, every name, every strategic failure of the war, every turncloak, all those who were loyal to you until their death.”

Rhaenyra reached for the book, and Mysaria tried to stop her. “I don’t think you should.”

“No,” Rhaenyra shook her head. “I had three days to think about what your appearance in my life meant. What could have happened for you to start acting quickly and with so much thought. So, I will say a statement, and you will nod or shake your head.”

Harwin looked like he wished to talk but quickly snapped his mouth shut.

“You wrote this because you fear you may be assassinated.”
A nod.

“The throne gets usurped, and the war starts. A violent and bloody war.”
Another nod.

“My children die?”
A shaky and reluctant nod.

Rhaenyra thought for a moment and opened the book now that Mysaria was not stopping her. The princess flipped through the pages rapidly, looking through the events and names Mysaria had underlined. Her expression flickered a hundred times between a hundred different emotions—disgust, grief, sadness, fury. Harwin and Mysaria assessed each other quietly. Both of them relaxed by the time Rhaenyra’s face finally settled into a calm mask.

The princess groaned, hands coming up to cradle her face. “This was disturbing to even just look at. But. You are here, so we may do better this time. I hope to focus on the good that may yet come of it.”

Mysaria nodded. “It is best to treat everything I wrote as a story. Something that did not happen and will never happen to you.”

Rhaenyra’s finger drummed on the table. “All right. Time to talk about next steps.”

“We are still awaiting news from the North,” Mysaria mused. “We should start the discussion on the Reach and Stormlands, on how to bring them to heel discreetly.”

“There are two open positions for ladies-in-waiting. Why not use them?” Harwin inquired.

“There is still time, and I suggest the two of you read the notes in their entirety, or at least you, Harwin. It would be best to meddle in the realm's affairs after you are fully informed,” Mysaria replied hastily, both Rhaenyra and Harwin nodding their assent. “I suggest you continue bonding with Aemond and Aegon. If there is a way to bring them to our side, we should use it.”

“Aemond would be easy enough,” Harwin confirmed, finally drinking his tea. “The boy is lonely and has a quick temper, but I could not actually imagine him hurting anyone.”

If only you knew

“We have a saying where I come from,” Mysaria remarked. “A child not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel the warmth.”

Rhaenyra only had one question. “Did he?”

“Until nothing but ash and bones remained.”

“From what Aemond told us, the Queen pretty much disappeared from their lives.” Harwin contemplated, but a sudden realization made him tense and sit up. “He said she’s been unusually distant for a couple of days. You don’t think she… did whatever this is?”

Mysaria nodded solemnly. “It is possible, but I wished to be quiet about it until I knew for certain.”

Harwin stood up to pace behind Rhaenyra. “Why?”

“I had someone intercept messages from the Red Keep,” Mysaria followed the man with her eyes as he moved, the activity somehow calming her nerves. “Nothing unusual, but the girl did see maesters’ records from ravens sent. Starting three days ago, Queen Alicent suddenly sent a flock of ravens—to Oldtown, Dorne, Storm’s End, the Fossoways, and the Redwynes, even the Manderlys.”

“She got full authority on her children’s betrothals. Did she have that before?” the princess whispered into the air. Mysaria shook her head, Rhaenyra suddenly looking like the determined and powerful Queen that Mysaria once knew. “She must have received the decree the day you returned, as it was announced at the council meeting the next morning.”

Mysaria rubbed at her wrists anxiously. Harwin stopped pacing to stand by the balcony, his back to the women, the wind blowing his curls around. “If she did, then why you? Is there anything that binds you? The way you died? The place you died? Anything that can help us figure out if anyone else has returned?”

Mysaria let out a rather grim chuckle. “I doubt the Queen was whipped to death, naked, on the streets of King’s Landing.”

The looks of absolute horror that followed were nearly identical, though it took Harwin much longer to scold his expression back into a calm mask. “Not the place or circumstance. Time?”

“She was well and alive when I last saw her,” Mysaria retorted.

Harwin rubbed his temples as Rhaenyra spoke up. “We can think about that later. We are not even certain it is not the consequence of our own changes in the timeline. What do we do about the Queen? Would she seek to solidify Aegon’s claim?”

They all looked at each other for answers, but no one had anything definitive, so Mysaria shrugged slightly. “We will not know until I can intercept the replies. Her first missives were sent to Oldtown; it should be at least another day until the raven arrives back here. All I can say is she regretted the war greatly after the first deaths.” Mysaria let a grim smile curl her lips. “She even came to Dragonstone, said she would leave with Helaena and her grandchildren, never to be found again. During your reign in King’s Landing, she had bouts of depression, pleaded to end the war, and after Helaena’s death disappeared into her chambers altogether. If she returned, I do not anticipate her becoming a threat—even if she prepares for war again, which is unlikely, her mind is shattered; it would be easy to set her off again.”

Rhaenyra nodded, satisfied with the explanation, her face losing the hint of tension that had occupied it before. Mysaria took the time to finish her tea and snatch a small cake from the table, the pastries having been untouched and forgotten in the midst of conversation. She finished it as the atmosphere settled back into warm, contented silence, and the last of the tension left the room.

Mysaria allowed her gaze to wander back to the princess, and it was a mistake. Rhaenyra would bite her lips ever so slightly when deep in thought. Without actually harming herself, she would continue to do so until they were red and slightly puffy. Those lips tasted like what she imagined the nectar of heavenly fruits to be. They felt velvety and hot, perfectly soft and malleable under Mysaria’s attentions. After every council meeting, every intense planning session, the women would burn in each other’s embrace, kissing, and biting, and touching in a desperate need to be one. They had a routine—meet, plan the killings and battles, devour each other. Her body remembered the routine well.

No matter how much Mysaria tried to build a wall in her mind between her Rhaenyra and Harwin’s Rhaenyra, the sight of those slightly swollen petals sent her mind into a spiral and made her insides clench with the burning heat of desire.

She bit her lip, turning away before the heat crawled up her cheeks and accidentally catching Harwin’s gaze in the process.

Something flashed across his face—an upturn of lips too swift to be properly identified.

With the fluidity and grace of a shadowcat, the man approached his princess and stood at her back. He was perfect in every way, fitting in like he was born to be there, to protect his woman. One of his hands curled at the crook of Rhaenyra’s neck, his thumb gently rubbing circles into the exposed skin under her jaw.

None of that was unusual or startling enough to rouse the princess from her thoughts, though she did lean deeper into the touch, Harwin gripping a little tighter.

Mysaria stood up rapidly. Harwin’s mischievous smirk disappeared. Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped to her. She was intruding on an intimate moment between the only man to ever respect her unconditionally and the woman that was once hers but would never be again.

“I should get going, Rhaenyra. Take care when you read this; the contents are rather unpleasant.” Mysaria gave a little curtsy, fully intending to disappear into the shadows, but the sound of a hurried knock on the door stopped them.

“Two knocks, someone is approaching, but it is someone we can trust,” Rhaenyra whispered, calming everyone and walking to the door.

“Who can we trust?” Harwin whispered incredulously.

Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows, disbelieving. “I have a number of servants I trust. Also, you do remember you have a sister?”

Bethany slipped into the room the moment Rhaenyra gave an answering knock. She looked entirely unsurprised to see Harwin present, nodded respectfully at Mysaria, and extended a scroll to the princess.

“It came from Driftmark.”

She was gone a moment later, and Rhaenyra walked back to the table while unrolling the message. Another smaller scroll fell out, the seal already broken.

“It is Rhaenys,” the princess explained. “She tells us to bring our household to Driftmark by the end of this week. Says she received the smaller missive from a Pentoshi captain.”

Mysaria picked it up and unrolled the scroll. She must have paled because Harwin was by her side in a second, hands hovering but not touching, prepared to catch her if she fainted. Not that she intended to do so. She forced her lungs to work and read the message out loud. It was short, written in Daemon’s rough and jerky scribble.

“Laena suffered a miscarriage. We are returning to Driftmark.”

Chapter Text

Mysaria left quickly; it was becoming a bit too much for one evening, and Harwin was struggling, having made it his mission to fuss over both Rhaenyra and Mysaria. Mysaria had only confessed that she was going to suggest inducing a miscarriage herself after the news from the North solidified their trust. Not that there was any need for that now.

She stumbled through the city, escorted by one of the Gold Cloaks at Harwin’s insistence. He left her at the doorstep of her brothel and quietly disappeared into the shadows. Inside, amidst the usual commotion of her girls and their customers, she was forced to witness Hylda and Myranda attempting to claw out each other’s eyes.

As swiftly as she could, and with practiced movement, she pulled Myranda away by the collar and into the adjacent secluded room. Hylda followed.

“Seven Hells, what is it with you two?”

“That mad dog just attacked me and threatened to kill me!” Myranda screeched.

“I threatened to strangle you in your sleep, you cunt,” Hylda snarled, turning to Mysaria. “She stole my client when I was talking to him. Took him by the cock and walked him like a pup.”

“You were wasting time and money exchanging honeyed words instead of doing your job,” Myranda spat out.

“I thought a rich merchant’s daughter would know more than one use for her tongue. Evidently, I was mistaken.”

“You little—” Mysaria had to hold Myranda back once again as she lunged at Hylda.

“Stop that, you two. I said stop! Myranda, do not do that again. Hylda, it’s over; let it go.”

Myranda stormed out of the room with a furious huff, her limp from an old injury becoming more apparent. She slammed the door behind her with enough force to make the walls rattle.

Hylda just shrugged, well acquainted with Myranda’s temper already, and smiled broadly as her usual playfulness and confidence returned. “There’s another handsome knight from Dorne here. I’ll go see to his comforts.”

Mysaria finally felt satisfied now that none of the girls were in immediate danger of losing their eyesight. She headed to her rooms, encountering Jessa on her way upstairs. The woman sat in an alcove with a window, gazing at the city. The climb was short but winding, with the floorboards groaning with each step until she finally reached her door.

It was open, ajar in a way Mysaria or her girls would never leave it. She was half-tempted to call for someone before stepping inside, just in case someone was waiting for her on the other side with a dagger. Her own weapon was clutched tightly in her hand, but she didn’t wish to cause panic. So, she swung the door wide and stepped in, instantly noting the key difference.

On the neatly cleared table lay a scroll. Nothing else in the entry room was disturbed; drawers and wardrobe were closed, and a stack of papers was exactly where she had left them on her bedside table. The room was untouched except for the missive on the desk and a faint citrusy aroma lingering in the corners. There was a seal of expensive black wax, so dark it absorbed the surrounding light. An insect she did not recognize was front and center, its curled wings looking ready to take flight.

She took caution in opening it, carefully separating the seal from the bottom of the page. The message was short, both disturbing and reassuring in its nature.

Interesting.

She spun on her heel, exited the room, and hurried to where she had seen Jessa seclude herself. The woman was reading, holding a thin, half-torn book on her bent knees.

Jessa glanced up at Mysaria briefly, her green eyes blank and disinterested, before returning her attention to the book. “Did he steal something?”

“You saw someone coming up to my room?” Mysaria asked.

Jessa shook her head. “No, I saw someone coming back downstairs. I didn’t think much of him, but you look worried now.”

“Who was it?”

Jessa shrugged. “A Dornish man. Gyles. Left satisfied, promised to visit again.”

“That’s it?” Mysaria leaned against the wall next to the woman, not even attempting to meet her gaze.

“Hylda was about to find out more.” A page turned.

Hylda had failed, undoubtedly due to Myranda’s interference. Mysaria did not like not being in control. She had spent so much time and effort becoming the puppeteer that she now shuddered at the thought of becoming a puppet again, a piece in someone else’s game. The secrecy and lack of understanding about recent events, both regarding human actions and their overall return, were taxing.

“She’s good at that sort of thing, you know,” Jessa whispered. “Trustworthy.”

Mysaria nodded, not that the woman could see it, and headed back up to her chambers.

The nurses must have talked to Daeron about what families are, perhaps bringing up their own husbands and children as examples. The babe did not fully understand, but one thing became firmly ingrained in his mind: a father is the man who protects and guides you.

He tried to go to the King’s chambers but was soon dismissed by the maids for disrupting the peace and attempting to climb on the model. Aemond suspected that the boy was acting out of desperation, trying to attract his father’s attention and elicit some reaction from him.

In the end, it didn’t matter, as Daeron was sent back to the nursery, screaming, and encountered Aemond on the way. The second prince was just trying to attend his morning duties, but evidently, other things were planned for him. The babe pounced on his brother the moment they saw each other and clung to his doublet with the strength of a thousand soldiers, his little fingers digging into the deep green fabric. No nurse could tear him away, and Aemond had to stand there and endure the little boy’s sadness and temper.

In between the wails and screeches, Daeron babbled about wanting Kepa, about little dragons, and nice scents. Aemond’s head began to thrum. Once the babe started repeating “Sad Daeron” over and over again, loudly and insistently, right into his brother’s ear, Aemond decided to acquiesce just to quiet him for a moment.

Daeron sighed happily, instantly satisfied with the promise, and shifted to hug his brother’s neck, burying his face in it. Aemond knew he couldn’t go to Father—the man was more like than not to deny them entry—but he headed for the next person he could think of: Ser Harwin.

The knight was outside the Golden Tower, residence for Gold Cloak Captains and Commanders. They were lucky it was still morning since Ser Harwin had enough duties to make everyone else’s head spin and would likely disappear to fulfill them soon enough.

He was barking at some Captain when they approached, his voice low and infused with barely leashed fury. The other man stood proudly, taking the reprimand surprisingly well. Perhaps this was how Ser Harwin usually was with the other captains in the absence of Princess Rhaenyra.

Harwin must have seen Aemond approach, as he softened his voice considerably before dismissing the man altogether.

“Prince Aemond, Prince Daeron, good morrow,” Harwin bowed.

“Hold! Ha-l-win hold. Hold!” Daeron immediately extended his hands, likely remembering how sweet the sleep was on Harwin’s chest recently.

The knight took the toddler into his arms with practiced ease, reminding Aemond of his nephews. He must have carried them around a lot when they were small. Not that he could particularly recall anything like that.

His father, the King, was very different. Despite loving at least one of his children, he was hesitant around babes, stiff and almost scared. The last time Aemond saw him hold Daeron was moons ago, and the King looked ready to toss the babe off him, discomfort rolling off him in palpable waves. He held Daeron in the air, not embracing or holding him flush against his chest as most adults would.

Harwin, clearly, had no problems with the snotty three-year-old. He held the boy close and tight, one hand supporting his rump and the other gently patting his back. Daeron relaxed in the hold, his hands quickly reaching for the curly hair to play with and sniff.

“Rha-nyra,” the boy said, creating an odd ritual of tugging and sniffing the hair.

“He was upset,” murmured Aemond.

“Why?” Harwin continued looking at the babe.

Aemond wasn’t particularly interested in providing an explanation, shrugging instead. “I thought he might be happy to see you. I was right.”

“I am happy to see you too, tiny Prince,” Harwin cooed, tickling the babe’s belly briefly.

“Tickly tummy!” Daeron demanded, receiving more tickles and squealing with delight.

“I must attend to my duties in the city, tiny Prince. You could join us during training. On the morrow, perhaps? Is that acceptable?” Harwin spoke softly, still fully focused on the babe.

“It’s acceppable! Daeron will wait!”

“Now that’s wonderful, tiny Prince! So patient of you.”

Aemond watched intently as Harwin interacted with the babe. He slowly handed him over to his nurse, never stopping the litany of kind and reassuring words. Daeron was praised for being good, instructed to listen to his nurses, and promised a whole lot of fun on the morrow. It wasn’t until the nurses left the yard that Harwin finally focused all his attention on Aemond.

When he did, Aemond had to force himself to remain unmoving, so strong was the sudden instinctive urge to flee and hide. The man was relaxed in front of him, hands at his sides, expression flickering between sadness and displeasure before becoming carefully blank again. The blankness did not help, however, not when Aemond could feel the eyes on him. Harwin didn’t just look at Aemond; he saw Aemond.

It felt like being prodded, like being naked and bared to the very essence. Aemond wondered, briefly, if the knight could read his thoughts, see his dirty self lingering in the darkness.

A shudder ran through the boy as he remembered all the times he sneered at his nephews, called them bastards behind their backs, and laughed about it with Aegon. All the while, he happily skipped to break fast with them, relished the kindness of Lucerys, or enjoyed conversations with somewhat bratty Jacaerys. Could the man see it in him? The whispers he often heard at night—ones telling him that he should be king, that Aegon was an unworthy fool, that Mother was a blind idiot, and Rhaenyra a whore with a brood of bastards.

If Ser Harwin ever found out about his thoughts and desires, Aemond expected him to stare exactly like that. With cold, calculating eyes and a hint of sour anger in the scent.

“I have to go to the city, Prince Aemond. I will see you on the morrow as well,” the man said, turning to leave.

“Wait! Can I… that is… can I go with you?”

“The King and Queen might be displeased with that, my Prince.”

“Father does not discourage us from visiting the city. Please, Ser Harwin.”

This was true enough. Father never explicitly discouraged them, simply because he cared little for what they did in a general matter. Aegon had started visiting the city recently, so surely Aemond could too. It was safer with Ser Harwin as well, unless the man decided to rid himself of the prince. Aemond doubted he would but didn’t much care either way.

The man hesitated for only a brief moment before determination flooded his features, and he began stalking towards Aemond. The boy didn’t have time to back away before the man was crouching to be slightly lower than him.

“You will not stray away from me or the other Gold Cloaks, and if you get lost, you stay in one place until we come back for you. Got it?” Harwin started sternly.

“Yes.”

“If I tell you to stay back while I am doing something, you will stay back with whomever I assign your care to.”

“Understood.”

“If you want to return or get tired, you tell me. I will assign someone to escort you back, and you will listen to that person and their instructions as if they were mine. The same goes if I tell you to return. You will not complain or try to fight me; you will turn around and walk.”

Aemond nodded eagerly as Harwin thoughtfully tilted his head.

“And you will wear a cloak and cover your hair.”

Aemond smiled happily when the man stood up again to call a maid over. Soon enough, he was handed a heavy cloak. Harwin himself clasped it around his neck and fixed the hood.

The city was much larger than Aemond had expected. Houses that looked almost flat and hilariously small from his rooms now loomed over him. The clamor around was almost deafening, and the foul stench made his nose burn and tickle.

He trailed dutifully behind Harwin, with a couple of other Gold Cloaks scattered around. They were supposed to head to Rosby Road, but Harwin decided that the city would be overwhelming enough without walking through Fleabottom to get to the Iron Gate. So, they headed down the Hook, in the direction of Visenya's Hill.

For the first time, Aemond could truly appreciate how people interacted with each other—and with Harwin. Most were busy moving about and passed by without so much as a second glance at a Gold Cloak. However, those who did notice him did so with smiles and respectful bows. Harwin was fearsome, the strongest knight in the Seven Kingdoms, “Breakbones,” and the commander of a small army of cloaks. Yet, people liked him, and they greeted him with smiles. Children running underfoot would stop to watch the passing knight, their faces lighting up.

Aemond stepped closer to Harwin, unsure if he should be drawing attention to his presence. The knight, however, did not hesitate to put a reassuring hand on Aemond’s back and give him gentle pats.

“They like you,” Aemond murmured.

“They like the protection I provide, so they like me. Remember when we talked about cruelty the other day?”

Aemond nodded, looking up. “You said cruelty is created by weakness, by chasing after a feeling of control.”

“Very well!” Harwin moved his hand to pat Aemond’s head briefly before returning it to rest on the hilt of his sword. “The opposite goes for strength. The stronger you are inside, the more strength you can spare to others. For their protection.”

“I guess.” Aemond shrugged. “I’m not entirely sure I understand that.”

“Physical strength and strength of character are different. Can we both agree that Maegor was a strong warrior?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think he was a strong person, however? As a kinslayer, a wife-killer, and a rapist?”

Aemond shook his head furiously. “Of course not. I… I think I see what you mean when you talk about weakness.”

“Your great-grandmother used her influence to protect the realm. She faced the birthing bed, bore the King countless children, suffered their losses, and even attempts on her life. All the while, she still cared for the people and exercised her power carefully to enact policies that benefited everyone. She was not physically strong, was never trained in any weapon, was she?”

Aemond shook his head.

“It does not need to be that grand either. Men and women show strength every day, in many different ways. When the tavern burned down, there were men who ran into the blaze to rescue those trapped inside, and others who helped drag the injured to safety. There were women tearing their skirts for bandages, helping the flailing, screaming, half-charred strangers without hesitation or disgust. Holding their hands as they died in agony so they would not meet the Stranger alone. A girl, no older than sixteen, managed to slip into the building to carry out a daughter of the tavern owner—a babe she wrapped in her own cloak to protect, sacrificing the skin of her arms to the fire.”

Aemond listened, mesmerized. How could he not? As princes, Maesters provided them with excellent education. They learned about the great houses, history and crafts, memorized endless battles, events, and house names, but never the stories of the people. Never what the smallfolk would do to protect each other and thrive as a community. They had no lessons in morality either, no one to talk to them about how a man ought to behave to be ‘good’ or ‘strong.’ They were supposed to be princes, creatures above such nonsense.

Harwin motioned for him to stay back, so he did. They were close to the blackened structure that had once been a tavern, and the knight went to talk to another Gold Cloak. They were still clearing out the debris, Aemond noted. There were men in blackened shirts, dirty and sweaty despite the chilly weather, breaking, lifting, and carrying logs of wood.

A plump woman with a little dark-skinned boy stepped carefully through the rubbish to where a group of men were sawing the remains of a large pillar. They passed out some waterskins, most men nodding and doing playful bows, accepting the care shown. A man—likely a summer islander—ruffled the boy’s hair and murmured something into the woman’s ear. Aemond watched as she giggled and cupped his cheek, only for him to nuzzle into her palm.

Aemond stood there, unnoticed, and watched the people live.

Life down here was simple, and it was beautiful.

Truthfully, it was hard to sleep without Harwin’s warmth enveloping her, without the soft thrum of his heart against her cheek. Once he left, she began reading the journal. Harwin had read it earlier, likely after she fell asleep, and had left small marks here and there to catch her attention. It was unnecessary. Every detail, every name, every event was now so deeply ingrained in her mind that she could almost hear the screams of her dying children.

People around her started to look different. The guards in their polished armor and heavy boots, the servants with the sharp smell of cheap soap clinging to their very core—they were suddenly slow, their movements distorted and lazy, as if time itself was trying to warn her.

She was supposed to eat with the children. Even Laenor was to abandon his quest for the rarest wine this morning and fool around with the boys afterward. She walked out the door more tired than usual but determined to traverse the long corridor to the family room. Her hands clutched ever so slightly at the growing bump, the boy—Joffrey—making soft movements inside her womb.

She glanced at one of the balconies as she passed, seeing a ruffled man working with a little dog by his side, setting up a rat trap. Something gripped her deep inside, even as she pushed any conscious thought of the journal away. Her legs were moving, and she kept breathing mechanically, but there was not enough air. The satisfying feeling of having her lungs filled was lingering in the distance, baiting her to expand her chest even more as it burned. No matter how deeply and how quickly she performed the act, it was never enough; the reprieve would not come. The clothes felt suddenly heavy on her skin, lace biting into her shoulders, the loose bodice of her dress caging her trembling body. The very air seemed to weigh down on her as she moved, twisting the rings now suffocating her fingers.

It was Ser Erryk who stopped her, his hand landing softly on her forearm to draw her attention before retreating just as quickly. He inquired about her health, threatened to kill the ratcatcher if that specific man was the cause of her distress, and watched silently as she leaned against the wall for a moment.

Rhaenyra wanted to continue to her children, but Ser Erryk was insistent on getting her back to her room with a maester. She now realized he must have watched her stumble forward without any real sense of direction and listened to her rapid breathing for far longer than he was comfortable with. The refusal of a maester was swift, of course, as was Ser Erryk’s new suggestion to call a midwife for a pregnancy-safe tincture.

Truthfully, Rhaenyra greatly appreciated Erryk in those moments. He was quiet, diligent, dutiful. He never hesitated to state his opinion if he truly thought his charge was making a mistake. More than once, he had to stop her sons from doing something foolish, later arriving at her door to ask for forgiveness for overstepping. Except she never saw it as “overstepping,” quite the opposite. Rhaenyra made it clear that in some situations, she trusted him to make a better decision, to be the voice of reason and an advisor in addition to the protector.

The understanding formed between them resulted in a level of devotion she could only appreciate after reading the journal.

“Ser Arryk was sent to Dragonstone to assassinate the Queen, and likely fell in battle with his twin brother Erryk. Erryk, (supposedly) driven by grief or the understanding that he could not be fully trusted, not when his identity could no longer be verified, followed his brother by impaling himself upon the sword he carried. They were buried together, for Ser Lorent noted that the roles could be reversed, with Erryk killed first and Arryk following out of guilt and inability to complete his mission.”

The man in front of her died fighting for his Black Queen, and she suspected he would happily die for her even now. Rhaenyra wanted to squeeze his arms, to look into his eyes and let him see the gratitude and shame overflowing her, but she also did not want to appear rapidly changed from her usual self.

There was care in how he led her back to her rooms. Erryk never made Rhaenyra feel uncomfortable with his gaze or his touch, and neither did his support remind her of Harwin. Where Harwin always felt like a fluffy blanket, Erryk was a wall—his grip firm but unintrusive, his silence comfortable but not suggestive.

The knight was always attentive, so there was no surprise that he recognized the pregnancy before it was announced to court. He opened the door for her and silently took his post outside her door, standing there for hours as the Princess tried to calm herself by embroidering a pillowcase.

It was after her midday meal was delivered to her rooms and the plates taken away that she slipped into darkness behind the tapestry.

There were places in the tunnels that looked more like rooms and balconies than passageways. A silent and dusty emptiness on the other side of the busy halls, like a crooked vision of their cursed future. Rhaenyra had explored most of those spaces—she had met with Harwin here at the very beginning—before they figured out whom they could and could not trust. Since then, they had learned to utilize their schedules and the schedules of the guards, as well as Laenor’s assumed presence in her chambers, to allow themselves privacy.

The air was dead here—heavy and unmoving. These spaces were once occupied by other Targaryens, a coterie of parents and children making use of the network for generations, but no longer. Viserys was content staying in his rooms and had likely forgotten about the very existence of the tunnels. Daemon was away, and her siblings were fully unaware.

As much as she felt some instinctive affection for those children, the children of her dearest friend and companion, she would prefer they knew nothing of these tunnels. If there was indeed a war looming over them, the tunnels might one day provide an escape as well as a means of attack. Mysaria was already working on ensuring that anyone—ratcatcher or not—aware of the tunnels would disappear never to be seen again.

Her steps echoed sharply no matter how softly she set her foot down. Rhaenyra stepped into the small chamber, one of those with a balcony overlooking the city below. No one ever counted the balconies and windows on the massive structure of the Red Keep, at least not to compare them to the number accessible to the public. If anyone suspected anything, they likely thought the rare empty balconies belonged to the empty chambers, not the secret maze within the Keep.

Gilla had set up some tea here, the sweet scent of chamomile permeating the room. The girl was nowhere in sight, so Rhaenyra dropped herself into the cushioned chair, only to start tapping at the table furiously as thoughts flooded her mind.

Alicent might have been brought back, but they could not know for sure. Someone had meddled with Laena’s pregnancy—one she was supposed to die from. Was it Alicent? Was it someone else? One person able to play with time might be a lucky chance, a miracle even. Two might be a coincidence. But three? Where there are three, there may be four, or more.

There had to be a system, some reason why they came back, why they were the only ones. Except they could not make assessments like that—not when the Queen’s return was not confirmed. Not when they did not know who had meddled with Laena’s fate. Was it Laena herself? Was it Daemon? Was it one of the endless servants loyal to their family?

“You worry overmuch, Rhaenyra,” said Mysaria, gliding up to the princess with the full stealth of a poisonous spider.

“I am not worried.”

“You are tapping the table,” Mysaria raised an eyebrow.

“Pennyroyal. It grows in Essos in abundance and is a known abortifacient. Assuming Rhaenys sent a raven to the Red Keep immediately upon receiving the missive, and the voyage from Pentos was unobstructed, Daemon must have penned it on the seventh at the latest.”

Mysaria nodded, having come to the same conclusion. “She had a miscarriage within a day of me returning. Not nearly enough for our own changes to affect anything. Or the Queen’s, for that matter.”

“Whoever it was, they had enough time to gather the herb, prepare it, slip it into Laena’s food, and for her to miscarry, possibly during the night,” Rhaenyra said. “Are we just assuming the Queen returned?”

“The response from Oldtown came. My little spies could not read it in its entirety, but they did catch a glimpse before having to hide. Ser Gwayne is heading here.”

There was no need to finish the statement, for Rhaenyra knew exactly when Gwayne was supposed to appear in the city, and it sure was not now. “I had hoped it was just a coincidence.” She closed her eyes briefly. “It could be someone advising her, just as you are advising me. It does not actually have to be her.”

“I will know by the end of the day. Gilla will relay to you what I find. In the meantime, I had another interesting missive today.”

The woman placed the scroll on the table and poured the steaming tea into the cups. Rhaenyra took the time to examine the broken seal. The insect was intricately made—a complex image of a bloodfly—nothing a common-born could commission for themselves. The edges, however, were rough in places, sharp where the smooth line should have been. The stamp was likely made in a rush, carved once without attempting to make it aesthetically perfect or fix the mistakes.

Rhaenyra unrolled the missive and focused on the handwriting first—slightly uneven, lines slanted awkwardly. A faint sulfurous stench of dragon still clung to the page.

“To my Queen and her dear consort,
Larys Strong may benefit from a trip to Driftmark with the royal household.”

Rhaenyra looked up sharply, with Mysaria sipping her tea quietly and observing. “By consort, they mean you, I presume?”

Mysaria cautiously nodded. “Another person who likely lived to the end of the war and was aware of my existence.”

“Who gave you this?”

“It was on my table.” Mysaria visibly hesitated again, pinching the skin on her wrists. “There were a great number of guests in the brother tonight, so there is no way of singling them out. A bunch of commoners, traveling knights from different kingdoms, merchants. Most importantly, it is clearly someone on our side.”

Rhaenyra sighed and buried her face in her trembling palms. This was becoming so much more complicated than it needed to be. Mysaria stood up and crossed to the princess, crouching softly next to the chair to glance at her downturned face.

Rhaenyra’s lady, her future consort, was looking up at her, face pinched with worry. Everything stilled around them, the sounds of the bustling city below suddenly becoming secondary to the overwhelming desire to touch.

Now is not the time.

Rhaenyra’s breath hitched when the woman’s hand squeezed lightly at her forearm in what was intended as an innocent gesture of support and understanding. The touch to her bare skin was nearly scalding, even despite her own heightened temperature as a Targaryen. For a brief moment, Rhaenyra truly thought the woman was running a fever, such was the contrast between Mysaria’s heated touch and Harwin’s cool one.

The princess fisted her hands, desperately holding onto whatever scraps of control remained, but could not fully resist the urge to lean closer to the one who had so rapidly become part of her life. Their faces were less than a respectable distance apart, Mysaria appraising her calmly.

Today, the woman had braided her hair into an intricate crown atop her head. Her eyes were dark, shining on her porcelain pale skin. Those were not the features that made Rhaenyra’s control so thin, however. It was the scent—lavender and wildflowers masking a faint but unmistakable mixture of musk, ash, and smoke.

“You smell like a dragon.”

Rhaenyra leaned in even closer briefly, her nose touching the top of Mysaria’s head before rocking back with a satisfied smile.

“I—” Mysaria stared, confused. “I did not visit the Dragonpit.”

“No, not that. You smell like a Targaryen. Like a flame made human.”

Mysaria smiled a little, shaking her head. “I was born in Yi-Ti. If there is anyone in this entire city who has not a drop of Targaryen blood, it is me. How would you even smell such a thing?”

“Targaryens have a slightly sharper sense of smell. Harwin would not be able to smell any of this, I assure you.”

“Well, your nose betrays you this time, my princess.” She stood up, gently sliding her hand to squeeze Rhaenyra’s and pull the woman up. “However, as long as it tranquilizes you, you can smell me all you want.”

Tranquility is slightly different from what I am currently feeling.

Nevertheless, Rhaenyra stood up and followed Mysaria to the balcony overlooking the city. She had a nagging suspicion that Mysaria had once basked in her scent for so long that it lingered still. Harwin himself occasionally smelled like smoke and ash after spending the night in her chambers.

Her head cleared a little with the fresh air blowing into her face. Below, the crooked city was alive, rows and rows of houses arranged like an ant’s colony with all the irregular lines and uneven landscapes. The sight was welcome, it was usual and safe. Mysaria’s presence at her side brought an additional layer of reassurance, even if Rhaenyra had to avoid looking at her for her own sanity.

Mysaria chuckled when she glanced at her. Rhaenyra’s cheeks still burned, so she likely looked blushing and disheveled.

“You know, Rhaenyra, I am rather happy I got to see Harwin in person. I remember the few times the man came to my street. Those were quite memorable.”

“You met him before?” Rhaenyra turned to her, surprised.

“Of course not. I could not get anywhere close even if I wanted to. He had a line of those vying for his attention. Girls would start to gather the moment he was sighted in the vicinity.”

“He paid so well?”

“Most of the time he did not need to pay at all.”

“I’ve never known a silk lady to turn down gold.”

Mysaria gave her a disbelieving look. “Part of me wishes you never get to comprehend just how lucky you are to have such an attentive, meaty piece of… man.”

“Thank you?” Rhaenyra snorted. “I guess I do not have enough experience to truly appreciate his skills in that area… You know, Mysaria, I do love him. I love him more than I can ever express. I think he loves me too.”

“I do not doubt it. I saw the way he looks at you in private.”

“He has been giving me those looks ever since I entered the hunting camp, bloodied and filthy at Aegon’s second nameday. Everyone stared at me, disgusted, affronted, annoyed. I think even Father frowned upon thinking my behavior a mere ploy to deter potential suitors.”

“Not Harwin?” Mysaria said, taking a half-step closer, still a respectful distance between them.

“No, not Harwin. Never Harwin. He was the only one to greet me, the only one to smile and nod at my appearance. There was so much fire in his eyes I questioned whether he himself was a Targaryen. He stared at me like I was a goddess come to earth, not the dirty urchin I looked.”

“I am sure he would be horrified to hear you call yourself that.”

“Likely so.”

Rhaenyra slid closer to the other woman, their skirts touching, elbows close as they both leaned on the balcony parapet. The silence was comfortable as it stretched, Rhaenyra feeling calmer than she had for days with the woman standing close and the hum of voices from far below. There was one thing, however, that could not leave her mind.

“Why did you join me during the war? Why… why become a consort to me? You state facts in your journal, and I appreciate them, but I cannot fully understand the sentiment.”

“You respected me.”

“That is it?” Rhaenyra raised her eyebrows in surprise.

“Yes, a very easy explanation, is it not?” Mysaria continued staring into the city, her eyes growing distant as Rhaenyra inspected her. “You honored your promises. You saw a woman backed into a corner by the circumstances, and you set me free. You saw in me a person. A someone, not a something.”

Rhaenyra moved closer once more, pressing up against Mysaria’s side ever so slightly. With each deep breath, she caught some of the tantalizing scent from the bare neck in front of her. Mysaria looked up briefly, only to back into the princess, who instinctively caught her around the waist.

“My scent calmed you sometimes… before,” she explained hastily, “I could never truly understand how or why, but you can hold and scent me all you want. I am here for you.”

Rhaenyra held herself before she could correct the woman. Her scent may have been merely calming before, but now it affected her slightly differently. Nevertheless, she did not allow her hands to wander, instead simply tightening around Mysaria’s waist as she pressed her nose into the nape of the woman’s neck.

“How did you… Tell me about yourself? Please?” came a muffled request a second later.

Mysaria startled but answered nonetheless.

He found Aegon in Rhaenyra’s solar after nearly an hour of questioning every servant who passed by him. Eventually, he stumbled upon Gilla, and the girl happily led him to where the prince was. The prince was slumped against the sofa on the floor when they entered. He loosely held a goblet in his hand, wine from the looks of it, and clutched it against his chest upon seeing them.

They stared at each other for a moment, Aegon profoundly annoyed at being interrupted, his eyes flickering to Gilla every now and then as if trying to remember her.

“You have been missing your training, my Prince,” Harwin said, sitting down next to the boy.

“I would applaud your observation skills, but my hands are occupied,” Aegon said, staring pointedly at the goblet. “I would also prefer to be left alone.”

“Would you now? Am I so much worse than the Arbor Gold?”

“Wine doesn’t make demands or remind me of training. An excellent company,” he said, taking another swig.

Harwin snatched the goblet from Aegon’s weak grasp, some wine spilling down the boy’s hands and onto the floor. The wine was safely passed to Gilla, who curtsied and left. Aegon let out an indignant huff, hugging his legs and curling into himself.

“Why are you here, Aegon?”

“It was empty here and quiet. Until your unfortunate appearance.”

“Were you here to see the princess? It is her favorite solar, after all.”

“I could ask you the same thing, Ser,” Aegon taunted half-heartedly, rolling his eyes at Harwin’s suddenly affronted expression. “Please do not start with the idiocy. I have eyes and a nose, unlike Viserys.”

Harwin shook his head. “I was looking for you. I want you to come back to training.”

“Eh… Perhaps… No.”

Aegon stood up briefly, only to drop heavily onto the sofa and curl up again. Harwin sighed but remained where he was, now unable to see Aegon behind him.

“I had hoped you would consider it for a little longer.”

“Should have left me my cup. Maybe I would have been nicer,” murmured Aegon, pretending to be suddenly lethargic and exhausted. “Mother or Aemond will drag me back once they are done with more important things. Until then, I will enjoy my newfound freedom.”

“We are to learn dirk tomorrow. And Daeron will join. Maybe I should devise a game.”

There was a shuffle behind him, but the reply was still as dispassionate as ever. “Not interested.”

“You could choose a weapon you are interested in. Archery, perhaps?”

“On second thought… I’m still not interested.”

“Hand-to-hand combat?” Harwin said, growing desperate.

“Best option so far, but the answer is no.”

Harwin wanted to break something. The boy was a stubborn mule, and he definitely had that in common with Rhaenyra. Where the both of them had gotten it from, he was not sure—not the King, so maybe Princess Alyssa or Prince Baelon? It was time for some real incentives.

“Win against me in one of the games, and I will show you the best tavern in the city. Nothing like the rat-infested slums you know of.”

There was a sharp inhale behind him, and Harwin turned his neck as far as he could to glimpse the excitement Aegon could not mask. He opened his mouth to say something, but Harwin beat him to it.

“Before you inquire whether winning is impossible, you should know that Aemond won the other day and earned the boys an early cudgel practice.”

“Are you telling me I missed the cudgel training too?” Aegon groaned. “How would you even know the tavern is the best one?”

“Good question. I guess we would have to visit multiple to know for sure. You would have to win multiple times too, of course.”

The boy’s jaw hung open in an entirely un-princelike manner, and Harwin relished in the shock he was able to cause. He stood up, stretched a little, and headed for the door, leaving the prince to ponder. Not that the boy would refuse an offer like that.

Over time, he would have to do things differently and wean the prince off wine and drinks. At least teach the boy to know his limits and perhaps develop some respect for the servants. The boy is supposed to one day grow into a perverted little man and kill Rhaenyra, but it would not happen on Harwin’s watch. Not while the Targaryen princes were assigned to him as a responsibility.

“I will see you on the morrow, Aegon. Do not be late, please.”

The door clicked behind him, and he exhaled, half-slumping against the nearest wall. It was truly impossible to separate the men his charges would grow up to be from what they were now. Harwin already hesitated with Aemond, images of Lucerys and Arrax flooding his mind, and it almost pushed him away after they had made some progress.

He would be more careful, and he would raise the boys right, or gods help them all.

Alicent hurried to the library, Ser Rickard following closely behind. Helaena might be there, and she was partly hoping to spend time with her daughter. Another part of her, the darker, more selfish one, hoped to be alone, to forget the existence of her children as if they never existed.

Motherhood was not as drastic a change as she had envisioned. It was, in truth, nothing like she expected. There was no rapid shift in demeanor, worldview, or perception of self. She did not become wiser or happier, only chained with another reminder of her cold, frosty marriage. Perhaps it was because Alicent was simply a bad mother.

She liked the concept of motherhood. She enjoyed being venerated as one, having children and other ladies look up to her. She enjoyed calling herself mother, discussing children with other ladies, but not actually being a mother.

There was a fine line between those two concepts. One had to embrace motherhood in a way she was never able to, to be a good mother. Her own mother had embraced it, Rhaenyra managed to embrace it, as did Rhaenys and Aemma. But not Alicent.

Mother… Mummy...

She bore her children, saw them into the world, and stubbornly refused a nursemaid, thinking that feeding them from her own breast would somehow change her. And it didn’t.

She loved them. She would kill for them. But she did not like them.

Daeron’s milky scent still clung to her from the early morning—a scent of the babe. Of her babe, and her milk. It would soon disappear forever, and she wished it not to go. She loved children, loved little babes. Loved patting their warm bellies and cooing at their tiny faces.

She did not like their screaming. She did not like them playing, or even being in the vicinity for too long. As they grew, she would have to force herself to interact with them. Force herself to talk and reply. She would catch her mind wandering, making appointments and occupying her time with anything and everything that would separate her from the children. From the little people who suddenly became too much to handle—emotionally and physically.

Was there a hidden resentment? Perhaps. Those children were on their way to becoming fully functional adults, to stop being an extension of Alicent. In doing so, they reminded her of the mistakes she made in her youth. Of the choices she had made and those that were ripped away.

She loved her children. She would die for them. She was not certain she would live for them.

If she had the choice to return further in time, before marriage to the king, before all of this, what would she do? She thought that getting as far away from this place as possible sounded just right. Even if it meant never having children again. Even if it meant never embroidering with Helaena or squeezing Daeron in her arms.

Alas, she was here. Thrust into a game she did not start. A piece in a game years in the making, bound and chained by moves she had no say in, and those she knew would come one day.

The biggest current threat was Laena. That woman had Vhagar and was, unfortunately, likely to stay alive in the foreseeable future. As much as Alicent felt for Laena and pitied her fate, Vhagar was an essential piece for her children to have. Vhagar was protection and reassurance. Aemond’s claiming of Vhagar was supposed to be less bloody in this life, but still possible. Now, Alicent would have to wait until the Velaryon is pregnant again or kill her herself. Her family was now a dragon shorter and less protected against possible threats.

Otto once told her that Rhaenyra would put her children to the sword. Last time, she never got to test those claims, ascertain with certainty whether they were true. Rhaenyra did order Aemond’s and Aegon’s executions after the bloodshed started, but never truly got to follow through with them. She also promised to pardon them if they bent the knee at the very beginning of the war. Still, Alicent could not trust her. She could not be certain of Rhaenyra’s plans and intentions.

This time, Aegon would likely have to forsake the throne for the least bloodshed to occur. Unless, of course, Alicent found a way to get rid of Rhaenyra in an inconspicuous manner. What type of death would be unlikely enough to be considered an assassination but still possible to set up? Larys was skilled at these types of plots, having successfully gotten rid of the other Strongs. Perhaps she should pen him a message.

No.

Now was not the time. Even if Rhaenyra died, Viserys would rather become a Silent Sister than step over Jace and Luke in the succession to plant one of his trophy sons. Alicent would have to get rid of all three, and it was nigh impossible. So, for now, her priorities had to stay as they were. To make her children shielded and invaluable to the realm to the point that killing them would be nigh unimaginable without plunging the kingdoms into absolute chaos.

She rounded the corner only to come face to face with the person she hoped never to see again.

“Queen Alicent, is it?”

Alicent tore her bleary eyes from the window to see a pale woman standing in the corner of the room. Perhaps she had come to kill her. Not that it mattered much.

“I will admit, it is rather tragic to see you like this. An ambitious and powerful creature brought so low.”

The woman seated herself in the chair opposite the Queen, glowing and basking in the oppressive silence and discomfort Alicent likely radiated.

“How do you fare, my Queen Dowager?”

There was something comical in the way this lowborn woman conducted herself in the presence of a royal, even an imprisoned one. She sat with the regality of a noble and the confidence of someone who wielded an entire network of spies and assassins. Alicent didn’t need to ask for the name; she knew well enough—Lady Mysaria, Rhaenyra’s new companion and the woman who had upended the Green strategies.

“My Queen, do you perhaps wish for a different fate?”

A shiver ran down Alicent’s spine as her mind flashed with memories of Larys Strong—the honeyed words and masterful manipulations. Mysaria looked at her with a blend of concern and pity, a certain softness in her features.

“What do you mean by that?” Alicent whispered, her voice raspy and low.

“You know of my nature; I know of your desires. If we reached a satisfactory agreement, I could help you in whatever endeavor you wish to pursue,” Mysaria said simply.

“How?”

“If you wish to escape, you need only pay well, and I will arrange it with your remaining trusted servants.”

Back then, the little whore had left without another word, not looking disappointed in the least. If anything, the woman likely expected the response. Today, she quickly bowed, with the posture of a perfect lowborn servant, and stood aside.

She was not supposed to be here.

Was she?

Did she ever visit the Red Keep before the war?

Was she selling secrets to someone here that early?

Or had she returned as well?

Alicent searched desperately for something on her face—a flash of recognition, contempt, or anticipation. Anything. But there was nothing, just a genuinely disinterested expression—not even the fake, forcefully empty look. Alicent hesitated, inspecting her over and over, likely appearing mad to Ser Rickard for taking such an interest in a passing woman.

She forced her feet to move and lead her to the chambers, Mysaria continuing on her way.

“If you ever need her services, she is easy to recognize, daughter. Just ask anyone for Lady Misery—they will lead you to a pale, scarred woman in a white dress.”

Alicent stopped. She turned around, catching the train of Mysaria’s dress as she turned the corner. One of charcoal grey wool.

Chapter Text

Her heart fluttered with anticipation as she approached one of the old “meeting rooms” in the tunnels. Now, there were many of Rhaenyra’s favorite blankets there, along with a couple of large, soft sofas and cream curtains fluttering in the morning breeze.

Harwin lit the candles, their warm glow illuminating his face as he turned to look at her.

She clicked the door shut and approached. Harwin waited for her, his bare chest rising with each heavy breath as his eyes followed her every movement—silent but quickly growing restless. He could never handle not being able to touch her when they were alone. So, she continued walking, checking the candles, touching the pillows, and righting her dress.

It was when she passed by him to look out the window that his patience snapped, Harwin catching her around the waist and pulling her onto his lap in one swift, brutal motion.

Rhaenyra melted into his embrace, her head quickly coming up to rest in the crook of his neck as she basked in his scent. He squeezed her fractionally tighter, one hand coming up beneath her breasts in a silent question.

She nodded, a satisfied huff being his only response as he took his time. His hands began sliding along her stomach, teasing the front-facing ties of her nightgown—the ties that obstructed the skin she desperately wanted him to touch.

One hand slid down to her thigh as Harwin slowly pulled up the fabric, bunching it in his fist, inch by inch. The other gently pulled one of the ties, unraveling just one fastening of the three. He was fully concentrated, slow, deliberate in his movements.

He finished pulling up the skirt, exposing Rhaenyra’s skin to the biting cold, but did not touch her. Instead, he painstakingly tucked the hem into his belt so it would not slip down again, and focused on the other laces.

Rhaenyra’s neck arched instinctively when she felt him shift beneath her, the bulge growing yet still hidden by the layers of fabric separating them. Harwin knew exactly what to do—he finished unlacing the top, leaving one hand beneath her breasts and using the other to cradle her cheek, turning her head gently, providing him access to the smooth skin.

He started peppering it with soft, butterfly-light kisses.

“Harwin!” Rhaenyra finally whined. “Please…”

“Patience,” growled Harwin, his hot breath hitting her ear and sending a shiver down her spine. The hand around her midline tightened, squeezing them closer. “You cannot command me in how I choose to devour my woman—the woman who was teasing me just moments before.”

Rhaenyra whimpered pathetically, partially regretting her teasing. The hand on her cheek slid down, fingers briefly ghosting over her pulse point before landing possessively between her collarbones. He did, however, acquiesce, his kisses becoming faster, deeper.

She jerked when she first felt his tongue on her skin, followed immediately by a small bite. Harwin had said he wanted to devour her, and devour her he did. His tongue lapped at her skin, interrupted by sharp bites, soothed by his cool lips.

She didn’t even fully realize that his hand had somehow found its way inside the unfastened bodice and was now caressing her nipple.

“No,” she whispered. “Too sensitive.”

Harwin nodded into her neck and his hand retreated, only to slide further down and pinch at the bare inner thigh.

Rhaenyra jerked, her legs spreading instinctively, begging for his touch. She looked down.

“No,” he murmured, covering her eyes with his free hand, pushing her head back down onto his shoulder. Once satisfied with her compliance, he left a punishing bite on her shoulder.

She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him. She felt his breath against her cheek as he focused on his work. She felt his hand moving her thighs wider apart, bunching her skirt around her navel. He stilled, shifting slightly under her as he drank in the sight of her sex.

“Rhae, love, you’re soaked. All that from a little teasing?”

She moaned as his fingers touched her thigh, sliding higher just a little before stilling again. Then, they circled her cunt like a predator sensing prey. She shifted restlessly, rubbing against him and eliciting a heavy groan.

His fingers slid over her clitoris, dipping slightly into her soaked entrance before retreating once again. She whimpered. “Please, Harwin, please.”

“Shh. Since you’re asking so nicely.”

Two of his fingers entered her deep, his thumb rubbing at her sensitive nub. He knew just the right pressure, just the right speed. In seconds, she was writhing on him, moving to engulf his fingers deeper, harder. His clever fingers curled inside her, swiping and massaging.

She felt the peak approaching like a tidal wave—powerful and crushing. Harwin roughly moved her head to the side to start lapping at her sensitive neck again, and that was enough for the coil to snap.

She came undone on him with a howl as he continued gently caressing her bud, guiding her through the orgasm. Large shudders passed through her, but he held her still, tight. Once she relaxed, he let out a low, satisfied grumble.

Finally, she could see. Both his hands moved to gently fix her skirt, but she stayed, panting slightly, blinking.

“Tired, my love?” he asked in his usual unassuming voice.

He always asked that after she peaked, always quietly inquiring about her comfort and her willingness to continue. And that just made him even more attractive in her eyes.

This man had just held her tight and brought her to the height of pleasure with a couple of fingers. This man, who growled that she couldn’t command him and covered her eyes. And yet, the smallest sign of displeasure from Rhaenyra would have him withdraw immediately. An admission of her tiredness would have him dressing her back, tying all the strings, and holding her for as long as she wished.

Today, that wouldn’t do. She stood up, Harwin stilling on the sofa, and turned around. Slowly, carefully, she bunched up her skirt just to her knees and sat back down on Harwin’s legs, soaking his breeches. His breath hitched as she let the bodice fall apart, all the way to her navel.

His hands jerked, aching to touch her already swelling breasts, but he didn’t dare. Because she had asked him not to.

She was not nearly as patient as Harwin, and in her opinion, he had waited long enough. She undid the laces of his breeches, opening them just enough to pull out his manhood and give it a couple of teasing strokes. She loved watching his eyes roll back, hearing his breath hitch.

“Rhae—”

“I am not as cruel as you,” she whispered, capturing his lips for a brief moment while she warmed him up.

When she pulled herself up, Harwin’s hands gripped her waist, steadying her. She took her time aligning him to her dripping core, swiping his tip over her folds again and again, relishing the way his hands began to shake.

“I thought… you weren’t cruel.”

Rhaenyra smirked, finally allowing the tip to enter her, her hands moving to rest on his shoulders. She sank down slowly, his girth always requiring a little time to get used to. He never rushed her, so she swayed lightly, up and down, her eyes fluttering shut.

She reached his base with a shudder and a happy hum, her clit rubbing deliciously against his hard muscles.

“Harwin? I love you.”

Harwin didn’t respond. Instead, he assaulted her mouth with a wet, needy kiss—possessive and brutal in a way they both liked.

He pulled at her gently, helping her rise up. She obliged quickly, rising until just the tip of him remained inside before dropping back down. His hips buckled, and Rhaenyra could no longer tease him. She rose again and set a desperate pace, riding him with the full ferocity of a dragon. His hands moved to squeeze her backside, urging her to go faster, and she obliged. He was biting her shoulders, kissing her neck, kneading the flesh of her buttocks and thighs. She felt him sliding inside, the welcome stretch of his cock and the way it throbbed, curving perfectly against her walls.

She looked down, just to watch his length disappear into her warmth, and her legs shook.

Rhaenyra didn’t know how long they went on for—only that, at some point, his hand moved to swipe at her clitoris. That was all it took to suddenly push her over the edge.

She slackened against him, her body shaking and refusing to work as he continued thrusting up, deeper and deeper, until she finally felt the warmth of his seed filling her up.

She felt him twitch inside and soften, but she didn’t move to slide off. Harwin’s hands moved up to rub soothing circles into her back and smooth down her hair.

“Rhae—”

“Just stay like this… a little longer. Please.”

He left a sloppy kiss on her forehead, nuzzled into her hair, and clutched her tighter to his chest.

Rhaenyra was lounging on her stomach, savoring the moments since she wouldn’t be able to lie like that for much longer—once their babe grew too big. Not that Harwin minded; it still gave him a wonderful view.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” he asked, running his fingertips along her spine.

“Yes!” Rhaenyra huffed, sending him a glare. “Please stop asking. I’m pregnant, not dying.”

“Alright.” He kept looking at her, propped up sideways on his elbow.

If he asked again, there was a high risk she’d smack him and leave—her patience had been rather thin these days. In truth, he hadn’t expected her to appear today at all. It was about to be a busy day, and their morning encounters often cost them a couple of hours of sleep, unless it was safe to meet in her chambers.

He looked at her—at her pristine pale skin, the silvery white hair cascading down her back. He felt the heat radiating from her, saw the love and appreciation in her gaze. Sometimes, in moments like these, his breath would catch in his throat all over again, just like it had when he was a stupid boy in the hunting camp. He didn’t know what great feats he must have performed in a previous life for the gods to favor him enough to send this woman. To be allowed to touch her, talk to her, or even bask in the warmth of her presence.

“Rhae?” he whispered, burying his hand in her hair, massaging her scalp.

“Hmm.” She arched her neck into the touch.

“I would live and die for you. And for our children.”

“… I know. I love you too.” She pushed herself up on her elbows and leaned in to plant a sweet, gentle kiss on his lips. “I want you to know I will always love you.”

“I know,” he agreed easily. “It sounds like I still had a place in your heart a decade after my death. Impressive of me, don’t you think?”

Rhaenyra frowned slightly. “You’re not… displeased? With…”

“With you wanting to drag Mysaria into our bed?” He shook his head. “Of course not—I see the way you two look at each other.”

Rhaenyra stood up and reached for her discarded dress. “Must you be so crude? I meant having my future lover so close.”

He rolled onto his back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. Rhaenyra didn’t like being watched while she dressed—it made her self-conscious, despite all his reassurances that she was the most exquisite creature in all existence.

“I would be displeased if she posed a danger, which she clearly doesn’t. I want you to be happy, Rhae. I want whatever brings you happiness. Your heart is plenty big for the two of us, I would hope... She died for you, and she yearns for you, even if she doesn’t wish to make it obvious.”

There was a shuffling next to him, a slight dip in the mattress as Rhaenyra sat down beside him. She had one of those looks—the guilty ones she wore when she believed herself inadequate in their relationship. In Harwin’s opinion, the combination of Rhaenyra and inadequacy was an affront to reason itself, as she was the most perfect creature in all creation.

Regardless, Rhaenyra often sought to apologize for the life they led. For the foolish decisions that left her with no choice but Laenor. For not being able to name him King Consort when the time came. Harwin had always thought she had nothing to apologize for or explain, as he had forgiven everything she’d done and everything she could ever do long ago.

“I’m so sorry…”

“No.” He sat up. “There is nothing to apologize for. I don’t care who wears the crown, who attends you at night, or gives you children. I never did. All I need is a place by your side, in whatever role you see fit for me.”

She nodded, eyes suddenly wet, and moved to the window, likely needing some time to calm the storm of emotions. Pregnancies always made her a little more emotionally volatile, especially starting in the fourth month. Soon, she wouldn’t be able to hide the babe beneath her skirts either.

He dressed quickly, tying his breeches and throwing on the shirt he had discarded the moment he entered the room. By the time he pulled a small basket from behind the sofa and arranged the little fruits and cakes on the table, Rhaenyra had returned and sat beside him.

“Daemon’s household…” he began.

“I know, we discussed it with Mysaria some time ago.”

Harwin smirked, because of course they had. Was he a foul man for wishing to have witnessed the meeting? To witness whatever had caused Rhaenyra to become so frustrated and aroused that she sought him out the moment they finished? She had found him and dragged him into the tunnels before he could even greet her.

Their last meeting two days ago—the three of them—had the ladies sitting as far apart from each other as possible, much to Harwin’s amusement.

Alas, the matter was a serious one, so he refocused his thoughts. Someone had slipped pennyroyal or tansy to Laena, so at least three must have returned.

He reached for a piece of lemon cake, extending the candied lemon off of it to Rhaenyra. “Let’s hope it was Laena who returned. Her knowledge would end with her death, and thus wreak the least havoc.”

“There was a missive too. We didn’t want to tell you earlier.” Rhaenyra looked away, her shoulders slumping.

“Hm?”

“Black seal, Bloodfly, telling us to bring Larys.”

Harwin stilled, quickly swallowing the cake. “I see… Is that why he’s coming with us? How did you even manage to convince the King?”

“I have my ways,” Rhaenyra shrugged.

So they wanted Larys to what? Kill? Turn to the Black side of the war? Did it even matter?

He remembered what Larys used to be: bullied, lonely, overlooked. Harwin had protected him as much as he could. Clearly, he had failed at that. He was a terrible brother, unable to recognize the darkness growing inside Larys.

Larys had been Harwin’s brother—or used to be. The distance between them grew with each passing year, despite all Harwin’s attempts to keep him close. Perhaps the crippled little boy had always been envious, wishing to prove his worth to the world. It didn’t really matter—the facts were the same: Larys of today would gladly kill his own father and brother, usurp the throne meant for his nephews, all for personal gain.

Harwin wished he could say he was surprised. That the revelation felt like a stab to his back. That he didn’t trust the words Mysaria had written. But he couldn’t. Because, quite frankly, he trusted Mysaria more than his own brother.

Something else occurred to him. “Bloodfly is an Essosi insect. Could they be the same person?”

Rhaenyra shook her head, though hesitantly. “Unlikely. The letter was delivered by a knight named Gyles. We got the missive from Rhaenys around the same time. The Bloodfly, whoever it is, would have had to come here, gather allies, leave instructions, send the missive, and have it delivered.”

“Physically impossible… but only if you use the usual mode of transport.”

Rhaenyra looked up sharply. “It could be possible on a dragon, but if a dragon traveled to King’s Landing, someone would notice.”

“Would they? The nights have been rather dark lately. Also, we’re assuming they all returned on the same day. Two don’t make a rule.”

He watched as she pondered, swallowing down another sweet cake. Sighing, he reached for an orange to peel for her—she’d undoubtedly ask soon.

“Rhaenyra, we can’t do anything but wait until we get to Driftmark and watch for odd behaviors in Daemon’s household.”

“Laena just suffered a miscarriage. Their behavior will be odd either way.”

“You know what I mean.”

He handed her the orange, using the opportunity to briefly touch her hand.

They would get through this together this time. Or he would fight the gods themselves.

Harwin was with her today, sauntering somewhere behind. He was still her sworn shield, despite all the additional responsibilities as a princess’s teacher and the Commander of the Kingsguard. The keep was all aflutter today—servants readying their masters’ luggage and deciding who would depart for Driftmark and in whose retinue. On busy days like these, Harwin was expected to escort the princess.

The members of House Footly were leaving the capital today, having stayed an additional week since their rather discourteous encounter with the Green Queen. Rhaenyra had tried her best to form a tentative alliance with them. According to the journal, the house would side with her even if she did nothing, but it was an opportunity she could not pass on. Elinda now walked beside her, having taken it upon herself to escort the princess to Lord Footly’s quarters and to carry a small token of their appreciation—a golden brooch for the lady and a small dagger for the lord.

Something was bothering the girl. Rhaenyra could see it—they had spent enough time together to read each other’s moods. Elinda’s eyes kept darting to the princess and back to the floor, her fingers tapping the little boxes she carried. More importantly, the girl made no effort to stand taller when a handsome young squire walked by, which was truly concerning.

“Elinda?”

The girl stumbled a little, startled. “Yes, my princess?”

“What is it that’s bothering you?”

The girl hesitated again, biting her lip. “It’s… it’s Princess Helaena.”

Rhaenyra stopped, turning to face her. She hadn’t expected much when she first sent Elinda to the libraries to possibly befriend her little sister. Mysaria’s account of the war had made it clear that Helaena was a victim of circumstance, rather than a willing participant in the usurpation plot. Helaena had been a victim of Rhaenyra’s—of her oversight and grief-driven decisions. In truth, Rhaenyra wanted Helaena to live happily, far away from the court, with someone who loved her. There was no real need to spy on her, and yet Elinda now seemed desperate to share something.

Rhaenyra motioned for her to speak, and Elinda gathered her thoughts. “It might be nothing, but… I don’t like the knight guarding Princess Helaena. He makes me feel unsettled.”

“Unsettled in what way? Did he do anything?”

“No, nothing. It’s just… the way he watches us.”

Rhaenyra’s first instinct was to dismiss the concern. After all, it was likely that Elinda was simply not used to being under the constant gaze of a guard. Rhaenyra had grown up as a princess, always under supervision, and even she still felt uncomfortable at times when a new guard was assigned to her.

It was probably nothing alarming. But even so, Rhaenyra had sworn to be a better sister this time around—especially to Helaena. If there was even the slightest reason for concern, she had to look into it.

“Did you see him do anything untoward?” she asked.

“No. He never does anything but watch.”

Rhaenyra considered her options. Helaena was still under Queen Alicent’s care. Removing her guard or placing someone of her own would be seen as discourteous at best, or as an attempt to endanger Helaena at worst.

Rhaenyra sighed. “Keep an eye on her for me. Ask her if she feels the same way. If she does, I will find an opportunity to speak with the Queen.”

That was a conversation she was not eager to have, certain Alicent would take it the wrong way rather than see it as an attempt to make Helaena more comfortable.

Elinda nodded, and Rhaenyra patted her on the shoulder gently. The girl was wonderful—diligent and sharp. It would be wise to assign one of the old Cloaks to guard her whenever she ventured beyond the Red Keep—someone trustworthy. Rhaenyra wanted to tell her to stay safe, to protect herself, and to always voice her concerns. But before she could say it, Laenor rounded the corner and stopped at the sight of them.

The Little lady stepped back, giving the royal couple privacy as Rhaenyra observed her slightly disheveled, smiling husband.

“Where are you going, my lord husband?” she asked with a smirk, stepping closer to whisper. “Off to guzzle all the ale in Flea Bottom?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re irritated today! Does it have something to do with the little one in your belly?”

“Shh! I’d like a little more time before that becomes public knowledge.”

He raised his hands in a placating gesture. “Understood. And no, I’m off to choose a new Kingsguard.”

“What? Why you?”

Laenor shrugged. “The king wants all seven to escort the family to Driftmark, and Cole will never hold a sword again, so he’s as good as dead now. I just happened to be the first person the king encountered on his morning walk, so…”

“He took the opportunity to rid himself of the dull affair,” Rhaenyra finished.

“Look at you, my clever lady wife.”

“They won’t have the new knight take his vows yet. Not until Cole is either dead or formally stripped of his title with all the ceremonial rubbish involved.”

“Spot on again.” Laenor smiled, wide and carefree. “If you want to take this task off my hands, I’d rather go do something else.”

Of course he would. Rhaenyra took a deep breath. “Go. As long as you’re on the ship tomorrow.”

Laenor leaned in to kiss her nose before happily trotting away. Rhaenyra turned back to Harwin and Elinda, who had watched the whole exchange with neutral expressions. They were supposed to meet with the Footlys, but selecting a Kingsguard was far more urgent. Elinda quickly understood that too.

“Should I give your farewells to Lord and Lady Footly, your grace?” Elinda asked.

“Yes, thank you. And if you see anyone, ask them to find Gilla and send her to me.”

Elinda curtsied and hurried off. Rhaenyra hoped she would find someone soon, and that Gilla would arrive without delay. Whoever was chosen, Mysaria had every right to know before they set sail.

Harwin moved closer as they walked toward the inner courtyard she knew all too well.

“Laenor seems rather cheerful, all things considered,” he whispered.

Rhaenyra shrugged, unsurprised. “It’s been a week. He smells of Qarl and cheap ale, so he’s been comforted enough. And… knowing him, he’s probably just glad his sister is returning, for whatever reason.”

Harwin seemed satisfied with the explanation, stepping back as they continued in silence. They were good at this—maintaining distance, playing princess and guard. If not for the boys’ hair, no one would ever suspect a thing. And even now, rumors were just rumors; no one had ever caught them in a compromising situation.

Ser Harrold was already waiting for them. If he was surprised to see them, he didn’t show it, bowing respectfully to Rhaenyra.

“Ser Harrold? Do you know where the boys are?” she asked quietly.

“They’re at the Dragonpit with Prince Aemond. Said they had something to show him, princess. Ser Arryk is with them.”

Rhaenyra didn’t trust Ser Arryk—after all, he could be swayed to forsake his vows and assassinate a royal. Still, there was nothing she could do but accept it. At least, Arryk now sported a large scar on his face, making it easy to distinguish him from his brother. Small victories

The boys would be fine. As long as they weren’t showing Aemond that cursed pig, everything would be fine.

She took her place and signaled for Ser Harrold to begin. The knights before her were varied—some tall, some broad, some with dark hair, others blonde. The houses didn’t truly matter, but most of the candidates were of noble birth.

She greeted several knights, each well-trained in their weapon of choice. By the time Ser Harrold introduced a short, stocky knight bearing House Orme’s sigil, Rhaenyra had stopped paying attention to the words.

One of the men on the right was watching her. They all were, but this one was different. He seemed relaxed, almost pleased, as though he were on a pleasant promenade rather than at a selection for a Kingsguard position. Though his blue eyes and blonde hair were notable, his sun-kissed skin revealed him to be Dornish. Rhaenyra shivered, memories of choosing Ser Criston suddenly resurfacing.

She thanked the knight from House Orme for his service and exchanged some pleasantries. The dull cycle contained with two more men, this time from the Vale. Once they stepped back, she could not help but lean forward to inspect the Dornishman as he walked to the center.

Ser Harrold moved a sigil piece on the board, announcing in his booming voice, “Ser Gyles Yronwood, firstborn son of Lady Nabarra Yronwood, and an avid traveler who has seen many battles across many lands.”

Her heart skipped a beat, sudden recognition flooding her mind. He was in the journal, most definitely. One of her future Kingsguard, one of the men killed in the riots while trying to save Joffrey. In a little over a year, he would be wrongly accused of a crime in the Stormlands, his family temporarily exiling him as punishment. Though the exile would end, by then he would have no desire to return. He would never see his family again, for he bent the knee to the Black Queen and died on the streets of King's Landing.

“I take it you have siblings, Ser Yronwood?”

She took the opportunity to study him more closely.

The man nodded. “Several, my princess. My older sister Ynys already has heirs and is set to inherit the ladyship after our mother. Fear not—if chosen, I can be at your service without reservation.”

She already knew that. She was about to acquiesce and conclude the conversation when the man made a subtle movement. Carefully, in a way that would seem natural to anyone but Rhaenyra and perhaps Ser Harrold, he unclasped his hands, and an engraving on his vambrace caught the sunlight.

A bloodfly

Mysaria had mentioned that the missive sent to her had likely been left by a man named Gyles. Was he the messenger, or was he the bloodfly himself? A little courteous conversation was expected of her either way, so she might as well use it.

“Is that a bloodfly, Ser? It is not your house sigil, to my knowledge. A sentimental piece?”

The man nodded, his smile growing. “Sentimental, but not in a way that would interfere with my duties. It is merely a little token to remember a friend who set me on the right path before I could stray.”

A friend who set him on the right path. So he was not the bloodfly after all. She would have preferred if he were—it would have made things much easier.

Rhaenyra nodded, allowing him to step back into place. She thanked everyone once again, spilling out the flowery words that knights were so fond of, to pacify the many proud men who would not be chosen. Then, she took the Yronwood sigil piece off the board, presented it to Ser Harrold as her choice, and turned around.

Gilla had been leaning against the wall in the hallway but quickly straightened up when the princess approached. She already had a small piece of paper and a bit of charcoal in her hand, jotting down the message Rhaenyra whispered to her before nodding and dashing away.

“You win,” Aegon said, sipping his sweetened wine. “This place is actually nice.”

Harwin hummed, enjoying his own cup of light summer wine. He was visibly happy today, content. Aegon suspected it had something to do with Rhaenyra.

Eh, the man deserved it, Aegon thought. People deserve to fuck whoever they want, especially good people like Rhaenyra and Harwin.

Aegon had diligently attended all his lessons for the entire week. While he hadn’t managed to win a single match against Harwin, the man still decided to reward his diligence with a quick trip and “only two drinks.”

They were now somewhere in the River Row, in a small, homely establishment where an old man with a wide toothy smile poured drinks while his two small daughters carried them around. Aegon suspected the woman was cooking the pleasant-smelling potatoes and roasting vegetables, wherever the aroma was coming from.

Harwin had already asked the younger girl—Maya—for some stews and popular dishes. Aegon watched him talk to the girl, who was so young and so far beneath his station she might as well have been invisible. Harwin smiled at her, calmly repeated his request when she forgot one of the items, and sent her off with a gentle pat. Aegon thought it was because Luke was around the same age. Either way, the man was terrifyingly gentle.

The man was gentle with children, with servants, with everyone around him—so long as they didn’t anger him. There was, however, something very dangerous lurking deep within him; of that, Aegon was sure. He had yet to see the beast unleashed, yet to witness someone turn this gentle giant into the monster who had earned the nickname ‘Breakbones.’

Aegon was struggling to understand him, but their relationship was pleasant. The knight didn’t bug Aegon, required no more time and effort than Aegon was willing to give, and was just as patient with him as with all the other boys.

The gentle and unassuming nature of this secret royal couple was what led Aegon to continue seeking out their company.

He would visit Rhaenyra’s solar every evening until she retired to her rooms, silently occupying the sofa as his sister mused over whatever she was working on and spilled court gossip. Really, their only full conversation so far had been about brothels—prompted by a tidbit of gossip about House Orme’s heirs. What started off as giggly talk about promiscuity ended up being a lecture—which Aegon didn’t particularly like—about the dangers of the Street of Silk. Rhaenyra then assured Aegon—which he did like—that when he felt such desires, he should tell her or Harwin so they could find someone to show him the ropes.

He would seek out Harwin before training, before even Daeron sprinted into the yard. They would sit and talk about nothing and everything—drinks, family, morals, and an endless stream of other topics that came to their minds. He liked how patient Harwin was with him, allowing him to ask questions and answering without condescension. At first, Aegon tried to ask dumb questions on purpose, just to see how the man would react, but Harwin would simply pat his head and explain as best he could. Aegon couldn’t even pinpoint when “Ser Harwin” turned into just “Harwin.” The transition had been so natural, so seamless. Harwin was better than a maester. Harwin was better than Cole. Harwin was better than Viserys.

“Harwin?” he called out, starting to feel the pleasant tingle in his muscles and the warmth spreading through his veins. “How… how did you know what you wanted to be?”

The man’s focus was now solely on the prince, the respectful attention Aegon liked to bask in.

“I didn’t, not for a long time. No one really knows, I think, until it suddenly happens. Someday, something will change your life—a person, an encounter, a book. You’ll know then.”

“But Lord Lyonel did ask you to train with a sword.”

The man nodded slowly. “Training with a sword in my family was a requirement. But not just to make me a knight—it was a necessity for me and my sisters because Father wanted us all to know how to protect ourselves.”

Aegon started at that, the thought somehow foreign to him. “He allowed your sisters, too?”

“Yes,” Harwin nodded more firmly. “And if Princess Helaena ever expressed interest in sword training, I would happily teach her, too. Without reservation. But, we’ve strayed off course. Why are you suddenly questioning such things?”

Aegon took a sip, trying to collect his thoughts. He blamed the alcohol for suddenly wanting to ask strange questions.

“I… I know what’s expected of me, as a prince. But… I’m not certain what I want, what I can become.”

“You can become whoever you want, Aegon. I know being a prince feels restricting now, but it actually allows you more freedom than many.” Understanding flickered on Harwin’s face. “Aegon, what do you like doing?”

“Drinking,” Aegon giggled.

“Aegon!”

He tried to think, truly think, about what he wanted from life, but nothing came. At first, he just wanted to live and have fun. But lately… everyone around him was great at something. Mother and Father ruled the realm, Aemond was becoming a great swordsman, Helaena could easily have become a maester if she had been born a boy. Aegon was surrounded by great men and women. Even Rhaenyra and Harwin were something. They had made names for themselves—they were good, strong, kind, and clever.

Aegon was just… Aegon. He had nothing of note aside from being a prince—no talent, no aptitude for learning, no desire to work hard. And his bluntness would certainly end any attempt at political work, even if Rhaenyra allowed him a place at her court.

“I’m not sure. I… I think I’d like to travel. Maybe? Fly Sunfyre over the vastness of Essos and Ulthos, explore the world all the way to Asshai. Go beyond. But… I don’t think I can do that.”

“Why not?” Harwin looked genuinely confused, which, in turn, confused Aegon even more.

“Because it’s not important. People work and study to become great knights and maesters, writers and rulers. I want to become someone. I want to matter.” He looked away, trying to keep his emotions in check.

“Aegon, look at me.” When he did, Harwin’s eyes were tender, filled with silent understanding that made Aegon’s throat tighten. “Aegon, you are someone already. You matter already.”

“But—” Aegon whispered.

“No. You listen to me. You don’t owe yourself to anyone. You’re perfect just as you are. You are your own, and your wishes matter. If you want to travel, you should do exactly that.”

“But… would I not be useless then? You’d grow bored of my lazy bum.” Aegon let out a dry chuckle.

Harwin reached out and took his hand. “No, Aegon, that’s not how it works. I don’t enjoy your company because of something you might become; I enjoy your company because of you. You’re a wonderful, curious young man, and you could become a great traveler. If making a name is what matters to you, then your travels might just make you the most interesting and remembered man in history.”

“You really think so?”

The man thought for a moment, humming. “Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll give you a book tomorrow. Read it on the ship—it’s an account of Lord Corlys’ travels, compiled with much older histories.”

That… could be interesting. Aegon wanted to say thank you, but something stopped him, so he only nodded. He’d say thank you tomorrow.

Maya walked over with a large tray—two bowls of steaming stew and a large plate of various meats, cheeses, nuts, and vegetables. It smelled so good that Aegon started wolfing it down the moment it was set before him, much to Harwin’s clear amusement. It was made from cheaper ingredients than the food at the Red Keep, but it was so much more delicious—thick and hearty.

By the time he finished, Harwin was only halfway through his own bowl. Aegon started snatching pieces from the plate—a simple soft cheese tasting best. The residents of the castle preferred the old and hard cheeses, as they were more expensive, fitting their station. He only stopped when he felt he was about to burst, slumping heavily against the chair.

Three men at the other table were talking about black sap and weirwood trees. Aegon thought it was the cheap ale he’d tried that morning conjuring the vision. It wasn’t until he sobered up and heard the servants that he realized it had actually happened.

Now, people were discussing it as an omen, as a holy sign that the ‘Black Princess’ Rhaenyra was chosen to lead them. Rumors spread like wildfire, word of mouth always being the fastest method for such things.

Aegon didn’t mind people supporting Rhaenyra’s claim; what he did mind was the low whispers at the other table that quickly turned from the black sap being a sign favoring Rhaenyra to it being a sign that the Green Princes were cursed.

Aegon was horrible at politics, but he was not stupid. He had learned well the lessons his mother instilled. He was an obstacle to Rhaenyra’s ascension. And now, apparently, he was also a curse on the Realm. He glanced at Harwin, but the man clearly couldn’t hear any of it.

A second cup of wine was placed before Aegon, still sweetened and diluted at Harwin’s request. He watched as the man finished his food and leaned back, surveying the small tavern.

“Are you going to kill me?” Aegon blurted out.

Harwin’s head whipped around, eyes wide. “What? Why would I?”

“I am the firstborn son of the King. Will you kill me to solidify Rhaenyra’s claim?”

Harwin looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you planning to kill Rhaenyra and her children to solidify your possible claim?”

Aegon shook his head furiously. Viserys did not want him to be King, and he was not suited for it. He was lazy and stupid, and he would make a horrible King. Rhaenyra wanted the throne, she could have it. And killing Luke, Jace, and Rhaenyra’s third yet unborn child felt wrong.

“Then I will not harm you or your brothers. I will not let anyone else harm you either.”

Harwin was gentle, and Harwin was honest. Never once had Aegon seen Harwin lie or deceive others. He doubted the man even could lie. And now this man was saying his life was not in danger, as long as Aegon did not move against Rhaenyra. As long as Aegon was valuable.

“Mother wants me to marry into a Northern House,” he blurted out, his mouth moving before his mind once again.

Now Harwin looked truly shocked. His shock faded, however, giving way to icy determination. He bit out, “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Aegon shrugged. “I don’t understand. Is it a good thing… for… for you and Rhaenyra?”

Harwin looked at him thoughtfully, and Aegon let him.

“I don’t know,” he finally said. “It may be that she wants to turn the biggest realm into your support or destabilize it, but it would be difficult unless you are wed to the Starks or a powerful opposing family like the Boltons. And neither has daughters, to my knowledge. Except maybe Sara Stark, but her status as a Stark is oft questioned.”

“Oh,” Aegon wilted in his seat. “You don’t have to explain everything.”

“Yes, I do,” Harwin said firmly. “This involves you, so you have the right to know, especially since you trusted me with this information. In truth… it could be good. Wedding you to a staunch Black supporter means the overambitious families won’t attempt to crown you for their blood on the throne.”

“I don’t know anything else, but I could try to find out. If you want me to.”

Harwin shook his head. “No, Aegon. You are not a spy, you are a child. If she tells you something and you decide to tell us, then thank you. But do not go out of your way to sniff out news.”

Aegon hummed, warmth spreading in his belly. Whether it was from Harwin’s soft eyes or the alcohol, he didn’t presume to know. Maybe everything would be good after all…

Helaena liked the passageways. They were quiet, and they were soft. The sounds would echo here, blending into the melody of life. Her breathing would loud, so much so it becaime, a constant reminder of her being alive. She liked the passageways, liked being allowed into this little kingdom so many tried to claim for themselves. This place felt eternal and timeless. She did not use it to spy or sneak out but to hide from the world on the other side of the wall.

Outside, people would rush about, hushed conversation and rapid footsteps carrying through the thick stone. When Helaena pressed her back against the wall, she could almost feel the vibrations, the ones that made the castle alive. But here, it was slow and quiet, the air wrapped around her like a gentle hug, and the dust danced for her, illuminated by a torch or a stray ray of light.

Fewer people used these tunnels now, the scents that once permeated the walls fading, never to return. At the same time, new scents appeared or grew stronger: Rhaenyra and Harwin, always together and twisted into one; the girl who talked to her in the library every now and then—Elinda— the sea salt and mist; the sharp metallic scents of Ser Harrold and Ser Erryk; honey and sweet vanilla from Rhaenyra’s new freckly maid.

Those were not the scents that worried her—these people were safe. They were too busy with their lives to inspect the corners for Helaena or purposefully disturb her peace. If she hid in the shadows, they would never notice her.

The one who did worry her was the spider woman, the one who walked the same way Helaena did, slowly creeping along the long corridors, carefully plotting her way through. She pressed against the same corners Helaena hid in and left ash and smoke in her wake. She was a distant memory, a piece in the mosaic once laid before Helaena, that was now gone. She was wrong somehow—crooked and unnatural, and Helaena did not wish to meet her any more than she wished to see the not-her-mother.

She reached her destination soon, feet stopping before one of the many dusty doors. It was nighttime—everyone had gone to sleep in preparation for the early morning voyage. She opened the door and stepped down, gently landing in the dark room.

There is a peculiar feeling that overtakes you when you enter the Stranger’s domain—a room where death lurks in the corners, biding its time. It is not in the scents, or sights, or even sounds. It is something much more primal—heavy and oppressive, like a dense storm cloud gathering low above you. Queen Aemma’s rooms, empty to this day, had the same feeling about them—something that screamed “run” and “you are not welcome here.”

Ser Criston whined, moaned, and writhed on the bed his every waking moment. He howled like a diseased dog whenever the maesters worked on him, throat no longer able to form anything coherent.

She once listened on the other side, as they peeled rotting cabbage from his charred skin—a pathetic use of a vegetable in a desperate attempt at healing. She did not need to see it; the smell of the rot wafting under the door readily painted a horrific image in her mind. He howled then too. There was nothing they could do for his throat—it was burned from ‘inhaling the fire.’ The only true way for him to communicate now was to cry.

"Tears are a woman’s weapon," he once told her in what he thought was a reassuring manner, likely intending to create the illusion that women held any power in this world. He even tried to pat her head before Helaena whirled around and ran.

Now, tears were his only weapon. She wondered bitterly if he liked that.

The milk of the poppy should be out of his system by now, Helaena reckoned. That must be excruciating. Did he feel his body burn as if it were still engulfed in that blazing tavern? It wasn’t like he could even check—his eyes were no longer there. Did it feel endlessly burning in darkness? Did it feel like the Seven Hells?

They say that when the fire started, he fell face-first into the flames, that his eyes popped instantly, and the wet, sluggish sound was so loud it eclipsed even the roaring of the flames. He was carried out by Ser Arryk, and all the while, liquid dripped from his empty sockets—blood mixed with clear, crystalline jelly.

Helaena stepped carefully, despite suspecting he could no longer hear. She settled next to him and watched his chest rise with difficulty, wheezes spilling from his lips.

If she squeezed what remained of his face, touched it just a little, would he even recognize it? Or would the feeling be lost in the sea of agony he felt regardless?

Pain once felt foreign to Helaena. Suffering was a distant concept—hidden beneath muddy glass and obstructed from view. There was so much of it—somewhere out there, quiet, waiting to be revealed when the time was right. It was only ever clear in dreams, though the pieces were still mixed, like a badly done mosaic.

She liked that—the false security afforded to her. The unspoken permission to enjoy her childhood as a princess before the Gods decided to play their games. It felt like lying down in a glasshouse—seeing the storm rage outside, the glass cracking, but knowing she was safe, for now, inhaling the warm, humid air in anticipation.

She was content, until the day it was all suddenly gone. The day she woke up from the longest sleep she had had in years and could no longer see the glimpses of pain and suffering lurking on the horizon. It was freeing, and it was terrifying. Now, the mosaic no longer made sense, and with it, nothing in her life did. Now, there were threads, mixing, tearing, weaving into something she could not yet grasp.

Criston now writhed on the soiled sheets, the spider woman walked the halls, and the not-her-mother visited her rooms every morning just to sit and watch her.

Criston moaned, a sound desperate and full of terror, as he reached for something. He started frantically turning his head around, as if sensing Helaena’s presence. Perhaps he could hear, after all.

“It’s me, Ser Criston. Helaena,” she whispered, not wishing to alert anyone.

The man continued moving, twisting around. His mouth, lips gone, kept opening and closing as he tried to speak, but he only formed mumbles and gurgles.

Helaena listened as he continued. He was desperate, blood dripping from the wounds he had created from stretching the delicate skin.

“lll mmmm. llll mmmmuhhh. khlll mieeh.”

“Are you asking me to kill you?”

He nodded as much as he could, chunks of hair and scamp detaching at the sudden movement. Helaena stood up as he tried to reach out for her, to touch her.

“Try with Queen Alicent next time, will you, honorable Ser?”

She turned and headed for the door. The way to her room was much shorter, the familiar corridors washing away the death and suffering clinging to her dress.

She no longer dreamt of the familiar mosaic but caught glimpses of something new—terrifying and unnatural. Boiling seas and dragon blood spilled on blackened stones. Most of the time, she did not wish to sleep. If not for the dreams, then for the fact that her not-mother would come to see her in the morning.

The night her dreams stopped, for a moment replaced with dull and static reality, she was frustrated. However bad the ordinary was, it was expected, even nice. That morning, she tried to see something, anything. No matter how much she tried, she only saw insects, colors, and threads.

Her not-mother came to her for the first time, sat next to her, and watched her. Helaena did not know what was on her mind, where she came from, or why, but she knew one thing. The creature next to her was different—an exhausted, raging beast that smelled of ash, smoke, and musk, one that could no longer be contained.

Why?

The sheets in her room were pristine white, washed and starched beneath the cloud of her blankets. She climbed into her bed but lightly kicked her chamber pot, causing it to clank against the leg of the bed.

“My princess? Do you require any assistance?” sounded the voice outside the door.

Ser Meryn was chosen by Ser Criston, a day before he was maimed on his little outing. Ser Meryn was large and strong. Ser Meryn was dangerous and unpredictable. Ser Meryn protected her from her enemies, but no one protected her from Ser Meryn.

Not at night, when he huffed on the other side of her door. Not during the day when he hovered over her and escorted her down empty hallways. Not in the empty libraries and sitting rooms where he watched her read and embroider.

He often gave her a look. Helaena knew that look. She had seen it before. Sometimes, before, when she dreamt of Aegon, big Aegon, stumbling into her room, smelling of sweetened wine and cheap ale. In those moments, he would stare at her the same way—with pupils blown wide, a tiny upturn of his lips, and eyes sliding over the curves of her body.

She knew she did not have curves, not yet. Not like the ones she saw in her dreams. But she did have a body, young and smooth, and evidently, that was enough.

Ser Meryn was on the other side of a heavy door. He was on the other side, in the empty hallway, and he wanted to come in.

“No, Ser Meryn. I am perfectly all right.”

“Are you sure, princess?”

“Yes, I was just…” Do not say going to sleep. Do not say going to sleep. “Getting up to embroider a little. I cannot seem to catch my sleep.”

“All right, my princess. I will be here.”

Of course you will be there.

Chapter Text

Alicent was behaving oddly. It was to be expected; the woman had died and then woke up again. However, after the initial shock passed, Rhaenyra expected the her to visit, barge in snarling curses, strike deals, or even reconcile. But nothing happened.

Mysaria confirmed the woman had returned, confirmed that the queen recognized her, standing there stunned for longer than was polite or normal. Alicent had returned—of that, there was no question—but she simply looked… lost. From what little they knew, she hadn’t done much, nothing significant beyond calling Gwayne to the capital and securing authority over her children’s future alliances.

Marrying Helaena to Aegon was strategically sound; it strengthened his claim in comparison to her boys. Was she to do it again? Arrange something early for Daeron and Aemond?

With one marriage, she could secure the Baratheons, as she had before, but what else?

The North would not be swayed by a marriage, nor would the Vale. The Lannisters did not need much convincing as it was, so a political alliance would be a waste of resources.

The Tullys, perhaps? Lord Tully does have a daughter, an aunt to the future little Lord Oscar Tully and his mother in all but name, but she is much older than the boys.

The Tyrells could be an option, though they are unlikely to unite the Reach, even if they had such a desire. In addition, Lord Tyrell was recently married to a very young bride, and they will likely consummate and produce an heir within the next six years. He has no sisters or aunts to betroth to Daeron, only distant cousins.

More importantly, immediately gaining authority over marriages was rather rushed and unlike the Alicent she knew. The Alicent she knew would, of course, want that—but she would do it carefully, slowly, or even manipulate such things without explicit permission. The Alicent she knew would be cautious with the king and how much power she exercised in public.

What kinds of radical alliances was she considering to require something like that?

Harwin walked behind her as she toured the ship. This one was reserved for the royal family, their guards, and a few servants. A couple of lords, ladies, and the remaining household were on another ship, sailing a little ahead.

Unfortunately, Mysaria was on the other ship. And, to her profound irritation, there were too many people around to exchange even a couple of words with Harwin, never mind ask him about his outing with Aegon at night.

Alicent was standing at the back, on what Lord Corlys—much to the boys’ delight—called the “poop deck.”

She was not moving, nor did she look particularly interested in the waves emerging from the back of the ship. Instead, the Queen stared unblinkingly at the horizon.

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra called.

The woman turned and nodded with the false sense of regality that worked so well on the lesser lords. Ser Rickard moved away, along with Ser Harwin, to allow them privacy. Two serving girls at the edge of the deck looked over curiously.

“It has been a very long time since I heard you call me Alicent.”

True enough, Rhaenyra supposed—for both of them.

Rhaenyra wasn’t exactly sure how to talk to the woman. She wasn’t sure if it would be better to openly hint at her knowledge or pretend to be unaware of the upcoming war. Alicent clearly wanted nothing to do with her, despite allowing her to interact with her siblings this time.

What was Rhaenyra even doing here, trying to talk to the woman who would one day ruin the Targaryen dynasty for her selfish ambition? Harwin would say that it takes two to wage war, that the world isn’t black and white, but Rhaenyra wasn’t sure she agreed—not when it came to the Dance of Dragons.

Rhaenyra didn’t have a plan, not yet. Did Alicent?

“I wished to talk to you about Helaena,” Rhaenyra started carefully, watching as Alicent turned back to look at the horizon.

“No.”

“No?”

“Whatever games you are playing, leave my daughter out of it.”

“I am concerned for her.”

“Are you, now? How very touching. Sisterly love, is it?”

“Alicent…”

The Queen turned then, bringing their faces so close that Rhaenyra suddenly found herself engulfed in an odd smoky scent, stunned by the heat radiating from her skin.

“My daughter will not marry Jace, Rhaenyra. She will only be a Queen over my cold dead body,” the woman whispered.

Rhaenyra blinked, startled by the sharp words. Syrax must have sensed the confrontational nature of the conversation, immediately igniting the fire deep in her rider’s chest.

“Your Queenliness,” she started, “I much appreciate your concern for my son and his marriage, but I am here about your daughter's wellbeing. Ser Meryn has been making young servants uncomfortable. My servants. And my ladies—the ones I am responsible for. The same Ser Meryn that stands outside Helaena's door at night. Take care of him, or I will.”

Alicent turned on her heel, striding away.

“Alicent!” Rhaenyra threw at her retreating back. The Queen did not turn, not even for an annoyed glance or a sneer she was so fond of.

“That was… a bit much?” Harwin whispered, coming close behind her.

It truly was.

They found the children sitting together in one of the stuffy cabins. Ser Gyles had been inside and greeted them with a low bow, swiftly leaving. The man was proving trustworthy and honorable, and even Mysaria looked satisfied to see him boarding the ship that morning. It was no wonder that, during the war, Rhaenyra trusted him to guard the children in the Vale before calling him back to King’s Landing.

In the middle of the room, Aemond and Jace were hunched over a book, fixated on whatever was in front of them. It looked like a history tome—one of those Jace insisted on bringing.

Helaena sat on a berth with Daeron on her lap, the toddler babbling excitedly and running his hands over her dress. Her little sister looked happy, content. Rhaenyra wondered, briefly, if she was similarly attentive with her own future little ones. Did she cradle Maelor like that before sending him off to what looked like safety?

Aegon sat on a berth opposite his future wife, Luke at his side, reading a book to the younger boy. They looked happy enough, and Aegon, engrossed in the story, did not even notice them entering.

“Are you all having fun?” Rhaenyra asked.

Luke turned around to give a bright smile and nod. Jacaerys hummed under his breath, searching for something on the page.

“Do you have to sit on the floor for this, boys?” Rhaenyra asked, settling down between them.

“Aegon and Helaena are on the berths, and we did not want to go somewhere else,” Aemond answered.

“What are you two looking at, brother? It’s not often that Jace ignores me in favor of old parchment and ink.”

Jacaerys huffed. Aemond flashed a guilty smile. “Apologies, Princess, we were just arguing about how the Doom of Valyria happened. Jacaerys thinks the Faceless Men might have been involved and is trying to find the passage that gave him the idea.”

“I will find it!” Jacaerys murmured.

“Of course, you will, sweet boy. I just came to see what you’re up to. We should be docking in an hour. Until then, have fun with your uncle.” She leaned in to press a couple of kisses to the soft hair at the top of his head.

Before she stood up, she caught it—a brief glance Aemond gave her before looking back down at the book. A single look filled with envy and resentment, no doubt at the affection Jace was afforded so easily.

Rhaenyra leaned the other way, gently patting her brother’s head until he threw her hand off with a startled shake of his head.

They would work on this.

She moved and settled next to Helaena, who remained quiet. Daeron traced the embroidery on her dress with his tiny fingers, naming the colors as he did so, and receiving gentle touches in return.

“Hello, Daeron. Hello, Helaena.”

“Daeron is a little heavy, sister. Would you like to hold him?” Helaena asked.

“Absolutely.” Rhaenyra nodded. “Come here, little brother; I have more embroidery and more colors for you to look at on my gown.”

Daeron was not a fussy or particularly difficult child. He climbed off Helaena and onto Rhaenyra’s lap without question or protest and immediately began tracing a golden dragon on her collar.

“Sy-rax?”

“Yes, little one, it is.”

“Gold.”

“Mhm.”

“He likes colors and shapes lately,” Helaena explained.

The girl pulled a handkerchief out of her pocket and was fiddling with it rather aggressively, stretching and pulling, her fingers nearly tearing the fabric. Rhaenyra nodded at her sister and turned back to Daeron, running her hand over his back.

“How are you doing, little one? Are the nurses teaching you a lot of big words?”

“A loooot of big words. Like moun-tain and mae-ster and… Tessarion!”

“Yes, Tessarion is your pretty dragon, isn’t she?”

“Tessarion pretty pretty!”

“Do you want to climb on Harwin and tell him all about Tessarion while I talk to our sister?”

“Yuh.”

Carefully, Harwin picked the boy up, pressing him close. Daeron happily leaned in, his fingers exploring the hardened leather of Gold Cloak armor, and soon the two were slowly walking around the room, conversing in hushed voices.

Helaena was still fiddling with what was likely her most recent embroidery work. From what Rhaenyra could see, there were insects and flowers embroidered on the cloth. They were not masterfully made, but still impressive for a girl of ten. The outlines were there, the colors were vivid, and the entire thing looked to have a rather sophisticated design.

“May I see it, sister? It looks very well made.”

Helaena nodded, extending the handkerchief and watching intently as Rhaenyra fully straightened it out on her lap and began tracing the patterns.

The flowers were a sickly brownish-pink with a large black center and five long fleshy triangular petals. They looked somewhat repulsive, though Rhaenyra would never tell Helaena that. The one in the left corner had a spider hanging off of it by a silver thread. The second one had an unformed green blob that could be a mantis, a butterfly cocoon, or perhaps even a green flower. The third seemed to have a snowdrop growing from under it. The fourth... had a bloodfly sitting on it—the unmistakable fat body of bright purple and long silvery wings.

“Helaena...” Rhaenyra started, her throat suddenly dry. “Did you… did you not finish this little green thing?”

The girl shrugged. “It will get finished in time, I think.”

“This is… so very beautiful. Can you tell me what those are?”

“You truly want me to?”

“Of course I do. Why does it surprise you so?”

Helaena looked down, plucking at her fingers, and calmly replied, “People do not usually hear what I say. They listen, but do not hear or look.”

“I am sorry you feel like that, Helaena. But I would really like to listen now. Listen and, hopefully, hear.”

That was enough for the girl to look up again and start pointing at her embroidery. “All right! Those are carrion flowers, a spider, a bloodfly, a snowdrop, and the green blob is not yet anything.”

“How very interesting. And this is so very well done. May I ask… why a bloodfly?”

“No reason. I just really wanted to make all of this, untangle the threads.” The girl smiled then, wide and innocent. “Sister… Daeron is trying to bite Ser Harwin’s ear.”

Sure enough, Rhaenyra turned just in time to see Harwin holding the toddler out at arm’s length, as far away from his ears as possible.

Her man was looking pleadingly, almost fearfully, at the toddler, who giggled, wriggled, and roared in his hands. Aegon and Luke were laughing on the other side of the room. Aemond covered his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking. Jacaerys clapped. Before any more damage could be done to Harwin’s reputation, Rhaenyra stood up and took Daeron.

“You are too old to be in need of chew toys, little prince. And I would very much appreciate it if you left my sworn shield intact.”

Daeron nodded and began to get more comfortable in her arms. He shifted his weight a little, then went still, wide-eyed. Slowly, without breaking intense eye contact, he moved his finger to poke at Rhaenyra’s belly and proudly exclaimed, “Baby!”

Everyone went silent, staring at her. Only Luke and Jace looked surprised, her siblings somehow both amused and unimpressed. The silence stretched as Jace’s eyes flickered between her and Harwin, Luke staring at Daeron’s finger, which still rested on her belly.

“Do we still have to keep it a secret?” Aegon spoke up.

“You knew too?” Aemond exclaimed.

“She dragged my body halfway through the castle the other week. Even drunk, I remembered the swell of the babe. Wait… What do you mean too?”

“I also felt the swell… when… um… I knew. I just knew.”

Jacaerys looked at Helaena, who simply smiled, and Luke, who now sat with his mouth hanging open. “That is so unfair! We were the only ones who did not know?”

“Excellent observation skills on your part, nephew. Why do you think the princess does not eat much with us in the mornings?” Aemond retorted.

Jace smacked Aemond’s shoulder and rushed out of the room. Luke watched him go but did not move from his spot at Aegon’s side.

Daeron pulled at her collar slightly to attract attention. “Did bad?”

“No, little one, it is just a little secret. So please do not tell anyone else. All right?”

“I am... will... be very very quiet,” the boy nodded seriously.

Rhaenyra eased him down on the berth next to Helaena, with a ruffle to his curly silver locks.

“I will leave Ser Harwin here to look after you and go find Jace.”

“Oh, Ser Harwin is staying.” Aegon smirked. “Do not worry, Rhaenyra; we will be well under his dutiful watch.”

Harwin suddenly looked terrified, turning to look pleadingly at Rhaenyra. She pretended to not see it when leaving the room.

Mysaria disappeared into the twisting alleyways of Hull the moment the entourage from the first ship passed. No one noticed the ladies and serving girls closely enough to see one step to the side. The party headed for Driftmark castle, but there were more important things for her to do.

It took no time at all to locate the house. She knew it was the right place—Addam had shown it to her once, on one of those rare days when everyone pretended the war didn’t exist. Her memories of that trivial matter were surprisingly well-preserved, and she relished the familiar sight.

Back then, Addam had walked her around the house, showing her the little carved-in markings of his and his brother's heights on one of the walls, and the dry bush that grew in the thin layer of dirt outside the window. This was the house.

An old woman approached her from behind, heavy steps and a thick cane announcing her presence. "Are you one of his people? Finally come looking for Merida or her boys?"

Agreeing was always the best course in such situations, so Mysaria nodded meekly. People liked their own explanations, and it was best not to attract attention with unnecessary clarifications.

"Well, ya won't find them. Merida died a year ago, and her boys disappeared the day shadows danced above the island. Now, run along to your lord and tell him he should have remembered he has sons earlier." The woman leaned heavily on her cane, raspy breaths coming between the words.

"The shadows?" Mysaria asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know? Run along as you’re told and don’t waste anyone's time."

Interesting. Mysaria waited until the woman walked away, leaning heavily on her stick and mumbling. After making sure she was no longer being watched, Mysaria quickly pushed the door in, unsurprised to find it unlocked.

She had been inside before. Back then, a thick layer of dust had covered every surface, with no trace of the boys who had grown up here, anything of value taken or stolen. The walls were bare and dead, a skeleton of what used to be, stripped of life and reduced to bones.

If she had to describe it today, however, she would call it slumbering rather than dead. The worn-out quilts on two beds were haphazardly thrown into messy heaps, well-made charcoal sketches still lined the walls, and the curtains were clean and fluttering next to the open windows. It looked as if the boys had left briefly, to walk the streets or work, and would return at any moment.

She approached the small side table and found three bowls with three spoons. Some food remained in one of them—dried pieces of stew, perhaps seafood, though Mysaria couldn’t be sure. Flies now gathered to finish this feast, buzzing in excitement, their presence the only clear sign of the owners' disappearance and long absence.

They must have left in a hurry. Likely in the middle of the night, if the old woman’s words could be trusted; it was easier to “disappear” unnoticed in darkness. There was nothing else that immediately caught her eye, just the ordinary attributes of a well-lived-in space. Aside from the somewhat pungent stench of spoiled leftovers, there was a faint smell of sulfur and something else, a mawkish tinge she couldn’t quite identify.

Something had to be here. It couldn’t just be an empty house for her to discover; surely she could find more. She made sure to look around the room carefully, checking all the places thieves might overlook. If there was something left for her, it would not be out in the open, waiting to be snatched. Not if it was a message. She hoped there would be a message.

She checked the underside of the table, and inside of the fireplace, every possible surface she herself would use to leave a message. When such search produced rather disappointing results, she tried to think of the things that were left behind the last time - of the things she saw with Addam. But, there was nothing left back then. Nothing but the walls, rotten wood planks and... the window shutters.

She moved, tearing the thin cotton of the curtains in her haste to reach the shutters. Her fingers traced every plank, every little imperfection. The left window was pristine—she found nothing, not even an accidental dent. But on the right? It wasn’t the shutter but the windowsill, a piece of wood she quickly spotted as being slightly loose. Mysaria struggled to move it, briefly wondering if she was mistaken, but it gave way eventually, lifting to reveal a small medallion with a bloodfly carved into it.

Mysaria sighed. That was… underwhelming. She disliked secrets and felt conflicted about all of this. Part of her couldn’t understand why such secrecy was necessary, especially if they all wanted to reach the same goal. Surely the person behind this symbol couldn’t expect to stay hidden forever.

Yet another part of her—a more rational one, perhaps—thought it was a relatively good idea, even if it discomforted their allies. Whoever the bloodfly was, if they wished to act more as a spectator than an active participant, secrecy was the only way. Once their identity was revealed, it would be impossible to hide it from prying eyes.

If Mysaria had been rational, perhaps she would have remained an anonymous advisor to the Queen, a shadow who would never even appear on the same street as Rhaenyra Targaryen. Then, she wouldn’t have to take extra precautions for her safety, fear assassination, or be forced to sacrifice her freedom of movement, staying in her little shadow.

It felt like no time at all had passed outside—people were still moving slowly, almost lazily. Mysaria tried to move swiftly, to disappear from the villagers’ sight and escape the uncomfortable sensation of the sun scorching her back. The castle loomed far ahead, guards in shiny armor standing at the gates. It would be no great matter to arrive a little later and claim she’d been distracted by the trinkets sold near the port.

There was a weirwood tree garden to her left, a chill settling in her bones as she passed. It was the only one on the island, thankfully. The last time she entered the garden, several days ago in the Red Keep, the crows had become loud enough to attract the attention of every living creature nearby, and one even tried to peck at her eyes. She wasn’t religious or particularly superstitious, but the frosty feeling on her skin, the odd behavior of the birds—all made her believe she was unwelcome. Even now, as she passed, the crows on the branches turned their heads to get a better view.

Focused on the path ahead and shaking off the eerie sensation, she did not notice someone else watching and following her—until a hand reached out and wrapped around her waist, the smell of fish guts and rotten teeth suddenly overwhelming her senses. She dared to turn her head only slightly, afraid to be face-to-face with whoever it was.

"What a nice lady walking our streets. You look parched. Care for a little drink?" The man began pulling her into the alleyway, likely mistaking her hesitance for agreement.

She couldn’t make a fuss, not if she wished to remain unnoticed. And she had to remain unnoticed, as much as possible. But before the man could pull her further, another shadow appeared beside them, voice laced with cold fury.

"I suggest you remove your hand, good Ser, before I accidentally break it."

The man stiffened momentarily, then slowly stepped away, disappearing into whatever hole he’d likely crawled out of. As for her savior, Mysaria had never heard him speak this way, but she recognized the man nonetheless. Harwin rounded her slowly, craning his neck to study her face.

"If you wish, I can bring him back to apologize—and relieve him of a few working fingers on the way."

Mysaria shook her head. "There’s no need. I wasn’t truly frightened, just didn’t want to draw attention to myself."

She looked at him once again. He was wearing ordinary clothes, a shirt and breeches covered by an inconspicuous cloak—none of the pompous leather garments he favored for training, not even the Gold Cloak armor she’d seen him in that same morning.

"What are you doing here? I thought you’d be with Rhaenyra."

"A village—especially its poorer parts—can be rather unwelcoming to a charming foreign lady in a fine dress. Truth is, we expected you might do something like this despite our warnings, so I searched the streets. The princess is aware of my whereabouts," he added, extending his arm with a bright, boyish smile. "Would you perhaps allow me to escort you this time, my lady?"

Mysaria felt her cheeks heat slightly, and Harwin's smile grew just a touch wider. Nonetheless, she nodded and took hold of his arm.

"No one has managed to sneak up on me like that in some time. You’ve done it twice now," she said, somewhat accusingly.

"It seems you’ve found my hidden talent."

"A large cat that you are—I should have expected it."

Harwin snorted, leading her through the twisting alleyways. "I’ve been called many things, but never a cat. However, if that’s how a lady sees me, I cannot object… I take it your little trip wasn’t too successful."

Mysaria shrugged, unable to fully express her confusion and irritation at being outplayed.

"I thought they’d be gone… What an unpleasant situation we find ourselves in. I take it you found this little trinket instead?" Harwin said.

Mysaria nodded, extending it to him for a better view. There was not much to it, and it was thin—unlikely to have a hidden compartment or any meaning beyond a sign of ownership. A totem borne of a desire to leave a mark.

Harwin seemed to come to the same conclusion. “Just a little souvenir, not much to it… There is something else I wanted to discuss. Aegon told me last night he is promised to a northerner. Please tell me you know something about it.”

“Nothing concrete, only whispers in the wind. It is likely the Manderly girl,” Mysaria mused, pocketing the medallion. “You seem to be getting awfully close to the boys who killed your… princess and her heirs.”

Harwin came to a halt, turning to face her. “They have not done anything yet. They are mere children. Would it not be best for the war to be avoided altogether?”

Mysaria contemplated for a moment, but this closeness bothered her for reasons beyond simple war prevention.

“You love her,” she finally said.

“As do you,” he agreed easily, not even blinking at the admission.

His easy acceptance of the fact should have been disturbing. The lack of jealousy or anger should have been suspicious. It was in Mysaria's nature to distrust people. Good things did not happen without a price. And yet, Rhaenyra respected and accepted her, both back then and now. And Rhaenyra trusted Harwin, so surely he was a good man. Surely, Mysaria could trust him too.

She had to admit, his silent approval of her relationship with Rhaenyra fit so well into his character, there was no true reason to question it. This man was one of a kind, and Rhaenyra was lucky to have him. If only his life had not ended so tragically last time, perhaps they would have become great rulers. Perhaps Harwin would have been able to save Rhaenyra from a descent into madness. To achieve something Mysaria herself had failed at.

“What are you ready to do for her? To defend her? If those boys still grow up and decide to send assassins to her rooms, what then?” Mysaria asked. “I know you would die for her, but would you be ready to kill those you believe to be family?”

“Of course, I would.”

“I am worried, Harwin. The war forced her into a role last time. Into becoming Rhaenyra the Cruel, the second Maegor. If we want to protect her from this, to protect every single one of them, this time we will have to be the ruthless ones. I need your help, but only if you think you can give it.”

Harwin blinked, absentmindedly pushing a stray lock of hair behind Mysaria’s ear. “There is a reason they call me ‘Breakbones.’ I did not get the name by being kind or merciful.” His gaze hardened. “I would do anything for her. Perhaps it makes me a monster. But for that woman? For our children? I would raze cities to the ground, slaughter anyone who dares stand in my way.”

Mysaria searched for deceit in his eyes but found none. Mayhaps, she had grown too comfortable around the man, accustomed to the way he behaved near her and Rhaenyra. She had forgotten what he was, the type of man he had shown himself to be to earn the reputation on the Stepstones and among the Gold Cloaks.

The Strong heir was calm and erudite, treated everyone with utmost respect, regardless of their age or station. Ser Harwin Strong was the most attentive and courteous man she had ever met, a pleasure to be around. Rhaenyra’s Harwin would see this country burn and bleed for the woman he loved.

“I am glad to hear it, Ser.”

“Well then, my lady, when do we start?”

“Have you ever heard of wildfire?”

By the time they reached the castle, the gates were opening once again, now for the approaching entourage of Prince Daemon and Lady Laena. They had been expected early in the morning, but the calm sea delayed them, forcing them to spend several extra hours on the ship.

Harwin was recognized and slipped in with Mysaria by his side, both mingling with the crowd and assuming their roles.

Mysaria lowered her head, clasped her hands, and stood at a respectful distance behind Rhaenyra with a couple of other servants. They had decided not to bring Gilla; the girl ought to blend in with the others, and having her escort a princess at such a young age might look suspicious. Mysaria, however, could be written off as a well-trained maid—the kind people don't look at too closely.

Harwin’s demeanor hardened, his posture becoming stiff and vigilant, as he stepped up beside the princess, hand on the hilt of his sword. He was a guard, a sentry, simply doing his job. His eyes did not wander, nor did he lean or slouch. He was just there: solid, dangerous, silent.

Several serving girls entered first—three of them unknown to Mysaria, one vaguely familiar, and finally, the old crone Marlina, once a common-born servant and now a nanny to the twins, who, despite her advanced age, would outlive Mysaria and at least half the royal family.

Only two ladies accompanied the family as companions: Melissa and Raissa Ryder, the third and fourth daughters from a Northern house that had been steadily losing influence. In truth, it was a miracle they were still considered noble at all. These girls were married off and forgotten shortly before the war broke out, but their future houses declared for the Blacks.

A maester she did not know stood out in his grey robes. Following him were knights—likely men of little importance, with the occasional squire in tow. Perhaps it was foolish, but Mysaria did not believe the Bloodfly to be a man. Men were rough and brutish, with rare exceptions, and even the most intelligent tended to crave acknowledgment, even praise. Could a man truly work so masterfully from the shadows without announcing himself to allies, without seeking to impress the princess?

Then again, was this rational thought, or her experiences with less than reliable men speaking?

The family arrived in a carriage last, two little girls jumping out eagerly, followed by their father, who carefully helped Lady Laena descend onto the cold, hard ground.

It was clear that the household had traveled well in Essos and embraced various cultures. The family wore Myrish silks and lace, popular in the southern continent—perhaps a little too light for the weather. Laena clearly favored the intricate embroidery patterns of Myr, while the girls’ gowns, with simple geometric motifs common in Braavos, had a more northern flair.

Daemon and Laena wore black, likely in mourning for their unborn child. They were not expected to mourn, as the miscarriage had occurred early enough to be written off as a mere inconvenience. It was not for others to judge, however, and if they wished to mourn, they had every right to do so.

Laena, despite being deathly pale and sickly-looking, wore bright aquamarine earrings and a necklace in one of House Velaryon’s color variations. She also wore kohl—a practice from Old Ghis that had spread to the western coast—likely to mask her red and puffy eyes.

The twins were dressed in simple gowns, in shades of sandy yellow and light pink more fitting for their age. Both wore jewelry sets of bracelets and necklaces similar to those Mysaria remembered as popular in Yi Ti. Instead of green jade, Baela’s was pinkish-red, while Rhaena’s was shiny black.

Daemon looked around, and a flash of surprise crossed his face as his eyes fell upon Luke and Jace, lingering longer than courtesy allowed. His gaze then landed on Mysaria, astonishment only growing. He clearly had not expected to see her. His eyes widened, and had it not been for those around him, he might have rubbed his eyelids to clear his vision. Rhaenyra must have noticed his staring, for she stepped incrementally into his view, swiftly breaking the stare.

Seeing his future wife brought an almost horrified look upon his face, much to Mysaria’s confusion and amusement. He paled so fast she half-expected him to faint. To see him land face-first in the dirt would surely compensate for whatever discomfort she felt upon waking in the wrong decade.

Alas, he composed himself and looked away, at the King leaning on his cane, a brief flash of concern passing across his face. As the brothers approached each other for a greeting, Mysaria tried to recall if Viserys had been this weak the last time around—if he were fading faster now. Not that there was much to compare to; she had never seen the King in person before, and rumors about his health were often unreliable.

The children mingled together, chatting excitedly, though Aegon stood off to the side, staring longingly into the distance. Rhaenys whispered something into Laena’s ear before turning to address everyone.

“It is time we let everyone settle in and freshen up.”

The princess wrapped an arm around her pale daughter and led her away.

The entire household that arrived was less than twenty people. Except for Daemon, no one looked at Mysaria as if they recognized her. No one flashed her a playful grin or meticulously surveyed the surroundings. Everyone acted as though everything were normal—except Daemon, with his haunted look. But then again, his wife had just miscarried.

The children finished their hushed conversation, the twins rushing after their mother and grandmother. Daemon bowed to his King and left without so much as a glance in Rhaenyra’s direction. Mysaria did not want to see how that affected the princess—did not want to see if her face held a disappointed scowl or a pained longing—so she focused on the King.

He walked away slowly, heavily leaning on the ugly cane in his hand. The King nodded at Rhaenyra, a warm smile on his lips, and passed by Alicent without so much as a glance.

That was… new. From what she had heard, the King and Queen had an acceptable relationship, one some even called warm. It appeared that this time around, there was a sharpness between them, an oppressive sense of something unspoken.

Clearly, the Queen had rid herself of whatever warmth she once felt for Viserys between his death and today. Rhaenyra turned sharply, intending to disappear into the darkness of the corridor. Mysaria followed.

Mother burst into his chambers, a satisfied smile on her face. Aemond would have been glad to see her, pleased she was in a good mood, were it not for the urgency in her steps. She was moving in a way he’d never seen before—there was nothing dignified in the way her limbs flailed about.

He barely had time to greet her before she was dragging him out of the room and deep into the hidden parts of the castle. They passed doors, turned corners, and descended several staircases until the air grew cold and damp, and the walls took on the appearance of a dungeon rather than royal lodgings.

“Where are we going, Mother?”

“To get you a dragon.”

Aemond forced himself not to stiffen, forcing his legs to move even as sadness and fear washed over him. "All the dragons on the island are claimed and ridden. Except for Rhaena’s little pink egg, I suppose. Surely you don’t expect me to steal it from her in her own home?"

Mother didn’t turn to look at him, instead pulling him further down the tunnel without a care for the thick mud they stepped through.

"Not all of them,” she muttered. “Silverwing is here."

"What? That can’t be. Dragons don’t leave their nesting grounds unless they follow their rider or…"

"Or follow a potential bond. I know. Isn’t it said that Vhagar followed Lady Laena around the Stepstones for weeks?"

"Yes, Mother, but—"

The Queen stopped then, near the large cave entrance they’d reached, looking out into the vast golden wheat fields, and cradled his face. She gazed at him with one of those carefully blank expressions that masked her irritation.

"Aemond, I want you to understand that I only wish the best for you. I know how much not having a dragon hurts you. How much your nephews’ taunts in the dragon pit wound you. Now is the time. Silverwing is here, and you need a dragon."

“Mother?”

“I only wish what’s best for you. I want you to be safe, to be powerful—able to protect yourself and your siblings. So, please, go!”

She then pointed to the side, and he finally saw it—the beast slumbering just steps away, in the sea of golden crops. Silverwing's scales shone in the setting sun, and an empty saddle caught his breath.

Aemond shuddered as he approached, the recent encounter with Dreamfyre fresh in his mind, the memory of her heat still a phantom on his skin.

Like Dreamfyre, this dragon sensed his approach, raising herself slowly, almost sluggishly. She swung her head from side to side before her gaze settled on Aemond.

As he moved closer, his confidence grew with each second that Silverwing did not attack. The beast sniffed the air but showed no displeasure.

Aemond reached out, his hand trembling as he touched her scales.

Everyone always told him the bonding moment was special, that he’d feel the connection deep inside, a second heartbeat in his chest, emotions not his own flooding his mind. He knew the sulfurous stench would become sweet and familiar, interwoven with the Targaryen scent of smoke and ash.

Helaena had even claimed there was something before the bond—a tentative connection, like a warm embrace or a memory and promise of one.

Aemond felt nothing at all—no warmth, no emotion. No connection formed, only the icy burn of Silverwing's scales, the cold that one feels when touching a dragon not their own. In truth, the touch barely lasted a moment before Silverwing reared back, shaking herself and growling.

Hot, putrid breath washed over Aemond, oppressive and mawkish, making him recoil.

Once again, another dragon had rejected him—the beast huffing as if his touch were repulsive.

“Aemond?” Mother called anxiously.

While he was somewhat glad to see concern for his wellbeing, it wasn’t necessary. Not after a dragon deemed him unworthy. He forced the rage in his chest to settle and adopted the blank expression his mother favored, then bit out, “Silverwing refuses to bond with me.”

The Queen shook her head. “Impossible. She’s supposed to bond with anyone. If she bonded with…”

Her mouth snapped shut, and Aemond found himself wondering why Mother believed Silverwing not to be overly picky. As far as he knew, her only rider had been the cradle-bonded Alyssane, and she’d accepted no one since.

Helaena emerged from behind their mother, her ordinarily absent gaze sliding past Aemond and onto the retreating form of the great silver dragon. He thought she gave him a brief, reassuring smile, but he could’ve been mistaken.

He wanted to apologize for failing, but Helaena merely shook her head and turned to Mother, her gaze unusually clear.

“Let the matter rest, Mother. Silverwing will not accept anyone but her rider.”

Alicent's eyes flashed. “She does not have a rider.”

“She does. And it is not Aemond,” Helaena said.

“Helaena, you don’t know what you’re talking about, sweet girl.” The Queen reached to touch her daughter, but Helaena flinched away.

The girl said nothing, watching her mother with a mix of fear and mistrust. In that moment, Mother seemed to collapse. She slouched, her arms falling weakly at her sides, and left quietly, her steps fading into darkness.

Helaena turned back to her brother. “It’s getting dark. You should come back with me. And you’re not the only one interested in exploring the dungeons—our nephews might be here soon.”

Aemond shook his head stubbornly, a snarky comment on his tongue. Helaena, however, disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived, leaving him alone and frustrated near the entrance.

Mother wanted him to claim a dragon, and he’d failed. He’d disappointed her again, so much so that she didn’t even wish to look at him as she left. He’d hoped, just this once, to be useful—even if only as an addition to the power Aegon was to wield.

Mother wanted him to be a warrior. Wasn’t he doing enough already?

Aemond didn’t want to leave and didn’t care to see his nephews just then. He could only hope they’d be satisfied exploring the deeper parts of the cave system. They’d probably laugh if they knew yet another dragon had rejected him, the twats.

Their eggs had hatched. Their thrice-damned eggs hatched, despite their hair, eyes, and the blood coursing through their veins. Aemond hadn’t even received an egg; he was worth so little to the King. He spent every day proving his worth to the Queen, but lately, it felt so much harder.

He just wanted to sit there and watch the sun sink behind the horizon. To imagine it crashing into the edge of the earth and burning everything down. Aemond wanted to bite. He wanted to roar. Aemond wanted a dragon.

In the end, Lucerys and Jacaerys found him, before his thoughts could settle into something cohesive, before the sting of rejection could fade.

"Aemond?" Jace called out from behind.

"What do you want, Jacaerys?"

"We were exploring. There are cells here somewhere, for prisoners, where people were tortured. Baela says their spirits are forever trapped.”

Lucerys giggled. “Yes! Want to come with us?"

“No.”

Jacaerys moved in front of him, blocking his view. “It’ll be fun, I promise. Stop being all broody and boring.”

"I said no. Go look at the stupid torture devices alone."

"Did a dragon step on you? Why are you acting more of an idiot than usual?"

"I told you to leave me alone, Jacaerys. Surely a strong prince like yourself knows when he’s unwelcome."

“Aemond?” Lucerys whispered, quiet and sad.

Jacaerys clenched his fists, stomping. "How dare you? We just wanted to include you! It’s not our fault you got the day you deserve."

"Get out, and leave me alone!”

"Alright. Let’s go, Luke. Aemond’s throwing a tantrum. No wonder no dragon wants him.”

What?

WHAT?

Aemond shot up, his body colliding with Jace’s, bringing them both down in a roll.

“How dare I? How dare you, little bastard! You shouldn’t even have a dragon in the first place!”

Jacaerys fell clumsily, struggling to get up while Aemond managed to pin him down.

They tumbled, mud covering them, little rocks piercing their skin.

Lucerys screamed, trying to drag Aemond off, but both were too focused on each other to notice. Luke fell with a shriek, hit by one of them, and, realizing his efforts were useless, scurried away to scream for the guards.

Jacaerys huffed, landing punches on Aemond’s face until one of his eyes filled with blood and became unseeing. In return, Aemond hit him until he felt Jace’s nose break, blood dripping down his chin and cheeks, smearing on the white shirt.

They growled and screamed, bloodied and snarling curses.

Finally, Jacaerys pinned Aemond down, shaking his shoulders. “You prick! You think you’re so much better than us?”

“Better? BETTER? You have everything I ever wanted!” Aemond screamed.

“And you have everything I want!” Jacaerys screamed back.

Aemond relaxed, the fight leaving him suddenly, his limbs feeling heavy and sticky with mud. He stared at Jacaerys, at the tears welling in his eyes, at the way his shoulders trembled with barely restrained emotion. Blood was still dripping from his nose onto Aemond’s chest.

“You have a dragon,” he whispered. “And a mother who loves you. And two fathers who also love you immensely. What else could you possibly need? What more could you possibly want?”

Jacaerys trembled. “I am a bastard, did you not say so yourself? I want your life. I want your hair. I want people to look at me and see a Targaryen.”

They breathed heavily, searching each other’s bloodied faces for a hint of deception and finding none—only raw emotion, sorrow, and anger.

“I hate you,” Aemond said.

“And I hate you,” Jacaerys nodded.

Aemond opened his mouth, to say something. He didn’t truly know what, but he knew he had to. Before he could, something else caught his attention. As the last rays of light disappeared over the horizon, a small ball of something glowed in the depths of one of the cave's arms.

Aemond stared, and Jacaerys turned to follow his gaze.

It was a small orb, glowing brighter green by the second, though not nearly bright enough to reveal its source or the surrounding cave. They both watched, mesmerized, as the orb hung in the air while oppressive darkness closed around them. And then it moved. It moved toward them.

Both were on their feet in an instant. Jacaerys turned and ran, but Aemond couldn’t. He couldn’t shake the weight pressing down on his shoulders, couldn’t fight the fatigue that overcame him. He was drowning in those shadows, slowly sinking as his body refused to obey.

They surrounded him, and the light drew closer. For a brief moment, he could almost touch the darkness winding around him.

And then Jacaerys was back. He was back, he’d come back for Aemond, and he was dragging him away, hauling the uncooperative body up the slippery cave floors and back toward the castle.

He came back.

Several Kingsguard met them halfway. Jacaerys spoke to them, and a man with a torch - the new one - swiftly disappeared back down the way they’d come. With the guards were Luke, Princess Rhaenyra, and a dark-haired servant he did not recognize.

Rhaenyra inspected Jacaerys, fussing over the state of his face and touching it gently. He whispered something to her, gesturing toward Aemond standing farther away. Soon enough, Luke and the woman took over, guiding the wounded prince away.

The princess then turned to him and walked closer. Aemond rooted his heels into the soft mud, lifted his shoulders, and braced himself for the screaming that would inevitably come.

But she stopped beside him and… drew him into a crushing hug.

“It’s all right, Aemond,” she whispered, hands cradling him as if he were her own. “You are all right.”

Aemond could no longer keep it in. He began to cry, ugly sobs wracking his body.

With his hands fisted in the loose bodice of her dress, he let it all out. His lungs hurt, as did his head. There would be blood and mud all over her dress, but she didn’t seem to mind, only held him tighter.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he mumbled as she shushed him. “I’m sorry… sister.”

Harwin never liked those formal dinners. They were dull, and he never truly felt comfortable in the stiff doublet he was forced to wear or with the empty pleasantries people exchanged. Nor did he particularly like sitting next to his father and brother, especially not as of late.

They all ate rather quickly, most guests happy to excuse themselves and leave the royal family and their closest relatives alone. The abundance of fish was expected from such distinguished mariners as House Velaryon, and the drinks were plentiful and strong.

Their bellies filled soon, and as the formal part ended, people stood up and mingled, laughter and lively conversations filling the hall. Musicians began playing cheerful tunes, with young ladies and lords dancing in the center of the room.

Jacaerys, his nose bruised and broken, immediately snuck away with Aemond, who had a large stitched cut on his eyebrow. They didn’t seem poised to quarrel again, so both Harwin and Rhaenyra merely watched them leave.

Laenor, still dejected at having missed the fight and its immediate aftermath, sulked beside his lady wife. Joffrey was stationed outside the hall, only adding to his displeasure.

Harwin kept his eye on Helaena. He made sure to watch very carefully—the way she nibbled at her food without truly eating, pushing potatoes around her plate and handing her piece of meat to Aegon beside her. Helaena did not look particularly scared or upset, except when she occasionally glanced across the hall, where a few Gold Cloaks stood guard. At times, she shivered slightly when she looked at them, especially at Ser Meryn.

Elinda and Rhaenyra were right—something was wrong. The man was too careful to act improperly here, not where others could see, but there were times Helaena couldn’t be supervised. Harwin gritted his teeth, thinking of his inability to confront the man directly without causing a scandal.

Alicent had to fix this. They could not.

Larys was making his rounds about the room, greeting many ladies he recognized from all the hunts and other such activities. He held a goblet filled with his preferred bitter wine. Following etiquette, Larys also paused to greet Prince Daemon and Lady Laena, smiling at the dragon twins who eagerly questioned him about something. He made his way to the Queen next and even spoke to Lord Corlys.

“Harwin.”

“Yes, Father?”

“There’s something you’re not telling me. You’ve changed. Something… changed from the day our gods wept with black tears.”

Harwin loved his father, but he did not trust him, not enough to protect Rhaenyra and Mysaria. Lord Lyonel was too honorable to plot behind his king’s back; he could never keep a secret.

“I’m not sure I know what you mean, Father. I am performing my duties, and performing them well. Perhaps I’ve just been tired lately.”

His father shook his head, unconvinced, but accepted the refusal to elaborate.

“If you ever do… find out what changed you so, let me know. I can help you, son. I will always help you.”

Harwin nodded, looking up just in time to see Princess Helaena’s expression shift. She looked immensely uncomfortable, shifting in her chair and covering her mouth. However, Ser Meryn wasn’t the cause of her discomfort. She was looking at something else—the goblet of wine loosely held in his brother’s hand.

Larys was still talking to Lord Corlys, sipping from his goblet now and then. Helaena stood up and quickly left the room, with Ser Meryn following her. Harwin fought the urge to follow, instead giving a slight nod to Ser Gyles, who quickly understood and discreetly followed the two.

The Dornish weren’t like the Andals. Dornish men abhorred mistreatment of women. If any lady was safe with someone, it would be with the Yronwood knight.

“Ser Harwin, may I have a dance?”

He turned to see Lady Laena Velaryon, pale but determined, standing with an outstretched hand. Rising swiftly, he took her hand, feeling her lean against him.

“Of course, my lady, but you look rather weak. Are you sure you want to dance?”

Her eyes flashed with amusement. “You’re very considerate, my lord. I see why… ladies… might swoon over you.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, but she only laughed and led him to where others were dancing. Princess Rhaenys watched them from her seat on the dais, giving Harwin a rather stern look as he met her gaze.

With a nod, they began circling each other, following the simple steps of one of those silly noble dances Harwin loathed.

“You know,” Lady Laena said, “I always wanted to return here. I thought Pentos never suited me.”

“How so, my lady?”

“It’s too strange, too different. People don’t think the same way there, don’t act as we do. They don’t share our gods, myths, or stories. My children likely have never heard the nursery tales I grew up with—their nurse Marlina spent her whole life in the Free Cities.”

“Are you happy to be back, then?”

“I thought I would be. But I had forgotten how stiff the roles are here. How tightly bound I am by what people expect from the lady of a noble house.” She bit her lip. “The maester doesn’t believe I can have any more children, and I know every woman in Westeros is expected to have at least one son. Or die trying.”

“My lady, if Prince Daemon—”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean to imply he is like that. Daemon would never risk my life like that. I was just… My apologies, I don’t know what I was thinking, only voicing my frustration.”

“My lady, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m happy to listen. And please accept my condolences.”

“Thank you, Ser Harwin.” She squeezed his hand ever so slightly. “You are very kind. In truth, I wanted to ask you about the princes.”

Harwin kept his face impassive. “What about them?”

“You train them, do you not? I only wanted to know what kind of men they will grow up to be. My father is keen on arranging soft promises of marriage for my girls, and… I want them to be safe in their marriages. Do you… understand what I am asking?”

The music ended, and Harwin bowed low before offering his arm to the lady. He gently led her back to her seat.

“I will be honest with you.”

“Please.”

“Princes Lucerys and Jacaerys would never harm their wives. They are kind and honorable lads, and if ever matched with your daughters, rest assured they will be happy and well cared for. Princes Aemond and Aegon are not bad, but they haven’t yet been taught properly, not how to treat others. They will be taught well. No boy will leave my care a cruel drunk or a wifebeater—I can promise you that.”

She looked at him, tears welling in her eyes. He settled her gently on the padded chair beside Princess Rhaenys.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin,” Laena whispered, releasing his hand with a final squeeze. “If Princess Rhaenyra’s sons are anything like their father, I will happily give my daughters to them.”

Harwin smiled sadly. “Ser Laenor is an honorable man, my lady. That is true.”

She nodded, and he left her, reassured of her daughters’ future safety.

Mysaria stood in the shadow behind one of the columns, visibly uncomfortable in the bustling hall. Harwin approached and leaned on the column. It was a spot that both obstructed the woman from view and allowed him to survey the room.

Princess Helaena hadn’t yet returned, nor had Ser Gyles. Ser Meryn, however, was sulking in a corner, which was good enough for now.

Mysaria crept marginally closer and relaxed in his shadow. “Her name is Elara Manderly. I overheard Aegon and the Queen earlier. I spoke to the princess about it, too.”

Harwin hummed, watching a group of children —dragon twins and all the princes—whispering and giggling in the corner.

Mysaria continued, “Aemond was mentioned. He’s set to marry Cassandra Baratheon, but we suspected that already. The King also received a letter from Dorne before we sailed. He told Lord Corlys they were being ‘overly ambitious’ for some reason.”

“Anything else?”

“Most importantly, Aegon will leave to be fostered for a year.”

Harwin’s impassive mask fell briefly, shock flashing across his face. “What? Where?”

“The Manderlys’. Under the guise of getting to know his betrothed. It sounds plausible, but…”

“Usually, it’s the girl who’s fostered with her future husband. There’s no true need for Alicent to send him away.” He nodded slightly.

“Exactly.”

She reached out, briefly, but withdrew her hand last moment. There was a thoughtful, almost guilty look on her face.

“You think she might be planning something?” he guessed. “Planning to use Aegon earlier than we expected?”

“She’s definitely planning something. The question is whether it poses a danger to us. Whether the boy will soon become a danger to us.”

He sighed, rubbing his temples.

“I’ll watch the boy, see what he says. And I do remember what we discussed. Don’t worry. For now, keep listening in the corners.”

She smirked and slowly disappeared behind the column, leaving Harwin alone to rest his aching head against the cold stone. He closed his eyes for just a moment, but when he opened them, there was clamor around him and a commotion on the dais.

Commotion that involved Larys.

People were crowding around, talking, and even shouting. Harwin had to push through the crowd to break through, though he moved rather slowly. Ahead, he heard a scandalized exclamation, a lady stomping her foot, and finally Rhaenyra’s loud voice saying, “How dare you!”

Harwin broke through, stopping just before the dais, where his brother, speech slurred and expression angry, was face to face with the King.

“Ser Harwin,” King Viserys said, visibly relieved. “Your brother seems to have had one too many drinks. You should take him to rest.”

“No, no, no!” Larys protested. “I need no rest, my King, not when... when you have clearly been... misled! Yes, misled! To have a law like that... to allow women above men... ’Tis a disaster, people! A disaster!”

Oh.

Larys had likely overheard the negotiations for a new law they had urged Viserys to pass, one stating that Houses claiming Valyrian descent were to follow absolute primogeniture, as successfully practiced in the kingdom of Dorne. And now, Larys was openly criticizing it.

Larys never openly criticized anything. He never drew attention to himself. Harwin glanced at Rhaenyra, who looked ready to protest, until he shook his head. Something was not right. It was better to remain silent than to draw Larys’s attention—lest his brother decide to say something truly incriminating.

“Lord Larys,” Lord Corlys spoke up. “This decision affects my house most of all, since Lady Laena would become my heir and Lady Baela after her. It was something discussed between the King, Lord Celtigar, and myself. Your comments are neither appreciated nor necessary.”

“Of course they are. I am learned, and learned men must speak up when... when harm is being done.”

Father came up behind Larys, grabbing him by the sleeve and attempting to drag him away.

“My most sincere apologies, my King,” Lyonel said. “You are right; he has had too much to drink tonight. I will take him to his room.”

The King opened his mouth but was interrupted by Larys. “No! I... Terrible... I will see myself out!”

He then rushed through the stunned crowd and out the doors of the main hall. Harwin wanted to follow, shake his brother, and ask what had brought on such idiocy, but he was intercepted by Ser Gyles.

The man shook his head firmly, asking him to instead speak to Princess Helaena, explaining that she seemed distraught but would not talk. The girl didn’t truly look distraught, not to Harwin, merely standing close by and absentmindedly staring at the flickering fire of the many burning candles. Harwin had no choice, however. This time, he wanted to protect Rhaenyra’s siblings, and Helaena needed him.

Harwin sighed. Larys would have to wait.

A stray guard discovered the body of Larys Strong relatively quickly. Soon, all of them were there, standing in a circle like children, conversing and gesticulating desperately. The large, sweaty men in their loud metal armor were lost and confused. They barked orders at each other and called for the commanders and royals, unsure of what to truly do. The commotion only intensified when someone alerted those inside the halls, and all the guests piled out.

People were all around the place—disheveled servants scuttering about like rats on a sinking ship, children underfoot, lords and royals standing with no real purpose.

His fall was swift and unexpected. Nothing living was anywhere near him at the time he plummeted to his death; the man could not even receive the comfort of another human’s warmth before he died.

Everyone would know it as an undeniable truth that, on that night on Driftmark, isolated and grim, the clubfoot merely drank too much and disregarded his own safety. Perhaps he even jumped on purpose.

Everyone at the dinner saw the way his drink took hold of him. Everyone heard how it loosened his tongue, rotten words and putrid air escaping his cracked lips. No mystery would be found here, nothing more than a tragic accident.

If the maesters were to cut him open, they would find nothing but food and drink from the feast in his stomach, nothing but water in his lungs. They might be surprised to see a deformed little heart belonging to a twisted, miserable little man, but it would be written off as just another of his ailments.

In the darkness of the moonless night, people whispered and stared. The children huddled in small groups; Mysaria stood behind Rhaenyra, the two likely exchanging nonsensical encouragements. The rotting king hunched over, saying something to Lord Strong, who, himself, looked more shocked than sorrowful. Did he even love his poor little cripple?

People were arriving—more and more of them swarming to see the latest happenings at the otherwise calm castle.

Half of the people here should die in agony. It would be so laughably easy to tug on that little link deep inside, thrumming and warm, and order fire to rain from the skies. Their faces would melt in the heat of green flames, screams heard at the other end of the island. The pretty black beast would love that; he has been so hungry and bored lately, so lonely until the moment they united.

There was only one person in this entire commotion who was, rather unsurprisingly, calm. Princess Helaena did not look at the body or at the people around her. She stared down at the shadows created by the fire, dancing around everyone’s feet. She listened to their whispers, likely feeling the heaviness of that darkness.

She was calm and collected, her face impassive. The true terror only gripped her when she turned to look at me.

Chapter Text

Helaena had never been to Driftmark or Dragonstone, not even in her dreams—neither those of the night nor those of the day. She hoped she would visit Dragonstone someday, but for now, Driftmark was enough. The air was different here—fresh, salty, and chilly. If she had to choose between King’s Landing and Driftmark, she would choose Driftmark every time. It was peaceful, and the seagulls truly sounded like freedom.

Elinda had not followed Rhaenyra here; she stayed behind to help if Victaria began her labors. Instead, several servants had come, along with the spider woman.

On this island, everything was good—if one did not look too closely at the cracks lining the walls or the shadows dancing around the bloodless ones and seeping into everyone’s bones. Helaena knew the not-mother and the spider woman were not the only dead ones but was surprised to meet another here, of all places.

This one was different. Bloodfly, rather ironically a cold and bloodless creature, was not repulsive like the others but alluring. Its presence numbed and charmed those around it, drawing them in. The shadows that danced at its feet could bind you to the ground and make the cold seep deep into your bones.

Helaena was not afraid of the bloodless one; she was fascinated by it.

“What are you doing, Princess?” the man standing next to her asked.

Elinda had not come with them, but Ser Gyles Yronwood had, and that was just as good. He was kind and smiled often, both with his teeth and his eyes. Helaena liked his smile more than Ser Meryn’s—more even than her siblings’.

More importantly, the Dornishman did not think her stupid. He listened to Helaena babble after following her the night before, nodding and remaining perfectly respectful. In truth, he had only scared her once—when he grabbed Ser Meryn and threw him away. Helaena was not very good at understanding what people felt, but she realized one thing: Ser Gyles did not like Ser Meryn.

Even now, as he leaned against the wall next to Helaena, his gaze kept drifting to the Gold Cloak at the other end of the room, disdain and scorn twisting his face into a grimace. Perhaps the Dornish Ser did not like the way Meryn watched them. Or maybe he simply disliked Gold Cloaks in general.

She smiled up at him. “I am finishing my embroidery, Ser Gyles.”

“Finishing? Are you not taking the strings out?” the man asked, confused.

“I am,” she replied easily.

Helaena was cutting some of the green threads away, untangling the mess that she embroidered before, under one of the carrion flowers. She still did not know what it would be, but in time, the shape would come to her. In time, the decisions will be made, and the little green creature will take its final form. She thought it could be a venus flytrap - persevering little hunter; or a mantis - the creature that ate the males of its species; or even a delicate and fragile green orchid.

She glanced up to see Ser Gyles watching her hands, though he quickly averted his gaze. “My apologies, Princess. My youngest sister also liked to embroider. I would watch her sometimes.”

Helaena thought he sounded truthful. She also thought it made the big man look very soft. Perhaps he was not a wasp, as she had thought before, but a bee protecting its hive.

“You can watch, Ser.” Then, after a brief hesitation, she prepared a different thread—a silver one.

As she began weaving it through one of the carrion flowers, the man spoke again. “The spider is hanging off this flower. Is that a spiderweb you’re embroidering on the petals?”

Helaena shook her head but chose not to elaborate further. “Ser, do you... What are your sisters like?”

Gyles smiled brightly and began a detailed description of his older sister—the next Lady Yronwood, apparently—and the two younger ones. He talked about how only the youngest truly enjoyed embroidery, while the others merely tolerated it and preferred weaponry. Helaena asked about the weapons and how the girls were trained, and he explained it all to her, even recounting the times his older sister had knocked him into the dirt.

The Dornish knight had an all-encompassing presence that seemed to warm and brighten the room. Absently, Helaena noticed he had dimples. Did all Dornishmen have dimples?

The man fell to the floor, acting out the "great defeat" he suffered when all three of his sisters decided to punish him for a transgression he hesitated to mention. Helaena watched, stunned, and then laughed.

The sound was foreign to her, the bubbling feeling in her chest even more so. Nevertheless, she could not stop as Ser Gyles continued his dramatic monologue, pleading with the “most wise and gracious older sister” to spare his ears. For a moment, Helaena forgot that Ser Meryn’s eyes were still on her from across the room. For a moment, she forgot all about the rotting dragons, the dead-alive, and the dancing shadows.

She embroidered while he talked, finishing the four flowers by adding different threads to each: silver, pink, black, and brown. All the while, Ser Gyles continued telling her stories—funny ones, exciting ones, even sad ones. He spoke of his cousin, the Martell prince; his sisters; his mother; and his mother’s lover, the man she fell in love with after grieving her husband.

Ser Meryn interrupted them—of course it would be him. He called out, informing Ser Gyles that it was time for the princess to take her lunch and that she ought not to be disturbed.

The peaceful haze faded, replaced by the chilling reality. Ser Gyles stood from where he had been sitting, stretching and pointedly extending the silence.

Ser Meryn smiled—a greasy sort of smile, full of teeth and hatred. “Since you are here today, Ser Gyles, would you mind asking for the meal to be brought to her?”

Ser Gyles raised an eyebrow silently. “Since I am here today, I will be happy to watch the princess. You may go and do whatever you need. You know best what the princess needs, do you not?”

The Gold Cloak grimaced, opening his mouth, but was rather rudely interrupted. “That was not a suggestion, Ser Meryn.”

Helaena watched him cower and retreat from the room, despite being the same size as Ser Gyles. She did not truly understand how these things worked—authority and power. Did Ser Meryn obey because he was scared or because he recognized the Kingsguard, even an unofficial one, as having higher status?

One thing she knew for sure—Father would never have done something like that. He would not have watched Helaena closely enough to notice her discomfort or send someone she disliked away. He would never have threatened anyone or spoken with such coldness. In truth, she doubted King Viserys was even capable of ruling his own men, let alone putting those who disrespected him in their place.

Ser Gyles sat back down next to her, his face softening. During their conversation, he did not make her speak or need prompting to continue. He was nice and kind.

Is that what her brothers felt when Ser Harwin spent time with them? If so, it was a very warm feeling—one she was not sure how to name yet. For a brief moment, she felt sad that Ser Gyles would never have children. He seemed far more capable of being a father than most. If she had a choice, she would want him or Ser Harwin to be her father.

Walking to the table in the corner of the room, she took out the little album she had brought with her. Elinda had shown her how to make it, explaining that many young ladies filled the pages with whatever fancied them.

Elinda’s album was full of dried flowers and copied verses from various books—mostly beautiful poems and romantic monologues. Helaena’s was filled with dried bugs and their descriptions in much the same style. On some pages, she planned out her next embroidery or sketched whatever came to her mind.

She presented the book to Ser Gyles, who looked at it curiously but made no move to grab or open it. He waited for her to start flipping through the pages silently.

“This is my… book,” she elaborated.

“I can see that, little princess. My sisters had similar ones. I did too, in truth.” He watched as she turned another page, smiling. “It looks wonderful—very sophisticated and beautiful.”

Helaena blushed. “It isn’t much.”

“I think you ought to show it to your sister, too. From what I know, Princess Rhaenyra quite enjoyed her studies as a child. She might recommend you some good books. She is also the reason the princesses of House Targaryen began receiving education from Maesters, I heard.”

“She is? How did she convince the King?”

“Tantrums.” The man shrugged easily. “They are truly terrifying, and many years from now, if you choose to be a mother, you will find out for yourself.”

Helaena giggled, flipping the page. Ser Gyles smiled politely at the latest drawing—a deformed little firefly, accompanied, of course, by a dead specimen.

Mysaria awoke to a knock on the door. Shooting upright, she feared she had slept through her morning duties—tasks she ought to perform and be seen performing before disappearing to deal with other matters of her choosing. There was no way to gauge the time here—her room had no window.

At the door, however, stood not an irritated maid, but Rhaenyra. The princess looked impatient, and her hair was... black? She wore a long, hooded coat, with a simple brown skirt peeking out from beneath it. There were no ornaments, no rings, not even a net holding the plain bun together.

The woman stood in front of the door, fiddling with the front lacing of her dress. Mysaria could not remember ever seeing Rhaenyra like this. So... human.

“What is—” She glanced down the corridor briefly before pulling Rhaenyra into the small room she’d been given. “Rhaenyra?”

The princess looked around curiously before settling her eyes on the small chest Mysaria had brought with her.

“Do you have anything that could pass as commoner’s garments?”

Mysaria arched an eyebrow, nearly offended by the insinuation that she wouldn’t have something like that in her trunk. Stalking over, she pulled out a plain linen dress, yellowish-orange from the onion peel dye, and a visibly worn cloak of gray wool.

Rhaenyra appraised the garments critically, then nodded and ordered, “Put them on.”

Mysaria sighed. As much as everyone seemed on edge about the latest happenings, Rhaenyra’s relaxed demeanor and the mischievous smile tugging at her lips suggested nothing was truly amiss.

Behind a washed-out curtain in the corner of the room, Mysaria changed her undershirts and pulled on the dress. She could hear Rhaenyra’s light breathing on the other side of the curtain, smell the faint floral sweetness underlying her smoky Targaryen scent.

The lacing, despite being in front and supposedly easy to work with, got all twisted. These types of dresses were different from the simple gowns Mysaria preferred, which tied with a couple of strings like a robe, or the intricate ones Rhaenyra had showered her with during the war, which required a maid to lace them in the back.

One small, frustrated grunt later, Rhaenyra, rather unashamedly, stepped behind the curtain, assessed the situation, and motioned for Mysaria to step closer. And, well, who was Mysaria to say no to a princess?

She tried not to focus on the warmth of Rhaenyra’s hands as they worked against her belly, tugging and pulling the strings. Rhaenyra’s scent filled the stuffy little room, and Mysaria did her best to breathe through her mouth.

The self-control she prided herself on was more fragile than she’d expected, as an accidental brush of knuckles against her bare arm almost made her whine.

For over a week, they’d had limited contact—partially on purpose. Mysaria feared the flood of emotions she’d felt the last time they touched when Rhaenyra embraced her and held her close. The princess must have feared something, too, for they hadn’t touched since then.

They exchanged glances. They talked at respectable distances. They sent each other grins and had even drunk the last of the summerwine in Rhaenyra’s rooms the day before to commemorate Larys. Or perhaps it was to celebrate his death? Mysaria wasn’t entirely sure of the original intention.

Either way, they hadn’t touched since that day in Maegor’s tunnels—not once, until now.

“I’m sorry,” Rhaenyra murmured. “If I did something wrong.”

She wasn’t talking about today, that much was clear. Mysaria huffed at the suggestion that she required an apology, like some blushing maid, over something as small as closeness. Rhaenyra had been hers once, her wife in every way that mattered. If anyone ought to apologize, it was Mysaria.

Mysaria would always be Rhaenyra’s, until her last breath. Rhaenyra, however, was Harwin’s—and that was alright. Sometimes, one simply had to accept the nature of things.

Whatever emotions showed on her face must have been telling enough for Rhaenyra to frown, a small, adorable crease forming between her brows.

“Rhaenyra, I—”

Rhaenyra wasn’t in the mood to listen. She stepped closer, wrapping her arms around Mysaria. Everything felt like it had happened before, but there was no time to comprehend it before Mysaria inhaled another lungful of Rhaenyra’s scent, and something hungry awoke deep inside.

Her lips found that sweet-smelling spot in an instant, licking and biting. Warm, slender hands tangled in her hair, nails scratching her scalp. Their lips met halfway, and everything descended into chaos. They stumbled a few steps in some direction; there was a thunk as something fell to the floor, and the hands wandered, exploring.

Sometime after Rhaenyra’s hand returned to the lacing with an entirely different purpose, Mysaria heard faint sounds that she believed were footsteps.

They must have been knocks, for the door opened a moment later, and they jumped apart.

In the doorway stood Harwin, with the widest grin Mysaria had ever seen. He looked much the same as Rhaenyra—his clothes were plain and cheap, and the hood resembled those worn by sailors on especially sunny days.

“Harwin!” Rhaenyra exclaimed. “You—”

The man shrugged. “I did knock, my lovely ladies. Apologies for interrupting.”

Mysaria looked down, trying to steady her breathing. At least this time, it wasn’t Ser Lorent walking in on them.

Frowning, she assessed her appearance and realized the laces Rhaenyra had worked so hard on were partially undone. Letting the princess come close again and awaken that strange, primal hunger was risky.

Her own attempts to fix the laces were sabotaged by shaking hands.

“May I, my lady?”

She looked up to see Harwin watching her while Rhaenyra fixed her hair in the corner of the room. When had Mysaria destroyed the neat little bun? She nodded, stepping closer and allowing yet another person to tie her laces.

Harwin was careful not to touch her, his cold fingers brushing hers only briefly as he accepted the strings. Surprisingly efficient, he soon produced the same neat bow Rhaenyra had made earlier.

“Why aren’t you angry?” she whispered, hoping it was quiet enough that Rhaenyra wouldn’t hear.

Harwin replied simply, “I don’t own her. I doubt anyone can.”

That was true enough, she supposed. The world tilted a little, with the calm and peace Harwin brought despite their actions. If Rhaenyra wasn’t Harwin’s, could she be theirs?

“Where are we going?” she asked a little louder, addressing them both.

Rhaenyra, still facing away, replied gleefully, “To Hull.”

The streets were still empty, the sun barely beginning to rise on the horizon. In that morning bliss, they walked through the winding alleys toward one of the wild shores Rhaenyra had discovered. Laenor would be fishing nearby, ready to provide an alibi for any curious onlookers, and Syrax was nesting there.

Just the day before, Mysaria had walked those twisty streets alone in search of Addam’s house. Today, she walked beside Rhaenyra, who insisted they hold hands to appear like sisters or best friends on a morning stroll. Rhaenyra’s long black strands had fallen free from her bun, and Mysaria had to tuck them back in carefully.

Harwin had boasted about his skill in mixing a charcoal paste for Rhaenyra’s hair. It was, in a way, remarkable—thick enough to fully color her hair but light enough not to clump. Sure, touching the strands would leave one’s fingers coated in black powder, but it was impossible to tell from a distance.

The disguise was freeing for Rhaenyra, as she walked with her hood down, frolicking through the streets. No one bothered to learn what her face looked like—only her hair.

“Come here,” Harwin said, leading them around yet another corner.

Rhaenyra eagerly followed, dragging Mysaria along. In a dark alleyway, untouched by the rising sun, the princess—their princess—stopped and smiled, wide and bright. She was slightly out of breath, the babe already starting to take some of her air, it seemed.

“Need some rest?” Harwin murmured.

With a devious smirk, Rhaenyra nodded and leaned back into his chest. Calloused hands wrapped around her waist, and a quick kiss to her hair was likely the most affectionate gesture Mysaria had ever seen.

“I’m happy,” Rhaenyra whispered.

They both looked at her for a moment—at her smile, at the way she leaned into Harwin, gently rubbing her belly. Her cheeks flushed faintly under their attentive gazes.

“What?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Harwin shrugged. “I’m happy too.”

Mysaria said nothing, but something small stirred to life within her. She loved the Black Queen, but now, perhaps, she also liked the Princess Rhaenyra—carefree, young, and happy. She thought it might be easy to tolerate Ser Harwin Strong. Perhaps it would even be easy to enjoy his presence.

Rhaenyra hummed and peeled herself away from Harwin, quickly continuing down the path they’d been taking. Harwin gave Mysaria a soft look before motioning for her to follow.

They were heading toward a small bakery, Mysaria realized. By the time they caught up with Rhaenyra, she was already speaking to a plump woman in an apron, eagerly handing her a few coins.

Mysaria received a sweet-smelling bun with some sort of filling, as did Harwin and Rhaenyra, and they continued on their way.

“How did you find that place?” Mysaria asked, soon stuffing her face with the pastry.

“Gyles Yronwood mentioned it,” Harwin replied.

“I quite enjoy his company. The man is witty and strong, very respectful too,” Rhaenyra said, then added with a mischievous grin, “And pleasing to the eye.”

Harwin choked on his food before mirroring her grin. “The blonde? My love, I thought you preferred curls and brunettes.”

“I like you, not the curls. Either way, I see why I would grow to trust Yronwood during the war. Mysaria, what do you think of him?”

“He was endlessly loyal to you and your cause. But back then, he was much less... this. I remember him as a very melancholic, troubled man who preferred shady corners and quiet nooks. I don’t think I ever saw him smile.”

Harwin frowned. “So he could go through a complete personality shift in the next eight years? He did say someone helped him avoid a mistake. Maybe that was it. What mistake was that?”

They reached the beach, where Syrax rose from her spot and greeted them with happy trills, starting to approach.

Mysaria shrugged. “I know as much as you do. He did something and was temporarily exiled from his lands before entering your service.”

“I see...”

Syrax was just a few steps away, nuzzling Rhaenyra’s hand and sniffing at her stomach. Could dragons detect pregnancies? Just how intelligent were they?

Harwin approached cautiously. While Syrax wasn’t exactly welcoming, she tolerated his proximity. The dragon even bent her neck briefly to accept a single pat before returning her attention to Rhaenyra.

“Mysaria,” the princess called, “Come closer.”

She gulped, suddenly unsure about being this close to such a great beast. But the princess waited, seemingly at ease. Surely, it was safe? Mysaria took careful, measured steps until Syrax’s massive head was within reach.

The dragon’s large ember eyes locked onto her as Syrax sniffed the air, then each of them in turn—Rhaenyra, Harwin, and finally Mysaria herself. She let out a gust of air and a satisfied croon at whatever she’d discovered.

The giant head nudged Mysaria’s chest, and she staggered back.

“Touch her,” Rhaenyra whispered. “She wants you to touch her.”

And so, Mysaria found herself standing on the sands of Driftmark, petting a dragon that could bite her in half, in the company of the heir to the Iron Throne and her secret lover.

When had life turned into this?

“The scales—they feel... cold?”

Harwin blinked, bewildered, clearly disagreeing, while Rhaenyra merely laughed.

“What, did you imagine them boiling hot? She feels pleasantly warm to me,” the princess said.

“I remember her being hot,” Mysaria muttered under her breath.

“She’s scalding hot,” Harwin said. “And how is she letting you pet her so freely? The beast barely tolerated me for months and only let me touch her after Luke was born.”

Mysaria turned, took his cool arm, and, with as much seriousness as she could muster, concluded, “Perhaps she, too, would have preferred you blond.”

Rhaenyra barely managed to remain standing.

They returned hours later, after the city awoke and became flooded with people and an unsettling number of cats.

Mysaria could feel sand clinging to her body and sticking to her neck from when she had decided that running away from Harwin was a good idea. The result of her futile escape attempt was an exclusive taste of the beach and its sands. The man could no longer look at her without snickering under his breath, despite all her efforts to get the sand out of her hair and face.

Rhaenyra had lounged on the sands in a more dignified fashion but took retribution against Harwin’s cowardly attack on Mysaria by luring him close and somehow convincing Syrax to push him down.

It was highly suspected that the dragon enjoyed the action more than all of them combined, for soon Harwin was running away from an overgrown cat determined to give him a taste of every dune. Which she did—and still, Harwin looked as handsome and composed as always.

The conversations shifted from dragons to politics, to children, and eventually back to politics. Mysaria preferred to stay back and listen—receiving information from those closest to the issues was always best.

“…I am not entirely sure. I would begin worrying soon,” Rhaenyra said.

“They likely did not see it as necessary to send a message. After all, they already sent a raven claiming their delegation was sailing out mere days ago.”

“They should have included more information about the guests, the route, and everything we ought to prepare.”

“Rhae, they will be there in a week. You will even have time to question Yronwood on Dornish customs, and the maids will prepare as many rooms as you deem fit.”

Whatever Rhaenyra wanted to say was interrupted by a loud screech and a massive silver body flying low over them.

An enormous shadow covered the entire street for just a moment. People bent down; some began praying, clearly unaccustomed to having a dragon so close. Rhaenyra and Harwin were the only ones unfazed, merely glancing up in surprise. Mysaria tried not to sneeze at the sudden dragon smell in her nose.

“Silverwing,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Right. She is not supposed to be here.”

Mysaria was inclined to agree but still asked, “Could she be searching for a rider, following a future bond?”

“No. Absolutely not. There is no such thing as a ‘future rider,’ and anyone who tells you otherwise knows nothing of dragons.”

“But do the dragons not have a special bond with their riders?” Harwin asked.

“Yes,” Rhaenyra nodded, “after bonding or after hatching. Before that point, it is extremely rare unless external forces act upon them.”

“I thought the bond was magical in nature,” Mysaria murmured, remembering all the dragon oddities during the war.

“You could call it that, but no. You likely listened to my sibling or sons a little too much. Children like to pretend the bond is more special than it actually is, trying to make it into something it is not. The bonding moment is special, yes, but that is supposed to be the beginning.”

“What about Addam? Before?” Mysaria asked.

“I cannot say for sure, not from what I know, but I would assume his extreme resemblance to Laenor had something to do with it. Seasmoke, after Laenor’s death, may have had his bond severed incompletely, prompting him to search for that completion.”

“And eggs? Do they not bond with the babes?”

Rhaenyra considered this for barely a second before shaking her head once again. “If that were the case, those whose eggs went cold would be unable to bond for life. So no. Having an egg does not mean a bond, and the hatchling may simply bond to the nearest available Targaryen—we never tested the theory.”

“So why is Silverwing here?” Harwin spoke up once again.

“Perhaps she is following Ulf? The bond may have been broken incompletely with all the time meddling,” Rhaenyra shrugged.

“If that bond broke off incompletely, then all the others did too. Would that not disrupt most of the other bonds?” Mysaria mused.

Harwin looked thoughtful for a moment, while Rhaenyra got a glazed look in her eyes. Perhaps she was trying to feel her own bond, to detect any changes, but from her calm expression, it was clear she found none.

“Silverwing was alive at the time of your death. She may have been one of the only dragons to survive the war,” Harwin said.

Rhaenyra shook off whatever feeling gripped her, grimacing briefly. “I don’t know why she is like that, and neither do I particularly want to. Something is wrong about that dragon, and I can’t be the only one who feels it.”

Mysaria nodded, mindlessly adding, “The smell is a little off. Sweet and rotting, almost.”

Both Harwin and Rhaenyra turned to her, surprised. The princess, however, nodded and clearly disregarded whatever they found so abnormal, while Harwin stopped, rooting his heels into the ground.

“Harwin?” Rhaenyra called out quietly.

His eyes flickered between Mysaria and Rhaenyra. Between Mysaria and the sky. He took a deep breath, shuddering, and continued walking.

“Harwin?” Rhaenyra called once again.

The man smiled softly. “I thought, for a second, that I figured something out, but then realized it is rather nonsensical. Nothing to worry about, my ladies.”

Rhaenyra hummed, gently taking his hand and pulling him further. Mysaria was not sure whether the princess was convinced, but she seemed happy enough. Harwin remained tense around the shoulders, and there was a somewhat perplexed expression on his face.

Mysaria did not like it.

Aemond watched the old maid as she moved. She clearly had trouble walking, mayhap suffering from an ailment brought on by her advanced age. Tasked with carrying the cakes children had requested, it was the second time she stumbled through the garden with a platter, and considering their usual selection, she would likely stumble many more times.

“Aemond? Still trying to figure out how I managed to outsmart you? Don’t worry, one day it will come to you,” drawled Jace at his side.

A sharp retort hovered on the tip of his tongue, ready to fly out and wound the other boy, but Aemond resisted. It wasn’t exactly difficult when he actually focused on Jace and his bright, innocent face. Aemond was beginning to learn that anything Jacaerys said was either a joke or a friendly tease, even if it didn’t always sound that way to him.

He stared at the boy for a moment, taking in the mischievous starting to shine through those eyes. Looking at this little idiot, one wouldn’t think he hated himself just as much as Aemond did. Perhaps he should try speaking in Jacaerys’s language.

“No, nephew, just trying to figure out how many hours the maesters would need to explain the genius of my strategy to you,” he grumbled.

Jacaerys blinked, confused for a split second, before breaking into a happy giggle and whacking Aemond’s shoulder. Instead of attempting another witty remark—which could easily come out as an unintended insult—Aemond tried to smile. The curl on his lips felt unfamiliar, even unpleasant.

Aegon inhaled sharply from where he sat with Daeron perched on him. “Did something happen that I wasn’t aware of? Where is my little brother, Jacaerys?”

“Are you ever aware?” Jacaerys retorted.

“Oi. Bad nephew!” Aegon shrieked.

Aemond once again found himself fascinated by how silver-tongued the boy was. To put Aegon in his place so quickly deserved a prize of some sort.

Daeron, distracted from playing with Aegon’s hair—his latest obsession—stared at Aegon until he turned back to him and whacked him squarely on the head in one swift motion.

“Jacey not bad. Aegon bad!”

“I didn’t even do anything, Daeron! Not yet!” Aegon whined.

Aemond ignored them, as did the girls and Lucerys sitting in their little circle. Instead, he focused once again on the maid, who had already left the tray and was heading back to the kitchens.

“She is old…” Jacaerys commented.

“I think it’s hard for her.” Aemond tried to recall the things Harwin had taught him about kindness and strength. More than the words themselves, it was the happiness and gratitude he’d seen in people helping each other—in the ruins of the tavern and among sailors during the voyage—that drove him to say, “Should we help?”

Jacaerys blinked but nodded without hesitation, standing up and extending his hand to help Aemond rise. They walked to the kitchens—Aemond contemplating whether such behavior would be frowned upon by the court, while Jacaerys skipped along beside him, visibly excited.

“You didn’t think twice about it, huh?”

“No. Why? Mother always says I should respect old people. She says I ought to be polite to the old lords and ladies because one day I’ll be the same.”

“She’s not a lady, though, is she?”

Jacaerys frowned, chewing on his lip before nodding. “No, I suppose she’s not. But I don’t understand why lords and ladies are so obsessed with birth and status anyway.”

Oh.

Aemond wondered if this perspective stemmed from the fact that, to some extent, Jacaerys could be grouped with commoners. Bastards were treated better than the lowborn — if their noble parent was kind, that is —but they were rarely truly accepted.

He thought back to Dyana, to how Harwin had declared that the girl was a human being above all else. Was Harwin also questioning the order of hierarchy with that comment?

When they reached the kitchens, the old maid was hauling up another large tray of sweets. Jacaerys ran over, smiling. “What is your name?”

“I…uh…Marije, my prince.”

“That’s such an interesting name. I’ve never heard one like it.”

Aemond doubted he could sound friendly or happy if he tried to speak, so he simply motioned for the tray. The woman, confused, handed it over.

The tray was heavy, but not so heavy that he struggled. Jacaerys snuck behind the maid to lift another tray. Only one remained after they had claimed theirs. Marije gasped, finally understanding what they were doing.

“Let’s go, Marije. We’ll help you,” Jacaerys said, smiling.

“My princes, this is not a job befitting you. Please, let the old maid handle it.”

Aemond shrugged, not meeting her eyes. “If anyone asks, just tell them we ordered you to let us help. Or that we grew tired of waiting.”

The woman did not look particularly enthused, but nodded, picking up the last tray and carefully stepping into the corridor. The boys followed, matching her measured pace.

Once again, Aemond marveled at how likable Rhaenyra’s bastards were. Luke was impossible not to love—mischievous and cherubic—and Jacaerys could charm anyone as soon as he opened his mouth. The boy chatted away, asking questions about Driftmark, the woman’s life, and her family.

Aemond wondered what the new babe would be like. Would he be quiet and smiley like Luke or as mischievous and plump as Daeron? Would it be a boy or a girl? It would be nice, he thought, to have another boy for Daeron to play with.

They emerged in the garden only to see that Harwin and Rhaenyra had arrived while they were away. His sister was talking to Aegon, while Harwin stood next to the girls, indulging in what looked like an intense questioning session. The source of the questions was clear – he was hiding something in his cloak, the bulge on his chest rather telling.

Aemond ran over, dropping the tray with the other sweets and hurrying to Rhaenyra. A step before he could reach her, hesitation got the best of him. Did she want other people to know she liked him? Did she even like him?

Rhaenyra turned, smiled, and pulled him into a hug. This one was somehow even sweeter than the one the night before. Perhaps it was because he did not truly need it.

A squeak came from Aegon's direction. “I definitely missed something. Why am I forced to watch this?”

Rhaenyra, without letting go of Aemond, replied sweetly, “I find myself quite confused, Aemond, do you know where that sound is coming from?”

Aemond giggled. Mystery solved. This is where Jacaerys gets his witty tongue from.

Aemond, nuzzled into the warmth, asked, “Sister, is your hair wet? Did you go for a swim?”

“Almost. Never mind that—did I just see you carry a tray for the maid?”

Aemond stiffened and pulled away. Jacaerys did too, and Aemond was not exactly sure if they were about to be scolded. He decided to stay quiet, unsure of what ought to be said, but he nodded in affirmation. Perhaps he was right to worry about what the court would think of him carrying around trays like a servant. Perhaps his sister would tell him to be more mindful of what the lords and ladies could see.

Rhaenyra’s face softened, and she patted his head. “It is good, then, that we have brought you something. Consider it both a gift and a reward.”

“For me?”

Surely, if she said ‘a gift and a reward,’ he had done something good. Rhaenyra thought he had done well by helping someone. His heart skipped a beat, a strange heaviness and determination passing through his body.

Who cared what the court thought of his actions? Who cared about the nobles, the knights, or even the king? Rhaenyra and Harwin thought he was doing the right thing, and that meant much more than any puffed-up fat lord or simpleton lady.

Rhaenyra pulled him along to where Harwin, Luke, and the girls were, pushing him to stand in front of the knight. Aegon and Daeron followed, curious.

“Prince Aemond,” Harwin said with a smile. “Here, this is for you.”

Without any preparation, a warm, fluffy something was pushed into his chest. He wrapped his arms around it, careful not to drop it. The squeals and excitement around him erupted long before he could truly comprehend that he was, in fact, holding a pitch-black puppy in his arms.

There was more excited chatter all around, and myriad requests followed. Helaena began asking for a bug enclosure, Lucerys yelled that he wanted a hound too, Jacaerys requested a cat, and Aegon tried to argue that the puppy should be for both of them. Aemond thought Aegon was too old for puppies.

In truth, however, he did not care if others got one too. It was enough for him to have this one creature that was only his.

He clutched the excitedly wriggling animal close, enjoying the softness of its fur against his palms. The wet nose nuzzled into his neck, tickling the skin and leaving it sticky, and yet he found it the most adorable thing in the world.

Harwin bent close to him while Rhaenyra handled all the other children. Aemond did not quite know what to say or how to express everything he felt in the moment.

“She is yours,” Harwin whispered. “Only yours. That is no dragon, but until Syrax lays a clutch and you choose an egg, I hope this sweet girl will offer you companionship.”

It was not appropriate, Aemond knew, for him to hug a member of the Gold Cloaks, his sister’s sworn protector, and the father of her children. He did not care. Gently placing the puppy—his girl—on the ground, he practically pounced on the man, wrapping himself around him with every last bit of strength, basking in his scent.

Daemon always told her everything. And even if he did not explicitly state things, it was easy enough to guess. Her husband never hid anything from her, even if the truth was unsavory. Even if he tried, Daemon was hilariously easy to read.

They had announced the pregnancy to their girls two weeks prior. Laena remembered that day well. They had all gone to one of those lavish, enclosed Pentoshi gardens accessible only to the rich and by invitation. The girls were ecstatic, running around like little hellions, goading their father until he gave chase and, inevitably, brought them down to roll in the grass.

It was pleasantly warm outside, free of the stifling heat that often made people cower in the shade or spend their days in the cool palace rooms. They had brought along some chilled juices and summer wine and sat on the grass beneath a vast tree covered with hundreds of little grey flowers.

They told the girls how nice it was to spend the day together, the five of them. It took Rhaena a long time to count the people sitting around her and interpret the meaning of their little hidden clue. Baela, however, understood rather quickly who the fifth person could be—or rather, where they could be—and jumped on her parents with happy squeals.

They were delighted to have a sibling. Rhaena spent hours that day pressing her ear against the flat belly. Baela wanted to talk about all the different dresses her new sister would wear. Daemon corrected her, saying it could be a brother, though he, too, had once confessed that he did not particularly know what he would do with a son.

It was a happy day. They were happy.

Two weeks later, she woke up in pain, her mind slow and hazy. Reality dawned on her quickly—the exact moment she felt the stickiness between her thighs. That stickiness, she supposed, was familiar to all women, and it was definitely not supposed to be there. Daemon was wide awake, standing in the corner of the room, dark and vacant, devoid of any emotion. He must have called for a maester before she woke up, for the man was in the room within a minute, ready to tend to Laena.

While she was cleaned and made to chug down whatever concoctions they brought her, Daemon stood in his dark little corner. He did not move, his hollow eyes unblinking. At a certain point, his stillness became discomfiting. One of her maids noticed and asked him to leave. Daemon did not resist and moved outside, his hands and knees wooden, lacking the smooth glide of the predator she so often found attractive.

Maester Warlen continued clucking over her, nursing her back to health as she bled. He told her everything would be all right now, that her body knew best and the babe was not meant to live—as if that made it any better. He kept pouring nasty concoctions down her throat, had the maid clean and rewrap her, changed compresses, and fed her when she grew weak. Most importantly, the old man kept everyone away until she was strong enough to walk around.

She bled a lot, Maester Warlen would later explain. He had no doubt she would survive—the miscarriage had happened early enough, and she was a strong young woman—but without all the herbs and berries he fed her, she would likely have been bedridden for far longer.

On the morning she was finally deemed healthy enough, they sailed home. Daemon had packed the entire household and reorganized the servants himself in the days she was left alone.

Her husband was dark, gloomy. He kissed her hands and apologized incessantly without being able to explain what exactly he apologized for. And the way he looked at their girls—with so much longing and guilt—confused Laena.

For days during the voyage, he would leave her to recover in the presence of other ladies. He would kiss her forehead at night, kiss her hands in the morning, swirl Baela around, and talk to Rhaena in hushed voices. He continued acting like her husband and a father, but differently.

Daemon always told her everything. There was never a topic they had to omit for the sake of each other’s feelings. It was a mutual understanding, a soft feeling not born of love but of mutual trust. In times of doubt, she would fall back on that feeling, embracing its comfortably chilly softness.

Always, even if it hurt them, they said what needed to be said, listened, and agreed on something. And yet, Daemon was tight-lipped about what worried him so. Daemon was silent unless prompted to speak.

She felt stronger today, taking a walk around the castle in the fresh, misty morning air with the Ryder sisters. Daemon was on one of the balconies, leaning on the stone wall. He was silently looking down, and when Laena approached, she saw that he was watching Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin interact with the children in the large garden.

“Is it Rhaenyra?” she muttered, not intending to let him back away this time. “Is she the reason for your coldness? You know I do not begrudge you for—”

“No!” he said, shaking his head quickly. “It’s not… I didn’t intend for you to think that Rhaenyra was my… focus. Not anymore. You are. You always will be.”

“Daemon. I know you do not intend to divorce me; marriage is not what I am worried about.”

“It is not about the marriage. It is about what I did.” He took a deep breath, his voice descending into a guilty whisper. “I spent years wanting a woman who is not mine. I spent years reminiscing about the brief, fluttering romance I felt toward a girl, barely a woman. I ought to apologize for that. I could not... collect my thoughts, gather my strength to properly apologize.”

“Daemon, I understand.”

“No, Laena, you do not. I was so blinded by my… affections for Rhaenyra that I missed those who matter most: our girls. And you. I hope one day you will forgive me, and until that day comes, I will keep apologizing—for treating you as second best, for making you feel that way even without outright doing anything. I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

Laena shook her head slowly, managing to look calm despite the large, scratchy something climbing up her throat, despite the stinging in her eyes. It did not hurt her, not in the ways other things hurt, but it was always there—the heavy feeling of being the replacement wife, a way for Daemon to settle and satiate his needs while the love of his life was unavailable. At times, it made her feel invisible in her own marriage.

“Laena?” Daemon reached his hand out to touch her cheek. “Please, say something.”

She stepped away. “I… Why, Daemon? You love her.”

“No. Not anymore. It was an infatuation, an obsession with someone I created in my mind. I have not seen her for almost twelve years, and I do not know her anymore. I cannot love her. I am so sorry, Laena. For what I did to you.”

“Daemon, stop it,” she said, conjuring as much authority as she could manage.

“I am guilty. I have been a terrible husband, and I will do my best to be better.”

He reached out again, intending to take hold of her hand, and something inside Laena snapped. It was the expression—the guilty look she had dreamed of at the beginning of their marriage, the one she was now content with never seeing.

“Don’t touch me!” she snarled, feeling the last bits of self-control burn under the fuel of Vhagar’s righteous anger. “You truly needed so many years to find that out? You needed to have our babe fucking die for that little flowery speech to appear? You say, ‘I don’t know her anymore,’ as if that makes it any better. So what, Daemon, am I supposed to be waiting for you to get to know her again and once again begin your pathetic little brooding sessions?”

“Laena—”

“No, Daemon, I just lost a babe and watched you brood and ignore me for a week, so you will shut your mouth and listen.” His mouth shut with an audible click. “I spent years learning to be content with what you were doing—to me, to us, to our girls. I spent years reconciling with the idea that marital happiness is a myth, that the peaceful understanding between us was all I should have ever wished for. Our marriage was good! It was good and better than most. And now you are ruining it by saying it was all wrong. You are saying we ought to destroy everything we have built—everything I have built—for the sake of alleviating guilt you developed after watching me bleed out on our bed.”

She swayed, sudden fatigue overtaking her with every angry word that escaped her lips. Daemon listened; he held onto her when she turned frighteningly pale.

“Please, forgive me,” was all he said.

Laena stared, still half held up by his hands, and tried to decide whether she ought to claw his eyes out or embrace him. In the end, she decided on neither. Laena collected the last bits of her strength, stepped away from him, and left.

Her husband had spent years walking away from what she hoped to offer him. It was about time she did the same.

Harwin did not think himself particularly strategically gifted, or otherwise bright in many areas of life, but he was a knight. And, as a good knight, he knew how to observe: what to look for when threats were lurking, how to assess body language to predict people’s movements and their intentions.

Helaena had said before that people heard her but did not listen to her. That they watched but did not see. Perhaps she was right about most of those surrounding her. Harwin, however, was nothing if not observant. He watched, and he listened. At some point, he began seeing and hearing as well.

The girl knew things, but differently from Mysaria. She knew things that had not happened yet and were not supposed to happen, so she could not have learned them from experience—or so Harwin assumed. Regardless of how, she somehow knew exactly where to look, what to say, and what to create.

Rot-smelling dragons, carrion flowers, the way Helaena reacted to the people around her. Her embroidery—the spider, the bloodfly, the snowdrop, and the green creature—all tied to carrion flowers. Harwin was confused at first; everything connected in a tangled heap in his mind.

They were all dead, but some of them more so than others. The dragons behaved differently, people disappeared, and Helaena... Helaena was accidentally giving the most confusing clues known to man but showed a clear distaste—almost fearful caution—for a number of people. Mysaria and Alicent were included in that group.

Not everything was clear yet, but something had become painfully obvious to Harwin about the people who had returned. Mysaria and Rhaenyra might have been too caught up to notice the more subtle changes, but Harwin had lived with Targaryens most of his life. He had learned a few things.

Queen Alicent descended the steps and rounded the corner just as Harwin hoped she would—restlessly, without truly slowing down or cautiously looking around. He caught her when she inevitably bumped into him, lightly brushing against the bare skin of her wrist.

Her skin, too, felt scalding hot.

Harwin resisted the urge to grin. Instead, he bowed respectfully, apologized, and headed up the stairs with quick strides.

He smelled of Rhaenyra once again. It was one thing to flaunt the affair with a small brood of bastards, for they could never be proven as such. It was another entirely to let Harwin walk around practically reeking of his lover. The man apologized and left, yet the sharp irritation continued twisting in her gut.

Lover. The word had a feel to it—one of soft silks and warm summer nights. Lover rolled off the tongue, less smoothly than love, but with an added intrigue. Girls wanted love, and women wanted lovers. Now, the syllables had a smell, too—a guilty sort of smell—Harwin’s sandalwood mixed with Targaryen smokiness.

She huffed and continued on her way. They had given her a small, cramped room here. Whether it was because they expected her to spend most of her time in the King’s chambers or to show their dislike, she did not pretend to know. Either way, the space was much larger than what she had while imprisoned in the Holdfast.

Alicent slumped heavily into the chair, feeling ninety rather than twenty-nine, and rubbed her aching temples briefly before turning her attention to the missives on the table. She reached out and traced her fingertips along the rough parchment. She ought to hide them, she supposed, but there was truly no point. Her doing will become public soon enough, without the a convenient, albeit somewhat disgusting, presence of Lord Larys.

She had read the missives so many times that every word was engraved in her mind. There was no information in them that would change the outcome of her work.

“Dear Sister,

I am honored you would call for me in your time of need. Rest assured, I will be leaving on the morrow and should arrive in King’s Landing within a moon. If the horses are swift, I will be at your service in a little over a fortnight.

P.S. Little Gregor is on it.

-Gwayne"

It had been nearly a fortnight with no further communication from her brother. She prayed that by the end of this horrid week, when they returned to King’s Landing, he would be there. Then, she could entrust her children to him, both for their studies and their protection, and reduce the role of Ser Harwin Strong.

As painful as it was to admit, the man was a rather good influence on the growing boys. They were calmer, better. Even Aegon diligently attended his lessons. Alicent had not raised her three children well in the Red Keep, but Gwayne had raised Daeron to be kind and good. If he thought Harwin was doing a good enough job, she supposed the two of them could do whatever they desired with the children’s upbringing.

Unity was good, for now. Unity meant the honorable Ser Strong would hesitate if ever ordered to slit her children’s throats in the night. Unity and peace gave her and Gregor time, and she hoped her younger brother would find what he was looking for.

She resisted the urge to crumple the second missive and toss it into the fire. The wretched parchment had been placed in her hand before their departure, along with the one from White Harbor, souring the mood for the rest of the journey.

“My Daughter,

I implore you to consider very carefully what you are about to do. If the rumors are true, you would be foolishly undoing so much we have hoped for. The union between Helaena and Aegon…”

She clenched her teeth and shoved the paper to the bottom of the little stack. The union would happen only over her cold, dead body. Helaena did not want to be a queen, and she had never grown to love Aegon as Alicent had once hoped. Failing her daughter once, watching her plummet to the spiked ground, had been enough. Not again.

She supposed she ought to be at least somewhat grateful for the unfortunate accident that tragically befell Lord Larys. She could doubt his loyalty, but not his ambition. As he still believed Aegon to be the winner of the 'inevitable' war, it was more likely than not that he would start reporting to Otto directly, once her goals became apparent.

If someone read this missive, would they suspect Otto of treason? She hoped so but doubted the feeble King would do anything about the dangers her rat of a father posed. Not even Rhaenyra, his sweet baby girl, could convince him of Otto's true nature.

Her eyes flickered to the last scroll, mood improving ever so slightly.

“To Queen Alicent,

I would like to assert in writing that, as head of House Manderly, I support the arrangement you have reached with my dearest sister, Lady Selmy. My daughter, Elara, ten years of age, will wed your son, Prince Aegon Targaryen.

As for the fostering…”

One done, three left.

She hoped Aegon would forgive her for sending him to the frosty North, even if just briefly. She prayed he would love his future wife—or at least find warmth and comfort in her presence. She hoped his marriage would not be as cold and dull as her own. She hoped, one day, he would understand that it had to be done that way. That any other Kingdom, and many other houses, would start a war on his behalf simply to crown their daughter the Queen of Westeros.

She knew little of love, but all of ambition.

She once read an interesting phrase somewhere. It was not from the Seven-Pointed Star, for it would likely be considered too melancholic and vulgar, but the words had stayed with her throughout her life. On an old page of an otherwise unremarkable book on Westerosi history, a small, neat script read:

“People settle for the level of despair they can tolerate and call it happiness.”

It rang in her mind every now and then. On lonely, cold nights when rest eluded her, she would look out the windows and let the words roll off her tongue as she repeated them into the darkness. Despair was a heavy word; it weighed her head down, dark and musky. Happiness, however, was worse. It was foreign, easy to pronounce, but entirely alien to her tone—like someone else had said it, not Alicent herself.

Perhaps she was weak, for she could never tolerate any of it. The King’s putrid breath when he took her, night after night. The touch that made her skin crawl. Forcing babe after babe out of her body, breaking herself in the process. She was the Queen. Her father had made her the Queen. And yet, she felt no happiness—not even before the war. A crown may have graced her head, but, as Rhaenyra had once said, she was "imprisoned in a castle and made to squeeze out heirs." Those words burned more than birthing Aegon ever had.

She was a Queen. She ought to be grateful for that, but could not bring herself to enjoy that status.

And after the war… there was even less to be grateful for.

Jaehaera had been her light, the last child of her blood, and she had held onto her tight. As tight as her own bindings would allow.

She knew they would kill her; she knew very well how it worked—for men like Unwin Peake, for men like Otto Hightower. Her father had rejoiced when Queen Aemma was butchered in the birthing bed because Alicent had a chance at becoming the next Queen. Unwin Peake would like nothing more than to see Jaehaera’s lifeless body. Then, after the war, in her granddaughter’s fragile state, they were more likely than not to remove her from the castle or kill her. Unwin Peake just happened to have a daughter of suitable age.

Everything was coming back full circle, a retribution for the downfall planned and executed by her own father and herself. Alicent recognized the impending doom. And yet, she had no power to protect her only living descendant.

Alicent hoped the girl would listen to her—that Jaehaera would slit the throat of her husband and claim the throne. Or, at the very least, allow one of Daemon’s daughters to claim it. They could have it, as long as her granddaughter lived.

She did not. Jaehaera died, just as Helaena did. Alicent never truly found out whether someone else had pushed her out of the window, or if it was Alicent’s words that had affected the little suffering child and driven her to suicide.

She lay back, trying to calm herself once more. There had been no calm for years, and exhaustion gripped her body more often than not. Alicent had been given a second chance, but, quite frankly, she did not know what to do with it. She closed her eyes, transporting herself briefly, just for a minute, to her childhood home.

The room was faintly lit, and the smell of old parchment and leather permeated the space.

There was a fireplace in front of their couch—the soft cracking of the logs joined the faint sounds of breathing as she leaned close to her mother. They always sat close, both to each other and to the fire. Close enough to feel each other’s warmth, and the scalding heat of the flames.

Alicent loved the room, loved the peacefulness it symbolized. The outside was loud, windy, and dark. Large windows that usually overlooked the vast, faintly lit city were now obstructed by a sea of white. Snow floated down, not in a raging fall, but a soft, slow dance. The wind occasionally caused the windows to rattle when it hit just the right way, but the sound somehow came out harmonious, blending into the warmth of the room.

Alicent loved the room. She loved thinking of it, living in it.

It was the only place that brought her comfort after being left alone in a cold castle. She stared at the curtain for hours after Jaehaera died, the world outside moving on without her.

The disgraced Green Queen Alicent Hightower lived in her cold, silent prison, surviving on the crumbs her jailors were fit to bring her. It would have been better if they had let her starve, she thought sometimes. This was a place devoid of hope, of life. The room that had once been filled with children’s laughter was now grey and forever silent. Most servants did not talk to her. Time itself warped here in ways Alicent could never truly explain—torn into little pieces, scattered in the air for her to cling to.

Life was happening outside that door—sun, sound, noise, an endless sea of thoughts, dreams, and hopes. Not here. Here, dust lay in thick wads on the shabby furniture and hung heavily in the air. Sometimes, the movement of dust was the only indication that time was even passing at all—the only thing that moved.

Waking up in a different time felt like a chore. Seeing the faces of the servants she once had, the children she may yet lose, felt like walking in a graveyard. She was the dead among the living, and the living among the dead.

Coming back was certainly as much a punishment as it was a reward. She got to try again, to right her mistakes and hopefully ensure the happiness of her family—if she managed to change, that is.

It was a different torture entirely to see herself make the same mistakes, to be unable to change and use the chance freely offered to her. It would be her downfall.

The first day, there was a desperate urge in her to act, to plan, to be better. A better Queen, a better wife, a better mother. And it took her all of three days to find out she was just too tired for that. She was trying but kept making the same mistakes over and over again. Perhaps, she did not deserve to be here.

Something inside her had changed, burst into being. Where once there was regret, now lived a rage beast, cracking the walls of its cage and threatening to get out. The King, Ser Criston, Larys Strong, Jasper Wylde, even her own father. There were moments when she wanted to tear them apart with her bare teeth. Watch them stain the pristine floors of their castles with their foul, heavy blood as the light left their horrified gazes. Leave them to rot until only a permanent stain and bones remained.

Where there was once acceptance and love, there was now an abyss. Her sons, the boys she had never wanted, were both precious and corrupt. What kind of men kill thousands of innocents, raid towns to rape and loot, she oft wondered. The men she raised. Those men. She had raised them to usurp, she supposed, maybe even kill their own sister, but not destroy and burn.

The first holes appeared the moment she had to force moon tea down Aegon’s servant’s throat. They grew through the war, through the imprisonment, and into this life. Now, it was a bottomless pit into which disappeared the words, the thoughts, and the actions. A pit so deep it could fit the shreds of love that remained in her heart.

Alicent was tired.

Once all of this was over, she wondered, where would her place be? Would any of those children even want her to darken their doorstep?

Chapter Text

Laena had always been taught that forgiveness was a sign of strength. It was one of the lessons Maesters and Septas liked to repeat endlessly, ever since she was a girl, until she wished her ears would wilt and fall off. Forgiveness was something done as much for the benefit of the victim as it was for the wrongdoer, they said. Forgiveness was healing—a gift you gave yourself, first and foremost.

Those arrogant pricks, blabbering about the importance of forgiveness in their pretend wisdom and knowledge, were surely wrong. A Septa or a Maester, confined to their small roles and regimented lives, would never feel the sting of years and decades of loneliness and humiliation.

Forgiveness was not easy—not for people outside the little world they had created for themselves. It was not merely a few words you said to someone to forget a slight, nor was it a feeling you could will into existence after an hour of silent prayer.

Maesters would say forgiveness was the only goal people ought to strive for.

What, then, would that make distrust and resentment, she wondered—a paltry pest to be done away with? Something unimportant, to be rid of during an afternoon tea while chewing on a bland, dry cake?

What she felt was so much more than words could express or actions could dispel. It settled in the bottom of her stomach, a heavy stone where affection had once been, and refused to be moved. Laena never knew she had the strength to carry something so heavy until she had no choice.

Forgiveness, a way to be rid of that uncomfortable burden, would have to be much more than a few words or apologies. Anger and distaste collected somewhere deep, beyond her reach, bursting forth at the first opportunity and refusing to be contained again.

Laena did not want to forgive. She wanted everything to go back to the way it had been, to relish the trust and security afforded by honest expectations—not drown in meaningless affection and false promises. There was something far worse about a man who played the part of a caring husband only to abandon you. Laena told herself she would prefer an honest but detached relationship any day.

The children watched their parents drift apart during their short time on Driftmark. Baela was confused, not fully comprehending what was happening between them. Laena understood that—at times, she herself barely managed to rationalize her own urges and feelings.

Rhaena was supportive and compassionate, as her younger daughter had always been. She seemed to decisively take Laena’s side, even without knowing the reasons behind the 'quarrel,' and watched Daemon like a hawk whenever he brought another bouquet or hollow apology.

Even now, as her husband stumbled into the room with three little boxes under his arm, it was Baela who flashed him a happy smile, while Rhaena turned to gauge Laena’s reaction before greeting her father.

Isolating the girls from Daemon was never Laena’s intention. She could not, however, entirely hide the displeasure that twisted her face every now and then, and Rhaena was always perceptive, closer to her mother than her father.

“This is for my lovely girls,” Daemon said, a sweet, playful smile on his lips.

He handed the two smaller boxes to the girls before presenting Laena with a larger one tied with a ribbon in Velaryon blue. Another useless trinket, undoubtedly. One of many he had given her over the past days, desperately trying to find something she liked. It turned out that, despite the comfortable years they had spent together, he knew nothing about what she truly enjoyed. Daemon might have cared for her in his own way, but he did not care enough to truly know her.

She watched the girls open their gifts first, startled by Baela’s sudden delighted squeal—a pair of riding gloves, of course. Rhaena was more careful, trying not to damage the box. With a happy sigh, she pulled out an intricately crafted dagger. Not Valyrian steel, but a beautiful weapon nonetheless—one a lady could easily hide in her skirts.

The girls, ever the polite little ladies, thanked their 'lord father' for his generous gifts and turned to their mother, restlessly glancing at her own box. She weighed it in her hands, feeling the slight rattle inside, before setting it on the table.

“I’ll open it later, after we eat,” Laena said simply.

The girls pouted, but their father accepted the decision easily, settling down next to her with the same sweet curl of his lips.

In the days following their first fight, Daemon had stopped demanding much of her, showing no hint of displeasure whenever she behaved in ways he disliked—and she always knew exactly what he disliked. Still, Daemon would not be riled up, not by anything Laena did.

This feigned calm, this strained effort to remain emotionless even when she purposefully denied his advances or humiliated him, only fueled her anger. It was further proof of how deceitful he could be. And even when a small voice whispered that he was merely trying his best to apologize in the way he thought would work, another, louder voice told her to stop forgiving him.

She didn’t want his apologies. She wanted honesty and to stop being a replacement for whatever dream of his had shattered when he saw Rhaenyra happy with her attentive, loving husband.

They ate under a heavy curtain of silence, broken only by the chatter of the girls. The food tasted bland, just as it had in the early days of her pregnancy, when she had longed to hold a babe in her arms once more.

No more babes for Laena. Now, she was a useless wife, a barren wife. Barren women were invisible; they mattered even less than crones. The realization of her defectiveness had come recently, and it only made everything worse. Old hurts began to bleed anew, guilt lodged itself deeper, and resentment and anger festered. Any trace of forgiveness had evaporated along with Laena’s dreams of the future. Daemon ought to have left her, requested a divorce, to take his place beside Rhaenyra, whom he so longed for. But Rhaenyra did not want him. So now, he pretended to be a diligent husband.

“Muna?” Baela interrupted her thoughts, looking up expectantly.

“Yes, sweet girl?” Laena replied immediately.

“Where is Mumuna? We barely see her anymore.” Baela pouted.

“She’s busy, sweetling,” Laena explained softly. “I’m sure she would love nothing more than to spend time with you, but there are also duties she must attend to. She is Lady Velaryon, and many people rely on her.”

Laena did not truly know what her mother was so busy with lately, flying about the realm and disappearing at odd hours of the day. But knowing her parents, it likely had something to do with trade and wealth.

Baela frowned, angrily scraping her plate with the spoon in her hand. “She spends so much time with Rhaena! I want Mumuna to myself too!”

Rhaena blinked owlishly, then raised her eyebrows in exaggerated indignation. “I only have Mumuna to myself so often because Kepa takes you to see Moondancer, and I stay behind. I’m sure you’ll spend more time together once she returns.”

Daemon looked away briefly but did not show as much discomfort as Laena would have liked. Not at the admission that one of their children often felt left out. She watched her firstborn, still irritated, return to eating and sent a warm smile to her younger girl.

Rhaena was now staring at her, chewing her lip, head slightly tilted.

“Muna,” she murmured, “I overheard Kepazma and Kepus talking about rules of inheritance. Is something... changing?”

Baela looked up, curious, as Laena tried to form an explanation. “Well... You see, King Viserys has decided that Valyrian houses will follow a law that dictates the firstborn will always inherit—male or female. The ways to write and officiate it are still being worked on, but it means Princess Rhaenyra’s position as heir is the only lawful one.”

Rhaena’s eyes widened as she immediately grasped the further implications of these words. “Muna... Aren’t you older than Kepus Laenor?”

Laena nodded, causing her girls to share a glance.

“Does that mean I will be Lady of Driftmark?” Baela whispered.

“Someday.” Laena nodded again. “How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know.” Baela shrugged. “I don’t think I can sail.”

A laugh bubbled out of Daemon’s and Rhaena’s throats, only to be silenced by the glare Laena sent their way.

“That is a problem easily fixed by being under your Kepazma’s tutelage,” Laena reassured her. “Soon enough, you’ll be a sailor like no other.”

Baela sulked in her chair, glaring at her plate. Daemon clearly wanted to say something, but she refused to look at or acknowledge him. Eventually, he turned back to his food.

Rhaena finished first, pushing her plate slightly away. “Alright, can we see the gift now?”

Baela nodded between bites, and Daemon pushed the box closer to Laena’s elbow. With a sigh, she pulled the ribbon and opened the lid, revealing an exquisite necklace of green emeralds scattered with jade beads.

“Thank you,” she murmured, forcing the words out as the girls gushed over its beauty.

Laena hated green.

Liora was biting his fingers while he played with her. Perhaps not biting, but nibbling, yipping, and grumbling when he retreated his hand, leaving her without attention. She wanted him to pet her but endlessly nibbled and licked his fingers whenever he got close enough to her fluffy head. A needy little thing she was, and just as amusing.

When Aemond ate, she had to get a piece and would not stop whimpering until she got a taste. It could only come from Aemond’s hand too; not even the best pieces would be taken from Aegon’s or Jace’s fingers. When he slept, she had to be next to him, suffocating his face with fur or hanging off his chest. Even now, as he lay on the grass under a vast tree, she planted herself squarely on his stomach, her paws wriggling and tickling.

He ought to discipline her, he thought. One day, she would grow up, and the playful nibbles would become dangerous bites. She would be big enough to hurt him and would no longer fit in the bed. One look at those half-hung ears and fluffy tail, however, left him quite unable to do anything harsh.

How could people not love something so small? How could people be harsh and unloving toward something—someone—looking at you with so much hope and adoration?

It had been but a few days, and this ball of puff had become a part of him. He remembered, with dread, how lonely the bed used to be in the morning without black fur in his nose. Silence and icy cold that followed him day after day were replaced with peeps and squeals, and the warm weight crushing into his legs more often than not.

Liora was everything Aemond was not, and he loved her. He named her. He would raise her to be the happiest dog that ever existed.

"Not a dog," Harwin corrected him once. "A Thranakk."

Aemond thought having a dog was good enough for him, but Rhaenyra and Harwin had gotten the puppy from a passerby Skagosi ship. On Skagos, these were called Thranakk, hounds that apparently grew into fiercely loyal and ruthless creatures.

Aemond would not particularly care if Liora never grew up and stayed like this—a little thing to be carried in his arms. He did not need a protector. Alas, she was what she was and already very attentive. Jacaerys was not yet close enough for Aemond to hear when his girl started yapping and whining.

Aemond took a brief look at the boy, watching him drop close and pet Liora. For a pup that refused to be held or fed by anyone but Aemond himself, she sure loved the attention and pets.

“She is growing so big,” Jace giggled. “Such a cute thing you are. Yes, you. What black fur you have, what shiny eyes.”

Aemond almost groaned at the overly sweet nothings spilling from Jace’s lips. He loved Liora but would rather cut off his tongue than admit as much out loud. Jacaerys sounded a little ridiculous, but his loud affection was so Rhaenyra-like that Aemond felt the urge to go talk to his sister.

“Can you stop?” Aemond finally murmured. “You talk entirely too much.”

Jacaerys stopped speaking, but his face and exaggerated petting were just as loud. A mere moon ago, Aemond would have left, avoiding the company of this loud boy. Now, however, he felt compelled to stare at the brown curls that so resembled Ser Harwin’s, and the soft little "bastard" in the back of his mind sounded more sorrowful than disgusted.

They were what they were, and the spark of mutual understanding had changed things rapidly. Now, however, there was a standstill between them—a pleasant but stagnant thing, as if there was no space to expand their relationship. Aemond thought that perhaps this was all they could ever be—a tentative, fragile friendship that teased the type of closeness he had seen Jace and Luke share.

“Where were you before?” Aemond asked.

“We were exploring with Baela and Rhaena. I’ll show you—we found hot springs under the castle, and so much more. Come with us next time.”

Aemond hummed in response, not feeling particularly inclined to walk around with so many people. “Did you cut the trip short? It’s not yet time for supper.”

“We did,” Jacaerys frowned. “Rhaena fell. I think she cut her foot, but I couldn’t really see anything. Ser Harwin was with us; he carried her off somewhere. Daemon came and took Baela away to see Moondancer, and Luke wanted to go see Mother. I was left so alone.”

“What a tragedy.”

Jacaerys smiled. “I’ll go to Mother soon too. We like spending a little bit of time before supper together, and Father should be there with oh so many new tales.”

Aemond nodded, absentmindedly playing with Liora’s ears, and, without thinking, threw out, “I wish my mother liked me like that.”

Both of them stilled—Aemond at his own sudden lack of control, and Jacaerys likely at the sudden shift in atmosphere.

“Your mother loves you, Aemond,” Jace said uncertainly.

“No, she does not.” Aemond shook his head. “That’s alright. I think Rhaenyra and Harwin like me. It has to be enough. One day I will be enough for Mother too.”

Jacaerys stared at him, and something indescribably sad crossed his face. His voice broke when he whispered, “I don’t think that’s how love works.”

Aemond thought Jacaerys was surely mistaken. If this was not how love worked, then how? If love was something given freely from mother to child, then something was wrong in their family. Something was wrong with Aemond. He looked at Liora, feeling his heart swell. Did Mother feel anything like that when she looked at him, he wondered.

“Liora is a word, in the old tongue,” Aemond mumbled. “It means hope.”

Jacaerys blinked owlishly, unsure how to react.

“That’s a wonderful name,” he mumbled. “I like it.”

Aemond also liked it—the meaning behind it, how light it felt. More than anything, Aemond liked the surprise and pride on Harwin’s face when he first called Liora by her name.

A small head made its way under his palm, demanding scratches in one sweet spot next to the ears. Aemond obliged, feeling the heaviness bleed out of him.

“You have to go, Jace.”

“I can stay with the two of you until dinner.”

“No,” Aemond shook his head. “Go to your mother and father. They’ll be waiting for you. I’ll meet you at supper, yes?”

The boy hesitated, but the melancholy gripping Aemond was retreating by then, with the help of the loud and heavy weight on his stomach, and it must have been apparent from the outside too. Jacaerys stood up, dusted his breeches, and cast one last long look at the two of them.

“You know, Ser Harwin said Thranakk grow small horns eventually.”

“You jest!” Aemond huffed, feeling for the shape of the little skull.

“Jacaerys!” he screamed, alarmed upon feeling something pointy. “Was that a jest?”

On the last day of their little trip to welcome Prince Daemon, Aegon was pulled out of his much-deserved midday slumber by a pretty maid.

“My Prince. Prince Aegon?” she whispered, hovering somewhere nearby.

Aegon groaned, blinking tiredly and stretching his muscles. He missed the taverns of King’s Landing, and Harwin’s presence in those taverns specifically. In order to earn another one of those trips, he was tasked with attending the occasional morning training sessions and finishing a thick tome on Essosi history. Training felt like a chore, but the book turned out to be surprisingly well written.

Either way, his muscles still hurt from the day before, when he grew bold enough to challenge Ser Gyles Yronwood and got his pride crushed and handed to him on a silver platter, together with the pile of splinters that used to be his wooden sword. He hoped to go again today, but the man had been sent away on some errand from Rhaenyra.

There was an anxious squeak from the maid, who might have decided Aegon had fallen back asleep when he merely closed his eyes for a second. At least he thought it was merely a second.

“I’m awake,” he groaned. “What do you want?”

“My Prince, it is nearly supper time. Everyone is invited to sup together on your last day on Driftmark.”

Aegon hummed, rolling over just enough to finally see her. She was a pretty one, with long chestnut hair and long, slender fingers. Prettier than most of the girls he saw on the silk, for sure.

“My Prince?” the girl shuffled under his scrutiny.

He wondered, absently, if Harwin would truly show him how to go to the silk, as Rhaenyra assured, or claim Aegon to be too young. Not that Aegon couldn’t go himself, but he somehow thought that would disappoint both his sister and Harwin, and he did not wish to find out what their particular disappointment felt like. He got plenty enough of that from his mother and father.

After his and Helaena’s joint celebrations, perhaps, he would ask. Their name days were mere weeks apart and usually marked with a quiet celebratory dinner together. While Aegon had technically already turned three and ten, Helaena still had a few days to go.

The maid shuffled again, causing Aegon to finally sit up. “Alright,” he murmured. “Has anyone been sent to fetch Helaena yet?”

“I am to fetch her too, my Prince.”

“No need.” He yawned, stretching out as much as he could. “I will go get her.”

The girl nodded, taking a little step back.

“What is your name?” Aegon murmured.

“Corynne, my Prince.”

Aegon nodded. “Thank you, Corynne. You may go.”

The girl had a slightly dazed look about her as she curtsied and scurried out of the room, though she no longer looked oddly fidgety and uncomfortable, which was just as well. The words did not cost him anything, but somehow, everything felt warmer and brighter. Perhaps that was why Harwin behaved the way he did. There was something… satisfying about it.

Standing up slowly, he tried to unwrinkle his shirt as best he could. The fabric proved rather stubborn, so he decided to just throw the doublet on and pretend the wrinkles weren’t there.

Helaena’s rooms were further down the hall, and far too distant for Aegon’s aching legs. He shuffled slowly, thinking of the impending return to the merriments of the big city. Perhaps he would sneak away to a tavern on his own, just once, for a short while.

Engrossed in his thoughts, he pushed the door open without much care, and it swung as much as a heavy oak door could.

“Helaena, put away your—”

Aegon stopped.

The time stopped with him.

Helaena sat in a giant padded chair, her embroidery carelessly thrown onto the floor, in a way his sister never dared. By her side, kneeling, one hand on her thigh and the other gripping her forearm, sat Ser Meryn, her little Gold Cloak guard. The placement of his hands was odd, but that was not what caught Aegon’s attention.

No, it was Helaena herself—the terrified, wide eyes welling with tears, the angling of her body deeper into the chair, the slight tremble in her lips, and the free hand curled around her midsection.

He had seen that look before, in the serving girl that got touched and shoved around in a tavern, in the maids Lord Wylde pushed into dark corners to steal the sweetness of their lips. He had seen that look before—the hopelessness, the pure, unadulterated fear.

It was a fact of life. Something that happened and was not spoken of. It was not his responsibility to pay attention, so Aegon would turn his head and continue about his day. Just one of those things that happened to women, for them to deal with.

Not his responsibility.

Not his.

Helaena’s lips were red.

Red.

Fire ignited inside Aegon like never before. It burned through his veins, and he could almost feel Sunfyre fueling that very rage in the back of his mind. The world was still. The world went quiet. There was a fireplace, and a rake in it. The rake was suddenly in his hands.

Hit harder.

Helaena sat in the chair, covering her ears, face buried in her knees. Good.

Hit harder.

Do not step on embroidery.

There were screams, and the man was saying something. It sounded like pleading, like the sound Aegon expected dogs to make. The knight was bigger, tried to catch Aegon’s hands, but it was not Aegon assaulting him in that moment—it was something else entirely.

The man turned to flee, ran to the door, but could not pull it open in time.

Harder.

Hit harder.

The door was opening, and the rake was pulled out of his hands by someone. It didn’t matter, because he soon found himself reaching out with his bare hands. The urge he felt to hurt the knight was barely distinguishable from the fire spreading from Sunfyre, still in the back of his mind.

“Stop! Aegon! Stop! Enough!” Someone was shaking him, pulling him away.

Aegon fought, the world and time around him feeling viscous like honey. The words had meaning; there were more people, but he could not quite catch anything as his mind raced. Helaena. Serving girl. Maid. Helaena. Where was Helaena?

He managed to grasp onto enough of the situation to whip his head around to his little sister, still sitting on the chair. Baela was next to her, rambling something, but Helaena did not seem to listen. She stared at Aegon, mouthing something over and over again.

“Aegon! Aegon, listen to me.”

Aegon stared at Helaena. Daemon tried to shake the haze off Aegon. Baela was sitting next to Helaena. Rhaena stood in the corner of the room.

Helaena stared at Aegon. She kept mouthing the words. His sister kept mouthing the words.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you…

Daemon hauled him to the side, in Rhaena’s direction, turning to Helaena. There was an odd mixture of pain and guilt gripping his features, and Aegon tried to hold onto that, ground himself in the faces and expressions around him.

Rhaena pulled on his hand, hard, and he felt the reddish haze begin to recede. She dragged him toward the door, muttering something about the Queen.

His legs became a little wobbly, so he let the icy hands guide him outside. He focused on the light outside the room, on Helaena finally breaking into sobs behind him, on the oily feel of Rhaena’s black bracelets.

The door opened, and he was outside. His task, however, was void as he saw his mother rushing down the corridor. She slipped inside the room without so much as a glance at Aegon.

There were splatters of blood on his hands, some on the doublet and the shirt. Someone must have dragged Ser Meryn away, or perhaps he ran, but there were drops of blood on the floors too.

Father?

No.

Harwin.

He had to find Harwin and Rhaenyra.

To say she was angry would be an understatement. Alicent felt hot, like she was boiling alive, and it was not even the peak. She could feel just how much angrier she could possibly become; she still had the clarity of mind, and already it felt like she were taking a swim in the smoking sea.

Helaena pushed her away. Her own mother. With a terrified squeal, she pushed her away in favor of Daemon, of all people, and one of his girls. Beneath the mortification and embarrassment of being rejected like that by her own daughter, lay guilt.

It was her fault. Rhaenyra told her, but Alicent chose to ignore the warning. She chose to focus on the silly little letters and even sillier plans, convinced that it was merely another way for the princess to undermine her influence, to turn her children into hostages with a guard that would be loyal to the princess first and foremost.

She should have at least requested a second guard. It would be odd, but better than whatever ended up happening. It was her fault.

She stormed into Viserys’ rooms with one and only one purpose – a goal she thought would be rather easy to achieve – justice. She forgot who she was talking to, and that the essence in Viserys was the same as all those lowly men who liked to take what is not theirs. The only difference was Viserys had the power to make such conduct seem lawful.

She stormed in and told him everything she gleaned from the rambles and rumors, and the twins’ recounting. Viserys did not much care – he stayed hunched over a book, wholly disinterested. There was a raised eyebrow at the mention of Aegon beating the man bloody, but it was immediately followed by disappointment, not pride.

At the end of it all, he merely tapped his fingers on the table and said, “What do you want me to do?”

“To have him beheaded for his transgressions. I demand he be executed, Viserys.”

“Alicent, please, do not start stirring up trouble today of all days. This is unreasonable. I will send him back to the City Watch, and you will never see him again.”

“The City Watch? You would let him live, Viserys?” She paused, trying to push as much rage as she could into her voice. “No. Over my cold, dead body. I would not even agree if you offered to send him to the Wall, for he deserves much worse than that icy landscape for what he did.”

Viserys shook his head condescendingly. “He did nothing, Alicent. The words of an impressionable young boy hardly hold true weight in the circumstance. Helaena is fine. He did not undress her or even spend too long alone with her. Nothing bad could possibly happen.”

“Viserys—”

“How bad could a brief touch be? Aegon’s violent outburst is punishment enough for the knight, and I think we ought to dwell longer on that.”

Alicent thought it felt like cracking. The anger – it was breaking something deep inside her, slowly but surely. She did not want to lose her head, so she focused on how the curtain fluttered in the wind.

“Viserys,” she whispered, “Helaena is your daughter.”

“Yes,” Viserys shrugged, “She will be fine. Young ladies… you know how they get.”

The fire inside her was burning, and the curtains no longer looked all that interesting. If she turned to Viserys, she thought she might want to claw his eyes out. It felt like she was capable of ripping people apart with her bare hands. She wanted to.

She hoped Viserys would one day feel a fraction of the rage he poisoned her with.

The door behind her opened, but she focused on breathing, on calming the feelings that had recently become all too frequent and familiar.

“Father.” Princess Rhaenyra entered, quickly crossing the room. “Did you hear what happened?”

She was also angry. Raging inside, but trying her hardest to appear calm – the same way she used to when they were girls.

“Ah yes, my girl, Alicent was just telling me about it.”

She shifted her gaze, and the entire world reduced to Viserys. His dismissive little smile and hand affectionately patting his daughter’s arm. Alicent may be a bad parent, but Viserys was so much worse. He was disgusting.

“Allow me to handle the situation, stepmother.”

Again, Viserys turned to smile at his daughter, undoubtedly ready to praise the initiative, or the tone of her voice, or whatever else he saw as praiseworthy.

Alicent turned around and walked out of the room.

With small, measured steps, she strode to the nearby balcony. It felt like if she broke the pace, she would run and scream, until nothing was left but dust and wind.

When she finally stood there, leaning on the edge, watching the seagulls pass by and dive deep into the waters, still the anger remained somewhere deep inside.

Her role was to be a Queen. The role was to be pretty. Speak when spoken to, smile, obey your husband. It was easy. Obey your father. Obey your husband.

Women’s power is to be wielded from the man’s shadow only. It has to be your husband’s decision, your son’s decision, or even your brother’s. Never yours. Her mother taught her that when Alicent was but a girl. It was essential, she would say, that no one ever knows you have any power of your own. Women and power were anathema – it invited scorn, anger, and crime.

Her mother had never been exceptionally powerful. In fact, she was likely to fade into history soon enough, just as thousands of other ladies who achieved nothing but birthing children. Become merely a smudged name in a family tree.

Alicent wondered occasionally if her mother craved power in some way. If years of being denied that, or the understanding that she would never truly escape her husband’s shadow, relieved her of that foolish notion. Perhaps knowing and believing those little wisdoms was her way of convincing herself that the entire situation was her choice. That somehow, being forever in the shadow, disregarded and silent, was right.

Alicent thought she wielded power well too. Except it was never hers, was it? Always Viserys, Otto, Aegon. Never Alicent. Her name, her will, were so laughably easily broken. If she could not even punish the man who violated her own daughter, what kind of power was that?

She could only move as long as Viserys allowed her to. She had to be quick.

Alicent was hunched over the stone parapet of the balcony, looking more like a decrepit crone than the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. There was a certain heaviness to her presence; it filled the space around her in a way that even the vast sea in front of the balcony could not truly lift. The air rattled in her chest, as if she were a dying animal and not a healthy young woman.

“We have reached an agreement,” Rhaenyra said, leaning next to the woman. “Ser Meryn will be executed. Quietly. No one will know what he did.”

“Is this the best he would agree to?”

“It is for the best.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Rhaenyra shifted uncomfortably, twisting her rings. Alicent continued staring out at the vast sea.

Finally, the princess sighed, clasping her hands. “Father wished for it to be resolved quietly and did not mind execution as long as…”

“People stopped bothering him about such trivial matters.” Alicent nodded, an ugly scowl twisting her face for a brief moment. “What do you think he would have done if it were you and not Helaena?”

Rhaenyra frowned, opening her mouth and closing it again.

“No need to reply, princess. We both know exactly what would happen. What I wanted to know is who is going to do it?”

“…Ser Harwin.”

“Of course. Ser Harwin Strong, what a knight he is. Protector of the innocent,” Alicent laughed and was delighted to hear a sharp inhale behind her.

Wherever the princess went, Ser Harwin followed. It was his duty, after all. Alicent did not truly mean to make it sound as mocking as it did; in some way, she even meant what she said. Ser Harwin was disgustingly perfect, in a way that just about proved to everyone that good men existed. Reminding those more unfortunate that they had just been found unworthy of men like these.

Rhaenyra pushed away from the parapet, likely intending to leave.

“He raised young men well. Better than myself or Criston could ever have.” Alicent said, turning her head to look Rhaenyra in the eye, an unnaturally blank expression on her face. “You brought up good boys. Even after the war, your Aegon kept me alive and cared for. As much as was possible, in any case. Defied my expectations, that one.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. “Not skirting around the truth anymore?”

“What use is there? We both know what we are, we both know what is to come. I feel this is a time and place to end this farce.”

“So, what, are we going to work together? Make sure no one dies in a needless war?”

“You want me to help you secure the throne, little princess? Would you trust me to keep your little secrets and always be on your side?” Alicent asked mockingly, receiving a long, cold look in response. If there existed the opposite of trust, this was undoubtedly it.

Alicent let out a dark chuckle, turning away once more. “Exactly. And I would never trust you. It seems we must chart our own way through these things. Hope to not sink each other in the process.”

There was heavy silence, interrupted only by Rhaenyra’s heavy breathing. The princess swayed on her feet, perhaps contemplating leaving, before tensing once more.

“Do you think there was ever a moment when we could have been family?” she whispered. “Did our youth ever matter – our time together? Could we ever live without trying to get at each other’s throats?”

“No.” Alicent shot back. “My sons’ very existence makes it impossible. I would never trust you to put their lives over the position of yours. Nor do I expect you to, truly.”

“Surely we used to be closer than whatever distance your marriage put between us. Gods above, we grew up together, did we not?”

Alicent refused to look at Rhaenyra, instead tracing her fingers gently along the stony parapet she was leaning on. There was a blankness to her, a fatigued exhaustion.

“I never liked you,” the Queen shrugged. “I liked the position of the Princess’ closest confidante.”

“You are lying to yourself. We both know it.”

“Perhaps I am. I guess we will never know.” Alicent said.

And if she had to push away the memories of long walks and midday cakes, no one would know. No one would even know of that one sinful dream that invaded her mind with alarming frequency in those days. Of her and Rhaenyra standing in front of the crowd, exchanging vows under the warm glow of the morning sun.

“This is my fault; I hold no delusions in that regard. I should have listened to you. I thought I would do things differently this time, but I keep making the same mistakes again and again.”

The princess did not reply.

“I will not attempt to crown Aegon. That is the only reassurance I can give you. He will marry a northerner, and his new family would not even think of crowning him.”

“Northerners also have a very strict honor code. If I were to kill Aegon, now one of their own, or attempt it, it would be as good as declaring war. Well… perhaps not a violent conflict, but I am sure not to like the consequences.”

“A perfect stalemate. Beautiful, is it not?”

“And your other children?”

“Will be protected. It is none of your concern.”

“Will be maneuvered and used to further ensure I may never move against Aegon or his brothers.”

“That’s what I said.”

The Queen straightened out, slowly and with a wheezy shallow breath. Out of habit more than need, she dusted off her sleeves and the front of the gown that was touching the stones.

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra murmured next to her. “Are you alright?”

No.

Alicent turned around and left, casting a final look at Rhaenyra and Harwin, quietly lingering in the shadows of his princess.

Silence became her second nature so long ago that, at times, it was impossible to shake off the need to step a certain way, enter rooms without being noticed. She did not do it on purpose, but still managed to enter Rhaenyra’s lavish chambers without a sound.

The woman sat on the sofa, clearly busy with something on her knees. There was a rhythmic motion, a bobbing of her head, and a satisfied hum every now and then. In front of her, on a low table, lay a plate of simple cakes, several goblets, and a pitcher likely filled with wine.

In the shiny side of that ordinary metal object, Rhaenyra’s reflection practically shone. As ethereal as the princess was whenever Mysaria laid her eyes upon her, there was something in that reflection that sucked her in and would not let go. Rhaenyra looked unreal—like a distant dream, a mere hopeful imagining that would eventually fade into cold reality. And perhaps, it would.

The items around them were so permanent, destined to serve for generations, be reused, molten down, or rest in soil after their time, untouched. The people—so fragile and fleeting, moments like these even more so. Time would crumble all of them into dust, and yet Mysaria wished only to spend a little longer in this room.

Rhaenyra was embroidering a blanket, with peace rarely, if ever, seen on her face.

If only Mysaria could imprint this exact moment onto something—the methodical movement of Rhaenyra’s arm as the needle weaved its way through the cloth, the soft fabric her fingers tenderly held, the slight flush of her cheeks from the sweet Arbor red she so preferred.

She waited for Rhaenyra to finish, a soft, satisfied hum spilling like music from her lips before making a sound. Rhaenyra turned, her expression perhaps a little more thunderous than in the small reflection, and motioned for Mysaria to sit close.

As she approached, several things became apparent—the tension in Rhaenyra’s shoulders, the pile of papers torn and in a little heap next to her legs, and a somewhat overbearing smell of alcohol. The woman was not drunk, exactly, but more under the influence than Mysaria had ever seen her, and certainly approaching the limit Maesters usually set for women carrying.

Helaena...

Mysaria may not know exactly what had happened, but the tidbits she’d gotten were enough to expect Rhaenyra to be in a much less peaceful state. Perhaps she would have been, if not for all the drink in her belly.

Reluctant to ruin the hard-earned calm and distress Rhaenyra, Mysaria said nothing as she sat down and took a goblet poured by Rhaenyra’s own hand. Instead, she took to examining the piece of cloth on Rhaenyra’s lap. As much as Rhaenyra disliked “womanly pursuits,” she clearly excelled at them. Embroidery, while simple, was clearly a well-honed skill.

Mysaria was entirely unsurprised to find more than one white chrysanthemum, carefully stitched to look alive. Spider lilies were the ones that attracted her attention, along with the bright yellow gerberas. Somehow, the combination of the three into an intricate pattern made the blanket truly come alive.

The sharp needle shone in the light as Rhaenyra returned to her work, using it with precision and intense concentration. Mysaria felt almost guilty at interrupting the work and contemplated finishing the goblet and quickly slipping back out of the room.

“Embroidery calms me,” Rhaenyra said, before Mysaria could take another rushed sip. “Today was an odd day, was it not?”

“It was,” Mysaria nodded. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

Rhaenyra stilled, for just a moment, until the methodical movement of her hand resumed.

“Not right now,” she murmured. “Better… tell me about your girls?”

“Hm?”

“The ones living at your brothel. Tell me about them?”

Mysaria stilled, an odd feeling blooming in her chest. “Why all of a sudden?”

“You raised Mirri and Gilla, did you not?” Rhaenyra shrugged. “For better or worse, those women were your family for a very long time. I simply want to know more about you and those you hold dear.”

Oh.

Warmth started pooling in her limbs, and an odd feeling grew into the need to squeeze Rhaenyra tight.

“I…” She wet her lips. “Most of them I could truly regard as my sisters. I have known Jessa since my first day at the old brothel, and Gertrude nursed me back to health after my… after I received my scars. The others came along later. Some as older girls, some as babes fresh out of the womb.”

“Gilla…” Rhaenyra murmured.

“Yes. I found her when she was a few days old. In King’s Landing, when a family has no means to feed another babe, or when a bastard is born, they sometimes just leave it out in the street. Most die, but some get picked up. Gilla was left right outside the Silk. I almost stepped on her when walking back home. I looked at that squealing thing, with a little puff of red hair atop her head, and knew I would not leave her there. Ended up dragging her to the Madame I worked for back then, begging for a place for her to stay.”

“Did she?”

“She did not. That was almost a year after my little trip with Daemon, and I had some savings—both from him and my freshly blooming secret trade. Gilla ended up being the reason I finally had enough of my old life. I ended up taking her, the girls who were not bound to the house, and finally doing something useful with the money. We got a small house first, then a much larger one where everyone is settled now.”

Rhaenyra nodded, changing the thread color while Mysaria sipped her wine.

“It must be so odd, seeing her all grown up like that,” the princess said.

“You could say that. Gilla was not my child; however, she was everyone’s child. She belonged to every one of us girls back then—we looked after her, fed her, clothed her, and rocked her to sleep. It is only myself, Jessa, and Gerty remaining now.” Mysaria paused for a second, collecting her thoughts and causing Rhaenyra to glance up. “You know, Mirri is the one closest to being my own daughter. She was barely two when I found her, sitting on the doorstep of her own house. Her parents died inside, and she spent days waiting for them to wake up. How she managed to eventually unlatch the door and step out, I have very little idea.”

“How did you even stumble upon her?”

“I knew her mother. She was…” Mysaria bit her lip, unable to force the words out. Hurriedly, she finished, “I knew her mother, so taking Mirri was not a question. I had to take care of her.”

Rhaenyra was staring at her now, with an unreadable expression. “I know you did well,” she murmured hesitantly.

Mysaria nodded, wishing to accept the comment and move on. She stared back at Rhaenyra, at the pretty embroidered gown and the rings adorning her fingers. She smiled sadly. “I am grateful, you know. For you sending her away to become a Lady. Even if it was necessary for our cause, and not done out of any selfless reason, she will live a long life full of luxury. Not many children of Flea Bottom achieve that.”

“I know.” Rhaenyra smiled. “Gilla is excited to meet her once she comes back, you know?”

“I would expect so. They have been practically inseparable for years. They call each other sister, too.”

“Your girl talked my ears off about Mirri, truly,” Rhaenyra chuckled. “I meant it. You raised them well; they are smart, loyal, and brave girls.”

Mysaria merely nodded once again, thoughts elsewhere already, focused on the people and their benefits. “Perhaps I can do even more now. Find more children on the streets, give them purpose—teach them to be spies, warriors, servants. They could be fed, healthy, and useful to you.”

“I think that is a wonderful idea,” Rhaenyra hummed, finally finishing the flower she was working on, and gently folding the blanket.

Her fingers trailed over the fabric briefly, gently, as if she were imagining little Joffrey already sleeping in it. After another minute, she finally placed it next to her and reached for the small cup—filled with sweet juice, if the smell was anything to go by. After a sip, her undivided attention was once again on Mysaria.

“Which reminds me,” Rhaenyra said. “I think it is time we invited some more girls for my lady-in-waiting positions. A family from the Reach would do well, don’t you think?”

“Depending on the family, it will surely be of benefit. However, I think you ought to consult more people regarding this.”

“I am not sure whose advice would be better than yours.”

“Some noble Lord or Lady’s,” Mysaria shrugged. “Do not overestimate me, Rhaenyra. Certain sides of politics and power are simply unknown and inaccessible for me. The secrets, the spies, the rumors, betrothals, and killings—those are easy and incredibly useful in the right circumstances. But, unlike you, I have never been taught the names and territories of every house in the realm; I have never been taught the familial relationships and histories spanning centuries. Some things I will overlook out of ignorance, and Harwin might be a better person for making sure you do not accidentally cause a scandal.”

Rhaenyra simply chuckled. “Harwin and politics are somewhat of an anathema, I am afraid. He does not do well with all of… that. Too blunt, too honest. Though, I cannot underestimate how good of a judge of character my man is. I would prefer him to meet all the candidates, even just in passing.”

Mysaria felt her lips quirk up at how easily the words “my man” left Rhaenyra’s lips. It did something to her, made her heart flutter—sensing the absolute trust, even in small, negligible details like these. People did not usually trust Mysaria, but Rhaenyra did.

She hid her smile in the goblet, merely pointing out, “Knowing our strengths and flaws, is it not the best we can hope for?”

Rhaenyra smiled, and her hand drifted marginally closer to Mysaria’s.

Harwin knocked quickly and slipped into Rhaenyra’s chambers before anyone else could see him in the corridor next to the door he was not supposed to visit at this hour and during his time off duty. Upon entering, there was, once again, a rush of activity as Rhaenyra hastily jumped away from where she had been leaning over Mysaria.

The women’s desperate attempts to right themselves and their clothes almost made him laugh out loud, especially considering just how incriminating the bashful look on Rhaenyra’s face and the angry redness of Mysaria’s lips were.

Harwin wondered, absently, if those forgotten little cakes ever stood a chance of being devoured with a fraction of the ferocity that undoubtedly gripped Rhaenyra before he walked in.

“I did kno-” he started.

“Oh, be quiet and come here,” Rhaenyra snapped.

Harwin found himself unable to resist a chuckle at how quickly she turned from bashful and flustered to frustrated and hungry. Not for the cakes, that is. Mysaria was blinking away the haze, and it was a pleasant surprise to see her calmly meet his eyes instead of hiding or looking away. He even thought there was a hint of mischievous pleasure in her eyes, but it was more likely wishful thinking.

The man settled gently on the other side from Rhaenyra, immediately drawing her close and leaving a possessive little kiss on the bare part of her neck.

Their princess blushed, shifting ever so slightly where she sat.

“I’ll admit, ladies, this is a dangerous situation I keep catching you in. One day, I might join,” he murmured.

Mysaria’s eyes widened in alarm and confusion, while Rhaenyra slapped his shoulder before shuffling away and occupying herself with filling yet another empty goblet. The goblet he gratefully accepted and took a gulp from.

Harwin’s ladies had been steadily growing obsessed with the feel of one another, with the soft touches they shared whenever possible, and the warm glances from opposite sides of the room. Their newfound closeness amused Harwin to no end. He expected them, after a rather compromising situation some days ago, to suddenly return to interacting only when necessary, sitting in opposite corners of the room with a false officiality.

The distance did not make another appearance. Whether it was Harwin’s acceptance or something else, it made them confident enough to slowly explore the budding affection. Even if Mysaria still cast Harwin somewhat worried glances, most of the time, she was happy to cling to the princess and openly cherish her presence.

They began talking, Rhaenyra explaining something to Mysaria about the Northern houses and their history. Harwin listened and watched.

He had been watching them ever since the day they visited the beach together. The women took to each other fast, and became insatiable despite the efforts, on both sides, to suppress part of it. They took to each other like they were destined to be together, like twin flames. In addition to affection and attraction, there was hunger, the likes of which could rarely be awakened in Targaryens by non-Targaryens.

There was no need for him to continue this, he supposed. Not since they intended to leave for King’s Landing on the morrow. During one of the brief pauses in the conversation, he chimed in.

“Mysaria,” he called calmly, “How is the wine? It’s Rhaenyra’s favorite.”

Mysaria nodded, relaxed. “Very fruity. Nice and sweet, with undertones I rarely taste in wines.”

He hummed. “Did you ever try Arbor gold before?”

“Yes, but it must have been different quality,” she mused, swirling the drink. “Didn’t taste quite the same.”

Rhaenyra was staring at him oddly, but he ignored it, instead watching Mysaria intently. “Did you begin to taste things differently after you returned?”

Mysaria stilled, muscles tensing. Rhaenyra looked between the two of them, now genuinely confused.

“I… Just a little bit, I suppose. The tastes are more defined, but I did become much younger too.”

“Not too much younger,” Harwin shook his head briefly. “And your sense of smell also happened to become much sharper?”

And there it was – the stubborn set of the jaw, the squaring of the shoulders. She knew, because of course, she would. The changes in one’s own body are always easy to detect. She must have felt something different but did not want to dwell on it.

It was always hard to accept the changes in oneself. There were things that felt better ignored, hidden away. Mysaria likely wished to do just that, bury the changes deep so she wouldn’t have to think of them, or what they would mean.

“No,” she whispered. “It’s truly nothing much.”

Everyone heard it for the lie it was.

Harwin’s lips pursed. “You smell things, things you ought not be able to smell. Things I do not smell.”

“That cannot be true,” Mysaria shook her head, looking away.

Harwin did not allow his own eyes to leave her face. “Did you not tell us what your room smelled like after Gyles left you a note? Or the odd scent in Addam’s house? Or the way you agreed with Rhaenyra on the assessment of Silverwing?”

“Silverwing had a strong smell,” she snapped. “Like all dragons.”

“Not to me, she didn’t.”

“So what are you saying? My return gave me the ability to smell better? What of it?” Mysaria stood up, prompting Rhaenyra and Harwin to do the same.

As Mysaria began pacing, Harwin felt compelled to move between her and the door. He did not know how Mysaria would react to a stressful situation, but he usually ran, so being a precautionary guard was best. Next to him, understanding finally began spreading across Rhaenyra’s face. It was not quite yet the shock he expected, but the mosaic was slowly piecing itself together.

Harwin turned back to Mysaria, his voice softening. “Your return did a lot more than just that.”

“Please, stop,” she mumbled, rubbing at her temples.

“When you said no one could sneak up on you like that lately, did you mean since you returned?” Harwin pressed.

“Yes, but I’m just overly cautious.”

“Are you, or are all your senses sharper? Never mind that, we should have realized the first time we all met together – the tea you two drank would have caused everyone but Targaryens to lose their tongues.”

“You can’t claim…”

“Ria…” Rhaenyra’s soft voice interrupted them. “Give me your hand.”

Hesitantly, Mysaria walked closer to them, reached out, and gently clasped the offered palm.

“You are warm. How could I not notice?” Rhaenyra mused. “Not cold like Harwin and the others, but warm. Like Father and my children, like my siblings.”

Rhaenyra leaned in suddenly, nose burying in Mysaria’s throat for a brief second. When she stepped back, before Mysaria even reacted, there was a small smile on her face.

“You smell Targaryen,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Not from me, no scent could hold that long. From yourself. Whatever… Whoever brought you back... they made you Targaryen.”

“Her and Alicent too,” added Harwin.

Evidently, that was just a little too much, for he saw her sway for a brief moment before having to catch her now unconscious body. Immediately, he hoisted her up, head rolling onto his shoulder. Rhaenyra was quiet and contemplative next to him, more so than he would have preferred.

“Rhaenyra?” he called, walking over to the sofa. “How angry do you think she will be if I jest about a lady in distress?”

There was a snort behind him, an entirely un-princesslike sound Rhaenyra only ever made in his presence. “Not angry enough to stop you from doing it.”

Harwin made sure to move a pillow under Mysaria’s head, righted her dress, and stepped away. Rhaenyra sat down next to her, only marginally closer than would be seen as acceptable in polite society.

“Do you think Alicent knows?” he asked.

“I doubt it. We are not able to smell ourselves, and she does not seem to like touch nearly enough to notice oddities.” Rhaenyra shrugged.

“If she is what she is, you do understand we need to go to Dragonstone? Check if we are right, at the very least,” Harwin said.

Silence hung heavy with exhaustion they both felt as Rhaenyra contemplated.

“I understand,” she finally nodded. “I will talk to Father.”

Harwin approached, only to briefly kiss her knuckles. On Driftmark, he could not be missing for too long – it was time to leave. Just before he gripped the handle to pull the door open, Rhaenyra’s voice stopped him.

“Did you figure out anything else?”

He turned to see her, without suspicion or cold calculation, just simple curiosity. Adding as much sincerity as he could, he shook his head.

“No.”

Harwin left the room.

He did not know he was that good at lying.

“Rhaenyra?” Aegon called out. “What? Where?”

Aemond cast a confused look at Jace, the boy shamelessly grinning behind his mother. Luke giggled, grabbing Aegon and beginning to pull him along the ramp to the ship they most definitely did not sail here on. Helaena squeezed Liora in her arms, huddling closer to Aemond and into his comforting embrace.

The King and Queen had bid them farewell earlier, but the children were truly far too close to sleeping to recognize it as such. Now, the ships carrying most of the household sailed away, leaving the siblings with Rhaenyra, Harwin, Laena, and the other children.

Rhaenyra smiled. “We will be taking a short detour to Dragonstone.”

The twins beamed.

Chapter Text

One would think it goes away.

The terror, the heat, the suffocating feeling of helplessness.

One would think it is easy to keep going.

It is merely a touch, after all, merely a kiss. Nothing a young maid should be overly worried about. Nothing happened, she kept repeating to herself. Nothing happened. It rang in her head like a mantra, while her skin burned, while something crawled on it.

Nothing happened.

It makes one think they are overreacting. Stop being so weak, Helaena told herself. She had seen things much worse in her dreams, had seen suffering and agony, pain and death. She had dreamt of flames engulfing and eating people alive, of blood flushing a tiny body onto the sheets, and pained whimpers descending into eternal silence, of daggers piercing chests and poisoned cups on jolly, embroidered cloths.

He merely told her to sit. He merely kept her in her seat while his hands and lips wandered in places they ought not to wander. How bad could it possibly be?

And yet, she still felt the heat of his breath, the cold, clammy fingers gripping her, the lips that reeked of chewing herbs ever so popular in the brothels and taverns. It made her feel so very filthy.

She tried to stand up, but he bracketed her in the seat. He sat down before her, in a gesture she had found ever so soothing in other people, but now it looked acutely predatory. He did not do it to calm her or defer to her—he did not look safe. He looked ready to pounce, to attack. There was a man in the position where any one of her movements could be intercepted. They both knew it, and much to Helaena’s horror, she felt her body freeze.

It felt like the very fingers that had skillfully weaved a needle just a minute before had now become a single unmovable slab of granite. Her legs shook, and yet she could not shift them from where they pressed against the chair. And the eyes… She was staring at him, some wild instinct causing her to look right into the dilated pupils of the man before her. She could not close them.

He did not ask. Helaena did not believe he even thought of it. She thought, perhaps, that he saw her eventual compliance, the cessation of those desperate attempts to stand up, as evidence of acquiescence. Did it truly matter?

He was the one who threw the embroidery off her lap, and no matter how hard she strained her mind, the events after were a blur. She could not move, could not remember much until the moment she finally registered the tears streaming down her cheeks, Rhaena’s cold presence, Baela’s careful touch, Daemon’s piercing gaze, and Aegon… Her brother, bloodied, with a fire in his eyes the sort of which she had never seen before, not even in her worst nightmares.

It did not go away.

Not the next morning, as she nibbled on the fruits Baela kept slipping onto her plate. Not even in the hours of the agonizingly slow voyage, when Rhaenyra and Harwin murmured gentle words and tried to distract her. Not when Ser Gyles Yronwood carefully escorted her to the castle, some paces behind Lady Laena and her girls.

She could feel their eyes on her.

What did they think? Did they also think her weak? Did they think she was overreacting? Nothing happened, after all.

Did they think her dirty?

The large library did not appeal to her, though she did take a single book. It was in Valyrian, and Helaena did not truly know what it said on the cover, but it had a bright iridescent spine and pleasantly sweet-smelling pages. Aegon was already staring out the window by then, sitting in one of those reading nooks and lost in whatever had taken hold of him since Helaena had last seen him.

Helaena knew she ought to thank him.

The words twisted and bled somewhere deep within her.

She turned around and left.

There were always prickles at the back of his mind. It felt almost instinctive to keep track of all the potential assailants, of those whose gaze lingered on them longer than was appropriate. Most of the time, there was nothing to worry about. Sometimes, he noticed things, like when a cloaked woman watched the blazing tavern from deep within the dark alleyway, and it led him to larger discoveries.

It was still odd, at times, to see Mysaria and Rhaenyra together. They were cloaked, for even Dragonstone would be better left without gossip, but so were most of the people around them. A small part of the city, the only one on the island, attracted all kinds of people, and no one would bat an eye at three mysterious figures walking around—not like they would in a nosy Hull.

“Daemon must be trying out every young whore in King’s Landing by now,” Mysaria sighed, glancing at the brothel they passed by. “I should have left instructions for someone to watch him. See what kinds of… delicacies… he prefers now.”

“Delicacies,” Harwin snickered under his breath.

“That would be futile. The man does not have refined taste. I’m sure he doesn’t even care if he gets to spend his time with a pretty boy instead of a charming maid,” Rhaenyra muttered, half to herself.

Harwin shrugged, unbothered. “I know, Ladies. Trust me, I know.”

Both of them whipped their heads around to stare. Harwin felt his lips rise in what undoubtedly looked like a smug little smile. Rhaenyra blinked and must have come to a terrifying conclusion, for she took a step toward him, eyes wide.

“You… Daemon?” she whispered.

Harwin let a dramatic pause stretch before nodding. “There was an offer.”

Mysaria pressed her lips together, clearly trying to control her glee as the absurdity of the situation sank in. Rhaenyra continued staring, her eyes wide, until finally, her lips became similarly pressed in the struggle to maintain composure.

“So…” Rhaenyra whispered. “Are you saying we formed a Daemon-rejection alliance? That he gets to see… this?”

Mysaria huffed. Rhaenyra turned to look her in the eye. They managed to keep serious eye contact for perhaps ten seconds, neither wanting to be the one to break the silence, before the half-choked snort from Harwin made them both explode into carefree laughter.

They continued walking, Rhaenyra still snickering under her breath from time to time. Slowly, they made their way past the streets and alleys filled to the brim. As in any city, children ran underfoot, common folk laughed and wandered about, and drunks spilled out of the tavern onto the streets. Harwin watched, more out of instinct than necessity, and the prickles at the back of his mind only ever intensified when he saw small shadows dance under people’s feet.

Harwin knew they were here for more than just leisure. He knew it was only to lure Silverwing onto the island, to check if their assessment was correct, but he could not help feeling like the day was simply theirs to enjoy. After all, they could be sitting in the castle right now. It was only on Rhaenyra’s insistence and flimsy arguments about non-existent dragon bonds that they decided being in an open space would speed up the process.

Rhaenyra could not help but buy a couple of trinkets from traveling merchants, a jade pendant she presented immediately to Mysaria, much to the other woman’s surprise. They continued walking, now in search of something sweet to fill their bellies.

And then he felt it—likely before Mysaria even did herself. Her body stiffened, she swayed slightly into Rhaenyra, and there was a subtle way her head tilted, as if listening to something. The calm was gone in an instant, and Harwin whipped his head around to search for whatever it was that had affected her.

She stopped. Rhaenyra noticed and turned to watch her. Harwin could see, out of the corner of his eye, the way Mysaria shifted from leg to leg, as if getting ready to run.

“Ria?” Rhaenyra whispered.

Mysaria had no time to explain or even open her mouth before Harwin heard it—the unmistakable crack of a whip in the air, the sharp click of it hitting something or someone. It was this sound that made the woman lose all remaining color in her face and violently clasp her hands over her ears.

Oh.

Harwin swore under his breath, the familiar rage briefly engulfing him, even though no enemy was around. Rhaenyra shifted, clearly catching onto the situation, and stepped to stand between Mysaria and where they believed the sound was originating. Mysaria herself looked entranced, still gripping her head, beginning to sway lightly in place.

“Rhae,” he called in a low, raspy voice. “I think we’re done here.”

Rhaenyra nodded, gripping Mysaria’s elbow to gently guide her away and into the long alleyways. There was a carriage on the outskirts of town, padded with velvet cushions onto which the princess carefully deposited the trembling woman. Harwin stood outside while they talked in hushed whispers.

On the horizon, a large grey figure was approaching. They succeeded.

Driftmark, an island filled with vastly overpopulated areas and dangerous rocky beaches, offered the children—and Liora, by extension—little room for running and exploring.

There was a healthy number of tiny gardens and windy balconies, of course, but venturing outside the gates to explore more was a nearly impossible feat.

So, upon first stepping onto the still and deserted Dragonstone, Aemond knew he would use the day to the fullest. In King’s Landing, Father was likely to put Liora in the kennels, so she ought to enjoy as much freedom as she could for now. He sought leave from his sister, of course, receiving an embrace for something as simple as being considerate of an adult’s opinion.

Dragonstone was safe, and everyone was distracted enough to let him run off with one gruff guard. Liora, jittery and eager from the hours she had spent unmoving on Helaena’s trembling lap, shot out of his arms and into the grass the moment Aemond found a nice spot in the fields.

The knight—one whose name and birth house Aemond cared not to remember—was now referred to as Valeman in his head. He stood rigidly some steps behind Aemond, who took it upon himself to roll in the grass and enjoy the feeling of the bright morning sun. There would be dirt on his clothes, straw and bugs in his hair, but he could not bring himself to care much.

Aemond just stayed there and wondered if this could last forever. There was no reason for the day to be any different from a hundred others—no grand revelation, not a celebration of any sort—and yet it felt special.

Was it the influence of this giant rocky island, some ancient magic they did not truly understand and never could? Regardless of the reason, this place felt like home, and Aemond was, perhaps for the first time in his life, simply happy to be. To exist in the moment, knowing his siblings had the protection of his sister, knowing he had it too.

It was one thing to be told they mattered; it was another entirely to feel the pressure of warm hands on your back, the gentle touch on your cheek, or even simply the soft gaze watching over you. What was truly astonishing, however, was the care he had seen afforded to Helaena.

He had not known what happened, uncaring of the whispers around the hallways until the morning meal, when he could no longer ignore how pale and scared his little sister looked. Not once did it cross his mind that it was their sister’s doing. He had not even considered it to be the amusing little bastards’ fault or that of Ser Harwin. No, the blame first turned to his mother, staring unblinking at her plate, and Father, loudly discussing wines and horses with a very flustered and obviously hungover Laenor. If it were not for the haunted expression in Aegon’s eyes, Aemond would have considered his involvement too.

It felt strange, for a brief moment, not to blame Rhaenyra or Harwin, to turn his gaze instead to the slowly decaying King.

He needed no full understanding of what had happened to know what to do. Helaena did not like touch, and yet, the moment they left the dining table and he approached, her soft skin pressed into his, and he had no choice but to squeeze her trembling shoulders closer, wrap his hands around her, and let her fingers squeeze at anything she desired. Liora, the unruly beast, was soon licking and wagging her long tail at Helaena, eventually settling in her arms. The pup had been ready to bite Aegon’s fingers off recently, but now she nearly fell asleep in little Helaena’s embrace.

Burying the brief flash of jealousy, Aemond decided to stay close if his sister needed him. It was on the ship that the truth was finally revealed to him, in the face of Ser Harwin, who led him to what looked like a storage room and sat him down on a dusty, rattling box.

Appraising eyes never left Aemond as the knight masterfully navigated the conversation from explaining power imbalances to vaguely referencing what a sexual act was, to finally giving a long lecture about what unwanted attentions looked like and why it was beastly and disgraceful for any man to even think of.

He spoke of behaviors that were inexcusable, without ever directly describing them, of things no one had the right to do, regardless of how much ale they drank. He talked of the importance of hearing yes whenever one did something that could be even marginally uncomfortable for the other person.

Somewhere between the man sternly telling Aemond to never dare do something beastly like that and explaining how much damage it could do, the subtle language and implications started piecing themselves together into a reasonable suspicion. The image formed into something terrifying.

Harwin stopped when he saw Aemond was no longer listening. Or maybe he did not. Aemond could not say for sure—there was a buzzing sound in his ears that did not let go for a while. Eventually, the man simply sat next to Aemond, answering questions, no longer dancing around the blunt details the boy demanded with his pointed phrasing.

It was hard to explain what he felt exactly, what the very idea of Helaena suffering like that made him feel. He had never bothered to see, to notice anything wrong with the girls around him. He had never bothered to look at the suspiciously absent Ser Meryn with anything but the respect a little boy gave to a seasoned and powerful knight.

Meryn was strong. No. Meryn was weak. If there was anything Aemond learned from Harwin, it was that weak people were the ones who needed violence to feel powerful. If he understood a single thing from this entire conversation, it was that no man confident in himself would ever need to resort to forcing another. Especially not to forcing himself on a girl barely on her way to becoming a woman.

Aemond seethed inside, more so than he usually did, fists clenching at his sides, imagining all the things that had happened—and could have happened if someone had not stopped them.

Justice had been enacted, Harwin assured him. Aemond could do nothing but imagine Harwin’s hands dripping red with Ser Meryn’s blood, because if Aemond knew one thing about Harwin, it was that the man would do it himself—would become the last face Helaena’s assailant saw in his miserable life.

Aemond sat there after their conversation, head still ringing, and watched as his sister struggled throughout the short voyage. The way everyone behaved around Helaena was the one truly eye-opening experience. Rhaenyra barely left their side, speaking softly and offering whatever the little girl desired to have or hold. Ser Harwin stayed away, sulking in the corners of the big cabin, a steady presence clearly reluctant to crowd or cage them in. Nevertheless, he would offer a myriad of reassuring nods, glances, and gentle smiles whenever their eyes fell on him.

It was real, Aemond realized with a start. The care they held for him and his siblings must have been real. Why else would they entertain them for so long? Why else would their touches be so soft? They were there despite how boring and fragile Helaena was being. They were there despite how useless Aemond had proved himself to be time and time again.

Now, lying in the dry, yellowed grass, he thought not of what had happened to Helaena—for he swore it would never happen again—but of how his life had suddenly become one filled with people who, in some entirely unimaginable way, liked him and his siblings. Cared for them.

He wished to stay in this somewhat unimportant and not exactly happy day, to feel the sun, the warm breeze. It was full, and it was real—a day that did not leave Aemond craving anything other than what he had in the moment. An understanding of their importance to Rhaenyra and Harwin, the protection of the man standing next to him, and a puppy squealing and yapping as she ran around him.

“My prince?” A voice pulled him out of his thoughts, and he hummed. “I think your… little beast is running away.”

“She won’t run away, Ser.” Aemond rolled his eyes half-heartedly, slowly moving to pull himself into a sitting position.

In the distance, the black zap of fur was indeed running—not away, but into the cave entrance Aemond had failed to note before choosing the spot.

He sighed, letting his head fall back momentarily, before standing up and dusting off his breeches. The cave was not far, and he walked leisurely, enjoying the way his muscles warmed and stretched.

“My Prince, perhaps I should call…”

“No need,” Aemond cut in, coming to a stop before the wide entrance. The air was humid and chilly, washing over him. “There is barely any airflow—it’s not a cave system, likely just a set of small caverns. Wait here, Ser. I do not need you breathing down my back and scaring Liora.”

Aemond knew Targaryens were slightly better at sensing things—it was not exactly hard to notice when raised by an Andal mother. Aegon was always good with sounds, able to hear better than any of his siblings. Rhaenyra seemed obsessed with smells, perhaps more so than other Targaryens, or maybe it was just a lady thing—Helaena also liked smells, after all. Aemond took pride in his eyesight. It wasn’t that he could necessarily see much farther, but in the darkest of nights, he would not be the one bumping into walls or knocking things over.

He used to like the dark a little more before whatever had given them a spook on Driftmark. Several deep breaths later, he noted that there was no menacing green glow or shadows swallowing his feet. Instead, there was stillness, dust suspended in the air.

He called out to Liora, carefully exploring the space. There was a chamber to the right—quiet and empty—another tunnel that seemed to be blocked by heavy stones, and another chamber. He had to wander back to the entrance more than once, exploring the little spaces littered around and finding them disturbingly empty and, as he already suspected, isolated from any greater cave system.

The last tunnel, the largest one, sloped down and led to a long, thin chamber with spiky stones protruding from the ceiling and the floor. He smelled the beast before seeing it—the space reeked of it. There was an unmistakable tinge of sulfur and smoke, the scent of a healthy young dragon.

Dull grey scales, a bony and thin bodice, an endless number of little scars—none of it made the dragon look all that threatening. What made him threatening were the long, fang-like teeth and the sharp spikes lining his spine, more than Aemond had ever seen on any other dragon.

And Liora… The foolish pup was cowering, cornered in one of the little alcoves, her whining picking up in volume as she spotted him.

The dragon stared at them both—not exactly hostile but clearly unhappy about the disturbance, if the shuffling and shifting was anything to go by. Aemond’s hands shook as he forced himself to stay still, to think of the best way to avoid angering the beast while also getting his little beast to safety.

When Liora, clearly impatient, let out a loud, squeaky yap, she drew not only Aemond’s full attention but also the dragon’s, who angled its whole body as if ready to stalk toward the disturbance. All the carefully crafted plans had to be discarded as pure terror rushed through Aemond’s veins, prompting him to move—and move fast.

Liora was his—his responsibility, his companion, his friend, and a gift from Rhaenyra and Harwin. He would rather fight the dragon himself than let something happen to her.

It was all a blur—running past the scaly body, yanking her up to his chest, only to turn around and rush out of the cave. The scalding heat of the scales he brushed against almost made him falter, but he had to get Liora to safety.

They were halfway through the field, the Valeman confused and hot on his heels, when Aemond finally looked back. In the cave entrance, two large orange orbs glowed. Their eyes met.

And in the back of his head, something warm burst into being.

Cold water felt nice on her face. Harwin’s presence did too, in a similar way—refreshing, calming, grounding. They were lounging in Rhaenyra’s chambers now, having watched Silverwing arrive on Dragonstone, circle the town, and then disappear somewhere into the castle’s underbelly.

Rhaenyra wrapped her in a blanket after she had freshened up and left to see where Syrax and Silverwing were, to find the best and safest way to approach the silver dragon. Mysaria thought it was adorable how the once ruthless Rhaenyra, who had thrown heaps of dragonseeds at Vermithor in the hopes that one would survive, now carefully ensured a safe space for Mysaria to even approach the peaceful old Silverwing.

An old maid brought them food—the unanimous decision being that everyone would dine together and receive midday meals whenever they felt hungry. The children must have been delighted to have their day lack its usual structure.

Harwin sat beside her while she chewed, still trembling, and told stories from the Stepstones and his time as a Gold Cloak. Mysaria managed to steer the conversation toward darker topics, and oddly, she found it soothing to hear of people experiencing death for the first time, of men who took years to recover after being imprisoned or tortured. She wondered if Harwin thought she was one of those broken souls. Was she?

She felt the buzzing under her skin long after her unpleasant reacquaintance with the sound of the whip. Still, she let Harwin’s voice—low and raspy—wash over her in gentle waves, eventually lulling her into a shallow sleep. Harwin was there, she told herself. She would be safe as long as he stood guard.

She woke slowly to hushed voices and sat up to see Rhaenyra and Harwin discussing something in the corner of the room.

“We are sorry for waking you,” Harwin said, flashing an apologetic smile.

Mysaria waved off the concern. “Is everything ready?”

Rhaenyra looked at her for a long moment, assessing, before frowning slightly. “I think we should stay here another day. You can rest tonight. The dragons will—”

“No.” Mysaria cut her off, unease still crawling inside her. “We should return to King’s Landing as soon as possible. The Dornish delegation is about to arrive, Gwayne Hightower, and who knows what else. We must leave tonight as planned.”

Rhaenyra did not react to the interruption, even as Mysaria herself felt a late prick of shame and fear. The princess merely turned to Harwin, who shrugged his shoulders and approached the still-bundled woman.

Mysaria struggled to free herself from the blankets that had twisted around her body like vines in her sleep, finally standing close to the hulking man. Rhaenyra fluttered around the room, seemingly acquiescing to the request as she searched for something. Drawer after drawer, she checked every nook, her chaotic motions finally waking Mysaria fully.

The buzzing under her skin intensified—an odd sense of danger hovering just out of reach. She could not pinpoint the source, but the feeling of wanting to leave, to run, to flee, surged. She shoved it down, inhaled deeply, and forced herself to steady as Rhaenyra continued searching.

And then Rhaenyra found it—the little dragonglass dagger.

The glint of the blade reached Mysaria’s eyes at the same moment she took a lungful of the scent that finally registered as the source of her alarm—the unmistakable mix of Targaryen smokiness, dragon’s sulfur, the sharpness of riding leather. The smell of a Targaryen freshly descended from a dragon. The look of a Targaryen with a weapon.

“I heard you are sleeping with my wife now, little whore,” he whispered, hands closing in on her throat. “I think you may have forgotten your place.”

Mysaria shut her eyes, shook her head, trying to force Daemon out.

Rhaenyra stopped, confused.

“I guess I will have to teach you not to touch what is mine.” Daemon drew a small dragonglass blade, its deadly surface shining in the dim firelight.

“How about I give you more of those pretty scars?” he whispered into her ear.

She wanted to tell Rhaenyra to give the dagger to Harwin, or drop it, or simply step away, but the words were stuck in her throat, and something was squeezing in her chest even harder than before. She wanted to breathe, but her body would not listen, and she could only stand there as the trembling started anew.

Before Rhaenyra could take another step toward her, concerned, Harwin was there. With one swift motion, he grabbed Mysaria’s arm and pushed her behind his back, effectively becoming a barrier between the women.

With a jolt, Mysaria realized it was the first time he had touched her without explicit permission since the alleyway—and to protect her from Rhaenyra, of all people.

Rhaenyra raised her hands in a calming gesture and took a step back, not needing to be asked or explained anything.

Mysaria wanted to cry all of a sudden, for an entirely different reason. She wanted to squeeze both of them so tightly it hurt—to touch and hold until there was no separation between where one ended and the other began. She was not an emotional person by any means, but there was something so fundamentally kind and protective in all of this that it made her heart ache, despite the steady undercurrent of fear.

This was nothing like living on the streets. Nothing like her father, or the man she had once offered comforts to while clenching her teeth so hard they hurt. Nothing like Daemon Targaryen’s pretend care back when he was still playing at marriage.

This was genuine.

Out of pure instinct—or so she would tell herself—she leaned forward, pressing her nose against the broad back in front of her, breathing in lungful after lungful of sandalwood and musk. Her hands rose to grip at the sides of his doublet, twisting in the fabric.

A hand found its way to her own trembling fingers, clamping over them. Holding her steady.

She could not see Rhaenyra from behind the man, but she could hear her retreating into the corner of the room, likely leaning against the wall beside the doors.

No one spoke.

They let her take shaky breaths. The man said nothing about the way she continued nuzzling into him.

“I… I’m so sorry,” she croaked finally. “I don’t know what… It’s nothing like… I’m just not myself today.”

Harwin stepped away, slowly, only to turn and face her. Rhaenyra looked lost, staring at the floor. Then Harwin stepped closer once again, extending his arms and slowly wrapping Mysaria into a hug. She melted into it.

Her throat felt scratchy, but the turmoil of emotions softened into a quiet hum.

“Did I…” Rhaenyra started, her jaw clenching briefly. “You wrote all about how the war changed me, how they called me monstrous—not without reason. That… cruelty. Did I ever…”

Mysaria frowned, trying to decipher the question before Rhaenyra met her eyes sharply.

“Did I ever direct it at you? Was I—”

“No!” Mysaria blurted. The idea of Rhaenyra turning her wrath on her was laughable. It had never happened, and it could never happen, not even when Rhaenyra had truly descended into madness. The pained, sorrowful expression on the princess’s face was wholly unnecessary.

“No,” she repeated, pouring as much sincerity into the words as she could. “Not… you.”

Harwin hummed, and she felt it in his chest. “Daemon?”

Mysaria nodded, pressing her nose deeper into the leather. His arms tightened around her.

“The dagger,” she murmured. “And the smell—leather and sulfur. I… I think it’s just a freaky coincidence. Everything on the same day. I am all right now. It is time to see the dragons.”

Rhaenyra looked unconvinced for a long moment before her eyes flickered to the dagger still in her hand. With a disgusted sneer, she chucked it away, the thing clanking against the stone floor and sliding under the bed.

“Don’t we need that?” Harwin asked.

“We can do without. It will just require more wandering around and less friendliness from any others we may encounter,” Rhaenyra shrugged.

The winding hallways eventually led to the giant cave, a place Mysaria was very much familiar with.

There was no need to wander, in truth, for as soon as the three of them stepped onto the stone pedestal, the ground shook, heavy steps echoing off the walls.

Harwin retreated to stand closer to the door. Rhaenyra took her hand.

The silver dragon approached without hesitation, almost lazily, craning her neck and nuzzling into her like an old friend.

All of a sudden, everything around was even brighter, more colorful, louder. The scales were hot under her touch, and the sickly sweet scent felt like home.

The buzzing under her skin dissipated. She tugged Rhaenyra closer to the dragon and turned to glance at Harwin.

“My Princess, my loyal knight, I present to you my new mount.”

The smiles she received in return were endlessly bright and so deliciously alive.

Anger was beginning to slowly simmer down, giving way to heavy indifference. She needed time alone, to truly let go of this, to think about her life.

Daemon found out she was also taking a detour to Dragonstone on the morning of their departure. He asked her to go to King’s Landing with the King, voice laden with the undercurrent of command he might not even realize was always there. She refused, so he asked if he could come too, to which she could only shrug. Dragonstone was Rhaenyra’s domain, not Laena’s. He ought to know as much.

Daemon approached Rhaenyra right then and there, after dinner, and Laena could not help but watch him—searching for the little affectionate gestures and smiles he was so fond of giving to the people who mattered—his daughters, his niece, his brother, Laena—but very rarely.

There were none to be found, but she would be a fool to take a single encounter as an indication of something bigger, a confirmation of his words regarding his newfound love for her. Rhaenyra looked somewhat uncomfortable, her eyes darting to the corner of the room. Laena did not need to turn to know who stood there—who else could it be? Harwin. Laenor had just left to partake in the exotic experiences the port city had to offer at night.

Rhaenyra turned to look at Laena, her eyes sharp and calculating. There was no pity there, despite the princess likely understanding the situation better than anyone else—only a subtle, devious glint. The no was loud and clear, even to Laena, still sitting at the table. The words that followed—not so much.

Daemon tried to argue—she saw it. He moved closer, into Rhaenyra’s space—first irritated, then pleading, then angry once again. The princess did not sway as she stared him down. She did not glance at her sworn shield, who stepped up to hover beside her, nor at the maid who now stood behind her shoulder, something predatory in her glinting dark eyes.

Daemon did not look at Laena as he left the room, stomping away. Rhaenyra did. The woman seemed to be reading her, and for a moment, it felt like she knew much more about Laena than Laena did herself. And then that look was gone, replaced by the same soft affection they had shared years ago, as two young girls in a vast, lonely castle.

Laena hovered around the ship, spent time with her daughters, and watched as Helaena—the girl she had last seen as a babe—struggled in a way that told Laena everything she needed to know.

They would only be here a day, and Laena wanted it to be a good day. She wanted her mother to be here, something Rhaenyra was not opposed to, but Rhaenys had taken off across Blackwater Bay to attend some urgent matter.

Her girls were playing in the gardens, heads bent together, whispering in the shadows of a large tree. Helaena was much closer, sitting on the parapet overlooking the cliffs and roaring waves. She had her knees tucked into her chest, and a whitecloak hovered by her side in a vain attempt to cheer her up.

The man—Ser Gyles, if she remembered correctly—was doing everything he could. Neither his silly songs nor his witty jokes, however, could do anything to rouse the girl from her half-slumbering state. His presence was clearly comforting and desired—Laena had also seen the way the little girl reached for him when he first moved to stand by the wall, as was expected of him—but that comfort was not enough.

She sighed, crossing the space to lean on the same parapet.

“Ser Gyles,” she caught his eye. “Why don’t you go find where Ser Erryk and the boys are?”

The man hesitated briefly, glancing at the little princess.

“We will be fine,” she pressed, her eyes flickering to Ser Rickard, standing at the entrance to the garden.

The King and Queen had insisted they take three Kingsguard if the royal children were with them—which was three too many, in Laena’s opinion. The man hovered a little longer before bowing and heading out of the garden in confident strides.

Helaena did not react, continuing to stare ahead.

“It makes you feel dirty, doesn’t it?” Laena asked. The girl’s eyes twitched, as if suppressing the urge to look at her. “When they look at you like you are a piece of meat. When they touch you a certain way.”

The girl did not reply, so Laena turned to stare at the same spot on the horizon that had her so transfixed.

“My father offered me to Viserys when I was two-and-ten. My own father—thrust me forward like a bottle of rare wine. Or rather, a well-bred horse.” She sighed. “Do not get me wrong—I understand the politics behind the decision. The hunger for power is natural for lords and ladies alike. I would have been more than happy with an arrangement, any arrangement but that.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Helaena sway a little closer—only marginally.

“The way your father looked at me… It was the first time anyone had ever looked at me that way. You know what I am talking about. Those eyes.”

There was a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“I would see it more as I grew—in the squires and lords, both old and young. The desire to own—so intense it shone through their eyes and ugly little smiles. It only ever made me feel dirty. Even simply from the notion of… belonging to someone. You know… one of the little lordlings once pushed me against the wall and kissed me. It took me a minute to get him off me, and I punched hard.”

Helaena finally turned her head, staring at the older woman. Laena met her gaze calmly.

“To this day, I cannot stand those sloppy kisses on the neck. They make me feel trapped.”

“To this day?” Helaena whispered.

“Things like that… They change you in ways you do not immediately see, in small ways. You will have to accept it. Just… remember, it does not make you lesser, or broken, or weak, or any of the things likely on your mind.”

“I could not push him away. I froze,” Helaena confessed quietly.

“You shouldn’t have had to. None of it should have happened to you, so none of it is your fault. You wouldn’t blame yourself for a storm tearing off your roof, now, would you?”

The girl shook her head. “I’m just… Everything feels so… wrong.”

“I know. It will, for a little bit. You just have to be kind to yourself. Don’t allow yourself to think bad things. None of this is your fault, and it does not make you any lesser than others.”

Helaena tilted her head. “What if I knew it would happen? What if I knew it would happen again and there was nothing I could change?”

Laena turned slowly, bringing her hands up to cradle the girl’s face.

“If you suspected he was going to do something, it still does not make it your fault. It is never your fault, under any circumstances, because you are not the one who forced yourself on another person. As for the future… and it happening again…” She tilted the girl’s head slightly, catching her wandering gaze. “You have a voice, Helaena. Use it! It will never be your fault that others use helplessness to their advantage, but you are only as helpless as you allow yourself to be.”

Helaena blinked, bewildered. “I have a... voice?”

“Yes, you do, girl. And you can scream, and you can complain, and you can tell people mean things. You can do everything you were taught not to do, because you were taught to be helpless and at the mercy of others. Be loud, Helaena. Be argumentative. Be yourself. And if you know it might happen again, make sure they know you will not simply suffer in silence.”

Sneaking out of the castle after a little luncheon was not exactly difficult, even if Aemond felt bad for the Valeman and Ser Erryk, who would undoubtedly search for the three boys and get in trouble for losing them. It did not matter.

The moment the boys caught a whiff of what had happened—Aemond’s flushed cheeks, hammering heart, and stumbled explanation—they were ecstatic. Well, Jace was ecstatic, while Lucerys pouted about Aemond being able to fly earlier than the two of them on his adult dragon.

Aemond did not tell Luke that the beast looked barely adolescent and definitely not adult.

And so, they snuck through the corridors, through the caves, and out the little gates, right back to the fields.

There, now outside the cavern and simply lounging on the grass where Aemond had lain a mere hour before, was a small grey dragon. He was smaller than Sunfyre and Syrax and skinnier—if such a description was even applicable to a dragon—but even then, his wings were visibly larger.

The boys approached, Lucerys and Jacaerys falling back when they decided coming any closer might agitate the beast. Aemond continued walking confidently. He had felt it back when he ran away. He did not know it was supposed to feel that way, but it could not be anything other than a bond snapping into place.

Dragons did not harm their riders. It was simply unfathomable to Aemond to be afraid of him now, so he stalked forward with all the confidence he could muster.

The amber eyes tracked him carefully, muscles tensed under the thin scales, but otherwise, there was no movement.

“Lykiri,” Aemond whispered at first, unwilling to raise his voice. The dragon heard him all the same, bristling.

This was a wild dragon, Aemond reminded himself. He may not have immediately recognized it, but it could only be the one they called the Gray Ghost.

Aemond stretched out his hand, smiling at the blast of air that hit him when the dragon sniffed.

Before he could actually touch the scales again, the beast reared back with a growl. Aemond’s smile faltered as Gray Ghost beat his wings, nearly knocking the boys off their feet, and took off into the air.

“Wait!” Aemond screamed, watching as his mount flew away.

Lucerys jumped forward, wrapping himself around Aemond, probably in a misplaced urge to provide comfort, while Jacaerys simply watched everything unfold.

“He’ll return, Aemond,” the older boy said. “He’s just being an ass.”

“Do not insult my dragon,” Aemond spat instinctively, though any real fire died down as he continued staring at the grey spot growing smaller in the sky. “Why do you think he left?”

“Because, Uncle!” Lucerys perked up. “He wants you to think he’s scary and angry. And that means being an ass!”

Jacaerys nodded his head fondly. “Dragons and their riders really are alike.”

“Oi. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Savagery. That’s what his actions were, what they represented. It was disgusting, uncivilized, inhumane. No matter what the man did, he should not have awakened such feelings within Aegon. The boy had not simply punished him.

Aegon had lost his head.

Everything came back to him in perfect clarity, the images haunting his mind from the moment he got to his room, rubbing his hands clean of blood, through the night, to the moment he finally settled in the library of Dragonstone.

No book could distract him; no view was enough to pull him away from the red haze, the blood, the terrified face of the man who clearly had not expected such an onslaught. The image of Helaena, face buried in her hands, trembling, would be burned into his mind forever.

His behavior had been beastly. He would have killed the man with his bare hands, fueled by pure rage, had he not been stopped. And what had it earned, truly? It certainly had not helped Helaena, seeing her brother so deeply enraged he became little more than a monster. It had not helped Aegon, seeing himself as the creature he feared he could one day become.

He wondered if that was why Harwin worked so hard to wean him off drink, to put him on an arbitrary path the man found to be the right one. Was he, in a way, afraid of what Aegon could become?

There was ugliness hidden deep within Aegon—he knew as much. He had always seen it—in the way his father huffed whenever they were together, in the displeased twist of his mother’s lips whenever he did not try hard enough, in the disappointed scowls of maesters and the mocking smiles of squires and knights on the training yard, even in the cold, indifferent eyes of his siblings.

Aegon did not hold delusions about what he was—he had learned to enjoy what he had. The drink muddled his head enough that he could ignore the looks, and the disappointment, and the displeasure. The stupid tavern jokes and silly faces got him just enough attention to feel important. The rare looks from the passerby whores on the streets—as deceitful as he knew they were—were just enough to make him feel loved.

He had wanted to fall into depravity and had come to understand that he would have very soon—would have given in to the tempting looks to spend coin at the dirty brothel, would have tried to find friends at the bottom of the mug, day after day.

But then there was Harwin. And Rhaenyra. And they did not love him—Aegon did not think they really did—but for a little while, they were kind. They smiled, and listened, and offered to indulge him. They showed him the best taverns, the interesting books, and the sunniest sitting rooms.

Aegon learned little things, little things that made him feel like he had a connection to his much older sister and the man she loved.

Rhaenyra liked lemon cakes and would always eat the lemons first, all the lemons. So Aegon told her he did not like lemons, but liked the cakes, so she could have them all. Rhaenyra liked to read on the settee closest to the doors, for a reason that did not concern Aegon, so whenever he intruded into her sitting room, he would always flop opposite her place, never in her favorite spot. Rhaenyra was pregnant—he had known it for a while—and she would get out of breath occasionally, so Aegon made sure to stop and ask her about the tapestries, or the view, or anything else he could see around him.

Harwin never sat with his back to the door in a tavern, so Aegon would always take that seat. Harwin liked spice, things strong enough to burn even Aegon’s tongue, so the boy told the little tavern maids to add more to his plate whenever they brought something. Harwin wanted to be affectionate with his sons, but it would be odd if he was only affectionate with those curly-haired princes, so Aegon selfishly came up and got his own share of gentle pats and soft words. Even if it was just for show, even if Aegon was only there to avoid raising suspicions of special treatment, it felt real.

To Aegon, both of them felt real, even if he knew they were not. Even if he knew it was only a matter of time before they saw him like all the others did.

They loved their children, and their children were nice, kind, and obedient. Aegon tried very hard to pretend to be all those things. Just for a little while. He only wanted to play that role for a little while. It simply felt so good to have them—his sister and, well, goodbrother in all but name.

Aegon was beastly. His true nature, the thing Rhaenyra and Harwin were likely too blind to see, was finally out in the open.

Harwin had once said, in one of those long early morning conversations—before the mist dissipated or anyone else joined them in the training yard—that sometimes, it did not matter what the reasons for the behavior were. Some things were simply unforgivable.

It had still been early morning, and Aegon had neither the energy nor the mind to ask what types of crimes were unforgivable. Now, he desperately wanted to know. Had Aegon done one of the things Harwin would deem unforgivable? Was losing yourself so fully in rage that it ate you inside out, that the world narrowed to a single aim, an unforgivable act?

His mother was like that. She might not have realized it, but pain and fury burned her from the inside out. Aegon remembered—if he strained very, very hard—when she had been softer, kinder. But that woman had slowly been replaced by someone else, something unrecognizable, something that would burn the world around her—and herself—for a goal Aegon could not quite see.

The rage had always been simmering there, as it was in Aegon, hidden beneath the pain and the sadness and the restraint. And then something changed, and it surfaced, simmering so close to the surface he could see it sometimes, ready to explode. His mother was a barrel of wildfire, a single argument away from burning herself and everyone around her—gladly so.

Aegon did not wish to be like his mother. But, in the end, he was. They shared the loneliness, he thought sometimes, the burden of having duties they did not want or need, the roles they had been thrust into, the pain of being a puppet and knowing yourself to be a puppet.

Aegon had freed a little bit of himself when he decided to spy for Rhaenyra, to tell her and Harwin everything he knew, but the bindings were still there. Telling him who to be, where to be, how to behave.

He just wanted to be close to Rhaenyra and Harwin, was ready to become their puppet if they truly wanted him to, but instead, he had exploded. He had become the same uncontrollable fire that Rhaenyra must so dislike in his mother.

Harwin had come to him on the ship, wanting to talk, maybe, but Aegon could not bring himself to. He stood up and left. There was not much space on the little wooden coffin, but he managed to evade everyone, masterfully blending into the nothingness as usual. An insignificant puppet prince.

He ate food, everything tasting rather bland, moved from his spot in the library to a small, deserted sitting room where the other children would not find him. He sat there, knowing only that he would eventually be called for dinner. He was not sure he wanted to eat.

He needed a good old drink.

He needed a lot of good drink.

After dinner, where he averted his eyes and ignored the jolly conversation, he stumbled into the kitchens and stuffed his bag full of ale. Which, he must admit, was not much, but hopefully enough for the voyage back. While the ship needed mere hours to reach Dragonstone from Driftmark, the voyage back would prove to be eternally longer. Even in favorable conditions, Aegon would be stuck with everyone for nearly two days.

He watched as the golden dragon carrying his sister took flight toward King’s Landing. Dragons were just so much more efficient, and yet he was not allowed to mount Sunfyre and leave. Not that he truly wanted to – there was drink in his pockets and that was well enough.

Silverwing taking flight after Syrax was somewhat of a surprise. He swore he could see someone in the saddle, but it must have been a mistake. All the children that could claim a dragon were right there boarding the ship. So, the boy merely watched as two dragon figures slowly grew smaller.

Helaena looked at him, a little more aware and calmer than when he had last seen her.

Good.

He boarded the ship, made a point to be seen boarding the ship, lest they think they had forgotten him, and found himself a little dusty nook to sit in.

He opened the bottle.

Aegon just wanted to sleep. His eyelids were so heavy he could barely keep them open, and one of the flasks—two of the flasks—had long been emptied. It did not help at all that the waves were swaying the ship gently, lulling him.

It did not exactly feel like he was asleep, but it sure looked like it—every time he shut his eyes for a brief moment, the sunlight would shift, growing progressively darker as the last rays of the sun were swallowed by the horizon.

Aegon grumbled, reaching for another unopened bottle when he felt how dry his mouth had suddenly become. He barely took one sip before the thing slipped out of his hand and clattered onto the floor. A perfectly good drink, now spilling onto the wood instead of into Aegon’s throat.

He would have picked it up, but the room swam once again, and he laid down on the floor, closing his eyes for just a second. When he opened them again, the ale had already stopped spilling, the empty bottle rolling from side to side next to his feet.

The door opened, heavy boots coming to a stop. Harwin.

He thought the man would reprimand him—tell him this was a bad influence on the other young princes, maybe yell like Mother, or slap like Otto. Instead, Harwin exhaled heavily and crossed the room to flop down next to Aegon’s head.

“Mhm?” Aegon managed.

“Why did you feel the need to drink yourself stupid?” the man asked.

Aegon… had not expected to have to give an explanation. His mind swam with the warmth and indifference alcohol always brought. He did not truly care enough to think of what had gotten him here, so he shrugged as best he could, lifting one shoulder weakly.

“This is about Helaena?” Harwin asked, receiving no answer. “If it is, I want you to know I am proud of you for protecting your sister.”

Aegon’s eyes opened, the words spearing through even the haze of all the ale he had chugged down. As much as he could, he turned his head to look at the man.

“I… angry,” he tried to explain, words slurring. “Angry… bad angry.”

Harwin stared him in the eye for a long moment, but there was nothing unkind in that stare. Then, his hands wrapped around Aegon’s shoulders, pulling him up until the boy’s head rested on his lap. It felt… better than the wooden floor. Aegon let out a pathetic little mewl at being so indignantly manhandled but did not have the strength to pull away. Neither the physical strength nor the mental one—not when it felt so very nice.

“Are you angry at yourself for losing your head, or are you still angry at Meryn and trying to bury the feeling deeper?”

Aegon hummed because the words were correct. Some of them, at least.

Harwin’s hand fell onto Aegon’s head, slowly sliding over the tangled locks. “If it’s the first one… I will say that I would have absolutely preferred for you to keep your head, but I could not expect you to. Not when I would have done the same—if not worse—under the circumstances. Lashing out over something like this… it does not reflect poorly on you, princeling.”

Aegon forced his eyes to stay open because he liked the voice talking to him, but it was becoming so very hard, with all the warmth—from both the ale and the man’s presence.

“If it is the second one…” Harwin continued, “there are better ways to let the anger out, Aegon. I can teach you. You should never allow pent-up rage to destroy you like that, and you should never hate yourself for being rightfully angry.”

Aegon hummed, closing his eyes. He swam for a little, there when the words turned from serious to teasing and kind.

“You need to learn to care for your messy curls unless you want to scare that little betrothed of yours off,” Harwin teased half-heartedly in one of those moments when Aegon managed to open his eyes and stare at him again.

Aegon smiled and wanted to reply, but his eyelids were suddenly heavy again.

Upon, once again, returning to the waking world, he noticed that Harwin was no longer talking, his hand still resting on Aegon’s head. The boy wriggled a little closer—just marginally—and the petting resumed.

“You will not remember a word of this tomorrow, will you?” Harwin grumbled.

Aegon made a noise somewhere between assent and question. Or maybe he did not. Either way, the gentle scratching of his scalp continued.

“I’ll repeat it, then. As many times as I have to.”

Aegon yawned and closed his eyes.

The tightness was still there whenever Rhaenyra observed Mysaria. Claiming a dragon had helped her, the rush of foreign emotions likely enough to temporarily dilute the terror that plagued her throughout the day. Still, Rhaenyra knew very well how fragile those little reprieves could be—she had experienced it herself when her carefully built defenses and suppressed emotions plagued her every night, causing her to restlessly twist in her sheets and wake up nearly every hour.

So, Rhaenyra made sure to keep the peace as much as possible, not initiating unwanted contact when the woman was clearly still off balance. They made a lap around the island, high and far enough for people to hopefully not see that Silverwing had a rider.

Mysaria was not born a Targaryen, but she took to dragon riding about as fast as one would expect. After barely an hour, she was comfortable enough in her bond and body signals to steer the dragon around and control the directions, upon which they retreated to one of the smaller uninhabited islands nearby. There, Rhaenyra, lounging on her slumbering dragon’s back, explained the main aspects of caring for their mounts.

Silverwing’s smell still unsettled her but did not seem to bother Mysaria, who was patting the head of the gentle old girl lovingly, letting the beast nuzzle into her dress.

The princess explained the basics of the dragon bond—how experienced riders could pull on it to call their dragons, how it extended both ways, and how dragons sometimes needed their riders. They discussed the heightened emotions, the way Mysaria would be less controlled, more explosive, until she got used to blocking out the additional input from her dragon. It was something Rhaenyra only knew from Daemon and Viserys, who, unlike her, had bonded with their dragons later in life.

A brief tangent on dragon diet devolved into an argument over how they would handle the dragon keepers. Mysaria thought it best to keep everything secret—to keep Silverwing in King’s Landing but make it seem as though she was simply there to seek the company of other dragons. Rhaenyra argued that Mysaria would not be able to keep away forever and that it would be easier if the dragon keepers knew of her bond and allowed her to see Silverwing whenever she wished.

She knew Mysaria did not like to be known, felt safest in the shadows and as far from the public eye as possible. Now, however, she had a dragon, and some things simply could not be hidden. They compromised: Mysaria would remain cloaked and hidden, and only the head keeper would be notified so he could help care for the dragon accordingly.

In the evening, after pecking a kiss on her children’s heads and ensuring everyone was there and boarding a ship, the two of them disappeared into the soft glow of sunset, mounted their ladies, and took off in a single powerful beat of wings.

Rhaenyra had an hour to watch the way Mysaria swayed on the dragon’s back, the way she tentatively sent Silverwing into gentle turns and sharp swerves, bringing her down close enough to the water to feel the mist. They rose high whenever boats appeared on the horizon, Mysaria pressing herself against the dragon’s back—it would do no good to spread rumors before they could control them.

The city met them after the sun had already set, a slightly brighter spot on the horizon that grew larger and larger until they could finally make out the individual houses and the giant monstrosity that was the Red Keep. They landed together, the space just about large enough to do so, and only because neither Syrax nor Silverwing were particularly aggressive or displeased about being close to each other.

Mysaria tugged her hood on when the dragon keepers approached with torches. Rhaenyra slid off her dragon with ease, barely even thinking of the motion that had become so deeply ingrained in her. Moving quickly to the men, she explained the situation in rapid Valyrian, requested the head keeper, and proceeded to take him aside—all the while, Mysaria sat atop a creature that could level this whole place down, a cloaked stranger in the night.

Soon enough, she was given a nod, slid off—rather clumsily—and crumpled onto the ground despite her best efforts. Rhaenyra extended her hand, ready to retreat at the first sign of discomfort, but her support was accepted.

The dragons were being led away when the keeper told them someone was waiting in the carriage. He did not say the name, but there was only one freckled young girl Rhaenyra knew, and that was Gilla. So she urged Mysaria forward through the halls until they finally reached a spacious carriage watched by the only active Kingsguard who had remained in the capital—Ser Steffon.

The man bowed when he saw them, ignoring the cloaked figure with practiced ease, only muttering that the King’s ships were estimated to arrive in a day and helping Rhaenyra step into the darkness of their transport.

“My princess,” the girl whispered, hurriedly curtsying as much as she could. Her eyes shifted to the cloaked figure, identifying it. “M…Madame.” She nodded.

“Gilla.” Rhaenyra smiled, the carriage door closing as Mysaria finally let her hood down.

She settled on the cushions with a grunt, likely unused to long hours atop a dragon, and Rhaenyra, dropping down next to her, had to stop herself from melting into the pillows in a similar manner. She looked at the girl, who was anxiously rubbing her wrists, more stressed even than she had been when first coming to the Keep.

Rhaenyra frowned, Mysaria similarly tensing beside her.

“Gilla. What’s wrong?” she inquired just as the carriage started moving.

“I... d-did something, and I might have been wrong. I think there is a big problem,” the girl stuttered.

Mysaria frowned, leaning forward. “How big of a problem?”

Gilla looked down, hands twisting in her skirts. “There is a new lady-in-waiting heading to King’s Landing.”

Rhaenyra practically felt Mysaria flare, her breaths becoming shallow for a moment as she practically growled, “What did you do?!”

She grabbed the other woman, stopping her from acting on emotions that were not even fully hers, as she appraised the girl calmly. Yes, Rhaenyra hated when something happened without her knowledge and, if she assumed correctly, without her name, but the girl in front of them was trustworthy. There was no reason to be angry. Yet.

“Explain, Gilla,” Rhaenyra said coldly.

“A missive came very soon after you left. I was the one watching the ravens when it did and got to read it before anyone else came.” The girl hunched in on herself, words becoming more hurried, voice trembling. “It said the lady was already on her way, b-but Maester Mellos said he did not remember any requests and was about to send another missive to ask if it was a mistake, say they ought to turn back, and I—I just thought something was wrong! And… you said not to trust Maester Mellos, so I did not want him talking to someone who was coming here to see you. And… you said Lady Fell was helpful, so I asked Lady Fell, and Lady Fell told Maester Mellos that it was indeed you who had sent for the lady-in-waiting. It’s just that Lady Fell penned the message together with a note to her relatives—that’s why the maester was not aware of it—so that she would not get turned around, and so the maester would stop asking questions. H-he was asking too many questions.”

Rhaenyra stopped the girl with her hand. “Breathe, Gilla. Stop. Gods, you are turning blue.”

The girl nodded and barely took one deep breath before continuing.

“I am so, so sorry, my princess. I thought you would not want her turned around. There was something else in the missive, but I got to the raven and took it out before the old nosy maester could look at it, because I knew he would look—even if it was only for your eyes. And that’s what it looked like! It looked like it was for you!” She threw her head up, eyes wide and flickering between Rhaenyra and Mysaria. With a trembling hand, she took out a small parchment and passed it to them.

On the paper was a beautifully drawn coat of arms—one Rhaenyra had never seen anywhere but in Mysaria’s journal. Two red dragons, a falcon, a seahorse. Her personal coat of arms. Her future coat of arms. Underneath, in crude, small script, was a simple message:

I am coming to die for the Black Queen.

Rhaenyra glanced at the little girl still shuffling anxiously in her seat. Gilla did not know anything about the upcoming war. And yet, she was an incredibly quick learner, perceptive enough to correctly interpret that the only person this could refer to was the current leader of the Black faction—the Princess Rhaenyra.

She hummed, running her fingers over the words, the mismatched, awkward letters.

“Who is the lady?” she murmured.

“Lady Sara Stark.”

“She is a bastard, is she not? I believed she was a Snow.” Mysaria finally spoke up, glancing at Rhaenyra and confirming what they both already knew.

Sara Snow lived—and likely died—as a bastard. Bennard Stark, her uncle, denied her the family name over the semantics of her parents’ union and effectively put down any and all disputes, formally rejecting her at some point during his regency. The same regency that should have started some months ago.

By the time Cregan won the civil war, in a little over five years, his younger sister would already be firmly known as a bastard and happy as such. Now, at this time, she was suddenly a Stark. Which meant Bennard was either influenced to be oddly accepting of her—or dead.

‘I am coming to die,’ she wrote. The girl must be the third confirmed return—the fourth if they counted the faceless little bloodfly. What had she managed to stir up in the North during her time there?

Mysaria must have pondered the same, for she held her hand out. “Any other missives from the North?”

The girl reached out with two more scrolls, which Mysaria skimmed briefly before passing them to Rhaenyra. The first one was a late notice of the scuffle on the Wall—the very same one that happened two days before the returns and which Mysaria had predicted would earn Rhaenyra’s trust. Not that it mattered now—there was no need for any further proof that time travel was occurring.

The second one was short, crude, and about as reserved as she expected Northerners to be with their personal affairs. It notified them of the death of Bennard Stark—no circumstances specified—and that Lord Glover had become the new regent to the young lord.

She rolled the parchments back up, tucking them into her riding leathers. Mysaria was staring up, lost in thought, so Rhaenyra turned her full attention to Gilla.

“You did well,” she said firmly, watching the girl tilt her head up slowly, hesitantly. “You did very well. Thank you, Gilla. Considering the circumstances, you made the best decision you could have and stopped Mellos from meddling where he shouldn’t.”

Tension left the girl’s small body, and she smiled. Rhaenyra couldn’t help but smile in return, reaching out to brush her fingers softly over the red curls, watching Gilla squeeze her eyes shut like a kitten.

“Who should I ask, if I cannot get ahold of you, my princess, or Madame? In case of emergency?” she whispered.

“Harwin?” Mysaria murmured.

Rhaenyra huffed fondly. “Harwin is usually part of the emergency. But yes, if you can get ahold of Ser Harwin Strong, it is him. Also, Ser Gyles Yronwood, the new Kingsguard. And you did well with Lady Fell, I think. If nothing else, you can trust her too.”

The girl nodded, content. They could hear the heavy gates of the Red Keep open as the carriage approached.

Rhaenyra just wanted to sleep.

Chapter Text

The room felt stuffy, almost suffocating in the way space was filled by their combined presence. Pleasantries did nothing to alleviate that, merely making the silence afterward a little more bearable. Rhaenyra was not the only one who felt it, for she had seen the way two serving girls rushed out after setting up the cakes, their skirts bouncing just a little more than usual.

Rhaenyra was watching the woman in front of her the way she herself was being watched—with a piercing, wandering gaze.

Lady Fell did not let anything show on her face, not once in the half-dozen times they had met to discuss politics or exchange quick pleasantries in the hallway. There was a mask there, more masterfully crafted than Rhaenyra could ever manage, whether due to her own incompetence or the heat of dragon’s blood in her veins.

“I ought to thank you, my lady,” Rhaenyra began, “for aiding one of my girls in an unfortunate incident with one of my ladies-in-waiting.”

“Unfortunate incident,” the woman repeated, rolling the words over her tongue, as though trying to tear through the polite phrasing to the truth she undoubtedly yearned for. “It was rather difficult, I admit, creating a little trail of letters to cover up the sudden appearance of a Stark girl.”

Rhaenyra had no wish to elaborate, to break whatever likely incorrect assumptions this woman had already formed in her mind. She let a polite smile curl her lips. “I appreciate it more than I could express, my lady. Your timely intervention saved me much headache. It would be a shame to see my poor new lady thrown about the Seven Kingdoms over a few overlooked missives and my own forgetfulness in notifying the maesters.”

Lady Fell’s gaze did not wander this time, it was planted squarely on Rhaenyra’s forehead in a way that was only slightly uncomfortable. It was very easy to forget that the woman before her was younger, barely two years into her third decade.

“Why, of course, princess. It was a pleasure, truly, to aid you once more.” She smiled, something very satisfied in her voice. “I am honored to have been trusted. And to be invited today, of course.”

“Your presence is always a pleasure,” Rhaenyra said with a nod.

Silence fell upon the room. Rhaenyra knew what was happening, it was one of the lessons her mother had taught her, speaking of the endless teas she had attended with a smile. Silence was a powerful tool, one that could suffocate an opponent with it until they felt nothing but the urge to talk, to explain, to question.

Lady Fell had spent every second since they sat down walking circles around the princess. She was deliberate in her movements, and it felt like a game. It felt like the things young boys did in the training yards—poking and prodding at each other, pushing until the opponent fell, finding weaknesses and strengths. Perhaps, to a bystander, they would look the same, sinking into the childish glee of finally having someone worthy of playing with.

Except Rhaenyra was nothing like that. Truthfully, she hardly knew half of what went on in this lady’s head and would never be able to keep up with a stream of political thought. It was unpleasant, admitting someone else was better than you, but it was also a lesson she had learned well—taught by her father, of all people. He was a true professional at being infinitely less clever than his advisors, yet pretending to hold power all the same.

And so, with a tired sigh that should have signaled the end of their little game, she melted back into the cushions of her chair and watched the woman in front of her briefly suppress a smile before doing the same.

Rhaenyra picked up her cup, partly wishing it were strong ale and not a brew of herbs and sugar. Something was pressing in her, and everything was making less sense, even despite the things they had managed to uncover. She swirled the liquid, feeling the now-familiar pressure in her temples, and clutched her belly briefly as the cramp came.

The woman before her was a mother, and a creature as cunning and perceptive as any. She likely knew of the pregnancy, whether from the barely noticeable bump, even beneath loose skirts, or from the way Rhaenyra had begun to walk lately, slowed by swelling, heavy ankles.

Either way, the complete lack of surprise or acknowledgment confirmed Rhaenyra’s suspicions. Lady Fell merely shifted deeper into the cushions, morphing more into the careless young woman one would expect her to be. She sipped her drink and hummed in delight.

Rhaenyra smiled. “Truth be told, my lady, I was hoping you would bring a unique perspective to the issues we may face in the future. I am not sure my other… advisor shares your ways of thinking. And it is always good to have multiple opinions, is it not?”

“Indeed, it is,” Lady Fell hummed, briefly pausing to take another sip. “Your ‘advisor’ is common-born, is he not?”

Rhaenyra startled, flinching at the statement, which was entirely too confident to be a guess. “My… advisor’s parentage matters why, exactly?”

“The reason I was able to identify it is the very reason it matters,” the woman replied softly. “They sound like a very intelligent person, and yet they start with those plans? You see, princess, killings and politics are not the same—unfortunately for us all.”

Rhaenyra stayed quiet, not intending it as a form of manipulation but merely in dire need of a moment to get her thoughts in order.

Lady Fell watched with a stiff smile. “I have to admit, the whispers circulating are very clever. Turning the black sap into the divine sign of your legitimacy? I would likely have missed such an opportunity, for the gossip of smallfolk holds little weight, unless in truly dire situations. The deaths—or near-deaths—of Criston and Larys, this… ingenious use of smallfolk. It makes me think it is someone who does not see power quite in the same way we do.”

“You say whispers do not concern you, and yet…” Rhaenyra trailed off, eyes fixed on her own cup.

“I said whispers do not hold as large a weight as some may think, my princess. Knowing things, however, is prudent for any noble. Especially for a lady whose power may prove rather precarious in the coming years.”

Rhaenyra huffed. “And how do you see power, my lady?”

“Power is a mirage. And, in a way, you can only see it as such once you have it. Where a common-born sees a being high above—unreachable, static, and… mm… inhuman, to an extent—we should see just another spider, weaving their way through the webs of oaths, commitments, and political farce. Not to say the oversight does not spread both ways. We tend to do it too, just differently— we view those below us as nothing more than a pack of hunting dogs, or, at best, a set of tools.”

Rhaenyra mulled the words over in her head, unrushed, sipping the sweet thing in her hands.

Part of her rebelled at viewing Mysaria as anything but a brilliant, well-rounded political genius. But another part saw the merit in those words. Mysaria did not view certain things the same way. Yes, she was perfectly capable of political machinations, quiet spies, and assassinations, but deep in her heart, Rhaenyra knew the woman would prefer burning the city to the ground over spending months orchestrating the downfall of a noble house.

“I suppose you are right. It is quite a different perspective, one people carry forever due to the circumstance of their birth.” Rhaenyra nodded slowly. “Though I do not see how any of this could be applicable to our current political conundrums.”

Lady Fell leaned forward, the volume of her voice dropping ever so slightly. “People are not born with power, princess. Power is granted by others—it always is. We may not always see it clearly, but the silent exchange is there… Another way you could think of it is a puppet show. The lords are merely toys, their strings too thin for those below to see. Cut enough of those strings, and you’ll see the puppet shatter on the ground.”

“Whoever would be able to cut the strings?”

“A royal,” she replied nonchalantly. “Just take care not to damage the one holding you up.”

Thoughts started racing in Rhaenyra’s mind even before Lady Fell nudged her in that direction. She put the cup down, a hand coming to support her head, as it somehow grew too heavy.

Lady Fell rocked back, a small cake in her hand. “Just food for thought, my princess. Some would say the intricacies of the different houses’ stations are slightly above my station to consider. I suppose it is merely a way to occupy time, for there is so little else we ladies are permitted to do… Non-Targaryen ladies, that is.”

Rhaenyra blinked, still picking apart the possibilities she suddenly found herself presented with. “My Lady… Once the law of absolute primogeniture goes into place for the Valyrian houses, it may be easier to amend some things about Westeros as a whole.”

Lady Fell smiled — almost warmly — and cocked her head slightly in what felt like childlike amusement. Somehow, that small gesture was enough of a display of character and emotion that Rhaenyra felt a brief flare of trust blooming between them. Perhaps it was done on purpose, manipulatively, to bridge the abyss between them, but Rhaenyra truly could not bring herself to care.

“My princess,” she started kindly, “do not concern yourself with my lament and the position of women in this world. I know my place. What you should worry yourself over is your father’s declining health.”

“My father’s health has been declining for years,” Rhaenyra shrugged.

Lady Fell looked up, and something in her gaze sent shivers down Rhaenyra’s spine. “Not this rapidly. Not this obviously. You know, at the risk of speaking out of turn, I think you ought to be thinking less of what you can do and more of what the Hightowers will do.”

“Alicent Hightower is no longer interested in war.”

“Otto Hightower is. His Fossoway and Redwyne lickspittles are. The traditions this entire continent is built on are.”

“…You paint a grim picture.”

Lady Fell let out a long exhale, head falling back to rest against the cushioned wood. She stared up for what felt like an eternity, and, for the first time, her words were hesitant, even strained.

“If I were a Hightower, I would kill King Viserys now.”

Rhaenyra’s words died in her throat.

She thought.

She could not understand.

“Why?”

Lady Fell did not lift her head as she spoke. “Because it would force people to choose a side. Because you are showing some level of political prowess, and that implies you have begun making moves. You have the potential to make big moves, to sway great and ancient houses to your side. If the King’s health declines rapidly, lords will have to choose and declare their allegiances.”

Rhaenyra nodded slowly, even if the other woman could not see it. “They would be locking the pieces in place while they still have a semblance of advantage.”

“And even if you did become a regent, you are not prepared. They hope you will fail in the role—publicly so. In fact, there are likely enough of their men on the council to make sure of it. Enough to slip dangerous laws, incompetent decisions, and disadvantageous agreements through the cracks and under your name. There will be small rebellions, rumors, increased taxation, and even a successful invasion from other countries if you do not ensure such options are unavailable to them.”

Lady Fell finally looked back at Rhaenyra, and her green eyes practically glowed in the afternoon sun. “There are also stirrings in the south. Something is happening in Oldtown, too early to say what. People disappearing, unknown gangs moving around with no apparent purpose.” She watched carefully as Rhaenyra’s face twisted into surprise, both at the efficiency of receiving such information and its content. “I see none of this is your doing, my princess.”

“What do I do now?”

The woman shrugged. “Become a professional spectator.”

“Are you saying to just… do nothing?” Rhaenyra sputtered.

“Careful observation and skillful inaction, my princess. Whatever they are doing may be beneficial to them right now, but it is not exactly harmful to you—not yet. Not unless you make it so. Currently, you will learn more from observing than from jumping in and pointing fingers. There is more benefit to be found in subtly preparing for what is to come, while appearing wholly clueless, than in trying to delay a tidal wave that will only strike harder.”

There were people outside the room, wandering the hallways. There were people underneath the Red Keep. People on the other side of the sea. Too many people. Too many enemies. Too many variables. Her head hurt.

“Prepare how?”

Lady Fell swirled her now-cold drink. “There is a laughably easy way to ensure your ascension is smooth until you solidify your power. Or regency, that is.”

“Which is?”

“You simply exchange the internal problems for an external one. Who would worry about whether a ruler has a cock if that ruler is the only thing standing between them and an enemy on their shores?”

“Are you implying… I should attack mine own lands through a proxy? Did you not just say that invasion was one of the methods to be used against me?”

“Successful invasion,” the woman chuckled. “A rather important distinction, would you not say? But we can stop talking about such things now. I am merely a foolish young woman, reminiscing about matters beyond my understanding. The conclusions are wholly yours to make. As are the plans, I suppose.”

Rhaenyra shifted, new cramps making her legs grow heavy. “I do wonder how a young woman comes to be so interested in such matters.”

Lady Fell hooked her fingers into the chain she wore around her neck, pulling out a flat pendant, a crow carved into it. “I am a Blackwood by blood, my princess, by my mother’s family. Oakenheart by birth. The women in my line are not clueless or meek. Do not worry, my new little… cousin will be raised similarly.” The locket was dropped back into the safety of her corset. “She was settled in and is adjusting well, I heard. Wants to see her sister and is working to return soon.”

Rhaenyra sighed. If there was anything negative to be found in this entire arrangement, it had to be the need to separate the little girl from the woman who raised her as a mother and the redhead she viewed as her sister.

“She is strong. I have no doubt she will grow up to bring honor to House Fell.” Rhaenyra stood up slowly, legs protesting. “You have given me much food for thought. I will have to leave now, my lady. The Dornish ships are approaching, it may be time to greet the guests.”

“Morana.” The woman smiled. “It is my name. Please use it.”

Rhaenyra felt her lips curl in response. “Only if you call me Rhaenyra.”

They had nearly a week of reprieve from the moment their ship finally docked at King’s Landing to the fateful arrival of a similarly lavish vessel carrying the Prince of Dorne himself and his two eldest children—Doran and Aliandra Martell. Such high-ranking officials arriving in the Kingdom they had so much strife with should have been surprising, but not to Alicent.

She knew why they were here, knew that the missives she had sent to Dorne would prompt a discussion with more than just a vassal or a trusted Dornish lord. And yet, her insides twisted in anticipation of the battle she was about to fight.

The missive the Dornish party sent to announce that the Prince of Dorne would personally be traveling over was rather concise, as all other correspondence with the Martells had been, and merely said that the Prince wished to "discuss a generous proposal put forth before him." Lord Wylde puffed at that, immediately hinting at how exceptional his negotiation had been to lure the Prince here. Lannister laughed about how dire a situation Dorne must be in to be willing to bow for a couple of trade agreements.

Alicent stayed quiet, limbs heavy as if the life were being drained out of her body. As the men cheered and exchanged lewd jests, as Maester Mellos diverted the conversation into how abominable Dornish culture was and the ways to protect the sacred way of life, Alicent remained silent. She could have told them of the correspondence she had held personally, but that would give them time to stop her. And more than she wanted to see the shock on their faces, she wished for everything to work just as she intended.

Lord Beesbury turned to her, still rather dejected at the absence of Princess Rhaenyra and Ser Harwin Strong, and there was something almost akin to suspicion on his face. Alicent watched the man — the one sat in the very same spot his lifeless body would rest in just under eight years. His age ought to have made him rigid to change, and yet he would be left the only one open about his acceptance of Rhaenyra, and the only one whose wife enjoyed freedoms some would find unthinkable.

Alicent narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slowly in the vague direction of Maegor’s Holdfast, their family lodgings. Lord Beesbury knew of all the King’s edicts, all his decisions. He was a clever man. He blinked, mouth twitching once, before looking back at the reports in his hands like nothing else mattered.

They had a week, and it felt like nothing. Rhaenyra organized the rooms and the servants, and Alicent was begrudgingly grateful—there was no energy left in her body for any of that, she needed to conserve her strength.

Prince Qoren Nymeros Martell, in his breeches and sandy silk shirt, looked like a man more fit for the throne than Viserys ever was. With his head held high and a confident smile, he ran his fingers—not subtly—over the pitch-black cloak and looked directly at her.

Alicent smiled, hoping it looked less like a grimace and more like a genuine display of hospitality, and—also not subtly—ran her hands down the dark, inky blue bodice of her dress. Ayla, her dressmaker, called the color ‘nightshade.’ It did not have so much as an echo of green, but more than enough gray undertone for those who wished to see.

Prince Qoren did not let his expression change as he turned to appraise Viserys. Alicent could swear, before all gods, that for a mere second, there was something akin to disgust—an expression gone so quickly she might as well have imagined it.

Behind them, a boy Aegon’s age, with unruly black curls, and a similarly ruffled little girl jumped down onto the ground to stand next to their father. More people disembarked, and Alicent found that even her extensive research offered very little in terms of their identities.

There was a pair—perhaps a lord and his lady—with House Fowler’s falcons embroidered on their muted red garments, the staunchest supporters of Martell’s rule. Another lord, with a black vulture carved into the handle of his cane—Blackmont. A wound likely received in battle, perhaps in one of the raids held on the Reach. A young woman, openly leaning into Blackmont’s embrace, a golden medallion proudly glinting in the sunlight. At first, it looked like a Targaryen sigil, but it could not be. Toland. The house whose very sigil was a mockery of the Targaryens—the deceitful monsters, according to the accounts of the Dornish wars.

The women were all dressed in what could only vaguely be considered modest, even in the chilly weather of the morning. Having never seen proper Dornish attire, Alicent could only guess that such clothing was already what they considered overly modest and applicable to the rigidity of the northern kingdoms’ morality.

Those women did not cover their bodies from lustful eyes. Those women did not cower away from the men around them or look to them for permission to do anything. The little girl—Princess Aliandra, likely—even tugged her brother back and gave him a stern look when the boy began wandering away.

How very… irritating. No matter how much Alicent tried to swallow the feeling, knowing that the scratching under her skin was merely the unfamiliar sense of jealousy, her own rotten being willing to see everyone else suffer alongside her, she only felt more nauseous with every passing second.

Viserys was talking. Lord Lannister was talking. Alicent waited and stayed quiet—it was not her place to speak, besides offering a simple, polite greeting.

Lord Arron and Lady Morriah Fowler. Her cousin, Lord Morion Blackmont. Lady Teora Toland. Princess Aliandra and Prince Doran.

The dull and official greetings were over soon enough, and the carriages pulled up.

“Prince Qoren,” Alicent called out, willing her voice to remain confident. “Would you like to ride with the King and myself?”

Rhaenyra stilled where she was busy greeting the Toland lady, slowly turning to watch the scene. Viserys froze beside her, looking half-ready to tell her off in front of all the assembled lords and ladies. Soon enough, he would have a real reason to. Prince Qoren’s eyes slid over to Viserys until the man gave his reluctant assent to the request.

“However could I ever deny a simple request after such an effusive welcome? It will be my honor, Queen Alicent.”

Thus, the carriages were loaded, and Alicent found herself being slowly suffocated by anticipation. The Prince must have seen it and needed absolutely no time to deduce the source of her hesitation and the reason for this conversation to be more personal. He wasted no time in staking a claim.

“I was delighted to receive further correspondence from King’s Landing. The match between Princess Helaena and Prince Doran will be a most auspicious occasion.”

“A match?!” The King’s head whipped around so fast it was a wonder it stayed attached.

Alicent smiled softly, folding her hands like the good little wife she was. “Of course. My king… my beloved husband… you extended much grace to me and allowed a choice in our children’s marriages. To express my gratitude, I could only make a match that would be beneficial to the Crown.”

The King’s eye twitched. Qoren’s lips quirked up.

“I… am merely surprised,” Viserys sputtered. “Helaena is still young, and Prince Doran is… how old is the prince?”

“My son recently turned three and ten. Barely two years older than the little princess,” Qoren replied, his eyes turning predatory. “You once proposed to betroth Princess Rhaenyra to me, a man almost ten years her senior. I did not think you would find a difference of two years objectionable. Not that any marriage would occur before the girl matures.”

“Helaena will likely flower within a year,” Alicent added absentmindedly.

Prince Qoren blinked, his eyes full of confusion. “I have not said anything about flowering, Queen Alicent. I said mature. I wed Asha when she turned eight and ten, but she did not wish for a child for another two years. I assure you, the little princess will be given a chance to grow.”

And suddenly, it was as if someone had lifted a weight off her shoulders. She had made the right choice. This was the family, the culture, Helaena ought to live in. This was the place where her daughter would be safe. Maybe even her timid little girl could become irritatingly confident and unafraid. Alicent would fight for this if she had to—would fight her own husband, the man tensing and breathing heavily next to her—just to make sure Helaena left.

Her child would be far away from King’s Landing. She would not be dragged into war. The alliance—the peace it brought with Dorne—would ensure that no lord or lady would ever dare harm her daughter. Irreplaceable. That’s what Helaena would become.

Prince Qoren continued. “Of course, before the wedding occurs, I invite the little princess as a guest to Dorne. She can be fostered in Sunspear or at Spottswood with House Santagar, if you would prefer a certain separation. I do believe friendship and closeness should precede any potential marriage, and the children, under the supervision of chaperones, of course, should be allowed to learn together and play to their hearts’ delight.”

“I think,” Viserys finally croaked, “a longer discussion regarding this… match… ought to be held. I am not sure how well Helaena would fare in Dorne, for she is a delicate girl. And to thrust her into a position of power would be unwise.”

“Power?” Qoren repeated. “I think you may be misinformed, my king. Aliandra is my eldest child and will be the Princess of Dorne after my passing. Doran is her twin, but a younger sibling nonetheless.”

“So Helaena’s line will not become the ruling line?” Viserys asked.

Qoren chuckled. “I would not be disappointed so early, King Viserys. There is a high possibility that it will be, eventually, with just how repulsed my Aliandra is at the idea of childbirth or marriage.”

Viserys merely shrugged. “Girls are oft like that when they are young, but duty—”

“Aliandra’s duty,” Qoren interrupted, his voice icy, “will be to make Dorne more prosperous than it was before her and to keep it safe. That is it. She has two healthy younger siblings, a third on the way, never mind two cousins by my own younger sister and a dozen other living Martells. I would prefer your court not poison the young girl’s mind with harmful ideas of her happiness coming second to her duty to a man that may not exist.”

“I meant no offense, Prince Qoren,” Viserys smiled placatingly. “It is a difference in culture, nothing more. We will eventually bridge the occasional lapses in understanding, I have no doubt.”

Alicent was still grinning by the time they stopped inside the castle’s walls. Her lips began to hurt by the time the Dornish prince climbed out and sent her a conspiratorial little smile, all before reuniting with the twins and being led to the chambers prepared for them. It was only the icy grip of Viserys on her arm that made the smile fade.

A conversation was to be had. A long conversation.

The roughness did not surprise her. There was little Viserys hated more than a reminder of his own incompetence. It was one thing to relinquish the right to his children’s marriage to a foolish woman who would likely need the counsel of learned men either way. It was another entirely to be made a fool and have a match drawn up without so much as a whisper in the small council.

Perhaps cornering him in the conversation was not a good idea, but she could not afford an outright refusal of the offer in front of the Dornish Prince. She had to choose her words carefully until Viserys could not possibly berate her without looking unreasonable to the good wife, who only had his best interests in mind.

The door locked behind them, sealing them off from the rest of the world. Some other day, she would be scared, reluctant to have only the white cloaks behind the doors. She found comfort in knowing the said white cloaks were Ser Rickard, her sworn shield, and Ser Gyles, the man whose honor was infinitely larger than blind loyalty.

She had hoped Gwyne would be here for this, but the promised fortnight had passed, and still, there was no sign of him.

Alicent sat down in the cushioned chair before the King could speak a single word. She stretched, sank into the seat, and let herself be comfortable. Apathy and tiredness were still there, but she could feel the irritation begin to simmer somewhere deep in her stomach.

Viserys paced the room, and she watched him, simultaneously trying to grasp that feeling, trying to focus on the anger so it might fuel her body.

She was still adjusting to how her body functioned. Before, in her past life, it had been gradual—the agonizingly sluggish descent into hollowness, one that started on her wedding day and never quite stopped. One day, there was simply a detached understanding that the things she would gleefully do before no longer appealed to her. Not that it mattered.

Then came a similarly unbearable feeling of being tangled in the sorrow and misery, suffocated in the tendrils that reached out the moment Viserys died and held strong until she, herself, turned to dust. In a way, her death had come for her long before her body gave up, bits and pieces stripped away until nothing remained but a carcass.

And then she was back, flung through time, and nothing made sense. Her body had changed, but somehow, oddly, so had something in her mind. The flashes of anger came hot and abrupt, gnawing at her insides and tearing—they would build up to something, teasing with an outcome she could not quite reach. Hollowness returned in waves, days where she would look at the tall balconies and find truth in the way Helaena plummeted to the ground. Sadness, so overbearing she cried for hours, and no amount of willpower could quite lift her out of the pathetic self-wallowing. And, most of all, the exhaustion. It was near constant in her new life, a certain heaviness in her limbs any time she woke up, luring her back into the endless sleep.

Even now, she had to fight the feeling, the heaviness of her own limbs, grasp onto something, anything, as Viserys wobbled across the expanse of the chambers. She was way too old for this body, the one that used to brim with energy. Her very essence was somehow poisoning it, slowly bringing forth the lethargy and the pain. It felt like being drained.

Finally, Viserys stopped pacing, instead falling heavily onto the seat next to hers. He was pale, exhausted, and she found that no amount of misery could bring her to feel an ounce of sympathy for the father of her children.

“What else did you do? Did you manage to betroth Aegon too?” There was rage under the surface, and she ignored it.

“Of course, husband. I did not wish to bother you with such matters. My son will marry Lady Elara Manderly and fulfill the promise broken once when Princess Viserra’s betrothal ended in tragedy.”

“Manderly? You betrothed the boy to a Manderly? Why ever would you do that? The house is old and proud, yes, but the crown could gain more by giving Aegon to the Lannisters. Or we could keep the boy here and marry him to Helaena as is tradition. Their children would be of pure Valyrian blood, a good match for any Valyrian house.”

Shut your mouth

Sell their son to the Lannister cunts for their deep coffers or keep him here to produce pure Valyrian children for Rhaenyra’s little bastards. What a jest.

“Aegon will be happy in the North. He does not like Helaena and has been very vocal about his dislike of Lannisters.” Alicent smiled dryly. “Surely, a child’s happiness should be any good parent’s goal.”

Viserys pursed his lips, face twisting for a brief moment. “Alicent, what is wrong with you of late? First your tantrum in my room, then the disgraceful business with a Gold Cloak, and now this? Whatever has gotten into you?”

Breath caught in her throat. “A tantrum… a disgraceful business... What… Viserys, how, in the world, is the business disgraceful to anyone but the knight that dared to touch your daughter? Are you hearing yourself?”

Viserys merely shrugged. “Alicent, it was barely anything. An ‘indecency’ as perceived by Aegon of all people. You know how boys are, seeing everything as sexual at this age.”

“And Helaena? Why was she terrified then, if it was merely Aegon’s imagination? Why?”

Viserys leaned back, expression hardening into that of a parent scolding a petulant child. “Alicent, I have no wish to discuss that once again. You may stop talking about it. I wish to know why on earth you would promise our daughter’s hand to the Dornish prince of all people. Without telling me.”

“You allowed me to arrange betrothals—”

“I assumed you would have the decency to get my permission before messing with politics you know absolutely nothing about.”

“I… I know nothing about?” Alicent hissed.

“Alicent, dear, show me what you promised exactly, and I will tell Lyonel and Mellos to handle it.”

A laugh bubbled in her throat before she could stop it, and she was happy to see her husband’s expression slowly morph from exaggerated disappointment to indignant outrage. She wanted to be truthful, even just once in her life.

Alicent stood up, only to crouch down in front of his chair, softly squeezing his clammy, cold hand in hers. She was lower than him, sitting by his side, and yet, she was looking down at him. “You… you are pathetic. You cannot handle a single matter without pushing it onto the small council? Why would I need to consult you when every single thought you have came from other people’s mouths?”

His mouth flew open, and she patted his hand, words spilling from her lips. “You’re small and weak, Viserys. If people knew how boneless of a king you are, they would have called for a rebellion and installed Daemon a long time ago.”

“Alicent—”

“We are all you ever used your authority on—the fates and daily lives of your family, the women and children you see as your property. I have not seen you yell at the lords clearly plotting and overstepping their place as much as I have seen you try and subtly put Rhaenyra in her place.”

His mouth opened, words hollow. “Rhaenyra is my heir, my daughter.”

Alicent squeezed his hand, hard, and hoped it would hurt. “The Rhaenyra you see does not EXIST! You are leading her and everyone else to destruction and you do not even see it. The Rhaenyra you think of is a figment of your guilt, of Aemma, of the son you wish you had with the little girl you groomed and butchered!”

He wrenched his hand away, standing up slowly. Alicent did too.

His nostrils flared. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”

“Aemma was eleven when she married you, and you managed to seed a babe on her in less than two years. I was sixteen, a woman grown, but barely older than your own daughter. Did it feel good? Breaking young girls? Is that why you are so quick to forgive the one who used your own daughter?”

“You are hysterical, Alicent. Utterly unreasonable. Aemma was the love of my life, and you were a woman grown when you married me. Do not talk down to me like I am some kind of despicable monster.” He swayed side to side, struggling to find balance. “We loved each other, in a way you are clearly incapable of. You do not know what you are talking about, spouting nonsense. You think yourself a saint then? Holy little queen?”

“It does not matter what I am,” she hissed. “I would never let my daughter—”

“Helaena was fine! You need to stop talking about that incident. It is done and dealt with. It will be a lesson to the girl.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself on the cane. The patronizing disappointment returned to his face. “You know how young ladies get—basking in men’s attention but not ready for the consequences. It is normal, really, they are merely trying to learn the power they naturally wield over men. These situations are inevitable, they are an essential lesson, and Helaena ought to know better now.”

Power.

Lesson.

Normal.

The anger was not contained this time. It did not gnaw at her insides or tease with a distant relief. No, it was a simmering pool one moment, and the next, it was expanding, burning. She felt something break, heard the sharp crack as the heat burst free and filled every cell of her body. No longer under her skin, but everywhere. She could feel it on her fingertips, at the ends of her hair, flowing through her veins and thrumming in her ears. She could taste it—the smokiness.

It felt like resurfacing after nearly drowning in a murky lake. The sounds she did not know were there assaulted her ears, and everything was brighter, clearer than ever before. She took a deep breath, finding so little resistance in the action it nearly made her stagger. One does not realize how difficult it is to breathe until it no longer is that way. She inhaled again, feeling her limbs become lighter, compliant, ready.

Her hand was light as she wound it back. His head rolled sideways pathetically, cheek turning a beautiful, vibrant crimson.

It felt good.

The type of good she had stopped feeling, or even searching for, a long time ago.

She chased it like a woman starved, the twisted satisfaction, leaning closer and into his face until she could smell, oh so strongly, the putrefaction of his breath.

“I am glad you are dying. You deserve it,” she whispered, carefully mouthing every syllable.

It felt good, the honesty. It felt good to watch his eyes widen, to watch him struggle to keep his balance. It felt good to know she had hurt him.

His eyes stilled, settling into the same quiet simmering rage he had already showered her with. Dragon as he was, she doubted he could ever find the fire in his body to match hers.

“The betrothal is off. Leave.”

“Over my cold, dead body.”

“You are my wife. You will do as I command.”

“Or what? Will you kill me too?” She settled her hand on her belly, smiling. “Aemma died because you forced her to get pregnant again and again until the day they butchered her like a pig. You killed her, Viserys.”

“You have to stop talking right now, Alicent,” he hissed.

No. She would not be able to hold her tongue even if the Seven themselves appeared in front of her and willed her to. It was too late. Too late. This was the fire he had started and stoked for years. Now, it was finally hot enough to break free and burn him alive.

“You are disgusting. You would have done the same thing to Laena, the same thing to me, if you were still a man.”

“Whatever you think—”

“I do not think. I know. I heard it,” she spat. “As much as you thought me a foolish maid, I had ears and eyes. And you always mutter rather loudly about things that frustrate you.

Rhaenys overstepped—that’s what you thought. She should not have made some silly deal about not being bedded until she turned fourteen. You would have taken the poor girl the night you wed, despite her mother’s reassurance, because you see it as a right and a duty, because she had flowered. What does a mother’s promise matter once the girl is yours, right?”

“I… never said that. Whatever you must have imagined holds no value.”

“Once I died pushing out another one of your children, would you have taken a different maid to your bed? Would you have treated my children with love then?”

“Alicent.”

“Helaena will wed, and she will wed into Dorne, with all their rules and traditions, receiving respect and station befitting her. That is final. She will leave this cesspit, or I swear to all the Gods, I will cut you open like you did your own wife and string you up on the castle walls.”

She had been afraid of him once, and he had seen her fear, back in the early days of their marriage. Now, she wanted him to be afraid. She wanted him to tremble and cower, to see in her eyes that she no longer feared death, no longer feared angering the Seven. She would take a knife and cut into him before succumbing to his will. It was a truth as fundamental as the color of the sky.

Perhaps he saw it in her eyes—the rage he had poisoned her with, that had festered and grown for decades. The man’s jaw trembled as he took a step back, folding his hands over his chest. Except it did not look intimidating with the undercurrent of fear.

“You have made too many promises,” he murmured. “Refusing the betrothal now would do more harm than good.”

She stared at him, at the man who had spent so very long deluded in his power and wisdom that he had managed to forget what it felt like to be the one afraid. She could see it now—how much he did not want to lose the illusion of power, just how easy it was to bend him to someone’s will because he simply could not fathom being uncomfortable.

She wondered if that was what her father had felt upon first discovering the key to Viserys. Exhilarated.

She stood there long enough that he scoffed like a child. “What else do you want from me?”

“An apology, husband. And yet, I will never have it.”

His eyes were cold, confused, as he looked her over once again. “You are not my wife. Who are you?”

Alicent could have loomed over him, with a predatory smile that would haunt him for years. She could have said something she was not supposed to know, made his mind twist in paranoia and uncertainty. And yet, leaving him like that, full of questions but without any answers, was what filled her with the most joy.

She turned around, swinging the door open. There was something she had to do. Somewhere she had to go. It was a buzz, right under her skin, one that she needed to satisfy. There was time—the guests were invited for a meeting with the small council later in the day, and she had to do whatever it was.

Alicent wandered, hearing the clank of Ser Rickard’s armor behind her.

In the depths of Maegor’s tunnels, Mysaria had claimed one of the rooms for herself. What started off as a small space to rest in while waiting for Rhaenyra and Harwin, or Gilla and her information, had slowly turned into a space she considered hers. Blankets were brought, pillows, various pieces of furniture, including a large settee and a table for writing her notes. Truthfully, she was not even sure how Harwin had gotten them down here, but she appreciated it nonetheless.

While Rhaenyra and Harwin had left to greet the delegation, Mysaria had taken the time to explore the tunnels. There was always something new to discover, an unexplored passage to commit to memory, an artifact of the past lying in the dirt, waiting to be found.

She lost track of time, or maybe time simply moved too fast. Regardless, by the time she returned to her secret hideaway, the space had already been infused with the warm sweetness of Rhaenyra’s scent. The more time they spent together, the less the princess smelled of Targaryen smoke. The floral undertones came forward with ferocity instead.

“Ria,” Rhaenyra greeted her with a smile, hands loosely holding a stack of papers. “Your calligraphy needs extensive work.”

Mysaria chuckled and settled next to her on the settee. She could not resist the impulse to drop her head onto Rhaenyra’s warm shoulder, inhaling deeply as she wrapped her arms around the loose, silky dress.

“There is purpose in the way I write, you simply fail to understand it.” She nuzzled into the soft skin, her nose and lips brushing over Rhaenyra’s clavicle.

“The purpose is to make my eyes hurt,” Rhaenyra croaked, tilting her head away and exposing the expanse of her neck.

Mysaria hummed delightedly, teasing her with featherlight kisses, struggling to keep her own burning desire at bay. She wanted to take her time. She wanted slow, but she didn’t truly know if she would be able to go slow.

There was an exhale, a soft little sound that accompanied the parting of Rhaenyra’s lips, as Mysaria opened her mouth to lap gently at the skin, to bite, ever so slightly, at the tender flesh. Rhaenyra had a sensitive neck. Both Harwin and Mysaria knew it, and both utilized that knowledge to the fullest.

Mysaria’s hand moved, squeezing at the nape of Rhaenyra’s neck, forcing her to turn back—lips so very close, their breaths mixing between them.

There was no hesitation, only admiration, as they stilled. And when their lips finally crashed together, time sped up around them. Hands began to wander.

A shame—Mysaria had planned for slow.

She reached out and gripped Rhaenyra’s hands, tilting her back to lie on the settee, feeling the woman go pliant beneath her. Rhaenyra hummed, wriggled just a little, but Mysaria did not truly want to let go of her hands.

Her eyes flashed with something dark, and Mysaria was merely glad they had discussed boundaries long before they first ended up tangled atop each other.

They had been interrupted before.

This time, they would not be.

Mysaria took her time, drinking in the sight of her princess, watching the way the woman beneath her shifted restlessly, the way her legs spread open. Rhaenyra whined, high-pitched and desperate, and she got what she wanted merely a moment later. Mysaria’s mouth was on her again, and the ties — oh, the wonderful ties at the front of the gown — came undone with ease, until she could see the perky peaks of her breasts.

She lavished attention on her pale throat, relishing the way Rhaenyra arched into her touch. She moved down, to the collarbones, brushing over soft curves, before finally letting her hands drift lower, where fabric crumpled between them.

She found the warmth of Rhaenyra’s thigh, her fingers sliding up, higher and higher.

The touch was light, yet it made Rhaenyra gasp.

Mysaria’s hand caressed her hip first, traveling up to her waist, petting the soft skin of her stomach. She wondered how long it would take for Rhaenyra to beg—if Rhaenyra even knew how to beg.

“Please,” the princess whispered, eyes fluttering as Mysaria traced the inside of her hip once again. “Please.”

They would work on that later.

“Fingers?” Mysaria rasped.

“Anything,” Rhaenyra whimpered in response.

Mysaria bit down at the top of her breast, just below where her corset would rest, and the little whimper turned into a stifled moan as fingers brushed her sensitive bud.

Rhaenyra twitched, her hand grasping at Mysaria’s shoulder, tugging until their faces were close.

“Now,” Rhaenyra bit out, fire in her eyes.

And Mysaria complied.

She buried her face in Rhaenyra’s neck once again, her free hand twisting in silver locks, pulling just tight enough to elicit a whimper.

Her other hand was working Rhaenyra open, moving in a way that made her moan. The first finger caused a small twitch of her hips. The second, following soon after, made Rhaenyra thrust into her palm. Mysaria licked her neck. As much as she longed to bite, someone would see.

Instead, she pulled tighter on the hair, sped up her movements—until all she could hear were desperate gasps and the wet, rhythmic slaps of her palm against Rhaenyra’s swelling flesh.

She could feel the walls squeezing her fingers — tighter, tighter — the hips beneath her twitching. And one just so happened to press up, suddenly, against Mysaria’s own weeping center.

A jolt shot through her, but she merely quickened her pace.

She had no regrets when her control slipped and she bit down on the sweet skin of Rhaenyra’s throat.

Rhaenyra came with a long, guttural moan, clenching so very tightly around her fingers.

Mysaria chuckled, slipping her fingers out while gently massaging her still-shuddering bud. She watched the way Rhaenyra’s eyes struggled to open and caressed the angry flush on her cheeks.

She was strewn beneath her, panting, exposed. Her dress was crumpled, her loose braid unraveling further.

“I…” Rhaenyra whispered, voice thick. “I did not know I would like it that much.”

Mysaria grinned.

She barely had a moment to catch her breath before Rhaenyra shifted, tugging her further up her thigh.

A startled “Oh” escaped her throat at the friction.

Rhaenyra’s violet eyes gleamed with mischief.

Strong hands held her waist, gripping so tightly that she might bruise. And then—Rhaenyra began to rock her.

Oh.

Rhaenyra watched her face, leaned forward for a hungry kiss—one that would leave her lips aching for hours. It was just enough to make Mysaria whimper.

Her legs were turning soft and unresponsive, but it mattered little. Rhaenyra’s grip was strong enough to keep her moving.

Her limbs shuddered, entirely out of her control, and Rhaenyra noticed.

She chuckled, bringing her lips close to Mysaria’s ear.

“My good girl.”

How did she—

Oh, fuck.

It felt like hours, the endless pull making her legs move. Ser Rickard asked what she was searching for, and she couldn’t truly answer. The suddenly sharp smell of steel and blood rolling off his armor was enough of a problem; she didn’t wish to explain anything else.

And truly, how could she? How could she look this man in the eye and tell him that something burst to life inside her the very same moment burning rage for her own husband swallowed her whole? How could she explain that everything was vivid, in a way she never knew colors could be, that the footsteps in distant hallways now floated to her ears, and the world was no longer quiet?

And so, Alicent kept quiet. She kept walking, even as her mind pulsed. I need… need. She didn’t know what the desire was, or where it came from, radiating deep into her skull, but it was there.

She searched everywhere. The empty hallways, the sitting rooms, the halls. She encountered every single royal child on their way to whatever mischief they were up to. She saw a recently arrived Princess Rhaenys walking with her granddaughter, Daemon, and even Ser Harwin Strong talking to some freckled serving girl, making her giggle.

Not here.

Where?

She circled back, ending up in front of her own chamber once again. Her feet were beginning to hurt, still squished into the torturous shoes the maids had thrust on her for the official greeting. Perhaps they were even bleeding by now.

Alicent sighed and motioned for Ser Rickard to stay outside as she slipped into the room to find something more comfortable to walk in. As she rushed over to the chest, a shuffle from the direction of her bed attracted her attention.

The sound was soft, almost imperceptible. She could hear her own heartbeat as she padded over to the ruffled mess of blankets. She knew this yawning little creature; she had seen it before, perched precariously on various living Targaryen shoulders.

“Morning,” she whispered, inching closer, only to fall to her knees before the bed.

The creature cocked its head, sniffing the air, then let out a small, sad trill. This was wrong. This had never happened before. How was it even here? This little thing, still wet and glistening in places from the egg it had barely left, was perched in her bed.

On unsteady, thin legs, the creature wobbled closer until they were face-to-face, brown eyes to glowing orange, their breaths mixing. Morning smelled sickly sweet as Alicent lifted her hand, hovering just inches from the pink scales. The dragon blinked owlishly, then practically threw itself into her hand, nuzzling and chirping.

Alicent stood up, only to crawl onto the bed, lulled by the warmth of the tiny creature in her arms.

Mine.

The room was getting crowded, and she allowed herself to forgo formalities and take her seat at the table instead of mingling with all the Lords and Ladies. It was not a small council chamber, but a larger space, one that could seat the Dornish envoys, the small council, and a handful of other lords and ladies who were invited to either observe or counsel.

Lysa Farman and Gilla were scurrying around, pouring drinks into the outstretched goblets. Both girls were flushed but beaming at the little tidbits of attention afforded to them. Gilla sauntered close to pour some grape juice into Rhaenyra’s cup, receiving a gentle pat on the arm. Lysa, upon seeing that, snatched a couple of candied lemons and brought them over, receiving a similar pat, much to her delight.

Elinda ought to have been the third cupbearer for the event, but she seemed rather distracted by her animated conversation with Princess Aliandra, both girls giggling and blushing whenever they were not very obviously pointing to various people in the room. Which was well enough – the little ladies ought to behave like children sometimes, regardless of how hard the world wishes to turn them into women.

Morana was in the corner of the room, her face serious, as she conversed with the Toland and Fowler ladies. Once again, she was fascinated by the Dornish gowns, more modest than those she had seen in Dorne long ago, but revealing bare shoulders, arms, and bejeweled necks.

Lord Blackmont was observing the room, standing close to Prince Doran, and it was not exactly hard to guess that he was brought here with the sole purpose of protecting the Martells, something in his stance screaming warrior. Considering how effortlessly he stood, Rhaenyra wondered if the cane was even necessary or merely a ruse to make a potential assailant underestimate the man. The King had yet to grace them with his presence.

Before she could ask why the royal couple was still absent, the doors opened to reveal Alicent, in her grayish-blue dress with a restrictive high collar. Something was odd about it, about her. Alicent was different, and the confident stride, no longer inhibited by the odd hollowness and apathy, was that of a true Queen. She sat down next to Rhaenyra for some unfathomable reason, nearly making her choke. There was a smell rolling off her, the same unsettling mawkish thing that Silverwing would poison Mysaria with. The same one she would often catch in the shadows of the Red Keep and in the darkness of Maegor’s tunnels.

“Queen Alicent? It is a pleasure to see you so very full of energy,” Rhaenyra murmured under her breath, suspecting the woman would be able to hear her despite the clamor.

And hear her she did. Alicent flashed her a smile, predatory, though not exactly hostile. “It is a wonderful occasion, Princess. After all, we will not only be discussing the trade agreement with Dorne but also my daughter’s impending betrothal.”

Rhaenyra gasped, taking a second to truly process the implications. “Helaena? …Why?”

“Do not play stupid, Rhaenyra. You know why.”

“Someone is suddenly showing her teeth.” Rhaenyra scowled. “I preferred the Driftmark version of Alicent.”

“I’m sure you did.”

Rhaenyra hummed, fingers tapping on her thigh. “You would weave the betrothal into this negotiation. A war against Helaena’s immediate family would mean war against Dorne, or at the very least the breaking of a mutually beneficial agreement. And yet, Dorne would never support Aegon on the throne either, not with Prince Qoren’s eldest being a daughter. What did you call it last time? A perfect stalemate?”

“Aegon and Helaena. Opposite sides of Westeros, same role.” Alicent’s eyes grew distant, unfocused.

For a moment, this Queen looked like a woman starved, tortured. Rhaenyra followed her gaze to the little Lady Lysa Farman, a shy and pious girl, now standing in the corner of the room. This pitiful creature was destined to be kidnapped like an animal, taken as a salt wife, and brutalized. This girl was destined to witness the death of her father and three sisters, who would become her fellow salt wives. This girl, always polite and soft-spoken, was still on the Iron Islands by the time Mysaria died.

It was terrible, but it was also a simple truth of life. In war, women stopped being human, if they ever were. They became a commodity. An artifact to be displayed, or locked away, or erased from their world altogether.

Helaena had once become a commodity too. A symbol to rally the rebellion, a martyr, a puppet.

“She…” Alicent whispered, and Rhaenyra strained to hear it. “She will be safe, cared for, respected. Qoren does not care when she flowers. He wants her and Doran to become friends. Rhaenyra, she will be happy there. She… I want her in Dorne. I… Please.”

Rhaenyra had always wanted a daughter, but the gods did not bless her with one. As much as she grew to love her younger sister, with her whole heart, it would never be the same. She wondered what it would feel like to watch your daughter be used and thrust around until the day she decided to jump out of her window and leave everything behind. Did Alicent get to see her body? Did Rhaenyra?

The King arrived, and Rhaenyra continued looking at Alicent, truly looking at her. For the first time, she thought it may have been cruel for her to come back, to remember everything and be forced to act, all without a single person to truly trust.

Men were finally settling in, taking their seats. Her father looked grim, his cheek faintly pink. He whispered something to Lord Wylde and now he was whispering to Lord Lannister, glancing at Alicent. The Queen did not falter.

Rhaenyra’s hand slid under the table to grasp her fingers, sticky blood from the torn cuticles warm on her skin. Alicent held her breath, for merely a moment, before squeezing back.

Yes, Dorne would be more than acceptable.

“With the finances out of the way,” Mellos droned, “I would like to turn everyone’s attention to dealing with certain… cultural differences.”

“What of them, Maester?” Lady Toland spoke up, fidgeting with a ring she had taken off her finger. “I do believe we were discussing an alliance, not a unification of any sort. Our culture ought to be no concern of yours, just as yours is to us.”

Mellos frowned, looking at the contemplative King who had yet to utter a single word. “With the active trade, envoys, and ambassadors residing in both territories, the cultural exchange can and will happen. Dorne follows the divine light of the Seven. Surely you must see how some of Dornish… traditions go against the teachings.”

“I do agree. It may be a problem.” Lady Fowler nodded seriously, making Mellos turn to her. “We can solve it for us by requiring all your envoys to be ladies.”

Mellos’s cheeks reddened, and Rhaenyra found great delight in watching him search for words.

“I merely meant that we ought to warn the ambassadors that certain behaviors would be unseemly in our society. Lord Fowler, surely—”

“I am the head of House Fowler, Maester. Not my husband,” Lady Fowler sang, with a pleasant smile. “And since my house was chosen to host an ambassador due to our central location, I have every right to be concerned about the issue you rightfully brought up. You see…” She leaned closer to the table. “My daughter will inherit after me, as is the way in Dorne with the oldest children. I respect Westerosi culture, but I, too, do not wish for the contamination Maester Mellos was so carefully alluding to, to happen. I will accept a Lady from the Seven Kingdoms, one I would not have to teach to keep her eyes and hands to herself.”

The glare she sent Lord Wylde, whose delight in watching and groping serving girls and young ladies was well-known, was as poisonous as that of Dornish serpents. The man did not have the decency to shy away from it.

“I am talking of things that should not even be so much as whispered in polite company. Things that go against everything the Light of the Seven stands for,” Mellos sputtered, face twisted, eyes briefly flashing to the king, who merely pursed his lips. “The rumors that you allow men to lay with men and women with women. It is abominable.”

Rhaenyra watched as Qoren and Aliandra stiffened, Lannister and Wylde scowled. She herself had to resist a chuckle.

It was Qoren who spoke up, sitting stiffly, his voice so cold he might as well have been a wildling. “I understand if you find it unseemly, but those are mere cultural differences. Some places may not like two men finding comfort in each other, and others consider the practice of cutting women open… beastly and reprehensible.”

“Prince Qoren—” Mellos raised his voice.

“No, Maester, we will not discuss this any further. People are free to practice the Faith of the Seven in Dorne, yes, but all other faiths are welcome there. We all know the issue you brought up is not even what bothers you most. It is the idea that half of Dorne is ruled by Ladies and not Lords.” Prince Qoren relaxed back into his chair, openly reaching out to squeeze his daughter’s shoulder. “I support the proposition brought forth by the head of House Fowler. The ambassadors will either be Ladies or Lords vouched for by a trusted member of the court.”

Not-so-subtly, his gaze shifted to Rhaenyra and Alicent, the princess giving him a curt nod. Mellos sat with his mouth clasped shut, as he ought to do more often. The King sat, pale and unseeing, and Rhaenyra had half a mind not to stand up and thank Qoren for such a masterful mention of her mother’s fate.

“Now,” Lord Beesebury started, “it may be time to return to more practical matters. How would we solidify the agreement? We could have an independent third party witness it and ensure the completion, but the search for a suitable guarantor would take time.”

Alicent tapped the table to attract everyone’s attention. “It would not be necessary, Lord Beesebury. House Martell and House Targaryen are to be bound by blood; mistrust would be rather misplaced.”

“Delightful news, my Queen.” The man smiled, not at all surprised. “I could think of no better match for our gentle little princess.” He nodded politely to Prince Doran, receiving a soft smile.

Lord Wylde cleared his throat, still staring down the Queen. “I am afraid there has been a miscommunication. The proposal was never discussed with the council.”

Rhaenyra stepped in, and her smile was all teeth. “Why would we have to discuss such matters, Lord Wylde? Royal matches have been the dominion of the women of the family for some generations now.” It was a lie, and she dared them to call her out on it. “Queen Alysanne made arrangements without the interference of the council, aside from occasional advice she sought herself. Queen Alicent was granted a similar privilege and made a wise choice after briefly consulting me on the matter.”

Alicent was looking at her, and Rhaenyra prayed the woman managed not to show surprise on her face. “And,” she continued, “I am sure the agreement would be barely strong enough to hold a single trade route were it not for the auspicious occasion of joining the Martell and Targaryen families.”

Lord Beesebury hummed. “With the two powerful families joined, and if the alliance proves to be fruitful, in some decades a pathway could be opened to integrating Dorne into the Seven Kingdoms.”

“Lord Beesebury, Dorne will not bow to the Iron Throne,” Lord Blackmont drawled.

“I mean no offense, Lord Blackmont. I did not mean conquest or full integration into the Seven Kingdoms, merely a stronger tie. Perhaps Dorne could become a domain under the Crown’s protection, yet with the Martells holding dominion, traditions and banners unchanged. A relatively independent land joined for easier trade, politically and economically connected.”

Lord Blackmont tilted his head thoughtfully and looked like he was about to say something else, but was stopped by Prince Qoren lifting his hand and slowly considering the words before nodding. “As you say, Lord Beesebury, that would depend on how fruitful the current agreement proves to be. Something to discuss in a decade or two.”

“My King, has the betrothal between Prince Doran and Princess Helaena been finalized?” Lannister asked, looking at the man. “It is a domain of the Queen, by your Grace, but if you believe the decision hasty, we may postpone.”

The man pursed his lips, and, for a moment, it looked like he would refuse the proposal, breaking the fragile peace that had found itself in this chamber. Tension fell upon the room. Most may not be aware that the King was blind to the machinations of his wife, but his displeasure at the match was rather obvious. He breathed heavily, eyes boring into his wife, who merely stared back. Then, his gaze shifted to Rhaenyra, and she watched as something akin to guilt flashed in his eyes.

The King lowered his eyes and nodded. That was enough.

“I anticipate the dowry will have to be finalized with the Master of Coin, but the discussion of various details like formal titles, inheritance, and expectations has been fruitful,” Prince Qoren mused. “I believe a discussion about fostering arrangements ought to be held.”

“And when should we anticipate the festivities?” Lord Beesebury asked.

“I would prefer a long betrothal. There is no need for marriage until the princess turns six and ten, maybe even eight and ten,” Qoren replied, Doran nodding seriously at his side.

“Surely,” Lord Wylde spoke up. “Five or seven years is unreasonably long when the princess is soon to be a woman. The strength of this alliance relies on this marriage and its fruitfulness.”

“If you insist, they can marry,” Qoren shrugged. “Even then, I would insist no consummation happens until the bride is grown.”

If Lord Wylde wanted to say something else, he was clearly deterred by the feral look Lady Fowler sent him before tilting her head.

“Lord Wylde,” she smiled, “You better than anyone should know how… detrimental it is for a lady to be married too early.”

Lord Wylde turned red but shut his mouth. Rhaenyra nearly choked on the juice she was sipping. This was entirely inappropriate, alluding to Wylde’s wrongdoings, and everyone knew it, but everyone also knew it was not a lie. Wylde recently married his third wife, after the previous two died in childbed, and there was no doubt the third one would be similarly driven into an early grave.

Prince Qoren’s eyes were also full of resentment as they slipped over the man. Rhaenyra was easily reminded that his own wife, a woman merely three years younger, had married him at the ripe age of eight and ten. In their long marriage, they had only ever had three pregnancies. The result of the first one sat before them: a polite, quiet boy and a stubborn, curious girl. With the twins being three and ten, Rhaenyra could see why Qoren might find offense in Lord Wylde taking brides of similar age.

“I do…” Lord Strong spoke up hesitantly. “I do believe there is merit in early marriage, perhaps in two years, even if consummation happens at a later date. And… the princess may benefit from fostering to adjust to the culture.”

Qoren eyed him, and whatever he saw was enough to make him smile politely. “I think that would be acceptable, Lord Hand. It is also our tradition that an heir of House Martell is fostered at various Dornish Houses in their early years. Perhaps, if Doran joined Aliandra, Princess Helaena could accompany them for as long as she wishes.”

“I heard the Princess likes books,” Doran himself spoke up, his voice unwavering. “If given permission to accompany us, I believe she would find the time at House Jordayne most delightful.”

Alicent next to her practically melted into the chair at those soft words. Rhaenyra had to admit, Prince Doran was a good young man. Perhaps it would be prudent to acquaint the twins with Jace and Luke. Lord Strong smiled to himself and lifted his quill.

“I will begin making notes then.”

Harwin holding a babe in his arms was a sight she would never get tired of. The way he rocked his newly arrived niece, under the relaxed gaze of Bethany, was the sight of her dreams. Mysaria sat in the corner, noting something in the little notebook she always carried around, with Gilla hovering over her shoulder and whispering something.

“How is this little thing doing?” Rhaenyra asked, coming up to the sofa he shared with his sister and peeking at the scrunched little face.

“She has been the calmest of my children, princess. I am greatly enjoying her company,” Victaria shrugged.

Harwin chuckled in response. “You are biased, Bethy. Lukamore was an absolute beast from the day he drew breath. Little Simona here is only tame by comparison.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward, her hands brushing the soft, pink cheek. “Soon, there may be more children around for mine to play with. Lady Fell intends to eventually bring her son and cousin here. Little Simona will grow up. And Victaria…” She sent Bethany a grin. “Ser Jafer Rowan asked for permission to formally court her.”

Bethany gasped, “Finally? They've been disgusting to look at for several moons now, my princess. I’m surprised Victaria had enough restraint not to drag him into the woods.”

Rhaenyra giggled, straightening once again. “She was considering it, just so you know. There is also another lady-in-waiting to join us soon. Lady Stark.”

Bethany raised her eyebrow, looking between her brother and the princess, until Rhaenyra turned to walk over to Mysaria. Harwin could explain better, either way.

Mysaria nodded at Rhaenyra but didn’t stop jotting down her notes. Gilla flashed a smile at the princess and continued the rapid retelling of everything she had seen and heard during the meeting with the Dornishmen. As much as Mysaria was just on the other side of a thin wall and could only hear the main conversation, there was gossip that only Gilla and perhaps Lysa were privy to, and neither of them wanted to involve the Farman girl unless strictly necessary.

“…I also thought Princess Aliandra took very close interest in Lady Elinda. They discussed all kinds of things. Some silly gossip, but I also heard them discussing inheritance and power. Lady Elinda liked Dornish culture and was sad about not being old enough to become an envoy,” Gilla whispered, shifting on her feet. “I think their closeness could be useful in the future. You could also ask her. Lady Elinda is very vocal about how proud she is to be your lady, Princess. She will be happy to help.”

Rhaenyra smiled, just as Mysaria let out a huff. “You also said something about Lord Wylde.”

The girl scrunched her face for a moment, thinking. “Ah… I did not hear much. The man was just odd, and very angry before he left, especially at the Queen. I do not think… the queen did not wear green, right?” Mysaria and Rhaenyra both nodded. “Perhaps that was why? He told Lannister something about Otto Hightower being concerned, but they went quiet when I was close. And he exchanged a few words with the queen after most left the chamber. They were whispering, and I only caught the mention of Baratheons.”

Mysaria sighed, finishing the last sentence she was writing with a large question mark, and closing the book. She reached out and ruffled the unruly red curls, making the girl squeak. “You did good, Gilla.” Bethany was standing up on the other end of the room. “Do you mind helping Lady Caswell to her chambers now? And go rest, please. I know they put you on kitchen duty for the week to come.”

Gilla smiled, giving a perfect, well-practiced curtsy before rushing to Bethany. Together, they wrestled the babe out of Harwin’s arms and left the room.

Mysaria moved in a blink, crossing the room to occupy the place Bethany had just vacated. Harwin’s hand traveled expertly to the back of her head, gently massaging her scalp. This was apparently something they shared—a love for head scratching and mindless repetitive movements. Rhaenyra had no choice but to shuffle over, settling on the other side from Harwin. After multiple uncomfortable positions were tried, she sighed, turned, and slumped down, her head resting on Harwin’s knees, her feet now half in the air, hanging off the armrest.

Comfortable. Harwin’s other hand moved to caress her hairline in featherlight touches, petting her.

“Anything new in the little North investigation?” he asked.

“He was killed in a duel, for the honor of Lady Umber. There was a scandal, details are unclear, but Lord Umber won fairly. Despite that, for his actions, he was sent back to his lands,” Mysaria supplied.

“I thought Umbers usually seclude themselves,” Rhaenyra muttered. “Whoever could set them up to duel with the usurping uncle?”

Mysaria chuckled. “Little Lady is likely, but we cannot rule out others. Lord Stark has seats for every house that wishes to join his household, but I know he has several permanent advisors—Horwoods, Dustins, Manderlys, and Karstarks. Any of them could have played a role or been the pawn to the lady.”

Rhaenyra hummed, letting the silence lull them all for a little longer.

“So… Alicent and the Baratheons...” Mysaria started.

“Likely a betrothal. Not as beneficial to us as the other two, but not explicitly harmful,” Rhaenyra replied.

Harwin raised his eyebrow. “You do not sound overly concerned about Alicent’s dealings.”

“She…” Rhaenyra bit her lip. “The only truly concerning thing she did so far is offering Aegon wine at Helaena’s and his birthday feast this past week. I do not think she acts in a way that indicates… hostility. And I think there are much greater threats we ought to focus on at play.”

“The two betrothals she did organize do work in our favor,” Harwin hummed. “The greater threat being Otto Hightower?”

“I will try to get people closer to him,” Mysaria whispered, eyes half-closed from the magic Harwin was performing. Rhaenyra could relate. “But it will not be easy. The man is fearful and suspicious.”

“Do you think it would be possible to poison the king?”

Harwin’s hand stilled. Mysaria bowed her head to look down at Rhaenyra, eyes wide open.

She focused on the raven hair, forcing the words out. “Does he look like he is deteriorating faster than last time?”

All attention turned to Mysaria now, her eyes shifting across the room frantically. “I… Do not know?” she stammered, uncharacteristically distressed. “I never saw him in person. But… the thought did cross my mind on multiple occasions. It did. If someone is poisoning him… they want you as regent? Or do they want to shift power early? I need to think—”

“Stop. Calm yourself. We can’t know. We can’t be hasty,” Rhaenyra whispered. “Careful observation and skillful inaction. Inquire, quietly, as to whether there are any new cooks, who serves food, and whether poisoning is even possible. Perhaps we need our Maester to look at the king too.”

Mysaria took a deep breath, agitation oozing out of her, and took out the notebook to once again scratch some words into the pages.

Harwin tilted his head. “Why not raise an alarm? The threat to the King is loud enough to cover up any… brute force… we may need to use.”

“You think like a knight and a warrior, my dear, and the situation we find ourselves in is not merely a single brutal battle.”

“If you say so, my princess,” he chuckled, accepting the dismissal, and finally continuing the petting. “I will leave the politicking to you, my ladies.”

Rhaenyra hummed. “Do you think the Bloodfly could be doing it?”

Harwin chuckled. “I thought we all agreed to assume she was on our side.”

The scratching on the paper stopped, and that must have alerted Harwin to something being wrong because the movement of his hand stopped soon after. He blinked, then pulled a crooked mask of calm over his face. Rhaenyra sat up, slowly, ignoring the way her head thrummed. Her eyes never left Harwin’s face. Mysaria was similarly staring him down.

They all had their suspicions. Rhaenyra believed the Bloodfly to be a man; Mysaria believed it to be a woman, though she would admit to some actions being more brutish, akin to a man. Harwin did not share his opinion. And yet, he said ‘she’. And there was something in the way he said it—in the way the word spilled out so very naturally—that made it obvious. He knew it was a ‘she’.

“How long?” Rhaenyra rasped, the thrumming getting louder.

“I did not—”

“How. Long?”

Silence settled on the room, heavy and oppressive. She could see Harwin sinking under it, under their eyes. She let the silence suffocate him.

“I…” Harwin opened his mouth, but the look Rhaenyra was giving him cut him off. “…Since the night Larys died. Everyone was looking at the body. I was looking at Helaena.”

Time flowed between them, around them, and Rhaenyra could barely hear anything. He had known. For so long. Her head thrummed as she let it hang.

“Rhae, I—”

“Get out.”

She could not see him but heard the shaky inhale, the shuffle as he stood up, and the dull sound of the heavy wood closing behind him. When she raised her head, Mysaria’s eyes were glassy, and she was muttering something under her breath.

Under Rhaenyra’s gaze, she began aggressively flipping the pages of her notebook, muttering growing in volume, but not coherence. She stopped as abruptly as she started, paper crumpling between her fingers. When Rhaenyra leaned in, there was a name—Gyles Yronwood—neatly marking the top of the page.

“I will get him to tell us who it is. On the morrow, I will…” Rhaenyra trailed off.

“I know who it is. There is no need. I do not even know how I did not see that before.”

Rhaenyra blinked, trying to see why and how everything crumbled so fast. Trying, and failing, to think of a person. Mysaria stared at her, childish excitement mixed with horror pained across her face.

“Do you not see, Rhaenyra? Bloodfly managed to claim a black dragon, likely cannibal, in less than two days, and cause a miscarriage for Laena. It is someone adult, someone who knew the future and therefore lived at least to the middle of the war.” Rhaenyra opened her mouth, protest likely obvious, but Mysaria merely waved her off. “Yes, it is a dragon rider. I have no doubt. Others would not be able to figure out dragon riding quite so fast.”

Rhaenyra closed her mouth, nodding along.

“Now, we also know it is a female, Targaryen, and someone dragonless at the day of her return. Rhaenyra, you said it yourself, the eggs do not count as a bond.”

And then it suddenly made sense.

“Rhaena?” the princess whispered. “But she is just a girl.”

“No, Rhaenyra. She is a woman, one that had the highest chances to live to the very end of the war and beyond, losing everything in the process. She is an extraordinarily resilient person, and a staunch black supporter.”

“But—”

“The handwriting—it looked childish, did it not? The bowl in Addam’s house was half-eaten. They likely gave her an adult portion out of habit. She smells sweet, just a little bit, every now and then. She had the opportunity to slip pennyroyal into Laena’s drink and briefly disappear in the chaos of her miscarriage. She has seen Addam’s house, knew him well, and most of all, she knew Gyles. She. Knew. Gyles! The man was sent to the Vale with her!”

.
.
.

“How did she do it?”

Mysaria smoothed her hair, or attempted to, more horror bleeding into her face. “The bracelets she wears, do they not look greasy to you?”

“Why are we talking about bracelets all of a sudden?”

“Because… there is not much known about the land of mages and shadow binders, except that their city, Asshai, is built from oily black stone, one that is also their object of worship. Through the shadow city flows a black river, the water glowing sickly green the moment the sun sets. And…”

“Stop.” Rhaenyra whispered.

Everything stilled once again, but there was thrumming in Rhaenyra’s head, and it still hurt, and Harwin’s face, and his words, and all of this was just… too much.

“Tell me,” she wet her lips. “Mysaria, promise me you are not hiding anything from me.”

She knew Mysaria well, managed to learn everything she could in their short time together. The woman could lie, it was part of her profession, and yet she could not entirely wipe the guilt off her face when she spoke a resolute “No.”

Rhaenyra sagged, shoulders hunching, and whispered. “What did you do behind my back? Tell me. Tell me, please.”

Silence barely lasted a second before the woman acquiesced.

“I’ve been quietly exploring ways of legitimizing your marriage with Harwin. I have a plan that could work, but was waiting for the opportune moment to bring it up.”

.
.
.

“What else?”

“We sent the first missives to the alchemists. They are to supply us with extensive amounts of Wild Fire.”

“Whatever for?”

“To put under bridges, under the sites of known battles, though the Queen would be more likely than not to remember those too. To hide under the streets of Oldtown.”

Her heart was thrumming somewhere in her throat. Rhaenyra was about to gag. “You are preparing for the war of terror. You would make me a monster.”

“We would have you survive. By any means necessary.” Mysaria shook her head violently. “No one would ever know. This time, we will prepare. This time, we will have people believe Hightowers ordered the burnings, and, if we did have to ignite Oldtown, that their own stores were simply not properly looked after and ignited due to negligence. We can kill them and make them monsters at the same time. People will believe whatever makes the most sense, just like they believed you ordered the beheading of the child and—”

“Mysaria—”

“We can win, this time, we can—”

“Get out.”

Her voice rang in the room. Her head fell forward once again.

She could not see Mysaria, but heard the shaky inhale, the shuffle as she stood up, and the dull sound of the heavy wood closing behind her.

She was expected, two carved chairs sat opposite each other, a pitcher of wine on the low table, next to two empty goblets. It was dark in the room, barely any candles lit, a gaping darkness where the fireplace stood. The room smelled the same way Silverwing used to, before she bonded with Mysaria. The same smell she caught in Addam’s house, and lingering from Larys’ body—the mawkish stench of rot and decay, tinged with ash and sulphur.

It felt like walking into a trap, the little girl lounging expectantly in a chair too big for her, chin resting on her pale palm. The medallion, one she had thought was stone, was faintly glowing green, and the liquid inside it swirled. Bracelets glisten on her wrists.

Mysaria took another step, trying to ignore the way shadows danced in the corners of the room, the way they coiled, ready to jump. Only now did she realize how long it had been since the shadows actually looked dark to her.

The girl noticed. She grinned with a kind of delight Mysaria had never seen on her face. “I expected to be found later. I underestimated you in some matters and overestimated in others. I suppose, the moment Harwin slipped the final cue, it would have been relatively easy.”

Mysaria sat down, feeling something coil around her legs but not daring to look. She observed the girl and berated herself for not seeing it sooner. There was something very wrong about her. The way she moved was akin to a broken puppet doll, smooth where it should be jerky, deliberate where it should be natural. She did not blink, and neither did she seem to breathe much. And, most of all, it looked almost like her skin was pulled over her like a grotesque hunter’s trophy—stretched too tight, fitted over the bones with mastery, more like a cured hide than living flesh.

She reached out, poured their goblets, and sipped her wine even as Mysaria made no move to take hers.

“I admit, Mysaria, I did not think you would act so quickly. What you did with Cole… Haste is just as bad as ignorance. And you killed the man just to kill him. Such a valuable pawn…” she sighed, a disappointed frown on her face. “Wasted. How very sloppy.”

“Did you not yourself kill Larys?” Mysaria leant back, trying to look comfortable. “Would that not be a waste of a chess piece?”

“Oh, please.” The girl giggled. “Surely you are not comparing Criston and Larys. Criston could be manipulated. Led, used. Larys probably could too, with enough effort, but, quite frankly, watching him would be a waste of valuable resources. The man is too clever and ambitious for his own good. And he was way too close to the old gods, ready to do their bidding.” She let out another chuckle, hand gripping her goblet. “Comparing them… What an insult to the late Strong lordling.”

Something in this room sent shivers down Mysaria’s spine. She suppressed the urge to run, locked her body in place, watched the girl swirl her drink with the elegance she observed only in the most distinguished of ladies.

“I know what you are planning with the Strong boys. It is a shame that Rhaenyra had to find out that way, but I am personally endlessly curious about how your little plan will go.”

Mysaria focused on the green glow, enough to distract her from the movement in her periphery. “It should work. It must. With enough evidence and a trail long enough that it never quite traces back to us, it will work.”

The girl nodded. “It might, sure, but if Cole were still in the castle, things would be much easier.”

It took Mysaria a moment to understand the implications, and when she did, there was almost a hint of pride on the girl’s face. “You would attempt to discredit the Queen herself, instead of the rumors she spreads?”

“Of course.”

“But the Queen returned too.” She tried not to make her words sound accusing. “You were the one who returned her.”

Mysaria hoped she was right, that the secret to their journey through time was sitting within arm’s reach, and was rewarded with a smooth nod.

“I did. Because it had to be done that way. Alicent of 122 AC was fixated on planting Aegon on the throne and blind to her children’s pain and flaws. There was no negotiation that could ever persuade her to do otherwise. Rhaenyra tried, do you not remember? After Joffrey’s birth, she attempted to mend that bridge and failed spectacularly. No amount of meddling could prevent war; your power would merely prompt her into using dirtier tricks. But this one? The Alicent that died in King’s Landing in 131 AC? That is a broken woman with regrets, disappointed in life, and distant from her sons, too busy ensuring their continued survival to harm you.”

She settled the empty goblet down, pouring herself more. Mysaria watched, doubt seeping into her voice. “Do you even know what she is doing?”

“Of course I do. And it is nothing you should be concerned over.”

“And if she steps out of line?”

“I will deal with her.” The cold voice cut the room, but Mysaria was getting better at ignoring the nagging fear, and she needed answers.

“What are you planning to do next?”

The girl inclined her head but did not answer.

“Why Sara Stark? Why me?”

“Are you so busy playing politics that you cannot look after yourself? Realize what you had to become in order to return?”

“I became Targaryen,” Mysaria replied effortlessly.

The girl merely began to grin. “Ah, yes, and you claimed Silverwing. Well done. Pity you still do not know why.”

“Why don’t you tell me?”

The girl blinked, movement slow and deliberate. “Well, that would not be fun, would it?”

Mysaria dared to turn her head and look around then, noting the empty shell by the fireplace. “Where is Morning?”

The girl’s expression did not so much as twitch, her body remaining unnaturally still.

Mysaria swallowed, thinking of a better question. “What does Helaena have to do with any of it?”

The smile on the girl’s face grew wider, marginally, and she almost looked satisfied. “She did not return, if that is what you are concerned about. She died in the right place, but she was a Targaryen. I would not have been able to do anything even if I tried.”

“So it is not the Valyrian gods that helped you?” Mysaria muttered, not truly expecting an answer.

“Helaena may yet prove useful to you,” the girl mused, taking another sip. “She has immense potential. And the powers that bound her before are no longer in place.”

“What is she? How did she know it was you? That’s how Harwin figured it out, right? Helaena reacted to you. Why? How?”

The girl’s gaze smoothly glided down her face, and Mysaria suddenly realized human eyes were not supposed to move like that.

“…Surely you should have guessed what she is already. You’ve seen her before, you’ve seen her after. You have watched her for a very long time. You know.”

Mysaria clenched her fists. “Must you be so secretive?”

“I do so wish to be entertained.”

“What happened to you? What year did you die?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions. I expected better from you. How very disappointing.” The girl set the empty goblet down, filled it once again with the deep red liquid. “I will tell you, but only in return for compliance in a small matter.”

Mysaria nodded and watched the girl take a deep gulp from the goblet.

“The year I died… 161 AC. Nearly thirty years after the three of you.”

For a moment, Mysaria struggled to count, struggled to reconcile the idea that this… creature… in front of her lived longer than her, longer than Harwin, longer than nearly every other Targaryen in this castle. Rhaena had outlived them all, and now she was back, in the body of a seven-year-old little girl.

Mysaria could ask an infinite number of things. She could ask things that would help in strategy, in the upcoming conflict, or even in swaying the houses to their side. And yet, she only had one question.

“Did Rhaenyra… get to rule?”

The girl looked at her, and for a brief moment, there was no color in those eyes, aside from the suffocating darkness.

“Two days. She lasted… two more days.”

She knew. She suspected. And yet... She did not want to believe it. She did not want to know how. Her head fell forward, and Mysaria caught a glimpse of shadows that seemed to be swallowing her feet, swirling around them. She could not bring herself to care much.

“What did you want?” Mysaria whispered, “You said you wanted something.”

“I want you to keep your hands off of Oldtown. Stay out of it. It is my domain. Do what you will with the rest of the seven kingdoms, and be grateful for the opportunity, but leave Oldtown to me. Though I will be taking all the Wildfire you requested for that place.”

Mysaria noded, words flying over her. She reached out and took the goblet. Alcohol, something that is definitely not wine, was strong enough to burn her throat.

Chapter Text

Within days of the arrival of the Dornish delegation, more changes occurred, most noticeably for the children. Rhaenyra, in between official business and sitting in her solar with a grim expression, managed to arrange new teaching schedules.

Helaena had been there when the idea first crossed her mind, on the same sofa that still seemed infused with Aegon’s scent. Her brother was doing his best to avoid everyone and anyone, despite the reassurances Harwin had given him throughout the voyage. Helaena now often sat in his old place, bundled up in soft blankets. It was getting colder — everyone could feel it — and yet the arrival of winter had not been announced.

“Do you like your lessons?” Rhaenyra had asked once, when Helaena came and sat in her customary spot.

The furrowed brows and fidgeting must have answered the question, for her sister had simply nodded and begun writing something.

“I… My septa is kind. I like embroidery,” Helaena had whispered.

Her sister had not replied back then, but the very next day, exiting the tunnels, Helaena had become an accidental witness to the tail end of a conversation between her and the not-mother. It had seemed amicable enough, Helaena thought, though she was not always good at guessing what people felt.

“So we are in agreement? If you wish to talk to the maesters yourself, I will gladly arrange a meeting,” Rhaenyra had said.

The queen had looked pensive, but gave a curt nod before saying, “We are in agreement, as long as you uphold your end of the deal, princess.”

Helaena had watched as the two women left, hands barely brushing against each other, Rhaenyra checking the hallways to see if anyone had overheard them. If she had known about Helaena, she gave no indication.

From then on, not only did the boys begin sharing classes — something Helaena knew her mother would never have allowed before — but Helaena, too. The girl, along with the dragon twins, was allowed to sit in on lessons in geography, rhetoric, arithmetic, and law. They were also given all the same books to read and discuss, and were collectively struggling through 'The Rhoynish Fall' — a thick historical tome focused on the wars with the Valyrian Freehold.

The maesters — Gerardys and Kerwyn — eagerly engaged in conversations with them, and did not mind the girls asking questions or answering them. Helaena really liked them. No words could express the love she felt for her sister when she realized that, despite the additions to her schedule, Septa Marja was still expected to teach her embroidery.

Before the euphoria of this change fully faded, Gwayne Hightower arrived, marking the day he became one of the knights teaching the boys swordplay alongside Ser Harwin and Ser Jafer.

The boys, Daemon’s girls, and, as of this day, Helaena. Rhaena and Baela were known to train under their father’s guidance, and, at first, Helaena had just wanted to take a look.

But then the girls looked so strong and confident, and Laena had been there, looking every bit a Targaryen warrior, and the woman’s words rang inside her head.

You have a voice.

She did.

She had requested lessons.

Ser Jafer had been quick to seek permission from the queen and receive it, and Helaena was soon asked to see Ser Harwin.

The man had not questioned her request, but told her she would need leathers, and his condition was for her to also learn horseback riding and, later, have special lessons with one of his knights. Helaena should have felt disturbed at not understanding what these lessons entailed, but she trusted Harwin. And, oddly enough, she trusted the men he chose to teach them. She agreed.

The girl had no interest in swords, not like the boys and Baela did. Neither did she share Rhaena’s quiet fascination with bows. There was, however, a strong urge in her to learn a way to protect herself — one that did not rely on the man standing behind her door and his whims. It slowly grew into a quiet appreciation of daggers.

And so, she stood in the courtyard in her freshly made leathers and listened intently as her uncle explained the basics: what to hold, where to hold, how to swing. Behind him, the boys were already practicing with their swords, charging at big lumps of hay and wood with all the grace of newborn lambs. Not that Helaena expected to be any more elegant.

“Princess, do you have a dagger yet?” Gwayne asked.

Helaena wanted to remind him that she was but his niece, his blood, and could be referred to as such, but the world around her was always rather stiff with odd rules and confusing words.

“No, Uncle,” she replied. “I would like to get one.”

It wasn’t hard, keeping eye contact — just mildly discomforting, as if the human before her would be able to see a little too much in the purple irises. She managed it for a moment.

Gwayne Hightower was hesitant, unhappy even, to be teaching her what he likely thought to be the boys’ skill. He mellowed his words, simplified his teaching, and explained things slowly with great reluctance. He had also yet to let her get close to the other children, as if the unspoken barrier would make her change her mind.

Now, once again, the man hesitated, looking her over with discomfort, but before he could open his mouth, a voice interrupted from behind her.

“Would you allow me to escort the princess to the city for a dagger?”

Doran Martell was standing behind her, but the flash of unease was quickly extinguished when Helaena saw the tender, soft upturn of his lips. It was nothing like the awkwardly plastered smiles the people of the court graced her with, the ones that withered away the moment they thought she was not looking. And there was no questioning glint in his eyes — not the kind she had come to associate with people expecting something of her, or trying to communicate in a way she could not fully grasp.

Prince Doran bowed deeply at his waist, deeper than his station required him to. Behind him, Lord Blackmont did the same despite the bad leg. She liked the boy, in a way, but could not truly shake off the feeling that this was all an act, one good enough to fool her into believing his sincerity. She wondered if she would feel more at ease if Rhaenyra and Harwin told her he was trustworthy.

Next to her, her uncle hesitated. “Prince Doran, such a trip requires preparation.”

“I understand, Ser.” Prince Doran paused, clearly contemplating. His eyes flickered to Lord Blackmont in silent search of support before he continued. “Who should I talk to for the necessary arrangements?”

“Ser Harwin would be able to assign gold cloaks for your protection. And it would be most considerate of you to seek permission from the queen.”

Doran nodded, eyes shifting back to Helaena. “Would you like for me to arrange the journey, Princess? Else I would gladly bring you the best dagger I can find as a token of my affection and appreciation.”

“Appreciation of… what exactly?” Helaena whispered, confused.

Behind her, her uncle audibly shifted, as if he meant to stop her. Before Helaena could regret the words that were perhaps inappropriate for some reason or other, Doran stepped closer, though not close enough to touch. She could smell the Dornish oils on him now, a soft, fresh sort of scent that reminded her of candied lemons and plush pillows.

“For accepting the arrangement between us, of course. I would have expected you to be reluctant without a proper period of courtship.”

Helaena blinked, a cold sense of determination seeping into her extremities.

“But I was given no choice,” Helaena said, firm and clear. “The women of Westeros do what they are told. We are not granted the freedom of having an opinion.”

There was a hand on her back now, a heavy glove and a silent order to be quiet. Helaena stiffened, fighting the revulsion of an unfamiliar touch.

She had no interest in lying, even if the prince now looked as though his world had been crushed to pieces. And she was also growing tired of being quiet, of lowering her eyes and acting as if her thoughts and opinions were lesser than those of the boys around her.

“Evils only happen when we allow them to happen,” Maester Gerardys had said just some days earlier. “Evils happen in silence.”

Helaena doubted this was one of the evils he meant, or that he considered what effect his words would have. Yet she did not want to stay silent anymore — not when staying silent would feel like lying. Not when she was merely correcting a mistake. Helaena, for the first time in her life, wanted to speak, loud and clear. Most importantly, with Rhaenyra, and Ser Harwin, and Laena, and even her brothers and nephews, she was becoming more confident she would finally be heard.

Prince Doran, to his credit, looked genuinely disturbed, stepping back towards Lord Blackmont. In a series of hushed whispers she was likely not meant to hear, Doran inquired why the princess had not been asked, for surely she had the right to refuse. His lord explained a little about the ways of the Seven Kingdoms and the ladies here not having the ‘Drusa rights,’ whatever they were. Gwayne’s heavy breathing was behind her, but she did not want to turn around to see his expression.

There was another set of light steps approaching. This one she knew very well — the cat-like walk quite unexpected of a man Ser Harwin’s size. His silent presence was familiar, even comforting, more so because the hand on her back soon dropped with a muttered apology. Doran turned back to them barely a moment later.

“My princess, I apologize for my lack of discretion. I am afraid I need to talk to my father.” And then the boy bowed and disappeared in a hurry.

Helaena turned in haste, eyes locking on her nephews’ father, and had to fight the urge to embrace the man. It was inappropriate, she knew as much, to touch a noble heir her family had no official relation to. Even more so than embracing her own uncle would be. Still, she could not help but anxiously shift closer, melting under the hand that came up to squeeze her shoulder — perhaps the only bit of contact they were allowed in public.

“Ser Gwayne, was there a problem?”

Her uncle hesitated. “Of course not, Ser Harwin. I was simply instructing the princess.”

“And once the prince came here to talk? What happened?” His voice grew cold. “Did you find her behavior reproachful?”

Helaena stiffened, meeting her uncle’s eyes once again. Ser Gwayne Hightower looked to be quickly assessing the situation around him, lingering on the hand still on Helaena’s shoulder and, perhaps, her lack of outward dislike towards said hand.

“The princess… was talking to her betrothed, is all. Certain things were said, the ones not to be said in polite society or in front of one’s future husband.” He hesitated, frowning. “I simply think the princess would benefit from more lessons with a septa. She is young still; such missteps are acceptable. For now.”

“Perhaps,” Harwin agreed, showing a toothy and entirely false smile. “Or perhaps there are things that ought to be said loud and clear, so people can appreciate the flaws in our society. Whatever it was, I commend the young princess for speaking her mind.”

“Ser Harwin.” Gwayne started, a tight smile appearing. “I do know that the ways of the Old Gods are drastically different from… wider society…, but most here follow the light of the Seven and abide by the scriptures. All of us make sacrifices. Princess Helaena ought to learn, so she may become an embodiment of the Maiden and, later, the Mother Above.”

“I see.” Harwin turned to take a mockingly long look around the yard. “I do not believe I have brought up any gods, Ser Gwayne. I see no gods here, only men, and a young maiden who was graced with a mind of her own and a tongue to speak it freely, by whichever gods you choose to follow, that is.”

“Ser Harwin—”

“You look discomforted, Gwayne. If you do not find teaching your niece to wield a dagger as something your gods would permit, allow me to commit the blasphemy. You may go and train your nephews for now.”

Her uncle frowned, but held the falsely sweet smile.

“I will need to talk to the queen about this,” he concluded, before turning around and heading toward Daeron, who was babbling at Aemond from his nurse’s arms.

The boys will be upset, Helaena thought. They loved Harwin teaching them, and now she was taking him away. The man stepped away, crouching down so their eyes were more level.

He looked tired, more so than usual, and Helaena could not help but notice that his scent, so often suffused with Rhaenyra’s, was now oddly singular — barren, in a way.

“Princess?”

“Prince Doran wanted to thank me for accepting the match. I told him that the decision was not mine. I could not lie to him when he was clearly mistaken.” Helaena reported, taking pride in her unwavering tone. “I want to go with him to buy a dagger. May I?”

Harwin contemplated before slowly nodding. “I will assemble the guard myself, if the queen allows.”

He stood up, snatching a dagger from his waist and extending it to Helaena.

The metal was heavy in her hands, but her breath caught at the feeling. She did not know how to use it, not yet, but holding it was enough that she suddenly felt rooted in the ground, heavy, present in ways she hadn’t been before. Her hand clenched around the handle, steel glinting in the sunlight.

“Prin… Helaena?”

She looked up, into the warmth of Harwin’s eyes. That warmth infused her being as he briefly patted the top of her head.

“I am very proud of you.”

And she felt the strings she had not known were holding her down snap.

Alicent’s mind could not rest lately. She was stuck in a limbo – thinking of what was before, reliving the murky memories of her confinement. Her world, back then, had been small and dull, like a dusty chest shoved into the corner of the room. The books could not appeal to her, and the needle and thread did little more than bring tears and images of her daughter’s broken body.

And so, confined to her old chambers in the Tower of the Hand, she had cried and slept. She realized, more recently, that even in that old, dull, and fragmented world, her mind was searching for something to do, something to cling to. She had not known it, but she kept learning.

There had been this serving girl. Alicent could not remember her name, no matter how hard she tried. Young, scrawny, with one of her feet twisted slightly out of shape, she had not known to treat the confined Queen with the same contempt and dismissiveness everyone else did. She would appear, talk to Alicent, or attempt to. She would bring meals, books that stayed untouched on the small table, help her wash. The girl had been kind, unnaturally so. She would have grown into a beauty, even despite the mousy, dull hair, of that Alicent was sure.

She had talked of her family sometimes, of brothers and sisters at home, and of her sick mother. Alicent had not given much weight to the little rambles, still too consumed by her own suffering.

And then the girl was gone. And the sudden absence had become the push Alicent needed to get out of the painful fog into an even more painful reality. Her disappearance had become yet another absence Alicent could not quite comprehend, an absence of someone who had spent moons caring for her.

In between sleep and wakefulness, in the fragments of her world, her eyes would search. In the crowds below, in the faces of other women who served her but refused to answer, in the whispers she sometimes had the mind to overhear. She had searched for the girl in the only way she could.

Not because she cared, or even liked the girl—that would be entirely untrue to say. But because her world, already small, needed that thin, tiny string of stability the girl had become.

She would be on her deathbed by the time other maids whispered the truth around her. Her little servant had died the same way, coughing blood out and writhing in the sheets, burned inside out by the disease many saw as a divine punishment.

Her memories were piecing themselves together now, coming back in clarity they did not have before. The knowledge, not just the feverish determination, was driving her—the things she learned while confined and slowly dying from the inside. The way servants behaved and the things they talked about near her mindless carcass, the way they interacted when they thought there was no one to watch.

She was growing to like it – the role of a spectator. Of course, becoming truly invisible was not in her power, but she could always make them believe her attention was elsewhere.

Elbows propped on one of the wide windowsills overseeing the training yard, she feigned interest in her sons for those observant enough to even notice her, all while her ears picked up the mumble of serving girls below, and the whispering of the squires in the corner. She kept her ears trained on them all, highborn or not. It was impressive, truly, how much sharper the senses were after what she could only describe as awakening.

On the other side of the yard, Laena and Rhaenyra walked along the high wall, the Princess briefly meeting her eyes with a small, official nod.

She was good at it. The act. The semi-hostile indifference people were used to was clearly there, as if they had not spent the past several days conversing and growing more comfortable with each other’s existence. As if she had not found Rhaenyra in her rooms the day after her dragon hatched, staring at the creature in quiet wonder.

The scent of the dragon that now clung to her, as it did to most other Targaryens. With her going to the council room right after holding a dragon in her arms, it would not have been hard to figure out. Not for Rhaenyra, who proved rather helpful in concealing the dragon’s existence.

‘You’re a Targaryen now,’ Rhaenyra had said back then, rubbing the hand that had just been nipped by the toothless creature.

Alicent had nodded. She figured as much, had nearly a day to think of it and enjoy the new sensations.

“Will you still call her Morning?”

Yet another acknowledgement of the strange world they were in had hung low and heavy. Of the things that were and could be.

“I take it Rhaena is… something?”

The darkness that passed across Rhaenyra’s face had been answer enough. Poor child must have been thrust back into this time too, now deprived of a dragon for reasons Alicent would rather not dwell on. She had more important things to do.

“I’ll call her Alyrae. For my mother. A new name for a new life.”

With her dragon likely enjoying the warmth of a fireplace back in her rooms, Alicent could observe and listen.

The training yard was busy, full of people and sounds. The grating, coarse caws of a line of crows, the barking of dogs in the distance, the blabbering of the serving girls in the corner when talking of Aemond’s new leathers. The slight, discontented comment made by a passerby squire who saw Rhaena shoot a bullseye. Lucerys asking Aemond to come play with them, and her son refusing for the need to tend to his dragon.

On the dummy closest to her, Princess Aliandra was practicing with a spear, watched by Lady Elinda, Rhaenyra’s loyal little creature. Their soft chatting was just that – a mindless flow of words of little use to Alicent.

Baela and Jacaerys were conversing as Ser Jafer walked away, all about the book on the Rhoynar they had to read. The nurse holding Daeron and walking him around the yard was stopped by Rhaena and soon Aemond, who began showering the little boy with attention.

Somehow sensing her gaze, Rhaena looked up, and, for a brief moment, her eyes made Alicent shiver unpleasantly. The feeling was gone as quickly as it came, however, and Daeron was all the happier when Rhaena’s brief lapse of attention ended.

A shadow, in the corner of her eyes, appeared and disappeared as the girl with red hair hurried away without saying a word. Mysaria’s little bird, here to see the children. Maybe she would note Aegon’s absence, or the closeness of the two girls. Maybe it would be Harwin’s calm instructions, or Gwayne’s hesitant ones. Perhaps she even overheard things Alicent could not, like Prince Doran and one of the Dornish lords whispering in the far corner of the yard, just outside her earshot.

She heard the soft steps long before the voice behind her said, “Watching the children train, Queen Alicent?”

She smiled, turning to face the man whose Dornish silks were now replaced with warmer fabrics. Perhaps for the best, she could not help but think, the tighter fit of his new doublet did much to draw attention to the broad shoulders.

“It is a rare occurrence, but I suppose it only makes the progress more apparent. Aemond is becoming rather dangerous with a sword.”

“Your son has a talent, that much is clear.” Qoren sauntered close, leaning against the wall next to her. “I was never fond of swords as a boy, not many in Dorne are, in truth.”

“Oh? What do they use then?”

“Spears, daggers, bows. We are especially fond of curved blades. It is easier to make small cuts in the opponent if it is curved. They do not expect it. And if the blade is also poisoned…”

“Is poison not seen as dishonorable in Dorne?” Alicent inclined her head, smiling without meaning to at his low, husky voice.

“Is it? Aren’t some dishonourable acts justified by increased… effectiveness?” He smiled, mischief entering his eyes. “I suppose you should know what kind of ‘dishonourable’ land your daughter may live in.”

Alicent frowned a little, ruminating on what had taken place over the past days. “Thank you. For playing along. I should have warned you the King was not aware.” She paused, lowering her eyes in that demure expression men so loved. “I owe you an apology, and, of course, I am in your debt.”

Qoren merely chuckled. “Nonsense, there could be no debt.”

“I put you in a complicated situation. You are, perhaps, the most pleasant and kind noble I’ve had the pleasure of conversing with in a while, I did not wish for you to… experience this.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Most pleasant, am I? I see the situation in King’s Landing is truly dire. Despite our dishonorable Dornish ways…”

“You know what I mean, Prince.” Alicent fought the sudden urge to swat his arm. “In the past days your people have proved more human than many. I thank you, for allowing my daughter to become a part of that.”

Perhaps sensing her waning mood, Qoren nodded softly. “Your sentiment is much appreciated, Queen Alicent, but truly unnecessary.” His smile grew mischievous as he leaned incrementally closer. “I could not refuse the request of the queen. In truth, I find myself quite weak when faced with a combination of strong will and ethereal beauty.”

Alicent felt her cheeks burn, inhaling sharply. “I… such talk is inappropriate.”

“My apologies, Queen Alicent,” he murmured, not at all apologetic. “I was merely stating a fact you likely hear rather frequently. Your husband truly must be going blind, if he fails to bring that pretty blush onto your cheeks.”

“I…” Her cheeks flared up even hotter, and she had to rub her hands together to bring a semblance of sanity to herself. “Regarding our children.”

“Your daughter will be safe, I swear it,” Qoren said suddenly serious. “She will be afforded every freedom we can provide her… We don’t hurt little girls in Dorne.”

Everywhere in the world they hurt little girls.

“I trust you to protect her where I can’t,” she whispered, and, without thinking, reached out to squeeze his hand in hers. “Please.”

Qoren did not wrench his hand away, or flinch at the heat of her skin, instead taking a long look into her eyes. “On my honor.”

A moment passed, sounds fading away at the sincerity in this man’s eyes. Alicent was drowning in them, in the warm scent of incense rolling off him. For the first time in years, she felt…

“Father! Father!”

Qoren watched her jump away, turning to his quickly approaching son with a soft, disappointed groan. “What is it?”

The boy was red and out of breath as he came to stand before his father. Lord Blackmont peeked out of the corner and disappeared just as quickly upon seeing Prince Doran.

The man did not say anything, merely watched his son catch his breath, until the boy finally looked up. “I cannot marry the princess!”

A single raised eyebrow from his father made Doran huff, stand up straighter, and clasp his hands in front of him. Qoren watched, before nodding. “Explain.”

“The princess was not asked whether she wants to marry me. How is this acceptable, father?! It is unfair to her if we buy her hand for an alliance without so much as her approval. Surely you must–“

“Take a deep breath,” Qoren said calmly, watching the boy do so. “Now explain properly. Or go compose yourself elsewhere.”

With fascination, Alicent watched as the boy calmed down. His eyes shifted around with more purpose, finally noticing Alicent, which caused him to take a deep bow before continuing to brew in his thoughts and emotions. With a determined swipe of his hand to get the stray curls out of his face, he looked at his father once again.

“Father… I was not aware that the Seven Kingdoms did not have Drusa rights or the like. I find it reprehensible that she is forced to marry me, even if it is years from now. It makes me feel… It…” The boy stumbled, composed façade nearly slipping before he was calm once again. “I do not like feeling complicit in her losing her choice.”

Alicent felt her heart crack a little, and she could see the sincerity in the boy’s eyes as the silence stretched.

Qoren tilted his head. “Doran… what do you think will happen to her if you refuse?”

“I… I am not sure?” the boy whispered, but she could see the moment he understood his father’s question.

Instead of answering his son, Qoren turned to Alicent. “Queen Alicent, what would your daughter’s future be if you did not go through all the trouble of arranging this?”

“If I did not have permission to arrange her marriage, which I am likely to lose if this betrothal fails, she would be married at the behest of the council. Many of the men there would see her wed the moment she flowered and have her carry a babe soon after. As early as in the next two years, if my daughter is unlucky enough.” Alicent looked at the now grim young man, saw him waver. “She would not be asked her opinion, simply given to a man, perhaps one your father’s age, or older. She would be expected to birth multiple children before you, Prince Doran, even consider looking for a wife. That is unless she dies trying; births at such a young age often result in untimely demise.”

The Prince was already turning pale-grey by the time his father spoke up. “I know you may struggle knowing how such a union came about, but know that if you refuse, she may end up with a man who cannot conceive of having the qualms you are having. Would you truly have her suffer to spare you the discomfort, son?”

“You are a very kind young man, Prince Doran,” Alicent said, “and I have no doubt you will grow up to be a kind and considerate man. Please, allow me to sleep soundly, knowing my daughter will be respected, in the traditions of Dorne.”

Doran looked ready to cry, and his mouth was shifting as if he were chewing the inside of his cheek. His hands trembled as he reached out to press a brief kiss on the back of her hand. “I understand. Thank you for explaining this to me.” He stepped back, addressing his father. “Forgive me for this, I was driven by emotions.”

Qoren did not smile, but he did give the boy a slow, approving nod. “You did well, Doran. You are allowed to have conflicting feelings in regard to this. In a perfect world, neither you nor the little princess would have to be faced with this decision. But the world is not perfect. And I hope you see now that this is the best way.”

The boy blinked, contemplating, but the decision was clear on his face. There was a quiet sort of reservation and acceptance that followed the frown brought upon by the graphic possibilities Alicent described.

Finally, he turned his attention back to Alicent. “I would have my… betrothed… come to the city with me to pick out a dagger, if she so wishes. Would that be acceptable?”

Alicent smiled. “With proper protection from the knights, I think she would be delighted to go. It is a very thoughtful gesture. Thank you, Prince Doran.”

The boy bowed, and Alicent turned to look at the training yard once more, allowing for the quiet conversation to occur between the two men without her interference.

Gwayne, still as proper and stiff as she remembered her brother, was now teaching Aemond. She glimpsed his expression, and only saw deep displeasure. The source of said displeasure – Ser Harwin currently helping Helaena swing the dagger in her small hands – was readily apparent. Why he would even propose to teach her daughter she had no idea, it was not in him to stray away from what their father implanted into him as proper. Still, it meant Alicent could trust him, for betrayal of kin was, albeit, one of the worst things one could do.

Qoren leaned on the windowsill next to her, Doran’s steps echoing as the boy left. Before the man could say a word, Alicent sharply pointed down.

Under them, in the corner of the yard, Princess Aliandra dropped the spear she was spinning around just a moment earlier and was now standing next to Lady Elinda. The flush on the princess’s face was expected, but the angry red cheeks of Rhaenyra’s lady-in-waiting were a little more telling of the kind of conversation they were having.

The Princess took the other girl’s hand, smiling softly, and Alicent frowned.

The girls were not doing anything beyond what was fully acceptable in public. Most would see the display and think of a close friendship between two maidens, but Alicent knew. Since the notion of two women together had crossed her mind for the first time, she could no longer look at such displays and ignore them. Not with the sudden breathlessness Elinda seemed to acquire. Not with how Aliandra was staring at the other girl’s lips.

A deeply ingrained, nearly instinctive wave of revulsion made her shudder. Years and years of teachings, holy books, waking up and falling asleep knowing that such behaviors were forbidden by all the gods—they could not leave her alone. Even if the two girls were too young to do anything truly sinful. Even if they looked rather sweet whispering to each other.

Qoren whistled, sound low and quiet enough to be mostly ignored. Aliandra, however, whipped around to look at her father, meeting a raised eyebrow and silent shake of his head. After flashing him a slightly abashed smile, the princess hurriedly returned to her weapon.

Qoren let out a long, tired sigh, meeting Alicent’s eyes. “These children will be the death of me.”

His wife and Rhaenyra had rekindled their old friendship, lately walking hand in hand, consumed in conversation. Seeing them together ignited something in Daemon, reminded him of things he never had and those he could no longer have. Did they talk about him? Compare him to Rhaenyra’s little knight, or Laena’s promiscuous little brother?

Daemon was sure of it. He could imagine the tales Laena might have shared with Rhaenyra, both of them shaking their heads. Stubborn, stubborn Rhaenyra. She would listen to Laena and tell her how obedient and sweet her Harwin was, let Laena stray even further from her own family, just as she did when she forbade Daemon his trip to Dragonstone.

The women passed by where he was standing, chatting sweetly about the upcoming tea.

“Laena,” he called out, watching her stop and turn around slowly. “Do you have a moment to talk?”

He watched Laena hesitate until Rhaenyra gave her a little push in the back. Daemon did his best not to look at the woman he had spent so very long dreaming of. It wasn’t hard for any time he saw her face, a different picture came to mind: the dream he saw over and over again, of blood and bodies, deformed babes, and endless, glistening black corridors.

“Daemon,” she nodded. “Would you like to walk with me?”

Daemon nodded, extending his arm, which was blatantly ignored as the woman moved on. Rhaenyra stepped aside, silently disappearing into one of the side corridors.

“Rhaenys left?” he asked.

“Urgent matter. She will return on the morrow.”

“What urgency may she have in the Reach?” he pondered. “I would have thought—”

“What do you want, Daemon? We both know you could not care less about my mother’s recent actions. Rhaenyra and I are meeting the Dornish ladies for tea later, so please make it quick.”

Daemon stopped in his tracks, indignation rising. He had done nothing to deserve such coldness for so long. Mistakes were made, yes, but he had admitted to them, done his best to atone, and yet, his relationship with his wife was deteriorating.

Daemon had never harmed her, never dishonored her by visiting brothels, never begrudged her for having daughters—for his girls were endlessly precious and perfect. Never once did he raise his voice at her, and though he may have been cold and absent at times, he had done his best to be the model husband before others, lest they criticize Laena for things not her fault.

So how did he deserve this coldness now, when he had finally admitted his feelings to her and promised to be better? Why did he deserve this dismissiveness when all he wanted was to build something more profound than what had been before?

Daemon swallowed his irritation and simply asked, “How long are you going to avoid me, dear wife?”

“I don’t avoid you. I’m giving you no less than what you gave me over the years.”

“You refuse to talk to me.”

“I do talk to you—when we break our fast with the girls in the morning, when we tuck them into bed, in the evenings when we sip wine by the fire.”

“You know what I mean,” Daemon huffed. “You refuse to actually talk.”

“No, Daemon. I don’t know what you mean.”

“You don’t talk about what is going on between us.”

“Nothing is going on between us,” she said, her speech quickening. “We are husband and wife. We are raising children together. I express my opinions whenever you are interested, and we have amicable conversations.”

“Cold and detached, you mean. You are my wife, Laena, not a gods-forsaken council member.”

Laena stopped, whirling around to face him, her tone icy. “Yes, I’ve been your wife for years. All I am doing is what we’ve had between us for nearly a decade. I do not want that to change on your temporary whim.”

“It is not a whim.”

“Whatever you say, husband.”

“You are not the only one hurt, Laena,” Daemon snapped finally. “Can you imagine how difficult it is—to love someone who does not love you back, but be unable to love the one who does?”

He knew his mistake the moment the words left his mouth. The vindication in her eyes, was no surprise.

“Is that it?” she said slowly. “You are unable to love me?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You just said it, Daemon. You just did.”

“I am trying—”

“To love me,” she interrupted with a sigh.

“Laena, I do love you.”

She looked him over, cold seeping back into her gaze. “Do not play games with me. Not like that. Don’t you dare expect me to change and act all loving with you for a meager chance of being loved back.”

“I don’t—” he started, but his wife was already walking away. “Laena!”

He stood there until her steps stopped echoing, feeling the hurt and frustration brew. It was hard for him to admit, but there was truth in her words. He wanted to love her the way she deserved—but was he truly capable of it? Or would he simply have to pretend, all while she changed her entire life around him?

Slowly, he wandered back to the training yard, where his daughters were busy—Baela working on the swing he had shown her, and Rhaena pulling yet another arrow from her quiver. He passed by, kissing Baela’s cheek, and waited for Rhaena to finish her shot before patting her head.

“Rhaena,” Daemon smiled.

“I saw you talk with Mother. Is she still cross with you?” Rhaena mumbled, positioning another arrow.

“Of course not, daughter, she’s not cross with me. We just… disagree. It happens sometimes.”

When she turned to look at him, there was a blank, detached look on her face, eyes calculating as they searched his. It was familiar, eerily so—but she had never looked at him like that before. Not that Daemon could remember.

The girl shrugged. “As you say, Father,” and pulled the string once again.

Daemon did not stay to watch what would likely be yet another bullseye.

Aegon barely had time to tuck himself into the corner of a dusty little room he had discovered by accident when the door opened, revealing a familiar freckled girl. He groaned aloud, throwing his head back against the stone wall and contemplating just what he’d done to deserve this.

Harwin had promised to let him be—leave him to his much-needed solitude—as long as Aegon didn’t drink or leave the Red Keep, neither of which he had done. So why was this little annoyance here?

“How’d you find me?” he asked, but the girl merely shrugged, sliding down the opposite wall to face him.

“What’s your name, anyway? You’re always around Rhaenyra.”

“Gilla.”

“Are you new?” Aegon huffed. “Serving girls don’t usually talk to princes.”

“I am,” she replied quietly. “But I’m also here on behest of the princess.”

“She told you to what? Keep an eye on me?”

“Perhaps.”

Aegon took a moment to observe her, just as she calmly observed him. Gilla was clearly in no rush to leave, shifting only to find a more comfortable position.

“What if I tell you to leave?” He tried to make his voice low and dangerous, like he had witnessed Harwin do before. “What if I force you to leave?”

The girl merely blinked, not a twitch on her face. “I’m not scared of you.”

“Are you sure?”

“You won’t hurt me.” She inclined her head, looking him over once again. “You don’t even look all that scary, my prince.”

Aegon bit back a flash of irritation, though truly he had no interest in making this one afraid. Simply out of respect for Rhaenyra, not because the idea of someone like her looking at him with terror was repulsive.

“What does a little girl know, anyway?” He turned away, focusing on a stack of old linens folded neatly in the corner. There was a poorly done, half-finished embroidery on the top one, what looked like little crows.

“We are the same age,” the girl huffed. There was a moment of silence before she spoke up again. “I grew up on the Street of Silk, my prince. Do you want to know what it was like?”

Aegon did not reply, and she took it as a cue to continue. “No matter the age, in that place, you are goods to be had. My Madame protected me and my sister as best she could, but it wasn’t always enough. It always felt so… I don’t know how to describe it, my prince—foul, maybe? The looks the men gave us, sometimes their touch… that was true fear. I’ve seen scary before, and it was always the men who knew their power and chose to use it in the vilest of ways.”

Aegon didn’t know when he had turned his head to face her, but suddenly found himself watching her mouth move, mesmerized by the words.

“I’ve seen the girls after they were first broken in, some against their will, before they were ready. They lose something when it happens, a part of themselves, I think. They look… wrong. So very wrong. I cannot know what you felt, when that… thing happened with Princess Helaena, and I cannot know what you feel right now. But I think you should know that those of us who are aware see you as a protector, not a monster. You protected Princess Helaena.”

“What about how I protected her?” he asked quietly when she paused. “Doesn’t that matter too?”

“Not to me. I imagine Ser Harwin already told you that what you did was nothing but brave. If you do not trust his words, trust mine. I’ve no reason to lie.”

He watched her face — the calm with which she sat across from him. Slowly, he stood. It felt wrong to tower over her, but he stepped closer, approaching with an unreadable expression. The toes of their boots touched, and still there was nothing but pure calm on Gilla’s face. She did not even fidget or pluck at her nails, as Helaena liked to do when anxious.

“You truly are not afraid of me,” Aegon murmured incredulously.

She shrugged and watched him sit back down.

“What did my sister promise you? For your service?”

“To fulfill my dreams.”

“What... do you dream of?”

The girl thought for a long time, tilting her head side to side with an absent look on her face. Aegon waited.

“I think…” she wet her lips. “I want to have a small house. Maybe weave or embroider to earn coin. It would be beyond the walls of King’s Landing – somewhere close to the woods, maybe? I’d like to see animals pass by and wake up to the sound of birds, not voices. And I’d like my sister to be there. Mirri.”

Aegon inhaled deeply, imagining a small house surrounded by tall elms and ancient oaks. There would be thick grey smoke curling from a stone chimney, and big rocking chairs with two women weaving and sharing a hearty laugh every now and then. He imagined a bird’s nest on the roof, and the songs those birds would sing.

“It is a beautiful dream,” he whispered.

Gilla rested her head on her knees. “My prince… what do you dream of?”

Aegon thought about the many plans he’d made since first discussing the matter with Harwin, how they’d been pushed to the back of his mind, erased by the emotions that had brewed without release since the day he beat Ser Meryn bloody.

He thought of the uncertainty, of how false Harwin’s words sounded despite every reassurance, and of how this girl knew everything and still felt safe with him.

“I… wanted to travel…”

Gilla beamed as he slouched and got more comfortable.

She caught a glimpse of Harwin when they passed by the training yard, her mood souring instantly. Harwin did his best not to look at her, but she knew he noticed. It was one of the things she had once found so very endearing – his awareness of nearly everything in his vicinity without looking.

No matter how much Laena, also oddly attuned to Rhaenyra as of late, tried to lift her spirits, she could not. And so, when Daemon stopped them in the corridor and demanded Laena’s company, she took the opportunity to push her friend closer to said man and disappear into the maze of hallways, wandering aimlessly until she stumbled upon one of the small and deserted inner yards.

There was nothing here, truly, aside from a single half-wilted young tree the servants were undoubtedly trying to nurse back to health, and two old stone benches. She sat down, letting out a short sigh of relief. Her aching and swollen feet were truly getting quite irritating, especially considering neither of her previous pregnancies had been problematic or overly uncomfortable. Not when, by her estimations, she had just entered her sixth moon.

The physical relief, however, did not stop the onslaught of emotions she felt once alone and in silence. No amount of running or tasks could truly help with that. No matter how much Rhaenyra hoped.

The betrayal stung. No amount of thinking could force her into seeing Harwin’s knowing omission of knowledge as anything other than a betrayal. And neither could she truly see Mysaria’s quiet planning as anything other than colluding with Harwin and working behind her back.

Worst of all, a part of her understood them – understood the desire to keep certain things hidden. And all of it fed into the old wound inflicted by her father’s lack of interest or faith in her abilities, in the years of being undermined or made lesser.

Rhaenyra was inadequate. As a noblewoman, as a future queen, as someone meant to change the order of things. Did they see it too? Did they presume her a woman unable to handle the truth?

She wondered if Mysaria appeared in her life while clinging to the shadow of the queen she would one day be. Perhaps that was the reason for her behavior – she came expecting a seasoned and battle-ready queen, or at the very least the version of her she would grow into seven years from now, but met a naïve princess instead.

What was Rhaenyra? How did they see her? Indecisive and lacking, or simply weak and controllable?

Both options made her blood boil. Both made something ache deep in her chest.

She rubbed her stomach, the familiar nausea of decisions and expectations assaulting her. There was a cloud over King’s Landing, a heavy air of anticipation. She could feel it, even if she did not know what was to happen. If other people could feel it too, would they be similarly disturbed, or was all of this just a figment of Rhaenyra’s pain and fears?

“Rhaenyra!” She turned her head, catching the silver locks in the sun. “My lady wife, are you not cold? I thought you were to have tea with the other ladies. Do promise to tell me all the gossip.”

Rhaenyra resisted the urge to roll her eyes, standing up to greet Laenor. It was, indeed, cold, and she may have lost a sense of time.

“Laenor.” She nodded. “I assure you, gossip will be the last thing on our minds.”

“Why, of course. Forgive me for presuming.” He smirked.

She looked at the man she had an agreement with and thought about how stupid she had been. This entire predicament, the struggles her children would have to live with, was her fault. She thought herself so clever for coming up with an agreement, thought herself so lucky to find a man willing to let her be, for the simple price of letting him be similarly unburdened. This was the result.

The war, the legitimacy issues. All for the freedom she thought she would receive.

Now there was no freedom in sight.

No respect or status.

No safety.

If she had pushed back, perhaps she could have had a husband with features that allowed her to conceal Harwin’s. Or a husband capable of fathering children on her, instead of giving up on the third night of marriage and declaring it impossible.

She had made it clear that she would not demand support from him, never begrudged him, never sought out something he would not give. She could have had so much, but from the very beginning, feeling gracious and calculating, she ensured Laenor was free, and remained free, for the ‘sacrifice’ he was making.

What sacrifice? What did Laenor lose, truly, in the relationship with her? She gave him his freedoms, and he grew used to them. So used, in fact, that there was likely not a soul in the castle unaware of his preferences and proclivities. He gave her children his name, but spent his days playing a distant uncle rather than a father. Years bidding on horses, watching jousts, drinking wine and fucking squires, all without a worry in the world.

Rhaenyra suspected he could not even fathom what she would worry about at all, convinced of the comforts being eternal. Admittedly, there was a time Rhaenyra believed the same lie.

Laenor lost nothing when he was forced into this arrangement. And yet, Rhaenyra sought to allow him too much for the sacrifices she thought he was making. The little fantasies and childish cares were fading away like morning dew, revealing the reality.

What a mess.

“Have you been enjoying yourself, wife?” Laenor continued, following without question when she began slowly heading towards the solar. “All the excitement that the Dornish brought, and all the sights! They did look rather dashing in silks. Such a shame our climate does not allow it most of the time.”

“Mhm.”

“Is it true that a joust was to be had? Why am I only finding out now?”

Rhaenyra sighed, taking the opportunity to rub her stomach in the empty corridor. “The Dornish relayed that they have no interest in jousts, so we thought several big dinners and an appearance before the lords would suffice.”

“I see. A shame, truly. I would be interested to see how the Dornish fight. And Lord Blackmond... For someone injured, he does look rather toned, wouldn’t you say?”

“He is here with his betrothed,” Rhaenyra reminded.

“And I am here with my wife,” Laenor winked.

“What were you busy with, Laenor?”

“I was to train with the boys, but Harwin, Jafer, and Gwayne handled it well enough by themselves.” Laenor shrugged. “Then I wandered around, got wine recommendations from some of the new kitchen servants. The seneschal brought in more people to tend to the Dornish.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Oh, I stumbled into Lord Strong on my way here. He wanted to discuss something. Perhaps we could sup together tomorrow?”

Rhaenyra turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Discuss what?”

“How would I know?”

“Well, did you ask at all?”

“No?” Laenor looked confused. “We would find out soon regardless.”

Rhaenyra sighed and fought the urge to say a short prayer to Tyraxes.

“You needn’t be there if you do not wish to,” she told Laenor and watched relief flicker in his eyes. “It will likely be dull council business.”

“I wouldn’t mind. There is little I’ve to do.”

“Hmm… How is Qarl?”

Laenor’s mood soured instantly. “He got new squires, so the next fortnight will be spent getting them settled and trained.”

“I see.”

They were about to turn the corridor when a young woman in kitchen aprons walked by unhurriedly. Rhaenyra felt herself freezing in place.

“I see you with the Queen more often now. Does . mean . . maybe . . . right?”

The words were muffled, and Rhaenyra stared at the woman who had just passed. There was an eerie type of familiarity in her—in the long black hair tied at the nape and warm brown eyes. It was difficult to gauge her age, but she looked young enough. More than anything, however, it was the face that brought chills to Rhaenyra’s skin. Like looking at someone you have known for a very long time, but not fully recognizing them. Like a face you love and cherish, now pulled onto the wrong human.

“Rhaenyra?” Laenor reached out and touched her hand.

“Yes,” she muttered, but there was no trace of the woman anymore, just them. “I… yes, excuse me, what were you saying?”

“Nothing of importance. Are you alright?” Laenor looked her over. “You do not look too well.”

“I will be fine, Laenor, just tired.”

“You are always welcome in my chambers if you need someone to listen.” He smirked a little. “And perhaps I could convince you that a small joust is for the best.”

Rhaenyra sighed and continued walking.

Rhaenyra entered the room slow and solemn, perhaps less hurried than she ought to be with how late she was. The door closed softly behind her as she began the approach to where the ladies were seated on their plush chairs, sipping what polite society would call tea from their goblets. Laena and Lady Teora Toland were eagerly conversing, all the while Lady Morana Fell was observing Lady Morriah Fowler’s calm face with the intensity of a hawk about to descend upon unsuspecting prey.

“Well, I, for one, would find the opportunity to observe a collapse like that rather enlightening. The social changes preceding the—” she heard Teora say, before Laena’s gaze shifted, prompting the Dornish woman to stop.

“Princess Rhaenyra,” Morana greeted her with an incline of her head, motioning to the chair beside her.

Lady Fowler’s brow twitched at the woman speaking up, but before Rhaenyra could begin to wonder, Laena narrowed her eyes in her usual 'I will tell you later' signal.

“Forgive me for my tardiness, ladies.”

“Do not worry yourself overmuch, we were in pleasant company.” Teora smiled wide and carefree, ignoring the brief smirk that crossed Morana’s lips.

Lady Fowler leaned back in her chair, voice indifferent. “We were discussing Teora’s newest fascination with Valyrian history. You did not miss anything of importance, in truth.”

Teora’s playful gasp of offense diffused some of the tension in the room.

Laena smiled, reaching out to pat the woman’s arm. “Your insight is unique, Lady Teora. I would love to hear more.”

As Morana extended her a goblet of diluted spiced wine, Rhaenyra could not help but wonder whether Laena was genuine or simply well-trained in platitudes and used to appearing likable to new people. With all the moving they had done in the past years, it was not a stretch to assume such.

Lady Fowler inclined her head, something dark passing across her expression. “I saw you talking to your lord husband on the way here. A pleasant conversation, I hope? Come to think of it, there is little we know of Prince Laenor.”

“Very much so,” she replied mildly. “My husband does not typically take interest in politics, but it seems he might be more present in the upcoming negotiations.”

Lady Fowler chuckled, but before she could reply, Teora intervened.

“Is that not all men?” she huffed. “Mine own older brother is young and foolish; I would not be surprised if he had our house in crumbles by the time his daughter inherits.”

“And his wife?” Morana asked quietly.

“I would hope she can handle him, truly. I’ve faith,” Teora replied.

Lady Fowler nodded slowly. “A younger niece of Lord Dayne. I have no doubts she will leash your brother in.”

“Are Daynes as good with swords as the rumors say? I would love to see it.” Laena smiled. “Both the swords and the leashing in, so to say.”

“Our men are used to such, Lady Laena. I doubt swords will be required,” Lady Fowler replied with more flippancy than was necessary. “Your men, however… are too used to having all the power.”

Lady Fell stared at the ceiling as she reminded, “Now with the King’s new decree, not only will there be a ruling Queen, but also a Lady Velaryon.”

“Are you already experiencing backlash?” Teora asked, sipping her wine.

“Not yet.” Laena shook her head. “The decree is not widely announced and will not be until my father completes his preparations and writes his own will.”

“Being born a woman in the Seven Kingdoms… what a misfortune.” Lady Fowler said coldly, swirling her wine.

“It is what you make of it,” Morana replied immediately, eyes glinting in silent challenge.

Laena spoke up quickly, trying to break the tension as the two women stared each other down. “We expect there to be unrest, but nowhere close to uprisings or riots.”

“People do have a tendency of defying expectations,” Morana reminded darkly.

“They do,” Lady Fowler agreed. “And they will.”

“Do you perhaps have ideas, Lady Fowler?” Morana bit out, irritation flooding her features. “Something of substance to contribute?”

“The only thing I have to—”

“This is a difficult situation you are in,” Teora interrupted her, with a tense smile. “Princess Rhaenyra, Lady Laena, I do not envy you, in truth.”

Despite the effort, Teora’s words did little to reduce the tension.

Rhaenyra would have been more inclined to use her authority and stop her, just as Laena’s silently pleading looks were urging her to, were it not for her knowing exactly what Morana was doing. After all, the woman liked this tactic of arguable efficiency—they had talked of it at length.

‘Anger makes one say what ought to be hidden,’ Lady Fell would say. ‘A useful tool, as long as you can deal with the aftermath, that is.’

“It is a difficult situation, yes,” Morana said solemnly. “Made even more unbearable by the Lady Fowler’s hostility.”

“Oh, this is merely a pleasant chat. You’ve yet to see me hostile.”

“It was your idea to have this tea, Lady,” Morana reminded, ignoring the way Teora blushed and guiltily hid her face. “I merely wonder why the sign of goodwill suddenly turned into a scowl on your face.”

“Sudden?” hissed Lady Fowler, after sending a scalding look to her soon-to-be cousin. “My father died in the Stepstones. And now we are to accept this little farce of a treaty—and not merely that—we are to welcome some of you into our homes. As if we do not fight hard enough as it is against your barbaric ideas.”

Ah

Rhaenyra inclined her head with a smile, seeking to finish the hostility now that she was fairly sure the true concerns were uncovered. “I thought your request for the envoys to be ladies quite reasonable. It would also open up the opportunity to educate noble ladies from a young age for such positions, and for that I am thankful.”

“A protection is all it was,” Lady Fowler bit out.

“From men’s ideas. And yet now, you are fighting women,” Morana continued, and this time received a warning look from the princess. “We are merely trying to right the centuries of being seen as lesser. And we had nothing to do with the war you are talking of.”

“What Lady Fell means to say is that the Stepstones were a great tragedy—for both sides,” Laena intervened diplomatically. “Many innocents were killed. But the violence needs to cease eventually, and why not do it when you have the upper hand?”

“We don’t—” Lady Fowler frowned, the heat slowly leaving her words. She did not finish, just shook her head stubbornly.

“Lady Fowler,” Rhaenyra began calmly. “You should have never had to step into your role so very young. You should have never had to lose your father in such a way. I am very sorry for what happened to you. But know that I am not, and will never be, trying to change Dorne. If anything, I want the Seven Kingdoms to become more like Dorne.”

Laena nodded kindly. “Hopefully, with your cooperation.”

Rhaenyra continued, “I am sure together we could push for more clauses to be added to the agreement. Perhaps something that would allow you to expel an unfit ambassador. Or a restriction on the amount of… secular education they have received.”

“It would create a historical precedent like no other,” Teora hummed happily. “A cultural assimilation that required no war—unlike the Ghiscari adopting Valyrian traditions, or even the Seven Kingdoms bowing before their Andal invaders.”

Lady Fowler was blinking, clearly feeling disarmed. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra could see Teora relax back into her cushions, and assumed such flashes of emotion were not uncommon for the Lady of House Fowler.

“First, you would have to ascend the throne.” Lady Fowler took a deep breath and, looking away, murmured, “Perhaps we could help make some changes.”

Rhaenyra hoped her triumphant smile was hidden quickly enough not to be seen.

Aemond did everything they taught him to — the men in robes now standing in the corner of the cavern and watching his unsuccessful attempts to approach his own bonded dragon. Grey Ghost allowed the keepers to saddle him but steadfastly refused Aemond to ride him.

At first, he would retreat deeper into the caverns any time he was sighted, by either the keepers or Aemond himself. That was to be expected, Aemond told himself; Grey Ghost was simply adjusting to a new life. But several days had passed now, and though Grey Ghost would come out to see Aemond, the dragon pushed him away at any attempt to approach his back.

“Be firm, prince. Do not show hesitation,” one of the keepers called out as Aemond clenched his teeth.

Aemond steeled himself, attempting to stare down the dragon as he had seen Jace do with Vermax. This time, he tried it silently, determined steps echoing in the chamber. His expectations were crushed the moment he got close enough — the firm nose pushed him hard enough to land on his ass.

The ground hurt, but not as much as another rejection. Aemond breathed, then turned to look at the keepers. Liora was sitting next to one of them, chewing at his robe and wholly disinterested in the scaly beast in her presence. Pushing away the emotion and focusing on the task, he stood up once again.

“Lykiri, Grey Ghost! Lykiri,” he repeated, approaching this time.

The dragon, evidently, had other plans. With one final huff, briefly eyeing Aemond as if he were an incompetent jester, Grey Ghost turned around and sauntered deeper into the caves.

Aemond failed.

Again.

Sensing the inevitable disaster, the dragonkeepers quickly retreated to wherever it was they spent their days. Aemond was left with the restless, but quiet, puppy. Angry, he wanted nothing more than to break something and scream – at the very least, throw rocks at the wall — but the moment his hands moved, Harwin’s disapproving face would invade his mind, threatening to mix shame and guilt into the pool of anger.

So he sat down on one of the spots that seemed dry and breathed heavily. Slowly, the anger retreated, leaving him in the cold of his own failure and the crushing silence of disappointment. The only sounds in the cavern were his breathing and the slow dripping of water somewhere in the corner. As if the place were not damp enough.

He heard steps approaching and hoped it was not Rhaenyra, for this was the moment his mood was at its lowest, and he could easily make a misstep that would cost him the love of his sister. A tentative look over his shoulder made him suppress a disappointed sigh. He could only watch as Rhaenyra approached.

“Your little lady grows bigger every day,” she remarked quietly once close, and Aemond’s gaze shifted onto the ball of black fur at his side.

Nearly a moon had passed since Liora was given to him, and she had grown horns, much to Aemond’s delight. They were tiny still, well hidden in the fur, but pointy enough to do damage if she ever decided to ram into an unsuspecting victim. Liora herself seemed rather disinterested in the new growths, beyond annoyedly rubbing her head against tree trunks and scratching it with her paw, as far as she could reach. If anything, most of her attention was drawn to the lanky limbs that seemed to neither obey her will nor fit comfortably under her when she wanted to rest. Aemond had not realized just how tiny she used to be until she managed to grow almost twice her original size. It was getting uncomfortable to carry her around. Evidently, the change was confusing to the pup too.

Even now, by his side, Liora could not seem to settle on one position, moving and shuffling with the restlessness of a drunken sailor. Rhaenyra noticed it too, seemingly stifling a laugh once the pup briefly rolled onto the hem of her skirt.

Aemond nodded, slowly turning his head in the direction Grey Ghost had retreated. He was terrible for it, and his whole being rebelled against once again becoming anything less than perfectly respectful and kind in front of his sister, but a deep-rooted hurt that he thought was soothed by the arrival of Grey Ghost began brewing once again.

“How long has it been?” Rhaenyra inquired, slowly settling down next to him.

“You’ll dirty your gown, sister,” Aemond muttered.

“Syrax already succeeded at that, I’m afraid.”

Aemond turned to give her a more thorough look, and sure enough, the gown she wore had smudges of dirt and dust on the skirt and bodice, likely from a dragon rubbing against it. It took everything in Aemond not to turn a disappointed glare onto his own pristine clothing.

“Aemond,” Rhaenyra called, waiting for him to look her in the eye. “Barely a fortnight has passed since you claimed him; some issues are to be expected.”

“Today marks a fortnight,” Aemond huffed. “You’ve been busy with the delegation.”

He saw her look sideways for a moment, as she oft did when remembering something, and nod slowly before returning her attention to him. From deep inside the caverns, Sunfyre’s loud growl shook the walls, followed by Grey Ghost’s annoyed hiss. Aemond had not encountered a dragon that hissed quite like that before — something between the sharp, catlike sound and a low dragon’s rumble — and judging by the way Rhaenyra’s eyebrows arched, neither had she.

“Do you know what the keepers are feeding him?” Rhaenyra asked.

“Same thing they feed the others?”

“I believe he prefers fish. Smallfolk saw him around the coast more often. Perhaps you could offer him some?”

Aemond turned his head, looking at the tired smile his sister offered him. “Do you think it would work? He doesn’t seem to like me.”

“Don’t tell anyone else, but…” she leaned in, voice lowered to a whisper, “the first time Laenor tried to ride Seasmoke, the dragon nudged him away so hard he ended up in a lake. Laena claims he nearly drowned, even if my lord husband denies it with everything he has.”

“Surely you jest!” Aemond whispered back, leaning closer.

“He was afraid to try again for nearly a moon. Laena teases him about it still. As for me… Syrax let me saddle her but, perhaps feeling exhausted from all the eating, fell asleep by the time I managed to climb into the saddle.”

“She did?”

Rhaenyra just arched an eyebrow — a silent question of 'have you seen my dragon?' shining in her mirth. Remembering the tranquil, gentle creature, Aemond deemed the story believable.

“But why…” Rhaenyra watched as he tried to string the words together. “Why would he… that is, why do you think a dragon… why... why isn’t he accepting me?!”

“Aemond—”

“I’ve done everything the keepers taught me! I was firm, I was commanding, and I did not show hesitation. I petted him beforehand, spoke in Valyrian — so why isn’t it working? I’ve tried so many times!”

“Aemond.” Rhaenyra sighed. “Dragons are not swords or carriages. There are no rules as to what will work. Dragonkeepers, for all their wisdom, know very little about how the bond works and how each Targaryen finds their way. The instructions are good, yes, but… think about it like this — when you just begin training with the sword, you do all the same exercises, but as you find your preferences, you begin training in a way that works better, using your talents, in a way that shows the most promise.”

Slowly, trying to see the connection, Aemond nodded.

“Now imagine someone with one arm, or one eye, wanting to train. The knights will teach him all the same techniques, but do you think they will be effective?”

“…No.” Aemond felt the sting of hurt. “I am just as Targaryen as others!”

“I was not questioning your identity as a Targaryen, brother — perhaps I should have used a better example. I was questioning Grey Ghost in this instance. He is a wild dragon. He has never been ridden, never been raised by the dragonkeepers, and never lived with other dragons or been fed by humans.”

“…Oh.”

“You are a good learner, I know, but none of the lessons the dragonkeepers gave you have ever accounted for someone claiming a previously wild dragon. As such, I’m afraid you will have to forge your own path here. You just need to be patient and open-minded. I know you can.”

Aemond took a deep breath, something in his chest tightening at her soft, kind words. The logic of her argument quickly soothed the hurt. Before he could think better of it, he pressed close against Rhaenyra’s side. His sister wrapped her arms around him and held him close as he thought.

Now that his sister was here, with him after some days of voyage, frantic preparation for the arrival of the Dornish, and then no less frantic days of council meetings, balls, and afternoon teas, Aemond had much to ask. With the hazy disappointment cleared from his head, the questions took hold of his mind, diverting his attention like a giant dragon in a wheat field.

How were the Dornish negotiations going? Was it true that Helaena was to marry a Dornish prince, or merely their hopeful fantasy? When would she leave? How did she feel about uncle Gwayne?

And, of course, with Aegon mostly wandering gods know where, he had hoped to bring her good news next time he saw her — a successful flight on the dragon would have been perfect, but even just praise from his tutors or mastering a new fighting move. There was none of that. Aemond was woefully underprepared. And the familiar urge to make up a little story gripped him.

It was not uncommon. He used to derive satisfaction, in some form or another, from becoming the son their mother wanted. There was truly no need for him to do anything to Aegon — rile him up or make plans that would hinder his standing in the Queen’s eyes. Aegon succeeded at that all on his own. Over time, almost instinctively, Aemond learned to temporarily hide his success, postponing his own need for gratitude until it would have the largest effect of overshadowing Aegon’s most recent misdeed.

He used to hold the praise the maester gave him close to his chest, letting it linger in afterthought until Aegon returned from another mindless wander to avoid lessons. Then, suddenly, it would feel rather urgent that the information needed to be shared with their mother. Every now and then, when Aegon’s misstep was large enough, Aemond would even come up with some praise himself, or repeat the words he had already once shared, just to avoid losing the moment of greatest impact.

There was a time he had not thought of it, had not noticed what he was doing — but as he grew, the pattern he had developed in himself became more apparent. Most recently, he came to a startling realization that the focus of such activities had shifted from impressing Mother to impressing Harwin and Rhaenyra. Aegon continued to sulk, an event that suspiciously coincided with Ser Meryn’s departure from, Aemond hoped, this world.

Mother was still there, somewhere in the corner of his mind, but her importance diminished with every passing day — from an overbearing figure of love and authority to yet another adult he had a relation to but little care for, such as Viserys himself.

He bit the inside of his cheek, wondering whether he should give in to the urge to overshadow his brother once again or simply ask the questions he itched to have answered. Rhaenyra flinched against him then, and Aemond moved back instinctively to see her face paling.

“Sister? Did I—”

“I am alright, Aemond, give me a moment.”

He watched as she breathed heavily for a few moments, color slowly returning to her face. Her hand clutched at her stomach, and Aemond suddenly realized that not only had she grown large enough that her dress now failed to fully conceal the babe, but she also looked more sickly — and what he could only describe as puffy — than before. Rhaenyra noticed his ever-growing concern and flashed him a guilty smile.

“Do not fret, brother; some pains come and go. It is normal.”

“You look tired.” Aemond stood up, suddenly feeling as if he were personally responsible for her unwellness, for taking so much time when his sister needed rest. He extended his hand. “Please, allow me to take you back to the Red Keep and see to it that you rest.”

Rhaenyra smiled, almost completely hiding the pain and discomfort, and gladly accepted the help she needed to stand up. Outside, by the carriages, he noted the absence of Ser Harwin — another change that troubled him overmuch in the past days. Regardless, he stayed his tongue and added it to the ever-growing list of questions.

Once seated in the carriage, Aemond quickly closed the curtains. “I will… could I talk to your ladies-in-waiting and arrange some food and beverages for you? You do not look well.”

Rhaenyra smiled. “I am alright, Aemond, truly. The smell of other dragons simply irritates me during pregnancy, is all. But how could I refuse such a considerate proposal? Why don’t you have a bite with me? Perhaps we could even have someone track down Aegon.”

“I wish them luck, sister. And I will stay with you, if you prefer.”

Rhaenyra smiled, relaxing further into the cushions as they continued their slow trek through the streets of King’s Landing. Aemond looked away but heard her mutter something that sounded awfully close to sweet boy, and it made him feel the best he had all week.

She spotted Harwin the moment he entered, more by the way he walked than by his figure or the blurry details of his face. Half-hidden on a low rock in the corner of the Dragonpit, she foolishly expected him not to notice her. The man, however, took one sweeping glance before turning to head straight for her.

The closer he got, the more Mysaria felt the need to reach out and touch him—perhaps suffering from the lack of soft, comforting touch Rhaenyra had so quickly made her accustomed to. Harwin may have felt the same, for he squeezed her arm before quietly settling down next to her.

For a moment, she thought of the wrongness of them being here together alone, but quickly batted the thought away. Rhaenyra liked them being close, found amusement and comfort in the small touches they began to share, and even in the heated glances—similar to the way Harwin would occasionally look at the two of them. At least before all of this.

“Watching from a distance?” she asked, having seen the princess hurry into the caves merely a moment before Harwin appeared.

“When I am able. And when she finds it bearable,” he agreed. “We do not want people to start questioning, after all.”

“And right now?”

Harwin chuckled darkly. “Something in the look she gave me tells me I’m unwelcome even in the general vicinity.”

Silence settled over them, interrupted only by the sounds of dragons echoing now and then. Mysaria brought her knees up, curling into herself, though she did not let go of Harwin’s hand.

“And something in the way you’re sitting here all slouched over tells me you’re unwelcome too,” the man remarked.

“I forgot how long she’s capable of holding a grudge,” Mysaria muttered.

“It is a rather big grudge, I have to admit.”

“Why did you hide it?”

“Why did you? No, not even that.” He shook his head. “What did you hide?”

She let the redirection slide, too exhausted to question it. Something to ask him later, she supposed.

“Our little plan with the wildfire,” Mysaria replied. “And… I was snooping around to find a way to legitimize your children.”

The look on his face was highly skeptical, as he clarified quietly, “Without claiming her an adulterer and putting them in danger? Is there even such a way?”

“Maybe.”

The longing was clear on his face, no matter how much he tried to hide it—quiet, devastating. Mysaria could not imagine having a child of her own, but she could well imagine the anguish of having them call someone else father.

“Were you successful?” His voice broke.

She wished to say yes but could only shrug in response.

“I do not want the crown,” Harwin reminded.

“I know. Neither of us do.” Mysaria nodded. “…I keep trying to remember what my life used to be. Before I met Rhaenyra at all, when she was just another royal in a tall castle. And I can’t.”

There was a hiss of a dragon from deeper in the caves, and the dripping of water was so very loud. They sat in silence, a void created by shared sorrow. On the rock at the edge, surrounded by damp stones and what looked like the broken shell of a dragon egg, Mysaria shifted, leaning to touch it—as if touch alone could tell her the fate of the hatchling, if it existed at all.

Rhaenyra left the caves with shaky steps, led by Aemond. She felt Harwin jerk but held him back, afraid his interference would only upset the princess further. The man watched the exit for a moment after they disappeared from sight.

“Are you afraid this will destroy us all?” he whispered.

“No. I think she will forgive us.” Mysaria chewed on her lip. “I hope she will forgive us.”

Harwin hummed, turning towards her. “It was bleak before. It was… bleak.”

Mysaria chuckled, suddenly overcome by the absurdity of their situation. “How very eloquent of you, oh very noble and educated knight.”

Harwin huffed and pushed her shoulder gently.

“Would you like to go for a walk in the city?” he asked softly, and she could feel the gloom threatening to spill out beneath the pretense of normality.

“Perhaps not today.” She played along. “But tomorrow? In the evening.”

The man nodded. “Will you show me all the performers in the city, secret places I was never privy to?”

“I could.”

He stood up, extending a hand to pull her to her feet. Mysaria sighed, feeling the pang of pain in her stomach.

“I could get you a pain tincture from the maesters?”

Mysaria blinked, looking at the man uncomprehendingly as he slowly led her away.

“Are you in pain? I know some ladies have very bad pain on their cycles.”

“No, I mean… how did you know?”

He shrugged, unbothered. “One of my sisters—and Rhaenyra. You all do the same thing when you stand up, shifting around and subtly feeling at your skirts. They are clean, my lady.”

She croaked, suddenly emotional. “You know you can call me Mysaria. Or Ria, like Rhaenyra.”

“Perhaps I like calling you my lady.” He winked, smiling softly.

She looked around, ensuring the Dragonpit was empty, and took a moment to press close against him, to feel the softness of his presence.

“I will take the offer for a tincture,” she whispered. “Thank you, Harwin.”