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Chapter Text

In the Far North the winds could cut a man so deep with chills he’d be dead within hours. Spring was supposed to have followed their victory march, and he was supposed to see what the True North was when peace prevailed. Neither happened, winter stayed stubborn, gripping the sky and earth so tightly there would never be a moment of sun or a patch without snow. It was like it was rebelling against the world for killing its gods. Ice was a near constant presence in his furs, snow would forever stick to his wild hair. This must be the punishment he deserved, people whispered, for no one was meant to live in a constant state of survival in this frozen wasteland.

Jon was not most men, he didn’t just survive in the far North, he thrived. As if the wolfsblood in his veins sang every moment he felt the cold brush of wind on his neck. Never had he been given the same freedoms as he had in this land. Likely, he would never have left if it weren’t for his own honor and duty getting in the way. Sometimes, he’d wonder if it was truly a prince that was his father, and not winter itself. For days at a time Jon would scout ahead and hunt completely alone. Nothing to whisper in his ear but the wind, no one to see but his prey, and complete freedom. For so long he was bound to rules and expectations, to be his father’s secret shame, to be a brother in black, to be Lord Commander, to even be king. Here though, no one ruled him nor the land. So he found peace in this solitude, keeping himself alive and embracing the feeling of mattering so little to the land. Jon Snow was nothing here.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t just disappear forever, brooding in his exile. Tormund, the beast of a man, was not going to let his crow simply join the land. Jon was grateful that Tormund had taken over as the de facto leader of the Free Folk, gods know he was tired of making choices for others, but it meant that Jon had to listen to the man. So every time he’d been lost too long in the snow and wind, hiding between the trees and hills, Tormund would come get him and haul him back to the clan. Sometimes Tormund would send his oldest daughter, Munda, to retrieve him. Their red hair would act as some kind of beacon to him that it was time to be Jon Snow again, not some nameless wraith haunting the woods. It was this time though when Tormund came to collect him that he’d have this routine disrupted. Once, he’d thought that the South would leave him forgotten to time, mayhaps a mention in one or two books as a footnote. Jon proved Ygritte right once more, he knew nothing. 

“The crows need their king crow again” Tormund huffs, “They didn’t believe me when I said ya were somewhere in a snowbank and I didn’t know where.”

A part of him feels bad, Jon had gotten good at being unable to be found. He knew that Munda considered finding him a form of training, hunting skills improved with experience and they’d been essentially hunting him down for years now. The other part of him curses for not hiding away better. It was unfair to Tormund, but he didn’t want to be found for this purpose. He was meant to live beyond the Wall, what parts still stood, until his last day. The end of House Targaryen would be him, a queenslayer and kinslayer, dying in the cold winter wastes of the Far North. Fire and Blood, it was the words of the house when it thrived and wouldn’t mean a thing when he died. 

Slowly, Tormund and him packed the meager campsite, the cold bitter and seeping into his bones. Why now? His grasp on time out here was different, but even he knew it’d been well over ten years. A short spring had passed, a shorter summer after it, fall barely a moment long, and winter was once more home. It had been too long for them to want him back in the South, he was one of the Free Folk, now and forever. 

“Who wants me?” Jon’s voice came through rough, “Will they take my head finally?”

Tormund was not a fan of Jon dour moods at the best of times, let alone when he had the Southern lords breathing down his neck to retrieve Jon. “Your smart fat crow wants to record the history of your life. They came to me, and I came to you. Simple as that, now stop brooding over things best left in the past.”

Jon figured that Tormund was leaving out some details, it was earlier than he usually returned to the clan.  The man beside him was not easily swayed to change his own life and routine on the words of ‘kneelers’. As they began the journey to the village where the Firebrands settled, Tormund purposely spoke only of his children, and the Free Folk’s gossip. His mind ran through scenarios, maybe they were threatening the clan for his own life, maybe Drogon returned and they needed him to control the beast, or, gods forgive him, Arya or Sansa had a need for him. There was no way Samwell, his closest friend for years, only needed him for the history books. No way his guilt wouldn’t finally take his head. 

As they reached the outskirts of the village, Tormund turned to him, “They will not kill you, and if you think so lowly of me, that I would let them, then I will personally beat you to a bloody mess myself.”

“Aye, I don’t doubt you,” Jon knew Tormund wasn’t going to let them take him to the block, “Yet these men don’t care for our own ideas of justice. If they are threatening our people to get me, I know you are smart enough to let me die.”

Tormund snorts, “Gods, crow, this is not your funeral pyre. They were clear on their purpose, and besides, I am coming with you to them.”

Jon let the protests die on his tongue. Tormund Giantsbane was many things, but easily dissuaded from something he’d set his mind to was not one of them. They hauled the sled of pelts and furs he’d collected into the village proper. Voices and warmth surrounded him immediately, seeing the people that had taken him in, made him theirs. The elders took the first choice of goods, some speaking to him in their wise voices. Jon had been labeled ‘The White Wolf’ by many, and it was only the Free Folk that didn’t bother him when he was called it. Slowly the people had taken inventory of his gifts, and of himself, and that’s when the children came.

Once in Jon’s life he swore that he would never father a child, knowing the pain of being a bastard and not wanting to inflict it on another soul. The Free Folk had no concept of bastards, love was showered upon each child with care and without hesitation. Sometimes he wished that he’d been given that in his own childhood. Every time he let that thought simmer, his guilt welled. It didn’t stop him from loving the children of the Free Folk and the fierceness of it surprised him at first. It was this deep, devoted love for those precious children that had meant he’d left Ghost behind here. The direwolf was the size of a horse, reaching past his own head. Although the fear inducing red eyes and sharp teeth lacked any fear inducing feelings when he was covered in small children. 

It was as if Ghost was inspecting him as a maester, sniffing over his entire form, making sure he was okay. There was no reason, they both knew that the other would feel the pain of sustaining an injury through the strange bond they had. The child that sat astride the great wolf was clearly excited to not only see him, but be the first of the kids to speak to him.

“The crows are here for you! Don’t worry, we’ve scared them enough so that they won’t bother you until you say they can!” spoke the boy, a young thing barely through his first winter. 

If Jon didn’t know that shock of blonde hair belonged to Val’s youngest son he'd have given a lesson in being kind to others. Since he knew that Jarmir would simply ignore his words, and likely inform his mother, Jon let it go. Gods, Val must be close to having her newest child soon, or maybe had already birthed them, Jon thought. After the Long Night, and without family, she’d folded into the Firebrands. Of course, after a few years, and a few failed attempts at stealing Jon, she’d stolen Toregg, Tormund’s oldest son. Although if you asked Jon, it was more like Toregg grew tired of her dancing around him and finally took it upon himself to move into her hut. Two of their sons ran around the village and terrorized everyone they saw, so of course Ghost positively adored them. 

“Jarmir, I see Ghost has kept you safe,” Jon swears that Ghost rolls his eyes at this, “Has your youngest sibling arrived yet?”

At this the boy shakes his head with a vigor, “Of course not, Ma says he’s waiting for you. Two times she gave birth with you there, and it won’t be any different than the third.”

Inside his own head Jon knew it was true, somehow he’d been present at Val’s two births, and secretly had hoped to escape the third. Shuddering, he thought of her first birth, it had been enough to see his friend suffer but the process itself gave him such distress Tormund joked about it for moons after. “Ah, well I shall have to finish this business with the crows quick then. I’m certain you would like to be an older brother soon.”

More children came to greet him, and he and Ghost started their trek to the largest hut in the village. Along the way Toregg came to both collect his son and the rest of the children. Jon felt the air shift and knew that within the tent would be the Night's Watchmen. Tormund had gone ahead of him, and was standing by the door. He wore a grimace on his face, one that Jon reflected on his own. Internally, he was hoping that Samwell wasn’t behind the door. Not because Jon didn’t want to see him, rather he didn’t know if he was ready. Looking himself over proved to be the wrong choice. Dirt, blood, and general grime covered his black furs and most certainly his face. Luckily he’d braided his hair back the night before, so hopefully he was slightly better off for it. Wiping a hand over his face, most likely rubbing the dirt into his skin more, Jon breathed deeply. With a nod, Tormund opened the door and led him into the hut. Ghost remained outside, too large to comfortably join them inside. 

Immediately Jon noticed the heat of the hut, the hearth producing warmth he hadn’t felt in the several moons spent out in the wild. His furs felt suffocating as he looked around the small space. There were at least five black brothers in the room, but he couldn’t let his eyes linger on them too long. The Free Folk outnumbered them, four standing in the corners of the room gripping their weapons. In the middle, by the table, sat Val and Karsi, the latter most likely there as an intimidation tactic. Karsi was at Hardhome, and had received a ghastly scar that took her right eye and a piece of her cheek. For a while they weren’t certain if she’d survive but she proved her strength again by taking up arms in the Long Night. The wight teeth marks produced a scar that if Jon was still a green boy he’d have gotten sick at the sight. Val was heavily pregnant but concealing it to her best ability behind thick furs. Jon supposed she had a couple moons before it was time. Giving the Free Folk in the room a nod, Jon settled between the two women. Purposely, he greeted them while keeping his eyes firmly averted from the men he once was a part of. Finally it was time for him to behave like the man he was, and less of a skittish wolf. Taking another deep breath, Jon raised his head to look at the men across from him.

“Gods, Jon, you’d think living as some kind of wild animal would’ve left you a little uglier,” Grenn speaks, and Jon scans him over as he speaks. He looks good, well fed, and painfully older. Jon supposes he looks older too, but it’s jarring to see on Grenn’s grinning face.

Val huffs a quiet laugh and Jon can feel Tormund’s grin behind him. “Well, not having to bunk with 30 men improves one’s beauty,” Jon responded. The man beside Grenn pulls a face in reaction, likely recalling the smell.

This doesn’t stop Grenn’s teasing, “Well not all of us can be release from our vows to be free of the barracks,” at this Jon grimaces, “Though hasn’t stopped me from being the handsomest man at the Wall.”

Tormund snorts loud enough to ease the tension in the room, and soon the party of brothers have relaxed their shoulders. The Free Folk loosen their posture but don’t refrain from holding their weapons. Jon takes it as a sign that they were truthful, no harm will come to him or his people. 

“Let’s get to the reason you’re here, we can only be so peaceful to crows so long,” Val grunts, obviously in discomfort. Jon knows that carrying a child is hard work, and Val had recruited him to help in herbal mixes her first two times to ease the pain and help the babe. He hoped in his absence Toregg had taken over. 

Grenn shifts in his seat, “Well, it’s pretty straightforward. Sam wants you to come to Castle Black and talk to him. Something about King Bran wishing to increase our records of the Long Night.”

Jon pauses, Castle Black? His memories of the place are so tainted that when he last visited, more like passing through to the Far North, he’d been sick for days. Everywhere in the place reminded him of his failures, in a corner was Ygritte, another was Olly. Sometimes it was in his nightmares, the Lord Commander’s solar, the training grounds, but especially Maester Aemon’s study. Something about being his family and never getting the chance to tell him had made Jon upset. What if Aemon had been able to tell him about his father? Or his family, outside of a history book?

“How long?” it's the only thing Jon can think of asking at the moment, knowing he was considering walking into a death trap.

“A moon’s turn, two at the most,” Grenn replies easily, “You don’t have to be there longer in my opinion.”

It is implied that Grenn would make sure Jon wasn’t going to be stuck there forever, that he was going to be able to leave if it was too much. A part of him yearned so badly to see Sam, to see the Wall, to see Castle Black. The place where he became a man, died a brother, and returned a king. It almost made him emotional. 

Tormund leans forward, “How ya gonna make sure he’s safe? Where are we staying there? I refuse to let us go without a guarantee for our safety.”

“You’ll be in one of the rebuilt towers, they’re where we’ve moved the new maester to. No one is going to be allowed in but you two and the maesters. Otherwise, all the brothers have been briefed on what should happen if they attempt to harm you two,” Grenn takes the question with ease, “Plus, if you cannot protect yourself Giantsbane, I can certainly assign some guards for your ease of mind.”

Karsi’s impeccable stoneface moves, showing her amusement at the dig to Tormund. Jon has to admit Grenn has gotten wittier in the time he’s seen him. “You crows wouldn’t last a minute against me, probably all green boys now,” Tormund defends his honor. 

It was jarring to realize that in the ten years since he’d even seen the Wall, the Night’s Watch had probably gained more new members than he’d ever seen in his time in the brotherhood. He wondered if it was again a place of honor, rather than a cold prison. 

As the men worked out the details of the trip, what would be expected of both himself and Tormund, Jon allowed himself to look at the other brothers. He didn’t recall any of them, and it bothered him. Had he been gone so long he couldn’t recall who he commanded? Perhaps they were men stationed elsewhere, or newer members. At least two looked as young as Rickon would’ve been, and gods didn’t that hurt to think. He turned his mind back to the conversation at hand. It would be awkward, but it would be a relief to see Sam. Maybe he would be able to hear of Arya and Sansa. For the past couple of years he’d been able to handle his grief at having no contact with them, his last two true family members. During those first few years he was prone to silently weeping at the thought of never seeing or hearing of them again. Bran was a husk of his old self, and Jon had been able to get over his grief with more ease, albeit more guilt. It was this reason that likely fueled his desire to go. Even if he was simply providing an account of the events of the Long Night and what led up to it. 

At the end of the conversation, he and Grenn clasped arms, both joyed to see the other alive and well. Grenn promised to discuss the status of the rebuilding of the wall and Night’s Watch with him on the way to Castle Black. With a final goodbye for the night, the brothers left the hut, Ghost coming inside to take over the space left. Val and Jon spoke of her coming babe, and Karsi took her leave joining with the others who acted as guards. Jon would eventually join some others at Tormund’s fire that night, tucking back into the group as if he hadn’t left, and wasn’t set to leave on the morrow. Watching into the flames of the fire, he couldn’t help but think of Daenerys and her dragons. Soon he’d have to tell her story with him, and a part of him didn’t know if he could do it. Tormund was next to him though, the heat radiating off of him went through his furs and comforted him. Dany was a queen who he once loved, not a monster in the night. Jon soon relaxed fully, leaning into Tormund’s side. Even if he’d be remembered by the South for what he’d done in the Long Night, he’d always have a place here. That night he slept in Tormund’s hut, Ghost serving as his companion. He didn’t dream of any battles or wights or dragons, he dreamt of his people’s festivals, their joy, and their love.

The entire trek to Castle Black was the loudest one he’d been on since he was exiled. Tormund would attempt to frighten the younger brothers, Grenn would be talking about the recent disputes of the realm, and at least one horse couldn’t stop whining at Ghost’s presence. Jon felt lighter, in a sense he’d been forgiven of his sins by one of his brothers, and wasn’t going to be punished for being at the Wall. Soon he’d be able to see his dear friend and brother. It’d be a good trip if he wasn’t ending at a destination where he would recount his greatest regrets and allow them to be put on paper. Closer to the Castle, he started to feel his nerves grow, and stuck to Tormund’s as if he was a boy again. Ghost kept close and the horses gave him a wide berth. In the distance the large stone and wooden structure serving as the Wall was visible. Certain parts of the original ice spand miles, but for sections destroyed by the Night’s King were being replaced by stone. Grenn had told him that once that first winter ended the construction began in earnest. By now Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-sea had been almost completely redone, each with a thousand men stationed there. Apparently the Gift had been opened up to former Free Folk who’d stayed behind and any Southern fighters who’d decided to remain in the North. As a result, multiple villages had popped up and so had recruits. Although the Shadow Tower remained less populated due to a lack of roads and ships able to reach it in comparison. Jon was excited to see what had improved, with the events of the Long Night being known the Night’s Watch had once again become a place of honor. Grenn insisted it was where knights went in their old age and smallfolk to become heroes, but Jon heard the note of pride in his tone. 

As Jon watched the gate rise, he held himself still. It’d do me no good to look nervous here , he thought. Yet that didn’t stop his thoughts racing. Ghost bumped his shoulder in a form of support. He steeled his nerves walking into the courtyard, there were many faces staring back and he didn’t like the feeling of all their eyes on him. Tormund seemed to puff up in pride at some of the men’s expressions of recognition, he was always a bit conceited of his fame. Ghost was the dead giveaway to who he was to the brothers in the yard, so Jon squared his shoulders, refusing to show any shame. 

Grenn approached a man that stood in the middle of those lined up in the courtyard. It was then that Jon recognized Edd, he had gained some more grey hairs and some weight since he’d seen him. Being Lord Commander suited the man, for all that he had done to place Jon into the role in the past. As their group approached Jon was greeted by the men. Mostly with curt respect, which he understood. 

“You know I never was meant to be Lord Commander but here we find ourselves,” Edd said in place of an actual greeting, grasping him by the arms, “I am glad to see you again, even if you only bring me headaches and more work.”

Relief flooded through Jon, he would rather be a headache for Edd than a traitor, “It is your own fault that you are in that position, Lord Commander.”

With a grin Edd began introductions, which was needed because only a few men were familiar. Grenn bowed with a flourish when announced as First Ranger, having kept the information from him on the way here. It wasn’t until the end of the line did Jon get introduced to the new maester, Sam had become too important to be the Watch’s maester so another one had been assigned. Introduced as Maester Arren, the man had the look of a Valeman to him, and seemed nervous to meet him. Sam wasn’t there, likely in the Maester’s quarters if anything, and Edd confirmed his suspicions. 

“Let’s get you and your wilding settled,” Edd said with humor, gesturing to follow him.

On the way to their quarters for their stay, Jon couldn’t help but notice all the changes around him. Stone had been cleaned and repaired, there was less rotting wood, and it seemed the men were better outfitted than any brother had been during his time. Inside himself he pushed down bitterness at how the Night’s Watch was only just now being treated well, after they had needed it. Their quarters were in the maester’s tower as promised, and Jon itched to see Sam but waited, there was a bath drawn with water still warm and a real bed. 

Samwell Tarly looked better than he’d ever had in Jon’s memory. Internally, Jon considered that he’d stressed out Sam enough to be the reason for his poor looks. His face carried some roundness still, a pink flush on his cheeks made him look friendlier than any learned man Jon knew. His maester’s chain swung as he strood to Jon, and his arms embraced him with a strength Jon wasn’t sure he knew Sam possessed. He felt himself relax into the hug, realizing how tall he had grown. They were men now, and Jon hadn’t been sure they wou;d’ve ever stopped being boys together. It wasn’t until Sam pulled back that Jon realized he had hot tears streaking down his face, wetting his beard. Sam’s gray robes had wet marks on them yet Jon couldn’t bring himself to feel shame for it. Sam was here, alive and well, and a true maester. If he’d never done any good any other time then he’d done his good here.

“I knew you would be a better wilding than king,” Sam spoke, eyes watery.

Jon didn’t hold back his grin, “It’s not like I didn’t warn everyone, I was a gods awful king and only slightly better in the Free Folk.”

Sam’s face was bright, and he led Jon to the table in the corner of the new library. It was Maester Aemon’s old desk, and a sting of pain ran through him at the thought. On the desk there was a massive assortment of parchment, ink, quills, and other objects Jon was certain were meant to bind a book. They sat in old wooden chairs, likely left over from their own time here. In their own way they examined each other, cataloging the new scars for Sam and eyeing the full beard for Jon. It wasn’t until they’d assessed the other until they began talking. A part of Jon had worried over how he should phrase certain things, and how to be a good source for Sam. It was an unfounded fear, all Sam had to do was ask if Jon remembered how bad he’d been in the training ground that first day and Jon’s mouth began moving. Words and laughter spilled from his lips, joy being found in the remembrance of days long gone with summer. Green boys with no memory of winter had lived lives he now yearned for. 

Everyday for a moon’s turn Jon’s life followed a new routine. Wake up to Tormund’s loud snores, get dressed, eat, train the recruits with Grenn or Edd depending on which one wanted to come, eat, go to Sam and talk until they were half-asleep, then return to Tormund and sleep. He’d told Sam things he was certain Sam had no clue about, Ygritte’s cave, Satin’s soft caresses, Dany’s cold lips on his. The deep gut wrenching fear that he wouldn’t be able to stop the Night King, how betrayed he’d felt when Dany burned King’s Landing. Nothing was left untold, but Sam was gracious in his writing, if it wasn’t important to understanding the Long Night, his quill never touched parchment. No one needed to know of the great loves and losses of Jon’s life. Well, excluding the Dragon Queen, everyone knew the basics of their relationship and privacy didn’t matter if one of them was dead and the other exiled for it. Most importantly they discussed the others, everything they knew, that Jon saw and did regarding them. He wished he knew more about how they were created, about why they did what they did. Sam assured him he was still providing valuable information. It wasn’t until they were nearing the end of the first moon did Jon hit a block in talking with Sam. The question was worded so well and caringly but it didn’t matter, he was still in the training yard whacking a dummy with Longclaw as if he was nothing but the Bastard of Winterfell again.

“You cannot kill a man already dead,” Tormund’s voice startled him out of his own mind.

Jon kept swinging his sword, it didn’t matter if the man was dead and gone. The older he had gotten the more he understood Robert Baratheon, he too killed Rhaegar Targaryen in his dreams every night. If possible, Jon would’ve been the Demon of the Trident instead of the fat king, and been freed of this pain. 

“Perhaps it is an old habit,” Jon grimaced as his arms ached, “Perhaps I fear he too shall rise from the dead and I must be the one to kill him again.” 

Unfortunately Tormund knew Jon well, they shared a bed, a fire, and a family. It was impossible to deceive the man. Slowly the redhead crept behind him, still taller by a head even after Jon’s growth, and took the sword from his hands. Jon whirled around, caged by Tormund’s arms on his shoulders. Longclaw was dropped to the ground with less dignity than it deserved. The older man’s face looked best like this , Jon thought, illuminated by the same fire he was blessed by. His chest heaved in his breathing, and his face was wet with sweat or tears, maybe both. Tormund’s eyes didn’t move from his face, seeking his own eyes. 

“You do not become less of a wolf because a dragon was your sire,” Tormund rumbled.

“It didn’t stop me from losing my pack, it didn’t stop me from being discarded as trash to the eyes of the South, it didn’t stop me from losing two fathers and never meeting my mother,” As he spoke, Jon’s voice got more emotional. By the end he’d let the tears go again.

Tormund wound his arms around him, they were alone in the yard, “Little crow, you told me you’d handled it. That you were at peace with it, yet here you are.”

“It wasn’t a mistake to come here,” Jon’s voice broke, “Sam softened the blow by saying Sansa was coming in a sennight.”

“Are you able to handle it? Your pain is not a jest or weakness, it is understandable if you need me to steal you over the Wall again.” For all the seriousness of his words, Tormund spoke with a lightheartedness Jon envied. It was nothing for the man to pack them up and return home if he willed it. 

“She has a son,” Jon’s voice was softer now, “She named him Eddard.”

Tormund seemed to understand, wound his arms tighter around Jon. There was no escaping, and so Jon let the tears flow. For all that he had a Direwolf, he wasn’t with the Starks, he wasn’t a Stark. He wasn’t even a Targaryen anymore, he was the blemish on the honor of a man that took the responsibility for him. The mistake of another who tore the realm apart for a girl of four and ten. Sobs racked his body, long had he been orphaned, since birth, but now it was startlingly real. Beyond the wall he’d always thought that if he was welcomed back to Winterfell it would be a warm one. He’d held a small hope of seeing it again on this trip, perhaps Bran, or what was left of him, would be there and want to see him. Maybe Sansa would welcome him back, or Arya the adventurer was going to sneak him in. Now he fully understood, he was not meant to be a Stark, never would he go back to his childhood home. Jon was a shame on the family, both of the families that were his by blood, and it didn’t feel real until now. All he had were those who chose to stay by him, and in Tormund’s arms he came to peace with it.

Tormund led him to their rooms, Ghost laid by the fire. The wolf was old enough to not wish to move from the heat. In their quarters, Jon laid out his feelings to Tormund. It was not fair to never be able to speak to his Targaryen family, that he wanted to have known his mother, what Ned Stark did robbed him of his ability to understand who he was. There were more tears, yelling, and quiet, but the large man took all of it with grace and patience only developed with age. Ghost had trotted over to him and offered comfort to Jon, nudging his hand with his snout and watching with those knowing red eyes. Jon and Tormund slept poorly, and feigned ill in the morning. Choosing to stay in bed, embraced together, and Jon hid for the day from his past. It was what he’d done for ten years, but maybe he’d never leave it behind.

Sam didn’t ask for him while Jon avoided him for a few days. After all, almost everything that Jon could tell him about the Long Night had been written down already. Technically, Jon was in his rights to leave, and never speak to him again. It was unsettling to both men that after this the next time they’d see each other was the afterlife. Jon to exile, Sam to the Citadel or King’s Landing. All the while, Sansa’s visit loomed over Jon’s head. Would it be awkward, or could it be a parallel to their first reunion at Castle Black?  He took three days to himself, standing on the top of the Wall and staring out like he used to, like his Uncle Benjen used to. Thinking about how to handle this all, what man he’d leave as. At the end of the third day, he went to Sam again.

Aemon knew about Jon. That’s what Sam had told him and Jon didn’t believe him for a moment. How , he thought, how could he have known who he was when Jon himself didn’t know? Yet Aemon did know. Sam told him of a hidden hole in the wall of the old library, one that you wouldn’t have seen with your eyes but rather felt with your hands. Exactly how a blind man would know where to hide his secrets. Written in High Valyrian, Aemon had given Jon information on their family, and books on them previously thought to be lost. For all of that, it was the letters that Jon was most shocked by. Rhaegar had written to his Great Uncle on the Wall often it seems, and had written of Lyanna, of the child she bore, of his hopes and dreams, and prophecies. Jon wanted to tear into them immediately but understood the small trunk given to him was to not be opened this side of the Wall. Whatever fracture had occurred with Sam’s question into his Targaryen heritage had mended itself. 

For the next few days, they compiled his statements and information, filling in any gaps in Sam’s work so far. It would become a tome so large that Jon would have run from the mere sight of it as a child. Internally he was pleased that not only was there going to be more information in case the Others came back, but that he’d contributed to it. More real and tangible than simply knowing it was over, in his hands he could hold proof that they did it. That everyone was safe once more.

By the time Sansa arrived, Jon and Tormund had exhausted their use at Castle Black. So only for a night, as Jon feared he couldn’t handle more, they stayed with her. When he saw her for the first time in years it hit him that she was a woman grown. Her hair had darkened to a shade darker than her mothers, and was well maintained. Once, she’d worn gowns that were ridged and almost armor, now it was still warm and of Stark colors but far more free flowing. Her crown was a simple circlet, it was the Wall after all, everyone knew who she was. Yet gone was the hardened leader Jon left, and in her place was a kind mother and queen. In her arms was a boy that Jon’s heart ached at the sight of. Small, around the age of Rickon when he’d left for the Wall. His curly hair was an auburn color that made images of Robb come to mind unbidden. Chubby cheeks flushed with the cold were the only skin he could see but it was as pale as all Starks before him. Eddard Stark was no longer the name of his once father and uncle, but that of a small boy, the future of House Stark.  

This was his family, those of his blood and childhood. Still, it surprised him when after the introductions for her companions she came up to him and handed over little Eddard. It was closer to having the babe dumped in his arms rather than a gentle exchange. Any fears of not being accepted were gone with the soft cooing of the boy. Gods, he had grey eyes like his grandfather, and a long Stark face. Sansa’s softness was in his lips and nose, the rest dominated by whoever his father was.

So enraptured was he that her speaking made him almost drop the boy, “I knew you should’ve been a father.”

“What?” He responded, confused about that being the first thing she said to him. After all this time, was his love for children that shocking.

“You always treated us like your own children,” Sansa leaned in, caressing her son’s cheek, “Father once said we were your ducklings, and you the hen.”

Tormund huffed a laugh at that. The courtyard hadn’t been able to hear their conversation but seemed to ease at the Free Folk man’s amusement. “Red, I see you have another kissed by fire,” His voice was loud enough to be heard by the yard, “Glad to know that you’ll prevent the South from losing the blessing of our presence.”

Jon had almost forgotten the strange comradery of the two. Maybe if he also had red hair he’d understand it. The lady that Sansa was should’ve stopped the friendship of the two, yet their hair made them blessed in ways only they knew. Jon went back to admiring his nephew, so small and so young. It was too cold out here and he knew Ghost was in his rooms, by the fire, waiting for the introduction. Slowly he led Sansa into the castle, unwillingly to be parted from her or Eddard. A tad irrationally he was worried to lose sight of them, not wanting to not see them for another ten years. Likely, this would be the first and last time he’d see Eddard, and would likely never see Sansa’s other children or Arya. It stung but was eased by the mere sight of his sister, his cousin, laughing at Tormund’s crass humor.

After dinner, they retire to a solar, the maester’s most likely, and there Ghost meets Eddard. The two immediately curl into a pile in front of the fire, and fall asleep, well Eddard fell asleep, Ghost had his eyes closed but there was no way the giant wolf was asleep. Sansa looked at the interaction fondly, likely thinking of Lady, her dear departed direwolf. Jon wondered if the next litter Ghost fathered if he’d be able to get one sent to Sansa for Eddard. Already he began plotting how to accomplish such a thing in his mind. 

“Have you seen Arya since she left?” Jon asked, she hadn’t mentioned their sister yet it was beginning to worry him.

“Twice, once when she and her blacksmith came to wed in the Godswood, and again to give birth to their daughter,” Sansa’s voice was touched with a note of sadness.

“Gendry?” Jon asked, “She married Gendry and had a daughter?” 

His disbelief was clear to Sansa, “I know how unbelievable it sounds but yes, out there on a ship somewhere is our wild sister with a husband and babe.”

“When was this? How old is her child?” Jon would have to get two direwolf pups.

Sansa smiled, “Little Lyanna Stark is four name days old, and looks like a Baratheon through and through.”

Jon’s breath caught in his throat, and luckily his companions allowed him some silence to grasp his thoughts. Arya’s daughter was named Lyanna. Plus, he knew that she’d never give up the Stark name, and so now his mother lived again. It must have been the gods’ humor to have the girl be a Baratheon’s get, the grandson of Robert himself. 

“May I ask a question?” Tormund’s voice broke the quiet, “Who’s get is he?”

Immediately, Sansa barked out a laugh. Jon couldn’t hold back his own either, he’d been wondering for awhile. No word of her marrying had reached him at Castle Black, and absolutely no one mentioned the boy’s father. He mentally ran through a list of possible fathers, those who’d be trusted by Sansa and could’ve contributed to Eddard’s appearance. During this, both redheads turned to him, Sansa obviously not wanting to tell him but let him figure it out, and Tormund wanting to know who got the Red Wolf of Winterfell to carry their child. Realization slowly dawned upon his face. One man could be the father, he’d been thought dead, again, and only resurfaced moons after the Long Night. 

“No,” Jon croaks, “No way he’s Eddard's father.”

Sansa beams at him, “Officially I took a page from the Mormont women, Eddard’s father is a wolf.”

“Oh gods you two,” Tormund moaned, “Stop talking around it, I cannot look into your minds to know what you are implying.”

Jon looked back to the sweet boy sleeping, and gods, there in his jaw and forehead was his father. He remembered once looking into grey eyes and being mildly surprised they’d made their way to a Southern house. Yet with that family’s history it wasn’t impossible. 

“Of all the people to choose to father your heir, I must admit it’s quite shocking you chose Sandor Clegane,” Jon finally spoke.

The reaction of both Tormund and Sansa at his words made him worry about waking up little Eddard but apparently he’d grown used to noise in his short life and stayed sleeping. Tormund was accusing Sansa of diluting her beauty on purpose, no way she’d have chosen such an ugly man if her goal wasn’t to make her children uglier too. In return Sansa was insisting that it wasn’t that important, all the Lords and Ladies took it in stride and Sandor was a good father. Jon, on the other hand was considering revoking his previous direwolf pup plan, of all men to have, Sandor was not the choices he’d make. Yet, everyone was still smiling, and it could’ve been a Glover or worse, a Lannister. This led to Sansa having to explain exactly why she’d thought this was the best course of action. When she got to Bran’s own opinion on her choice she seemed to remember something. 

“Tomorrow before you go, Bran has a letter for you,” she said, “He wanted me to tell you to read it before all other letters, and to believe him the way you believe in me.”

Jon was momentarily confused but decided to deal with it in the morning. Sam had just arrived with the best wine in the whole of Castle Black, stolen from Edd’s own store apparently. They ate a cold dinner, and drank sour wine, but they lived and laughed as if they were back in Winterfell. In those days they had so much to do, but had won too much to not be happy. Jon would miss this, would forever yearn for it, but knew he’d never have it again. Already he missed his freedom, his people. For this one night, he’d have it all. 

The morning air was cold enough Jon almost sent Eddard and Sansa inside, but they were Starks too and could handle it. As Queen in the North, Sansa had given them, and by extension the Free Folk, three horses. One for each of them, and one to carry the supplies she’d given them, Tied in the supplies was that small wooden chest that Sam had given him. The sight of it made him have this excited energy, but he held back. In his breast pocket a thick letter from Bran rested, waiting to be read. 

Goodbyes were tough, there was not going to be another time for them, not like this, and everyone wanted one chance to say something. Edd and Grenn kept it brief, clear in their emotions but also making sure to imply they’d be sending more rangers out to see him. Sam and him embraced, and Jon produced the wood carving of a direwolf for Little Sam. It was then that he knew he’d be riding to the village with tears in his eyes. Sansa, oh his dearest Sansa, was the cause of his truest tears. She’d been under his protection for so long, but he wasn’t needed anymore. He’d not hold and kiss his nieces and nephews like he had with Eddard, and it was obvious that both of them would yearn for it. Their embrace lasted what felt like hours, but still too short. Eddard had cheerfully babbled and kissed him and Tormund. Even Sansa gave Tormund a hug for the journey back. 

“Keep him safe,” She spoke to Tormund through tears, “You are ordered to by the Queen in the North.”

Tormund grinned, emotional too at the scene, “I don’t need a kneeler like you to tell me that, he’ll live a good and long life and will die wrinkled.”

It seemed that was all everyone needed. Some proof that he’d be fine, and with one last goodbye, Jon and Tormund went home. 

The trip back felt shorter, no tales from Grenn, no nervous excitement, just the wind and snow and Ghost’s silent presence. Tormund seemed to know that Jon wasn’t going to speak about everything, not now. Their partnership was easy like that, unspoken understanding that the other knew what they needed. So it was mostly quiet, Jon kept his eyes forward, remembering something Dany once said, If I look back, I am lost . Jon wasn’t certain if he’d ever be found but maybe one day. 

After their welcome back, in which Jon learned that Val would be having her babe in time for him to be present. He’d been given space and was alone in his and Tormund’s hut. The letter from Bran laid in front of him, and the wooden chest on the floor next to the letter. Remembering what Sansa said, he broke the wax seal on the envelope. Immediately setting himself to reading it, he devoured the words of a brother that was half man half god. Then he reread it, and reread it again in disbelief. What could his brother possibly mean? 

Dear Jon,

Let it be said that if I could have left you in peace, I most certainly would have. The Gods have plans for us all, and when they don’t follow through in the right ways, things must be fixed. Within the chest given to you there will be letters from Rhaegar Targaryen about a prophecy called ‘The Song of Ice and Fire’. You were meant to fulfill this but failed in some way I cannot tell you. The Others will return unless we fix this mistake. Also inside the chest are books on High Valyarian, Dragons, and a copy of Fire and Blood. I would suggest reading all of them, for you are the champion of gods unknown to us. When you finally die, and stay dead, you will be sent to a time before our own. You must ensure that magic and dragons do not die, so that in that future we are not forced to wake them from stone once more. Only you can do this, and I know you will not fail us. Take your time, you will have plenty, and be the best at this you can.

Signed by Bran ‘The Broken’ Stark

King of Three Kingdoms of Westeros

The Three Eyed Raven

After a couple moons, mulling over the letter and its contents, Jon made a decision. He’d read and study the letters and texts within the chest, but it wouldn’t be his belief that Bran was correct about this whole “fixing a mistake of the gods”. It was his choice and he did it because he wanted to know the contents of the chest. Tormund had chosen to not say anything either way, just glad Jon would be staying close by. 

For many, many years Jon lived. The Far North was a harsh land, and its people were strong in response to the land. Jon became a man of legend as the Free Folk grew and moved out to different areas. More and more children were born only knowing of the White Wolf through stories and secondhand accounts. Some were members of a Village that a woman kissed by fire led. These children had no clue that the old man with the black hair streaked by white was the fabled White Wolf. They’d all received little gifts from him, and he told the best stories. The redheaded man beside him had grown old and would depart before that nice man. Not long after Tormund left this world, Jon followed. It would be said that all direwolves from the furthest northern point to those that resided in Winterfell howled as Jon Snow took his last breath. For many though, it was the end of a life that had been well lived. A Night’s Watch brother, a Stark, a King, a Targaryen, a man who’d loved his realm so much he’d bled, died, and lived for it.

Chapter Text

Aemma was never going to be a good Targaryen, so she’d been blessed to have been born an Arryn. For all that she bore the distinctive look of a Valyrian, she held none of the fire that embodied her Targaryen family. Growing up without a mother meant she’d been dependent on nurses, septas, and her older sisters to give her guidance on being a woman. It’d also meant that she was all alone in the Vale as a Targaryen. She’d loved the Eyrie and had fully embraced her life as her father’s youngest daughter.

This meant that when she’d been married at ten and two, she’d been woefully underprepared for court life. Under the rule of King Jaehaerys, the realm had been unified and prospered in a new way, though this didn’t include Dorne of course. His court had been filled with many exciting and interesting people, with an abundance of women to befriend and men to grin and bear their compliments. The issue was, there were no Targaryen women at his court when she’d first arrived. Queen Alysanne and Princess Rhaenys absence had been noted to her before she wed her husband but it wasn’t until she had to be a true member of court did, she understand what that meant. Aemma, who was so young and afraid, didn’t have anyone to show her what it meant to be both a Targaryen and a woman in the face of a thousand eyes on her. So, she stumbled and failed in front of so many people, often enough to make her block out the memories of those first years. The stress and her age didn’t help her keep her first two babes alive while in King’s Landing. Her first child, a son that hadn’t made it long enough to name, was likely so unhealthy due to that fear and stress. After that, she’d decided to embrace being a gentle and kind girl, one who would fly above the court, not as a dragon but as a falcon.

It wasn’t until the return of Queen Alysanne and her youngest daughter did, she has any assistance in court life. Of course, she’d had her ladies, and a few friends, but no one to truly trust and lean on. Viserys was a good husband in many ways, but rather inept at being of use in this way. She knew that in part it was going to be hard to teach her these things but all she’d wanted was him by her side helping.

When fully debriefed on the succession issue, and how Princess Rhaenys had been passed over for her goodfather, did Aemma understand why the Queen had left. So many children had passed in the last few years, then this whole situation had happened as a result. Yet Alysanne and Gael, her youngest daughter, had given her a boon with their knowledge. Neither pushed her into being a warrior or fierce but helped her remain steadfast and confident. Slowly Aemma embraced her heritage, while she’d never be a true dragon she could start to dress and act like one. Now that her goodfather Prince Baelon was heir, she was in line to become queen. Slowly she’d started accumulating more black and red fabrics, turned away from falcon imagery on her dresses, and went for more emphasis on her Valyrian features.

            This had helped her ease into a more peaceful and beneficial time, and as a result her precious Princess Rhaenyra had been born. Gods how she’d wept at her daughter’s birth. So strong, much more than her mother who’d always been frail and delicate, and so alive unlike her brother. The Realm’s Delight, Viserys called her, and she certainly was. Aemma had a hard birth, better than her first being older, but seeing her daughter’s sweet face had been enough to consider it all worth it. Having the chance to place the egg in her cradle with Viserys also felt as if she’d burst with happiness. Never would she think that this would have been possible after the loss of two children prior. Even her daughter’s cries made her happy, for it meant she still took breath and still lived. 

Of course, not everyone agreed with her, “Gods, how can something so small be so loud?” her goodbrother, Prince Daemon remarked, “With her parents being you two I would think the girl less fiery.”

Aemma had never liked Daemon all that much, for all the Viserys adored him. He was here, complaining about her daughter’s cries, and not with the wife he’d been given. She knew he doted on Rhaenyra but he needed his own child to understand why it wasn’t so annoying to hear her wailing.

“You wouldn’t be able to hear her if you were with your wife,” Aemma responded, taking Rhaenyra from the nurse and comforting the girl as best she could. Her belly was swollen with the weight from what would hopefully be her and Viserys’ first son. It was almost shocking that she’d managed to keep the babe healthy this long, nearing her ninth moon with child. This late into the pregnancy she’d been woefully limited to the family wing of the Holdfast.

“Let me take her,” Viserys said as he entered the solar, “She must miss me something dreadful.”

Rhaenyra, still barely out of infancy, clung to her father’s doublet. Her cries quieted, but not by much, seemingly upset at something no one could know but her. Aemma sat back in her chair, Daemon was giving her a glare for her comments about his wife as she did so. Honestly, Aemma was from the Vale, she wouldn’t take well to him constantly complaining of their quality of brides.

“How was grandmother?” Daemon asked his brother, carefully avoiding acknowledging his wife’s existence.

“She was faring well, something about Gael being ill has truly caught up to her recently,” Viserys answered, rocking Rhaenyra as he did, “You’d think our aunt was suffering from something as severe as greyscale.”

Sometimes Aemma questioned her husband’s intelligence, “Well after all her losses I am not surprised the Queen wants to treat this seriously.”

“Aunt Saera went to Volantis, I bet she’s torn up about her becoming even more infamous across the sea,” Daemon said with a smirk.

Gods, how Aemma could see her hands around his neck. Could he ever take anything seriously? She knew a part of her annoyance with him was due to being with child, but he was always attempting to make anything into a scandal. Deciding to ignore him, she went to caress her babe, having felt a kick a moment ago. It seemed this babe was more boisterous than Rhaenyra had been, but it gave her reassurance instead of bothering her.

After dissolving whatever Daemon was trying to get at with his comment, Viserys turned to her, “How fares the babe?”

“It seems that for all our Delight kicked and moved during her time in my womb, this one must double it or else they shall fail at their goal,” she responded, trying to somehow get more comfortable.

“A strong son we shall have indeed then,” her husband said with joy. Aemma hadn’t been certain when the maester had said that she carried like the child would be a boy, but Viserys took it as a certainty. Perhaps he’d been feeling the pressure of having a male hair, especially in light of recent events.

“You should name the babe Daemon, since I am so dear to you both,” Daemon teased, knowing neither parent would ever name their children such a thing.

“It’d be more likely we name the babe after Aunt Saera than you, brother,” Viserys grumbled, taking the comment as a jest more than anything.

Aemma should’ve cared more at the jest but her laugh escaped her before she could regain her composure. At the end of the day, this was just two brothers bantering, and she could appreciate that her husband had Daemon. For all his annoyances, her goodbrother was family, and he cared about her family. Rhaenyra was content chewing on Viserys’ doublet, finally having found peace. Her silver-golden hair was an almost exact match to Aemma’s own, a part of her wanted the next babe to have the white-silver hair of her husband instead. As Viserys and Daemon continued to gossip on the court, gods forbid if they actually admitted to being terrible gossips, Aemma rubbed her stomach. There was a dull ache forming in her lower stomach, not yet painful but a sign that she needed to rest.

“The dragonriders have been talking about Rhaenyra’s little hatching, they think it will be a sleek and sly she-dragon, perhaps we worry about her curiosity,” Daemon spoke, catching Aemma’s attention. She didn’t often think of her daughter being a dragonrider but it was inevitable that it would be important. Sometimes she had nightmares of her daughter falling from a dragon, others of her being burnt by one, yet she accepted that her daughter would be a dragon through and through.

“I think it is a good thing she is so curious, it is a sign of her being intelligent,” Viserys responded, caressing their daughter’s face afterwards.

Daemon seemed to weigh his next statement, “They also have been saying that there have been sightings of a wild dragon.”

Viserys seemed to understand this statement better than Aemma, he was a dragonrider, if not for long. The air seemed to be tense after Daemon spoke, the two brothers seemingly speaking to each other with their eyes. It was soon frustrating for both mother and daughter, and Aemma sat forward in her seat.

“What does the sightings of a wild dragon mean? That they are changing territory? I don’t understand the importance of this,” Aemma broke the silence.

“There is a belief that when a Targaryen is born the dragons can sense it,” her husband replied, the tension still in his face, “When a dragon, especially a wild dragon can it implies that the babe runs thick with dragonblood and that their blood is calling the dragons to them in the womb.”

Aemma was taken aback at this, when was this ever mentioned to her? When Rhaenyra was born, she knew that many dragons had apparently reacted in response. The most notable being Daemon’s, Caraxes had attempted to release a large breath of fire at the moment of her daughter’s first breaths. It had been quite the incident at the Dragonpit, but she was not a dragonrider and hadn’t taken notice of the event as being of great importance. Neither had anyone one else in the family thought to mention its meaning to her.

“Which one brother?” Viserys asked, seemingly pulling Rhaenyra closer to his chest, “Which dragon?”

If Daemon had regretted bringing this up in the beginning, he certainly did now. His eyes drifted to the floor, his pale hair falling towards his face. After taking a deep breath, he answered, “Cannibal.”

It suddenly seemed like the room turned at once. Viserys stood up quickly, turning towards her to give her Rhaenyra to hold. Daemon had already skirted out of his chair, placing distance from himself and his brother. Her husband seemed wild at that moment, eyes large and panicked. Stalking towards Daemon, he roughly grabbed at his brother’s collar, shaking him as he did.

“YOU LIE! YOU SEEK TO DISTURB OUR FAMILY FOR YOUR OWN GAMES!” he shouted, pulling his brother closer to his own face.

“I would never lie about this brother! Do not think so lowly of your own blood!” Daemon responded, quieter but still with the same intensity.

Viserys pulled back but the anger remained, “You know what this will be heralded as, my own babe a kinslayer if the godsforsaken Cannibal appears to him in his crib.”

“I tell you so that when the birth happens it should be on Dragonstone,” Daemon pleaded, a note of desperation in his voice, “It will be easier to pass off if the babe is born there, and you will face little push back from our family.”

“Aemma cannot go to Dragonstone now, it is too late and her health too fragile,” her husband spoke softer than before, releasing his brother as he did.

Heartbeat thrumming in her chest, Aemma held her daughter close to it, hoping the frantic beating would drown out some of the noise. Kinslayer, that is what the Cannibal was as a dragon and if it was here due to her babe’s birth it meant they would be too. Daenys had cursed this family to forever seek deeper meanings in dreams, prophecies, and the dragons themselves. It felt as if her world was collapsing, her sweet babe would never kill their family, it must mean something else. Aemma wouldn’t allow this to hang over her child’s head, it was a wild dragon that was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time. No, she’d simply have to have Daemon go do something stupid on Caraxes to distract the court during the birth and it’d fade into memory. She readied herself to present the plan, aware that her daughter had started to squirm against her chest.

Standing, Aemma stepped between the men, “We must present a larger spectacle than this damned dragon then, something to prevent the issue from even mattering,” Her voice was stronger than she’d expected but she was grateful for it.

“Fly Caraxes around the Keep when I am in the birthing bed, keep it away from the Red Keep and none shall be the wiser,” she spoke, searching Daemon’s face for his understanding.

Neither man spoke for a moment, desperation was rising inside of herself, “Please, I ask you to love this babe the way you love Rhaenyra,” as she pleaded, her stomach cramped in a familiar way, she muffled the pained cry as a sob.

“I will, but I cannot kill the dragon, nor do I want to” Daemon spoke directly to her, hands reaching for Rhaenyra.

Viserys turned to her, gently holding her to him, “I am so sorry my love, I never would have placed you or our babe in this situation if I could’ve prevented it.”

While Aemma was grateful both men had come to an understanding over this, she was starting to feel the liquid drip down her legs. It was a shame; she’d wanted to carry this babe to its ninth month inside her womb. She could protect them better inside of her own body, outside of it they would face danger from every shadow. Rhaenyra was happily encased in her uncle’s arms, glad the yelling stopped. Aemma leaned in to kiss her daughter’s forehead, sending her prayers for another to help raise her if her birthing bed became her deathbed. Slowly, she grabbed her husband’s face, bringing him close to her.

“Ready yourself for this night, you cannot fight against the gods or dragons as one man,” her voice came out in more pain than expected. Viserys worriedly started to urge her to lay down, still not understanding what exactly was occurring.

Daemon came to help support Viserys in guiding her to the couch in the solar. His hand held on her shoulder he spoke to her ear, “I will always be beside his side, and thus yours, do not worry for your children.”

As her goodbrother turned, he shouted for the guards to get the maester and midwives. Her daughter’s face over his shoulder looked confused and upset at having been removed from the room. Viserys was there, helping her with the now-soaked dress, its skirts clinging to her legs. She was going to need all her strength for this birth, now there were the gods’ eyes upon her and she refused to falter. The noise of the Keep beginning to ready itself for a new Targaryen started to build around her, and soon she was in a bed. Her grasp on time loosened as the pain worsened. Birth was her battlefield, and a warrior improves after every battle he fights. Aemma refused to lose this time, her daughter awaited her to raise her, and her husband needed her at his side. 

In the hours of this birth, Aemma thought she’d go mad. The chambers she was in had windows, and she’d ordered them thrown open early on. Sweat dripped down her face, her hair matted to her neck, the room was sweltering. Night had approached fast, now the only thing she could see outside the window was darkness. Her maids had been most helpful in attending her but she couldn’t stop focusing on that window closest to her bed. She willed Daemon to distract the entire Keep, to prevent this omen. At her bedside was Viserys, breaking custom now that Rhaenyra was in the nursery asleep. He held her hand as she went through the pains of labor. As she progressed in the birth, she must’ve hurt his hand with how hard she grasped, but he remained steadfast in his presence.

Screams erupted from her throat, “It is time,” the Maester spoke, a different one from the one present at her daughter’s birth.

Aemma heard the words of encouragement from all sides of her bed, the strongest being her husbands. The pain was unbearable, worse than any previously felt by her. Her screams and wails must’ve woken everyone in King’s Landing. Despite her anguished noises, the midwives bustled about around her.

“You are doing so well my dear, you are winning this battle,” her husband spoke into her ear, now holding her leg in his hands.

A part of her was unable to handle his support, he’d placed her here in the first place, but another took it in stride. She started to push in earnest, feeling her babe leaving her body. Her screams and wails increased in volume, starting to sound almost distant from her own body. As the last push was happening, she looked up. The window was there, in front of her with the curtains flowing in the breeze of the night. Suddenly, the room seemed to shake, the wind whipped throughout the open windows. There in that window, as she releases one last scream, he appeared. She felt the room tense in excitement at the babe, not one other soul looking where she did. Her scream went to him, damning him for cursing her babe. That bright green dragon eye stared back menacingly, a knowing look in the night shared between them. Viserys gasped beside her, finally seeing the dragon, its black scales blending into the night. She felt the babe slip into the Maester’s waiting hands, the bustle of the room pausing at the sound of her husband’s gasp. The members of the room looked at the dragon in the window, the beast unmoving.

The room was silent, Aemma suddenly realized. Without her shouts and the bustle of birth there was no noise. As she looked to the Maester’s shocked face, she saw her precious babe in his hands, pale and unmoving. At the sight she released a wail, her babe was stillborn, all this was for not. Hot tears ran down her face as she begged to hold her babe before they took it to be prepared for its funeral. The Maester snapped to action, placing the babe on her chest as quickly as possible, still anxiously watching the window. Seemingly in response to the silence, Cannibal released a loud roar, shaking the room with it.

In the noise it could’ve been missed, but there in her arms her babe began to cry. Strong lungs produced wails louder than Aemma’s had been. The dragon took its leave, seemingly pleased at her babe’s cries. Her husband shook off the shock the quickest, coming to cradle their babe with his hand. Soon, the room went back to the chaos of a birthing room, albeit with the whispers of the maids and midwives about the strange dragon. The Maester took their babe to be gently cleaned and checked over as the midwives led Aemma through the afterbirth. 

Once the entire process was over, the entire Keep knew of the event that had taken place. Yet, King Jaehaerys ordered the bells to be rung as they had for their firstborn. Aemma couldn’t find it in herself to care about these notions of prophecies and gods when her babe was in her arms. A soft tuft of white-silver hair tickled her skin as her babe fed from her breast, and she softly stroked at those precious cheeks.

“I fear that we may have to name her after Saera if we want Daemon to believe us to be honest,” her husband spoke at her side. The bed had its sheets changed, and Aemma was gently cleaned and given a new shift to wear.

“Gods, after all that you worry for Daemon’s belief in you,” she snorted at the thought, “No, she will not be named after your wayward aunt.”

Viserys just nodded, enraptured at the sight of their new daughter, “The maesters and midwives were wrong, yet I cannot be disappointed at our daughter.”

Softly humming in response, Aemma returned her focus to her daughter. She truly looked at her features and was pleased to see the resemblance to her husband. The bridge of her nose looked like Viserys’ and in her cheeks she saw Daemon’s prominent cheekbones. Luckily, her hair had taken on Viserys’ whiter tone, granting her desire. She hadn’t opened her eyes fully yet, and Aemma wanted to see them in the morning light. Rhaenyra had gained almost all of Aemma's traits so it was good to have a second to balance out the features.

While contemplating her daughter’s feature, Aemma heard the door open. The soft steps of a man and small child echoed in the comfortable quiet of the room. Turning to look, she saw the awed face of Rhaenyra, and the gentle smile of Daemon. Her goodbrother assisted in lifting Rhaenyra onto the bed. Viserys took her in his arms and helped her peer at her new sister’s face. Meanwhile Daemon settled in a chair on her other side, looking at the babe, as small as she was.

“Caraxes is the talk of the court, for his joy at my new niece is as notable as my first niece,” Daemon spoke, reassuring her of their plan. Aemma was glad to know that it worked to some extent, at least to the majority of the court.

“They are certainly surprised at your own joy,” Viserys said, “I mean, you could be celebrating with the rest of the family.”

Daemon seemed to falter, “I didn’t want to leave Rhaenyra alone, and she wanted to see her sister.”

"You wanted to see this babe, I would too if I knew that Cannibal peered into the window of her birthing room,” Aemma intervened, lifting her babe off her breast and adjusting her shift for modesty, “Come look at her.”

Daemon was a young man who was known to be a brutal warrior, a true dragon. When looking at his newest niece, his face was the softest Aemma had ever seen it. He was almost seemingly in tears, which wasn’t surprising as he’d cried when Rhaenyra was born. Slowly, he took a finger to gently stroke the babe’s cheek.

“Visenya,” he spoke suddenly, “Her name should be Visenya.”

Aemma and Viserys shared a look, both surprised at Daemon’s suggestion. Neither had thought of a name yet, nor hadn’t expected him to either. She decided at that moment that she quite liked the name. A warrior queen who’d been integral to their family’s success. It’d be a way to name her a good strong name with Targaryen ties, and to be a way of naming her after her husband. Better than Viserra given recent history. She gave her husband a nod, Daemon still staring at the babe.

Viserys seemed to agree, likely having similar thoughts to hers, “Then she shall be named Visenya, brother.”

“Would you actually?” Daemon looked up quickly, shocked.

“You did us a great favor, she won’t have that omen hanging over her head,” Viserys reached over to grab Daemon’s shoulder, “Besides, it means you’ll have to give up Dark Sister to her eventually.”

Both men laughed at the statement, Aemma grinned at it. Her older daughter tugged at her shift, getting closer. “Sister is Visenya?” her sweet girl asked.

“Yes, this is your sister Visenya,” Aemma said, “You’ll need to help her and guide her through life, and you two shall be the best of friends.”

At this, Rhaenyra let out a whoop. She was already excited at being an older sister but to have a little sister seemed more enjoyable than a brother. Aemma watched her little mind spin at her imagined future. Maybe naming two girls after strong women was a bad choice if she’d wanted perfect ladies. She looked at Daemon's grinning face, figuring that if he’d help dub his nieces after warriors then he’d be helping make them into warriors. 

Visenya was a quiet babe. Her purple eyes were darker than her own parent’s seemingly taking after her great grandmother. She was constantly watching, rarely crying or making noise. If Aemma wasn’t her mother she was certain that she’d forget about Visenya entirely. It was like having a realistic baby doll, a toy rather than a real child. That hair that Aemma had wished for was wavy once it began to grow, soft and thick. Yet her face remained a sweet one, and likely both of her daughters would be beauties in their own time.

The only thing Visenya did that was abnormal was constantly seeking to be held. It seemed that she particularly adored her mother’s arms, but it could be anyone. When Baelon met his second grandchild he found that she was loath to be parted from anyone’s hold. He’d adored her possibly more than he’d adored Rhaenyra. Already it was assumed she’d be the next warrior woman of the Targaryens, adventurous and loud like both her sister and grandmother. Prince Baelon had commissioned tiny play swords for Visenya and loved to hold her while she swung the soft swords in her hand. Yet Visenya’s love for physical affection didn’t stop at just her close family. King Jaehaerys had even met the young girl once or twice and joyfully held her.

Yet the year her precious girl had been born was the beginning of their lives changing completely. Queen Alysanne and Princess Gael both died before Visenya had reached her first nameday. Then too soon it was clear that the King was in worsening health. Aemma took comfort in her girls, watching Visenya’s first steps, and seeing how doting Rhaenyra was to her little sister. That didn’t stop the tragedy from hitting them closely though, as not long Prince Baelon, her girls’ beloved grandfather passed. It was as if the gods were eliminating the Targaryen House one by one, each one dealing a blow to their strength.

That was how Aemma had found herself Queen of Westeros, no longer the shy bird that came to King’s Landing to be wed. Of course, she’d felt saddened by the loss of King Jaehaerys, but it was overshadowed by the pure panic of being the Queen. Never had she thought that she’d be this important to the Realm, that her girls were Princesses of Westeros and Rhaenyra the possible heir to the throne. When Viserys ascended the throne, they’d argued about having another child. It was clear that being King had changed his mind on needing a son, and slowly Aemma saw her husband sour at Visenya. She’d disappointed him by not only being a girl when he’d been promised a son, but also by being the reason Aemma was uncertain of carrying another child to term. It mattered not, as she miscarried three babes within the year before and the year after Viserys became King.

Rhaenyra was still the Realm’s Delight at six namedays old but was Aemma’s little terror within the Red Keep. She’d been a loud and excitable child and had chosen her uncle as her favorite person in the whole world. Viserys indulged their oldest, taking court with her on his knee, teaching her High Valyrian, even bringing her to the Dragonpit to see her hatchling she’d named Syrax. Due to Visenya being the quieter of the two, and significantly calmer, Aemma spent more time with her youngest. It was clear to the servants and courtiers that each parent had a favorite daughter. Visenya toddled after her mother as soon as she could, copying her every move. Eventually, Aemma had a maid teach her how to make a sling to carry her strapped to her chest. It wasn’t until Visenya had reached four namedays did she stop getting carried. This opened Aemma’s eyes to the other aspect of her quiet dragon. The side of her that came with the fire in their blood, the temper of the dragons.

“So, you got lost?” Viserys asked their youngest, a kind father if distant at times, “And that’s when you decided to go to the training yard?”

Visenya sat in the chair of the family solar, her dress covered in dirt and dust. At least one knee was scraped and had bled over the front, and there was a hole in her sleeve not there in the morning. Regardless, her purple eyes looked defiant. As she stared at her parents, Aemma took note of her split lower lip, and the mostly wiped away blood under her nose. Hopefully her youngest wouldn’t have a black eye or bad bruising on her face on the morrow.

“I wanted to find my uncle,” she responded, brushing back her disheveled braid.

“Why not come find me or any of the Kingsguard? Honey, you know that is much safer for you?” Aemma said, standing at her husband's side as he sat across from Visenya.

Visenya chewed at her cheek before answering, “I didn’t want to go back to you, I wanted to see uncle.”

Viserys and Aemma shared a look, it was as if Daemon had placed their girls under a compulsion to favor him. Viserys turned back to their daughter, who was now unsuccessfully attempting to wipe some of the dirt off her face. Aemma had already sent for a bath, and it seemed she’d be needed to help her littlest girl.

“Why did you want to see Daemon so badly?” Viserys made sure to make eye contact with Visenya, “Did he know you were looking for him?”

As if the young girl knew she’d sent the entire Red Keep into a frenzy looking for her, Visenya shrunk back into her seat. She nervously looked at both of her parents, and then at her feet. Perhaps the girl felt ashamed for making them panic?

“I didn’t mean to waste everyone’s time, I just wanted to see if Uncle Daemon would help me practice my sword skills.”

“Oh, Visenya you didn’t waste anyone’s time, we were just worried about you,” Aemma came round to kneel by her daughter.

“Is that why you fought with that stableboy?” Viserys asked, joining his wife with their daughter.

Visenya hesitated but still answered, “He said I was stupid if I thought the Prince would teach a girl to fight, so I had to prove it to him.”

Internally Aemma blamed Daemon for this reaction of her daughter. Sweet Visenya was not usually a girl that hit others or resorted to physical means to settle things. She was the one that would solve things verbally with her sister. No matter what though, if anyone doubted her ability to be a warrior it seemed her daughter had to beat them personally to prove her value. It’d happened once with Rhaenyra, again with another serving boy, and now the stablehand.

“Sweet girl, you are named for the Warrior Queen herself, everyone knows your destiny to be a warrior in your own right,” Viserys reassured her.

“But if I was a boy, you’d already have me in the yard with my uncle where I belong,” Visenya blurted out, “I promised Rhaenyra I’d be the best warrior in the realm and protect her forever.”

Aemma sighed, it seemed another person had been whispering too close to her girls. The longer they went without a son the more people wondered about who’d heir be. It was as if they were on their deathbeds. Years would have to pass before it was an issue of any importance, and Daemon may be wild but could be curbed. That didn’t stop rumors of how Rhaenyra, her oldest daughter with her wits and charisma, would be a better option than Daemon. If Aemma knew who kept spreading these rumors she’d have their tongue. It was sowing seeds of distrust in their once close family.

It seemed Viserys was thinking on the matter deeply, it wouldn’t be too accepted by the courtiers, but the North had female warriors so her marriage prospects might head there. There was the history of their family, and it’d be a shame to prevent Visenya from this endeavor on the words of sheep. Yet, four namedays was too young for any child to be in the yard, and he wasn’t sending their daughter out there if Aemma had any say.

“When you have your sixth nameday, you can start training under your uncle and the Kingsgaurd,” Viserys finally said.

Visenya started to smile, but it faded when her father spoke next, “I also expect no more fights and attempts to escape to the yard in that time.”

“I cannot stop myself from defending my honor and Rhaenyra,” she said solemnly, as if she was a knight sworn to protect innocent maidens.

“You are a Princess, you have others to protect you,” her husband responded, “I know it’d please you to be with your sister more, so starting tomorrow you will be joining her in her lessons with Alicent.”

Aemma thought he’d made a good choice, it’d certainly prevent Visenya from running free of her guard and give Rhaenyra more time with her sister. It was around time to begin her lessons anyways, and they would hopefully mellow out her daughter’s fierier temperament. As she stood to usher Visenya to her rooms, Aemma heard the door open behind her.

“I hear my little warrior princess beat a boy almost twice her size and won,” Daemon’s cocky voice came through the door.

He was leaning against the doorframe, in his riding leathers. Obviously, he was fresh from the Dragonpit, and it wasn’t a mystery as to why. As of late Cannibal had begun to prowl the coastline near King’s Landing, seeking out her daughter. Caraxes was probably well acquainted with the wild dragon. Despite this dedication to their younger daughter, Daemon would seek out Rhaenyra to tell her of his rides, speaking in High Valyrian that Visenya hadn’t had a chance to learn yet. Aemma already mourned the day when Visenya followed in Rhaenyra’s footsteps and favored her uncle for more than just sword practice. Gods save them all if both of her girls took after Daemon, it’d leave the realm in ashes.

“Daemon, I have handled the situation, you are not needed here,” Viserys said, obviously implying that Daemon shouldn’t be encouraging violence.

“I am certain you did not celebrate her victory as is proper,” Daemon spoke, reaching them in the center of the solar.

“I was only defending my honor, uncle,” Visenya said, looking up at Daemon with those purple eyes that seemed so old, “It was hardly a victory, more like justice.”

Daemon’s laugh echoed throughout the room, he reached and picked up Visenya as if she weighed nothing and spun her. “Justice, you say? Brother, it seems we have a new Master of Laws to assign to the counsel.”

Aemma just looked at Viserys, he should stop this before Visenya learned that she’d be rewarded by Daemon when her parents would punish her. Though, hearing those rare giggles of her daughter made her refrain from speaking. It seemed her husband agreed with her, and both of them simply watched them reenact the ‘battle’.

Soon, Rhaenyra ran into the room, a disheveled Alicent Hightower behind her, “I heard my sister beat a boy bloody!”

At this the reenactment had to restart, and Daemon played his part as the young stablehand well. Aemma watched as her oldest daughter grinned and laughed at the actions of her uncle. Alicent had crept closer and was wearing a timid smile, obviously entertained at the two silver-haired Targaryens’ acting. Viserys’ hand drew her closer to him, and he held her to him.

“I wish this is all we had to do,” she murmured.

“If I could grant your wishes, I’d feel more successful then than I’ve been as king,” he replied.

Chapter Text

There was a beauty in new life coming into the world. Excitement filling the air, anxiously awaiting the cries of a newborn babe, there was nothing quite like it. Jon had seen it firsthand, having helped deliver dozens of babes in his time beyond the Wall. This meant that when he experienced it and was able to comprehend it fully, he came to a conclusion about the world. The gods were cruel bastards who made him their slave as entertainment. Jon would not be dissuaded of this notion and could not fathom any other reasoning behind this decision.

In spite of that conclusion, there was a benefit to his current situation, he didn’t seem to be fully conscious. Most times he was a great dragon flying through the air above the sea or hunting down his next meal. There was the time that he was pretty sure he was the top tomcat in the Red Keep, the best mouser and father to many kittens. Another time where he might’ve been a rat in the dungeons. Never was he a wolf. It wasn’t jarring to be constantly bouncing through different animals, those early days were ones he didn’t need to be connected to his new body. So young was this new body, and so old his mind. He’d lived until he was at least sixty and three years old, as the last communication with Samwell was dated then. Maybe he was older when he passed, maybe not, it didn’t matter now. When he was inside another beast, his own mind quietened and he could attempt to understand where he’d ended up.

Although Jon knew he’d been a Targaryen there was a certain safety in not looking like one. So, it meant that when he was in the new body the gods had given him; he’d been shocked at the woman who’d been holding him. She had that silver-gold hair, long and straight. Her skin that pale shade that he and Dany had shared. It was her eyes though that sealed the deal for Jon, they were the prettiest shade of lavender he’d ever seen. She was a Targaryen, and his mother this time around. Most importantly, that meant he was a Targaryen again. He’d been hoping to maybe fix this mistake as a Stark and had perhaps underestimated his own heritage. What good could he do as a Targaryen? The line was extinct when he’d passed in the Far North. Slowly though he started to piece things together.

As a babe so young, his hearing and sight were limited. His own mindset when within his new body was different. It was as if he was the maturity of the body itself, and his abilities were greatly impacted by this. He couldn’t lift his own head until this body was able to, he couldn’t talk until it’d be possible for this body either. So effectively he was a babe again. It was a cruel joke that the gods had given him such a devoted mother. Almost as if they were attempting to heal long scarred wounds left from not having a mother. Lady Stark would be rolling in her grave if she knew that he was comparing her to a Targaryen and finding her the worse mother. Jon was constantly in his mother’s arms, fussing minimally when removed from the warmth and comfort. Constantly seeking affection, he’d grab whosever closest and not let go if possible. Something about it grounded him, and secretly he’d hoard every minute of affection. Never had he been given such love freely. This meant that he was in the arms of a man when he finally realized where he was, who he was now.

“Grandfather, I’d like you to meet my daughter, Visenya,” the voice of Jon’s new father rung through his ears. His father was also a Targaryen, and he’d been hoping to not be born to siblings. Though he quite liked his father so far, always very gentle and kind to him. By now he could hear and understand things more, so he knew what his name was and what it meant.

A Targaryen girl named Visenya, with silver hair and purple eyes. Rhaegar Targaryen would be cheering if this is how he’d turned out the first time. Fulfilling the prophecy that his first true father had dreamt of. It had to have been the humor of the gods choosing to place him in this position. As of now though, he hadn’t been certain that he was apart of the royal family, or even anyone that had existed before his rebirth. Maybe he had taken the place of someone far more important. Jon chooses to not think too heavily of the implications of moving through time with his knowledge. Either he’d change the past or prevent the future from happening, depending on what time he’d been placed.

Soon he was encased in frail arms, and the face of an old man appeared in his vision. His long hair ticked Jon’s face as he lent closer to him. The old man was obviously a Targaryen and had lived well into elder status. It was a bit jarring to be looked at so lovingly by a complete stranger but this body was tired and Jon felt his eyes closing.

“Your grace, I brought the book you requested,” a soft voice spoke, one he didn’t recognize, possibly a servant.

Who was royalty in the room? Could it be his great-grandfather? That’d make no sense, very few kings lived long, and less Targaryens did. It was unlikely that he was apart of the main royal line in that case. Perhaps an offshoot after the Dance. Jon listened as his great-grandfather began discussing the book with his father.

“Ah, Baelon, my son, come take your granddaughter from me,” spoke Jon’s great-grandfather. He had known his grandfather’s name was Baelon but there’d been a couple of Baelon’s in the Targaryen family so Jon remained unsure of when he’d been born still.

“She’s much quieter than Rhaenyra that’s for certain, you’d never believe the two came from the same parents,” his grandfather said as he took over the job of holding him.

That is when Jon’s world shattered. Unknown to the men in the room, he was slowly watching all the plans and information he had unravel before his eyes. Absolutely no other Targaryen was named Rhaenyra after the Dance of the Dragons. Her grandfather was Prince Baelon Targaryen, the second son of King Jaehaerys the first. Oh gods, he’d just been sleeping in the arms of the greatest king Westeros had ever known. Even worse, he was the sister of the woman that had led one half of a civil war. He’d known he’d had a sister but their parents had been affectionately calling her ‘Rhae’ and he couldn’t hear that well. No longer was he going to be skinchanging into tomcats if he was missing crucial information like this. The Dance of Dragons marked the end of the Targaryen family’s main power. After this point he knew he wasn’t dreaming of being inside a dragon, he was truly warging into one. He hadn’t truly bonded with Rhaegal when he’d rode him, so it had always felt a bit like warging. That meant he considered his time within the dragon a dream, not actually being within the beast. Regardless of all that he’d read and known about the Dance, Jon felt woefully unprepared. He’d been expecting to possibly be reborn before Robert’s Rebellion, or maybe not reborn at all. It was no wonder now that he understood this time period that his mother had kept him so close to her. Aemma Arryn died in childbirth if he remembered correctly, and certainly didn’t have two daughters. Could he had taken over one of her stillborns and lived where they did not? That might mean he’d benefitted his parents by preventing it from coming down to just one girl. Though he was still a girl here and didn’t that make him pause for a moment.

There was no way Jon could become the kind of woman his sisters had been. Never would he find himself in the same way Sansa had within feminine power, nor in the dismal of the expectations as Arya had. No, as a princess he’d be a woman expected to behave in certain ways and had to balance it carefully. Regardless of the expectations placed on him now Jon wouldn’t allow himself to not be a warrior of some kind. War was coming to his family, and he was going to be important in some way or else he wouldn’t have been reborn here. Being named Visenya was actually a boon now, mayhap his family thought he’d be like the Warrior Queen and allow him to train with a sword. There was also the fact that he’d likely be a dragonrider, and how he’d have to learn how to fight on dragonback. He felt his heart yearn for Tormund and Ghost, his constant companions for the majority of his life. If I look back, I am lost, he repeated the mantra. He would become a great boon to his family, and hopefully prevent some of the greatest tragedies that had happened in history.

For the first years of Jon’s new life as Visenya he hadn’t had much to do with any plotting or schemes. He’d secured a deal on being able to train with his uncle, Prince Daemon, and had been so pleased with the notion that he’d forgotten some fundamental truths of the world. Not only was he now a princess, but he was also a Targaryen princess. This family was doomed to constantly be magical and mythical in ways his Stark heritage wasn’t. It seemed by being a new person, even if his mind and knowledge still resided in his head, he had new temperaments and thought processes. So, it meant that outside of a particularly rememberable instance of brawling with a stablehand, he had to take his emotions out in different ways. His older sister, Rhaenyra, found fault with his decision to do so by sulking in dark corners of the Keep. Now at eight namedays, his sister was dragging him to the Dragonpit.

“Alicent won’t come with us, she’s still too afraid of the dragons,” Rhaenyra said as she adjusted her riding leathers.

Jon was sat in his training clothes, well-tailored breeches with a tunic and leather jerkin in his house colors. He was a tad jealous of Rhaenyra’s fancy black leathers as he’d worn something similar as king, it had made him feel powerful and put together. His small boots swung in the chair in Rhaenyra’s chambers, and he looked around at his sister’s grand rooms. There was a tapestry depicting their family, but it’d been made when he was still young so the girl in the image didn’t match him well.

As his sister looked in the mirror, Jon peaked at his appearance in comparison to hers. It was strange that his sister had a more fierce and strong beauty to his own. Still jarring to him to see himself as a girl, Jon chooses to not ponder on his own soft and delicate beauty. In a way his face reminded himself of Dany and his mother’s statue in the crypts. All gentle features and strong cheekbones. His hair had been tightly braided back in a style not popular, rather a mix of Free Folk braids and a tribute to Dany with the styling of his silver hair. Rhaenyra’s hair on the other hand was simple, with just two braids holding back her hair at her face and the rest hanging long down her back.

“I know your egg didn’t hatch but are you considering claiming a dragon?” his sister’s voice jarred him out of his observations.

That was an important question, he knew he needed to be a dragonrider to survive the coming years, but there was that matter with the wild dragon, “Wouldn’t want to make Cannibal angry and have a massacre at the Dragonpit.”

Rhaenyra snorted and turned to look at him, her face filled with youth, “Perhaps uncle needs to take you to find the beast, it’d make our lives easier if you just claimed it and we could move on.”

“Father says the bad omen of it would be a disaster politically,” Jon repeated the words his parents had drilled into him to say to his sister and uncle, “Mother thinks I need to be older and better prepared before I think of claiming it.”

It’d become tradition for either Rhaenyra or Daemon to urge him to claim the wild dragon. The beast had been present at his birth, and for all that he was an omen of kinslaying it was better than having Daemon chase off the dragon from King’s Landing. Little did anyone know that Jon was a kinslayer, just not in this life. He’d been considering it for a while and had decided to claim the dragon at ten.

Speaking of his uncle, “No need to worry about that, nieces, today we will be flying near no wild dragons.”

“Uncle!” Rhaenyra spun around in surprise, not hearing his footsteps.

“I see you two are ready, come, we will depart for the Dragonpit together,” Daemon gently guided Rhaenyra to the door. Jon was basically his squire at this point in his training and fell in step with him on the other side.

If Lyanna Stark was half horse, then Jon was too. Horse riding had come to him easily and the same could be said for this life. His sister still struggled and with the journey to the Dragonpit crossing King’s Landing she was stuck in the wheelhouse. The mare he rode upon was still growing and was a dapple grey, lovingly named Apple, and wouldn’t be his forever. Especially not in battle, the sweet horse was too gentle to ever be on a battlefield.

“I heard you and your sister talking,” his uncle spoke next to him in High Valyrian, “After the years of holding back Cannibal I think it is clear that the beast wants to be yours.”

Jon looked at him, a knowing look in his uncle’s eye, “My father is worried, and my mother afraid. They already let me wield a sword, a wild dragon may be too much for them.”

“All dragons should be free like wild ones; dragons are not slaves. You should claim Cannibal soon.” Daemon nudged his horse ahead, the Dragonpit in front of them.

Unlike the ruins he’d seen in his previous life, the Dragonpit stood tall and proud. The stone glinting in the sunlight, and the noises inside telling all those near what was housed inside of it. Jon had found himself admiring it in spite of agreeing with his uncle, no dragon should be chained. It was clear with Dany’s dragons that confining them would weaken them, and Jon was going to change that practice if he could.

As his uncle greeted the dragon keepers, Jon dismounted. The Kingsgaurd, a Westerling if Jon wasn’t mistaken, helped his sister out of the wheelhouse. Soon both of them were behind their uncle, awaiting the arrival of the dragons.

Syrax was first, saddled for his sister already. Her yellow scales shined in the light, and her eyes glowed orange when Jon looked into them. Rhaenyra happily greeted her dragon, giving the large animal pets and kisses. Daemon helped secure her chains, explaining the flight path they’d take and where they’d stop for the lunch they’d planned. Soon, his sister’s turn was over and out came Caraxes.

Whistling noises came from the long-necked dragon, much larger than his sister’s dragon. The red scales shifted in color, but most reminded Jon of blood. Unlike Syrax that clearly favored his sister over anyone else, Caraxes enjoyed it when Jon gave him attention. As his uncle prepared the saddlebags with their supplies, Jon stroked Caraxes’ face and neck. The dragon demanded more, and soon Jon found himself petting him as he used to pet Ghost. Around him, he knew people saw the sight as comical. Visenya was a small, tiny girl, dressed as a young lord not a princess, giving a massive dragon attention like one would give a beloved dog. Likely, they were wondering how the King and Queen were so okay with the ‘Rouge Prince’ being in charge of their youngest daughter and ‘corrupting’ her like this. Still, Visenya swung a sword better than boys double her age and rode her uncle’s dragon with him.

The saddle wasn’t a traditional two person one, rather an expanded one that would fit Visenya in front of Daemon. Jon was mildly aware that he’d be upset as a child if he’d been forced to ride in front of his father, but dragons were so different that the added safety didn’t bother him. Soon his uncle had picked him up and helped him into the saddle, tightening the chains around his legs.

“Where are we going this time?” Jon asked, curious why neither his sister nor uncle had shared their planned destination.

“It’s a surprise Visenya,” Daemon said as he climbed behind him in the saddle, “Your sister insisted we keep it secret from you.”

Jon’s response was lost as they lifted into the air. The winds whipped his uncle’s hair, in a style similar to the one Jon had when he was Lord Commander, and the cold air invaded his lungs. It was spring, yet the hot weather of summer hadn’t come yet. Nothing could ever compare to being on dragonback. Allowing the feeling of pure freedom rush over him, Jon leaned back into his uncle’s chest. Visenya and him were one and the same, but both felt the pressure to do so much so young. There was this disconnect between Jon and Visenya’s desires and wants, that pressure made the cracks worsen. In the skies, no one cared if he wasn’t solving the realm’s problems and rewriting the gods’ mistakes. There in the air was release, both sides of Jon and Visenya were one, gone was the divide within the wind. The euphoric feeling carried him throughout the ride, and Jon didn’t even yell when Caraxes flew in a loop, simply closing his eyes and feeling the motion.

They had stopped in a meadow in the Kingswood, the Red Keep visible in the distance. It was a peaceful place and they’d brought a blanket for them to lay out on. With his head in his sister’s lap, Jon had his eyes closed, enjoying the nature around him. Rhaenyra was rebraiding a section of hair that’d fallen out on the ride. Their uncle was having a calm conversation with her in High Valyrian. They were speaking about her daily activities with her friend, Alicent Hightower.

“I think Alicent is a perfect friend, but she’s too focused on the rules and gossip of court,” Rhaenyra complained, “She even said something about how Visenya’s sword training was odd.”

Daemon was laid back against their saddlebags, “Dragons are not slaves, do not listen to the whispers of sheep.”

Jon had been wondering what to do with Alicent Hightower for a while. She was the same age as Rhaenyra, an innocent girl at this point. The daughter of a second son, one who’s power was constantly at risk due to the way Otto Hightower had obtained it. Currently there was one way to ensure that she’d not be able to rise power like she’d had, keep Aemma Arryn alive. Of course, Jon wasn’t going to be able to stop the fact that if his new mother had another child she’d likely die. Yet, there was no way that Jon could ruin this young girl’s life for something she hadn’t done yet. Alicent was sweet and dutiful in a way that reminded him of Sansa as a child. She was able to pull at all the parts of Jon that remained an older sibling, that protector who’d taken back their home for his younger sister. That’s what had been making him falter in moving forward with any plans in regard to the girl. Even now, he hadn’t spent much time with her, only in the company of Rhaenyra. His sister was a jealous creature and had made clear that Alicent was her friend not Visenya’s, which also had made his scheming pause. There was a way to maybe make Alicent an asset and not a liability, making her loyal to Rhaenyra only and not her father could be beneficial. It also was a way for Jon to not have to deal with the guilt of harming a child, even if right now he was one too.

“Perhaps, sister, you should understand that she is only worried about your own place in court and wishes to protect you,” Jon interjected, deciding that a loyal child is better than a dead one in regard to Alicent.

Rhaenyra seemed to hesitate, “She is too much of a rule follower to think of a way that protects me that doesn’t involve becoming a sheep.”

“Or she has never been shown a different way,” Jon had started to sit up more, opening his eyes to look at his sister, “She will never be a dragon like us and so must follow the rules to be protected, show her that you will be her protection instead.”

Daemon looked interested at the conversation. Jon knew that he’d be curious at the shift in his niece, Visenya hadn’t outwardly cared about Alicent much. Sure, a part of her might be a tad jealous at being pushed aside for the girl, but Jon had struggled with that once before with Robb and Theon. If Rhaenyra would keep a friendly relationship with Alicent they could use her support to keep the realm stable. It was a good plan, and while it could fail it was the only one Jon could see as an option right now. They were still so young and this is something to be proactive about their situation.

“You’ve never seemed concerned about court life before Visenya,” Daemon spoke up, causing the sisters to look at him.
This was a fear of Jon’s he was not cut to be a machine of political intrigue and had to find a way to be less brash about it. In all honesty, he’d been hoping that this wouldn’t have been caught as a scheme by an adult, at least not yet. Gods how he wished he was a bit more like Sansa in times like these.

Jon closed his eyes again, feeling Rhaenyra finish the braid, “I don’t have the time to make up for Alicent’s absence if my sister decides to hate her.”

It was a very Arya answer, and hopefully it’d be acceptable to Daemon. Having too much focus on his movements had already been a hard to solve issue as a princess but as a player he’d crack under the pressure. Internally, he warred with the side of himself that was Rhaenyra’s sister, who wasn’t Jon Snow. Visenya loved her sister and would gladly spend more time with her if Alicent left her side. The struggle made him vulnerable and he wished that he’d sort it out soon. Thinking of himself as Visenya Targaryen was hard enough, let alone behaving as her consistently.

“You say that as if you hate being in my presence now,” Rhaenyra said angrily, her fiery temper rising at the perceived affront.

Sitting up, Jon attempted a resolution, “I just want to remain focused on my sword lessons, and you have more responsibilities I’d have to help with.”

Rhaenyra had backed up, “I am the oldest, I might be Queen one day, of course I have more responsibilities! Father trusts me more than you!”

Didn’t that sting, he’d been fully aware of their father’s favoritism towards Rhaenyra but to hear it from herself made it worse. He was his father’s secret favorite as a child and everyone knew that. It hurt now since he couldn’t help but feel that shame he’d had as a child for being a bastard rear its head. That made him quick to anger, the part of him that was Visenya joining in.

“Father would rather be placing his trust in a son and you and I both know that if Mother had one, you’d be disregarded!”

Silence reigned over the group, the noises of the forest taking over. Jon was an adult; he shouldn’t have been acting like a child. He shouldn’t have said that to his sister he knew better than to press that particular issue. Visenya was a child and sometimes placed him at conflict with his actions. His chest was heaving, having stood up quickly to face off Rhaenyra. Her face was slowly contorting to an expression of betrayal. As their uncle started to stand behind Jon, he knew he’d be in trouble. It was slowly becoming too much to deal with. He was trying to prevent a civil war whose seeds had been planted long before and was attempting to be two people at once. Memories of those he’d left behind raced through his head, how deeply he missed them tugging at his emotions. Rhaenyra would never be Arya or Sansa; he wasn’t Jon Snow. Instead of waiting to hear what his sister would say next Jon made another poor decision. As Daemon went to grab his shoulder, he ducked through his arms, running as hard as he could into the woods. He was tired of trying to deal with everything all at once and couldn’t stop ignoring his own internal struggle.

The late afternoon sun hang been hanging over them when he’d started his flight into the Kingswood. Now it’d sunk into the horizon, and Jon was tired. Daemon was unable to catch him, the speed of this smaller body giving too much of a head start to him. Plus, Rhaenyra was there and couldn’t be left behind with two dragons. If anything, she was too important to be left behind, a second daughter was nothing in comparison to a possible heir. So, Jon was alone, breathing heavy as he stumbled on a rocky part of the forest. He’d had no experience in this area, it was completely unknown to him and he’d promptly gotten lost when he’d finally calmed down a bit. All he had was a small dagger that he carried at all times and the clothes on his back. There was a small pond and he practically dove to drink from it, his throat burning in thirst.

In the moonlight there was a slight reflection visible to him in the pond. The face of Visenya stared back at him, intently focused on his appearance. Eyes that were a dark purple searched for an answer in the image before them. He traced the soft slope of his jaw, the slight curve of his brow, and followed the flow of the hair from his scalp. This was Visenya, this was who he was now. A girl, not a man in a body stolen by divine power. Jon was meant to have been reborn and for eight years had be pretending to be a puppet instead. He should have understood he’d be unsuccessful if he fought against the other person there. Visenya was incredibly similar to him but was going to be a different person. She was in control and would be able to be a better wielder of his knowledge if he simply let her. This life wouldn’t be best served pretending to be Jon Snow. Understanding washed over him, he needed to let go.

Visenya rose from the position crouched by the pond. Her hair was a mess, her clothes likely stained, and she knew both of her parents were likely sick with worry. Jon was here, but now it was her that was in control of their plans. She knew she had to return to her family and make amends with her sister. Looking around the dark woods, she sought the possible light of torches for a search party. There was nothing but that of the moon’s light bouncing off the pond. Ears straining for any voices she finally picked up a noise.

There behind her was a muffled grumble, intimately familiar but terribly unknown. She’d heard it earlier today, coming from her uncle’s and sister’s dragons. It was the noise of a dragon who’d noticed their peace was disturbed. Her head whipped around, desperately hoping it was the dragon she was thinking of.

Menacing green eyes peered at her from a formation of rocks she’d missed in her desperation for water. It had been stupid to not pay better attention to her surroundings, she knew that this dragon had been spotted in the Kingswood. Its black scales had prevented her from immediately grasping its size.

A rush of courage surged through her small body, and she stepped towards it. Slowly, repeating the actions of the dragon keepers, she raised her hand up.

“You have been searching for me since I was in the womb,” the High Valyrian felt otherworldly in the moment, the dragon’s magic influencing her voice.

In response, the dragon lifted its head, inching his neck closer to her hand, “I will run no longer from you,” she spoke, taking a shaky step forward. “You will obey me; we will be partners if you are to be mine.”

It’d felt silly to tell a massive wild dragon that it’d obey a girl only in her eighth year of life. There were rumors that Cannibal had been on Dragonstone before Balerion but seeing the dragon this close made that feel wrong. Older than Caraxes, sure, but Vhagar was likely older and larger than Cannibal. Yet the monstrous beast had taken her words well, for it had carefully rose from its place and came before her. Its snout crept to her hand and rested when it’d barely brushed against it. She let go of the breath she’d held the entire time. The wild dragon who’d been seeking her had accepted her and hadn’t been trying to eat her this whole time. Keeping her hand on its snout, she gave it the closest examination she could in the night.

Unlike Syrax’s sleek build or Caraxes’ long neck, Cannibal was a compact and strong looking dragon. Horns decorated his head and spine, slightly darker than the soot black color of its scales. There were fin-like appendages on its limbs, speaking to its ability to possibly swim or skill for hunting fish. It was a beautiful deadly thing and was all Visenya’s.

“I am going to mount you now,” she warned the dragon, “We will take our first flight and you shall be mine until my death.”

Lowering one side, Cannibal presented itself to her. Securing herself in the spot by its neck without horns, she adjusted her seat. It’d be dangerous, she should have a saddle and chains if she was smart. In her mind Jon showed memories of riding dragonback bare, and she steeled herself. If she waited to do this then the bond between rider and dragon wouldn’t form as strong, and that’d be terrible for both of them.

At her command, Cannibal ran across the small clearing and took off into the air. The wind whipped against her face as the bond snapped into place. Cannibal was a male who’d hatched almost a hundred years ago, he was an invaluable source of knowledge as his mind melded with hers. She instantly felt complete in a way she didn’t know wasn’t already true. As one the flew high into the night, curving towards the sea. Cannibal was incredibly gentle with his rider in a way that was surprising to Visenya. So long had he waited for the pull, killing off his competition for a rider. This was all he’d wanted so killing her during their first flight was not his plan. Blackwater Bay looked like a void, no light reflecting back. The lights of King’s Landing being too weak to reach her eyes up this high. She should urge her dragon back to the Red Keep, present herself to her family and beg for forgiveness. Cannibal sensed her hesitation, and dove towards the water, dipping a wing into it. As the cold saltwater sprayed her, Visenya couldn’t contain her giggles. She was a dragonrider, Jon had melded with her, and right now there was nothing else to do but be in the air.

Daemon had never looked worse in her memory. His hair was messily tied back, his lilac eyes wildly scanning over her, and his hand gripping Dark Sister tightly. Visenya had spotted her uncle and Caraxes on a ridge in the Kingswood and had landed Cannibal near them. Daemon had known what had happened apparently, and quickly dismounted his dragon to approach them. Cannibal was releasing this low grumble, recognizing him as the one who’d been chasing him away all this time. Visenya gently stoked his neck, having remained on his back, not yet able to dismount. Her uncle seemed conflicted, his face wearing too many emotions to tell his thoughts. He looked exhausted, and his clothes were obviously the same ones from earlier in the day.

“You said I should claim him soon, Uncle,” she finally broke the silence.

That was the right thing to say, as her uncle erupted into loud laughter. His disbelief at the situation reaching a breaking point. Visenya hadn’t meant to worry him, nor her family at large, but she’d been so emotionally conflicted that remaining with them wasn’t an option. Now she was whole, and at peace, and could face them. Without ever acknowledging their current scenario, Daemon helped guide her to the Dragonpit. There was when Cannibal finally allowed her to dismount and had immediately urged her to let him fly off. She’d get him fitted for a saddle but agreed that he needn’t remain in the Dragonpit.

Visenya hadn’t protested her uncle immediately grabbing her and holding her to him the second he was able. Uncaring of those around them, she relaxed into his arms. Daemon still hadn’t truly spoken to her but she wasn’t worried. He was a tall and strong man, and easily carried her until he needed to mount his horse. Without much fuss, they were soon both riding towards the Red Keep. The speed of Daemon’s riding spoke to his anxiety and fear at having lost her, she’d always been his responsibility in some weird way and he’d failed at keeping her safe. She couldn’t reassure him right now that he hadn’t failed, that she’d been just upset with her sister and her life at that moment. Sitting with her back against his chest, Visenya felt exhaustion creep into her bones. It’d been a long day, her emotions had ran ragged and nothing was left to keep her from closing her eyes.

Within her uncle’s arms she awoke to her parents’ faces crowding over her. Certainly, looking more akin to a feral beast than their precious princess, Visenya was shocked at their tenderness. Her eyes hadn’t fully opened, and she let them think she was still sleeping. Obviously, they’d been worried, but she’d just hoped they hadn’t blamed Daemon too much for her wild escape.

“She claimed the beast then?” her mother’s voice was almost certainly trembling, and her heart ached to give her more proof of her safety.

“Yes, it was like nothing I have ever seen,” Daemon responded, his voice vibrating against her head as he spoke, “She rode him without any saddle or chains as if they’d always been rider and dragon.”

She felt her father’s hand brush hair from her face, “Perhaps it was a mistake to separate them, maybe her outburst was due to not having her own bond with her dragon.”

“We will still be talking about it,” said her mother, “Rhaenyra is very hurt, and I don’t think it can be brushed away.”

Daemon shifted her into an even more comfortable position, and Visenya felt sleep taking over once more, only catching one last sentence. “Visenya was right, you need to confirm Rhaenyra as heir and protect them, brother.”

When Visenya next awoke she wasn’t in her chambers, and there was someone laying next to her. Struggling to fully regain consciousness she turned towards the other body in the bed. Rhaenyra was sitting up and already awake, staring at her as she rubbed at her eyes. It was clear that her sister had been crying, red and puffy eyes, the way her cheeks always flushed the next day even though it’d been hours. Guilt surged through her heart, and she didn’t like her sister open her mouth first.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that when I knew it was going to be hurtful,” she rasped out, fully aware of how thirsty she was at that moment, “I also shouldn’t have ran away. The trip was very nice and it was kind of you to plan it for me.”

Rhaenyra seemed surprised at her heartfelt words, “I was simply going to say that I am glad you lived sister.”

Unable to hold back the snort at her sister’s blunt words, the girls soon devolved into giggles. Both glad to be with each other, and to have resolved the issue. Rhaenyra helped her get ready, a bath had been drawn already and it felt like it had been before Visenya started her training. There’d been a distance placed between the two with her sword lessons. Daemon was Rhaenyra’s favorite person and Visenya capitalized on his time with her lessons. Plus, it meant that the two sisters spent less time together in lessons, meaning her second favorite person was also with her less. Visenya felt awful for not realizing how that had made Rhaenyra feel and resolved to join her sister more often throughout the day. Sitting in the tub together, the sisters finally paused in their conversation. Visenya laid back, keeping her knees close to her chest to give her sister room, and closed her eyes. The water was still steaming, and her wet hair stuck to her neck.

“You were right about Alicent, sister,” Rhaenyra spoke quietly, the switch to Valyrian a testament to her vulnerability, “When we returned to the Keep without you, I was distraught. Both at your words and at your disappearance.”

Visenya had lifted her head, staring at her sister as she continued, “Alicent was there, and she comforted me. She is a true friend who had confided in me that I shouldn’t worry about you since you were already better with a sword then boys twice your age.”

“I thought she was against my training, said it was odd,” Visenya mumbled, recalling the conversation from the day before.

“She told me that she was jealous of how you got to wield a sword, how I got to break the rules, all when her father had made it clear she would be severely punished if she tried half of what we do.” Rhaenyra explained, seemingly upset at her friend’s distress, “I remembered what you said and I told her that I’d be her protector from him.”

Pride swelled in her chest, Jon was there in her mind celebrating his victory, but Visenya was happy her sister had taken her advice. Alicent needed someone that could be her protector and not use her. Rhaenyra could be that person and could have a close friend in return. She leaned forward towards her sister, giving her a smile.

“Dragons are not slaves; you did good to tell Alicent you’d protect her,” she said, reaching to give her hand a squeeze.
Her sister smiled back, and the two finished cleaning up. It was clear their mother had placed Visenya in Rhaenyra’s bed on purpose, to help them mend their broken bond. The only way they could prove it was the dress for Visenya, laid out on a dresser. So, the sisters helped each other dress and do each other’s hair. They looked very similar in matching dresses of lavender silk, though Rhaenyra’s had silver dragons embordered at the hems and Visenya’s had white falcons. A walking tribute to their parents’ marriage that day. For once, Visenya’s hair ran free down her back, with only a simple section tied back on the crown of her head like her sister’s preferred style.

When they arrived to break their fast with their family, it was as if the room lit up in happiness. Regardless of the conflict the sisters had come out more unified, and simply glowed at the knowledge they couldn’t be separated. Their mother was sporting a wide grin seeing their matching clothes and hair. Meanwhile, their father was almost bursting in pride, his two daughters before him as a matching set of beautiful dragonriders. Daemon, to no one’s surprise, was barley aware of their appearance, having been known for not being enjoyable in the morning. With his late night it was not shocking he was more focused on eating than his nieces. The two young girls sat next to each other, and when the meal was done stayed together to hear of Visenya’s punishments and discipline.

After such a euphoric morning with her sister, Visenya was grumbling like Cannibal had last night. Sweating in the training yard, she was brutally, and sloppily, attacking a training dummy. Apparently, her uncle was traveling to Essos, something about a trade deal. It was clear it was some sort of punishment for losing her in the Kingswood. She was upset about it since it wasn’t his fault, and she wasn’t hurt. Besides, Daemon was clearly feeling guilty about the whole ordeal. To make matters worse, she’d be training under Ser Harrold Westerling while he was gone. A part of her punishment was to be given excess chores and tasks around the yard, assigned by her new teacher.
She didn’t want to not have her uncle training her, even if Ser Harrold was a great knight. The older man had been training another boy, his father on the small council if she remembered right, and so she wouldn’t be his main focus. Plus, he’d already assigned her to stuff the dummies and pack them up tonight, and she knew it was because she’d be taking out her anger on them. Though Visenya would have to admit that the knight was likely being fair, and would be a good teacher, it still was not right her uncle left.

A voice broke her focus on her attacks, “I’d wager burning the dummy would be a better release at this point.”

Visenya whirled around, staring down the boy before her. It was the other trainee under Ser Harrold, his squire. The smirk on his face telling his amusement at her massacring the training dummy. She bit her lip as a flush came over her face, embarrassment at being caught. Being a princess meant that she probably should be so obvious with her emotions.

“I was simply ensuring that it’d been stuffed properly,” her mouth moved before she could’ve thought of a better excuse.

“Well, you certainly guaranteed that you could stuff it properly yourself,” the older boy said, his brown hair moving as he examined the poor dummy, “Ser Harrold assigned that chore to you, but I didn’t think it was fair to you since you haven’t done it before.”

Visenya was now more embarrassed, she knew how to stuff them and had come off as an ignorant girl to her fellow student, “Don’t worry, I know how to do it, I just kept this one out for myself.”

The sun was soon going down, and she’d promise to sleep with her sister tonight, so she started to put back her practice sword. Straw had been scattered everywhere; the poor dummy was pretty beat up from her sword work. A hand stopped her, the boy having gotten closer and grabbing her arm. Unbeknownst to her, she’d started crying at some point, and he carefully wiped away a tear. He’d kept his hand on her face, gently stroking her cheek as she looked up at him. Gods, she didn’t even know this boy’s name and he’d seen her crying and was now comforting her.

“I can stuff this last one, you should take a moment to calm down,” He said softly, “My older sister is back home, and when I saw you, I knew she’d have killed me if I didn’t help.”

Visenya felt her face move into a small smile, “She must be a good sister to teach you to help young maidens in distress.”

“Aye, the best. Go on, I’ll clean up, Princess,” he urged her, releasing his grip on her arm and removing his other hand from her face.

“I am afraid I don’t know my savior’s name,” she said, wanting to be able to thank him at a later time for his kindness.

He smiled at her, his green eyes warm and shining, “Harwin, it’s Harwin, heir of House Strong,” finishing his sentence with a bow.

Her laugh at his antics filled her ears, and she curtsied to him, “I shall never forget my dearest savior, and when you become a knight, I shall give you my favor for your honorable deeds.”

That night Visenya laid curled up at Rhaenyra’s side. Her sister’s soft snores filling the quiet of the room, she was sleeping soundly. Fully at peace, the younger sister was dreaming vividly. Unlike her older sister it wasn’t about dragons, no, she was dreaming of a knight. This knight was wearing the finest armor, and carried her favor, and had won a tourney for her. The crown of flowers naming her the Queen of Love and Beauty were beautiful blue roses. Sweet scent drifted to her and filled her with equal parts hope and longing. Contently, she wiggled closer to her sister, who instinctively wrapped her arms around her. The two princesses remained that way for the rest of the night, sleeping peacefully interwined together.

Chapter Text

Traditions were important to uphold and maintain. No order would exist without following age-old tradition, and if one were to abandon them, they would suffer for it. They were in place for a reason. Knowledge and wisdom were gifted to those who followed, especially those who did without complaint. The same applied to the Faith, the Seven-Pointed Star would guide one’s path to greatness if they were dutiful followers.

When Alicent was brought to court she was very young and had accepted these ideas as complete truth. Her father would not lie to her; thus, she followed his rule without question. Befriending Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t a hard request, she quite liked the other girl. The ease of which those first couple requests were completable had made her content with them. Friction started occurring with the one about Princess Visenya, “Make Princess Rhaenyra think that Princess Visenya is wrong for her sword lessons.”

That didn’t go over well with Rhaenyra, nor did it make the two sisters dislike each other. It actually did the opposite, leaving Alicent behind in some respects. For a couple of moons, she felt a step behind the two princesses. Only being included on the promise of telling them about what was happening within her family. It hurt, but she’d understood, and gave away information to the two girls freely. Her father was still pressing at a different angle to separate the two princesses, something about their uncle, Prince Daemon’s departure from King’s Landing. To be honest, it left a bad taste in Alicent’s mouth to be whispering these things in her friend’s ear. She’d rejected the use of dragonfire to deal with her father so far but it didn’t mean she had a solution. As of the last conversation between them, Alicent was decently certain that she’d be disowned, or that the Seven hated her for not following her father’s orders.

“You aren’t doomed, I don’t listen to my own father and he’s the king. If I’d been strike down for it then you should be worried,” Rhaenyra spoke, disrupting Alicent’s sulking over the issue.

The other girl was braiding her hair, the dark red tresses in her hands, “It is different for you, you are a princess who has worth outside of yourself. I am expected to be my father’s dutiful daughter, and he is in charge of my marriage.”

On the other side of the room a soft snort came, “Alicent, I know it’s unbelievable to you, but we will keep you safe from him,” said Visenya, the young girl looking up from the book she was reading on the lounge.

“It is just difficult to see how that is possible, I am going to be flowered within this year. Marriage and betrothals happen often when girls are flowered and past thirteen namedays,” Alicent insisted, frustration bubbling at the two other girls’ dismissals of her concerns.

Suddenly, white-silver hair invaded her view, Rhaenyra was leaning her head over hers and letting her hair fall into her face, “You and I are barely past our eleventh nameday, not even of majority, you won’t be doomed to wed so soon.”

Alicent settled down a bit, and Rhaenyra went back to braiding her hair into an updo that she wanted to show her maids. Something about a crown of braids to show strength, maybe she’d place the jewels that she wanted to have for it. It wasn’t uncommon for this to happen, Alicent modeling the styles Rhaenyra wanted but couldn’t explain. Words were hard for her friend to use to explain things like hairstyles and dresses, but easy for her when discussing battles and histories. Alicent thought it might be because Rhaenyra’s mother was often confined in her rooms due to her health. The language of courtly hair and dress unknown to the girls until they were told by the maids that assisted them. Doing things like this made Alicent feel warm inside, she had found a true friend in Rhaenyra, especially after confessing her jealous at the other’s freedom. She knew that confiding about her father’s plots in the girl wasn’t a smart move, but it was better than being lonely. Isolating herself and her friend from other people was likely to doom them and prevent any good from happening. Now she could speak freely about her own struggles with her friend and didn’t fear retaliation from her father – to an extent.

“I think I have an idea,” Visenya’s voice cut through Alicent’s thoughts, “You should assemble your own group of ladies in waiting and include Alicent in it.”

Rhaenyra paused in her braiding for a moment, “I suppose with mother’s ladies all gone due to her health it’d be understandable for me to have my own.”

Visenya came to join them by the vanity, “Also, it means that it gives Alicent’s hand in marriage to the crown, not her father’s.”

“What do you mean?” Alicent’s mind was racing, she’d never heard this aspect of being a lady-in-waiting, “I thought it just increased a woman’s dowry.”

“Your father is a second son of a house that isn’t wealthy like the Lannisters or the Velaryons, he’d be in the crown’s debt for the honor and it is custom to give the match to the crown in repayment,” Visenya’s hands joined in with her sister’s helping finish the braid. Alicent chose to ignore the chills at having both princesses act as her maid, their fingers running through her hair. She ignored the slight dig at her family's wealth, which likely outweighed that of the Velaryons and was older than the Lannisters.

“It’d be perfect, I could even get Cousin Laena back in our circle,” Rhaenyra mused, stepping back to admire her work, “You are better at this plotting sister, you should help choose my ladies.”

At this, Visenya hesitated, “Actually, I think you should do that. I think I should foster at the Vale with our cousin, Lady Jeyne Arryn.”

Alicent’s and Rhaenyra’s heads turned to the other girl. Alicent took in her flush at their combined attentions, her dress was black and embroidered with dragon scales around her shoulders and down the sleeves. It was a small detail that the younger sister preferred the black of House Targaryen’s colors, but Alicent always thought it strange such a young and strong girl would be so darkly dressed. Visenya’s hands were messing with her sleeves, the silence stretching on between the girls.

“You’d leave Mother? You’d leave me?” Rhaenyra finally asked, voice unsteady.

“It was Mother that mentioned it, that’d it gets me away from court and allow the Arryns to see me,” Visenya stepped towards her sister, “I would leave to make the court wonder at a fracture of our family, then you’d gain allies and power and I’d come back to them seeing you as the heir to the throne.”

Alicent knew that Rhaenyra wasn’t officially the heir to the throne, there was always a chance it’d go to a possible future brother, or gods forgive, Prince Daemon. Yet, never did the two princesses act as if any other situation was possible. She supposes that means she should be planning to have the future with Rhaenyra as queen, but it was hard to think that when they were so young still.

Rhaenyra placed her hands on her sister’s shoulders, “Just don’t leave before I have my ladies-in-waiting with me, I shall be too lonely if Alicent is busy without me.”

Just like that the girls were giggling, and the tension was gone before it started. Alicent saw herself in the looking glass with the two girls’ grinning faces behind her. It was a happy image, and she hoped that Visenya wouldn’t be gone too long. She’d never let herself be close to anyone other than her family and that didn’t stop her from ensuring Alicent’s protection. Shame, truly, that Alicent had listened to her father’s poisonous words for so long. He’d never understand the simple joys of girlhood and would never see it’s worth.

Alicent nervously smoothed her dress down while standing outside her father’s solar. The embroidery around her wrists was of Cannibal, the black thread almost unnoticeable on the dark gray dress. Hightower colors were of green, dark gray, and white, so to appease her father Alicent wore them most often. Visenya, in her quiet way, noticed that Alicent was a little jealous at the bright dresses of the princesses. She’d stolen Alicent’s least favorite dress and embroidered little images of Cannibal on the hems, only small uses of green thread to tell that there was a secret message within the dress.

“I may not be my sister, but I don’t want you to feel alone,” Visenya had said after presenting the dress to her, “Cannibal keeps me safe, so he will keep you safe too.”

Readying herself to speak to her father Alicent hoped the dragon of thread would provide strength. In the weeks since the plan to have Rhaenyra make her a lady-in-waiting the girls had struggled with how to best remove Alicent from her father. Visenya argued that they’d simply approach the king and ask for her to be moved to the family wing. Rhaenyra didn’t present any true plan, just started moving her belongings into her own chambers. Alicent knew that the best option was to face it head on, and with some light scheming created the story for the three girls. It was in those weeks that she’d gotten closer to Visenya, the younger girl giving different scenarios to prepare for and prevent disaster. Alicent welcomed the preparation, Rhaenyra was more likely to plan a trip to the kitchens than her future.

“Come in,” her father’s voice finally called from inside.

Alicent opened the heavy door, and shut it behind her, the guards simply staring ahead. She knew what this conversation was going to be about, they’d purposely kept their whispers quiet. The Small Counsel would have been informed of the selection of ladies-in-waiting for the young princess, and the amount of coin expected to pass hands in the coming months. It’d likely irked her father to not know of this beforehand.

“How are you today, Father?” Alicent asked, keeping her voice small, as she sat across her father in his desk.

He just continued reading over some papers, barely glancing at her when he spoke, “I felt caught a little unaware today in the Small Counsel meeting.”

Alicent chose to keep quiet at that, simply staring at the wall behind his head. There was a banner for the Hightowers, and she could keep better focus on it than his face.

“Did you know what the Princess was planning to do?” her father sighed, finally looking up, “Why didn’t you tell me that she wished to have ladies-in-waiting?”

“She only mentioned it in passing before today, Father,” she said, moving her eyes to look upon the dragons dancing along the hems of her skirts.

He sat up in his desk, and leaned closer to her, “Was there a reason for not telling me of that mention daughter?”

Nervously, Alicent started to pick at her fingers, “It didn’t seem serious, I mean she rarely sets her mind to something that requires such work.”

That was true to an extent, Rhaenyra struggled to keep her focus on one thing. It was why she never took to training like her sister, the routine too strict for a girl so free. This didn’t mean that when it mattered, she wouldn’t step up and do her duty. Rhaenyra had carefully chosen all the ladies with only minimal help from the Queen.

“Hm, I don’t doubt that, but you must see why this was important to tell me,” her father’s voice took on a slight sympathetic tone, “I mean, did you even know she chose you as one of her ladies?”

Alicent made sure to fake a note of surprise, like she hadn’t known, and her father continued, pleased with her reaction, “The Princess chose you, and not her own sister.”

“In fact, her sister is planning to go foster in the Vale for at least a year, if not longer,” Alicent actually had a bit of shock creep to her face, they’d planned for half a year, not that long.

Her father circled around his desk, and came to stand before her, “I am proud of you, you might not have been the most dutiful in reporting this, but you have accomplished your goal,”

He gently held her face in his hands, “Separating the princesses in a way that both the King and Queen approve, it is brilliant,” his lips brushed her forehead, and Alicent almost enjoyed the rare affection for a moment.

“You know what happens next, my dear? You need to become the Princess’ closest confidant, keep her to yourself as you are best able,” Alicent forced a nod at her father’s words.

A hand came to stroke her hair, “Alicent, you have made me proud, and I wish your mother was here to see her brilliant daughter grow as you have.”

Inside she was warring with herself, the sheer joy at her plan working and the pure despair at her father’s actions almost too much. She forced a smile onto her face in response to his words. Her mother was likely rolling in her grave at her daughter becoming a political pawn. It wasn’t fair to her; she was supposed to be worried about flowers and lessons. Now she felt herself growing into a female image of her father. What was she doing now if not manipulating and scheming like he did? Worries of hurting her friends the way she’d been hurt flooded her mind. Would she become like her father?

Taking her leave, Alicent walked back to her chambers with watery eyes and a mind overflowing with thoughts. No, she promised herself, I will not become my father. She’d simply have to become better than him. Beating him at his own game, being more prepared, better situated, and unable to be used by him. It was wonderous what a person could do with the backing of a dragon.

The court’s eyes remained on her and the girls surrounding her. It was jarring, rarely was Alicent ever a girl of note to a majority of the court. Today was the day that Rhaenyra’s ladies would be debuting at court, and while King Viserys and Queen Aemma were kind, the courtiers were not the same. They’d spent moons planning this exact moment, and here it was.

Rhaenyra was standing to the right of the Iron Throne; her dress was a breathtaking creation with her jewels shining in the light of the throne room. Black lace layered over deep red silk made it clear that not only was she a princess, but she was also a Targaryen. Her hair was in the crown braid style they’d been practicing all those nights ago, and Alicent knew it was done as a nod to their friendship. Her heart warmed at the tiara woven into her friend’s hair, she’d mentioned that it was her favorite of the royal tiaras. It was as if the girl was making a silent statement that she was doing this to support her friend to the entire realm. Alicent felt a flush take over her body and turned to look at Visenya.

The youngest Targaryen family member had decided to show a more feminine side to the court. It was going to be announced that she was to be fostered in the Vale, by her mother’s family and she’d been dressed to represent that. Alicent recalled many moments of pouting at the Queen banning black from the outfit her daughter would be wearing. The choice was a good one though, and the princess was shining. Soft white silks had been draped in a crossed pattern across the girl’s chest, flowing freely once past her waist. There was a light blue cape attachment, with delicate silver to attach it to the rest of the gown. Hidden within the folds of the dress along the hem was embordered dragons, each meant to represent a family member. Strong and lean arms were on display with the cut of the cape not covering her fully. A warrior and princess at once, strength and beauty. Alicent spotted the jewelry her and Laena Velaryon had picked out, with the delicate circlet woven into a simple half up style. Visenya’s hair was shorter than her sister’s, reaching just past her shoulders and wavy, but still was gorgeous in the light of the throne room.

Slowly, the announcement of the girls’ names came. As their names were called, each girl would walk up to the throne, curtsey, and take their place alongside Rhaenyra. Each one was meticulously styled, and Alicent had spent many hours with the two princesses coordinating them. The funds allocated to these gowns and styles were massive compared to what they’d been given before. This was one of the most important moments of their lives, and hopefully each girl would be perfect.

"Presenting Laena Velaryon, daughter of Lord Corlys Velaryon, and Princess Rhaenys Targaryen,” the announcer called. The first of the ladies due to her relation to Rhaenyra, and the one first to arrive. Alicent had grown fond of the fiery young girl in the moons they’d spent together. Her gown was a brilliant sea-green, complimenting her darker skin well. She carried herself proudly, and her parents watched with glowing approval from the sides of the throne room.

“Presenting Ryella Baratheon, daughter of Lord Boremund Baratheon,” came the next call. It’d been carefully arranged so that the daughters of the great houses were first, the honor being bestowed upon them correctly. Ryella had been one of the earliest to arrive and had been as loud and boisterous as a storm. Her riotous black curls were only partially pulled back, her golden gown tightly fitted until it came to the voluminous skirts. Alicent hadn’t gotten too close to the girl, the older girl much more inclined to horse riding and adventures than her. Rhaenyra had gotten on well with her though, and Alicent was nervous to see the plots carried out by them in the future.

“Presenting Donella Tully, daughter of Late Lord Gonzo Tully, granddaughter of Lord Grover Tully,” the announcer’s voice crowed again. The court had been muttering in approval of Ryella’s good looks, and they continued when seeing Donella. One of the later arrivals, Alicent feared she wouldn’t be able to bond with the girl in the short amount of time they had before being officially ladies-in-waiting. Her fears subsided when the older girl had asked to join her in the sept. They were fast friends, both devout to the Faith, and far more bookish than the other girls. It was nice to have such a friend, even if Alicent felt her own beauty pale in comparison. Tully red hair, and delicate freckles spotting across a sloped nose bridge made Donella one of the prettiest girls she’d ever seen. The blue of her gown reminded her of the sea, with fish scale embroidery on the quarter sleeves providing some detail. Pearls decorated the bodice and served as earrings and a necklace. Alicent had helped with her hair, doing twists and braids to show off her Riverlands heritage.

Alicent took a deep breath, her dress was feeling a bit tight as she knew more eyes were on her. To her left stood the eldest daughter of Lord Lyonel Strong, Jeyne was the oldest of girls to be serving as a lady-in-waiting. She was an older sister through and through, protecting each girl immediately upon meeting them. Alicent thought she’d spotted her even giving her brother, Harwin, a dressing down about manners after he’d bested Visenya in the training yard. Her younger sister was to serve Visenya in the Vale, but Elaena was far more excitable than her sister.

Jeyne took her hand in hers discreetly, “You are one of the most beautiful and smart girls in the realm, and you will show everyone here that today,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off the front of the throne room. It was a kind show of support, and Alicent gave her hand a small squeeze.

She’d missed the announcement of Cerelle Lannister, a daughter of the minor branch of House Lannister. Her golden curls were in an elaborate updo, glittery clips and pins with rubies scattered throughout. The crimson fabric of her dress was incredibly fine, the golden pattern weaved in was of roaring lions. Her family’s wealth may be less than that of the Velaryons’ at the moment, but the Lannister’s was older than even that of the current ruling family. Cerelle herself was closer to Laena and Visenya in age but held the confidence of women twice her age. She was naïve, but prideful of her beauty and family. Alicent hadn’t quite figured her out, but she wouldn’t be a bad companion in the coming years.

"Presenting Gwyneth Manderly, daughter of Lord Desmond Manderly,” was the next call. The Northern girl was interesting, seeming able to seek out information and schemes with ease. She’d been the last to arrive but had corresponded with Alicent specifically on her gown of aquamarine and green. The white lace trimming the hems reminded Alicent of sea foam, and the girl had kept her jewelry simple. Her straw-blonde hair was in a simple braid, a nod to northern hairstyles. There was an unspoken comradery between them, both knew the other to be clever. Alicent hoped to make her an ally and learn from her on how to embrace the feminine side of a noblewoman. By far, the oldest girl aligned with who she wanted to be in her future, strong and pretty, with her own allies.

With one last squeeze to her hand, Jeyne straightened herself and departed, the announcer calling both her and her sister at once. The two girls walked forward arm and arm, their long brown hair falling down their backs in gorgeous curls. Jeyne’s gown was a soft white, silk falling down over a skirt of blue, red, and green. Her confidence and surety shown through to the court and made Alicent instinctively better her posture. Elaena on the other hand was wearing a gown of blue silk over laid on white and green skirts. The trim of her skirts and sleeves was in red, a good way to incorporate her house colors. The young girl’s dress was cut into a youthful and childish form, and her smile was one that charmed the courtiers. Their father was standing off to the side, next to her own father, and was nodding his head in approval at them. Once they’d reached the throne and curtsied, they separated with Elaena joining Visenya’s side. Alicent’s hands were trembling but she held them to her sides, lifting her chin forward.

“Lastly, presenting Alicent Hightower, daughter of Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King,” called the announcer, clearly relieved to be finished with the long list of names. Alicent’s feet were moving before she fully comprehended the action. Keeping her eyes glued on Rhaenyra, her dearest friend gave her a smile.

Alicent’s face morphed into a smile of her own to reflect her friend’s. They’d done it, and once she was up there, they’d be together for as long as possible. Her gown was a dark green, more dramatic than she’d wanted but with two princesses helping it was expected to be extravagant. Being called last was a position of honor, every eye would be on her. The train of the gown was trimmed in a dove gray lace, and the sleeves that flared out past her elbows were the same. Secretly, Alicent’s favorite part of the gown was the dragon embroidered on her neckline. Syrax roared and twirled on her chest, a symbol of her rider’s appreciation.

\Her curtesy was deep, and she kept her face on the King and Queen. Off to her right her father’s eyes bored into her skull. Queen Aemma gave a bright grin towards her daughter’s closest friend. Once at Rhaenyra’s side, her friend reached down and took a hold of her hand.

“You shone brighter than any other,” her friend whispered, “I am so proud of you, so grateful to have you here.”

Heart set to burst at the love swelling inside of it, Alicent gave a squeeze to her friend’s hand. They’d surrounded themselves with girls of their age, powerful alliances would be birthed here in the coming years. Never would they have to relay on a man’s help going forward, they’d forge their own position of power. Alicent was gladdened to see the approval on the faces of the courts. Many would remain hesitant to have Rhaenyra as heir to the throne but they’d come to see her worth. The feasting afterwards almost paled in comparison to this simple moment, the joy was sweet on her tongue.

All good moments must come to an end eventually, and less than two moons from the date of her presentation to court Alicent was wishing Visenya goodbye. In the courtyard was the group of ladies and the royal family. Prince Daemon had returned suddenly to see off his niece, and likely to pretend to give any thoughts to his wife in the Vale. Alicent stood with Gwyneth on her right, and Jeyne on her left. She would miss the youngest princess but understood the importance of this fostering.

“Mother, I promise you, I will write often, and Lady Jeyne has already sent assurances about keeping me to my word,” Visenya spoke, her mother holding her face in her hands.

The Queen had tears streaking down her face, “Can I not worry for my youngest daughter? When you arrive remember to read my letter, it has tales of my childhood in the Eyrie.”

Rhaenyra was stood by her father’s side, both of their goodbyes given partially in private that morning, and their public ones less notable than the Queen’s. Daemon was set to escort his niece to the Dragonpit, where Cannibal was ready for the journey to the Vale. Alicent held back her mirth at the memory of Visenya, Rhaenyra, and Laena desperately attempting to explain to the wild dragon the purpose of a saddle and saddlebags. It wasn’t often she was comfortable around the great beasts, but the humor at the sight was too great to make her scared.

“I still think Jeyne cried more when Elaena set off,” Gwyn whispered into her ear, making Alicent smile minutely.

Jeyne reached behind her to flick at Gwyn’s arm, “My sister doesn’t have a dragon on the journey there, of course I would be emotional.”

Attempting to ignore the whisper argument occurring behind her back, Alicent sent a soft smile to Rhaenyra. Her friend was attempting to guide her sister into her uncle’s arms, the similarity of the two shocking her for a moment.

Daemon and Visenya were two sides of the same Targaryen coin. Their long pale hair was tied back into the same riding style, and both were outfitted with black scale-like leather armor. The one difference between them, outside of the differences of age and sex, was that Visenya had a cloak of dark red. Her silver clasps shone in the sun, and Alicent startled to recognize the Seven-Pointed Star reflect light back to her. She must admit, seeing the clasps that had gone missing two days past from her rooms on the princess wasn’t filling her with annoyance. Visenya liked to pretend that she wouldn’t miss her family but had slowly stole certain items to remind her of them. A falcon necklace from her mother’s childhood, one of her father’s figurines from his model city, Rhaenyra’s favorite earrings, the last one was the cause of a fight not a few hours past, and finally, Daemon’s dagger that was usually strapped to his thigh. Alicent had watched that act of theft with her own eyes and assumed the spree of crime was finished. To be included with Visenya’s blood family was comforting and made her feel good. She’d been a good friend and was important enough to be worth stealing an item from.

With one last hug, Visenya was hoisted up in front of Prince Daemon on his black stallion. The gates opened to let them leave, and the girls started waving to Visenya. She spun around to peak at them from the saddle and waved back.

“Don’t let Rhaenyra miss me too much!” she shouted at the last moment, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

At once the courtyard erupted into laughter, and Rhaenyra herself flushed red. Alicent approached her friend and embraced her. The formality fading with that last comment, the girls drifted around them.

“She has a point,” Alicent said, holding Rhaenyra’s arms, “You looked like you’d perish the second she took to the air.”

Rhaenyra gave a smile back, “I suppose we must listen to my sister’s words; everyone should do their very best to keep be pleased and joyful until she returns,” the last part was directed to everyone, and more giggles filled the air.

“Worry not my dear, the kitchens are prepared to make lemon cakes for at least the next two moons!” boomed King Viserys’ voice across the courtyard. His arm was wrapped around his wife’s waist, and both of them were grinning.

Alicent linked her arm through Rhaenyra’s, and started the trek inside, “We should immediately get some for the Princess!” called Laena’s high-pitched voice, “A good sailor flees the storm as it gathers but I think we could divert it with the cakes!”

The noise of giggles and joy carried them through the day. Alicent did her best to keep her friend from her sorrows of her sister’s departure. Their new friends and companions understood the goal well, each one of them taking the time to distract Rhaenyra in the coming days. Laena joining her for dragon flights, Gwyn telling stories from the North, Jeyne forcing her brothers perform a play for them, Rhyella taking them out riding, Cerelle attempting to have a day of pampering that ended in the biggest mess ever seen in the Red Keep, and Donella singing lovely songs for the group. Alicent though, didn’t do much else besides guide Rhaenyra to the Godswood to sit and talk. Visenya had often frequented the Godswood, and they felt her presence strongest there. Leaning with her back against the Weirwood tree, Alicent ran her fingers though her friend’s hair. Rhaenyra’s head was in her lap, eyes closed, as she talked of the latest news in court. It was a moment of happiness, and one Alicent yearned to live in forever. This peace should last a long time, especially if she had any say in it.

Chapter Text

Inside of herself the influence of Jon’s memories and desires still weighed heavy. Which is how she ended up being fostered at the Eyrie like Ned Stark was as a child. It wasn’t a bad decision to have made, but it definitely wasn’t going to make the hurts of a child long gone be healed. Still, she found herself enjoying the Vale, the childhood home of both her mother and Jon’s own father.

It’d been only two moons or so since her arrival to the seat of House Arryn. While her cousin had welcomed her with open arms, Visenya had felt herself dissatisfied with the arrangement. Jeyne was kind and sweet, which her constant companion Jessamyn Redfort shared. The issue came with being more like her Targaryen family than her Arryn mother. The Vale was known for their knights, of course Visenya was certain to be an avid watcher of the training yard. This placed her at odds with her lady cousin, the fifteen-year-old more enamored with poetry and music than steel. It wasn’t fair of Visenya to place judgement on her preferences, yet she was starting to feel a little stifled by the constant focus on womanly pursuits. Needles poking holes in fabric could only hold her focus for so long.

That was how she ended up here, in the training yard with Lord Yorbert Royce and his daughter, Rhea. Of course, she was acutely aware of her uncle’s failings as a husband, but that didn’t stop the woman from seeing her as her own person. That history though meant she wasn’t exactly a kind teacher, nor was her father.

“Again,” yelled Yorbert, “Guard your left side more or else you’ll find yourself dead, Princess!”

Rhea was brutal with her swings, at only ten Visenya was still using blunted blades. The practice swords left bruises and welts all over her pale skin and hurt especially bad when her opponent got her in her side. Swiftly side stepping the next attack aimed at her side, Visenya attempted to get in her own hit. The other woman easily blocked it, and quickly circled back to the offensive. Visenya’s arms were tired, it was nearing mid-day and she’d been out here since dawn. She needed to think about how to best fight and finish this spar.

‘You are light, she is not as fast as you are,’ came an echo of Jon’s voice in her mind, ‘Use this against her to counter her attacks.’ Visenya immediately lifted her sword to block a hit aimed at her left, sorting out the advice from the two men in her head.

With a grunt Visenya aimed a hit at Rhea’s right side, purposely leaving her left open. Expecting the incoming attack at her open side, she quick spun her sword around herself, catching the hilt of Rhea’s sword. Sweat was dripping off her brow, and the next step was crucial to finish this spar. As quick as possible Visenya wrenched her sword arm up, ducking underneath Rhea’s arm to dodge the incoming blow. Swift steps launched her behind the older woman, bringing her to the unprotected back of her opponent. Aching arms raised her practice blade to the side of her neck.

“Do you yield?” Visenya’s voice showed her exhaustion.

“Aye, I yield,” grumbled Rhea, the woman turning to face her with a glum look on her face. Visenya hoped this wouldn’t make the other woman dislike her.

Wiping the sweat from her brow Visenya attempted to make amends, “I appreciate your assistance in my training, you are a great warrior.”

An unreadable expression crossed Rhea’s face, like she hadn’t fully understood the comment. Just as doubt was bubbling over inside herself, a hand was outstretched. Visenya grinned while shaking her hand.

“Good, now Princess collect the practice blades, Lady Jeyne requests your presence at lunch,” Yorbert’s voice cut through the good mood. With a groan, Visenya set to returning the yard to its original state. Luckily, they hadn’t used any dummies, so she didn’t have to repair any.

When she returned to her chambers, Elaena was waiting for her. A tub of steaming water sat in the corner. The scent of the fancy oils that her cousin had given her floated through the air. While she wasn’t the best at being a lady, she could appreciate the baths and pampering that came with being in the Vale.

“I hope it wasn’t too tiring, Your Grace,” came Elaena’s voice. Visenya had her back turned and was untying her padded training jerkin.

“You know I ask you to refer to me as Visenya in private, you’ve seen me face some truly humbling losses in the yard and deserve the privilege for staying by my side despite them,” she grumbled back. Arms shaking, she tugged the jerkin over her head.

“Yes, but you have also beaten my brother bloody, and that alone makes me loyal and gracious to you,” Elaena’s hands joined her in the removal of her clothes, gently helping with her tunic.

Once nude, Visenya immediately sank into the bath. The heat of it made her groan in relief. Her muscles ached and burned with her more rigorous training routine. When she was home it was different, she was a delicate porcelain doll to many, and it held her back in her training. The lack of friendliness between the Royce family and her uncle made it easier to convince them to go harder on her. Rhaenyra needed a protector and Visenya refused to let it be some man without honor.

Fingers suddenly threaded themselves through her braid, “If I had hair like yours, I wouldn’t keep it up as much as you do,” Elaena spoke, untangling her long hair to be washed.

“Yours is wonderful enough, don’t fret on it,” Visenya tiredly responded.

“Yes, but you have the most beautiful hair,” her friend continued, “I am glad you never fight me on the way I want to style it.”

Visenya snorted at this, knowing she preened at her hair being played with, “Unlike you, who acts half a beast when I braid yours.”

A friendly light smack landed on her shoulder for the comment, “You pull it too tight on my head! It is a reasonable reaction.”

Instead of defending her braiding skills, Visenya simply went under water. Once her hair and body clean, she was sat in front of the mirror to be properly arranged. With a quick efficiency her hair was being styled. Elaena was a good choice to have with her in the Vale. She’d feared being so far from home without anyone to be with her but Elaena was a great comfort. The girl was of the same age as her and was as enjoyable as her siblings. Like her father, Visenya was fond of House Strong as a whole. Jeyne was a good choice to help her sister, Elaena was a dear friend now. Larys had once caught her in the library struggling with histories, and in his calm voice had explained it to her. Though, everyone knew she had a favorite, which was Harwin.

That first night she had met him she’d been glued to his side in the training yard. Oft following behind him like a duckling. Jon’s memories made her think of Arya and him in Winterfell, but this was different. In a possible future her sister would birth three of his children and weaken her claim to the throne with that act. Hopefully that could be avoided, Harwin was too good of a friend to die in flames. Besides, in the letter he’d sent his sister he’d included his own to her. It meant the world that she’d made a friend outside of being a princess. Plus, he never doubted her sword fighting abilities when training with her. That alone made him important to her.

“Stop dreaming of my brother,” Elaena’s voice cut through her thoughts, “You need to choose a dress.”

It was pointless to protest the accusations, for she had been thinking of Harwin, so Visenya turned to look at her options. She looked at her friend’s gown, one that was technically hers but had suited her friend’s warmer complexion. It was a lovely pink shade with gold detailing, and with a note of humor Visenya noticed her friend was wearing earrings she’d gifted her upon her arrival to the Eyrie. Acknowledging that, her choice was a blue gown of a similar cut and style. Her necklace, which was her mother’s and had been nabbed for her own use, would work well with it.

On the walk to Jeyne’s solar, Visenya thought of her dear mother. It was that part of her that was still Jon that had been starved for a mother’s love. Certainly, her mother had fulfilled that desire twice over. She’d spent the most time by her side out of any other family member. That included her wayward uncle when he was training her. Needlework and High Valyrian was learned in her mother’s chambers. Soft and gentle touches with plenty time dedicated to her and her alone. Jon was most content in those moments, never whispering in her mind about the future that could come to pass. Of course, she knew what had happened in the future Jon had lived. If she could prevent it, she would, but there was only so much that could change. Adverting the Dance was the biggest issue, and she’d taken steps to foster better relations for her sister. Glancing at the stone walls that had held both her mother and Ned Stark, she whispered a promise to herself. Their deaths would not be in vain, hopefully they would not come to pass either.

Entering the immaculate solar, Visenya and Elaena took their places across from Jeyne and Jessamyn. The lunch was one for a lady, small sandwiches, and delicate cakes. Grinning, Visenya spotted heavier fare placed where she usually sat. It was nice to be cared for.

“How was your training today, Cousin?” came Jeyne’s soft voice.

Preparing her plate while she spoke, she responded, “I think I have made progress in my goals, Lord and Lady Royce are most accomplished warriors.”

Elaena’s face had mirth play across it, obviously aware of the animosity between the two families. Having been the one who saw most of her bruises and scrapes, her friend was most in the know of the bitter feelings of her trainers.

“It is very kind of them to assist you in your training,” said Jessamyn, the redhead was carefully tiptoeing around the unspoken tension.

“Personally, I was shocked they even let you speak to them,” Jeyne cut through, not fond of the vague platitudes, “I mean, Prince Daemon is not exactly the shining example of House Targaryen like you are.”

Internally, Visenya was aware that she should probably be offended at the comment. She’d kept her face in a picture of serenity and took a bite of her food to hold off on replying. It wasn’t like her cousin was lying, her uncle was a terrible husband to Rhea Royce, and was a bad diplomat in the Vale. Not for the first time did she wonder what her great-grandmother was doing by arranging that particular marriage. Also in her mind was those whispers of Targaryen madness, Jon hadn’t fully accepted being a Targaryen and was constantly aware of the downfall of their family.

Straightening up in her seat, Visenya carefully responded, “My dear uncle has definitely had his failings as a husband, but he is still family and still a member of the royal family.”

Jeyne gave her a nod, acknowledging the good political response from her cousin. The conversation was hitting a lull, but Jeyne would not let it fall into silence, “In the future, I want you to join me in my yearly visits to my bannermen, cousin.”

“I appreciate the honor, cousin. Correct me if I am mistaken, but that is almost 10 moons away currently?” Visenya asked, seeing that this was her cousin’s show of royal backing to the Vale. Her succussion was often in question, and it’d be beneficial to have a princess at her side for this visit.

Jeyne gave another nod, “Yes, it gives us time to whip you into shape as a good lady,” Jessamyn at her side gave a shocked look at the statement.

Meanwhile, Visenya felt her face burn. It was correct, for all that she practiced her blade and Valyrian, she lacked in more womanly arts. She was nearing her tenth nameday and would be past her eleventh before she’d leave the Vale. Elaena was snickering at her side, fully aware of her failings as a lady. Giving her acceptance at the future being filled with needlework, etiquette lessons, and learning the politics of womanhood. Never would she leave herself unprepared for her future, not like before.

In the following nine moons, Visenya grew close with her female companions. Especially after her uncle had gotten exiled from court for some trivial matter. It hurt to not receive a letter from him to explain why. She’d dutifully written her family at least once a moon and had done so with individual letters to each member. Daemon rarely responded, asking only after her health, and not giving updates to his own life. Alicent was the person to give more context, writing that court gossip pointed to his request for Visenya to have her fostering cut short due to his feelings of his lady wife’s relationship with her. The rumors were definitely kept quiet, as Rhea hadn’t said anything to her during her training. Rhaenyra was much more interested in talking about her pranks and adventures with her ladies. Visenya knew it was likely her sister’s feelings had been hurt by their uncle’s absence and had been unable to put it to ink.

Between busy lessons and her constant writing of letters, Visenya started taking to the skies. Her tenth nameday had been a quiet affair, except for the arrival of a two-person saddle as a gift from her uncle and sister. It’d pleased her to have that gift, but she knew it was mostly through her sister’s will. That didn’t stop her from fully using the gift to her heart’s content. Elaena lived up to her name and had gripped her so strongly while they took the first flight on it that Visenya feared her ribs had broken.

Now it was time for the visits to the Lords of the Vale. Having spent nine moons being battered in training with a sword, and verbally for her shoddy manners, Visenya was certain she was better prepared than anyone could’ve expected. The work of her cousin and her lady was immaculate and had surpassed their expectations. Where Jeyne was almost cruel in her bluntness, Jessamyn was all soft words and encouragement. All in all, it was no question who ended up her favorite of the two girls.

"You look for your dragon?” came Jessamyn’s soft voice as she joined Visenya on the battlements of the Eyrie.

Turning her head to look at the redhead, Visenya felt Jon start in her mind at the similarity to his sister. Both redheads had lived in the Eyrie for a time, but Jessamyn had a much more enjoyable time. “I wish to ride him one more time, before I am stuck on horseback.”

The older girl let out a soft laugh, “I shall never understand you and Elaena, the dragon is literally named Cannibal!”

Visenya just gave a grin, taking in the view of the other girl in the sun. It wasn’t the first time that she was sent to the memories of Jon, seeing Sansa Stark as she would’ve been in the Vale. All long red hair surrounded by nothing but stone and blue sky. Another part of her heart tugged at the mere sight of red hair, but Jessamyn’s was far darker and more tamed than Jon’s old lovers. Being six namedays older than Visenya herself, Jessamyn was more of a woman than a girl. She radiated such bright energy that it cut through any brooding to be had. Seeing her and Jeyne was a sight of such happiness that Visenya couldn’t help but mourn the loss of her own freedom to choose her lifelong partner.

“He is gentle, his name betrays him,” Visenya finally responded, her gaze returning to the sky, “We’ve bonded deeper than was expected, he is much sweeter than anyone thought possible.”

Going from having a loyal companion that was a great white wolf to one that was a great black dragon was startling at first. Yet, for all the terror that Cannibal had caused before bonding with her, the beast would never be anything other than gentle with her. Certainly, the dragon was so content to be ridden by her than she’d been able to take a loose tooth from his mouth by hand. It had given her parents a panic, but Daemon had been laughing loud enough to be heard on Dragonstone. Only Elaena had joined her on Cannibal’s back so far, but it was likely that when she returned to King’s Landing Rhaenyra would join her. Jessamyn on the other hand had completely sworn off the idea entirely. Jeyne was eager to please her closest friend, and deepest love, and had turned down every offer to ride.

“Do you know that we are to visit the Three Sisters?” Jessamyn suddenly broke the comfortable silence that had fallen over them.

“Yes, but only Sweetsister,” Visenya turned to look at her companion, “I am most excited about that recent addition.”

The older girl reached a hand on her shoulder, “Visenya, you know that there aren’t any pirates on the island right now?”

A furious blush took over her face, history had been a part of the lessons she’d been taking. They’d mostly been over the history of the Vale, but it had been nice to have the information anyways. Everyone in the Eyrie was aware though that Visenya was most enthralled by the tales of pirates, and the Northern expansion. Who could blame her? Those stories were the most interesting by far, especially considering that more recent history made her headache at the repeating names.

“I knew that” she said, “I just think that it’d be a fun trip in comparison to a place like Coldwater Brush."

Jessamyn didn’t pretend like she was wrong but offered a gentle scolding at being polite about it. For their trip around the Vale, it’d be a small group all things considered. With the last gasps of winter there would be rain and chill aplenty. Instead of the brave diplomatic trip like she’d been imagining, there would be nothing but mud and snobby noblemen in her future. Luckily, it’d take only 4 moons at most, but that was with the hope of little delay.

Sat upon her mare, the one given to her by her cousin, Visenya was regretting every decision that led her to this place. In her black riding leathers and cloak, she was yearning for the northern furs of Jon’s life. It was pouring rain, and Elaena had jokingly said that the sun had vanished from the sky as punishment for their sins. The cold wind crept into all clothes and under one’s skin in the most unpleasant way. Nothing like true winter, it was the fact that she was wet, cold, and covered in mud, that made it so awful.

Truly, it was a trip that the noblemen should be incredibly grateful for. Her lady cousin wasn’t of the strongest health – being prone to illness in the cold far easier than herself. To have her journey in this weather was a sign that she did deserve her status as Lady Arryn.

“Princess,” called Yorbert Royce’s gruff voice behind her, “We have a few more hours to Heart’s Home.”

Visenya just nodded, House Corbray was their second stop, House Belmore was such a brief visit it was truly forgettable. She’d been courteous and impressed her cousin with her manners, but Lord Belmore was an older man who was easily pleased at her any move. It’d been a short ride there, but the rain hadn’t let up since leaving the Eyrie. The pure joy at being out of the rain meant sharing a bed with Elaena wasn’t an issue. Lacking privacy on the road was common and meant she was already used to sharing with her friend.

In the silence of the riding, Visenya allowed her mind to wonder. Her sister’s latest letter was interesting enough, talking about where their uncle had been most recently and of the court affairs. It was Alicent’s letter that had piqued her interest, she’d been talking to Larys Strong and realized the older boy was a wealth of knowledge on rumor and gossip. Knowing what had happened prior to her own rebirth, she’d been wary of the two former allies becoming friends. Nurturing Alicent to be loyal to her sister so young was easy enough, but Larys was still an unknown to her. There was no way to ensure that he’d be loyal to Rhaenyra. His knowledge would be invaluable though, a Master of Whispers that made a mark in history was one of great importance. Having him on their side in the future would ensure that they didn’t have to worry about what he could do to them.

Of course, all this rested on not having any other true claimants to the throne. Alicent was only twelve namedays old now. She’d married Viserys two years from now, still a young girl. Honestly, it was that knowledge that her father willingly had such a young bride that had tainted her opinion of him. It was unfair to judge a person on actions they haven’t committed yet, that was what kept Alicent close by, but to know him capable of it was enough. Visenya hoped to get Alicent betrothed soon, but the girl was stubbornly attached to Rhaenyra. It wouldn’t necessarily guarantee that Viserys would choose a different bride, but it’d certainly help. The best option would be to keep her mother alive regardless of any other plan.

Oh, how that hurt, all this planning and preventing a war would be for naught if her mother lived. Once again, her mother was apart of the root cause of the realm going to war. Jon sometimes whispered stories of Lyanna Stark in her mind, and Visenya responded with ones of Aemma Arryn. So different but both so fiercely devoted to their families. It was a sore spot that both died birthing a son – a male heir to the Iron Throne.

Seeing the stone towers of Heart’s Home was more than enough for relief to flow through Visenya’s veins. The rain hadn't stopped for the last hour of the ride and crossing the river to get to the castle only ensured that her clothes were thoroughly soaked through. Amidst the downpour, House Corbray welcomed the party inside quickly. Rushing to hand off her mare to a stableboy, Visenya was forced into a run to get into the keep pace with the others.

\The banners of House Corbray decorated the walls in the entranceway. The black ravens and red hearts danced across the stone, and Visenya paused to both look at them and attempt to fix her appearance. Luckily her hair, while wet, was still held in the tight braid from the morning. Droplets of water dripped with her every step, her leather boots noisily squishing through the hallway. Spotting Elaena by the doors, she hurriedly made her way over.

“Oh, gods you look like a ghost from one of the stories Harwin used to scare me with,” her friend exclaimed, “I will be killed for letting you look like this in front of others!”

At once, Elaena was taking off her soaked cloak, careful to not damage the silver clasps she’d borrowed from Alicent. Behind her was a maid who’d obviously been told to prepare for the event of needing to change her out of her wet clothes. In her hands was the black and red jerkin that would go over her tunic. Despite the rain, her cotton tunic had remained dry under her cloak and doublet. It was a deep red, with her own stitching on the sleeves to resemble scales. Allowing herself to be manhandled into her dry clothes, Visenya took an observation of those around her. Jeyne was whispering something into Jessamyn’s ear, and the other girl’s giggles were softly echoing through the hall. Yorbert and Rhea were drying off their rune-laden armor, looking incredibly similar at the act. In the corner was the Kingsguard that’d come with her to the Vale. Ser Ronald Marbrand was old and quiet and took the fostering as a chance to brush up on his skills as a knight. His hair matched the white of his cloak and not for the first time did she wonder when he'd be sent home for his rest. Turning back to the maid, Elaena was carefully attaching the clasps to the thick red cloak she wore when seeing nobility. The black dragon roaring on the back was a group effort, only the green eyes showing that it was Cannibal.

“Thank you, Talla,” Visenya nodded to the maid, a young one that she wasn’t sure would be returning to King’s Landing with her. The rumor mill pointed to a hedge knight having stolen her heart in the Eyrie.

Elaena quickly placed the cloak around her, giving her shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I must admit that I thought you awfully brave for riding through that weather.”

“My appreciation to you, for I felt awfully stupid for not joining you in the warm wheelhouse,” Visenya responded, linking her arm through hers.

Jeyne and Jessamyn approached them, arms linked like their own, “Glad to see you still have some sense in your head, cousin,” Jeyne called.

“Of course, I kept my sense, I did not have to deal with you sucking it out my skull for hours on end,” she jested back. All the girls giggled at her comment, and soon they were announced to the great hall of Heart’s Home.

"Presenting Princess Visenya Targaryen, and Lady Elaena Strong!”

Walking to the hall for introductions, Visenya felt the grip of Elaena tighten around her arm. Still nervous about being a good lady, her friend often clammed up at the performance in front of other nobles. A reassurance from her own grip tightening sent her to straighten her spine and gain confidence. Jeyne and Jessamyn already stood in front of the hosts and were accepting guest rights. Quickly eating the bread and salt, Visenya set back her shoulders to look over the Corbrays.

Lord Quentyn Corbray was a tall and large man; his dark brown hair came to his shoulders with the temples having gray streaks emerging from them. His nose was rather unfortunate, crooked from a break not set properly. At his side was the Valyrian steel sword of his family. Lady Forlorn’s ruby pommel shone in the low lighting. The oldest of the Corbray boys was Leowyn, with a thick neck and shoulders. Unlike his father, his hair was cropped short, and he carried a smaller steel sword. He was shifting his eyes back and forth between her and Jeyne, likely attempting to figure which would be a better marriage prospect. Internally, her stomach rolled at the thought of marrying the older boy. Young Corwyn was the last to be introduced. The boy of nine was obviously excited to see the knights and was holding onto a small dagger on his belt. His hair matched his father and brother, but his eyes were a light blue.

“May I extended my deepest gratitude to you, Lord Corbray,” Visenya spoke, “The journey here was quite strenuous in the rain.”

Lord Corbray accepted her thank you with a nod, “Of course, princess, I hope you enjoy your time here at Heart’s Home.”

With that, the girls were led to their rooms for their stay there. Once more, Elaena would be in her room, and had already flopped onto the bed. Visenya took note of the sparse décor, mostly done in black and red.

“What do you think of Leowyn?” Elaena asked suddenly.

“What do you mean?” Visenya responded, a tad confused, “He barely said a word, too busy deciding if he’d be attempting to seduce Jeyne or myself.”

At this, Elaena erupted into giggles, “I thought him quite dumb to do so in front of you both, obviously his father did not warn him beforehand.”

Visenya joined her on the bed, “To be fair, his younger brother was ogling the knights more obviously. Discretion must not run in the family.”

This sent the two into their own gossiping and discussion of their hosts. For the next sennight they would stay here, with Visenya sitting in on the meeting of her cousin and Lord Corbray. Clearly, the loyalty of the family to Jeyne was true and strong, and Visenya almost missed them when they departed. Already dreading the affair of getting to Coldwater Brush for their next stop.

Over the next two moons Visenya saw more of the Vale than she thought possible. From the rivers and mountains, it was like having a crash course in her history lessons. On Sweetsister she talked long with Lords Sunderland and Borrell about concerns of pirating and trade to bring back to her father. It was relieving to be treated like a person that mattered, albeit still as a child, since it allowed for a bettering of relations between her family and these lords. Alliances formed and at each stop tales of the princess that fought like a true warrior and talked like a true lady spread. The act was tiring and each night Elaena would help her undo all the work put into her performance. Sometimes they would talk about the day and what the other did when they were apart, others they would not utter a word. It was comforting to have a person so close to her. Jeyne was like a mentor, showing her how a true ruler should be and how to divert inquires about her value as a woman leader. Marriage proposals were turned down at each turn and gave Visenya plenty of information on betrothals and their terms. Most importantly, she was finding herself outside of her mother and the memories of Jon’s father. Here she was the only Targaryen and didn’t have to align with her family perfectly.

That was until they arrived in Runestone, of course. It was clear from the moment she was introduced that the people there weren’t letting go of their grudge against her uncle any time soon. Yorbet’s brother, a stout man named Randall, had made a comment on how commitment was not a family trait on her first night there. Randall’s son, Ser Gerold, was more direct on the training yard.

While running through the practice forms that she’d been taught, Ser Gerold had approached her. Although Ser Ronald was nearby, she’d been mostly alone in the yard. Dawn had just barely broke making it a quieter time to practice. The older man had simply stopped and stared until she finally paused in her movements.

“Where’s your uncle, princess? Did he get exiled from court again?” he grumbled.

Stunned, all Visenya could do was stare for a moment, her eyes wide. It was an incredibly rude thing for the man to do, but a brave one all the same. Sensing her silence wouldn’t break soon the man continued.

“For all your family’s fire and blood, it seems Prince Daemon has failed to bring any passion to his marriage. Next time he gets exiled he should consider his marriage bed as his destination. Do inform him of this option, princess,” her title was spit out at the end, as venomous as the man’s words themselves.

Visenya herself was at an impasse, defending her uncle would be a way to show unity that was desperately needed at this time, but her own sense of honor was choking at her to acknowledge the slight he’d done to House Royce. It was only through her friendship with Rhea that she was certain Gerold was intentionally insulting her. Often, she’d complain about how her cousin was angling to be her father’s successor over her, a safer point of irritation than Daemon to discuss.

“Ser Gerold, I appreciate that you trust me to pass on your concerns,” her words came out in a dry tone, none of the anger the man had wanted from her, “It is odd though that you have such concern over your cousin’s and my uncle’s marriage bed – when your own is notably empty.”

At her words, the false curtesy in the last part ringing loud, Gerold turned red. Still not married and unlikely to make a favorable match regardless, it was a sore point. It was only her position of power that allowed her to make this comment, never would she risk such a thing if not a princess. Instead of further engaging with her, the man stomped away, likely to complain to his father or uncle about her disrespect.

Returning to her practice, Visenya attempted to remain collected. How hard was it to share a bed with your wife? At least once, especially when Rhea was not an ugly woman. Personally, she didn’t the flaws her uncle spoke of, Rhea was a fiery and passionate woman. Her beauty was just not that of the Valyrian kind. It was through her own work at befriending the woman and her father that she knew there was an amicable solution to be found here.

That meant once she finished her practicing, she set to immediately readying herself for a day of politics. Instead of her usual garb that toed the line of acceptability for a princess, she dressed in a lovely gown made for this exact purpose. It was a soft black fabric that was cut to emphasize her girlish figure. Her shoulders were covered with sheer sleeve that spilt to flow down her arms. At her waist was heavy red embroidery and beading, with dragons and flames twisting around her body.

Seeing that Visenya had sent for the maids to bring this particular gown, Elaena immediately understood the importance of the choice. Without asking any questions, her friend fulfilled her role wonderfully. Braiding her hair back into a style favored by her mother, it was a masterful art of subtle political statements. Elaena carefully weaved in a red ribbon in the braid that wrapped around her head. The style had one large braid making a crown to hold back her hair, the rest of her hair was left to hang loose with smaller braids scattered throughout her hair. Completing the outfit was her mother’s falcon necklace. The simple silver pendant and chain was favored by her, and although a more overt sign of loyalty, it was effective.

Turning to assist her friend in dressing, Visenya was proud at the loyalty shown. Instead of wearing the gown picked out the night before, her friend had chosen to wear a crimson gown cut in a more flowy riverlander style. The silk fabric was a gift that Visenya had given to her on her nameday, so it was a recent addition to her wardrobe. It was both a nod to the Strong house colors and the Targaryen ones. Before having focused on her lessons with her cousin, Visenya might have missed the importance of her clothing choices. Now being fully aware of her friend’s show of loyalty, it was enough to make her cheeks flush at the act.

"Could you do the twists that you ride in? I would like to have a more bold look today,” Elaena asked, switching roles with her.

“Of course, as long as you sit still long enough for me to do it,” she grinned down at the younger girl, already setting to work on her hair.

By the time that the two girls arrived to break their fasts with Jeyne and Jessamyn, they were notably more confident in their steps. It seemed word had traveled swiftly to Jeyne about the altercation that morning. As soon as she’d sat down, her cousin was quick inform her that there was to be a meeting with Yorbert and Rhea with them. Clearly, the farce of this marriage was coming to a head, and Visenya hoped to finally resolve it.

“You understand that we must keep this as pleasant as possible?” Jeyne spoke as they walked to the solar of Yorbert.

“Yes, cousin,” Visenya nodded, “Just as I understand if they seek retribution, I will not give it to them.”

Jeyne seemed pleased at her words, the steel her cousin wielded was in her spine, just as Visenya’s was in her hands. Her long brown hair was left down in waves to her hips, with minimal jewelry and a simple blue dress. It was clear that she was more of a mediator in this issue, not having much at risk. Although Visenya was young, she was well prepared for this issue. Her father was hesitant to do anything outside of what pleased others the most. There was no way she’d be able to write him and ask for an annulment without negotiations occurring beforehand. So, she wrote her mother, and it was the right choice. Not only was her mother from the Vale, but she also understood the politics of the issue well. It was with her blessing that Visenya would propose the solution best suited to this problem.

Upon entering the solar, it was clear that both Yorbert and Rhea were to be treating the discussion very seriously. Clad in their house colors and solemn faces, Visenya was almost intimidated. Jeyne noticed this and gave her hand a squeeze before she went to her chair. After joining in the chair beside her, Rhea carefully served them tea. As a purposeful act, Jeyne immediately picked up her cup, and drank. It meant that she was not to begin the discussion, forcing Yorbert to start speaking.

“House Royce sincerely apologizes for the actions of Ser Gerold, your grace, and we have punished him appropriately.”

Visenya felt everyone’s eye seek her reaction, but she kept her face perfectly solemn, “I appreciate the swiftness of your justice, Lord Royce.”

For a few moments, she let the silence settle over the room. Taking a look around to fully see the faces of the others, it was clear that she would be the one to bring up the true issue. Rhea was carefully avoiding her eyes but sat without any visible nervousness.

"Alas, I fear this issue will not be resolved with the punishment of Ser Gerold,” her voice took on a more careful tone, “His words, while inappropriate did ring true.”

It was like Rhea had received the finest jewels, her face lit up in joy at her struggles being acknowledged, “That they did. It is certainly not a secret amongst our families the reality of my marriage.”

“Yes, I fear my uncles has been remiss in his duties to you,” Visenya spoke, “He is adamantly against the marriage since the beginning, which should be of no surprise to you.”

“What Prince Daemon has done is disgraceful to my daughter, your grace,” Yorbert looked as if he’d been sucking on a lemon, for all that he knew of his daughter’s unhappiness it seemed he still sought for the marriage to be successful.

Jeyne seemed to realize this, “I don’t think that is in question here, Lord Royce,” she sat her cup done to lean forward more, “What is in question is what we should do about it.”

Rhea snorted, “My marriage is older than Princess Visenya, and not a single solution for it has been offered in that time from the Crown.”

“Your anger at his is justified, Lady Royce, and as your father’s heir it is even more important to have a successful marriage,” Visenya knew she was toeing the line with her next comment, “Something which my father knows and understands.”

“It would be better for me to have a husband that isn't apt to running away,” Rhea responded

Yorbert gave his daughter a side glance, “Your grace, I know it is hard for you to grasp the situation fully, but House Royce does not wish to have this marriage annulled, rather have Prince Daemon fulfill his duties as a husband.”

“Thank you for your input, Lord Royce, but I feel it is better if Rhea has a say in this, no?” Jeyne spoke, her small smirk implying she was amused at the actions of Yorbert.

Visenya nodded her assent, “Well, I would prefer to have our marriage annulled, with the Crown paying my dowry for my next one.”

Her mother was never wrong it seemed and had predicted that Rhea might ask this. It would be a good arrangement and the other nobility would appreciate this act. To prevent the alliance of House Royce from completely diminishing, it was best to sweeten the pot even more. After all, if Rhea cannot have a prince, why not give her son a princess?

“That is a reasonable request, and one the Crown is more than willing to accept,” Visenya looked at Rhea’s face turn surprised, “In fact, to right the wrong fully, I propose to have my firstborn daughter wed to your firstborn son.”

Yorbert’s face seemed to turn white at this, and Jeyne’s head whipped around to look at her. Rhea was the most shocked, the proposal was one she’d carefully thought of. House Royce remained as honorable as ever in Jon’s own life, it wasn’t hard to see why when Rhea and Yorbert were such good people. Fair and just, it was only Daemon ruining the alliance between the two families. Besides, Visenya must admit that Rhea was unlikely to wed quickly, especially with the freedom to choose her own husband. It was easier to agree to when neither of them was to have children within the next five years.

“Of course, since I am young still, I might be unable to provide a daughter, which in that case we will rediscuss the terms of this agreement,”

It was Yorbert who came out of his shock the quickest, “Princess, this is a generous offer, and one I did not expect today.”

“My mother is from the Vale, and your service to my cousin is admirable, it was an easy offer to give to right these wrongs,” Visenya smiled at the older man.

Instead of pondering more on the offer, Rhea was seemingly attempting to see inside Visenya’s mind. Her brown eyes wide and confused, it only solidified that this was the best option. It was likely that Daemon would wed either Rhaenyra or Laena, as he had before, but Visenya was younger than both. Rhea was putting together that Daemon would not be marrying her, that his offer was clearly for another reason.

“I will accept this offer, but I want to propose another clause to it,” Rhea spoke in a softer voice than usual, “Take me as your lady-in-waiting and let me continue to train you.”

Jeyne let out a noise of surprise, and Yorbert’s face reflected her emotions. It was a brazen act to demand more out of the agreement, as it had been such a generous offer in the first place. Visenya though, was grinning ear to ear at the statement. In her mind was the faces of women and girls that needed a person like Rhea to look up to.

“Good, I was hesitant to force you into another arrangement with a Targaryen so soon,” she said to the good humor of Rhea. The older woman reached across the divide between them and shook her hand. Yorbert stood and crossed over the space to Jeyne to help her up. Within the few moments of her standing up, Visenya was embraced by Rhea. After training together for so long it was clear that they were truly friends now. Especially without the issue of her uncle hanging over their heads.

“I always thought you were the best of your family, and this only solidifies it,” Rhea spoke into her hair. Jeyne couldn’t hold back her laugh, and soon all of them were in good spirits. It would be the biggest change that Visenya had made so far, and was well worth it.

Chapter Text

It was humbling to be a dragonrider and be outshone on horseback. Especially when there was an audience watching you fall behind in the competition. There was an inherent pridefulness that came with taking to the skies. That meant horseback riding had been placed lower than other skills in order of importance to master. Visenya was regretting that decision now, attempting to best Rhea at a race between them.

“Come on, princess!” goaded Rhea, her head twisted to face her from her own mount.

The mare she rode was a young one, a gift from Jeyne, but was not a true match for Rhea’s gelding. Visenya knew her fate, she’d lose and their companions watching them atop the hill would bring it up at their earliest convenience. Still, she leaned forward in her seat, and urged her horse faster.

It was for naught, as Rhea crossed the finish line that’d been set by their companions. Ser Ronald Marbrand of the Kingsgaurd was the judge and was already congratulating Rhea as she rode to them.

“I would like to congratulate you, Rhea, for this great performance,” Visenya said breathily, “But I would like to also remind everyone present that I have bested you in the training yard more often than naught.”

At the last part, she’d raised her voice so that the others on the hill could hear her jab. There were jeers at this comment, but it was Rhea swiftly dismounting that caught her focus. Visenya’s grin dropped and she attempted to steer her mare away. Only, there was a flaw in this plan, as Rhea was something of a horse-whisperer, and easily caught her reins. It took approximately two thuds of her heart to be laying on the ground, flat on her back. Rhea had been quick with both stopping and throwing her from her horse.

Refusing to yield, Visenya produced a bigger grin, “This is quite unfair, I am obviously unable to defend myself like this.”

“Aye, perhaps you should’ve thought of this before taunting the one person here allowed to beat you in front of Ser Ronald,” Rhea simply responded, straddling her smaller form as she spoked.

Without fanfare, a dagger was placed under her chin, “Oh, please, Lady Royce, I must insist that my jest was in good humor,” her words lacked any convincing, for she still wore a grin. She'd learned that riling up Rhea was a fun pasttime, and it'd given her an excuse to be pinned by the woman.

"My princess, I simply must encourage your learning at all times, and to learn when to stop talking is an incredibly important lesson,” Rhea returned, a false sincerity coating her voice.

This was Visenya’s cue to attempt a maneuver that they’d been practicing. Being a princess meant it was more important to know how to protect oneself. Rhea had risen to the challenge of being her mentor in defense and was serious on drilling these forms in practice. Using her much smaller form to her advantage, Visenya slipped her arm through Rhea’s legs, catching her off guard. Swiftly pushing the back of her leg to jolt her opponent forward, Visenya used her legs to pull her through behind her opponent. With heavy breathing, she unsheathed her own dagger and held it to Rhea’s neck. Almost a replay of the first time she’d bested her in the training yard, over a year later. Her mentor quickly yielded, and soon swept her in a tackle of a hug.

Her back hitting the ground for the second time, Visenya wheezed, “I am certain to visit you soon, you do not need to attempt to murder me to keep me in the Vale.”

Rhea didn’t respond, not needing to. Since negotiating the annulment of her marriage, the older woman treated her like the younger sister she’d never had. Even going so far to train Elaena in some basic defense as a favor to Visenya. It was why the news Visenya was to return to King’s Landing came to hit the woman so deeply.

Unlike she’d thought it would, her fostering at the Eyrie extended past her twelfth nameday. If her eleventh had passed quietly, her twelfth made even less noise. Rhaenyra had sent her all manner of gifts that were useful, things like a sharping stone for her dagger, and hardy fabrics for her training clothes. Yet, nothing of her mother or father came. Her sister attempted to explain the tension in the Red Keep surrounding the possibility of their mother having another child. It would kill her, and everyone knew it but their father apparently. Alicent had given her a gorgeous, embroidered handkerchief. Enclosed in the fabric was a letter explaining her father had become more attentive to her communications with her. Though short, it was sweet and desperately clear the older girl wanted to keep their friendship. In her absence, Rhaenyra had begun to have her ladies arrange marriages for themselves. It seemed Otto Hightower was aware of this and attempting to maneuver his daughter’s station once more. For not the first time, Visenya wished her father was more authoritative and would listen to someone other than Otto. Perhaps if Daemon hadn’t treated exile like a vacation, he could’ve been more helpful.

Leading their horses back to the group in a comfortable silence, Visenya remained absorbed in her thoughts. Rhea had expressed sadness at losing her as a companion, but it was her advice that helped her understand why she’d been called back. It’d been only a few moons since her nameday but no letters for her had come until her father’s calling her back. If the last couple of letters spoke of that situation, between her parents, then it was likely that situation was the reason for her return. So, instead of joy at returning home to her family, Visenya had come to favor brooding and somber moods. Her mother would die if she couldn’t do anything to stop it, and the gods were not on her side. Twelve was too young to do more than she had, the annulment of Rhea and Daemon a miracle accomplishment. The fleeting hope of changing another major event disappeared with the raven carrying her response.

“Now, cousin, you must not be so broody, it is hard to best such a good rider,” called Jeyne as they approached. Nodding at the guard that took her mare, Visenya sat on the blanket spread out on the grass for the picnic.

“Aye, Rhea is a talented rider, you should take lessons from her yourself,” her taunts fell on deaf ears, Jeyne already setting up her plate of food they’d brought here. It had been Jeyne’s idea, a picnic on a sunny afternoon to give her one last fond memory of the Vale.

Her cousin had grown to be a good friend and confidant, always able to hear her concerns and set her straight. Visenya was miss her dearly but knew that she’d be okay without her. Jessamyn remained a constant at her side, and the two were the most loved up pair she’d ever seen. Of course, it was kept incredibly private, but the lack of betrothals for the two girls made it clear that they didn’t wish to be separated. The redhead was sitting with Elaena beside her, the two working on embroidery for Elaena’s new court wardrobe. Visenya had acquired Myrish lace, dyed in each of her friend’s house colors, and gifted them for her nameday. It was a good choice for her more updated gowns and could be reused at a later point. Elaena would be sailing to King’s Landing on the morrow, the journey would take long enough that Visenya would beat her to the Red Keep.

Cannibal would take his rider to King’s Landing, having fared well the last time. It’d been a surprise at how easy the ride had been, and Visenya was excited to be with him for the long journey again. Sometimes she would get irritated when she’d gone too long without a ride on his back and taking a long one like this would be helpful to relieve her tension at returning. They seemed to share emotions with each other, if she liked someone, he did too, and when he grew frustrated while hunting, she’d reflected the same mood. Luckily, the pair was not apt to bleed their feelings over the connection too often, and they maintained a good balance.

Rhea settled beside her on the blanket, easily reaching over to grab her own plate. Visenya looked around at the scene and the blue skies above them. The mountains surrounded them and reminded her of giants. If anything, she’d missed the views of the Vale when she left.

“You must promise to write to us, cousin,” Jeyne spoke, bringing attention to her.

“Of course, as often as I can,” Visenya replied, “Especially once I’ve gotten to speak with my uncle.”

At this, giggles erupted from the group. Now that all is done and resolved, it is clear that Daemon is the unwilling butt of the joke. Rhea told all the details of the lackluster wedding night, and although Visenya and Elaena were deemed ‘too young’, they’d ended up hearing about it anyways. It was slightly mortifying, but then she’d remembered how he stopped responding to her letters once the news broke. Honestly, if that man had any sense, he’d be thanking her for it.

“Plus, if you find any suitors for me or Jessamyn, please, write immediately,” Jeyne giggled, while Jessamyn blushed a pretty shade of pink.

After walking in on the pair a few moons ago, Visenya had been let in on their relationship. As a result, it’d come commonplace to say that once she returned to King’s Landing, she’d find them both husbands. Of course, it was implied that their husbands would be fonder of each other than the girls themselves. In the most perfect scenario, this would be happening, not that the two girls needed to know.

Elaena, having finally ceased her giggles, spoke, “I wouldn’t know about that, she’ll be far too enamored with my brother as soon as she lands.”

Unfortunately for Visenya, the group knew all about the letters between Harwin and her. This meant that their laughter increased tenfold. Her face was probably redder than her Targaryen red cloak at this point. The older boy had turned sixteen before her own nameday and had joined her uncle in the City Watch. Which would’ve been awkward if she knew that only the people here and Harwin himself knew of their friendship. Still, for all that her mind was older, she was still a girl. Crushes were a perfectly normal thing to have as a girl, even if you had a full-grown man’s thoughts and memories in your head. Besides, it seemed unlikely that Visenya would be able to spend much time with Harwin. His last letter, almost a full moon ago, had contained the knowledge he’d been forced on a night shift.

“For your own sake, I shall pretend I have no knowledge of your letters with a certain Corbray boy,” Visenya choose to respond with her friend’s own crush. Corwyn Corbray, for all his ogling of knights, had charmed Elaena enough to get her to write him. They’d make a good match and would likely be able to wed. If either of them wanted too, of course.

Instead of responding with words, Visenya was once more being physically attacked. Even though Elaena was a few moons younger, she was taller, and could use this against her. Sadly, her little sandwiches ended up squashed under Elaena as she attempted to tackle her into submission. The three older girls simply stood to watch the fight, this becoming a common occurrence after Elaena begun training with Rhea. Visenya was bitter about their laughter though, she was a princess and they shouldn’t be taking so much humor in her being pinned to the ground. If they dare tell others about how she yielded once her hair was pulled, well then maybe some royal punishment must be decreed.

Cannibal was truly more akin to some tomcat then a dragon. For all his intimidating demeanor and name, she was certain he’d prefer sunbathing over battle. Sunbathing was what he was doing now. In the massive courtyard of the Eyrie too, just as she was attempting to pack the saddlebags for their journey. Behind her, the soft snort of Jeyne came to her ears. A flush prickled itself over her face. What was the point of having such a scary dragon if he’d behave like a lazy beast?

“Cannibal, we are going home,” she spoke to him in Valyrian in an attempt to get him to fully wake up. He huffed in response.

Stomping over towards his massive head, she leaned in towards his snout. Aiming into his nostrils, she took a deep breath and blew it straight into them. Luckily his undignified reaction was not public, as it was only Jeyne, Jessamyn, Rhea, and Ser Ronald watching. His head jerked back and a loud squawk was quickly followed up by him pushing her with his head. Falling on her back, she just laughed at her overgrown tomcat of a dragon.

“We must work on grace, my love,” she said as she begun to fill the saddle bags with the last of her belongings.

Once finished with that, and fully ready, she turned to the others. Giving Ser Ronald a nod, she passed a letter into his hands. After serving in the Kingsgaurd for so long, the older man would be allowed to return home and rest. His left leg had an old injury that flared up, and he’d never fight again. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be missed, but he accepted it with grace. He’d confided in her that he had begun to miss the west, his home, and was happy to return in his old age. With watery eyes he gave her a great bow, letter in hand.

“Farewell, my princess, may you have safe travels now and forevermore,” his gruff voice caused tears to well in her eyes.

“Thank you, Ser Ronald, the White Cloak has been honored to have you wear it,” steadying herself, she continued, “May you find peace in your golden sunsets.”

With a final bow, he took his leave. She turned to see the sensitive Jessamyn in tears at the interaction. Walking to give the redhead a hug, she found herself embraced from behind by Jeyne. All three girls saddened to be separating after all this time. It wasn’t until Cannibal gave an audible sigh that she pulled away.

“You will write us, and if you need anything,” Jessamyn babbled, “we’ll help you as soon as possible.”

Jeyne stepped beside her, linking her arm through Jessamyn’s, “Fly safe our dear dragon, the Vale is always here for you.”

Rhea, who’d remained leaning against the wall finally approached. She wrapped her in a fierce hug, and the gratefulness flowed through her. Yorbert had fallen ill and would soon pass. It was hard to feel sorry for the man after putting his daughter through the dishonor of her marriage, but still, losing her last parent was hard. When they’d see each other next, Rhea would be Lady Royce. It was why she wouldn’t be joining her in King’s Landing, not yet at least. Rhea was not much of a talker in her sorrow, so a simple nod served her goodbye. Bittersweet, that’s what this was, she was sad to leave her mentor behind, but glad to see her left in a good position of power.

In a turn of protocol, Visenya took a step back from the three women and gave a slight bow. Jessamyn gasped at the implication, that she was honoring them at the same level as her royal family. Rhea’s eyes widened in surprise, but she gave a small sad smile at her actions.  Jeyne simply nodded at her, tears leaking from her eyes.

She swung herself into Cannibal’s saddle and tied her chains with tears in her eyes. The Vale was the place she’d always call home in a small part of her heart. Stone walls with laughter bouncing from them, blue skies with falcons soaring. In her dreams, she’d come back often, feeling the winds from the mountains. Her friendships made here were formed with steel, unable to be undone.

“Fly, we must return home,” she commanded Cannibal, and soon large black wings flew over the Eyrie, heading south.

Night had fallen before the sight of King’s Landing came before her and Cannibal. The first journey required a stop in the Crownlands to rest for them both. This time, the pair of them had pushed through the night to make it in. The nervousness of both rider and dragon seeped them in a deep anxiety. Still, when she landed in the Dragonpit she wasn’t alone.

“Niece,” Daemon’s voice came behind her, as she was unloading Cannibal’s bags. Her head whipped around to see her uncle, with multiple servants around to assist in bringing her belonging to the Red Keep. In the group was a few members of the City Watch, and her eyes couldn’t help but search for brown curls not there.

After her shock wore off, she was sprinting. Her uncle was here, after three years, he was here in front of her and alive. Like they’d never been separated, he caught her in his arms and held her there. It was different, she’d gotten taller and larger, and he’d gotten stronger. In the time passed, he’d grown his hair long, and it tickled her face. She squeezed him tighter than necessary, for all her anger at him, he was family.

“Sweet girl, you have grown too much,” his voiced filled her ears, and she tuned out the noise of Cannibal being rid of his bags and saddle. It was only his departure that made her look up, giving her dragon a nod to be free to leave. Her uncles hand came up to brush back a hair that’d fallen out during her ride there, he supported her weight with one arm.

“You can still hold me so I haven’t grown that much,” she finally spoke, her voice sore from the wind. Instead of responding, he carried her to his beautiful stallion. It was quick work for him to get both of them saddled with her in front.

“We will talk more in the morning, my girl,” he said into her ear, her eyes fighting exhaustion, “For now, I thank you for what you did for me in the Vale.”

Satisfaction flooded her veins, the praise for doing something her uncle couldn’t do himself finally received. It seemed his inability to put his feelings to paper had caused his silence, just as Rhaenyra did when he was exiled. Her anxiety went with the wind that past them on their ride. It was good to be home, and better to not be worried about it.

At the courtyard, two figures with pale hair stood. Like with Daemon, Visenya was stunned for a moment. Of course, her parents would be here to greet her. Any exhaustion shook itself off once she realized that they were truly there. Without any grace, she dismounts the stallion and once more sprinted towards her family. She collided with her father first, as he had begun walking to her. If Daemon was the person that took away her worries, her father gave her peace. His arms felt safe and calm, her thoughts slowed to fully appreciate the moment. Without preamble, her mother came behind her. Soft hands reached between Visenya and her father and wrapped around her waist. Resting her head against her own, her mother began whispering her love for her.

“My little warrior has returned to me,” her mother’s gentle voice came, “I missed you so much, I couldn’t wait to see you.”

Visenya couldn’t explain why, but these words made tears spring to her eyes. Without any ability to escape the smothering of love, they began to flow hot down her cheeks. Her father moved his hand to her face, and carefully lifted it up. Purple eyes stared into purple eyes, and Visenya absentminded noted how similar Rhaenyra’s eyes were to his.

Softly, he wiped her tears away, “I am glad you have returned to us safe, my little girl.”

It was hard to remember how she made it to her old chambers, a whirlwind of emotions clogging her mind. Last night, her mother had carefully bathed her, and braided her hair before getting her to bed. Her father promising to have a family meal, and insisting she rests as much as possible. Daemon had just kissed her brow and ushered her to her mother. One thing she did remember was falling asleep without anyone else in the room.

Certainly, no one would be disturbing her at this morning hour. With whispers coming from her doorway, Visenya was slowly rousing from her slumber. She kept her eyes closed though, wouldn’t want to let her sister and friend know she was aware of their presence.

“She’s still asleep, shouldn’t we wait?” whispered Alicent.

"It’s been almost two hours past dawn, I am certain she’ll wake soon,” came Rhaenyra’s own whisper. A muffled noise came from the two, with a clink of what seemed to be plates. Then, the smell wafted to her nose, and she knew what the two were up to.

Without lifting her head, she groggily spoke, “I love you both, but you are not as quiet as you think you are.”

Both girls jumped at her words, and the noise of the dishes confirmed her belief they’d brought her food. It was Rhaenyra who began setting it up, no longer caring of the noise. Alicent soon followed, and they both quickly emptied their hands. Her sister came to her bedside, and finally Visenya opened her eyes.

“We brought you food, so you wouldn’t awake a ravenous beast,” Rhaenyra spoke, “I told Alicent I was afraid you’d become like your dragon and resort to eating me.”

Instead of dignifying her older sister with a response, she quickly sat up and pulled her into a hug. After training so intensely, she was strong enough to pull her into the bed altogether. It was much to her pleasure that Alicent’s giggles followed the action. Rhaenyra didn’t put up much of a fight, unable to combat her younger sister’s strength and the surprise of the attack. Catching her breath, Visenya then turned to look at Alicent.

Her friend’s face glowed in the joy, her light blue dress adding to the innocence of the moment. The warm brown eyes were squinted in a simile. She was happy, and safe, and Visenya felt good about doing this for her.

“Don’t worry, dear Alicent, I won’t attack you like this insolent child here,” she said, while Rhaenyra then restarted the struggle.

Soon she was sat in a chair with her wild hair untamed, eating the food the girls had brought her. The two girls had picked out her favorites to break her fast with, and she was enjoying listening to them speak. It was clear that they were withholding some information from her, but it was a nice moment all the same. They talked about how her mother had started the Good Queen’s welfare projects up again, at Rhaenyra’s request, and their favorite part of joining in on it.

“It is impossible to beat the joy of the children,” Alicent said, spreading a jam over some bread, “The orphanages had been so worn down, so it was nice to visit them.”

Rhaenyra was sipping some herbal tea, and place her cup down to continue the conversation, “Personally, I enjoy listening to Alicent read as much as the kids themselves.”

Visenya snorted at that, well aware of why. It wasn’t as if living in the Eyrie made her less aware of how a woman could love another woman. Clearly, the two girls were just as enamored with each other as their letters had sounded. There was a tragedy to the knowledge that they’d likely never fully know what they could have. Pushing those thoughts from her head, she turned to Alicent, to continue discussing the work they’ve done.

As the two girls began helping her to dress for the day, some lavender silk gown her father had made for her. They discussed the marriages of Rhaenyra’s ladies, already a couple of them gone from the Keep. The first girl to leave to be wed was Gwyneth Manderly, set to marry a Redwyne that she hadn’t heard of. Apparently the two families were entering into an alliance so that their own trade networks would stand a chance against the Velaryon family. It was an interesting alliance, and Alicent still wrote the other girl often. Next was Ryella Baratheon, the wild girl was not easily cowed by any man so that was surprising to Visenya. Apparently, she’d found Jason Lannister, of all possible options, a good companion. She knew that the man had come here for Rhaenyra’s hand it must have taken some effort on the part of Ryella to ensnare the man. It was then explained in some hushed tones by Alicent that an ongoing rumor was that they’d been found in bed by Tyland, Jason’s twin brother, and the wedding was so quickly planned to that. She’d be returning to the Red Keep in a year, as she had a close friendship with Rhaenyra. Visenya suspected that it was her adventurous nature that had made the two such fast friends but was hesitant to endorse the relationship if Rhaenyra would find her adventure the same way. Gods know it seemed to be an issue last time.

“I know of Lady Jeyne Strong’s betrothal to Elmo Tully, but that is the last of the official marriages, right?” Visenya asked, desperately wishing to move past marriage talks.

“Yes, it was finalized last week, so Elaena wouldn’t have been able to tell you,” Alicent said, fidgeting with her fingers as she talked.

“Donella is over the moon, apparently glad to have a sister finally,” Rhaenyra snorted, “Personally, I don’t see why someone would want a sister.”

An obvious attempt at goading Visenya into a play fight, she weighed the options of partaking. It was clear that the secret that her older sister had been asked to keep from her was weighing heavily on her and arguing was her only outlet now. Yet, it was also a clear jest, even if Alicent was nervously watching them.

“I would think you’d be more grateful for having me, if only for the presents I have brought you from the Vale,” she chose to goad back, proving she was here for her sister, even in these bad moments.

Always a fan of gifts, Rhaenyra quickly gave in, “What presents? Please say something to scare of my suitors.”

Then the conversation devolved to Visenya’s giggling and Alicent’s chastising, “Rhaenyra! You cannot terrorize your suitors, it’s a delicate diplomatic task to choose a husband!”

"But no one wants to wed some of these men! Especially not me!”

“Someone must, sister, I think you will find them grateful for your consideration,” Visenya spurred on the old argument between the three girls.

"Now do not think yourself free of this yet, Visenya,” Alicent caught her act in its tracks, “You will soon be in her place.”

Both sisters groaned, not wanting to discuss their future marriages now or ever. Honestly, it wasn’t that Alicent was wrong to remind them. She was only looking out for them and was concerned on their attitudes regarding it. For her, marriage was her only possible future, and it was almost disrespectful to not acknowledge the duty and truth of it.

“Alicent, my dearest friend,” her sister spoke, reaching to grab her friend’s fidgeting hands, “I appreciate your concerns, and know I heed your guidance, but honestly, some of these men are so undesirable I wouldn’t feed them to Syrax.”

With those words, Alicent cracked a smile, “Rhaenyra, you shouldn’t feed any of them to Syrax, even if they are unwanted by you.”

“But I must! If they were unsavory to you or Visenya I am honor-bound to dispose of them in one way or the other,” Rhaenyra seriously responded.

At that statement, the tension dissolved in a fit of laughter. It was true, if anyone were to harm Alicent or Visenya, the Golden Lady would have them served on a platter. Truth be told, Visenya was actually more apt to that particular family trait. The gall of Ser Gerold had her considering it for days. Plus, unlike Syrax's spoiled meals, Cannibal would actually be inclined to that dinner choice.

Now finished with readying her, the two older girls coordinated their attack on her, “I must admit, sister, your actions in the Vale were most surprising.”

“Yes, it was a smart move on your part, even if the King and my father were upset by it for a couple days,” Alicent continued her sister’s thoughts.

“In fact, I must ask, why? Why did you free our uncle from his marriage?” Rhaenyra’s brow quirked in a questioning manner.

A flush came over her face, it’s not like she didn’t expect this to happen. People were going to wonder what motivated her to do that particular action. It’s not like she could tell them about having once been Jon Snow, and what would’ve happened if she didn’t intervene. Plus, it was the right thing to do regardless, as neither party wanted to keep the marriage.

Impatiently, Rhaenyra continued her questioning, “I mean, in our family traditions him being married prevented him from being open to wedding one of us or even Laena. Perhaps that is why you were so concerned, sister?”

“What?” Visenya felt disgust bubble up at the thought of marrying Daemon. She’d had enough of incest from Jon’s own memories and was not even considering it this time around. Bad things happen when you mix romance and family in her opinion. Honestly, she knew it was likely Rhaenyra and Daemon would wed now, but it wasn’t like she was the biggest fan of it in the first place.

Alicent clearly saw the disgust on her face and intervened, “Visenya, we are not accusing you of wanting to wed Daemon, of course not, we just were curious about why you acted the way you did.”

“I like Rhea, she was training me in sword lessons, and horse riding, and even falconry,” she spilled, her words coming out faster than intended, “She is a good woman, not the Bronze Bitch Daemon said she was.”

Rhaenyra looked a bit shocked, as her letters hadn’t explicitly contained her fondness for Rhea, “Sister, I was not aware you had gotten so close to her.

“Yes, she’s my friend,” Visenya said, her voice stronger than before, “In fact, she reminds me of you at times.”

“I am sorry if we made you uncomfortable,” Alicent cut in, “There’s just been some talks about marriage for Daemon, and both of you came up often.”

“Well, to let myself be honest,” Visenya paused here, “I think that I would sooner stab Daemon than marry him.”

Rhaenyra sent her a grin, “Good, sister, don’t let any man try to marry you yet.”

Due to her fostering, Visenya did not have a lesson schedule yet, so once Rhaenyra and Alicent left for their own lessons she was alone. Elaena wouldn’t arrive for at least another week, and her cousin Laena was in the lessons with her sister. So, she did the only reasonable thing, and started getting familiar with her home again.

That was how she’d ended up tugging on every possible thing that could be a lever for a secret passageway in her room. The only one she found was the one to the adjacent servant quarters. It was only able to go between the two rooms, and since she had no handmaiden for herself, it was empty. To be fair, it was nice to know that there wasn’t any in her room, at least to have an intruder come in. She was certain tunnels for spies or escapes passed by her room, so it wasn’t like she was safe to any espionage. Not content with stopping there, she began exploring other areas near her room. Rhaenyra’s room was out of bounds, as she had no desire to explain why she was there. But the corridor only contained the rooms of her and her sister, so no one would be too bothered if she was tugging on random items and mounted wall décor. Keeping track of the light, she knew she had some time still until her mother expected her for the midday meal. Turning a corner to another section of the wing, she noticed movement. In the Eyrie, servants never hid or attempted to be completely unseen. This meant that she was acutely aware when she was alone when she was there. As the Red Keep operated much differently, she was on high alert. There was an alcove in the hallway, likely meant to display some art or something of the sort. Slowly, she crept towards it, noticing that the area was not well lit. No one was there, of course, but the dust near the floor was disturbed. All that resided there was a sconce, without any torch. Grasping the metal, she gave it a tug, noting that it was loose on the left side. She gave another tug to that side, and saw the stones move on the right side of the alcove. Reaching to move the wall fully, she saw the passageway behind it. Double checking, she had her dagger tied to her leg, the one lovingly stolen from her uncle, she stepped into the dark tunnel.

Visenya looked back once, noticing that no one way aware of her entering the tunnel. Fully stepping into it, she felt around to close the entry way. It was dark once the entrance was firmly shut. Looking around the dark space, she saw that in the distance was a dim light. Keeping her right hand on the walls, she started walking towards it. The quiet was so severe that her own breathing felt thunderous. Having always had light steps, she attempted to silence her movements even more. Cautiously moving forward, she felt stairs, and began to descend them. The stone on her hand felt rough, but dry.

Once she approached the end of the stairs, she could see the torch’s position. It was on the wall next to a gateway. The iron gate was simple but adorned with her house sigil. Dragon heads seemed to taunt her with the unknown. She should probably turn back, whoever was making the movement she saw likely wouldn’t be here anymore. It would be difficult to find her way back if she went through the gate. No one could say she wasn’t brave though, and she pushed open the gate to the grating noise of the metal on stone.

Taking the torch with her now, she continued her journey in the passageway. It was thrilling to have unfettered access to these tunnels. Another light was in the distance, and within the light of the torch she saw two passageways. The light was to the right, the passageway to it was clear. On the left, was a passageway much dirtier and filled with cobwebs. If she remembered her way to this, perhaps she’d venture down the one in disuse. For now, she took the well-lit one, not desiring to bit off more than she could choose.

Remaining as quiet as possible, she walked to the second light. It did not resemble the light of a torch, rather that of a window. She was uncertain any windows would be within these tunnels at all. Although, she’d walked longer than she had originally thought she did to reach the gate, and this path was also longer than she’d thought. Possibly further from her rooms, she could be anywhere in the keep. The closer to the light in the distance she got, she noticed the stone walls around her appear lighter and cleaner in appearance. Like the change in the stone, there was an increase in noise as she approached. Instead of the deafening silence, rumbles and voices started to come to her. Considering the possibility of reaching a servant’s quarters, or the training yard, she sped up her steps. Finally reaching the light, she realized that it wasn’t a window or torch. It was a little opening to the walkaways outside the spike pits. From there, she’d be able to get to King’s Landing itself. The city was close enough to smell, even if significantly less potent of a scent. She evaluated the opening, for a full-grown man or woman, it’d be a tight squeeze. For a small girl of twelve? Well, things would be too easy. She disregarded the torch in a convenient wall holder on a wall far enough it wouldn’t be visible from the walkway.

Internally, she apologized to her father for dirtying her new silk gown. Her father would understand, and there was at least one more to change into before meeting up with her mother in her room. With a heave, she pulled herself through the opening. Little grace would be found in the way she tumbled out the opening, her hands scraping on the stone walkway.

There was not even more than a moment to catch her breath before she saw black leather boots approaching her. Mentally, she was cringing at being caught, not only in the act of sneaking around but also in the state of disarray she was in. She’d kept her eyes glued to the stone and the boots, unable to face her own embarrassment.

"I see you have found the tunnels, little warrior,” her uncle’s voice sent relief coursing through her body. Still, a blush resided on her face, recalling the conversation from this morning. All those emotions were piled high in her, and to her mortification, she felt herself start crying.

Within seconds of her tears hitting the ground her uncle was there, lifting her face in his rough hands, “Oh, what is wrong, niece?”

“Nothing of any matter of importance, uncle, I swear, just tearing up from the sting of my hands,” she attempted to deflect, carefully avoiding his sympathetic eyes.

“Come, let me take you to a quiet place, and I will treat the scrapes,” he went to help her up, and without preamble swung her up into his strong arms.

Startled at the quickness of his action, her arms shot out to wrap around his neck. With one arm under her legs, and the other holding her upper body, he started walking. Luckily, he seemed not inclined to press for more conversation, so she took the time to look out at King’s Landing. It was all warm toned stone, noise, and a noticeable odor. She could spot some children playing in the distance, and if she thought hard, she could guess they were close to the Street of Steel. Mentally, she remembered to bring up some charity work for Rhaenyra, if her sister was visible and kind to her people the transition to power would be easier.

\Daemon carried her to another alcove, the tan stone being unremarkable. He swiftly looked back and forth, then adjusted his hold on her. It did not take long for him to be wiggling a loose stone and revealing a passageway. The inside was dark, but he obviously knew the way well. Perhaps, this was one he frequently used to get in and out of the keep.

"I am taking you to a friend,” he spoke, his voice louder in the quiet of the passageway. Instead of questioning where they were going, she closed her eyes, and waited to see it firsthand.

As the pair approached the end of the passageway, there was a soft light. The noise that Visenya was expecting to hear never came. Daemon did not hesitate in his steps though, confidently navigating his way. She opened her eyes when his steps stopped. They were in front of what must have been the exit, another hidden door. Carefully shifting her weight to free an arm, her uncle reached up and knocked on a wooden panel beside the doorway.

Within moments, a person on the other side of the door was sliding it open. A young girl, not much older than herself, welcomed them in quietly. Risking a glance at her, Visenya felt surprised shoot up her spine. The girl was dressed as a whore, in a red silk dress that matched her long red hair. Of course, Daemon would not see the issue with bringing his twelve-year-old niece to a brothel.

“This is certainly uncommon,” came an accented voice, “Even for you, my prince.”

Daemon turned, giving her a view of the other woman, “Mysaria, I come to discuss things in private with my niece. Your establishment is most valuable to me for your discretion.”

Every time she met a person that Jon remembered from history, she swore her whole body twitched. It could be the shock at seeing these figures in real life, she was already inventorying the differences between the woman herself and the text written about her, or the frustration at yet another player entering her view. She remained absorbed in her thoughts while Daemon followed Mysaria to another back room. For all that her eyes had roamed the older woman’s face and clothing, they focused on the scar around her neck. Unable to be fully hidden by the high neck of her gown, Visenya had attached herself to the knowledge. Jon’s memories showed a dragon breaking chains, freeing those unable to free themselves. Unabashedly, she replayed the memory of the story being told, enjoying the fact that someone from her family had committed that particular act. By the time that Daemon sat her on a comfortable lounge, she’d made up her mind about what she’d do with Mysaria.

“Thank you, Lady Mysaria,” she said, catching the woman off guard as she went to leave the room, “You are invaluable to my family for your help.”

The White Worm, though not yet known by that, seemed surprised at her statement. She gave a small nod, and a smaller smile at her actions. Daemon was looking at her proudly when she turned back to face him. He was preparing the cloths that he’d wrap around her scraped hands. Visenya internally winced at the memory of this process when she first needed it. Whatever the cloths were soaked in was supposed to keep her wounds clean and heal them quickly, but it stung worse than the injury itself. He approached her with them and she simply presented her hands with a grimace.

Blood was dripping from her left hand as he set to work on it, talking to her as he did, “I promised to talk to you more about what you did in the Vale for me, and while unconventional, Mysaria will keep all details of this conversation private for us.”

“Unconventional is likely a tame way of describing bringing your niece to a brothel to have a conversation,” Visenya responded, her face showing her good humor at the situation.

Daemon started to wrap the cloth around her hand, “When I found out you’d befriended my wife in the Vale, I insisted that Viserys bring you back to King’s Landing. Instead of achieving that, that cunt of a hand had your father convinced to exile me. Pentos was lovely if you wanted to know.”

“Uncle, I want you to know that regardless of what you feel towards your former wife, Rhea has become a good friend to me,” she interrupted, not wishing to listen to him slander the other woman.

“I know, my girl,” he said as he begun to work on her right hand, “So imagine my surprise when I received a letter from my brother stating my marriage annulled. After so long going unheard about my marriage, I was overjoyed to know my brother finally listened to my complaints.”

Visenya winced as the second cloth wrapped around her hand, but remained silent to listen to her uncle speak, “And then I find out upon my return that it wasn’t him that choose to do this, but rather my sweet niece, who’d worked out an agreement that satisfied everyone involved.”

“Neither you nor Rhea sought the continuation of the marriage, I just did what was necessary to honor both of you,” she protested, it was a political move but not borne of a political motive.

“That right there is why I was shocked, you believed in protecting my honor. Being honest, I wasn’t certain I still had any before this,” Daemon retorted, “I must thank you for it, sincerely, as if you hadn’t spoken to your father, I would’ve remained stuck in that sham of a marriage.”

Finished with her hands, he stood to return the materials to their places, speaking as he did, “You do realize what comes next, my dear?”

Visenya groaned, marriage being brought up again, it was like an unending cycle, “I don’t want to marry you, nor any man right now.”

“Oh, my sweet girl, I would never marry you,” Daemon laughed, “I named you, trained you, gods, if I were to have a daughter, she’d be you.”

Relief at that statement was short lived, if he wasn’t planning on marrying her there was two others, “Uncle, please do not say you are planning on marrying our cousin, Laena is younger than me and I refuse to have her part from me yet.”

Once more, her uncle laughed, “You are certainly possessive like a true dragon, does dear Laena know you covet her so?”

“My sister may be closer to her in personality, but we will always be closer in friendship,” Visenya said, recalling the deep bond she’d formed in the short days of their time together. Daemon came to sit beside her, hand carefully holding her wrist.

It seemed he picked up on the nonuse of Rhaenyra’s name, “If I were to marry your sister instead?”

“Then I would be forced to run you through with Dark Sister on the wedding night,” she snapped, it was all too early for this to be happening. Her half-done plans involved the delay of her sister and Daemon wedding, so that her sister would be seen as the clear and best heir to the throne.

Her uncle took the comment in good humor, “So who shall I marry then, my little warrior?”

Visenya took a moment to pause, thinking out how to best word it, “No one, there is a dark shadow on your reputation right now uncle, but there is a way to clean it for your future bride.”

“What would that be?” he asked, well aware of his less than stellar reputation.

“War allows for many changes to occur, men become knights, and villains can become the heroes from the songs,” she tip-toed around her own thoughts of war, “I have letters from the lords of the Three Sisters, the Stepstones are becoming treacherous, the Triarchy is overstepping themselves.”

Daemon sat back, looking contemplative. Obviously, the situation in the Stepstones was not at a point of going to war yet. That would occur within the next year or so, but with her uncle more settled, he might not go as he’d done before. It was crucial for Rhaenyra to establish herself as the true heir to the throne to the lords of Westeros before introducing a consort. Plus, if her father actually provided military support to the war, then it’d boost his own popularity.

“Perhaps I shall pay more attention to the Sea Snake, as ambitious as the man is,” her uncle conceded to her own argument.

Just barely returning to her rooms in time to ready herself for eating lunch with her mother, Visenya rushed through changing her gown. There was dirt and blood on the other, but she’d called ahead for a maid to retrieve it. Her sheepish apologizes had been shushed by the older maid, a woman that’d cared for her in infancy. It seemed that she still retained the loyalty and companionship of the servants in the keep. That point was furthered when she realized the older maid had sent for another to assist in readying her for the lunch.

With the quick scrubbing of her maid, Visenya felt far more prepared for seeing her mother. The other gown gifted by her father was a light blue silk, with long flowing sleeves. Her hair had been let down and brushed until it shined. It created a lovely and innocent appearance and would hopefully distract her mother from her bandaged hands.

After being escorted to her mother’s solar by Ser Harrold of the Kingsgaurd, who’d took the time to ask about her time in the Vale with her training, she finally entered. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of her mother.

There was the proof she needed to know that she hadn’t done enough to prevent the future her mother would face. A gentle caress of her rounded stomach, not more than a few moons along. Glowingly, her sweet mother was dressed in a similar light blue gown to her own. In this moment, the pair looked as identical as they ever would. It took everything within Visenya to not turn around and scream, raging at the injustice of womanhood. How could her father do this to her mother? Knowing that she’d likely die at the end of the journey of pregnancy? Oh, how she wished to burn something, defend her mother from the beast of childbirth. Her feet remained firmly planted at the doorway, her mind racing miles ahead of herself. It seemed more planning must happen, and more time spent at her mother’s side.

Without speaking, Visenya walked to the coach where her mother sat. She shot her a concerned look, turning away from where Rhaenyra, Alicent, and Laena had joined them. Ignoring the stares of the others, Visenya sank to her knees in front of her mother, disregarding her own pride. Looking up for a confirmation, her mother nodded down at her. She reached out one careful hand to touch her mother’s stomach. Her other hand was held within her mother’s own, the grasp tighter than necessary. In her mind, the voice of an aging maester whispered to her, love is the death of duty.

Oh, how she loved her mother so much. Enough to almost consider giving up her mission, just to stay by her side for as long as they had. Her duty could not die with her though, the gods themselves had tasked her with something so important one lifetime could not satisfy it. In this moment she had felt every possible emotion. Kneeling at her mother’s feet, she resolved to never give up her duty. She’d do what was needed of her, even in the face of what little light would be left. For now, she remained kneeling, soaking in her mother’s warmth.

Chapter Text

If anything were to be attached to his name, Harwin supposed that ‘Breakbones’ was not the worst option. Having gotten the moniker in the past three years, he’d grown a bit fond of it. Honestly, he was a bit proud of being so well known for his strength and prowess on the training yard. An added benefit was that when he was on patrol more people were likely to approach him with concerns and questions. Everyone in King’s Landing, from the king himself to the lowest orphan in Flea Bottom, knew both of Breakbones and his honor. He had gotten the title due to breaking a squire’s hand for his inappropriate comments about the queen, so it was largely women and children who looked upon him fondly.

Which is why he was not shocked when he was approached by a woman, possibly a whore by profession, on his nightly patrol. She was obviously skittish and afraid of drawing attention to herself. A brown cloak was tightly held in her hands, with the hood covering her red hair. He’d been standing on the edge of the Street of Silk, about to switch with another City Watchman. Instead of speaking, she’d tugged at his gold cloak. Whipping his head around to look at her, she seemed to gain strength to speak in front of him.

“Ser Breakbones,” her voice came out rough, with an accent of the Riverlands, “There is a disturbance at the Sept for the women on the Street of Silk.”

Immediately he knew what was happening, “The fat septon back? I hate it when he makes me hit a holy man.”

The woman simply nodded, a giggle escaping her. The fat septon, his real name something like Arnold, was enraged that a small sept had been built on the Street of Silk. Queen Aemma had restarted some of the Good Queen’s charity in the city, and it was actually the Princess and her ladies-in-waiting who’d organized the sept being built. Lady Alicent had given a wonderful speech at court about saving these women’s souls, and her father, the Hand, seemed so impressed he’d guaranteed all funding necessary. Although House Strong resided in the Riverlands, Harwin and his family followed the Old Gods, meaning he didn’t see why the fat septon had been so angry at the sept residing there. As he followed the woman to the sept, he was attempting to recall how many times he’d had to drag the man out. Gods, this would have to be the last time, the women deserved to pray in peace.

Turning the corner to the small area where the sept was, Harwin immediately heard one of the septas call for him, “Ser Harwin, thank you for coming!”

“It is my duty, Septa Alys,” he said with a nod. Looking around, there weren’t many there to pray, either chased off by the septon or busy at work. Septa Alys was an older woman, with a kind wrinkled face. She was a good caretaker of both the sept and the women here, and often Harwin would visit her off patrol to deliver food or anything else she needed. As he approached the sept, he could hear the yelling of the septon.

“Whores shall burn for their sins! The Seven will only redeem the most devoted, those that give up their terrible ways in honor of them!”

Stepping into the doorway, Harwin saw the septon yelling on the raised dais used by Septa Alys for her sermons. In the corner was the two other septas, one the same age as Alys named Lysa and the other a younger woman named Marge. They were standing in front of a scared woman and her young daughter, with Lysa attempting to sooth their tears. Marge on the other hand, had spotted him. Seeing she had backup, she started to walk forward, interrupting the trance of the septon’s preaching.

“Septon Arnold, you must stop this at once!” her voice shrills in her yell, “The Light of the Seven guides all into different paths, it is our duty to assist in the journey to salvation, not condemn those seeking solace in the sept!”

Harwin took the pause after her words as his cue to step in, “Septon, you know this is a protected space by decree of the King, you also know that it was specifically honored on the Queen’s request that it is a space for women and children only.”

“It is those damned Targaryens! They allow for this holy space to be desecrated by these, these whores!” the man yelled, spit flying in his anger.

“We cannot keep having the same conversation, Septon, this is the fifth time this moon I have had to come here to remove you,” Harwin spoke as he made his way to the man. Although the septon’s mass was larger, Harwin towered over him. It sent a bolt of pride through him to be so tall at only sixteen namedays.

Without allowing the man’s hateful words to continue, he simply hoisted the man up to carry him out. The fat septon let out a shocked shout, and they did their routine of shouting at each other until Harwin could deposit him on the ground outside of the sept. To his relief, the other Watchman was there. Not needing to exchange a word, the other man began restraining the septon’s hands. Harwin surveyed the damage and was pleased to note that he’d arrived before the man got his chance to attempt to destroy anything. Sometimes, the septon would even break the windows, which was the worst to deal with. He’d be speaking to his father; the man would understand why a better solution was needed about the man. Seriously, it’d been moons since this had started and the most they could do was throw him in the cells of the City Watch for a couple days. Holy men required a gentle touch in punishment, as too much political issues were tied up in their robes. Internally, he knew Larys would be pleased, his younger brother grew quickly annoyed at the preaching of septons. He bet that Larys would be more joyful than ever hearing that once more, Harwin had to detain a septon.

“Thank you, Ser Harwin,” Septa Alys approached him, “I received word from the High Septon that Septon Arnold was expected to return to the Starry Sept for some, uh, lessons on the preaching he does.”

Harwin took in the older woman’s obvious frustration with the situation, “Don’t worry, I will be speaking with my father on this matter, and he will be unable to bother you ladies more.”

“Ser Harwin, our gratefulness is unmeasurable,” Alys spoke with a small smile, “Your father is a good man, and we appreciate your willingness to involve him.”

“My father has heard enough of my complaints of the septon, he’d be glad to ensure his return to Oldtown,” he said, taking one of her hands in his gloved one, “I apologize that this action hasn’t happened sooner.”

The older woman gave him a look of fondness, “There has been much activity in the Red Keep this past moon, and Septon Arnold picked up his appearances in response. Do not blame yourself, you have served us well.”

When Harwin departed from the sept, he did so with some warmth flooding his veins. It felt good to be considered an honorable man by these women. That he is trusted to implicitly by those so mistreated. He took one last look at the sept, and his eyes caught on the thing he’d been looking for. From the sides of the sept, banners hung, for the Seven and the royal family. There was one though, a recent addition that had Alys in a fuss, with the inverted colors of the sigil of House Targaryen. The black dragon was spewing forth black flames, its green eyes catching the torchlight. Beneath the dragon was the words “Under protection, by Fire and Blood”, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought. A small girl who’d gladly prove those words correct; her pale hair would shine as a light in the dark. He kept walking, he had a septon to deliver to the cells, and a long night ahead.

Larys had been pleased at hearing he’d thrown a septon into the cells. Their father was less pleased, knowing that he’d have to arrange for the septon to be sent to the Starry Sept. Jeyne was proud of him for being so dutiful, his older sister was quite fond of him to a fault and urged Elaena to arrange a visit to the sept with Princess Visenya to check in on the women there. Of course, Elaena had only just arrived and barely understood how her older brother ended up defending whores and septas from a septon. Still, his youngest sister had hugged him, and said she was very proud to have such a strong and honorable brother.

            This all occurred at the only meal shared by the family on a regular occurrence, when the rest of his family broke their fasts, and he had his last meal. Night patrols meant he had gained more experience, but it was a pain to maintain a normal schedule. His father had insisted that they share the meal together, so Harwin would be able to see them all and they could discuss their day and thoughts with each other. Jeyne being in the Red Keep with them had helped in maintaining the meal, and she was very talented at waking up her younger siblings to attend the meal. Though, the early hour meant Elaena’s hair was unbrushed, and Larys was definitely in his night shirt at the table.

“Harwin, will you join the lists for the upcoming tournament?” Elaena asked, stabbing her food as she spoke.

Harwin pondered the question while he chewed, “I haven’t decided, maybe the melee.”

"Gods know you’d sooner fall off your horse yourself than be unseated by a lance in the joust,” Larys snorted, dodging the smack of Jeyne for insulting his older brother.

“Harwin simply hasn’t the experience horseback riding,” Elaena defended him, his sweetest sister truly, “Before going to the Vale, I hadn’t realized how hard it was to be a great horseback rider.”

Jeyne, who’d been most diligent in exchanging letters with their sister, asked, “You received lessons from Lady Royce, right?”

Elaena nodded, swallowing her food before responding, “Yes, but Visenya was much better at it than me. Still, she never beat Lady Royce in a horserace.”

“Perhaps we should see if Lady Royce will be in attendance for the tournament? If just to see if she’ll teach Harwin to ride properly,” Larys cut in, grinning at his comment.

“Larys, you are an adept rider, and will be fourteen soon, why not enter the joust yourself?” their father said, a knowing look at his youngest son, “You have already spoken of your intent to join the archery contest, and certainly with a bit of training with a lance you could be well suited to jousting.”

Larys’ lips thinned, “Father, you know I’d be ill suited to jousting as much as Harwin.”

“Doubtful, I mean, he is right, you are talented on horseback,” Jeyne spoke, ignoring the way their brother fell back on his clubfoot to get out of father’s comments, “You’d just need practice with a lance truly.”

Harwin shared a look with Larys, and his brother simply sighed. It’d actually been a comment from Visenya, in a letter she’d sent, that led him to train his brother in archery. Too long his brother used his foot as reasoning to be miserable. Larys would never be a warrior of great renown but he could learn to joust without much problem. Sometimes, he thought Larys too jealous of himself. Jeyne had confided in him that she worried for their brother, so the two had agreed to keep him motivated and preoccupied. To their surprise, it’d worked, and their little brother flourished with his new passions. Larys also was able to take pride in being better in things like archery and horse riding. Still, he was too quick to doubt his own abilities.

“I think you’d do well in the joust, brother,” Elaena said, “Plus if you entered, I would have a better chance at being named queen of love and beauty.”

The table as a whole let out a laugh, “My dear, you are too young to be worried about such things,” the voice of their father said, warm in his tone.

Elaena was unsatisfied with the response of the table, “Well, I’ll have Visenya enter the lists for me then, she’d name me queen.”

“Sister, the princess may be talented on horseback and with a sword, but I highly doubt she’ll enter the tournament,” Jeyne said in a gentle voice.

"She’ll be with her family, and you’ll be by her side,” Harwin continued, “If I enter, I will ask for your favor, and shall crown you instead.”

Finally, Elaena seemed content with that answer. Giving him a nod and smile for his efforts. The conversation turned to what father was doing in the Small Council, as being the Master of Laws was an important position to have. Larys proved his intelligence by providing the best discussion, but Jeyne was able to keep apart of it well. Harwin turned to Elaena, his easiest conversation partner, and he patiently listened to her plans of her tourney outfits. It seemed he’d be on a mission to obtain fabric for her in the city. Luckily, his father was his secret confidant in this matter, giving him the money necessary to outfit his sisters. He made sure to mention that she needed to finish the doublet for Larys before the tournament so their brother could wear it. The table was joyful, the family happy at being reunited with each other. Although each of them had the dark curly hair of House Strong, all of the siblings carried some traits of their individual mothers. Hearing Larys laugh caused Harwin to be remined of their shared mother’s laugh. Making eye contact with his father, it seemed the same thought echoed in his head too. He returned to his young sister, happy to be there.

In spite of the letters he’d exchanged with Visenya, he hadn’t spoken to her in the moon or so since she returned to the Red Keep. His night patrols had prevented him from being able to see her in the training yard or in the keep itself. After the announcement of Queen Aemma’s pregnancy and the tournament and feast to be held in honor of it, the keep increased in activity. Meaning, he had even less chances to speak to her. So, when he spotted her, a fortnight after his detainment of Septon Arnold, in the sept on the Street of Silk, he’d been shocked.

Harwin had stopped by on a patrol, the sun just beginning to set, to check that the women were doing well. No one had been outside and he’d entered the sept to speak to the septas. The sight of Visenya, kneeling down and speaking to the child of one of the whores had him halt his steps. For in the low light, she looked like the Maiden in flesh. Her pale hair reflecting the light, her skin alight with the warm low glow of the sun. There was a basket, filled with food if he had to guess, at her side. In her hands was a bag, where she was pulling out a wooden toy to give to the child.

“The princess has come here often, in this past fortnight,” Alys’s voice catches him off guard, “She mentioned hearing of Septon Arnold’s detainment, and wished to help us return to peace without him.”

He is certain that his disbelief is clear, for she continues, “In fact, she has even prayed with some of the women here. I wager another fortnight of this and she’ll gain a moniker like her uncle, the Lord of Flea Bottom.”

“Please, Septa Alys, please tell me she’s not being called Lady Flea Bottom,” he groaned, the mess of that particular nickname too much to think of.

“Ser Harwin! Do you think so lowly of us here to allow that?” she admonished, “No, she’s been called Princess of the Silk Street by some of the women.”

While not the best title, the connection of the princess to prostitution was not a good look, it shows that Visenya is well loved here. It seems he missed out on this by not visiting the sept as often as he had. Though, he doubted the princess brought a guard with her, as he hadn’t seen any outside of the sept. He scanned the small sept, and it confirmed his suspicions that she hadn’t had a guard with her inside either. A sigh escaped him before he could stop it, Visenya was young, not yet thirteen, and seemed determined to kickstart her adolescence rebellion early.

Finished with talking to Alys, he decides to approach her. It is not her that notices him, but rather the child she was speaking to. When the young girl’s eyes catch his, Visenya finally turns her head to look up at him. Within a few moments, she seemed to realize who he was. Quickly, he had an armful of Targaryen, her own arms wrapped around him tightly.

For the sake of propriety, even if the princess was in the Street of Silk, Harwin stepped back soon after. She looked up at him, those dark purple eyes piercing through him. He couldn’t hold back a grin, and she returned it.

“I heard the most fascinating story, Ser Harwin,” she said, and he realized that this was the first time he’d heard her voice in years, “That a man by the name of Breakbones kicked out some nasty septon from this sept.”

Deciding to follow along with her good humor, he responded, “Well, if that story was fascinating, I’m sure the one I heard about a princess visiting a sept on the Street of Silk at night would be of your interest.”

“Oh, yes, that is most interesting,” her mouth was twisted into a smirk, one that reminded him of her sister’s own. She then picked up her bag and basket and gave him an expectant look. Harwin rushed to take the basket and guided her to the back of the sept where the septas resided. Alys shot him a look, one he couldn’t figure out, and he watched as she helps the child through a prayer.

“I must apologize, my princess, for not seeking you out sooner,” he started, “It was unkind of me.”

Visenya had already begun unpacking the toys, Lysa coming over to assist her, “There is nothing to apologize for, I was well aware of your patrols and the hinderance to us speaking they’d be.”

“Still, I wanted to speak with you. Our friendship is one I cherish deeply, and I was concerned about making sure you still had all of your limbs,” he responded, handing over the basket to Marge.

“There are no worries about all my limbs remaining attached,” she jested, and turned to fully look at him, “Honestly, it is more of a miracle that Elaena has all of her limbs.”

A laugh escaped him, and he had to admit she had a point. His sister seemed to have gained a wild side during her time in the Vale. He took a moment to look Visenya over, as the time that had passed help her mature a bit. Still a young girl, she had lost some of the softness of childhood. Having only grown to his chest, she was likely to be short for her whole life. Unless she managed to spring up in the next couple of years. There was a bit of shock at her not being dressed in breeches, rather a simple black wool dress.

“When did you become a lady?” he couldn’t help from asking. Her offended face causing him to laugh once more.

“I’ll have you know that I have always been a lady, Ser Harwin,” she huffed, only playfully angry, “My cousin, Lady Arryn, simply showed me the importance of dressing like one more often.”

The pair of them continued their conversation about her time in the Vale in good humor. He wasn’t certain how to feel about his sister’s antics and crush on a Corbray, but it was certainly a wonderful conversation. It wasn’t until Alys interrupted them that they stopped they realized how long they’d been talking.

“Ser Harwin, it is getting later than usual for your visits,” she said, then turned to Visenya, “The Street of Silk is not safe for you when it gets late, your grace, I would urge you to take Ser Harwin with you on your return.”

He looked out the windows of the sept and was shocked to see how dark it’d gotten. Quickly, he said his goodbyes to the septas, and hurried Visenya through her own. It wasn’t until he’d gotten them out of the sept that he remembered her lack of guard. Harwin had no clue how she’d even gotten to the sept unnoticed, let alone how to return her unnoticed.

“I fear, my princess, that I am not aware of how you got here,” he left the fact she had obviously snuck out unspoken.

A flush came over her face, “Ah, yes, well I can show you how if you promise to keep it a secret, ser.”

He extended his hand towards her, and her much smaller hand grasped his. Mentally, he catalogued the callouses on her hand. It seemed her sword lessons had been joined by ones in archery. She looked at him, a serious face displayed, and made him swear upon the Old Gods to keep her secrets until he died. A bit extra in her caution, but he could understand why. Instead of releasing his hand and stepping away, she surprised him by keeping her hold.

“It was my uncle who first showed me how to enter the passageways in the keep,” she spoke, as she began walking.

She took him only a few buildings down, the whole time he worried about her being spotted by the people in the street. The hair was quite distinctive, like a flashing banner to look at her. When she presented him the building that they were headed to, he was certain his jaw had hit his chest. It was a higher-end brothel, one with many women from Essos and around Westeros. To his added embarrassment, he definitely had been a patron, at the urging of the other City Watchmen. Visenya gave him no time to think of the fact the princess had been in a brothel multiple times, and tugged him in. They passed a redhead, one that had retrieved him to kick out Septon Arnold. Mortifyingly, she handed Visenya a cloak, obviously the princess’ own with its deep red color. Barely able to comprehend the fact a twelve-year-old princess had apparently bonded with the whores in this brothel, he was once more shocked. The princess guided him to the side of the building, going into a small hallway. Harwin noticed that she had carefully been avoiding the more populated areas. There were scantily clad women giving her nods and waves, and one darker haired woman even kissed her cheek as they passed. He’d never felt so unnoticed as a man in a brothel before. They seemed to be in the hallway for the girls to use to get into their own rooms without their patrons noticing. It wasn’t until they reached the end, when he saw a dark wooden door, that they stopped. Visenya then knocked, in a pattern he didn’t recognize, and it swung open.

The woman who’d opened the door was obviously from Essos, her skin a lovely olive tone. Her face was gorgeous but her eyes seemed to examine him intently. Subconsciously, he straightened his posture, squaring his shoulders. She lingered on him for a moment, then turned to Visenya.

“You trust him?” an accented voice came from the woman.

“Yes, in everything I do,” Visenya responded.

Harwin pointedly ignored the warm feelings that spread through him at her words. It was nice to be trusted after all, he just happened to have a princess who trusted him so deeply. The two kept staring until the other woman spoke to Visenya in what he could only assume was Valyrian. He’d never learned the language, as he was not a dragonrider or interested in the texts written in it. If he’d been inclined to travel to Essos, perhaps then, he would’ve seen the purpose in learning the language. The pair spoke in hushed quick sentences, until a look of triumph came to Visenya’s face. He assumed she’d won whatever debate had occurred.

The woman turned back to him, “I am Mysaria, Ser Harwin.”

“She is the biggest assistance in my journeys to the city and would be the first person to ask about my whereabouts,” Visenya elaborated, giving a nod to Mysaria.

With the conversation over, Harwin was led into the room. It was of the same warm stone as the rest of the building. There were simple decorations, but they all were subtle in their red and black colors. Only two couches, both in red, and several bookshelves resided in the room. He noted that the shelves were mostly empty, considering the price of books that was not surprising. Once inside, Mysaria gave a lingering look to Visenya as she stood by the door. Instead of speaking, the girl pointed to a bag on one of the couches. The older women gave a small smile, then left, closing the door behind her.

“Well, I cannot say I expected this,” he said, walking over to the bookshelves.

Visenya didn’t join him, walking over to a chest he hadn’t previously seen, “That’s probably the point of it. I mean, I knew no one would accuse me of hiding in a brothel when I snuck out.”

“Perhaps, but I remain confused on why this specific establishment,” Harwin spoke, as he heard the ruffling of fabric behind him. He pointedly kept his eyes glued to the titles of the books, which were mostly in Valyrian.

“It is not a secret that tunnels and passageways were built in the Red Keep,” she said, a grunt interrupting her words as she seemed to tug on a dress, “The unfortunate history of my ancestor, Maegor, killing the builders means those paths are hidden from many.”

A thought streaked through his mind, “So there must be one that leads to this brothel?”

Her hand tapping his shoulder caused him to jump. Whirling around to look at her, he saw she was in a different gown than before. This one was clearly more of a nightgown, the soft silk gleamed in the low torchlight. It was a light blue, with white ribbon trim, and he was startled to realize his little sister had a matching one. Well, it seemed Elaena had been fond of taking the extras of Visenya’s wardrobe. She was smiling and grabbed his hand once more to lead him to the dimly lit side of the room. This is where the chest sat, and she released his hand to tie her red cloak around her once more. Also on the chest were a pair of slippers, but he glanced down to see the leather boots remain on her feet. Confused came over him for a moment, until she picked up the slippers and carried them in her hands. It was a smart strategy, having a separate set of clothes to change into when in the city.

She recaptured his hand and led him to a far wall, the stone as unremarkable as the rest of the room. There were pillars that jutted out, but that was common in the whole building so he didn’t see the importance of it.

“Watch closely, ser,” she said, separating from him and approaching the pillars. Without much fuss, she wiggled her hands in between the pillar and the stones of the wall. Then, with a small grunt, she was pulling open an entrance to a tunnel. On the other side was a lit torch, and further down, nothing but darkness. Visenya turned back to him with a grin, obviously proud of herself.

“Will you missed if you took the time to see the end of the tunnel?” her grin not dimming for a moment.

Harwin was shaking his head before he spoke, “I think it would be understandable why I was absent, my princess.”

“How wonderful,” she said, grabbing his hand, “You can hold my slippers, as a gallant knight should.”

Which is how Harwin ended up holding a pair of slippers and being dragged by his hand down a secret tunnel. Visenya was nice enough to explain how she’d learned of this specific passageway as they walked. He was absolutely not surprised at Prince Daemon being who showed her how to sneak into a brothel. Honestly, that man had such a lack of awareness for how the things he does are perceived. Though, with the increase in projects in the city, and the realm at large, the royal family managed to keep his antics from being too well known. As he walked, he carefully catalogued the passageway. Memorizing the route would likely be useful in the future. Once they reached the end, or at least the end of this path, Visenya stopped abruptly. Letting go of his hand, she placed the torch in a holder on the wall. Now illuminated, he could see where the door was to exit. Slowly, the small girl began pulling the wall back. She turned back to face him. Harwin was certain the sight of him gently holding her slippers was humorous for her.

“This opens up to the hallway by my rooms,” she said, smiling, “That means it is hard to use this in the day, so a caution for you to remember.”

“Thank you, my princess,” he said as he handed over her slippers. She immediately set to work to changing out of her boots and into the slippers. Instead of carrying them with her, she sat them to the side of the door.

At his questioning look, she explained, “These boots are ones I’ve outgrown, so I keep them here for convenience.”

“You seem well-equipped for many ventures to the city,” Harwin scratched at his growing facial hair, “I would like to volunteer to assist you on these trips.”

“You would like to prevent me from being caught, you mean,” fully turning towards him as she spoke.

Harwin carefully placed a hand on her shoulder, “I wish to not deal with the news that the young princess is frequenting brothels and praying with whores during my patrols.”

Her laugh echoed in the passageway, and she embraces him in another hug. The agreement between the pair was solidified that night, and for the next four moons or so they stuck to it. At least one a week, Harwin would retrieve Visenya from Mysaria’s brothel. Sometimes they went to the sept, other times she wanted to visit another area. He didn’t think himself so easily content with the arrangement, but he was strangely content with being her guard and guide through the city. Letters guaranteed they’d remained friends, but these trips ensured a long-lasting friendship. They began to learn about each other deeply, all the small things that one must know to have a solid understanding of another. During this time, it became clear that Visenya was incredibly nervous about her mother’s pregnancy. Harwin understood why, his own mother died in the birthing bed. So soon their companionship was a point of comfort for her, to be free of the fears of the future with him.

Tournaments were obscenely dirty and loud. Harwin was convinced that King Viserys would not be throwing so many if he knew what it was like to attend it not as a king. Of course, he understood that they were a sign of prosperity of the realm. That didn’t mean he exactly enjoyed the stress of competing.

It was the first day of the three-day event, and the melee was the starter of the whole tournament. Larys was competing in archery later in the day, but neither of them joined the lists for jousting. Their sisters had ribbed them in good humor, both agreeing it was a shame to not be crowned. Harwin had simply dedicated too much time in the streets of King’s Landing to practice jousting. That wasn’t for not, as he’d gained something far more valuable than fame on horseback.

The tent of House Strong was filled with guardsmen of the City Watch and servants, his family having since gone to their seats. His armor was being carefully placed by one of the household servants when the flap to the tent was opened.

“I cannot believe it was Elaena who had to inform me you lack a favor,” Visenya’s voice made his head whip around to look at her.

She was wearing an elaborate gown, though he knew that they’d grow more detailed as the tournament went on. It was a light blue color, with her shoulders bared, the sleeves loose and flowing. The beading on the gown was in shades of blue and white, the bodice filled with patterned swirls. Her skirts were larger than he’d seen them before, but she looked comfortable still. Instead of being tied back, or up, she’d left her hair down minus some braids and twists pulling back the top half of her hair. Small sapphires dangled from her ears, with a delicate necklace to match. Certainly, he was staring too long, for she had a smile slowly growing on her face.

The servant, after giving a hurried bow, left them, “My princess, this is a surprise,” his voice felt rough as he swallowed.

“Well, it is due to your sister’s neglect of you,” she said, walking towards him, he shifted where he was sat, “So I needed to intervene, ser.”

In her outstretched hand, she presented a light pink ribbon. There were little motifs of her dragon, Cannibal, stitched on them. Black and green thread twirled on the ribbon, his eyes tracing each inch of it.

“I am not deserving of your favor, my princess,” he made sure to make eye contact, “But I will gladly take what you give me.”

Without speaking, she came to his right side. He lifted his arm, giving her access to tie the ribbon around his upper arm. The placement wouldn’t impede his movement and he appreciated the thoughtful foresight. Her hands lingered on his arm, hesitation dancing across her face. Whatever she had been pondering, she seemed to make up her mind quickly.

Instead of pulling away, she gave his cheek a chaste kiss, “I expect you to win the melee, or else my favor will be considered a curse instead of a blessing.”

"The mere presence of it around my arm shall led me to victory, my princess,” he said, taking in her blush as he did. Still too young for him to look at her in any romantic light, he could appreciate being her crush. Even if he’d never be a true option for marriage, the fact that he held a princess’ affections was enough to make him puff his chest out.

Taking her leave, Harwin pondered how he’d win the melee for her. No way would he fail his princess, not in front of the large crowd he heard cheering.

Harwin anxiously twirled his sword in his hand as all the fighters were announced. To his luck, neither Prince Daemon nor Ser Harrold of the Kingsgaurd were fighting. The competition was actually in his favor. That made sense, the joust would give a large crowd and the chance to crown a queen of love and beauty. With Princess Rhaenyra being fourteen, marriage was on everyone’s minds. He turned to eye up his opponents, a clear Reach faction had formed. Hightower as Hand must’ve given them motivation to travel to this tournament. Turning to his fellow City Watch members, he gave a subtle nod. If the Reachmen would team up, then so shall the City Watch.

Hearing the horn to signal the beginning of the melee, Harwin wasted no time. Charging the closest knight and delivering a strong blow to his side. His strength was his advantage, and he was able to quickly down the other man.

Not taking any time to start on his next opponent, he felt himself settle into a pattern. Charge, strike, defend, disarm, and onto the next. The movements became mechanical for his arm. It was almost a dance, repeating steps until the song would change.

“Breakbones, behind!” yelled one of his brothers in gold. Swiftly he pivoted from his newly downed opponent to face the knight behind him.

A brute of a man was there, towering over him with the height of a man fully grown. He let out a growl, within the next few years, Harwin would have the advantage over the man. Now though, the Reach knight was to be his biggest challenge. The noise of the others around them tuned out in his mind, and he focused on the other man.

Yelling, his opponent charged, and Harwin barely dodged the blow. Remembering the fighting style of his warrior princess, he immediately set to be quick on his feet. Playing defensive, he was forced to dodge and maneuver his way through the fight. Once, he swore his feet slid away independently of his mind. Every dodged blow, the brute grew angrier. The emotions weakened his opponent’s skill and tactics. After a particularly sloppy swing, Harwin went onto the offensive. Attacking the man’s open right side, the two finally engaged in true sword fighting. Harwin grunted, catching the man’s blade on his own. Placing his whole weight behind his thrust, he disarmed the man. His arms ached as he lifted his blade to the man’s neck.

“Yield, ser,” Harwin panted out, feeling sweat drip out his brow.

The other man seemed to hesitate for a moment, knowing he was defeated but not wanting to end the fight, “Aye, I yield.”

Realizing the crowd had started cheering louder than before, Harwin turned to look around the ring. There was no one else but he and the man. Startled, he twisted to see the crowd. In her light blue gown, he could spot her next to her father and sister. She was yelling, and her family was clapping. Then, he saw his own family, all of whom were shouting as obnoxiously as they could. Even, Larys, the broody brother of the family. It wasn’t until he heard the announcement of his victory that he fully understood that he’d won.

A squire sprinted towards him with the bouquet of flowers he’d traditionally bestow on the lady who granted him her favor. For a moment, he felt cowed under the quieting crowd. Gripping the bouquet, he stepped towards the stands. The king stood and approached him, a kind smile on his face.

“Ser Harwin! The prize money shall be given to you once you leave the field,” King Viserys looked him over for a favor, and his eyes locked in on Visenya’s ribbon, “If you would please announce the lady who granted you her favor?”

He swallowed back his nerves, “Princess Visenya, your grace.”

Another cheer went up in the crowd. The princess was beloved, even though she’d been absent in the Vale. She’d joined her sister’s trips to the city and helped with the welfare as often as she could. Harwin were to bet that only her sister was more beloved by the smallfolk at this point. The king seemed pleased with the crowd’s reaction. Visenya was descending the steps as quickly as she could do so. It wasn’t until she leaned over the railings that he allowed himself to grin.

“Thank you, my princess, for your favor certainly protected me in this fight and led me to victory,” he spoke, handing her the bouquet of red roses.

She blushed, carefully holding the flowers, “You honor me deeply, Ser Harwin, congratulations on your win!”

In the cheers of the crowd, Harwin was convinced he was floating above the world. His father was proudly smiling at him, his sisters were cheering loudly, and Larys was giving his trademark smirk. Tonight, he’d have to answer all the questions they’d have, but for now he basked in their praise. Visenya gave him one last nod and smile, waving at him as he was exiting. The king was nodding, looking thoughtfully at him. Wiping sweat from his brow, he went to clean off the dirt, blood, and gods know what. His grin didn’t leave his face for the rest of the night.

The dark night had come without fuss, the moon high and bright in the sky. For once, he was sleeping, his patrol taken over by another man. After the feasting, and dancing, he was exhausted. Visenya had been beautiful and happy, laughing while he’d twirled her. Elaena was his constant partner throughout the night. His sister had charmed the court with her dance skills and was the happiest he’d had seen her in a while. Jeyne allowed him one dance, unimpressed with his intimation of his betrothed. Look, the man had to know what he was marrying into. Larys and his father did question him, but not heavily, accepting his friendship with the princess for now. When he retired for the night, he was sleeping quickly.

This is why he was so confused when he was woken up so abruptly in the early morning hours. The sun hadn’t even kissed the horizon, and he was barely able to rub the sleep from his eyes before the frantic voice of Visenya came to him.

“Harwin, wake up!” she said, shaking him, “I need you!”

He jerked his head up, searching for an intruder. Instead, he spotted the opening to the passageway that Visenya had found a fortnight ago. Looking at her directly, he took note of her wide eyes and fear on her face. Her silk night gown was reflecting the moonlight from his window, while she was sat upon his bed beside him. In the moment, he saw the tears leaking from her eyes.

“My mother has entered into labor.”

Chapter Text

The screaming was haunting the halls of the Red Keep. It did not seem to matter where one went within the imposing structure, they cut clear to the courtyards. Daemon had not expected the chaos when he had rushed to the keep from the tourney grounds. He hadn’t even taken off his armor, choosing to rather hold his decorative helm. Sprinting through the halls and corridors, the noisy plate armor attempting to beat out the screams, Daemon was wildly searching for his family. The boy, and gods be damned Harwin Strong was still a boy, who’d retrieved him from the ground was leading him, unhindered by heavy armor.

For all the boy’s youth, his face had looked impossibly old when he’d ambushed Daemon in his tent after his winning joust. The high of beating the Hightower boy quickly faded when Harwin had panickily informed him of the disaster brewing in the palace.

Arriving to the chambers of his laboring goodsister, Daemon finally dropped his helm outside the door. Valyrian steel was light but durable, and the clanging noise barely registered to him. Ser Harrold Westerling was guarding the entrance but didn’t attempt to block his way. Harwin held back, standing beside the older knight. Daemon wouldn’t have let himself be barred entry anyways, not when his niece and brother were in distress.

“YOU ARE NOT KILLING MY MOTHER!” screeched Visenya in High Valyrian. Daemon was struck at her wild appearance, a crazed look in her wide eyes as she stood before her mother’s birthing bed. Too late did he register the dagger in her hands, recalling it leaving his possession before she’d left to the Vale.

Viserys and the maester, the grey robed rat, were attempting to talk down the girl. At the same time, the midwives were bustling around the room, prepping for surgery. Suddenly, he was more sympathetic to his niece once he realized what was occurring. Aemma, laying in that great bed, was pale and covered in sweat. Her strength was sapped from her, and she was barely keeping her eyes open. Daemon was overtaken with sorrow, she’d never thought him the greatest man, but she’d loved him as a brother. Even letting him name her sweet girl, who was now her greatest protector.

“My girl, please, your mother has been laboring too long,” his brother pleaded, hands raised as he attempted to step towards the girl, “The maester says that either she will pass or both her and the baby will pass.”

Although he knew that the maester didn’t know High Valyrian, the older man was nodding along. The posture of the man was meant to be placating, non-threatening. Mellos was a rat loyal to the Hightower cunt. Gods, while Daemon knew that Aemma was not likely to survive he couldn’t believe the eagerness of both his brother and the maester to cut her open.

Visenya gripped the dagger tighter at his words, and Daemon took note of the fact that she was clad in a night gown and dressing robe. She must’ve been with her mother for every moment of her labor. A pain shot through his chest, remembering doing the same for his own mother, for the birth of poor Aegon.

Slowly she backed up until the back of her legs hit her mother’s bed, not dropping her defensive stance. One hand reached back to grab her mother’s pale one, “Let the realm know you called for this order. That you are the true kinslayer, in spite of me having the Cannibal as my mount. I will call to the people of this kingdom and tell them of how I protected my mother in her time of greatest need.”

Daemon took her calmness as his warning, rushing forward to his niece. It didn’t escape his notice that one of the midwives had come to pull back Aemma’s hair from her face and neck while Visenya spoke. Swifter than him, Visenya climbed into her mother’s bed, and kept the dagger held in front of her. He could only stand as close as the tip of it, the steel-on-steel screeching as he pushed towards her. One of his hands came up to her, the other on Dark Sister. She didn’t move, eyes locked on his, the war of their thoughts unspoken. Gently raising his hand higher to her face, he cradled her head. Once, he’d done this to her when she was barely out of infancy and he was struck at just how much time had passed since. Slowly, he nodded, and she released a breath.

“Sweetsleep, bring it here now!” he snapped, confusion clear on the others in the room. The midwives seemed to understand him though, and seemingly had expected this possibility. An older woman, all grey hair, and wrinkles, produced a vial from her pocket immediately. He briefly recognized her from Visenya’s own birth, one of Aemma’s most loyal servants.

“Brother, explain yourself,” Viserys spoke, watching as Visenya snatched the vial quickly, the room holding it breathe, “There is no need for that damned poison here.”

There was just enough in the vial, his niece’s small nod confirmed. She finally turned to her mother, whispering to her. The dagger was finally dropped on the bed, but the room remained still. Waiting to see what the girl would do next.

“Your Grace, I must insist, remove the Princess from the room immediately,” the weasel in grey spoke.

Viserys seemed to hesitate to order anything, looking towards him for support. Daemon simply shook his head. The man was king, he could’ve ended this whole affair if he’d had a spine to do so. Otto had poisoned him too much, made him feel like he had to rely on others for decisions or actions to be made. It benefited him in this moment, but all Daemon wanted to do was to yell at his brother for his weakness. Visenya was stroking her mother’s face, the vial clutched in one of her hands. Aemma was whispering something, keeping quiet. After what could have been an hour, or a few minutes, she spoke up.

“My love, come to me,” her voice cracked, her hand reaching out. Viserys rushed to her side without hesitation. Only Aemma inspired him to call to action, now and always. Daemon shifted to stare down Maester Mellos, imagining how much Caraxes would love to have a taste of his flesh.

Viserys remained silent as his wife whispered her last testament to him, Daemon could just barely hear her, “Rhaenyra, she will be your heir, and she will be queen. Wed her to Daemon, let him be her sword, her shield. If you remarry, do not forget her birthright, do not let me be the Good Queen.”

“My love, my gentle love, how could she ever rule? They will fight me at every step, fight her at every step,” his brother spoke, forehead resting against his wife’s.

Aemma took a shaky breath, “Fire and Blood, we rule through fire and blood, be a dragon, protect our girls.”

There were a couple beats of silence, a wave of realization came over the faces of those in the room. Midwives were working through watering eyes, Ser Harrold grimacing and glancing away. Even the boy, Ser Harwin, who was only here for his niece was pale. Daemon recalled his own mother passed in the birthing bed, and so did his stepmother after her. In his own mind, he was feeling untethered. All he ever wanted, all he did for his family, was being rewarded by Aemma on her death bed. His chest ached, both despair and warmth fighting for dominance. If Viserys listened to his wife, Daemon would be true to her desires fully. Rhaenyra would never fear for protection with him as her husband. He just hoped this pled was enough, something to strengthen the family, not destroy it fully.

“Father, please, let me do it,” Visenya whispered, “I will be the kinslayer to the realm, under the gods’ eyes in this moment.”

Viserys seemed caught off guard, his daughter walking back her words. He then realized that her statement still rang true, he was the one to order the butchering of his own wife. Kinslayer in all but act. Instead of raging, or weeping, he nodded. Aemma turned to her daughter, her greatest protector, and opened her mouth. Visenya poured the Sweetsleep into her mouth, slowing down for her to swallow. Daemon counted her gulps; one, two, three, and a fourth for posterity. He closed his eyes for a moment, his whole body tight. A girl, of two and ten, was officially a kinslayer. Praying to his gods, those of the fourteen flames, for their understanding about her. One of the midwives choked out a gasp, shattering the stillness of the room. When he looked at the scene on the bed once more, Aemma’s eyes were closed, and Viserys gripping her limp hand. Visenya was staring back at him, her indigo eyes turning into iron. She stood, kissed her mother’s brow, and turned to the maester.

“Now you can butcher her for my brother,” she glared into Mellos’ eyes, “Your desire for cruelty is unbecoming Maester, you know that it is possible to have given her a gentle passing before cutting out a babe. I will not forget how you insisted on keeping her awake and screaming for this.”

With that she strode out, the dagger gripped in one hand, the vial in the other. Her unbound hair floated behind her, the pale blue dressing robe billowing out. There might not have been a crown on her head, but Daemon was certain she was the true ruler of the realm in this moment. Ser Harwin gave Ser Harrold a nod and chased after her. Once the doors closed behind them, the room busted into motion.

Daemon stalked his way out, not intending to stay to see the cutting of his goodsister. Viserys’ cries began to stab into his heart as they increased in volume. His tourney helm sat by the doors where he’d left it, and he carried it out into the grounds. He’d have to tell Rhaenyra, the terribleness of it sours on his tongue. Every step towards the grounds made his resolve harden more, his mind righting itself as he walked. There was no way Aemma’s last wishes would go unheard.

In the stands she was radiant in her red gown, her crown of braids emphasizing her royal beauty. Next to her sat the Hightower girl, who he barely tolerated since she passed on information to his nieces, and Rhaenys’ daughter, Laena. He didn’t wait for the joust that was occurring to end before he came up to her. Without preamble, he kneeled in front of her. The crowd took quick notice of it, and suddenly they were the focus. Instead of delaying the news, or making it a bigger event, he chooses to take her hands in his. Pulling her closer to him so he was able to speak quietly.

“Your mother has died in the birthing bed, with your father and sister at her side,” he whispered, hearing her breath catch, “She proclaimed you as the true heir to the Iron Throne, my dear niece.”

Rhaenyra, ever so perfect as a princess, let out a choked sob. Within moments, Daemon encased her in his arms. Turning to look at Rhaenys’ daughter, he motioned for her to get her mother. It seemed the girl understood what was happening, and immediately jumped into action. The Hightower girl had her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, face paled. There would be no need to explain the situation up at the Keep. Giving her another gesture towards her father, he sent her to handle it. He may despise Otto, but he wouldn’t want to be the one to announce the death of the queen. The tourney would have to be cancelled, even if his nephew or niece survived being cut out of their mother’s womb. Rhaenyra continued to cry into the crook of his neck. Not wanting to continue this scene around the court, he quickly stood, and picked her up. It was a mimic of the bridal carry, her hands clasping around his neck. Daemon chose to not relish the feeling; it was the wrong time to do so. Armor clanging, he took his dear niece to their family to grieve her mother.

War was easier for Daemon to think on than grief. He was made to embrace fire and blood, to be a dragon. In the days between Aemma’s passing, and that of Prince Baelon, and her funeral he found himself with his cousin and her husband.

“Cousin, you know Corlys appreciates this, but I worry for you,” Rhaenys kind voice cuts through his thoughts.

In front of him was a crude map of the Stepstones, Corlys’ solar overtaken with maps and letters. Being Master of Ships warranted a solar in the keep, City Watch Commander got him one in the barracks. Across the desk was Corlys Velayron himself. Daemon had always thought the other man handsome, but in his stress, he was no match for his wife. Rhaenys hovered by her husband’s right shoulder, hair let down from its usual style. Her violet eyes tracked his every move.

Daemon sighed, “It is unlikely I would accomplish much up with the girls and my brother; they are grieving in a way I cannot.”

"You and I are the same kind of man,” Corlys grumbled, “We must make action happen in moments like these, we are unable to sit.”

Mentally, Daemon felt that the man was approving of him for once. It was a nice feeling; the Sea Snake was no feeble man. To be told that you are alike to him was a great compliment. Brushing off the warmth that rose inside of him, Daemon turned to face Corlys directly.

“My brother will be grieving, weak, and while it is necessary to bring the Three Sisters to heel, we cannot leave him alone here,” he said, thinking of the treacherous bastard as Hand.

Rhaenys seemed to give up on her concern for him, “I will stay here, Laena is in Rhaenyra’s company, and it is no matter to reconnect with Viserys.”

“I do seem to recall many stories of you, Viserys, and Daemon as children,” Corlys quipped, a small smile on his face.

“Rhaenys was a terror from birth,” Daemon interjected, “If anyone thought I was bad it paled in comparison to her.”

“Now, cousin, you must not forget that you were all so happy to follow your brother into his revenge for the itching power incident,” she shot back at him.

Running a hand over his face, he let out a groan. The itching power incident was something of legend for the three of them. Always a troublesome bunch, Daemon was certain that if they’d had dragons at that age there would be no stopping them.

“Daemon, as much as I am sure you enjoy your childhood antics being discussed,” Corlys drawled, “I fear that it is late, and we all have a somber affair tomorrow.”

With a sigh, Daemon bid his cousin and her husband goodbye. Rhaenys had clasped his hands tightly before he left, one last show of care from her. As he walked to his chambers he thought of tomorrow.

The funeral would be a Valyrian one, a dragon was a dragon, and Aemma certainly deserved one. A procession would depart the keep at mid-morning, and they’d be arriving at mid-day at the funeral site. Daemon, in all his usual brutality, had been preparing for it in between plotting a war in the Stepstones. King’s Landing would be safe and clear for his family, and he’d informed Mysaria of the plans so she could spread it. Perhaps, Visenya would have her supporters in the city show up for her, in all the colorful silks of a brothel. Rhaenyra’s patronage at the orphanages meant he’d been arranging the City Watch to be babysitters. The children would likely show up in droves. Remembering how his niece had tried to talk him into visiting with her, he snorted. Turns out that while he was not bad with children, his reputation preceded him and the septas that ran the orphanages politely declined Rhaenyra’s offer of him visiting. Not all Targaryens could be like King Jaehaerys, some needed to be more like Maegor in his opinion.

Arriving to find a maid in chambers, Daemon chose to ignore her presence. There was a tub filled with hot water in the corner that drew his attention instead. Steam rising off the water, he hastily set to removing his clothes. A small squeak from the maid made him turn to her.

Young, with brown hair and olive skin. Her wide eyes were a hazel color, and she clutched the rag she must’ve been cleaning with in her hand in front of herself. Gods, he was attempting to bathe, nothing scandalous.

“Apologies, I was not aware I had a new chamber maid,” he sighed, setting his tunic in the chair nearby the tub, “It is alright if you leave, I simply wish to bathe.”

The girl’s eyes did not meet his, “I am not your new chamber maid,” she stuttered through her words, “I have a message for you.”

Daemon’s interest peaked, he had spies, and of course Mysaria, but he didn’t know who’d be sending a maid to give him a message. In spite of his shirtless state, he approached the girl, who was fumbling to pull out a small scroll. Closer to the young girl, around Visenya’s age, he saw a faded scar around the girl’s neck. A jolt of surprise went through him at the realization. Why was an Essosi former slave delivering him a message at night?

With a shaking hand she gave him the scroll, “I will return in a week, at night, if you wish to send a message back through me.”

As soon as she had spoken, she ran out the door. Her skirts flowing behind her at the speed of her departure. Such a skittish messenger. In the candlelight, he opened the scroll, and read the message multiple times. Not a long message, but certainly one that caught his attention. The gray rats have poisoned the dragon, the lost daughter wishes to speak to the second son.

Aunt Saera was a myth to Daemon half the time. To think of her was to think of the family he’d lost. Besides, she had not sent a single letter to anyone after Queen Alysanne had passed. If she was contacting him then he had to respond. Gods, how inconvenient of her to choose a mousey maid to do so through. Rereading the message, he memorized the words, and threw it in the fire. He’d ponder what to do in the hot bath, it’d be a shame to waste the warm water.

Rhaenyra looked half raw and half dead. Regret filled him when he saw her, her mourning clothes only adding to the image of his fiery niece being burnt out. Lavender eyes rimmed in red stared at him, at his every move. She was brave for her own sake, no one had requested she ride on horseback in the procession. Instead, she had insisted, and thus would be riding with her sister between his own stallion. Daemon remembers his wailing, his anger at losing his own mother. He raged for days on end. Strange how even though both he and Rhaenyra were dragons, she was so tempered. Visenya was much more alike to him, her eyes wild and hair braided back as if for battle. She’d apparently snuck to the training yard and pommeled Breakbones in a rage last night. Some kind of spar that obviously was not equally matched in participation. The bandaged knuckles seemed to prove that, and he hid his smirk at the knowledge. Honestly, if he were Viserys he’d have the two betrothed as soon as Visenya turned thirteen. Their dragon blood ran hot and it’d be best to prevent the scandal when his niece inevitably ran off with Harwin Strong. Speaking of the Strong boy, he lingered by his father. His siblings all around him, and his oldest sister was inspecting the damage left behind by little fists. He didn’t look too bad, Daemon mused, just a few bruises and a spilt lip. He’d have to teach his nieces how to punch harder in the future.

Once Viserys, haggard and raw with grief, was done briefing the group on the procession plan and order, his brother climbed into the carriage awaiting him. The one behind him was carrying the prepared bodies of Aemma and her son. Altogether, the assembled group were mounting horses and climbing into carriages. Rhaenyra’s ladies all shared one, and the small council members not riding shared another. Lyonel Strong was riding with his sons, the clubfooted one able to ride better than he’d thought.

Kicking his stallion into action, he starting to lead the procession to the prepared area. In the streets there were mourners in black, the smallfolk in their darkest clothes. There were still cheers, noise, and clamoring children attempting to get a good view of the royal family. Still, it was apparent that Queen Aemma had been loved by her people. Many people were wailing, reaching out for his nieces. Out of the corner of his eye he could see how tense Rhaenyra was. He was uncertain what her future held, and the new responsibility of possibly being heir to the throne was heavy on her shoulders. Jealously shot through him when he realized that Viserys would never consider him the heir. Tempering back the thought, he forced himself to think of his duty to Rhaenyra, he’d be her sword and shield when she would take the throne. As he pondered on this, he noticed the smallfolk start throwing things ahead of him. Hand gripping Dark Sister, he watched the children toss their white items.

Slowing their approach, Daemon was cautious, what would the smallfolk be throwing at them? It wasn’t until he was closer that he realized it was white flowers, of all kinds. A way for the smallfolk to honor their queen. Visenya, half-horse after fostering in the Vale, swung herself half out her saddle to take a handful of flowers from a child. Rhaenyra herself was met with the most flowers thrown towards her. There were children, their mothers, and even men tossing flowers towards her. The goodwill she’d been fostering was paying off, and there were calls of her name. To his surprise, a few brave souls tossed flowers towards himself. Some of them were singing hymns of the stranger and mother. The noise carried them out of the city, through the Dragon Gate, and to the grassy fields that held the pyres.

Once they’d traveled far enough to reach the site, he set to ordering the city watch and Kingsgaurd to their places. His brother was in the worst moment of his life, and Daemon wanted to ensure this went as smooth as possible. The dragonkeepers were huddled by the pyres, a Valyrian priest was carefully writing runes in the wood. Low murmurings of Valyrian were all the noise that could be heard in the wind. After checking that his nieces were secured and with the dragonkeepers to call their dragons, he went to his brother. Ser Harrold was stood by the door of the carriage. With a nod to the man, Daemon gently knocked on the door.

Out came Viserys, and Daemon immediately assisted with his descent down the steps of the carriage. His brother looked grateful, but surprised. Perhaps his grief had clouded him to the amount of preparation Daemon had done. Or, more likely to his ire, Viserys was surprised he was capable of anything other than being a nuance. The annulment of his marriage had greatly improved his general behavior, and it stung that Viserys had not acknowledged the change. Otto was too close for comfort, and he feared for his brother in this moment of weakness if he were to go to the Stepstones. Still, he gripped his brother’s forearm tightly.

“You did not deserve to lose both your wife and son in one day,” Daemon spoke as they walked to their places. Viserys jolted, not expecting the courtesy from his blunt brother. His hand gripped his arm tighter in response.

Once they’d arrived at the planned spots, Viserys kept his hand on his forearm. Without turning his head from where he watched the priest ready the bodies, he responded, “Make me believe you will be Rhaenyra’s greatest ally and protector. Promise me you won’t let her fail.”

Their voices were low, but the words hit Daemon like Viserys had yelled him. Swallowing back his emotions, he promised, “Never shall a blade, a word, a person harm her if I live. If I fail in my duty, I will everything in my power to make amends for it.”

“Aemma was distrustful of my Hand in her final days. Otto insists her final wish to have you wed Rhaenyra is not something of importance,” his brother’s voice wavered in this moment, “That was one of the few things she asked of me, in her entire life.”

Daemon’s breath caught at his words, a pause in their conversation let his thoughts race. In the distance, Syrax and Cannibal were approaching and let out roars. Some of Rhaenyra’s ladies seemed shocked at the size of the black dragon. Viserys did not move an inch, he’d ridden the Black Dread at his largest. Caraxes was far more threatening if anyone were to ask Daemon.

With an inhale, his brother finally spoke, “Prove yourself worthy of Rhaenyra to the realm, and you two will be wed as soon as possible.”

The chance to do more than a shaky nod was taken away by the landing of the two dragons. Shock pulsed through his body, his legs tingling. Viserys had said to prove himself to the realm as worthy, not to himself. His brother’s approval, that he’d chased for desperately, was right there. Given to him freely, without hesitation. While his reputation preceded him, Daemon would prove cunts like Otto Hightower wrong about his worth. Finally letting go of his brother, he stepped back behind Rhaenyra and Visenya. His thoughts wondered as both a septon and the priest gave sermons for Aemma and her son. Rhaenyra cried silently, nothing giving her away but her breath catching. Visenya was tightly gripping the dagger sheathed at her waist. Gods, how unfair two sweet girls like them to lose their mother right before they enter womanhood. His memories of his own mother were flooding his mind, and he felt his anger at the injustice of the gods for taking mothers as their own. His

Soon, it was time for the girls to give the command for their dragons to set the pyres alight. Rhaenyra was to say it first, to burn her mother’s pyre, with Visenya setting their brother’s alight after. Silence stretched, the sobs of those gathered filling the space. He looked at Viserys to see if his brother was going to say anything to his daughter, but he was once more clouded in grief. Daemon took a step forward to his niece instead.

“It is time, my girl,” he spoke lowly,

Rhaenyra seemed to barely notice his words, only speaking after a long pause, “I wonder, if, during those few hours my brother lived my father finally found happiness.”

Her bitterness seeped into her voice; her pain clear to him. “Your father needs you, now more than ever,” he responded, careful to emphasize how important she was.

“I cannot be a son, Visenya cannot be a son,” she said, eyes focused on the pyres, “Never will he find the son he searched for.”

“You can be a dragon still,” Daemon spoke, his final attempt at reassurance to her. She inhaled sharply and stepped forward towards the pyres. Her body tense as he’d ever seen it, ready for her battle. Visenya stepped forward on her other side to join her. Rhaenyra ignored those around her in this moment.

The only warning he had was Rhaenyra’s head looking up at Syrax, “Dracarys!”

If the small council could be described as anything, it was best described as rats running around trying to bite off the biggest piece of the King as possible. Otto Hightower, of course, was the fattest rat. An up jumped second son from a house that was still bitter about Aegon choosing the Tyrells over them. Now, like always it seemed, he was once more blocking Daemon’s requests simply because he could. Viserys was in no state to discuss much more than the basic ruling of the realm. Unfortunately, Corlys had decided to make this the time for requesting action against the Triarchy. He’d insisted in private that it was the best time to do so. They had a better chance at gaining the crown’s support if they could take advantage of Otto’s waning influence on Viserys. His comments about Aemma created a rift between them, and Corlys was confident that they would be able to benefit from it.

Daemon was hesitant to request such a thing at this time, it was only a fortnight since the funeral of Aemma and her son. He’d been increasing the patrols of the City Watch as both of his nieces insisted on charity and public scenes with their ladies. The city was under reforms that were inspired by Aemma taking on Alysanne’s old work. It made sense that the two girls were desperate to continue their mother’s work together. Besides the increase in his work, he’d been in contact with his Aunt Saera. They hadn’t arranged a time to meet yet, and he was frustrated at her vagueness. Luckily, she’d allowed for their communication to be through Mysaria. She’d been pleased Daemon had chosen her to have that duty. It wasn’t like whores just aspired to fucking a prince, and Mysaria jumped at the chance to prove herself. Daemon hadn’t told anyone else of this, but he would eventually tell Viserys once he had a better idea at what Saera was planning.

“Your grace, I insist we focus on the matter of your heir and not shipping lanes,” Otto’s voice cut through his thoughts. Gods, how his mere presence worsen his day.

Looking to see Corlys’ offended face, Daemon intervened, “The late Queen Aemma was clear in her proclamation that Rhaenyra was the true heir. As the King has not proclaimed his intent to remarry, nor a different heir, it is clear that we should follow the Queen’s guidance.”

“Daemon is correct, Rhaenyra shall be my heir,” Viserys spoke with more authority than he had in moons. Clearly displeased with Otto if his face was to go by. This must have been a long-standing argument about Viserys’ heir. Rhaenyra was far better suited, and it wasn’t like Otto was a fan of Daemon being named heir instead. Truly, if it wasn’t for Rhaenys interference with the idea of his brother remarrying, Otto would be pushing for that even harder. Laena was too young for anything other than a long betrothal at this point, so it was best for their cousin to be comforting Viserys and running interference about marriage.

Lord Lyman Beesbury looked pleased at the change in events, and Lord  Lyonel Strong was writing something down in rapid speed. Corlys was obviously bored of Otto’s foolishness in blocking their joint request to stop the Triarchy.

“Additionally, I request that an official naming ceremony be held for Rhaenyra. It has come to my attention that due to the lateness of naming her, no lord has sworn fealty to her. Whatever planning necessary will go to Lord Beesbury and Rhaenyra herself,” Viserys continued. Mellos was gawking at him like he’d grown an extra body part, and Otto was not far off. “Lord Strong, as Master of Laws, I request that you draft a law changing the line of succession to include daughter in the absence of any sons.”

Like that, Mellos and Otto deflated. Their arguments would continue about Viserys remarrying and that if a son is produced then that boy would be his heir. For now, his brother had stood up for himself and his daughter.

“Now, if that matter is finally settled, I ask you consider me and Prince Daemon’s request for troops and ships, your grace,” Corlys never was a man to wait his turn. His humor was high at the offended face of Otto. Though the argument was clearly about to start up again at the reminder of the request.

Thinking quickly, Daemon spoke, “Brother, with the lords coming to swear their fealty to Rhaenyra, it is the perfect time to discuss the Triarchy’s actions in the Stepstone. The lords of the great houses can decide if it is worth their time to pledge troops or ships to us to protect our trade routes in the Stepstones.”

The council seemed to pause at his words, and he knew it was because he’d actually made a good point. No one could dispute the argument on its face. Even Otto seemed to begrudgingly acknowledge the good move it was. Corlys gave him a small nod and Daemon felt confident that his brother would grant their request.

Viserys swallowed once, then nodded, “I declared that Lord Velaryon and Prince Daemon be given a minimum of ten thousand men and at least a thousand of the royal fleet as a start to protect the Stepstones. When the great lords come to King’s Landing, I shall call a meeting for them to present their case to them. From there is it up to the lords themselves to decide to support them in their cause.”

The finality of his words sunk in. Otto was sending him and Corlys a glare, and the room was filled with tension. Meanwhile, Viserys seemed pleased at Daemon’s actions. It was clear a division was occurring in the Small Council. As they finished the meeting for the day, Lyonel Strong was staring at him with a strange look in his eyes. Daemon had proven himself capable of change and responsibility in his duty to the realm. Leaving the council room, Daemon fell in step with his brother. They walked in companionable silence, both headed to eat with Rhaenyra and Visenya. Likely, this was the last day he’d have before the chaos of Rhaenyra’s naming ceremony was over. Still, his steps seemed lighter than before the meeting.

Chapter Text

A flurry of activity had taken hold on the Red Keep. Every step to your destination meant avoiding a servant, some minor lord or lady, or a guard. It was the explosion after the announcement that Rhaenyra was to named heir and that all the Lord Paramount’s would be swearing an oath of fealty to her. Then it was announced that Prince Daemon and Lord Corlys would be speaking to the Lords and asking for men to fight in the Stepstones. Going from planning the stay of the most powerful men and their entourages for one ceremonial event to having the possibility of them staying until war began meant preparations begun immediately. It’d been a hectic time for everyone in the keep from the stable boys to the King himself.

Politics seemed to overtake every aspect of the ceremony. Not only was it clear that this would be an unpopular decision, evident by Princess Rhaenys own story, but it was coming right before a war in the Stepstones. Alicent had torn her fingers to shreds attempting to balance it all for the past two moons. There’d been so much work to do, and Rhaenyra was helping plan it all with Lord Beesbury to prove herself. Of course, her ladies-in-waiting were helping but it was just such a large undertaking that no one was free from their duties. Preparing chambers, and who was going to stay in those chambers, with the added hassle of bloodline feuds and alliances to consider it was almost too much. She’d chosen to help with the seating and sleeping arrangements with Donella, and it was hard work.

“How you seem so aware of these histories I will never know,” Donella grumbled from her place across the table. They were in the solar of Rhaenyra’s apartments, which had become the ‘war council’ room for their planning. The younger girl’s red hair was messy in its updo and her eyes looked tired.

Alicent picked up the paper her companion was looking at, “I just paid more attention in my lessons with the maesters. When it was just me and the princesses, we were able to spend more time on the histories of the great houses.”

“Well, I just keep forgetting all the Reach politics,” Donella rubbed her Seven-Pointed-Star necklace as she spoke, “It easy enough to know to not sit Tully’s next to Greyjoy’s and Bracken’s as far away from Blackwood’s.”

“Why am I not shocked you only named two of the most infamous bloodline feuds,” Alicent couldn’t hold back her mirth. It was one of the first lessons in politics she’d ever received and was hardly new information. Besides, there was going to be two sides of the feasts with the dance floor separating them. Unless the families sought each other out everything should go smoothly. She quickly corrected the placement of House Tyrell to be closer to House Arryn, as Donella had forgotten the fact Lady Tyrell was formerly and Arryn and moved House Redwyne across the aisle to House Manderly. Hopefully Gwyn would be able to join them in some activities while she was in the keep, none of them had met her now two-year-old son Davos.

Donella stopped her fidgeting to study her face, obviously waiting to see if she’d done a decent job at the placements for the feast. Besides those two adjustments, it was a good chart. Alicent finished her marks and set aside her quill to give the younger girl a nod. A deep sigh of relief escaped the other and sent Alicent into giggles. Clearly, this stuffy room was getting to both of their heads.

“Come with me to drop this off at Lord Beesbury’s solar,” Alicent stood as she spoke, “Remember that we promised to join Rhaenyra in naming the new Kingsguard.”

The redhead grumbled but stood to join her. When the ladies had come to the keep, Alicent had feared that she would feel out of place among them, like she’d be too plain or boring. Luckily, Donella had become a wonderful friend, and all the girls had been warm to her. Of course, a couple of them clashed with her more modest tendencies but she was able to appreciate the new perspective.

As they walked, Donella discussed the dresses they all planned to wear. Many of them would be using old tourney dresses, and they all worked on one new gown for the ceremony and feast. Those new dresses would be all political and using their house colors and sigils, but the cut and style was open to their own desires. Right now, long flowing sleeves, tighter bodices, and elaborate fabrics were in fashion at the capital. With so many regions being represented at the ceremony there were to be quite drastic differences in the fashions. Donella, and Elaena Strong, both decided to style themselves in the Riverlands fashions, with all its draping and flowy fabrics. It was expected that Jeyne, Elaena’s older sister married to Donella’s older brother, would follow suit with them. On the other side of that, Cerelle and Ryella, now also a Lannister, would be embracing the gaudy and elaborate Westerlands fashion. Alicent and Laena were both planning to dress in capital fashion, but with different cuts of dress. The conversation on dresses, fabrics, and speculation on who’d be wearing what carried the girls to and from their errand to the courtyard that Rhaenyra would be choosing the newest Kingsgaurd.

They pulled up next to the group of awaiting ladies to see both of the princesses engaging in a heated conversation of whispers. Visenya was dressed in her leather training armor, in all black of course, looking stern. Rhaenyra, who was in her black mourning clothes still, was looking much angrier than her sister. Ser Harrold Westerling was standing in front of the training ring filled with the candidates for the Kingsgaurd. It seemed that there had been some show of skill from the men that they’d missed. Alicent let go of Donella’s arm to approach the sisters, catching some of their whispered argument.

“He is the only one with any experience in combat,” Rhaenyra hissed, “Why are so against him?”

Visenya’s face was stone, “He looks at you as if you are meat, like you are ready for the taking.”

Rhaenyra reeled back in offense, taken back by her sister’s words. Alicent took the moment to intervene between the two.

“What is the issue here?” she said as she stepped into their argument, “Who is looking at the princess like meat?”

Rhaenyra simply nudged her to the training yard, where the Dornish knight from the tournament was sparing with a knight from the Reach. He’d been next to joust Prince Daemon before he’d been called away to the keep. She recalled that he’d done well in the lists previously, but she hadn’t watched him. She turned back confused, nothing about the man had seemed suspicious.

Instead of waiting for her to speak again, Visenya went straight into her arguments, “Not only is he from a house in Dorne, which holds no goodwill for our family, but he looks half in love with my sister.”

“Ugh, she’s been adamantly against the man since she’d heard his name,” Rhaenyra grumbled, frustrated at her sister’s actions. Visenya stood with her arms crossed, not budging from her stance.

“Well, if he’s got the most experience in combat, and is a good fighter, would there be a better candidate than him?” Alicent asked, hesitant at the building tension.

“Yes, one that is not such a dog,” Visenya snapped.

“What has he done besides a look that only you accuse him of being unsavory for?” Rhaenyra immediately responded, “You seek reasons to dismiss him but it is not built on any evidence.”

Alicent had to admit that Visenya did mention his Dornish heritage, which did make sense. Her namesake had burnt Dorne in anger less than a hundred years ago, and the Targaryen’s had lost their Crown Prince Aemon to them not long ago. It was not the best decision to make if one was worried about their family’s safety. Yet, it seemed unfair to judge a man of his lineage when he could not chose it.

“Has anyone else expressed concern over his choosing?” she asked, looking at Visenya’s face closely. When it hardened even more, she felt sympathetic. If no one else had said anything, then it’d be hard to dismiss the man on the word of a freshly turned thirteen-year-old girl.

Clearly seeing that she’d lost the argument, Visenya turned to walk away, giving one last jab in, “Just don’t let the man guard my sister alone!”

Rhaenyra shared a look with her. Purple eyes rolled at her sister’s behavior, that had only gotten worse since the passing of their mother. Alicent didn’t know what had happened, just that Visenya was there at the moment of her death. Personally, she was sympathetic to her distress, her own mother’s passing still hurt, and it was years ago. It seemed that the loss of Queen Aemma had tempered Rhaenyra and enflamed Visenya.

Without much fanfare, Ser Criston Cole was selected for the Kingsgaurd. The true ceremony would take place at a later time, without an audience. Still, Alicent couldn’t help but examine the dark-haired man for the unsavory behavior that Visenya mentioned. Pretty men can have ugly desires behind their eyes.

Alicent was still pondering over why Visenya had been so upset about Ser Criston Cole that evening. She thought on it while she embroidered the doublet that her father would be wearing at the heir naming ceremony. Sitting beside the fire in her father’s solar, she was lost in her own mind, working through the possible reasons for her friend’s distress. Absentmindedly, she stitched the green flames of the Hightower on the breast of the doublet.

It was the footsteps of her father that shook her out of her thoughts. He seemed to be in a good mood, unlike his moods since King Viserys had started taking his brother’s counsel more. The evening meal had already been had, so Alicent was curious why he was seeking her out. Since she was a child, her father had left her on her own after the last meal of the day. He sat himself beside her, not meeting her eyes. For a few moments, it was silence, besides the cracking of the fire.

Just before she started by her stitching her father spoke, “I fear that in the rush of the planning for the ceremony and war, the King has been neglected in comfort for his loss.”

Alicent’s confusion must have been clear on her face, for her continued, “As his Hand, his closest friend, I worry for him to be alone in his time of mourning.”

“Surely his family has assisted him in this matter,” she said, searching his face for his feelings. She knew that Prince Daemon, and Princess Rhaenys had been spending more time with the King. Rhaenyra had told her some of the stories that they’d shared of their childhood together. It was strange that her father thought him lonely.

“Ah, my dear daughter, you think too highly of that impulsive bunch,” his hand came to grasp her own, “They are too hotblooded to think about the time that was once filled by the late Queen Aemma and leave him alone in the evenings.”

Alicent was understanding of that, knowing that the private moments between man and wife were important. The septas always emphasized to her the need to relieve her future husband’s burdens, how she was meant to be dutiful in her actions. Perhaps Prince Daemon was unaware of that isolation that came in the absence of Queen Aemma. Yet, Princess Rhaenys was a wife and mother, and had been increasingly spending time with the king. Her stomach seemed to clench at the thought of her father seeking a replacement for the late queen. She would not assist him in this matter, it was improper to do so until after the year long mourning period was up.

She gave a nod, and he continued, “In the haste of the planning, those around him have grown neglectful of his needs. I can only do so much myself.”

“I can speak to the Princess, both of them to ask for them to comfort their father,” Alicent suggested, thinking it the most helpful option. Why else would he be speaking to her about such an intimate subject?

Her father seemed to hesitate, “My dear, those two are the ones most busy with their duties, and are suffering from the loss themselves,” his hand gripped her tighter, “You understand the loss the King has suffered, and are less burdened by duty than me and the other royal family members.”

Suddenly, the clenching in her stomach worsened, a nauseous feeling overtook her. Her father would not ask her to implant herself into the king’s personal and private life. Remembering how he’d ask her to create division between Rhaenyra and Visenya, how he’d threatened her with a poor marriage if she didn’t do as she asked, even his poor treatment of her when she’d petitioned for a sept to be built on the Street of Silk. She’d been a dutiful daughter, done as she’d been asked. All she’d gotten from it was guilt and the distain of her closest friend until she’d confessed tearfully that her father had ordered it. Her hands had grown clammy in her father’s own. If they were free, the desire to pick at her fingers would’ve overtaken her.

“I ask that you seek him out tomorrow evening, my dear daughter,” his face was the kindest she’d ever seen it, “Wear one of your mother’s dresses.”

With those final words, he leaned in and kissed her brow. More affectionate than he’d been in years. The kiss left behind a burning sensation, unpleasant and lingering. Once he’d stood and left, Alicent stared into the fire. Hoping that the flames could show her what to do. She sent a prayer to the Crone for her wisdom, to the Mother for guidance. What was being asked of her made her skin crawl, the wrongness of it. When her father first started to ask things of her, she’d done them without compliant. Now though, knowing how his request had harmed her friends, how her friends had been so caring before, she doubted she could do this task.

She sat there longer than she’d thought, staring into the fire. It wasn’t until she remembered something Visenya had once said that she moved. Mechanically, she readied herself for bed. Brushing out her hair and braiding it back simply. Her nightgown was covered with a blue dressing robe to protect her modesty. Putting on her slippers, Alicent carefully snuck her way out of her chambers.

Not a single guard, for all that there was many, stopped her. Neither did a maid or servant. Alicent had become such a fixture in these halls that her presence would never be questioned or forbidden. The firelight from the sconces on the stone walls make the shadows move and flicker. Her hair raised on her arms, and she nervously picked at her fingers.

Once she arrived at the doors to Rhaenyra’s chambers, her worries hit their peak. What if her friend would be disgusted with her? For the things her own father asked of her? Shame pulsed through her, it was almost impossible for her to raise her hand and quietly knock on the door. Her whole body was shaking.

Barely a breath passed before the door swung open to reveal Rhaenyra, “Alicent? What are you doing awake?”

Rhaenyra always went to bed late and made fun of Alicent’s tendency to go to bed early. Even now, Alicent could tell that her friend had just bathed, her pale hair dark with water. The smirk on Rhaenyra’s face slowly turned to a frown, and she reached out to pull Alicent into her chambers.

Immediately she set to checking her for any injuries or cause for concern, “What happened? Did something bad happen?”

Alicent felt tears spring to her eyes, and caught her friend’s hands in hers, “No one has hurt me, I am uninjured.”

“Was it your father?” Rhaenyra snarled, angry at the possibility someone had hurt her. She was half a dragon in the moment. Alicent attempted move them to sit down, but her friend held her still.

“What did he ask of you?” she pressed, “To create another rift in my family? That man lacks any dignity!”

At her words, Alicent felt the tears fall. She did not want to become her father, a shameful manipulator. Ever since she’d realized how little he cared for her outside of her being a pawn to him, she’d been making certain moves to help those around her. At court, Alicent was known for being pious, a good lady, and a charitable one. In the city, she was known for her kindness to the children, for her intelligence. Her father saw none of that, only a piece to move on the board and use as he wished. Rhaenyra embraced her, and to her embarrassment the sobs came.

Once they’d moved to sit on the bed, Alicent calmed down. With hiccupping breaths, she explained what her father had told her. What he’d asked of her. It took another ten minutes to calm Rhaenyra’s righteous anger down enough to not fear that her father would be dead come morning. Then, it became clear that they needed to plan what they would do.

"He won’t stop, if he cannot get me to wed your father then he’ll find another woman,” Alicent rasped. Her throat was scratchy from her crying, and her whole body felt exhausted.

Rhaenyra pondered her words, “They will make him remarry, even if he doesn’t wish to. Even if I am named heir, they will seek to steal my birthright with a son of their own blood.”

They shared a look, both knowing the truth in that statement. Alicent knew that Prince Daemon should be heir according to most lords, but the man was too brash for the throne. He didn’t gain the title of Rouge Prince through his diplomacy. Princess Rhaenys had been passed over for the throne, and that included her own son Laenor. If the king remarried, any children born of the union would be a threat to Rhaenyra’s rule. Additionally, the woman marrying him would be another possible threat. It was all too much to think on the possibility that some stranger would be the new queen.

Suddenly, Rhaenyra’s hands shot out to capture hers, “I need someone who’d be on my side to marry my father. Someone willing to do what it takes to prevent a civil war for succession.”

“We don’t have that person, I know no one who’d be suited for the job,” Alicent’s mind raced for noblewomen who’d be willing to both support Rhaenyra and be a suitable option for the king to marry. Laena Velaryon was far too young to wed the king but might be their only option. She thought of the passionate young girl, so brave and free. Seeing her forced into a marriage with a man almost thrice her age would be disturbing.

Rhaenyra seemed to predict what she was thinking, “Laena would be betrothed to him for a minimum of two years, and it would likely be another two before she had children. By then, I’d likely be wed.”

Her friend's face scrunched up at the thought of marriage, and it made Alicent feel lighter. There was no doubt that they both saw marriage as the next unknown, neither quite certain on who they’d be wed to. It was hard to believe that they were of an age to be betrothed and sent off. Sitting in companionable silence, the two thought over those that they knew to be loyal and the right age. Alicent was a bit distressed at how no one came to her mind.

“What if,” her friend hesitated, “What if your father had a point?”

Alicent’s head jerked to Rhaenyra, “You cannot possibly mean that.”

"He wants you to seduce my father so he can have his blood on the throne, and access to the future king. Although I shudder at the thought of you marrying my father, you would be able to help me,” her voice was thoughtful, and it was hard to combat the validity of the idea with the disgust in her stomach. There was a good chance that if another woman married the king, she’d view Rhaenyra as nothing but a hinderance to her own children’s ascension.

Taking a deep breath, Alicent responded, “I think you are correct in your assumptions about my father’s desires. Yet, I have no desire to seduce your father into marrying me.”

Rhaenyra took the comment with some humor, “Thank you for reassuring me that you don’t wish to bed my father.”

“If I married him, I’d have to,” she said in return.

“Not until you’re older, at least push for a betrothal that is a yearlong, and would not be announced until the mourning period is over. Then we can be cautious about any possible children until my position is satisfied,” Rhaenyra explained her plan, waving her hands as she spoke. Bitterness filled Alicent, she had not wanted to be told to marry a man so much older than her, to become queen when she’d never desired it.

“What if I want a choice in the matter?” her voice shook, “What if I ask you to take me on Syrax and fly me far away from this place?”

“Then I shall,” Rhaenyra immediately responded, “I’ll even leave Visenya with you so you’d have a protector.”

An unladylike snort escaped her, and they burst into giggles. For all the seriousness of the conversation, it was hard to imagine a world where Rhaenyra wouldn’t make that happen. Alicent was glad her friend could see that she might need an escape from this if it went too far for her. Still, she was uncertain of her future if she didn’t follow this half-made plan.

“What do you mean about being cautious about children?” Alicent suddenly thought to ask, not understanding that point of her friend’s plan.

Rhaenyra blushed fiercely, “Visenya goes to the sept on Silk Street, and has gained some, ahem, knowledge on preventative measures for children.”

“You must jest!” Alicent was shocked, “Your sister cannot be friendly with the whores!”

“To be fair, you did help get that sept placed there,” Rhaenyra said, too casually for someone discussing their younger sister hanging out with whores.

“I did that so they would know you cared for all your future subjects,” she protested, “And because Prince Daemon made a comment on how any man could be convince to go to war on a beautiful woman’s words.”

That sent the two into more giggles. Both of them were more than familiar with the crass behavior and language of Daemon. Her words seemed to have inspired a thought in Rhaenyra’s mind though.

“We should tell Daemon, or at least hint that whispers of remarrying have come up in court,” Rhaenyra said. She seemed confident in that decision being the right one, but Alicent was far more skeptical.

“Your uncle would attempt to use this to execute my father for treason,” she insisted, feeling exhausted at the lack of understanding her friend displayed.

A small frown took over Rhaenyra’s face, “I should be able to trust him to listen to me, to keep violence out of it.”

“He is far more bloodthirsty than you think,” Alicent rejected, “The City Watch may have been greatly improved, but under him they are brutal.”

This was enough to stop the other girl in her tracks. It was true, and even if Daemon listened to her concerns, he wouldn’t yield to her desires. At the lull in the conversation, they realized that they didn’t know where to go from here. Mutually, they agreed to talk to Laena, see if it would be possible to prevent a civil war, and for Alicent to bring Rhaenyra along to see the King the next evening. Before long, they were curled up beside each other. Sleep overtook their minds, whisking Alicent far away from the Red Keep.

There was a fortnight left until the ceremony would take place. With the Red Keep overrun with people, Alicent found herself desperately seeking some silence. Still without a plan in regard to her father’s scheming, she felt untethered. It didn’t help that Cerelle kept practicing her singing every chance she got. Her head was throbbing as she left Rhaenyra’s solar, using some errand as an excuse. Without thinking, her feet carried her to the small Godswood. The Seven would not appreciate her fondness for the place of worship for the Old Gods. Peace and quiet was immediately given to her, and she reasoned that her gods would understand.

Sitting on the bench facing the Weirwood tree, she focused on the red tears flowing down the white trunk. Sap dripped down the gruesome face like blood. Intently studying the expression, Alicent wondered if the unpleasant grimace had been purposely carved to scare people. To protect the tree from being cut down.

Movement came from her left, and her head whipped to look to the disturbance. There stood Larys Strong, the unfortunate second son of Lyonel Strong. He’d been improving noticeably in his riding and archery and would be a good choice to serve as his brother’s steward. If her father had been less ambitious, Larys would be the kind of man she’d be expected to marry. His face was sheepish at bothering her, but he took a step towards her anyways.

“Apologies, Lady Alicent,” he said in that sly voice of his, “I was unaware of your presence.”

“No worries, my lord, if you are here to pray, I can leave,” she hurriedly said, not wanting to bother the man in his holy place.

Without speaking he shook his head, instead gesturing to sit beside her on the bench. She shifted to accommodate him beside her. Thankfully, he refrained from undue touching.

“May I ask why you are here?” he asked, keeping his head forward.

A blush overtook her, she did not want to be disrespectful or seen as lazy, “I find that this place is one of the only places in the keep that is peaceful.”

Larys seemed to understand what she meant and settled in more on the bench. They sat in silence for what could’ve been an hour or a few minutes. She was hesitant to leave nor talk, unaware of the practices of prayer for the followers of the Old Gods. Nervously, she fidgeted with her fingers, picking at them on habit.

“If you ever seek knowledge on the Old Gods, I wish to volunteer my services, my lady,” Larys said, breaking the silence.

She paused before responding, “I appreciate your offer, my lord.”

He nodded, and stood, leaving without so much as a goodbye. Still sitting on the bench, she pondered over the interaction. Perhaps she should strike up a friendship with the man, maybe seeking a betrothal to save herself from her father’s scheming. Unlikely to work out, but she held on to her newfound hope. She stared at the Weirwood’s face once more, thinking that it might seem slightly less distressed.

Once more, she heard a disturbance, but this time it was the servants prepping the chambers nearby. A voice was giving them directions, but the accent was highborn. Standing up to depart, Alicent spotted the white hair of Princess Rhaenys. Attempting to walk around the group of people, she made sure to stick closer to the walls. One of those graphic and inappropriate tapestries brushed against her shoulder.

"Lady Alicent! You must come judge if these drapes are suitable for the Starks,” called Princess Rhaenys. Alicent forced herself to turn around a smile at the older woman, accepting the offered arm of her.

Together they walked through the chambers, with Rhaenys occasionally asking a question about her opinions of the décor or furniture. She purposely kept herself restrained and demure in her answers. Never suggesting anything too lavish nor too crude. Soon, the servants were departing to the next rooms. Yet, Rhaenys did not release her arm.

Gently guiding them to the window of the chamber, she spoke, “My daughter is quite close to her cousin, and her cousin is quite close to you.”

Instead of verbally responding, Alicent simply nodded. Rhaenys continued, “Something quite concerning was told to me about you by Laena.”

“I assure you that I have done nothing wrong, your grace, nothing harmful,” Alicent panickily said. Her eyes were searching Rhaenys’ face for a trace of any negative emotion. The only thing she looked like was a collected mother in this moment. It almost made her panic worse.

“It is never the fault of the daughter for the sins of the father,” Rhaenys’ gently held onto her hands, “Telling your friend was quite brave of you, but you won’t be able to scheme better than your father without assistance.”

Alicent felt desperately untethered, “Please, don’t let my father be imprisoned or killed, I swear I will do what I must to prevent his harm.”

“What a devoted daughter,” the older woman cooed, “A shame truly that you were given Otto as your father.”

Rhaenys looked out the window for a moment, then looked back at her, “I think it also a shame that Laena was given such an ambitious father. She is too young to wed Viserys, and it would be too political of a match to not cause harm to the realm.”

“I promise you that me and Rhaenyra did not wish to harm Laena with our plans, your grace,” Alicent pleaded, partially relieved that the young girl wouldn’t be forced to marry such an older man.

"Do not fret, I know that,” Rhaenys soothed her fears, “In fact, I feel it shows how devoted you are to this family, to Rhaenyra.”

By this point Alicent was sure she was about to cry, so nervous that she was, “Corlys would attempt to gain power with a marriage, same as your father does. The difference, is that you, my dear, are old enough to not be his pawn.”

“I do not want to hurt Rhaenyra or Visenya or Laena,” Alicent gulped in air, “I promise to you that I will never seek to harm any of your family, by the Seven I swear it.”

Rhaenys nodded at that, “Thankfully, you seem loyal enough to us that I do not question that. I ask that you listen to my next piece of advice clearly, your father wants to hurt House Targaryen and use your womb to do so.”

It stung a bit to hear the harsh truth laid out to her, a part of her wanted to believe differently. That her father loved her enough to not do that to her. Looking at the older woman, she saw nothing but kindness in those lavender eyes. Her heart ached for her mother desperately in that moment. She wished for someone to come save her from this, for Rhaenyra to appear with Syrax to fly her away to Essos.

“What I ask you of you is this, without any candidates that would be loyal to Rhaenyra’s claim, you are the only option to wed Viserys and not have a civil war,” Rhaenys words shocked her, “My claim was unfairly passed over, this is a chance to correct the wrong done to me, to other women.”

Alicent’s stomach was clenching, her hands shaking. This is what Rhaenyra had talked about, protecting her right to rule as a woman. It went against everything taught to her diligently by the Faith, by her maesters, and by her father. Yet did she not think it unfair for Rhaenys’ claim to have been passed over? Did she not think Rhaenyra well suited to be queen? Once more, she reminded herself that she didn’t want to become like her father. If she’d married the king and gave him sons, would she use them as pawns to gain power for her house? Her promise to be better than her father, to be more than her father came up in her mind.

Steeling herself, Alicent finally responded, “On this matter we agree, your grace. My only request is that you allow me to seek out your advice on this matter.”

“Oh, dear girl, if your father is to seek to force you into this family, then you may as well reap the benefits,” Rhaenys said. At once Alicent was encased in her strong arms. Relief caused her body to sag, the tension eased from her shoulders. Rhaenyra and her had gained support in their plans, were validated in their scheming. She hoped her mother would understand why this was necessary, that the gods would forgive her for going against her father.

By the time the ceremony to name Rhaenyra as heir came around, Alicent felt more settled than she had in many moons. The whole affair went off without a hitch, partly due to the careful planning of many people devoted to Rhaenyra. In a moment of brilliance, Visenya had arranged for a blessing to be bestowed upon her sister in the Godswood. The lords that followed the Old Gods had gathered to watch Rhaenyra be blessed in their tradition. After, they’d descended upon the throne room to watch the High Septon bless her under the eyes of the Seven. Thus began the swearing of fealty to Rhaenyra.

In the long, and undoubtedly boring, time dedicated to the oaths, Alicent took time to appreciate the splendor of those gathered. No one shone as brilliantly as Rhaenyra, vibrant red dress covered with a black cloak, and an elaborate headpiece upon her head. Every inch of her assembled outfit was handcrafted and detailed precisely. The choice of pearls on the headpiece to the Valyrian steel of her jewelry was done deliberately. Embordered dragons twirled every inch of her, glimpses of Cannibal, Caraxes, Vhagar, and even Meleys could be seen. It was truly a masterpiece of fabric.

Once all the oaths sworn, even those through gritted teeth, the feast began. Alicent was surrounded by her closest companions and was happy in the moment. Even when Visenya started a toast to Rhaenyra by mentioning how she’d be willing to spill blood in her name. She met the babes of Gwyn and Ryella, ignoring everything Jason Lannister said, and wished Jeyne luck as the newest Lady Tully. Cerelle and her fawned over the fashions from the high table, and Donella joined in. Laena and Elaena were glued to Visenya’s sides, whispering about things she’d prefer to not know. All was going well, and she did not have the urge to look at her father throughout the whole affair.

When the dancing started, she was twirling without stop. Being one of the heir’s ladies was certainly a benefit for those who sought her hand. She even danced with a few Northern men, all calloused hands and dark hair. Side-stepping a golden Lannister brought her to Laenor Velaryon. Although a bit older, he was barely taller than her. His white hair reflected brilliantly in the light, and his purple eyes resembled his sister’s greatly. By far, he was her greatest dance partner, and she was breathless by the time he escorted her to where Rhaenyra sat.

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and his responding smile was all his mother’s. Turning in her seat to see who Rhaenyra was talking to, she jolted at their companions.

Lady Kyra Tyrell, formerly Arryn, looked a shocking amount like Rhaenyra. If not for her honey-brown hair and hazel eyes, she could’ve been the late Queen Aemma in the flesh. Her splendid emerald velvet gown was low cut with elaborate rose beading on the bodice. The paleness of her skin was wonderfully complimented with the pale gold of her jewelry. She was the prettiest woman Alicent had ever seen. In comparison, Lord Arthur Tyrell was barely noticeable. As well groomed and dressed as his wife, his blonde hair and lighter green doublet fading in the shining light of Kyra.

After introductions were made, Rhaenyra was all too happy to discuss family with Lady Kyra, “I understand that Aunt Bethany is unable to join us due to her health?”

“Yes, I fear I have the strongest constitution of the family,” Kyra spoke, swirling her wine in her goblet, “Gods know that I have been unfortunate to survive three of my siblings.”

“May the gods bless Queen Aemma's soul,” Alicent said on instinct. Rhaenyra and Kyra bowed their heads for a moment and kept speaking.

“Apologies, Aunt, for not writing you after my mother’s passing,” Rhaenyra said, “I fear I was so distracted from grief and planning to contact you.”

Kyra seemed to look both Rhaenyra and her over. Examining them for something that Alicent wasn’t sure she knew. Nervously, her hands clasped themselves in her lap. Once the women’s eyes were done examining them, she took a sip of her wine.

“Lady Alicent, your own mother passed away, correct?” she asked, and once Alicent gave a nod she continued, “How terrible for both Princess Rhaenyra and you to be without mothers.”

Confusion overtook her, it was a well-known fact that they both were motherless. At least, in the Red Keep, but Alicent was certain that Kyra would know such a thing. Rhaenyra kept the conversation going, “Yes, I wish to ask you for guidance, if possible. My mother spoke quite fondly of you.”

A satisfied smile came to take place on Kyra’s face, “Of course, I cannot imagine leaving Aemma’s daughter alone.”

This is how Alicent ended up spending the better half of a week in the company of Lady Kyra. Often joined by the other ladies visiting with their husbands. Their husbands were all being giving speeches and information on the importance of pledging men to the Stepstones. Some days, Rhaenyra joined the men, other days she joined the rest of them in their walks and afternoon tea. It was constant politics and sly comments, Alicent’s head barely felt attached to her shoulders. Still, it was invaluable experience being given to her on a sliver platter. Princess Rhaenys had taken to sitting on Rhaenyra’s right, and Lady Kyra to her left. Laena was Alicent’s seating partner, and provided the funniest conversation, often done in whispers.

Sitting in the gardens, sipping tea, and quietly laughing at the insult Laena had dealt to a particularly unpleasant woman, was how Visenya had found them. Walking straight towards Rhaenyra and the circle gathered around her, she looked stern. In all black, with minimal jewelry, her dress resembled a long tunic, splitting at her knees to show the black breeches under. She gripped the dagger at her side as she approached her sister.

Giving a nod in respect to Rhaenyra’s new status, she spoke, “Sister, I come to tell you that it is official. I shall join our uncle when he departs for the Stepstones in a fortnight.”

Alicent internally groaned, of course Visenya would announce both her intent to fight and the fact that the lords had come to an agreement in one sentence. At once the ladies set to murmuring and chatting amongst themselves. Likely wondering if their husbands or sons were to fight too. Targaryens had absolutely no tact between them, honestly.  

Chapter Text

Seasmoke roared in joy, twirling himself around his companions in the sky. Laenor felt so free in the air, so deeply in love with both his dragon and the sky. A laugh shot up from his cousin on her own black beast, and soon they set to race between themselves. Without any warning, Seasmoke set to beating his wings. Their connection enough for them to know what the other desired. Behind them, a despondent roar sounded, and Laenor knew he’d be winning, just like always.

Landing with far more grace than his cousin, his father awaited him. The island chosen to be the base of operations was done so since it could fit all their dragons. Cannibal was chirping to Visenya, such a fearsome creature acting like a hound. Giving a farewell scratch to Seasmoke’s chin, he approached his father.

“I hope that wasn’t just a show for the men and you actually gained information on the enemy’s movements,” his father grunted, swinging an arm around Laenor.

Behind him, Visenya scoffed, always such a defender of their fun. Laenor spoke to prevent an argument between the two, “Yes, the Triarchy keeps their main ships docked south, but their smaller vessels move their men west.”

Corlys ushered them into the tent set up for their war planning, Daemon already there and arguing with Desmond Manderly. Clearly, their strategy was not going anywhere anytime soon.

Visenya immediately went to her uncle, whispering in his ear to get him to pull back, and his own father went to Desmond. Fondly, he recalled that Lord Manderly had petitioned for his mother’s claim at the Great Council. Once the men were focused on someone else, Laenor looked to the map on the table. Quickly, as he’d done before, he moved and added pieces for the enemy positions and numbers. After over a year of this, it wasn’t unknown to him. While the others settled into their places, Tevas Redwyne entered the tent, flashing a smile to Laenor. The older man had come in his father’s stead and left behind his young son. Behind him came in minor lords, mostly from the Stormlands. They settled behind those surrounding the table.

It’d taken days to amass the support of these lords, with his father and Daemon showing maps, evidence, and testimony about the Triarchy’s occupation. In spite of that effort and unity, it didn’t seem to last in their actual war. The sons of Desmond, Medrick and the young Torrhen, entered the tent, which started up the newest argument.  

“What is the use of the dragons if we can’t kill these fucking pirates with ‘em?” Desmond grumbled out, “Why should my men, my sons, risk their lives chasing this scum in caves?”

Medrick and Torrhen looked around embarrassed at their father’s outburst, and Laenor could understand their thoughts. Sometimes, when his father was displaying his ambition especially loudly, he felt the same.

“Well, Lord Manderly, unless we make the rats leave the caves the dragon fire may hurt our own men,” Visenya’s cold tone cut through the men. Next to her, Daemon was leaning against the table, eyes rolling.

That didn’t stop the older man, “What is my purpose of being here then? To be the fodder you throw to get the chance to burn? Our attacks aren’t working.”

“Mayhaps, my lord, you’d like to listen to the new information brought to us from our scouts before you throw in the war,” Tevas drawled, obviously knowing his goodfather’s moods well.  

Laenor nervously looked to his father, awaiting his queue. Getting a nod, he began, “The Triarchy keeps their bases in the southern section of the island, which we knew before, but they have begun to ferry men onto smaller islands west. Considering how often they use caves to hide, the ships and supplies can only be burnt if out in the open.”

“Aye, our camp has reported some movements at night,” Tevas supported him, a small smile sent to him. His camp, filled with any Reachmen, was the furthest southwest of theirs.

"Which means that your scouts must be wary of any planned attacks or ambushes,” Laenor said, feeling much more confident in himself, “No sign of the Crabfeeder has been spotted for at least a fortnight.”

Daemon scoffed, “Of course there’d be no signs, he’s out courting allies in Volantis.”

He felt his face flush, slightly embarrassed at being caught unaware in front of the other lords. Across the room, one of the Stormlands knights offered him a small nod. Laenor thought he might be a Lonmouth but wasn’t sure.

“Apologies that my son of only five and ten name days was lacking in informants across the sea,” his father cut in, “Besides, we’ve received word that the Bravossi sellswords and ships will be joining us in less than three moons.”

“Where will we be placing them? We have the lowest number of men stationed north of here,” Desmond interrupted, back on his warpath to get the best deal out of all of them.

In the corner of his eye, he saw that knight hold in a groan. Every time a discussion like this started up, it would be continuing until dawn broke. He shared a small smirk with the knight, both resigning themselves to being stuck in the humid tent for hours. Pointedly, he ignored the way his heart fluttered at the returning grin.

            After that meeting, Laenor found himself in the company of Ser Joffrey Lonmouth often. He trained with the older boy, ate with him, and escaped his duties with him. If he were to think on what the sweetest moment of his life was, it would be the first time they’d snuck out of camp to sit on the beach together. Joffrey suited his house’s coat of arms. Tenderly Laenor had kissed him in the moonlight, and Joffrey returned his desire tenfold.

            That moment couldn’t erase the fact that they were at war. Laenor rarely fought on the ground, Seasmoke was too much of an asset to not be in the air. Craghas Crabfeeder was not a man to wait for Laenor to mount his dragon to launch an attack, though. One night, while on a separate island from his cousins and his father, an ambush occurred. It was a bloodbath, every sight of the posts they’d be tied to for the crabs made the men fight harder. He was only on the island to arrange the Bravossi sellswords for an attack on the suspected base of Craghas. With his dragon helplessly flying above him, Laenor readied himself for battle in mere moments. Joffrey, oh his sweet Joffrey, was beside him at every step. Even if Laenor could call to Seasmoke to release his fire, their own men would be at risk.

            They moved as a pair, back-to-back. If Laenor parried right, Joffrey would be protecting his opened left side. Once, in a move stolen from his cousin, he blocked an attack aimed for his lover by switching the hand he held his sword in. It was the bloodiest dance he’d ever undertaken. Stepping forward to bring down his sword on a man from Lys, the bright dyed hair gave him away, Laenor released a battle cry.

            A pained yell came from behind him, and he quickly pulled his sword out of the remains of the man in front of him. Joffrey was only wearing his chainmail and leathers, the plate armor left behind for convenience. Some snarling pirate had stabbed a dagger to his side and suffered the consequences for it. His dear love had buried his own dagger in the man’s neck.

            Laenor moved to help Joffrey, so desperately afraid he couldn’t think of the risks of turning his back on the battle. In the distance, a horn sounded. Carefully holding his taller lover, he helped maneuver Joffrey down into the sand. Pressing his hands to the wound as best he could to stop some of the bleeding.

            “Laenor, leave me,” Joffrey pleaded, “It is too dangerous for you to treat me.”

            His mind was focused on the wound, not deadly if treated quickly, and the dagger hadn’t gone too deep. Joffrey’s pale hands covered his own, “They will seek you out, call for Seasmoke.”

            “No, I won’t leave you to the fucking crabs,” Laenor pretended his eyes stung from the salty air. The roars of his dragon were coming closer, Seasmoke sensing his distress through their bond. It could’ve been minutes or hours, Laenor staring into Joffrey’s blue eyes.

            Suddenly, the Triarchy men were shouting and running. In response to the roars of his own dragon, he heard the deep guttural ones of Cannibal. There were flashes of light as the dark grey flames of the older dragon filled the night. On the ground, there were two small boats full of men landing on the shores. Relief flooded through him when he spotted the purple grapes of House Redwyne. Still, he remained at his place, pressing firmly on Joffrey’s side.

Later, when they’d pushed back the pirates, Laenor would sit at the beside of Joffrey in their shared tent. Men at war were far less judgmental than men at court. Regardless of the eased expectations of him, few people knew the depth of his relationship with Joffrey. Using the candlelight to write a letter to his mother, Laenor kept half his focus on his lover. Outside the men made merry, Tevas having broken out the last shipment of Arbor red for their victory. His father had already come to check on him, politely ignoring his closeness to Joffrey, and left with Daemon. They’d been spending more time together, speaking in hushed tones. As exhausted as he was now, he couldn’t find it in his self to be curious.

The tent flap opening interrupted the scratching of his quill on parchment. Thinking it was Joffrey’s squire, a cousin of an Estermont who was only ten, he didn’t move from his place. His left-hand stroking Joffrey’s reddish blond hair.

“Paxter, I thought you had retired with the other squires,” he spoke without looking up.

A snort coming from someone who was definitely not Paxter had his head whipping up. There stood his cousin, Visenya’s pale hair pink and grey from blood and smoke. She was clad in all black, still in her riding leathers. Thankfully she’d at least scrubbed the blood from her face.

“Should I be offended I sound like a boy almost five years my junior?” she said, all calm and casual when Laenor felt anything but. His hand had retreated into his lap at the sight of her, Joffrey still sleeping.

Nervously, Laenor swallowed, “No, no, I simply assumed your uncle would be preening over your accomplishments tonight.”

“He spends more time with your father than me,” she said as she pulled a chair to sit across from him, “If they’d allowed either of us into their scheming I’d be far more favorable to them.”

“Ah, I think my mother might know a bit about it, she mentioned brushing up on my knowledge of Volantis,” Laenor carefully examined his cousin’s face, seeking out her emotions on his relationship. Joffrey softly snored away, unaware of the events happening.

Visenya was undoing her arm braces instead of giving him any judgmental looks. The black leather hit the ground before she spoke, “Slavers, why must they seek those wretched creatures out?”

"I hadn’t known you were so opposed to the practice.”

“I went to Bravos with your sister, and I spoke to many former slaves there,” Visenya was grimacing at the memories, “The cruelty of forcing another living being into such imprisonment shall damn all masters to the deepest pits of hell.”

Absentmindedly, Laenor recalled a heated argument between his cousin and her uncle. Old Valyria was dependent on slaves and blood magic. Daemon had argued that their heritage was not lessened by their slaves, while Visenya insisted that their honor was forever tarnished from their history. Laenor agreed that slavery was abhorrent, but to separate his heritage from it was too hard for him. The smallfolk lived lives dependent on their lord’s wishes and desires, too closely resembling the treatment of an Essoi slave. He ended his thoughts, understanding that he wouldn’t be able to change the way his world worked.

“Perhaps they only seek assistance in dealing with the Triarchy?” Laenor pondered.

Visenya scoffed, “Never shall Daemon and Corlys be afraid of seizing power, they want something else.”

Joffrey moved in his sleep, drawing his and her eyes to him. Momentarily, he worried she would say something about it. Something about the wrongness of him, how the gods had cursed him to his love being forbidden.

Instead, she continued on without hesitation, “Personally, I asked about our Aunt Saera to the Bravos, and she is still residing in Volantis. There is no way this doesn’t involve her somehow.”

“Saera? No way, cousin,” Laenor said in disbelief, “She’d never welcome a Targaryen into her company.”

Visenya stood, giving one last look over him. She leaned into him to wrap her arms around him. It was a bit awkward, given his sitting position, and the shock of her being physically affectionate with him. One squeeze and she released him, leaving her hands on his shoulders.

“Oh Laenor, you know nothing.”

At once she was leaving the tent. Laenor sat in shock at the interaction he’d just had. Then, he was offended at her words. He knew plenty of things! Especially about his own family and what they’d be plotting. Scoffing at the annoyance of his cousin, he sat back to writing to his mother. His hand went back to Joffrey’s hair without care.

His cousin’s words had more merit than he’d suspected. Two moons later, he was stepping off a disguised ship onto the docks of New Volantis. Beside him was Visenya, wrapped up in a veil and loose orange silk to hide her identity. The plan had been to dress them as a young couple, and Laenor was forced into cutting some of his hair and dressing in fine purple silks.

Sea air blew through their loose clothing as they walked, arms interlinked. In front of them was his father, cloaked and armed like a guard would be. Behind them, Daemon was similarly disguised. Slowly they weaved their way through many crowded streets. There was such a variety of people, slaves, masters, freemen, all of different cultures. Laenor had never felt so out of depth but unafraid at once. Bastard Valyrian flowed into his ears, and he was aware of how much he understood it. Occasionally, High Valyrian would jolt him out of his listening and cause his head to turn to the speaker.

They walked along the Long Bridge, and he remembered his father telling him that you could buy anything you desired on the bridge. In the distance, the tall black walls were looming above them. Although it was late in the evening, the sun hanging low, the air remained hot and humid. He was a bit jealous of Visenya’s scarf covering her nose and mouth with the smell of the city. A mix of sweat, shit, perfume, and an indescribable number of rare spices and goods. The whole journey was almost overwhelming. Everywhere he looked was different from his home, the slaves carrying palanquins and their somber tattooed faces most jarring. The sight of a slave being whipped to carry a small palanquin for a child quicker was most disturbing. Visenya’s calloused hand gripped his arm tight, anger clearly radiating off her.

Once they’d reached the Black Wall, his father had them halt. Behind them, Daemon strode forward to the guards checking those seeking to enter.

“A sealed invitation for our entry,” he said, handing a letter to the tall dark man. The guard’s eyes visibly widened at the seal, that of his Aunt Saera, and handed it back without opening it. Quickly their group was ushered into nearby palanquins, Laenor and Visenya in one, and his father and Daemon in another. Without waiting for them to settle in the seats, the slaves lifted it and began moving.

Visenya closed the windows, “It is a disgusting display of their depravity.”

Her face was twisted into a sneer, eyes aflame. Laenor was inclined to agree with her. The pure brutality of the means of transport was horrific. Below them, if he strained to listen, he could hear the labored breathing of the slaves. Perhaps it was a good thing that they’d been barred from bringing their dragons. Visenya looked like she was desiring to burn a kingdom like her namesake.

“We can hope that our Aunt Saera is not favorable of having slaves waiting on her hand and foot,” he grumbled, not excited at the prospect of being trapped in the slaver’s den.

They sat in silence for the rest of the journey, both brewing in their rage at the injustice of the practice their family benefitted from. When the palanquin stopped, Laenor and Visenya quickly adjusted their clothing and hair. On their way out of it, his cousin slipped some of the gold coins they’d pooled together for their trip to the slaves. Laenor felt slightly better at the gratitude of the slaves, but his guilt remained pitted in his stomach.

Intertwining their arms again, they stepped towards where his father and Daemon stood. The courtyard they were in was filled with plants of exotic origins, and the walls carved of white stone. Dragons, elephants, and other creatures were carved into the stone pillars and archways. It wasn’t until Laenor heard footsteps that he suddenly grew nervous. He wished his sister was the one in his place, far braver than he.

The woman that greeted them was undeniably a Targaryen. Pale hair flowed freely down her back, and even at a distance, he could tell her eyes were a light lilac color. She resembled her Velaryon grandmother more than any other Targaryen in Westeros. Her nose looked like his sister’s, and while her skin was much paler than his own, she still held a golden tone. Although she was older than his mother, she did not look like she was past her fortieth year. Clad in delicate lace and silk in a deep purple, he almost couldn’t tell she was no longer a princess. At her sides was a young man and woman. Both looked Dornish, strange enough, and were dressed in bright red robes of a similar cut. Their eyes were dark but looked like his cousin’s own indigo ones. He’d figured that they were both older than him and Visenya.

Saera’s smile reminded him of Daemon’s own, “My lovely royal family! And my lovelier seafaring family!”

Laenor was caught off guard at her use of Common Tongue, expecting her to favor Valyrian. For all she hated her father, she might have missed the rest of her family and life in Westeros. He did notice her emphasis on appreciation for his father and him.

“My youngest children, Tyleys and Tyrra,” she gestured to the two standing beside her, each nodding at their names, “My older children are unable to join us.”

Daemon took charge of their own introductions, “Aunt Saera, please let me introduce our group, I am Prince Daemon Targaryen, joined by my niece, Princess Visenya Targaryen, and our cousins; Lord Corlys Velaryon and his son Laenor.”

At the mention of their names, each of them stepped forward. His father had finally removed his hood, so Laenor could see the small smile he’d sent his way. Now that everyone was properly introduced to each other, they all immediately were moving. Saera was ushering them through her large manse.

Beside him walked Tyleys, “I hope that my mother has not pulled you from battle at a bad time.”

"Ah, if it was truly important then we must come to our family’s aid, war or not,” he responded, hesitant to share any details on the war in the Stepstones. Diplomatic meeting or not, he was unsure in their purpose for being there. Laenor felt reminding his distant cousin of their familiar ties was the best move. In front of them, Visenya and Tyrra walked. He couldn’t tell if they were conversing in a friendly manner or not.

“Battle is where boys become men,” Tyleys continued conversationally, “Perhaps there shall be another knight to add to our ranks soon.”

Laenor blushed at his words, a bit embarrassed at the notion. Certainly, it was expected for him to be knighted before long. Half of the men who’d joined them came in the hopes of being dubbed a knight of the realm. For all his work on dragonback and strategy, he did not feel worthy of the title yet. Joffrey had pushed his father for the title after the ambush, but it did not amount to much yet.

As a group, they entered a large chamber that was elaborately decorated. It was done in shades of purple, gold, silver, and hints of blue. Tapestries depicting dragons, elephants, and all manner of creatures hung from the walls. Sconces of gold held torches and candles, bathing the whole room in warm light. In one corner, an ornate desk sat, with filled bookshelves behind it. There was a fireplace, with couches and chairs of the highest quality around it on the other side of the room. A low table between the couches was filled with food and wine, and Tyleys guided him to sit with Visenya on one of the couches. Tyleys and his sister sat on the couch opposite of them.

"Please, you are welcome to eat,” Tyrra’s voice was as subtly as accented as her brother’s, “I fear that soon the serious matters will begin and it is best to eat now.”

“Why have you insisted on Common Tongue, cousins?” Visenya asked in Valyrian, already taking a small plate and filling it with fruits, “We are both capable of Valyrian as well as any true dragonriders.”

Tyrra looked at where her mother and his father and Daemon had gathered around the desk. After one last look over, she spoke, “Mother said that she feared no true dragons were being raised in the Red Keep.”

"Sister, must you have no courtesy?” Tyleys sighed, reminding Laenor of himself with Laena, ”I take it that neither of you have been briefed on what is occurring here?”

Laenor poured himself wine as he shook his head. Visenya also shook her head but was much more obviously displeased at not knowing what was going on. The two siblings in front of them shared a look, and Tyrra got up to walk over to her mother. Within one hushed conversation, all of the adults came to settle in the couches and chairs around them. Visenya handed him a plate of his favorite fruits, while he gave her a goblet of the sweetest wine on the table. Daemon sat beside Saera on the arm of her chair, while his father sat in his own chair. More dignity in his image he supposed, as they both were clearly leaning to look at the papers Saera was holding.

“Let me bring the young ones into the fold quickly,” Saera said, not waiting for either his father or Daemon to respond, “The Citadel and House Hightower have been conspiring to dethrone our house for years and have successfully poisoned Viserys.”

Beside him, Visenya tensed, and he could tell she was on the verge of interrupting. He was shocked horribly, but needed to hear more, and he held her shoulder to prevent her from delaying Saera’s explanation.

“From the moment the Conqueror took their power, they’ve been plotting to overthrow the dragons. In every noble house, there’s a maester poisoning their minds, in charge of their communications, and responsible for their health. Allowing an agent of those afraid of our power to influence the most powerful people in the realm,” Saera paused, accepting the wine Daemon offered her. She swallowed, then continued, “Without going into the details over the years, they, along with the Hightowers, have been infiltrating the Red Keep. When gained my own power, I sent my own spies to the keep informing me on my family, and slowly uncovered this conspiracy.”

Daemon looked more somber than Laenor remembered him ever looking. His father was grim, unhappy, and obviously thinking on their own maester’s influence. Shaking as she sipped her wine, Visenya was clearly distraught at the information. She’d only turned fifteen on their passage to Volantis, too young to be holding such a burden for her family. He was a greenboy still, and hearing this treachery was almost too much.

Saera turned to look at Visenya, “It wasn’t until I hear of your mother’s last pregnancy being hindered by the maesters that I felt it was time. You, you are frightfully young girl, poisoning your mother to save her from the butcher’s blade was what moved me to act. I saw myself in you, a princess who loved her mother more than anything else in the world.”

“She was going to die either way, I couldn’t let them treat her as if she was a pig for slaughter,” Visenya whispered, although they all could hear her, tears running down her face. Laenor shuffled closer to her to place an arm around her shoulders.

“Those robed rats sabotaged your mother, they took advantage of her frail health after years of young pregnancies to place their own on the throne,” Saera spoke with a righteous fury, “Viserys has announced a betrothal with the young daughter of his Hand.”

Laenor reeled at the news, surprised at the fact that his own sister was not preferred. His father grimaced but did not rage at the announcement. Alicent Hightower was a year younger than him, soon to wed a man as old as her father. Bile rose in his throat at the thought of his sister being considered a bride for the king but stayed at the memory of how young Alicent looked when he last saw her. Visenya did not seemed shocked at the news, and unlike he expected Daemon stayed sitting.

“The girl is fiercely devoted to my nieces,” Daemon drawled, “Most so to Rhaenyra, and Rhaenys has taken her under her wing. All information from her father is passed on to them, then to us.”

Saera’s frown was severe at his words, “Your brother is soon to be in bed with those that seek to destroy us and you insist upon their whore’s loyalty?”

“Alicent would be an enemy we would know well, one that has shared secrets, fears, dreams with us,” Visenya snapped, “She’s loyal, unquestionably so. Would you prefer we let our greatest asset go to open the spot up for an unknown cousin from the Reach?”

Laenor felt untethered. Did his cousins know this was happening the whole time? Certainly, his father and Daemon knew more than the rest of them, but his mother was taking in Alicent and guiding her was strange. It seems likely that Alicent had known her father was planning something and threw her lot in with the dragons. A smart choice, he thinks, considering the palpable anger in the room. Visenya settled back into the couch and his arm after her defense of her friend.

“Ah, I see that the young dragons have been at work, making their own enemies into great assets,” Saera seemed mildly intrigued at the notion, “But the treachery does not end there. Viserys is being poisoned to have a slow but early death. A war to set into motion a plan to then kill the dragons.”

Daemon scoffed, “We start to treat my brother, and kill the traitors, but they cannot hope to kill a dragon.”

Tyleys finally spoke up, “I was trained at the Citadel, helped place our spies there, and I know for a fact that they have been working on a poison for the dragons for years.”

All the dragonriders in the room shared a look. To kill a bonded dragon is to kill their rider. How Viserys did not crumble at the loss of Balerion, Laenor did not know. Seasmoke was his pride and joy, his greatest companion. To lose him would be to lose his own self. Even now, miles away from his dragon he could feel his emotions and urges. In the back of his mind, he worried Daemon’s close bond with Caraxes would mean the Blood Wyrm would appear in Volantis this night. Cannibal was a black shadow on the sea now but Visenya seemed as enraged as her uncle looked.

"You must trust in my information,” Saera looked at each of them intently, “I come to you to help the family that abandoned me, they will attempt to turn you on each other, to ruin our house forever.”

Laenor was finally tired of stepping around it, “What will we have to do to save our family?”

“We play their game better than they could ever imagine, and then we break all their rules,” Saera smiled as she spoke, eyes aflame.

Hours turned into days of scheming. Each time Laenor awoke in Volantis, he felt the urge to fly away to freedom from the mess of it all. Gaining allies, courting their enemies, it was all too much to truly process.

Visenya and he were often barred from the discussions they could not help with. Tyleys and Tyrra took them around the city, to the markets and port. They’d even seen an elephant, which was by far the most interesting experience for Laenor. If the jarring sights of the slaves on the street did not stick with him so deeply then perhaps this would’ve been the greatest trip he’d been on. His distant cousins endeared themselves to him and Visenya but could not make them feel comfortable in the slaver city.

The food was rich and served by freedmen in Saera’s place. In one memorable outing, they’d snuck into the pleasure place ran by his aunt, and were hand fed fruits by the whores. When caught, Visenya insisted they were scouting for spies to take to King’s Landing. Daemon thought the bravery of the lie was to be rewarded, his father disagreed and they were forced to long meetings on ruling, spies, and plotting. By the end of their stay, Laenor had been stuffed with great food, and clothed in new silks. With some care, he’d selected additional fabrics for Joffrey, and Visenya helped with the choice of fruits for his men. Her own men, a small group of City Watchmen who’d joined Daemon and some personal guards, would be gifted oranges and lemons.

Still, when they departed the ports of Volantis, Laenor was uncertain of his future. For all their careful planning, scheming, and plotting, it would be for not if this war in the Stepstones did not end soon. Saera had emphasized the importance of holding the Stepstones in power, to prove the strength of their house and rule. His father was practically giddy at the thought of House Velaryon being the keepers of the Stepstones. Laenor, was far more concerned with surviving the never-ending war.

Within three moons since returning from Volantis, Laenor had been knighted, led his own battalion to claiming at least two islands held by the Triarchy, and almost died at least twice. Their men were tired, having been fighting for almost three full years. Little reinforcements or new food had arrived for the past year or so, and after leaving for Volantis the morale and conditions hadn’t improved. Still, they gained ground against the enemy.

Each war council meeting was horrifically tense. One of Lord Desmond Manderly’s sons, Medrick, had been knighted. So the old man would force his oldest son to be given more time in council. Unfortunately, Ser Medrick was not adept at leading anything, let alone a war council. Tevas was more than kind in his attempts to mediate the meetings, but even he was soon exhausted at their lack of resources.

Visenya had taken to standing beside Daemon, and he his own father. Daemon and his father would stand next to each other at the head of the table or room. Always in a position of command. This meant that when that messenger arrived that fateful day, he and his cousin had front row seats to the carnage.

The tent flapped opened uneventfully as his father attempted to talk Lord Manderly out of not commanding the Stormlands soldiers, the biased old coot convinced they were mocking his son. A young man holding a handful of scrolls, clad in Targaryen heraldry.

“My lords, it appears we have an urgent message for us,” Visenya interrupted.

All heads turned to the young man, watching as his hand trembled in nervousness as he unfurled the largest scroll, “King Viserys, first of his name, sends this message to inform his brother, Prince Daemon, and daughter, Princess Visenya, and his family of House Velaryon, that additional aid from the Crown shall be sent to assist in the war in the Stepstones. This is in the hope to end this dispute before it reaches its fourth year. The new men shall be led by Lady Rhea of House Royce, and Lord Steffon of House Estermont. At the time of this message being read, the two commanders shall be on their way to the Stepstones and expected to arrive within the moon.”

The messenger must have been in attendance at court, a son of some minor lord, for he visibly hesitated to speak the last few lines, “The Lord Hand, Otto of House Hightower, includes a missive from the King to request that the reinforcements take the place of the members of the royal family and House Velaryon so that they may return to King’s Landing in time for the wedding of King Viserys, of House Targaryen, and Lady Alicent, of House Hightower.”

Laenor immediately turned to look at his cousin, Visenya’s own face reflecting her surprise at the message. Clearly, Otto was intentionally sending Daemon’s first wife to irk him, even more so at the mention of her replacing him so he could watch Otto’s daughter marry his brother. Most everyone knew of Daemon’s hatred of House Hightower, and especially those in the know of the traitor’s plots. This whole endeavor was partially to help him regain his honor. Every other person in the tent seemed to be waiting for Daemon’s reaction, for what kind of violence he’d commit. Instead of immediately charging at the messenger, Daemon gave a dismissal to have the man exit the tent. A simple wave of his hand, and soon they were all staring at him in shock and anticipation.

“It seems I have a war to finish before I have to see my first wife again,” his cocky smirk was proudly displayed. At once the tent burst back into action, and Laenor would mark the day as when the war began to end.

End it did, not long after Daemon went on some suicidal mission unprovoked. Now Laenor was sitting in his parents’ solar on Diftmark feeling a bit astray. He did little but provide fire atop Seasmoke in the final battle. The insane plan worked, they won, but it did sting to know at nineteen years of age he’d not been lauded in battle. A glory seeking habit of all young men. Joffrey had came with him, as a friend and his closest companion, alongside many of their top commanders.

Daemon laid in a room with their maester, and at least three Essoi healers. The inclusion of the foreign healers was on the word of Saera, and apparently his cousin Rhaenyra was petitioning for healing centers like the ones in Essos to be place in King’s Landing. Perhaps it was the fact that her dear uncle, and all but announced betrothal, was being cared for by them that inspired her.

He stared into the fire thinking on his future, now that he was not likely to be eaten by crabs. Once, he thought he’d be marrying one of his royal cousins. Rhaenyra was likely to wed Daemon soon, and Visenya was unlikely to marry anyone she didn’t want. Which couldn’t be him. She knew, more intimately than his own family, of where his heart truly laid.

Footsteps drew his attention to his young cousin, watching as she approached from his mother’s room. She’d gotten injured committing an impulsive act of bravery. A scar now decorated her face, on her right side. It split down from her forehead to under her eye, barely missing the actual eye itself. His mother had been caring for it to hopeful prevent a horrible scar, but even now the thing was red and angry. Still, it was smaller than he’d expected from the amount of blood that had poured from the wound.

“I am the one to brood in this family,” she said as she pulled a chair close to his, “You cannot be stealing my only unique trait.”

Laenor huffed a laugh despite his self, “My mother says that if Daemon was Visenya reborn, you were born pouting at the fact.”

Fondly, the two of them sat thinking about the dour toddler she’d been. As quick to anger and passion as the rest of their family, Visenya was always quick to pout and mope. The fire seemed to relax both of them in their chairs as they sat. Quiet sounds of the waves and the flames filled the air between them.

“Cousin, I want to tell you that I understand you better than you think,” Visenya suddenly cut through the comfortable silence.

Laenor turned to look at her in confusion, prompting her to speak further, “When I was fostering in the Vale, I had my first real fleeting fancy for someone else. It wasn’t Ser Harwin, nor any knight.”

He let the pause after her words stretch into possible awkwardness. Her face seemed genuine and relaxed, her eyes kind. If she wasn’t so calm and collected, sharing secrets with him, he’d be far more worried. So, he pondered on her words for a moment, thinking on who could’ve possibly caught his wild cousin’s eye.

“If not a man, then I fear I dare not speak a name in the same place as Daemon,” he said, surprised at the possibility of Rhea Royce ensnaring the wrong dragon.

Visenya’s grin let him know he guessed correctly, “It was her arms and shoulders, it takes much strength to be as good with a bow as she is.”

They descended into giggles; companionship found in their shared abnormalities. He’d miss his cousin desperately once he married. For all her impulsiveness and rage, she was very understanding when calm. Hope was all he had in regard to his future wife being the same. The thought of his future made him somber again, drawing her attention.

"It was in the Eyrie I found understanding, with my own cousin, Lady Jeyne guiding me,” she said, “Never far from Jeyne was her companion Lady Jessamyn Redfort.”

He paid close attention to her words, piecing together her implication, “Jeyne once explained it to me by dinner preferences. She preferred roasted goose to roasted duck, I had no preference, and you’d prefer the duck over goose.”

The ease at which she spoke told him that she did not think of this as something scandal, something wrong. Openly she is admitting to her cousin preferring her female companion to any male suitors. Not only that, but Visenya is freely stating her own lack of adherence to only preferring men. Slowly, understanding washes over him.

“Lady Jeyne remains unwed?” he asked, returning the small smile she sent his way.

Visenya seemed even more happy at his question, “She does, whoever she marries is wedding a Great House, which is quite a boon. Lady Jessamyn also remains unwed, likely her future husband will stay at the Eyrie with her.”

Both of them sat back, observing the other’s reactions. Soon he was staring back into the flames. How could such a wonderful solution be laying in front of him like this? His father couldn’t be displeased at his marriage to House Arryn, powerful in their own right. Joffrey might be able to wed the companion of Lady Jeyne, ensuring that he is able to stay near him. Thoughts ran wild at the possibilities.

“My cousin knows to expect a letter from you,” Visenya said as she stood, “I’d suggest writing one before the ravens get boggled down with the negotiations.”

As he watched her walk away, far too confident in her abilities for her age, Laenor drafted the letter he’d be writing in his head. Mentioning duck or goose might be too on the nose, but it could be beneficial. Perhaps he’d change it to the seasons instead. Maybe he’d mention how the Stepstones would need to be guarded for the Vale and Driftmark.

Before his cousin had fully left the room she turned back to call out to him, “Make sure Joffrey reads the letter over before you send it!”

Chapter Text

A deafening roar thundered in the distance, horrifically loud for how far away the green dragon flew. Beside her, Cannibal grumbled in response. Visenya absentmindedly petted his great black head, larger than all other dragons but the one approaching them. Unlike her great beast of a companion, she was excited at the sight in the sky. Somewhere on the back of the largest dragon alive was her cousin, and she was buzzing at seeing her again. Especially not on a diplomatic meeting to Braavos.

She was on top of the Dragonpit, just arrived from Driftmark with the rest of her party. The morning dew was still coating the tan buildings and grass of King’s Landing. Cannibal was still wild enough to dislike being placed within the structure. Visenya was wary enough of her memories of it being stormed to indulge the habit. Inside of it though, Laenor was with Seasmoke, and Caraxes. Her other cousin’s dragon would be like hers, set to the skies rather than chains.

“Princess, may we take off your companion’s saddle?” one of the dragonkeepers asked timidly. Her dragon was infamous for his temper but was nothing more than a soft creature with her. She nodded her agreement to the keeper, and turned her attention to cooing softly at Cannibal to allow access for the saddle to be removed.

By the time the saddle was off, and Cannibal flying to seek fish in the bay, Laena was landing with Vhagar. Visenya thanked the keeper for their assistance and care. Then she was racing to greet her cousin outside the Dragonpit. By the time she arrived, hair messy and softly panting, Laenor was embracing his sister.

The largest dragon alive looked disinterested in anyone but Laena and was rumbling away without her attention. Her cousin’s white-silver hair was braided back into rows like how some of her fellow Velaryons had back in the Stepstones. With the flush from flying tinting her brown skin she was beautiful and wild at once. When the siblings pulled back to notice her, Laena burst into a grin at the sight of her.

“Cousin! A true warrior with more scars than my brother to prove it!” she said as she approached. Quickly they were embracing, Visenya pleased to note that she was taller. Laenor was watching them fondly, likely appreciating having family together. His father was negotiating with the Triarchy as they spoke. House Velaryon already to be set as the keepers of the Stepstones. Only the Targaryen side of his family would be present for the coming moons.

“Your brother simply was smarter in battle than me,” Visenya joked back, “I have too much fire in my blood to keep away from battle at its thickest.”

As they walked to the carriage awaiting them, she told the story to Laena. Laenor provided his own interjections of course. It wasn’t more than being stupid and brave honestly, that final battle more fire and carnage than any she’d seen before. Daemon, for all his brutality and awfulness at war, had been her priority. When she saw that he’d been shot in the shoulder with a flaming arrow, she’d stopped thinking of burning enemies from the sky. Her cousins giggled at the common testimony being that she flew off Cannibal down to her uncle. In actuality, it’d be far less exciting, she’d used a quick dismount taught to her by Rhea, and barely made it on the battlefield before it was over. Seasmoke provided flame from above, and Cannibal set to burning the men closest to his rider. One of the Crabfeeder’s men had taken her in a surprise move and held his dagger over her head. When Daemon did not falter in his killing not paying any notice to her, the man went to cut at her scalp. The pale white hair of the Targaryens had become a prize to win amongst the enemy. Of course, that’s when she’d chosen to jerk her head back to disorient the man. The dagger sild itself down her face, almost taking her left eye. It left her a pink and raw scar over her eye, but she felt it was almost correct to be scarred. In another life, the scars casted over her right eye. Rhaenys had been attending to her and Laenor, and provided great care to ensure the scar would not be large and ugly. Visenya thought she’d like it either way.

Once encased in the carriage taking them to the Red Keep, did Laena inquire about Daemon’s condition, “I heard Prince Daemon suffered a serious injury.”

“Aye, a flaming arrow hit his shoulder in the final battle,” she responded, sighing as she continued, “I fear me shearing his hair was worse than the pain for him though.”

Laenor snorted, “His screams echoed out to the sea, sister.”

Laena giggled at their antics. Soon the talk moved from war to court, which was far less enjoyable. Marriage, her father and sister were the most talked about in this regard, land disputes, tournaments, all bore her more after facing real war. She did make sure to lightly poke fun at Laenor’s own future marriage prospects. Corlys had taken the proposal from his son well, better than she’d expected. It seemed he knew that his son would not be marrying a princess, and the ruling lady of the Vale was a fine choice. Rhaenys made sure to include in the betrothal negotiations that if the couple were unable to produce two heirs, one for the Eyrie, one for Driftmark, that Laena’s children would inherit Driftmark without struggle. Visenya thought it might be best to include a plan for if no heirs were born of the union. Ser Joffrey just so happened to have written to Lady Jessamyn Redfort to inquire about her own marriage prospects recently.

She watched her cousins laugh and talk as the carriage pulled them closer to home. How strange to have left the Red Keep and miss it? The place may be infested with snakes and rats of all kinds but it held her family. Rhaenyra had been hard at work gaining favor in court and got herself a position on the Small Council as heir. Which was much different than her previous position as cupbearer. Alicent, at least in her letters, was becoming quite the rumor gatherer with Larys Strong. Both of them had reassured her that the upcoming marriage between Alicent and her father would be fruitless in any children. Visenya thought that it would’ve been better to not have Alicent marry a man so much older than her, it being her own father made it worse. Apparently Rhaenys and her maternal aunt Kyra were staunch supporters of Alicent and helping her join the family. After all that Saera had revealed, she hoped that her friend would not suffer due to her family’s schemes.

When they arrived in the courtyard, all three of them were swiftly gathered to be bathed and prepped for court. Princess Rhaenys lightly admonishing her daughter for choosing to ride Vhagar the morning of an important day of court as she ushered her children to their rooms. Visenya knew that her uncle would be with his healers, going against all advice to ride Caraxes into King’s Landing. He’d left earlier than her and Laenor to account for the time he’d likely need to rebandage his shoulder. Both her father and sister would be in a meeting with the Small Council to discuss the influx of letters from Essos for negotiations. She was just grateful for the hot bath, windblown and permanently dirty since she arrived in the Stepstones.

An older woman assisted her bathe, and she recognized her as one of the maids her mother had employe. While she was readied, they talked fondly on the women’s daughter and her own childhood. Kind eyes met her in the mirror as her hair was brushed and braided by the woman, her name being Alys after her own grandmother, the Good Queen. It was truly a comfort to be back in her own chambers, with people she knew well.

Her hair was held back by two braids at her temples, with the rest left to flow down her back. It only just got past her shoulder blades, she’d cut it off when the fighting picked up. Soon she was being dressed in her long black tunic, split at her knees, with black breeches underneath. Rich cotton from the Reach made up her base clothing, soft to her weathered skin. The jerkin placed on top was leather embroidered with red twirling dragons, and when tied closed provided her a better emphasis to her new feminine form. New supple black boots were put on next, then a crimson half cape attached to her right shoulder with a leather pauldron, the strap crossing her chest to secure it. Earring she’d long stolen from her sister were next, the rubies shining in the light. She felt reborn into the real world, freed from war camps and blood. The looking glass provided her a sight of a true warrior returning in glory. Turning to thank Alys for her help, she was surprised to see her holding a thin wooden box.

"What is this?” she asked confused, approaching the older woman.

“It was given to me by Prince Daemon, he asked for you to open it, your grace,” Alys said, eagerly awaiting her to reveal the box’s contents.

Visenya took the thin box and opened the lid. To her surprise, inside was a necklace. Not an ordinary necklace, but one of Valyrian steel. Its design echoed the one her sister had, but the pendent was replaced by a small piece of metal worked to resemble a sword. At its hilt was a ruby, that was the clear focus of the whole necklace. Eagerly, she turned and lifted her hair for Alys to place it around her neck. The maid was quick to fasten it, adjusting the placement of the pendant to be at the center of her neck. A small dip in her tunic provided the perfect spot for the jewelry to sit.

She profusely thanked Alys again, but the maid shook her head a pointed to a wrapped package on her bed she’d not noticed before. The woman’s smile was kind, “That is from your sister, Princess Rhaenyra, I think you can put it on without my assistance, your grace.”

With a quick curtsey, the older woman was leaving her room, and Visenya turned to open the gift. Wrapped in paper, was a new belt with a sheath for her dagger and a scabbard for her newly acquired sword. The black leather was of a high quality, the metalwork in a brilliant silver. On the belt, designs were etched into the leather delicately, dragons, wolves, stags, falcons, lions, a kraken, and even a few trout swimming alongside the other house sigils. Fondly, she stroked the running direwolf that’d sit at the front of the belt when she wore it. The scabbard was of the same high quality and had a dragon scale motif throughout its design. Rhaenyra only knew of her new sword through letters, it was not Valyrian steel but a high quality one from Volantis gifted by Saera. She was touched by her older sister’s thoughtfulness, and immediately set to putting it on. Visenya did spot Alicent’s involvement when she realized the sheath for the dagger had winter roses carved into it. She’d only ever told Alicent of her fondness for them, while they’d sat beneath the Weirwood as her sister napped.

Once she’d had the belt on and adjusted, both blades sliding into their places with ease, she set out to head to the throne room. Visenya did not make it far, barely a step out of her door before she was ambushed by a loud brunette.

“Oh, the scar is just wonderful on you!” Elaena Strong’s voice echoed in the hallway, “I was worried your letters were being positive about it for your own good.”

Visenya laughed heartily and embraced her friend. Living up to her house name, Elaena’s arms squeezed her tightly. It wasn’t until they’d pulled back, still grasping each other’s forearms that she could see the differences in her dear friend’s face. Her upturned nose looked more mature in its shape, the brown of her eyes looked lighter, and the cute round cheeks had slightly given away to more defined cheekbones. Her dark curls were pulled back into an elaborate mess of twists and braids, a golden hairnet containing their mass. The blue dress she wore was inspired by the lattice cutouts favored by her Aunt Kyra, a Reach style, with a detailed pattern within the fabric like her own sister preferred. Elaena had grown into a beautiful young woman, no longer the girl she’d shared a bed with and matched nightgowns with.

They entwined their arms and began to walk to court. Elaena provided her commentary on Visenya’s growth spurt, still shorter than the other girl but taller than Laena and Rhaenyra, and other changes between them. Visenya was overjoyed at seeing her friend again, and requested all the details on her court life. Her older sister and nephew were staying at the Red Keep while Elmo Tully had remained in Riverrun to deal with some issues with his father's health. She’d rambled as they approached the awaiting courtiers, discussing her family and the ladies of court.

“Harwin has been prancing around since he was named a captain in the City Watch,” Elaena said, rolling her eyes at the silliness of her oldest brother, “Larys stole his gold cloak for a fortnight when it got really ridiculous.”

Visenya let out a laugh, easily imagining the scenario, “You know that he only wrote me once or twice? I think your letter on his newly grown bread were too embarrassing for him to handle.”

“Oh, I know it, he was so upset after I sent it,” Elaena huffed, clearly annoyed at her brother’s dramatics.

The two friends parted ways after that, the crowd forming for court was starting to enter the room. Visenya searched for the white locs of her cousin, they’d be entering with her uncle with all the pomp and circumstances due for people returning from war. In the corner of the hallway, Laenor stood with Ser Joffrey, both clad in their house colors. Tevas entered with his wife, before the rest of the group. She went to join the two men, and they whispered rumors and gossip while waiting for the court to assemble. Joffrey left them, as he wouldn’t be announced. She started to rub the hilt of her stolen dagger in nervousness. Her father and sister were inside the room, and she didn’t know how they’d welcome her back. They loved her, but she’d become rougher, a wilder beast than before. Scarred and a killer, not the child she left as. Visenya knew she’d been a melancholy filled kid, but she’d find herself being even more like the man in black in her memories than ever. They were her family, but Daemon was wild and violent like her, albeit with a longer and bloodier history, and he’d been dismissed before. Things would be different than the histories wrote, it already was. Laenor noticed her discomfort and grasped her shoulder as a comforting action.

The clicking of someone walking in boots drew her out of her silence thoughts. Approaching them was Daemon, dressed in a vibrant red long sleeve tunic and a fine black leather jerkin. Dark Sister was strapped at his side, only a slight difference in his stride hinted at his healing injury. She’d never been so conflicted in her fondness for her family than with him. When he’d been shot, she’d risked her live to get to him. At the same time, she’d seen the horrific and violent side of him. He’d been terrible about his former wife, and treated his Valyrian blood as a sign he was more a god than a man. Still, he’d loved her as his own child, trained her, defended her, and treated her better than most men would ever treat a woman swinging a sword.

Laenor and her joined him at the doors of the throne room, without speaking. He stood, pale hair barely touching his ears, confident despite his differences. Her cousin gave her a look out of the side of his eye, silently asking if she was ready. Visenya nodded, and he gestured for the announcer to call their names. The guards opened the doors, and suddenly she was fully submerged in the feeling of the eyes of court.

As they walked, her uncle leading and her cousin in step with her, she kept her eyes ahead. On the wretched Iron Throne sat her father, his head held high. He was smiling at her fondly, and she attempted to soften her face enough to show her own fondness. On his left hand, a bandage was wrapped tightly. Turning her attention to her sister instead of thinking of why her father was injured, she saw Rhaenyra in a splendid red gown at her father’s left side. Visenya ignored the presence of Otto at his right, the rightful place for the Hand of the King. Her sister was radiant as she gave her a small smile. Pale hair flowed down her back; the top pulled back in simple braids. With her shoulders bared by sleeves cuffed at her wrist, the necklace given to her by their uncle was on display. Choosing to not linger on how different the intentions behind their similar gifts from Daemon were, she made sure to look her sister over for any discomfort. Noticing nothing concerning, she gave the room one last scan, eying Criston Cole’s presence especially. She did not have time to examine him closer, having reached the steps leading to her father’s throne.

“My family returned to me from war,” her father said, gesturing outwards with his arms, “A most wonderful day indeed!”

As a unit, all three of them kneeled before him. Daemon pulled a scroll out to present to her father, “The Stepstones are yours, my brother.”

Otto cautiously took the scroll from his open palm and gave it to her father. Without preamble, he broke the wax seal and read over the declaration of victory from Daemon and Corlys. Within was the official transfer of the domain to her father. One day, her sister would also rule over the region.

“My brother, Prince Daemon Targaryen, and my Master of Ships, Lord Corlys Velaryon have proven victorious in the Stepstones! Both have given me power over them, a gracious gift from these most powerful men,” her father said, stopping his speech to take a deep rattling breath, “In fact, my brother could’ve been named the King of the Stepstones, yet proves his loyalty by swearing his fealty to me again.”

Daemon looked up in what seemed like surprise. She knew he felt disregarded by her father often, but she knew it was regarding something else entirely. The stone floor seemed to chill the skin of her knee more in the realization of what was about to occur. Her father gestured for them to stand, and they all did so.

“Prince Daemon has proven himself worthy, loyal, and a protector of the Realm. For long, many questions have been asked about my daughter, Princess Rhaenyra, heir to the throne, and her marriage prospects. Today I am proud to announce that she will be set to wed Prince Daemon. Their betrothal will last a year, in order to accommodate the planning necessary. May they be blessed in the eyes of the Seven, and their marriage most prosperous!” he exclaimed. Her sister’s face was clearly happy at the notion, and her uncle was ever so proud of himself. Even her father seemed overjoyed at the prospect of his brother marrying his daughter. Visenya turned her head to the floor, a pit forming in her stomach. Incest was one thing to worry about, but the knowledge that her uncle had wanted to marry Rhaenyra since she was a toddling babe was much worse. Both of them were his nieces, but he’d always seen her older sister as his future bride, and her as his surrogate daughter to play with.

Still, when the court started to clap, she joined them. Otto clapped far more reluctantly than she did. His face was barely saved from outright disgust by the forced grimace. She chose to not think on how her newest enemy to focus on shared an opinion with her.

The announcement made, they split to stand with the rest of the court until there would be a break for a luncheon. Daemon and she joined Rhaenyra at her father’s left side, Laenor went to his mother and sister. Her uncle stood in front of them, on the steps, to show his future role as a protector. Visenya stood beside her sister instead. She basked in the mere presence of Rhaenyra, and without speaking, they linked pinkies as the court petitioners continued.

By the time they were in the courtyard to eat, Visenya felt better about the whole mess of her sister and uncle. It wasn’t pleasant, but she knew her other options would be worse for her claim to the throne. Additionally, being away from the imposing throne room helped her regulate her emotions. She was still a bit overwhelmed at the presence of everyone invited and stuck to eating at first. Laenor joined her, the small table in a back part of the courtyard they sat at was enough removed to leave them unnoticed. They’d been mostly forgotten at court in the face of the betrothal announcement, which suited them well.

“Uh, oh,” Laenor suddenly said, making her look up from where she’d been dismantling a finger sandwich, “Your future stepmother is coming towards us.”

Visenya elbowed Laenor for his comment, “You know it could’ve been your sister instead of Alicent.”

His eyes did widen, but he was still smirking. It was a jest, but the fact that one of her friends was marrying her father was more than enough to rib her. Turning to see Alicent approach, Visenya was taken aback at how happy she was. To be so content when faced with her future marriage seemed strange. Her auburn curls were braided back, but in a style closer to her sister’s. Clad in a beautiful burgundy gown with off the shoulder sleeve, it was clear that she was sending a message with her fashion. Resembling Rhaenyra’s preferred style was showing an alliance with her. Even if Reach fashion had become more popular, Alicent stuck closely with her sister. Her smile was radiant as she came closer to them.

“Princess Visenya, Ser Laenor,” she greeted them, Laenor blushing a bit at the use of his new title.

“Alicent! No need for formalities with me,” Visenya said, standing to embrace the older girl, “Even if we were to ignore our future relationship.”

At that comment, Alicent seemed to flounder a bit, “Ah, yes, Rhaenyra said she mentioned some of this whole affair with you in her letters.”

She knew the older girl was nervous about her reaction, but she did not wish to make her worry. Clasping her hands in her own, she spoke, “I only want you to be happy and content, and I know my sister would not be so supportive of this marriage if she couldn’t guarantee that.”

“I appreciate your concern for me,” Alicent did seem truly touched by her sentiments, “We will be stronger for it if we stay united in our cause.”

Ah, Visenya thought, she was seeking reassurance for their combined futures. In one of her letters to Rhaenyra she’d included a throwaway line on being in Volantis. They’d made a code to write of secrets and such, and in the Volantis mention, Visenya had included three words: Saera, Citadel, Tower. Long ago, it was agreed between the three girls that it’d be too suspicious for Alicent to be writing Visenya if Otto were to notice it. Even now, about to marry the king, her friend was wearing long sleeves to cover the bruises left by her father. Otto was inclined to grab and tug and roughly handle his daughter. Likely, her sister and Alicent were attempting to piece together the information in the code. She knew the future would be treacherous for Alicent, but the girl was innocent of her family’s crimes. Or at least Visenya hoped so.

“Yes, do not fret, more information of our futures shall be revealed in the coming days,” Visenya said, gently leading her friend to sit down at the table with Laenor, “For now, it is time to celebrate what we’ve already done.”

A smile escaped Alicent, her nerves visibly washing away. Once all three of them were seated and eating some small cakes, they were relaxed and joyful. Larys and Alicent’s partnership had proven prosperous for rumors and gossip, the more important information not spoken in a public setting. It was more than enough to hear the gossip of the latest feud between Rhaenys and Kyra over the outfit choices of Rhaenyra. Her Tyrell aunt has been a big fan of daring necklines and cut-outs, which her wild sister was inclined to. Rhaenys was much more focused on emphasizing her leadership, structured shoulders, high necklines, and more Targaryen motifs. Apparently the two women has struck up a friendship of argumentation, which was very enjoyable to hear about secondhand.

Visenya did not attend court for the rest of the day, choosing to nap instead. At only six and ten, she’d changed history forever simply by being born. After years of lessons and planning, she’d accomplished her first greatest task; winning the Stepstones. So, she felt the afternoon nap was deserved. Besides, her father and sister would be preoccupied until dinner.

She woke up to the sun high in the sky, and an itching to beat Laenor to the dust. Her cousin would be sleeping like her, both exhausted from the change in environment. Without preamble, she dressed in her training leathers, strapped her blades to her, and sought out her cousin. He screamed like a child when she pulled him from his bed. It was his fault for leaving his foot unguarded out of his sheets. Laena, having heard the commotion from the solar, decided to abandon the embroidery work assigned to her by her septa and join them. Elaena, due to newly developed closeness with Laena, had been with her and accompanied them to the training yards.

Ignoring the grumbles from Laenor, Visenya was quick to scan the yard. Not many men were training, with court still in session. Some noble City Watchmen were hacking and slashing at each other in a corner, too far to see who they were. There was an open ring in a far corner which she led the group to. A bench beside the ring was where Elaena sat with her embroidery basket. The girl was determined to stay on the septa’s good side, but still wished to watch their antics. Laena was getting dirt and dust on her hems, hanging on the bars of the fence of the ring. She wasn’t wearing clothes for training and was politely reminded of how anger her mother would be if she ruined her dress. Laenor and her went through a few stretches and warm-ups, not wanting to be horrifically sore the next day. Once Laena grew tired of waiting, she retrieved two blunted swords and tossed them in the ring.

“Hurry up and hit each other already!” Laena shouted, the giggles of Elaena accenting her sentiments. Laenor huffed, and tossed the blunted swords back at his sister.

“I am a knight, a man grown,” he said, offended at the slight, “Visenya and I have been to war, we’ll spar with live steel, sister.”

Laena remained at her position by the ring, simply smiling at her irritated brother. Not getting the reaction he wanted, Laenor turned to her and unsheathed his own blade. Visenya was slightly more graceful, unsheathing her sword with a twirl.

“To first blood, cousin?” she asked, swishing her steel in front of her.

Laenor walked to the opposite side of the ring before he responded, “Of course, perhaps you shall gain another scar even!”

Visenya giggled at his elaborate bow and provided a sloppy curtesy with her sword in hand. At this, Laenor immediately descended upon her. Striking at her right side with his longer reach, his longsword glinting in the sun. Parrying his blow, she twisted her body to move to his left side. Lunging forward to strike again, Laenor followed her pattern of defensive moves. Their rhythm in their spar began to form. One strikes, the other parries, and each one moves with their opponent. Visenya felt herself block out the distractions of the yard, feeling herself engaging in battle once more. Taking note of her cousin’s inclination to step forward to her own position, she began to purposely move them in a circle. Inching their steps so that they switched their initial positions. Feinting to Laenor’s right, she took the open left side to strike his padded arm.

A slight stumble in her cousin’s attacks gave her the opening she needed, lunging and parrying without fear. It was then that her plan worked. Raising her shortsword to feinting a strike to his left, the steel reflected the sun into his eyes. His height over her was his disadvantage, as the light caught him unaware. Using her smaller build to duck her arm under his raised one, she went in for the disarming. Bending her sword in a circle, she caught the tip of his sword with her own, disarming him in one move. Barely recovered from the attack, Laenor only stills when her blade gives him a slight nip on his neck. The blood welled up and just slightly stains the tip of her sword.

“I yield,” Laenor says, stepping away from the sword at his neck. He quickly moves to Laena to force her to give up her handkerchief to clean up the blood, which leads to the two squabbling loudly.

Visenya is so engrossed in the argument that she almost misses the dark haired man entering the ring. His armor and cloak indicated that he was a noble member of the City Watch. She does not recognize him until he goes to hand her Laenor’s abandoned blade.

“I see your accomplishments with a sword have grown, my princess,” Ser Harwin Breakbones says, smiling at her with upmost fondness. His beard was full and thick, and his dark curls were longer than before. Without shame, her eyes catalogued his face. Once a childhood companion, Harwin was now a full-grown man. She remembered his unyielding kindness to her, his good humor, and it made for the image of him as a man an enjoyable one.

“I see your facial hair has finally come in, Ser Harwin,” she teases him, reaching her hand towards her cousin’s sword. He does not move his hand when she places her smaller one on the hilt. It was noticeably warm underneath her own. They both seem to take a step forward, eyes locked on each other.

“Tends to happen when a boy becomes a man,” he said, still grinning down on her. She realizes that in spite of her own growth spurt, Harwin towers over her. He’d gotten much taller and wider, far more muscular than he was at six and ten when she’d last seen him.

“And what a man you’ve become,” Visenya says, tugging the sword closer to her, and thus Harwin himself, “It’s shame your letters must’ve gotten lost after the first two, but it gives us such a wonderful opportunity to, ah, catch up together.”

Half bent to be able to look at her in the eyes, Harwin keeps his grip on the blade as he speaks, “My princess, I’d be ever so honored to converse with you in better detail, I’d be very interested in seeing how many new scars you’ve returned to me with.”

“You are staring at the most noticeable one, Breakbones,” Visenya is certain she’s flushed from her head to her feet at his sly comments, “It’d be too improper to let you see the rest of the collection.”

“Aye, perhaps,” he said, voice husky, “Perhaps we shall keep it a secret, let it join the others we share.”

Behind her, Elaena starts to giggle, and she knows their conversation must end soon. Still, she’s enjoyed this more mature version of Harwin, who views her as the woman she’d become. Fully taking the sword from him, she stepped back from him.

“Aye, perhaps we shall. Until later, Ser Harwin, may your patrol tonight be well,” Visenya said, smirking as she turned away. She does not turn back to him as he shouts a farewell to her. At the sight of her cousins stares, her face reddens more.

“Your sword, Laenor,” she said as she handed over the blade. Laenor simply smiles at her as he sheaths it again. Laena seems about to burst in questions.

“It seems my brother’s worries that you’d forget about him were unfounded,” Elaena laughs, the embroidery basket in her hand. She looked happy, but Visenya knew the rest of the night her teasing would be merciless.

Turning on her heel, Visenya shouted at them over her shoulder, “You’re all banned from my chambers and sworn to silence!”

Visenya felt herself being distracted by the changes in her friend for the rest of her day. The way his height towered over her, how large his hands were, the unturned curve of his nose, it was all too much for her to process at once. She’d known she’d have to marry one day, but she’d never considered who. As much as a part of her wanted to marry in the North, or to marry for a strong alliance for her sister, another part of her sought a love match. Once, it was red hair and strong arms that was the most desirable. Now, it seemed brown curls and kind faces overtook her mind.

In fact, the thoughts swirling in her mind were so distracting that she was unfocused throughout the dinner with her father and sister. Daemon was sitting across from Rhaenyra, and Visenya across from her father. As the conversation flowed with the wine, Visenya struggled to keep her attention on the words of her father.

“Now, I am grateful to see you both hale and hearty, but” he paused, taking a sip of his wine, “I hear that there is a certain set of information that you both wish to present to me.”

Visenya felt herself grow more confused, until Daemon spoke, “Ah, I believe it is best to gather with our cousin Rhaenys, and her son Laenor, all the information is spread about between us.”

“We should also be far more secretive about it, uncle, father,” she cut in, speaking in Valyrian. She knew her face was a bit disappointed, Daemon knew better than to talk so openly with servants around. As a safety precaution, all servants were tested to see their knowledge of High Valyrian or any variation on the language. This was only implemented after a side comment from herself to her uncle. That advantage should be pressed as often as possible in her mind.

“Have you been scheming with our cousins instead of me?” her father said, one eyebrow cocked. His voice was much richer, warmer in their mother tongue than in common. Although he did not speak it much, her father commanded the language well.

“I had no choice but to seek their assistance in gathering the information and verifying it,” Daemon said, “As your brother, I refuse to come to you without the best knowledge I have.”

Rhaenyra snorted, “Or because it involves a topic you’ve been wrong about before. Perhaps, Father, Daemon wishes to have allies to make you believe him.”

Visenya couldn’t hold back her smile at the offended look on her uncle’s face. Her sister had grown much more observant of the context of a political or social situation it seems. Shooting a glance at her father, she knew that was a bit of a blow to his sense of self.

“Brother, you know you could come to me with anything,” he said, attempting to sound kind. It came off as patronizing to everyone else though, judging off the reactions of Daemon and Rhaenyra.

Daemon scoffed, “We both know that you do not listen to me over your Hightower cunt.”

“Watch it, uncle,” Visenya snapped, “Do not purposely provoke my father out of your own hurt feelings.”

She meets his defiant purple eyes, their battle done in silence. He must realize that her father had no clue about the maesters, about Otto, or the conspiracy. How could a man without information act according to that information?

Finally, Daemon yielded, perhaps due to the movement of Rhaenyra’s foot under the table, or perhaps due to her intervention. He turned back to her father, “Apologies, old hurts die hard. We will discuss this in two days, a dinner with us and our cousins.”

With that, they return to small conversation. Avoiding anything possibly more intense than the clothing choices of the courtiers. Rhaenyra seemed content in her position and her new betrothal, laughing and jesting with the table. Once the tension was fully resolved, both Daemon and her father were relaxed enough to enjoy the dinner. The flow of the conversation lulled her to a comfortable state of silence, simply observing her family. She’d had missed them being together more than she’d thought, and the empty spot in her heart where her mother was ached a bit at the sight.

Visenya had mostly settled down for the night after the dinner, having bathed after training she simply changed out of her nice dress to her sleeping attire. The nightgowns left for her were clearly Rhaenyra’s older ones, as they stopped at her knees instead of her calves as proper. A dressing robe in a vibrant purple was wrapped around her to cover up. The cool white silk of the nightgown left her a bit exposed. Her hair was left down after being brushed, and her jewelry all removed. She’d just sent a missive with Alys to ask Elaena if the other girl wished to share a bed like they’d done in childhood.

When there were three knocks on her door, she’d assumed it was her friend coming to join her. Yet, when she opened the door, it was not just Elaena awaiting her. In various states of dress and disarray stood Elaena, Laena, and most surprisingly, Larys. Without waiting for any of them to speak, she quickly ushered them into her chambers.

Laena, her brash cousin, was simply in a night gown and dressing robe, both in shades of blue. Her stockings were still on, and her hair was clearly not brushed and braided back as she usually slept in. Elaena resembled her, but already had her hair in a braid and was clearly freshly bathed. It was Larys, still dressed in his daily attire, who looked most distressed.

“Cousin, I know you sought out Elaena’s company tonight, but I am afraid this issue is more pressing,” Laena said, sitting down on the couch in her room without preamble. Across from her, Visenya settled on the edge of her bed, knowing what ever discussed next would be interesting.

Larys stood with Elaena, and she watched as he looked to his sister with uncertainty. After a slight nod, he became speaking, “As I am sure you know, what with your correspondence with my sister and Alicent, I am aware of much information. Rest assured, my informants are not traitors or spies.”

“Yes, just as I know that you’ve secured a position of safety in my sister’s court with your network,” Visenya said, head cocked to the side as she attempted to figure out what would be such a pressing matter. Likely, Larys had been persuaded by his sister to come to her with this knowledge.

“Well, I’d been receiving some, uh, scandalous information from one of them when unbeknownst to me, Lady Laena had entered my sister’s chambers. She’d overheard most of the conversation and convinced me to come to you, which is when the request from your maid came,” Larys was shifting his feet as he spoke. A nervous glance had been shot towards Laena at her mention, and it was never more obvious that she’d made a large difference in the world. Once, in the history books, Larys Strong would be a conniving rat that double crosses both the Blacks and Greens. How fascinating to see such a man afraid of Laena.

At her gesture to continue, Larys spoke once more, “It appears that your sister and uncle have snuck out of the Red Keep, and are galivanting around King’s Landing in disguise. My source insisted that both mentioned a specific, um, pleasure house in their plans.”

Visenya groaned, loud enough to make the others in the room jerk to look towards her. She’d forgotten the proclivities of her family, how hot their blood ran. Being formally tied to one another was certain to get the two of them excited. Now, there was no doubting where the two would go. Mysaria would not attempt to conceal their identities beyond what they choose to do themselves. Knowing how impulsive her uncle was, and Rhaenyra’s tendency to lose sense around him, she was certain that neither would be particularly clever.

“Well, I am greatly appreciative of your work, Larys. Thank you for coming to me with this information,” she said. Without waiting for a response, she went to a chest on the right side of her room. Quickly, she dug out a drab and simple dark blue dress, a brown hooded cloak, and think woolen stockings. The wooden lid closed with a thud, hiding the other clothing items inside.

“What are you doing, cousin?” Laena asked, obviously confused, “This is a serious matter, it’s going to become a scandal!”

Visenya ignored her in favor of securing a large pouch of coins, quickly untying the leather cord around it to count the contents of it. Just enough, she thought, the gold dragons would be enough. She turned back to the group staring at her, “Then we must create a bigger scandal, cousin.”

Her plan was as rushed as her steps, racing towards the Street of Silk. With the help of both Elaena and Laena, her pale hair had been braided and wrapped then hidden underneath the hood of her cloak. It’d been Larys who’d helped with the plan the most, whispers carrying her words so that they’d arrive before her.

Why attempt to prevent a scandal when you could simply overshadow it? Visenya was well aware of her own impulsiveness in the decision to go through with this. In fact, she was banking on this being a notably horrible choice to make. To keep her sister’s reputation, and by an unfortunate extension, her uncle’s, from ruin she was going to ruin her own.

Keeping their plan simple, Visenya was going to go to Mysaria’s brothel where Rhaenyra and Daemon would be. Tied to the leather belt they’d acquired was the pouch of coin she’d use to get all of Mysaria’s Valyrian whores to make an appearance. Distasteful, she knew it, but it’d be much more affective than if they’d left that part out. All the pale silver hair, purple eyes, and lack of distinctive faces would prevent any from being certain it was a princess they were looking at or a prostitute. Once the men and women of Valyrian blood were out walking, fucking, or doing what ever in the public view of the masses, would Visenya attempt to discourage her family’s activities. If she’d gotten to them before anything disastrous occurred then it would be easily resolved without her needed to risk her reputation. If she hadn’t, well, her Aunt Saera would be proud of what she’d have to do.

As she walked through the streets of King’s Landing, she couldn’t help but notice the changes since she’d left. Rhaenyra had fronted quite a few improvement projects for the city. There was less of a horrific stench, more wells built with a better drainage system. The roads were still of rough stone, and she was forced to keep focused on not tripping or stumbling in the crowd.

The night set certain streets alive, torches and lanterns illuminating the debauchery of the city. People moved from one tavern to another, merchants called out their wares, food vendors were hurriedly preparing meats and other items for the crowd’s consumption. As she walked, she spotted the street performers acting out a play. Likely about her own family if the blonde wings meant anything. The noise of the street dampened then reengaged into noises of pleasure. Visenya quickly spotted the white painted bricks of Mysaria’s brothel, and the pale blonde woman standing in front shouting out their offerings.

Relief flooded through her, the messenger Larys sent, one of his own, had made it. She quickly routed herself to the alleyway beside the brothel, knocking a pattern on the wooden door not opened to the public. The door swung open to reveal the woman she’d hoped for, Mysaria’s face in a mask of amusement.

As she was ushered in, Mysaria spoke, “Imagine my surprise at having not just one royal patron, but three tonight.”

“I bet you are more focused on imagining the size of your coin purse than anything else,” Visenya said, slightly out of breath after her journey, “Here, your payment.”

The pouch made a clanging noise as it landed on the desk of the older woman. Mysaria had already seated herself behind it, and started to count it without waiting for her to speak more. Visenya settled in one of the chairs across from her, appreciating the slight changes made since her last visit.

It was only after the woman had finished her counting that she spoke, “Your uncle and sister are in the open pleasure room, I fear that while your tactic will work for most, it might not work against your enemies. They are still recognizable after all.”

Visenya felt herself slouch even more in the chair, sighing loudly, “How bad will it be?”

“Bad,” Mysaria hummed, offering her a sympathetic look, “But it can be covered up.”

She just placed her head in her hands instead of responding to the other woman. To ensure that the scandal is eclipsed, she’d have a couple of options. Many of which required much more planning and scheming, which she did not have time for. One option stood out starkly, and it’d been the plan she and her friends had discussed prior to her leaving the keep. Easy enough, and wouldn’t cause any innocent any harm. Visenya would have to lose her maidenhead and lose it publicly enough to have people talking about it more than her sister and uncle.

“Who should I chose to do it?” Visenya asked, defeated at the prospect of choosing a stranger. Never had she, even as Jon, been inclined to fucking people she did not know well.

Mysaria looked at her with a knowing glance, “So you will choose the same scandal as your family but attempt to make it bigger? Brave girl.”

Choosing to not respond to that, Visenya prompted Mysaria to answer her original question with a wave. The other woman stood, and walked to the door that separated the solar from the rest of the brothel. She ducked her head out, obviously looking for someone. It wasn’t until a few minutes had passed that Visenya could hear footsteps coming down the hallway. Once whoever she’d been waiting for arrived, Mysaria fully stepped out in the hallway to have a whispered conversation.

As she waited for the woman to return, Visenya grumbled curses at her uncle and sister. How stupid could two people be? They were set to marry, be successful, and respected. Now, courtiers would insist Daemon’s brash and wild ways would be the downfall of Rhaenyra. Her sister’s claim sat balanced on a thin thread, one that would break at the pressure of a malicious rumor such as this. Well, a truth disguised as a rumor. No way would her father not break the betrothal at the news his brother had taken his daughter to a brothel and deflowered her in front of multiple witnesses. Then that would cause an even worse mess to clean up.

The noise of the door opening made her head snap up. Thoughts of misery and anger faded away to a wave of confusion. Mysaria stood in the doorway, her white silks illuminated in the candlelight, with a pleased look on her face. It wasn’t until the woman stepped forward and aside that she figured out why she looked so pleased.

Ser Harwin Strong, clad in his City Watch armor and cloak, stood before her. His dark brows were knitted in confusion. In his hands, he nervously held his helmet, and it was clear he’d been in a rush.

“Princess, I came to tell you of malicious rumors,” he said, voice expressing his confusion at her being present at Mysaria’s already.

Visenya had shown him the tunnel that connected Mysaria’s brothel to a hallway near her chambers, and knew he’d assume she came from there. Unfortunately, with how many people were in her room, she didn’t choose that route, instead choosing to use one far less of a secret. Not that she lacked the trust in her friends, but rather, revealing her relationship with Mysaria too soon could have been disastrous. He did seem surprised at her own lack of shock.

“I think that is not necessary, but I thank you for your concern,” Visenya assured the man, “You’ve proven to me that you are a loyal friend, and for that, I am very grateful.”

There was a pause in the conversation, which Mysaria used to cut in “You asked who, and I brought him to you.”

Despite not understanding Valyrian, Harwin shifted uncomfortably at Mysaria’s words. Realization dawned upon Visenya, he would be the best option. If he was comfortable with it, the possibility of them outdoing her sister and uncle would almost certainly guarantee them being wed. No other man outside of the North, or gods forbid Dorne, would be content with her wielding a sword, nor would she be able to be supported in her plans better than him. She would not be able to trust a stranger, but she could trust Harwin.

“Mysaria, leave us for a moment,” Visenya said, the White Wyrm shooting her a smile as she stepped outside the door. She motioned for Harwin to come closer, which he did, leaning against the wooden desk. His helmet made a slight thud at being dropped on the desk.

“The rumors are true, downstairs, in a room dedicated to the use of people to fuck in public view, my sister is being defiled by my uncle,” as she spoke, she took notice of his reactions. A brief flash of disgust went through him, then shock, settling on a look of frustration.

“Did they not get betrothed this day? Why ruin the reputation of them both?” he sighed, well aware of the consequences of this action.

Visenya leaned forward before she answered him, “The blood of the dragon runs hot, my father forced Daemon to wait for his prize, and my sister is infatuated with him. Since we were children, my uncle saw her as his bride.”

Harwin shifted to stand closer to her position in the chair, “So a victory celebration?”

“Of sorts,” Visenya reached out a hand towards his own, which he took, “This will need to be covered up, my sister must become queen after my father.”

“Secrets, you have so many for someone meant to have none,” Harwin did not release his hold on her hand, “I know better than to ask why Rhaenyra must become queen, so I ask, how do you plan to cover this up?”

She paused, biting at her cheek before she answered, “The same way I plan to seal my betrothal to a man that I can trust.”

"Scandals can have much power, but securing a marriage is usually not one of them,” Harwin grumbled, intrigued.

Instead of responding to him, Visenya chose to stand up from the chair. They were closer than they’d ever been before, not even earlier in the training yard. Faces separated by just the difference in their heights. All she could see for a moment were those warm brown eyes looking down into her own.

“It can if you promise to wed me after this,” she half-whispered, “Help me protect my family, be my shield, and I will let you take what you desire.”

“And if all I desire is you, princess?” Harwin asked, voice rougher than before.

She reached a hand up to cradle his face, “Then I shall give myself to you willingly.”

Chapter Text

Visenya’s words set alight Harwin’s skin, making him act like a man possessed by the fire of passion. Without waiting for her next words, he leaned down to press his lips against hers.

The kiss was much gentler than he’d expected. Her lips moved in tandem with his own, parting to allow his tongue to slip between them. When he pulled back, slightly anguished at the need to breathe, her purple eyes stared intensely into his own.

“A moment, to allow my plans to set in motion,” Visenya said, voice much rougher than normal.

He nodded his understanding and stepped back to allow her to conduct her plans. Harwin was not a man of politics or scheming and placed his trust in Visenya to accomplish her own plots. It took only a couple of minutes of her whispering to the woman, Mysaria, until she returned to him. With great pleasure, he noticed her lips were a tad swollen, freshly kissed.

“What do you require of me, princess?” he asked, attempting to keep his voice level.

Visenya walked back towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she got close to him. She paused for just a moment before answering, “I need you to fuck me, ser.”

Flames lit in his mind, thoughts racing before he answered, “I want you to be certain of this, I would promise to wed you without this debt between us.”

“I am certain, Harwin. No one else will satisfy me,” she responded, almost whispering. Their faces had only gotten closer throughout their conversation. It meant that he could hear her next words despite her hushed whispering.

“You need to take my maidenhead, and you need to do it so boldly everyone in King’s Landing will know.”

He chose not to respond, simply leaning in to kiss her again. It was rougher this time, like biting into a sweet peach without care. In his mind, his thoughts raced. Clearly, she meant to have him take her in the busier rooms of the brothel. Yet, he couldn’t do that to her, not without giving her one private moment between them before the whole of the capital knew of their relations. A part of his heart ached at the loss of a proper wedding and bedding between them. Some possible future in which Visenya did not have to sacrifice her dignity for her family’s reputation.

“I will, but first, you deserve to know what it feels like without any eyes watching,” he said when he pulled back, “No one else but me in the room to enjoy it.”

Visenya’s eyes widened, then darkened, “Do not forget to save some strength for the public, my dear.”

“Visenya, don’t doubt my strength again if you want to be in the Red Keep before dawn,” he growled, gripping her hips tightly. He felt overwhelmed with his need for her now. Knowing that all he’d desired since her return to him as a woman grown was just moments away.

“Then prove it to me, Harwin.”

Harwin was sober for the night, but if pressed for memories the only thing he’d be able to offer was the noises Visenya made, or her taste, and a blurry recollection of the sight of her peaking. They’d taken all the time they could in the privacy of the room they’d been in before moving to the public spaces. He’d remember the face she’d made the first time he’d entered her for the rest of his life. Silver hair spread on the desk making a mockery of a halo around her flushed face. It was almost unbearable to have to leave the room, the desire to keep the sight of her hidden for as long as possible burning strong inside him.

They continued downstairs until they were certain that the scandal would be all-consuming. The fact that neither of them could produce the energy to keep going after three rounds of fucking not included.

Dawn approached rapidly, but stayed at bay as he escorted her through the secret passageways. Visenya gave him the quick explanation of her plans and what she expected to happen.

“There’s no way that any spies could confirm their testimony in front of the King,” she spoke as they walked, “It’d be impossible for them to hide that they are working for someone.”

Harwin ducked as they passed a low hanging unlit torch on the wall, “Are you not distinctive enough for someone that is not a spy to testify to your identity?”

“That’s what all the Valyrian whores were for, I am not as notable when I am surrounded by others of my coloring,” Visenya answered, her face partially lit by the torch he carried. For a moment, he was distracted by the way the flames danced in the reflection of her eyes. The scar on the left side of her face lit up particularly alluringly. How she obtained it remained something that bothered Harwin, she should’ve been better protected.

“I will be recognized though, as many residents of the city have seen or spoken to me before,” he said, before realizing that was the point, “…which would be helpful in your plans.”

She smiled at him before she spoke, “Yes, the water would be murky about if it was me, but not if it was you. When my father confronts me, I will simply answer that I intend to marry you.”

“How will I not be the newest head on a spike in this plan?” he asked, still uncertain that anything would end up how Visenya thought it would.

“Well, my father knows I favor you, most everyone does, and if there was any risk that I’d been defiled by you it’d be clear I sought you out. So, by stepping around the rumors, he’d be forced to choose to admit that his daughter is not a maiden and lose any marriage prospects, or wed us to keep all rumors at bay,” she said, explaining it passionately enough she was forced to catch her breath after.

Harwin considered her words, aware he should’ve asked more questions regarding her plan. It’d work if the pieces fell in the right way. As of now, he was certain that the rumors of Rhaenyra and Daemon would be cowed in the face of the brewing scandal of him and Visenya. Yet, it was his reputation on the line as a whoremonger, seeking out whores that resembled his supposed love. Although, upon further consideration, Harwin thought that the damage would be forgotten in a few years once wedded, while Visenya was at risk of her entire life being tainted by what they did. A dangerous game they were playing indeed.

Visenya seemed to sense his thoughts, “You just have to trust me, can you do that?”

“Yes,” he found himself saying immediately, “I’ll always trust you.”

They continued discussing their plans as they walked, details and timing being added. A part of himself took pleasure when he noticed Visenya walked with a small limp, another chastised himself for not being careful with her. He’d been with a whore or two, and a serving girl who’d been flirty with him at a feast, but never with a maiden. Perhaps he’d need to learn to be gentle in the time that they’d spend betrothed.

Visenya spoke of their possible betrothal as if it was certain, “We’d have to call for your sister and nephew to come to the capital, and it cannot be too close to Rhaenyra’s own wedding. I would guess the betrothal lasts a year.”

“Bold to assume you’d be awarded with a feast and tourney, perhaps the small council will force us to wed at Harrenhal, with only the Old Gods to witness,” Harwin jested, not entirely displeased by the idea of wedding her with just the carved weirwoods of the God’s Eye watching.

“And if I find myself pleased at that notion?” Visenya asked, stopping as they arrived at the exit to the passageway. Her face was turned towards him, and she held the barest of smirks.

“Then I will do all I can to guarantee that we will wed in front of the weirwoods of Harrenhal,” he answered. A piece of him felt overwhelmed with the look of joy on her face at his response. Knowing this would be their last moment of peace before the scandal broke out, he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to her lips. They both grinned at each other once parted.

With an exaggerated bow, Harwin gestured for her to open the doorway, “Your scheming awaits, my princess.”

Harwin wished he had but a moment more to savor her giggles, he could only bask in the feeling for a few heartbeats.

With the bustle of the upcoming royal wedding, the shared morning meal between his family had been discarded for the time being. This meant Harwin had eaten and gone to sleep without speaking to any member of his family. Which is what left him to the mercy of his younger siblings waking him up for his execution.

“Harwin,” Elaena hissed into his ear, “Harwin, wake up! You fucking whoremonger!”

As she spoke, his sister was shaking him, attempting to rouse him from his slumber. He was comfortable enough to roll over instead of letting her pestering bother him.

This did not mean he escaped Larys on the other side of his bed, “Harwin! King Viserys requests your presence immediately!”

A shot of fear ran through him, causing him to nearly push over his brother in his haste to get up. He was halfway through dressing himself before his mind caught up to his body.

“Elaena why are you calling me a whoremonger?” he asked, turning to stare at his sister. Her grin was not an appropriate pairing to her words and urgency.

“Well, you are one according to the rumors at court. In fact, you are such a notable whoremonger that you fucked Princess Visenya in a whorehouse last night,” she walked over to his wardrobe and pulled out a fine blue jerkin, “It was all that the king and Otto Hightower could scream about since dawn.”

Harwin felt his eyes widen, but before he could speak Larys cut in, “Truly a scandal you’ve caused brother, no one is able to talk about anything else.”

Not letting him talk, his siblings began handing him clothing to put on. He’d already pulled on a pair of decent black breeches, but Larys handed him a red long-sleeved tunic. It was of a fine fabric and had the smallest embroidered pattern of weirwood leaves on the cuffs. After that went on, his sister presented the blue jerkin she’d picked. The back had a panel of green fabric cut to look like a river, the front had the white hand from their sigil place atop his left chest. Only one moment to glance at his assembled outfit before the two forced him to sit as they combed and tied back his curls.

As he allowed Elaena to yank his hair with the comb, he spoke, “I take it that the plan you helped concoct is going well?”

“Of course, it is,” Larys huffed, eyes rolling, “I was involved; thus, it was not going to fail.”

Elaena tugged on the tail she’d tied back with a leather cord, “Brother, I thank you for your assistance, but truly it took a woman’s touch to keep the plan from immediately unraveling.”

Harwin could hold back his snort, glad that they were getting along. He wished that they could find a hobby that did not involve his life and reputation, but he supposed that was the duty of being an older brother. Thankfully, the scandal had reached the point where Rhaenyra’s own was not being discussed.

“Is father already with the king?” he asked, standing, and letting his siblings admire their handiwork.

“Yes, only for a candle mark though,” Elaena answered, pointing out the black boots she wanted him to wear, “Larys waited to tell me that, so apologies for the rush.”

The accompanying glare at Elaena from Larys almost made him laugh. As he began to put on his woolen socks and leather boots they started into a petty argument.

“You know it is crucial to time this correctly, he cannot look and act like he was expecting it,” Larys said, leaning heavily on his cane to inch closer to their sister without stepping towards her.

Elaena scoffed, “Yet, he needs to look presentable, well-mannered even.”

“He’s going because he defiled a princess, I think a certain level of rushed preparation is understandable,” came his brother’s protest. The two looked the most similar he’d ever seen them in this moment, both with their furrowed brows and glares. They looked like their father, he thought.

“Have they even sent for me yet?” he asked, interrupting their argument. He’d finished lacing up his boots and was looking at the final outfit in the small copper mirror hung on his wall. The colors of House Strong covered him completely, only a few short curls escaping his half-up tail.
Instead of answering him, Larys and Elaena looked at each other. Both waiting for the other to respond first.

“You woke me before I was even sent for?” he questioned, sighing softly as he sat back down on his bed. If he could guess from the sun outside his window, it hadn’t reached midday yet. Given how late he returned to the Red Keep, Harwin estimated he’d slept at least a few hours. It would have to do.

Before his siblings could think of an answer, a knock sounded from the entrance of their family’s apartments. All of them froze, likely looking like a herd of deer caught in the sight of a hunter’s arrow. Straining to hear anything, Harwin could only catch the hushed conversation between the servant who answered the knock. Soon, the maid rushed to the door of his chambers.

“Ser Harwin, forgive me my manners but King Viserys requests your presence in his apartments!” The maid, an older woman named Maege, spoke as she opened the door. Her voice trailed off as she entered and saw the group gathered around the bed.

“Oh, thank you so much Maege,” Elaena said, swift to respond, “Larys and I had just woken our brother up for an outing, so he should be adequately prepared.”

The maid, who’d been in their household’s service since their father had been named Master of Laws, simply raised an eyebrow at his sister. Clearly, their story was a bit hard for her to buy, as Maege was aware of when he usually awoke to start his day. Still, she gave a slight nod and went to escort him to the messenger.

Crossing the small solar that connected he and his sibling’s bed chambers, Harwin nearly choked at the sight of the messenger. Standing rigidly in the center of the receiving room was Ser Criston Cole.

The Dornishman shifted uncomfortably at his presence, clearly not pleased at being chosen for this task. His armor was polished, and his appearance as put together as it always seemed to be. Harwin couldn’t help but think about Visenya’s dislike of the man. She insisted that his eyes lingered on her sister, and perhaps Alicent, far too long for comfort. Something about Criston set her on edge, and he knew that the choice to have him escort him to the king was purposeful.

“Ser Criston,” Harwin said with a nod, gesturing for the knight to begin their journey to the king’s chambers.

The grimace that came in response was not a hopeful sign, “Ser Harwin,” he responded.

Thus started their awkward walk through the Red Keep. Never had Harwin wished for Maegor’s Holdfast to be closer to his family’s apartments before. Clanking armor accompanied each step, the quiet murmurs of the courtiers as they passed providing the background noise. It wasn’t until they got closer to the Holdfast that the onlookers thinned out.

This is when Criston spoke again, “I hope you have not broken your knight’s vows, Breakbones.”

“I assure you that I would never dishonor my vows, Ser Criston, but remember that I do not follow the Faith that gave me those vows,” Harwin felt his voice come out with a bit more of a bite than intended. His knighting had been an honor, but he followed the Old Gods which meant he did not hold himself to the rules of the Faith of the Seven. Jeyne, his older sister, had insisted that the knighting was a slight to their family’s faith. Perhaps he should’ve listened to her point instead of basking in his achievement.

“May your gods guide you then,” Criston grumbled, pointedly ignoring him the rest of the way to the king’s chambers.

As they got closer to the solar that he’d meet his fate in, he heard voices shouting. One was clearly the king, the other Otto Hightower, and, to his surprise, Daemon Targaryen. He made sure to put down the bitterness that this whole dilemma would’ve not occurred without the man’s involvement in the first place.

Ser Harrold stood guard outside the doors, and at the sight of them went to announce his presence. Only a few steps away from the doors, Harwin heard the shouted demand for him to come in immediately. He nodded to both knights, although he didn’t truly want to be polite to Cole in any way.

Entering the solar, Harwin quickly scanned the room and all its chaos. There was a dark wooden table in the center, chairs discarded around it. At the head of the table, standing, was King Viserys, in all his disheveled glory. He recalled Visenya’s fears about his increasing aliments. To the left of him was an angry Otto Hightower, also standing, who’d turned slightly red in the face from his shouting. To the right of the king sat Daemon, his feet kicked up on the table, looking like he’d been having a wonderful time. Next to Daemon sat his father, dressed in fine clothes, but he was making the face he always gave his children when they misbehaved. The disappointment in his eyes when he met them was almost too much. Rhaenyra was standing beside Otto, glaring at the man with a fury. Her dress was black, and in a severe cut, all straight lines and structured to resemble armor in a way. Alicent Hightower stood behind the pair, pointedly not wearing her house colors, and was clearly entertained at the mess. Finally, he laid eyes on Visenya.

She was next to her sister, sitting dutifully in the chair. Harwin almost lost his sense to breathe at the sight of her, dressed in the lightest purple silk, hair only pulled back at her temples. She reminded him of the statue of the Maiden he’d seen in the sept on the Silk Street. Beautiful, in an otherworldly way. He realized her clothing was a choice to show her youth, and innocence.

Tearing his eyes away from hers, he took the empty chair beside his father. A warm, strong hand came to rest upon his shoulders. Turning to face his father, Harwin spotted a touch of fear in his face. Did he think Harwin was in danger?

“Son, I need you to swear upon our gods that you will answer the questions that King Viserys, and the Hand have for you honestly,” his voice was unwavering, nothing to betray any other feelings bubbling under the surface.

“I swear upon the Old Gods, and the New, that I will answer any questions with the truth,” Harwin said, making sure to look around at those in the room. He remembered his mother saying that she swore by both gods when she was asked to so that she could answer any way she wanted. She’d insisted it was because she didn’t believe in the Seven, and if she answered under them with a lie she wouldn’t be punished. Of course, she likely did not mean for him to do so in front of the king.

His father’s mouth slightly quirked upwards at his wording, and he gestured for the questioning to begin. The king turned to Otto, raising an eyebrow.

Otto Hightower took a deep breathe, attempting to cool his temper, before he asked the first question, “Ser Harwin, did you meet with Princess Visenya last night?”

“No, my lord, I was on patrol,” Harwin answered. No princess appeared to him last night, just his friend, thus he felt awfully clever for his response.

“But you were spotted in a brothel when your patrol would be taking place, no?” Otto pushed, a sinister glint in his eye. The man was desperate to prove himself right to the king.

Harwin feigned embarrassment for his father, who knew that Harwin had been well-versed in lovers at one time, “Aye, my lord, I had been sent for by the madam.”

Daemon perked up at this, likely knowing Mysaria hadn’t sent for him. Yet did she not escort him to Visenya? Did she not get her workers to guide him to her? The king grumbled as he moved to sit, a pained expression on his face. From boredom at the line of questioning or from his aliments, he did not know.

In the silence that had lingered after his answer, Otto was clearly formulating his next question. Eyebrow raised in a curious expression, he asked, “Why was it that she sent for you, Ser Harwin? Do you often disregard your duties to the City Watch for whores?”

“It fell under my duties, my lord, I am one of the few Watchmen the residents of the Street of Silk feel comfortable sending for,” Harwin felt some anger bubble up at the Hand’s words, these women deserved protection as all residents of King’s Landing. He took a breath before continuing, “My men know that I take the protection of women and children seriously and know the protocol for when I must respond to the women on the Street of Silk.”

“What was the issue you had to respond to then, ser?” Otto asked, clearly frustrated at his answer.

“Disruptive clients, my lord,” Harwin shot a knowing look to Daemon, “With the return of the men who fought in the Stepstones there was an increase in violence in the brothels. I was asked to subdue and remove a few patrons that had been attacking the girls.”

The room looked ready to burst into a fist fight still, the questions taking longer to get to the point of the issue. Visenya was pointedly not looking at him, rather at her father. Daemon had given a small nod to Rhaenyra, who leaned to whisper to Alicent. His own father was seemingly communicating to the king through his expressions. The king looked rather displeased at the whole affair.

“Otto, would you please get to the point of this mess?” Viserys grumbled, shooting a glare to his Hand. Visenya sent a small smile to her father after, and the two seemed to reach an agreement.

“Of course, your grace,” Otto hurriedly continued, “Did you accept a certain form of repayment from the madam?”

“What kind of repayment are you referring to, my lord?” Harwin couldn’t refrain from smirking at Otto, wanting the insufferable man to have to spell out what he meant.

“The whores, fucking them free of charge,” the man looked like he’d eaten a lemon, displeased at the vulgarity of his words.

“No, my lord,” Harwin caught Visenya’s eye for just a second, “I don’t get that offered as repayment, I get that offered because they like me.”

Daemon laughed, startling the others, “I think the boy’s innocence is unquestionable, Otto. My niece was in her rooms, the boy was simply wetting his cock, what is the harm in this whole affair?”
“I have clear information that it was not a simple whore he was fucking,” Otto glared venomously at Daemon, “I know you cannot tell the difference between your nieces and Valyrian whores, but my informants can.”

The room erupted in shouts at the Hand’s words. Daemon stood, unsheathing Dark Sister with a swift motion. Now on his feet, the king was yelling, his daughters both insulted. Harwin and his father stayed seated, both a bit bewildered at the statement. Rhaenyra looked like she was turning into her dragon. He was certain that he could spot the flames spewing from her mouth as she yelled. Visenya was standing also, fingers wrapped around a small dagger she must’ve kept in her dress. Rather than yell, she was sending glares to the Hand, clearly upset. Alicent had stepped back from the whole group and was quickly heading for the doors. Before the chaos had settled, she returned with Ser Harrold in tow.

“Otto Hightower, you betray me in your duties! Insulting and dishonoring my daughters, my heir! You remain lucky I do not seek to stop my wedding immediately, out of the fondness I hold for Alicent, and the friend you once were,” the king’s voice silenced the rest of the shouting.

Otto’s face contorted in anger, “I speak the truth to you, Viserys, your brother has defiled your heir, this boy did the same to your daughter! They betray their duties, not me!”

“Enough! Maester Mellos has already examined me, would you ask for the heir to the throne be subject to such demands for you to be satisfied?” Visenya fumed. Harwin felt himself shoot up out of his chair at her words. The man having her examined was too far, too extreme to ask. King Viserys giving into this demand was a clear sign of weakness. How could he subject his daughter to such a thing?

Daemon’s face became pure stone at his niece’s words, “You had her examined? A girl who rides, and fights like a man? You knew her maidenhead was likely broken astride a horse, but still sought to embarrass her?”
“Her honor was in question! She is as wild as you, Prince Daemon!” Otto shouted back in a fury.

“Mellos says she lost it from riding,” the king did not shout, but spoke sternly, “You’ve overstepped your position, Otto.”

Without warning, the king reached for the pin resting on Otto’s doublet. One quick motion and it clattered on the table. The room snapped into pure silence, the heavy breathing of the group being the only noise.

“You are banished from King’s Landing, and my court, you may not attend your daughter’s wedding, nor any other royal events,” the king’s voice was unwavering, “I will not let you meet any grandchildren born of this union, nor will you be able to write them. One letter a moon, to your daughter, is all I will allow.”

There was a pause after his words, the room holding their breaths waiting for Otto to respond, “I will take my leave at first light in the morning, your grace.”

Another beat of silence followed, before Otto stiffly bowed and swiftly departed. He stopped only to nod at his daughter by the door before he quickly exited.

Daemon paused only a moment, perhaps to check if he hadn’t imagined the whole thing, before he sheathed Dark Sister. Instead of speaking, Visenya rushed to her father, dropping her dagger on the table on the way. The two tenderly hugged, and Harwin felt himself look away for them to have some privacy. Once, on a trip back to the castle, she’d told him about how she’d felt her father always resented her for not being a son. That her birth causing her mother to weaken in health was some kind of curse. He settled back in his chair, unsure of what came next.

Rhaenyra was the first to speak, “Thank you, father, for defending us.”

“I let his scheming to dishonor you both go on for too long,” the king said, lowering himself back into his seat, “You are my heir, Rhaenyra, you should not have been questioned. Visenya, you are simply like your namesake, a true dragon.”

Harwin noted the lack of apology for having his daughter examined and attempted to smooth his face into a calm façade. The sisters went to sit, Rhaenyra claiming the seat left behind by Otto, and Visenya taking hers. Alicent slowly sat in the chair once claimed by Visenya. As expected, Daemon kicked his feet back on the table as he sat down.

“Your grace is my son free to go then?” his father asked, interrupting the calm quiet that had been settling over the room.

The king seemed to hesitate to answer, and Harwin jumped at the pause, “I wish to apologize for neglecting some of my duties at the end of my patrol, your grace, I will seek to never err in the same way again.”

“Ah, Daemon was correct, you are a good captain, Ser Harwin,” the king answered, “Your men vouched that you’d informed them of where you were sent, and that you’d given a report before leaving.”

Harwin blushed at the devotion of his men, knowing that he’d done a shoddy job at both tasks. Daemon must’ve gotten them to vouch for his honor. The Gold Cloaks would go to war for the prince and would’ve said anything to prove themselves to him.

“No, I am afraid we are not done here, Lord Strong, Ser Harwin,” the king continued, “It seems I am in need of a new Hand.”

Shock jolted through both him and his father, “I could not be so worthy, your grace.”

“Nonsense, Lyonel, you remain one of the few on the Small Council so devoted to the realm over your own interests,” the king had a small smile on his face as he spoke.

Without preamble, the king picked up and passed the pin of the Hand to his father. He saw how his father’s hands shook slightly as he examined the pin.

“Go on, I name you, Lord Lyonel Strong as the Hand of the King,” the king urged, waving a hand towards them.

Instead of looking at the king, his father turned to him. Slowly, he handed over the pin, and Harwin felt himself grow unreasonably emotional. A deep breath, and he was pinning his father as Hand. The gold shone in the light from the windows in the room.

“Congratulations, Lord Strong,” Rhaenyra spoke next, “I admit, I’ve always favored you in the Small Council Meetings, and could not have chosen a better Hand for my father.”

His father gave her a nod in appreciation, “Thank you, your grace, I swear to serve both King Viserys, and the realm as best I can.”

Harwin felt himself break out into a smile, proud of his father. Slowly, the group gathered all were much more joyful looking than before.

“We are not finished here through,” the king interrupted the moment, “I remain concerned about the improper fondness between my daughter and your son, Lyonel.”

Daemon snorted, “Wed them, brother, it would be a beneficial match and clearly the two should not be separated.”

“I would not ask that of you, Harwin can return to Harrenhal if necessary, your grace,” his father responded, attempting to be kind but realistic. He would face some punishment for this whole affair, but to be sent away from Visenya was almost too painful.

“That will be unnecessary, I can recognize my daughter’s embroidery on your son’s tunic. I fear it is too late to stop their young love,” the king gestured towards his cuffs. Harwin felt his face redden, and out of the corner of his eye, he saw Visenya do the same.

The king looked to his daughter, and at her nod spoke again, “Visenya has asked me to propose a marriage between her and Ser Harwin, one that I am inclined to agree to if you find it acceptable.”

“Yes, your grace, I would find that more than acceptable,” Harwin said, before realizing that king was likely speaking to his father. Despite the blunder, the king chuckled.

“Then we shall announce the betrothal in a sennight at court,” the king nodded to his father, “After we discuss the terms and length of said betrothal.”

“Of course, your grace,” his father interjected before he could embarrass himself again. The two men stood and shook hands across the table. Harwin allowed himself to look at Visenya.

She was already staring at him, a knowing smile on her face. This woman would be his wife, one who was her namesake born again. He felt his own face morph into a grin. Already he was imaging taking her to Harrenhal, showing her the God’s Eye.

The king spoke again, breaking his daydream, “I will say, absolutely no outings or time spent together between the two without a chaperone.”

“I agree, your grace,” his father said, sternly looking at him, “Perhaps if Prince Daemon returns to his post as the Commander of the City Watch, he can undertake some of those duties.”

Daemon’s face was contorted between pleased at his reinstatement and annoyed at being assigned to chaperoning duties. Likely to remind her father that he was speaking about her betrothed, Rhaenyra spoke up, “Would his duties not intervene with Ser Harwin’s own at night?”
“We will simply move Ser Harwin to work underneath Daemon, if that be alright?” the king asked, clearly demanding rather than requesting this from his brother.

Daemon sighed, “Yes that shall work fine, Ser Harwin is a good captain to have.”

The king nodded, seemingly satisfied, “Good, I know I hadn’t spoken to you, and Rhaenyra, but it is also expected that you two have a chaperone. Rhaenyra’s ladies, and Alicent, may serve, but not the Kingsguard. So, if you were to take Ser Harwin or Visenya with you on your outings it will work out well.”

The faces of both Rhaenyra and Daemon fell. Harwin couldn’t hold back a slight smile at the news. Clearly the rumors reached the king’s ear, even if they’d been overshadowed. He mourned the fact that he’d be unable to see the verbal lashing that Visenya would likely give the two.

“Well, if that matter is settled, you are all dismissed,” the king announced, “Expect for you, Lyonel, we have much to discuss before this is all presented to the court.”

At once, Harwin stood, bowing to the king before exiting the solar. His body seemed to unwind the tense fear wrapped around him for the whole conversation. Certainly, Ser Criston seemed curious at the outcome, and swiftly entered the chambers. Soon, Visenya exited and joined him in the hallway.

“What did I say?” she asked him, her face aglow.

“I did trust you, I promise,” he said, laughing at her prodding him in response. Seemingly examining him for any damage done in the time spent apart. Once satisfied with her actions, she stepped back.

Visenya stared at his face for a heartbeat, then announced, “You looked like you were on the gallows almost the entire time.”

A laugh came from both him and someone behind him, Daemon having finally left the solar with Rhaenyra beside him. Harwin and Visenya had moved to the far wall, and the pair approached them.

“My niece is certainly astute in her observations,” the Rouge Prince said, smirking all the while.

“My observations have not ended at Harwin, uncle,” Visenya’s mood immediately shifted to irritation, “In fact, I find myself in need of presenting some concerning observations to both you and my sister.”

Behind the group, Harwin spotted Alicent exiting, Ser Criston trailing behind her. Visenya took note of this, and gave him a small nod and smile, letting him know he could go. After a small bow, Harwin allowed himself to begin his walk to his family’s chambers. His siblings would want to know what happened, and likely would be clambering to find out. As he walked away, he heard Visenya raise her voice to shout at her family. Perhaps she’d not wait until they were in privacy, anger too much to wait.

Finally, as he realized it was almost time for lunch, he heard her shout, “You are both unbelievable! My chambers, now!”

Chapter Text

For all that Visenya had grown into a young woman, Daemon still found that being scolded by her felt like being scolded by a babe. It was slightly humiliating, especially after she’d correctly guessed why he’d wanted to be spotted with Rhaenyra in public.

“Did you seriously think my father would have you wed sooner?!” Visenya screeches, hair becoming as wild as her eyes.

Daemon begins to defend himself, but she cuts him off, “You flaunt your duties to your family too easily! You are supposed to defend Rhaenyra’s claim, not defame her honor!”

Seeking some defense from Rhaenyra, he desperately attempts to make eye contact. Carefully avoiding his gaze, Rhaenyra stifles a laugh at his expression. No one would come to his own honor in this room.

Visenya follows his eyes and whirls to look at her older sister, anger clear on her face. She points sharply towards Rhaenyra and yells, “Are you so easily swayed to humiliate yourself, sister?! Do not think yourself innocent in this!”

After all was said and done, including letting his youngest niece slap him, Daemon leaving her chambers was the greatest relief he could ask for. Things would have to be different for him going forward. Less drinking, less brash behavior, and he already felt chaffed at the collar. Rhaenyra was left behind in her sister’s chambers, and they would have to adhere to all social expectations until they were finally wed.

Daemon felt restricted at being told what to do by his youngest niece. It took Rhaenyra’s affirmation that she agreed with the plan to get him to not feel rage at the arrangement. Thus, he plans to sit by and suffer for the next moon.

The wedding of his brother and Lady Alicent Hightower is not as enjoyable as the wedding of Viserys to Aemma. Both brides young and glowing in the attention, but Alicent’s anxious nature made Daemon feel a bit bad for her throughout the whole affair. Despite all that she was Otto’s girl, he understood what it was like to marry without a choice. He did not linger on his feelings. Still, he indulges in wine, dances with Rhaenyra, and claps when necessary. Visenya sneaks into his chambers to gift him a scabbard for one of his daggers as a reward for his good behavior. Daemon mostly thinks about his wedding to Rhaenyra throughout it all, about how she will be decorated in jewels, how beautiful she will be. It pleases him immensely to think of their future marriage.

It was not good of him to linger on the matter, or else he’d break the agreement. So, Daemon undertook communication with Saera and Rhaenys to fill his time outside of commanding the City Watch. He knew it was almost time to bring in Rhaenyra and his brother, but he hesitated in fear. What if he did not have enough information to sway them? Despite their love for him, both of them tended to be dismissive of his political mind.

Still, Rhaenys had pushed for Daemon to finally speak to his brother about it. Daemon swore he was simply waiting for the right moment. Viserys was basking in the light of his new marriage and the recent unification of their family.

The right moment ended up being a fortnight after Viserys’s wedding, and the exact day the Small Council pushed his own wedding back a month to invite more lords. Saera had sent a missive with a ship’s name for him to go to, and after the disastrous news from the council meeting Daemon had fled to the docks immediately.

“My prince, I bring you two gifts from your aunt,” spoke the Lysenei captain, his Valyrian melodic with his accent.

Before Daemon stood two people of Valyrian descent, one male, one female. They looked nigh identical, their shared high cheekbones, pouty mouths, lean and tall in build. Their hair was surprisingly short, the male’s longer than his sister’s reaching his shoulders whereas his sister’s was cut at her chin. They dressed in a style not too dissimilar from the Dornish, which was curious given their white-gold hair. Both shared a healthy-looking golden tan, and on further inspection, Daemon saw some Dornish features on them both.

“She sent me whores?” Daemon asks, but notices their shared weaponry, “Or warriors?”

“My prince, my sword is yours, regardless of which one you seek to use,” the male retorted, a sly smile on his face. His sister did not share his amusement.

“Our mother sends us as envoys, we carry documents of great importance,” she says, serious and stepping in front of her brother. The captain accepts some payment from her, and leaves.

Daemon admits his curiosity, he knew Saera had many children, but these two were younger than him. They also were distinctly Dornish in appearance which only added to the mystery.

“Might we make introductions then?” Daemon asks.

The woman scoffs, “We know you Prince Daemon, there is no need to introduce yourself. Your reputation precedes you.”

Her brother steps in, sensing his sister’s worsening attitude, “Forgive us, sea travel makes us quick to anger.”

Daemon was a bit surprised at his switch to the common tongue, his accent was faint but there. It was an interesting mix of Volantene and Dornish. In his mind, Daemon confirmed their father must be Dornish, and willing to stay around enough to teach his bastards the common tongue.

With a flourish of his hand, the man bowed, dramatic like his mother. He raises his head with a grin, “I am Tygos, and my sister is Tyene, we hope we could discuss the rest of our business with you in private.”

“May I ask you for any confirmation of this, cousin?” White-gold hair and purple eyes be damned, Daemon was not stupid.

Tyene scowled and pulled a sealed letter from her flowy purple robes. Daemon took note of the high quality of her clothing but accepted the letter before his mind wondered.

Breaking the seal, which was that of Saera’s own personal stamp, he quickly glanced over the familiar handwriting. These siblings were Saera’s children, stated on paper with her own hand. She referred to them as her ‘dearest twins’ and asked that Daemon did not risk her youngest too much in their family’s mission.

“Is that enough for you to get us somewhere quieter?” said Tyene, face still set in displeasure.

“Of course,” Daemon knew privacy was crucial, but he’d not be able to go to Mysaria in the daytime under his agreement with his nieces.

He thought on it, and without a better option, he settled on sneaking them into the Red Keep.

His plan on sneaking in his bastard cousins into his brother’s keep was, perhaps, too ambitious. Oh, Daemon had managed enough secrecy to gather Tygos and Tyene and their belongs and get them inside of the tunnels. He had not considered that others would be in the tunnels as well.

“Uncle? Who are these people?” Visenya asked, scaring the wits out of the trio. Daemon turned to see his youngest niece holding a torch, dressed in her riding leathers.

Sneaking out to ride Cannibal, he thought, mirth running through him at catching his niece misbehaving for once. Usually, it was the other way around.

“Saera sent them,” Daemon said, surprise on the faces of his companions. “This is Tyene and Tygos, her youngest and most suspiciously Dornish children.”

The twins started muttering, side-eying the royals in front of them. Visenya looked perturbed, likely realizing she was not going on a dragon ride this afternoon.

“Daemon you cannot just accuse people of being Dornish,” she said, sneaking a good look at the twins.

“Uh, he is correct, our father was Dornish,” Tygos said, in that distinct but mild accent of his. Tyene had shared the same one, so Daemon’s theory on their father having taught them common tongue still stood.

“She sent them with documents of importance,” Daemon continued, pointing at the small chest the twins carried between them, “I need to get them somewhere private, and undetected.”

Visenya, for all that she was young, was probably his best bet at not being caught red-handed. He’d planned to go to his chambers for the time being, but the twins would need to be hidden longer than a night. His niece had a familiar knowledge of the keep and its servants due to her ladies-in-waiting.

“I am willing to use my personal solar, but only the girl will be able to disguise herself in my household,” Visenya said, quickly thinking on where Tygos would be able to integrate himself. Her face lit up once she’d arrived at her conclusion, “Rhaenyra’s ladies need another guard, armor hides those Valyrian features well.”

Daemon nods but mislikes placing his flirtatious cousin with his future bride’s ladies, disaster was certain. “Take us to your solar, niece.”

Once inside of Visenya’s solar, the odd group immediately begun their discussion. Tygos did much of the talking, but after Visenya had obtained food and wine from a servant, Tyene was more inclined to join. Already, Visenya had gained a fondness for Tyene and Tygos, easily calling them her cousins.

Daemon was a touch overwhelmed with what the twins presented him. The chest had contained paper on scroll on parchment on letter on journal. Saera was lucky that the ship had not sunk, for if any water had gotten into the chest all of its contents would be ruined. Which, given what was written on them would have been disastrous.

Uncle Vaegon had been a mystery to Daemon for as long as he’d lived. Daemon had met the man twice, both times before he’d been a man grown. The story was that Vaegon had been a rude, petulant child, unwilling to wed one of his sisters instead of his books. The Citadel had gladly accepted him into their ranks, and Vaegon quickly shed his Targaryen heritage to be a maester. Old King Jaehaerys had written to him for advice on his succession crisis, and Vaegon had been behind the Great Council of 101. Outside of this, Daemon was pretty sure Vaegon had been dead for years, given the fact no word from the Citadel came for or about him. Plus, the man had not favored his Targaryen family in years, choosing the grey maesters over them time and time again.

Yet, just as Saera surprised him, Vaegon had too. The time he spent as an Archmaester was when he gathered information on what seemed to be a plot by the Citadel and House Hightower to take down the Targaryen dynasty. Or at least their dragons.

“This letter is from one the Archmaesters, asking about how fertility is tied to dragons?” Visenya reads aloud, confusion clear in her tone. “I think that’s why they are so focused on the women of our house.”

“Yes, my mother was most interested in this aspect of the conspiracy,” Tyene says, a grape crunched by her teeth to emphasize her point, “It explains why so few Targaryen women survive the childbed.”

Daemon’s mind goes to his mother, in all of her brave glory. She had died due to complications from the birth of his brother, Aegon. Both of them were strong one day and on the verge of death the next for months. Maesters attended them both.

“Aemma, your mother, she was sent to marriage too young on the urging of the Grandmaester,” Tyene continues, “My mother was most upset when retelling the stories of her sisters and their children and how they passed.”

Horror starts to dawn on Daemon, creeping into the corners of his mind. How had his grandmother survived so many births, her mother before her, but not any of their female descendants? His own mother only had two living children. Aemma barely gave birth to the two that lived to this day, not counting the dead babes and lost pregnancies. What would happen to Rhaenyra?

“Oh, gods what about Rhaenyra?” he breathes out, not quite certain he’s saying it aloud or in his mind. His thoughts did not stop, and he snatches the letter from Visenya’s hands.

Tygos took over for his sister, “That is why our mother sent us, she wanted this dealt with before the Crown Princess Rhaenyra saw the birthing bed.”

Daemon could not hear, his eyes tracing the letters on the paper before him. Rhaenyra was strong, even if those grey rats tried to hurt her, she’d survive. She’d feed them to Syrax or let him kill them. That did not make his hands shake less.

Viserys was not a very serious man. Daemon gave him some credit though, for he was not a very serious man at times himself. This was an issue when he and Visenya had finally managed to wrangle both his brother and niece into one room. It was even harder to try and explain the whole situation without the twins present.

“Aunt Saera lives, and you went to see her? And you took my youngest daughter, Rhaenys’ son, and Corlys? And did not feel the need to inform me of any of this?” Viserys asked, voice tinged with disbelief.

“Yes, brother, that is what I am saying,” Daemon attempts to continue the conversation, “I did so due to my worries regarding- “

His brother cuts him off, “Daemon, are you certain it was our aunt? I always felt like the Volantis story was a coverup for her staying in Lys.”

The laughter that followed his brother’s question irked him. Daemon had spent time planning this conversation out with Visenya and the twins. It had required him to actually work, organizing documents, and timing the thing out. To be dismissed in the name of stupid jokes was unacceptable.

“Daemon is serious, father,” Visenya’s voice stops her father in his chuckles, “I was there, and I have no doubt that Corlys and Laenor would gladly confirm the truth if we were to question them.”

Viserys leans back in his chair, questioning look on his face, “So, I am to accept that my brother took you to see the woman that left this family to become a whore and that I should trust her word regarding whatever matter you sought her out for?”

Annoyance flared in his mind, Daemon could not handle the disrespect to himself, and the other parties involved. It was not like Viserys had ever spoken to Saera. He opens his mouth to speak but Rhaenyra beats him to it, “Father, I do not think Daemon and Visenya have been this serious regarding something ever, especially not as untied as they are. You should let them speak.”

Heaving a sigh, Viserys nods his head and Daemon finally continues, “I had my suspicions for years, but after the death of Aemma, I needed to seek out answers. It is awfully interesting how so few Targaryen women have birthed more than one or two children without dying or nearly dying since our grandmother is it not?”

“Additionally, our house has been cornered, politically, from all sides but the North,” Visenya interjects at the hurt expression on her father and sister’s face. The mere mention of her mother and the two would be set to distress.

“Our dragons are not growing at the rates of their predecessors, the realm is still weary of us being too powerful with them at our command,” Daemon says, eyeing Rhaenyra in particular. Syrax was young and growing, but even Caraxes had grown faster. She seemed to realize his intention and nodded, thankfully not offended on her dragon’s behalf.

“So, why Saera?” Viserys asks, disturbed look on his face.

“Because I knew she was alive, safe, and not in Westeros. The only known living child of Jaehaerys and Alysanne was in Volantis and had to have some information on my questions. Even if it came from her simply being older and wiser in the ways of our family,” he answered, honestly and clearly.

“And did she have answers for you?” Viserys asks, finally sitting forward in his chair. He’d believed them.

Daemon nodded at Visenya, and she stood to let in the twins. They’d been disguised as servants in her household, but they had to wait outside of the King’s chambers. Now that Viserys was believing them, and Rhaenyra too judging by her own intense stare, Daemon would let them in.

Tygos and Tyene trailed behind Visenya, both holding papers and staring at the two new royals. Visenya approaches her father first, glancing at Rhaenyra, and hands him a letter.

“Father, sister, meet Aunt Saera’s youngest children, Tygos and Tyene.”

Understandably, chaos erupted at his niece’s words. Daemon’s head hurt like he’d drunk too much wine by the time they had finished talking. Still, he lingered in his brother’s chambers with his nieces and cousins.

“We can’t implicate the Hightowers yet, no matter how closely linked they are to the Citadel,” Viserys protests, displeased at Daemon’s suggestion to burn the entirety of Oldtown.

“But we cannot ignore the fact that Otto Hightower has been present for much of the events that have weakened our house,” Daemon shoots back, quick to anger at his brother’s need to defend Otto of all people.

“I am still stuck on the fact Laenor knew before me,” Rhaenyra says, mostly speaking to her sister, “Seriously, him? I get it if you couldn’t leave him behind but there’s no way he was ranked higher than me in the priority list of informing people of this plot.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sister,” Visenya snarks back, “Should’ve sent a missive, something like, Aunt Saera’s alive and the maesters are killing our dragons, love you!”

Daemon laughs despite himself, “I promise you both that we simply wanted to gather more evidence before telling you of the plot.”

Tyene speaks up before either his brother or niece could protest, “Think about Prince Daemon’s offer seriously, there should be a retaliation that matches their actions. Now is not the time to jest about this matter, my mother risked much to bring this information to you.”

The room’s mood shifted suddenly, sobering up quickly. Tygos and Tyene sat on a couch pulled closer, a table moved to have the papers spread about. Viserys nodded a bit, but still wore a conflicted face.

“We cannot simply burn Oldtown,” he says, a somber pause between his words, “There is much to be done to prove this to a point that would keep the rest of the realm rebelling at our actions.”

“Let’s not delay any longer then,” Daemon urges. He felt like his brother’s answer was a nicer way of saying that he’d not burn Otto for his crimes.

“This will take more than just us and House Velaryon,” Rhaenyra interrupts. She casts a nervous glance his way, which confused Daemon. He’d never doubt her mind or opinions.

“Who do you suggest my dear?” Viserys asks, kindly smiling like Rhaenyra was behaving well in her embroidery lessons.

Rhaenyra pauses, and Daemon allows himself a moment to admire her beauty. She was a tad disheveled, and had wiped many tears away throughout the night, but she still glowed in the low light from the candles. He’d think himself a religious man if it meant he could thank the gods for creating her.

She finds her voice soon enough, “Alicent, father, we need to start with Alicent.”

Daemon immediately takes back his thought of never doubting her opinions, “No way, I know you and Visenya trust her, but her father is definitely involved.”

“Who better to know of his manipulation firsthand?” Rhaenyra challenges him, quick to anger in defense of her friend.

“Who better to lead us astray due to his manipulation? To inform her father and family of our actions?” Daemon is quick to fire back. How often must he remind his family that the Hightowers are not their friends or allies? He feels his hackles rise at the repetitive argument.

“Not the young girl that told of us of them before, who is now scorned by her family and father due to her loyalty to Rhaenyra,” Visenya says, much calmer than her sister. In fact, to Daemon’s displeasure, she just looked mildly inconvenienced at his insistence that Alicent could not be trusted.

Viserys decided to finally speak on the issue regarding his wife, “I find Alicent most kind and loyal, she has spoken on issues regarding her father fairly and without undue loyalty to him.”

So, the matter was settled, his brother’s word outweighing them all. Daemon did not want to be king, but at times he yearned for his words to be listened to like a king’s. He’d not seek out the Hightower girl on his own. He’d also be attempting not to engage with her at all.

“Then let us send a summons to her now,” Rhaenyra said, quickly standing and fetching a servant to do so, not waiting for her father’s approval.

In the time it took to have the newly dubbed Queen Alicent join them, Tyene and Tygos murmured to him Valyrian. They asked who Alicent was, and if he would believe in her loyalty to their cause. Visenya pointedly interrupted the trio at least once to mention Alicent’s undying faith in Rhaenyra, and the twins settled back in their seats.

Despite the late hour, Alicent arrived quickly. She did not look as if she’d been retiring to bed besides her attire, but she’d brough quite a stack of letters. Rhaenyra shot her a small smile as the girl went to stand near Viserys.

“Thank you for joining us, my dear,” Viserys spoke, “There is a serious matter that we must include you in as our newest family member.”

Daemon forced himself to not roll his eyes at his brother’s words. Viserys continued, “There has been evidence brought to us about a conspiracy against our family, and I fear that we have suspicions that your Hightower relations may be involved.”

To her credit, Alicent did not react poorly to the statement. She actually seemed fairly unsurprised, and she scanned the room to see their reactions. Her eyes lingered on the twins much longer than his own face. Daemon supposed his annoyance was obvious.

“I presume it has something to do with the dragonseeds that have been in the Keep for the past couple of days?” she asks, surprisingly calm. Daemon almost feels like she is taunting him with the fact she had known of the twins’ presence.

“Ah, yes, you are quite knowledgeable on the happenings of the Keep,” Viserys stutters, shocked that his young wife is aware of her surroundings.

Visenya wastes no time in inquiring how Alicent knew of the twins, choosing to reach out her hand for a letter, “Are these from your father?”

This is when Alicent’s face finally settles into a serious one, “Yes, I thought it would be important to discuss with us all present.”

She passes them around, each in the handwriting of Otto Hightower. There is a single letter remaining in Alicent’s hands as she walks to Viserys. With shaking hands, she gives him the last letter, “This is the most recent one from my brother, Gwayne, it arrived three days ago. I was waiting to discuss this matter at dinner with the family, but now seems, better.”

Daemon ignores his companions for a moment to read the letters. Otto’s sharp words on Alicent’s need to get with child, how she must raise the child to love the Hightowers and Faith, feel like a general commanding their troops. Little of the letter speaks to the love of a father to his daughter. His stomach turns at the emphasis on Alicent’s friendship to Rhaenyra, the warning that his niece is deceitful and untrustworthy. Anger bubbles up inside, Daemon was right, he knew he was right about Otto, but the evidence sits before him.

Viserys finally speaks, “Gwayne is writing his sister to warn her of a plot of their family and urges her to obey their father’s orders. It seems that he fears for her safety, and that of mine own daughters.”

“It seems that these schemes have become more pressing than we thought,” Visenya said, voice somber, “Our family is at risk, we must strike sooner than later.”

Viserys looks at his youngest daughter, and perhaps finally sees the young women she has grown into. A look into the eyes of everyone present, his brother's eyes linger on his own. Viserys has their father's eyes, those pale lilac eyes examine him as if he was checking for injury. Daemon nods, it is time to respond to these villains. 

With a great heaving sigh, his brother speaks, "Tomorrow, we will council with Rhaenys and Corlys, and we plan our attack."