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Chapter Text

Grand Maester Runciter sat at a desk brewing potions. In the last five days he had been making new batches of milk of the poppy like crazy. Ever since they brought 'him' back from a hunt. He was complaining of a severe stomach issue. Runciter had tried every remedy he knew of, but he feared that this was a stitch he would not be able to fix for the prince. He had heard about similar cases happening, but they were rather rare throughout the kingdom. He didn't have the heart to tell any of them, but with the way the prince has been declining so rapidly in the last three days, he knew the prince wasn't long for this world. That's why he and the Prince talked it over together, with the Prince choosing his own fate.

"Maester, I'm ready," said a voice past the bed hangings.

"Of course, my prince, let me gather my quill and my parchment." Runciter shuffled around quickly and grabbed his ink, his quill, and his parchment. He moved them over to a table close to the bed and pulled back its white silk hanging curtains.

On the bed was a very pale and ill Baelon Targaryen, the fourth-born son of King Jaehaerys Targaryen and his late wife, the good queen Alyssane. Baelon looked up at Runciter with a weak smile, his eyes filled with resignation. "It is time; I am ready."

Runciter had trouble smiling back at the young prince, who was only four and forty years old. He lived so much life in so little time, and it's saddening. Runciter nodded solemnly, his heart heavy with the weight of the moment. As he prepared to assist Baelon in preparing his will and testimony to his sons. He sits down at the table near the bed, dips his quill in ink and waits for Baelon to speak up.

Baelon raises his head slightly and coughs and takes in a deep breath. "Here is how we shall start it…."

To my children, Viserys and Daemon Targaryen.

How I love you both, I cannot express it; I've seen so much death and sadness in my life. It has torn me apart in so many ways, my dear sons. I was at your grandmother, my mother Alysanne's, deathbed when she died. I remember how I cried and let Vhagar's fire spew when I learned of what happened to my older brother Aemon on Tarth. I remember the funerals of all of my other siblings along the way. But none of them affected me like your mother's death did. My sweet wife and sister, Alyssa. I remember being younger and hating how she would follow me and Aemon everywhere. Ever since she died, I had always regretted those thoughts I had about her, how maybe if I had loved her sooner, loved her more, had done anything different, she could still be with us today.

I mourned and grieved her to death; I never regained myself because the most important piece of me was gone. My everything and my reason for living were gone. But I found it again, and I found it in my precious grandchildren. I believe they gave sunlight to a place in my heart that I thought would forever be shrouded in darkness. Their laughter and innocence reminded me of my youth and the life and love I shared with your mother. To sing, play, and read to them has brought me a sense of purpose and joy that I thought was lost in 84. To look into their eyes, I see so much of myself and her in them. When their eyes open with joy as we ride on Vhagar together, when I watch them play together, it's like reminiscing. Especially when I look at my grandson, he may have dark hair, but his grandmother must've given him her mismatched eyes. And Rhaenyra, oh, how confident and headstrong she is, like me and Aemon used to be. I give you both two personal messages as well.

In my final words, I make one last request. If it be their wishes, wed the daughter of Viserys Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, to the son of Daemon Targaryen, Gwayne Royce. I believe, as I know my mother and my wife, your own mother and grandmother, respectively, would have believed that they look to be meant and destined for one another. May the legacy of love that I shared with Alyssa Targaryen that created you both continue on through the union of Rhaenyra and Gwayne, bringing together the bloodlines of our family. If it is what they wish, let them honor my final wish and bring together the future of House Targaryen in a union that will strengthen our family's legacy for another hundred years.

But, above all else, know I love you both and that your mother would be so proud to see her boys who've grown into great men, carrying on the traditions and values of our family. Remember to always hold onto the love and bond that connects us all, no matter where life may take you. Do not be passive; do not be quick to anger. Be quick to love and attentive to the needs of those around you. And remember, true strength comes from unity and compassion, not from the power or domination of our dragons like Vhagar, Caraxes, Vermithor, Meleys, or the others. Strive to build bridges and forge connections, rather than walls or barriers against what really is most important: family.

 

Your Father, Baelon Targaryen.

Baelon began to cough up blood once more, causing Runciter to come to his aid and wipe him up. "Are you ready now, my prince? Are you sure you don't want Viserys, Daemon, or perhaps even your father beside you right now?"

Baelon weakly shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "No, Runciter. I am ready to face the stranger, and whatever comes next, I must face on my own. But please, give that letter to my sons. Tell them I am sorry for not being the father they deserved." With those words, Baelon closed his eyes and took the large glass of Milk of the Poppy and drank it quickly.

Baelon rested his head back on the pillow and breathed deeply once more. "Thank you, Runciter, for not telling my family about this. My backbone left me long ago, but in the face of death I must be brave one last time. And I could not have been brave if I saw my grandchildren one last time; I would've wanted to fight to stay alive for them." With a heavy heart, Baelon closed his eyes and let the milk of the poppy take him into a deep sleep as he thought one last time about his sons, his grandchildren, his nieces, Vhagar, and even his prune of a father, Jaehaerys. He knew his time was coming to an end, but he found solace in the fact that his family would be spared the pain of watching him suffer. As he drifted off, though, he thought of his brothers and sisters waiting for him. Specifically Aemon and Alyssa, who he hoped did not hate him for his cowardice after they had left him. And his sweet mother, whom he longed to hold once more. This was his ending.

Runcitor waits around until Baelon stops breathing completely before notifying the king and Baelon's sons.

Chapter Text

Nine days after the death of Baelon

No one at this funeral was particularly religious. Daemon, Viserys, Jaehaerys, Aemma, Rhaenys, Corlys, and Vaegon had all heard the stories of the Faith from their septons and septas, but none of them felt a strong connection to the gods. In fact, the most devout person on Dragonstone was probably the Master of Laws, Ser Otto Hightower of Oldtown.

Despite that, it left Daemon wondering: what happens now? For his father, at least now that he was dead. He remembered something about seven heavens and seven hells from his lessons as a boy. He hoped, wherever his father was, that it was a good place. He hoped his father had found his joy.

Daemon could barely remember seeing his father smile before the birth of Gwayne and Rhaenyra—not since his uncle Aemon died. Maybe the part of Baelon that had been sad and broken for so long was finally happy again, and his body simply couldn’t accept happiness after all those years.

Before his “stitch,” as it was being called, Baelon had been active in his last three or four years. He’d rediscovered some of the vigor he had lost after Aemon’s death—perhaps even some of the life that had left him when Alyssa died. Daemon wondered how much of Baelon Gwayne would remember. Would he recall the stories and songs of Old Valyria? Fighting his grandfather with toy swords? Perching atop Vhagar’s massive back?

Daemon was about Gwayne’s age when his mother passed. He couldn’t remember her face clearly anymore, but in his mind, she always looked like a mix of Rhaenys and his grandmother Alysanne. He had so few memories of her, yet sometimes, when he was outside alone or in the skies on Caraxes, he swore he could hear the wind whisper his name.

For him, it was comforting to imagine that perhaps the wind carried his mother’s voice. Maybe, the last time she had ridden Meleys, she left her voice in the winds, so it could find him. It made him wonder what his father had left behind. If Alyssa’s voice was in the wind, what would Baelon leave? Whatever it was, Daemon hoped it would find Gwayne.

He hoped his son had been paying attention during all those times Baelon sat him and Rhaenyra on his lap to tell his stories. Daemon himself had regrets—things his father said that he hadn’t listened to. Now, it was too late. All that remained was the corpse in front of him, wrapped in green, red, and black silks: green for Vhagar, red, and black for their House. Soon, Daemon would speak a single word that would send his father onward, wherever it was people went in death. Wherever the wind had carried his mother’s ashes after Vhagar cremated her, it would soon carry Baelon’s as well.

Daemon took a moment to look at his brother. Viserys stood solemn and resolute. Their grandfather, however, remained at a loss for words. Even after nine days, Jaehaerys had yet to find the right thing to say. He had lost so much: his legacy, even with a son, a daughter, three grandchildren, and four great-grandchildren still alive.

It was true that relations with Vaegon and Saera were strained, but the House of the Dragon still had seven heads alive—eight if you included his sister-in-law, who looked rather strange in black. She was always clad in such bright colors. She might have had Targaryen blood through her mother, but she was an Arryn through and through. Even in appearance, Aemma’s Arryn features were unmistakable. She had the traditional silver hair, but her face lacked the Targaryen structure. Her eyes were a dark blue that set her apart from the others.

If you wanted to see a true Targaryen woman, you had only to look at Rhaenys. She had the face, the eyes, and the fire of a dragon. Her hair might have been Baratheon black, but the blood of the dragon burned in her veins.

Vaegon was another matter. He looked like an older version of Daemon’s father—paler, thinner, and with dark circles under his eyes from years cooped up in the Citadel. His silver hair was cropped short, far shorter than Baelon’s ever was. Daemon had rarely spoken to his uncle. The only times he had seen Vaegon were at funerals; he never came to feasts or any other Targaryen gatherings.

Just then, Daemon felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see his grandfather, leaning heavily on a bronze cane. It was time.

Daemon stepped closer to the pyre, looking up at Caraxes perched on a nearby outcropping of rock. “Dracarys,” he said, his voice steady yet tinged with sadness.

Caraxes climbed down, his massive claws scraping against the stone. The dragon hesitated for a moment, his crimson eyes meeting Daemon’s. Then, with a low growl, he unleashed a torrent of flame, engulfing the pyre in a blazing inferno.

Daemon stood still, watching as the fire consumed his father’s body. Somewhere, he thought, Baelon would now join Alyssa—carried away on the same winds that had taken her so long ago.

Chapter Text

That afternoon, all of the Targaryens were invited to an evening banquet to celebrate the life of Baelon Targaryen.

Jaehaerys looked around the table; it was rather solemn, he had to admit. He had hoped perhaps this event would raise the spirits of his grandchildren since he knew that they were about to get in the muck of it once again. He knew the decision that lay before him, and he didn't particularly care for it. But it was his duty; if he didn't say or do something, the House of the Dragon would tear itself apart in the coming days. He wishes that he cut off his cock and tape it to Rhaenys; he knows deep down that she would be superior to Viserys, but she isn't a man. A realm cannot be ruled by woman, that much can be proven even now with what's happening in the Vale with the Arryn woman and her up jumped cousin.

Jaehaerys took a deep breath, steeling himself for the difficult conversation that lay ahead. He knew that the fate of his family rested on his shoulders, and he was determined to do whatever it took to keep them together. That’s why, before Vaegon left, he consulted him.

Vaegon walked into his father’s chambers, wearing his maester’s chain and his robes. The chamber was dim and cold, the light from the candles flickering across the age-lined face of King Jaehaerys. He sat slumped in his chair, the weight of decades pressing down on his shoulders. Vaegon stood across from him, rigid and composed, his sharp features as unyielding as the steel of a Valyrian blade.

“You are my son,” Jaehaerys began, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of frustration. “You carry the blood of the dragon in your veins, as pure as any alive. You are learned, precise, and capable. Who better to sit the Iron Throne after me?”

Vaegon tilted his head slightly, his tone sharp and dismissive. “Anyone else. I have no taste for the throne, Father. I told you that when I took my vows at the Citadel, and I tell you now. My life is in Oldtown, not here, not in the Red Keep.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “You have always been quick to turn your back on your duty.”

“My duty?” Vaegon’s voice cut through the air like a whip. “My duty is to serve knowledge, not to rule a fractious realm that craves blood at every turn. I am no king, nor would I wish to be.”

“Then who?” Jaehaerys snapped, his temper flaring. “Viserys? Rhaenys? Tell me, Vaegon, who will you put forth to wear the crown when I am gone?”

Vaegon’s gaze hardened, his sharp tongue now unsheathed. “Rhaenys is the daughter of Aemon, your eldest son. By any rational law, she is the rightful heir.”

Jaehaerys’ face twisted, his voice rising in indignation. “Rhaenys is a woman. A woman will not hold the realm together. The lords would never follow her—”

“Because you’ve trained them not to!” Vaegon shot back, his voice dripping with scorn. "You led them to believe that strength is derived from a cock, as if that is the defining characteristic of a king, when you made Baelon your heir over her the first time. Tell me, Father, did Maegor’s cock make him worthy? Did it sanctify his slaughter, his tyranny, his monstrous deeds?”

Jaehaerys’ fist slammed against the arm of his chair, his eyes blazing. “Do not speak the name of that monster in my sight again! I have spent my life cleansing the realm of the stain he left, and I will not have it invoked here by the likes of you. Before I am your father, I am your King!”

Vaegon’s smirk was cruel, cutting deeper than his words. “And yet, you would have us perpetuate his legacy. A realm ruled by men, no matter how unworthy. Was it worth it, My KIng? Was it worth the blood of your daughters—my mother—sacrificed to your ambition? Would they have ruled less justly than Viserys, Baelon, or even me?”

Jaehaerys’ face contorted in pain, the weight of Vaegon’s words like a dagger twisting in his heart. For a moment, he looked older than his years, a man broken by the toll of his own decisions. “I did what I thought was best for the realm. Always for the realm.”

“And yet here you are, asking me what to do,” Vaegon said coldly. “You know what is right, your majesty, but you cannot bring yourself to say it. You would rather let the lords decide than admit your own bias, your own fear.”

The room fell into a tense silence, the air thick with the unspoken truths that hung between them. Jaehaerys leaned back in his chair, his voice trembling with weariness. “You would have me hand the realm to Rhaenys, knowing the chaos it will cause?”

Vaegon’s tone softened, though his words were no less piercing. “Chaos will come no matter what you do. The question is whether you choose justice or convenience. Rhaenys is your blood, your eldest grandchild. She is strong, capable, and born of Aemon’s line. She is married to Corlys Velaryon the one of the most powerful men and in the realm. Her mother was your sister and she is a Baratheon. Those two houses are more loyal to House Targaryen than any others, she would have not only the might of the dragon but the might of the Black Stag and the Silver Seahorse as well. If that is not enough, then what is?”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes, his hands gripping the arms of his chair as if holding onto the weight of the world. “Go, Vaegon. Leave me to think.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” Vaegon turned, his gray robes billowing as he left the chamber, the faintest hint of satisfaction on his face.

Jaehaerys sat alone, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows over his face. For the first time in years, the great conciliator, the king who had held the realm together through sheer will, felt the weight of uncertainty bear down upon him like an anvil.

Chapter Text

Viserys and Aemma walked side by side up the stairs of Maegor's holdfast solemnly. This would be their second loss within the year, with Aemma losing their third child in the womb. The weight of their grief hung heavy in the air as they ascended, each step a painful reminder of their most recent tragedy. They reached the top of the stairs and walked down the western corridor to the nursery, where they could hear the sound of their daughter's septa echoing through the halls along with the sound of six children: their daughter Rhaenyra, nephew Gwayne, their second cousins Laenor and Laena, and the master of laws children Gwayne and Alicent. They stood outside for a moment and listened in.

The Septa’s voice filled the room, her tone calm but firm as she explained the virtues of the Seven to the children. Aemma and Viserys could see that Gwayne was not listening. Instead, they watched as he tugged at Rhaenyra’s sleeve, his big violet and blue eyes wide with excitement. “Rhaenyra, look!” he whispered, pointing to the stag carving on the hearth.

“Pawpaw said he saw one like that in the woods! It was this big!” He stretched his arms as wide as they could go, though they hardly made an impressive span. Rhaenyra giggled, her silver hair bouncing as she leaned closer. “Not that big, silly.”

“Was too!” Gwayne pouted, crossing his arms. “Pawpaw said it was bigger than his horse!”

The septa sat her book down with an audible sigh. “Young lord, perhaps you could save your tales for later. We are here to learn the virtues.”

Lady Rhea Royce, seated near the window with an embroidery hoop in her lap, looked up sharply. The dim light of the hearth glinted off her dark brown hair.

“Septa, it seems you’ve lost your audience,” she said dryly, her eyes flicking to the children. “And really, can the Stranger’s lessons compete with stags bigger than horses?”

The septa stiffened but kept her composure. “It is important for the young lords and ladies to understand their duties under the guidance of the Seven.”

Rhea’s lips quirked into a faint smirk. “And I’m sure the Stranger has much to teach a bunch of four-year-olds.”

The septa pursed her lips. “The young lord and princess should learn to sit still. The Seven guide us—”

Rhea cut her off with a raised hand, her tone still calm but edged with iron. “The Seven may guide us, but I guide them. So how about this: gather around, children; I'm going to tell you all the story of Serwyn Stoneheart and the Shimmering Stag.”

Rhea Royce began regaling the children with an old tale from the age of heroes.

"Long ago, in the time when the mountains were taller and the forests stretched unbroken from horizon to horizon, there lived a noble knight of the Vale named Serwyn Stoneheart. He was no great lord, no scion of kings, but a humble son of the mountains, sworn to protect the innocent and honor the Old Gods.

One autumn, as the leaves turned gold and crimson, a great shadow descended upon the Vale. A monstrous beast—a stag of impossible size, its antlers like gnarled iron, and its eyes burning with fire—began to roam the land. The villagers whispered it was no ordinary stag, but a cursed creature born of a king who broke his oaths to the Old Gods. The Shimmering Stag, they called it, for it glowed like moonlight in the dark, and wherever it trod, crops withered, and the air turned bitter cold.

Serwyn, young and bold, took it upon himself to face the beast. Armed only with his father’s ancient sword and a shield he carved with runes to protect himself, he ventured deep into the misty forests of the Vale. Days turned to nights, and the forest grew darker and more dangerous with each step. But Serwyn did not falter, for he knew that courage, not strength, was the measure of a true knight.

At last, he found the Shimmering Stag at a moonlit glade, its antlers aglow with silver light. Its voice was deep as thunder, and it spoke to Serwyn, asking, ‘Mortal, why do you seek me? Do you not know that I cannot be slain?’

But Serwyn was clever. Instead of attacking, he knelt before the stag and said, ‘I do not seek to slay you, mighty one, but to understand you. Tell me, why do you bring ruin to the Vale? What pain drives you?’

The stag was silent for a moment, and then it lowered its great head. ‘Long ago, I was a king of men. I swore an oath to the Old Gods to rule justly and never spill innocent blood. But I broke that vow in my pride, and the Old Gods cursed me to wander the earth until a mortal dared to show me mercy.’

Serwyn, moved by the stag’s tale, did not raise his sword. Instead, he took his shield, inscribed with the runes of protection, and broke it in two. ‘Take this, mighty stag,’ he said. ‘Let its runes guide your spirit back to the gods who cursed you.’

As Serwyn offered the shield, the stag began to shimmer brighter and brighter until it became a beam of pure light, shooting into the sky and disappearing into the stars. In its place, the forest grew green again, and the air was sweet with life. The curse was lifted, and the Vale was saved.

When Serwyn returned to his village, he found his people cheering, not because he had slain the stag, but because he had shown it mercy and restored the balance of the land. To this day, it is said that on clear nights in the Vale, you can see the Shimmering Stag among the stars, a reminder that honor and compassion can mend even the deepest wounds.”

 

Just then Rhea noticed the two silver heads peeking in; she smiled at them and gestured for them to come in. Little Rhaenyra ran up to the two of them and hugged them tightly, grateful for their return. "Mommy, have you ever heard the tale of Serwyn Stonart and duh Shimmerin Stag?"

Aemma chuckled at her baby's lisp and picked her up in her arms. "Yes, I have! My daddy told me the story of Serwyn Stoneheart and the Shimmering Stag when I was just a little girl. I was probably your age, in fact, but it's been quite a while. How about we take you back to your room, get you ready for bed, and then you can tell me and Daddy about it?" Rhaenyra nodded eagerly as Aemma walked out of the room with her.

Viserys lingered, though, looking out the green and blue stained glass window. It was beginning to get dark outside, and the stars were starting to twinkle in the sky. He couldn't help but feel a sense of nostalgia as he remembered his own childhood stories, the ones his mother, father, and grandmother would tell him and the comfort they brought him. Now they were gone, though how he wished they were still here to share in these moments with his own daughter, his nephew, and even his cousins Laena and Laenor.

Behind him, the rustle of skirts broke the silence in his mind. Rhea Royce approached, her son Gwayne trailing behind her. The boy clutched her hand, his mismatched eyes wide with curiosity “Viserys, my dear brother-by-law,” Rhea said, her tone softer than usual but still firm. “It is good to see you among the children. They have a way of lightening burdens, even the heaviest ones.”

Viserys turned slowly, his gaze landing on Gwayne. The boy stood half-hidden behind his mother’s skirts, peering up at the king with one purple eye and one greyish blue. For a moment, Viserys froze. The odd combination of colors was a striking reminder of his own mother. He remembered her mismatched eyes as vividly as he remembered her laughter—both long gone but never truly forgotten. It's as if Viserys himself had never noticed it before; the resemblance between Gwayne and his mother was uncanny. The sight of the boy's eyes brought a wave of bittersweet memories flooding back to Viserys, reminding him of a time long past.

“You have your grandmother’s eyes,” Viserys said softly, almost to himself.

Rhea tilted her head and smiled slightly, sensing the weight of his words. "Yes, that's what… That's what your father said,” she replied, her voice careful. “The grayish blue one came from my side, though I’ve no doubt where the violet one is from."

Viserys smiled faintly, lowering himself to one knee to meet the boy’s eyes. “Do you know, Gwayne, that my mother’s eyes were like yours? One green, one violet. She always said it made her special. She believed it was a gift from the gods.”

The boy’s lips quirked into a shy smile. “Mama says it makes me look like a warrior.”

“A warrior, is it?” Viserys said, his solemn expression softening further. “Perhaps it does. But it also makes you a little like my mother, your grandmother, and she was the bravest person I’ve ever known.”

Gwayne stared at the king, his youthful wonder plain on his face. “Was she a queen?” he asked.

“Not quite; she was a princess,” Viserys replied, his voice quiet. “A princess, though, who loved her children and her people very much. She would have loved you to pieces.”

Rhea Royce straightened herself, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. “Viserys,” she said softly, her voice carrying the warmth of familiarity and a hint of concern. “Gwayne has been asking questions that I thought might be best for you to answer.”

Viserys studied the boy for a long moment, his own grief muted but ever-present in his solemn expression. “What sort of questions?” he asked.

Gwayne looked up at his uncle, tilting his head slightly. “Mama says that Pawpaw Baelon went to climb the mountains,” he said, his voice small but clear. “Because he wasn’t feeling good anymore. She said he wanted to make sure he could keep watching me, and you, and Rhaenyra, and Daddy.”

His gaze flicked to Rhea, who met his eyes briefly before glancing back at her son. “It’s what we believe in the Vale,” Rhea said quietly. “The Mountains of the Moon are a sacred place. Those who have passed on climb them and join their kin in the sky, becoming stars to guide those they’ve left behind.”

Gwayne held up his dragon, turning it over as he frowned in thought. “Do you think Pawpaw made it yet?” he asked, looking at Viserys with wide, curious eyes.

Viserys opened his mouth to respond but found the words caught in his throat. For all his nephew’s innocence, the question struck him deeply. He imagined his father—a towering figure of strength and determination—climbing an endless peak, his spirit never faltering. Slowly, he nodded. “I think he has, Gwayne,” he said, his voice low and hoarse. “He’s always been strong, your grandfather. He’d have reached the top by now.”

Gwayne’s face lit up, his mismatched eyes shining with quiet pride. “So he’s a star now?”

Viserys blinked and looked away for a moment, his gaze rising to the ceiling as if he could see through it to the night sky beyond. The thought of his father joining his mother and the others who had gone before him brought a fresh ache to his chest. He swallowed hard and turned back to his nephew. “Yes, Gwayne. I believe he is.”

The boy grinned, clearly comforted by the idea. “Mama says he’ll watch me forever now.”

“And she’s right,” Viserys replied, his voice steadier this time. “He’ll always be there, watching over you. And all of us.”

Gwayne, his curiosity still unquenched, leaned forward. “Did your mama go to the stars too?” he asked. “Does she watch you now?”

Viserys froze, the question striking an even deeper chord. His mother, Alyssa Targaryen, had died nearly three decades ago, but the memory of her mismatched eyes and the sound of her laughter had never faded. He nodded slowly. “Yes, she did,” he said. “And she watches me, just as your grandfather will watch you.”

Gwayne tilted his head again, as if trying to picture it. “Then they’ll be friends up there,” he said confidently. “Like we are down here.”

Viserys blinked, and before he could stop himself, a single tear escaped down his cheek. As he thought about what must be a joyous reunion for his mother and father. He quickly wiped it away, glancing at Rhea, who gave him a knowing look but said nothing.

“I believe they will be,” Viserys said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out, gently tousling Gwayne’s hair. “And I know that your grandfather would like that very much.”

The boy beamed, his earlier questions now satisfied. He turned back to his wooden dragon, and Viserys rose to his feet, suddenly feeling the weight of the day more acutely than before.

As he moved toward the door, Rhea’s voice stopped him. “Viserys,” she said softly. When he turned back, she gave him a faint smile. “The stars are brighter for having him among them.”

Viserys didn’t reply, but he nodded, his expression one of quiet gratitude. Then, with a final glance at his nephew, he stepped out of the room, the echo of Gwayne’s innocent words lingering in his mind.

Chapter Text

After the banquet, two dragons, a stag, and a seahorse were all that remained at the great table once it was all said and done. Rhaenys Targaryen, her husband Corlys Velaryon, her mother Jocelyn Baratheon, and Rhaenys’s cousin Daemon Targaryen. The table at this point had gone from quiet to deafly silent once the other dragons had left. The silence was broken when Grand Maester Runcitor came into the room with a scroll in hand, looking quite concerned. He approached the remaining guests and whispered urgently in Daemon’s ear, causing him to excuse himself from the table. The others exchanged curious glances, unsure of what news the Grand Maester had brought.

The crackling of the hearth filled the chamber with a low, steady sound, but the tension in the air drowned out even the roar of the flames. Jocelyn Baratheon stood up and walked to the window, her hands gripping the sill as she stared out over the city below. Her jaw was tight, her expression grim. Corlys Velaryon leaned against the table, arms crossed over his chest, his silver hair catching the firelight in streaks of pale gold. Rhaenys sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the table, her posture regal but weary. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, though her face betrayed nothing of the turmoil within.

“It’s happening again,” Jocelyn said without turning. Her voice was sharp, cutting through the heavy silence like a blade. “First, they stole your birthright by passing you over for Baelon. And now, with Baelon gone, they’ll do it again. You know it, Rhaenys.”

Rhaenys lifted her chin, her voice calm but firm. “We don’t know anything yet, Mother. Jaehaerys hasn’t made his decision.”

Jocelyn spun around, her dark eyes blazing. “You think he’ll choose you? Truly? After all these years? After proving, time and again, that he values sons above all else?”

Corlys nodded, his tone grim as he added, “Jaehaerys is a king bound by tradition, Rhaenys. Tradition will not favor you, no matter your worth. They’ll find some excuse—some lesser man with a weaker claim. And they’ll expect us to stand by and accept it.”

Rhaenys rose from her chair, her voice steady but edged with frustration. “Enough, both of you. You speak as if the decision has already been made. Baelon is barely cold in his grave, and still, you plot rebellions in your minds.”

Jocelyn raised her voice. “Don’t you dare call it plotting, Rhaenys. I am your mother. I know what it feels like to be overlooked, to watch your worth dismissed by men who think they know better. Do you think I’ve forgotten how he denied you once already? When Aemon died, you should have been the heir! Instead, he named Baelon, as if you didn’t exist.”

Rhaenys gripped the back of her chair in frustration. “Do you think I don’t remember, Mother? Do you think I don’t carry that wound every day? I know what they whisper about me in these halls—‘The Queen Who Never Was.’ Do you think I don’t fear hearing it again?”

“They may whisper, but they do not decide. The king must see reason. Your claim is unassailable, Rhaenys. You are the daughter of Aemon, the eldest son. Your blood is truer than any other’s in that wretched court of fools,” Corlys said, stepping closer to her. His voice was low, intense. “If the king will not see reason, then let him see strength.”

“He’ll never see reason.” Jocelyn’s voice was bitter, her words carrying the weight of years of disappointment. “He didn’t when Aemon died, and he won’t now. You’ve given him no cause to deny you, and yet he will, because you’re a woman. That’s the only excuse he needs, and what does the first son of Baelon need? A little sausage? Is that all it takes to be king? If that’s the case, I’ll go piece together the ashes of my husband!”

Rhaenys turned to her mother, her tone softening but still resolute. “Mother, if I rise against him, what then? Blood spilled, kin against kin? For what? A chair of swords? Is that what you want for Laena and Laenor?”

“I want them to live in a world where they are not cast aside because of the whims of old men,” Jocelyn shot back, her voice shaking with anger. “Where their worth is not measured by what’s between their legs.”

“And you think war will give them that world?” Rhaenys countered, her voice hardening again. “You think dragging them into a conflict that will consume the realm will make them safe?”

Corlys stepped in then, his words colder, sharper. “Safety is an illusion, Rhaenys. If Jaehaerys denies you, it won’t end with a simple decree. It will be a stain on House Velaryon—on our children. And one day, someone will use it to challenge them.”

Rhaenys paused, her gaze drifting toward the window where the faint sound of children’s laughter filtered in from the next room. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a quiet but unyielding resolve. “If that day comes, I’ll face it then. But I will not tear this realm apart for a throne. If Jaehaerys passes me over, then so be it. I will not fight my family over their folly.”

Jocelyn shook her head, her expression bitter, her words laced with a mother’s anguish. “You call it folly. I call it betrayal. And if it comes to pass, it won’t just be you they betray. It will be all of us. Choosing a grown man who plays with toys over a woman who has proven her loyalty and strength time and time again. It’s a slap in the face to everything that House Targaryen ever was.”

“And still,” Rhaenys said, her voice now gentle but final, “I will not be the cause of another war of succession. My duty is to my family, to my children—and to peace. If Jaehaerys cannot see that, then it is his failure, not mine.”

Corlys looked at her for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his frustration palpable. “Peace is a fine thing, Rhaenys,” he said at last. “But peace without justice is fragile.”

The room fell silent again, save for the crackling of the fire. Jocelyn turned back to the window, her shoulders tense and unyielding. Corlys moved away from the table, pacing slowly, his thoughts clearly racing. Rhaenys stood still, her gaze fixed on the flames. Suddenly her children Laena and Laenor came rushing in, hugging their mother.

“Mother,” Laenor said, his voice filled with excitement, “can we play with Bronze Gwayne, Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Green Gwayne again?!”

Rhaenys’s face softened, the weight of the conversation lifting, if only for a moment. She knelt beside her children, brushing Laena’s silver hair back from her face and pulling Laenor into a gentle embrace. “We’ll see, little one,” she said, her voice warm and full of love. “For now, it’s time for you both to sleep. Tomorrow will come soon enough.”

Laena pouted, but she leaned into her mother’s touch, while Laenor yawned, his excitement already giving way to exhaustion. Corlys watched from the side, his stern expression melting into a rare smile.

Jocelyn turned away from the window, her features softening as she took in the scene. But there was still a shadow of worry in her eyes as she spoke quietly. “They deserve better, Rhaenys. They deserve a future where they are not pawns.”

Rhaenys didn’t look up, her focus on her children. “They will have that future, Mother,” she said softly. “But it will not come through bloodshed. It will come through strength of will, peace,—and love.”

Chapter Text

Viserys sat in front of the hearth of his and Aemma's room, gazing into the flames as they crackled and popped. The warmth from the fire enveloped him, soothing his troubled mind. Lost in thought, he wondered about what was to come.

Viserys wasn't naive; he knew that bad blood was coming. Now with his father dead, there wasn't a clear line of succession. Now it was between himself and his cousin Rhaenys, the only two heirs or claimants left.

Just then Aemma left their bed and came to sit with him. She grabbed his hand and held it close, offering silent comfort and support.

"Are you ok, my love?" Aemma asked.

"I'm ok, Aemma, I just…" Viserys paused, his voice soft. "I do not like the days to come, things are bad now, but I think from here it gets worse."

"I know, I shall miss your father; he was a good man. But I know what you're talking about. The succession is a tricky matter, but I have faith in you. You will make a great king one day, Viserys."

"That's just it, Aemma; I don't think I want it. I would much rather be a lord out in the country, content with hunting and studying the histories."

"I know, and so would I. But we both know what's likely to happen. And I do not like it, but Jaehaerys is king. Whether we like it or not, we must obey."

"I know, but I fear the responsibilities that come with the crown. I just want a simple life, free from all this politics and power struggles. I want to be able to—"

Just then, a knock came at the door, interrupting their conversation. Aemma and Viserys exchanged a knowing glance before Aemma rose to answer the door, preparing themselves for whatever news they were about to hear.

To their surprise, though, it was Daemon, Viserys' younger brother, standing at the threshold with a determined look on his face.

"I have news," he announced, his voice filled with irritation and a slight bit of urgency. "It seems that the Grand Maester needs us in his chambers."

Viserys rose from his chair and went to the door, his mind already racing with the possibilities of what the Grand Maester could want from them. He and Daemon walked side by side out of Maegor's holdfast to the Rookery, where the Grand Maester's chambers were, in silence.

"You’ve been quiet for too long, brother. That’s never a good sign," Viserys remarked.

Daemon snorted. "Quiet doesn’t suit me, does it? I’m thinking, Viserys. That’s all. You should try it sometime."

"Thinking? About what? How to offend half the court in fewer words?"

"About why we’re being summoned to the Rookery, of all places. Nine days since Father was laid to rest, and suddenly the Grand Maester wants to speak to us? You don’t find that odd?"

Viserys shrugged. "Odd? No. The man’s likely still sorting out Father's accounts or deciding how best to word some official decree. Grand Maesters love their parchments and protocols. It’s nothing sinister, Daemon."

"Isn’t it? He was the one tending to Father, wasn’t he? The one feeding him poultices and potions while we watched him waste away. Don’t you wonder if one of those concoctions sped things along?"

Viserys stopped for a moment, his tone firm. "No, I don’t. And neither should you. You know Father was ready to go. His body couldn’t fight any longer—stitch in the belly or not. He lived a hard life, and it caught up to him."

Daemon gritted his teeth. "Convenient for some, isn’t it? With Father gone, the vultures can start circling. The king’s health isn’t much better, and you don’t see them rushing to find a cure for him. Everyone’s too busy sharpening their knives, preparing for what comes next."

Viserys sighed and kept walking. "You see shadows where there are none, Daemon. You always have. Not every action is a scheme, and not every death a murder. The Grand Maester did his best—"

"His best? If that was his best, perhaps he ought to return to Oldtown and let someone else see to the king's health before Jaehaerys meets the Stranger as well."

Viserys narrowed his eyes. "You speak of things you don’t understand. The maester’s role is to heal, not to play at courtly intrigues. The Maesters are loyal to science and health, not—"

" Loyalty is a mask, brother. Everyone in the Red Keep wears one. You think the Grand Maester is above such things? He answers to the Hightower, not to us. And the Hightower answers to its own ambitions."

Viserys exhaled, exasperated. "Ambitions? What, you think they poisoned him to weaken our claim, to stir the succession? That’s madness, even for you, Daemon. No one gains from Father’s death—least of all us."

His voice lowered, eyes flashing with anger, Daemon spoke, "No? Think on it. With Father gone, we’re pawns in this game now, Viserys. The king will name an heir, and every lord and lady will scramble to back their chosen side. We’re not brothers anymore—we’re pieces on a board. You might not see it yet, but I do. You and I are now pitted against Rhaenys; if things get even just a little too sketchy, it will lead to war."

Viserys paused at the base of the stairs to the Rookery, his tone softening. "Father wouldn’t want this, Daemon. He’d want us to stand together, not tear ourselves apart with suspicion. Whatever the Grand Maester has to say, we’ll face it together. Let’s not sully his memory with baseless accusations."

Daemon remained silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Baseless? We’ll see about that."

Viserys glanced at him but said nothing. He pushed the door open, and the shadow of the Grand Maester loomed before them in the flickering light of the Rookery’s hearth.

The rookery was dim, lit only by flickering candles and shafts of muted sunlight streaming through the high windows. Grand Maester Runciter, an elderly man with a weathered face and a deliberate demeanor, stood near a writing desk, a rolled parchment in hand. Viserys and Daemon stepped inside, the tension between them unspoken but palpable.

The Grand Maester bowed his head slightly. "My princes, thank you for coming so swiftly. I apologize for the unusual summons, but I thought it best to address this matter privately."

Viserys, with a hint of confusion, asked, "The matter being?"

Daemon crossed his arms, his tone sharp. "You didn’t drag us all the way to the Rookery for idle pleasantries, Maester. Out with it."

Runciter glanced at Daemon briefly, then fixed his gaze on Viserys. "I summoned you here regarding your father’s final will and testament. Before his passing, Prince Baelon entrusted me with a letter meant for the two of you."

Daemon’s expression hardened, suspicion flashing in his eyes. Viserys, meanwhile, seemed momentarily stunned, as though struck by the weight of his father’s memory.

Viserys softly asked, "A letter? He never mentioned… Why did he entrust it to you, Maester?"

Runciter replied with measured words, "He wished for it to be delivered to you both at the right moment. He feared that revealing its contents too soon might unsettle the family further in these already uncertain times."

Daemon’s voice was laced with skepticism. "Unsettle the family? Or unsettle the court? Let's not pretend that in his final days, opportunists like yourself were not all around him."

Viserys glared at Daemon. "Enough! Show some respect."

Runciter remained calm. "Your father’s words were written with the utmost care, my prince. They are his final wishes and thoughts, and I hope they bring you clarity and comfort."

The Grand Maester stepped forward, presenting the rolled parchment, sealed with the green Targaryen wax. Viserys hesitated for a moment, staring at the seal before breaking it. He began to read aloud, his voice steady but laced with emotion.

Once the letter was read, a heavy silence fell over the room. Viserys stared at the parchment in his hands, while Daemon turned to the window, his jaw clenched.

Viserys broke the silence after a long pause. "He… he thought about us until the very end."

Daemon’s voice was low, almost bitter. "Thought about what he should’ve done. What he failed to do more like it."

Runciter gently interjected, "He loved you both, in his own way. That much is clear."

Daemon spun around, his tone sharp. "Love? Is that what you call regret and apologies from the grave?"

Viserys cut in, his tone firm. "Enough, Daemon. He was a flawed man, yes, but he tried. He wanted us to be better than him, better than what this family has become."

Daemon spoke bitterly, "Easy to say when the man who wrote it is gone. He left us with his burdens, Viserys. His regrets, his mistakes. And now, his ‘final request.’"

Viserys glanced at the letter again. "Rhaenyra and Gwayne. A union to bind us together… to heal old wounds. It's what he wanted; he thought so highly of our children."

Daemon snorted. "You think Jaehaerys will even care what Father wanted?"

Viserys spoke firmly. "It’s not about Jaehaerys. It’s about us, Daemon. About honoring him."

Runciter gently interjected once more. "Your father’s final wish was for unity and love to guide the future of your family. Whatever your feelings, his words were meant to inspire, not divide."

Daemon glared at Runciter but said nothing. Viserys looked at his brother, conflicted, before folding the letter carefully and tucking it into his tunic.

Viserys spoke softly. "We’ll honor his words, Daemon. For him, and for Mother."

Daemon paused for a long moment before speaking quietly. "We’ll see what happens."

Chapter Text

Two weeks after the funeral of Prince Baelon

Viserys sat alone quietly in his room as he viewed old art pieces of what was thought to have been Old Valyria. With its lava rivers, thousand dragons, and high spires. The reason Viserys did all of this research was an effort of his to rebuild Old Valyria in ceramic form and in his own image. The trouble of it was finding artwork that depicted Valyria. He had scoured Dragonstone several times and only found a few drawings, and even less than that in the capital. This left him with the fragments of history and research deposits that were in King's Landing and on Dragonstone.

He was currently reading through an old history written by an old Maester he had never heard of before, Maester Vulmar. The name wasn't Valyrian nor was it Northern or Andal, and it made him wonder who this man was. Either way, Maester Vulmar seemed to have a decent history of Valyria in its prime during the war with the Rhoynar people. It mentions families like the Belaery's, the Goddaryen's, the Dayne's, the Zamaron's, and many more. With many of them having names he himself had never heard of or seen before.

As Viserys was lost in thought, a sudden knock on his door interrupted his reading, causing him to quickly close the book and stand up to answer it. It was a knight of the Kingsguard with orders for him to go to the king's chambers; this pulled Viserys away from his intriguing discovery about Maester Vulmar's historical account.

Viserys rose from his seat, leaving his books and his models and walking out of his room and towards the Jaehaery's courters in the holdfast.

At the door of Jaehaerys stood Ser Ryam Redwyne, the lord commander of the Kingsguard. He was now a much older man compared to the Ryam Redwyne who had sparred with his own father. His once ginger hair turning into a silvery gray, and his pale skin showing signs of age with wrinkles and sunspots, but his eyes still held the same sharpness and determination that they did in 82 AC.

Despite his appearance, Ser Ryam Redwyne still carried himself with the same grace and authority that Viserys remembered from his childhood. As Viserys approached, Ser Ryam bowed respectfully and stepped aside to allow the prince to enter the room. His voice was as firm and commanding as ever, "Welcome, Prince Viserys. His Grace has been expecting you." With a slight nod, Ser Ryam gestured for Viserys to follow him inside.

Inside sat King Jaehaerys, and beside him was the master of laws, Otto Hightower. The King was draped in fine silks of gold and black; meanwhile, Otto Hightower wore green and silver, a stark contrast to the King's much more vibrant and, from the looks of it, costly attire. Viserys could sense the tension in the room as he greeted them both with a respectful bow.

King Jaehaerys was the first to address his grandson, his voice stern yet filled with the authority of the decades he has reigned.

"Viserys, there are matters of great importance that we must discuss," he began, his gaze unwavering as he spoke. “Viserys, I have summoned you here to discuss a matter of utmost importance. The death of your father, my beloved son, has created a void that cannot be ignored for much longer. Already the lords of the realm whisper of what is to come."

He shifted his gaze to Otto. "I would also like you to meet the new hand of the King, Ser Otto Hightower. His years as Master of Laws have proven that his judgment is sound.”

Otto smiles warmly and looks to the old King. "Your grace honors me with this appointment. I will serve the realm and the crown with the utmost loyalty."

Jaehaerys nodded solemnly, his expression betraying the weight of the responsibilities that lay ahead.

"I trust that you shall do so, Ser Otto. Now for the business at hand. With the death of my son Prince Baelon, I am left without an heir." Jaehaerys paused, his eyes searching Viserys's face for a reaction. "I would like for that to be you, Prince Viserys."

Viserys knew that this day would come. He felt even more pressure than he himself had expected.

"I… This is and would be an honor, grandsire. However, it is not one that I wish to accept." Viserys struggled to find the right words, knowing the weight of his decision. "I am not the right person for such a responsibility, and I know that it is Rhaenys who should be your heir."

Jaehaerys nodded understandingly, though disappointment flickered in his eyes.

"I respect your honesty, Viserys. But you are the..." Jaehaerys paused, considering his next words carefully. "You are the closest in proximity to my last heir, your father. The realm is not ready for a ruling queen."

"I understand your concerns, but I stand by my decision," Viserys replied firmly. "I support Princess Rhaenys's right to the Iron Throne."

Jaehaerys tried to keep himself from scowling and spewing out his frustration. His new Hand, Ser Otto Hightower, was quick to step in and suggest a compromise. "Prince Viserys, I understand your concerns with ruling the realm. Rest assured, though, that I must agree with the King. The realm is not yet ready for a ruling queen."

Ser Otto paused, playing with his words like they were the strings of a lyre. "Consider what has taken place in the Vale." Lady Jeyne Arryn's reign thus far has been scandalous at best. Her own cousin attempted to usurp her position, causing chaos and instability in the Vale of Arryn. It is imperative that we learn from these recent events and prioritize stability and unity in the realm. And you, my prince, are perhaps the only man in the seven kingdoms who will be able to do this."

Viserys shook his head. "I will not usurp the Iron Throne from my cousin, and I can assure you that I will not stand in her way." Viserys wiped the sweat on his forehead and continued, "My father was wrecked by this when he himself was named heir. He did not think of himself as the true heir, and nor shall I. Rhaenys is the firstborn child of Prince Aemon Targaryen and Lady Jocelyn Baratheon; she is the one true heir to the Iron Throne, and I will not attest to her claim."

Jaehaerys listened intently, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I understand your loyalty to your cousin," he finally said, "but you must remember that the realm may not see it the same way. Your support for Rhaenys may be noble, but it does not change the fact of what she is. She is a woman, and the realm will never look to her as a legitimate ruler. You must consider the consequences of your actions and the potential for unrest if you continue to press her claim." Jaehaerys paused, his expression grave. "Think carefully about this: you were the last living person to ride Balerion, the dragon of the conqueror. You are the closest male in proximity to the Iron Throne. The nobles of the realm will look to you, whether you sit on the throne or not. That will put you in Rhaenys's crosshairs, whether it is intentional or not. The demon who destroyed my family was quick to kill my brother Aegon despite him not being in power and holed up in the Westerlands."

Viserys is quick to counter his grandsire's words. "Rhaenys is not him; she would not raise her banners against my family or my brothers." Jaehaerys raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "The Rhaenys you know, perhaps not. Perhaps not even the one who will sit on the throne. But what about her husband? The Sea Snake is an ambitious one and would not entertain the idea of his wife possibly being undermined by a Targaryen who could challenge her power. The same goes for her mother's house. I know the ambitions of Baratheon blood, perhaps far more than most. The Baratheons would send their assassins upon your family without a second thought if it meant that they could be sure of Rhaenys having a stable reign." Jaehaerys looks at Viserys with a knowing gaze, his words heavy with warning. "Your claim must be pressed because if it is not, then your life, your brother's life, your wife's, your daughter's, your nephew's, and your sister-by-law's life could all be in danger. The stability of the realm depends on your ability to secure your place on the throne." Jaehaerys' voice is firm, leaving no room for doubt in his words.

Viserys is torn between his desire for peace and the responsibility of protecting his family. He knows that Rhaenys would never attack him, but if he is seen as a threat to the Baratheons or to the Velaryons, he may very well face the hangman's noose alongside his family. "I cannot believe that this idea is even being entertained." Viserys said with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "I will not willingly nor shall I accept being your heir even under the pretenses you yourself have named." His tone grows more resolute as he stands his ground, unwilling to compromise his principles for the sake of political convenience.

Ser Otto Hightower observes Viserys carefully, his expression unreadable. "You are far more noble than you realize to say this, my prince. As I said before, though, I agree with your grandfather. Even now Lord Corlys has begun to gather his ships at Driftmark, and men have begun to gather and stew under the Baratheon banner at Storm's End. Your brother Prince Daemon has done much the same, gathering men loyal to your claim. It is because of this I believe that the only peaceable way to entertain the idea of two claimants is to have a council."

Jaehaerys looks at Otto for a moment and mentally chews upon his word as he replies, "I do not know that I quite follow you, Ser Otto. Are you suggesting that someone else be in charge of the succession crisis?"

Otto nods, "Something similar to that, yes, Your Grace. We can allow all the lords of the realm, both great and small, to cast their vote for whom they would see sit the Iron Throne. Either Princess Rhaenys or Prince Viserys. We can also cut out the excess possible claimants, such as any bastards, distant relatives, or other potential contenders. This way, the decision will be clear and accepted by all without dispute or rebellion." Jaehaerys considers Otto's proposal carefully, recognizing the wisdom in ensuring a smooth transition of power to avoid further chaos and bloodshed in the realm.

Viserys crosses his arms, and his voice raises, "I did not come here to discuss this. You may serve this in Arbor Gold or Arbor Red, but I shall not sip from the cup of treachery."

Jaehaerys gets angered by Viserys' refusal to engage in the discussion, realizing that without his cooperation, the plan for a peaceful transition may be jeopardized. "You will do your duty to the realm, Viserys. My hand has offered perhaps the only way possible to keep the seven kingdoms from breaking out in open war. I cannot and will not entertain your own foolish ideals of loyalty so that I may lie cold in my grave as the realm rips itself apart." Jaehaerys' voice was firm, his eyes locked with Viserys', daring him to defy the plan that could save the realm from chaos.

Viserys knows better than to raise his voice against his grandfather. He bows his head in reluctant agreement. "I do not wish to press my claim. Not in the face of three claimants born of Aemon's blood still alive." Viserys' words were heavy with resignation as he acknowledged the harsh reality of the situation. Despite his own desires, he understood the importance of unity in such turbulent times. "But in the name of peace I shall agree to this foolishness. Only after you yourself have spoken to Princess Rhaenys and she herself agrees to this folly." Viserys' tone was laced with bitterness, but he knew that compromise was necessary for the greater good. "I do this with the hope that the realm will not be blind to whom should really sit upon the Iron Throne."

Ser Otto Hightower watched as Viserys reluctantly agreed to the terms, his expression unreadable. "As I've stated before, my prince, your character is unquestionably strong for you to put the realm's safety above the terms of succession. And as a devout member of the faith of the seven, you have not only allowed for the lords across the realm to voice their opinion; you have also allowed for the seven to guide the realm into a new era of peace and stability." Ser Otto spoke with precision, sugarcoating his words, knowing that flattery was his best weapon in this situation.

Viserys took a long breath, the room silent save for the faint crackle of torches on the walls. At last, he nodded as he walked out of the room with haste. Jaehaerys leaned back against the chair he sat in, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “Then it is settled. Ser Otto, see to the preparations. Let it be known that the question of succession shall be resolved for the good of the realm.”

Otto bowed again. “As you command, Your Grace.”

Chapter Text

Viserys grumbled down the hallway of Maegor's holdfast back to his chambers, the conversation he had just had with Lord Otto and his grandsire lingering freshly in his mind. He couldn't shake off the feeling of frustration and powerlessness that had consumed him during their meeting. As he entered his chambers, he saw that his wife Aemma was sitting at a desk with her ladies-in-waiting, engrossed in conversation.

Aemma was quick to notice her husband's dour expression and immediately rose from her seat, concern evident in her eyes. "What's wrong, my love?" she asked softly, reaching out to touch his arm. Viserys sighed heavily before replying, "It happened, Aemma; I tried to get them to pick anyone but me, and now they've entrapped me in this horrid mess."

Aemma dismisses her ladies, who were pretending to be busy, all of them in blue and white dresses that were similar to her own. They all left the room in single file, leaving Aemma and Viserys alone to discuss the situation further. Aemma's heart sank as she sat her husband down beside her. "Tell me what happened." Did our grandsire name you as heir outright?"

"No, he's opened up a far worse can of worms from the seems of it. He and the new hand, Ser Otto Hightower, have convened on this foolish idea of having a Grand Council to decide on who will be the heir." Viserys says, frustration evident in his voice.

Aemma's mind raced with the implications of such a decision. "A Grand Council? What? How would that even work? Would that just be the great lords, or is he including…"

Viserys interrupts his wife with a grim expression, "All of them. Every lord from every house, big and small, in the realm will have a say in who sits on the Iron Throne next. It's chaos waiting to happen." Aemma's heart sank as she listened to her husband's turmoil.

"Why can he just not make her his heir? You and I have known Rhaenys for several years; there may be conflicting views on her husband, but she is a fine and strong woman. You and I both know that she would make for a good ruling queen." Aemma said as she tried to find a glimmer of hope in the midst of the impending chaos. "Do you think that the lords of the realm will choose her?"

Aemma's husband shook his head, his expression grim. "Unfortunately, I fear that the lords will not. I have met very few lords in the realm, yet they shall see all of this as one decision. Is it a man or is it a woman? I imagine that some, like in the North and perhaps the Iron Islands, will be more progressive on the matter, seeing the trueness of it all in that Rhaenys is Uncle Aemon's daughter." Viserys sighed and rested his head in his hands, feeling the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. "But in the end, it will still be me. I will become the king, and I really do not want it. I would love to just be given a plot of land and be left to hunt, build my models, and read my histories."

Aemma strokes her husband's back as she listens to his woes. "Surely you've thought of some bright sides to all of this? I know that neither of us wants this, but your hands are tied."

"I have thought about it, but it's hard to see past the burden of ruling," Viserys admitted, looking up at Aemma with a pained expression. "I just hope I can find some joy in it, despite my reservations. I doubt that I shall find any, but if I do not accept this, then it's very possible that I could be sent off or exiled." Aemma squeezes his hand reassuringly, offering a small smile. "We will face this together, my love. And who knows, perhaps ruling won't be as dreadful as you fear. Our grandsire is old; you are young, smart, kind, and not coldhearted like him. You have the potential to be a great ruler, Viserys."

Viserys rubs his wife's back and nods. "Thank you, Aemma. Your faith in me means more than you know. Actually, since Rhaenyra is away with her septa, perhaps now would be a good time to try again? For a son?"

Aemma looks Viserys in the eyes, a mix of worry and hope. "Yes, let's try again, but not yet. I'm not ready yet, Viserys. After the last one, I need some time to heal before we try again. Let's give it another moon turn." Viserys stands up from the bed and kisses Aemma on the forehead. "That is fine, my love. We shall give it another moon turn, and then we will try again. In the meantime I shall go and find Rhaenyra, and then we will go to the small quarters for a midday's meal; I believe they're making goat stew today." At that, Viserys walks towards the door and leaves Aemma, who begins to brush her hair once more.

Chapter Text

2 or 3 months before the Great Council of 101 AC

"Gwayne! Behave yourself!" Lord Hand Otto Hightower yelled from a bench he was sitting on inside King's Landing courtyard. Gwayne is the young son of Otto Hightower, and he was currently trying to fight his sister, Alicent Hightower.

"I have already gotten onto him once for fighting with his sister today; he's going to be receiving a spanking if he doesn't stop soon." Otto's wife said, with a stern look in her eyes. Lady Selyse Hightower was a gaunt woman. She had once been severely sick as a child, and her health had never fully recovered, giving her a frail appearance. Despite her delicate frame, Lady Selyse had a strong presence and commanded respect within the Hightower household. She is a member of House Kidwell; she has the traditional dark ginger hair, bright green eyes, and fair skin.

Otto smiled at his wife as she kept her eyes on their son, who was now playing with a stick in the dirt, and their daughter was playing with a doll in the flower beds. "You seem to be much chipper today than you have been, my love. Perhaps the change of scenery is doing you some good." Otto remarked, watching as Selyse's face lit up with a smile.

"You know how I am; I have my good days and my bad days. It seems that today will be one of my good days. Plus it's nice to be reunited with you and out of Ivy Hall." Selyse replied, her smile widening as she watched their children play. "How have your new duties been as Lord Hand?"

Otto chuckled, "It's been quite the adjustment, but I'm managing. I must admit, though, it's good to have a moment of peace with you and the children. Now we are getting everything ready for the Great Council. I have been corresponding with Lord Strong of Harrenhal, and he has allowed for the council to take place there. Despite the state of the castle, it's probably the largest and most suitable location for the Council." Otto said as he looked at his wife. "Were you able to do your part?"

Lady Selyse nodded, her expression determined. "Yes, I have made sure to gather support for Prince Viserys among the noble houses that call my father friend. I also did as you asked of me and spoke to King Jaehaerys in his bedchambers just as he was getting ready to sleep. I lulled him with songs and epics about witches and sorceresses of evil nature. I then told him I spoke with his last son, Archmaester Vaegon, and told him that Vaegon thought the Great Council was a great idea. I also told him that in his travels, Vaegon had even been thinking that perhaps Viserys should be his heir. The Old King was already in a malleable state, and my words seemed to reassure him that this decision was for the best." Otto smiled at his wife's dedication, grateful to have her by his side during this crucial time.

"Oh, my beautiful, intelligent wife, your diplomacy and tact are truly unmatched. I really have missed you, and now if we make sure that Viserys becomes king, I shall remain as his hand, or at least I imagine I shall. Which means we shall stay in power, and we can secure good things for our children. Already, Viserys has no political allies at court; he has spent far too much time away from it. At that, his own brother is already giving him headaches, which leaves me as the obvious choice for the day that Viserys does take the throne." Otto said with a twinkle in his eye, envisioning a prosperous future for their family. "Together, we can ensure that our legacy endures and our children thrive; we might even be able to wed them into great houses or, at the very least, have the power to do so. We could wed Gwayne into a house with a female heir and wed Alicent into a great house like the Baratheons or the Redwynes."

Selyse nodded in excitement as she thought about the future prospects for her children. "I do hope that they both shall eclipse us in greatness and achieve even more than we ever could."

Otto smiled at his wife, proud of her ambitious vision for their family's future. "They will, my love; in fact, I…"

Just then Ser Harrold Westerling of the Kingsguard interrupted the two of them. "My apologies, my Lord Hand and Lady Hightower, but the king has summoned you, Lord Hightower." Otto quickly rose from his seat, giving Selyse a reassuring smile before heading off to meet with the king.

As the two walked inside of the Red Keep, Otto wondered what the king could want now. Since his son's death, the king's health has gone downhill quickly. He seems to have an uneasy cough and a pallor that was not present before. He is still as sharp as ever, but Otto knew that soon enough he would be the power behind the throne. The thought of Viserys or even Rhaenys becoming the new hand of the king had crept into his mind, but if all goes according to plan, then even if worse comes to worse and Viserys is named hand, he will still remain on the small council. Then he can slip into the role of hand once more because Viserys himself has few friends at court. Otto knew that as long as Rhaenys doesn't ascend the throne, his power will not wane; all he has to do is play his cards right.

In King Jaehaerys's solar he sat writing out his plans for a new master of laws. When Lord Otto came in, Jaehaerys greeted him warmly. "Aw, Lord Otto, I've been expecting you. Come in, come in." The Old King said in an old yet authoritative tone. "I trust that the preparations have been made for the Grand Council?"

Otto sits down and nods, "Yes, Your Grace. Everything is in order for the Grand Council. I have also taken the liberty of writing up an idea of how much all of this will cost. I spoke with Lord Lymond Beesbury, and the Crown should be able to cover all of the expenses in full. We are looking at spending at the very least 100,000 gold dragons.

The Old King nods in approval, "Very well, Otto. I trust your judgment in these matters. I also do wonder. Whose claim do you support? Do you support my granddaughter or my grandson?"

Otto straightens his back. "Thank you, Your Grace. As for my support, I believe that Prince Viserys has a stronger claim to the throne based on his lineage and qualifications."

The Old King smiles knowingly, "A wise choice, Otto. I appreciate your loyalty and dedication to the realm. Now I must ask you whom you think the realms support. I have been going over it for days based on the major houses. Rhaenys will obviously get most of the support from the Crownlands due to Lord Corlys's influence; she shall also retain the Baratheons since it's her mother's house. I feel like all of the other major houses are really all fair game. The Starks, Tullys, Arryns, Greyjoys, Lannisters, and Tyrells are all in play. I am also going to assume that many of the smaller noble houses shall follow their liege lords." King Jaehaerys looks to Lord Otto to see if he has his own assessment.

"I do agree with you, your grace, and I believe that the alliances will largely depend on the individual relationships and loyalties between the houses." Lord Otto says, nodding in agreement with the King.

Jaehaerys looks toward the window and stands up, grabbing his cane and walking toward the bookshelf in his solar. He motions for Otto to come as he grabs four books and gives them to him. "There are four books right there. One details the houses of the Reach, the Westerlands, the Vale, and the Riverlands. For the most minor and lowly of those houses, I would like for you to send out letters and convince them to declare for Prince Viserys. Bribe them if you have to, but I am almost positive that many of those houses will already favor him over Rhaenys." Jaehaerys looks at Otto as he sits the books down on a nearby mahogany desk, his eyes gleaming with determination. "Otto, I will not have a woman be my heir. I have worked and sacrificed much for the peace that I have maintained, and I will not let it all be undone by a woman who cannot possibly rule as effectively as a man. Prince Viserys is the rightful heir, and you must ensure that he takes the throne."

Jaehaerys' words hung heavy in the air as Otto contemplated the weight of his duty. "I shall see to all of this, your grace, and rest assured that at the Great Council, Viserys will be named as your heir by the realm." Otto bowed as he exited the room with books in his hand, knowing that the fate of the kingdom now rested upon his shoulders and his alone.

Chapter Text

Same time period as the last chapter (2 or three months before the Council)

"Come on, Rhaenyra, hurry up!" Gwayne Royce said as he ran down the corridor of Maegor's Holdfast. His short, dark brown hair was tousled from the wind as he sprinted towards the end of the hallway.

"Hold on, Gwayne, my dress is getting in my way." Rhaenyra said, scurrying behind him, holding up the bottom of her pink dress with one hand. She finally caught up to him, her breath coming in short gasps. "Where are we going even?"

Gwayne glanced back at her with a mischievous grin. "To the kitchens! I was talking to one of the serving womans, and she told me about something in the pig yard, and I want to show you!" he said before grabbing Rhaenyra's hand and pulling her along with him, with Rhaenyra stumbling behind him over her dress. Rhaenyra's smile spread in excitement as she let Gwayne lead the way, eager to see what awaited them in the pig yard.

"Gwayne, we might get in trouble, though. We're not even supposed to leave the Holefas." Rhaenyra said with a lisp, trying to keep up with his quick pace as they passed on the stone floor, the sound of their steps echoing against the stone walls. Gwayne just chuckled and whispered, "Trust me." With a mischievous glint in his eye, he continued to lead her down the stairs. Their short legs scampering quickly as they made their way into the kitchen corridor, the sound of pots and pans clattering together as various members of staff hurriedly prepared the evening meal. They dodged through them all, crawling under tables and darting around corners, trying to remain unseen as they made their way towards the pig yard.

"Come on, the pig yard is just ahead." Gwayne said, gesturing for Rhaenyra to follow him closely. The excitement of their secret adventure outweighed any fear of getting caught. They went through the narrow passageway and finally reached the pig yard, where the sound of snorting and grunting filled the air. Rhaenyra held her nose. "Ew, it smells bad out here." Gwayne chuckled, "That's the smell of adventure!" Gwayne replied as he led her past the pig yard and into the feed storage area.

"Ok, we have to climb this ladder; the surprise I want to show you is up here." The ladder was a narrow wooden one with splintered wood and jagged nails sticking out; it was barely wide enough for one person to climb at a time. Rhaenyra hesitated for a moment before taking the first step, her heart pounding with anticipation. "You can do it; if you fall, I'll catch you." Gwayne said with a reassuring smile, encouraging her to continue climbing.

As they reached the top, Rhaenyra's eyes scanned the room, not seeing anything other than supplies, hay bales, and bags of feed. The smell of the hay mingled with the musty scent of old wood, causing Rhaenyra to sneeze as she wiped her nose with her sleeve and helped Gwayne to the top. Confusion crossed Rhaenyra's face until Gwayne pointed to a small door hidden behind a stack of hay bales.

"The real surprise is in there; open it!" Gwayne said with excitement, Rhaenyra's curiosity piqued, she quickly made her way to the hidden door and pulled on the rope attached to the latch. As the door creaked open, they could hear soft mewing coming from inside. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in surprise as she saw a litter of newborn kittens nestled in a cozy corner next to their mother, a cat with a large belly and protruding nipples. It had different colors of tufts of fur on its body, ranging from black to orange to white. The mother cat watched them both closely as they looked at her litter.

"Kittens!" Rhaenyra exclaimed as she reached out to gently stroke one of the tiny furballs. Gwayne smiled at her reaction and petted the mother cat, who purred contentedly at the attention.

"Aren't they pretty? I was talking to one of the servants, and she told me that one of the kitchen cats had babies up here. I wanted you to see." Gwayne explained, knowing how much Rhaenyra loved animals.

"They're so cute!" Rhaenyra replied, her eyes shining with delight as she continued to stroke the soft fur of the kittens. "Do you think that I can take one?" Gwayne chuckled at Rhaenyra's question, knowing she would want to keep one of the kittens.

"I don't see why not," he replied with a smile, watching as Rhaenyra bonded with the adorable creatures; she picked one up, and it mewed out to its mother.

"They seem to really like you," Gwayne commented as he petted the one that Rhaenyra had before picking up one himself, a small grey and white kitten that immediately started to meow out for attention.

"Gwayne, I believe we may have to be the mommy and the daddy to these kittens." Rhaenyra said as she lifted the kitten up to her face and rubbed it against her nose.

Gwayne chuckled as he let the kitten in his hands suckle on his finger. "Look how small they are; I don't even think their eyes are even open yet. I wonder when they will open up. Maybe they need help?" Gwayne wondered aloud, looking at the tiny creatures with concern. He put his finger over the kitten's eyelid and gently tried to lift it up, but the kitten squirmed and let out a squealing meow. Just then the mother cat, who was staring at the two of them closely, jumped out of the cabinet and walked towards the two of them and meowed. Her other three kittens who were in the cabinet started to cry out when she left.

"Rhaenyra, maybe the mommy cat doesn't want us to take the kittens yet." Gwayne says as he sits his gray and white kitten back down in the cabinet with its littermates. Rhaenyra whines and pouts and holds her brown-striped kitten close to her face.

"I don't want to Gwayne. I love him; I'm his mommy now." Rhaenyra frowns at Gwayne, who grabbed the kitten from her hands.

"Maybe she'll be ready to give them to us tomorrow," Gwayne says to Rhaenyra as he places the kitten in the cabinet and the mother cat jumps into the cabinet with them. Gwayne shut the door on them, and he looked at Rhaenyra, who was pouting. Rhaenyra's eyes filled with tears as she watched the cabinet door close, separating her from her beloved kitten. Gwayne sighed, knowing it was for the best, and gently put his arm around Rhaenyra to comfort her.

"Maybe we can keep visiting them? We might even be able to bring them food from the kitchen." Gwayne said as he rubbed her eyes with his thumb, trying to ease her sadness.

Rhaenyra looked up at him with a small smile, grateful for his suggestion and comfort. "That sounds like a good idea," she said softly, feeling a little better knowing they could still see the kittens. "What kind of foods will cats eat?" Rhaenyra asks.

"I know they like mouses, but they eat meats too, like fishys." Gwayne suggested, trying to remember what his grandfather, Lord Yorbert Royce, told him about the cats at Runestone.

Rhaenyra's smile widened at the thought of being able to help the kitties. "We can start keeping the foods from our feasts and taking them to the kittens afterwards."

Gwayne nods in agreement, "Yeah, we can! Now let's go back to the Hole fast, and we can play! My Mommy bought me a wolf toy; she said it's the sigil of House Stark of Winderfell, from the Norf." Rhaenyra laughed and followed Gwayne out of the feed storage building and back into the pig yard. "Now let's go before we are seen by someone." He says as he grabs Rhaenyra's hand.

"Seen by whom?" Just then they came right into view of the towering and imposing Ser Harrold Westerling, a knight of the Kingsguard. "May I ask why a young prince and princess are in the pig yard?" Ser Harrold looked at them both with a piercing gaze, his eyes narrowing as he awaited their response.

Rhaenyra fearfully glanced at Gwayne, who explained to Ser Harrold about wanting to show Rhaenyra the kittens. "I wanted to show Rhaenyra some kittens, Ser Harrold." Gwayne looked shyly at the tall and intimidating knight wearing his glimmering silver armor and his pure white cloak on his back.

Ser Harrold eyed them both warily, his expression softening and turning into a smile slightly at the mention of kittens. "Well, in that case, I suppose it's alright, but if you two want to leave the Holdfast, you need to tell me or one of your mothers. One of you could've been hurt or lost, and we wouldn't have known where to find you," Ser Harrold said, his tone firm but not unkind.

Rhaenyra looked up at the knight with an anxious expression. "Are you going to tell our mommies?" Ser Harrold chuckled softly, ruffling Rhaenyra's hair with his right hand and Gwayne's with his left gently. "I won't this time, but next time you must promise to tell me before you leave the Holdfast without permission, understood?" Rhaenyra and Gwayne nodded in agreement.

"Now, how about we get you two back to the Holdfast? There seems to be a rather putrid odor lingering about this pig yard." Rhaenyra and Gwayne followed Ser Harrold back towards the Holdfast.

"So were you following us, Ser Harrold?" Rhaenyra asks with a mischievous glint in her eye.

Ser Harrold simply winked and replied, "A knight always keeps an eye out for his charges, my lady. Your escape from your playroom was a wise strategy, though. Sticking a block between the door so it wouldn't clasp and waiting till the nursemaid had dozed off. Very clever indeed." Rhaenyra grinned at Ser Harrold, who shared a very similar grin. "However, you are both far too loud when you move; I was able to hear you from outside of the King's study, and seeing as how Ser Redwyne was already at his door, I decided to follow the two of you." Ser Harrold spoke with a chuckle.

Ser Harrold escorted them both back into their nursery, where the nursemaid was still asleep with a storybook in her hands. Ser Harrold shook his finger at the two playfully as he quietly shut the door.

Chapter Text

A few weeks later

Gwayne and Rhaenyra were playing in their nursery.

"I'm the wolf of House Stark, Awooo," Gwayne said in a gruff, playful voice as he made his wolf toy walk across the floor near Rhaenyra, who was playing with a doll in red and black.

"Aaah, don't hurt me; I'm just a princess!" Rhaenyra yelled in a high pitched voice as her doll cowered in fear of the hungry wolf.

"Oh no, I don't want to hurt you; I want to ride on that dragon!" Gwayne said in his gruff wolf voice as he pointed to the green dragon toy on the shelf with the wolf in his hand.

"Let's go on an adventure together," Rhaenyra replied with a smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

As the pair began to construct their imaginary adventure, Gwayne's and Rhaenyra's giggles filled the room. Just then Ser Harrold entered the nursery wearing his silver armor and his white cloak. He watched the children playing with a fond smile before clearing his throat to get their attention.

"Are you two ready for our walk?" Gwayne and Rhaenyra smiled eagerly and hooped up off of the floor and quickly nodded; they were ready and eager to continue their fun-filled walks with Ser Harrold to go and see the kittens. Gwayne and Rhaenyra had been going with Ser Harrold once a day for the last few weeks, feeding the mother cat and watching the kittens grow. The kittens hair had started to get longer and fluffier, and their eyes were open now; they were walking around and were becoming playful.

Gwayne and Rhaenyra were fascinated by the kittens and couldn't wait to see how much they had grown since their last visit. Ser Harrold led them out to the pig yard. The smell of pig manure hit them as they approached the exit of the kitchen. Outside the sheep were loose, where several servants were at work shearing the white and brown wool off of them.

"They look funny without all the fur." Gwayne japed as he looked at the bleating sheep crowded up in the western half of the yard.

"That they do. See that stuff they are shearing off? That's wool, and it will be spun into yarn to make clothes, toys, and other useful items." Ser Harrold explained, pointing to the piles of wool accumulating nearby. Rhaenyra went to touch the pile of wool but thought against it and continued to follow Ser Harrold to the shed where the mother cat had made her home.

As they approached, the kittens meowed in excitement, recognizing their visitors. Gwayne and Rhaenyra eagerly crouched down to play with the kittens. The kittens now were no longer confined in the cabinet, now making the whole shed their playground.

"Look how big they're getting, Ser Harrold!" Gwayne exclaimed as he got on all fours to play with the kittens.

Ser Harrold chuckled as he picked up a gray striped kitten and teased it with his fingers. "Yes, they are, Gwayne. Did you remember to grab the fish from the kitchen servants?"

Gwayne shakes his head; for all of his qualities, Gwayne did have his moments where he was forgetful.

"I'll go grab some from the cook; stay here in this shed; I shouldn't be long." Ser Harrold said to them, sitting the kitten down and closing the door behind him, leaving the two of them inside with the mother cat and her kittens. The kittens purred and batted at Gwayne and Rhaenyra as they teased them with their fingers, a smile spreading across their faces.

"Rhaenyra! We should name them!" Gwayne exclaimed in excitement, looking at his cousin with eager anticipation. Rhaenyra giggled and nodded, already thinking of possible names for the adorable kittens.

"Ok, there are five kittens. An orange and white one, a white one, a grey and white one, a brown striped one, and a grey striped one." Rhaenyra says as she picks up the orange and white kitten. "Ok, he has orange on him, so maybe we could give him a name for something orange." Rhaenyra said as she teased the kitten on her lap.

"We could name him Orange! Like the vegetable." Gwayne says with excitement, Rhaenyra shrugs her shoulders.

Then her eyes opened wide as she had a sudden burst of inspiration. "What if we named him after that word that Pawpaw used to say to make Vhagar blow fire? What was it? It was something like Druhcaris, right?"

Gwayne nods in agreement, "Yeah! I like that; let's name him Dracarys."

Rhaenyra smiles, "I love it! Druhcaris it is." Rhaenyra sits the kitten down and picks up the pure white one. "Now how about this one?"

Gwayne looks at the white kitten and suggests, "We could name this one Snow, like the snow back at my castle. Or I have another idea." Gwayne eyes Rhaenyra with a mischievous glint. "Let's name him Old, like the King. He has white hair, and my mommy calls him an old bastard."

Rhaenyra laughs at Gwayne's suggestion, "Old it is then! We have Druhcaris and Old." She gently places the white kitten down next to Dracarys, and Gwayne picks up the grey and white kitten; it purrs in his hand as he holds it to his chest. "How about this one? I think that Ser Harrold said this one is a girl; maybe we could name her Jeyne! Jeyne is the name of one of my friends back home. She lives with my uncle in a really big castle called Eyrie."

Rhaenyra nods in agreement, "Jeyne is a pretty name; I like it. I think that my mommy said I have a cousin called Jeyne. Maybe our Jeynes know each other?"

Gwayne smiles at Rhaenyra's suggestion, "That would be so cool if they did! Maybe they are!"

Rhaenyra giggles, "Yeah, that would be fun. I've not seen my cousin Jeyne before, but if I ever see her, I will ask if she knows a Jeyne from an Eyrie castle."

"Ok, so let's name this kitten Jeyne. Now how about this one? He's feisty." Gwayne says as he picks up a gray striped kitten. Rhaenyra chuckles, "He looks like a little warrior. How about naming him Aegon? Like the conqueror!"

"I like that idea! Now for the last one, he's my favorite; he always likes to cuddle, and he likes to play in the hay with me." Gwayne says as he picks up the last kitten, a mild-tempered brown-striped kitten, Rhaenyra smiles, "He's so cute! Maybe we could name him something pretty like flower, horse, or dragon?"

Gwayne shakes his head, looking down at the kitten. "No, let's name him something cooler. How about we name him after the place I'm from? We could call him Vale?"

Rhaenyra shrugs her shoulders. "Nah, I don't like it. How about we name him Stripey? It's tough and fierce, just like him."

Gwayne shakes his head. "No, I don't like that either." Gwayne says, as they hear a creaking sound at the door. "Let's name him Thunder," Gwayne suggests as he moves towards the door to investigate the noise. Rhaenyra shakes her head and sighs as she stands up with the kittens playing with the strings on her blue linen dress.

Gwayne peeks outside and sees a chicken. "Aw, it's a chicken, Rhaenyra! Come see it." The orange-colored chicken looked up at Gwayne, who was standing there looking at it with a curious expression on his face. Rhaenyra chuckles and joins him at the door, admiring the chicken's vibrant plumage. "I wonder what it wants," she asks, as they both watch the chicken pecking at the ground contentedly.

Gwayne shrugs his shoulders. "Maybe it's just looking for some food."

Rhaenyra nods in agreement, "Let's give it some food and see if it sticks around."

Rhaenyra and Gwayne walk over towards two massive wooden barrels, the kittens and mother cat watching on a nearby crate.

Using a bucket, Rhaenyra and Gwayne stand on it and get into one of the large feed barrels where cracked pieces of grain and corn were; they grab two handfuls each and bring it to the chicken and lay it in front of it. The chicken eagerly pecks at the food, seemingly grateful for the gesture. Rhaenyra smiles. "I think we just made a new friend."

Gwayne chuckles and says, "Yeah! And look, here come some of its friends!" More chickens begin to approach; some orange and others black approach.

Rhaenyra and Gwayne go back to the barrel, grabbing more handfuls of feed and throwing it at the chickens feet, enjoying the company of their new feathered friends. The chickens gather around and peck at the food laid before them.

The kittens watch too, enamored by the strange birds who were outside the door of their home. The mother cat jumps down from the crate she was on and walks over to her litter, sitting nearby as she watches the children and the birds cautiously.

"Hey, look at that one." Rhaenyra says, pointing to a particularly fluffy chicken with vibrant feathers. Gwayne nods in agreement, "That one seems to be the boss of the flock. It has long tail feathers and more red around its face." The two watch the larger chicken peck at the others so that it can get more food.

"I think that's a rooster, Rhaenyra. He's not being very nice to his friends, though." Gwayne says as the two of them watch the rooster flap its wings, making more room for itself to eat.

Rhaenyra approaches the flock and points at the rooster. "Hey! You should be more nicer to your friends." Rhaenyra says to the bird, who looks at her curiously. The rooster pauses for a moment before continuing to eat, seemingly unfazed by Rhaenyra's words.

Gwayne chuckles, "I don't think he knows what you said, Rhaenyra."

Rhaenyra moves a little closer to the flock and uses her hand and waves the rooster away. "Go on then; if you can't be nice to your friends, you can't eat with them. Go away!" The rooster, a big brown and white-colored thing with long, glossy feathers and orange, bloodthirsty eyes, does not take kindly to Rhaenyra's attempt to shoo him away. He lets out a loud squawk and flaps his wings aggressively, causing the other birds to stop eating and look up in alarm.

Rhaenyra steps back, surprised by the rooster's sudden display of aggression. Gwayne jumps back, and as he and Rhaenyra back up, the kittens go and hide elsewhere in the hay bales, and Momma Cat hisses at the ugly bird as it comes inside the food storage room. The rooster continues to strut around, puffing up his chest and letting out another ear-piercing squawk.

Rhaenyra and Gwayne exchange a worried glance; Gwayne and Rhaenyra shake their hands in front of the rooster and yell at it to try and scare it away, but the rooster only becomes more agitated. Gwayne picks up a bucket nearby them and throws it at the rooster. The rooster is hit head-on with the bucket, knocking it on the floor.

The rooster gets up, though now even more agitated, and stalks toward them. "Help!" Rhaenyra cries out, with tears beginning to form in her eyes. "Please, someone!" she cries out as she holds onto Gwayne's arm and they back up against the hay bales. Just then the rooster lets out one final squawk and flies at them.

"AAAAHHH!" The two of them scream as they run out of the feed storage area with the squawking bird hot on their heels. They run past a group of servants carrying grain, knocking a few of them down as they were chased by the rooster in the western part of the pig yard. They try to run back towards the kitchen but they can't get through because of the sheep in the way.

Gwayne looks around anxiously and eyes the mud pit which the pigs were rolling around in along with some ducks who were waddling through the mud.

"Come on, we gotta go!" Gwayne tried to pull on Rhaenyra's hand, but she yanked it away, her eyes wide with fear.

"I'm not going in there! I'll ruin my dress, Gwayne!" Rhaenyra cries.

Gwayne pulls her hand and climbs through the fence with her as they trek through the mud and the muck of the pen, trying to put distance between themselves and the rooster. The rooster gives chase, but it sinks into the mud, it loses its momentum for a moment. Before it starts to flap its wings furiously, kicking up dirt and debris in its wake. It gave the rooster some airtime as it began to chase after them again. Rhaenyra and Gwayne keep running, trying to get to the other side of the pig yard to escape back into the kitchen. The pigs squeal and run about in the pen, startled by the commotion. The ducks nearby quack and retreat from the mud they were in towards their pen.

The rooster catches up to them, pecking at the bottom of Rhaenyra's gown before it flies up and lands on Rhaenyra, knocking her face-first into the mud as it tries to flog her. Gwayne swiftly kicks the rooster off of her and helps her back to her feet.

Rhaenyra at this point is crying hysterically. "Come on, we gotta go!" Gwayne screams as he pulls Rhaenyra along behind him; the rooster recovers from Gwayne's kick quickly and begins the chase again. Rhaenyra stumbles and loses one of her boots in the mud and struggles to keep up with Gwayne, her tears mixing with the mud on her face. Gwayne's heart races as he knows they need to find safety before the rooster catches up to them once more.

"Gwayne! Rhaenyra! Over here!!" It was Ser Harrold who was hollering for them.

He jumped the fence like a mighty lion and ran towards them. He removed his sword from its scabbard, and as the rooster was running, he swung the sword at the evil monster, slicing it in half. The rooster's body fell to the ground, twitching in its final moments as Ser Harrold had cut it's head and it's left wing off from the rest of its body. Gwayne and Rhaenyra breathed paniced breaths as they hugged Ser Harrold, grateful for his timely intervention. Rhaenyra keeps crying, still overwhelmed by the close call. Gwayne hugs her close to him and wipes the mud from her face onto his tunic.

"Are you two alright?" Ser Harrold asks as he surveys the scene.

Rhaenyra isn't able to get a word out as she continues to sob, she points to her back where the rooster had attacked her, showing the torn fabric of her dress.

"You must be as tough as the Black Dread princess, it didn't even draw blood on ya." Ser Harrold chuckles, relieved that the situation wasn't as dire as it seemed.

"Well, Prince and Princess, I think we've had enough fun for one day. Let's get you back into the holdfast and cleaned up." Ser Harrold says as he puts his sword back in its scabbard. Carrying Rhaenyra in one arm and Gwayne in the other, back to the Holdfast. As they walked back, Rhaenyra tried to stop crying as she buried her head in Ser Harrold's neck. Gwayne squeezed her hand in reassurance as they were carried back to the nursery.

Maegor's Holdfast

Their nursemaid, Lolly, gasped as she saw them, "By the gods, what happened to you three?"

"We met some very unfriendly company. I believe that the prince and princess need to be cleaned up and tended to immediately," Ser Harrold replied as he sat Gwayne and Rhaenyra down on the floor of the nursery.

"Alright, come on, Prince and Princess, let's get you to the bathing chamber." The nursemaid said she was about to take the two children by the hand, but Ser Harrold beat her to it and lifted the two of them up in his arms once more and walked alongside the nursemaid to the bathing chambers.

The chamber was warm and inviting, with the scent of lavender filling the air. Its walls were painted in shades of light pink, grey, and white. As Ser Harrold gently placed Gwayne and Rhaenyra down, other servants came closer to them, ready to attend to their needs.

"They may both have a few scratches and peck marks on them, but they were very brave today. Especially Gwayne here, saving his cousin from that evil bird." Ser Harrold said as he lightly patted Gwayne's shoulder.

The servants began to strip the children, Rhaenyra first. Pulling off her muddy, soft leather, black boot first, she had already forgotten that she lost its twin somewhere in the mud. They next pulled her brown stockings from her knees and threw them into a basket. After her stockings were pulled off, the servant motioned for Rhaenyra to lift her arms, to which she obliged; the servant then pulled off the simple blue and grey linen gown that Rhaenyra was wearing with mud on its front and rips from the rooster on its back. That gown was thrown carelessly to the side, revealing her thin white undergarments around her hips, which were cast aside before Rhaenyra was thrown in a large copper tub filled with warm water for her bath.

The servant then began stripping off Gwayne's clothing, pulling off his leather boots first and then unbuttoning his green wool tunic afterwards. They were thrown in the same basket as Rhaenyra's clothes were in. They followed suit then by taking off his brown woolen breeches, leaving him in his simple, thin, white undergarments, which, unlike Rhaenyra's, had a yellow spot in their front. Gwayne didn't seem to mind as the servants pulled them off and then put him into the same copper tub as Rhaenyra was in.

By this point the mud that was once caked onto Rhaenyra's face and arms had been scrubbed off, and the servants were now washing the mud caked in her hair out. Gwayne, on the other hand, was getting his arms and legs scrubbed first since they had the most mud on them. The warm water and gentle scrubbing helped to soothe their tired muscles after a long day of war against evil forces.

"Are you ok now, Rhaenyra?" Gwayne asks softly as his back is scrubbed.

Rhaenyra nodded, she was still nervous but a small smile formed on her lips. "Yes, thank you." she replied as her back was examined by the nursemaid.

"Aye, you'll both be fine; thankfully the bird didn't even break the skin. You may have some bruises or some soreness tomorrow, but you look as fine as wine, Princess, and you as well, Prince Gwayne." Said their nursemaid, Lolly, she was a hefty young lady with brown hair and wrinkles on her forehead.

After they were finished being tended to, Lolly left the room to go and grab their clothing from their bedchambers. Leaving Rhaenyra and Gwayne alone except for the servants, who were busying themselves with other matters. Rhaenyra scooted over closer to Gwayne in the bath and hugged him. Gwayne returned the hug, grateful that they were both safe. They stayed like that for a moment, finding comfort in each other's presence after the scare with the bird.

"Thank you for saving me, Gwayne; I was so scared. I thought it was going to kill me." Rhaenyra murmured as she leaned against Gwayne who was gently playing with her long silver wet hair.

"It's ok now; we're ok now. And I'm glad I was able to save you. We'll always look out for each other, no matter what." Rhaenyra smiled up at Gwayne as he spoke, but out of nowhere, Gwayne sighed.

"What's wrong, Gwayne?" Rhaenyra asked with a hint of worry in her voice.

"My mommy said that we have to go back home soon. But I don't wanna go; I want to stay here with you, and Alicent, and Auntie Aemma, and Green Gwayne, and Ser Harrold, and Lolly, and Momma Cat, and the kittens and and everyone else." Gwayne's heart sank at the thought of leaving Rhaenyra and all their friends behind.

"Well, you'll come back, right? You've always came back." Rhaenyra says, trying to reassure Gwayne.

"Yeah, but I don't know when. My Pawpaw Yorb went into the mountains, and now Pawpaw Baelon has too. And I think Mommy really misses them because she's been more mad and sad."

Gwayne's eyes filled with tears as he hugged Rhaenyra a little more tightly, not wanting to let go. "I'll miss you so much," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion.

Rhaenyra held him close, her own eyes shining with unshed tears, and whispered back, "I'll miss you too, but you'll come back one day. Let's just have fun until you leave, though."

Gwayne nodded, feeling a sense of resolve wash over him. "Yes, we'll have the best adventures until then," he said with a small smile. Rhaenyra squeezed his hand, and then suddenly she splashed him and giggled.

"Look at me, I'm a Kraken, and I'm gonna get you!" Rhaenyra said as she tried to splash Gwayne again.

"Hah! Well, I'm a sea dragon! Roar!!" Gwayne said and splashed her back; the sounds of them squealing and yelling echoed in the chamber as water flew on them and out of the tub. The two of them forgetting their impending separation for a moment as they continued to enjoy each other's company.

Chapter Text

Two weeks before the Great Council

"Come on, Gwayne, it's going to take us at the least two weeks before we get to Harrenhal." His mother, the Lady Rhea Royce, said as she picked up his fingers and stuffed them into a pouch.

"But I don't want to go, Mommy. Can't I just stay here until the big meeting is over?" Gwayne said whinily.

"No, I've already told you, and the answer is no. I don't want to just leave you here while I'm at Harrenhal, and we've been in this dank, filthy city for almost four months. We need to go home so we can get back to our duties." His mother said it seemed by this point she'd already lost her patience with Gwayne, who had likely asked this question a hundred times before.

"But mommy!" Gwayne continued to protest, his lower lip trembling as he clutched onto her hand tightly. "I promise I'll be good and not cause any trouble. Please, can't I just stay here?" His mother sighed as Gwayne tried to make his plea.

"There are no buts about this, Gwayne. We have to go home, you and me. Our home needs me now more than ever. Don't you miss your cousins, Aric and Lyarra? And what about Jeyne? Surely you miss Jeyne, right?" Gwayne's mother tried to reason with him, reminding him of the family waiting for them at home. She knew it was hard for him to leave, but she also knew they needed to go back; she had barely been the Lady of Runestone since her father's passing, and she needed to fulfill her duties.

Gwayne stomped his feet and pouted, "No! I want to stay here with Rhaenyra; she's my best friend, and I don't want to leave her." Gwayne's mother sighed, understanding his attachment to his friend but knowing that family responsibilities came first.

She took his hand and said, "We can always come back to visit Rhaenyra, but for now, we need to go home. Maybe I can talk to your aunt Aemma, and maybe she and Rhaenyra could come for a sleepover? Did you know that Aemma used to live in the Eyrie where Jeyne lives? Maybe we could all go to the Eyrie and spend time together?" Gwayne's eyes lit up at the idea of a sleepover with both Rhaenyra and Jeyne. He nodded eagerly, excited at the prospect of spending more time with his friends. His mother smiled, glad to see him happy again after the initial disappointment of leaving Rhaenyra behind.

"Now, I'll only talk about it to her if you continue to be on your best behavior. Deal?" Gwayne nodded enthusiastically, promising to behave. "Ok, then, I need to go and gather up Ronnet, Gerald, Layfied, and Mick to see if our horses are ready and then everything that goes along with that. So how about we go see if Rhaenyra is in the nursery, and you can play with her for a little while longer?"

Rhea picks Gwayne up and boosts him onto her shoulder and uses her leg to shut the door behind them as they walked to the nursery. As they made their way to the nursery, Gwayne chattered excitedly about playing with Rhaenyra. Rhea smiled, grateful for the friendship her son had with his cousin.

A friendship that in itself would not have happened unless her own father and her father-in-law had pushed her to focus in on. In fact, if not for Baelon, she would have gladly raised Gwayne alone in the Vale without any of his paternal family except for maybe Aemma, but even that wouldn't have been guaranteed.

She can still remember the day after she gave birth at Runestone. The sound of a dragon's roar echoed through the castle, signaling the arrival of a Targaryen.

For some reason she at first thought it could be her no-good husband, only for her to be surprised to see her husband's father. He was the first Targaryen to come to Runestone to see his grandson, and considering Daemon hasn't come either, the only. Baelon, for all of the flaws his son may have had, had none of those.

On the few occasions she met him before the pregnancy, he was always depressed and distant, but not when he saw Gwayne. His first grandchild, with Rhaenyra being born a month afterwards, Baelon spent almost four whole months at Runestone, doting on his grandson and trying to pitch to Rhea that Gwayne needs to visit his family in King's Landing.

Rhea remembers just how very cold toward this idea she was; she and Daemon fought like cats and dogs, and now, after being cold and distant for almost a whole year, Grandpa comes in and wants to take Gwayne away. Rhea was not about to let that happen, especially after her own experiences with Daemon.

Eventually, though, due to some convincing from her own father, she did take Gwayne to King's Landing, where he met Rhaenyra for the first time at seven months old. He also met her parents, his aunt and uncle Viserys and Aemma, for the first time. The old king seemed pleased that the union brought fruit, but otherwise he couldn't care less. As for Daemon, he and Caraxes mysteriously disappeared when he heard that his lady wife and infant son were coming.

Despite that, though, the reactions with Baelon, Viserys, Aemma, and Rhaenyra did prompt her to be more willing towards her son's paternal family. And what turned into a visit to King's Landing also became a visit to Dragonstone, where Gwayne met his aunt Gael and his great-grandmother, the good queen Alysanne.

Both of them were dead now too, Gael when Gwayne was two and the Good Queen just last year. Gael was a sweet girl, she was shy and sweet, and she loved flowers. Nothing like her idea of a Targaryen, she was nothing like the stories of Visenya and Rhaenys she hoped to meet; instead, she met a shy girl and a frail old woman whose mind was as fluid as water.

Gael passed in a strange manner; she had seen her a few months before her disappearance; she was listening to a singer in the gardens. She seemed fine and well, just as she always was, but then she disappeared for a while. She came back just as mysteriously, with her death being declared not long after. Rhea always found it to be quite strange, but the Targaryens were a queer people with even queerer customs about them.

"Mommy, what are you waiting for? Let me down!" Gwayne said to his mother as she stood in front of the door of Rhaenyra's nursery, lost in thought.

"Oh, yes, here you go, Gwayne." Rhea said as she sat her son down, and she opened the door. His cousin was sitting on the floor wearing a light purple gown with gray embroidery around its neck and sleeves. She was listening to her septa (a woman that Rhea did not much care for) read from their holy book.

Rhaenyra immediately turned her head to the door, where she saw her cousin and aunt walking in; her eyes widened, and she ran to Gwayne. "Gwayne!" Rhaenyra shouted. Gwayne looked up with a smile, reaching out to hug his cousin. Rhea watched them with a warm heart and then looked back at the septa.

"Rhaenyra! What have I told you about paying attention to me and showing me respect? By disrespecting me, you also disrespect the seven. Now come and sit back down before I take out my ruler and remind you of the consequences of disobedience." The old, grumpy septa said as she glared at Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra frowned, and she went to go sit back down, but Rhea reached out and grabbed her shoulder as she thought of a crafty lie.

"Actually, Lady Aemma has called for her daughter. Myself and my son were sent to retrieve my niece. So, Rhaenyra, you shall come with me." She said with a smirk, pulling Rhaenyra away from the septa's gaze. Rhaenyra's eyes widened in surprise, but she followed Rhea out of the room without protest.

"Lady Royce, this is most unprecedented behavior by Lady Arryn. I must insist that Rhaenyra stay here and listen to the aspects of the Crone so that she might be enlightened by the gods." Rhea turned to face the old woman in her grey gown, her smirk never faltering. "I'm afraid Lady Arryn's orders supersede your wishes, Septa Cuntinia. Rhaenyra will be coming with me." With that, she continued leading Rhaenyra away, leaving Lady Royce fuming in the background.

"Cantinia!" the septa shouted as the doors were shut behind her.

Rhea walked the two up the stairs of the Holdfast. Rhaenyra looked back at her aunt with a cheeky grin. "Did my mother really send for you, Aunt Rhea?"

Rhea chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "No, my dear niece. But sometimes it's more fun to stir the pot a little, don't you think? Plus this will be Gwayne's last day with you; maybe you and he can get into some trouble with Ser Harrold… that does not involve angry birds." Rhaenyra's eyes widened in excitement at the mention of causing mischief with Gwayne and Ser Harrold. As they reached the top of the stairs, Rhea winked at her mischievous niece before continuing on their way to the King's solar.

Ser Ryam Redwyne and Ser Harrold Westerling stood guarding the door to the King's solar. Wearing their matching, gleaming silver armor and their white cloaks. They were talking about the great council based off of what Rhea could hear; she did wonder how they felt about the council, since they were as close to the king as perhaps anyone.

"Greetings, good Sers. I bring noble guests." Rhea says as she approaches them with Gwayne and Rhaenyra walking in front of her.

Ser Ryam and Ser Harrold break into smiles as they watch the approaching children with Rhea. "Aw, that you do, Lady Royce. The brave rooster fighters they are." Ser Harrold says with a chuckle as he pats Gwayne on the head. Gwaye chuckles, and as for Rhaenyra, her face flushes as she remembers that fateful day.

"Ah yes, I heard about that gallant adventure; perhaps the two of you shall become like the Conciliator and the Good Queen, born again, of course much better, though." Ser Ryam says as he gets on one knee so that he can be at eye level with the two children. "Say, the next time you go on an adventure with Ser Harrold, maybe I can come too?" Ser Ryam says with a hopeful smile as he pats Rhaenyra on the shoulder.

"Of course you can, Ser Ryum; we would love it," says Rhaenyra, saying it so quickly she stutters it at first. Ser Ryam chuckles at her attempt to say his name correctly and stands back up.

"I was hoping you two might be able to look after them for a little bit. I need to get the horses ready, and that dreadful woman was in the nursery, and I don't want her near you-know-who unless I'm there." Rhea Royce says as she looks at Ser Ryam and Ser Harrold with a pleading expression.

"Don't worry, we'll keep an eye on them," Ser Ryam reassures her, patting her son gently on the back before waving off Rhea, who rubs her son's head and nods at the two knights as she leaves for the stables. Ser Ryam then looks down at the kids in front of him. "Today, I and Ser Harrold can't run off with you; the king has asked that two of his knights be at his door. He's a little worried today; I'm sure you've both noticed that your parents have been in a bit of a scramble about the grand council." Ser Ryam says as he looks down at the two children with a reassuring smile. "But I have heard about some kittens from Ser Harrold, and I'm hoping that you two can tell me all about them." He adds as he gets down on one knee and pats it for Rhaenyra to sit down on.

"Rhaenyra obliges, and Gwayne eagerly begins to spout out the news about the kittens. "Yeah, me and Rhaenyra found them in the pig yard where all the feed was." Gwayne starts, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "They used to be really tiny, and they couldn't open their eyes, but now they have fur, and their eyes are open, and they are super playful. And you have to come see them."

Rhaenyra chimes in, her face beaming with excitement. "Yeah! Ser Harrold has been teaching us all about kitties, and he helped us feed Momma Cat and take care of the kittens."

Gwayne nods his head, agreeing with her. "And we already named four of them. There's an orange and white kitten who we named after the word that our Pawpaw used to say to make Vhagar spit out fire: Dracareys, and then there's a girl one who is grey and white, and we named it Jeyne after my friend at the Eyrie." Gwayne exclaims

"We also have a grey striped kitten named Aegon because he's feisty like a warrior; he scratched me once and made me bleed." Rhaenyra remarked with a smile. "And then we have an all-white kitten who we named Old," she adds.

Ser Ryam looks at the little child on his leg, perplexed, "Old? How did you come up with that name for a creature so young?"

Rhaenyra laughs, "Well, we were thinking about the Old King. He has a white beard, and he has white hair, and so does the kitten, and since everyone calls him the Old King, we named him Old."

Ser Ryam and Ser Harrold both have to bite their tongues to keep themselves from laughing. "I think that's a fine name you two have picked out for the little fellow." Ser Harrold said with a chuckle.

"Yeah, and my mommy calls him an Old Bastard, so we wante-…" Gwayne was exclaiming before the door to the solar opened. There stood the Old King himself, the Conciliator, King Jaehaerys. He was a tall man with a golden cane in his hand. He wore a golden crown on his head and had gold and bronze silks draped around his body. A scabbard was also loosely on his hips, containing the mighty Blackfyre. He looks at Gwayne, Rhaenyra, and his guards with a disapproving stare, silencing them instantly.

"What were you saying, Royce child? What does your mother call me?" Jaehaerys asks his great-grandson, staring down at the brown-haired little boy, focusing his violet eyes on the boy's violet and gray eyes.

Gwayne smiles up at the king and says to him cheerfully, "Oh, she calls you an Old Bastard." Gwayne says happily, causing a shocked silence to fall over the room.

Jaehaerys chuckles at the boy's boldness before responding, "Well, I may very well be after all is said and done, Royce." Jaehaerys sits his hand down on the boy's head, playing with his hair. "I like your eyes, boy; I once had a daughter who had a violet eye and a green eye."

Gwayne's eyes widen in surprise at the mention of the king's daughter. "Wow! She sounds like my grandma. I never met her, but my Pawpaw Baelon used to tell us about her when we would ride Vhagar with him; it always made him sad."

Jaehaerys smiles softly, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he recalls his daughter. "Your Pawpaw must have loved her very much," he says gently, as he thinks of how to change the subject. "So you two have rode Vhagar?"

Rhaenyra nods eagerly, a spark of excitement in her eyes. "Yes, it was amazing! Pawpaw said she was the biggest dragon in the whole wide world."

Jaehaerys chuckles, relieved to steer the conversation away from his daughter. "I'm sure you felt like you were flying with the wind on her back. Ha, she is a majestic beast, she is. Have either of you met my dragon? He lives in a special place called the Dragon Pit, unlike Vhagar, who lives in the field."

Gwayne and Rhaenyra shake their heads in response, intrigued by the mention of another dragon. "What's your dragon like?" Gwayne asks eagerly.

"Well, how about we go meet him? Ser Harrold, run ahead of us and get the wheelhouse." Jaehaerys says, leading the way out of the Holdfast as Ser Harrold runs ahead of them.

As the four walk to the courtyard, Gwayne cannot help but notice the sword on the King's side. "Wow, you have a pretty sword." Gwayne says as he touches the large ruby encrusted on it's hilt.

Jaehaerys looks down at Gwayne, who was walking beside of him and says, " Thank you, it is the ancestral sword of House Targaryen. It's called Blackfyre, a legendary sword passed down through generations since the days of Old Valyria" Gwayne's eyes widen in awe as he listens to the Old King's history lesson. "It's even made of a special type of steel, it's Valyrian steel. It has a sister blade as well known as Dark Sister. It's the weapon that your father wields."

Gwayne nods in understanding, his admiration for the sword growing even more. "I wanna have a sword like that one," he says with passion in his voice. Jaehaerys smiles at the young boy's ambition.

"You shall, if I'm correct. House Royce has a Valyrian sword. I cannot remember its name, but it is just as beautiful a blade. Perhaps one day you shall wield it." The Old King says as he leans on his cane.

"Wow, Gwayne, you have a sword?" Rhaenyra says excitedly, her eyes wide with curiosity. Gwayne blushes and shrugs his shoulders.

"Maybe, my Pawpaw Yorb had a special sword; I think its name was Lamb Nations."

Rhaenyra's eyes light up at the mention of the sword's name, her curiosity piqued even further. "Lamb Nations? That sounds like a silly name."

Gwayne chuckles, "Well, that's what my Pawpaw used to call it. But it was a really pretty sword; sometimes it looked blue and green when it was in the sun."

Rhaenyra's curiosity grows as she imagines the sword's unique colors. "I would love to see it someday," she says with a smile, her interest in the mysterious Valyrian sword piqued even more.

Jaehaerys chuckles, "Ha, good one, little girl, but do not busy yourself with swords. You should instead focus on what's important, and that's your studies, and one day you will have a duty to the realm to have babies. It will be the Royce child's job to defend the realm as a Knight of the Vale and as a Lord of Runestone."

Rhaenyra nods obediently but asks, "Why can't I have a sword? Queen Visenya had a sword."

The King shakes his head, "Yes, Visenya did, and she was a warrior. But she was evil; it's a sign that all women should never ever be like her. They can be like my grandmother Rhaenys, but they must not take up the duties of war past dragonback. And you girls and women are far too flakey for battle." He pauses, then adds, "Your strength lies in your intelligence and cunning, not in wielding a sword. My wife proved that much, and she was as much a Targaryen as anyone." The King's words echoed in the room, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

Despite his dismissal of women warriors, even Ser Ryam did have to wonder if perhaps there were old wounds unhealed from the days of old when Jaehaerys, Alysanne, and their mother Alyssa were held captive on Dragonstone by Visenya.

In the courtyard stood Ser Harrold, who was already standing nearby the wheelhouse. He helped Rhaenyra and Gwayne on before offering his arm to the Old King, who got inside with them.

Ser Harrold and Ser Ryam got on two horses and followed the wheelhouse as it left the courtyard of the Red Keep and went eastward toward the Dragon Pit. As they rode, Gwayne and Rhaenyra peered out the window of the wheelhouse, looking at the citizens and the sights of the city.

Despite the stench of the city, they couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement at the prospect of seeing this mysterious dragon that belongs to the Old King. The people of King's Landing stopped and stared as the royal procession made its way through the streets, creating a buzz of anticipation. Rhaenyra and Gwayne exchanged excited whispers as they waved at the people as they passed them.

At the Dragon Pit they saw a strange group of men outside of it wearing armor adorned with dragon motifs, clearly guards of some sort. The guards eyed them and bowed as they approached.

"Is my Bronze Fury awake?" Jaehaerys asks as he walks towards one of the guards. The guard nods and gestures for them to follow, leading them into the Dragon Pit. Inside, they are met with the awful smell of dragon. The heat from the dragons' breathing washed over them as they walked around in the torch-lit chamber, marveling at the size and power of the creatures.

"Ynot Vermithor!" Jaehaerys said as he walked a little deeper into the chamber, asking his dragon to come to him in High Valyrian. Inside they could see a large creature in the back begin to stir and grumble. The children looked on in awe as Vermithor slowly rose to his feet, his massive wings unfurling.

Jaehaerys smiles at his great bronze beast. "Māzīs!" Jaehaerys shouts, and Vermithor roars in response, the sound echoing off the stone walls of the chamber.

The children could feel the power and majesty of the dragon as he walked towards the Old King and bowed his head to him. Jaehaerys rested his hand on the great dragon's head. "Come closer, Royce child and Princess. He will not harm you as long as I am near him." The children cautiously approached Vermithor, feeling a mix of fear and excitement. Jaehaerys' reassuring presence calmed their nerves as they reached out to touch the dragon's scales, marveling at his magnificence.

Vermithor looked at the two children touching his face and let out a low rumble, almost like a purr. "Does he like us?" Gwayne asked as he softly petted Vermithor's chin.

"I believe he does, Royce; actually, he likes anyone I tell him to. So as long as you aren't Dornish or Myrish, you should be fine. He loves the taste of those strange foreign people; he's a good boy." Jaehaerys chuckled at his own joke, causing Gwayne and Royce to laugh nervously. As Vermithor continued to allow the children to pet him.

"You see, dragons are odd creatures. They are only bonded to one rider at a time. The same goes for a rider; they can't have two dragons, only one. The only way a dragon rider can have two dragons is if one of them dies, and even then it's rare. The Targaryens came over with only five dragons originally; one of them died. Its name was Nyserion. It was a massive red and silver she-dragon, but with its rider still alive, I believe it was Aelyx who was its rider. He had tried to claim another old dragon known as Velmyros, who was the mate to his now-deceased dragon, Nyserion, a massive blue and gold dragon said to have been ridden by Aenar Targaryen when he first came to Westeros. Well, Velmyros ended up burning and killing Aelyx because it could still smell the scent of its mate on him. Funnily enough, it's one of the few instances in recent memory of a dragon turning on House Targaryen. I'm sure it's happened over the centuries, but if so, not on Dragonstone." Jaehaerys said as he patted Vermithor's snout.

"Pālegon Vermithor," Jaehaerys said to the dragon, telling it to turn. Vermithor grunts and turns. "Say, we go for a ride, children?" Jaehaerys mounted Vermithor and gestured for Ser Ryam to help the children to climb on in front of him. The King strapped the children to the saddle and he himself. "Sōvēs Vermithor sōvēs!" Jaehaerys yelled as Vermithor approached the exit of the dragon pit, stretching out his wings. The children squealed with excitement as Vermithor took off into the sky, the wind whipping through their hair.

Vermithor went diagonally into the sky above King's Landing.

"Ha ha ha!" Jaehaerys laughed as he felt the wind bristle through his beard. Isn't this amazing, Baelon and Alyssa? Ha ha, I love it!" Jaehaerys says happily; the children glance at him confused, unsure why he called them Baelon and Alyssa.

"Vermithor is the second largest of our dragons. Followed by his mate and sister egg, Silverwing." Jaehaerys said as he held tightly onto the grips of the saddle, feeling the powerful muscles of the dragon beneath him. He led Vermithor in a circle around the hill of Rhaenys, pointing out Flea Bottom to the children.

"Do you see that filthy place down there? That is Flea Bottom; it's where the poorest of King's Landing reside," Jaehaerys explained, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind. The children likely didn't hear a word he said, and he knew that.

Most children don't care much for history or geography, especially when they're flying on the back of a dragon. But Jaehaerys hoped that at least a small seed of knowledge had been planted in their minds. "All of this combined, from Flea Bottom all the way up to the Dragonpit, is called Rhaeny's Hill." The Old King shouted as he circled around the hill twice more.

"Can Vermithor breathe fire like Vhagar?" Gwayne yells as they fly swiftly through the air.

"Yes, he can. Remember what I told you earlier about dragon bonds? Try to tell him the command." Jaehaerys instructed.

"Dracarys!" Gwayne shouts. Vermithor replies with a hiss, showing his disapproval of the command and its commander.

"See, he doesn't listen to you because I am bonded to him. Even though you ride him and my bloodline courses through your veins, he still only listens to me." Jaehaerys says with a tone of superiority. "Dracarys, Vermithor!" Jaehaerys shouts, and Vermithor is quick to reply, shooting fire out above them. Rhaenyra and Gwayne look up in awe as they watch the fire move above them. Jaehaerys leads Vermithor to dip as they head back towards the Dragon Pit. They land back inside of the Pit, with Jaehaerys motioning for Gwayne and Rhaenyra to get off before he does so as to not cause any hijinks. Jaehaerys climbs off of the mighty dragon next, having some trouble until Ser Ryam walks over and gives his arm to the Old King. Who grabs it and stumbles off of Vermithor. The old King nods at Ser Ryam and pets Vermithor's side once more before hobbling away on his cane.

"Well, children, how was my Bronze Fury?" Jaehaerys asked as he followed the two out of the Dragon Pit.

Gwayne and Rhaenyra exchanged a look before Rhaenyra spoke up, "He was the best; he's really pretty."

"I suppose he is; you should have seen my wife's dragon or my sister's. Those are what I would call pretty." Jaehaerys said, "My sister Rhaena had a beautiful dragon named Dreamfyre. She is blue and pink, and she sparkles in the sunlight like a gemstone. And my wife Alysanne's dragon, Silverwing, is pure white and silver, and she is as graceful as a swan in flight."

Rhaenyra and Gwayne listen to him in awe as they load back up onto the wheelhouse with the help of Ser Ryam and Ser Harrold.

"Princess, I think you might have a young dragon in the pit, correct?" Jaehaerys says as he scrathes his head.

"Maybe, my daddy said that I have a dragon and that one day I could visit it, but I'm still too little he said." Rhaenyra smiles up at Jaehaerys, her eyes shining with excitement. "I can't wait to see my dragon one day," she says eagerly.

"Yes, I'm sure you can't. See my dragon Vermithor he was born in my cradle as well. Now he's the second largest dragon in the world." Jaehaerys proudly boasts, puffing out his chest.

"Will I get to have a dragon?" Gwayne asks, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"No, you are not a Targaryen, you are a Royce. You must never have a dragon." Jaehaerus says shattering the little boys hopes, Gwayne's face falls as he processes the disappointment.

"Well Gwayne is my cousin, so isn't he a Targaryen?" Rhaenyra asks, trying to console her crestfallen bestie.

"Yes and no. When um.. Let me see. Yes when Lord Royce died and umm.. His mother became the Lady of the castle. Making him heir apparent and in turn a Royce. So yeah he was a Targaryen but he was always going to be a Royce so he could claim the Ruined Chair." Jaehaerys explains to the children, his own memory failing him as he tried to think back to the history of House Royce.

"Well, can I just be a Targaryen?" Gwayne asks hopefully, looking up at Jaehaerys with big, pleading eyes.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Royce. And it never will be; you will always be part of the family, but you will never be family." Jaehaerys replies rudely. Gwayne's face falls, disappointment evident in his expression as he processes Jaehaerys' words. Jaehaerys sighs, realizing the weight of the truth he had just imparted on the young boy.

The trip back to the Red Keep was rather boring and silent. Jaehaerys fell asleep, and Gwayne was still rather disappointed he was never going to have a dragon and he had to leave to go home today. As they approached the Red Keep, Jaehaerys stirred awake and noticed Gwayne's dejected expression; he hated to see his children like that, and now he was looking at his great-grandchildren, who had the same expression. Saera, Vaegon, he knows he did wrong by them, and now they were his only children left, and they were as distant as ever.

The door to the wheelhouse opens, and Ser Ryam helps Jaehaerys out first, who steadies himself with his cane. He then pulls Rhaenyra and Gwayne out as well.

Just then a group of brown horses approached with the Royce banner fluttering in the sky above them. It was Gwayne's mother who led the group; she wore brown and blue clothing, much like Gwayne, symbolizing their house and their liege lords, the Arryns. She dismounted gracefully and approached Gwayne with a semi-anxious expression as she noticed the company that her son was keeping.

"Your majesty," she greeted Jaehaerys with a deep bow, her eyes flickering briefly to Rhaenyra before returning to Gwayne. "Lady Royce," Jaehaerys acknowledged with a nod, sensing the tension in the air as the two families stood facing each other.

"Do take note, Lady Royce, that my personal guard are not your babysitters. There are septas, servants, and nannies all around; look to one of them rather than endangering MY safety." Jaehaerys says firmly he wasn't sure why he was upset. He just had a good time with two of his great-grandchildren.

Rhea was taken aback and nodded before the king. "My apologies, your grace; it won't happen again."

Jaehaerys nodded, and he walked back towards the Red Keep with Ser Ryam not far behind him.

Rhea eyed him warily as she looked back at Gwayne. "Ok, it's time for us to go Gwayne. Say goodbye to Rhaenyra."

Gwayne nodded and turned his gaze from his mother to Rhaenyra. "I'll miss you," he murmured as she walked over to him and embraced him tightly. Rhea watched them for a moment before leading Gwayne away, feeling a pang of sadness at the thought of leaving her niece and her son's friend.

She sat Gwayne up on her horse, and then she climbed up as well.

"Wait!" Ser Harrold shouted as he walked over to them with a leather satchel. "I have a gift for the young prince." Rhea smiled gratefully as she watched Ser Harrold hand him the satchel, which began to meow and move around. Gwayne's eyes widened in surprise as he opened the satchel to reveal a small, fluffy kitten inside. It was the brown striped kitten that he and Rhaenyra hadn't gotten to name.

"You're giving him one of the kittens?" Rhaenyra asked in astonishment. Ser Harrold nodded, "I thought it would be a good companion for him on his journey." Rhea eyed him as she began to realize now she also had a companion for the long journey ahead.

"Thank you so much, Ser Harrold, I love him!" Gwayne exclaimed, his face lighting up with joy as he gently picked up the kitten.

"Yes, Ser Harrold, thank you so much for including his mother in your plans as well." She said with sarcasm. Ser Harrold chuckled at Rhea's sarcasm, knowing she was grateful deep down. "Of course, it wouldn't be right for the young boy to go off without at least one of the friends he's made." Ser Harrold picked Rhaenyra up and held her against his side.

"What will you name him?" Rhaenyra asked, looking down at the small kitten in Gwayne's arms. "I think I'll name him Harrold," Gwayne replied, a smile still on his face as he looked at his new furry companion.

"You ought not name him after something so ugly, but I appreciate the gesture, Gwayne." Ser Harrold chuckled, amused by Gwayne's choice of name for the kitten.

"Goodbye both of you, stay safe and we'll see you both again one day." Rhea waved as she looked back at her men making sure they were ready as she gripped the reins of her horse and prepared to ride off into the distance.

Rhaenyra and Gwayne continued to shout their farewells as Rhea rode off with Gwayne, as Rhaenyra and Ser Harrold watched them go.

Chapter Text

The Day before the Great Council, already things were hectic; it took almost half a year for them to assemble. Even Harrenhal was not built for the multitude of people, for each lord was accompanied by a squad of people. Tymond Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, brought three hundred men with him. Not to be outdone, Lord Matthos Tyrell of Highgarden brought five hundred. The Lord of Storm's End, Boremund Baratheon, brought close to six hundred knights to defend the honor of his niece, the Princess Rhaenys. While Corlys Velaryon sailed ten ships to Maidenpool and came forward with close to five hundred men himself. Lord Ellard Stark of Winterfell rode with his bannermen, the women, children, and people of every trade totaling over a thousand people from the North. Meanwhile, Ser Rollam Royce rode in the name of the Eyrie, representing the Lady Jeyne Arryn as the Lord Protector of the Vale until she is of age. (I didn't realize that Yorbert Royce represented Lady Jeyne during the Great Council…oops. So now there is an uncle for Rhea, Ser Rollam.)

In the eastern part of the Riverlands came Lord Grover Tully of Riverrun, leading the smallest regiment of all with only twenty knights. The Ironborn were ever present as well, as the Greyjoys, Botleys, Harlaws, and many other banners flew high in Harrenton. Even the Dornishmen were represented; the Prince of Dorne sent his daughter and twenty Dornish knights to Harrenhal as observers. The High Septon came from Oldtown to bless the assembly. Merchants and tradesmen descended upon Harrenhal by the hundreds. Hedge knights and freeriders came in hopes of finding work for their swords, cutpurses came seeking after coin, and old women and young girls came seeking after husbands. Thieves and whores, washerwomen and camp followers, singers and mummers, they came from east and west and north and south. A city of tents sprang up outside the walls of Harrenhal and along the shoreline for leagues in each direction. For a time Harrenton was the fourth biggest city in the realm; only Oldtown, King’s Landing, and Lannisport were larger. One at a time, each lord, low, small, high, and mighty, was brought inside the sept of Harrenhal, where they would cast their vote before the Hand of the King, Lord Otto Hightower, and the High Septon.

Inside Harrenhal

"Are you alright, my love?" Lord Corlys asked his wife as she sat in a chair gazing out the window at the various banners, held by men who would choose her fate. Ever since she was told about this awful idea, she had tried to do the math in her head and figure out which lords would support her and which would turn against her.

"I am here, husband; I am exhausted, truth be told. I have pondered on this day for many moons now, and I wish to see it over. I fear… I know how this shall turn out." Rhaenys said with a heavy heart, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lord Corlys crosses his arms as he walks over to her and places his hands on her shoulder. "This should not even be a question; you are the King's oldest descendant. He is a fool to not see that."

Rhaenys almost cracks a smile at his words, feeling a glimmer of hope in her heart. "Sadly, I believe that same foolishness is what leads the hearts of nearly everyone here, my love."

"I will not speak evilly of your cousin, for Viserys is a good man at heart, but he does not deserve the throne; this would not even be a question if you were born a man." Corlys squeezes her shoulder reassuringly before leaning in to whisper, "But you are strong, Rhaenys. Stronger than any man I've ever known. The fleets of the Crownlands are at my behest, and your uncle is ready to strike his banners upon your word. Know this: I am ready to take your throne for you by force, if necessary. Just say the word, and we will make it happen."

Rhaenys turns around in her chair and looks at her husband; she places a hand on his cheek and gives him a grateful smile. "Thank you, my love," she says softly. "But if the realm chooses Viserys, I do not wish to war for it. They would turn on me and call me Maegor with teats if I did. Just as I said before, if we can ensure Laena's and Laenor's safety, then that is enough for me."

Corlys nods in understanding, his eyes filled with admiration for her wisdom and grace. "I will support you in whatever decision you make, my queen," he replies, his voice full of unwavering loyalty.

"I know that you have the best interests of our family at heart, but I mean it. I will not plunge the realm into war over a birthright that has been stripped from me. I am content with you, our children, and our family's well-being being the top priority," Rhaenys says as she stands up from her chair and kisses her husband on the cheek before turning to leave the room.

Outside Harrenton

"This place looks ugly, Mommy," Gwayne said as he held his mother's hand as they walked into Harrenton.

"Yes it is, but we'll only be here for a short time, I hope." Lady Royce said as she looked around in the massive crowd of people. "Ronnet, Gerald, Layfied, Mick, do any of you see any Vale Banners?" She asked her Royce guards as they scanned the area for any sign of their fellow Valemen.

"Not yet, my lady. I see banners from the Westerlands and the Reach thus far; they might be on the other side." Layfield replied, squinting his eyes to get a better view of the surroundings. Layfield was one of Lady Royce's closest confidants and her most trusted guard. Layfield has a towering and imposing physique, standing at 6 feet 6 inches. He has a broad, muscular build. And his facial features include a strong jawline, a prominent forehead, and piercing eyes; his hair was a light shade of brown that stood out against his fair skin.

Rhea led her guards and her son towards the most southern part of Harrenton. Gwayne was still carrying around his new kitten, Harrold, who was peeking his head out of the satchel around Gwayne's neck; the brown striped kitten had quickly become attached to him.

As they approached the southern part of Harrenton, they began to see more familiar banners. They could see the purple banner of Belmore, the black and green banner of Lynderly, and the blue Arryn falcon flying high.

"There's the banners of the Vale," Rhea said, pointing towards the familiar sigils.

"Will Jeyne be here, Mommy?" Gwayne asked hopefully, his eyes wide with excitement.

"I don't believe so, but your Uncle Rollam should be here in her stead." Rhea smiled down at her son, and stroked his brown hair affectionately. "I'm sure he'll be just as happy to see you," she reassured him.

As the six of them approached, two guards wearing the armor of House Arryn approached them. One of them stepped forward and greeted them, "Lady Royce, your tent is ready, and your Uncle has requested your presence."

"Understood, lead us to him, come on Gwayne." Rhea followed the guard, holding Gwayne's hand as they made their way through the bustling camp.

The guard led them to a large tent, which had the sigil of House Arryn emblazoned on it along with a few Royce banners flying in the air outside of it. Out from it stepped Ser Rollam Royce, the Lord Protector of the Vale."Rhea! How wonderful to see ye. Aye, and there's young Gwayne as well!"

Rhea smiled warmly at her uncle and replied, "It's good to see you too, Uncle Rollam. We have both missed you severely."

"I've missed you both as well; how was the capital?" Rollam inquired, as he gestured for them to enter the tent.

"It was the usual hog shit-smelling place it always is," Rhea replied with a chuckle. "But we managed to survive the stench and the politics, thankfully."

"I can only imagine; I always did hate the smell of that city. I'm surprised anyone lives there at all." Rollam, said with a laugh. He then looked down at Gwayne's satchel, where Harrold was peeking his head out. "Who do we have here?" Rollam asked with a smile, reaching out to gently pet Harrold, who sunk his head back into the satchel.

"That's my kitten; his name is Harrold." Gwayne explained, looking fondly at his furry companion. "He's from the Pig Yard. I was feeding him and his mommy, his brothers, and his sister and stuff when they were really small."

Rollam chuckled listening to his great-nephew's story. "Well, Harrold seems to have found a good home with you," he remarked.

Rollam then looked to Rhea and said to her, "I was hoping I might talk to you for a moment. Who do you plan to vote for? I have my reservations about both options for different reasons."

Rhea looked over at Gwayne for a moment; she had already contemplated this in her mind, and it was a thought she had now had for several years since she was wed to Daemon five years ago. There wasn't an ounce of hesitation in Rhea's voice when she replied, "Rhaenys, she is from the elder line. I've met her before, and she seems to genuinely care about the people. I believe she is the best choice for the Vale."

Rollam scratched his head in confusion. "But what about him?" Rollam eyes at Gwayne, who was playing with Harrold on the floor; he was seemingly not paying attention. "If Rhaenys wins, you'll be disaligning him further from the throne; if Viserys wins and has no more children with Aemma, then that means after Daemon, it would be him as our king."

Rhea sighs, "I know that, Uncle, and I've wrestled with my decision for quite a while now, but I have to do what's best for him, and I do not care for that city or all of the political scheming going on in it. I know I could be sabotaging his future, but ultimately I believe that keeping him further from the line of succession will protect him from the dangers of court life and allow him to live a more peaceful life as the Lord of Runestone."

Rhea's voice wavers as she continues, "I understand the weight of my choice, but I cannot bear to see my son caught up in the treacherous world of King's Landing. My sweet, loving, adventurous boy deserves a chance at a simpler life, away from the constant power struggles and deceit that plague the capital."

Ser Rollam nods in understanding, his expression softening as he sees the depth of Rhea's concern for her son. "It is a difficult decision to make, but ultimately a mother's love knows what is best for her child, and above all, I trust you as my liege lord," he says reassuringly.

Rhea smiles at her uncle, "Thank you for understanding my reasoning, and after everything that happened with Jeyne in the last few years, it might be best to have a woman on the throne."

"Good point, Rhea. I hadn't even thought of it in that regard, but you're right. A woman ruler might help her claim against Arnold." Ser Rollam said, nodding in agreement.

At the sound of the names of her father's and brother's killers, she grimaces. "I still think you should have killed him. He killed my father, your brother; his uprising against Jeyne was unprecedented. He allied with the Stonecrows and killed all three of my brothers in battle and killed my father not long after."

Ser Rollam's face darkened at the mention of Arnold's atrocities. "I wanted to, but Jeyne said no. I tried every way that I could to get her to have him be executed, exiled, or anything so that you and I could kill him personally, but to her that is still her family. She mourns her father still, and I don't think she understands the true extent of all of this. But he will pay one way or another. On the graves of my brother and my nephews, I swear that he shall know that We Remeber." he vowed.

Lord Otto stood atop a hill overlooking Harrenton; the town was bustling with all sorts of people. His efforts for the king had worn him out in the last few weeks. He had contacted minor lords in the Westerlands, Riverlands, The Reach, and The Vale, asking them to consider how the male line should always come before the female; he even used quotes from the seven-pointed star to prove his case. All of which were hand-delivered by his friends in the Reach, with those that understood and agreed with those ideas getting 30 gold dragons for their efforts from the King's treasury.

"You look exhausted, Otto. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the one preparing to be named heir to the throne." A familiar voice said from behind him; he turned and looked and saw that it was his brother, Lord Hobert Hightower.

Otto chuckles, "If I had known how much effort this would take, I might have preferred it. But it is nearly done. Most of the realm’s lords have arrived, and their leanings are clearer now than before. Viserys has the numbers."

"So it is certain?" Hobert asks his younger brother with a raised eyebrow.

Otto nods, "Certain enough. The Riverlands lean toward him, thanks to Lord Bracken and the good sense of those who do not wish to see blood spilled over a woman’s claim. The Reach is decently steadied—our kin have ensured that. The majority of the Westerlands stand with us, and Selyse has worked tirelessly to keep those from the Reach from drifting. It is not total, but it is enough."

"What about the other lands?" Lord Hobert inquires, "You still must contend with the Stormlands, Crownlands, North, and Vale; do you know where their allegiances lie?"

Otto's expression turns thoughtful as he replies, "I did not dabble in the Stormlands, but we have allies there, and from the looks of it, Rhaenys has a majority of the support. The Crownlands have been indirectly ruled by House Targaryen since they came, but Bar Emmon, Celtigar, Darklyn, and the others will join their own, and seeing as Rhaenys has a Velaryon husband, they shall likely stand with her. The North and Vale remain uncertain, as do the Iron Islands, though they don't matter much, though. If I were to bet on it, though, I would assume the Vale will back Viserys, seeing as how the Arryns and the Royces are married in."

Hobert crossed his arms. "It sounds like this is foolproof, brother, but you speak as if Corlys Velaryon is of no concern. He is a proud man, Otto, and powerful. What will he do when his wife is denied her birthright a second time?"

Otto chuckled and shook his head. "He will fume. He will rage. But what can he do? He commands ships, not swords, and he will not make war on the realm over this. He would sooner drown in his own pride. If he had the strength to press her claim, he would have done so years ago. He did not. And he will not now. Even if he did, he would be outnumbered. The Stormlands and Crownlands would be his only backing, and despite my disdain for Prince Daemon, I do imagine that in dragon warfare he would match Rhaenys on the red queen. At best it would kill them both."

"For all of our sakes, I hope you're right, brother," Hobert replied, his gaze fixed on the horizon overlooking Harrenton. "Anyways, how fares Selyse and the little ones?"

Otto smiles at his brother, grateful for the change of subject. "She is well. Tireless, as ever. If not for her, half of these lords would still be dithering over their votes. That Hightower silver has come in handy in more ways than one, and it has been greasing pockets since she brought it."

"That is what family is for, is it not?" Hobert smirks as he places a hand on his brother's shoulder. "This is a Hightower endeavor as much as it is a royal one. I would not see Oldtown diminished by the whims of the Velaryons."

Otto nods in agreement, a glint of determination in his eyes. "Tomorrow, the lords of the realm will cast their votes. By sunset, we will have a new heir. Viserys will sit the throne after his grandsire, and with him, the realm will remain as it should be."

"So says the Seven," Hobert responds with a confident smile.

Inside Harrenhal

"I thought you would be happier about this, seeing as how this is likely to end." Viserys says as he looks up at the dripping ceiling in his chamber in Harrenhal.

"I would have been happier if Caraxes were here; instead, I'm stuck here with a crowd of drunks and despots." Daemon Targaryen says as he grimaces at the surroundings.

"They sound like your type of people," Viserys chuckles, knowing Daemon's reputation for enjoying the company of rebels and troublemakers. "Perhaps you'll find some entertainment after all."

"There's not even going to be a tourney, Viserys; this is all a waste of time." Daemon remarks, crossing his arms in frustration.

"No, this is going to be one of the most important events of our lifetime. We may very well know how it shall end, but still nothing like this has ever happened before." Viserys replies, his eyes glinting with as much excitement as he could have over all of this. "Did you know that there are people here from as far as Yi Ti?"

Daemon snorted. “If I wanted to see a bunch of cunts wearing monkey-tail hats, I would have flown Caraxes over to Yi Ti myself.”

Viserys laughed, shaking his head. “Of course you would. But still, I never expected all of this—the spectacle, the scale of it. It is… something to behold.”

Daemon grimaced, glancing around the decaying chamber, the blackened stone marred by the wrath of Balerion over a century ago. “It would only be a sight if someone died,” he muttered. “A good fight would make this interesting.” His voice lowered, taking on a more serious edge. “I still think you should have let me bring my men inside Harrenhal. What’s your plan if Corlys Velaryon decides he doesn’t accept the result?”

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “You’d rather I declare war on Rhaenys and Corlys, I know that much.”

Daemon smirked. “It would solve the problem quickly.”

Viserys set his cup down with a soft thud and gave his brother a weary look. “And throw the realm into chaos? Have the Velaryon fleet blockade King’s Landing? Corlys controls half the trade routes of Westeros, and Rhaenys is no meek woman. A war against them would not be won easily.”

Daemon shrugged, feigning indifference. “You think Jaehaerys hasn’t already rigged this council in your favor? The lords will never choose a woman when they have a male option—even if that male option doesn’t particularly want it.”

Viserys exhaled, rubbing his beard thoughtfully. “Rhaenys would make a better ruler. She’s smarter than me, and she has Corlys at her side. But I tried telling that to our grandsire, and he nearly had a fit over it. He wants me on the throne, whether I wish it or not.”

Daemon leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he watched his brother closely. “Then accept it. Rule with strength, and cut down those who challenge you. If Corlys so much as looks at you the wrong way, I will see to it that Driftmark is ash before sunset.”

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head. “You and your fire and blood…” He trailed off, his gaze turning thoughtful. “Daemon, this isn’t a battle to be won with a sword. You cannot simply kill anyone who disagrees with me.”

Daemon tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Why not? It’s worked before.”

Viserys sighed, knowing there was little point in arguing. Instead, he shifted the conversation. “And what of your son? Have you written to Gwayne?”

The smirk vanished from Daemon’s face in an instant. His jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, something unreadable flickered across his expression. “Why would I?”

Viserys studied him for a long moment before pulling a worn letter from his tunic. He unfolded it and laid it on the table between them. “Because our father wished it.”

Daemon didn’t move, but his eyes locked onto the letter like it was something venomous.

“He wanted you to be better than he was,” Viserys said, his voice softer now.

Daemon’s lips curled in disdain. “Our father was a miserable old man until Gwayne was born. He barely noticed us before that.” He glanced away, something dark and bitter settling into his voice. “And now you expect me to care for a boy who hardly knows me and clings to his mother’s skirts?”

Viserys didn’t look away. “You are his father, Daemon. No matter how much you pretend otherwise.”

Daemon’s fingers twitched at his side. His usual smirk was gone, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he scoffed and turned toward the door. “He has his mother. He has you. He does not need me.”

“Perhaps,” Viserys admitted, his voice quiet. “But maybe you need him.”

Daemon’s shoulders stiffened for half a second before he let out a short, mirthless chuckle. “Spare me the sentiment, brother.” He pulled open the heavy wooden door. “I’ll be at the feast. Maybe some poor fool will challenge me to a fight and make this damn council worth my time.”

Viserys watched him go, amusement creeping back into his features. He raised his goblet once more. “Try not to kill anyone important.”

Daemon glanced over his shoulder, a smirk finally returning to his face as he stepped into the hall. “No promises.”

As the door shut behind him, Viserys exhaled, swirling the wine in his goblet. The Great Council had yet to begin, but in many ways, the battle had already started.

Chapter Text

The city of King's Landing was eerily quiet, much quieter than it usually was. Most of its population had gone to Harrenhal for the Great Council. The effects of which were still felt inside of the royal castle; the Red Keep stood nearly empty, with a large portion of guards going with the Lord Hand, the rest staying in the castle with the Old King, his granddaughter, and the Lord Hand's family.

King Jaehaerys sat in his solar with Selyse, listening while she read to him from the seven-pointed star charts that Maester Lomys had brought from the Citadel. Though the words of the father and the maiden fled Selyse's lips, his mind still could not focus on anything besides the Council. It was happening, and he was here waiting for an uncontested result, which he himself knew and planned. Viserys would succeed him upon his death; he has everything he wanted, a male to follow him and ascend the Iron Throne. However, deep down, King Jaehaerys couldn't shake off the feeling of unease about his choice; Viserys was a fat and jolly man, still lacking the sharpness and cunning required to rule effectively. Jahaerys prayed for the sake of his legacy and dynasty that Viserys would prove him wrong and grow into a wise and capable ruler.

"Is something on your mind, your grace?" Lady Seylse asked him; her red hair sat around her shoulders like a fiery halo.

King Jaehaerys looked at her, his expression troubled. "I fear I'm not sure what it is, but I fear," he confessed, his voice heavy with concern. Lady Seylse reached out and took his hand, offering him comfort, her pale, elegant hand resting on top of his.

"It is over the council, isn't it?" Selyse asked, her face unwavering as she looked over the charts in front of her, "Do you see this line of stars here? It is known as the sword of the morning; it represents a new dawn and a new day. It is available now upon the early moons of the harvest. I believe that the fear you feel is simply the anticipation of change and the unknown. Embrace it as a chance for growth and renewal." Selyse said slyly, a small smile playing on her lips as she continued to study the charts.

"I do suppose so, but is the dawn of Viserys being named as Prince of Dragonstone truly a wise decision?" Jaehaerys questioned as he himself gleamed over the charts.

Selyse spoke softly, her eyes glinting with hidden knowledge. "Your son, one of the most respected maesters of Oldtown, gave me his words to give unto you. I recall that he had a bronze ring on his chain. That link represents those who have an astonishing level of knowledge of the stars, sun, and moons. I have to imagine that his long journey from King's Landing and seeing the many moons and stars must've given him a level of understanding and insight that few possess."

Jaehaerys strummed his fingers through his thinning silver beard as he considered Selyse's words. "Yes, Vaegon. He is and was always fascinated by the celestial bodies, even as a young boy. He and Boremund Barathe… Hmm, no, that's not quite right; forgive me, my memory fails me sometimes. I… mean to say that I trust him; his ability for knowledge far exceeds my own at this point in my life," he said with a fading smile.

Selyse nodded in agreement, as she thought to herself about how she truly did hope that Jaehaerys would continue to rely on 'Vaegon' for his wisdom and guidance in the years to come.

"I must say, though, my King, that I did wonder how it is that…"

Just then the doors to the King's Solar slammed open. "Get out of my way, Redwyne!" Jaehaerys's half-sister and daughter-in-law, Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, barged in, her eyes filled with Baratheon fury. Ser Ryam Redwyne nodded at the king and closed the door once more, leaving Selyse and Jaehaerys alone with Lady Jocelyn's unexpected intrusion.

"Jocelyn," Jaehaerys said slowly, his voice cold but his eyes sharp, the fury within him rising. "Do not raise your voice in my presence."

Jocelyn’s lip curled, and she stopped just before the king, her fists clenched. "Raise my voice? You’ve done enough raising with this foolish decision you've made."

"The realm will not accept a ruling queen." Jaehaerys said firmly, his tone unwavering. "Your defiance will not change that fact."

Jocelyn glared at him, her anger palpable as she stood her ground. "the realm? The realm is not sitting on that throne—you are. And it is you who raised Rhaenys to be a dragon. Did you do so only to clip her wings when the sky lay before her?"

Jaehaerys narrowed his eyes, a flicker of doubt crossing his face before he composed himself. "You speak as if this is a simple matter—"

Jocelyn slams her fist on the table, cutting him off. "IT IS!" Jocelyn's mighty and booming Baratheon voice could be heard all through the holdfast.

"You are the king! What you say is the law! Aemon was your heir! His daughter is your heir! You can end this now, and yet you sit there like a coward and let those men speak of Rhaenys as if she were some baseborn whelp!"

"You will NOT raise your voice in my presence!" Jaehaerys roared, his own anger rising to match Jocelyn's.

Jocelyn stood her ground, her eyes blazing with fury, "Or what? Will you have me dragged from the hall for speaking the truth? Shall I kneel before you like a beggar while you strip my daughter of what is hers by right? Through the blood of your firstborn son!"

Jaehaerys clenched his fist as he stood behind his chair. "Do not speak to me of blood, Jocelyn. You speak of heirs, but I have always made decisions for the good of the realm. I will not let one woman’s claim be treated as if it were above all others. I have chosen this path for the sake of peace. For the sake of the crown."

Jocelyn’s eyes flashed with disbelief. "Peace? You think this council will bring peace? You think that Baelon's boy is the answer?" Her voice was rising now, every word dripping with scorn. "That bloated fool who can hardly keep his belly in check, let alone his kingdom? He’s not fit to sit on the throne! It’s Rhaenys who should be crowned! Not him, not this farce you’ve created. You’ve betrayed her, Jaehaerys, and you’ve betrayed this kingdom’s future."

Jaehaerys's voice boomed across the bookshelves. "You dare lecture me, Jocelyn? You dare accuse me of betrayal? I have held this crown for more years than you can count, and I have seen this kingdom torn apart. I have kept the peace, and I have kept the dragons in check. And now, you come to me—here—after all these years of biting your tongue on Driftmark, to tell me how to rule? I will not be bullied into a decision by anyone—least of all you. You are not Alysanne, you are not your husband, and you are not our mother. I have made my choice, and it stands. You will respect that, or you and anyone else shall find yourselves banished from this kingdom forever. I have faced challenges greater than you can imagine, and I will not be swayed by your attempts to see Rhaenys claim the throne."

Jocelyn turned on her heel, her voice seething with venom. "You want me to respect a decision that will doom us all? You speak of peace, but your stubbornness will tear this family apart, and you know it!" Her voice broke with emotion, but it only fueled her fury. "Rhaenys is the rightful heir, not that whelp of a grandson of yours! Aemon would have chosen his daughter; I believe that even Baelon knew that, yet he apparently lost his balls, much like you have."

The words hit Jaehaerys like a slap, and his face twisted in fury. "Perhaps if you had done a better job in the bedchamber, you might have borne a son worthy of the throne. But alas, you failed in that regard, and now you cast your judgments upon me."

Jocelyn recoiled as if struck, but her rage only intensified. Her hands clenched into fists, trembling with fury. "How dare you," she hissed, stepping closer to the king, her face twisted in disgust. "How dare you speak of me in that way? How dare you dishonor my beloved's memory? How ashamed would our mother be of you, Jaehaerys? How ashamed would Alysanne be, and how ashamed would Aemon be to see you with your pathetic choices, your indecision, your weakness? The House of the Dragon has become the House of Chickens."

Jaehaerys threw his goblet on the floor, the sound of shattering glass echoing through the room. "You forget yourself, sister," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I am still your king, and you will show me revere. Leave now, Jocelyn, before I have you thrown from my sight."

"Come the dawn of your death, you shall see that much like your body, this realm will burn too. If you will not see your sister and your son's beloved daughter upon the throne, then you may look from the seven hells and see it in the flames of your own making." With a final glare, Jocelyn turned and left the room, her steps echoing down the corridor as Jaehaerys sat back in his seat, his jaw clenched in anger.

With that, she turned and strode out of the room, the heavy door slamming behind her. The room fell into a tense silence, Selyse’s gaze lingering on the door before she turned back to the old king.

"You see, Your Grace," she said, her voice soft and comforting, "you’ve made the right choice. This will bring peace, just as Vaegon said it would."

Jaehaerys sat back, his mind spinning. He took off his crown for a moment and looked at it with a mix of regret and sorrow. He was weary, but the weight of his decision gnawed at him. Viserys was not the king the realm needed. But it was too late now.

Chapter Text

The twenty-third day of the third moon, 108 years since Aegon's Conquest.

It was a brisk and chilly spring morning in the Vale of Arryn. The air was still laced with the bite of winter’s retreat, but hints of green were beginning to peek through the frostbitten landscape. Spring had only just returned to the Vale after a brutal five-year winter that had strangled much of the northern continent in icy silence following the death of the Old King.

Gwayne Royce, now a boy of eleven, sat in the courtyard wrapped in a brown long coat, with a striped cat atop his lap, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. His eyes, one pale Royce grey and the other a striking purple, followed the movements of Maester Marshell’s quill as the older man recited the seats of power in the North.

“Whose seat is Karhold?” the maester asked, his tone dry but firm.

“Karstark,” Gwayne replied, not missing a beat.

The maester nodded in approval and scratched a note onto the parchment before him. “And this one—the flayed man of the Dreadfort. Whose seat is it?”

Gwayne didn’t even glance at the parchment. “House Bolton,” he said, folding his arms with a quiet sort of pride. The geography of the North, Riverlands, and Vale had always come easily to him—those were still the lands of the Old Gods, after all.

“Very good, Gwayne,” Maester Marshell said, tapping the map with the tip of his quill. “Now, this one. Known as Greywater Watch. Whose seat?”

“House Reed. They live in a swamp created by the children,” Gwayne replied, his tone matter-of-fact as he recalled the stories passed down by his grandmother.

“Aye, so the legends say,” the maester responded. “The Children of the Forest flooded the land to keep the giants away.”

“It wasn’t the giants,” Gwayne muttered, narrowing his eyes at the older man. “They’d already made peace with the giants by then. It was the First Men.”

Maester Marshell blinked, his quill pausing mid-air. “Is that so?” he asked with a raised brow. “Well, I’ll take your word for it. You’re likely better versed in your people’s history than I am. Even knights of the mind are quick to forget that which goes unused.”

Gwayne studied him a moment, then asked, “Why are you here in Runestone anyway? You’re from the Westerlands, aren’t you? Why not serve there?”

The maester exhaled slowly and smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I didn’t care to return, truth be told. Maesters don’t often get to choose where they serve. We can refuse some postings, but we cannot select them. Runestone was offered to me after Maester Vader passed during the winter.”

Gwayne tilted his head. “Why didn’t you want to go back to the Westerlands?”

A soft chuckle escaped Marshell’s lips. “Because I was born a bastard. My father was Lord Warren Prester, the Cold Ox. He acknowledged me and gave me the name Marshell Prester. I was his heir, his squire, until his trueborn son was born when I was thirty. The Lady of Feastfires—his wife—demanded I be sent away. That left me with the options of the Wall, Citadel, or Exile. It seemed to me that the Citadel was the only path left open to me.”

“That’s cruel,” Gwayne said, frowning.

“She was a sour woman, but I understood,” Marshell replied. “Her son would never feel secure with me in his shadow. So I left, studied, and became a maester by my four and fortieth name day. Spent nearly a decade wandering the Stormlands, learning what I could from other seated maesters.”

“You’ve seen a lot, then,” Gwayne mused. “I’ve only been to the Riverlands and Crownlands.”

Marshell smiled at that. “I’ve seen all the kingdoms I care to. No love lost for the Ironborn or the Dornish. And the North… it’s too cold, though I would like to see the Wall.”

“It was made to keep the gremlins, White Walkers, ghosts, and other monsters out of the Seven Kingdoms,” Gwayne said knowingly.

“Yes, or so your ancestors believe. Some Andals think the Wall’s a natural phenomenon—frozen land, nothing more. Much like the great sheets of ice that form in the Shivering Sea.”

“Do you believe that?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say I subscribe to any theories about magic if that is what you’re asking. I believe that magic is a natural phenomenon just as water is. We do not know how water is made; we merely accept it. Seeing as how ancient tomes still live on leathery wings with your paternal family, I believe that rather than question the weirdness, I should accept it. A man would drive himself insane if he had to study and figure out why water is as it is and what it is.”

Gwayne paused, considering that. “Interesting way of thinking.”

Before Maester Marshell could reply, the sound of purposeful footsteps broke their conversation. Lady Anya Royce, the Lady of the Runes, approached. Nearing her fifty-fifth name day, her once-black hair had turned a regal silver-grey. She wore flowing purple silks embroidered with the runes of Runestone and the bells of House Belmore.

“Maester Marshell,” she called with the calm command of a woman long used to power. “Has my grandson finished his lesson for the day?”

“He has indeed, Lady Royce.”

“Good. Come, Gwayne. Your mother has sent for you from her solar. She wishes to show you a letter she’s received.”

“What sort of letter?” Gwayne asked as he rose, sat Harrold down onto the ground, and fell into step beside her.

“She will reveal such details to you herself, my dear,” Lady Anya replied with a sly smile.

Curious, Gwayne hurried through the halls, his imagination racing. A letter? Perhaps he was to become a squire at last. Or maybe he was being sent to train with a noble house—House Tarly, perhaps, or the Westerlings?

The guards outside Lady Rhea Royce’s solar moved aside at once, recognizing both Anya and the young heir. Inside, Rhea stood by the window, a sealed letter in hand. She turned as they entered.

“Hello, Gwayne. Mother, you may leave us.” Rhea said as her mother left the room, closing the door behind her.

When they were alone, she gestured toward the letter. “Look at this. I haven’t opened it yet, but I believe it’s meant more for you than for me.”

The seal bore the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, stamped into blue Arryn wax. Gwayne broke it open and read aloud:

Dear Lady Rhea Royce and Gwayne Royce,

It has been quite some time since your family here in King’s Landing has seen you—not since the funeral of the Old King, before the half-decade winter. On behalf of the royal family and the King’s hospitality, I send you both a warm invitation to visit before the Week of the Seven this coming May.

Viserys, Rhaenyra, and I look forward to your presence at court and hope for your attendance.

Signed, Aemma Arryn, Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar, and the First Men

Rhea took the letter back from him and raised a brow. “Well? What do you think? I care little for returning to that dreadful place, but I’ll go if you wish it. Winter’s over, after all.”

“I’d like to go,” Gwayne said, his voice quiet but certain.

“Then we’ll begin preparations. I’ll check with your grandmother—see if she’s willing to oversee Runestone in our absence. We should stop by the Eyrie to visit Jeyne first.”

“We could take her with us,” Gwayne offered. “She’s a lady, and her kin are at court—less strange than most, even.”

Rhea smirked. “Not a bad idea. We’ll leave Rollam behind to handle affairs, and your grandmother can take up her former duties. The Royces ruled the Vale for three thousand years before the Arryns. What’s a moon's turn more"?

Gwayne grinned. “I think it’s going to be fun—though Jeyne might need to explain what the Festival of the Seven even is.”

“Oh, something to do with that seven-faced god and their starry nonsense,” Rhea replied with a scoff. “Andalosi queerness.”

“I believe you’re right,” Gwayne said. “Maester Marshell would know better.”

“I gave you an Andal name, you know,” she teased. “And still you know nothing of them.”

“You shouldn’t have,” he muttered.

“Some days, I wonder why I did,” Rhea said with a fond smile. “But it doesn’t matter. Andal, Valyrian, Dornish—whatever your name, you are still my son.”

“I’ve never doubted that,” Gwayne said softly.

She ruffled his hair affectionately. He was growing quickly—taller, leaner, with sharper cheekbones than he’d had as a child. In his features, she could see both Daemon Targaryen and the rugged strength of House Royce.

“Well then,” she said, turning toward her writing desk. “Shall we prepare?”

Gwayne nodded and stepped out to find Maester Marshell.

--------------

A few weeks later, on the twelfth day of the fourth moon, a modest but proud host had gathered at the Eyrie. They were Valemen—staunch loyalists to House Arryn and House Royce—riding beneath banners of white falcons and bronze runes. The retinue was not large, but its heart was resolute, with its most notable members being Lady Rhea Royce of Runestone, her son and heir Gwayne, and the young liege lady of the Vale herself who had brought two fine grey and white falcons for the king.

Lady Jeyne Arryn was only fourteen, still more girl than woman, with limbs like a foal’s and a spirit as free as the mountain winds that swept through her ancestral home. Her chestnut hair had a habit of slipping loose from its ribbons, framing a youthful face lit by mischief and quiet contemplation. Her eyes, a clear mountain blue, sparkled when she laughed—though behind that sparkle, Gwayne often caught glimpses of something keener. A mind sharp enough to rule.

She wore a gown of deep cobalt blue, its sleeves long and flowing, stitched with tiny silver falcons that shimmered in the sun. A belt of filigreed silver cinched the waist, and a high collar framed her slender neck. But when no one was watching, Jeyne tugged at the fabric with frustration—more a girl caught in a cage of ceremony than a queen-in-waiting.

By contrast, Gwayne still wore his youth plainly. He was lean, not yet filled out, with limbs just beginning to match the frame he was growing into. His tousled light-brown hair had darkened with the seasons, and one eye—the strange one, the purple one—often lingered with quiet intensity on the knights in training, the squires, and the riders of the Vale. He wore a dark umber doublet trimmed in bronze, the runes of House Royce subtly stitched into the cuffs and collar. His boots bore scuff marks from climbing walls he ought not and chasing falcons he had no business catching. A copper brooch shaped like the rune of Peroth fastened his mantle.

“Are you going to wear that thing the whole way to King’s Landing?” Gwayne asked with a crooked grin, nodding toward Jeyne’s long gown.

His mother grimaced, though she too had been wondering the same.

Jeyne gave him a look, half amused, half indignant. “Of course I am, Gwayne. I’m a lady.”

“My mother’s a lady,” he replied, smirking. “She’s wearing pants and a leather tunic.”

“I’m not just a lady—I’m a high lady,” Jeyne corrected, tugging her sleeve. “My advisors believe that since I’m nearly a woman, I should start dressing like one.”

“You wore pants the last time I saw you.”

“That was before the five-year winter. I was a girl then. Now I’m expected to be… presentable.”

Gwayne snorted. “Sounds like it sucks.”

Jeyne sighed. “It’s certainly... stressful.”

He glanced down at her dress. “How are you even going to ride a horse in that?”

“I’ll ride sidesaddle, as is proper,” she said, lifting her chin. “And once we’re out of the mountains, I’ll switch to my new wheelhouse.”

Rhea’s brow rose. “Tell me it’s not that old one your father used—the one with the busted axle and moldy interior.”

Jeyne laughed. “No, no, that one’s firewood now. This one was made in Gulltown—sleek, painted silver and blue, with white falcons on the sides.”

“Good,” Rhea Royce said, satisfied. “It’ll add time to our trip, but I understand. You’re the Lady of the Vale. Can’t exactly bounce along the road like a sellsword.”

They departed the Eyrie soon after, stopping briefly at the Gates of the Moon. There, they collected the wheelhouse and resumed their descent through the Bloody Gate, where the Vale opened into the King’s Road. The journey would take seventeen days in total, with the great capital far to the south.

Traveling through the Riverlands proved grueling. The early spring sun warmed the land by day, but nights still held winter’s chill. Saddle sores and road fatigue wore at them. By the thirteenth day of their journey, they passed into a quiet green valley nestled between Darry and Harrenhal. There, the company made camp—blue, white, and bronze tents fluttering under the dusk sky. Nearly two hundred men strong, all sworn to the Arryns and Royces, their presence ensured few would dare test them.

As the stars emerged, Gwayne stood beside Jeyne near a patch of wildflowers growing beside a soft, trickling stream. Tulips, irises, and lilies bloomed in pale pink, gold, violet, and white.

“It’s good to see spring again,” Jeyne said quietly, plucking a white lily and raising it to her nose. “In full color and bloom.”

“I agree, my lady,” Gwayne replied, placing his hands on his hips as he gazed across the valley. “Snow has its charm, but this is… alive.”

She turned to him with a wan smile. “You sound like one of my advisors. They speak of the snow, the winters, how a lady must carry herself in each season. I feel like a puppet sometimes, Gwayne. Every move I make is observed—every word, judged by old men.”

“I hope my cousin isn’t one of them.”

“Ser Rollam?” she scoffed. “He tends to ale and women better than he tends to court matters. Though when he is present, he supports me—if only to spite Lord Egen and his cronies.”

Gwayne made a face. “I’ve heard you mention Lord Egen before. I don’t believe I’ve met him.”

“You’re not missing anything,” she muttered. “He’s pompous, arrogant, and loud. Lately, he’s started bringing his son to court—a fine-looking man with blonde hair and brown eyes, but as dumb as a stone. He can swing a sword but barely string together a sentence.”

“I imagine once you’re sixteen, he’ll find himself dismissed.”

“Oh, he certainly will. I want to rebuild my court—fill it with true Arryn men. The Templetons, for instance—they’ve long served us, but Egen saw to it that many were swept aside. I’ll bring them back.”

“Couldn’t you call a court and remove Egen now?”

She shook her head. “Too many benefit from him. They’ll never side with me—at least not yet.”

“I thought your words were As High As Honor,” Gwayne teased, tossing a tulip stem her way.

“We are,” Jeyne replied with a huff. “But honor doesn’t mean listening to every old man in a stone chair tell me how to rule.”

She tore the petals from another flower, one by one, letting them fall into the grass.

“They speak of oaths and tradition,” she continued, her voice low, “but all they want is control.”

Gwayne crouched beside her, collecting the fallen petals into a small pile. “Maybe they fear you’ll do it better than they ever did.”

Jeyne gave him a sharp glance—part surprised, part flattered. “Better? I’ll settle for ‘allowed.’ Every time I speak, someone quotes my father, like his ghost should still rule the Vale.”

“I’ve heard ghosts make poor lords.”

“Not in the Vale,” she said dryly. “Here, they seem to have all the votes.”

A quiet chuckle passed between them, then the wind rose, sending ripples through the tall grass. The camp behind them shimmered with torchlight and murmuring voices.

Jeyne let out a soft breath. “Sometimes I envy you. You get to just… grow up. No one’s watching every step.”

Gwayne looked down at a tulip in his hand. “Maybe not, but they’re watching who I’ll become. I’ve got two shadows, Jeyne. One made of bronze and runes... and one made of fire and blood.”

She tilted her head. “But you have people. Your mother rules Runestone. Your uncle sits the Iron Throne. I have no one but myself.”

Gwayne nodded. Her truth was heavier than his. She had no father left. Her family had been torn apart by rebellion. Her rule had begun under siege.

Just as silence settled between them, the crunch of boots on grass caught their ears. Rhea Royce approached, brown leather boots stained with the path’s dust.

“Lady Jeyne. Gwayne,” she called, placing a hand on her son’s head and extending the other to help Jeyne up. “Come. The night draws in. The hunters brought back a fine boar, and the stew is ready.”

“Thank you, Lady Rhea,” Jeyne said, brushing off her gown.

As the girls walked on, Rhea paused and gently touched Gwayne’s arm. “Come with me, sweetling,” she whispered. “I need to show you something.”

He blinked, curious, and followed her toward the horses. Four Royce guards joined them. Without explanation, Rhea saddled six steeds, slung a large satchel over her shoulder, and they rode south.

“Are we going to King’s Landing early?” Gwayne asked as his horse followed hers.

“No,” Rhea replied, glancing back. “We’re going to visit something important.”

After twenty minutes, they reached the shores of a still, great lake. A thick mist curled over its surface, obscuring the isle at its center. Gwayne dismounted slowly, recognizing the place at once.

“The God’s Eye,” he whispered.

Rhea nodded solemnly. “The place where the Children of the Forest and the First Men made their peace. Where the Pact was forged. It is sacred.”

“I remember the story. Grandmother told me.”

“Some say the green men still live there,” Rhea murmured. “Watching from the trees.”

“Are we going to the isle?”

“No. The Old Gods turn away those who try. Some say those who reach it never return… or return cursed.”

She unstrapped the satchel and opened it, revealing meats, cheeses, and bread. With quiet reverence, she placed them on a wooden raft. Together, they pushed it into the water, watching it drift into the mist.

“Why did we do that?” Gwayne asked.

Rhea smiled softly. “To show respect, Gwayne. The green men have guarded those trees for generations. We remember our pacts. We honor our gods.”

She looked out across the lake, her voice a whisper.

“Remember our words, Gwayne: We Remember.”

Chapter Text

By the 24th day of the 4th moon, the Vale host had arrived at the God's Gate. It was the greatest gate of all King's Landing, made of steel and adorned with intricate carvings of gold depicting the Targaryen dragons Balerion, Vhagar, and Meraxes.

The guards from above opened the gates at the sight of the blue and white Arryn banners, likely having already been told by the Queen of their arrival. Behind the gate atop a white horse was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Harrold Westerling, whose hair had nearly all gone from brown to white and gray since the last time Gwayne and Rhea saw him. His armor shone like a beacon in the sunlight, a stark contrast to the pale, dusty, brownish-pink stone walls of the city. The host had been able to smell the city nearly a mile away, the stench of unwashed bodies and refuse overwhelming their senses.

"Lady Royce, Gwayne, and I presume Lady Arryn," Ser Harrold said as he approached us closer atop his horse, his voice gruff yet respectful. "Welcome to the city of King's Landing. I hope your journey was not too arduous," he added, gesturing for us to follow him through the gates.

"Aye, Ser Harrold, the journey was merely long but not overly difficult," Lady Royce replied with a polite smile.

"Good to hear, my lady," Ser Harrold responded with a nod, leading the way into the bustling city streets. "I will ensure you are safely escorted to your accommodations at the Red Keep."

The group followed along behind Ser Harrold through the city. The city's smell was stronger than it was a mile ago, a mix of salt air and the stench of unwashed bodies. Gwayne wrinkled his nose slightly as he looked around. He saw men herding goats into a building, a woman washing clothes in a nearby fountain, and young boys without their shirts on rolling around and playing in mud like swine.

The contrast between the noble Red Keep and the poverty of the city was what Gwayne found to be most interesting. He was no stranger to smallfolk, but most of the ones he knew of in the Vale, or even in Gulltown itself, all seemed to be less dirty and in less dire straits. From what Gwayne could recall, he knew that King's Landing was once a fisherman's village until the Conquest; it then became the bustling, stinky, and overcrowded city it was today.

Lady Jeyne, who was sitting beside Gwayne looking out at the cityscape, remarked on how gross the city was.

"If Gulltown looked like this, I'd take it right out of the hands of the Graftons and Gull Arryns." Lady Jeyne shook her head in disgust, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the filth below.

"Yes, it's quite unseemly for a city of such importance," Gwayne agreed, glancing at Lady Jeyne and on past her at the shabby-looking buildings that lined the streets. The buildings were of several different colors, ranging from dark grey to faded red, and all around were dust, mud, and dirt. Barely a patch of grass or even a tree could be seen in the crowded cityscape.

As they traveled farther, they passed by the dragonpit. Gwayne himself couldn't help but wonder what dragons resided there now. He even wondered if any, from his vague memories as a boy he remembers being able to hear the small rumblings of dragons deep within that could be heard on the surface. Rather than pass through the streets of Flea Bottom, the group took the street on the right, taking them past the street of silk and onto the street of Sisters. During the day, the street of silk seemed far less promiscuous than its reputation suggested, with merchants selling fine fabrics and clothing lining the road. A few women stood about, but they were working on their sewing, washing, or something else, not soliciting. They passed under a low stone arch where guards in red cloaks lined the walls like bloodied sentinels. Beyond it, the Red Keep rose like a sleeping giant, its towers jutting into the sky like spears. From the outside, it looked no less grimy than the city it ruled, but up close, Gwayne could see the polish on its stones — the quiet way power made even filth look like majesty.

“Your quarters are being prepared in Maegor’s Holdfast,” Ser Harrold told them as they dismounted. “The queen awaits you in the Queen’s Ballroom once you’ve settled. Her Grace asked especially that her cousin, the Lady Arryn, not be kept waiting.”

The guards took their reins, and servants began unloading trunks and banners while Ser Harrold led them toward the Queen’s Ballroom, a long and sunlit hall draped in red and gold, its windows facing the Blackwater Bay. Gwayne caught his breath for a moment, struck by the way the light hit the stained glass — dragons in flight and stars overhead, the flames of conquest caught forever in colored panes.

Inside stood the Queen and her court of ladies. Most prominent amongst them being the queen, the princess, and the hand's wife and daughter.

Queen Aemma Arryn was sitting reclined, pale and drawn, in her cushioned seat at the head of the room. Her blue eyes, dimmed by grief and weariness, flicked up as the doors opened. The miscarriage had left her much thinner, her once-gilded hair tied in with a simple ribbon at her neck. Lady Eileen Ruthermont and Lady Rease Plumm flanked her like loyal sentries—one calm and knowing, the other restless. Lady Rease had pale platinum hair tied back loosely with leather and dust on her boots from the stables. Lady Rease was renowned and chastised for how much she loved horses, a love that was only widened by her brother, Lord Mason Plumm, who sought out the best equipment for his sister's horse. Lady Eileen, on the other hand, was a very dear friend to Aemma; she wore a simple white gown embroidered with blue eagles—a subtle homage to her homeland of the Vale. Her hair was chestnut, loosely curled around her shoulders. She offered Rhea and her liege lady, Jeyne Arryn, the sweetest and gentlest smile that a woman could muster.

“My cousins,” Aemma said, rising with effort as she held onto the arms of her chair. “You grace the court with your presence once more.”

“Your Grace,” Lady Rhea said, bowing with a loose, knight’s flourish rather than the stiff curtsy expected of a highborn lady. “Your invitation to the capital was most gracious. We are honored to be here." Lady Royce said as she took a seat beside her liege lady and her son.

The wife of the Hand, Lady Selyse , watched the exchange with a calculating gaze, taking note of every gesture and word spoken between the women. Her daughter, a good four years older than Gwayne, watched also, attempting to pick up on her mother's subtle cues and learn the art of courtly behavior. Lady Rhea continued, "We look forward to the festivities ahead and hope to make a favorable impression on the court."

Queen Aemma smiled warmly at Lady Rhea and replied, "I have no doubt that you will, my lady. Your family is always a welcome addition to our court." Lady Selyse's eyes narrowed slightly at the queen's words, but she maintained her composed facade.

Lady Jeyne looked around the room with curiosity but also with a hint of apprehension, unsure of what to expect from the courtly environment of the capital city but near certain that it was quite different from her own.

Queen Aemma made eye contact with her young cousin, sensing her mood and how new all of this must be to her. "Jeyne, my dearest cousin of my father's blood. You bear all the beauty of an Arryn. My uncle, your father, had always been so proud of you. I am certain that you shall surpass his father's and even your grandfather's rule soon enough, seeing as how you've grown into such a strong and intelligent young woman." Jeyne blushed at the praise, making her face stand out even more in comparison to her blue gown and fair complexion.

"I thank you, my queen. I…" Jeyne spoke before being cut off by Queen Aemma.

"Just Aemma, in the Vale and in the Eyrie I had no title from the Arryns. I shall not have you give me one now, as we are kin." Jeyne nodded.

Jeyne nodded slowly, lowering her gaze with a small smile. “Then Aemma it is.”

A light clapping of hands echoed as Lady Selyse Hightower stepped forward, ever elegant, her green and silver gown flowing like seafoam in a storm. “Such a lovely sentiment, my queen. Your beauty and intellect surpass all others,” she said, her voice smooth as scented oil. “Family is such a precious thing."

Lady Jeyne Arryn, newly into her fourteenth year, held her chin high, her blue silk skirts trailing behind her like wings. “As I said though, we are honored to be summoned, Your Grace.” She bowed with practiced grace, though her eyes were sharp and calculating.

Rhea Royce bowed deeper, though the gesture looked odd in her riding leathers and forest green jerkin. “Your ladies are more lovely than I remember,” she said, her tone dry as Dornish wine. “And certainly more numerous.”

A scoff sounded from Lady Melissa Fossoway, who sat close to her cousin Selyse and mirrored her every smirk. “Lady Rhea, I had no notion breeches were fashionable at court.”

“They are in the Vale,” Rhea replied. “Where the rocks are sharp and the paths treacherous.”

“Surely you have seamstresses in Runestone?” asked Lady Ceira Redwyne sweetly, her auburn curls pinned with small pearls. Both Lady Melissa and Lady Ceira were in some way related to Lord Otto and Lady Selyse. Lady Melissa was plump-cheeked and wore pale yellow, embroidered with red apples. As for Lady Ceira, she was taller than most, with auburn hair and violet eyes. Her dress was the burgundy of her house, trimmed in gold grapes and vines.

“Plenty,” said Rhea, “but I’ve yet to meet a gown that rides a horse well.”

“Lady Rease might disagree,” murmured Lady Rebecca Hardy. “She lives in the stables, does she not?”

Lady Rease Plumm, lounging with a cup of honeyed milk in one hand, smiled faintly and brushed a speck of straw from her skirts. Her skin bore the sun, and her pale hair caught the light like silver thread. “I prefer mares to mirrors, my lady. But I can still recognize a pig in a diamond collar. In fact, I have nothing but respect for a woman who wears pants on her steads. If my brother Mason would allow it, then I might also.”

Across the room laughter bubbled from Rhaenyra Targaryen, seated at her mother’s feet in a cascade of red and gold. She was grinning wide, cheeks pink with mirth. “I’ve missed you, cousins,” she said as she arose to hug Lady Jeyne before grabbing Gwayne's hand. “Did you bring me a gift from the Vale? Or shall I steal your cloak instead?”

Gwayne, red as a beet, mumbled something inaudible and nearly tripped over his boots. Rhaenyra only giggled more. “He grows handsomer every year,” she said with a mischievous grin.

Lady Melissa Fossoway whispered to Lady Jocelyn, who had been surprisingly quiet. "Look at them—like young colts testing each other."

Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, who looked as if she had a bee in her mouth, said, “Watch them carefully, Lady Melissa. Rhaenyra and Gwayne's kind of joy is short-lived. They’ll have their tears soon enough.”

“A match for my own son,” said Selyse smoothly but loudly enough to pull the subject in her favor. “My Gwayne is nearly a grown man at sixteen. Taller than most squires at court. Of course, I’ve always believed a mother’s love must be matched by her son’s excellence.”

Rhea’s smile didn’t waver. “Then you must love him terribly.”

Alicent Hightower, perched delicately beside her mother in a pale green gown, blinked as if unsure whether that was praise or insult. “So, Lady Rhea, do boys in the Vale train with live swords? Or are they still swinging at straw men?”

“Depends on the boy,” said Jeyne Arryn. “And the straw.”

“Speaking of straw,” said Lady Jocelyn, her voice like old steel, “has anyone seen Prince Daemon of late? I heard he left court without a word.”

Her tone was accusatory, though her black veil did not shift as she sipped her wine. Her mourning had grown to feel like armor—unyielding, unwashed, eternal.

“I’m sure he’s off chasing shadows,” said Lady Karleen Thorne piously. “The gods will find him, if not the King.”

“Lady Rhea might know,” Selyse cut in with a syruped voice. “She is his… dear wife, after all.”

All eyes turned.

Rhea looked down at her cup. “If I knew where Daemon was, I’d send him your way, Lady Selyse. I imagine he’d enjoy a change of company.”

"Of course, seeing as he hasn't enjoyed yours since he took your maidenhead." Selyse murmured under her breath, a sly smile playing on her lips. Lady Karleen Thorne's eyes widened in shock at the brazen comment, while Rhea's cheeks flushed with embarrassment and the room went dead silent.

Alicent tried to smooth the moment. “The Queen looks well today. The gods must be smiling on your recovery, Your Grace.”

Aemma nodded softly, her voice thin. “They smile… but they do not linger.”

“It is the Queen’s strength that keeps the smile on their lips,” Lady Eileen said gently.

“I’ve strength enough for a table of sweetcakes,” Aemma said. “Though I see that my daughter has claimed the whole tray of lemon ones for herself and her dear cousin. And Lady Jocelyn has claimed all of the plum ones for herself.”

“I’ve buried a husband and a crown,” Jocelyn snapped. “I’ll take what sweets I please.” Jocelyn said as she stuffed a whole cake as large as a peach into her mouth.

“Let us hope none here follow your path,” murmured Lady Karleen.

Rhaenyra stood, a piece of honeycake in hand, and walked boldly to Gwayne, thrusting it toward him. “You haven’t spoken once, cousin. I shall take it as a slight unless you try this one. I chose it myself.” Rhaenyra pressed the cake against Gwayne's lips until he opened his mouth, as Rhaenyra's face only seemed to inch ever closer to his own.

Gwayne blinked, his face already as red as the lion of Reyne. He opened his mouth, eating the sweetcake as if it might explode, and mumbled, “Thank you, Princess.”

“He speaks!” Rhaenyra crowed. “The Vale has not frozen him completely.”

“I think he’s just in awe,” Jeyne teased. “We all are. This court is… a world apart.”

“Welcome to it,” Selyse said, rising from her seat with the grace of a queen. “Do try to keep up."

And with that, Aemma rings the bell that sat beside her. "The Queen's court is dismissed for the day, I grow weary and tired, and I'm sure our guests from the Vale do as well." As the courtiers began to disperse, Gwayne couldn't shake the feeling of unease that lingered in the air. He followed his mother and his liege lady out of the ballroom, where they were greeted by a black-and-red-draped servant who led them to their apartments, where they'd be staying.

The three doors where their apartments were had already been stationed with loyal men of the Vale, two per each, on a cycle that had already been made amongst themselves to protect the Vale nobility. Gwayne stepped into his room, being greeted with the smell of fresh flowers and a hint of lavender. His room was decorated with wooden furniture and tapestries depicting scenes of big cats like lions and shadow cats. The large canopy bed was adorned with silk sheets and plush pillows, inviting Gwayne to rest after the long journey. As he settled in, he noticed a window overlooking the lush gardens of the Red Keep. He thought back on the scene he had just been a part of in the Queen's ballroom, as he was amongst both friends and family. Most specifically the girl who barely seemed to notice him, his cousin Rhaenyra.

Gwayne laid on his bed, kicking his boots off lazily. His cousin Rhaenyra was not the same little girl that he remembered kissing kittens with all those years ago. She was still a girl, yes, but she was growing, and she seemed to be different. She was as soft as a feather pillow but at the same time as sharp as the rocks on Shipbreaker Bay. It was odd for him to feel in such a sense this way about someone he had known for so long but hadn't seen in so long either. Love, what a strange and unpredictable emotion it was.

Chapter Text

The 25th day of the fourth moon, 108 AC

The morning seemed to come quickly to Gwayne. Today was the big day. Or at least one of many big days to come during his stay in the Red Keep.

Gwayne was awoken when a serving girl came into his room, opening the curtains to allow the sunlight to flow through. Gwayne got up groggily, wiping the slobber from his chin. Gwayne watched the girl rush around the room, setting his clothes down in a pile on his bed. The girl didn't seem to be much older than he was; she had dark brown hair held back under a white coif. Her simple green cotton dress was stained with dirt and sweat.

Gwayne swung his legs over the bed and stood up to stretch his back. Just then the girl came back in front of him with a pail of water and a rag. Gwayne gasped when she started to rub the rag down his stomach, the cold water causing him to shiver. He was used to having a rag and water back at Runestone. What he wasn't used to was having a girl wash him down like this, at least not since he was young.

As the girl's rag traveled farther down, he grabbed the rag from her.

"I can do the rest from here," he said with a slight smile, feeling quite awkward about the situation. The girl nodded and handed him the rag, giving him a shy smile before walking away to give him some privacy.

Gwayne removed his lower layers and wiped himself off before beginning to get himself dressed. The serving girl was still standing beside the door, watching Gwayne closely. "I assure you, I am more than capable of dressing myself from here and taking care of the rest." Gwayne said firmly, trying to convey his discomfort with her lingering presence. The serving girl nodded quickly and hurried out of the room, leaving Gwayne to finish getting dressed in peace.

This is an odd place, Gwayne thought to himself as he quickly finished dressing and headed out of the room to find his companions. Just as he stepped out, one of his mother's loyal men stopped him. "Gwayne, your mother wishes to see you in her quarters." The guard said monotonously, blocking Gwayne's path. The guard knocked firmly on Lady Royce's door until Gwayne could hear her call out for him to enter.

Gwayne entered his mother's room, a room that, all in all, looked the same as his own. His mother was sitting at a small desk with something wrapped in cloth.

"Come here, I have something for you." Rhea said , gesturing for Gwayne to approach. Once he was beside her, she handed him the object wrapped in the cloth. "Your grandmother had this crafted for your grandfather before her death. Baelon gave this to me the day he first came to Runestone. He wanted you to have this once you were older, and I feel that since we are here in the capital, there's no better time for you to be wearing this." Rhea said as she watched her son unwrap the cloth to reveal a finely crafted pendant depicting the dragons Vhagar and Meleys flying in a circle.

"Vhagar and Caraxes?" Gwayne asked as he ran his thumb over the metal pendant.

"Not quite. Vhagar, yes. The other dragon is Meleys, not Caraxes. They were the dragons of your grandfather and your grandmother, Princess Alyssa." Rhea said as she helped her son pin it onto his leather tunic. "Meleys was the dragon your grandmother rode until her passing, and now your cousin Princess Rhaenys rides that very same dragon. Today when we enter the throne room, I want you to wear this; your grandfather would have wanted you to." Gwayne nodded as he looked down at the pendant, feeling not only pride but also a sort of comfort. His grandfather had been dead for nearly a decade, the memories of him it felt like were beginning to fade in Gwayne's mind.

With that, Rhea stood up and led her son out of her room, where Lady Jeyne was already waiting. Jeyne wore a royal blue gown that complemented her fair complexion; she looked as much a noble as anyone ever had. As they were escorted to the doors of the Great Hall, Rhea explained the process in as much detail as she could, seeing as Jeyne had never done this before and Gwayne was too young to remember the last time he paid homage to the king. Jeyne was to go first since she was the liege lady of House Arryn, and after her, Rhea and Gwayne would follow suit.

Just then the grand doors were opened, and Ser Harrold, Lady Jeyne, Lady Rhea, Gwayne, the Arryn, and Royce knights stepped into the hall. A trumpet was blown , signaling their arrival and announcing their presence to the king and his court. The sound echoed through the vast hall, causing a hush to fall over the assembled nobles as they turned to see the Vale host.

Before speaking, one of Ser Harrold's brothers-in-arms, Ser Steffon Darklyn, looked back at the host before announcing their arrival.

"Now presenting, Lady Jeyne Arryn. Lady of the Eyrie, Gates of the Moon, Warden of the East, and High Lady of the Vale!" Ser Steffon announced as the nobles in attendance arose and began clapping as Lady Jeyne, followed by her Arryn men, went to the center of the room.

Jeyne curtsied before King Viserys as her knights behind her bowed before him. "It gives me great honor to be in your presence, Your Grace," Jeyne said with a smile, her voice carrying through the hall. The king returned the gesture, welcoming her to court.

"Rise, Lady Jeyne of the Vale. Your presence is a welcome sight in the capital," King Viserys replied. Aemma, who sat below him, seemed overjoyed to see her father's banners once more in the capital.

"Today, in service to you, I bring the gift of two fine falcons, bred from some of the very fastest and strongest birds in the Vale," Jeyne continued, presenting the falcons to the king. "May they serve you well in your hunts, Your Grace." The king's eyes lit up with excitement at the gift, thanking Lady Jeyne graciously for her generosity. Lady Jeyne went and stood on the right side of the room as Ser Steffon tooted his trumpet once more.

"Now presenting Lady Rhea Royce and her son and heir Gwayne Royce. Lady and heir to Runestone!" In their finest attire, Lady Rhea Royce and her son Gwayne came forward to pay their respects to the king. The room fell into claps and cheers as the Royces approached the king, their presence commanding attention and respect.

"It does us great honor, my king, to stand once more in your presence ," Lady Rhea spoke with a graceful bow. Gwayne followed her movements and took a knee. Viserys smiled warmly at them.

"Arise, my sweet sister-by-law and my dear nephew, you are always welcome in my court," he said, extending his hand to summon them back to their feet.

Rhea smiled at the king before announcing her own gift. "We have sent nearly fifty sheep by ship, which should arrive to the capital within the week, in homage to you, great king."

The king chuckled at that, shifting slightly on the Iron Throne. “The shepherds of Runestone have always been generous — and practical. You honor the realm, Lady Rhea.”

As Rhea dipped her head, Viserys’s gaze drifted to the boy beside her. Then paused. His expression softened — melted, even. “Is that—?” he murmured, leaning in, peering down at the glint of silver and bronze at Gwayne’s chest. He motioned for Gwayne to step forward, closer to the Iron Throne.

“That pendant,” he said aloud now, his voice rising for the hall to hear. “That belonged to my father.” The room stilled. Gwayne instinctively placed a hand over the pendant, suddenly conscious of the eyes.

“My mother, Alyssa, had it made for Baelon after I was born,” Viserys said. “He wore it every day until she gave birth to...”

He trailed off for a beat, but the weight of the name hung in the air.

Gwayne stood taller.

“My nephew,” Viserys said finally, voice warm, “you’ve grown.”

Gwayne bowed his head respectfully, but not timidly. “So have you, Your Grace.”

That drew a soft ripple of laughter from the gallery — even Otto’s mouth twitched faintly.

“I remember when you were only as tall as a grasshopper,” Viserys said. “Now look at you —nearly taller than your mother and as broad as your father. It seems like just yesterday you were running around the castle courtyard with my daughter."

“You honor both your names,” he said. “Royce and Targaryen.”

Gwayne bowed once more, this time deeper. “That is all I ever hope to do.”

Aemma dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief, and Rhaenyra remained quiet in her seat as she stared not at her father but at her cousin.

Rhea smiled and inclined her head again before stepping back. Gwayne followed, his hands loose at his sides, his mind still reeling from the moment. As they crossed the floor, Jeyne offered Gwayne the briefest glance — and a rare, private smile. He didn’t return it. He was still hearing Viserys’s voice in his mind. You honor both your names. Royce and Targaryen.

Upon the evening

The private hall was smaller than the grand feasting chamber, its stone walls closer, warmer, decorated with old Valyrian scrollwork and Targaryen banners trimmed in gold. A long table stretched beneath hanging lanterns, flickering shadows dancing across the red tablecloth.

At the head of the table sat King Viserys, already flushed with wine and smiling broadly as the guests were shown in.

The seating had been arranged with care — Queen Aemma beside Viserys, Rhaenyra next to her. On the opposite side sat Otto Hightower, his wife Selyse, their daughter Alicent, and their son Gwayne Hightower. Across from them were Lady Rhea Royce, her son Gwayne Royce, and Lady Jeyne Arryn, seated beside the Queen at her insistence.

One seat remained empty. Set just beside Viserys’s left — polished, poured, untouched. Gwayne Royce noticed it the moment they entered. So did Rhea. But no one said a word.

“Sit, sit,” Viserys said warmly, gesturing with his goblet. “No need for courtesies now. We’re family tonight, family and dear friends. We shall all act noble come the moon turn for the festival."

The first course was already being laid: chilled trout in lemon and mint, oat bread rounds with Vale goat cheese, and small dishes of plum chutney and roasted almonds.

Gwayne Royce, sitting between Rhea and Jeyne, stayed mostly quiet as the table japed and laughed around him. He didn’t yet feel like he belonged at a table like this — not really. He was no lord, no knight, and the heavy pendant of Vhagar and Meleys, warm against his chest, felt like a weight of someone else's story.

Across the table, Gwayne Hightower, a few years older and far more polished, was watching him.

Not openly — just enough for Gwayne Royce to feel it.

Measuring. Judging.

Not threatened. But smirking.

Gwayne Royce glanced up and met the boy’s gaze.

Gwayne Hightower's gaze was one of assessment and superiority, making Gwayne Royce shift uncomfortably in his seat.

Viserys interrupted the stare-down without realizing it.

“So, young Gwayne,” the king said, smiling toward the Royce boy, “you’ve grown quite a bit since last I saw you. I remember a mop of hair and not much else.”

Gwayne Royce sat straighter. “I was three, Your Grace.”

“Still had more fire than some full-grown lords,” Viserys chuckled. “And now you’re wearing your grandfather’s pendant. I had wondered for several years what had happened to it. I scoured through his things for days looking for it but could never find it. I'm glad that he gave it to you."

"It's beautiful craftsmanship. Do you know where she had it crafted?" Gwayne asked

The king shook his head. "I'm afraid I do not, but I'd make a bet that it was from Essos. Your blood is Targaryen and Royce. Fire and stone. Your grandfather would’ve been proud to have seen you wear it in front of the Iron Throne."

Otto Hightower shifted slightly in his seat. Selyse’s expression remained neutral, though she sipped her wine just a beat too slowly. Alicent looked between them, unsure where to fix her gaze. Gwayne Hightower leaned back in his chair, feigning disinterest.

The second course came: steaming platters of roast lamb glazed with honey and rosemary, pigeon pie, buttered leeks, and carrots braised in sweet wine.

Viserys clapped his hands again. “Enough speaking. Eat, laugh, drink. I’ve half a mind to order musicians in here if I thought they wouldn’t sour the wine.” Viserys laughed at his own joke as the others around the table chuckled politely.

"My King," Selyse said as she grabbed one of the carrots. Her red hair was pulled back under a delicate silver net.

"Yes, Lady Selyse, what is it?" Viserys asked, raising an eyebrow. Selyse smiled sweetly, her green eyes twinkling mischievously.

"I was merely curious, seeing as two members of our little family are gone this evening." Selyse said, needling the king discreetly.

Viserys' smile faltered slightly at the mention of his missing siblings, but he quickly regained his composure. "Ah, yes. The Lady Jocelyn. She wasn't invited. I wanted this to be a more intimate and less confrontational dinner."

Selyse nodded, her smile widening. "I see," she replied, her tone thoughtful. "And your brother?"

Viserys face broke into a small frown before he replied, "I cannot say. Chances are he has business to attend to somewhere. He left earlier this morning." Selyse's eyebrows raised in surprise, but she quickly masked it with a nod of understanding.

The rest of the evening went relatively peacefully, with Viserys engaging in jovial conversation with everyone there. Afterwards everyone went on to their chambers to sleep off all of the food and wine consumed during the dinner.

Gwayne had been used to sleeping in his small clothes while at Runestone, but his mother forbade him from doing it while he was here, so he slept in a simple white shirt and blue cotton trousers that ended at his knees.

Rather than going straight to bed, he had decided he wanted to look out at the city, so he leaned against the stone railing of his balcony, chin resting on folded arms. Below, he saw the torches of the courtyard flicker like fallen stars. Somewhere, he could hear a dog bark. Somewhere farther, a woman was laughing too loud. But up here, on the eastern wing of Maegor’s Holdfast, the night had grown hushed and blue.

He sighed, watching the wind stir the trees along the outer walls. He still held in his hand the pendant depicting Vhagar and Meleys in flight. Running his thumb over Meleys' horns and Vhagar's tail.

Then—

The faintest rustle behind him. A creak of door hinges. Gwayne turned just in time to see a glimmer of gold silk slip through the open doorway like a cat.

“Gods,” he whispered. “You nearly—”

“—Startled you?” Rhaenyra Targaryen’s voice was likened to sugar and shadow.

She padded barefoot across the cool stone floor, carrying her slippers in one hand. Her nightgown was light and white, but it shimmered in the moonlight — it was a far cry from the royal silks she’d worn at the previous three different gatherings he had seen her at. Her silver-gold hair was unbound, trailing past her waist in soft waves.

Gwayne swallowed.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “Since when do you think about what we're supposed to do?”

“I’m thinking about what happens when your mother finds you in my room.”

“She won’t. She’s asleep.”

“Or Lady Selyse—”

“I’d like to see her putrid face and then see it fall off a tower.” Rhaenyra interrupted, rolling her eyes. She stepped beside him, arms resting on the balcony railing, looking out.

For a moment they said nothing. King’s Landing spread before them, rooftops glinting under the moon, the dark mass of the Dragonpit a sleeping giant in the distance. Gwayne glanced at her from the corner of his eye.

“I saw you blush today and yesterday,” she said after a beat.

Gwayne turned back to the city. “That could’ve been the lemon cakes.”

“It wasn't,” Rhaenyra teased.

“You’re very sure of yourself for someone who’s younger than me.”

“By what, a moon and a half? And I’m a princess.”

“And I’m a Royce,” he said. “That’s something.”

“A pretty name,” she teased. “For a boy who turns red when I talk to him.”

He dared to glance at her fully now. Her face was lit silver by the moon, eyes the pale violet of dusk over snow. She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just looking at him. Thoughtful. Studying.

“You’ve grown,” she said softly. “Since last I saw you.”

“I’ve been drinking goat’s milk,” he offered dumbly.

She laughed, breath warm. “I hate goat’s milk.”

Silence stretched again. Then—

“Did you mean to say something to me today?” she asked.

Gwayne hesitated. “I wanted to. I didn’t know what.”

“Say it now.”

She turned to him. Her face was close — closer than it had ever been. He could smell rosewater and candle smoke and something else—her. Her bare arm brushed his, deliberate.

He didn’t know what to do with his hands. He didn’t know what to do with his breath.

“You looked…” he began, and his voice caught. “You looked like the sun in gold today. When you laughed yesterday, I—”

She leaned in, suddenly and without warning, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

He froze.

When she pulled back, she was grinning like a thief.

“There. Now we’re even.”

“For what?” he asked, his face red and himself feeling dizzy.

“I haven't decided yet.”

She turned and walked back across the chamber, her white nightgown flowing behind her like snow.

“Goodnight, Gwayne,” she said, not looking back. “Try not to faint.”

The door shut with a soft click.

And Gwayne Royce stood very still, one hand lifted to the cheek she’d kissed, as the night settled around him, and the city slept beneath his feet.

He could still feel the warmth of her lips on his skin, a sensation that lingered long after she had left the room. As he stood there in the darkness, he couldn't shake the feeling that something had shifted between them, something unspoken but palpable in the air. Just then another knock came at Gwayne's door, and Gwayne went to answer it.

It was Lady Jeyne, still wearing the purple gown she wore to dinner. She walked into his room, a slight smirk on her face as she closed the door behind her.

“You’ve got the look of a boy who kissed a dragon.” Jeyne said as she leaned against the stone wall , her eyes glinting mischievously in the dim light.

Gwayne flinched, nearly dropping the brush.

“I didn’t kiss anyone,” he said stiffly as he went and sat on his bed.

"I'd almost believe that if I didn't just see my cousin smiling as if she were the kitten who got the cream." Jeyne chuckled, her smirk widening. "Oh, come now, Gwayne. You can't fool me that easily," she teased, crossing her arms. "Seven help us, you’ve got the look. All flushed and quiet, like a squire who just polished a sword he’s not old enough to wield.”

“That’s a ridiculous metaphor.” Gwayne said, rolling his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous, thinking you can hide your romances from your best friend and liege lady." Jeyne crossed her arms, knowing she had caught Gwayne already.

Gwayne gave her a look — more embarrassed than angry. “It wasn’t like that.”

“No?” Jeyne raised an eyebrow. "Then enlighten me, my dear friend," she said with a sly grin, clearly enjoying the opportunity to tease him further. Gwayne sighed, knowing he was caught in his own web of lies. “She… talked. I listened. That’s all.”

“She always talks. That’s not what made your face look like a raspberry.” Jeyne chuckled, shaking her head in amusement. "You're a terrible liar, Gwayne."

Gwayne rubbed the back of his neck, trying not to smile. “It wasn’t anything.”

Jeyne watched him for a moment. Then her voice softened.

“She’s... a lot.”

“She is,” he admitted.

“And you liked it.” Jeyne teased.

He hesitated. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, you do,” Jeyne said, “You liked the way she looked at you. Like you weren’t a boy anymore.”

That silenced him.

Jeyne’s smile faded into something gentler. “It’s alright, Gwayne. You can like her. Just don’t forget who she is — and who you are.”

He looked up at that.

“You’re not just some mountain boy after all,” she said. “You’re Royce and Targaryen and gods-know-what else. People will watch everything you do now. Especially your sweet princess." Jeyne laughed softly.

Gwayne nodded slowly. “You sound like my mother.”

“Thank you,” Jeyne said with a curtsy. “Lady Rhea’s smarter than half this city.”

They stood in silence for a moment.

Jeyne stepped forward and bumped her shoulder lightly into his. “Besides… if she breaks your heart, I’ll have her thrown from the Eyrie.”

Gwayne blinked. “You’d what?”

“I’m still the Lady of the Vale, remember?” she said, straightening her shoulders just a little. “You may be half-dragon, but you still bow to me.”

He stared at her — half amused, half caught off guard.

“I’d put the Princess flat on her back if she hurt you,” Jeyne said plainly. “And you know I would.”

Gwayne huffed a breath, shaking his head. “Gods, I forgot how dangerous you are when you get righteous.”

“You didn’t forget,” she said, grinning. “You just hoped I’d gotten softer.”

“You? Never.” Gwayne remarked sarcastically.

Jeyne reached for the stable door, then paused, her voice lower. “She’s fire, Gwayne. Pretty fire. But I’m mountain stone. And if she burns you…”

She looked back at him with a shrug and a small, wicked smile.

“I’ll be there. To make sure what’s left still stands.” Gwayne nodded, with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Jeyne walked back towards the doors, opening them up. “I like her fine, I really do,” Jeyne said. “But I like you better.”

Gwayne blinked. “You do?”

Jeyne rolled her eyes. “Don’t get stupid about it. You’re like a very pretty brother who occasionally needs to be smacked.”

Gwayne smirked, and just then King Viserys walked past them , giving them a curious glance.

"You crazy kids, better get to bed. The day of the father's festival is upon us tomorrow afterall." The king said, before continuing on his way.

Jeyne chuckled and turned back to Gwayne, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Well, I should go and sleep; I do want to begin looking my best for the festival after all. "Goodnight, Gwayne," she said with a smile before walking away. Gwayne watched her go, his thoughts still lingering though on the kiss that his cousin gave him earlier that day. He couldn't deny the flutter of excitement it had caused in him and how he wasn't sure what he felt, but he wanted more.

Chapter Text

The first day of the fifth moon

The beginning of the festival had arrived. It had been a very grand affair thus far. Knights and men of the Vale had arrived via ships from Gulltown. The nobility of the Crownlands was ever present, as it always has been in King's Landing, and other nobles trickled in from the Riverlands, Westerlands, Stormlands, and Reach.

Today was the day of the father, a day to honor the great lords, men, and the king himself.

King Viserys had sat on the Iron Throne for nearly an hour, accepting gifts and pledges of loyalty from his vassals. The air was filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and the clinking of goblets. He had grown ever more bored of it as Lord Norcross and his sons had come with peaches and pears from their gardens in massive barrels.

"The crown accepts your most generous gift. Lord Norcross, may your loyalty and devotion to the crown be forever remembered," King Viserys said with a polite smile hiding his growing impatience. Lord Norcross bowed deeply, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction at the king's words.

Next came Lord Kilgore Ambrose, and his son and heir, Marq, came forth next, presenting two finely crafted axes.

"We bring two fine axes, made from metals found near Mell Mound. Created by our greatest blacksmith and our greatest craftsman," Lord Kilgore announced proudly. King Viserys examined the axes with interest, nodding in approval before thanking Lord Kilgore for his thoughtful gift.

Just as the young Lord of House Graceford was about to approach King Viserys, he arose from the Iron Throne.

"It seems that I must take a moment to relieve myself. I have had much sweet milk and wine today. I am weak as water," King Viserys declared with a chuckle, causing the court to erupt in laughter. "Lord Hand, Otto Hightower shall preside as Hand now and shall accept all gifts and pledges in my absence." King Viserys said as he climbed down from the Iron Throne, the lords, ladies, and knights of the court bowing respectfully as he passed by, and as Lord Otto rose to sit on the Iron Throne, he motioned for Lord Graceford to continue.

King Viserys passed through the main doors of the Throne Room for the pure pomp of it. He knew how his own presence seemed to excite the courtiers, and he enjoyed the attention. Instead of retreating to his solar or returning to his queen's side, King Viserys meandered through the Red Keep’s inner hallways, robes trailing behind him, humming a half-forgotten tune from his boyhood. A pair of Kingsguard trailed him at a respectful distance, but he waved them off when he reached the Stone Garden, the small lemon grove tucked into the keep’s eastern wall overlooking the sea.

And there, beneath the branches, sat a boy, his nephew.

Gwayne Royce, in a dark blue tunic, the pendant of Vhagar and Meleys glinting softly at his collar, looked up as the king approached. He started to rise from his seat.

“Stay seated,” Viserys said, waving him down as he moved toward the bench to sit beside his nephew. “Gods, if I have to see another axe or fruit basket, I’ll fall over in my chair.”

Gwayne chuckled, just barely.

"What've you been doing out here, nephew?"

"I'm killing ants and other bugs with this stick." Gwayne says, showing his dirty hands and the stick in his hand.

Viserys gets a chuckle out of this and pats the boy on the back.

“Well, at least someone’s doing something useful today,” the king said, easing himself down onto the bench beside his nephew. “The ants of the Red Keep shall tremble at your name. Gwayne the Ant Slayer and his mighty stick."

Gwayne grinned a little, still poking at a small patch of dirt. “They’re quick. But I’m quicker.”

“That’s a good quality for a future knight.”

“I’m not a knight.” Gwayne said as he continued to poke at the dirt with his stick. "Not yet, but one day you might be," Viserys replied with a smile, watching the boy with pride.

"You know, I never did much care for swordplay myself, but I did once try to go hunting. I used a bow and arrow against a fox; my arrow missed the thing, so I chased after it."

Gwayne looked up, intrigued. "Did you kill it?"

"No, believe it or not, foxes are much faster than they look, even faster than cats."

Gwayne laughed at that—not just polite laughter, but real amusement. He glanced at Viserys with something just short of admiration. “Did you ever kill bugs?”

“A few, I'm sure, and I believe I might have just upset the Ambroses if they count; I believe they have ants as their sigil.” Viserys said with a wink.

They sat in companionable silence for a moment. A gull cried overhead. The wind shifted, carrying with it the smell of lemon leaves and the distant tang of the sea.

Gwayne let his mind drift. He hadn’t meant to—but he couldn’t help it.

He remembered the balcony, the torchlight flickering on white stone… Rhaenyra’s face, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her violet eyes. The sudden warmth of her lips on his cheek. The way she laughed—bold, teasing, beautiful, and utterly confident.

It made his chest tighten just thinking about it.

He stabbed a little too hard into the dirt and split a worm in two.

Viserys glanced over. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m just thinking,” Gwayne muttered.

The king waited, but Gwayne didn’t continue.

Viserys let it lie, though his eyes lingered—not probing, just knowing. The way older men sometimes know without needing the words.

“Trouble at court already?” he asked lightly.

Gwayne shrugged. “No… not trouble. Just… I don’t always understand what people want. Or what they’re doing.”

Viserys raised a brow, amused. “I see, because it's the day of the father? I am sorry; I will never be able to understand your father. If we cut him open now to figure him out, we'd only end up more confused.

Gwayne chuckled, shaking his head. "It's not just him, Your Grace. It's everyone." Viserys nodded in understanding, a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

Gwayne sighed as he laid his stick in the ground. "Just… I don’t always understand what people want. Or what they’re doing.”

Viserys raised a brow, amused. “Well. That makes two of us, then.”

That drew a chuckle from Gwayne, but his gaze remained distant.

The king leaned back on the bench, looking skyward.

“The court plays at meaning,” he said after a moment. “But most of the time, what they really want is simple. To be noticed. To be wanted. To be seen.”

Gwayne didn’t respond, but his jaw tensed slightly.

Viserys lowered his gaze and smiled. “I wouldn’t worry too much. If someone’s gotten into your head, it only means they think you’re worth noticing.”

"Really?" Gwayne asked with a hint of skepticism in his voice. Viserys nodded, his smile turning reassuring. "Trust me, on it."

“She said she wanted to see me again,” Gwayne blurted.

Viserys looked sideways at him.

Gwayne froze. “I mean—not she, just… someone.”

The king didn’t smile, not exactly. But his eyes glinted with old understanding.

“Then let her see you,” he said. “Not what she expects. Not what the court wants. Just you.”

Gwayne didn’t speak but nodded.

"I'd also wager to bet that she'd appreciate who you are. After all, Lady Jeyne seems to be a fabulous young lady after all." Viserys chuckled softly, a knowing look in his eyes. "Just be yourself, Gwayne. That's all anyone can ask for."

Gwayne snapped his mouth shut, perplexed that the king thought Lady Jeyne was who he was referring to. Rather than reveal his confusion, he simply nodded.

“I wasn’t always married to Aemma, you know,” the king said after a moment. “I still remember the day I met her, escorted by her father into the Red Keep, wearing silk blues and whites. Just as beautiful as Lady Jeyne, if not more so. But showing her who I was under all of my titles was what I think won her over in the end."

Viserys watched the boy’s expression tighten and twist—not in frustration, but in that quiet way boys get when something inside them doesn’t match what’s happening outside.

“I know it's all confusing, all this damned duty and all that goes with it. You know I wasn’t always good at court either,” the king said after a moment. “Too soft," they said. Too open. I used to believe if I was kind to everyone, they’d be kind in return. Most of the time I was wrong, but I liked to think that at the end of the day I slept better than they did."

Gwayne snorted softly and picked his stick back up, twirling it now in thought rather than war. “Do you think I’ll be good at it? At court? Or… anything?”

Viserys tilted his head. “Do you want to be?”

Gwayne hesitated. “Sometimes. Other times I just want to stay at home and ride.”

“You’re allowed to feel both. The Seven didn’t carve us out of marble.”

“When I was younger than you,” Viserys said, “I once asked Baelon if I’d ever ride a dragon of my own. He said, ‘Not if you sit around waiting for someone to hand it to you.’ I hated that answer.”

“What happened?”

“I stopped asking and started watching. I learned how they moved. How they listened. And one day, after watching for long enough, I approached Balerion, the last living thing to have seen Old Valyria in all her glory."

He paused, then turned toward Gwayne fully.

“You’ll find your own fire, Gwayne. I don’t know if it’ll be a title, a woman, a quill, or a sword, or something no one else sees. But when it happens, it’ll burn. You’ll know.”

He reached into his robe and pulled a red cloth from within.

“I was going to give this to you later in the week, but… seems right today.”

Gwayne unwrapped it carefully—a small bronze figurine shaped like a dragon, wings coiled mid-flight, with tiny runes carved across its base.

“It’s Valyrian,” Viserys said. “Old. It might not be worth much in gold, but it’s worth something to me. Baelon found this in Lys; he gave it to me on my ninth nameday."

Gwayne turned it in his palm. The bronze was warm from the king’s hand—and it stayed warm.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“Happy Day of the Father,” Viserys said softly. “Even if I’m not yours.”

“You feel like you are,” Gwayne said before he could stop himself.

The words hung there. No pomp. No ceremony. Just two people sharing space, and silence, and something like peace.

Viserys smiled—that soft, good-natured, slightly sad smile—as he contended with the more recent thoughts of his wife's second miscarriage, another dead son as he saw it slip away from him. "Thank you, Gwayne," he said, his voice heavy with emotion. Gwayne nodded, understanding the weight of the unspoken words between them. Viserys stood up and offered his hand to Gwayne.

“Come on,” he said, offering Gwayne a hand up. "After all of the people who've kissed my feet today, I am hungry, and for all of the fruits I've seen today, certainly not one of those; perhaps we can find some cake somewhere." Gwayne took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, feeling a warmth in his chest at the simple gesture. As they walked beneath the lemon trees, he wondered if the Day of the Father was meant for men like Viserys. Not just fathers in blood, but in bond—the kind who stay, even when others disappear on leather wings.

Chapter Text

"Why can't I just go with you?" Gwayne asked, arms crossed as he leaned against the bedpost, watching his mother wrestle with the final clasp of her collar.

What she wore could only be described as a work of masculine and feminine art. The garment was a defiant thing—structured like armor. A high-necked bodice of smoky indigo gripped her shoulders like plate, dark and regal, with thread the color of old bronze catching the light in the shape of old runes. At a glance, it looked like a proper gown—but it wasn’t. Not truly.

The skirt was no skirt at all, but wide-legged woolen trousers pleated so precisely they whispered like silk when she walked, dark purple with an ash-gray sheen. They flared beneath a split overskirt that trailed behind her like a shadow—stitched with Royce runes and fastened at the hip with a crescent-shaped buckle. Her boots were polished leather, heeled and iron-tipped, clicking faintly against the stone as she turned toward the mirror.

"You know full well I'd rather stay away from this all the same. But Lady Jeyne wishes to attend this; it is one of the biggest events for the various ladies of the seven kingdoms, and if she wishes to attend it and wishes for me to attend it with her, then I shall go." Rhea said as she straightened out the overskirt of her gown, adjusting the crescent moon shape, which worked doubly as a belt. "Besides, if you think what we did two days ago was bad, then I guarantee that what happens here will be far worse. One of my ladies-in-waiting had even told me that Aemma shall not be able to attend."

“Why not?” Gwayne asked, perking up. “Is she still feeling sick?"

Rhea paused for a moment, her fingers lingering on the crescent buckle. “Like I had said before, she is a special type of ill; her baby died in her belly. That tends to make women very sick and very sad." Gwayne's expression softened. Rhea continued, "She needs time to heal, physically and emotionally."

Gwayne fell quiet, his arms loosening at his chest.

His mother took the opportunity to slide in the final hairpin, tucking a loose strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She had half a mind to leave it undone—she hated fussing over appearances, and her hair had a will of its own—but Jeyne had insisted.

Just then there was a knock at the door—gentle, formal. One of the Arryn retainers.

“My lady, the Queen’s Court begins shortly. Lady Arryn is nearly ready now and awaits your presence."

Rhea looks back over herself once more in the mirror. She rubs her son's head affectionately before turning to the retainer, nodding in acknowledgment. "Thank you, I will be there shortly." Rhea then looked back to her son. "Now as for you, I'd highly suggest that you behave yourself. Go see the gardens, go buy something in the markets, and go and eat; just don't be brash or stupid." Rhea straightened her posture and smoothed down her dress before heading towards the door. Before she stepped out, someone else opened the door.

Standing tall there in silver gleaming armor stood Ser Harrold Westerling with his white cloak billowing behind him. "My lady." Ser Harrold said to Rhea with a respectful bow. Rhea nodded in return.

"Ser Harrold, what brings you here?" Rhea asked the knight with a curious expression, wondering what had prompted his unexpected arrival.

"Seeing as today was the Queen's court, I figured I might accompany the young Gwayne for the day. Ser Lorent and Ser Steffon guard the king, and I am left dutyless at the moment." Ser Harrold spoke, and Rhea raised an eyebrow, surprised but not ungrateful. “Then I suppose he’s in good hands.”

Gwayne perked up at the news. “Can we go to the dragonpit?”

“No,” Ser Harrold said at once, but his tone was kindly, not stern. “But I thought perhaps we might do something useful instead. Something for the Queen.”

Gwayne’s smile dimmed just slightly, sensing the shift in tone. “She’s not going to the court today.”

“I know.” Ser Harrold’s voice lowered a touch as he looked toward Rhea. “And I imagine she’d rather the Red Keep forgot her for a day. But… I believe that a small kindness now and then helps more than people think.”

Rhea, already halfway out the door, paused and glanced back at her son. Her eyes softened. “That sounds like a fine idea.”

She departed without another word, her boots clicking a slow rhythm down the hall.

Ser Harrold watched her go before turning back to Gwayne. “Walk with me.”

They strolled through the corridor, Ser Harrold’s silver armor catching the pale light of the overcast morning. Gwayne kept pace beside him, fidgeting slightly with the edge of his sleeve.

“What are we getting for her?” Gwayne asked after a moment. “Aunt Aemma?”

“Aemma likes flowers,” Ser Harrold said simply. “From the Stormlands, the Reach, the Vale—anywhere. But I thought maybe we’d find her some in the glass gardens of the Red Keep. There’s a variety of odd flowers there. Lord Beesbury had it built several years ago in honor of the Good Queen. They grow odd things in there. Volantene grapes. Duskrose. Blackcress.”

“Sounds more like a salad than a gift.”

Harrold gave a small chuckle. “You’d be surprised what pleases a queen. Your great-grandmother, Queen Alysanne, loved many of the same."

As they turned a corner, Gwayne’s eyes darted to a passing window where a pair of white cloaks stood on the steps far below—silent sentries in the wind.

“Ser Harrold,” Gwayne said after a pause, "is Ser Ryam here? I have not seen him since we got here. Is he ok?"

Harrold slowed slightly. The boy’s voice had dropped to something quiet, almost ashamed.

The older knight didn’t answer at once. “He’s… tired,” Harrold said finally. “More tired than he used to be. And that kind of tired doesn’t go away.”

“But he was the greatest knight in the realm,” Gwayne said, brow furrowed. “He fought in the third and fourth Dornish Wars. He beat my father a few times even.”

Harrold nodded solemnly. “Aye. And he still is one of the greatest. But even good men get old, lad."

“But you’ll still be here,” Gwayne said, glancing up at Ser Harrold. “When he’s gone.”

Harrold didn’t answer right away, instead taking a deep breath and thinking on it. “If the gods will it and the Mander don't rise,” the knight said. “But come now. Let’s pick flowers for the Queen."

The air inside the greenhouse was warm and damp, thick with the perfume of strange, foreign blooms. Dew clung to the leaves, and condensation streaked down the glass panes like thin rain. Rows of plants stood in orderly beds, some familiar, many not—twisting vines with silver-veined petals, blossoms that opened like mouths, and stalks that pulsed. Inside was an old man with a weathered face, his hands gentle as he tended to the plants.

Gwayne slowed as they entered, awed despite himself. “It smells… weird.”

Harrold grunted. “Better than the stables.”

"Aw, hello, good sirs." The old, withered man said as he faced the two of them. He had a long grey beard and a pompous belly. He wore old, tattered robes that seemed to blend in with the greenery around him. "Welcome to my greenhouse," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "I am Master Botanist Eldric, and these are my pride and joy. What brings you to the glass house on this day?"

"We wish to find flowers for the Queen," Ser Harrold spoke as he and Gwayne walked the central path, boots softly crunching on the gravel underfoot. Bees droned lazily through the air, golden and fat. Gwayne kept close to Harrold, eyeing a cluster of flowers with spiked blue heads and curling white stems.

“What’s that one called?”

“Bloodrose. Don’t touch it.” Master Eldric said, his voice firm. "It's beautiful but deadly," he added.

They passed beneath a lattice of climbing ivy, pale and star-shaped. A gardener tending to some far row gave a polite nod before returning to his work. Gwayne’s eyes drifted over the foliage, searching for something that didn’t look like it came from a maester’s apothecary.

Then he stopped.

“What about that one?”

Harrold turned. Gwayne pointed to a cluster of pale golden flowers. Their petals were small and round, like pressed coins, with faint streaks of orange and pink near the edges. The plant was simple, almost shy, growing in a ceramic pot off to the side of the path.

"Those are a variety of lilies from the Stormlands. Quite beautiful, if I do say so myself." Master Eldric bent over to touch the petals of the flowers, wiping the dew off of them and tasting it.

Gwayne crouched beside him. “Would the Queen like it?”

Ser Harrold nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "I believe so. These lilies should surely brighten her chambers."

They carried the flowers back in silence.

The lilies had been carefully bundled in cloth by Master Eldric, who tucked a sprig of blackcress between the stems—“for balance,” he said, though Gwayne wasn’t sure what that meant. It smelled strange and looked even stranger, but he didn’t argue. He carried the bundle in both arms, walking with measured steps as Ser Harrold led him through the quiet halls of the Red Keep.

At last they reached a modest door made of iron and oak. On it depicting the she-dragons of previous queens, including Meraxes, Vhagar, and Silverwing. Ser Harrold knocked only once, then stepped back.

A servant girl opened it, her eyes tired but kind. “The Queen is resting right now; she would prefer to see no company at this…"

Ser Harrold raised his hand up in front of the girl. "This is the Queen's nephew. I believe that she would rather prefer his visit to be an exception," he said with a reassuring smile. The servant girl hesitated for a moment before nodding and stepping aside to let him in.

Gwayne stepped in slowly.

The chamber was dim, lit only by the pale light that filtered through gauzy curtains. Aemma Arryn sat by the window, wrapped in a thick robe of deep blue. Her pale silver hair wasn't in an elegant updo or a braid; it just lay loosely, cascading down her back. She looked as though she had not slept—not truly—in some time. There were no maesters near her, no handmaidens fussing. Only stillness.

She turned when she heard the door close. And when she saw Gwayne, her expression softened, almost crumbling. “Oh,” she said quietly. “Hello, Gwayne.”

Gwayne stood near the threshold, unsure of what to say.

“I brought you flowers,” he blurted, holding out the bundle awkwardly. “They’re from the greenhouse. Ser Harrold said you’d like them. I picked them.”

Aemma stared at the flowers for a moment, and then her lips curved—not quite a smile, but close. She rose slowly from her chair, walking barefoot across the rug, her steps careful.

When she took the bundle from him, her hands trembled.

“They’re beautiful,” she murmured. She brought them to her face, breathing in gently. Her eyes closed, and for a moment, her brow eased. “Thank you, my sweet nephew.”

Gwayne flushed, unsure of what to say. “I didn’t really know which ones you liked.”

“These will do perfectly.” Aemma said as she turned slowly, placing the bundle carefully on a low table beside her chair.

For a while, neither of them spoke. Gwayne glanced around—there were books stacked on the windowsill, embroidery half-finished on a cushion, and a tray of untouched food.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked quietly.

Aemma lowered herself back into her seat with a quiet exhale. “No,” she said honestly. “But I’m not feeling worse. Some days… that’s the best you can do.”

Gwayne sat across from her on the edge of the chaise, arms resting on his knees.

He watched her for a moment. “My mother told me,” he said. “About… the baby, did he have a name yet?"

Aemma shook her head once. She didn’t flinch or cry. But her gaze drifted to the floor. “He never got a name.”

Gwayne looked down at his hands. “I would’ve named him.”

Aemma tilted her head gently, her expression touched. “What name would you have chosen?”

"Baelon, like grandfather," Gwayne replied softly. "It's a strong name, fitting for a Targaryen."

Aemma didn’t respond right away. Her fingers brushed over the petals again, lingering there as if she might draw something from them. Strength, maybe. Or peace.

Then she looked at him—really looked—and her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with that quiet ache only mothers truly know.

“You remind me of him,” she said so softly it barely crossed the space between them.

Gwayne blinked, uncertain. “Of… Grandfather?”

“No.” Aemma reached out and touched his cheek, her hand light but steady. “Of the boy I lost. Not in your face, or your hair, or anything so simple. But in how kind you are and how protective and sweet you are to my girl. And how you always try. You’re trying even now.”

Gwayne flushed, his mouth unsure of whether to smile or frown.

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was full—like a lull in a storm, when neither knew what should be said next, but both knew they were safe here, just for a little while.

Aemma leaned back, resting her hand over her stomach, where the ache still lingered. “You didn’t have to bring me anything,” she murmured. “But I’m so glad you did.”

Gwayne looked at her for a long moment, then—awkwardly, shyly—he reached forward and took her hand.

“Well, today is the day of the mother, and I think you're a great mother and an even better aunt,” he said.

Her breath caught, and suddenly she felt tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. She pulled Gwayne closer to her and whispered, "Thank you; that means more to me than you know." And hugged her nephew tightly, feeling a warmth in her heart that eased the ache in her stomach.

Gwayne smiled warmly and squeezed her hand gently. "I love you, Aunt Aemma."

Chapter Text

Today was to be the day of a massive joust and a melee in honor of the day of the warrior. It was to be one of the greatest events since the wedding of King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne. Several knights from the Vale were to be a part of this, as far as Gwayne knew. His mother had told him that she had heard that knights from houses Ruthermont, Corbray, Shett, and Layfield, along with many others. The castellan of Runestone was John Layfield after all, and Gwayne looked forward to seeing John's nephews in the melee or the joust, whichever one they were in.

But before Gwayne awoke from his slumber, he was awoken by a firm and loud knock on his door. Gwayne rubbed his eyes and looked out the window; the sun had barely risen above the horizon. He looked back at his door, wondering if perhaps it had been a dream or a cat. Gwayne laid his head back down, but just as he did, another loud and firm knock came at his door. Gwayne rolled over in his bed and swung his legs over the side, making his way to the door with a sense of curiosity and annoyance. Gwayne was still wearing his cotton shorts and a simple white linen shirt.

At his door stood Ser Harrold Westerling, wearing his gleaming white and silver armor. Ser Harrold was as broad and imposing as the doors he had just knocked upon, his white cloak draped over burnished armor chased with silver. His face didn't seem to hold the same exhaustion that Gwayne's did. Ser Harrold looked down at Gwayne with a slight smirk, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "My apologies for the early hour, Gwayne, but someone would like to see you."

Gwayne sighed, rubbing his eyes as he followed Ser Harrold out into the main hall of Maegor's Holdfast. The Holdfast looked rather eerie in the early morning. There was little to no life in sight except for the guards stationed around the hall and at the doors. The birds that could usually be heard outside of the Red Keep could not even be heard singing.

"Where are we going?" Gwayne asked as he stifled a yawn.

Ser Harrold said to him, "To the White Sword Tower, where the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard wishes to speak with you." Gwayne's curiosity was piqued as his thoughts immediately went to Ser Ryam. The greatest knight in all the realm, and a knight whom Gwayne hadn't seen in several years since he was a young boy.

Inside of White Sword Tower, it was round, lit by torches and candles. The floor was made of grey stone, and the walls were painted white; the white on the walls had faded over time. Giving some parts of the wall an almost cream-like color rather than glistening white like Ser Harrold's cloak. The room contains a large weirwood table carved in the shape of a shield supported by three white stallions, and three knights sit on each side.

"This table, it's made of weirwood. I have a desk in my chambers at Runestone, and it's made of this very same wood. I can tell by the lines and the pattern of the grain," Gwayne remarked, running his fingers along the intricate carvings.

"Yes, it was given to our knighthood in 40 AC. Brought by Ser Olyver Bracken, a knight of the Kingsguard. It was made from trees cut down in some Bracken and Blackwood war, cut from the godswood of the Blackwoods." Ser Harrold said as he placed his hands on the back of one of the chairs.

Gwayne, though, grimaced at the thought of these trees having once been cut from the godswood of what he considered one of the most noble families in the Riverlands. Gwayne left the table, though, for a moment as he looked around the room further and saw a large white book. "What's that?" Gwayne said, pointing to the book.

Ser Harrold glanced over and replied, "That is what the knights of the Kingsguard members write in; each knight gets a page to detail their deeds and acts, every member of our brotherhood since the first Lord Commander, Ser Corlys Velaryon."

Just then they could hear someone coming down the steps, slowly but steadily. Ser Ryam Redwyne opened the door with a slow creak; he had clearly seen better days. His once red and white hair had all but fallen out; he now used a purple cane to walk; one of his eyes looked to be glazed over and pale, while the other one still held small remnants of sharp, piercing blue. The door shut gently behind him, muffling the echo of his cane against the stone. Gwayne stood frozen for a heartbeat, his breath caught in his throat. This was Ser Ryam Redwyne—the Ser Ryam Redwyne—but not as he remembered. Not the towering knight from the tourney at Oldtown or even the older man he remembered from his youth.

“Lord Commander,” Ser Harrold said with a respectful nod, his voice softer now. “As you asked... Gwayne Royce of Runestone.”

Ryam’s good eye focused on the boy, and a faint smile tugged at his cracked lips. “Come closer, lad. My eyes are not what they once were; you've grown since the last time I saw you. You've looked to have gone from chicken slayer to chicken eater." Ser Ryam said with a rueful smile as he poked Gwayne's stomach.

Gwayne chuckled. “It’s an honor to see you again, ser.”

Ryam let out a breath that might have once been a chuckle, though now it sounded more like a sigh through crumpled parchment. “I remember when you could barely swing a play stick. Now look at you. Eleven, are you? Have you been knighted yet?”

“Not yet, sir, and I turned eleven just two moons ago,” Gwayne replied, standing a little straighter, puffing his chest just enough to seem taller—until he remembered the jest and sucked it in.

“Well then,” Ryam said as he lowered himself onto the chair of the Lord Commander, “I'm sure you'll be knighted soon enough. It won't be me, but perhaps once you've been tested well enough, you'll be knighted by a knight like Ser Harrold here or even a knight from the Vale like Lord Corbray or Ser Gyles Ruthermont."

“Are you dying?” Gwayne asked without thinking, then bit his lip.

Ryam looked at him, amused. “We all are, lad. Some just sooner than others. I believe that my best days are behind me."

He gestured for Gwayne to sit beside him. “Come. You know, I have seen many great things in my life, but none so great as the potential I see in young men like yourself. I remember even Ser Harrold here when he was young, and look at him now, my amazing predecessor he is and will be."

“I fought your grandfather once,” Ryam said, his eye turning distant. “Yorbert Royce. At Old Town, this was all during the great tourney, and I tell you what, I and Yorbert had what could be said to be the greatest joust ever seen. We broke nine lances against each other; the tenth one was my lucky shot when I unseated him. Your grandfather was a fierce competitor, tougher than even bronze, I'd say, and I had actually dislocated his shoulder if I remember correctly. But considering your grandfather wasn't known to be a jousting knight, he fought like a true champion that day. It was an honor to face him in the lists."

Gwayne glanced at Ser Harrold, who gave him a quiet nod. Gwayne had only ever heard secondhand accounts of the joust, which he had gotten from his uncle Rollam.

“You’ve your mother’s look,” Ryam continued. “I'm sure she'll lead you to be an honorable and skilled man, just like your grandfather."

Ryam shifted in his seat, exhaling through his nose as though even remembering brought a trace of pain to his old bones. “Your uncle, I remember him too, Rollam... right? He was a loud boy. Always grinning and always drunk."

Gwayne smiled faintly. “Uncle Rollam says you only won the tenth tilt because your squire waxed your saddle before the match.”

Ser Ryam gave a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. Ser Harrold stepped forward as if to help, but Ryam raised a hand and waved him off. “Ha, your uncle was drunk as a skunk that day, couldn't see straight. So I wouldn't put much thought into him, but if that's what he's saying, let him know I'll haunt him once I'm taken by the stranger."

He looked down at his gnarled hands, fingers trembling slightly before curling around the cane. “We used to think those days would never end—tournaments in the spring, swords in the summer, lords in the autumn, and ghosts in the winter. But now I find... I think more about the boys who came after than the men I fought.”

Gwayne tilted his head. “Is that why you sent for me?”

Ryam looked back at him. “That, and today is the Day of the Warrior, and I ought to speak to one more before I go.” He smiled. “I don’t call many boys warriors. But I can see it in your eyes, always have. I have served many Targaryens: Ser Aemon, Ser Baelon, The Old King and the new. But I know this much. The spirit of the warrior is far stronger in you, and it may surpass all of them yet."

There was a long pause, filled only by the soft hiss of torchlight.

“I never had sons of my own,” Ryam said, lowering his voice. “Not for lack of wanting, but for lack of time. My life has been the Kingsguard. I gave every bit of myself to it—every good piece and a few bad ones."

He looked to Ser Harrold, then back to Gwayne. “But if I could pass something on—just one thing—it’s this: don’t be in such a hurry to prove yourself. All knights think they have something to prove. Most of us do. And your blood, lad…” He gave a glance that flickered briefly toward Gwayne’s eyes, “...is full of men who thought the same."

Gwayne flinched slightly at the unspoken mention of his father.

“I’m not like any of them,” Gwayne said softly but firmly.

Ryam’s smile deepened, and he reached out, resting a weathered hand on the boy’s shoulder. “No, you're not, and thank your trees every day that you're not. And despite your father, you are better than he in spirit. He may yet be good with his blade and his blood wyrm, but he is an empty man who has never known true love nor honor."

There was another silence, heavier this time. Ryam’s eye drifted toward the book again—the white book, untouched on the pedestal.

“I’ve only ever written in the white book once, my name and my house,” he said. “When I first took my vows. I told myself I’d come back to it when I had enough deeds worth writing. The trouble is, there’s never enough. Never just right. So... it’s still blank. And now I think I’ve waited too long.”

Gwayne blinked. “But you’re the most famous knight in the realm. There are songs about you.”

Ryam chuckled faintly. “Aye. But songs change. Pages last longer. I shall return to the dust I rose up from, and my body will be taken by the maggots and worms. My songs may precede me, yes, but they will not know the truth of my deeds, only the embellished tales that have been passed down through generations."

He leaned back, eyelids growing heavy now, the wear of age pressing down on him like the weight of a hundred swords.

Ser Harrold gave a quiet cough, and Gwayne looked toward him, sensing it was time.

Gwayne rose, careful not to scrape the chair too loudly. He gave a bow—deeper than he’d ever given to any lord or prince. When he stood straight again, Ryam’s eye was still open, watching.

“One more thing,” the old knight murmured.

Gwayne leaned in.

“Flow, always flow. Let your banners sail as they need to, and let your sword fall when it must; always flow. Be it Bronze or Valyrian, every blade dulls if it cannot bend with the current." Gwayne nodded, not quite understanding the wisdom in Ryam's words. With a final glance at the old knight, he turned and left the room with Ser Harrold.

Gwayne walked back into his chambers, where his clothes were already neatly laid out. Today he was to wear a purple vest with bronze-colored strings, brown pants, and a white undershirt. Gwayne quickly dressed himself and then went over to his desk drawer and pulled out a leather pouch and dumped out its insides. One of Gwayne's favorite parts about being a noble is the accessorizing of it all. He brought different colors of small chains, rings, pendants, and buttons. Today felt like a silver chain day, so he clasped it onto his vest before walking out of his chambers; feeling confident and stylish, he waited on his mother and Lady Jeyne. His mother came out a few moments later while Jeyne seemed to take an eternity. But once she did come out, she looked gorgeous, wearing yellow instead of her traditional dark colors.

"Well, now you just look like a plain southerner." Gwayne said with a smirk as he looked at her.

Jeyne shot him. a playful glare before retorting, "At least I don't look like a rotten grape."

“I look like a lord,” Gwayne replied coolly. “One of taste.”

“I was told it was flattering,” Jeyne said, smoothing the fabric along her sides. “My cousin insisted.”

"I believe it suits you quite well, Jeyne; you look like a proper and courtly maiden." Rhea Royce said.

"Thank you, my lady; it's good to see that some members of the Royce family still know what good taste is," Jeyne replied with a crooked smile.

The three of them were flanked by guards wearing the respective sigils of the two houses. They all made their way to the yard, where several carriages and wheel houses were stationed, but Jeyne's stood out amongst them all. It's bright cobalt blue, and sleek white falcons on its sides made it the most eye-catching of them all. It seemed neither the Targaryen nor the Hightower host had yet left, as they could still see their respective wheelhouses parked in the yard. The three of them travelled to the great tourney field just outside the King's Gate. It was clear that this tourney was going to be a massive spectacle. Down the sloped path and across the bridge that led toward the tiltyard, the royal banners flapped high above the stands. Lords and ladies from every corner of the realm filed into their viewing boxes, while knights readied their destriers, adjusting lances, buckles, and armor in the lists.

Rhea led the group to the royal box where they'd be sitting. Already a few courtiers and small council members had filed in. But most surprising of all to Gwayne were the Velaryons. Just in front of the King's seat sat Lord Corlys Velaryon and his wife, Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, both dressed in their finest silks and jewels. And below them, their children, Laena and Laenor Velaryon, along with Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. When Rhaenys saw them enter, she gave them a small yet warm smile.

"Lady Rhea, it's a pleasure to see you here with us today for the tourney." Rhaenys said as she rose from her seat to speak.

Rhea Royce bowed her head respectfully. “Princess Rhaenys. Lord Corlys. It is good to see both of you and your kin as well. You look as elegant as the last time we met.”

“You flatter me,” Rhaenys said, the corner of her mouth curling upward. “Any Royce knights competing in the tourney?"

"No, not this time; my uncle believes himself to be too old for it and everyone else is too young." Rhea says.

Lord Corlys gave a nod, his rings glinting in the sunlight. “Well, that is quite the shame. But I have already seen many banners, and it seems already that the Vale has sent proud riders. It’ll be a good showing.”

Gwayne began to tune them out as his eyes drifted over to the younger seats—Laena Velaryon, striking even at her age with her long silver-gold braids and bright, curious eyes, whispered something to her brother Laenor, who laughed and pointed toward the far side of the field. Between them sat a stern-faced older lady in storm-colored blue with wild black curls streaked with gray. Lady Jocelyn Baratheon, the same grouchy old woman who he had seen at the Queen's Court.

Just then the other royals and noble members of the court began to enter. The Lord Hand and his wife sat on the opposite side of Lord Corlys and his wife. While Alicent sat beside her mother. Behind them came the King, Queen, and Rhaenyra. Rhaenyra came down and sat with Gwayne and Jeyne while the King and Queen sat in their designated seats at the back of the box. Once Viserys had entered and taken his seat, the horns began to blow, signaling the beginning of the joust.

Viserys took center stage as he came to the front of the box and spoke. "Good day to all of you! Today we come together, united as the seven kingdoms, to not only see each other after the five-year winter but also to remember the seven faces of our God. Today we shall give our dividends and our attention as the great joust of the warriors begins. Viserys raised his hand, signaling for the first two knights to enter the arena. The crowd erupted in cheers and anticipation as the jousting competition commenced.

A man who stood over in the corner of the box blew a horn before speaking. "For the start of this joust, we first introduce Ser Bradshaw Layfield of House Layfield from the Vale. And his opponent is Ser Killian of House Estren of the Westerlands. May the joust commence!"

Ser Bradshaw wore old armor with a green cloak, while Ser Killian wore a slightly more extravagant set of silver armor adorned with intricate engravings. As the two knights charged towards each other, the sound of their horses' hooves thundered through the arena. But the joust lasted barely a minute as Ser Killian quickly unhorsed Ser Bradshaw with a swift and well-aimed lance strike, emerging victorious.

Gwayne winced. “That was—”

“Embarrassing,” Jeyne finished for him. “They’ll hear about it for moons.”

“Good,” said Rhea. “Maybe then they’ll take training seriously.”

Next came the Reachmen. Names like Beesbury, Redwyne, and Merryweather echoed proudly, followed by cheers from finely dressed lords and ladies in the stands. Their armor shone like polished mirrors; they looked like knights from a tapestry. Their tilts were clean, controlled, and powerful. One unhorsed a knight from the Westerlands so thoroughly that the poor man had to be carried off the field on a litter.

“Look there,” Rhea said suddenly, pointing with her chin. “That’s Ser Gyles Ruthermont. He's your pick, isn't he?"

Gwayne sat up straighter, a grin tugging at his lips. “He’s the best rider in the Fingers. Uncle Rollam said he could outrun a shadow cat and that he was as strong as an ox!"

Gyles looked confident, his helm tucked under his arm, a sea-green plume atop his helm. His destrier stamped the ground as if eager to charge. His opponent, however, was a knight from Honeyholt—Ser Dorian Beesbury, a broad-chested man with a vicious look in his eyes.

The tilt was a disaster.

Ser Gyles rode true and lowered his lance perfectly, but Ser Dorian twisted just before the strike and smashed into Gyles’s chest with brutal force. Gyles reeled, nearly lost control of his horse, and dropped his lance. The next pass saw him knocked fully from the saddle, and Ser Dorian raised both arms as if the gods themselves had guided his lance.

Gwayne sank back in his seat, lips pressed tight.

Rhea reached out and gave his shoulder a light squeeze. “Even good riders fall.”

The next few tilts passed in a blur—some brutal, some graceful—until the horn sounded again and a familiar banner was raised.

Then Lady Jeyne rose from her seat as she saw the banners of the next contestant. The banner had a white field with black ravens holding red hearts. "Is that Lord Lyn!?" Jeyne said with excitement. Lord Lyn Corbray had been a pivotal fighter and general when Jeyne's cousin rose up against her. Lord Lyn slew many members of the Mountain Clans, and he was known for his fierce combat skills.

Gwayne leaned forward so quickly he nearly knocked knees with Jeyne.

Lyn Corbray rode forward like a storm cloud—his armor dark as smoke, his cloak rippling like ink. He had a bushy brown beard and long dark brown hair that could be seen under his helm.

“Why isn’t he carrying a lance?” Gwayne asked, alarmed.

“He is,” Rhea said. “He just hasn’t drawn it yet.”

As Lyn approached the line, he took the lance from his squire and gave only the briefest nod to the crowd before riding to the royal box. "Lady Jeyne, my great liege. I humbly ask for your favor."

Jeyne blushed at that as she rose up from her seat with a blue flower wreath and placed it on Lord Lyn's lance. "I wish you well, Lord Lyn; may the gods grant you victory in today's tournament," she said with a smile. Lord Lyn gave her a grateful nod before turning his attention back to the field. Out in front of him was a knight from House Terrick from the Riverlands.

The Terrick knight was a tall man in golden-brown armor, his surcoat bearing the purple and yellow eagles of his house. He looked steady, seasoned—no green boy like the Layfields. But Gwayne watched Lord Lyn lean forward, adjusting his grip on the lance like a man drawing breath before a plunge into icy waters.

The horn blew. The horses charged.

Lyn's lance struck first, sharp and clean. It crashed into the Terrick knight’s shoulder, sending him twisting sideways in the saddle, nearly unhorsed. The Riverlander’s return blow glanced off Lyn’s shield without breaking it.

A second pass followed. This time, Lyn lowered his body, couched the lance harder, and struck with such force that the Terrick knight toppled backward from his horse like a sack of stones. The crowd gasped. Then, as the knight hit the ground, applause rolled through the stands. Lady Jeyne, Rhea Royce, and Gwayne stood up clapping for their fellow Valeman.

As the lists continued, Lord Lyn continued to dominate. Defeating Ser Petyr Piper, Lord Cleos Lydden, and even Ser Halys Tarley.

Lord Lyn’s next tilt was called not long after, this time against none other than Lord Boremund Baratheon, the uncle of Princess Rhaenys and lord of Storm's End. Boremund gleamed in full gold-enameled plate, every inch of him screaming might. His stallion’s hooves were wrapped in cloth-of-gold, and stags had been etched across his shield. The man looked more statue than knight—immovable.

The horn sounded. First pass.

Lyn rode hard and fast, lowering his lance perfectly. Boremund barely shifted in his saddle as the Vale knight’s blow struck his chest with a clatter. His own lance struck Lyn in the pauldron with such force it sent sparks flying, but Lyn held firm.

Second pass.

This time, Lyn tried a risk—aiming lower, toward Boremund’s side. But Boremund twisted in the saddle with uncanny timing, allowing the lance to scrape off. His own found its mark in Lyn’s breastplate, snapping wood and forcing him off balance.

The third pass ended it.

Lyn struck clean, but not hard enough. Boremund’s lance caught Lyn squarely in the center of the chest, and with a thunderous impact, Lord Lyn Corbray was thrown from his horse.

Gasps. A smattering of applause. Then, as Lyn rose from the ground, shaking out his arms, the cheers truly began—louder this time, richer, for the victor.

Jeyne sat stiff as a board.

“He fought well,” she whispered.

“He did,” Rhea said.

As Lord Lyn dusted himself off and walked back toward his squire, he glanced up toward the royal box and gave a short bow—first to Jeyne, then to Viserys, and finally to Rhea and Gwayne. Then he was gone.

Trumpets sounded again as the next names were called. But Gwayne barely heard them. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, eyes downcast.

That was when a small shadow passed over him.

“You’ve gone all quiet,” said Rhaenyra Targaryen, suddenly at his side. She had returned to sit beside him, her silken gown catching the breeze and her pale braid laced with tiny rubies. She tilted her head, studying him with amusement.

“You were rooting for the Vale knight,” she added. “Weren’t you?”

Gwayne nodded.

“He nearly had him,” Gwayne murmured. “If he'd angled lower on the second pass—”

"Shame he didn't," Rhaenyra said as the crowd began cheering once more as the next set of knights entered the arena.

"Nonetheless, I rather enjoyed seeing Lord Corbray in action. He's a respectable knight of the Vale." Lady Jeyne said as she adjusted the position of her fan to shield her face from the sun, and she then looked to Gwayne. "Perhaps we may one day see you on the jousting field?"

"Perhaps"

Chapter Text

Breakfast had been a grandiose affair. The combined royal family had attended dinner just the night before, and Viserys had asked that the whole of his family join together for every meal that they could before they all parted ways once more. All except for the Rogue Prince himself, who Rhaenys alluded to having retreated to Dragonstone.

Midway through breakfast, Rhaenyra interrupted a conversation her father was having with Lord Corlys, asking him, "Father, may I take Gwayne to see my dragon?"

Viserys looked up, blinking as though plucked from some fog of half-listened pleasantries. He glanced between Rhaenyra and the others gathered at the table—Gwayne seated beside his mother, Jeyne picking at fruit, Laena whispering into Laenor’s ear, and Rhaenys watching everything with that unreadable, knowing smile.

"Your dragon?" Viserys echoed, scratching idly at the side of his beard.

"Yes," Rhaenyra said brightly. "I haven't seen Syrax in days, and Gwayne hasn't seen a dragon since who knows how long."

Viserys hummed and glanced toward Rhea Royce, as if unsure whether to grant his daughter’s request or defer to the woman who sat beside her son. Rhea raised her cup in a small shrug.

"He’ll live," Rhea said.

That settled it.

"Very well," Viserys said, motioning lazily with a ring-heavy hand.

Rhaenyra beamed and turned toward Gwayne.

"You’re coming," she told him.

"I gathered," Gwayne said, stiffening as he sat up straighter. "Yes, of course. Thank you."

Queen Aemma said nothing, though her eyes followed her daughter with quiet concern as she rose. Rhaenyra took no notice. She moved like someone long accustomed to getting her way, with a grace sharpened by the knowledge that no one could tell her no for long. The princess wore riding leathers dyed a deep lilac, a silver clasp shaped like a dragon pinning her cloak at the throat. Her boots were high and supple, and her hair had been braided into a coronet that glinted when it caught the sun streaming in through the windows of Maegor’s Holdfast.

Gwayne followed a step behind, more unsure. His vest was pressed and his boots polished, but he felt underdressed. The last dragon he remembered seeing up close was Caraxes, and that was at King Jaehaerys's funeral. The last dragon that he vaguely remembered riding was Vermithor, and that had been many years ago.

When Gwayne and Rhaenyra stepped out onto the courtyard, Rhaenyra asked Ser Lorent to go and prepare the wheelhouse.

"Tell me about your dragon," Gwayne said to his cousin as he leaned against the wall beside her.

"Well, her name is Syrax, named after the Valyrian god of fertility and motherhood," Rhaenyra replied.

"She sounds like the Mother to me," Gwayne commented.

"I guarantee that Syrax is far more interesting," Rhaenyra said.

"Good to note, because I find the Seven and their blasphemy to be quite... idiotic," Gwayne muttered.

"I could've presumed as much; Syrax is a she-dragon. Every inch of her is yellow like the petals of a sunflower," Rhaenyra continued.

"She sounds lovely," Gwayne said.

"She is, and she has great horns atop her head. I'm her first rider," Rhaenyra added.

"How nice," Gwayne said with a polite nod.

"When do you think you will claim a dragon?" Rhaenyra asked.

"I don't know that I plan to. I remember very little from when we spent time with King Jaehaerys, but I do remember him saying that I cannot claim a dragon," Gwayne replied.

"I call bullshit, plus he's dead. Surely you won't let the blabbering of an old dead man stop you from claiming a dragon," Rhaenyra scoffed.

"I never said it was just that; I'm not fully certain how much I desire to have one either. And it's not like there is a dragonpit or anything near Runestone," Gwayne said.

"You could just build one," Rhaenyra suggested.

"How rich do you think the Royces are?" Gwayne asked.

"I could have one built for you then; my father would allow it," Rhaenyra said.

"I don't dare wish to think of the debt I'd be in for such a monument," Gwayne said dryly.

"None, you are his nephew," Rhaenyra said with a smile.

"Should I be worried about your grasp on politics, cousin?" Gwayne teased.

Rhaenyra lightly jabbed Gwayne in the shoulder for that remark. "Shut up," she said just as one of the Targaryen wheelhouses rolled up beside them.

...

"Can I ask you something?" Gwayne asked Rhaenyra.

"It depends on how stupid your question is," Rhaenyra replied.

"When you came into my room, you said that we were even after you did the thing," Gwayne said.

"The thing? Is that what you're referring to it as now? I'd almost think you were ashamed," Rhaenyra teased.

"No, no, no, not ashamed. Never, just confused. You said that we were even, but what are we even for?" Gwayne asked.

"Out of all of the things that you remembered that night, that's what you're thinking about most? Maybe your head really is made of Bronze," Rhaenyra said, shaking her head.

"Well, explain it to me then, oh mighty fortress of wisdom," Gwayne said.

"I should've picked my words more carefully, it seems. I just felt like I owed you for something; I just didn't know what for yet," Rhaenyra admitted.

"You make me sound like some sort of savior," Gwayne said.

"Well, you have saved me before," Rhaenyra said softly.

"That I have," Gwayne agreed.

When Gwayne and Rhaenyra stepped out onto the courtyard, Rhaenyra turned to one of her guards.
“Ser Lorent, go and prepare the wheelhouse,” she said with a casual wave.

Gwayne leaned against the wall beside her and glanced sideways.
“Tell me about your dragon,” he asked.

“Well,” Rhaenyra began with a hint of pride in her voice, “her name is Syrax, named after the Valyrian god of fertility and motherhood.”

“She sounds like the Mother to me,” Gwayne mused.

“I guarantee that Syrax is far more interesting,” Rhaenyra replied with a knowing grin.

Gwayne chuckled softly. “Good to note, because I find the Seven and their blasphemy to be quite… idiotic.”

“I could've presumed as much,” Rhaenyra said, then added with fondness, “Syrax is a she-dragon. Every inch of her is yellow like the petals of a sunflower.”

“She sounds lovely,” Gwayne said with genuine admiration.

“She is,” Rhaenyra agreed, nodding. “And she has great horns atop her head. I'm her first rider.”

“How nice,” Gwayne replied, his tone a little more reserved.

Rhaenyra turned toward him, curious. “When do you think you will claim a dragon?”

“I don't know that I plan to,” Gwayne said, pausing. “I remember very little from when we spent time with King Jaehaerys, but I do remember him saying that I cannot claim a dragon.”

“I call bullbutter,” Rhaenyra said bluntly, “plus he's dead. Surely you won't let the blabbering of an old dead man keep you from claiming a dragon.”

“I never said it was just that,” Gwayne clarified. “I'm not fully certain how much I desire to have one either. And it's not like there is a dragonpit or anything near Runestone.”

“You could just build one,” Rhaenyra suggested, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.

Gwayne laughed. “How rich do you think the Royces are?”

“I could have one built for you then,” she said, smirking. “My father would allow it.”

“I don't dare wish to think of the debt I'd be in for such a monument.”

“None,” Rhaenyra said breezily. “You are his nephew.”

Gwayne raised a brow. “Should I be worried about your grasp on politics, cousin?”

Rhaenyra jabbed him lightly in the shoulder. “Shut up,” she muttered just as one of the Targaryen wheelhouses rolled up beside them.

Inside the wheelhouse, it was all red—so red it made Gwayne nauseous just to look at it. Rhaenyra especially stood out in the purple she wore; even in her riding clothes, she looked as elegant as she had the night she came into his room.

Gwayne shifted uncomfortably in his seat, then glanced her way. “Can I ask you something?” he said.

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow. “It depends on how stupid your question is.”

“When you came into my room,” Gwayne began, cautiously, “you said that we were even after you… did the thing.”

“The thing?” Rhaenyra echoed, a teasing smirk creeping across her lips. “Is that what you're referring to it as now? I'd almost think you were ashamed.”

“No, no, no,” Gwayne said quickly, shaking his head. “Not ashamed. Never. Just confused. You said that we were even, but what are we even for?”

She looked at him like he’d just admitted he couldn’t read. “Out of all of the things that you remembered that night, that’s what you’re thinking about most?” She sighed dramatically. “Maybe your head really is made of bronze.”

“Well, explain it to me then, oh mighty fortress of wisdom,” Gwayne replied, trying to sound sarcastic but coming off more sincere than intended.

“I should’ve picked my words more carefully, it seems,” Rhaenyra said, more thoughtful now. “I just felt like I owed you for something; I just didn’t know what for yet.”

“You make me sound like some sort of savior,” Gwayne said with a half-laugh.

“Well,” Rhaenyra said, looking straight at him, “you have saved me before.”

“That I have,” Gwayne agreed softly.

The smell of manure and unwashed stink filled the air of the wheelhouse as if it had dropped right on top of it. The dusty streets and dirt-covered people outside didn’t do much to help either. But they were closing in on the Dragonpit.

Rhaenyra glanced over at him again, a mischievous glint sparking in her violet eyes. “Would you like to be indebted to me for a change?” She asked as she stood up and came to sit beside him.

“Not particularly,” Gwayne replied, genuinely confused by her tone.

“Oh really?” she said, leaning in beside him and grabbing his hands. “I think you do.”

Gwayne blinked. “Oh, this type of debt…” he said slowly, realization dawning as his cheeks flushed a shade of red that nearly matched the upholstery in the wheelhouse. “I can probably be okay with this.”

Rhaenyra leaned in closer until their lips met. Gwayne puckered awkwardly, stiff as a board—like some sort of fish. She pulled back with a laugh, placing her hands on his face and using her thumbs to stretch the corners of his mouth before leaning back in to kiss him again, this time taking his top lip between her own.

When she pulled away the second time, Rhaenyra had a small, amused smile on her face. “You’re like kissing a brick wall, Gwayne,” she said. “Haven’t you ever kissed a serving girl or something?”

“No,” Gwayne admitted. “Can’t say that I have.”

“So I’m your first kiss, then?” Rhaenyra asked, grinning.

“Yeah,” Gwayne said, then added without thinking, “except for my mother.”

Rhaenyra giggled and kissed her cousin once more. “How am I to ever compete?” she teased, still holding his face.

“So am I not your first kiss?” Gwayne asked curiously.

“No,” she replied with a shrug. “I had my first kiss when I was nine.”

“Who with?” he asked, a bit too eagerly.

“Why would I tell you that?” she shot back. “You’d just get jealous.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes. “Keep your secrets, then. I just thought princesses were supposed to be more maiden-like.”

“You make me out to sound like I run around in pleasure houses,” Rhaenyra said, half-laughing.

“Well,” Gwayne replied, “it apparently runs in the family. Seeing as our dear Aunt Saera enjoys her supposed 'kingdom'.”

“She and I are two very different beasts,” Rhaenyra said with a sniff. “I bet you’ve never even seen a girl naked. Even if you did, it was probably your mother.”

“No,” Gwayne said with a groan. “That’s gross. And my mother said that I don’t need to concern myself with girls until I’m older.”

“Do you listen to everything your mother says?” she asked, clearly amused.

“I just see no reason to entertain any of that stuff until I’m married.”

Rhaenyra gave a theatrical sigh. “Whichever woman is lucky enough to marry you will have grown grey hairs before she’s even borne children. She’ll be so preoccupied teaching you where to stick it.”

“Stick what?” Gwayne asked, bewildered.

“Oh, nothing,” Rhaenyra said sweetly. “Forget I said anything. Your new wife will tell you all about it.”

Gwayne rolled his eyes, but just then they arrived at the Dragonpit. The structure was even larger than he remembered; he even wondered if perhaps his uncle had added onto it since the last time he’d seen it. A massive domed castle made of large, weathered stones, it reeked of dragon excrement—so strongly that the scent hit them before they even crossed the threshold.

Guards bearing the sigil of House Targaryen bowed low as Gwayne and Rhaenyra exited the wheelhouse and made their way toward the entrance.

The smell inside was even stronger, clinging to the air despite the sheer volume of the space. One of the dragonkeepers, dressed in singed leathers and an expression of quiet disdain, approached and gestured for them to follow. He led them down a flight of stairs that twisted into the bowels of the ancient structure—into the caverns and nesting areas of the dragons that slumbered within.

Eventually, the group came to a stop at a wide archway that opened into a torchlit chamber. Heat clung to the stones like a second skin. The walls were blackened with soot, and the air vibrated faintly—like the hum of a forge or a sleeping volcano.

The dragonkeeper, his face creased with old burns and his temples shaved in the old Valyrian style, turned to them and held up a long iron rod notched at the end with a triangle.
“Wait here,” he said, his voice low and dry.

With that, the dragonkeeper stepped forward, Rhaenyra close behind. He raised the rod and called out in a commanding voice, shouting in High Valyrian, “Naejot Māzīs Syraxses!”

A low, guttural growl echoed through the cavern—not unlike thunder rolling across stone.

Then came the scraping of claws on stone.

Gwayne squinted through the haze, trying to make out what approached. From the far end of the pit, a massive shape stirred in the dark. Something golden began to glow faintly in the flickering torchlight.

The she-dragon stepped into view—slowly, lazily, with the confidence of a creature that feared nothing. She approached the dragonkeeper with no urgency, and the man barked a second command.
“Dohaerās!"The dragonkeeper yelled as the young yellow dragon yawned and exhaled a hot gust of breath.

Gwayne didn’t realize he had been holding his breath until Syrax let out a low, rumbling huff—and his chest finally rose.

“She’s…” Gwayne started, eyes wide, but the words fell short of what he meant to say.

Rhaenyra grinned beside him. “Beautiful?” she offered smugly.

He nodded, still awestruck. “Yes, very much so.”

From behind, Ser Lorent cleared his throat. “Princess,” he said firmly, “if you intend to mount her, we’ll remain here with the Lord Royce.”

“Of course,” Rhaenyra replied, brushing past them without a second thought.

She strode confidently into the center of the pit, her lilac cloak fluttering behind her like a banner in the wind. Syrax dipped her massive head, lowering her body just enough for Rhaenyra to scramble up her scaled shoulder and settle into the saddle strapped behind the dragon’s neck.

Gwayne watched as she tightened the straps around her waist, her fingers fast and sure. She looked completely in her element—regal, poised, and dangerous.

Then came her command: “Soves!” she cried out, nudging Syrax with her heels.

Syrax unfolded her wings with a deafening crack, the force of it sending dust and ash swirling into the air. Gwayne shielded his face instinctively.

With a powerful beat of her wings, Syrax launched from the stone floor and soared upward, vanishing through the domed opening at the top of the pit. Her shriek echoed across the hills of the city as her golden form disappeared into the sky.

The ground had barely stopped trembling from Syrax’s departure when the dragonkeeper turned to look at Gwayne, his pale, weathered eyes studying the boy with quiet intensity.

“You came all this way,” the keeper said, his voice gravel-worn and quiet. “Shall you also claim your birthright?”

Gwayne blinked, caught off guard. “My own?” he asked uncertainly.

The dragonkeeper tilted his head slightly, birdlike in manner. “There are hatchlings yet—smaller things, just past weaning,” he said. “Nasty tempers. Sharp claws. Dreamfyre is here too, though she’s grown large and proud, and she’s been mounted before. The others—Vermithor, Silverwing, and more—they roost at Dragonstone.”

Gwayne shifted his weight. “I didn’t come to claim anything,” he said quietly. “Just to watch.”

The keeper considered that for a beat, then gave a small, knowing nod—like a man who had heard such refusals before, many times, and never believed a one.

“You’re of the blood,” he said. “You could have one, if you wished.”

“I’m a Royce,” Gwayne replied, keeping his voice even. “Heir to the heir of Runestone. Not a prince of the realm. The only thing I’ve ever claimed is a half-blind horse.”

That earned the faintest smirk from Ser Lorent behind him, but the dragonkeeper remained solemn, eyes unblinking.

Gwayne exhaled slowly, then looked up toward the opening in the dome where Syrax had vanished. Light poured in—golden, warm—but it did little to chase the heat that still clung to the stones around them.

“I remember, once…” he began, his voice distant. “When I was younger, King Jaehaerys told me I’d never claim a dragon. He said it like it was fact. And I believed him.”

The dragonkeeper raised an eyebrow. “And the new king?”

“I don’t know what he thinks,” Gwayne admitted. “But Jaehaerys was the king. When he spoke, it felt like law. I was a boy, and he said it so plainly. That there was no place for me among dragons. I suppose I never thought to question it after that.”

The old keeper studied him for a moment longer, then said quietly, “You might find the dragons don’t care for kings or their laws. The Old King has gone on—and so too with him, his judgments.”

Gwayne gave a tight, polite smile—the kind that asked to end a conversation without sounding ungrateful. “Maybe,” he said. “But I’ve grown used to the ground.”

He turned and followed Ser Lorent back toward the long stair, boots echoing against the stone as they ascended.

When they emerged from the darkness into the upper level of the pit, Gwayne paused beneath the high arch. The sunlight hit him square in the face, golden and blinding.

High above, circling Aegon’s Hill, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Rhaenyra and her dragon—just a streak of yellow against the blue, curling like sunlight through the clouds.

“I wouldn’t even know where to put one,” Gwayne murmured.

Gwayne leaned against the stone wall and looked down again at his feet before turning his eyes once more up to the skies above him.

Chapter Text

"So you're telling me that the crone is one woman?" Gwayne asked Lady Jeyne with a puzzled expression.

"Well, not exactly, Gwayne; she's a piece of all of the gods."

"Well, if she's the embodiment of wisdom, doesn't that make the other six stupid?"

"No, not necessarily. She's just the smartest; for example, even though your mother is smarter than you, does it make you an idiot?"

"The Old Gods are all-knowing."

"All knowing enough to not know when Artys Arryn slew the last Bronze King."

Gwayne was playfully repulsed at Jeyne's comment and pushed her away playfully.

Jeyne snickers, "Your Old Gods must've gotten tired of the Royces."

Gwayne rolled his eyes once more. He and Lady Jeyne were sitting on a bench in her room as Arryn retainers and Royce guards watched over them. Gwayne wore a plain white long-sleeved shirt with flowing cuffs on his wrists; over it he wore a leather vest with a rune pin clasped over his chest.

"So what do you think of this festival so far?" Gwayne asked Jeyne as he crossed his legs under his bottom and turned to look at his liege lady.

"In truth, I do wonder how pious the reasoning is behind it; I have barely heard one word spoken from the seven-pointed star. Yesterday we watched women in a play and saw maidens in a beauty contest, and the day before that we watched a joust. It just feels as if the king and his hand are neglecting the other facets of the seven." Jeyne twisted the silver ring on her finger.

"It all seemed straightforward to me."

"Well, of course it would to you; you don't practice the faith. You follow the trees."

"You follow a seven-faced star or something like that."

"Not hardly. I am a member of the faith, but whatever feelings people have or claim to have with the seven, I have never once felt them in my prayers, and even I must wonder which part of the seven took my father and my brothers from me. Does whichever facet, whether it be the Father or the Stranger, truly deserve my devotion after their deaths?"

"Makes sense to me, I guess." Gwayne said

"It makes you wonder about all of them, though, doesn't it? Valyrian, Old God, and Seven all allow horrible things to happen to good people.

Gwayne didn't answer at first. He looked toward the open window. A soft breeze stirred the pale curtains, carrying with it the sounds of distant singing from the lower halls. “Maybe that’s just what gods do,” he finally said. “Watch. Let things happen.”

Jeyne tilted her head, studying him. “Then why do we bother with them at all?”

Gwayne smiled faintly. “Because they’re still watching.”

It was not wisdom, not truly—but there was something sincere in the simplicity of it that made Jeyne sigh through her nose and sit back against the bench. The moment lingered in a sort of quiet truce between cynicism and hope.

The bells rang out three soft chimes, signaling the beginning of the day’s courtly entertainments.

Jeyne glanced toward the door. “I suppose the song singers are beginning.”

“Are they good?” Gwayne asked.

“I’ve heard two dozen of them tuning their harps all morning. If the Crone is watching, she’ll be busy judging.”

He smirked. “Well, I hope she’s kinder than her brother, the Warrior. Some of those lads looked like they were trying to tune a goat.”

Jeyne stood, stretching, then pulled Gwayne to his feet. "Well, perhaps you're right, but let's not dwell on it any longer. Let's go and see the song singers in the throne room; we shall see if the Crone truly has blessed any of them or not with her wisdom."

Gwayne and Jeyne, flagged by their guards, walked up the stairs past a great line of men and women with lyres and harps. All of them were shaking and sweating, nervous to perform in front of the royal court. Jeyne whispered to Gwayne, "It seems the gods have truly put these musicians to the test today."

"I do hope none of them piss themselves before the Hand."

"Yes, our dear Hand, so why isn't the King leading this great musical procession?"

"I have no idea. I know my mother is spending time with Aemma. As for Rhaenyra, I believe she's riding with Rhaenys, something about learning new dragonrider techniques from a lady." Gwayne shrugs his shoulders. "Who knows? In truth, it's hard to tell what's going on there."

The two of them were escorted to a loge box above the throne room, which was empty except for some guards who wore Targaryen armor. The Royce and Arryn guards, who took other places along the wall, stood out like sore thumbs compared to them.

Jeyne and Gwayne sat in the first row of seats as they peered over the box's metal barrier. A singer with a lyre, and behind him trailed a young boy with a pan flute. The man looked to be nearly thirty; he had a rough look about him as he wore dirty clothes and had an old grey cap.

The man first kneeled to the Hand, who sat atop the Iron Throne, and then to the Hand's lady wife, Selyse, who sat below him where the queen would most usually sit.

The singer strummed his lyre before he began to sing.

"Rhaena, Rhaena, precious Rhaena, how I adore thee, how your beauty has grown o'er and o'er. Rhaena, Rhaena, precious Rhaena, atop Dreamfyre's wings, thy beauty can not be mourned." The singer sang off-key and abrasively, and even Lady Selyse pursed her lips as she looked down on the man.

Just as the singer was about to go into his next verse, the young boy who was playing the pan flute played a bad note, causing the singer to turn around and strike the young boy down to the floor. The boy fell to the ground crying, with blood spilling down from his nose as the singer kicked the boy in the ribs. The crowd gasped in shock as Targaryen and Hightower guards seized the singer and took the young boy.

"Well, that was certainly interesting." Lady Jeyne said as she watched the young boy be carried out, holding his little nose.

"That man should lose his hands for that." Gwayne remarked as he stood from his seat, his eyes fixated on the man who was being dragged out of the throne room.

Just then the doors of the loge box opened; it was Lady Alicent and her brother, Ser Gwayne. Gwayne Hightower seemed to recoil when he saw that it was Jeyne Arryn and Gwayne Royce sitting in the box; he whispered something in his sister's ear before grabbing her by the hand, and then they left to go elsewhere. But the door did not fully close, as Baratheon guards then entered, and behind them came Lady Jocelyn Baratheon. She wore a dress of gold and brown with stags embroidered on it, walking on green vines and flowers. The woman had seemingly sobered up since the last time Gwayne had seen her; she was using an iron cane with its handle being made of a stag's antler. Lady Jocelyn gave the two a polite smile before sitting beside Gwayne.

Gwayne shuffled uncomfortably as Lady Jeyne tried to break the odd silence. "Greetings, Lady Jocelyn, I am Lady Jeyne Arryn, the ruling lady of the Vale."

"Well, of course you are, dear. Did you think we hadn't met already?" Jocelyn said, with a veiled annoyance under her tongue.

Lady Jeyne cleared her throat with a stiff smile. “I meant no offense, my lady.”

Jocelyn waved her cane as though brushing away a cobweb. “None taken. I’ve grown used to people forgetting my face, though I was once meant to be queen.” She turned her head slightly to look down at the Iron Throne. “Strange, isn’t it? How quickly destiny can be rearranged.”

Neither Gwayne nor Jeyne said anything. The tension lingered like dust in the sunlight.

Jocelyn leaned in, not toward Jeyne, but toward Gwayne. “You look more like her each day. Your mother. Even your hair…” She narrowed her gaze, “...well, your father’s shadow is in it, like snow under a thick smoke, nearly unseen.”

Gwayne blinked, caught off guard by the intimacy of her tone. “Thank you… I think.”

Jocelyn chuckled, dry and low. “It was meant as a compliment, young Royce. Though I suppose the gods have granted you a demon for a father, so I could see why you'd take offense. The gods, they mix themselves in everything these days. Some of it mixes well, though, like Velaryon and Baratheon or Baratheon and Targaryen. But some matches, like the one you were created from, were mixed with the very worst parts from the seventh hell.” Her eyes flicked back down to the throne room. “But thank the gods that at least you came from that union. Ha, if you hadn't, my sweet brother might be rolling in his grave, or on whichever wind he was taken on. Now we are left with four Targaryens, two Velaryons, a Royce, and an Arryn."

Gwayne tilted his head. “You mean to speak of the succession?”

“I mean life,” Jocelyn said sharply, before softening again. “But yes. The line was clear once. My husband was Jaehaerys’s son. Our daughter—my Rhaenys—should have followed him. But when Aemon died, Rhaenys was swept aside for your grandfather, and once he passed, then she was set aside once more for your uncle. Just like that. As if my family were nothing but candle wax to be reshaped.”

“Yes, my mother has spoken of the council before. I believe I was there, though I seldom remember it. What happened hardly seemed right.” Gwayne said softly.

Jocelyn let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “Right? Oh, my sweet summer child. You’ve been in the Mountains of the Moon for too long. The world doesn't believe in what is right, and the gods don't deal in fairness. They deal in fire and blood, in power and war.”

Jeyne frowned, looking uncomfortable.

Jocelyn turned her eyes back to Gwayne, and this time they were almost kind. “You have a chance, you know. If Queen Aemma never brings a son to term, then you'll remain third in line after your father. And knowing the fates that be, it'd only make sense to unite you with the girl who is fourth in the succession." She trailed off and gave him a knowing smile.

Gwayne’s cheeks flushed almost instantly. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, you know exactly what I mean,” Jocelyn said, her voice smooth and heavy as honey. “A boy of both Rune and Dragon stone. A son of the Vale and of the blood of Old Valyria. Just as cruel as fate, it seems to me that once you and the princess are of age, you'll both be married to one another. Though I'd much rather it be Laenor, he is farther down in the succession than you.”

Jeyne smirked from behind her hand. Gwayne, crimson-faced, tried to compose himself. “We’re just friends,” he muttered.

Jocelyn leaned back, cane resting against her lap. “Yes, well, I was just Aemon's aunt at one point. Then I was his wife, then the mother to his daughter, and then a queen-in-waiting. And now?” She gave a dry smile. “Now I sit and I drink. I know it to be that I'm no better than a drunkard who dances in the streets.”

There was a quiet moment as Jocelyn’s gaze drifted again to the throne. “I tell you this not to discourage or encourage you, young Royce, but to remind you. Dreams are fine things... until someone dies. Then they turn to smoke. So do not dream easily until your eggs have hatched, but by the count of your eggs now, you may just sit the Iron Throne before all is said and done.”

Gwayne was quiet, unsure what to say. He could still feel the heat in his cheeks.

A new singer began, voice trembling as he plucked a harp strung too tightly. No one in the loge was listening.

Lady Jocelyn stared downward at the throne with a cold, distant eye at Lady Selyse Hightower, who sat smugly. “I used to sit where that heifer does,” she said, nodding toward Selyse. “Below the throne. They said I looked regal there. Said I would be as good a queen as my half-sister or my late mother once my time came.” She paused. “My husband bled out in a tent not a week later. And just like that, I was swept into the shadows. My daughter too. All of it—gone.”

“Young Royce,” she said, turning to Gwayne at last, “do not look for fairness in the hearts of kings. Or love in the chambers of queens. Whatever union they’ve carved for you and Rhaenyra, it will not save you. Love will not save you. Wisdom will not save you.”

Gwayne sat frozen.

“You may kiss her, you may bed her, you may even wear a crown together. But you will still be at the mercy of hands greater than yours, spinning wheels you will never see.”

He tried to respond, but Jocelyn cut him off with a brittle laugh.

"Rhaenys was to be queen,” she said. "And now the court calls her the queen who never was. When she was first born, they toasted to me and Aemon in wine halls. They called her the hope of the realm.”

Her voice cracked, just slightly.

“For nearly twenty years. Then a bolt to the neck destroyed everything.” Jocelyn used her purple handkerchief to dab at her cheek, and a small silence fell. Then Jocelyn turned to Gwayne once more.

“You walk with dreams in your pockets, boy. Be careful. This life eats dreamers.”

Then she left, her cane tapping a grim rhythm on the floor as she disappeared behind her guards.

Jeyne let out a slow breath once the door closed.

“Gods,” she muttered. “I’d rather kiss the Stranger than hear her speak again.”

"She's what I'd call an acquired taste," Gwayne replied with a chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. "But, she certainly has been wronged in this life, hasn't she?"

In the back of his mind, though, Gwayne did wonder, was he truly supposed to someday wed Rhaenyra? Or was Jocelyn just being a sour old woman?

Chapter Text

The Smith, the mender of broken things. The one who supposedly puts the whole world right, and since the death of Maegor the Cruel, it seems that the Smith's powers have done wonders. Through the kingships of both King Jaehaerys and King Viserys, the realm has gone through an unprecedented peace. In recent years some might say he's seldom prayed upon even, as the realm has had no wars in nearly sixty years. And the minor Dornish and pirate skirmishes that have happened were put down far easier and less bloodily compared to the old wars of the Andal Kings and the Kings of the First Men.

On the sixth day of this festival, there was to be a contest between both the blacksmiths, and there was to be a melee between anointed knights who wished to participate during the midday, while the competition between the smiths would happen in the early morning, with the winner being awarded with a place in the Red Keep as a royal smith.

Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, Lady Jeyne Arryn, and Gwayne Royce stood above the training yard where a few knights were sparring. Behind them on the balcony was a good retinue of soldiers. Royce, Arryn, and Targaryen.

Below them, though, it was different; the knights present were mostly knights from the Reach, but a few were from the Stormlands, Westerlands, Vale, and Riverlands. But chief amongst them is Gwayne Hightower. Gwayne had grown into a tall and muscular young man, nothing like the boy that Gwayne Royce remembered playing with as a child. Gwayne Royce could vividly remember several times that he and Gwayne Hightower had played tag, toy horses, and even pretended to be knights. Now Gwayne Hightower seemed to scowl at him every time they locked eyes, as if Gwayne Royce had killed his dog.

"Gwayne Hightower has changed, hasn't he?" Gwayne Royce said as he twirled his fingers around on the stone bannister like toy soldiers.

"He has. He had been serving in Oldtown. I hadn't actually seen him for several years." Rhaenyra replied as she watched his fingers dance.

"Looks like half of the Hightower must've gone up his ass; he looks as sour as a lemon now." Gwayne Royce chuckled as he watched the green knight fight the man-at-arms of the Red Keep.

Green Gwayne seemed to be close to outskilling the master, as he gracefully used his sword to deflect each blow with ease. "I wonder what happened to him in Oldtown," Rhaenyra mused, intrigued by the change in Green Gwayne's demeanor. At the same time, though, despite his cockiness, there was no doubt that Gwayne Hightower looked to be as much a knight as any could think of; the looks, the skill—he had it all.

Gwayne Hightower knocked the skilled master-at-arms to the ground, who fell hard on his arm. The man writhed in agony for a moment as Gwayne Hightower helped him to his feet. A few guards who had been standing around helped the master-at-arms into the Red Keep to see the Maester. Once he was escorted by a knight from the training yard, a small murmur broke out of the crowd; all eyes were on Gwayne Hightower.

"So, who shall be next?" Gwayne Hightower said in a boisterous voice as he looked around at the knights who were also practicing in the training yard. Ser Cleyton Fossoway stood upon the master-at-arms podium to take over his duties. No man seemed to note it nor care about it.

Then a young knight who wore the colors of House Connington from the Stormlands stepped forward. The Connington knight's sword had a griffin that made up its hilt.

"Ser Steffon, yes?" Gwayne asked as he watched the knight step forward.

"Aye, Ser Steffon Connington of Griffin's Roost, second son of Lord Donnel Connington. Face me, young Hightower, and we shall see if your mettle matches your boast," Ser Steffon replied confidently, raising his sword in preparation for the duel. Gwayne Hightower grinned, eager for the challenge as he readied himself to face the skilled Connington knight in combat.

The two of them locked swords with one another immediately; they seemed to be evenly matched. Ser Steffon was close in age, size, and height.

The clang of steel echoed through the training yard like a bronze bell, each strike ringing sharp beneath the summer sun. A hush had fallen over the gathering of knights, squires, and lords as the two boys—boys in age but nearly men in strength—met in the dust and heat of the yard.

Ser Gwayne Hightower and Ser Steffon Connington circled one another, both with shields raised and swords drawn, eyes locked with that respectful wariness only true knights shared.

“Careful of your stance, Ser Steffon,” Gwayne Hightower said lowly, not unkindly. “Your back foot’s too firm. You’ll be slow to pivot.”

Steffon frowned. “You mocking me already, Hightower?”

“If I were mocking, you’d already be on your ass.”

Then the swords sang again, a furious clash—wood and steel meeting with startling grace. Steffon struck first, a slanted overhead blow that Gwayne parried deftly. The Hightower boy stepped aside with the precision of a dancer and spun lightly, driving his shoulder forward to unbalance his opponent. But Steffon did not falter easily—he braced, dug in, and shoved back hard; the pair locked momentarily like bulls.

Above them Rhaenyra leaned over the stone bannister, golden hair catching the light.

"He's fast," she muttered.

“Which one?” Jeyne asked, squinting down.

“Both,” Gwayne Royce answered, and his voice was tinged with something he didn’t quite recognize. Perhaps some form of envy.

Below, Gwayne Hightower disengaged and struck low. Steffon parried, but clumsily, his sword scraping off his opponent’s with an awkward shudder. The knight from Griffin’s Roost backpedaled a step too far, then another, losing ground.

“You favor strength,” Gwayne noted aloud. “But you waste motion. Strike with purpose. Let your blade go as the Warrior leads it.”

Steffon growled through his teeth. “You talk too much.”

Gwayne only smiled. It wasn’t smugness—not exactly. There was something serene in him.

Then came the storm of the grey Griffin—Steffon charged with a sudden burst, hammering a volley of blows. The watching knights murmured, impressed by the passion. Twice Gwayne blocked; a third time he stepped under the arc and elbowed Steffon square in the ribs, knocking the wind from him.

Steffon coughed, stumbled back, and dropped to one knee.

Gwayne raised his sword high—then stopped.

He did not strike. Instead, he stepped back and offered a hand.

“No shame in yielding. You fought well.”

Steffon glared at him, chest heaving. His pride warred with his sense. At last, he clasped the offered hand and stood.

“Aye,” he said breathlessly, “but next time, I’ll knock you on your arse.”

“I’d hope so, Ser Steffon,” Gwayne replied, helping him steady. “You're good already; the Warrior smiles upon you.”

A ripple of laughter rose from the watching yard. Even a few grizzled knights clapped at the sportsmanship.

“Seems Green Gwayne is not as sour as he looks,” Rhaenyra said dryly, glancing toward Gwayne Royce.

He shrugged. “Questionable."

Just then Gwayne Hightower looked up at them, a glare in his eyes as he began to speak, but before he did, another knight stepped forth.

“Ser Gyles Ruthermont of Starsand." Announced the next knight, Ser Gyles wore simple armor with black trim on it and with a starfish on his shield.

Gwayne Royce leaned forward, gripping the bannister. “That’s Ser Gyles!” he said aloud, half in awe. “Uncle Rollam said he killed four Mountain Clansmen with a broken spear during a blizzard.”

“Then let’s hope he does better here than he did in the tourney,” Rhaenyra muttered, already disinterested.

“Watch him,” Gwayne said. “He’s from the Vale—he fights like a mountain huntsman, not a tourney knight. No waste, all kill.”

Below, Gwayne Hightower rolled his shoulders, loosening his arms. He gave Ser Gyles a cordial nod. Though Ser Gwayne looked to be quite annoyed by the new challengers, as if he had better things to do, nonetheless he gripped his sword and gave a courteous nod to Ser Gyles.

“I’ve heard your name before,” Gwayne said unpleasantly. “You were in the tourney, right? Lost to some Westerman in the first round, right?”

“Well, I fight harder on my feet, and you’ll see how hard when I break your ribs,” Gyles answered flatly, tapping his sword to his shield.

They began. This time, it was no elegant dance. Ser Gyles came at him like a charging boar, all forward momentum and battering strength. Gwayne Hightower gave ground—gracefully, yes, but not without surprise. This was not a pretty contest. It was ugly and dangerous and real.

A low murmur ran through the crowd as the Vale knight pushed Gwayne across the yard, blow after blow raining down with brutal rhythm. Gwayne parried two, dodged one, and then was nearly knocked off balance by a shoulder rush.

“Better,” Gwayne muttered under his breath. “Much better.”

He kicked backward, spinning to reset. Gyles followed, relentless. Another slash, another rush.

Then it happened.

In a blur of motion, Gyles shifted his footing—too fast. His front boot slipped in the sand just as he raised his sword for a heavy overhead swing. His body twisted. His foot caught the lip of a practice shield lying abandoned near the edge of the yard.

He fell—not with grace, but like a sack of barley. Face-first.

A loud CRACK rang out as he smashed against the hard-packed ground. His sword went clattering, his shield landing beside him. When he rolled over, groaning, he spat blood and two broken teeth onto the dirt.

Silence fell. Utter silence.

Gwayne Hightower blinked. He stepped forward and crouched beside Ser Gyles.

“Are you—?”

"Don't speak,” Gyles hissed, half-gurgling. “I slipped…”

From the stands above, Gwayne Royce stared with an open mouth.

Rhaenyra smirked. “Was that… part of the plan?”

Jeyne Arryn covered her mouth, trying not to laugh. “The Smith mends many things… but I fear not pride.”

The yard remained quiet until a few guards rushed in to help Ser Gyles to his feet. He shoved them off, furious, and stormed away holding his bloodied mouth, leaving behind his teeth like trophies at a feast.

Gwayne Hightower stood alone at the center of the yard, sheepish but dignified.

“I… yield?” he offered aloud to the crowd.

That broke the silence. Laughter rippled from knight to page to lordling.

Ser Dorian Beesbury gave a bark of a laugh. “Victory by divine stumble! That’s a first!”

"This was stupid." Gwayne Royce said to his lady friends, and as if on cue, Ser Gwayne Hightower looked up and saw him.

"What was that, young Royce? Funny you speak from up there, yet I don't see you down here." Gwayne Hightower said as he smiled cockily and put his hands on his hips.

Gwayne Royce flushed red. “Ignore him,” he muttered, stepping back from the bannister, hoping Rhaenyra or Jeyne might say something to spare him. They didn’t.

“You hear me, little Runestone?” Gwayne Hightower called louder, his voice echoing across the yard. “Come on, don't hide behind your girlfriend's skirts. I remember when we used to play at swords—you'd cry when I so much as poked you.” Gwayne Hightower smirked. "Come on, you're a big boy now, right?. Come on, who's a big boy?" Gwayne Hightower said mockingly, as if he were talking to a hound.

Jeyne turned to Gwayne softly. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, he does,” Rhaenyra interrupted. “He can’t let that pass, not in front of all these knights.”

The silence above weighed more than any order.

Gwayne Royce looked down. The training yard. The waiting crowd. The knight in green. It was a furnace of stares and judgment. His palms were already sweating.

"I don't have a sword," Gwayne Royce offered as an excuse. To that, Gwayne Hightower went and picked up the sword left behind by Ser Gyles and held it in the air and said.

"Use this one; it's from the Vale. Come on, little Royce. I don't bite."

When he reached the center of the yard, Gwayne Hightower was already smiling like a cat before a crippled mouse.

“Here, use Gyles' shield too; I’ll go easy on ya,” Hightower said. “Promise.” Hightower smiled like the cat with the canary as he handed the sword and shield to Royce and patted him on the shoulder.

Gwayne Royce said nothing.

They took their stances.

The first blow came before Gwayne Royce even raised his sword. A sharp, deliberate knock against his shield arm. The pain wasn’t sharp, but the message was.

“Shield up,” Gwayne Hightower said, circling him. “This is a duel, not a dance.”

The next few strikes were light—but constant. Harassing taps to the knee, the shoulder, the side. Gwayne tried to block, but he was too slow. Each blow found its mark.

“Swing,” Hightower barked. "I want a sword swinger, not a sword swallower." The crowd of knights laughed as Lady Jeyne held her seven-pointed star and prayed for her young friend.

“Come now,” Gwayne Hightower said, feigning concern as he batted Gwayne’s weak strike aside. “You’re not even trying. Is it the weight of the sword? Does your mommy need to come and hold it for you? She probably wouldn't mind seeing as she named you after me; maybe she's interested in holding my sword as well.”

Another swing from Royce—sloppy, wild.

Hightower dodged with ease, then rapped him on the helmet with the flat of his blade. A clang, then a stumble.

“Seven save me,” Hightower laughed, “I’ve sparred better with my little cousin’s dolls.”

Gwayne Royce stumbled again, legs too short for the blade, too small for the shield. His chest ached. His pride burned. His arms felt like lead.

Then, almost like a whisper in the wind, Gwayne Royce remembered what Ser Ryam said to him. Let it flow so the next time Hightower raised his sword against him,Royce let it fall out of his hands and swiftly kicked Hightower in the stomach.

Hightower stumbled back for a moment, but his eyes darkened as he realized Gwayne Royce's trick. With a swift motion, Hightower regained his composure and lunged forward, pulling Royce to the ground. Gwayne Royce gritted his teeth and gasped as he tried to squirm away. Gwayne Hightower grabbed the boy by the hair and crawled onto him, lying on his back and putting him in a headlock.

The acting guards prepared to step in but were stopped by the other master-at-arms, Ser Cleyton Fossoway. "Let them fight until one of them submits. As is the way of our training," Fossoway commanded, his voice firm and unwavering. The onlookers watched in tense silence as the two young men continued to struggle.

Gwayne Royce continued to struggle under Gwayne Hightower's weight. Using his free hand, Gwayne Hightower was pinching him, tickling his side, and putting his fingers in Gwayne Royce's mouth.

Gwayne Hightower leaned in and inhaled Gwayne Royce's scent before exhaling. "Mm, you even smell good," he taunted, a smirk playing on his lips. Gwayne Hightower then pinned Gwayne Royce's left arm to the ground as he leaned into his ear. "Wanna know a secret?" he asked. Gwayne Royce didn't respond as he continued to fight against him. "I was Rhaenyra's first kiss. Yeah, when she was nine, I found her in the godswood. She seemed so lonely." Gwayne Royce suddenly found a burst of energy and tried to bounce Gwayne Hightower off of him by boosting his hips up in the air. It works, but Gwayne Hightower merely rolls over with Gwayne Royce now on top of him, holding him in a headlock.

From above,

Lady Jeyne sends the Arryn and Royce guards who stood behind her to Gwayne Royce's aid. But as the guards traveled down the stairs, they were cut off by Reachmen. It led to a free-for-all amongst the knights as the knights of the Vale moved in to save one of their own.

Gwayne Hightower bit Gwayne Royce's ear before letting him go and kicking him in the side. Gwayne Hightower moved quickly and got to his feet, taking advantage of the chaos, grabbed a dagger from Cleyton Fossoway's belt while his back was turned, and stalked back toward Gwayne Royce.

Gwayne Royce stood up, and Gwayne Hightower punched him in the face for his troubles. Gwayne Royce fell to the ground with a thud, and Gwayne Hightower kicked him in the face once more, causing blood to pour out of his nose.

Gwayne Hightower used the blade to cut open Gwayne Royce's shirt and prepared to cut the boy just as a knight bearing the Arryn sigil collided against Gwayne Hightower. Taking the blade in his hand and punching the boy over and over. Two other men came forth, helping Gwayne Royce to his feet and escorting him back inside just as nearly fifty Targaryen guards came forth to break up the mass infighting.

Later that day

Rhea sat in her son's chambers. Tending to her son's wounds. Maester Runciter had been too busy tending to the wounds of others, most chiefly amongst them being the Hand's son. Jeyne sat beside Gwayne Royce, holding his hand as Rhea applied cold, damp cloths to his face. His nose was swollen and bloodied, and his face was severely bruised.

"I can't believe that this even happened. I should walk right up to that Hightower boy's sickbed and strangle him for this," Rhea said.

"I will certainly make sure that this is seen to by the king; the Vale won't rest for this horrid insult. It's an insult to both of our houses to have seen a knight and for men of the Reach to have taken such liberties." Jeyne Arryn said as she squeezed Gwayne's hand harder than she meant to.

Just as they were speaking, a small knock came at their door just before King Viserys, Ser Lorent, and Ser Harrold stepped inside. Viserys grimaced at the sight of Gwayne's face.

“I came as soon as I could,” he said gently, stepping toward the bed. His voice tried to be soft, fatherly. “Gods… what he did to you, Gwayne…”

Rhea Royce stood, her voice sharp as shattered stone. “Your Grace, my son was nearly murdered.”

Jeyne Arryn rose with her as if in unison. “He was mocked, mauled, and bloodied by the Hand’s son.”

Viserys glanced at Ser Harrold, who said nothing, only bowed his head.

“I’ve spoken with Lord Hightower,” Viserys said, folding his hands. “He regrets what happened deeply. But the melee spiraled beyond what was expected—”

“This wasn’t a melee!” Rhea snapped. “This was humiliation. It was cruelty—sport—at the expense of a boy half his size.”

Jeyne’s eyes were narrowed, full of fire. “And worse, Your Grace. Our guards were obstructed. That wasn’t a sparring match. That was an ambush. An ambush performed by the men of the Reach.”

Viserys sighed, slowly moving toward Gwayne Royce. The boy looked away.

“I cannot punish Ser Gwayne formally,” Viserys said at last. “The circumstances are… muddled. Too many witnesses telling different things. But I did take Ser Cleyton; he is in the cells, and a few other knights besides. But to discipline the Hand’s son would risk discrediting the Reach. The Festival is meant for unity, not scandal."

Rhea gave a cold laugh. “Unity? You think this unified us? He humiliated my son, and your guards let it happen. Your nephew! Your blood, and the third in line to the Iron Throne.”

“Then let me offer you this,” Viserys said, reaching for gentleness again. “Let young Gwayne stay in the Red Keep. Let him squire under me, learn in my court. I’ll see him trained properly. He’ll be safe—”

“You?” Rhea cut in, her tone iron. “You would make him your squire—after standing idle against his attackers?”

Viserys looked hurt. “I—”

“I would sooner send him to the grave than place him under the care of his uncle, who won't protect him,” Rhea said. “If his father were here, he’d gut the green bastard for what he did."

Viserys wiped his palms on his jacket. "Please, sister, I will fine the boy for what he's done. I will punish him and send him back to Oldtown."

"Ha, if you call that a punishment, then how about you cut the hair off of his horse's mane, since your supposed punishments are so brutal and worthy of a man who attempted to slay your kin? We will be leaving tonight. You may give your wife and your daughter our well wishes and goodbyes, but we are leaving." Rhea said as she motioned for the Royce and Arryn guards stationed outside to enter.

Viserys sighed and muttered something as he turned and left, holding his head down low as the members of the Kingsguard followed him out.

"I shall prepare our guard then." Lady Jeyne said, and in response Rhea nodded as she sat back down beside her son, holding the cloth to his face.

Tower of the Hand the next day

Gwayne Hightower begrudgingly trudged up the stairs of the Tower of the Hand. Where his mother and father were waiting for him.

As he walked inside, he noticed that he had seemingly interrupted some sort of conversation between the two of them.

Otto smiled when he saw his son and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Good work, son. I apologize for not speaking with you about it sooner." Otto said to his son as he pulled out a chair for him. Gwayne felt a mix of relief and curiosity at his father's words; previously, he had wondered if he had gone too far, but it seemed that his father was happy with how far he went, as was his mother, who couldn't contain her happiness.

"Yes, you did a fantastic thing yesterday, my love. The Arryns and the Royces left in the middle of the night without a word. Effectively taking the influence of the Vale out of the capital once more." Selyse said as she clasped her hands together with a proud smile. Gwayne beamed with pride, grateful for his parents' approval.

"So all of that was to make sure that the Arryns and the Royces left King's Landing? Why have me do all that to Gwayne? The festival only had another day anyhow." Why? Gwayne Hightower asked his parents as he crossed his arms and looked at the both of them perplexed.

"After the king's first meeting with Gwayne Royce, he had said to me that he wanted to make Gwayne Royce his squire. That and move him and Princess Rhaenyra closer together so that their betrothal would come more naturally. Your mother and I figured that if Gwayne has a reason to stay in the capital, then by extension so would his mother, and if she stays, then that means Royces, Belmores, and who knows who else would come too. Worst of all, it means that Jeyne Arryn would be coming more often and influencing the queen and using her own power to perhaps maneuver us out of power. It was a necessary political move to ensure our own position and alliances within the court. We cannot afford to underestimate the influence of House Arryn in these delicate matters." Otto explained to his son as he patted his shoulders.

Gwayne nods as he considers everything his father just said. "So does that mean that I can stay here with you now? I don't have to go back to Oldtown?"

Selyse sighed and looked back to her husband, who squeezed Gwayne's shoulders. "No, not yet. Hobert still has much to teach you, as does your cousin. Trust me, it's for the best, and seeing how you 'defeated' the young Royce, I believe that you still have some things to be working on. We don't want another incident like what happened with the princess."

Chapter Text

Ser Cleyton Fossoway sat in the upper levels of the dungeon. Enjoying his solitude, he was surprised to have been escorted by Targaryen shields here. Otto had told him to just watch and allow the Hand's son to have his fun. Now he was the one who sat in a cell. Otto had told him that he'd be let loose by the morning, not that that made the stay much easier. The smell down here was unpleasant, and the company was less than adequate. The guard who sat at the end of the door had drunk himself into a deep sleep, leaving Ser Cleyton alone with his thoughts.

Suddenly, Ser Cleyton heard something; he stood up from his bed and looked out his cell door, hoping to see Hightower or Targaryen men come to set him free. Instead, he saw nothing at first. Then he heard the rattling of keys, then footsteps. Ser Cleyton gulped as he looked out his door again and saw men in black cloaks, with hoods over their heads. The Stranger, Ser Cleyton thought for a moment as the cloaked figures approached him.

Once the group of men stood in front of him, they pulled off their hoods. The four of them were Targaryen guardsmen. "We have been sent for you. Come, you'll be escorted out of the city," one of the guards said as they unlocked his cell door and led him out.

"Thank you, all four of you, dearly. Did the Lord Hand mention anything of seeing me once more before I leave?" Ser Cleyton asked the men as he followed them up the stairs.

None of the four men answered.

The stone halls were quiet at this hour, and the flickering torchlight made the passageways feel unfamiliar. As they ascended, Cleyton tried again.

“I suppose not,” he muttered. “Still, I should like to speak to Lord Hightower. To explain things properly. I did only what I was told. His boy had his way with the Royce boy, just as he wanted. Sure it got a little worse than expected, but nothing so abhorrent that it warranted this treatment." The men continued their silent ascent, their faces impassive.

The men brought him out to the courtyard. "Get in this wagon, cover up under the potato sacks so that in case Vale Knights see us, they will not expect us to have you." One of the men said as he helped Ser Cleyton into the wagon.

Cleyton quietly obliged as he tried to settle himself into the wagon. As the horses began to move and pull the wagon along, Cleyton began to wonder why he wasn't given his sword and his other belongings. He started to say something but figured the Lord Hand would send it back to him at Ciderhall.

He had begun to miss Ciderhall already, its sweet smell, its colorful tapestries, and the sweet cider that was produced there. The cider tasted better when it was fresh from Ciderhall rather than when it was shipped to the Red Keep, where it had to travel for a few weeks to get to. But of all the things he missed most, it was his wife, Gail. She was pregnant with their third child.

He prayed for another son; his oldest boy, Owen, was already showing himself to become a fine man. At the ages of three and ten, he had the makings of becoming a great leader. And then his youngest child, Rosella, was like her namesake. A true Rose, with brunette hair and rosy cheeks.

He longed to return home to be with his growing family, to witness the birth of his third child, and to spend time with his beloved wife. Despite the distance, he found solace in the thought of his children flourishing in his absence, knowing that they were surrounded by not only the love and care of their mother but also his parents, Lord Fenton Fossoway and his wife, Maddilyn.

As he continued to reminisce, he felt a bump in the road, and he hit his head on the front of the wagon. This caused him to peek out from under the sheets to see how close they were to being out of the city, but to his surprise, they were going north rather than south towards the Gate of the Gods. Cleyton whispered to one of the guards, "Where are we going? I'm from the Reach, not the Riverlands."

The guard nodded and replied to him, saying. "Aye, we are aware, Ser Cleyton, as are the Royce men who still lurk in the city. If we are to keep you alive, then we shall take you through a different gate." Cleyton nodded at that; it seemed smart enough to him.

The wagon rattled onward through the dim, narrow streets of King's Landing, past shuttered shops and silent alleyways. The city slept, unaware. The guards said little, and Cleyton drifted in and out of thought, lulled by the clatter of hooves and the creak of the cart.

Eventually, the wagon slowed.

Cleyton peeked out again, expecting to see open road or the glimmer of lanterns at the city gate. Instead, he saw black stone walls, old and towering. A broken archway loomed before them, and beyond it—darkness.

“This isn’t—” he began, confused. “This isn't the gate to the Kingsroad."

The guard closest to him dismounted. “Out. Quickly now.”

Cleyton hesitated. “What is this place?”

“The stables,” the guard said flatly, reaching down to grab Cleyton’s arm and hoist him out of the cart.

Cleyton’s boots hit the ground heavily. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and slowly the shape of the building resolved: thick stone columns, open arches, and the scent of ash. It wasn’t a stable.

It was the Dragonpit.

He turned toward the guards. “Why… why here?”

The man did not answer. Another guard stepped behind him and pressed a hand to his back, ushering him forward. Cleyton struggled against the hold of the men and, for his efforts, got a punch to the gut as the men dragged him inside. The massive archway swallowed them, and the flicker of torchlight grew stronger as they moved deeper into the ruins. The air became hot—oppressively so.

The dragonkeepers had stood out in front of a cliff carved inside of the pit, and behind them he could've sworn he glimpsed something move.

Emerging from the shadows came Caraxes, slow and silent, his long serpentine neck curling like a whip. His jaws parted just enough to exhale, smoke drifting from his nostrils. On his back, his rider, the rogue prince, Daemon Targaryen.

“You’ve brought him,” Daemon said, his voice echoing through the open stone chamber.

The guards gave a sharp nod and stepped back into the shadows. Only one remained close—silent and expressionless, a witness.

Cleyton blinked. “My prince?”

Daemon didn’t speak right away. He only watched.

Cleyton began to stammer. “I—I was told I was being escorted out of the city.”

Daemon tilted his head slightly. “You are.”

Caraxes shifted behind him, huffing again, his wings twitching at his sides.

Cleyton stepped back. “I don’t understand.”

Daemon smirked. "You will, Ser Cleyton of House Fossoway; you stand before the prince and heir to the Iron Throne, tried against for an act of treason."

Cleyton flinched, and panic set in as he tried to run, but the guards held him in place. “My prince, I did not touch the boy. You must know that. I merely stood watch.”

“I know,” Daemon said, now only a few feet away. “That’s what damns you.”

Caraxes rumbled, the sound a low, vibrating growl. A chain clinked faintly as he shifted behind Daemon.

Cleyton dropped to his knees. “Please, my prince. I had no choice. Otto—”

“Otto is not your father,” Daemon interrupted. “Nor is he your God, your king, or your prince. I am.”

He reached for Dark Sister, and in one fluid motion, unsheathed the blade.

“You watched my son be tortured by Otto's whelp.”

“Please—” Cleyton wept.

Daemon's eyes were cold as he lowered Dark Sister. "Justice must be served," he declared. "Ser Cleyton Fossoway, I find you guilty of treason against an heir to the Iron Throne, and the penalty for that is death!"

Ser Cleyton's eye filled with fear as Daemon spoke a command to his Blood Wyrm. Caraxes opened his mouth wide as flames erupted, engulfing Ser Cleyton in a fiery inferno. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as Daemon watched with a cold satisfaction, knowing that justice had been served.

The Small Council Chamber

"We must find Ser Cleyton urgently." Lord Otto said as he sat beside the king in their council chamber. "If the man has truly escaped, then he must be found so that he might be properly spoken with, or if he was taken, then he must be saved."

"He should be executed for his crimes if he's found." Prince Daemon said as he sat across from the Lord Hand.

"What crime was there?" Otto asked as he turned toward the king, his voice calm but pressed. "Two boys were roughhousing in the courtyard. When Ser Cadwyn was taken down, Ser Cleyton intervened. I'll admit his actions were foolish, but not warrant enough to be labeled as treasonous."

"He was no boy," Daemon snapped. "The Hightower whelp is a knight grown, trained in sword and shield. My son is a boy, not yet squired. The Fossoway cur stood by and watched as he was beaten bloody. He raised not a hand."

Lord Lyman Beesbury gave a gentle, uncertain cough. "Yet… Ser Cleyton was in custody, was he not? He was under guard. How could he vanish?"

"That," Ser Harrold Westerling said from the other end of the table, "is what troubles me. The Targaryen guards posted at his cell have no recollection of him being taken. No struggle. No sound. It was as if the man vanished into mist."

Viserys leaned forward at that, rubbing his temples. “I will not have ghosts and riddles in my dungeons. He was a guest in our halls and a guard in our court. I want answers—”

"You will have none," Daemon cut in sharply, "because there is only one answer. A man failed his post. Failed your blood. And someone—somewhere—decided that justice would not wait for morning."

Otto turned to him, eyes like flint. “And who, I wonder, would presume to know better than the king’s law?”

Daemon smiled, slow and thin. “Perhaps someone who remembers that law is only as good as the men who keep it.”

"I say we be finished with this matter then." King Viserys said as he rubbed the temples of his forehead wearily. "Send a raven to Lord Fossoway; let it be known if his son returns that he is to be sent back here at once, and if Ser Cleyton does not return to Ciderhall, then he is to be labeled as a traitor to the crown and be brought before myself or one of the four wardens to dispense the King's Justice."

"But my king, there was no crime done here by Ser Cleyton." Otto interjected, his voice filled with ire as he peddled his own agendas.

"That may be the case had the man stayed in his cell, my Lord Hand. But the man who runs is the one with something to hide. And if Ser Cleyton is innocent, he should have nothing to fear from facing justice." Lord Corlys responded as he clicked his fingers against the table. "Now if we might move onto more pressing matters, the Stepstones have been attacked, the first time since the Conquest of my cousin the Conqueror. A niece of Lord Swann's was taken and sold into a pleasure house; we must act against them before they take the whole of the Stepstones and attempt to blockade us. Let us send an envoy, requesting the pirates to leave. What are a few pirates compared to the might of the Iron Throne and the might of House Velaryon?" Lord Corlys suggested, his eyes flashing with determination. "We must show them that we will not tolerate such actions in our territory."

King Viserys sighed and stood up. "A message will be sent to the pirates, requesting that they leave and end their raids on Westerosi ships."

Lord Corlys balled his hand up in a fist as he spoke, his voice filled with conviction. "I fear that a piece of parchment will not have any resolve over this matter. His attack on the soils of the Stepstones has been happening for the last six moons. If we do not intervene with an iron fist, then they shall take the stepstones, allowing Essosi forces a foothold that can be leveraged against us."

"Do not fear, Lord Corlys; I shall have my best writer and my fastest raven upon this letter. So that we might resolve this as bloodlessly as possible." King Viserys said as he inched away from his seat. "Now, we end this meeting in accord. Be well, my lords and masters."

Viserys was the first one out the door. As the others soon followed behind him, except for Daemon, until he was the last one in the chamber. Once old Ser Ryam had left, Daemon stood up and walked towards one of the iron torches mounted on the wall. He pushed in on the torch and twisted until a secret passage was opened for him.

Without looking back, Daemon disappeared into the darkness of the hidden passage. He walked up several flights of stairs, occasionally stopping to peek out one of the hidden holes in the wall, until he found what he was looking for.

Lady Jocelyn Baratheon was sitting in front of a mirror brushing her hair. The hair that was once solid black had turned shades of grey in nearly every part of her head. She felt her years coming along on her, and since her accident at Driftmark some six years ago, she hadn't been able to walk without a cane. She lost her balance easily, and her steps were now much slower.

And for all the wine she drank, it did not seem to soothe her pain or make her forget the memories that haunted her. But she found solace in the quiet moments spent alone in front of the mirror, reminiscing about the days when she was young; she missed those days.

She missed running around Storm's End with Boremund as their father watched them laughing all the while. She missed gossiping and laughing with her niece Alyssa. But most of all she missed her husband, her Aemon. Nearly two decades ago her husband was taken from her.

Now every year, on his name-day, on the day of their wedding, on their daughter Rhaenys' birthday, on the anniversary of his death, and every day after, she sat bitterly alone in front of the mirror, longing for his presence.

Not even the heads of Myrish children that she requested to have every year dulled the pain of his absence. She knew deep down that nothing could fill the void left by Aemon's death.

Lady Jocelyn was startled, though, as she continued to look at herself in the mirror as she watched the wall behind her open up, and from it came her nephew.

Lady Jocelyn stood up, gripping her cane to steady herself. "You do know I am an old woman, right? I can't take too many scares at my age."

Daemon smirked at his great-aunt. "Hello, Jocelyn, you look beautiful as ever."

"Flattery won't move you very far with me, Daemon," Lady Jocelyn replied with a small smile. "What brings you here today?"

Daemon sat down on her bed as she stood in front of him holding her cane.

Lady Jocelyn narrowed her eyes, studying Daemon as though he were some rare creature in a maester’s jar. “You always did have a gift for showing up when your hands are least clean.”

“I could say the same of you,” Daemon replied, reclining slightly. “Though it’s always blood on your mind, not under your nails.”

Her grip on the cane tightened. “Speak plain. You didn’t crawl through the walls of the Red Keep to trade barbs with a cripple.”

Daemon’s smirk faded, and for a moment, only the crackle of the hearth filled the chamber. “I want the Hightowers gone.”

Jocelyn gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “Well. That makes two of us.” She hobbled to the sideboard and poured herself a cup of strong wine with a steady hand. “What’s this? Guilt? Regret? Or just plain ambition? You were happy enough to suck the Hightower off and watch Rhaenys get passed over like a dockside whore. Even raised some men, ready to fight against her if you had to."

He didn’t rise to the jab. “I was young. And stupid. And not half as dangerous as I am now.”

Jocelyn took a slow sip, eyeing him. “That’s not an answer.”

Daemon leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I’ve no love for Viserys’ court. I’ve never hidden that. But Otto Hightower’s cancer has spread too far. He buys influence with every breath, and his family think themselves above the crown they leech from. He’ll twist Viserys until there's nothing left but dust. And I think you’d agree—you and I both know what it’s like to have something stolen under the guise of peace.”

Jocelyn's face twitched, as if suppressing a memory. “Stolen? Hmph. What was stolen from you, Daemon?"

“Much, and much more still, could be stolen,” Daemon said, his voice like silk. “But not before I settle a few scores.”

She lowered her cup. “And what would you ask of me?”

“I want your hand in this. Quietly. Not with your banners—yet. But there are friends of Otto who need to disappear. Sympathetic lords. Wealthy backers. All of the snakes. And you’re better at keeping a blade quiet than I am.”

Jocelyn tilted her head. “And you won’t do it yourself because…”

“Otto already suspects I had something to do with Ser Cleyton’s... vanishing. If more corpses pile up and I’m too near, he’ll convince Viserys to cut my head off and mount it beside theirs. I need another shadow.”

She studied him for a long while, the firelight glinting off her cup. “Tell me what really happened to Ser Cleyton.”

Daemon smiled slightly, not proud but unashamed. “He was taken to the Dragonpit. My men rode with him in silence. Caraxes greeted him like an old friend. He cried out for mercy. I let him beg. Then I let my dragon speak.”

Jocelyn closed her eyes and exhaled through her nose. “Good. I always hated the Fossoways. Smug little sycophants.”

She turned to him with a dark glint in her eye. “You want heads to roll, Daemon? Fine. But I want names. I want to know which friends of Hightower need burying. And I want the wife for myself.”

Daemon chuckled. “Of course. You always liked making widowers.”

“I am a widow,” Jocelyn hissed, her tone cold as the snow-capped mountains of the Vale. “And I intend to burn down the damned ivy that's grown against my fool nephew for his and the realm's sake."

Jocelyn reached inside of one of her closets and, under a pile of silks, brought out a locked jewelry box. She unlocked it and dumped her jewelry out onto her dresser, pulled out the false bottom, and took out a piece of parchment. Some of the names had already been crossed off. Daemon grabbed the list.

"Are all of these the people who have… Wait, why am I on this list?" Daemon asked just as Jocelyn grabbed the list back from him.

"I haven't, admittedly, updated this list in quite some time. Don't worry, I wouldn't kill you now, nephew. See, the names I crossed off in red are the ones I did myself, and the ones in black are the ones that just happened without my hand." Jocelyn smiled at her nephew. As she lulled over her list. Daemon snatched the list back; he counted nearly ten people marked off in red ink.

"Jaehaerys, you killed him?" Daemon asked as he spotted the name of his grandsire crossed off in red ink.

"To tell you honestly, I'm not sure if it was the poison or just nature taking its course." Jocelyn admitted with a shrug. "But it doesn't matter now. What's done is done." She reached out to take the list back from Daemon, her smile never faltering.

"Now, go and rest your dear head, ride my husband's dragon, and commit mischief. I will work on trimming the rot out of this court." Daemon hesitated, his eyes narrowing as he handed the list back to Jocelyn. He wanted to ask her more questions; he knew she had a darker side, but even he wouldn't have assumed that the woman had ten different people under her belt.

"Then, I wish you good fortune, Jocelyn."

"Yes, nephew, I wish you good fortune as well. Good fortune for the wars to come."

Chapter Text

Carved from the bones of the mountain, black and unyielding where it met the cliffside. Its towers jutted toward the grey sky like spears, and the walls were streaked with salt and age. Bronze plates clung to the old stones, green with time, rune-etched, and glinting dully beneath the overcast light. No banners fluttered on the wind. None were needed. The stones spoke for themselves. No man could ever mistake the castle before them, which was Runestone.

Lady Rhea Royce had called her closest parliament to stand before her in her chambers. Her mother, Lady Anya Royce of House Belmore. Her uncle, Ser Rollam Royce. The maester of Runestone is Maester Marshell, and its castellan Ser John of House Layfield.

“He is still cold; I must admit his skill with the blade has vastly improved. He’s been putting his all into his training.” Ser John, said as he rested on his elbows, looking towards the Lady of Runestone.

“I’d agree with Ser John; even in his studies, Gwayne still seems to be apprehensive towards everything.” Maester Marshell says as he pops the knuckles on his left hand. “Are we sure that we have the full story of what happened in King’s Landing, my lady?”

“Your assumptions would be as good as my own, Maester. I have spoken with Gwayne, yes, but even towards me and my mother, he is still not choosing to speak more on it. Lady Jeyne has given us several details of what has happened, and even when talking about that, he still has no wish of speaking with me.” Rhea said, her eyes giving away the worry she had for her son. She felt foolish now for even having agreed to allow him to attend that damned event.

"Well, the boy has been cooped up in this dank, dark castle for a whole moon's turn. I say you let me take him to Gulltown, put some coin on a serving girl and some ale.” Ser Rollam interjected. His hair was ruffled out as if he had just woken up, and his face was a constant shade of red.

“The last thing this castle needs is another you walking around. Ha, it’d be better to let loose a Shadowcat than to have another rambunctious Royce.” Lady Anya said as she laid down the handkerchief in her hand. “I say we send ships to Oldtown and skin the Hightower brat alive and hang his skin up like the Red Kings of the North once did. Hand’s son or not, his name should be cursed in every hall from here to Hellholt.”

Lady Rhea stood by the tall window overlooking the courtyard, her fingers drumming against the stone sill as she turned to face her mother. "No one here agrees with your statement more than I, Mother, but look at what the king has done so far since we left. No letters from him, no actions taken, and based off the one letter Aemma sent, then the Fossoway escaped."

Ser Rollam leaned back in his chair, a wild gleam in his eye as he gestured emphatically. "You know what we should do? We should take the boy to Dragonstone, let him claim one of those beasts, and then tell him to burn down the Hightower."

Rhea's eyes flashed dangerously as she whirled around to face her uncle. "I cannot even begin to tell you which word that came out of your mouth was more stupid, Uncle."

Maester Marshell cleared his throat diplomatically, his weathered hands folded carefully in his lap. "To consider what Ser Rollam did say earlier, he may have a good point. Consider we do let Gwayne leave Runestone and send him to be a ward."

Ser John nodded thoughtfully, stroking his graying beard. "I agree with the maester; a change of scenery might be good for the boy. It will allow him to focus more on pleasing whoever he's serving and give him a sense of fulfillment. I also feel that he is decent enough with a sword and has learned enough of the basic skills to be able to hold his own."

Rhea's jaw tightened as she crossed her arms defensively. "He's too young; he will be a lord of Runestone."

Lady Anya rose from her seat and moved to her daughter's side, placing a gentle hand on her arm. Her voice carried the weight of maternal wisdom and old pain. "Even I must agree with them, and I say that for his sake. I know you do not wish to have him be sent away. I remember standing at the gates of Runestone every time your father sent away one of your brothers to be squired. It killed me; I feared for them, but they came back. And they came back strong."

Rhea pulled away slightly, pacing to the hearth where the flames cast dancing shadows across her determined features. "He can learn here, though. I will bring great knights here; no man would refuse to be a part of the training of an heir to the Iron Throne. I shall bring them from as south as Dorne and as eastward as Yi-Ti."

Lady Anya shook her head, her expression both firm and compassionate. "No, you can't. Because you will be here, I will be here, and his guards and liegemen will be here. How is anyone supposed to come here and train the boy properly if his family is watching every move and if the knight cannot show him proper discipline lest he fear the sword of Royce?"

Ser Rollam shifted forward in his chair, his expression growing more serious. "I agree with my good sister. Even I was once a squire under House Shett, hated some of it, and loved some of it. But everything I learned from the late Lord Galbert I still use today."

Lady Anya's lips curved into a wry smile as she shot her brother-in-law a pointed look. "He must've taught you how to drink and whore; you swing a sword about as well as a hen flies." Her expression softened as she turned back to her daughter. "There are several good places that would gladly take in Gwayne; he's a good boy."

Ser Rollam chuckled good-naturedly at the barb before growing thoughtful. "Aye, you might ask my first wife's family. Lord Karstark was a good man in his youth; he'd be a good man to teach the boy. Could even go bigger than that; ask the Starks of Winterfell, they are an honorable bunch who follow our ways still."

Rhea paused in her pacing, considering the suggestion but shaking her head. "I don't fully disagree with you, Uncle, but I want him to stay in the Vale."

Ser John leaned forward, his hands clasped together. "Well, there are just as many good lords who'd take the boy in."

Rhea's expression hardened as she thought of recent conflicts. "I'd also prefer one that didn't side against Lady Jeyne and my father in the uprising; the last thing I want is for Gwayne to become a hostage in the name of Arnold Arryn or his ilk."

Maester Marshell adjusted his chain as he spoke, his voice carrying the authority of years of study. "Even taking off those houses, then you are still left with a fine few. Belmore, Waynwood, Corbray, Moore, Templeton, Lynderly, Redfort, and several others besides."

Ser John's eyes brightened as a new thought occurred to him. "Consider something else; it could be good if whoever he squires with also had children. I think Gwayne would do well around other children who are heirs. He has mostly only ever been around the children of the Red Keep, his liege lady, or the serving children here. He should grow up around children who are also of the Vale."

Rhea stopped pacing, her interest clearly piqued by this practical consideration. "Good thinking; he could use more friends anyhow. So of the noble houses, whom do we know of who had children born between 95 AC and 100 AC?"

Maester Marshell tapped his temple thoughtfully. "Several, I believe the Belmores fit into that category, as do the Redforts, Corbrays, Lynderlys, and perhaps Waynwood—all fall into that category."

Lady Anya waved her hand dismissively. "It'd be monotonous to send Gwayne to Strongsong. I am a daughter of Strongsong, and my lord brother is old, so he wouldn't even be trained by its lord."

Rhea moved closer to the group, her interest growing. "What of the others? Redfort, Lynderly, Corbray, and Waynwood?"

Ser Rollam grimaced slightly. "Not Lord Waynwood; he's always been a strange man."

Rhea tilted her head curiously. "What do any of you know of Lord Lyn?"

Ser John straightened, respect evident in his voice. "Strong and quick, my lady. He fought alongside your father against Arnold Arryn and the Mountain Clans. Might perhaps be the greatest warrior of the Vale."

Lady Anya frowned thoughtfully. "That might very well be, but he follows the seven, and there is no heart tree at Heart's Home."

Ser John shrugged pragmatically. "Lord Lyn himself does not seem to be any sort of devout member of the faith anyhow."

Just then the heavy door creaked open as Maester Marshell entered with a large tome tucked under his arm, its leather binding worn smooth from years of use.

Maester Marshell set the book down on the table with a soft thud and began leafing through its pages. "It seems here that Lord Corbray and his lady wife, a Bracken, have had five children. The first died in the cradle from the chill in 94 AC. The second was born in 95 AC, a boy named Leowyn; a second son was born in 97 AC named Corwyn, and a daughter was born in 99 AC named Addison."

Ser Rollam leaned forward with curiosity. "What happened to the fifth?"

Maester Marshell's brow furrowed as he studied the text more closely. "It seems we were never told; there's no record, just a girl named Meriwyn born in 95 AC also. No record of death except that she died in 103."

Rhea moved to stand behind the maester's chair, looking down at the genealogical records. "I saw Lord Lyn in action during a tourney at King's Landing; I feel like he could be a good option. He is strong with a sword, has children the age of Gwayne, and House Corbray is a loyal house to the Arryns."

Maester Marshell looked up from his book, quill already poised in his mind. "Would you like for me to call on Master Gwayne and allow for him to speak his own voice into this?"

Rhea nodded decisively, her resolve finally settled. "Yes, go ahead."

In the courtyard of Runestone

Gwayne stood practicing his archery. Few arrows missed their mark against the target. Gwayne had learned much about archery from his mother at a young age, as his lady mother often enjoyed hunting small game on horseback. She taught him much of everything that he knew, and he had grown to be quite skilled with a bow and arrow. His precision and accuracy were on par with his mother's, and she was taught by her father, the late Lord Yorbert. One of the greatest knights that the Vale had ever seen.

Gwayne loosed another arrow and watched it strike the wooden target square in the chest.

From behind him, boots scraped against the stones. A servant stood there, awkward and nervous.

“My lord,” he said, bowing quickly, “your mother requests your presence in the great hall. She says it’s… important.”

Gwayne wiped sweat from his brow. He looked at the target. He looked at the bow. Then he handed it off and nodded as he crossed the yard.