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Chapter Text

“If you dare walk this path with me, take your first step. It's now or never! ”

Aemma - Kings Landing - 101 AC

Princess Aemma was not particularly surprised to find her daughter in the godswood.

Before the birth of her daughter, Aemma had never held much interest in the Red Keep’s godswood. Back in the Eyrie, the godswood was a beautiful garden, filled with statues, flowers, and shrubs. There, the heart tree was replaced by a marble statue of Alyssa Arryn, and lords and ladies, knights and maidens, could all traverse throughout the peaceful gardens.

The godswood of the Red Keep was not like that. It was an imposing place, where even amidst the largest city in Westeros, nature still reigned supreme. An acre of forest filled with elm, alder, and oak trees, all competing for whatever sunlight can sneak into the forest. In its center, on top of a small hill surrounded by crimson dragon’s breath flowers, is a mighty oak tree with red leaves, and from which hung smokeberry vines. In the middle of the oak was a carved face, forever in a restful slumber.

Were it not for the small figure huddled under the heart tree, Aemma would likely still have little interest in the Red Keep’s godswood. Yet her five-year-old daughter Rhaenyra’s fascination with the place has left her well acquainted with these woods.

In truth, Aemma worries for her only child, as she has oft been a being of contradictions. She is loving to her parents, yet cold to the rest of their family. Respectful of the servants, and disdainful of the nobility. Willing to learn the Seven Pointed Star, yet seemingly reluctant in prayer. Fearless in most circumstances, yet near terrified of a simple bath. When listening in on the conversations of adults, her lavender eyes would periodically light up with a fire before almost immediately being snuffed out. 

Aemma had separately sought out the advice of both Grand Maester Allar and High Septon Barre on the matter, yet both men merely shrugged off her worries as the ‘Typical worries of a mother’. Her husband Viserys was of a similar mind, merely telling her that ‘The blood of the dragon manifests differently in all of us, my love’.

But she knew her daughter, better than Viserys even. Only she can see the deep sadness lurking in her daughter. What she tries to hide behind the facade of a perfect princess. The way her daughter's eyes will stare blankly at nothing when she believes no one to be watching - it haunts her dreams. 

When she confided in him, her goodfather Baelon - Seven watch over him - told her that her daughter may be gifted with the same blessings of Daenys the Dreamer, the woman who saved house Targaryen from the Doom of Valyria. Yet if these “blessings” are truly what is causing her daughter such anguish, then as far as she is concerned they are not blessings at all, but curses. Curses sent to unjustly punish her kind-hearted and beautiful daughter.

Still, now is not the time for her familiar worries. Flanked by the Arryn men-at-arms of her paternal family, she continues her walk through the godswood toward the hill. Cautiously aware of her surroundings, as per usual - another worrying trait - her daughter looks down at her approach from the top of the small hill, and grows a worried frown on her lips.

“Mother? Why are you not resting in your chambers?”

Dropping her book, her Rhaenyra rushes down the hill before taking hold of her by the arm, as if to support her weight. Smiling ruefully, and gazing lovingly down on her daughter, Aemma replies in a lightly scolding tone.

“This is hardly my first pregnancy, little dragon, I’ve no need to waste away in my chambers.”

If anything, her reprimand only causes her daughter’s frown to grow. “Be that as it may, this is still an unnecessary distance from the apartments. You should have sent a servant, I would have come to you immediately!”

Smiling lovingly at her impertinent daughter, Aemma stroked her hand down her daughter's face, her little dragon leaning into her touch. Five namedays old, yet fully comfortable throwing her royal weight around.

“Bah, it is of no consequence. Besides, your great-grandsire has made an important decision.”

Furrowing her brow, Rhaenyra replied, “The King? What has his Grace done?”

Mentally simplifying it for her daughter, Aemma explained “His Grace has decided to gather all the most important nobles in the realm in Harrenhal. Do you remember where that is?” At her daughter's nod, she continued, “Well, His Grace is going to have all the nobles of the realm choose who they want to be king after him. In three moons, we will have a new heir to the Iron Throne.”

“I thought father was the heir, now that grandsire is- passed away.”

Smiling softly at her daughter, Aemma comforts her daughter by rubbing circles into her shoulders. While Rhaenyra had not spent much time with her grandsire Baelon, it was undoubtedly a shock to have him pass so suddenly for her, considering her young age. Admirable though her stoicism is, her stutter betrays her true shock at the event. 

Heart aching for her daughter, Aemma answers her question, “Well, before your grandsire Baelon was heir, it was his older brother Aemon who was the heir. When he passed into the arms of the Seven, people expected his daughter - your Aunt Rhaenys - to be heir. Unfortunately, some people are still quite unhappy that your grandsire Baelon was made heir over her, thus your great-grandsire merely wishes to please them.”

Upon seeing the look of understanding come over Rhaenyra’s face, Aemma beamed. Though she knew her daughter to be inflicted with some malady of the mind, none could deny that Rhaenyra was far smarter than any other child of five namedays in all of Westeros.

“The ravens have already been sent out, and it is to take place in three moons. We’ve no need to worry though, of course, as I’m certain that your father will be chosen.” Well, certain is an exaggeration but Aemma is mostly sure of it. Not only was Viserys the former rider of Balerion - the most powerful dragon in the world when it lived - but Rhaenys was married to the Sea Snake, Lord Corlys Velaryon, and his ambitious nature is well-known and ill-thought of.

At her daughter’s nod of understanding, Aemma couldn’t resist the smile and thought that formed in her -

‘Truly, the Gods smile upon my family. I can not help but be excited for the future!’

Rhaenyra - Kings Landing - 101 AC

That night as she is laying in bed, Rhaenyra allowed herself to reflect on her current situation.

Were Rhaenyra an ordinary five-year-old, she would likely be upset at her father’s status of heir being called into question. After all, why shouldn’t her father be heir? Her grandsire Baelon was heir, and Viserys was his first-born son! It only makes sense that her father should succeed her great-grandsire!

However, Rhaenyra was most certainly not an ordinary five-year-old. For Rhaenyra’s memories trace back more than five years, to a time when she was not Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, but instead Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg, ruler of the Adrestian Empire.

And honestly? The former Emperor cannot even comprehend how King Jahaerys did not see this coming.

Ever since she had been able to control this new body to an acceptable level, the newly re-named Rhaenyra had been absorbing as much knowledge as she could about the new world she had found herself in. One both so similar yet so different to her old one. And while she can certainly appreciate some of the changes - the continued functioning of society in spite of its lack of Crests is certainly vindicating to see - she cannot help but be disappointed by some of the similarities. 

The continued domination of the caste system is one such example. Nobles using their birth-given wealth and positions to oppress the common folk. The way some of her family speak of the “smallfolk” is particularly disgusting. In fact, Westeros is likely worse in this case. The typical noble of Fódlan merely held a patronising view of the common folk - seeing them as little more than children for them to guide and nurture. Meanwhile the Westerosi nobility seemed more to outright disdain the smallfolk.

This oppression is - once again - enforced through the support of the faith, who both justify and support much of the actions of the nobility. Society is controlled through adherence to religious guidelines. Guidelines which, once again, favor some groups of people over others. Strangely, despite the comparative cruelty of Westerosi nobles, the guidelines of the Faith of the Seven actually contradict the aristocratic system. The Church of Saint Seiros justified the superiority of the nobility with the existence of Crests, supposed blessing from the Goddess Sothis which were present in many noble bloodlines. In comparison, the Faith of the Seven praised poverty as the holiest way of life, even stating that a poor person would inherently have an easier time entering the seven heavens. Yet somehow, the Westerosi nobility are still able to use their faith as justification for their evils.

The only consolation is that at least the Faith of the Seven is not as powerful as the Church of Seiros. Rhaenyra is almost able to believe that this is a sign that the Faith in Westeros is not run by a thousands-years-old lizard monster in human skin, manipulating events from the shadows, and trying to dominate the continent for its own perverse ends.

Almost. Considering her luck though, she’s not holding her breath.

Regardless, Rhaenyra is… not too sure how to treat this new life. Edelgard may have vowed to never stop fighting for her goals, and that no setback would prevent her from achieving her vision for Fódlan, yet… Edelgard had never accounted for death being one of those setbacks. In all of the maps Rhaenyra has studied, Fódlan is not even present! Nor does she even recognize any of the landmasses present. Yet the language and cultures of Westeros are still so very similar to Fódlan.

The only explanation Rhaenyra can think of is that she is in another world itself. As if she is a character in one of those books Bernadetta used to read in the academy.

The thought of the timid girl sends a stab of pain through Rhaenyra’s chest, and she tries to choke down a sob - a futile effort, of course. It's a familiar pain, one she has felt every single time for the past ten years that she - or previously, Edelgard - has thought of her former classmates. Yet where Edelgard had learned to suppress her emotions, this new body had no such ability.

Not for the first time, Rhaenyra is forced to reckon with her complicated feelings towards her new body. Appearance wise, other than the white hair which Edelgard never had at this age, as well as some other minor nitpicks, she looks disturbingly like how she imagines she looked when she was this same age as Edelgard.

Of course, Edelgard had spent the past decade despising her body. Vanity served little purpose for the Flame Emperor, yet even in her last year of life she still hadn’t managed to feel comfortable enough to view her naked body in the mirror. The many, many scars which covered her skin served both as a cruel reminder of the experimentation she was put through as a child, and as metaphorical mirror to her damaged soul; a monstrous body to match her monstrous heart.

Yet, even in her appreciation of her restored skin, she is unable to deny just how weak it is - how little control she has over herself. Ever since she was kidnapped by Thales and Those Who Slither in the Dark, she's hated the feeling of a lack of control. Those months spent as the prisoner and experiment of those creatures left mental marks to match her physical ones. At age thirteen, when she put herself back together, she swore she would always maintain control over both herself, and her destiny.

Yet she is not thirteen-years-old anymore, but instead five-years-old. And that leads to the ultimate question besides: Is she Edelgard, brought back to life in the body of a child named Rhaenyra? Or is she Rhaenyra, with the memories and knowledge of Edelgard?

Wiping the tears from her eyes and snot from her nose, she drifted off into a fitful slumber.

Rhaenyra - Harrenton - 101 AC

Passing through Harrenton, Rhaenyra can’t help but be impressed by the orderliness of the city. When King Jaehaerys announced the Great Council three moons ago, people flocked to Harrenhal for a myriad of reasons. Obviously, lords and ladies came to participate, yet the smallfolk came in number too. Merchants to sell their wares, hedge knights in search of work, cutpurses and thieves in search of marks. Mummers, bards, tradesmen, whores, many and more came to Harrenhal for the event. 

While the highborn were given room in Harrenhal proper, the smallfolk were relegated to the small town of Harrenton, Just outside the western walls. Of course, this surge of temporary residents had turned the “small town” into a city that could rival Lannisport in size. For every one house owned by a resident of the town, there were perhaps fifteen tents owned by visitors. This massive surge of visitors from all over Westeros, combined with the very nature of the gathering, has left the city with an infectious air of excitement and celebration. Wherever one turned, there was some new entertainment to be found - a play on one corner, a bard performing in another, bakers competing to sell their sweets, all surrounded by banners and streamers of every colour under the sun, and the persistent and inescapable sound of an excited crowd. 

Yet despite this, the city itself managed to maintain a sense of order. The tents were placed in an orderly fashion, pathways were kept clear for people to walk in. Even the smell itself was better than what one would expect from such a large gathering of people. If nothing else, the area’s ruler - Lord Lyonel Strong - must be quite skilled at managing such a large group of people.

Even Rhaenyra found it hard not to be excited by it all. Though she was stuck riding in the wheelhouse due to her age and gender, the glimpses she caught from the windows made it hard not to stick her head out to gawk. Truthfully, the only reason she was able to restrain herself was in an effort not to embarrass herself further in front of the amused smiles of her mother, and her mother's ladies-in-waiting. Even still, their giggles - not so subtly directed at her - made it hard not to sulk.

“Enjoying yourself, dear?” Her mother asked, amusement clear in her icy blue eyes. Her blue gown and gold-blonde crown braid a match to Rhaenyra's red gown and silver-blonde braid.

Cheeks flaring red, Rhaenyra was unable to summon up her typical calm composure. “I-It’s just… a lot. I’ve never seen so big a celebration.” A truth even accounting for Edelgard’s memories. She’s seen her fair share of celebrations of course, but none could compare to the scale on display here.

“The princess is right, this must be the largest event Westeros has ever seen!” exclaimed one of her mother’s ladies, a Shara Corbray if Rhaenyra remembers correctly.

At that, the ladies go back to talking amongst themselves, and Rhaenyra is free to observe outside the window again. Soon enough, a dark shadow engulfs the carriage, and Rhaenyra can just barely see the dark stone walls of Harrenhal out of the corner of the carriage’s window.

Built over a hundred years ago by Harren the Black, Harrenhal is a monster of a castle. Its curtain walls are so large, the men-at-arms guarding the top look like mere ants. The walls lead into massive towers, thicker and taller than most actual keeps can claim. The stone itself is so dark, it almost seems to absorb the light around it. From this angle, Rhaenyra is just able to see the top of one of the five massive towers - so tall that it would not surprise her if they could see above the clouds most days.

Were this her first life, Edelgard would have quickly been able to throw off her amazement at the sight. Rhaenyra however - likely due to the child’s brain she currently is in possession of  - is unable to stop staring. Even her mother’s ladies seem impressed by the sight.

As they near the main gate, Rhaenyra notices that the walls are not actually fully straight, and in fact one of the towering bastions seems to be leaning forward slightly. Of course, history is a favoured subject of Rhaenyra - as it was for Edelgard - so she already knew the history of Harrenhal. How her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, burned Harrenhal and all its inhabitants with the black fires of Balerion when they refused to surrender to him. However, hearing of an event, and seeing the aftermath in person, conveys a completely different level of understanding. Balerion had already died before she was born, but Vhager - a massive dragon in her own right - still lives, and to think it capable of this…

She is pulled from her thoughts when the carriage passes underneath the front of the main gate… and seemingly never stops. Her disbelief slowly rises before they finally make it to the other side, after passing no less than twelve ( Twelve!) evenly spaced murder holes.

On the other side of the gate is a gathering near the size of that in Harrenton. Banners from all over Westeros are present, from as far north as the Mormonts of Bear Island, to as far south as the Redwynes of the Arbor. She even recognised Dornish banners, as well as banners representing many of the Free Cities of Essos.

It was a grand explosion of heraldry and colour - completely at odds with the dreary fortress of Harrenhal.

As the wheelhouse stopped in the middle of the courtyard, Rhaenyra heard the herald announce their entrance. “His Grace, Prince Viserys Targaryen. Son of the Crown Prince Baelon The Brave. Grandson to the wise King Jaehaerys Targaryen.”

By the end of his proclamations, the wheelhouse door had been opened by the Kingsguard Ser Harrold Westerling, and her mother was climbing out of the wheelhouse. Following her out into the yard, Rhaenyra glanced towards her father.

He was a jovial man, and that translated to his appearance. While he is not quite large enough to be called plump, a life of merriment and luxury has left her father more soft than most his age. His silver-blonde hair is left free to fall just past his shoulders, and his lavender eyes are a similar shade to her own

In comparison, Rhaenyra’s memories of Edelgard’s father are of two very different versions of the same man. The father from her early childhood (whom she remembers little of outside of stories), who was strong, unyielding, and ambitious. Who wished to leave House Hresvelg stronger than it had been since the War of the Eagle and Lion. Then, there was the version of her father she knew better; the husk that remained after the Insurrection of the Seven, when Duke Aegir and her uncle Volkhard led the six great houses of the Adrestian Empire in a coup against her father, leaving the Emperor with little and less power. This version of her father was sickly, melancholic, and pliable.

When she stole the crown from him, he wasn’t even bothered by it.

Rhaenyra’s father was a curious mixture of the two. Viserys was ambitious, but would never wish ill on others to achieve his goals. He was pliable on matters he was disinterested in, but for those that did interest him he had an unmatchable stubborn streak. He was weak, but yet held a strange charisma that made him well-liked by those who met him.

In comparison to Ionius, Viserys also deeply loved his family. Even if she weren’t the son she knew he wanted, he still cherished and loved her, and their shared love for history made him easy for her to love. 

It’s because of him that Rhaenyra was able to push aside Edelgard’s paranoia and skepticism, and enjoy something her previous self never expected to be able to enjoy again - a loving family.

She’s not certain if her love extends to the man embracing her father, however.

Rhaenyra does not hold a very high opinion of her uncle. She knows better than most how deceiving rumors and gossip can be, yet with Daemon Targaryen they tend to be correct more often than not.

The man is, from an objective standpoint, quite handsome. Where his brother was all soft skin, Daemon was all lean muscle. Lilac eyes sat within a sharp, angular face, and his silver-blonde hair was worn long. Said eyes typically sparkled with amusement, as if the world itself was merely entertainment for him.

Originally, she had thought of him as similar to Hubert, Edelgard’s closest confidant (and the closest thing she had to a friend, in the end). Yet the similarities are surface deep. Hubert was cold - cruel even, perhaps, but it was all a carefully crafted persona. Like Edelgard, he believed in the ends justifying the means, and was willing to do anything if it meant helping her achieve her vision for Fódlan. He was methodical, disciplined, and meticulous. 

Daemon, meanwhile, was none of those. Hubert’s cruelties were calculated - Daemon, however, was a chaotic force. He seemed loyal enough to his brother, but like Hubert he kept his true feelings close to his chest. And, while he treated her with kindness, There was something about that kindness that triggered her paranoia.

Granted, Edelgard’s memories did leave her somewhat biased. The only uncle Edelgard had any memories of was her mother’s brother. As her mother’s only child he spoiled her, and Edelgard knew he loved her deeply. Yet, even before being possessed by Thales, he plotted against, and helped destroy, her father. He is inescapably complicit in the tortures and experiments she and her siblings went through.

So, while Daemon Targaryen and Volkhard von Arundel might be very different people, Rhaenyra is still not ready to trust another uncle.

Her father doesn’t share her skepticism, however.

“- either way, it’s good to see you, brother! You’ll have to tell me about your adventures, later. I’ve got to get my Aemma and Rhaenyra squared away first, though.”

Her father stepped back, gesturing to her and her mother, and Daemon glanced at them with his typical cocksure grin. Straightening from his slouch, Daemon replied, “Well, then I suppose I should show you to your quarters. The finest ones in this shithole. Besides our grandsire’s, of course.”

Unsurprisingly, the meaning is understood by everyone except her father, who merely makes a pleased face and bids Daemon to take the lead. Still, based on his confident demeanor over the past month, not even her father is daft enough to miss the writing on the walls. There are only two claims truly being considered at this council, and of those, for those who know where to look, the signs are obvious of who the old king wishes to take the title of heir.

It is seen in how her great-grandsire bade her father to take one of his Kingsguard as an escort, whereas princess Rhaenys is to be guarded by her husband’s Velaryon men-at-arms alone. 

It was why this whole succession crisis started after all - Her great-grandsire wishes for his male heir.

Sleep evaded her that night. It continued to evade her for the fortnight leading up to the final decision. Despite being one of the more structurally sound rooms in the castle, her temporary chambers were still damp, and it’s smell one of rotten wood.

It reminded her too much of the dungeons underneath the Imperial Palace.

 Though her sleeplessness left her rather stressed, she had an entire decade worth of experience as Edelgard in ignoring the protests of her body. Compared to the near constant discomfort caused by her many hideous scars, her new body's exhaustion was quite easy to power through.

The past fortnight had been spent courting lords to their side, an endeavor which has been quite fruitful. Ignoring House Velaryon, the house her aunt married into, the only two great houses supporting her claim are the houses Baratheon and Stark. Baratheon, due to Rhaenys’ familial ties with its lord, and Stark due to their dislike of Jaehaerys, after the forced donation of land to the Order of the Night’s Watch.

Even among their kingdoms however, her father had supporters. Besides that, many of the more powerful houses in the realm, such as the Lannisters and Hightowers, saw choosing her father as heir as a way to check the growing power of Corlys Velaryon - her aunt’s lord husband. The man is as ambitious as he is a skilled sailor, and no nobleman enjoys having their power threatened.

Rhaenyra’s role in this was fairly simple; be the dutiful daughter that she is. Despite being younger than her cousins Laena and Laenor, she was much more skilled at playing the role of a perfect royal than either of them. Of course, this is obviously because she mentally isn’t a child, but the lords of Westeros didn’t know this.

She could do without the talk of betrothals, however. While Edelgard was not blind to the charms of both men and women, there was only one person she could truthfully say she loved - and that woman betrayed her.

Regardless, by the end of the moon the King Jaehaerys had finally made his way to Harrenhal, and so the final deliberations were made, and the Lords of Westeros chose their future liege.

The lords were gathered in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths. Hundreds of the Westorosi nobility packed into the large space. Every house had at least a small retinue in the room, though of course the front of the hall was saved for the greater houses of the realm. Besides the walkway in the center of the hall, the nobles are packed tightly enough that, from her angle, their appearances begin to blur together. While the castle of Harrenhal seemed to be holding its breath in anticipation, every now and then one could hear the celebration in Harrenton reaching a climax. The smallfolk cared little for which candidate was chosen as heir, merely interested in the whole spectacle.

In the far end of the hall was an elaborate golden throne, which was occupied by her great-grandsire, King Jaehaerys. In spite of his frail appearance, the King projected an air of strength and surety about him. Though she couldn’t see him well from this distance, Rhaenyra could well imagine the sharpness in his violet eyes. On either side of him were the two claimants and their spouses. Her father and mother were to his right, easy to spot due to their nervousness (and her mother’s visible pregnancy). On the King's other side was the more confident of the two couples - who just so happened to be the parents of the girl sitting next to her.

“They should just get on with it.” Groused Laena from the rafters beside her, falling onto her back.  “It’s so stupid, everyone already knows who they’re picking. Just say who the heir is already!”

Smirking at the girl beside her, Rhaenyra replied, “Mayhaps they know we’re up here, and this is simply a test to see whether you can sit still for more than ten seconds.”

“ Ugh ! We could be in Harrenton right now! Having Fun ! Who cares about this, anyway?”

“Well, I care for one. This is an important decision - the type of event one reads about in history books. Besides, don’t you want to know if you’ll be a royal heir?”

“No, I don’t. I want to claim a dragon and journey the world like my father has! Who cares about whether I’m royalty or not? If I’m a princess, I’ll be too busy to do what I want, anyway.”

“I… suppose you have a point there.”

That was possibly the most serious thing Rhaenyra had ever heard Laena say. 

Laena shared more of her features with the Princess Rhaenys than she did Lord Corlys. Rhaenyra’s mother even said that, barring her darker complexion, Laena was the very portrait of Rhaenys at that age. Yet, Rhaenyra felt that her new friend was more like the infamous Sea Snake than others may think.

While Rhaenyra enjoyed exploration and discovering new places, Laena positively thrived off adventure. They had never met before Harrenhal, as Laena’s parents had left Kings Landing well before Rhaenyra had been born. Yet, when Rhaenyra had decided to take a break from her duties to explore the dilapidated castle, it was Laena who she quickly ran into - who just so happened to have the exact same idea as her.

Perhaps Rhaenyra should have been more embarrassed by her quick friendship with the girl. Physically, Laena is older by three years, yet when accounting for Edelgard’s memories…Well.

Regardless, the part of her that was Rhaenyra delighted at having a friend, especially one with similar interests to her. As for them coming from rival families, the part of her that was Edelgard had spent half of her life with naught but utter contempt for the games of the nobility. Meanwhile Laena, being the free-spirited person she is, just didn’t care.

Thus was why they found themselves together up on the rafters. Harren the Black may not have had Maegor Targaryen’s paranoia, but there were enough secret and damaged passageways to entertain anyone interested in exploring them. Rhaenyra and Laena’s hiding spot was found by sneaking into a half collapsed servants tunnel, hidden underneath the massive kitchens, and following it up to above the Hall of a Hundred Hearths, where a small crack is just spacious enough for them to squeeze through. 

“Mother promised we’d head to King’s Landing after this is over. She said she would help me claim a dragon there.”

Her wistful tone gave Rhaenyra pause, though considering how much of their short friendship has been spent with Laena asking her about her bond with the young dragon Syrax, it really shouldn’t have. Glancing down at where she was still sprawled out on the wide beam, Rhaenyra replied. “Oh? Any dragon in particular?”

The look Laena gave her was impressively dry for an eight-year-old. “The only dragon there I can claim is Dreamfyre.”

That’s not true… “What about Vhagar?”

This time, Rhaenyra couldn’t decipher the look Laena gave her. “Vhagar was your grandsire’s dragon.”

“So?”

“You’d be okay with me claiming your grandsire’s dragon?”

Oh, that’s what this is about.

“Well, my grandsire is dead, so it’s not like he can stop you.” Rhaenyra said drily, causing Laena to break into giggles. When her giggles petered off, Rhaenyra continued. “Seriously though, I told you before that the dragon chooses the rider, not the other way around. If Vhagar chooses you, then who cares what anyone else thinks.”

Laena’s eyes light up at her statement. “Yeah, you’re right! Who cares!” At that, she shoots up so fast that Rhaenyra thinks she’s about to accidentally pitch herself off the rafters. In a panic, Rhaenyra throws herself at Laena, pinning her to the beam, and almost throwing both of them over, causing both to let out yelps of panic. 

Once the panic passes, Rhaenyra shoots up from where she has Laena pinned on her back. A moment passes where they simply stare at each other numbly.

Laena is the one to break it, as she starts giggling like a loon. Rhaenyra herself follows a second later, dropping down onto the older, taller girl, as her limbs give out.

“You idiot - I wasn’t going to fall!”

“Well It’s not my fault! Next time don’t throw yourself up like the floor is on fire!”

“We’re not on the floor, genius !”

“Maybe-” Her mock argument is cut off by the sound of murmuring filling the hall below them. At first, Rhaenyra panics, thinking that their shouting caused them to be discovered. A look down below reveals the cause of the commotion to be much more exciting.

“ Laena, it’s starting!” 

“Finally!”

Both of them shoot back up, fully focused on the proceedings down below. Far below them, passing between the lords and ladies of Westeros were two maesters, holding an ornate chest between them. Despite her previous panic, she can’t help but lean forward. Even as Edelgard, she had held a strong love for history. Partly due to her desire to find ways of improving Fódlan, but also from a simple fascination with historical events. Well, right now she is living through a historical event - one not even caused by her!

Laena, however, does not share her enthusiasm.

“Why are they carrying a big box? Why not just tell great-grandsire who the heir is?”

“Well, because of the gravitas, Obviously!”

“I don’t even know what that word means.”

“Shush!”

Rhaenyra was aware of how childish she was being. To be fair, she was a child, and even the Edelgard part of her was excited!

Eventually, the maesters had reached the dais, placing the chest in front of King Jaehaerys and opening the lid. 

As the Old King bent to retrieve the tiny parchment placed inside, a thought occurred to Rhaenyra, and she turned to her new friend with a small frown on her face, and worry in her heart.

“Whatever ends up happening, we’ll still stay as friends right?”

Laena’s reply was immediate “Of course!” Reaching out to grab Rhaenyra’s hand, Laena replied with a surprising amount of solemnity for the eight-year-old she was, “No matter what happens.”

"It is declared by all lords paramount and lords vassal of the Seven Kingdoms that Prince Viserys Targaryen be made Prince of Dragonstone!"

Chapter Text

All hail His Grace, King Viserys, first of his name! King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm!

Rhaenyra - Maidenpool - 104 AC

Never let it be said that her father could resist the allure of a celebration. Not half a fortnight had passed before the newly crowned King Viserys had announced a great tournament to celebrate his new reign. Honestly, Rhaenyra is slightly surprised it took him as long as that.

Regardless, it takes many moons for the noble houses of the realm to travel to such an event. Half a year after the announcement, the city of Maidenpool had finally opened up its gates to the revelers.

Of course, the event also marked a somewhat more somber occasion - her mother’s newest pregnancy.

Not that Rhaenyra is opposed to the idea of siblings! After all, in her past life she had ten of them - eight older and two younger, all of whom she cherished deeply. It’s not as if she’d be losing an inheritance either - the choice of King Jaehaerys’ council had set the precedent of the closest male relative inheriting the Iron Throne over a daughter anyway, meaning that she could never be her father’s heir. Considering the fact that this would mean her uncle Daemon inheriting, the reality is that she needs a brother.

Of course, what this doesn’t take into account is the very real pain Rhaenyra is regularly forced to watch her mother go through. In the nearly eight years since she was born, she has watched her mother go through no less than seven pregnancies. Most ended in miscarriage, though one pregnancy she did carry to term - which ended in Rhaenyra’s stillborn brother, Aegon. 

That one nearly shattered her mother.

The worst part of it all is how young her mother is. At twenty-two years of age, she’s only a year younger than Edelgard was at her death. In fact, she was only fourteen when she gave birth to Rhaenyra - that’s the same age that Wilhelm - Edelgard's eldest brother - was when she was born.

Even in Edelgard’s case, her siblings almost all had different mothers. Her own mother, Anselma, gave birth to Edelgard when she was nineteen - and Edelgard was her only child. Seeing her mother suffering through endless pregnancies, never being given a chance to rest is… Painful, to be polite. Each pregnancy caused just a tiny bit more resentment to creep into Rhaenyra’s feelings towards her father.

Entering the guest chambers given to her parents, Rhaenyra is immediately hit with the strong smell of herbs and incense. Were she not accustomed to it by now, she would have surely retched at the foul odor. As it was, she merely powered through the stench, passing the maesters and handmaidens to kneel by her mother’s lounge. The fond smile her mother gave her is almost enough to relieve Rhaenyra’s worries.

“What are you doing here, my love? You should be out enjoying the festivities.”

Taking her mothers hand, Rhaenyra leaves a brief kiss on her knuckles before replying. “I heard you were sick again.”

Her mother lifted her hand from Rhaenyra’s hold, laying it against her cheek before responding in an exasperated but loving tone. “‘Tis nothing I have not dealt with before, dear. You must stop running to my chambers whenever I so much as sneeze - I am not so fragile as you seem to think.”

“Well, there are no events happening currently anyway, so I wished to check in on you.” Anticipating her mother’s next question, Rhaenyra added: “Ser Jon Templeton won the horse racing competition.” 

The comfort her mother’s soft, cheerful laugh brought her was indescribable. “ Of course. There’s not a person in the realm who could ride better than a knight of the Vale. Goodness, Sara is going to be utterly unbearable for the next few days isn’t she. Oh well.”

Lady Sara was one of her mother’s ladies-in-waiting, and Ser Jon’s elder sister. Her mother was most likely correct in her assumption; Lady Sara had spent the better part of the previous day boasting how her little brother was going to win the horse race. Personally, Rhaenyra had thought Ser Melwyn Swyft of the Westerlands was most like to win; true to his name, the man was quite fast on horseback.

Bringing her arms down to rest on her stomach, her mother gave a soft sigh before continuing. “A shame, though. I had quite hoped I would be well enough to enjoy the tournament with you and your father. Well, ‘tis no matter. The melee should be starting soon, yes? Are you excited for that?”

No, she was not.

For most of the other tourney competitions, Rhaenyra is able to put aside her discomfort, and focus on the talent being displayed. Whether it be archery, horse racing, or even jousting. With the melee, however, she can’t help but being sent back into her memories of a decade ago. When she was still Edelgard, and thousands of men and women were being killed in her war - both by her commands, and by her hands.

Excluding small skirmishes, there hadn’t been any major battles fought in Westeros in four decades. The combatants who fought in these melees had no real respect for war, and were instead raised on fabricated stories of its supposed ‘glories’. The inevitable result is that - regardless of discouragement against it - every melee inevitably ends in death.

Besides, Rhaenyra’s previous self had been taught by the greatest swordsperson alive in Fódlan, and no one in Westeros could match up to the swordplay of… of the Ashen Demon.

“Rhaenyra?”

Snapping back into reality, Rhaenyra glanced over to see her mother watching her with no small amount of concern. Banishing her dark thoughts, Rhaenyra summoned up a fake smile and replied. “Apologies mother, I was just thinking of who might win. People are saying Lord Corbray is intending to participate with Lady Forlorn .”

That is another factor affecting her enjoyment of melees, that they allow live steel . It’s a decision that is as stupid as it is dangerous. Where’s the fun in watching a martial competition, if one side has such a clear advantage due to the quality of their arms. How could a hedge knight hope to defeat an opponent such as Gerald Corbray or Daemon Targaryen, when valyrian steel such as Lady Forlorn and Dark Sister can simply slice through their armour?

Unsurprisingly, her mother is not fooled. “My sweet daughter, I know how much violence bothers you. You know that if you do not wish to watch, then you most certainly do not have to, yes?”

She didn’t wish to, truthfully, but she also knew that if she didn’t attend then Alicent would be forced to sit through it by herself. Otto Hightower would never allow his daughter to be seen missing from a public event.

Besides, while she was disinterested in the melee on principle, if nothing else she could amuse herself by comparing the fighting style of Westerosi fighters with that of her original home.

In Westeros, magic was a thing of stories - in Fódlan it was an intrinsic part of society. For instance; in combat training, one of the very first things a person is taught is how to utilise spell-less magic. In simpler terms, how to use magic to strengthen one's body, and quicken their reactions. 

Without that inherent magic, Westerosi knights are inherently slower than Fódlanese ones. From what she’s seen, this difference is typically accounted for with smaller, more controlled movements.

Fighting itself never particularly interested her - in her first life it was but a means to an end - however she did quite enjoy learning. Studying the difference in Westerosi and Fódlanese fighting techniques was, while not her preferred realm of study, still a viable distraction.

Giving her mother a reassuring smile, Rhaenyra responded. “I’ll be fine, mother. Just- please focus on resting yourself, okay?”

“Okay, dear.” Her mother replied, smiling softly. “You have fun at the tourney, alright?”

Standing back up, Rhaenyra brushed her mother’s hair from her forehead and kissed it, before heading back the way she came.

Despite being oft forgotten, Maidenpool was actually one of the richest and larger cities in Westeros. While the city was known for its pink walls, the colour could also be found on many of the other stone constructions throughout the city. Being that it was located just off the kingsroad, and was the largest port in the Riverlands which sat on the Narrow Sea, Maidenpool happened to be quite flush with trade.

The tourney was held just outside the walls, where a massive area of forest had been cleared to make way for tourney grounds. The wood from this deforestation was put to use in building - among other things - the arena in which the melee was to be held. Arriving in the royal pavilion, Rhaenyra headed towards the very center of the balcony, where her father was sitting, speaking with the Lord Hand, Otto Hightower. Giving her father a quick kiss on the cheek as a greeting, she turned around to head to the very front of the balcony, where one of her two closest (and only) friends was waiting. 

Dressed in a well-made yet simple green gown, and her light-brown hair in a simple braid, Alicent Hightower gave the impression of being the pinnacle of a modest young noble lady. At thirteen years of age, Alicent is almost old enough to meet the minimum age requirement for the Garreg Mach Monastery’s Officer Academy. While only the most talented of students are accepted at the Academy, Alicent would certainly fit that description.

Her friend was quite precocious, ahead of her peers in a way that not even Edelgard was in her previous life (Of course, at age thirteen Edelgard was still in the clutches of Those Who Slither in the Dark, so some leeway can be given). Alicent, like Rhaenyra, had an insatiable appetite for knowledge, albeit without a strong focus on any specific topic. That Rhaenyra would excel in her lessons was beyond question - what’s more impressive was how quickly Alicent would also take to them.

Beyond that, she was also extraordinarily kind. At the end of King Jaehaerys’ life, when he was confined to his bed, it was Alicent who became his caretaker. Where Most people - Rhaenyra included - would have hated this role, Alicent seemed to be quite honoured by it.

When Rhaenyra asked, she simply told her: “The King is a kind man. It’s only fair that someone be kind to him in turn before he passes into the arms of the Seven.” 

In many ways, Alicent Reminded her of Edelgards fifth-eldest sibling, Helga. Like Alicent, Helga was unfailingly kind, and had an unmatched brilliance. One of the reasons why Rhaenyra is able to stomach Alicents deep-seated faith in the Seven is due to it mirroring Helga’s strong love for the goddess Sothis. 

Alicent herself had told her before that she had once wished for a younger sister. Maybe that’s the reason for their strong relationship - Alicent was the older sister to replace the others that Rhaenyra lost, meanwhile Rhaenyra was the little sister which Alicent never had.

Taking the seat next to Alicent in front, she saw her friend startle before relief flowed into her brown eyes.

“You’re here! I was starting to think you wouldn’t show up.”

Faking a scoff, Rhaenyra replied. “And what? Leave you to suffer alone? I see how lowly you think of me.”

“Oh please, I know how much you hate melees. I wouldn’t be here if I had the choice.”

“Yes you would, if you knew I would be forced to attend.”

Giving her a sly look, Alicent replied. “Hmm, do you think?”

Before Rhaenyra can respond, the herald is marching onto the grass pit, announcing the beginning of the melee, and introducing the combatants. Of course, some habits are harder to stop than others, and Rhaenyra’s extensive study of the continent has left her able to recognise almost all of the heraldry present.

Her Uncle Daemon is first into the field, of course. His armour looks more art piece than protection; dark metal forged to look like a dragon’s scales, with a helmet in the shape of a dragon's head. Unlike the other noble knights, who wore fabric to distinguish their houses, Daemon wore neither a surcoat nor cape.

Thankfully, most of the other combatants did wear their heraldry, making it easy to distinguish each, even with their helmets. Entering the arena were nearly two dozen knights from all over Westeros. Rhaenyra recognised Ser Denys Mallister from the Riverlands, Ser Donnel Locke of the North, Ser Gunthor Grimm of the Reach, and every other knight that came onto the field. Lord Gerald Corbray was also present, confirming the rumours, and even the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, Lord Boremund Baratheon.

In fact, among the two dozen combatants, there was only one banner there she didn’t recognise - ten black pellets in an inverted triangle over a scarlet orange background. Besides Daemon, he was the only combatant without any heraldry on his actual armour. Unlike the other knights and lords present, rather than a squire to carry his banner to his starting point, he had one of the tourney boys following behind him.

It was strange, though. According to the tourney rules, each kingdom in Westeros (with the exception of Dorne and the Iron Islands) was allowed three participants each. Despite being a free-for-all style event, they still wanted to give each combatant the room to fight. By process of elimination, the knight had to be from the Stormlands, but Rhaenyra found herself hard pressed to believe the overly-proud Boremund Baratheon would allow a knight from an unlanded knightly house to represent his kingdom.

Turning to Alicent for a second opinion, she asked. “Do you know who that knight is?” pointing to the mystery participant.

“A member of House Royce perhaps? His banner looks similar enough to House Royce’s, it could just be a personal banner.”

“But why would he be starting with the other Stormlanders then?”

Seeing her friend was just as stumped as her, Rhaenyra turned instead to her personal favourite knight of the Kingsguard, waving him over. Ser Harrold Westerling was one of the older members of the Kingsguard, having served her great-grandsire, and was currently thought to be Lord Commander Ryam’s most likely successor. As befitted his station, Ser Harrold was an extremely capable warrior, and a wise mind besides. 

What made Ser Harrold Rhaenyra’s favourite knight of the Kingsguard was that he also felt uncomfortable with the way her father treated her mother, forcing her into pregnancy after pregnancy. He was the only person she couldn’t hide her anger from, as his own mother was forced into a similar position by his father. A father who, like Rhaenyra’s, showered him in love and affection. Like Rhaenyra, he also found it hard to hate his father, even with his displeasure with how he treated his mother.

Rather than make excuses for the King, Harrold instead validated her feelings, and agreed that her father was in the wrong. In doing so, he became the closest thing she had to a confidant.

More relevantly, however, Ser Harrold would also be likely to know who the mystery knight was.

Moving remarkably silent in his silver armour, the bearded knight walked briskly to the front of the pavilion, leaning down to better hear over the loud crowd.

“Princess.” The man greeted, bowing his head lightly.

“Ser Harrold.” Rhaenyra greeted. “What do you know about that Stormlander knight? The one with the black and orange banner.

After a moment of thought, Ser Harrold replied. “I’m afraid not much, your Grace.” He said, grimacing. “I know that he's the son of Lord Dondarrion’s steward, but past that I don't know much.”

“If I remember correctly, Lords Dondarrion and Baratheon are rather close, yes?”

“Aye, your Grace. I’d imagine that's how the knight managed to get accepted into the tourney.”

“Indeed… thank you, Ser Harold.”

“Princess.” he replied, bowing his head before returning to his post.

Alicent, who had been listening,  then turned to her. “Who do you think will win? I think Prince Daemon.”

Confused, Rhaenyra replied. “I thought you didn't like my uncle?”

“ I don't .” She replied, haughtily. “He's a boor and a brute. That's why I think he will win.

Laughing at her friend's antics, Rhaenyra replied. “I think it will be Lord Corbray. His sister is one of my mother's ladies, so I've seen him around the Red Keep before. He's a skilled fighter, and a valyrian sword is quite an advantage.”

Not the best she's seen, of course. Not as good as the Ashen Demon. No one is, really. Still, Rhaenyra has a decent enough knowledge of swordplay, enough to see that - even in practice - Lord Corbray is quite skilled.

“Then I shall be cheering for him to win.” Alicent said with finality.

“Not your uncle?” She had assumed Alicent would cheer for her mother's brother, Ser Alyn Florent.

“What’s the point in cheering for someone if you already know they're going to lose?”

Their ensuing laughter was so loud that both almost missed the horn call to signify the start of the melee.

Criston - Maidenpool - 104 AC

“Don’t embarrass our house.”

Those were the last words his father said to him, before sending him off to join Lord Baratheon’s host. Had he his time back, he would have asked his father ‘what fucking house?’

But, that was his father in essence. House Cole was a new house - his grandsire a hedge knight who distinguished himself to the previous Lord Dondarrion, during a skirmish with the Dornish. He was knighted in 82 AC - mere months after Criston’s own birth. 

His grandsire was content with what he had attained. His father, however, wanted more. Becoming steward of Blackhaven did nothing for his ambition - he wanted to be a landed noble. Thankfully, Criston was not his father's first son, so he was mostly ignored by his greedy father.

His friend Edric had a different set of parting words. “Go show ’em what us Marcher lords are made of.”

Us, he said. Despite being Lord Simon Dondarrion’s third son, Edric never cared for titles. He never cared that Criston was common-born. Never mocked him for it. 

He was the one who pushed the Blackhaven master-at-arms to include Criston in his lessons. Even when Criston surpassed him in skill, and began winning every duel, Edric never hated him for it.

It was Edric who asked his father to recommend Criston to Lord Baratheon for the melee. Lord Baratheon accepted, and so here Criston was.

Of course, this was more than a simple tourney for Criston. Many of the richest and most powerful lords in the Seven Kingdoms would be attending the tourney - including many lords paramount. Should he distinguish himself in the tourney, some of those lords may be willing to take him on as a knight in their service, or even as a master-at-arms for their holdings. God’s willing, he’d never have to see either his father or the Dornish Marches ever again.

As he stepped into his designated starting point in the arena, Criston took a moment to observe his competition. The greatest challenge would be in the Northmen and Valemen, for they would have experience fighting the wildlings and mountain clans respectively. Though the knight of House Peake is also likely to be a challenge, being from the Dornish Marches himself.

By now the squires (and in his case, tourney boy) had all placed their banners into position, and were quickly vacating the arena. Criston rolled his right shoulder, before releasing the chain on his morningstar-flail, letting it hang free. Silently, he gave thanks to the god’s that the tourney is taking place so far north - despite being the height of summer, the air still has enough of a chill to keep his plate from feeling suffocating. Adjusting his grip on his shield, he moves into a fighting stance - shield out and flail held to the side.

Finally the horn sounds, quieting conversations around the arena.

For just a moment, nobody moved. Then, the first challenges are shouted throughout the arena. Men calling each other to duel. Criston, not wishing to be left behind, does the same. Raising his right hand, he pointed his flail at a knight - a Westerlander, based on his starting position. The Westerland knight, wielding an arming sword and shield, accepted his challenge with a nod, and they began to stalk toward each other.

Stopping a short distance from the Westerland knight, Criston began swinging his flail, waiting for the Westerlander to make the first move. Lunging from behind his shield, the knight feinted low, before swinging his sword towards Criston’s helmet. The move was brazen - Criston batted the sword away with his shield before smashing his flail into his opponent's shoulder plate, knocking him to his knees.

The fight was over before it began. Without giving his opponent the chance to recover, he swung the flail back around, flinging the knight onto his back. Stomping his foot over the knight's breastplate, he brought his flail up above his head. “Yield.” he said in a calm, even voice. 

Dropping his sword, the knight glared up at Criston. Accepting that the knight wasn’t going to verbally yield, he switched his flail over to his left hand before extending his right towards the Westerlander to help him up. In a light tone, he said. “Maybe next time don’t lunge like that.”

“Fuck off.” the knight replied, batting away Cristons hand. Standing on his own, the knight stormed off towards the arena entrance, leaving his sword behind. 

Turning around, Criston took a moment to observe the fights. His first fight was rather quick, and most of the other combatants seemed to still be fighting who they originally challenged. Only one other fighter seems to have finished their match.

The knight seemed to notice Criston at the same moment Criston noticed him. Retaking their stances, the two approached each other, both observant of the other’s smallest movements. With a start, Criston realised he recognised the blade - Lady Forlorn. Meaning that this knight is likely its wielder - Lord Corbray. 

Unlike the Westerlands knight, Lord Corbray held a much more steady stance, his sword Lady Forlorn was held in front of him in a two-handed grip. 

Swinging his flail near Lady Forlorn , Criston attempted to bait Lord Corbray into an attack. Each swing came closer and closer to the blade, before finally the lord responded. Smoke-grey steel flashed towards Cristons head, who made to bat it away with his shield as he had with the Westerland knight. Unlike the knight, Lord Corbray was merely feinting, and brought his sword back before Criston’s shield could connect.

The move left Criston’s left side exposed, and a thrust from Lord Corbray nearly skewered his left armpit. A quick backstep kept him just outside Lord Corbray’s range, but the lord would take the advantage offered to keep pushing Criston backwards.

The whoosh of sliced air and clunk of a slashed shield drowned out the noise of the crowd. With all the grace expected of a wielder of valyrian steel, Lord Corbray’s attacks were a flurry. Each swing was blocked with his shield or dodged by the skin of his teeth. High swings flowed into thrusts which flowed into low swings and then back again. 

 In spite of the cooler air (in comparison to the Dornish March) he felt his body become slick with sweat. With each step back, and each slash blocked, Criston felt his movements become more and more sluggish.

Eventually however, Criston spotted a weakness in the lord’s form; his leftward swings each took him just a moment longer to recover from. Swinging his flail, Criston kept his defensive stance, and waited for Lord Corbray to overextend himself. 

Underhand swing, jab, high swing, jab again, left slash… Now!

Bringing his flail to bear, Criston swung it toward Lady Forlorn . The chain was just barely long enough to wrap around the blade, and before the lord could recognise what happened, Criston yanked the sword towards him, bringing Lord Corbray with it. Stumbling, the Vale lord had no chance of dodging Cristons shield, which bashed him across the face, and sent the lord onto his back.

Before Criston could jump on the man to prevent him rising, Lord Corbray brought his hand away from his sword and, to Criston’s surprise, laughed .

Wheezing, the Vale lord squinted up at him with humour in his eyes. “Gods, You fight more feral than the Burned Men! I yield, damn you.”

Stepping to the front of the Valeman, he held out his hand as he did previously for the Westerlands knight. The lord grabbed his sword before taking the offered hand and letting Criston pull him to his feet. With another laugh and a pat on Criston’s shoulder, the lord of Heart’s Home would swagger off the field, head held high. 

‘He must not know.’ Criston concluded. It’s not as if his common-birth would be well-known here. Unless specifically asked, none of the Stormlanders would be wanting to admit to one of their fighters practically being a lowborn.

Conclusion made, he pushed the surprisingly friendly lord from his mind, and turned to search for his next opponent.

Rhaenyra - Maidenpool - 104 AC

‘How interesting.’ Rhaenyra mused to herself. She was not lying when she told Alicent that she expected Lord Corbray to win the tourney. At the very least, she never expected him to lose to a mystery knight.

“Well, so much for our favourite, I suppose.” Alicent said in a disinterested tone. In truth, Rhaenyra felt bad for the (technically) older girl; while Rhaenyra was able to distract herself with half-hearted academic musings, Alicent held even less interest in fighting than her. 

Before Rhaenyra could respond however, a sickening crunch rang out through the arena, drawing everyone's gaze towards one fight in particular. 

Standing over Ser Unwin Peakes body was Lord Boremund Baratheon. From the top of his massive warhammer dripped crimson liquid, and as he stepped away Rhaenyra noticed Ser Unwin’s chestplate had been caved in. Contrasting the tightness in Rhaenyra’s stomach, Lord Baratheon gave a cheer to the crowd, which the crowd returned tenfold.

Accounting for her previous life, violence was nothing new to Rhaenyra. However, to see a potential death cheered was still a sickening sight, even for her. Out of the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra noticed Alicent begin picking at her cuticles. Feigning a need for emotional support, Rhaenyra grabbed the other girl's hand, gripping it tight. After a moment, the grip was returned.

Back in the arena, two tourney boys had silently run up to the downed Reach knight, and we’re dragging him back towards the entrance. Lord Baratheon only had a moment more to soak up the cheers of the crowd before her uncle Daemon finished his fight, and began stalking towards the Storm’s End lord. From what she could see, her uncle’s shield didn’t even have a scratch.

On the other side of the arena, the mystery knight had begun squaring off against Ser Denys Mallister.

Returning her attention to her uncle’s fight, she noticed him saying something to Lord Baratheon in a low tone, with a grin on his face. The roar of the crowd made it impossible to hear, but whatever it was caused the Stormlander to lunge at her uncle, warhammer swung with maximum anger.

Daemon’s fighting style, Rhaenyra idly noted, was just like his personality - aggressive. In fact, both men’s fighting style reflected their house words. Ours Is The Fury and Fire and Blood . Boremund Baratheon was all wild fury; Daemon Targaryeon was an aggressive fire.

After dodging the first few swings, her uncle stepped into the guard of the taller man, bashing his face with Dark Sister ’s crossguard. The telltale crunch of a broken nose was heard even over the arena’s shouting, and Lord Baratheon stumbled back, dazed. 

Whether through training or dumb luck, he still managed to block Daemon’s mad swings, though he would be pushed further and further back towards the arena’s edge. Finally, Daemon brought his sword up for an overhand strike, which Lord Baratheon attempted to catch with the metal haft of his hammer. 

That was a mistake.

The sudden, deep bang caused both Rhaenyra and Alicent to jump in their seats. Lord Baratheon himself simply seemed shocked, staring at his bisected warhammer. He stayed in his dazed state until Daemon placed his sword right under his chin. With no other option, Lord Baratheon would concede, storming out of the arena immediately after.

Finally, the melee was down to its final two combatants. Looking up from her uncle, Rhaenyra noticed the mystery knight looking just as dazed as the spectators.

Saluting the crowd with his sword, Daemon stalked towards the knight.

Criston - Maidenpool - 104 AC

For a second, Criston felt numb.

‘Gods, what the fuck was that?!’

So lost was he in the heat of his duel with his last opponent (whose sigil he didn’t recognise) that he didn’t even pay the noise any mind at first. The same couldn’t be said for his opponent, whose head snapped towards the sound, and thus wasn’t able to stop Criston’s mace from smashing into his thigh, and knocking him to his knees. His opponent yielded immediately after, allowing Criston to give in to his curiosity. 

The noise, as it turns out, was the Prince's sword slicing through Lord Baratheon’s fucking warhammer. Criston had seen it up close - the damn thing was iron all the way through, and so heavy that Criston could barely even carry it! Everyone knew how strong valyrian steel was, but to see it in person is…

The sight of Prince Daemon Targaryen marching towards him was enough to break his shock. The prince had his sword pointed toward the crowd, and the seeming dismissal from his opponent brought his confidence back.

Coming closer, the prince turned his attention back towards Criston. The look on his face was smug - mocking. As if he was in on a cruel joke no one else knew about. Not wishing to give his opponent the initiative, Criston stepped to the prince, swinging his flail once, then twice. 

Dodging both attempts, the prince retaliated with a thrust, narrowly missing Criston’s head. The follow up strike with his shield did hit however, sending Criston reeling back, blood in his mouth. Without giving him a chance to breathe, the prince continued his onslaught, with Criston just barely managing to block each slash. 

This time, the roar of the crowd was blocked by the pounding in Criston’s ears. The blood in his throat made breathing more difficult, and the sweat began to dribble from his hair into his eyes. At this point, his helmet was more hindrance than help, as hair had fallen between it and his forehead - trapped in front of his gaze.

Finally, the prince overextended with a thrust, giving him a chance to bat it away and retaliate with his own strikes. In three blows, the prince’s shield was reduced to tatters and Criston was going for the finishing blow - only for the prince to dodge at the last second, maneuvering onto Criston’s right side, and hitting him with a slash hard enough to cut through his chestplate - just barely grazing his skin - sending him to his knees.

Stumbling to his feet, he just barely managed to bring his shield up in time to avoid losing his head. His poor balance would leave him barely able to defend against the prince’s next few strikes. Knocking his shield away with a strong slice, the prince followed his attack with a kick - knocking Criston onto his arse.

By this point, Criston’s body was one big bruise, and he was struggling to keep his breathing steady. Rolling away from the prince’s follow-up, he jumped to his feet as quickly as he could. The prince seemed to be just as exhausted as him, judging by the heavy breathing that matched Criston’s own.

Swinging his flail towards the prince’s sword, he attempted the same move that he used on Lord Corbray - only for the prince to go willingly with his pull, slamming his sword’s guard into Criston’s face. The sword was still caught in the flail’s chain, however, so Criston yanked him back, causing the prince to stumble. While the prince was staggering, he swung his shield around into the back of the man’s knees, knocking him onto his back.

Placing a foot on the prince’s chest, he demanded in a low, even voice: “Yield.” The prince meanwhile simply looked away, towards the stands. Without an answer forthcoming, Criston placed a bit more of his weight onto the prince's chest. With as much strength as he could muster into his voice, he demanded once again: “Yield.” This time, the prince glared up into Criston’s eyes, before finally opening his hands flat, indicating his surrender.

Stepping off the prince’s chest, Criston closed his eyes and let the roar of the crowd pass through him.

Chapter Text

Rhaenyra - Maidenpool - 104 AC

“I still can’t believe a Dornishman won the melee.” Alicent said to her in a conspiratorial tone.

“A Dornishman didn’t win the melee,” Rhaenyra replied, “He’s from the Dornish Marches , not Dorne itself.”

The midday sun shined high above the city of Maidenpool, casting the city in bright clarity. The warm weather left both nobles and smallfolk alike in as few layers as possible, while the small breeze kept the heat from feeling too stifling. 

As expected from a tourney with the king in attendance, the streets were positively filled with merchants, bracketing the stone roads. From these merchant stalls, the sounds of haggling mixed with each other to create a blanket of noise, which settled over the area. 

As this particular area was so close to the castle, most of the stalls that were set up here catered to noble shoppers. Rich jewels, steel weapons, and foreign fabrics could all be found here. According to the shouts of the merchants, they could also be found at affordable prices.

Not wishing to deal with the noble graspers in the castle, Rhaenyra had stolen Alicent away for a trip into town. Followed by three Targaryen knights, as well as the Kingsguard Ser Harrold, the two girls had spent the better part of an hour exploring the pink-walled city.

Yet, she couldn’t stop herself from thinking of the events of the melee, and about that knight, Ser Criston. Despite only knowing the basics of his past, and having only seen him fight once, she found her interest piqued by his situation. She had a feeling about him - the same feeling that Edelgard once had, when she met Ladislava for the first time. Similar to the feeling she once had, when she had met Byleth for the first time. It made her wonder if-

“Are you feeling okay?”

Startled, Rhaenyra’s eyes snapped to her friend’s worried gaze.

“How do you mean?” 

“Well, everytime I try to start a conversation you just brush me off!” Alicent replied, a miffed expression on her face.

“Oh. I apologise.” Rhaenyra replied, grimacing. “My mind has been elsewhere.”

“Yes, I know.” Suddenly, Alicent pursed her lips in thought. “Is this about the Dornish knight?”

Rhaenyra sighed. “Again, Alicent, he’s from the Stormlands, not Dorne.”

“No, but he at least must have Dornish blood. He looks like it, at least.”

“Perhaps, but that is besides the point.” Rhaenyra replied, “Truthfully, I’m more interested in his house.”

Its recent creation, to be specific. After the melee, she had asked Ser Harrold to find as much information on this ‘Criston Cole’ as he could. Learning he was commonborn was a rare delight for Rhaenyra - so little of her interactions these days were with the common people. Of course, Ser Criston is hardly a commoner anymore, but the point still stands. 

As Edelgard, she had always felt that those of the commoner class were much more interesting and unique than their highborn counterparts. Nobles had strict moral codes that they adhered to - some more than others - and that limited how unique they were compared to each other (with a few notable exceptions, of course). Commoners, on the other hand, were all different to one another. Whether they were farmers, fishmongers, servants, merchants, and so on - each commoner had their own values and beliefs.

In her first life, she had wanted to free them from their lot in life. To use her power as Emperor of Adrestia to give them the freedom to pursue their own dreams and ambitions. And so, when she ascended the throne she sent thousands of them to their deaths. All in return for absolutely nothing .

Things are different now. Back then, she had to declare war on the church and she had to conquer both Leicester and Faerghus. Any reforms she crafted in the Empire would have been opposed by the church, who would have rallied the other two kingdoms to its side. Partnering with Those Who Slither in the Dark - her torturers - was necessary, for without them Adrestia would have never been able to fight against the entire continent on its own. She’s told herself this so many times that she has almost started to believe it.

As Rhaenyra however, she has an opportunity that Edelgard never had. Westeros is a (nearly) united continent - and no known power could dare to stand against the Seven Kingdoms. Her ancestor King Aegon conquered (most) of the continent with merely a thousand men, all because of House Targaryen’s dragons.

Rhaenyra would never inherit, of course - that would run counter to the decision reached during the Great Council. Yet, given how persistent her father is, she is likely to have a little brother soon. One whom she can install her own beliefs in, and use as a tool to reshape Westeros according to her own ideals. 

The presence of knights like Ser Criston will only aid her endeavors.

A slow and methodical approach, one her previous self would have scoffed at. However, her previous self failed - whereas she will not.

A squeeze of her hand by her friend snapped Rhaenyra out of her brooding. Looking up at Alicent’s nervous face, Rhaenyra followed her gaze towards the man stalking towards them.

‘Well,’ she revised, ‘I won’t fail so long as he doesn’t inherit.’

“Rytsas, kepa.” [Hello, uncle] She greeted, calm lavender eyes meeting his amused lilac. Her uncle looked the same as always: long silver-blonde hair pulled back, black leathers covering his body, and his sword Dark Sister strapped to his belt.

“Tala,” [Niece] her uncle Daemon replied, “Ao gōntan daor qīzy syt nyke zān?” [You did not cheer for me yesterday?] A lazy grin was on his face, but his eyes were cold. Evaluating. At first glance, his posture was loose, with both hands resting on the blade strapped to his waist. However, restful was not a term to be associated with her uncle, and she could tell that he was just the slightest nudge away from violence - perhaps even more than usual.

Judging by how Ser Harrold had closed ranks and stepped up to her side, he had recognised it as well.

Still, Daemon fed off weakness, even from those she knew he loved as family. It would not do to show fear to him. So with a calm, dismissive voice she replied, “Iksis bona sīr pirta? Gaoman daor pendagon mirtys ūndan.” [ Is that so wrong? I do not think anyone noticed regardless]

“Hmm.” He replied simply. Turning to Ser Harrold, he spoke in an amused tone. “I am not going to attack my niece, ser. You may step off her heels.

Tilting her head slightly she caught the unimpressed look on the Kingsguard’s face. “‘Tis my duty to be cautious, Your Grace.” Ser Harrold said simply.

For a second, a hint of a frown peeked through her uncle’s mask, before being quickly covered. Turning back to her, he regained his roguish grin. “I have something for you,” He said in a low voice. “A gift, though I think I shall wait to give it when we are in more private company.”

‘Unsurprising’ , thought Rhaenyra. Her uncle was not a man given to displays of affection in public. He loved his family, that much she knew, but he tended to express it in very Daemon-like ways. For her, it was in the form of rare trinkets from across the Narrow Sea, and familial gestures that just nearly straddled the line into becoming uncomfortable.

Despite her reservations, she forced a friendly smile to her face. Acting was not a skill that came naturally to her, but her previous life forced her to become quite skilled in the art. “Kirimvose, kepa.” [Thank you, uncle]

His smile became just a tad more smug, and with one last glance towards Ser Harrold he continued on between her and Alicent, the way that they had previously come from. 

It was then that she remembered where she was. Turning around, she noticed the street had nearly gone quiet, with nobles and merchants alike seemingly having stopped what they were doing to hear what the two royals were speaking of. Her only consolation was that it was unlikely anyone understood what they were discussing - even the visiting Essosi merchants only spoke a diverged dialect of the Valyrian language.

It was bad enough they saw a prince being quietly threatened by a Kingsguard, they did not need to know that said prince was also berating his niece. A public family squabble like that would be quite unfortunate in a tourney meant to celebrate her father.

Turning back to Alicent - who had a worried, almost fearful cast to her face - Rhaenyra quickly suggested. “How about we return to the castle, hmm?”

“I could teach you High Valyrian, if you wish?”

“No, but thank you. You should finish writing your letter to that Velaryon beast.”

Her friend’s response elicited a subtle sigh from her. The two were sitting in the rooms given to Rhaenyra, in Maidenpool’s keep. She had been given word that a letter from her friend Laena had arrived in the rookery mere minutes ago, and so she had quickly snatched that up before retiring to her room. Alicent had joined her, but had taken a book from the castle’s library with her, to give Rhaenyra the chance to pen a reply to Laena.

In many ways, her two friends were complete opposites - that had never been more clear than the single time the two had interacted with each other. House Velaryon had travelled to King’s Landing for her father’s coronation, years ago. Of course, this was not out of any love for their new king, but rather because it would have been seen as an insult not to. While they were there, Rhaenyra managed to set a time aside for her two friends to meet.

And it had been a disaster.

Where Alicent was cautious, Laena was carefree. While Alicent was a studious and bookish person, Laena more preferred active activities. Alicent cared about her image, cultivating a ‘ladylike’ persona, whereas Laena could hardly care less about how others viewed her. By the end of the week, Rhaenyra had well learnt her lesson - Laena and Alicent were to be kept as far from each other as possible.

Even now, the two couldn’t help but refer to the other in insults whenever Rhaenyra mentioned them. When the maester’s assistant had brought Rhaenyra the letter, Alicent’s face curled in a rather unnecessarily exaggerated manner. Truthfully, the feud between her only two friends was rather draining.

“Actually, I just finished my response.” Rhaenyra shot back. The day had been going so well, too. It had been the first day of the jousts, with the final rounds scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. There had been no major upsets - and quite frankly, Rhaenyra had mostly dozed off for the event. She had only followed enough to gain a general idea of who the victors were, to send in her letter to Laena.

Corlys Velaryon held little interest in attending a tourney meant to honour the man who stole his wife’s birthright from her. From what she had gathered in her few interactions with the woman, Rhaenys Targaryen held a more complicated view on the matter. Or at the very least, she didn’t view Rhaenyra as coldly as Lord Velaryon.

This meant that - according to Laena - it was Rhaenyra’s job to keep her Velaryon friend informed on the events of the tourney. Thus is how the topic of High Valyrian came up in her conversation with Alicent, since all of her and Laena’s correspondences tend to be in the language.

Yet, as per usual, her uncle’s appearance casted a shadow over the whole day. Because Rhaenyra had grown to love her uncle, despite his innumerable faults. Edelgard had spent a decade mourning the deaths of her family members, and for all that Daemon was a horrible person - one antithetical to so many of her personal beliefs and ideals - he was also a part of Rhaenyra’s new family

Out of everything Those Who Slither in the Dark had stolen from her, it was the loss of her family that had hurt her most of all. Now, after being given a new family, how could she possibly dismiss a part of it as irredeemable? 

Yet in the same breath, she cannot deny the damage he has done to their family’s rule. His marriage to Lady Rhea Royce was a grave mistake on her grandame’s part, and her uncle’s refusal to show Lady Rhea (and isn’t that a painful name for her to hear) the slightest hint of respect has been tearing the Vale apart. The sole reason the entire Vale hasn’t completely lost its respect for the Iron Throne is due to her mother, Aemma Arryn, who is aunt to the Lady Paramount of the Vale. Still, her mother can only do so much to mend relations in her home kingdom, and the tensions are continuing to simmer.

Of course, the Vale is merely the worst example, as Daemon has been slowly turning all seven kingdoms against the crown for half a decade by now, one ill-thought insult at a time. Insulting the intelligence of Stormlanders at feasts, referring to Northmen as ‘unwashed savages’ to the face of a visiting Northern lord, laughing at the proud lord of Casterly Rock when he visited King’s Landing to petition the king. That’s to say nothing of his feud with Otto Hightower, who is hand of the king and brother of the most powerful lord in the Reach.

His actions this time were just more kindling. Rhaenyra knew Daemon would never strike her, but Ser Harrold didn’t, and to engage in open bickering with the Kingsguard like that only weakened her family’s image more, and gave more fuel to his title of the “Rogue Prince”. Daemon loved the title, of course , but whether he accepts the reality or not, the implication of the title is that her father is too weak-willed to manage his own kin. A dangerous look for a king.

She’s brought out of her dark musings by the sound of rustling parchment and Alicent’s curious voice, “What are these?” Turning, she sees Alicent rifling through a notebook. It takes only a second for Rhaenyra to place it as her personal sketching notebook .

She felt her soul leave her body.

 Briefly, she entertains the notion of running over and snatching the book from her friend’s hands. Yet, given that doing so would only fuel Alicent’s curiosity, she instead takes a fortifying breath, and replies to the question. “I-its my sketchbook. I’m not particularly skilled, of course, but I do try to set aside an hour each day for practice.

“They’re so good!” Alicent exclaimed, tracing the details with her eyes. Rhaenyra disagreed, of course. She was out of practice, and hadn’t sketched ever since she had started her war, thirteen years and another lifetime ago. She had only begun re-teaching herself a year ago, and was unsurprised to find that she did not have the same skill as in her previous life. Though in fairness that’s likely in part due to having a new body, one without her trained muscle memory.

Having her mediocre work be seen and judged was a novel sort of torture for Rhaenyra. Never before had she empathised so strongly with Bernadetta. Seeing a sketch of the Valyrian Freehold model her father had begun building, she felt dread stir in her heart, as she knew what was coming next. Closing her eyes, she braced herself for her friend's disgust.

“Is that me?!” The surprised wonder in Alicent’s voice was enough for Rhaenyra to peek at her friend’s reaction.

Rather than being disturbed or otherwise bothered, Alicent looked… touched? The sketch was somewhat better than her others - it was Alicent sitting in the godswood, with the wind causing her hair to blow just off her left shoulder. She had been practicing with adding motion to her art, and she had been mildly pleased with the results.

Taking a subtle breath and willing her blush away (a futile effort of course), she replied in a hesitant voice. “Yes, I… did a terrible job with it, but it was meant to be a drawing of you. I’m still quite awful at drawing people, truthfully, so I understand if you hate it-”

“No!” Alicent interrupted. Seeming to realise she had just interrupted a princess (not that Rhaenyra was one to care for such things), she began blushing herself, before continuing, “It’s quite good actually. I just never knew you enjoyed sketching. How did you get so skilled?”

“I’m self taught.” She lied smoothly. It wasn’t like she could tell Alicent that Edelgard’s father had paid for master painters to teach his daughter. After all, her past life was ideally a topic no-one would learn of.

After a moment's hesitation, Rhaenyra added in a forcibly light tone. “You can keep it, if you wish.” 

Alicent’s head snapped up in shock. “Really?” At Rhaenyra’s hesitant nod, Alicents face lit up, “Thank you!”

Walking to the side of the room Alicent was on, she carefully removed the parchment from the binding. Now that she was looking at it again, it really was still a terrible drawing - the curves were rather jagged, and the parchment was improperly treated beforehand, leaving a faded look to the picture. Still, when she handed it to her, Alicent looked at it as one might view a diamond.

A frown darkened Alicent’s face, and she seemed to struggle with something before finally asking. “W-would you be willing to teach me how to draw like you do? I don’t know how well of a student I’ll make, since I’ve never practiced art before. But, I-I guess, well-”

For a moment, Rhaenyra was shocked. Alicent had never made a request of her before. She had spent years attempting to coax Alicent out of her shell, to nurture a sense of confidence and self-worth in the girl. It had always been an uphill battle, as her father Ser Otto was much more skilled at snuffing Alicent’s fire out, and any gains Rhaenyra made tended to be lost within mere days. She wasn’t going to waste this chance.

“Of course!” Rhaenyra replied quickly, before Alicent could even think about rescinding her request. Taking Alicent’s hand, she pulled her over to the desk, retrieving both spare (treated) parchment as well as the silver stylus she was currently using. Sitting her friend down. She began an in-depth explanation into the art of silverpoint drawing.

The final day of the tourney played host to the final rounds of the jousts. Unfortunately for Rhaenyra, this meant that Laena would be expecting an extensive rundown of the events, and thus she had to actually pay attention. Her only consolation was that Alicent was much too lost in her own thoughts, to be bothered by the violence of the event.

Alicent had taken to drawing well. Even with just a day’s practice, she had gotten noticeably better, so much so that Rhaenyra fully believed that even just a year of practice would see Alicent as a better artist than her. Or perhaps less , considering just how exhausted Alicent appeared - swaying in her seat. Rhaenyra knew what it looked like when someone had just suffered through a sleepless night; she had seen the look on her own face for many years, after all.

Of course, there was one other positive to this event, to make it less tiresome. In the royal pavilion, just two rows behind Rhaenyra, was her mother. It felt like the whole arena was shocked at the Queen’s attendance - her weak constitution was well-known amongst both noble and commoner.

The sound of the horn quieted conversations, and drew all eyes to the arena. There, the final participants of the joust were streaming into the grounds, Lining up before the royal pavilion. Typically, her eyes would seek out her uncle - after all, he tended to sulk if either she or her father did not pay him enough attention. This time, however, her gaze landed on Ser Criston.

Clearly, he had made use of his winnings from the melee. While he still wore the same ill-fitting armour, a sash of orange had been slung around his torso, with the black pellets of House Cole at even intervals throughout the length. She imagines having that done in a mere three days was quite pricey, especially for such a low-ranking noble. 

The Herald announced the matchups for the first round of jousts, and Rhaenyra had to suppress a sigh: The very first tilt would be between Ser Gwayne Hightower - Alicent’s elder brother - and Prince Daemon Targaryen, and based on her uncle’s expression and lack of surprise this was fully intentional by him.

Privately, Rhaenyra expected her uncle to bribe the tourney organisers to make his first match against Ser Criston. However, she supposed his old rivalry with Otto Hightower would take precedence over any new feud. For his part, The Hand of the King appeared undisturbed by his eldest son being chosen to go against Prince Daemon first, yet the tightening of his eyes gave away his true aggravation.

As the rest of the competitors cleared the field Rhaenyra pre-emptively grabbed Alicent’s hand. Better not to give her a chance to pick at her nails, after all. Unfortunately, her action knocked Alicent out of her dazed state, and the situation in front of them made her squeeze Rhaenyra’s hand quite tightly.

As Ser Gwayne and her Uncle made their way to opposite sides of the field, the drummers sounded to prepare for the first tilt of the final round of the jousts.

The sound of the crowd, however, quickly became too much for the drum to overcome. The smallfolk in attendance began to cheer the names of the two riders, and even some nobles, in their private pavilions, began to let out shouts of encouragement. 

The two men were proud and tall atop their steeds, yet appeared as different as night and day. The harsh, dark armour of her uncle Daemon, and the bright and noble silver armour of Ser Gwayne. The open-faced helmet gave the arena a clear view of her uncle Daemon’s expression, and he passed his gaze over the crowd with idle amusement dancing across his face. Ser Gwayne’s closed helmet, however, gave no indication of his feelings.

Finally, the herald shouted for the beginning of that match, and before the drummers could respond with their beat, the two riders were off.

The thunder of hooves quickly surpassed all other noises in the arena. Both riders were as serious as if this were a real battle.

The first pass was uneventful, albeit weighted in Ser Gwayne’s favour. Ser Gwayne let Daemon’s lance merely slide off his shield, while her uncle seemed to lose some of his momentum before forcing his horse to once again speed up.

After two more rounds like this, it became obvious who held the upper hand in this bout. It wasn’t particularly surprising, after all Daemon held more practice with dragon riding than horse riding, and so was less stable than Ser Gwayne, who rode as if he were born to the saddle.

A fourth pass saw her uncle’s lance be smashed in its collision with Ser Gwayne’s shield. Reaching the end of the field a tourney boy handed him a new lance, only for her uncle to clip the butt of the lance against the boy's face before continuing the tilt. This time, the pass was very clearly in Ser Gwayne’s favour, with Daemon being nearly pushed off his saddle.

Rhaenyra understood Ser Gwayne’s strategy now. He was riding carefully, attempting to rile Daemon up and force him to make mistakes. Honestly, it was a sound strategy - Daemon was easy to anger.

On the sixth pass, Ser Gwayne’s superior skill was on clear display, with Daemon once again nearly knocked off. Rhaenyra could practically feel the excitement and pride radiating off Alicent, as well as the smugness from Otto Hightower - Alicent and Ser Gwayne’s father - behind her. 

Indeed, her uncle Daemon seemed completely rattled when he began his seventh pass, swaying on his mount. It seemed he could barely keep his lance straight, with both he and it drooping towards the field’s tilt barrier.

Meanwhile, Ser Gwayne seemed completely unbothered by the unusually long match. His posture was as straight as before, and when he rode it was with the same strength as when the match began. His lance was aimed straight towards Daemon, ready to end the match with a decisive win.

However, just before their lances could meet, Daemon swung his body towards the barrier, dodging the lance of Ser Gwayne. His own lance he planted in the soil in front of Ser Gwayne’s horse, sending both mount and horse tumbling towards the ground.

In the sudden silence of the arena, the crash of Ser Gwayne’s armour felt deafeningly loud. His helmet came tumbling off after he met the ground, and tourney boys immediately ran out to check on his condition. Alicent’s grip on her hand tightened to the point where Rhaenyra felt her friend’s nails draw blood, but she voiced no complaint. She let Alicent maintain her grip, until the tourney boys signalled that Ser Gwayne was alive. 

Relief flooded her, and she let out a breath she hadn’t even known she was holding. Quickly however, her relief turned to annoyance at the actions of her uncle. As she watched the tourney boys pulling the unconscious knight towards a maester she seethed at her uncle’s conduct.

Gently, she pried her bloody hand away from Alicent’s grip before hiding it away, with the hope that Alicent would merely assume the blood was from opening the scabs on her own fingertips. Seeing that Ser Gwayne was fine and being treated, she turned her burning gaze towards her uncle.

Despite the unusual end to the tilt, the tourney-goers were quick to shower their Prince with cheers over his win. Daemon, as per usual, basked in the adoration of the crowd. Turning his horse around, his eyes sought out his brother first, before falling to her and taking note of her lack of applause.

Spurring his horse into a slow trot, he made his way towards the royal pavilion, eyes watching her the whole while. She understood the silent communication, and stood to make her way to the front balcony. To her surprise, Alicent followed as well.

“Sȳrī gōntā, Kepa.” [Well done, Uncle.] She called when her uncle had ridden into earshot, hiding her displeasure behind pleasantries. Based on his smirk, he knew that she was being disingenuous. Whether that amused or annoyed him, Rhaenyra couldn’t say for certain.

“Kirimvose, Dārilaros. ” [Thank you, Princess.] He replied in a low voice. After a moment, his gaze slid off her, landing upon Alicent who had stepped up alongside her. Rhaenyra recognised a second late what he intended to do. 

Pitching his voice louder, for those farther away to hear, he continued. “Now, I’m fairly certain I can win these games, Lady Alicent. But having your favour would all but assure it.”

Glancing at her friend, she saw that, unsurprisingly, Alicent wasn’t fooled by Daemon’s display of gallantry. All three of them knew that this was meant as an insult to the Hand of the King. Still, proper etiquette demanded that - as it was a man of higher status who was asking - Alicent grant him her favour.

Rhaenyra wouldn’t have - not after that display - but Alicent was never one to act against propriety. 

Rhaenyra thus isn’t particularly surprised when, in spite of her own anger, Alicent heads back towards their seats, and retrieves her favour for Daemon. Daemon, meanwhile, only has eyes for the Hand, Ser Otto, and his smirk is filled with more malice than Rhaenyra has seen in a long time.

Returning to the balcony, Alicent lazily dropped the green wreath onto Daemon's lance. Still, Daemon ignores her, in favour of watching Ser Otto’s reaction. In a voice colder than the North in winter, Alicent says, “Good luck, my Prince.”

Finally, he turned back towards Rhaenyra and Alicent, an amused smirk on his face. After a moment, he turned his horse around, and the two of them returned to their seats for the next match.

Alicent - Maidenpool - 104 AC

Alicent would have preferred to be almost anywhere else.

She had never much enjoyed tourneys. She held little love for violence in general, and the sight of it had always caused her to engage in her disgusting, pathetic habit of picking at her nail beds. All she could do was try to have her mind drift away from the events in front of her, and into more happy memories. Of course, the noise of the crowd tended to make that impossible.

Oftentimes, it was Princess Rhaenyra who acted as her anchor. Whenever an event turned particularly bloody, the princess would grasp Alicent's hand, as if looking for reassurance from the sight.

Alicent knew better.

She knew that Rhaenyra was not bothered by these events. She knew that the princess only did this as a show of support and encouragement to her. She knew this, because she knew the Rhaenyra.

Violence did not bother Rhaenyra. Or rather, it did not bother her the way it did most people. Her friend’s expression was always one of disgust rather than fear at these events, as if she found the very concept of violence as something that was beneath her. Privately, Alicent felt that a lot of things were beneath the princess.

Everyone knew that the Targaryens were different from others. Their blood was the blood of Valyria, of dragonriders. For as much as everyone hated Prince Daemon, most people still held awe in their voice when they spoke of him. In their eyes he represented the spirit of Valyria in its purest form. Dragonfire - wild and untameable.

But they were wrong. Alicent knew this, because there was only one person who truly represented the other -ness of Valyria, and that is Rhaenyra.

Some of the signs were more obvious, such as her manner of speaking. At just eight years old the princess spoke like a woman grown, and was more articulate than many of the ladies at court! She was also well above those of her age in academic pursuits, and despite being the elder by five years, Alicent often found herself struggling to keep her sums at a level with the princess. Were she not aware of how unusual Rhaenyra was, Alicent imagined she would be inconsolable about the princess attending the same lessons as her. Yet, it is obvious to her that this is not Alicent being given more simple lessons, but rather Rhaenyra being given more complex ones.

There were also the more subtle signs however, like Rhaenyra’s tendency to lose herself in her own mind. Not that Alicent was a stranger to daydreaming, of course, but this was something else. ‘Brooding’ was what her mother used to call it, before she passed away. Alicent was not sure what name she would give it herself. However, she had helped with the care of the late King Jaehaerys during his last few moons of life, and whenever Princess Rhaenyra began “brooding”, Alicent could see the same emotions in her eyes as she once did in the eyes of the Old King.

There was also another sign of Rhaenyra’s strangeness: Seen when her eyes would be cleared of all emotion, to be replaced with one thing: Calculation. 

Even in her tired state, Alicent could recognize the look of that gaze. It was the same one her father held when observing the nobles at court. The same gaze her father sometimes held when observing King Viserys. It was the gaze someone used when trying to imagine how a person might fit into their plans.

As a mounted Ser Criston stepped forward to prepare for his tilt against a Westerlands knight, Alicent watched as her friend’s gaze shifted from the Stormlander knight, to the joust’s spectators. When Ser Criston unhorses the Westerlander in one pass, the crowd erupts in cheer and support. Though it’s subtle, Rhaenyra’s gaze also changes, from one of calculation to one of triumph.

Then, it switched to what Alicent thinks is genuine surprise when Ser Criston brings his horse in front to the royal pavilion, with his head - freed from the confines of his helmet - focused in her direction. She’s not alone either, as it feels as though the arena itself is holding its breath, captivated by the spectacle.

“I would ask for the favour of Princess Rhaenyra - that I might dedicate my victories in this joust to the most beloved princess the kingdoms have ever seen!” Ser Criston announces. If Alicent is being honest the display is rather gallant, especially considering the knight’s commonborn origins.

Only Rhaenyra seems to disagree. Though her expression is carefully open and her mouth is smiling, Alicent had been around Rhaenyra enough to recognise the mild annoyance that peeked through her expression.

Still, despite being within her rights to refuse, Rhaenyra stands from her seat, and heads to the front of the pavilion with her red wreath in tow. Gently sliding it down the Stormlander knight’s lance, Rhaenyra announces in an officious voice. “Ride well, Ser Criston Cole.”

The crowd erupts in cheers at the princess’ words, and the knight himself beamed with happiness before turning about and riding back to the waiting area. As for Rhaenyra herself, rather than return to her seat, she walked past Rhaenyra, to where her father and mother, the king and queen, sat. Unfortunately, the crowd had grown too loud for Alicent to hear their exchange, yet whatever the three spoke of, it left King Viserys with a joyous expression, Queen Aemma with an indulgent smile and Rhaenyra with a satisfied air.

A vindictive part of Alicent couldn’t help but alight in glee, at the sight of Prince Daemon being unhorsed by Ser Criston in the final tilt of the joust. 

Alicent would concede that it was improper of her to wish ill on a prince of the realm, yet the Rogue Prince seemed to give nothing but grief to those around her. She could hardly count the amount of times that her father had complained of the man since she had arrived in King’s Landing. Rhaenyra, too, was beginning to lose her patience with the man, though she was well-versed in hiding it.

The same could not be said of the king, of course. At this point, Alicent was half convinced that King Viserys would continue to love his brother with all his heart, even if said brother were to put his sword through said heart. 

Yet, in spite of the defeat of his brother, King Viserys smiled wide and genuinely as Ser Criston approached the royal pavilion on his horse, leaving behind a furious Prince Daemon.

As the Stormlander approached the royal pavilion for the second time that day, the King stood from his seat. With a jovial voice loud enough for the whole of the tourney grounds to hear, the king shouted his judgment. “A congratulations from us all, to Ser Criston Cole ! The winner of the tourney’s joust, and clearly just as skilled with a lance as he is with a morningstar!”

This close, Alicent can see the dazed expression on Ser Criston’s face. It seemed as though his confidence from earlier had left him, leaving behind naught but disbelief.

When Ser Criston won the melee, mere days ago, he had almost seemed too exhausted to stand. Yet even then, his pride and triumph shone through his expression. When the King complemented his talent in battle, the man looked as though the gods themselves had commended his talents.

This time though, the Stormlander knight appeared as though his mind had left him, and his body was moving on its own. As if - in spite of his earlier boasts - even he couldn’t believe that he had won both melee and joust. As King Viserys praised him for his victory, all he could manage to respond with was a stuttering “T-thank you, y-your Grace. You honour me.”

Seemingly ignorant of how stunned the knight before him was, King Viserys continued on, proud smile on his face. “Indeed! Yet you are worthy of more than mere honours. Not only will you be awarded the Winner’s Purse, but you shall be recognized besides! My daughter Rhaenyra has told  me of how impressed she was by your talents.” 

He gestured here to Rhaenyra, and in spite of her attempts to hide it, Alicent could still see the calculation in her friend's gaze. There was also, she realised, a hint of expectation. Whatever happened next, Alicent knew, would be Rhaenyra’s will, spoken through the king’s mouth. 

After a momentary pause, the King continued. “In recognition of your talents, I wish to offer you the role of my daughter’s sworn shield. Indeed, I know it would keep my wife and I well at ease, to know our daughter was protected by such a talented warrior. What say you, Ser Criston?”

Regaining his confidence, Ser Criston dropped to one knee to give his reply. Yet, just as he opened his mouth, a shout was sounded from behind Alicent in the pavilion. Turning around, Alicent quickly located the source of the panic, and felt her heart stop.

For just below the queen's seat, was a growing pool of crimson blood.