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Chapter Text

Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen stared dejectedly as her Lord Husband, King Aegon III Targaryen, entrained Lady Florys Florent of Brightwater Keep. Cradling her swollen belly and sitting atop a plush yet plain chair, the Queen felt a vein begin pulsing in her temple when the wanton woman of eight and ten threw her head back, copper curls tumbling down, in laughter at something Aegon had said - something she was not privy to. 

Even in her crushed velvet dress of stunning purple with diamonds running along the bodice and hem, the circlet of Queen Alysanne Tararyen placed upon her brow, Jaehaera did not feel like a Queen, especially when her Lord Husband only ever bothered to visit her chambers when she was ready to conceive another child for the dying Targaryen dynasty. Throughout the years of marriage, the Queen had birthed her husband a stunning eight children, sons and daughter aplenty, with the traditional silver hair and lovely purple eyes that stood them apart from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

That and their ability to bond and ride the fearsome winged beasts known as Dragons.

Aegon, ever the charming son of the late Daemon and Rhaenyra Targaryen, was infamously known for his charismatic attitude, but fiery temper. Already, in his eleven year reign as King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Aegon’s bloodlust had costed many noblemen and smallfolk their heads, lands, and gold. Shortly after ascending the Iron Throne and taking the head of Jaehaera’s father, Aegon II Targaryen, the “Red King” had set about purging the Houses that had turned their back on oaths made to King Viserys I Targaryen.

Not since the days of Aegon the Conqueror had House Targaryen held as much power. The ancestral lands of Houses Baratheon, Lannister, and Tyrell had been among the Great Houses whose lands, titles, and coffers had been seized by the Crown, and their lineage lost to the dusty tomes of the no longer standing Starry Sept. The family, however, that had suffered the most was House Hightower - whose precious landsmark, the High Tower, had been reduced to rumble, and their name now affiliated with the word treason.

Jaehaera knew that her Lord Husband had no issue with executing any who dared go against his will, and dared to harm his family. The most prudent example was the long dead Lord Corlys Velaryon, whose actions had costed Aegon the lives of his two older sisters, Baela and Rhaena Targaryen, to the hands of Jaehaera’s father. Their bodies had been left to rot on Dragonstone and the Vale, respectfully, before they were put to the flame, and their ashes interred into the ever expanding crypts of Dragonstone.

Jaehaera’s own family had been denied that privilege. 

“My Queen,” Ser Alyn Velaryon whispered from behind her chair. “Are you fairing well?”

Alyn Velaryon, the legitimized grandson to the Sea Snake, had shed the green and blue of his House, and instead had taken up the white mantle of the Kingsguard, showing his utmost loyalty to his distant relative. Due to his rejection of inheritance of Driftmark, the lands were instead bequeathed to last living member of House Velaryon: the Lady Daenaera, who at five and ten, was a devastating beauty that rivaled even the Realm’s Delight in her youth.

“Yes, Ser Alyn,” Jaehaera smiled, pale purple eyes dancing with mirth. “I just find myself upset, and ready to return to my chambers,”

“Shall I request leave from His Grace?”

“No,” The Queen shook her head, silver hair gleaming in the fading sunlight. “His Grace expects me to stay for the entirety of the festivities. Where is my Lady Grandmother? Perhaps she could keep me company,”

Lady Alicent Hightower, formerly Dowager Queen and disputed Queen Mother, had only been spared the headsman’s ax, for two simple reasons. The first was because Queen Jaehaera had dropped to her knees and begged Aegon to spare her grandmother, inciting that she was the only family she had left, and that having her as a hostage would keep the remaining Hightowers in line. The second was because her Lord Husband had desired to make the Green Queen suffer in the same way she had made his own Lady Mother, Rhaenyra, during her time in the Red Keep.

“I do believe that the Lady Alicent is conversing with Lord and Lady Westerling, My Queen. I shall send Ser Oscar to fetch her,”

Yet another famous member of the Black, Ser Oscar Tully, had been honored for his bravery and sacrifice during the Dance, by donning a cloak of white. The second son of Lord Elmo Tully and younger brother of Lord Kermit Tully of Riverrun, Ser Oscar was a stunning young man of five and twenty, with flaming red hair and dark blue eyes. He was also the deviated Sworn Shield of Aegon and Jaehaera’s oldest child and heir, Prince Gaemon Targaryen, whose mischief saw the Kingsguard frequently caught in the midst of rather humors events.

As Ser Alyn bid his leave from her side, Jaehaera found herself wishing for the comfort of her children, but alas they had been sent to the nursery when the Hour of the Eel, and were hopefully abed as they should be. The chances of that actually happening, however, were very slim.

Amongst her eight children, Jaehaera had birthed her Lord Husband five strapping boys, and three lovely daughters, all between the ages of five and six moons. Their firstborn, Gaemon, had come when Jaehaera had barley passed her four and tenth nameday, the same age as her own mother, Helaena Targaryen. Their second child, a daughter granted the name of Rhaenys came less than a sunturn later, and was followed by the twins, Alyssa and Naerys. Next had come Viserra, with her mismatched eyes of green and purple, who would later be joined by twin younger brothers, Baelon and Aemon. The last amongst the brood had been born in the depth of autumn and was bequeathed the name of Viserys - in honor of his parents’ shared grandfather, King Viserys I Targaryen, and the current King’s deceased younger brother, Prince Viserys.

Watching in curiosity as Ser Alyn whispered Jaehaera’s summons to Ser Oscar, the Queen Consort unconsciously caressed her well-manicured fingers upon her bulging belly, and said a silent prayer to the Mother Above that she carried within her womb was yet another boy that could cement her rightful place as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, consort or not. It still stung, Jaehaera woul admit, that her mother and father, while called King and Queen, were hailed as usurpers, while Rhaenyra - who undoubtedly ordered the murder of her beloved twin brother, Jaehaerys, was granted the right to be called the first reigning Queen of Westeros.

While her husband had yet to curse her existence with bastards, he certainly had no issue with parading his mistresses abut the Red Keep. Aside from his well-paid whores, the best that the rebuilt Street of Silk could produce, Aegon had kept an eagle-eye on the five and ten Lady Daenaera, and already there was whispers that the King would set Jaehaera aside and wed the Velaryon once again - cementing the hope that House Velaryon had had for generations that a member of their blood would finally grace the Iron Throne.

Alas, Aegon had made no move to remove Jaehaera from her position or privileges, he certainly had not visited her bed in the passing moons, more content to spend his days entertaining the little Lady Velaryon or listening to his Small Council blabber on and on about the issues that plagued the realm - not that the Queen truly cared for the disruptions that the smallfolk or boisterous and overarching nobleman brought to the King’s ears.

Despite her attention lost, Jaehaera allowed for a smile to loom on her face when she noticed the plain clad figure of her Lady Grandmother, Lady Alicent Hightower, break away from her conversation with Lord and Lady Westerling - steadfast supporters of Queen Rhaenyra and family to one Lord Commander Harrold Westerling, begin to approach her. 

“Your Grace,” Alicent greeted, curtsying prettily. “How may I be of service, My Queen?”

The famed “Hightower Harlot”, was still a youthful woman of five and forty. Her auburn ringlets were shorn shorter then she wore them when she reigned as Queen Consort, having been hacked away from her head by the cruel hands of a Septa. Stripped of any decorations aside from a simple golden Seven Pointed Star necklace, Alicent Hightower never struck the image as the Queen she used to be, especially with her basic mauve gown that lacked any embellishment.

Once she had been the most powerful woman of the Seven Kingdoms, but the day that she had dared to place the Conqueror’s Crown on the Usurper’s head, Alicent Hightower would go down into history as the overarching whore that had stolen the Iron Throne away from the rightful monarch, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen - whose death she had unknowingly orchestrated.  

Jaehaera knew that her Grandmother had a hard time curtsying to the much younger girl, frequently complaining to her handmaidens that she should not be expected to show such subservience to the girl that she had raised. Upon hearing these words, Aegon had ordered that Alicent be flogged for her treasonous words and actions, opening up harsh wounds on her back, and requiring round the hour care from the most talented of Maesters that Jaehaera had requested.

“Lady Grandmother,” Jaehaera beamed. “I was hoping that you would keep me company? I find myself tiring more easily with this pregnancy, and my Ladies are currently reuniting with their families. Are you available?”

“At your command My Queen,” Alicent said demurely, lowering chocolate brown eyes to the marble flooring. “How may I be of service?”

“Excellent! Fetch me something to drink would you? Preferably a tea. The Maesters are so very particular as to what the babe requires. I seem to be craving sweet fruit and more mild meat. My Lord Husband is under the belief that it means I am carrying yet another girl. Oh! Aegon is so very excited!”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Alicent replied, dipping into another curtsey and after being dismissed, made her way to the refreshment table. 

While Alicent Hightower may have been Queen Jaehaera’s grandmother, she held no position of power, and even her comfort was decided on the whim of the King. It was no secret that the Red King loathed the Hightower Harlot, and made it his life’s mission to remind the former Queen of her numerous mistakes.

Hell hath no fury like a king’s scorn.

Chapter Text

King Aegon III Targaryen was a solemn man of one and twenty years. The Conqueror’s Crown had been forced upon his head at the tender age of ten, shortly after he had used his grandfather’s Valyrian Blade, Blackfyre to separate the Usurper’s own head from his mangled body. A little boy who was barley even able to hold the broadsword had lifted it with surprising ease and as if directed by the Fourteen Flames, had ended the life of Aegon II Targaryen with one swift and defining blow.

His intense hatred for the Hightowers and any Green supporters was well known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. As soon as he had sat the Iron Throne, the “Red King” had set about a purge that ended the regin of any and all nobles, smallfolk, dignitaries, or foreigners that dared to wear the emerald fabric of Aegon II. Even to this day, servants whispered, the color was considered a taboo in the Red Keep, and it was heavily advised that it remain hidden away from the “Red King’s” eyes, less another head decorate the pikes of the Red Keep.

The loathing of the Hightowers also extended to Aegon’s cousin-wife, Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen, and her debased grandmother, Lady Alicent Hightower. The “Red King” had allowed Alicent Hightower to escape the chopping block simply because his Queen had begged him for her life. 

There was no love lost between the two.

While Alicent may have been allowed to keep her head, her kinsmen were not so lucky. The entirety of House Hightower of Oldtown, the Redwynes of the Arbor, and the Florents of Brightwater Keep were summarily extinguished with only one woman, Lady Florys Florent, being spared. The lands of Oldtown and the Arbor were quickly confiscated by the Crown, and turned into royal territories - potential holdfasts for the King’s current and future children. 

It was said that atop his second mount, Silverwing, the “Red King”, had gleefully laughed when his dragon’s quicksilver flames had engulfed the High Tower, Citadel, Starry Sept, and Great Motherhouse - ending the power of an ancient House that had once stood for over a millenia, and leaving only ashes in the wake of his fury.

A warning if there ever was one.

The King had not merely stopped there, however. House Lannister was ripped root and stem from their golden infested lands of Lannisport, their coffers seized, their bodies suspended from their own holdfast walls, and their name banished to the history tomes. House Baratheon, only comprised of a widow, her four maiden daughters, and a newborn son, were also swiftly dealt with. 

Lady Elenda Caron’s maternal house had Nightson stripped, their lands and coffers now belonging to the Iron Throne. The Stormlands Dowager Lady Consort was removed from her position of power, and allowed to take residency upon Maiden Isles’ Motherhouse - a solitary refuge which took in the most evil of women. Never again, the Head Septa had claimed, would Lady Elenda dared to spread her legs or mouth in blasphemy.

Her four daughters, however, would suffer much worse fates. Lady Cassandra Baratheon, the oldest of the Four Storms and Aegon’s future Queen, was a woman grown where her betrothed was executed, and she once again denied her future position. For her crimes, Cassandra Baratheon had her tongue removed from her whorish mouth, and was banished to the desolate wastelands of the Iron Islands, where she was lost to history. Many believe she had become the salt wife of a minor war-lord, but a seed never quickened in her womb.

Lady Maris Baratheon, the instigator that had caused the murder of Prince Lucerys Velaryon, was denied a trial. Originally, the second daughter had wanted to join the Silent Sisters, but her petitioned were overturned by the King, himself, who demanded that she was to be beheaded and hanged from the inner bailey of the Red Keep. A girl of one and twenty when Aegon claimed his birthright, he had her dragged from a Motherhouse in the Riverlands, unhappy when he noticed that her tongue had long since been removed. 

The Septa of the Motherhouse had pleaded with the “Red King”, and begged him permission for the Lady Maris to be returned to the Riverlands. When questioned about what happened to the organ that had slandered Aemond Targaryen into mounting Vhagar and killing the Prince Lucerys and his beloved dragon, Arrax, the Septa had revealed that the Silent Sister had become suddenly ill. The disease had caused her tongue to swell and become infected, which would have killed her had a Maester not removed it days later.

In addition, the King had learned, the Silent Sister had also become blind when the disease had ravaged her once pleasant face. Now splotches decorated her alabaster skin, a hideous and patchworked scar crossed from her right temple down to her neck. She was left mute and blind, a fitting punishment, the “Red King” supposed, for the woman. The King, however, was a vengeful and angry youth, who was not yet satisfied with what Maris Baratheon had already suffered.

He ordered that she be presented in the outer courtyard. Aegon had emerged from the Red Keep, garbed in a fine tunic of obsidian black with matching trousers and boots, the Valyrian Steel crown shining proudly atop his silver locks. Blackfyre was slung across his back, kept there by a chain of three snarling dragons that ran around his chest. 

With nearly black eyes, the “Red King” had not even bothered to open his mouth to summon his dragon, Silverwing, one of the only surviving Dragons from the Dance. The only other wyrm that soared the skies was Morning, the pink beast that had hatched for his sister, Rhaena, and whom the Usurper had killed to attain the hatchling. Even to a hatchling, freshly emerged from its shelled womb, Morning could smell the rot that the Usurper’s mixed blood oozed. 

As Silverwing slunk over the great walls of the Red Keep, Maris Baratheon flinched back, her grey veil had been removed, leaving all to see the state of her face. While she could no longer speak or see, the Silent Sister could hear as the wood crunched and bricks crumbling under the sheer weight that Silverwing possessed.

Shaking in her plain woolen dress and black hair blown back by the dry heat, Maris felt as a snout was directly in front of her and nearly wet herself when the dragon suddenly reared her great head back and loosed a bellow that shook the Red Keep down to its very foundation. Since the death of her mate, Vermithor, Silverwing had become a solitary and ferocious beast who seemed to soak Aegon’s bloodlust up like a sponge, never once flinching away from the brutal executions that the “Red King” held.

“You took my brother’s life with your tongue and your greedy eyes looked to a position of power. Your Seven-Faced Gods have judged and found you guilty, Maris of House Baratheon. Your bones shall never be returned to the Stormlands and your House name shall vanish as just another family who sided with the wrong monarch. Your vile words stole the chance for my mother to burn her son, my brother’s body, and instead he was lost to the waves above Stormbreaker Bay,”

The silence echoing was suffocating.

“Had your lips remained sealed, Silent Sister, then Lucerys Velaryon would still be among us. Despite your sins, I have listened to your Mother Septa, and have decided that you shall be returned as a Silent Sister once again. Make no mistake, Maris of House Baratheon, that I shall ever forget your face or words that ripped my family apart. Should you ever attempt to leave your Motherhouse, I shall have you brought to the Black Cells, and you will face a fate worse than death,”

The decree of the King was signed in the blood of Maris Baratheon, who never once set foot out of her holy sanctuary, and died within its cold walls. Her body, as the King had declared decades before, was never returned to the Stormlands of her birth, instead buried within a tomb of the surrounding forests - common amongst the commonborn Septas and Silent Sisters.

A fate, history would write, deserving.

Lady Ellyn Baratheon, meanwhile, had been lost to the dredges of the past. The third of the Four Storms, Ellyn was only ten and eight when the King loosened his reckoning upon the traitorous Greens, and their families. Neither the oldest, the cleverest, or the loveliest, Ellyn was never truly recognized by her Lord Father, Borros Barathen, or her Lady Mother, Elenda Caron. Her worth, Maesters and noblemen would claim, only came from her fertility and the ability to bring fourth heirs from her wombs.

With his righteous fury and his Silver Queen strong beneath his thighs, Aegon had landed in the ancient holdfast of Storm’s End. Borros’ head was in a roughspun sack attached to Silverwing’s saddle, which had been preserved in vinegar and salt, before Aegon threaded his finger through the obsidian black hair and threw it at the feet of his wailing widow and screeching daughters - save for Ellyn who merely looked upon the divested head with something akin to glee.

From atop the few remaining Dragons, Aegon cut the image of the Conqueror Come Again, as he leered over his dragon’s silver horned head. His black riding tunic, Blackfyre strapped to his back, Valyrian Steel circlet nested in his war-braids, and purple eyes dark with hatred, the “Red King” would henceforth gain yet another moniker “The Storm Destroyer”, with his next words.

“Lady Elenda Caron of Nightsong!” His voice thundered, overwhelming even the rumbling weather common amongst Storm’s End. “Your husband has been executed as per the laws regarding treason, and I have come bearing you his head. Consider me a merciful King, Lady Elenda, for if I was the Usurper or my Lady Mother I would have made you show yourself before the Iron Throne, and watch as your husband’s body was fed to my Silverwing and his head piked atop Traitor’s Walk,”

Cassandra Baratheon dropped to her knees and bursted into wails.

“Punishment for your husband and your own sins, Elenda Caron, will be presented to you upon the morrow. My leal lords shall escort you and your children to King’s Landing, prostrate yourself before the Iron Throne, and beg my forgiveness. Perhaps, my dear Ladies, I shall be merciful,”

With his words spoken and his decision made, Silverwing took to wing, her great form rising gracefully into the thunderclouds, and making way for the Crownlands. While Cassandra, Florys, and Elenda were besides themselves with fear and upset, Ellyn merely stared as the figure of the King vanished from sight.

Facing the wrath of dragonfire on the entirety of the Stormlands, lords and ladies who had supported the rise of Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen, quickly surrounded Storm’s End, taking the Dowager Lady, her daughters, and newborn son hostage. 

Cladding them, aside from newborn Royce Baratheon, in heavy chains of iron, the Three Storms and their mother were boarded atop a war gallery, The Princess Alyssa , and sailed to King’s Landing, where their fates would be revealed. It was during this transition, however, that Lady Ellyn Baratheon went missing during a terrible storm that rocked the boat back and fourth, waves crashing atop the deck.

Many assumed that Ellyn Baratheon had simply been washed away, dragged down to the bottom of Shipbreaker’s Bay. With no way to loosen her manacles from her wrists and ankles, it is speculated Ellyn joined the body of Lucerys Velaryon and Arrax, under the cruel waters that had claimed many innocent lives - especially, maesters would whisper behind weathered hands and dusty tomes, during the Dance of the Dragons.

Evan over a century after the destruction of House Baratheon, mysteries were still talked about the missing Ellyn Baratheon. With no body or no skull, the third of the Four Storms would never see the lands of her birth again, instead lost to to waves of time and Shipbreaker Bay. A fitting end for the daughter few remembered. 

“Floris Baratheon, betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, Prince Regent of the Greens. You were merely a girl of four and ten when your Lord Father gave your hand away to the One-Eye, and yet you never once attempted to deny him or break your engagement. I judged your sister guilty for agreeing to marry the Usurper King, whatever should I do with the woman who still seeks the arms of the man who killed his own kin?” The “Red King” hissed, cocking his head.

At six and ten namedays, Floris Baratheon, even under the cloak of depression and harsh treatment, clad in heavy chains, was still a lovely girl. Her midnight black curls had been brutally ripped by the cruel hands of her captors, now just brushed the edge of her sharp chin, and her large doe eyes were blackened from the fist of a rather harsh Stormlander - a man whose father and brothers had fallen in Borros Baratheon’s siege upon King’s Landing. 

“I am just a simple woman, My King,” Floris said, unflinchingly stubborn even in the face of such a powerful figure. “You, yourself, are only a boy of one and ten, yet you hold yourself more regally than any of your predecessors. Had you not already been wed, perhaps I would have made a worthy Queen? I am, afterall, the descendant of Dowager Queen Alyssa Velaryon, mother of King Jaehaerys I and Queen Alysanne Targaryen - kin to you and House Targaryen.”

“A kinship your father was all to willing to forget,”

“Tell me, My King,” Floris declared. “Would you rather have the Usurper’s progeny in your bed or a Stormlander? My beauty is my saving grace, Your Grace , and I do believe that I would make a wonderful companion. In lieu of your little Queen being unable to produce an heir anytime soon, perhaps you could make due with me?”

“I would have neither,” The King admitted, leaning back against the deadly pointed swords that made up the Iron Throne. “If it was up to me, I would have personally selected either of my sisters, Baela or Rhaena, but they were unjustly murdered at the hands of the Usurper - the person that your father supported, thereby meaning their blood is on his hands, and by extent your hands , my Lady. So, why in the name of the Fourteen Flames would I dare let you slither your way into my bed?

“An opinion that definitely warrants thought, My King?”

“Your tongue is as vicious as that of your older sister, Maris Baratheon. Tell me something, Lady Floris, where is she? I have little care for the betrothed of my kinslaying uncle, but the little whore who dared to open her open and spew such venomous words, is the one I truly desire. Grant me her location and I shall grant a marriage, to a Lord of my choice, of course. Or, you may venture to the Iron Islands with Cassandra Baratheon,”

“You would spare my life? What about my mother and younger brother? Royce is the rightful Lord of Storm’s End,”

“I would be more akin to spare your life should you answer my question. As for your mother, she shall be banished to Maiden’s Isle and serve a Motherhouse, alive but exiled . The Stormlands, from House Durrandon’s Holdfast of Storm’s End to their ancestral lands and the paramountcy, shall be stripped from House Baratheon and returned to the Crown. Little Royce Baratheon shall have his last name removed, and be given as a ward to the North, where he shall be raised in a different family. The boy is not even six moons old and has no memories of the war his foolish father helped to begin - a father he will never know,”

“What?” Floris gasped, eyes wide with confusion.

“Royce Baratheon shall be adopted into a new family, one that Lord Cregan Stark shall choose, and not even I have knowledge off. He will never know his true lineage, and instead ill hopefully lead a life of peace and prosperity. That , Lady Floris, is how far my mercy shall extend,”

Dumbsmacked, Floris Baratheon was swiftly removed from the Throne Room, and instead interred deep within the Black Cells - the lowest level of the Dungeon Tower, and reserved only for the most heinous of criminals. It had been built on the orders of Maegor I Targaryen, who had his own wife, Lady Alys Harroway, tortured and later killed within its depths of darkness. Another victim who had lost their life was King Jaehaerys’ older brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen, who endured nine days of endless torture and brutalility, before finally succumbing to his injuries, and his body left to bake under the hot sun.

As Cassandra and Floris Baratheon boarded a ship that would take them far away from King’s Landing to the Iron Islands, one void of her tongue and the other her dignity, Aegon watched from the rebuilt docks, a sense of satisfaction clear on his too young face. Word would eventually reach Aegon’s ear that Floris Baratheon, claimed by a wayfaring pirate as one of his many salt wives, had died in childbirth with a stillborn son. 

Soon enough, Septons would say, House Baratheon’s family line was reduced to nothing more than bastards scattered around the Iron Islands and the Stormlands, their raven black hair and dark blue eyes their only characteristic. Never again would a Baratheon dare to sit the Storm Throne. They had been raised up by a Targaryen and then brought down by a Targaryen, for they betrayed the true Targaryens for that of a Hightower disguised as a wyrm.

LINE BREAK

Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen wailed in pain. As lighting cracked across a midnight purple sky, a babe was trying to be born in a world of fire and blood. Silverwing cooed outside the large window where she was posted, her intelligent amber eyes focusing on the laboring Queen. Bounding around her large clawed feet were numerous little hatchlings, one for each of the children that Jaehaera had brought into the world.

With midwives and Septons surrounding the grand bed, Jaehaera let loose a scream that seemed to echo with the rumbling thunder. Blood gushed from her spread legs and tears were leaking from her pale purple eyes, as she desperately pushed anther child from her womb. Plenty of the  Queen’s Ladies were bustling around their mistress like a flock of chickens with their heads cut off, not knowing what was expected of them, while their older counterparts had recused themselves to a sitting room, happily sewing the newborn’s layettes and clothing.

A large boiling cauldron had been placed in the Queen’s Chambers, where a shaking egg with scales of rainbow moonstone, nestled with in its burning coals. The King, nowhere near the birthing rooms, was happily enjoying himself upon a cask of Arbor Gold - with its fruits having been handpicked by gardeners employed at the palace erected in place of the Redwyne Manor, which had been torn down in the third year of King Aegon III Targaryen’s reign, and later bequeathed as the future lands of Princess Alyssa Targaryen.

Attending to him was none other than Lady Myrielle Peake, only surviving child of Lord Unwin Peake, Lady of Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove. Her deep brown hair had been braided back into a crown atop her head, freckles danced across her tanned face, her narrow lips were painted a lovely shade of plum, and bronze eyes spoke of a deep intelligence. Once mocked as “Lady Turnips”, Myrielle had shed girlhood for a woman of one and twenty.

Wedded and bedded at three and ten, Myrielle had been widowed not even a full year later, her maidenhead still intact. She was eventually sent to King’s Landing, where she would serve as Queen Jaehaera’s Lady-In-Waiting, with her father hoping she found a prospective husband that would bolster his own lands and coffers. It was during the winter of the year 135 AC, the four and ten nameday King was forced to reveal to the Lady Myrielle that Lord Unwin Peake had been stricken with a mysterious disease that had quickly bedridden him - dying not even a fortnight after he had first experienced the symptoms.

With no brothers or uncles to inherit the lands after him, Unwin was succeeded by his daughter as Lady of Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove. Shrewd and incredibly gifted with handling gold coins, Myrielle had returned House Peake to greatness, hoping to erase the stain of her father siding with the Usurper, and soon word had begun to spread that she was entertaining a betrothal with Lord Kermit Tully, Lord of Riverrun, and a deadly swordsmen.

While no wedding had come, Myrielle was often found accompanying the King during walks in the gardens, taking meals in his private dining room, and even serving him wine on one occasion, during a Small Council session. When Jaehaera, then heavily pregnant with her twins, Naerys and Alyssa, had attempted to berate her Lord Husband, Aegon had uncharacteristically snapped at his wife, stating that she had no business to question him.

While some suspected that the King and Lady Peake were lovers, no child had come, and thus it was declared gossip, a mere rumor to weaken Queen Jaehaera’s already fragile hold on the King. Even seven years later, Lady Myrielle had not taken another husband, nor birthed a single child, though she had not been short on suitors even considered a spinster. 

“Do you desire yet another son, My King?” Myrelle asked, stirring sugar into her ginger tea, the only thing that seemed to settle her upset stomach. “I have heard that the Septons insist that Her Grace is going to deliver another boy,”

“I have no care what the child is,” Aegon dismissed, waving his hand. “Enough talk about her . How are you doing, my love?”

“Well! The Maester has estimated that I am about two moons along, and very healthy,”

“Good, good,” Aegon nodded, before rising from his seat and kneeling before her chair, his ringed hand resting upon her stomach. “You have yet to swell, but I have no doubt that you shall birth a Targaryen . Do you have a name chosen?”

“Ah, no,” Myrielle admitted, gaze drawn to her feet. “I have a feeling the name shall be a boy, but only the Gods know if I carry a son or daughter in my womb,”

As the two discussed names over a light supper of honeyed chicken, roasted onions dipped in gravy, boiled beans, fermented crabs, salads of sweetgrass, spinach, and plums, thick soups of barley and venison, with lamprey and kidney pies, Queen Jaehaera finally reached the ends of her labor. As the clouds parted, allowing for the full moon to shine upon the silver scales of Silverwing and dance like stars in the birthing chambers, a final command, a large push, and a wail later, gave way to the birth of the newest Targaryen.

Jaehaera’s silver strewn hair was plastered to her sweat beaded brow, her pale cheeks flushed like she was drunk on Arbor Gold or Dornish Red, but a victorious smile pulled at her lips. As her babe screamed like their lungs depended on it, the Queen couldn’t help but feel a sense of vindictiveness as she beheld a patch of starlight white hair and the bloody form of her newest babe. A son, she was so sure, for only a boy could rip his way free from her womb.

“A lovely daughter, My Queen,” one of the midwives beamed, as she held the child aloft in the air. “A true Targaryen Princess! And so beautiful!”

‘A girl,’ Jaehaera lamented, nearly throwing her head back against her silk pillows. ‘A fifth daughter, not another a boy, ’

Her original idea for christening the babe “Jaehaerys” had just been thrown out the window and into a pile of dragon dung. She had always wanted to name one of her daughters “Helaena” for a her mother, but Aegon had turned such a vicious shade of red at the mere mention, that she never brought the subject up a again. Looking at this child, as the nursemaids swaddled her in a cloth of pure gold and embroidered with dragons, Jaehaera could see she would have the classic beauty of Targaryens of old, and be yet another piece on the political chess board.

“Has Your and His Grace chosen a name?” One of her newer ladies, Jeyne Merryweather of Longtable, asked the Queen. 

“Aegon wanted to name the babe “Aerion” was it a boy, and “Rhaelle” if a girl, but neither of those names fit. Perhaps something more unique, something that she can make into her own. I would be aghast to use the name “Saera”, and we have already taken Alyssa and Viserra, from the Concilartor’s daughters. I suspect the King would agree if she was named “Gael”, but I have no desire to curse my child with the name of a simpleton,”

“What about “Maegelle”, My Queen?” Lady Alycia Beesbury of Honeyholt, great-granddaughter of Lord Lyman Beesbury, suggested. “It was the name of their third daughter and the only one, alongside Archmaester Vaegon, who truly showed piety to the Seven-Who-Are One. It would also, hopefully, seal the fracture that His Grace has formed with the Faith, no?”

“Maegelle,” The Queen tested the name on her tongue, enjoying the way the syllables rolled like honey. “I quiet like that, yes. Well done, Lady Alycia!” Jaehaera praised, before turning her gaze back to the weeping and flailing figure of her newborn child. 

“Let it be known that Her Grace, Queen Jaehaera of House Targaryen, has given birth to Princess Maegelle Targaryen, Second of Her Name!”

Little did the Queen know that her night had not yet ended.

Chapter Text

Jaehaera Targaryen was no stranger to humiliation. Having been subjected such prospects since she had emerged from Helaena Targaryen’s womb without a cock, Jaehaera had been the embarrassment of House Targaryen. Dubbed simple-minded and apathetic as but a small child, the Queen was used to being the topic of cruel gossip spread about the Royal Court. Having been raised amongst the murmurs and lickspittles of Aegon II Targaryen’s Court, Jaehaera had developed an air of indifference when the courtiers had begun their usual game of scandal - all enjoying when news regarding the Royal Family was exposed.

So it had come to no surprise when she was summoned from her birthing chambers, fresh from the delivery of Princess Maegelle Targaryen, to present the newborn in front of the gathered Court, and her Lord Husband. Ser Torrhen Manderly, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, had appeared in her rooms, his silver scaled armor and pristine white cloak brilliant amongst the midnight background, with clear orders that he was to collect her. The Lord Commander had not even bothered to pretend he was apologetic, his face was set into a grim sort of determination.

With her womb still bloody and painful cramps still burning throughout her, Jaehaera had to grit her teeth, before harshly barking order at maids. They were quick to bring fourth numerous buckets of boiling water, pouring into a copper bathtub, and dumping of lavender, rosemary, and chamomile, all of which were to help the Queen relax. As Ser Torrhen turned away, the maids set up a partition screen, sewn with delicate cranes and fluttering hummingbirds, and stripped the soiled nightgown away from her body.

Jaehaera was helped up from her featherbed, and gently settled into the steaming water, sighing as the coiling smoke seemed to caress her skin and sooth the contractions that were still pulsing throughout her. As she was lathered in sweet-smelling soaps, trying to cover the odor of birthing fluids and blood, the Queen felt a sudden pain rip through the lower part of her body, and a small shriek escaped from her. 

“Ah!” She cried, her hands curling around the edge of the bathtub, and throwing her head back. “Get the Maester!” 

“Your Grace?” One of her handmaidens, Henrietta, called, eyes wide with fear as she raced to the Queen’s side. “What is the matter?! What do you require?!” 

Torrhen Manderly ripped the partition aside, his deadly focus upon the Queen, and his hand was bearing out his sword, a brutal shine dancing of the cold steel. He cared not for her nudity, instead looking around for any intruder that had dared to sneak into the Queen’s chambers, especially when he was on guard detail. With efficiency that spoke of many years experience upon a bloody battlefield, Torrhen had his white cloak off in a second, before neatly depositing onto a plush, overturned velvet chair, and then dropping to a knee at the side of Her Grace.

“The Queen has begun her labors,” he said simply, tone cool and hands steady. “The Maester needs to be summoned, but Her Grace does not need to be moved from the bath. White Harbor has had many “water births” since in its founding, and while it may not seem the most respectable position, it has many benefits,”

“My Queen,” Henrietta whispered. “The Maester should be here any minute. I insist that you be moved to the bed,”

When she reached for Jaehaera’s arm, the Queen screeched in pain and clawed the hand that had dared to touch her person. “No!” She wailed, tears burning down her flushed cheeks. “No! Do not dare to touch me! What is happening?!”

“You are still in labor, My Queen,” Torrhen calmly replied. “We shall not be moving you, Your Grace, unless you specifically wish for it,”

Soon enough the doors to her bathing chambers were thrown open and a small army of midwives, draped in white gowns with pewter aprons and simply white bonnets pinned in their hair, led by Maester Munkun. Even amongst the many women, Grand Maester Munkun appeared little different from them, his simply grey robes and heavy clinking chains were the only thing that truly set him apart.

As he took notice of the surrounding from the naked and heavily breathing Queen, to the white cloak discarded and a knight kneeling by her side, it as some what of a miracle that the old Maester did not suddenly have palpitations of the heart. Shaking his head, Munkun began his task, ordering the midwives around like a task-master, easily dictating roles and assigning chores to his attendants, before turning his attention to the Queen.

“We need to move her to her bed,” Munkun declared, but a vicious snarl stopped him. “Your Grace, you must understand! The bath is no place for a woman, let alone a Queen, to labor and bring fourth a Prince or Princess! I insist upon placing you somewhere more comfortable,”

As he tried to get the young Queen to understand his worries, Jaehaera merely cried again, and felt a terrible amount of pressure rushing like blood in her veins. Bearing down as if it was the only thing that she could do, the Queen screamed in pain, blood gushing from between her legs, and eyes squeezed shut as Grand Maester Munkun, Torrhen Manderly, and Henrietta watched in morbid fascination as a crown of brilliant silver emerged soon after the blood. 

As the head finally descended from her womb, it was quickly followed by the shoulders, and the rest of the babe came out in one, quick movement. The cord was next to make its appearance, and with easy, soft hands, Torrhen dunked into the burning water, and lifted the child up, silently delighting when he noticed the little chest began raising up and down, before a sharp little cry was echoed through the bathing chambers. With one deliberate swing of his wrist, Torrhen pulled his white cloak off the chair, and used it was a makeshift blanket, swaddling the now screeching infant in the warm expanse of the Kingsguard.

“You have birthed a beautiful baby girl, My Queen,” Torrhen said, uncharacteristically demure as he beheld the infant now cradled in his arms. “Healthy, with very strong lungs. Did you ever choose another name for a Princess?”

Jaehaera, still reeling from the shock, stared at her newest babe. The wet locks were matted to her upturned brow, her eyes were squeezed shut, but the Queen had an inkling they would yet another shade of violet, and her beet red skin was evidence that she was breathing. Her screams had begun to quiet down, but little coos were replacing the ear-grating noises.

“Helaena,” She whispered, wanting to reach out and have her babe pressed against her breast. “Her name is Helaena Targaryen, Second Of Her Name, Princess of the Realm. She is to be named for my late mother, Queen Consort Helaena Targaryen,”

“Yes, My Queen,” Torrhen acknowledged, bowing his head in respect. “All hail, Princess Helaena of House Targaryen, Second Of Her Name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. Daughter of His Grace, King Aegon III Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, and Her Grace, Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen,”

“All hail, Princess Helaena,” The room echoed, before dropping to their knees. 

“Ha,” The Queen laughed, tiredly. “It would seem a second egg needs to be selected for my Helaena, now does it not?”

“:I will arrange for it with His Grace, My Queen,” Torrhen nodded, eyes locked onto the babe, never once wavering from a future charge of his. “I will also report to the King that you are in no condition to report to the Throne Room. I am sure that he will understand, My Queen,”

“See to it that he does,” Jaehaera acquiesced

LINE BREAK

Aegon had been less then thrilled when he was dragged out of his bed with the moon still high in the sky. He ignored the peacefully snoring figure of Lady Myrielle Peake, who was fast asleep on the other side of his grand bed. His attention, however, was focused on the swelling of her belly, for she had just begun to show, but Grand Maester Munkun had insisted that the King’s unofficial Royal Mistress, was healthy and should carry the child to full term. He had even insisted that it was very likely, with how high she was carrying, that the Lady was going to birth a bouncing baby boy - perhaps, the Maester had mused, a new heir to the Iron Throne.

Stopping only to pull on a simply black robe, Aegon marched to the double doors that led to his rooms, and ripped them open. “What in the Seven Hells are you doing here?” He hissed, when he found the sheepish form of Ser Alyn Velaryon, Jaehaera’s Sworn Shield. “You do realize that the Hour of the Wolf has not even passed, yes? I already informed my Small Council that I would meet the Queen and the child in the morn!”

“There has been an issue, Your Grace,” Ser Alyn calmly said, not bothering to rise to the bait that the King was hanging in front of him. “With the Queen,”

“What is wrong with Jaehaera?” Aegon asked, his body now tense. “Is the child fine?”

“No, Your Grace, the child is fine, more than fine,” Alyn consoled, understanding how his words could be misinterpreted. “As is Her Grace. Lord Commander Manderly sent me a notice that you demanded the Queen present the Princess to the Throne Room, but-,”

“Princess?! Throne Room? I never issued such an order! Jaehaera had a daughter?” 

“Your Grace, Queen Jaehaera gave birth Princess Maegelle, shortly before the orders reached the Lord Commander. He sent me to relay that the Queen would ot be able to come to the Throne Room, for when her bath had been drawn, she went into an unexpected labor. Her Grace gave birth to Princess Helaena, and when she was being moved to her bedchambers, she delivered yet another child when walking,”

“Jaehaera had triplets?!” Aegon was dumbfounded, confusion littering across his handsome features. “ I have triplets?”i

“No, Your Grace, when the Queen was finally deposited into her bed, she began having yet more contractions, and the Maester revealed that she was swollen with another child. Little did we realize, that Her Grace was not simply carrying multiples, but she was carrying five ,”

Aegon felt like he was about to collapse, and quickly centered himself by gripping onto one of the grand pillars that lined his chambers. He seemed to have gone deaf as Ser Alyn continued on with his tale, detailing how Jaehaera had labored bravely throughout the night, how she bared down on the pain and would not stop until she had delivered each child. “Aside from Princess Maegelle, Your Grace, the other four children are very small and the Grand Maester has stated that they will require round the hour care, less they succumb to side-effects stemming from their small sizes. The Grand Maester also requests that you come and see them,”

“Of course,” Aegon said, before following after the Kingsguard like a child. “The babes. What are their genders? I know you said Jaehaera had two daughters, Maegelle and Helaena, I believe, but what about the other three?”

“I do not know, Your Grace. Grand Maester Munkun merely said that they were each breathing, but he did not have a good prognosis for the smallest of the babes. He thinks you should be there just in case the worst should happen,”

“Hm,”

Ignoring the Kingsguard, Aegon instead was beginning to focus on the problem at hand. Someone had dared to issue order under his name, orders that were given to the Lord Commander, who had in turn given them to the Queen. The King was well aware that the only ones who held even a fraction of power compared to his own were his Small Council, but all knew the consequences that would come with undermining him. It would end with him stepping over their bloody corpses and watching in glee as their ancestral lands burned beneath the ever-consuming flames of Silverwing.

Who ever it was, they clearly had a death wise, and Aegon was all to happy to oblige. He was in no mood to deal with his wife, especially considering that she had just birthed five babes - unheard of last he knew, but the chances of his child dying, had spurred the King. Unlike his predecessors, Viserys I and Aegon II, the current King had no desire to ignore any child of his, be they trueborn with his bitch of a wife or illegitimate with his mistress or whores. 

Jaehaera had never found out that Aegon had sired two bastards upon a common whore. Her name was Assadora, a former slave of Ibben who had escaped to Braavos, before journeying to King’s Landing, where her exotic appearance had caught the eye of His Grace. With raven black hair flowing down her back like waves of ink, honey gold eyes that were richer than any gem, supple pink lips that reminded many of a freshly bloomed rose, and skin as warm as the desert of Dorne, Assadora had easily become the favorite of the King.

Upon learning that she was with child the first time, Aegon had quickly moved Assadora out of the brothel known as “The Peach”, and bought her a sprawling estate that spanned numerous acres, where she and their child would be cared for. Their daughter, Daenerys, had been born the winter of Aegon’s seventh and tenth nameday, with coiling curls of obsidian and lovely eyes of plum purple, while her skin had settled into somewhere between her mother’s tan and father’s fair. Their son, Jacaerys, had been next. The spitting image of his father, Jacaerys was named for Prince Jacaerys Velaryon, and already Aegon could see the boy growing into a fearsome knight that would make House Targaryen proud.

As they finally approached the towering doors of the Queen’s Apartments, Aegon tensed his muscles, and was ready to meet his Queen, once again.

Chapter Text

“Your Grace,” Lord Manfryd Mooton of Pinkmaiden, Master of Coin and former Lord Regent, shakingly knelt as Alicent Hightower emerged from the shadows of the Small Hall. “You have summoned me, My Queen?”

Garbed in an emerald green gown that was decorated in golden embroidery of the Seven Who Are One, dozens of Seven Pointed Stars, and a solitary figure of the long since destroyed Hightower of Oldtown, Alicent Hightower made her presence known. Her auburn curls had been tamed into an elaborate up-do that was threaded through with pearls that had been passed down from her mother, and a simple golden chain with a matching star hanging from her slender neck. Despite having been stripped of her titles and positions of Queen Consort, Queen Regent, and Queen Mother, Alicent still believed herself to be the true matriarch of House Targaryen.

“Rise, Lord Manfyrd,” she beckoned to the old man, withered from barley surviving Winter Fever in 133 AC. “Were you successful in the summons, My Lord? I would be much disappointed if you were not,”

“Of course, My Queen,” Manfyrd said. “I successfully sent summons through my servants, which then went through many more individuals, before finally landing into the hands of the Lord Commander. I believe that we shall be hearing about a massive summons to the Throne Room, and if all went according to plan the Queen should be arriving,”

Remembering when she had summoned Rhaenyra Targaryen to the Queen’s Apartments moments after she had birthed her third bastard child, Prince Joffrey Velaryon, Alicent had desired to do the same to her granddaughter. She had desperately hoped that when Jaehaera learned about Aegon’s ‘actions’, that she would finally understand the cruelty that the “Red King” as capable off, and come running back into her embrace.

No matter how often Alicent had attempted to bring Jaehaera back into the Light of the Seven, her granddaughter adamantly refused. The Queen would often remark to Alicent that she would happy her bloodline would finally ascend the Iron Throne, seeing as how Jaehaera had been sacrificed to mend the bridges between the Greens and he Blacks. When Alicent had tried to talk to Jaehaera about the queer Targaryen customs, Her Grace had snapped that she was the product of the Targaryen customs and that it had been at the behest of her grandmother that Aegon II Targaryen and Helaena Targaryen be wedded and produce children.

Thus Jaehaerys, Jaehaera, and Maelor had been the result of the union.

In the end though, Alicent would bemoan, both her grandsons had been murdered. Jaehaerys at the hands of the Rogue Prince, Daemon Targaryen, himself, while Maelor had been torn apart by crowds of Bitterbridge. Revenge was exacted upon the Blacks with the deaths of Jacaerys and Joffrey Velaryon, and Viserys Targaryen - three of Rhaenyra’s son, all of whom, but one, had been lost to the waves. Daeron, her sweet little boy, had burned Bitterbridge to a pile of cinders, and extinguished the line of House Caswell - not once caring about the little children that had been lost to the blue flames of Tessarion, for they did not care about Maelor.

Jaehaera, meanwhile, had been secreted away to Storm’s End, but she was captured long before the Fall of King’s Landing to the blasphemous incestual creature that dared to declare himself King of the Seven Kingdoms: Aegon III Targaryen. Alicent had remembered the very day that her life ended, not once forgetting it in the decade since she had become both a widow, an orphan, and childless mother - with only a single grandchild, a useless granddaughter nonetheless , as her last family. 

Her head had been resting upon the heavy wooden block, the ax hanging above her, the headsman merely waiting for a single nod from the “Red King”. She had heard the slice of sharped metal cut through the air, but the blade had not cut her head off, instead it hovered just inches away from her delicate neck, and that was when she heard the damning words.

“Alicent Hightower shall be spared,” 

The crowds had been baying for blood, but as he sat atop a crudely constructed throne, Aegon Targaryen had been resting his chin on his palm, and his cruel purple eyes were brimming with barley concealed hatred. At his side, kneeling at his feet with her forehead resting on his knees, was Jaehaera. She could distantly hear as the newly named Queen Consort begged the King, pleading with the King to spare her grandmother.

“Be grateful, Hightower Whore, that Her Grace has begged me to show mercy. You shall never be forgiven for your past sins, for your crimes of treason, usurpation, and murder. I, King Aegon of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, sentence you to a life of repentance. You shall remain imprisoned in the Red Keep, and your comfort will be decided on how well you serve your Queen,”

Alicent had known that her life had been spared because the Seven Who Are One wanted her to ensure that Hightower blood ascended the Iron Throne - regardless if it had to be intertwined with House Targaryen. She would bring the Seven Kingdoms back into the Light of the Seven, and no matter how long it took, no matter how many sacrifices needed to be made, Alicent Hightower would do as she was bid. 

LINE BREAK

There were five girls. Jaehaera had given him five more daughters in the span of hours, each similar, but oh so very different. Silver hair threaded with gold and eyes of various shades of purple stared back at him in their individual cradles. Just as Ser Alyn Velaryon had stated, Maegelle was the largest of her siblings, identified by a purple ribbon encircling around her delicate wrist, and a rainbow moonstone colored egg was resting at her side. The next cradle held little Helaena, or so Aegon presumed, whose color it seemed was turquoise, and a lovely shade that seemed to compliment the fair skin and rosy cheeks she exhibited.

Three other cradles were lined up in a neat row, and Aegon was entranced. It was the third cradle, however, that truly caught his eye. Staring at the infant swaddled in a crimson red blanket with an obsidian dragon curling around as if placing a protective coil, Aegon found himself staring at the miniature image of his longingly deceased mother. From the slope her of doe eyes, to the periwinkle shade, along with the high brow, arched eyebrows, and a tuft of silver hair threaded with sun gold, the babe was the twin of the Realm’s Delight.

“Rhaenyra,” he whispered, tuning out the sounds around him. “Her name shall be Rhaenyra,”

“Your Grace?” Grand Maester Munkun asked, his eyes drawn to the floor and his still bowed, not having been given permission to rise from his kneel. 

“This child,” he said, gesturing to the babe who peered at him with an ancient gaze. “Her name is Rhaenyra of House Targaryen, Second of Her Name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms,”

“All hail, Princess Rhaenyra!” Voices echoed, awe clear in the sound of their voices. “Long may she reign as a scion of House Targaryen,”

As for the other two daughters, Aegon had yet to hear or declare their names. One, the fourth he did so believe, possessed feature that were nay identical to his father. A gaze of hard purple with a more feminine approach then the Rogue Prince, complete with platinum silver hair that had a single strand of sheer gold striking through like lightening, completed with a slim shaped eyes that narrowed like a dragon assessing prey, with blood red lips, and arched cheekbones. “Daena,” he smiled, lips curving into the replication of a smirk. “I think you shall be Daena. I can already see you taking on my father’s role as the Rogue Prince. Who knows? You might be the next wielder of Dark Sister,”

“Absolutely not,” Jaehaera groaned. “You will not be allowing our newborn daughter to have such thoughts, My King,”

“My Queen,” Aegon purred. “You have done so very well. Truly an act worthy of the tomes, I am sure, but also a true boon to House Targaryen. I have heard that you selected the names “Maegelle”, and “Helaena”, for the older ones, and I hope you understand my decision to choose “Rhaenyra” and “Daena” for our younger two. That merely lives the smallest one nameless,”

“I was thinking “Visenya,”

Chapter Text

Aegon III Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, sat atop the Iron Throne, dressed in full battle regalia with the Conquer’s Crown perched on his platinum blonde hair, with a gaze of hardened purple steel. Blackfyre was gripped in his ringed hand, the blade nearly puncturing the dais, and the “Red King” was just awaiting for the moment that he could swing and lop of the head of Lord Manfyrd Mooton of Pinkmaiden - who was kneeling at the foot of the Iron Throne, bound in heavy chains and shaking as he beheld the “Red King”.

“A member of my own Small Council,” Aegon began, his voice slicing through the cold silence of the Throne Room. “Dared to issue orders in my name. Ordered my own Kingsguard to force the Queen out of the birthing chambers, and present herself before the Royal Court, as if she was a mere servant.” 

Manfryd Mooton bowed his head, avoiding the knowing gaze of Alicent Hightower. The Lord of Pinkmaiden and a deserter of the Blacks who fled to the Greens, was very aware that he could undoubtedly save his own head, but it would come at the cost of Alicent Hightower. He was, however, a proud follower of the Seven and if he died, wether it was on the chopping block or in his bed, Lord Mooton would do so willingly. 

“In the moons following the execution of the “Usurper King”, I had ordered for a complete cull of the Lords, Ladies, and Houses who had dared to turn their backs on my mother, Queen Rhaenyra I, whose legitimacy to the Iron Throne was questioned simply because she possessed no cock. It mattered not to me the reasons why the Houses had sworn loyalty to the “Usurper”, but I decided to have mercy on a single individual: Manfryd Mooton,”

Manfryd could feel the heavy gazes of the courtiers upon him like the headsman’s ax was hanging over his neck. “The Lord of Maidenpool who acted as a Lord Regent upon my Small Council, an individual who spoke with my voice and used my authority to pass laws, decide on matters of the Realm, and furthering my future as King,” Aegon hissed, his fingers tightening around the pommel of Blackfyre. “For some convoluted reason, I decided to spare this man from the chopping block, and now I have truly come to regret my decision,”

The Lord turned his sight to the small wooden chair that was covered in a thick velvet cushion and where Queen Consort Jaehaera Targaryen was positioned, her silver hair coiled into a braided bun, and a circlet that once belonged to Queen Consort Rhaena Targarye encircling her forehead, rubies glinting from the fading sunlight that stemmed from the pained glass windows. Cradled in her arms, was the swaddled form of Princess Helaena Targaryen, ten days old, and growing faster each and every day.

The succumbent birth of the five daughters: Maegelle, Helaena, Rhaenyra, Daena, and Visenya, which had somehow not ended in tragedy for any of the children or the mother, was truly baffling to the Maesters of the Citadel - recently rebuilt at the behest of Jaehaera Targaryen, and now situated in King’s Landing, under the direct supervision of a hand-selected council that answered to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. 

Despite their young age and delicate health, the King and Queen already had their favorites: Aegon adored Princess Rhaenyra, while Jaehaera was never seen without Helaena, both named for their deceased mothers, respectfully. Even amongst the large amount of children the rulers of the Realm possessed, His and Her Grace were dedicated parents that adored each and every one of their sons and daughters, regardless of the fact that they were busy trying to maintain structure of numerous territories and their subjects.

“This so-called courtier, someone who disguised themself as a leal servant to the Crown, has shown his true colors. He has dared to overstep his position as a member of the Small Council, in which he sits as Master of Coin, and how I must open an investigation! I must trouble other members of my Small Council to go through every single transition that Lord Mooton has made in his decade of service to the Crown. However,”

Manfryd Mooton of Pinkmaiden felt sweat dripping down his face. He was about to face the consequences of his actions, and the punishments of the “Red King” were as infamous as King Maegor I Targaryen.

“I have already made my decision. Manfryd Mooton, Lord of Pinkmaiden and Master of Coin, former Lord Regent, you shall face the death sentence. Your lands shall be stripped and House Mooton will be no more. Your House will be whipped out in the history tomes, but worry not My Lord,” Aegon consoled when he noticed the condemned man’s face turn ashen white. “I will not have your Lady Wife, children, or grandchildren put the sword, despite the fact that they very obviously are aware of your machinations and or have no idea,”

“Please, Your Grace!” Mooton begged, tears beginning to bubble in his hazy gaze. “My family had no clue! They are innocent in this matter! It was I! I worked alone!”

“Why?”

“I-I-I,” Mooton stumbled over his words, struggling to come up with the right response that would not draw attention to his true benefactor. “I left the Black Faction for the fact that your mother, Rhaenyra Targaryen, was unworthy of the Iron Throne! She was a harlot! And you are clearly just as unworthy!”

One could hear the very hiss of breath as silence once again overtook the Throne Room. Aegon, with shadows overtaking his purple eyes, slowly began to rise from his seated position and began to make his way down the stairs. “You dare?” he calmly said, blood beginning to boil through his veins. “You dare to call my mother, your true Queen, a harlot? You are truly a fool, Manfryd Mooton, and your family shall pay the price,”

“What?” 

“You heard me. You clearly sought to harm my wife and my children by extent. Your actions are evidence enough of your treason and I will not hesitate to strike down any threat to my family, my House, or my Throne . The only mercy I shall extend to you is a quick death. Lord Commander Torrhen Manderly shall carry out your execution, himself, and fret not, my Lord, for he will make sure that the strike is clean,”

“My family is innocent!”

“So was my mother. So were my brothers. So were my sisters. Yet the Greens took them all. Murdered children in their beds or ransacked their ships so they could gain an edge over the true Heiress to the Iron Throne. What makes you so special?”

“My children are innocent, Your Grace! My grandchildren as well. They have done nothing wrong but being of my blood. Kill me if you will, but please spare my family!”

“Like you spared my own? No, I do not think so. Lord Commander,” The King beckoned forth the Kingsguard, irritation palpable in his gaze. “Take this rodent to the Black Cells, and insure that he faces the same hospitality his fellow traitors did,”

“Yes, Your Grace,” 

Aegon watched in barley concealed delight as the man was roughly seized by the Lord Commander, his pleas falling on deaf ears. It was time, the “Red King” realized, that he clean the Royal Court up once again, and that meant ridding himself of the lickspittles and murmurs who dared to infect his home like a rotten disease. If that meant pruning entire Houses once again, Aegon would not hesitate to do so, as he had done during his early reign.

“Allow me to make one thing very clear, my Lords and Ladies,” He announced, voice as hard as rock and strong as thunder. “Treason shall not be tolerated! Should I find that any of you have dared to conspire with known enemies, I will not hesitate to make you watch as I burn your lands to cinders, and your Houses will be reduced to nothing but ashes,”

Chapter Text

In the end Manfryd Mooton had escaped death by the sword. During his stay in the Black Cells, the disgraced Lord had suffered an episode of the heart, and perished at the age of five and fifty. Despite his cruelly spoken words, Aegon had no intention of making the children and grandchildren pay for the sins of their father and grandsire, respectfully. He did, however, strip House Mooton from their ancestral lands of Pinkmaiden, their coffers seized by the Crown, and they were banished from the Riverlands. 

The King had pretended not to see his wife sneak a small rough-spun sack of gold dragons and jewels into the withered hands of the Dowager Lady Mooton. He turned a blind eye when his son, Gaemon, thrusted a satchel of hard bread, cheese, and salted meat into the arms of a well dressed man. Cold and mad as he may be, Aegon wished not to make the truly innocent suffer the mistakes their kinsman made, but sometimes the wheel turned and even he was incapable of stopping it.

Jaehaera had been confined to the Queen’s Apartments, ordered to remain in her bed until she had truly gained her strength back. She only agreed if she could see her older children and the babes were to remain in the chambers with her, with an entire army of nursemaids of course. After much negotiation, Grand Maester Munkun had finally bended and he had practically set up shop outside the Queen’s Apartments, having been granted a small set of rooms in the Queen’s Wing, with the understanding that should she need anything she call for him immediately. 

Grand Maester Munkun was irritated that he had been pulled from his chambers below the Royal Rookery, but the chance to study the girls, The Summer Five , as the smallfolk had dubbed was to good to pass up. Much to his dismay, the King had hand selected eggs that would grace his daughters’ cradles, and thus he had to be careful not to burn the flesh of his bones, if he so much as grazed the scorching scales. It had only turned more deadly when the beasts had emerged sooner then expected, their barbed tails curling around their bonded’s arms like a protective gauntlet, and their sharp needle teeth gleaming with the promise of blood.

Princess Maegelle was in possession of a rainbow moonstone egg that had quickly hatched into a dragonling which had the same colored scales, was declared a female, and granted the name “Balagos”, whose eyes of deep obsidian were darker than a midnight sky. Princess Helaena was bequeathed an egg of purple with fine golden detailing that had born “Auroxas”, whose scales were a deeper shade of Targaryen eyes, with a crown of spiraling golden horns, and incisors the color of volcanic ash.

Princess Rhaenyra, the King’s favorite, had been given an egg that was collected from one of Syrax’s many clutches. It was a brilliant golden color, the same as its dam, without a single blemish upon the outer shell. Emerging with such fierceness, the hatchling, Tamarand,  was quick to let his displeasure known as he screeched the chambers down, and a let loose a small torrent of ember flames with a golden hue to match. Her younger sister, Daena, meanwhile was given an egg of such pale white, that the Dragon Keepers swore they could see the veins and forming hatchling from the outside. It was later proven the truth when the albino hatchling with red eyes and bone colored horns twisting high above her head.

Surprisingly, the Queen had named her “Meraxes:, for it seemed the little she-dragon was related, at least indirectly, to the original bearer of the name. Unlike her predecessor, however, Meraxes II would never suffer the same fate, less Dorne wish for Fire and Blood to descend upon their precious desert, turning into a glass city stuck in a lifeless immortality. Visenya, the youngest and smallest of the girls, was still so delicate, so fragile, that she required at least three nursemaids to attend to just her. They were instructed to make sure her small chest was constantly moving up and down, one was to be awake at all times, and if they failed in their duty, Aegon had made it very clear that they would suffer consequences far more dire than what their worst nightmare could fathom.

He had ordered for a gleaming egg of crimson red, that reminded him of his father’s beloved mount, Caraxes, the Blood Wyrm. Originally, the Queen had wanted for the egg to remain nested in its cauldron of burning coals, but it seemed that as soon as Visenya had cried, the hatchling was ready to escape. The egg had quaked like the earth was shaking it, before the scales slowly chipped away, and a talon of bronze peeked through. 

As a head of black horns shifted out, the King was gobsmacked when he locked eyes with a pair of slitted sapphires that seemed to glow in the light. The dragon emerged as regally as one could expect, and the King could never be disappointed when Visenya’s future mount came into the world with the very colors of House Targaryen. A scaled body of crimson, complete with wings as dark as dragonglass, bronze talons, and ethereal blue eyes, Grinnsira, was born.

LINE BREAK

A feast was quickly organized to celebrate the birthing of the Princesses’ hatchling, and with the expectance that they would all survive, His Grace wasted no time in ordering that food and beer be disrupted to the smallfolk of Westeros, from the chilled grounds of the deep North, to the bustling towns of the Reach - inviting all to share in his merriment. In a rare act of mercy and proof of his jubilant mood, the King also decreed the pardoning of twenty criminals that languished in cells.

Such was his happiness that Aegon had declared a grand tourney as well, insisting that the best knights the Seven Kingdoms had to offer make their may to King’s Landing, proving their merit, showcasing their abilities, and maybe being granted a position in the capital. Contests such as archery, sailing, jousting, the tilts, and even hand-to-hand were offered, with the prizes ranging from a ‘mere’ two thousand golden dragons to the grand prize of forty thousand golden dragons, of which only the champion could have.

The King had commissioned a grand new wardrobe for Her Grace, with fabrics ranging from the softest of silks to the richest of velvets, with exotic gowns coming from Myr, Lys, Volantis, and the Free Cities. Fabulous jewels also arrived from the noble Houses of Westeros for the Queen, but the King, not to be outdone, had even agreed to open up the Royal Vault and allow his wife her pick of jewels - with the understanding that as long as they were returned she was more than welcome to wear them for tourneys and feasts.

The day the celebrations were to begin, Jaehaera Targaryen emerged from her chambers, having successfully recovered from the painful labor nearly twenty days early, dressed in a fine gown of autumn orange, signifying the beginning of autumn, with leaves embroidered in rubies and topaz, with lovely flowers made from emeralds and diamonds, creating a myriad of kaleidoscopes colors that sparkled under the candlelight of the Red Keep. Her waist length starlight silver hair had been allowed down for the festivities, and were threaded through with matching gems of rubies, diamonds, and pearls. 

Her crowning glory was the Valyrian Steel circlet that had once rested atop the brow of Queen Rhaenys Targaryen. Given to her when she was still in her youth and living at Dragonstone, the circlet was made from pure golden, dipped in boiling lava, and encrusted with large mother of pearls that surrounded a simple yet elegant ruby that had been painstakingly crafted into a heart. A statement that the Queen was making clear, when the King, himself, emerged at her side, and wearing a matching crown that had been made for the Conqueror.

“Announcing His Grace, Aegon of House Targaryen, Third of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm! Her Grace, Jaehaera of House Targaryen, Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms!”  

Courtiers clapped in enthusiasm as the Royal Couple enter the Tourney Grounds, their screeches of delight clear. “Presenting His Grace, Gaemon of House Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, and Heir Apparent to the Iron Throne!”

Accompanied by Ser Oscar Tully, Prince Gaemon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone, followed behind his parents. Dressed in a tunic of crimson red with detailed black etchings of soaring dragons, onyx buttons fashioned as dragon heads, fine leather pants made from the strongest of cattle hide, and leather boots that had been shined to a polish, Gaemon was the true epitome of a Prince of the Blood, which was complete with a circlet of dragonglass and blood rubies pressed into ovals that rested over his shoulder length ivory hair. 

“Announcing Her Grace, Rhaenys of House Targaryen, Princess Royal, Princess Warden of the Stormlands, Princess of Storm’s End, and Princess of Summerhall!”

Thick Arryn curls of silver gold cascaded down a gown of teal, embroidered in pearls and diamonds shaped in the falcons of her maternal grandmother’s maiden house, and a fine crown of colorless opals completed the set. Irritation clear in her obsidian purple eyes that shined as cruel as the smokey blade of Dark Sister, Rhaenys absolutely loathed being forced to walk behind her craven of a brother - unworthy, she would silently seeth, of siting upon the Iron Throne. The Princess had long suspected that the Crown Prince would present himself in emerald green if given the chance, seeing as how he was practically attached to the skirts of their great-grandmother: Lady Alicent Hightower.

Princess Naerys Targaryen, aged three, meandered her way onto the tourney grounds with as much regularity as a toddler could muster. A frilly gown of amethyst with white ribbons around the bell sleeves and matching ones serving as the ties to the back of her gown, Naerys held hands with her twin sister, and danced like a fairy. Her angel curls were tightly coiled around her face, a tiring task that the nursemaids had worked on for many hours, and a matching bow of turquoise pulled back the platinum locks. 

Identical twin sister, Alyssa, floated like a water nymph, delicate features morphing into astonishment as she surveyed the large amount of people that cheered and screamed at her appearance. Unlike her older sister, Alyssa’s unique characteristics consisted of longer hair, just a shade lighter than that of Naerys’, which seemed glitter under the shining sun, and eyes that were a beautiful mix between the standard deep purple of House Targaryen and the sapphire of House Arryn. To distinguish her from Naerys, Jaehaera had ordered that Alyssa be placed in a gold leaf dress which had a scale like pattern, reminiscent of Syrax, which was bejeweled with pulsing red rubies, and accentuated by a matching diadem that rested upon her high brow. 

Viserra, toddeling behind her two older sisters, and clutching the pale grey skirts of a nursemaid, was still, at least in the Queen’s opinion, to attend the celebrations, but the King had insisted upon it, stating that because their five daughter - still in fragile health, but getting stronger each day, could not be in attendance, than the King wanted the rest of his family there. He had agreed, however, that Viserra could be returned to the nursery after the luncheon that the cooks had painstakingly prepared for the visiting courtiers. A damask silk gown of pink, with white lace ruffles and matchings ribbons, had given to the Princess to wear, her mother declaring that it made the girl with mismatched eyes look absolutely darling. Too young for jewelry, the Queen had stated, the Princess was bare of precious jewels, and only had a simple necklace of saltwater pearls hanging from her neck. Brightly flushed cheeks and water eyes were a clear sign that the little girl was about to burst into tears - her personality a match for the late Helaena Targraryen.

Baelon Targaryen, named for “Baelon The Brace”, could not appear more different from his namesake, with golden spun hair the color of the precious metal, and gunmetal grey eyes that seemed to be as hard as bitter steel. Dressed in a doublet of dark purple that it almost appeared black, with bronze buttons in the shape of a soaring falcon, that was matched with woolen brown pants, and black laced up boots, Baelon was fast asleep upon his own nursemaid’s shoulder, drool creeping out of the corner of his small mouth.

Looking at his son in amusement, Aegon quietly chuckled. His second son, for all intents and purposes, could sleep a thunderstorm if he so desired. So much like his own brother, the late Prince Viserys Targaryen, but so very different at the same time. The Fourteen had truly blessed the King when his Queen had birthed him twin sons, only a mere year after his precious Viserra. He could only hope that his son would not suffer the same fate as his namesake and his long since dead great-uncle, Prince Baelon II Targaryen, son of King Viserys I Targaryen and Queen Consort Aemma Arryn.

Aemon and Viserys, the youngest two boys, had been confined to the nursery the night prior, when Grand Maester Munkun had stated that the Princes had become ill with some sort of fever, though it was off no major concern to the Grand Maester. Not willing to risk the possibility of Aemon and Viserys passing what they had onto their younger sisters, the Princesses had been quickly whisked away to a hastily prepared nursery on the other side of Maegor’s Holdfast. The servants and staff that were to attend to them were not to have been in contact to any who cared for the Princes, and the frequent bathing and changing of clothes was also required. 

As the King settled into his makeshift throne, he raised a hand and the crowds instantly quieted, before the sky boomed with the thunder of Dragon’s roars. A myriad of colors from the silver lieth form of Silverwing, to the glistening growing body of Morning, and the royal children’s hatchlings or drakes. Where once the selfish greed of men who craved something out of their grasp had nearly ended the dynasty of dragons, the reign of the “Red King”, would show the Seven Kingdoms that House Targaryen was not to be something trifled with.

“Lords and Ladies,” The King said, his deep voice sounding throughout the large and quickly swelling crowds. “Subjects of King’s Landing! People from every region of the Seven Kingdoms, I welcome you to the tourney celebrating the birth of my five daughters! Each hale and healthy!”

Applause echoed from the smallfolk.

“We are also here to celebrate the Queen! For she has done the impossible by bringing fourth five children! Truly, Queen Jaehaera has far surpassed even the Good Queen Alysanne! I can only pray that we shall be blessed with more children in the future! Let us begin the festivities with the opening joust where the finest from all the Realm shall compete in acts of valor! Remember, that there can only be one winner! Let the games begin!”

As the King was about to open the games his vision was drawn by a familiar figure. Like his wife, Lady Myrielle Peake emerged in a gown of persimmon orange with three black towers etched into the velvet fabric of the gown. A black choker with a single star - meant to represent Strapike, was clasped around her delicate neck, her brown curls had been curled and coiffed to rest atop her head in a cornet. Gold earrings hung from her neck, embezzled with a stunning set of twin topazes, along with matching golden bangles around her thin wrists.

Chiming like a tuned bell, Myrielle confidently made her way to the Royal Box. Jaehaera’s face turned ashen white when she noticed the swelling of her belly, made more than clear by the tight cinch of her dress and cinched belt with polished obsidians. Turning to look at His Grace, the Queen felt anger quickly beginning to rise, like blood boiling in her veins and water cooking her organs, she felt like she was about to explode.

How dare he! 

No! How dare that wench! Daring to appear in a tourney meant to be celebrating her, the Queen , in colors that dared to clash with her’s. Myrielle Peake had declared silent war upon Jaehaera, and was now flaunting the bastard that she carried deep in her womb. Her own womb was now empty but she had labored hard and long to birth her five daughters: Maegelle, Helaena, Rhaenyra, Daena, and Visenya - who, despite their gender, were worth twice as much as any half-blooded bastard, regardless if said bastard was a boy.

It was time, the Queen had thought, for yet another Dance to commence. Royal versus Bastard.

Chapter Text

Myrielle Peake was summarily stopped by Ser Rennifer Crabb, his arm decorated in the silver scaled vambrace. Immediately her bejeweled hand went to cradle her swollen belly, deftly protecting the unborn child that rested beneath her pulsing palm. Confusion struck across her face, and when she turned her questioning gaze to her lover, the King, he merely glared at her, and raised a finger to the Kingsugard - a silent signal that instructed Ser Crabb to remove the woman from the Royal Box, but gently.

When she attempted to protest a quick stern look from the King silenced her, and with a raised chin, haughty expression still clear on her lovely face, the Lady turned and proudly walked away. She heard the jeers and taunts coming from the crowds that had gathered for the tourney, but ignored them, intent on letting them know that despite this embarrassment, she was still the King’s lover, his unofficial Royal Mistress, and the Lady of Starpike, Dustonbuty, and Whitegrove. To make her position more powerful, she was carried His Grace’ child - a true heir to the Iron Throne , regardless of the whelps the Pretender Queen had birthed.

Despite the many issues that they had experienced during their forced marriage at the hands of Lord Corlys Velaryon, Jaehaera and Aegon had always appreciated each others company. Jaehaera never denied Aegon his company of whores or his assorted lovers, and Aegon had practically pushed his Queen into other’s arms, but they were advised to maintain discretion - less the Small Council bray for the blood of Queen, accusing of her treason and potentially birthing bastards. 

Ironic, the King would think, that he was not held to the same standard.

He and Myrielle had maintained a relationship for the better part of five years, beginning when he was six and ten and she eight and ten. The Lady had not fallen pregnant in all that time, with secretly procured Maesters stating that perhaps she suffered from infertility, for the King’s virility could not be questioned -  as seen with the many children he had seeded into his Queen and domestic partner, Assadora. Upon her surprisingly falling with child, Aegon had cautioned that she remain quiet about the fact that she carried a Royal bastard in her womb, less she wish for the wrath of Jaehaera to come down upon her like a headsmen’s ax.

Myrielle knew that she could not always rely on the King’s good graces, but as long as she held his favor she would be under his protection, but this little stunt would cost her dearly. Already, the King was planning on sending her back to Starpike, where she would safely birth their babe, and where he would declare the child the heir to Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove - but regardless of the gender, the child would not be receiving the legitimacy of House Targaryen, a Royal status, and denied the right to claim a Dragon or egg, less they be seen as a threat to his trueborn children.

~ Queen Jaehaera Targaryen ~

“What was that about?” The Queen asked in High Valyrian, her eyes turned toward the archery competition, trying to decide who she favored as the victor.

“Nothing you need to be worried about, My Queen,” Aegon responded, before intertwining his fingers through her own, and bringing their conjoined hands up to place a kiss on the back of her hand. “I shall deal with it in time. However, it seems that Lady Peake has overstayed her welcome. I will be sending her back to Starpike,”

Humming in affirmation, Jaehaera offered the King a sweet smile. She instead focused her gaze onto her rowdy children, missing the lovely faces of Aemon and Viserys, but her children were ill with a chill, and needed rest. Unlike her grandmother, Lady Alicent Hightower, the current Queen would never make her children suffer in uncomfortable situations, and desired they be kept safe. Much to her dismay, however, it seemed that Alicent had already staked her claim upon Jaehaera’s oldest child, Gaemon, frequently whisking him away to her chambers, and reciting verses from the Book of Seven.

Despite her attempts to sway him from the dangerous path that Alicent posed, knowing of her secret desire to install a Hightower King on the Iron Throne, Gaemon was resistant to her efforts, and even threatening to tell the King about the visits had little effect on him. The Crown Prince it seemed had inherited the fire of House Targaryen, as seen with his bonding with Thraxata, the fearsome sapphire she-dragon that had hatched for him in his cradle - a common occurrence for the children of the King and Queen’s children.

In contrast with her son, however, the Queen seemed to have the opposite problem with her oldest daughter, Princess Rhaenys, who seemed to loath the former Dowager Queen with such a vengeance that she bristled whenever she came into contact with her. Very few were liked by the Princess Rhaenys, and many were not, with Gaemon being high on that list. It was chortled behind silken fans and gloved hands that the Princess Royal - a title that the King had given to his older daughter, was more worthy of the Iron Throne then her brother.

Only four namedays old, Rhaenys was already practicing swordplay in the training yard, more likely to be found posturing the Kingsguard in helping her train, then attending her embroidery lessons with the many Septas the Queen had attempted to employ. In contrast, Gaemon shied away from the training grounds and seemed to favor his time in the Royal Sept, where he was often in the confidence of Septons. 

Some said that the Crown Prince would be better suited to a Sept than the Iron Throne.

~ Crown Prince Gaemon Targaryen ~

Gaemon Targaryen, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Prince of Dragonstone, and Heir Apparent to the Iron Throne, was a sullen boy of five namedays. Essentially promised to his younger sister, Rhaenys, since she had been pulled from their mother’s shared womb. As his mother had been confined to the birthing bed or attending to her duties as Queen Consort, Gaemon had been raised at the skirts of his great-grandmother, Lady Alicent Hightower, who had managed to charm the nurses employed by his parents.

His visits were frequently kept secret, less his father find the reason he was waiting for to finally order her execution once and for all. No matter the numerous offers he made to his little sister, Rhaenys had always petulantly glared at him, stuck her tongue out, and said that he was more of a Hightower than a Targaryen - the very same as the “Usurper” whose cruel actions, fueled by the paranoia of Alicent Hightower, into the brutal civil war known as the “Dance of the Dragons”, that had robbed their father of his own parents, older and younger siblings, cousins, and so much more.

He had remembered their last conversation that was not forced. It had been just two moons before the surprise birth of his five younger sisters, and their mother, still attending Small Council Meetings, was just days away from confinement. The day was dark and stormy, the incoming weather indicting that a great storm was about to hit King’s Landing, which matched the mood that Rhaenys had been expressing.

~ Flashback ~

“Rhaenys! Wait,” Gaemon called to his younger sister, watching as her starlight hair swayed back to back. “Rhaenys!’

His little sister stopped in her tracks, her pink skirts pausing in their fluttering, before she turned around to glare at him, contempt written all over her heavily flushed face. Purple eyes were rimmed red, obvious that she had been crying, and her little hands were balled tightly at her side. 

“What do you want?” Rhaenys hissed, the pearl and sapphire circlet resting atop her forehead. 

“I-,” Gaemon started, eyes wide with hurt. “I was just going to ask if you wanted to come with me to Grandmother’s lessons? We are studying the Maiden, and I thought you would enjoy! It could be a chance for us to spend some time together,”

“Are you dumb?” She asked, her cruel words striking the smile off of Gaemon’s face and leaving a look of bewilderment. “Alicent Hightower is a wyrm that will stop at nothing to make sure than a spineless wyrm, much like yourself, will sit the Iron Throne! Why in the Seven Hells would I want to learn about those False Gods of hers?”

“But-”

“NO! Leave me alone, Gaemon! I hate you!”

Left standing in the grand hallway, Gaemon soon felt tears running down his own face. He quickly turned and ran straight to his Grandmother’s chambers, where she and her handmaidens were gathered in a sparsely decorated solar, and reading from the Holy Book. Looking up from the verses with a smile for her favorite grandchild, Alicent found herself full of Gaemon when he threw himself into her arms. 

“My Prince,” She soothed. “Whatever is wrong?”

Between the sobs and blubbering, Alicent found a sense of triumph overcome her. She had never particularly liked her oldest great-granddaughter, finding her much to like Rhaenyra for her comfort, and that point had been driven home when the little brat had named her hatchling, black as night with eyes of moonlight, “Balerion”, and seemed to drown herself in the lore of the Fourteen Flames - a heathen religion that allowed for women to inherit over men, something that went against the tradition and laws of both Gods and men.

Perhaps, she sinisterly thought, she could finally raise a Hightower King that would not fail as her as Aegon had.

~ End Of Flashback ~

Despite the hesitancy that had developed between the siblings, Rhaenys had not betrayed Gaemon’s visits to Alicent. In appreciation for her silence, the Crown Prince had resisted the urge to speak to his younger sister, and despite his wants on repairing their fractured relationships, the Prince respected her rights to privacy. His efforts were instead turned onto his younger siblings, and he had already gained a loyal follower in his younger sister, Viserra, whose delicate mental health made it easy to sway her, and she basked in the attention that her great-grandmother bathed her in.

Gaemon was limping his way out of the training grounds, his session with Ser Oscar Tully rather brutal, and the Prince was positive that he would be covered in bruises for following days. While Alicent would want him to come to him for their regular lessons, Gaemon instead decided that he wished to visit Thraxta - for despite his Hightower blood he was still the Crown Prince of Westeros.

~ Assadora ~ 

Myrielle Peake was a brazen individual. Daring to broadcast her pregnancy, despite the fact that she had been widowed for almost a decade, at a tourney meant to celebrate the Queen’s miraculous birthing of five daughters and her overall survival, was truly something for the history tomes. Even to a once common whore, Assadora knew when to keep her head down, and was more than happy with playing the role of the King’s unofficial mistress and domestic partner, regardless if that required her and her children hiding deep within the shadows.

Seven and twenty namedays, Assadora of Ibben and Braavos, had been forced to serve in numerous pleasure houses since she had turned two and ten. Sold to a Magister in the Free Cities, Assadora was then sold through a number of buyers, until she had finally been purchased by a pirate that had lost her in a gambling game in Braavos. His debt was solved when he offered Assadora as payment, and she would remain in the pleasure houses until she could back the eight hundred silver pieces that the pirate had lost.

As soon as she had paid the debt off and managed to save enough coin, Assaodra purchased passage on a ship heading for King’s Landing. She quickly found employment as a whore in “The Peach”, a popular brothel that was frequently visited by the “Red King, himself. Exotic in a way that many of the common girls were not, Assadora had caught the eye of His Grace, from her ink black curls, deep eyes, supple lips, and bronze skin, she soon became his favorite. 

After being in his service for a year, Assadora had unexpectedly fallen pregnant, despite the copious amounts of moontea, and had gone running to her lover, tears burning in her eyes. She had begged him to let her simply disappear and that she, nor their unborn child, would ever return to King’s Landing. His Grace had stared at her still flat belly, before he rested his palm atop it, and as if he could feel the fluttering of their heartbeat and a smile stretched over face.

“No, Assadora,” he had said, before raising his other hand to cup her face. “You and my babe shall stay with me, or at the very least in King’s Landing,”

“How?!” she wailed. “You and I both know that any bastard, especially one born from a King, is just asking for trouble! I will not risk any harm coming to my child, Your Grace, and by the Old and New Gods as my witness, I will flee from King’s Landing!”

“Will you calm down? I will be removing you from “The Peach”. You shall be relocated to a new estate, I will buy one for you. If you so desire, Assadora, I will even grant you titles, a position, a keep of your own. As for our child, I shall legitimize them in the future,”

“NO!”

“It is not your decision, Assadora,” Aegon sighed, irrigation beginning to bubble. “That babe you carry in your womb possess dragon blood. Royal blood. While I would prefer you to remain in King’s Landing, and help us raise our child, I can find a suitable governess to see the upbringing of the babe in the Red Keep’s Nursery,”

“With your trueborn children?! That would be signing their death warrant!”

“Regardless of what you think, Assadora, Jaehaera has no desire to witness or cause the murder of innocent children. Gaemon and Rhaenys are my trueborn children, yes, but that hardly means anything considering that I only conceived them out of duty. This babe, however, was created out of love, and I shall raise them as such,”

Assadora had been very nervous with the transaction between the two of them. Eventually, she had been settled into a sprawling estate that ranged over two hundred arches, possessed a large manor that had been named “Cloverfield”, and was complete with a vine orchid - in which Assadora utilized to plant and raise grapes, which were later fermented and sold to maintain a stable income, despite the fact that she received an allowance of three thousand golden dragons every moon, courtesy of Aegon.  

Her beautiful Daenerys had been born from their union. Her hair was such a rich black, that Aegon had immediately thought of Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, “The Queen Who Never Was”, and then remembered that he, to a small degree at least, was related to House Baratheon. When her eyes, a deep lovely violet, opened, the King had cradled her in his arms and quietly declared that one day she would become a Targaryen Princess.

Until then, at least, her daughter was stuck as Daenerys Waters. 

When her daughter had turned three namedays, Aegon, on one of his usual visits, had come to her estate, bearing gifts for Daenerys. After granting his precious pearl a copious amount of expensive jewels, fine fabrics to make dresses for both the child and his lover, finley crafted wooden toys, a lavish dollhouse that was fully furnished, a porcelain tea set imported from Lys, rocking horse which had actual horse hair threaded through the main, twin puppies he had purchased from the breeders of the North, and even a solid white kitten with intelligent amber eyes.

During his stay at “Cloverfield”, Aegon and Assadora had unexpectedly decided to spend their night together. Their tumble in the bed and the forgetting of moontea had led to Assadora becoming heavy with her second child. Like her daughter, Aegon had made sure that there was an army of highly trained midwives to assist her in the delivery of their newest babe. Thus, Jacaerys Water was born.

Chapter Text

Jaehaera Targaryen, Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms, hid behind the towering trunk of an overgrown lemon tree. She watched in curiosity as Assadora of Ibben, garbed in a gown of cream with a pewter apron wrapped around her wide hips, and a white bonnet pinning her ink black hair back, tended to a sprawling patch of white grapes. A warm spring breeze kissed her pale cheeks, bringing fourth the sweet smell of flowers and fruits that seemed grow in abundance at the sprawling estate of Cloverfield. 

It had been over nine moons since the Queen had birthed her brood of five daughters, and it had been six since her husband had revealed the existence of two bastard children he had sired on a once common whore. Understandably hesitant to grant her any knowledge of the children who potentially posed a threat to her trueborn children in the future, Aegon had only given Jaehaera the bare minimum information.

What she had gathered was that the woman, Assadora , lived upon the coin of the Crown, but had made herself a stable income by fermenting fine grapes into very expensive wine - which was then sold and consumed by several Houses ranging from the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms to the far reaching merchant ones of Essos. She had yet to know much about the two children, aside from the fact that their names were Daenerys and Jacaerys - the latter of which, the Queen would snicker, was very appropriate for a bastard.

Added to her irritation had been the announcement that Myrielle Peake, whose position as Royal Mistress had been usurped by Florys Florent, had delivered her own bastard child, a robust and healthy baby girl who had been named “Saera”. Unlike her older half-siblings, Saera had been not been saddled with the surname of “Waters”, instead being declared a member of House Peake, and the heiress to the vast lands of Starpike, Dustonbury, and Whitegrove - thereby being acknowledged by Aegon as his illegitimate child.

As she thought about the children that her husband had seeded into other woman, Jaehaera rested a hand upon her own flat stomach, and swore she could already feel the fluttering of yet another heartbeat. Grand Maester Munkun had told her that she was only three moons into her newest pregnancy - the result of a heavily wine laden night that had ended with Aegon and Jaehaera having a rather wild tumble in their marriage bed. Despite the advice of Munkun to ingest moon tea, the Queen had been aghast at the thought of extinguishing the budding life that she nurtured directly under her heart.

Much like the Grand Maester, Jaehaera did believe that this newest pregnancy came rather quickly, perhaps too quickly, but what was done was done. Her Lord Husband had been thrilled with the aspect of another child, yet another little one to be reared in the nursery, and his attention had been centered directly on the Queen and their children - not once being drawn back to the little harlot by the name of Florys Florent, whose only belly had yet to swell. 

As she stared at Assadora, attention focused back on the rather domestic setting, Jaehaaera found herself smiling. The woman had yet to notice the Queen lurking like a common stalker, more concerned with cultivating her grapes, and simply enjoying the quiet that surrounded the large estate grounds. The silence was broken when shouting came from the pale stone manor house that loomed behind and a shrieking girl with night black hair and piercing purple eyes came running, her shell pink gown fluttering about her.

“Mama! Mama!” She cried in delight, ignoring the calls from behind as a trio of nursemaids, dressed in simple gowns of topaz brown with cream aprons tied around their waists and bonnets on their heads, essentially a maid’s uniform and one that Assadora had seemed to pilfer. The little girl, Daenerys , Jaehaera amended, looked nothing like a member of House Targaryen from a distance, but as she got ever closer, the Queen couldn’t help but compare the child to the long since dead Princess Rhaenys Targaryen - the infamous “Queen Who Never Was”, daughter of the Crown Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, rider of Meleys, the Red Queen, and the one who dealt life-long injuries upon the Usurper, himself.

Rhaenys Targaryen Velaryon was unique amongst the Royal Family for her pitch black hair, which had turned silver as she grew older. Having inherited the color from her own mother, Dowager Princess Jocelyn Baratheon of Dragonstone, no courtier had dared to think that the Princess was illegitimate, but they certainly had no problem declaring the three oldest children of Queen Rhaenyra I Targaryen - Jacaerys, Lucerys, and Joffrey, as illegitimate, simply because they possessed the dark locks more akin to Houses Baratheon and Arryn, from which they were descendant of.

Looking at this child, however, with her matching hair color but purple eyes as innocent as a newborn babe, Jaehaera would not make that decision. Daenerys had the same delicate features that her late good-mother, Rhaenyra, possessed. From her large doe eyes with long and charcoal black lashes to her upturned nose that showed signs of aristocracy, to the arched brows that were colored the Targaryen silver, plump lips that were seemed to be constantly in a state of pouting, Daenerys was the epitome of a Princess of House Targaryen - no matter the illegitimacy that stained her bloodline. 

 A shame, Jaehaera thought, that the child could not be allowed to live.