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Chapter Text

terror and silence (and between them, a flame)

In the hour of the owl, when the Red Keep was so quiet one could hear the rhythmic breathing of its sleeping inhabitants and the furtive steps of those who reveled in the shadows of night echoing in the halls, Viserys Targaryen dreamed.

He'd always been a dreamer, more so than he'd been a dragon. His interest laid not in the great beasts that were the wonder and terror of Old Valyria, but rather in the weathered, yellowed, and crumbling tomes of his family's fallen homeland. He loved the higher mysteries, the arcane; the intricate web of alliances, sorcery, and cutthroat politics that decided who lived and died by fire and blood. 

Dragons were weapons of conquest, instruments of the dragonlords' will and power. Viserys admired and respected them too, just as one admired the sea amidst a storm or a volcanic eruption spewing lava and ashes from a safe distance. He wasn't like Daemon or his mother or even his own daughter, whose blood ignited and rejoiced as they weaved intricate patterns through the clouds.

Viserys never did need a dragon's leathery wings for his mind to reach the skies. 

Rider of Balerion he might have been, but he was drawn to the dragon not because of his destructive might, nor for his fearsome reputation. Viserys claimed Balerion because he was the last remnant of Old Valyria; because long before he had been the Conqueror's, he had been Daenys the Dreamer's mount. 

Daenys's dream had saved them from the Doom; Aegon's dream had given them a greater calling, a newfound purpose in their perpetual exile. Viserys's own dream had at first seemed like a confirmation of the right path ahead, one he had watered and pruned and cared for and watched bloom into a beautiful tree. Yet, for all his dedication and with one sole, cherished exception, the tree bore only rotten, bitter fruits. Termites found their way inside and made a home inside the tree's bark. 

His beloved wife's death and Daemon's betrayal taught Viserys a bitter truth: one could not dwell in dreams, lest they forget the living. Dreams, for all their importance and burden, weren't absolute — how many tales were there of seers and prophets who had led people not to their promised salvation, but to their doom? Thus, he'd named Rhaenyra his heir and even when Aegon was born and his faith shaken, Viserys remained. 

Silently, he held onto the hope that the gods would send him a new dream, one that would assuage his innermost fears. Most nights, Viserys slept to find himself immersed in peaceful darkness or in dreams that had no rhyme or reason and were forgotten as soon as he opened his eyes in the morning.

Not that night. That night, for the first time in years, Viserys dreamed. 

───※ ·♛· ※───

The night was alive and filled with colors. There was music in the air, the bawdy, raucous tones favored by Flea Bottom's bards. Deft fingers plucked on the strings in the back of his mind, pulling Viserys to the past, to a time before Aemma, when he was but a Prince.

He closed his eyelids, feeling the music thrumming through his body, soothing every tired, broken crevice. His feet started to move — if by his own will or by that of another, he could not tell — and he swept through the crowd of indistinguishable faces and brightly dyed clothes in time to the beat of the drums. 

A piece of new music started then: a softer, sweeter sound, fresh as a lemon cake on a hot summer evening. The colors of night brightened and danced as the melodies entwined, building on each other in perfect harmony. Slowly, the two melodies shifted, giving way to laughter — familiar laughter. 

Viserys' eyes snapped open, and he turned sharply to his right. It couldn't be, he told himself, it couldn't be. 

Oh, but it was. There, standing at the end of the alley and haloed in fire, were Daemon and Rhaenyra. Daemon and Rhaenyra with their hands entwined, blending into the crowd with their dull, inconspicuous disguises and covered silver-gold tresses. Daemon and Rhaenyra, drowning in each other's eyes and with smiles of quiet joy and pure delight.

Viserys's chest tightened, providing little room for air to fill his lungs. When was the last time he'd seen Rhaenyra so happy? Not for years — not since Aemma died and he married Alicent. When was the last time he'd seen Daemon so open? He could no longer recall. 

"Wait," Viserys called out, reaching out for them. He took a step forward. "Wait!" They walked on, laughing, drinking from the same wineskin. "Daemon, Rhaenyra, wait—"

But they weren't listening.

Viserys pushed through the crowd, screaming their names, but with each step his brother and daughter grew more distant, their contours blurry, intermingling with the flame until they’d become flame themselves. The music halted; the colors faded. The once indistinguishable faces of the crowd crystallized into that of his mother and father and grandfather and grandmother and all those he’d lost, their sapphire stares following his every movement.

They reached out to him, wrapping around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. Viserys had never been strong to begin with and his illness had done him no favors, but he would not let the dead hold him down and drag him into their cold, lifeless hell. He had a duty, a burden, a purpose: the fire, the fire. He had to reach the fire.  Daemon and Rhaenyra .

Viserys screamed into the cold dark. He struggled, kicked, punched, and at last,  roared  against the cold dark. 

“You will not have me! By the gods, you will not have me!”

“There are no gods when the snows fall and the white winds blow, Viserys Targaryen,” a voice whispered in his ear, frozen fire to match a world without light, “but there may yet be dragons.”

And just like in his dream, the dream that killed Aemma, the flame still burning in the distance erupted and all dragons roared as one. The white shadows released him, screeching, melting away into pools of black that disappeared into the darkness. Viserys fell to his knees, trembling hands fisting the snow on the ground, gasping for air as the fire in his veins tried to expel the frost from his lungs.

The deep shadows gave way to a pale half-light, to a day that wasn’t a day. Around him, the snow fell quietly, unhurried. Silence reigned, undisturbed even by his labored breathing.

He didn’t know how long he stayed there, shaken to his bones, kept warm only by the memory of a flame. Maybe it was the ephemeral moment a butterfly flapped its wings, over before it began, or maybe it was the undisclosed length of all eons of history. It didn’t matter - time was meaningless in a dream.

“Blood of two, joined, as one,” the voice of frozen fire echoed all around him, chanting to the melody set before the darkness, before  death .

Viserys’ breath hitched and he raised his head.

He was in the Red Keep. Not the Red Keep where he’d heard petitioners that morning, but a decrepit mirror of it, one he barely recognized. The ceiling had collapsed, exposing a gray, melancholic sky; blood and ash coated the snow, painting it red and black. There was no Targaryen heraldry in this throne room, only crumbling icons of the Faith of the Seven and Seven-Pointed Stars.  

“Ghostly flame, and song of shadows,” the woman – for it was a woman – continued her chant, undaunted. Her voice was a dragonglass blade, sharp and polished, cool to the touch, carrying an underlying warmth from its birth amidst flame and smoke.

It stirred in him feelings of nostalgia and loss, the familiarity of sweet dreams gone come the light of morn. Slowly, so afraid he was to  hope , Viserys turned towards the Iron Throne — but there was no Iron Throne anymore.

In its place, there was only an amorphous, incandescent mound of metal, the fused iron trickling down the surface in rivulets and evaporating as it met the snow on the floor.

The woman chanting sat on the half-crumbling steps leading up to the molten throne, a maiden no older than his daughter. She was a pale, wisp of a thing, with tresses of spinned-silver as fair as her skin, tied in an elaborate braid. A headdress of dragonglass and rubies in traditional valyrian style rested atop her head, matching ceremonial black and red robes embroidered with dragon scales she wore. 

A dragon lay beside her, eyes closed, curled into itself save for its head, which rested on the maiden’s lap.

"Two hearts as embers, forged in the fourteen flames,” she sang, caressing the dragon’s jet-black scales. Blood dripped along her elongated fingers, coating some of the beast’s scales in frighteningly familiar patterns. 

“Balerion,” Viserys whispered, his bloodless lips parted. This was Balerion long before he was the Black Dread, the terror of all Westeros. This was Balerion at his infancy, a few years after he’d hatched from an egg picked by a young-  gods have mercy . “Daenys the Dreamer.”

“A future promised in glass, the stars stand witness –” Daenys halted, hand freezing mid-air. Balerion’s eyes snapped open, pools of blood swirling with hunger and rage. She did not look up as she said, “Do you know, Viserys Targaryen, why I named him Balerion?”

“God of Flame and Bloodshed,” he replied, the answer carved into his memory since boyhood, “greatest of the Fourteen Flames.”

“God of Flame and Bloodshed, pride of the Valyrian Freehold.” She caressed Balerion lovingly, a small, sad smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Our glory, our power, and our great tragedy. Our beginning and our end. It suited me. It suited the Conqueror. It suited you, too.”

Viserys balled his hands into fists. 

“The Houses of the Dragon will not end with me. I have a daughter and two more children besides, a realm thriving and in peace. I have a brother, rogue as he is. We will endure."

Daenys chuckled. “Look around you, Viserys. Does that remind you of endurance? Of strength?”

He had no answer for her, no time to think of one. 

Daenys rose, gathering her hands behind her back. Rhaenyra — she looked so much like his Rhaenyra. 

“To nurture the fire, blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen. They need each other. It keeps them alive, thriving, and controlled. The mages of Valyria understood that.” She stared at him down, pale lilac eyes almost colorless under the faint light. “You do not.”

Balerion stirred, unfurled, spread his wings. He grew larger by the moment until the Red Keep shook; the ceiling, already fragile, began to collapse. Viserys couldn’t move, an invisible chain binding him to Daenys.

“Blood must have blood,” she decreed, opening her arms wide. “The vow spoken through time, of darkness and light. Blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen. Only then will the fire of the House of Dragon survive the night.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Viserys jumped awake, a scream caught in his throat. He clutched at the soft linen of his sleeping garments, feeling the thunderous heartbeat trapped beneath the confines of his chest, lashing at his ribcage as the gods of sea and wind did to the walls of Storm's End long, long ago.  

Besides him, Alicent stirred awake, propping herself up with a hand. 

"Viserys?" She called, rubbing her eyes with her free hand. "Is everything alright?"

Was everything alright? He couldn't say. Buttery sunlight streamed into the chambers through latticed windows, creating a peaceful, cozy ambiance, but it did little to chase away the cold. 

"Viserys?" Alicent called again, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright," he whispered, covering her dainty hand with his. Inclining his head towards her, Viserys offered his wife a reassuring smile. "A bad dream, is all. Nothing you need to concern yourself with, my dear."

Alicent's brow creased and she pressed her lips together, but no words left them. They remained like that for a while, immersed in the tranquil, melancholic quietness of early morning. 

Someone knocked on the door and a twin look of confusion passed between them.

"Who could it be at this hour?" She inquired, pulling her hand away from his. He shook his head. 

"All I know is that no good news ever comes this early in the day." The knock came again — this time louder, more insistent. Viserys cast a sideway glance at Alicent and motioned to the YiTish folding screen near the window. "Go. This shan't take long, I gather." 

With a perfunctory nod, his wife slipped out of the bed, gathering her silk robe about her as she did. Viserys rose and once Alicent had safely absconded behind the screen and disappeared, he said, “Come.”

The door opened and Otto strode in, already dressed in his impeccable court attired, the Hand of the King pinned to his chest. There was a hesitancy to his walk, an agitation to his features at odds with what Viserys’ had come to expect from his trusted Hand. 

“What is it?” Viserys asked, coming to meet Otto close at main the gates of his model of Old Valyria, close to the chair where years ago he’d talked to Rhaenyra upon her return from her impromptu visit to Dragonstone. 

“I apologize for the early hour, your grace,” Otto started, clenching and unclenching his hands. “I have ah –” He paused. Blinked, quickly reassessing his words. “– discomforting news. I thought it best shared discreetly before the council convenes.”

Viserys looked away, his mind racing at the possibilities. “The Sea Snake.”

Otto shook his head. “I’m afraid it concerns the princess, my king.”

Fear gripped at Visery’s heart, held firmly onto the back of the chair closest to him, purple eyes locked on Otto’s. The image of Daenys, singing softly on the foot of the destroyed Iron Throne flashed into his mind. 

“Has something happened to Rhaenyra? Has she been harmed? Is she ill?”

The Hand didn’t respond immediately, exhaling sharply and averting his gaze, unable to look Viserys in the eye. 

“It’s no easy thing to tell a father of his daughter’s exploits. I had considered saying nothing but –” 

“Look at me, Otto,” Viserys demanded. His nails dug into the wood. “What has she done?”

Otto acquiesced, and the disquiet he spotted in the man’s countenance was genuine. 

“The princess was spied last evening beyond the walls of the keep… in a pleasure house.” He looked away again but, this time, Viserys did not push. 

“What of it?”

“She was carrying on with her uncle. They were engaged in behaviors unbecoming of a maiden – of a princess.”

Rhaenyra and Daemon, walking hand in hand through the streets of Flea Bottom, looking happy and free and  content . Had it not been a dream, then? Had it happened?

But there had been nothing untoward in his vision, nothing unbecoming. There had been only light-hearted joy.

Unless-

Blood must have blood, Viserys Targaryen.

Otto continued talking about trusted sources of information, offers of apologies, how they may yet smother the inklings of scandal if just –

Viserys closed his eyes, taking in deep, shaky breaths. He knew they’d been out last night, he had seen it. And Otto… Otto wouldn’t be here if he didn’t trust the source of information. If he didn’t think of this as an opportunity. 

“Get out,” Viserys said through gritted teeth, interrupting Otto mid-rant. “Leave me, Otto.”

Otto immediately recanted. “Your grace, if I gave you any offense –”

“Offense? You had my daughter stalked, spied upon, and for what? Awaiting your best chance to destroy her reputation? To further your own selfish ambition?” 

“Your grace, I had no such intent –”

“You did!” the King seethed, coming alive with the memory of Balerion. “Your designs are obvious. You so wish to see your blood on the Iron Throne that you would destroy mine own.”

“Your grace –”

“Get out,” Viserys repeated, slamming his hands on the wood. “Get out, Otto, and order Daemon brought to me. If he truly ruined my daughter, I’ll hear it from his mouth. Not from yours.”

Otto opened his mouth to argue, to say something, but seemed to think better of it and merely nodded, bowing to the waist. 

“As you wish, your grace.”

Once the door closed behind him, Alicent stepped out of her hiding spot, glancing between the door and Viserys himself. The skin around her nails was red and freshly bloodied.

───※ ·♛· ※───

It had been a long, long time since Daemon had drunk himself into oblivion. 

He'd overindulged plenty of times before, usually for freedom and for pleasure, for the heady, exhilarating feeling of the liquor burning down his throat. He'd even drink to ward off his dark moods, particularly after a fight with Viserys, though never to this extent.

The last time Daemon had drunk himself into a stupor simply to drown out all the unwelcome, heavy feelings twisting their way around his heart was the night his father died. He'd woken up in a rundown alley with bruised knuckles, a black eye, the grandmother of all headaches, and no recollection of how he'd gotten there.

He had no black eye, this time. No bloodied fists either, and the place he had woken to was much nicer than the last one. Courtesy of Mysaria.

Yet just like that horrible night many years before, the liquor hadn't burnt away the memories. It had given him a reprieve, an isle of numbness amidst the sea of confusion, gone as soon as dawn broke across the sky.

When he'd won the war in the Stepstones and a crown for his efforts, there was little he thought of if not returning to King's Landing and setting the crown on his brother's feet, thus forcing Viserys to recognize him. He meant to take this recognition and crush it in his hands. Daemon would draw his brother into an illusion of safety and peace and then blow it to pieces. Let him feel the same anger, the same betrayal, as Daemon had when he was exiled and abandoned, only to have an offer of rescue arrive out of misplaced, unwanted pity.

He hadn't known how to go about it, only that he would. Daemon was no Otto Hightower, patiently playing his game of cyvasse and planning five, six steps ahead. He'd rather flip the entire board as his plans went haywire and  improvise  from there, keeping his enemies on their toes, wondering what he was up to. If they thought of him as some kind of master schemer, all the better for his reputation. 

Rhaenyra wasn't part of his initial plans of getting back at his brother. For all Daemon knew then she was still gallivanting around Westeros with Sir Crispin Couve following her like a lost puppy, listening to sheep trying to convince a dragon how they could ever satisfy her. That had changed the moment he'd spotted her weaving her way through the gathered crowd at his impromptu reception, purple eyes full of hunger.

Viserys had taken everything from him. Taken, taken, and refused to give it back in equal measure. Why shouldn't Daemon do the same, then?

He wasn't blind to Rhaenyra's interest in him. It was only natural — they were Targaryens, dragonlords of old, after all. Daemon wasn't so much of a hypocrite to deny he enjoyed her undisputed adoration, nor that he had fueled it over the years with his many gifts. Neither was he going to deny the primal, unabashed satisfaction at seeing her proudly wearing the valyrian steel necklace around her throat at the Godswood. He wondered if she'd worn it to meet her suitors, too.

So he had lured her out of the Keep, taken her hand, and led her into Flea Bottom with the promise of a night of freedom and adventure. As they threaded the streets, his gaze wandered to her, taking in her joy at the men crossing a tightrope above the alley, the bards and their filthy shanties, the vendors and entertainers performing illusions and tricks. 

His niece was radiant, blindingly, devastatingly so. She pulled him in with her enthusiastic grin, her merry laughter. Her delight softened the sharp edges of his resentment and he couldn't help but share in her joy. Daemon held on to her hand, laughed with her at some bawdy joke, shouted over the crowd, and twirled Rhaenyra around as they hit up a tavern where a group of performers played a particularly riveting song.

She'd looked up at him then, flushed and sweaty and a little high, with his name on her pink lips. Daemon's heart twisted, the reason why he brought her here pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. He had a mission: ruin Rhaenyra and get back at Viserys. The path ahead was clear.

Daemon led her down to the Street of Silk to one of his old haunting places. He removed her cap, leaving all to see the silvery sheen of her hair; how it framed her lovely face. Hands together, Daemon led her down the path of damnation. 

Hers or his own, he could not say any longer. 

He remembered Rhaenyra's forehead pressed against his own, their lips melding together as she pulled him down, closer,  closer.  Her mouth was sweeter than honey, her fingers leaving scorch marks down the nape of his neck. Yes, Daemon realized, yes he could get addicted to her, to this exquisite taste of pleasure that was unmistakably, uniquely Rhaenyra's. 

He pinned her against a wall, untying her clothes, her back to him. But Rhaenyra was voracious and unapologetic, a dragon just as he was, and she'd not be a quiet, passive subject of her own ruin. She'd turned to face him, eyes brimming with  trust  — and his resolve broke.

It was the Dragonstone bridge all over again: just as he couldn't bring himself to kill Rhaenyra there, Daemon couldn't bring himself to cross the line here either, not when she looked at him with those damned eyes. She deserved better than to lose her maidenhead in the bowels of a brothel, in sight of others, over Daemon's grudge. 

So he'd left her there, walked away even as she called him, a whirlwind of fury and frustration and confusion. He walked into the nearest tavern, downing his cups faster than his body could process the alcohol. Her memory haunted Daemon's every step: her laughter, her body, her lips.

In trying to lay waste to her reputation, he'd inadvertently laid waste to himself. In exposing her in such a public manner, he'd exposed parts of himself he'd buried and avoided for too long. 

He was cursed, damned, forever leashed to the memory of what he almost had within his grasp. 

Daemon turned around on the cot, turmoil brewing in his heart. He supposed he ought to return to the Red Keep and see what his efforts had wrought. 

No sooner had he stumbled past the gates of the Red Keep, Westerling and two others Kingsguards whose names he couldn't bother to remember came down on him.

His brother, it seemed, wanted an audience. 

Chapter Text

terror & silence (and between them, a flame)

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chapter two. in tongues, in fingertips, in teeth

By the time Rhaenyra Targaryen rose from her slumber, Ser Criston was long gone from her bed, not even his silhouette remaining on the mattress. She stared where he'd lain last night, the corner of her mouth lifting in a smile. 

Fucking was a pleasure, indeed, as her uncle had so generously demonstrated. Daemon had refused to take his lesson to its logical conclusion and left her alone in a den of vice and depravity, blood still scorching with desire and an ache between her tights that refused to abate — so she had returned to the Red Keep and taken her pleasure from someone willing. 

Her sworn shield had been a kind lover, allowing her to take the lead, to explore as she wished. She liked him well enough: he was handsome to look at and ever so concerned with her safety and her well-being, so eager to please, but he was no Daemon. It was Daemon who had set her ablaze, it was Daemon who she wanted to be bedding last night, it was Daemon who she imagined in the moments she closed her eyes and it was his name she almost uttered in the apex of bliss.

Rhaenyra hoped that he found no release with whatever whore he had ditched her for.

She tossed the bedsheets aside and reached for the bronze bell on the nightstand and rang it to summon her maids. They came inside in a flurry of red dresses and demure curtsies, their hairs braided, coiled, and bound with white nets. 

"Melessa, I'll wear one of my golden dresses today. The pale damask one," she ordered, rising from the bed. "Esthis, fetch me some rags. I've bled earlier than expected this turn of the moon. And get some food for me, Annora. I'm famished." 

The maids bowed and snapped into action, following her command without delay. One of them removed the blood-spotted shields and Rhaenyra watched from the corner of her eye as the proof of her lost virtue vanished into the bowels of the Red Keep. Soon Melessa returned with the dress hanging off her arm and Esthis with the requested rags.

They removed Rhaenyra's pale nightgown and scrubbed her skin clean, applying honey and cinnamon oils on her wrists, her neck, and behind her ears. Fresh, clean, and safely tucked inside her chosen dress, Rhaenyra dismissed the maids and started working on her hair herself, as she liked to do. 

She had her fingers intertwined with the silver locks and a comb in her hand when someone knocked on the door. Oh, thank the gods, she was starving. 

"I'm dressed, Annora. Come!"

It wasn't Annora and a tray of fruits, bread, and cheeses that entered her chambers, but rather Ser Criston’s armored figure. 

"Princess," he said, without looking at her. 

Rhaenyra stepped away from the room divider and offered Criston a smile. 

“Come,” she motioned, but still her sworn shield refused to raise his head. Was he feeling shy after their encounter last night? He shouldn’t be; there was nothing extraordinary or particularly noteworthy about it. If anyone had to feel shy about it, surely it was her?

After another moment of hesitancy, Ser Criston seemed to get over his reservations and approached, finally finding the confidence and bravery to stare Rhaenyra directly in the eye. 

"Princess, I have a message from the Queen," he said, subdued.

Rhaenyra's blood ran cold. Alicent? A message? Why? The Queen did not call her these days, not unless she absolutely must. They coexisted in the same spaces, yes, as was wont to happen with — she cringed — families, even managing to find a semblance of harmony, though it stood on quicksand. Had she not been as discreet as she had hoped and someone overheard her and Ser Criston? No, that couldn’t be, else her sworn shield wouldn’t be here being so bashful about last night.

"What of it?" She lifted her chin, challenging him to speak up. She’d done nothing wrong, nothing she should be ashamed of.  

"She wishes to see you," after a beat, Ser Criston added, "in the Godswood, as soon as you are able."

"Did she say what it was about?"

"I — No,” he said."She did not."

"Very well." Rhaenyra smiled, placid as a lake in a windless summer. "Tell her I’ll be there shortly. Thank you, Ser Criston." 

He bowed and left, shoulders rigid, without glancing back. She couldn’t help as her nose twisted in annoyance. Look at me, she wanted to say, and tell me what in the world are you so hung up about? 

Annora arrived with the food, but Rhaenyra found that any hunger she felt disappeared with the summons. Instead, she motioned for Annora to set the tray aside — “Worry not, Annora, I’ll eat later” — and help braid her moonlit hair. The rush to get to Alicent compelled Rhaenyra to keep it simple in a single braid over her shoulder, with none of the intricate twists she’d grown fond of late. It would look better in the Queen's eyes too, more modest.

When they were done, Rhaenyra stalked towards the Godswood, head held high, smiling at the people who greeted her. It’d do no good to seem disturbed or concerned.

She arrived at the Godswood’s door and opened it, entering the familiar, secluded place. Alicent awaited under the heart tree, wearing a dress as crimson as the leaves hanging ominously above them. 

“What happened last night?” Alicent asked as soon as Rhaenyra was within earshot. Many things was the answer to her question, but she might not know them all, nor had Rhaenyra any intention of disclosing them.

She stopped, rationalized, and decided.

“What do you mean?” Rhaenyra clasped her hands behind her back.

“My father has made some worrying allegations about you.” Alicent’s face was serious and gloomy, matching the tense set of her posture. 

Rhaenyra blinked, digesting her revelation. So it was Otto who had gathered the information on her? If so, how? What did he know? What was he getting at? She needn’t think much as Alicent followed her statement with a pointed question. 

"Were you with your uncle?"

Relief flooded Rhaenyra. 

“Oh, I…—” They didn’t know about Criston; this was about Daemon. “I haven’t seen him in years. He took me to the city for some fun.” 

“Tell me the whole of it, Rhaenyra,” Alicent demanded, taking a step forward, and Rhaenyra had to keep herself from laughing.

Alicent wanted the whole truth? Alicent, who hadn’t spared her a thought while seducing Rhaenyra's father whilst Aemma's ashes weren’t even cold? Alicent, who never told her supposed best friend of her late-night talks with the King until Viserys himself had announced their marriage before the whole Council? 

She had been Alicent’s closest friend and confidant back then, promising to take her on dragonback all around the world. In her own way, Rhaenyra had loved the current queen. 

That hadn’t been enough for her friend to tell her the hidden truth — so what right did she have to demand the truth from Rhaenyra now?

“Your father accused me of something,” Rhaenyra said instead, the anger flaring within the confines of her ribcage, a dragon coming awake. Anger at Alicent’s deception, at Daemon’s abandonment; anger that she need be here at all, defending herself over Otto Hightower’s petty accusations. “That I drank wine? That I left the castle after dark?”

“That you fucked Daemon in a pleasure house,” Alicent spat, holding Rhaenyra's violet gaze. Her lip trembled, brown eyes misted with unshed tears.

Rhaenyra stood there, motionless, as the night before flashed in her mind: the bitter, watery taste of bad wine; Daemon’s hand on her waist as he twirled her around to the minstrel’s vibrant songs. Daemon in the halls of pleasure, his hands searing the skin where they touched, his mouth so hot against her own. She remembered his hands caressing her slick folds and she arching into him, gasping and wishing he’d go harder, deeper. Rhaenyra wanted him to take her there, against the wall — let people watch, the poor carrion crows partaking in the carnage dragons left in their wake.

She was a dragon, born from the fire of the Fourteen Flames, yet the sulfur and ash spewing from her cracked heart threatened to choke the breath out of her. It wasn’t just Alicent accusing her of lying whilst being the greatest liar of them all that stirred the molten well of rage within Rhaenyra, nor the implication that Otto had people following her around, a snake hiding in the tall grass, awaiting an opportunity to strike.

Rhaenyra was angry — furious — because she was being accused of something she didn’t do, but oh, how she wished she had. 

“This,” she said, nostrils flaring, “is a vile accusation.” 

“Is it?” Alicent challenged. “You Targaryens do have queer costumes, and Daemon certainly knows no limits.” 

“Alicent,” Rhaenyra pleaded, unable to find the proper words through the maelstrom of emotions dragging her down. “Your grace, sister, you must know I would… I would never.” She would. She had, and every step of the way she wished it had been Daemon. “You cannot believe such gossip.”

“My father is no gossip!”

“Well, he’s certainly been misled,” she argued, not believing a word that left her mouth. Misled? No, not Otto Hightower. Otto Hightower was the one doing the misleading, she was sure of it. “He could not have witnessed such a thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because it did not happen!”

Alicent faltered.

“He was told —”

“Told?” Rhaenyra pressed. “Who made these claims to your father?” 

Alicent pressed her lips together into a thin line. I have you now, Rhaenyra thought, allowing herself to relax. 

“I am the Princess,” Rhaenyra declared, circling Alicent to stand with her back turned to the weeping tree. “To question my virtue is an act of treason.”

“I don’t know specifically —”

“Your father did not tell you?”

“He reported it to the King,” Alicent confessed, “I overheard.” 

Rhaenyra shook her head, fighting back a triumphant smirk. “So you are accusing me of slanders you overheard?” 

Alicent trembled like leaves in the wind, eyes brimming with tears. 

“I only want to help you, Rhaenyra.”

And the way she said this, the emotion, the sincerity, touched the dark, wounded corner of Rhaenyra’s heart Alicent herself had created with her betrayal. 

She wanted to tell her once trusted companion the entire truth, to pour out her heart and have Alicent envelop her in a hug and say all would be well. But no matter how much she might wish otherwise, Rhaenyra knew it was not to be: Alicent was a pious woman, holding the Faith of the Seven and its tenants close to her heart. She valued duty and tradition above all and Rhaenyra was self-conscious enough to admit her actions were an affront to such deeply rooted beliefs. 

Even if Rhaenyra told Alicent the truth, there would be no understanding waiting for her, only judgment. 

The princess looked away, muttering a soft “Forgive Me” in high valyrian. Then, violet met brown.

“We drank in a tavern. Several Taverns. It was getting late and I asked to go home —” she had not. She would have stayed there forever with Daemon if she could have. “— but Daemon wished to continue. As he was my escort, I had no real choice.”

“Continue,” Alicent muttered, incredulous, “in a brothel?”

“He took me to a show!” At this, Alicent turned her back to her, and Rhaenyra realized she had misstepped. “I was only a spectator. I didn’t do anything!” She tried, but the queen refused to face her. 

Rhaenyra's stomach sank, dread climbing up her spine. To sway Alicent's heart, she would have to share a piece of her own. With a quivering lip, she pulled away the mask of strength and defiance and allowed the hurt and disappointment to come to the light, and said: 

“And then Daemon sank into his cups… and abandoned me for some whore.” Alicent’s head inclined just a fraction, an almost imperceptible glance over the shoulder. In a quiet voice, as bitter as volcanic ash, Rhaenyra whispered, “I should have known better.” 

Alicent remained silent. 

“So you did not?” 

“Must I truly refute that?” She responded, and when Alicent turned, Rhaenyra knew she had won. 

The princess held the queen’s heavy stare with determination, with the unshakable righteousness of the innocent. The lie came easily to her tongue.

“Daemon never touched me.” Rhaenyra reached forward, enveloping Alicent’s hands with her own. “I swear this to you upon the memory of my mother.” 

Aemma was an Arryn, high as honor, ever mindful of her duty and what it entailed. Time and time again she bore it with a stiff upper lip, and though it wore on her, she pushed forward, undaunted. Rhaenyra doubted her mother would approve of her actions the night before, nor the half-truth and lies she so effortlessly wove. 

It wasn’t honorable, it wasn't chivalrous, it was blasphemous even. For her mother's likely disappointment from the Underworld, Rhaenyra felt the slightest prick of guilt at manipulating Alicent so thoroughly. 

But Aemma was dead, and she was left to fend for herself against the whispers within the Red Keep and the snakes lurking around her father’s throne, the carrion birds seeking to oust her from her rightful place as heir and feed on her carcass. Guilt was an easy burden to bear in such circumstances.

“It was foolish of you to come into a position where even your position could even come into question,” Alicent chided, “the king has strived to find you a good match, and so have I. If the lords were to think that you had been —” she gagged, as if there mere thought, the mere words, disgusted her. “— sullied… It would ruin everything.” 

Rhaenyra bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Sullied! What did it matter if she gave her virtue away to her uncle or her sworn shield rather than her future husband? So long as she arrived at her marriage bed without a belly filled with child and ensured their bloodline sat on the Iron Throne what was there to complain about? 

She was a Targaryen, a dragon in her own right. Why should she be deprived of freedom and pleasure for the sake of a nonexistent husband or betrothed? Were she married, would he seek to rule her kingdom too, as well as her life? 

“I know, your grace.” She lowered her head, the picture of contrition, hiding away the indignation blazing in her gaze. “I regret it.” 

Yes, she regretted it. Rhaenyra regretted allowing Daemon to draw her into his seductive grasp with honeyed words and sweet whispers, with laughter and promises of freedom. She regretted knowing the taste of his lips, the jagged shape of his scars, the strength of his corded muscles. She regretted it because the memory haunted her even now, in broad daylight and before the face of the Old Gods.

I regret it , Rhaenyra thought bitterly as she departed from the Godswood with a curtsy, discontent settling into her fine bones, for I have had a taste of my heart’s deepest desire, and it tasted like my own blood and dragonfire. 

───※ ·♛· ※───

Viserys watched from a shadowed alcove as his Kingsguards tossed Daemon before the Iron Throne, hand resting on his valyrian steel dagger. His brother looked as if he had walked through the seven hells itself, the fire and flame so strong he now embraced the cold stone floor for solace. 

The indignation simmering Otto broke the news of Rhaenyra's ruination earlier ignited at the pitiful sight before him. Hungover, Daemon was  hungover , wasted beyond belief. Had he been drunk when he took Rhaenyra to the brothel? When he ruined his daughter like some common whore? Had Daemon even  cared ? 

"My daughter," he said through gritted teeth, approaching his brother. "Won’t you even deny it?”

“I need to understand the charge before I attempt to discredit it.”

Viserys inner dragon roared at the sheer gall, the nerve of Daemon. Had he no shame, no idea of the gravity of his offense? 

“You defiled her,” he accused, kicking Daemon’s back. His brother groaned, contorting in pain and turning on his back.  Good , Viserys thought with resentful satisfaction,  let him stew in agony.  “You lured her out into King’s Landing, brought her to a brothel, and you defiled her.”

“Oh, what does it matter, brother?” Daemon said, the picture of arrogant nonchalance. “When we were Rhaenyra’s age we fucked our way through most of the brothels in the Street of Silk.”

“We were young men,” Viserys seethed, “she is just a girl. Your  niece !”

“Rhaenyra is a woman-grown. Better her first experience be with me than some whore.”

How dare he talk about his daughter in such a way? With such impudence? 

“You fucking—” Viserys grabbed the collar of his brother’s linen shirt, trembling with barely contained rage. “You have ruined her. What lord will wed her now, in this condition?” 

“Who gives a fuck what some lord thinks?” Daemon sneered, baring his teeth. “You are the dragon. Your word is truth and  law .”

He spoke as if Viserys was free to choose, as if the throne and the crown weren't a chain, binding him to his duty for life, to the realm and the lords.

“I have spent a lifetime defending you—” Viserys stopped, trying to organize his thoughts through the veil of rage.“— but your heart is even blacker than I thought. I should disinherit her as I already did her and be done with it.”

He let go of Daemon, the king and father at war with the older brother sworn to protect the youngest. Daemon was his brother, blood of his blood, his mother’s pride and joy. In memory of Alyssa and later for Baelon, he had protected Daemon, sheltered him from the fallout of his actions, and covered his sins. Why, then, gods, did his brother continue to hurt him? Hadn’t he done enough, sacrificed enough?

Years of misunderstandings, petty grievances, and insurmountable hurt passed between them, an open, infected wound that refused to heal.

"Wed her to me," Daemon said again, eyes never straying from Viserys. "When I offered up my crown you said I could have anything. I want Rhaenyra — I’ll take her as she is and wed her in the tradition of our house.”

Somewhere in the faraway memory of a dream, Balerion roared and the Red Keep crumbled, the full weight of its fiery red stone pushing the breath out of Viserys’s lungs. He stumbled backward, his legs shaking so hard he could barely keep himself up.

Suddenly there were red snows all around, snows painted crimson with blood. The Iron Throne melted and twisted, scorched clean. Death watched from the sidelines with blue, blue eyes. Waiting. Eager. 

Blood must have blood,  Daenys the Dreamer's words reverberated through time and memory,  only then will the House of Dragon survive the night.

It couldn't be. He refused,  perish the thought — not his daughter, his beloved little girl, Aemma's only child. Not with chaotic, restless, untamable Daemon, who loved like the dragon he was: fiercely but selfishly, unaware of the destruction and sorrow he left in his wake. 

Daenys had to be wrong — she  had . But hadn't she been wearing the traditional marriage garments of Old Valyria in the dream, a young bride ready to wed? Hadn’t she been chanting the marriage vows as if in prayer, in warning?

"Viserys?" Daemon called, concern etched into every syllable. As Viserys seemed to slip into the grasp of a waking nightmare, Daemon grew soberer, more aware. He pushed himself off the ground to a sitting position, a frown deepening his gaze. "Brother?"

And yet— wasn't Rhaenyra much the same? Selfish and spoiled by turns, determined to bend the world to her will rather than submitting to its demands? They’d always been close, always gravitating towards each other, moths to a flame. Was it any wonder that the moment Daemon offered Rhaenyra a hand, she would take it? 

“And what of your wife, Daemon? What of the Lady Rhea?” He said in a haze, unable to bear the silence, the look of genuine worry plastered on his brother’s face. He needed time: time to gather his shattered thoughts, time to think, time to consider. 

“A wife I did not choose,” Daemon snarled back, violet eyes flaring. “One I never wanted, never desired or cared for. The Bronze Bitch is no true wife of mine, nor am I her husband. Annull our marriage and free us from this sham Viserys, or we may yet kill each other.”

“You speak so casually about murdering your own wife, yet you expect me to agree to hand you my only daughter?” He shook his head, a dark chuckle rumbling his chest. “Have your senses taken leave of you, Daemon?”

“Rhea is an inconvenience foisted upon me by the whim of our grandmother. Rhaenyra is a dragon, a daughter of Old Valyria, the blood of my blood. To speak of them in the same breath, as if they are comparable —” Daemon's glare was withering, full of rage and contempt “— is an insult to my niece.”

“There is no greater insult, no greater humiliation than the one you levied upon her, Daemon.” Viserys's shoulders slumped, hand searching for the hilt of the valyrian steel dagger. “Do you know nothing of shame, of regret? Are you so desperate to wound me that you would destroy that which I hold most dear?” 

“As you too have wounded me?” Daemon slammed his hands on the ground and rose, the resentment burning away the remnants of alcohol running in his veins. “I have raised an army for you Viserys! I was ready to die fighting for your right to sit on the Iron Throne—”

“Because you believed you would succeed me!”

“Because you are my brother!” Daemon shouted, spewing lava and sulfur. “Because you are my brother, as father and uncle Aemon were before us, and I have done nothing if not try to protect you and our house from the vultures that seek to feed on our weakness! But you keep denying me, you keep choosing to believe those maggots feasting on your exposed flaws than in  me .” His nostrils dilated; Viserys could almost see the steam coming out of them, a dragon awake and full of wrath. “So yes, brother — I sought to wound you as you have wounded me. Is that what you so desperately wanted to hear? Are you satisfied now?”

“You  fiend !” Viserys threw himself against Daemon, tackling him back to the ground with the force of the impact. He drew the dagger out of its sheath, placing it against his brother’s neck. “She is your  niece . My  daughter . Do you have any idea of how she looks at you, as if you hung up the moon and the stars in the sky? When you set out to wound me, did you think about how it would hurt  her ?”

Daemon clenched his jaw, burying his fingers into his palm. He clicked his tongue and looked away, mouth set into a hard line.

Viserys had known his brother from the cradle. He had watched him grow and observed his changing moods: the sweet taste of triumph and the anger of defeat; the mirth and the sadness; the love, the hate, and the regret. It wasn’t always that he could read Daemon; in fact, many times he despaired for not knowing what was going on behind his brother’s violet eyes. 

Some emotions were easier to mask than others, especially with tempers running as high as they were. Some were so unusual, so rare and precious, that they stood out regardless.

Such was the case with Daemon, and shame. 

“So you do know shame,” Viserys said, pulling the dagger away just a fraction. “Perhaps your heart is not as black as I thought.”

“Even if I were to tell you I did know it,” Daemon bit out, staring at him from the corner of his eyes, “Would you believe me, brother?”

I would , Viserys opened his mouth to say but stayed his tongue. Would he believe Daemon, or did he simply want to think he would? Viserys thought back to all their arguments, all the trouble Daemon had gotten himself into over the years, all the lectures and screaming matches. Sure, Viserys was used to sweeping his misdeeds under a rug, pretending they weren’t there, and shrugging it off with a slap on the wrist. 

When was the last time he had stopped to listen to Daemon, to take his brother’s words and concerns into account? When was the last time they had talked, brother to brother, blood to blood, heart to heart? 

When had this unconquerable wall risen between them, keeping them apart? Unable to talk and trust each other with the simplest of things? 

Viserys swallowed hard. 

“I might,” he said, “were you to be honest about it.”

Daemon turned, violet eyes searching Viserys’s own for any hint of deception. For the first time in a long while, the King saw the truth behind his brother: the hurt, the bitterness, the reluctance to trust him, the longing for acceptance. How had he not seen this before? How had he never noticed?

Or had he noticed, deep down, but refused to dwell on it because it was easier, less complicated, to take Daemon at face value than to look more closely into the root cause of his behavior and see himself there?

His brother seemed at war with himself, torn between the truth and another lie. Viserys waited, patiently, for his decision.

“I planned to sneak her into the city, to give her a taste of freedom and yes, to ruin her,” Daemon said, closing his eyes. “We hit the taverns. We played street games, watched a play, saw a hack of a fortune teller, even.” He chuckled, the softness of it taking Viserys’s breath away. “She loved it, Viserys. Every minute of it. It was as if she was seeing the world for the first time.”

Viserys had seen as much in the dream: hand in hand, laughing, enjoying themselves, brimming with happiness and contentment.

“But even seeing her happiness, her delight, you took her to the brothel. You still planned on ruining her.”

“I did,” he admitted, “I wanted to.”

“But you couldn’t,” Viserys breathed out, letting go of the dagger. It fell to the side, clattering on the stone ground, the sound reverberating through the hall of stone and the images of the dragons.

Daemon held his gaze, as much a confirmation as he was ever likely to give.

“Why, Daemon?” Viserys insisted, shaking his head. The day had barely started, but he already felt so very tired, so very drained, as if he'd gone through an entire lifetime in the span of a morning. "Why didn't you?"

"What does it matter why I couldn't?"

"More than you realize — more than you believe."

Daemon glared at him.

"Because she is Rhaenyra," he said as if that answer encompassed all reasons — and it did. "Because I want her, all of her, all of her beauty and fire and defiance, all her love and all her rage. And as much as you try to deny it, Viserys, so does she. Rhaenyra will never be satisfied with the sheep you parade before her."

"And what of the Iron Throne? What of your ambition?" 

"All men courting Rhaenyra have designs upon the Iron Throne, brother." Daemon rolled his eyes. "Or do you believe they are genuinely interested in her? Oh, they might desire her: she's a dragon, the Realm's Delight — but Rhaenyra is their means to power, not the end goal. They will all wish to rule through her."

"And you wouldn't?" Viserys cocked his head, holding back a snort.

"I would rule beside her," he said with the conviction of a burning sun. "I would lay Dark Sister down her feet and rain dragonfire on all who would dare oppose her. I would command her armies and slaughter her enemies; I would be her sword and hand. Let me have her, Viserys. Let us wed, and we will remind the lords of our strength and lead the House of the Dragon to unseen glories." 

Viserys ran a shaky hand over his face, taking in a deep breath. Blood must have blood, and blood must have fire. One taming the other, keeping themselves in check. Twin flames, burning in tandem. Controlled and  thriving , Daenys had said.

"Does this remind you of strength?"  His ancestor had pointed out amidst the crumbling keep, surrounded by icons of gods he held little reverence towards.  "Of endurance?" 

And here Daemon was, talking of strength and endurance and marriages of blood and flame.

The gods loved their ironies, Viserys decided with a defeated, hollow laugh. He had spent a lifetime chasing a dream, only for another to come to him in the night and turn his life upside down come morn. 

"If I allow you to wed her —" He could hardly believe those words were leaving his lips, much less that he  meant  them. That he could, against his better judgment, see Daemon beside Rhaenyra, Dark Sister in hand as his daughter held Blackfyre on the throne. "— you must swear to honor her above all else. You will fight for her and you will die for her. I will not see you disrespecting my daughter, Daemon. Not while I still draw breath." 

"Glad we are on the same side, brother." Daemon's answering smile was a frightening thing, full of feral joy and jubilant determination. "For I'll have the tongue of all the vermin who dare disrespect her in front of me, too."

With a low groan of despair, Viserys slumped on the ground beside his brother, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

"Gods help us all," he muttered, and hoped wherever she was, Daenys was satisfied with his decision.

Beside him, Daemon burst into bright, joyous laughter.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The Red Keep was a maze of shadows interspersed with the light of tremulous torches when the Kingsguards came to take Rhaenyra to her father.

She wasn’t surprised the summons had come — it was never a matter of if he called upon her, but rather  when  — only that it had taken until evenfall for him to do so. All afternoon Rhaenyra had remained in the solitude of her rooms, awaiting the hour of judgment that was sure to come. She had tried to read but found herself forgetting the words moments after; writing down possible accusations and defenses proved little better, all her arguments jumbled, incoherent, defensive yet not persuasive enough on paper.

So Rhaenyra had settled on pacing and arguing with herself in hushed whispers. She posed as her father, as Alicent, and sometimes even Daemon or Otto. Though it helped keep her distracted and grounded., it did little to assuage the mounting anxiety and the thunderous rhythm of her heartbeat as she approached the entrance to her father’s quarters. 

The doors loomed above her with the same cruel intensity of a rampaging, ravenous dragon set to devour her whole.  

Rhaenyra's breath hitched, the regret born of fear holding her lungs within its tight grasp. Perhaps she ought to have been more careful with her reputation, more guarded against Daemon's advances — but how was she to know what would come out of it? How was she to guess he would abandon her in the bowels of a brothel, alone and unguarded?

Ser Criston opened the door, but she paid him no heed. He’d been distant all day, sullen and taciturn, either staring at her for too long or not at all. Rhaenyra already had enough troubles of her own to deal with to worry about his. 

Well — what was done was done and could not be undone. It was too late to try and feel any semblance of regret; better face the music and see what would come of it.

Gathering her courage about her like armor, Rhaenyra lifted her head and crossed the threshold into the royal quarters. 

The dying light of day crept into the room through the latticed windows, the sun setting behind the stone memories of Old Valyria. There was a brazier lit close to the massive diorama, the blade of her father’s valyrian steel dagger incandescent amidst the crackling flames. How curious for it to be here all alone when Viserys was wont to part with it.

Rhaenyra glanced at the two Kingsguard at the door — she needed no words for them to understand the privacy of this encounter. They closed the doors, shutting out the world outside.

She reached for the rugged handle of the dagger, fingertips brushing the warm metal, almost holding it—

“That dagger once belonged to Aegon the Conqueror.” Viserys’s voice reverberated through the room and Rhaenyra immediately pulled her hand away, as if burned. He stepped out of the shadowed corners of the hearth, hands clasped over his belt. “It was Aenar’s before that. And before that… it’s difficult to know.” 

A smile pulled at the corners of Rhaenyra’s lips both out of the joy of him sharing this piece of their history with her and relief he was not as angry as she had envisioned. 

With a glance toward her, Viserys pulled the blade out of the flames.

“Before Aegon’s death, the last of the valyrian pyromancers hid his song in the steel,” he said, offering her the dagger at an angle that allowed for better reading of the inscribed glyphs.

Slowly, almost reverently, Rhaenyra accepted the blade, turning it slightly against the flames.

“From my blood come the prince that was promised—” she squinted to try and make sense of the words. “— and his will be the song of ice and fire.” Rhaenyra looked toward her father, searching for answers. 

His quietness unnerved her.

“Do you remember,” he began, “of what I told you the day I named you my heir?”

“The Great Winter,” she replied immediately, the words burned into her memory, though often forgotten, “The end of the world of men. Aegon’s dream.”

“This knowledge is a burden, Rhaenyra. It’s bigger than my crown, bigger than this kingdom, bigger than your bones —” the accusation engraved in the violet current of his eyes as he turned towards her stabbed a hole through Rhaenyra’s chest, deep and true. “— and bigger than your  desires .”

Her lower lips trembled, heart bleeding. Still, she raised her chin, holding to her dignity and pride. 

"Oh, my daughter,” Viserys said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What in the world possessed you to take such a risk?”

She swallowed hard, nails digging half-moons into her palm.

“I did not think it a risk.”

“You did," he retorted, "but you took it anyway. Was it worth it, Rhaenyra?"

Was it?  Yes, it was , a part of her hollered, throwing her head back with unbound laughter, lips stained red with wine and shirt hanging off her shoulders. No , it wasn't , the other part whispered, more subdued, hands wrapped around the valyrian steel necklace Daemon had gifted her, head downcast.

"Were it my grandfather, he would have disinherited you," he said, " he said, and Rhaenyra's blood lit up with indignation.

"And will you do the same, father? Disinherit me over a filthy  lie ?"

"The truth is inconsequential, Rhaenyra!" Her nostrils flared, teeth bared in defiance. "All that matters is the  perception  of it, and for all intents and purposes, you lost your maidenhead to Daemon in that brothel."

"I did not—"

"Because  Daemon  refused to take that last step. Or was that not the case?" She pressed her lips together, refusing to take the bait, but her father took it as the admission it was. 

With a deep, resigned sigh, Viserys motioned for her to follow and took a seat on one of the nearby chairs. Rhaenyra hesitated, but after a beat followed his footsteps, sitting beside him and folding her hands over her lap.

"I'm not going to disinherit you, for I believe you are meant for the Iron Throne, my daughter," he told her, "but you cannot act as if the crown lies easily upon your head ever again. You cannot give the lords of the realm any reason to doubt your leadership and your rule."

"Were I a man, we would not be having this conversation." Rhaenyra's mouth curled into a sneer. "I could fuck my way through all the Street of Silk and sire a dozen bastards and no one would be batting an eyelash."

"True," Viserys concurred, "but you are not a man. You are a girl, and for that alone, you will have to work twice as diligently to secure your place."

"This isn't fair," Rhaenyra whispered, tightening her grip on the dagger's handle. 

Viserys hummed his agreement and they both slipped into a tense, fragile silence. She gazed towards the fire in the hearth, a tight set to her jaw, the desire to burn it all to the ground climbing up her throat. Burn it down, desecrate everything, and build it back from the ashes — maybe then she would get some semblance of fairness. It would be so much easier. So must  faster .

But that wasn't the kind of queen she wished to be, nor did she feel it was a choice. She could be both Good Queen Alysanne and Visenya when need be, taking the best parts of them both. It bothered her deeply, how there were no shades of gray: women were always maiden or whore, righteous or sinful, honest or deceitful. Rhaenyra did not think the sum of her parts could be so easily slotted into false dichotomies, and it angered her that most of the court kept trying to do just that.  

"I had a dream," Viserys said, chasing away the silence. He too was staring at the fire, the melancholy in his eyes thick enough to cloud the light of day.

Rhaenyra froze in her place but did not turn, teeth sinking into her lower lip. Her father's dreams had already cost her a mother and the Realm a beloved queen; it had stolen from her a dear friend when she needed one most. They had opened a rift within the House of the Dragon she feared would place them all in jeopardy. 

All for a mythical, nebulous threat that offered no forewarning of its arrival, except that one day it would come. Aegon had invaded and conquered Westeros, uniting the Seven Kingdoms under the same banner, believing himself a savior of men. But the threat hadn't come, not in Aegon's lifetime, not in the lifetime of his children or grandchildren. Who was to say it would come in hers?

"What of it?" She asked, lowering her gaze to where the logs slowly turned to ash.

"I dreamed of Daenys, sitting on the steps of the Iron Throne," he said, "she wasn't very happy with me, I think, nor with the way I've been handling things. Daenys… she pointed me in the right direction for what will one day come and how we may yet survive."

"And you believe her?"

"She saved our house from the Doom. Do you not?"

In Rhaenyra's experience, no prophecy or dream was ever a portent of good news, only death and doom. She would rather not believe it at all and let fate follow its course rather than change it and bring about something worse. 

"What did she say?" Rhaenyra questioned instead. No good would come of sharing her doubts and questions with Viserys.

"That blood must have blood." Viserys raised his head and extended his open palm towards her. "That fire must have blood to keep it thriving, controlled. 

She dragged her gaze out of the flames to stare at her father, returning his dagger to him in a reluctant move. 

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Viserys chuckled. 

"I asked myself that same question, but I found my answer this morning." 

"How so?" Rhaenyra brows furrowed in confusion.  

"Daemon asked for your hand in marriage."

She let out a startled gasp, all air leaving her lungs. 

" What ?"  

Her eyes went wide in shock, her mouth hanging open. She stared at her father, waiting for him to say it was a jest, a test to her resolve, but his face was set in stony sobriety. 

Rhaenyra slumped on the chair, blinking rapidly, thoughts a maelstrom of emotion. The sheer joy of a long-standing, buried-deep dream becoming reality waged war with the fresher, sharper edges of resentment and the bitter taste of abandonment, leaving her head spinning. 

She wanted to be happy about this. She wanted to stand up and throw a vase at the wall and watch it shatter to pieces. She wanted to scream and cry and rage and spin and laugh and celebrate, everything all at once.

"Blood must have blood," Rhaenyra repeated in a strangled voice. "You think this means.. that this means I ought to marry  Daemon ?"

"I understand that after what transpired last night you would not look upon this kindly but —"

"No!" Rhaenyra snapped, pushing herself upwards. She shook her head, trying to dispel the confusion. "That is to say — I  am  angry with Daemon. Terribly so. But that doesn't mean that I don't want to marry him, father."

"He left you alone in a brothel to return to the Red Keep, Rhaenyra," Viserys said, eyebrows rising in question. "He planned to have you ruined to spite me, and yet you would still marry him?"

She lifted her chin in the air and stood. 

"I would," Rhaenyra said fiercely, "my heart might be bruised, and it may take time and effort for me to fully forgive him, but I would marry him, father. I have wanted to marry Daemon for as long as I can remember wanting something. I'll take him as he is. And besides —" She raised an eyebrow, matching her father's expression. "— you wouldn't bring me his proposal if you did not think it worth consideration."

To her astonishment, Viserys laughed, looking up at the ceiling as his body shook.

Rhaenyra's eyes narrowed to slits.

"I do not see what is so funny." 

"You wouldn't," he agreed easily, "for you were not there to witness it. Your uncle said something very similar to me earlier today."

"Indeed?" She fought back against a grin threatening to rise in the corners of her mouth. 

"Yes." Viserys nodded, sheathing the dagger. "And you are right. I would not have brought this to you if I did not think it was worthy of consideration. I cannot lie to you, my daughter: I shudder to think of you married to my rake of a brother and his influence upon you, despite the conversation we shared this morning. But neither can I deny that my dream of Daenys was too serendipitous to be the workings of mere chance. I believe she meant for me to see what I saw and to push me towards your match, despite my misgivings."

Rhaenyra took in his words and declarations in stern silence. She did not know what her father and uncle had talked about, only that the conversation had been impactful enough to send her father — or so she assumed — into a day of solitary contemplation. Not just that: along with the dream, it had brought some of Viserys's deep-rooted convictions crashing down.

She would marry Daemon, yes, as she had always wanted to. She would have him on his knees, swearing his faith and devotion to her, to be her sword and get rid of all her enemies. Rhaenyra would sink her claws into his skin and bite his neck in claiming as dragons did, marking him as hers and hers alone. 

"You will annul Daemon's marriage to the Lady Rhea," she said, leaving no room for argument. 

"I will," Viserys confirmed with a nod.

"Then, you will have us married both in the Great Sept, in the eyes of the Seven, and in Dragonstone, in the tradition of house, with the rites of our ancestors." 

"And wearing the robes Daenys used to marry Gaemon, that Aegon married his sisters, that mine own grandparents and parents used, years ago," her father finished.

That , Rhaenyra thought, mouth lifting up in a beautiful, dangerous smile,  is all I want . 

───※ ·♛· ※───

When Rhaenyra returned to her rooms a note lay waiting on her table, just as the night before, but instead of a backpack full of clothes it was accompanied by a bouquet of red flowers: red camellias and red carnations and red roses, wrapped in cloth of translucent charcoal silk and held together by a bloodied white ribbon. Their fresh scent wafted through the air, pungent and hypnotic, ripe for picking, beckoning Rhaenyra closer. 

She approached, gathering the flowers within her arms and taking in their perfume. The faint but unmistakable scent of dragonfire and blood clung to the blossoms, as enticing now as it had been the night before, in the streets of Flea Bottom.

Rhaenyra picked the ribbon between her slender fingers, the silk pleasant to the touch. There was nothing accidental about this bouquet, no symbolism that was the product of mere chance. Every small detail was deliberate, carefully picked to echo an aspect of their shared valyrian ancestry. The colors of their house, the flowers that professed love and flame and passion unending — and a bloody ribbon for a marriage of blood, in blood bound. 

Chuckling to herself, she set the flowers aside. If Daemon thought pretty blooms would be enough to dull her rage, he was sorely mistaken. She inspected the note, written in her uncle's familiar scrawl and with a similar map from the night before scratched haphazardly, which read:

"Meet me under Balerion in the hour of the bat. You know the way." 

She brought the note close to her lips, considering her options. Part of her wanted to throw it in the fire and watch it burn. Let Daemon wait, alone, abandoned as she was. Let him feel the same burning wrath of a dragon denied their desires. Yet another part of her, the more feral one, the one closer to dragon than to girl that couldn't help but  covet , shrieked in protest. The note was a promise, an invitation, and to deny it, to reject it, was to deny herself.

If Otto Hightower had his way and rumors of her encounter with Daemon spread as swiftly as Balerion, Meraxes, and Vhagar’s flame in the Field of Fire, come morning Rhaenyra would be ruined. The truth of the matter was inconsequential, as her father had so eloquently put it, though in not so many words. If serpents would distill their venom regardless of her conduct, then why deprive herself of what she wanted? Daemon would soon be her husband, besides, and all would know.

All would know,  she bit her lower lip, fighting off a smile that threatened to emerge,  and they will taste their own venom, paralyzed in fear of Dark Sister’s song. 

Rhaenyra threw the note into the fire. She called in her maids, told them to find a vase for the flowers, and then to place it on the bedside table. The look of confusion they exchanged, the silent question of where the red blossoms had come from did not pass unnoticed by Rhaenyra, but the princess offered no explanation.

They applied oils to Rhaenyra's skin, rose and cinnamon and oleander, and changed her into a nightgown of fine white gossamer, embroidered with purple thread that matched her eyes.

She took to the bed, closing her eyes and pretending to sleep until the maids left. Rhaenyra tossed and turned as the hours slipped by, as the lights outside dimmed to ghostly flames and the noises to a secretive murmur. When the distant toil of the great bells announced the Hour of the Bat was upon them, she threw her sheets aside and stood.

Rhaenyra acted quickly, locking the door of her chambers with nary a sound; no one would bother her so unless true tragedy struck. She arranged the pillows on her bed so they'd resemble her sleeping form in the lightless night for good measure.  

She removed a black hooded cloak from her wardrobe, tied it at the nape of her neck with a red ribbon, put on her slippers, and opened the secret doors of her chambers. A wind blew through the doorframe, cool and inviting. Rhaenyra grinned and stepped into the dark, leaving behind the candlelit safety of her chambers. 

The darkness went on and on, undisturbed even by the silver light of the moon, shyly hidden behind heavy clouds. Rhaenyra moved through the shadows, undaunted by the chill wind, the blood thrumming hot in her veins keeping her warm.

Eventually, she emerged under the great shadow of Balerion's skull. She stuck to the darkness, her black cloak melding with the poorly lit walls, and peeked inside the dragon's enormous mandible. Daemon awaited leaning against the worn bone, droplets of fresh water clinging to his pale hair as the morning dew on the petals of a blooming lily. 

He wore a simple, but clean and dustless attire: black boots, black trousers, and an unlaced white undershirt, a teasing glimpse into the corded muscles of his chest and arms, the physique of a warrior of the greatest renown. 

She stepped out of the shadows and Daemon's violet eyes snapped up, focusing on her. Rhaenyra smiled at him and continued forward, unhurried. She was a thousand crystal stars and the moon besides, hidden beneath the jet-black shadows of the night, offering only distant glimpses of her majesty. Cold, composed. Measured. 

Daemon, meanwhile, held a vibrance to him, a wild flame raging within the trappings of a sturdy hearth. He was the sun at dawn, all violet, scorching hunger, peeling away the shadows and devouring the moon and stars. His gaze traced the defined contours of her legs, the muscles shaped by a lifetime riding Syrax; it grazed over her exposed collarbone, the soft swell of breast beneath it; it lingered on her puckered, vermilion-tinted lips. 

"Uncle," she greeted him in high valyrian once she deemed the distance suitable, the vowels sugared lemon cakes on her tongue. 

"Princess," he returned, cocking his head to the side. A single strand of hair had slipped out from behind his ear, falling softly over his eye. "You are late." 

Rhaenyra clicked her tongue and glanced around, arching an eyebrow. 

"It's the hour of the bat still, is it not? Or have the bells chimed without me noticing?"  

"Do not play this game with me, little dragon," Daemon snapped, stepping closer. "You knew what I meant and still, you left me to wait."

"If I did," she challenged, jutting her chin outwards. "Then it was nothing less than you deserved." 

A chuckle escaped Daemon’s lips. “Deserved? Is this your idea of punishment for what I did last night then, sweet niece?” 

Rhaenyra snorted. "A punishment must befit the offense, uncle. Leaving you waiting hardly accomplishes that."

"But you enjoyed it regardless, didn't you, little dragon?" The Prince caught her chin with her index finger, stroking the creamy skin with his calloused thumb. His accompanying smirk was indolent, dangerous. "The thought of me standing here waiting for you as the hour passed by, staring constantly at the dark, not knowing if you would emerge from it?" 

She had. She  did . But she would not give him the satisfaction of her admission. 

"As you enjoyed leaving me in that pleasure house, alone, vulnerable, and exposed?" Rhaenyra said, tilting her body forward, their noses almost touching.

"You think I enjoyed leaving you there, Rhaenyra?" His mouth curled in displeasure.

“I thought a great many things," she replied, words like dragonfire, "I thought I had done something wrong, a mistake grave enough for you to abandon me over it. I thought it was my fault you left me alone — but it wasn’t, was it? It was  you , Uncle.   You  did not dare to finish what you started.”

His hand moved to the side of her face, his fingers digging into her cheeks, raising her head. 

“Careful, Rhaenyra.” They were close enough for their heavy breathing to mingle, their hearts beating in unison. “The past is past, the night is long, and we are to be wed. I have no reason to hesitate any longer. If you are so eager, my little bride, then I will gladly disrobe you of your virtue against this very wall.”

A thrill of pleasure ran down her spine, a caress to the tightness building up between her tights. She rubbed them together on instinct, mouth parting with a soft intake of breath as a flush spread across her cheeks.

She placed a hand on his heart, delighted at the hard muscle beneath.

"That honor you'll no longer claim for your own, Uncle."

Daemon stilled beneath her touch, a sneer morphing his fine-boned face into something beautiful and terrifying to behold. The sight excited Rhaenyra, the jealousy setting her blood aflame.  

"A name, niece," he demanded, chest rumbling with a feral growl. "Give me the name of the man who took what should have rightfully been mine, so I may relieve him of his manhood." 

"Rightfully yours?" Rhaenyra threw her head back with a peal of incredulous laughter. She glared at Daemon, amethyst eyes ignited. "My virtue was mine to give, uncle, mine to lose and mine to bear its consequence. I offered it to you willingly, yet you squandered your chance when you left me alone in that pleasure house. So I gave it to someone else."

His rage was a balm to her raw, exposed heart, a hot iron that staved off the bleeding hurt yet did not let her forget the pain. She smiled, sweetly, mockingly, invitingly.

In a swift movement, Daemon had her pinned against the bone, his knee pressing her sensitive nub. Rhaenyra gasped, eyelids fluttering close as the sudden wave of pleasure pulled her under, her whole body arching forward, towards him. The loosely tied cloak slipped off her shoulder down the floor, revealing the rigid, pink peaks beneath her nightgown.

Daemon placed a hand on the white wall and leaned in, lips hovering over her earlobe. 

"You are not wearing your underclothes," he hissed as if in pain, his wet breath caressing her skin. "Were you always planning on seducing me, little dragon? On having me give you what was denied the night before? Did you touch yourself before coming here, thinking of me?" 

"I—"

Daemon pushed his knee up, giving it a teasing roll and robbing her of all words as a loud moan escaped her lips. Rhaenyra’s hips bucked against him, hands grasping his shoulders for equilibrium as she ground her clit on the rough fabric of his pants, desperate for more friction, for more contact.  

His free hand snaked down her shoulder, pulling down the nightgown with a rough tug. The silk pooled around her hip, exposing her bare torso, skin shining with sweat.

"My little bride," he cooed, dragging his tongue down her neck, biting down and sucking hard at its curve. "So beautiful, so willing, and  mine ." 

" Mine ," she rasped, panting for air, sinking her nails into his shoulder blades, pulling him down, closer. She was not a possession to be claimed nor traded for, no matter what the lords of the realm thought — but Rhaenyra was willing to be Daemon's, body and soul, so long as he was  hers  too. 

His dextrous fingers descended her collarbone, down the gap between her breasts, leaving a trail of flame as they went. He placed feather-soft kisses along the curve of her jaw, close to her lips; when he pinched her nipples between his fingers, her whole body shuddered as a cry scratched its way up her throat, only to be swallowed by the hard press of Daemon’s lips against her own.

Rhaenyra opened her mouth, allowing his tongue passage. They wrestled against each other, both seeking dominance, a dance of dragons in tongues and passion and teeth and anger. Daemon tortured her hard tit, cupping it in his large hand, kneading without remorse; it was a sweet, delectable torture. As their kiss grew hungrier, the need for each other outweighing the very need for air, so did the speed and force with which she rocked against him.

This was pleasure — true, unrelating pleasure. It was a drug she could get addicted to, stripping her of all senses but the heady feeling of  them , here and now. She was burning, almost feverish; her blood had turned to steam as it rushed through her veins, warming her tights, her abdomen, her cunt. Rhaenyra was teetering on the edge of a precipice, intoxicated, lost in the scent of ash and blood and  Daemon.

She was going to fall —

Daemon pulled away suddenly.

Rhaenyra snarled in protest, trying to pull him back for her, hips arching forward in search of him. She was reeling from vertigo, so close to falling and then no longer, her breath haggard. Wetness dripped along her inner tight, her sex pulsing, writhing in displeasure at the sudden loss of contact.

Her head snapped towards him, face twisting into a scowl.

“You denied me the pleasure of taking your maidenhead,” he said, violet eyes an abyss of lust, “so I withhold this from you now. But I may reconsider, sweet niece, if you promise to not give your remaining firsts to no one else but me.”

“ You  —”

He placed a finger on her lip.

“No one will ever see you like this again, naked and wanton, panting and begging for pleasure. If they do, I’ll gouge out their eyes so they may never see again, and their tongues so they may never share what they saw. You will be my wife, little dragon, my queen, and dragons don’t share what is theirs.”

“You are right, dragons don’t share,” she said, “and neither will I. You want all my remaining firsts? Have them. They’re yours for the taking, but so must be the rest of  yours . You will take their eyes and tongues? Fine. I’ll have the heads of your whores and lovers if you ever stray, uncle.”

He laughed, low and cruel, against her neck. “You drive a hard bargain, niece.”

“I learned from the best.”

Daemon answered by leaning back in, teasing her slick folds open with his calloused fingers, just as he had the night before in the brothel. He brushed her clit with his ring, the dragon embossed in the metal sending delicious spasms across her spine. She felt his hard cock pressing against her belly, thrashing against the confines of his trousers, as eager for her cunt as she was for him.

“Your cock,” she said against his mouth, dragging her nails on the nape of his neck. “I want your cock, uncle. Give it to me.”

He thrust one finger inside of her and she jerked against him, head lolling back as the air left her lungs.

“You will only have my cock, little dragon—” Daemon inserted another finger inside of her, pushing harder, deeper, the metal grinding at her nub. “— when the filthy seed spewed into you is poisoned and dead — ” he thrust his hand up with force, curling his fingers inside of her. “— and when there’s no doubt the child you will carry is ours, niece.”

Rhaenyra squirmed on his hand, sinking into him, clenching her tights so he would not leave her unfulfilled again. More, more,  more  — she needed more, wanted more; she needed to take and take and  burn  until she was nothing but ashes on the wind. She rode his fingers with the same reckless abandon she rode her dragon, the same unadulterated ecstasy sending her head spinning. Daemon grunted as he thrust his fingers into her: rough, relentless, and punishing.

She took it all in, all his rage, all his pleasure and jealousy. They were fire on fire, both dragging their nails like claws on each other’s skins. They were dragons flying perilously close to the sun, the heat all-consuming.

Rhaenyra came crashing down with Daemon’s name on her lips. She was dizzy and euphoric and half-delirious with pleasure, pale skin flushed and lips swollen from the ravenous kiss. Her clothes were soaked with sweat, her hair a mess. She raised her head, her gaze meeting Daemon’s. He still had not removed his fingers from inside her.

She touched his cheek with a hand and thought of Criston the night before, so hesitant to surrender to temptation, so bashful in the aftermath. Rhaenyra took whatever pleasure she could from him and him from her, but this encounter with Daemon made everything pale by comparison. What was the desire of a simple man, when compared to the hunger of a prince, of a dragon, blood of her blood?

“The only children I will ever bear are yours, uncle,” she swore in a fierce whisper, running her thumb along his cheekbone. “I’ll bear no bastards in this lifetime.”

It was a long time before she returned to her rooms.

Chapter Text

chapter three. my path will be reversed

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Queen Alicent Hightower's morning began as most of them did: with Lady Roslain Oakheart throwing the velvet curtains of the bedchamber open and Lady Lyselle Swyft gently shaking her shoulders, murmuring a soft  "Wake up, your grace". 

Gentle, delicate, and eager to please, it was not unusual for Lyselle to fail to rouse Alicent from her slumber, requiring Roslain to step in. Unlike her fellow lady-in-waiting, the Lady of the Old Oak wasn't intimidated by Alicent's position as the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, having no such qualms about speaking louder, more sharply, in her presence.

She was a constant reminder that no matter if Alicent had given the King a son and now a daughter, many yet saw her as merely a collateral relative of the Lord of Oldtown, the child and principal pawn of a second son grasping for power that should not belong to him. They believed Alicent had no business wearing a crown, that she was of too low birth for that, never mind the Hightower name she bore and the allegiance of Oldtown behind her. 

Of course, Lady Roslain had never voiced such opinions out loud. She was too well-bred for that, too knowledgeable of the ways of the court and the power words held, how they could be twisted and misinterpreted and used against her. Alicent couldn’t recall an occasion wherein her lady-in-waiting had been anything less than gracious and polished, her annoyance over displeasing circumstances kept to a faint creasing of her brows and a strain on the corner of her mouth. Roslain’s manners were as sharp as valyrian steel, every word calculated, as were her silences.

Yet what was in her mind shone through her azure eyes, a veiled scorn that pricked at Alicent’s insecurities and didn't allow her to relax even at her most private. All day, all time, she was subjected to this scrutiny, the ceaseless necessity to live up to the standards of duty, decorum, and dignity the court and the kingdoms expected of her.

"I have been thinking, father, that a change in my chief ladies-in-waiting is in order," she said to Otto one day as they strolled through a gallery, where a group of servants was hanging the newly arrived tapestries from Qohor and Norvos. 

Otto frowned, casting her a glance from the corner of his eyes.

"Why? Have the Lady Oakheart and the Lady Swyft been remiss in their duties?"

Alicent stood a little straighter at the attention. "No, they have not. Lady Lyselle is perhaps slow at times but she is a loyal friend and dear companion, and Lady Roslain is ever effective and diligent, but—"

"Have they been discourteous to you, then?" 

"No." Alicent shook her head. "That is not —"

"Have they disrespected your authority? Insulted you?" Otto's eyebrow rose higher with each question, and Alicent fought the urge to pick at her fingernails. 

"No, nothing of the sort. It is just —"

"Have they perhaps tried to catch the king's attention?"

"Father!" Indignation painted Alicent's cheeks a bright scarlet. "Lady Roslain and Lady Lyselle are good, pious, and respectable women. To think they would ever debase themselves in such a way is preposterous.”

Otto shook his head, mouth set on a thin line.

“Do not be so innocent, Alicent, you cannot afford it any longer. I have taught you better than that.”

Alicent bristled at the accusation. “I do not see—”

“Goodness, piety, and respectability are qualities to be lauded, to be sure, but even the most virtuous of souls quiver when presented with the prospect of power. A king’s favor is a mighty thing to hold, an open door to wealth, power, and influence. Plenty of houses would have their daughters ruined and their names relegated to infamy as mistresses for the opportunity to steer the realm’s politics in their favor, daughter.” 

As would have happened to me, father, had your scheme failed?  she thought, her grip on her father’s elbow tightening as her other hand clenched and unclenched, hidden behind the heavy fabric of her dress. 

“Besides,” he continued, unconcerned about her growing uneasiness, “a lover means the potential for  bastards  and bastards that could prove a threat to Aegon’s claim to the throne.” 

“A threat to Aegon,” she replied in a dull monotone, “but not to Rhaenyra?”

Otto did not deign to answer. “You have affirmed that the Lady Swyft and the Lady Oakheart have been courteous, respectful, and mindful of their duties. Then why, your grace, do you seek to have them changed?”

“It is not the Lady Lyselle I wish to see replaced, only the Lady Roslain, but to dismiss one without the other would invite a conflict I care not for. Roslain Oakheart despises me, father.”

“Has she ever exposed her feelings overtly?”

“No,” Alicent admitted. “She disguises it well behind a practiced repertory of words and actions, but the impression remains. Lady Roslain makes me feel unsuitable and uncomfortable, and she knows it well. Her eyes do not lie.”

Her father quietened, humming as he stroked his graying beard. Alicent was familiar with that look, the levers and pulleys working behind his dark eyes, moving as he shifted his ambition around and inspected the board of cyvasse before him. By the way his head inclined just a fraction, Alicent knew what his answer would be before he said anything.

“Lady Roslain is a Tarly by birth, an Oakheart by marriage, and a granddaughter of Highgarden. Dismissing her without just cause would be an affront to her family, one we better avoid,” he said with stony conviction, leaving no space for argument.

Still, Alicent tried. 

“Surely we could find a viable excuse to make it happen?”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible, your grace.” Otto untangled their arms and moved to stand in front of her. She clenched her jaw, fighting the intrinsic urge to bow her head and shrink into herself. “Oakheart and Tarly are families too important to offend for such a trivial reason. You must endure it, daughter, while endeavoring to make an ally out of the Lady Roslain. Show her you are worthy of a crown, as is your son.”

The Queen of Westeros' answering smile was grim as a tomb.

So her days continued to begin with Lyselle and Roslain, with honey and bile. They helped her up and called in the rest of the maids, thus beginning a routine of preparation that lasted hours, one that Alicent endured with a stiff lip. She had tried to have it altered to suit her tastes once, but when she brought up the subject, still in the first uncertain months of her marriage, Lady Roslain had been ready to disabuse her of the notion.

“We are merely following what we learned by serving Queen Aemma, your grace," Lady Roslain said, gathering her hands in front of her and lowering her head, submissive. "She always said how a good appearance was quintessential to us, noble ladies, just as martial lessons are for our dear men. But if it pleases you, I will talk to the other ladies and have it adjusted in no time.”

“No,” Alicent said quickly, offering Roslain a tight-lipped smile. “It shall not be necessary. Thank you, Lady Oakheart.”

It was always like this: Aemma Arryn  this , Aemma Arryn  that . Alicent went to sleep with the ghost of the queen’s memory and woke up with it, too. It followed her through the halls, hidden in every shadow, in every alcove; it was in all conversations she had, the courtiers sighing and bemoaning Aemma's loss in the same breath as they tried to compliment Alicent.

Many meant to flatter her, to sleaze their way into her good graces by contrasting her to the dead queen. None of them succeeded, their falsehood blatant in their eager-to-please grins. In their attempts to win her favor, all they did was earn her disdain and further her feelings of ineptitude.

Aemma was cheerful and extroverted, whilst Alicent preferred the solace of her rooms and a good book. Aemma was effortlessly graceful and charming, with a presence that lit up every room she walked into; Alicent had to work not to blend into the background as an afterthought. Aemma was an Arryn and a Targaryen both, wind and fire, carrying all the weight and tradition of the Andal's purest nobility with the strength of a dragonlord of Old Valyria. 

Aemma was born to be a queen or the lady of a great house. Alicent was shoved into the position without much room for argument.

The ladies applied oils to Alicent's long hair and untangled it with wood combs until the brown waves cascaded down her back, smelling faintly of sandalwood. They braided and twisted them into an elegant updo, placing a red heart-shaped band decorated with pearls and golden thread atop her head, held in place by pins that pulled at Alicent's scalp. A white veil was attached to the back of the headdress, made of translucent gossamer.

The gown picked for her was in the same colors as her hat, with puffed-up sleeves embroidered with tear-shaped pearls and a low neckline, made of a heavy fabric with floral motifs. It was a beautiful dress meant for a queen.

 It was not meant for Alicent.

After she was appropriately bedecked in finery befitting her position, Alicent broke her fast alone: a modest serving of cheese, bread, and miscellany of jams and fruits accompanied by a jar of whatever juice was in season. Her ladies stood on the sidelines, straight-backed, silent statues lying in wait for their queen to finish so they may again move.

Once, she had tried inviting her ladies to sit with her at the table: would they not join her in the fine summer morn? Did they not want a slice of the warm buttery bread, or a taste of the sweet grapes just arrived for the Arbor?

“You are too kind, your grace," Lady Lyselle said with an embarrassed flush and an apologetic smile. "But we cannot.”

“It would not reflect well upon you, my queen,” Lady Roslain clarified with a small shake of her head, the words  it would be improper  left unspoken.

Their rejection stung, even more so because it was so different from Alicent's own experience as one of Rhaenyra's ladies. Throughout the meal, her brown eyes kept straying to the empty chair on her right where once, in a different chamber, in a bygone time, she had sat and broken her fast with the Princess 

Gods, how she missed Rhaenyra's easy disregard for the most stifling and obnoxious rules of court, the way she waved them away without fear of repercussion. Alicent had giggled and indulged her, finding it a charming, harmless quirk of her friend. 

Her heart clenched, a shadow falling over her eyes. Had she been less willing to indulge Rhaenyra in the smaller things, had she positioned herself more firmly in what was proper, what was virtuous, would it have made any difference in the latest events? Would Rhaenyra have thought twice before sneaking off with Daemon to King's Landing?

What had Rhaenyra been  thinking ? Did she not see how that would ruin her in front of the lords of the realm? How it would destroy her marriage prospects, the possibility of an alliance that could strengthen her position? No lord wanted his son wed to a woman of such known proclivities, not when what they sought was to brag about how their blood would seat the Iron Throne.

People already judged Alicent for not living up to their exacting standards, to the shadow of Aemma Arryn. They might have forgiven Rhaenyra, the King's Daughter, for her digressions — but Rhaenyra, the Princess of Dragonstone? They would tear her apart for the smallest offenses.

Alicent's father would make sure of that if nothing else.

After she had finished eating, what followed was a stop at the nursery. Alicent took Helaena in her arms and kissed her coiffed pale hair, rocking her daughter in her thin arms. Haelaena was such a quiet child, seldom making any fuss — so different from Aegon, who even at the age of three was a loud, demanding boy whose most hated word was  no .

“I want you to tell him  no ,” Alicent snapped one day at the maesters and nursemaids responsible for overseeing him. “Tell him no, leave him crying if need be. Aegon needs to learn that the world will not bend to his whims because he wishes it so."

“I understand, your grace.” The Maester shifted on his feet, eyes darting around the room, looking everywhere but Alicent. “But the Lord Hand has made specific instructions—”

Of course he had . Aegon was not Alicent's son to raise, but rather Otto's little prince. She didn't argue anymore; what was the point, when they would not listen to her and instead obey her father?

She was returning to her chambers when one of Viserys' pages intercepted them, bowing to the waist.

"Your majesty," he greeted. "The king wishes to see you, post haste. He is waiting in the royal solar." 

Alicent cocked her head, brows furrowing in thought. It was unusual for Viserys to call upon her in broad daylight, far more so than after night fell. They came together when an event demanded it or when there were important guests that needed to be entertained; on the rarer occasions they had supper together, she tried to get her husband interested in Helaena and Aegon, with little success. 

“Then let us not keep him waiting,” she said, lowering her chin a fraction. “Thank you, Martyn. You may return to your position now.” 

The boy left with a clumsy bow, his ears splotched pink, disappearing into the labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep. Alicent continued her progress, her retinue of ladies and servants following behind at a respectful distance. When they arrived at Viserys’ doors, they stayed behind as Ser Harrold announced her arrival.

“The Queen Alicent, your grace,” the Lord Commander said and, after a beat, moved aside, opening the passage for Alicent. “You may enter, my queen.”

Alicent thanked him in a whisper and crossed the threshold into the room, the door closing behind her. Viserys stood bent over his diorama of the  Anogrion , arranging the small sculptures on the tower of the great building at its core.

“Husband.” She dipped into a polite curtsy. “You called for me?”

“Ah, Alicent. Come.” Viserys grinned at her and beckoned her closer.

Taking her arm in his, he guided Alicent to the open balcony. The sun shone high in the sky, its light so blind it hurt to look at, bathing the Red Keep and King’s Landing in its golden glow. 

Viserys leaned against the balustrade, lilac eyes growing distant.

She said nothing, waiting for him to speak, to see what he wished of her.

“Did you have a chance to speak with Rhaenyra about… about recent events?” He said, interlacing his fingers and resting his chin upon them.

“I did. She told me that nothing untoward has happened.” Alicent placed her hands on the rail, staring down at the streets below. From so far above the city seemed so small, so insignificant, the people milling about like ants.

Viserys nodded. “It has not. I have spoken to them both about it, and she remains a maiden.”

Alicent tensed, throat constricting as a terrible thought slipped its way into her head: what if Rhaenyra had lied? What if she and Daemon had agreed on what story to tell beforehand, to fool them all? No, no, that couldn’t be. Rhaenyra was many things, but  deceitful  had never been one of them. Her friend had always been blunt and straightforward, never running from her wrongdoings. 

But Daemon was a different story. The prince was charming and seductive, never thinking of himself in the wrong. She could see Rhaenyra — who had always looked at Daemon as if he had hung the moon and all the stars in the sky — being swayed into keeping an illicit affair under wraps.

“And you believe them?” She inquired, swallowing down her doubts. 

“To my everlasting surprise, I do.” Viserys chuckled, the corner of his lips lifting into a melancholic smile. He inclined his head towards her, squinting his eyes. “Do you not?”

“I want to believe Rhaenyra. I have never known her to be deceptive, but your brother…” Alicent gathered her hands in front of her, picking at her nails. “Daemon’s involvement concerns me.”

“I can count on hand the number of times my brother has been truthful and regretful about something,” Viserys said with a gentleness that surprised Alicent, “and this was one of them. So yes, my dear, I trust they are being their most honest.” 

“Was it a lie then, when my father said she was spotted partaking in behaviors unbecoming of a maiden?” 

“It is possible. Who knows what your father's informant saw, what was relayed in the message, and what he chose to disclose?”

Alicent's blood surged to her cheeks and she pivoted towards Viserys, nostrils flaring, the ingrained urge to defend her father rising to her surface. 

“My father is no liar, your grace. As I have said to Rhaenyra, he has likely been misled—” 

“No, he is no liar,” Viserys agreed, “but he is a clever man who sought to use the opportunity to discredit my daughter. And he has done similar things before, my dear.”

The King's eyes bore heavily into hers and Alicent gulped, a shudder running down the spine.

“Your grace, I—”

“Don't say anything, Alicent. I'm not blaming you. You were just a girl following your father's orders, or was it your idea to come to me in my time of grief?” No, it had not been her idea. She had hated it, seeing through her father's order from the start. But what could she have said? What could have she done? Otto was her father, lord of their household; she was never taught to challenge him, only to obey and trust he knew what was for the best.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, vision blurry. “No, it was not.”

Viserys enveloped her hand with his own, giving it a tight squeeze. 

“I always knew, deep down, what Otto was aiming for by sending you to me, but I found comfort in your presence and I did not wish to let it go. I should have acknowledged your situation and your discomfort, and yet I did not. For that, I am sorry.”

His words were a wave crashing against her body, washing away the years of self-loathing, guilt, and uncertainty. Alicent covered her mouth with a hand, holding back a sob as her tears spilled over her eyelashes. How long had she wanted to hear that? How long had she wanted someone —  anyone  — to offer her a word of comfort, to understand her position? To see she had her lips and hands sewn shut by the threads her father wove, unable to speak? 

Viserys wrapped his hands on her shoulders and brought her closer; she leaned against his shoulder and wept, appreciating the gesture of comfort. He was her husband — then why in that moment did he feel more like a caring father than Otto ever had?

He held her there, under the bright light of the day, and when her tears had deserted her and the sun burned down the proof of their existence, Alicent stepped away from Viserys's arms, rubbing her nose with her sleeve.

“Forgive me, husband.” She sniffled, voice hoarse. “I'm afraid I have ruined your doublet.”

“Never you mind that. It will be as good as new once the laundresses get their hands on it. Now come inside; let us have a cup of tea. There is still something I wish to talk with you about.”

Alicent allowed him to lead her back inside and once he had taken a seat, she picked a silver tray resting on a wood counter. A porcelain teapot filled with lemongrass tea gone tepid and four teacups laid upon the fine silverware, all white as bone, painted with lotuses in deep blue color. The set had been a gift from a qartheen merchant, who had in turn commissioned it from a famous YiTish artisan.

She placed them on the small table between the chairs and poured the tea into a cup, offering it to Viserys. He took it with a soft thanks, and only then Alicent served herself. 

“So,” she started, taking a small sip, “What is it that you wish to talk with me?”

Viserys took a deep breath. “I have decided on Rhaenyra's husband.”

“Viserys! You promised Rhaenyra she would be allowed to choose!” Alicent pursed her lips, brows crinkling in disapproval. “I know the tour did not go as we envisioned, but still—”

“She has  already  agreed to the match, Alicent. In fact, I would say she's positively radiant.”

“She has?” She set the teacup on the saucer, held firmly between her hands. It was strange — Rhaenyra did not seem much inclined to marry anyone, always finding flaws to complain about, something to discredit her suitor. That she was radiant about it was baffling. “Well, who is the fortunate man, then?”

Her husband flinched, face twisting into a scowl, an omen of ill-tidings if there ever was one.

“After much deliberation — and trust me, my dear, this not a decision I make lightly — I have decided that it would be in the crown's best interest if Daemon and Rhaenyra were to wed.”

Alicent's saucer clattered on the floor, the impact removing a chip from the gold-rimmed border, but remaining otherwise intact.

“I beg your pardon?”

───※ ·♛· ※───

The people of the city were familiar with the feeling of fear.

It was ingrained in their bones, nurtured from cradle to grave, from the merchants littering the harbor and the markets to the scoundrels hiding in the shadows of Flea Bottom. The people of the city knew to hold their money close, out of sight; they knew to glance over their shoulders when venturing a narrow alley or an empty street, ever cautious of ambushes.

The violence no longer caused silence. A man falls dead on the ground, stabbed to death in a fight as an acrobat walks a tightrope, and the festival never stops. The bards keep singing, the people continue to talk and laugh, not even looking at the body lying on a puddle of blood on the floor. He is no one; he is nothing. If he was foolish to die in a silly fight, better not live anyway. 

The people of the city were familiar with the feeling of fear, but even more so with the anger born from  impunity . The City Watch was as inefficient as it was corrupt: what cared they for the little children gone missing from their homes in Flea Bottom, for a good man murdered when bringing back home a loaf of bread for his family?

The people of the city were full of hunger, rage, and grief. They desired blood on the walls, for justice to be delivered with an unforgiving, brutal hand — but no one would give it to them. 

And then the Rogue Prince took command of the City Watch, beat them into shape, and wrapped them in cloaks of gold.

Murderers lost their heads; rapists their cocks; thieves their hands. The most egregious criminals, the serial offenders, were tortured to death in the square as the crowds cheered and jeered and threw mud and shit at them. They only cared to take down the rotting, broken corpses when the smell grew too bad to ignore.

Justice, at last, had been served and from atop a throne of flesh and bone, the Rogue Prince became the Prince of the City.

Yet the fear never quite left; instead, it took another shape and found another layer, another form of violence. The City Watch ruled the streets through fear of punishment and retribution, a respect in blood earned and in blood drenched. The people of the city did not complain: what were some innocent lives lost in the face of unprecedented safety? 

So, when the Prince of the City demanded answers and unleashed his loyal watchmen to find them, the people bowed and obeyed. Secrets were of no use to the dead, and the promise of gold and vicious retribution hung thick in the filthy air. 

They found their answer soon, from one of the whores working in a pleasure house in the Street of Silk.

“A little street urchin called Lomas,” she said, leaning down and flashing the round shape of her tits at Harwin Strong, commander of the City Watch. “Mother worked here before a jealous patron sliced her gut open. Nasty thing it was, poor thing saw it all. Works for that lyseni wench now.”

“Lady Misery was accruing power in these parts, last I heard. Are you not afraid of falling out of her good graces?" Harwin asked, keeping his eyes trained on her face.

The woman spat on the ground, scowling. “Dragons take her for all I care. Always prancing about with that smug smile of hers because she was a  Prince's  whore. Hah! What's so special about her cunt?”

Harwin rather thought the woman would prance and boast far more than Mysaria were she to be the Rogue Prince's whore. But this information was valuable and dangerous. They had looked for Lady Misery earlier under Prince Daemon's behest, seeking her help, but the White Worm was nowhere to be found, as if swallowed by the earth.

He understood why now: someone had likely whispered to her of the Watch's search and she knew that it was only a matter of time before they found out it had been her — and that she had betrayed Prince Daemon's trust. 

“And where, my good woman, might one find Mysaria?” He asked, unlatching a small pouch filled with coins from his belt. 

At this, she smirked, eyes glinting with malice.

“Follow the rats, my lord. Wherever there are rats, there is rotten food, and wherever there is rotten food, there are white worms.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

The boy ran. 

He ran through the streets and alleys of Flea Bottom without glancing back, stumbling on the uneven, poorly maintained streets and the people walking about. He ran as though the Stranger itself followed on his heels, reaching out with its graying, decrepit hands. 

He could not go to one of Lady Mysaria's safehouses, not after everything she had done for him and the children. She had looked at them when no one else had, offered them a roof to sleep under, bread to sate their hunger, and the promise of coin, should they bring her information. 

Oh, how easy it was, to stay hidden in the shadows, in holes and crevices only children fit, crouching behind stalls where no one could see them. It would be a dull affair, had Lady Mysaria not made it into a competition, into a game between the children: the bigger the secret, the bigger the compensation; the more important the person it concerned, the more benefits they stood to gain. 

He could not betray her kindness, nor place the other children in danger.

(Sweet, innocent boy, who still believed in the good of people and the world; loyal, foolish boy, who did not know all people have their price, and that they had all been sold out by a little girl who Mysaria could not protect in exchange for a pouch of gold and the head of her cruel father.

In another world, in another lifetime, this little girl would meet the Stranger in so vile a way even Misery's stomach would roil in revulsion. Her ghost would follow the White Worm around, a reminder of how the innocence of children could never last in Flea Bottom)

The boy made a sharp turn in a narrow alley, the sudden force of the movement almost knocking him off-course. From the distance, he spotted a hole obscured by the shadow of a crooked house and launched himself into it. Fingers grazed his ankle, but his bony foot slipped from the grasp. 

He heard the City Watch screaming for him to come out, come out little rat, come out and we will not harm you or your little friends, but the boy had long since learned not to believe the gold cloaks. Their loyalty was to Lord Flea Bottom first and foremost, and then to whoever paid them most. Corruption was rampant and toed a thin line; self-interest was admitted only to a point.

The hole led to an underground gallery, one of many that dotted Flea Bottom. It was small and dark and damp, as dangerous as it was suffocating. In the rainy season, many children had taken the tunnels as an escape and drowned when the water levels rose quickly and without mercy. If he looked carefully, he might still find their bones amidst the mud and the shallow, filthy water.

But the weather was fine and dry lately and the boy had no fear of the rising waves. The Watch did not know where many of these tunnels led either, a veritable labyrinth with many entrances and exits. He needed only to pick a path they did not know and all would be well.

The boy made his way through the darkness, away from light, guiding himself by memories burned in his skull. After some time, the tunnel grew even smaller and the boy had to lie on the ground and crawl until he emerged in a hole hidden by piles and piles of trash on the outskirts of Flea Bottom. The place was almost devoid of life, save for a few stray souls rummaging through the trash for food.

Sighing in relief, he made his way back to the city, hoping to come back inside from another hole in the wall and disappear into the crowd.

A hooded figure stepped out from behind a heap of garbage, inserting itself in the boy's path. They collided and the child fell on his bottom; his head swerved up, a curse on the tip of his tongue, but the words turned to ash in his mouth.

Standing above him with a hand resting on a bejeweled sword, the Prince of the City grinned, triumphant. 

───※ ·♛· ※───

In the Eastern Barracks of the City Watch, where he could easily reach through the tunnels of the Red Keep, Daemon waited for the watchmen to bring him Mysaria. According to her trusted and terrified street rat, Daemon's former lover was hiding away in a safehouse, waiting for the right time to move and flee the city, if it came to that.

A part of him was still in disbelief that it was Mysaria who had relayed the information to Otto. To be seen with Rhaenyra was his intention then — but Mysaria must have known he walked away and drank himself into a stupor, leaving Rhaenyra with her virtue intact. It wasn't the passing around of information that infuriated him — though that did warm some nerves — but the distortion of it and the betrayal of someone who owed him everything.

Mysaria had been but a dancing girl doomed to obscurity or an early grave before she had caught his eye. It was his favor that gave her name any weight, that opened to her doors that were closed beforehand; it was her claim on being the Prince of the City's whore that earned her respect and authority through fear of his retribution. Mysaria was what his hands had shaped her into.

Now she bit the hand that had fed her like an unruly dog.

Commander Ennar threw the doors of the study open. Ser Harwin and Ser Luthor dragged Mysaria inside, bound and gagged, her white dress torn and feckled with dirt. They dumped her on the ground and bowed, their golden cloaks swishing as they turned and left, leaving Daemon behind with his former mistress.

Mysaria twisted on the floor and moved until she was on her knees, twin pools of black staring up at him, finding no mercy in his violet eyes, only anger.

Daemon rounded the desk, coming to tower over her. His hand curled around Dark Sister's hilt and his face twisted into a scowl as he pulled away her gag with a brutish tug.

“My prince,” Mysaria said without looking away. “If you had a need for me, you needed only call.”

“Spare me your lying tongue.” Daemon's nostrils flared as rage ignited a conflagration in his lungs. “Else I'll rid you of it myself.”

She lowered her head, a portrait of apologetic humility.  

“Forgive me, your highness, but if I have caused you any offense —”

Daemon did not allow her to finish, pulling out Dark Sister from its scabbard and pressing it against Mysaria's neck. 

“You are no one. You are nothing. You will not speak unless you are spoken to.” He pushed the sword deeper into the hollow of her throat. Blood blossomed around the metal, droplets running down her pale skin. “Tell me this, worm: when did you first betray me to Otto? Was it after I left you for war, or was it when you still warmed by bed and bandied my favor around for your own profit?”

Mysaria went absolutely still, pale and cold as a statue. She laid her long hands on her knees, long nails sinking into the thin fabric of her dress. With a measured movement, Mysaria raised her head. When she looked up, the black of her eyes had darkened with the depth of her resentment. 

“What does my truth matter to  you , Lord Flea Bottom, when you have already decided me a traitor and a liar?”

“Is that not what you are, Mysaria?” Daemon moved the sword away from her chest, tracing her collarbones until it rested on the curve of her shoulder. “Look around you. I made the City Watch into the power it is. I gave them their golden cloaks; I gave them their power. No longer am I their commander, but I'm still their prince. Their loyalty belongs to me, no matter who is King or Master of Laws, and they have not yet betrayed me — but you have.”

One swing, one wrong move, one wrong word, and the worm would find itself divested of its head. Mysaria knew it too by how she glanced at the valyrian steel blade and how she didn't dare move, calculating a way to escape. 

“Perhaps I would never have betrayed you, Daemon Targaryen, had you not betrayed  me  first,” she accused, her thick lyseni accent dripping venom. 

Daemon laughed. He had to admire her nerve: with death staring her in the eye, Mysaria did not cower from her fate. There was a reason he had kept her by his side all these years; she was no dragon, but in the dark, with her spirit, he could fool himself into believing she was someone else.

“Betrayed you? By giving you my favor and allowing you to wield it as a weapon to fell your enemies? By making you my lover and giving you gold and fabrics and jewels? By taking you away from a life of obscurity?”

“You speak as if you were my savior, as if you did all this out of the goodness of your heart.” Mysaria lips twisted in a sneer. “You paid for my services and my time because you wanted; I chose to follow you because it suited me — because you could offer me something others could not. I trusted you to keep the terms of our agreement, yet you pushed me into the heart of your familial squabbles. Was I supposed to grovel in thanks when your actions painted a target on my back?”

“I could have protected you. No harm would befall you, lest I allow it.” Mysaria chuckled, a derisive little giggle that kindled a black fury in his heart. “You doubt me?”

“You could not protect yourself, least of all me. I did what was best for myself, my prince. And I'm not ashamed.”

“You have no regrets for betraying me then?”

“None,” she confirmed, “except that I was caught.”

Daemon cocked his head, a mocking smirk highlighting the cruel lines of his face.

“I have had the most productive talk with my brother, after you ratted out me and Rhaenyra to Otto,” he said and watched as Mysaria's guard went up, her eyes narrowing to slits. “He has granted me my annulment and his daughter's hand in marriage.”

Misery's eyes widened, breath leaving her lungs in a rush as fear took all the space in her chest. For the first time since she'd been brought here, Mysaria looked afraid.

Daemon's smile grew larger, more feral. 

“I am to be Prince Consort of the Realm. You could have been our Mistress of Whispers, our shadowy hand, keeper of our secrets, had you kept your faith. You were nothing before me, and you will be nothing afterward.”

“ You —”

The Prince of the City swung his blade.

The White Worm was no more.  

───※ ·♛· ※───

Afterward, Ser Harwin Strong approached Prince Daemon as he made his way out of the barracks. They were alone in the small fortress' vestibule, surrounded by racks of swords. 

“Ah, Ser Harwin.” Daemon smiled as he greeted him. Now here was a man who he could groom to succeed Ennar or Luthor when time came for a change in command, before he ascended to become the Lord of Harrenhal. Harwin seemed to be made of the same cloth as his father, and Lyonel had always been a stalwart supporter of Viserys, one who never tried to overreach his position, unlike Otto. “Excellent work today.”

“My prince.” Harwin bowed and glanced over his shoulder, eyes darting around before reaching into one of his pockets and taking out a glass vial. “Pity it came to this with the White Worm.”

“Yes,” he said, taking the vial from Harwin's hand and slipping into the pocket of his coat. “But there's a lesson for us all in this, Strong: never trust a whore with your secrets, their language is coin and they'll sell you to the highest bidder.” Daemon grinned, placing a hand on his shoulder. “But not an honorable knight such as yourself right, Ser?”

“I am a man of the Watch, my prince,” Harwin answered swiftly, “my duty is to ensure peace in the city and keep the future of the realm safe.”

Daemon chuckled and slapped the man's shoulder. Harwin wouldn't make for a good Master of Laws, but perhaps he ought to make a good ally for Rhaenyra in the future.

“Of course it is. Go find yourself some whore to warm your bed, Ser. My treat. But try not to sire any bastards — we don't want little illegitimate strong children running around now, do we?”

───※ ·♛· ※───

Alicent hurried down the corridors of the Red Keep, mouth set in a determined line. She had finished hearing today's petitioners, but could hardly recall what they had said or asked. Her mind was elsewhere, concerned with other, more pressing and sensitive matters.

“Ser Criston,” Alicent said, approaching the knight posted on Rhaenyra's door. The man flinched at her voice as if startled and bent his head in greeting. “Is the princess inside? Is anyone with her?”

“I— yes, she is inside, your grace. And no, no visitors today.”

“Then she will have time for me.” And without waiting for an answer, Alicent barged into the chambers.

Rhaenyra sat on an upholstered chair with a book on her lap, tapping the tip of a writing quill to the parchment as the sun set behind her, painting the sky in lavenders and reds. The iris-purple gossamer overgown she wore seemed dusted with stars, shimmering as the angle of the light changed. A belt of embossed silver incrusted with oval moonstones highlighted the soft well of her breasts, matching the headdress and the brooch on her neck. Thin strands of silver covered her shoulders, a milky stone at the center of each. 

She looked like a goddess of dusk from across the Narrow Sea, far too beautiful for mortal lands. 

“Who—” the Princess' head snapped up, her mouth opening to protest the interruption. She closed her lips the moment her eyes met Alicent's, pale eyebrows dipping into a frown. “What is the meaning of this?”

“We need to talk,” she said, fisting her dress. 

Rhaenyra blinked, incredulous, setting down the quill. “And that required that you invaded my chambers, unannounced?”  

“My ladies, you are dismissed for now. I'll return to my room when I'm done talking with the princess. Ser Criston, close the door,” Alicent ordered, not allowing her gaze to stray from Rhaenyra's. 

When they were alone, the sound of their voices muffled out by the red masonry and the wood, Alicent hurried forward, reaching for Rhaenyra's hand. 

“Is he blackmailing you?” She asked in a fervent whisper. “Is Daemon forcing you to marry him?”

“Daemon — what?” The princess pulled her hands away, the dragon claw-shaped nailguards scratching at Alicent's skin. “Who did you get this… this… outrageous idea from?” Darkness fell over Rhaenyra's luminous beauty. “Has my father implied such?”

“No.” Alicent shook her head. “But your uncle has a history of being deceptive and merciless — he would do anything to get what he wanted.”

“Oh?” Rhaenyra gathered her hands on her lap, eyes of violet covered in an early frost. “And what, precisely, do you think Daemon wants?”

“What he has always wanted: glory, power, the Iron Throne —”

“Is this you talking, Alicent? Or is it your father?” Rhaenyra sneered, throwing her shoulders back and lifting her chin in the air.

“I have a mind of my own, Rhaenyra!” Alicent opened her arms, lower lip trembling as her bones rattled with a nervous, disquiet energy. “My mistrust of Daemon has naught to do with my father.”

Alicent gaped at the princess, lost for words. Her father spoke frequently and badly about Daemon, yes, dubbing him Maegor come again, but that did not mean she did not have her own opinion. No one had forced him to select her brother in the jousts, risking wounding or even killing him only to piss her father off. No one had forced him to then ask for her favor, a favor for a prince which, in public, Alicent could not deny just as Gwayne could not reject the fight.

Daemon insulted her house — and in more explicit detail, her father — with every breath he took in the presence of any Hightower and their relatives. He said the meanest, most callous thing because he was a prince and could get away with it. The genuine distaste for his arrogance and violence of being had no relation with her father at all.

“Yet he is all I hear in your words. You say my uncle seeks glory, but what man in these realms does not long to see his name uttered with admiration and to have songs written about them, to become a hero of legend? Why is my uncle to be shamed and chastised for it, when others are not?”

“It's not the same,” she said. “Daemon is a prince of the Realm and his pursuit for glory has larger implications than himself. The dignity and image of the Iron Throne are at stake in all his moves. Should he be allowed to act freely and besmirch it?”

“And how, pray tell, has he besmirched it?” Rhaenyra challenged. “By reforming the City Watch and making King's Landing safer for the people? Surely you do not think he's called the Prince of the City for nothing?”

“By going against Viserys' will and starting a war on the Stepstones, for instance!”

“A war against pirates who were crippling our ports and our trading routes!” Rhaenyra argued, rising from the chaise. With the silver headdress crowning her braided bun, she looked every inch the queen she would be. 

But Alicent was the queen now, even if most of the time she could not bring herself to believe it. 

“And war was the answer? The diplomatic solution had yet to be exhausted —”

“What diplomatic solution?” Rhaenyra scoffed. “The Free Cities are our allies as much as they're our commercial rivals; the Triarchy did not seek to weaken them, but  us . Pentos would not lend us their hand because it was not in their best interest.”

“My father said—”

“Your father will stand against my uncle on principle because they despise each other. Or is that not it?”

Truth sealed the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms shut with a dark thread. She had seen it enough, her father's attitude towards Prince Daemon. Even when their opinions should have aligned, their spite demanded they diverged, each trying to pull the King to opposite sides. Alicent remembered listening to his complaints and finding their disagreements silly.

“That may be true,” she admitted, “but that does not make your uncle right. It does not make his actions any less of an attempt at glory.”

“Daemon's victory at the Stepstones has secured our trade routes and pushed back the Triarchy. What is the harm in the pursuit of glory, if it ultimately benefits the crown?”

Alicent held her ground. 

“I  know  Daemon's victory benefitted the realm, Rhaenyra. I talked Viserys into sending Daemon aid myself, against my father's wishes —”

“Then why are you defending his position?” Rhaenyra demanded with an incredulous shake of her head. “Why are you trying to justify his actions, when practice has shown that Daemon and yourself were correct?” 

“Because Daemon is not doing it out of goodness or his heart! He's doing it to get closer to the throne, to the power he was denied and the position as heir —”

“If that is so, then why spare me in Dragonstone?” Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms.

Alicent blinked, taken aback. “Pardon?”

“You said all he wants is power and the Iron Throne, but when I went to Dragonstone to retrieve my brother's egg, Daemon did not raise his sword against me.” She took a step forward, invading Alicent's personal space. Instinctively, the queen stepped back. “He could have killed me right then. He did not. What reason did he have to spare me, if all he wanted was the Iron Throne?”

“I— It would not be an intelligent move. Killing you then would ensure he had no support in the realm. It would be murder, pure and simple, unsanctioned and unjustified. Your father would not stand for it.”

“And who would stop Daemon?” She cocked her head. “He had a dragon of his own. Promise to marry Laena, and he would have the Velaryons and Meleys. Promise to marry the daughter of a great lord, and he would have them at his side.” At this, Rhaenyra's stare turned cold and dark as obsidian. “Promise to marry you, and he would have the Hightowers.”

Alicent flinched as if slapped by the words. No, her father would never side with Daemon. Not even if the seven hells froze over and the world ended.

Because they hate each other , a tiny, traitorous voice whispered in her ear,  but if he did not and if Daemon proved an easier target than Viserys, would he not?

“I do not wish to fight,” she said, shoulders slumping, pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. “That is not what I came here for. But I'm concerned for you, Rhaenyra. I'm worried that Daemon has you wrapped in his finger, that he will have you at his beck and call. I'm afraid he means to use you as a way to control the throne and that you'll be trapped in this marriage with him, with no way out.” Alicent bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, shoulders shaking. “I'm afraid he will prove my father's worst fears correct and have us all put to the sword.”

Silence descended between them, a tense, taut cord that could snap at the smallest wrong move. Outside, the sun had almost disappeared beneath the horizon; the shadows lengthened, comfortable in the gloom of dusk. 

Alicent heard a soft pearl of laughter, a gentle, honey-sweet sound, full of startled incredulity. She opened her eyes, her hands falling beside her as her mouth fell open.

Laughing. Rhaenyra was  laughing , her whole body shaking with mirth. Alicent's nostrils dilated with indignation, anger spreading across her cheeks on a rush of crimson to match her gown.

“Does my concern  amuse  you?” She snapped, standing a little straighter, a little taller, nails digging into her palms

“They do amuse me,” Rhaenyra said, wiping out a tear with her finger, “because they're completely unfounded. You came here asking if Daemon was blackmailing me, even though you knew my father sanctioned our match. Very well, let me tell you: he is not blackmailing me or forcing my hand. The only person to hold my outing in the city against me and try to weaponize it was your father.”

“He was doing what he thought was right,” Alicent replied, but the words sounded hollow even to her. 

“If he wanted to do the right thing, your grace, he would have investigated the truth before slandering me to my father.”

She did not doubt Otto heard the information on Rhaenyra and thought he was doing the right thing by disclosing it to Viserys. As the hand of the king, it was his duty to tell the sovereign such rumors and make him aware of any potential scandal — and Daemon and Rhaenyra's night in King's Landing was perhaps the greatest scandal in a while. 

And yet, Alicent was not so blind as not to see how her father would think it a blessing, an opportunity to undermine Rhaenyra. Otto believed Aegon belonged on the Iron Throne as deeply as he believed he had a duty to Viserys and the Realm. The truth of Rhaenyra's predicament was inconsequential to him, so much so that he had not bothered to look more closely into it before reporting to the king. 

What was she supposed to do when her paragon of duty, honor, and honesty did not live up to his own standards? Should she just accept and pretend she did not see? 

“If you think you must marry Daemon to salvage your reputation, I will help you. My father might have misstepped, but I'm sure that we still have time to spread the truth —”

“Alicent.” Rhaenyra reached forward, wrapping her hands around Alicent's shoulders and squeezing them, the metal covering her nails digging into the fabric of her dress. “Nothing and no one is forcing me to marry Daemon, not even my father. I'm marrying him because I  want  to. I wanted to marry him when I was a young girl dreaming of the future, infatuated with my handsome, dashing uncle; I wanted to marry him when I was older and less innocent but saw in him the other half of my soul; I want to marry him now, after everything we've been through. I just… had never thought I could.” 

“Daemon doesn't deserve your love and devotion, Rhaenyra,” Alicent murmured, looking her in the eye. “You deserve better.”

“Maybe you think so.” A smile tugged at the corners of Rhaenyra's mouth. “But I do not. He is what I want, Alicent, and has always been. You know me. Have I ever been one to allow others to rule me and my actions as they see fit?”

“No.” Alicent snorted, remembering the many times she had witnessed Rhaenyra stand her ground and do things her way, even when told otherwise. “You always preferred to do the ruling instead.”

“Quite so.” Rhaenyra nodded with a smirk.“Then why would I allow Daemon to rule through me? I will be wearing a crown, not him. It will be my command he will heed, not the other way around. I know you do not trust Daemon, but do you trust me, Alicent?”

She took a deep breath and nodded. 

“I do. You have never given me a reason to doubt you, Rhaenyra, even if I—” Alicent gulped, swallowing the words she did not dare say.

Even if I gave you cause to doubt me . 

“Then trust that I'm choosing to marry Daemon of my own volition. Trust that I will not allow him to rule through me, even if one day he tries. Trust that I know my uncle would never harm me.” Rhaenyra shook Alicent lightly. “Trust, Alicent, that I will not be the kind of queen who will turn on her blood out of simple suspicion, nor will I allow anyone else to do so. If you do not trust Daemon, that is fine, but trust in  me  as I trust him to be my sword and shield and companion through the years, my most loyal knight and supporter.”

She wanted to trust Rhaenyra — no, that was not correct. Alicent trusted Rhaenyra. Her friend had never been one for lies and deception, much preferring to handle things in the open, head-on. She was fearless and passionate and willing to stand up for herself, as proud as the dragon she rode. Burying her father's words deep inside, along with her fears, Alicent could see that the kind of queen Rhaneyra could become — that she would become — was not one to be pushed over by anyone, least of all her own husband.

“I trust you and I believe in you,” Alicent said with a defeated sigh. “So I will try my best to see Daemon the same way you do, but I hope you understand it will take time.”

"Thank you.” Rhaenyra let go of Alicent's shoulders and grabbed her hands. “That is all I ask.”

“I know things between us have been strained, but I still consider you a dear friend, Rhaenyra. If you ever wish to talk about your engagement and marriage, you can come to me. I have walked this road before and I can help guide you.” 

“I will,” Rhaenyra gave her hand a light squeeze. “I promise you, I will.”

Alicent's answering grin was a shy, tremulous thing, full of hope and longing that bygone times would finally, at long last, return. 

───※ ·♛· ※───

Alicent didn’t leave immediately after they were discussing Rhaenyra’s engagement with Daemon. Instead, she had taken a seat on the chaise and asked Rhaenyra to sit with her, setting aside the essossi tomes on commerce and trade she had been studying before the queen barged into her room and interrupted her reading.

Rhaenyra indulged her despite a lingering annoyance at the accusations Alicent had thrown at Daemon. Did she truly believe she was a simpering, weak-willed fool who would allow her uncle to control her actions? Daemon might have convinced her to go to King’s Landing with ulterior motives, but that didn’t change the fact that Rhaenyra  chose  to go. She could have stayed in her rooms, never meeting him; she could have pushed him away in the brothel.

She didn’t, nor had she turned away when her father spoke of his proposal. Rhaenyra wanted Daemon in all his fiery, chaotic, untamable glory, and she would have him.

Alone in Rhaenyra’s rooms, Alicent confided that Viseyrs planned to announce Daemon’s annulment and their betrothal to the Small Council once an answer arrived from Runestone. He believed that with a proper offer of compensation, Lady Rhea would be quite willing to agree with the dissolution of her marriage. 

Rhaenyra thought that Rhea would be glad to be rid of Daemon regardless of compensation and that the only reason she had not asked for an annulment before was that one did not ask for an annulment from a Targaryen Prince. But the Royces were a strong house, with a sizable army, and it did not hurt to end things between the Iron Throne and Runestone amicably. 

Alicent was eager to help Rhaenyra plan the wedding, listing out the best seamstresses in the employ of the crown, as well as reliable merchants who always brought to the Red Keep a fine selection of materials and jewels from the Free Cities and beyond. 

“The invitees, too!” She said, ringing a bell to call in a maid and order some food and drinks. “The wedding of the Princess of Dragonstone has to be on par with the Golden Wedding, at the very least!”

Rhaenyra chuckled. “I think Lord Beesbury would have something to say about it.”

“And I would remind him that the Iron Throne is not so desperate for coin that it cannot afford to host a grand wedding. There must be a tourney too. I’m sure Daemon will want to crown you his Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“He has crowned me his Queen of Love and Beauty before, Alicent. You were right there beside me when he did.”

“You were his nine-year-old little niece back then, Rhaenyra, one who was badgering him for a crown, mind you. That is  quite  different from crowning his wife-to-be.”

For all the tension and mistrust seeded between them since Alicent’s wedding to her father, Rhaenyra would be blind not to see that the Queen was  trying  to mend the rift between them, shoving aside her doubts and insecurities in regards to Daemon.

Rhaenyra could tell Alicent was being genuine. The friend she knew was never one for conflict and confrontation to begin with, ever hesitant to assert herself. There was no point in fighting back when she would only be dismissed — a mindset that could work out in the long run for a daughter of a second house, but not for a queen who could influence the higher politics of the realm.

Alicent’s sincerity made Rhaenyra uncomfortable and conflicted: a part of her wanted to push the queen away, to keep the distance and animosity between them as it had been for the last few years. Her best friend had gone behind her back, betrayed her trust, and when confronted with the truth, offered the flimsiest apologies. Otto might have asked it of her, but that didn’t mean Alicent couldn’t have tried to  fail  at his desired goal or at least told Rhaenyra about it.

Nevertheless, what was done was done and could not be undone. Alicent was her father’s new wife, her stepmother, and the mother of her siblings. They were now bound not only by bonds of friendship but by blood. Rhaenyra knew enough of her family’s history to know that nothing good ever came out of family rifts: that way lay strife, hatred, and bloodshed. 

Perhaps, if Rhaenyra told herself enough that she was accepting Alicent’s sincerity for her own selfish reasons, she could be fooled into believing she didn’t truly want her best friend back.

They had dinner together, venison stew with roasted potatoes with rosemary, accompanied by Arbor wine. Afterward, Alicent left to check on Aegon and Helaena, promising to return on the morrow.

Alone once more, Rhaenyra picked up her book, hoping to finish her reading before calling upon her maids to help her change into her nightgown. As she flipped the pages, she wondered where in the world Daemon was. After their meeting under Balerion’s skull, she had expected him to come and visit her in the afternoon, perhaps so they could talk more about what was to come.

She would be lying if she said she wasn’t expecting  more  after last night, too. 

Time moved forward. Rhaenyra was almost falling asleep on the chaise with her book open when she heard a knock on the door. 

Her eyes snapped open and she jumped to her feet, the book slipping from her lap and falling on the ground with a thud. She waited for another knock, for Ser Criston to ask if he could come inside to tell her who required her attention at such an inauspicious hour, but his voice never came. 

She turned towards the secret door to her room, the entrance only someone else besides herself knew existed.

Her heartbeat picked up and a small, excited smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. She hurried towards the secret passage, leaning against the wall.  

“Daemon?” Rhaenyra called softly, lips almost touching the wood. 

“I have something for you, little dragon,” he said, his voice almost lost in the hissing wind. “Come meet me later.”

He knocked lower on the wood and Rhaenyra looked down, finding a piece of parchment at her feet. She picked it up and found Daemon had drawn a map there, a different path from the one that led to Balerion's remains. Where this one led, however, she could not tell. 

It seemed it was time for her to retire for the night.

She called Ser Criston and told him to tell her maids to come and attend to her, slipping the parchment on a crevice no one would think of looking. All the while they cared for her hair and skin and helped her slip out of her dress into a nightgown, Rhaenyra’s mind wandered to Daemon and what he could have for her. A gift, perhaps? He always had the best gifts.

Once the maids were gone, she didn’t waste time locking the door, fetching the parchment from its hiding place, and picking up her cloak and a pair of slippers. Careful not to make a sound, Rhaenyra opened the secret passage and disappeared into the dark.

Daemon’s instructions brought her not out of the Red Keep but deeper inside, though the twisting and turning of the tunnels made it difficult to ascertain where. All she could tell is that she was high, high above ground. In front of her lay the contours of a hidden door, illuminated by a gap in the wall.

Sighing, she knocked and waited.

Rhaenyra overhead the rustling of fabric and then the door opened, revealing Daemon’s smiling face and his bare chest. Blood rushed to her cheeks as her eyes gobbled in the lines of his muscles, the battle scars covering his shoulders, his chest; her hands itched to touch and learn the shape of them.

“You can do that later,” he said with a chuckle, as if reading her mind. Rhaenyra cleared her throat, lifting her nose.

He held a tapestry with his arm and beckoned her to come into the room. Once she stepped inside, she immediately recognized where she was.

“Great aunt Saera’s room?” She looked around, baffled. The room had not been used since Saera had left them all for Volantis, but in the short time he had been back, Daemon had made it his own: there was no more dust in the bed's burgundy canopy; his dark, muddy armor lay on a wood dummy on the corner and his books were sprawled across a table, where a lamp burned low.

“Indeed.” Daemon let the tapestry fall, hiding away the secret passage’s existence. “It has a good connection to the tunnels, easy to slip in and out of the keep. How did you think she and her friends went out so often, without anyone being any the wiser?”

That , Rhaenyra nodded in silent acknowledgment,  made a world of sense . 

“Come now.” He motioned towards the hearth, where two chairs lay with a small table between them. Atop it was a vial filled with a golden liquid and a teacup beside it. 

“What is this?” She asked, taking a seat.

“This —” He picked up the vial and uncorked it with his mouth, spitting the cork on the fire. “— is what we call moon tea.”

Daemon poured the whole content of the vial into the teacup, pushing it towards Rhaenyra.

“Moon tea,” she repeated, the name unfamiliar on her lips. “What is it for? I have never heard of it.”

“Your septas and tutors wouldn’t have told you about it. It’s something most whores know well, as do more adventurous noblewomen who do not wish to suffer the consequences of surrendering to their pleasures.” He sat on the chair right in front of her, crossing his legs. “Drink it, and we will not have to worry about you bearing a bastard.”

Staring at the golden liquid, Rhaenyra was reminded of the sands of Dorne, though she'd never ventured so far south; she thought of bloody oranges ripe for picking, of the smell of cinnamon wafting through the air; she thought of seafoam and the sun beating down her silver tresses, and of waves lapping at the hull of a ship as it glided through the water. Why the tea invoked such memories she did not know. It only did.

She brought the teacup to her lips and with one swift gulp, Rhaenyra smothered the possibility of a future before it could take root.

Chapter Text

chapter four. tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

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Court was by its very nature a place of chance and opportunity. Not an easy one, to be sure: it demanded a keen understanding of people and what they hid behind practiced smiles and measured courtesies, of their goals and ambitions and the truth their honeyed words didn't betray. It demanded, most of all, respect and a measure of caution for its ever-shifting nature.

The Red Keep was built of sturdy stone, yet within its halls the courtiers walked on quicksand. The favor of kings and the lords of the realm there gathered was as changeable as the desert sands, subject to the whims of fickle winds. Court was full of mirages; one misstep could lead to certain doom.

The more experienced courtiers knew that caution, discretion, and patience were essential to long-term success. The fools, the bold, and the prideful might outshine all in a blaze of glory, but the conflagration would soon dwindle to embers. In the end, they would be nothing more than ash on the wind. Death and dishonor were too high a price for simple carelessness.

Success also required careful observation and a little good fortune. Court demanded risks to be taken, sides be chosen, and often the most obvious, most secure options amounted to nothing.

Dead child after dead child, many lost faith that an heir would come from Queen Aemma Arryn's womb, their eyes and hopes shifting towards Prince Daemon Targaryen. They offered him attention and words of flattery, and though the Prince of the City saw through them, he wasn't so modest as not to welcome their praise. He basked in it, even. 

Some became his friends and eventually his staunch allies, drawn in by his charming smile, roguish good looks, and the generosity he afforded to his favorites. They dined and partied with him, gambling their fortunes away in Daemons's favored hells and pleasure houses. 

Many, however, scattered to the wind when Viserys named Rhaenyra heir over him, cutting ties before the weight of his tarnished reputation pulled them under. 

Days and nights followed. Arguments arose about who would become the new queen. The throne needed more spare heirs; a princess and a rogue were hardly enough to secure a dynasty. People turned toward the Velaryons and the Lady Laena.  She had it all: blood and gold and ships and dragons — and yet it was the Lady Alicent the king chose. 

By the time Prince Aegon was two and Princess Rhaenyra began her quest for a suitor, the court was full of cracks beneath a polished veneer of peace and tranquility. Two factions had begun to take form: one side leaned towards Queen Alicent, Prince Aegon, and the Lord Hand, whilst the other didn't take their vows to the King's chosen heir as lightly.

───※ ·♛· ※───

“How does your father fare, Lady Roslain?” Lady Ilenna Redwyne asked as they sat together in one of the Red Keep's many courtyards, waiting for the queen to rise from an afternoon rest. “I was so saddened to hear about that foul accident. What manner of barbarian engages in such dishonorable acts?”

“The dornish do, lady, as you well know,” Lady Roslain replied, stabbing the white handkerchief with a needle. Her fingers tightened around the wooden hoop. “They cannot match my father in battle, so they rely on poison, sabotage, and treachery.” 

“Cockroaches, the whole lot of them.” Ilenna nodded vigorously, caressing the back of her pet dog. “You kill them, poison the ground, yet they keep sprouting back — but let us not dwell on those pests. Tell me about your father, dear.”

“There isn't much to say. The poison has weakened him considerably. He lives, but the maesters don't know for how long.” Roslain set down the hoop on her lap, mind wandering to the mountains she called home. “Mama has called Donnie back from Goldengrove for the time being. She wishes to keep him close should the worst come.to pass.”

“Saylise was always an intelligent woman.” A smile tugged at the corners of Lady Redwyne's mouth. “That is exactly what a mother and a wife ought to do: protect her husband's and her children's legacies when they cannot. Am I correct to assume you will support little Donnie, too?”

“Was that ever in doubt? He is my younger brother.”

“I know, dear, but with how things are these days…” Ilenna shuddered as if the very thought proved too disgusting for her noble ears. “One never knows.”

“And how, pray to tell, would you say things  are  these days, Lady Redwyne?”

“Must I truly say it out loud, Lady Oakheart? Isn't it plain for all to see?”

Roslain smiled, thin-lipped and indulgent. “Perhaps to your experienced and trained eyes, it well is, my lady. I fear I, in my relative youth and inexperience, don't see things as clearly”

“'Tis fine.” She sighed, as languorous as her many years. “You will learn. You are your mother's daughter, after all.” Ilenna glanced over her shoulder before leaning in, a conspirational glimmer dancing in her eyes. “Viserys, gods bless him, is a good and generous soul, but blind where it concerns his kin. He gives Daemon too much freedom, too much leeway — why, just embracing him back after that whole stunt in the Stepstones as if nothing happened!”

“I would hardly call that a stunt,” Roslain said, tapping her finger on her tight. “An intervention in the Stepstones was long overdue, Lady Redwyne. Surely you see that as well?”

“An intervention  was  at work. The Lord Hand himself told my husband that there were talks with Pentos and Braavos to pressure the Triarchy and those pirates —”

“You don't negotiate with pirates and barbarians, Lady Ilenna. They'll just take your willingness to parlay as a weakness and attack again at the slightest whiff of instability. Just look at the Ironborn. You have to remove them by root and stems, salt the earth and plant their bones so nothing else grows.” Roslain's nostrils flared as her face twisted with a sneer. “Daemon did to that loathsome Crabfeeder what we ought to do with the dornish. Good riddance, I say.”

“That is not the point. Of course, we cannot be lenient with them —”

Roslain raised an eyebrow. “You were the one who spoke of diplomacy with barbaras, Lady Ilenna. Not I. I merely objected.”

Lady Redwyne sunk her nail into her dog. The little beast yelped and started whining, rubbing his head against her belly in an attempt to placate his mistress. She ignored him. 

“Regardless, lady Oakheart, my original point remains: should Prince Daemon's victory erase all that came before? Must we reward and forgive defiance and insubordination just because he was victorious?”

“Forgiving is not the same as forgetting. It's good that the brothers made their peace — terrible things happen when there's bad blood within a family.”

Ilenna scoffed, placing a hand over her mouth. “Yes, terrible things happen when there's bad blood within a family, his grace's choices do nothing to —” she halted midspeech, realizing the weight of the words she was about to say.

Roslain folded her hands over her lap and said nothing. With wide eyes the same shade of green as unripe apples, a solitary curl slipping from behind her ear, and her head cocked at just the right angle, she was the portrait of an attentive pupil. 

The Lady of the Arbor shifted on the seat, yet again glancing around, but the courtyard remained empty save for themselves and the occasional passerby. She leaned in, scuttling closer to Roslain.

“His choices, lady, do nothing to mend the rifts and only cause new ones. Naming Princess Rhaenyra as heir over Prince Daemon I can understand, but his insistence to maintain her as such after Prince Aegon's birth?” Ilenna shook her head. “I do not understand, Lady. I do not.”

“It's so very…  dornish  of him.” Roslain's pert nose tightened in disgust. “But have you considered, Lady Redwyne, that his grace is his father's son? Prince Baelon never remarried after the death of Princess Alyssa to honor her memory. Mayhaps crowning her daughter is how the king intends to honor his Queen Aemma.”

“Their situation is hardly comparable. Baelon had  sons  to succeed him, and there was hope that Lady Jocelyn might bear another living child. Never mind the existence of Vaegon. Baelon could afford not to remarry. Viserys, with a rogue and daughter, couldn't.” She sniffled haughtily, dabbing her nose with a handkerchief. “And he chose our dear Alicent to be his new queen — a lovely, pious, and honorable lady of our Reach with the strength of Oldtown behind her. A queen that has already given him a healthy son. Should the desire to honor a bygone love outweigh a duty to the traditions and laws of the land?”

“There's no greater authority, no higher law in this land than the will of the king. What he says goes. The Targaryens are the last dragonriders of Old Valyria, exceptional beyond description. To try and apply our ways to them and expect them to follow is folly.”

“So we ought to capitulate without voicing our complaints? We ought to bow our heads and blindly accept a ruling that goes against everything we love and care about?” Ilenna slammed her clammy hands on her tights, holding the handkerchief tightly. Her dog jumped off her lap, through with the her movements. 

“You overstep, Lady Ilenna.” Rosalin's voice dropped to the chill breeze of late spring sweeping through the Reach, covering the new blooms with frost. “I may mislike the King's decision and have concerns about the Princess's suitability as heir, but the King is our liege lord. Our houses have sworn oaths to live and die for the Targaryens, to answer when called, and to remain loyal. They, in turn, have pledged to protect the kingdom and us. Duty demands we follow him.”

“But where is the honor, Roslain, in following an unjust decree? Is it not the purview of heroes and true knights to stand against injustice, whatever it may be?”

Roslain chuckled, the corner of her mouth lifting in a derisive slant. “My, if that was so we would all be dead already. How many nobles have levied  unjust  decrees upon their subjects to satisfy their petty greed?”

“That is hardly the same! It's within our rights as their lieges and betters—”

“My point exactly.” Roslain cut in, not allowing Ilenna any time to finish her reasoning. “Our entire society and way of life is built upon oaths of allegiance, loyalty, and faith. Dishonoring those oaths so blatantly would make us no better than the barbarians ravaging our seas and lands.”

“So you will turn your back on your own, Lady Oakheart? On a lady of the Reach and her son? On the Lord Hand that has been so good to us?”

“Careful, my lady. Someone who holds you in less regard might misconstrue your words for treason.” Lady Ilenna quieted, green eyes burning like a raging wildfire, anger stampede in the corner of her eyes and the crinkles of her brow. “I wish from the bottom of my heart I could support Queen Alicent. It would bring me great joy to see a dragon from the Reach sit on the Iron Throne. But you must understand, dear lady, that my family has sworn an oath to Viserys and Rhaenyra both and unless the King changes his mind, I have no desire to make traitors and liars out of my predecessors.”

“And what family, pray to tell, do you mean, my lady? The Tarlys of your birth or the Oakhearts of your marriage?” Ilenna bit out. 

Roslain rose, batting the dust away from her skirt. She stared down the Lady of the Arbor, green eyes steadfast and resolute.

“Both of them. Much as I am enjoying our conversation, the hour grows late, the queen will soon rouse from her slumber, and I must attend to her. Good day to you, Lady Redwyne. Send my regards to your lord husband when you next confer with him, will you?”

───※ ·♛· ※───

No bloodline was ever truly secure with only one child to inherit it. 

With daughters, usurpation was ever a risk: be it greedy uncles or cousins, when a girlchild was left alone to inherit, unmoored and unprotected, the vultures soon descended, ready to feast on her exposed bones. Even if they were older when inheriting, many were left unprepared for the task ahead of them, the education they should have had set aside for the unfulfilled dream of a male son. 

Outside the sands of Dorne, with rare exceptions, daughters were instruments of their father's will. They existed for alliances, to bind families together through the sacred tie of kinship. Fools were the fathers who only saw them as broodmares. The smarter lords educated and raised their daughters well, forging them into fine weapons. They were steel blades coated with poisoned honey and wrapped in silk, ready to lure man into relying on them and giving them a subtle power most never realized was there. 

A single son was just as dangerous as a daughter, if for different reasons. Perhaps life would be kind and this one son would grow up strong and healthy, overcoming accidents and sickness and war until they married and sired a son of his own, adding another link in the chain. But life was heedless of the whims of men and did as it pleased, taking just as swiftly as it gave. Children died in the cradle or their childhood beds all the time. Plague and war spared no one — the men or the women, the children or the elders.

To have a single son was to be vulnerable to the ever-turning tides of fate. The stability of a ruling house demanded there be others, kept in the fringes, waiting to step up should the worse happen. In life and death, the fate of the second sons of the realm was bound to their brothers.

But such a position bred ambition and a desire to prove their worth to their house, for few men are content to just languish in their brother's shadow. It bred a need to stand apart, to be more than a name in the family tree that no one would bother to remember. 

It was a hunger that could not easily be satisfied, and Otto Hightower had starved for too long.

In the Hightower, as a boy, he had been raised as Hobert's second, with the same dedication towards duty and the honor of House Hightower, no less loved by his parents. Whenever Hobert misstepped, Otto was there to steady him if need be. They were close in age, thick as thieves, and no one cheered louder than Hobert when Otto was knighted on a bright spring morn. 

Good brothers did not envy each other; they did not wonder how life would be if their order of birth had been switched or if the Stranger took one of them. Good younger brothers did not curl their ink-stained fingers as the heir got praised for something they had barely spared any effort to complete and think, with the bite of an adder,  it should have been me.  

Otto Hightower was a good younger brother, a godsfearing follower of the seven, stalwart and devout. He lived by honor and duty, by the customs and laws of the land, and would die by them too. He was a good younger brother, and that had to be enough. 

It didn't stop his father from calling him to his study one day, shortly after Otto had secured a deal with the Iron Bank of Braavos for House Hightower. The Lord of Oldtown awaited his second son like a king on his applewood throne, his shoulders slumped from years of carrying the burden of a lord. He was a proud man, Otto's father, proud and devout, and had grown more since his wife's death. A seven-pointed star hung from his neck, gold against the gray of his attire. 

“There is a…  concern  growing amongst our retainers, son." The Lord of Oldtown laced his fingers, resting his chin on the back of his hands. "

"Hobert's reliance on you to fulfill his duties has not gone unnoticed. Some friends have brought to my attention whispers that frame your brother as a puppet, with you pulling his strings." 

Otto clenched his jaw, a vein popping out on his temple. “A preposterous rumor and nothing else, Father. Shall I lead an inquiry to discover from whence these whispers came?”

“Never you mind, Otto, I'm already taking the appropriate measures. As for the rumors —” His father leaned forward, a glint in his eyes. “— preposterous, perhaps, but not entirely unbiased, don't you agree?”

“All I have ever done is try to fulfill my duty to our house, Father, to bring it honor, glory, and fortune,” he replied, clenching his hands behind his back where his father couldn't see. 

“And you have done so admirably, but we cannot afford to have Hobert be seen as weak any longer. He must stand on his own, build his support, and earn his mettle before our bannerman. We both know that he never will with you around.”

Otto swallowed a lump of hot coal. “I'm to be exiled from my own home, then?”

"Don't think of it as an exile but as an  opportunity . A position has recently become vacant in King Jaehaerys's household, and I asked the former incumbent to refer you for it. His grace has graciously agreed.”

“Court?” Otto's eyebrows knitted together, revealing the creases of worry already deep in his forehead. “You are sending me to court?”

“Indeed.” The Lord of Oldtown nodded. “Your talent is wasted on some countryside keep, tending to the harvest and sheep. In King's Landing, however? I daresay, son, that this cunning mind of yours will be more valuable than any weapon.”

“Then I shall endeavor to rise to your expectations, Father.” He lowered his head, accepting the command. What was there to be said? What could there be said? To question his father was to taste the bitterness of ginger, soothed by the sweetness of honey. 

He wasn't angry then, per se: his father was right; Otto had a shining opportunity ahead of him if he played his cards right, but it stung all the same.

His Melice cried when he informed her he was to leave for King's Landing, alone for the time being. There would be a place for her there, he had said, soothing her worries. She just had to have a little patience and trust him. 

“I do, my love,” she had said with a sniffle, wiping away an errant tear. “And I know I should stay here in Oldtown, for the time being — at least until our wee one is born and strong enough to travel. I do hope it's sooner rather than later, though.” Melice sighed, placing a hand on her round belly. It would be a few months yet until the birth of, god's willing, a son of his own. “I just wish you were here to see them born.”

Otto covered her hand with his, a melancholic smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Father and Hobert will take good care of you, as will Sievelle. You will want for nothing while I’m gone, Mel.”

“Only your presence and your warmth, but who needs that?” She snorted and pulled her hand away, rubbing her red nose. “Do you promise to write every week, my love? You must keep me informed of everything going on in King’s Landing and of your progress. Leave nothing out!”

“Anything for you, Melice. Anything for you.”

So he departed days later, trying his hardest not to look back too often nor dwell on what he was leaving behind. The only way back was forward now.

King's Landing bore the stench of its sins. The smell of the open sewages came and went with the tide, intermingled with the faint smell of burning wood and seaspray. He missed Oldtown and its pale walls, the scent of year-blooming flowers filling the air. The city of the dragon kings had grown too much, too fast, and was all the messier for it.

Otto started off doing administrative work for Jaehaerys. He helped the king organize his files, cross-referenced them, and wrote various reports on different matters with what he thought was the best way to approach a problem. Otto was thorough, meticulous, and to the point — qualities Jaehaerys was quick to identify and foster. The Old King had always had an eye for talent, and Otto was no exception. 

In time, he became an indispensable part of Jaehaerys' household, enough that when Baelon passed, the Old King appointed Otto — who had already been handling many of his affairs — as Lord Hand.

He welcomed Melice and their children in King's Landing with a triumphant smile. Otto had become the second man of the Realm and held great power, which would only grow as the king aged. He could exert real influence, real  change . But therein was an issue: Jaehaerys mortality hung over him like a sword that would sooner or later fall. When he was gone Otto's position would be in jeopardy, and all he and Jaehaerys had built would be for naught.

That couldn't come to pass. Viserys needed to be prepared to rule, to follow in his grandfather's footsteps, and Otto was the only one who could ensure he was on the right path. Rhaenys was already a lost cause. 

He placed Melice in Aemma's household as one of the queen's ladies-in-waiting. He took his time talking to Viserys, showing him the documents, and guiding him when need be. The prince needed help — his father was gone and his grandfather's sharp intellect dulled and tired with age. He needed a steady hand, a figure to show him the ropes.

Viserys recognized his efforts when he ascended the throne, keeping Otto by his side. “My grandfather had an eye for talent, Otto, and he kept you as his Hand. Your advice was immeasurable not only to him but also to me in my time of need. I wish you to continue to serve the realm as my hand.” 

How could he deny such a heartfelt request? 

Under Melice's suggestion, Otto arranged for Alicent to be given a place in Princess Rhaenyra's household. Their friendship was blooming; it would do the Hightowers well if the princess saw them kindly. If they played their cards right, a marriage between the houses wasn't far-fetched either, perhaps even with their Gwayne. 

Everything was set; all players had been given their scripts and were acting accordingly — all, except for Prince Daemon Targaryen.

“You need to stop clashing with Prince Daemon like you are doing, Otto,” his wife chided him one night when they were alone in their chambers. She was brushing her long brown hair in front of the mirror. “It's not being productive.”

“Do you think I'm not trying?” He massaged his temples, leaning back on an armchair by the fire. “Because the gods know I'm, Mel. I have tried to be polite and guide him as I did Viserys, but Daemon refuses any and all advice. He shuns every attempt at conversation, preferring to undermine and find fault in all I do.”

“He thinks you have taken his father's place and he resents you for it,” Melice set down her hairbrush, turning on the stool to face him. “It seems to me he is a rebellious child still, one playing at being a man. A dangerous combination to have so close to power.”

“I'm aware, but he is the heir presumptive and the king's brother. Viserys believes he may yet learn to be a good ruler.”

“And what do you think, husband?”

“That Daemon is restless, chaotic, full of himself and his abilities. He has no regard for law, order, duty, tradition, or faith unless it suits him, and he would first plunge the realm into needless war rather than negotiate.”

“Agreed.” Melice nodded. “And if he cannot be cooperated or reasoned with, then for the good of the realm it's better he stays away. He won't be heir forever, and when he isn't anymore, better he doesn't disrupt the peace. You know what you have to do.”

Yes, Otto did — if the realm was to prosper and court work properly, Daemon's influence needed to be diminished. He had to lose credibility before the nobles and his brother so they were less willing to help him. It wasn't an honorable task, nor a fast one, but it needed doing and he wouldn't skirt his duty to the realm.

In the following years, his beloved wife died almost overnight after falling ill with a terrible fever. Melice was there, smiling by his side, and then she wasn't, leaving a hole in his heart in the shape of her. He would never again have her comforting presence at his side or feel warmth as they slept through the night.

His brother urged him to remarry, but Otto had children enough and no wish to give them a new mother. 

Queen Aemma's womb continued to bear rotten fruits, children born dead or that died too soon. Daemon remained heir, a thorn in Otto and the council's side.

Then Aemma waged one last battle to bring a son into this world, a battle they thought her victorious until came morn and only the Stranger lay standing. Daemon sunk into his cups and drunk on his grief, spoke the words that led to his disinheritance and doom. Otto didn't need to push him down the abyss — Daemon did so himself in the brothel. Otto had only relayed the fact to Viserys.

Rhaenyra became heir, a temporary but necessary measure to keep Daemon away from the crown if the worst came to pass. Better to have an inexperienced but guidable young queen rather than an uncontrollable, violent rogue of a king. It wouldn't last for long, Otto reckoned, as Viserys would soon remarry and sire more children.

For years Otto had kept his wife's dresses clean, perfumed, and dusted, unwilling to part with the belongings she loved most. Now he passed them on to Alicent, confident that wherever she was, Melice would wholeheartedly approve of his decision. 

Aegon was born. Everything he had ever worked for, the realm he had envisioned, was in sight. 

Except  —

Except. 

There was no Dragonstone for Aegon, no crown secured in his future. In a baffling display of guilt, Viserys had refused to change Rhaenyra as his successor. He had even given the girl free rein to choose her husband, as if a dynastic marriage was a matter of simple want and not of alliance.

His king didn't see that keeping Rhaenyra as heir was to invite war and instability to the realm. It set a dangerous precedent, one in direct conflict with the Great Council's ruling. The lords would never stand for such blatant disregard. 

Now Rhaenyra ditched the tour the King and the Queen had painstakingly prepared for her, wasting the crown's funds for naught. To make matters worse, Daemon returned victorious from his petty war, surrounded by glory. 

He was no fool. Otto had lived in court for too long, seen too much not to notice when the winds were shifting. He had to be careful where he stepped after his failure in exposing Daemon and Rhaenyra's debauchery. If he wanted things to fall back into place, he would need help, which brought him to Tyland Lannister. 

“Do you think the King will grant his brother a seat in the council?” Tyland asked as they passed through an empty gallery. “The Prince hasn't asked for it, not out loud, but it seems clear there should be a boon for his service, no matter if unsanctioned.”

“He might,” Otto replied somberly, “though this doesn't concern me. Daemon will flounder, just as he did whenever Viserys tried to give him any true responsibility. I fear something else.”

Tyland raised a curious eyebrow. “What then?”

“His relationship with the princess. They… are close.”

“How close? Jason and I are close with our lady aunt too. Lovely woman, she was, and would become our fiercest defender if need be.” Lannister smiled when a lady of court rushed past them with the quickest of courtesies.

“Closer,” Otto muttered. “Enough that is a cause for concern. Things will become much harder if the Princess falls into Daemon's grasp.”

“He's wed, however,” Tyland's voice dropped to a whisper. “Viserys has never granted the Prince an annulment, no matter how many times he asked. You think this is about to change?”

A slow, almost imperceptible nod. “That is my fear. He has never had such a clear chance before, no more goodwill and opportunity. He would be a fool not to seize it.”

“And unfortunately, Lord Flea Bottom is not a fool.”

Otto let out a dark, low laugh. “Life would be much easier if he was, my friend.”

“Has he made the request yet?” 

“No. Mellos has kept abreast of Daemon's and the King's correspondence. Daemon hasn't sent any letters since returning, though he has received some. The King's correspondence to the Vale was limited to a letter I helped him draft for Lady Arryn and another for Gulltown.”

“Nothing by Princess Rhaenyra?”

“Nothing that we need to concern ourselves with.” Otto clenched his hands. They turned into a shadowed hall with huge latticed windows blocking out the sun, projecting shapes of dragons onto the stone. “But we need to move fast if we wish to avoid such an outcome. I will be sending a letter to my brother shortly, asking him to treat with the High Septon. House Lannister's support would be invaluable. 

Tyland nodded his agreement. “I'll write to my brother. But my lord hand, I hope you understand that this isn't a simple task you ask of us. I shudder to think of what would happen if the King caught wind of it.”

“Worry not, Lord Tyalnd,” Otto said, batting away his growing irritation. “It will be worth it, I promise you.”

Tyland watched him for a moment, green eyes narrowed. “I have a question, if I may — you mentioned the Prince, the King, and the Prince's correspondence, but what about the Queen?”

Otto went wholly still. “What about her?”

“Well, her relationship with the princess has reportedly improved as of late. I just wonder if—”

“Alicent is my daughter,” he said firmly. “She might be hesitant in her role for now, but doubt it not, Lord Tyland— she is incapable of betraying her kin. I and her mother have raised her to do her duty by her house and family, and she has learned it well.”

“I never meant to imply otherwise, my lord.” Tyland bowed slightly. “As usual, it was delightful to deal with you, Lord Hand.”

“Likewise, Lord Tyland,” he replied, not really meaning it. “Likewise.”

───※ ·♛· ※───

“ Mandia, ” Rhaenyra said to the young boy in front of her. They were in her parlor, surrounded by open storybooks of children's tales, plates filled with biscuits and lemon cakes half-eaten and forgotten, and a myriad of wooden toys. 

“Mania!” Aegon repeated with a high-pitched squeal, clapping his hands.

“No, Aegon.” She shook her head and leaned down. “Listen closely. Man -  Dia . Mandia. Now try again.”

He frowned, lips puckering as he concentrated, mulling over her words. “Mandjia. Mandjia!”

On the chaise, Alicent laughed, bouncing Helaena on her knee. Enveloped in a red frock, Rhaenyra's baby sister watched everything with a thumb in her mouth, quiet as a mouse. 

“He is still struggling with some of his letters, I'm afraid. Have a little patience, Rhaenyra,” Alicent said, placing a kiss on her daughter's forehead. 

“Am not!” Aegon protested, rising to his feet with flaming cheeks and a pout. “I don't shtruggle,  muna !”

“Yes you do Aegon, now sit down,” Alicent said, shaking her head. Her son obeyed with a grumble, turning away from the books and papers and grabbing a dragon figurine. His mother exhaled in defeat .“Does he truly need to start learning so soon? Is it not better to wait a few years?”

“Absolutely not.”Rhaenyra placed a hand over her mouth, hiding a giggle. “Part of the reason my high Valyrian developed so early and so well is that Uncle Daemon, father, and Grandfather Baelon insisted on talking and teaching me about it from pretty much as early as I can recall. I grew up with the language as I did with the common tongue. The earlier he starts, the faster he'll become fluent.”

Alicent looked away, dipping her chin. “Viserys hasn’t ever spoken to Aegon or Helaena in high valyrian.”

Rhaenyra bit her lip, realizing she’d steered the conversation to a thorny path. An awkward silence descended, interrupted only by Aegon’s rambling as he played with the wooden dragon. 

“Do you… Do you want me to talk to my father?” Rhaenyra offered, tilting her head. She and Alicent had been trying to patch up their broken relationship in the months following her Uncle’s return to court and their long conversation. Some topics were still too raw for them to chat openly about but slowly, surely, they’d get there. Rhaenyra had even begun to spend more time with her siblings, which she had avoided before.

“It’s kind of you to offer.” It didn’t go unnoticed how Alicent’s hands tightened around her gown. “But don't concern yourself with that. Your father is a busy man. It's natural that he doesn't have as much time for the children.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Very. Don't worry about it, Rhaenyra. It's quite alright.”

Rhaenyra narrowed her eyes, seeing right through Alicent's attempt to minimize her discontent. Her friend clearly didn't think Viserys's attitude was as natural as she tried to pretend it was. She was no mother — and wouldn't be for a few years yet if she had her way — but she had little doubt it  hurt  to see a father ignore his children.

Two dragons warred inside of her: one looked at her brother and Alicent and roared with petty satisfaction, delighted at the difference between how her father had been with her as a child and how he was with Alicent's children. The other was kinder, less spiteful, sympathizing with Aegon, as Rhaenyra herself knew how it felt to be ignored.

Only one of them could win and she knew which should. She was trying to mend bridges, not burn them down further, and they already stood on shaky ground as it was.

“It can't be helped then.” Rhaenyra stood, placing her hands on her hips. “I'll have to speak and teach them high valyrian myself then.”

“What?” Alicent's head snapped up, her eyes wide. “Rhaenyra, no. Your schedule is already busy enough as is — there's no need to add more to it.”

“But I  want  to,” she said with a soft chuckle. “High Valyrian is one of the cornerstones of my relationship with Daemon. Talking and learning it with him helped forge our bond. It gave us a sense of shared ancestry. One more bridge of connection, besides blood. Perhaps this too will help me bond with my siblings and them with each other in time.”

“Yes, your bond with Daemon.” Alicent snorted, raising an eyebrow, but something of amusement slipped back into her brown eyes. “What could possibly go wrong if the same happened to my children, I wonder?”

“Now you're just being nitpicky.” Rhaenyra crossed her arms, face twisting into a scowl. 

“You did bring that one on yourself, you'll have to admit.”

“I'll admit to nothing,” she retorted, lifting her nose in the air. “And would it be so terrible if they developed something like me and Daemon have?” 

“It's not that it would be terrible.” Alicent pinched the bridge of her nose. “I just… Whenever I thought of myself as a mother, I never imagined my children married to each other. I know it's a real possibility and that as Targaryens that is only proper, alas… I'm still not entirely comfortable with it.”

“Then marry them to my children.” Rhaenyra took a seat beside Alicent on the chaise. She extended her hands, offering to take Helaena off her arms. The queen muttered her thanks and passed the young girl along. “I will have them in time, so they wouldn't be so far apart in age. We could raise them to be close, teaching them to care and respect each other.”

“That does sound lovely,” Alicent conceded with a soft chuckle. “But what if they grow up and after all don't want to go through with it?” 

“We would cross that bridge if we ever got there, but —” Rhaenyra raised her head, looking to the ceiling and far, far into the future. “— I would like them to have a say in the matter, as I did.” 

Well, it hadn't been much of a choice in the end, but Rhaenyra would make no argument against it. She might have danced around it for a while, playing a little hard to get just to rile Daemon up, but she would have chosen him regardless had he been an option from the start. 

Still, for all his faults her father  had  deigned to afford her a choice of her own. Rhaenyra didn't know if he would stand by her decision had she elected her husband then, but she preferred to think he would. And if he didn't, she would take it as a lesson to the future to do better as a mother and queen. 

“You know it might not be possible,” Alicent said quietly, a shadow falling over her eyes. “The needs of the realms might impose themselves over our children's personal needs. Our duty cannot be forsworn.”

“I know.” Rhaenyra touched the tip of Helaena's button nose. “But even within a caged world, there could yet be some semblance of choice.”

Alicent glanced at her, the smile blooming on her lips chasing away the shadows. Reflected in her brown eyes, Rhaenyra saw hope for a kinder future for her children than she'd ever had.

There was a knock on the door and both turned towards it. Rhaenyra shifted Helaena around, securing her on her lap.

“Come in,” she said and Ser Criston swept inside, head bowed low, jaw clenched so tight he might as well break his teeth.

“Your grace. Your Highness,” he greeted. “Prince Daemon wishes for an audience, my princess.”

“Does he now?” Rhaenyra beamed, all worries melting away as a candle lit within her chest, filling the chamber of her heart with warmth. “Tell him to come inside.”

Criston nodded and moved away, opening up the passage. Daemon strolled inside with his hands on the pockets of his black pants, lips twisted in a lopsided smile. He wore a black doublet embroidered with red, with the upper two silver buttons opened to reveal a white linen shirt beneath.

“Queen Alicent, Princess.” Daemon leaned down in a mock salute. Alicent's face tightened as her smile strained. “How lovely you two look on this fine day.”

“Good to see you too, Prince Daemon,” Alicent said and rose. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“I seek an audience with the Princess,” he replied, straightening his posture and cocking his head. “In private, preferably.”

Rhaenyra glanced between them, watching for Alicent's reaction. The Queen's expression remained tight as her mouth settled into a disapproving line, but she nodded regardless. 

“Of course. I'll leave you to it then.” She leaned down to take Helaena from Rhaenyra's. “Be careful with the timing, alright? We still can't afford to have rumors about you both running around,” Alicent muttered under her breath.

Rhaenyra chuckled, amused — oh, if only Alicent knew what she and Daemon had done in the dark, with only shadows for witnesses.

“Worry not, Alicent. I've learned my lesson.”

Alicent hesitated but nodded in acknowledgment. She called for her ladies and the children's nursemaids, who came rushing in to take them in their arms and away to the nursery. The Queen left shortly after them, but not without casting Daemon a scathing look that screamed  behave . 

His smirk only widened in answer as he focused his gaze on Rhaenyra.

They stayed like that, purple locked with purple, until the door closed behind them and they were left alone in the parlor.

“Fraternizing with the enemy, are we?” Daemon drawled in high valyrian, strolling towards Rhaenyra.

She clicked her tongue, shaking her head with false disapproval. “They are not my enemies.”

“The Lord Hand seems to think otherwise.”

“The Lord Hand, as we both know, is ill-informed.” Rhaenyra moved closer to the edge of the chaise, tilting her head. “Besides, there's no harm in keeping an amicable relationship with Alicent and my siblings. I miss having her around.”

“We've yet to kill the snake. Whilst it lives, it will continue to distill its foul malice against us.” He stopped right in front of her and placed a thumb beneath her chin, nudging Rhaenyra's head up. “Keep her close, if you wish, but don't let your guard down. She may betray us yet.”

“She hasn't so far,” Rhaenyra pointed out. Her body arched into his touch, his hand sliding to cup her cheek. “And she has had both the means and the opportunity.” 

“She's a Hightower and Otto's daughter.” Daemon leaned down, his lips coming to hover just above hers, their noses touching. “Give her reason, and she'll bare her fangs at you.”

“So we must endeavor to not give her one. And don't worry. I know better now.” Rhaenyra placed her hand on Daemon's cheek, stroking the curve of cheekbones. “What do you truly want, coming here in the middle of the day?”

He turned his head and placed a kiss on her open palm. “Can an uncle not visit his favorite niece?”

She opened her mouth to retort she was his  only  niece but held her tongue. That was no longer true. 

“He can of course,” Rhaenyra whispered, “though she would prefer if he came after the sun was down and the shadows were out.”

“Ah, but 'tis such a fine morning outside.” Daemon stood and smirked. His silvery hair was short and tousled, giving him a rather boyish charm. “Perfect from an outing on our dragons. It's been too long since we've raced to and fro Dragonstone. Syrax and Caraxes will feel abandoned.”

Rhaenyra laughed, exasperated. “Daemon, we've done that not four days ago.”

“Too long, as I said.” He offered his hand. Rhaenyra shook her head but took it, allowing him to help her rise. “And seeing Helaena on your lap has brought back memories of how I used to bounce you on my knee. You'd squeal in delight then.”

“I'm no longer a child… But I can think of a few things I could do on your lap that involve bouncing, on some secluded rock where no one can see us,” Rhaenyra purred, batting her eyelashes. In broad daylight they played their own game of cat and mouse, words chasing words. Close, but not crossing any lines into scandal, at least not in the Red Keeps – too many eyes and too many loose tongues.

“And I have some ideas of my own too, which will demand many, many hours of practice for you to master. Shall I send word ahead for the dragonkeepers to saddle our dragons then?”

“Do it. We’ll need some time to get changed into our riding attire. I’ll ask Elinda to sort through my letters too. I had planned on answering them this afternoon.”

Daemon took hold of her hand, bringing it to his lips and laying a long kiss on its back. Rhaenyra didn’t hold back the smile that broke across her face, her heart soaring in joy. Soon there would be no need to try and hide the more obvious parts of their courting. They’d be able to climb on their dragons and travel from King’s Landing to Oldtown and from Oldtown to the Wall if they desired. The sky was the limit and even that they’d come to rule.

What happened in the darkness would remain a secret, his and hers, for life and to the grave.

They stood like that for a while, caught in the spell of each other’s eyes, two threads of fate in the tapestry that was history, intertwined for eternity. 

The doors burst open and Rhaenyra yelped, pulling her hand away and bringing it close to her chest. Her brows dipped into a frown and she readied to admonish whoever had dared disturb her without warning, but the words turned to ash in her mouth, blood draining from her cheeks. Noticing the sudden shift in her expression, Daemon turned on his heels, placing his hands on Dark Sister’s hilt.

White cloak and shining armor awaited at the threshold in the person of Steffon Darklyn. The kingsguard breath was out of joint, his chest rising and falling faster than normal; a bead of sweat slid down the side of his face. Wherever he had come from, he came running.

Ser Criston strode inside right behind him, expression concerned as he glanced between the knight and Daemon and Rhaenyra, who kept an unassuming distance between her and her intended.

“My princess, my prince. I’m sorry to disturb you without warning, but I come with an urgent message from the King,” he said and approached them both, lowering his head as he extended them a small, rolled-up scroll. “He urges you both to come to the council chambers post haste. An urgent meeting has been called.” 

She nodded, sharing a look with Daemon. He shook his head ever so slightly. So he also didn’t know what this was about then.

“I understand. Thank you for your diligence, Ser Steffon. Ser Criston, why don’t you fetch some water for him in the meanwhile?” Her sworn shield didn't seem happy with the orders, but ultimately bowed and did as he was told.

Rhaenyra unrolled the scroll, heart hammering. By her side, her betrothed leaned closer so he too could read the message.

There, in Alicent’s elegant letters, were written three simple words:

It has arrived.

───※ ·♛· ※───

The council's chamber wasn't yet full when Daemon and Rhaenyra entered it. Her father was already at the head of his desk, drumming his fingers on the table. Lord Beesbury sat at his usual place and nodded them his greeting, as did Lord Strong. Rhaenyra took a seat to the left of her father and Daemon the one immediately beside her, placing their twin black spheres in their holding places. 

Ser Steffon and Ser Criston, both of whom had followed them here, joined the Lord Commander at a certain distance. 

Lord Tyland came in next, soon followed by Mellos and his apprentice, Orwyle, who had started to attend the meetings as a guest. Otto came in not much after and Rhaenyra wondered if the three had been together before, concocting some new way to see her ousted from her position.

The atmosphere in the Small Council’s chamber was tense, the nervous, anxious energy so thick in the air it was almost palpable. Some – like Lord Lyonel and Lord Beesbury – bore looks of uncertainty and concern, unsure of what could have happened for the King to call a meeting as suddenly as he did. The fear of war against the Velaryon and the Free Cities was reflected in their eyes.

Mellos tried his best to hide his curiosity and dissatisfaction. He was in charge of the ravens and the information coming to and from the Red Keep. Whatever was the problem, it had slipped his notice and found its way to Viserys before he was even aware it existed. 

Otto’s whole countenance was taut as a fully drawn bowstring, his mouth set into a grim line. That father had called this meeting without consulting him before didn't invite confidence.

Good , Rhaenyra thought, clenching and unclenching her hands beneath the tabletop, where no one could see. Rhaenyra was anxious too: not because she didn't know what was to come, but because she did. So did Daemon. They stood on the verge of a battle, one whose result would have far-reaching consequences.

She had done what she could to prepare but now, faced with it, Rhaenyra wondered if she couldn't have done even more. 

 “I’m sure you must be wondering why I called you here with such haste,” Viserys started, lacing his fingers and leaning back on his seat. “Alas, I have just received some urgent news, news that this council must be aware of.”

“Before you share it with us, your grace,” Otto chimed in, calling attention to him. “If it’s a matter of such importance, wouldn't it be better if Queen Alicent joined us?”

“I have already spoken to the queen before coming here, as she was the one to bring me this news, but she has declined to join.” 

“Indeed?” Otto’s tilted his head, but he dared not give voice to the thoughts swirling in his mind. “It cannot be helped, then. Perhaps she was feeling faint - this heat gets to us all, after all. Please, your majesty, let us continue. Has something happened with the Free Cities?”

“The Triarchy is quiet for now, humbled after their defeat in the Stepstones. Dahar has cost them more money than they’ll care to admit.” Daemon smirked, placing his elbow on the table and leaning against his hand. “They’ll hide in their burrows and lick at their wounds for awhile, else they’ll face Caraxes’s flames again.”

“With respect, your highness, the Triarchy isn’t our greatest concern now, thanks to your victory,” Lyonel said and turned towards Viserys. “Have the Velaryons answered our missives, or perhaps the Braavosi?”

“Lord Corlys and my cousin continue to answer with many words and say nothing at all.” Viserys puffed up with annoyance. “But that’s not what this is about. This is a matter closer to home and that pertains to the future of the realm. Ser Harrold, give Prince Daemon the scroll. I think he would like to do the honors himself, don't you, brother?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Daemon grinned and rose, mischief dancing in his violet gaze. If the room was only anxious before, now it was nervous, all sideway glances, unquiet feet, and bitten lips. 

Ser Harrold bowed and moved as commanded. He removed the rolled-up parchment from above a side table and offered it to the prince. 

Daemon took his time unrolling the scroll, savoring every moment, every small movement the gathered councilmen made. 

“By the will of Viserys of House Targaryen, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Protector of the Realm, the marriage between Prince Daemon of House Targaryen and the Lady Rhea of House Royce is hereby annulled. From this point forward their vows shall be void and all involved parties shall return to the state they were in before the marriage took place. Both the Prince Daemon of House Targaryen and the Lady Rhea of House Royce are free to contract new marriages should they desire and any children born from them in new matrimony shall be considered legitimate.”

Gasps echoed across the room, whispers of “what”, “unbelievable” and “impossible”.

Rhaenyra witnessed the moment realization descended upon Otto. His jaw clenched, fury as white as his fisted hands igniting in his brown eyes. He searched for Viserys's eyes but found them trained on Daemon. Daemon, for his part, met Otto's rage with a proud grim. At last, he turned to Rhaenyra, who met his gaze with a smile that betrayed nothing but condescending pity.

“Your majesty, I beg you to reconsider,” Otto pleaded, standing and turning Viserys. “Relations with the Vale of Arryn have been fraught since the death of Queen Aemma. To break faith with one of its principal houses and one of Lady Jeyne's most stalwart allies will only further damage the already delicate understanding we have.”

“My, Otto. One would think you care for the bronze bitch.” Daemon sat back on his chair, tucking his annulment in the inner pocket of his black coat, close to his heart. “You need not worry about her or the Vale, though. She was as eager to get rid of me as I was of her.” 

“I'm sorry, my prince, but this stretches belief,” Mellos said, getting ahold of his composure. His brows were knitted together, pensive. “I'm aware that your relationship was… less than ideal, but her ladyship had never before shown an interest in an annulment.”

“Her own mortality started to weigh heavily on her shoulders, I'm sure,” Daemon said, crossing his legs. “Even bronze will turn to rust in due time. Besides, the Vale is full of deep ravines and treacherous gorges — with her fondness for hunting in the mountains, one never knows when a hunting accident might occur. She needed heirs of her own.”

Viserys shook his head, massaging his temples. In truth, Rhea hadn't been quite so eager to get rid of Daemon, if only because that was one more slight to her already wounded pride. Lady Jeyne had stepped in as a mediator between the Crown and Runestone and an agreement had been reached. The Targaryens would return Rhea's dowry with accrued interest, and Runestone itself would be exempt from taxes for their main exports for the next five years.

The Targaryens had her support to go forward with the annulment and Lady Rhea could hold her head high, knowing she had made the Crown give in to some of her demands. But that was the nature of most good deals, as Rhaenyra was coming to understand — to get the desired result, one also had to give something in turn. 

“With that smirk on your face, Daemon, one would think you hoped for such a terrible fate to befall your lady wife.” Otto's voice was cold as snow in the deep winter.

“Former wife, Otto, please refer to her by her proper title. And I did hope she'd fall off her horse and die every day for all these years. Alas, the gods were kind to her. None of us had to die so this wretched match could see its end.” 

“It seems to me, prince, that you wouldn't have minded doing it —”

“Enough with this.” Viserys raised a hand, bringing the conversation to a halt. Already his head hurt. “I promised my brother I would give him any boon for his victory in the Stepstones, and I have. The decree is issued, and the parties have agreed. It's done.”

Silence descended on the room again, broken only by the scratching of quills on parchment as the members of the council took notes and jotted down their questions. In the distance, a murder of crows cawed as they flew by.

“That is all well and good, your grace, but there is no precedent for a King annulling a marriage within the royal house that isn't his own,” Lord Lyonel said, playing with the livery collar of the master of laws dangling on his shoulders. “Not since Maegor set his bride aside. The Faith... It might not like it, sir.”

“Annulments are traditionally their purview.” Tyland nodded his agreement. “They might think the Crown is intruding in their sacred duty and overstepping its boundaries.”

“That is outrageous.” Lord Beesbury huffed, indignant, snapping out from the baffled stupor he'd been in since the annulment was read. “The Crown and this council are not so beggared of power and influence so as not to have sway over the Faith of the Seven.”

“And if Rhea has truly conceded, that is an angle we can pursue and argue, yes.” Lyonel rubbed his chin, expression turning thoughtful as he tried to puzzle a way out of the situation. “She and the Prince had no children, and marriages have been set aside for less.”

“Not within the Targaryen Dynasty,” Otto said. “Unless we take Maegor into account, but we ought to distance ourselves from his memory, not approach it.”

“I'm aware that you made a promise to your brother, my king, but Daemon swore an oath in the name of the gods themselves. They must be upheld, lest we stray from the righteous path,” Tyland added smoothly. 

Rhaenyra knew he'd side with the hand, as would Mellos — they'd been eager to throw her to the wolves after Aegon's birth, especially after she had turned Lord Jason down.

“How fares the Lady Johanna, Lord Tyland?” She asked, inclining her head, and tucking her hair behind her ear. Heads turned towards her, stamped with confusion. 

“Johanna?” Tyland raised an eyebrow. “I don't see how that is relevant to the conversation at hand, Princess.”

“Rhaenyra—” Viserys started, but Rhaenyra patted his knee beneath the table in a reassuring gesture.

“Indulge me. So, how is she?”

Tyland looked to Viserys but saw that the king had gone quiet, watching his daughter with inquiring eyes, then turning to him in wait.

“The Princess asked a question, Lord Lannister,” Daemon said, dripping derision. “You better answer her soon.”

“Of course.” Tyland's little smile did not reach his eyes. “Johanna fares well, your highness. Tired, but well. She's recuperating, but the Maesters believe she'll be up and about in no time .”

Rhaenyra didn't allow her smile to slip either, matching the Lord of Ship's energy. “That is good to hear. I have seen enough stillbirths and miscarriages to know it's a terrible thing to overcome. Is Lord Jason with her? He left the capital a while ago.”

“I'm afraid he's otherwise occupied, your grace.” The brother of the Warden of the West shifted on his seat. “A rather urgent matter arose with one of our bannermen that needed to be settled.”

“Ah, yes, Lord Myatt, wasn't it? I've heard his lady wife has just given birth to a boy — how serendipitous that their liege will be there to congratulate them on such a happy occurrence. I hope that afterward, he'll head straight to Lady Johanna to honor his oath to stand at her side in her hour of need.”

“I'll ensure your words reach my good sister, Princess,” he said, expression tight and shoulders rigid.

Rhaenyra leaned back on her seat, satisfied, almost Daemon's twin in the way she held her chin high. She had struck her mark, made her point, and Tyland Lannister's green eyes shone with something akin to caution and mistrust. 

Viserys cleared his throat, summoning the attention back to him. “I hear you all, my lords, and though your concerns are valid, they're ultimately hollow. The Council of Faith has already convened on the crown's request and agreed to the annulment. The High Septon's bull arrived just this morrow.”

“On what grounds, ser?” Lyonel asked.

Her father slid her betrothed a glance and said, “Non-consummation.”

“Non-consummation?” Otto repeated, incredulous, shaking his head. “Of all things?”

“Unlike you, Otto, some of us have standards,” Daemon snapped, a scowl marring his beautiful features. “You can ask the plethora of witnesses if you don't believe it. I have no doubt the Bronze Bitch will happily tell you about my inability to fuck her, as she hates me more than even you.”

The Lord Hand did not rise to the bait. Instead, he said, “I will trust the wisdom of our King. Let us hope that kindness is not wasted upon you, Daemon.” The  again  went unsaid.

“Hold your words close to your chest, Otto, you may yet regret them.” Daemon cocked his head, all smug satisfaction. “We're not done here.”

Again, silence. Again, confusion. An annulment already — what then came next?

By the horror creeping into his eyes, the way his hands shook, Rhaenyra surmised Otto had already guessed.

“Princess Rhaenyra will marry Prince Daemon in the next six months. A tourney will be held then, and all of the lords of the realm will be invited to attend,” Viserys announced in a tone that was quiet and laced with grief, but firm. For all his agreement to their marriage, he himself hadn't come around to the idea of Daemon and Rhaenyra together yet. “Beesbury, see that the budget is allocated and inform the princess and the queen of it.”

The Lord of Coin acquiesced and took note of it. From the corner of her eye, Rhaenyra saw how Ser Criston's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, his eyes widening in surprise. She bit her lip and shoved his presence to the back of her mind. After, this meeting was over she'd have time to dwell on what his pained expression meant.

She had to give it to Otto, though: in the face of great adversity, his resolve had become solid as stone. 

“Your grace, I've been your counselor for many years and your grandfather's before that. All this time, I have done my very best to advise you and help you steer the kingdom into wealth and prosperity. But this match, my king… It's unwise,” Otto said slowly, taking in a steadying breath.

“I must join my voice to the Hand's, your grace,” Mellos said, standing up. Viserys raised an eyebrow at the exaggerated gesture. “If Princess Rhaenyra is to marry within House Targaryen itself, better it be Prince Aegon, so the matter of succession is settled at last.”

Rhaenyra's nostrils flared — they would have her marry a boy of two, placing her whole life on hold whilst she waited for him to grow. What then? Would they have her, an old maid of almost thirty years, fuck a kid as young as twelve? A brother who was young enough to be her son?  

Her mother had also been a young bride and that had taken its toll on her body and mind, even though hers turned out to be a love match. The mere thought of doing the same to Aegon made her skin crawl. She was about to raise her objection, but her father beat her to it. 

“The matter of succession  is  settled, Maester.” The King straightened his spine, hand closing into a fist. His purple eyes were as cold as stone. “Rhaenyra is my heir. I don't recall changing my mind about it.”

“So was Prince Aegon to King Aenys, your grace,” he retorted. “That didn't stop Maegor from usurping him and doing what he thought was necessary to secure what he deemed his. Even then, he was a man, the Conqueror's son.”

“The Lords of the Realm have sworn to uphold me as heir to the Iron Throne.” Rhaenyra jutted out her chin. It always came out to that, didn't it? She was a woman, being given what they thought should have been a man's, and people would deny her for it. “Do you think their oaths merit so little?”

“It's not so simple, princess.” Otto's condescending drawl rankled Rhaenyra's nerves. “There's no precedent for your succession. It goes against the laws and traditions of our land, threatening the very lords who have sworn themselves to you. If every sister was to come before their brother, it'd be chaos.” 

“And when has the Iron Throne followed any precedent but its own?” Rhaenyra challenged, turning towards the Master of Laws. “Lord Strong, tell me this: according to Andal law, who was to be King Jaehaerys's heir?”

Lyonel was startled, taken aback at the sudden attention. He cleared his throat before answering. “If Andal law had been followed to the letter, then the natural heir would have been the Princess Rhaenys.”

“It would have,” Rhaenyra agreed, “because daughters come before their uncles. Yet my great-grandfather paid no heed to the laws and customs of the land. He appointed my grandfather as heir.”

“That was a different time, a different situation,” Mellos argued. “When Baelon died, Jaehaerys granted the lords the freedom to choose what was best for the realm. They chose Viserys of their own free will.”

“Because my father was a man,” Rhaenyra insisted, holding her ground. “Were Princess Rhaenys a Prince Rhaegar, there would have been no whiff of doubt as to who would succeed. What it seems to me, Maester, is that the laws and the costumes of the land are fickle and arbitrary and the lords only uphold it when it is their best interest. I find it sad that oaths have come to mean so little.”

“Not for some of us, Princess,” Beesbury spoke out, joined by Lyonel's quiet nod. “We swore. We remember. And we will honor them.”

“Good thing some of us have the right of it. As for you, Mellos, you are only correct about one thing.” Daemon leaned forward, grinning like a beast that has corralled its prey. “And that is when you said my grandfather  granted  the lords the freedom to choose. It was  his  power to choose if he so desired because he was King and his word was law. He merely opted to delegate the task. There was no precedent for that either, unless we look at the Iron Islands — but who except the Ironborn ever do?”

That elicited a chuckle out of the quieter members of the Small Council — Beesbury, some of the Kingsguards. Even Tyland Lannister, who had gone quiet, sported a small smile.

“And you believe that words will be enough to convince the lords, Daemon?” Otto hissed through gritted teeth. “It will not. The idea that Rhaenyra's ascension won't raise brows and invite discontent is an illusion.”

“I'm aware.” In a quick movement, too fast for any of the gathered Kingsguards to react, Daemon had removed a dagger from his belt, laying it on the table for all to see. “And as her husband, should they be foolish enough to raise arms against my niece, I'll cut their traitorous tongues and dispose them of their heads as traitors deserve.”

“Daemon,” Viserys warned, his voice low. Daemon shrugged but removed the dagger from the table and slid it back into its sheath. The king turned his head to Otto. “They aren't wrong, Otto. Through Jaehaerys designs I was given the crown, and Rhaenys herself recognized the legitimacy of the Great Council's decision. The Lords made me their king, swearing fealty and trusting I would know what was best for the realm's future. That's my burden to carry, and it's a heavy, thankless one. I wouldn't pass it on to my daughter if I did not think she could carry it, nor wed her to my brother if I truly thought he would hinder her task instead of helping .” He rose, stabbing his finger on the marble. Rhaenyra wanted to stand, wrap her arms around him, and say how terribly proud she was of him. “I did not call this council for advice on how to proceed, but to inform you all of my decision. My choice is written and the ink is dry.”

Otto's expression was thunderous, furious, a silent storm of rage, anger, and betrayal. He spoke no more. There was no point. He'd lost long before he had ever stepped into the council chamber, brought low by the very hand that should have helped him rise.

He glanced towards Tyland Lannister, an ally who had the ear of his brother and the West. He found the lion of Lannister on his feet, looking straight at the king.

“House Lannister will be honored to attend the wedding, my king, and aid in any way we can,” he said, lowering his head. “If both of them are amenable, might I suggest my sister-in-law help Princess Rhaenyra in this important moment? I believe they shall get along splendidly.” 

Rhaenyra grinned, triumphant. 

───※ ·♛· ※───

Alone in her chambers, Alicent waited for the reckoning that was sure to come.

Her nails were bitten raw and bloody, as crimson as the silk robe she wore for the evening. She paced back and forth over the length of the room, back and forth, her mood darkening as the sun set and the shadows lengthened. Her heart was the sea amidst the encroaching tempest, nervous and unquiet, waves rising high and crashing against steep dark cliffs. Night descended; there was no moon brightening the sky. 

Footsteps in the distance –  tap, tap tap.  Heavy footsteps, angry footsteps. Alicent trembled. She sat down on a sturdy wooden chair, lest all strength left her legs and she fell and shattered.

A knock on the door, slow and hesitant, then it opened just a fraction. In the space between it and the doorframe, Lady Swyft came into view, face tight with concern. 

“Your father wishes to speak with you, your grace,” she said. Alicent had forewarned her that the Lord Hand might pay a visit and that she ought not to keep him waiting. “May he come inside?” Her gaze was questioning, doubtful, and a tad fearful.

She understood well. Otto wasn’t physically imposing, nor was his very presence threatening like Prince Daemon’s. It was his position that instilled fear in the hearts of others: his place as hand to the court and the kingdom at large, and his role as her father to Alicent proper. She knew his anger well, and it terrified her. 

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms nodded her consent. Lady Lyselle didn’t seem convinced, but she obeyed, opening the door and revealing Otto Hightower.

Her father stepped inside the room, dark green garments looking black in the faint light. The torch on the wall cast a heavy shadow over one side of his stern face, his brown glare reflecting the crackling embers. His shoulders were rigid, his mouth tight. There was no mercy there, no softness, no love – just quiet, simmering rage. 

Alicent’s hands clenched on the white linen of her nightgown, leaving behind faint stains of red. Their gazes met and held, culprit and accuser, father and daughter. Her lungs burned, her throat constricted; she couldn't breathe. 

“You knew,” his voice was as smooth as obsidian and just as sharp. 

Alicent shuddered, almost choking on her own guilt. “Yes,” she whispered.

“You supped and walked the gardens with me all these weeks. You brought my grandchildren with you to pay your respects at night, innocent as a flower.” He took a step forward, into the shadows. “Meanwhile, like a snake, you were hiding your treason behind your pretty petals, writing letters to the Vale and the Faith, because you knew I wouldn’t open them.”

She didn’t deny it and looked away, focusing on the tapestry hanging on her bedroom wall. It depicted Florian and Jonquil - Alicent’s favorite legend - dancing at their impromptu wedding, surrounded by dandelions and apple trees in full bloom. The tapestries filled with bodies twisted in a pleasure she had never felt had been taken down, dumped in some forgotten depot to become food for moths.

“Still, you say nothing?” Otto snapped, a dangerous, seething edge to his words. She pressed her eyes shut, mouth opening as she gasped for air. “Open your eyes, Alicent. You had enough courage to betray your family, your son, and yourself, but not to face the consequences of your actions?”

“I did no such thing,” she said in a single exhale, words so quiet they were almost lost in the hissing wind.  

“So she speaks!” He threw his hands up in the air, face contorting into a sneer. “But you did, daughter. You did. By aiding -  aiding!  - Rhaenyra and Daemon get that annulment, you may as well have cost Aegon his throne, his  future . And when they rise, who is going to protect you, Alicent? Who is going to protect your children? Or do you believe Rhaenyra will allow them to live?”

“Rhaenyra is not a tyrant,” Alicent said, finding strength in the friendship that had been her rock for so long, the friendship she had so desperately missed once it had cracked. “She’s a kind, merciful soul. She won’t harm them unless she’s given ample cause and even then, she wouldn’t kill them. They’re her siblings, her blood. Even now, Rhaenyra teaches Aegon Valyrian.” She turned to face him, raising her head. 

“Are these your words, or hers?” Otto mocked, moving ahead, stopping just a step in front of Alicent. His shadow covered her whole now. “You are so desperate to rebuild your lost friendship, the childhood bond you both shared, that you are blind to the danger. Rhaenyra is her uncle’s creature, daughter. She’s the puppet, he’s her puppeteer. Even if Rhaenyra has it in her heart to have mercy on you, he will not.”

 “Daemon could have killed his brother and seized the throne without anyone being any the wiser. He could have killed Rhaenyra. He never did. All Prince Daemon has ever done is try to protect his brother. Why would my children be any different? They’re his blood, as she is.”

“You are delusional if you think Daemon sees your children as he did Rhaenyra.” Otto shook his head. “You are my daughter and they are my grandchildren, Alicent. Daemon hates me, always has, and always will. So long as tension exists between us, you aren’t safe.” 

“From your own words, it’s your own petty quarrel with Daemon that is the biggest threat to me and my children, not the prince itself or anything we did. If you could just accept it as is and help them instead of fighting senselessly –”

“I have tried that, Alicent!” Otto snarled, reaching for her. Alicent flinched as his hands wrapped around her shoulders. “But Daemon won’t listen. He never will. He cares nothing for tradition, duty, or for honor. And Rhaenyra, it seems, is as capricious as he is. Aegon is our only hope for Westeros.”

“What you speak of is treason, father.” She ignored the grip he had on her shoulders, holding so tight she’d have marks on the morrow, pushing away her uncertainty, her despair, her terror. Iron, Alicent needed to be iron, sturdy, and unbreakable. “In this, I will not help you.”

“You must, Alicent,” he said fiercely. “It’s your duty as queen, as a mother, as a daughter, to ensure the realm remains stable, that it remains in peace. The Hightower has always been a beacon, and you must act the part.”

“But I’m acting the part,” she replied. “I’m a daughter of House Hightower, but I’m a queen of House Targaryen. I’m wife to their king and mother to two of its children. You made me a queen despite my misgivings and pushed me into a choice I didn’t want to make. Now I have chosen, but you don't agree with me.”

“I did it for you.” Otto let go of her, stepping back. “Everything that I’ve ever done was for you and your siblings, to ensure you had the best, brightest futures, as was your mother’s dying wish.” 

“You did it for yourself.” Alicent stood, the accused becoming the accuser. Her eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “Not for me, not for my siblings, not for our mother. You told me to do something I knew to be wrong and I did, because how could I ever deny you? You were my father and your word was my law. In being loyal to you, I betrayed myself.” 

“Alicent –”

“Enough, father.” She shook her head, tears carving scars on her cheeks as they slid through her pale skin. “Enough. I’m what you made me, everything you have already said – a wife, a queen, a mother, raised from the cradle to do her duty at the cost of herself, to safeguard the realm and protect her family.”

“You were my daughter, Alicent, long before you were any of those things. Or have you forgotten even that?”

“I have not, and the daughter weeps for the father she must stand against, but she cannot be allowed to win.”

He studied her with cold, detached eyes, eyes that didn’t know who the woman standing before him was. Otto could no longer recognize her as the young girl he had shaped like clay into a form of his liking, no longer see the daughter he had carried in his arms and read to at night.

“I wish you good fortune in the wars to come, your grace,” her father said at last. “You shall need it.”

With that, he turned his back to her and headed outside, not once looking back. Alicent watched him go, frozen in her place, clutching her chest with her hand, her heart hammering against her ribcage. The door closed behind him as he departed.

The Queen of the Seven Kingdoms fell to her knees, all strength leaving her legs as the feelings she had pushed deep, deep inside of her heart overflowed, dragging her under their merciless current. A cry clawed its way up her throat, raw and broken and true. The tears fell and fell and fell, endless and unbound; she could no longer see anything through their veil.

She didn’t hear the door opening, almost didn’t hear the  “Your grace, your grace!” , as Lady Lyselle sunk to her side, trying to hold her steady. Alicent pushed her away with a howl; it was too close, too soon, her skin yet burned where her father’s fingers had touched.

“My children,” she cried, swaying back and forth, back and forth, on unsteady knees. “Bring me my children. Now, now! Bring them to me now!”

She didn’t know how long she had been crying when she finally heard Aegon’s sweet voice and Helaena's quiet, curious sounds. Her children, her children. They were here now.

Alicent gathered them close to her heart, her boy and her girl, sharing in their warmth, their sweetness, their very presence a balm to her soul. All she wanted was for them to live and grow up and be happy as she wasn't. What was done was done and could not be undone; she had made her choice, and now she had to live with its consequences. 

She hoped it was enough. 

Chapter Text

chapter 5.  your worst sin

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The Small Council's meeting adjourned as talks of Rhaenyra's engagement drew to a close, the earlier commotion subsiding to faint whispers. One by one the councilmen trickled out, their expressions an array of different emotions: resentment and indifference, fear and fury, hope and resignation. Otto was first to leave, offering Viserys only the barest of bows before storming out, no doubt to confront his daughter about her betrayal. 

The King watched his Hand and long-time friend walk away with a heart heavy as stone. Viserys didn’t regret his actions, not when they were guided by divine providence, his course steered by the gentle hand of Daenys the Dreamer herself. Aenar Targaryen had heeded his daughter’s words despite the scorn of his peers out of nothing but faith and the gods had rewarded their house in turn. How could Viserys reject her wisdom now, when Daenys had crossed the barrier between the living and the dead itself to share her wisdom with him?

Yet all his faith in this new path didn’t make it any easier to watch, helplessly, as a bond he had nurtured and cherished over so many years crumbled to dust. 

“Father?” Rhaenyra called, snapping Viserys out of his melancholia. She stared at him with a crease on her brows, mouth pressed in a taut line. “Are you well?”

“As well as I can be,” he replied truthfully, offering her an encouraging smile. “No need to worry, Rhaenyra. It was but a dark cloud casting a shadow on my thoughts as it passed us by.” Besides her, Daemon snorted in derision, aware of what troubled Viserys.

“Viserys, this bleeding heart of yours will —”

He was interrupted by three knocks on the door in quick succession, shortly followed by the muffled voice of Steffon Darklyn, who stood guard outside. “Your grace, Lord Lyonel Strong wishes for a word.”

“Lyonel?” Viserys raised an eyebrow, looking at his brother, his daughter, and the surrounding Kingsguard to see if they had any inkling of what Lyonel wanted, but found just varied shades of apprehension and confusion. “Well, send him in.”

The Master of Laws returned to the council’s chamber with a nod of thanks to Ser Darklyn. He approached the head of the table in hurried steps, looking down in respect as he settled at a deferential distance.

“Sire,” he greeted, “my prince, my princess. Pardon my intrusion when the council has already adjourned, but Lord Lyman and I had a few words outside and we concurred that a certain matter ought to be settled now rather than be delayed longer.”

“I don’t see Old Lyman with you, Lyonel,” Daemon said with a questioning lilt. “Has his courage taken leave of him?”

“ Uncle ! Don’t be rude,” Rhaenyra chided gently, laying a hand on his thigh. “I’m sure Lord Beesbury is just feeling a little under the weather and this is why he didn’t come with our Master of Laws. Isn’t that right, Lord Strong?”

“Quite so, princess.” Lyonel shifted on his feet and coughed on his hand, eyes flickering over the three Targaryens. Was it Viserys' impression or did he look a tad uncomfortable? “However, he did bid me to reiterate his congratulations on yours and Prince Daemon's engagement and to say that he believes your grandparents would undoubtedly approve of this match.”

Daemon's features softened at the words, at the gentle reminder that his father had stood by him when his grandparents first discussed his marriage to Rhea Royce. Despite his doubts about the match, even the Spring Prince couldn’t challenge the iron will of Alysanne Targaryen when she set her mind this way or that. 

Viserys looked away, finding he hadn’t it in himself to face his brother. Daemon had been chained to the Lady of Runestone for over a decade while the key to his freedom lay waiting in Viserys’s grasp. So much resistance on his part to grant them an annulment and for what?

Aemma had been one of the fiercest defenders of the match, true, singing praises to Lady Rhea and laying the blame for the failed union on Daemon's pride and immaturity. Viserys hadn’t wanted to anger his wife, nor did he want to question the wisdom of his predecessors, not when said wisdom had gotten him the love of his life. 

But Aemma was dead and his grandparents ashes on the wind. Runestone was a major vassal of the Eyrie and influential, yes, but the Royces were no Lannisters, no Baratheons, not even the Hightowers of his second wife. What did he truly gain from Daemon and Rhea's continued marriage other than his brother's growing discontent? 

In the end, all his past reasonings were all for naught. The annulment was signed and archived; the ink was dry. 

“It pleases me to hear this, Lord Lyonel. Give Lyman my regards, will you? But let us move on. What is bothering you both so?”

Lyonel stood a little straighter, the gold chain of office weighing down on his shoulders. “It’s about the Velaryons, your grace.”

“What of them?” Viserys said quickly, tightening his grip at the edge of the table. “Has the situation changed since we last discussed it?” As far as they were aware, Corlys had opened talks with the Sealord of Braavos, seeking to establish new trade contracts and bind them in blood through the marriage of his daughter, the Lady Laena, to the Sealord’s son and heir. 

“It has, at least in a certain manner.” The Master of Laws took in a deep breath before continuing. “Some of us — namely myself and Lord Beesbury — were of a mind to propose a match between the Princess Rhaenyra and the Lord Laenor, should her endeavors to find a husband remain unsuccessful.” 

Viserys only had the time to blink before Daemon burst into deep-bellied laughter, his amusement contagious. 

“Laenor Velaryon?” His brother repeated the name between chuckles. “I’m afraid I'm more suited to his tastes than Rhaenyra will ever be, Lord Strong.”

Rhaenyra didn’t seem pleased with his outburst. She stared at him reproachfully. “There is no need to announce Laenor’s preferences to the entire world and mock him for it, uncle.”

“You misunderstand, niece. It’s not my intention to mock the boy. Laenor is a good man and a fine enough sword, one I would again trust to watch my back as I wage war. The idea of him as your husband is, however, laughable.” Daemon snorted, fingers drumming on his thigh. “I doubt he would manage to consummate the wedding.”

“Don’t be like this brother.” Viserys sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There are plenty of men who share Ser Laenor’s…  preferences  and have fulfilled their duties to their spouses and their houses.”

“And just as many who did not. It would be a gamble, Viserys. But that is not even the root of the matter — there's a softness to Laenor Velaryon that even war failed to harden, and it'll serve him well in another position. But as Prince Consort? If Rhaenyra is to rule comfortably, she needs a husband made of sterner stuff. Don't you agree, Lord Strong?”

Lyonel didn't let Daemon get to him, holding the Prince's gaze with determination. “I believe the Princess needs a strong match, one which will support rather than hinder her in ruling the realm. I'm sure you will make an excellent sword for her, my prince, but that's neither here nor there. The fact of the matter is—” at this, he turned to Rhaenyra, and she faced him with steely apprehension. “— a match to Laenor would bring the Velaryons into the fold, heal the rift between the great valyrian houses and bolster the Princess’s claim. The marriage alliance is no longer an option, but the Velaryon question remains.”

Viserys inhaled deeply, massaging his temples. “Lyonel, this hardly constitutes as urgent. I do not see why you and Lyman thought this needed our immediate attention.”

“I can, though,” Rhaenyra chimed in, folding her hands on the cool marble surface. Viserys twisted his torso in her direction, inclining his head.

“Do you? Then do elucidate, Rhaenyra. I want to hear your reasoning.”

“Well, news of my engagement will reach Driftmark by daybreak at most,” Rhaenyra said, slowly, measured. “When he hears of it, Lord Corlys is likely to feel slighted that his house was again passed over for a marriage to the Iron Throne. It  will  push him further into the Sealord’s arms. The longer we take to decide on a course of action, the further we allow their negotiations to proceed and the more bargaining power we lose.”

“Especially if the Lady Laena claims Vhagar, as has long been her desire,” Daemon added. “Then that will be three full-grown, experienced dragons against Caraxes and Syrax. Those are odds I care not for.”

“That is our understanding, my princess.” Lyonel could barely hold it in his smile as he nodded his acknowledgment of Viserys’s heir and her intended. Rhaenyra beamed at him, pleased with herself. “The problem, your grace, is that the council is in a stalemate on what to do about your close kin. Otto wishes to push away the Seasnake entirely, as does Mellos. Tyland will go wherever the winds are blowing, and Lord Beesbury and I believe a diplomatic solution is ideal. We were hoping that you could offer some insight on Lord Corlys and his plans, Prince Daemon.”

“Ah, so this is why you needed to be alone with us.” Daemon propped his head on his hand as he leaned over the table. “Were I to speak about this in the open, Otto and his cronies would disavow anything I say on the mere principle that it came from  me .”

“Not if it pertained to the good of the realm,” Viserys said, the old habit of defending his Hand to his brother bursting forth. “He wouldn’t, would he, Lyonel?”

Lyonel’s silent agreement was as sobering as it was damning. His Master of Laws had always strived to give him fair advice even if Viserys himself hadn’t always been willing to act upon it. That the situation had reached this point… Where had he gone wrong?

The King of Westeros exhaled in defeat, deflating on his high chair. “Fine. What say you about this, Daemon? What do you make of Corlys Velaryon?”

“Corlys wants what he has always wanted: recognition, a higher seat at the table of power, his blood on the Iron Throne. In short, what he seeks is appreciation from the crown for his continued efforts. You failed to take the needs of House Velaryon and their trade in the Narrow Sea into account by ignoring the situation in the Stepstones and refusing to send aid —”

“I was going to send you both aid,” Viserys retorted. “It is no fault of mine if you put an and to the war before —”

“Please, Viserys, spare me the excuses. Three years we fought alone against the pirates plundering our trade routes, three years with no help and no funds whatsoever while you and Otto made poor attempts at diplomatic solutions that gave our enemy nothing but more time to bleed us dry. Your gesture was not one of appreciation in our purview, but one of  pity ,” Daemon snarled the word as if it was something poisonous, slamming his closed fist on the cold marble. “That is hardly a show of appreciation, brother.”

“Then what would you have me do, Daemon? Would that I could change the past so we wouldn't find ourselves in this situation, but I cannot.”

“How about a tourney?” Rhaenyra suggested, intruding on the conversation before harsher words were spoken in the thoughtless haze of anger.  Clever girl . “A  grand  tourney to celebrate the victory at the Stepstones, with Uncle and the Velaryons as our guests of honor.”

“That would mollify Corlys’s position a little, I reckon.” Daemon stroked his chin, pensive. “Add in the promise of further rewards and positions in court, and he will take the bait. Rhaenys especially will push him to it, if nothing else. She has no lost love for this growing rift between our houses and mislikes the idea of marrying Laena into a position as fickle as the Sealord’s son. ”

“We have already made concessions to Rhea so we could get your annulment, Daemon. Though I agree that it is a good idea, I fear what the realm will think of the crown and its power.” Hadn’t this been the very reason he withheld troops from the Stepstones, heeding his councilor’s advice not to reward borderline treasonous behavior that challenged his authority?

“Not if we play our cards well and succeed in our goal, your grace,” Lyonel said. “There are few things stronger than the image of a king in harmony with his family, four of whom are loyal dragonriders who would answer his call to arms.”

“The wedding would need to be postponed and the budget reworked,” Viserys argued but knew himself that was no hindrance at all.

“I see no issue in waiting a little longer for us to wed.” Rhaenyra glanced at Daemon from the corner of the eye. “Do you, uncle?”

 “None whatsoever,” said Daemon, his grin falser than vows made in sweetwine.

“Excellent.” Rhaenyra stood, his brother following suit. “Might we retire now that the matter is settled, father? This meeting has tired me more than I thought it would. I wish to rest.”

The yes almost rolled off Viserys’s tongue before he hesitated, withholding his agreement. He glanced between Rhaenyra and Daemon, side by side, parts of a matching set in their clothes, their jewelry, even the way they carried themselves. News of their engagement and Otto’s inevitable argument with Alicent would sweep through the Red Keep like wildfire on dry grass, fanned by the court’s curiosity. It’d grow to a scorching inferno as the lords and ladies moved their pieces around the board of cyvasse, reconsidering their strategies and wondering among themselves what had moved Viserys to change his position.

Eyes would linger on his brother and his daughter, dissecting all their movements, some with the sole intent of finding fault in them. The longer their engagement, the worse it would get.

Viserys cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there are still some points I wish to discuss with the both of you.  Alone . Come now, sit back down, it shan’t take long. Lyonel, you may leave. Harrold, wait outside with the rest of the Kingsguard.”

Lyonel and the men obliged, though some of his white cloaks didn’t seem too happy to do so. He couldn’t see why; this far in the Red Keep, with them outside and Daemon by his side, Viserys was as safe as he could be. 

“Must we really, brother?” Daemon clicked his tongue on his teeth as he did as asked, though twisting the order to fit his own comfort by placing his crossed heels on the table. Viserys looked up with an exasperated shake of the head. “Our ears are all quite tired after all these talks. Can it not wait until tomorrow?

“No, I fear it cannot,” he answered, placing his elbows on the table and propping up his chin on his gloved, enlaced fingers. “Call me paranoid if you wish, brother, but my instincts are telling me there are things we better discuss now rather than later.”

Rhaenyra tilted her head, already back to her original position. “Pray tell, what else is there for us to discuss that cannot wait? Are you perhaps concerned about Alicent?”

Viserys blinked, taken aback at the mention of the queen. Yes, Alicent, his wife. Alicent, who had just defied her father and by now surely must be facing him, all alone. Shame blossomed across his cheeks in splashes of red as he realized he had utterly neglected her.

“I… no, it’s not Alicent I wish to discuss now — but do visit her tomorrow, will you Rhaenyra? I shall talk to her myself after we are finished here, but I believe your kind regard will be most welcomed.”

His daughter's lips twitched in a delicate smile. “I will do just that.”

“Good.” He nodded, more to himself than to her. “That is good of you, Rhaenyra.” Good, indeed, that they once again stood on common ground, trying to mend old wounds. Maybe they would even rebuild their lost friendship with sturdier stones and emotions, with feelings that would withstand the test of time. 

The sight of them laughing together in the gardens as they shared the latest gossip over a plate of sugared lemons was one Viserys longed to see again if only to assuage the pinpricks of his guilt.

“I want us to… align our expectations, yes, let us call it that, in regards to this longer engagement of yours.”

Rhaenyra’s eyebrow shot up. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Whilst you are engaged, I expect you both to behave with the utmost propriety,” he forced the words out, wishing to the gods Aemma was still here with him. Goodness, she’d be so much better leading this conversation than he ever could be. “Your engagement already has whiffs of scandal surrounding it with your stunt in Flea Bottom. I would rather not have you dragged to the sept in haste if it can be helped.”

His daughter bristled in righteous indignation. “I thought you believed us when we said that nothing happened back then.”

“Oh, I do believe in you both about that night. I do not, however, trust either of you to keep your hands off each other. Is it too much to ask that you hold yourselves back for a few months?”

“We would not have to hold ourselves back at all, brother, had you not angered the Velaryons so,” Daemon said with a scoff. “Besides, do you recall how  you  were with dear Aemma during your courtship? My, the things she roped you into —”

“Stop right there, Daemon.” Viserys buried his head in his hands as he tried to shake away the horrifying images of Daemon and Rhaenyra sneaking out in secret to... to … No, absolutely not, he was not going to think of this or he was going to be  sick . Already his stomach roiled just at the idea of it. “Do not say anything anymore. I do not want to hear it.”

“Worry not, brother,” Daemon said, and Viserys could hear the grin in his voice, “we shall uphold the mask of propriety and chivalric courtesy with utmost diligence until we are wed. Afterward, however, I shall endeavor to make our parents proud.”

Beside him, Rhaenyra burst into delighted peals of laughter, as if his mortification was the most entertaining thing in the world.

───※ ·♛· ※───

Rhaenyra left the council’s chambers on Daemon's arm, hiding her mirth beneath a dainty hand. They shared a glance once the door closed behind them, laughter returning unbidden at their shared recollection of Viserys's scarlet, horrified scowl. 

Ser Criston waited for her outside with his back to the wall, a tense set to his shoulders. A torch flickered to a gust of wind over his head, sending the shadows dancing across the curve of his cheekbones and fanning the embers in his dark wooden eyes.  

Their eyes met across the narrow space of the hallway; Criston averted his gaze as if her mere attention hurt. Rhaenyra's pink-blooming smile withered to gray. 

Daemon watched them both with the sharp gaze of a hawk, aware of every little change in their expressions, every push and pull around the corners of their mouths, of their eyes. 

Rhaenyra squeezed his arm, offering him her most innocent, charming grin. Better distract him before he got any suspicious; she shuddered to think what he would do if he found out the truth of her affair with Criston.

“Will you walk me to my chambers, uncle?” The plea came easily as she nudged him to turn left, away from Ser Criston and that disconcerting well of hurt.

“But they are so very far from mine,” he said, but his feet started down the path she wanted regardless. “Are you so desperate for my company that you will have me walk this whole Keep, niece?”

“Come now, it's not so far. Besides, you are in quite good shape. I doubt you will tire from such a short walk.”

Daemon shook his head but didn't object. They walked together in companionable silence, the metallic steps of Ser Criston’s boots following them from a distance. Rhaenyra stole glances at her uncle every now and then, careful not to get caught, painfully aware of the unstable ground on which she stood.

“ Your loyal dog looks quite displeased with us ,” Daemon said, the familiar cadence of valyrian a welcome delight to her ears as he pulled her slightly closer. 

She pursed her lips, mulling over his words and how best to answer them. “ I don't quite understand why. He has no reason to look so… so sullen. We've always gotten along fine, but this is a bit much .”

“ Mayhaps he feels more for you than you think .”

Rhaenyra bit down the inner side of her cheek so as not to laugh. “ That is preposterous, uncle. Even if it were true, Ser Criston is quite aware of his position to initiate much of anything. ‘Tis but your jealousy speaking .” 

He hummed non-committedly. “ If you say so .”

Rhaenyra searched Daemon's eyes, the wrinkles around them, and the curve of his mouth, but found them to be oddly void of any expressions. This, she reckoned, was no good sign.

“ Will you come for me tonight? ” She asked, cocking her head, batting her eyelashes at him, the valyrian they spoke making her request all the more private, all the more intimate. 

“ Alas, some rats are running about in places they do not belong and they need some taking care of, niece .”

“ Is the situation in Flea Bottom still not under control? ”

“ It is ,” he confirmed. “ Alas, change brings opportunity and opportunity is a treat far too sweet for some rats to ignore. One needs to keep a close eye on them to make sure they won’t further spoil all good and precious things. Disease runs rampant where rodents thrive. Sometimes, however, a little caution is necessary, else they'll slink back into the dark .”

“ So you will act the part of the cat, toying with your prey, leading them to where you desire before finishing them off? ”

They stopped right in front of her door. He untangled their arms and with a gentle, feathery touch took her hand in his and brought it close to his lips. 

“Something like that.” His breath was hot against her skin, the satiny touch of a caress in the dark. Rhaenyra rubbed her thighs together, imagining his tongue lavishing her cunt. “Have a good night, my princess,” he said and kissed the back of her hand as their gazes remained connected.

“I shall.” It took great effort to hide her satisfaction behind haughty annoyance, but it just felt right to put on some airs, to act a little more difficult, a little more defiant.

Daemon let go of her hand and bid her farewell with a quick nod, whistling as he turned and walked away. Rhaenyra stood grounded to the spot, grip tight on her doorknob, watching as his silhouette disappeared into the darkened, labyrinthine halls of the Red Keep.

“Ser Criston, call for my handmaids,” she commanded without looking at him. “Tell them to bring me dinner and a cup of Arbor gold.”

Rhaenyra entered her chambers and threw herself on the bed, closing her eyes as her head sank into the fluffy pillows. Her mind reeled as the accrued stress from the day receded, leaving nothing in its wake but bone-deep weariness, exhaustion as deep as the fathomless sea. The knowledge that this feeling would be her constant companion as the years trickled by and the crown weighted heavier on her head made her long for the simpler days when she was but another princess, as free as one could be in a trapped world.

She imagined what her life would be like had Baelon survived the cradle and grown to be healthy and hale. Rhaenyra would be heir to nothing, just one more dragonrider daughter whose name was likely to become a footnote in history, should the peace hold. Would Viserys marry again or would he have refused to even entertain the notion?

Would Daemon ever get his annulment? No, that was unlikely to happen; it wouldn't have happened in her current life either, had it not been for an act of divine providence. Maybe Rhea would face an unfortunate accident, allowing Daemon to court Rhaenyra freely — and in a world where Baelon never died, his relationship with her father was likely to be better. There would have been no grieving words carelessly said in wine, no subsequent fallout. Maybe her uncle still went to the Stepstones, this time with her father's blessing, and like a hero from the tales returned home to wed the waiting princess.

They would marry in Dragonstone, a discreet ceremony only for their family and friends. Then they'd mount their dragons and tour the Free Cities, Braavos and Pentos and Volantis, and beyond. Should they be feeling adventurous, they could try and follow the steps or Jaenaera Belaerys, flying over the land without end of Sothoryos. Nothing would bind them to the ground except their dragons’s own physical limitations.

It was a lovely dream.

It was not supposed to be.

The handmaids poured in.  Begone , she wanted to say,  begone, and leave me alone with my fantasies , but the words never took shape. She allowed them to help her rise and disrobe, standing still as a statue as they rubbed away the grime of the day with warm linen sheets. Rhaenyra’s mind wandered as if detached from her body, a feather fluttering on the wind — constantly moving, never lingering.

They combed her hair with sweet-scented oils, honey and oleander, and dabbed perfume on her wrists, behind her ears, and on her collarbone. More maids came in carrying gold plates and trays filled with food, setting them on a small table as Rhaenyra slipped into an asymmetric nightgown and into a thin silk robe, one that would shield her from the chill breeze of the sea and not add to the heat of midsummer. Once they were done, the handmaids bowed as one and scurried away with orders not to return until she called for them again. 

She dined alone, with only the ghosts of yesterday to keep her company.

It was fully dark outside and quiet as a tomb when someone knocked on her door. Rhaenyra stopped turning the page of a book midway, brows dipping into a curious frown.

“Yes?” 

“Princess,” Ser Criston said, then fell quiet for a short time. “Might I come inside? There is something I wish to speak with you about.”

The bad feeling she had since earlier resurfaced, dragging its cruel claws across her spine. Rhaenyra mulled over his words, considering her options: she could tell him  no, do not come inside , but that didn’t sit well with her. If he wanted to speak about their short affair, then to do so in public was to risk discovery. The Red Keep’s walls had eyes and ears where one least expected.

It was safer to invite him in and make their conversation short and to the point. If one were to see her door unguarded for just the briefest of times, they would just assume Criston had taken a moment to relieve himself.

“One moment,” she said and set the book aside, leaving the comfort of her inner bedroom for the antechamber and taking a seat there. “You may come inside now, Ser Criston.”

The door opened and closed with nary a sound. The Criston who entered the chambers was different from the confident knight who followed her around, ready to strike any threats to her person. His eyes darted around the room, full of uncertainty.

“So, what is it?” Rhaenyra said gently, and waited, patiently, for him to gather his bearings. 

Criston swallowed hard and stepped forward, gathering his hands on his back. He took in a deep breath, filling his lungs with courage. “Princess. I… I have followed you through all these years now, ever since you granted me the greatest honor a knight in the realm could boast. In this time, you have sometimes confided in me the troubles of your position, and I myself bore witness to your struggles. So often have you raged against the confines of your station, about how your father and his councilmen would one day sell you to the highest bidder with no regard to the yearning of your heart. Now that this day has come and the King has elected Prince Daemon for your husband.” He spat out her uncle’s name as if it were something foul. “I’m sure the Prince is… strong, determined, and fearsome in battle, but you have not chosen him —”

She blinked, startled at the jumbled rush of words, the waterfall of feelings turning to ice as it landed on the solid, frozen regard of her astonishment. 

“You have indeed been a true friend when I found myself bereft of those,” Rhaenyra acknowledged with a small nod. “But Ser Criston, this match my father has arranged with my uncle… Indeed, it hasn’t come to pass the way I would want, but I have consented to it. Daemon isn’t holding my father nor myself hostage to his will, you can rest assured of that.”

“You have consented to it, aye,” he agreed and took another step forward. Rhaenyra gripped the arms of her chair a little tighter. “But if there was another choice, another option, would you take it?”

“Pray tell, Ser Criston, what do you mean?”

“We could leave,” he said, earnest and fierce, and Rhaenyra had to use all her mental fortitude not to gape. “I know the Stormlands well and in my years as a youth, I grew familiar with Sunspear’s harbor. We could flee under the cover of the night and leave it all behind, all our duties and our burdens, exchange it all for a life of freedom and anonymity. Once we docked in Essos we —” Criston’s breath hitched. “— we could be married, princess.”

Rhaenyra stared and stared at her sworn shield, eyes wide as saucers, arms falling limply beside her body. She couldn’t quite believe the words that had just come out of his mouth, their content so outrageous, so utterly unthinkable that her mind spun wildly as it tried to weave them into something coherent.

“I…” She shook her head, imploring the cacophony echoing inside her head to quieten so she could make sense of her thoughts. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes, my princess.” Criston pleaded, kneeling beside her as if she were something holy, a savior come to rescue his soul and deliver it from sin. “Say yes, and we can leave tonight still.”

Rhaenyra buried her face in her palms, pressing her eyes shut in an attempt to steady herself. This was madness. This was insanity. This couldn’t be happening; it couldn’t be real. Yet it was happening and it was real. This wasn’t a cruel nightmare from which she could just awake.

My gods, what have I done?

“Ser Criston,” she managed to choke out, letting her hands fall on her lap. Rhaenyra turned on her chair to better face him, and the hope reflected in his gaze was a knife to her heart. “I… I cannot do as you ask. It is true that I have chaffed and struggled against the demands of the crown and that I not rarely find myself wondering how my life would be if it took a different turn, but I have never fathomed giving it all up. Where would we even go? My father would never let us be, least of all my betrothed, and we would have targets upon our backs for all of their enemies to see. There would be no anonymity waiting for us, only hardship and infamy.” 

“So our night together meant nothing to you?” His voice was the desperate cry of a wounded, limping animal. “You came back from somewhere that night, somewhere I do not know — were you with Prince Daemon? Was I only a replacement for him?”

Yes, you were. You were a distraction I allowed myself to sate my desire when Daemon refused to give me what I wanted. Was it not the same to you? Didn’t you surrender yourself to me because you wanted to sate your desire for me too?

“No, of course you weren’t. Please, don’t think about it thusly.” She reached for his hand, but Criston pulled them away, outside of her grasp. Rhaenyra flinched at the blatant rejection. “Our night was lovely, Ser Criston. You were kind, considerate, and everything I could have asked from my first lover. As long as I live, I shall remember your gentleness — but we cannot.  I  cannot. This is my burden to carry as the Princess of Dragonstone.”

And even if I could, I do not want to. 

Criston looked down, refusing to meet her eyes. He seemed so sad, so broken, as if his life was nothing but wretched sorrow and all hope was lost. Words left his lips, so quietly that Rhaenyra could only make out a single word: duty. His hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword.

“Were we in different circumstances, in different positions,” he started, tentatively, still unable to share in her gaze, “would you say yes? Would you consider it, princess?”

“I would.”  I wouldn’t.  “For all it’s worth, Ser Criston, I’m sorry it has come to this.”

Her Kingsguard said nothing more. He rose in silence and left the room just as quietly. Rhaenyra watched him go and though she felt the slightest pinch of guilt over his clear heartbreak, she found that she didn’t feel sorry at all for his predicament. What had gone down had been his choice as much as it had been hers.

She collapsed on the chair, leaning her head back against the wood. Rhaenyra stared at the arched ceiling, where light and shadow danced across the cold stone in strange, captivating patterns. After a while, dazedly, tiredly, Rhaenyra stood with a deep sigh and turned toward her bedchamber —

“My, what a  most  interesting conversation I have stumbled upon. Isn’t that right, sweet niece?”

Rhaenyra’s turned into marble as she found Daemon leaning against the doorframe to her bedchamber, grin dripping with fresh blood.  

───※ ·♛· ※───

Daemon Targaryen was a great many things: bold, audacious, impetuous, wilful, chaotic. He was quick to anger, slow to forget, and possessed a memory as long as a dragon’s when his treasures were threatened. Patience wasn’t in his nature, but neither was he averse to it, should the circumstances be favorable.

Daemon Targaryen was a great many things, indeed, but a fool oblivious to his own surroundings was seldom one of them, even if his volatile temper would suggest otherwise. 

Ever since he learned Rhaenyra had fled the brothel in Flea Bottom and surrendered her maidenhead to someone else, he had wondered who could have been the man who had the nerve to touch a princess, one whose virtue could make or break a kingdom. Crispin — he was wont to refer to the man by his correct name — had come to mind as an option, but Daemon had dismissed him.

He didn't think that the Kingsguard who followed Rhaenyra around with eyes of a lost puppy would have the gall to betray his oath, nor that his niece, beautiful and proud, would debase herself for a pretty face. Perhaps he ought to have looked at it from a different prism: that their time together had developed a degree of companionship that would overcome Rhaenyra's natural reservations.

Her reaction to his impromptu appearance was a thing to behold. She was pale as death, a wide-eyed doe that had just spotted a predator lying in the woods, ready to pounce. Then the surprise ebbed away, ceding its place to incredulity and, finally, to righteous rage. 

“You dare spy on me?” Rhaenyra snarled, dragonfire in her words as in her cheeks.

“I warned you, didn’t I?” He buried his hands in the pockets of his trousers, cocking his head. “Rats were running about in places they did not belong, and I was to care for them.”

“Rats in  Flea Bottom !” 

“I made no mention of any place as we spoke, Rhaenyra. You were the one who assumed I meant Flea Bottom and not the privacy of your bedchambers.” As the word privacy left his mouth, Rhaenyra went still, her eyes darting towards the door.

“Wait here. We are not done,” she said in a low growl, turning on her heels and lurching towards lock and key, wisps of silver-gold hair slashing the air like fine blades as she moved.

Daemon pushed himself away from the wall, striding to where she stood with her back to him, fiddling with the key. He afforded her no time to react as he placed one hand close to the side of her head, caging her small, lithe body between him and the door.

“ I doubt Ser Crispin is out there after he placed his heart in your hands and you so cruelly tore it to shreds .” He bent down so his mouth brushed her earlobe, whispering in a dulcet valyrian. Rhaenyra’s breath caught on her throat. “ Besides, had he listened to us, do you not think he would have stormed inside already, sword raised to strike down the villain keeping him away from you? ” 

She turned the key, adding one more barrier between them and the outside world. Rhaenyra eyed him from the corner of her eyes.

“All the more reason for us to be careful then. I have little wish to see you bleed to death on my carpet.”

“You believe I would lose to that lowly bastard?”

She turned so they would stand face to face, peering up at him with eyes of frozen fire, head bent in a mocking slant. “Didn’t you?”

“That was an isolated occurrence. It will not happen again.” This time, he knew his opponent enough not to underestimate or trust him. Daemon wouldn't be caught off guard or made a fool of again. 

“You have a talent for being a devious bastard when you want to, did you know that, uncle?” 

“So do you, niece.” Daemon grabbed her chin between two of his fingers and tilted her head up, higher. Rhaenyra stood on the tip of her toes, gaze flickering to his lips and back up. “What was it you said? Ah, yes: ‘Ser Crispin is much too aware of his position to initiate anything’. But what about you, hm?” His hand moved down from her chin, tracing the line of her collarbone. “That’s right—  you  were the one initiating it.”

“And what of it?” Her nostrils flared and her ivory hands came to rest on his chest, fisting the leather doublet. “Fucking is a pleasure, you see, as for the woman as it is for the man. Was it not you who taught me that? Or were these only honeyed lies, meant to lure me into your trap, valid only when you are the seducer?”

Gathering all her strength in her thin arms, Rhaenyra pushed him away from her and Daemon stumbled back with a measure of grace. He reached out, caught her wrist between his fingers, and held it tightly as their feet entwined, as if in a dance. 

“I meant every word I said to you that night.” Daemon lowered his head, silvery hair falling over twin violets, set ablaze by a raging wildfire. “But this is not about my seduction of you, but rather about your foolhardy choice of a lover—”

“Foolhardy?” She scowled at him, scorn lifting the corner of her arched mouth. “ Foolhardy , he says. You call my choice foolhardy, yet what of your choice to leave me alone and unprotected in a den of depravity?”

“No harm would have befallen you. You were with me, and the people of Flea Bottom know better than to touch that which is mine, lest they face the consequences. Besides, did my men not escort you to the safety of the Keep afterward?”

“And that was supposed to comfort me? It did not. The guard is not infallible, you know it best as their master, and I am a prize men would wage wars over, never mind slaughter some guards.” She threw her head back with a dry laugh, exposing the pale curve of her neck. “Alas, mayhaps indeed my flesh came out of the whole ordeal unscathed, after all, what does my heart matter so long as my royal womb remains intact?”

To hear her speaking of herself in such a way, as if she were a mere bargaining chip to be bartered away and nothing else made his skin crawl with outrage. It was a cold, wet blanket laid upon his rage. Daemon knew he shouldn’t take her words to heart —they were an outlet of her frustration, a lash at a world that would try to force upon her the same fate it did her mother should she fail to live up to its expectations.

He knew all that, but he had more wildfire than blood in his veins and all it took was a single spark for it to ignite. 

“You speak as if I marry you solely for your royal womb,” he said, snarling with hurt and disgust. “What, pray tell, gave you that idea? Was it Otto Hightower or perhaps your good friend Alicent?”

“Must my thoughts come from others just because they aren't favorable to you? I may be young, but I am not so innocent as to believe you have no interest in my crown, no desire to see your children sit the Iron Throne.”

“If I do, what of it? You do not need a husband with no interest in your crown, but rather one with a vested interest in keeping it on your head.”

“Is that all there is?” Rhaenyra stepped forward, eyes brimming with unshed tears. They crossed the threshold between the antechamber and the bedroom; the torches cast an orange, dusky glow on the limestone wall. “Only shared interests, shared enemies?”

“You know well it isn’t so.” He cradled her face between his hands. Her lip trembled, but she held her head high, stalwart as the dark cliffs where bitter waves break. “I was your uncle long before I was your intended. Did I not prove my affection aplenty in those long afternoons spent under the red leaves as we poured over the words of our ancestors? Did I not regale you with tales of our lost homeland, of the great legacy only we are fit to hold, and shower you with gifts that betrayed my esteem? Do you not remember, Rhaenyra, that I used to sit you on my knee and promise to rain dragonfire on all who brought sadness to your eyes, when all there was between us was the simple love of families?”

He wove an invisible thread through the hollow spaces between his words as he spoke, an underlay of meaning that was too personal, too intimate to be said out loud, a question only for her to hear:  Do you think my feelings are any less now than they were then?

His words landed true and something broke in Rhaenyra’s resolve. She gulped, swallowing glass. 

“I do remember, but I never needed protection from any of these men.” There were cracks in her amethyst gaze as she searched his face for answers to questions she would never voice; disquiet poured out of the cracks, steady and true. “It was only from you that I ever needed protection. And if you protected me from all others, who then protected me from you? No one. I was open and vulnerable and you took advantage of it for your petty revenge. Or will you deny it?”

He looked away, a greater admission of guilt than any other gesture. Daemon couldn’t deny the traitorous truth of his actions, not when they were laid bare and dangled right before him, but hadn’t he abandoned his end goal? Had he not acted in her best interest then, by refusing to take that last step in her ruination? He’d selfishly given in to petty revenge, only to have a rude awakening and lose — or better yet, find— heart midway. 

Daemon had meant to confront her about sleeping with Cole and delight himself in the red flush of her cheeks, in the indignation and outrage that was sure to follow. He wanted her to raise her shield and slash at his heart with her barbed tongue until it bled jealousy and affection and desire. Like would call to like, as it always had between them, as enthralling as a siren’s song. Then they would dance around each other, scratching, maiming, both desperate to hurt and to be hurt in turn; words were superfluous, pointless, for dragons solved their difference with claws, fingertips, and teeth. 

“What would you have me say? And if I did, would you believe me?” He uttered, shaking his head. Rhaenyra remained silent, unmoving, marblelike in her quietness. “I left you behind in that brothel; you denied me your maidenhead and gave it to another in retaliation. What is done is done and cannot be undone. We will pledge our troth under the Fourteen Flames and our fates will be bound as one forevermore. Let the past die, Rhaenyra. Burn it to the ground and let the wind swallow the ashes so nothing stands between us anymore.”

Daemon felt strangely disconnected from his body, as if caught in the emptiness between conflicting emotions, between the flickering shadows of love and jealousy and regret. 

Rhaenyra smiled, a single tear sliding down her cheek, pale and soulful, as melancholic as the waning moon hanging lonely on a starless sky. 

“Even if we let bygones be bygones, what ought we to do about trust? Though it still exists between us and it has been reinforced in places, in others it remains cracked and fragile. To kill it is not an option and even if it were, I wouldn’t wish to do so. So what are we to do about it?”

“You doubt my faith and my loyalty to you, niece?” He asked, drawing her closer. The air between was charged with electricity, their heavy breaths mingling in the hot summer. 

“Doubt? No, I don’t doubt you.” Rhaenyra banished the notion of it with an enthusiastic shake of her head. “But do I fear a repeat of such circumstances? My mind does even if my heart wishes it were otherwise.”

“Then let it fear,” he said, lacing his arm around against her waist. “Let your mind fear it, Rhaenyra. Hold it close to your heart and stand witness as I coat Dark Sister with the blood of your enemies. Fear as I soar the skies on Caraxes’s back to rain dragonfire on all rebels until their keeps are nothing but incandescent ruins. Fear as I, old and tired and scared from too many battles, lay my blade at your feet and demand that, should you think I failed my promise to you, you and our children enact the cruelest of justices.”

She laid her forehead against his heart, squeezing her eyes shut. “I will fear for  you  then, not the other way around.”

“Yes,” he agreed with a chuckle, combing her velvety locks with his long fingers. “I will give you no other option.”

“You wounded me that night – badly so.”

“You have made that abundantly clear.”

“Do not do it again,” Rhaenyra commanded, imperious as the queen she would be. “I forbid it.”

“We have had this conversation before, haven’t we?” Daemon tucked her head under his chin, a small smile encroaching on his lean features. “With Balerion as our witness.”

“That was but an ointment on an open wound, one that needed better treatment so it wouldn’t become infected.” She had relaxed now, melting in his embrace, her form slotting into his, where it belonged. “I do not wish to dwell on this any longer.”

“Then I will make you forget it,” he whispered in her ears, sending a shiver down her spine. Rhaenyra looked up at him, batting her long eyelashes.

“How so?”

“I have a few ideas, things you have never experienced before, but —” he placed a finger on her lips. “— you will have to trust me for it to work.”

She clamped her mouth shut, holding back a peal of laughter. “The gall.”

“I endeavor to try,” Daemon said, pulling his finger away with a caress of her lower lip and closing the space between them with a kiss. 

───※ ·♛· ※───

At first, his kiss was gentle, unhurried. Neither was in a particular rush, content to just bask in the warmth of each other’s presence. Rhaenyra sighed against Daemon's mouth, dragging her hands over his chest and delighting in the strong muscle beneath the linen. 

He nibbled at her lower lip, teasing, coaxing her mouth open. Rhaenyra closed her eyes, enjoying the honey-sweet feeling as their tongues entwined, as Daemon lowered his hand from her waist, unveiling the knot of her robes with a tug. She shrugged it away and snaked her arms around his neck, playing with the tips of his hair.

His hand snuck beneath her nightgown to cup her ass, nails sinking into the smooth, soft skin. 

Rhaenyra pulled away, a small gasp escaping through her parted mouth. “No marks,” she chided, as though talking to a small, naughty child. “Best not give my handmaids cause to wonder.”

“You believe they would tattle on you?”

“I would rather avoid finding out.” Rhaenyra shrugged, the thin strap of her nightgown sliding down her shoulder. She raised her hand to his mouth and traced the arch of his lips with her thumb, wondering what god had chiseled him thusly, with this little smirk that could twist the course of history. “ It doesn't hurt to exert a measure of caution before the wedding.”

“A compromise then —” The tips of his fingers slipped further between her tights, brushing the linen fabric of her undergarments. She bit the side of her cheek, breath hitching. “— I'll leave no marks, except those that will be gone by the time you wake tomorrow. But when we are wed and these ridiculous concerns are behind us, I will mark you as I see fit.”

“I can agree to these terms,” she said with a chuckle and pulled his lips back to hers to seal their promise.

They stood there for a while, kissing as Daemon circled his thumb over her clit, slow and teasing. She pressed her body against his, shivering with every little flick of his thumb. The heat gathering between her thighs climbed up her veins and spread through her body, wreaking havoc on all her senses. Her hand moved down to fiddle with the band of his trousers and her fingers snuck inside, finding him already hard. 

Rhaenyra gave his cock a rub, delighting in how he trembled, her name tumbling out of his lips like a prayer. She caught its vowels and consonants with her tongue and swallowed them whole, savoring the intoxicating taste of desire coating them. Her grip on his cock hardened and Daemon  shuddered , throwing his head back with a moan as their lips broke apart.

She chuckled, pleased at his response, and moved her hand more firmly, more purposefully.

“Do you like it?” Rhaenyra whispered against his lips, mouth curved in a small smirk. “Or would you rather I use my tongue?”

Daemon growled, the sound reverberating on the back of his throat, and removed his hand from her cunt. He grabbed her ass again, this time with more force, closer to the downward curve toward her thigh.

“No,” he ground out. “I have other plans for your mouth tonight, niece, after I grow tired of its taste.” His mouth lifted into a smile, full of wicked, twisted promises. 

The third time their lips locked had little in the way of gentleness, patience, or temperance. They were dragons set ablaze, intent on consuming each other whole, their mouths moving in tone with the crescendo of their desire. They were a wildfire spreading across the golden fields at the height of the harvest, an inferno that could not be quenched or controlled and would ravage everything to the bone to sate its hunger. 

Rhaenyra gasped as Daemon hauled her up, her legs moving instinctively to wrap around his waist as one of his arms snaked down her ass, securing her cunt over his hard cock. She gave her hips a playful roll, flinging her arm around his neck, wont to part with his lips just yet. Their minds were one in that regard; the fingers of his free hand wove through the silver strands of her hair, holding her close.

Daemon carried her the short distance remaining between where they stood and her bed. Rhaenyra kept her eyes closed, thrilled with the risk that with both their eyes closed to the world around them, it would be so very easy to bump into an obstacle, to slip and fall. They were tempting fate itself, daring it to punish them for their audacity. 

But Daemon’s steps were confident and always landed true, never faltering, never stumbling. If he had his eyes open she knew not, nor had she any wish to find out — Rhaenyra wanted to trust him, damn it all to the seven hells, blind or not.

He laid her down on the soft, pristine white sheets and slotted her body between his calves, leaning down so his breath was warm on her ear.

“Don’t open your eyes yet,” he murmured and He pulled back, making himself comfortable above her. 

Rhaenyra could not fathom what was going through his mind, what he had in store for her, and she loved and hated this feeling in equal measure. She stood blind, close to the edge of a cliff with nothing to ground her, and could only trust he’d catch her when she fell.

He grabbed her wrists, lifting them both to his mouth and placing feather-light kisses inside them. 

“ Your wrists are so slim, so fragile. I could snap them with my bare hands if I wanted to ,” Daemon whispered against her skin in high valyrian, his breath a husky caress.

The mention of such casual violence ought to have scared her, but rather than cold fear dragging its claw down her spine, all she felt was  heat , traveling through her limbs and pooling between her legs. He grabbed her other wrist in his hand and laid a wet kiss on it, dragging his tongue over her pulsing heartbeat. Daemon gathered them together, sucking at her fingers, one at a time, as a child laps on its mother’s tit. 

“ You are not planning to just fuck my fingers, I hope ,” she breathed, body arching as he suckled, her cunt clenching in expectation. “ You wouldn’t do that to me, would you, uncle ?”

“Have a little faith, little dragon.” Daemon laughed, low and musical. “Have I ever disappointed you before?” 

And before she could understand what he was doing, before her sense of touch caught up with the others, he had bound her wrists with a velvety fabric, so tight Rhaenyra's hands could only squirm against it. 

Her eyes snapped open, words like sharpened razors at the very tip of her tongue, knowing too well it was a trap, but walking into it all the same — but Daemon was  faster . He placed a hand on her mouth, silencing her. 

“As I said —” his voice was amused, giddy even. “—I have other plans for your tongue.”

Rhaenyra inhaled sharply as he pulled his hand out of his pocket, producing a long piece of black fabric, larger than the one on her wrists. Her heart bolted like a spooked animal, racing on the pathways of her feelings trying to find its final destination, going from suspicion to apprehension to curiosity and, finally, settling on anticipation.

“I’m going to remove my hand,” Daemon said sweetly, patiently, so at odds with the wicked delight swirling in his eyes. “And you are going to be a good girl and stay quiet, hm?”

Rhaenyra bit her lip and rubbed her thighs together, her undergarments already soaked with her desire. She nodded her agreement, eyes narrowed to slits.

When Daemon freed her mouth, it was to find it reshaped into a mocking grin.

“You didn’t think it would be so easy, would it?” 

“No. But it would be no fun if you did not struggle, would it?”

Even with her hands bound, Rhaenyra did not make it easy. She tried to bite off his fingers, even managing to graze them once or twice; she tried to move her legs, to free them from the heavy cage of Daemon’s thighs, but he simply ground down his ass against them. Rhaenyra turned her head left and right, using what was left of her hands to try and push him away, but he was so much stronger, so much more prepared. With each little movement and each little fight she lost, her body grew hotter, her skin flushed a lovely red. 

In the end, whatever resistance she offered was but a token one. Daemon had her where he wanted: bound, gagged, and trapped beneath him. Her heart roared like a storm god unbound, cackling as its cruel winds devastated the land.

“You look beautiful when you fight,” he purred against her mouth, running a finger across her cheek. “The gods have made you for it, I fear, by placing the Iron Throne in your path. Your enemies would love to have you as I do now, but little dragon —” Daemon pulled down her undergarments and slid hand on her cunt, playing with her wet folds. “—I’m no enemy of yours, but rather your sword. Yet to wield a sword, one needs to learn how to fight at a disadvantage, to move even when assailed by pain and discomfort.” 

He placed two fingers inside her cunt and Rhaenyra gasped, her body clenching around him. Daemon curled them with expertise, teasing the walls of her sex. She leaned into the touch, burying her nails into her palm, teeth gnashing on the velvet gag. 

“Good girl,” he muttered against the curve of her neck, laying feather-light kisses along her collarbone, tasting the sweet perfume. “You asked me not to leave any marks on your body, and I’ll do as you ask for now. When we are wed, I will mark you as I desire, and you may do the same. I shall teach you, Rhaenyra, that pain is also a form of pleasure.”

He pulled his fingers away from her cunt and quickly slotted them back inside, positioning them in such a way that the cold metal of his ring rubbed against her sensitive clit, coaxing little moans out of her. Rhaenyra trembled, pressing her eyes closed and allowing herself to enjoy the feel of the metal, the edges of polished ruby adorning it scratching all the right places. She rolled her hips, wanting more friction, more contact. 

“Greedy little dragon.” His chest rumbled with a chuckle as his teeth closed around the sleeve of her nightgown and pulled it down her torso. He removed his hand from her cunt and Rhaenyra hissed, glaring at him, displeased. “If you are so greedy for my fingers, then you can take more of them, yes?”

Daemon pushed his hand into her cunt again, this time with three fingers rather than two and she whimpered, throwing her head back. So full, she felt so full as he moved his hand, in and out, in and out.

“Tight,” he said when he had finished pulling down her nightgown, revealing her hardened peaks, sore and waiting, red as ripe cherries. “Less than before, but it’s a work in progress.” Daemon flicked his tongue over her nipple, drawing circles around them. “There will come a day, niece, when I’ll turn you around, pin you against a wall, and have you right as you are.”

Yes , she thought, vision blurry through white-hot tears,  gods, yes . 

He tortured her nipple with his teeth, with his tongue. Rhaenyra squirmed, moving around, pushing her breast further into his mouth. She wanted to reach out and snake her arms across his neck, to hook her nails on his back and drag them down, tearing through his flesh until he bled from the violence of her touch. But she could do none of that with her hands bound together, her movement restricted.

Rhaenyra couldn’t even scream if she wanted to; couldn't tell him to stop. Perhaps that ought to have been cold water into the raging flame of her desire, but all it did was make them burn hotter. If she couldn’t trust Daemon to please her in bed, to give her release through sweet pain, who could she trust? He was the only one who could see this side of her, bound and a little helpless; only with him she could let go.

Daemon increased the speed with which his fingers pushed into her cunt and her breath responded in turn, growing quicker and quicker. She was at the very edge of pleasure, the first waves rippling against her conscience, when Daemon pulled away entirely.

“Bastard,” she snapped, almost unintelligible, “cruel, beautiful bastard.”

He seemed to understand her well enough, for he laughed against her chest before laying a kiss on her nipple and returning to an upright position. Daemon brought his fingers, coated with her wetness, to his mouth and sucked at them one by one, tasting her in them. Rhaenyra swallowed hard at the sight, eyes growing dark with lust.

“Pain and discomfort,” he chanted and moved, nudging one of her legs free. Grabbing her thigh, he guided her leg up so it would rest on his shoulder. Daemon licked his lips at the view displayed before him: her pink, dripping cunt, clamoring for his mouth, his tongue. But rather than drink her in, his face morphed into a displeased scowl. “Oh, how I detest that damned knight for first seeing this side of you, for robbing me of this pleasure — don’t make this face, Rhaenyra, allow me to stew in my discontent for a while, hm? — but do you think, niece, that he can understand the magnitude of your generosity?”

She shook her head. Their earlier conversation had made that abundantly clear.

“That’s right,” Daemon agreed with a smirk. “He will never fully grasp, nor understand what a treasure he got to take, what miracle he witnessed by seeing you without your robes. It’s not something he nor any other man shall witness again. ” 

He leaned down and kissed the inner side of her thigh, his gaze wicked as it met hers. 

“You said no marks and I have agreed, but what if I leave one in a place no one would see, not even your handmaids?” Daemon kissed her thigh again, this time further down, closer to her cunt. Already did she feel his lips ghosting over it. “Would you accept it then, Rhaenyra? A mark only you and I know of, our little secret?”

Her heart lurched, singing, begging, pleading. It would burn through her, this reminder of what she and Daemon had done in the dark, a proof only she knew of and only they could see. It would burn as she carried out her duties and smiled at the council, at her father, at Alicent, reminding her what awaited when all doors were closed and locked and night fell.

She nodded and Daemon waited no more to bring his mouth to where her thigh connected with her pelvis, tearing through her flesh with his teeth and sucking hard. Rhaenyra's eyes rolled back, mewling from the sheer pleasure of it, at how this bite felt so much like a claiming. Next time she would be the one tying him down, marking him down there, just as he did her. 

He removed his mouth with a light popping sound, a thin strand of saliva connecting it to the spot that was sure to be red by morning. Daemon grinned, put her leg down, and kneeled between them, dragging the tip of his tongue on her folds.

Rhaenyra quivered, slanting her hip forward, but Daemon ignored her body's request. His tongue continued to tease her folds, nibbling at it with his teeth, occasionally sliding inside and lapping at her wetness, all but neglecting her nub. Oh, he gave it a fickle or two whenever she grew too impatient, too rattled, but it was not  enough . He was teasing, edging her along the path he wanted without giving her due, touching all the right places except the ones begging for him the most. She heaved each time his tongue lavished her clit, quick and gone too soon.

Daemon was unrelenting, keeping this dance of cat and mouse until she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. She was aching so badly, so, so deliciously badly.

When he was done and removed his hot mouth from her cunt, she didn’t know whether to cry in relief or sadness that it was over.

“Magnificent creature,” he said, wiping away her tears. “You handled this so well, so beautifully. Should I reward you with my cock now?”

Please,  her mind screamed, but her head did not move. She was a princess, one day a queen, and she would not beg.  Please.  

Cocking his head, Daemon undid the gag on her mouth and Rhaenyra gasped for air, feeling the cold air fill her lungs as she watched Daemon get off her, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. He reached out, taking a lock of her hair in his hand and kissing it.

“If you want me to beg you for your cock, I will not,” she panted lifting her nose in the air. 

“If I wanted you to beg, Rhaenyra, you would be begging,” Daemon retorted with a cocky little smirk she wanted nothing more than to scratch out of his face. 

“So you’ll just leave me here, unsatisfied?”

“Not unsatisfied, no,” he said and extended his arm, removing the restraints on her wrists. “There we go, now you can finish it yourself.”

Rhaenyra’s breath caught as her eyes widened, her stare disbelieving. Surely, she had heard incorrectly? But her astonishment didn’t last for long. They were two sides of the same coin, like-minded dragons, and she too knew how to be a little wicked when the situation called. 

“Fine,” she said with a vicious grin, “but your eyes must not leave me and you must do  nothing  but watch.”

Daemon clicked his tongue, but his eyes shone with mirth. “As you wish. I will watch.”

Rhaenyra kicked away her undergarments, already on heels, and moved one hand down her torso, to her breast, whilst the other continued its way down until it reached her tortured core. With two fingers she rubbed her clit, the little pricks of her sharp nails adding to the sensation, while her other hand pinched her nipples. She wanted to close her eyes as she threw her head back, fingers circling her clit, but she had to keep them up, had to keep staring at Daemon; if she looked back, if she looked away, she would lose.

He watched her with hunger, mouth dry, breath out of joint. His cock strained against his pants, wishing to be let out, to find release. But Daemon didn’t move to free it, for if he moved, he too would lose their little game.

She rubbed her nub harder, pressing down at it, rolling her hips along for more friction. Rhaenyra rode her hand hard as her other one fell from her breast, fisting the pristine white sheet. Her body buckled forward, spurred on by the painful look in Daemon’s eyes.  Yes , her mind cackled,  yes ,  like that. 

She ground down against her fingers, heaving until she saw stars, the blackness seeping into her vision as she came on her fingers.

Rhaenyra collapsed against the bed with a satisfied little smile, content with herself. She turned her head to the side, giggling at how Daemon scowled, how his hand hovered over his cock.

“You could help me with this,” he huffed, crossing his arms.

“I could, but I won’t.” She grinned cheekily and propped herself up on her elbow, leaning her head against her head. “Mayhaps next time?”

“What a wicked niece I have.” Daemon shook his head and fickled the tip of her nose, smiling softly. “What a good little pupil.” He stood, and a scowl spread across his features once more. She imagined it must not be particularly comfortable to walk around  that  hard. 

“Leaving already?”

“It’s late, Rhaenyra,” he said, making his way to the secret passage on the wall. “Let us not tempt fate any longer.” 

“Oh, very well.” She pouted, falling back on her back. Rhaenyra reached out for one of her pillows and held it tightly against her chest. “Uncle?”

“Yes?”

“Next time,  I  will be the one tying you up. One cannot learn without practicing, don’t you agree?”

───※ ·♛· ※───

All little boys once dreamed of being knights.

It was not something they could easily escape, as it was presented to them still in the cradle, in the early years that faded too soon. The dream was nestled within the lullabies all caring mothers sang to their children, in all fantastic tales they spun with love and care; the dream was there, alive in the historic battles fathers told proudly to their sons, great victories of bravery and honor. 

All little boys were once Florian the Fool and Symeon Star-Eyes, dreaming of fame, glory, and all the riches that surely came with those.

Criston Cole was no different, with the added burden of legacy weighing heavy on his shoulders.

Knighthood ran in his blood. Not the knighthood of those puny lordlings that littered a good chunk of the Reach, younger sons with nothing to boast of but their names who tried to make something of themselves by winning tourneys, hunting poachers and smaller bandits; no, his was the knighthood of the Dornish Marches. Sturdy, hardy men who had fought in wars since before the Targaryens landed on Dragonstone, protecting the people of their realms from the Martell's spears. 

Criston’s father was never made into a knight, having that path cut short after a grave wound when he was still a squire. That had not stopped him from becoming the Steward of Blackhaven, his mind sharper than the blade of his sword had ever been. Criston's grandfather’s memory, however, followed him wherever went, with people looking at him and wondering: 

Would he live up to the Cole's knightly legacy?

Would he prove his worth, despite his dornish blood? 

“I’m a stormlander,” he wanted to turn and scream at them, hands curling around the hilt of his practice sword. “I’m a stormalander, as is my mother, and as is my father.”

“Don’t, Criston,” his mother would say, a steady hand on his shoulder, shaking her head. “It’s not worth it.”

“Why don’t you fight back, mama? Why don’t you tell them otherwise?”

“Look at me, Criston. Look at yourself in a mirror. Do you see? We look dornish, my boy, so dornish we are. The old enmity is strong here and it matters not where we were born and raised.”

“What to do then?” He asked, looking up at her, who held her head and her shoulders squared, virtuous and noble and dignified so none could ever find fault in her actions.

His mother kneeled on the stone floor, coming to stand face-to-face with him, and smiled. “You pick up your sword and rise. Rise, Criston, until you stand above them all. Rise, until you can look down on all that are mighty and realize they were never worth your anger at all.”

He took her words to heart and strove to better himself until none could beat him in battle, until most boys his age looked at him with respect and a hint of fear, their jealous gazes proof he was on the right path forward. With each little triumph, his confidence swelled, until his mother's words were but a distant, fleeting memory, and then they weren't there at all.

Criston Cole was a good knight, talented, brave, and honorable, and he deserved more.

He didn’t return home to bury his mother. 

Princess Rhaenyra, lovely as the moon, was the one who recognized his worth and what he could offer the realm. She put a white cloak on his back and made him her sworn shield, her loyal protector. His heart soared when in moments of quieteness, when the burden of her position was too much, she looked at him and smiled at his words of comfort.

One day she would be the Queen of the Seven Realms and there would Criston be, by her side, a trusted advisor and protector, the Lord Commander of her Queensguard. She would dream of comfort and safety and think of him.

Fate had shone its bright light upon him and triumph was assured, so long as the fantasies that kept him awake at night didn’t surface to darken the light of day. Criston shoved them to the back of his mind and pretended they weren’t there at all. He pretended they didn’t haunt him whenever Rhaenyra grinned, whenever she laughed, or whenever — by chance of intent — her touch found him.

If Criston pretended long enough then maybe, just maybe, it would become true.

What was he to do then, when she pulled him inside her room and offered herself willingly? What was he to do, when his most torturous dream became a sweet, sweet reality? He ought to have walked away and turned his back to her —but Criston wanted. He wanted, and he wanted it all. Rhaenyra was a siren and he found himself too weak to resist her.

It was hard to look at himself in the mirror afterward, to rationalize what he’d done. True knights didn’t sleep with the princesses they were sworn to protect. They didn’t betray their oaths just to sate their most basic desires. They remained steadfast in the face of insurmountable temptation, always, and never gave in. It was what honor demanded.

What had he done? 

Why had she asked that of him? 

Why had he surrendered to her?

She was Rhaenyra,  his  princess, his would-be queen. Criston owed her everything. How could he deny her, when she stared at him with those pleading, purple eyes of a seductress? What was he to do? Confess his sin to the gods or hide it deep within, where it would fester and consume him whole? But if he talked, if he spoke, the only thing waiting for him would be shame, dishonor, and the gallows. 

If doubt assailed his mind before, what he had to do became crystal clear once he learned she would marry  Prince Daemon . He had fought the man before, so arrogant and full of himself, his mind gone to rot with the belief he could do anything he wanted just because he was a Prince. Daemon would never truly accept he had been replaced by Rhaenyra and the chains of marriage were how he would punish her for her crime.

Criston could be her salvation, her hero. They could escape and be wed and all sins would be forgiven and forgotten. 

He offered her everything he was, everything he would ever be. He offered her a future, bright and shining and full of wonder and promise — but she rejected him for duty, of all things. Yet what of his duty? What of his honor, which he’d set aside for the sake of her? Criston had sacrificed everything for her, couldn’t she do the same?

Outside her bedroom, his mind wandered, lost. He was just a Kingsguard she had raised from nothing, a friend in an hour of need, and nothing more. What kept him here anyway? Why did he stand guard? He could just leave into the night, go away, disappear and it would make no difference. He had already betrayed himself. 

“Cole,” someone called in the distance, followed by the metallic steps of armor on the stone floor. Criston turned towards the voice and saw the figure of Steffon Darklyn approaching.

“Good evening, Darklyn,” he greeted, nodding, words like bile in his tongue. “Is anything the matter?”

“Good Evening, it’s —” the man shut his mouth as he approached, stopping a few steps away from Criston. Though he sported a friendly smile at first, when Steffon’s eyes landed on his face his amiable expression vanished, replaced by concern. “— Gods Cole, are you well?”

Criston's answering smile was taut as a rope and just as hostile. He was not a pathetic, pitiful child who was denied what he wanted and who needed others to coddle him. “Nothing I cannot handle, I assure you. So, what is it?”

His gaze went to the door, which had moved just a fraction. His brows furrowed — had Rhaenyra locked it? Did she feel unsafe now with him standing guard as she never had before? Was her trust so easily swayed? 

When he turned to look back at Steffon, the other knight studied him curiously, a little frown marring his face. 

“The Lord Commander wishes to speak with you,” he said, “and as he believes it will take a while, he has asked me to replace you for the night.”

Criston’s nostrils flared. “It is my duty to protect the Princess Rhaenyra. Can it not wait till morning?”

“I know not, Ser Criston. The Lord Commander did not see fit to share his reasons with me,” replied Darklyn, clipped, with an undertone of reproach, “and I do not make it a habit to pry into the affairs of my superiors.”

His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword, but Criston knew better than to respond. “Of course. As the Lord Commander wishes,” was his curt reply.

He moved away from the door and away from Steffon before the man could become the object of his frustrations. His heart hammered in his chest as he made his way to the Lord Commander’s study, nervous anxiety wrapping its malevolent claws around it. Had his and Rhaenyra’s sin been discovered? If so, how? Who could have whispered to the Lord Commander? No, it could not be it, it could  not.  No one knew, no one could know. Rhaenyra would not want it made public, and he himself could not bear it if it would. The dishonor would follow him to the chopping block.

It wouldn’t get to that , his frantic mind whispered,  I’ll take death before dishonor. If I die, silence will reign.

He knocked on the Lord Commander’s door and waited with bated breath to be allowed inside. When he heard Ser Harrold’s muffled voice through the wood, Criston opened the door and strode inside, praying to the Seven to light his way.

Harrold Westerling sat at his desk still in full armor, going through a stack of papers, having yet to retire for the night. The study was rather small and boasted no windows, creating a rather oppressive, claustrophobic ambiance. The Lord Commander seemed utterly unperturbed by his surroundings, the only hint of possible discomfort a drop of sweat sliding down his cheek. 

“Lord Commander.” Criston bowed, voice firm despite his trembling hand. “Ser Steffon said you wish to speak with me.”

“Ah, Ser Criston.” Westerling sighed and set the papers aside, shifting on his seat so his posture would match the dignity his office demanded. “That is correct. I would have talked to you earlier but… Well, it is a rather delicate subject, you see.”

Criston stood rigid, unmoving, waiting for the blow to come.

Westerling took his silence as permission to go on. “I’ve been approached by some people and they have expressed their… concerns over your reaction to the Princess’s engagement.”

“Prince Daemon or his cronies, no doubt,” the words escaped his lips before he could think of it, bitter and resentful. “He has misliked me since I defeated him at Prince Baelon's tourney and for my role in —”

“It was not the prince nor any of his associates,” the Lord Commander cut in, serene, “nor does it matter who it was, if they have ulterior motives or not. I noticed it myself, Cole, and meant to speak to you. Their concerns only solidified my resolve.”

“Ser Harrold, I have done —”

“Be quiet and listen, Ser,” he snapped, brows creasing with annoyance. “We are knights of the Kingsguard. The day we take our vows, we leave behind all our claims and titles, all our earthly possessions, our bonds with our family. We are the shields and the swords of House Targaryen, and our lives are theirs to wield as they see fit. There is no greater honor, no greater calling, than to die fulfilling this sacred duty. To protect them we are kept close, always at a respectful distance; wanting it or not we become witnesses to their joys and sorrows, their triumphs and their tragedies. It's natural for friendship to blossom and, on occasion, even stronger feelings.”

The Lord Commander was not talking about him in particular, but he might as well have just lifted a mirror that reflected not Criston's likeness, but rather that of his journey to this point. 

“You are not the first Kingsguard to develop feelings for a daughter of House Targaryen. Nor, I fear, will you be the last. But we must be mindful to never act on these feelings.”

“I know,” Criston said, heaving, the guilt and the rage choking the breath out of him. “I know, Lord Commander, I know it well but hear me. She— I—”

“There are no buts, Cole. No what-ifs. Nothing awaits this road but pain, suffering, and death. I'm not here to accuse you of making moves on the princess —” Then why did Criston feel that was exactly what he was doing? Or was it his guilt, his own self-loathing playing tricks at him? “— but rather to inform you that I'm taking steps to make the whole situation… easier for you, and her. Soon she'll marry and go to Dragonstone, but you will remain, Cole.”

“You believe I cannot do my duty?” He took a step forward, anger coursing through his body. “I assure you, I can. Whatever you believe I feel, Ser Harrold, does not signify. Princess Rhaenyra chose me for her sworn shield for a  reason —”

“That was then,” Harrold said as though slamming his fist on the desk, in a way that demanded silence. “This is now. Do you think Daemon stupid? He will have noticed your feelings by now, and he will surely provoke you over it. It's what Daemon does. And when he does, can you guarantee to me that you won't rise to the bait?”

“I would not.” Criston wasn't so lacking in self-control that he couldn't hold himself back, no matter how much he wanted to tear the Prince to shreds with his word. “I would not, Ser.”

The Lord Commander stared at him with something akin to pity, a master’s disappointment with a pupil who had just been handed a test and failed.  

“You are a good knight, Cole, one of the finest I've seen with a sword in hand. But as of now, I cannot in good conscience keep you as Rhaenyra's sworn shield, not when your relationship with the one closest to her is a jar of wildfire waiting to ignite.”

“With all due respect, Lord Commander —” Criston bared his teeth like a feral lion. “— I believe you are making a mistake. After all he has done, Prince Daemon cannot be trusted. The princess needs a sword to protect her above all else, regardless of —”

“Criston Cole,” Westerling hissed, standing to his full height, silver armor glinting menacingly under the light. “It’s not your place to question them and their relationships, much less when they are bound together by the will of the king.”

“And the Princess's wishes are to be set aside and ignored?” He challenged, unwilling to back down. She'd said so herself hadn't she? That she wasn't free to follow her heart, to defy her uncle and father? 

“If the princess has a problem, she can take the matter to her father, the King, and they can reach an agreement between themselves.” Westerling spoke with an air of finality, brokering no argument, no further interjections. His fiery stare told Criston to stay quiet, or there would be consequences. “You are no longer the Princess’s sworn shield, effective immediately. Tomorrow I shall fill you in on your next assignment.”

“Is that all?” Criston asked in a last spark of defiance, low and frustrated. 

“Yes, that is all.” With that, Harrold Westerling sat down once more, his gaze colder than iron. “Dismissed, Cole.”

He need not be told twice to burst out from the room, shoving a serving lady out of his path along the way, heedless of her cry of hurt as she fell. His world was red, red and bleeding, with specks of black swimming across the edges. Criston’s emotions waged a war within his head: rage and hatred, guilt and regret, shame and desire, hopelessness and despair, each sinking its hook into his heart and pleading,  “Heed me. Heed me, for only I can satisfy your violent, deepest desires.”

Criston ought to have fallen to his knees and confessed to the Lord Commander the whole truth, let the man be the judge of him. He had almost given in to his good conscience, knowing he’d been too weak to resist Rhaenyra's siren song. But how could he? How could he?

You are a good knight, Cole, one of the finest I've seen with a sword in hand.

How could he?

How did one climb back from the abyss when their legs had been cut?

When Criston came to his senses he had stepped into the open air, on the empty training grounds. Training dummies stood in the distance, tall and pale, along with a rack of recently polished swords, halberds, and axes. Dark clouds hung heavy in the night sky, blocking away the stars; the patio was blanketed in shadows, interwoven by the distant light of flickering torches.

More emotion than reason, Criston approached the rack, the training dummies's contours so indistinct in the half-light one could almost mistake them for real, living beings. 

He unsheathed his sword, raised it above his head, and slashed against the dummy. At first, he did it slowly, mechanically, but with each slash his movements grew more frantic, more ruthless. Criston no longer saw training dummies, but rather the faces of the people who had left him in this state, at war with himself: Daemon and Rhaenyra and the Lord Commander and Steffon Darklyn, his deceased mother with her reassuring words and so, so many others.

Criston hacked and slashed the dummies until they came apart at the seams, coughing up yellow hay on the stone floor like bile.

He stepped back, grip tight on his sword, heart kicking up a storm.

It wasn’t enough.

He raised the sword again, ready to hit it until it was only splinters of wood remained when a voice cut through the dark.

“Who’s there?”

Criston turned, sword still held high and came face to face with a member of the Palace Guard. It was one of the newest recruits, fresh-faced and young, with a whole, unblemished future ahead, carrying a lamp. When the young man realized he stood before a member of the Kingsguard, a flush overtook his pale cheeks.

“My apologies, Ser Criston,” he said, lowering the lamp and bowing. “I did not recognize you from afar.”

Criston scowled and nodded brusquely, finding he did not feel like opening his mouth and saying words he did not mean. 

“Do you normally train this late at night?” The guard asked, stealing glances at him with wide-eyed wonder, oblivious to Criston’s wish to be left alone, in silence with his stray thoughts.

“No,” he answered irritably, sheathing his sword. “Not normally.”

“Oh, that's right, you are Princess Rhaenyra—” 

“ Was ,” Criston snapped through gritted teeth. “Was her sworn shield.”

“Oh. Do you know your next assignment?”

“No.”

“Well,” the recruit scratched the back of his head and grinned, jovial and missing a tooth or two. “I’m sure the Lord Commander will assign you something befitting your talent. It’s a shame, though. It must be great, guarding the Princess: a cushy position mostly indoors, in the comfort of the keep, close to the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms — and now close to the Rogue Prince too!” 

Criston stilled, emotions quieting until all that remained was the mournful, distant ringing of a bell. He didn’t breathe as the young man ran his mouth, words like droplets falling in a cup almost filled to the brim. 

“You are so fortunate. I can only dream of achieving your position someday.” He sighed dreamily. “But, ack! I don’t think it’s for me, no, no. Now that she’s marrying Daemon Targaryen of all people —”

Drip, drip, drip, drip. 

“— You hear the stories they tell about him right? Legendary, the man. It would be torture to stand outside, hearing them go at it like rabbits—”

Drip, drip, drip, drip. 

“—All the while I stood outside, having to hear her sigh and scream, naked and writhing and—”

Drip .

Criston swung. Hard, suddenly, without warning, his fist connecting with the recruit’s head with such force that the young man fell on his butt. Before he could act, before his mind could make sense of what had just happened, Criston was upon him again, pinning him down against the floor with the whole weight of his body, holding him by the collar.

Naked, sigh, scream, Rhaenyra, Daemon.  The words flowed through his head as though the guard sang them with a minstrel’s dexterous own skill, terrible and mocking and hypnotic, robbing him of all rationality. He only heard them as his body moved, pummeling the guard’s face until his mouth would stop moving and he would  shut up . 

The guard tried to fight, tried to move away, but he was a fawn in the jaws of a lion, having lost the fight the moment he approached. Still, he struggled and tried to cry for help, for anyone and anything, but each time he tried, Criston’s punches fell harder, more viciously. Little by little, the world grew darker and darker and all fight left his body as the lights in his eyes went out, new candles with an existence cut short.

Criston didn’t notice anything at first, carried away by the whirlwind of fury, not until the young man’s body deflated and the stench of death rose to greet the night wind, filthy and nauseating. 

The rage broke.

High above, the clouds had parted and the moon was out bathing the training grounds in its silvery glow. Criston Cole stood with a jump and stumbled backward, blood dripping down his gauntlet as he stared, horrified, at the limp body on the training ground.

What have I done?  he asked himself, numb to everything but the swelling feeling of dread and despair.  What have I done?

Sinner,  the moon accused, shedding light on the fresh, crimson blood pooling around the young man’s head.  Murderer .  Traitor.

He fell to his knees, holding his head between his hands.

What have I done?

What have you done?  the moon sang, chasing away the shadows so there would be nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from his crime.  What have you done? What have I done? 

I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to, gods I didn’t mean to  —

Traitor,  the stars joined their mother in their choir, a thousand little needles prickling at his skin.  Murderer .  Oathbreaker . 

Criston couldn’t handle it anymore.

He rose, turned on his heels, and fled, disoriented, breathing coming in short intervals. But no matter how much he gasped for air, it didn’t seem to be enough to fill his lungs. He was drowning, suffocating, having witnessed the horrors within himself, from which there was no turning back.

Murderer . He was a murderer, not of bandits or enemies or any other such fiends who deserved to die by his sword, but of an innocent young man with a whole future ahead, whose only crime had been what? Look up at one of his idols and think, wonder, if they could maybe find common ground. 

No true knight would have acted as he did. A stern verbal warning, yes, a challenge to a duel, yes, but not a full-fledged beatdown of an unarmed young man. Nothing so shameful, nothing so cowardly.

He was no true knight, but rather a fiend, an oathbreaker, and a murderer. He was a traitor with no honor to speak of, and no way to earn it back. 

No , Criston realized as he entered his quarters and closed the door, a room he had by the grace of a princess as unreachable as the moon, more distant than a dream.  There is a way . 

He removed his cloak, the white fabric a heavy burden in his shaky hands. There was nothing pure about it, nothing whole; the garment was spoiled, sullied by dirt and dried blood. 

There was no washing away the grime, the taint. The cloak would have to be discarded so another could take its place, pure and unblemished.

In the quietness of his room, alone in the night, Criston Cole confessed his sins to ink and parchment, placed his honor around his neck, and let the gods be the judge of him.