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Chapter Text

page one 

An arrow tears through the soft flesh of her side, her scream is echoed by her dragon’s cry. 

Selaena can see Baela and Aegon in the distance. She must reach them. Baela will die at the hands of a false king. She urges Starfall forward through the blinding pain. The she-dragon roars, a mourning call. She knows what is to come. Selaena has never been more prepared to face the Stranger. Her hand curls around her side. Only for one more moment. She just needs one more moment. 

“Naejot, Starfall, Naejot,” she cries. Forward, forward. Another arrow pierces Starfall’s wing and she releases a scream so terrified Selaena sobs. “Naejot.” 

Neither she nor her dragon will survive this. But Baela and Rhaena will. They will be outlive her and their parents. Selaena had promised their mother she would look after them should she pass. 

Moondancer roars, teeth ripping into Sunfyre’s side. They approach Aegon’s flank. He does not notice, too distracted by Moondancer and Baela’s frontal assault. 

“Drakarys,” Selaena screeches. The word is nearly drowned out between the screaming dragons and wind, but bright flames leave Starfall, searing into Sunfyre. She hears Aegon howl.

Starfall slams straight into them and they careen to the ground. Baela screams her name from above, Moondancer diving to reach them in time. Selaena closes her eyes, gripping her saddle so tight her nails break and bleed. They hit the ground hard. She’s thrown off, the side of her head smashing against rock. Distantly she sees Aegon and Sunfyre plummet. Starfall lays on her side, struggling to breathe. She uses her elbows to drag her limp body toward her oldest friend. One leg is crushed, the other knee broken beyond repair. She’ll never walk again, but she will not survive this. Not with her head and stomach bleeding so freely. 

“Sister,” Baela yells, landing near them. She kneels in front of her, eyes wild. “Quickly, join me on Moondancer. We must get you to a maester.” 

Selaena shakes her head. “I will not leave Starfall.” 

“She is as good as dead,” she says. Her hands tremble as they grasp hers. “Please, we may yet save you.” 

“I have accepted my death Baela,” she tells her sweet, strong sister. Tears stain their dirty faces, blood and dust mixing together. Baela is not one to cry, but as she holds her dying sister she sobs. “They will arrive soon. Leave, now. Go back to Rhaena. She needs you.” 

“She needs us, Selaena,” she says, desperate. “We will return together.” 

“Watch out for her, Rhaena has always been tender-hearted. Be there for each other as Mother told us. And fucking live, Baela. Live for me. Do you understand?” 

Baela shakes, gasping out another sob. “I promise you, sister. I swear it.”

”Good, now you must leave. They cannot catch you,” she says. Baela brings their foreheads to touch for the final time. Her sisters, her baby sisters. Would Mother be proud of her sacrifice? Will she see Jacaerys in death? They had promised to meet should one of them die before the other. 

And he had. Shot down at sea. They did not even have a body to burn. Her dearest friend, her husband, dead. 

“What of you?” Baela asks in a whisper. She sounds young and she feels like a little girl again, running through the halls of their childhood home in Pentos. How she longs for those days. She had never thought they would come to an end. A little girl forever. 

“I will die like Mother,” she says. “I will have a dragonrider’s death.” 

Baela nods, pressing her closer. “Avy jorrāelan.” 

I love you. 

“And I, you,” she answers. “Go. Do not look back, Baela.” 

Her sister stands and Selaena takes one last look at her, memorizing her features. Their final goodbye marred with the blood of dragon. Baela does not turn as she walks away despite the tremble in her shoulders. She holds her head high. Their father’s daughter, always. 

Selaena looks to Starfall. Her breathing is weak, labored. Their time has come and she will greet the Stranger like an old friend. 

“Goodbye, old friend,” she whispers, bloodied hands staining her silver mouth. “I’m afraid we must part ways.” 

Starfall releases a pained keen, tail thrashing. She shushes her, stroking her snout. 

“Drakarys,” she cries with the last of her strength. She will not rot in a cell. She will not allow the Greens to have her body. “Drakarys!”

Starfall hesitates, cooing softly, but she knows they are to part. Selaena can feel it in their bond, searing inside her very soul. Her dragon, her dearest companion, opens her jaws and Selaena bows her head in farewell. 

As her dragon’s flames engulf her, Selaena’s mind strays not to her family and their safety, not who will win this damn war, but to her deepest regret. The mistake that has haunted her for the last eight years:

Rejecting the betrothal between her and Aemond Targaryen. 

She does not regret marrying Jacaerys. She does not regret loving and being loved. How could she forsake something so sweet? But she had a duty, one she pleaded to get out of. If she’d married Aemond, could they have avoided all this death? When Lucerys was killed by that monster’s hand, she wanted nothing but vengeance. She was hungry with it, that starvation driving her mad. She’d arranged for the death of Helaena’s child alongside her father. A son for a son. 

When news of Jaehaerys’ death reached them, she felt nothing. There was no satisfaction. The hunger did not but fade into a pit in her stomach. Blood spilt in Lucerys’ name and yet she mourned still. Her grandmother dies next, burnt beside her dragon. She held her younger sisters who cried for revenge and does not tell them a thirst for blood will not help. Then lovely Helaena threw herself from atop a tower. More blood, more death. All for not. Aemond was killed on the same day, a death to be celebrated had it not been at the cost of her father. Jacaerys is felled. Nothing but a broken dragon left behind. This time her sisters hold her. 

(“I will return to you, Selaena,” her father told her. “Watch over your sisters.”

He had said goodbye without the words.)

Rhaenyra, the true heir to the Iron Throne, yet lived. She was placing all her hope in her. A future for her sisters and half-brothers she will never see. She mourns and she mourns, but she mourns her decisions. She mourns the peace a betrothal between her and Aemond would’ve brought. If she could wake in her childhood chambers young again, she would change everything. 

Selaena Targaryen burns in this life, tears streaking down her face. She is remembered as another causality during the Dance of the Dragons. The peaceful future she’d prayed for comes years later, long after whatever remained of her had rotted beside her faithful she-dragon. Rhaena names one of her many daughters after her elder sister. The second, and last, of her name. 

History remembers her as Selaena the Sacrifice. A daughter, a sister, and a widow. 

May the Father watch over her forevermore. 

page two 

She wakes to dying embers and the smell of lilies.

Her mother’s favorite scent. She used to wear perfume made out of lily and rosemary. Selaena had taken up using the bottle after Laena passed. The smell had brought her comfort, as it does now. 

Death is more peaceful than she thought. It feels like waking up in your childhood bed, tucked in tightly by your parents. 

She opens her eyes. 

The chamber is eerily familiar, akin to the one in Pentos. She hears the door creak open, a maidservant stepping inside politely. 

“Good morning, my lady,” the maid says, curtsying. “Would you like help getting dressed?” 

Selaena stares, slowly sitting up and looking about. She knows this room, had grown up on it. The last time she’d been here she was a little girl, her mother still alive. 

Laena. Her mother. 

“Where is my mother?” she demands, ripping the blankets off her. Cold stone burns her bare feet but she ignores it. Surely, surely the Father will be kind enough to allow her to see her mother once more. 

“In her chambers, I believe,” the maid replies, eyes wide. Selaena wastes not a moment more before she’s rushing down the hall. 

The maid calls after her. A lady should not go running around in her nightgown, she’s aware, but it all matters little to her. She has not seen her mother since she was a girl. Laena had been ripped away from her and her sisters too soon. And when they’d mourned, Aemond chose to steal her dragon. He deserved to lose an eye for they had lost part of their heart. 

Selaena shoves the doors to her mother and father’s shared chambers open. Her mother, still in bed and swollen with child, startles. She inhales. She’d forgotten what her mother’s face looked like. The older she grew, the murkier her mother’s image became. Her grandparents and father always told her they looked so alike, but she did not look in the mirror and see Laena. 

“Mama,” she whispers and a dam breaks. She releases hiccuping sobs, throwing herself into Laena’s awaiting arms. 

“My sweet, what has happened?” she asks, rubbing Selaena’s back. She rocks them back and forth slowly. Lily and rosemary fill her nose and she is home. Had death always been so kind? An eternity spent as a child in her mother’s arms. 

“Mama,” she cries again. Laena wipes her cheeks, face pulled tight with concern. Selaena, the oldest daughter, had been forced to grow up sooner rather than later. Mature, they called her. A compliment, but all she heard was a childhood she’d given up. 

The doors swing back open, Daemon striding in, one sword on his hand. “Selaena, who has hurt you?” 

She only shakes her heard, unable to sound words over her sobs. The maid from earlier enters, hair frazzled and out of breath. 

“I believe Lady Selaena had a nightmare, she woke up distressed,” she says, looking nervously to her father. He pays her little mind. 

“Is this true?” her mother asks and Selaena can only nod. Daemon approaches them, carefully placing a hand between her shoulder blades. He used to do that to ground her. Her father was never an affectionate man, but she and her siblings had been loved by him. Aemond had claimed yet another from her life. 

She rests her cheek on her mother’s shoulder, sniffling like a little girl. She is. Her hands are smaller, legs shorter, curls free and hanging down her back. She’s returned to a body she has long forgotten. A body that does not know grief the way her heart and mind do. She had thought—after all she had done—she would burn in one of the seven hells. It is easy to call Aemond a monster when she has committed the same atrocities. His thirst for vengeance had killed him, as hers had. The all consuming hatred had served none in their family. 

They all paid a heavy price for their sins. 

Baela and Rhaena poke their heads in, small faces worried. 

“What’s wrong with Selaena?” Rhaena asks. 

“Your sister’s had a nightmare,” Laena replies so she does not need to speak. 

“Must’ve been scary,” Baela says, crawling onto the bed. Oh, her brave Baela. She hopes her sisters still live and fight. Here, in her mind, they are young again, cheeks round and eyes wide. They will lose that shine. She remembers vividly how Rhaena had fallen to the floor with a cry at the news of Lucerys’ death. Aemond the Kinslayer haunts her and she hates him. 

“It was horrible,” she manages to croak. Brothers fighting, dragons feasting upon each other, their family fracturing. 

Daemon removes his hand from her. “It was but a dream. No harm has come to you.” 

That is because she’s dead. A death akin to the woman who holds her now. She wonders if Laena would’ve been proud of her. Asking this Laena, the one she’s created in her mind, will break the illusion. 

“She is spooked, Daemon,” her mother chastises. Rhaena sits beside her, holding her hand. 

“She is not a horse,” he says. “She is a dragon, we do not spook.” 

“She is a child.” 

“She is sitting right here,” Baela says, interrupting their argument. Selaena gives her a watery smile. Her father is obviously not convinced but he goes quiet. She knows he is only worried. 

Eventually her crying subsides but she does not pull away from Laena. If her time here is limited, let her be taken in her mother’s arms. She wants the innocence of girlhood in death. 

“Rhaenyra will soon give birth,” Laena says, more to Daemon than her daughters. 

“Hopefully this one will share their parents’ features,” he responds gruffly. Selaena stares. This conversation is unnervingly familiar. She’s heard them speak of Joffrey’s birth before. 

“Daemon, truly?” 

“I speak the truth.” 

“Not in front of the children.”

Her stomach is twisted in on itself, heart trapped in her throat. She has been here. She has heard this exact conversation before. Her memories are murky, but they’d broken their fast when Laena mentioned Rhaenyra’s pregnancy. Selaena shivers and Laena shifts her closer. 

This is not right. 

Something is wrong. 

“Will we visit them?” Rhaena asks curiously. 

Her mind swims. Perhaps her mind craves the normalcy of her childhood. They chatter around her but she can no longer hear them. She knows Daemon will say no, that Laena will argue that they may be able to, and both her sisters will express disappointment. This is all wrong. Selaena pinches the back of her hand and it stings. Pain should leave in death. None of this is real, a figment of her imagination before her soul is whisked away. But her hand is throbbing with life. 

She turns her head and meets her own eyes reflected in the vanity near her. Silvery-blonde curls stretching down her spine, dark violet eyes, brown skin no longer ridden with lines of stress. The face of her youth; the face of a stranger. She stares and stares and stares. 

Nothing changes. 

Rhaena is giving her an odd look. Baela is trying to understand whatever their mother and father are discussing (it’s about Rhaenyra but when is it not). She pinches herself again only to have Rhaena grab her hand. 

“Are you alright, sister?” she asks. 

Laena stops talking, looking down at her. “What is the matter?” 

“I fear I am ill,” Selaena whispers. 

Very, very ill. 

page three 

Her mother forces her to remain in bed for the next week. 

Every night Selaena squeezes her eyes shut and expects to wake up to flames. She never does. 

She slips into restless slumber, wakes in her Chambers. Is this a trick? The Father’s punishment for her sins: to live everyday knowing this will be ripped from her? 

She is sick with worry, too nauseous to eat, too guilty to sleep. Her mother checks on her frequently despite the complications this pregnancy has brought her. 

“Darling,” she says softly, rubbing Selaena’s back, “what ails you?” 

Selaena curls deeper into her blankets, unwilling to look at her mother. What if the Stranger decides to wake her at this moment? She has not the stomach to face her current reality. 

“I don’t—I am unsure what is real anymore,” she tells her mother so quietly she can scarcely hear it. Laena pauses, gently tugging the blankets away from her face. Their violet eyes meet, nearly the exact same shade. She sees her mother in her as she must see herself in her daughter. 

“What do you mean?” Laena asks. There is nothing Selaena can utter that won’t make her seem mad. 

If she is to believe this offering, that meant the Father has given her another chance at life. 

How was she to explain the war between the Blacks and Greens? That Aegon was a usurper bastard with no honor? That Laena would die in two moons attempting to give birth to the babe inside her? That Aemond would take Vhagar and lose an eye? How could she look her mother in the eye and tell her she’d planned the death of a child? 

“I feel stuck,” she says, a partial truth. A mere fraction of it. 

Laena cups her cheek and Selaena commits her smile to memory. She won’t forget the way it curves in this life. 

“Come,” she says, standing. Selaena’s brows furrow. “We will ride Vhagar together to clear your mind.” 

“Are—Are you sure?” she asks. “The babe—“

”I know my limits,” Laena says patiently, offering her hand. “Let us go before your sisters see.” 

page four 

Vhagar is exactly as she remembers. 

She makes a noise as Laena approaches and Selaena’s steps falter. Soon she will choose Aemond as a rider. Soon he will lose an eye in retribution. Her mother strokes Vhagar’s snout affectionately. She does not even know the babe inside her will kill her. 

If she has truly been sent back, is she to make changes? She is only one person burdened with memories from a future not yet passed. What can she—

Aemond. 

His hunger to vengeance began when Lucerys cut out his eye. That moment, a childhood fight gone wrong, resulted in Lucerys’ death and the beginning of the end. If she stops it, will their futures change? Marrying Aemond will help bring peace. If she marries him, births babes, surely that will force Aemond to their side. He may be able to convince the Greens to step down, see reason. Otto Hightower would not kill his own grandchild and great-grandchildren. 

Rhaenyra and Daemon will have no reason to kill Aegon and Helaena’s son if Lucerys does not die. Aemond will have no reason to kill Lucerys if he does not lose an eye. She can save them from grief only she will remember. 

Doubt lingers in every crevice of her heart. 

They’ll still want Aegon on the Throne. A worthless, whoring drunk of a cunt, and they thought him king. No. They refused Rhaenyra her birthright because she was not born with a cock. Loathsome men. She should tell her father and have them killed—

No. Revenge had done nothing for her, for any of them. It had brought ruin to their house. The loss of her sons had driven Rhaenyra half-mad. Maegor with teats they called her. She had faced so much loss it would’ve driven anyone to ruthless measures. They had no right to judge her. None. 

But it had destroyed who she was. Selaena cannot allow this. 

“A short flight,” Laena says, holding out her hand. “Starfall is not large enough to ride yet.” 

She has not visited her she-dragon since returning to her childhood body. Too nervous, perhaps. Selaena can feel the heat of her flames searing into her. A dragonrider’s death. The very one her mother will soon face. 

Selaena takes Laena’s hand. 

It is the first and last time they will fly together. 

page five 

The wind in her face is a familiar feeling. Selaena has missed it. 

“Being up here has always calmed my thoughts,” Laena tells her. She clutches her mother’s waist, careful of her stomach. 

“This is freedom,” she says. She had always imagined flying away on Starfall. Leaving the war, the Game, the Throne, everything, behind. She’d tried to convince Jacaerys once, begging him to go with her. 

(“We will be free,” she said, nails digging into his arms. He smiled at her so, so sadly. She knew, then, he never would. Too good, too loyal. 

Strong, her traitorous mind whispered. 

“I cannot leave my family, neither can you,” he said. “The guilt will kill us both.” 

But guilt had not killed him. War did, men did. He had not even said goodbye before he left.) 

“Women will never truly be free,” she says. Selaena wonders what kind of face her mother is making. She stares forward, Vhagar’s wings snapping around them. Laena has always pushed for Selaena to marry a boy of her choosing. Daemon had used this reasoning to get her out of being betrothed to Aemond. 

It had not saved them. 

“We can find peace in our prisons,” she replies. Marriage, the birthing bed. They are expectations. Mere wombs for men to put a babe in. 

Selaena had loved Jacaerys, loves him, but she did not wish to have his children. Her mother had died—will die—of childbirth. But Jacaerys was heir, he was to be king after Rhaenyra. So she did not tell her husband her fears. A queen, a dragon, should never fear what was expected of her. 

(She cried in Baela’s arms when she learned she was with child.)

”Still, you are too young to worry about marriage. What has truly troubled you?” 

“I am uncertain. Perhaps—Perhaps I worry for you and the babe.” Another sliver of truth. 

Laena touches the hand at her waist. “We will both be fine. Your eleventh nameday approaches, darling, I would not miss it.” 

Selaena does not tell her she will. 

“I love you, Mama,” she says instead, pressing her face into her mother’s back. Her scent is home, her touch hope. This burden of knowledge pains her. She wishes for the bliss of ignorance. 

“I love you, too, Selaena. More than you will ever know.” 

page six 

Rhaenyra births her third son. 

Laena goes into a labor she will not survive. 

Daemon holds his oldest daughter as his wife and mother of his children burns before them. 

It is the will of the Father. Blessed be he.

page seven 

Selaena, foolishly, assumes knowing her mother is destined to die will ease the pain. 

She cannot save her from the fate of womanhood. As she holds Baela and Rhaena in her arms, whispering words she does not believe to comfort them, she swears she will save them. For her mother, who had died a dragonrider’s death. For the future she will never allow to pass. 

The scent of burnt flesh lingers long after Laena’s body is gone. Haunting and haunting. A ghost in her mind. 

Selaena Targaryen vows to protect the lives of her family even if it means giving up her own. 

page eight 

The funeral is held at High Tide. 

Their grandparents greet them warmly. Selaena hugs Rhaenys tighter, her death—that will not pass—fresh on her mind. Killed by Aemond and Aegon. Those fucking Hightower bastard—

Rhaenys cups her cheek. “You resemble your mother so much when she was your age. Oh, my girls.” 

And then she is pulled into another hug. Selaena stares over her grandmother’s shoulder, gaze burning into the sea. 

The beginning of the end will happen tonight. The tear that will separate this family for good. She has to stop it. 

page nine 

Jacaerys is just as she remembers him to be in their childhood. 

His face is still chubby with the unshed fat of youth, but he lives. She throws her arms around him, tugging him close. In this life they will not be husband and wife, but she has the memories of the last one. Ones where they had shared stolen kisses in the shadows of night, where they wed, where they shared a bed, where she grew heavy with a babe that would never breathe. She had made the mistake of choosing to marry for love and he had paid the ultimate price. 

Beneath the yearning of revenge lays guilt so heavy it threatens to drown her. 

Jacaerys and her may never love each other as husband and wife, but he will live. He will be free to marry Baela, who will be queen beside him. They will love and care for one another and they will fucking live. 

“I’ve missed you,” Jace says, face pressed to her hair. It is not only Laena they mourn today. They’ve never truly acknowledged it, but she knows Ser Harwin Strong is his true father, not her uncle, Laenor. He mourns a father he cannot have and she holds him tighter. 

“I’m sorry,” she tells him, “for your loss, as well. I know Ser Harwin was kind to you all.” 

He stiffens before drawing away from her. “Thank you.” 

It is but empty words. Selaena knows no amount of apologizes, no amount of comfort will ever fill the hole of losing a parent. She will miss her mother forever. But empty words are all she has to give. He cannot know what she truly plans on giving up.  

The funeral proceeds but she is barely there. Physically, she stands between her sisters, clutching their hands tightly. Mentally, though, she is far, far away. Above the clouds on Starfall’s back, Jacaerys and Baela flying beside her. In her mind they are laughing. They are free to fly wherever they choose. Anywhere and nowhere. She will marry Jace, a Valyrian wedding, with Baela as their witness. 

In her mind, and only there, she is happy without consequence. 

The sight of Aemond rips those images away from her. He and Aegon—obviously drunk, the disgusting wretch—stand near their mother. Aemond, at least, looks solemn. Aegon appears bored, as though her mother dying inconveniences him. 

He deserved to see his son dead, he deserved—

She sucks in a steady breath. To fall back on the hatred Daemon taught her is a simple task. Anger that boils and bubbles and burns is familiar, safe. She knows what to do with rage. This sadness, this emptiness, this guilt, it threatens to kill her. At least with fury in her veins she felt ready to die. 

Now she stares at Aemond blankly seeing all he could be. He notices, violet eyes meeting hers. His brow furrows. He does not know the destruction he will bring. A child of only nine namedays, a year younger than she. 

Heat flickers in her mind. Was his face the last Lucerys saw? How scared he must’ve been. Her face has to have darkened, for Aemond startles. 

Selaena looks away, back to her uncle, Laenor. She mourns her mother, she mourns her love with Jacaerys, and she mourns marrying the vile, wretched man standing before her. 

page ten 

The night chokes her. 

Selaena waits for a commotion, anything. She had not been there when Aemond’s eye was cut out in her last life. She’d tucked herself in the library to cry in private, only emerging when she heard shouting. 

Viserys, her own uncle, tried to bring peace. 

(“Daemon,” he said, looking older than he was. “Your oldest, she should marry Aemond. It would—It would bring this family together.” 

She knew her father was against the idea, but she’d still panicked. The boy who’d stolen her mother’s dragon, who’d hit her sisters? She would not marry him. She’d rather die. 

“I will not marry that—that monster,” she cried, clinging to Daemon. Alicent made a horrified noise, still reeling from her son’s lost eye. 

Aemond had finally noticed her presence then. They’d never interacted before. There wasn’t a need. But he’d glared, blood leaking down his little face, remaining violet eye fierce. 

In her previous life they’d never utter a word, but they both knew they hated one another.) 

She paces the halls, pushing into the chambers her sisters should’ve been sleeping in. The beds are empty. Selaena mutters a curse and darts down another hall. She isn’t sure where she is when she hears yelling. With a shove to the doors, she finds them bleeding and bruised. 

There is a dagger in Lucerys’ hand. 

She screams as he moves, throwing herself at him. 

You fool, she wants to cry, this will bring about your death. 

She has no time for that, though. Her body slams into Luke’s smaller one and they tumble to the floor. Someone gasps behind her. Baela shouts. Below her, dirty, bloody Lucerys looks ready to vomit. 

Her palm is warm. 

She looks to the side. Her hand has clutched the blade, steel digging into the soft skin on her palm. Red leaks down her wrist, past her elbow, and drops to the ground. 

None of them move. She thinks they scarcely breathe. 

“Why would—“ Aemond is cut off by Baela racing toward her. 

“Selaena, your—your hand,” she says, panicked. She drops the dagger. It clinks against the ground uselessly. 

Selaena stands, leaving Luke on his back. She faces Aemond, breath in her chest. 

He stares at her with two perfectly horrified eyes. 

She nearly cries. As though in a trance, she cups his cheek with her bloody palm. He is not even aware he would’ve lost it tonight. He would’ve paid the price of thievery with the loss of his vision on one side. 

And they would all suffer for it years later. 

Not now, though. She’s fixed it, hasn’t she? She has won. Selaena’s hand drops back to her side. Aemond does not wipe the blood smeared on his cheek. 

She turns back to the other children who are watching her. 

“What caused this?” she asks despite knowing the answer. Her palm is beginning to sting. 

“Aemond stole Mother’s dragon,” Baela immediately answers. Rhaena joins her twin. They’ve always been ready to defend the other. 

“Vhagar was supposed to go to me,” their youngest sister says vehemently, throwing Aemond a dirty look. “He is—he is a thief!”

”I am Vhagar’s rider now. If you wanted her you should’ve claimed her sooner,” he snaps, bristling behind Selaena. He does not move away from her, though. Perhaps he realizes she’s the only barrier between them. 

“It is the day of our mother’s funeral,” Selaena tells him, forcing her voice to remain calm. He winces. “You lack tact and respect to our mother and us by doing this tonight.” 

Aemond frowns sharply, glancing away from her. He holds his head high still, but he doesn’t argue her point. She knows he isn’t sorry, not truly. 

Baela sneers. “He’s a—“

”But he is correct,” Selaena continues, cutting off whatever insult Baela was about to hurl at him. “If Vhagar thought him unworthy she would’ve killed him. She has claimed him, there is nothing we can do.” 

“But…” Rhaena‘s lip trembles. Her sweet sister, Selaena’s heart aches. She will get her dragon, though. It will take time but it will happen. Vhagar more than likely wouldn’t have accepted her if she wanted Aemond. 

“I know, darling,” she says, using the pet name their mother always did. She misses her now more than ever. Laena would’ve settled this dispute diplomatically. Always good with her words, always kind and fierce and confident. 

Jacaerys assists Lucerys up, holding his brother’s shoulder firmly. 

“He called us bastards, Selaena,” Jace says. His voice is stiff, but strong, and he looks at her like he’s challenging her. She must’ve upset him by defending Aemond. 

He does not understand there is a worse outcome. Her sisters, Jacaerys, Lucerys, all of them will forgive her for this night. Aemond would’ve allowed these events to fester and poison his mind. He would’ve been a kinslayer, but she’s stopped that, right? Aemond stands silent behind her. 

“Is this true?” she asks him, twisting to face him. Aemond does not seem as though he regrets saying it. Perhaps he regrets speaking the thought aloud. 

“Yes,” he says, lips pursed. 

All three of Rhaenyra’s sons are bastards. Anyone with eyes would’ve been able to tell, but nobody is foolish enough to say it. Aemond is a fool. 

“That is treason. Your tongue could be cut out for uttering those words,” she spits at him and his glare shifts to her. She returns it. 

Thief. Kinslayer. Murderer. Monster. 

“Your hand,” Baela says, drawing her attention away from him and to her palm. The cut is deeper than she thought, aching when she flexes her fingers. 

“We will not speak of tonight to anyone. It was all an accident. Aemond claimed Vhagar and you all fought. I came rushing in, worried Lucerys would draw the dagger and grabbed it.” Selaena looks at them. 

“The dagger is mine,” Jace says. 

“Then I was worried you would attempt to stab Aemond,” she amends with a terse shrug. “Everything else will be forgotten.” 

“He called us bastards,” Luke argues. His nose is bloody and more than likely broken. Selaena frowns at the sight. 

“And he should not have,” she agrees, “but neither of you should’ve brought out a weapon. Jacaerys you are the Princess’ firstborn. You should know better.” 

She feels guilty for admonishing them, but she needs their silence. The acknowledgement that they were bastards drove the family further apart. She wants to scream this is the only way to save them from their fates, but she cannot. The weight of her past is suffocating. There are worst dates than one cursed with knowledge, though. 

“But—“

”Enough!” she cries, loud enough to finally bring the attention of the Kingsguards. Useless oafs. They should’ve been watching them. 

“What’s happened?” Criston Cole asks, one hand on his sword. Her lip curls at the sight of him. He had been the one to trick Rhaenyra, resulting in her grandmother’s death and her grandfather betraying them. 

“There was an argument, it has been settled,” she replies tensely, bloodied hand curled into a fist. 

(Aemond sees the way she glares at Ser Criston and wonders.) 

She feels someone grab her wrist and she whips her gaze down. Aemond pushes her hand open, presenting her cut to the Kingsguards. 

“Selaena needs a maester,” he says seriously. Her blood has dried on his cheek, flaky and red. Good, she thinks. Better hers than his. 

They rush her into the Hall of Nine, Maester Kelvyn is brought to her immediately. He guides her to a chair and she holds out her hand for him. The pain is worth it. Every time the needle enters her skin she feels more alive. Each prick brings new air into her lungs. Hope warms her soul. 

This is her second chance. 

This is their second chance. 

Daemon and Rhaenyra rush in. She immediately inspects her sons, cupping Luke’s face when she sees his broken nose. Daemon tends to her younger sisters first before he turns to her. His jaw is tight. 

“Who did this?” he asks, but he’s not speaking to her. It’s only then she realizes Aemond has been standing at her side the entire time. He looks at her father unflinchingly. An impressive feat. 

She wants to keep these two as separate as she physically can. The last time they fought—the only time they did—resulted in their deaths. Both their bodies and dragons lost to sea. 

“It was—“

”My fault,” Selaena supplies, ignoring Aemond’s glance. “They were fighting and I grabbed Jacaerys’ dagger by the blade. It was a mistake, I wasn’t thinking.” 

But she had been. She’d known exactly what she was doing by throwing herself at Lucerys while he raised a knife to his uncle. The scar on her palm would be evidence this her was different. 

Selaena Targaryen had died from the fire of her dragon, this Selaena was reborn from those ashes with only one goal: 

Prevent the Dance of the Dragons. 

The other children reluctantly lie, claiming what she said as the truth. Rhaena tells their father Aemond stole Vhagar from her, a very tears spilling down her round cheeks. A new rush of hate fills her at the sight. She does not look at the boy standing valiantly beside her. 

Daemon gives him a look she cannot decipher, but shushes Rhaena, thumb on her neck. He knows there is nothing they can do. Vhagar has accepted Aemond, and unless he dies, no amount of crying will change her mind. Aemond is her dragonrider now. 

The very same dragon he used to fight Daemon. She supposes there’s some irony in it. 

Alicent and Viserys enter next. The Queen is frantic, searching for her son. When she spots him, she rushes toward him, pressing her fingers against the dried blood on his cheek. 

“Are you hurt?” she asks. Aemond shakes his head but does not pull away from his mother’s hold. He also does not stray from Selaena’s side. 

“It is not my blood,” he says, purposely looking at Selaena’s palm. Maester Kelvyn has finished his stitches, wrapping the cut carefully. It aches in a way someone wholly living will feel. 

Daemon reaches down, as though to touch her hand, but stops. “How is it?” 

“It will scar,” the Maester replies. “We’ll have to watch to ensure it does not become infected.” 

“I see,” he says, tone clipped. “You will be alright, Selaena.” 

He’s trying in his own odd way. Daemon is not an affectionate parent in the traditional sense, so she learns to look for his love in other ways. He means to reassure her. A scar on a woman, even one on her palm, will undoubtedly decrease the amount of proposals she may receive. 

Had she been the Selaena of her previous life, she may have weeped. She is not her, though. 

Viserys is speaking to one of the Kingsguard, eyebrows furrowed. No doubt trying to piece the story together. They’ve all lied about the truth, and they repeat it to the King and his queen. None suspect their own children. 

The best lies are ones of partial truth. Rhaenys, who stands with her sisters, had taught her that. Corlys holds a tearful Rhaena, no doubt upset about the loss of her dragon and their mother. 

Viserys pinches between his brows. Already he looks more tired than she’s ever seen him. Soon he will be but a rotting corpse on the cusps of death and life. Selaena has never been close with her uncle, but she knows Daemon loves him. Their relationship is strained. She wonders the betrothal between Daemon’s oldest daughter and his second son was to mend what was broken. 

“When will this infighting cease?” the King asks, looking about the room with steel in his eyes. Aemond flinches. By the fireplace, tucked to the side, Helaena and Aegon stand. He looks nervous, but Helaena is gazing at the ceiling. 

She feels the urge to apologize to her cousin. Selaena had been behind the death of her and Aegon’s son. Helaena, Daemon, and Aemond all died on the same day. She remembers the grief, she remembers her swollen stomach paining her. 

(She remembers pushing and screaming and pleading for relief. 

It does not come. Their son is dead and his father is drowning. 

She remembers and remembers and—) 

“Selaena.” Her father squeezes her shoulder. None of that has happened, she reminds herself. Already she has made a change. She can make more. The desperate need to hope keeps her afloat. 

“Well?” Viserys asks when none reply. “We are a family but you all act as though we are at war.” 

What little he knows. 

Helaena and Aegon are recently betrothed. It was the only reason Viserys had mentioned Aemond. Though he might have been attempting to soothe Alicent’s rage. He did not know his wife well, though, for her son to be wed to Daemon’s daughter was an insult. Especially after Selaena had called him a monster. 

She still believes it to be true. She’s just wise enough to keep the thought to herself. 

“You exile your family, brother,” Daemon says with a mock smile. His hand is still on Selaena’s shoulder, as though it is keeping her stable. 

“Do not act innocent in my decisions, Daemon,” he responds, winded. Selaena does not need their petty argument over the past to ruin her plan. 

“You’re right, uncle,” she says loudly, flexing her fingers to feel the pain of her stitches. It burns and aches but it feels good. “This family does need to stand united.” 

Viserys looks at her for the first time. They’ve had a handful of conversations, none she can recall. 

“I’m glad you agree,” he says and she takes it as him urging her to continue. She fixes a smile so wide it hurts her cheeks. 

Jacaerys stands by his mother, looking at her curiously. She wishes she could say goodbye. He will never grow to love her but she fears she’ll never stop loving him. She has never known how to love anyone else. 

“A betrothal between Prince Aemond and I,” she says with as much confidence as she can. “It will bring both sides together, don’t you think?” 

Viserys is the only one who appears happy for the suggestion. Alicent frowns so sharply she’s surprised it doesn’t stay fixed that way. Daemon and Rhaenyra share a look, before Daemon speaks. 

“I had hoped for you and Jacaerys to wed, daughter,” he says but there’s an underlying question. What are you planning? She touches his hand on her shoulder gently. I’m saving you, she thinks. 

“Yes,” Jace immediately cuts in, “we should marry instead, Selaena.” 

Her heart squeezes at the excitement and hope in his voice. They’d celebrated their betrothal once upon a time. They are not but memories now. Only she will ever know the love they shared. 

She must leave it in her past, with the Selaena who bore no scar on her palm. 

“I agree,” Aemond speaks from beside her. They hold each other’s gaze, both asking the same question. “To the betrothal.” 

Why? 

They have no time to talk, though. 

“A brilliant idea,” Viserys says with a nod, gazing at his son with pride. Aemond flushes at the attention. She—and every other person here—is acutely aware of the fact Viserys’ ignores his other children. Alicent looks close to tears. 

(“She is a manipulative, self-serving bitch, the daughter of the greatest cunt to ever live,” Daemon had told her once.) 

“But they are so young—“ Her words are quickly dismissed by the King. 

“They will not wed now, my love,” he says and she pretend not to see the Queen twitch at the pet name. “Selaena will be seven-and-ten in six years, the wedding would proceed then.” 

Aemond will only be sixteen namedays, but her and Jace had married at that age. 

“If… If you are sure, my king,” Alicent says, admitting to defeat. Helaena and Jacaerys were to be wed once, but she’d gotten her way then. Viserys leaves no room for argument from her now.  

“Father, are you certain?” Rhaenyra asks. 

“Yes,” Corlys is quick to agree. “I believe Jacaerys would be a better suiting match.” 

He only wants his blood closer to the Throne. An ambitious man, her grandfather. She loves him as all granddaughters do, but she remembers his betrayal. 

“Thank you, cousin, Grandfather, but Aemond will make a good husband,” she says as sincerely as she can. “He and I are of Targaryen blood, our children will be as well. I believe this marriage will bring us closer. Unless, Aemond minds—“

”I do not,” he says determinedly. “I wish to keep our blood pure. Selaena is of both Velaryon and Targaryen.” 

And so it is decided. In six winters Lady Selaena Targaryen, eldest daughter of Daemon Targaryen, will marry Prince Aemond Targaryen, second son of King Viserys. 

Nobody celebrates this but the King. 

page eleven 

Daemon does not approve of her actions, she can tell. 

“I trust you have your reasons,” he says and she nods. 

“Of course, Father. How else would we keep Vhagar on our side if not by claiming her rider?” 

That makes his face relax and he smiles at her. 

“A clever mind like your mother.” 

It is easy to lie to her father as long as it benefits him. 

Her sisters, Jacaerys, and Lucerys at the next ones to question her. They surround her the following morning, bursting into the chambers she resides in. Selaena had not slept well, tossing and turning while suffocating on her thoughts. 

What if this was worse? What if she could not change anything? What if the war still occurred? 

Baela leans over her, eyes narrowed. “Do you like Aemond?” 

Selaena rubs sleep from her eyes, sitting up. “What?” 

“Why else would you want to marry him?” Rhaena asks, pouting. “You acted like you were in love with him.” 

She most certainly had not, but they are children. (So is she.) They do not understand politicking yet. 

“I’m sorry,” Luke bursts, tears in his dark eyes. “I did not mean to cut you.” 

She pets head mop of curls in an attempt to soothe him. While her sisters are mad and Luke continued to tearfully apologize, Jacaerys stands behind them, silent. 

“Will you be okay?” he asks. “Marrying that… Marrying him, I mean.” 

Selaena smiles. “I will be alright. All of us will be, I swear it.” 

“Well,” Rhaena says, “if you’re happy.” 

She is not, might never be, but she has accepted being content. 

“I am.” 

“If he hurts you, I’ll have Moondancer eat him,” Baela offers, lips pressed together. Her dragon is not yet large enough to seat her, much less beat Vhagar in a fight. Selaena accepts her offer anyway. 

“And if the betrothal were to end, I would still marry you,” Jace adds. Her chest tries to not concave. 

“Thank you,” she says. “All of you.” 

page twelve 

For the rest of the day, Selaena avoids her family. 

She is too exhausted for their questions, their shows of concern. While it is appreciated, she wishes for a moment by herself. So she hides away in the library. Rhaenys had told her Laena would sit for hours reading. 

Selaena misses her mother. She will never stop missing her, she thinks. 

Aemond is the one to find her. He does not immediately approach her, though he clearly sees her. She can tell he’s only pretending to look at the books. 

“You are to be my husband, Aemond,” she says, studying the book on the desk in front of her. “You need not loiter.” 

It takes a moment, but he walks up to her. He doesn’t sit, remains standing beside her like he did last night. “Why?” 

That seems to be the question everyone is asking. 

“Why do you think?” she replied, flipping a page. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, frustration palpable. “We have never spoken before.” 

“Must we?” she asks, lifting her gaze toward him. Two eyes. It’s odd to see him without the scar. 

“I want to understand,” he says. Selaena stands quickly, surprising him. 

“A marriage to Jacaerys would’ve been beneficial,” she says. It would’ve made her queen consort. Marrying a second son does not even make her a princess. 

“But you chose me?” he asks with a frown. 

She steps forward but Aemond remains rooted in place, jaw clenched. Selaena is a few breaths taller than him, enough to force him to look up and her down. 

“I did not save you out of the kindness of my heart,” she hisses. “I did not lie for you or become betrothed to you because I thought it fun. This is my duty.” 

“You did not have to agree to marry me,” he says, scowling. Her lips lift into a humorless smile. 

“No, I did not, but I have and it will not be changed,” she says. “I will marry you, give you babes, and stand by your side until I die.” 

His face flushes at the mention of children. 

She continues, unperturbed, “I want your loyalty in return. Not to our loveless marriage, but to my word. If I tell you to wield a sword for me, you will. If I command you to fly on Vhagar and burn down King’s Landing, you will.” 

“I would not—“

Selaena raises a hand to cut him off. “I will not ask it of you. If I married Jacaerys, it would drive our family further apart. Our marriage will bind them. The Queen and my father will share grandchildren. Do you understand what I mean?” 

He can’t, not truly. They are but nine and ten namedays old. Far too young for this. But, she thinks, he’d been too young to lose an eye and Lucerys had been too young to lose his life. This world does not care. The Father does not save every babe born without breath. 

(He had not saved hers. Selaena had cursed him for it, holding a tiny, limp corpse in her blood arms.) 

“Yes,” he says, staring at her with two gut wrenchingly violet eyes. “I understand.” 

And she, despite her better judgement, believes him.

Chapter Text

page thirteen 

Some things are written in stone. 

Laenor cannot live the life he wants. So he dies and becomes someone else. Selaena wipes Lucerys’ tears and allows Jacaerys to rest his head against her shoulder. 

Daemon and Rhaenyra will always come together. They must, it is the will of this world. Selaena holds Rhaena and Baela’s hands as they watch their father wed another woman. Their mother has not been dead for a moon. 

Some part of her will always begrudge her father for moving on. She loves Rhaenyra, but she knows Laena was always a stand in for her. Their father and mother shared a love different than the way Daemon gazes at the Princess. She is happy for them and she hates them for it. 

Daemon seals his lips over Rhaenyra’s. Selaena prays her mother does not see. 

page fourteen 

Dragonstone is as she remembers. War has made her memories bitter, but Rhaena and Lucerys race down a hall in wonder. She smiles, the cut on her hand stinging. Baela stands next to her, surveying the castle. 

“It is a bit dark,” she says. 

“But our dragons may roam freely,” Selaena points out. Through the window she sees Caraxes and Syrax go flying through the sky. Rhaenyra and Daemon are not on them, they’ve retired to their chambers. Joffrey was handed to one of the nursemaids, to the relief of all the children. He had not stopped crying. 

“I prefer the Keep,” Jace says, frowning. He has been silent since the wedding. 

“Is something the matter?” Selaena asks.

Baela glances between them, before taking a step forward. “Someone should keep an eye on Luke and Rhaena.” 

She heads down the hall after their younger siblings. Jace watches her go, an unreadable expression on his face. Much too heavy for a child his age. Though, she supposes, she is hardly older than him. She feels old, much older than she truly is. She’d only been eight-and-ten when she died. The war, the guilt, the anger, it has all aged her rapidly. 

“Do you think—I mean, I would not question my mother’s judgement but—“ he stumbles over his words awkwardly. He’ll grow out of that nervousness. After Rhaenyra becomes queen, Jacaerys is to be the heir. Selaena recalls his constant need to be useful to his mother, to be a good heir. 

He would’ve made a wise king. She will gift him that chance. 

“You believe our parents union to have happened too quickly?” she guesses easily. He nods looking as though she’s punched him. She smiles, ruffling his hair. 

“Worry not, I would not tell your mother of any talk we may have,” she says. Jace returns her smile, round face aglow. Soon he’ll lose that baby fat and morph into the young man in her memories. 

“My father has just passed,” he says quietly. “I know my mother loved him, but…” 

“I understand,” she says.

(Laenor lives. Rhaenyra confessed it to her one night, drunk and mumbling to herself. It was after Lucerys’ death. She’d come seeking her and her grandchild out. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered to her. “It is not safe for you nor the babe.” 

Selaena pressed a hand to her round stomach. “I will not leave you all here.” 

Rhaenyra looked at her, tears brimming in her violet eyes. “You should, sweet girl. You should fly far, far away from here.”) 

Jacaerys reaches for her hand. Their fingers are small and pudgy, palms soft. She looks at his dark eyes and wonders if their child would’ve had his. 

She will never know and, she thinks, she is not supposed to. 

page fifteen 

They’ve barely settled in on Dragonstone when Rhaenyra announces the King has invited them for a feast at supper. 

“To celebrate Selaena’s nameday,” she says, though her expression falters when she adds, “and her betrothal to Aemond.” 

Daemon—to everyone’s surprise—is calm at the mention of it. He’s irritated, Selaena can tell by the way his cheek twitches twice, but he trusts her. He also trusts his ability to scare Aemond into submission, she thinks. It may work now, while he’s young, but he’ll grow out of any fear soon enough. 

None of the children are excited to be headed to King’s Landing so soon. Rhaena is still upset at the loss of Vhagar, which means Lucerys is also upset. It’s sweet; they’re sweet. Selaena will watch them marry in this life. All she has ever hoped was for her younger sister’s happiness. Lucerys will be good to Rhaena. 

Her eyes trail to Baela and Jacaerys, both frowning an equal amount. Perhaps they’ll come to love each other. Jealousy sears through her gut; she ignores it. Jace is kind and handsome and wholeheartedly good, Baela will surely be happy with him. 

She has lived her life with him, it’s time for her to move on. 

And yet she lingers near him. Allows him to weave their fingers together at the mention of her intended. 

“I won’t let him hurt you,” he says with a certainty that only he has. Aemond won’t hurt her. Not now, anyway. They are still a few years off from him becoming a kinslayer. She’s already doing whatever she can to stop it. 

“Neither would Father,” she jokes in response. His serious expression lifts. 

“I will flay his spleen,” Baela says darkly. Daemon looks all too proud of his daughter’s threat. 

Rhaenyra heaves a deep breath. “There will be no flaying of spleens. We will get along. I want no repeat of what occurred previously.” 

“But he—“ Lucerys bites back the rest of his sentence. The adults did not know Aemond called them bastards. It’s Jacaerys that has silenced him with a look. 

“We will, Mother,” he agrees quickly. Rhaena and Baela, always willing to listen to their older sister, nod furiously. 

Rhaenyra and Daemon aren’t the only ones to doubt them. 

page sixteen 

Starfall is finally large enough to make the journey to King’s Landing. 

Selaena presses her forehead against the side of her dragon’s head, eyes shut. She does not remember burning her rider. The memory is hot, melting her flesh against her bone, scorching her from the inside out. She had not screamed, though. Selaena made many mistakes in her last life, going out her own way was not one. She would sooner slit her own throat than allow Otto fucking Hightower to capture her. Aegon would’ve called for her head after she’d sent him spiraling to the ground. Her life—that life—was over. 

Move on, she urges. 

What if, her foolish mind whispers back. 

“Hello, pretty girl,” she greets in Valyrian. Starfall trills in response, flapping her silver wings, the pale blue membrane glinting beneath the sun. 

Jacaerys and Baela are to fly on their own dragons. There’d been some resistance on Rhaenyra’s part (because, surely, their dragons were not yet capable of flight for that long), but she’d given in after they’d begged. Lucerys is settled in front of Rhaenyra on Syrax; Rhaena, pouting, in front of their father on Caraxes. She is well aware of how badly her youngest sister craves her own dragon. Soon, she wishes to tell her. 

Joffrey is to be left with the nursemaids and guards, too young to brave such a trip again on short notice. Rhaenyra had not wanted to part from him, but Daemon had managed to convince her. Still, she looks worried, absentmindedly stroking Luke’s hair. 

“Lykirī, Starfall,” she whispers, pulling herself onto the saddle. Her body—this body—is smaller, the saddle larger than she remembers. She places a hand on her dragon’s neck, hard scales brushing her hand. What a gift to fly again. One she thought she’d never be given again. 

“Let us depart,” Daemon calls, and then with a sharp command in Valyrian, Caraxes takes off. 

Rhaenyra waits for Jacaerys and Baela to head into the sky before she turns to Selaena. 

“Alright?” she asks, gripping Lucerys firmly. 

“Yes,” she replies. 

Her step-mother smiles gently. Selaena remembers how that warmth was ripped away from her. It makes her stomach knot, heart in her tight throat. 

“It is alright to be nervous,” she says. Right, she has never flown to the Keep from Dragonstone in this life. Selaena can still taste ash and blood in her mouth as she hailed arrows down at soldiers. Still remembers their screams, her screams. 

The destruction dragons wrought. Fire and blood. How many lives were sacrificed while they desperately attempted to claim the Throne? How many died after she did? 

How can she fucking move on when everyone haunts her so? 

“They will leave us behind,” Selaena says, face stiff. Both Rhaenyra and Lucerys look concerned, but before either of them can speak, she tells Starfall to fly. 

A rush of cold air bites into her cheeks, nipping at her soft skin. Her lungs are full, mind empty. There is nothing in this world comparable to flying. She has never felt like a god or a dragon, not until she is soaring among clouds. Starfall jitters excitedly, swerving and bobbing. Selaena laughs, loud and unguarded. Ahead of her flies Daemon, Jacaerys, and Baela. She looks, eyes wet with wind and unshed tears. When was the last time she’d seen her family fly together? The sight leaves her breathless, her palm aching. A reminder of what she has to lose. 

She knows she must catch up to them. She cannot afford to be left behind. 

But, she stares for a while longer, committing the image to memory. 

page seventeen 

They land near the Pit, dragons in separating to give the other room to move. 

Her hair must be a mess, pale curls flying in every direction, but Selaena hardly cares. Baela’s bun has loosened to her neck, locs slipping down her back. She’s grinning though, violet eyes alight. 

“That was brilliant,” she says loudly, slipping off of Moondancer. 

“It was,” she agrees. Starfall warbles in reply. She was known by the dragonkeepers to be talkative. Cooing and trilling at every little thing. 

(“Like her rider,” Jace once teased.) 

Jacaerys looks a bit green in the face, but he’s smiling at Selaena. He offers his hand, far too short to actually help her off her dragon. She attempts to accept his help anyway, even if it’s mostly her who dismounts. His hand tightens around hers. 

“Alright?” he asks. 

“You look ready to vomit, my prince,” she replies, laughing at his pout. 

The dragonkeepers begin to collect their dragons. Rhaenyra is trying to push down Lucerys’ curls, dark strands sticking up in every way. None of them look any better. Baela and Selaena work together to shove Jace’s hair back to his head. It continues to curl in different directions, much to their amusement and his irritation. 

Jacaerys releases her hand once they’re escorted to their chambers. She is to have her own, separate from Baela and Rhaena. Selaena does not say she hates sleeping alone. It would do nothing but make her appear weak and childish. She cannot be. There is no time. 

A bath is drawn for her by the maids. She smiles stiffly, thanking them, and asks to bathe by herself. She must think. 

The water is hot, boiling around her. Had it not been for the Targaryen blood in her veins, she would’ve winced. But her family and their ancestors have always been more tolerant to heat. Her hair is pinned up as to not get it wet. 

She has saved Aemond’s eye and successfully hidden his words. That should change something, right? He won’t be as willing to kill Luke when there is no need. A petty fight where the worst of it was her palm and Lucerys’ nose. Aemond had walked away uninjured. Fine. Part of her twists. He, who stole his mother’s dragon and hurt her sisters, was left without even a scratch. He who killed Lucerys, Rhaenys, and Daemon. He—

Selaena sinks deeper in the water, back pressed to the tub. The Aemond of this life is but a thief. He is no kinslayer. She rubs her face, her palm aching from the heat and movement. 

Good. The pain keeps her centered. She continuously slips into her thoughts, that sinful hunger for revenge clawing at her chest. In truth she is aware it had not helped. It had but left a bigger hole inside her. But she still wants his blood spilt. 

It will not help her, them, and so she forces herself not to linger. 

Aegon is another factor. It was he who was placed on the Iron Throne, it was he who usurped his half-sister. Her immediate thought is to kill him. It would be simple to stage it as someone robbing a drunken prince, but she pushes the thought away as soon as it comes. No one would suspect a young girl, but she would live with the guilt. She would know she was a kinslayer. 

In her previous life there’d been rumors he attempted to flee before his coronation. Rumors she had dismissed. He had sat on the Throne with pride, enjoyed the attention given to his worthless, whore of a self. But, if she can make him leave before the King dies. 

Well, it is not a permanent solution. Otto Hightower and his vermin of associates will, surely, make another attempt at keeping Rhaenyra from the Throne. It will slow him, though, if Aegon is out of the way. Selaena’s teeth sink into her bottom lip. What if they attempt to place Aemond on the Throne instead? But she will be his wife, the queen consort, the daughter of Daemon. Otto Hightower would never willingly put Daemon’s blood in a position of power. 

He may attempt to have her assassinated. There is no way to keep herself safe except… 

If she carries Aemond’s babe, it may stay his grandfather’s hand. She hardly cares about the process. Aemond needs but finish inside her and they may move on. It does not matter if it hurts or if he’s too rough. Jacaerys—her sweet boy—had been as clueless as her the first time. 

(“It hurts,” she mumbled and he paused, peering down at her with concern. 

“Do you want me to stop?” Jace asked, cupping her face. Her legs were hooked around his waist, nails digging into the blankets around them. He was barely inside her but her cunt ached from the stretch. 

She swallowed, kissing his palm. “No—I—I will be fine.” 

He stared for a moment, fathomless dark eyes searching. Then he pulled away from her, rolling onto his side. She moved to protest but he silenced her with a quick kiss. 

“We will not do anything if it hurts you,” Jace said. “I should have prepared more.” 

“Both of us are equally clueless,” she had said, before they both began to laugh.) 

She is smiling, looking at her reflection in the water. It is strange to see her face so young and innocent. This body has yet to experience betrayal and loss. This body does not know what it means to lose a babe. In the bath, she feels helplessly small. 

Laena. She wants her mother. 

With great effort, she finishes cleaning herself. The maids return to dry her and place her in a dress. It is a green one, unlike the blacks and reds she usually wears. A gift from Alicent, no doubt. She decides it’s better to wear it. 

The maids fix her hair, smoothing down her curls into a braid they pin into a bun. Her mother’s perfume is sprayed onto her neck and wrists. She wonders if her mother ever wore green when she was her age. The dark fabric hardly suits her, she thinks, but there is no reason to drive Alicent further from her. The woman is not but a pawn to the men in her life. 

She pities her. 

“Sup will begin soon,” one of the maids informs her, clasping a gold necklace around her throat. Selaena hums, fingers brushing her neck. 

She looks into the mirror and a stranger’s face stares back. 

page eighteen 

Aemond is waiting outside her door. He is wearing green as dark as her own dress. Ah, so Alicent intended for them to match. She wonders why. A show to Rhaenyra and Daemon? Is she trying to say Selaena will soon be on their side? 

She’ll have Starfall burn the damn dress after supper. 

“I have come to escort you,” Aemond says and she is uncomfortably aware of his eyes. Two of them. She hardly has any memories of him without his eyepatch. 

“Thank you,” she says neutrally, not bothering to smile. His face brings forth uncomfortable memories. She’ll have to get used to it if she intends to have his children. 

The thought makes her shudder. 

He steps closer to her, obviously under the impression she is cold. His elbow is offered and she takes it daintily. Aemond stands closer to her than necessary. Is he trying to share his warmth? Her lips flicker up in bitter amusement. She cannot imagine him behaving as a gentleman. 

“Your flight was without issue, I assume,” he says politely and she stifles her surprise. It’s strange speaking to him without the context of war. 

“Yes, Starfall flies well despite her size,” she replies. He glances up at her, lip parted, before closing them. She decides to take pity on him. “Is something wrong?” 

“No,” he says too quickly, then, “Well, it is harder than I initially assumed to control Vhagar.”

His face contorts as though she has pulled his teeth out. She’s not surprised by his admittance. Vhagar is much older than he is, larger than any dragon they know of. Laena had told her when she first claimed Vhagar she struggled to command her. Aemond will eventually learn how. 

“I can assist you,” she says before she can change her mind. His eyebrows pull together. 

“Would you?” 

“Of course,” she lies easily. “I cannot have a husband unable to control his own dragon.” 

He scowls almost immediately, the expression reminiscent to his mother. She pats his arm with the hand not hooked onto his elbow. 

“I only jest. You are a quick study, Vhagar chose you for a reason.” 

His expression lightens but he does not smile. He hardly does, even as a child. “Are you upset I took her from your sister?” 

Selaena sucks on her teeth. In her heart he is a thief, a bastardly, kinslaying wretch who deserves to have his eye taken. She knows that this Aemond is a boy who desperately wanted a dragon. Vhagar was an unclaimed dragon after her mother’s death. If she accepted Aemond, she wouldn’t have accepted Rhaena. She knows but it does not ease the pain. 

“Yes,” she finally says. Aemond winces, but she continues, “Not for the reasons you assume. Vhagar chose you, and as my mother’s former dragon, I would respect her wishes. But you disrespected us by doing so the day of my mother’s funeral. My sisters are grieving a loss you cannot comprehend. I wish you would’ve waited. That is all.” 

Her truth. If she is to bring Aemond to her side, they must attempt to be truthful. As much as it pains her to admit it. 

“I will not apologize for claiming Vhagar,” he says, reminiscent of that night, “but I—I did not intend to disrespect you. I knew if I waited someone else would attempt to claim her so I had to do it then. I had to, Selaena.” 

They are almost at the dinning hall now. Guards bow to them as they pass but they are too wrapped up in one another to acknowledge them. 

“You did what you thought was right,” she settles on saying. Nothing he has said makes her feel any better. She is well aware of his intentions but they hardly mattered. He has hurt her sisters. 

“You don’t agree.” 

“No.” 

“I am sorry,” he says, glancing toward her nervously, “about your mother. Mother and Father said she was a good woman.” 

“She is,” Selaena agrees with a wry smile. The apology does make her heart feel lighter. 

“I also intended to thank you,” he tells her. “How is your palm?” 

She blinks at him, brows shooting toward her hairline. Her hand is still wrapped, not completely healed but it no longer burns with every movement. She can still feel the ghost of an ache. It feels nice. 

“Fine, the maester said the healing has gone well,” she replies. 

“I’m glad.” He does not sound it, but he doesn’t sound like anything in particular. 

They arrive at the doors, servants pushing it open and announcing their presence. 

“Prince Aemond Targaryen and his intended, Lady Selaena Targaryen.” 

None of their family looks pleased to see them together in matching outfits, save for Alicent and Viserys. Alicent looks happier with the fact she is wearing the dress. Aemond leads her to her seat next to his. On her other side sits Helaena and then Aegon, slouched in his seat. He’s drunk, she assumes. He almost always is. Jacaerys is seated at the end beside Aemond. Lucerys and Rhaena across from him, next to Aegon. Daemon sits directly in front of her, then Rhaenyra, Viserys, Alicent, and Otto. 

She wonders if the seating is strategic. They all seated separate from their main families, woven together like a poorly threaded handkerchief.  

“Shall we eat now that Selaena and Aemond have arrived?” Viserys asks good-naturedly. She is unsure if he notices the tension in the room or is simply ignoring it. 

Selaena picks at her food, hardly touching any of it. Aemond is glancing at her she notices. Quietly, he slides something onto her plate. 

“Lemon cake?” she asks in a whisper. His ears are red. Oh, he’s embarrassed. She’s surprised to find the bashful expression endearing. 

“At the funeral, you kept going back for them,” he says in way of explanation. “You like them, don’t you?” 

She stares at the cake. Her mother used to have the cooks bake them all the time. They’d share them over tea, chatting about Selaena’s studies or their days or complaining about Daemon. She can almost feel her mother when she eats them. At her funeral, she’d funneled so many into her mouth she’d gotten sick. 

“Yes,” she says quietly, staring at her plate, “I do.” 

“Eat, then. You’ll wither away otherwise.” 

She smiles despite herself. Is he concerned for her? It’s odd to think he wouldn’t have batted an eye at her death in another life. 

Dinner is silent save for the occasional side comment. Daemon has, surprisingly, kept any snide remarks to himself. She’s impressed by how well Rhaenyra has him trained. Viserys looks content, taking the silence as them getting along. Or perhaps he is simply glad there has been no arguments. 

Selaena looks to the musicians playing. Aemond will not ask her to dance. Jacaerys may, but that wouldn’t help her (as much as she’d want to dance with him). Aegon has downed another cup of wine, ignoring Alicent’s pointed stare. 

She must act quickly. 

Before Aegon can leer at the servant’s tits, she stands, drawing everyone’s attention to her. With a smile and all the grace she can muster, she steps toward Aegon. 

“We should dance, cousin, as the oldest of our families,” she says, cheeks burning with how wide she smiles. Aegon blinks, once, twice, trying to decide if she is real. He doesn’t look interested in her. 

“A wonderful idea, Selaena,” Alicent says and then Aegon winces as though someone’s kicked him. 

“Wonderful,” he grumbles in false agreement. They head toward the dance floor hand-in-hand. His are sticky with wine and cold. She wishes to rip herself away from him but knows better. 

She needs him alone and this is the closest she will get. 

“Congratulations on your betrothal,” she says, a murmur in his ear. He does not hide the twist of disgust on his lips. 

“Yes,” he says lowly, matching her tone. Good, he is not as foolish as she expected. “Soon the both of us will be fucking my siblings.” 

Her face twitches. “It would seem so.” 

“At least Aemond does not prefer bugs over human company,” he says. Helaena is odd, she is well aware, but the girl is sweet. Innocent. It was Selaena’s fault she died. Getting rid of Aegon will serve her purpose and make Helaena happy. 

“I hear Lys is beautiful this time of the year,” she says, switching topics. His mind is slow, addled by wine. 

“I’ve never been,” he replies, uninterested. They spin and she moves closer to his ear. 

“Would you like to go, cousin?” she asks. Aegon’s violet eyes gleam. Seems he’s piecing something together. 

He brings his mouth down. “Your point, cousin?”  

“There are ships in the harbor constantly headed there,” she says calmly, as though they are discussing the weather. “How simple it would be to slip aboard.” 

Aegon’s eyes widen before they narrow. He tugs her closer, lips nearly pressed to the side of her face. His breath reeks of alcohol and she has to stop from wincing away from him. She must plant the idea in his foolish head. Now. While there are eyes on them but they are none the wiser. 

“You suggest I climb aboard a ship and set sail to Lys?” he asks as though he’s amused. She nods, watching his brow raise. 

“Or you may marry your sister and have children with her,” she says. “Perhaps your grandfather will push for you to take the Throne.” 

He stills and she is forced to pull him along to continue the dance. Otto’s eyes are on them, watching them closely. Daemon and Aemond are staring as well, both of their expressions dark. Viserys looks incredibly pleased, chatting with Alicent and Rhaenyra. Both of them force smiles, giving the other glances she cannot decipher. Baela is frowning at Aegon, Rhaena leans over to whisper something to Luke. Jacaerys is not looking at them, shoving food into his mouth. She feels it is purposeful. The only one who doesn’t seem to care is Helaena, who has found interest in toying with a spider beneath the table. 

Aegon’s throat bobs. “They will simply find me and drag me back.” 

“When Rhaenyra becomes queen you will not have to worry about any of that,” she says, praying she does not sound desperate. “I will convince her to end the betrothal between you and Helaena. If she is on the Throne, you will not be. You’ll be free to live your life as you please.” 

His mind is slow, yes, but he understands what she is saying. 

“What of Sunfyre?” he asks quietly. The dragon he is so attached to. Other than drinking and fucking, Sunfyre is the only other thing he takes an interest in. 

“At the first moon I will release him from the Pit,” she says. He steps on her foot and she hides a wince. Truly, he is a pitiful dancer. “He will find you. You will only need to stay away from King’s Landing for a few years.” 

“Right,” he says, but his eyes do not meet hers, lost in thought. She hopes it does not pain him to think. 

The song ends and they take their bows. Viserys gives a hardy clap, Alicent and Rhaenyra reluctantly join in. No one else does. Helaena blinks at them as though noticing they were gone. 

“Wonderful, simply wonderful,” the King says, breaking into a coughing fit. Alicent hands him a goblet of water while Rhaenyra pats his back. Daemon looks at his brother, pale brows furrowed. Viserys waves them off. “Come, come, we are here to celebrate my son and Selaena’s betrothal.” 

“And her nameday,” little Luke pipes up, looking pleased with himself for remembering. 

“Of course,” he says. Aegon has enough sense to lead her to her seat. She gives him a nod, he does not return it. 

He drinks more than she’s ever seen him that night. She isn’t sure if that is a good sign or not. 

“Thank you, uncle,” she says. “Aemond and I are grateful.” 

Aemond looks at her from the corner of his eye, nodding. “Yes—Ah, it is nice to spend time with Selaena.” 

He does not mean that, she can tell by his face, but Viserys turns his smile to his second son and Aemond’s chest puffs out. If he wants his father’s attention, she can give him that. Being the daughter of the King’s beloved younger brother has its benefits. 

“I’m glad you two are happy.” 

Daemon snorts, covering his mouth when Rhaenyra throws him a look. 

“We are,” Selaena says, playing the part of a young betrothed girl enthralled by her husband-to-be. It pleases Viserys, and Aemond—young as he is—wants his father’s attention. She makes a show of placing her hand over his, on the table for everyone to see. 

Alicent is smiling too, a hesitant, small one, but she is smiling nonetheless. Even Rhaenyra looks somewhat relieved. 

Aemond stares at their joined hands in wonder. She decides to ignore it. Otto and Daemon are the least pleased. 

“Yes, yes,” Viserys mumbles. His face suddenly lights up and he turns to Daemon. “Selaena should stay here, to get to know Aemond better.” 

“No,” Daemon says immediately. Rhaenyra elbows him so subtly she would’ve missed it had she not been placed across from her. His lips press together tightly. “Why?” 

“They hardly know each other and yet they are to wed, we should allow them time. Just a year, it will not be forever,” the King offers. He is too caught up in the idea of unifying the family to spot the glower on Otto’s face. 

Selaena’s hand unconsciously tightens around Aemond’s. He shifts closer, their shoulders brushing. A year alone at the Keep? 

“What of Helaena and Aegon,” Alicent cuts in. “They are to be wed sooner. Should we not—“

”Ah, they are brother and sister,” Viserys says. “Aemond and Selaena are particularly strangers.” 

That is, obviously, not what the Queen meant, but he does not seem to care. It’s not Aemond or Selaena he is interested in, it is the fact his son will wed his brother’s daughter. What they represent is more important than who they are. 

“Hardly anyone is given the luxury of getting to know their intended,” Daemon says. 

“True,” Viserys agrees, “but they are our children. Would you not prefer your daughter comfortable with the boy that will be her husband?” 

She’s surprised Otto has not spoken. He watches, dark eyes taking everything in like the rat he is. 

“I would prefer my daughter to remain at my side,” her father says through gritted teeth. 

“She will be an adult eventually.” 

“And that has yet to happen, brother.” 

“Perhaps we should ask her,” Rhaenyra purposes. All eyes are on her and she swallows. 

Aemond gives her a quick squeeze. 

A year here will give her enough time to convince Aegon to leave and bring Aemond to her side. But she will be alone. The only ally she will have is Aemond. Viserys is the king. Kind and easily manipulated by those he thinks to trust. She does not know how else to use him. Keeping him pleased is simple enough. Otto and his rats are her biggest concern. 

Would he risk killing her and angering her father? Daemon will burn the Keep down should she die under mysterious circumstances. It would be foolish to invoke his wrath. Otto Hightower is not, unfortunately, a foolish man. 

“I would not mind, Father,” she says. Daemon focuses on her, searching her face. She gives him a smile. Her father trusts her, he always has. His very last request to her was to watch her younger sisters, he would not have trusted that to anyone but her. 

“Daemon,” Viserys says, “I would not allow any harm to come to your daughter.” 

“Yes, we will make sure Selaena feels welcome,” Otto finally speaks. His smile does not inspire warm feelings. Daemon sneers at him. 

“You will stay far away from her,” he all but snarls. He has never hated another the way he despises Otto. She feels Aemond tense beside her. 

“We are family,” Otto replies calmly, ignoring the way Daemon twitches toward his sword. “My daughter has wed your brother and now my grandson will wed your daughter. You should—“

”Continue speaking and we will be eating your tongue.” 

“Daemon,” Viserys snaps. Her father leans back in his chair, scowling. 

“We are all very tired from our trip,” Rhaenyra says, once again cutting into the tension. Otto purposefully irritates Daemon like it is some sick game to him. Selaena burns, anger bubbling into her chest. “Perhaps we should retire to bed.” 

Aemond has a vice grip on her. She does not push him away, his hand keeping her grounded. 

“Yes, the Princess is correct. It must have been a long day for you all,” Alicent agrees. They share secret, grateful smiles between the two of them. 

They all stand. Aemond finally leaving her side with one last glance. He looks at her like he wishes to speak, but his mother’s hand on his back stops him. 

“Goodnight, Selaena,” Alicent says, intent on taking her son away. 

“Goodnight, your grace,” she replies. Jace takes Aemond’s spot, nudging her out of the room. She stays beside him, grateful for a familiar presence. 

(Two dark violet eyes watch them leave together.) 

page nineteen 

Rhaenyra has them set to leave in the morn. 

Selaena stands by, watching her family—all of them—prepare to leave her behind. It is a cold, hollow feeling. Daemon places a hand on her shoulder, face tight. 

“One letter saying you do not feel comfortable and I will burn this fucking place down,” he swears. “You will write to me frequently. If I do not hear from you I’ll fly here myself, do you understand?” 

“You worry,” Selaena says. Something in his face softens. 

“How could I not? You will be living with that cunt for a year,” he says darkly. She smiles, biting back a laugh. 

“Otto Hightower would not harm me,” she says, though even she is not confident in her words. 

“I would sooner separate his head from his useless body,” her father says. 

(“He killed Lucerys,” Selaena says, voice thick with tears. Daemon wipes her face, cupping her jaw. “He deserves to die.” 

There is anger so sharp and bitter and searing she nearly vomits. 

“Not him,” Daemon whispers to her. “A son for a son.” 

“You mean…”

”Help me, Selaena. We will avenge Rhaenyra’s son together.”) 

“The King will not appreciate his Hand being threatened,” she tells him. He snorts, pulling away from her. 

“My brother does not appreciate anything that does not involve us skipping and picking daisies out our asses.” 

“Sister!” Rhaena throws herself into Selaena’s arms. She hugs her youngest sister fiercely. Baela joins them. Daemon steps away, heading toward Caraxes. That is his goodbye, then. 

“You should not have agreed,” Baela tells her seriously. 

“It’s not safe here,” Rhaena agrees. “Tell the King you’ve changed your mind.” 

Selaena shushes them. “I would not go back on my word, sisters. How would that make us look?”

”I don’t care, you’ll be safer on Dragonstone,” Baela says. Selaena shakes her head, pressing a kiss to their foreheads, like their mother used to do. She is not much older than them, but she feels it. Her father has always expected her to the mature, dutiful daughter as his oldest child. She takes the role on like an ill-fitting cloak. 

“It is only a year. I will write,” she tells them. Rhaena is in tears when Daemon calls her to him. They exchange a quiet goodbye. Baela is not as teary as her twin, but her bottom lip trembles. Oh, her brave, brave Baela. 

“I will fly here with Father the moment you are in distress,” she swears. 

“I will hold you to that promise.” 

Lucerys and Rhaenyra say their goodbyes next. Lucerys brings her into a tight hug that she returns. Rhaenyra brushes a curl from her face. 

“Nothing will happen to you,” she says gently. “But there is a maester here you may trust. He serves me. His name is Melo. Should anything happen you may go to him.” 

Selaena does not remember this from her previous life. “Yes, thank you.” 

She smooths one last hand over her hair. Jacaerys is last, a clear frown on his face. 

“You’ve been acting different,” he says. He looks at her as though she is a stranger. Her palm itches. 

“What do you mean?” she asks, attempting to laugh him off. He does not smile. 

“You’ve never liked Aemond, but now you wish to marry him,” he says. “You’re willing to leave us to stay with him for a year. That is odd.” 

“I won’t just be with him.” Her response is weak. Jace may be young but he senses it as well. 

“Is he threatening you?” 

“What? No, Aemond has been kind to me.” 

“My uncle is not kind. He raised his hand to your sisters. Would have split my head open with a rock had you not come in,” he says, glaring fiercely for a boy his age. “He is dangerous, Selaena. A—A monster.” 

Yes, she had once called him that as well. She had called him for what he was then, a monster, a murderer, a kinslayer. In the end it had brought them death. 

“He is my betrothed, Jacaerys,” she forces out. “You will not speak of him in such a way.” 

Jacaerys scoffs in disbelief. “You used to say we’d be betrothed one day. Or have you forgotten that like you’ve forgotten yourself?” 

Her face crumbles. “Jace—“

He storms off before she can finish. She feels tears burn her eyes, refusing to let them fall. Soon her family, her safety, is not but dots in the sky. When they are well and truly gone she cries. The dragonkeepers give her a wide berth. Her tears are an ugly sight, she’s sure. 

“Selaena.” 

She wipes at her cheeks, turning to look at Aemond. He takes in her red eyes and wet face, but offers no comment. She is grateful. 

“Mother would like to have tea with you,” he says. 

With a deep breath, she takes his elbow as he leads her back to the carriage outside. 

page twenty 

Aemond leaves her at Alicent’s solar. He has practice with Ser Criston Cole, apparently. They give each other muted nods. 

In the presence of the Queen, Selaena feels small. Alicent is beautiful, put together. A pawn she may be, but she is attempting to work with the impossible. She wonders if she has ever felt alone, surrounded by her children and ailing husband. 

“Your grace,” she greets with a curtsies. Alicent gives her a stiff smile, motioning her to sit down. Selaena joins her on the couch. 

“I hope you are well,” she says. 

“I am,” Selaena replies. “And you?” 

“I am well.” 

The silence lapses as a maid pours them tea. A flowery scent wafts into her nose. She is not a fan of tea, has only drank it with her mother, but she does not complain. 

“About your mother,” Alicent speaks as though she’s understood the pained expression on Selaena’s face. “I wanted to give you my apologies. My mother passed when I was young as well. It was… It was difficult.” 

“Thank you,” Selaena says, chest tight. Alicent sips from the tea cup. 

“Should you need anything, you may come to me.” 

Selaena is suspicious of the offer. The Alicent she remembers had not paid her much attention. An occasional frown, no doubt remembering the violent way she had refused the marriage with her son. 

Monster. 

“You are too kind, my queen, I could not bother you,” she decides to say. Alicent smiles and it is appears more lax. She looks younger like this. 

“You’re very mature for your age,” she says. 

“My father prefers me to be,” Selaena says. Alicent’s lips tip down at the mention of Daemon. 

“I’m sure.” 

Another silence. Selaena takes this moment to sip her tea. A horrid flavor, more bitter than sweet. Completely different from the tea her and Laena used to drink. Perhaps her mother purposefully sweetened their tea for her. The thought leaves her both warm and cold. 

“Aemond will be good to you,” Alicent then says. The real reason she has called her in, then. “He is a sweet boy. You do not—You will be treated well.” 

Is she attempting to reassure her or herself? Both, more than likely. The Queen had been married young, to a man more than twice her age. It is not wonder she wishes to comfort Selaena. This marriage is better than the one Alicent ended up with. Aemond is close to her age and not in love with a dead wife. When they have children, she doubts he’ll ignore them. 

“He has been kind to me, your grace, I am content,” she says. Alicent reaches over and takes her hand into her own. 

“Good, that is… good.” 

Selaena wonders if Alicent sees a little bit of herself in her. 

page twenty-one 

Aemond greets her in the library a while later. His lips are bunched together. He has come to make a request of her, then. 

“Yes?” Selaena says, looking up from the book she is reading. A romance novel between a princess and her knight. She’s always been weak to a good love story. 

“Would you like to go flying?” he asks. He looks prepared for her to slap him and tell him no. She does neither of those things, doesn’t understand why he assumes she will. 

“Of course. Starfall needs to stretch her wings.” 

His face lights up. Well, lights up as much as Aemond can make it. His cheeks are still a little round with puppy fat, eyes (two, an odd number on him) wide. There’s a pale flush to his pale cheeks she does not mind. 

“Quickly, then.” His excitement is childish but not unwelcome. 

Aemond and her speak of simple things on the carriage ride there. She asks how his training and studying went, he tells her it was fine. He asks what she was reading, she lies and says a book about history. He does not believe her. So on and so forth. When she is not comparing him to his past self, he isn’t so bad. He’s just… a boy. Well, he’s a prince, but beneath that he is a boy. 

The carriage comes to a stop. Ever the gentleman, Aemond offers her his arm that she takes. She fits in beside him well. She’s taller, nose reaching the top of his forehead. He seems embarrassed whenever he’s forced to glance up. She doesn’t mind the height difference. Soon, he will tower over her. 

They separate once they’re in the Pit. Starfall is ready for her, the dragonkeepers holding her chains. She does not enjoy the sight of them on her dragon. On Dragonstone she was free to roam as she pleased. Here, she locked up. Selaena coos at her, stroking her dragon’s jaw. Starfall trills happily. 

“She has an even temperament,” one of the dragonkeepers says in Valyrian. Selaena smiles. 

“She has always been sweet.” He looks surprised to see how fluent she is. She’s had an entire extra life to study the language. 

Aemond is struggling with Vhagar. The she-dragon is obviously displeased with her treatment after roaming free for so long. 

“Lykirī, Vhagar,” he says desperately. She snaps at one of the dragonkeepers. “Dohaerās!” 

Her movement has unsettled Starfall, who begins to back away. 

“Lykirī,” Selaena says quickly, hands shooting forward to calm her dragon. 

It is in vain. Vhagar’s jaws attempt to clamp around another dragonkeeper, he holds one of Starfall’s chain. Starfall roars back at the much larger dragon. 

No. 

Selaena shoots forward between them, intent on—on—What, exactly? Vhagar is larger than life, she certainly has the ability to bite into both her and Starfall. Just as she did with Luke and Arrax. 

“Vhagar!” Aemond cries, tugging at his dragon’s wing. 

Starfall whips around. She thrashes, tail sailing toward Aemond who does not see it. 

Someone screams. 

It takes a moment for her to realize it was her. 

Starfall’s tail slices one side of Aemond’s face and he falls. Selaena is on her knees beside him, the danger of two unstable dragons leaving her mind. 

(“Our control over them is an illusion,” Rhaenyra said, one hand clutching her swollen stomach.) 

“No, no, no,” she whispers, prying Aemond’s fingers away from his face. Blood, hot and red, slips down his pale face. “Aemond, please. No, no, no, no.” 

She had saved his eye. She had saved it. Why? Vhagar roars above them. Starfall releases another screech. It all blends into the background. Aemond looks at her with one violet eye. He’s gone pale, paler than he usually is. 

The dragonkeepers move to settle the dragons, one of them kneels beside her. 

“We need a maester,” he yells. “Prince Aemond has—“

Selaena holds him to her, hand against the cut that matches the one scarred into her palm. 

“My eye,” he whispers, fear palpable enough to choke her. 

“You’ll be alright,” she says fiercely. He has to be. She has changed their future—will fix what is to come. Why else would be she sent back!? Surely—Surely the gods are not cruel enough to make her live the same life over and over. 

A punishment for her sins? Is this her own personal hell? 

Tears slip down her cheeks, tangling with the blood on his. She realizes she’s muttering to him, mumbling he will be fine, that they’ll be fine. Is she breathing? It feels as though all the air has been stolen from her chest. 

“Do not cry,” he croaks, to comfort her or to silence her, she isn’t sure. She stares at him, at the cut in horror. 

“You’ll be alright,” she says again in an attempt to soothe herself and him. “It will not happen again. We will live. It’ll be alright.” 

There are some things written in stone: her mother will always die; Daemon and Rhaenyra will always wed. 

Aemond Targaryen will always lose an eye.

Chapter Text

page twenty-two

Selaena’s presence is near suffocating. 

She sits beside Aemond most days, tending to him as though he is a dying animal. When she’s not attached to his side, she’s with Helaena. Apparently his older sister has been teaching her how to embroider. His mother seems to approve of her. Her smile isn’t as forced as it had been. Selaena is kind. Unlike her sisters and the bastards she keeps as company. 

He still scowls at the memory of Jacaerys leading her away from him that night. They were celebrating their betrothal. 

Though he’s still unsure as to why she wanted it. Duty, she says, a way to bring the family together. She’s never cared about that before. At least, he doesn’t remember her caring. On the occasional visits Daemon and Laena paid the Keep after their marriage, Selaena had wanted nothing to do with him. She never mocked him like her precious Jace, but she had stood by while he did. 

“You will not speak of him in such a way.” 

Aemond hadn’t expected her to defend him. He thought she’d shrug or shake her head or tell him to keep his voice down. But no. She’d chosen him over his nephew. His own father hadn’t done that before. 

Selaena has, though. She grabbed a dagger meant for him and scarred her palm. She spoke out against her siblings (step and otherwise) for him. She agreed to a betrothal without fight. She held his hand willingly and smiled at him. She told Jacaerys off for him. 

He respects her, he decides, placing a name on the warmth in his chest. Aemond admires her. She is kind, strong, intelligent. It is only natural. 

Selaena sits beside his bed now, pale brows furrowed. She’s frowning, he’s growing to mislike the expression. She looks better when she’s happy. 

“Does it hurt?” she asks, gently putting the salve on his face. His eye is lost. The maester said the wound would heal eventually, but he’d never see from that side again. It has been a little over a week but he hasn’t looked in the mirror. Can’t stomach the idea. 

“No,” he lies. The entire right side of his face is on fire. Every minuscule expression causes pain to explode. Breathing fucking hurts. It’s frustrating. He feels like a child with the way Selaena is dotting on him. 

It’s almost nice, though. She’s quieter than his mother’s smothering attention. Alicent is beautiful, of course, but Selaena’s pretty in a different way. He, begrudgingly, likes her face. Smooth brown skin, pale lashes around dark violet eyes, with silvery-blonde curls framing her face. Objectively, she is breathtaking. Aemond is sure most people will agree with him. It doesn’t mean anything for him to think it. 

There are worse women to marry. She is of strong Valyrian blood as well. All she wants is his loyalty. He can give her that easily. As her husband, should he not be loyal to his wife? He has no plans to take on a mistress. It’s not proper, he thinks. 

Selaena pulls away and he nearly mourns the loss of her touch. How childish of him. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, lips trembling. She has apologized more times than he wishes to count. Some days she sees his face and tears up. 

It’s frustrating. 

“You have no reason to apologize,” he says as he has been saying. “It was an accident.” 

“Caused by my dragon,” she snaps before slumping forward. She feels guilty, he supposes. There’s no reason for her to. It had been his idea to fly together, his dragon that spooked hers because he had not yet learned to completely control her. Selaena was innocent. 

The loss of his eye is his fault. 

“Selaena, I do not blame you,” he urges though she does not meet his gaze. “Is my face so horrible to look at?”

She blinks, tears still misting her (objectively) pretty eyes. “What?”

”Are you that upset your future husband has been scarred?” Jacaerys has both of his eyes, face fully intact, unsullied by a dragon. Aemond feels the same cool anger settle over him.

”I did not think you vain,” she says. 

“I’m not,” he snaps. “You seem to care about my appearance.” 

“I care that my dragon cut your eye out,” she cries, her lips tremble again and he hates being the reason she’s upset. He’s never cared before. He’s never given her a second thought until she threw herself in front of a dagger for him. 

“And I do not blame you,” he says in a clipped tone. “You sulk for nothing.” 

“You are not nothing,” she says reaching for his hand. She takes it in hers, fingers warm against his cold ones. 

He casts his gaze away from her, face hot. “I… see.” 

Aemond feels her lips press to his scratched knuckles and he jerks his head toward her. She is smiling and he feels his world pause. There’s a dimple in her right cheek. Just one. It’s imperfect and he cannot stop staring at it. 

“You should rest,” she says. His fingers tighten around her hands. 

“Will you stay?” 

“Of course.” 

She holds his hand until he falls asleep. 

page twenty-three 

He plays up his injury for a while longer. Days, actually. Selaena tends to him diligently. Aemond does not complain when she’s the one dabbing salve on his cut or wrapping his face. Maester Melo is impressed by her, apparently. She brushes off his praise, saying she only knows how to do it from watching maesters treat the scar on her palm. Aemond prefers her touching him over some random maester. 

She sits beside him, reading or writing letters to her family. Jacaerys, the ungrateful bastard, has yet to write her back. Selaena grows upset the more time passes without a word from him. He’s half-tempted to mount Vhagar and bring the wretch here himself. Who is he to ignore her? He should be grateful she bothers with him. As much as Aemond wishes she would let him go, he knows she won’t. She cares for his nephew too much to do that. 

Selaena continues to write, unaware of his blatant staring. Or perhaps she is aware and is simply ignoring him. His vision is not what it used to be. He can hardly see even from his remaining eye; the further something is, the blurrier it gets. The maester said it’d take time to adjust. Aemond wants to see now. Selaena stays close to him, always on his left side. He hadn’t asked her to, she’d done it without question. It’s because she sits so close he can make out what she’s writing. 

Sweet Jace, 

He does not bother to read the rest. 

Aemond scowls, ignoring the sting across the right side of his face. Of course she calls him affectionate names. She enjoys Jacaerys. They’re childhood companions, the children of two people desperately in love while wed to another. Of course they both crave what they cannot have. It is in their blood; Jacaerys is a bastard, though, whereas Selaena is not. That is their only difference. Well, Selaena is much prettier than his nephew, smarter, more mature, pleasant—She is better than him in every possible way. But they are still their parents children. 

Selaena turns to him as though sensing his bad mood. She grabs a book she has placed on the desk, abandoning her letter without another glance. Good, he thinks with a sniff. 

“This book is in Valyrian, I brought it with me to read to you,” she says, clearly happy with herself. She stands, crawling onto his bed before he can think to stop her. 

“What are you doing?” he sputters. She frowns and he wishes he hadn’t asked. 

“Reading you a book?” 

“On my bed?” 

She smiles again and tension bleeds from him. “I thought we could sit together.” 

Aemond pretends to consider her offer. “I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad.” 

“Good, your Valyrian is horrid.” 

“It is not,” he says, wrinkling his nose at her. She laughs and plops herself beside him. The book is small and a pale pink with gold roses etched along the cover. The title is in Valyrian: The Poet and Her Knight. What an odd title. There is no author either. The pages are browning, older than them, but not by many years. 

“Do not fret, I will teach you.” Her confidence is admirable. 

“By reading me romance novels?”

She huffs indignantly. “Yes, it is how my sisters and I learnt, and I am much better at speaking it than you are.” 

He would sooner leap from his window than admit she is right so he falls silent, allowing her to flip the book open. She traces the first page longingly, a sad smile spinning on her lips. Aemond wishes she would smile fully, or perhaps not smile at all, if only so he would not have to see such a look on her face. He nudges her with her shoulder and she looks at him. 

“Get on with it, then.” 

Her smile returns and Aemond nods, satisfied with himself. 

Valyrian is a beautiful language, he has always thought this, but Selaena speaks it as though she is weaving honey and sugar in her mouth. The word leave her fluidly, like a song only shared between them. She spins a tale of a young lady trapped in a tower far, far away from the rest of civilization. The lady, only referred to as such, writes poetry in her solitude. When Selaena sees him struggle to understand certain words, she translates it, before continuing. 

“It isn’t until a young, dashing knight stumbles upon her that she begins to write about love,” she reads. Aemond’s eye drifts from the book on her lap to her face. 

The knight, apparently, falls in love with the young lady at first sight. Aemond scoffs at the idea internally, but he does not interrupt her. It would be a shame to never find out how the story ended. The lady and the knight begin to visit daily. He sneaks into her tower, bringing her gifts from the outside world. They are happy, in love, until the lady’s father catches them. He locks his daughter up in another castle, gouging the young knight’s eyes out of his head as punishment for his sins. 

“Why does he keep his daughter locked up?” Aemond asks, only to have a finger pressed into his lips. His face heats as he pries her hand away. Selaena easily intertwines their fingers; he does not pull away. Her hand is warm, there is little to complain about, so he allows the action. 

“Patience,” she says. 

She continues reading. Apparently the girl will die if she receives a true love’s kiss. Her father—a minor lord—had angered a witch with his promiscuous ways, and as punishment his only daughter was cursed at birth. Aemond frowns. How is an innocent child responsible for her father’s actions? The knight mourns the loss of his sight (Aemond winces at the familiarity), falling into a great sadness. The lady does as well, her poetry growing darker and darker the longer they are apart. Her father, desperate, tells her of the curse, begging her to listen to him and stay locked away. 

“But his daughter did not wish to remain in the tower, she wanted to live,” Selaena says aloud. 

So, one night while her father was off, she escapes and runs away. Soon she makes her way into a quiet village, enthralled by everything around her. She overhears villagers speak of a young man, a former knight who had lost his eyes. In hope it is her knight, she rushes to find him. The knight recognizes her voice immediately, holding his arms out to her. She holds him close.

They dance the night away, both clumsy on their feet, but too in love to care. The villagers notice and whisper about a beautiful woman and a knight once handsome. Just as day breaks, they hear the sound of horses heading toward them. The lady realizes it is her father and his soldiers. She clutches her knight and asks for a kiss. 

“But she’ll die,” Aemond whispers. Selaena nods, lips pressed in a tight line. 

A true love’s kiss. The lady’s final request to her lover. As he pulls away from her, she collapses into his arms. She dies moments after, whispering her love to him. He mourns her, mourns never having seen her again, mourns not remembering the exact shade of her eyes or how deep her dimples are. Her father blames the former-knight who does not put up a fight, too lost in his sorrow. He is executed days after, the last word on his lips is her name. 

“The end,” Selaena says, shutting the book. Aemond startles back into reality. 

“That was all?” he asks. 

“That’s the end,” she replies as though amused by his reaction. 

“But—but they did not get their happy ending,” he argues as though Selaena can change it. She smiles, head tilting to one side. 

“The lady lived and died as she wanted, and the knight joined her in the afterlife,” she says. 

He shakes his head. “They should’ve been allowed to live. She was miserable for years, and he lost his sight and his knighthood.” 

“You did not enjoy the ending, I take it,” she says. 

“It was horrible,” he says. “Who wrote it? They should—“

”My mother.”

”I suppose it was not so bad.” 

She laughs, head tilting back. Another sound Aemond enjoys hearing. He can’t remember a time she’s laughed because of him. Her smiles have always been reserved for his nephews or her sisters, never him. 

“She wrote stories while pregnant with me,” Selaena says, smile growing softer. “She wanted all of her children to learn Valyrian. My sisters and I used to sit by a fire and listen to her read them over and over again. I used to think I would have a love like the ones she wrote. The kind bards would sing in taverns. It was foolish.” 

“Why?” he finds himself asking. She is the one pushing for a loveless marriage. Aemond admires her as a person. That is why his face grows hot at the thought of them being in love. A song about a scarred prince and his lady? It wouldn’t be so horrid, he thinks. There are worse ways to go down in history than being a loving husband.  

Selaena’s forehead creases. “Our betrothal is not one of love.” 

“No,” he agrees easily. They are to wed out of duty to their family. “But it can be.” 

“You believe there’s a chance we would fall in love?” she asks, tone somewhere between disbelief and bitter amusement. She looks pained, as though he’s hit her across the face. Aemond frowns, ripping his hand away from hers. 

“What would stop us?” he asks back. He doesn’t understand. She is kind to him, has taken care of him, spent almost every waking moment at his side. Does she not even wish them to be friends? Is this all for the sake of fucking duty? He doesn’t understand her and he isn’t sure if he wishes to. 

“You’re not—“

”You assume and yet you barely know me,” he snaps, feeling like a cornered animal. What is the point of sitting next to him and holding his hand and reading him stories her mother wrote? Aemond has never had a friend. He thought, foolishly, naively, she wanted to be. “Is it because I am not my nephew?”

“What does Jacaerys have to do with this?”

”He has everything to do with this!” Aemond near shouts. She flinches back and he lowers his tone. “It was always assumed you’d be betrothed to him one day, and then you chose me. So why do I feel as though you long for him? You did not have to agree to this marriage.” 

Her jaw clenches, the movement reminiscent to her father. “I did. I am marrying you for the sake of our family.” 

“Then do not sit here and act like—like my friend,” he says in a small voice. The heat of his anger leaves as quickly as it came and he is suddenly cold in the comforts of his own chamber. 

Her hand falls to his wrist and he looks to her. Her eyes are wide. “You would wish to be friends?” 

“Why would I not?” 

She falls silent and he does not know what else to say. Is it so surprising he longs for a companion? He speaks to his mother and sister, hardly anyone else. Aegon is constantly off drunk or fucking or both. He loves his mother, but she is still just that. Helaena, his sweet older sister, mumbles to herself and whispers to bugs more than she talks to him. He doubts Viserys can even tell the difference between him and Aegon. There is Ser Criston Cole, but he teaches him sword, nothing more. 

He used to watch Jacaerys and Lucerys excitedly wait for Daemon and Laena’s arrival to the Keep on the rare occasions they’d visit. Selaena, Baela, and Rhaena would greet them with hugs and laughs. From his window he could see them play, in his nightmares he can hear them giggling amongst each other. He couldn’t ask to join them. His mother and grandfather would not want him around the Strong bastards. 

But his heart, the wretched thing, longed to run through the gardens with them. 

“Friends, then,” she says, smile wide. He turns away to hide his darkening cheeks, content to hold her hand again. 

“If that pleases you,” he mutters. 

Aemond pretends his wretched heart does not skip a beat as she laughs. 

page twenty-four 

Alicent tends to his scar the following morning. 

“Selaena will make a good wife,” she says, though she does not sound thoroughly convinced. It must be because she’s the daughter of Daemon. 

Aemond hums his agreement, steeling himself as she dabs salve to his face. Truthfully he could’ve left his bed days ago. He’s only stayed because Selaena enjoys lavishing him with attention. He’ll have Vhagar eat him before he tells her this, though. 

“Where is she?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound too clingy. He fails because Alicent frowns, softening her expression when she notices his stare. 

“In the library with Aegon,” she says. Aemond nods. The library is close, she’ll leave Aegon and join him soon enough. 

He blinks. 

She is in the library with Aegon. 

He’s standing before he realizes it. His mother looks startled at his sudden movement, no doubt under the impression he was too injured to move. She attempts to soothe him, placing a placating hand on his chest. 

“They are not alone,” she says. Aemond wouldn’t care if the King himself was supervising them. Aegon is the last person he trusts with his betrothed. Hells, he’d prefer Jacaerys to be with her over his own brother. At least his nephew has shame.

“I will go to them, it will be good to stretch my legs.” A weak excuse, they both know it. Alicent nods, trying to hide her disapproval. As much as he hates his mother being upset with him, he needs to make sure Aegon isn’t up to anything. 

Aemond forces himself to keep a controlled pace as he stalks the halls. Servants and guards part for him, surprised to see him walking. Some flinch at the sight of his scar, others look at it in disgust. He has no time for this. They hardly matter, anyway. Selaena said she did not mind the scar so he doesn’t either. 

He all but throws himself into the library. Sucking in a deep breath when he spots his brother and his betrothed peering at something on the table side-by-side. They notice him immediately, only Selaena smiles at him. Aegon appears uninterested. He places himself between them, frowning when he realizes he’s the shortest. This, though, has his whore of a brother grinning. Aemond scowls at him. 

“Hello,” Selaena greets. “I thought you weren’t well enough to leave your chambers?” 

“I needed fresh air,” he says as calmly as he can. Aegon snorts. Had Selaena not been looking, he would’ve punched him in the stomach. 

“Ah, yes, stale library air,” Aegon says, rolling his eyes. Selaena hides a giggle behind her fingers. He scowls harder, leveling his brother a glare. Aegon raises a brow, not understanding why Aemond looks ready to leap at him. His older brother had always been a bit slower. He blames the excessive drinking. 

A map is laid across the table. Aegon? Engrossed in a map? A second Doom of Valyria must be happening. 

“We were brushing up on our knowledge of Essos,” Selaena says. 

“Willingly?” Aemond asks, hardly believing Aegon is here by choice. He had assumed their mother forced him to study with her. Perhaps hoping her responsibility as the oldest daughter would rub off on her oldest. He’s smart enough to know Aegon is a lost cause. 

“It isn’t so surprising,” Aegon says though he doesn’t look enthused to be here. Selaena has graced him with her presence and he has the nerve to appear bored. The absolute twat. 

“Why Essos?” 

Selaena and Aegon exchange a look making him frown. After Aegon and her had danced that night, Aemond attempted to question Aegon as to what they’d been talking about. His brother waved him off, stating it was nothing. He’d believed him at first. Selaena had never spoken to either of them much. Now, he isn’t so sure. 

“It’s supposedly a beautiful place,” Selaena says with a shrug. “Aegon is interested in Lys.” 

“Absolutely,” Aegon says, though his insufferable smirk tells him he’s more intrigued by the people than the place. Aemond isn’t certain if Aegon would thrive or die there. “Wonderful lesson, dear cousin, but it appears I have a prior engagement to attend.” 

“You mean your plan to fuck and drink,” she says casually. Aemond turns to her in surprise. His brother has rubbed off on her already. He needs to keep them separate. 

“It’s as though you know me,” he says with mock wonder. Aegon slaps Aemond on the shoulder, taking his leave without another glance back. Aemond brushes his shoulder, grumbling. 

Selaena returns her attention to the map, finger tracing the sea separating Westeros and Essos. 

“Do you think your brother would make a good king?” she asks in a hushed tone. A Kingsguard stands near them—Ser Arryk? Erryk? Aemond isn’t entirely sure. 

“Rhaenyra is heir,” he answers immediately. To say otherwise is treason. That hasn’t stopped his mother and grandfather from plotting. They want Aegon on the Throne, so Aemond does as well. 

“That wasn’t my question,” she hums, dark eyes moving to rest on his face. Sometimes he thinks she can see through him. 

He glances back toward the Kingsguard, shuffling closer to Selaena. “Aegon is… He would not be my first choice as king.” 

“But you wouldn’t want Rhaenyra as queen?” she asks. He doesn’t know where she’s going with this. It feels like a trap, an obvious one. But she’s smiling at him and he—unwilling to disappoint her—finds himself opening his mouth to answer. 

“Jacaerys would be named heir,” he whispers. His point is clear, but Selaena simply looks at him. 

“I don’t see the issue.” 

She’s goading him. He knows it, truly. Aemond shouldn’t give her the response she’s looking for. He can’t seem to keep his mouth shut, though. 

“He is a bastard,” he says. Her lips twitch but she doesn’t frown, expression carefully collected. He prefers her anger over this. 

“He isn’t, none of them are.” 

“You are no fool—“

”I’m not,” she concurs. “Which is why I’m right when I say they’re not bastards.” 

“Selaena, you can tell from a mere glance,” he says, forcing his voice down. He doesn’t need Ser Arryk or Erryk or whomever to hear what they’re talking about. 

“Physical appearance means very little when Laenor claimed them as his own,” she says patiently, as though he’s a child unfamiliar with the world. He bristles. 

“That means nothing.” 

“It means everything, Aemond,” she snaps. “If we were to have a babe and they came out with dark hair, would you call them a bastard?” 

“No,” he says without thinking. 

“Would you claim them as your own despite their coloring?” 

“Yes.” 

She smiles. He hates the way tension bleeds from him when he sees it. His weak, foolish little heart. 

“Exactly,” she says. “Laenor has claimed them. They are his sons and not bastards. So why would Rhaenyra make a worse ruler than Aegon?” 

He finds himself unable to argue with her. A three-legged horse would make a better king than his brother. Laenor is not the father to any of Rhaenyra’s sons, but he has said they were his. He hadn’t made a fuss when they were born without his features. He called them his sons, loved them like his own. 

But they are bastards. Aemond knows this to be true. It matters very little, though, when Viserys is willing to ignore this. 

If Selaena were to have children that resembled the damn cook or some guard, Aemond would claim them as his. He would protect her and the babe, as her husband and her friend. Is this what Laenor did? Protected his wife despite her infidelity? Everyone saw the obvious love between them, but that love did not stop Rhaenyra from birthing Ser Harwin Strong’s children. 

“State your point,” Aemond says instead of responding. Selaena considers him for a moment. Then, she takes a step forward, their chests nearly pressed together. 

“I will always support Rhaenyra’s claim to the Throne,” she whispers. “Always. I would die before bending my knee to Aegon.” 

He makes a conscious effort to not back away from her. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“So that you may make your decision when the time comes,” she says with a shrug. “You stand with us or against us. It’ll be your choice.” 

“You asked for my loyalty, for my sword, for my word—“

”Yes,” she says, “but I cannot force you.” 

Selaena takes a step back as Ser Arryk-Erryk nears them. Her smile returns as quickly as it left. Aemond finds his mind spinning. 

“The Queen has requested both of your presence,” he says with a slight bow. 

“Of course,” Selaena says. She gives Aemond an expectant look and he offers her his arm, lost in his own thoughts. She doesn’t push for conversation, thankfully. 

How is she even aware of anyone wanting Aegon on the Throne? Unless… Is this what they’ve been discussing? His brother is idiotic enough to tell her. Gods, she could tell Rhaenyra and they’d all have their tongues cut out for fucking treason. What is he thinking? But Selaena wouldn’t. At least he hopes she won’t. Why tell him her position if she merely planned to rat them out to Rhaenyra? 

The Selaena he has come to know is kindhearted. Surely she won’t endanger his mother and siblings like that. 

It doesn’t even matter if Aegon will make a horrible king. Their grandfather refuses to see Rhaenyra on the Throne. For good reason, her bastard—

But Selaena is right. They’re not considered bastards. They’ve been claimed. 

He can’t turn his back on his mother, though. Who is to say his half-sister wouldn’t have them all executed to eliminate all threats to her throne? Daemon—as bloodthirsty as he is—wouldn’t bat an eye at kinslaying. Aemond would be his oldest daughter’s husband by then. May even be the father of his grandchildren (his face warms at the thought), but he’d still kill him if Rhaenyra asked. 

Aemond focuses on Selaena. If she can keep Alicent and his siblings safe, he may… he may consider what she’s saying. 

As though sensing his thoughts, she squeezes his elbow. 

“We have time, you needn’t tell me your answer now,” she says cryptically. 

“And if I make a choice you don’t agree with?” 

She considers his words. “I would be sad to lose a friend over a war so preventable.” 

So would he. 

page twenty-five 

Helaena likes Selaena very much. 

She doesn’t mind her bugs, doesn’t question her when she speaks about her dreams. Her embroidery is terrible, but this is a small flaw. She’s not Aegon. Helaena dislikes her older brother a little, she thinks. Selaena calls him a whoring cunt and Helaena doesn’t argue. 

Aemond likes Selaena a lot too. More than she does. 

Her younger brother has attached himself to her, always waiting for her attention. Helaena finds it a bit humorous. Aemond acts his age around her. 

“Should I do blue or pink?” Selaena asks her, leaning closer to see the embroider Helaena is working on. 

“Green thread weaves black once a heart turns,” she replies in a small murmur. 

“A black flower? That’s pretty,” Selaena says, settling herself back into her seat. 

No, that’s not that she means, but Helaena does not correct her. There is no point. Selaena will receive the answer from Aemond she wants soon enough. Helaena can see her stomach—once swollen with twins—disappear. 

Aegon will vanish. 

“Green thread weaves black once a heart turns,” she repeats. 

Aemond will betray their grandfather. 

“Green thread weaves black once a heart turns.” 

Alicent will break free of her path. 

(Selaena listens to Helaena’s muttering in silence.) 

page twenty-six 

Alicent watches Selaena walk around the gardens knowing her second son is not far behind. He appears a moment later, gazing up at her as though she is a god. For the last moon he’s been following her around like a lost puppy. 

She is both delighted and fearful. To see Aemond happy brings her joy, but knowing it’s because of Daemon’s daughter is giving her pause. Selaena has done nothing, though. It’s unfair of Alicent to judge her based on her parentage. 

“I do not trust her,” Otto says from his seat beside her. They’re looking out of a window at the children, neither of them aware they’re being watched. 

“She is a child,” Alicent says. 

“Then I do not trust him,” her father stresses. “She is the brat of that bastard. He must’ve sent her to seduce Aemond onto their side.” 

“Father,” she says through gritted teeth, “she is but a girl.” 

“So you’ve been saying,” he scoffs. 

“I say it because you speak of her as though she’s a plotting witch.” 

“She may as well be.” 

Alicent’s lips press together and she fights the urge to pick at her nails. It’s unsightly for the Queen to do so. She wishes to silence the hum beneath her skin, crawling and itching and welling. 

“Daughter,” Otto says, tone softer, “I am merely worried for my grandson. Look at him. He would be devastated if was to find out she was deceiving him.” 

Aemond looks to her with such a helpless, lovestruck expression it almost makes Alicent smile. Selaena does not return it, she never does, but she is kind to him. She gives him attention, plays with him, keeps him company. Aemond has always been on his own. 

Is it so wrong to want to see her darling boy content? She’s already forced Helaena into a betrothal with Aegon. Daeron is far, far away. Strangers to the rest of his family. One of her children should be allowed a chance at happiness. Aemond has lost his eye, he deserves this. 

“How are you certain—“

”Look at her father. Daemon and Rhaenyra must have told her to gain Aemond’s trust to use him. He is a kind boy.” 

But Selaena is thoughtful and patient, nothing like her father. She looks and acts more like Laena, her mother. 

“I don’t know,” Alicent whispers, swallowing. One mistake may lead to one of her children’s deaths. She cannot afford to trust anyone. Not when so much is at stake. 

But Rhaenyra had once been her closest friend. She’s never done anything to her or her children, even agreed a marriage between Aemond and Selaena would bring them together. 

What if her father is wrong? 

Otto places a hand over hers, eyes warm. “Do not fret. I’ll find out her true intentions.” 

Alicent cannot stomach looking at him. She turns her attention back to Aemond. Her son is scarred forever because of an accident. She worried he’d be miserable but Selaena brought a small, hesitant smile to his face. 

He smiles softly at Selaena now, allowing her to place a flower behind his ear. 

What kind of a mother would take this from her child? 

Alicent closes her eyes and nods. 

“Alright,” she says because she is useless against her father. 

Always playing the fool.

Chapter Text

page twenty-seven 

“But I have yet to give you an answer,” Aemond argues. 

Selaena hums. “You will.” 

“It’s been nearly a year,” he says, stopping in front of her. She raises a brow, side-stepping him to continue her wandering through the garden. Aemond trails behind her, as he does most days. Selaena thinks he’s lonely. “What if I do not make a decision in time?”

Selaena bends to brush a flower. “You will.” 

“Perhaps you should remain here longer,” he suggests, pretending to gaze at the flowers. His eye continues to dart toward her, waiting for her reaction. “To hear my answer.” 

“I believe you’ve already made it.” 

Aemond scowls at her. His eye remains wrapped. Less because of the injury and more to hide the appalling scar. He’s still self-conscious of it, young as they are. In her previous life she’d been disgusted at the sight of it, a reminder of that night. But she had hated that Aemond, prayed for his death. 

She cannot imagine wanting this Aemond to die. 

“I trust you,” she says, though it’s not the complete truth. 

Green threads weave black once a heart turns. 

Helaena’s mumbling has never made sense. Selaena assumed she spoke nonsense, but she fears she’s been wrong. A dreamer? It’s not unheard of. 

Green threads weave black once a heart turns. 

They were separated into the Blacks and Greens. Has Helaena seen Aemond’s change of heart? Or is she referring to another Green? More than one Green? Mayhaps it’s Helaena herself that joins them. She will receive no answers, not from Helaena. She murmurs her dreams and then breezes by. Selaena wishes to shake her by the shoulders and demand a response. Then there is also a chance Helaena’s words mean nothing. She coincidentally mentioned green and black thread. 

Selaena knows not how her actions will affect the future. Aemond still loses his eye, but it is not Lucerys who cuts it out. How else can she stop a fucking war? She is a child, hardly ten-and-two. She knows she cannot do this alone, and she knows Aemond and Aegon cannot be her enemies. Aegon won’t be a problem for long. The closer his wedding to Helaena approaches, the more he seems keen on her idea to leave. 

That leaves Aemond, her intended. He celebrated his eleventh nameday recently; too young to fully understand the decision he is to make, and she feels guilty for imposing it on him, but her family’s survival matters more. It’s the reason she came back. She must save them and she will pay any price. 

“Truly?” Aemond asks quietly. She stands, brushing specks of dirt off her dress. 

“We’re friends,” she says and she means it. Aemond has been her one true companion. She likes Helaena and Alicent is polite (Aegon is an insufferable twat), but Aemond feels like her friend. He isn’t how she envisioned him to be, though she hadn’t actually known him. He’d haunted her as the man that had slaughtered little Luke.

(Monster, she’d called him, and he looked upon her with so much hatred she’d hidden behind her father.) 

This Aemond looks at her as though she’s hung all the stars in the sky. Puppy love. A childish crush that will no doubt fade when he realizes what she wants from him. 

No matter how much she may come to like him, he is a tool. A sword in her hand to utilize. This betrothal, this friendship, all of it has been carefully crafted by her. She needs Aemond, though. She needs Vhagar on their side. This will save him, too, she argues. Daemon would’ve eventually killed him. Her plotting benefits them all. 

But guilt settles into her gut like stone. 

“Yes,” he mumbles, cheeks turning pink. It makes her sick, an apology at the tip of her tongue. 

For what? her mind hisses. You remember what he will become. You’ve done him a favor. 

Has she? 

“I miss Dragonstone,” she says, motioning for him to give her his arm. He does without question. “It’ll be nice to go back.” 

“But…” He’s pouting, she realizes. It’s exceptionally childish for him. 

“Aemond, I am to spend the rest of my life with you. I’ll be back and then we’ll be married.” 

His frown doesn’t cease.

“Come,” she says, tugging him back toward the Keep. 

He walks with his shoulders squared beside her, head held as high as he can bring it without tilting his chin up. Over the past year she’s grown, he hasn’t. The height difference is noticeable when they walk side by side. She can almost rest her chin atop his head. Not that she intends to try. Aemond would have a fit. 

His height (or lack of it) is a sore spot. Aegon is the only one idiotic enough to poke fun of it.

(“Stretch more, brother, otherwise Selaena will always tower over you,” Aegon says, downing more wine. Both Selaena and Aemond wrinkle their noses at him. “She may yet leave you for a taller man.”

”She wouldn’t,” Aemond snaps, face twisted. Then he turns to her, frowning. “You wouldn’t, would you?”

”I prefer short men,” Selaena answers tactfully. He tips his chin down to hide his smile. Aegon makes a retching noise, successfully ruining the mood. Aemond jabs an elbow into his stomach and Selaena giggles.)

Selaena leads him to her chambers. His face flushes as he enters, glancing about as though he expects Daemon to leap out of her dresser. They are alone, of course. A kingsguard stands just outside the door, uncertain if he should interrupt. She releases her hold on his arm and he flounders about. With a smile, she plucks the book off her desk, presenting it to him. Aemond tilts his head to the side. 

“It’s my mother’s book. Well, one of them. I want you to have it.” She holds it out to him but he makes no move to take it.

”I couldn’t,” he says. “It should stay with you.” 

“Alright, then I’ll lend it to you and come back for it,” she says, pushing the book closer to him. “A promise that I will return.” 

“You would return for a book but not me?” he asks but a minuscule smile has taken over his face, ears red. He takes the pale pink book from her, holding it like it is something small and precious. 

“I prefer books,” she replies. They share tiny, secret smiles for none other than each other. 

(Ser Rickard Thorne waits outside the door. He knows Prince Aemond should not be here, but he cannot bring himself to interrupt them. He turns around instead, allowing the young couple a moment alone.

Perhaps he’s too soft-hearted in the face of young love.) 

page twenty-eight 

Helaena holds a centipede out to her, gaze expectant. Selaena swallows a scream, forcing a smile. Bugs are the bane of her existence. A nightmare on one-too-many legs. Unfortunately her sweet cousin has a special interest in them. Which means Selaena must subject herself to this. 

“It is… long,” she says stiffly. Helaena nods excitedly. 

“They cannot hurt you,” she says, allowing the cursed thing to travel over her knuckles. “Their bite feels like a bee sting.”

“Very comforting,” Selaena mutters. 

Helaena hums, pleased with Selaena’s false interest. She has a feeling she’s one of the few people who listens to her ramble about bugs. Aegon certainly doesn’t. He spends as little time as possible with her. Alicent tries, but they are oddly distant for a mother and daughter. Aemond and Helaena get along, and he isn’t frightened of bugs like Selaena is. But he’s off studying, having been dragged away from her earlier. 

“Chains of the past will drown all who wear them,” Helaena whispers, allowing the centipede to crawl back into her palm. Selaena turns to look at her, but she’s staring elsewhere, pale eyes distant. 

“What did you say?” she asks. Helaena’s gaze slides to her before dropping back to the bug. 

No answer. 

“Helaena, what did you mean?” 

Again, Helaena hums a soundless tune. Selaena feels panic well in her, threatening to burst from her chest. Chains of the past will drown all who wear them? Her heart rabbits in her slowly collapsing ribs. Aemond, Daemon, and Jacaerys all died at sea. She is—will prevent their deaths. All of her efforts, everything she has been poured into keeping them alive. Is she the chain of the past? Will she lead them to their doom? 

“It does not have eyes to see,” Helaena says, holding the bug up for her. Selaena stares, lips pressed into a tight line. She does not know what to think. 

“I don’t…” Her breath is caught in her chest, limbs cold. 

“You will not kill my son,” she tells her in a quiet murmur that would’ve been comforting with any other words. Selaena feels blood drain from her face. Her sweet cousin continues, unperturbed. “Not this time. You are different now. Chains of the past will drown all who wear them.” 

At Selaena’s horror, Helaena smiles, then twists her hand and crushes the centipede. 

page twenty-nine 

Aemond’s practice sword slams into Aegon’s, forcing him to stumble backwards. The younger of the two swings his sword down. Aegon attempts to meet it, but his angle is off and the wooden sword is sent flying out of his hands. 

“Good job,” Criston says, clapping Aemond on the shoulder. His chest puffs out and he happily turns to Selaena. 

Her gaze is on them, but she pays them no attention. Aemond nearly deflates. 

“Showing off for your stupid wife,” Aegon grumbles. Aemond scowls at him. 

“We have yet to marry.” 

“You act as though her cunt’s enraptured you.” 

Before Aemond can throw an insult back, Criston steps between them. 

“Prince Aemond, you should see to escorting Lady Selaena back to the Keep. The training yard is no place for her.” 

Aegon’s smirk grows; Aemond wishes to punch it off his face. 

“Of course,” he says, jabbing Aegon in the stomach with his practice sword before spinning off toward Selaena. His brother yells threats at his retreating back. He thinks he hears Criston attempt to calm the oldest prince, but he doesn’t turn to look. 

His gaze is firmly trained onto Selaena. 

She doesn’t notice his approach. Her dark violet eyes have a wet sheen over them, lips set into a tight line. Has she been crying? Aemond quickens his pace. 

Her gaze only moves to meet his when he touches her shoulder. She startles, yanking her head back. 

“Aemond?” she asks as though she hasn’t been sitting out by the training yard. He’d assumed she came for him. 

“What’s wrong?” he questions. “Who hurt you?” 

Selaena’s expression falls and he wishes, not for the first time, he had kept his mouth shut. New tears do not form, though, and he’s grateful for it. He’ll sooner claw his other eye out than make her cry. 

“I simply… I miss my father and sisters,” she whispers. He does not mention how she left out Rhaenyra and her bastards. 

“You’ll be home soon,” he says, though he wishes Daemon would fall ill and be unable to fly to the Keep to collect her. A part of him almost asks to be housed on Dragonstone. His pride will not let him. Bowing his head to Daemon and Rhaenyra? He cares for Selaena greatly, she is his closest friend, but he refuses to bend a knee to them. 

Gods, he can picture Daemon’s smirk. Or perhaps he’d be irate as he had been the day Viserys pushed for their betrothal. If there is any Targaryen willing to be known as a kinslayer, it is Daemon. 

“Don’t sound too excited for me,” she jests. As strained as her smile is, she still gives him one. 

“I want you stay.” 

“I’ll be back. You know I will.” 

“What if… What if you fall in love with another while you’re away?” His question is ridiculous. He almost expects her to mock him, but she doesn’t. Her head tilts, pale curls sliding across the brown skin of her neck. 

“A betrothal is not so easily broken,” she says. His frown only makes her giggle. Aemond’s chest warms despite his annoyance. He is the one to cheer her up; he is the one who makes her smile and bite back laugh. 

“You would not consider my feelings—as—as your friend?” 

“You’re my intended, Aemond.” 

“I wish to be your friend first,” he says seriously. 

“I would not betray you, as a friend or a wife,” she answers vaguely. The heart is a fickle thing, he’s certain. He rather she take multiple lovers into her bed than ever allow one to fester her thoughts as she did his. 

A physical betrayal he may stomach. But he imagines her exchanging warm smiles and soft eyes with another—Jacaerys—and he wants to be sick. The image is haunting and he wishes to cleanse his mind of it. Her father wished her wed to the bastard. Whether he didn’t think he was or simply didn’t care, Aemond isn’t sure. 

Laenor claimed them, they are not bastards. 

His mother and grandfather have always said they were. Indirectly, but he understands. The court whispers it, even. You may look upon them, with their dark hair and eyes and pug nose, and see them for what they are. 

But Laenor had claimed. He’d acted as a father—more so than Aemond’s. There is no doubt he is the son of the King, and yet he nor his siblings were ever treated as such. Had they inherited dark hair, would the people say the same? That they were bastards and that was why Viserys ignored them? 

He doesn’t wish to doubt his mother, truly, but… 

But what? 

“I wish to go to the Pit,” Selaena says, standing. He offers her his arm immediately and she tucks a hand into his elbow. They fit together nicely, he thinks. Though he may be one of the few who do. He’s heard whispers, murmurs of pity for the first daughter forced to be with a scarred, second son. 

Selaena does not care. She claims him as her friend, as her betrothed without issue. 

“And I am to come with you?” he asks knowing the answer. Her giggle rings in his ears and he allows himself to smile, however fleeting. 

page thirty

Aemond hasn’t been allowed to ride Vhagar since he lost his eye. 

Alicent had been adamantly against it—begging her son to wait until he was older to attempt mounting her again. Selaena, for a moment, felt for her. To lose a child is an indescribable feeling. 

In a body no older than twelve namedays, she remembers the loss of her babe. A babe that will never exist. So small and bloody and unmoving. 

But Rhaenyra had lost her sons, had lost her husband and father and daughter. The losses had ruined her and Selaena could not blame her. Had it not been for Rhaena and Baela, she would’ve burnt King’s Landing to the ground. Damn them all. 

It’s strange to think the boy she’s clutching started that war. 

She can blame Aemond for the death of her husband and daughter. She can blame him, kill him, make him miserable. It won’t change anything. His death in her last life had left her cold. There was no satisfaction in revenge. Killing Helaena’s son had made her sicker than she was. 

You will not kill my son. 

Selaena shudders at the memory. Helaena is strange, yes, and she does not always understand her, but she has never feared her. 

The carriage jerks them forward, Aemond scrambles to hold her steady. She blinks, face a breath away from slamming into the other seat. He jerks her toward him, her cheek crushing into his face. Aemond grunts and she peels herself off of him. 

“That would’ve hurt,” she jokes weakly. Aemond does not laugh. 

“Do you exist to make me worry?” he asks. 

“As I live and breathe,” she answers, straightening out her dress. She’s been wearing green—Hightower green specifically—for Alicent’s approval. The Queen may not be the most useful ally to have, but Aemond loves his mother, and that love will make him falter in betraying the Greens. She must bring Alicent and Rhaenyra together. There was love between them once, she will make them find it again. 

Her eyes trail out towards the window, Aemond’s hand tensing around her upper arm at every bump. He expects her to go careening toward the floor again, no doubt. She does not pull away from his hold. It’s a comforting weight. 

There is so much to do in such little time. She attempted to save Aemond’s eye, assumed she succeed, only for him to have it ripped out by her own dragon. Is that a failure on her part? Surely he won’t go seeking revenge against Lucerys. It will be her he goes after, but he is too sweet on her for that. 

He holds her tightly now, afraid she’ll crack her head open. 

“Why did you want to go to the Pit?” Aemond asks. She shrugs. 

“To clear my mind,” she says, barely the truth. Helaena had frightened her, but she cannot tell Aemond this. He’ll press her for answers and she won’t know what to say. He can never know about their previous lives. 

He’ll hate her, she fears, and that will ruin her plans. 

“You could’ve went alone,” he points out. 

“Perhaps,” she says simply, “but I prefer your company.” 

His hate would ruin her, too. The Aemond of this life is round-faced with freckles and hesitant smiles. He argues with his brothers, brings Helaena bugs, and allows Selaena to read him her romance novels. He is a friend and a stranger and an enemy all at once. 

“I did miss Vhagar,” he says, though she spies the pale flush on his cheeks. 

Aemond assists her out of the carriage. Ser Rickard stands vigil near them. He has been assigned to guard Aemond, and by extension, her. Rickard is vaguely familiar, she thinks. He had not been part of Rhaenyra’s queensguard, but she doesn’t recall them facing off during the war. He must’ve died early. 

She holds Aemond’s arm as they enter the Pit. Dragonkeepers greet them in Valyrian. He’s become more fluent. Aemond claims it’s because of his own studies, but she believes reading him her mother’s books has helped. He enjoys the tales, getting especially loud when the story does not have a happy ending. They normally don’t. Selaena still hasn’t read the tale of the woman who died on her birthingbed, too unsettled by it. 

She wonders why her mother wrote it at all. 

Ser Rickard follows them as they descend into the Pit, but he lags behind. Most do in the face of dragons. 

“Aemond,” she mutters, “we should go flying.” 

He frowns. “I’m not allowed to, Mother’s forbid it.” 

She wants to see if he’s willing to disobey his mother for her. A fucked up test of loyalty where his life is his reward; he’s not even aware. Guilt is thick in her throat, wrapping around her lungs like a sickness. She reminds herself she must convince him to side with her. That this is necessary. She is doing what is intended of her. 

“We will only receive a scolding,” she says. “You are a prince, a dragon, no one can stop you from flying.” 

His hesitation is obvious. 

Starfall trills upon seeing her, slitted blue eyes wide open. Selaena coos, releasing Aemond to rush up to her. 

“Hello, old friend,” she whispers in her mother tongue. Her fingers brush her dragon’s snout. 

In her mind, she can vividly picture Starfall opening her mouth, hot flames licking her skin. It burns and burns and burns. 

The scar on her palm throbs. 

“Well, Aemond,” she says, watching her betrothed clutch his shirt. “What is your answer?” 

“Alright,” he says quietly. 

Her grin is sharp. 

He heads toward Vhagar. See Rickard is somewhere behind them. Not nearly close enough to see, but if they shouted he’d be there in moments. 

Neither one of them do, though. They’re both eerily quiet as they mount their dragons. Selaena can’t see Aemond, but they both know the back entrance by heart. Slowly, as to not make sound, she unlatches the chains holding her down. Selaena glides a hand across Starfall’s side, hoisting herself up. She settles onto the saddle, patting Starfall on the neck. 

“Now,” she says, and Starfall all but takes off for the back. 

She hears See Rickard shout. It’s a useless attempt, her dragon is faster than any man. As soon as cool air nips at her cheeks, she commands Starfall to fly. 

Her dragon bellows, shooting into the sky with a huge flap of her wings. She feels her stomach flip, air leaving her lungs, and then she’s gliding. Freedom is wind in her face and a chill against her arms. 

This is where she feels safest. 

Vhagar and Aemond are nowhere in sight. For a moment she fears he changed his mind, but then a large shape emerges from a cloud behind her. Starfall roars in surprise, dipping to the side. 

“It’s fine!” Selaena shouts in Valyrian over the rush of wind. “It’s only Vhagar and Aemond.” 

Vhagar answers her cry with one of her own, deeper and more terrifying than Starfall’s high pitched screech. 

Selaena leans to the side and Starfall follows, they swoop beneath Vhagar, coming up on her right. Aemond has his head twisted, a grin stretch across his face. 

If she asked, would he fly away with her? 

The question will never leave her thoughts, but it lingers. Freedom haunts her as her mother does. Shadows at the corner of her eye, ice in the fire she calls her blood. Is she cruel for wanting an escape? Her family needs her. She has their lives resting upon her. All on her. She is too young and too old and she is a child and an adult. She is a daughter and a mother and a sister and she is none of those. 

In the clouds, on dragonback, she closes her eyes and is unchained. 

Starfall and Vhagar fly around each other as though they are dancing. Selaena laughs and laughs and Aemond joins her. Her ears pop and her hair is tangled but she laughs like it is their last time. 

“Selaena!” Aemond shouts and she looks to him. He’s small on Vhagar’s back. She remembers a time her and Laena had sat there. 

Women will never truly be free. 

Isn’t that what her mother told her once? Her brave mother, the strongest woman she knows, killed by a mere babe. A fate Selaena or one of her sisters may one day share. Even when she’d begged Jace to run away with her he’d refused. 

Sometimes, in the darkest parts of her mind, she wishes she’d stayed dead. 

“Selaena let us land over there!” Aemond shouts again, eye bright. He’s grinning wildly, more carefree than she’s ever seen him be. 

He killed Lucerys. The blood on his hands would then drown Daemon and Jacaerys and Rhaenys. 

It would kill her and her babe. 

But he looks at her as though she is something small and precious and fragile and she cannot hate him. Not when her palm is scarred just as his face is. A horrible mirror image of each other. 

“Yes,” she whispers knowing he will never hear. “I’ll follow you.” 

When he sees her nod, Aemond begins to direct Vhagar to land. Starfall follows, faster than her, her smaller body weaving past Vhagar’s larger frame. 

They land on the grassy cliff, wind pushing her skirt around her. Aemond is already sliding off Vhagar’s back when her feet touch the ground. He particularly runs up to her, red faced. 

“Why did you ask to land?” She attempts to tame her silvery curls but it is in vain. The strands halo around her like a pillow. Aemond does not seem to mind the state of her hair, doesn’t notice it, she thinks. 

“I wanted to watch the sunset with you,” he says. The tips of his ears burn brightly. “Like—like in those novels your mother wrote.” 

She is grinning before she can stop herself. 

“Ever the romantic,” she teases, nudging him with her elbow. He glowers at her, but the expression is offset by how pink his round freckled cheeks have become. 

“I am doing this as you’re betrothed,” he says with a wave of his hand. 

“Oh, of course, my prince,” she returns, “all arranged marriages consist of holding hands and watching the sunset together.” 

“We are not holding hands.” 

“Do you want to?” 

His glare softens. “Well, if you insist.” 

“I’m not insisting,” she says, shrugging. “If you don’t then—“

”Give me your damn hand,” he hisses. She giggles unabashedly as he aggressively intertwines their fingers. 

They stand pressed to each other, dragons at their back, as the sky turns pink and the moon begins to beam at them. Selaena leans her cheek against the top of his head. They will, undoubtedly, be in a lot of trouble when they return to the Keep. 

But, for now, they watch the sunset. 

She thinks she feels Laena smiling at her from above. 

page thirty-one 

Ser Rickard and another Kingsguard along with Alicent are waiting at the Pit for them. Aemond has his head lowered guiltily. 

“What were the two of you thinking?” Alicent cries as she races toward Aemond. Selaena stays silent at his side. Their dragons are back in the Pit, no doubt being chained by the dragonkeepers. They won’t be able to do this again, not for a long time, but she does not regret it. 

The Queen cups her son’s cheeks, checking for any injuries. 

“I’m fine, Mother,” he grumbles. 

“That was dangerous,” she says heatedly. Alicent turns to Selaena and she expects to be blamed. It is her fault, but she it’s a bitter feeling knowing her soon to be good-mother is that quick to turn on her. 

She doesn’t, though. Instead Alicent brushes her fingertips to Selaena’s cheekbones, eyes glassy with tears. 

“What if one of you were hurt?” she asks, brows knitted together. “How—How could I live with myself if one of you died?” 

“I’m sorry,” Selaena says quietly, unable to look at her. Alicent’s gaze roams her, fear in her eyes. 

“It was my idea,” Aemond says, stepping forward so his shoulder slightly covers Selaena. She looks to him, eyes wide. 

“Aemond—“

”I begged her to come with me to fly Vhagar,” he continues, ignoring her hand on his upper arm. “She did nothing but follow me to keep me safe.” 

A lie. A violent lie. A complete fucking lie. 

Alicent believes him because her sweet son, her darling boy, would never lie to his mother. But he just did. 

Green thread weaves black once a heart turns. 

Her breath is caught in her throat. 

“Never do this again, do you understand me? Both of you. Swear you will never do this again,” Alicent demands. 

“I swear it,” they both say at the same time. 

The Queen allows a small smile to grace her perpetually anxious face. She presses a kiss to Aemond’s brow, squeezes Selaena’s hand like Laena used to. It’s nice, she thinks, to be scolded by a mother again. 

Ser Rickard steps forward, bowing to them. “The Lord Hand has requested Lady Selaena’s presence.” 

Alicent tenses but it is Aemond who asks, “Why?” 

“I know not,” he replies, looking at them. His brows are slightly furrowed, unnerved. It is hardly ever a good thing to be requested by Otto Hightower. Selaena straightens. 

“Let us go then,” she says. Alicent is quick to grab her. 

“My father will not hurt you,” she says, though she hardly sounds convinced. “But if… if anything happens, inform me immediately.” 

She nods. Aemond says nothing as she leaves, but his lips are pressed into a tight line. 

There is a wheelhouse waiting for them. Rickard helps her in, sitting across from her. They do not speak even as they reach the Keep. He is a shadow behind her, sticking closer than he has before. Perhaps he assumes she’ll run. Part of her wishes to. 

She’s done well to avoid Otto Hightower thus far. He is there for meals and at the King’s side when she visits them, but she’s never been alone with him. Her luck has run out, it seems. 

She must pretend to be weak, cower before him like a child, to find out his intentions. 

They’re in the hall before Otto’s study when Ser Rickard speaks. 

“My lady, if you are ever in need, know I will come running,” he says. “A single scream and I will draw my sword for you.” 

Selaena reels back in surprise. His smile is gruff, awkward, as though he does not do it often. 

“You are Prince Aemond’s betrothed, I could not allow you harmed in good conscience,” he tells her. 

She does not remember what happened to him in her last life. Perhaps he was killed by her dragon, tripped down a flight of stairs, or was hung by Rhaenyra’s command. Now he swears loyalty to her just out of Otto Hightower’s prying ears. It is obvious what he means to say. 

If the Lord Hand attempts to hurt you, I will defend you. 

Her focus has been solely on her family. How strange that she has changed the will of others without meaning to. 

“Thank you, Ser Rickard,” she says softly. “I will remember your words.” 

He bows again, and then they are outside Otto’s doors. Rickard pushes them open, allowing Selaena to step in. The doors thud shut behind her and she is left alone with this wretch of a man. 

Her blood boils at the sight of him. 

“You requested my presence,” she says, curtsying politely. His smile feels like bugs beneath her skin, but she returns it. 

“Yes, yes, come sit,” he says, motioning toward the seat in front of his desk. She sits, aware her hair is still in a disarray and her dress is mused. He eyes her with disgust. 

“You smell of dragon, my lady. Is it true you had Aemond fly Vhagar with you?” His tone is polite, collected.  

She smiles but it feels like she’s drawing a knife across her cheeks. “Aemond has told his mother he convinced me to come with him.” 

“Truly?” 

“Yes, you are free to ask either of them.” 

Otto leans forward, fingers folded before him. “I am, but I wish to hear the truth from you.” 

“Aemond has already told his truth,” she lies carefully. 

He hums, vaguely amused by her words. “I see.” 

“Is this why you’ve called me in here, my lord?” she asks, tilting her head to the side and rounding her eyes. It makes her appear more childish than she feels. 

“No, Lady Selaena, my reasoning for requesting your presence is a tad less… official.” 

Her heart pounds against her ribs and she fears, for a fraction of a moment, he hears because a smile spreads across his face. He looks ready to devour her. Selaena flinches back, gripping her skirts tightly. 

“May I ask what it is?” Her voice is low with a slight tremble. He feasts on her fear, appears pleased by it. The fucking cunt. 

“I wish to know why you agreed to the betrothal between you and my grandson,” he says. “Your own father was against it. Princess Rhaenyra offered you one of her sons, her you’d choose a boy you had no prior relationship with. Why?” 

“It is my duty,” she answers innocently. “My uncle wished us to marry to join our house together. Do you disagree with his decision?” 

“Of course not. I am merely surprised a child such as yourself understands what her duty is.” 

“I do.” 

His face shifts into pity. She cannot tell if it is real or not. “I believe you’ve been misled.” 

“What—What do you mean?” she asks, hating the way her voice genuinely cracks. Otto Hightower knows how to play the Game. He is years her senior, has been alive longer than both of her lives combined. She would be a fool to not fear him. 

“Princess Rhaenyra hardly put up a fight when the King wished for you to be left here. Why do you think that is?” 

Selaena stares. “I don’t understand—“

“You think of her as an ally, yes?” he asks with false patience. 

“She is my step-mother,” she says. 

“That does not mean she isn’t willing to use you.” 

Rhaenyra isn’t using her. She is here because she needs to dig her nails into Aemond and never let go. But she needs him to talk, so she shakes her head as though she is in denial. 

“Rhaenyra would never hurt me.” 

“Truly?” 

She presses her lips together. “Yes.” 

“Do you not fear what Princess Rhaenyra will do once she becomes queen? You will be the wife to Aemond, who is direct competition. Any children between the two of you may be at risk. Think of Helaena, she will be married to Aegon, the King’s first son,” he says, voice soft, as though attempting to comfort her. She feels gooseflesh form along her arms. Her knees tense, begging her to run. This man is dangerous. Had she not lived a life before this one, she’d have fallen into his hand. Another pawn for him to use. “I only wish to advise you, Selaena. You are still young, unknowing. Your father has been blinded by love, he won’t be able to save you in time.” 

The meek expression falls from her face. Otto startles at the blank look she gives him. 

“Is that your aim, then?” she asks calmly. “Turn me against Rhaenyra?” 

His smile wavers. “I would not turn you against anyone. It is the truth.” 

“No, you wish to use me as you’ve used your daughter, Lord Hand,” she says. “What you speak of is treason.” 

It must be disturbing to see her transform from a shaking little girl to this. Humorlessly, she realizes they are the same. Both playing the Game; both using the people who trust them. Perhaps that makes her just as horrible as him. So be it. She did not emerge from dragon flames to love Aemond. Selaena was reborn to stop the destruction of her family. 

She had forgotten, lost herself in her desperate attempt to heal the scars Jacaerys and her mother left behind. Never will she forget again. 

“Such foul accusations, Lady Selaena,” he says. He’s trying  a different approach. Too late, she has learned what she needed to. “I would hate for you to lose your tongue.” 

“I am still the daughter of Prince Daemon Targaryen, brother to the king you so loyally serve, my lord. Lest you forget how to speak to me,” she reminds him gently, the same tone he’d taken with her. “A trial would be held and, to be frank, I am a little girl. None would believe me capable of this. You would look a fool in front of the court.” 

“You are no child,” he spits with a smile, nostrils flaring. 

There is some truth to his words. Her entire life she’d been a girl foolishly attempting to play the role of an adult. The eldest daughter who would fill the space Laena left for her younger sisters. The future queen consort once Jacaerys ascended the Throne. She had been born and then forced to shed her childhood behind before her first flowering. A mother of a child who did not draw breath. A widow. 

She has never been allowed to be a child. Not in this life or her last. 

“Perhaps,” she answers with the wave of her hand. Selaena stands, smoothing down her dress. She will not be able to surprise Otto Hightower like this again. She has shown her hand too early, a reckless decision, but she couldn’t continue to bend in front of him. “I believe we both have had our questions answered. I will see you at sup, Lord Hand.” 

He does not stop her.

page thirty-two 

“What if I am caught attempting to flee?” Aegon asks in a low voice, hands pressed to the table. Near them stands Ser Erryk. Or at least Selaena assumes that’s who he is. Truthfully, she cannot tell the difference. She prays it is Ser Erryk simply because he had aided the Blacks in her past life. 

“Perhaps your mother may lock you in a tower,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Nothing will happen. You may have more guards surrounding you is all.” 

“That sounds horrible.” 

“You sitting on the Throne is worse.” 

Aegon grimaces. “True.” 

He’s been massaging his temples the entire time they’ve sat in the library. Too much wine, she assumes. He’s hardly five-and-ten and drinks as though he is middle-aged. His habits will only continue to grow worse. Drunk whoring usurper. Rhaenys’ killer. The one Baela nearly died fighting on Moondancer. 

Technically, he was what killed her too. It was while soaring toward him she was mortally wounded alongside Starfall. 

Now he is but a boy who likes getting his cock wet. 

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, glancing away from the map and toward her. She raises a brow. 

“I’m sure your maesters are glad for it.” 

“I pray they do not decide to make you court jester, cousin,” he sneers. Her smile is unkind. 

“What have you been thinking? Depending on how foolish the idea is I’ll—“

”We should tell Aemond.” 

Selaena blinks at him slowly. She has known Aegon is not the wisest person in the Keep, but he cannot be this idiotic. Had he not been born a prince, he would’ve been run over by a stray wheelhouse and died. 

“Why?” she asks, deciding to entertain the thought. 

“It’ll make sneaking out easier,” he replies, then he leans closer, that irritating smirk on his face. “How angry do you think he will be when he learns his own wife has been conspiring behind his back?” 

“I’m not yet his wife,” she says. 

“Alright, your betrothed, your lovesick fool, your little lover—“

”Do you get off on the sound of your voice?” she questions snappishly, nose wrinkling in disgust. 

“Yes, it’s why I’m so loud while I fuck,” Aegon answers very seriously. Perhaps kinslaying isn’t the sin it’s made out to be. “Selaena, Aemond. We should inform him.” 

“No,” she answers immediately. Her trust in Aemond only extends so far. Aegon must leave, must disappear so they cannot crown him. No one will stop this. 

She isn’t certain Aemond will even agree. He may change his mind because, truthfully, shipping a prince to Lys like he’s illegal goods is mad. But she is desperate. Otto Hightower will be keeping an even closer eye on her now. Aemond lied to his mother for her, but this is different. They wouldn’t have been punished severely for sneaking out on dragonback. 

Aegon frowns but he slumps across the table, brushing the maps away. “Alright, then. Whatever the lady wants.” 

“Do you trust him enough to help us?” she asks genuinely. He shrugs. 

“This merely seems like too much for you to handle on your own,” he says. “You’ll be heading back to Dragonstone soon. Who will release Sunfyre to me?” 

“Once they’ve realized you’ve gone missing, they’ll send every dragonrider they can to find you,” she starts slowly, leaning in close to him. Aegon watches her, vague interest flickering in his dark purple eyes for the first time. “My father will no doubt be sent. I’ll… convince him it is in our best interest to leave you there.” 

“Is it that simple?” 

No. “Yes.” 

Daemon is not a man of rational thought. He takes what he wants. He chooses actions over words. He doesn’t see sense in diplomacy or the intricacies of politicking. But he is still her father, and she is his oldest child. He trusts her explicitly. So long as Daemon does not resort to kinslaying, Aegon will be fine. He thinks the young prince is a worthless whore. 

Aegon does not look convinced, brows creasing. Stress is not a natural look on him. Selaena smiles, though it stretches her cheeks in odd ways. 

“Focus on boarding a ship, cousin,” she says. “I will handle the rest.” 

As she always has. 

page thirty-three 

The halls are quiet. 

Selaena slinks close to a wall, back flushed against it. Aemond’s apartments are just ahead. She holds her breath, carefully pressing against the door, before slipping inside. 

She releases a breath. 

“Selaena?” 

Her head jerks around to find Aemond sitting in his bed, one eye wide open in bewilderment. She grins, darting toward him. 

“Aemond,” she replies. He watches her slide atop his bed as though she isn’t real. “I leave in the morn so I wished to see you now.” 

“We were with each other at supper,” he says, still surprised. She settles into the pillows next to him, soft blankets warm against her cold feet. Running through the Keep barefoot was not a wise decision. 

“Alone,” she emphasizes. “I like talking freely with you.” 

“Ah,” he says slowly. He blinks at her again, cheeks a soft pink. It suits them, she thinks. Little tan freckles blending in with the blush on his pale skin. His silvery locks fall around his shoulders in messy waves. 

She notices the book on his lap. A little pink book. She grins, plucking it from him. He attempts to snatch it back from her but she rolls, back facing him and arms stretched out. 

“Oh, Aemond, are you reading my mother’s book?” she asks delightedly. He groans, dropping next to her. “I thought you said you didn’t like it.” 

“I’m… I liked it until the end,” he grumbles. She can feel him cross his arms like a pouting child. He is a pouting child. 

She twists, facing him. He’s squinting one dark violet eye at her. 

“Read to me,” she requests. 

“My Valyrian isn’t that fluent,” he says. Selaena gives a half-shrug. 

“I don’t mind, I just want…” She glances to the ceiling. “A little distraction would be nice.” 

“For you,” he says quietly, taking the book from her. 

He begins the tale of a poet and a knight and she lays beside him, listening. Valyrian rolls off his tongue unnaturally, he doesn’t stress as many words as he should; a gentleness that usually isn’t present. It’s nice, she thinks. In truth, she’d been feeling lonely in her big, empty room. Tomorrow she would be gone, reunited with the rest of her family. Aemond would remain here with his. 

They wouldn’t see one another for years. 

It’s strange how she’s come to care for him. If you asked the Selaena of her previous life if she could be friends with One-Eye, she would’ve laughed. That Selaena would’ve made herself kinslayer with Aemond’s blood on her hands. 

This Selaena wouldn’t hurt him. No, that’s untrue. She wouldn’t hurt him physically. Not if she can help it. But she’s plotting behind his back, using him like a pawn in the Game, getting rid of his older brother. 

The boy that reads to her will become the man she marries. Her betrothed. Her family. Her friend. 

Will he hate her if he learns this? Will he blame her for Aegon’s disappearance? She tells herself it won’t matter. Aemond can hate her all he wishes as long as he lives. They can all hate her. She can die by dragon’s flames once more as long as they’re all safe. 

What else does she need to live for? 

She’ll never be free. Her womb, while not royal, matters more than she. Whatever babe she births will take over he life. Perhaps more than one. Whether she becomes the wife of Aemond or anyone else. Her rebirth has given her purpose. Not freedom, never freedom, but she knows what she must do. 

The truth threatens to spill from her lips. Tell Aemond everything, beg for his forgiveness, ask for his assistance. Her desperate need to keep her family alive outweighs everything else. One slip and she’ll lose them again. 

“The ending is sad,” he says in their mother tongue. “I think I prefer happy endings.” 

“They don’t get one,” she responds quietly. How odd. Aemond, of all people, preferring a happy ending. He isn’t even aware that, in another life so similar and different from this one, he murders his own nephew and then dies atop the dragon he so desperately longed for. That Aemond didn’t get his happy ending. 

“I’ll rewrite it, then,” he huffs. “Our children will be read that instead.” 

“Children? You’ve already imagined them?” A slow smile spreads across her face. 

“It’ll be our duty as husband and wife,” he says calmly, though the tips of his ears burn. She snorts, reaching over to grab his hand. Aemond glances down as their fingers intertwine. 

“Read the story to me again.” 

“I just read it.” 

“Again, Aemond, please.” 

He mumbles complaints but, using one hand, starts the story over from the beginning. Selaena lays beside him, eyes closed, her heart on her sleeve. 

(She has been little Aemond’s maid since he was a babe. She’s watched him grow. He doesn’t pay her much mind, because he’s a prince and she’s merely a maid, but she has grown fond of him. The Dragonless Prince turned into the One-Eyed Prince. 

She sees the little prince smile freely for the first time around Lady Selaena. She has watched their courtship, gushing to her brother about them. 

A betrothal of convenience turned into an epic love story. A beautiful lady and a scarred prince. She swoons at the thought. 

She politely pushes into Aemond’s chambers the morning of Selaena’s departure. Aemond, who keeps his apartments near and tidy, always the obedient son, has his betrothed curled into his bed next to him. She gasps, clamping her hands over her mouth. 

What if their betrothal is dissolved? She has to sneak Selaena out in the name of young love! 

Carefully, she creeps toward Selaena. The girl snoozes, fingers weaved with Aemond’s, her forehead pressed to his shoulder. It’s the sweetest sight. 

“Lady Selaena,” she whispers, gently shaking her. Selaena blinks, tired violet eyes opening. It’s early, no one should be walking the halls yet. “We must leave now, before you’re caught here.” 

Selaena blinks, rubbing her face. “I must’ve fallen asleep.” 

“Yes,” she says. “Quickly, then.” 

Selaena follows behind her as she pokes her head to check the halls. “Alright, they’re—“

”Sister?” 

She jerks her head to see Rickard standing there, brows knitted together. He looks from her to Selaena, wide-eyed behind her. 

“Brother,” she breathes, “I was—Lady Selaena wished to visit Prince Aemond.” 

Rickard doesn’t believe her. It’s written all over his face, but he gives a slow nod. “I see. You should escort her back, then.” 

She gives her older brother a grateful smile, mentally sweating to bake him a pie. Selaena stays close to her as they make their way back to her chambers. The little lady does not speak until they’ve reached her doors. 

“Your name,” she says, “what is it?” 

“It’s Colette, my lady,” she responds with a curtsy. 

“Thank you, Colette. I won’t forget your kindness.” 

Colette smiles. 

She can think of no better bride for a prince.) 

page thirty-four 

Selaena is absent from his bed come morning. 

There is still the ghost of her touch against his fingers. One day Aemond will wake to her. That day is not today, and it will not be for many winters. He wants to curl into his bed and sleep until they are both of age to marry. 

How incredibly weak. 

They’re all to break their fast together, to say farewell to Selaena. He doesn’t want to. It hardly makes sense for her to go back to Dragonstone. She’s not marrying anyone (Jacaerys) there. She is to be his wife. Selaena belongs at the Keep, at his side until they’re wed. 

But she wishes to go home. Aemond winces at the thought of her considering that dreary place home. Far, far away from him, that’s where she wants to go. 

Selaena greets him as he steps out of his chambers. Ser Rickard is there, bowing to them. 

“Aemond,” she says, a single dimple appearing on her cheek. Her dress is a pale blue, fairly simple in design. Silvery blonde curls are pulled into a bun at the base of her neck. What grabs his attention—truly grabs his attention—is the sapphires lined along her throat. The blue is pretty against her brown skin. 

Has she always looked this lovely? His mind must not be properly working. 

“Selaena,” he replies, mouth dry. She takes the arm he offers her, warm at his side. Her fingers curling at his elbow has him nervous, stomach flipping unnaturally. He must be ill, to suddenly feel this way. 

Selaena speaks excitedly about seeing her father, and as much as he tries, he cannot listen. His mind is elsewhere. Since when could he recognize the perfume she uses? Lily and rosemary. A soft, flowery scent that always seems to trail behind her. It’s so disgustingly her he wants to vomit. The sapphires wrapped around her neck, the dark violet color of her round eyes, the scar racing across her palm. 

“This was my mother’s necklace,” she continues, unaware of his inner turmoil. “I thought Father would like to see me wearing it. Oh, I’m so excited to see him. He’s been writing to me, you know. He asked after you once, but I don’t think it was out of kindness—“

Aemond hums and nods and stares straight ahead. Is he contagious? Perhaps his sickness will rub off on her and she’ll be forced to stay at the Keep for a few more days. He nearly smiles at the thought. His mother would smack him for coughing in her food, though. 

Their meal passes quickly. Too quickly. Aegon keeps pushing his carrots to Selaena plate, which makes her pinch him, and then he bumps his elbow into Helaena. Alicent is too tense to notice, no doubt dreading Daemon’s arrival. His grandfather is strangely absent and his father is apparently too weak to dine with them. That leaves Aemond to fix Aegon a look until he leaves Selaena alone. 

He sticks himself to Selaena’s side as she prepares for her departure. It’s all happening too soon and it’s not fair. Soon enough the dragonkeepers are getting Starfall ready for her and he’s nervously standing beside her. 

“Should you leave today?” he asks. “I think a storm is coming.” 

Selaena squints up at the clear, blue sky. “I don’t think so.”

“It wouldn’t be safe to leave,” he goes on, pretending not to be desperate. He won’t be alone, not truly. His mother always dines with him, and Helaena does not complain about his presence. Aegon—the absolute twat—is annoying but he’s still his brother. He has Vhagar now, and Ser Criston keeps him busy sparring most days. 

But she won’t be there. 

“Aemond,” she says sweetly, “I’ll miss you too.” 

He frowns sharply, the right side of his face burning from the movement. “Then why must you go?”

”My family—“

”We are family.” 

“I know,” she soothes quickly. “I will return.”

”So you’ve said,” he mutters. And if Jacaerys somehow captures her heart? Viserys wouldn’t hesitate to absolve their betrothal for his darling grandsons. Gods, Lucerys and her could decide they wished to wed and they would. He would be made to take a different wife, someone who would never be Selaena, and he’d be miserable. 

“It’s the truth.” 

For now he nearly spits, but he keeps his mouth shut. Arguing with her will, no doubt, push her into his bastard nephew’s arms. His remaining eye twitches. He should not feel guilty for calling them bastards. It’s what they are, everyone knows it. But he thinks of how violently Selaena had refused those claims and he falters. She cared for Jacaerys—very, very unfortunate—but she had argued with him for Aemond’s sake. As far as he was aware, Jacaerys was still upset with her. Choosing to write short, formal letters instead of the long ones Rhaena and Baela sent. 

“You’ll write to me?” he asks. 

“Of course.” 

In the distance they can see Caraxes soaring toward them. 

Selaena squeezes his hand one last time and he knows he must say goodbye. 

page thirty-five 

The flight back to Dragonstone is not as freeing as she thought it would be. 

Daemon flies near her, constantly checking to see if she needs to break. Selaena knows he’s relieved to see her unharmed, though he hasn’t said it. He’d cupped her cheeks upon landing at the Keep, forehead creased. 

Aemond is not even a spot behind them. He’s far away now. He’ll be there, and she’ll be here, for years. What if they grow too far apart while she’s gone? Otto fucking Hightower can sink his dirty little fingers into him. Aegon is to leave before his wedding, but she’s not there. What if he gets caught? What if he changes his mind? So much is left to the unknown and it’s making her sick. 

She doesn’t know what will happen anymore. 

They land and she does not feel any lighter until Rhaena cries her name. 

Her little sister has grown. Selaena slips off Starfall’s saddle, rushing toward her. Rhaena meets her in the middle, their arms wrapping around each other as they stagger back and forth. 

“My little Rhaena,” she breathes against her pale locs. “How I’ve missed you.” 

A smaller body rams into them and she glances down to see Luke grinning. 

“You’re back, Selaena! Jace, Selaena is back!” he calls, looking behind them. Jace emerges, alongside a tiny Joffrey in Rhaenyra’s arms. 

Jacaerys pauses at the sight of her, torn. His silly little heart wins out and he’s joining their group hug. Baela is missing, still on Driftmark with their grandparents. Lucerys is squished but he’s giggling, arms wrapped around Selaena’s waist. 

“I missed you,” Jace whispers into her eye, large, brown eyes apologetic. 

“And I, you,” she replies, heart clenched in her chest. “I’ve missed you all so much.” 

Once they’ve all pulled away from each other (though Rhaena continues to hold her hand), Rhaenyra draws her into a small hug. She pats her shoulder. 

“They were kind?” she asks. 

“Yes,” she hesitates to reply. Because while Otto is a plotting bastard, he hasn’t done anything to her yet. What he plans to do now, she doesn’t know. The future has diverged from the one she has lived. 

Daemon places a hand against the back of her neck gently. “Had any of those cunts so much as placed a finger on her—“

”No threats before supper,” Rhaenyra says calmly, raising a blonde brow at him. Selaena cannot see Daemon’s reaction, but she imagines her father rolls his eyes. 

Her family, the one she’s missed so dearly, all chatter around her. She stands with them as they walk and wonders why she does not feel any more at home. 

(This feeling will linger for years to come.) 

page thirty-six 

Selaena, 

Aegon has become even more insufferable since you’ve left. I fear he’s grown bold now that he can find me alone. The other day he tried to convince me to visit a brothel with him. I may have used your father as a threat to make him shut up. Daemon would have both of our heads if I dishonored our betrothal. He—

She stares at the letter, unblinking. A brothel? She doesn’t remember Aemond frequenting those in her past life. She doesn’t remember anything about Aemond beside how horrible he was. Had Aegon taken him there as a child too? Selaena frowns. He’s hardly ten-and-three now. 

What in the hells is Aegon thinking? No, he’s more thank likely not thinking at all. He assumes just because he enjoys something that, surely, Aemond, as his younger brother, also would. 

Had the Aemond in her last life also went? She can’t imagine him, a young boy, forced to be there. Selaena hadn’t meant to change this and yet she has. 

The world will continue to move whether she has caught up with it or not. 

page thirty-seven 

She asks her father to teach her sword fighting the next morn. 

Selaena cannot be as defenseless as she was in her last life. She’d learned to wield a bow out of necessity, and she hadn’t been good at it. 

“Father,” she says, watching as Jace and Luke practice against one another. “I would like to learn as well.” 

Daemon gives her a curious look, almost amused. She frowns at him. 

“I’m serious,” she insists. 

“I’m sure you are,” he replies, then he nods his head toward a bow propped alongside other weapons. “Pull that bowstring back and I’ll teach you.” 

She huffs, stalking over to grab it. These hands are smooth, untainted in the way they used to be from wielding a weapon. Her arms are weaker too. Try as she might, she can hardly move the bowstring. It’s certainly not pulled back enough to shoot an arrow. 

Daemon watches, entertained, but with the way his head tilts she can tell he’s curious. 

“You wouldn’t be able to wield a sword,” he comments neutrally. Selaena feels her face burn. Jace and Luke have stopped fighting, curiously turning to look at them. 

“Fine,” she spits, embarrassed. Her father in her last life had been the one to force her to take a weapon. But they’d been desperate then. This Daemon is not desperate, he’s confident in his ability to keep her and her sisters safe because he doesn’t know what happens. 

And she can’t tell him. 

Even if he didn’t think her mad, Daemon is a man of action, not diplomacy. He’ll gouge out Aemond’s other eye or slay Otto Hightower and Alicent himself. Their deaths, at this moment in time, will do nothing. The lords of this realm are readying to ban against Rhaenyra as queen simply because she’s a woman, her would-be prince consort does not need to deepen that rift. 

She’ll draw the damn bowstring back herself, then. How foolish of her to ask for help. 

page thirty-eight 

Dearest Aemond, 

Rhaenyra has given birth. I feared for her. Her screams were haunting, I can still hear them. My father refused to be with her. I tried to convince him but he snapped at me. You’d stay by my side, wouldn’t you? 

Aemond scoffs. Of course he will. His uncle is weak for not staying by his side. He may not like his older half-sister, but even he feels for her. 

They’ve named him Aegon. I doubt your brother would like that. 

If his brother is ever sober enough to listen, he may not. Aegon—his brother—has taken to drinking in even more excess as his wedding draws near. Helaena does not seem to care. 

(“A prince of the sky will meet a lady of the sea,” she’d hummed to him one day. Aemond had not asked what she meant. She wouldn’t have answered anyway.) 

I know you’re against me picking up a weapon, but I’ve finally been mastered drawing a bowstring back. Soon I’ll be an even better hunter than the lords to the North. 

Aemond frowns. Selaena could get hurt practicing. He has. Ser Criston is not a gentle instructor, though he doesn’t mind. The bruises and aches feel good. They show his progress. He can keep Selaena safe, she has no use for a weapon. 

I miss you, Aemond. Summers seem to go slower without you. 

He clutches the letter close, the faint smell of lily and rosemary linger with the burning embers of his chambers. 

He misses her too. 

page thirty-nine 

Selaena, 

Aegon has gone missing. They’ve searched for him everywhere but he hasn’t been found. I’m worried. He’s an idiot but he’s still my brother. What if someone’s killed him and left him to rot somewhere? 

Her stomach twists. He can’t know, she reminds herself. She’s done the right thing. Aemond could’ve stopped their plan, ruined it, and she’d be left clueless. 

This is a necessity. 

My father has requested yours to aid in the search. He says he’ll follow Sunfyre and see if he can find Aegon. 

Through her suggestion Sunfyre was released. It’s up to Aegon to avoid her father. Daemon doesn’t know it was her plan that landed the Prince in Lys. They’re not even aware of his whereabouts. 

(Daemon will return and tell him he could not find Aegon. Selaena will know this is a lie.) 

I wish you were here. You could’ve convinced Father to let us fly our dragons out in search of him. 

No, she thinks, it’s better she’s not there. 

At the bottom of the parchment is a sentence that’s been crossed out multiple times, but she can still make out what it said. 

I miss you. 

Yours,

Aemond

page forty

Colette clutches another bundle of letters to her chest, nearly racing down the halls. Prince Aemond has been waiting for a reply from Lady Selaena for a moon now. She can tell he’s been getting nervous. 

Rickard stands outside his chambers, raising an eyebrow when he sees her out of breath. 

“I’ve come to deliver a letter to Prince Aemond, brother,” she says through a pant. 

“Is it so urgent?” he asks playfully. Colette rolls her eyes. 

“In the name of love I’ve come running to deliver it,” she says. Rickard smiles, pushing the doors open and announcing her presence to Aemond. 

The boy—though he’s quickly approaching manhood—perks up at their arrival. He’s bent over his desk, large tomes spread across it, but she spots a small, pink book and hides a grin. 

“It is from Lady Selaena, my prince,” she says, dipping into a curtsy. 

His one violet eye brightens, before he schools his expression. “Right. You may set it down there.” 

Rickard and her exchange looks that he doesn’t notice or ignores. 

“Of course, Prince Aemond.” 

(They both pretend they don’t see how quick he is to rip open the letter.) 

page forty-one 

Selaena, 

Aegon is still gone and now Sunfyre. Mother is distressed over the loss. I’m not sure how to comfort her. Grandfather sees it fit to blame your father. I told him Daemon wouldn’t harm his own brother’s son, but he seems to think I’m wrong. 

She bites into her lip. 

Aegon was right (loathe she is to admit it). They should’ve told Aemond. But she has no time to linger on regrets, lest she drown in them. She’s died with them once, she cannot do it again. She won’t have another chance. 

“A necessity,” she reminds herself quietly. 

page forty-two

Her grandmother and Baela visit them for Selaena’s seventeenth nameday. Corlys is still off fighting in the Stepstones. It’s become a touchy subject for Rhaenys, one few are willing to broach with her. 

Rhaena has particularly latched onto her twin, Selaena hugging them both to her. The three of them are rarely together with Baela staying at Driftmark. 

Rhaenys pulls her into a hug next, a kiss to her cheek. 

“You look so much like your mother did at her age,” she tells her softly, stroking her thumb across her jaw. “She would’ve been so proud of you.” 

Selaena ignores the tightness of her throat. She loves hearing about her mother, but there’s always a lingering pain. She’d wanted Laena at her wedding to Jacaerys, she’d wanted Laena as she gave birth, she’d wanted Laena as she died a dragonrider’s death. 

She is a woman flowered and a shivering child. 

Rhaenyra, despite having given birth to her and Daemon’s second son a look ago, has thrown her a lavish feast. She’s on her second helping of lemon cake when Jacaerys approaches her. 

“My lady, would you humor me with a dance?” he asks, his grin so familiar. This is the face she remembers clearly. The face of the man that would’ve been her husband. 

She still aches at the loss. In a kinder world, a different life, they would’ve been happy together. She would’ve been his queen and the father to their children. 

This will never be that life. 

“My prince,” she says, grinning hard enough to make her cheeks hurt, “you honor me.” 

Their hands meet and then they’re spinning across the floor. Music plays, Rhaena and Luke clap for them delightedly. Baela whispers something to their youngest sister, and then Rhaena is dragging Lucerys to join them. 

They laugh, switching partners. Luke is smaller than her, and he steps on all of her toes more than once, but she doesn’t care. Soon, Baela and Daemon join them. Rhaenyra watches with a smile, laughing when Daemon ends up partners with Jacaerys. 

By the time the celebration ends, her feet hurt and she’s out of breath. But she’s happy. Her family talks and smiles and laughs around her and she knows, she knows, she must protect this. 

Jacaerys sits beside her at the table, a piece of lemon cake on his plate. She stabs it with her fork, shoving it into her mouth before he can stop her. 

“That was for me,” he says, pinching her hip. She squeals and slaps his hand away. 

“It’s my nameday.” 

“It’s my cake.” 

He pokes at her side once more. Her fingers wrap around his wrist and they both pause, looking at the other. Tension between them has only reason as they’ve gotten older. No longer little Jace and Selaena. She knows his touch better than anyone else. 

Aemond’s hopeful violet eye flashes in her mind and she releases him. 

“We’ll be headed to King’s Landing soon,” he says. She knows he’s looking at her but she doesn’t meet his gaze. 

“Yes,” she says. Neither of them acknowledge it’s for her wedding. That she is betrothed to the same uncle that attempted to beat his head in with a rock. 

“If anything happens, Selaena, if you change your mind, all of us will support you. My mother sees you as her own daughter. She’ll convince Grandfather,” he tells her. She wonders, vaguely, how Aemond would react had he heard this. 

“I’ll be married off either way,” Selaena says. 

“We’d be betrothed,” he says. “If anything were to happen, I will ask for your hand instead.” 

She smiles, resting her hand over his. “I’m content with him, Jace. Aemond will be kind to me.” 

He falls quiet, flipping their hands to weave their fingers together. He’s warm, warmer than Aemond. 

“I only want you happy,” he whispers, leaning his shoulder against hers. 

“I am—I will be. Trust me.” 

(Rhaena and Baela watch the exchange, giving the other silent looks. They hope Aemond never notices the love between their sister and step-brother.)

page forty-three

Selaena is in the middle of writing her next letter to Aemond when Rhaenyra pushes into her chambers. She startles, jerking her head toward the Princess. 

“What’s happened?” she asks. Rhaenyra clutches at her stomach, already swelling with another babe. 

“We must head to the Keep,” she says, stone faced. Selaena stands, eyes wide. 

“I am not to be wed—“

”No,” Rhaenyra says, “Vaemond intends to name himself heir of Driftmark.” 

This makes no sense. Corlys has not yet been injured, Vaemond hadn’t attempted to make his case before the King until his brother fell. Why has he made a move early? Something is wrong. Gravely wrong. 

Her mouth is dry, heart tearing into her throat. 

The future she knows is erasing itself. Her only advantage in this was that knowledge. She’ll be left defenseless. As clueless as anyone else and the thought frightens her so deeply her hands quiver.  

“Yes—I—We must leave, then. With haste.” 

Rhaenyra nods, walking back out of her chambers. Selaena gazes out the window and wonders, not for the first time, if she’s made a mistake she cannot fix.

Chapter Text

page forty-four

Selaena finds Lucerys staring at the sea early the following morn. 

They’d boarded a ship—Rhaenyra too swollen with pregnancy to fly—late into the night. Rhaena had clutched at her hand, crawling into Selaena’s bed to sleep with her. She was scared. They all were, save for Daemon and perhaps Rhaenys, but especially Lucerys. Little Luke who was always trying to prove himself. Little Luke who’d wanted to help his mother and died for it. 

Sometimes, when she allows her mind to stray too far, she wonders what was the last thing he saw. His uncle’s face? Vhagar’s mouth? She imagines the celebration Aegon’d thrown afterwards. They celebrated his death. Celebrated Aemond for kinslaying. 

She is to wed his killer—a murder only she knows of. 

“Alright?” she asks him. Lucerys flinches, turning to look at her with with wide, brown eyes. 

“Yes,” he replies stiffly. She comes to stand next to him, the sun slowly rising before them. A beautiful sight had it not filled her with dread. 

Corlys is still in the Stepstones, uninjured. Her grandmother is with them, Baela sleeping beside Rhaena. All of them unaware of what is to come. 

Not even she knows what will happen anymore. She’s changed too much. Aegon is gone, no longer is he wed to Helaena. Their children have never—will never—be born. Vaemond has made his move sooner. Why?

The question gnaws at her. 

“You don’t need to lie,” she tells him, reaching out to brush his curls from his forehead. “There’s nothing wrong with being nervous.” 

“You’re not,” he says quietly. “No one else is.” 

“Rhaena is scared,” she replies. Luke shakes his head. 

“No other adult is.” 

She hums. “They are—We are. We’ve simply learnt to hide our nerves.” 

“I can’t,” he whispers. “I feel ready to vomit at the thought of a trial. Grandfather should’ve never named me heir. He made a mistake—“ 

Selaena cups his cheeks. They’ve slowly begun to lose the puppy fat of his youth. She brushes her thumb over his cheekbone, smiling. 

“Our Grandfather did not make a mistake,” she says firmly. “You are his grandson, Laenor was your father. It is within your right to inherit Driftmark.” 

“You’ve heard the rumors,” Luke snaps, but his voice is weak. “They say… They say Laenor was not our true father. That we’re—we’re—“ 

“Lucerys, do not say that,” she says, tilting his chin up to look at her. Her brows furrow. “Laenor claimed you as his own. Your grandfather, the King, claims you and your brothers as his grandchildren. You are of Velaryon and Targaryen blood, a dragon like the rest of us. You do not need silver hair and violet eyes to see that.” 

He nods rapidly, lips pressing into a hard line. “Alright—I—Alright.” 

“Good.” She combs her fingers through his dark locks as he leans his forehead to her shoulder.

”I’m glad you’re marrying my uncle,” he mutters and she pauses, bewildered. 

“I fear you’re the only one,” she says with a chuckle. Luke glances up at her, brows knitted together. She’s tempted to smooth them out but decides against it. 

“He isn’t so bad when he’s writing to you,” he admits. Selaena feels her lips twitch. 

“Have you been reading our letters?” 

Lucerys pales. “No—Well, yes, but only once—Alright, it happened twice, but—but it was Rhaena’s idea! She said you wouldn’t be mad!” 

Selaena throws her head back and laughs. “What if we’d written something inappropriate, little prince?” 

“That isn’t funny,” he huffs, though his cheeks redden. She laughs again. 

“Then you should keep out of my letters, yes?” she asks, grinning. Slowly, Lucerys echoes her with a smaller smile, noticeably more relaxed. 

“I was thinking that, perhaps, I should apologize to him,” he says. “He’s to be your husband. It’s only right we get along.” 

Her lips part. This never would’ve happened in their last lives. Luke misliked Aemond, and he was hated in return. But she’s wiped that away. She’s changed their futures. She’s done something to prove her receiving a second chance hasn’t been for not. 

“That is… That would be greatly appreciated,” she tells him. 

“I feel guilty for raising that dagger,” he says. “You’re scarred because of it.” 

“I do not blame you. You were all children, scared, the fight stopped before any permanent damage could be done.” 

Before Aemond’s eye was tore out. 

“You were a child, too.” 

She’d left behind whatever remained of her girlhood when she died to her dragon’s flames.  

“Thank you, Luke.” She presses a kiss to the top of his head and hopes Aemond appreciates the gesture as well. 

page forty-five 

Their arrival to the Keep is a quiet affair. 

Though their presence is announced, none are ready for them. Selaena sincerely doubts anyone (but Vaemond and whoever he is conspiring with) has prepared for this trial. He had no reason to question his brother’s judgement because Corlys is perfectly well. But here he is, calling for Driftmark to be passed to him. 

It makes no sense. 

Selaena suspects Otto. He and Alicent had supported Vaemond’s claim in her previous life, it’d make sense for them to back him again. What are they planning? She wants to rush into the Keep and beat answers out of whoever can offer them. 

“Don’t look so grave,” Jacaerys whispers in her ear. She jerks to the side, slapping him away from her with a scowl. He laughs, all too cheery despite the circumstances. 

“Perhaps you should take this seriously.” 

“Oh, I am, but we both know Vaemond’s case is poor. Grandfather named Luke himself.”  

“Right…” She gazes back up at the Keep, frowning. She’s more unsettled by how soon this is happening. It leaves her gut churning uncomfortably, a foul taste in her mouth. If her suspicions are correct and it is Otto, what can he possibly gain? In her last life she thought they supported Vaemond’s claim to spite Rhaenyra, now she isn’t certain. 

“You’re about to see your precious Aemond again,” Jace reminds her, surprisingly good-natured. As though he isn’t actively hoping they spilt up alongside the rest of their family. Perhaps not Luke, though she doubts he’d be too sad about a potential breakup. “That should lift your spirits.” 

If she’s being completely honest, her mind is too focused on Vaemond and Otto to focus on Aemond. Still, she’s missed him, and if there’s one ally to be made at the Keep, it’s him. An alliance built on lies. She fears having to come clean to him, about Aegon, about their betrothal. One false step and Aemond will be their—her—enemy. Lucerys’ death may be on her head this time. 

“It will be nice to see him,” she admits and Jace nudges her shoulder with his. 

He hums in response.  

“You’re oddly accepting of this.” 

“If mentioning his name is the only way to make you smile, then I’ll do just that.” 

She allows a full grin to cross her face. “Are you attempting to flirt with me using my betrothed’s name?” 

“Never,” he replies but his smile tells her otherwise. She shoves him again, rolling her eyes. 

The wheelhouse comes to a slow stop. Jacaerys steps out before her, assisting Selaena as she steps down to join him. Rhaena, Baela, Lucerys, and Rhaenys emerge from the one in front of them. Rhaena waves, though she’s quickly distracted by the Keep. It’s changed since they were last here. Unease rolls through her chest. The Keep had looked like this when they were at war. They’re not now, but the memories feel like a freshly picked scab. 

“My lady,” Jace says, offering his arm to her. She takes it, falling into step with him. 

“I worry there are other reasons causing Vaemond to act like this,” she tells him lowly. His expression turns serious, brows furrowing. 

“The King is too ill to notice anything going on,” he says. “Who do you suspect?”

”Otto Hightower,” she says, face growing dark. “I couldn’t guess why, though.” 

Jacaerys nods, slowly, processing her words. Selaena has never been keen on letting others into her inner most thoughts, but Jace is an exception. He trusts her without hesitation. Had she told him this was her second life, he may believe her. While her trust in her sisters is unarguable, they’re still her baby sisters. She can’t burden them with what she tells Jacaerys. 

“Bastard,” he says a touch too loud and she elbows him. 

“Lower your—“

“Selaena.” 

The voice is glaringly familiar. She remembers it from her last life more than this one. Both her and Jace turn to look at her betrothed. 

”Aemond,” she breathes, heart slamming into her ribs. He looks just as he did in their previous life. For a dreadfully slow moment, she imagines him on Vhagar slaughtering little Luke. 

She knows this isn’t him. This Aemond—her Aemond—lost his eye to her dragon, but her heart is weak and simple. A smile that makes the scar on her palm ache sears across her face. She’s overreacting. This is the same boy (now a man) she’s been writing. The one who told her he prefers happy endings and gives her his slice of lemon cake. 

She knows. Oh, she knows. 

Knowing does not change the fear that cools her blood.

His hair is straighter now, tamed, and falls down his shoulders. The eyepatch—that fucking eyepatch—covers the scar on his face. He’s scowling, too, gaze focused on her hand clasped onto Jacaerys’ arm. She does not immediately separate. There’s nothing to be guilty of. Jace offered him arms to her and she accepted, a perfectly respectful interaction. 

“Uncle,” Jace says, cutting through the odd tension. This isn’t how she thought their reunion would go. Though she hasn’t readily thought of how they’d reunite, save for a celebration week and then their grandiose wedding. She was supposed to have nearly six more moons until they were to come back to the Keep for it. 

“I didn’t think you’d come out to greet us,” she says, smoothly stepping away from Jace to approach him. His expression does not lift, eye trained to his nephew. 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Aemond asks stiffly. 

“I—“ She blinks. Why wouldn’t he? “I’m unsure.” 

Jacaerys brushes past them, giving her a lopsided smile. “I’ll let the two of you speak, then. Wouldn’t want to ruin the mood.” 

She gives him a nasty look and he’s quick to hide his laughter. Twat. Both her and Aemond are tense. Awkward. They were never awkward as children, but she supposes it’s different when you’re grown. 

It’s especially different because she has memories of her dear intended kinslaying lapsing about her mind. 

“Are you going to follow him?” he asks, voice impartial. Ah, he’s annoyed with her. She aims a slight smile at him. 

“Why would I?” she asks back. His frown only causes her smile to widen. He may have grown, now a man and no longer a boy, but he’s much the same. Still easy to tease. 

“You seemed content enough to be with him.” 

“Green,” she quips, “a beautiful color.” 

“You’ve grown into your role as jester over the years. My brother did use to say you’d suit it.” 

At the mention of Aegon, her smile falls. Aemond notices, offering his arm in place of Jacaerys’. She accepts it. 

“How is your mother?” she asks as they make their way into the Keep. Rhaenyra and Daemon will be the King, her younger brothers with them. Where her sisters and step-brothers vanished to, she isn’t sure. Jace is, no doubt, gossiping about her and Aemond to them. 

“She is… She has gotten better,” he decides. “Aegon’s disappearance has weighed heavily on her.” 

Guilt, her damnably old friend, weighs on her. Her bones ache. 

“It must be hard for you too,” she says. Aemond’s expression remains flat. 

“I’m not surprised Aegon would runaway,” he says. “He’s never been a dutiful son. My sister is better off not being wed to him.” 

“But you… you worry for him, do you not?” 

He blinks as though he’s never considered it. “I suppose. Aegon is not one to adapt and survive. It’s been an entire year now I—“ 

She patiently waits for him to finish. His words are a slap to the face she knows she deserves. She’s ripped a brother and a son away from his family. Though Aegon is not dead (or so she hopes), he may as well be. He won’t be able to get in contact with them until Rhaenyra is crowned queen. 

Until his father, the King, is dead. 

Aegon had not seemed particularly bothered at the idea of missing his funeral. Viserys has never been close to any of his children from his second wife. She doubts Helaena or Aemond will cry when he passes. 

Still. 

She knows of her sins. Knows by helping Aegon and keeping it a secret from Aemond she’s creating a rift. Will telling him now fix anything? She hates the uncertainty of it all. 

“—I fear he hasn’t made it,” he finishes after a sharp pause. Selaena squeezes his arm. 

“Your brother is a fool, but he is one of considerable luck,” she says. “I’m sure he’s drinking his nights away.” 

Aemond does not reply, humming instead. She supposed it’s a sensitive topic. She’s closer to her sisters, and now younger brothers, than Aemond is with his, but they are still brothers. Aegon, for all his idiocy, is still missed by his family. 

She swallows the lump in her throat and reminds herself why she’s doing this. Luke’s round cheeks, Jace’s half-smile, Rhaena’s laughter, Baela’s snide comments, Rhaenyra’s soft words, and her father’s firm hand on her shoulder. She thinks of her youngest brothers, of Rhaenyra’s daughter who did not draw breath. Jacaerys never meeting their son who never—will never—lived. 

The scar on her palm pulses. 

“I am to meet my father in the King’s chambers,” she says, needing to be away from those thoughts. 

“I’ll escort you.” 

“How is he?” 

“I doubt he’s noticed Aegon’s absence, but if you’re asking of his health, he’s the same. The maesters been giving him more milk of the poppy.” 

“Was Helaena upset about not being wed?” 

This actually makes Aemond’s lips twitch, as though the idea of Helaena wanting to marry Aegon is amusing. 

“She prefers to be alone with her bugs. Mother has spent more time with her recently,” he says. 

Selaena glances him. No longer are his cheeks fat with youth, but he’s grown into a man. Slender, pointed features, and he’s noticeably taller than her. How strange. The Aemond she last saw barely reached her chin. The top of her head ends near his shoulders now. She knew he’d grow tall, but she’s never stood close enough to him to realize he towered over most people. 

“You keep staring,” he states abruptly, pausing just outside the King’s chambers. 

“My apologies, you’re just so, ah, different,” she says, eyes openly wandering him from head to toe. He still wears the same black leathers. The only real difference is the lack of animosity of his face. 

“You mislike my appearance?” he asks slowly. Selaena’s brows furrow. 

“What—“

”Is it because I’m taller than you?” 

She stares at him blankly. It takes her a moment to realize what he’s referring to, and when she does, she tilts her head back and laughs. 

“I did not think my words that humorous,” Aemond grumbles, ears burning red. She tries to stifle her laughter, but it bursts out of her once more. 

“You—You thought I was serious when I said that?” she asks between her giggles. He glares at her and she can only laugh harder. “Darling, I only said that to make you feel better about Aegon’s teasing. It doesn’t matter to me whether you’re tall or short.” 

“Why else would you look displeased?” he bursts, turning his chin from her. Selaena’s laughter quiets. Gently, she slips her hand from his elbow. 

“Aemond, I am not displeased at your appearance,” she says, because, surely, she cannot tell him how she remembers him kinslaying in a life that has yet to happen. He’ll think her mad. “I simply picture you as that little boy who used to follow me around like a dog. You’re not that anymore.” 

“I did not follow you around like a common mutt,” he says, narrowing his eye. She raises a brow. 

“I believe you did.” 

“I did not.” 

“No, I’m fairly certain Aegon used to mock you for doing so.” 

“I do not recall.” 

Selaena looks back to the King’s chambers. Her father and Rhaenyra are waiting for her inside. As much as she loathes to see her uncle decaying in bed, she cannot pretend he doesn’t exist. Daemon—no matter how much he may deny it—cares for his brother greatly. He wouldn’t have requested her presence otherwise. 

“This trial,” Aemond starts, following her gaze, “Vaemond will not win.” 

“Yet he still tries,” she says. “Is it not odd?” 

“I’ve heard second sons constantly want what they cannot have.” 

“And you? Do you crave what you’re not allowed?” 

Aemond does not look away from the doors as he replies, “Perhaps.” 

page forty-six

The King is a corpse living. 

He smells of one, too. No matter how many lavenders are set around him, or how often they air out the chamber, death does not leave. She couldn’t stomach him before and she cannot now. 

“Uncle,” she says in greeting, standing beside Daemon. He blinks at her groggily. 

“Laena?” he asks in a short wheeze. Her heart beats into her ribs. “Lovely Laena, it’s been so long.” 

“I’m not—“

”Laena is dead,” Daemon says sharply. She flinches at his blunt wording, glad her sisters aren’t here. “This is Selaena, the one you betrothed to your son.” 

Viserys strains to look at her fully. Rhaenyra immediately assists him, little Viserys balanced on her lap. 

“Aegon is to be wed to Helaena,” he mutters, more to himself than them. Daemon clicks his tongue but says nothing more. She knows it’s hard for him to see his brother like this. That, for all his brash comments and snide words, he is hurting. 

She brushes her fingers against her father’s palm. He looks to her, tension in his face slowly falling away at her smile. He does not return it, but he allows her to squeeze his hand in silent support. 

“Selaena,” Rhaenyra says, “if you wish to call off your betrothal, now is the time.” 

She fights a scowl. How many times must she tell them she is perfectly fine with marrying Aemond? Do they not see the benefit of her marrying him? 

“Your happiness is our first priority,” her step-mother continues softly. “I’ll respect whatever you wish.” 

She feels Daemon’s fingers twitch. Clearly, he doesn’t share the same opinion as his wife. Though he enjoys the idea of Aemond and Vhagar forcibly being aligned with them, he doesn’t want her to marry anyone related to Otto Hightower. 

“I am happy with my betrothal,” she says, as she has repeated time and time again. 

Rhaenyra nods. Her father doesn’t speak. They’ve gone in circles before about her marriage. He must not wish to argue in front of his dying brother. 

“Will you take your brothers to our chambers? I wish to speak to my father alone,” the Princess requests. Selaena nods, releasing Daemon’s hand to pick up a giggling Viserys. The wet nurse holding Aegon follows after her as they depart. 

Selaena absentmindedly bounces Viserys on her hip. Will Viserys leave his bed to defend Rhaenyra this time? He seems to addled by milk of the poppy. She wonders if Otto upped the dosage because of their arrival. For all he’s supposedly been planning, the Lord Hand has not shown his face. She hasn’t seen the Queen either. 

She’s made her way down the hall when she spots Larys Strong. 

Selaena pauses when his gaze falls on her. The wet nurse also stops, glancing to her nervously. 

“My lady?” she asks. 

“Apologies,” Selaena mutters, continuing to walk. 

Larys smiles at her gently. “Lady Selaena, you’ve grown since you were last here.” 

She keeps a firm grip on Viserys, smiling with too many teeth. “It has been some time since we last met, Lord Strong.” 

“These must be your brothers,” he says in his sickeningly gentle voice. “They’ve got more Targaryen features, hm?” 

Selaena bites back a vicious response. “Suppose so.” 

Viserys gurgles, grabbing at her curls to tug on them. She presses a kiss to his head and pries his chubby fingers away from her. His entire hand wraps around her pointer. He giggles. 

“My, you’ll make a fine mother one day,” he says like he genuinely means well. She wants to claw her eyes out the longer their conversation goes, but she gives him another biting smile. She does not miss the way his eyes linger on her stomach. 

“We can only hope.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be blessed with child. Perhaps a son. I can imagine Aemond would prefer one.” 

The wet nurse shifts nervously, looking between them. Selaena fights to control the well of annoyance inside of her. Her jaw is tense. How does he know what Aemond would prefer? She cannot imagine him fighting for a son. 

Not like her father had. Some days she thinks she hates him for pushing the expectation of a son onto her mother. Some days she wishes she’d been born a boy so that Laena may have lived.  

“My lady, we should return the babes soon. Before they grow restless,” the wet nurse says demurely. Selaena nods, nodding her head toward Larys. 

“Lord Strong, if you’d excuse us,” she says. He nods back, that all too wide smile smeared across his greasy face. Knowing she can do nothing to him makes her want to scream. For all the knowledge that haunts her, for all the memories that linger, she cannot use them. 

A little lady against two lords who have been playing the Game and winning. She wants to scream and breathe fire and bite into bone. But she cannot. That is the most damnable part. 

If she drives Aemond away, he may still kill Lucerys. If she tells her father, he may kill Otto or Larys or both and then Rhaenyra would pay the consequences. (Because who will follow a queen whose prince consort slaughtered two of the realms most loyal men?) If she attempts to expose their plans, she may fall into a trap, push Aemond away, and then get her family killed. 

There are too many possibilities. Too many ways this can end in their deaths. Too many unknowns. Selaena hates not being in control. 

Viserys tugs on her curls again, giving her a gummy smile. Her expression softens and she presses another kiss to his fat cheek. 

This is the face she must protect. Little Viserys and little Aegon will never know a world of pain. 

She’s already changed the outcome of Aemond’s lost eye. Aegon is gone, somewhere in Lys or Essos, but he’s out of the way. Helaena does not have her children. Selaena has betrothed herself to Aemond. Otto won’t put him on the Throne with her as his wife. 

That leaves Daeron, the youngest of them, stuck in Oldtown. She barely remembers the boy from either of her lives. Otto is more likely to push Aemond for the Throne than him. 

She is the issue. 

Otto Hightower will have to get rid of her somehow. 

The chamber doors are pushed open for Selaena and the wet nurse. They bow to her as she walks in. 

Her grandmother and younger sisters are sitting in the apartments, faces serious. Selaena bounces Viserys once more, turning to the wet nurse. 

“Sorry,” she says kindly, “would it be alright if you went out to fetch my step-brothers? We can watch Viserys and Aegon for now.” 

“Ah, of course, my lady,” she replies. The wet nurse hands Aegon off to Rhaena’s outstretched arms. She coos over her younger brother who giggles back. 

The wet nurse curtsies, then leaves the chambers. 

“Vaemond’s claims will fall through, no doubt,” Rhaenys tells her as she sits next to Rhaena. Baela is seated across from her, lips pressed in a tight line. Selaena doesn’t have time to ask her what’s wrong. “But I don’t think him claiming Driftmark was the end goal.” 

“He’s here for something else, then?” Selaena asks. Viserys sticks one of her fingers into his mouth. She ignores him. 

“Grandmother and I believe he’s only here to weaken Lucerys and Jacaerys position as heirs,” Baela says. 

“He plans to publicly call them bastards?” Selaena asks bluntly, too tired to mince words. Rhaena winces beside her, nervously rocking Aegon in her arms. Rhaenys nor Baela give much of a reaction. 

They all know the glaring truth. None of them care, however. Laenor has made his claimed and died with it. Bastards they may be on gossiping tongues, they are not anywhere else. 

“Perhaps,” Grandmother says. “It would be foolish of him to act on this while Corlys is in good health.” 

Selaena hates not knowing. She hates sitting here and guessing and waiting. Vaemond had called them bastards and Rhaenyra a whore in her last life, but it couldn’t have been his original plan. His temper had gotten the better of him. Unless she was wrong. Surely, though, he knew saying that would result in his tongue being cut out or his death. 

She wonders if Rhaenys and Baela had made this assumption in her previous life. Selaena hadn’t come to talk to them before the trial last time. 

“Grandfather should return soon,” she says tentatively. Originally, she had decided to allow Corlys to receive his injury. He would survive, and then betray them, but she feared changing too much would upset some balance the Gods placed into the world. She’ll pray to the Warrior tonight. She needs all the strength she can get. 

Rhaenys smiles, it’s a slow, small one, but a smile nonetheless. “I wouldn’t worry too much about your grandfather.” 

Before she can ask what she means, the doors are thrown open. 

All of their heads snap to the side. Rhaenyra and Daemon, along with all three of her step-brothers, stand there. Their faces, even little Joffrey’s, is set in a grim line. Selaena cannot wait for this damn day to be over. 

“They have requested for the trial to commence,” Rhaenyra says stiffly, anger barely controlled through her tight expression. 

“That fucking cunt poisons my brother to keep him in bed while he plays false king,” Daemon seethes. Selaena shushes Viserys when he makes a noise at their father’s rage. 

The King will come to Rhaenyra’s defense. He will. He has to. Selaena squeezes her eyes shut in a desperate prayer to the Father that she hasn’t completely shifted future events. How will she live with knowing, that in her desire to help, she’s made things worse for her family? 

“Cool your anger, cousin,” Rhaenys says, standing. Her head is held high, shoulders perfectly straight. 

“I will not—“

”Daemon,” Rhaenyra says, placing a hand on his arm. His lips twist into a snarl, but he stews in his anger silently. She turns to the rest of them. “We must hurry.” 

Aegon, Viserys, and Joffrey are made to stay in the chambers with the wet nurses. Selaena clutches Rhaena’s hand as they make their way to the Great Hall. Jace keeps near his mother, no doubt worried for her. Daemon has not spared any of them another glance. His fury is palpable. 

The Great Hall is already full. Selaena can scarcely breathe. Baela nods to her as her and their grandmother move to the opposite side of the hall. Rhaenyra stands tall in front of them, but she can see the worry on her face. They can all feel it. 

Aemond catches her eye, standing right across from her by his sister and mother. Aegon is absent from where he stood in her last life. Alicent looks paler, dark circles more prominent than ever before. She’s done that to her. She’s taken her son away. 

It’s for the best, she wants to scream. She is doing all she can. Please listen to her. She’s not a bad person. She’s not. Please, pleasepleaseplease—

“Calm, Selaena,” Jace whispers to her. Rhaena is gazing up at her face, concerned. 

“Sorry,” she says, but she cannot look away from Aemond. Foolishly, she wishes for him to take Jacaerys’ place. Comfort her in his own rough way. 

But he stands there, looking at her with an expression she cannot name. 

“It would do us no good for you to lose your head now,” Rhaena jokes quietly. She hasn’t loosened her grip on Selaena’s hand. Aemond’s gaze only leaves hers when the doors open. 

Vaemond enters, Otto Hightower at his side. She watches the Lord Hand take her uncle’s spot on the Iron Throne. Daemon does not hide his scoff of disgust. Selaena shares his expression. 

Otto’s eyes land on her and he smiles. 

She feels her lips twitch. 

The trial proceeds as she remembers it. Vaemond begins his speech, Otto sits above them. Rhaena and Lucerys are on either side of her now. She has one hand interwoven with her youngest sister’s and her other on Luke’s shoulder. He’s more anxious than Jace, who stands slightly in front of her by his mother. 

Aemond’s gaze burns into her. She cannot bring herself to look at him, too sick with worry. Selaena does not even realize she’s chewing into her bottom lip until she feels it sting. She’s drawn blood but she digs her teeth in further, pain keeping her solid. Her mind cannot wander too far. 

The chambers open once more. 

The King is not announced. 

Corlys Velaryon walks in instead. Selaena feels her eyes widen. Why is he here? He should still be in the Stepstones. The last time—

The last time—

No. She has rewritten this life completely. No longer does she know what will happen. She cannot assume to know anymore. 

“You’ve gone too far, brother,” Corlys says. “My choice has been made. Lucerys is my heir, not you.” 

“You forget yourself,” Vaemond spits back. Daemon rolls his eyes. 

“You forget your place,” he says. 

Corlys and Vaemond step up toward each other, first and second son coming face-to-face. Selaena does not know if her grandfather mourned the loss of his brother. 

“I have held my tongue for too long. You will run our house into the fucking ground!” Vaemond shouts. “Naming that boy heir was a mistake, but to betroth Laena’s oldest daughter to him.” 

Gasps explode around her. 

Selaena does not dare breathe. 

“The King personally asked for Selaena to marry Prince Aemond,” Corlys says through greeted teeth. Rhaenys and Baela have come to stand by him in silent support. “You have said too much.” 

“No! You know Laena would not want her daughter married to the man that stole her dragon, and yet you said nothing. You dishonor her, brother.” 

Rhaena presses into her side, eyes wide at the sudden change of conversation. Selaena jerks her head toward Otto. He continues to stare at Vaemond and Corlys, the barest hint of a smile on his face. 

Anger wells up in her chest, but Jace stops her before she can take a step forward. She trembles. This is his plan—that fucking bastard’s plan. She knows it. Otto must have set Vaemond up to publicly question their betrothal. 

Aemond. 

She turns to look at him, but he does not meet her eyes. There is rage contorted onto his face, his hands twitch at his sides, but he remains stiff at his sister’s side. Helaena looks pale, frowning, as though she’s mildly confused by what’s happening. Alicent looks to her, though. She’s shaking her head slowly, dry lips parted. 

“Please,” she’s mouthing. 

Please what? 

Daemon takes a glances toward Selaena. His jaw is tight, vein in his neck protruding. His temper will not remain controlled by Rhaenyra for long. 

“Lucerys will remain heir,” Corlys states firmly. “Selaena’s betrothal is not to be questioned by the likes of you.” 

“No one else is in support of it,” Vaemond replies with an unamused laugh. “It is a desperate attempt to keep their family from—“ 

“You’ve said enough,” Selaena says, voice raised. Jacaerys and Rhaenyra attempt to silence her, but she ignores them. This has taken a turn she had not expected. Vaemond had not even looked at her during the trial in her previous life, but now he dares to question her betrothal. Worst, she has a sinking feeling Otto has told him to do this. 

If he cannot kill her, he must stop her from marrying Aemond. Their entire family already doubts their marriage. She cannot allow Otto to ruin this for her. 

“Laena did not want you to marry him,” Vaemond tells her. She knows. Her mother and her used to talk about a wedding to Jacaerys. They’d discuss the veil she’d wear and how they would pin her hair up. They’d giggle at the idea of her serving lemon cake for the feast. 

She remembers. By the Gods she fucking remembers. 

But she’s so exhausted at her betrothal, her potential marriage, being questioned at every turn. She can hardly breathe without someone pushing her to change her mind. 

She’s fucking sick of it. She wants them to shut up and watch her marry him. She’ll fuck him in front of the Gods and the entire court to prove she wants him and only him. Selaena chose Aemond. She’ll allow no other to question her decision. 

“My mother is dead,” she says, voice strained. “So unless you’ve spoken to her spirit, you do not know what she would’ve wanted.” 

Whatever Vaemond is about to say is cut off by the doors being thrown open once more. Selaena feels relief spam into her chest. The King is announced, tears burn her eyes. 

It is not all lost. 

She smiles at Otto‘s shock. 

Corlys moves to the side. Viserys begins to make his way toward the Throne, as it should be. Rhaena holds her arm, a slow hesitant smile on her face. There is no argument to be made, Lucerys will remain heir to Driftmark. Vaemond steps up and she knows what is to come. 

Accusations of Rhaenyra’s sons being bastards are thrown, he calls her a whore. Selaena closes her eyes, covering Rhaena’s. 

“I… will have your tongue for that,” Viserys rasps out, standing on shaky legs, dagger in hand. 

The distinct sounds of flesh slamming into the floor echoes around them. Someone screams. Lucerys backs into her and she grips both him and Rhaena. Jacaerys must’ve moved in front of her, because his shoulders block her view of Vaemond’s body.  

“He can keep his tongue,” Daemon quips, bored. 

Otto shouts for the guards but her father doesn’t care. Vaemond’s death doesn’t matter. Corlys looks at his brother’s body with very little expression save for the pinch of his brows. 

Aemond is staring, she realizes. Selaena looks back to him. Her violet eyes meet his single one. There are two far to speak, too far apart for her to apologize. She wishes she could go to him. This longing—she isn’t certain where it’s come from, but she wants nothing more than to feel Aemond’s hand in her own. 

She cannot tell what he is thinking. His expression reveals nothing as he holds his mother. Alicent looks sick, weaker than their last life. The loss of Aegon has ruined her. How much will Aemond hate her when the truth is revealed? She mourns the time they used to spend waltzing around the garden as children all those years ago. When life was simpler despite her knowledge. 

They do not speak as they leave, brushing by each other like perfect strangers with their respective family. Selaena pretends her heart does not ache. 

page forty-seven

“Colette?” 

The maid perks up at her name. “My lady?” 

“Will you help me dress?” Selaena asks, sitting up in the bath. The water has grown colder, her fingers pruned, and she desperately needs to stretch her legs. 

Colette bobs her head quickly. “Of course.” 

Selaena is dried off quickly, left to stand by the fire in a white nightgown. The material is thin, her collarbones and top of her breasts exposed by how low the dress dips. It’s hardly anything she should be wearing to see someone. 

“Colette,” she says again to the maid. “I need a favor.” 

Her eyes particularly light up. She’s always been rather cheerful. Selaena remembers how she’d helped her back to her chambers after falling asleep in Aemond’s. She kept her secret then, she hopes she keeps it now.

”I swore to Prince Aemond I would help you out in any way possible, Lady Selaena,” Colette says. Selaena smiles at her bright expression. 

“I need a note passed to Aemond,” she says. “You’re the only one I can trust to deliver it.” 

“Oh!” Colette claps her hands, obviously pleased. “How romantic I—I mean, of course, my lady.” 

She curtsies awkwardly, clearing her throat. Selaena chuckles at her enthusiasm. 

The note is short, but she doesn’t need anyone else but Aemond to read it. She’s requesting his presence in the Godswood tomorrow morning, without any supervision. She doesn’t want to have to whisper to him as they used to do. 

Colette curtsies again when she’s given the note, tucking it to her chest. 

“You may count on me, my lady.” And then she’s off. 

Selaena sinks onto her bed, resting her eyes. Exhaustion clings heavily to her. She hadn’t expected her betrothal to be questioned so publicly, especially not at her deceased mother’s expense. Vaemond was foul to use Laena’s name. Still, he hadn’t cared much for Selaena in either life. What had changed? 

The betrothal? 

Even then, she figures marrying a bastard set to inherit the Iron Throne is worse. Otto setting him up is the only explanation. Neither of them could’ve predicted Viserys would make his arrival. Just as she hadn’t thought Corlys would. 

Rhaenys and Baela hadn’t seemed surprised at his entrance. They must’ve requested his return in support of Luke. 

Luke. 

Selaena sits up. During all of that, Rhaena and Lucerys’ betrothals had not been announced. She assumed Baela and Jacaerys would also be set to marry, but that hadn’t happened. She rubs at her eyes, unable to quiet her damn thoughts. 

Surely Rhaena and Luke will still be betrothed. They must be planning to announce it later. Perhaps after Jacaerys and Baela. Jealousy bleeds into her before she can stop it. She has no reason—no right. Jace still deserves to be with someone he can fall in love with. Baela, her brave sister, will make an excellent queen. 

And yet she cannot help but feel unsettled. At one point she was to be the queen beside Jace. She’d prepared for it, learnt her duties. All for not. 

There’s a knock at her door. Selaena cocks her head. 

“Colette?” 

The maid pokes her head in, face pinched. “Ah, my lady, you have a visitor.” 

Selaena stands. “Who would—“

Aemond brushes past Colette to stand before her. She nearly jumps at his sudden appearance. Colette nervously stands at the doorway, glancing back to the Kingsguard with him. Rickard, she believes. 

“Brother,” Colette says, “perhaps we should give them a moment.” 

“It would not be proper—“ 

“Brother.” 

Rickard glances between them, nostrils flared. Aemond gives him a nod and finally, they are left alone. Selaena hasn’t prepared herself for this. 

“You are… unclothed,” Aemond says slowly. Selaena allows herself to smile, no matter how small. 

“I believe I’m still wearing a dress,” she replies. “Unless you’d prefer me to remove it.” 

“Absolutely not,” he says immediately. 

She raises a brow. “Wouldn’t be proper?” 

“Yes, incredibly improper.” 

Both of them lapse into silence that feels like it’s choking her. 

“I’m sorry,” she decides to say. “Vaemond spoke out of turn.” 

“Did he speak the truth?” Aemond asks, dark eye on her. “Would your mother be against us marrying?” 

Everyone is against them. He must be aware of that. 

“My mother wished for my happiness,” she says. 

“Taking me as your husband will make you happy?” 

“Yes,” she says, tone blunt. “You said you liked happy endings, I want that for us.” 

Because she isn’t just fighting for her family, she’s fighting for him too. If he learns the truth and decides he no longer wants her, she will live with his decision. But he will live. That is the important part. 

“I was a child when I said that,” he tells her quietly. She steps towards him, watching his throat bob. 

“Have you changed your mind?” 

“No. Grandfather is against our marriage.” 

How unsurprising and dreadfully obvious of Otto. 

“What of your mother?” 

“She believes marrying you will keep Helaena and I alive.” 

Selaena furrows her brows. “What?” 

Aemond pauses, clearly debating whether or not he wishes to tell her this. 

“My mother fears once Rhaenyra becomes queen she’ll have us killed to protect her claim,” he says. 

“That’s—Rhaenyra would never do that,” she argues. Aemond’s face melts into a sneer, an expression she’s only seen in their past life. It makes her wince. 

“But your father might,” he says. “Who will stop him? Rhaenyra does not have the control over him she assumes she does. If he becomes my good-father, he may spare me on account of that.” 

“You do not know my father.” 

“You do not see him as the rest of us do. He beheaded Corlys’ brother right in front him, in front of the court.” 

“Because Vaemond could not keep his insolent mouth shut,” she snaps. “He publicly called Rhaenyra a whore and her sons bastards. He said our betrothal was a mistake. He deserved to die.” 

Aemond watches her cooly and she realizes, perhaps too late, that they are no longer children. The relationship—the sweet friendship—is tainted by their lost youth. She mourns it. 

“I was not sad to see him go,” he says. “But my mother’s concerns are not unreasonable.” 

“She should talk to Rhaenyra. They were once friends, I’ve heard.” Selaena takes his hands into hers, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Your mother and sister will be safe.” 

His smile is bitter. “Like Aegon? You know, my grandfather believes Daemon went and killed him.” 

“He didn’t,” she says. “He wouldn’t resort to kinslaying.” 

“You can’t know that for certain.” 

“I do,” she replies, voice breaking off. He softens almost immediately at her desperate tone. 

Finally, finally, Aemond squeezes her hands, dropping his gaze to them. The fight has left both of them after today. “I didn’t come here to argue with you.” 

“Why did you come? I thought we’d see one another in the morning,” she says. 

“I wished to see you,” he admits reluctantly, the tips of his ears turning pink. She smiles at him, soft and sweet. 

“Missed me?” Selaena asks. He flashes her a look of irritation. “I missed you. I wish you’d been by me today.” 

“You had my nephew,” he mutters. 

“I did,” she agrees, “and I wanted you.” 

“You should not say such things while you look like this.” 

Her heart traitorously skips a beat, and she dares to ask, “Like what?”

Aemond removes his hands from hers, cupping her cheek as though she is made out of something delicate. Perhaps, in his mind, she is. While this would’ve annoyed her, she finds herself leaning into him. His gaze is soft and she glows beneath it. 

He’s close enough she can smell him. Leather and spice, so different from how he’d smelt as a child. He’s different. Taller, leaner, lovelier. She hadn’t considered him lovely in their past life—had never felt any warmth for that Aemond—but her Aemond is breathtaking. 

“You are”—his tongue darts to wet his lips and the image burns into her mind—“beautiful to the point it pains me.” 

“I could help with the pain,” she finds herself saying. Heat floods her stomach. It’s pleasant, this want. “If you’d allow me.” 

(Jacaerys leaned over her, fingers skimming her bare waist. “Gods, Selaena.” 

She giggled, insides fluttering at the warmth in his eyes. “Lost for words, my prince?” 

“I fear no words could do you justice,” he responded, then his lips were pressing to hers and she was moaning into his open mouth.) 

But it is not Jacaerys she wants; it’s Aemond. She imagines Aemond leaned over her nude form. Imagines her legs locked around Aemond’s hips. 

His thumb rests against her bottom lip. “That—That would not be proper.” 

“How scandalized you’d feel if you could hear my thoughts,” she says, before slowly taking his thumb between her lips. Her violet eyes move to his as he draws in a sharp breath. 

She hollows her cheeks, sucking on it so delicately she wonders if he can even feel it. Her tongue presses to the pad of his finger. His jaw clenches, pupil blown so wide the violet of his eye is hidden. 

Someone knocks on the door. 

They tear away from each other as though burnt. Colette and Rickard step back in. She’s frowning at her brother. 

“I tried to convince him to give you more time,” she says. 

“My apologies, but it is late, and Prince Aemond should not be here,” Ser Rickard says, ignoring his sister. Selaena clears her throat, smile tight. 

“Right,” she says. Aemond looks to her and she looks to him. It’s a mistake, because he lifts his thumb—the one she has just had in her mouth—and presses it into his. Her cunt clenches around nothing. 

He pops his thumb out of his mouth, all too calm for what has just transpired. “I’ll see you in the morn, then. Goodnight, Selaena.” 

“Goodnight,” she says, tense. His lips flicker into a smug half smile she wants to punch—perhaps kiss—off his face. 

It isn’t until she’s alone that she drops back onto her bed, curls flying around her. She is still warm, too warm. Selaena closes her eyes, fingers creeping between her thighs. There is no shame in her desire. She knows how cock feels—this body doesn’t, but she remembers making love to Jacaerys. 

She does not moan his name into her pillows as she pushes a finger into her aching cunt, though. 

Chapter Text

page forty-eight  

“What do you think they’re discussing?” Baela asks, food untouched on her plate. Selaena pops another one of her blackberries into her mouth. Rhaena steals a bite of her lamprey pie. Baela does not notice either of them, too lost in her thoughts. 

“My mother is attempting to convince our grandparents to remain here until Aemond and Selaena are wed,” Jacaerys answers, offering his blackberries to Selaena. She happily accepts them. 

“She told you?” Luke asks. Jace shakes his head. 

“I overheard her and Daemon earlier.” 

“She feels threatened by that Hightower weasel,” Selaena tells them dully. Otto had not thought the King would rise from his bed to defend Lucerys’ claim. She had not thought Corlys would return from Stepstones to defend him either. 

It’d worked out for them in the end, but not without her betrothal being publicly ridiculed. 

“Your mother should get rid of him when she becomes queen,” Rhaena says. Baela smacks her hand when she attempts to steal her grapes. 

“It’s not that simple,” Selaena says. They’ve gathered in Baela and Rhaena’s shared quarters to break their fast. She wants them away from prying ears. “Otto Hightower is far more respected than Rhaenyra. If she sends him away without reason, she’ll begin to lose support. They’re already wary of her rule because she’s a woman. Marrying our father has not helped either.” 

She has no evidence Otto had Vaemond question her marriage. Had Rhaenyra been a man, a king instead of a queen, she might’ve been able to dismiss him on a gut feeling, but she was a woman. Women are not afforded the same luxuries. 

“They bent the knee to her,” Luke argues. “My mother was named heir by my grandfather.” 

“For now,” Selaena says, eyes moving toward the window. She thinks she sees Vhagar in the distance. Aemond must be out flying again. “We must not cause any reason for them to stop supporting her.” 

“They would be hung for treason if they betrayed her,” Baela says quietly. Rhaena and Luke exchange uncomfortable glances. 

They do not know what she does, and she does not know what Otto plans now. Aegon is gone, removed from the Game. She isn’t foolish enough to underestimate him. It’s clear his plans involve breaking her and Aemond’s betrothal. Perhaps to force him to take the Throne. She doesn’t know if he even wants to be king. Though she doubts it matters. Aegon hadn’t wanted the Throne, but once he’d gotten a taste of power he’d gone mad with it. 

Selaena traces the calluses on her palm. Longs hours of archery have left her hands rough. She wonders, vaguely, if Aemond will mind. They’re no longer the palms of the little girl who’d asked to be his friend. 

“Rhaenyra being queen will not save her from betrayal,” Selaena tells them, voice heavy. “Queen will never hold the same weight as king in their eyes. That is why we need to secure allies.” 

“I’m assuming you have suggestions?” Jace asks, brow raised at her. She smiles. 

“Of course. Cregan Stark is close to your age, Jace. It would do your mother well to form a friendship with him,” she says. “Boros Baratheon has four daughters, Rhaenyra should take one as her lady-in-waiting.” 

It was in Storm’s End Lucerys would lose his life. Boros—the bastard—had agreed to join the Greens after Aemond betrothed himself to one of his daughters. That wouldn’t happen now. No one but Selaena will marry him. A companion to the Queen is a highly favorable position. Taking in one of his daughters will show Rhaenyra is not ignoring him. 

And if he still will not side with them, they will have a hostage. Selaena ignores the silent guilt that wells in her. 

There are other lords who may not bend so easily. Ones wholly against a woman sitting on the Throne. She cannot make a move against them now. 

“Your betrothals should be considered carefully as well,” Selaena continues.  “Joffrey, Viserys, and Aegon are young but—“

“Yes,” Baela drawls, face even but hard, “we should all follow in your footsteps when it comes to our marriages.” 

Vaemond’s words have been hanging over them; though none but Baela dared to broach the topic. Selaena frowns at her. Rhaena looks nervously between them. 

“Perhaps—“

Selaena does not let their youngest sister finish. 

“You should,” she agrees frostily. “Our marriages should benefit Rhaenyra. Rhaena and Luke will be betrothed. I’m certain Father and Grandfather will wish you wed to Jace.” 

“I have no plans on marrying him,” Baela says. Jace, Luke, and Rhaena exchange uncomfortable glances at the rising tension. Selaena tries to keep her tone even. 

“You would give up being queen?” she asks.

“As you did,” Baela says, lips twitch into a half-sneer. “How strange, sister, that we all thought you’d one day be Jacaerys’ queen only for you to wake up one morn and… What? Change your mind? 

Suddenly you’re willing to put up with our cousin you so despised. Suddenly you’re defending him. Suddenly you’re saying you’ll be happy with the man who stole our mother’s dragon.” 

“He was a boy,” Selaena says immediately. She isn’t certain why her natural reaction is to defend Aemond. She’d been upset by his actions all those years ago, too. But Baela doesn’t know him as she does. 

“Were we not also children when he hit us and attempted to beat Jace with a rock?” Baela asks, jaw clenching in a way that is reminiscent to their father.

”Sisters—“ 

“Quiet, Rhaena,” they both snarl. She flinches, Luke reaching over to hold her hand. Both boys are wise enough to stay quiet. 

“Aemond shouldn’t have disrespected our mother or picked up a rock, yes, but Vhagar wouldn’t have chosen him if she didn’t believe him capable,” Selaena says. “This quarrel was years ago, Baela. It is time to move on.” 

“No!” Baela cries, standing. Her chair snaps to the ground with a bang that makes Rhaena and Luke lean back. “I remember you hated Aemond. You said he was nothing but an envious bully. Do you remember?” 

She doesn’t. Those memories belong to her younger self, and she has forgotten them. The Selaena they knew is dead and she has taken her place. Baela does not remember what will become of them if she doesn’t marry Aemond. None of them do. 

Frustration simmers within her. They don’t understand. None of them do. They’ll never have to remember what she does, but Selaena, oh, she’ll be never forget. She is cursed with knowledge. An ugly part of her wishes they’d share this burden with her. 

“You and Mother would talk about your wedding to Jace,” Baela continues. “I’d listen. I know neither of you noticed, but I listened. I wanted you to be queen. So did she. For our grandmother who had that opportunity ripped from her. 

One of her last wishes was to be at your wedding. Can’t you… Can’t you honor her one last time?” 

Both of their eyes are misty. Selaena looks to her sister. Brave Baela who had risked her life in fighting Aegon. Little Baela who was scared of storms and needed to be held during them. She is neither now. She is just Baela, her sister. Baela who missed Laena as much as she did. 

Selaena looks at the table, unable to meet her eye. Too weak, perhaps. 

“I am to marry Aemond,” she says quietly, finality in her voice. “Do not question my decision again.” 

She does not look up as Baela storms from the room. Cannot bring herself to even as the doors slam shut leaving them in a tense silence. Jacaerys breaks it. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, hand coming to settle over hers. 

(“Are you alright?” Jacaerys asked, hands coming to either side of her hips. 

Selaena hums, wrapping her arms around his neck. He leaned down to trail his lips across her jaw. 

“The babe, you mean? We’re both fine. You worry too much.” 

“Your pregnancy hasn’t been easy thus far,” he said. His fingers brushed against the small swell of her stomach. A tiny life was forming. 

“It often is not,” she said with a smile. He rolled his eyes, meeting her lips on a quick kiss.) 

“Fine,” Selaena says, pulling her hand back to her lap as though he’s burnt her. “We’re both fine.” 

“Baela assumes to know what Mother wanted,” Rhaena says, “but she doesn’t. Not truly. She… She wants to honor her memory, but what she doesn’t understand is that Mother wanted you—us—happy. That’s why she spoke of your marriage. Because it made you happy. You could’ve been attempting to marry a toad and she would’ve supported you.” 

Selaena snorts in a very unladylike way, wiping at her eyes. “Well, I’m certain she would’ve preferred me married to a human.” 

“Perhaps that toad would become a prince with a kiss,” Rhaena suggests with a hesitant smile. 

“Kissing my uncle will feel much the same,” Luke says. Selaena feels a smile flicker on her lips. 

“Baela will come around,” Jace tells her. “She cares for you deeply. You know that.” 

Selaena does, she’s seen the extent of her sister’s love in another life. No matter how many times they may quarrel, they will always come back to the other. 

The blood of the dragon runs deep, after all. They are no exception. 

page forty-nine 

“Must we prance about so publicly?” Aemond asks, lips peeled into his ever persistent frown. 

Selaena squeezes his inner elbow. “We are not prancing. We’re walking. Vaemond denounced our betrothal in front of these people, we must prove him wrong.” 

“He’s dead,” he says bluntly. “I doubt they’ll be brave enough to question us publicly. Not after your father beheaded him.” 

“Still,” she says and leaves it at that. Selaena doesn’t need any gossip of bastardy surrounding any potential children they may have. She can already imagine the gossip. 

“I doubt they’re his. They can hardly stand to be around one another.” 

“Just look. Completely different noses. Though the babe has a similar jaw to the cook…” 

“The child’s hair isn’t that precise shade of Valyrian blond! She must be a whore.” 

Selaena shudders at her own imagination. Rhaenyra is stronger than she is, she’d have gone mad listening to them. Jacaerys doesn’t care. His confidence is what endeared people to him. It’s why his death was so mourned in their last life. Joffrey is too young to fully understand, but the whispers bother Lucerys. 

“We should go flying,” Aemond suggests. 

“Starfall is at Dragonstone,” she says. 

“Then you’ll ride Vhagar with me,” he says. She glances up at him (how strange it still feels to crane her head like this), smiling. 

“Will you take me to see a sunset again?” 

His ears begin to burn pink, jaw tightening. “No.”  

“Oh, is that what you meant to do?” she asks, stifling a giggle. “Did I ruin the surprise?” 

“No,” he says, not looking at her. This time she cannot contain her laughter, throwing her head back. It’s not proper but she hardly cares. 

“Ever the romantic.” 

“You are vexing.” 

“Shall I pretend to be shocked when you fly me out to watch one?” 

“I’ve changed my mind. We’ll stay here instead.” 

“Are you pouting, darling?” she asks, leaning further into his arm. 

“I do not pout.” 

“Of course you don’t.” 

Aemond does not smile, but his face is noticeably relaxed. She presses her cheek to the side of his shoulder, grinning. People have turned to look at them curiously. She hasn’t heard any whispers yet. She may not. While Daemon has no love for her betrothal, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to disrespect her. Most are wise enough to hold their tongue. Vaemond was not. Selaena does not feel particularly bad about his death despite knowing she should. 

(Ser Rickard trails behind them awkwardly. 

If only Colette could see them now, he thinks. His sister would burst from joy. She’s always been caught up in her silly romance novels. Cooing over marriages and happy couples (most are not, he does not have the heart to tell her this, though). Desperately wishing to be swept off her feet by a prince of her own. It’s why she’s invested herself in Prince Aemond and Lady Selaena so desperately.

Just yesterday she’d begun to argue with another maid who said they wouldn’t suit one another. Rickard had been forced to step in. 

Well, if there is one person in support of Aemond and Selaena, it’s Colette. He cannot fault her loyalty to the pair. Even he finds himself softening at them. Prince Aemond does not smile, but in her presence he seems to lighten up. Lady Selaena, always graceful and put together, dissolves into a giggling maiden at his side. There is love, perhaps not fully bloomed, but it is budding.) 

“Father wants to have a family supper,” Aemond says, obviously unexcited by the prospect. 

Selaena remembers this.

(“If you’re ever curious—“ 

“I would watch the next few words you say very carefully, cousin,” Selaena said, meeting Aegon’s violet eyes. “It would be a great tragedy for you to lose your tongue.” 

“A shame indeed,” Aegon agreed, lips flickering upwards. “You would’ve enjoyed my tongue.” 

Selaena stabbed her fork into the table next to his hand. He startled back, obviously not expecting violence from his, otherwise, calm cousin. Jacaerys moved between them then, fingers snaking around her wrist.)

But Aegon is gone. 

“You will behave,” she tells him. It was Aemond who’d provoked Jacaerys into punching him. He’d called their legitimacy into question with pretty enough words to not lose his head. 

“Ah, but I planned to throw peas at you from across the table,” he replies, looking down at her. She’s tempted to slap his shoulder—something she does with Luke and Jace when they’re being particularly annoying—but doesn’t. She does, however, make an aggressive show of rolling her eyes. Aemond ignores it. “Lucerys apologized to me yesterday.” 

Her brows raise. “Truly? I did not think he actually would.”

“It was less of an apology and more of him feeling guilty for scarring your hand.” 

That makes much more sense. She cannot count the number of times he’s apologized for it, despite knowing she was the one to grab the dagger. 

“What did you say?” 

He jerks his shoulders into a half-shrug. “I said he should ask for your forgiveness.” 

Selaena heaves a sigh that comes from the deepest parts of her being. Right. A relationship as sour as theirs will not be fixed in one day. But Aemond hadn’t threatened to cut out his eye (he no longer has a reason to), so she counts this as progress. They don’t need to be fond of each other. 

“Why are you disappointed?” he asks. 

“I’m not.” 

“You are. I heard you sigh.” 

“I wish you’d be nicer to your nephew is all.” 

“Perhaps your cousin should be nicer to his uncle.” 

“You say that as though you’re not also my cousin.” 

“I am your betrothed.” 

“Both can be true at once, Aemond.” 

(Yes, Ser Rickard thinks with a hint of fondness, love could certainly bloom.) 

page fifty

She has barely finished changing when Jacaerys steps into her chambers. 

“Something the matter?” Selaena asks. Her gaze moves the sapphire chocker in her hands to him. Like her, he’s dressed in black and red. She sets the chocker back onto her vanity. It doesn’t match her current dress, but it’s too low cut for her to not wear a necklace at all. 

Colette raises necklace of ruby and gold as a suggestion. Selaena nods and allows her to bring it around her neck. At least her throat and chest don’t look so bare. 

“Has Baela spoken to you?” Jace asks, moving to lean against the wall near her. Colette begins to braid a section of Selaena’s hair. 

“No,” she replies. “I thought I’d give her time.” 

“Always so kind, my lady,” he says. She tries to narrow her eyes at him, but she’s forced to keep her head staring straight ahead for Colette. 

“I am nothing if not considerate.” 

“Perhaps my uncle will learn something from you, then.” 

“He’s a bit stubborn. I’ll have to swat his hands like our maester did us.” 

“Me, you mean,” Jace says, wincing at the memory. “You were a diligent student.” 

“No,” Selaena corrects, “I was merely good at speaking Valyrian.” 

He gives her a pointed look she meets with a smile. Jace‘s grasp on the language has improved, but, in comparison to her, Lucerys, Rhaena, and Baela, he’s not as advanced. Luke jests Joffrey will soon pass him in his studies. Jace does not find it as humorous as the rest of them. 

Colette ties off her first braid with ribbon. She’s a diligent worker, talkative when spoken to, but quiet otherwise. Selaena enjoys her presence. Apparently Aemond was the one to ask that Colette be her maid. 

(“It’s an honor, my lady!” Colette says with a wide smile. “Prince Aemond was very adamant I help you.” 

“I remember you,” Selaena says, tilting her head. She wouldn’t forget the maid who snuck her back to her chambers. Colette is hardly any older than her. Dark haired with pale brown eyes and a splash of freckles across her round cheeks. 

“Y-Yes, it’s truly such an honor,” she says, wide eyed. 

“Aemond is lucky to have someone so loyal,” Selaena says with a smile. 

Her cheeks flush.) 

“I talked to Baela,” Jacaerys says. This must be what he came here to talk about. He’s always disliked any arguing between them. He claims they must show a united front, especially here. Selaena can’t say she disagrees. 

Still, it’s not his sibling wholeheartedly protesting his marriage. Jace would cheer alongside Baela if Aemond suddenly decided to end the betrothal. Daemon may even giggle with glee. 

“How upset was she?” Selaena asks. 

“She only told me to fall off my dragon twice,” he jests. Selaena suppresses a snort. “I think I’ve convinced her you’re not going to betray us for them.”

Selaena swings her head toward him in surprise, causing Colette to release a braid. She hurriedly attempts to fix the braid. Selaena doesn’t have the mind to apologize. 

“I would never,” she says sharply. 

“We all know that,” Jace soothes. “Baela does, too. I think she’s worried about you, is all.” 

“There is no reason to be. How many times must I say I’m very content with my—“ 

“I’m aware,” he says with a half-smile. There’s an underlying strain to his words, and his gaze is far too soft and sad to be appropriate. She has to look away despite the way he simmers beneath her skin. 

She cares for Aemond. But that does not mean she’s forgotten how Jacaerys loved her and how she loved him in return. He’s a constant reminder of what she lost. Of what she’s fighting to protect. The hard truth, an honesty she can ill afford, is her and Jace were never meant to be. Not if their future lead to ruin. 

Knowing and accepting are two separate matters. 

Colette finishes her second braid, tying the two together. Selaena’s curls hang free down shoulders otherwise. Like her mother. She finds herself attempting to emulate Laena at every turn. Laena who was kind and intelligent and patient. What would she say to this? Sometimes she finds herself wondering whether her mother would verbalize disapproval like her father and sister. 

“I’ve finished, my lady,” Colette says, stepping back. Selaena throws a smile at her. 

“Thank you,” she says. Selaena stands, brushing the black skirt down. She inhales, preparing herself for this supper. 

“Shall I walk the lovely lady?” Jace asks, offering her his arm. She accepts it with a polite nod of her head. 

“My, what a gentleman,” she says with a grin. 

“For you, Lady Selaena? Anything.” 

(Behind them, Colette is torn. Part of her wants to squeal at the display, the other part of her wants to summon Prince Aemond. Prince Jacaerys and Lady Selaena, unfortunately, do suit each other. She is very bitter about this realization.) 

Selaena keeps her fingers pressed into Jace’s arm the entire walk there. If he notices her distress, he doesn’t say. Instead, he places his hand overs hers. 

It does not still her beating heart like it should. 

page fifty-one

The moment Jacaerys pulls out her chair for her, she knows history is doomed to repeat itself. 

Aegon may not be present (Rhaenys and Corlys taken his place), but it matters very little. Aemond watches his nephew with a narrowed eye. Selaena wants dunk her head into a barrel of wine and inhale. 

“Thank you, Jacaerys,” she grits. As though innocent, he shrugs. She shouldn’t have allowed him to escort her to supper. It would’ve made her look rude, declining a prince as a mere lady, but it would’ve ensured he wouldn’t try to provoke his uncle. Or perhaps he still would. 

“Of course, my lady,” he responds with a grin, taking his seat away from her. 

Aemond sits on her left, Helaena to her right. She’s humming something under her breath. Selaena cannot make out what the tune is. 

“He walked you from your chambers?” Aemond asks. He does not look at her as he speaks, stare deliberately set on Jace. His nephew ignores him, chatting with Lucerys instead. Baela offers her a tight nod, an apology of sorts. Selaena responds with a smile, accepting it. Her and Daemon are unnervingly similar at times. 

“He did,” she says. 

“I could’ve walked you.” 

“You could,” she agrees in the same neutral tone, “but you didn’t.” 

Whether her words or intonation irritate him, she isn’t sure. But his glower moves from Jace to her. She meets it with a smile. 

“Next them, then,” he says as though she’s forcing him to speak. 

“I would love nothing more.” 

The King arrives and the room falls silent. Viserys looks to be in the Stranger’s grasp already. The knowledge seems to quietly weigh on them all. Beneath the table, she gently offers her hand to Aemond. Her fingers brush his palm and he, without looking down, intertwines their fingers. 

She isn’t certain if his father’s condition upsets him. His face is unreadably stiff. 

(Helaena watches Selaena run her thumb across Aemond’s knuckles. She is the only one who notices. They’re all too focused on her father. The Stranger is coming for him, she can hear it. 

The threat of decay yields a union of black and green. Black and green, black and green. 

She hums it again and again to soothe her nerves.) 

Viserys’ ability to ignore the palpable tension in the room is remarkable. Truly. She has never met anyone so willing to pretend the world around him is not on fire as he burns with it. Her uncle—her family—will never cease to amaze her.  

Alicent and Rhaenyra make toasts, smile at the other. Daemon does not throw any comments at Otto, though Rhaenys and Corlys keep him distracted with conversation. Odder yet, Baela has begun sharing whispers with Helaena. She has never even seen the two look upon one another, let alone speak. Baela, then, genuinely smiles at her. A rather strange development. She’ll have to ask Rhaena about them. 

Selaena squeezes Aemond’s hand to gain his attention. Being on his blind side means he’s forced to turn his head completely towards her. The action makes his lips twitch into a frown. 

“Alright?” she asks in a quiet murmur. 

“Why would I not be?” His eyebrow raises. 

She gives a light shrug, patting his hand with her free one. He’s kept a firm hold of the one they’ve locked together on his lap. She isn’t sure if he’s doing it out of comfort or to prove a point to Jace. 

“How do you feel about dragon’s breath?” she asks to change the topic. She doubts he’ll be honest about how he feels if she pushes. 

“What?” he asks, perplexed. 

“Dragon’s breath,” she says again, ignoring the way he stares at her. “For our wedding. I want them but I wasn’t sure how your mother would feel.” 

He blinks, looking at her as though she’s offered to be Vhagar’s next meal. “Why does her opinion matter?” 

His tone is not unkind, so she assumes he must be genuinely confused. She almost scoffs. Has he not even considered how close their wedding is? It’s hardly six moons away. 

“I am to be your wife soon,” she reminds him, “and she will be my good-mother. I wish to get along with her.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” he says, frowning. How can I forget? goes unspoken but she hears it. The warmth that lights in her chest is annoying and unnatural. “I doubt she minds. It’ll be our wedding.” 

Selaena isn’t under the impression Alicent will actually care about her choice of flowers. The change in conversation, away from his dying father, has lightened his expression. Her father and step-mother do not like discussing the King’s state either. She has never been close to him, but even she finds him hard to look at. Rotting while still drawing breath. Such a fate does not suit a king. 

“Good,” she hums, patting his hand again. “I was thinking dragon’s breath and blood-blooms. I like the colors. Frostfire isn’t in season yet, but that would’ve been nice.” 

“Yes,” Aemond agrees. She cocks her head at him. 

“Do you know what those flowers look like?” 

“Yes,” he says. She stares at him and he breaks easily. “No.” 

Selaena stifles a giggle with her free hand. “Were you just going to pretend to know what I spoke of?” 

“I’d see it eventually,” he grumbles. 

She cannot contain her laughter this time. Selaena regrets laughing as soon as the noise escapes her. She feels Aemond still. Every head at the table turns to her. 

Daemon and Otto are, by far, the most suspicious. For different reasons, she’s sure, but if she ever made a point to compare the two, her father would throw a fit. Helaena is smiling the same dreamy smile she always has plastered on her face. 

Rhaena and Luke appear more hesitant with their own smiles. Baela frowns, turning away. She hasn’t grown any more fond of their betrothal. Jace’s expression is even. Alicent’s smile is slapped across her face as though she’s been threatened to keep it in place. Rhaenys and Corlys share a glance she cannot decipher. 

It’s Rhaenyra who speaks. 

“Father,” she says, turning from them to the King. He’s slouched in his chair, but it’s clear he’s listening to his beloved daughter. “I think it best if we remained here until Selaena and Aemond’s wedding.” 

“You are the only one who thinks so,” Daemon says lowly, his voice carries, though, and everybody at the table hears him. 

“A lovely idea,” Alicent immediately says. Selaena cannot tell if she means to oppose Daemon or if she truly wants them to stay. Exhaustion hangs heavy on her pretty face. There is a certain desperation in her voice she doesn’t miss. 

“Their wedding is not for another six moons,” Otto says politely, though his eyes are narrowed at Rhaenyra. How strange that Daemon and him share an opinion. 

“Weddings take long to plan,” Rhaenyra responds tightly.

”I’m surprised you knew that, princess,” he says, equally as forced in his pleasantness. “Considering how quick your and Prince Daemon’s marriage occurred.” 

Rhaena, Baela, and Selaena all exchange unsure glances. They’ve discussed their own thoughts on their father and step-mother’s wedding. It had not even been a moon. Their mother—who loved Daemon and them—had barely been put to rest. 

Still. Selaena cannot fault Rhaenyra’s desperation. 

(“Laenor is not dead,” she whispered one night, one too many cups into her wine. “He lives the life he’s always wanted and we toil here. I’ve lost my son. My daughter. Why? If my sins needed to be paid in blood could it not have been my own?” 

Selaena held her, wiping away her tears. There was nothing to say. No words that could comfort her. 

“They will burn for what they’ve done, my queen,” she said, staring forward, tears burning her dry eyes. “Aemond, Aegon, all of them. We will make them hurt.” 

Blood and cheese.) 

Selaena will never hate her step-mother. She will never betray the woman she saw so broken. Who grieved with her over the loss of their sons. Who held Selaena like a child when her babe did not draw breath. This Rhaenyra will never know those losses. She has sworn this countless times. 

“We have not forgotten the speed in which you offered your only daughter up for marriage,” Daemon cuts in, a sneer disguised as a smile pulling across his face. “Some may say like a common whore, but, really, that is all gossip. Nothing to pay mind to.” 

Selaena tightens her grip on Aemond’s hand, willing him to stay seated. Had it been anyone other than Daemon to say that, he would’ve thrown a punch. But her father inspires a certain amount of fear in most people. Aemond is no exception. 

He dies by Daemon’s hand. She remembers grieving her father to celebrate his death. Her blood turns cold at the thought of Aemond dying. 

Aemond squeezes back just as fiercely. She does not look at him, but she sees the way Alicent pales and tucks into herself. She is rendered into a girl again between Otto and Daemon. 

“I did not take you as one to listen to rumors, my prince,” Otto replies. “Considering the ones circling your wife and her sons.” 

“I would consider your next few words carefully,” Daemon snaps. “A shame if the lord Hand lost his.” 

“Daemon,” Rhaenyra says, patience already tested. She rubs at her stomach, brows knitted tightly. 

“I am merely conversing, wife,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “He is the grandfather of the boy who will be marrying my daughter. It’s only natural to speak to one another.” 

Rhaenyra glowers at him and it nearly reminds her of Aemond. Sometimes Selaena forgets they’re siblings. 

“Their marriage,” Corlys begins, to her surprise, “it will be taking place?” 

Selaena sends a prayer to the Warrior to give her strength. The constant, ever persisting questioning of her betrothal has driven her half-mad. She cannot eat, sleep, or breathe without someone wanting to annul it. Why can’t they shut up? 

Rhaenys silences her with a tight look and a shake of her head. Selaena has always heeded her grandmother. Laena had respected her, thus she does now. It’s the only reason Selaena clamps her mouth shut. 

Aemond brushes her knuckles with his thumb. His gaze drifts between his grandfather and her father. She takes a calming breath. 

“Of course it will,” Alicent says too quickly. “Why wouldn’t it?” 

“I don’t seem to recall you being so supportive,” Daemon drawls. 

“Our minds may change with time,” Rhaenyra says, flashing Daemon a warning look. He doesn’t seem to care. Not anymore. He’s held his tongue long enough for her, it seems. 

“Not everyone here is likely to agree,” he says. 

“Selaena and Aemond will wed,” Alicent grits. “The King has demanded it.” 

“Betrothals can be broken,” Otto says, apparently rising to Daemon’s challenge. Daemon flashes the other man a poisonous sneer. 

“I agree,” Corlys says. “Jacaerys was her original intended. Selaena would be queen when he rules.” 

To be talked about as though they are not there. Jacaerys frowns now, too. Selaena meets his eyes. She doesn’t know what she wants to communicate. An apology, perhaps. For what she isn’t sure. 

“Should Selaena not have a say?” Rhaenys asks. Selaena’s admiration for her grandmother grows. 

“Who would turn down being queen?” Corlys asks. 

“I—“ Selaena doesn’t have enough time to get a word in. 

“Surely Baela and Jacaerys can be wed,” Alicent says, eyes wild. 

“Must you play matchmaker with all my children?” Daemon asks her. 

“She speaks sense,” Rhaenyra says. “Father, I—“

”Selaena should—“

”Aemond—“

”Jacaerys—“

”—be queen. She deserves—“

”—is not any less deserving—“

”—has plenty of marriage proposals—“

In her last life, it had been Aegon, Aemond, and Jacaerys who started the fight. In some twist of fate, she watches the rest of them begin to argue. How much has she changed? How has one fucking betrothal changed so much? 

Aemond is looking at her. At the wetness in her eyes, she figures. Has she caused such violent division this time? Her family cannot be lost. This is her attempt at fixing everything. Has she already failed so miserably? To have her choices questioned and frowned upon at every turn has taken a toll on her. She’s trying. If Laena was here, she’d be the voice of reason. She would know what to do. But Selaena is not Laena, she never will be. No matter how hard she attempts to emulate her, she is nothing but a shadow of her mother. 

She’s so tired. 

“Selaena.” Somehow Aemond’s voice strikes her through the arguing. She turns to him, blinking away her tears. His jaw clenches. “You’re crying.” 

“I’m simply tired,” she says numbly. She is hardly away of how hard he holds her hand, like he’s the only thing keeping her from floating away. She wishes to. But Starfall is far, far away and she mourns the distance between them. 

“Don’t lie,” he snaps. 

“It’s fine—“ 

Aemond’s palm slams into the table as the King shouts, “Enough!” 

Silence. 

Blissful, tense silence falls across the room. Selaena’s breath stills in her chest. Beside her, she hears Helaena murmuring in a frantic, offbeat tune, 

“The threat of decay yields a union of black and green.” 

Selaena has no time to ask her what she means. She will learn soon enough. 

“This in-fighting,” Viserys wheezes, harsh breath rattling his entire frame, “will end today.” 

“Father—“ He holds up at hand at Rhaenyra, struggling to catch his breath. 

“No,” he says firmly, gripping the arm of his seat. “This has gone on for long enough. Selaena and Aemond are—are doing us a great service with their marriage. Uniting this family.” 

He shuts his eye. None of them dare interrupt. 

“I will not hear another word against them. I won’t,” he continues, opening his eye to gaze at them. He’s seeing through them. Seeing what they will represent, but he doesn’t see his niece and son. Not truly. “The marriage will happen tonight.” 

“What?” Daemon straightens in his chair. “You cannot be serious.” 

“I will see them wed myself,” Viserys croaks. “A Valyrian wedding between our children. Our family mended. It will happen.” 

“Perhaps we should wait,” Otto says. 

“I have waited long enough!” the King rasps, spittle flying. He sucks in another ragged breath and Selaena fears it may be his last. “Now. They will be wed now.” 

For a fraction of a moment, none move. It is as though they are waiting for Viserys to change his mind. 

He does not. 

“Fetch a Septon and bring me to the throne room,” he says and everyone seems to leap to their feet. 

Selaena turns to Aemond, grasping his hands in hers. Both of their eyes are wide and wild and she suddenly feels like a little girl again. 

“Aemond,” she says because she has no other words. For all of her knowledge, she could not have predicted this. Jacaerys attempts to make his way to her, she can see him try, but it is Lucerys that grabs his elbow. They’re arguing, the room too loud for her to hear. 

Aemond stares at her with an expression she has never seen. There is a mixture of fear and something else. His lips part, then close. 

A hand close around her shoulder. Rhaenys’ voice is calm. “Come, we must prepare you for your wedding.” 

Selaena gives him one last glance, a silent plea to steal her away on Vhagar. She doesn’t mean it, and he doesn’t understand what she wants, so she’s pulled away from him. He watches her go without a word. 

Rhaenys keeps a hold of her as they walk to her chambers. Baela and Rhaena join them, staying just behind their older sister. 

“We must be quick,” Rhaenys says quietly, thumb brushing her cheek. “You will be fine. Do you hear me? You must be as strong as I know you are.” 

“I want my mother,” Selaena replies in a hoarse whisper. Rhaena wraps her arms around her waist immediately, forehead pressed to her shoulder.  

“If your mother was here, girl, none of this would be happening,” Rhaenys replies lightly, a slight smile curving her lips. It is not one of happiness. Nostalgia, perhaps. “I will fetch a maid.” 

She steps out and it is Baela who embraces her fully. 

“I’m sorry,” she says without clarifying. Selaena imagines she’s apologizing for more than this morning, but she doesn’t ask. Doesn’t care to. She holds her sisters instead. 

“Grandmother is right,” Rhaena says fiercely. “You’ll be alright. Everything will work out.” 

Selaena presses a kiss to the crown of her head. 

(Helaena is left alone. She hums, trailing a finger along the stone wall. 

“A marriage marked by the Stranger,” she says sweetly. 

Larys Strong is the only one to hear her.) 

page fifty-two

Selaena feels as though she’s being marched to her death. 

Only their family is there to witness the wedding. Viserys is being held up by the Kingsguards, looking fit to collapse. Aemond stands before the Septon in clothing similar to hers. The sleeves are far too big. Rhaena had to roll them up thrice. The headpiece she wears threatens to slip off. 

They are children playing dress up. 

Daemon walks her to Aemond and the Septon wordlessly. He had not said anything to her since Rhaenys brought her into the throne room. She isn’t certain what she even wants to hear from him. 

At the end of the aisle, Daemon leaves her before Aemond. He does not look back and she wants to scream at him. She wants to scream at everyone, but she doesn’t because she never has. Because she has always been the good daughter. A mature child. The eldest daughter. Good daughters do not throw fits. Good daughters smile and listen and do as they’re told. 

The Septon begins their vows in Valyrian, handing them a blade of dragonglass. She has seen Daemon and Rhaenyra’s wedding, she knows what she must do. 

Aemond looks at her helplessly and suddenly he is a boy again. Wild-haired and freckled, the scar across his eye so fresh she can smell the blood. She wonders if he sees the little girl she never got to be. 

Her fingers shake as she brings the blade of his lip. Slowly, she cuts into the soft flesh. Droplets of red swell. She swipes her thumb across it, rubbing his blood across his forehead. His stare is enough to silence the world around them. Has his eye always been such a brilliant shade of violet? She doesn’t think she’s ever noticed. 

The Septon continues. Aemond takes the blade from her. He is more reluctant to cut her lip. Her nose twitches at the slight sting and he’s quick to press his thumb to stop the bleeding. 

Just last night they’d been in a similar position. His thumb pressed to her lips. She had smiled then, been happy then. Now she feels numb. 

Her blood is warm against her skin. It jolts her back into reality. Aemond is holding the blade out to her expectantly, brow furrowed. She nods, taking it from her and slicing into her scarred palm. He cuts his own palm. Blood drops to the stone floor like a slow drizzle. Their hands meet. Somehow, the action comforts her.

They’re handed a glass to drink. She isn’t certain of what the contents are and she does not care enough to ponder about it. They both drink like the scared children they are. 

Viserys’ coughs grow louder than the Septon. 

Their kiss is bloody and soft and sweet. A brush of smeared red lips. This isn’t how she imagined their wedding to happen. 

Where are her dragon’s breath? Where is her mother? 

Viserys hacks so violently they pull apart. The King is slouching in his seat. He’s swarmed and lifted as he coughs up spit. Rhaenyra is directing her sons away. Jace chances a glance back. Selaena cannot even muster a smile. 

Rhaenys and Corlys keep a firm hold of Baela and Rhaena. They will be safe with their grandparents. Baela is gripping Helaena’s sleeve furiously, the other girl staring up at the ceiling in deep thought. 

Alicent and Otto follow after Viserys. For differing reasons, she assumes. Daemon is the only one to come up to them. His eyes are locked onto Aemond. 

“Hurt her and I’ll kill you,” he says so simply she almost doesn’t realize he’s made a threat. There is no flowery wording. His warning is clear. Selaena steps in front of him—her husband. 

“That isn’t necessary,” she says. Daemon ignores her glare, cupping both of her cheeks instead. Her eyes widen, split lip falling open. 

“Stay in his chambers. Do not leave them tonight,” he tells her sharply. She jerks her head into a small nod. Daemon, to her shock, presses a kiss to her brow. In a quiet voice, one she can barely hear over the panic in the room, he says, “My little girl.” 

Then he’s turning away from them, away from her, following after Viserys. She wants to reach out for him. Ask for her father to hold her as her mother used to. She doesn’t. She doesn’t think she ever will. 

Aemond and Selaena stand side-by-side, bleeding as husband and wife. 

page fifty-three 

“I’ve brought your nightgown, my lady,” Colette says in a muted voice. 

“Thank you,” Selaena says with a forced smile. Her blood is dry and caked onto her lip and chin. Colette looks sick at the sight of them in Aemond’s chambers. It’s nearly humorous. The maid who’d once gushed over their betrothal now seems ready to flee from them. 

She doesn’t laugh. 

“Would you like me to assist you in changing?” she asks. Selaena shakes her head. 

“That is all.” 

“Of course, my lady, my prince.” She curtsies before leaving. See Rickard stands diligently outside Aemond’s—their—chambers. 

Her back is to him—her new husband. There is so much to say, so much to discuss, she does not know where to begin. It’s Aemond who shatters their silence. 

“Your hand,” he says, “let me wrap it for you.” 

Slowly, she turns to him in robes far too big for her. His fit him oddly. Both of them are pretenders. 

“Alright,” she says softly. 

He wraps her hand tenderly, handling her like she’s fit to break. She certainly feels moments from fracturing into pieces. The King will not survive much longer. The Stranger has come to greet him. She’s certain of it. They’re all certain of it. Aemond says nothing, though. 

“Let me help you,” she says when he finishes. He nods, too exhausted to argue. 

They sit on his bed wrapping the other’s wound. No words are exchanged. She doesn’t think she has them tonight. Eventually they’ll have to talk. But her eyes are threatening to slip shut with each passing moment. 

“Change,” he says faintly. “So we may sleep.” 

“We’re supposed to consummate the marriage,” she whispers. Aemond lifts the headpiece off her, trailing a hand along her cheek and stopping at her neck. His gaze is soft, everything unspoken said and she cannot hear the words he will not express. 

“You need to rest,” he says. 

“Stay with me?” she nearly begs, unwilling to be left alone. 

“I will stay with you as long as you’ll have me.” His words are oddly solemn. A hint of a vow, the taste of a promise.

They strip from their clothing, bare to the other. She doesn’t have the energy to change into her nightgown. Selaena slips beneath the covers of his bed. He joins her, whether he’s completely nude is lost on her. Her eyes are already threatening to slip shut. 

There is distance between them neither are willing to bridge, but they sleep facing each other. She holds out her hand and he intertwines their fingers. 

They fall asleep clutching the other. 

page fifty-four 

Aemond wakes before her. 

Selaena is curled beside him, still clinging to his hand. There is an occasional twitch to her face. Her lips tug into a frown. A nightmare, he thinks. Should he wake her? He’s aware she must be exhausted, he still is, but she’s in the middle of shifting uncomfortably. 

“You shouldn’t,” she’s mumbling. “Jacaerys.” 

He is numb. 

She had chosen him. Married him. Bled for him. And still, she wants another. Aemond feels no rush of anger, no twist of jealousy. Nothing in him stirs save for the steady rhythm of his heart to remind him he is alive. 

Selaena grasps his hand tighter. He doesn’t pull away in fear she’ll wake up. He hadn’t taken out the sapphire, hadn’t removed his eyepatch. It burns inside his skull now, aching. He finds the pain soothing. A balm over hearing his wife whisper his nephew’s name. 

She moves, blankets slipping from her and uncovering her nude chest. Aemond fixes the sheets without thinking. Her breathing has evened out, face relaxed. Her bottom lip is coated with dry blood. He needs to get up, but he finds himself staring at her face. At the silvery curls pillowing her soft cheeks. 

He’s heard whispers of her beauty. Laena had been beautiful and she’d passed that onto her daughters, none more so than her first. They’re the spitting image of each other. Aemond cannot remember how Laena looked. The face Selaena wears is her own. 

And he’s heard whispers of him being scarred. Unsightly. Selaena—eldest child of Daemon’s—should’ve had more than a second prince with a missing eye. Shamefully, Aemond used to agree. No matter how much he longed to cut out their tongues, he knew there was some truth to their words. 

He’s done with that. Done with lowering his head like a fucking dog. She is his wife. He is her husband. 

That is enough. 

Aemond isn’t certain when he dozed back off, but he’s awoken to the doors being slammed open. He sits up with a start, hand reaching for the sword beside his bed. He’s shoved Selaena behind him. Her face is pressed into his back. 

It’s his mother. Alicent’s face is streaked with tears, dry and new. The bags beneath her eyes have grown darker. Her hair is a knotted mess behind her. Aemond frowns. Selaena shifts to see what is happening. 

“The King,” she says with a shuddering breath, more tears falling down her gaunt cheeks, “is dead.” 

(A marriage marked by the Stranger.) 

Chapter Text

page fifty-five 

The King is dead. 

Selaena waits for Otto to strike. She’s grown sick with a worry that threatens to invade every bone in her body. Just seeing the man causes dread to stir inside her. She waits and watches. 

He does nothing. 

Aegon is not brought out of the shadows and crowned king. Alicent does not preach how Viserys wanted her son on the Throne. Nothing happens and it is worse. They all mourn the death of the King while she awaits a war that will never happen. 

She fears she is going mad. 

page fifty-six 

Rhaenyra is crowned queen the day of a storm. 

Rain and wind shake the very core of the castle. Selaena is left cold. She has barely been able to stomach food, her sleep is invaded by memories of a past she wishes to forget. Rain slams against the glass windows as they give a speech for the new Queen. She barely hears whoever is speaking. All of it blends into a dull murmur. Her eyes are stuck to the floor, counting stone slabs to keep herself there. 

Aemond is a pillar beside her. Perhaps the only thing from keeping her mind from fully drifting. He’s stayed by her side the entire day. The death of his father didn’t seem to affect him as much as it affected Rhaenyra and Alicent. 

Viserys was hardly a father to him. Still, she thought it kind to ask if he was alright. He hadn’t answered. Instead, he reopened the cut on his palm and spread it over their sheets. 

(“Our marriage,” he says, “as far as anyone else is aware, is consummated.” 

She doesn’t argue.) 

Now they watch Rhaenyra being crowned queen. The display isn’t a public one. It’s quick and quiet. She isn’t certain why Rhaenyra has forgone a communal crowning. They haven’t gathered to speak yet. Selaena has only seen her father and step-mother in passing. Both of them grieving their losses. 

Jace, Luke, Baela, and Rhaena all stand with their grandparents away from her. The separation feels more like a stab wound. She must stand with her husband now. Alicent and Helaena next to them. Perhaps she’ll be more at ease when Otto and Larys aren’t directly behind her. She waits, anxiously, for them to leap at her. To place Aemond or Daeron or fucking Aegon on the Throne. 

They don’t. 

Of course they don’t, she reasons. It’d be foolish for them to act in this moment. She is overreacting. She must stay calm. 

Daemon is the first to bend his knee. Than the rest of them. Aemond gets on his knee beside her and she wills herself to not reach for his hand. Slowly, with a heavy beating heart, she turns to look behind her. Otto has bent his knee to Rhaenyra. A cold shudder runs down her spine when she feels eyes on her. Larys is smiling at her, a sickeningly sweet smile that leaves her sick. His lips part. 

“Long live the queen,” he mouths. 

Selaena jerks forward so fast she bumps into Aemond. He places a hand on her elbow, a question on his tongue. She shakes her head. Not here. Not while they’re so close. She can feel their breath against her neck. 

They rise. Aemond keeps his hand clasped around her arm. She stands rigid beside him. Her chest expands and she forces herself to breathe slowly, to fucking think. 

She has not a shred of evidence against Larys, let alone Otto. Rhaenyra and Daemon are no fools. His hatred for Otto is nearly as obvious as his Targaryen ancestry, but he cannot simply throw him into the dungeons based off of a feeling. There are lords loyal to the Hightowers, and Rhaenyra’s stance as queen is already shaky. They do not want a woman on the Throne. 

(“They have started a war in an attempt to keep her off the Throne,” Rhaenys said. “The ignorance of men will kill us all.” 

And it had.) 

What can she do? Aegon is gone, leaving Aemond as the obvious choice, but she’s married herself to him. She wonders if Otto will be rash enough to send an assassin after her. Gods, she prays he does. Then they’d have leverage against him. Something. Because right now she only has memories of a life that no longer exists. Her father may believe it is enough to have Otto executed, but every person—lord or otherwise—will think them mad. 

One slip may cause Rhaenyra’s reign to come to an end. Who can she even trust to—

Aemond squeezes her arm. She barely registers the feeling. 

“What’s wrong—“

”Selaena.” 

The sound of her father’s voice violently snaps her out of her thoughts. She turns to him, pulling herself from Aemond. People are moving around her. The crowning has come to an end. Rhaenyra, heavy with babe, is being escorted back to her chambers by her Queensguards. 

“Father,” she hisses as quietly as she can in Valyrian, “you must not send Otto Hightower away. You must keep him close so that you may watch him.” 

Daemon peers past her head, slowly surveying the crowd. Aemond is near her, but the room is too loud for anyone to hear them. The ones present are even less likely to understand them. 

“I wish to have the cunt gutted,” he says, “but Rhaenyra’s position as queen is too weak. My brother did not set her up to inherit the Throne in any feasible away. Perhaps he thought she’d smile and everyone would want her queen. Fool.” 

His voice shakes as he speaks, jaw clenching. Viserys’ passing hurts him more than he will ever admit. His fingers brush the side of her neck. 

“He has not hurt you?” 

“Aemond wouldn’t hurt me.” 

“You sound too certain of yourself.” 

“Because I am,” she says. Daemon’s thumb glides across the bottom of her jaw, something unspeakably soft in his eyes. 

“Stay with him in your chambers,” he says in quick Valyrian. “Just until the funeral tomorrow. I’ve already had Rhaenys and Corlys confide your sisters to theirs.” 

“What’s happened?” she asks. 

He wets his lips, considering her. In their last life, when they were at war, he hadn’t hesitated to tell her what was happening. But, now, he does not feel that urgency. It’s why she had to be the one to teach herself how to shoot an arrow. 

“Nothing has happened,” he replies, to her frustration. “I’ll have guards posted outside your chambers.” 

He’s already stepped away from her before she can argue with him. Selaena’s face twists. They are expected to act like adults and then treated like children. Left to wander blind, locked in their solars like misbehaving animals. She wants to scream at her father—at the dead former king for plunging them into this. But she cannot, for a woman’s anger is not the same as man’s. 

Men start wars and butcher and raise their hands to their wives and none bat an eye. It is the way of man. They wear anger like a glove and wield it as their weapon. A woman’s anger is her leash. Forever is she owned by the very same emotion her male counterparts are praised for. 

Selaena swallows her fury like a sweet poison. 

page fifty-seven 

If Aemond is curious about what her and her father were discussing, he doesn’t ask. Perhaps he realizes her foul mood. 

They’re particularly being forced to remain in his chambers. Aemond sits at his desk, large tome spread before him. Selaena is sprawled across the bed. All they can do is wait for the adults to allow them to leave. 

“It’s frustrating,” she says to break the silence. 

“What is?” he asks and she rolls her eyes. She isn’t certain he can even see her do it. 

“Being sent to our chambers like misbehaving children.” 

He hums. His lack of concern is beginning to grate her nerves. “I believe it was your father who commanded it.” 

“And it was your father who left this place in shambles,” she snaps, instantly regretting it. When he goes quiet, she sits up. He’s already looking at her, face unreadable. She longs for their youth, when she could so easily read him. “That was… I’m sorry.” 

“Do you begrudge him for marrying us?” he asks instead of acknowledging her apology. Selaena can’t tell if her words have hurt him. 

“No,” she says, fiddling with the skirt of her dress. “I merely wished for flowers.” 

For both of her lives, she’d longed for a wedding bards sang about. Her wedding with Jace was a quick affair. Only her siblings and their parents present. There had been no flowers then either, but they were at the cusps of war. Of course she wouldn’t be getting flowers and singing and dance. 

She thought, mayhaps foolishly, this life would be different. Laena would be disappointed. None of her mother’s dreams will be realized. It makes her stomach twist, heart clenching where it rests in her glass chest. She can delude herself into thinking it is for the best. That, perhaps, a wedding now is useless without her mother present. 

“I’ve had something I wanted to show you,” he says, standing. Selaena blinks back tears she hadn’t realized formed. Aemond moves toward one of the bookcases, plucking one out. It’s a pale pink and eerily familiar. 

She moves toward him, a small smile crossing her face as she takes the book from him. 

“You’ve kept it here?” Selaena asks in a low voice, clutching her mother’s book to her. The pages are as worn as she remembers. The pink cover is duller from time and use. Has Aemond been reading it? 

“Obviously,” he says. “You enjoy those sort of books so I thought to purchase you more.” 

She looks to where he’s pointing. Two entire shelves of books, all of varying colors and sizes and lengths. Her lips part in surprise. Carefully, she picks a random one up, turning to see the cover. It’s a romance tale meant for children. One about a princess and her prince. Her mother would’ve loved reading her these. 

In her mind, she sees Laena tucking her in, braiding her hair, flying on dragonback with her. She sees her mother at her wedding and holding her first grandchild. Laena’s face is blurry in every single one. Selaena has long since forgotten, has spent more time missing her mother than knowing her. 

She hasn’t noticed the shake of her hand, or dampness of her cheeks until Aemond speaks. 

“Are they not to your taste?” he asks, lips twisting into a frown. She shakes her head, unable to swallow the lump in her throat. “Should I return them?” 

“No!” she shouts, grip tightening around the book. “No—I’m not—It‘s… Thank you. It’s a very thoughtful present. I didn’t think you’d remember.” 

He appears to relax, brows softening, a minuscule smile replacing his frown. “You spent much of your time sighing about true love and fairy tales, how could I not?” 

“And if I recall, you were the one who preferred happy endings.” 

“I was a child.” 

“I thought it was sweet,” she says, setting the books onto his desk. “You were a very sweet boy.” 

Aemond doesn’t reply, so she continues. 

“You still are,” she says, glancing at him, though she cannot read his expression. She wipes at her cheeks, sucking in a deep breath. This marriage was her decision. She has lived a life where they were never betrothed, knows she could’ve lived it again. But she wants, desperately, for them to work. “Since we are married, we should be honest with one another.” 

“Have we not been?” he asks as though he expects her to make a joke. She doesn’t, and whatever amusement was there drains from his face. 

He can very well hate her once she tells him the truth about Aegon. This confession can drive him away and the same events may take place. Selaena picks at her skirts. She must. Aemond was once a pawn to be used. The person who would control Vhagar. She needed him, so she had him. Then he had not been the boy who listened to her read tales he cared little for, nor was he the man who spent time purchasing her books to make her smile. He has become something precious to her. 

“No. No, I have not been completely honest,” she says looking right at him. “Aegon’s disappearance.” 

She does not need to say anything more, because Aemond’s entire expression falls, taking her heart with it. He looks to her now as though she’s a stranger. 

“What are you talking about?” he asks, tone deliberately slow and calm. 

“Essos,” she says, ignoring his question. “I helped him map a path to Lys. I convinced him to leave so he wouldn’t have to sit on the Throne.” 

“End this mummer’s farce, Selaena,” he snaps. For a moment, a brief selfish moment, she wishes to tell him it was only a jest. His annoyance at a poor joke is better than facing his true anger. But she doesn’t. He needs to hear this if they are to continue this marriage as partners. 

“You saw us,” she pushes. “Do you truly believe Aegon wanted to study? Wanted to become king? I offered him a way out and he took it. That is my truth.” 

Aemond jerks to face his desk, both hands coming to slam against the wood. The books she’d laid on there rattle from the impact. She holds herself still. 

If she decides he cannot be trusted she’ll—

Selaena inhales sharply. She’ll what? Kill him? No. She cannot. The blame will fall to her, the most obvious suspect. Otto will never allow his grandson’s death to be ignored. Alicent—she fears—cannot handle losing another son. Rhaenyra will be accused of attempting to rid her competition through her step-daughters. She cannot kill him. 

Those are excuses, though. No matter how valid and logical, the true reason she’ll never hurt her husband lays somewhere in her heart. She is too much of a coward to speak the words aloud. 

“My mother has been sick with grief,” he says. “She has spent much of this last year mourning her son. And you tell me he’s merely what? Traveling Essos like a common merchant?”

”He would’ve been made to contest Rhaenyra’s claim,” she says stiffly. 

“You do not know that.” 

“I do. Don’t lie to yourself. You know your grandfather would’ve pushed for him to take a throne he never wanted. Were you not the one who agreed he’d make a poor ruler?” 

“Because Aegon is a lazy, whoring prat,” he says, “but he was my brother who I thought dead.” 

“I told you he wasn’t—“

”How was I to believe your words were more than mere consolation?” 

“I had to,” she says because he doesn’t know. He cannot understand the weight of knowledge as she does, and she fears telling him the truth, the entirety, will shatter what is left. “Rhaenyra could not have her rule challenged.” 

“Is that why you married me?” 

“I married you out of duty to our family. We were at the cusp of a war, Aemond. Marrying you would join both of our sides.” She does not mean to sound as strained as she does. Because it is the truth, the half-of-it. 

“Wife,” he spits the word like it’s meant to insult her, “I thought you said we should be honest.” 

“Do you truly believe your grandfather hasn’t been scheming to replace Rhaenyra?” she asks in reply. “Aegon cannot be king. He will never be king.” 

“Why are you adamant Rhaenyra must rule?” he asks, lips curling into a sneer. 

“You bent the knee to her.” 

“Before I knew she planned to use her step-daughter to rid my brother.” 

“She doesn’t know,” Selaena says quietly. “You are the only other person aware I helped Aegon.” 

Something in his expression crumbles. “Why?”

”Because Rhaenyra—“

”No!” he hisses. “Why would you not tell me?” 

“I didn’t know if you’d tell someone of our plans,” she replies, brows furrowing. 

“We were friends,” he says, voice breaking at the word. 

“The risk was too great,” she whispers in place of an apology. Friends. A childish sentiment that sends a sharp sense of longing through her. She misses him. She misses the man standing before her. 

He laughs, but it’s void of any amusement. A bitter sound that makes her wince. 

“I missed you when you were gone,” he admits, one eye piercing through her. “I was so upset Mother had to console me. I never thought much about marriage, but I thought marrying you wouldn’t be so bad. We were friends. I wouldn’t mind my wife being my closest companion, I thought.” 

“Aemond—“

He does not let her finish. “My whole life has been centered around you, Selaena. Since the moment you pushed for our betrothal. The only reason my father paid me any attention was because I was marrying Daemon’s daughter. I hardly feel like my own person.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says because she does not know what else to say. She hadn’t meant for this to happen. Truly. She couldn’t have meant for this. All she wanted was her family safe. Lucerys, her father, her grandmother, Jacaerys. Lives lost and she could do nothing. Her cause is just. 

None of that means anything when Aemond, real and living, has been hurt by her. 

“As am I,” he says. “I was a fool.” 

“You weren’t,” she says quickly. “I never stopped wanting to be your friend. I want us to work.” 

“Because it is your duty?” he asks mirthlessly. 

“Because I care for you still,” she breathes. 

Aemond’s stare is hard, lips twitching, but he says nothing. She wants his anger, his rage. She’ll bear every word as long as he’s willing to speak. He stays silent though, looking at her like he doesn’t know her. Like they haven’t joined bloody hands and kissed the other with red lips. 

He takes a step toward her and, instinctively, she moves away. They both freeze at the same time. 

“I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says. She shakes her head. 

“I know, I know you wouldn’t.” 

Neither of them attempt to approach the other again. The distance has her stomach twisted in knots. She doesn’t want to close it, she realizes. She wants to run from him. Because this Aemond resembles the one who ruined her family despite her knowing he’s not him. As a boy, he’d been freckled and smaller than her. He hadn’t looked like the man frozen before her. She misses that boy. Misses the simpleness that came with youth. 

She looks down, unable to look at him for any longer. Aemond’s footsteps retreat, away from her and closer to his fireplace. Selaena presses her face to a pillow and pretends it is her mother’s lap. 

They don’t speak for the rest of the night. 

page fifty-eight 

The sun is bright the day of Viserys’ funeral. 

Selaena stands beside Aemond, close enough to not raise questions, but further than they usually stood. They’d exchanged few words. She had no stomach for conversation, and he’d went to console his mother. 

They do not speak of Aegon. 

Rhaenyra is the one to burn his body. She stands tall, head raised, crown shining a brilliant gold beneath the sun. Jacaerys and Daemon are beside her, faces somber. Selaena has yet to talk to the rest of her family. They’ve all been kept separate, away from whatever threat Daemon feared. It’s lonely without them. 

She stands away from her sisters yet again. Rhaena continues glancing over as if expecting Aemond to have bludgeoned her. Joffrey clutches Luke’s cloak, large brown eyes peering at her. He doesn’t understand why she stands with Alicent and Otto. 

None of them cry as Alicent does. Selaena isn’t certain there was any love between the former king and queen, but Alicent must’ve cared for him. Or, at least, cared for whatever he represented to her. Aemond holds her, watching his father burn stoically. 

Helaena is a ghost at her side. Silent and willowy, Selaena nearly winces the back of her hand brushes cold skin. 

“Did you know blow flies are the first insect attracted to an animal’s carcass following their death?” she asks in a quiet, dreamy murmur. Her large indigo eyes move from Selaena’s furrowed brows to the person standing off to the side. She follows her gaze to meet the dull eyes of Larys Strong. He smiles at them, head tilting. Cold sweat forms against the back of her neck. 

She rips her gaze away from him, back to Helaena. Her cousin has gone back to staring at the fire. 

“Are you alright?” Selaena asks, ignoring the nausea. She can feel his eyes on her, like dirt tracing her skin. 

“Yes,” she replies kindly, smiling. “Father did not have much interest in me.” 

Selaena glances around to insure no one has heard her. “I’m sure he cared.” 

“No, he died without any of us crossing his thoughts.” Then she sighs. “He longed to be a dreamer and then threw away the child that dared to. It’s all very sad.” 

“It is,” she agrees, despite not fully understand what she means. Helaena smiles at her again. 

And thus, King Viserys, first of his name, is laid to rest forever. 

page fifty-nine  

Rhaena hugs her the moment she steps into their grandparents’ chambers. 

“You’ve been well?” she asks. Selaena gently tucks a loc of silver hair behind her little sister’s ear. 

“Of course,” she says, because her family cannot know of her straining marriage. They hardly need any more reason to somehow separate them. 

Rhaena’s smile is strained, but she hugs her again and Selaena squeezes her back. When they pull apart, it’s Corlys who cups her cheek. 

“I wanted more for you,” he tells her, a sad smile playing on his lips. 

“I’m alright with this,” she says and she cannot tell if she’s lying. 

“You looked beautiful, my girl,” he says, pressing a kiss to her brow. “So much like your mother on her wedding day.” 

He sees Laena in her. Everyone who remembers her does. It’s a hollow feeling, to have her face constantly compared to one she cannot remember. Mourning never truly ends. Laena has been gone for years and the pain has yet to dull. Like a scab she cannot stop picking at. Some days she recalls her mother fondly. Can smile and laugh at her and her sisters’ shared memories. Other days the mention of Laena sends her into a spiral. 

When will she stop being that little girl who crawled into her mother’s arms? When will she finally be free of her grief? 

“Thank you,” she whispers. There is nothing more to say. 

“Selaena,” Rhaenys says, “I had moon tea prepared for you, should you wish to drink it.” 

She looks to the teacup set on the table. Aemond had not touched her, she has no true need to drink any, but they can be the only ones who know. She reaches for the cup, feels the heat against her fingertips, and sips. It tastes bitter and sweet at the same time. Perhaps it is shame hot on her tongue. 

“We must return to Driftmark soon,” Rhaenys says, watching her closely. Selaena takes another sip. 

“Moondancer is still there,” Baela says. “I’ll be returning to retrieve her and then I’ll fly back.” 

“You’re staying?” Selaena asks. 

Baela flashes her a crooked smile. “Someone has to watch you and Rhaena now that we’re here.” 

“Am I not the oldest?” 

“What does that change?” 

Rhaena giggles delightedly and it loosens something in Selaena’s heart. If she has no one, she has her sisters. She’d died for Baela, as she would for Rhaena, again and again and again. Perhaps it’s her love for them that brought her back to life. Her will, passed from her mother to her father to her, to protect them. 

What she’s done to Aemond is worth it, she forces herself to think. Seeing Rhaena and Baela’s faces remind her of her cause. 

She pretends to not think of the hurt on Aemond’s face, if only for a little while. 

page sixty

His mother grips his arm as though she fears he’ll run from her. 

Alicent has been on edge since Aegon’s disappearance. He hadn’t left a note for them, hadn’t written a letter. Aemond’s anger used to be only aimed at him. Now… 

Selaena’s dimpled smile and curls are permanently seared into his mind. It’s because of her his mother suffers. His father, his grandfather, and his damn brother are all to blame, as well. Selaena wasn’t supposed to be like them. She was supposed to be his friend. 

“You’ve been kind to her?” Alicent asks as Aemond joins her on the couch in her solar. Her cheeks are still streaked with tears, hair out of place. No one—other than he or Ser Criston—has checked on her. No one seems to care about the former queen with Rhaenyra on the Throne. 

“I wouldn’t hurt her,” he replies as he did the previous night. No matter how upset he grew with Selaena, he knew, intimately, he would never do anything to her. He wouldn’t allow anyone else to either. 

Selaena had feared him, though. He saw the wild look in her eyes, stumbling away from him like a cornered animal. He scarcely believed her to be the same girl from his childhood. Aemond had idolized her then. He’d been sweet on her, childish feelings for someone he hadn’t truly known. 

He could’ve told his mother what Selaena confessed. Could’ve went to his grandfather. But he knows, intimately, that he wouldn’t. Because he still feels loyal to her. He knows it’s foolish, knows she may not feel the same, but he can’t imagine turning against her. 

“Good,” she mumbles, patting his arm. “You must solidify your marriage, Aemond. Be a dutiful husband.” 

He suppresses a wince at her words. Because before he is a husband he is her son, and Aemond has always been good to his mother. 

(“I don’t know how to be,” he wants to say. 

“I don’t think I can,” he nearly tells her.)

“Of course,” he says, because it is what she wants to hear. Alicent kisses his cheek and he remains quiet as he always has. 

page sixty-one 

Selaena returns to their shared chambers for him. 

Aemond doesn’t expect to see her. He thought she’d choose to stay with her sisters, but she’s wearing her white nightgown, standing before the bookcase. She turns as he steps in, pushing the book she was holding back to its spot. 

“You’ve returned,” she says. 

“I have,” he says. They both go quiet. As children, they’d never seemed to run out of conversation. But now, with so much to discuss, they say nothing. Selaena stands before him in a room far too large for her. Had she always been so small? He remembers thinking she was larger than life as a child. 

She looks unbearably human now, fiddling with the skirt of her nightgown. 

“Rhaenyra means to hold a banquet in honor of our marriage,” Selaena continues almost hesitantly. 

“I see.” 

She wets her lips. “We have… issues to discuss, if you’d like.” 

“You mean lying to me about my brother?” he asks in a drawl. Beneath the anger, the fury thick in his veins, is a sense of betrayal. 

Aemond has always desired. He’d wanted a dragon, he’d wanted his father to notice him, he’d wanted a sword in his hand. What he’s craved most was what he could not have. The second son. Never has he yearned for another, not the way he had wanted Selaena. Aegon thought him odd for having such little interest in carnal desires, but Aemond thought him odder for not being able to live without fucking. 

He wanted her. Wants her. Aemond wants his wife. Just as he’d wanted to marry her. Marriage was inevitable, he’d accepted that long ago, but he hadn’t minded the idea of marrying Selaena. He’d wanted that wedding she prattled on about. He’d wanted those fucking flowers and to see her walk down the aisle. He can scarcely remember how her lips had felt against his. Iron thick in his nose, blood hot on his chin. His father, like nearly everything else he touched, had ruined that night. 

He wants her now. Can feel the ache well within him, a hunger he cannot satisfy until he has the taste of her memorized. 

“Yes,” she says solidly. “I’m sorry I kept it from you, but I had to.” 

“I see.” 

“If you wish me to bear the brunt of your anger I will,” Selaena says, there’s a shake to her hand he hates. He hates her for lying and he hates himself for being unable to forgive her. “But your silence is unbearable.” 

“What is there to say?” he asks, staring at her mutely. “Do you wish me to yell at you?” 

“Yes,” she snaps. “Anything else, Aemond.” 

He can yell and scream and throw things. He can tell her he hates her. He knows he can hurt her as she’s hurt him, but he doesn’t. Cannot bring himself to. Aemond does not know whether this makes him more or less of a coward. 

“Then you will endure my silence,” he says, turning away from her to stalk toward his chair. “For I have nothing to say to you.” 

“I wish for your forgiveness,” she says from behind him. “However long that may take.” 

They spend another night sleeping side by side, never once touching, but reaching all the same. 

page sixty-two 

A banquet is held three mornings after. 

It’s a grand affair, perhaps Rhaenyra’s attempt at hiding how rushed Selaena and Aemond’s marriage was. No one would publicly declare Viserys’ last act as foolish, but there are whispers. There are always whispers. 

Otto remains Rhaenyra’s Hand, an act that nearly comforts Selaena. They need to keep him close. His dismissal will only cause the other members of the small council to betray her. Selaena has no doubt they already plan to, but Otto has no acted. He still has done nothing. 

It leaves her feeling nauseous. Her nightmares are vivid, memories of a dead past twisted. Jacaerys drowning, their son screaming, Rhaenys burning as Laena had, Baela and Rhaena being eaten alive by Aegon’s dragon. Aemond, murdered by her father, is a recent addition. In some of her dreams he stabs her in the back, sometimes he kills Lucerys in front of Rhaenyra and laughs. 

She hardly manages to rest. Waking up in cold sweat, insides twisted into tight knots, heart slamming against her ribs. She hasn’t had any sort of appetite. Even now, with plates of foods spread before her. 

“Congratulations on your marriage, my lady,” another faceless noblewoman says. Selaena smiles, her cheek twitching. 

“Thank you,” she replies, nodding her head. Her nails dig into the arms of her chair. She forces her mind to stay within her body no matter how desperately it attempts to flee. Selaena wants to sink into the floor, become one with the earth. Rest, if only for a moment. 

Her face has been painted, curls fashioned into a braided bun. Sapphires line her throat, a darker blue than the dress she wears. She looks as though she belongs. That must be enough. 

Beside her, Aemond continues to sit in silence. Most people steer clear of him, some offering her pitying looks that make her face hot. They may not be on good terms now, but she feels no shame in marrying him. 

“You haven’t touched your cake.” 

Selaena turn to look at him. “What?” 

“You eat at least two slices whenever it’s served,” Aemond says, “but you’ve only poked at it. Lemon cake is your favorite.” 

“I’m not hungry.” 

“Yes,” he drawls, “you haven’t had a complete meal in days, but somehow you’re full.”

“You have yet to fix yourself a plate,” she says, brows twitching. She hadn’t noticed him watching her. He speaks as though he doesn’t care, but she is no fool. Aemond isn’t one for meaningless conversation. 

“I’m not hungry,” he repeats. 

“Shall I fix you a plate myself?” she asks, tone bordering on teasing. She’s smiling despite herself. Aemond eyes her curiously. 

“I doubt you’d know what I liked.” 

Selaena taps her chin, pretending to think. “Well, you dislike sweets, but you still eat candied almonds. I’ve seen you sneak them, don’t deny it. You prefer beef and dislike pork. You’d need a slice of pigeon pie, of course. It’s tradition. Though you seem fairly neutral on pie. 

You enjoy practical foods, so cheese and bread would be the wisest options. Oh, and you ensure nothing on your plate touches.” 

Aemond stares, Selaena stares back. 

“What?” she asks when he doesn’t speak. “You were not the only one watching.” 

“I hadn’t noticed,” he replies stiffly. She smiles, leaning closer to him. 

“Of course, I was much more discreet than your blatant ogling.” 

“I do not ogle.” 

“You do.” 

He scoffs. “Don’t act as though you don’t salivate over my slice of cake until I give in.” 

“That’s on purpose,” she says, tilting her head. “You give in rather easily.” 

“Because it’s you.” 

Her heart, the traitorous thing, skips a beat at the softness of his tone. She’s missed this, missed him. She reaches for his hand, threading their fingers together. His thumb brushes across her knuckles like it’s second nature. Selaena sets her lips, eyes tracing the back of his hand. 

“Aemond, I—“ 

A bush falls across the crowd as Rhaenyra stands. Aemond keeps their fingers locked. 

The Queen rests a hand on her bump, paler than usual, but smiling. It’s pained, though. Recently any movement has begun to cause her pain. Selaena chews her lip. Is Visenya destined to die? She thought, perhaps, without the stress of Aegon usurping her throne, the babe’s fate would differ. 

“Thank you all for your attendance today,” Rhaenyra says, picking up her goblet. “We are here to celebrate the union of Selaena and my brother, Aemond. May their marriage be long and prosperous.” 

She raises her cup, everyone moving to follow suit. Selaena takes a sip, forcing a smile when eyes move to look at them. Their hands are still clasped together. Aemond makes no sign he wishes to move, so she stays equally still. 

“How strange,” he murmurs. “She now remembers I am her brother.” 

“I doubt she’s forgotten,” Selaena says under her breath, instinctively defending Rhaenyra. Inwardly, though, she agrees the phrasing is rather odd. She scarcely remembers a time Rhaenyra acknowledged any of Alicent’s children as her siblings. 

“No,” Aemond agrees, staring at his elder sister, “she merely mentions the fact when it is convenient for her.” 

Selaena’s teeth sink into her bottom lip, but she does not argue. 

Rhaenyra turns to them, flashing a strained smile, free hand still rubbing at her stomach. Selaena nods, concern knitting her brows. 

“And it is here I would like to publicly announce the betrothal of my son, Lucerys, to Rhaena,” Rhaenyra continues, motioning toward Luke and Rhaena. They beam at one another, Luke’s cheeks flushing a pale pink. Selaena softens at the sight of their happiness. 

In this life they’ll be able to wed. In this life they’ll have the chance to love. 

More applause breaks out. Selaena downs another gulp of her wine. Oddly, it makes her think of Aegon. He’d be thrilled to know he was right about telling Aemond of their plan. She can see his condescending smirk and his grating tone. 

She hopes he is happier, wherever he is. 

Aemond squeezes her hand and she turns to look at him. 

“Did you know they’d be betrothed?” he asks, lips twitching into a frown. Selaena raises a brow at his annoyance. 

“Of course.” 

“Now?” 

She smiles, confused. “I don’t understand.” 

“This banquet was held in our honor,” he says as though his point should be obvious. “Yet she would find it appropriate to announce their betrothal now.”  

“Why does this upset you?” she asks, still stupefied he’s found issue with this at all. She hadn’t expected him to react at all, but he’s scowl at Rhaenyra as though she’s threatened his life. 

“Because you deserved your damn wedding,” he snaps, before lowering his voice. “With your—your flowers and whatever else you wished. But if you could not get that then you should at least have this day to yourself. Instead she’s made it about her son.” 

Her other hand falls atop their joined ones. She smiles—truer than any expression she’s ever made. 

“I’m alright, truly,” she says, pretending she doesn’t want to lean up and kiss him. Because despite him being upset with her, he’s still willing to get anger for her. Her stomach flutters like the traitor it is. 

“You’ve lied to me before,” he says lightly. She shakes her head. 

“I wanted… I supposed I do want a grand wedding, but now isn’t the time. I can accept that.” 

“You shouldn’t have to.” 

Selaena blinks back another round of tears. She’s been pathetically emotional recently. Such small acts of care and she’s on the verge of breaking down. Somehow it’s humiliating and liberating all at once. 

“You’re far too kind to me,” she says, eyes darting to their joined hands. 

“You’re the only one who thinks so,” Aemond replies. She strokes her thumb across his knuckles and wonders if he feels the calluses along her palm. He doesn’t seem to mind the lack of womanly softness. Holds them as though they’re fragile, as though they haven’t been prepared for war. 

“They don’t know you as I do.” Her eyes meet his. His expression is trouble but his caress remains delicate. 

“Perhaps,” he says. They both fall silent to the chatter around them, so many words left unspoken. 

Lucerys leads Rhaena toward the center of the room. More people begin to join them in dance, Selaena watches enviously. She has never seen Aemond dance, doubts he would. Still, though, she glances at him. Is it too soon to ask for a dance? They haven’t broken into argument yet, but he hasn’t forgiven her. 

Aemond makes no move to ask for her hand. It’s alright, she thinks, watching is enough. 

Jacaerys and Baela join their siblings, laughing as they trade partners. Her fingers twitch to join them. Perhaps she’ll ask her father for a dance. If she pouts he’ll give in. Daemon has always been weak to his daughters. 

It’s neither her father nor Aemond who ask her to dance. 

“My lady,” Daeron Targaryen says, standing before them, “if it would please you, I’d like for you to join me for a dance.” 

Apparently he’d arrived late last night. Rhaena had mentioned it in passing. His arrival on dragonback had, apparently, caused a huge fuss among the Dragonkeepers, who hadn’t been prepared for him. 

“Oh,” she says excitedly, before clearing her throat. “I don’t think—“

”Go,” Aemond says, voice neutral. He pulls away from her and she fights the urge to reach for him again. “It’s obvious you want to dance.” 

“Well, yes, but I wanted to dance…” 

With you. 

She doesn’t finish her sentence. Aemond looks incredibly disinterested, familiar frown pulled across his face. She nods, turning back to Daeron. 

“I would love a dance, good-brother,” she says. 

“Of course, good-sister,” he replies, grinning. He shoots Aemond a pointedly disapprovingly look, before taking her hand and leading her away from him. She chances a glance over her shoulder. Aemond’s eye meets her eyes. Perhaps she’s wrong about knowing him, for she cannot read his expression. 

The crowd swallows them, blocking him from view. 

“He’s a bit thick,” Daeron says once they begin their dance. 

She blinks. “Aemond?” 

“Yes,” he responds with a shrug. “He’s never been much of a romantic.” 

She thinks of the time he brought her out to watch a sunset together. Of the books he collected for her. Of all the letters they’d exchanged. Of his anger on her behalf. 

“He is,” she says with a secretive smile. “A dancer, though, he is not.” 

Daeron barks out a laugh. “I expected you to be miserable, you know. I don’t recall either of you getting along in our childhood.” 

Frankly, she hardly remembers Daeron. He’d been sent off to Oldtown when they were young. 

“Your brother has grown on me.” 

“As most leeches do, I suppose.” 

She laughs, allowing him to spin her. “He has his own charm.” 

“I agree,” he says. “I was under the impression you wouldn’t notice.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asks, raising a brow. Daeron’s smile remains polite, but his tone grows sharper. 

“You’ve always seemed more interested in Jacaerys,” he says. Her smile falters for only a moment. His true aim has become clear to her. While her family doubts Aemond’s intentions, his doubt her. She cannot say she blames them.

“Good-brother,” she says kindly, “speak plainly. No one is listening.” 

“Yet my grandsire and your father seem to be watching us closely.” 

“They are,” she agrees. Daeron grips her waist as they move. He’s an excellent dancer, she’s loathe to admit. Far better than Aegon, despite their similar appearances. 

“I wish to know if your intentions of marrying my brother are pure,” he says quietly into her ear, smiling like they’re exchanging playful banter. 

“And if they aren’t?” she asks. “What would you do then?” 

He considers her for a moment, before chuckling. “Truthfully? Nothing. Aemond is far too taken with you to heed any warning I’d give him. I am merely… a concerned younger brother. I do not mean to threaten you.” 

“How noble, my prince,” she says flatly. “I have no intention of hurting your brother. He—I care for him. As a partner and friend.” 

Daeron grins. “It’s nice to see I was correct.” 

“About?” 

“You’re both equally infatuated with one another.” 

Selaena nearly stumbles. Daeron is quick to glide her along, saving her from an embarassing slip. 

“I do not know what you mean,” she grits as though her heart hasn’t slipped into her stomach. 

Daeron simply hums, reminiscent of Aemond. He spins her one final time before they switch to different partners. The hand that clasps hers is familiar. 

“You look lovely,” Jacaerys says. She smiles back. They’ve barely found time to speak within the last few days. 

“Thank you,” she says. From over Jace’s shoulder she sees Daeron wink. He’s annoyingly observant and equally charming. It’s no wonder he’s popular despite being the youngest. “Luke and Rhaena are quite taken with one another.” 

Jace releases a mannerless snort. “It’s particularly nauseating.” 

Rhaena and Luke have yet to switch partners, too caught up in sharing whispers and giggles. Selaena flashes her youngest sister a grin that’s quickly returned. Baela walks around tiny Joffrey. He seems all too excited to join his siblings in dance. 

“You’ll be named heir soon,” Selaena reminds him. “Then you’ll be betrothed to someone.” 

“As my mother has been reminding me,” he says, expression flattening. 

“My mother used to tell me Rhaenyra did not wish to marry either,” she says, smiling at his frown. “She found happiness in her marriage, my hope is that you do as well.” 

“As you have?” he asks, lips quirking. 

“Yes,” she says, pretending there isn’t an ache in her chest. What she truly wishes to tell him is that they had loved and then died with it. She wants to tell him of their shared life, of their sacrifices, of their losses. She wants to tell him the Selaena that died by dragon fire still loves him, but she isn’t her. 

The memories that haunt only her, trapped in her throat. Is it fair to him? He shall never know of how they cried when they learned she was with child. He shall never remember how sweetly he’d kissed her on the day of their wedding. She knows. She’s cursed with knowing. Sick with knowledge too heavy for her to carry. 

“Yes,” she says again, because it’s all she can say. Her Jacaerys bore enough burdens before he died. This one does not need to. 

“I am glad,” he says. “Green with envy, but I have only ever wanted your happiness.” 

She walks around him. “Jace…” 

“You’re not completely blind, you know how I feel.” 

“I do.” 

His hands find her waist, a familiar weight. She knows his hands almost as well as she knows herself, but it is not Jacaerys she longs to be dancing with. 

It’s Aemond. 

She wonders if he dances like Aegon or Daeron. Perhaps he’d step on her foot or sweep her off her feet. She wonders, darkly, if it’s alright for her to want him while she’s with Jace. He’d been her husband, the father to their son, she’d died wanting to return to—

No. 

No, she realizes, she’d died wishing she’d married Aemond. That was her regret, her final thought before she’d burned alive. It is her family she wishes to protect, it is for them she’s changed the future, but Aemond was the last person on her mind. 

She remembers—

(Aemond pushed Jace to the floor and she’d wanted to rip the sneer off his face. Fury, hot and blinding, devoured her. She hated him. 

Rhaena grabbed Baela. Nobody grabbed Selaena. 

Her palm met the side of his face before anyone realized what she’d intended to do. Pain seared across her skin, nails slicing across his cheek. His eyepatch was ripped off his face just as he’d grabbed her wrist. 

A sapphire, like the ones around her throat. His eye widened. Her own surprised face reflected in his pupil. 

Daemon moved between them—) 

She remembers—

(“You’re engaged, then,” Aemond drawled, words not spoken like a question. Selaena did not bother to respond. “Ignoring me, cousin?” 

“You were there for the announcement, were you not?” she asked, curling her lip at him. He hummed, one finger tapping at the table. It was beginning to drive her mad. She did not care for small talk with him of all people. 

“Perhaps I wanted to hear confirmation from your own lips,” he said, smile distorting into a leer. “You were rather vocal about our betrothal. Though, I suppose, my nephew would be a better husband. A strong one.” 

She hated his condescending voice, hated his smug smile. Selaena despised Aemond with every ounce of her being. 

“I would sooner fuck a pig than marry you,” she hissed. 

The quiet hurt on his face that twisted into disdain. Hatred mirrored in both of their expressions. 

“Do you believe I’d marry the daughter of a woman incapable of producing a son? You’d die on your birthing bed before giving me a child,” he snarled. Her heart rams into her ribs, threatening to burst out of her chest with how hard she was breathing. 

“You will watch your mouth—“) 

“Selaena, what’s wrong?” 

Jace’s hands are still on her waist, brows knitted. She clears her throat, taking a step back. The song has stopped. The dancer is over. 

It’s over. 

Her last life is over. 

She hadn’t recalled either of those memories, but now the same dread washes over her as it had then. Her smile is stiff and her skin feels cold. 

“Sorry,” she says, brushing off Jacaerys’ concern. “I’m a bit dizzy.” 

He examines her face. “I’ll take you back—“ 

“No, no, it’s alright,” she says. “You should ask Helaena to dance.” 

“I think she’d be more interested in Baela’s company,” he says under his breath. Selaena loses the chance to question him when he continues. “If you’re sure.” 

“I’m sure.” She ignores the way the scar on her palm throbs. 

The crowd parts for her easily. Nobles she doesn’t recognize congratulate her on her marriage, she nods her thanks until her cheeks burn. Her heart is still pounding when she returns to her seat. It falls when she sees the empty chair beside hers. 

Aemond is gone. 

She glances around the room, desperately trying to catch a glimpse of blond hair. A specific shade silvery blond she’d know if she were blind. He’s left, she realizes mutely. She isn’t even certain why she wishes to seek out his company. To prove he isn’t the Aemond of her past? 

“Prince Aemond’s returned to your shared chambers.” 

Larys Strong’s voice sends disgust slithering down her spine. Slowly, she turns to him, smile already in place. 

“I see,” she says, forcefully unclenching her fists. “He isn’t keen on such grand events. Thank you for informing me, Lord Strong.” 

He smiles and it feels like he’s peering into her soul. She wishes to wash her hands of him. Scrub her skin until his stare no longer lingers. 

“Of course,” he says with a bow, before he limps back to his seat near Otto. The sound of his cane tapping against the floor echoes in her ears. 

Why has Aemond left her on her own? Does he truly not care for the image of their marriage? The other nobles already question them, this will only add to their gossip. She wishes to flee. To will Starfall to return and fly far, far away from here, but her dragon is still on Dragonstone. She has no chance of escaping. 

Aemond does not return for the rest of the night. Selaena spends the rest of her time alone. 

page sixty-three 

Alicent has made many mistakes. 

They twist her mind and her stomach and her heart so often she finds herself unable to sleep. Unable to smile or laugh or breathe without the weight of fear. She decides, very suddenly, she will not live like this. Her husband is dead. Her first child is gone. Her second son has married the daughter of a man who wishes to put her children to the sword. 

Sweet Helaena. She wonders how different it would be if only she’d agreed to the betrothal between Jacaerys and her daughter. Will it guarantee her safety? Surely, she prays, Aemond is now safe. It’s why she was so desperate for them to marry. 

Everything she has done is for them. It’s why her baby boy, her youngest, was far, far away. Daeron would be safe in Old Town. But now he is here, in a den of vipers where it’s near impossible to tell ally from foe.

Alicent Hightower: dowager queen, mother of four, wife, widow, and daughter. 

Alicent Hightower: childhood friend of Princess Rhaenyra. 

There was love there once. Something sacred and unspoken. They’d kissed, a hesitant brush of their lips one night and pretended it never happened in the morn. Because Alicent was a good daughter. Because she was no sinner. Because she could not love another girl. She wouldn’t dare. 

There was love once, a long time ago, when they were both girls with no sense of duty. 

She knocks on Rhaenyra’s chambers, shoulders squared. 

Rhaenyra, stomach swollen with child, opens the door. Daemon is missing, as well as her youngest sons. It is just her. Just them. For a moment they are not the current and former queen. They merely are Rhaenyra and Alicent. They’re two girls who have tasted young love like crushed berries on their lips. 

“Alicent?” Rhaenyra says, violet eyes widening. She takes a glance at both Queensguards posted outside her doors. “I did not think… Is everything alright?” 

No, she thinks. 

“Yes,” she says. “I would like to discuss something in private, my queen. If that isn’t any trouble.” 

“No, no trouble,” she replies, motioning her inside. The doors shut behind her and she feels as though she’s been trapped. Alicent wants to run. From this, from them, from her. 

The woman that has haunted her memories and dreams and nightmares. Sometimes, when she is alone with only her thoughts, she wonders how her life would’ve turned out had she simply joined Rhaenyra on Syrax and flown away. Perhaps, now, they would’ve traveled the world eating cake. Perhaps she would remember what it means to smile freely. 

“My children—“

”Alicent, sit with me.” 

She cannot deny Rhaenyra, so she sits across her, hands clasped tightly in her lap. 

“What about your children?” she asks, fiddling with a ring. She’s always done that. Alicent remembers wanting to copy the motion. Endear herself further to her only friend. Instead, she’d begun to pick at her nails. 

She itches to do that now. Draw blood, feel a sting that tells her she is alive. 

Alicent bows her head instead. “You must swear no harm will come to them. Any of them.” 

There is a beat of silence. She does not look up. Cannot in fear she’ll lose her nerve. 

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra says and her tone is reminiscent to their youth. Her name on such pretty lips.

That is my greatest sin, Alicent thinks, wanting what I will never have. 

“I feared for their lives,” she continues. “Aegon, oh, Aegon, I feared you would see him as competition for the Throne. I feared—I feared you’d—“

”I would not become a kinslayer,” Rhaenyra says, tone sharp but not unkind. Alicent’s nails dig into the backs of her hands. 

“Swear it to me then.” 

Rhaenyra clasps her hands around hers with a quickness she doesn’t expect. Alicent looks up, startled. There is something sweet and soft in her eyes. Something they have never—will never—discuss. 

“You were once my dearest companion, Alicent,” she says quietly. “My one and only. I swear no harm shall come to your children or you. For as long as I am queen, you will not have to live in fear.” 

Her cheeks are wet, breath caught in her chest. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Thank you.” 

(She does not mention how warm her hands are. She does not think of how her touch lingers long after she’s left. 

Alicent cannot afford to.)

”There’s more I have to tell you,” Alicent says, meeting violet eyes she has loved all her life. The purple is a near identical shade to Aegon’s. The color of regret and love lost. “It’s about my father.” 

(In her chambers, Helaena weaves her needle through her embroidery. A green butterfly surrounded by violet flowers. 

“Green thread weaves black once a heart turns,” she says quietly. 

From the seat next to her, Baela gives her a curious look.) 

page sixty-four 

Aemond does not glance at her when she enters their chambers. 

He continues looking at the tome spread across his desk. Selaena slams the doors shut behind her. Her anger has long since vanished. She’s too tired to yell at him like she’d originally intended. The only thing she wants to do is sleep until exhaustion doesn’t hang off every bone in her body. 

She pulls off her earrings, then her necklace, and her rings. They thud against her vanity, echoing in the otherwise quiet solar. Still, Aemond pays her no mind. 

Selaena particularly tears her dress off, uncaring of the laces and the delicate fabric. The material feels close to suffocating her. It chafes against her skin uncomfortably, tightening around her the harder she tries to wiggle out of it. 

“Where is Colette?”  

Selaena glances up into the mirror to find Aemond’s gaze resting on her. She frowns sharply. 

“I sent her off early,” she says. Aemond gives her an unimpressed look, as though he had done no wrong. As though he hadn’t been telling her she deserved more, only to leave her alone at a feast meant to celebrate their fucking marriage. Her cheek twitches. 

“Why?” he asks. She wants to throw her necklace at him. 

“Because—I don’t know. I didn’t want her help.” 

“You need it.” 

“I do not,” she snaps, continuing to struggle with her dress.  She doesn’t want to hear his voice, or hear her thoughts, or feel this damn dress against her skin. A pin holding her hair begins to dig into her scalp and she wants to cry. Everything is too much. 

She sucks in deep breath, squeezing her eyes shut. 

“Here.” Aemond’s fingers press into her back. She hadn’t even realized his approach. His touch is gentle, far gentler than she wants him to be. Selaena wants anger, she wants someone to scream at and for someone to scream at her. She longs for fire, for heat, for rot. 

It’s all incredibly childish of her and she does not have the strength to care. 

Her dress slips down her body, leaving her in nothing but her undergarments. Aemond’s hand comes to rest on her bare shoulder. He is warm against her. A heat she wishes to lose herself in. Finally, she looks up at him. His face remains stoic, eye watching hers intently. 

“Why did you leave?” she asks, all too aware of how vulnerable she is before him. His fingers move to her hair, carefully undoing the intricate hairstyle. Pins clatter to the floor. Neither of them care to pick them up. 

“I did not realize you’d notice,” he responds calmly. 

“How could I not? I was blessed with stares of pity for the remainder of the night, husband.” 

“Truly, wife? I would’ve assumed my nephew kept you company.” 

Her dress is pooled around her feet, so she’s left clenching her fists instead of gripping her skirt. “Jace and I danced. That is all.” 

“Of course,” he says, but his tone is mocking, goading at her. She steps away from him and his soft touch. Too soft for the words he spews. 

“If you had stayed you’d know,” she says. His laughter is harsh, void of any true humor. 

“I had no reason to remain.” 

“Gods, how utterly foolish of me to assume you’d wish to remain at a banquet meant to celebrate us.” 

“Us? That minuscule detail must’ve slipped my dear sister’s mind when she announced the betrothal of her son in the middle of it.” 

Selaena scoffs, shaking her head. “She is our queen. If she wishes—“

”She is queen because you sent her competition away,” he says, jaw clenched. 

“She is queen because your father declared her his heir,” she snarls, moving away from him. Selaena viciously yanks open the closet containing her nightgowns. With more force than necessary, she pulls one out, slipping it on, uncaring of Aemond staring at her. “Aegon did not want the Throne. He and I planned his escape together.” 

“Without me!” he shouts. 

“Yes, Aemond, without you. I could not run the risk of you tattling to your grandfather,” she spits back, rubbing a hand across her face. She’s grown exhausted of this back and forth argument. 

“I promised you my loyalty, my sword, and my dragon,” he says, face twisting into hurt so clear she nearly looks away. Perhaps there is no future where they do not fall victim to their hatred. The Gods brought her back to life, but even they cannot fix what is destined. “I thought of you as my dearest companion.” 

(“You were everything,” he wants to say, but the words are stone on his tongue.) 

“What else can I say to earn your forgiveness?” she asks tiredly.

”Nothing,” he replies quietly, lips pressed into a tight line. 

“Then what do you wish for me to do, Aemond? Would you command me to drop to my knees and beg? Would that please you?” Her temper flares like a flame, flickering and smoking, but always burning somewhere within her. 

“There is nothing to be done now,” he says in an infuriatingly calm tone. 

“Aegon had to leave, there would be no future for us if he stayed,” she tells him. He takes a moment to stare down at her, watching her fidget beneath his gaze. 

“Yes, because Rhaenyra is the rightful ruler,” he drones, rolling his eye. 

“Who else is there?” she asks with a scowl. 

“Me.” 

She pauses, lips parting and closing. “You?” 

“Yes,” he says, straightening his stance. “If Aegon did not wish to be king then I would’ve been prepared to take the Throne in his place.” 

“Aemond, you couldn’t—“

”You would be my queen,” he says, stepping toward her. She shakes her head, frozen in place. “We would rule together.” 

“I would not be the queen of a usurping king,” she hurls, eyes wide. “What you speak of is treason.” 

“As if Rhaenyra has not committed treason,” he hisses. “You would be the queen to a bastard but not to me?” 

Selaena releases a sharp breath of utter disbelief. “Jacaerys is no bastard.” 

“That is what you focus on?”

“Because it’s not true—“

He hums, nodding his head jeeringly. “But you’d be his queen.” 

“I’m not saying—“

”You need not say it when we both know the truth—” 

“Enough, Aemond!” she cries, her fingers clutch desperately at the skirt of her nightgown. “You speak nonsense out of—of—“

”Jealousy?” he asks with a vicious smile. “Is it misplaced? Will you tell me I have nothing to fear?” 

“Aemond, please,” she says, voice breaking. For a moment his expression softens, but then his lip curls into a snarl.

“Take after your step-mother, then,” he says in a detached tone. “Have your bastards with your little king.”

“Enough.” 

“This displeases you? I thought you said they were trueborn because Laenor claimed them to be.” 

“Enough.” 

“I’ll claim any children you have as my own,” he continues. “We can only hope Jacaerys’ strong features do not—“

”Stop talking!” she shouts, heaving a breath. Her eyes sting with unshed tears, but she refuses to cry now. Not in front of him. “I do not wish to hear your voice, or see your face or—or—“

”Or what?” he asks tightly. He’s begging for her to finish her sentence, to hurt him as he’s hurt her. As she’s hurt him. It is an unending cycle that will do neither of them well. 

This knowledge does not hold her tongue. 

“If it pleases you to be a cuckold, husband, then I will fuck another man and produce those bastards you seem to long for.” 

Both of their chests heave, both of their palms ache. Days ago they’d shared a bloody kiss and spoken vows as scared children. Here they stand in their marriage chambers, just as afraid and hurt. Selaena counts no freckles on his face. Does not see any features to remind her of their shared youth. 

“Then go,” he says quietly. 

“I will,” she spits. 

She knows she should apologize. Force both of them to sit and talk with rational minds. But, with their marriage like dust between her fingers, she turns and flees from his chambers. 

page sixty-five 

Ser Rickard is at her heels as she storms through the halls barefoot. 

“My lady, it would be best to return—“

”It would not be best,” Selaena snaps. She hears him sigh, but he continues to follow after her. She wants to be alone. She wants—

What does she want? 

For Aemond and her friendship to mend? For Otto to fucking do something? She’s going mad waiting for him to usurp Rhaenyra. Because he must still be planning to. He must be, otherwise her existence would be meaningless. There must be a reason for her suffering. There must be a reason why she lives with memories she does not want. 

Right? 

“My lady?” 

Selaena’s hand presses against the wall as she holds herself up. Her cheeks are wet, sobs stuck in her throat. She can’t breathe. She can’t breathe. 

“My lady,” Ser Rickard says again, moving to stand beside her. She shakes her head, unable to focus on him. Her breaths come out in short gasps. He reaches for her and she flinches. Rickard pauses, brows knitted in clear concern. “Should I… Should I fetch Prince Aemond?” 

“No, not him,” she wheezes, squeezing her eyes shut. What would her mother do when she cried? Hum. She’d hum her a song Selaena can no longer remember. 

“I—“

”Selaena.” She recognizes the worry in Baela’s voice. Relief does not fill her as her sister comes to stand beside her. Dread has spread to every part of her body like a sickness. She sucks in a shaky breath, but her lungs are failing her. “Selaena you must breathe.” 

She shakes her head again. It’s all she bring herself to do as she frantically attempts to breathe. 

Baela’s hand closes around her elbow. “Ser Rickard, see to it my sister’s maid comes to Princess Helaena’s chambers in the morn.” 

“I don’t think I should—“ She gives him a withering glare. “Of course, Lady Baela. I’ll inform her.” 

“Thank you.” 

Selaena tries to focus on their voices. Tries to keep her mind present but she’s slipping. Baela’s scent is familiar, like flowers, lavender and rosemary. She inhales. She forces an exhale. 

“Come,” Baela whispers, guiding her down the hall. Her feet are nearly frozen from the night chill. The gown she wears offers very little warmth, arms completely bare. She shudders with each step. Baela rubs her forearm gently. 

She doesn’t know where she’s being lead. It hardly matters. Anywhere away from Aemond, away from her own mind, will allow her to breathe. Baela continues holding her, murmuring things she cannot hear. 

It isn’t until they’re standing in before Helaena does she realize where Baela has brought her. 

“Selaena,” Helaena says, tilting her head at her. Baela moves her toward the sofa. “Hello.”

Selaena does not bother to reply. Helaena hardly cares, immediately bending back over her embroidery when she’s greeted with silence. Baela has her sit down, kneeling in front of her. 

“How do you feel?” she asks. Selaena shuts her eyes, inhaling. “Alright. You don’t need to speak. Perhaps it would be best for you to remain here.” 

“I don’t mind,” Helaena comments. 

“Thank you,” Baela says, tone sweeter than Selaena’s ever heard it. They continue to speak, but she finds herself shutting them out. 

Breathe. She must breathe. Inhale. Exhale. Calm her racing heart and shaky fingers. Inhale. Exhale. She has come too far to fall now. 

When she opens her eyes, she finds Baela staring at her. 

“I did not mean to worry you,” Selaena says, voice thick with exhaustion. Baela squeezes her hand. 

“Was it Aemond? Did he hurt you?” she asks lowly. “I’ll kill him, I swear it to you—“

”No,” she says too quickly. Her sister’s frown deepens. “It’s… It’s been hard these last few days. I argued with Aemond and couldn’t handle it. I’m sorry.” 

“You’re allowed to be weak,” Baela whispers. “You’re allowed to need help sometimes.” 

She gives her a watery smile. “How my little sister has grown.” 

Baela rolls her eyes, standing up. “Rhaena will be expecting me to return to our chambers. I assumed you wouldn’t want her to see you like this.” 

“Thank you,” she says. Baela nods, touching her hand once more, before turning to Helaena. 

“Selaena does not snore,” she tells her. Helaena smiles at them absentmindedly. 

“I don’t mind her company.” 

When Baela leaves, Selaena curls up on the sofa, her knees pressed to her chest. She watches the flames in the fireplace whirl with life and wonders if the embers know freedom. Quietly, she begins to hum a song she does not know. One her mother would sing, but the words have left her. Somehow, it brings her comfort. 

Her sleep is dreamless. 

page sixty-six 

Aemond waits for Selaena to return in the emptiness of their chambers. She will, he thinks. She must. 

He falls asleep in a cold bed and wakes to no one.